This Blue Jean Girl traveled to Texas to spend 4 days at Laity Lodge for the High Calling Retreat. It was contemplative, beautiful, with more memories than I can cram into just one post. More soon. For now, just a few words about my boots.
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I wear my blue jeans and boots for the pilgrimage to Texas.
A dozen or more details have fallen into place to bring me to the sacred place where writers and creators have gathered for decades. The first sight of holy ground is the Frio River.
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I wear my blue jeans and boots for the pilgrimage to Texas.
A dozen or more details have fallen into place to bring me to the sacred place where writers and creators have gathered for decades. The first sight of holy ground is the Frio River.
We drive through it, a Suburban full of sojourners. We are 2 hours into our conversation which never bordered on surface talk. Conversations dig deep like the canyon we are approaching. The tires tread below the surface of the water.
On any other day it would have seemed odd to drive straight into a river. But not today, Today is a baptism. And new beginnings always start with water.
My boots carry me to meet my roommate. We exchange words brave, and walk the grounds in awe. A camera is unable to capture the beauty, so I record the views and vistas in my heart.
For 4 days my boots prop up on couches and tuck under my chair as I lean to listen close. Later they move to hug one who’s emotions have been brought to the surface, a single tear on her cheek. Another sister in boots provides kleenex. My boots kick in laughter and warm by the fire. They stand on the cold stone floor and shuffle to another mug of coffee and dish of cobbler.
We are told that God is not more present here, but that perhaps WE are more present for God~ without keys to rooms or phones to connect.
On the 4th day, what began with water ends with a benediction and a burning bush.
On any other day it would have seemed odd to drive straight into a river. But not today, Today is a baptism. And new beginnings always start with water.
My boots carry me to meet my roommate. We exchange words brave, and walk the grounds in awe. A camera is unable to capture the beauty, so I record the views and vistas in my heart.
For 4 days my boots prop up on couches and tuck under my chair as I lean to listen close. Later they move to hug one who’s emotions have been brought to the surface, a single tear on her cheek. Another sister in boots provides kleenex. My boots kick in laughter and warm by the fire. They stand on the cold stone floor and shuffle to another mug of coffee and dish of cobbler.
We are told that God is not more present here, but that perhaps WE are more present for God~ without keys to rooms or phones to connect.
On the 4th day, what began with water ends with a benediction and a burning bush.
Red trees are our altar. They burn ahead of us, beckoning.
The flaming branches call us. Not to a happy ending, but a pure beginning. To begin again the truth-telling, the grace-giving, to speak HIS words loud that we might end someone’s shame, or another’s doubt. That we might stretch and find why we write. That we might claim we are beloved again. And that we might carry a bit of this holy ground back to our families and blogs and mission fields which take many forms. To know that our junk can become jazz music, our messes masterpieces.
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I fumble to my seat on this 737 bound from Texas to Georgia, beginning my pilgrimage home,. Holy ground clings to my boots. Songs still ring in my ears. My hand is warm from being held. My body and soul have been fed with words and bread at tables and Logs have been added to the fire of the call on my life. Words swirl around me. Words spoken by those I had only known previously online or by reading their books. Brothers and sisters who grabbed my hand bravely, tossed a kleenex, and made me howl with laughter. Fellow travelers who clapped when I read my poem, shyly introducing the voice of this blue jean girl.
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It’s a rainy night when I arrive in Atlanta,1000 miles from Laity Lodge. I wait for my connecting flight when I look down. Sandy soil the color of dry mustard clings to my boots and I laugh. And then tears well up.
It’s a cathartic moment between me and God and my Old Gringos. I have left sacred ground, but it has not left me. Sacred has clung- by no effort of my own. Grace upon Grace, right there in the busy airport. On my boots.
As I head toward home I silently pray that this Georgia rain doesn’t clean the dirt off these boots. Not tonight.
The flaming branches call us. Not to a happy ending, but a pure beginning. To begin again the truth-telling, the grace-giving, to speak HIS words loud that we might end someone’s shame, or another’s doubt. That we might stretch and find why we write. That we might claim we are beloved again. And that we might carry a bit of this holy ground back to our families and blogs and mission fields which take many forms. To know that our junk can become jazz music, our messes masterpieces.
——————
I fumble to my seat on this 737 bound from Texas to Georgia, beginning my pilgrimage home,. Holy ground clings to my boots. Songs still ring in my ears. My hand is warm from being held. My body and soul have been fed with words and bread at tables and Logs have been added to the fire of the call on my life. Words swirl around me. Words spoken by those I had only known previously online or by reading their books. Brothers and sisters who grabbed my hand bravely, tossed a kleenex, and made me howl with laughter. Fellow travelers who clapped when I read my poem, shyly introducing the voice of this blue jean girl.
““““““`
It’s a rainy night when I arrive in Atlanta,1000 miles from Laity Lodge. I wait for my connecting flight when I look down. Sandy soil the color of dry mustard clings to my boots and I laugh. And then tears well up.
It’s a cathartic moment between me and God and my Old Gringos. I have left sacred ground, but it has not left me. Sacred has clung- by no effort of my own. Grace upon Grace, right there in the busy airport. On my boots.
As I head toward home I silently pray that this Georgia rain doesn’t clean the dirt off these boots. Not tonight.
Meet these Beloved word-sisters that squeezed my hand and made me laugh until it hurt, clapped loud, encouraged big, and shared from their hearts. This list is nowhere near complete…I’ll be introducing a few at a time. Visit their sites, follow their words. You will be blessed.
Leila Tammy Kelli Sandra
Thanks for walking a bit of this cobbled path with me, Blue Jean Girl
Subscribe to Beloved in Blue Jeans here. Follow on Facebook
Leila Tammy Kelli Sandra
Thanks for walking a bit of this cobbled path with me, Blue Jean Girl
Subscribe to Beloved in Blue Jeans here. Follow on Facebook
