Green

Today I drove to Wynne, Arkansas, to return my nephews to their dad. On the way, I noticed how beautiful the green fields were. Also on the way, it started raining.

Before long, the rain was pouring torrentially. Traffic slowed on the curvy road. I learned later that what I thought was incredibly hard rain was probably actually hail. (I still need to check my roof to see if it was dented.)

Instead of noticing the green, I peered through the grey onto the black asphalt, watching the yellow and white lines carefully, as well as the red lights of the cars in front of me.

By the time we reached our destination, the rain had slowed, allowing me to deliver my passengers without anyone getting completely soaked.

But then on my way back home, the downpour began again, even more intensely than before. I drove more slowly than I had on the way over. I flashed my car lights at people who didn’t have their lights on, because the rain was so heavy they could hardly be seen.

It was amazing. In fact, as I crossed the Mississippi River, I could barely make out the city skyline. The skyscrapers were like blurry brown images against a grayish-brown background. The river was an imaginary thing, lost in the soup of grayish-brown wetness. I think I’ll always remember that image when I cross the bridge.

More amazing than the rain, though, was the green that greeted me once I got onto North Parkway. By then the rain had slowed somewhat so that visibility was no longer a problem.

And the trees and grass were so green! You know how the light is after a storm. And all this green, this cholorophyll-saturated green, pulsed with light and life.

That drive down the parkways and then down Central Avenue, filled with green, green, and more green, was like a dream. But a dream of something more real, not less real.

I could imagine that the green of heaven would be like that. So filled with life that we can see and feel the life coming through it.

It seems true that the only times you experience this kind of soul-stirring green are right before a storm, or right after one. So that without the showers, it wouldn’t happen.

I won’t make the obvious point about when in life we tend to experience the deepest sense of life and growth. Or feel the most alive, or connected, or however you experience it.

What struck me more today was that it wasn’t just the storm that caused the green. It was the light and what the water did to alter the way the light was experienced.

If there is something to be learned about my own life, I think it is that the Light is the most important factor. The storms are simply a part of reality that change the way I perceive and experience the Light.

And that’s enough of trying to make points. The main thing is just that it was incredibly beautiful, and for a while I felt more alive because of the green, green life all around me.

(This photo is from the woods behind the house where I grew up. There was no way to take a photo today during the rain! But I’ve always thought this photo had that similar intensity to it.)

I Did It!

No, I haven't been hang gliding again, and I haven't succeeding in writing another Grandmother essay.

But this may in the long run be bigger than either of those:

For the first time that I can clearly remember since about 1995-ish, I went jogging by myself. Which is a bigger deal when you realize that the only times I've jogged with someone else in the meantime are countable on one hand.

You see, in 1988, I repeatedly injured my left knee, hyperextending it in a crazy child's running-in-a-circle-with-your-arms-locked-together-with-another-person kind of game, which I was playing with a bunch of adults. It was bad enough that I was on crutches for a while, required x-rays, etc.

And each time I've tried to jog since then, that knee has wound up hurting and getting wobbly, despite wearing a knee support. For a while I was even doing the thigh exercises recommended by two MD's, but the knee still suffered beyond what I could consider healthy.

So I said goodbye to jogging/running and went on with my life, finding adrenaline in other ways. And I really missed it at times, because in junior high and high school, I was a runner both competitively and just as a way to wind down and keep my mind in balance.

Then, last year, I went jogging with a friend and discovered that if I stayed on the grass, my knee didn't hurt.

Being a heat-intolerable type of person, I wasn't about to try to continue that in the June/July/August of the year. I don't know why I didn't start in the fall. I went once with another friend in the winter, but she is such an athlete and I'm such a competitor (i.e., I won't admit that I'm dying and can't breathe and need to stop.... now!) that I nearly killed myself and was sore for days on end. And then it kept getting cold, and I was having earaches. And on and on.

I did buy a watch for running. And some other apparel. A little calendar for recording times and distances, etc. Psyching myself up even while the weather and ear didn't cooperate.

But today I did it. I'm not going to say how much, or little, I ran, because it's embarrassing.

But I did it.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, right?

Dust

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

In case you have never been to an Ash Wednesday service, those are the words spoken as the ashes are imposed. It is a powerful reminder of the temporary nature of earthly life.

The past month has been a good reminder to me of my human limitations. Since high school days, I’ve had a strong tendency to take on more than I can actually do. Over the years, I’ve worked very hard to respect my limits and live a life that is gentler to myself, and consequently gentler to others.

January could be considered a “relapse,” I suppose, and February has been spent evaluating my activities, getting a better perspective, and making some changes. Changes that better respect my nature as a human being made of dust, with limitations.

So, in time for Lent, I have finished some things (a seminar, a recital, a conference, a talk at church . . .), given up some things (taking piano lessons, time spent on the Internet), and committed to saying “no” to everything new until my MFT licensure exam is behind me.

I hope that this renewed discipline will allow me to write more often, so please do come back to my blog when you can.

And remember that you are dust, and that to dust you shall return. It just may bring about powerful change in your life, too.

Grandmother and Birthdays

(Photos are of the birthday card sent to me in 1974, if you can't see the date. The front of the card is faded from touching another paper in the scrapbook.)

Almost three weeks later, here comes another significant day in my life: the day I was born. And it gives me a wonderful starting place in the series about my grandmother.

(I hadn’t planned to wait this long, but January was “crazy busy,” resulting in my getting sick, so it just hasn’t been a good time for writing.)

Grandmother and birthdays go hand in hand for more than one reason.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Grandmother always, and I mean always, sent birthday cards. To her family. To her friends. To her former preachers. And to their wives. To friends she had met while traveling and did not want to forget. I’m sure I’m leaving someone out.

She kept a large calendar in her kitchen, from Gulf Oil Company. Granddaddy used to own some gas stations, so she received a calendar every year. The calendars had wonderful big photos of various subjects, usually some kind of landscape or scenery picture. And the blocks for the days were large, too.

And Grandmother filled them up with birthdays, wedding anniversaries, anniversaries of the deaths of beloved people. Each month had many entries. She kept the calendar near the phone and would sometimes point out to us who all in the family had a birthday that month, and sometimes we would call the person who was nearest that day.

And she sent cards. She usually triple-underlined words printed in the card, like the Happy Birthday, or the [to a] special [person like you] . . . you get the idea. She always wrote a personal note, too. Like, “I remember this day x number of years ago! We were so excited. You were granddaughter number one!

And she always wrote the date of the day she was commemorating with the sending of the card. So now I can look back at all the birthday cards from her and trace them, year by year, through her (and my) life.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I also remember Grandmother’s 80th birthday. We surprised her. Almost the whole extended family gathered at my aunt and uncle’s house, where Grandmother was staying while she recovered from a broken hip.

We have wonderful photos (not digital, unfortunately) capturing the look of surprise on her face when she returned from a little shopping outing with my cousin and found all of us, and balloons and streamers, and cake and ice cream, waiting for her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mostly, though, I remember something she shared with me ten years ago.

I was interviewing her for a graduate school class, asking questions about her life and her spiritual growth. Maybe it had something to do with her father dying when she was ten, maybe not. For whatever reason, she said that on every birthday that started a new decade, she would always find herself reflecting on her life— and how she wanted to grow, what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. How she could serve God better.

Birthdays have become that for me. Not a time to worry about age, but to see what God has done and ponder what He may be wanting to do. So next weekend I’ll take off for St. Columba to do my pondering and my personal celebrating of my own birthday.

Today I’m not doing much pondering, but I am thankful to have been born into the family that gave me a very precious grandmother.

Four Years

As I write, it will be four years ago tomorrow that our beloved Grandmother died.

I love these two photos. The first was, obviously, taken before the date of her death had been inscribed. I like the way it implies eternal life. A beginning point, but no end to this life. Only the end of a certain way of living.

The second photo is from her kitchen cabinet, where she kept her Bible and the Power for Today booklet, always rubber-banded together. I think it was to keep the pages of the Bible from being bent, though I never asked her.

Grandmother was a rare woman. I suppose lots of people say that about their grandmothers. But other people say it about mine, so I know it isn't only my bias, though that would be enough for me. She was beautiful, intelligent, down-to-earth, hospitable. She was a traveler, a lover of music, a loyal friend, an incredible cook, a lover of birds and gardening. She was a survivor and one who helped others through hard times.

She . . . . Well, I think over the next few blogs I’ll write about Grandmother, so those of you who never knew her can get to know her a little bit.

Light and Shadow

Shadow of blowing leaves,
Though only a part,
Motion in a stagnant room.

I wrote those lines in college, during a class I had come to hate. The way the professor taught, it drained the life and joy out of the subject we were studying (a subject I loved.) It was fall. I was not only bored but becoming depressed, and sitting there in that lifeless room was the last place I wanted to be.

I noticed the shadows on the wall of leaves blowing outside and found them more lifelike than anything in the room, even though they (the shadows) weren’t really anything, just part of the play of light outside where the real tree was. I desperately wanted to be out there with the tree and the wind and the fresh air.

The significance of that moment still surprises me. I’ve never forgotten those few words I wrote in the margin of my notebook, never forgotten the room we were in, the professor, the subject, who my classmates were.

It was the semester I plunged into the worst depression I ever experienced, lasting months and months and changing my life in profound ways. On that day, those simple shadows of leaves represented life to me.

And so today, with rain pouring down since before we woke up, cloudy skies and a dark house, I like this photo that I took a couple of months ago of a graceful golden gingko branch on a tree down the street, with its shadow playing on the wall of the house.

I think how our glimpses of God are essentially like shadows. We couldn’t bear to see His radiance, so we see little parts of Him as He makes them known. Our ways of loving are like shadows compared to the light of His love. Our kindness is nothing like His.

Even this earth in all its natural beauty is only a hint of the glorious new heaven and new earth on the other side of the window of time.

And isn’t it amazing how these shadows, though only parts of His goodness and glory, bring life into the rooms of our hearts. They get us through the stagnant moments and increase our longing for the real world.

May clouds and shadows always make us yearn for light and reality.

Amen.

Eleven Pumpkins Sitting

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me . . . .
Actually, I bought these pumpkins before Thanksgiving, but I loved them and then loved the photo I took of them. And since there are eleven, today seems like a good day to share them with you.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, I met a man who goes by the name King, because that is what they call him in the chopper group he rides with. Yes, he drives a black Harley. And he knew half the people walking in the park. "That woman is a psychiatrist . . . . Let's go that way, I need to give something to my friend whose brother just died . . . . That man in the Melrose jacket, he used to be a basketball star, couldn't you tell?" King also recently has discovered a love of growing vegetables in a friend's gardening. Never stereotype a Harley driver.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, our doggies had to stay inside all day because of the rain. They dealt with my parents' lunch visit, two piano students, and a perfect stranger who came for a meeting. And they behaved wonderfully the whole time. Never assume that your puppy will not eventually calm down and learn to behave.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, our house is cleaner than it has been in a long time, and I'm hoping I can keep it cleaner in the future. Never forget how nice it is once the work is done.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my muscles are sore from working out, something else I hope to do more of in the future. Never forget the advice I heard recently from a chiropractor: you can have pain now because of your discipline, or you deal with worse pain later due to your lack of discipline.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, I think of the "Eleven" piece from Sesame Street so many years ago, with the woman singing in her funny soprano about so many things. (And I just found it on YouTube! What fun!) I had forgotten about the worms yawning. And who knows, we may hear worms yawning all the time and just not recognize the sound . . . .

So, here's to lovely pumpkins, friendly neighborhood bikers, good health, discipline, and yawning worms.

Merry Christmas for one more day.

Happy New Year!

Yes, daffodils are already coming up in our front yard.

They must be as confused as we have been by the alternating cold and warm weather of the past couple of months. But they take on a special, if unseasonable, significance poking their heads up from the soil on New Year's Day.

Whether or not you follow the tradition of making New Year's resolutions, can you escape the sense of newness that comes with this day? The putting up of new calendars, the getting used to writing 2007 instead of 2006, the reminder that at least in some things, we really can start over, we really can make changes, we can live differently from the way we have?

I can't. The newness and hope somehow change the air I breathe on this day.

We took our dogs for a walk yesterday, and from the time we left our front door to the time we returned, the temperature must have dropped about ten degrees. At least it does feel like January today, waking up to 30-something degrees rather than the 70's of the past week. I welcome the brisk air, clear sunshine, and the opportunity to dress as if it is winter (well, okay, more like fall). This, too, fits with the day, the New Year, the freshness of new beginnings.

When we returned from our walk yesterday, our kitchen floor was flooded. It took a few hours to mop up, clean up, go to Home Depot, clear the clog that caused it all. Not what we had planned for New Year's Eve.

On Christmas Day, we walked into our dining room to find a circle of fire in the middle of our dining room table. They don't put "do not leave burning candle unattended" on every candle for no reason. We lost a tablecloth and a beloved glass plate in the process, but water put the flames out easily, for which we were very thankful.

So, with both fire and flood behind us, we figure 2007 can only bring better things. But even if it brings more fire and flood, we know we can handle it!

And some day--some day--the Creator and Sustainer of the daffodils will make all things new. That's the calendar page I most look forward to turning. And at the top on my list of resolutions is to live in anticipation of that day.

Happy New Year!

Sixth Day of Christmas

Since discovering the church calendar, I have come to love experiencing Christmas as a twelve-day celebration. Not only does it free me up to send "late" Christmas cards and gifts, but it really does provide more opportunities to think about what it means that God became man, Word became flesh.

Today I read from N.T. Wright's Christmas Day sermon, which held Psalm 85 up as a background to John 1, and will share his summary paragraph:

But if that larger, global picture gives a brief indication of why John’s repeated ‘grace and truth’ matters, and matters urgently, in the wider world and church, we cannot of course ignore its message for our own lives. One of the great truths of spirituality is that you become like what you worship. We beheld his glory, says John: we gazed at it, long and lovingly, with adoration and worship, so that the marriage of grace and truth which we see and know in the Christ-child can be born in us as well, so that we can be people, we can become communities, in whom God’s grace generates and sustains a human integrity, a wholeness and holiness of character. And the definition of mission . . . can be restated in exactly the same terms: we are to become people in and through whom God’s grace overflows to the world around, producing a new integrity, a new truth and truthfulness, at every level from politics to university study to sexual morality to ecology (where the image of grace from above producing fruitfulness below is especially poignant), and reaching out into human hearts and lives and imaginations with the news that there is such a thing as truth, because there is such a thing as grace, because there is such a person as Jesus, and because in him we see and know God’s living word made living flesh and are summoned to become living words in living flesh ourselves. Grace and truth have met together; justice and peace have kissed each other; truth springs up from the earth, and justice looks down from heaven. From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace; for the law was given through Moses, but grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. Come to him today, taste his grace and truth in bread and wine, and become yourselves wedding guests, feasting at the marriage of heaven and earth.

Merry Christmas!

(This is our Christmas tree from our Christmas visit to Croatia four years ago.)

Charlotte's Web

We just saw it tonight.

You need to see it.

Some people probably call me sentimental. Depending on which definition you use, I might or might not agree with that. But I don't see Charlotte's Web as sentimental. I think it really connects with some deep stuff of life.

At any rate, I was sobbing by the end of the movie and had to ask for Drazen's handkerchief. (His comment on the movie: "It was fun." Vive la difference.)

I remember this book so fondly from earlier years, and I enjoyed learning in later years that the author was the same E.B. White of Strunk and White, so well-known among English majors. I knew it wasn't "just" a children's book.

But it wasn't until tonight that I saw the story on a whole different level, the level that made me sob.

Because it hit me tonight that it is truly because of friends, mostly older friends, who have written or spoken special words about me, that I am alive today. Not that I would have ended up in the smokehouse like Wilbur. But several times in my life I am quite sure I would have died inside, and almost did, had it not been for the words others had applied to me.

Words that told me I was loved.

Words that helped me believe in a "me" beyond the one I was able to see at the time.

Words that pointed me to the One who gave me life to begin with.

Words that gave me hope and a future.

And some of those who wrote and spoke those words have, like Charlotte, left this life. And death will eventually separate us from all those we love . . . for a while.

And that's why I sat there with tears streaming down my face, thinking of Grandmother, and Mr. Wright, and other precious people who are still living and will go unmentioned because they are humble and might be embarrassed.

They are all some friends, terrific, and radiant, as well.

If you haven't seen the movie, go see it. See it in honor of the people who have found the right words for you, who have seen your soul in a way you could not. For the people who have saved your life.

And go find words for others who need them.

(And enjoy it, too: it really is fun!)