Sights and Sounds of Heaven

I have never attended a funeral of a president or celebrity before, but  when my brother Mike passed away two years ago, his funeral rivaled the likes of one.  As a member of the Michigan State Court of Appeals, his funeral began with an impressive procession of 6 or 7 rows worth of Judges from all over the State of Michigan.  They wore their black judicial robes, the imposing color of which, made me cringe  just a bit.  I would have preferred they changed into white robes that day, giving the appearance of angels … though, I suspect  some of them aren’t.  As a marine, Mike’s funeral was concluded with an honorable military gun salute and the folding of the flag, as we stood in silence.  We were honoring a great man.  But that didn’t matter to me.  He was my brother…  a good man, a good husband, father, grandfather and friend.  I told my children to stop and take it all in… all this fanfare and such.  Then I asked them if they knew Uncle Mike was such an important man.  They didn’t.  I told them to remember that.   It was one of the best things about Mike.  He didn’t laud his position over anyone.  He was Uncle Mike… a good man.  T-shirt, khaki shorts, sockless loafers and a smile.

When his best friend and fellow judge, Ed Post, got up to give the eulogy, I knew he would do Mike’s memory justice.  What I didn’t know is how he was about to make me laugh… in the face of grief.  There, in the middle of the eulogy… in a huge cathedral of the Catholic Church… right in front of several fancy priest hats… Ed Post’s cell phone rang.  Most of us stopped breathing, some snickered.  We watched as he dug in his pocket at the pulpit.  Holding our collective breaths, in dead silence… but for the ringing... of. Ed’s. phone.  It echoed in that silent cathedral space.   Then, irreverently, he answered it.  Apparently, it was Mike on the other end, calling in to see how his funeral was going.  Over the next few minutes we heard a delightful one-sided conversation between two friends who knew each other so well, that just one of them could carry on the whole discussion.  It was completely believable.  We laughed... and cried... and, for just a moment, we felt reconnected to Mike.  It was heavenly.  As though he really was there... telling us he was alright and in a much better place,  cracking jokes just like always.

I don’t know Ed Post well.  His daughter was one of our favorite babysitters in college.  We are connected loosely as family friends, through weddings, and siblings and such.  When I ran across
 Ed Post’s photography, I was overwhelmed again. I’m glad my brother had such a good friend. I'm stunned by the way he can see beauty and the way he captures it.  Ed shows me glimpses of what I think heaven must be like.  The same  way he showed me that sad funeral day what heaven might sound like, when we are reunited with familiar voices of our loved ones, rejoicing in laughter and love. 

Ed Post’s photograph of a mountain road in the Smoky Mountain National Park inspired the following poem.  In its ethereal way, it reminds me of the path I’m on… toward the heaven I can’t wait to see.

Photography by Ed Post - click Ed Post Photography to see more beauty
Spark's Lane - Cade's Cove - Great Smoky Mountains National Park - Fall 2011

Mountain Road

In  the heart

of the mountains,
come travel this road...
colored by whispers of prayer.

With no guarantees,
its leading uncertain,
the journey beckons
each one
to come by faith,
like children.

Step tenderly then
as God calls
through beauty,
with breaths of thanksgiving
and awe.

Patricia Spreng

 

On May 30, 2009, my 63 year old brother passed away from an incurable, relentless, neurological disease called MSA (Multiple System Atrophy). His wife, 7 children, 6 grandchildren, 9 sisters and friends still miss him dearly.

(You can read my tribute to him here... though you will need to scroll down past a couple of my other beloveds whom I have lost in recent years. Also, for information purposes, read about him and MSA right here http://www.smolenskimsaresearchfund.com/.)

Poetry inspired by the photography of Ed Post ... click  Ed Post Photography to see his fabulous photography.

Sharing with Laura Boggess at the Wellspring and

L.L. Barkat at On, In and Around Mondays

(Wait…how many words did they tell us at the writers retreat we should use for a short story?)   Heheheh...

Unearthing Legacies

Recently I’ve written on Barlow Lake and my memories there with my sisters.  There are 9 of us girls still living … and the older we get, that number becomes more important, as our only brother died 2 years ago.  Mike was 63 years old (scrolldown for his tribute.)
He was the only one in the world, who could have talked 9 sisters into joining the "Mike Smolenski Fan Club" and, yes, we actually paid him dues.  Now that’s a brilliant brother.  We loved him and his great sense of humor.  He always had some stupid way of making me laugh in the midst of crying over his illness.  I didn’t like that he would use laughter to brush off my sadness …  he didn’t like seeing anyone grieve him while he was in the midst of living.  

My mother is the girl on the left




It was his dream to own our Grampa's property and homestead on Barlow Lake where my mother and her sister’s were raised.  We too, spent all of our summers there and the place is rife with memories spanning generations.  His dream came true and the home remains in his family.

Recently, as some of my sisters and I were visiting there, my manly brother in law from Minnesota took off into the woods with a shovel (yes, we have indoor plumbing) to investigate the whereabouts of our Gramma’s cellar.  Grampa had built it into the side of a hill sometime in the late 1920’s and we had long since forgotten about it.  But when we heard the sound of the shovel digging, we had to go look.  Sure enough, he had found it.  I grabbed my camera.  He cleared bushes and branches away for the rest of the day, slowly "reclaiming the earth-bermed cellar.“  

The outer,  Dorothy Door (think Dorothy and Auntie Em’s slanted cellar door,) “was rotted and gone from its original position and all that remained were the long iron hinges and latch lurking under the leaves and dirt.”  After finding the hinges, and the excitement of discovering an air vent pipe still protruding from the forest floor at the top of the hill, it became an official archeological dig.  

So, the manly Minnesotan started digging, like any manly Minnesotan would.   He dug and flung shovels of dirt and leaves most of the day.   As he was clearing the stairway leading down to the main door, he could see it was standing slightly ajar. 

That's when I had to leave for home, so I’ll let my sister, Minnesota Meg, tell the rest of the story … (all the other quotes are hers too).

"Inside was a small room walled with cinder blocks.  Thin, frayed, brittle electrical  wires gave proof of a room once occupied by light.  The vaulted, concrete ceiling was supported by a steel beam."

(But, wait!  No photos of the inside??? I am toooootally going back out there and get the pictures of the inside. Never send the Artist Meg to do the job of Picture Pat. ; ) ok, go on...)

"In the middle of the room, on a sand floor, standing upright about 3 feet high… was a sprinkler head pipe"….just like all the other sprinkler heads that still remain standing, hidden among the trees and overgrown bushes, all over the grounds of Grampa’s estate.  Lake water once surged from his handmade pump house throughout his self-designed underground system of pipes to quench his lawn that remained forever green through the driest of summers… a still-standing legacy of his ingenuity, creativity, and foresight.  

Minnesota Meg the artist



 “Aaaaaaannnnnyway.....here comes the fun part." 

 (ok, wait a minute... my part was fun...)

"Over in the corner of the cellar were great big chunks of what we thought might be clay because of the sound it made when Ken clunked it with the shovel..... Kathy (Mike's wife) came over and said that Gram used to keep her clay in there. 

Whaaaat?  We knew Grammie was a potter, but her own clay cellar?  Mystery solved!  That explained the sprinkler head that would spray the clay and keep it moist. Any excess water drained off through the super thick sand floor.  Also, lying there on the sand, next to the clay, was a crow bar which we figured Grammie used to break off chunks of clay. I mean, that was cool...thinking of her in there, the last one to use that tool. We bagged some big chunks of clay (enough for two buckets full) and brought it home.

I guess that little underground cellar was always a mystery to us kids growing up." (Yeah, I always thought it was a scary storm shelter.)  "If Mom were here she'd know where that clay was taken from...the lake?  It's quite dark gray, very grainy, but definitely clay.  It will be fun to see what happens to it in the kiln and with glazes, etc.  We have reconstituted  the clay and are now preparing to take it up to the Art Center where our membership allows us to work in the pottery studio."  
I can’t wait to see what she makes me, I told her. (I'm partial to those blue, green glazes... ahem.)

(l - r):  Martha, Roberta, Patricia, Meg at Barlow

Legacies…  Grampa the entrepreneur, builder, inventor.  Grammie the artist, potter and avid bird watcher.  Mom, the wise, lover of children.  Dad, the strict Judge who could laugh at himself.  Mike the dreamer, U.S. Marine, funny family man.  Anne, the distant one.  Mary, the smart survivor.  Laura, the loving worker.  Jane, the singer. Sara, the generous Judge. Patricia, lover of God and monarchs.  Martha, the maker of all things and funny. 

Click here to visit Meg the artist, potter. 

or Click here to visit Roberta, the hand warming creator, re-inventor..


Legacies... they last.  

(click here to listen to Nicole Nordeman ... very fitting... Legacy.)

Patricia Spreng

Sharing with graciously, loving Laura Bogess at Playdates With God

and laughing, wonderful writer L.L. Barkat at Seedlings In Stone

Monarch Season

It definitely is the season for monarch butterflies.  I see them everywhere flitting around to and fro, over the highways and fields of milkweed... quietly celebrating in a dance of praise.  I rejoice just a little more on the inside each time I see one.  For I know what God showed me while I was raising them.  What I thought was a simple science project for my kids, turned out to be a personal journey of trust-formation.
Over at The High Calling  there's a book club hosted by Laura J. Burgess.  We've been reading Luci Shaw's book called Breath for the Bones .  
 You can click on the High Calling site here .

This week we read chapter 9 called Paying Attention.  Luci Shaw is someone I easily admire.  She has a quiet sense about her and a heart that is ready, willing and open to seeing God in the smallest details.  Usually, when I want to stop and revel in God's small details, I have someone behind me demanding my attention, or kind of rolling their eyeballs with a 'there she goes again' look.  So, I also find myself a little jealous of Shaw's season of life which seems to allow her an abundance of quiet space.  Although, some of my favorite God moments have been shown to me because of my children.  The first year I raised monarchs in my home, I would run and get my kids up in the morning to let them know the butterflies were about to hatch.  I was so filled with awe and wonder, that I acted more like a child than they did.  That first spring, after about the 10th hatching, my little boy who was about 8 at the time, wearily made his appearance in the kitchen and while rubbing his eyes said... "mom, I think you think I like this a whole lot more than I do."

To all four of the people who occasionally read this blog, you probably already know that I'll never apologize for my constant referral to the lovely Monarchs. =)  I simply have never had a more profound "paying attention" lesson from God and I pray I bring him glory each time I share it.  The following link is a story where I stopped to pay attention...

(Read my monarch story of Trust-formation here) or click on the Monarch tab above.


Shaw identifies the need for paying attention by quoting the following:

"Artist Thomas La Duke noted:

“Some things are so common that they disappear. They’re all around us, but they vanish.”

Missing our cues, we fail to notice the fingerprints of the Creator in the ordinary textures and phenomena of living because we are distracted by daily urgencies, by things we consider more important, which in the end may prove to be both trivial and transient.

Mary Oliver wrote:  If you notice anything it leads you to notice more and more.

And here the incarnational approach to faith kicks in for me. As a poet and a sacramentalist, I am learning to recognize pointers to transcendent realities in almost anything I see."
Shaw, Luci (2009-09-01). Breath for the Bones (Kindle Locations 1724-1732). Thomas Nelson. Kindle Edition.

I guess my son was right, I did enjoy the monarchs more than he did.  But I pray in the midst of all the chaos of raising a family, he remembers his Mom looking for God and finding Him in the chaos... right outside our window. 

Patricia Spreng

****
Also sharing today with Playdates with God at The Wellspring     and at

On, In and Around Mondays with L.L. Barkat at Seedlings In Stone

Who can say

which came first

rock or tree

or how, or when, or why

so being

rock and tree

neither moved

both changed

both defined

by the other

but the tree lived

striving

roots reaching slowly

as tendrils do

easing forward

around the rock

which remained

it thrived

at waters edge

where rock was cleansed, soothed

and smoothed over time

by Living water

not every rock

intended to be a destroyer

remains a destroyer

some remain

a catalyst

for greater growth

bringing awareness of
weakness and

the greater need

for grace and strength

Salvation

lest the tree

rely upon its own roots

Patricia Spreng

Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me.  But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”  2 Corinthians 12: 8-9

     Paddling in my kayak, along the shore line of a small inland lake in West Michigan, I was gripped by the sight of this rock embedded in the root system of a tree. I'm sure the neighbors wondered what I was looking at for so long.  Especially when I came back later with a camera. 

     In Luci Shaw's book, Breath for the Bones: Art, Imagination, and Spirit: Reflections on Creativity and Faith, (click on link below) she describes

 "the Spirit is an artist who knows the value of the creative act from divine experience; he’s the one who will baptize my spirit and my imagination and shape the images that he sends into words that bear his own fingerprints."

    "Baptize my spirit and my imagination"... yes.

    In my little kayak, it took no time for me to know and see God there with me, showing me this picture of my life.  I have spent much time hiding, trying to get rid of,  pointing to and blaming the rocks in my life.  But, it was clear to me in this moment that the God-allowed rocks in my root system are there for a purpose...His purpose.  His grace is sufficient.

  
    Luci Shaw quotes poet William Stafford:

So, the world happens twice—

once what we see it as,

second, it legends itself

Deep, the way it is.

   So, Lord, hear my prayer... touch me with Your fingerprints and baptize me again and again... always into Your deep waters.

Shaw, Luci (2009-09-01). Breath for the Bones (Kindle Locations 748-749). Thomas Nelson. Kindle Edition.

Shaw, Luci (2009-09-01). Breath for the Bones (Kindle Locations 1175-1177). Thomas Nelson. Kindle Edition.

Sharing today at The High Calling where we are exploring God-given creativity in Luci Shaw's book, Breath for the Bones: Art, Imagination and Spirit: A Reflection on Creativity and Faith , hosted by Laura J. Boggess
Also sharing today at Seedlings In Stone: On, In, and Around Mondays with L.L. Barkat