Solitary Visitor

The loon came back. Alone. He always does. 

Winter's ice is only barely off the lake, and yet we spotted him this afternoon - a solitary, regal bird with a tall neck and stately presence.  He swam in front of our house, a relaxed and peaceful pass-in-review along the lakeshore.

Twice a year his royal highness shows up here to take a break while traveling migratory paths.  I can’t help but wonder what makes him tick: how he knows where he's going, and if he ever gets lonely. I wonder if he knows things I don’t (of course he does), and if he wonders what I know (probably not). 

This evening I wonder exactly where he will spend the night - most likely bedded down in dry cattails on the other side of our lake - and if his haunting call will be beyond the scope of my hearing aids tomorrow. I wonder how long he will stay here before heading north.  I wonder where he will spend the summer, and if he will mate and raise a family.

Even as I wonder, I don’t expect answers to my questions.  The loon is beyond my grasp.  A mysterious guest for a brief time, I can respect and study him, and yet his way is one I will never fully know, let alone understand. 

He follows as he is led, and trusts innate guidance. We call this instinct. Exemplary, implicit submission to his Maker.

Precious Perspective

Twenty years ago I received a hand-thrown, artistically painted ceramic bowl for my birthday. It was a precious reminder to me of hope and healing - a treasure beyond description really, because of its origins and symbolic value.  I have celebrated it countless times in everyday use.  And I have always handled it gently, keeping it safe in the cupboard between paper towels on either side as padding.

Late yesterday afternoon I prepared a couple of salads for today's church potluck. With my finished quinoa and beet creations still in stainless steel mixing bowls, I stood in front of the open cupboard thinking, “What serving bowls should I use?  Hmmm...how about those two I found at Goodwill?  Yes.  Perfect.”

I pulled the larger of the two second-hand bowls out from underneath the other without noticing I’d placed an antique glass butter plate on the same shelf. In the process, I knocked the butter plate, which fell to the next shelf below and chipped the lip of my precious ceramic bowl in several places before shattering into a million splinters on the counter. Two losses in one.

These are small casualties in the big scheme of life, and yet I was temporarily devastated. Ever-so-gently I tried to patch my precious bowl, symbolic of so many good things, but soon realized the type and degree of damages meant it was beyond common use.  Its lip was now weakened.  A definitive, gaping wound with sharp edges lingered, the absent pieces (probably tiny shards) hiding somewhere in the mysterious recesses of my kitchen.

After today's potluck, I returned home to my injured, still precious bowl.  It greeted me from the counter, its brokenness staring into space. I couldn’t help but think how injury and calamity and wreckage of all kinds - even the most catastrophic devastation - are still a matter of perspective; how healing is largely defined by our viewpoint of pain and suffering and loss.  Ultimately, just like this bowl, we will be challenged deeply, perhaps broken and scarred despite every good intention, and yet the precious human spirit - eternal in nature and created in the image of God - cannot be destroyed.

The bowl has found a new purpose while protectively displayed with other meaningful memorabilia above my cabinets.  There it will live a new, retired life while continuing to remind me of its ongoing message: hope and love never die.

Girl Talk

My friend and I tiptoed outside
In bare feet at midnight

(With temperatures in the 20’s)

To the hot tub

Where we soaked

Until 3:00 a.m. -

Hot steam rising into

The blank night,

Underwater light dappling

Bare shoulders and faces -

And discussed things like

Health and relationships,

Things like the purpose

Of suffering and hope,

Of loss and faith.

Birds of a feather flock together.

We were a sisterhood,

Two mothers

Of four children each,

Women who valued

Unedited feelings and stories

That had not been disguised

To make them

More presentable,

And certainly, God help us,

Not glamorous.

Life can be hard

We said, and is meant to be

Lived out deep down

In heart-hollows where

The mystery of the divine

Meets the human soul.

  

Blessing in disguise,

Just wait and see.

And so we spoke life

Into each other

While a wintry wind

Whipped across the lake’s thin ice

For the final time this season,

And the tub’s soothing water

Effervesced around us, fizzing

Like uncorked champagne.

Broken Comfort

The stapled incision curved upwards from his ear, across the top of his shaved skull, and down to his forehead.  It looked like the imprint of a large horseshoe, as if a Clydesdale had kicked him in the head. His soft blue eyes shone as he smiled a handsome nineteen-year-old grin.

 “So what’s the report?  How are you today?” I asked.  He regarded me simply, clearly.  No pretense or apology.  It was a sober, grown-up look with an added sparkle of childlikeness that insisted on shining forth from some deep-down spot.  His answer came easily, as if in regard to a question about the weather.

“Better.  I’m better every day.”  His words sank deep, piercing my anxious heart like merciful arrows.  His mom toasted a slice of the bread I’d made with almond flour, slathered it with my homemade mock-up for sugar-free blueberry jam, and offered it to her son with the Clydesdale brand. He loved it and asked for more.  My heart sang.

“I’m better every day,” he repeated, his mouth full.

Hope.  Right there with blueberries smeared across his mouth. He was ministering to me.

* * *

Below are excerpts from another person’s cancer story that ring true: sometimes the broken one becomes God’s most effective conduit. The full article can be read here: http://www.antiochian.org/node/25626

Our Lord prayed to the Father on His way to crucifixion that the cup of death might pass from Him, but He added, “Let it be your will.” We find ourselves on the same path when it comes to facing the pain either of enduring cancer or of watching someone we love go through it…

Which one of us likes to watch a beloved one endure pain? No one. As God knows what we are praying for before we ask, He gives us, and the sick person, a source of peace, a trust that things will be OK… 

“How do you feel,” we ask. She answers: “Thank God, fine,” even when she is in pain. Her love for those around her gives an atmosphere of comfort and tranquility. She has an ever-present smile on her face, a source of comfort to us…

We go with her to the hospital for chemo sessions and, instead of being comforted, she is the one who is comforting…

…the most amazing thing did not come from any of us, but from the person with the cancer. She would comfort us with words that were not her own. I believe God spoke through her to make us feel better. It was then that we felt that the Lord came walking on the water toward our boat to calm the wind of fear and give us comfort....

Simple and Focused

We live in strange times. People eat chemical-laced, pre-mashed potatoes from unrefrigerated foil bags, and gulp toxic drugs as if they were green peas.  Duped squirrels chew on car bodies and wiring, somehow thinking plastic is food.

Things are unnatural.

Chronic illnesses are on the rise; even children succumb to cancer, too deathly soon. Threats of terrorism erode security.  Identity is stolen and falsified everywhere, even in your own living room at the hand of a crafty scammer on the other end of the phone.

Things are unsafe.

In the blink of an eye, an MRI proved to our dear friends on Monday that their nineteen-year-old son had *something* in his skull that didn’t belong there. We met them at the hospital early Tuesday morning.  After surgery, the doctor’s report seemed twisted with peril.  Our hearts broke.

Hours and minutes have continued to flow since then, challenging us to live fully - to squarely face reality and cultivate gratitude for divine light in darkness, even in the most simple of everyday moments.  Nothing is too hidden or quiet or small.  Everything matters.

We listen to ourselves and to others more carefully, and speak simply, clearly, and directly. Complaining, comparing, and judging have no place, but rather we seek each others’ presence and full attention. Goals and expectations are simplified.  Personal agendas seem inconsequential in the shadow of what seems so untimely; there is no cause for defense or justification.  

As we move from numbness toward acceptance before the Almighty, we find His mercy and compassion spawning patient endurance and hope.  

Things are focused.

Things are simple, a matter of love.

* * *

For as in Adam

all die,

even so in

Christ all

will be made

alive.

* * *

No eye has seen,

nor ear heard

nor the heart of man

conceived what God

has prepared for those

who love him.

* * *

I Co. 15:22 and I Co. 2:9