"Knotted by Love"

In November, 1981, my Grandmother Lazenby asked what I wanted for my birthday. I wanted her to teach me tatting, that beautiful fading art of making knotted lace. There had been so many times when I would watch her make beautiful little pieces with a tatting shuttle and white cotton thread. I can still picture her hands as she went about her tatting (my hands are looking more and more like hers as I age). In 1981, Grandmommy was diagnosed with cancer and more than anything, I didn't want her days (nor mine) to slip by without this teaching moment between a grandmother and granddaughter.

That evening, she tried and tried and tried to teach me … to give me the birthday gift of my choosing. I couldn't grasp it. I couldn't figure out the movements or the rhythm with the shuttle to create this special knotted lace. I went home that night in tears, knowing that I would never learn this art from her. I kept working into the wee hours of the morning, with shuttle in hand and tears in my eyes and feeling helpless in so many ways. And then it happened. At 2:30am the next morning, I knotted one little rosette! My one and only piece of tatting but I did it! It was a long and emotional process to get to that point. Perhaps, even more than the desire to learn tatting and even more than the tiny accomplishment itself was the need and the desire to pray and cry out in those early morning hours for my grandmother.

It has been said that you can cut a piece of tatting anywhere, but it won’t ravel. Families are much like tatting. You can cut them and it might make a flaw in the piece, but they won’t unravel because they are knotted by love.

I might have to try my hand at tatting again. I still have her shuttle and thread and now I have her hands (and hopefully, her heart).

"Surely, It Won't Amount to Anything"

There are days when I know that errands will eat up my lunch hour and there won’t be any time that is mine to claim. That is what I thought would happened yesterday. That and nothing more. Going to the bank and filling up my car with gas before the rains arrived was on my lunch agenda.

The gentleman in front of me at the gas pump was elderly. He was someone Norman Rockwell would have immediately noticed. He wore a little cap and his pants were hiked up (or is it hitched up?). His face was slender and wrinkled and his eyes had little expression. His head was down, his shoulders were bent as if carrying a heavy burden and he shuffled when he walked. But then it happened. A most wonderful transformation. He lifted his head and smiled. His eyes began to twinkle. His wrinkled face almost immediately took on a boyish look. He stopped pumping gas and waited - waited until the fire truck pulled up to the diesel pump on the other side of our gas pumps. He waited until the fireman jumped out of the truck and he shouted, “I LOVE FIRE TRUCKS! I ALWAYS HAVE! I LOVE FIRE TRUCKS!” The fireman walked to him and asked, “Would you like to take a look at her?”

It was as if, at that very moment, the elderly man remembered how he felt when Santa Claus placed in his hands his first toy fire truck. I was overjoyed for the man to the point of tears.

(And I thought my lunch hour wouldn't amount to anything. Ha!)

"Either/Or"

It is my thinking that
there are dog people
or cat people
and there are
math people
or word people.
There are Heinz people
or Hunts people…
life always seems to be
either/or
with allegiance
to one instead of both.

I have always
considered myself to be
a mountain person,
with dreams of a bungalow
in a small mountain town,
with the tune and whispers of
“It is Well With My Soul”
in my heart,
and with silence and tears
at the first sights of
the Blue Ridge Mountains …

and yet,
a clear view of the ocean
and the sound of the
waves and the
wonders and mystery
of God’s constraints
as the vast body of water
limits itself upon the shore
fill me with words
that rush into the
shoreline of my soul
much like the
waves themselves.

Perhaps, it isn’t
‘either/or’ for me
but the gift of
what is most needed
at the time that it is
most needed …
a mountain person
or an ocean person
and the Holy One knows
which is best for me,
when.

"Whispers of Independence"

EN ROUTE 9-15-15 7:45am

I travel a portion of Johnson Street 5 days a week and, more times than not, there is a brief moment of goodness to be seen. Other times, there is something that makes me wonder about a person’s life. I always welcome the wave and smile of the crossing guard at the elementary school. Often I see a little girl skipping down the sidewalk with her book bag bouncing up and down. Yesterday, a mother was all but dressing her little boy as he sleepily made his way to school. I could almost hear her say, “Raise your arms, put on the sweater, now for the book bag. Stop so I can smooth your hair. It’s sticking up everwhichaways!” (OK, so I had to throw in ‘everwhichaways’ as it is a perfectly good word)

This morning, I saw two little children, a brother and sister, walking to school. It brought back those first moments of independence given to me by my mother … that first time when she asked me to ride my bicycle to the store to buy sugar. “You can put it in your basket. Don’t forget to bring the change back.” Or at Ocean Drive Beach when she gave me $1.00 and said that I could walk to the corner drugstore to buy postcards or what would prove to be a tacky souvenir. I smiled as I saw these two little ones walking to school this morning. I whispered, “Independence” and nodded my head. Then I saw her. I saw the mother hiding behind a column on the stoop of their mill house. Hiding and peeking from behind the column. Watching her beloved children walking away from her.

So I guess (or I hope) that’s what it’s like as I begin my own day and as I walk to my car and as I drive away from my apartment. Perhaps like this mother, God is leaning out from the stairwell, looking my way, watching this beloved child named ‘Anna’ as she drives off into the unknowns of the day. The whispers of a mother who is peeking out from behind a column on the stoop of her small house and the whispers of God who is seeing us all off into our day are much the same … “I love you, my children. Go and be who I have made you to be.”

"Preparing for Another Day"

EN ROUTE 9-11-15

I see him often on my way to work. He stands tall, this man of the streets. He wears camouflage pants, a hoodie sweatshirt and a knit toboggan cap even on the hottest of days. When I usually notice him, he is already walking on the sidewalks of South Main Street. This morning was different. He must have overslept. This giant of a man stood on the sidewalk (his path to who-knows-where) and began to do his morning stretches. He stood on one leg and bent his other leg, up and down. He switched and stood on the other leg. Again, he bent his leg, up and down. Then he stretched his arms far above his head. It was a good stretch like most of us do in our mornings. Does he whisper, “That feels so good” just as I do?

This morning, en route, I witnessed someone who seems to have spent the night on the streets. I drove by just as he prepared his body to spend the day on the streets, walking … walking … walking.

"O God, my prayers are that he might not be too hot in the clothing he wears, that he receives the sustenance his body needs for this day, that his morning stretches keep his joints from hurting, that there might be some rest in his day, that he might be safe and that he might receive another smile and another wave from someone other than me. Walk with him, please walk with him. Whisper "beloved child" to him. Amen."

"Careless"

EN ROUTE 9-10-15:

 There is a lovely (but locked) iron fence that surrounds a small lush green area beside of a downtown church. I pass by it each morning of my work-week and always glance its way. What I suspect to be a meditation area is fully visible from the sidewalk and very enticing yet beyond reach for those who most need a place of respite.

As I glanced its way, I noticed a wooden cross from the inside of this grassy area leaning carelessly against the iron fence. It reminded me that there was nothing “careless” about Jesus turning his sights to Jerusalem. There was nothing “careless” about Roman crucifixions. There was nothing “careless” about the Resurrection. And it should never be “careless” in the way that we welcome others (or keep others at arm's length).

This morning, I felt as if there is a message of carelessness visible in a leaning cross and a small place of peace that lies beyond locked iron fences.

"Tripping and Falling"

When I trip over

disappointments

and hurts …

when I stumble over

self-pity

and failed expectations …

when I fall face-down,

only to taste 

the red dirt 

that has settled

around me,

you lift me up, O God,

brush me off and

hold me tight

as you whisper,

“My clumsy beloved child, 

I will not let you

remain face-down

in my beautiful field of grace.

You will miss 

all that is beautiful

and good

if you choose to stay

where you fall.”

Sigh.... what wondrous love.