Through God's touch

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It was a smaller affair, which may have sharpened the lens of perspective. So often, we tumbled out of the house, food in hand, kids in tow and arrived a few minutes late for Thanksgiving at my parents'. This year, we were ahead of schedule with the exception of my husband driving back a half hour later to pick up our 15-year-old after her outfit was out of the dryer.

Mine were the only children: my nieces grown up and onto their own lives, my out-of-town sister making the trip at Christmas.

And yet, my mother had polished the silver, laid out the family china, cooked a turkey, made two kinds of dressing (one gluten free just for me), boiled the potatoes and arranged appetizers ... all the while on oxygen. She struggled with the long, green snake trailing her for 50 feet as she flowed between the dining room and kitchen. She was most concerned someone else would trip.

Just last week, as I was out of town on a trip planned for months, she, my father and twin sister traipsed to the Cleveland Clinic to get more definitive answers on what, specifically, could be done for her two weakened heart valves. Essentially, she was told they'd have to get her lung pressure down before they could do anything invasive, hence the full-time oxygen. I remember when she came home from a long hospital stay this summer and talked her primary-care doc out of the full-time air. He made her take a healthy walk without and agreed she could cut the day-time cord. I also remember her, two days home, green snake in hand, riding her stationery bicycle: I want to get in as good a shape as I can, she said at the time. She was sick of having been in a hospital bed for 10 days.

Wednesday evening as my mother and I were making last-minute food decisions, we talked about her cardiologist appointment earlier in the day. She said that doc calculated she'd be having her heart surgery in a few months. How's that? I asked because it didn't seem to square with what she heard in Cleveland. Oh, she said, we misinterpreted the surgery risk. What we'd thought was risk of survival, which looked pretty low, was risk of failure!

When I discussed this yesterday with my sister, she had not misunderstood the risk as we had, but it wasn't good enough yet for Cleveland.

If anybody can beat those odds I know it's my mom. She never ceases to amaze me with her positive attitude, hard-work ethic, sense of humor and deep faith that she is where God wants her.

We've had some pretty amazing talks about death lately, a subject that I welcome because it is so little spoken about. Hasn't hurt that I worked in the funeral industry a few years. Turns out neither of us, my mother or me, is afraid of what comes after life. It occurs to me that we have been heavily influenced by my mom's baby sister who died of breast cancer, but with such a rare and glowing grace that you could palpably feel God's touch. You just knew she wasn't alone.

That comforts me as I know my mom's time is limited here, as it is for all of us.

• Who have been my examples of faith?
• What lessons have those encounters imparted?
• What are my feelings about death?
• In general? For someone I love? For myself?
• How can I witness God's presence even in death?


flurrying about,
from the fridge to the
dining-room table

only aware of
the shiny green
tail lest it trip
up someone else

gracious in her
hospitable way
of welcoming
us into her
home and heart

where we we
always remain

and she in ours,

this day a fond
memory in
distant times

when we feel
her through
God's touch

In the stinking middle

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The honeymoon must be over at Artsy Fartsy, the monthly arts-exploration I hold for at-risk kids in my neighborhood. I'm not saying I'm not deeply engaged with these kids; I still am – maybe more so now than ever. I'm just saying some are comfortable enough to not be on their best, at-attention, behavior.

What is really happening, I believe, is their relationship patterns from where they live are showing up here, on neutral turf. We've always been clear there's no bullying here. I did not anticipate reverse bullying, which is, still, bullying.

One of the girls came to the party a session late for whatever reason. We were warned at last summer's on-site registration to stay away from that family; "they're trouble." But we couldn't because this young girl was eager to join and her mother, whom we awoke after a late night in jail, was just as eager to sign her up. It appears they wish to break the cycle.

I never gave it another thought until just before the first session when I visited to hand out van-permission slips. I came across a boy I tried hard to recruit. When he looked at my list of kids, he said "I can't if she's there. I'm not allowed within 100 feet of her."

Oh, a restraining order, I thought. This work will not be a breeze. I had to tell the boy that the other child had signed up first and he would have to do what he would have to do. I could not kick her out. Boy, did my heart ache over this.

Two sisters, who were my first recruits, slunk back when they, too, saw this girl was a participant. "Were not allowed to play with her," they said. So I paid their dad a visit and said this group would be highly supervised by adults. He felt it would not be an issue; that is only was one when the kids were unsupervised and playing at home.

Since she was a no-show the first time, everyone settled in comfortably. The second time, she arrived and was an absolute angel ... no issues of any kind.

I didn't think anything of it as I set the "Thanksgiving" table with wooden discs for plates, chalk, markers and scissors for utensils. I made the seating arrangements, marking each with an envelope containing a personal note of gratitude and their name fancily printed on the outside. We were having two new boys, so I sat them with our faithful volunteer and lone boy. I put the new girl from outside of this community with a more mature girl and a playful one. I paired two older girls that seem to be friends, two younger ones the same way and placed the girl in question with an quiet, older girl. They got along fine. And everything went swimmingly, through the introduction and constructing of the finger labyrinths. Though I notice this child seeks much one-on-one attention. Fortunately, a very experienced teacher-volunteer worked with her.

Everything was on track until the kids, three at a time, had turns experiencing the Christmas-light labyrinth in the empty room across the hall. My older daughter was chaperoning and making sure kids stuck to the guidelines. Of course, they're kids, so I did not expect stillness and quiet.

After everyone had completed their projects, we let them all experience the labyrinth, which had become a game of who could slide into the pillows in the center and actually get a pillow. A sort of musical chairs. Not what I had anticipated, but is it ever? Naturally, someone got left out and came to tell me. She was called a snitch, which I heard, and told because she bullys at home, she couldn't here ... this from some other girls. Interestingly, there was a video clip of the incident and the so-called bully was not bullying, but neither, was the person who slid onto the pillow first. It was more of a miscommunication. However, because one tattled, the others felt they had to retaliate.

It was quiet, not overt, and others, I think, may have missed it. I had naively hoped that these girls might establish a new pattern here they could take home. I still hold that prayer, but I was unsettled that girls I thought I could count on turned somewhat vicious on this younger girl. I understand, but am clear there isn't room for that at Artsy Fartsy. Especially, in the MIDDLE of the labyrinth! They knew it was a sacred place for centering and were even writing their own gratitude notes there. I guess temptation was too great as it often is for most of us.

The session was still really wonderful overall, but this really stuck in my heart. Perhaps because, when the younger girl found a stray bead in the labyrinth materials, she brought it to me and said, "I know way this means: What would Jesus do?" I was taken aback because it seemed like she really did. This was before the labyrinth incident. While reading the notes of gratitude afterward, two spoke explicitly of Jesus and I wondered if these had been her notes, not that the source mattered.

I slept poorly that night, stewing about what to do.

Sunday in worship, our minister spoke about the true meaning of Jesus' command that we love our enemies and turn they other cheek. He encouraged radical resistance, so radical that it displayed the idiocy of oppression and, often, he did so with humor. HUMOR, I thought. That IS the answer to what's happening with these girls. Kids always respond well to humor.

I don't know more than that now, but it sure feels right. I plan to prayerfully discern what role I am to take, if any, between now and next time. I'd appreciate your holding all of this, especially the three girls, in prayer as well. They have good hearts, just old patterns. Wow, doesn't that hit home?

• When has behavior between others upset me?
• How have I responded?
• If I invoked prayer, what was my prayer?
• What response did I receive?
• How do I model Jesus' radical teachings?


projector wouldn't work
thermos full of
hot chocolate imploded, 
we'd arrived late,
the kids came even later
one who pledged to be there,
rode his bike off somewhere else

it was an inauspicious
beginning

but we muddled
through

and once the group
was creatively
engaged,
we all settled

for good, I'd hoped

even the three-at-a-time
through the labyrinth seemed
on target

enough so, we let them
all walk

and, in an instant,
something turned

words were exchanged,
feelings were hurt

including mine
because it happened,
for God's sake, in the
stinking middle of
the labyrinth

the sacred circle

and then I realized
the awfulness occurred
in the palm of God's
hands, in the middle,
nestled up close

and it will be
alright

In the Spirit to notice

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Yesterday, I began to count my blessings – one a day during this thanksgiving month – inspired by the practice of friends on Facebook. I don’t intend just to acknowledge them, but to revel in them, absorbing their goodness and expressing true appreciation.

After a cold and stormy few days thanks to Sandy (but nothing like the East has experienced), I gratefully walked to work in the bright sun and brisk air. It was invigorating. I noticed a neighbor reeling in a spider web from the night before and asked her how Trick or Treat had gone, assuming, like many of the rest of us, it was a bust. On the contrary, she’d had a blast handing out treats and wreaking havoc by lowering the suspendable spider on those unaware. It was Joyce’s first Halloween in our neighborhood. She had no idea that her street typically hosts over 500 costume-clad kids. Her enthusiasm was untainted. I also discovered she has knowledge to impart to me, an old-timer, about the neighborhood: a great replacement-window company and specifically whom to call at Duke Energy to get covers for annoying streetlights. She was eager to share and extol the virtues of East Milford.

Often we forget what we have right in front of us. This morning encounter set the tone for the rest of the day – most especially Joyce’s invitation to join her some evening on the front porch by the fire pit for a glass of wine. Turns out we’re exactly the same age and she is a massage therapist. I told her all about my shaman.

I enjoyed a splendid morning and afternoon in my studio, re-organizing after last week’s mask workshop and anticipating Nov 10’s Artsy Fartsy, winterizing around the air conditioner, recovering from endless days of grant-writing and just hanging out in this beautiful space. I decided to make a few Artsy-Fartsy-related drop-offs on my way home. First, to the wonderful man who provides our transportation. I owed him copies of the kids’ permission forms and an invitational packet for his son. Yes, that means I may have boys next week! While Kelvin wasn’t home, I met his neighbor, each of us smiling as we basked in the sun. I rounded the corner to make another delivery and heard my paperboy’s rooster crow. Reminded me of when I’d gather eggs from my grandparent’s chicken house and shanghaied it for a playhouse.

Next on my list was a stop at the home of Dorian, a fifth-grade boy anxious to become part of Artsy Fartsy. I’d met him in the school parking lot last week and invited him to the program. His second-grade brother, Dalton, tried to convince me he was old enough. In two years, I told him, though his winsome smile and charms almost weakened me. They were with two other boys, sixth graders. When I checked their interest, one impolitely told me “art sucks.” I explained, that as an artist, that was somewhat insulting. I then asked what he was going to be for Halloween. With somewhat more interest, he replied, the Scream. I promptly Googled an image on my phone and told him it was a famous painting and that art did not suck. He remained unimpressed. That’s okay, I told myself, I’ve got Dorian. Dorian is a sweetheart and so eager to be engaged. He’s the oldest of five living in a three-room house with a father who’s really trying to parent and a mother battling cancer.

Though I heard crashing just inside the door, I knocked anyway. One of Dorian’s younger brothers answered. I handed the information to the father, who said he’d make sure it was completed and Dorian could drop it by my house, just down the alley.

I walked home to my own children, said hello and set out, on foot, on a couple of quick shopping errands. As I returned, Dorian and Dalton were buzzing down the street on scooters. Dorian was elated when I said I’d dropped the forms off. All he wanted to know is “When is it?” A week from Saturday and you can ride the van with Kelvin. The van belongs to the church next to Dorian’s house.

I adore my neighborhood and, yesterday, felt that God truly placed me here … to live, interact with, learn from, nurture and be nurtured by my neighbors.

• How is this season tapping into my sense of gratitude?

• What are some of the blessings I take for granted?

• How have others helped me see those blessings?

• When have I felt in sync with Spirit, belonging where I am now?

• How have I expressed gratitude for that?

a simple urge,

really, just

to get out into

the sunshine

and walk

with a destination,

but not a

timetable

the luxury

of making

it a

journey

letting

the gifts

unfold

and being

in the

spirit

to notice

thank you

The fresh act of forgiveness

It's the tail end of a beautiful Thanksgiving Day even thought the rain has kept its current tempo of taps on the roof since I awoke and the temperature spirals downward. My internal fire has been stoked.


My sister and her family, which is quickly becoming extended with the boyfriends, and my parents met us an hour away at the house they just purchased and are readying to rent. We thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to christen the new place before it's occupied by others. We had to import everything, yet there was a simple charm to having only the basics, mostly including each other.


We moseyed back to our house for dessert and a jam session with all interested picking up an instrument of sorts from the French horn to a plastic accordian, rain stick, xylophone, baby grand, lute, saxaphone and recorder. There was more laughter than music, but I think that had been the point.


The gift, however, for which I am most thankful today is a six-sentence message from someone apologizing for something I never quite understood, but had accepted as just the way things are. It blew me away and at the same time opened the door for me to apologize for something related in which I participated, but never felt good about. No sooner had I sent that reply than I read a friend's blog* on forgiveness with a profound insight:


“Forgiveness is a condition in which the sin of the past is not altered, nor its inevitable consequences change. Rather in forgiveness a fresh act is added to those of the past which restores the broken relationship and opens the way for the one who forgives and the one who is forgiven to meet and communicate deeply with each other in the present and the future.  Thus, forgiveness heals the past, though the scars remain and the consequences go on.”   ~ Douglas Steere (Quaker)


A fresh act. I believe that's what the writer of my message created in her apology: a fresh act. I could never have asked her to apologize; she just did. And in doing so, allowed me to unburden myself of something I never thought I could. This is a person with whom I had desired to get closer, but the wall was rigid and high. Now it seems she has disassembled that barrier.


What if every day, every conflict, slight or ill word prompted a fresh act? The world would be a very different place. Maybe I can attempt my part.


• What are my thoughts on forgiveness?
• What is my experience with forgiveness (as forgiver and forgivee)?
• Has there been a time when it arrived unexpectedly?
• How did that alter the situation? Me?
* How can forgiveness lead to gratitude (thanksgiving)


My heart is large and wide and open.
Pulsating, flowing and oozing
with love, compassion and energy.


Yet, deep down. Way down.
Underneath a lot of stuff.
Lays something dark and hard.
Discarded, forgotten, untended.


On this day of family, food and warmth,
I received a gift from such a far-away place.
Unexpected, unknown and unelicited,
you offered it. Gave me something so
very big that pried the hard space loose,
allowing me to enter it, remember and tend
that wound. Creating a new space for love ...
love for you, myself and others.


It is a true day of Thanksgiving!
Thank you, thank you, thank you.


* My friend Iris's blog link
http://bloggerbyconvincement.blogspot.com/2010/11/forgiveness.html