Things I Should Have Known

I never knew

The reason you were home

During Vietnam

While other boys your age

Were leaving the plains

Heading to the rivers

And jungles

To battle the unknown.

You were 4F,

Thanks to a childhood bout with pneumonia.

Seems I should have known

A detail like that.

Or,

How your parents met

Your first kiss

A favorite teacher

Your saddest moment –

Details that make you

The you I know

I think there are many

Little things

I have yet to hear

I have yet to share

That we both have meant to.

It can't all happen by phone

Even with the best of intentions

Nor should it.

These bits of history

Are best enjoyed

Not over the phone

But side by side

Over many a lazy afternoon

Rocking on the porch

As a breeze carries our words away.

Meanwhile,

We talk about the now

And barely fit that in.

I must remain not quite satisfied

Yearning for more

Until you can join me on the porch again.

Wonder

Angels and carols,
Wise men and shepherds,
A star, a manger,
The Babe.

When did I let go
Of the wonder of Christmas?
When did I lose sight
Of Your majesty?
How could I ever forget
How you came?

Every day,
Help me to see the angels
That are all around me.
Put a song in my heart
So beautiful
That I cannot help but sing.
Place in my life
Those who would teach me
And guide me.
Shine in my life
So that all may see Your light.
Give me humility to serve
All who are in need.

And the Babe
Who became my Savior . . .
May I always wonder at His love,
Be in awe of His majesty,
And remember that He came
For me.

Oasis (Psalm 122:1)

Long I have wandered
This desert
Wondering
How I even got here.
Alone. Lonely.
Searching for some sign of help
But eventually giving up,
Getting accustomed to the heat.

Off in the distance
I see it
(I feel it!):
Hope.
I make my way –
Stumbling in my hurry,
Face down in the sand –
To this sweet oasis.

The Master has been waiting
To welcome me.
“Come and be filled.”
Precious words of greeting.
I am grateful for this refuge
From harsh winds,
Hot sun, burning sand.

I fall on my face
Before the clear pool
And drink.
Living water
So sweet on my tongue
So cool going down
Plenty, enough.
I am filled.

I sit up, lean back
And rest.
The Master
Removes my shoes
To wash my hot, dusty feet.
I am refreshed and restored.

This oasis is always here.
I just had to leave it
To miss it
To truly appreciate it.
I had to wander the desert
And become thirsty enough
To remember how it feels
To drink deeply.

The Climb

Standing at the peak

Breathing the thin air

Feeling the breeze on your skin

You pant (weary)

But smile at the victory

That comes from a long climb.

You look back

Down

To the long trail of your journey.

You remember

Every step, every rock

That got you here.

Some rocks

Small enough to hold

But too weak to hold you

That gave way

Just as you dared to trust them.

Others

Too large to grasp

With weary, blistered hands

But perfect

For boots to land on

When smaller rocks failed.

Every rock

Only a temporary helper

Or resting point

Because you must move on

Through the pain

In spite of the fatigue

Ignoring hunger, thirst

Desiring so much to reach the top.

Enjoy the view.

All your pain is lost

In your victory.

You won’t miss any of the rocks,

But can be grateful for every one of them.

Sunrise

The coldness of the night

Robbed you of sleep.

Memories, regrets,

Worries, fear,

Fretfulness.

Solving the world’s problems

From under the covers.

Minutes tick away

And you are no closer

To peace

Than you were at bedtime.

As you drift

In and out of sleep

A light

Soft, at first,

Touches your cheek.

Just the first glimmer

Of daylight

Begins to warm your cheek,

Your heart,

With Father’s love.

Gently

He spreads His light

Across your face

And strokes you hair.

He spreads His love

Across your heart

And erases the hurt.

With the light

Comes peace.

This morning His mercies are new.

But why should today

Be any different?

Contents:

While cleaning out my purse

For the first time in months

I find ...

A post-it note with a phone number

And a first name

That goes with a face I no longer remember

A paperclip

Good for holding things together

Unless it floats alone

One last cracker

Still in celo wrap

From a pack I opened

While waiting for

Another delayed lunch date

Perfume

A gift for my birthday

(But we won't discuss my age)

Several years ago

Back when gift-giving was still done

Two ticket stubs

From the last movie we saw together

And discussed until wee hours of morning

We disagreed on the ending

Whether it was right for the characters

How they had grown

And where they were in their lives

Should they have stayed together?

I said no

You said yes

And there was really no in-between

There rarely is

Really

For two who have grown so close.

How do you ungraft a tree

Without cutting it down?

Thanksgiving

Greeted by the aroma

Of sage and cinnamon

Coffee and cake, turkey and herbs,

Potatoes and yams,

Comfort and joy.

Woodsmoke and leaves,

Clear sky, fresh air.

Welcome home.

Embrace, sit,

Holds hands and say grace.

Thank you God for . . .

Words tumble end over end,

Then awed silence.

Gratitude.

Bright sunlight until twilight.

Candlelight.

Thankful to be together.

Be a Rose

I enjoy visiting estate homes such as Reynolda House or Biltmore Estate.  I am always intrigued by the creativity of the décor.  It is fun to imagine the grand parties of years ago.  And I especially enjoy seeing the kitchen and the servants’ quarters.  It makes me thankful for the conveniences we have.

Of course, many such tours include a visit to the gardens, always the least interesting part of a home tour to me.  I’m not much of a botanist, so hearing about the myriad varieties of lily or iris cultivated on the estate rarely holds my attention.

But I do remember one garden tour that made quite an impression on me, where I was introduced to a rare variety of violet.  As we stood in that muggy greenhouse, the man in the official-looking cargo shorts told us about the plant, its usual habitat, and other facts.  All the while, he touched the tender leaves, almost absent-mindedly while he continued to look at each of us.  But as he touched the violets, a most unusual thing happened: the blooms closed.  It was as if they were hiding, ducking for cover.  After a moment, each would reopen, until the gardener touched them again.  He invited each of us to do the same, which we eagerly did.  After a while, the blooms would close not only at our touch, but upon our approach.  It looked like they were wincing.  It turns out that this is the plant’s only defense mechanism as it grows quietly on the jungle floor.

Most of us know how that feels.  We have been bumped or bruised, on the job, by friends or family, at church. People have hurt us without even meaning to, without realizing it.  But that doesn’t make it hurt less.  And after a while, we learn to distrust people, and we forget how to stand up for ourselves.  We don’t let anyone get too close.  It’s just easier that way. 

I probably don’t strike many people as shy, but I can tell you that at one time I hid.  It was my only defense.  I became a violet.  Maybe you have, too.

But I have learned recently that I was not made to be a violet.  What I was meant to be is a rose.  A rose is beautiful, strong, and able to protect itself.  A rose stands tall and proud in the sunlight.  It has thorns to protect itself from injury – and the fact that everyone knows that roses have thorns is in itself a wonderful defense.  People automatically handle roses with care.  Yet a rose will draw people to it with its beauty and the promise of sweetness.  The first thing most people do when they see a rose is stick their nose in the middle and inhale deeply.  Hey, I’ll even stop to smell the plain commercial roses at the grocery store in hopes that they will smell like something other than a freezer case.  And each rose is unique, even if they all grow on the same bush.

That’s the way we should be.  So sure in our beauty, proud of who we are, confident in what we have to offer.  Think of the gifts you have been given, the talent or skill.  Stand tall, open up, invite people in, and know that you deserve to be handled with care.  You have a lot to share with those around you.  Don’t save it for yourself.  Don’t be a shrinking violet.  Be a rose.

Coming Home (IV)

Your favorite places

My favorite memories

Regrets of lives spent apart

Separated by time zones

And more

United by genes

And much more

(Love)

Getting to know you

Learning your rhythms

And getting into step with the family.

We collapse to the floor in laughter

Or snuggle up close in a quiet moment

Then come to the table

Filled with a bounty that promises

A long time together.

As I sit,

Surrounded by those I love,

I know

I am home.

Big Faith

That Christmas when you were six

Was the last time you visited Santa.

We waited,

Humming stale carols to musak

In a line that seemed miles long

Until your turn finally came.

You were hoisted up into that velvet lap

So you could whisper wishes

To a bearded stranger you believed

Could make them all come true.

You asked for the world,

Or at least, the world of a child.

“All the toys.”

Not specific toys.

All of them.

I made a motherly mistake

And assumed you were greedy in your wish

And in your response on Christmas morning

When you asked with genuine surprise

“Is this all?”

You had thought it a reasonable request.

That New Year’s when you were twelve

Was the first time I began to see

The man of faith you already are.

We waited,

Singing new choruses with the band

In a service that seemed hours long.

At last our turn came.

We sat on folding chairs

While you spoke your need

To faithful friends you trusted

Would pray for your healing.

“In time for his birthday,” I qualified.

“Now,” you corrected.

To me, it would mean the world.

To you, it seemed a reasonable request.

And you were right.

Healing was yours that night.

Anyone who meets you

Soon learns what I have come to understand –

That any outrageous request

Is perfectly reasonable

When you have big faith.

Coming Home (II)

Miles of highway fall behind me

As I push ahead

Up the mountain.

The steep incline and tight turns

Slow me down.

I steal

Quick glances right and left,

Hoping to see beyond these trees.

Eyes forward –

Another curve.

I try to be patient

As I wonder

Which side road is mine to take.

Finally,

I see it

And turn with relief onto a straighter path.

Only a little further.

I park the car and step out

Stretch, and look around me.

There they are,

The hills I have longed for.

They roll out from me like waves

In the ocean-blue sky.

A breeze brushes me,

The sun warms me,

The scent of pine trees welcomes me,

And I am home.

Coming Home (I)

Here

Above the clouds

I am surrounded by a sky

As blue as the lakes I have missed.

Checkerboards of green

So fresh

From a winter’s worth of melted snow.

I can already feel

The breeze from the prairie

Stirring a field of young corn

Row after row

In rich, dark soil.

The ground rushes up to meet me

And I am home.

**I can hardly wait to head back home to Minnesota for a visit.  It has been too long.**

Buzz

A thousand stresses

Buzzing about in my mind

Like gnats in my yard.



Refreshing

Words

Once so heavy on my heart

Had burst forth from my pen.

I filled pages

With new ideas

Clever rhymes

Touching stories

And my truest feelings.

Now      

Nothing.

No inspiration.

Not a drop of creativity.

Have I gone dry?

Or have I built a dam

Out of the mundane stuff of years?

Grading papers selling books pouring

Coffee searching records typing

Letters washing clothes—

All stones for the wall

That holds my feelings back,

Protects my words, my ideas.

My very heart.

Lord,

Break down the wall

So that words may flow again.

Let them pour out

And fill great stories,

Gentle sonnets

And the compact haiku.

And let them refresh hearts

That have, like my own,

Dried over time.

Taste and See

Psalm 34:8            O taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man that trusteth in Him.

I remember summers at Gull Lake in northern Minnesota.  Far removed from any city – only Brainard was nearby – there was no pollution, no noise, no hurry.  The air was cooler up there, perhaps because of the breeze off the lake.  Or the tall pine trees that shaded the grounds of the small cabin resort where my family stayed for one lazy week out of each year.

Whatever the reason, the time we spent up there was wonderful.  For me, there are special memories.  The whole family, including grandparents, cousins, and my aunt and uncle gathered for some quality time, a good share of the usual bickering among the children, and some of the best fishing I can remember.

I used to love to catch sunnies – tender, tasty little panfish.  For a ten-year-old girl, it’s a fairly easy catch.  Grandpa taught all of us grandkids how to fish.  We’d all head to the dock with our poles and buckets of worms, ready to catch a great Northern Pike.  But first, we had to learn to bait the hook.  Grandpa’s number one rule was that if we were going to fish, we had to put the worm on the hook ourselves.  My little cousin Heidi’s fishing career was over then and there.  Those worms wiggled and squirmed, but we got them on the hook, and we even caught a few fish.

As much as I enjoyed that, my favorite memory is of me and Grandpa alone on the boat.  Everyone else was playing on the shore where my mom, aunt and Grandma were sunbathing.  Grandpa and I were way out in the middle of the lake, ready to catch that evening’s dinner.  Shh, quiet.  When a fish nibbled the bait off the hook and got away, I would re-bait and start again.  I enjoyed having Grandpa all to myself, even it if meant baking in the hot sun, cutting my hands on the hook, or feeling the ache that comes from sitting in the boat too long.  But all the while, Grandpa offered plenty of praise and encouragement.

The best part came when we arrived back at the dock.  We’d hold up our net full of fish, proud that we had provided dinner for the entire family.  But instead of heading to the kitchen with our load, we made our way down a path to the fish house.  This was basically a screened-in hut with a single counter built for the sole purpose of scaling and fileting fish.  This was the tough part, because it was rather a gross process.  The counter was permanently stained with blood, and the single trashcan was usually half full of fish remains.  And the smell . . . well, you can imagine.  But then, that’s where my “suffering” ended.

Grandpa, however, set himself to the task of cleaning the fish.  (I always thought this was an odd term for something that seemed so dirty.)  He pulled out his knife and deftly sliced open each fish and cut it down to the tasty meat.  In only a few moments, he had a pile of shiny white pieces ready to be battered and fried.

By the time I was seated at the table, listening to someone say the blessing, I no longer felt my sunburn, or felt the ache in my hands, or smelled the odor of the fish house.  I only knew that dinner was going to be good.  Corn on the cob and tomatoes grown in Grandpa’s garden, Mom’s homemade fries, and the center of the banquet, the sunny filets.  What a feast!

Out in the middle of the lake, with mosquitoes humming around me, I had to trust that it would be worth the wait, worth the trouble.  I didn’t make a conscious effort to trust in the outcome; I knew it by instinct, and by past experience.  I knew that Grandpa had something good planned for me.  And I think it is the same with our heavenly Father.  God invites us to taste of His goodness.  But we can only do that if we trust.  He has so many blessings waiting for us, if we will only trust Him.  Sometimes we must endure the uncomfortable, or downright painful, things in life; and it takes all we have to trust in the outcome.  But over time, with a lot of experience, trust may become our automatic response to tough times.  And we will eventually know deep in our hearts what we have been learning all along – that the Lord is good.  And we will taste the sweet blessing of trusting in Him. 

Set Me Straight

Burdens on my shoulders
Too many to count
Such a great weight
Pushing down on me
Pressing me to the ground
So low
That I can’t look up
To the sky
I only see dirt,
My own feet,
And an ant crawling by.
(For a moment,
I envy the ant
With his freedom to roam.)
I am paralyzed by the weight.
I fear
That if I try to rise
I will fall on my face.
So I stay
And study the ground
Giving no thought to the sky.

The pain sets in
Until I get so comfortable in my position
That I no longer feel it.

You come,
Bid me to rise,
Gather me into Your lap,
And let me cry in frustration.
Then You make it Your business
To set me straight,
To remind me of who I am
In You
Who made the sky.
Your love sets things right.
I climb down,
Ready to stand tall on my own two feet
And look You straight in the eye.

And the burdens?
They are but ants to me now.

Literature Over Lunch

As I sat at lunch with a friend
One rainy afternoon,
Eating tuna,
Talking Turgenev,
I thought it all so literary.
Long we sat,
Discussing the flaming pens of the past
That moved across pages
And moved the minds of men,
We lingered over our cake and coffee.
I felt comfortable in that cozy restaurant,
Listening to the patter of rain,
Hearing the clatter of dishes,
Enjoying the chatter of knowledge.
But, after a while, we had discussed all
That the world’s literature held.
We were finished.
So we left, and strode our varied paths,
Leaving behind Wharton, Hardy, Hawthorne,
And other creators.

Thinking now, I know I had enjoyed the time
And had gained some knowledge
Of fictional characters and their masters; yet
I did not feel any more full.
The experience was only for then,
Not for the future.
Like Chinese food –
I would be hungry in an hour.
I think that perhaps another conversation
May have warmed me more than coffee,
May have satisfied me more than Keats;
Had we discussed the Creator
And all His wonders,
We might be there now,
With no thought of leaving,
Discovering new ways of reading His Book.
We could have explored the lives of real people,
Past and present,
And praised their Master,
The Author.
Yes, we would still be at our table,
Even now,
Nursing our eleventh cup of coffee
And filling ourselves with lunch
And the fullness of God.

Venus Smiles on Me

“Daddy, look at the early star!”

As we drove on our way home from church one Sunday evening in late October, I had seen a solitary light in the dark blue sky.

“That’s not a star,” Dad said from behind the wheel. “That’s Venus.”

“Venus?” I echoed incredulously. “You mean, the planet?” Dad nodded as I asked. “But how can we see it all the way from here?”

To my young mind, my Daddy was the smartest man in the whole universe. He knew how the light traveled from billions of miles away (it took years, he said), and how it reflected and refracted through the atmosphere and allowed us to see Venus from our place on earth.

“But how is Venus different from the stars, Daddy? It looks the same to me.”

“You can see the difference if you watch it closely. If it doesn’t twinkle, it’s a planet.”

I watched Venus as we drove along and pulled into our driveway. Not once did she twinkle. She just watched me and smiled a bright, steady smile.

So many times I remember Dad teaching me things that nobody else could. Only he was smart enough, and he took the time to. Many autumn nights were spent studying the galaxy, sometimes for homework and sometimes for fun. I learned various constellations by name with Dad’s help, and I enjoyed standing beneath the clear night sky to look at the stars. With Dad at my side, I would point out the Little Bear and the Big Dipper. My favorite was the Orion.

“Not the Orion,” Dad would correct me. “It’s just Orion.”

That confused me. After all, the others were the Little Bear and the Big Dipper. Why not the Orion?

“Because Orion isn’t just a bear or something. He’s a man, a great archer.” Dad pointed up to Orion and showed me the bow and arrow, and the three-star belt. “He’s the easiest to spot because of that belt.”

I began to look at Orion as a friend. And so he and all the other constellations became to me as I grew up fall after fall. Warm summer nights revolved into cool autumn evenings, and other studies replaced my amateur astronomy. Yet each year I looked forward to a clear view of my favorite stars and the memories they held.

Year’s later, as I was hurrying across my college campus on a busy November evening, I felt only the weight of my responsibilities. Behind all my thoughts was the fact that I missed home and was looking forward to the end of the semester. I was tired, and I needed the love of my family. But I put those thoughts aside to concentrate to concentrate on my present tasks. I had to get to a play rehearsal, where I hoped to finish my paper between acts.

As I approached the auditorium, I looked up and saw a friendly smile that I had not seen in some time. There, above the auditorium, just ahead of me, was Venus. She was shining as brightly as ever. Still not a twinkle – just a steady light.

My thoughts went back to home, which seemed light years away, where I had first met Venus. I had changed quite a bit in those years since our first meeting. I had grown up. But Venus and her smile had stayed the same.

And I needed that. I needed to know that some things remained constant in my quickly turning world. The Little Bear, the Big Dipper, Orion, home, my Daddy’s love – all were there, amid busy schedules and piling responsibilities. I need never doubt that, I know, and I will always be reminded of those consistencies in life when Venus smiles on me.

By way of introduction ...

Hammock Season



While the air holds the chill
Of stubborn winter not yet turned spring,
And a hint of woodsmoke lingers,
I dig it out
Shake it off
And trudge over still-dead grass
To my spot
Between the maple and the pin oak.
It’s hammock season.


I climb in, settle back
And begin to sway.
Clouds and new buds
Move lazily above me.
The cool breeze dances around me,
And honeysuckle sweetens the air.
The weigela is a pale burst of fireworks.


The jay squawks,
And the mockingbird answers back.
The ice cream truck tinkles a tune,
Bringing summer to our street.
Cicadas sing in the trees
While a lawn mower drones in the distance.


The swaying slows,
The quiet creak of chain and hook
Keeping time.
I drift in and out of sleep
Heavy with coming dreams –
Like the clouds, heavy with coming rain.


Soon enough
The air will be crisp again
With the first hints of woodsmoke,
And I’ll shiver against the breeze.
Still I’ll linger,
Stubbornly holding my place
In spite of dimming light
And cooling evenings
That tell me time is short.
I stay
And make the most of hammock season.