One Thousand Gifts: Go Lower

I think about it all day and the more I let it have sway the more it does. It hurts. The words were said careless. Not given to me but thrown. It’s been weeks but still I can’t let go.

There was the man who sat in my office the other day—sobbing.

“All this just brings up feelings that I thought I’d let go of.”

I know. Oh, how I know.

I turn on music to distract my mind but it only provides a mood for rumination. I try to rehearse the scripture, but my heart won’t let my mind focus.

I become the little girl me, alone and lonely.

No one understands.

And the more the hurt settles into my pores, the more I let it define me—the angrier I become.

Well, he should have…

Why didn’t he…

The angrier I get, the more it feels right. I am entitled to feel this way.

But the thing is—justified or not—it doesn’t feel good.

Righteous indignation only perpetuates the wrong. It keeps me from giving grace. And who am I? When it has been lavished so richly on me?

I go out to the garden.

…That word humility itself comes from the Latin root humus—the kind of earth that grows good crops. God gives the earth to the humus-people, the humble ones. Humility is that good humus that grows gratitude that yields abundant joy.

And this is where I find the strength to forgive—on my knees, pawing this soil, tilling it with my fingers and pulling the weeds.

My heart is like this garden. So much hurt can go to seed if I don’t tend it regularly. I forget myself here—forget that cutting in my heart, that feeling that I don’t belong. Here, the smallest of creatures fills me with wonder and I am lost in joy. 

True saints know that the place where all the joy comes from is far deeper than that of feelings; joy comes from the place of the very presence of God…

It is in this forgetting myself—this making me small—that things fall back in the proper place. And I am grateful.

Awe…awe ignites joy because it makes us bend the knee and I remember a night chasing moon and we are in deepest happiness in the posture of grateful worship. Because the God-likeness within our smallness speaks to Father-God in His magnificence. I hadn’t understood that in wheat under lunar light: That all wonder and worship can only grow out of smallness…The quiet song of gratitude, eucharisteo, lures humility out of the shadows because to receive a gift the knees must bend humble and the hand must lie vulnerably open and the will must bow to accept whatever the Giver chooses to give.

This is the ninth 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 nine.

Related:
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter One
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Two 
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Three
One Thousand Gifts: The Now Sanctuary
One Thousand Gifts: The Hard Eucharisteo 
One Thousand Gifts: The Great Beauty Hunt 
One Thousand Gifts: Seeing Through the Glass
One Thousand Gifts: Just Trust 

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part IX

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 nine 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

The moon was slowly rising over the poster board horizon—its waxing gibbous a face turned away from their party. Amy wiggled her toes in the cool sand. Justine leaned in close.

“This has all been so…re-enchanting.”

She dimpled and Amy realized just how strongly Alice resembled her grandmother. She returned Justine’s smile. She knew the poem her friend referred to. It was Maureen Doallas’s To Be Re-enchanted is Uneasy. She gave her the favorite verse.

“I would as soon die as miss

morning coming up, the swelling round

of cloud before lightbursts, the press

of stars to complete a night’s worth of sky

for clearing dreams…”

Justine leaned back in her chair and looked up at the midnight blue.

“The press of stars to complete a night’s worth of sky…Oh, that’s nice.”

She sighed deep.

“Oh but I fear I will have to miss morning coming up. I will settle for these stars pressing in and ready for the dreamland. Oliver, will you help me to bed? This has been such a wonderful evening. I don’t want to spoil it by staying up too late. I am tired. Such a good tired, though.”

They had pulled the chairs up to the firepit and Oliver and Alice were cuddled in the glider--Oliver’s arms making a warm nest for his girl. Though spring had announced her arrival by way of bloom on nearby hills, the evenings were still cool and the clear sky lent a nip to the air. Amy was thankful for her sweater and drew a bit closer to the fire as the others began to stir.

“Alice, you should be getting ready for bed too, sweetheart.”

Oliver disentangled himself from the gangly arms of a ten year old.

“But, dad! I’m not tired! Let me stay up a little bit longer, please?”

Oliver looked at a loss, so Amy attempted a rescue.

“I should be going too. Alice, it is getting late. Maybe you should listen to your dad.”

Alice’s lip curled.

“May I stay up just long enough for you to get Gram settled, Dad? Amy can keep me company, can’t you?”

She turned those blue eyes on Amy and resistance was futile.

“Sure, I can. But as soon as your dad gets back…I have to go, ok?”

“Oh, all right.”

Amy bent to give Justine a goodnight hug. She was surprised to have a papery kiss planted on her cheek.

“Thank you, Amelia.” There were tears in the old woman’s eyes. “I couldn’t have asked for a nicer evening.”

As Oliver wheeled her away, Amy nestled into the glider beside Alice. The girl leaned into Amy and she wrapped arms around the skinny frame. They rocked back and forth, quiet—watching the fire die down and listening to its soft burn. Amy could feel Alice giving in to sleep, felt the small body relax in her arms. She buried her face in the girl’s hair and felt her heart leap. Alice smelled like sunscreen and grape popsicle and the scent of her was causing Amy’s heart to break.

“This has been the best night,” Alice murmured.

“Yes,” Amy said, staring into the fire. “It has.”

“Like having a real family.”

Amy hugged her tighter—felt the pain of those few words and they rocked steady.  They were one and she knew the precise moment that sleep came because Alice’s breathing slowed and the girl’s body rested heavy against her own.

“Is she asleep?”

Oliver sat in the lawn chair beside the glider and held his hands to the fire.

“I think so. Only just.”

“Maybe you should sit a little bit. Just to make sure she is in a good deep sleep before I carry her up.”

Something about his smile made Amy blush.  She was thankful for the settling dark.

 “Thank you for inviting me tonight. It was…really nice.”

“I couldn’t not invite you. It was your idea, after all.”

“This?” She gestured around the garden. “This wasn’t my idea! How in the world did you do it all?”

He grinned wider, poked the fire with one of the sticks they had used to roast the marshmallows earlier.

“Justine still has a lot of friends in the construction business, you know. That was what George did. Owned a huge construction company. The guys who bought it from her after he died were with him forever. They are crazy about Justine. Would do anything for her. So, I just…made a few phone calls.”

“Well, it’s amazing. I’m re-enchanted too.”

“I’m glad.”

He looked away.

“Thank you for everything you do, Amy. Alice is just crazy about you and Justine…I’ve seen new hope in her these past weeks.”

“All I do is give her poetry.”

“And that means everything. All the poetry has been gone from her life for a long time.”

He looked up and into Amy’s eyes.

“And from mine too.”

Something inside of her felt like it would break if he kept looking at her like that and fear came calling. The Watchers can never resist the call of fear.

But Oliver’s next words put the stopper on the voices of her old enemies and sent Amy’s heart spinning.

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
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part V
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part VI
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part VII
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part VIII

Keeping the Deer Away

Keeping deer away, it said.

The notecard my mother-in-law left me last week.

Laura, after things dry off after a rain, mix a solution of ¾ parts water & ¼ part milk in a spray bottle. Spray all your garden plants. If you don’t have a spray bottle, just take your fingers and sprinkle the plants—must do this after every rain. It will keep the deer away.

My tenderettes had turned up nibbled down to the nub one morning. I called my mother and father-in-law. They are my gardening consultants.

It’s the deer, she said. They love beans!

She left me the card while I was at work one day. I don’t know why, but I didn’t do it.

The next day, I noticed that the tops of some of my tomato plants had been nibbled. And my hydrangea. I’m doomed to never see that thing bloom.

I still didn’t sprinkle the milk. I don’t know why. I just didn’t do it.

The next morning, I was incredulous.

Those boogers ate my tobasco peppers! I told my husband.

Sprinkle the milk, he said.

Well, I didn’t think they would eat hot peppers!

The milk, he said, emphatically.

I didn’t. Do. It.

The next morning, I was enjoying a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. The birds were frolicking happily at my feeder and I was lost in the flutter of wing and flash of gold. Then, on my periphery, something moved in the meadow. Something large and brown.

Slowly, I stood up from the table. The birds startled away in a poof of feathers.

It was a doe.

Breathlessly, I watched her move toward the fence, edging ever closer to my garden. I was ready to make a big ruckus. I could put a scare on a doe like nobody’s business. And then the little fawn appeared.

I sat back down.

She nosed her little muzzle up against the fence.

Perhaps that dear little creature needs those beans more than I, my clouded thoughts wondered.

The thieving duo disappeared into the thick underbrush of the meadow and I began thinking of vine-ripened tomatoes. Of homemade salsa and the snap of fresh-picked beans.

I sprinkled the milk.

While I was doing so, I wondered to myself…what took me so long?

Does that ever happen to you? You know you should do something, but you just don’t? You know it will make your life better, richer, more beautiful…but you don’t.

I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it. (Romans 7:15-20)

Some seasons, that sin nature just beats me. And I’m not talking about sprinkling milk here. Some days, are dark days where I question and doubt, some days my words tear down instead of building up, some days I’m eaten up with negativity and ugly, some days…I do what I do not want to do. Some days, that sin nature comes soft with downy white spots on its back and a pretty pink nose pressed up against my fence.

There is a simple solution. That sprinkling again. When I remember the sprinkling of my baptism…it keeps me from being nibble down to the nub.

What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord.—Romans 7: 24-25

 With Jen and the Soli Deo Gloria sisters today: 

Playdates with God: Music Camp

In the morning, moisture spools on the glass and unwinds in thready rivulets down the pane. All week the sky presses in on us heavy. Life presses heavy too and I wait for rain—feel my insides brittle. I am so thirsty. It’s this mothering and the teaching the hard lessons that parches this week.

Because all week…he doesn’t want to go.

I drop him off at music camp on Monday and he is bubbling over with excitement. He doesn’t care so much about the singing but he wants to play the drums and this boy is always up for a new adventure.

Only it doesn’t go so well the first day. He cries the whole way home when I pick him up and he doesn’t have any friends there and no matter how he tries to be friendly they all know each other and won’t make room for him and it’s all chaos. Just standing around in the sanctuary.

“It’s only the first day,” I say. “Give it a chance.”

The next days I drop him off and drive the long way to work along the river. The water glows in morning sun and a dry breeze makes ripples in the light. I drive past old sternwheelers with chipped up paint, past ugly factories and littered riverbank. But it’s the shine that keeps drawing my eye.

How do we make it past the ugly if we don’t set our eyes on the shine?

Sunday night comes with dread but he wears the t-shirt and we put on our smiles to go see.

There is much milling about and so many small shining faces but I pick him out of the crowd and my eyes are only for him. The preacher comes in and welcomes everyone and then he prays and then he says this:

“Tonight we will know that Lord has been here with us.”

There is the mini-concert with all the plinky piano players. The Orff class with their sing-songy xylophone numbers. The interpretive dancers and scripture readers and responsive reading and the singing of hymns. And the way those young voices lift takes my heart on a joyride. The earnest way they give, the way she touches her heart and lifts her arms, the way he keeps going despite a dropped line. A little boy sits in the choir loft and rolls his eyes, sticks out his tongue. A toddler runs out of control up and down the pew aisle. And we are all here together, praising.

Our boy plays with the handbell choir. As I watch him in his white gloves, counting out the notes, turning the pages of the music…my heart swells.

I see the shine.

And we all know it. We know that the Lord is here with us.

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 button at the bottom of the page and join us:

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

Looking for a good summer read? Join us over at The High Calling for our new book club--which continues today--on Luci Shaw's Breath for the Bones: Art, Imagination, and Spirit: Reflections on Creativity and Faith.

One Thousand Gifts: Just Trust

Just trust.

That’s what her farmer said to her when her toes were curled tight and that barn loomed heavy on the horizon.

Just trust.

How many times have I said these very words to my own man—his toes curled tight, his heart strapped up in worry?

Stress isn’t only a joy stealer, she says. The way we respond to it can be sin…

Just trust.

Trust is the antithesis of stress, she says. And I know this must be right, for trust is still--calm waters. Trust is sunshine on the face. Trust is Strong Arms wrapped around me. How can stress penetrate trust?

But…it does.

This long spell of waiting, with questions hanging from thin lines—haven’t I pointed my finger at the sky and doubted? In the dark of night I’ve shed tears. Because bad things happen to good people. And I don’t always get what I want. And children get broken. And the wait is always too long.

How do I fill the gap of waiting?

“…Something always comes to fill the empty spaces and this is what I’ve come to do with white space. I invite thanks. For this is His will, thanks the one thing He asks to be done in everything and always and only because He knows what precedes the miracle.”

Thanks becomes bread, she says. Thanks feeds our trust.

I count these gifts, write them on my heart. And they feed. And when the hard eucharisteo comes, I remember this:

 “He gave us Jesus. Jesus! Gave Him up for us all. If we have only one memory, isn’t this one enough? Why is this the memory I most often take for granted? He cut open the flesh of the God-Man and let the blood. He washed our grime with the bloody grace. He drove the iron ore through His own vein. Doesn’t that memory alone suffice? Need there be anything more? If God didn’t withhold from us His very own Son, will God withhold anything we need?

…All gratitude is ultimately gratitude for Christ, all remembering a remembrance of Him. For in Him all things were created, are sustained, have their being. Thus Christ is all there is to give thanks for; Christ is all there is to remember. To know how we can count on God, we count graces, but ultimately there is really only One.”

I remember this Perfect Gift. And it is enough.

This is the eighth 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 nine.

Related:
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter One
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Two 
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Three
One Thousand Gifts: The Now Sanctuary
One Thousand Gifts: The Hard Eucharisteo 
One Thousand Gifts: The Great Beauty Hunt 
One Thousand Gifts: Seeing Through the Glass

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part VIII

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 eight 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

“Absolutely not.”

He was the brick wall behind his desk and she wrestled with frustration. Didn’t he see that Justine needs this?

“Amy, I appreciate what you want to do, but it’s just not possible. We are two hours from the ocean. That may not sound long to you, but for a woman who can break a bone by simply taking a step, for a woman whose skin could be sorely compromised by sitting in a car that long, for a woman who needs nursing care every few hours…It’s just too risky.”

She felt heat rising to her cheeks and pursed her lips. He must think her a fool.

“Oliver, I know it’s risky, but the benefits would far outweigh the danger. My ex-husband is a physician. I’ve already talked to him about borrowing one of the transport vans his practice uses for his surgery patients. The vans have special beds for skin management, there’s even potential for an oxygen tank if necessary. I worked at his practice for ten years. I know about these things.”

His eyes bored into her.

“And do you know about managing her bladder? Have you ever done a catheterization? Are you prepared to change her Depends? She lost bowel and bladder function several months ago. How do you think that will affect Justine’s dignity? It’s one reason she schedules you in between the nurses’ visits—so you won’t have to deal with that. If you traveled with Justine you would not only have to deal with it, but it may take away those few strands of pride she has left.”

Amy sat still in her chair. Of course she hadn’t considered these things. What was she thinking? She wanted to run from his office the way she had all those weeks ago. She felt like a little girl being chastised by a parent.

Suddenly, Oliver sprung up from his chair and turned his back to her. His wrinkled shirt flashed white in the corner of her eye. He wrapped his arms around himself—seemingly trying to calm down. She stood slowly, preparing to leave when she noticed his large frame shaking.

“Oliver?”

She took a step toward him.

He bowed his head and lifted a hand to cover his eyes. Oliver was crying. Amy remembered his hand over hers that first day they met—his awkward attempt at compassion—and a wave of tenderness crashed through her composure.

She edged around the desk and tentatively placed a cool hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what I was asking. I only wanted to do this for Justine.”

He lifted his hand to hers and for the second time in their acquaintance covered her small fingers with his large ones.

“I’m the one who is sorry.”

He turned to face her, still clutching her hand.

“Justine has been…like a mother to me. She has been the only mother Alice has known. I haven’t really considered what losing her will mean—what it has meant to watch her slowly go down hill over these past months. What I wouldn’t give to take her to the seashore—to see her eyes light up again. I would love to say yes, Amy. But I cannot compromise Justine’s health. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Amy nodded, slid her hand out of his.

“I understand. I won’t mention it again. I better get going or I’ll be late for our reading.”

She gave him a weak smile before heading out the door.

She had just put the top on her peanut butter and jelly sandwich when there came a light knock at the door. She glanced at the clock. Who would come calling at dinner time? She briefly entertained the thought of ignoring it, but the tapping came again—more insistent this time. She reluctantly set the sandwich down and moved to the door.

She opened it just a crack, only to have it pushed in from the outside at the slight give.

“Alice!”

“Dad said to come get you, Amy. You’re invited to dinner.”

Amy didn’t know what to say. Alice was smiling like she had a secret.

“Well…I just made a sandwich…”

“You have to come! Gram will be so disappointed if you don’t.”

Feeling slightly coerced, Amy grabbed a sweater and Alice’s hand and they walked down the street to the gated house together.

“What is this all about?” She glanced over at the girl.

“You’ll see…”

That ornery smile again.

When they entered the house, it was eerily quiet. Alice led her down the hall, through the Great Room, through the sun room, and out the garden doors.

Amy drew breath sharply at what she saw.

The entire garden courtyard had been turned into a beach. The grass and stone were covered with sand. There was a large mural of an ocean scene somehow hung along the south wall. A tiki bar with coconuts hanging from a grass umbrella sat in the corner. Island music drifted from speakers.

And there was Justine, in the middle of it all, sitting in a wheelchair. Grinning from ear to ear.

“Welcome to the beach,” she said, as Amy looked around in wonder. Oliver appeared from somewhere and put a lei around her neck.  He smiled down at her.

“What do you think?”

She was speechless. 

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
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part V
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part VI
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part VII

Playdates With God: Happy Feet

“There’s something about sitting on the front porch eating a Bomb Pop that makes it feel like anything is possible,” I say to him as I study that sweet miracle that is the red-white-and blue pop. The red is sweating, just a little, and promising just the right refreshment on this hot summer evening.

He nods, but doesn’t elaborate, and I wonder when the last time was he has felt that way.

Anything is possible.

“Your toes look funny,” he says, and when I look, I see that they do.

We have this ongoing foot thing—he teases me about mine because I like to pick things up with them. His? Useless. They just stand there. But the first time I saw them bared? That’s when I fell in love with him. One of my friends even wrote a poem about it.

This is what we do. When he gets back from an evening run, we sit on the porch and eat a Bomb Pop. Sometimes the boys join us. Sometimes the dog. But lately, it’s just been the two of us.

And it feels right. Because, you know—where two or more gather? And things are changing…what with boys that grow. I have a feeling that it’s going to be just the two of us a lot.

It’s a good thing I like him. And his feet. 

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 button at the bottom of the page and join us:

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also:

Looking for a good summer read? Join us over at The High Calling for our new book club--which starts today--on Luci Shaw's Breath for the Bones: Art, Imagination, and Spirit: Reflections on Creativity and Faith

Droplet Song

The way a

leaf cups the rain—
so, too, do You

gather me; collecting

my droplet bits

one-by-one, each

pearl of light

alone mere gossamer—

dew-lace; but, strung

all together

I carry the sun.

One Thousand Gifts: Seeing Through the Glass

She tells me before I go—several times she says it: “Try to settle for a couple days…stay quiet. Be gentle with yourself.”

And I nod my head and make my plans and drive home with my heart full, carrying peace. It all seems so clear in the silence, under the white pines looking up, in the still cafeteria where the food is prepared for me. It seems so doable as I pass bashful retreatants in hushed halls and beam my God-smile at those who will see. 

So how—after such an encounter, after such beauty—how do I lose my peace so easily?

“…Why? Can I just go back to the moon and the brazen glory? Wind and trees and sky wake me and I’m Peter on the mountaintop, stirring to see The Glory in all its God-radiance, stammering out that it’s good to be here…But there’s always the descent from the mount. The meeting of the crowd, the complaining, the cursing. Obvious and immediate transfigurations exhilarate the faith, but the faithful can forget transfigurations, faces that once changed appearances. We betray Who we know. Didn’t Peter?” (Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts)

Always first the eyes, says Ann. It’s a matter of focus.

I come home to the dirty floors and the mounds of laundry and a misplaced Sunday school lesson and a room full of wild kids on Sunday morning. I come home to the transport of twelve dogs—a two hour trip to save their lives—and I ride with a 60 pound baby on my lap because he chewed his way through the crate.

At the end of my first day back home I feel like crying and I scramble for the peace that was so tangible just hours before. I carried it, remember? It rode home in the van on my lap—I remember—it rested against my skin, beneath my ribcage, behind my eyes.

Ann tells me:

“…All the world is window. No material is opaque. If we are willing to see—people, circumstances, situations, relationships—all is transparent.

All of this globe is but glass to God.” (Ann Voskamp, OneThousand Gifts)

It’s nothing big that happens—no major crisis. It’s just the contrast I am feeling and this of out of control chaos.

Why do I have to step outside of my life to find peace?

Wrench the socket of the hip, the tough grizzle of the heart and heal the socket of the eye. It takes practice, wrenching practice, to break open the lids. But the secret to joy is to keep seeking God where we doubt He is. (Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts)

Ann’s story of fighting boys is one I know well. She teaches me how to give my sons water.

“Can I tell you a story?” she asks.

And as she tells her boy the story of Jacob, I am wrestling with God. It’s my hip that has been touched—my limping stride.

And I refuse to let go until He blesses me.

There is always, always a story. Beauty is always there. It’s only a matter of the eyes. It’s only a matter of focus. And I am learning. I am learning how to give thanks for the mundane--for the chaos of life. Eucharisteo takes me back to the retreat and gives my eyes the focus I need to hear the story God is weaving into my life.

This is the seventh 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 eight.

Related:
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter One
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Two 
One Thousand Gifts: Chapter Three
One Thousand Gifts: The Now Sanctuary
One Thousand Gifts: The Hard Eucharisteo 
One Thousand Gifts: The Great Beauty Hunt

Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs: Part VII

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 seven 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

“Read it again.”

Justine dipped her head and puckered her lips to the corner of the carry-out cup. The whipped cream made a mustache on her upper lip and Amy laughed. White Mocha Latte. The old woman had sighed over one just yesterday and Amy couldn’t wait to surprise her with it this morning.

Justine rolled her eyes into the back of her head as she sipped.

“Oh, dear. Thank you so much for this little treat this morning, Amelia. I’ve always said that a good coffee makes poetry sweeter. Mmmmm.”

They sipped quietly—Justine her sweet concoction and Amy her Café au Lait.

“Go ahead,” Justine repeated. “Read it again.”

“You always want that one.”

“You know I love it. But, I have a story to go with it today. I remembered it last night.”

This had become their habit. Amy had been reading to Justine for four weeks now, five days a week. On the days when Justine felt well, after each poem, she would share a memory with Amy. Amy listened, sometimes asked questions, but she knew the stories were more for Justine than for her. So she let her talk as much as she wanted.

“All right then, here goes:

What I really like

is how words

aren’t needed

to hold in mind

the slant the sun takes

when it pitches

a fit

of rays on the sea

at dusk

or the cut-through line

at the horizon’s edge

once you’ve pulled back

and turned

for one last look

at the world

you’ve traveled to

and through

to reach home.”

Amy waited. Justine took a shaky breath and set down her latte.

“I was a new bride when I first saw the sea. George’s construction business was growing, but we still hadn’t   much money for a holiday. He rented us a small cottage on the shore and we spent a week learning the rhythm of married life from the steady beat of the Atlantic. The beaches were different then—not so busy, much quieter. We were married in March, so the tourist season had not quite started yet. My George was an athlete and every morning he would get up before the sun and swim in that cold ocean. I could barely stand to wade in the stuff, but I would wander myself awake in the surf as he swam…picking up little bits of the ocean as I waited for my new husband to finish his morning constitutional.

One morning, I sat on the cool sand waiting. The sun was beginning to show the top curve of her head—all brilliant red and orangy glow. He emerged from the water just as she started her ascension. It looked like he carried the sun on his head as he splashed toward me. And in typical George fashion, he had to get his wet all over me, reducing me to a fit of giggles right there before God and everyone.”

She was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory.

“That morning I said something to George that would stick for the rest of our marriage. George Taylor, I said, did you know the sun rises and sets on you? And we sat together and watched her slow climb.”

Justine set her coffee down on the breakfast tray at the bedside and lay back against her pillows.

“What I wouldn’t give to see the ocean one more time before I die.”

She studied her hands, avoiding Amy’s eyes. The old woman had never shared a story about her husband before and Amy was unsure what to say.

“You must have loved him very much.”

When Justine looked up, her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Yes, yes I do.”

She smiled weakly and put her hand over Amy’s where it rested on Neruda’s Memoirs.  

“Thank you for listening to an old woman’s ramblings. You are so easy to talk to, Amelia. I never used to talk so much. But then…George has been gone for twenty-seven years now. The Lord took him far too soon. Not a day has passed that I haven’t thought of him. But I am thinking of him more and more these days. I am ready to see my husband again.”

She looked up with shining eyes. At the thought of losing Justine, Amy felt panic. She had only just found her. Even though it was short, their time together had filled a lacuna inside of her that she didn’t know was there. She was grateful for the old woman’s friendship.

Amy hesitated.

“Justine…is it certain? I mean, isn’t there something the doctors can do? You don’t seem so bad off to me, I mean…”

Justine patted Amy’s hand.

“Oh, sweetheart, yes it is certain. I have outlived all of their predictions. I have been battling this cancer for ten years now. I’ve had chemo and radiation and in the beginning I wanted to fight. But it kept coming back. I’m eighty-two years old, Amelia. I’m tired. This bed is my life now. I am too weak to be moved. My bones are too fragile. I am ready for this to end.”

Amy was surprised to feel tears on her cheeks. Justine lifted a gnarled finger and smoothed the wet away. Her skin was surprisingly soft on Amy’s face and she cupped the younger woman’s chin in her hand.  Her milky eyes searched intently.

“Don’t you worry about me. You need to worry about you. You have given me so much joy, Amelia. But you have much better things to do than read poetry to an old woman. You still have a whole lot of living to do.”

Amy shrugged Justine’s hand away and wiped her eyes.

“Do you want to hear that poem again?”

“Sure, why not? It gets better each time you read it.”

So Amy read the poem again. And as she imagined the young sun ascending into the sky, aging in the slow journey across the arc of the earth, arriving at dusk with all its purples and blues—arriving home…

She knew what she had to do. 

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
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part V
Waiting on Neruda's Memoirs, Part VI