We are having a monster mash over at High Calling Blogs! Head on over there and read all about it. This poem was inspired by a shortened version of The Creature Walks Among Us that my family used to watch on our old reel-to-reel. There was no sound, so much of the story was lost on this Saturday-morning-cartoon-watching bunch; but at the end of the film I always felt so sorry for the Creature. You can check the trailer out here. We never had the privilege of sound. Enjoy!
He was drawing a picture of a sunlit forest. He drew a brown trunk. Then a green lollypop top. When he drew a black circle in the middle of the trunk with the word “hoot” inside, I had to turn away to hide my smile.
The art teacher stood behind my six-year-old son with eyebrows raised, amusement thinly veiled.
He likes to draw, she said to me, with a smile.
What happened next was pure beauty. She knelt down beside him and gently redirected his attention to what he had drawn. She showed him how the trees deeper in the forest looked higher up on the page, how to add horizon to ground them with the others. She showed him how the leafy foliage overlapped to create a beautiful umbrella and how to use light and shadow to create individual leaves.
Do you see this trunk? There is brown in it, but look closer. What other colors do you see? There’s not only brown, is there?
She moved around the table, making similar points for other students. Each time she directed attention to the image being copied. Look, she said, or See.
She was not teaching how to draw. She was teaching how to see.
Read the rest of my post over at Laced with Grace ..And a big thank you to my friend Linda for encouraging me to participate in this lovely ministry.
The other night, as I tucked my littlest in, I couldn’t help noticing how completely he filled up my arms. I felt a stabbing awareness of the dwindling nature of time. I held him tighter. He nestled in close, and I felt his contentment in the evenness of his breath. My arms to him are a sanctuary, an ever-present shelter of love. As I cradled him to me in the dark, I tried desperately to remember how it felt to be held in such a manner. Try as I might, I could not muster a single memory. Too many years have gone by since I have sought such a sanctuary. Nevertheless, I found myself longing for my mother. I felt an ache inside of me for tender arms to hold me tight.
Does it seem odd for a grown woman to yearn to be held like a child? This time when the resurrection of Christ is still fresh and new always tenders me. My heart is a door wide open, waiting to usher in the love He gave for me. But as I stand at the door, beckoning others to come in and feast on the joy of the season, the ones I love the most just walk on by.
Our expectant hearts feel the resonation of loss all the more during times of waiting. The fullness of the days can make the quiet of stillness ring in our ears. The season is bittersweet for some. Hearts are cognizant of empty places: loved ones departed, emotional estrangement, abandoned dreams, disappointments and fears. Absence creates a presence that we carry with us as we rush to and fro. And we ask ourselves, how can a season of such joy also spark this kindred sorrow? Is it because, in His coming, we know that all of our losses will be redeemed? Our hope is in this: this waiting.
We are told that out of loss comes growth, that suffering builds strength. I know this is true, for I have experienced it myself. But sometimes, I just want to be held.
For some rifts, there are no easy answers. As I pondered this truth, the Lord directed me to 2 Corinthians 1:3: “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort...”
I felt like He had reached down from heaven and wrapped his long arms around me in the biggest bear hug ever. I climbed up into His lap and let His love fill the empty places. My strength was renewed. And I was ready to extend my hand anew.
The door of my heart is open once again. Wide. He gives me the strength to hold it aloft. The one who washed the feet of his followers has taught me to keep trying. Forever if I must. And I will wait. When I grow weary of waiting, the God of all comfort will wrap me in his arms and pour His love over me. His arms are a sanctuary, an ever-present shelter of love.
Over at High Calling Blogs we're participating in a Mother's Day project. You can read about it here.
Forgiveness is one of the precious ingredients in this life-feast. Saying those two most difficult words keeps the heart tender and young, humbles the stoniest. The vulnerability of baring oneself--offering up the softest of places—breaks open our prideful spirits.
I’m sorry.
Mother used to punish us by making us sit side-by-side on the couch until we apologized. My sister and I would start off by cringing away from one another—wounds still tender, hearts hard. But by the end of the half-hour, we would be playing some game together, giggling and rubbing shoulders. Somehow, touching fostered forgiveness in our hearts before mother made us say the words.
Aren’t we all side-by-side in this feast line?
We rub up against each other every day; carrying unforgiveness that weights us down—refusing to let the softness of the flesh of others penetrate the rocky crevices of our hearts.
In Gabriel Garcia Marques’s esteemed novel, Love in the Time of Cholera, two of the primary characters—Fermina Daza and her husband Dr. Juvenal Urbino--persist with a disagreement for four months. Over a bar of soap.
I’m sad to say I’ve harbored grudges much longer.
The book of Matthew tells us to be reconciled with our brothers before we offer a gift to God (5:23).
Yesterday, after our little tiff, I called my husband’s cell while he commuted to work.
I’m sorry, I said.
So am I, he replied.
And what began as a gaping hole became something so beautiful that it escapes words. If anger is a chasm, forgiveness is not only a bridge…it fills in the lacuna, creates fertile ground where before there was none.
And love grows.
I am examining my heart today, friends. Looking for the plank in my eye. And if I don’t feel it at first, perhaps I will sit beside the person on the couch a while.
He left without saying goodbye this morning and I was devastated.
I cried a little. God filled His wineskin as the fullness of the past few days washed over me.
There hasn’t been time to breathe.
On my way home from work the other day, I realized I was holding my breath--my entire body locked up, tense and waiting. In ancient days, this stress response prepared one for whatever was necessary. Fight or flight they call it. But there I was, in rush hour traffic, flooded with stress hormones--poised for anything but going nowhere.
I forced air in and out of my lungs, deep and slow.
Then there is this in my reading this morning: …I am fully known.
Paul said it.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
I thought of Caleb’s canvas and tried to muster some trust.
But I am just tired.
And I wonder to myself, how can You? How can You fully know and still be silent?
When the misunderstanding happened this morning, he didn’t know what the voices in my head were saying. He only knew in part.
We are as close as two people can be, yet…he does not fully know me.
And I do not fully know him.
But there is One who knows.
I chastise myself, tell me to be patient, pray for more faith…
But he left without saying goodbye this morning.
And I know something must change.
I am Jonah, crying out from the belly of the fish. I know this is a strange sort of rescuing, but it’s cold and dark and it stinks in here.
Jonah had issues, but from the belly of that fish, he offered up Psalms of praise to God.
Will I do the same?
I am fully known.
Do I trust these words? Do I trust the One who knows?
You are fully known.
There is so much pain in this crazy world. And I can’t even make it through the morning today. All that I know is I never want him to leave without kissing me goodbye again.
I never want it to be okay. Never want to be okay with that sort of thing.
Here’s some good news: Brody’s Story is now available in eBook format! Check out familyaudiolibrary.com to download Brody’s Story and many other great Christian titles. The awesome thing about this is that readers don’t need to purchase a device (i.e., a Kindle or a Nook) to read books. Brody’s Story in eBook looks just like its printed pages, and it can be downloaded it right onto your computer! And...did you know it's also available on Kindle? Check it out…and if you have already read Brody’s Story and enjoyed it, would you please think about doing an Amazon review for me? Thank you to all my readerly friends!
i don’t want to
live--
not like this,
he said;
spoke a tale
of third generation
suicide.
pondered aloud
rat poison and
guns
and i was taught
we take these
things seriously…
even in one i love.
auntie taught me
so, when
she overheard six-
year-old little
me
say i wish i
was dead when
spurned by the
adopted
midget cousin
who was loved more
than i.
she gave no
comfort, only
shame.
there was the time
i drove
45 miles to sit
in the ER with
my friend while they
pumped
her stomach. She
didn’t want to
die…just to stop
hurting.
does he?
my only answer is
to live.
yes, to live well
and try.
I am sitting on the back porch looking out over the meadow behind our house. The sun is high in the sky, its heat tempered by a light breeze. A couple of Grackles are swinging on my suet feeder, stealing grub I had in mind for that elusive Flicker that visits occasionally. I should shoo them away. But I sit. The scent from the lilac bush tickles my nose, its heady perfume not quite full strength–the clusters of tiny flowers having not yet opened entirely. In the quiet I think I hear the whisper of petals unfolding. When the wind picks up, the air is dappled white as the apple tree sheds her glory. I picture the hand of The One Who Holds Everything gently tipping a giant salt shaker as petals surf the breeze around me, seasoning this day. Or is it sugar, these white flecks? It must be sugar. Because the sweetness of the moment falls on me like so many petals on the wind.
We were late to the show because of volunteer responsibilities, so I missed the introduction. I didn’t know who this young man and his accompanist were.
I dreamt of a canvas, he said. And the canvas was so big and we were so close to it that we couldn’t make out the details. I realized that if I backed away a little, I could see more clearly. But I couldn’t get far enough away to see the entire thing…I still don’t understand, but I know that one day, we’ll be in heaven and we’ll be able to see the whole picture.
I still didn’t know the young man’s name. But I knew who he was.
We watched the show. Sang along with Tenth Avenue North. Belted out the hits with Casting Crowns.
During intermission, we did the work for WorldVision that we came to do.
It was a busy night.
But through it all, I couldn’t forget the story about the canvas.
I could use a better view of so many things.
So I googled. And in my sleuthing, I cried tears anew for Maria Sue.
Oh, how this little girl and her family have taught us about faith, and grace, and love!
If you get the chance to go see Caleb and Will Chapman, I highly recommend that you go. The foundation of faith given to these young men by their family is evident in their music, in their words, and in their prayers.
Caleb and Will, April 16, 2010
*These are the words I heard Caleb speak. They are a paraphrase of his message. I did not have the chance to record his exact words.
The only thing I wanted for my birthday was a new birdfeeder. I wanted it positioned right outside my kitchen window so I could watch my birdies more closely. It took a couple weeks, but we finally found something that would work. Jeff and I installed the pole and I filled the feeder and waited.
And waited.
“They’re not going to come, mom,” Jeffrey said. “It’s too close to the window. They’re too afraid.”
“Just wait,” I said.
A couple weeks went by. Nothing.
Finally, we received our first visitor.
Little thief.
I waited some more.
“They’re not going to come, mom.”
Jeffrey expressed his opinion again this morning at breakfast. We were sitting in the bay enjoying our pancakes (well, I was having yogurt) when I had to get up to shoo away a couple ugly old Grackles. I sat back down.
“Do you remember Pitty-Pat?” I asked him.
Pitty-Pat was the wild cat that I managed to befriend and tame. He used to stalk my birds, so I knew I had to give him a taste of the easy life. He has since passed on to greener pastures.
“Um-hmm.”
“Remember how I first put food out in the meadow? And then gradually moved it closer and closer to the house? Until finally, he would sit in front of the French doors and meow at me to come feed him?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”
“Some things take time.”
Right about then, Lady Cardinal landed on the feeder and began to munch. And then…busy little Titmouse stopped by. Soon, a Purple Finch joined them.
I was afraid to breath. The boys grew quiet too.
“Happy birthday, mom. Just a little bit late,” Jeffrey said.
“See, it just took a little patience.”
“Patience,” Teddy said. “I don’t have any of that. I’ll check the archives.”
After Argus left us, I thought I should better guard my heart. Then I remember what I told Jeffrey about not letting fear keep us from loving.
And I thought we should try again.
Enter Toby. This overweight, pig-like dog who snorts and snores; who annoys Lucy Mae by snarfing all her food, who looks at me with woe-filled eyes and begs for love.
He misses his family.
And he needs us.
We're looking for a forever home for this sweet buddy-boy. But in the meantime, he's teaching us to love again.
I was listening to my sons play “American Idol” with my niece and nephews on our recent trip to Blackwater Falls, when I heard one of the boys say something about Lady Gaga. (really?) He went on about several different artists, voice dripping with admiration.
It was clear that my young nephew was starstruck.
It got me to thinking about heroes, and who are some of mine. And the kind of hero I would like my sons to hold up.
I would like to introduce you to someone who fits the bill. His name is Kenneth C. Wright and he is the Medical Director of the rehabilitation center where I work. Not only is Dr. Wright very attentive to his patients here in West Virginia, he has served as a medical missionary to Haiti for several years now. His latest mission trip was in February of this year, just a few weeks after the devastating earthquake that changed so much for the people he has served faithfully over the years.
I caught up with Ken recently and asked him to tell us a little about his experiences in Haiti.
**Before we jump into your missionary experience, Dr. Wright, will you tell us a little about your background?
I grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, which makes me a “Yooper.” I have a bachelor’s degree in philosophy from Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, MD from University of Michigan, and did my residency in Physical Medicine & Rehabilitation at University of Minnesota. I was in academic medicine at University of Pittsburgh for four years before moving to Charleston for my present job in 1987. I’ve been here ever since as the Medical Director of the CAMC Medical Rehabilitation Center. I am board certified in PM&R, Spinal Cord Injury Medicine, and Electrodiagnostic Medicine.
**Let’s start by how you began the Haiti mission work. Tell us a little about the organization you work with, how many times have you gone, and what got you involved in the first place?
I have been on six trips to Haiti, beginning in 2007. I started with the Friends of Fort Liberte´, a West Virginia group. Dr. Rick Hayes and his wife Laura organize the Charleston branch. I learned about it from a pharmacist friend, Stacy Walls, who recruited me for the first trip. FFL is an ecumenical Protestant group associated with the Ebenezer Baptist Church in Fort Liberte´. They run a clinic that provides outpatient care. I have been once with Healing Hands for Haiti, a rehab group. It ran a rehab clinic in Port-au-Prince, which was leveled by the recent earthquake. Last November my daughter Lydia, who is a first year med student at Emory, invited me to go with their chapter of Project Medishare to Tomonde, where we held mobile clinics in the central highlands. Four weeks ago I returned from my fourth trip with FFL. However, they “loaned” me to CRUDEM, a catholic organization which runs L’Hopital Sacre Coeur in Milot, just down the road from Fort Liberte´. I took care of refugees from the Port-au-Prince earthquake in the tent hospital, including a large number of spinal cord injury and amputation patients. I also spent time at the HHA facility in Carrefour La Morte, a Baptist SCI facility about four miles from Milot.
Ken and Lydia in Haiti
**What keeps you going back?
I keep coming back because I have fallen in love with Haiti. I have always known that I would be involved with Haiti at some time in my life. I have been intrigued by the country since I was a little boy. There is no doubt in my mind that I am being called to serve there.
**I know that you have learned to speak Creole, which is one of Haiti’s official languages, along with French. What else have you done to prepare yourself for this mission work?
I prepare for the trips by getting lots of vaccinations, taking malaria prophylaxis, working on my language skills, and reviewing general medicine. I also go to the FFL “pill packing parties” at First Presbyterian Church of S. Charleston, although I have to admit I didn’t pack many pills this year.
**What is a “normal” mission trip like? What kinds of work do you do, what types of problems do you deal with, etc.
A normal trip involves long clinic hours seeing many patients all too quickly, lots of waiting in airports and riding on buses, and much camaraderie. We sleep many people to a room and eat family style. It has been termed summer camp for adults. As far as the clinical work, we usually do general medicine. There is lots of hypertension. We see lots of infectious disease, especially skin disease. Some people don’t have anything wrong, but just come for the medications. Over the counter medicines are hard to come by in Haiti, so they tell us their stomach hurts so they can have a supply of antiacids at home just in case. We see a few rare diseases like elephantiasis, as well as diseases that have progressed far beyond what they would in the USA, like goiters and advanced cancers.
**Have you had a chance to enjoy the culture and, if so, tell us a little about that. (I remember the music you love!)
Things I enjoy about the culture include the food- very spicy, with lots of rice and beans, plantains, tropical fruits, and unusual meats such as goat. The history is fascinating. Haiti is the only county in the world to have a successful slave revolt. There is wonderful art and music. I am a great fan of French language and culture, and enjoy the mixture of African and French influences in Haiti. When you have a lot of time I will tell you about Voudon, the indigenous religion and the source of much of the imagery in their music and art. It is misunderstood by Americans.
Monument at Vertieres, site of final battle of Haitian revolution
**Would you like to share the story of the young man you came to godfather?
My godson is Emmanuelo Alexandre, a 24 year old young man who worked as my interpreter. I sponsored his college graduation by paying for the diploma, robe rental, etc. which makes me a “godfather” (or parenn in Creole). I am helping with his tuition at the university in the Dominican Republic, where he is studying to be an ophthalmology assistant. Last month I was able to visit his home and have dinner with his family.
**Would you please share a little about how this most recent trip was different from the past ones? The world has been deeply moved by the state of desolation and the many types of loss the Haitian people have undergone since the earthquake. Did you sense a change in the mood of the Haitian people?
My last trip was different in that I was doing inpatient care and treating patients more like the ones I see at home. Since the earthquake there are more resources and people there to help, but it is not very organized. I feel like I did some good but spent much time spinning my wheels, so to speak. I am amazed by the spirit of the Haitians, and their ability to reach out to help others, even when they have so little themselves. I am hopeful that the world will continue to devote resources to rebuilt Haiti. Right now the most desperate need is for shelter. After that they need to get the government, schools, and hospitals up running again. Then they need to fix the economy, which was in very poor condition even before the earthquake.
**From what you saw while you were there, what are the needs that are most desperate for these people now?
At this time I am trying to figure out what I can do that will be most helpful. For a while I considered bringing a Haitian tetraplegic patient to Charleston, but it looks like he will go to Houston Texas. I may put together a SCI rehab team to go back to HHA at Carrefour La Mort in late summer or fall.
**Thank you so much for sharing this with us today, Dr. Wright. And thank you for all that you have done for the Haitian people. You are a true blue hero!
four bodies,
found
this morning.
five days
underground.
twenty-five others--
still.
only three
laid to rest
that bastard
should be shut
down
he said, fire…
no rescue
chamber can
provide escape
from
methane gas.
flash, they
call it…passes
through in a
blink
they talk of
MSHA and
unionization,
don’t close the mine,
they say. we need
jobs.
grandfather was
a miner. cousins are
too. this way
of life
is dark
we dig
through rock and
dirt
and dust,
but arms are
empty and streets
silent today.
the air I
breathe is
fresh and
sweet.
Please join me in praying for the families of the twenty-nine miners killed in the explosion at Upper Big Branch Mine in Raleigh County on Monday. The final four bodies were found today.
Over at High Calling Blogs, Claire challenged us to share a picture of a lesson learned. She says: It’s been well-proven that when learning is coupled with a picture, it takes on greater relevance to the learner.
She's right, you know.
This is one of my spring break pictures from our trip to Blackwater Falls. I was playing with my new camera--adjusting the shutter speed and such. I'm still learning about these things. The water on the falls was so beautiful. I tried to capture the movement in the water by increasing my shutter speed. The picture turned out a little dark at first. One thing I have learned in all my reading about photography is that when the shutter speed is increased, the aperture needs widened. In this way, the amount of light can be adjusted to give the proper exposure.
So that's my lesson learned here. When things look dark--add Light. Add the Light. And the Living Water will be revealed.
The thing about going home is that there is never enough water.
In my sister’s kitchen--mouth parched, throat dry. Sitting in the grass with my father…sun scorched; cracked and dry. Rubbing shoulders with my mother, holding my baby nephew, hugging my sister-in-law…
I thirst.
There is not enough water to slake.
Insides become brittle. Eyes burn.
I stand on the threshold of visit and I dread the impotability of the air—start to crumble inside.
Dehydrated just thinking about it.
I have prayed for grace, for transcendent love. Still, they think my faith a lie—my salvation a trick of the devil.
And it hurts, oh how it hurts. For, if I may not speak of my Jesus without the room falling silent…of what may I speak? How can they even know me if they don’t know that I KNOW Him.
Oh, yes, I know Him.
And He knows me.
His heart beats inside of me. I’ve cradled His body; tasted His blood.
Anyone else I could shrug away. Anyone else I could let. go. of.
But the one whose womb I rested in? The ones who hold my heart?
I must find a way to sate this desiccation. I have to keep trying. We are bound by this blood.
I go where the Water is.
Blackwater Falls State Park, where the boys and I spent part of our spring break this week.
And love covers. Love covers all.
I am drenched. In need of a good wringing.
It’s laughter, and fresh air, and sunburned skin that needs kissing. It’s working in the kitchen beside my mother and staring into the fire with a brother I once thought was forever lost to me. It’s the sound of my boys singing with their cousins and descending mountains together and wielding sticks.
My boys with my nieces and nephews at Blackwater Falls.
It’s glorious mountaintop vistas, and bare feet in rippling water, and the good kind of tired.
I didn’t need to say His name (okay, I did anyway…) but He was there.
The sun shined on us the entire time we were together, only I wasn’t dry. I was dripping. wet.
Quenched.
And in the wee hours of the morning when I crept past sleeping bodies and inched out the cabin door, anxious…to meet with Him—
He said, see? See how easy it is? You don’t need their approval. You don’t need their acceptance.
You have Me.
Last night the storm chased us all the way to the place I now call home. The place where love waits for me. The storm chased us but it didn’t catch up until late this morning. I was driving home from the grocery store and was stopped by a funeral procession passing by. The air was heavy and the gray sky pressing down as I peered in the windows at the grief-stricken faces and wondered about the body being carried in that long black car. A young boy stared back.
When suddenly the sky opened up.
Oh, blessed rain.
I started to cry—for the grieving people in the funeral parade and the little boy with serious eyes. For the little girl in me who wants her mamma to accept her; for relief that the thirst is quenched and for love--His love raining down. And then I laughed for the sheer joy of it, because He was showing me.
I start with the usual, the question that invites me into their world.
Tell me a little about what brings you here. Tell me your story.
She is alone. No family, just this one. But she looks around, bewildered. If I had read her chart ahead of time I would know. The stroke that ravaged her brain has left her with dysphasia —a language disorder that fights against the flow of words. She struggles.
Too late I realize my mistake. I’ve seen this look before. I begin to back pedal, search for a way to soothe her in this loss.
But then, it comes out.
I don’t know, she says, haltingly, everything was so perfectly, wonderfully beautiful…and then suddenly, it was not so.
This would be the longest sentence she says to me her entire stay in the hospital. I think about this gentle woman later in the day. I think about her before I go to bed. And I think about her the next morning.
(Are you a writer? Want to improve your craft? Need a community of writers to share the journey with? Join us at High Calling Blogs for our new book club beginning April 19. We're going to be discussing Julia Cameron's The Right to Write.I'm very excited about this one! You can order your book from Amazon by clicking on the button on my sidebar. Come on! Let's have some fun!)
As we approach resurrection day, I must admit, poetry has breathed new life into my writing. It allows me to hear differently…to listen to the song of the wind and rain, to breathe the voice of trees, to still at the silence that is not silence but becomes birdsong and brush rustle when soul is subdued.
I have always loved poetry. But my interest was rekindled at this season in my life by this lady, whom I call my poetry teacher. Such grace she gave my early efforts.
You can sign up to receive a poem a day in your inbox right here.
A neat thing is happening in West Virginia to celebrate poetry and art. Mountain Line Transit in Morgantown, beginning March 24th, decorated their bus interiors with the words and works of local poets and artists. To see some of the selections, visit here. I haven’t ridden a city bus for a while, but I may have to make a trip up to Morgantown for just such a treat.
