Stories of Home

On my recent travels I had the opportunity to hear many stories. Some were frustrated stories, others joyful, yet others wistful, recalling another time in life. 

Every person has a home; every person has a story. The universality of home is not defined by the structure in which we live or do not live. The universality of story isn’t confined to those narratives that are broadly known or frequently shared. 

Home and story are carried inside each human—sometimes explored and celebrated; sometimes troubled and buried. 

We cannot truly find the embrace of home until our story is heard and honored. The opportunity to talk about some area of our life, whether it’s a current snippet, a memory from our past, or an overarching theme, offers a place to belong. Home is belonging. 

When we take time to listen without judgment, with patience, suppressing outrage and resisting the urge to offer advice, we give the gift of home to another person. 

Let’s offer an extravagant welcome to stories of home. 

© Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
Photo Credit: John-Mark Smith, @john_mark_smith; Lviv Ukraine via unsplash.com

Waterfall of Grace

The season has shifted,
the air is cool, leaving us
chilly and shivering
after wave upon
wave of summer heat. 

We had hoped for 
rain to nourish the parched
earth in this unrelenting
drought.

Rain hasn’t come. 

Miraculously, not every
living thing has 
succumbed to the 
combination of heat
without rain; 
no-one can explain how. 

We had hoped for
relief from angry
words tearing into the
flesh of neighborhoods;
justice in response to 
viciously targeted violence;
foolproof protection from a 
capricious virus 
entering into any 
unsecured opening. 

Relief hasn’t come. 

Inexplicably we trudge
forward, though bent a little lower—
weakened and slightly
less able to shake off
the ancient sickness of heart as 
we watch in helpless paralysis; 
this ability to somehow keep moving 
is a mystery no-one 
can comprehend.

We had hoped for resiliency
to grow, but we shatter a little 
more day after day, year after
year as this plague of hatred,
division, isolation, polarization 
snatches our joy,
severs our connections,
slashes our dreams.

Resiliency hasn’t come. 

Our souls have come to resemble
the impenetrable surfaces
of the earth, the exposed
ledges on mountainsides
that jut out beyond the
protected place, offering no
shelter from calamity.

We had hoped for serene 
valleys and predictable 
landscapes to offer restoration, 
but turbulence knocks us 
off guard, forces us to our knees,
sucks breath from our lungs. 

Serenity hasn’t come. 

But we have been offered
unexpected twinkles in 
velvety skies, 
vibrant trills sprinkled
generously throughout otherwise
monotonous scores,
the laughter of children
oblivious to burdens. 

What has come is a waterfall—
blessed cascade of shimmering lace 
from another realm—
gurgling, playful, delighting
in this moment,
heeding no mind to
what lies beneath, beside, below. 
simple and radiant in its offering,
extravagant in its incessancy. 

What has come is reassurance
that nothing can thwart 
moments of joy;
cooling springs of lightness 
can again soothe the
agitated inner space,

just as water suddenly plummets
from otherwise barren precipice
to become a fountain.
so, too, our desolation can not, will not
need not resist the waterfall 
of Divine grace.

© Julia Penner-Zook 2021
Photo Credit: Stacey L Rhoades

Holding Space

One of the most descriptive depictions of being there for another person is the delightful exchange between A.A. Milne’s characters, Pooh and Piglet.

“‘Today was a Difficult Day,’ said Pooh.
There was a pause.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ asked Piglet.
‘No,’ said Pooh after a bit. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Piglet, and he came and sat beside his friend.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Pooh.
‘Nothing, really,’ said Piglet…”

When someone we love is going through uncertainty, pain, and grief, our human tendency is to try to alleviate pain and solve problems. We’re hardwired to be active and to tackle dilemmas. Many times that’s quite impossible, and we quickly reach an impasse and feel helpless.

What comes less naturally is simply being present without intervention of any kind! To be quiet. To do nothing. Like Piglet.

Milne’s tiny Piglet continues: “‘Difficult days are so much easier when you know you’ve got someone there for you. And I’ll always be here for you, Pooh.’

And as Pooh sat there, . . . the solid, reliable Piglet sat next to him quietly, swinging his little legs. . . he thought that his best friend had never been more right.”

We may smile at the simplicity of this story, failing to recognize its gravitas. What Piglet has offered his friend is something we must learn. Piglet intuitively knew that his words weren’t important; holding space for his friend was what made the difference.

When we hold space for someone, we demonstrate that we don’t show up to merely deal with a “problem” so we can feel good about our own contribution, but to honor this person in all of their complexity and vulnerability.

When doubts come, we hold space for one another—space of silent faith.
When devastation pounds another’s being, we hold space—space of endurance.
When disillusionment draws a curtain over the windows of the soul, we hold space—space of hope.
Without solution.
Breathing in unison.
Metaphorically swinging our legs.
Without words.

© Julia Penner-Zook 2021
Photo Credit: Ken Needham

I Can’t See

It promised to be a glorious dawn
as my truck rattled down the deserted country road.

🍂 

The old radio crackled as the station
faded, then blacked out completely. 

🍂 

No matter. I knew the tune.
It was nearly as old as me.

🍂 

Contentment! A reprieve from the 
ugly vitriol that littered airwaves
and poisoned relationships. 

🍂 

The idyllic scene before me was what life was all about,
and a sigh escaped my lips over the coffee mug. 
Beauty. Peace. Promise. 

🍂 

And then the fog rolled in—
out of nowhere. 

🍂 

I should have known, as these
autumn mornings are known for 
waves of dense fog. 

🍂 

I can’t see, I blurted out to the empty cab 
as I slammed the brakes to the floorboards. 

🍂 

I really can’t see. 

🍂 

The truck sputtered to a standstill
on the side of the road,

🍂 

my head dropping down to the steering wheel,
and all of the anguish this scene had
mercifully erased for one moment 
became so dense 

🍂 

it nearly choked the life from me.
Life. The word mocked me—
sneered from the scene before me.  

🍂 

Life can’t be trusted,
my shattered heart declared. 

🍂 

It vanishes in an instant;
without warning; 
irreversibly, slowly siphoning 
all hope out of vibrant dreams,

🍂 

shackling those
who have no say in their
life sentence to grief.

🍂 

I can’t see! 
tears roll; 
words are meaningless.

🍂 

My beloved is gone and I can’t see.

© @julia_penner_zook 2021 — written in honor of the loved ones we remember on All Saints’ Day and for all families grieving tragic loss.

Photo Credit: © @staceylrhoades [A Foggy Sunrise]

Reflecting Pool

One of the elements I find most fascinating in photography is the reflection of landscapes in water.

Some reflections are so vivid they stun us with their vibrancy. The most accurate reflection happens in clear water, naturally diffused light, on a calm day. When one variable shifts, the image in the water is altered: maybe distorted; maybe given an enhanced artistic nuance. 

Humans are reflections—reflecting pools, so to speak. Instead of a single landscape informing the picture, the collective images from life’s experiences form a collage of intricate colors, textures, and shapes. If the water is muddied, the collage embodies sullen dullness; if a breeze breathes across the surface, the form becomes jagged, even unsettling. 

Unlike a natural reflection in which the image in the water can be an exact replication of what is directly before the viewer, the collage of our lives reflects images we assume are hidden from the “viewer.” 

We are unable to change the landscapes life has fashioned for and in us; we all have the invitation to be aware of how these landscapes blend together or fight against the other to create an unconscious reflection.

Today’s mosaic will have a different hue if we experienced generous nurture as a child than if our early years were marked by violent displacement. What’s visible today reflects whether we have spent years projecting toxic aggression or whether we have cultivated compassionate grace. Every reflection continues to shape us  and impacts those with whom we come in contact.

And yet we are not without volition—that innate human ability to choose our own actions and attitudes. We can affect the clarity of the water and velocity of the wind; we can choose daily disciplines that clean toxins from and create shelter for our reflecting pools. Prayer; meditation; music; poetry; dance; story; worship; art; scriptural wisdom literature; listening—these are cleansing and sheltering practices. No discipline inoculates us from muddied waters or wind-swept reflections, but they are places of refuge to settle the waters. I invite you to this refuge for your reflecting pool. 

© Julia Penner-Zook 2021
Photo credit: Julia Penner-Zook

Cemetery

I ventured to the mountains today, but not to spaces that have previously been refreshing. I have always been careful to go to the healing places where I could listen to the soft winds stirring in towering sequoias and revel in the exhilaration of shaded mountain trails. But those places are on fire right now; they will never be the same. 

But, I realized I must stop avoiding the wounded place. This place that can no longer offer solace and comfort now desperately needs mine! A place which silently begs NOT to be forgotten.

It was like a cemetery. Still. Deserted. Devoid of the masses who look for recreation and entertainment. What once were towering, grand “mother trees” stood as lifeless skeletons against a gray, clouded sky. Had they been able to transmit the needed nutrients to their root systems which may yet resurrect from the ash? Were they standing here as sentinels waiting until their offspring could rise from the dead forest floor to carry on the circle of life? I don’t know. 

I bore witness, standing in the chill of near freezing temperatures at over 6,000 feet (1829 meters), listening to the whistling wind, watching as gray clouds hurried across the sky. The silence was a eulogy to what they gave and what was lost. 

Then, quite suddenly, small white flecks whipped past my face and I assumed this was ash from fires long extinguished. But they were cold—and wet. Quickly the intensity of the wind drove more and more white flecks—no they were flakes—against my face. It was snow! It was a kiss from heaven! A promise of rebirth. 

In the midst of ashes and lifeless skeletons, a sign of hope! We live in hope. We pray for nourishment for these broken places. Will it come? I don’t know. 

For today, I have borne witness to loss and hold onto promise.

© Julia Penner-Zook 2021

Photo Credit: Julia Penner-Zook

Meet You At The Bar

racism
pandemic
outrage
empathy
science
sedition
vaccine
eviction
listlessness
competence
lockdown
grace
fear

If you’re occasionally glancing at news sources or daring to watch the evening news, you will have your own list of words that buzz in your head like the drone of a pesky fly at an outdoor bar on a late summer evening. The only thing is: you can’t leave that buzzing behind as you get up to leave; this drone will accompany you to bed and haunt you as you try to get some sleep. 

There is no exhaustive list of words; everyone has their own. Each word evokes its own emotion and leaves its distinctive taste behind. Both the positives and negatives impact our sense of wellbeing. 

What we frequently overlook is that we can hold many equally valid realities simultaneously. It’s encouraging to realize that the Christ’s Advent gifts of peace, hope, joy, and love don’t require that the recipients have all aspects of life in order. Quite the opposite: think of peace, hope, joy, and love pulling up a barstool next to outrage, or listlessness, for example. Imagine the conversation—or the surprising transformation. 

When we’re confronted with the debilitating aspects of life in our communities, families, and nation, let’s remember to repeatedly invite joy, peace, love, and hope to pull up a stool. Just extending the invitation is a cracked doorway for the unexpected. 

Originally posted in @communityuccfresno ‘s newsletter
©Julia Penner-Zook 2020
IG: @julia_penner_zook
Twitter: @j_pennz
Photo Credit: Pavel Danilyuk via pexels.com (open source)

What Could Yet Have Been

A dear friend passed last week—suddenly; unexpectedly; in a season of her life that was bountiful and light-filled.  

The news came impersonally on social media—the blessing and curse of those cold places. 

Tears flowing, chest convulsing, I tried to find a space within myself to comprehend what I wanted to erase. Undo. Correct with a restart of a machine that would eliminate this harsh error message. 

I can see her smile; find exhilaration in vicariously hiking over miles of desert paths; revel in the hidden beauties of nature which she captured by way of photography; feel the depth of love for the two who held her heart—her grandchildren. 

Hours were spent grasping for information of what? How? Why?

My deep regret—my loss—comes in the form of never having the opportunity to experience what could yet have been. The joys that could have been shared were cut short. No further opportunities to appreciate each another’s gifts; never to be warmed by the light of her grace just one more time (or two, or three); being denied the opportunity to set a date for coffee and a pastry, or to share a glass of wine on a warm summer evening. There will be no catching up; no talking about the gaps of when our paths had led us apart; no following the threads of commonalities or comparing stories of when we were classmates. 

Some things will never be. There is deep pain in that. It speaks of the finiteness of our humanity. Yet the gifts remain and the beauty can never be extinguished. Despite being shrouded in shadows and unknowns, she lives on. 

Rest In Peace, dear one, and may those who remain regain strength to radiate the warmth and light loaned to us.  

Originally posted in @communityuccfresno ‘s eNews
©Julia Penner-Zook 2020
IG: @julia_penner_zook
Twitter: @j_pennz
Photo Credit: Martino Pietropoli via unsplash.com (open source)

Who We Are

Honoring the legacy of an icon, Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Who would we be if…

we weren’t bogged down with agendas, statistics,
meetings, budgets, lesson plans, data, grocery lists,
problems to solve, disputes to adjudicate,
fallout to manage, needing to comply,
adjust, regroup?

What could we accomplish, were it not for…

circumstances, clashes of character,
economic fluctuation, deadlines, demands,
shortages, failing systems,
manipulated results, inadequate materials,
outdated equipment, unending Zoom meetings,
growing anxiety?

What does it mean to be alive in 2020…

with a pandemic inhibiting every
fiber of who we are,
acrid smoke obscuring our sun,
fires consuming forests, structures,
blackening thousands of acres of
rolling countryside, wildlife fleeing—
without hope of escape,
and all of our hopes for calm dashed,
patience wearing and tempers flaring,
angry voices and violent rage escalating,
hunger for power mirroring
flames leaping from tree to tree?

To be sure, this is our experience; this does not define who we are. We are human, we are connected with the Divine, and we are strong! We choose relationship and embrace, rejecting malice, cynicism, dehumanization. We allow pain to touch our souls, yet not to take up residence. We invite joy, intentionally practice patient and persistent hope, declare that our very breath connects us with God and with each other. Our words and thoughts reflect a higher purpose—one of restoration, reconnection, redemption. 

With voices raised, eyes clear, hearts open, fists clenched—not in hatred but in resistance to the forces that battle for twisted allegiance—we join the ranks of those who throughout history have stood strong. We are those who continue to sing, to dance, to pray, to eat, laugh, and create because we, too, shall overcome. We shall overcome again and again and again. We, too, belong to this abundant, beleaguered yet resilient planet, and we will fight for our human siblings, sojourning creatures in nature, and our Earth. 

This is who we are.

Originally posted in @communityuccfresno ‘s eNews
©Julia Penner-Zook 2020
IG: @julia_penner_zook
Twitter: @j_pennz
Photo credit: Jon Tyson via unsplash.com (open source)

Our Repetitious Prayer

 

It seems we are being presented with more simultaneously occurring challenges all the time; one at a time would be plenty. In addition to staying vigilant in the midst of pandemic fatigue, we are doing all we can to ensure an equitable, humane direction for this country; we work to support our black and brown siblings, demanding justice and peace; we look for ways to respond to the fallout from a quaking economy; we do our best in the responsibilities of work, relationships, and community; and now we are also weighed down by devastating destruction in the wake of an ever-encroaching fire. 

We cry out, “It’s too much!”

As followers of Christ we know we will always be carried—by one another and by God. When words fail us, simple outbursts become our daily mantra—our prayers. 

Be near to those from whom we are separated, oh God.
Be our anchor when we flounder at sea.
Protect your beloved children when they are targeted.
Empower our bodies; give us health in this precarious time.
Watch over us as we pray sleep will not continually elude us.
We need stability; our minds are overloaded.
We need you with us; we are so alone.
Be attentive to us when we pray; we don’t understand.
Remind us of our inherent value even in our frailty.
Thank you that you do not judge us in our distress and fear.
May we be people who care, and give us helpers in our need.
Give us discernment beyond our natural ability.
We need strength to face unrelenting challenges.
We need your comfort in our great loss.
Meet us in these times of devastation.
Thank you that because of resurrection anything is possible.

Amen.

Originally posted in @communityuccfresno ‘s eNews
©Julia Penner-Zook 2020
IG: @julia_penner_zook
Twitter: @j_pennz
Photo Credit: Simon Berger via unsplash.com (open source)