It Is My Honour To Present...

I have flowers in my room and on the kitchen table -- lavish bouquets of purples and pinks that were intended to convey thanks.  For me, as for many, there is no surer way to communicate appreciation and fondness.
These came from students, because I have the privilege of working with them, digging into literature and theater.  In both endeavors I seem to stand at the center of talent, emotion, and energy -- waving my arms to keep the current moving in a semblance of direction. And because I am there, they share the treasures of their thoughts with me.  Generously.
This year I was invited to emcee a graduation, which was another one of those tasks I felt certain required grown-up involvement.  Absent a real one, I agreed to act the part.  Between segments of speaking I tucked myself into a chair in the wings and listened to them, one last time.
A girl in a floor length gown read the gritty details of living through an alphabet of activities in search of that single great calling, all to find that it is a valuable thing to be a "jack of all trades/master of none".  Another spoke of the significance of being adopted from a foreign country at 9 months of age...and being brought to this town.  By these parents.  To have this community.  Two graduates reflected on the bittersweet passing of seasons of life, remarking on the swiftness of time.  I smiled as a shy student did not rush through her piano offering, but lingered over the last notes so they had time to sink in.  And I cried a little bit when a teenager sang, "God has been faithful, He will be again."
In so many areas of life I have failed more than I have succeeded.  But God continues to provide opportunities to serve with a little more humility, to love with less selfishness, and to live out grace.  One of the essays took the perspective of looking back at life, from the very end, and seeing all the disfigurement caused by harmful decisions and careless living.  "But," the author affirmed, "the Artist is merciful."  He then concluded with a description of the beautiful picture built out of a life filled with cracks and scratches and brokenness.

It was sweet and kind and mannerly of them to give me roses and lilies...but they have gifted me with so very much more.

Morning by morning I wake up to find
The power and comfort of God's hand in mine
Season by season I watch Him, amazed
In awe of the mystery of His perfect ways
All I have need of, His hand will provide
He's always been faithful to me.

I can't remember a trial or a pain
He did not recycle to bring me gain
I can't remember one single regret
In serving God only, and trusting His hand
All I have need of, His hand will provide
He's always been faithful to me.

This is my anthem, this is my song
The theme of the stories I've heard for so long
God has been faithful, He will be again
His loving compassion, it knows no end
All I have need of, His hand will provide
He's always been faithful, He's always been faithful
He's always been faithful to me.            Sara Groves

Strength for Today

"Is there anyone in America who does not know and love these cookies? They were, incidentally, created by a Massachusetts housewife in 1929". That is the heading of the portion of the book I am currently reading, while I listen to The Book Thief on audio. At least, that is what I was doing until the words all piled up in my head and I paused to scribble for a bit.

I am missing people.  Many, many people.  Some are on the other side of this life, some across the country, and some are the opposite end of a phone call that hasn't taken place in more than a year.  It could be that the weather sneaked its way into my house and my head with a quarter of an hour's sunshine terminated by violent hail, then torrential rain  ...followed by another blast of sunshine.  Or maybe it is this time of year and all the anniversaries that seem to send out engraved invitations and follow-up reminders to memories of days that are gone.

Rather than milling around in my sadness, I made the decision to pull out the cookbook and the butter and bake some of those chocolate chip cookies that were an element of together times.  It is a double batch, because I don't know how to make them any other way.  As the beater clanked (the bowl won't stay clamped) and the kitchen warmed, my shoulders eased a bit.  And now, with the mounded treats lined in rows on the cooling rack,  I am thinking of the words from a morning hymn, "Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth; Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide; Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow -- Blessings all mine, and ten thousand beside."
I have sung of God's faithfulness in happy days -- it was easy when blessings seemed to overflow willy-nilly.  But to sing those words when loss is palpable is proof to me of that dear Presence that enables me to believe they are true.  The recognition, in turn, leads me to worship, because that is most definitely not a faith I could muster up on my own.
Interestingly, I have reached the portion of the audiobook in which thirteen year old Liesel Meminger carries buckets of snow down to the basement hiding place and incites a snowball fight with the emaciated Jew, Max Vandenburg.  Although I am struck by the contrast between our situations, there is a small comparison as well.  That scene captures a moment joyful in its commonness.  There is such relief in doing something so basically human within the context of extraordinary hardship.

Perhaps it is a very little bit like following a recipe created by a homemaker almost one hundred years ago.

Gladden the soul of your servant,  for to you, O Lord, do I lift up my soul.
For you, O Lord, are good and forgiving,
    abounding in steadfast love to all who call upon you.
Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer;
    listen to my plea for grace.
In the day of my trouble I call upon you,
    for you answer me.

Mother: (v.) to live out love

I read a book with an Italian protagonist who complained that Americans are always turning nouns into verbs.
"Can they do that?' he questioned, and he tried a few aloud to emphasize the absurdity.
Every rational assessment urges assent.  A mother is a person; a person is a noun.  Still, there is no other way to phrase it:  I need mothering ...the giving, receiving and participation in.  It is grammatically incorrect, but entirely necessary.
Scrawny, substantial, stiff, conforming -- whatever the style or shape of the gaze and embrace -- it is the stuff of life.  New mothers, seasoned mothers, mothers who have never birthed or brought home a child ALL participate in the great work of nestling, nurturing, and nullifying the overwhelming worries of the world.
I have been mothered by women in their nineties and women in their twenties, by random strangers and dear friends. It has taken the shape of a smile empathizing with my current calamity, and a knock-down, drag-out hug that squeezes all the sobs from me.  As if a silent alarm is sounding, someone steps out of their world and enters into the hurt and pain and need of another, at a moment's notice.

When my very own mother finds a hit, she sticks with it.  Thus, I have received a Mary Engelebreit calendar for twenty-four of the last twenty-five Christmases. Thankfully, the illustrator is prolific, and the booth at the mall continues to proffer the annual gift solution.
This month of this year the decorated letters plead, "Be kind.  It's hard to be a person."  
Just so.

Mothers ease the great load of personhood.  They lift the edge of that leaden blanket, and just for a moment, the weight and pressure eases. And in whatever peculiar aspect such lightening is wrought, it is most assuredly "mothering".

The Things I Would, I Do Not

Borrowing from a beloved instructor, my daughter demanded, "highs and lows" as we hunched over our individual portions from the new Mexican takeaway place in town.  It was an effort to connect during a rare convergence and I was grateful to her for it.  I worked to enter into that moment, to listen to the words drawn from each, rather than plan for my own.  She persisted -- she is strong that way -- and brought the question to me.  "High point of the day," I said, with an open look back over the fourteen hours, "was the feel of the heated seat when we climbed into the car at the end of the day."  And I relived that moment of enveloping rest after a long, hard, satisfying week of work.

Although l am instrinsically lazy, I am also most myself when I am productive.  Despite the hours I spend avoiding the things I must do, labor strengthens a sense of rightness in me.  I was made for a purpose.  Sometimes that involves folding the laundry and putting it away, rather than stopping at the transfer to the dryer.  On other occasions it can include grading papers, balancing the checkbook, and building order forms instead of allowing the accumulation of towers on my desks.  Every now and then I get to select colors, find solutions or review notes on a favorite author.  No matter the level of appeal, I usually have to drag myself to the task at hand -- as if the nature of its being required automatically puts me at enmity with it.  I war against the very things that benefit me.  And that innate rebellion includes how I eat, exercise, speak, or prioritize my time.  It is contrary to my nature to choose the things that are good for me.
I'm grateful God provides the grace to recognize the battle -- and the myriad of small victories for which He daily supplies the will and the strength.

Nestled into a spare two hours on a Saturday morning I am surrounded by the clutter of a charging cell phone that I was too tired to connect last night, the French press I brought up to my room so that I didn't have to leave this space for a second cup, something to read and a method for writing.  This might count as the high for today -- unless the rules include the memory of a couple of hours spent on a Friday evening talking over the ups and downs of a day with people I love to know.

There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find satisfaction in his toil. This, I saw, is from the hand of God...