Back in Time

Sixty-four

Minus

Fifty

Equals

Fourteen.

While pushing skates

(Left, right, left, right)

And panting hard

(In, out, in, out),

Part of me is back there,

Fourteen again.

I’m hypnotized,

Carried through time,

To half a century ago.

Gliding smooth,

I forget

Old age tension, stiffness,

Burning ankles,

And my own skull-cracking injury

Of several years ago.

For several round trips

Around the rink

Amnesia erases

Thoughts of an incident

When my friend 

Broke her wrist.

I’m free, younger than I am,

Light but strong,

Smooth-sailing.

But recollection taps

My shoulder

Like a bony finger

Until I remember

Those episodes

Of ice-inflicted pain,

And wonder 

At the wisdom

Of thin silver blades 

Beneath me.

Hesitancy’s finger beckons;

I shrug it off,

Choosing strict attention

And careful speed

Over fear.

Meanwhile, Old Man Winter

Stands sentinel

Over the lake,

Quietly holding it

In cupped, frozen hands,

Breathing an icy wind

That sweeps my warm breath

And carries it,

Chilled in white gusts,

To the

Far side of the lake.

In mid-stride

As I skate the rink’s perimeter,

A masked man

Bearing Winter’s image

Threatens a holdup,

But his eyes smile

And he offers

A thermal mug

Of Hazlenut coffee

Instead.

I remove the skates

And plunge icy toes

Into cold boots,

Then sit lakeside with

The only other person I know

Who understands being

Swept back in time

At the lake.

Goodbye, John Crabbe

Food is often taken for granted in our culture of plenty, until it turns on you like a mean-eyed pirate because of the flu.  Then it can become spiteful and cruel, like John Crabbe, the Flemish pirate of the 1300’s best known for his ship-mounted catapults.   Yesterday that’s what happened.  Food declared mutiny.  It launched forth, hurled from John’s catapult.  (Apologies for the graphics and mixed images, but maybe you catch my drift.)

Fortunately John Crabbe is known to be an adventuring sort, one to move on.  And so the malicious old bilge rat of a pirate sailed on to other conquests today, crabby to the core, blubbering to his hearties about landlubbers and scallywags, about takeovers gone by and yet to come.  Thankfully mid-afternoon his Man-O-War disappeared.  My stomach-rumblings ceased. My seas calmed.  Good riddance, you mangey old cockroach.

Things returned to normal this evening without him hanging around. I felt energetic and frisky, and in the mood to play and maybe even (could it be?) eat.  So I got out a couple of new Christmas food-prep toys. 

Just yesterday thoughts of saltine crackers were nauseating.  I couldn’t scramble an egg at any cost. But this evening I washed our super-powerful new food processor with multiple blades, and grated several zucchini squash that I used to whip up a batch of muffins made with almond flour.  Then I ate one, warm and steamy out of the oven – heavenly!  Pure bliss. Ecstasy.

The moral of the story?  Besides resolving to tough out pirate attacks, it is this: nothing stays the same.  Ever.  Even when circumstances seem dreadful, or worse yet in an awful rut, elements of them are always evolving.  Things can reshape and change, and very quickly.  Clouds have silver linings.  Grace abounds. Healing is real and dynamic. There is reason to hope, to expect mercy to prevail.

Well-Kept

  

This morning a flu bug hit me full force, as if in a head-on collision only gut-first. My body has continued to feel like that of an ill slug all day: heavy, slimy, hot, prickly, inefficient, and out-of-control.  It seems to prefer the bathroom, with the bedroom being second choice.  The rest of the house is off-limits.

We were expecting an out-of-town guest for a few hours this afternoon, my husband’s cousin whom I haven’t spoken with in a long while.  Every desire I had to be a charming hostess evaporated into thin air.  I stayed in bed this morning while the interior of the house stayed dirty, and tried to convince myself that he wouldn’t notice or care.  Now that he’s come and gone, I’m sure he probably didn’t.  Notice.  Or care.

Sometime in mid-afternoon when I heard voices from the other side of the closed bedroom door, it dawned on me that this might be an opportunity.  I could quiet my automatic, chattering, practiced mindset and embrace my retreat.  I could be still and expectant, thankful that I was not ill beyond mending, or isolated or without, but rather headed toward recovery.

I found it a challenge to become utterly and thoroughly static, to invite an inner hush to take over in the midst of regret and chaotic physical turmoil that felt, well, dangerous.  Volcanic.  Violent. I was reminded of something I’m reading in a book I got for Christmas, and a perspective that I might practice - a simple but meaningful explanation of being kept by mercy: “If there is anywhere on earth a lover of God who is always kept safe, I know nothing of it, for it was not shown to me.  But this was shown: that in falling and rising again we are always kept in that same precious love.”  - Julian of Norwich

Ice Rink

Our lake has finally frozen, and now wears an ice cap several inches thick.  The view from our house seems stark as well as alluring – snow-swept and bone-chilling in an inviting, wild sort of way.

Today I shoveled an area in front of our house as a skating rink. The unveiling of the ice from beneath the snow was invigorating work, a throwback to earlier years.  I wore sunglasses to block the blinding reflection of sun on snow, pushed the shovel back-and-forth millions of times in order to gather only a manageable amount of snow each time, and replayed lots of old ice-related memories from long ago. 

There was a time in my teen years when I skated in my sister’s old hand-me-down skates (they were a little too narrow), and contemplated becoming an Olympian who could do triple jumps in a wispy, sparkly outfit.  That didn’t happen, obviously, but I did teach myself to skate backwards.  I still remember the thrill of the dream, the thought that girls could became ballerinas on ice. 

Then there was another era, years later, when I skated in my other sister’s old hand-me-down skates (they were a little too long but wide enough), and introduced my kids to skating.  I still wear those same skates despite their wobbly, broken-down leather that hardly supports my ankles, not to mention very dull blades.

When I felt today’s rink was big enough I stopped shoveling, pleased that I’d cleared the whole thing myself, without help.  Something in me said I might not be doing this in the future, maybe even next year, which made the day even more precious.

Christmas Afterglow

Legions of silvery snowflakes pelted the windshield as we drove home last night, travelling the white-carpeted country roads alone except for a single pair of faint tracks leading the way. Colorful Christmas lights blinked in a few front yards.  Barely visible tree branches lay softly blanketed in peripheral shadows.

As I watched the beams from our headlights cut through the darkness, a sense of completion washed over me, unbidden and unexpected.  Holiday baking, shopping, wrapping, crafting, mailing, entertaining, secret-swapping, and even the last-minute push to prepare Christmas dinner were done.  The reading of devotionals, one anthology in particular prepared especially for the Advent season, had been accomplished. But realizations were maturing as well in order for something new to begin, something integral.  The car’s heater blasted hot air from the dashboard.  Time stood still.  I watched the headlights penetrate the black night, embracing the enchantment and inspiration.

It was Christmas evening, the culmination of the Advent season.  Advent literally means “coming,” or “He comes.”   Anticipating God coming to earth was like a personal birth for me this year – a time of waiting, longing, and expectancy.  Hoping to better see my own smallness as He was small, helpless, and dependent at birth, hoping to cultivate receptivity and reliance on Him as Messiah, God Incarnate.  It was a season to lean away from callous mediocrity, from parties upon parties and food upon food, from squeezing traditions dry, to wait.  It was a time to be on high alert for Eternal Truth, to become empty in order to be filled.  It was a time to give place to the One who redeems the difficulty and distress of earthly life by pointing beyond it to mystery, wonder and hope that shine into each present moment to make all things new.

I learned a little more about myself this Advent season, about anticipating divine mystery that changes me and makes me more fully human in the sense of God’s intended design.  I saw how the Lord patiently continues to reveal me to myself over time, how His example of tender dependency (baby Jesus) and mercy (Holy, Mighty King Jesus) lead me through every possible and impossible situation. How He exposes what it means to be marginalized in soul as well as circumstances; how He sheds light even in dark, tragic moments and dire circumstances.  How, as one devotional author said, “When our life is in ruins…when sorrow breaks our hearts, He is there.”

The lessons were many.  I learned how vulnerable I am to indulgence, admiration, and control – to my need for love, recognition, affirmation and security. How I can’t “fix” futility with self-prefixes: self-absorption, self-exaltation, self-indulgence, self-protection, even self-assertion.  How He enables me, when I am willing, to share in His divine life – to replace hardness, willfulness, and cynicism with His gentle but generous purity and grace, and His vigorous fortitude that redeems innate human weaknesses.  How this strength manifests when I give the gift of self to Him and humbly worship His divine beauty and holiness.  How His goodness, compassion, and providence are always enough.  Ultimately, how living out the reality of current redemption is more a matter of unsurpassed awe than guardedness or pride.  It is a matter of marveling with holy wonder.

These thoughts ran through my mind continuously until we arrived home not long before midnight.  As soon as we turned in, the car’s headlights spotlighted the dazzling, frozen luster of our snow-covered driveway and walk path.  Then with the turn of a key, it all went black. As I stepped out of the warm car into the biting wind, I also turned the page into the season of the Church calendar called Epiphany: the manifestation of Jesus as the Son of God and Light of the World.  It was a sort of reality check, a moment in time when I hoped and prayed for His mercy and Light to fill me in greater measure, no matter the forthcoming challenge or situation.

5:00 p.m. Today

Concern

Hangs heavy and low

Over frozen dreams.

Hope cries for light,

Bright lifting and thawing,

Bold breakthrough.

Awe shows up unbidden,

Quiet, humble, modest:

Wonder.

Beautiful

Yesterday’s all-day Christmas knitting marathon positioned me on the couch, hunched in a pretzel-like knot, clicking needles. My adorable husband surprised me by volunteering to step into previously uncharted territory (the kitchen) and bake Christmas cookies (because he wanted some and I was running out of time, but also because he wanted to be helpful).  By himself.  This was an unprecedented offer, having never-ever happened before in our history of 42 years together.  I was both shocked and pleased.

It was fun to watch his man-style baking processes: checking and re-checking to make sure of the difference between a teaspoon and tablespoon of baking powder, rolling the dough with the same finesse I’d seen him use when finishing concrete. 

The completed cookies, glazed and sprinkled, more than met my expectations.  I continued knitting the whole time he worked on them - focusing on counting stitches, making color changes, and throwing the yarn again and again with my pointer finger until my fingers cramped in protest. 

Long after the oven was turned off, I kept knitting.  By evening my fingers stung and  my neck ached; something deep-down was also strung-out like a taught rubber band ready to snap.  With the recent advent of ice and frigid temperatures, cabin fever had already set in to stay, and this project threatened to push me into the far corner of the Knitter’s Remorse closet.  However, I very much wanted to give this authentic British-style tea cosy to my daughter for Christmas (see blog entitled “Last Minute” on Dec. 16^th), and was resolved to finish.

At that point, with my eyes blurred from so much close-up work, my husband walked through the living room on his way from the TV room (think man cave) to the bathroom.  He paused behind me, the frozen-in-place Knitting Hunchback, and issued a 15-second oration: “I know my heart is weak and I’m in reprieve health-wise.  The reprieve won’t last forever; I may have years left, or maybe months or only days.  But I also know I’m glad to be here with you, in this house, able to value this moment and what we share together.”  He walked on, without waiting for me to comment.

I couldn’t have said much anyway.  What was there left to say?  Yarn filaments visually flooded before me, swimming in a soupy blur, while something like electricity passed down my spine.  Our LIFE is bigger than life, beyond what recently could have become death.  Our LOVE has matured from clawing for self’s desires and needs into offering self to each other. 

The evening wore on past midnight, and I finally finished the tea cosy at 1:30 a.m.  This afternoon I knitted two complementary mug cosies.  All were made with Peruvian Andes wool, from sheep that understood the dynamics of life in rugged, high places where air is thin, plants hardy, and heaven almost within reach. 

It is finally time to put the cosies in hiding behind red and green Christmas paper until their grand debut on Christmas Eve, just two days from now.  As I admire my hand-wrought projects one last time, I find myself pondering the various realities of life, including all the challenges and storms that mysteriously and ultimately knit together to shape beauty.

St. Lucia

The life of St. Lucia (283 - 304 A.D), a young Christian martyr, continues to be celebrated in December among Catholic, Orthodox, and some Protestant Christians as a festival of light coinciding with the Winter Solstice.  The actual date may vary – December 13^th according to the Julian calendar, or December 21^st according to the Gregorian calendar. Some Scandinavian peoples profess that vividly celebrating St. Lucy’s Day infuses them with inner light that continues to warm and encourage them throughout their long winters.

One tradition suggests the oldest girl in a given family wear a white dress, and a wreath or crown of greenery studded with white candles, to represent St. Lucy.  Then with candles flaming above her head, she leads her parents and siblings while carrying a tray of homemade sweets.  At the end of the procession she distributes the beautiful, delicious breads.

Our son’s family is celebrating St. Lucia this evening.  The oldest daughter in the family, now 5, has been practicing her role as Lucy wearing a wreath headdress with blazing candles.  Yesterday during Fancy Day at my house we baked the special yeasted rolls she will distribute: Sweet Orange Buns studded with snowy-looking, pearl-white sugars.

Hearing is Believing

I appreciate what Helen Keller once said: “Blindness separates you from things, deafness separates you from people.”  Vision identifies the tangible world, and sound connects people via their spoken words.   Hearing, as well as seeing, is believing.

Yesterday I saw a new Au.D. who practices audiology in The City.  It was past time for my hearing aids to be updated; I hadn’t been professionally evaluated for over two years.  I knew my hearing was worse.  It was time to go.

My visit was basically good despite one small fact: this practitioner doesn’t usually deal with my specific brand and model of aids, and he had to call for technical support to download critical information about them.  That was fine, just took a little time, but there was another not-so-small, related fact. When he tried to use plastic heads from another brand of hearing aids, one got stuck deep in my left ear.  “Now THAT’S not good,” he said, and exited the room in high gear. I didn’t know for sure why he left in such a rush, but learned later he decided to look for surgical forceps in a back closet.  Ah yes.  The silver tongs with long handles and pointy tips. 

He found them and proceeded to dig around in my ear canal, trying to grip the lodged plastic – think tiny plunger intentionally made to grip, suction-like, and therefore prevent amplified sound from escaping.  Only now it was too deep, and unattached to the outside world. He kept asking, “Are you alright?  Are you alright?”  I felt like asking him the same thing, but didn’t. Eventually it came out and we both blew out bellow-sized sighs.  Whewww. 

The good news is that my aids appear to be in excellent shape and are functioning well, and now have been downloaded with new compensations based on hearing loss that has compounded over the last couple of years. The other good news is that technology marches on, and when it is time to buy a new pair, I will be a candidate for some that literally “recreate” consonant sounds I no longer can hear.  As I understand it, they would mimic these sounds (think “s” or “ph” for example) only in lower tones I could hear better.  Evidently my brain would need to relearn how to listen and interpret them, but would compensate in time.  

C’mon brain, you can do anything if you really want to.  And I know you want to.

I’m not a math person in any sense of the word (numbers and I barely tolerate each other in mandatory situations, even card-playing), but the graph below shows the results of my current hearing test better than anything I could say.  The yellow bar at the top designates the range of normal hearing.  Sounds progress in pitch, low to high, from left to right.  Obviously I don’t hear many high tones anymore (think bird calls, leaves rustling, children chattering).

I feel intense gratitude for my digital hearing aids that are a far cry from my first analog ones, and the promise of further help as time passes and technology escalates.   I am especially thankful for the ability to connect with you (and you and you) via auditory cues - because, after all, hearing you is believing you.

"Holy Cow!"

We were playing cards this evening with friends when someone said, “Holy Cow!” as an expletive. “Hey, where did that saying come from, anyway?” someone else asked.  So while the cards were being shuffled and dealt for the next hand, I turned to Google for an answer.

“Holy Cow!” could be classified as a “minced oath.”  Such euphemistic expressions change words in order to say something that might be blasphemous or otherwise taboo, without actually saying it.  Simple examples might be “darn” for damn and “heck” for Hell.

One way to think about “Holy Cow!” is that it is a euphanism for “Holy Christ” – a way to cover over slandering the Lord’s name .  Another possibility surmises its origins go back to the story of the idolatrous golden calf in Exodus.  Yet another stems from the Hindu worship of cows as reincarnated humans.

Remember the Batman series?  Literally hundreds of combinations were used with Holy as the prefix followed by an everyday word: Holy Nightmare, Holy Vertebrae, Holy Snowman.  These were in turn spoofed by media and movies in the later 20^th century by whatever seemed relevant: Holy Flypaper, Holy Schizophrenia, Holy Geography.

As I read about the casual uses of the word holy I shuddered, especially in regard to those with spiritual connotations.  Biblically speaking, anything that is holy is sacred ground: belonging to, derived from, or associated with the divine; worthy of worship; set apart for God; deserving reverence.  To poke fun at holiness seems at least slanderous, or at most evil.  By definition, the word holy is sacramental. 

The card game is over and our friends have left, and yet I'm still thinking about this.  Perhaps others might think I’m getting too serious over something that really doesn’t matter, and would like to suggest I lighten up and not take a silly expression so seriously.  However, I defer to Matthew 5 when Jesus is talking during the Sermon on the Mount about many critically important things, including swearing by oaths to make a point.  In Matthew 5:37 he warns against embellishment or exaggeration: “All you need to say is simply “yes” or “no”: anything beyond this comes from the evil one.”

Worth and Love

Everyone knows the nemesis of patients dealing with heart failure: shoveling snow. One day recently after much discussion on this topic, my husband shoveled the walk and The Wrath of The Wife descended upon him.  He knows better now.  I am the Self-Appointed Shoveler this year.  An authority not to be crossed.

We are sans garage (that means without a garage for those of you who missed out on high school French class), so our vehicles, driveway, and walk fall prey to what the locals call “lake effect” snow.  That means moisture over the Great Lake freezes into snow and dumps in our yard. 

This morning while shoveling back-and-forth (scraaaaaape and dump, scraaaaaape and dump) I was startled by the peripheral figure of a man just a few feet away.  I jumped involuntarily and pulled my hood back so I could see.  It was my husband, standing in the middle of the driveway in street clothes (no coat, let alone the prescribed mask), holding a mug in one hand, the other tucked casually in his jeans pocket.

“What are you doing?”  I said with a more than a hint of nagging irritation in my voice.  “You’re not dressed to be out here.”

“I have my coffee to keep me warm,” he said.

I’d checked the thermometer earlier.  It read twenty degrees, and with the breeze coming across the lake the wind chill had to be down around ten.  “Yeah, right.”  I glared at him.  This was a time for a Mama Bear growl.  No sweet talk.

“But I feel worthless,” he said, his eyes sunken, his shoulders droopy.  He looked like a whipped puppy that just wanted to come out and play with me in the snow.

We’d already jumped through this hoop in recent weeks, probably a dozen times.  I understood his desire to do all the things he used to do, and yet facts are facts.  “You’re not worthless.”  I used my aw c’mon voice, the we-both-know-that’s-not-right voice.

He turned and walked toward the house, coffee steaming, head down. When I came inside, he was playing Christmas carols at the piano.  At the end of  God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, I cupped his face and turned it toward me.  “You’re not worthless because you’re loved,” I said, eye-to-eye and heart-to-heart.

He stopped playing.  His eyes smiled back as he gestured toward the nativity scene on the piano. “Yeah.  Loved by you, but also loved with Almighty power that gives me hope….by Him.”

Last-Minute

I do it almost every year – start making a time-consuming, hand-crafted Christmas gift just days before Christmas.

This year it’s a tea cosy.  Yes, that’s with an “s” rather than a “z.”  If you do your homework, you’ll find out tea cosies are very British in origin, and this is their spelling. 

I recently learned in the 1800’s, afternoon tea became an important time for British statesmen to talk over politics, and if the tea got cold, their sessions were cut short.  Hot tea, however, kept the conversation going, so tea cosies came into being. The idea caught on, and the rest is history.

British tea-lovers are currently very zealous and protective of the norms surrounding their knitted cosies.  These hat-like teapot covers are always made of wool with a ribbed pattern to provide pockets of air, and thus greater insulation.  Any other material and pattern, they say, is dissent.  And woe to the dissenters who make cosies out of acrylic in less-than-insulative patterns, usually Americans.  According to Brits in the know, those  dissidents don’t know what they’re doing, how they’re desecrating tradition.

So I decided to do it right.  I researched British cosies and selected a pattern that is considered authentic.  I purchased three colors of wool, lovely tweedy stuff that looks like it grew on sheep that had grazed on England’s moors.  The question remains: will my cosy be finished by Christmas?  I can’t answer that.  Yet.

A Veggie Twist on Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Oh vegetables, how do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

I love thee in the soup and the salad that

Feeds my body and soul, when seeking

What soundness and vigor can mean.

I love thee when cultured and fermented 

So that pro-biotics give an extra boost in nutrition.

I love thee respectfully, as I strive for health;

I love thee creatively, as I long for well-being.

I love thee with a passion for vitality

And wholeness, and with childlike desire.

I love thee with ardor I am tempted to lose

In light of dessert’s harsh guile…

And yet love thee truly, from the heart.

And, if God choose,

I shall love thee unto a better quality of life,

And perhaps even a better death.

The Matrix

I’m in the (finger-cramping) process of addressing our 200 Christmas letters the old-fashioned way, by hand.  Each name calls forth faces and shared moments that collectively define a lattice of human experience.  All of these individuals’ lives overlap with my own in various ways, weaving a network.  Each envelope represents an opportunity to remember and appreciate this, and to reconnect with those I haven’t had opportunity to spend time with recently.

It’s a matrix, a structure supporting the development of all involved. As I write these names in a cumulative roll call, I realize how comparatively limited my life might have been without this grid.  I am acutely thankful for it.

Real Christmas Presents

I have never tackled craft projects with an artistic 5-year-old for almost 6 hours non-stop.  Not until today, that is.

It was Fancy Day, and she showed up in warm knitted tights and a pretty Christmas dress.  Our goal was to make Christmas gifts for her parents and three siblings.  So we fashioned newspaper elf hats, decorated them with sprigs of silk flowers and Christmas bows, and got to work.

Because of Christmas *secrets*, my report here must be abbreviated. I can't explain the perfect "popper" gift and edibles she made for her two older brothers, or the animal-themed gift for her younger sister (pure delight).  I can't tell you about the cute father-themed gift for her dad or the pretty and personal ornamental one for her mother.  

However, according to rules of Christmas Etiquette, I can report about lunch.  Midway through our crafts we ate on Grandma Emily’s fancy antique plates: peanut butter and butter sandwich (her favorite) with apple slices and apple cider for her, and salad for me.  Being one to appreciate anything fine or elegant, she loved Grandma Emily's stemmed, etched glasses.

Through it all she was eager, respectful, and a careful artisan.  While wrapping gifts she’d carefully made with her own hands, and taping ribbon we curled ourselves (a new concept) in strategic spots, she whispered with breathless wonder, “This is just like really wrapping real Christmas presents!”  And I said, “Well, this IS really wrapping real Christmas presents!”   She beamed.

Pillar of Fire

During the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt, God manifested as a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, leading the way “so they could travel by day or night.”* 

This evening I happened to look out the picture window at just the right time as a pillar of fire reached into the sky above the sunset.  It lasted only a few minutes, but caused me to think of the myriad of ways God manifests Himself to us everyday; how He is with us (Emmanuel) in our own desert experiences.

*”By day the Lord went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way, and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, so that they could ravel by day or night.  Neither the pillar of cloud by day nor the pillar of fire by night left its place in front of the people.”  Exodus 13:21,22

Knitting 101

The women of our church are contributing hand-knitted squares to Lily*, an organization supplying blankets to desperate Syrian refugee children.  Recently my husband said, “If I knew how to knit I would make some squares.”  So I took him at his word and last night conducted his first knitting lesson.

I snapped candid shots throughout the experience, and am posting two here, one taken at the beginning of the lesson and one toward the end. He successfully completed three rows by the hardest, and says he intends to knit another three this evening.  Good job, Grampa!

*For more information about Lily, go to this website:  http://love-in-the-language-of-yarn.blogspot.com