For special occasions, my father sometimes took our family to the Otesaga — a hotel known for its fine dining — for their Sunday brunch. The food is amazing and bountiful. Tables of fresh fruit and salads. Chafing dishes filled with a variety hot foods. At least two carving stations. Shrimp. Cheese. Omelets made to order. Dessert tables laden with pies and cakes. All of it a feast for the eyes as well as the body. On one particular day, however, one of my brothers walked up and down all those tables of food and finally came back to our table with a single piece of Key Lime pie.
“There’s nothing good to eat,” he said.
In retrospect, I wonder if it was the wide variety, and the possible scariness of trying something new that led to this pronouncement.
We like what we know, and I am the queen of I-hate-change.
With prayer, all I had really known in my faith walk was conversational prayer made up mostly of my own words. C. S. Lewis, in his book Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer, talks about introducing “a modicum of the ready-made.” When I turned my attention to a deeper prayer life, I knew it was time to take the plunge into that ready-made.
Praying old words, some written centuries ago, felt awkward at first, but I began with some of the prayers from The Book of Common Prayer. Then someone mailed me a copy of A Diary of Private Prayer by John Baillie. I started picking up prayer books at used bookstores, library sales, yard sales, thrift stores — wherever I could find them.
I tried out different prayers much the way we may try new foods at a buffet.
Since those early days of somewhat stilted reading of prayers, I’ve arrived at a mix of fluid and static. The fluid part is made up of my own words; the static — which provide the structure and guide the direction — are prayers I’ve gathered.
Over the next few posts, I’ll share some of the books that have been my personal favorites.
But to get you started, I’ll leave you with a 400 year old prayer from Lancelot Andrewes. I have a hand-lettered copy of it done by Jennifer Trafton hanging over my desk.
Within me to strengthen me;
Without me to guard me;
Over me to shelter me;
Beneath me to establish me;
Before me to guide me;
After me to forward me;
Round about me to secure me.
For some time I have been pursuing a more meaningful prayer life.
I can remember when that journey started. At a church we attended, I decided to start a women’s prayer group. I didn’t really know what I was doing — but that’s me. I jump in with both feet and figure things out when I get there.
One evening we had about a dozen women gathered to pray. We decided not to do the sharing beforehand; we simply joined hands in a circle and started praying. Women prayed aloud in short impromptu prayers. During a lull, someone began the Lord’s prayer — “Our Father, who art in heaven” — and we all joined in.
God’s presence was palpable.
What made that particular recitation of the Lord’s prayer so different? I couldn’t tell you.
Maybe we weren’t being robots, as one of my children refers to the unison readings and prayers in church. Maybe those dozen women were doing more than going through motions or hoping their spoken words would sound spiritual. Maybe we were each separately, and then corporately, speaking old words we had learned long ago and were offering them in sincerity to an Almighty God who graced us with His presence.
Whatever it was, it changed me. It set me on a pursuit of a something more — not just in corporate prayer, but in my private prayer, too.
For years now I have been on that quest. I have prayed, read, listened, prayed, meditated, contemplated, read and reread, prayed and re-prayed.
Prayer is as instinctual as a newborn baby’s cry but can be as nuanced and profound as an oratorio sung in Latin.
Growing a prayer life may start like a spider plant — you can’t go wrong — but serious pursuit is more like tending rare orchids.
A couple of weeks ago, my youngest daughter, Laurel, swam the length of Otsego Lake — about 9 miles. She and her friend trained a few weeks before, and, by train, I mean that they swam in the lake 4 or 5 times a week for 2 or 3 weeks.
When my oldest daughter, Helen, swam the lake 15 years earlier, Bud had accompanied her in a kayak. Laurel wanted Helen to be her kayaker, and I thought it appropriate, a sort of passing the baton.
Helen had started her swim at a place called Springfield Landing and ended at Lakefront Park in Cooperstown, swimming from north to south in our long narrow lake. Laurel wanted to swim south to north, ending at Springfield Landing. However, the only time Helen had been to Springfield Landing was when she swam the lake. Laurel had never been there. Laurel’s friend had never been there. Laurel’s friend’s mother, the other kayaker, had never been there.
They started the swim a little after 6 AM, and were making really good time. The day was perfect — warm but not hot, no wind. I drove a few miles up the lake to try to catch sight of them from the shore, and this was the only picture I got:
Springfield Landing is tucked behind a little jog in the shoreline. It’s not obvious, especially from the water. As they neared the end of the lake, Helen said to Laurel, “I think that’s the dock that we’re heading for,” and pointed to a distant spot.
Off they went, only to realize 20 minutes later that it was the wrong dock.
“It must be that one,” Helen said, and pointed to another.
The girls spent the last hour of their swim swimming to wrong dock after wrong dock.
They finally finished, exhausted and frustrated — but I was cheering from the beach, so very proud of them.
When I started writing a post on prayer, I thought it would be a how-to — but I think pursuing a life of prayer is more like swimming Otsego Lake.
You have to just get in and do it.
You may end up at the wrong dock a time or two.
In upcoming posts I’ll share some of what I’ve learned and how I pray.
Not that I’ve arrived, of course.
Plus, I may be heading north to south, and you may prefer south to north. Our journeys won’t be the same, but I promise it’s worth it.
Since writing the other day about dumb ideas and the perils of sharing them, I’ve been thinking more about it. Thomas Edison said, “To have a great idea, have a lot of them.” If that’s true, I am on my way to having a great idea.
Many of my ideas are like silverfish — fast, uncatchable, mostly harmless, and/or slightly annoying.
My kids roll their eyes when I say I have an idea. “Most of your ideas involve us cleaning,” Laurel told me once. That’s not true. If it was, I’m pretty sure the house would look better than it does.
Most ideas are flawed but contain a kernel of good. Unfortunately, I fail to see the flaw until I share the idea with someone else and they point it out, or I actually carry out the idea and end up regretting it.
A lot of my ideas involve games — like Otter Island, which my friend Katy and I still talk about even though neither of us can remember all the rules. About 10 years ago, I had come up with this idea for a swim camp called Swim Like a Beast (<– hare-brained, I know) where instead of focusing on a different stroke each day, we used a different animal to springboard into our activities. On Dog day we had the little swimmers swim-morph from dog paddle to people paddle (as I called Freestyle that day) and on Frog day we worked on breaststroke kick, etc. Of course, we did other goofy things — like on Otter day playing this game that involved a floating mat (the island), foam noodles (predatory eagles), and lots of swimming either underwater or on the back. It was chaotic, slightly dangerous, and fun.
Chaos, danger, and fun were also ingredients in King of the Log, a variation on King of the Hill, that I made up for the high school girls swim team to play once — until someone got hurt — right before a big meet. Oops. But then, Oscar Wilde said, “An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.”
The Ping-Pong Ball in the Compartmental Vegetable Tray game was a disaster one Christmas when I invented the game for our gift card exchange. Chaotic – yes, but no danger, and far more frustration than fun.
Then there was the art contest I came up with for Covid. The germ of the idea was good — get my kids to create refrigerator art for me during quarantine. Low on chaos, high in danger because sharing art is a scary thing, but the fun was questionable. Plus it dragged on way too long. However, here are my two of my favorite pieces from the 6 rounds (a new round every 3 weeks — using C-O-V-I-D-19 for inspiration):
Idea people need sounding boards and guinea pigs. I am blessed to have both in my life.
If you’re an idea person, share your ideas — even the bad ones.
If you’re friends with an idea person, be a safe haven.
The other morning, when I was praying for my sister during my quiet time, I thought about the text she had recently sent.
“Heat index of 113. No wonder I’m dripping.”
She lives in Florida. Heat index must be like the wind chill — one of those weather statistics you look at and groan. I have no idea of what the heat index has ever been in Cooperstown.
Anyway, I was praying for my sister, and the heat in Florida, and thought, The good thing is that she doesn’t have to go outside and she has air conditioning.
I stopped myself. She DOES have to go outside. She recently got a dog, and a young active dog at that.
Oh, the things we do when we are responsible for another living being! Dog owners must take their dogs out in all kinds of weather. Cat owners scoop kitty litter. New parents get up in the middle of the night. Parents of older kids make that awful trip to the Emergency Room for one reason or another.
I remember the first time the parent-child paradigm shifted with my father. I was staying with my parents off and on over the summer probably 10 or 11 years ago because some of my kids had jobs in Cooperstown. In the middle of one night, I heard my father heading down the hall to use the bathroom. I was only half-awake until I heard the thud of his body hitting the floor. I ran to find him collapsed in the hallway and unresponsive.
One of my kids called 9-1-1 for me and watched for the ambulance to arrive, while I tended to my father. As he came around, I told him to lie still and that we had called the ambulance. He was distressed, though, not because he had passed out but because he had wet himself.
“I need you to get me some dry clothes,” he said.
I ran down the hall to his room where my mother slept through this whole thing, grabbed some clean clothes, and ran back to him lying on the hall floor. While children slept in nearby rooms and another child waited at the front door for the EMTs, I helped him slide off the wet articles of clothing. I cleaned him with a washcloth, and then helped slide the clean clothes on. The whole time, he kept saying, “I’m so sorry. This is terrible. You shouldn’t have to do this. I’m so sorry.”
His dignity was important to him so I made sure he arrived at the Emergency Room clean. I never said a word about it to him, or anyone else for that matter.
Andrew Peterson, in his book Adorning the Dark, tells the story of a woman asking him to write a bit of song-writing advice for her when he was signing a CD. “Don’t write bad songs,” he wrote. She then took the CD to one of the other musicians who performed on it and asked him to write his advice. He saw what Andrew had written and wrote, “Write the bad ones, too.”
I was thinking about that the other day when I shared one of my hair-brained ideas with some friends. They gently pointed out the flaw in the idea, and I felt bad, but only for a moment. Because my heart was saying, “Don’t share dumb ideas” but God was whispering, “Share the dumb ones, too.”
It’s so easy to be crippled by the bad, whatever shape that may take — a bad song, a bad idea, a bad moment in time.
With that bad moment, it’s important to remember them. Not to dwell on them, but to remember.
Remember the time you walked the dog in 103 degree weather.
Remember the trip to the ER.
Remember sharing bad advice or a dumb idea.
Some day, you’ll be able to use that precise moment to encourage someone else.
Some day, you’ll remember how much you loved that somebody and doing that thing wasn’t a chore but an expression of love.
For Mother’s Day 2019, my husband built a Little Free Library for me and set it up across the street. (If you aren’t familiar with Little Free Libraries, they are free book exchanges.)
Yesterday, my husband and I were in the living room when a car pulled up across the street. A young couple got out and went to the Little Free Library. They spent a looooooong time there.
I should back up and say that my Little Free Library has a romance novel problem. A group of locals uses my library as their exchange place — and those fat well-worn romance novels take up too much space. I limit the romance novels to one half of one shelf which means that I must regularly remove some just so I have room for other books.
Back to the couple at the library — I really wasn’t staring at them the whole time, but would occasionally check to see if they were still there.
I saw her take a romance novel. I whispered a little thank you.
He took books off the shelf, leafed through them, and put them back.
Finally he selected a book — a history of the Boston Red Sox that had been there a while..
The two walked to their car and I thought they were done, but then I saw them walking back with different books in their hands.
She marched over and placed a new romance novel in the right spot. I sighed.
He paused between the car and library. He held his book out and looking at it. I watched him pull it close to his chest in a tender embrace, then lift it to his lips and kiss the cover before placing it in the library.
(As I was telling Mary this story, she said, “Ewww…… COVID.” Yes, I suppose, but there’s hand-sanitizer in the library and I can wipe down his book.)
At this point, I imagine you are as intrigued as I was. What was the book?
I do know the answer.
But I’m not going to tell you.
Instead, I’ll leave you with the question I’ve been thinking about for days — what book would I kiss before giving it away to an unknown person? What book would you?
Ravi Zacharias passed away yesterday.
For him, it was going home. But for us, it’s a time to remember how he touched our lives.
In 1982 (or thereabouts) Ravi Zacharias came to Syracuse and spoke to the college-and-career group at the Christian & Missionary Alliance Church where Bud and I were members. Using the creation story, he spoke about the two different types of thinkers — collative and creative.
A collative thinker, he said, gathers information and puts it in order, while a creative thinker gathers information and uses it to create something “new”.
My sister collates. She sat one day last fall in the family room with a box that contained a mish-mash of papers from my mother’s desk. Patiently she sorted through the whole thing, making neat little piles and clipping like things togethers.
“This is what I do,” she said to me when I poked my head in. “I bring order.”
And she does. Really well.
She’s also creative. She once wrote a series of articles for her church newsletter from the perspective of the church’s cat. I think she would agree with me though that on the spectrum that runs from Collative to Creative, she falls on the Collative end of things.
Andrew Peterson is first person I think on the Creative side. Singer, songwriter, author, artist. The man has creativity oozing out his pores.
But he’s also collative in the sense of learning from others. In the Wingfeather Saga (his book series for young and old alike), I see bits and pieces of Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, two of his literary heroes. In his songs, I sometimes hear shades of Rich Mullins.
I have pondered the collative-creative spectrum for years.
When I heard Ravi Zacharias speak the second time, some 14 years after the first, I talked to him about his collative-creative talk. I said, “I’ve been trying to figure out since then what kind of thinker I am.”
He smiled at me and said, “One thing is clear — you are a thinker.”
We were at Sandy Cove (or was is Harvey Cedars?), a Christian retreat center, when I heard him that second time. As clearly as I remember the collative-creative talk, I remember him standing on a stage reciting Percy Shelley’s poem, Ozymandias. It was part recitation and part performance. I remember the timbre of his voice enhanced by his accent as he raised and lowered the volume at which he spoke, his gestures perfectly marking these words:
…And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
I can still hear it.
In that same talk, he read a prayer.
“Who wrote that prayer?” I later asked him.
He told me her name (which I don’t remember), and then said, “She’s a French mystic.”
It was the first time I had ever heard of Christian mysticism. I felt like a door that I didn’t know existed had been opened for me.
Since then Christian mysticism has been a growing interest. I have an ever-expanding collection of prayer books and books about prayer. My ears perk up when I hear (or read) about any Christian mystic. Because I long to experience the presence of God in my small life, reading about others’ encounters with Him thrills me — and mystics have the most interesting stories.
That tiny spark started by a few words from Ravi Zacharias has since been fanned into flame.
Today, I remember Ravi Zacharias. I remember his warmth, his intellect, his sincerity, and how my brief encounters with him have helped me in my personal walk with God.
A few days before everything shut down, we went to dinner at the Doubleday Cafe to remember my father on his birthday. It had been his favorite restaurant.
My son’s girlfriend works with a tourism group in Cooperstown. She told us that night, “They said if the Dreams Park closes, it will kill Cooperstown.” The Dreams Park hosts over 100 Little League teams every week over the summer for tournaments and a Cooperstown experience.
Two days after our dinner, the Baseball Hall of Fame announced they were closing until further notice due to the pandemic.
The next week, Governor Cuomo put the state on “pause.” All non-essential businesses closed.
A week later, the Dreams Park announced that they were closing for the summer of 2020.
Last week the Baseball Hall of Fame announced that the Induction Ceremony for Derek Jeter would be postponed until 2021.
On the day before the announcement, USA Today ran this headline:
Baseball Hall of Fame induction ceremony expected to be postponed, as Cooperstown weeps
Without downplaying the economic hardship — and it IS a HUGE economic hardship on the community — can I show you what Cooperstown is REALLY doing? It isn’t weeping.
1. Cooperstown is working. More than baseball, the backbone of this community is medicine. Bassett Medical Center is a teaching hospital that has received national recognition for its care to rural communities. What started in a fieldstone building in Cooperstown is now the Bassett Healthcare Network: six hospitals and a large number of smaller clinics covering eight counties. The people at Bassett worked hard to prepare for this pandemic and have worked hard throughout.
2. Cooperstown is showing appreciation. Signs like this one started showing up in yards around the village.
The flip side thanks our first responders.
And people haven’t stopped there. People have made their own signs. They leave their front porch lights on during the night as a thank-you to all the essential workers who haven’t “paused” but have been working harder than ever.
3. Cooperstown is maintaining a sense of humor. Andrew Solomon in his book about depression said, “A sense of humor is the best indicator that you will recover.” I know this isn’t depression, but a sense of humor has a way of steadying the boat in any storm.
The other evening I was feeling a little grumpy and irritable. Mary asked about going for a walk and I reluctantly agreed to “just a short one.”
I burst out laughing. “Let’s go see if James Fenimore Cooper is wearing one, too,” I said, and we raced to Cooper Park.
He, too, was protected — as was the WWI Doughboy statue:
My short walk turned out to be longer than intended, but my spirits were so much lighter having seen Cooperstown lean into the new face mask mandate.
While Cooperstown itself has not suffered many deaths from coronavirus (4 according to the Johns Hopkins map today 5/6/2020), the entire population of Cooperstown has been lost at least twelve times over in the state. The number of deaths in the country couldn’t fit into Yankee Stadium. It’s a sobering thought. I think that’s why it was a unanimous decision at the Hall of Fame to postpone the induction ceremony this year. In addition to all the safety concerns, Derek Jeter played for the New York Yankees. His fans have lost family, neighbors, co-workers, and friends to this terrible pandemic. It’s no time for celebration. Today we mourn. Next year we will celebrate.
5. Cooperstown is pulling together. “Support local business!” is the rallying cry. I know I’m not alone. As a family we have chosen to spend our stimulus check at local businesses. We “dine out” — aka take-out — from local restaurants once a week. The waiting area at the restaurant we ordered from last night was hopping — spread out, of course, but hopping.
At Easter, I called the local chocolatier and arranged to purchase homemade fudge from her for our Easter baskets. It was a luxury, I know, but if my buying fudge can help one woman stay in business until business-as-usual returns, I’ll buy fudge.
Some businesses have signs in their windows offering video-shopping. Other businesses have simply chosen not to reopen this summer.
It’s going to be a tough year.
But I’m confident we’ll get through.
Cooperstown will pull together for them, too. Whether it’s a graduation parade in cars down Main Street or some other way to honor and recognize them, we’ll do it.
Safely, of course.
All these closures, cancellations, and postponements won’t kill Cooperstown.
In the wake of the Great Depression, the idea for a baseball museum in Cooperstown was born. At the time no one could imagine where that would take this little village.
It makes me curious as to what could be around the next corner.
The sympathy cards have slowed to a trickle. In the beginning it was a deluge.
Many of the cards said things like this:
Your dad was an amazing man, and I consider myself very lucky to have worked with him.
What a class act!
Don was a wonderful person: friendly, compassionate, smart and extremely generous…
I felt privileged to know him.
Here’s a sampling from his church:
Don and Elinor were two of the first people I met at church and I’ll never forget how welcome they made me feel.
His church will miss him much. I think he held at least every position twice and always took on the most challenging parts.
And a few of the many from the hospital:
He was one of the “Old Guard” at Bassett and embodied all of the wonderful good things of a medical career.
He was the one who recruited me to Cooperstown. He looked after me at work and worked so hard to make sure that our department ran smoothly. I’ll always remember how much he cared about the patients and making my early years there successful.
The more specific people were in what they wrote about my father, the more it touched me. For example, this story made me laugh because it captured his frugality:
Many years ago he asked me (chairman of building and grounds) to help him dig a trench across the driveway from the church house to the manse. If we put in the wires to connect a new manse computer to the one in the secretary office ourselves, we could save a lot of money. Although he was much older than I was, he outworked me with his pick and shovel!
After I graduated from high school I learned that my father had followed each one of his little league players all the way through graduation and had given each one a baseball necktie as a graduation gift. Apparently, he continued that baseball-themed gift-giving pattern into his later years as this person mentioned:
Our son loved baseball and Don often gave him baseball-accented gifts.
The words and stories people shared became a salve for my grieving heart. I read stories of him making housecalls, of mentoring, of swapping “sappy stories,” of his Red Sox fanaticism, of his sweet tooth.
I also received cards from people who had never met my father but who only knew him through me. People who read this blog but that I never met in person. People I met at Hutchmoot or on other travels. Even people here in Cooperstown who know me through my church or my involvement with the swim team, but never met my father. I was so grateful. I felt so loved.
Two cards that especially touched me were from people who had also recently suffered loss:
Deepest sympathies and equally deep gratitude for all the love and care you shared with your dad. I know firsthand that is a gift that goes both ways and lives in memory always. (from another caregiver whose father had recently died)
We have a wonderful hope of resurrection, but the grief is still so real right now. (from a grieving spouse)
Blessed are those who understand for God will give them words to ease another’s pain.
The hardest thing about swimming laps is —
1.) Leaving the house. Walking out into the real world is cold.
2.) Getting in the water. If leaving the house is cold, getting into the water is doubly so. Changing in the locker room. Taking a shower. Walking, dripping wet, out onto the deck. Cold. Really cold. Finally sitting on the edge and sliding into the water.
3.) Counting the laps. I’ll come back to this one.
4.) Leaky goggles. It’s annoying to have one side fill with water so that you swim like Popeye the Sailor — with one eye closed.
I asked Laurel what was the hardest thing about swimming laps. She said, “when you can’t see where the wall is because you’re crying because it hurts so bad knowing you’re not gonna make the interval even though you’re trying so hard and your legs hurt and you can’t move your arms any faster :)” She’s a teenage girl, a little overly dramatic, but speaks from her heart. Swim team workouts are rough.
Back to counting laps, though.
Swimming can be monotonous. It’s also very zen. A lap swimmer — and here I’m talking about the adult lap swimmer who isn’t trying to make the interval and crying and can’t see the wall — can get lost of the rhythm of the thing.
I wrote the vast majority of my college papers in the pool. I organized my thoughts, sifted through ideas, tried out sentences, rearranged the words. All the while I was splash-splash-splash-breathing.
Sometimes people would ask me how many yards I did and I would have no idea. I was more worried about words than yards.
When I no longer had papers to write, I tried to count my laps the old fashioned way — with numbers. It was a struggle. I finally settled on my own system: the alphabet plus the Ten Commandments.
You may laugh, but it worked. 36 laps in a 25 yard pool comes out to just over a mile.
Each letter of the alphabet got a whole lap. I would think of words or people that began with that letter. I would pray or think on things that began with that letter. Then I would move on to the next.
I did that for years.
Until, about 15 years ago, life got in the way of my lap-swimming.
Recently, I started lap-swimming again. I was so out of shape that I didn’t try to count laps at first.
The third morning I realized I needed to focus on something other than simply reaching the wall. My mind was overactive, my body tired.
I decided to work on memorizing scripture — Isaiah 61. Each length got a word.
Lap 1: The Lord
Lap 2: has anointed
Lap 3: me to
Me to. Me to. The words rattled around with familiarity because of #metoo.
The #metoo movement had stirred up memories, memories of experiences that gave me common ground with many women.
But #meto — that involves purpose.
The Lord has anointed me to… Isaiah 61 lists seven things. I found myself pondering instead, what does the Lord want ME to do?
My life is changed. To care for my father had been my purpose — and it was so fulfilling. I confess to being a little lost now.
Blessed is Too — the common ground we share with others through experience.
Blessed also is To — as in an infinitive verb suggesting purpose.
Like a college paper, I’ll use the pool to sort through my thoughts and figure things out.
First I have to leave the house, though — and sometimes that’s the hardest part of swimming laps.
I once had a pastor who loved to talk about stretching.
Not like downward dog yoga stretching, more like standing-on-tiptoes-and-reaching-a-book-off-the-top-shelf stretching.
Stretching, as in, moving beyond what you thought was possible.
He was generally talking about being uncomfortable in a situation and choosing to do the right thing. That stretches a person.
Or hardships. Those are stretching experiences — when we don’t allow them to make us brittle.
I was thinking about stretching the other day at a swim meet while watching swimmers coming into the wall. The person who won the race — often by a mere fraction of a second — was the one who reached the longest and fastest, stretching their fingers to touch the pad first.
Regular stretching can lead to increased flexibility.
An interesting thing about flexibility is that of all the types of fitness, it takes the longest to gain, but it also stays with a person the longest. A person can build up cardio ability relatively quickly, but, when aerobic exercise is abandoned, cardio gains leave fairly quickly. Flexibility, on the other hand, can take months to years of consistent stretching to improve, but that increased flexibility also lasts a loooooong time.
The other day I read this:
When the monasteries of the Middle Ages lost their fervor, the last observance that ceased to be properly carried out was the choral office. (Thomas Merton, Contemplative Prayer)
Regularly-practiced liturgy sticks.
And yet, liturgy is certainly NOT flexibility.
Liturgy is like the roots of a tree that stretch down, down, down to water in the driest of seasons.
Flexibility is like the tree branches reaching up, up, up, reaching for the sun and sky and rain, moving with the wind.
Blessed are those who stretch both up and down. They gain both flexibility and roots.
Side note: this piece has sat in my draft folder for, um, I don’t know how long. Part of me wants to finish strong — finish these darn beatitudes that sounded like such a good idea at the time, but now feel like a weight.
Golly, it’s been a tough few months!
Perhaps, sometimes, finishing strong simply means finishing. I stare at my drafts and don’t know how to finish them.
I’ll be that girl crawling across the finish line —
So forgive the upcoming half-written beatitudes.
But, dog-gone it, I’m going to finish.
It’s a stretching experience, I suppose.