Blessed are those with Open Hands

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with my hands clenched and guarding my heart. I’m sure it’s stress, but it doesn’t change the little exercise I go through — opening my hands wide and spreading my fingers, willing them to stay open while I fall back asleep.

Open hands feel vulnerable. I have to be very intentional about it.


My son Sam went to British Columbia for school and adventure. Adventures like climbing sheer rock faces.

I had to ask him to stop sending photographs. I could handle ones like this:

But not ones like this:

Once he called me and said, “Mom! The coolest thing happened this weekend while I was climbing!”

“What?” I asked, thinking it would be a wildlife sighting or a beautiful vista.

“”I fell!!” he said.

My heart stopped. I felt my stomach squeeze.

“It was so cool!” he continued. “The rope caught me!”

“Don’t tell me stories like that,” I said.

Really. I can’t handle them.

But while Sam was out there, I learned to pray with open hands. I could do nothing to change what would happen — just pray.

And let go.

It felt very vulnerable.


I emptied a drawer in my mother’s dresser a month or so ago.

It was still filled with her things and the smell of my mother overwhelmed me when I pulled the drawer open. I don’t know that I can accurately describe what that smell is. Powder? Tussy deodorant? Sachets? Tissue?

I pressed my lips into a grim line and dumped the contents of the drawer into a large tote.

Then I did the same with another drawer.

And another.

Nearly four years after my mother died, I finally emptied her dresser.

When my sister came to visit, I pulled the tote downstairs for her to sort through.

Letting go of my mother’s things felt vulnerable. But right.


I’m worrier by nature.

And a breath-holder in stressful situations.

I don’t like change.

My tendency is to hold on.

Tight.

But…

Blessed are those with open hands, for they shall know peace.

Blessed are the Nameless

Early in the year I began researching the Alfred Corning Clark Gymnasium, a building in Cooperstown where I spent many happy hours as a youth. In 1986, the new Clark Sports Center, located on the outskirts of town, opened and replaced my beloved gym. The old building was converted to offices for the Baseball Hall of Fame.

I went in once for a meeting with a Hall of Fame person. He saw me looking around, trying to orient myself to where I was in the old building.

“I think we’re sitting in the girls’ locker room,” he said.

I think he was right.

But I digress.

Research, I have discovered, is like wandering through an extensive cave system with people waiting at various junctures throughout. Each person has a story. If I listen, and follow their story, I may not end up where I was originally headed, but I always end up somewhere interesting.

So…

I started researching Alfred Corning Clark. It seemed the logical first step.

Research today is a far cry from research when I was in college. While I still miss the old card catalog at the library, where my fingers walked through names and topics, now I often sit in the comfort of my living room, while my father is reading out loud or doing a word-find, and type search terms in various sites. It’s pretty amazing how much is available.

Well, Alfred Corning Clark led me to Mrs. Alfred Corning Clark. In the old newspapers, that’s how they refer to her.  Even as a widow. When she remarried, her new name was Mrs. Henry Codman Potter.

Mrs. Alfred Corning Clark

Somewhere along the line, though, in the vast web of local history, I ran across a man named Strong Comstock. I confess, I liked his name. I could picture a young mother giving birth to a sickly child and naming him Strong, willing him to live up to that name. Or a woman giving birth to such a robust baby that the name was obvious — Strong. However, neither of those theories was correct. Strong Comstock’s first name was a family name. It had been passed down through generations, mostly as a middle name. “Strong” became a family name when Nathan Comstock married Bethiah Strong in the early 18th century.

I jotted down his name, just like I’ve jotted down other names that I find interesting.

Once I encountered a young woman named Orchestra Stevens, born in 1800, died in 1822. I really want to know why her parents, Josiah and Mary, named her Orchestra. Did they love music? Did they dream of hearing an orchestra? She was the fifth of nine children, the rest of whom have more mundane names — Lucy, Betsey, Catharine, Josiah, etc. Some day I’ll pursue her story.

In the old newspapers Strong Comstock’s wife is called Mrs. Strong Comstock. Not even her obituary revealed her name, though it told me a lot more about her.

She died in Cooperstown in 1894. Two weeks later Strong Comstock moved from Cooperstown to Danbury, Connecticut.

I didn’t learn Mrs. Strong Comstock’s name until I searched her husband on Ancestry. She was Mary Jane Atwood.

Ah, the opaque cloak of a husband’s name.

Which brings me back to Mrs. Alfred Corning Clark.

As I researched, I found places where she had signed her name — Mrs. Alfred Corning Clark. I read any number of accounts of good, generous things she had done — all credited to Mrs. Alfred Corning Clark.

It wasn’t really a question of knowing her name. I already knew it. I’ve walked past this plaque a thousand times:

“Erected for the benefit of the citizens of the Village of Cooperstown by Elizabeth Scriven Clark and given to the village by Robert Sterling Clark”

It’s on the library building —

She did indeed build the building for the people of Cooperstown.

Her son, Robert, gave it to the village in a purge of all things Cooperstown. I don’t think that negates the generosity of the gift, though. It certainly doesn’t explain the plaque.

Nicholas Fox Weber, author of The Clarks of Cooperstown, made Robert Sterling Clark seem almost spiteful in the wording of the plaque, “Sterling saw to it that the … library would be named for their mother, while making it clear which of her sons had funded it.”

I prefer to think better of him, and of the plaque. I think he gave the village a building — a generous act — and he gave his mother her name. The greater gift was to her.

Thomas Merton wrote an essay called “Ishi: A Meditation” about the Yahi tribe in California, a tribe that was totally wiped out by white people. The last surviving member of the tribe, a member referred to as Ishi, died without ever revealing his true name.

In the end, no one ever found a single name of the vanished community. Not even Ishi’s. For Ishi simply means MAN.

Blessed are the Nameless
for they shall receive names
and they shall be known.

Blessed are the Laborers

One of my summer projects involves research at one of the research libraries in town.

The other day, I told Bud I was going to make a quick stop at the research library. Two hours later, when I realized how much time had passed, I hurriedly got up to leave. Joe the librarian asked me if I had found what I was looking for.

I laughed.

“There’s always so much more,” I said.

True about research.

True about life.

Nothing about research feels like work to me. But this research IS work-related.

*****

Helen calls me about once a week to tell me that she loves her job. She’s a nurse and works as a care coordinator. Mind you — I don’t think she ever called to tell me that she loved her job when she worked as a floor nurse in a hospital. But she’s found her niche and it’s very fulfilling.

*****

My father loved his work. He used to leave the house about 7 AM and get home after 6 PM. And then be on call. Or get calls when he wasn’t on call. And make house-calls. Or calls at the nursing home. Plus reserve duty one weekend each month.

He worked hard.

Honestly, I don’t remember ever hearing him complain about it.

I do, however, remember how special it was if he took time off from his workday to see me win an award at school — that one time I won an award. In fourth grade. For spelling.

But I knew my father loved his work AND his family. I never questioned it. His job was meaningful to him and impacted others.

*****

I married a man who loved to work. Until last October Bud worked as a dosimetrist, creating treatment plans for people who needed radiation therapy. Often he would stay late or go back to the hospital after dinner to finish up plans for patients who needed to start treatment soon. When he left that job to help me take care of my father, he tackled all the outside work around my parents’ house, much of it having been neglected for years. The property has never looked so good.

2015 before Bud

2019 after Bud — even the sky looks better

He takes great pride in the work he has done here. People notice it often and compliment him.

*****

Blessed are those who have found work that is fulfilling. 

*****

If you have a job you hate, I can relate. My three worst jobs:

1.) In college I signed on with a temporary agency and once worked for a week at a local factory. I stood at the end of a conveyor belt, caught syringes, and packed them in a box. My heart went out to the people on either side of me who caught syringes as a full-time job. The factory was loud. The work was thankless.

2.) I sold Tupperware for a time. Actually, I gave away Tupperware for a time. I felt so guilty at the exorbitant prices I couldn’t do it. I’m pretty sure I lost money on this venture, but ended up with a whole bunch of Tupperware.

3.) I took a secretarial job at a lumberyard in Cheyenne. The work may not have been bad, but the workplace was awful. At lunch on my second day, I drove to the hospital where Bud worked.

“I don’t want to go back,” I said, bursting into tears.

“Then don’t, ” he replied.

So I didn’t.

It turns out that 12 hours of crass and suggestive language in the office was my limit.

*****

Blessed are those who work at unfulfilling jobs.
Your story isn’t over yet.
Do your work heartily.*
Keep your eyes and ears open for other opportunities.
Let that hope keep you going.

 

*Colossians 2:23-24

Blessed are the Kitschy (or Kind)

Blessed are the kitschy
whose art is low-brow
whose writing is cheesy
who can stare at a lava lamp for hours
and whose kitchen clock is a cat with a wagging tail
and eyes that flit back-and-forth, back-and-forth

Blessed are the kitschy
for they are the salt of the earth —
Without them
life would be bland


The field where the cows have grazed the past few summers is planted in corn this year.

2017

2019

Nobody plowed the field or did anything to prepare it. In the spring and early summer, I kept watching for the cows, hoping they would bring them, not knowing the field had been sown with corn until it started to grow.

I said something to a friend whose husband had been a dairy farmer. “I didn’t know they could do that. I thought they had to get the field ready before they planted on it.”

She shook her head and frowned. “It drives my husband crazy to see those fields.”

There must be something fundamentally wrong with doing things that way, but I don’t know what that something is.

All summer, though, I’ve watched the corn grow and grow and grow. It seems to be doing okay.

When I started thinking about a “K” post, the first thing that came to mind was Kindness in a reap-what-you-sow beatitude.

Blessed are the kind, for those who sow kindness shall reap kindness.

The song from The Fantasticks — “Plant a Radish” — started running through my head.

Plant a radish, get a radish
Never any doubt
That’s why I like vegetables
You know what you’re about

Except, as usual, I started playing with the words —

Plant a kindness, get a kindness
Maybe you’ll get two
That’s why being neighborly
Is always good for you

I reread my words and thought, So cheesy. Ix-nay that.

Yes, I have my moments of thinking in pig-latin.

One of those most freeing things I heard at a Hutchmoot was when author N. D. Wilson said, “It’s okay to be cheesy if you’re on your way to being good.”

I don’t know if I’m on my way to being good, but I yam what I yam.

And if someone doesn’t like the way I write, they certainly don’t have to read it.

But, then, if you happen to have a Billy Bass hanging on your wall singing “Take Me to the River” or a garden gnome in front of your house. Or if you like reading Amish-vampire-romance novels, I’m not going to judge you.

And you may like when someone bursts out into a song from an old musical.

Kitschy and kindness may even go together.

Like corn seed on an unprepared field.

You never know.

Blessed are the (un)Jaded

True (and somewhat dull) story about a vegetable peeler:

Once day my vegetable peeler fell apart. I was peeling potatoes and it fell apart in my hands mid-peel.

The next time I went to the store, I bought a new peeler — a fancier one with a swivel blade and a soft-grip handle.

I was in for a shock when I first used it. Not only was the handle more comfortable, but peeling itself was a dream.  I had  no idea that the old peeler was as dull as it was until I used the newer sharper one.

Sometimes life is like that.  We’re plugging away, plugging away, plugging away all the while growing duller and duller and duller.

And then we fall apart. Or reach that brink.

I realize I’m being very trite by comparing life to a vegetable peeler — but it’s my life that I’m talking about so I think that’s okay.

I didn’t realize how heavy my burden had been of late — until I found that I had lost my smile. I was snapping at people. I was unmotivated to do much of anything. I was becoming jaded to this privilege of caring for others.

As I binge-watched a British crime show and ordered Chinese take-out for dinner, I started thinking about that peeler.

“Lord, make me an OXO peeler,” seems a strange prayer — but God understands.

And lest you all start worrying about me, please know that I’m doing fine. Really.

Life jades us. God unjades.


Blessed are the jaded —
the weary
the worn out

the ones who have lost the joy
of cooking a meal

who add unopened mail
to the pile
in the back room

who cringe at watching
“Wheel of Fortune”
one
more
time

who have given everything they have
– fruit, branches, trunk –
and have nothing left
but an old stump

Blessed are the jaded
who have lost their smile
and want only to sleep
or watch crime shows on Netflix
or unscrew another Oreo

To them Jesus said,
Come unto me,
all ye who labor
and are heavy-laden
I will give you rest

 

Blessed are the Individuals

Blessed are the individuals
who have a sense of their own uniqueness
the set of gifts and talents peculiar to them
and who use those gifts
for the good of others
for they shall hear the words,
“Well done, good and faithful servant.
Enter into the joy of your master.”


When I was thrown into the role of high school swim coach in 2002, I had no idea what I was doing.

I’m sure I was a most unconventional coach. We had Wildcard Wednesday, where practice could be almost anything, and Thinking Thursday, where practice usually went homeschool-educational. (For example, one week when a hurricane was in the news, we “learned” about hurricanes. The eye of a hurricane can be 2 miles to 200 miles in diameter — so we did a 2 x 200 and they swam it fast because the winds around the eye are the strongest.)

But, honestly, I loved those girls. I loved talking to them and getting to know them — and the more I did of that, the more I realized that high school swim team isn’t about swimming. It’s about life.

I started working to impart life attitudes to them that would take them farther than their 10 week season with me.

Like all school sports, we have a rival. The rival was often spoken of in terms of evil, or like they were our enemy. I wanted to change that.

Over and over, I told my girls that after a race it was important to reach over the lane line and congratulate the girl in the next lane, no matter who won.

“That swimmer in the next lane is helping you to swim your fastest,” I told them.

We were at our rival’s pool for the championship meet. The second-to-last event in a high school meet is the 100 yard breaststroke. The meet was very close between Cooperstown and the rival team. My breaststroker, Becky, had little chance of winning. She was good, but the swimmer from the rival school was the top seed by many seconds.

Right from the start, the two swimmers were side by side. Every time rival swimmer pulled ahead, Becky pulled a little harder and brought herself even. During the last 25 yards, the screams from the stands were deafening. Those two girls were so close — and when they touched the wall, rival girl won.

Exhausted and smiling Becky reached across the lane line and congratulated the winner.

When Becky came to me after the race, she was beaming. “She helped me swim my best time” were the first words out of her mouth. Not a word about losing.

I felt like we had both won — and probably Becky was the greater winner because of what she had recognized.

By being our best, we help others to become their best.

Community and individuality walk hand-in-hand. We can’t ignore one for the other.

Becky and Olympic swimmer Jenny Thompson flexing together

Blessed are the Homesick

Blessed are the homesick for they have a home.

My father’s music of choice is Scottish — so I hear it all the time. A thread of homesickness runs through their music.

The other day, as I listened for 793rd time to John McDermott singing, My Ain Folk, I found myself thinking about how blessed I am that I understand this song and this homesickness. Now that I have traveled a wee bit, I know even more what it is to long to be home.

The fjords of Norway are breathtaking, Sarajevo is hauntingly beautiful, the beaches of Normandy are sad and inspiring — but whenever and wherever I travel, I miss my home.

I love Cooperstown —- have I ever mentioned that here?

I rewrote My Ain Folk (see the video at the end if you aren’t familiar with the song) for my own family —

Far from my hame I wander but still my thoughts return
To my ain1 folk over yonder — and it’s for them yearn
I see the tree-lined streets there, and I look out o’er the lake
At the Tower2 and the Lion3, and my heart begins to ache

And it’s – Oh, but I’m longing for my ain folk
Though they be but quiet simple4 plain folk
When I’m far away from home — wherever I may roam
I’m missing Cooperstown and my ain folk

Recalling Mom there in the kitchen5, my father in his den6
My husband in the pasture7, mowing it again
My children coming through the door, excited ‘bout their day
The cashier at the grocery8 who talks of family while I pay

And it’s – Oh, but I’m longing for my ain folk
Though they be but quiet simple plain folk
When I’m far away from home — wherever I may roam
I’m missing Cooperstown and my ain folk

1. Ain = own

2. Tower = Kingfisher Tower

3. Lion = the Sleeping Lion a “mountain” at the end of the lake. You have to squint and use a lot of imagination to see a lion, but that’s what it’s called.

at the edge of Otsego Lake looking toward the Sleeping Lion and Kingfisher Tower

4. Simple = in the sense of enjoying simple pleasures: the dew on the grass, the hummingbirds diving in and out of the bee balm, the colors of the maples in autumn, the sparkle of snow

5. Mom in the kitchen = it’s where I remember her most

Marmalade

6. Dad in the den = okay, so my father doesn’t have a den per say, but he loves to read and work on puzzles. If he had a den, he’d sit there.

A dictionary (and a cat) in the lap

7. Bud in the pasture = I don’t think he has missed working as a dosimetrist one whit. He has worked hard on the property here — mowing and clearing brush — so that it’s beautiful just to look out the front door.

 

8. Cashier at the grocery = I really love that she knows my name. Her name is Linda. And the produce guy is Mark. And the deli lady — I wish I knew her name — always brightens up and greets me when I stop there. It’s a small town thing, I suppose, to know the people at the grocery store so well.

Yes, yes — blessed are those who know homesickness because they also know home.