Daffodil season always reminds me of my grandpa George. A big teddy bear of a guy who was a collegiate wrestling and football coach, my grandpa melted in the presence of natural beauty. He was an artist who had a gift for tending the earth. For years he and my grandma lived in Colorado, with the most spectacular strawberry patch, wildflower garden, art studio and aviary. My favorite memories of the weeks my brother and I spent in Colorado include eating handfuls of warm strawberries straight from the patch, collecting jasper from the creek beds, naming the birds, sipping brown cows on the porch and listening to the windchimes, reading books in the hammock, painting and carving in the studio, and daily visits to the local coffee shop (where gramps would urge us to eat donuts until our hearts' content). My grandpa's last spring was spent in a retirement community a mile from where we live. Although nothing like the beauty of the Rocky Mountains, our spring landscape, with its surprising shocks of daffodils, doesn't disappoint. To see these tender beauties after a long, hard winter of ice and slush and snow brought my grandpa the greatest joy.
Old Man Dreams on the Daffodil Tour
“I’d love a little house like that someday.
Maybe a nice used Ford,
or a Cadillac, if I could get a deal.”
I glance at his dream as we motor by.
Between the riverside cottages, yellow peeks from tender green
and young leaves unfold on slender stems.
He consumes this visual feast like a starving man
seated at a table for the first time in months.
“That would be nice,” I say.
“Yep,” he says rubbing his gnarled knuckles, “It’d be just right.”
In his one room apartment at the residential community
he keeps his door locked, shades drawn, TV blaring.
Every visit I knock and shout so he will hear me
and worry how we bother the neighbors.
His walker scrapes on the linoleum;
I silently beg him not to hurry.
The door swings wide.
Hulking and hunched, a suspect first glance turns to recognition,
then joy.
“Hey, honey,” he chuckles. “Come in. Can you stay long?”
It’s not what he planned, but he tries to live above it,
around it,
as if there’s another future,
with a house and a car,
as if he’s only visiting.
It’s ugly, this business of getting old.
But today it’s sunny. We’re driving,
in search of a glimpse of spring.
I see a bright spot.
“Look, Gramps,” I say, slowing the car and pointing
to a flood of yellow in a side yard.
“Woa,” he whistles and taps the window.
His eyes twinkle.
“Sweetie,” he says, “it doesn’t get much better than that.”
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
green
Although the temperature was bone-chilling for mid-Spring, you wouldn't know it from the window. Wet and overcast, the earth was practically glowing today, that electric lime green that looks so alive and new, it's practically humming. I love that green. Every year I've lived in Chicago, I've had a slight apprehension that maybe this year it'll happen, maybe the landscape won't ripen again. Maybe winter really did us in. And every year I am a little surprised that by late April the neighborhood is blanketed in a lush and vibrant green, that dead-looking limbs have come back to life with their tender baby leaflets and sweet-smelling flowers, that the earth is actually awake.
This afternoon Elliott and I watched two bright yellow finches at the feeder for nearly ten minutes straight. Elliott is the hugest animal lover and has an amazingly long attention span for a one year old. He doesn't crawl or stand or walk yet but, boy, can he observe (and shriek and smile!). With the finches, he was captivated. And who could blame him. That radiant yellow against the shimmering green was breathtaking.
Michael Pollan recently wrote an editorial on the revolutionary act of gardening, which is not only a way to further "green" the earth but a way to re-engage with all living things. As Pollan writes (oh, so much more eloquently than I):
"The idea is to find one thing to do in your life that doesn't involve spending or voting, that may or may not virally rock the world but is real and particular (as well as symbolic) and that, come what may, will offer its own rewards. Maybe you decide to give up meat, an act that would reduce your carbon footprint by as much as a quarter. Or you could try this: determine to observe the Sabbath. For one day a week, abstain completely from economic activity: no shopping, no driving, no electronics.
But the act I want to talk about is growing some — even just a little — of your own food. Rip out your lawn, if you have one, and if you don't — if you live in a high-rise, or have a yard shrouded in shade — look into getting a plot in a community garden. Measured against the Problem We Face, planting a garden sounds pretty benign, I know, but in fact it's one of the most powerful things an individual can do — to reduce your carbon footprint, sure, but more important, to reduce your sense of dependence and dividedness: to change the cheap-energy mind."
Adding green to green. What could be more lovely and life-enhancing than that? Tomorrow it will be cold again, but Elliott and I will still be at the window. This time (in addition to looking for neighborhood wildlife) we'll be plotting the best way to plant our own little vegetable garden and make our yard even greener.
This afternoon Elliott and I watched two bright yellow finches at the feeder for nearly ten minutes straight. Elliott is the hugest animal lover and has an amazingly long attention span for a one year old. He doesn't crawl or stand or walk yet but, boy, can he observe (and shriek and smile!). With the finches, he was captivated. And who could blame him. That radiant yellow against the shimmering green was breathtaking.
Michael Pollan recently wrote an editorial on the revolutionary act of gardening, which is not only a way to further "green" the earth but a way to re-engage with all living things. As Pollan writes (oh, so much more eloquently than I):
"The idea is to find one thing to do in your life that doesn't involve spending or voting, that may or may not virally rock the world but is real and particular (as well as symbolic) and that, come what may, will offer its own rewards. Maybe you decide to give up meat, an act that would reduce your carbon footprint by as much as a quarter. Or you could try this: determine to observe the Sabbath. For one day a week, abstain completely from economic activity: no shopping, no driving, no electronics.
But the act I want to talk about is growing some — even just a little — of your own food. Rip out your lawn, if you have one, and if you don't — if you live in a high-rise, or have a yard shrouded in shade — look into getting a plot in a community garden. Measured against the Problem We Face, planting a garden sounds pretty benign, I know, but in fact it's one of the most powerful things an individual can do — to reduce your carbon footprint, sure, but more important, to reduce your sense of dependence and dividedness: to change the cheap-energy mind."
Adding green to green. What could be more lovely and life-enhancing than that? Tomorrow it will be cold again, but Elliott and I will still be at the window. This time (in addition to looking for neighborhood wildlife) we'll be plotting the best way to plant our own little vegetable garden and make our yard even greener.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
crafty
I've been told that as a child I would sit for ages with a shoelace and hole-punched card, "sewing." I was meticulous and patient as I blissfully pursued my goal. Considering it took Liam about two weeks to complete this small project, I don't think he inherited that same sort of passion for needle and thread. No surprise that his favorite part of the project was to throw the finished pillow around the house and stuff it down his shirt. I guess we're not quite ready for needlepoint.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
more than coincidence
I almost named this post "pray for Gabe" because that's what's been in front of me all day long. This week our neighbors found out that their sweet, brave little almost-two-year-old son, who has been undergoing chemo for leukemia for the last four months, has to endure another six months of this awful (yet potentially curing) poison because the cancer never went into remission. It is devastating and horrifying and it makes no sense at all. And for those who know and love this family, it is difficult to get through the day without feeling lost and useless. But this morning some of the moms came together to pray for Gabe and his family who returned to the hospital today to begin the chemo again. It reminded me of the profound truth that we were created for love and to love - to love God and to love each other. And to do so each requires every bit of us. For some reason, the greatest commandment always sounded easy to me, but it is the most painful thing ever. And also the most beautiful.
Earlier in the week Andrew asked me to be on the worship team at church this Sunday because he was short on singers. So I went to rehearsal tonight and was awed by how the song choices totally aligned with the hopeful sadness of the day. I couldn't have come up with a better soundtrack for the agonizing reality of pain in life coupled with the absolutely awesome power of love. Here's the line up. Please have a listen (and forgive the cheesy videos) and please pray for Gabe.
Love's the Only House from Martina McBride
...Love's the only house big enough for all the pain in the world
Love's the only house big enough for all the pain...
One from U2
...Love is a temple
Love's the higher law
You ask me to enter
Then you make me crawl
I can't be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters, brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other...
Who Am I from Casting Crowns
...Who am I?
That the Lord of all the earth,
Would care to know my name,
Would care to feel my hurt....
...I am a flower quickly fading,
Here today and gone tomorrow.
A wave tossed in the ocean,
A vapor in the wind.
Still you hear me when I'm calling,
Lord you catch me when I'm falling,
And you told me who I am.
I am yours....
Blessed Be Your Name from Matt Redmond
...Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name
Every blessing You pour out
I'll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name...
Earlier in the week Andrew asked me to be on the worship team at church this Sunday because he was short on singers. So I went to rehearsal tonight and was awed by how the song choices totally aligned with the hopeful sadness of the day. I couldn't have come up with a better soundtrack for the agonizing reality of pain in life coupled with the absolutely awesome power of love. Here's the line up. Please have a listen (and forgive the cheesy videos) and please pray for Gabe.
Love's the Only House from Martina McBride
...Love's the only house big enough for all the pain in the world
Love's the only house big enough for all the pain...
One from U2
...Love is a temple
Love's the higher law
You ask me to enter
Then you make me crawl
I can't be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters, brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other...
Who Am I from Casting Crowns
...Who am I?
That the Lord of all the earth,
Would care to know my name,
Would care to feel my hurt....
...I am a flower quickly fading,
Here today and gone tomorrow.
A wave tossed in the ocean,
A vapor in the wind.
Still you hear me when I'm calling,
Lord you catch me when I'm falling,
And you told me who I am.
I am yours....
Blessed Be Your Name from Matt Redmond
...Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name
Every blessing You pour out
I'll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name...
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
news to me
Yesterday Liam and I transformed half of our three-season porch (i.e., winter dumping grounds) into an art room. We put paper, markers, paints, playdough, felt, etc., each into its own special spot. And from the moment we finished, Liam has been in creative output mode. Below are just a couple examples. Imagination reigns.
Me: What a beautiful flower.
Liam: That's not a flower. It's the sun shooting a cat who just pooped.
Andrew: Who are those people in the house?
Liam (pointing to the four people holding hands in the middle): That's you, me, mom and Elliott.
Andrew: What about the person on the first floor?
Liam: That's my baby sister.
Andrew: Really? But you don't have a sister.
Liam: Not now, dad. But when I'm five and Elliott's three, that's when the baby sister comes.
Me: What a beautiful flower.
Liam: That's not a flower. It's the sun shooting a cat who just pooped.
Andrew: Who are those people in the house?
Liam (pointing to the four people holding hands in the middle): That's you, me, mom and Elliott.
Andrew: What about the person on the first floor?
Liam: That's my baby sister.
Andrew: Really? But you don't have a sister.
Liam: Not now, dad. But when I'm five and Elliott's three, that's when the baby sister comes.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
3,038 soul-stretching minutes
Two nights and two days. 50 hours. 3,038 minutes. A blip in the scheme of things. But so many lump-in-the-throat, teary-eyed moments I won't soon forget and will need just as long to sufficiently get words around. Maybe it's because I've been missing intense spiritual and intellectual input for the last couple years, maybe it's because of the pain I'm witnessing in the lives of people I care so much about, maybe it's because I've been churning so many questions and thoughts around in my mind in the last few months, maybe it's because I spent nearly the whole time with my cousin Megan, a kindred spirit who has been one of adulthood's greatest surprises - whatever the reason, this year's Festival of Faith and Writing knocked the wind out of me, over and over again.
From Michael Chabon who made the beautfiul and freeing statement that imagination is key to morality (because if we can imagine what it's like to be like someone else, we're less likely to hurt them) to Kathleen Norris and Scott Cairns who reminded me that "knowing" is such a wrong word to use about God ("Thinking isn't believing," Cairns said. "Christianity isn't about what you think, it is about becoming the person you're meant to be. And that only happens bit by bit.") to NPR's wonderful Krista Tippett who was so full of incredible insights and thoughtful perspective I couldn't scribble fast enough but ultimately left with this: When we grieve in the places the world does not forgive and rejoice in the places the world does not notice, then we are loving like God does.
But, for me, the culminating moment of the whole event was in the last five minutes of Rob Bell's interview. He recounted a recent encounter with Bishop Desmond Tutu and the Dali Lama. Bishop Tutu told the old testament story of how Shadrach, Mishach and Abednego were thrown into the furnace by the king and when he came back to look into the furnace, not only were the men alive and untouched by the fire, there was another person in the fire with them. The Dali Lama then said to Bishop Tutu, "How blessed you are to have a God who does not stand at a distance, but to have a God who stands with you in the fire."
Memoirist and poet Mary Karr, explained the experience of God's undeniable, unconditional loving presence in her life like this, "Being snatched out of the fire is to wake up to what was there all along."
This promise of a God who stands with us in the fires of life is what I want to pass on to my children. Not the fantasy that there will be no fires or that living a pure life will ensure avoiding them, but that when they are thrown into the fire or when they make poor choices and willingly jump in themselves, there is a loving God who will be there with them. Waiting. Enduring. Arms open wide. They will never, ever be alone.
From Michael Chabon who made the beautfiul and freeing statement that imagination is key to morality (because if we can imagine what it's like to be like someone else, we're less likely to hurt them) to Kathleen Norris and Scott Cairns who reminded me that "knowing" is such a wrong word to use about God ("Thinking isn't believing," Cairns said. "Christianity isn't about what you think, it is about becoming the person you're meant to be. And that only happens bit by bit.") to NPR's wonderful Krista Tippett who was so full of incredible insights and thoughtful perspective I couldn't scribble fast enough but ultimately left with this: When we grieve in the places the world does not forgive and rejoice in the places the world does not notice, then we are loving like God does.
But, for me, the culminating moment of the whole event was in the last five minutes of Rob Bell's interview. He recounted a recent encounter with Bishop Desmond Tutu and the Dali Lama. Bishop Tutu told the old testament story of how Shadrach, Mishach and Abednego were thrown into the furnace by the king and when he came back to look into the furnace, not only were the men alive and untouched by the fire, there was another person in the fire with them. The Dali Lama then said to Bishop Tutu, "How blessed you are to have a God who does not stand at a distance, but to have a God who stands with you in the fire."
Memoirist and poet Mary Karr, explained the experience of God's undeniable, unconditional loving presence in her life like this, "Being snatched out of the fire is to wake up to what was there all along."
This promise of a God who stands with us in the fires of life is what I want to pass on to my children. Not the fantasy that there will be no fires or that living a pure life will ensure avoiding them, but that when they are thrown into the fire or when they make poor choices and willingly jump in themselves, there is a loving God who will be there with them. Waiting. Enduring. Arms open wide. They will never, ever be alone.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
a day to celebrate
You know it's going to be a good day if it begins with the smell of brownies (and bright sunshine). For a week I’ve been promising Liam that we'd make some kind of cake to celebrate the birthdays of two of his friends, Matt and Banjo (who live in a world only Liam can access). So we whipped up some brownie cupcakes at 6:30 am, complete with colorful sprinkles and Halloween cupcake liners. While they were baking Liam took the phone into the living room and called his imaginary posse - Matt, Banjo, Simmy, Corny and Sour. I caught snippets of the conversations, including the incredulous sounding "no ways" (with an occasional knee slap for exrta emphasis) and how he ended each call: "Okay, man. I've got to shoot off." He's his father through and through.
The boys never showed up for their party, even though Liam had pillaged five gift bags from the frighteningly dangerous family room closet and "wrapped" random household items in each, such as a wooden spoon, a Baby Einstein DVD and a handful of birthday candles. If selecting and wrapping gifts was a viable career, Liam could pursue it. He'll definitely be big with the ladies.
I spent a couple hours in the morning helping sort for our church rummage sale and came home with a bag of craft supplies for next to nothing - burlap, pillow stuffing, sequins, brushes and lots of felt. (We should have a project to post tomorrow!) After lunch we took some cupcakes over to our "real" friends, Ian and Andrew and Tracy and got ringside seats to watch their old driveway be demolished. Now I understand why diggers are so fascinating. Later in the afternoon we all headed over to the park. It was sunny and warm(ing) and gorgeous and Liam ran his heart out playing tag and duck duck goose. We were late walking home and everyone was tired (and crying) but you couldn't wipe the smile off my face. Not for a million dollars. Well, okay, maybe a million. Thankfully, no one offered.
The boys never showed up for their party, even though Liam had pillaged five gift bags from the frighteningly dangerous family room closet and "wrapped" random household items in each, such as a wooden spoon, a Baby Einstein DVD and a handful of birthday candles. If selecting and wrapping gifts was a viable career, Liam could pursue it. He'll definitely be big with the ladies.
I spent a couple hours in the morning helping sort for our church rummage sale and came home with a bag of craft supplies for next to nothing - burlap, pillow stuffing, sequins, brushes and lots of felt. (We should have a project to post tomorrow!) After lunch we took some cupcakes over to our "real" friends, Ian and Andrew and Tracy and got ringside seats to watch their old driveway be demolished. Now I understand why diggers are so fascinating. Later in the afternoon we all headed over to the park. It was sunny and warm(ing) and gorgeous and Liam ran his heart out playing tag and duck duck goose. We were late walking home and everyone was tired (and crying) but you couldn't wipe the smile off my face. Not for a million dollars. Well, okay, maybe a million. Thankfully, no one offered.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
