I was traveling east on a country road after picking up my precious granddaughter Nattie B. It was a crisp winter day; new snow still gleaming white. The roads were clear, but the plows had left mounds and mountains every where. I rounded a bend to see a car pulling out of a driveway behind a mile high snow bank. I thought it would turn to the west to clear a path for me to go around, but instead it came to a near stop blocking both lanes. I sized up the space between the telephone pole and the car knowing that I would be heading into the possibility of oncoming traffic. Not enough room. The drivers side door of the other car, car B in the police report written up later, glared at me like a defiant pre-teen.
Plan B.
I applied the brakes deliberately, turned the wheel carefully and then, giving the engine more gas, aimed for the opening between the house on my left and the pole. There was a heavy thud but the Volvo, old and built like a tank, plowed through the wall of snow over the buried tree stump and into the clearing beyond. We glided really, snow flying over the hood of the car in a spray until the front end was buried and the car came to a stop.
Nattie never even cried.
"Why are we stopped in a snowbank gramma? ", she asked.
Car B, unscathed, drove a bit and pulled over and two teen boys jumped out and came running. They saw the little one and, only in rewind did I remember, the color drained from their faces before they heard her speak. They recognized me before I could think of their names. Sweet boys, wonderful boys; I immediately began yelling at them. "Get out of the road, get a coat on!" I bellowed as I reached for my cel phone.
Every fiber of my nervous and musculoskeletal systems went into shock. I trembled as I dialed Nattie's mother, my daughter, thinking I had to let her know we were OK though she had no reason to believe otherwise. I caught my self and switched the call to 911, still yelling at the boys who couldn't seem to move. I would be damned before I would let them get hit by a car now, after I had managed not to kill them with mine.
I could hardly hang onto the phone as I climbed out into hip deep drifts and got into the back seat to release the blessed five point harness and gather Natalie into my arms. I was trying desperately not to spill tears down her cheeks as I caressed her babbling self and tried to give our location to the operator on the other end of the line.
I knew we were OK, instinctively knew that all four of us had escaped harm, but my body wasn't buying it. I quavered and shook and gave the address as west instead of east of the main highway. The skilled voice on the other end just kept asking questions until he could figure out where to send the police.
The red and blue lights were flashing when Elizabeth arrived to gather us both up in her also trembling arms. I fumbled through the glove box knowing that all necessary paperwork was there but unable even to tell what papers to hand over to the officer. He was kind, and gentle and took what he needed from the sheaf I held out, then he took my hand so I could climb up over the snowbank toward Elizabeth who now held Natalie. She ushered us all to her car which beckoned, offering warmth and safety. Nattie declared her hunger reassuring both of us that she was, indeed, just fine.
The boys finally got out of the cold and into their own vehicle and I realized as a mother that I needed to reassure them, to tell them it had been an accident, that I wasn't yelling because I was angry but because I cared, but I didn't have it in me yet. That would come in a little while.
A neighbor came out and offerred to help. I had never gotten my one cup of coffee that day and I needed tea. Blessedly he went back inside and moments later came out with a steaming cup filled with the sweet warmth and caffeine my body so badly craved. I was trying to decide if my headache was injury or withdrawal, trying not to make it into something more than it was.
Elizabeth and I each made calls to assemble the family for extra comfort when we got home. Giddily I told Jeremy, my son in law, "You would have been so proud of me!" Jeremy is a mechanic and has no patience for poor driving skills and expected nothing less from me than that I would choose the safe path to avoid injury to his only child. He was proud but not surprised. I was astonished.
I had just a split second to decide. Just a blink of an eye and the story could have ended so differently. I had not had a phone in my ear, a cup of coffee in my hand. I had not been tuning in the radio or reaching for a cookie. My hands and my mind were free and in that split second my brain processed so much information. The ability to think and choose in that single moment astounds me still. It is a phenomenon.
Recently I turned sixty and my family made me a card filled with single words that each person would use to describe me. Deliberate was one of the words. Deliberate. In the aftermath of that split second, I felt deliberate. I chose, very deliberately, not to hit car B that, though I did not know it at the time of deciding, held those sweet teenage boys. I chose, deliberately, not to hit the telephone pole. I chose with minute deliberation to steer my course between the house and the creosote soaked timbers that would surely have killed us. I was deliberate in that split second, and yet.....
As the clock inches toward twelve and we stay awake to watch the ball drop, ringing in a new year, my heart sings out a song of thanksgiving.
I am thankful for Volvo's built like tanks.
I am thankful for seat belts and car seats.
I am thankful for soft, deep snow.
I am thankful for the innocence of three year olds and the grace and courage of young men who set aside their own fear and run to help.
I am thankful for hot tea with sugar and milk delivered by a stranger.
I am thankful for sons and daughters who comfort and friends who truly understand that trauma is not always something you can see.
Most importantly, I am thankful that in that split second, while I was deliberating, I was not alone.
Praise God and pass the Ice Cream for our safety. Praise God!
Oh, and Happy New Year!!! I am so very grateful to be here for it.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
God's Helping Hands
I write two of my own blogs, but I also contribute to our churches Advent blog site called Prepare the Way.
Each day I post the daily Scripture reading and a few times a week I comment.
As I read today's passage with the blog title in mind, I was struck by the fact that we are God's hands in this world.
At St. John's we have so many opportunities to help God prepare the way for others, We have a mitten tree for mittens, hats and scarves, a cookie drive for kids in a local residential facility who do not go home for Christmas, a used toy sale where people can come and pick up good, clean very usable toys at very affordable prices. We have cards for adopted families who want and need the same kinds of things we all want and need and we have a Deacon's fund that supports our food pantry in the hopes that those who will not feast, surely, will at least, not go hungry on the Birthday of the King.
A friend of mine contributes to the food pantry and she has started bringing in cake mixes and frosting. She commented that everyone likes a cake now and then. What a selfless, non-judgemental thing to do to help someone celebrate.
Many hands make light work is a saying we all grew up with and it seems that at Christmastime we really put that into action as we all open our hearts to the less fortunate.
The scripture says God
upholds the cause of the oppressed
gives food to the hungry.
sets prisoners free,
gives sight to the blind,
lifts up those who are bowed down,
loves the righteous.
watches over the foreigner
sustains the fatherless and the widow,
frustrates the ways of the wicked,
and that he reigns forever,
So many ways to help others at St. John's.
So many ways to be God's helping hands in the world,
Praise the Lord !
Each day I post the daily Scripture reading and a few times a week I comment.
As I read today's passage with the blog title in mind, I was struck by the fact that we are God's hands in this world.
At St. John's we have so many opportunities to help God prepare the way for others, We have a mitten tree for mittens, hats and scarves, a cookie drive for kids in a local residential facility who do not go home for Christmas, a used toy sale where people can come and pick up good, clean very usable toys at very affordable prices. We have cards for adopted families who want and need the same kinds of things we all want and need and we have a Deacon's fund that supports our food pantry in the hopes that those who will not feast, surely, will at least, not go hungry on the Birthday of the King.
A friend of mine contributes to the food pantry and she has started bringing in cake mixes and frosting. She commented that everyone likes a cake now and then. What a selfless, non-judgemental thing to do to help someone celebrate.
Many hands make light work is a saying we all grew up with and it seems that at Christmastime we really put that into action as we all open our hearts to the less fortunate.
The scripture says God
upholds the cause of the oppressed
gives food to the hungry.
sets prisoners free,
gives sight to the blind,
lifts up those who are bowed down,
loves the righteous.
watches over the foreigner
sustains the fatherless and the widow,
frustrates the ways of the wicked,
and that he reigns forever,
So many ways to help others at St. John's.
So many ways to be God's helping hands in the world,
Praise the Lord !
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Identifiers or "We Are Who We Say We Are - Just Ask Us"
The next chapter of Nell the new knee is really a prequel. It is the story of who the knee was before it was Nell.
I was a healthy young woman jumping rope. Then I was a little bit - oh such a wee bit - damaged. But I recovered quickly and became who I became.
Becoming is a funny thing. Somewhere along the way you attach "identifiers" to yourself. I mean the adjectives not the nouns. I was strong. I was always a tomboy kinda girl which was interesting since I was not athletic at all and while one of my identifiers was "strong" another one was "clumsy" ( my grandmother gave me that one and no one ever told me I could refuse it or give it back so I carried it right next to strong- oh well,) I was a worker bee and could outlast all the girls and alot of the boys on any given day on most day's tasks.
So, all that work and being attached as I was to that label, jumprope incident behind me - I became a STRONG woman. And that knee and my identifier carried on together for 40 years. Exactly 40. From 17 to 57, my knee and I did just fine,
( well, except for those times that we didn't; but they never lasted long and aspirin gave way to tylenol which gave way to advil in those forty years so any trouble it gave me was covered. ) And then the knee said "uncle".
Hey, forty years isn't a bad run - right?
I was a healthy young woman jumping rope. Then I was a little bit - oh such a wee bit - damaged. But I recovered quickly and became who I became.
Becoming is a funny thing. Somewhere along the way you attach "identifiers" to yourself. I mean the adjectives not the nouns. I was strong. I was always a tomboy kinda girl which was interesting since I was not athletic at all and while one of my identifiers was "strong" another one was "clumsy" ( my grandmother gave me that one and no one ever told me I could refuse it or give it back so I carried it right next to strong- oh well,) I was a worker bee and could outlast all the girls and alot of the boys on any given day on most day's tasks.
So, all that work and being attached as I was to that label, jumprope incident behind me - I became a STRONG woman. And that knee and my identifier carried on together for 40 years. Exactly 40. From 17 to 57, my knee and I did just fine,
( well, except for those times that we didn't; but they never lasted long and aspirin gave way to tylenol which gave way to advil in those forty years so any trouble it gave me was covered. ) And then the knee said "uncle".
Hey, forty years isn't a bad run - right?
Monday, September 27, 2010
The story of Nell-the-new-knee
Rarely does the story of a new knee start and end on the same day. The story of my new knee ( affectionately known as Nell) started decades ago. I will tell this story in three paragraph sound bites. It is a story of patience, determination, stubborn denial, terror and relief. The end of the story is so new, it is still being written. But that is the end and this is the beginning.
I was 17 and graduating from high school in just a few days; the processional line-up had been set. We were assigned our places by our height in heels. I was one of the tallest girls so I was in the back of the line. My shoes were polished, my gown was pressed. Our exams were over - for better or worse. School got out early. We were free as birds.
Joyce and Linda and I were high on life - we were playing jump rope. Yup, you got it right. We were high school kids waiting for graduation and we were jumping rope in the back yard when it happened. I heard it before I felt it but I knew immediately that there would be no heels for me at graduation.
It was just a sprain. No one worried. No one wondered if it would bother me all the days of my life - and it didn't, well, not for years to come. But that week, that hot June week of 1968, the big commotion was that now they would have to change the line up so that I could wear flats - and carry crutches.
That is the beginning of the story of Nell-the-new-knee.
I was 17 and graduating from high school in just a few days; the processional line-up had been set. We were assigned our places by our height in heels. I was one of the tallest girls so I was in the back of the line. My shoes were polished, my gown was pressed. Our exams were over - for better or worse. School got out early. We were free as birds.
Joyce and Linda and I were high on life - we were playing jump rope. Yup, you got it right. We were high school kids waiting for graduation and we were jumping rope in the back yard when it happened. I heard it before I felt it but I knew immediately that there would be no heels for me at graduation.
It was just a sprain. No one worried. No one wondered if it would bother me all the days of my life - and it didn't, well, not for years to come. But that week, that hot June week of 1968, the big commotion was that now they would have to change the line up so that I could wear flats - and carry crutches.
That is the beginning of the story of Nell-the-new-knee.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Little Girls
Devotion, Desire and Delight dancing in the street.
They are not quite three and newly seven.
They are sweet and warm and breathy in their personas and in their play.
The dress up box is purple plastic with a domed top like the treasure chest that it is on this summer day.
The older one is a "Fashionista". She has an innate sense of style. She likes flashy, fun combinations of bright colors and mixed textures accessorized with long cotton gloves of white or purple.
She is happy to show the wee one how this game is played.
They announce each new creation, dancing on the street that is the hundred year old hardwood hall floor of gramma bevy's house.
They are bedecked in plastic heels and fuzzy, furry boas.
They drape themselves in gauzy scarves and pink tiaras.
They dazzle us with oranges and reds, golds and deep sea blues of every fabric twisted and twirled about their lithe little bodies.
And then they prance about in tutus of multi-colored crinoline adorned with sparkly see-through gems dancing like fairies in a forest glen.
These sweet little girls are a delight. The elders in the room are devoted to them and desire only that they know that they are beautiful and they are loved.
They are not quite three and newly seven.
They are sweet and warm and breathy in their personas and in their play.
The dress up box is purple plastic with a domed top like the treasure chest that it is on this summer day.
The older one is a "Fashionista". She has an innate sense of style. She likes flashy, fun combinations of bright colors and mixed textures accessorized with long cotton gloves of white or purple.
She is happy to show the wee one how this game is played.
They announce each new creation, dancing on the street that is the hundred year old hardwood hall floor of gramma bevy's house.
They are bedecked in plastic heels and fuzzy, furry boas.
They drape themselves in gauzy scarves and pink tiaras.
They dazzle us with oranges and reds, golds and deep sea blues of every fabric twisted and twirled about their lithe little bodies.
And then they prance about in tutus of multi-colored crinoline adorned with sparkly see-through gems dancing like fairies in a forest glen.
These sweet little girls are a delight. The elders in the room are devoted to them and desire only that they know that they are beautiful and they are loved.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Parades
The parade began before I opened my eyes. I could choose to sleep in; it was hot and I was tired.
I could rise and finish writing final comments - it was time.
I could get up and out and mow the dry, cracked, brown grass that was ankle (and in some places mid calf)deep.
or......
I could drive north and see Aunt Kitty at my mother's house.
The parade of choices marched before me. So I asked myself, "at day's end what would I be most glad that I had chosen?"
I got out of bed, tended the dogs and headed north stopping only to get fresh baked cinnamon rolls from the local bakery.
There were three bespectacled, graying elders just having breakfast when I arrived. They were delighted, but not really surprised, to see me.
They were truly delighted and totally surprised that I carried goodies in the white paper bag I carried.
The parade of choices did not end with my arrival. With only an hour to share what would we talk about? Her life? Mine? The weather?
I picked me, the most selfish and the most selfless choice in the line up. I had begun a writing course since I had last seen Aunt Kitty, one that I wanted to tell her all about. Called Wearing the WORD, it is an amazing way to reflect on Bible passages, and end each day with a parade of words dancing on the computer screen to be sent off to a moderator - me.
The hour and more spent, the band played on. Aunt Kitty had a tradition of going down to the Stuyvesant Falls Bridge on her way out of town every year.
I was running late but the appeal of parading across that bridge, two old ladies, one alot older than I am, won the lottery of time allotment.
We both headed out and met at the bottom of the hill.
And parade is just what we did! Hand in hand we walked, arms swinging, laughing out loud as we took in the sights of the Falls, the rocks below and the sky above.
Oh what a treat!
A prayer warrior beside me I thought to myself, "Please God, in the parade of choices that marches before me each day, help me always choose this well. Amen."
I could rise and finish writing final comments - it was time.
I could get up and out and mow the dry, cracked, brown grass that was ankle (and in some places mid calf)deep.
or......
I could drive north and see Aunt Kitty at my mother's house.
The parade of choices marched before me. So I asked myself, "at day's end what would I be most glad that I had chosen?"
I got out of bed, tended the dogs and headed north stopping only to get fresh baked cinnamon rolls from the local bakery.
There were three bespectacled, graying elders just having breakfast when I arrived. They were delighted, but not really surprised, to see me.
They were truly delighted and totally surprised that I carried goodies in the white paper bag I carried.
The parade of choices did not end with my arrival. With only an hour to share what would we talk about? Her life? Mine? The weather?
I picked me, the most selfish and the most selfless choice in the line up. I had begun a writing course since I had last seen Aunt Kitty, one that I wanted to tell her all about. Called Wearing the WORD, it is an amazing way to reflect on Bible passages, and end each day with a parade of words dancing on the computer screen to be sent off to a moderator - me.
The hour and more spent, the band played on. Aunt Kitty had a tradition of going down to the Stuyvesant Falls Bridge on her way out of town every year.
I was running late but the appeal of parading across that bridge, two old ladies, one alot older than I am, won the lottery of time allotment.
We both headed out and met at the bottom of the hill.
And parade is just what we did! Hand in hand we walked, arms swinging, laughing out loud as we took in the sights of the Falls, the rocks below and the sky above.
Oh what a treat!
A prayer warrior beside me I thought to myself, "Please God, in the parade of choices that marches before me each day, help me always choose this well. Amen."
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Stars and Stripes
There is a flag flying proudly on my front porch today.
It is a flag that once flew over a military post where my son was stationed.
He is in the Navy.
There is another flag hanging on my son's wall, though he is not there to look at it. That one was handed to my mother at my father's funeral. My father served in the Tenth Mountain Division of the Army in World War II.
I have attended many funerals - too many - and they are filled with such a mix of emotions. Great sadness in spite of the relief of suffering. Near hysteria at the loss of one too young or whose life is taken violently or tragically. Disbelief at the incredulity of a suicide. It is so hard to stand in the presence of such deep, true emotion ....
But, have you ever stood at a graveside when a flag is handed to a loved one?
I have and what I remember is the heart swelling ache of pride. The heart swelling rush of gratitude to that person who sacrificed his or her comfort, safety and family time for ME.
That is how it feels when I watch a flag go from white gloved hands to the trembling hands of the person receiving it. This person that we are preparing to say goodbye to forever, served our country for ME. And I am the one that benefits from that sacrifice. I am the one that gets to walk away from the cemetery and live a life of freedom, a life pursuing joy ( my greatest happiness) because of this person who we are about to lower into the ground.
And I am always humbled as I watch the Stars and Stripes change hands.
Happy Birthday America, yes. But more than that, thank you to each and every man and woman who continues to serve under the Red, White and Blue. Thank you for your sacrifice for ME. May I live a life that is deserving of it.
Be safe today, come home soon. And for those who served before and are gone, rest in peace.
It is a flag that once flew over a military post where my son was stationed.
He is in the Navy.
There is another flag hanging on my son's wall, though he is not there to look at it. That one was handed to my mother at my father's funeral. My father served in the Tenth Mountain Division of the Army in World War II.
I have attended many funerals - too many - and they are filled with such a mix of emotions. Great sadness in spite of the relief of suffering. Near hysteria at the loss of one too young or whose life is taken violently or tragically. Disbelief at the incredulity of a suicide. It is so hard to stand in the presence of such deep, true emotion ....
But, have you ever stood at a graveside when a flag is handed to a loved one?
I have and what I remember is the heart swelling ache of pride. The heart swelling rush of gratitude to that person who sacrificed his or her comfort, safety and family time for ME.
That is how it feels when I watch a flag go from white gloved hands to the trembling hands of the person receiving it. This person that we are preparing to say goodbye to forever, served our country for ME. And I am the one that benefits from that sacrifice. I am the one that gets to walk away from the cemetery and live a life of freedom, a life pursuing joy ( my greatest happiness) because of this person who we are about to lower into the ground.
And I am always humbled as I watch the Stars and Stripes change hands.
Happy Birthday America, yes. But more than that, thank you to each and every man and woman who continues to serve under the Red, White and Blue. Thank you for your sacrifice for ME. May I live a life that is deserving of it.
Be safe today, come home soon. And for those who served before and are gone, rest in peace.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Generations
Though I was her labor nurse for three of her four children I do not know her well. I knew the set of her broad shoulders, the shine of her beautiful brown hair and the lilt in her voice but when I saw her walking down the hall to room 279 I did not know that her daughter was in labor.
I only knew her now-grown children through their medical care. First immunizations and well baby check ups. Later, appendicitis and pneumonia. And now, labor.
I went to greet her. She looked tired. Determined, but tired. And happy to see me. Mothering a laboring child is a tight rope walk. You must be strong but tender. Compassionate but not timid. And not a sissy. Being in labor yourself is easy compared to a tending a laboring daughter who is frightened and in tears.
Yes, she was happy to see a familiar face, the face of another mother.
I rubbed her shoulders as I smiled my hello. She smiled her beautiful smile back at me as she returned to her daughter and the labor nurse who would tend her.
It was a long day. Others gathered to wait. A woman, older than I, who would become a great grandmother this day, sat on a stool out side the hospital room door. She was fervently willing birth to come, and, finally, birth did come.
It is a beautiful sound, the sound of labor ending and a new life beginning.
I heard it from the hall. I went in to see a pink cherub of a baby lying in the crib surrounded by an exhausted mother and grandmother, a relieved great grandmother and a room full of siblings that I had seen come into the world.
Three generations standing at a bedside gazing at a baby. Happy. Life is good.
I only knew her now-grown children through their medical care. First immunizations and well baby check ups. Later, appendicitis and pneumonia. And now, labor.
I went to greet her. She looked tired. Determined, but tired. And happy to see me. Mothering a laboring child is a tight rope walk. You must be strong but tender. Compassionate but not timid. And not a sissy. Being in labor yourself is easy compared to a tending a laboring daughter who is frightened and in tears.
Yes, she was happy to see a familiar face, the face of another mother.
I rubbed her shoulders as I smiled my hello. She smiled her beautiful smile back at me as she returned to her daughter and the labor nurse who would tend her.
It was a long day. Others gathered to wait. A woman, older than I, who would become a great grandmother this day, sat on a stool out side the hospital room door. She was fervently willing birth to come, and, finally, birth did come.
It is a beautiful sound, the sound of labor ending and a new life beginning.
I heard it from the hall. I went in to see a pink cherub of a baby lying in the crib surrounded by an exhausted mother and grandmother, a relieved great grandmother and a room full of siblings that I had seen come into the world.
Three generations standing at a bedside gazing at a baby. Happy. Life is good.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Moon
What is it about the moon?
Of all the things in nature that are commercialized- leaves, sea shells, flowers made of every product from silk to resin, it is moons that draw my attention.
When my late husband, Dennis, was sick and our daughter was leaving for college, he said to her " Don't worry, we will never be far apart, we will always have the same moon. " It might be that - the moon especially from the back yard, hanging in the sky, reminds me of him, but it is more.
The moon is not as hot or as cold feeling as the sun. It feels friendly some how. The man in the moon, playing peek a boo with the clouds on a steely gray night, feels like a play mate.
The sun is fierce and fiery. Sweetest at sunrise and sunset, but the moon is always sweet. It is sweet in its slivery stages, a tiny thread hanging down from above playfully and it is sweet when it is full, a globe of romance pulling us up up up into our best selves.
I stand taller in the moonglow than I do under the brilliance of the sunshine which makes me wilt in the heat and shrink into myself in the cold.
I compete with the sun for my place in the universe but the moon offers me support, a place and time to wrestle with my life choices, to revel in my blessings, to let my heart expand with gratitude.
AHHA! That's it. The moon makes my heart expand with gratitude - I knew it was something. Thank you moon.
Of all the things in nature that are commercialized- leaves, sea shells, flowers made of every product from silk to resin, it is moons that draw my attention.
When my late husband, Dennis, was sick and our daughter was leaving for college, he said to her " Don't worry, we will never be far apart, we will always have the same moon. " It might be that - the moon especially from the back yard, hanging in the sky, reminds me of him, but it is more.
The moon is not as hot or as cold feeling as the sun. It feels friendly some how. The man in the moon, playing peek a boo with the clouds on a steely gray night, feels like a play mate.
The sun is fierce and fiery. Sweetest at sunrise and sunset, but the moon is always sweet. It is sweet in its slivery stages, a tiny thread hanging down from above playfully and it is sweet when it is full, a globe of romance pulling us up up up into our best selves.
I stand taller in the moonglow than I do under the brilliance of the sunshine which makes me wilt in the heat and shrink into myself in the cold.
I compete with the sun for my place in the universe but the moon offers me support, a place and time to wrestle with my life choices, to revel in my blessings, to let my heart expand with gratitude.
AHHA! That's it. The moon makes my heart expand with gratitude - I knew it was something. Thank you moon.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Pancakes, Bacon and Walking in the Rain
They are eleven and two.
He is tall and lanky, and loosing his (baby) teeth faster than the tooth fairy can circle the globe. He is soft spoken and witty. Clever, artistic.
She is still in diapers and has lost her "inside voice"
She shouts her wants and screeches her delights. She bellows her "I love you's"
He unwinds himself from sleep in the pink room that he wants to paint green and reaches for a book hoping to escape my notice.
She chatters in her PortaCrib until I open the door to the yellow room and then raises her arms for some morning love. She wraps her legs around me as I lift her soft,warm, soggy bottomed body to mine.
They both want pancakes and bacon. I knew they would.
Breakfast behind us and the dishes left undone, she demands outside. We don long socks and rubber boots - hers purple, mine green - and lightweight sweatshirts. He disappears inside my bright yellow slicker and grabs the dog leash for the impatiently yapping Buffy Bot.
I open my enormous bright blue umbrella, but she demands her own. She wants dinosaurs, but I proffer cats and, amazingly, she acquiesces. We are a sight, these two granddarlings and I, on this rainy Saturday morning.
"Be careful Gramma, " she warns, " don't walk in the puddles!" "Oh, Nattie, " I reply, "today we CAN walk in the puddles. That is why I invited you over!"
She is two almost three and I am fifty nine almost sixty. We walk hand in hand through every puddle we can find, twirling our umbrellas as we go.
He is eleven almost twelve. He heads in the other direction.
He is tall and lanky, and loosing his (baby) teeth faster than the tooth fairy can circle the globe. He is soft spoken and witty. Clever, artistic.
She is still in diapers and has lost her "inside voice"
She shouts her wants and screeches her delights. She bellows her "I love you's"
He unwinds himself from sleep in the pink room that he wants to paint green and reaches for a book hoping to escape my notice.
She chatters in her PortaCrib until I open the door to the yellow room and then raises her arms for some morning love. She wraps her legs around me as I lift her soft,warm, soggy bottomed body to mine.
They both want pancakes and bacon. I knew they would.
Breakfast behind us and the dishes left undone, she demands outside. We don long socks and rubber boots - hers purple, mine green - and lightweight sweatshirts. He disappears inside my bright yellow slicker and grabs the dog leash for the impatiently yapping Buffy Bot.
I open my enormous bright blue umbrella, but she demands her own. She wants dinosaurs, but I proffer cats and, amazingly, she acquiesces. We are a sight, these two granddarlings and I, on this rainy Saturday morning.
"Be careful Gramma, " she warns, " don't walk in the puddles!" "Oh, Nattie, " I reply, "today we CAN walk in the puddles. That is why I invited you over!"
She is two almost three and I am fifty nine almost sixty. We walk hand in hand through every puddle we can find, twirling our umbrellas as we go.
He is eleven almost twelve. He heads in the other direction.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Petal Shower and The Cardinal
It is so easy to ignore the moments of wonder. And equally easy to stop, just stop, what you are doing and revel in them.
It was dusk - that in between time. The drive from work is short and as familiar as an old shoe.
As I rounded the curve toward town a long stretch of shoulder was polka dotted with snowy white petals. It was both a blanket covering the dull gray concrete of the old country road and an intricate pattern of individual petals each one holding it's place in the design of blossoms that had fallen in the recent rain. I glanced to the right as I drove on.
Church had just ended. I was backing out of the parsonage driveway when the flash of red streaked across my line of vision. A quick glance across the lawn to see a robin sitting fat and happy in the freshly mowed green grass. No, not bright enough. And then, the cardinal swooped down to graze beside Miss Redbreast. I put the old Volvo wagon in park and cut the engine.
The brilliance of the ruby red bird flitting about made my heart quicken. He darted in and out of site, dashing up and diving down. My heart beat faster still but the robin seemed unimpressed with the dance. I waited until the display ended and the bird had flown off into the woods leaving the serene robin behind before turning the key on again.
I wondered as I drove away, my heart filled with gratitude for the beauty of that moment, - do robins give thanks for such wonderment?
It was dusk - that in between time. The drive from work is short and as familiar as an old shoe.
As I rounded the curve toward town a long stretch of shoulder was polka dotted with snowy white petals. It was both a blanket covering the dull gray concrete of the old country road and an intricate pattern of individual petals each one holding it's place in the design of blossoms that had fallen in the recent rain. I glanced to the right as I drove on.
Church had just ended. I was backing out of the parsonage driveway when the flash of red streaked across my line of vision. A quick glance across the lawn to see a robin sitting fat and happy in the freshly mowed green grass. No, not bright enough. And then, the cardinal swooped down to graze beside Miss Redbreast. I put the old Volvo wagon in park and cut the engine.
The brilliance of the ruby red bird flitting about made my heart quicken. He darted in and out of site, dashing up and diving down. My heart beat faster still but the robin seemed unimpressed with the dance. I waited until the display ended and the bird had flown off into the woods leaving the serene robin behind before turning the key on again.
I wondered as I drove away, my heart filled with gratitude for the beauty of that moment, - do robins give thanks for such wonderment?
Monday, May 3, 2010
THE QUEST HOUSE
The Quest House came to be from a dream and a typo. The Lord uses what He must to send the message:) My most treasured gift is the gift of hospitality and I have long been a retreat-ant at various retreat facilities. I can see my self greeting the walking wounded treating them to a sanctuary filled with homemade bread, flowers and a place to heal. And Laugh. Does healing happen without laughter? Perhaps, but it must be very slow. I shared this dream with my writing coach, mary anne radmacher, and in the missive typed " my dream is to own a "Quest house". And so it has come to be. The Quest House currently houses it's root stock in a small office in Red Hook NY that is filled with whimsy and vision, a slow computer and orange curtains. And laughter. Someday there will be a guest house, a garden, a great room. But for now, follow along, share your dreams with me as we write, inspiring ourselves and others and follow our dreams.
In June I will be offering an opportunity to participate in a writing process called RADMACHER FOCUS PHRASE™.
The first session called Wear the WORD, will provide a new way to start your day with Scripture. Using a passage I provide, you will view each day through the lens of THE WORD. At days end you will write three paragraphs about what moments of grace or joy, what trials or tribulations were presented to you and how the "phrase", the Scripture passage, helped you experience them.
I will be posting more in the days ahead and will invite you to share your writing with me.
This process has changed my life allowing me to greet each day with intention. Setting the course instead of riding the wave of work and play without noticing the highs and lows, the ordinary moments of wonder.
Go to maryanneradmacher.net to see the work of my writing coach and partner in this course.
log on often to see the details of registration to start your summer with me and to begin a daily writing practice that will bring a new vision to your life.
Please think about signing up for this writing opportunity. Whether your goal is to establish or revitalize a daily writing practice, to establish or revitalize a daily Scripture reading practice or to establish or revitalize a way of sharing your long neglected gifts of the spirit, I hope you will join me in June for Wear the WORD.
joyfully, beverly kipp
In June I will be offering an opportunity to participate in a writing process called RADMACHER FOCUS PHRASE™.
The first session called Wear the WORD, will provide a new way to start your day with Scripture. Using a passage I provide, you will view each day through the lens of THE WORD. At days end you will write three paragraphs about what moments of grace or joy, what trials or tribulations were presented to you and how the "phrase", the Scripture passage, helped you experience them.
I will be posting more in the days ahead and will invite you to share your writing with me.
This process has changed my life allowing me to greet each day with intention. Setting the course instead of riding the wave of work and play without noticing the highs and lows, the ordinary moments of wonder.
Go to maryanneradmacher.net to see the work of my writing coach and partner in this course.
log on often to see the details of registration to start your summer with me and to begin a daily writing practice that will bring a new vision to your life.
Please think about signing up for this writing opportunity. Whether your goal is to establish or revitalize a daily writing practice, to establish or revitalize a daily Scripture reading practice or to establish or revitalize a way of sharing your long neglected gifts of the spirit, I hope you will join me in June for Wear the WORD.
joyfully, beverly kipp
Friday, April 30, 2010
I see the moon and the moon sees me.
I gasped out loud when I caught site of it. How can that be? I wondered. I am almost 60 years old. How can it be that catching sight of the moon can make me gasp out loud? and yet - I did.. The huge yellow globe was so close to the horizon it looked like it was resting on the earth waiting for it's time to rise. We played hide and seek for fifteen miles. Each time I passed a clearing my heart raced. You would think that I had never seen it before though in fact I have looked out at the night sky more than 21,000 times in my life. 21000 times and I am still in awe. That is how amazing God's creation is. 21000 times and I never tire of it. 21000 times and no two night moons seem the same.
Awe. Wonder. Joy.
I see the moon. Does the moon see me?
Awe. Wonder. Joy.
I see the moon. Does the moon see me?
Monday, April 26, 2010
I am so glad for His company.
He is "mine" for such a short period of time. 24 hours. A Sunday.
I pick him up at his house. He is showered except for the top of his head - a place that rarely
meets the spray of shower water much less shampoo, yet he is sparklingly clean to me.
He smiles a bagel and cream cheese smile and we head down the steps together.
We are going north to my mother's to do spring yard work on this cool and drizzly day.
I am glad for his company.
Billy greets us. My oldest son, forty years old and "Uncle Bill" to this
boy at my side.
Uncle Bill cooks breakfast; bacon, one of Axel's few favorite foods, and we
chat with my mother and my Aunt Nancy, both in their 80's, hard of
hearing and easily riled with the mis-perceived comments, but fun too.
Natalie Bird, 2, and Elizabeth her mother, my daughter, arrive just as
the eggs are put on the table. My cousin and his daughter are there
also- it is a full house.
A full morning of yard work behind us, we head back south, stopping
along the way to try to find a few needed items without much success.
Except for Oreo's and coffee, we find those and so we are all happy on
the ride home.
Once settled in the door, Axel plays with Legos and I iron. A few hours later we
head out again, this time for a movie and a few groceries.
Approaching the video store we look to our left and there is a cloud of
fog hovering just above the bright green spring grass. it is like a
cookie sheet of thin white smoke resting on nothing; not touching the
sky or the earth.
We glance up and Axel says - "Gramma Bevy, look at the children's
moon." A 3/4 full muted yellow disc shining down on the clouds, floats just inches
above the horizon.
When we come out of the store, movie in hand, the parking lot is
shrouded in fog. Dusk has settled, the moon is hidden in cloud
casting a silvery grey light all around us. We are alone in our own
little bubble of it. I am so very glad for his company.
The words of God are sure and that which is holy and true becomes wind
at my back. The Lord governs all things. From all time without
measure, He reigns. He reigns over all - even the waters that rise,
the waves that storm. The Lord rules over the song of many waters and
is more powerful than the mighty waves of the sea. Psalm 93 1-3 paraPhrase by mary anne radmacher
And us. He reigns over us. In sunshine and in shadow. He reigns.
He reigns in the fog, and in the smile of this young man, He reigns.
I am so glad we have His company.
I pick him up at his house. He is showered except for the top of his head - a place that rarely
meets the spray of shower water much less shampoo, yet he is sparklingly clean to me.
He smiles a bagel and cream cheese smile and we head down the steps together.
We are going north to my mother's to do spring yard work on this cool and drizzly day.
I am glad for his company.
Billy greets us. My oldest son, forty years old and "Uncle Bill" to this
boy at my side.
Uncle Bill cooks breakfast; bacon, one of Axel's few favorite foods, and we
chat with my mother and my Aunt Nancy, both in their 80's, hard of
hearing and easily riled with the mis-perceived comments, but fun too.
Natalie Bird, 2, and Elizabeth her mother, my daughter, arrive just as
the eggs are put on the table. My cousin and his daughter are there
also- it is a full house.
A full morning of yard work behind us, we head back south, stopping
along the way to try to find a few needed items without much success.
Except for Oreo's and coffee, we find those and so we are all happy on
the ride home.
Once settled in the door, Axel plays with Legos and I iron. A few hours later we
head out again, this time for a movie and a few groceries.
Approaching the video store we look to our left and there is a cloud of
fog hovering just above the bright green spring grass. it is like a
cookie sheet of thin white smoke resting on nothing; not touching the
sky or the earth.
We glance up and Axel says - "Gramma Bevy, look at the children's
moon." A 3/4 full muted yellow disc shining down on the clouds, floats just inches
above the horizon.
When we come out of the store, movie in hand, the parking lot is
shrouded in fog. Dusk has settled, the moon is hidden in cloud
casting a silvery grey light all around us. We are alone in our own
little bubble of it. I am so very glad for his company.
The words of God are sure and that which is holy and true becomes wind
at my back. The Lord governs all things. From all time without
measure, He reigns. He reigns over all - even the waters that rise,
the waves that storm. The Lord rules over the song of many waters and
is more powerful than the mighty waves of the sea. Psalm 93 1-3 paraPhrase by mary anne radmacher
And us. He reigns over us. In sunshine and in shadow. He reigns.
He reigns in the fog, and in the smile of this young man, He reigns.
I am so glad we have His company.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The many faces of writing.
I had the privilege of being the guest speaker at a Reformed Church Womens conference on Saturday. It was wonderful.
These are my reflections of gratitude at day's end.
I was so excited. The conference had gone very well. " they liked me, they really liked me" came to mind and I was riding that wave. I had stayed up all night to prepare, and as usual, once I got out of my own way, The Lord sent the words. The topic was "Getting to the Therefore", about all the therefores in the Bible. About reading all the way to the therefores. As I prepared it occurred to me, this time it wasn't a sermon, I was a guest speaker, and so I would tell the story of my own faith journey. And I did.
I started with my late husband's eulogy, moved quickly into my first article published in the Church Herald neither of which led me to claim writer as a part of who I am. Then I shared the story of my " bulletin board nervous breakdown." a collage of pieces stuck up with push pins that let me know that I needed help healing and determining who I would be as a widow - black and heavy, or bright and joy filled. Next I shared my mountain top experience when mary anne, my writing coach, very gently yet so boldly made me see that there was no battle in my life. God had sent me a gift and I could use it or not. And so the declaration I had made in my bio had become a prayer of gratitude.
"I am a writer.. " I whispered into the microphone, "I am a writer". God sent the gift not to glorify me, but, so that I might glorify HIM. THEREFORE, I must write. Ah, a personal therefore.
The applause when I finished was quick and genuine.
There is more written, more to say, but for now, I will leave it there.
Today I declared my God given gift as a writer in a different way.
Today I went to Poughkeepsie, NY to the County Seat and filed a DBA.
Today my dream to have a retreat house has taken a giant step forward.
The DBA proclaims that I have registered the name
The Quest House a place for Inspiration and Healing
as my own.
Tonight I had Ice Cream for dinner. It seemed a great way to celebrate.
Thank you to all of you who have shed light on the path along the way.
With a joy filled heart,
beverly a kipp
These are my reflections of gratitude at day's end.
I was so excited. The conference had gone very well. " they liked me, they really liked me" came to mind and I was riding that wave. I had stayed up all night to prepare, and as usual, once I got out of my own way, The Lord sent the words. The topic was "Getting to the Therefore", about all the therefores in the Bible. About reading all the way to the therefores. As I prepared it occurred to me, this time it wasn't a sermon, I was a guest speaker, and so I would tell the story of my own faith journey. And I did.
I started with my late husband's eulogy, moved quickly into my first article published in the Church Herald neither of which led me to claim writer as a part of who I am. Then I shared the story of my " bulletin board nervous breakdown." a collage of pieces stuck up with push pins that let me know that I needed help healing and determining who I would be as a widow - black and heavy, or bright and joy filled. Next I shared my mountain top experience when mary anne, my writing coach, very gently yet so boldly made me see that there was no battle in my life. God had sent me a gift and I could use it or not. And so the declaration I had made in my bio had become a prayer of gratitude.
"I am a writer.. " I whispered into the microphone, "I am a writer". God sent the gift not to glorify me, but, so that I might glorify HIM. THEREFORE, I must write. Ah, a personal therefore.
The applause when I finished was quick and genuine.
There is more written, more to say, but for now, I will leave it there.
Today I declared my God given gift as a writer in a different way.
Today I went to Poughkeepsie, NY to the County Seat and filed a DBA.
Today my dream to have a retreat house has taken a giant step forward.
The DBA proclaims that I have registered the name
The Quest House a place for Inspiration and Healing
as my own.
Tonight I had Ice Cream for dinner. It seemed a great way to celebrate.
Thank you to all of you who have shed light on the path along the way.
With a joy filled heart,
beverly a kipp
Thursday, April 8, 2010
after a long absence, inspiration to write happens
Today is a work day at my house. I have my son and son in law and a
friend who is a horticulturalist all coming to work in my yard on
this beautiful spring day in April that feels like a summers day in
June. The sun wakes me and my attention recalls the phrase I read
before sleep.
occupy your attention with these things…that which is accurate and
known first hand… phil. 4:8
accurate as in correct? or accurate as in certain?
Well, there is a God, a divine spirit who brings order from chaos and
insures that the sun will rise each day, feels accurate and personally
known to me, but could, and would, be argued by many. Is it correct?
Can't win that one, but am I certain of it? Yes, I am.
I rise and greet the day, popped Popovers in the oven, cooked bacon,
scrambled eggs and greeted first one and then another of my expected
assistants. Then Nattie B arrived. This precious two year old, fresh
from sleep herself, more exuberant than any of us, took my cheeks in
her pudgy little pink hands, kissed my wrinkled lips with her full
rosebud, wet ones and said " Good morning Grandma Bevy, I'm gonna
play at your house today!!!!!!!!!!" and I was more certain than ever
that, not only is there a God, I knew him first hand, and today his
name is L O V E.
friend who is a horticulturalist all coming to work in my yard on
this beautiful spring day in April that feels like a summers day in
June. The sun wakes me and my attention recalls the phrase I read
before sleep.
occupy your attention with these things…that which is accurate and
known first hand… phil. 4:8
accurate as in correct? or accurate as in certain?
Well, there is a God, a divine spirit who brings order from chaos and
insures that the sun will rise each day, feels accurate and personally
known to me, but could, and would, be argued by many. Is it correct?
Can't win that one, but am I certain of it? Yes, I am.
I rise and greet the day, popped Popovers in the oven, cooked bacon,
scrambled eggs and greeted first one and then another of my expected
assistants. Then Nattie B arrived. This precious two year old, fresh
from sleep herself, more exuberant than any of us, took my cheeks in
her pudgy little pink hands, kissed my wrinkled lips with her full
rosebud, wet ones and said " Good morning Grandma Bevy, I'm gonna
play at your house today!!!!!!!!!!" and I was more certain than ever
that, not only is there a God, I knew him first hand, and today his
name is L O V E.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
beet water
The sink is filled with suds and, as the running water rinses the plate, I wait for the moment when the bubbles turn a delicious color of pink. Not blood red and not girlie girl pink but an amazing flush of red pink that delights the little girl in me still.
As a young child I was always the first to jump up to clear the table of supper dishes on the nights when mom served beets. Back then, they were from a can and the juice tasted a little like tin, not at all like the luscious root vegetable that was simmering on my stove tonight, but the effect of the pink swirling into the white porcelain sink filled with water enthralled me when I was ten and still holds a spell over me. It is mesmerizing to watch. First a tinge appears, next a blush, and finally a deep penetrating splash that would sink into the pours of my fingers and, to my great delight, stain them a telltale hue.
I would swish the cotton rag about in the water until the colors blended and then get the pan off the stove hoping there would be one or two drops of beet juice left to make the pleasure last longer.
I love beets. I love them freshly cooked with a dollop of butter melting and running in rivers over the bleeding grain of the firm fleshy food. I love them pickled , the tangy bite of the onion contrasting with the hearty sweetness of the beet. I love them in the thick sweet and sour sauce that you pour out of a glass jar. I love licking the spoon that scooped them out into the sauce pan. I love that the thick delicious sauce colors the water in a different way than the thin vinegary brine does. I love the taste and texture of beets and I love the color.
Beets are wonderful alone or in salad. They are scrumptious with juicy pork loin and if you serve them with mashed potatoes you get to watch the ruby juices spread out on the plate and run into the white lump. There is a perfect moment to take your fork and swirl it all into a beety mashed potato pink mush. What fun!
Tonight I cooked fresh beets while Nattie B, my two year old grand darling, colored with crayons at the kitchen table that my father built. I layered the beets in a pyrex dish with garlic, carrots, onions, brussel sprouts and sweet potatoes and drizzled olive oil over them. I ground fresh pepper all over the mix. Before popping the offering in the oven to roast I picked a small red cube up in my fingers, turned to nattie and offered her a bite. BEETS! she shouted as she tasted the treat. BEETS!
I didn't clean up until after nattie went home. I can't wait until she is a little bigger and I can pull a chair up to the sink and say - watch nattie - watch ! I just know she will fall in love with beet water, it's in her genes you know. But, she will have to be pretty quick to get to the dishes before I do:)
beet water. one of life's simple pleasures waiting to be shared. life is good.
As a young child I was always the first to jump up to clear the table of supper dishes on the nights when mom served beets. Back then, they were from a can and the juice tasted a little like tin, not at all like the luscious root vegetable that was simmering on my stove tonight, but the effect of the pink swirling into the white porcelain sink filled with water enthralled me when I was ten and still holds a spell over me. It is mesmerizing to watch. First a tinge appears, next a blush, and finally a deep penetrating splash that would sink into the pours of my fingers and, to my great delight, stain them a telltale hue.
I would swish the cotton rag about in the water until the colors blended and then get the pan off the stove hoping there would be one or two drops of beet juice left to make the pleasure last longer.
I love beets. I love them freshly cooked with a dollop of butter melting and running in rivers over the bleeding grain of the firm fleshy food. I love them pickled , the tangy bite of the onion contrasting with the hearty sweetness of the beet. I love them in the thick sweet and sour sauce that you pour out of a glass jar. I love licking the spoon that scooped them out into the sauce pan. I love that the thick delicious sauce colors the water in a different way than the thin vinegary brine does. I love the taste and texture of beets and I love the color.
Beets are wonderful alone or in salad. They are scrumptious with juicy pork loin and if you serve them with mashed potatoes you get to watch the ruby juices spread out on the plate and run into the white lump. There is a perfect moment to take your fork and swirl it all into a beety mashed potato pink mush. What fun!
Tonight I cooked fresh beets while Nattie B, my two year old grand darling, colored with crayons at the kitchen table that my father built. I layered the beets in a pyrex dish with garlic, carrots, onions, brussel sprouts and sweet potatoes and drizzled olive oil over them. I ground fresh pepper all over the mix. Before popping the offering in the oven to roast I picked a small red cube up in my fingers, turned to nattie and offered her a bite. BEETS! she shouted as she tasted the treat. BEETS!
I didn't clean up until after nattie went home. I can't wait until she is a little bigger and I can pull a chair up to the sink and say - watch nattie - watch ! I just know she will fall in love with beet water, it's in her genes you know. But, she will have to be pretty quick to get to the dishes before I do:)
beet water. one of life's simple pleasures waiting to be shared. life is good.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Oh Tannenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum
My Christmas tree this year was truly beautiful. Full, well proportioned, just the right size for my living room and to hold my particular assortment of ornaments. The best Christmas tree ever!
I am usually late getting a tree up, but this year it went up mid December. I always keep a tree up until Epiphany, so I have had lots of time to enjoy it though I rarely went to sit by it once Christmas had past. So, it came as a bit of a surprise when I went by the living room last night and heard a little shower of needles falling to the floor. You know the sound, it is unmistakable sort of a cross between a crinkle and a tinkle that makes your heart sink and your quilt flourish as you realize that you have not watered the dang thing in days - maybe weeks. As I took a closer look I laughed out loud. During my neglect a huge pile of green needles had covered the red felt Christmas tree skirt and mountained on my beautiful hardwood floor. I had to cave, long enough is long enough; time for the tree to make an exit.
As I took each ornament off the branches, more needles fell like green ice cream sprinkles with sound effects. When I was done and the decorations were snuggled into safe keeping, I got a pair of thick mens work gloves. I grabbed a hold of the tree trunk and shook it back and forth rocking the tree in it's stand just to see if all the needles would fall. They did! I felt a childlike delight as the already impressive pile grew bigger and bigger and the sound effects grew to a crescendo. There was no need to get the sheet that I usually wrap the tree in to avoid a trail of green, this tree would leave no path in it's wake.
I dragged the carcass to the front porch and closed the door behind me shutting out an arctic, icy blast. Most years I take a good look at the tree in daylight to retrieve any hidden ornaments but this year I would have to sift through the green mountain waiting to be gathered up.
Instead of a broom, I got my dust pan and started to shovel up the debris. I filled first one and then another waste basket with needles that weighed almost nothing. I tried to think of a clever use for this waste but alas, no good thing came to mind. I am sure in past centuries it would have been sown into a pillow or brewed into a poultice, but I went out into the night and dumped the two containers on the dog doolie area of the back yard. HA! I thought, A Christmas tree that keeps on giving.
I was almost embarrassed this morning to undo the tree stand and display my spoils to the community. It screams of neglect and fire hazard. I only hope my insurance man or the fire chief do not drive by.
I look at the empty space in my living room and, again, I laugh thinking; I need a " coming soon" sign while I consider how to feng shui my way into the new year.
Any suggestions?
I am usually late getting a tree up, but this year it went up mid December. I always keep a tree up until Epiphany, so I have had lots of time to enjoy it though I rarely went to sit by it once Christmas had past. So, it came as a bit of a surprise when I went by the living room last night and heard a little shower of needles falling to the floor. You know the sound, it is unmistakable sort of a cross between a crinkle and a tinkle that makes your heart sink and your quilt flourish as you realize that you have not watered the dang thing in days - maybe weeks. As I took a closer look I laughed out loud. During my neglect a huge pile of green needles had covered the red felt Christmas tree skirt and mountained on my beautiful hardwood floor. I had to cave, long enough is long enough; time for the tree to make an exit.
As I took each ornament off the branches, more needles fell like green ice cream sprinkles with sound effects. When I was done and the decorations were snuggled into safe keeping, I got a pair of thick mens work gloves. I grabbed a hold of the tree trunk and shook it back and forth rocking the tree in it's stand just to see if all the needles would fall. They did! I felt a childlike delight as the already impressive pile grew bigger and bigger and the sound effects grew to a crescendo. There was no need to get the sheet that I usually wrap the tree in to avoid a trail of green, this tree would leave no path in it's wake.
I dragged the carcass to the front porch and closed the door behind me shutting out an arctic, icy blast. Most years I take a good look at the tree in daylight to retrieve any hidden ornaments but this year I would have to sift through the green mountain waiting to be gathered up.
Instead of a broom, I got my dust pan and started to shovel up the debris. I filled first one and then another waste basket with needles that weighed almost nothing. I tried to think of a clever use for this waste but alas, no good thing came to mind. I am sure in past centuries it would have been sown into a pillow or brewed into a poultice, but I went out into the night and dumped the two containers on the dog doolie area of the back yard. HA! I thought, A Christmas tree that keeps on giving.
I was almost embarrassed this morning to undo the tree stand and display my spoils to the community. It screams of neglect and fire hazard. I only hope my insurance man or the fire chief do not drive by.
I look at the empty space in my living room and, again, I laugh thinking; I need a " coming soon" sign while I consider how to feng shui my way into the new year.
Any suggestions?
Monday, January 4, 2010
To Oprah Winfrey - What I know for Sure
Recently, while waiting my turn in a hospital waiting room, I picked up an old copy of O, THE OPRAH MAGAZINE. Several things drew me to it, her beautiful face of course, but also the topics. The one I turned to first was What do you know for sure? 22 simple, surprising, brilliant rules to live by. Apparently she closes each issue with comments based on a question the late Gene Siskel asked her many years ago and she has been asking herself and others ever since.
In this issue she had asked 22 people from all walks of life to comment. On the last page of this issue, (which you can Google and find), was a list of her own 20 all time top comments. She readily admits that it changes with the seasons of her life but there were several profound thoughts. It was very interesting reading and, as those things do, made me ask myself the same question. What do I know for sure? At first, I had vague responses, but nothing popped into my mind that would make a top 20 list. Until this morning.
My phone rang at 7 and my older daughter, Elizabeth, reported that my granddaughter was indeed just a touch too under the weather to go to day care and they were on their way to me as we had agreed last night. I would tend Natalie Bird for the morning while her mother went to work and she would leave after half a day so that I could tend to the things on my list that had to get done.
As Nattie B and I settled into a morning of Dora the Explorer balanced with two year old hands helping to empty the dishwasher, and telling stories while she played with the many nativity sets still adorning my post Christmas/ pre Epiphany house, my eyes caught sight of the magazine on the corner of the kitchen table ( yes, I asked before I brought it home with me ) and I knew, I knew for sure, that this was the most important thing I could be doing with my day, no matter what I had planned to do as of yesterday. It isn't that "my" list is any less important than Elizabeth's, it is simply that sometimes "Plan B" legitimately usurps "Plan A."
My plan A today was important, I am sure of that too, but at 59, I am more likely to keep the big picture in mind and not the ups and downs of any one day in my daily life.
I live a life that matters. I have loved well and I am well loved. I am a nurse who makes a difference in the lives of many. I am a lay minister and a lay chaplain and I am a writer. My spoken word and my written words have gone out into the world to help others and that all matters, but helping my grown children be the best parents they can be is the most important thing that I am doing in this chapter of my life - THIS I know for sure.
In the Bible in 1 Thessalonians, chapter 5 verse 11 it says, "Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, (just as in fact you are doing.)" Paul was writing to the Thessalonians and talking about encouraging one another in their faith journey. I have found that parenting is much like a journey of faith; faith that you are doing the right thing, faith in the future, faith that what you do today matters in the grand scheme.
How blessed I am to have 4 grown children who turn to me for encouragement and how much I have learned about what encouragement looks like. When I was a younger grandmother it often meant giving what I thought was sage advice from my own experiences of parenting. As I get older I just as often hold my tongue and listen before I speak knowing that while some things never change the journey of parenting in 2010 is much different than parenting from 1969 when I became a mother to 2003 when my youngest reached the age of 21. I have also learned that sometimes encouragement is very gentle and sometimes it is very firm but always, it looks and feels like love.
Some women my age are starting new careers, some are retiring and some are reveling in free time to travel or explore the world. Many are divorcing or remarrying men with a whole other set of children to raise even as their own children are giving birth. I know that grandparenting comes in as many varieties as does parenting, but for me, whenever it is possible, I choose to be a grandma who offers love and encouragement, to fertilize the landscape in which my remarkable children and their spouses are parenting. That choice looks different every day, but today it means keeping Natalie Bird so her mother can work. I am delighted to be able to do that.
Oh, there is one more thing I know for sure. When Nattie B says " come dance with me gramma bevy" it is an invitation to joy. Gotta go. I have been called to dance.
In this issue she had asked 22 people from all walks of life to comment. On the last page of this issue, (which you can Google and find), was a list of her own 20 all time top comments. She readily admits that it changes with the seasons of her life but there were several profound thoughts. It was very interesting reading and, as those things do, made me ask myself the same question. What do I know for sure? At first, I had vague responses, but nothing popped into my mind that would make a top 20 list. Until this morning.
My phone rang at 7 and my older daughter, Elizabeth, reported that my granddaughter was indeed just a touch too under the weather to go to day care and they were on their way to me as we had agreed last night. I would tend Natalie Bird for the morning while her mother went to work and she would leave after half a day so that I could tend to the things on my list that had to get done.
As Nattie B and I settled into a morning of Dora the Explorer balanced with two year old hands helping to empty the dishwasher, and telling stories while she played with the many nativity sets still adorning my post Christmas/ pre Epiphany house, my eyes caught sight of the magazine on the corner of the kitchen table ( yes, I asked before I brought it home with me ) and I knew, I knew for sure, that this was the most important thing I could be doing with my day, no matter what I had planned to do as of yesterday. It isn't that "my" list is any less important than Elizabeth's, it is simply that sometimes "Plan B" legitimately usurps "Plan A."
My plan A today was important, I am sure of that too, but at 59, I am more likely to keep the big picture in mind and not the ups and downs of any one day in my daily life.
I live a life that matters. I have loved well and I am well loved. I am a nurse who makes a difference in the lives of many. I am a lay minister and a lay chaplain and I am a writer. My spoken word and my written words have gone out into the world to help others and that all matters, but helping my grown children be the best parents they can be is the most important thing that I am doing in this chapter of my life - THIS I know for sure.
In the Bible in 1 Thessalonians, chapter 5 verse 11 it says, "Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, (just as in fact you are doing.)" Paul was writing to the Thessalonians and talking about encouraging one another in their faith journey. I have found that parenting is much like a journey of faith; faith that you are doing the right thing, faith in the future, faith that what you do today matters in the grand scheme.
How blessed I am to have 4 grown children who turn to me for encouragement and how much I have learned about what encouragement looks like. When I was a younger grandmother it often meant giving what I thought was sage advice from my own experiences of parenting. As I get older I just as often hold my tongue and listen before I speak knowing that while some things never change the journey of parenting in 2010 is much different than parenting from 1969 when I became a mother to 2003 when my youngest reached the age of 21. I have also learned that sometimes encouragement is very gentle and sometimes it is very firm but always, it looks and feels like love.
Some women my age are starting new careers, some are retiring and some are reveling in free time to travel or explore the world. Many are divorcing or remarrying men with a whole other set of children to raise even as their own children are giving birth. I know that grandparenting comes in as many varieties as does parenting, but for me, whenever it is possible, I choose to be a grandma who offers love and encouragement, to fertilize the landscape in which my remarkable children and their spouses are parenting. That choice looks different every day, but today it means keeping Natalie Bird so her mother can work. I am delighted to be able to do that.
Oh, there is one more thing I know for sure. When Nattie B says " come dance with me gramma bevy" it is an invitation to joy. Gotta go. I have been called to dance.
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