Emerging Women

By Mihee Kim-Kort

There’s a huge tree in front of our house. It’s the tree that I fell in love with when we first saw the house, and eventually bought it and moved in. We’re situated on top of a slight hill so that our front lawn is basically a small, steep slope, and we have to climb two different sets of stairs to get to the front door. The master bedroom is right above the front door and porch, with three windows that face out to the tree. It’s one of those trees that seems to be the last on the street to grow in green, and perhaps the first to shed its leaves during the beginning of autumn. When it is full, its leaves are a bright Irish green that fall down in truckloads planting themselves all over the front yard and sprouting into little trees that I unfortunately have to pull up like weeds. It kind of breaks my heart in a way, like I’m preventing the tree’s offspring from growing up and reaching their fullest potential.

It’s a comforting presence with branches that hang low and cover the porch a little while still letting in bits of light and warmth. I love laying in bed sometimes and just letting myself drown in the green that fills the windows. On those days I don’t want to crawl out of bed, it feels like a soothing balm for my tattered spirit…

New life is springing up all around us now, and living in PA, it is particularly undeniable and beautiful. There’s something about this area where everything kind of explodes to new life – flowers, plants, trees. And…it’s even more poignant as A- and I struggle to create our own little life. I’ve only talked about this struggle with a few folks already, and though I find it difficult to share, I am realizing that I need to start accepting this as a part of my own journey, my own process, my own…story. After a couple of years of trying to get pregnant we recently found out that the only way for us to have our own offspring is through in vitro fertilization. I am grieving…the loss of all and any romantic notions of this whole getting-pregnant process in general…and not being able to be a part of nature’s cycle in a “natural” way…But even while that specific dream is still-born, I am feeling thankful for the inkling of other possibilities…and how I can bear hope in other ways even if it isn’t the “natural” way. Even as I watch little seedlings sprout all around me, whether it’s flowers or children, though painful, it’s healing, too. And in that healing, there’s always new life…

The tree has become a mothering presence to me…a reminder of all the mothering spirits in my life…and a picture of what I might be, too…

Mihee is an associate pastor at a Presbyterian church for youth and children in Pennsylvania. This post originally appeared at Mihee’s blog First Day Walking

By Holly Walton

In Memory of Tyna Webb

I have a healing place. A place I can turn to when I need to be silent. Or need space. A place where I can pray and think. I find comfort in the familiarity of the place- the sea, the birds, the beach, the coffee shop. Within the familiarity there is mystery, an element of surprise. Sometimes the waves are wild, dangerous- although usually they lap gently around your feet. Sometimes the distant mountains are clear, beautiful; sometimes obscured by mist and smog. At times the gently rippling surface is smashed by the wondrous crash of a breaching whale, a waving fluke, or the graceful arcs of a pod of silvery dolphins. Sometimes the shore is littered with wilting bluebottles, decomposing kelp, spiky fish. Sometimes the tide is so high, the wind so fierce that there is no shore to speak of. At times the gull’s cry fills the air forming a symphony with children’s happy laughter, but mostly the South Easter masks all other sounds.

So many full and wonderful memories are associated with my healing place. Memories of my babies eating the sand and feeling the water for the first time. Of swimming alone with my husband whilst the rain pelted down. Memories of happy fish and chip meals, countless cups of coffee, silent walks. Of exploring rock pools, finding star fish, feeding sea anemones, spotting seals. Of my dad building sandcastles with my children. And there are the memories of tears and arguments shouted into the wind.

There is something safe about that place. Safe so that I can always go there when my heart and mind are full. Safe knowing that I can unburden myself into the wind and the waves, the gulls and the sandy beaches. My healing place is a tangible expression of my experience with God. Predictably unpredictable, calm and rough, clear and murky, melodious and discordant. Full of life and yet with the potential to cause death. Consistent in its inconsistency, this is what draws me, calls me. It is this knowledge that beckons me to cool my toes, splash my knees or immerse my entire body in its cleansing depths.

Last night we went for a swim there. The children were a delight. Rebekah twirled and floated in her armbands, Talitha body surfed cautiously in the little waves and Mike rolled around unashamedly in the shallows with Emma. I floated around between them, my heart full, peaceful, safe. My healing place a magnificent reflection of a facet of my God.

This morning my healing place saw death. An elderly lady was taken by a great white shark. All that remained was her swimming cap floating in a pool of red. And a dozen traumatised swimming companions.
Oh Lord, how can this be? Why is it that just when I feel safe with You, feel like I understand something of Yourself, You plunge me into darkness? My healing place is tainted with blood now, Lord. My image of You is once again fragmented and shattered. And just when I had placed the pieces together again.

Consistent in Your inconsistency. Source of life, Creator of death. Understood and completely beyond comprehension. Oh Lord, have mercy on me. I don not understand You, sometimes I don’t even like You. But somehow You seem to be so intimately woven into what makes up the fibre of my being that, try as I may, I cannot walk away from You. I feel like I have plumbed some unfathomably deep well where the water is quenching and life giving, cool and refreshing, calm and clear. But also rough and impenetrably black. Help me to trust You Lord. Help me to love You. And in Your mercy protect the fragile shreds of my faith.

Holly lives in Fish Hoek, Cape Town with her husband of 17 years and her three wonderful (mostly) daughters. She is a full time mom and wife and a part time student and counsellor.

As a child I loved the story of The Secret Garden and would watch the old Hallmark Hall of Fame version of it constantly. There is the scene in the film where Mary and Dicken are surveying the hidden garden they discovered – wild after years of being left untended. In the bleak winter in it’s disarray, Mary assumes the garden is dead, beyond hope. But Dicken points out to her that the plants are wick – alive and green on the inside although they look barren on the outside.

Sometimes we are surprised at where we find signs of life. Sometimes the life around us is so abundant it is hard not to miss, but other times one has to look deep to see the life hanging-on beneath the surface. It’s the same when we start looking for the stirrings of life in regard to faith. Sometimes it is easy to see and celebrate. Sometimes it is only found in the deep roots trying to survive a drought. Sometimes it comes burdened with pain and sorrow. And sometimes it can be found in the most unlikely of places. But faith is alive all around us.

Over the next few months here at Emerging Women we will be pointing out where we see this life amidst us. In addition to regular postings on women’s issues and emerging church topics, we will be hosting a series on “Signs of Life.” Women will be writing on where they see life around them – newly emerging, flourishing, or struggling, this life will be celebrated. I encourage everyone to take time to acknowledge where this life is found. And if you woud like to contribute your own post to this series, please send it to emergingwomen (at) gmail (dot) com.

Let’s celebrate the signs of life around us.