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.
“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.”
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me…
Jenny Joseph
Three “old” poems — one for my grandmother, one for my mother, and one for me.
When I am old, I shall buy a piano And rest my fingers lightly on the keys, curved just so. I’ll retrain them to move the way they did when I was a girl, The time I accompanied my brother, Nichol, While he played his violin for Calvin Coolidge.
I’ll play hymns on the upright And sing along
With the nobody in the room. And I will drink dessert wine Even though I am a Baptist One glass every night before bed Because my doctor said I could.
When I am old, I shall plant a garden
Not of practical vegetables like green beans and carrots,
But a banquet for the eyes.
Flowers,
A sumptuous spread of colors
That changes from week to week,
Crocuses, daffodils, bachelor buttons, and poppies.
I shall plant it close to the road For the passers-by to feast upon
If they but take their time.
But to those who drive too fast,
I will shake my fist
And shout –
“Slow down!
You’re missing the best part of life!”
When I am old, I will pump iron. I’ll pull my kettle bells out of the closet
And swing them. I’ll do squats and lunges, Deadlifts, presses, Russian twists, And Turkish get-ups.
My body may wear the softness of a slowed metabolism
But underneath I will be strong –
Strong enough to arm-wrestle with my children
And laugh at the absurdity of the thing
But still occasionally win.
I was delighted to learn that the pussywillow is waved on Palm Sunday in many Eastern and Slavic churches.
“The Pussy Willow is also our Easter symbol,” said Father Czeslaw Krysa, rector of St. Casimir’s Church in Buffalo, in a 2013 article. He said that it is “one of the most prominent Easter symbols, because of the fact out of this dry, kind of twig all of a sudden bursts forth this beautiful flower of life, and it is the first bush that blooms.”
They call them “resurrection branches.”
Reading about them reminded me of a poem/prayer that I wrote back in January.
Oh Lord
I need a pick-me-up
For I am feeling down
Outside the snow is glittering, cold,
Inside my heart is brown
And dry and brittle, mostly dead,
Like last month’s Christmas tree
Weeping prickly needles
Which need be swept by me
I know You can’t restore the tree
To vibrant verdant green
— Well, yes, You could
And yes, You did
When Aaron’s rod was seen
Budding,
Blossoming,
Bearing fruit
— Can You do that with me?
Of course, You can —
but would You, Lord?
Miraculously use me?
For, Lord, You know I have this fear
I’m one of the eleven
Sticks that stayed quite dead and brown
Not bearing fruit for heaven
I fear I too am dead inside —
Like Lazarus, I stink —
Roll back the stone –
Call out my name –
Pull me from this brink
Of hopelessness
Of deadfulness —
I need to be made new
Please water me
Sunshine me
And let me grow in You.
Today the rocks and stones and pussywillows are crying out “Hosanna!”
i thank You God for most this amazing day:
for the glittering icy brilliance of snow
and the pink-streaked watercolor dawn;
for the bare branches of trees whose tiniest twigs
point upward,
upward,
upward,
reminding me there is more.
thank you for the take-my-breath-away cold
that freezes in my throat,
and for the merino warmth of my scarf, hat, mittens, socks.
the bitterest cold helps me to appreciate
the snuggliest warmth.
this, this is a privilege
that my southern neighbors rarely know —
the nip on my nose,
the tears frozen in my eyes,
the soft flakes that land
(and sometimes melt)
on upturned chilly cheeks
thank You God for winter —
for leaned-on shovels
and salt-sprinkled sidewalks;
for glacial ground
where grass breaks instead of bends;
for barren landscapes
that belie the promise
of new Life
and Spring.
thank You God for most this amazing day.
may the ears of my ears awaken to hear
and the eyes of my eyes open to see.
may the tastebuds of my tongue
rejoice in snowflakes that land there,
outstretched and waiting,
as i am
for You
I woke up this morning with the words of e e cummings’ poem “i thank You God for most this amazing” running through my head, but winter in New York has no “greenly leaping spirits of trees.” Instead, we have snow forecast. Still, I’m thankful.
When I am old, I shall plant a garden
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