Thirteen Going On Forever

Disregarded. He is ignored, dismissed. The wordless message: Disappear. The murmured message, grumbled by those he should most trust: Shut. Your. Mouth.

She hides her face behind a mask of licorice-black hair. Strong, afraid, searching. An impediment of speech ensures that telling her side will be complicated, slow. There's no one to tell anyway.

His need for belonging and adoration eclipse rational thought. He tells tales to weave a reality that is livable. Safe.

Her need to understand, to fit, to breathe, overshadow restraint. She begins the tightrope dance of belonging in the world of men.

Who will hear? Who will enter into the web of fantasy and choking silence that winds 'round his lips, his mind -- soon his all. Who will be on his side first; who will shout his worth?

Who will reach? Who will call her down from that too-high strand, that too-risky place, and invite her into safety? Who will listen, beyond shaking lips and stilted words, and understand that she already is; that she is becoming?

The hearing, the reaching: they take time.

It is inconvenient to love.

The leaving, the ignoring: they are effortless.

Play blind, dumb, mute. For the sake of ease.

It costs all to withhold. It is inconvenient to love.

Place

Come

Walk with me awhile

Through stands of trees

And prairie grass

Along this gently wandered road



Hear the shrill of hawk

And hawk

Imagine yourself young

Free

Dance with the damselfly

Reach for the Wild



Stand in silence

Stand

In silence

Breathe deep the Promise

That permanent Beauty

Unsoiled land

Unspoiled land

Will soon be ours



Step firmly

This is the Way

Beyond ruin

Beyond waste

Where blossoms cover

Boundless plains

And Hope waits in spite of all

About Her

If you met her for yourself, Anna's feet would be the last thing to draw your attention.The thing you'd notice about her, if you bumped into her at the market or the coffee shop, is her spirit -- her I'm-laughing-at-you-in-the-nicest-way, mischievous, determination. She's uncommonly comfortable in her own lovely skin. Perfectly blond and naturally curly hair plays around her freckled cheeks. Her petite, feminine frame carries her soon-coming babe with strength, energy.

But we're not talking about spark, we're talking about feet, she and I. Anna's first pedicure has resulted in perfect daisies painted on fluorescent green nails. "So, you know how whenever you go into something like this you always self-consciously apologize for what you imagine must be the worst feet they've ever seen? Well, it turns out mine really are some of the worst!" Her gently self-deprecating laugh assures her listener that she's really okay with whatever criticism may have been leveled at her to establish the nastiness of her callous-riddled toes.

I laugh in turn and press for detail. "It's true! They brought out a special cream! 'Just for you,' they said. Who knew?"

I'm generally uncomfortable with salons, spa's, perfume departments -- anyplace where aggressive women threaten to try to "make something" of my "challenging" appearance. I need to wax more regularly, but the fifteen dollars required is elusive (and most often being spent on slurpees, rather than beauty enhancements); the last time I visited an esthetician she, as I lay prostrate on my back in a dingy back room in a strangely decorated salon, perkily chirruped: "Oh my gosh! You're eyebrows are, like, completely uneven!" That eyebrows grow in all manner of raggedy slashes across the faces of women 'round the globe had, clearly, not occurred to her until that moment. I'm so glad I could be the one to demonstrate that imperfection.

My nail beds are too flat to handle the beautiful manicure's I love so much. My hair's natural s-curve co-operates with no one. I've started sprouting hairs in odd places ~ obvious places ~ places front and center where all the world can enjoy an excellent view (I am not exaggerating when I say that there is one that springs forth from the middle of my left cheek that can grow to the incredible length of one centimeter overnight!).

So, when Anna and I, busily setting up a picnic supper for the kids' youth group, talk about the grotesque deformity of feet, I can relate. The really glorious thing about being a few years into living is that our oddities and various uglies are becoming amusing. The youthful sting of fear and uncertainty that comes with the realization of imperfections is falling away and being replaced by growing (and sometimes grim) understanding that our callouses and sproingy hairs are not what the world is watching anyway.

If you met her for yourself, Anna's feet would be the last thing to draw your attention. Because she is clever and very funny. She catches your imagination, quickly, with engaging ideas and thoughts for the future. She is kind. She rejects no one. She is beautiful.

With a toddler straddling her right hip (Only occasionally directing a "Could you please help me?" at her distracted husband.) and a babybelly sticking out to forever, she wins her audience. She facilitates the picnic, now well underway. She organizes and executes appropriately sloppy and energetic games, the kind that only thirteen year old's can fully appreciate. She laughs. She draws in. She loves.

Bumpy feet. Flat nailbeds. Hair too-straight, too-curly. Moles. Unimportant, all. We are so much more than the sum of our imperfect features. We bring to the world. We give to the world. We share, love, offer, build in our worlds. Like Anna's feet, our flaws will go largely unnoticed, while the bits of grace and humor we offer will leave lasting, healing, motivating impressions. Now, would you please stop staring at my eyebrows?

A Splotch of Drool

A lunch bag, locks, and two kinds of milk. A lunch bag, locks, and two kinds of milk. A lunch bag...I'm chanting rhythmically to myself as I make my way to the grocery store. A lunch bag for Bob, locks for the backyard gates (because the neighbor kids are sneaking in to visit the dogs when we're not at home), and milk for breakfast.

Easy, right? A short list. I'm not sure how your thirty, forty, fifty-something memory is treating you these days, but mine is a bit like a dog dish on the back deck on a hot summer's morning: all the useful stuff has evaporated by midday, leaving behind only a few clumps of fir and a splotch of drool.

"Hey, Mom? I got 93% on my test."

"No kidding, son? Good job!"

"Mom?"

"Mmmhmm?" I'm stirring or cleaning or folding, my mind on other things, but I force my mind to scramble it's way into the present conversation.

"Mom, that's the third time I've told you about that mark."

I stop stirring, cleaning, folding, ruminating. "What? No way. I would have remembered if you'd told me something so important. Are you sure you told me before?"

"Yeah. 'Cause you responded before."

"So, why'd you tell me again?

"Because I usually tell you things three times, even if you respond, so that I'm sure you've heard me."

I toy with the idea that my teenager is messing with my head. He's not serious? He's serious.

I call a friend to go over the details for a birthday we're planning. She listens politely as I ramble off the meeting times and places. She waits for me to take a breath and injects, "So, this is all of the same stuff you told me in your phone message last night, right?"

A phone message? Last night? I didn't leave a message, I'm sure of it. I'd remember that, for sure! Wrong. Bits of fir and a puddle of drool.

I do remember some things.

Like, I remember what it feels like to sit beneath a tree on Grandpa's farm. I remember the fairy-tale feel of the cool breeze and the bony roots and the reaching branches.

I remember the smell in the car-pool lady's car after she'd had her radiation treatments. How old was I then? Ten, eleven?

The woman I babysat for who cheated on her husband with (no kidding!) the milk man, my first car, Dad teaching me to drive a standard (and not ever swearing out loud -- not even in German -- when I nearly spun us into the ditch on a country road), the first teacher to give me a near-failing grade on an English paper, the first teacher to challenge my beliefs about myself, my God, my life -- I remember all of these things.

I remember the pillar-of-the-church man who was offended, weekly, by my bushy eyebrows and "man sized" hands and too-firm grip. How I felt the first time I read "The Scarlet Pimpernel" and when I first encountered God on a just-me level; my first time skiing and that one mean swimming instructor. I remember!

But the grocery list is a little elusive. Four things, I tell myself. You're just picking up four things. I keep walking and chanting, Lunch bag, locks..., allowing myself a bit of a giggle and making a mental note to just write it all on my hand next time (because, Goodness knows, I won't be able to keep track of a piece of paper). If I remember...

Blackbird

This little guy is a Brewer's Blackbird. He's intensely parental and darkly vigilant where his offspring are concerned. I know this because every time I hike past his house he chitters and flaps threateningly at me, hovering just a couple of feet above my head.

Sometimes I take him by surprise and he doesn't begin his recriminations until I'm past, but once he's spotted me I'm in for it!

He and his family nest on the ground or in the bottom branches of the trees that cluster around our local man-made lakes. His Blackbird neighbors are equally vocal in the defense of their territory, sitting like tiny sentries just a few feet off from their home turfs. As I walk by, I chatter my reassurances in their direction, in my very best Bird, promising that I won't harm their mates or their babes.

They don't believe me and make gently determined swoops at my head, encouraging me to move along a little quicker if-you-please, their tones implying that they will reign their tiny fury down on me right quick if I don't shove off.

I happen to be talking with God about my own kids as I enter the Brewer's neighborhood. I'm asking (beseeching? petitioning?) my Lord for His ongoing presence in their lives. Will He, I ask, lead them to become all that He's created them to be? Will He be their teacher, counselor, conviction, Light? Will He give them the same gift of believing that I feel so grateful for in my own life? Will He teach them to love -- sooner, more deeply, more wildly than I?

You know what those prayers are like, I know! You know the breath-stealing intensity that settles around a Mom's crying out on behalf of her own. When I pray for you...and you...and you, my friend, my thoughts often begin as weighty and awe-filled petitions to God. After a moment's, "Lord, will You do such-and-such for my friend?" the weight of the moment lifts, vanishes.

When we pray for our kids, on the other hand, the import of what we're asking enlarges and expands inside us until it fills us to bursting: we carry unspoken, ongoing entreaties for the children, expelling them in short breaths as we mop the floor or fold their laundry. Spilling them in too-many-word rants in the privacy of the loo. Weeping them in silence in the safe aloneness of the shower. The urgency and momentous responsibility of their care is unchanging in us. The relief that follows a prayer for a friend does not always accompany the prayer for a child.

We're a little like Brewer's Blackbird. We're at our post, watchfully noting the threats and adventures and sustaining-things and breaking-things that are coming our charges' way. We may be tiny, but we will be heard. And if you appear to be a threat to our maturing broods, you'd better come equipped with a very sturdy hat and some good running shoes!

I hurry past, entertained and humbled by the Brewer's determined (militant?) vigilance. I do not have a hat and I'm unnerved enough by their angry chitchitchit's to be grateful for my running shoes. I mark the lesson on guarding the nest and, in my ridiculously high and squeaky sure-to-calm-the-critter language, leave them with a my final reassurance that they've done their work well; their young are safe, the threat vanquished for another day.

Thirsty

I thought our apple tree was dying. It's a new addition to our barren backyard (Note to self: Write landscaping into any future mortgage!) and a significant financial investment, not to mention a labor of love on behalf of our Mormon friends (an interesting story to be told another day). Our soil is thick with clay and stones so I've been having a minor internal panic attack that we didn't properly prepare the dirt and that the poor thing wasn't able to really get her roots down deep before the kill of winter set in.

When I went out to examine her branches yesterday, I felt certain that they were too stiff; too brittle. Checking the soil around her trunk, I realized (too late?) that it was desert-dry despite our recent spring snow flurries.

I've been feeling a little dry, a little spent myself of late. Winter takes it's toll on our psyche as well as our physiology. It exacts payment spiritually, too. The dusty brown and concrete gray settled between snowfalls and spring rain is a grim testimony to faith that needs earth-soaking moisture, turned soil, and a good weed whacking.

I mentioned to my Lord that I was feeling a bit like those brittle branches. Empty. Thirsty. I don't really have anything to add to my prayers for my friends, my neighbors, my loved ones. I need new language to properly exalt Him because my own feels crusty and over-used, like the rock-hard gray layer of tired earth that blankets my flower beds.

A friend recently expressed her concern over our lack of church community, suggesting that without it we would could not be properly "filled up" or refreshed. I've given her worries a great deal of thought as we continue on our away-from-church course. There is something to be said for Christian community: in it's healthiest form, it really does kindle hope and provide spiritual nourishment.

I consider, however, the "church" we have experienced outside of a Sunday morning service. I recognize that the refreshing, refilling, rejuvenating place in my own life, the real worship service in my everyday, has been in momentous conversation with friends.

A prayer, between gal-pals, thoughts turned to Jesus, turns tired soil, preparing it for nutrients. A good gab with a friend ~ about the mysteries of God, the wonders of God ~ is like slow-falling clear water on parched earth. A give-and-take over this bit of Scripture and that sound counsel seeds ready soil, promising fruit and beauty and more to give. The faithful, faithful wounds of a friend act as surely as any chemical to see wrong and shame on their way.

This afternoon I cranked the outside taps on to full-blast and soaked our tree with fresh water. I was wrong, you know. She wasn't dying after all. She was just thirsty. A good soak and her tiny, strengthening branches limbered up right away. A little one-on-one with a friend, and all was right again.

When I'm Tempted to Withhold Goodness

Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save,
nor his ear too dull to hear.
But your iniquities have separated you from your God;
your sins have hidden his face from you,
so that he will not hear...



...Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?



Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter --
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?



Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.



If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.



The Lord will guide you always,
he will satisfy your needs
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail...
You will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets and Dwellings...
~ Isaiah ~

One Armchair to Another

I've been counting down the hours, and the time has finally arrived. 'Time for a cup of something with a friend. I hurry into the coffee shop, not wanting to waste a moment of these stolen hours away from children and responsibilities and care.

My friend has arrived before me and I settle into the comfy armchair at her side. We are surrounded by buzzing conversations; the whir of coffee dispensers and the dull thump of nearby doors attempt to interrupt our thoughts. Sirens shrill just beyond the crowded parking lot. The gentleman at the table next to us asks the time. We take it all in, but the flow of conversation is immediate and uninterrupted.

My friend is a rarity in the world. Her femininity is complete, natural, profound. She is beautiful. She moves with grace, surety. And when she speaks, her loveliness is not compromised. Her words spark hope. Light. Even joy.

She tells of strengths and challenges. She carefully, respectfully tells bits of the stories of friends -- women who are hurting, unsure, and fighting fiercely to define faith (or to squish it determinedly into whatever box they so desperately need to believe it fits in). She speaks with honor and compassion, needlessly doubting her position in the world relative to theirs.

My friend, I am beginning to see, has astonishingly broad shoulders. As she navigates her own roles of professional, wife, mother, friend, daughter, sister, she also stands solidly as many, many women lean on her for a steadying influence.

I don't know if she can see that from where she's sitting, back to the window, coffee cup in hand. Can she see the dignity she offers to a hurting mom, a dreams-dashed friend? Can she see the solidity, the calm she imparts to her community of women? Does she know that the consistency of her life is a safety and a standard?

She dispenses wise caution with ease, without offending. She is meek. What a gift to the world, that trait alone! She is quick to laugh at herself and quicker still to extend pardon to her offenders. I must learn from her!

Our time together is cut so short. We say hurried goodbye's in the emptying parking lot, promising to get together soon, regretting our too-full schedules. And I leave my friend, feeling...what? Feeling befriended. Listened to. Challenged. Connected with. One hour in a couple of coffee shop armchairs. Enough to change the world.

Where is God?

At Pentecost, they were not submerged in God,

nor did God override them. God was God and they were they;

but Person flowed into person,

Will into will,

Mind into mind,

and they could scarcely tell where they ended and God began.

He was closer than their blood in their veins

and nearer than their heartbeats.

If they should reach out to touch Him,

they would reach too far.

~ E. Stanley Jones, The Art of Mastering Life ~

A Teri Pic

Garbage Bag Goo

The garbage bag goo ~~ you know, that runny stuff that somehow seeps out of the bottom of the sack and onto the floor, or into the bottom of the bin ~~ has been washed out of my shoe. An innocent tug on the top of the overflowing Glad bag found my right foot swimming in days-old muck; my Croc (that hole-pocked fashion abomination) ably absorbing the thick, runny stuff through its' many accommodating holes.

It's all better now. An eyesore those rubber shoes may be, but they're a dream to clean.

Today I'm wishing that my thoughts were so easily given a wash.

February is "Heart Month," "Black History Month," "Friendship Month," and, so my email inbox tells me, a month honoring several other recognition-worthy endeavors.

In my house, February is "Oooh, look. Mom's Freaking Out About Every Little Thing," month. My rankle over too-brown lawns and filth covered streets presses on my beauty-starved mind. The task of schooling children at home is very task-like and lacks all charm, vision, and purpose. Faith is elusive. Friendships are taxed as people everywhere feel the strain of winter.

I do all sorts of mental exercises to redirect my downward-spiral thinking. I pray. I thank. I thank some more, hoping that if I pummel my bitter mind with gratitude that it will pull itself up by it's taken-for-granted boot straps and cheer up already. I consider and contrast my oh-so-easy life with the lives of those in Kosovo and Afghanistan and the unforgiving streets of my own city.

Beauty can be found, too. A walk in a cared for part of town. A quick drive into the country. Striking photographs taken by keen-eyed artists. Hours spent with boys discovering the hilarity of "Whose Line is it Anyway?" for the first time. Laughing at their laughter ~ no sound compares to that of your own child's uninhibited joy!

It's not all garbage bag goo, after all. While a long winter can feel a little heavy on the trash side and little light on the awe inspiring beauty side of things, the lovely stuff is there for the finding.