OF STORMS AND STORIES: AN ANNIVERSARY TRIBUTE

It rained June 28, 1969, the day of our wedding! Not just a little rain! A lot of rain! Furious black skies unloaded their early afternoon ire. Drainage systems, quite competent in normal rains, lost their battle in this unexpected siege. Street lights attempted to lighten the gloom until they surrendered to the dictates of the power grid gone dark. 

I smile now as I remember the panicked calls alerting me the electricity was out in the church. “What will you do if the lights are not back on by 4 pm?” someone asked. 

 

“We have lots of candles! Not just on the platform but down the aisle. We will be fine.”

 

“But the organ,” worriers replied. “It won’t work without electricity.”

 

“There is a piano and a vocal quartet,” I responded. “The pastor lives close to the church, so I’m sure he can make it. A mere storm won’t keep George and me from showing up, and that’s all that matters.”

 

Encouragers, influenced by the earthy Iowa lore of my native state, assured me that a storm on the day of your wedding was the portent of a happy and prosperous life—or that it meant we would have a lot of children. No one agreed on which was the more accurate prediction. In retrospect, both were probably right.

 

Just in time, the sun came out, the lights came on, and the streets were passible an hour before the wedding started. Guest arrived, the organ played, vows were made, cake was cut and eaten, pictures were taken, the bride and groom left for their honeymoon, and the rest is history.

 

George and I liked the story of the storm on our wedding day. It added drama to what should have otherwise been a carefully scripted event. It gave us a reason to forgive the florist who failed to produce the flowers we ordered and who claimed he couldn’t go back and make it right due to the weather. It partially explained my less than festive coiffure and the stringy hair that hung limply under my veil. The storm hit us hard but didn’t keep us from getting married.

 

The wedding day storm served as an instructive metaphor for the life George and I began together that day. Over countless cups of coffee during the dating years, we had shared our dreams and made plans for our future. We had crafted such grand and glorious plans for the life we would build, the places we would live, the children we would have, the trips we would take, the service we would offer to make the world a better place, and the golden years we would savor hand in hand. Not once during all those hours did we spin tales of illness or injury, job loss, economic downturns, war in a far off place, or death. Yet those unbidden storms came, forcing us to adjust our plans, but never keeping us from what really mattered, which was loving each other, loving our family, serving our community, and loving and serving our God.

 

From our wedding day experience we garnered two patterns for how to meet other storms of life. The first—and I’m sure this would have been the influence of George, always the more level headed—was to keep focus on what really matters. (In his less-patient moments, he sometimes asked, “What’s the bottom line?” but that’s a different story.) In the midst of loss or delay, or when the bells and whistles or flowers and frills were falling away, we were anchored by keeping the true end in sight. The second lesson—and this might have been my contribution—was that in every situation, no matter how grim, it helped to remind ourselves, “This will be a great story some day!”

 

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.

 

NOT WHAT I CAN’T

It started with an ordinary bunch of seasonal flowers, the kind I once picked up at the Farmer’s Market—back in the days when it was safe to venture into crowds of people bunched as closely as the fresh pickings that beckoned seductively from portable tables under pop-up tents; back when the fragrance of flowers packed tightly in Mason jars rose valiantly over the musty smells of earth and the salty whiff of glistening shoppers. 

How I love the freshly cut offerings of Spring and early Summer. Their rag-tag blossoms are compelling precisely because they lack the artifice of more structured bouquets. Their random assemblage delights me because it gives more than it gets and requires almost nothing from me. No floral foam bricks, no frogs, no wires, none of the props employed by more gifted designers. My steps for arranging a bouquet read like the box of a ready-mix, no bake dessert. ‘Select one appropriately sized pitcher (a vase or a jar will do), trim stems, place flowers in container, add water, and enjoy.’ I have employed this technique so often I no longer have to read my own directions. 

Floral fortune has smiled on me especially brightly for the last few months. Neighbors on both sides have filled my life with flowers, almost as if in coordinated effort to make sure I didn’t forget that beauty still exists in a world darkened by grief and fear, and where sicknesses of body and soul compete for top billing on the nightly news. 

On one side, I have my thoughtful and generous daughter-in-law who, ingeniously intent on bolstering the local economy and my spirits simultaneously, had farm fresh flowers delivered weekly. Long-lived blossoms, their stems kept strong in water, took center stage in the dining room until their tired petals fell silently in permanent repose. Other flowers, not giving up so easily, chose to dry rather than die and live on in more permanent arrangements throughout the house.

On the other side, my talented and industrious neighbor brightened my days by posting her photographs of flowers. With a lens and an artful eye, she transforms flowers from farms and neighborhood gardens into still-life masterpieces. No vases or pitchers distract from the intense beauty of the flowers. A black backdrop removes the challenge of competing hues so that the shyest of shades feels free to show off. Often a single naked flower stands unblinking in its beauty, unembarrassed by its flaws, its stalwart dignity not letting the bruising from a harsh rain or the scars of a tormenting insect keep it from sharing what it still can offer.

I tried recently to explain to my neighbor how much her photographs moved me. The intent and intensity of my meaning must have been lost across the socially distanced span because, in response, she replied, “Do what I do. Just take pictures of the flowers in the neighborhood when you go for a walk.” 

“No, I can’t,” I laughed. And I knew I couldn’t.

As much as I would love to interpret my world through the lens of a camera, I haven’t yet mastered centering and focus, not to mention aperture or F-stop. Particularly during these trying days where real friends have been reduced to talking heads and conversations across intimate tables now take place via internet devices, a creative outlet that produces beauty or touches other people was particularly appealing. As I bemoaned my lack of photographic talent, a life motto floated through my thoughts, “Do what you can and not what you can’t.” 

Suddenly my mind was embroiled in one of its internal dialogues. “Well, if you can’t take photos, what can you do?” 

“Well, I can clean out my kitchen cabinets and sort through 50 years of pictures.”

“But what else can you do that would bring you joy and might be shared with others?”

“Hmmm. Oh. I see what you mean. I can write. I love to do it and people don’t mind reading it.”

“So, why aren’t you doing it?”

And so I did. But before I wrote, I began to think more about the opportunities at hand and less about the restrictions currently in place; I focused more at what I had and less on what I’d lost; I focused on an envelope of memorabilia I could cull and not on the boxes stacked in the closet. Then I began to write. (A recent post about savoring a deep woods experience from my front porch was a direct result.)

In recent days, I have thought a lot about what it means to ‘Do what you can and not what you can’t.’ It seems that too often we focus on the second half of the sentence and less eagerly on the first. It serves as a flippant excuse to avoid what we do not want to do—or can’t do without considerable effort. It has become the lumpy, yet familiar, place of repose, a piece of mental furniture we should replace but don’t because we have grown accustomed to its mind-numbing contours.

For me, the phrase ‘what I can’t’ has become the wake-up call to look toward what I can. When I cannot take a trip, it reminds me to enjoy the beauty of my yard. When I miss having coffee dates, it reminds me to call friends or write a note. When I can’t stop a dripping faucet, it reminds me to call the plumber. When I can’t clean the whole house, it reminds me to wash the dishes or pick up offending crumbs. 

When I want to capture the beauty of a moment, the smile of a child, the blush of fresh picked flowers, and have neither the camera or the skill, it reminds me to write—to do what I can and not what I can’t.

VACATION CAME TO ME

Overcast skies lost their battle to fight back their tears. They lacked the roiling determination of blacker clouds, so they did not succumb to hiccoughing sobs over what should have been a sunny, almost-summer day. Rather they simply allowed droplets to ooze steadily from their dreary gray, then roll through the leaves of gently swaying trees, skid over roofing shingles, and drop softly to the ground.

The soaked vegetation was a fitting tribute to my dampened plans. I stared into unending dreariness from my front porch chair, armed against the unseasonal chill with steaming coffee and cozy blanket. I needed time to absorb the pain of turning in a ‘no’ RSVP for an event I desperately wanted to attend and cancelling a hotel reservation made six months ago.

This was just the latest in voided travel plans. 2020 has been a year upended for me, a woman who would rather travel than eat—although if you travel, you know the absence of food is rarely an issue. From March through August, I had planned to visit four states and seven European countries. Holidays, birthdays, funerals, a retirement ceremony, excursions, and vacations all washed away by a global pandemic.

From my perch on the porch, I looked down on robins frolicking in tiny puddles and snacking on worms pulled effortlessly from sodden ground. I scowled only slightly at the woodpecker tapping a steady rhythm on a pine. “Nice to finally meet you,” I thought, putting sight to the sound heard so frequently from inside my doors. I enjoyed the irony of our reversed positions—these birds beneath my gaze usually perched on branches and looked down at me.

Breathing deeply of the rain-washed air, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the distantly remembered fragrance of wet pine trees and musty soil, a smell that took me back to years of camping in the Smoky Mountains. Instantly I was transported to another place and time, and the deep relaxation that comes from hours and days in a pine-filled woods.

Memories of crawling from a tent in the dew of early morning washed over me with the soft insistence of a soggy day. I thought of the tender bodies still curled into sleeping bags, not yet ready to face another day of dad-planned hikes. My fingers felt the warmth of the pink Melamine mug full of coffee brewed on a Coleman stove and handed to me by my ‘rise-to-meet-the-dawn’ husband and his tow-headed side-kick who awoke early on camping trips to have daddy all to himself. Often we pitched our tent by a stream, nestled under trees and so sheltered from the sun that even during the hottest days, the smell of pine and moldy dampness lingered—not unpleasantly.

Now, from the comfort of my urban porch, I once again savored the rich smells of a rain-soaked woods. I looked more closely at the intricacies of a thousand shades of green. I watched a rabbit hop slowly into the bushes while squirrels played tag in the trees. I heard the subtle rustlings of small creatures through tall grass. My heart picked up the beat to nature’s rhythm. 

I discovered I wouldn’t really need travel itineraries, airline tickets, hotel reservations, or road maps this year. Vacation came to me.

HONEST REFLECTIONS

I raced my cart toward checkout as fast as the crowded aisles allowed. I was powerfully motivated to escape further temptation in this home goods nirvana.  A simple stop for a dish drainer had tempted me with an unending display of items I had not known existed and now couldn’t live without.

I was focused on the exit when I saw her from the corner of my eye, and then only from her elbows down. Even this brief glimpse provoked strong emotions that swung unbidden between judgment and pity. “Oh, my! Who would leave the house looking like that?” My ungracious thought was quickly followed with the more charitable, and entirely Southern, “Bless her heart. What an unfortunate wardrobe choice.”

I peeked at her face. The woman wearing the walking wardrobe disaster bore an uncanny resemblance to me. She apparently saw me looking her direction and stared back. Shock and dismay registered on her familiar face. I realized then I was walking by the mirror department.

I made a sharp left turn, moving deeper into the rows of mirrors in a desperate attempt to hide until I could make a more accurate assessment. I nurtured the irrational hope a different mirror would produce a more favorable result. I had dressed so carefully that morning and left home with the pert confidence of one who thinks she looks exceptionally stylish.

Every mirror in the department (I’m pretty sure I checked every one.) confirmed my worst suspicion. My perky yellow top was not long enough for leggings. I had no business being in public wearing an outfit that would be adorable on a chubby-bottomed toddler or alluring on a nubile teen. Too late I realized I had taken for granted the value of the full-length mirrors attached to every closet door in the home from which I had recently moved.

At that point I did what any woman in my vulnerable position would have done—I picked up the closest full-length mirror, used it to shield myself from further view, added it to my other purchases, and escaped to my car.

I have not always appreciated the brutal appraisal a good mirror offers, wishing instead to see a face I only imagine staring back at me—the one devoid of blemishes and under-eye circles, the one with a less prominent jaw and a more prominent nose. Yet I cannot live without mirrors. Their forthright honesty serves me well. They keep me from thinking more highly of my appearance than I ought. Their accurate revelation gives me the opportunity to change what I can and to accept graciously what I cannot.

True friends are like good mirrors. They often see things about me that I cannot see myself. They tell me the truth when my actions and attitudes, my words or even my wardrobe, needs to change. They let me know when I am “too big for my britches”—both literally and figuratively. Their insight encourages me to change.

Faithful friends who have done more to clothe me in body and soul than they will ever know. Friends have suggested what styles and colors look best on me and which ones I should never wear again. Friends have given me clothes they decided would look better on me than on them. Jewelry-making friends have generously accessorized my outfits, adding color and sophistication to my often-black attire.

Although I can recognize obvious flaws in a mirror, only a talented and true friend will point out more than what a mirror reveals. One friend spent four hours helping me find the perfect dress to wear to my daughter’s wedding. My personal standards weren’t that high. As long as the dressing room mirror reflected an image that wasn’t too fat or too frumpy, I would have settled at the two-hour mark. It was my friend who looked beyond the most glaring problems and recognized the best color, the right fit, a style that was uniquely mine, and had the tenacity to keep me going. I learned two things that day: how to be a better dresser but more importantly, how to be a better friend.

Ultimately it isn’t the external image that matters most. Beauty fades. Styles change. Hours spent making the corrections the mirror suggests will not stop the steady march of lines across once-dewy skin. The mirror may remind a grumpy face to smile, but it cannot provide the joy. The mirror will know a worried life by its deeply furrowed brow, but it cannot lighten the load. A mirror may subtly reveal a ‘stinky attitude,’ but it cannot change the heart.

Faithful friends provide mirrors for my soul. They see my lines and wrinkles through my daily life. They show me the state of my heart and the adequacy of my thinking. They notice whether I am glowing and growing or frumpy and fading. They recognize when I am becoming ‘unbecoming.’ True friends tell me what they see with grace; with mercy they challenge me to change.

Not too long ago I unloaded a litany of woes on a friend. I was confident I was justified in my rambling lament. She listened empathetically, mirrored my pain, then offered a redemptive perspective. “I know it is hard,” she comforted, “but when I was in a similar situation, it helped me to thank God for the health and strength to carry the burden instead of simply complaining about the load.” Her gracious acceptance showed me my selfish heart; her merciful counsel gave me a pathway for change.

As I transition to new adventures, I must ensure the safeguards both mirrors and friends provide. A full-length mirror can be replaced with a few screws. Close friends will never be replaced. Their continued insights reach across the miles, arriving in texts and letters, FaceTime and phone calls, but their input is limited by what I choose to share and not what they can observe first hand. So now I am hoping for additional friends who can see my latest flaws up close and personal—people who will have the insight and have courage to look me in the eye and suggest that perhaps I shouldn’t be seen in public until I change my attire, my attitude or even my heart.

Trustworthy are the bruises of a friend…. Proverbs 27:6a (CEB)

LICENSED TO SMILE

My dark-hued cape of self-pity proved futile against the chilly wind. Not even a base-layer of resignation was sufficient to buffer me from the biting dread. The April day itself was as gray as my soul. The sun struggled valiantly to throw off its own murky covering, but the temperatures dropped as the day progressed. Only my need to check another item off an unending list propelled me forward; that…and the knowledge I was on a collision course (metaphorically speaking) with Louisiana and North Carolina and their irritating insistence that my vehicle should be registered to the address where it resides.

An online study of DMV regulations did little to quell my anxiety. A somewhat straightforward list of required documents was sabotaged by an ambiguous reference to having something notarized. Furthermore, the reasonableness of my DMV avoidance had been reinforced during the process of getting a new driver’s license a few weeks before. It took two trips before I had the necessary paperwork, and I still had to wait three hours.

I asked a friend for advice. She had no personal experience, but her husband, who had overheard my concerns, answered from the other room. This solid, masculine counsel confirmed the reason for my self-pity. Registering a vehicle is not women’s work! At least it wasn’t as long as I had my own husband who did such things for me.

George was the one who spoke the language of vehicular bureaucracy, took time off work to stand in line, and then presented me with a new license plate at the end of the day. I was better suited to pouring him a glass of wine, rubbing his aching back, and paying online renewals. My oft-intoned mantra of ‘women-can-do-anything’ did not apply when it came to this intersection between personal property and state regulations.

Now, with no one but me to handle such tasks, I braved the cold and my own uncertainty to join the line inside DMV. I clutched a document-filled folder and staggered under the weight of my widowhood as I stood at the back of the queue.

“Is this where I get an ID?” the latest arrival asked. I was pretty sure it wasn’t. This was the vehicle registration office. My two trips to get a driver’s license had been at a different location, one that presumably issued IDs. Signs everywhere clearly marked this distinction. The smiling and confident woman who stood there with a white cane couldn’t see any of them.

No one in line offered a solution or a helping hand. No husband, parent or friend came to her aid. Where were her people? Who would be brave enough, or crazy enough, to go blind and alone, to the DMV? I thought it would be best for her to speak with one of the officials, so I suggested she join me in line and go to the counter with me.

If I sounded more like an interrogator than a friendly extrovert, this friendly woman didn’t let on. She had used Uber to get to the DMV. She had just moved to Durham and didn’t know anyone here. Her move was neither job nor education related. Although she did not have family in the area, she was relocating her aging mother here. She had picked Durham because it seemed like a good fit for her, and it was a midway point of sorts between where she had been living in Paris and where her mother currently lived in Spokane.

She spoke as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a blind woman to move around the globe and to take up residence in an unfamiliar city where she had no connections. She acted as if keeping an eye on an elderly relative when you can’t see a thing is something people do every day. She moved purposefully, as one who can only feel their way but who doesn't doubt they will get where they want to go. She radiated warmth and joy, and she did it without the apparent support of friends or family. There was no mention of a husband.

“Next,” called the man, and we made our way to the counter. Never before had a long line seemed too short. He answered her questions quickly; then she was on her way.

I wanted to follow, to hear more of her story, to offer friendship and help, and to discover the secret of her confidence. Instead, I did what I had come to do. I presented my documents and hoped for the best. Five minutes and a design choice later, I left with a new license plate. I looked for the woman; she was nowhere to be seen.

Stepping through the heavy glass doors, I discovered the world had warmed during my absence. The clouds were beating a steady retreat from the victorious sun. I was overdressed for such a day. With eyes awakened by the brightness of the day and by the fortitude of a woman who could only feel the sun, I saw how tattered and threadbare my covering of self-pity had become. Maybe I needn’t wear it so often. Perhaps I should hang it in the back of my closet. In time I might even give it away, I thought. And, I smiled.

I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet. – Helen Keller

For You have been my help, And in the shadow of Your wings I sing for joy.
Psalms 63:7 (NASB)

SO THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

It was the final day of a chaotic year. Because New Year’s Eve came on Sunday, large numbers of establishments—including the church I attend and the restaurant where we had hoped to lunch—locked their doors for a year-end reprieve. A deep chill invaded a city unaccustomed to such arctic influence. Only the promise of worshiping with my daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law lured me from my cozy home.

A church I had attended on previous occasions would be holding a mid-morning service. This church, with its inspiring worship and preaching, was full of people in my life stage. I sometimes wondered if it would have been a better fit for me than the small church of Millennials I had chosen.

We raced from the car through the bitter cold to find seats in a sanctuary alive with the sounds of friends greeting each other after the holidays. As a detached observer, I concluded these people had intimate relationships that spanned generations. How comforting it would be to nestle into fellowship with such warm-hearted people.

Yet I already knew that if I wanted to connect with this body of believers, I would have to take the initiative. During previous visits, I had learned members didn't talk to strangers—except when they passed the peace by offering limp hands and a perfunctory, “Peace of Christ.” I had been surprised, but not offended, when no one spoke to me as I entered or when I left. I had simply filled out the attendance sheet and waited for the follow-up that never came.

I had not entirely given up on the notion of getting involved with this church. Perhaps in the spring I would join one of their women’s groups. Maybe I would begin attending their early service before heading to my own small church. I could always meet with one of the pastors.

Seated next to my daughter and her fiancé, I reveled in the exquisite pleasure of worshiping with two people who loved me well. Our voices blended in harmony as we sang familiar songs. Our elbows touched as we knelt during silent confession. I anticipated the warmth of receiving their heartfelt “Peace of Christ” and was grateful I wouldn’t be left standing awkwardly alone as people around me resumed conversations begun days or weeks before.

To my surprise, when I turned to offer the “Peace of Christ” to my loved ones, they were already engaged in an intense conversation. The group of older couples who surrounded them apparently had dispensed with ‘passing the peace’ and moved directly to ‘let’s get acquainted.’

“Good morning. We are so glad to have you with us,” one woman gushed. “Are you students at Duke?” “Did you just move to Durham?” “We would love to have you join us regularly.” “You must meet our friends.”

My daughter and her fiancé were like a horseshoe magnet in a bowl of paper clips. Her engaging smile, his Asian heritage, and their vibrant youth proved an irresistible draw for this gray-headed flock.

My daughter tried to pull me into the conversation, “I want you meet my mother. She just moved to Durham and really doesn’t know anyone yet.” I smiled warmly into faces fleetingly diverted in my direction and offered my name for good measure. Only one woman responded. Her obligatory ‘how very nice to meet you,’ sounded alarmingly like ‘how nice for you, dear,’ but I couldn’t be sure. In her haste to turn back to my daughter, her intentions spoke more clearly than her actual words.

“So this is what it feels like," I thought, borrowing the words and bemused expression of Andrew Hennings, the jilted groom in Sweet Home Alabama. This is what it feels like to be looked over and then summarily overlooked. This is what it means to be denied acceptance—not because of who I am, but because of what I am perceived to be. This is what discrimination feels like—to be rejected for criteria beyond my control—to know that I will always be too old and too American, that I will always lie outside the demographic of their intended mission.

Even as I reeled from the sting of this transitory discomfort, I recognized it as an insignificant incident in a primarily privileged life. My previous experiences with prejudice had been based on gender or things aligned with choice, like education or beliefs. Oh, I had sometimes been ridiculed for being blond—and for living up to the reputation—but other than that, I had no recollection of being discriminated against based on identity until this day. But at that same moment, I was jolted by remembering that encounters more blatant than this are the way of life for multitudes of men, women and children. My heart responded with a newly awakened compassion for those who have reaped the harvest of repeated discrimination.

I cringed anew as I remembered an incident that occurred years ago while we were hosting a stranger from West Virginia. Her son was participating in the Special Olympics; we had registered as a host family. We had inadvertently overheard her conversation as she tried to reassure her mother long-distance, “No, I’ll be fine. They seem like a nice white family. I don't think they will murder me in my sleep.” And we didn’t. On the contrary, we discovered, along with our guest, that what we held in common was greater than the differences on our skin. At the time I assessed her mother’s concern as the laughable worry of an old woman. Now I recognized it as a reflection of personal experience.

I recalled books I had read, and I saw the characters more sharply defined and illustrated in denser hues. I experienced a profound empathy with Ruth Jefferson, the protagonist in Small Great Things (Jodi Picoult), whose education, competence and reputation were of less consequence than the color of her skin. Whereas previously I had absorbed with abhorrence the experiences chronicled in the fictionalized history of Lalita Tedemy’s family (Cane River and Red River), I had gained a new perspective and a small glimpse into the despair that must surely settle into marginalized and persecuted souls.

I have thought about the incident for months now and have shared the story with other people. Some have winced at the transparent age discrimination; others have shuddered at an unfortunate church growth strategy. Many have encouraged me to talk to one of the pastors. To do so would be to miss the point of what I gained that day. That brief episode was a gift I opened and am slowly unpacking. In it I am uncovering new insight, greater compassion, and a heightened awareness of injustice. (As a bonus, I also gained deep gratitude for the young people who embraced me in the very diverse faith family I truly call my church home.)

It would be tempting, and far too easy, to come away from this experience with grand declarations for radical personal change. Reality reminds me this is the start of a journey.

NOT BY DEFAULT, BUT BY DECLARATION

My friend needed a ride. I had a car. She was just out of the hospital. I had just left church. She needed groceries. I needed a moment of quiet. It was an errand of mercy—as it turns out, more for my benefit than hers.

While she shopped, I waited contentedly in the parking lot. The slight breeze coming through open car windows provided the perfect counterpoint to the enthusiastic effort of the sun. I checked emails on my phone. I planned my week. I had a front row seat to a constantly moving parade of humanity.

From this vantage point, I saw the motorized shopping cart the moment it emerged through the automatic doors. It moved ever so slowly across the driveway toward handicapped parking. I opened my door, ready to spring into action should a speedy driver fail to see the cart in time to stop. (Years of hanging out with children have made me hyper-vigilant in areas shared by cars and shorter than hood-height humans.) My relief at seeing the cart come to rest by a car was interrupted by my dismay over the challenges facing the woman who drove it.

Perhaps she had a plan. Perhaps she knew how to get multiple bags of groceries and two 12-pack cartons of drinks from the cart into her car, but it was not apparent to me. At the risk of insulting her independence, I met her at the car and asked if I could help. She hesitated. She had a plan, and I wasn’t it. Her plan was to yell loudly and ask the cell-phone talking stranger leaning against his truck in the next row to help her. I assured her I was strong enough for the task at hand.

She pulled her cane from the back of the cart and stood as tall as a body resembling a lower case ‘c’ allowed. Her movements appeared painful and agonizingly slow.  I finished loading the car several minutes before she was able to lower herself into the driver’s seat.

From the comfort of seated security, she began, “I wasn’t always like this, you know. I used to be so strong. I could do anything.” To make sure I understood, she recounted details of those former years. I heard this as no mere lament but as a plea to see her as more than she now appeared. For one brief moment my heart joined hers in the backward glance. I saw her as the blushing bride and eager first time mom. I saw her in the tennis skirt and as the faithful wife and as the soccer mom.

This woman, who could no longer walk, was at heart all these things and more. Time had changed what she could do. It had not altered who she was. In her own way, she asked, “See me! See me for who I am and not what I can do. Know that I am more than what my body has become.” I was instantly convicted of my too quick tendency to brand people by the packaging in which they are wrapped—of my propensity to mete out pity or praise based on momentary observation.

In that moment, her self-disclosure of a richer, fuller life now lost reminded me that identity exists beyond the transitory circumstances of our temporal lives. It cannot be defined by the innocence of childhood, the vigor of youth, or the surprising frailty of an aging body. It resides deeper and rises higher than the events we use to mark our steady progress to an eternal destiny. Identity is determined not by default, but by the declaration of a heavenly Father.

Her face brightened, as if she suddenly remembered who she was. “There is one thing I am really grateful for,” she said. “I can still get to my church on Sunday morning.” She put up her window. Our encounter was over; the truth remains.

SUCH AS I HAVE, I GIVE TO YOU

I had no cash on me as I raced into my neighborhood market. The plastic card tucked into my cell phone case would be sufficient for two small items.

The sun had just relinquished its claim to the sky, reluctantly handing over its task to the artificial radiance of security lights and neon signs. This changing of the guard went unnoticed by the unusually large number of people who crowded the entryway.

Husbands, on their way home, shopped with lists so short they didn’t have to write them down. Vibrant young adults arrived as couples or in groups, apparently having not yet learned a list saves time and money. A Girl Scout troop, hoping to entice shoppers with their famous cookies and winsome smiles, flanked one side of the sliding door. A solitary figure, sat round-shouldered, cross-legged and alcohol-fogged on the filthy concrete, a counterpoint to the happy and expectant scouts.

Fellow shoppers with cash and a sweet tooth cheerfully greeted the scouts. They paid no more attention to the man on the ground than they did to a misplaced shopping cart they had to step around. I was careful to avoid eye contact with either the Scouts or the derelict. It seemed easier than explaining I had nothing to give.

I was dismayed to discover nothing had changed by the time I left the store. No Good Samaritan had brought a hungry man food or helped him on his way. He continued to sit there, while I, heartsick over the scene, escaped quickly to my car--feeling more and more like the hypocritical priest and Levite who hurried past the robbed and beaten man in the parable in Luke.

“Really, now,” I argued with the inner voice that is not my own. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Give him the gift of human dignity. Look him in the eye. Acknowledge he is a person.”

I retraced my steps across the parking lot. Hoping to make our encounter less awkward, I had retrieved cash from the emergency stash in my car. It wasn’t much, but it was what I had. A store employee confirmed the man had been there an hour. No one else had talked to him.

I knelt beside the man so I could look him in the eye. I asked if he was all right—if he needed help. He said he was hungry. I slipped my meager offering into his hands, hoping he would buy food but suspecting he wouldn’t. The help he needed was beyond my ability to give.

I said I would pray for him—and I meant it. He challenged me, asking if I knew how to really pray. I assured him I did, and he began, “Our Father.” Together we said the Lord’s Prayer, word by word, line by line, outside on the concrete amid the noise of shoppers and Scouts. Few sanctuaries have ever seemed as sacred.

He took my hand and touched it to his head. We connected, one child of God with another, and then I was free to go.  “Silver and gold have I none, but what I have that I give you.”

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FOG

October 17 at University Lake

Tentacles of moisture stroked my cheeks and dampened my just dried hair. I stood still and silent, cocooned in the mists of early fall morning fog. Staring ahead, I willed my eyes to focus, or at least to remember the lakeside scene I had photographed just days before. 

The trees that still clung to water’s edge were now but shadowy images against the backdrop of uncertain gray. Gone were the wind-whipped ripples that sparkled in the sunlight of brighter days. Gone were the gentle clouds that teased the imagination with suggestions of characters—like actors dressed for the part on a stage of brilliant blue. Gone was the line of trees that stood as stalwart witness to the certainty of a shoreline on the other side. It was a panorama of promised nothingness.

My grief is like a foggy morning—a season when a bright kaleidoscope of ever after dreams, has repainted itself in shades of speculative gray. This miasma is neither as dark nor as fearsome as some might think. Wrapped in a shroud of pain, I remember two things. First, although the mist obscures the distant shore, I have no doubt solid ground I cannot see still exists. Although I may not see far front of me, I can continue my way forward with cautious steps.

Secondly, sorrow is but a vapor that, given time, relinquishes its grip in the heat of unrelenting light. Lines penned by Carl Sandburg, one of my favorite poets, surface as I stand peering into the gray,

The fog comes on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on. 

And then moves on….

In time the fog will lift; it will move on. Until it does, you will find me walking resolutely through a metaphorical fog, confident that,

Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. 
(Psalm 30:5b, 2 Corinthians 4:17)

LET THERE BE LIGHTS

George and I didn’t fight often, and we didn’t fight about many things. We did fight about the lights.

He thought I should turn them off when I left the room. I thought I should leave them on—in case I came back later. He said leaving on the lights wasted electricity. I said light-filled windows cast a friendly glow that made our home smile in defiance of a sun-quenched sky. Sometimes he followed me around just to flip the switches off. It was not beneath me to circle back around and defiantly return them to their brightful position.

As much as I loved lights, I hated buying light bulbs. George regularly added them to the grocery list. I conveniently ‘forgot’ to buy them. I seldom saw a need. The lights were always working as far as I could tell, but he would insist and sometimes go with me to the store in order to stock up. I am sure George was quite aware that my refusal to buy bulbs was illogical and inconsistent with my insistence in leaving them on. He was wise enough never to point it out.

I could never figure out which bulbs to buy. Bulbs come with different bases, different shapes, different watts, and different hues. The selection of just one pack of bulbs took more time than picking out produce for a week—and did nothing for family nutrition. 

The cost wreaked havoc on a kid-friendly food budget and made me feel I couldn’t afford sacred purchases like Milano Mints. Then there was the challenge of getting them home—unbroken. They couldn’t be packed at the bottom of the bag where they would certainly lose if they jockeyed for space with peanut butter.  They couldn’t be too close to the top where they might take a suicidal tumble to the parking lot below.

As suddenly as George was gone, the struggle over lights and light bulbs ended. I stopped turning out lights because I seldom turned them on. I stopped buying light bulbs because I had no need.

The house wasn’t totally dark as long as I had houseguests and people who lived with me. But once they were gone, and all switches were under my sole control, the house settled into comfortable twilight, only enjoying reprieve when the sun extended mercy through partially curtained windows. When a lamp burned out, I used another lamp until that too was gone, and I either sat in darkness or moved on to another room. Overhead fixtures with multiple bulbs grew dimmer by 60 watts at a time until they gave up entirely.  I often used the flashlight on my cell phone so I could see where I was going.

I cannot explain why I didn’t see the growing darkness, anymore than I can explain why one night I had a startled recognition, “It is really dark in here and none of the lights work anymore.” My first thought—unfortunately this is true—was that I would have to do something about the lights before Christmas. By the next morning, I knew I had to do something immediately. One ladder, two hours and more light bulbs than I knew we had stashed away and once again I could turn on lights—if or when I wanted to.

The lights took matters into their own hands a few weeks later. I installed timers before an out of town trip—hoping to make my absence less apparent—and forgot to turn them off on my return. When my alarm rang the first morning back, the bedside light came on, even before I reached for the switch. Stumbling toward the kitchen for coffee, I saw warm lights anticipated my appearance. With utmost consideration, they humbly turned themselves off before I headed off to work. When I arrived home after dark, they were waiting cheerfully for my arrival. I have chosen to let the lights have their way.

I have discovered it takes light to find my way back to life. And when I am too tired or sad or out-of-touch to turn them on myself, it’s nice when they can lead the way. I am setting up those safeguards for myself.

I am belatedly apologetic to the man I took for granted when he kept the lights lit all those years. I get it now—the reason he always needed more bulbs. It is the price we pay when we insist, “Let there be lights.”