A baby brontosaurus is sleeping ‘cross the way
That would explain the humpy bump that’s been there all the day Pshaw, you say, don’t you know that dinosaurs are gone?
But how else can I justify the lump outside the barn?
It’s smoothly gently rounded like a brontosaurus spine
Long neck and tail wrapped near its feet in a curving line
Sleeping, hibernating — beneath that mound of snow
The thing I really wonder is where did its mother go?
Underneath the massive pile of snow is our minivan. Thank goodness, I don’t need it for the next few days.
Three years ago, Ash Wednesday began with an early phone call from my sister telling me that my brother had died unexpectedly. It brought a whole new depth to “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Now the two events are forever linked in my mind — Ash Wednesday and Stewart’s death. Somber and sad.
This morning I was looking for a Collect for Shrove Tuesday and stumbled across a website where I would like to spend more time: Liturgy It’s the work of Bosco Peters, an Anglican priest in New Zealand. On his Shrove Tuesday page, he said,
This is the last day of the “Alleluias” until Easter. This day may even involve the burying of the Alleluia.
I loved the idea of making today a day of Hallelujahs, the last day of Hallelujahs before Easter.
I looked out the window and saw a little chickadee hopping around on a tree and imagined it chirruping Hallelujah. I could hear the stream in the basement (not a good thing, but a sign of spring) and saw the clear blue sky with puffy white clouds. Before I knew it, I was writing a little Hallelujah poem.
My day will be filled with Hallelujahs. Will you join me?
The chickadee hops from twig, branch, to limb
Chick-chick-a-dee hallelujah
The gurgle of water as snow melts to spring
Burble-splish-splosh hallelujah
10X sugar piles on robin’s egg sky
Azurean cerulean hallelujah
Mud-luscious earth, spikes of green occupy
Plant-sprouting-spring-shouting hallelujah
Brisk breeze brushes cheek in a chilly embrace
Shiver and shudder hallelujah
Remembering the quickening, tender touches of grace
Life, light, and love — hallelujah
Tomorrow hallelujah dies from our lips
We walk with both Jesus and Judas
Today we rejoice, putting darkness aside —
Come sing! Come shout! Hallelujah!
I can’t remember
The sound of my mother’s voice
Fresh grief at this loss
The telephone at my father’s house doesn’t work terribly well, and I want to try a new one, but I don’t want to lose his voice on the answering machine. Is it silly — the things we hold onto?
I really couldn’t remember my mother’s voice this morning, try though I did.
The crappy phone will stay.
I looked through the videos on my computer. Surely I had one with her voice. I found a couple from two years ago when she was in physical therapy. She spoke three words total in six videos. Monosyllabic. “Yes.” “No.” “Missed.” That’s not how I want to remember her.
Towards the end of the video below, where we are singing the blessing over a meal, I can pick out her voice. It’s a good place to end.
I’ve been there to watch the sun rise, and I’ve been there to watch the sun set — and I’ve been there at all hours in between.
It is peaceful and strong and restful and restorative. Who knew that a piece of art could do all that?
I probably have hundreds of photographs of Threshold — from close-ups of insects climbing on the limestone to all-encompassing shots taken from a distance as I walked around it to shots taken with her walls.
In Threshold, I recognize Psalm 48. I have numbered her towers – one – and considered well her ramparts. It’s not Zion, but it points me in that direction.
Looking out from Thresholdlooking up from inside ThresholdOne of my favorite people soaking in Threshold’s goodness
A friend who is helping care for an elderly relative told me about one evening when she went to visit her aunt and she found her wearing no pants. It reminded me of a poem I had written when my mother did something similar.
Here’s my poem:
My mother had no pants on
When she came down the stairs.
The funny thing about it was
It seemed she didn’t care.
The Emperor’s New Clothes became
The Grandmother’s New Pants –
Invisible clothes or missing –
I took another glance.
My children both politely
Turned their backs to her.
Modesty would dictate
Their behavior be demure.
“Mom, you need some pants on!”
“I know,” was all she said.
She settled in the kitchen,
Looking to be fed.
“Go put some pants on now,”
I commanded best I could.
“I will,” she said, but sat there,
So I didn’t think she would.
My father finally got her
To get up and find some pants.
I thought (but didn’t do)
A little happy dance.
Sometimes I let my toddlers
Run around with legs quite bare.
A child in only diapers
Would never get a stare.
But a grannie wearing panties,
Well, that’s a different sight.
Embarrassing for all involved —
It simply isn’t right.
So, help me, Lord, to understand
What is it I should do
When my mother comes down pantless
And doesn’t seem to have a clue.
It took some work for me to find the poem for my friend. I’ve started and stopped a number of blogs under various names.
Once I went through and started systematically deleting everything I had ever written — a self-inflicted devastation.
A lot of my writing is lost forever.
Meh.
Honestly, who cares? They’re just words.
I console myself with that fact that far more important words — words written by Jesus Himself in the dirt (John 8) — are forever gone.
Yesterday, on a forum, someone asked this question: “…what are the favorite blog posts you have written? Perhaps not the ones that have generated the most traffic, though it could be that, but the ones that reveal you.”
Believe it or not, I thought of this little poem. Actually, I thought of a few little poems I’ve written. I still can’t find one of them.
But when words and life are hard, poetry — dumb little rhyming poems — give a structure and a lightness to my thoughts.
In 2011, my mind was spinning with all the information being thrown at me. Bladder cancer. Catheter care. Chemotherapy.
That summer, my mother had been diagnosed with bladder cancer.
As if Alzheimer’s wasn’t enough. As if a second bout with breast cancer wasn’t enough. As if my father needing a pacemaker wasn’t enough.
In the midst of all this, I wrote a poem based on Milo of Croton, the legendary Greek wrestler who began each day lifting a calf.
Okay — not lifting a calf here.
The legend goes that by lifting the same calf every morning, Milo could eventually lift a full-grown cow or bull. I didn’t need to lift a physical cow, rather a heavy load of struggles, one that was increasing in size.
If I lift the same calf every day
Could I someday lift a cow?
It seems logical and sensible
But impossible somehow.
Somehow I become broken
And it’s more than I can take.
Will I see failure coming?
Or do I need to break?
Or do I need a break
From lifting up the cow?
Am I stronger then, or weaker,
When I start to bow?
To bow under the pressure that’s
So heavy on my soul
That the spirit and mind and body
All begin to show the toll;
When can I say “Uncle”
And deal with this no more?
I strain under the calf-turned-cow
My cheek pressed to the floor,
Trying to lift up the cow,
But the Lifter of my head
Says, “Let Me help. Stop a while.
I’ll put others in your stead.
“Let friends come beside you.
You can take a rest.
Trust Me; it will be okay.
I really know what’s best.”
But the habit formed of lifting,
Lifting, lifting every day
Is scary to give up.
Lord, show me the way.
During that time I felt God answering every prayer I ever prayed about knowing Him more, trusting Him more, and resting in Him more completely.
The funny thing about challenges is that the harder they are, the deeper we grow.
I couldn’t meet the challenges.
At least not alone.
I found myself clinging to my faith during that challenging time.
Faith is not a crutch as some might say. It is a Strength.
It’s also faithful friends — that hands and feet of Christ.
I wrote Milo of Croton 5 years ago — and I think I still haven’t learned to yield.
(1) Captain Hopkins had a schooner Eliza was her name
Come hear the story of her wreck
“tis such a crying shame
She sailed out from Hyannis
In April 1899
Heavy seas when she departed
Though the morrow’s forecast fine
(2) Captain Hopkins had a worthy crew
Of 13 men with him
Many were related,
Brothers, cousins, kin — Eliza had been prosperous
So the Captain laid aside
Money to soon build a house
For his sons and his bride
(3) Eliza made a quick run
Through Nantucket sound
The Great Round Shoal lightship
They sailed right around
The night was clear, but a relic
Of the Northwest gale that day
Made the seas a little choppy
Still it did not cause delay
(4) Course was set for Great Rip
Also called Nantucket Shoals
Captain Hopkins knew his way
All around these fishing holes
Two men were on watch
When they hit the Rose and Crown
A miscalculated shoal
That brought their lady down
(Chorus)
Hey, there, Cap’n Hopkins!
Climb aboard wi’ me!
But – No-ho, he shouted,
The dory won’t survive this sea
Hey, there, Cap’n Hopkins!
There’s room for all aboard!
But – No-ho, he shouted.
And the pleas were all ignored.
(5) A wave swept o’er Eliza
From her stem to stern
She was broken with one pound
The surf was all a-churn
While some men grabbed the rigging
The dory was prepared
To launch for this emergency
That their lives would be spared
(Chorus)
(6) A wave swept the dory
Right off the deck
Three men fought to right her
And keep her by the wreck
“Come on board,” they shouted
To the remaining crew
Cap’n, he refused to go
And the others followed suit.
(Chorus)
(7) The dory, she was stove in —
Two men rowed, the other bailed
And they stayed right near Eliza
To save the crew, but failed —
The onboard crew refused them
“That dory is too small
Dawn will be here soon
We’ll be seen and save-d all.”
(Chorus)
(8) The men in the dory
Stayed the whole night through
Listening, hoping, praying
To know what they should do
But when dawn’s rays illuminated
Here’s what met their eyes:
The schooner gone to pieces
And nobody survived.
(Chorus)
(9)They rowed that broken dory
Through the Rose and Crown
Bailing water constantly
Till they came in sight of town
And so these three were rescued:
Nickerson, Miller, Doane,
But oh, dear Captain Hopkins –
Why didn’t you come home?
(Chorus)
*****
Based on the true story of my great-grandfather, a fishing boat captain who died at age 37, going down with his schooner, the Eliza.
“I wish your mother could see those windchimes,”
my father said,
looking at the green butterflies
and brass bells.
Their gentle tinkle
was beyond his hearing
like my mother was beyond …
I don’t know.
Beyond the day
when he could repay
for late nights
and house calls
and meetings
and reserve duty
and patients calling
and dinner waiting
and waiting
and waiting
for him to be home
She always had to share him
with the sick
the poor
the destitute
and with other physicians
and administrators
and nurses
and important folk
who received the same courtesy
as the unimportant
My mother may have felt
that she came last
So he bought the windchimes
last summer
and hung them
in the myrtle
where the gentlest breeze
could flutter through
and make
a plinkle-chinkle-tinkle
barely audible
wings brushing bells
My mother closed her eyes
from weariness
a few miles
and lifetimes
away
At the end
she had to know
that she was
always
first
as he spooned
the ice cream
into her mouth
and told her
that he loved her
time
and
again
I have a little troll who likes to visit me;
The pleasure that he gets from it is more than I can see.
He crawls out nearly monthly, from underneath his rock,
And writes a little comment full of unkind ugly talk.
I’ve tried to just ignore him. I’ve notified police,
And pastors, friends, and family. I’ve asked that he just cease.
He changes names like t-shirts in an effort to conceal
His identity but there’s no doubt — this troll is very real..
Father Thomas, quite by accident, kicked a nest of trolls.
They railed at him (IN ALL CAPS) ne’er retreating to their holes.
They summoned other uglies, who joined the angry mob
In giving Father Thomas quite the hatchet job.
But Thomas preached forgiveness – and his words gave me a chill —
“Forgiveness,” he said wisely, “is an act of your own will.*
You may desire justice, but mercy may be better.
Dismiss the debt that’s owed you and forgive the debtor.”
I wanted to ask Thomas — “Does this apply to trolls
Who threaten and attack you and seem to have no souls?”
I knew what he would answer. At least, I had a guess —
Trolls are really humans. God does not love them less.
Created in God’s image. His breath, their breath — and more,
His mercy for their troll-ness, their awfulness He bore.
So daily now, I pray for him — this troll who visits me —
That from the hate which binds him he would some day be free.
*What he actually said was, “This is just Christian ethical consideration for what you do in the event of trespass… Forgiveness relieves the tension in the ‘mercy versus justice’ option.”
(3) Eliza made a quick run
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 