It's a Dance

I have watched how they go these past weeks. Sweeping and diving, turning and landing—the migration ballet. When they swoop overhead, I am dizzy—lifted to heights, longing for wings. They move as one.

They call me a shepherd at my church. I have a flock that I tend. It’s a way for our church leadership to stay abreast of individual needs; divide the congregation into smaller groups and assign the elders to watch over them. As shepherd I am supposed to check in with my flock regularly. Make sure they are doing okay.

We have had troubles. Jesus said it would be so. We have brushed up against each other and bruised tender flesh in the jostling. Sheep do—they bleat wildly when alarmed, bumble about in fear. We lost sight of our shepherd for a time.

Sunday night we met in the sanctuary. There were some good words and some prayers and then we all flooded out into the narthex to dress up our church for Christmas. The Hanging of the Greens, we call it. Old and young were there—the same faces we always see when something needs doing…the same faces we’ve argued with and picked at and found fault with.

He said to love one another. The word in its original form is an action word. It’s something we are growing into—this Love like the Great Shepherd’s. It takes some hanging in. I’ve often wondered--as I lift my eyes to the sky, feel my breath leave my body as they move in unison across the sun—how do they do that? What drive inside pulls them forward, what cue from the next allows them to turn so gracefully as one--no hesitation, no clumsy choppy movements? I know it is written on their hearts—this greater purpose that allows for such harmony, such grace.

And as I hand an ornament to gnarled fingers, the same fingers that have lashed out at me and those I love in the past…I marvel at this thing that is written on our hearts too. This Love that overcomes. This Love that transforms. This Love that becomes.

So many times, our fellowship is like the sheep—mindless, aimless, losing sight of our shepherd. But Sunday night, we were like the Starlings. We moved as one, pulled by something greater—something we do not understand. In this great dance of Love, there can only be One who leads. When we follow the steps, turn with those subtle cues, follow the rhythm of our hearts—this is when we take wing. This is when we fly.

Today I am moving as one with some fellow bloggers who meet up at Bridget Chumbley’s place. We’re talking about Fellowship today. Join us? You are invited into this dance of fellowship…

Surrounded

I am surrounded by angels, and it’s a bit discomfiting.

For three days I have pulled them from the attic…bit by little bit, so as not to tax myself over it all. But here I sit, amidst boxes and berries and angels and…I’m not feeling it.

Part of it, I think, is what the pastor said at our Hanging of the Greens service last night. Advent is not meant to be rushed through, she said. It is a slow movement from the darkness into the light.

I try playing music. These songs have been healing my soul this season.

But the music has me sitting motionless in the middle of the living room floor—listening. The dogs like this…they think a human in the floor is an invitation for kisses. I wrestle with them a bit. Throw a toy or two. It looks like Penny will be leaving us this weekend. It’s been a couple years since we have not had a canine house guest for Christmas and I am sad to let her go. I scratch behind her ears and she rolls on her back, lays her head on my lap. 

You’re a good dog, I tell her, lifting her chin. Her eyes speak love.

The boxes are still on the stairs.

I am on my back now, on this hard floor. I close my eyes and let the grief be. I know what this is all about but I wish it would leave me. Every year it’s the same and I’m tired of it.

My husband tells me that there is no feeling in the world like Christmas when you’re a child.  He says that nothing can compare to the anticipation and the wonder of waking up on Christmas morning.  I’ll never know about that.  Christmas was just another day in our house.  But I see it in the eyes of my boys. To be able to provide such joy all at once is an amazing thing. 

I sigh and roll this around in my mind.

Every year, I want it to be extra special.  I know it’s some kind of lame attempt to redeem those years. But last night, we sat together in the warm light of our living room and listened as Little Jeffrey read the first Advent devotional. We’ve never done that before. And it was—extra special.

I am out growing these boxes. I’m not sure what that means yet. But I think they joy we feel on Christmas morning is just practice, just a shadow, of the tremendous joy we will feel when we lay our eyes on Jesus for the first time. 

So I let my heart be renewed.  Right in the middle of my living room floor with dogs pestering. I ask God to give me the eyes of a child.  And that allows me to get up from the floor. And move toward the boxes. 

Oh, yes. I'm surrounded by angels.

Today I am writing from where I am and joining L.L. Barkat in searching for a sense of place. Join us? You can link up here. 

Monday is also gratitude day (isn't everyday?). Today I am thinking of sweet blessings…

**a friend who shares her gifts so abundantly.

 

**our Jesse tree—made from the old wallpaper sample book…hung on the fridge.

**the voice of my babe, reading praises—thanks with a quivering voice.

**for reds and greens and angels abiding here.

**church greens—the hanging and the eating of them.

**my nephew…being born today.

**mom’s voice on the phone—the baby is coming!

**beauty in the mail (this is for my new nephew! thank you, ELK!)

**the grace to let go. the grace that covers.

**salty tears—tasting the grace that covers.

A Conversation With Myself About Ghosts

I have no Christmas
ghosts, she said. Only
Sherlock Holmes, the
3 Musketeers, and
Treasure Island. That
one Christmas we
unwrapped doesn’t
haunt--so much as
blows by like leaves
on the street before the
first snowfall—veins
like skeletal fingers
reaching through
webbed hands; brushing
up against my ankles
and whipping around in my
mind this time of year. Sad?
A little. But it’s much
too complicated to go
into here. Drink your
eggnog and put on that
red sweater and pretend
you know what it’s all
about. One day you
might understand. Then
she flipped her hair back
and continued gluing the
pictures into the Christmas
cards—glitter staining
cheeks and fingers. And
I wondered what Christmas
morning was really
supposed to feel like.

This is a Random Act of Poetry, read all about it at David Writes Right, the space where poet David Wheeler graces words.

Fly

 

 

 

Show Me

I wanted to go to the community Thanksgiving service. A friend of ours was preaching and I wanted to hear. I wanted to sit in dim light with other believers and feel the cold in my bones go away for a while. I wanted to feel a part of something bigger than me, bigger than my church, bigger than the air in this space around me. I wanted to be thankful.

But I took the dogs out and Penny saw a cat in the meadow so she ran after it and so I did too and we tromped through the mud of yesterday’s rains until I carried much of the earth on the bottom of my feet. I left my shoes on the porch and took those dogs back inside and wiped Penny’s paws. She jumped up on me in gratitude—wiping what remained of her muddy jaunt all over my sweater.

And now the boys need to go to lessons and Jeff says he’ll take them. But I feel guilty, and he says, no you go to the service if you want to. He is too tired to go. I just need to rest, he says. So they leave me alone in the house. Dark comes knocking and I sit in lamplight and feel it enter me.

Forty-five minutes to the service and I am a muddy mess. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to go alone. I don’t want to feel this way. And what will I do with these dogs?—One of them in heat and wearing toddler training pants?

So I grab the old flannel shirt, wrap a scarf around my head, get rid of the dog panties, and we go walking under light-washed stars.

The cold stings my cheeks and the wet leaves on the ground shine like coins in the streetlights and everything is quiet. The creek is shimmer and I listen in the dark to water whisper over stones and hush as it plunges into deep. The sky bends down low towards me and I hold it in my arms and I know that this is Thanksgiving.

What month is it? I had asked my little brain-injury patient earlier today. He stared. There is a holiday this week, I prodded. It’s a holiday where you fix a big turkey, and you eat pumpkin pie…What holiday is it?

He just shook his head.


It’s a holiday where you give thanks, I said. You say grace…and give thanks.

Is it July? He asked.

Through the windows of my neighbors’ houses I see Christmas lights winking—trees standing in corners and bows tied around stair rails. I suck the cold into my lungs. I wonder about Advent—about the hoping and preparing and waiting…

The stars move along the horizon like some midnight train and I turn my eyes upward.

How long? I ask the stars. I think of my young patient and the older ones too. I think of tired husbands and dogs that wear diapers. The world seems to droop with weariness.

And I droop too.

Just then, the moon rises—opening the sky like a big round mouth—and swallows me in beauty…spits me back out and I’m left standing there—covered in the dew of heaven.

Teach me how to die, Lord. Show me how.

I’ve died a million deaths since the day I was born. I’m not wired to look past pain—I can’t ignore the suffering. But gently, over and over, He teaches me how to die.

Standing alone on a dark night, bathed in moonlight, tangled up in dog leashes…I give myself over to death. I die to everything I know about what is good and what is right; what is fair, what is sorrow. I die to what I want—to my expectations. I die to everything except knowing Christ. And knowing He is good.

I expect I’ll have to die again before this life is over.

Thank you. Thank you dark and tattered world. Thank you grief, compassion, sorrow. Thank you weariness and heavy heart.

You show me His strength. You lead me to Him.

Thank you.

A Boy and His Dog

No one else. Only you. Only you understand.

I stood outside my son’s bedroom door and listened, pressing my body up against the wall--an unwelcome guest.

His earnest words pricked my heart.

It had been a difficult day. I knew he was hurting. I wanted to wrap him up in Mother-love, but he didn’t turn to me. Instead, it was Lucy Mae—our Boston Terrier—that he laid these heavy burdens on.

I leaned against the wall and wondered if I should go to him. But as I listened to him pouring his heart out to Lucy Mae, I remembered a pair of doleful hound-dog eyes.

Frankie.

Frankie listened to everything. He must have come to us when I was in the first or second grade because I named him after Frankie Tate—one of my early crushes. Frankie Tate was really good at dodge ball. But Frankie—the dog—was just a tiny pup when he became part of our family. He was supposed to be my brother David’s dog, but it was me that he loved best.

And I loved him.

An introvert, I most often could be found inside, reading. My brothers and sister would be outside most of the day—riding bikes, playing baseball with the other kids on the hollow, or just finding dirt somewhere. When I did take a break from the books, I could never seem to find them.

But Frankie was always there.

We would sit on the porch steps--my arms wrapped around him—as I poured my heart out into his thick fur.

No one else. Only you. Only you understand.

I knew he did. His brown, intelligent eyes followed my every word. He sat patiently as I rubbed his back, scratched behind his ears. Sometimes, I would pick the wood ticks off of him (Frankie was a country dog—an outside dog) and crush their heads on a flat rock with the point of a sharp stone.

I think he appreciated that.

When my parents decided to divorce, only Frankie knew the full extent of my heartbreak. He knew how to keep a secret.

As I listened to my boy spill his heart out to Lucy, I remembered the comfort there is in warm fur and liquid eyes.

So I crossed my mother-arms across my mother-chest and went downstairs.

Sometimes, only a best friend knows the right thing to say.

The Needy

The hungry need bread, the homeless need a roof, the oppressed need justice, and the lonely need fellowship. At the same time — on another and deeper level — the hopeless need hope, sinners need forgiveness, and the world needs the gospel. On this level no one is excluded, and all the needy are one. Our mission as the church is to bring hope to a desperate world by declaring God's undying love — as one beggar tells another where to find bread.

--the answer to question #51 of the Presbyterian Church's (USA)study catechism: Who are the needy?

The Best Christmas Gift on the List

Every time your heart beats once, there are two Bibles being placed out there in the world.

I put my hand to mine when he said it…tha-thump…two Bibles.

I closed my eyes and imagined who the recipients might be. That brown-skinned girl of Ann’s? Or maybe my Romedan in Ethiopia?

Brother Jividen from The Gideons International spoke to our church last week.

It’s Stewardship season in the Presbyterian Church, but ours is giving money away. The loose plate offering last Sunday went to the Gideons.

Brother Jividen told us stories about his time in Africa, China, Columbia, and Guatemala.

It costs $1.30 to print up these little New Testaments, he said. But what you are giving is priceless.

The old gentleman was not impressive to look at. He didn’t appear to be a grand adventurer or thrill-seeker. His hair was white, his skin like paper. Yet…he had some stories to tell.

I glanced over at Jeffrey, whose pen was poised over the bulletin. He usually draws cartoons during church. It used to bother me until I realized that most Sundays he is illustrating the sermon. It’s how he processes the message. But on this Sunday, his eyes were riveted to the pulpit, captivated by stories.

When the plate came around, I rummaged in my purse. Twenty-six dollars. That’s all the cash I had. I let Teddy drop it in.

We just bought 20 Bibles, I scribbled to him on my bulletin.

He nodded, smiling.

Later, when we filed out into the world, I thought about those stories. I thought about the stack of Bibles I have at home. One for each room, so the Word is handy everywhere. I thought about my son’s eyes on that elderly adventurer.


The greatest need that we have, dear people, he had said, is for your prayers.

That night, we prayed for those who have never held the Word of God in their hands. And for those who carry It to them.

We are part of a bigger story, you and me. Let’s keep telling it.

And  help each other carry it to the world.

Do you know anyone who needs a Bible? Why not surprise them this Christmas? It might just be the most important gift they ever receive.

Great Migrations

And have you seen

them move as one

across this brumal

frame—inking out

the sun with their

gusty arc? Hearts

pulled by some

invisible string—

moving southward,

joining this Great

rhythmic dance that

spins each one of

us. Oh! seasons,

how mysterious

your lure. Do not

spare my wandering

heart your beauty.

I stand in the middle of the street with my neck arched upward for dizzying moments. The way they swoop and domino through the sky makes my tummy drop—I am flying with, my heart lifted by their communal dance.

The birds are heading south and the beauty of it breaks my heart.

They are not the only ones. Jeff and I have been enjoying watching the National Geographic Channel’s Great Migrations these past few days. What breathtaking beauty there is in the animal kingdom. What amazing design.

Last night’s episode, Feast or Famine, was difficult to get through. When the baby wildebeest was pulled underwater by the largest crocodile I’ve ever seen, I had to make Jeff turn the channel for a wee bit. Making this even more surreal was the fact that the episode was narrated by Alec Baldwin of Thomas the Tank engine fame.

When my boys were younger, they were Thomas crazy. We had every Thomas movie ever made, I believe. Even the British ones. Alec Baldwin was the narrator for the later episodes. As I listened to his voice narrate  Great Migrations, I couldn’t help hearing his voice saying, Gordon was a splendid engine…and other cheeky Thomas dialogue.

My how times do change.

But I digress. As Mr. Baldwin’s aptly punctuated voice narrated the plight of the wildebeest calf, I covered my eyes and said, bring back the butterflies!

The Monarch Butterflies. My favorite.

These gorgeously stenciled vibrantly orange creatures are the reason I let the milkweed invade my flower beds every summer. The milkweed is the only food the Monarch Butterfly larvae eats. I never regret it. But I did not realize the illustrious passports these little flying bits of sunshine must carry. Every fall, the population of Monarch Butterflies that live in Eastern North America migrate to the mountains of central Mexico to flee the approaching frost. The film shots of these--up to 300 million butterflies--hanging heavy on the branches of the old-growth Mexican forests where they winter are a sight to see.

But it is the return journey the following spring that spoke to deep places within. The butterflies that winter in Mexico have a much longer lifespan than those bred in the summer, living around eight to nine months. After the winter is over, they begin the long trip north, believed to be guided by the sun and a circadian clock in their antennae. This generation of Monarchs do not live long enough to make it all the way to Canada, rather, it is the third or fourth generation that arrive at the final destination.

The amazing thing to me is the fact that each generation continues the journey started by the parent, that ancient quest driven by something in the creature’s makeup—something inside urging northward.

I met with the Episcopalians last night. They are teaching me about Contemplative Prayer. We are reading Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening by Cynthia Bourgeault. In this lovely book, Rev. Bourgeault speaks of our inner compass pointing to the magnetic north of God.

This idea, so timely--paired with Great Migrations, stirred something inside of me. The idea of a journey inscribed on my heart—much as with the Monarchs and their passing down the map for their journey from one generation to another—made tremendous sense.

I have always felt the sehnsucht—that longing, that yearning that nothing of this world will satisfy.

This time of year always stirs that wanderlust. Could it be that pull to THE Great Migration? This ever moving closer of my soul to the One who longs to receive it?

I am thinking about the butterflies today. I think, come spring, I’ll cultivate an entire bed of milkweed. Some of us, in our travels, need all the help we can get.

TELL

We did not know our story.

We did not know that our father was the ninth child of a farming family—spoiled by sisters old enough to mother him. We did not know how hard they worked, or how hard they loved, or how they had their very own salt cave. We didn’t know that our uncle—dad’s oldest brother--had been a prisoner of war, didn’t know how the family would sit around the radio in the evenings and listen for news, or how one of the few times my grandpa spanked my father was during one such listening when he—small one that he was—would not be quiet.

We didn’t know.

We didn’t know what a perfectionist our grandmother was, how she wouldn’t let her sister-in-law work on her quilts, or how she made extra money making rugs out of rags. We didn’t know how she wasted away from the cancer—how she waited too long.

We didn’t know our grandfather loved a fast car, or how he would shift the thing into neutral at the top of the hill and see just how far he could coast.

We didn’t know that our mother’s father had been married one time before. That he buried his first wife as a young man--that he buried his heart with her. We didn’t know that mom’s mother—our grandmother—had two children out of wedlock before she met our grandfather. Or that he used to beat her when he’d had too much to drink.

We didn’t know that he’d been a coalminer, a gravedigger, or anything else that would put food on the table. We didn’t know how he ran around and when his own wife died of cancer it was my mother that cared for her until the end.

We didn’t know.

We didn’t know our roots ran tangled all over this place. We thought we were untethered…alone. No one told us otherwise.

When I would sink deep in sorrow, grieving our lack of story, I would hug the Bible to my chest and take heart from knowing I was part of a Bigger Story. That I have this Father--whose story started time--and these brothers and sisters and these ancestors in faith. Oh, yes, that is a rich heritage.

And it was these roots—the faith ones—that gave me courage to ask.

On my grandpa’s 98th birthday, I started asking. And people sent stories. Pages and pages--written in long hand, emailed, spoken into my tape recorder at the family reunion, or laughed over and rapidly scribbled down later.

I learned how my grandpa lost his big toe (I didn’t know he was missing one). And how my dad loved candy as a boy. I read letters from my uncle, written while he was serving our country. I poured over wedding photos and aged family snapshots.

With each story collected, I was planted anew. My roots plowed deeper, weaving through the soil of the past until the dust quarried from my blood recognized the curling, twisting roots of these others.

Our stories are intertwined—we share the same blood.

I don’t know why, but it mattered.

And I stand here today with faith roots and family roots anchoring me deep—steeping me strong against the storms of life—and I know…

A story has to begin somewhere.

TELL YOUR STORY.

Don’t hoard it, keep it to yourself, be ashamed, or too sad to tell.Wrap arms around your sweetest, stare long into the fire and tell of your days gone by. Tell of legs strong for running, of favorite pets and bicycle ramps, tell of the lasts, but especially the firsts: first kiss, first car, first broken heart, first loss...

TELL.

YOUR STORY MATTERS.

Every life a ripple…

Jesus…said, “Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.” So the man went away and began to tell in the Decapolis how much Jesus had done for him. And all the people were amazed. ---Mark 5:19-20 

Garden Dreams

I spent most of yesterday afternoon in the flowers—cutting back, pulling up, raking out. I’m late this year—the frost already thick on the grass in the mornings. But my mother-in-law told me to wait; let the birds glean what they will, she said. And they did. The coneflower is dry as straw, the Black-eyed Susans blink. All the color is gone from the garden. The brittle browns and faded rusts shushed me as they rubbed together in the wind.

I raked the leaf confetti out from around tubers—their subtle reds and golds like scattered gems. The thick bands of iris greens broke easily with fingers. I smoothed around their fibrous heads, let them breathe. Already the leaves have started to make a rich compost--the soil underneath fragrant and dark. I breathed deep its heady scent, closed my eyes and dug fingers in the cool moist.

I cleaned my bed and dreamed. I dreamed of what would come in the spring.

When I was in the seventh grade I wrote an essay about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Mr. Kovalan, our English teacher, assigned us a theme every week. It was my favorite thing about school. Each week I looked forward to discovering what topic he would put before us. Mr. Kovalan never said much, but his comments on my themes always encouraged me. This is very well written, he might write. Or: A very good story. There wasn’t much I was good at, but Mr. Kovalan helped me see that telling stories was something I could do. But this one? What do I want to be? I thought long and hard about it. Finally, I wrote about my dream of becoming a hairdresser. The most beautiful women I knew were beauticians--it seemed like a good choice. Besides, I’d never thought I could be anything. Girls like me didn’t have those kind of choices. Girls like me rarely left the hollow.

When Mr. Kovalan graded my essay, he left me with few words. 

Your choice surprises me.

That was all he said. That dear, dear man.

It was the first time I thought that maybe I could be more. That maybe…maybe there was more than what I know.

When I was in seventh grade I could never have dreamed the life I have now.

This afternoon the robins are in a frenzy over my newly cleared soil. I watch from the window as they hastily march back and forth amongst the stubby remains of my garden. I smile at the cleanness of it. The mulch around the dormant clumps of green holds so much promise.

I have plans. There are things I still dream to accomplish. But I don’t want to hold these things too tightly. Who knows when God will change the plan? And I’ve already seen the beyond anything I can ask or imagine.

Yeah, sure, I feel a call on my life. But the call is not an endpoint. It’s a journey. A walking together. Walking through all the seasons…the spring, the harvest, and the raking out.

I’m trying not to hold on too tight to all these hopes and dreams that rage inside. I try to remember seventh grade. I try to remember that acorn that is growing into a tree in my garden.

The surprises are the best.


Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.—Prov. 19:21

Fire-sky

It is the sky--
waxy iridescence with
wick and rounded
flame above

It sweats
sweet beads and
skin remembers earth;
all dissolves
in this sugar solution—
lifts up wispy arms

scars and blemishes
fade into beauty
as white smoke
rises. molten
core cooks the
feast of life in
this pot.

is it any wonder
that fire calls
to fire and
they long to be one?

A Royal Flush

She talked about trust and she was the right one to say it.

Because we all trust her.

She holds us together—through phone calls or emails--her words string us like pearls; she is the strand on which we are threaded into one.

She likened building trust to playing poker.

Trustworthy leaders deal out a good hand of cards, she said. And then she made a promise to each of us--sealed words of affirmation scratched out on carefully chosen cards—mine a hand-drawn one by her daughter.

So here I am these weeks later, thinking about trust. Thinking about how it feels to hold a royal flush in hands—peek out from behind those cards and put on my best poker face.

But I’m not very good at poker. I like to lay my hand out flat—fan out what I’ve been dealt and play it up straight.

It’s best to have trust when you play that way.

And some people aren’t trustworthy.

I’m thinking this and remembering some of the hard ones—the times I’ve gotten hurt for showing my hand…not playing the game.

I gently touch the tender places inside and realize that—this time--they do not bruise.

She told us about a book she read. The Speed of Trust by Stephen Covey. It says that when trust is high, work gets done quicker, and costs are low.

Yes, there are costs. But what about the profits? I let myself think about these for a time. I catch myself smiling. And I feel a tiny light inside, glowing.

When trust is high, profits are too. Does Stephen Covey say that?

I’m not sure but I’m wondering what kind of value can be stamped on the benefits of a trusting relationship.

Maybe…

A royal flush?

Related:


What to Do With a Few Good Aces (And Without)

Ripple

We can’t un-create our memories, I told him. Some things, we’ll forget, but mostly we’ll remember the things that make us feel strongly. What do you think I will remember about this weekend?

He lay on the white sheets of the hotel bed, his face turned away from me. It was just the two of us—brother in the shower, dad getting coffee.

I wasn’t trying to shame him. Just make him think. I wasn’t sure which one was happening.

He wanted to be mad, so he didn’t say anything.

What you do—what you say—it affects other people. That’s why you must be very careful with your words and actions. There’s no do-over.

I went on about forgiveness and grace, something about how we write the stories of our life. He took his turn in the shower without a word or backward glance to me.

I just sighed.

While he showered, they went ahead to get breakfast—because there’s no asking a thirteen year-old to wait. But I did. I waited.

He came out in a rush of steam, white towel wrapped around his little body. Immediately, he lunged at me--wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in my chest.

I’m sorry, mommy, he said, melting in the steam.

It’s okay, honey.

I smoothed his wet hair with my fingers.

But I can’t take it back, he said. I can’t un-create it.

Oh, honey, I said, hugging his warm pink flesh. You just did.

We can’t un-create our memories, I had told him. But that’s exactly what we did in the next moments. We sat on that hotel bed and went through the events of the previous day and night together. But this time, we picked out the good parts. There was no mention of the bad attitudes, flares of temper, or sulky silences that colored the entire trip. I didn’t refer to how let down I felt-- that this time I had so looked forward to had been nothing but a big bundle of stress and disappointment.

I wanted him to know. There are consequences to his choices. Surely he knows this? He just didn’t think about it in the previous twenty-four hours. He didn’t want to.

What he says and does affects me. What he says and does affects those around him.

I wanted him to know. But do I? What I say and do matters. It impacts my small world. And my small world impacts the world at large.

Scott Cairns, in his beautiful book The End of Suffering, reminds me:

…Every choice in our lives that separates us from communion with God, and every decision that clouds our awareness of His presence or erodes our relationships with on another has a profound and expanding effect—as the proverbial ripples in a pool…

As I forgave my young son and chose to let go of disappointment, I felt the ripple.

Trouble was, we had been a bowl full of ripples all weekend…the wrong kind. Like when I hissed out of the corner of my mouth to the boys that I might strangle their father any minute. His ripples had bumped up against me until I was a tidal wave. It was a weekend of roiling waters.

This idea—that we are all connected—is not a new one. We are the Body; we cannot be whole apart from one another. But have I really considered what this means?

…all of creation is implicated in this phenomenon we variously call salvation, redemption, reconciliation. Like the late theologian John Romanides, I suspect that our saving relationship with God is quite specifically “as the Body of Christ”; our salvation is not a discrete, individualized, private bargain struck, but comes by way of our continuing participation in divine life, as a member of a holy body that is at once both alive and life-giving. (Scott Cairns, The End of Suffering).

How do I communicate this to my young son? How do I commit it to my person?

We are not alone in this thing. We need each other. It’s much easier for me to be aware of our interconnectedness when the one my ripple washes over sits beside me. It’s easy when I have felt the ripples of his actions. But what of my other parts? The ones in other countries gasping for air, for clean water, for…love? What of those in the inner cities who know no other way of life than violence? The homeless?

As I hold my boy in my arms, I feel the world in my arms.

Oh, Lord. Be the stone. Let me be a ripple of your splash.