Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me!
For my soul trusts in You;
And in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge,
Until these calamities have passed by.

Since my daughter Sharon has been knitting professionally for years and now owns a hand-dyed yarn business, I thought I’d better learn to knit. My mom was a knitter and I have always enjoyed creating things with my hands, but I didn’t set my mind to knitting until this year.

I sent out an invitation to a handful of friends and asked if they’d like to join me for a four-week class in my home. Sharon would be our patient teacher and no one would feel like a fool if they couldn’t catch on right away. We had eight people signed up in no time, and have had two classes.

We are all working with a bulkier yarn and circular needles size 13, and we’re making a cowl to keep our necks warm in winter. My yarn was actually dyed by Sharon and she gave it to me for Christmas. It’s called “North Shore.”  🙂

So here’s a photo of my almost complete first project — a cowl full of mistakes and holes. A holey cowl. After a few mistakes, I ripped it out and started again, ripped it out and started again, ripped it out and started again, ripped it out and started again, ripped it out and started again until the yarn started getting fuzzy, and then I decided that I’d keep going whether I made mistakes or not. Someday the imperfect cowl would be a reminder of the humble beginnings of my illustrious knitting career. Ha.

The colorway reminds me of some of the lyrics to “Sweet Baby James”….. “deep greens and blues are the colors I choose…”

And here are a couple of the dime-sized holes in my cowl:

So, I have really enjoyed knitting so far. I decided that I wanted to try some smaller needles, and a less bulky yarn this time. I could get free yarn from Sharon, but I decided to wander nonchalantly into our local yarn store (which carries Three Irish Girls yarn) and buy some from them. I found the display where TIG yarn was set up, and I ooohed and aaahed as I looked at all the skeins so the owner might possibly see how smart she was to carry Sharon’s yarn. Then I bought some silky yarn, along with size 8 straight needles. And a row counter.

I’m making a very plain scarf for a friend of mine who doesn’t read this blog, so I think I can put a photo up. Her favorite color is purple, and she has warm skin tones and brunette hair, so I thought the colorway “Eilis” would be perfect for her scarf. Here’s what it looks like about one-third complete:

It has some mistakes I didn’t know how to fix but nothing dime-sized yet.

So in the last couple of days we watched a movie at home. Guess what I was doing while we were watching? Knitting.

Today I had to take our car in to have the remote entry keys reset. Guess what I was doing while sitting in the customer waiting room? Knitting.

We are planning a trip to Scotland and England in the fall, Godwilling. Guess what I plan to be doing to help pass the time during an eight hour flight? Knitting!

I hope I can learn to do something other than cast on, knit, purl and cast off someday soon. I have read and heard that the brain waves of a person who’s knitting are almost identical to the brain waves of a person who’s meditating. Many avid knitters say they find it very therapeutic. That sounds good to me.

I need help with my brain waves these days, and I’m hoping some knitting will do the trick.

I was fourteen years old when my mother took to her bed. Back then it was called a nervous breakdown. Today I would call it a broken heart.

She stayed there for nine months.

I had heard occasional rumblings in my parents’ marriage, but I thought they were only small tremors of little consequence. At that young age I had no idea that those minor temblors were announcing the massive quake that was to come, the one that jolted us off our feet as the tectonic plates of our family shifted so powerfully it seemed the earth opened up and swallowed some of us whole.

After 31 years of marriage, my father had told my mother he wanted a divorce.

I remember the summer morning I woke up and went to the kitchen to pour some Cheerios and milk in a bowl. Dad was sitting at the table, the hanging lamp glowing yellow on the pages of the San Gabriel Valley Tribune he pored over each morning as he had a piece of peanut butter toast and a cup of coffee. Mom was sitting in her nightgown on the couch, her coffee in front of her on the marble coffee table. I noticed a small piece of paper next to her coffee cup with her handwriting on it; at the top on the left side she had written “Doc,” and at the top right she had written “Virginia.”  Several words were listed under each name, words like house and Buick and retirement account. Looking back I’m amazed that I didn’t stop right there and demand, “What’s going on?” but the written words must have not fully registered right then because the scene seemed okay. My mom and dad were in their morning places, quietly sipping coffee, and nothing seemed very different.

But everything was different. And everything was about to come apart.

My parents later broke the news to me that they were going to get a divorce, that they still cared about each other blahblahblah, deeply loved all three of us kids blahblah (who were 29, 24 and 14 at the time — I was the only one at home), and very little would change blahblahblahblah except that Dad would be moving out into his own apartment. My father said that he had stopped loving my mom years ago, that their lives had grown apart, and that he had stayed with her because of me. He had wanted to wait until he felt I was old enough, mature enough, to emotionally handle the difficult news. I guess he thought fourteen was the magic number. That sunshiny Southern California morning, Mom was sad, Dad was quiet, and I went outside to see if my next door neighbor and boyfriend Rick was around so I could talk to him about what I had just been told. Later in the day I called my best friend Denel to break the news to her.

After Dad moved out my mom started crumbling a bit. She poured out her sadness to me and it was a heavy load for a fourteen year old girl to bear, but I tried to carry it. She cried and told me if only, if only, if only…..if only she had not allowed herself to gain weight, if only she had taken more of an interest in going to the basketball games my dad coached, if only she had been smarter and a better conversationalist, if only.

My mom also had lower back trouble, and not surprisingly, her back went out at this time. I remember a chiropractor actually coming to the house a few times to give her adjustments there. Mom probably didn’t want me to think she was in bed for so long because she was so heartbroken, so most of the time she just said to people who would call, “I’ve thrown my back out.” Which was true, but now I know it wasn’t the only thing. Throwing one’s back out is a much more acceptable reason to stay in bed for nine months than having an emotional collapse.

Mom was a professional organist in the old days of the smoky supper clubs. She was a gifted musician who could hear a song once and move to her behemoth Hammond B-3 and play it effortlessly in any key, with no sheet music to refer to. I do not exaggerate. She worked at night playing music at an organ bar at a nice restaurant, and she was so personable, so loved by people and so talented, the bar seats were always filled and other restaurant owners were always trying to lure her away to their establishments.

I remember watching her long, elegant fingers dance fluidly and gracefully over the two keyboards of our Hammond at home, and I was so proud of her. I loved how she played “Seventy-six Trombones” from The Music Man. When I was really little we would sit together on the bench and I would play chopsticks while she accompanied me with advanced chording and rapid lilting riffs that made me sound like I was a spectacular organist at the age of seven. At that age I thought I was.  🙂

When my parents split up and my mother took to her bed, she didn’t go to work for those nine months. The big Hammond at the restaurant sat silent, and so did the one in our home. Her boss and friend, Helen Hasabales, had compassion on my mother’s situation and paid her anyway. Every two weeks her paycheck would arrive and for those months Helen made sure that financial difficulties weren’t going to be added to the pile of grief already weighing my mom down.

Friends came to visit and the phone rang off the hook with well-wishers and people wanting to express their love to my mom. She was a woman with a hundred friends. I have no doubt that this stream of support and caring kept her above water emotionally. I came home from school and sat with her and sometimes she would weep out her heartbreak and regrets to me. Other times I felt relieved that she had friends who reached out to her so I wouldn’t have to do so much. People brought food, friends came and sat with mom and knitted while they chatted, and I had time to do what fourteen year-olds do (and time to do what fourteen year-olds have no business doing). I had my own heartbreak to deal with.

I’ve heard of people who get divorces and they handle it so well, so maturely and matter-of-factly, that hardly anything seems to skip a beat in their families, supposedly. Moms and Dads go into overdrive to make sure all the kids know that they are loved, that they aren’t the cause of Mommy and Daddy’s divorce, that sometimes these things happen and mommies and daddies don’t love each other in the same way anymore but we’ll always be a family and we’ll still do fun stuff together and all of that garbage. Pardon my French here. I didn’t buy it when I was fourteen years old and I don’t buy it now that I’m fifty-three.

I desperately wanted my parents to stay together. I wanted my dad to love my mom again. I wanted my mom to stop being so emotionally weak and devastated. I begged God and cried out to the heavens for my parents to do whatever it took to stay together and heal. I realize that I don’t know all the ins and outs of my parents’ relationship even now, and I’m very aware that there were bad dynamics on both sides that contributed to a union that got weaker and more toxic as the years went by. It wasn’t just Dad. And it wasn’t just Mom. It was the careless, selfish, most likely tiny choices they made day after day for thirty-one years. Choices that didn’t strengthen and build and bless. Choices that may have been so subtle no one could have noticed until things were so fractured, that the road back wasn’t even visible anymore because of the rubble and ruins.

Lest you think I’m speaking from my lofty high horse, I inform those who don’t already know that I myself have been divorced. While the circumstances of my divorce weren’t the same as my parents’ situation, heartache still came in and put down deep roots. My little girls were two and a half years old and nine months old when their father decided he didn’t love me anymore and wanted to leave and take up with someone else. It couldn’t have been all my first husband’s fault — I have to own my part in the unhappiness that helped him open that door and walk out while I stood there crying pathetically. Thirty-two years later, much healing has taken place, but open wounds always leave scars, and we all have them.

My mom got out of her bed after nine months and went back to work. She laughed again. She grew a little stronger, but not as much as I think she would have liked. Years later she developed macular degeneration of the retina and had to retire early from playing the organ professionally. She was an amazing, generous and loving grandmother. But the rest of her life was a bit shrunken, a bit withered, after the divorce. I know that people can heal after divorce, but I never thought her healing was really complete. Fear and loneliness and melancholy marked much of her life. She had multiple health issues and eventually had a hard time even walking.

Here’s a picture of my mom when she was eighteen years old, right before she and my dad got married in 1940.

I love the jaunty cap and her beautiful lips and the serenity I see in this photo.

And here’s one I found recently of Mom, behind the organ at the supper club where she worked. This was taken around 1970 when she was 48 years old, right before the divorce.

I think of her a lot these days, especially when I’m with my grandchildren, or when the accomplishments of my daughters bring joy I wish I could share with Mom. Of course I wish life had turned out differently for her, but I don’t dwell on it too much anymore.

Even though my mom’s faith didn’t shape her daily living as much as it does some, she believed in Jesus. In her last years when she couldn’t see well and had to use a thick permanent marker to write huge words on typing paper for grocery lists, she let me read to her quite a bit. And when I read to her about the love and forgiveness of God, she cried. The tears would stream down her face and I could see her reaching out and grabbing that lifeline. Then peace would be present for days after.

When she died, her last words were, “Help me Jesus!”

And He did. Jesus helped her slip out of that body that had become a prison, away from those modes of thinking that had worn grooves so deep she couldn’t climb out for very long, out of that loneliness and fear into the best company and contentment and joy and confidence and love she’s ever known.

The desert and the parched land will be glad;
the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom;
it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.
The glory of Lebanon will be given to it,
the splendor of Carmel and Sharon;
they will see the glory of the LORD,
the splendor of our God.

Strengthen the feeble hands,
steady the knees that give way;
say to those with fearful hearts,
“Be strong, do not fear;
your God will come,
he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution
he will come to save you.”

Then will the eyes of the blind be opened
and the ears of the deaf unstopped.
Then will the lame leap like a deer,
and the mute tongue shout for joy.
Water will gush forth in the wilderness
and streams in the desert.
The burning sand will become a pool,
the thirsty ground bubbling springs.
In the haunts where jackals once lay,
grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.

And a highway will be there;
it will be called the Way of Holiness;
it will be for those who walk on that Way.
The unclean will not journey on it;
wicked fools will not go about on it.
No lion will be there,
nor any ravenous beast;
they will not be found there.
But only the redeemed will walk there,
and those the LORD has rescued will return.
They will enter Zion with singing;
everlasting joy will crown their heads.
Gladness and joy will overtake them,
and sorrow and sighing will flee away.

Isaiah, Chapter 35.

Can’t wait to see you again Mom. I know you’re finally smiling and dancing around free. No longer heartbroken.

I have so much to say to you. Fancy that.

Your yearning daughter,

“Heartache forces us to embrace God out of desperate, urgent need. God is never closer than when your heart is aching.”

Joni Eareckson Tada

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I always love reading comments left on this blog. Sometimes it’s just encouraging to realize someone is reading, sometimes your comments make me laugh, many times they make me honestly think and consider. If you haven’t read all the comments from the previous post, let me encourage you to go back and take a look. There are some very dear people out there.

My friend Shari from Seattle is the winner of this month’s giveaway — a copy of Ann Voskamp’s new book One Thousand Gifts, which takes the admonition “Count Your Blessings” to a whole new level…a potentially life-changing level.

One of my favorite things to do is to share good books with friends. I was in a book club for ten years and had to bow out a few years ago to better attend to other things in my life. But I still read some every day, and there’s nothing quite as satisfying as sharing ideas and thoughts about a book with another person.

I also feel very blessed that at this point in my life I can give a book gift now and then, so I wrote down a list of those I’d like to give One Thousand Gifts to.

If you’ve read the book or are partway through it, would you share your thoughts? How has it touched your life or challenged you? Did you learn anything new? Has the book prompted some kind of action or response on your part?

Have you ever doubted God’s love for you? Have you wondered why you’ve prayed and He hasn’t seemed to answer in the ways you’re so desperate for? Or, have you known that God is a good and loving God but still maybe wondered just how much He thinks about you or pays attention to you personally?

Here’s what just one reader said about the book:

“It’s been over a month since I dove into the pages of Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are… But, the writing, the truth and the beauty that I found in this book have lingered on, and I can’t seem to shake it.

Out of the depths and front lines of some of life’s hardest circumstances, Ann has come forward delivering one of God’s most powerful instructions, one that we overlook, though it’s the most-often used command in all of Scripture: Do not fear. Ann, in her book, says ‘It is impossible to give thanks, and simultaneously feel fear.’ So her answer, her gift that she has written out here in this book, is a profound movement of Thankfulness. Gratitude. Grace. All of these things abound within the lines and word pictures that she paints so beautifully.

One Thousand Gifts is a life-altering and heart-shaping work. Each page is rich with story and beauty… I found myself lingering on each page, drinking them in slowly, not wanting the journey to the back cover to end. This book is not only revolutionary in content, it is crafted by a master of the written word. Ann Voskamp has delivered us, and skyrocketed the art of writing into unknown heights with this book.

I have found myself in awe of Ann’s story. She weaves it delicately and carefully, each word connected to another, creating lines upon lines of unending beauty. The result is a stunning basket of story, and its contents cradle one of God’s greatest gifts to his people: Grace.

To say this book is exquisite is an understatement. It is a true masterpiece in every sense of the word, and I am better for reading its pages.

Do not hesitate for one moment. Buy this book and allow God’s overwhelming Grace to soak in through the comfort and dazzling beauty of Ann Voskamp’s words.”

Congratulations, Shari! I’ll be mailing your copy tomorrow. Thank you all for commenting.

I just finished my copy yesterday, and am going to start it again right away, taking it even slower and more prayerfully. I have needed this book.

I Am……a Scottish woman in an American woman’s body.

I Want……a smaller house.

I Should……start exercising.

I Wish……that prayer were a little easier.

I Hate……the devil’s cruel assaults on families.

I Fear…….turbulence while flying.

I Hear……classical music on the house intercom.

I Search……for signs of hope every single day.

I Wonder……how many galaxies there really are.

I Regret…….the unkind things I’ve said in my life.

I Love…….my husband, my daughters, my grandchildren, my sons-in-law, my friends, my Jesus.

I Always……have to have a Cappuccino Cooler in the morning.

I Usually……read before going to sleep at night.

I Am Not……very spontaneous.

I Dance……in my dreams.

I Sing…….in the car.

I Never…….enjoy shopping in a mall or watching football.

I Rarely……go camping.

I Cry……when I pray.

I Am Not Always……meek and gentle.

I Lose……very important papers that I put in obvious and special places so I won’t ever lose them.

I’m Confused……about how to proceed.

I Need…….books, quiet, beauty, hope, God’s presence.

I Have……the most amazing, beloved family. And a developing bunion. And sagging skin on my neck. And two quirky Schnauzers. And lots of cardinals around my house.

On Christmas morning I opened up one of my gifts and was surprised and delighted to receive this:

It’s a beautiful prayer shawl knitted for me by my daughter Sharon. She dyed the yarn herself, and she knows I spend most of my (too infrequent) prayer time and Bible reading time in our black and cream toile bedroom upstairs. So she made a black and cream shawl for me, with a loose cable in the center. I love it.

It’s not just to keep me warm when I sit in one of the chairs by the windows in our bedroom nook, even though this prayer shawl does keep me warm.

It’s not just to remind me that prayer is a covering, a protection, a clearer lens, a comfort, a connection with the One who made me and astonishingly, loves me and wants me to talk with Him.

This prayer shawl is a symbol of all that is precious to me. The love of my family. The lavish gift of a home. The grace of God. The privilege of having an audience any time I choose, with the One who holds together the universe’s billions of galaxies. With the One who holds me together.

Sometimes in the morning Michael joins me for some chair time, although I’m not sharing my shawl with him. Edith and Mildred also like to hear God’s Word read aloud.

My prayer shawl reminds me that I am wrapped in God’s love, in my three daughters’ love, and in the love of the icicles outside our bedroom window that have now gone from being stalactites to stalagmites. Wait, these icicles don’t love me at all! Forget I said that! My thoughts got away from me there.

Winter gets so long here, and is so cold and colorless, I sometimes get confused. Sorry.

And who has to worry about Seasonal Affective Disorder when the sun is shining so anemically and reluctantly cheerily and brilliantly in the sky? No one that I know of.

One more day left in January. That much closer to spring.

In the meantime, I know I’m covered.

God’s voice thunders in marvelous ways;
He does great things beyond our understanding.

He says to the snow, ‘Fall on the earth,’
and to the rain shower, ‘Be a mighty downpour.’

Snow piled up on our porch roof - outside our bedroom window

So that everyone He has made may know His work,
He stops all people from their labor.

The animals take cover;
they remain in their dens.

The tempest comes out from its chamber,
the cold from the driving winds.

icicle outside our bedroom window

The breath of God produces ice,
and the broad waters become frozen.

(Job 37:5-10)

*        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *

I’m truly grateful for warmth but I’m waiting for spring,

“Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person.  Having neither to weigh words nor measure thoughts but pouring them all out like chaff and grain together–certain that a faithful hand will keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.”

George Eliot

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

Life gets too complicated sometimes, don’t you think?

I find that the simplest things are often what bring the most pleasure and the most reasons to be extra-grateful.

Like a simple log cabin with a simple fire in the hearth to warm the feet and the soul on a frigid December afternoon…

And a simple, unobstructed view of the largest fresh-water lake in the world…

And the steady rhythmic whoosh of the tiny waves that can be heard right outside the windows…

And a simple kitchenette where simple snacks and meals can be assembled…

And a carving of a black bear on the spiral stairs to bring a bit of whimsy to the simple North Shore decor…

And a simple bowl of French onion soup with sherried beef stock and Gruyere to warm up with…

And Michael’s simple “elk en croute, with duxelle and pistachios in a puff pastry, with candied baby turnips, beets, carrots and currants in a demi-glace.”

And friend Danny’s simple appetizer of “curried blue mussels with an apple cider creamed curry, served over ciabatta.”

And friend Su’s simple “seared sea scallops ginger apple gastrique with butternut squash and a white bean and bacon brunoise with a bit of wild rice.”

And my tiny but delectable dessert of a “maple pot de crème, and carrot cake with walnuts and crème anglaise.”

And the cherished, comfortable company of friends Su and Danny…

And a simple quilted bed with simple lights to read by…

And the everyday, simple thrill of a smiling husband…

And the simple pleasures brought by a weekend in a cabin on the shores of Lake Superior…the quiet, the grandeur, the restfulness…

The myriad reasons I have to be grateful…

Simple pleasures are often the most exquisite.

Thank you Lord.