Storytellers

My mother’s antique blue china, now in my possession, reminds me of feasts around our large mahogany dining room table when I was a child.  In those days my parents’ friends (called The Gang) ate dinner many times on those mis-matched blue plates that had been inherited from Mother’s family.

The members of The Gang had children who were the age of my two sisters - at least a decade older than me.  So when they visited our house (which was often since The Gang got together for each person’s birthday, holidays like Christmas and New Years, and after every high school basketball home game), I was the only kid in a room full of adults.  In the absence of real uncles and cousins, The Gang became my surrogate extended family.  These were special people to me; they treated me kindly and taught me a lot about what it meant to be a grown-up.  I also learned to love the blue plates by virtue of association with them.

There were four couples in The Gang besides my parents. I can picture Ross Tudor in my mind’s eye, the first in the group to pass away, and his wife, Ruth, who had sections of her nose cut away as cancer progressed.  Then there was Bob Arnett, the comical jolly fellow who kept the referee whistle in his pocket and sniffed hard (as if snuffing back a drippy nose) when trying not to laugh - the one who held me upside-down by my ankles - and his predictably pleasant, attractive wife, Lois.  And Herb Young, the small-of-stature man who had a voice that reminded me of a radio announcer, and his tiny wife Betty, who liked creamed chipped beef on toast.  The mysterious ones, from my little-girl perspective, were Gene and Glea Smith, alias Smitty and Mrs. Smith, who lived with an air of simple grandeur in a country cottage.

Whenever The Gang came to our house, Mother spread a lace tablecloth on the dining room and placed her blue china, and crystal water goblets, around the perimeter. Today when I set my small dining table for just two dinner guests with these same blue plates, I imagined the faces of those in The Gang, and remembered their kind attentions.  I could picture Bob and my dad belting out “Hail Purdue” with rich harmony in the middle of a meal to honor their alma mater.  I envisioned Ruth and my mother, fragile blue teacups in hand, chatting about recipes.  And I felt an old sense of belonging.

Today, with Mother’s china relics in hand, I stopped to think how quickly time passes.  How lives touch each other for a season, and then part.  How the plates remain to tell stories.

A Test

This is a test.   You have three guesses to come up with the right answer.  Look hard (get out your magnifying glass) and tell me what these are:

I’ll give you three clues:

Clue #1: They have a brownie look, but don't let that fool you.

Clue #2: They smell chocolaty.

Clue #3: They’re sugar-free, gluten-free, dairy-free.

Still don't know?  Maybe a process of elimination will help.

Clue #4: They’re not dog treats for dog haters (chocolate makes dogs sick).

Clue #5:  They’re not squares of chocolate-scented play dough (a marketing ploy for kids).

Clue #6: They’re not chocolate mud pies (don’t ask me why).

Drawing a blank?  Alright.  Just three more hints, and that's all:

Clue #7: They’re edible

Clue #8: They’re flexible.

Clue #9: They’re minty.

Give up?

(fanfare…)

The bars pictured here are a homemade variety of Chocolate Mint Lara Bars. We call our version Thin Mints.  They’re chewy, and just as addictive as the crispy Girl Scout cookies bearing the same name, but healthier!  In fact, here’s our Thin Mint ingredient listing: dates, walnuts, cocoa powder, vanilla and peppermint extract.   That’s all. That's amazing.

True Blue

We live in the heart of fruit country, and are currently surrounded by blueberries – the biggest, juiciest, sweetest ones you’ve ever seen!  Today I made an all-raw (refined sugar and gluten-free) pie.  Ingredients?  The crust: pecans, dates, cinnamon.  The filling: blueberries, dates, stevia, psyllium seed husk (to thicken). 

Nice.  Berry nice.

Cow Girl

A couple of weeks ago a friend challenged me to record written memories of the three granddaughters who recently moved away (for posterity and my therapy). Here's a story in honor of my little "Cow Girl," with a couple of illustrative pictures taken in April of 2012 when she had just turned two years old.

* * *

The Cow Girl and I first worked the cow puzzle when she could barely maneuver the pieces.  She sat on my lap with all 12 of them spread helter-skelter on the table, and I reached my arms around her petite frame and coached her. 

“It’s easiest if we put the corner pieces in first.  Let’s look for ones with two straight sides.”

She searched the pieces intently and allowed me to help select the sought-after ones.  We placed them together, her hand and mine together.

“Look, there’s part of the milk can – see?”

Her gaze was intent.  Focused. 

“Try this one.”

She matched two together.

 “Try placing the ear and eye together to make the whole face.”

Her slender fingers pressed hard, making sure the pieces locked each time.

 That’s right…this is the last piece…now turn, turn, turn.  There!”

When finished, she clapped and I clapped and it felt like the whole universe was clapping right along with us.  We’d done it.  Together.

A tradition was born.  Whenever the Cow Girl visited our house she retrieved the wooden puzzle box from its hiding place in the toy cupboard and carried it to the table, dangling in its battle-scarred plastic Ziploc bag.  Countless times she sat on my lap to work the cow puzzle and its companion puzzles: horse, chicken and pig. But the cow was always the favorite.

Weeks turned to months.  Over and over she nestled her little body in my lap with the cow before us on the table, and I buried my nose in her soft curls. A partnership was borne. She became more determined and proficient - more glued to me, and the safety of our togetherness. I became more love-struck.

The edges of the puzzle pieces wore over time from so many experiences with interlocking, making them more precious.  Whenever we assembled the cow and other animals, we celebrated their completion with loud applause.  Then we tore them apart and put them together again, sometimes several times in a single sitting, with the same sense of anticipation and excitement each time.

Even on the day before her family left for Texas, the Cow Girl hauled out the Ziploc bag and issued the same invitation.  “I want to work the cow puzzle, Nana.” I applauded her successful efforts as usual, and she beamed her sunshine smile in return.  Even though she no longer needed my help, we were still in this together.

Now I look back fondly, and reminisce.  Those precious times are behind us, their value measured in remembered smiles, touch, affirmation, warmth, and childlike delight.  And they were not expensive or difficult at all - just the result of a cow puzzle and love’s greatest gift: shared time.

Summer Snow

The vacant lot down the road has been reclaimed by nature.  A crowded throng of Queen Anne’s Lace now reigns supreme where once a house stood.

This evening heavy clouds hung over the lake and pressed close, encapsulating and magnifying lakeside details.  I stopped to admire the showy flowers, then tiptoed down the old pathway until completely enveloped by clusters of white.  Their heady aroma, heavy with mustiness, transported me back in time to another lake and time, and childhood memories of similar patches of white finery. 

I brushed elbows with the delicate, ornamental blossoms, and felt a little bit like a princess looking eye-to-eye with her court.  It was like walking through regal summer-style snowflakes, like joining royalty in the midst of simplicity.

Crackers and Goo

I’ve been invited to author a collection of recipes to help people navigating an anti-Candida diet (in other words, they’re fighting yeast overgrowth in the gut).  Since they can have no sugar in any form, not even fresh fruit, and only extremely limited versions of starch (no grains or flour made of grains, for example), my focus has been on alternative breads, snacks, crackers/chips, pancakes, desserts, and so forth.  Some recipes from my “raw” and “gluten-free” collections are fine as-is.  Other old ones are being reworked, and some new ones are shaking things up a bit.

It’s a challenging project, but fun.  Today I tried a new Rosemary Sesame Cracker recipe made with almond flour, sesame seeds, flax seeds, rosemary, coconut oil, water, and stevia.  The resulting rounds are DELICIOUS!  Seriously.  The flavor?  I guess you could say it’s sort of Mediterranean, or if I’m going for a more romantic word, Romanesque.  Rich, herbal, satisfying, in an ancient way.  The texture?  Delicate.

As I type this, Chia Pudding is soaking in the frig for my breakfast.  It’s made from milled chia seeds, coconut milk, cinnamon, allspice, vanilla, and stevia.  The sad-looking mixture (think mud pie) will thicken overnight, and in the morning I’ll top it with chopped walnuts.  I’m honestly looking forward to this new make-ahead breakfast item, having just licked some of the first-stage, slimy primordial goo from my finger.   The flavor?  Cinnamon rolls.  I’m not kidding.

The Sound of Life

Today began with 12 readings (ikos or hymns) from The Akathist of Thanksgiving.  This is an inspiring work composed by Protopresbyter Gregory Petrov in 1940 as he awaited death in a prison camp.  His powerful songs of praise to God in the midst of incomprehensible suffering express the depths of human worship.

Glory to You, Who have manifested the unfathomable force of the laws of the universe,

Glory to You, all of nature is full of the laws of Your being,

Glory to You, for all that has been revealed to us through Your goodness,

Glory to You, for all You have kept hidden in Your wisdom,

Glory to You, for the genius of the human mind,

Glory to You, for the life-giving strength of work,

Glory to You, for the fiery tongues of inspiration,

Glory to You, O God, unto ages of ages.

-Ikos 7, Akathist of Thanksgiving

Inspiring thoughts such as these replayed in my mind as I drove to an appointment with our wellness practitioner. Devoted to helping others who might otherwise be “stuck” with illusive health issues, she extends encouragement that goes beyond obvious physical services. I always arrive at her place of business with anticipation, and leave inspired.

During my treatment with her I read a chapter in another book recommended by my husband’s cardiologist: What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Heart Disease by Mark C. Houston, MD, MS.  Dr. Houston has an impressive biography, and is one of the most sought after lecturers in the US on the topics of hypertension, vascular aging and biology, metabolic and functional medicine, and integrative and preventative cardiovascular medicine.  A physician worthy of deep respect.

After the appointment I made a routine stop at the grocery store for a few things. Then I slung the plastic bags into the back of the car, climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and flipped on our local private radio station featuring classical music. 

But this is all background information.  Now we’re getting to the important part.

Positioned behind the steering wheel with the transmission still in the "park" position, I opened a 15-oz. bottle of Bolthouse Farms “Daily Greens” and opened a bag of sunflower seeds – a late lunch. Strains of violin wafted through the interior of the stuffy car.  The music seemed to magically change everything, as if to represent an overwhelming sense of Presence.

I stared through the insect-spotted windshield at massive white clouds perched like giant marshmallows in the sky, transfixed.

The soaring strains of violin seemed to integrate with elements of my being: streams of blood coursing through veins, sparks of energy traveling along meridians, swells of gratitude bursting open stale thoughts.  I leaned back with my head plastered against the headrest, shocked by the intensity.  This seemed an unlikely spot to be overwhelmed by such awe, such reverence.  Meanwhile, my sunflower seeds and healthy green juice made with kale, spinach, and romaine sat untouched.  The car engine purred.  I waited, not hurrying the moment but inviting it to be what it must be. 

The violin's strings sang their song, giving voice to magnificence beyond the moment.  It seemed to be the music of the universe, the Creator - the sound of splendor, of revelation and mystery, of brilliance that breaks through convention to inspire understanding.  It seemed an auditory rendition of work and purpose and accomplishment, even all the millions of functions going on inside my body - a melodious call to relationship with God and His creation, to relationship with everything known, believed, and hoped.  

It was the sound of life.

Birthday Bash

 

We celebrated our older son’s 40^th birthday last evening.  Has it really been 4 decades since he inhaled his first breath?  Since I eagerly held his swaddled body, just under 7 lbs.?  I still remember being spellbound by the mysterious reality of his presence: his feeble cry, miniature features, and personality waiting to be unveiled.  His aptitudes and gifts, ready to be developed.

Before dinner last night I watched him swim in the lake with his 7-year-old son with special needs - a watchdog intent on protection - and remembered how he used to terrorize his siblings (and me) in a similar environment.  After dinner I watched him sip wine with connoisseur finesse from stemmed crystal and remembered him, at his own older son’s ripe old age of 9, insistently rattling the bottom of his milk glass on the table (a gutsy demand for a refill).

So much water has passed over the dam.  Moments of something close to horror when I watched him impale the stately old maple tree in our back yard with metal throwing stars – lethal weapons that could slice his accomplice (his little brother) to shreds.  Pre-approved, middle-of-the-night raids on my bakery with his college buddies.

There was the day of promise when he shyly but proudly introduced his charming wife-to-be.  And then a phase when he matured into a spiritual giant filled with compassion and mercy, and became an astoundingly successful businessman. So much change for this mother’s eyes to watch. 

When asked how he wanted to celebrate this milestone birthday, he said, “The usual. Foooood!”  So his wife presented him with a manly dinner on our lakeside deck last evening: grilled marinated shrimp, grilled rare rib eye steak with a decadent bleu cheese sauce, roasted/smashed red potatoes with rosemary, spinach salad with carmelized onions and mushrooms and hot bacon dressing, rolls, and chocolate lava cake decked out with 40 flaming candles.

His response? “When I’m dying, I’ll remember this meal.”  I think that means it was a success.

* * *

P.S. I offered a couple of “healthy alternatives” at the celebratory meal as well: gluten-dairy-sugar-free zucchini bread made with quinoa flour and brown rice flour (good flavor although I underbaked it a little), and dairy-and-sugar-free homemade chocolate ice cream.  The ice cream was incredible – as addictively rich and sweet as any gourmet ice cream made from whipping cream and refined sugar.  For those who might be interested, the recipe follows:

Mix in a blender, chill, and freeze as per crank or electric freezer recommendations:

4 cans (14 oz. each) unsweetened, full fat coconut milk

6 TBS. cocoa powder

¼ + 1/8 tsp. Kal brand stevia

1 TBS. vanilla

4 egg yolks (we used local free-range eggs, super-fresh and healthy)

pinch salt

A Gift

There’s been an unexpected addition to the family - one that arrived spontaneously, just like Dumbo who plopped from the stork's bill into Mrs. Jumbo's lap.

Recently our younger son spent the day – nothing unusual, just a normal visit.  That evening he announced a surprise.  “Mom, here’s your new computer.” 

My new WHAT?

Granted, my faithful old geriatric computer, the silvery Mac smeared with telltale grimy residue - food and otherwise - was falling apart.  Its off-the-chart mileage (hard use) was impressive, but the right lid's hinge had been cracked in a disabling way for a good two years.  I hadn’t dared shut the wobbly, too-straight lid even once during that time for fear of pinching or severing some important connection.  Besides that, its hard drive was evidently tired: always running out of space.  This had become an ongoing issue.

Computers don’t just fall from the sky like stork-delivered babies, so why had this laptop literally dropped into my lap? The explanation followed.

“You use your computer all the time.  It’s an important tool for you, especially with your bad hearing.  I’m not using mine a lot right now so I decided to give it to you.  I already loaded it with your information – everything is the same as the old one, so you don’t have to worry about any new learning curves.”

My mouth hung open.  I didn’t know what to say, but squawked a gravelly, emotional “thank you.”  Then the practical reality hit me.  “Surely I owe you something for this.  How much?”

“No charge.”

I’m still processing the motivation behind this sacrificial gift at a time when he can’t afford to buy himself a new computer, but plans to “fix up” my old crappy (excuse me) one and make do.  It feels like love.

Evening Swim

After 10 months as a slacker, I’ve recently resumed serious swimming drills in the lake.  True, I have an obvious excuse for some of those months (ice), but I should have been back in training by the 4^th of July.   At least by the 4th, if not sooner.

The neighbors don’t know quite what to think of a 64-year old who bodily braves the water amidst all those tickly weeds, and all for the pure joy of aquatic exercise.

“I’ve never seen anyone just keep swimming laps back and forth between piers like that,” one noted with a look of disbelief.

“Don’t you get tired?” another said with obvious pity.

“I couldn’t begin to swim like you do,” a third remarked, and I thought it a compliment.

I don’t deserve the notoriety.  It’s not so hard, I tell them, when you float like a marshmallow.  (No obvious symbolism intended.) I evidently inherited this handy trait from my mother, who could also float as if lying on a mattress at rest with toes, knees, hands, and head protruding from the water.  Swimming isn’t so hard when you automatically stay on top.  I call it the cork factor.

And so every evening I trek down to the end of the pier in my swimsuit as the sun is setting, don my goggles and earplugs, and dive in. While swimming back and forth between neighboring piers, I pretend to be Jacques Cousteau watching an underwater seascape through my goggles.  Sometimes the bluegill and bass don’t seem to notice or care when I approach, but treat me like one of their kind.  Various vibrant green weeds sway with underwater currents, part to let me pass, and offer a soothing choreography unappreciated by above-water viewers.

This evening the sun set low in the sky on the westward leg of my swimming course, and the moon rose on the eastward leg.  I breathed heavily, in and out, in and out as I swam, relaxed and at peace. My body sliced a path through silky, July-warm water that closed behind me to cover any evidence of my passing, even as I was held and uplifted by it.

Wonderful water, my second home.

Where Trees Meet

I avoid the fray of the Big City except when necessity dictates – usually because of a commitment such as a medical appointment or other meeting, or the purchase of merchandise not available in our small town venues. I prefer to be here in the boonies, where it is till possible to encounter a rare quality my grandparents and their parents knew: simplicity. 

There’s room to breathe - less external pressure.  Physical space translates into soul space.

Grasses aren’t mowed, or trees cut, along the borders of remote county roads.  In fact, backwoods surround our neighborhood on the lake for several miles in any direction. Opposing tree branches can even touch above the road to shape peaked cathedral ceilings. The hush beneath them seems reverent, Eden-like.

Civilization doesn’t often offer this kind of comparatively untouched luxury, but we are fortunate here.  I am blessed to live where trees meet overhead.

Acceptance with Joy

Two other similarly-aged ladies and I broke into the Pastor’s unoccupied office at church this morning when looking for a quiet meeting place (don’t get nervous; we have a key and he trusts us). On Sunday we’ll launch our Book Club’s currently featured book, Hinds’ Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard, and discussion will follow in September.  Today we met to lay groundwork before getting the ball rolling.

There are four principles or lessons that can be extracted and personally applied from this captivating fantasy-allegory, but one stood out to me this morning: acceptance with joy. Acceptance of major pain, disappointment, loss, or criticism can be very challenging.  Mankind was originally created for Paradise, not this.

And yet this hard thing is often exactly the right thing. Hardships whip us around, keep us from missing the point: God desires to transform us. In the midst of challenge, we are forced to wrestle with life - to seek who we are, whose we are, and how (God help us) we might make it through the stormy nights and emerge on the other side, changed for the better, more like Him.

Accepting suffering, and seeking purpose in it, changes the person if not the situation.  This morning toward the end of our meeting I shared a current personal challenge. My companions understood, honored my vulnerability, and prayed with and for me, hand-in-hand.  Prayed for my ability to accept and release the situation, and to expect good to come of it.

They prayed for peace, and that I might know divine joy that surpasses earthly reality.  They prayed I might be healed.

Acceptance.  With.  Joy.   

Healing.  Of.  Soul.

They go together.

Rough Rider

Our ski boat roared by like a marine racecar as I stood on the pier watching two of our afternoon guests sail behind it in rope-drawn tubes.  Then it grumbled and turned, swinging one out over the wake until she did a triple somersault across the water, sort of like humanesque skipping rock.

Later the aquatic acrobat said, “I didn’t know where I was.  Up?  Down?  In the midst of the tumble the thought occurred to me: I’ll be okay, I’m wearing a life vest.”   She also said her eyelids peeled back like turtlenecks, and the carwash to her eyeballs left them feeling well scrubbed.

Sadly, the driver of the boat intended the spill for the rider on the other side, her egg-it-on father who wanted to go faster and faster: Ludicrous Speed.  And yet he didn’t have to pay the price.  His daughter did. 

“What have I done?  Her brains are going into her feet!”* 

After the showy body-slamming, the driver slowed, turned, and approached the stunned tuber, cheering her feat with both arms extended overhead – “touchdown!” She avoided his gaze.  He almost-but-not-quite apologized, and confessed his intent to pulverize her dad was poorly delivered.  She was not impressed.

Alas, tubers are at the mercy of boat drivers.  And boat drivers?  They sweep what they tow, and reap what they sow.

*Spaceballs

Eventide

The setting sun dropped like a fluorescent orange ball behind the trees as two men swam in the deep water beside our drifting pontoon boat: one mid-50’s, the other mid-60’s. We women watched our husbands from the boat and cheered their silly pranks.  They were still boys at heart, joking and laughing and pretending to sink out of sight like rocks. 

I stood on the boat’s front platform to watch, and couldn’t help but think how natural it seemed, as if of course older men are supposed to play like this.  Of course they’re really still double-dare-ya teenagers down underneath the wrinkles and balding.

When they climbed back on board the sun had vanished, leaving us in a subdued twilight zone.  We continued on our tour of a channel and adjacent lake where we happened upon a couple of beavers, also enjoying an evening swim.  With the boat motor turned off, we visually followed the progress of their gentle wakes toward a far shore.  A nearby blue heron also watched from his half-hidden spot in the cattails. 

How natural and yet miraculous, I thought, to belong here, to belong to each other.  To belong to the world around us, the fading minutes of this day, and the God who brought it all into being with love and continues to love it all into completion until the last day.

After the Drugstore

The black-haired girl with narrow glasses seemed robotic, like someone who might be very capable and proficient working on an assembly line.  But she wasn’t on a classic assembly line.  She was a pharmacy technician in charge of checking out my prescription.  With fingers pecking the keyboard and eyes furtively searching the computer screen, she seemed distant and distracted, perhaps in another dimension. 

Minutes crawled amidst silence.  I checked myself.  Be patient.  There’s a reason for the delay.  No need to be unpleasant.  “Excuse me, I’m just curious.  Why are we waiting so long?” I finally asked. 

“Because the code says the pharmacist has a question.”

“Do we know what it is?”

“No.  She’s busy.  Very busy.”

She remained fixated on the computer screen.  I wondered if she might be checking her Facebook account.

Meanwhile I watched the faces of the customers at the drive-up window behind her on the back wall.  They seemed hot, tired, angry, frustrated.  They squinted scowls and snarled at the deadpan face of the girl with dyed straw-blonde hair inside the glass.  She, as well as my black-haired girl, seemed more mechanical than human.

The customers barked into the microphone like animals in auto-cages, gawked and strained, craned their upper bodies out of their car windows.  They stuffed money in the retracting box, retreated, and returned again with arms extended awkwardly when it was time to reach for their stuff.  I didn’t see one person with a pleasant expression.  In fact, they appeared hurt, even in excruciating pain.  But this made sense, I reasoned, since pharmaceutical drugs, according to author Dr. Jerry Tennant, MD, MD(H), PSc.,D, are toxic chemicals that promote illness and depression (we call them side effects, but the effects are often more than an aside).  

I shifted my weight to the other foot.  It had now been about 5 minutes since I approached the counter.  I, on the other hand, would keep it together and be neutral. I wouldn’t turn ugly like those people at the drive-up window.  The black-haired girl left and returned again.  She spoke.

“The pharmacist wants to know if you want both dosages.”

“Yes – isn’t that what the doctor ordered?”

“But she wants to know if you want them both,” she reiterated. 

“Yes, I do.  I need a 60 mcg and 15 mcg since no 75 mcg exists.”  I felt steam rising.  “I came in yesterday to pick up my order and was told you didn’t have the 15 mcg available, so I would have to come back today.” 

The order had been a partial prescription that would cover just a few days rather than a whole month.  It should be simple, and I told her so.  “It’s just a few pills – nothing complicated.  The pharmacist and I talked yesterday, and since the price wasn’t unreasonable we decided not to bill insurance and deal with the legalities of switching insurance from my regular pharmacy to yours, and then back again.”

She looked at me blankly in the midst of my explanation, as if to shut out the extra information.  Then she left.  I assumed she told the busy pharmacist, the one who said my order would be ready for pick-up today, that yes I actually wanted what the order said, and by the way, I wanted it today.  Then she returned and there was more pecking on the keyboard, but no eye contact.  Seconds dibbled along, drops from a leaky faucet of time.

Finally she stepped away for about 15 seconds and returned with two white envelopes to ring up the sale.  It had been close to 10 minutes by this time.  The length of time didn’t bother me so much, but the interpersonal black hole with stale interaction and miscommunication did.  Had I done anything to fill that hole?  No.

“That will be blah-blah dollars,” she said mechanically, with a twang resembling that of a taped solicitor’s voice. It was exactly twice the amount I was told the day before.

“Can you check on that, please?  That’s not the amount I was told yesterday.” Fury foamed in me like sugar at the boiling point, but I tried to hold it back.  This froth…it was anger and frustration like what I’d seen on the faces of those sad, sad people at the drive-through window.  I wasn’t upset with the black-haired girl, trapped in a job that meant nothing to her – I felt sorry for her somehow – but rather the huge, impersonal, degrading system.  The lack of respect.  The clinical coldness.  But was I acting in a way to diffuse it?  No.

My mouth remained tersely clamped shut except to muffle, “That’s a lot of money for such a few pills.”  I grabbed my bag as soon as the transaction was finished and got out of there.

By the time I turned into our driveway, the boil had quieted to a simmer.   The real reason for telling this rather long story is because of what happened next. 

I began replaying the faces I’d seen at the pharmacy.  Carefully and compassionately.  The two robotic technicians.  The caustic woman at the drive-through window with the pursed lips and huge sunglasses that slid halfway down her sweaty nose.  The distressed, frowning mother with a car full of noisy kids who needed a prescription but would have to come back because of some glitch in the insurance. The little boy with fearful eyes sitting near me in the waiting area. The bored cashier at the front of the store, scanning candy bars.  This is America on an average day, I thought.  Devoid of joy. Where did I fit?  Was I making a difference?

I looked out over our calm lake, and it provided an answer.  Its reflections of clouds, trees, and flitting swallows reminded me that I also have opportunities to reflect the love of God in everyday situations.  To be an ambassador of hope, to make a difference, to have compassion and show it when gears of disillusionment grate and grind. 

I’d seen the need for mercy there in the drugstore.  Christ’s passion is mercy. The reflections spoke to me of this.  And I saw prayerful intercession as the desire of my heart.

Beautiful Grace

Pastor Tim shared a comment during his announcements at church this morning: “It’s the BEAUTY OF GOD’S GRACE that leads us to worship Him.” 

God is the source of all beauty, both the forms I recognize and those I don’t.  His gracious love and mercy draw and inspire me to worship Him.  Beautiful grace.  Amazing grace.

“I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen; not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.”  C.S. Lewis

Beauty by Me

Although I don’t share personal beliefs cultivated by John Keats during the Romantic Era, I do appreciate his thoughtful investigation of life and am drawn to at least some of his conclusions.  It does seem, as he suggests, that beauty is a many-faceted essence that originates from in another realm to pervade earthly experience.   It’s beyond us, and yet all around and even part of us.  (See yesterday’s blog.)

The topic of beauty continues to linger in my mind. The senses recognize it, and yet a letter can be beautiful not necessarily because of the stationery or even the content, but rather because of the quality of relationship between the sender and recipient.  A memory of a soul bared in a moment of transparency can be beautiful. A compassionate look in a moment of crisis or pain, a faithful attitude of submission to God even as the world grates on itself – these are beautiful.

Yesterday beauty was illustrated by observances on a boat ride, and narrated by a classic writer respected as a master.  Today beauty is manifesting as love, the love of God indwelling a human heart, love that reaches through barriers of space and time to conquer the ugliest foe: loneliness. Love is beauty, and beauty is love come to restore us.

Beauty by Keats

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”

Beauty is eternal and instinctive.  It is respite and repose that fosters life, a primordial essence that purges sadness and expresses as tactile, kinetic, organic, visual and auditory – even gustatory (tasted). Beauty is an invitation to delight in the sheer existence of things outside self.

“Nor do we feel these essences

For one short hour: no even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,

That, whether these be shine, or gloom o’ercast,

They always must be with us, or we die.”

The poetry of beauty calls us to leave behind material and spatial limits, self-centered constraints, and seek divine fellowship beyond the vapor of mortal life.

“Wherein lies happiness?  In that which becks

Our ready minds to fellowship divine,

A fellowship with essence; till we shine,

Full alchemized, and free of space.  Behold

The clear religion of heaven!”

(Quotes taken from A Thing of Beauty by John Keats)