Friends for Life

It was one of those doctor visits.  A new neurologist and I was spent from sharing the story of my son's 16 years.  After two hours at UNC-Chapel Hill, I drove to Franklin Street.  The last time we walked this street, a deliciousness wafted from the Italian Pizzeria that I would not pass up this time.

I wheel D in and we are greeted by a handsome, young Italian.  With the collar of his polo flipped up, he carries himself like a soccer player--former soccer player, that is. His black hair is receding--he's probably in his early 30s.

"What's your name, young man?" he speaks to D with a thick, maybe Sicilian accent.  D struggles to answer, but instead of answering for him as I often do, I wait.  The man was speaking to him, not me.

"D,"  he replies thickly.

"DAVE!"  was the Italian proprietor's exclamation.  I was going to correct the name, but, as I said before, I was exhausted, and just managed a smile.  He continued, "Dave?  I'm Sal.  I'm glad you're here."  He tossed his pen in the air--it flipped several times and he caught it with a flourish.  "What can I get for you, Dave?"

I placed our order, but let D order his drink.  "TEA!"  I made sure it was sweetened.  Sal poured the drinks.  The tea was "unsweet," he said, until he stuck his finger in it.  I smiled, and Sal asked D for a handshake.  D hit his arm on the counter as he tried to give him five.

"Don't hurt your hand, Dave."  Sal said softly as he twirled the straws and again with a flair presented us with our drinks.  "There.  I'll bring your pizza to you."

D shook his head.  He didn't want to leave the counter.  "No?" Sal countered.  "OK, you can come get it. I will let you know."

I sat D at the booth on the other side of the pizzeria because I knew if we sat near the counter, I would never get him to eat.  Sal and two brothers began arguing loudly in Italian.  All I could tell is that it was something about someone's mother and father and what they did was inexcusable.  D called out, "HEY!"

And Sal immediately answered, "What is it, Dave?  Do you need more tea?"  I let him know that D was enjoying listening.  To which the oldest brother answered, "Dave, we always talk like this.  We yell at each other.  What to say, we are brothers!"  And they continued to do so as D continued to listen and occasionally laugh when the talk became even more animated.

Sal brought D's food first and hummed as he cut it up, with the biggest pizza cutter I have ever seen, into "bites just for you, Dave."  He placed the aluminum tray in front of D and spun it.  The slice stopped with the tip of the triangle pointing right at D. "See?  It's yours, Dave.  Now we know, it's pointing to you!"

By now, I am completely regretting my decision not to correct the name.  But D-ylan thinks it's funny, so I guess it doesn't matter really.

"Do you want to speak Italian, Dave?  Every time you come here, I will teach you a new word.  Today, I teach you, 'Ciao!'  Can you say, Ciao, Dave?"

Again, D struggled, but said it clearly.  The eldest yelled from the kitchen, "Good job, Dave!  You are our brother now.  Welcome to the family."  And suddenly I feel as if we are in a Godfather film.  D laughed and we ate the best pizza I've ever had in the South.

When we get up to leave, Sal came over.  "You come see us in two weeks, OK?"  And he gave him a hug. I blinked back emotion as we backed out of the door and the entire staff, brothers and workers, shouted in unison, "Ciao, Dave!"

I had not wanted to come to this appointment since it was the day of Special Olympics.  I didn't want D to miss out on the attention he revels in during the events.  But they worked in his events and he enjoyed every minute of it.  And now the attention he was receiving here was as wonderful as what he got at the Olympics.

Just before the door closed, Sal called out, "A friend for life.  That's what you are, Dave, a friend for life."

And "Dave" smiled for nearly the entire 2-hour ride home.

Rebirth

Psalm 19

The heavens declare the glory of God, 
 and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
² Day to day pours out speech,
    and night to night reveals knowledge.

 ³ There is no speech, nor are there words,
    whose voice is not heard.

In my yard, something is always blooming.

 

Just before I stop noticing the exquisiteness of one plant or the moment I become sad about its wilted bloom, another beauty announces itself.

 The boys and I planted some seeds to contribute to our ongoing beauty, and as a precursor to a garden endeavor, some pepper plants to promote eating fresh.  It was fun to play in the dirt together.  It felt good to have that caked dirt on my hands, for a few days impossible to remove from my cracked fingers.

And I planted phlox.

It's something I've always wanted in my yard.  It's fragrant, delicate, and easy-to-grow.  Many species creep, overtaking the garden. In Greek, phlox means "flame." I guess I've always wanted my garden to resemble a meadow, or maybe I want the flame-flower to bring to mind another favorite Gerard Manly Hopkins' poem:

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came

The first section of this thick Petrarchan sonnet postulates the condition of all things--we "announce ourselves" just as each new beauty in my garden surprises me.  Or to be more precise, using the verb coined by Hopkins:  we do who we are-- we show our individuality. . .each living thing "selves." We cry:  "Here I am!  See me!"

We have been created with this longing to express. . .a yearning to share. . .to do, to be what it is we were created to be, to do.  Our heart cries out to be who we are.

This is not accomplished in isolation.  The poem by Wordsworth, "She dwelt among the untrodden ways" speaks of "A violet by a mossy stone/half hidden from the eye!"  whose loss, though mostly unknown, was no less devastating as the flower represented his dear Lucy.  Even a half-hidden flower "speaks and spells" itself to someone.

But Hopkins is not finished.  The volta suggests more:

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —
Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

Those who have been saved by grace--keep grace by being Christ--lovely bodies and souls to bring His message of love and redemption to those hurt, lost, dying, broken. 
 
"When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your sinful nature, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the written code, with its regulations, that was against us and that stood opposed to us; he took it away, nailing it to the cross." (Colossians 2:13-14)

That is the Good News, my friend.  The Spring of the soul:  We can be made whole, alive, reborn, regenerated.

The beauty of Spring flowers makes me wonder at Creation and rejoice in re-creation.  And the flowers' fragrance soothes.  

I inhale the scent of phlox slowly just before I enter the house, smiling as it brings to mind Grandmama Sawyer's powdery smell.  Scent triggers emotion and memory just as the aroma of country-fried steak, fried okra, and cornbread makes me feel the comfort of Grandmama Martin's, and now my mother's, kitchen wrap around me like a handmade quilt.

Our lives, too, can be fragrant--a reminder of His love:

"But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of him." (2 Corinthians 2:14)

Lord, let me be like phlox.  Fill me with the beauty of Spring and make Christ lovely in me.
   

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21566#sthash.P5hXWlqW.dpuf

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21566#sthash.P5hXWlqW.dpuf

Can the Caged Bird Sing?

The Caged Skylark

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage

Man’s mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells—

That bird beyond the remembering his free fells;

This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life’s age. /

Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage,

Both sing sometímes the sweetest, sweetest spells,

Yet both droop deadly sómetimes in their cells

Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage. /

Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest—

Why, hear him, hear him babble and drop down to his nest,

But his own nest, wild nest, no prison. /

Man’s spirit will be flesh-bound when found at best,

But uncumbered: meadow-down is not distressed

For a rainbow footing it nor he for his bónes rísen. My favorite poet:   Hopkins with his neologisms and sprung rhythm, his eye for beauty and heart for Christ.    This past couple of weeks I have been dealing with anger and its manifestations--particularly, tantrums.   And this poem is perfect for such thoughts. The "dare-gale" skylark--what a beautiful  description of the skylark's flight and an apt metaphor for the human's desire to soar, to experience the thrill.  It's like the look in Ben's eyes when he has a plan for his "animals" or a new game to try or when Knox is about to take off on his bike for an adventure or when D has decided to stand and control where he goes instead of being wheeled around in his chair. Young children are not as "beyond remembering his free" as adults; with maturity comes responsibility and with responsibility come constraints.  That freedom once enjoyed with limited constraints is reversed, becoming a limited freedom like an atrophied muscle flexed only on an occasional Saturday afternoon or holiday. Although Hopkins probably had in mind the late 19th century worker in his poem, it seems also to be the homemaker's lot to combat drudgery, so that our day's labor, the endless chores, does not consume all of our waking moments--but I think what  is common to us all is having spirits who long to soar, but are trapped in these bodies, these "mean houses," that tether us to the mundane.  I especially think of my D-man when I think of this--unable to communicate what he wants and slowed down by his "bone house"--brittle bones, weakened muscles, uncoordinated movements. Yet in this life, we have beautiful singing moments--this week, the Cupid Bash at D's school, Ben's reading books to D, Knox initiating sharing his classroom Valentine spoil with his home-schooled brother, my husband having a great session meeting, my meeting a person from ARC and being able to talk about all that is going on with my D-man. But then there's also the deadly drooping:  writhing and raging against the barriers beyond our control.  The loss of a beautiful and wonderfully spirited five-year-old from an automobile accident, the hospitalization of a friend's child and his struggle to live, a dear one's tests revealing cancer. . .overwhelming moments filled with fear and anger. In our house the past few weeks, tantrums have been frequent.  Bickering among the younger ones turns to rage and physical assaults before I can intervene.  The youngest slighted by a busy adult or an uninterested brother erupts, a Mt. Etna of anger.  Even I had a tantrum--I actually shook as my ability to speak was overcome by tears at Walgreens as once again I had to fight for my son to have the seizure medication that he cannot live without. As a Christian adult, I have the tools I need to calm myself.  Prayer, deep breaths, thinking of other things, 20 minutes on the elliptical, trusting God to supply our needs--these calm me down fairly quickly. (And at Walgreens, a hug from a stranger who said, "You are a good mother, I can tell.") But for my five-year-old, self-control is harder to muster.  I was sent a diagram that helped me figure out how better to help since yelling back or threatening spankings or meting out consequences did not work at all.  (Here is the link for any who are dealing with young children whose passions are out of control.)  I simply held Ben, took deep breaths with him, and reassured him that I wanted to listen.  He could talk and I would hear, really hear, his side of the story or whatever it was he wanted to say.  And that diffused the rage, soothed the caged skylark within. His need to be heard reminds me of a poem I read in a delightful collection:  Poetry After Lunch:  Poems to Read Aloud entitled "For You, Who Didn't Know" by Nancy Willard.  It's an interesting interplay between a woman arriving at the hospital because of a possible miscarriage and her internal dialogue with a rabbi.  As the woman is filling out the paperwork in the ER, she asks: O rabbi, what can we learn from the telegraph?  asked the Hasidim, who did not understand. The rabbi answered, That every word is counted and charged. And then after the woman hears the baby's heartbeat and exults in the "heart dancing its name", Willard concludes the poem with this question: O rabbi, what can we learn from the telephone? My shiksa daughter, your faith, your faith That what we say here is heard there. God hears us.  He promises this in his Word.  If we are His children and cry out to Him, we are embraced by the love of his listening.  We all long to be heard, need to be acknowledged, desire to be known.  The best gift I can give my children is to listen, to really listen.  The best gift I can give those I meet is the same.  The next time I ask "How are you?" I can actually stop walking, look the person in the eye and wait for an answer.  So often in the South, we nod in passing as we say,  "How'e you?"  nodding the person's existence, but not acknowledging his actual presence. And here is the ending of Hopkins' poem:  just as the meadow is not bothered by the rainbow kissing its dew, we, though "flesh-bound", can live unencumbered even amid life's emergencies and its daily demands because our spirit is free; though once in bondage to sin, now we are free to fly, to dare the gale, to be heard and loved in Christ.

My Little Princes

Perhaps it's from watching Downton Abbey a few too many times, but when I type as of late, I have a British accent in my head, and tonight, I've even taken to assigning my sons titles. 

For Family Friday Movie Night, we watched the first 2 parts of The Petite Prince--the one where he saves the Chlorophyllians from the disappearing stars.  What a fun adaptation for the 5-7 age set!  There were flying spacecrafts, a sword-wielding prince, a talking fox, a shape-changing snake, and gargantuan plants.  What more could a boy want?  And I enjoyed the colors, lines and fairytale beauty of the animated landscape as well as the underlying worldview.

This was the first time movie night was paused for more than bathroom or medicine or popcorn breaks.  We paused to talk, to discuss, to engage the movie, and it was so much fun.  For instance, the green juice that the Chlorophyllians sprayed on their plants that was more efficacious and efficient than any MiracleGro I have seen, lent itself to a discussion of how plants grow (and ruminations about planting our own garden and using a compost pile allowed me to hear Ben's "I have ALWAYS wanted to have a compost pile!"  He was most sincere.)

The power of the Prince's sword of light lies in its ability to create; it was not, as we typically view the sword, an instrument designed to destroy.  And what is beautiful about this recasting of the light saber is that in celebrating its victory, we rejoice over creativity defeating destruction.  Ben and Knox did not just exult in the good guy winning, but witnessed creation as the ultimate power.  (D and Stan fell asleep early on.  Next time, the movie portion of the evening must start sooner.)

Another aspect of this movie that was wonderful, especially for my youngest who has a tendency to have nightmares, is the impotence of the Great Snake.  The snake was beautiful, as far as serpents go, and much like Lucifer, his mighty gift was in his persuasive deception.  But, the Prince did not fear the snake, did not run from him, did not attempt to fight him.  He listened, but did not fall for (as he did in the book) the snake's tricks.  The snake could not "do" anything.  He merely planted ideas in the astronomer's head; he took the astronomer's natural longing for space travel and distorted it.  He convinced the astronomer that his need could be met with a fake.  He replaced his desire for the natural beauty of the stars and universe and twisted that good desire into an obsession for possession, an obsession that destroyed the very thing he loved.  The astronomer's yearning for space travel was reduced to a roller coaster ride in a reductive amusement park.

This led to our discussing how we do not have to fear Satan-- he is already defeated.  So much in our world says otherwise:  evil triumphs in our news, sickness and death in our experiences.  But the last word is that, as Christians, we serve the Ultimate Power, The Lord of Lords, the Creator and while the Angel of Light indeed has power in this world, we do not have to fear.  This was one out of a handful of nights since our move that Ben did not say he was scared to go to sleep.  Knowing that we are safe in the Creator's powerful Hand gives us peace and peaceful sleep.

This leads to the next delectable part of the series. . .the Astronomer was adopted and his desire to travel among the stars pointed to a natural, innate longing.  As an infant, unbeknownst to him until the end of the show, the Astronomer landed among the Chlorophyllians in a delightfully-shaped, star-emblazoned spacecraft.  His desire for travel was God-given, and not, as he felt, a reason for isolation from his adopted home. Once he realized who he was, he became free to fly.

We dreamed about the things they wanted to do when they grew up (make books, race cars, design factories that make all kinds of things, preach the Gospel)--all of these desires are God-given and if we don't doubt or try to devise shortcuts, then we can find fulfillment in what we are called to be.

So FFMN was certainly entertaining and refreshingly edifying, and I heartily recommend The Petite Prince series on Netflix.

Well Done

Well done is how I liked my steak as a teenager.  I remember my father trying to convince me that pink juice filling the plate as I pierced a bite with my fork was good.  I ran upstairs crying and vowed vegetarianism for a while.  Then settled on well done.  Now that I'm "grown up," I like medium well.  My father approves.

I went to two high school graduations last week.  Both talked of past achievement and future potential, but the second spoke of more than hope in a successful life on earth.  The ultimate goal, said the commencement speaker, is the approval of an eternal God and heavenly Father with the words:  

"Well done, my good and faithful servant." 

Last week, I had another episode with anxiety.  It was triggered by dwelling on summer:  the stress of caring for three boys mostly on my own.  Cleaning house and packing for a two-week trip and this entirely on my own.  Granted, I put additional pressure on myself with unreasonable expectations.  I guess I was hoping for

       "Incredibly, nearly inconceivably, done, my capable and self-reliant servant."

I went through the motions of the next few days--striving above all for peace.  I made it through my prior engagements. Then my husband kept the two younger boys at his mother's while D and I headed home to hang out with my dad for a couple of days while my mother was away.  

The time alone with Daddy and D was the most therapeutic quality time I've had recently.  We went fishing Friday afternoon--just for a few hours. (Time with my daddy:  one thousand gifts #123) But it was all I needed to find inner calm, to feel the anxiety subside.  The waves of anguish settle.  As we drove down the rutted road in the woods, crickets whizzing and whirring, truck bouncing over washed-out, red clay tracks worn through the high grass, my face relaxed, my mind retreated to my childhood when such trips meant camp-outs, bonfires, fish fests, exploring woods, dock fishing and boat rides.  

Out on the water, we used the trolling motor so there was little wave--our tracks erased just feet after the boat cut its path in the smooth surface of the muddy pond more shallow than in my memory.  The trick of youth--when an hour seems an afternoon and a few feet, a towering giant.  The trees lining the shore's circumference were verdant; their vibrant and variant hues created a covering that promised seclusion.  Towering hardwoods and rocket-shaped firs with brush over-hanging here and there blocked out the rest of the world so that we were all there was for a time:  my dad, my eldest son, and me.

Dad rigged the breambuster and baited its hook and I cast.  Striving for a spot close to shore, but not too close to get weeds on my line; close to the stump, but not close enough to entangle in the underwater branches; far enough ahead so that we could continue trolling without having to wrench my body around to hold the pole.  And there it was:  "Great job, Ginny."  "That's a perfect one!"  "You've hit just the right spot."  "That's it! That's where you had the bite last time."  With each cast, I heard words that soaked my heart with pure praise, filled my soul with uncomplicated love, and strengthened my self-worth with simple respect.  I was a child again just wanting to please Daddy and basking in the warmth of his care and friendship.

I only caught one fish and it was the smallest bream I have ever seen--seriously the fat, pink worm at the edge of its mouth was longer than the fish.  But the joy--from the catch with my son laughing at me and my father laughing with me--and my father's encouragement as I cast again and again to what really amounted to just feeding the fish erased all the hurt, disappointment, overwhelming pressure, and defeating self-talk that caused my downward spiral.  I had felt paralyzed just a few days earlier as time moved on--without me.

But now I was in time, a time expanded, a time where I asked my dad for the old stories of his childhood as we left the woods and headed home.  I heard about the blue school bus that was the rolling store in my dad's youth:  taking bulk goods like flour and sugar to the folks who lived outside of town who couldn't make it to my grandfather's general store.  I heard about the chicken coop attached under the bus for the people who could only afford to barter a chicken for corn meal or the occasional candy.  "Was there an icebox?" I asked, imagining a big block of ice to keep items cool until delivery.  No, nobody refrigerated back then, was his reply.  And again time expanded:  I could see my dad, a young boy eager to tag-along for a day's delivery from morning until sundown, selling and trading to home after home and farm after farm.

I know, as a Christian, my ultimate goal is to hear "Well done, my good and faithful servant."  But for now, as a forty-year-old mother of three boys who can't seem to shake the stress, all I needed to hear were Dad's words: "That's it, Ginny" and  "Great job!" and "Perfect, just perfect!"

Home

Today I finished-- in less than 24 hours-- Toni Morrison's latest book, Home.  I thought I was captivated by the Hunger Games trilogy last month or even caught up last week in My Name is Mary Sutter, the historical fiction by a first-time novelist whose name I've now forgotten, but no, this, this Home was a truly great book.  It was as if I were reading a really, really long prose poem.  The heart-wrenching characterization, the storyline at once fantastic and familiar, and the language so beautifully crafted, my mind would say in hushed reverence as I re-read a choice line--wow, that's exactly how she must have felt; so true; or just beautiful.  Letting the words roll around in my mouth as I read them slowly aloud:  "Color, silence, music enveloped him.  This feeling of safety and goodwill, he knew, was exaggerated, but savoring it was real"  (118).  This after a wonderfully painted image the main character, Frank "Smart" Money sees as he has returned to his small, backwoods hometown in rural Georgia, seeing it perhaps for the first time.

In describing the town's women who nursed Smart Money's sister back to health:

Laziness was more than intolerable to them; it was inhuman.  Whether you were in the field, the house, your own backyard, you had to be busy.  Sleep was not for dreaming; it was for gathering strength for the coming day.  Conversation was accompanied by tasks:  ironing, peeling, shucking, sorting, sewing, mending, washing or nursing.  You couldn't learn age, but adulthood was there for all. Mourning was helpful but God was better and they did not want to meet their Maker and have to explain a wasteful life. (my emphasis)

Expert description interspersed with lines of wisdom poetry.  Even the dialogue reaches this consummate level, as in this exchange between one of the women described above and Smart's baby sister, Cee:

"Misery don't call ahead.  That's why you have to stay awake--otherwise it just walk on in your door,"
"But--"
"But nothing.  You good enough for Jesus.  That's all you need to know."

Of course, the protagonist's experiences as a black veteran of the Korean War adjusting to life in a racist America are not ones to which I can relate, but his feelings about home I share.

When my sons and I turn on the country road to my parents' home (before them my maternal grandparents' home) and they see the sign, they shout:  "There's the cow crossing sign!!!  We're here; we're here!  We're at Mawmaw and Daddyghee's house!" (one thousand gift:  #120).

Today as I was stir-frying and steaming the vegetables both friends and church members had shared, I smiled at how different my preparations were from my mother's and grandmother's.  No bacon grease skimmed from Saturday's breakfast or ham hock frozen from Easter dinner.  Squash, onions, bell pepper, broccoli sauteed in EVOO and green beans, snapped and steamed.

As I was "fixing" the green beans for the large pot, I could smell the earth, a light musk similar to petrichor or the breeze from the barn on a sweltering afternoon in July.  I held a handful to my face and I was home for a moment in my grandmother's den, watching my grandfather shell peas in his tan khakis, ironed and belted every morning by Grandmama and laid out on the chair next to their bed.  His fingers more nimble than mine have ever been (even on somewhat difficult piano arpeggios).  He would watch sports while he worked, sorting the brown from the white almost subconsciously, talking to the television, taking handful by handful out of the crinkly paper sack at his feet and filling the baking pan with the light-colored field peas which are, to this day, my most favorite vegetable of them all.  (one thousand gifts #121 and 121:  the smell of freshly picked beans and memories of Grandaddy Martin)

We're going home for a week and a half on Wednesday, and I can't wait!

Field Trip to the Zoo  (a poem)
 
His head lurched
awkwardly 

smudging 
his prickly copper 
scales

on trembling fingers--
live membrane 
slaughtered


by senses
no way to sift fear,
a blackout.

Just skewer it!

Like I do
the asparagus
you steam just right
crunchy and crisp


Written for Monday's Melting with Shawna  Using the entire word list because I cannot do otherwise: tremble, prickly, lurch, asparagus, blackout, copper, scaly, smudge, skewer, sift, membrane, slaughter