BROKEN THINGS

My favorite pitcher is in shards. Never again will it hold lemonade or water. Never again will it be filled with flowers or add its beauty to my collection of blue and white. 

More than its utility was its sentimentality. This pitcher once belonged to my mother-in-law. It serves as a bookmark in the album of memories that is often turned to the page marked Elva’s Kitchen. I can almost see it now, sitting atop a cabinet near the kitchen table. Its Staffordshire, made in England, blue and white featured Longfellow’s Wayside Inn and was for her, I think, a memento of a trip to Sudbury, Massachusetts. I once told her I would really like that pitcher should she ever decide to part with it. (She never did; I just took it once she was gone.)

This morning the sound of porcelain on hardwood brought me running to where the shattered pieces lay strewn like petals from the dying flowers it often held. The grief I felt over this irreplaceable loss and the anger I had with the four-footed miscreant were momentarily muted by my fear that one of the tiny shards would work its way into a canine paw. I dealt with my triad of emotions in reverse order. I swept up the remains, tied up the puppy, and then shed a tear.

My self-pity was interrupted by the reminder that Elva didn’t actually love blue and white porcelain as much as I did. Given a choice, she picked green, or pink, or brown. Perhaps this pitcher wasn’t the most accurate memorial of her. On the bright side, its loss reduced by one the number of items my children won’t have to deal with when I am gone (an issue that seems to trouble them some). 

What I remember most about Elva was not her pitcher. It was her kindness and grace to me, her first daughter-in-law. As the mother of three boys, I think she was delighted to have another woman in the family, even if I was the young and, in retrospect, ‘full-of-herself’ bride of her youngest son. She never chided me for my mistakes, but put me at ease by identifying with them. When I brought to my first Sunday lunch at her house a store-bought dessert, admitting it was a shameful substitute for the hopelessly ruined two-layer, made-from-scratch cake I couldn’t bring, she showed me her own cooking disaster—unevenly baked blueberry bread, the misshapen product of an oven not yet level.

Did we have our disagreements? Oh, yes! Were there moments when she offered unsolicited advice or when she hurt my feelings? Most certainly. Were there moments when I was disrespectful and lacked understanding? To my shame, I admit there were. Yet the relationship endured and grew. 

She was my sounding board, sometimes the voice of my conscience, and always my advocate with our Heavenly Father. She was the one I turned to when life’s pieces didn’t fit or when the future appeared especially menacing. She would say quietly, “I’ll pray.” And she did! And when I called to let her know the prayer was answered, I could hear the smile in her voice when she responded, “I know,” and could give me the date and time when the issue was resolved. (She was always right.) 

Her example of unshakeable faith in a God who hears our prayers and answers in his time and in his way sustains me to this day. As I was reminded this morning, inherited crockery may fall from a shelf, but loving and God-breathed relationships last forever.

With the broken pottery in the trash and a freshly made cup of coffee in my hand, I sat down for my morning meditations, currently in the book of Ecclesiastes. It was a good morning to be reminded of the transitory nature of human life. The words mirrored my own experience—a time to tear and a time to mend. Acquisitions and accomplishments are indeed vanity. Then to my delight, I discovered this nugget that brought me full circle and encapsulated up my own broken vase conclusions,  

I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it…. Ecclesiastes 3:14

SNAKES IN MY GARDEN

There are snakes in my garden. I’ve seen two. (The snakes are real although calling my overgrown, under-tended tangle of woodland shrubs and vines a garden is an outright lie.) 

I am not overly alarmed by snakes. I won’t drape one around my neck, but as long as a snake knows its place, I am content to live in close proximity. In my previous home, we sometimes had garden snakes hiding in the flower beds, sunbathing by the pool, or hanging out near the doorway of the house. As I recall, we never killed one. None of them killed us. I would have remembered that.

 

When I first moved to North Carolina, I didn’t think about snakes at all. Then one afternoon, while attempting to weed-eat an invasive overgrowth of wisteria and English ivy into submission, I realized this heretofore unexplored corner of my yard might be a snake haven. Even ones I hadn’t yet seen. Neighbors confirmed that snakes, including venomous ones, are indeed common in this area.

 

I was torn between respect for the ecosystem—assuming snakes had been here first—and prudence—assuming an encounter with a copperhead would end badly for me. I resolved the tension by ordering rubber boots. Tall ones. To the knee. Just to be safe. I resolved future yard clean-up would include the wearing of boots. If there were snakes, we would co-exist peacefully on this small plot. 

 

That all changed this Spring when Wesley, my new sheep-a-doodle puppy, and I began to spend hours playing outside and exploring the nether reaches of should have been a lawn. 

 

We were playing a game of fetch (it is never obvious which one of us does more retrieving) when I encountered my first snake of the season. I had just reached into a pile of pine needles to pick up the frisbee when a snake slithered from under my athletic shoes in apparent rebuke for endangering his life. From his tan coloring with a quasi-argyle (or was it diamond shaped?) pattern, I, who am ignorant of herpetology, couldn’t determine whether he was of the venomous or non-venomous variety. Since Hunter doesn’t make boots for sheep-a-doodles, prudence dictated a new approach. I ordered Snake-Be-Gone.

 

Perhaps I overreacted. Even I know that snakes are good for fertilizing the soil and ridding a yard of rodents and ticks. My problem is not with what I know, but what I don’t—the extent and type of the infestation. Until I bag up the pine needles and trim back more vines, I will err on the side of caution and use a product that promises to nudge my snakes toward the neighbor’s yard. (She said she would be happy to have them.)

 

As I stood in my yard and pondered the practical implications of having snakes, the parallel between my yard and my inner life emerged.  The overgrown garden of my life resembles my unkempt, snake-infested yard! I began to recognize how often the busyness of accomplishments, the pursuit of my next great adventure, or the acquisition of ‘just what I always needed, or wanted’ has meant I took no time to tend my heart. 

 

Too many vines of meaningless pursuits have grown with abandon, spreading rapidly through fertile soil meant for a more productive harvest. Certificates of achievement, albums of photographs, and cabinets stuffed with collectibles attest to the ways I have spent my days. But the crop that was intended to sustain my soul and nourish others could have produced—should have produced—a higher yield. The verdant lushness of useless vines has camouflaged the truth that my life is out of control. 

 

In my yard, I have little knowledge of what lurks under the green, what grows and reproduces in the mulch of decaying vegetation or lies hidden in the darkness. The same is true of my heart. I am confident much that is beneficial remains concealed there, but I’ve also had haunting glimpses of a darker side. By wearing boots of civility and a veneer of self-control, I think we can coexist peaceably—as long as I watch my step. I have learned to tread cautiously through the parts of my heart that reek of pride and self-centeredness, that want to be served instead of to serve, that want a little more even if it means others have a little less, that choose retribution over mercy. Such neglect comes with peril to the soul.

 

The bride in Solomon’s Song at least had someone to blame, “My mother’s sons were angry with me and made me take care of the vineyards; my own vineyard I had to neglect” (Song of Songs 1:6).  I have only myself to blame. There is no Snake-Be-Gone for the heart. Even if there were, I wouldn’t order it. The way to reverse neglect requires time and effort. It calls for raking through the trash, pulling up the weeds, nurturing what has value, and planting new seeds with hope. A year of pandemic limitation has given me a new perspective on what I can live without. It has turned me inward in ways that promise new growth and a healthier life. Perhaps this is a passing phase, an idea that will fade as life resumes a more normal course. I hope not.

 

Above all else, guard your heart for everything you do flows from it. (Proverbs 4:23)

EMPTY ROOM, EMPTY TOMB

With steely determination, I hastened toward the guest rooms. There were beds to strip and linens to launder.

My eager feet faltered. I stopped cold, halted by the blast of emptiness that prevented me from crossing the threshold. Bedlinens, which had just hours before had been soft and warm as they cocooned the children nestled inside, now braced themselves crisp and cool in their exposure. Gone were the restful faces with dream-inspired smiles. Gone were the sweet-smelling, freshly shampooed strands of light-brown hair that had splayed with abandon across the mounds of pillows. Gone were the books and tablets, the still-folded clean clothes and the growing pile of those ready to wash. Gone were toiletry kits and rolling bags and the girls who wheeled them away.

So enormous was the sense of loss, I had to catch my breath, simultaneously fighting the catch in my throat. This was the part of the visit I had begun dreading days before it occurred. Why was it that this re-entering just-emptied rooms made the loss more tangible than the continued waving at rapidly disappearing taillights? 

I am not unfamiliar with this scene. It has happened too many times! Yet in spite of foreboding anticipation, I am never prepared. Each time it happens, I foolishly embrace the futile hope that such oft-repeated departures have buffered my heart.

Instead, each new departure scratches old scars and reopens old wounds. The doorway into a recently vacated room serves as the gateway for old memories. A pantheon of pain taunts me with recollections of every time I have been left behind, whether for a semester or a season or a lifetime. The knowledge that my loved ones enjoy vibrant and productive lives away from me is scant comfort. My only defense against this unwelcome invasion is the hope that this absence is temporary and more good visits will certainly come in time.

I know I am not the first person to feel the loss of a freshly emptied room. My mother-in-law always asked me not to strip the beds after family visits because she needed the closure of going back into our rooms and remembering our time together. But even she, the least slothful housekeeper I have ever known, admitted she had to wait a few days until the raw pain of our departure ebbed and her own courageous and practical nature again flowed. 

But this time, as I pulled back the covers and tugged at the sheets, it was not my mother-in-law I thought about. It was Mary and her friends, the women who came with spices to prepare the lifeless body of Jesus for burial. I imagined what they must have felt as they entered the tomb, expecting to find the body of their Lord and reeling from the stark emptiness they found there. 

They stared into a void illuminated only by the glowing presence of an angelic messenger. What they could not see—the lifeless body of the One whom they came to serve—was what held their gaze. The absence, and the burial cloth. Empty. Precisely folded. Such an unexpected courtesy would not go unnoticed by women whose role it was to tend to such menial tasks. It signaled to them an object no longer needed and ready for storage; it was a haunting visual echo of his final words, “It is finished.”

It was the final blow to hearts pummeled by the pain of watching him mocked and tortured, of witnessing his agonizing death, of experiencing the mind-numbing loss of their savior and friend. They had sobbed their good-byes while he took his last breath; they had spent three days grieving their loss. Here in the empty tomb, it felt as if they had lost him anew.

An avalanche of memories nearly buried these women who had been part of Jesus’s inner circle, caught up in the whirlwind of crowds following the teacher and healer. In the briefest of minutes three years flashed before their eyes. They remembered the sick he had healed, the lame who now walked. They recalled how he rebuked the arrogant and spoke tenderly to the humble. They remembered especially his way with children and his unaccustomed honor toward women. 

Slowly the words of the messenger penetrated their grief-stunned hearts. “He is not here, for He has risen, just as He said….He is going ahead of you into Galilee, there you will see Him [again].” They hurried away, full of grief and fear, but strangely settled by a growing hope. He would come again.

So it is with empty rooms and empty tombs.

NO VACANCY!

"Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?" (Jesus, Mark 4:40)

This needs to be painted in my wall for those random moments when fear speaks louder than faith. 

For those unguarded moments that sneak up in the night or awaken me in the morning. For the dark hours when the raucous voices of fear compete with the gentle lullaby of the One who sings over me with love. For the waking hours when the nagging song of fear drowns out the melodious music of the birds who greet the dawn with continual praise to the Father who watches over each one. 

I am reminded that faith is an active choice. It doesn’t spring full blown from the mind and heart of the widow or orphan. It doesn't come easily to the the ill-in-health or the poor in worldly goods. It doesn't magically appear to one overwhelmed with grief or drowning in despair. One must reach for faith, as if for a lifeline, and hold on, even if the grasp is ever so tenuous, until hand over hand, inch by inch, one is pulled toward safety.

Faith is based on knowledge of the One in whom we trust coupled with the will to trust. Faith looks to the future and offers not an easy ride but the hope of a destination at the end of the struggle. By contrast fear is an emotion that needs no invitation to move in or take over. It is the unwelcome guest who puts its dirty shoes on the furniture and refuses to leave. Fear offers shaky ground, an undulating and uncertain footing on which we lose ourselves in meandering circles.

I cannot always keep fear from slipping under the threshold but I can refuse to give it a place to sleep.

DIRTY WINDOWS

Sunlight streams through my dirty windows, lighting my face and warming my chilled body. It is a metaphor—these brilliant rays unhindered by the layers of dust and fingerprints on clouded panes. 

My life is so like these dirty windows, smudged and tarnished by a harsh world and my own bad choices. How often have I left the routine maintenance of my soul and spirit undone, while I wrapped myself in a never-ending cycle of busyness and lethargy. 

Yet God breaks in, refusing to be stopped by my unkempt condition. He shines brightly into my soiled being, illuminating the darkest corners and warming my sin-wearied heart. With might and power, knowledge and love, he breaks through my fear and resistance to set me gently back on the path he had already determined for me.