"Pug in a Mug"

A Pair of Wristers

Christmas brings out the knitter in me. Yesterday I dug out some scraps of Peruvian wool yarn I had on hand, and a pair of size 6 needles, and got to work.

My mother knit like crazy when I was growing up - sweaters, gloves, hats, afghans, you name it.  For a short period of time, maybe when I was 16 or so, she provided knitting lessons for women who gathered at our big mahogany dining room table to learn her skills.  She served them lemonade or coffee during these classes, and sometimes cookies, which relaxed the atmosphere and made it a social hour as well (or at least that was my impression from the outside).

My childhood memories are flooded with images of mother spending entire evenings with a knitting bag at her feet.  She would sit for hours on our rose-colored, lady-sized couch  - an heirloom, narrow from front-to-back and lower to the floor than usual - with a focused expression, her needles clicking off the seconds until they became hours.  The specified yarn of choice grew beneath her needles, taking shape as she directed its destiny.

Mother battled chronic depression when I was in elementary school, sometimes with severe effects.  She said knitting was a form of therapy.  It honestly seemed difficult and boring to me.  I learned the basics anyway, and practiced them while earning Girl Scout badges. My first major effort involved knitting a Christmas sweater with Scandanavian-type designs for Fritz when we were dating in college.  It turned out well, but was tedious enough to also end my career as a knitter.

Or so I thought, until the birth of our first grandchild.

That’s when the needles came out of hiding. Our sweet baby boy needed a Christmas stocking, and I resolved to make it using my mom’s old pattern from 1947!  That was 16 years ago. Many Christmases since I have tackled some sort of knitting project, including 10 more stockings made with that same pattern.

A month ago I knitted Christmas hats and cowl scarves for dear friends who live just south of the border in Mexico, and plan to mail them soon. But several factors collided simultaneously yesterday, and I surprised myself by knitting something else!  This time I shaped a pair of wristers (fingerless mittens) for a special someone. Looking back, it almost seems the spirit of Christmas showed up during the snowstorm that kept me inside, where some leftover yarn and empty hours joined my mother's legacy - to inspire a unique gift that wouldn't have otherwise happened.  

Faith, Hope, and Charity

Tiny air pockets lie trapped in my precious glass heirloom, while one side is imprinted with a date: “patented on Nov. 23, 1875.”  Artsy and elegant, this relic has been passed down through several generations of my mother’s family to me.

It is also broken.  An edge wears a noticeable chip that can’t be repaired.

Like this old glass serving platter, I am damaged and broken.  So are you.  Our imperfections may appear to be flaws or disorders – after all, humanity intuitively longs for the order and perfection of paradise – and yet I’ve come to recognize temporal weakness as not only normative, but also purposeful.

As I grow older, my own active function looks different than in years past. I also realize how figurative chips, cracks, and missing pieces steer me toward my true purpose - my destiny, if you will.  This has a lot to do with being.

Honestly, I rarely use my special platter to display food.  Rather, I cherish it more for what it is than what it can do. Around the lip, several words - faith, hope, and charity - surround three beautifully etched ladies representing excellence in character.

This glass work of art is not only a piece of functional table service, but also an icon of beauty, virtue, and endurance in spite of loss (the chip). I treasure it primarily because it has persevered through time, and boldly declares qualities of the soul that heal earthly pain and chaos.

I think of myself as a reasonably capable person, even at the ripe old age of 67, who can thankfully still accomplish (do) much. But even more, I am. And so I pray for inner beauty, virtue, and endurance despite inevitable frailties, and for a legacy of active faith, hope, and love.

Encounters

Once-upon-a-time, many decades ago, I was a barefooted, sun-stroked urchin soaking up endless lakeside hours. My life was solitary at our summer lake cottage, without other children nearby, so I relished special relationships with turtles - wild creatures I could catch and hold (unlike squirrels, birds, or fish).  They became my companions, playmates, and ever-so-safe confidants.

Recently I've enjoyed two endearing turtle encounters that took me back to that sweet time of my life.

Several days ago when looking out over our lake from the house, I noticed a round shape lodged on the tire hanging from a post on the pier.  I thought perhaps waves had washed up something that had gotten stuck there.

However, upon advancing to investigate, I discovered a large map turtle had chosen the spot for September sunbathing!  Approaching cautiously, I was sure my footsteps on the pier would frighten him - but he didn't move. Instead, he waited for me to stand directly over him, and then eyed me with a welcoming look that suggested I belonged there as much as he did. I verbally conversed with him as I would have done with an old friend, and he still didn't budge.  We connected that way, the wild, undomesticated reptile and the conversational human, for almost a minute.  Then he slipped into the water and was gone.

The following evening another smaller turtle scuttled into the middle of the road on the other side of our house.  He was about ten yards ahead of me, and in a hurry.  Upon my approach, he withdrew into his shell in typical self-protection, but I reached down and lifted him to eye level - a beautiful painted turtle.  When I offered an audible greeting, he stuck his head out slightly and turned it to look me in the eye, as if unafraid and trusting my intentions.  We stood together in the evening sunlight, assessing each other and conversing (well, he only listened, but that's still an important part of communication).  Then I released him in the grass on the other side of the road, where he was safe to continue on his way.

I'm not sure if these encounters are meaningful to anyone but me, and yet I want to say this: they take me back to an important time when I expected ordinary things to be special, and maybe even spectacular.  This was when innocence and trust linked me with even the most modest of creatures and experiences to mysteriously support my own immature growth. In some undeveloped way, I realized I existed as part of a larger, integrated whole - and thanks to always-available turtles, life was good in the midst of hurts and disappointments as well as the best of times, simply because they listened well to whatever mattered to me.

Everywhere

Small things can be profoundly meaningful.  A silly-but-soft grin on the face of a loved one.  The playful glee of a pair of squirrels circling the oak tree.  Soft stillness amidst nature's simple, pristine beauty.

It is critical to pay attention, to vigilantly train the mind to know this: the promised land is everywhere!

And it is now.

To Life!

This seems a good time to share an update on my buddy Nathaniel, our pastor's youngest son.

In March of 2015, physicians performed surgery on Nathaniel's skull to remove as much of a aggressive brain tumor as possible.  He was barely nineteen years old. We were told the average life expectancy for patients with this type of tumor was fourteen months, which would have been last May.  This was hard news, especially for one so young. The longest possible statistical prognosis was cited as September 17, 2016.

That is tomorrow.

But Nathaniel is doing much better than anyone expected!  He is an energetic, proficient golfer and ping-pong enthusiast enrolled at a local community college, living a lifestyle similar to any American 20-year-old. He continues to be carefully monitored with frequent MRI's, and yet at the moment, the remaining tumor is not growing - a miraculous fact that astounds his doctors!

This evening our church threw a party to celebrate Nathaniel's precious life.  His "expiration date" of 9-17-16 will soon have passed!  We are awed and grateful to God, and thankful for his example of tenacity and faithfulness, especially during the grueling months of radiation and chemo.

Nathaniel inspires me in many ways; I even consider him a sort of mentor figure despite the fact that he is forty-seven years my junior.  Why? Because he has matured quickly in the last eighteen months, and become wise for his age.  Divinely inspired virtues like acceptance, optimism, diligence, gratitude, discipline, sensitivity, and compassion define him. He is living well, with integrity, dignity, and goodness leading the way.  I am so glad to be walking by his side.

A Birthday to Remember

On a warm September day many years ago, I gave birth to a baby girl with curly dark hair.  We named her Emily, after her maternal grandmother and her paternal great-grandmother.  Last Saturday Emily celebrated her 40th birthday.

It was no ordinary party.  Emily orchestrated it herself, inviting individuals who represented a wide variety of activities and focuses in her life during the last ten years. She referred to them collectively with a sort of childlike glee, as "my people!"  A friend offered to host the event in her exquisite Victorian home, a treasure of elegance and charm almost lost in today's culture.

Before lunch, Emily treated her guests to a tour of the historic Benjamin Harrison mansion (23rd president of the United States from 1889-1893, and personal friend of my great-grandfather) just a short walking distance away.  Our knowledgeable guide brought each of its fascinating rooms to life before our eyes.  Surely life had been hard in many ways back then, but also fine and grand.

Following the tour, we returned to sample Emily's unique, delicious homemade soups and raw vegetable dainties, and panna cotta and birthday cake provided by the hostess.

As we finished eating at linen-covered tables on the spacious porch, Emily introduced each of "my people," weaving them through the story of her last decade of life.  Her animated spirit prevailed throughout. 

I will treasure the memory of this classy celebration.  It was a reminder to live fully and gratefully, knowing each day is another chapter of an emerging, much larger, story we cannot know except by looking back.

What Peace Means

Life is about activity.  However, when we shove aside away all the screens and props, the expectations and scripts, it ends up being primarily about the condition of the heart. Ultimately, we are at peace or not.  The early church father, St. Ignatius of Antioch (35-108 AD) had it right: "He who carries God in his heart, bears heaven with him wherever he goes."

I've heard this story before, but ran across it again online today and thought it worth repeating...

There was once a King who offered a prize to the artist who would paint the best picture of peace.  Many artists tried.  The King looked at all the pictures, but there were only two he really liked. And so he had to choose between them.

One picture was of a calm lake.  The lake was a perfect mirror for the peaceful, towering mountains all around it.  Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds.  All who saw this picture that it was a perfect picture of peace.

The other picture had mountains too, but these were rugged and bare.  Above was an angry sky from which rain fell, in which lightning played.  Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall.  This did not look peaceful at all.

But when the King looked closely, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest.  There, in the midst of the rush of angry water, sat the mother bird on her nest...in perfect peace.

Which picture do you think won the prize?  The King chose the second picture.  Do you know why?

"Because," explained the King, "peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work.  Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart.  That is the real meaning of peace."

(Photo credits to wildlifewalking.wordpress.com)

An Attentive Eye

Everything is significant.  And so I endeavor, more with each passing day, to pay attention with an attentive eye.  To savor simple, ordinary moments that collectively mirror life's grandeur.

"To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before and which shall never be seen again."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Assurance and Contentment

We enjoy spectacular sunsets here, each one exhibiting its own unique personality.  Just when I think I've seen the prettiest or the most grand, another one challenges the prize winner with equal or surpassing beauty and splendor, reminding me of the infiniteness of possibility at the hand of God.

Sometimes an entirely new quality shows up.  This was the case last evening while I walked the road at water's edge.  I hadn't noticed the sunset in particular as I trekked along, until it sank below the horizon and turned soft, gentle, and smooth - stroking every inch of the evening with assurance and contentment.

Loveliness

Leave it to Roald Dahl to describe loveliness as sunbeams of good thoughts that blaze from a loving face, no matter its physical features.

Food as Medicine

“Let thy food by thy medicine, and medicine be thy food.” 

- Hippocrates (460-370 BC)

My girlfriend and I have something in common: husbands with weakened hearts.  We met today for several hours to talk about supporting them with quality food – loving them with baked fish and spinach smothered in coconut milk sauce, cheese bread (a la goat cheddar) made with almond flour, salad featuring homemade dressing and homemade gluten-free croutons, and all-raw, all-healthy chocolate-mint tarts.   We sampled “alternative” zucchini bread, chai pecans, and beet salad with roasted pine nuts.  We laughed and listened and stared into each other’s eyes with that knowing look that means I’m-sold-out-to-my-man-and-I-want-it-to-show.

Our journeys are about more than cooking food that will quell systemic inflammation, although that’s the prime focus (we actually believe Hippocrates knew what he was talking about).  It’s about our doing what we can for our guys, even though there are many things we can’t do, and striving to do it well.  It’s about providing daily support in a tangible way. 

Cooking this way requires time and effort.  And yes, such are the ingredients of love.

Here are our his-and-her plates a couple of nights ago at dinner that exemplify what my friend and I are targeting – visually enticing, delicious, anti-inflammatory food that nourishes the body and supports healing at the cellular level.