Christmas Clothespins

God is with us in so many ways. In no way do I intend disrespect by suggesting that He is with us even in the form of clothespins. Hear me out.

My beloved Grandmother at some point had some clothespins spray painted gold to use at Christmastime. I don't even recall what she used them for, nor when I somehow became the recipient of some of them. I began using them to pin Christmas cards we received to a string or ribbon hung on the dining room window. Or hung from the mantel, at our former house.

Seven clothespins were not enough, so I used plain ones until one day of one year, while hanging up Christmas cards, I realized that I could also spray paint them and have a bunch more gold clothespins.  I had never used spray paint, which I guess is why I hadn't thought of it before. But I thought it couldn't be that complicated to buy some and paint them. So I did.

Ever since then I've had two contrasting sets of clothespins that I pull out during Advent as we wait for the cards to arrive. At first it kind of bothered me that the two "gold" paints were not the same, but not for long.

This year as I was taking them out, I noticed the difference in the colors. I also noticed the difference in the heft of the clothespins. Grandmother's, as you can see, have the two little indentations near the end. They are heavier than the others and better made. I couldn't find any like that when I was shopping for them. All they had were these slightly smaller, definitely flimsier, lighter-weight ones. I wouldn't want them for hanging clothes on a line. I can't imagine they could hold onto a pair of denim jeans. Still, they are fine for hanging Christmas cards. But I still prefer the others, the older ones.

They are built more solidly. They have a firmer grip. They were carefully painted. I didn't realize until it was too late that when I painted mine, which I did in a bit of a hurry, I missed some spots. But Grandmother's are solidly painted, fully covered. And of course, best of all, they were hers. They were in her house, in her hands.

And Grandmother was among the first people to teach me about God. And to love me, which she learned from God. And to show me through the trials of her life and in her many letters over the years, how much she loved and trusted in God.

And so these solid, firm, whimsically golden clothespins, because of my Grandmother, speak to me of God and faith and love. And I do my best to imitate. And even though my attempt didn't turn out quite like hers, it helped me bring  forward to the present something from Christmas past.

God is with us in so many ways. Even in the form of clothespins.

Little Things

This time of wrapping up such a huge project,

beginning to free up brain space and actual time and space,

combined with the coming of spring,

seems a perfect setup for me to be particularly attentive to little things

and how much joy they give me.

Some days I feel as if I am seeing life, really seeing it,

for the first time in a long, long time.

Like a peek into the opening of a dogwood blossom the other morning.

And the little remaining evening light falling on the chair at the piano.

And this little walkway, which, even though I know exactly where it goes, always fills me with a sense of adventure and wonder at what might lie ahead. . .

Violets that fill our yard, and these few just perfect for the tiny pitcher on the windowsill.

Also on the windowsill, there year-round,

these sweet little ones from my parents' stop in the Amsterdam airport over twenty years ago.

They are always there, but somehow recently I see them more often.

And on this evening saw their cute little shadow.

Little things are only little compared to bigger things.

And often they represent things much bigger than their physical size hints at.

I read recently that the writer Robert Brault,

about whom I know nothing,

said,

"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back

and realize they were the big things."

Whoever he is, I think he is right.

On the Street Where You Live

Yesterday in my physical therapy session, I realized I had healed from the sprained ankle that occurred a couple of weeks ago and had set me back. Yesterday the pain was much less, I was able to balance on the injured foot (the same one that had the surgery), and my walking was much more even than it had been since the sprain.

So this morning, for the first time since December, I decided to get up and go for a walk, the way I had begun so many mornings before having that surgery done.

Usually I walk in the park, but this morning that would have meant moving my husband's car to get mine out. And since I'm just not sure I have the coordination yet to manage the clutch with this foot, I decided to just walk up and down our street.

I felt a little disappointed, because the park is so beautiful, and I miss those morning walks.

But I decided to keep my eyes open and enjoy the beauty of a little city street. And  before long, I found myself taking pictures, because here is what I saw, walking less than a mile up and down my own street.

I wonder if squirrels or fairies swing here? So tiny.

So thankful to live on a street with shade from many large--really large--trees.

From a time when those who laid sidewalks were acknowledged for their work,

and I imagine took more pride in it. Most of the street's sidewalks are still intact.

Plenty of these little guys around.

I wasn't expecting to see the moon.....

....and then looked up and even saw stars.

Moss breaking the stereotype, growing on the east side of the tree.

And in the cracks of the bricks...I just love it.

No place like home.

(And nothing like looking at it from across the street to give you a new perspective.

I had never noticed that silver, crooked pipe thing up there by the chimney!)

"the trees still heartrendingly asparkle"

(read in a poem by C.K. Williams)

They aren't exactly sparkling, but the light coming through

is heartrendingly beautiful when you stand there and feel it....

Childhood helicopter memories!

More stars asparkle.

Beautiful vinca.

And the younger, more intense purple.

And the beautiful sight of my own feet walking, and really not struggling too much with it.

While I still look forward to getting back in the routine of walking in the park, one could hardly wish for a more beautiful first morning walk. So much joy comes with being open and noticing what is all around us, rather than so often wishing for things that are not.

I'm reminded of the line in Thornton Wilder's Our Town--

"Does anyone ever realize life while they live it? Every, every minute?"

And, "Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you."

Light of the Incarnation

When I first saw this painting a few years ago at the Brooks Museum,

I thought it was amazingly beautiful.

It's huge (over 6.5 x 9.5 feet) and splendid, so you can't walk by without stopping to look.

(It is so large, it is hard to find a full copy of it on the Internet. The first I've posted, which comes from this lovely blog, has the whole painting; the second has better lighting but not the whole thing.)

And when I stopped and looked, I saw the title was "Light of the Incarnation."

Only then was I able to see that (almost) all the angels are looking down, way down,

to the source of light in the left-hand lower corner.

And then the painting began to say more and more, beyond

"There's a bunch of beautiful angelic figures in lovely lighting."

It brought to mind the words from Luke's gospel, after one angel had appeared to the shepherds,

announcing the birth of a baby who was a Savior.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavnly host

praising God and saying,

"Glory to God in the highest,

and on earth peace among men with whom he is pleased!"

It brought to mind from John's gospel, "The light shines in the darkness,

and the darkness has not comprehended it."

And that fascinating passage in I Peter,

"It was revealed to them that they were serving not themselves, but you,

in the things which have now been announced to you by those

who preached the good news to you through the Holy Spirit sent from heaven,

things into which angels long to look."

And then, looking longer at the painting, I saw that

a crown of thorns is held out by one angel, symbolizing the crucifixion;

and a golden crown, symbolizing victory.

and lilies are held by another, symbolizing the resurrection;

and incense by another, symbolizing prayers and the holiness of the event.

(At least I think that's what it is....)

These symbols are powerful, representing the whole story to come,

set in motion long before the moment captured by the painting.

But I think the most powerful part for me when I've seen it is simply that you can't

look anywhere without seeing angelic forms. They fade in and out as you stand and look.

(Take time to enlarge the photo and look at it closely so you can see them.)

Granted, they are more representative of beautiful women with wings than they are of

the angels described in scripture, in those few places where they are described.

But even in this romanticized form, they serve an important purpose.

We so easily fall into thinking that only what we can see or hear or taste or touch is real, 

which our own scientific approach should warn us about, since before the magnifying glass,

many things that were not known by the senses were very much real, both making life possible (oxygen) and killing people (bacteria, germs, etc.)

The fact that we did eventually develop magnifying glasses, telescopes,

and all kinds of technologies that have expanded our ability to know things through our senses,

doesn't assure that we will be able to do that for every reality that exists.

And when I read things written by those who lived before all these technologies--

those who had access to all kinds of spiritual and philosophical writing,

but not to what we today consider scientific writing--

I often think that they saw and understood more than we do today.

They knew so much about life and love, humanity and hope, purpose and peace.

Some today may laugh at them for believing in angels.

But we really don't know who will have the last laugh, do we?

I only hope it will be laughter of joyful goodness, not the cynical laughter of "See, I was right."

The very word "Incarnation,"

signifying that something that was not made of flesh is being made into flesh,

assumes that there are realities beyond what we can experience in a purely fleshly way,

through those five senses we are taught to identify and name in elementary school.

It assumes a realm that is more than flesh, or beyond flesh,

a realm that can inhabit flesh at will but is not limited to it.

The new quotation under the title of my blog comes from a man who writes often about the realness of the realm that we cannot see with our eyes in the way we think we'd like to.

Here he lists many ways angels have interacted with human history.

And here another author shares the story of a man who seems to have had the ability to see angels. The story of his life seems to indicate that perhaps we have lost the ability to see some things

by the way we have focused so intensely on seeing certain things in certain ways,

and creating strong rules about what is possible and what is not possible.

I urge you to take the time to read it.

We trust our eyes, our sight, so much. Perhaps too much?

Today I heard a car pull into our driveway. My husband said, "Oh, here comes your friend."

Because of the circumstances, I was thinking only of friends of a particular group, and when I looked out the window and saw this woman walking towards our door,

I actually had no idea who she was. I didn't recognize her.

I didn't see her. I saw a stranger.

Once she got to the door and came in, and I heard her voice,

I knew exactly who it was, and when I saw her face, I saw her, not my ideas about her.

(She is a dear friend but not part of the group I had in mind, not what I expected.)

And so this painting, this Light of the Incarnation, has become a favorite of mine

because it is a reminder that I cannot see everything, know everything,

understand everything, explain everything.

A reminder that forces are at work that I will never know about.

That my life is part of a huge painting that I could never paint on my own.

And it is a beautiful, light-filled painting.

Painted by Carl Gutherz, a man who was born in Switzerland and lived part of his life in Memphis.

About the painting, he wrote,

"Up to the moment of the birth of Christ, the light of God came from heaven to earth--

but, God here, the light glows back from earth to heaven,

increasing in glory throughout the ages.

Beholding this, the heavenly host unite in rejoicing over the world redeemed."

(from Carl Gutherz: Poetic Vision and Academic Ideals, ed. Masler and Macini.)

Joy to the World!

All in a Moment

The other day I had one of those moments when the light falls on something and captures your attention so completely that for that moment you are transfixed, and time seems to stand still. I was actually working on the other side of the room, but something made me turn this way, and I saw the light.

It was light on this hydrangea blossom that I had put in a bowl and set on my prayer desk.

And then I saw the cross that the wood from the window made.

And then the cross on my candle holder, with its beautiful prayer:

O God of peace, who has taught us that in returning and rest we shall be saved, in quietness and confidence shall be our strength: By the might of your Spirit lift us, we pray, to your presence, where we may be still and know that you are God.

And the gospel reading from the Sunday before Pentecost. The sermon that day was so good that I asked for a copy of it.

The ball of grapevine I bought after Mrs. White's death, to have a tangible reminder of the interconnectedness of our lives. Something I could pick up and touch when I needed to.

The crystal that a client once gave me as a token of appreciation. She grieved deeply at multiple losses during that time, and she felt she had become more solid through our work together, and that she reflected more light.

The pine cone from a beach in Fairhope, Alabama, a reminder of the importance of going deep. The tree from which it came was very, very tall. Quite a lot of the roots were exposed, because of the way the sea had eroded the sand. But others clearly went deep and kept it grounded and growing. I picked this up because I didn't want to forget that image for times when I feel like I'm being ripped up.

The stained glass window that I set inside my window. I found this in antique store in Collierville and wish so much that I knew where it came from. I'd like to think it was in a house out in the country somewhere in west Tennessee. I miss living in the country. It makes me think of a sunrise, even though it is blue instead of yellow. Or of a person raising both arms upward to greet the light.

A photo of a church window somewhere in west Tennessee, given to me by a friend who is quite good with a camera. She has suffered incredible wounds in her life, she struggles with the trauma symptoms. And she has such an eye for beauty, sometimes it seems incongruous. Other times it seems so natural, because beauty heals and gives hope.

This little pin with the "Love" stamp from the 80's, given to me by my friend Amy. We used to enjoy stamps together and sent many letters back and forth across the ocean. Her letters helped me live through the war in Croatia.

The Bible my dad gave me when I was six years old, the one I referred to in this post. This is its second binding, and I kind of think a third binding may be not too far away. Somehow this one has gotten pretty scratched up and really shows it, more than the first one did.

And the prayer beads from Deron in our Doctor of Minstry class, a section on spiritual disciplines. His wife and daughters made these for everyone in the class--so sweet! I did not grow up even knowing what prayer beads were, and they have not become a constant companion, but I think they are wonderful.

So, the light fell on all this for just a moment. And for that moment, which seemed like a very long time indeed, I took in all these wonderful objects and remembered the people, the places, the ideas, the love and sadness and joy and peace and tumult and just the life they connect me to. They lift me to that Presence where I can be still and know that He is God.

It was a blessed moment. A blessed moment that I wanted to remember. So I took these pictures, quickly and quietly, and then just sat for a while and wondered at how rich and full a life can be.