Blowing in the Wind

I, too, am thinking about the rules of gift-giving, Sam.

We are still savoring chapter one of The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World, by Lewis Hyde. Visit HCB for more thoughts on our book club selection this month.

After a week of Vacation Bible School during which I was alternately frustrated and elated…I am left wondering where the offerings will end up.

Will they come full circle? Or benignly fall to the ground, finding no purchase?

Rule # 2 on Sam’s list particularly has me stumbling this week: Don’t expect a gift in return.

“I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow.” (1 Cor. 3:6)

A gentle reminder.

I just glanced out the window to see a lone milkweed seed blowing in the breeze. It meandered through the current haphazardly, first drifting low and hanging suspended momentarily before soaring to heights unknown.

There is One who blows the wind, Beloveds.

And lest I pull back what my hand offers in frustration, Hyde reminds, “What is given away feeds again and again, while what is kept feeds only once and leaves us hungry.”

Beth Moore tells a story about visiting a poor African village with her husband. Their guide told them that one of the most frustrating things for the missionaries was teaching the villagers to plant the seeds they are given. Too often these poor people will eat the seeds instead of planting, missing the blessing of a harvest in favor of immediate gratification.

When we give of ourselves we are planting the seeds.

Too often I gobble up what is in my hands, too blind to see the potential for future harvest.

And then, it is gone.

And I am left hungry.

It may feel like we are blowing in the breeze, friends, but the more seeds we loose the more chance of implantation.

I am reminded that in order to receive, our hands must be empty.

Hyde says, “The gift moves toward the empty place…the gift does move from plenty to emptiness. It seeks the barren, the arid, the stuck, and the poor. The Lord says, ‘All that opens the womb is mine,’ for it is He who filled the empty womb, having earlier stood a sa a beggar…”

Am I open to receive what He would give me?

I stand, empty-handed today. My gifts are not merely blowing in the breeze. They are in the hands of the Giver of All Good Things.

That is why I give the gift.

Oh, To See It Grow

“Can’t He show His power some other way? Without people dying?”

She hadn’t really wanted to join the circle. Preferred to stay by herself up against the wall. Gave a “pass” when her turn came to offer prayer request. She whispered to the girl beside her throughout our group discussion, turning a deaf ear to life-giving words.

But when the conversation turned to a local boy recently killed in an automobile accident, her fidgety form grew still in the faint light of the candles.

We’ve been doing this every night this week: circling up, knee to knee, offering our hearts to each other and to God.

It’s Vacation Bible School.

And these tweens, these “in-betweeners”—no longer our littles who like to play games, but just shy of grasping the satisfaction in a deep discussion of all things Holy—these tweens have left me bone-dry and overflowing all at once.

The question was, “Why do you think God let’s bad things happen?”

They all had thoughts to offer.

One young one said this: “If people didn’t die, we wouldn’t know God very well. It makes us closer to Him.”

And we talked about how bad things show us God’s power. How He can overcome all things.

That was when she spoke up.

It didn’t make sense to her. This young one who has seen too much for one her age. Who is such a strange brew of toughness and vulnerability.

If God has the power, why doesn’t He just end all suffering now?

“Because it’s all part of a bigger plan,” one boy offered.

Our answers bounced off her shrugging shoulders, and soon she was texting a friend during the discussion again.

But she kept coming back.

We are planting seeds.

Only He can make them grow.

Tonight is our last night of Vacation Bible School. Pray for changed hearts, my friends. These kids are our future.

Home Again, Home Again...

“One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it's left behind.” - Charles Dickens

Unpacking memories.

Our regret to leave the ocean has been forgotten in the joy of returning home.

The grass is three feet high.

There’s spoiled milk in the fridge.

And a ton of laundry awaits me.

But our home is the most beautiful place on earth tonight.

We spent the afternoon unpacking and reordering.

Lucy Mae is back with us, where she is meant to be (is it normal to be so heartsick over a dog?).

There’s popcorn popping and two boys on the couch beside me.

Beach prayers are not forgotten--but to remind, I’ve carefully placed our sea treasures in a tidbit bowl on the counter.

A little bowl of paradise.

But tonight, paradise is right here.

Home sweet home.

Beach Prayers

I’ve just returned from my last walk into the sun.

Our family departs the seashore in only a couple hours. I’ve spent the last hour wandering in the surf--watching the crabs, and dolphins, singing my prayers out over the ocean—offering these dead men’s bones up to God and trusting Him to reassemble them.

I told God I would miss meeting Him here every morning…which seems an odd thing to say given that I carry Him inside of me. Still, I need these times to set aside the world and focus on Him. After every holiday, I promise the same: I will remain here; in this place…close to you, Lord.

And it works.

For a time.

I’m working on that. I’m always working on that.

But right now, I feel Him near so sweetly that I can almost feel His breath.

Think I’ll enjoy His company awhile.

I’ll see you all back in West Virginia.

Leaving you with some of my favorite memories…

No matter how much sunscreen I put on that red-headed boy, he burned anyway. Sigh.

Yes! That's me, up in the sky with the clouds! It was amazingly beautiful seeing the ocean from a birds-eye view.

They have my heart...

Random Acts of Poetry

red

and yellow

beach umbrella

blue cooler

pink

sand

bucket

under

straw hat

and stooped shoulders

I

spied God

today.

he lumbered

through

foot-churned

sands

while two

brown-skinned

children

played

in

his wake.

arms

outstretched

to bear

the burdens

of their

excess…

yellow sand

shovels,

sunscreen bottle

and

sandcastle

mold

all

overflow

in

his embrace.

these tiny

colorful

God-gifts

of a

Father’s love.

visit High Calling Blogs for more Random Acts of Poetry. This weeks poetry challenge is here...

ABCs of the Word, “S”

Of David. A psalm.

"The earth is the LORD's, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it; for he founded it upon the seas
and established it upon the waters." (Psalm 24:1-2)

Appropriate for this week, no?

Join Pam at Grey Like Snuffie for more ABCs of the Word…

Here are my Where’s Mom in the Picture pictures…#7 of 52.

It’s much easier to capture us together when we are on vacation.

Here I am with the boys on the beach, helping build a fort. Do you think it will last?

Here we are after a lovely dinner at McGuire’s Irish pub. The stranger who offered to take our picture actually used his own saliva to try to get the mustard off of Jeffrey’s face. Jeffrey tried to be polite but could not help cringing. I was laughing so hard I could hardly pose…

Visit Carin at Forever in Blue Jeans for more pictures of moms!

deep blue—
you
teem
beneath me;
slip
out from under
my feet…
rush
between
my legs...
you
hold me,
watery womb,
and I
am weightless
in your arms.
moon pulls
and
curve
of earth
bends me...
I have not
crustacean legs
nor fin and gill
to traverse
your terrain;
yet,
you feel
like home.
I try
to hold
on to you
after splashy
dismount;
but
always
you
slip
through
my fingers.

Sand Dollar Love

No takers for the sunrise walk this morning.

Little Jeffrey told me last night, “Don’t wake me, I want to sleep in.”

Figures.

So…it was just me and the ocean this a.m.

This sand is well-known to me. I first left my footprints here as a new bride. Then later as a young mama.

We stopped coming here as the boys grew into their own little selves.

Too far to drive.

Most recently I walked these shores as a newly-turned 40 year-old. Jeff brought me back here in March to surprise me for my birthday. We enjoyed it so much we decided to give it another try.

Today as I walk in my old footprints I am only thinking, “My, how time flies.”

When we first came here as newlyweds, I kept this same practice every morning: walk along the beach at sunrise…gather what beachy treasures my two hands could hold…sing prayers out over the ocean—feel their power return to me with each lapping wave…and return renewed.

On that first trip, my treasures were tiny sand dollars. In those early days, these silver-dollar-sized jewels littered these sands. I brought them home with me by the dozens, enchanted with their pristine white.

Strange, I have not found such treasure since. There are many broken pieces of larger, discolored sand dollars up and down the shore, but my little lovelies have gone it seems.

I have come to see them as a wedding gift from Father; little trinkets to delight.

As I searched in vain this morning, it seemed to me that the tiny bleached circlets were an accurate representation of our love at that time: small, unscarred, fresh and beautiful.

As I wandered, lost in memories, a paralyzing thought struck me.

Could it be, then, that these old, broken, graying pieces are a picture of our love today?

Pondering this concept as I trudged back to the condo I decided to google the sand dollar and learn a little more about these cuties (Ah, the wonders of mobile internet).

Wikipedia was a bit helpful, telling me that sand dollars live an average of 6-10 years, that living sand dollars range from bluish green to purple in color, and that (wow) they digest their food for up to two days.

But I also stumbled on some research articles that discussed the difficulty that sand dollar larvae have in survival because of their small size.

Does this mean that larger sand dollars are older?

My searches regarding this issue were not conclusive, only telling me that size depends on many factors—including environment and feeding conditions. We can determine the age of a sand dollar by counting the growth rings around the edges of the exoskeleton.

In the absence of a clear answer, I am going to assume that if the sand dollar larvae are tiny, then the things must get bigger as they age.

Make sense?

We can then assume that these larger sand dollar pieces I am finding are pieces of older specimens.

I also discovered this little fact: The most common cause of death for sand dollars is old age.

As I read more about these ocean creatures, I began to gain a healthy respect for the unsightly pieces of exoskeleton I have been finding in abundance on this trip.

They began to take on a new kind of beauty in my eyes.

An enduring kind of beauty.

These guys were likely the elder statesmen of the sand dollar community.

Pretty, they may not be, but they had lived a long and full life in the underwater world.

I began to feel sorry for the pristine whites I had gathered in my youth. These little guys must have died an early death.

You know where I’m going here, right?

Love that endures sometimes is not so pretty. Sometimes it becomes scarred, or discolored. It may not appear attractive to the average on-looker.

But a deeper look will reveal the beauty.

Yes, maybe our love is like these pieces of exoskeleton, growing more beautiful—richer and deeper-- as the years pass.

The Gift: Forcibly Taken

On day two of our drive south we are sitting in a Starbucks parking lot in Chattanooga, TN. I am waiting for Jeff to bring me that dark and heavenly beverage that should make the morning better and brighter.

Switchfoot is playing on the stereo…

“Life is not what I thought it’d be, 24 hours ago; still I’m singing, Spirit take me up in arms with you…"

I commiserate with these words, as I sit in this strange place feeling vulnerable, broken, bruised.

The night before, as we swam in the hotel swimming pool for an hour, a thief forced entry into our hotel room and stole all the cash we had with us—as well as my wallet with credit cards, ids, and many personal items.

Life is not what I thought it’d be, 24 hours ago.

My husband saw the bright side immediately. The thief had not taken his wallet—an attempt, we are sure, to stall the discovery of the theft. We still had his cards and ids to continue our vacation on. Without those, we would have had to turn around and head home. Least, this way we could have our holiday.

We are very blessed he said.

I did not feel blessed.

I felt violated. Icky.

Someone I do not know is walking around with my pictures in his pocket and I was uncomfortable with that.

But Jeff kept insisting.

We are so blessed.

And that night when we prayed before going to sleep, he thanked God.

It wasn’t until reading this second chapter of The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World, that I began to open up to this idea…this idea that to lose something is gain.

In chapter two, The Bones of the Dead, Hyde takes us deep into the potlatch ritual of the Tsimshian tribes. These ceremonies involve an elaborate gift exchange involving large copper plaques that are tied to the history of the individual doing the giving. The gift increases in value as it is passed from hand to hand over the years, just as the arm shells and necklaces of the Kula that we learned about in the last chapter.

Hyde explains the “increase of gifts” in three ways in this chapter.

The first is as a natural fact; the second, a natural-spiritual fact; and the third, a social fact. Hyde restates these three in this way: “…a circulation of gifts nourishes those parts of our spirit that are not entirely personal, parts that derive from nature, the group, the race, or the gods…although these wider spirits are a part of us, they are not ‘ours’; they are endowments bestowed upon us.”

We feed these “parts” of ourselves by giving away the increase they have brought to us.

And thus the gift goes on.

Hyde tells the story of the North Pacific Indian belief that when the bones of the salmon fish are returned to the sea, the bones would reassemble and thus the salmon population would continue to thrive. A great ceremony was held to welcome the first salmon, songs were sung and everyone was given a piece of the fish to eat. Then, amidst great hoopla, the bones of the fish were returned to the sea.

This mindset, Hyde says, encourages us to see “nature as part of ourselves”, and thus discourages exploitation. The sacrifice of the living, this giving of the “bones of the dead”, is believed to nourish life in the long term.

So. This brings me back to my thief.

All of Hyde’s studies of these tribal peoples have resonated deep within me of late. This passing on of the gift--the natural increase that occurs in doing so, the increase in closeness of the community—these things have me thinking about the increase I have experienced in my life....and how I have or have not shared this excess.

The whole experience made me think of Jean Valjean’s experience with Monsigneur Bienvenue in Les Miserables. After robbing the Bishop (Bienvenue) of his silver and being arrested, Valjean is shocked when the Bishop tells the policeman that the silver was a gift from him to Jean and Bienvenue even scolds the thief for not taking his silver candlesticks as well.

In the movie version, when Jean later asks Bienvenue why he treated him with such grace, the Bishop says, “I figured you needed that silver more than I.”

I don’t know if my thief “needed” my cash more than I. I don’t know what his or her life circumstances are. I do know that when I think of that loss as a gift, rather than a theft, I am able to feel some of that increase…some of that good will.

We are very blessed—as a family, as a people. I am trusting God to reassemble the bones of the dead in this offering and bring new life.

This morning, Jeffrey and I sat in the sand and watched the sunrise. With us, we had a handful of shells we had collected in our morning walk. As we sat, feeling the blessings of this life, I told him the Indian belief that to receive blessing from a gift we must return a portion of it.

We sang a praise song together, his young voice lifting over the sound of the waves and making me feel so old. Then we chose our most beautiful shell and stood at the ocean’s edge and threw it in. As our tiny sacrifice was carried out into that deep blue, we said a prayer for blessing.

I think I heard a sigh come from that great depth.

Passing on beauty can only bless, Beloveds.
visit HCB book club for more thoughts on this amazing book.

We are on holiday this week; migrating south to the seaside.

The sound of the ocean is lovely noise that quiets the spirit, and we are absorbing the hush. Each inspiration feels more in sync with the pull of the earth, as tide rolls in and out again.

We wait for our souls to catch up with our bodies.

Here beside these quiet waters, hearts listen and beauty calls.

Tomorrow we offer more thoughts on The Gift, our second post on this book for the HCB book club. I’m especially thinking about the gift of grace this week, as I take a rest from my ordinary.

Maybe I’ll have more to say then…

Conversation Poetry

At lunch time I sit in my office with door closed, a respite from constant presence of these bodies who are living in this place for a season. The door shuts out the noise--not the soundful kind--but the soulful kind.

I breathe deeply…close eyes and feel this sanctuary.

Sometimes this job hurts. If I allow it, sinks deep in my skin, won't wash off even after days go by.

But today, I am trying to listen through the walls…close my clinical ear and open the one that hears deeper.

These things I hear as patients begin to mill into the gym outside my door:

“…four more times now…”
“…she’ll make you work, she will…”
“…I want to see if you’ll correct yourself, if you stumble…”
“…remember…”
“…it’s a wild one!”
“…it’s just a balloon, not like you’re throwing a bowling ball…”
“…wait, wait, wait!”
“…good save, good save…”
“…you started to, you know…go. But you corrected your balance, and that’s what I want to see…”
“…I have trouble sitting…”
“…you gotta worry about something, don’t you? It’s like my sister, if something goes right she always has to worry about something else.”

These snippets of conversation drift in, broken by each other, as a multitude of therapists interact one on one with their patients.

And I feel the rhythm of these bodies moving together-- seeking to heal, seeking to hear.

Healing Hands

I wanted
to see
if you
will correct yourself
if you stumble…

so I take
your emotions
thoughts
words
and hold them in my hands
turn them round
and round
try them out
with your blessing.

Wait—wait—wait!
You say.
Remember…
she always has to worry
about something.

But…
It’s just a balloon—
not like
you’re throwing
a bowling ball.

Don’t hold on
so tight.
It’s not that heavy.
It’s only life.

I wanted
to see
if you
will
correct yourself
if you stumble.

That’s what
I want
to see.

Go over here and visit L.L. to find what this poetry prompt is all about…

or try on this one for size...

Some Food We Could Not Eat

Every Monday the High Calling Blogs Book Club will be posting on Lewis Hyde’s The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World.

The heart of this book—if I am grasping it correctly--seems to be our society’s struggle with placing value—tangible and intangible—on artists, or those who create in any fashion. There is also the flipside of this, as Sam Van Eman hints at in his invitation to the book discussion: how do we find art in the work we do for a living?

Not consciously considered but frequently felt in this household: the economy of the Gift.

By gift, we mean many things. It may be something material, that we can hold in our hands. It may be a “gift of the inner world” as Hyde so delicately terms it.

A gift, he says, “…is a thing we do not get by our own efforts.” And thus, rightly so can describe our talents or aptitudes.

So what happens to these types of “gifts” when we give them away?

In my mother-role, I constantly pass intangibles along to my children.

As a writer, I rarely get paid for these words I throw out there.

As a professional, does my paycheck make the gifts I give in this role more valuable than the others?

What is the impact of a gift that passes out of my sight—no return evident as it “drifts in lacy jags above the flame”?

Hyde lays the foundation for exploration of these concepts by taking us to the Massim peoples of the South Sea islands near the eastern tip of New Guinea. These tribal peoples have a tradition, known as the Kula ring, of passing armshells and necklaces from household to household, island to island as a great circle of gift exchange.

This gift culture is accompanied by many understood rules that govern the continual movement of the items. In these unspoken rules is the understanding that a true gift is something that is meant to be “used up, consumed, eaten”. To hoard a gift, or use it to further one’s wealth in some fashion, is a breach of social norms.

Therefore, when the armshells and necklaces are exchanged, it is customary for the one giving to ‘toss them on the ground and say, “Here, some food we could not eat.”’

Interesting, no?

In this fashion, the gift is meant for enjoyment of the recipient, who then later passes the gifts on to another for their enjoyment.

This type of giving economy differs substantially from that of the capitalism we reside in.

This discussion took me around and around…

Filled me with desire to create “art for art’s sake” and pass along gifts willy nilly.

Hyde makes many good points from this launchpad of the gift economy.

One that really struck a chord with me is this idea that the Kula gift exchange moves in a circle. The armshells and necklaces move continuously around the islands in a wide ring. Hyde points out that, in this course, “…as the gift passes out of sight it cannot be manipulated by one man or one pair of gift partners. When the gift moves in a circle its motion is beyond the control of the personal ego, and so each bearer must be a part of the group and each donation is an act of social faith.”

While I do not pass out armshells and shell necklaces, I frequently offer up gifts in faith. In my passing on of the gift, God completes the archipelago.

In faith, I trust the spirit of the gift to circle around and move back to me, blessing me in its return.

Curious to see where Hyde takes this discussion in chapter two, but already, my spirit is renewed by his thoughts. Too often, when I lose sight of the gifts I bestow—when they turn that corner and enter into the unseen—I lose my faith that they are received with joy…that I will see the fruit of the gift. Hyde reminds me of the Great Circle, and the purpose in the giving.

ABCs of the Word “Q”

“The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will QUIET you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.” (Zep. 3:17)

For more ABCs of the Word visit Pam at Grey Like Snuffie…

**************************************************************

My “Where is Mom in the picture” picture this week is an oldie, but a goodie.



Can you guess which one is me?

Visit Carin at Forever in Blue Jeans for more mom in the picture pictures!

This Poetry Thing

I am still learning about this poetry thing.

A few weeks ago, L.L. Barkat posted about an interesting verse form called the Villanelle, and challenged us to try our own.

I was a bit intimidated at that time, but since have been reading The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms with my boys. There is nothing like teaching something to children to give one courage to jump on in.

Just a refresher:

A Villanelle...

1) Is a poem of nineteen lines.

2)Has five stanzas, each of three lines, with a final one of four lines.

3)The first line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the second and fourth stanzas.

4)The third line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the third and fifth stanzas.

5)These two refrain lines follow each other to become the second-to-last and last lines of the poem.

6)The rhyme scheme is aba. The rhymes are repeated according to the refrains.

(The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms by Strand and Boland)

So here is my Villanelle!

A New Beginning

They are painting all her walls.

A fresh new start, or so they say

Each stroke covers gaping flaws.

With each day, night also falls

Her old life now has passed away

They are painting all her walls.

Like a ghost she trails down halls

Colors dreams whose edges fray

Each stroke covers gaping flaws.

She says she doesn’t care at all

Her heart is just a piece of clay

They are painting all her walls.

Her fists are clenched in tiny balls

Her lips tell lies that she will stay

They are painting all her walls…

Each stroke covers gaping flaws.

Mysterious

“Do you think they have found all the Bible that there is?”

We were reading our nightly scripture and he was feeling…opened up by it. His young eyes searched mine for wisdom.

“I think they have found all of the Bible that God wants us to find.”

“You mean, you think there might be more of the Bible out there?”

“I think there are other writings that tell us more about Jesus, and the disciples, and the early church. But if God wants us to read them, He’ll make sure we do.”

“Hmmm. Everything is so mysterious.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yes! I love it!”

“It doesn’t bother you that we don’t have the answers to some things?”

“No. I like knowing that some things are mysterious…and I have to use my imagination to wonder about them.”

“How so?”

“Like, the other night, I was telling Teddy…What if this life is just a dream? And when we wake up, we’ll be in heaven? And heaven is what is really real.”

“Hmmm. It would have to be a pretty complicated dream.”

“God could do that. He can do it any way He wants to.”

And then he was gone, leaving me a little stunned—pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming—wondering about the last time I “loved” not having answers to my questions.

And I knew it was probably back when I was around his age.

So, for a moment, I closed my eyes and let the great mysteries of the world sweep over me—felt my stomach drop as on a roller coaster—and just let go. And it was…

Fun.

I’m not driving this thing.

He is.

I’m throwing up my hands.

“The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things revealed belong to us and to our children forever, that we may follow all the words of this law.” (Deut. 29:29)