“I like that,” said Sally. “It leads one on and on. Who said that?”

“Isaac Pennington. How I do run on, dear! It’s old age. And I want to show you the linen cupboard.”‘

(Pilgrim’s Inn, by Elizabeth Goudge)

It is strange how much love can be held in a little structure of glass and metal. It is even stranger how easy it is to stop seeing it.

The terrarium has hung over my bookcase for months now, a shining reminder of my husband’s love. But over time it has melted into the fabric of our home, so familiar and comfortable that it’s become at times invisible. I forget it is there, until something reminds me. . . candlelight, or, like tonight, the glow of a New Mexico sunset.

It wasn’t the substance that drew my gaze, but the shadow of it. . . there on the wall, rich with the colors of the sky.

The shadow.

****

Robert is on the other side of the world right now. . . his today is my tomorrow and he is falling asleep at night as I am waking up in the morning. And while I truly have never felt any major shift in our lives, that abrupt end of the ‘honeymoon’ phase that was supposed to happen one day, I have realized in these quiet days of his absence that I have lost sight of something precious since the early months of our marriage. I’ve grown so accustomed to the beauty of life that I’ve stopped seeing it in the bright places where I once saw it so clearly.

I’m finding it again, now, in the shadows of his absence — in the scent of cedarwood and the vastness of a queen size bed. And the shadow of a glass case in the sunset, saying ‘This is the bright love you’ve been given. . . see its shadow on the wall? Feel its flutters within, growing ever stronger and more insistent?’

****

Yes, my eyes are weak, and sometimes I need the shadow to remind me of the substance. But so do we all, because we are human. And God knows this.

I was writing lesson plans this evening for the language arts class I strive to teach, and as I wrote I pondered how very many shadows God casts for us in Genesis. We’ve seen the substance so many times — Christ, dead and raised — that sometimes our eyes are blinded and we must see in a glass darkly to see at all. And so God shows us the ram caught in the brambles and the king of Salem serving wine and bread and over and over the shadows dance so that the substance may glow again in our minds.

****

The sunset has long since faded, but tonight, there is a candle glowing behind the glass walls of his love, casting shadows that remind me the substance is real.

Since getting married, I have felt a steady pull towards a smaller, curated collection of simple pieces I like wearing and my husband likes seeing me in, so that I can just pull something from my closet and put it on without giving it much thought. This pull has coincided with a growing realization of the devastating effects of the ‘fast fashion’ industry on the people who manufacture cheap, trendy clothing under poor conditions for insufficient wages, as well as its effects on the environment. Thankfully, these two developments in my thoughts on fashion lend themselves very well to each other, and I determined to make some changes in the way that I managed my closet.

I got rid of most of the clothes in my closet that I didn’t wear regularly and determined to plan for a wardrobe that would suit my new philosophy. It would include just what I would need and use often; it would be made up of quality pieces that would be nice to wear and hold up well long-term; it would be made up of a combination of secondhand items, new ethically-made pieces, and, for those items not available in ethical brands (generally outdoor or workout gear), well-made items that would last as long as possible. I expected that such a wardrobe would take some time to collect, and so it has; while I have made strides toward such a closet, I’m not there yet. I am ok with this. In fact, I’m enjoying the slow and purposeful process. But I have run into a problem that I’m at a loss as to how to solve.

You see, my husband and I are what we like to consider pros at thrift shopping. We have learned to find and recognize good deals and to capitalize on them (for instance, the $200 Fjallraven pants we bought for $20. . .), and it’s a process we both highly enjoy. The search is in itself a fun activity, and if it takes a little time to find a particular item, it just makes the satisfaction that much greater when I do find it. Of course, the prices are pretty wonderful, and I feel no guilt in making a secondhand purchase. Rather than contributing to the consumerism of the fashion industry, I’m helping to keep perfectly wearable clothes from going into landfills or upsetting third world economies. It’s come to the point where I have been shopping almost exclusively secondhand (except for things that are really just better bought new, like underclothes or running shoes), and not making any of the previously-planned purchases from ethical companies.

And I’ve begun wondering, lately, if my enthusiasm for second-hand shopping has caused me to fall into an unexpected trap. You see, I am doing no harm with my thrifted purchases. . .but I am doing no good, either. One unforeseen effect of buying secondhand exclusively is that I have come to see these prices as the norm; now I balk at paying full price for anything. After being used to paying $3 for name-brand shorts, I am turned off by the idea of spending $180 for a leather clutch handmade by a woman who has escaped from sexual slavery. And so, though I’ve largely stopped contributing to fast fashion. . .I haven’t actively contributed to stopping fast fashion, either.

To dip into philosophy for a moment, the Kantian categorical imperative argues that we should ‘act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.’ I am not extremely familiar with the larger philosophy of Kant and therefore do not wish to overemphasize it; but I must recognize that the categorical imperative makes a convincing argument when applied to the subject of fast fashion. If I believe that fast fashion is wrong and that we need a complete solution, I must also recognize that solution obviously cannot be as simple as ‘everyone should just buy secondhand only.’ If everyone only bought secondhand, then not only would we run out of clothing eventually, but all of those people who rely on the wages earned from manufacturing clothing, even if insufficient, would be unable to support themselves at all.

This being the case, can I be satisfied to act in a way that I can’t recommend everyone else act as well? Can I be satisfied to buy secondhand only, without contributing to companies that are striving to change the structure of the fashion industry? I can’t, of course, afford to buy everything new from these companies, but I could, if I really wished, choose to invest my money in a few pieces.

I don’t, because I’m frugal, and secondhand is always going to be the frugal choice, and I rarely need anything that I can’t with some patience find secondhand (either at a thrift store or on consignment through a company like ThredUp). . .and most of all, because I assume that ‘frugal’ is always the better and more responsible choice.

But I don’t know if I can honestly that this is the case, when I consider it. We are called to be stewards of our resources. . .to spend those resources in the best way possible. This can and often does involve being frugal in our purchases; but I am coming to think that it may also mean choosing to spend more money to support a good cause. Perhaps what I’ve been calling frugal is actually nothing better than stinginess. So what is worth spending more money on? I truly don’t know. I suppose I will keep pondering and thinking. . .

Until then, I will wear my $3 shorts happily. . .and thoughtfully.

It is a strange thing to read your own work years later, after having been distanced from it for a long time. . .stranger still to hear it sung in a voice you don’t recognize. I found the words resonating with me and I rolled them around in my head, trying to understand the metaphor, before I realized with a start that I had authored the metaphor.

Perhaps it’s a little like seeing your grown and married and bearded son kissing his wife. A new person, a stranger, in a way, but at the same time still the son whom you carried and bore and fed and taught and loved for years. That is the way I imagine it might be, of course; but I suppose I will have to wait until I have a son who is married to see if the comparison is at all accurate. 

It is strange, though, to have written something so long ago, when I knew less of the world than I do now, and to find that I understand my own words more deeply now than I did when they were written. Elizabeth Goudge writes, in the voice of an artist character:

‘I’ve got too far ahead in time. That happens sometimes even in photography, you know. At the time it is taken a photo is not a good likeness, yet, two years later, it is. It’s odd that it should happen in such a mechanized art as photography. In a portrait it is understandable. . .There’s a patient angel in us all, the spirit in the making. And he has two faces. He is the two things that you may be if you do this, or that. Sometimes you see the one looking out of the window, sometimes the other.’ (Elizabeth Goudge, ‘Pilgrim’s Inn’)

I wonder if the portraits, the metaphors that I write, will be accurate in twenty years, in fifty. I know already that in all of the welling years to come, I will find out how little I know now of the depths of darkness and the greatness of our God. But I wonder if seventy years from now, frail and old and child-like once more, I will discover that the child-Carreen knew things she didn’t know she knew. I wonder what will happen after all. . .

In the meantime, a childish poem resurrected and matured by a friend’s persistence:

After All 

so pain stains the windows and tears smear the pane
and we sit here and wonder if weather will ever
blow this old house down again

and you tip back your chair and you say to the wind
a pot of gold is the end of the rainbow
so what is at the beginning?

is there beginning? i thought this was the end
you’ve said it before and i’ll say it again
but this house is not gold
after all
i don’t know
if the nails will hold
after all
after All.

so pain stains the windows and tears smear the pane
and we sit here and wonder if weather will ever
blow this old house down again

and you take my hand and we follow the rainbow
from end to beginning to see
the beauty began before i ran yet after He came for me

before the tears and after the love
after nails of iron dripped with blood
and Promise bowed down from the heavens to cry:

there is beginning, this isn’t the end
it’s stormed before, it will storm again
because that house is not gold
after all
but I Know
these Nails will hold
for Eternity
after All.

]]> http://teaandfigments.com/2016/03/29/after-all-3/feed/ 1 http://teaandfigments.com/2016/03/25/and-in-the-night-my-hope-was-gone/ http://teaandfigments.com/2016/03/25/and-in-the-night-my-hope-was-gone/#respond Fri, 25 Mar 2016 19:20:41 +0000 http://teaandfigments.com/?p=1967 In our classroom on Wednesday, thirteen little hearts and mine tried hard to comprehend fear and darkness, and the light that overcomes them both.

We were discussing a chapter from George MacDonald’s ‘The Princess and the Goblin,’ in which the princess is so frightened that she runs out of her home and up the dark mountainside, and gets lost in the welling night. In the distance, she sees her great-great-grandmother’s lantern shining brightly, leaves her fear behind, and follows the light home to safety.

I have a terrible tendency to get too caught up in the big picture, to try to communicate the whole grand vision to my students, rather than keeping it to their level of understanding. But then, isn’t that the point of classical education? To chase the white deer (Elizabeth Goudge reference. . .I may be slightly obsessed), the fleeting vision, though we cannot comprehend its entirety? Yes, let us describe what they can see and understand. . . but let us also tell them of the grand things they have yet to understand, and let us help them to move a little closer to that understanding, if we can.

And so, while we talked of the metaphors of fear and darkness, and we recognized together that the true Light is Jesus and His Word, I could not help but take the discussion a step further. I tried to play an Andrew Peterson song in class, but when my internet connection made this impossible, I read the lyrics, choking on tears and probably causing the seven- and eight-year-olds to wonder why Mrs. Raynor’s voice sounded so very strained and tight:

‘I am weary with the pain of Jacob’s wrestling
In the darkness with the Fear, in the darkness with the Fear
But he met the morning wounded with a blessing
So in the night my hope lives on. . .

I remember how they scorned the son of Mary
He was gentle as a lamb, gentle as a lamb
He was beaten, he was crucified, and buried
And in the night, my hope was gone. . . ‘

I stopped there, tried to catch my breath. And then I tried to explain to the wondering faces why, after we had just discussed the great hope we have in Christ, I would read such a line. ‘In the night, my hope was gone.’

You see, if Christ is dead and buried, we have no hope. There is no situation, no circumstance in life that could ever be as utterly, perfectly hopeless as the one in which the disciples found themselves on a Friday almost two thousand years ago, with their Messiah hanging, dead, on a thief’s cross.

But neither the song nor the story ends there, I said. A blond eight-year-old raised his hand, concerned that I had not finished the story: ‘But Jesus rose!’

Yes, Jesus rose. Speak this truth again and again, little heart. Jesus lives. And because He lives, He proved the Father’s wrath completely satisfied, proved our sin forgiven. Proved that the Light shines again in the darkness.

And so, we have this Hope. Because Christ died, and because He is no longer dead, there is a lantern in the darkness. The darkness is real, of course. . . but if we are in Christ, we will never face a darkness so great as that of the Friday long ago. Never. Neither sickness in our own bodies, nor death of the ones we love, nor political tensions, nor any other created thing can ever present us with a darkness as deep and as terrifying as a dead Christ. . .

The darkness that was banished forever on the Sunday that our God rose.

‘But the rulers of earth could not control Him
They did not take his life–he laid it down
All the chains of death could never hope to hold him
So in the night my hope lives on. . .’

I don’t know how much of that sunk in to the little minds I taught on Wednesday, the minds who cannot be familiar with very great depths of darkness yet. But I pray that they will always hope in the hope we have in Christ. I pray that as they grow in their knowledge of the darkness of the world, that they will understand and love the Light of Christ all the more.

Oh, thank God that our Hope lives. . .

When I first moved here to New Mexico, with a new ring and a new name, I was happily hermited in our little base camp (of which I intend to share pictures soon), happy in the creation of the atmosphere of our home and our life together. We have not finished this creation, of course; it is the endeavor of a lifetime. But at least the flavor of this atmosphere has in many ways been set, and I have of late felt the need for another pursuit: for growth in knowledge and proficiency, for intellectual and literary stimulation, for a community in which to thrive. My heart had grown a little parched here in the high desert of New Mexico. Several months ago, through God’s gracious orchestration of events, I found my way to Oak Grove Classical Academy, a Christ-centered, university-model classical school about fifteen minutes from base camp. A well in the desert.

“‘Do you hear?’ said the little prince. ‘We have awaked this well, and it is singing.”‘

(Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince)

Here I have stumbled upon community: a community of believers who are dedicated to growing in the knowledge of Christ, of His beauty and truth and grace. A community who live their lives reading and learning. . . drawing in beauty into their bones and pouring it out again, as Elizabeth Goudge writes of in ‘Pilgrim’s Inn.’ I was invited to join a group of women who make the time to gather monthly to read and discuss literature…not as an escape from their children, but in part to demonstrate to their children that the process of learning and growing does not stop when you graduate, nor when you are well-and-truly an adult, or married, or managing mortgage and homeschooling.

And by the grace of God, I not only get to be a part of this community, spurred on by it and held accountable by it, but I get to participate in the Conversation that has been going on for thousands of years. I have the intense privilege of pouring, as accurately as I can, the beauty and splendor and wisdom of the God we serve into thirteen small minds twice a week.

Perhaps, if these things were relative, the task of teaching them would not be so daunting. But they are not. Neither truth, righteousness, nor even beauty are relative. Our perfect and holy God sets an absolute standard for each, and woe betide the person who calls good bad and bad good. . . and particularly the person who leads little children astray. It is a responsibility which I take on with gravity and soberness, this instructing of little children. It is a task about which I am both deeply thrilled and thoroughly terrified.

C. S. Lewis describes the teacher’s task as “irrigating deserts.” To irrigate, you must have water. . .and I have been sent scurrying to irrigate my own mind, to pursue knowledge and beauty and truth so that I may pour it out again, accurately, into the minds of my students. And in so doing, I feel that I have taken a draught of the water I have been craving for many months. It is as though, in the books and habits and community in which I have found myself immersed, I have found a well in the desert. . . and the more deeply I drink, the more I crave. And though teaching and reading have kept me quite busy (particularly when combined with rock climbing, spontaneous weekend trips, and home life…which, again, I hope to write of soon), I intend to take some time weekly to pour out a little of that water here; or, perhaps, only to scribble some of the swirling thoughts in my head. Will you join me in the Conversation?

‘I’m on the shore now of the wildest river…’

(Chris Rice, Thirsty)

We celebrated our anniversary a few weeks ago, with a trip to Iceland, and so yesterday we just spent a quiet evening with each other. We settled in with a slice of cheesecake and a glass of wine and a year’s worth of memories, and it was an evening of quiet wonder.

I could write a list (a very long one) of things I have learned in this year of being married, or things I am grateful for. But the thing which struck me with the most force yesterday was not a list of things I have learned in a year of marriage, but that, Lord willing, we don’t get just one. Marriage doesn’t end after the first year. Yesterday we celebrated one year of marriage, and it was wonderful. . . but this morning, we woke up on the first day of our second year. And I made coffee for two and my best friend kissed me when he left for work, and please God, we will get to do this another year, and the year after that, and the year after that, and my breath catches when I realize the enormity of this gift God has given us. I am so inestimably grateful for this year, so very thankful for the gift of this year that we didn’t deserve. And I am so very, very thankful that, if God pleases, we don’t get just one.

This is the first day of the rest of our lives.

photo credit: sarah marcella

Madeliene L’Engle, “A Wind In the Door”

Young wife, you are returned at last from roaming the earth with your husband. Your body is weaker than it was, thanks to the grueling days of travel and fever and not-eating with which you said goodbye to the quiet wilderness of Iceland. But your heart is strengthened by the Love who carried your backpack and stroked your hair and in the end brought you safely home. (And who the next day worked a full day and bought you juice and grapes and cooked you tacos while you slept on the couch.)

And your imagination, so long snuggled deep in the contented nest of this love, begins to ruffle its feathers and stretch its wings and peer about at the great world which you have glimpsed. Do you wonder, as it opens its bright eyes, where its purpose lies? Why anyone would encourage it to fly, and then scribble down its wandering paths? Why retell these stories, why tempt the imaginations of children to peep out of their nests and stretch their wings to fly, too?

The call of the “real” world is strong, and rightly so. You live in a material world that is real, and you know, young wife, that practicality is a precious art to be loved and embraced. But this very real world that we see and breathe is metaphor and a veil for another world, equally real but unseen and unseeable…except through faith.

Young wife, you have seen incredible things in this beautiful, material world. You have seen a dying sun and a coral moon balanced low in a blue sky like a pair of cosmic scales. You have seen glaciers flowing painfully into valleys, like some arthritic monster advancing his territory with agonizingly slow steps. You have seen desolation trying its best to keep its grip on lava fields long ago cooled, and being overcome by living moss like grace.

Young wife, you have also seen incredible things in the beautiful and immaterial world in which you also live. You have seen that the monsters who hide in the valleys of your soul are real, and that the grace of God overwhelms all that is desolate. You have seen the reality that is beyond the reality. Only in glimpses, perhaps. . . but, young wife, the secret to those glimpses lie in the bright eyes of your imagination. Not because all that you imagine is real, but because all that is real cannot be known or seen–and imagination teaches you to look beyond that which is seen. Imagination teaches you how to pull up the corner of the curtain and peep behind it.

Do you remember that this is why you love to write? Do you remember that you love the words with which you can, for a moment, cross between the worlds of seen and unseen? Do you remember what it is like to look on a tossing sea or a child reaching for her father and see the swirling metaphor and poetry and color that lies beneath that moment? Your imagination stirs and wakens. . . let it scramble to the edge of the nest and become the flurry of words and wings, singing of true things, real things, the things that lie behind the curtain of mere water and rock. Trace the flightpaths and re-sketch them in paper and ink so that others may follow. This is why you imagine; this is why you write. Remember these things, and stretch your paper wings once more.

but tonight i am driving up to colorado to meet him, and there our grand adventure will begin: a whirlwind three weeks spent tough mudding in colorado, conferencing and friend-visiting in virginia, and then a glorious 8 days of adventuring in iceland for an early anniversary trip.

right now, i feel mostly tired and ready for preparations to be over. . . and above all, ready to see my beloved again. but more and more, i am growing excited to begin our grand adventure, and excited for the stories and pictures and memories that we will collect on the way.

‘gathering stories. . . the story, it belongs to you. . .’

]]> http://teaandfigments.com/2015/09/11/gathering-stories/feed/ 0 http://teaandfigments.com/2015/09/07/parachute-sky-part-3/ http://teaandfigments.com/2015/09/07/parachute-sky-part-3/#respond Mon, 07 Sep 2015 18:35:42 +0000 http://teaandfigments.com/?p=1932  

My dear friend, Liz, was our wedding coordinator and did a really amazing job of pulling all of our ideas together and helping us stay organized and focused. On our wedding day, she made sure that we had time built into our schedule in case some things took longer than we expected, or in case we ran into technical difficulties. . . but she and all of the wonderful people who helped behind the scenes kept things running so smoothly that we didn’t end up needing all of that extra time. So, the day had a really relaxed, laid-back party feel, which was exactly what we had hoped for.

After the ceremony and family portraits, we still had a couple of hours before we had planned to make our entrance to the reception. We decided to move up the reception, but Robert and I were able to first sneak away for a walk and some time to just be alone together and try to realize that we were husband and wife.

The first thing we did when we rejoined our guests was our first-dance-as-a-married-couple, to the song ‘Lucky’ by Colbie Cailat and Jason Mraz.

(We get to kiss now and it is amazing.)

When ‘Lucky’ ended, James (friend and sound-booth runner) switched to ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ by Frank Sinatra, and my dad and I danced.

We wanted to encourage people to get on to the dance floor, so partway through the song, our family members began joining us and pairing off.

Now, just a word about the cheesecake. Our friend Wanda, from church, gave us an incredibly generous wedding gift: three beautiful, and delicious cheesecakes, in our choice of flavors. We picked pumpkin and mocha (layers of each), and those cheesecakes have now spoiled us for all others. I had a hard time eating anything that day, and Robert resorted to counting my bites of dinner to make sure I was eating enough. He didn’t need to count my bites of cake.  =P

The foxes were a gift I gave to Robert long before we were ever engaged, and when we were trying to decide on how to decorate the dessert table, they seemed like fitting cake toppers. We stacked antique books to put the cake stands on.

Our dear friend, Lynzie, and her husband, Leonard, flew out from Montana for the wedding. Leonard was gracious enough to do the honors as M. C. for us, and Lynzie agreed to be in charge of providing and setting up the communion table for the ceremony. We were so humbled by her giving us the beautiful antique Lord’s Supper plate and wine glass which had been in her family. She even found some special charms for the glass with our initials, a fox, and a nest of fox eggs.

After Leonard led us in prayer before the meal, we got in line to eat dinner. We had set up long, family-style tables for the reception, with no assigned seating. Because Robert and I didn’t have a head table, we got to just move from table to table as we wished and were able to visit with guests throughout the afternoon, which I really enjoyed. What this also meant is that the dinner line was strictly casual, and we wound up pretty far back in the line. People kept telling us that it was ok to cut, as bride and groom, but we really enjoyed meandering our way to the front and getting to visit with people along the way.

Dinner was a variety of homemade dips. Lita (my mom’s mom) made her famous chicken mole (a Mexican sauce), Robert’s mom made hummus, and I made marinara sauce and chicken tikka masala. We served these with corn chips, veggies, bread, and naan, respectively. Robert was excited about the tikka masala, but I had spent so long smelling it while making it that I was not excited about eating it. I was also, at this point, wondering whose brilliant idea it was (mine) to eat three different types of red sauce in a white dress.  =P

Although Robert was insistent that I eat something, ‘Don’t Stop Moving’ had just come on the playlist and we ran off for a quick dance before we ate.

I had promised to take a silly selfie with Maggie on our wedding day, and our photographer got proof.

We snuck away from the party at sunset with our photographer, Sarah, to take portraits of just the two of us. We had a lot of fun…basically all we had to do was kiss and snuggle, which we were only too happy to do. I’ve never enjoyed being in front of the camera, but this was actually fun.

When we got back from the portrait-taking, it was time to say goodbye.

Everyone outdid themselves in making it tough for us to just drive away in the Jeep. They turned our mirrors, tied up the windshield wipers, and — what really kind of scared us — unlatched the hardtop. They did do a good job of decorating it, though. Someone drew a fox on our window, and when we cleaned off the rest of the Jeep, we left the fox. It’s been through lots of rain, snow, and hail in the almost-year that we’ve been married, and while most of the fox is gone now, the tail is still on our window.

Robert got the Jeep into driving-order, and we ran away for two weeks in a cottage on the coast, and then a road-trip to our new home in New Mexico . . .

photos of our wedding ceremony.

shannon didn’t toss any leaves until the very end when she got up to mom’s seat, upon which she decided to empty her basket with zealous leaf-tossing.  =]

the next couple of photos always make me laugh. i wanted to get a picture of all of the married siblings kissing. my brother and his wife didn’t really want to stop.  =]

(he will want me to clarify that this is because they got a late start)

photos of the reception coming next.

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