you could cry, or die, or just make pies all day.

Yesterday I spent the day with women all over the age of 70. It was deeply life giving. Two of them love social justice, and school, and I felt like I had a chance to feel believed in.

Not only that, there is something beautiful about snugging in to a table full of old folk. They've lived so long, they know how to carry their hearts, their words, their grievances. As that is why we gathered around the table, around the flowers, around the kitchen.

And my grandmother is still the most beautiful woman, I think. You should see the way her eyes light up when she shows me the gold flecks in her peachy floral blouse that she thinks is too racey to wear to her Sunday gatherings. She just had to buy it though, because it was so beautiful.

And she ate my pimiento cheese, whether she thought it was good or not, she raved about it. And she told me about her red headed boyfriend she had when she was fifteen, and they were in love until he had to go to the war.

I have a great aunt and uncle who lived in Africa for ten years as missionaries. Memaw doesn't really care about that stuff (which I find incredible and unique, these sisters - all so different). And Eleanor and her partner, Helen, live in Baltimore and used to be parish heads of the episcopal church. We talked a lot of Jesus, a lot of ministry, a lot of "what does God's calling look like" Which! from old women who have stretched out their lives over a very long time, is a beautiful thing.

Place is something we can't control. Only presence. Just because you have to leave Africa, and just because your whole life was geared towards being a missionary in Africa, does not mean you are outside of the Lord's calling. No you are always always in it. Always. It's a matter of resting and remaining in that.

With that,

I'll leave you with this poem I'm trying to commit to memory:

Grace -

The woods is shiining out this morning,
red, gold, and green, the leaves
lie on the ground, or fall
or hang full of light in the air still.
Perfect in its rise and in its fall, it takes
the place it has been coming to forever.
It has not hastened here, or lagged.
See how surely it has sought itself,
its roots passing lordly through the earth.
See how without confusion it is
all that it is, and how flawless
its grace is. Running or walking, the way
is the same. Be still. Be still.
"He moves your bones, and the way is clear."