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Welcome to Golden Acorns

Posted on by Emily Oehler7 Comments on Welcome to Golden Acorns

I believe growth happens between words and actions. That there is a golden space that connects meaning between the lines of our individual story – both our external story and the one that plays in our head – and how we show up in the world. As a preacher’s kid I associate this golden space with faith. A spiritual link that makes us whole. Not just whole individually but whole as a community. 

Continue reading “Welcome to Golden Acorns” →
Bird flying at sunrise at the beach

August 2026 Quote: The Pain of Becoming

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As I set up my calendar for the month, I choose a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it where I write phrases I hear or read that month that spark something in me. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For August 2026, my quote was, “The pain of becoming.”

The juxtaposition of this quote with my location for most of August was both incongruent and ideal. You see, I wrote down this quote, and a few days later relocated to a rental cottage on an island off the coast of southern North Carolina for three weeks. While here, this quote shifted around like the sand between my toes at the water’s edge.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that caught the attention of my head and heart this month, most of which came from a Francis Weller’s book, “In the Absence of the Ordinary.” I discovered Weller in my Grief Guide certification program, as his book “The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief” was required reading:

  • It is dream becoming truth
  • Practice being like a sunflower
  • How can we, once again, come to see the holiness that dwells in the darkness
  • Listening is the art of reverence
  • To become immense also includes the radical act of welcoming all of who we are into the story
  • Broken open to allow ourselves to be penetrated by the holiness that pervades all things
  • We must be re-stored and re-storied
  • Become a house of belonging
  • When we approach with reverence, great things decided to approach us
  • Help us remember three central things: who we are, where we belong, and what is sacred
  • A beautiful and strange otherness
  • I want to feel what we say as though the words were holy utterances surfacing from a pool where the gods drink
  • We truly live in a gifting cosmos
  • Gratitude is a spiritual responsibility; Gratitude is the other half of grief
  • What do we need to stay present and engaged, and to keep our love moving into a world of radical uncertainty and change?
  • We must recognize that it is also our responsibility to create and become a place of belonging for others
  • Choose what you spread
  • All that matters is that we sit down with joyful understanding of the great potential that lies within us
  • Whatever we put our mind to is what we know

This beach has always been a “happy spot” for me and my family. We’ve come home here for renewal and connection my whole life. Memories are embedded in every nook and cranny of the island. This year, however, we entered into uncharted territory:  a different rental cottage after 24 years. For me it felt both like a needed change two years after dad’s death and as if the scab on my heart was once again torn off as grief’s pain rose to the surface. We were together in an amazing cottage with the waves in our ears, the stars overhead, and the laughter in between – but in this wonderful expanse was the loss of dad. The pain of becoming an adjusted version of our family both with and without dad.

He was missed… a wild post-beach hairdo not modeled, a sandcastle not built, a walk not constantly stopped to appreciate every found seashell, a puzzle not completed on the porch while others napped, “a whole in the bottom of the sea” not sung as waves rolled over us, a hand not held, his prayer not heard at the dinner table. He was felt… in memories, in spirit, in “dad would love this” exclamations, and in personal conversations with him on the beach.

While the pain remains (loves precious residue on my heart), I’ve come to appreciate what has become of my relationship with dad. It’s more expansive as it’s not limited to his physical body. I see his essence in more things. I feel his presence in more moments.

On my next to last day of vacation, I stood on the beach facing east, the waves rolling over my feet. The sun’s glow slowly, gently overtaking the darkness. The warmth of the sunrise on my face as light streamed through clouds. Then, as happens nearly every morning, seagulls periodically flew west up the beach—following the ray of sun forward into the day. One flew past, then another one which circled back and looped around me. Then another flew and circled around me in the other direction. Then, within about two minutes, nearly 10 seagulls were flying around me both clockwise and counterclockwise direction, like a bird tornado.

I stood planted, soaking up the moment, and smiled as wonder filled me.

“Thanks dad.”

Sunrise at the beach

Slow Down… Love What is Nearby… and Come Home

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We have always vacationed at the beach. To me, this is time in our spiritual home, away from life’s distractions and expectations. Our beach vacation is sacred family time. You must marry in to join us. Seriously.

We have our traditions but mostly it boils down to a week of meaningful discussions, time in nature, and meals around the table. Memories are re-lived while new ones are formed.

It’s a connectional a time in a “thin” space, a concept from Celtic mythology. As Peter Gomes, a Harvard theologian, wrote:

“There is in Celtic mythology the notion of ‘thin places’ in the universe where the visible and the invisible world come into their closest proximity. To seek such places is the vocation of the wise and the good — and for those that find them, the clearest communication between the temporal and eternal. Mountains and rivers are particularly favored as thin places marking invariably as they do, the horizontal and perpendicular frontiers. But perhaps the ultimate of these thin places in the human condition are the experiences people are likely to have as they encounter suffering, joy, and mystery.”

This year we made a leap of faith. We moved to a new cottage after 24-years at the previous rental. “Let’s Do Sunset” was “our” second home. It connected us as a family through high school and college years, new jobs, grandchildren, retirement, surgery recoveries, and Alzheimer’s. Its bones were strong as we even rode out a hurricane in it one year.

We returned last summer after Dad’s death. It was hard and healing. The “and” of grief at work again. I must admit this favorite house felt constrained… limited… binding, for lack of the right word. I felt bound to my loss there. The complexity of caring for Dad with Alzheimer’s dampened the silliness and joy that had oozed from that cottage for more than two decades.

Last year, I wrote a letter to the owner (via the rental property) sharing my gratitude for their generosity of opening their house to our family, and all that it had meant to us for so long, but it was just too much to stay there.

Our hearts were better for our time there, but a new season awaited us. A new cottage this year which we began to make “our” beach home with lasting traditions and new memories.

Yes, we drove by the old cottage and saw it caring for a new family as they ate dinner on the screened-in porch where Dad and I always worked on a puzzle. It was both healing and sad to see; a reminder of Dad’s absence.

But as grief has shown me in so many moments over the past 2.5 years, love remains.

I felt Dad in our traditions. I ached for him looking for seashells on the beach. I saw him in the clouds. I cried for him watching the sunset. I wrote to him at Kindred Spirit. I talked to him walking on the beach after I finished a book with this compelling charge by Francis Weller that spoke to my heart on so many levels:

“Slow down, uncenter and forget about yourself in the moment, let the world find you, love what is nearby, share your grief with others, say thank you, learn the stories from where you live and from where your ancestors came, be a wee bit wild in your imagination, and come home.”

I miss you Dad and am glad you traveled with us to our new home.

Two women in giant yellow taxi made out of Legos

July 2026 Quote: A Thousand Names for Joy

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As I set up my calendar for the month, I chose a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below where I write phrases I hear or read that month that spark something in me. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For July 2026, my quote was, “a thousand names for joy.”

This month I realized that I’ve been confusing joy and happiness. What I noticed is that for me, happiness happens alone, like a quick hit of endorphins that boosts me in the moment. Joy, well joy is deeper. More of a reverberation of goodness, pixie dust, and spirit bubbling in the bones that is sparked through the interaction of two people. Joy can be both a wave of soul satisfying ease that washes over me or an electric charge of alignment and possibility. Simply, joy requires the presence – connection – of another.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that caught the attention of my head and heart this month:

  • We are stars, a speck of the divine
  • Love it enough to stay; love it enough to demand more of it
  • You can stumble through it or let it wash over you
  • Coming and going while giving a reassuring sense of being eternally present
  • Our deeply felt response to the greater, physical, tidal pulls of existence
  • The joy is where it has always been; In the gathering
  • Collective effervescence: the energy that rises, and can only rise, when human beings come together for a shared purpose
  • Good morning, you magnificent little ravioli of joy
  • We are nagged quite often because we are not really listening—to another, to our conscience, to what is good for our heart, to the courageous path we refuse again and again and again to take
  • The universe is made of stories
  • Joy – under the right conditions – behaves like carbonation

This month joy emerged in several ways…

I texted a long-time coworker, now friend, and the next day she called to check on me. Her Midwest practicality and open-hearted presence generated the joy of true comfort. I took a friend up on his offer and listened as he shared his knowledge of self-publishing a book. As a result, I felt the joy of possibility and within days had finished half the steps to bring my book, Be at Ease, into the hands of others. I sat around a table for a meal with friends of 25 years, and the joy of lasting acceptance wove through our conversation. I mentored a young professional and saw her joy emerge in the form of greater confidence in how she thought of and presented herself. I accepted a last-minute invitation and joined a bestie on a two-day adventure in New York City. My body unwound in the presence of someone who knew all my nooks and crannies, and still fully loved me… perhaps the most soothing form of joy. While in New York, I met a friend of six years––for the first time in person. The joy of a real hug after six years of personal stories shared in Zoom calls after meeting in an executive coaching certification program. A stressed coworker reached out for a favor and in the conversation, I shared my own concerns on a business goal I was working on, to which she said, “I can help.” The joy that we were no longer alone in a hard time. I showed up at the doctor’s office for an appointment six months early, only to have an informative discussion on the provider’s last day at the practice which brought me ease and the joy of a new alternative, low risk treatment. I received a random text from a former coworker introducing me to another woman in her network. We met and found many work and life parallels over a two-hour lunch. The joy as the hint of a new friendship begins to root. I met a friend who’s on paternity leave for lunch, along with his adorable son whose crystal-clear large sky-blue eyes reflected the joy of potential. I visited and cared for my mother-in-law for a few hours, and as I left, she said, “Thanks for coming. You lifted my spirits.” The joy of shared, reciprocal love.

These meaningful, micro moments of joy reminded me that full presence (honest, easy, vulnerable, attentive, helpful) with another person are joy’s kindling. I also realized how sustaining small intimate joys are… like gentle waves refreshing my soul.

In my years of this practice of quotes, none before have ever shown up so clearly or literally. The names of joy revealed and written on my heart: Nicole, Eric, Joel, Johanna, Lisa, Christy, Ellie, Meredith, Lauren, Stehanie, Matt, and Marg.

Rocking chairs on a roof top with a sunset in the sky

June 2026 Quote: Find the Love That Remains…

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As I set up my calendar for the month, I chose a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it where I write phrases I hear or read that month that spark something in me. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For June 2026, my quote was, “Find the love that remains, and follow it forward into all the life that is to come.”

As a sit here to write, not knowing where to begin, the phrase that arose is “love is hard.” Maybe love is easy, it’s kindness that is hard. Whatever the sentiment, what I feel is a thick air of sludge. That the presence of a weariness and forlorn is pungent in the air. As a practical optimist, this is hard for me to acknowledge and weary to feel.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month:

  • Cover me in sunshine
  • Pull a thread here and you’ll find it’s attached to the rest of the world
  • One journey can quietly rearrange your entire inner world
  • Let them go—gracefully, clearly, and with love
  • When the sacred path opens
  • The wild wants your soul back
  • Companionship is everything
  • I can ask for what I need
  • There is only moving with – an integration of all that has come before, and all you have been asked to live
  • Wild ideas are welcome
  • May joy, meaning, and hope arrive to join you along the way

In my training to become a certified grief guide, we each took an assessment. Mine revealed I was a “hearth holder.” The description noted a hearth holder stays steady when things get real; offers warmth, bravery, and unwavering support; offers presence where truth can be spoken; is both a lion heart and a holy well—bold and nourishing all at once. And it offered this phrase as a mantra: “I will stay with you, even here.”

Here in loss. Here in dread. Here in uncertainty. Here in frustration. Here in overwhelm. Here at the ravine between now and next, fear and possibility. Even here, because here is where the heart is.

A part of knowing my sturdiness in complex situations, is to understand that I too, need support and must sit and regroup in a nourishing community.

Today, John Roedel, a poet whose writing retreat I attended 2 years ago, posted these words… a balm as I sit “even here” amidst so many things both mine and others:

“You are somebody’s front porch to God. You are someone’s doorway to mercy.

You are the threshold to kindness. You are my entrance to letting go of regret.

No pressure but…

Your life is a gateway to peace for both strangers and friends alike.

Whether you realize it or not… empathy has chosen you to turn your heart into a welcome mat for others.

This is purpose of your life… to let your existence become a candlelight veranda to hope for the rest of us to gather on during the long night.”

So, “I will stay with you, even here” as whisps of heart break float through the breeze and together we’ll conspire for love, welcome the weary, and plant kindness.

Together, we’ll unite under the dark sky, our path lit by stars of hope, making something better possible.

I’m here. Come join me.

abstract painting of an Elm tree

May 2026 Quote: Under the Elm

Posted on by Emily Oehler2 Comments on May 2026 Quote: Under the Elm

As I set up my calendar for the month, I chose a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it where I write phrases I hear or read that month that spark something in me. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For May 2026, my quote was, “Under the Elm.”

The painting (labeled “The Elm”) that appears with this blog hung on a wall in a random store mom and I visited in Williamsburg, VA during one of our respite “adventures.” The store featured handmade wood furniture. It also had a large secondary room with huge pieces of wood you could buy to make your own. I stood in the backroom among a room of unique slabs of wood inhaling earth and sliding my fingers over rings of life. I felt planted there. Still… safe… in Mother Earth’s sanctuary. I left the room, made an offer, and we took home the painting made by a friend of the store’s owner.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month:

  • I am without lanterns looking for my heart
  • The moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too
  • Whatever you can do or dream, begin it; Boldness has genius, power, magic in it
  • You just follow what lights you up
  • Unexpected moments in which we encounter the holy and find our souls rested
  • The soul should always stand ajar
  • Into the darkness they go
  • There is something that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in Yourself… that is the only true guide that you will ever have
  • One must have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star
  • Make contact with that thing in your self that is truly original
  • I wanted my out-loudness to affect something beyond myself
  • I write. I feel calmer. Almost ready. Almost brave.
  • The grief made me sure
  • We change the world one story at a time

Our respite “adventures” began 2.5 years ago as a way to escape and re-explore life after Dad died from a decade of Alzheimer’s. While they shifted from weekly to about monthly as I moved back home and went back to work, I savor the holy and hilarious moments each one brings, and the presence of Dad that always occurs.

In between the trips and activities, I tried to process my grief, and at times tried to control it (to no avail). The tears came when they wanted (and still do), the sadness sunk into my skin (deeper now grafted to my being), and the craving for one more smile from Dad as he saw me walk in the room and his soul-centering hug remains.

Yes, it’s less intense and livable. Yes, I’m grateful he’s at peace. Yes, I know he’s with me. Yes, it sucks.

Over these past few years, I realized death has always been close. A normal part of life for me. Dad was a Presbyterian pastor, my brother is too. Calls from the funeral home were normal. Dinner conversations about a funeral he was working on and wonderful stories he’d share about the person occurred regularly. My first consulting job was with the Army Mortuary and Casualty Affairs, supporting families of the fallen during the height OIF (Operation Iraqi Freedom) and OEF (Operation Enduring Freedom). Next, severely wounded combat soldiers—many of whom had died and been brought back to life and witnessed death. I was oddly comfortable with death, both biologically and spiritually.

Grief was a different story. I was unhinged and hurting. So, amidst “adventures,” emotional roller coaster rides, and a desire to feel “normal” rather than disconnected, I sought to understand grief. To explore it as I experienced it.

What emerged is a sense that this too, is a space where I’m comfortable, called. The “and.” The space between now and next—where life, death, and beyond swirl. Do I have answers? No. And I’m not sure there are any. But I do believe (1) it’s personal and made better in community and (2) you get to choose how you live grief.

As for my respite “adventures” – mine will continue as they serve they soul… and I welcome folks to meet me “Under the Elm” on theirs. To rest. To rage. To reflect. To release.

I will be here, present in the “and” of it all. Through words, workshops, and retreats to offer a space for you. Not to fix, but rather listen, explore, and be with it together.

Just look for this painting, a rest stop on your grief journey.

trees in a forest

April 2026 Quote: Let a Little Wildness Have its Way

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As I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For April 2026, my quote was, “…but the brave thing to do is to let a little wildness have its way with us, to see where it takes us.”

My mom has a collection of children’s books, all of which she read to me countless times growing up. A top favorite of hers being “Where the Wild Things Are.” Frustrated, the main character ventures off into his imagination to live with the Wild Things until love brings him home to his mom. I always enjoyed the adventure of it—the freedom of the boy to explore the beyond. But, I loved the comfort of his return home. Mom waiting with a hot meal and a hug for him. The safety of love in the wildness of bravery.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month regarding “brave” and “a little wildness”:

  • Welcome back to your happy place
  • You’re a steward of souls
  • May our love be more fierce than our grief
  • Letting what comes, come
  • Is it stillness or movement that is required?
  • What if I can’t see what comes next because it is what comes next?
  • Let us give each other a place to rest
  • Get courageous
  • Be brave, be changed
  • There is always something amazing, everywhere
  • The soul does not want to be saved, it wants to be seen and heard
  • But what multitudes they contain
  • Love is the unrecognized invitation
  • In an act of terrified surrender, I gave myself over to my Great Absurdity
  • I am she who exists in all fears and in trembling boldness

April revealed that wildness comes in many forms and is a wonderful place to explore. Growth, affirmation, and wisdom reside there.

I wandered into the wilderness a few times this past month. I felt when the wilderness called me to come. Knotted stomach. Fits and starts of energy. Tense shoulders. Eagerness with cautious hesitation. A swirl of curiosity, hope, and worry linked by “what ifs.”

Then came bravery… the idea shared, the invitation given, the hand raised, the inner made public, the emotional reveal held out for others to finally see.

My breath held. The step forward made.

And to my amazement, each time – just like in mom’s favorite book – love arose, and welcomed me home.

Home to an expanded friendship with a former coworker with a promise for continued “presence.” Home to a mindfulness practice that comforted weary federal employees, one of whom said when she heard my words she knew she was in a “safe space.” Home to stability which a coworker said my email provided amidst “life’s chaos.” Home to comfort as I grieved the demolition of my church’s Chapel where I’ve always felt my Dad’s presence and fellow church members shared their sacred stories from that sacred space with me. Home to connection after a complex day as I opened the mail and read a friend’s handwritten note about my posts of Facebook, “I appreciate your vulnerability. I hope you know how much your voice resonated with so many of us.” Home to encouragement as I shared a guarded idea with a friend on a morning walk.

Upon reflection, the wilderness… my wilderness… is not dark with scary monsters. But rather a curtain of uncertainty. A veil – that when passed through bravely, vulnerably – always seem to return me to love.

Church choir singing

The & at Easter, and Always

Posted on by Emily Oehler1 Comment on The & at Easter, and Always

While normally Easter is a sunny, colorful day… I woke up somber.

On the way to church tears fell. No reason, just release.

I sat in church and accepted it.

I felt dad’s absence. I felt a friend’s concern of an extended job search. I felt a friend’s pain of her husband’s addiction. I felt a friend’s abyss with the death of his mother, now both parents gone physically. I felt my friend’s anxiety from her house burned this week. I felt a friend’s new tradition to honor her deceased child with flowers in her Easter basket rather than sugar treats for an eternal 6 year old. I felt a friend’s exhaustion, anger, and fear as her transgender kids face the world. I felt a friend’s concern as her special ops son is on assignment in the world, in parts unknown. I feel a friend’s hopeful caution as she seeks to provide her gifts to the world with a new business.

While I sought the “normal” of Easter, it would not come. So, I sat with the somber.

The tears sat on the rims of my eyelashes, periodically one would fall from the weight of the world.

Then the & arrived.

For the first time, the congregation was invited up to go up and stand in the chancel with the choir and sing as we could Handel’s “Hallelujah chorus” (forward to 3:30 at the end with the glorious Westminster Presbyterian Church choir. Each section holding up a sign to help guide us forward to a place of belonging: alto, base, tenor, soprano.

& so, I accepted the invitation.

I walked forward and found a place. I stood on the edge. The fringe of the sopranos.

I fiercely followed the words, using my finger to keep pace on the sheet music.

& I let it all go.

Boldly loud. Fully felt.

Absorbed in community, feeling a new emotion through song.

& walked back to my pew, refreshed in a new way, more centered than somber.

Because the & is present, always.

I just have to exhale & find it.

"The world called, and I answered" painted on the wall of a building

March 2026 Quote: The Passing on of Happiness

Posted on by Emily Oehler1 Comment on March 2026 Quote: The Passing on of Happiness

As I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For March 2026, my quote was, “the passing on of happiness.”

Near the end of the month, a friend called me at a random time in the middle of the workday. I almost didn’t answer her call as I was heads down in a “thick” work week, working hard to meet several aggressive deadlines in between meetings.

She opened with, “I sensed you’re struggling and I wanted to check in.” For a split second I was caught of guard, as I often text or call someone and say, “You popped into my heart a few times so I’m reaching out…” only to find out something significant has occurred. But now I was on the receiving end of a friend’s concern, and I first thought, “no, I’m ok.”

Then the pause.

The realization that yes, I was OK and yes, I was struggling on a few fronts.

Nothing big. Just a point in time thing. A lot in my peripheral vision that sat on my heart. Most of the overwhelm would settle down easily in time. But for now, the weight of it was felt, and real.

Her concern. A pause. My vulnerability.

What passed through the pause was more than support, it was happiness. I was happy she reached out. I was happy I revealed my emotional reality. I was happy we’d shared and laughed together. I was happy I had a 15-minute boost during a hard day which shifted my mood considerably.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month regarding “the passing on of happiness”:

  • I saw the crescent, you saw the whole of the moon
  • Grief and praise are renters whose landlord is love
  • It takes courage to be what the world needs, but the world never seems to change when you are alone
  • The answering is already whispering—listen
  • The world called and I answered
  • You are setting the emotional climate before anyone enters the room
  • Not to be feared but figured out

A few days after my friend’s call I sat in Westminster Presbyterian Church’s adult education class with guest teacher Paul Cho, DMin, Professor of Hebrew Bible at Wesley Theological Seminary. His topic was “migration.”

He proceeded to walk us through the lineage of people in the book of Genisis from the “Old Testament” (Christian term) or “Tanakh” (Jewish term). How everyone migrates—from Adam and Eve and Abraham, to Noah and beyond. All are immigrants: “Ger” – a resident alien or sojourner; “Toshav” – temporary resident; “Nokhri” – an outsider or foreigner. And that no one is referred to as being native born, “Ezrach.” That everyone, all God’s people, are immigrants. That everyone migrates—moves (e.g., family, job, location, mindset, faith).

Then he talked about being an immigrant from Korea, as his family migrated when he was young. As he shared, he referred to the United States as “our country.”

After class I spoke with him. “So often we say, America is ‘my country’ and it was beautiful to hear you say ‘our country.’ I feel if we thought and spoke about it in terms of ‘our’ we’d be better off, have more awareness of everyone in ‘our’ country as we made decisions.”

He shared that the use of “our” was cultural, from Korean language. “In Korean, everything is shared. When I speak of my mother to someone, it’s ‘our mother.’ Or ‘our father.’”

I thought of the shared responsibility of “our”… passing on concern, care, hope, and happiness to all we pass on our migration through life.

Mmmm. Feels good.

Happy Valentine's Post Card

February 2026 Quote: What’s the Invitation?

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As I set up my calendar for the month, I select a quote I’ve found that speaks to me. I write it in my planner and leave space below it to capture phrases I hear or read that speak to me and relate to the quote. I found this practice centers me throughout the month, and helps me be more present in my conversations, meetings, and readings. For February 2026, my quote was, “What’s the invitation?”

I generally love February. A quick final blast of winter warmed by a day dedicated to love, just 28 days. This year, February froze in time, literally encapsulated in ice and glaciers. I didn’t leave my home for 14 days except to chip away at icy snow mounds around my car piled up by snowplows. The day of the week became meaningless as there was no change between them. The gray sky reflected in the dirty gray snow. I regularly scrolled the 10-day forecast on my weather app looking desperately for a day above freezing to thaw us out.

Here are the quotes, lyrics, and phrases that that caught the attention of my head and heart this month regarding “invitation”:

  • We fade; We return; What strange moons we are
  • End only means we have reached the limit of our ability to track what is occurring; End is the word that introduces us to an intimacy with, an anticipation of, and even a readiness for, new beginnings
  • Without death, life is only half lived
  • End is transition, a temporarily visible seam in the invisible
  • Freedom is a radical sense of letting be and being let be
  • May our world be better for your loving efforts
  • The day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom
  • Has it ever struck you that life is all memory, except for one present moment that goes by you so quick you hardly catch it going?
  • Rest in that awe

I’m writing this on the last day of the month. The sun is bright at 8:30am. The forecast projected to be a glorious 60 degrees. I made it through.

I sit here – fingers poised over the keyboard – reflecting; bouncing back between weather and invitation, weather and invitation, weather and invitation. And what broke through that mental spin cycle were warm memories…

…Knitting a bonus blanket for a friend’s 3-year-old son after already making one for his newborn—my accompanying note inviting the 3-year-old to honor and enjoy his new title as big brother as it was a precious one (and I should know as I have the best big brother)… then days later getting a series of photo of big brother with blanket in tote all over DC.

…Inviting a neighbor and church member whose wife died just a few months ago to meet at the coffee shop one block away from us both—sharing loss, progress, laughter, and hope in the stillness of a cold early morning.

…Accepting an invitation from a coworker, now bestie, to visit her in Raliegh for a birthday/housewarming party—which the led me to invite another bestie in Raleigh to dinner; warming my heart twice as much with soulful conversations, champagne, and laughter.

…Helping mom create a Valentine to express her love to so many friends and family who’ve cheered her, comforted her, inspired her, prayed for her, laughed with her, and invited her forward through life’s complex moments.

…Texting a friend whose mother died about 4 months ago, to invite her to our “usual spot for ginger tea” and enjoying a 2.5 hour leisurely chat on all things life—a continuation of the ongoing conversation we’ve had for years now since both leaving the same company years ago.

…Responding to a besties invitation to review her new website as she prepared to relaunch her business—offering input, making edits, and celebrating all she offers leaders as a kind hearted, thoughtful, experienced, rebellious executive coach.

…Inviting my college to share the news of my grief guide certification in the next alumni newsletter, and within minutes – to my surprise – a staff member replied, “This is perfect. There are so many people who definitely can use your wonderful support and kindness.”

…Watching a 5-year-old boy invite a the coffee barista, “to see my favorite rock” … only later to have the barista come talk to me about how that child was the angel he’d needed – and prayed for – as the month had been filled with knock downs.

…Receiving an invite for brunch from a much younger college alum, befriended nearly 10 years ago, and over eggs and crispy bacon learning this once undocumented “dreamer” was now a citizen, corporate executive, community volunteer, wife, and homeowner… all because one of my friends, pulled in her friends, who pulled in their friends to support a dynamic young woman seeking a meaningful path forward.

… Reading a friend’s post inviting folks to donate to support her child’s band trip to Hershey park, and I in response ordering $120 of popcorn (which is shipping direct to my nephew) not just to fulfill the financial goal, but to support a family ensconced in fear due to transgender hate.

… Stomping my foot listening to the “Joy Factor” play live thanks to the invitation of a band member’s proud mom (my former boss and long-time friend) … original reels, waltz’s, and acoustic tunes that captured lives indelible moments.

But the most mundane and wonderous invitation came from the frozen tundra: an invitation to clean.

The icy road and ice encapsulated cars prevented our housekeeper from coming. As a result, I tackled the “deeper clean” I’d postponed for way too long. Half way through, I empty and cleaned our two book shelves, and found a book I’d given dad when I was probably 25—a Hallmark book that recorded and played back your voice. I’d forgotten about it. My heart tightened and I held my breath as I opened the book. Nothing.

I invited John to change the batteries as I continued cleaning. He cleaned off the corrosion, found new AAA batteries, and gently handed me the book. Again, I held my breath as I opened it. Nothing.

“I’m so sorry, Sweetie.” “It’s OK.” And I went on cleaning.

A bit later, after a few YouTube videos and a small piece of tin foil, John called me into the living room and said, “I don’t know if what I did will work, but I tried.” Handing me the book with an invitation to try once more.

Breath held, I opened it. There dad was singing to me, “…You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

The invitation of love everlasting.

Emily in front of "Seven Magic Mountains" stacked stone statue

Rocks

Posted on by Emily Oehler1 Comment on Rocks

On Wednesday of this week, I posted about what I encountered at the coffee shop across the street from my home. Since then, to my delight, several friends have sent me photos of their rocks … from a long-time favorite to their child’s new-found stone. So, I’m sharing my post here to keep things “rocking on!”

Before work today, I sat in a locally owned coffee shop enjoying a toasty warm chai as I wrote a bit. A mom and little boy (maybe age 5) came in, and he went up to the barista and opened up his hand, “Look at my favorite rock!” A conversation ensued between the boy and the barista for quite some time. Chat ended, coffee shared, good-byes waved.

The barista walked over toward me and stated, “Wasn’t that great? He’s so excited about his rock! And guess what, I have a favorite rock too — had it for years. I’m going to bring it in so I can show it to him next time he’s here. I love his energy!”

He also shared that February had been a hard month of “knock downs” but he’d prayed and heard God say, “just take a step forward” …. then today the boy showed up, they talked rocks, and the child gave him a sticker: “You Got This!”

The bearded barista’s eyes sparkled with joy and a tear. His happiness apparent and radiant. Fully felt.

So… share your rocks! The pretty ones, the unique ones, the ugly ones, the heavy ones, the magic ones.

From a boy’s hand to a man’s heart to a woman’s post… a rock lifted spirits.

What might your rock do?