One Thousand Gifts: The Hard Eucharisteo

I sit on the back deck in the early morning and let dew settle on my skin. The moon is a sickle and it lies on its side—a lopsided grin. The sky is starting the slow blush and this is my favorite time—earth waking up. The tree swallows are soaring and diving into the lush green of the meadow and their broad swoops and bold plunges make me catch my breath.

I am thinking my prayers; plucking them like apples from trees. But they are not coming neatly--I can’t seem to gather these thoughts. About a friend who lost a husband too soon…a father of two boys not too far in age from my own. About cousins whose world will never again be the same. About a man who fell and a boy who cannot walk now and an unborn baby who never had a chance and a little girl fighting for her life.

Bad things happen in this world.

It makes me think about grace.

It is suffering that has the realest possibility to bear down and deliver grace…emptiness itself can birth the fullness of grace because in the emptiness we have the opportunity to turn to God, the only begetter of grace, and there find all the fullness of joy…(Ann Voskamp, OneThousand Gifts)

I have read Job and I know that He gave that prowling lion permission. I know the scriptures about glorying in suffering and rejoicing in pain. I have felt the deep, transforming power of transcending the hard stuff.

And I know that grace compels us to respond. The Work is done but forgiveness asks us to join in completing the work. The Work is both done and being done. It is a beginning, not an endpoint.

Just when we have given up all—when we are stuck at the crucifixion, blinded by the crosses we bear—what seems the end is revealed for what it is: a new beginning.

And knowing him gives the strength to muck through the darkness.

He knows.

“He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.”  (Mark 16:7) Our good Lord goes ahead of us in this world. There is no place we can go that he has not already been.

…It is dark suffering’s umbilical cord that alone can untether new life. (Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts)

Do I believe this? If I ask for a fish, will he give me a snake?

A few years ago during vacation Bible school one of the kids I am teaching asks why. Why does God allow us to suffer? Why do children die and daddies leave and lives break?

The world is broken, I tell her. But he wants us to choose him. We are free not to.

The powers of the world—the powers of death and sin are at work, never sleeping, relentlessly prowling this earth.

I can’t pretend to understand all of these things. There are only glimpses of knowing that light the way. I do not believe that all suffering comes from the hand of God. But, I do believe He uses it.

Pain can transform.

Do I tell this to my friend as she buries her husband?

…take the pain that is given, give thanks for it, and transform it into a joy that fulfills all emptiness. I have glimpsed it: This, the hard eucharisteo. The hard discipline to lean into the ugly and whisper thanks to transfigure it into beauty. The hard discipline to give thanks for all things at all times because He is all good…(Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts)

I tell my friend that she is held. That she is loved with a love so big. And trust God with the other parts. When bad things happen, love gives eucharisteo when I cannot. We hold each other. And He holds us.  

This is the fifth in a series on Ann Voskamp’s book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right WhereYou Are.  Join me this time next week for a reflection on Chapter six.

Related:
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter One
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Two 
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Three
One Thousand Gifts: The Now Sanctuary

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part V

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas's  Neruda's Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available--and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week--I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world--leaves, papers, my neighbor's flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry--a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy's depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations--destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices...

This is part five of the story. Scroll down to the bottom of the post for links to previous parts.  I hope to post a little each week. Enjoy!

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs

Amy sank her teeth into the airy white bread and the tangy sweetness of grape jelly melted into her tongue. She swung her legs back and forth under the table. The old lady was talking and she was trying to listen but that purple goodness was gooping out the sides of its spongy confines, forcing her to tilt head and drink its drippings.

She had cried a lot at first—so much she hadn’t wanted to eat. The missing of her momma was more than she could stand. And her daddy too. And when her grandma came to stay with her, she thought it only temporary. That they would be coming home soon. She thought that all the way through the funerals and up until the grandmother told her that her mommy and daddy were in heaven now.

What was she saying now? 

The silver head was bending close. Those slender fingers with the bunchy skin were wrapping around hers. Milk-blue eyes sought her own. 

“You’re going to be okay, Amelia. We’re going to take care of each other. It’s just you and me now.”

Just you and me now. 

Steven had once told her that too.

They always go away.

The Watchers hissed in her ear.

Amy awoke with a start. She slapped the alarm into submission and stared at the ceiling. She resisted the urge to turn to the empty side of the bed. She must face these things alone now. 

But her Gran’s face seemed so real. And for a minute she was four years old again…waiting for momma and daddy. She closed her eyes and tried to remember their faces. All she could conjure was the snapshot taken on their wedding day that she had tucked away in the safe in the closet in the second bedroom. 

But Gran’s face? That was another story. She closed her eyes and brought the dream to mind—she knew every curve of that woman’s mouth…every wrinkle on her brow. And her eyes--how they could speak the mischief of her mind. 

The sobs that wracked her small frame took her by surprise. Blindly, she fumbled for it on the table. Drew it like air to parched lungs. It fell open to page ninety-five.

Pain isn’t a wound

                we can stitch

                to a close…

She let her eyes linger over the rest of the poem until her heart slowed and her breathing smoothed. This one said so much. Heartfelt, it was called. 

It was. 

Amy had read it over and over last night before giving in to sleep. Somehow, Maureen Doallas’s words had become her lullaby. 

She looked at the clock. Only an hour before time to read to Justine. As she put feet to floor, she carried the last lines of the poem with her.

Measure pain slowly,

                wait for it to dull,

                offer it time and memory. 

Related:
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part I
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part II 
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part III
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part IV

Oh, Great Mystery

“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 our history, Jesus, 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)

*linking up with Jen and the Soli Deo Gloria sisters today:






*On Sunday, we had an infant baptism at church. It always fills me with such joy to watch that bundle of white receive the water with wonder. It reminded me of this long ago conversation with Jeffrey and made me long for the heart of the child. So, I'm also linking with Michelle today--thinking of my baptism too:

Playdates: Friends

Family and friends are a shelter in troubled times… (Sirach 40:24a)

When the work is done and every trace of vacation Bible school is tucked away…we sigh. We eat together and play together and are salt for one another. We celebrate.

It’s been a long week, filled with joy and tired but we’ve done all this together. From the decking of the church to the removal of that last bit of green—we’ve been together. You tell us that where two or more are gathered in your name…You are there. This we know because we feel your hands among ours—these years of serving together, working side by side. And something wonderful has happened in between the service projects and the carry-in dinners and the committee meetings.

We have become bread to one another. 

Thank you for my Playmates, Lord. You knit us together more tightly with each passing day. We are family.

How about you? How do you embrace the God-joy? Every Monday I’ll be sharing one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find Him. Be with Him. And come tell us about it.

Grab my new button at the bottom of the page and join us!

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

Thinking About...

It is customary to blame secular science and anti-religious philosophy for the eclipse of religion in modern society. It would be more honest to blame religion for its own defeats. Religion declined not because it was refuted, but because it became irrelevant, dull, oppressive, insipid. When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendor of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion--its message becomes meaningless. --Abraham Joshua Heschel, God in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism

How Does Your Garden Grow?

We've been planting seeds all week, friends. A few have been planted in my heart as well...

**photos: Scenes from Pandemania--Vacation Bible School at our little valley church this week.

One Thousand Gifts: The Now Sancuary

I am reading the chapter again and I am highlighting and taking notes and wondering and I run out of time. I get up an hour early to write the post but it’s not early enough because these words jump out at me: Thanks makes now a sanctuary. Those words jump out at me and grab my heart and it pulses with ingratitude and busy and it gasps for the sanctuary of now.

 

My hands feel heavy on the keyboard and the still, small Voice calls. I leave the computer. Go to the bay—the place we always meet. I press my forehead to glass and see that the morning sky is cotton pulled thin and the sun is ripening behind this veil. I hear the robins soothe with morning song and watch a rabbit nibble clover in the front yard. 

I close my eyes; let beauty make an imprint on my soul. 

Thank you, I whisper. Thank you.

But it’s not enough and this I know so I pad quiet up the stairs—to the sleeping places. And there he is with those long lashes resting on cheeks. His legs reach the bottom of the bed now and he’s rolled on his tummy, as always. My fingers itch to touch a cheek, to stroke those thick locks that never behave but I know that this time is not for touching…just seeing.

 

I do. I see him. I see him and the words he told me last night—about not knowing what to be, who to be, what he wants.  What I want from him.

The ache sits heavy inside of me—all that I want for him. 

Happy, I had whispered to him in the dark. I only want you happy. That’s all.

 

To be thankful in the now, I must let go of expectation. Of all that I want. 

…here-time asks me to do the hardest of all: just open wide and receive. (Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts).

I can’t make time stand still--can’t stop boys from growing or hearts from hurting with that growth. I can’t fix all that is broken in my tiny world. And when I try? Worry. It’s worry what fills the moments when I get out my toolbox and start tinkering. 

All that I have is this moment. I open wide and receive. And I am thankful. 

…When I fully enter time’s swift current, enter into the current moment with the weight of all my attention, I slow the torrent with the weight of me all here. I can slow the torrent by being all here. I only live the full life when I live fully in the moment…(Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts)

This is the fourth in a series on Ann Voskamp’s book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right WhereYou Are.  Join me this time next week for a reflection on Chapter five

Related:
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter One
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Two 
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Three 

Sharing with Emily:

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part IV

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas's  Neruda's Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available--and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week--I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world--leaves, papers, my neighbor's flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry--a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy's depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations--destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices...

This is part four of the story. Scroll down to the bottom of the post for links to previous parts.  I hope to post a little each week. Enjoy!

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs

She thought she would never see him again and shame burned her cheeks as she remembered their last encounter. The bank manager she had fled from last week.

All eyes were on her and Amy wanted to run. The Watchers began their laughter and she felt her defenses start the slow rise.

"What are you doing here, Ms. Pinkleberry?" He asked again.

“I-I came to get my book,” she said, hotly.

She turned to Justine, intending to forcefully remove the manuscript from the woman’s hands if necessary. Those milky eyes were studying her intently and Amy saw comprehension dawn on the old woman’s face. Slowly, Justine unwound her hands from her chest and held the book out to Amy.

Amy didn’t know why she felt so guilty all of a sudden. I mean, the book belonged to her, right? But Justine’s arms were so skinny…and her hands shook as she offered the book. Amy took it gently—and Justine’s fingers only clung for a second.

“Thank you,” she said, softly. “I’ll just be going now.”

But as she turned to go Justine’s voice followed her.

“Amelia?”

There it was again. That tugging. The way the old woman said her given name stirred memory. She turned around.

“Yes?”

“I am wondering…would you like a job? Just a couple hours a day, mind you. My nurse just quit on me and we have been unsuccessful in finding another and…”

“Justine!”

Color was rising in the man’s face. Amy had never seen quite that shade of purple.

“It’s true, Oliver, you can’t keep coming home every two hours to check on me! Alice should not have to bear this…”

The man named Oliver turned to the little girl.

“Alice, would you please take Ms. Pinkleberry to the galley and find our guest something to drink? Your grandmother and I need to talk.”

Amy shook her head and was about to refuse but the girl grabbed her hand and almost skipped her out of the room—through a swinging door with a circular glass window. They entered a long narrow kitchen with a raised bar down the center. The room was all shiny metallic and Amy was reminded of a fifties malt shop.

“I just made some orange Kool-aid this morning!”

Amy started to respond but voices drifted through the swinging door--agitated voices of the two adults they left behind.

“Justine, are you out of your mind? You don’t know anything about this woman!”

“I know she recognizes good poetry when she sees it and that’s a darn sight better than these bobble-headed girls you have paraded through here these months…”

“Those girls were trained to take care of people. This girl has an MBA from Stanford! What in the world makes you think…Besides, she seems a bit…”

But Amy missed the last word because Alice started giggling.

“I love your socks.”

Amy looked down. In her haste to get to Neruda’s Memoirs she hadn’t even considered her appearance. To her horror she saw that she hadn’t even managed to match up her socks—one brightly colored striped variety paired with yellow and green polka dots. To make matters worse, her pajama bottoms were haphazardly tucked down in the things, giving her legs a clown-like appearance.

She smiled weakly at Alice.

“Thank you.”

She readjusted her leggings, shifting them over the brightly colored socks.

Alice opened the refrigerator door, talking all the while.

“We have the orange Kool-aid, there’s some soda in here, and Justine’s tomato juice. What’s yer poison.”

She dimpled just so that Amy was speechless for a second.

“Oh—um…I’m not really thirsty. And I really need to get back.”

Amy clutched Neruda’s Memoirs to her chest and made a movement to go.

“Wait!”

Amy sighed. Would she never escape?

“Don’t you want to hear Gram’s offer? We really do need someone to help. Someone…” she groped around for the right word. “Someone that Gram likes.”

Such a solemn tone from so young a girl pulled at Amy’s heart. Despite her anxiety, she wondered about Alice’s story. Where was her mother? Why wasn’t she in school? And what was wrong with her grandmother?

Amy  sat down on one of the bar stools and bellied up to the counter.

“I’d love some tomato juice, please.”

Alice smiled wide.  She pulled a glass jar from the fridge.

“It wouldn’t be for very long, you know. Dad says Gram is not long for this world. Her time is coming soon, he says. He just wants me to be prepared, he says. It’s always been just the three of us. And I don’t know what I’ll do without Gram. But she’s been sick for so long now. Dad says we should be glad when she’s not suffering…”

The girl bubbled on, barely taking a breath between words. Amy felt dizzy.

“Alice. I haven’t said yes. It sounds to me like your father does not want to hire me. I don’t want to cause any problems. Besides…I’ve been looking for a real job.”

She took a sip of the thick red juice the child placed before her. Alice climbed onto the stool beside hers and leaned elbows on the counter.

“Don’t worry. Gram always gets what she wants. Dad talks a lot, but in the end, it’s Gram who figures everything out.”

Just then the door opened and a dark head peeked through.

“Ms. Pinkleberry? Would you mind coming back in her for a moment?”

Amy slid off the stool and pushed through the swinging door once again.

Justine sat upright in the hospital bed, cheeks flushed.  There was a sparkle in her eye that was not there before. Triumph.

Amy couldn’t help smiling at the accuracy of Alice’s prediction.

“Ms. Pinkleberry, I know…” Oliver began.

“Amelia,” Justine interrupted. “When can you start? I just need three hours a day. The home health nurse will come for the hard parts. All that I want you to do is read to me. Are you interested?”

The watcher’s started.

…Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard…You can’t get a real job…You can’t make it on three hours a week…

“I’m not sure…I’ve been looking for a job—full-time, with benefits…”

“Why don’t we agree that you’ll work for me until you find one?”

What could it hurt? Amy hesitated. Justine saw her chance.

“Come tomorrow at ten. You will lunch with us. Oliver will discuss pay.”

She yawned.

“And now, I’m so sorry, dear, but I must get some rest. Oliver, will you show Amelia to the door?”

“Yes, of course. Just follow me.”

He turned and headed toward the front hall. Amy followed his wrinkled back through the yawning archway.

“Amelia?”

Amy turned.

“Yes?”

“Bring Neruda’s Memoirs with you tomorrow, will you?”

Related:
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part I
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part II 
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part III

Playdates with God: Lettuce

On Father’s Day I am rinsing the lettuce from my little garden and drying the springy green leaves one at a time with a towel and I remember the salad spinner that my friend Mary Alice used to have and I wonder if those things are still made these days. There must be some secret to this, I am pondering, and I think about my farmer friends and wonder if they hang these things on the clothesline. I tried the colander but it wasn’t working fast enough—my in-laws will be arriving soon and the salad still not made. I try shaking the leaves before the towel drying and my husband comes in smelling like smoke from the ribs he is tending outside, takes one look at my production, and we laugh. This is very labor intensive.

But, I force myself to slow down and when I do, I notice how beautiful the green is and it gives me immense satisfaction to handle these delicate gifts from the earth. My dad telephones and a boy runs the receiver in to me. I cradle it between my shoulder and ear—let my hands continue the work.

“I saw you called, babe.”

And I can tell by his voice where he’s been but somehow the crisp green between my fingers says it’s ok and I tell him happy Father’s Day and how is everyone up there? Somehow we get to talking about my little garden and I hear his voice find something and he tells me about the acres my grandfather used to farm and how the family garden was about half an acre and how you can’t grow corn around here because the soil isn’t just right. He tells me how, at the end, grandma didn’t can so much anymore but she had a big freezer and would freeze everything.

“But she never stopped making her tomato juice.”

He waxes poetic about the tomato juice and his voice makes me homesick for everything I never knew about my grandma and I grope around in my mind for any scrap of memory that might be there. But all that breaks the surface is the basement of our old house, how mom’s tomato juice looked lined up on the shelves against the walls in that musty place. Those mason jars a thing of beauty and I can almost taste the tangy barb of that redness.

I look out the window at my tomato plants—how they are tucked in neatly in their little square bed.

“Don’t you need a lot of tomatoes to make juice?”

I wonder aloud, and he laughs and we are having a good conversation and my fingers tingle with the feel of the wet lettuce.

When I put the phone back in its cradle I try not to overthink everything—just enjoy. A few hours before, in church, I shared this story and hard as it was…it felt good.

The salad is done, the potatoes are baking, and my love is putting the finishing touches on the chicken at the grill. I sit on the back deck in the sun and wonder at the joy a simple conversation can bring. And I wonder how many of the world’s ills have been given a new face during the rinsing and drying of a batch of lettuce.

Maybe I don’t need that salad spinner after all. 

  

How about you? How do you embrace the God-joy? Every Monday I’ll be sharing one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find Him. Be with Him. And come tell us about it.

Grab my new button at the bottom of the page and join us!

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

And Michelle:

And Jen too! It's a linky party today!

This is what I want to say...

Back then I would stumble out of bed before dawn and meet God with my face pressed to the dining room floor and I would pray for us--I would pray for them. Then the day came five years ago when you finally stopped running from God and you looked at me with eyes shining and said, "I want to be a better father; I want to love them better.  " 

You always have. Loved them well.

From the day we brought home each bundle of blue, you've taught me about how a father loves.

I didn't know.

The walking of the colicky one around and around until your arms were numb, the take-downs and fly-offs on the big bed, the Nascar races on foot through sandy beach...you always know how to thrill them. But I have watched these five years and I have seen. I have seen you love them better.

It was that redhead, in Sunday school, who said it. His teacher told me. He was ten. "We know," he said. "We know that God answers prayers. Because we prayed for my dad."

When we married, I knew I was marrying a good man. When we became a family, I knew you would be a good father.

But faith has made you better. 

It's His Great Love that keeps shaping, keeps growing us both. And I still pray for us--for them. 

I love you, sweetheart, Happy Father's Day. You look more like your Daddy each day.  

One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Three

On Sunday I search frantically for the button. It popped off right before Christmas Eve service—the other “wearing of red” season at church—all those months ago, and I distinctly remember putting it “someplace safe” so as not to lose. It’s my only decent red blouse, after all.

I find it in my button box and scramble for red thread. I don’t sew much anymore—there’s not much need and not much time, and besides, my mother-in-law is quite handy with a needle. I think these things as I promptly run the needle into my thumb. I’m sucking the red and trying not to get it on the shirt or on the chair or anywhere else and as I run my thumb under the cold water I think it: His blood. Isn’t it all over me? All this red and suddenly my eyes cannot see for the flowing.

When the boys were small, the worship committee would tie bundles of red balloons to the pews on Pentecost—they called it the birthday of the church. It seemed a strange label to me—having grown up a Jehovah’s Witness--but I could get there…the joy of the tongues of fire urging me on and all.

And on the Monday following Pentecost, the church changes her clothes from red to green—the color of life and hope. We enter what is called “Ordinary Time” on the church calendar—called so because it is not part of any special liturgical season.

As I study the red balling up on my thumb it seems anything but ordinary.

Summer is here and in the morning I go running before the house awakens and the mist waves to me from above the lake as I pass and I run into the sun—this blood-orange ball that preens in beauty above my valley home. At night, the fireflies enchant and the stars blink white from their darkening indigo bed. The earth sighs.

Anything but ordinary.

But the busy threatens to make it so and when I hurry through each day—when I don’t stop and savor…the beauty leaves me like breath.

I think about the class on preaching I attended last weekend. The Witness of Preaching—this, our text, and I never stopped to think what those words mean.

To witness, according to my online dictionary can mean 1) to see or experience directly, or 2) to take note of.

Or, perhaps both.  To take note of something, one must see it.

Our preaching professor, she calls it the “preacher’s eye”.

As you begin to write sermons, you will start to see things you would have never thought of before, she says.

“But you have to find a way to record it—a system to keep it”, she goes on. “Otherwise, pshewww…” she gestures a flying away with hands. “Otherwise, you will never remember.”

I remember Ann and her list when she says that.

“…Writing the list, it makes me feel…happy. All day. I can hardly believe how it does that, that running stream of consciousness, river I drink from and I’m quenched in, a surging stream of grace and it’s wild how it sweeps me away…” (AnnVoskamp, One Thousand Gifts)

Without the writing down, these gifts are buried stones. There is no way they are going to bear fruit.

Don’t I know this story? Ever since I joined Ann’s Gratitude Community, haven’t I felt this happy? In truth, since I started jotting down life in this space…it has changed the way I see.

This conversation sends me looking. Opens my eyes to the beauty in the small. It is gratitude, yes, but it is so much more than the keeping of a list. It is noticing my life as I pass through it. This is what writing does. It names the moments of my life.

Naming is Edenic, says Ann.

And I wonder…is this the reason for the crazy joy? This naming—is it sown into the fiber of me—does it beat through my body with the thumping of my heart? Some things are so close we need to pull back to see them.

I name gifts and go back to the Garden and God in the beginning who first speaks a name and lets what is come into existence. This naming is how the first emptiness of space fills: the naming of light and land and sky. The first man’s first task is to name. Adam completes creation with his Maker through the act of naming creatures, releasing the land from chaos, from the teeming, indefinable mass. I am seeing it too, in the journal, in the face of the Farmer: naming offers the gift of recognition. When I name moments…I am Adam and I discover my meaning and God’s, and to name is to learn the language of Paradise…(Ann Voskamp, OneThousand Gifts).

I practice this gift in eucharisteo—this naming of the moments—and the empty space in me is filled. 

This is the third in a series on Ann Voskamp’s book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right WhereYou Are.  Join me this time next week for a reflection on Chapter four. 

Related:
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter One
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Two 

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part III

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas's  Neruda's Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available--and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week--I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world--leaves, papers, my neighbor's flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry--a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy's depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations--destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices...

This is part three of the story. Scroll down to the bottom of the post for links to Part I and Part II.  I hope to post a little each week. Enjoy!

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs

The gate was open. Just a little. 

Even the watchers were scared into silence as Amy gingerly pushed the big iron structure open just enough so she could squeeze through. Once inside, however, she was seized with sudden uncertainty. The house was not as large as she’d expected. It was only one story, for starters--a pale brick that seemed to wind around the property. The landscaping was immaculate. There was a ramp that curved around from the side of the house.

She looked up and waited for the watchers to tell her what to do. The wind had died down, leaving a gentle breeze that tickled her skin. Not a cloud in the sky and the words tumbled about in her head--

A sky dyed

deep in indigo…

A line from one of Maureen’s poems she had read on her blog that morning.

She needed that book.

Sighing heavily, Amy marched forward. She climbed the steps determinedly, but before she could put finger to bell, the door opened.

“Oh, good, you’re here. Follow me.”

The girl couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Her heart-shaped face and blonde ringlets were shockingly cute.  But right now she was moving quickly and there seemed some sense of urgency. Amy ducked through the door and followed the girl, quickening her pace to match.

“She’s been sleeping in the Great Room for a couple weeks now. It was the only place we could fit the hospital bed. It’s worked out good, though, there’s a full bath right close and here she has all her books she loves.”

As she talked, they entered a large, circular room. The ceiling arched up into a glass dome and sunlight cascaded down, coloring everything in golden hues.  The circular walls were ensconced with shelves and Amy felt dizzy as she turned in place to take in all the books. She recognized this giddy, lifting feeling. This was how she had felt the first time she visited the library as a girl. Paradise.

Her gaze circled round until it landed on a peculiar sight. At the far arc was a hospital bed and in the bed was a very small, very old, very angry woman. Her white hair was carefully coiffed and lipstick amply applied. She sat bolt upright, arms crossed and steely eyes fixed defiantly on Amy.

Amy was bemused.  Just then she noticed the small red and black book on a table beside the hospital bed. She could only just make out the sensuous colors of Randall David Tipton’s The Assumption of the Virgin in the middle of the cover. Without thinking, she moved forward.

“Granny, this is your new nurse,” the little girl was saying. “Now you be nice to her! Dad had a lot of trouble convincing the company to send another…”

The elderly woman was watching Amy approach.  Say something, the watchers said, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.  She had her eye on that book and that was all that mattered. She had found it. It was hers. She would take it and go home. It was that simple.

Say something, the watchers repeated.

“I’m sorry, but you are mistaken,” she nodded at the little girl and offered a quivering smile to the old woman. “I live up the street and just came to collect my book. It seems it was delivered here by mistake.”

She reached out a shaky hand to pluck the book from the table.

But the old woman beat her to it. Before Amy knew what had happened, skinny fingers had grabbed Neruda’s Memoirs right out from under hers. 

Amy looked up in disbelief. The old woman had the book pressed to her emaciated chest, holding it in both hands like a prayer. The scowl on her face had disappeared and there was fear in her eyes. Amy watched as she struggled for composure.  

“I—I…well, you must be Amelia.”

She gave Amy a watery smile. The way the woman said her given name awoke a memory deep inside Amy’s body and she felt herself responding physically to this frail creature. She began to relax.

“My name is Justine,” the woman smiled again. “I fear I owe you an apology…Alice opened the package by mistake and before we could return the book to you, I sort of…well, I fell right into it.”

She laughed nervously and glanced at Amy.

“Yes, yes, I understand. Maureen Doallas writes beautifully, doesn’t she? Now if you don’t mind…”

Amy reached out her hand to receive the book.

But Justine continued to clutch those bound pages and her eyes filled with tears.

“It’s just that…” she lowered her voice and locked eyes with Amy. “These words are the only thing that makes the pain stop.”

This sudden admission took Amy aback, but before she could respond, a voice boomed down the hall.

“What is the gate doing open? Alice, how many times do I have to tell you to make sure it latches when…”

He stopped speaking when he saw Amy.  Amy felt her knees grow weak as his eyes burned into her.

“Miss Pinkleberry,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

She thought she would never see him again and shame burned her cheeks as she remembered their last encounter. The bank manager she had fled from last week was her neighbor.. 

Related:
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part I
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part II