Lookout Point, Paradise, CA

~~THE BOOK~~

Amazon Link is HERE

Lookout Point, Paradise, CA.

The Lookout is a place I visited for one hour each week for a year, starting with Good Friday in 2009.

About my book: The Meeting Place: Moments with God at Lookout Point

The Meeting Place is an inspirational book, written from the heart as I grapple with sorrow and pain. I am saddened by the loss of a dear friend and dealing with an emotionally charged family situation. The book is a conversation with God, both poignant and tender.  The beauties of nature found at the Lookout figure into the meditations.

The Lookout became my place of release, its view inspiring me to contemplate and pray. There I found solace and healing. I received in a seamless blend the awe of creation knit with my belief in a loving and caring God.

INTRODUCTION: 

"A heavy shadow engulfed me, my heart was bruised. I could not escape its torment, the garment of sadness restricting my movements. I hurt. The dark night wrapped itself around me as grief invaded my being....I let my car lead me past the church through the bright city streets and onto the Skyway, a four-lane expressway leading east from the city into the foothills. In silence I drove up the hill, memories flooding my weary thoughts."

The beauty captivates me. 
I write a poem:  
"The hawk-soaring in graceful circular patterns/Floats in seamless style/The clouds-in varied hue and shades of darkness/Black and white/Dew drops hang-on man-made fence lines/My senses feel their cool wetness/Layers upon layers of dark heavy clouds/Hiding the supreme whiteness of others/The damp drops brushing me in mist/as dark cloud hovers/Releasing its heavy load/The sun-hidden for these moments/The brightness subdued in grey screen..."

The pain surfaces: 
"(The concrete block) has a statement to memorialize the person they loved--someone they must have lost at this place. It makes me think of my sister, who I lost in a similarly tragic way. I feel like I am standing by her grave site in Oregon where she is laid to rest. It is a crushing feeling. I think this block with its poem is a memorial in memory of the many we have loved and lost, so fitting today with my youngest son's friend's memorial service. ... I hurt for his family. I think of all of those who lost their lives at this place. ... They met their death--and their respective families absorbed a pain of deepest chill. Life goes on, but life is never the same. I think of all the people who have loved and lost--the empty arms, the broken hearts, and the sleepless nights, like the sun that is leaving me, descending with a pink intensity tonight. My heart sighs for the gargantuan losses. Some aches are never assuaged, never satisfied, never, never, never. ... Sometimes when we lose someone, life is not and cannot ever be the same. It is because no one can take their place, fill their shoes, or make the world a better place as they did.

I find comfort in nature: "The shadows lengthen, proof of the earth's rotation. The leaves on the oaks are lifting and swaying like whispers in force in a dream. It is cold, and I am wearing a jacket now. I see the Sutter Buttes mountain range in vivid blue outline. There are scattered lacy white clouds in contrast to the blue sky. The sun is getting ready to retreat behind clouds and western (coastal) mountain range. Amazing."

 I talk with God to seek His comfort: 
Consolation: 
"I am here, dear God, to seek you, to listen. I love you--I love what I see. What do you have for me today?
Below there is a Y in the road. It is your life. Over and over again, there are hard choices, times of trouble, times of wondering, times of waiting, but they all lead somewhere. It is your business to rely on me, to grasp my intentions.
I did not think that was possible.
It is, most assuredly is. I lead slowly and act on faith and prayers, the prayers of the faithful, your prayers, my beloveds' prayer, prayers of the humble, the righteous, the unsure, the weak, the afraid, the believing..." 
  

 Things of nature bring rich contemplations: 
"I drove past a field of mustard out in yellow bloom. I thought of the biblical saying, 'The faith of a mustard seed can move mountains.' I have always thought about that as the ultimate in faith--and that we don't have adequate or strong faith. This time I thought a new thought. What in a mustard seed has or shows faith? What is in the mustard seed's life, in its cycle, that should grab our attention?...The seed is dead, but there is life in the seed."
  

Life comes in as I reflect on reality:  
"Sometimes I feel weak, I feel damaged by life....But it need not defeat us. More and more I am becoming convinced that God wants me, wants us, to live in 'love' in every situation. Loving those who have hurt us is especially difficult. It is unnatural, but then again, maybe it is love that is natural, and we've learned to be unloving, selfish, and independent. I believe that with God when we love others we essentially are demonstrating to the world that we love Him. In this we find an amazing concept, the more we love God the more we will have capacity to love others. 

The reflections continue: 
"I saw the new year in as always, two candles were lit on the table and three on the piano top. Their scent filled the living room and blended softly with the comforting wood stove heat.
   
What will the New Year bring?
More joy, more peace
More hope, more forgiveness
More love, more healing
More freedom, less anger
More promise, less suffering
Less hunger, less sadness
What will the New Year bring?
It is mine, it is yours to decide."  

God has been good to me, meeting me with His whispers of love at my Meeting Place, Lookout Point:  
 "You are my audience of One. Make the servant into the one who serves. Make a miracle of Your grade out of my life and the lives of others. It is up to You---only You. Solitude, times with You, dear God, are precious, dear, of great value. Amen"



Video of Lookout Point:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=myvxBMRqoyE
 .....
GENRES: #Christian life, #Spirituality, 3Religion, 3Inspirational, 3Meditation, 3Nature, and #Writing.
 

PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN

Listening to Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American" gives me the shivers. The song's lyrics and the way it is sung makes me think on all that is good in America, the sacrifices of many patriots, service personnel, and citizens.  The 'city on a hill' as it has been depicted in the far past and by the late President Ronald Reagan.  Some believe in the United States of America.  They believe she stands for something greater than herself, for justice and liberty, for freedom and inalienable rights, for goodness and rightness, the treating of her citizens and others with dignity and respect.

As I write this blog, there are men in my family who are serving in the military.  My oldest son is in the Navy. My son-in-law is in the Air Force.  My two nephews, from different families, are in the Army.  I look at these young men: strong in character, resilient in action, moderate in behavior and I feel that they are some of the best, for they are quiet leaders by their own right.  Each one has said that their comrades look up to them.  I can't help but think that some of it is due to their upbringing, the values of hard work, honesty, helpfulness, and Christian beliefs.  I pray for each one.  I know that each one has the potential of being in harm's way in the near future when their deployments put them in the middle of the action.  A lot has changed in the past year. It is hard to not worry and it is easy to get concerned about the many aspects to this time in history, the military objectives, and the possibilities that could impact their choices and futures.

One must trust in God to protect our loved ones, and we ask Him to do so. God honors our prayers.  He also has a plan and purpose for all that happens.  I think back to my grandfather and a couple of WWI stories that he told us one night as we sat in his living room, the only time I heard him speak of the difficulties of war when he was a young man.  Then, there was my uncle, who served in WWII, flying missions in war of which I never heard him speak. His family has a string of tags that chronicle each mission that he flew.  Then my dad had his short turn.  He served in the Naval Reserve when we were just babies. None of my family served in the Vietnam War, but I have a story about the Vietnam War.

During my junior high and high school years the Vietnam War was the continuing story on the news every night. There was much opposition to the war. I remember the peace rallies, the peace signs, the war protests, the hippy movement that sort of coincided with all of this.  The anti-government sentiment was strong in the public institutions of education. I remember watching a public debate between a conservative and a liberal on my high school campus, the conservative didn't even have a chance. The cheers and boos started before the debate even got going. My family was more on the conservative pendulum so I didn't really agree with all the anti-war protesting going on. Although, I do see some of it differently now.  There are times when you stand up. "Stand up for what is right even if you have to stand alone," is a saying that one applies to many of these things.

The Vietnam War became personal one day in the form of a classmate's reaction. This high school peer was a year younger than me. He also had a brother a year older than me. This guy's family were cowboys, a bit loud, and a bit in the middle of high school activities. (I wasn't.) In class one day, some students were ragging on the endless Vietnam War and putting it down in every form, blaming the government and all the things that they thought were stupid about the war.  This young man spoke up after this had gone on for several minutes, with his emotions barely in-check he informed the class that his oldest brother had died while fighting in Vietnam, that he and the others who had served in the war deserved a little respect. He had my attention.

We could see his respect for his brother. And we could feel his loss. The teacher was silent. The class hushed. The conversation silenced. On that day he gained my respect. I never forgot the incident. This student spoke up for the honor of his brother, an honor due him, he who had given his all. The class of students had not considered or regarded this in their point of view. Have you ever noticed that usually only one side gets to speak in times like this? Many years later this same young man delivered a truckload of product to the farm where I lived. He was driving a semi-truck.  I recognized him when we spoke briefly. I never mentioned my memory of him in high school.  He offered my oldest son who was around five at the time, a ride in the truck around the outbuildings on the farm. But my son was a bit too shy. It made me feel happy that he had done so. My son recently mentioned this memory, and said he wished he had done it!

So, today, thank the Americans who believe in liberty and freedom. Thank those who are serving our country.  Thank those who have served in the past.  Pray for all of those serving. Pray for our Commander In Chief, that he will lead in a way that serves America best and in the best interest of our military women and men.

MAY GOD BLESS AMERICA

MERIDIAN MINUTE NO. 12 ~THE CROSS~

MERIDIAN MINUTE  no. 12

A Meditation:  The cross of Jesus Christ~

Celtic cross carved by a friend.

The cross?  Father God, direct my thoughts to the cross.   

What is it about the cross?

FIRST REFLECTION

The cross-

An instrument of torture; An instrument of rapture. The aloneness, the beauty, the goodness and grace; The loveliness, the shame, the pardon; The sin, hurt and pain; The brokenness, the love, the light of God; The seeking of humankind. The humiliation, the forgiveness, the shed blood; The matchless grace, the atonement; The meaning, the transfigurement, the fulfillment; The redemption, the peace for human souls; Christ’s arms wide open for all. Such great salvation. The finished work; The end, the beginnings, the shame and degradation; The holiness, the willingness.

SECOND REFLECTION

The cross-

The cross is hope for all generations; The cross is healing, abundant life for the asking; The cross is God’s gift to humankind, it is where truth resides; It cannot be dissolved or removed though many  try, They don’t want to believe; The message endures, the message of life.

Walk in Christ’s truth. 

Do not hide from it or water it down.

COMMENT

During my times with God I often meditate on concepts. A few years ago during a quiet morning, I decided to reflect on the cross. At the time I lived in an old farm house with tall ceilings. The cracks in the walls and ceilings had sealant that had been painted over. New cracks were emerging. I was staring at the ceiling looking to see if I might find two cracks that would intersect in the shape of a cross. Soon I spotted two wavy lines criss-crossing each other in the center of the ceiling.  I focused on that informal simplistic cross and began to pray and meditate.  My thoughts were fully focused and active. Amazing rich considerations began to flow through my mind in freedom and abandonment. For many minutes that soon lengthened into a good part of an hour, I continued to think on the cross. It seemed as if the room brightened and I was in a holy place on holy ground. Tears were in my eyes as I prayed and spoke in praise, awe, and adoration to God. Mostly I opened my mind to thoughts on the cross, alive and true were the words. I remember that I chose to not stop and write for I felt it was inappropriate at the moment. Instead I absorbed the beauty of being alone with God, thinking on the cross of Jesus Christ and what it meant to me. 

The thoughts I had that day were especially keen and rich. Some I have never thought again. When the time was over I found myself unable to recall the words which had flowed so easily. I have often wished that I had written them down, but maybe that was just the point; it was not for another time.

The cross means many things to many people. It is a symbol of something cool to many who wear it dangling on a chain around their neck. Something about the cross captures people. But, they have failed to realize its purpose. The cross is a powerful symbol. I often wished to wear one to work but one is limited as a public school teacher. I own a few crosses. Each is different. They speak to me of Christ and the most significant act of all time, the most pivotal important moment for all eternity. In times past as in the Old Testament days, people looked forward toward the cross, when full redemption would be given for remission of sins. In times since the cross, people look back to the cross. Even how time and years are accounted for on time-lines is in reference to the time of the cross of Christ. To some of us, the cross means life in Christ.  It is something we identify with because we love the Christ of the cross.

Moving from one house to another is never easy. I was in the midst of moving a few months ago, frustrated and tired, anxious about the process, when I stopped for awhile to spend time with God. My spirit was down and I felt overwhelmed, saddened by a couple of things in my personal life. I happened to glance up from where I sat on the divan. On the T.V. screen I saw a cross. The T. V. screen was reflecting an image from a mirror. The cross was reflecting in a mirror which had recently been moved into the living room for loading up. The image was that of a Celtic cross.  I had been given the cross from a friend who had carved it as a gift for me. Seeing the cross at that moment was like a gift. It centered me. I felt its renewal and encouragement.

I continue to reflect on the cross. Sometimes I write about it as in the two writings I recorded from my journal for you to read in the opening of this writing. The words that often come to me as I think on it are from an old song, “Room at the Cross.” 

A picture of what I saw that day.

The cross upon which Jesus died,

Is a shelter in which we can hide,

His grace, so free; Is sufficient for me

As wide as the ocean, And as deep as the sea.

There’s room at the cross for you. . .”

OLD STUFF

A few things that came home with me from my grandparents' day.

~OLD STUFF~

I like old stuff.  Yes, I do.  Not that I deal in antiques or decorate with a flair for the old, but I like the way it looks, feels, shows; its elegance and its functionality.  Much of what I like relates back to images from my childhood. Both sets of grandparents were visited often and enjoyed very much. Their old homes contained many objects I found beautiful or interesting. One didn’t dwell on these thoughts as a child but it became a part of your life experiences. Antique stores always seem to have one or two or even a few items that I can identify by memory or I even used long ago as I helped in the kitchen by my grandmother’s side.

This summer the memories have surfaced in vivid clarity.  There is reason for this.  Three contributors came by way of time and change. First off, I moved from the farm to the city, necessitating a major review of things stuffed in boxes hidden away in the closets and cupboards. In these boxes I have a few items that came my way via my grandparents. A ricer that grandma would use to prepare potatoes for her Sunday meal of roast, mashed potatoes and gravy. Yum! Crocheted coverings, embroidered linens, hand-sewn doll clothes, tatted lace edgings on pillowcases made by my grandmother, vases and dishes from by-gone eras.  All there as reminders as I sort and review the boxes contents.

Second contributor in memory lane. My teenage daughter and I have purposed to view the complete collection of Sherlock Holmes movies.  Around ten at night we get started. A bowl of popcorn and we’re good to go. I don’t tell her this, but one of the things I like most about watching the movies is the old stuff I get to see, things like mahogany hutch bookcases and ceiling-to-floor window drapes, settees and room furnishings, picture frames and accent decorations, the Persian rugs and hanging lamps, wall paper designs, china dishes and teapots, and on and on. Even the doors and  wall trims do not escape my notice. I love the look of the buildings with their austere presentations. Some have elements of craftsman style dwellings much like the gracious craftsman style houses, with their wood trims, picture hanging rim and built-in buffets, of my grandparents homes.

A third twist to this venture in “old stuff” is a task my brother began, and in which my sisters and I joined in the doing of, or should I say, the finishing up of!  We gathered at the old farm place looking at relics of all sorts of shapes and sizes, things from the past going back to my father’s grandparents' era. The items were those of working people, farmers, craftsmen—tools, buckets, shovels, ancient wood stoves, a hand-carved weathervane, stand-alone gas pumps, and so forth.  None of it was particularly fancy, especially since the old stuff had accumulated dust and rust during its long season at rest. We were curious, mesmerized, excited by the hunt. Some things contained a mystery when the purpose was unknown for the object under consideration. My brother, who is more knowledgeable about these objects and their various functions, explained their uses to us. We sorted through many items; drill presses and farm implements, a scattering of pots and pans, a wood-slatted toboggan, an old-style sled. The last two I recognized from my childhood remembering how we slid down the hill in the snow at Big Bear, and the thrill it gave.  A few things were there from my own childhood bringing back fond memories from the days when we ate, work and shared together.

My father was enjoying this time, seeing the many items and telling us about the history or usage of each one, remembering which one of his parents, grandparents, or great grandparents owned what, how it was put to use, whether or not he ever used it. His childhood came into focus as a few articles related to the dairy farm or citrus groves, things like milk pails, a cooling tray, or smudge pots and torches used to light them. I came home with a few  more things than when I started out the day; large metal wheels to decorate my yard, a couple old stand-alone units, cupboards that will need a good cleaning up, some wooden-handled tools, two ink-stamped wooden crates with old packing house insignias from back in the day of packing citrus in my grandfather’s southern California orange and lemon groves.

I find it satisfying. The old days had something to contribute that is rare in this day and age. Before the days of plastic throw-aways and planned obsolescence things were made to last, and they did last. Things were real, the genuine article. We yearn for the real in a day when the false is trumpeted as real. We've become careless in our impatient lifestyles, resisting changes that would help put us back on track, even the carrying of our own packing bags to the grocery store seems like a bit much when we're used to convenience. I'm guilty of this. In some ways, a simple life can be a rich life. My heritage incorporates some of this way of thinking. My parents are modest in their lifestyle. Some thing about this way of living has become part of me. I am modest in how I live although not to the same degree. I like pretty things and useful things. I don't want to consume wastefully. I want to be a good steward of what I have been given, to not spend what I haven't earned. Maybe this is even the way of "old stuff" by way of an old world view. 

Old stuff speaks to me of simple graces and where one works with your hands to achieve that which will last. One develops an eye for these things. What may seem just old and useless, even icky to the casual observer, may become a flower pot in its second life, an old metal teapot re-conditioned. Truly, the old adage comes into play as I close this writing out.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. 

. . . . .

I welcome any comments in regard to this post.  Thank you for reading!