Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Dreams, Deferred
(This was begun a while ago, before violent viruses and other “cares of this world” intervened. But it seems fitting somehow to finish these thoughts just after the Oscars.)
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Langston Hughes
***************
It’s not all sackcloth and ashes out here.
Sometimes we still live life in the fast lane.
Recently, we were privileged to attend Cousin Johnny’s latest movie premiere. Unfortunately, we made the movie star, his adorable mom, Cindy, and the studio-hired driver wait in the car about 20 minutes while we finished getting ready. Not cool. (His manager was probably eating Xanax like jellybeans.) Still, Johnny managed to hit the red carpet just before they rolled it up and turned it into “I Dream Of Jeanie’s” Goodwill donation.
We got to see several “People” magazine favorites. We took lots of pictures. We petted the primary canine star. Jawja Dawg that I am, I even let out a yelp or two in Johnny’s honor when he appeared on screen. (We thought he absolutely dominated.)
After the red carpet thing ended, we had rushed into the theatre to claim seats in the “reserved” section. Electric excitement charged the atmosphere. Young cast members whooped and cheered for each other. It brought back vivid memories of Katherine’s theatre days: the Dickensian camaraderie of the Troupe...the ‘smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd’...the euphoria of a successful production after months of agonizing rehearsal. How many times had I sat expectantly in the dark, awaiting the rising of a red velvet curtain with butterflies in my stomach? Silently praying, “Lord, just don’t let her trip.”
Our entourage had perfect seats, just far enough back, and dead center. Fortunately, there was room for a wheelchair right in the middle. As activity swirled all around her, Katherine waited patiently for the film to begin. Johnny brought people like his agent and manager over to meet her, and they were kind, gracious, and respectful.
When everyone had turned away for a moment, I noticed Katherine staring off into space. I got closer, and saw that her eyes were glistening. “Are you okay?” I whispered.
“This was my life,” she mouthed, wistfully.
This was her dream, I thought.
**************
Where do dreams begin?
I am fascinated with dreams, both the nocturnal sort and those that are the daytime constructions of our imaginations. I’ve always been a "Walter Mitty." My first very distinct memory is of lecturing my imaginary playmates about their behavior during our move from Atlanta to Athens. I was not quite 2 years old. There were so many of them that I had to line them up on bleachers for the lecture. (My mother even wrote down some of the names as proof of what an odd child she’d birthed.) That same overactive imagination fueled dreams of future fame once I started dance lessons at age four. Throughout our sheltered childhood, my best friend and I forced the other unfortunate neighborhood children and our patient parents to sit through lengthy homegrown shows. “Let us entertain you” was our mantra, as we sang and danced and performed strange little plays until the audience started falling off of their seats in boredom. We watched movies with Hayley Mills and Marilyn Monroe. We acted out Bonanza. We dreamed of Broadway and Hollywood.
With necessary reality checks, my dreams shifted and changed over the years; but my cloud-surfing little head was never empty of them. There were dreams of exotic travel, brilliant careers, causes to be won, accomplishments to be made, books to be written. I dreamed of my future spouse and perfect children. I designed Dreamhouses on the blueprint of my mind. I savored the contemplation of Extreme Happily-Ever-Afters.
After I married my prince and presented him with the first little princess, I began passing her my keys to the Kingdom of Imagination. We had, arguably, the best dress-up box in town. We made puppet theatres that looked like castles. We read books that opened up the world, told stories never heard before. We went on spontaneous adventures and explorations. We talked about the Meaning of Life. And we had shows. Lots and lots and lots of shows.
I taught that firstborn and her two sisters to dream big dreams. I told them that anything was possible.
They believed me.
***************
I think it’s safe to say that, at certain stages, the majority of little girls are convinced they want to grow up to be princesses or movie stars. (My middle one was an exception, consistently asserting that she wanted to be a “cheeyuh-leeduh” when she grew up.) We loving parents stoke their imaginations with princess costumes and Disney movies. The media and toy companies bombard them with the allure of fame and fortune, glamour and glitz. (Yes, darlin’, you too can be Hannah Montana one day.) But while encouraging their dreams, we can unconsciously abet the formation of illusions about life:
You can have it all.
You can be whatever you want to be.
You have a right to a happy ending.
***************
From the time she was a little girl, Katherine dreamed of performing. Unlike those of her mother, Katherine’s were not just empty dreams: she had talent and the determination to make those dreams come true. During her junior year of college, she’d asked me whether I thought she should go to Law School, or to New York or LA to try to act. I told her she could always go to Law School later. Acting was her gift.
Within a relatively short time of moving to LA, Katherine had acquired a SAG card, a manager, and signed with two agencies. She worked hard at developing her craft. She persevered in an industry where rejection is a way of life. She was disciplined, industrious, and focused. She got to experience the thrill of living off what she earned doing what she loved to do. She was the primary bread winner while Jay was in Law School. Although all of her dreams were not fulfilled overnight, she had the potential and the drive to keep going until they were.
But now, her dreams have been deferred...indefinitely.
The Langston Hughes poem at the top has haunted me since I first read it. Although the specific dream to which the poet refers is the same dream best articulated by MLK, I think its application is more universal. Consciously or not, we all have dreams and desires. We imagine the way things should be in order for us to be happy. We dream of perfect marriages, happy children, fulfilling careers, booming businesses, financial freedom. We dream of things we think will satisfy. We dream of rosy futures where we get to do exactly what we want to do, go exactly where we want to go. We dream of things we want to accomplish before we leave here...of making a difference, impacting the world, using our gifts. We dream of golden opportunities and opened doors and winning the lottery. We dream of retiring rich and healthy. We dream of finally coming to a place in life where we have no problems...no pain. We dream up endless scenarios of happily-ever-afters. Then we start dreaming them up for our children.
I think dreams must be necessary. (“Without a vision, my people perish.”) Life without them would be colorless, drab, static. Dreams are inspiration for all creative endeavor. But there is a danger in our dreams. Sometimes we can hold on to them so tightly that they hold us instead. We become Dream-Captives, bound to the Idols of our own desires and imaginations.
As Hughes’ poem so graphically illustrates, a terrible bitterness can come from shattered dreams...along with despair, defeat, disillusionment, and anger. Walking around town these days, I see one shuttered little business after the next...each representing someone’s dream that evaporated along with the Dow. I am reminded of the haunting ocean-front mansions I once saw at dusk on Long Island, abandoned to the relentless surf that eroded their foundations and carried them, piece by piece, out to sea. Each one was someone’s Dream House. Most were uninsured against such Acts of Nature. Quite literally, a picture of shattered dreams.
Sometimes dreams do come true. Saturday night, as Kate Winslet embraced her Oscar, she said, “This was always my dream. From the time I was 8, I practiced this speech in front of the bathroom mirror.” I think that’s great...good for her. But I wonder what happens when the shine wears off.
It looks like Katherine won’t be up for an Oscar anytime soon. Not even a little modeling gig. Her chosen vocation is on hold...perhaps forever. Dreams cherished from childhood gone up in smoke. I think she may need to go through some grieving over those broken dreams. I am grieving for her.
It seems that there are times when we just have to lay down the dreams we’ve given birth to... like children on Abraham’s altar. Then, perhaps, those big dreams of ours may be turned into little prayers that end something like, “...but not my will, but yours..."
Our Christmas card for 1983 featured a picture of Katherine, huge-eyed with anticipation, digging her hand down into a Christmas stocking. The borrowed caption read, “May all your impossible dreams come true.” Since then, we’ve learned that there’s only One who can do that.
In discussing suffering in Sunday School this week, someone mentioned the broken dreams she had for her children. The teacher said, “The more we abide in God, the more His dreams become our dreams.” Reading some of the letters of Francois Fenelon lately, I’ve been intrigued by his descriptions of the peace and intimacy that come from complete abandonment to God’s plans and purposes....abiding, resting, saturating ourselves in His presence.
Laying it all down...all our own dreams, desires, ambitions, wishes...
And waiting.
I imagine, first, a quiet...
Then, an expectant excitement, as I allow the inventor of dreams to take over.
And the DreamMaker paints a 4-D Technicolor future in colors I’ve never even seen before.
I believe He is doing that for Katherine.
***************
“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.” (Eph. 3:20-21)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
granny made another oops
Okay, I got too big for my britches and tried to upload a picture from the Darius website. Obviously, it was unsuccessful, and now I can't get Blogger to let me take it off. Do any of you young people have any advice for grandma? Help!!!
***************
Thanks so much for the good tech advice! It worked! Yaaaaay!
(For pictures of Darius and crew, please go to the link at the bottom of the previous blog, click on "Press" at the top, and scroll down and click on "Download Stills "on the left.)
***************
Thanks so much for the good tech advice! It worked! Yaaaaay!
(For pictures of Darius and crew, please go to the link at the bottom of the previous blog, click on "Press" at the top, and scroll down and click on "Download Stills "on the left.)
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
com-passion
(I'm sorry it's been so long since I've posted. Several unfinished blogs are haunting me, but it's been busy and I've been sick. This one was begun on Thursday, Feb. 5) I felt absolutely flattened by bad news today.
So many people I know are in horrendous pain.
Betrayal, addiction, depression, suffering children, terminal illness, violent death:
I’ve heard instances of all of these today.
When I picked up a fluff magazine to mentally escape for a moment, I read of more horrors. Throwing it down, I turned on the boob tube: the local breaking news was of a young single mother being doused with gasoline and set on fire. Burns over 60% of her body.
why oh why oh why
There are so many things on this planet which are simply unbearable. Impossible to be borne.
Life isn’t fair. Innocents suffer. The wicked seem to prosper. All our “strutting and fretting” ends in death. As Paul puts it, “The whole world groans as in travail until now...” Centuries of flawed mankind screaming through the painful process of metamorphosis. Against such a flood of pain, such a collective cry of anguish that crescendos to unearthly roar, what can be the response? How are we to address so much suffering? We can’t fix it all. We can’t fix anybody, especially ourselves.
Platitudes don’t help much. Sometimes words are not only inadequate, they are next to impossible.
The word “compassion” keeps resonating in my head. I wonder about the deeper meanings. I think com is “with.” “With feeling,” maybe? (Why didn’t I ever take Latin?) I am happily surprised to find it defined as “bearing with.” Of course. From the Latin, com: with and pati: to bear.
Compassion, then, is to come alongside someone who is trying to bear the unbearable...and to bear it with them. A load that threatens to crush and destroy becomes just light enough to carry, after all.
***************
I don’t normally sleep during the day anymore, but this afternoon I was so drained...completely wiped out...there was no other option. The news of the violent and senseless murder of the son (Katherine’s age) of one of the most precious staff members here at Casa Colina had left me stunned and sickened: last emotional straw. After putting a certain fussy baby down for his nap, I finally just “took to bed” myself.
The nap was a drooler. I heard voices and tried to swim up to reality’s surface, but drifted back down into dreams until hearing a polite tap at the door. It was Jay telling me we had company. I stumbled into the family room, still more than half-asleep.
There, of all people, was Daniel.
“What in the world are you doing in Pomona, California?!?” I sputtered.
Daniel laughed his wonderful trademark laugh and smiled his wonderful trademark grin.
The world seemed okay again.
***************
I’ve known Daniel for most of his life. I’ve known his family forever, and I’ve had the privilege of watching him grow up. He was one of my all-time favorite little rapscallions in Sunday School. He has matured into a remarkable young man. Actually, Daniel is like a force of nature...great gusty wind and sunshine.
All the members of Daniel’s family are amazingly talented and highly creative multi-taskers. You never know what they’ll do next. So it was no surprise to find him involved in an undertaking such as Darius Goes West.
DGW is a documentary film made by some college kids from my hometown. It started as a little dream fueled by a barbeque sale, and blossomed into a life-changing experience and multi-award-winning movie. If you haven’t seen it, you need to. It will make your life richer. You will simultaneously laugh and cry, and be inspired to live and think differently.
Darius is an Athens boy who suffers from Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, the most common fatal genetic disorder to affect children worldwide. Most kids who suffer from it die by the age of 20, as Darius’ brother Mario did. Before he died, Mario elicited a promise from his friend Logan: he asked him to watch out for his baby brother. Logan has kept his word, coming alongside Darius and helping him to bear the heavy load of increasingly heavy limbs and the wheelchair they necessitate. And bearing with him the burden of a young life evaporating much too quickly.
But, of course, it is the quality, not the quantity, of our days that matter in the end...the lushness of our lives, not the longevity. Darius had never been beyond the borders of our town. Logan enlisted 10 of his most big-hearted, life-affirming, adventure-loving friends to take Darius on the trip of a lifetime...or many lifetimes...and in doing so, to raise awareness and funds for Duchenne’s research. The documentary is the story of that riotous roadtrip. Our friend Daniel was the official Crazy Driver/Chief Comedian/Heavy Load-Lifter of the expedition.
So what in the world was Daniel doing calmly sitting on the sofa in Pomona? He explained that the Darius crew was on tour promoting the next phase of their endeavor, which is an initiative to sell a million DVD’s in a year. Every penny of the profits will go towards Duchenne research. The crew is once again traveling the country in an RV, but this time a donated van has accompanied them as well. So Daniel, head driver, was able to take off from Anaheim or wherever during rush hour(s) and somehow find his way to us in Pomona...not an easy feat even for a California native. (His high school nickname wasn’t “Braveheart” for nothing.)
Daniel said, “I told myself the one thing I was gonna do when I got near LA was to go find Katherine. So here I am.”
Daniel brought us love, hugs, humor, news, and a copy of the new DVD. He also brought Katherine a t-shirt that says “goslabi” on it. (See the movie if you’re curious.) And after Katherine and Jay had to leave for acupuncture, he stuck around for a while with James and me to see if he could lend a fresh ear.
Compassion.
I tried to get him back on the road before it got too late, plying him with food for the journey, and reminding him to make a last pit stop before battling the giant. He just laughed and reminded me where he’s driven in the past couple of years.
After he left, I thought about what could inspire a young man in his twenties to put his own life on hold for so long and devote it to the care of another. In our conversation, Daniel had reminded me of some of the nitty-gritty care-taking responsibilities he and his friends have taken on with Darius. Much of it is not pretty. I imagine most of it is tiring. Darius weighs a good bit more than any of the guys. Just moving him from point A to point B is strenuous. But the look in their eyes as they help him makes me hear “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother” playing in the background.
One of the most beautiful scenes in the movie is when Darius sees an ocean for the first time. He wheels himself down to the end of the boardwalk, but there’s no way to get from there to the sparklingly inviting ocean. His friends innovate, working together to carry planks and whatever else they can find to make a pathway. They laboriously push the heavy wheelchair and its occupant down to the shore and into the crystal water. There they pull the confining chair away from Darius and hold him up in their arms to rock with the waves. He laughs the most unselfconsciously raucous, joyful laughter I’ve ever heard; and, liberated from the weight of his encumbered body, he floats...secure in the arms of his loving friends.
Compassion.
Unbearable sadness is all around us. For any of us, tragedy is just one phone call away. It is easy to feel helpless and overwhelmed. It is equally easy to become callused and self-focused. For some reason, a young man named Logan Smalley made the decision to help another young man bear the unbearably heavy burden of a fatal illness. Just one person deciding to help just one other person.
Just one.
The ripple effect from that decision grows bigger by the day. I pray that by this time next year a million more will have been touched by its waves.
Daniel’s timely visit reminded me (again) that I don’t have to bear the weight of the world alone. No one can.
As God’s dearly-loved children, we are all members of the same family...soldiers fighting in the same war...pilgrims scratching and scrambling our way up the same rocky path. A burden that seems impossibly heavy for one may be light for another. Your leaden cross might seem light to me; mine to you.
We can help each other shoulder the load. One on one, for a start. And carry each other when we’re incapable of continuing to walk on...
...remembering that the arms of our prayers are even longer and stronger than the ones hanging at our sides.
Thank you all for helping us to bear the unbearable.
***************
“Filled with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man.” (Mark 1:41)
“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ...” (Gal. 6:2 nkjv)
***************
*Darius Goes West has won over 30 film awards. It has been featured on NBC’s Today Show, two segments on ABC’s Nightline, the Ellen DeGeneres Show, the Dennis Miller Show, and on multiple regional news shows. It has been applauded in Forbes, Variety, and the Los Angeles Times, among many other publications. Please click on the link below for more details:
www.dariusgoeswest.org
Check out the Today Show video (under “Press”) for part of the ocean scene. It will make your day.
“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ...” (Gal. 6:2 nkjv)
***************
*Darius Goes West has won over 30 film awards. It has been featured on NBC’s Today Show, two segments on ABC’s Nightline, the Ellen DeGeneres Show, the Dennis Miller Show, and on multiple regional news shows. It has been applauded in Forbes, Variety, and the Los Angeles Times, among many other publications. Please click on the link below for more details:
www.dariusgoeswest.org
Check out the Today Show video (under “Press”) for part of the ocean scene. It will make your day.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Grandma's Brag Book
Never, ever ask a grandmother to see more pictures of her baby unless you really, really mean it.
I've had several requests lately, so I've spent the morning trying to figure out how to post one of our family albums on here. If you are incredibly bored, feel free to click...but I must warn you they are not photoshopped, re-touched, or edited with a very discerning eye. It's just us, being us.
They are in more or less chronological order, from about early October until now. (And there are way too many.)
Someone let me know if it worked, please!
blessings, kim
http://picasaweb.google.com/kta2754/LifeGoesOn#
I've had several requests lately, so I've spent the morning trying to figure out how to post one of our family albums on here. If you are incredibly bored, feel free to click...but I must warn you they are not photoshopped, re-touched, or edited with a very discerning eye. It's just us, being us.
They are in more or less chronological order, from about early October until now. (And there are way too many.)
Someone let me know if it worked, please!
blessings, kim
http://picasaweb.google.com/kta2754/LifeGoesOn#
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Darkness into Light
It rarely rains in southern California. It’s been predicted all week. Yesterday, finally, the sky was heavy-laden with clouds. It matched my mood. I had been “heading south” for most of the day, each negative thought compounded by the next. My efforts at fighting them off only served to invite even more to jump aboard. Then sick anxiety decided to show up. My heart started tightening like a clenched fist, lifted up in defiance to the sodden sky.
James was infected by his grandmother’s jolly mood, and somberly stared at me with big, brown, questioning eyes. He didn’t buy my half-hearted efforts at being funny as we roamed up and down the unfamiliar grocery store aisles. He laughed, but it was almost as lame as my jokes. He was just trying to be polite. He knew his Mimi wasn’t herself. Kids sense these things. You can’t fake them out, no matter how good an actress you are.
Watching the leaden skies for signs of imminent downpour, I leadenly loaded up the car and the baby. None came. Just an oppressive stillness in the air. Like the dulling limbo we’re living in right now, trapped in a bureaucratic maze of insurance approval.
On the way home, I tried to come up with a Happy Thought. Didn’t work. Then I tried praying again, as I had throughout the day. Most often, it was the prayer from Salinger’s Franny and Zooey. I tried chanting it in my mind, like a Russian monk. Still no peace.
I stared off into space for a minute at a stoplight. When I looked back ahead, I saw an intensely beautiful sight.
The sky was a wonderfully chaotic mix of clouds of all shades and sizes. A huge dark gray one swooped down from the east, fierce in its sudden emergence. It scuttled a stream of smaller bluish-gray ones out to the west. Suddenly, a wide band of blindingly brilliant light came down between and through them, like a shaft descending straight from heaven’s store of luminosity.
It was a startlingly surreal vision. It might have been a scene from one of those good old 1960’s Biblical epics we used to watch in Panoramic vibrancy, wide-eyed in the dark.
Oh, did I mention I’d prayed for some kind of a “sign” earlier in the day?
It never did rain.
*****************
"You are my lamp, O LORD; the LORD turns my darkness into light." (2 Samuel 22:29)
"I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them." (Isaiah 42:16)
James was infected by his grandmother’s jolly mood, and somberly stared at me with big, brown, questioning eyes. He didn’t buy my half-hearted efforts at being funny as we roamed up and down the unfamiliar grocery store aisles. He laughed, but it was almost as lame as my jokes. He was just trying to be polite. He knew his Mimi wasn’t herself. Kids sense these things. You can’t fake them out, no matter how good an actress you are.
Watching the leaden skies for signs of imminent downpour, I leadenly loaded up the car and the baby. None came. Just an oppressive stillness in the air. Like the dulling limbo we’re living in right now, trapped in a bureaucratic maze of insurance approval.
On the way home, I tried to come up with a Happy Thought. Didn’t work. Then I tried praying again, as I had throughout the day. Most often, it was the prayer from Salinger’s Franny and Zooey. I tried chanting it in my mind, like a Russian monk. Still no peace.
I stared off into space for a minute at a stoplight. When I looked back ahead, I saw an intensely beautiful sight.
The sky was a wonderfully chaotic mix of clouds of all shades and sizes. A huge dark gray one swooped down from the east, fierce in its sudden emergence. It scuttled a stream of smaller bluish-gray ones out to the west. Suddenly, a wide band of blindingly brilliant light came down between and through them, like a shaft descending straight from heaven’s store of luminosity.
It was a startlingly surreal vision. It might have been a scene from one of those good old 1960’s Biblical epics we used to watch in Panoramic vibrancy, wide-eyed in the dark.
Oh, did I mention I’d prayed for some kind of a “sign” earlier in the day?
It never did rain.
*****************
"You are my lamp, O LORD; the LORD turns my darkness into light." (2 Samuel 22:29)
"I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them." (Isaiah 42:16)
Saturday, January 17, 2009
A Time for Tears
It’s weird how little crying I’ve done since all this happened.
I was born super-sensitive and high-strung, and have cried easily and frequently throughout my life. There was a time a few years ago when I simply couldn’t stop crying. One time I cried so hysterically that my kids actually discussed calling 911.
But crying won’t kill you.
Several years ago, my sister, with strange foreshadowing, gave Katherine a picture with a scripture verse on it. It was of a beautiful woman with long blonde hair, weeping. The verse was:
“You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.*
You have recorded each one in your book. (Psalm 56:8 NLT)
(*Other translations say “wineskins.")
I must have contributed many magnums to heaven’s wine cellar by now.
I’ve discovered that there are times, though, when you just can’t cry. I have shed strangely few tears since April. (For me, anyway.) Prior to that time, much lesser things have completely done me in. Maybe this is just too big. Much, much, much too big. Maybe I’ve been in a benign type of denial.
I think I realize, subconsciously, that if I let myself really get started, I won’t be able to stop.
When I was home for the holidays, I’d run into someone I hadn’t seen since before April 21. That person, seeing me for the first time, might try to say something comforting, but would start crying before they could get it out. Now, normally, I always cry when other people cry. The faucet immediately turns on full blast. It’s like when someone else is throwing up, I start gagging. (Actually, if I even smell it, I start gagging.) But in these holiday encounters, even though the person was crying on my behalf, I didn’t shed a tear. Not a drop. I could almost feel something inside of my chest turning to steel against the hug.
I wonder if there’s been some kind of internal mechanism operating in survival mode. Maybe there’s a mental gate that slams down when I get too close to the edge of the cliff.
Oh well...enough navel-gazing for now.
***************
Last Sunday, everyone came to the apartment in LA for lunch after church. This has become a weekly tradition. I usually hate to cook, but for some reason I really pull out all the stops for Sunday lunch. It’s the closest thing we have to being home out here. Everyone stays all day, and then sometimes it turns into supper. Jay says it’s my “Nenie” thing. My grandmother Nenie was a fantastic southern cook; I am barely a decent mushroom-soup-can cook...but it’s more about the spirit of the thing. Last week we had about 10 people and 3 babies crammed into this miniscule place. In addition to the immediate family, we had Jay’s cousin Johnny, whom I’ve adopted, and two couples who are among Katherine and Jay’s very closest friends. The two mothers, Anna and Abby, were pregnant when Katherine’s AVM rupture occurred, so those babies incubated at UCLA. They were there practically every day of their inter-uterine lives, at least until we moved to Casa Colina. Anna and her husband Andy took care of James for us for a couple of months.
Anyway, it was a happy, sweet afternoon with very well-loved ones. Katherine was parked in her corner of the shabby shabby-chic couch I got off Craig’s List, watching as we ate baked salmon and goat cheese omelettes and drank peach tea and mimosas. We’ve almost gotten over our guilt about indulging ourselves in front of her by now. Just a quick twinge now and then. She watched as we passed around the little babies and took cute pictures...as we rescued James from perilous perches and picked him up from falls...as the mothers discreetly retired to the tiny bedroom to nurse.
That night, Katherine and I were alone with James in the apartment for a while. As I desultorily cleaned, she read on the couch. When I asked her what she was reading, she held up “The Purpose-Driven Life.” “Katherine, haven’t you read that before?” I asked. She nodded yes. “Why are you reading it again?” A few seconds went by. Then big crocodile tears started streaming down her cheeks. “Because I need a purpose.” I didn’t say anything, I just sat down and held her. “How many mothers can’t go to their baby when he cries? That’s what mothers DO.” I nodded on her shoulder. I knew she was deeply touched by the mother-baby interactions she had just witnessed with her friends. “Those babies are close to the age James was when this happened to you. Is that sad for you?” Fresh tears streamed down, and Katherine’s tiny shoulders shook with pain. “I don't know how much longer I can take this. How many mothers can’t pick their baby up when he’s hurt? Do you know how that FEELS?”
Hmmmm.
Suddenly, I felt that steel bar start turning into rubber.
My baby and I just sat on that sofa and wept.
I have a feeling the dam’s about to break.
It’s time.
***************
“...a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance..." (Ecclesiastes 3:4)
“This is what the LORD, the God of your father David, says: I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you.” (II Kings 20:5)
“Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.” (Psalm 126:5)
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." (Revelation 21:4)
I was born super-sensitive and high-strung, and have cried easily and frequently throughout my life. There was a time a few years ago when I simply couldn’t stop crying. One time I cried so hysterically that my kids actually discussed calling 911.
But crying won’t kill you.
Several years ago, my sister, with strange foreshadowing, gave Katherine a picture with a scripture verse on it. It was of a beautiful woman with long blonde hair, weeping. The verse was:
“You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.*
You have recorded each one in your book. (Psalm 56:8 NLT)
(*Other translations say “wineskins.")
I must have contributed many magnums to heaven’s wine cellar by now.
I’ve discovered that there are times, though, when you just can’t cry. I have shed strangely few tears since April. (For me, anyway.) Prior to that time, much lesser things have completely done me in. Maybe this is just too big. Much, much, much too big. Maybe I’ve been in a benign type of denial.
I think I realize, subconsciously, that if I let myself really get started, I won’t be able to stop.
When I was home for the holidays, I’d run into someone I hadn’t seen since before April 21. That person, seeing me for the first time, might try to say something comforting, but would start crying before they could get it out. Now, normally, I always cry when other people cry. The faucet immediately turns on full blast. It’s like when someone else is throwing up, I start gagging. (Actually, if I even smell it, I start gagging.) But in these holiday encounters, even though the person was crying on my behalf, I didn’t shed a tear. Not a drop. I could almost feel something inside of my chest turning to steel against the hug.
I wonder if there’s been some kind of internal mechanism operating in survival mode. Maybe there’s a mental gate that slams down when I get too close to the edge of the cliff.
Oh well...enough navel-gazing for now.
***************
Last Sunday, everyone came to the apartment in LA for lunch after church. This has become a weekly tradition. I usually hate to cook, but for some reason I really pull out all the stops for Sunday lunch. It’s the closest thing we have to being home out here. Everyone stays all day, and then sometimes it turns into supper. Jay says it’s my “Nenie” thing. My grandmother Nenie was a fantastic southern cook; I am barely a decent mushroom-soup-can cook...but it’s more about the spirit of the thing. Last week we had about 10 people and 3 babies crammed into this miniscule place. In addition to the immediate family, we had Jay’s cousin Johnny, whom I’ve adopted, and two couples who are among Katherine and Jay’s very closest friends. The two mothers, Anna and Abby, were pregnant when Katherine’s AVM rupture occurred, so those babies incubated at UCLA. They were there practically every day of their inter-uterine lives, at least until we moved to Casa Colina. Anna and her husband Andy took care of James for us for a couple of months.
Anyway, it was a happy, sweet afternoon with very well-loved ones. Katherine was parked in her corner of the shabby shabby-chic couch I got off Craig’s List, watching as we ate baked salmon and goat cheese omelettes and drank peach tea and mimosas. We’ve almost gotten over our guilt about indulging ourselves in front of her by now. Just a quick twinge now and then. She watched as we passed around the little babies and took cute pictures...as we rescued James from perilous perches and picked him up from falls...as the mothers discreetly retired to the tiny bedroom to nurse.
That night, Katherine and I were alone with James in the apartment for a while. As I desultorily cleaned, she read on the couch. When I asked her what she was reading, she held up “The Purpose-Driven Life.” “Katherine, haven’t you read that before?” I asked. She nodded yes. “Why are you reading it again?” A few seconds went by. Then big crocodile tears started streaming down her cheeks. “Because I need a purpose.” I didn’t say anything, I just sat down and held her. “How many mothers can’t go to their baby when he cries? That’s what mothers DO.” I nodded on her shoulder. I knew she was deeply touched by the mother-baby interactions she had just witnessed with her friends. “Those babies are close to the age James was when this happened to you. Is that sad for you?” Fresh tears streamed down, and Katherine’s tiny shoulders shook with pain. “I don't know how much longer I can take this. How many mothers can’t pick their baby up when he’s hurt? Do you know how that FEELS?”
Hmmmm.
Suddenly, I felt that steel bar start turning into rubber.
My baby and I just sat on that sofa and wept.
I have a feeling the dam’s about to break.
It’s time.
***************
“...a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance..." (Ecclesiastes 3:4)
“This is what the LORD, the God of your father David, says: I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you.” (II Kings 20:5)
“Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.” (Psalm 126:5)
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." (Revelation 21:4)
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Changes
I hate changes—
like when God rearranges
my tidy little blocks
and ungently rocks
my world apart.
But then I start
to see a new design-
a better one than mine-
emerge from all the mess,
and must sheepishly confess
I don’t know it all.
Though I weep and fall,
shaken to the core,
I get up off the floor
and place my trembling hand
in His to stand.
Cringing, stumbling,
crying, mumbling,
limping, bleeding,
empty, needing...
Love drags me, blindly,
to the Promised land.
***************
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. (James 1:17)
May the new year be full of the gifts of change for us all.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Yellow Ribbons of Love
Unfortunately, James already seems to be developing an addictive personality. For those who’re out of the baby scene, some woman is laughing all the way to the bank because of her creation of “Baby Einstein.” We refer to it as Baby Crack because it is so highly addicting to the under-two set. It’s kind of like Sesame Street used to be, only even more low-tech and geared towards 9-month-olds. Whenever anyone in that demographic is feeling a little tense, anxious, jittery, or exhibiting any other symptoms of withdrawal, you can just pop one in and soon all’s well. Your little loved one is in the Zone as he watches grownup hands demonstrate how to play with baby toys, splashes of pretty colors flashing by, and extremely simplistic hand puppets doing quirky things accompanied by the music and poetry of the Great Masters. (I have to admit that they do learn a lot from it, whatever my disparagements may be.)
Anyway, anyway, anyway...James was really cranky the week before we left Pomona. He had a bad cold and didn’t feel well, so he got coddled with a lot of Crack. As he was watching Baby Van Gogh for the third time one day, he had a Helen Keller moment. “YEAH-YOA!” he yelled, as he bolted off his rocking horse. Spontaneous eruptions of “Yeah-yoa! Yeah-yoa! Yeah-yoaaaaa!!!” continued for the remainder of that week. We could be discussing doggies or fire trucks, but his invariable response was a loud “Yeah-yoa!” with a meaning look in his eyes.
I had no idea what he was talking about. But when we got back to Athens, I found out.
James had evidently received some kind of prophetic word.
“Yellow” is the color of hope.
***************
My friend (and across-the-street neighbor) Betty Perno had her own “aha!” moment while in the shower one day. She was thinking about Katherine's trip home for Christmas, and how she could welcome her back. We live on a pretty little street named ‘Two Oaks’ after the massive, ancient trees that stand sentinel on either side of the road. Suddenly, the words of that song about the “old oak tree” came into her head.
The difference between Betty and me is that she acted on the inspiration. She called a few other neighbors to get the word out. Then she called the headmaster of Katherine’s alma mater. A friend who is a former mayor sent out emails to the Chamber of Commerce. Yellow (Yeah-yoa!) ribbons would be tied around trees to welcome Katherine back to her hometown and remind her that she has not been forgotten.
My middle child let the surprise slip out. I thought it was an incredible idea. But by the evening of December 23, I saw only two ribbons as I drove through the neighborhood. “Everyone’s too busy with Christmas,” I thought sympathetically. (Sometimes ‘just one more thing’ can drive you over the edge at Christmastime.)
But when I made a Walmart run on Christmas Eve, there were yellow ribbons all over the place, mingling with red Christmas bows. They were on mailboxes, sign posts, and random trees throughout the neighborhood. There were signs at the entrance and in people’s yards welcoming Katherine home. Katherine’s brave (or crazy?) life-long friend, Sally, even talked her brother and father into helping her put a banner up on the interstate from Atlanta!
Although there was a little miscommunication about the time, a wonderful group of neighbors still braved the cold drizzle to wait at the neighborhood's entrance for Katherine’s arrival. She cried when she saw what love inspired them to do.
I really love my town sometimes.
In this past (mostly-dreary/drizzly) week, we’ve discovered yellow ribbons all over Athens, scattered like bright Easter eggs throughout the city. We’ve found them everywhere from quaint, old neighborhoods, to banks and businesses and churches, to the school Katherine attended for 14 years. It’s like getting little hugs every time you turn around...symbols of caring that whisper, “You are not alone.”
Emory nerd that I am, I had to investigate the symbolism and origin of the yellow ribbon thing.
There is not one definitive consensus on it's symbolic value. In the early 20th Century, it was associated with awaiting the return of a loved one, usually a soldier off at war. In the 70’s, a story of a prisoner seeking confirmation of his welcome home upon release became the ubiquitous song. In the 80’s, it became a symbol of support for the hostages in Iran.
I think all of these manifestations....soldier, prisoner, hostage...are appropriate in Katherine’s case.
She is in a war, fighting vicious battles for liberation every day. She is a prisoner of her own broken body. She is held hostage by her physical limitations. But the ribbons sprinkled through her native town like beautiful, big, yellow petals tell her that she isn’t fighting alone. The Resistance is with her, doing battle behind the scenes on her behalf with the power of their love and prayers.
The encyclopedia goes on to tell me that the 20th Century usages of the yellow ribbon symbol may have evolved from earlier traditions: “The song/poem "She wore a yellow ribbon" has appeared in various forms for at least four centuries. It is based upon the same general theme. A woman of destiny is under some sort of test or trial as she waits for her beloved to return. Will she be true to him? This seems to be the lingering question and the basis for a great unfolding drama.” (Wikipedia)
Yes.
The answer is YES.
Katherine, a woman of extraordinary destiny, is staying true to her Beloved through the terrible, torturing tests and trials.
There is, at least, no 'lingering question' about that.
Those yellow ribbons of love and hope testify that we are all waiting with her until those trials are over.
Thank you.
Anyway, anyway, anyway...James was really cranky the week before we left Pomona. He had a bad cold and didn’t feel well, so he got coddled with a lot of Crack. As he was watching Baby Van Gogh for the third time one day, he had a Helen Keller moment. “YEAH-YOA!” he yelled, as he bolted off his rocking horse. Spontaneous eruptions of “Yeah-yoa! Yeah-yoa! Yeah-yoaaaaa!!!” continued for the remainder of that week. We could be discussing doggies or fire trucks, but his invariable response was a loud “Yeah-yoa!” with a meaning look in his eyes.
I had no idea what he was talking about. But when we got back to Athens, I found out.
James had evidently received some kind of prophetic word.
“Yellow” is the color of hope.
***************
My friend (and across-the-street neighbor) Betty Perno had her own “aha!” moment while in the shower one day. She was thinking about Katherine's trip home for Christmas, and how she could welcome her back. We live on a pretty little street named ‘Two Oaks’ after the massive, ancient trees that stand sentinel on either side of the road. Suddenly, the words of that song about the “old oak tree” came into her head.
The difference between Betty and me is that she acted on the inspiration. She called a few other neighbors to get the word out. Then she called the headmaster of Katherine’s alma mater. A friend who is a former mayor sent out emails to the Chamber of Commerce. Yellow (Yeah-yoa!) ribbons would be tied around trees to welcome Katherine back to her hometown and remind her that she has not been forgotten.
My middle child let the surprise slip out. I thought it was an incredible idea. But by the evening of December 23, I saw only two ribbons as I drove through the neighborhood. “Everyone’s too busy with Christmas,” I thought sympathetically. (Sometimes ‘just one more thing’ can drive you over the edge at Christmastime.)
But when I made a Walmart run on Christmas Eve, there were yellow ribbons all over the place, mingling with red Christmas bows. They were on mailboxes, sign posts, and random trees throughout the neighborhood. There were signs at the entrance and in people’s yards welcoming Katherine home. Katherine’s brave (or crazy?) life-long friend, Sally, even talked her brother and father into helping her put a banner up on the interstate from Atlanta!
Although there was a little miscommunication about the time, a wonderful group of neighbors still braved the cold drizzle to wait at the neighborhood's entrance for Katherine’s arrival. She cried when she saw what love inspired them to do.
I really love my town sometimes.
In this past (mostly-dreary/drizzly) week, we’ve discovered yellow ribbons all over Athens, scattered like bright Easter eggs throughout the city. We’ve found them everywhere from quaint, old neighborhoods, to banks and businesses and churches, to the school Katherine attended for 14 years. It’s like getting little hugs every time you turn around...symbols of caring that whisper, “You are not alone.”
Emory nerd that I am, I had to investigate the symbolism and origin of the yellow ribbon thing.
There is not one definitive consensus on it's symbolic value. In the early 20th Century, it was associated with awaiting the return of a loved one, usually a soldier off at war. In the 70’s, a story of a prisoner seeking confirmation of his welcome home upon release became the ubiquitous song. In the 80’s, it became a symbol of support for the hostages in Iran.
I think all of these manifestations....soldier, prisoner, hostage...are appropriate in Katherine’s case.
She is in a war, fighting vicious battles for liberation every day. She is a prisoner of her own broken body. She is held hostage by her physical limitations. But the ribbons sprinkled through her native town like beautiful, big, yellow petals tell her that she isn’t fighting alone. The Resistance is with her, doing battle behind the scenes on her behalf with the power of their love and prayers.
The encyclopedia goes on to tell me that the 20th Century usages of the yellow ribbon symbol may have evolved from earlier traditions: “The song/poem "She wore a yellow ribbon" has appeared in various forms for at least four centuries. It is based upon the same general theme. A woman of destiny is under some sort of test or trial as she waits for her beloved to return. Will she be true to him? This seems to be the lingering question and the basis for a great unfolding drama.” (Wikipedia)
Yes.
The answer is YES.
Katherine, a woman of extraordinary destiny, is staying true to her Beloved through the terrible, torturing tests and trials.
There is, at least, no 'lingering question' about that.
Those yellow ribbons of love and hope testify that we are all waiting with her until those trials are over.
Thank you.
***************
An afterthought:
It dawns on me that a hostage is usually freed by the payment of a ransom...and that one has already been paid.
Freedom is coming, as surely as the sun.
“Evening, morning and noon I cry out in distress,
and he hears my voice.
He ransoms me unharmed from the battle waged against me,
even though many oppose me.” (Ps. 55:17-18)
“...and the ransomed of the LORD will return.
They will enter Zion with singing;
everlasting joy will crown their heads.
Gladness and joy will overtake them,
and sorrow and sighing will flee away.” (Is. 35:10)
An afterthought:
It dawns on me that a hostage is usually freed by the payment of a ransom...and that one has already been paid.
Freedom is coming, as surely as the sun.
“Evening, morning and noon I cry out in distress,
and he hears my voice.
He ransoms me unharmed from the battle waged against me,
even though many oppose me.” (Ps. 55:17-18)
“...and the ransomed of the LORD will return.
They will enter Zion with singing;
everlasting joy will crown their heads.
Gladness and joy will overtake them,
and sorrow and sighing will flee away.” (Is. 35:10)
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
really
I really really really appreciate it when people say, “She’s doing great!! or “She looks so much better than I thought she would!” or “She’s fantastic!! Really!”
But, sometimes, I appreciate it even more when someone says: “Oh my God, how I hurt for you.” “Your precious baby......” “Your sweet Katherine.....” “I know how hard this must be for you....”
And I appreciate it still more when someone just hugs me with tears in their eyes, and says, “I love you so much. I haven’t stopped praying for you and your girl since this happened. I will continue to pray for all of you every day until she’s well.”
(Just FYI.........for future reference...)
But of course there’s absolutely no way anyone could know this unless they’ve been through it themselves.
No one else could possibly know.
I wouldn’t even have a clue.
But it really is okay.
really.
But, sometimes, I appreciate it even more when someone says: “Oh my God, how I hurt for you.” “Your precious baby......” “Your sweet Katherine.....” “I know how hard this must be for you....”
And I appreciate it still more when someone just hugs me with tears in their eyes, and says, “I love you so much. I haven’t stopped praying for you and your girl since this happened. I will continue to pray for all of you every day until she’s well.”
(Just FYI.........for future reference...)
But of course there’s absolutely no way anyone could know this unless they’ve been through it themselves.
No one else could possibly know.
I wouldn’t even have a clue.
But it really is okay.
really.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Becoming Children
Possessing all Kingdoms and crowns,
He gladly laid them down
At the Father’s feet, to give up his seat
At God’s right hand.
Willingly leaving his sovereign land,
He took a place most lowly:
Disguising what was holy.
He chose to pose a humble child,
Weak and helpless; yet he smiled
When at first he looked around
And smelled the mess and heard the sounds
Of simple earth and simple beasts
And simple, foolish us.
(He never even made a fuss.)
How circumstances change so fast!
Those first will, by the end, be last.
The wise, the rich, the proud, the strong-
In storming heaven’s doors, proved wrong.
And if I want to enter in,
I must become a child, like him.
***************
The poem was written a few days before one of our good old-fashioned stress-laden insanity-producing Christmases of the past. Probably about three or four years ago. In a frantic last-ditch effort to tack a little Jesus on to the pagan parade of materialistic magic, I decided that instead of giving my friends one more knick-knack they didn’t need, book they wouldn’t have time to read, or high-caloric health hazard to eat, I would give that money to worthy causes in their honor. I chose two ministries which are close to my heart, having worked a little in each. One is in Russia, the other local and inner-city, but each involves children.
Being me, I decided that a notice about the donation wasn’t, by itself, sufficient as a gift-substitute. I had to spruce it up a bit before licking the envelope. I sat down on the bed with a legal pad, and the poem wrote itself in less than 10 minutes. Again, I’m not thinking this is Shakespeare or Donne. But the likelihood of me doing that without a “helper” is slim to none.
‘My’ words so often come back to haunt me.
Our ‘circumstances changed’ in the blink of an eye.
‘And in a moment...’
...life changed forever. Yours could, too, someday.
From the top to the bottom; from the front of the line to the back of the bus; from the heights to the depths. From a position of strength...to a position of weakness. From take-charge independence to child-like dependency.
(Which is where you finally learn to receive.)
There is someone who wants to give.
My reading yesterday: “Whoever wants to be a leader among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first among you must become your slave. For even the Son of man came not be served but to serve others and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Matt. 20:26-28)
The Creator of the Universe condensed Himself into the form of a poor Jewish baby in a cow trough...so that I could understand how to receive...
...like a helpless little child.
God bless us, everyone.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Merry Christmas to All!
Dear Family and Friends,
I hope you all will understand the impossibility of addressing Christmas cards this year.
But Granny has learned a new trick!
Love and much happiness to you all...
I hope you all will understand the impossibility of addressing Christmas cards this year.
But Granny has learned a new trick!
Love and much happiness to you all...
 |
 |
| Make a Smilebox greeting |
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Hope Against Hope
If you don’t live in a cave, I suppose you’ve heard by now that there are more suicides in December than in any other month. I could write volumes about why I think that’s the case, but I’ll spare you.
I’ll condense it down to one thing:
hopelessness
It can be easy to feel hopeless in December. The chill of winter is more than just a matter of body temperature. It can seep into hearts as well. Leaden skies and shorter, darker days...holiday stress...not enough rest...impossible expectations...meaningless activity...reminders of loss...
...another year down the drain, with so many unmet goals...
...the cavernous gap between what is and what should be....
It is all overwhelming.
I think it’s the perfect time to pick up a warm little memorial stone from among the coals and hold it next to my heart.
***************
This past October, I flew from California to Arizona to meet my husband for a family-inclusive business meeting. Shortly before take-off, an attractive, jet-setty-looking couple rushed aboard the plane. He was tall and handsome, with the air of an English aristocrat. She was younger...tiny, tan, sexy, and Euro-chic. Unfortunately, but typically, the airline had split them up. She stayed in the front of the plane as he loped down the aisle to the empty seat next to mine. I thought (briefly) about being polite and offering to switch places so they could sit together, but the flight attendant was already giving the safety shpiel. Instead, I just gave him a fairly civil half-smile/nod and immediately went back to my important reading material. (I believe it was either “Us” or “OK.”) I have mentioned before that I am not exactly a friendly flier.
IPod earphones in place, I stayed in my own cozy little cocoon for the entire flight, unaware that God had placed another unlikely angel next to me.
As is always the case, everyone on board bolted up the second the plane landed...and just stood there. For a good, long while. My upbringing finally got the better of me, and I made an attempt at polite conversation with my neighbor. Something to the effect of, “Are you traveling for business or pleasure?” When he answered, “Both,” I took a stab and said the name of my husband’s firm with a question mark at the end. Yes, he smiled, he was from the company’s office in Switzerland.
Immediately, we’re like family. That firm is adept at building a sense of international community. Unchauvinistically, he asks where my office is based. I explain that my husband works out of the company’s office in Athens, Georgia, thinking, “You really don’t want to ask me why I’m flying out of LA..” Of course it is the next logical question in the parlay of civilities. I want to simply tell him that it’s a long story, but decide that would be rude. I say something about being on the West Coast indefinitely because of a sick child, knowing that I will likely get one of the usual responses, “Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious” or “I hope he/she will be well soon.” The ‘Reader’s Digest’ version of the story unavoidably comes out.
He gives me a very intense look when I finish. “Tell her never to give up hope. NEVER,” he asserts passionately in his upper-crust Australian accent.
I stare at him, surprised at such compassion from a stranger.
Of course there’s a story:
His sister had such a devastatingly severe stroke in her late 20’s that the doctors told the family she’d remain a vegetable. Everyone was in agreement that it would be most merciful to turn off the machines. Except for the mother.
But Bruno’s sister went on to make such a complete and miraculous recovery that she was able to give birth to three more children after that. There actually was a story in the real Reader’s Digest about it!
I’m sure the other passengers on that plane had no idea why the delay at the arrival gate was necessary. I suppose I should feel a little guilty about it. If I’d been friendlier in the first place, God’s message could have been delivered in the air, and they probably could have rushed right off.
Because I’m so hard-headed, God pounded his message into me for the duration of the company trip. Although there were about a thousand attendees, my husband and I ran into Bruno and his girlfriend every time we turned around. We bumped into each other on the dance floor, in the elevator, by the bar, at the pool. Bruno is one of that rare breed of my husband’s height (6’6”), so it was hard for us to miss each other in the crowd. We became friends. We had dinners, drinks, and laughs. And with every encounter, we received a dose of encouragement about Katherine’s situation. The similarities in the two cases were surely not coincidental. The message was loud and clear. Hope. Hope some more. Never stop hoping. Impossible things happen. (...a future and a hope...)
At breakfast one morning, Bruno’s girlfriend and I looked up to discover that we were spooning fruit out of opposite sides of the fruit tray on the buffet table. The men were already in a meeting, so we had breakfast together and lingered over coffee until they cleaned the table out from under us. In her charming Spanish accent, my new young friend opened up about the tragedy of her mother’s recent death to cancer. But it was not a story devoid of faith or victory. She said one thing that I won’t forget: “Hope is the last thing you lose.”
Think about it.
***************
In this time of winter blues, I’ve had my moments of that old hollow, lifeless feeling. I’ve gotten run-down and exhausted, and drifted down into the dark, gray place of faded, stale hope. I’ve even caught the Stones’ “Paint It Black” running through my head a couple of times. (And I want to kill whoever invented Daylight Savings Time. As the winter solstice approaches, it gets dark here around 4:30. The moon’s out by 3:00 p.m.!) I know I have to fight it, but it’s especially hard to cling to hope when you’re feeling crummy....and it seems that nothing’s changing or ever will. I have to remind myself of the signs received along the way, reexamine the evidence, and break it down to basics.
The word “hope” has become synonymous with wishful thinking. (i.e. “I hope it snows at Christmas.” “Hope Santa’s good to you!”) I don’t know about you, but I have a lot of wishes that don’t come true. That’s probably a good thing.
In reality, “to hope” is a much stronger verb:
intransitive verb1: to cherish a desire with anticipation2archaic : trust transitive verb1: to desire with expectation of obtainment 2: to expect with confidence : trust ,
synonyms see expect
In my (supposedly) daily reading yesterday, this verse jumped out at me:
...And His name will be the hope of all the world. (Matt. 12:21)
It reminded me that I am not just wishing that the 'Fates will allow' things to get better. Or that improved karma's coming my way. Or that medical developments will accelerate at such a rapid rate that everything broken about Katherine will be imminently repaired. I am not fantasizing of better days to come with my fingers crossed...knocking on wood....holding a rabbit’s foot...rolling the roulette wheel...consulting a horoscope...chanting chakras...channeling positive energy.
When I read that verse, the Stones were replaced in my head by an old hymn. I grew up in a church which was founded in the 1820’s, and whose current structure was completed in the 1860’s or so. The original windows are probably 25 feet tall. I remember the rich notes of that hymn pouring out of the wonderful old golden organ pipes until those windows vibrated. The congregation sang:
“My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus' name.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand
All other ground is sinking sand...”
I was clueless at the time...probably hungover from a high school Saturday night out in the college town where I grew up. But I get it now. In my long life, I’ve put my hope in lots of things that have sunk me right down into the miry clay frequently mentioned by the psalmists. I’ve put my hope in people and man-made structures and systems and institutions...in religion...in relationships... in myself...intellectualism...wealth...medicine...
appearances... being good,doing good... in luck and fate and in happy endings and fairy tales...
But there has only been one place I have ever placed my hope and not been disappointed...
...and His name will be the hope of all the world.
Oh, if only all those cutsie Santa signs emblazoned with “We Believe” represented a true belief in the Living Hope, instead of just a wishful, sweet, old myth...
Maybe there wouldn’t be such a letdown December 26.
*****************
“Then you will know that I am the LORD; those who hope in me will not be disappointed." (Isaiah 49:23)
And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. (Romans 5:2-5)
Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. (Psalm 62:5)
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1)
I’ll condense it down to one thing:
hopelessness
It can be easy to feel hopeless in December. The chill of winter is more than just a matter of body temperature. It can seep into hearts as well. Leaden skies and shorter, darker days...holiday stress...not enough rest...impossible expectations...meaningless activity...reminders of loss...
...another year down the drain, with so many unmet goals...
...the cavernous gap between what is and what should be....
It is all overwhelming.
I think it’s the perfect time to pick up a warm little memorial stone from among the coals and hold it next to my heart.
***************
This past October, I flew from California to Arizona to meet my husband for a family-inclusive business meeting. Shortly before take-off, an attractive, jet-setty-looking couple rushed aboard the plane. He was tall and handsome, with the air of an English aristocrat. She was younger...tiny, tan, sexy, and Euro-chic. Unfortunately, but typically, the airline had split them up. She stayed in the front of the plane as he loped down the aisle to the empty seat next to mine. I thought (briefly) about being polite and offering to switch places so they could sit together, but the flight attendant was already giving the safety shpiel. Instead, I just gave him a fairly civil half-smile/nod and immediately went back to my important reading material. (I believe it was either “Us” or “OK.”) I have mentioned before that I am not exactly a friendly flier.
IPod earphones in place, I stayed in my own cozy little cocoon for the entire flight, unaware that God had placed another unlikely angel next to me.
As is always the case, everyone on board bolted up the second the plane landed...and just stood there. For a good, long while. My upbringing finally got the better of me, and I made an attempt at polite conversation with my neighbor. Something to the effect of, “Are you traveling for business or pleasure?” When he answered, “Both,” I took a stab and said the name of my husband’s firm with a question mark at the end. Yes, he smiled, he was from the company’s office in Switzerland.
Immediately, we’re like family. That firm is adept at building a sense of international community. Unchauvinistically, he asks where my office is based. I explain that my husband works out of the company’s office in Athens, Georgia, thinking, “You really don’t want to ask me why I’m flying out of LA..” Of course it is the next logical question in the parlay of civilities. I want to simply tell him that it’s a long story, but decide that would be rude. I say something about being on the West Coast indefinitely because of a sick child, knowing that I will likely get one of the usual responses, “Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious” or “I hope he/she will be well soon.” The ‘Reader’s Digest’ version of the story unavoidably comes out.
He gives me a very intense look when I finish. “Tell her never to give up hope. NEVER,” he asserts passionately in his upper-crust Australian accent.
I stare at him, surprised at such compassion from a stranger.
Of course there’s a story:
His sister had such a devastatingly severe stroke in her late 20’s that the doctors told the family she’d remain a vegetable. Everyone was in agreement that it would be most merciful to turn off the machines. Except for the mother.
But Bruno’s sister went on to make such a complete and miraculous recovery that she was able to give birth to three more children after that. There actually was a story in the real Reader’s Digest about it!
I’m sure the other passengers on that plane had no idea why the delay at the arrival gate was necessary. I suppose I should feel a little guilty about it. If I’d been friendlier in the first place, God’s message could have been delivered in the air, and they probably could have rushed right off.
Because I’m so hard-headed, God pounded his message into me for the duration of the company trip. Although there were about a thousand attendees, my husband and I ran into Bruno and his girlfriend every time we turned around. We bumped into each other on the dance floor, in the elevator, by the bar, at the pool. Bruno is one of that rare breed of my husband’s height (6’6”), so it was hard for us to miss each other in the crowd. We became friends. We had dinners, drinks, and laughs. And with every encounter, we received a dose of encouragement about Katherine’s situation. The similarities in the two cases were surely not coincidental. The message was loud and clear. Hope. Hope some more. Never stop hoping. Impossible things happen. (...a future and a hope...)
At breakfast one morning, Bruno’s girlfriend and I looked up to discover that we were spooning fruit out of opposite sides of the fruit tray on the buffet table. The men were already in a meeting, so we had breakfast together and lingered over coffee until they cleaned the table out from under us. In her charming Spanish accent, my new young friend opened up about the tragedy of her mother’s recent death to cancer. But it was not a story devoid of faith or victory. She said one thing that I won’t forget: “Hope is the last thing you lose.”
Think about it.
***************
In this time of winter blues, I’ve had my moments of that old hollow, lifeless feeling. I’ve gotten run-down and exhausted, and drifted down into the dark, gray place of faded, stale hope. I’ve even caught the Stones’ “Paint It Black” running through my head a couple of times. (And I want to kill whoever invented Daylight Savings Time. As the winter solstice approaches, it gets dark here around 4:30. The moon’s out by 3:00 p.m.!) I know I have to fight it, but it’s especially hard to cling to hope when you’re feeling crummy....and it seems that nothing’s changing or ever will. I have to remind myself of the signs received along the way, reexamine the evidence, and break it down to basics.
The word “hope” has become synonymous with wishful thinking. (i.e. “I hope it snows at Christmas.” “Hope Santa’s good to you!”) I don’t know about you, but I have a lot of wishes that don’t come true. That’s probably a good thing.
In reality, “to hope” is a much stronger verb:
intransitive verb1: to cherish a desire with anticipation
synonyms see expect
In my (supposedly) daily reading yesterday, this verse jumped out at me:
...And His name will be the hope of all the world. (Matt. 12:21)
It reminded me that I am not just wishing that the 'Fates will allow' things to get better. Or that improved karma's coming my way. Or that medical developments will accelerate at such a rapid rate that everything broken about Katherine will be imminently repaired. I am not fantasizing of better days to come with my fingers crossed...knocking on wood....holding a rabbit’s foot...rolling the roulette wheel...consulting a horoscope...chanting chakras...channeling positive energy.
When I read that verse, the Stones were replaced in my head by an old hymn. I grew up in a church which was founded in the 1820’s, and whose current structure was completed in the 1860’s or so. The original windows are probably 25 feet tall. I remember the rich notes of that hymn pouring out of the wonderful old golden organ pipes until those windows vibrated. The congregation sang:
“My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus' name.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand
All other ground is sinking sand...”
I was clueless at the time...probably hungover from a high school Saturday night out in the college town where I grew up. But I get it now. In my long life, I’ve put my hope in lots of things that have sunk me right down into the miry clay frequently mentioned by the psalmists. I’ve put my hope in people and man-made structures and systems and institutions...in religion...in relationships... in myself...intellectualism...wealth...medicine...
appearances... being good,doing good... in luck and fate and in happy endings and fairy tales...
But there has only been one place I have ever placed my hope and not been disappointed...
...and His name will be the hope of all the world.
Oh, if only all those cutsie Santa signs emblazoned with “We Believe” represented a true belief in the Living Hope, instead of just a wishful, sweet, old myth...
Maybe there wouldn’t be such a letdown December 26.
*****************
“Then you will know that I am the LORD; those who hope in me will not be disappointed." (Isaiah 49:23)
And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. (Romans 5:2-5)
Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. (Psalm 62:5)
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1)
Friday, December 5, 2008
The Secret Lives of Babies
Who needs TV when there are baby monitors?
Hours of wholesome entertainment for the whole family! Forget Wii, trash your Nintendo, just rush out to your nearest retail establishment and buy the little box with the big bang of fun! (Batteries and baby not included.)
Seriously. I could watch this thing for hours. Of course there’s no TV in the miniscule “guest room” of the Casa Colina cottage. After I put James down for the night, or for one of his two (alleged) naps of the day, I come in here and sit on my little twin bed to check and make sure he’s settling down nicely. Forty five minutes later, he’s still rolling, and and I’m still watching.
Few people know of the Secret Lives of Babies.
See, they have this secret language that only they can understand. Babies are actually bilingual, but must feign an ignorance of English in order to escape the consequences of disobedience. (“What does ‘NO’ mean, Mimi?”) They pretend not to be able to walk very well, but in reality they are accomplished acrobats and trapeze artists. James is a one-man circus.
He pretends to be all sleepy and cute, sucking his passie while simultaneously rubbing his blankie and his big, brown, innocent eyes. He lies down without a fuss and rolls over on his stomach, presumably off to NiteNite Land. I close the door and listen. All’s quiet on the Front.
I go wash the dishes or whatever. By the time I return to my seat in front of the mini-tube, the show’s already begun.
James has a very busy agenda. First, he has to lecture all the stuffed animals in Babyese. He talks up a blue streak. He makes impassioned speeches, becoming extremely animated and, evidently, so funny that he can’t resist laughing at his own jokes. Then he practices his English on them. He has to tell Monkey, his favorite, “no no” repeatedly. Then he gives him a giant hug and a head crunch, which ends in a move similar to the one we’ve been instructed to use in extinguishing a fire: “Stop, Drop, and Roll.” Next he practices his new favorite word. Unfortunately, my attempt at instilling proper manners has backfired. Now he says “Thank you” alright; it’s just that he thinks it means “Give me some more!” All through every meal now it’s “Dadu! Dadu!” For impact, he sometimes puts the emphasis on the second syllable: “Thank YOU!!!”
After thoroughly thanking his audience, he picks up the tempo. He grabs his blankie, sniffs it, and says, “Ummmmmmmm!” like a seasoned gourmand. He picks Doggy up and bites his nose. Then he pulls Bunny’s ears. To make up for it, he croons strange and exotic melodies to comfort them.
Then the Circus acts begin. He somersaults across the bed! He spins in circles! He does 360’s on his head, butt in the air. He does yoga moves like a yogi...and then has a little toe snack as long as they’re up there. The bed magically becomes a trampoline, then a jail cell which he tries to escape with Houdini-like intensity. Finally, it is a floundering ship. I think he’s yelling, “Man Overboard!!!” as he hurls his animal friends to safety on solid ground, but I haven’t cracked the language code yet. Then he gives himself an enthusiastic round of applause.
In the final act, James plays the tragedian. He stands up and shakes the bars of his cage one last time, then does dramatic flops on top of his animal friends. He hugs them tightly, as if he might never see them again. Then he plays dead. Just when I’m convinced he’s finally asleep, he stands up and does one last dive. He scoots around until he’s facing the camera. He stares straight into the lense, looking at me looking at him. He knows Big Brother is watching. He puts his hands behind his head, elbows out, one foot resting on the other knee....the picture of nonchalance. He looks exactly like Huck Finn lying on the riverbank, chewing on a straw. He gives me a last triumphant glance, then positions himself in the one corner of the bed that’s out of camera’s range.
I hear heavy breathing.
***************
I had a strange thought the other day.
With all of our peregrinations and perambulations...
...machinations and rationalizations...
...titillations and vacillations...
God’s just sitting there at the monitor, shaking his head.
***************
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. (Hebrews 12:1)
Leslie Phillips God is Watching You
When your life's about to start - God is watching you
When you have a shattered heart - God is watching you
When you're a slave and when you're freed - God is watching you
When what you call love's really need - God is watching you
God is watching you
God is watching you
When you wake up in the night - God is watching you
When you're dancing in the light - God is watching you
When you don't need to use force- God is watching you
When you don't ever feel remorse - God is watching you
(Chorus)
When you're a hero to us all- God is watching you
When you take that fated fall - God is watching you
When you hide your head in the sand - God is watching you
When you find a brand new land - God is watching you
(Chorus)
When out of fear you judge your friend - God is watching you
When you let a stranger in - God is watching you
When you always have to win - God is watching you
When love requires that you give in - God is watching you
(Chorus)
When you play the cards you're dealt - God is watching you
When you won't reveal yourself - God is watching you
When you believe enough to die - God is watching you
When you say your last goodbye -
(by T Bone Burnett and Leslie Phillips, The Turning)
Hours of wholesome entertainment for the whole family! Forget Wii, trash your Nintendo, just rush out to your nearest retail establishment and buy the little box with the big bang of fun! (Batteries and baby not included.)
Seriously. I could watch this thing for hours. Of course there’s no TV in the miniscule “guest room” of the Casa Colina cottage. After I put James down for the night, or for one of his two (alleged) naps of the day, I come in here and sit on my little twin bed to check and make sure he’s settling down nicely. Forty five minutes later, he’s still rolling, and and I’m still watching.
Few people know of the Secret Lives of Babies.
See, they have this secret language that only they can understand. Babies are actually bilingual, but must feign an ignorance of English in order to escape the consequences of disobedience. (“What does ‘NO’ mean, Mimi?”) They pretend not to be able to walk very well, but in reality they are accomplished acrobats and trapeze artists. James is a one-man circus.
He pretends to be all sleepy and cute, sucking his passie while simultaneously rubbing his blankie and his big, brown, innocent eyes. He lies down without a fuss and rolls over on his stomach, presumably off to NiteNite Land. I close the door and listen. All’s quiet on the Front.
I go wash the dishes or whatever. By the time I return to my seat in front of the mini-tube, the show’s already begun.
James has a very busy agenda. First, he has to lecture all the stuffed animals in Babyese. He talks up a blue streak. He makes impassioned speeches, becoming extremely animated and, evidently, so funny that he can’t resist laughing at his own jokes. Then he practices his English on them. He has to tell Monkey, his favorite, “no no” repeatedly. Then he gives him a giant hug and a head crunch, which ends in a move similar to the one we’ve been instructed to use in extinguishing a fire: “Stop, Drop, and Roll.” Next he practices his new favorite word. Unfortunately, my attempt at instilling proper manners has backfired. Now he says “Thank you” alright; it’s just that he thinks it means “Give me some more!” All through every meal now it’s “Dadu! Dadu!” For impact, he sometimes puts the emphasis on the second syllable: “Thank YOU!!!”
After thoroughly thanking his audience, he picks up the tempo. He grabs his blankie, sniffs it, and says, “Ummmmmmmm!” like a seasoned gourmand. He picks Doggy up and bites his nose. Then he pulls Bunny’s ears. To make up for it, he croons strange and exotic melodies to comfort them.
Then the Circus acts begin. He somersaults across the bed! He spins in circles! He does 360’s on his head, butt in the air. He does yoga moves like a yogi...and then has a little toe snack as long as they’re up there. The bed magically becomes a trampoline, then a jail cell which he tries to escape with Houdini-like intensity. Finally, it is a floundering ship. I think he’s yelling, “Man Overboard!!!” as he hurls his animal friends to safety on solid ground, but I haven’t cracked the language code yet. Then he gives himself an enthusiastic round of applause.
In the final act, James plays the tragedian. He stands up and shakes the bars of his cage one last time, then does dramatic flops on top of his animal friends. He hugs them tightly, as if he might never see them again. Then he plays dead. Just when I’m convinced he’s finally asleep, he stands up and does one last dive. He scoots around until he’s facing the camera. He stares straight into the lense, looking at me looking at him. He knows Big Brother is watching. He puts his hands behind his head, elbows out, one foot resting on the other knee....the picture of nonchalance. He looks exactly like Huck Finn lying on the riverbank, chewing on a straw. He gives me a last triumphant glance, then positions himself in the one corner of the bed that’s out of camera’s range.
I hear heavy breathing.
***************
I had a strange thought the other day.
With all of our peregrinations and perambulations...
...machinations and rationalizations...
...titillations and vacillations...
God’s just sitting there at the monitor, shaking his head.
***************
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. (Hebrews 12:1)
Leslie Phillips God is Watching You
When your life's about to start - God is watching you
When you have a shattered heart - God is watching you
When you're a slave and when you're freed - God is watching you
When what you call love's really need - God is watching you
God is watching you
God is watching you
When you wake up in the night - God is watching you
When you're dancing in the light - God is watching you
When you don't need to use force- God is watching you
When you don't ever feel remorse - God is watching you
(Chorus)
When you're a hero to us all- God is watching you
When you take that fated fall - God is watching you
When you hide your head in the sand - God is watching you
When you find a brand new land - God is watching you
(Chorus)
When out of fear you judge your friend - God is watching you
When you let a stranger in - God is watching you
When you always have to win - God is watching you
When love requires that you give in - God is watching you
(Chorus)
When you play the cards you're dealt - God is watching you
When you won't reveal yourself - God is watching you
When you believe enough to die - God is watching you
When you say your last goodbye -
(by T Bone Burnett and Leslie Phillips, The Turning)
Thursday, November 27, 2008
A Thankful Heart
Katherine insisted that I come home (to Georgia) for Thanksgiving.
It has long been one of my favorite holidays. Christmas is ridiculous these days. It makes my head hurt. But the capitalists have never quite figured out how to capitalize on quaint little pious people with funny hats, collars, and shoe buckles. I guess the whole concept of “giving thanks” is somewhat alien to Madison Avenue anyway. It doesn’t come naturally to any of us.
I’m trying to teach James to say “please” and “thank you.” Of course it is usually during a feeding time. As he is twisting, bouncing, pointing, and grunting for MORE, even with a full mouth, I slowly refill the spoon and tell him to say, “Please, Mimi.” Then, once I plop the bite in his mouth, I say “Thank you.” (Actually, I say it the way a baby would...“tank-tu”...sorry, Purists.) He is completely clueless. What do these words have to do with the Divine Right of Kings (and other small tyrants) to be FED? That is our first perceived need, and we demand that it be met right there on the delivery table. HOW DARE YOU NOT FEED ME IMMEDIATELY??? I DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN, BUT SINCE I’M HERE, YOU’D BETTER SNAP TO IT!
We carry much of that “entitlement attitude” into adulthood. Especially in this country. We have our inalienable rights! We want what we want, and we deserve to get it! At a very young age, a child learns all about “me” and “mine.”
Sometimes it’s hard to be grateful for that which we consider a right, not a privilege. Human beings being as we are, I think it’s (unfortunately) necessary for us to live through some loss in order to develop a truly thankful heart.
Like it says in the song, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone...”
It has long been one of my favorite holidays. Christmas is ridiculous these days. It makes my head hurt. But the capitalists have never quite figured out how to capitalize on quaint little pious people with funny hats, collars, and shoe buckles. I guess the whole concept of “giving thanks” is somewhat alien to Madison Avenue anyway. It doesn’t come naturally to any of us.
I’m trying to teach James to say “please” and “thank you.” Of course it is usually during a feeding time. As he is twisting, bouncing, pointing, and grunting for MORE, even with a full mouth, I slowly refill the spoon and tell him to say, “Please, Mimi.” Then, once I plop the bite in his mouth, I say “Thank you.” (Actually, I say it the way a baby would...“tank-tu”...sorry, Purists.) He is completely clueless. What do these words have to do with the Divine Right of Kings (and other small tyrants) to be FED? That is our first perceived need, and we demand that it be met right there on the delivery table. HOW DARE YOU NOT FEED ME IMMEDIATELY??? I DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN, BUT SINCE I’M HERE, YOU’D BETTER SNAP TO IT!
We carry much of that “entitlement attitude” into adulthood. Especially in this country. We have our inalienable rights! We want what we want, and we deserve to get it! At a very young age, a child learns all about “me” and “mine.”
Sometimes it’s hard to be grateful for that which we consider a right, not a privilege. Human beings being as we are, I think it’s (unfortunately) necessary for us to live through some loss in order to develop a truly thankful heart.
Like it says in the song, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone...”
***************
Being home, the New Reality seems like a dream.
When I arrived, my sweet husband had the house completely decked out with all of our old Thanksgiving stuff. Fresh flowers are everywhere, aromatic fall candles glow, a cozy fire burns in the family room. Even though everything about our lives has changed, it seems the same here. The halls are lined with pictures; every chest of drawers is covered with them. A relative refers to the stairwell descending to the basement as our “Wall of Fame.” All of my girls’ corny Olan Mills school pics are there, vying for space with high school and college honors. There is Katherine beaming beatifically at age 4. Awkward at 10. Aglow with life at 16, holding flowers. Gorgeous at 20, wearing crowns. Smiling, smiling, smiling, smiling...
There was so much to smile about.
Who knew that a smile could become such a rare and desperately-sought-after treasure?
I’m not going to beat myself up about having been so disgustingly unappreciative of the wonderfully good times of the past.
I can still conjure them up in my mind and savor them like a delicious meal. I can sneak back and take a peek into my grandmother’s fragrant house packed with 50 people for Thanksgiving lunch. Every surface laden with decadent dishes...uncles arguing over football in the den...kids playing football in the backyard...the women laboring over one last preparation for the feast...and the children, dressed up like Pilgrims and Indians, getting ready to sing for us. Katherine, as the first great-grand, was always the director of the motley little choir. “Come, ye thankful people come...” they sang, as feathers bobbed and collars slipped.
The irony is that when the blessings are bountiful, we tend to take them for granted. But through the telescope of change and loss, we are enabled to see them as the gold they always were. Then, finally, comes a rich, warm flood of gratitude. Since God exists outside of time and space, I like to think that retro-thanks pleases him as much as timely thanks.
I am more aware than ever that nothing here lasts.
Now the joys are sweeter than before. The peace is deeper. The gratitude is greater. I have never had so many reasons to be thankful. What could possibly be greater than the gift of a life?
But there are still reasons to be sad. That happy, smiling little girl of mine will not be eating her third piece of chocolate pecan pie today. Her Thanksgiving feast will be delivered via a tube in her abdomen. She will not be running around the house making the party happen. She will be sitting in a chair struggling to communicate, while the party flows around her.
I wish God would fix her today. But even if He doesn’t, I am going to thank and praise Him anyway. And in doing that, I will be offering Him a feast on Thanksgiving Day. I believe that the thanksgiving offered out of our places of sorrow is especially sweet to Him. “For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come. Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise—the fruit of lips that confess his name. And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.” (Hebrews 13:14-16)
I will choose to praise Him in the storm.
On this day of thanksgiving, may you know how very deeply you are loved.
It is my prayer that each of us will be enabled to receive the gift of a truly thankful heart.......even before the next earthly loss comes.
Because it will.
God bless us, everyone.
**************
“Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe." (Hebrews 12:28)
“And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom, and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God.” (Colossians 3:14-16)
Now thank we all our God,
with heart and hands and voices,
who wondrous things has done,
in whom this world rejoices;
who from our mothers' arms
has blessed us on our way
with countless gifts of love,
and still is ours today.
O may this bounteous God
through all our life be near us,
with ever joyful hearts
and blessed peace to cheer us;
and keep us still in grace,
and guide us when perplexed;
and free us from all ills,
in this world and the next.
All praise and thanks to God
the Father now be given;
the Son, and him who reigns
with them in highest heaven;
the one eternal God,
whom earth and heaven adore;
for thus it was, is now,
and shall be evermore.
(Martin Rinckart, 1663)
Being home, the New Reality seems like a dream.
When I arrived, my sweet husband had the house completely decked out with all of our old Thanksgiving stuff. Fresh flowers are everywhere, aromatic fall candles glow, a cozy fire burns in the family room. Even though everything about our lives has changed, it seems the same here. The halls are lined with pictures; every chest of drawers is covered with them. A relative refers to the stairwell descending to the basement as our “Wall of Fame.” All of my girls’ corny Olan Mills school pics are there, vying for space with high school and college honors. There is Katherine beaming beatifically at age 4. Awkward at 10. Aglow with life at 16, holding flowers. Gorgeous at 20, wearing crowns. Smiling, smiling, smiling, smiling...
There was so much to smile about.
Who knew that a smile could become such a rare and desperately-sought-after treasure?
I’m not going to beat myself up about having been so disgustingly unappreciative of the wonderfully good times of the past.
I can still conjure them up in my mind and savor them like a delicious meal. I can sneak back and take a peek into my grandmother’s fragrant house packed with 50 people for Thanksgiving lunch. Every surface laden with decadent dishes...uncles arguing over football in the den...kids playing football in the backyard...the women laboring over one last preparation for the feast...and the children, dressed up like Pilgrims and Indians, getting ready to sing for us. Katherine, as the first great-grand, was always the director of the motley little choir. “Come, ye thankful people come...” they sang, as feathers bobbed and collars slipped.
The irony is that when the blessings are bountiful, we tend to take them for granted. But through the telescope of change and loss, we are enabled to see them as the gold they always were. Then, finally, comes a rich, warm flood of gratitude. Since God exists outside of time and space, I like to think that retro-thanks pleases him as much as timely thanks.
I am more aware than ever that nothing here lasts.
Now the joys are sweeter than before. The peace is deeper. The gratitude is greater. I have never had so many reasons to be thankful. What could possibly be greater than the gift of a life?
But there are still reasons to be sad. That happy, smiling little girl of mine will not be eating her third piece of chocolate pecan pie today. Her Thanksgiving feast will be delivered via a tube in her abdomen. She will not be running around the house making the party happen. She will be sitting in a chair struggling to communicate, while the party flows around her.
I wish God would fix her today. But even if He doesn’t, I am going to thank and praise Him anyway. And in doing that, I will be offering Him a feast on Thanksgiving Day. I believe that the thanksgiving offered out of our places of sorrow is especially sweet to Him. “For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come. Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise—the fruit of lips that confess his name. And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.” (Hebrews 13:14-16)
I will choose to praise Him in the storm.
On this day of thanksgiving, may you know how very deeply you are loved.
It is my prayer that each of us will be enabled to receive the gift of a truly thankful heart.......even before the next earthly loss comes.
Because it will.
God bless us, everyone.
**************
“Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe." (Hebrews 12:28)
“And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom, and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God.” (Colossians 3:14-16)
Now thank we all our God,
with heart and hands and voices,
who wondrous things has done,
in whom this world rejoices;
who from our mothers' arms
has blessed us on our way
with countless gifts of love,
and still is ours today.
O may this bounteous God
through all our life be near us,
with ever joyful hearts
and blessed peace to cheer us;
and keep us still in grace,
and guide us when perplexed;
and free us from all ills,
in this world and the next.
All praise and thanks to God
the Father now be given;
the Son, and him who reigns
with them in highest heaven;
the one eternal God,
whom earth and heaven adore;
for thus it was, is now,
and shall be evermore.
(Martin Rinckart, 1663)
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The Next Right Thing
Okay, so now there’s all this pressure to say something Meaningful and Profound.
Sorry, but don’t expect consistency in that department here.
Sometimes the best thing you can do is just show up.
Period.
When every fiber of your being is screaming, “NO, NO, NO!”........ you still make an appearance.
And that is enough.
The grace is sufficient.
A beautiful, old, battered friend of mine once told me, “Kim, you just do the next right thing.”
No matter what.
Do the next right thing.
Don’t look down, or you’ll drown.
Do it even if no one’s watching:
THE
NEXT
RIGHT
THING.
That is all.
Really.
Sorry, but don’t expect consistency in that department here.
Sometimes the best thing you can do is just show up.
Period.
When every fiber of your being is screaming, “NO, NO, NO!”........ you still make an appearance.
And that is enough.
The grace is sufficient.
A beautiful, old, battered friend of mine once told me, “Kim, you just do the next right thing.”
No matter what.
Do the next right thing.
Don’t look down, or you’ll drown.
Do it even if no one’s watching:
THE
NEXT
RIGHT
THING.
That is all.
Really.
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