Sorrow lives just around the corner. It will peek around at the best of times. Sitting in a sunny spot outside, feeling the warmth on my back. I turn my head. And there it is.
The building is the same. It’s been the same for nine years. Those windows staring down at me. I knew I was close – there is a little flashing light somewhere in my mind that blinks faster the closer I get, even if I don’t consciously acknowledge it. I knew I was close, but somehow my eyes had avoided the skyline.
I turn and there it is. Oval windows. No other building in this city has windows like that. I look up and study the windows.
I’m just sitting, trying to eat my lunch. In a few minutes, I will go and pick up my daughter. She is the gift that God gave me to prove to me that life goes on and it is glorious. And soon after that, I will see my son – the gift that was given – twice.
But my eye has settled on those windows. I try to see inside from where I am. I know it is impossible, but suddenly I can see the hallways, the doors, the paint. The thin disguise of decoration over reality that fools children but never fools a mother.
As I sit there in an uncomfortable wicker chair with people walking by and talking about who knows what – stuff they think is so important right now – as I sit there, I can actually smell that building that is blocks away.
Something inside me changes, twists, and hurts. My mind says, no that is all over. Years ago. You don’t have to feel that anymore. But that spot deep within begins to weep. I want to put my hand on it and apply pressure like you would a bleeding wound.
I know if I don’t I will have to let it all out. And I don’t have time. So, I push my sorrow down, and it is like a sleeping bag that will never fit back into its original sack. I push and pull, tuck and push. And with the last bite of the lunch I no longer want, I force myself to stand and turn my back on it.
The building of sorrow with oval windows. Just around the corner.
*** and with that, I say, goodbye, May... see you next year***
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Little Purple Flowers
In January the landscapers came and butchered our sage bushes. I had never seen pruning like that. One could scarcely call it gardening. When they were done, there was little left of our plants that was recognizable save the location of their roots. Every leaf was gone – and in January in Phoenix there were still many leaves to be lost. Every major branch was cut back, some were even torn.
It was very disheartening to walk outside that day and be met by these scrawny stumps that were once our big lush sage bushes. I won’t even tell you how my husband reacted – that’s for another blog!
For weeks I would walk up to the house and lament our sad stumps. I’d look longingly across the street at the reasonable landscaping going on over there. I’d remember with great sadness how wonderful they looked at Christmas with net lights covering their rotund beauty.
And then we saw a leaf. Even so, you can’t imagine that it would make a difference. Then, another. Soon, I stopped noticing the new growth altogether – as we often do with things we see every day, like children and cities.
Yesterday, I was unlocking my front door and a fragrance came to me. It was soft and beautiful and I immediately recognized it. Sage. Those sweet little flowers. I stepped back and really looked at my bushes again. There they were. Big, round, full and in need of trimming, for heaven’s sake! And absolutely covered in purple flowers.
Sometimes we are pruned, aren’t we? God in His wisdom removes from us what seems like beauty, what seems like necessity, what seems good enough. Sometimes we stand and look at ourselves and it feels like He may have taken the very thing we thought we needed to live. It’s not pretty. We feel torn and void. We do not understand when we are being cut back that it is the only way to grow from the inside out – the only way to fill out to our potential and be shaped by the Master Gardener. My prayer is that one day I will send a sweet fragrance to His nostrils.
It was very disheartening to walk outside that day and be met by these scrawny stumps that were once our big lush sage bushes. I won’t even tell you how my husband reacted – that’s for another blog!
For weeks I would walk up to the house and lament our sad stumps. I’d look longingly across the street at the reasonable landscaping going on over there. I’d remember with great sadness how wonderful they looked at Christmas with net lights covering their rotund beauty.
And then we saw a leaf. Even so, you can’t imagine that it would make a difference. Then, another. Soon, I stopped noticing the new growth altogether – as we often do with things we see every day, like children and cities.
Yesterday, I was unlocking my front door and a fragrance came to me. It was soft and beautiful and I immediately recognized it. Sage. Those sweet little flowers. I stepped back and really looked at my bushes again. There they were. Big, round, full and in need of trimming, for heaven’s sake! And absolutely covered in purple flowers.
Sometimes we are pruned, aren’t we? God in His wisdom removes from us what seems like beauty, what seems like necessity, what seems good enough. Sometimes we stand and look at ourselves and it feels like He may have taken the very thing we thought we needed to live. It’s not pretty. We feel torn and void. We do not understand when we are being cut back that it is the only way to grow from the inside out – the only way to fill out to our potential and be shaped by the Master Gardener. My prayer is that one day I will send a sweet fragrance to His nostrils.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tonight I Was Surprised
I stood behind my daughter as I combed through her hair, blow drying it after her bath. Her flowing beautiful hair. We were laughing at something simple and her golden little giggles were bubbling up around me. Suddenly I thought how blessed I am to have the privilege of this moment. I know so many people who love her, who are delighted by her. I have heard testimony to the light she brings into a room. Yet I am the one who gets to stand here, so close in a warm steamy bathroom and hear laughter meant for only me.
I remember when I was 18, there was a baby in our church whom I loved. His mother and I were friends and I worked in the nursery and had held this baby since he was born. He smiled at me and loved me back. He was always happy to see me and came willingly into my arms. I loved him as though he were mine.
I remember that one day, I realized that no matter how much I loved him, there would always be something I could not grasp, something I could not understand. I realized that my friend was the one who was blessed with his nighttime snuggles and she was first to see his eyes in the morning. Perhaps it was the first time I recognized the desire in me to be a mother.
Tonight, as I touched her silky hair and looked in the mirror at her shining laughing eyes, I wondered why. Why I was chosen to be so near this beautiful creature. Why it was my hand that had the honor of caressing her face.
Time will stretch and fold and soon enough she will be grown. She will never remember this night after a bath, brushing her teeth and laughing with me.
But the 18 year old in me will never forget that I have found that sweet fragrance, the heart stopping moment lost in her eyes, that glorious blessing that is the love of a child.
I remember when I was 18, there was a baby in our church whom I loved. His mother and I were friends and I worked in the nursery and had held this baby since he was born. He smiled at me and loved me back. He was always happy to see me and came willingly into my arms. I loved him as though he were mine.
I remember that one day, I realized that no matter how much I loved him, there would always be something I could not grasp, something I could not understand. I realized that my friend was the one who was blessed with his nighttime snuggles and she was first to see his eyes in the morning. Perhaps it was the first time I recognized the desire in me to be a mother.
Tonight, as I touched her silky hair and looked in the mirror at her shining laughing eyes, I wondered why. Why I was chosen to be so near this beautiful creature. Why it was my hand that had the honor of caressing her face.
Time will stretch and fold and soon enough she will be grown. She will never remember this night after a bath, brushing her teeth and laughing with me.
But the 18 year old in me will never forget that I have found that sweet fragrance, the heart stopping moment lost in her eyes, that glorious blessing that is the love of a child.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
When Hummingbirds Come To Call
I saw a hummingbird. It came before me, teasing my eyes, floating there for a moment. And then – zip. Away. I thought it was gone and smiled, feeling a tug in my throat.
And then, suddenly, it came back. Dancing from side to side, it hovered there – inspecting the red cord hanging on my porch. Soon, just hanging there looking at me.
Tears came then. An impossibly small creature that has come to mean so much to me. I watched its throat turn from red to green in the sunlight like a hologram.
No, I am not alone. Even when I feel so. The great and wonderful God of the Universe somehow knit together a tiny heart, eyes so small I can barely see them and wings so fast they are just a sound. Such beauty. Such exquisite detail. Surely. Surely He is still with me.
And almost in agreement, my little friend flew up to a high branch and watched over me as I drove away.
And then, suddenly, it came back. Dancing from side to side, it hovered there – inspecting the red cord hanging on my porch. Soon, just hanging there looking at me.
Tears came then. An impossibly small creature that has come to mean so much to me. I watched its throat turn from red to green in the sunlight like a hologram.
No, I am not alone. Even when I feel so. The great and wonderful God of the Universe somehow knit together a tiny heart, eyes so small I can barely see them and wings so fast they are just a sound. Such beauty. Such exquisite detail. Surely. Surely He is still with me.
And almost in agreement, my little friend flew up to a high branch and watched over me as I drove away.
Missing
Have you ever really missed someone? You walk through a room where they used to stand and you see them there. You blink and look again and they are not. But something in you aches and comes out as a sigh.
You walk through a restaurant they used to frequent and you see them there at the table you last shared. You know they are not there but you see them like a ghost. And then like a cruel breeze, you move on - to your party, your day, your life. But somewhere amid the noise you can still hear the laughter in your empty ears.
You walk through a restaurant they used to frequent and you see them there at the table you last shared. You know they are not there but you see them like a ghost. And then like a cruel breeze, you move on - to your party, your day, your life. But somewhere amid the noise you can still hear the laughter in your empty ears.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Raindrops
When they are so rare, they are extraordinary. What a place I live in – today was the last day of school and how did the children celebrate? They ran outside and danced in the raindrops. My daughter giggled and jumped about as they tickled her, falling on her upturned face.
Soon, because we tarried too long with our goodbyes, we had to run to the car in the falling rain. Still, we laughed and shrieked with the rare cool experience. I didn’t run that fast. The only thing that made me hurry was knowing my glasses would be impossible to see out of and hard to dry with a wet shirt.
Today at recess, before the rain fell on us, I stood outside and drank up the darkening sky and the coming storm. The wind whipped my hair into more of a mess than usual and the clouds pressed down around me so much that my head began to hurt with the pressure. But the air was cool and such a welcome relief. I would have stayed there forever.
Where did this come from? Suddenly everything shifts and we enjoy a day of rain and quiet. We experience record highs and now sudden lows. Going out tonight, I had to back up and get a light jacket. My, what a difference a day makes.
And isn’t that how our life goes? One day we have everything and one day loss. One day we are scorched and burnt. One day, refreshed, and we open up again like a little flower. Some days the change hurts us. And some days it heals us. One raindrop at a time.
Soon, because we tarried too long with our goodbyes, we had to run to the car in the falling rain. Still, we laughed and shrieked with the rare cool experience. I didn’t run that fast. The only thing that made me hurry was knowing my glasses would be impossible to see out of and hard to dry with a wet shirt.
Today at recess, before the rain fell on us, I stood outside and drank up the darkening sky and the coming storm. The wind whipped my hair into more of a mess than usual and the clouds pressed down around me so much that my head began to hurt with the pressure. But the air was cool and such a welcome relief. I would have stayed there forever.
Where did this come from? Suddenly everything shifts and we enjoy a day of rain and quiet. We experience record highs and now sudden lows. Going out tonight, I had to back up and get a light jacket. My, what a difference a day makes.
And isn’t that how our life goes? One day we have everything and one day loss. One day we are scorched and burnt. One day, refreshed, and we open up again like a little flower. Some days the change hurts us. And some days it heals us. One raindrop at a time.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Time
Time is not even. My watch protests this thought and measures each second the same but I know it is lying.
The last hour of a boring work day is identifiably longer than the last hour you have to spend at Disneyland, isn’t it? The last night you have left to write a paper is much shorter than the night before you get to go on a special trip (unless you’re packing at the last minute and then it flies by again...).
I don’t know how it works, but it does.
Your children grow in a flash – so fast you don’t even know what could have happened. Time machine, wrinkle, warp, who knows. And yet, there are moments, tiny moments, that stretch and elongate, like your reflection in a fun-house mirror, and you think they are eternal.
When a hummingbird stops in front of you and looks right at you.
When you look into someone’s eyes and you see beyond color, even expression. You see THEM and you think: this must have been what your mama saw the day you were born.
When you watch your child run and laugh with abandon.
When your newborn baby opens up his eyes, his face, and he looks long and hard at you, studying you.
When your child has his first seizure – the longest 30 seconds yet.
When you stand by the bed and watch a single tear run down your dying grandmother’s cheek. To this day I wonder why she was crying.
Perhaps God, in His wisdom knows how we are, flying about, like bulls in the china shop, and he takes certain moments and turns the clock backward just a bit, just enough so that we stop and notice. He knows that otherwise we would lose the lesson, miss the beauty, forget the heart-stopping wonder that is His world.
These moments are the asterisks of our lives that keep the minutes and days, the hours and decades from running together, the bullet points that help us to make sense of the rest. How on earth can we measure them with a second hand?
The last hour of a boring work day is identifiably longer than the last hour you have to spend at Disneyland, isn’t it? The last night you have left to write a paper is much shorter than the night before you get to go on a special trip (unless you’re packing at the last minute and then it flies by again...).
I don’t know how it works, but it does.
Your children grow in a flash – so fast you don’t even know what could have happened. Time machine, wrinkle, warp, who knows. And yet, there are moments, tiny moments, that stretch and elongate, like your reflection in a fun-house mirror, and you think they are eternal.
When a hummingbird stops in front of you and looks right at you.
When you look into someone’s eyes and you see beyond color, even expression. You see THEM and you think: this must have been what your mama saw the day you were born.
When you watch your child run and laugh with abandon.
When your newborn baby opens up his eyes, his face, and he looks long and hard at you, studying you.
When your child has his first seizure – the longest 30 seconds yet.
When you stand by the bed and watch a single tear run down your dying grandmother’s cheek. To this day I wonder why she was crying.
Perhaps God, in His wisdom knows how we are, flying about, like bulls in the china shop, and he takes certain moments and turns the clock backward just a bit, just enough so that we stop and notice. He knows that otherwise we would lose the lesson, miss the beauty, forget the heart-stopping wonder that is His world.
These moments are the asterisks of our lives that keep the minutes and days, the hours and decades from running together, the bullet points that help us to make sense of the rest. How on earth can we measure them with a second hand?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
What Do You Remember?
I can feel the sun burning the back of my head. My dark hair pulled taut into braids, even here, even in the mountains, so tight it makes my scalp hurt when I turn my head. But still I squat there, burning head and tight scalp. My stick is a good tool and I can turn over big clods of dark almost black soil. Soon, there they are, squirming, writhing away from the sun that heats my head. Daddy is pleased. We pull them out – gently so they don’t pull apart. Dig in, dirt in your nails, gently place the soft pink earthworms in a cup. I have a brother and two sisters somewhere in this wood but I’m the only one taking in the lesson. I want to be near him, to feel his hand over mine while I hold the fishing line, to watch him put a worm on a hook just right. I feel a little sorry for the worm, but I wouldn’t risk missing all of this just for a silly old worm.
You have to be quiet, stay out of the sunlight, don’t cast your shadow on the water. The fish are smart in their cold world. My eyes are still too young and not yet hungry enough to see them flash in the water but he sees them and if I’m watchful – ever watchful – I can see one jump after a bug on the water. Even though I can’t see them, they can see me, he warns. There – just there – let your hook float past.
That feeling, like no other in the world and impossible to describe. How can they be so strong? How on earth can I keep from squealing when my rod jumps and rolls in my hand. Oh, don’t lose it, don’t let it go.
Don’t let it go.
I never wanted to, but like all that is memory and time it slips silently into something I can barely hold. Tears prick my eyes while I stand at the edge of something so far away. My favorite place in all the world, images and years and the sound of rushing water, always the rushing water and the stones slipping into the new shape of the river.
You have to be quiet, stay out of the sunlight, don’t cast your shadow on the water. The fish are smart in their cold world. My eyes are still too young and not yet hungry enough to see them flash in the water but he sees them and if I’m watchful – ever watchful – I can see one jump after a bug on the water. Even though I can’t see them, they can see me, he warns. There – just there – let your hook float past.
That feeling, like no other in the world and impossible to describe. How can they be so strong? How on earth can I keep from squealing when my rod jumps and rolls in my hand. Oh, don’t lose it, don’t let it go.
Don’t let it go.
I never wanted to, but like all that is memory and time it slips silently into something I can barely hold. Tears prick my eyes while I stand at the edge of something so far away. My favorite place in all the world, images and years and the sound of rushing water, always the rushing water and the stones slipping into the new shape of the river.
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