Essays
My Grandmother’s Lap (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Easter weekend I made my favorite icing, tinted it pink and worked with a wide butter knife to spread it across the gentle curves of lemon cupcakes. It was my Grandmother’s recipe, the only icing I’ve ever really liked. The recipe got me thinking again about my relationship with my Grandmother who died this past summer. Later in the week, as I thought about my relationship with her, I felt God lean in close and whisper, “It was a gift.” So, with gratitude, I return to the memories and feel them for what they are and were – pure grace.
I sat in my
grandmother’s lap
in a long,
wooden pew
in her old,
ornate Methodist
Church. The shiny pipe organ
breathed in
and out and a man stood
up front in
a long robe.
Sometimes we
children
made our way
also to the front
and sat gathered at the feet
of the man
in the long robe,
like ducks, heads tipped
up waiting for the hand that
scatters
bread.
Returning to
the pew, to my
Grandmother’s
lap, I felt the summer’s
heat rise in
the old building. Light
poured in
through stained glass windows
and my long
brown hair clung to the back
of my neck.
My
Grandmother’s small hands, always
cool, lifted my hair, gently gathering it
up and to
the side. Then she blew her own
breath onto my exposed neck and air,
cool like a
fresh spring, trickled across.
‘Man cannot
live on bread alone,’
Jesus said
and those hands, that breath,
were grace
to my love-parched skin,
the simple
act of comfort-given and received
while I sat
in the church, in the worn wooden pew,
balanced on
the shore of my Grandmother’s lap.
* * * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
What Keeps Me
I willingly believe that the damned are, in one sense, successful, rebels to the end; that the doors of hell are locked on the inside. – C.S. Lewis
What keeps me
from the joy and wonder
of This Day, This Moment,
is the Dream, the Longing,
to be in some Other
place – maybe the Past,
a possible Future or
Alternate Now.
I want so badly to Escape
that I’m unwilling
to turn the key
of Surrender,
to set myself Free
by dropping into
What Is and so I remain
locked apart, Absent.
If, as Lewis said,
the Doors of Hell are Locked
on the Inside, it’s possible also
that Life is one long
lesson in Learning
to Turn the key.
Linking with Playdates, #TellHisStory and Give Me Grace.
Love’s Frayed Tether (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
This week it’s my great joy to welcome a guest post by fellow #SmallWonder host Amber Cadenas. Amber blogs regularly at Beautiful Rubbish: everyday art of learning to see. In her own words, Amber “writes with the hope that others might be inspired to see their own lives through different eyes.” I want to encourage you to take a little time to poke around her blog and get lost in the stories there – stories as deep and painful as they are beautiful.
* * *
When I cannot bear
to sit a moment longer
alone in our quiet
home and the din
of disquiet within
me
I find him –
resting upright in
the dark of our spare room
and on the futon
beckon him to lay down
and stretch my body
the length of him
tucked in snug as a
ship at dock
one arm latched
securely around his chest
my head resting a
top
the space where his
heart pumps
Slowly, slowly I
open
floating in the
tide of his heat
my cheek rolling
and rocking
with the pulsing
life beneath
his skin
and I surrender
to the deep of
sleep in this rhythmic lull
of wonder
What I have not
been able to see
or hear
or taste
or feel
in these
sensory-over-loaded-and-numbed-out
day to days of late
breaks through the
veil to once again proclaim
life
Right here
right now
Wonder and I become
one
as the moment rocks
and breathes
pauses and turns
anchored in love’s
frayed tether.
* * * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
To Experience Resurrection (A Poem)
You have to
return to the tomb
to experience
resurrection.
Return to
the place where once
you knew
without doubt
all hope was
gone, the last
dying gasp
of breath expelled.
Then
silence, stillness
and the
great tearing open
of sky and
earth.
The first
sign of spring
is the revelation
of all
that’s
died. Snow’s clean
slate hides decay,
but when the
sun’s warmth rises
its first disclosure
is the depth
of loss –
the grass,
brown and
trampled, barren
broken limbs
scattered, earth
exposed and
the empty stretch
of field
filled with brown stalks
of decomposition.
This is the
time of waiting,
the time in
which we grow
weary and
lose heart.
You have to
watch the barren
earth, pull
back brown leaves,
lean close
scanning the hidden
places. You have to stand beside
the stone,
Martha would tell us,
your
trembling hand pressed against
its cold, hard
surface. You have to enter
the dark
cave, Peter whispers, not knowing
what you’ll
find.
You have to
sit through the long,
dark night to see the first light of morning,
to feel the
sharp intake of breath
as the sky’s
closed eye, cold and gray
cracks open
slowly, then with growing
determination. This is what you must do
to
experience resurrection.
This post is linked with the High Calling.
Seeing the Psychiatrist (I Don’t Want to Forget)
“The
babysitter’s coming tomorrow.” I say as we shuffle back and forth in the bathroom getting ready for bed. “I have to
see my Psychiatrist,” I add, drawing out the word in a way that makes it sound
fancy.
Even now,
seven months after hospitalization, I’m still uncomfortable with the idea of
being one of those people.
“When was
your last appointment?” my husband asks from his seat on the radiator, speaking
over and around the toothbrush in his mouth.
“Um, I’m not
sure. Maybe February?”
At the sink,
I pull my toothbrush from the cup and squeeze out a daub of toothpaste. “It’s kinda silly, I still have prescriptions
I haven’t filled because I’m not going through them as quickly as I could.” In fact I’d been tempted to cancel the
appointment this week – it felt inconvenient, coming on my kids’ first day of
spring break and unnecessary as I really didn’t need any refills.
After
a pause, I add, “I think it’s important, though, to help me remember.” Then, in case he doesn’t know what I mean, I
continue, “I was in the hospital, ya
know? It was a big deal. It is
a big deal. I don’t want to forget how
hard it was, how close we were to the edge.”
The edge of
what, I do not say, but I feel it. The
edge of darkness, the edge of all-consuming fear.
“Do you feel
like you forget?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
I forget
because I don’t want to remember. I
forget because no one wants to talk about it, hardly anyone asks. I forget
because I’m afraid – afraid that it happened in the first place, afraid it
could happen again.
The pill
bottles help me to remember. Pulling the
two red bottles from the cabinet, putting in the extra time to cut pills down to
size for the days and weeks ahead, feels like a welcome humility.
I continue
to see a counselor, perhaps more often than she thinks I need. Those
hours set aside on the calendar remind me to look at myself, to come up for air
and do a systems’ check.
And the
appointments with the psychiatrist who listens briefly before handing out her
scripts, they help too. Driving up to
the building, I enter the same door I excited that bright August day. Every time I face that place, I face the
past; I face a part of myself that paid a price for being neglected for far too
long and I remember.
I don’t want to
forget again.
It may seem
counter-intuitive or self-punishing in some strange way, but in the Christian
tradition we acknowledge remembrance as a necessary part of the journey toward
healing, toward resurrection. This is what we do in Lent and
Holy Week. We re-walk the steps, re-read
the texts, take, break and eat the wine and the bread. We re-enact the suffering and saving so that
we will remember.
We don’t want to
forget.
We tell the story of our own
bondage and salvation; we return to the tomb if only to remember how
cold and deep the darkness was before we saw the first piercing shaft of
light.
May your
remembering be blessed. May you find the
courage to not forget.
The Humming Hive: Life-giving Work (#Small Wonder Link-up)
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt – marvelous error!-
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
– from Last Night as I Was Sleeping, by Antonio Machado
Two batches
of oatmeal-peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies.
One box of
brownies.
A
double-batch of Zuppa Tuscana and another double of Lentil- Spinach Soup.
Cleaning the
yard, cleaning the house and mopping for the first time in (gulp) “a while.”
These are
the things my husband and I did on Thursday and Friday as we prepared for this
weekend’s two writing events.
It was a lot
of work.
//
Thursday
morning the twins’ preschool hours – the time in which I usually write – were
filled with activity. Late into the afternoon
I scooped teaspoonful’s of cookie dough onto well-greased pans. Into the oven they went, then onto the
stovetop to cool, off the pan and into a large Tupperware container.
I chopped a
bagful of potatoes and several onions. I
sautéed and simmered, while washing an endless stream of dishes. We had frozen pizza for dinner because I was
so busy cooking ahead. The twins were relieved to know all of that soup was
not meant for them.
The entire
afternoon and on into the evening I spent spinning from counter to stove, sink
and oven in that small corner of the kitchen.
At some point, on one of those rounds of cutting and sliding things into
a pot, in the midst of washing and rinsing I felt it – something like a happy
hive of humming bees buzzing inside my chest.
“I love
this,” I thought.
The feeling
continued on into the next day – through scooping up the piles of “dog dirt”
scattered around the yard, cleaning the toilets and plotting the arrangement of
chairs and tables.
Then the
people came.
First Andi –
the writer/editor I met last summer.
Andi, who inspired our search for a dream house with the vulnerable sharing
of her own dreams. Andi, who showed me
last summer how simple a retreat could be.
Next came
the kids – eleven total.
The kids
were off-the-wall with Friday night fever and a little dose of sass, but when
they started writing things grew quiet for a few splendid minutes while colored
pencils scratched ideas to life.
Later,
with shinning faces they shared their stories.
My son came to me, leaned in close and whispered his in my ear.
After they
left, silence crept into the corners of the house. We tucked the folding table and chairs away
and slept in the unfamiliar stillness that is a house not filled with
children.
Saturday,
more people came, new faces and familiar ones, published authors and people
wondering what they were doing here.
Everyone carried hope and doubt, everyone had placed a stake in the
ground by the simple act of arrival.
Seated in a
large circle in the living room, I was grateful. I was not stressed. I was not anxious. I marveled at the gift of presence shared
among a group for a few short hours. I
wondered at the way people, when given a chance, open and blossom like bright
flowers; how we are all more beautiful, more gifted, and more broken than we
might ever dare imagine or admit.
Afterward,
when the grownups left and our kids came home from a friend’s house, the
peacefulness prevailed. There was a calm
in our house, a quiet buzz of contentment.
And I wondered if it wasn’t because we’d spent it all, and spent it well
in a way that fit just right for us.
//
For each of us there’s work that leads to death and work that leads to life – work that depletes and work that replenishes. While we cannot always chose between the two –
life unfortunately demands both – finding and settling in to work which gives
life even as it is spent is a gift beyond measure. Something sweet like honey.
Frederich
Beuchner calls it, “The place where our own deep gladness meets the world’s
deep needs.” Others, like Parker Palmer,
call it Vocation – or – “the thing that we cannot not do.”
However you
put it, however long it takes you to find it, no matter how much must be lost
in the process, do not forget my friends –
There is a hive inside your heart,
golden and still. It whispers
in the quiet of the night,
in the
stillness before wakefulness.
It is no
dream. It is the gift
of who you are,
the seed,
the soil and sunlight,
the sticky sweet pollen
that spreads and changes
into golden light. Listen,
if you can, and you will
hear its happy hum.
* * * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
The Bad Boy (Love Calls Us By Name)
Every day
they give some report of what he did or didn’t do.
“The bad boy was there today.”
“When he
lays down while the teacher reads, they say, ‘Don’t do that.’”
“He got a
red face today.”
Preschool is
their first foray into the wide world beyond our doors. I imagine “the bad boy” is both fascinating
and frightening in some way – he’s clearly caught their attention.
I’ve noticed
the “bad boy” too, on field trips and at pick-up and drop-off. He sometimes breaks down and won’t listen to
his weary mother, he seems to have some behavioral issues, probably a
diagnosis.
This
morning, tugging rain boots and coats on, they tell me again about “the bad
boy.”
“Does the
“bad boy” have a name?” I ask.
“Me don’t
know it,” Levi says, crinkling his nose in thoughtful concentration.
“Is he
always bad?” I ask.
“Usually he
nice to me, but one time he take-ed my toy,” Levi replies.
“Isn’t his
name . . . .? Let’s call him . . . . , let’s not call him the “bad boy,” I
suggest, remembering the boy’s name.
“You wouldn’t want to be called “bad boy,” would you?”
The moment
passes in the rush to get out the door on time, but I continue to think about
“the bad boy.”
He’s no more
than four years old and already my boys have labeled him based on his
behavior. I wonder how the teachers’
responses may have influenced the way my boys perceive him, and I’m aware of
the almost imperceptible sense of comfort they seem to get from knowing that
they are not bad like him, they are good.
My heart
breaks for this boy, for the burden of being “bad.”
And my heart
breaks also for my own children who bear the burden of needing to be “good.”
I want them
to be known by name, not by deed.
I want them
to remember to see themselves and others in light of wholeness rather than
brokenness, to understand in some way that they are loved and that love casts
away all labels – love calls us, always and only, by name.
Linking with #TellHisStory.
God Was Everywhere (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Today I’m happy to share a guest post from Ed Cyzewski. After reading a copy of his newest book, “Pray, Write, Grow: Cultivating Prayer and Writing Together, I knew he would have something good to share with our community. Ed practices a type of prayer called the Examen which focuses on awareness and daily reflection concerning the movement of God’s spirit in our lives. Today Ed shares about how his son helped him become more aware of the presence of God.
When I
started praying the Examen, I
struggled to answer the question that prompted me to identify a point when I
felt God’s presence. Some days I sensed God’s presence, but on other days
prayer felt like merely reciting words and waiting in silence. I didn’t have
anything in particular I could nail down as a moment when God felt particularly
present.
That started
to change when I prayed with my young son one evening. After my wife and I read
books with him, we started taking turns to pray with him before saying
goodnight. Turning the lights off, I usually kneel down next to his bed where
he’s tucked in and eager to share everything he’s thankful for. We usually
begin with saying thank you for things like his friends, family, church, and
the local children’s science museum. He’s also thanked God for “daddy’s shirt,”
“people watching hockey,” and “mama holding brother.” After he’s exhausted
every possible thing and person he could thank God for, I pray for him.
The prayers
are always short because he’s a toddler with a limited attention span, but the
first time we prayed together, I sensed an immediate connection with God. It
was as if God wanted to love my son through me. Recognizing God’s love for my son opened me to a greater sense of God’s parental love. The simple ritual of
praying with my son eventually opened my eyes to a deeper sense of God’s love
for me and my love for my son.
I started
noticing that prayer wasn’t just a matter of saying thank you or issuing
requests, even if it could be those things. Prayer gets us on the same page
with God. It shifts our perspectives. I saw how God loves me and loves my son.
My eyes were opened to the possibility that God could be found in other moments
too. In fact, many of the moments I’ve spent with my children since that
epiphany while praying have led to particularly powerful experiences of God’s
presence when I least expected it.
Responding to my children with mercy or
compassion became a kind of prayer in and of itself.
As I prayed
through each of the questions in my Examen each evening, I started to recognize
God’s presence in the moments when I loved my children. For all of the times
I’d sat down with prayer books or tried to quiet my mind to meditate on
scripture, God felt most present while I spent time with my kids, whether
praying or playing. The more I see God in these relationships with my children,
the more I’ve become aware of how easily we can wall God’s presence off from
very important areas of our lives.
Today’s post
is an excerpt from Ed’s new book: Pray,
Write, Grow: Cultivating Prayer and Writing Together which is on sale this Monday and Tuesday for $.99!
Ed
Cyzewski is the author of Pray, Write,
Grow: Cultivating Prayer and Writing Together, A Christian Survival Guide and Coffeehouse
Theology. He blogs about prayer, writing, and imperfectly following Jesus
at www.edcyzewski.com and offers two free eBooks to
newsletter subscribers.
* * * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Canine Prayers
This isn’t our dog, but you get the idea, right? Photo Source.
Be still, and know that I am God . . . Psalm 46:10
She’s
nestled at my side right now, sleeping with great, heavy sighs, her long legs tucked and curled in a fetal position.
I’m still
learning the stillness of dogs. They don’t
purr when happy, don’t flap their tales angrily when the petting becomes too
much. Their language is altogether
different.
//
I wake up
early every morning intending to ingest caffeine and find time to pray, journal
and read. Too often, though, once the
computer’s on, I’m off and running – making lists, commenting, writing and, in
the worst of circumstances, reading depressingly bizarre articles on
Yahoo. Sitting in an old wooden Adirondack
chair by the wood stove, I hit the ground running, bolting into the day on a caffeine
driven wave of activity.
I notice the
early morning darkness, the stillness and calm, but I don’t enter into it.
This dog,
though, she sleeps curled on the worn, leather couch at the bottom of the
stairs. A blur of black and brown, she
blends in and only her deep snores give her away.
She is warm,
she is still, she is calm.
Walking over
to say good morning with my tall cup of coffee in hand, she invites me, wordlessly,
to sit and snuggle. Settling on the
couch, I pull her into my lap and she presses her head against my shoulder.
Now I am still, warm and growing calm.
There’s no
room for the computer with a dog in my lap.
It’s too dark for a book, no room, no light for journaling. So, I pray in a quiet, wordless way, settling
in to Something More like that pup curled on the couch. Slowly, the sun rises across the field, covering the landscape with its wordless, changing light.
When my
husband comes walking through the darkness to kiss me goodbye, I’m there still
almost hidden on the couch. And every
morning now, I choose – to work by the fire or to enter into the quiet call to
prayer that arises from the soft sounds of our silent, sleeping dog.
//
Sometimes I find myself called to prayer in the most surprising ways – what calls your heart to prayer?
This post is linked with The High Calling for their series on Spiritual Disciplines. Click on the link to read more stories.
Crazy (Maybe My Mother-in-law Was Right)
“I have two
bad things to tell you and one good,” he said. “Which do you want to hear first?”
“Bad news,” I
replied.
“The bad
news is, my Mom read your postcard AND she hates the word ‘crazy.’ It’s like a
swear word to her.”
What? Really? I thought.
“The good
news is, she liked the bible verses you put on the back.”
During the
first summer we dated, I sent John a postcard. One side showed the cover photo for the
musical “Crazy for You” with the play’s title in large letters. I was completely dumbfounded and not a little
offended by the “bad news” and also pleased in a secret way that I’d managed to both impress and offend his mother in one fell swoop.
But really, ‘crazy’
as a bad word?
That’s just
crazy.
//
“We’re just
as crazy as them,” my husband said, bleary-eyed in the late-night-kitchen calm,
“only
our crazy is different.”
He was
talking about our good friends, the ones who have three kids and keep a busy
schedule of sports, scouts and all manner of fun activities. I’d never thought about it that way, but
immediately I recognized it as true.
Maybe it’s
the fact that we’ve gone through two dogs in the past month, or the way that
more than one person has suggested we charge admission to our little
“zoo.” Yes, the upstairs of our house is
torn to pieces, with exposed beams and wiring in the walls, holes in the floors
where our littlest cat (who we strongly suspect may be pregnant) hides.
But
crazy? Us?
Of course.
That’s
when I realized – you can’t see your own crazy.
It’s like we
all have a mirror we look in to check for signs of crazy, but our mirror’s
flawed with incredible blind-spots for the activities, dramas and investments
we value most. Holding the mirror up to
others it’s obvious, “Man, they’re CRAZY.”
But us?
No way.
//
Turns out
we’re all a little bit crazy, in someone’s opinion.
Over the years, John and I
have developed a little code language regarding our own individual levels of crazy – think of it as the equivalent of a subtle hand gesture telling a close companion they have a glaring piece of spinach in their teeth. This works because, even though you may not be able to see your combined familial level of crazy,
a spouse can be very helpful in determining another spouse’s individual level of crazy.
“You’re
doing it again,” he says
By now,
fifteen years in, I usually know pretty quickly what he’s talking about
(depending, of course, on how far gone I am). By “it” he means “crazy eyes,” this habit I
have of talking loud and fast while my eyes ping-pong around in their
sockets. Crazy-eyes are a warning sign
for me, a symptom of sorts that I’m heading for the edge.
And you know
what? He does it too.
Maybe he got
it from me.
Maybe that
postcard really was the warning sign his mother thought it was.
Maybe a
certain type of crazy can be transferred from person to person like the plague.
No, that
just sounds crazy.
As Good as it Gets – Work and Love (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Yesterday
afternoon, the setting sun tinted the fog a rosy pink and the trees, darkened
by the rain, stood out stark against a backdrop of cotton candy. It looked like a scene straight out of a
fairytale.
Today great
gusts of wind work to sweep away the clouds, huffing and puffing along like a
janitor behind a giant push broom. In
the wake of winter, in the snow’s receding, a day, a week, a month of yard work
emerges.
Two huge
leaf-piles, abandoned where they lay last fall.
Bushes to be
pruned, old growth to be broken and tossed aside.
There are a
lot of carcasses too. Decapitated birds
surface and the skins of squirrels, their vital organs consumed. Who knew we had so many predators, so much
death lurking around while we and the ground are sleeping our way through
winter?
Everyone I talk to is eager for Spring, ready for this long, cold winter to be over. It was a hard winter, they say, but all I know
is that last winter was so. much. harder. for us – this winter was a cake-walk
in comparison.
To be
honest, when I look at spring, I see work.
I see the
need to re-oufit the kids in new sizes and weights of clothing – out with the
corduroy and in with the denim. I see
the need for more than one pair of shoes each, so the inevitably mud-caked pair
can be left in the aptly named mud room to dry for days before being clacked
together like chalk-board erasers over the sidewalk.
The chicken
coop needs repair, the porch needs to be washed, and the wood pile
should be moved. Did I mention the grass, the garden, the unfinished home improvement project we meant to wrap-up in winter that still straggles along?
I could make
a list as long and wide as the wind-swept sky and there’d be nothing fairytale-like
about it. Unless, of course, it included a fairy Godmother with a sparkling magic wand to make it all just disappear – now THAT would be something.
Instead, though, I think I’ll
join Laura Brown over at her new space, Makes You Mom, in listing twenty things
I love:
1. A tiny,
perfect pinecone.
2. The
sherbert-y concoction of blues, pinks and oranges in the impossibly soft quilt
that covers my bed.
3. The
inquisitive tilt of the dog’s ears as she puzzles over our family life.
4. The way
clarity after a period of indecision settles everything into place,
like a safe door swinging open when the right combination is spun.
5. Getting a
great deal on a little luxury.
6. Feeling
the vibration and listening to the rattly engine of my kitten’s purr.
7. Seeing
the hearth after it’s swept clean of wood chips and ash.
8. Mindless
work that requires focus, done in a calm, quiet setting.
9. Tending
plants, walking into the “little house” to see that my Great-great Grandmother’s
Christmas Cactus in bloom.
10. Spying
the first signs of spring – the green buds poking out beneath a barren shrub,
two blue birds flocking by the Holly bush.
11. Napping
on the bare floor by the wood stove.
12. Letting
my husband handle Sunday meals.
13. The
churring sounds our big cat, Blackie, makes when looking for his little friend,
Perfect.
14. The
feeling of coming home.
15. Carb-y
snacks.
16. Fresh
fruit.
17.
Laughter, humor, and irony.
18. Reading.
19. Dancing
with the kids at the end of an animated movie.
20. New
beginnings, new ideas.
My husband and I were talking in the kitchen the other day about the likelihood that one of us would one day get Cancer and the unsettling fact that Alzheimers is America’s number six killer – you know, typical end-of-winter, rainy-gray-day chit-chat.
“So I guess this really is as good as it gets,” I said and he agreed.
That line’s stuck with me ever since – this is as good as it gets.
This moment, right here, right now, with the yard work waiting, the children growing like loud, lanky weeds. These stolen moments typing under my sherbert-y quilt, the kitten at my side. These hours with the wind howling, the chickens foraging in the leaf pile, the dog smelling all of the good dead smells there are to be found in a yard laid bare of one season, open and waiting for the next.
This is as good as it gets and, looking at it that way, I can see how the work and the things I love mingle together, almost inseparable, two lists made one in a swirling fog – love, presence, and attention to what is turning this gray world an almost magical shade of pink.
* * * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
I’m Not Powerless (Tales of a Young and Pregnant Chaplain)
I didn’t
have a cleric’s collar, a long robe or rosary.
I lacked a
book of formal rites and a heavy, dangling cross.
Because of
this, I envied the Catholic chaplain (a priest) who strolled the hospital halls
with confidence, the concrete symbols of his authority displayed for all to
see.
I was young,
female, wearing a small collection of casual-professional attire. Later, I was visibly pregnant, wearing an
even smaller, less formal wardrobe.
I carried a
notebook with a few prayers inside and wore a bright blue tag that said simply,
“Chaplain Kelly.”
I wanted
something to fall back on, some symbol to carry with me as I waited and prayed
with the family of the latest Code Blue or visited with the parents of a preterm
baby.
That was
early in my residency as a Chaplain at a Level One Trauma hospital.
It was
before I learned how to argue well and calmly with a surgeon, before I held
family members back from rooms they could not enter. Over time my hands stopped shaking when
dialing the numbers of loved ones and I prayed calmly and clearly around the
bodies of the recently deceased.
By the end
of the year – when I left to give birth to our first child, a daughter – I’d
incorporated a new mantra into my thinking, “I’m not powerless, I have
authority.”
Somewhere
along the way I realized that authority isn’t held or conveyed in symbols, but is instead endowed by nature in who we are – in who God made us to be. It’s our presence that carries authority, our
ability to rest sure and certain in the truth of our own flawed and gifted
being. The closer we live to this center
of God’s making within us, the clearer we ring with the fullness of our own humanity.
I offered
myself to the families and individuals I met and they welcomed me. With time I saw how, in certain contexts, the
very symbols I envied could also be barriers to intimacy.
Toward the
end of my pregnancy I was called to pray with a family whose loved one was
preparing for major surgery. I met the
large, extended family in a waiting area and the patient’s wife, clearly
surprised by the extremely pregnant young woman before her, exclaimed, “I’ve
never seen a PREGNANT CHAPLAIN before!”
After an awkward pause I smiled and laughed and one of the grown children kindly explained that the wife was “more
used to priests.”
“Well,” I
replied, “we come in all shapes and sizes these days.”
With that we moved into prayer, our eyes
closed and my voice rising with its own song, its own authority.
Grace Notes (#Small Wonder Link-up)
I love this image of Christ in the Wilderness gathering Wild Flowers painted by Stanley Spencer.
I decided last weekend that I would try to write 500
words, five days a week for the month of March.
And I nearly did this past week. But still, I
came up short, not having anything finished enough to post today. Some weeks are like that for me, lots of planting seeds, lots of beginnings, but
no real tangible harvest.
Yesterday afternoon I took a nap and the sun came out,
sending the temperature up above fifty degrees.
The kids swarmed coat-less in the driveway and later in the still-snowy
field. I sat inside by a dying fire working on a poem,
then did the dishes and made a cake.
We met some new friends for dinner and it amazes me
always – how new friends can be made when you least expect it. Since leaving the church we helped plant almost seven years ago, there’s been a lot of grieving and letting go. It’s almost been enough to make me forget the life that always follows death – the way surrender opens our hands to receive something new.
Sitting around a new
table with new faces and listening to us talk, I felt keenly aware that we’re not the same people we once were. I heard a spaciousness in our lives, a reaching out beyond ourselves that
feels so big and lively.
“It’s just so much fun,” I heard myself say, over and over
again, trying to explain the appeal of owning chickens.
This weekend we celebrated the one-year anniversary of
buying this good and spacious place here in Boiling Springs. As far as we’re concerned, the fact that we live here is a complete miracle, a good old fashioned act of God.
One year ago we held
our breath until the papers were signed, while drinking water out of bottles
labelled “Trust Matters”. We left the
lawyer’s office like two foxes leaving a hen house – wide grins on our faces,
hardly able to believe we got away with it.
I’m learning that this is what grace feels like, this spaciousness,
this bubble of joy that rises, this scandalous abundance unearned.
May you be blessed with grace this Lenten season –
may your emptying be followed by abundance,
may your surrender make way for the new things
already being rooted within you.
May your grief be fruitful,
may your joy be full.
* * * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
A Box Full of Kittens (The Power of Presence to Heal an Anxious Heart)
“What this place needs is a box full of kittens.”
This is what I told my fellow patients, my therapist, and
anyone else who would listen in the psychiatric hospital this summer. I wasn’t really kidding.
My kids were spending a good bit of time at a friend’s house
where kittens were in high numbers and they were enamored, but not as much as I. Sitting on my friend’s couch in
those stressful weeks leading up to the panic attacks and hospitalization, I
felt the old familiar calm sweep over me as I nuzzled a snowy white ball of
fluff who purred and clawed against my chest.
My last night in the hospital I sat talking with my husband via an old black phone with the classic silver cord and buttons –like something
straight out of a 1980’s phone booth.
“You’re never going to guess what I saw tonight,” he said.
It was late August and after tucking
the kids into bed, he noticed a small animal scurrying across the kitchen
toward the laundry room and back door.
At first he thought it was a squirrel, but following slowly he realized
it was a small, gray kitten. Then the
little scamp was off and running out the same open door he crept in,
disappearing into the dark night.
“Really?!” I asked, “Are you serious?”
It seemed like
a sign, a good omen, that little gray visitor padding in quietly like fog in
the middle of a dark night. He never showed up again, though my husband called and left
food by the back door.
The following day, after my discharge, we drove to pick up our
kids. They piled out of my friend’s
house, tumbling and climbing on me like love-sick puppies. On our way out to
the van they showed me another pair of kittens who’d shown up during my
hospitalization, two more strays.
Are you surprised that when my friend called the next day to see if we wanted the kittens, I said yes?
She delivered them herself, like one
delivers soup to the sick and we drank them in as the stress and worry of
weeks slowly worked its way out of our family system.
//
I always had a cat as a little girl, always.
I used to list them by name to impress and wow friends with tales of their adventures and
unfortunate demises. We had
indoor-outdoor cats and they all, invariably, slept in my bed. They were my babies, my companions. I mothered them before I knew what mothering
was. Their calmness and acceptance of my
quiet, slow ways nurtured me before I even knew I needed nurturing.
I have a picture of me as a little girl holding some of
our first kittens. In it, I am sitting on the
stump of a log with one cat tucked under each arm, squinting into the sun. Thinking about it now, it occurs to me
how many pictures we have of me holding the twins in a similar position – one on each side,
two lovable lumps of little boy.
Both, the kittens and the twins, opened me, opened my heart,
my body, to love. Both brought healing and resurrection in their own mysterious ways.
//
We got two kittens this summer when it didn’t make sense and brought
them into our chaotic home, our anxious hearts.
Soon evenings in front of the TV included a pile of kittens in my
lap. Cooking dinner was not complete
without someone climbing up my pant-leg to beg or riding tucked into the front of
my hoodie, a little furry face peaking out, a soft purr humming against my
heart.
They’re our children’s pets, but no one seems to need them
as much as I do and my children, in their intuitive wisdom, seem to know this too. Every day, multiple times a day, they find a cat and, carrying it through the house, present it to me like an offering.
“Special delivery,” they say, lifting the cat toward my waiting arms. With open, outstretched arms I welcome them, drinking in again their sweet, unexpected grace.
Linking with #TellHisStory.
Are you a cat lover, a dog lover, a wild ferret lover? Tell me about it, I’d love to hear how animals bring healing in your life.
Named and Known (#SmallWonder link-up)
(I’m happy to welcome Jody Lee Collins here today with a #SmallWonder guest post. Jody is part of the team that helps coordinate and support this community. She is a writer, poet, Grandmother, and substitute teacher who lives Seattle, Washington. You can read more of her words at her blog, Three Way Light. I really love the story she shares today – there’s a sweetness to it that keeps it tumbling around in my heart. Enjoy!)
I silently knock on the Kindergarten door – helper for the day in
my Assistant Teacher role. I love Kindergarten.
I did my student teaching there—sang a LOT of songs, played games, and sat on
the floor and learned words.
Today is one of those days—a learning day—except I am
the student.
I teach in a very diverse school district. The population we serve has changed
significantly in the past 7 or 8 years. Our students are 85% immigrants—mostly
African, primarily from Somalia, Sudan, Eritrea and Ethiopia. Needless to say,
school is a challenge for these immigrant children.
Today the teacher asks me to take time with Mamoud and Khalid who
are only just learning English.
Mamoud is silent as he follows, but Khalid’s first words to me as
I reach out my hand, are, “Good morning, teacher.”
I am warmed at the thought of appreciative parents who have taught
him this important phrase. They know more than anyone the power a good
education has and the place of a teacher in that process.
Out in the hallway at a small table, Khalid, Masoud and I look at
picture books. One in particular is called ‘Rain’, suitable
for our Seattle area day. I begin with Khalid. He is delighted he
knows the word ‘umbrella’ and repeats it every time the picture shows up.
“Umbrrrrellla” he says rolling his ‘r’s. It’s a purple umbrella.
I point to the car in the rain; ‘car’, he
says, ‘car.’
I point to the tree in the rain; ‘tree’, he
says, ‘trrrrree.’
I point to the flowers in the rain; ‘flowers’, he
says ‘flowers.’
But the second time around he is mixed up and says ‘tree’ for ‘flower’ and ‘car’ for ‘tree’
and ‘flower’ for ‘frog’. There’s really no connection between these
pictures and my words.
We are both a little frustrated and the boys are yawning and
squirmy.
I remember Maria Montessori’s cornerstone words about meaningful
work. Changing my strategy, we venture into the classroom. I point to a
spot on the floor near the cubbies and the boys sit quietly.
I know they can tell me their names and probably can spell them.
Names have meaning, especially to the owner.
I grab 3 whiteboards, markers and erasers and join them on the
floor, asking them to each write their name. Masoud is successful
and proceeds to add a treasure map to his picture. Correct letters in the
correct order, even a capital-ish looking capital ‘M’.
Khalid is stuck. There is a capital ‘K’,
an ‘a’, no ‘h’ at all, an ‘i’ but
no ‘d’. There are also several o’s and m’s. I
assume he’s a little mixed up and hand over hand, help him write his name
correctly.
He tries it alone; still ‘K, no ‘h’, no ‘a’, an ‘l’, but no ‘d’,
many ‘o’s and an ‘m.’ He is adamant about there being an ‘o’ and an ‘m’—not
with words but by the way he furiously erases or pushes my hand away when I try
to correct.
He of course isn’t conversing with me; he doesn’t know how to
communicate what he wants but his actions are speaking volumes.
Aha—Well, I’ll step over to his desk
and read his name tag (yes, I was
learning, too.) Around the corner from the bookcase at the round
table, there it is, “Khalid Omar.”
Oy. For Heaven’s sake—no wonder we got ‘o’s and ‘m’s.
I return to my spot between the boys on the floor and write
Khalid’s first and last name out for him to copy.
The frustration vanishes, his eyes sparkle and he calmly and
clearly announces in perfect English, “Thank you!” As
in, ‘what took you so long? you finally got it! THAT’S who I am!’
It was a simple, small moment to remind how powerful it is and how
deeply touched we are when we are named–named and known.
And how life-changing it can be when we are known by our Father
God most of all.
Did I tell you I love Kindergarten?
* * * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
In the Wiggling and Shaking (Forget Yourself on Purpose)
. . . we
are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the
winds and join in the general dance. – Thomas Merton in New Seeds of
Contemplation
The twins
perched on the back of the couch banging on the window with a screw driver and
wooden stick while I waited for the bus with the older kids. They were making “music.” Speaking through the double-paned glass I urged them to reign it in, lest they should soon be “breaking a window.”
Later, after the bus had come and gone and I
was walking the dog out to the back field, I heard a great metallic clatter
coming from inside and assumed they’d moved on to banging on the radiators.
When I came
inside, fresh and cold, they sat in the dining room surrounded by every pot and
pan we own – their “instruments.”
Whacking and
smacking against metal lids and up-turned pots, they produced a jarring percussion
and the dog and I were both overwhelmed by the sheer volume. The thing they wanted most, though, was for
me to dance while they played.
“Come dance,”
they called, “come dance with us.”
What I wanted was quiet. I wanted the pots and pans put away and the “tent” that filled the living room picked up so I could vacuum without obstruction. I wanted to pay the bills, balance the checkbook and get a head start on the dishes.
But every artist needs an appreciative audience and every drum needs a foot to follow its beat, so I cast my “awful solemnity to the winds” and joined in.
In the wiggling and shaking, as the shy dog raised his front paws and became my cautious partner, I remembered this poem by Hafiz,
Every child
has known God,
not the God
of names,
not the God
of don’t
not the God
who ever does anything weird,
but the God
who knows only four words
and keeps
repeating them, saying,
“Come dance
with me,
come dance.”
May you also hear the invitation friends to cast winter aside for a few moments this day – sing with the birds, bang your drum and dance with whatever willing participants creation sends your way.
The Moment Was Sweet (#SmallWonder link-up)
The boy
called
for his brother
in the dark
hallway as I
sat reading
in
bed by a
quiet, yellow
light. Following
my voice,
he arrived
and fell
into bed
and sleep
simultaneously,
like some ripe
fruit
falling
from the tree.
The light
was golden,
as was the boy’s
flaxen head
and the moment
was
sweet
and so full,
as though he
was the first
child ever
and we
the first parents
marveling
in
delight.
* * * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Laundry, Lent and Suffering
It’s not the cold, snow, and wind that get to me.
Not our
house’s perpetually crunchy, dirty floors.
Not even the
smell of the litter box and the cat food scattered near and far.
No, in
winter, it’s the laundry that gets to me most, causing my spirit to
despair.
It’s the
pile in the twins’ room and the way the bathroom’s carpeted with cast-off
clothes and towels.
It’s the
three baskets of unfolded clean laundry and two more of dirty all waiting
for my attention while the washer and dryer sit, still full.
It’s piles
folded for six people spread across the dining room table – stacks of p.j.s,
pants, and shirts that refuse to stay on their hangers.
And, of
course, it’s the endless pile of left-over, never-matching socks, the odds and
ends, that even if I tackle the whole mountain, squirreling it all away in open
drawers and closets, still remain.
Looking at
the laundry piles first thing in the morning can cause my heart to sink. Drowning in the unwashed, I feel lost, like a
swimmer caught an the under-tow watching the rapidly shrinking shore-line
disappear.
The laundry
seems to whisper to me – you have no help, you will never catch up, you are
alone.
And, in this
way, I suffer. I feel alone,
overwhelmed, sinking.
In this way,
my life is hard.
//
Listening to the radio while driving, I heard an interview with a woman in Yemen
where the government has recently collapsed.
She and her neighbors carry their wash, daily, to a water-source in the
center of the country’s capital city.
There they stand washing, while others fill buckets with drinking water
to haul to their houses. There is no
electricity.
Explaining
her situation, the woman concludes, “Life is very hard now.”
She and her neighbors suffer in a way that makes her description “very hard” entirely accurate. Hearing her
words I wonder whether her laundry, her desperate situation,
whispers to her in the early morning hours.
Continuing
my drive, I think of my own laundry piles waiting at home, the bright white
washer and dryer, the sun-filled room in which they sit, and the electricity
which keeps them humming at the touch of a button.
//
In the past,
such an interview would bring with it the temptation to write off my own small
sufferings as insignificant at best and signs of my own selfish entitlement at
worst. On facebook we acknowledge the
difference between suffering and Suffering with the hashtag
#firstworldproblems.
Sometimes
this comparison, this acknowledgement of privilege, provides a much needed
perspective – yes, I’m drowning in laundry, but isn’t that in part because
I’ve been gifted with four lovely children?
And isn’t the fact that I have more than one set of clothes for each of
these children, a fact which precipitates a great increase in laundry,
something also to be thankful for?
Yes,
sometimes this comparison is helpful for the way it reminds me that while I do suffer,
there is still much cause for thanksgiving.
More often,
though, I’ve used such comparisons as a way to push off my own needs, to in
fact, separate myself from suffering.
Even, at times, to punish myself for suffering.
“You think
this is hard? What’s wrong with
you? People all over the world have it
much worse. You don’t hear that poor
woman in Yemen complaining,” goes the inner dialogue.
The problem
with this, I now see, is that it hardens my heart and introduces the idea that
one’s situation has to be “bad enough” to truly warrant compassion. When I deny my own suffering,
I take dangerous steps toward a heart that is primed to deny the suffering of
others. And, worse yet, this denial is
fed by a necessary distancing – to deny my own suffering is
indeed to find myself alone and separated from those with whom I may have more
than I think in common.
//
What does
this have to do with Lent?
Lent and
laundry. Lent and suffering and
Suffering.
Lent offers
us the opportunity to embrace our humanity, to walk with Jesus for awhile
in the wilderness as we draw closer to the cross. In Lent, we embrace some small measure of
suffering for the way that it awakens us to need, to desire, to the questions
our own suffering raises.
We give up
or take on some small thing in order that our lives would be opened further –
to the suffering of Christ and others, to compassion and reconciliation, to a
deeper acceptance of Christ’s suffering on our behalf.
//
My friend
came and did nine loads of laundry for me three days ago. Today I’ve done three or four more and so the
story goes, on and on, socks and shirts and pants for a family of six.
Standing in
the laundry room, pulling cold, wet clothes from the washer and cleaning out
the lint trap, I think of her – the woman in Yemen. I think of us together, as sisters in the
battle against laundry, in the battle to keep something clean and in
order. I think of our despair at the
disorder of our lives, the way it can be both “hard” and “very hard.”
In remembering her, I remember myself and
remembering myself, I remember her and I am no longer alone.
Maybe this also is true of Lent.
In our small
sufferings and surrenders, may we find ourselves reminded of Christ.
In the “hard” that is our daily lot, may we
be reminded of the “very hard.”
In
remembering Christ, may we remember ourselves and remembering ourselves, may we
remember Christ and find that we are never truly alone.
This article is part of a MennoNerds Synchro-Blog reflecting on suffering during the Lent season of 2015. To read more articles in this series, go to http://mennonerds.com/tag/mennonerds-lent-2015/. To find out more about MennoNerds in general, go to http://mennonerds.com/about.
Winter Morning (#SmallWonder Link-up)
And we are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love . . . – William Blake
I crept from
the covers early and pulled on socks before slipping down to where
the dog waited, barking, in the cold kitchen.
He danced and wiggled, whining with excitement as I reached to flip the
coffee pot on.
Then I searched for boots
and slipped on my husband’s old down coat, wool mittens and a hat. I took the
quarter cup of coffee that was brewed and carried it with me as the dog charged out the door.
It was four
degrees and windy. The sky was pearly
gray and a golden sliver of moon hung, a bright pendant suspended on the sky’s
ivory neck.
The dog was
so happy, running full-out, then turning back to me, squatting and jumping at
my feet as I played at stealing his toy.
“Good boy! Good boy!” I called, coffee sloshing in my cup. I danced and called in my polka-dot pajama
pants as the wind cut through the thin flannel without reserve and cars sped by.
Winter
transforms the field across the street into the illusion of an ice-covered
lake. The wind rushes across, smoothing
the surface, like water wearing away at stone.
Once back inside, I curled on the couch with a fuller cup of coffee,
looking out over the “lake” as the sun continued to rise.
The sun
rises in the east and sets in the west and here, in my wide south-facing window, I’m
party to them both – the light that
begins the day and that which ends it; the sun continuing its faithful rounds
regardless of my attention.
The birds
were singing this morning.
Singing.
Even at four
degrees with incredible whipping bursts of wind, the birds are singing
spring as though they also spied the small green shoots of crocus peeking out beneath a barren shrub.
The moon
hangs shining.
The dog
runs, exuberant.
The sun
rises.
The birds
sing.
The spring
shoots peek.
The wind
wears away at the world like water on stone.
I stand
among it all and the wonder, the shinning and rising, the singing, is almost too much to bear.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
(The linky was a little delayed this morning – please don’t miss the couple of people who linked in the comments section!)
Love at First Sight (a poem)
(Here I am around age 5 with two of my first kittens. It was always love at first sight.)
Instinct led
her
to lift the
small
mewing
creature with
pin-prick
paws
to her
chest, pressing
it close to
where her own heart
beat. And instinct bade
the poor
kitten to cling
there,
slowly calmed
by a hand
curved
protectively
around
the boney
ridge
of its
back. The two
clung
together
as one – the
girl
with her
soft, slow
ways, and
the kitten,
made to
flourish like a
flower in
the clasp
of such
tenderness.
Happy Valentine’s Day, friends! May your life be filled with as many kinds of love as possible!
Books
Between Heaven and Earth (poems)
Prayer can easily become an afterthought, a hasty sentence, a laundry list of all the things we want. But what if prayer is a time to find out what God wants for us–and for our world? What does it mean to pray that the kingdom would come here and now as it is in heaven? Explore these questions in this study, and learn prayer practices that nurture intimacy with God and sensitivity to God’s dream for the world.
Follow this writer, spiritual director, and mother of four as she dives into the deep end of chicken farming and wrestles with the risks and rewards of living a life she loves. At turns hilarious, thoughtful, and always compassionate, Chicken Scratch will change the way you see the mess and chaos involved in living life to its fullest.
