Archive for October, 2015
Welcoming the Stranger
0Unlikely partners,
these two,
One tall and statuesque,
the other short and squat.
One, firm and defined,
Hands neatly latch their way
up the ladder of the palm tree bark.
The other, raucous and unwieldy,
Green sprigs, as a rogue lock
Escaping from the ponytail.
One, disciplined and ordered.
the other, doing as it pleases.
How in the world did these two meet?
Surely, a random occasion
when this stick settled in.
Blown in upon the wind
to lodge here
in the clutches,
the talons,
the grip of such an unwelcome embrace.
Yet,
here nestled one in the other,
firm and strong, reaching upward,
splayed and supple, reaching inward.
Both,
enjoying the same patch of ground,
to be nourished in the same grassy noll.
“So glad you happened by.”
“Why not sit and rest a spell?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” … “My, this is comfortable.”
“Will you stay?”
Somehow,
they become each other.
I want to write the book my kids want to keep
0My bookshelves are piled high with titles from the past. Books I purchased because they were assigned. Books I used for reference. Books I consulted. Books that taught me how. Books that showed me where. Books, books, books, books!
So many, in fact, that I couldn’t read many of the spines, because we were long past setting them neatly side by side. They were piled in front and slipped in between and laid on top. It had been a long time since we had visited these old friends. Couldn’t we dispense with a few?
In fact, we could. After sorting and sifting, the girls and I filled several boxes with the books whose time had come and gone. They were entertaining back then, but now they could belong to someone else. Except a few.
As I looked on, my girls set a aside a few of the books, a very select bunch. Some hard cover, some soft copy, some thick and tall and some thin and flimsy. The reflection of each of these shone in their eyes, a recollection, a fond memory, or a connection to the characters, I’m not sure.
“Oh Mom, we have to save Angelina Ballerina,” my nearly 25 year old daughter said.
“And Tacky, we have to keep him,” said my 18 year old, recalling the protagonist penguin who was the hero of her second grade classroom.
Somehow, over these many years, the impact of the stories has remained. Just picking up the book stirs feeling and memories they don’t want to give away. That feeling is theirs and not meant for another. These are keepers, these few. We must save them.
I must confess, there were a few I set in the keep pile as well. A Light in the Attic, Winnie the Pooh, Make Way for Ducklings, and a few others. Upstairs in her room, my middle daughter has sequestered many titles that are too precious even to risk to the basement shelves. Among them, The Pokey Little Puppy, I know this without even looking. That was the book she pretended to read to me because she had memorized all the words. It’s value is but memory and yet it’s alive and well twenty plus years later.
Now there is plenty of space on our shelves to see the scant collection of titles that remain. I scan the remnants and smile. What treasures these are.
I’m sure that their authors didn’t set out to write a “classic” or “great literature.” They just started with an idea and a page. And a love for children. Surely, that’s so, because they are loving them still, in a way still so tangible that simply hefting the book brings it back.
I want to love like that.
I want to write the book my kids want to keep.
The View
2Mesmerizing,
this small, sprightly sparrow,
as he (or she)
hops, perches, steps, sidles,
then leaps, flaps, lands.
Exploring
twig to twig
branch to branch,
bridging tree to tree.
A car approaches,
hesitating at the intersection.
“Doesn’t she have something better to do with her time?”
I can imagine its driver is saying of me.
This is the better.
Thanks for Dinner, Dad
0“Rats,” said one. This was greeted by a delighted chortle from the backseat, where sat the other, smiling at beating her sister this time to thank Dad for the dinner we had just enjoyed at the restaurant. The rules are: you can’t say it until we return home, the driveway counts, first to remember, wins. No prize. Just satisfaction.
Our oldest daughter started this game years ago. But last night, our youngest raced her to the thanks. She must have been primed for the punch because, the second our wheels hit the driveway, out came the: “Thanks for dinner, Dad.” Then the groan from the front seat, admitting defeat.
I had no part in creating this game. It was all them. In fact, last night I was cautioned because I thanked Dad as he signed the credit card slip at the restaurant. That doesn’t count, I was told. You have to wait till we’re home.
At least I can still play, even though it’s my husband I’m thanking and not my dad because we all call him dad. Even me, when the kids are around.
But today I am marveling at the message in this game, created by the kids, refereed by the kids, perpetuated by the kids: the race to thank their father for his generosity to provide a lavish meal, at no expense to them.
What a meal was set for us at a table in a long ago upper room. By His grace, we get to eat it. And we don’t have to wait till we get home to play.
Thanks, Dad, for dinner.
Sticky Fingers Don’t Leave Prints
0It’s terrible having sticky fingers.
No, not the kind that pull what doesn’t belong to you
off the department store shelves.
I’m no thief.
I don’t steal stuff.
I feel stuff.
Everything I touch has a sense,
a texture, a tone,
a pinch, a puff,
a cuddle, a rebuff.
It’s slippery or slimy,
it’s sticky or prickly.
Or it’s smooth and supple,
nothing that can ruffle.
Maybe it’s new.
Oh when it’s new,
smooth as silk,
silent as sunshine,
dawning on the day at first meeting.
My fingers smile
as they tiptoe across.
Each step
with no hindrance,
into the secret garden, greenery
no one has ever bent before.
None have ever traced this path.
No one has made this journey,
of fingertips along the way.
Pure delight, this newness,
joined by smells afresh.
Breathe in deeply the scent
of pristine, the everlasting
has wandered by and left behind.
“Here comes Sticky Fingers!”
I know they’re saying,
when they see me coming their way.
Touching each one, as I happen by,
Just a simple tap,
a gentle nudge,
a clandestine sweep of the fingertips.
Can’t resist that smoothness,
to know its newness.
A solo treasure that’s all mine.
Not to keep, of course.
That would be stealing.
I’m no thief, you know.
Don’t take what’s not mine.
I leave it for the next sticky fingers.
Who I don’t know.
Won’t know.
Sticky fingers don’t leave prints.
They take touch with them,
gently rubbing, tracing, mixing,
melting, molding,
to the texture meant
to touch another.
Not so terrible, really.
Making Space for Him to do More
1How I do love to make myself useful. In fact, that instruction still rings gently in my ears from my mother, frustrated that I had too much time on my hands with nothing to do. “Go make yourself useful,” she’d say good-naturedly. And I would go and be about some other twaddling as a teen without a care in the world.
Mom could then continue her chores, unhampered by the reminder that other people had free time on their hands. Busy hands are happy hands, would have been her motto. She was happy in her doing. As I grew older, I learned to be happy in my doing, too.
But the best of our doing can catch us up in the whirlpool of planning, preparation and performance. It can demand such attention that we set much aside for later, but later doesn’t come for many items on the list. They scroll down, or in my case, they get copied to next week’s list, then the next and the next, until they fall off the radar, as I finally admit they won’t get done.
Oh, perhaps those ‘secondary’ things will wait for a while until we finish up a big project or tie up loose ends. But what if we don’t finish? What if we keep on waiting for a sign we should stop or a firm endpoint that never comes? What if we’re the type to plow on through?
No matter, we might say. We are doing important things that need doing. That’s enough.
But all things, even very important things, have a stopping point. It may not be a staying point, but it is always there for us to stop and look around. Where are we? Who are we? What are we doing here?
When we look around, are we satisfied with our surroundings? Have we been attending to what we should? Or, while we have been “making ourselves useful,” have we been neglecting things that would have been beneficial to another? Have we been missing opportunities to be more than useful?
And that’s the fallacy of being of use. People never tire of asking a busy person to do a little bit more. And busy people are prone to agree to it, because what’s one more thing? Except that thing takes the place of something we never saw, perhaps never even considered. It squeezed out the writing of that note that might have been such a blessing to my neighbor had I gotten to it in a timely fashion. Or it rushed me from saying that one phrase my child had been waiting to hear, or seeing that one glorious sunrise that was meant to inject joy into my day.
Yes, the lesson of stopping, even if you haven’t planned on staying, is the space it creates. It may last only a moment, or it may drag on all night, all week, all month, all year. What if we took that moment in our hands and really cuddled it close like our favorite pillow or a beloved stuffed teddy bear and offered it honestly…
“Lord, I thought this was what I was meant to do.
I just wanted to be useful.
But instead of useful, I feel frustrated and exhausted.
What do I have that anyone wants?
I know you want me. You love me.
I want to be of use to You.”
What if we allowed that moment to make space for Him to do more?
To make room for what He has planned for us?
What might we discover in that room?