Doorway

I believe that good things can grow where there once was dry ground.  As long as a man has one breath left in him, there can be renewal.  There is always hope…

 

 

 

I have
Stood too long
In the
Doorway
Planning my
Escape or
Entrance
Wheels turning
Thoughts churning
Contemplating a
Painful past and
Hazy future
 
Too many
Words
Time for
Silence
My fingernails
Have cut my
Skin from the
Clenching of
Fists
Clinging to my
Will has
Cost me my
Sanity

There is an
Offer on the
Table
Serenity beckons
If I will
Allow my fields
To be
Plowed
If I will just
Surrender
 
My will wrestles
Itself free
For one last
Plea
Casts the
Fear net
Over my
Eyes
And for a
Moment I
Trust it
 
Futility
I have made a
Mess
Splattered the
Milk
On the
Pristine floor
Then ground
It in with
Muddy boots
 
God beckons
With no heavy
Sighs or
Force
But with alluring
Quiet
And the
Promise
I will
One day find
Beauty
In my
Disaster

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Paths and Borders

I worked in my garden today and realized I wasn’t finished with my previous blog, Weeds and Roots (http://fortylives.com/2013/05/12/weeds-and-roots/).  My wildflower garden has gotten a little too wild these days – a victim of neglect by its gardener.  Last week, I focused my attention on pulling the most obtrusive weeds and pruning overgrown plants.  Today was about borders and pebble pathways.

The garden is framed by stones, various sizes and shapes, and not at all uniform.  I like the rustic look of the rocks as it fits with the random nature of the wildflowers.  In bloom now are irises, roses, peonies, and coreopsis.  Lilies are soon to follow.  But weeds have grown up, not only around these flowers, but around the stones and in the path as well.  It will take much time and effort to clear them all.  So I decided to focus on the borders on this spring day.

I dug out all the stones, one by one, and piled them up.  Then I removed grass and weeds from the border, finally replacing the stones in the clean perimeter.  The garden path of small pebbles was also cleared of unwanted growth.  And now – though the plants still call for much more attention – there is a clear walkway and defined boundaries.

And again my life parallels this place.  I’m opening more and more to the weeding and pruning required for strengthening roots, for growth.  And now I guess I need my boundaries reinforced.  Rather than restricting freedom, a definite path and sure border can actually make the journey liberating in itself.  Trusting the Gardener doesn’t have to be frightening.  He knows, after all, where the pebble walkway leads.

I finished my efforts today with my 5 year old planting sunflower seeds.  We don’t have to wait for all the overgrowth to be removed to encourage new flowers.  The soil has been turned enough lately to provide nurturing ground.  And just like the spring offers beauty following the frost, this garden is filled with new hope.

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Weeds and Roots

I have a neglected wildflower garden.  It can be beautiful as long as it’s maintained.  All I really need to do is keep the weeds out and prune some of the plants.  But right now, my garden needs some tender loving care – or maybe some tough love.

So I spent several hours today pulling weeds and cutting back plants.  There’s still much work to be done, but these days I strive for progress, not perfection.

There’s a gorgeous lavender plant on the corner of the garden entrance.  It’s gotten so big that it’s difficult to walk past it without brushing against it.  But when it blooms – oh, the sweet smell that permeates the air all around!

I finally realized, however, that I had to cut it back.  What was once lovely had become intrusive.  So I did the work.  Little by little, clipping here and there, I pruned and shaped until it was just right.  And – in the taking away – its true beauty was revealed.

In those hours, I also managed to pull many weeds.  I noticed how easily they released from the ground.  We’ve had so many storms lately that the ground is softened, rather than being hard and holding on tight.

And as my arms grew weary from turning the soil, it occurred to me that I’m like this garden.  Weeds have threatened to choke out new growth, and I’ve allowed them to stay.  I’ve even watered a few of them.  And I’ve gotten a little too big for my britches in some areas, not unlike that lavender bush.

So today I decided to let the Gardener do some work on me.  It’s going to take a while, and it won’t be easy, but at least storms have softened the ground a little. 

And maybe – like that lavender bush – when the excess is trimmed away, my roots will start pushing deep, giving me the strength I need to blossom.

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Presence

I remember the hostage situation at a Russian school in 2004.  Devastating.  Three agonizing days, followed by hundreds of deaths.  Just under 200 children died in the massacre.  I was derailed.  It was difficult for me to function for weeks after it happened.  I kept imagining the faces of those precious children, lost, for no reason.  They had their whole lives ahead of them. 

My foundation crumbled.  My prayers had been earnest as I begged for deliverance for those lives.  The whole world had been praying, had they not?  Millions of people united in prayer, and still evil won.  Where was God?  What was the use in prayer if this is how it played out?  Innocent lives lost…and no miracle intervened to save them.

I had miscarried months before.  An unplanned, protected-against pregnancy, and I was sure that meant it was God’s will.  I did everything an expectant mother should do to nurture her unborn child, and yet, somehow, there was no heartbeat where once one had been. 

There are things that make sense, though they are incredibly painful.  My father’s death was a release from pain for him.  It was a loss for all of us who loved him, but an assurance that he suffered no more.    Sometimes a blessing even comes out of the death of someone in their prime.  We can find beauty in heroics or a legacy left behind. 

But children…who among us isn’t heartbroken over the Sandy Hook tragedy?  It took me back to Russia, and then back to my miscarriage.  I have little to offer, only the thing that got me through in the past.  And my hope is it resonates with someone and helps them sleep tonight.

It’s simply this:  My Higher Power promised nothing to me except his presence.  I believe God mourns with us over the pain we as humans experience.  I believe God was with those children and adults at Sandy Hook and in Russia as they took their last breaths.  I believe God earnestly wants to comfort the families of those lost as well as the children and adults who witnessed unspeakable horrors. 

And I believe, somehow, prayers matter.  I’ve prayed for everyone from the families of the victims to the survivors to the law enforcement personnel who had to process the scene to the medical examiners who must do their jobs regardless of the tragedies in front of them.  I will continue to pray that God, as each of us understands him, will be present to comfort and abide with us in our deepest sorrows.  I will trust that joy awaits all of us…and that God will be present there as well.  And that presence is enough for me.

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Sandy Hook

Somewhere
There is a
Child
Who saw
Blood and
Death
When he
Should have seen
Miracles

Hopes
And the
Elf on the
Shelf
Melt in this
Reality

How do we
Tell him
Santa will bring
Toys
When friends are
Gone
Forever

Love
Must cover us
All
Remind us
Tomorrow
Waits even
When we
Mourn

We hold those
Innocent
Precious
Hearts in our
Hands
And this is
Certain
 
They are
Strong
Resilient
And we will
Hug them
Tighter on this
Night

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Complicated

Thanksgiving has become complicated.  At last count, we were expecting 32 for dinner at our house.  It’s a family reunion of sorts – and I come from a large family. 

The food will be delicious.  My mom’s cornbread dressing rivals that of any great chef’s, and I’ll be making chocolate pies (our family recipe, of course).  There will be turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, green beans, you name it.  Any Thanksgiving dish you’ve ever heard of will probably be making an appearance on our table.

The meal isn’t all.  We have lots of fun things planned – games, exchanging of Christmas gifts, gumbo and football on Friday (while we watch LSU beat up on Arkansas, we hope).  There will be joyful singing, great fun, and real connection.

And yet somehow, in the midst of all this planning, I’ve lost sight of all that and allowed it to become overcomplicated.  With limited oven space, how will we be able to cook everything?  Will there be enough food?  Where will everyone sit?  Do we have enough room for everyone in our small house? 

I’ve grown weary of complicated.  We’ll cook what we can fit in the oven.  If we run out of food, we can raid our pantry that always has plenty of cereal.  Many of us can sit on the floor.  Who cares if we’re cramped like sardines as long as we’re together?

The truth is, I wish everyone could be here.  I’ll particularly miss my two older kids and granddaughter.  I’d love it if all my nieces and nephews could join us.  In a perfect world, all my extended family and all my husband’s extended family would be together under one roof, celebrating and thanking God for our blessings as one.  And maybe that’s it.  My definition of perfect isn’t delicious food, impeccable table settings, or plenty of room.  My definition of perfect is family – with all our idiosyncrasies – bound together in love and laughter.  And that’s a lot to be thankful for.

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Live in Love

I was reminded tonight – over dinner with a friend – to live in love rather than fear.  I’ve got the living in fear down pat.  Or rather living in the scenarios I create in my mind.  What might happen.  What I can do to control the outcome.  But there is a certain freedom in letting go, in bathing each and every action in the notion of living in love.

So tomorrow morning, when the inevitable happens and my children are running late for the bus, I can force them to hurry, perhaps yelling to get their attention.  Or I can gently help them get ready in time.  And when I’m in a meeting at work trying to engage others and bring them around to my point of view, I can do this in a spirit of antagonism or compromise.  And tomorrow night, I can spend time with my husband supporting him rather than choosing my own way.

And isn’t that what Jesus meant when asked what the greatest commandment was?  His response:  “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.  This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it:  Love your neighbor as yourself.”  

A friend of ours gave birth to a baby girl a few days ago and named her Selah.  The literal translation is something like, “pause and listen”.  Pause and listen:  “Love God.  Love neighbor.”

So simple.  So clear.  And yet so difficult when reality hits me in the face.  I’m learning, however, that choosing surrender rather than reacting negatively to external challenges affords many options.  Somehow, I’m able to find that elusive path – that peace – when I refuse to struggle but instead choose to engage in the moment.

So today, I will be living in love.  And I expect those closest to me will notice the difference.  Love has a way of transforming us, surprising us.  And we’re left to bask in the miracle of it all.

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Kindergarten and the Parthenon

Today was Ethan’s first day of kindergarten.  And my big boy was excited, happy, enthusiastic, and proud – all the things I could hope for my child on this day.  His eyes shone with anticipation as he got dressed and ready for “Bear Camp”, a ½ day session designed to orient kindergarteners to their new school.  After I dropped this little man off at his rather large school (bus route begins tomorrow), I headed to downtown Nashville for an appointment. 

It was near Centennial Park, and afterwards I found myself at the Parthenon, Nashville’s replica of the ancient Greek temple.  I sat down on the steps, surrounded by massive columns, sun shining brightly and warming my skin.  And I remembered.

I had just turned 19 when I visited the Parthenon in Athens with my college choir.  I was young, in love with life and at least one boy, and thrilled to be doing what I loved best – singing – and exploring places I’d only ever dreamed of visiting.  I recall sitting down on the crumbling steps, surrounded by massive, decaying columns, sun shining brightly and warming my skin.  Life was filled with possibilities, my world filled with hope – not unlike my kindergartener this morning.

Reality has a way of creeping in and redirecting our paths.  We find as we age that what we dreamed at age 5 or age 19 or even age 33 isn’t exactly where we end up.  And that’s just fine.  Would we really want to have nothing but easy roads and no challenges along the way?  What is love without loss, prosperity without scarcity, or creativity without barrenness?  I am learning to appreciate all the more the blessings I’ve been given – family, friends, work, play, music, writing – because there have been times of loss or emptiness over the years.

There’s an innate quality in most of us.  It’s a need to look back with longing, become nostalgic about the “good old days”.  And there are those of us (namely me) who expend much energy looking to the future, trying to manage outcomes.  Today as my hand touched a structure that took me to the past and my mind wanted to race forward to the future, I decided to breathe deeply of this one moment.  And then, when I picked up my bright-eyed, joyful Ethan from school, I realized he already gets it.  Quite simply, it’s a gorgeous day, full of wonder.  And like my kindergartener, I choose to enjoy this day.

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Daddy

About 362 days a year, I’m fine.  But every now and then, I miss my Daddy.  Deeply, fiercely.  And – like tonight – it usually blindsides me.  I was on Facebook tonight and saw a post from my brother-in-law that contained the words “George W. Truett Chair of Ministry”.  My dad was named after the preacher George Truett.  And, simply reading his name, I lost it. 

I miss my Daddy.  I want to hear him sing “Mona Lisa” in his beautiful and rich voice, watch LSU football with him, and ask his advice.  And I wonder what he would say about my boys.  He knew my stepchildren, and that is a tremendous blessing to me.  But he never knew Daniel and Ethan.  They never sat on his lap.

My sister, Karen, used to say he would have called Daniel “Danny Boy”, even though I would have insisted on Daniel.  He would have been proud of Daniel – loved his independence, celebrated his elaborate thought processes.  And Ethan’s smile would have captivated my father, the joyful man whose lap was irresistible to any child in a one-mile radius.

I miss my Daddy.  And tonight, I just wish I could talk to him.  I’d like to hear his wisdom.  The kind that can only be gained by experience, by making mistakes, by living.  If there’s one thing my father did well, it was simply living in the moment.  At age 18, he was sent to World War II.  And somehow he managed to find life there.  Once or twice, we were able to finagle a story from the war out of the man who just didn’t talk about it.  There are a few things I remember from those discussions (aka, interrogations), and I’m willing to share 3:  1.  He was a boxer , though an opening act, and it was important during the war in Europe (google boxing during World War II), 2.  Once his platoon (guess I’ve got that right) were in Germany and happened upon a house with a lovely wine cellar – they helped themselves, and 3.  There was a moment when he was ordered to shoot down a German plane.  It was so close to him that he could see the young pilot.  His gun jammed, and he was always thankful for that.

I miss my Daddy.  I had 31 years with him.  Enough to learn the man he was.  Enough to see what I could be.  Enough to stand on a strong foundation built by the love of my father and mother.

But tonight Ethan asked me why my face was sad.  I just miss my Daddy.  And what we have is never enough, is it?  It should be – since I had what many children of the world can never imagine –  a loving home, a normal childhood.  The thing is, in case you didn’t quite catch it, tonight I miss my Daddy.

Oh, the questions I would ask him, if he were sitting across from me in my living room, feet propped up on the recliner!  I can almost hear his kind voice.  I think he’d tell me to trust myself.  I suspect he’d challenge me to live the life God gave me with integrity.  And maybe, just maybe, he’d sing “Mona Lisa” for me one more time.

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Help

I was reminded today that we are here to help each other.  My husband re-posted a link on Facebook which has now mysteriously disappeared.  Someday I will figure out Facebook.  Someday the decision-makers at Facebook will use their powers for good rather than evil, but that’s a post for another day.

If memory serves, the message was something about response.  What is our response when we see someone in need?  Or when we see sadness in the eyes of a friend?    Or even a stranger – like the young girl, weathered by life already, who stands on a corner near our home begging for money.

I’m learning that maybe the important thing about being on this earth is relationship.  Our relationship to God, to the earth, and to each other.  And the “each other” is what I’m focusing on in this moment.  Do I have to have an emotional or biological attachment to someone to be there? To help?  Anyone who has ever volunteered at a soup kitchen or cleaned up after a hurricane knows that in being human, in being alive, we all are already attached to each other.  And our hands can be given in a friendly handshake, or to lift someone up from a difficult circumstance, or in a gentle touch of support.  In that moment, we belong to each other.

So I’ve decided to remember that thing that I used to know deeply.  The belief that has somehow been pushed to the background in my search for meaning and purpose.  Ironically, it may have been the answer to the question all along.  My reason for being here is to be here for others.  Tonight the “others” are my boys, playing their version of the Olympics in my office while I’m writing this (complete with Daniel’s impeccable British accent).  They need me to be invested in what they’re doing.  Tomorrow the “others” may be those I see in the parking lot of the grocery store or co-workers in the office.  And sometimes the “others” are people I’ll never meet but will nevertheless impact with volunteer efforts. 

So – at least for now – I resolve to be more aware of people in need around me.  I resolve to learn openness and kindness from my kids.  And I resolve to figure out Facebook.  Well, maybe I’ll do that another day…

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