Peace, part 2 (the song)

Posted on December 11, 2013 by harasprice

I find it ironic that while my soul longs for and celebrates the stillness and contemplative spirit of advent, my body is in constant motion these days. My semester is coming to a close, which means that there are papers to grade and projects to complete, and of course meetings with everyone who is trying to wrap things up before winter break. There are wonderful holiday gatherings to host, and to which I am invited. There are school concerts and work receptions, fun to be had and halls to be decked. Then, there are quiet days and advent services to nourish my soul, along with times for deep, soulful connection with friends who touch and guide my spirit. On top of this, on Sunday, I will perform the Vivaldi Gloria with my choir.

I love to sing. When I sing, my soul is at peace and my heart is happy. I am thrilled to sing, but I also get nervous when I perform. I wish I had better control over my vocal shakiness, or the fact that my mind goes blank when I am standing up in front of a room holding a piece of music. I am wrestling with this tonight because I am preparing to sing the beautiful and soulful Domine Deus, Agnus Dei with my choir, and I have not been successful in practicing as much as I would like to in order to sing this solo from the depths of my soul…without shaking…by Sunday.

Today, I had a break-through idea, though. I bought a CD of my favorite version of this majestic Baroque work and put it in my car, continually on repeat. I have been soulfully singing en route to work, home, meetings, school carpool, more meetings…you get the point. I can hear myself getting more confident, developing the vocal “muscle memory” that will keep my involuntary nervousness under control. I noticed a significant difference at rehearsal tonight, although I admittedly was still more nervous than I would like. But, what I noticed even more was how this constant singing has become a soulful prayer, an eternal echo of my soul’s longing to see and feel and experience the divine in all things.

Domine Deus, Agnus Dei, Filius Patris, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis

Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, Thou who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.

Today, as I drove through city streets and waited at traffic lights, my soul and voice reached out in longing for divine mercy. I sang as I passed impatient drivers, people standing on street corners, those begging for change and those lost in thought. This world is full of busy, full of fast-paced moving without deeply connecting. It is also full of longing, craving a genuine experience of divine grace to fill in the cracks of our human brokenness. I find these moments of peace and grace keeping me centered in the midst of my hectic days. And they will tomorrow, and the next, and the next. I am allowing these words to become me, to flow from me. They are my litany of advent activity, the song of my soul as I travel through my world. Perhaps that is where this song needs to be sung after all.

In this song, I find deep peace.

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Peace, part 1 (the image)

Posted on December 9, 2013 by harasprice

I have an image that has stayed with me over time, a simple but transformative moment of awareness. I have never tried to give it words, but it filled my mind tonight, so I will attempt to bring it to life in this space.

There was something about the snow that night that reached beyond my eyes and into my spirit. Perfectly formed snowflakes fell in patterns, landing on the wool of my coat. Their coupling formed intricate, miniature sculptures as they touched down, connecting with each other in crystalline combinations. These tiny, fragile flakes could evaporate at my touch, or in the heat of my breath. They were marvelously ornate yet utterly transient, forming and disappearing in an instant. I examined each perfect, individual flake in awe, then noticed the wide expanse of snow-white fields stretching out before me, glinting like heaps of diamonds as they caught the light of the moon and stars. Endless colors of light danced across the drifts, reflecting the radiance from those celestial companions that also guided my path that December evening.

No one was stirring. The only sound was an easy wind blowing flakes gently into piles of shimmering diamond dust. It was clear, cold, and silent as far as my eyes could see. The only other sound I could hear was the occasional crunching of snowy ground beneath my feet.

I pulled my scarf tightly around me, and breathed in the cold night air. I was taking in the mystery, the vastness of the Universe spread out before me. I was noticing for the first time just how small and fragile I was in a Universe so large. There were infinite possibilities lying before me in this life, as wide as the fields of snow that surrounded me. But life, it seems, was as fragile as these tiny flakes melting on my hand. I felt warm tears against my icy cheeks. I didn’t want to wipe them away. I wanted to feel each tear, to join my human grief with the melting snowflakes finding their way back to something greater, something capable of turning each drop of moisture into crystalline elegance.

There were many moments lived before that moment, and many moments to be lived after. But that one perfect moment of peaceful stillness lives as fragile and elegant as a snowflake in my mind. It was a moment when pure love and pure grief stood together in perfect harmony, calling to me, drawing me near to the moments of human existence that are so beautiful and yet so fragile. I could feel the mystery around me, and I was drawn in. I still am.

I am sill discovering the quiet mysteries of that landscape, the ebb and flow of grief work across my career, the complexity and elegance of love and loss in my life. As I stand in this image of stillness that fills my mind, I become aware of the vastness of time and space around me, the perfect peace of being present and aware in that very moment, and the realization that I have never been, nor will I ever be, alone.

Peace.

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Advent 2: Peace

Posted on December 8, 2013 by harasprice

Today ushers in the second Sunday of Advent. The lectionary readings this week focus on peace, introducing some of my favorite Old Testament imagery from Isaiah: “The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea.” (Isaiah 11:6-9). This week’s readings also include a beautiful blessing from Paul’s letter to the Romans which always resonates deeply with me: “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13).

So, not surprisingly, my reflections on my blog this week will focus on this idea of waiting for and experiencing peace. Peace may emerge in the transformation of the social order as we hear described in the passage from Isaiah. This recognition that higher level change is possible allows us to live and grow in newness of life, setting aside (or keeping in perspective) the fears which so often define our lives. This is the peace on earth we often await, which can feel so elusive in a large and sometimes chaotic world. But, peace can also be found when belief becomes palpable and real, abounding even in our daily lives and work, as we hear in the words from St. Paul. These personal echoes of divine peace enrich our human experience and immerse us in the hopeful expectation that peace is possible. Peace is real. Peace is possible not only in a yet-to-emerge future, but also in this very present moment.

This week, I caught glimpses of divine, socially transformative peace as I reflected on the life and works of Nelson Mandela. Through acts of radical advocacy, thriving amid imprisonment, and transformative political leadership he worked to change the very structure of the unjust world into which he was born. The life and work of Nelson Mandela restores my faith, my quest for justice, my sense of connection with those who work for change instead of passively accepting the status quo. But, this very day, I also experienced deep peace in the simplicity of stringing prayer beads together with members of my faith community during our advent prayer bead workshop and quiet day. I strung each bead with intention, saying a thought or prayer to sustain the people for whom I was making each set. This brought a very present, very real daily peace that took hold in my spirit. This daily peace restores my own belief that we are interconnected in our thoughts and in our community. The presence of the divine dwells in that peace that is found within our human connection, our genuine daily caring for one another.

May you experience peace in your present moments this week, as together we await the peace that surpasses our understanding and transforms this world in which we make our human home.

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Hope, part 6 (the tree)

Posted on December 7, 2013 by harasprice

In Virginia, trekking through the woods to find the perfect Christmas tree is a genuinely pleasant experience. On an early December day like today, the air is chilly and the sun is warm. Nature beckons me to the woods and I eagerly join with other city types as we drive the country back roads to find an out-of-the-way tree farm. At first, all the trees look beautiful and inviting from afar. Then, as the quest for the perfect tree moves on, it becomes clear when there are bare spots, or flat sides, or a trunk that leans considerably or twists like a candy cane. The tree that looks just right can be three feet taller than your ceiling or so wide that you cannot pass by without a squeeze. Sometimes, the loveliest needles turn out to be sharp like pins after a week or..in our worst adventure…the tree has poison oak growing up clandestinely through the middle. Still, none of these imperfections keeps us year after year from our hopeful quest to find the perfect tree.

Growing up in upstate New York, the quest for the perfect tree was a decidedly colder and snowier adventure. Many years, there was a pretty heavy amount of guess-work about what the tree would actually look like after all the snow melted away. It was cold, and we had less time to make a selection without risk of frost-bite. Once, my mother and I notoriously cut down the seemingly perfect tree only to realize that it was growing intertwined with two others. Our “1/3 of a tree” had to be propped up in a corner as if it was growing out from the wallpaper. There were other trees with similar character flaws, but in every case we knew like Charlie Brown that with a little bit of love, it wouldn’t be such a bad tree after all. It would inevitably turn out to be the perfect tree.

I was walking my way through the tree farm fields with my family today and thinking about this annual adventure. We set out in the hope for a perfect tree. When our daughter was small, we would put her on her dad’s shoulder and have her put her hand up to see the tree height limit that could keep us from out-sizing our expectations. In our last house, width was a serious problem. In our current house, the tree has a wide corner all it’s own and we can find one as stout as possible. Today, we stretched the limits of that by bringing home a tree nearly as wide as it is tall. And like always, we concluded that it is, indeed, the perfect tree.

As my path meandered between the rows and randomness of the trees, I began to think about hopeful waiting. There, in the tree fields, were dozens of “the perfect tree” just waiting and growing all around me. They were not all going to become our perfect tree for this year or this house, and it was likely that each one would be filled with imperfections. But, at one point all three of our family members would surround one tree and catch a glimpse of its potential addition to our festive holiday season. We would survey it, reach agreement, saw and topple the tree, tie it up, bring it into our home, and tend and water and decorate it with hopeful expectation. And, at some point we would stand with great satisfaction and say, “it really is the perfect tree.”

So, as we wait in hope this advent, maybe there is a lesson in all this for us, too. Every day, every hour, every present moment holds within it the capacity to be perfect, exactly as it is. That perfection isn’t dependent on freedom from flaws. It doesn’t look the same all the time, either. The perfect moments emerge because we bring to them all that we are, and see in them all that they are capable of becoming. I am not sure from year to year what makes one tree stand out from another. Truthfully, several trees could have made the final cut this year and it all would have turned out ok.

Today I thought: in all the vast Universe, how can it possibly be that I feel the divine moving and working in my own little imperfect, ordinary life? And, I thought about all these imperfect…yet perfect…trees, just waiting to be seen for their individual beauty. The hopeful expectation of divine grace that fills this season calls us, and raises our awareness to that potential. It awakens in us the perfect self longing to be set free in this very perfect, present moment.

And, in hopeful expectation, we await that transformation into all that we already are.

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Hope, part 5 (the work)

Posted on December 6, 2013 by harasprice

As unlikely as it may seem, I am blogging about advent hope in the midst of a statewide public health meeting (I am on lunch break…not multitasking!). The focus of my meeting is to create a united, statewide focus to actually move the needle and measure a significant reduction in infant mortality in four years. I am at this meeting today in my professional capacity as a researcher. I have been like a sponge absorbing epidemiological data all morning and, as I am trained to do, translating that into community level implementation strategies that can be carried out and evaluated. It is my professional mission to move data and talk to action, and then to derive data from those actions that can tell the story of change. It occurred to me today, while wrapped in the midst of this meeting, that this whole process is all about hope. Waiting…and working…in hope.

So, I started to think about that idea…waiting and working in hope. I want to refute the assumption that “waiting” is a passive state. In fact, there is a lot of activity that happens while waiting. Particularly when I am waiting in hope, I feel a push to do my part. I am challenged to enact what is in my authority and experience to change. I am constantly brainstorming with others who have different roles, and different expertise. New ideas emerge, and they require time to work through, money to implement, dedicated people to carry out. When I am engaged in something really innovative, it involves a fair amount of risk even when the project is in full swing. Will our efforts pay off in the ways hoped for? Will the data we collect reveal the difference that we are hoping to make?

There is a lot of hope there….and a lot of work, too. It takes an inner motivation to move forward without knowing for sure what the data will show. Michael Lu (a professional hero in my maternal and child health world) uses the term “unwarranted optimism” to describe the inner push to make a difference…in this case, to move the needle on disparities in fetal and infant mortality…even when we can’t yet see the ultimate impact of our efforts. In public health and social work, we have to share this unwarranted optimism in order to do what we do every day. We put people on our leadership and community teams who can keep that unwarranted optimism high. And we put data geeks on our teams to give us glimpses of accomplishment and progress markers that help us “tweak” our efforts and make the most impact we can. And, we need lots and lots of dedicated workers who are carrying out the mission every day.

The parallels between my professional mission and my faith journey are palpable to me today. In my own hopeful waiting, I am discerning how my vocational path and my faith journey intersect right here, right now and what this means as my future path emerges. That process is also an active one, where I work on my spiritual centering, and discern in my heart, my head, and my soul as well as within my community. I catch glimpses of inspiration and take steps forward with intention, all the while being open to the possibility of tweaking, changing, evolving my role in the world. I do all this while I engage my professional mission and weave my vocational threads together day by day, step by step.

I have unwarranted optimism…and faith…in the future that is emerging day by day.

This advent, I am waiting…and working…in hope.

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Hope, part 4 (the title)

Posted on December 4, 2013 by harasprice

In my current vocational life, I have the privilege of walking the path of scholarly development along with my doctoral student colleagues. I am writing this blog today as I proctor an exam for the students in my research methods seminar, so I am thinking about all the hopeful waiting that has been a part of my own professional journey. I have a favorite moment, though, so it seemed fitting to share here today as I reflect on waiting in hope.

The morning had been a blur. I vaguely recall that I made muffins, and brought a small token of thanks for each member of my dissertation committee. I know I had a well-rehearsed PowerPoint presentation, and that I was wearing an olive green suit with some fabulous looking matching heels which hurt like hell after about 15 minutes. Other than the foot pain, I was immune to most other feelings; instead I was operating on pure adrenaline. This was the morning of my dissertation defense.

When I had given my talk, responded to questions, and in all other ways emptied my brain of swirling knowledge and thoughts, I was ushered off to wait in a faculty member’s office while the dissertation committee reached a consensus on whether I would take on a new title and a new degree. It was surreal, really. I tried (unsuccessfully) to sit down. I paced, and pretended to read book titles on the shelves. I went over my questions and responses, looking for clues as to whether the facial expressions of my committee members suggested the outcome. I felt relieved and hopeful. I also didn’t have anything else in my world of experience to compare this to, so I worried that my hope was simply naïveté in disguise. I kicked myself on a couple points I wish I had made. I patted myself on the back for remaining scholarly but emotionally unflappable when critiqued. I paced some more. I waited and I hoped.

My advent reflection today pauses at that exact moment. If I could go back to that nervous but hopeful doctoral candidate, I would pose her a few questions:

Did you just change?
How do you now see yourself?
Will the title that others hopefully confer on you change who you are?
Could you ever, really, go back to a time before this?

What I have learned about hopeful waiting is this: when we are waiting in hopeful expectation, we are already changed. I was changed that day, and I would have been changed by the experience of my doctoral program no matter what news would have been delivered. Titles can be presented to me, others can evaluate me. But, when I wait in hopeful expectation it is likely I have already made a change in how I see myself. The rest is the validation, the social recognition, the icing on the proverbial cake.

Well, I have to tell the outcome of this story, because it is so much fun. My spouse and daughter (just a toddler then) had come in at the time when an announcement was supposed to be made. The logistics are a blur (see previous comments re: adrenaline) but what I most remember was seeing my dissertation chair walk out of the room smiling, and inviting me to come into the room. She called me by new title, but my daughter upstaged her and (with some obvious prior coaching) announced, “Dr. Mom-Mom!”

In my hopeful waiting, I had already changed.

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Hope, part 3 (the gift)

Posted on December 3, 2013 by harasprice

All I wanted for Christmas that year was a Rubik’s cube. Now, that sounds like a ridiculously cheap and easy holiday gift, compared with iPads and Xboxes dominating lists today. But, in 1981, it really was all I wanted. Purchasing a Rubik’s cube involved traveling out of the local town and toward the city, and they were getting snapped off the shelves. I had visions of becoming the world’s fastest cube solver, appearing on some variety show with my fast-handed talents. I wanted to make multi-color patterns of squares in contrasting colors on each side. I thought this was something at which I could excel, and it would somehow mark my quintessential nerdiness in a respectable way. I knew I could be queen. But first, I needed the cube.

I managed to find a tiny cube to hang off my purse, but it only turned one way because it was really just for decoration. I ordered a cube by collecting chex cereal box tops, but it came with stickers on each side that quickly peeled off. I was waiting for Christmas for the real deal.

My Dad came in a few days before Christmas and placed a small box under the tree, with a glimmer in his eye. I was overflowing with hope. Not just hope…I was 100% convinced that my future Guinness Book of World Records entry was being written up in advance, as soon as I could open the perfect little package.

“No shaking.” Dad said.

I waited until he was out of the room, and then I shook it. Perfect…I could hear it sliding slightly in the perfect sized package, and it was the right weight. I overflowed with hope and excitement, waiting for Christmas morning. Smug and snug in my bed, I knew I had exactly the gift I wanted, all wrapped up under the tree.

Christmas morning, we ritualistically opened stockings first, then we selected the first gift to open. I went right for the box I longed for with hopeful expectation. I gleefully ripped paper, saw the box, announced that I had knew all along that it was the Rubik’s cube I had hoped for. I opened the box and out rolled a gourd.

A gourd? A GOURD!!

Dad had even dutifully cut and colored squares of paper on each side to look like a Rubik’s cube, and boxed it in the perfect disguise. He laughed so hard he was choking and I sat there, fuming. It looked like what I hoped for, shook like what I hoped for, felt like what I hoped for. But, it wasn’t what I hoped for. It was a gourd.

I am sure I was the picture of pre-adolescent spite and angst that morning. True to my family’s wit, there was an actual Rubik’s cube awaiting me later that day, at my Gramma’s house. Not only was there a Rubik’s Cube, but a Missing Link awaited me, too. Everyone loved the joke, and eventually it even sunk in to me as funny. Eventually.

Now, it’s hysterical. It’s a favorite family story that keeps us entertained in retelling through the years. I would probably do the same thing to my daughter and she would be just as spiteful with me. Sometimes we hope so hard that we convince ourselves that we already have that which we await right within our grasp. And sometimes, we practically do…but we may find ourselves unmasking a hidden gourd first. When we wait in hope, we definitely need to keep our eyes open. We need to be awake, alert, to avoid the traps of our humanness as we so often hear about during advent.

And, I have learned, I need to keep a sense of humor, too.

I never made the cut of world’s fastest Rubik’s cube solver, and I moved on to more pragmatic ambitions with maturity. But, I enjoyed my toys, and I still enjoy hearing my Dad tell this story of his great cube prank. Maybe that was really the true gift after all.

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Hope, part 2 (the angel)

Posted on December 2, 2013 by harasprice

Today, I was chatting online with my friend Rose about the Angel of Hope statue and yearly remembrance ceremony held on December 6. If you are not familiar with the Angel of Hope (or the Christmas Box) check out the following website for information on statues that have been installed around the United States and globally: http://www.richardpaulevans.com/angel-statues. As a bereavement support provider to families experiencing the sudden and unexpected death of an infant, I was part of this annual tradition of re-dedicating the statue and remembering along with many grieving families during the years I lived and worked in St. Louis, MO. Thank you for jarring this memory of waiting in hope, Rose…this one is for you.

We started gathering two-liter soda bottles in November, knowing we would need hundreds of luminaries to light the walkways of the park leading to the Angel of Hope. It was art and science to get the luminaries ready each year, with a mountain of volunteer supporters. I enjoyed helping set the luminaries up just before dusk, slowly placing each container filled with sand and votive candles along the walkways, wondering who would make their way to the statue. It never ceased to amaze me how many people came out each year, no matter whether it was snowing or raining…or whether the wind was whipping through our midst. We were there, with candles and white flowers. We were there to remember. Together.

That particular night, I had a poem that I had composed on request of my friend Cathi who was the leader of SHARE, the grief support organization that had worked to install the Angel of Hope statue on this site. We would go on to become dear friends, following each other in taking on national leadership roles. Several of us…all leaders of bereavement support organizations…would take turns reading and allow the crowd to file one by one to place flowers in the outstretched hands of the statue. There would be tears, but those of us who work with grief hold tears as sacred, the flowing of holy water from the depths of the soul. I knew…because I had been in this space…that something larger than individual grief would begin to move through this place, to transform those who gathered. There is a strength of spirit in the collective gathering of those who mourn. Even though my religiosity waxed and waned in those days, I recall standing by the statue and looking into the crowd, hearing the words of the Beatitudes echoing through my mind: “Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

That night, my spirit was restless. I brought white flowers…daisies…to place into the Angel’s hands, in memory of my own loss of expectation many years ago. I was at a point in my personal grief where I had made peace with my emotions, and my reproductive loss was a part of my own life narrative that fueled my empathy for others. I had made peace with not being a parent, instead taking on a vocational path of grief work and scholarship. Life pushes us forward, though. I had recently remarried. I was willing to take risks, and reinvest in loving and hoping…and maybe, even parenting. This was all new to me, foreign territory I did not plan to tread. This precipice of exposing oneself to love and loss is like overlooking a valley filled with hope yet edged with fear. It is one thing to go blindly into unknown territory. It is entirely different to choose of one’s free will to walk the path and risk the exposure to pain in sacrifice to feeling hope and love again, knowing it could not possibly be the same after taking the first step. I was standing on that precipice on that night, flowers clenched in one hand and my lit candle glowing in the other.

I read my poem. I stood with my colleagues and pulled my hat down over my ears to keep the cold wind away. I made contact with the eyes of those who were grieving and embraced many who I knew and recognized. We were in this together, united by a common experience we would not have willingly chosen. We were moving together along this path; yet, each of us had to make a personal journey as well. I stepped forward, reaching up to place my flowers into the outstretched hands of the Angel statue. And, at that moment, I knew what a drug-store test would confirm the next day. I had already stepped off the precipice. My next journey began with a single step, and was edged not in fear, but by a multitude of other travelers whose eyes shone with hope amid the candles in our hands and the luminaries lighting our path.

That path was about to lead me to personal and professional places beyond anything I could have imagined. But at that moment, all I could do was step…and hope.

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Hope, part 1 (the test)

Posted on December 1, 2013 by harasprice

Today is December 1. It is the first day of Advent. It is also World AIDS Day. Not coincidentally, when we lit the first candle of the advent wreath this morning in my faith community and spoke words about prophecy and hope, my mind was taken back to moments of hopeful waiting around this particular topic. As I came of age in the 1980’s, my generation was tossed into the midst of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. I have written in this blog several times on this topic, because the people that I loved…and lost…were so formative to the person I still am today. As I start this new advent mini-writing project, I find myself standing at this particular door of fearful…and yet hopeful…waiting which I remember vividly.

I sat up on the exam table, waiting. It seemed like endless painful hours had passed since the nurse said something about a problematic lab value. She had no idea about the fear her statement inflicted in me. I had been tested so many times before: in college, making a pact with my friends and sticking together at the clinic, again after the guy I had been married to slept around and I finally found out, after my forays post-divorce back into the dating world, other times simply because I needed to exercise my right to know what was happening in my body. Knowledge is power. I was only 19 when the first person I knew and loved died from AIDS. I learned to talk about getting tested for HIV openly, with anyone. With potential partners, this was a topic of conversation practically on the first date. Actually, I was so adamant, I did bring it up on the first date. It wasn’t a moral judgement on the other person. It wasn’t a suggestion of what we might do on that date. It was about just being real, bringing the issue front and center so there would be no doubt. It was just necessary, a life step like clicking one’s seatbelt. Get tested. Use condoms. Don’t pretend HIV isn’t real.

I thought all these thoughts as I sat there, feeling such a mixed conundrum of hope and fear. This tiny, tiny spark of life growing inside me needed a host…a mother…who was 100% healthy. So, I had scheduled this test again even before trying to get pregnant. Life intervened, though, and here I was, already a few weeks pregnant by the time my pre-conception visit came along. I sat still, and tried to be calm. It could be any lab value that was off. Why was I so afraid? Could I actually be joyful…or hopeful? I thought back to my friends I had loved, and lost. They also had to wait, and they had to take in news they didn’t want to hear at the end of that wait. I waited with a few of them until the end, fighting their disease. And I felt them near me in that moment, waiting with me and telling me not to worry, that I would be OK.

Then, it hit me: survivors’s guilt.

The words “don’t worry” rang from my head to my heart. I would never, ever stop thinking it could just as easily have been me. I am no better than anyone else. I sit. I wait. I worry. I have hope. I have survived, but I have always wondered, why not me?

The nurse came back in. “I’m sorry it took me so long. And, I hate to tell you this…”

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard, fearing the worst,

“…because I know you are a vegetarian, but I really think you may need to change your diet for this pregnancy. You are already anemic, and your blood iron is very low. That is probably going to get even more challenging as you get further along. Everything else looks good, though, and your HIV test is negative.”

Anemic. Low iron. I laughed out loud, like my biblical namesake once did during the start of her own pregnancy.

I thanked my spirit guides, the beloved friends who watched over me, who understood the secrets of my mind and my heart in those still, small moments of waiting. It could have been me. But, it wasn’t. Now, there were nine months of hopeful waiting about to begin….

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Advent 1: Hope

Posted on December 1, 2013 by harasprice

This advent, my intention is to write a series of short reflections on my blog, taking no more than 15 minutes a day to put myself back into a time in my life where I was waiting or preparing for something. I know the outcome of these events now, but I didn’t know them at the time.

The point of this exercise is to be intentional. I hope to examine the small points of light that have emerged for me on this journey as I have waited during other times of my life: times of hope, times of love, times of joy, times of peace. The intention of this advent journey is to immerse myself in the waiting and expectation…and in doing so, intentionally reflect with gratitude on the outcomes that eventually came to be.

This Advent 1, I begin with the theme of Hope.

SKP

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