I haven't posted anything here on my blog for almost a month. That's because it's been a very difficult month.
The cancer I have been battling since my diagnosis in February took an unexpected turn we had not ever foreseen. It decided to move to my brain. The terrible headaches I was experiencing for a few weeks, along with the memory issues, were a result of that. They discovered it in an MRI on October 17 (just a couple of days after my last post). I was immediately checked into the hospital and I had brain surgery on the 20th. The amazing neurosurgeon was able to get it all, and thank the Lord, there were no repercussions affecting my speech or my memory (which was my biggest fear).
This year has been the most exhausting road I've ever walked. It started with my mother's unexpected death last December, and it's moved along since then with every exhausting twist and turn you could imagine. My original symptoms and hospital visits in late January. My initial bladder surgery and my late stage/metastasized cancer diagnosis in February. The pain in my bone (where the cancer first moved) for months and months. My radiation and intensive chemo treatments in February, March, and April. Immunotherapy since May, still ongoing every two to three weeks. The neuropathy that began in my hands and feet in June and has gotten worse since. The good news in August that the cancer in the original site was gone, and that it had decreased -- miraculously -- in the bone by 20-30 percent, and that there was even some unexpected new bone growth (and yes, even good news of this magnitude can be exhausting in a different way...there are just so many emotions one goes through on a journey of this kind). The beginning of the headaches and other issues in the fall. The realization that our building was being sold and that we would need to move from the apartments where we've lived for nearly twenty years. A hunt for a house we could rent and move into that we could actually afford. Fundraising my family has done for us, which has blessed us so much. The diagnosis of the brain cancer and the surgery to remove it in October. The beginning of our packing and moving in the past two weeks. The painful national election and its even more painful aftermath so far.
Even typing the list of what I've gone through makes me tired, but I don't think the words can easily convey how hard this all has been.
But words do help me through it. Words from the Scriptures that speak the Lord's heart to me. Words from friends who send love and encouragement. Words I use to process the pain. Words from poetry, songs, and stories that mean so much to me and help me find some order in the midst of disorder. Words from my old journals (which I've been looking through late in the night when I can't sleep) which show me ways in which God was preparing me for this walk, even years ago.
The song that's been making the rounds on social media this week is "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen, the poetic song writer who died last Monday at the age of 82. It's a song I've heard before, of course, but I find myself listening to it with new ears. Today I just spent some time crying my way through it, especially the final verse:
"I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool ya
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah"
I think what gets me about this stanza is the idea that even when it seems as though everything has gone wrong, when we are spent and broken and exhausted, we can still stand before the Lord of Song (what a wonderful name for God) and offer praise. That's what I hope to do...today, tomorrow, for the rest of my life, however long it may be, and for eternity.
I have scans again tomorrow, on the original areas of the cancer (bladder and bone). These will be the first ones since August. It's been nine months since my diagnosis. Nine months feels significant to me, maybe because I'm a mama who remembers carrying my daughter for nine months as she was knit together. I am praying for signs of healing tomorrow, healing and new life. But no matter what the scans reveal, even if they all go wrong, "I'll stand before the Lord of Song/With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah."
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
The Power of Poetry: Billy Collins' The Lanyard
Here's the power of poetry: a friend of mine posted a funny picture on Facebook this morning. It was a macrame owl, and he made the joking comment that macrame was making a comeback. Seeing that little rainbow colored owl suddenly made me think of all the sweet but rather lame craft type projects I did in the 70s and 80s, things like weaving strips of cloth together to make pot holders, putting together leather bracelets at the camp craft hut, or carefully gluing together popsicle sticks to make...well, something.
And all of that suddenly triggered the memory of Billy Collins' beautiful poem, The Lanyard. Collins is a master at taking something ordinary, even something ordinary and a little lame, and turning it round and round so you see all its facets. As though this thing, this moment, that we thought was so ordinary, turns out to be a diamond, because in it we see ourselves and our lives in a new way that is not at all ordinary and might even be profound.
The poem begins with these words:
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
*****
And it ends with these words:
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
If you've never read the poem in its entirety, you can find it here at The Writer's Almanac.
It's a poem I've loved for a long time, but this was the first time I'd read it since my mother's passing, and I find that I love it even more. The poem hasn't changed, but I have, and I needed to remember its unworn truths -- not just that we can't repay our mothers (the "worn truth" he admits as the obvious takeaway) but the audacity of our childhood love.
Of course the gift of a lanyard could never "make us even" with the huge, giving generosity poured on us by a loving parent. But here's the wonderful thing I see, from the vantage point of my own motherhood and the vantage point of losing my own dear mother -- a mother doesn't see such gifts as "useless" or "worthless" and that is *part* of the generosity and grace she gives. The poem's narrator looks back ruefully with adult eyes, recognizing how much he owes his mother, and maybe how ungrateful he sometimes was at different times in his life, or how oblivious -- and that in itself is a gift.
But I would be willing to bet that the mother's view of that gift when he gave it is much different than his view of it now. I would be willing to bet that she laughed over that clumsy lanyard (not in his presence) and put it away like a treasured jewel to be brought out years later, when she remembered not so much the gift itself, but the precious boy who gave it to her, and she reflected on how quickly he had grown, and how amazing that he had turned into a man who could grace the world with beautifully made things (like poems) and how good it was of God to have given her the chance to raise him.
And I remember a home movie of my own mother, on a Christmas morning (before I was even born) accepting the gift of some plastic roses from the hand of my older sister or brother (I can't remember which one handed them to her). Her face as she took those plastic blossoms was just luminous. She leaned in and pretended to smell them, and then she reached down and hugged that child with a gratitude that even now, fifty-some years later, feels palpably real and loving.
And all of that suddenly triggered the memory of Billy Collins' beautiful poem, The Lanyard. Collins is a master at taking something ordinary, even something ordinary and a little lame, and turning it round and round so you see all its facets. As though this thing, this moment, that we thought was so ordinary, turns out to be a diamond, because in it we see ourselves and our lives in a new way that is not at all ordinary and might even be profound.
The poem begins with these words:
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
*****
And it ends with these words:
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
If you've never read the poem in its entirety, you can find it here at The Writer's Almanac.
It's a poem I've loved for a long time, but this was the first time I'd read it since my mother's passing, and I find that I love it even more. The poem hasn't changed, but I have, and I needed to remember its unworn truths -- not just that we can't repay our mothers (the "worn truth" he admits as the obvious takeaway) but the audacity of our childhood love.
Of course the gift of a lanyard could never "make us even" with the huge, giving generosity poured on us by a loving parent. But here's the wonderful thing I see, from the vantage point of my own motherhood and the vantage point of losing my own dear mother -- a mother doesn't see such gifts as "useless" or "worthless" and that is *part* of the generosity and grace she gives. The poem's narrator looks back ruefully with adult eyes, recognizing how much he owes his mother, and maybe how ungrateful he sometimes was at different times in his life, or how oblivious -- and that in itself is a gift.
But I would be willing to bet that the mother's view of that gift when he gave it is much different than his view of it now. I would be willing to bet that she laughed over that clumsy lanyard (not in his presence) and put it away like a treasured jewel to be brought out years later, when she remembered not so much the gift itself, but the precious boy who gave it to her, and she reflected on how quickly he had grown, and how amazing that he had turned into a man who could grace the world with beautifully made things (like poems) and how good it was of God to have given her the chance to raise him.
And I remember a home movie of my own mother, on a Christmas morning (before I was even born) accepting the gift of some plastic roses from the hand of my older sister or brother (I can't remember which one handed them to her). Her face as she took those plastic blossoms was just luminous. She leaned in and pretended to smell them, and then she reached down and hugged that child with a gratitude that even now, fifty-some years later, feels palpably real and loving.
Saturday, January 16, 2016
More Thoughts on Grief
Every time I go through a new feeling or sensation or moment of grief over my mother's passing, I find myself thinking, "no one ever told me that it would feel that way." Then I stop and consider the truth of the thing that I've heard said more than almost anything else in the past almost month since Mama died -- that grief is an individual road, unique for every person who walks it.
I know this is true, and I find both comfort and sadness in it. Comfort because it helps to know there is no "right way" to grieve or mourn, no set time when I am supposed to realize that it's easier now, or when I am "done" with grieving. Sadness because part of me would like the universality of grief to somehow translate more into an ability to understand not just my own process but someone else's process a little more thoroughly. But this side of eternity, we tend to see through a glass darkly, and the best we can do sometimes is just hold out our hands to each other or offer a quiet, strengthening prayer.
It has been eye opening for me to remember my mother in her own season of deep grieving over her father's passing. That was in 1981. I was 13, just like the sweet girl is now, and I remember feeling bewildered when I saw my strong and usually competent mother become weepy and somehow vague and tentative (in that sleep walking way the first days and weeks of grief make you). I didn't understand the fog she was in over her father's sudden and very unexpected passing. I remember feeling surprised when I heard that my uncle actually fainted at the hospital upon hearing the news that their dad was gone. I wouldn't have been surprised if my mother had done the same. I recall that she felt less "mine" during that time -- as though she'd walked into some country I couldn't entirely enter into yet, though I was deeply saddened over my grandfather's death. The depth of her grief was startling to me, and I suspect the depth of mine has been startling for my daughter too. Just the other day, in the midst of a difficult time, I found myself saying something about "not feeling like myself," and she said, "I know what you mean. I miss you."
So part of my grieving has been learning how to stay attentive and focused in a time when my brain and heart want to do anything else but that. There are times and places when it's appropriate that I wander off mentally, and times when it's not appropriate it all and I have to swallow it down with a gentle promise to my heart that I will find a time soon when I can deal with that particular wave. Of course, by the time I get around to tending to myself, that wave has often receded, only to be replaced by something new. It's as though every day I take a step into new territory and I have to look around and gauge what this new country is like.
I know this is true, and I find both comfort and sadness in it. Comfort because it helps to know there is no "right way" to grieve or mourn, no set time when I am supposed to realize that it's easier now, or when I am "done" with grieving. Sadness because part of me would like the universality of grief to somehow translate more into an ability to understand not just my own process but someone else's process a little more thoroughly. But this side of eternity, we tend to see through a glass darkly, and the best we can do sometimes is just hold out our hands to each other or offer a quiet, strengthening prayer.
It has been eye opening for me to remember my mother in her own season of deep grieving over her father's passing. That was in 1981. I was 13, just like the sweet girl is now, and I remember feeling bewildered when I saw my strong and usually competent mother become weepy and somehow vague and tentative (in that sleep walking way the first days and weeks of grief make you). I didn't understand the fog she was in over her father's sudden and very unexpected passing. I remember feeling surprised when I heard that my uncle actually fainted at the hospital upon hearing the news that their dad was gone. I wouldn't have been surprised if my mother had done the same. I recall that she felt less "mine" during that time -- as though she'd walked into some country I couldn't entirely enter into yet, though I was deeply saddened over my grandfather's death. The depth of her grief was startling to me, and I suspect the depth of mine has been startling for my daughter too. Just the other day, in the midst of a difficult time, I found myself saying something about "not feeling like myself," and she said, "I know what you mean. I miss you."
So part of my grieving has been learning how to stay attentive and focused in a time when my brain and heart want to do anything else but that. There are times and places when it's appropriate that I wander off mentally, and times when it's not appropriate it all and I have to swallow it down with a gentle promise to my heart that I will find a time soon when I can deal with that particular wave. Of course, by the time I get around to tending to myself, that wave has often receded, only to be replaced by something new. It's as though every day I take a step into new territory and I have to look around and gauge what this new country is like.
Sunday, January 03, 2016
Grief Feels Like...
I feel like I could start a series of post called "what no one ever tells you about grief." It's strange, because I have lost people I've loved before, and grieved other losses and other hard things, but I have never before felt the giant, absorbing nature of grief the way I have in the past two weeks since my mother passed.
My dad and siblings and I all keeping checking in on each other. We're a family that loves words and stories and we process things by talking them out (always have) and I find we're all fumbling for words to describe how we feel and then laughing or crying or both when those words come up inadequate.
My sister said it best for me today when she said she feels like she's moving through molasses. Yes. My brain is slow; I am having to think and then think and think again about what I need to do next, or what I'm in the process of doing. I would be panicking over work deadlines (there are so many) but I honestly don't have room in my tired, achey state for panic. Maybe that's a good thing.
My body feels like it's been slammed by a truck. I am hoping to be able to see a chiropractor soon. All the usual remedies I use for flare-ups of aches and pains during stressful times are not working. I keep thinking I might be coming down with something, but I think it's just being worn out. Prayers for my low back, right hip, knee, and ankle are much appreciated. Right now it often feels like I have constant discomfort and sometimes downright pain all the way down the right (my right side is always the side that flares-up when I'm sick or stressed, and always has been).
Listening to "Still, Still, Still..." and feeling so grateful, once again, that it's still Christmas. I wish it could last even longer this year. I'm not ready to turn the corner into cold and dark. I love Epiphany...but we need more Epiphany songs and carols, yes?
My dad and siblings and I all keeping checking in on each other. We're a family that loves words and stories and we process things by talking them out (always have) and I find we're all fumbling for words to describe how we feel and then laughing or crying or both when those words come up inadequate.
My sister said it best for me today when she said she feels like she's moving through molasses. Yes. My brain is slow; I am having to think and then think and think again about what I need to do next, or what I'm in the process of doing. I would be panicking over work deadlines (there are so many) but I honestly don't have room in my tired, achey state for panic. Maybe that's a good thing.
My body feels like it's been slammed by a truck. I am hoping to be able to see a chiropractor soon. All the usual remedies I use for flare-ups of aches and pains during stressful times are not working. I keep thinking I might be coming down with something, but I think it's just being worn out. Prayers for my low back, right hip, knee, and ankle are much appreciated. Right now it often feels like I have constant discomfort and sometimes downright pain all the way down the right (my right side is always the side that flares-up when I'm sick or stressed, and always has been).
Listening to "Still, Still, Still..." and feeling so grateful, once again, that it's still Christmas. I wish it could last even longer this year. I'm not ready to turn the corner into cold and dark. I love Epiphany...but we need more Epiphany songs and carols, yes?
Friday, December 25, 2015
Sing All Ye Citizens of Heaven Above!
My last post was written a week ago, but it feels so much longer. In that time, we've finished the Advent season and moved into Christmas. And my mother has entered into glory.
At 83, my precious, wonderful mother was feeling better than she had in a long, long time. We loved our visit with her on Thanksgiving. She was telling stories....lots of them. In fact, I wrote in my journal at the time that she seemed to be putting together the pieces of her life like a jigsaw puzzle. She lingered long over stories about her childhood, youth, and adulthood, especially about her journey of faith. She and I cooked Thanksgiving dinner together. She loved watching Sarah do her Irish dancing on the backyard patio. I remember her hearing the neighbors on the other side of the fence and hurrying over to chat with them (chatting with neighbors being something she loved doing more than almost anything!). She'd only recovered from hip surgery a few months before, but she was scrambling up on tiptoes and pulling herself up so she could call over the fence.
I had no idea that less than a month later, she would be gone from this earth and in the presence of Jesus.
The sudden and unexpected heart attack she had on Sunday was all the more unexpected because of how well she'd been feeling. She had no history of heart disease. She took incredibly good care of herself (and my dad took wonderful care of her during her hip recovery and her bout of cellulitis). She always believed a merry heart was the best medicine. Her doctors often told her how strong she was constitutionally. Her own mother lived to be 92; her maternal grandfather lived to be 100. I truly thought she had lots of time left.
But the Lord called her home this Christmas, and when the Lord calls, you answer. My mother answered with peace. She was one of the most active people I know, and yet when the time came, God gave her the serenity to simply surrender into his arms with assurance and peace. She taught me so much in her life, and even in her death, she continues to teach me.
I have so many stories I could tell about the grace filled moments of the past few days. Maybe I will soon. But on this day, Christmas day, I am simply rejoicing that Mama is home with Jesus....and simply missing her so much I ache all over.
At 83, my precious, wonderful mother was feeling better than she had in a long, long time. We loved our visit with her on Thanksgiving. She was telling stories....lots of them. In fact, I wrote in my journal at the time that she seemed to be putting together the pieces of her life like a jigsaw puzzle. She lingered long over stories about her childhood, youth, and adulthood, especially about her journey of faith. She and I cooked Thanksgiving dinner together. She loved watching Sarah do her Irish dancing on the backyard patio. I remember her hearing the neighbors on the other side of the fence and hurrying over to chat with them (chatting with neighbors being something she loved doing more than almost anything!). She'd only recovered from hip surgery a few months before, but she was scrambling up on tiptoes and pulling herself up so she could call over the fence.
I had no idea that less than a month later, she would be gone from this earth and in the presence of Jesus.
The sudden and unexpected heart attack she had on Sunday was all the more unexpected because of how well she'd been feeling. She had no history of heart disease. She took incredibly good care of herself (and my dad took wonderful care of her during her hip recovery and her bout of cellulitis). She always believed a merry heart was the best medicine. Her doctors often told her how strong she was constitutionally. Her own mother lived to be 92; her maternal grandfather lived to be 100. I truly thought she had lots of time left.
But the Lord called her home this Christmas, and when the Lord calls, you answer. My mother answered with peace. She was one of the most active people I know, and yet when the time came, God gave her the serenity to simply surrender into his arms with assurance and peace. She taught me so much in her life, and even in her death, she continues to teach me.
I have so many stories I could tell about the grace filled moments of the past few days. Maybe I will soon. But on this day, Christmas day, I am simply rejoicing that Mama is home with Jesus....and simply missing her so much I ache all over.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Everything We Have Comes From Him
I'm in the midst of a several day slog through a lot of work deadlines, which in actuality is part of a longer series of months where I've been pushing at a pace I know I can't keep up much longer.
My mind is tired. I am running out of creative ideas (both teaching and writing). I am running out of energy and hours.
My heart is tired. We have friends going through the unfathomable sadness of accompanying one of their children through terrible illness that looks as though it will end soon in death. I have turned twice to news reports in recent days about the persecution and killing of Christian brothers and sisters in other parts of the world.
My mind and heart are also bursting with love and gospel goodness, which in the midst of all the heartbreak and heartache feels ever more precious each day. We have been loving our nearly teenage daughter through a ton of very hard questions about God, life, Jesus, the Bible, and the world -- incredible questions that come faster than we can possibly answer (her mind works at such an amazing pace sometimes). I spent part of the morning trying my best to answer questions from a seven year old who told me he really wants to see God.
Tonight I was glad to come across these words from the end of 1 Corinthians chapter 1 in The Message:
"Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don’t see many of “the brightest and the best” among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families. Isn’t it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these “nobodies” to expose the hollow pretensions of the “somebodies”? That makes it quite clear that none of you can get by with blowing your own horn before God. Everything that we have—right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start—comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. That’s why we have the saying, “If you’re going to blow a horn, blow a trumpet for God.”
What a rich treasure God has given us -- all of us who weren't much when we were called, but who by God's grace have been given everything we need, including a clean slate and fresh start.
My mind is tired. I am running out of creative ideas (both teaching and writing). I am running out of energy and hours.
My heart is tired. We have friends going through the unfathomable sadness of accompanying one of their children through terrible illness that looks as though it will end soon in death. I have turned twice to news reports in recent days about the persecution and killing of Christian brothers and sisters in other parts of the world.
My mind and heart are also bursting with love and gospel goodness, which in the midst of all the heartbreak and heartache feels ever more precious each day. We have been loving our nearly teenage daughter through a ton of very hard questions about God, life, Jesus, the Bible, and the world -- incredible questions that come faster than we can possibly answer (her mind works at such an amazing pace sometimes). I spent part of the morning trying my best to answer questions from a seven year old who told me he really wants to see God.
Tonight I was glad to come across these words from the end of 1 Corinthians chapter 1 in The Message:
"Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don’t see many of “the brightest and the best” among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families. Isn’t it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these “nobodies” to expose the hollow pretensions of the “somebodies”? That makes it quite clear that none of you can get by with blowing your own horn before God. Everything that we have—right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start—comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. That’s why we have the saying, “If you’re going to blow a horn, blow a trumpet for God.”
What a rich treasure God has given us -- all of us who weren't much when we were called, but who by God's grace have been given everything we need, including a clean slate and fresh start.
Thursday, September 06, 2012
Remembering Madeleine L'Engle (Nov 29, 1918-Sept 6, 2007)
It's not often that I can remember what I was doing exactly five years ago, but this evening I can. It was five years ago today that Madeleine L'Engle passed away, moving from this earth to glory.
She meant so much to me as a person and a writer than her loss felt huge. I spent most of this evening, five years ago, crying and re-reading favorite portions of her books ~ which still take up a proportionately large section of my shelves.
I find it interesting that this day slipped up on me almost unawares, and yet I have had Madeleine on my mind and heart almost all week, as I'm working on the outline of a book that would potentially explore her work and the work of several other authors.
Instead of trying to say anything moving and profound tonight (when I am, quite honestly, very stressed and tired) I thought I would post a few things from my archives. I have shared about Madeleine a good bit over the years.
Here's a post I wrote in honor of A Wrinkle in Time's 50th anniversary several months ago. It's in the form of a letter to Madeleine.
And this was the initial reflection I posted the day after she died, which I entitled, "For Madeleine, May All Her Seasons Be Blessed." As I wrote there:
Her writing has shaped me and helped me in so many ways. She helped me think about life in terms of seasons; she helped me learn to order my time and count it as precious. She taught me the importance of names and naming, and what a precious gift it is to be given the gift of someone's name. She taught me to hope and believe that marriage, even or especially in its difficult times, could still grow and flourish. She reminded me to be honest in my prayers. Time and again, she returned my focus to God's amazing love for his beloved creation, and especially turned my eyes again and again to the incarnation and the wonderful gift of Jesus.
So thankful for her life. I still miss her.
She meant so much to me as a person and a writer than her loss felt huge. I spent most of this evening, five years ago, crying and re-reading favorite portions of her books ~ which still take up a proportionately large section of my shelves.
I find it interesting that this day slipped up on me almost unawares, and yet I have had Madeleine on my mind and heart almost all week, as I'm working on the outline of a book that would potentially explore her work and the work of several other authors.
Instead of trying to say anything moving and profound tonight (when I am, quite honestly, very stressed and tired) I thought I would post a few things from my archives. I have shared about Madeleine a good bit over the years.
Here's a post I wrote in honor of A Wrinkle in Time's 50th anniversary several months ago. It's in the form of a letter to Madeleine.
And this was the initial reflection I posted the day after she died, which I entitled, "For Madeleine, May All Her Seasons Be Blessed." As I wrote there:
Her writing has shaped me and helped me in so many ways. She helped me think about life in terms of seasons; she helped me learn to order my time and count it as precious. She taught me the importance of names and naming, and what a precious gift it is to be given the gift of someone's name. She taught me to hope and believe that marriage, even or especially in its difficult times, could still grow and flourish. She reminded me to be honest in my prayers. Time and again, she returned my focus to God's amazing love for his beloved creation, and especially turned my eyes again and again to the incarnation and the wonderful gift of Jesus.
So thankful for her life. I still miss her.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Patchwork Post (Mother's Day edition)
One in the morning and heading into Monday...why I'm still up is still a mystery, though it may have something to do with the amazing nap I got earlier today (my mother's day tradition!) or the caffeine I drank earlier this evening. I'm also grading papers. It's May!
The past few days have gone by in a whirlwind. My husband's stepfather passed away on Friday, may he rest in peace. His passing was not entirely unexpected -- his health has been deteriorating for some time -- but the end still came sooner than we thought it might. He died one day before their eleventh anniversary, which I'm sure has made this weekend especially hard for my dear mother-in-law. The two of them were neighbors and friends for years before tying the knot over a decade ago. It was Robert's first marriage, and he was past 70 when he walked down that aisle. I think his last years, prior to the onset of alzheimer's, were happy ones. Today I am just feeling grateful that he is no longer suffering. As I told the sweet girl, who is struggling a bit with all the mixed emotions floating about (really the first death in the family she has experienced) it's okay to feel both happy and sad over a death like this. We can be happy that Mr. Robert is home for good -- no longer confused, no longer in pain. But we can also feel sad because we miss him and because we know grandma will.
I often find that having to put things into admittedly simplified words for my precious nine year old, who is wonderfully bright and inquisitive and sometimes even more emotionally young than her years might attest, is balm to my own heart. It helps me think through the "big things" in life more cleanly and clearly than I ever did before I was a mom, before I learned how to act as a navigator and trail-guide (two things I think moms definitely are).
I had a chance to talk with my own mom on this phone this afternoon, and to tell her anew how much I love her and miss her. And oh, I really do, on both counts. So grateful for her presence in my life.
The past few days have gone by in a whirlwind. My husband's stepfather passed away on Friday, may he rest in peace. His passing was not entirely unexpected -- his health has been deteriorating for some time -- but the end still came sooner than we thought it might. He died one day before their eleventh anniversary, which I'm sure has made this weekend especially hard for my dear mother-in-law. The two of them were neighbors and friends for years before tying the knot over a decade ago. It was Robert's first marriage, and he was past 70 when he walked down that aisle. I think his last years, prior to the onset of alzheimer's, were happy ones. Today I am just feeling grateful that he is no longer suffering. As I told the sweet girl, who is struggling a bit with all the mixed emotions floating about (really the first death in the family she has experienced) it's okay to feel both happy and sad over a death like this. We can be happy that Mr. Robert is home for good -- no longer confused, no longer in pain. But we can also feel sad because we miss him and because we know grandma will.
I often find that having to put things into admittedly simplified words for my precious nine year old, who is wonderfully bright and inquisitive and sometimes even more emotionally young than her years might attest, is balm to my own heart. It helps me think through the "big things" in life more cleanly and clearly than I ever did before I was a mom, before I learned how to act as a navigator and trail-guide (two things I think moms definitely are).
I had a chance to talk with my own mom on this phone this afternoon, and to tell her anew how much I love her and miss her. And oh, I really do, on both counts. So grateful for her presence in my life.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The Unique Walk of Grief
For the past few years, I've contemplated writing a January post about grief. I don't know what's made me feel more unsure -- knowing I'd need to find the courage to be vulnerable in what I say, or not wanting to unintentionally intrude on someone else's experience of grief. But...deep breath...this is the year I've decided to write the post.Today is the 10th of January. It's an ordinary day and date and it may not have special significance to everyone, but to me, it marks a day that always has a special place in my heart. It was the due date of our first baby, a baby we lost a number of years ago when I miscarried at around week eleven of my first pregnancy.
Miscarriages are strange things. They are incredibly difficult to talk about in our culture. When they first happen, people don't know what to say to comfort you in your loss. Perhaps because the life that has been lost was so small and hidden still. After a miscarriage has happened, especially if any significant amount of time has passed, people expect you not to talk about the experience, as though it's been over so long ago that it should be well shelved in your memory and not need airing. I still sometimes feel embarrassment -- though I know I shouldn't -- when I feel a deep need to bring it up, and when tears form in my eyes when I talk about it.
Even the name is strange: to "miscarry" always sounds to me as though you just accidentally slipped or somehow made a mistake. Nothing, of course, could be farther from the truth. When my miscarriage occurred, I remember feeling more powerless than I had ever felt in my life. Everything in me longed to change what was happening in my body, what was happening to the new little life that was developing inside me. I desperately wanted to find a way to stop it from happening, and after it was over, I went through a period of time when I kept wanting to turn back time.
I think there is also a sense, on the part of many people, that the pain of a miscarriage, once it's over and done, ceases to hurt very much. Especially if you've gone on to have another baby. There's an expectation that the gift of the new child somehow completely heals over the sore places in your heart and empty hands. And there is, of course, a deep element of truth to that. Time plus grace does help heal wounds (of all sorts, not just this particular grief) and holding a whole, healthy baby assuages the maternal ache. Assuages and comforts, but never erases it. Because the life you carried was a different life, a different person. And though you never held that little one in your arms, you did carry him or her in your body...for days, weeks, sometimes months.
And you felt that person's presence. It's different for different women, of course, depending on when the miscarriage occurs. For some, a heartbeat has already been heard, and the worst moment may come when that rhythm ceases to beat its steady pulse. For others (like me) we didn't even get to hear that wonderful music. But still, the changes that occurred in my body, as it made room for that little one to grow, were palpably real. I prayed prayers for that little one. And the physical and emotional journey of the miscarriage, essentially a small labor ending in huge loss, are etched in my memory forever. Truly one of the hardest days and nights of my life, with the prayer of Psalm 121 (sent by a friend) and the prayerful songs of St. Brendan my lifeline in the wee small hours.
The grief never goes away entirely. And that too is unique for each person. The grief tends to wash over me every year in January, right around this time. I feel it coming, sometimes like a tidal wave (in hard, darker years) other years a more manageable wave but still strong and sure. I've realized that there's nothing I can do to stop its coming...that it's a natural part of who I am now, like my hair and eye color. This grief is a piece of me and preparing for the wave is a part of what I have to do every year as the calendar turns. Some years I weather it with grace. Some years not so much. (This is, thankfully, a grace year...hence the strength to write this post.) Some years the grief is more palpable than others. I find myself thinking about the fact that I could be planning a birthday party right now, wondering how our little one would be enjoying the after-Christmas season leading up to the birthday. I find myself wondering if he (or she, but we've always had a strong feeling the baby was a he) would be like his sister.
We conceived the sweet girl just months after the loss. In the present, physical world, these two children could not have both existed -- they were too close in time. There is an absurd feeling to that for my heart sometimes, a strangeness, because I am the physical link that connects them both, and I hold them in my heart in unique ways. I cannot imagine our lives without the sweet girl, now a precious and amazingly creative 9 and 1/2. But I cannot imagine my life without the weeks I carried our other little one, who would now be turning 10. (One day, when she's ready -- she's not yet -- I'll share about all this with her. And I hope that will be a blessing to us both.)
My husband's grief still comes too. It hits him at a different time, around the time of the actual miscarriage itself, which came in June, right around Father's Day. Just a little more than a year or so after we lost our first little one on Father's Day, he held his daughter in his arms, and then three months later lost his own father. It all combines in a tangled web of love and loss, joy and sorrow.
There were people, even at the time of the miscarriage, who treated the loss as an ephemeral one -- as though the only real loss was the loss of our dreams about this tiny precious one (as if that wasn't crushing enough). That hurt, undeniably. I found myself not knowing how to answer their well-meaning statements. (Word to the wise: "these things happen" almost never comforts.) There were people who perhaps didn't understand my need to cry, journal, bawl my questions at God. But there were also people who awed me with their love and understanding, and who -- like the experience of the love and loss itself -- changed me forever, helped me grow in my own tenderness toward others walking this road or other kinds of grief roads. There was the dear friend who sent me the large, thick creamy white candle I still light in the baby's honor every year. There were the people who hugged me without saying anything at all. There was the friend who let me know, tentatively but truly, that he had dreamed I was expecting again (not long before I really was, a sign of hope). There was the woman at church I barely knew who almost brought me to my knees when she let me know, months down the road, that she had prayed for me every single day of the original pregnancy, even after we lost the baby.
The love of those people is one of the main reasons I've wanted to write this post for the past decade. They are the ones who showed me, through God's grace and through very simple acts of kindness, that we really can respect one another's unique roads of grief and walk each other through them. They were the ones who helped me to accept that my own grief is just a part of who I am, and will stay with me in some form for the rest of my life. But that the grief doesn't have to be an enemy, or something I need feel ashamed of. It's helped shape who I am. And it's not the only thing that shapes me. There were the very real eleven weeks of joy I experienced in carrying that tiny, hidden little one inside me, the privilege of carrying my baby for the very short season of that little one's earthly life.
Joy and grief both shape us. And they never fully leave us.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Haiti is on my Heart
It's been a year since the earthquake in Haiti.
I was remembering this post I did last year, all my whirling thoughts as I attempted both to process the tragedy and share about it with my little girl.
For a long time -- months, in fact -- we prayed nightly for Haiti. As other countries went through earthquakes and hurricanes, we added them to our nightly litany. For a long time, the sweet girl would not let us forget to pray for the people of these countries, and especially for Haiti.
But time marched on, and somehow...we forgot. All of us. We still prayed for Haiti sometimes. We still talked about the earthquake sometimes, especially when we read reports from places like Compassion as they reflected on rebuilding and recovery. But we did not pray faithfully each night.
And now a year has gone by and I'm reading and thinking and pondering again. The sweet girl and I spent a long time at dinner talking about Haiti and being grateful for our blessings.
Haiti is on our hearts again, and I'm praying this time we won't let it slip back out so easily.
Of all I've read in the past couple of days, this article is perhaps the one that has moved me most deeply. If you have a chance, read it prayerfully: "A Strange Land Where the Poor Are Rich and the Suffering Sing."
Lord have mercy on the people of Haiti. And Lord, do not let us forget.
I was remembering this post I did last year, all my whirling thoughts as I attempted both to process the tragedy and share about it with my little girl.
For a long time -- months, in fact -- we prayed nightly for Haiti. As other countries went through earthquakes and hurricanes, we added them to our nightly litany. For a long time, the sweet girl would not let us forget to pray for the people of these countries, and especially for Haiti.
But time marched on, and somehow...we forgot. All of us. We still prayed for Haiti sometimes. We still talked about the earthquake sometimes, especially when we read reports from places like Compassion as they reflected on rebuilding and recovery. But we did not pray faithfully each night.
And now a year has gone by and I'm reading and thinking and pondering again. The sweet girl and I spent a long time at dinner talking about Haiti and being grateful for our blessings.
Haiti is on our hearts again, and I'm praying this time we won't let it slip back out so easily.
Of all I've read in the past couple of days, this article is perhaps the one that has moved me most deeply. If you have a chance, read it prayerfully: "A Strange Land Where the Poor Are Rich and the Suffering Sing."
Lord have mercy on the people of Haiti. And Lord, do not let us forget.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Why I Love the Lectionary
Yesterday was one of those days when I remembered how close joy and sorrow can be. Some of the reasons I won't go into here, but maybe a "big picture" view will be enough to share what I mean.
My niece in Minnesota gave birth night before last to a precious baby girl. Mom, baby, and whole family are beautifully well, and there was great rejoicing throughout our extended family.
And yesterday's lectionary gave us the readings for Holy Innocents Day (transferred this year, because of 1st Sunday of Christmas falling on what would normally be St. Stephen's Day).
Rejoicing over a new baby....
Sorrowing over Herod's slaughter of the innocents in and around Bethlehem at the time of Jesus' birth.
It would seem that those two things are miles and miles apart. And yet...
This is one of the many reasons why I love the lectionary, love the scaffolding it provides for my life and my daily leaning deeper into God.
Left on my own, I am pretty sure I would gravitate to certain passages in the Scriptures again and again. In fact, I do -- and that's not necessarily a bad thing, as I think the Lord draws us, by His Holy Spirit, to certain places in the Word that speak to our deepest needs. It's why some of us have "life verses" or have memorized certain sections of Scripture or feel a deep affinity for certain figures in the Bible, the ones whose stories seem to connect with our own stories in startling ways, and so we go back to their stories often to mine them for riches.
But I still need the lectionary. I need it in is four-fold messiness, its imperfections, and its sometimes seeming arbitrariness about what to read and what not to read. I need it to pull me to passages I'd rather skip, thank you, and would probably not go near if I were given the choice for the day. I need it for the way it disciplines me to listen to snippets of the Story, and to hunt for the gold thread that binds that particular snippet to the wonderful whole tapestry of God's unfolding narrative.
I need it for the way it tempers my high ecstatic joys with reminders of the suffering that still exists, with reminders of the "now and not yet" nature of the kingdom.
I need it for the way it tempers my deepest, darkest despondences with real hope and light -- not sprinkled on top of the despondency like sugar on a cookie, but hope and light stirred deep into the batter of my soul, even on days when I really struggle with despair and frustration.
I need it for the way the voices in the daily passages sing, not just to me, but across the centuries to each other. Think of robed choirs on opposite sides of a chancel, or monks chanting Psalms in a darkened chapel in the early morning. Or friends at a table drinking coffee and sharing their hearts. Do you hear the way the words dance together, then apart, then together again?
The song across time this morning came from Isaiah 25 and Revelation 1. Isaiah and John sang together, a duet whose harmonies were painfully rich and beautiful. You could hardly tell where one voice started and the other stopped.
Jesus holds the keys of death and hades.
He died, and behold, he is alive forevermore!
He will swallow up death forever -- the covering, the veil spread out over all the peoples.
He will wipe away tears from all faces.
He will take away the reproach of his people.
He is a stronghold for the poor and needy, a shelter from the storm, a shade from the heat.
His voice is like the roar of many waters.
His face is like the sun shining in full strength.
To which we cry: YES! And we see and know, deep in our hearts, that who and what Isaiah and John saw and knew, across the many years that separated them, was one and the same Lord and God, one and the same kingdom vision. The seamless Story told in different pieces, different patches, different pictures and voices. If only we have eyes to see. If only we have ears to listen.
Praying that God will give me those eyes and ears more and more in the coming year.
My niece in Minnesota gave birth night before last to a precious baby girl. Mom, baby, and whole family are beautifully well, and there was great rejoicing throughout our extended family.
And yesterday's lectionary gave us the readings for Holy Innocents Day (transferred this year, because of 1st Sunday of Christmas falling on what would normally be St. Stephen's Day).
Rejoicing over a new baby....
Sorrowing over Herod's slaughter of the innocents in and around Bethlehem at the time of Jesus' birth.
It would seem that those two things are miles and miles apart. And yet...
This is one of the many reasons why I love the lectionary, love the scaffolding it provides for my life and my daily leaning deeper into God.
Left on my own, I am pretty sure I would gravitate to certain passages in the Scriptures again and again. In fact, I do -- and that's not necessarily a bad thing, as I think the Lord draws us, by His Holy Spirit, to certain places in the Word that speak to our deepest needs. It's why some of us have "life verses" or have memorized certain sections of Scripture or feel a deep affinity for certain figures in the Bible, the ones whose stories seem to connect with our own stories in startling ways, and so we go back to their stories often to mine them for riches.
But I still need the lectionary. I need it in is four-fold messiness, its imperfections, and its sometimes seeming arbitrariness about what to read and what not to read. I need it to pull me to passages I'd rather skip, thank you, and would probably not go near if I were given the choice for the day. I need it for the way it disciplines me to listen to snippets of the Story, and to hunt for the gold thread that binds that particular snippet to the wonderful whole tapestry of God's unfolding narrative.
I need it for the way it tempers my high ecstatic joys with reminders of the suffering that still exists, with reminders of the "now and not yet" nature of the kingdom.
I need it for the way it tempers my deepest, darkest despondences with real hope and light -- not sprinkled on top of the despondency like sugar on a cookie, but hope and light stirred deep into the batter of my soul, even on days when I really struggle with despair and frustration.
I need it for the way the voices in the daily passages sing, not just to me, but across the centuries to each other. Think of robed choirs on opposite sides of a chancel, or monks chanting Psalms in a darkened chapel in the early morning. Or friends at a table drinking coffee and sharing their hearts. Do you hear the way the words dance together, then apart, then together again?
The song across time this morning came from Isaiah 25 and Revelation 1. Isaiah and John sang together, a duet whose harmonies were painfully rich and beautiful. You could hardly tell where one voice started and the other stopped.
Jesus holds the keys of death and hades.
He died, and behold, he is alive forevermore!
He will swallow up death forever -- the covering, the veil spread out over all the peoples.
He will wipe away tears from all faces.
He will take away the reproach of his people.
He is a stronghold for the poor and needy, a shelter from the storm, a shade from the heat.
His voice is like the roar of many waters.
His face is like the sun shining in full strength.
To which we cry: YES! And we see and know, deep in our hearts, that who and what Isaiah and John saw and knew, across the many years that separated them, was one and the same Lord and God, one and the same kingdom vision. The seamless Story told in different pieces, different patches, different pictures and voices. If only we have eyes to see. If only we have ears to listen.
Praying that God will give me those eyes and ears more and more in the coming year.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Little Women: The Copy I Read to Tatters
In my minds-eye, I can still see the brown wooden shelf. It was on the left-hand side of the living room window (as I stood by the stereo cabinet and as I faced the Sheehy's house next door) and it felt like a veritable treasure trove of book goodness. Standing side by side, like noble soldiers, were about a dozen books with brightly colored spines. A small green glass vase stood somewhere nearby, and a ceramic girl with a cherubic face also stood guard.
Sometime in the 1960s, probably when my oldest sister and brother were in grade school, my parents purchased a set of literary classics produced especially for children. These were the Grosset and Dunlap Companion Library classics, the "two-in-one" volumes that fascinated me. Hold The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on your lap and enjoy reading, and when you're done, simply flip the book over and discover Huckleberry Finn. Not all of the paired books were by the same author, but some were, and I loved the "twin" book concept. You can see a picture of some of the books I mean on this vintage book site (where yes, some gently used copies are for sale).
I don't remember how old I was when I first picked up one of the companion books from the shelf, but I do know I loved them. This set was my introduction to Black Beauty, The Five Little Peppers, Arabian Nights, and many other excellent books. Most importantly, it was my introduction to Little Women and to Little Men, the "two-in-one" Alcotts in the set.
I don't know what happened to the rest of those books (do my parents still have them?) but I do know they completely understood that I took my copy of Little Women/Little Men with me when I grew up and left home. Of course, by that time, it no longer had its colorful spine -- I had worn it off from my repeated readings. My original copy of LW looked like a wounded soldier who had done faithful service in the line of duty, perhaps not unlike some of Alcott's charges in the Washington hospital where she served as a nurse during the Civil War.
And here it is, in all its tattered glory:
You're not imagining the dirt. It's really engrained in the cover. How could it not be? I dragged this copy of Little Women up so many trees (my favorite place to read). I was a good tree-climber, but my dad was so worried that I might fall while toting books with me (and climbing one-armed) that he made a string-pulley. I could tie my books to the pulley while safely on the ground, climb with both hands free, and haul the books up after me. I'm afraid, however, that I used to lower the books again very fast and dump them unceremoniously on the ground at the base of the tree. So the dirt worked into the cover is good Virginia soil!
And what about that cover? Like many Little Women fans, I often played "guess the sister" since there was nothing that definitively stated which girl was which. I had a very definite idea about who was who on my edition's cover. Amy, of course, is easy to spot -- she's the only one with blond hair -- but the other three are brunettes. But I thought the tall one in the yellow dress had to be matronly Meg, the smiling one in purple was Beth, and the one with her back to the audience and her elbows jutting out at sharp angles had to be Jo. I mean really, who else could it be?
Examining my tattered copy again this week, I was intrigued to note just how yellowed the pages are becoming and how brittle the binding is. I clearly had favorite places I returned to again and again. For instance, I loved that first chapter dearly, so one of the first big binding breaks comes between chapters one and two:
But the death of beloved sister Beth, and Jo's subsequent journey through grief, always moved me so deeply. I wasn't surprised to see a big binding break here either:
We are physical, encultured people. The books we love, and read again and again, live forever in our minds and hearts, but there is something deeply beloved in the actual look and feel of the book itself. This is where we first entered these worlds and met these characters. Books are doorways, but sometimes what evokes the memory of the first magical passageway into a beloved fictional world is seeing and holding again the actual book itself: enjoying the threshold, the doorjamb, the shiny brass knob (tarnished over time), and even the fingerprints we've left all over it.
As I contemplated my first real post in celebration of Louisa May Alcott and Little Women, I realized the best way I could convey my deep love and appreciation for this story was to show you my first copy.
Sometime in the 1960s, probably when my oldest sister and brother were in grade school, my parents purchased a set of literary classics produced especially for children. These were the Grosset and Dunlap Companion Library classics, the "two-in-one" volumes that fascinated me. Hold The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on your lap and enjoy reading, and when you're done, simply flip the book over and discover Huckleberry Finn. Not all of the paired books were by the same author, but some were, and I loved the "twin" book concept. You can see a picture of some of the books I mean on this vintage book site (where yes, some gently used copies are for sale).
I don't remember how old I was when I first picked up one of the companion books from the shelf, but I do know I loved them. This set was my introduction to Black Beauty, The Five Little Peppers, Arabian Nights, and many other excellent books. Most importantly, it was my introduction to Little Women and to Little Men, the "two-in-one" Alcotts in the set.
I don't know what happened to the rest of those books (do my parents still have them?) but I do know they completely understood that I took my copy of Little Women/Little Men with me when I grew up and left home. Of course, by that time, it no longer had its colorful spine -- I had worn it off from my repeated readings. My original copy of LW looked like a wounded soldier who had done faithful service in the line of duty, perhaps not unlike some of Alcott's charges in the Washington hospital where she served as a nurse during the Civil War.
And here it is, in all its tattered glory:
You're not imagining the dirt. It's really engrained in the cover. How could it not be? I dragged this copy of Little Women up so many trees (my favorite place to read). I was a good tree-climber, but my dad was so worried that I might fall while toting books with me (and climbing one-armed) that he made a string-pulley. I could tie my books to the pulley while safely on the ground, climb with both hands free, and haul the books up after me. I'm afraid, however, that I used to lower the books again very fast and dump them unceremoniously on the ground at the base of the tree. So the dirt worked into the cover is good Virginia soil!
And what about that cover? Like many Little Women fans, I often played "guess the sister" since there was nothing that definitively stated which girl was which. I had a very definite idea about who was who on my edition's cover. Amy, of course, is easy to spot -- she's the only one with blond hair -- but the other three are brunettes. But I thought the tall one in the yellow dress had to be matronly Meg, the smiling one in purple was Beth, and the one with her back to the audience and her elbows jutting out at sharp angles had to be Jo. I mean really, who else could it be?
Examining my tattered copy again this week, I was intrigued to note just how yellowed the pages are becoming and how brittle the binding is. I clearly had favorite places I returned to again and again. For instance, I loved that first chapter dearly, so one of the first big binding breaks comes between chapters one and two:
But the death of beloved sister Beth, and Jo's subsequent journey through grief, always moved me so deeply. I wasn't surprised to see a big binding break here either:
We are physical, encultured people. The books we love, and read again and again, live forever in our minds and hearts, but there is something deeply beloved in the actual look and feel of the book itself. This is where we first entered these worlds and met these characters. Books are doorways, but sometimes what evokes the memory of the first magical passageway into a beloved fictional world is seeing and holding again the actual book itself: enjoying the threshold, the doorjamb, the shiny brass knob (tarnished over time), and even the fingerprints we've left all over it.
As I contemplated my first real post in celebration of Louisa May Alcott and Little Women, I realized the best way I could convey my deep love and appreciation for this story was to show you my first copy.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
That Tiny Little Word "So"...
This week's gospel readings have us in John 11, the story of the raising of Lazarus.
This has always been one of my favorite stories in the gospels, not only for how it shows us the love and power of Jesus, but because I am blessed to have sisters named Mary and Martha. The stories involving the sisters in Bethany have always felt especially close to my heart for that reason.
I've read John 11 so many times that the contours and curves of the narrative almost feel worn smooth. So when I hit a surprising "bump" in my reading yesterday morning, it grabbed my attention.
I was reading in the English Standard Version (ESV) and got to verses 5 & 6:
"Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was."
Jesus LOVED them. So when they were sick and in need, he....rushed to their side to do everything he could right away to fix things! That's what we expect from this story, isn't it, when we're reading with our natural mind and heart? That's what makes sense to us.
I was reminded of a scene with the sweet girl from sometime last month. She wanted something, something badly, and we wouldn't let her have it (I honestly don't recall what it was, but it wasn't something we wanted her to have at that time, and we were trying to help her work through her initial response, which involved a lot of anger and petulance.) She got a little tearful and said "But don't you love me? If you love me, and it's a good thing, why won't you let me have it?"
So often this is the state of my heart before God. Sometimes I'm angry and petulant, but sometimes I move past that and just end up weepy. "But Lord," I say, "this isn't a bad thing I want. It's a good thing! It's something you'd bless! I don't understand why I can't have it!"
And it's harder sometimes, isn't it, when the "thing" we want isn't so much a "thing" as something even more important and intangible (but just as real a need as any desire for a more tangible object). Lord, I want healing for this person I love. Lord, I need to be able to feel your presence NOW.
That tiny little word "so" really jumped out at me. Jesus loved them, SO he waited. Some translations use the word "yet" or "but" which alters the meaning a bit, or at least bends to our natural bellowing in the face of this kind of thing. The "so," tiny as it is, helps me comprehend at least a fraction more of the deep love and wisdom of God.
He loved them too much to give them the quick and easy "fix." He could have rushed to their side and healed Lazarus, and yes, that would have blessed them (how many times do we see Jesus heal in the gospels, so simply and quickly and in immediate response to a request made in faith). In this case, he had a bigger blessing in view, one that would not only do more in the lives of Mary, Martha and Lazarus than they ever would have imagined possible (and we ourselves can only imagine the soul growth and the deepening trust Jesus' actions brought forth in the hearts of these dear friends) but a blessing that encompassed many more people who witnessed the raising of Lazarus and who came to know Jesus as a result of it. Jesus had the kingdom in view, and his waiting was part of that kingdom work.
But Jesus never loses sight of his friends or how much he loves them. Maybe that's why John gives us that glimpse of Jesus weeping at the tomb. I remember I used to wonder, why was Jesus weeping? He knew what he was about to do! But his friend is dead, and has been dead for four days. As we see Jesus weeping in that moment, we realize that he knows what his waiting has cost these beloved friends in terms of real anxiety and grief. He knows, more than anyone, the darkness and sadness of death and how it's left its mark on his good world. He knows, more than anyone, what it will cost to defeat it.
It dawned on me that there's one other place in John's gospel where the word "so" has jumped out at me before. That would be in chapter 3, verse 16. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life."
He loves us so...enough to weep with us, enough to give us what he truly knows is best, enough to keep the world and the kingdom in view even while working in the small seedbeds of our hearts.
There is so much to that tiny little word "so."
This has always been one of my favorite stories in the gospels, not only for how it shows us the love and power of Jesus, but because I am blessed to have sisters named Mary and Martha. The stories involving the sisters in Bethany have always felt especially close to my heart for that reason.
I've read John 11 so many times that the contours and curves of the narrative almost feel worn smooth. So when I hit a surprising "bump" in my reading yesterday morning, it grabbed my attention.
I was reading in the English Standard Version (ESV) and got to verses 5 & 6:
"Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was."
Jesus LOVED them. So when they were sick and in need, he....rushed to their side to do everything he could right away to fix things! That's what we expect from this story, isn't it, when we're reading with our natural mind and heart? That's what makes sense to us.
I was reminded of a scene with the sweet girl from sometime last month. She wanted something, something badly, and we wouldn't let her have it (I honestly don't recall what it was, but it wasn't something we wanted her to have at that time, and we were trying to help her work through her initial response, which involved a lot of anger and petulance.) She got a little tearful and said "But don't you love me? If you love me, and it's a good thing, why won't you let me have it?"
So often this is the state of my heart before God. Sometimes I'm angry and petulant, but sometimes I move past that and just end up weepy. "But Lord," I say, "this isn't a bad thing I want. It's a good thing! It's something you'd bless! I don't understand why I can't have it!"
And it's harder sometimes, isn't it, when the "thing" we want isn't so much a "thing" as something even more important and intangible (but just as real a need as any desire for a more tangible object). Lord, I want healing for this person I love. Lord, I need to be able to feel your presence NOW.
That tiny little word "so" really jumped out at me. Jesus loved them, SO he waited. Some translations use the word "yet" or "but" which alters the meaning a bit, or at least bends to our natural bellowing in the face of this kind of thing. The "so," tiny as it is, helps me comprehend at least a fraction more of the deep love and wisdom of God.
He loved them too much to give them the quick and easy "fix." He could have rushed to their side and healed Lazarus, and yes, that would have blessed them (how many times do we see Jesus heal in the gospels, so simply and quickly and in immediate response to a request made in faith). In this case, he had a bigger blessing in view, one that would not only do more in the lives of Mary, Martha and Lazarus than they ever would have imagined possible (and we ourselves can only imagine the soul growth and the deepening trust Jesus' actions brought forth in the hearts of these dear friends) but a blessing that encompassed many more people who witnessed the raising of Lazarus and who came to know Jesus as a result of it. Jesus had the kingdom in view, and his waiting was part of that kingdom work.
But Jesus never loses sight of his friends or how much he loves them. Maybe that's why John gives us that glimpse of Jesus weeping at the tomb. I remember I used to wonder, why was Jesus weeping? He knew what he was about to do! But his friend is dead, and has been dead for four days. As we see Jesus weeping in that moment, we realize that he knows what his waiting has cost these beloved friends in terms of real anxiety and grief. He knows, more than anyone, the darkness and sadness of death and how it's left its mark on his good world. He knows, more than anyone, what it will cost to defeat it.
It dawned on me that there's one other place in John's gospel where the word "so" has jumped out at me before. That would be in chapter 3, verse 16. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life."
He loves us so...enough to weep with us, enough to give us what he truly knows is best, enough to keep the world and the kingdom in view even while working in the small seedbeds of our hearts.
There is so much to that tiny little word "so."
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
LOST and Letting Go
Well, folks, we're in the homestretch. Only three episodes of LOST to go, counting the two-hour finale. By the end of this month, it'll be all over...except for the countless hours of talking we'll get to do about how it all ended.
"The Candidate," last week's episode of LOST, would have been emotionally wrenching any time, but given what I've been going through with my family in the past couple of weeks, it hit me at an especially vulnerable time. I confess I cried, and I don't often cry over television shows (the final episode of MASH being one major exception). But good storytelling is good storytelling, and I found the tears cathartic.
If you've been following my on-again/off-again LOST musings this season, you'll know that I found Doc Jensen's quotations from Flannery O'Connor a great springboard for some reflections on the show's creative artistry. I ended my last LOST ramble by saying that, thanks to Flannery, in these final weeks of the story I would be on the lookout for:
"mustard-seed gestures, invisible lines of spiritual motion, the action of grace (no matter what the body count), and the revelation of essential and indispensable qualities in characters faced with violent situations who just may be on the verge of eternity."
It was hard to keep those glasses on as I was bawling my way through the deaths of Sayid, Sun, Jin (and possibly Frank) but as I reflected in the calmer hours and days afterward, it hit me again what a terrific narrative lens those things provide.
Let's talk about Sayid. First of all, I found myself so relieved that he was back (albeit so briefly) really and truly back. "Sayid is himself again!" I said to my husband, almost in tears of relief, and of course that should have been my warning.
But we really did have a brief, shining moment when we looked in Sayid's eyes and saw the man we'd come to know...the flawed, broken, but loving man, not the zombie-man he'd turned into when stuck in the service of darkness. And in that moment, we saw the choice Sayid was making as he made it, the choice to die for his friends, and we honored him for it. What better way could we have seen the essential and indispensable qualities that Sayid was carrying with him into eternity as we saw him grab the bomb and make a dash for it, a soldier on a final, merciful mission, giving his comrades one more day and one more chance to defeat the darkness? Even his final instructions to Jack, letting him know about Desmond's whereabouts, were part of a loving act on the side of right and hope.
It's harder with Sun and Jin. There's a part of me that felt like raging "not again! It's just like Charlie!" Their deaths felt so unnecessary. After all they've been through and survived (remember Sun's dash through the jungle with Smokey in pursuit?) to see them defeated by the crush of metal furniture dislodged in a bomb blast, and a roar of rushing water, felt painfully unfair and prosaic. It felt, in fact, like a stupid, senseless casualty of war, which is what it was. And when Jack swam away with the unconscious Sawyer, you saw he knew it for what it was and that it grieved him to the heart.
And what a hard moment that had to be for Jack, the man we know best as a "fixer," the hero who likes to make everything all right and save everyone. He's been slowly, painfully learning that he can't always make everything better. But how difficult this must have been: Sayid just blown apart, Sawyer's life hanging in the balance and dependent on Jack getting him safely to the surface, and then Sun tragically pinned down, helpless. For a surgeon, it must have felt like triage on the battlefield. I suspect swimming away was one of the hardest things Jack ever did.
And yet...left to themselves, with the water pouring in, there were those invisible lines of spiritual motion there, and the grace of Sun and Jin holding onto each other in the final moments, after all those years apart. I will be forever thankful that LOST gave us the earlier scene, when Sun slipped Jin's wedding ring back on his finger, a sort of renewal of their vows to one another. One of the vows in my own wedding service contained the line "until we are parted by death" and it was the line that floated to the surface of my memory as I watched their hands loosen and come unclasped. Jensen, in his recap/commentary, seemed oddly disturbed by that image, angry at the writers for emphasizing their "apartness" after all the time the show took to bring them together again, but I found the image beautifully right. It reminded me, poignantly, weepingly, that the *only* thing that had the power to part these two people now was death. "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the flood waters drown it."
It also served as a poignant reminder that death is real. (Let's lay aside, for the moment, the fact that Sun and Jin, Sayid too, continue to exist in sideways world, in another dimension where they are themselves but not quite themselves, living their stories but not quite their stories, on a different trajectory.) As we experienced the very real deaths of Sun and Jin, characters we've come to love, we realized anew that it's very hard to "let go" -- of one another, of loved ones, of this earth that isn't our home but is a beautiful, broken and blessed place in which to sojourn.
The whole "letting go" theme was perfectly played in this episode, first in the image of Sun and Jin's hands, and then in the scene between Sideways John and Jack, in which they tentatively explored the theme of letting go of the things in life which hold us back from living fully. Jack, newly wise in this particular reality, seems to get that completely, and is just looking for the courage (and camaraderie) to go forward and do it as he knows he needs to do. John isn't quite there yet, but then John's always had a hard time letting go -- of good things, and of things that hold him back. He tends to be a wallower and needs some help getting unstuck.
Of course, the letting go theme has another dimension for us viewers too -- pretty soon we've got to let go of this fascinating story. I'm not quite ready to do that yet, so I'm glad we've got a couple more weeks before we have to.
"The Candidate," last week's episode of LOST, would have been emotionally wrenching any time, but given what I've been going through with my family in the past couple of weeks, it hit me at an especially vulnerable time. I confess I cried, and I don't often cry over television shows (the final episode of MASH being one major exception). But good storytelling is good storytelling, and I found the tears cathartic.
If you've been following my on-again/off-again LOST musings this season, you'll know that I found Doc Jensen's quotations from Flannery O'Connor a great springboard for some reflections on the show's creative artistry. I ended my last LOST ramble by saying that, thanks to Flannery, in these final weeks of the story I would be on the lookout for:
"mustard-seed gestures, invisible lines of spiritual motion, the action of grace (no matter what the body count), and the revelation of essential and indispensable qualities in characters faced with violent situations who just may be on the verge of eternity."
It was hard to keep those glasses on as I was bawling my way through the deaths of Sayid, Sun, Jin (and possibly Frank) but as I reflected in the calmer hours and days afterward, it hit me again what a terrific narrative lens those things provide.
Let's talk about Sayid. First of all, I found myself so relieved that he was back (albeit so briefly) really and truly back. "Sayid is himself again!" I said to my husband, almost in tears of relief, and of course that should have been my warning.
But we really did have a brief, shining moment when we looked in Sayid's eyes and saw the man we'd come to know...the flawed, broken, but loving man, not the zombie-man he'd turned into when stuck in the service of darkness. And in that moment, we saw the choice Sayid was making as he made it, the choice to die for his friends, and we honored him for it. What better way could we have seen the essential and indispensable qualities that Sayid was carrying with him into eternity as we saw him grab the bomb and make a dash for it, a soldier on a final, merciful mission, giving his comrades one more day and one more chance to defeat the darkness? Even his final instructions to Jack, letting him know about Desmond's whereabouts, were part of a loving act on the side of right and hope.
It's harder with Sun and Jin. There's a part of me that felt like raging "not again! It's just like Charlie!" Their deaths felt so unnecessary. After all they've been through and survived (remember Sun's dash through the jungle with Smokey in pursuit?) to see them defeated by the crush of metal furniture dislodged in a bomb blast, and a roar of rushing water, felt painfully unfair and prosaic. It felt, in fact, like a stupid, senseless casualty of war, which is what it was. And when Jack swam away with the unconscious Sawyer, you saw he knew it for what it was and that it grieved him to the heart.
And what a hard moment that had to be for Jack, the man we know best as a "fixer," the hero who likes to make everything all right and save everyone. He's been slowly, painfully learning that he can't always make everything better. But how difficult this must have been: Sayid just blown apart, Sawyer's life hanging in the balance and dependent on Jack getting him safely to the surface, and then Sun tragically pinned down, helpless. For a surgeon, it must have felt like triage on the battlefield. I suspect swimming away was one of the hardest things Jack ever did.
And yet...left to themselves, with the water pouring in, there were those invisible lines of spiritual motion there, and the grace of Sun and Jin holding onto each other in the final moments, after all those years apart. I will be forever thankful that LOST gave us the earlier scene, when Sun slipped Jin's wedding ring back on his finger, a sort of renewal of their vows to one another. One of the vows in my own wedding service contained the line "until we are parted by death" and it was the line that floated to the surface of my memory as I watched their hands loosen and come unclasped. Jensen, in his recap/commentary, seemed oddly disturbed by that image, angry at the writers for emphasizing their "apartness" after all the time the show took to bring them together again, but I found the image beautifully right. It reminded me, poignantly, weepingly, that the *only* thing that had the power to part these two people now was death. "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the flood waters drown it."
It also served as a poignant reminder that death is real. (Let's lay aside, for the moment, the fact that Sun and Jin, Sayid too, continue to exist in sideways world, in another dimension where they are themselves but not quite themselves, living their stories but not quite their stories, on a different trajectory.) As we experienced the very real deaths of Sun and Jin, characters we've come to love, we realized anew that it's very hard to "let go" -- of one another, of loved ones, of this earth that isn't our home but is a beautiful, broken and blessed place in which to sojourn.
The whole "letting go" theme was perfectly played in this episode, first in the image of Sun and Jin's hands, and then in the scene between Sideways John and Jack, in which they tentatively explored the theme of letting go of the things in life which hold us back from living fully. Jack, newly wise in this particular reality, seems to get that completely, and is just looking for the courage (and camaraderie) to go forward and do it as he knows he needs to do. John isn't quite there yet, but then John's always had a hard time letting go -- of good things, and of things that hold him back. He tends to be a wallower and needs some help getting unstuck.
Of course, the letting go theme has another dimension for us viewers too -- pretty soon we've got to let go of this fascinating story. I'm not quite ready to do that yet, so I'm glad we've got a couple more weeks before we have to.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Poem
I just found out that a very dear man passed away last night. He turned 98 years old yesterday, and he is one of my sister's closest friends (more like family than friend). He was active and vibrant until almost the end. I had the privilege of getting to know him and his beautiful wife many years ago.
Thinking about him today, and about precious friendships and how quickly life passes, even when we're given a longer-than-usual allotment of years. I found myself trying to remember a certain poem about autumn and loss, but I couldn't recall precisely what it was. So I wrote this instead. It's still a rough draft, but from the heart.
******
A poem is on the tip of my tongue.
A friend has died, and it is October,
the season of loss and deepening cold,
rich orange and red, old brown, bright gold.
A poem is on the tip of my tongue,
but images hover, words escape me.
I can’t even recall if it was one I wrote
or one I discovered late one night
in a pool of yellow lamplight
when I couldn’t sleep
because poetry beckoned.
It called to me then, it calls to me still,
a small gem, a careful bit of art,
a tiny but defiant act of will,
a bit of beauty in the midst of grief,
planted in a book, or loose in sheaf.
What did it say? I’m no pretender.
A poem is on the tip of my tongue,
a friend has died, and I can’t remember
what the poem once said.
I only sense that the words were right,
important, precious, the ones
needed now in this time of grief.
The words drifting past like
a red and orange leaf.
Strange how close they seem,
wind-blown, and with a purpose.
~EMP 10/18/09
Thinking about him today, and about precious friendships and how quickly life passes, even when we're given a longer-than-usual allotment of years. I found myself trying to remember a certain poem about autumn and loss, but I couldn't recall precisely what it was. So I wrote this instead. It's still a rough draft, but from the heart.
******
A poem is on the tip of my tongue.
A friend has died, and it is October,
the season of loss and deepening cold,
rich orange and red, old brown, bright gold.
A poem is on the tip of my tongue,
but images hover, words escape me.
I can’t even recall if it was one I wrote
or one I discovered late one night
in a pool of yellow lamplight
when I couldn’t sleep
because poetry beckoned.
It called to me then, it calls to me still,
a small gem, a careful bit of art,
a tiny but defiant act of will,
a bit of beauty in the midst of grief,
planted in a book, or loose in sheaf.
What did it say? I’m no pretender.
A poem is on the tip of my tongue,
a friend has died, and I can’t remember
what the poem once said.
I only sense that the words were right,
important, precious, the ones
needed now in this time of grief.
The words drifting past like
a red and orange leaf.
Strange how close they seem,
wind-blown, and with a purpose.
~EMP 10/18/09
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Giver of the Green
My mourning for our little bit of grass got to swirling around in my mind last evening. It collided with some words from C.S. Lewis that I had happened to read yesterday morning.
Lewis was writing (in A Grief Observed) about the "right ordering" of our praise. So many good things we love are deserving of praise, but our highest praise is reserved for the Giver of those good things.
"Praise in due order...up from the garden to the Gardener, from the sword to the Smith. To the life-giving Life and the Beauty that makes beautiful."
I love these lines. It seems to me that Lewis is saying our best loves, our deepest admiration, what we value most, should cause us to look up, even higher, to the Giver behind all those things. His capitalization of Gardener, Smith, Life and Beauty leaves no doubt that he is referring to the Giver in all those wonderful terms. It is God who makes the garden beautiful, refines the silver, gives life, and whose Beauty is reflected in all that's beautiful.
It's even more poignant when you reflect that Lewis here is thinking about his relationship with his late wife, Joy. All the good in her, all that he loved (and still loved) in her, ultimately made him look up in joy and thanksgiving to the One who made her, even in the midst of his grief.
Somehow it makes my sadness over the loss of a small patch of grass seem both less significant and more significant at the same time.
All these thoughts tumbled into this prayer-poem I wrote last night.
Giver of Green
Praise for the grass
and the tiny creatures
who shelter in the
forest of its stems
Praise for the rootlets
of wildflowers and
the clover heads thick
with tempting scent
that beckons to the bees
Praise for the morning dew
and the tracings of frost
like shining jewels
flung at our undeserving feet
But most of all
Praise to the Giver of Green
who grows my life with gladness.
~EMP 8/09
Lewis was writing (in A Grief Observed) about the "right ordering" of our praise. So many good things we love are deserving of praise, but our highest praise is reserved for the Giver of those good things.
"Praise in due order...up from the garden to the Gardener, from the sword to the Smith. To the life-giving Life and the Beauty that makes beautiful."
I love these lines. It seems to me that Lewis is saying our best loves, our deepest admiration, what we value most, should cause us to look up, even higher, to the Giver behind all those things. His capitalization of Gardener, Smith, Life and Beauty leaves no doubt that he is referring to the Giver in all those wonderful terms. It is God who makes the garden beautiful, refines the silver, gives life, and whose Beauty is reflected in all that's beautiful.
It's even more poignant when you reflect that Lewis here is thinking about his relationship with his late wife, Joy. All the good in her, all that he loved (and still loved) in her, ultimately made him look up in joy and thanksgiving to the One who made her, even in the midst of his grief.
Somehow it makes my sadness over the loss of a small patch of grass seem both less significant and more significant at the same time.
All these thoughts tumbled into this prayer-poem I wrote last night.
Giver of Green
Praise for the grass
and the tiny creatures
who shelter in the
forest of its stems
Praise for the rootlets
of wildflowers and
the clover heads thick
with tempting scent
that beckons to the bees
Praise for the morning dew
and the tracings of frost
like shining jewels
flung at our undeserving feet
But most of all
Praise to the Giver of Green
who grows my life with gladness.
~EMP 8/09
Monday, August 17, 2009
Lament For My Little Patch of Green
Long-time readers of this blog know of my ongoing struggle with the lack of green in my life. For those of you just tuning in: we're yardless apartment dwellers in a small city with lots of concrete and glass and not nearly enough grass or trees, in my humble opinion, though I am grateful for every bit we live near.
Though I've made peace with our family's call to be where we are and do what we do, that does not mean I don't still miss (sometimes greatly) green grass and trees. In fact, if you'll pardon the pun, I sometimes literally pine for green at deep heart-levels.
From our window, we can see ten sycamore trees across the road and an asphalt parking lot from where we live. Those ten trees are sometimes a real life-line for me: I'm not sure I could survive the ongoing monotony of asphalt or the onslaught of winter gray otherwise.
For years, next to the parking lot on the nearer side to our building, there has been a strip of bright green grass. Except for the even more narrow strip by the benches beneath the sycamores, this is the largest patch of grass near us for blocks. We often park right next to it, and I'm always thankful to be able to step out of the car and onto grass, even for a moment. Visitors sometimes joke with us about it being our little bit of lawn.
Well, the grass is no more. I'm not joking when I say I feel like I'm in mourning. The folks who own the building and parking lot next door apparently got tired of having to mow that bit of grass (or so I'm assuming). They brought in a big backhoe kind of vehicle (or whatever you call the vehicle that plows up sod) and stripped it bare this weekend. I held out momentary though faint hope that they planned to re-sod it, maybe even put in a bush or two. But it became quickly apparent they had no such intention.
The concrete mixer arrived about an hour ago. As I speak, workmen are smoothing a perfectly smooth layer of concrete about twenty feet long. A new sidewalk.
And I just want it to go away. Sorry to sound so bleak -- in general, I enjoy sidewalks and even feel very grateful for them as I walk a lot in a city -- but now when I look out my front window, there is no immediate relief to the gray concrete. No bright patch of green. Perhaps you think it's silly to mourn 15-20 feet of grass and dirt, but when I think of all the times we've played in it, watched bugs in it, marveled over the wasp like creatures that hatch there each summer (we always have a couple of weeks where we have to exit the car on the opposite side) picked clover from it (poor bees, poor bunnies) seen snow fall on it in the bleak winter, and just plain felt grateful for that little patch of "our lawn" I feel seriously sad.
All afternoon I've been contemplating the writing of a story where a champion named Prince Verdi saves a small town from a concrete monster.
Folks, here's the long and short of it: the world needs more green and less concrete. Trust me on this.
Though I've made peace with our family's call to be where we are and do what we do, that does not mean I don't still miss (sometimes greatly) green grass and trees. In fact, if you'll pardon the pun, I sometimes literally pine for green at deep heart-levels.
From our window, we can see ten sycamore trees across the road and an asphalt parking lot from where we live. Those ten trees are sometimes a real life-line for me: I'm not sure I could survive the ongoing monotony of asphalt or the onslaught of winter gray otherwise.
For years, next to the parking lot on the nearer side to our building, there has been a strip of bright green grass. Except for the even more narrow strip by the benches beneath the sycamores, this is the largest patch of grass near us for blocks. We often park right next to it, and I'm always thankful to be able to step out of the car and onto grass, even for a moment. Visitors sometimes joke with us about it being our little bit of lawn.
Well, the grass is no more. I'm not joking when I say I feel like I'm in mourning. The folks who own the building and parking lot next door apparently got tired of having to mow that bit of grass (or so I'm assuming). They brought in a big backhoe kind of vehicle (or whatever you call the vehicle that plows up sod) and stripped it bare this weekend. I held out momentary though faint hope that they planned to re-sod it, maybe even put in a bush or two. But it became quickly apparent they had no such intention.
The concrete mixer arrived about an hour ago. As I speak, workmen are smoothing a perfectly smooth layer of concrete about twenty feet long. A new sidewalk.
And I just want it to go away. Sorry to sound so bleak -- in general, I enjoy sidewalks and even feel very grateful for them as I walk a lot in a city -- but now when I look out my front window, there is no immediate relief to the gray concrete. No bright patch of green. Perhaps you think it's silly to mourn 15-20 feet of grass and dirt, but when I think of all the times we've played in it, watched bugs in it, marveled over the wasp like creatures that hatch there each summer (we always have a couple of weeks where we have to exit the car on the opposite side) picked clover from it (poor bees, poor bunnies) seen snow fall on it in the bleak winter, and just plain felt grateful for that little patch of "our lawn" I feel seriously sad.
All afternoon I've been contemplating the writing of a story where a champion named Prince Verdi saves a small town from a concrete monster.
Folks, here's the long and short of it: the world needs more green and less concrete. Trust me on this.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Jon Hassler (March 30, 1933-March 20, 2008)
I just heard the news that Jon Hassler died on Thursday. I knew he'd been ill for a long time, so this wasn't entirely surprising. But I confess I felt unspeakably sad when I read the news. Hassler's novels -- and especially his memorable characters -- have given me much delight over the years, and much to ponder.
Hassler was a Catholic writer, a Minnesotan. His stories often tapped deep emotions, with grief and humor ever standing close beside each other. It was through his books that I met one of my favorite literary heroines (though I think she would frown at me for using such a term) Agatha McGeee. As a character, Agatha has always felt so real to me that I almost found myself wondering how she was taking the news of Hassler's death.
The Minnesota Post has a moving obituary online here.
Rest in peace, Jon. Thank you so much for all the wonderful stories.
Hassler was a Catholic writer, a Minnesotan. His stories often tapped deep emotions, with grief and humor ever standing close beside each other. It was through his books that I met one of my favorite literary heroines (though I think she would frown at me for using such a term) Agatha McGeee. As a character, Agatha has always felt so real to me that I almost found myself wondering how she was taking the news of Hassler's death.
The Minnesota Post has a moving obituary online here.
Rest in peace, Jon. Thank you so much for all the wonderful stories.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
For Madeleine, May All Her Seasons Be Blessed
How shall we sing our love's song now
In this strange land where all are born to die?
Each tree and leaf and star show how
The universe is part of this one cry,
That every life is noted and is cherished,
And nothing loved is ever lost or perished.
(~ from A Ring of Endless Light)
Madeleine L'Engle Camp Franklin died on Thursday, September 6. This coming November 29, she would have been 89 years old.
I've been trying since last evening to come here and post something...something to adequately convey how much I loved Madeleine L'Engle and her writing, and what her books have meant to me for the past 28 years. Instead, I spent a while last night crying, then pulling some of my favorite books from my L'Engle shelves, reading, smiling, laughing, and finally crying a little more.
Lest anyone think it strange that I was grieving the death of someone I'd never actually met, know that I felt as though I'd known her, and known her well, since I was eleven. Her writing, both fiction and non-fiction, carried with it a very authentic and intimate voice. Over the years, I also wrote her a handful of times, and she was always so gracious to respond. Two personal notes I remember in particular came at very different seasons in my life: one a note encouraging the writing aspirations of an enthusiastic and eager sixteen year old, one a note wishing blessings on me and my new husband (I sent her a wedding invitation because when it came down to thinking about important members of my life community, she was on the list).
Her writing has shaped me and helped me in so many ways. She helped me think about life in terms of seasons; she helped me learn to order my time and count it as precious. She taught me the importance of names and naming, and what a precious gift it is to be given the gift of someone's name. She taught me to hope and believe that marriage, even or especially in its difficult times, could still grow and flourish. She reminded me to be honest in my prayers. Time and again, she returned my focus to God's amazing love for his beloved creation, and especially turned my eyes again and again to the incarnation and the wonderful gift of Jesus.
That I still try to live a writing life in any way is partly due to her encouragement. That I am an Anglican is also attributable to her, at least in part, for it was Madeleine who introduced me to the beauty of the seasons of the church year.
That introduction came about in her book The Irrational Season. It was the first of her non-fiction books I'd ever read. I'd spent most of my adolescence reading her fiction for both children and adults. On my 18th birthday, my sister Martha gave me a copy of The Irrational Season, one of what's known as the "Crosswicks" journals, a series of confessional type reflections Madeleine wrote mostly in the 70s.
My sister had just gone to a Madeleine L'Engle reading at the University of Connecticut. She had a chance to meet her, and Madeleine signed my book. "For Beth, May all your seasons be blessed." I have a feeling that it was a standard line she wrote in many people's books, but that doesn't mean I didn't treasure the message, especially given all that I had already come to learn from her (and more I would come to learn) about seasons and blessings. She was so important to me in so many seasons. Two of her books in particular helped me through deep, growing times: A Ring of Endless Light, which helped me navigate adolescence, and A Severed Wasp, the only novel I could really read during the one brief period of my life that I went through a serious depression.
Over the years, I read some of her books so many times that they're yellowed and practically in tatters. I still have my first copy of Wrinkle, and it's literally been read to pieces! Last night as I prowled through my L'Engle shelves, I realized I really think of them in those terms, because I have two complete shelves (over 40 of her books) set aside just for her work.
There's so much more I could say...and maybe I will later. But for now, I just wanted to say thank you, Madeleine, and blessings to you in your new journey into the fullness of glory. Thank you for your stories, and for passing on to me your deep, deep love of story and the Story. May all your seasons be blessed. May you feast at the essential table and enjoy the companionship of all the saints, including your beloved Hugh and Bion. And may you finally get that heavenly music lesson with Grandpa Bach that you so long anticipated!
In this strange land where all are born to die?
Each tree and leaf and star show how
The universe is part of this one cry,
That every life is noted and is cherished,
And nothing loved is ever lost or perished.
(~ from A Ring of Endless Light)
Madeleine L'Engle Camp Franklin died on Thursday, September 6. This coming November 29, she would have been 89 years old.
I've been trying since last evening to come here and post something...something to adequately convey how much I loved Madeleine L'Engle and her writing, and what her books have meant to me for the past 28 years. Instead, I spent a while last night crying, then pulling some of my favorite books from my L'Engle shelves, reading, smiling, laughing, and finally crying a little more.
Lest anyone think it strange that I was grieving the death of someone I'd never actually met, know that I felt as though I'd known her, and known her well, since I was eleven. Her writing, both fiction and non-fiction, carried with it a very authentic and intimate voice. Over the years, I also wrote her a handful of times, and she was always so gracious to respond. Two personal notes I remember in particular came at very different seasons in my life: one a note encouraging the writing aspirations of an enthusiastic and eager sixteen year old, one a note wishing blessings on me and my new husband (I sent her a wedding invitation because when it came down to thinking about important members of my life community, she was on the list).
Her writing has shaped me and helped me in so many ways. She helped me think about life in terms of seasons; she helped me learn to order my time and count it as precious. She taught me the importance of names and naming, and what a precious gift it is to be given the gift of someone's name. She taught me to hope and believe that marriage, even or especially in its difficult times, could still grow and flourish. She reminded me to be honest in my prayers. Time and again, she returned my focus to God's amazing love for his beloved creation, and especially turned my eyes again and again to the incarnation and the wonderful gift of Jesus.
That I still try to live a writing life in any way is partly due to her encouragement. That I am an Anglican is also attributable to her, at least in part, for it was Madeleine who introduced me to the beauty of the seasons of the church year.
That introduction came about in her book The Irrational Season. It was the first of her non-fiction books I'd ever read. I'd spent most of my adolescence reading her fiction for both children and adults. On my 18th birthday, my sister Martha gave me a copy of The Irrational Season, one of what's known as the "Crosswicks" journals, a series of confessional type reflections Madeleine wrote mostly in the 70s.
My sister had just gone to a Madeleine L'Engle reading at the University of Connecticut. She had a chance to meet her, and Madeleine signed my book. "For Beth, May all your seasons be blessed." I have a feeling that it was a standard line she wrote in many people's books, but that doesn't mean I didn't treasure the message, especially given all that I had already come to learn from her (and more I would come to learn) about seasons and blessings. She was so important to me in so many seasons. Two of her books in particular helped me through deep, growing times: A Ring of Endless Light, which helped me navigate adolescence, and A Severed Wasp, the only novel I could really read during the one brief period of my life that I went through a serious depression.
Over the years, I read some of her books so many times that they're yellowed and practically in tatters. I still have my first copy of Wrinkle, and it's literally been read to pieces! Last night as I prowled through my L'Engle shelves, I realized I really think of them in those terms, because I have two complete shelves (over 40 of her books) set aside just for her work.
There's so much more I could say...and maybe I will later. But for now, I just wanted to say thank you, Madeleine, and blessings to you in your new journey into the fullness of glory. Thank you for your stories, and for passing on to me your deep, deep love of story and the Story. May all your seasons be blessed. May you feast at the essential table and enjoy the companionship of all the saints, including your beloved Hugh and Bion. And may you finally get that heavenly music lesson with Grandpa Bach that you so long anticipated!
Friday, August 03, 2007
Prayer for Travelers
I've been very out of the news for the past few days. I'm trying to finish up my final weeks at the office and finish them well; our church's VBS (which my husband is coordinating) runs next week; I've had to finish my fall course syllabus; and I'm working on a writing deadline. Those are just a few of the things that have kept me from the news, which I usually have to seek out, since we don't have television.
So I was appalled yesterday when I stumbled onto photographs of the terrible disaster in Minnesota -- the interstate bridge that collapsed in Minneapolis on Wednesday. I've spent a few minutes today reading stories and looking at photos, grieving for those who lost their lives and for their loved ones who will miss them. Today's news is somewhat encouraging in that there have not been as many confirmed casualties as originally feared, but even one casualty in an accident of this kind is devastating, and there have been several confirmed deaths so far. As always in this kind of situation, there are the heartbreaking stories of people still missing, and the poignant stories of people who were traveling late or who took an alternate route or other ordinary things that happened to bring them to that specific location at that specific moment in time.
I think this story hits especially close to home because we live very near to a city that's known, with some affection, as "the city of bridges." We've always heard that Pittsburgh has more bridges than any city in the world except for Venice, and I believe it. Despite a lot of gray weather due to living in a river valley, and far too much rust in the landscape, some of the skyscape is unusually beautiful here because of the many bridges that adorn this area. We travel over bridges frequently since we have to cross rivers to get places.
So this really does hit home. And it made me turn to the prayer for travelers in the Book of Common Prayer:
O God, our heavenly Father, whose glory fills the whole creation, and whose presence we find wherever we go: Preserve those who travel (in particular those who travel over bridges); surround them with your loving care; protect them from every danger; and bring them in safety to their journey's end; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
It's a good prayer, for actual travelers and for all of us who are traveling through, or wayfaring, through this life.
So I was appalled yesterday when I stumbled onto photographs of the terrible disaster in Minnesota -- the interstate bridge that collapsed in Minneapolis on Wednesday. I've spent a few minutes today reading stories and looking at photos, grieving for those who lost their lives and for their loved ones who will miss them. Today's news is somewhat encouraging in that there have not been as many confirmed casualties as originally feared, but even one casualty in an accident of this kind is devastating, and there have been several confirmed deaths so far. As always in this kind of situation, there are the heartbreaking stories of people still missing, and the poignant stories of people who were traveling late or who took an alternate route or other ordinary things that happened to bring them to that specific location at that specific moment in time.
I think this story hits especially close to home because we live very near to a city that's known, with some affection, as "the city of bridges." We've always heard that Pittsburgh has more bridges than any city in the world except for Venice, and I believe it. Despite a lot of gray weather due to living in a river valley, and far too much rust in the landscape, some of the skyscape is unusually beautiful here because of the many bridges that adorn this area. We travel over bridges frequently since we have to cross rivers to get places.
So this really does hit home. And it made me turn to the prayer for travelers in the Book of Common Prayer:
O God, our heavenly Father, whose glory fills the whole creation, and whose presence we find wherever we go: Preserve those who travel (in particular those who travel over bridges); surround them with your loving care; protect them from every danger; and bring them in safety to their journey's end; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
It's a good prayer, for actual travelers and for all of us who are traveling through, or wayfaring, through this life.
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