Reflections on the big things and the small things of life, through the lens of Love and Light. With eyes and heart open to all the little details.
Ah, the futility of
hard boiled eggs
No matter what tips or tricks
Salt
Baking soda while boiling
Ice for later
The peeled egg looks like
A lumpy dimpled blob
Like I didn’t even try in the first place.
But I know I did.
So I keep on keeping on
And enjoy the egg salad
And am simply grateful for
The nourishment
And the simple joy of stubbornness.
We’ve all been there,
She said.
Your pain and
My pain.
Remember when I thought I lost it all
And would never get better?
You know the feel of
Stares that sting and
Words that pierce?
I do.
You too?
Me too.
The common bond of scars.
Now we are true friends
And fellow humans on the journey.
Monday through Friday,
I teach children to be good musicians.
Clap the right rhythms.
Sing the right notes (and words).
Sticks.
Scarves.
Bucket drums.
Dynamics, tempo,
Quarter notes.
But what I truly hope is that
They become good humans.
Learn to speak then listen.
Really listen.
Share and help.
Be kind.
To not squash the caterpillar,
Even when you can.
Today I chose to water my plants.
For weeks, I let them go,
in despair over the state of this world.
Green leaves uncurl and fill out again.
Defiant hope
while power seeks to silence truth.
We are at Day 6 Post-op, and our brave girl is giving this day a 10 out of 10. Her wounds are healing as they should, and the pain is fading . . . and it may have a lot to do with the power of Love and friendship.
Over the past several days, she has been showered with Love in tangible and intangible ways—prayers, well-wishes, balloons, flowers, favorite candies, hand-drawn artwork, activity kits, and friendship bracelets. And her week has culminated in a play date today with two of her very best guy buds. When they’re together, they radiate a bond and understanding that might be on par with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Our trio had the caveat, though, that there would be no swimming, no running, and no jumping—which, of course, are some of their favorite things. So what could three bright and energetic seven year olds do? Watch a movie, of course, (their choice: Inside Out) and eat a buffet of popcorn and pretzels and sour gummies. But make it deluxe, by building a living room fort in which to watch said movie, too.
After the movie, they did some piddlin’ (southern for “random, relaxed, and enjoyable activities around the home”) of the kid-variety out in the yard. Shrieks of joy and laughter echoed as an unexpected bit of evening breeze blew around them. Pretty perfect, if you ask them . . . and me. I am always in awe of the Love and Life that burst forth when young friends play together. I also noticed how well, healthy, and whole she looked.
Tonight, I’m reflecting on something stored deep in the back of my brain from when I took pastoral counseling at seminary many years ago…. I remember that patients heal X% faster when they feel cared for. Obviously. But it’s something that we may not always consider or practice intentionally. Pain medicine is helpful—but so are the phone calls and visits and flowers, along with an ongoing (important!) sense of care and community. So then, perhaps some of the pain relief occurs when we feel we are loved and part of something meaningful. We become healed, bit by bit, by Love.
To say that “this world is a mess” would be a terrible cliche. There is a brokenness that aches for healing. There are too many things to mention happening now that range from close-to-home to world-wide, from mildly irritating to inhumanely horrific. I feel overwhelmed with how to respond to them all. But I do see Love stubbornly pushing through like little green sprouts here and there in defiance of the evil and the muck. Those signs of Love give my heart some hope, because they have a power that the darkness can neither defeat nor understand. Love is patient and love is kind, but it is also relentless . . . determined . . . undefeatable. Foolishly optimistic, yet grittily realistic. Love is the medicine we all need.
And so we begin this new week of our girl’s healing process, holding on to the power of Love. Because I can see that Love is healing her . . . And me . . . And, may it be, I pray, this big, broken world.
We’ve been here at the children’s hospital since about 7:00 am, and it’s now 6:00 pm. We’ve gotten good news from her surgeons—not just good news, but brilliant, incredible, long-awaited news, so it’s all very much worth it. We’ve waited for news like this since she was born seven years ago. As we wait a few minutes more (and what’s a few minutes compared to seven years?) while she is in the recovery room, I wonder what I could do to occupy my mind until the nurses call us back to see our girl.
What could I do? What are my hobbies? And I laugh to myself. Do I even have hobbies? Music? Nah…. As much as I love music, it’s also work to me, and I’ve already started my music lesson planning for the fall. Knitting? Needlepoint? I wish I knew how to play chess…. But just as I am about to Google, “learn to play chess,” I remember that I like to write.
This blog of “Love, Light and Little Details” was started by a friend and in honor of a friend. Today, I start a new page on it.
Just like our little girl is starting a new page in the adventure story of her amazing life. She was born with a closed right ear canal. As the doctor handed over her tiny newborn self to my husband and me, we all noticed an ear that was . . . different. Fascinating. Beautiful in its own way. Her right ear looked like a little sea shell, soft, pink, swirled in the middle. A neighbor friend once said that it looked like a flower bud that hadn’t opened all the way. It became a special part of her and of our family’s story.
Not long after, she was wearing a hearing aid on a stretchy headband on that right side. We found headbands of cute colors—aqua, pink, and gold. We decorated her hearing aid with colorful covers and stickers. And that headband, which we called “the hearing headband,” became a part of her, too.
And then her hair grew. A lot. She went from a peach fuzzy bald baby, to a toddler with some swirly tufts of golden hair (this phase seemed to last forever), to Shirley Temple (loved that phase!), to now…. She has a mass of curly, golden, honey brown hair that fades to a light wheat color on the ends and extends all the way down her back and swirls and bounces every which way in our southern humidity. Her hair is her signature, and it’s most certainly a part of her. Because of her fabulous hair and the fact that hearing loss has not affected her speech at all, most people say, “Wow, I never even knew she had problems with her ear!”
So today was finally, finally the day to get it fixed. To make it new. Or as she would say, “Make my ears match.”
An interesting thing about this procedure is that the surgeons needed to take a skin graft from her upper leg in order to build a new ear canal. It feels poignant to me that she would in essence need to be damaged (the surgeon asked me to Google “skin grafts”, and, trust me, I looked), in order to be made more whole . . . To heal, often, we must allow ourselves to be broken first.
And now we’re rolling home, with our fast food sandwiches, recovery instructions, a gold and pleasantly plump stuffed bear for her to snuggle, and a very groggy but brave girl with bandages on her right leg and right ear. Tonight, we hope for healing rest, and tomorrow begins a fresh page.
Yesterday was International Women’s Day, but I’m still celebrating. (I’m one of those people who likes to celebrate birthdays and stuff for an entire week.) The day came alive for me yesterday evening as I watched our little girl take part in her second T-ball practice ever. She’s still figuring out the logistics of making the bat and the ball collide in just the right way, but Daddy (who used to play baseball himself) is at the ready to help with that. When it comes to catching the ball and, especially, running the bases, our girl is fierce! She loves to run, and my heart takes wings, too, when I watch her. I really love watching the kids do a free run from one end of the field to the other. There’s one little boy who is known as the fastest on the team, but our girl is not deterred by that. The “soccer mom” (or really, more of a “stage mom”) that arises in me wants her to beat him–and all of the rest of the kids, while she’s at it. She’s not far behind the first-place runner. She could take him! Go, go, go!!! But, then, I remember I’m a pastor and supposed to be a decent human being and supportive of all children. Funny thing, though. . . . As I’m experiencing this moral dilemma within myself, I look up at her, flying across the field with her ponytail bouncing, her long twiggy legs galloping, hot pink cleats pounding the red-brown dirt, face beaming with determination, exertion, and exhilaration. And I realized–who cares who wins? This is pure JOY!
To me, she is the essence of International Women’s Day, right there on our community baseball field. In that moment, she is being absolutely herself. Doing what she loves doing. She has space to thrive. She is championed. She is free. She is seen.
Cheers to our brave, strong, joyful girl–and all women–today and everyday.
It’s Monday, and I’m sitting at my desk again after a delightful vacation with my sweet family to Disney World last week. I began my morning-back-at-work-at-church by scribbling a list of to-do items and catch-up items, and I’ve already struck through several points on my list. I’m one of those over-achievers.
To feel inspired and carry that Disney magic with me into this new week, I’m wearing my green shirt with the sparkly golden design of Princess Merida and her mum in bear-form from the movie Brave. This shirt carries wonderful memories made last week–of huge smiles and wide, amazed eyes, of joyful laughter and spontaneous squeals and twirling from our children. But I also remember feeling very, very hot and sweaty under the Florida sun in this shirt. I remember desperately seeking shade at mid-day in the theme parks. I remember craving just a sip of water or one of those frosty, fruity drinks. I remember–at various points–carrying one of our children, with pink cheeks and damp curls stuck to their forehead. I remember long lines and swarming crowds. I remember the frenzy of hurrying from place to place. Frustration jumbled in with elation. It was an amazing week, but vacation was hard!
Toward the end of our time at Disney, we also heard the news of what’s happening in Ukraine. And I saw haunting pictures of crowds, of lines, of terror and destruction, of desperate and frightened parents carrying small children. The images pierce my heart. I feel along with those families. I know what it’s like to struggle to get one’s children safely from place to place, to make sure everyone is okay, to keep it all together. But, then again…I really don’t know anything, do I? I’m not over there.
I preach this Sunday, and the Scripture passage given to me for a pre-planned theme is from Luke 2:25-35. Mary and Joseph are presenting their young child Jesus at the temple, and prophetic words ring out from a man named Simeon: “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed . . . and a sword will pierce your own soul too” (2:34-35). Falling, rising, opposition, pain. A sword that pierces one’s soul. Mary knew that feeling all too well, as she experienced the journey of motherhood to her very special son. I feel it as I watch my own little ones. The parents of the Ukraine surely are feeling this to the depths of their souls right now. I am limited in perspective. I am privileged in my relative place of safety and peace. But my heart and soul are with them and all families this week.
I’m wearing an orange dress today. My friend, who’s an elementary school teacher, reminded me yesterday that today is #Unity day, when we take a stand against bullying. As a former introverted, pale, freckle-y, and rather nerdy teenager who, as an adult, is still quite introverted, pale, freckle-y, and nerdy…this issue is close to my heart. And I’m a mom now. And my heart hurts when I think of how cruel this world can be sometimes.
So there I was wearing my orange dress at our local gas station putting fuel in the tank, when I noticed something unusual on the gas pump. It was a sticker with an incredibly unflattering (to say the least) picture of President Biden, mouth gaping open and finger pointing, with the words “I did that” underneath. Whoever put the sticker there had placed the finger-point strategically close to where the gas price is displayed digitally in red. Ah. I got the message.
It’s been a hard day for me emotionally already and seeing that sticker just tipped me right over the edge. The next thing I knew, I had scraped the sticker off and dumped the shreds of it in the nearby trash can. It took me three tries, but it’s gone. (Until the sticker fairy returns.)
But now, let’s calm ourselves. This reflection of mine honestly has nothing to do with my feelings about this President. Or any U.S. President past or future. What it does have to do with is kindness and love. And stopping bullying. And an awareness that hate is like a cancer eating away at us as a society. Can we learn to disagree without mockery and ridicule? Can we dislike a stance or policy or idea without seeking to destroy the person who shares it? Can we teach our children to respect differences, protect the vulnerable, and—very simply put—be kind?
So I wear my orange today. With hope. With determination. With love. I invite you to join me. And I might just wear something else orange tomorrow.
Yesterday, I was driving down one of the main roads in my town, and I noticed that the car in front of me looked . . . different. As I moved closer and squinted my eyes, I saw that there was a hand-written message scrawled with white marker across the back windshield. It was a pretty angry message. And I didn’t need to stop the driver and talk in person to realize that they were greatly displeased with certain issues in our country and in the world. Just by reading that windshield, I felt as if the driver were shouting–at me, at others–and shaking a fist at the sky. So much anger. Kindness, grace, peace, and love were certainly not there.
And then, just a few days ago, I experienced some church-folk who seemed to forget Christ’s call to love and serve others. Kindness, grace, peace, and love were severely lacking in their words and behaviors. So much anger there, too.
I could easily follow these two recent experiences to a place of despair at the “state of our world today,” but–surprisingly–another kind of experience came to my mind this morning. And it’s keeping me going. It’s a story that happened this one time in Ireland. . . .
A few years ago, my husband and I were traveling in Ireland with another couple of friends who were celebrating their wedding anniversary, like we were. We had started our adventure in Dublin, in the east, traveled across the country to Galway in the west, and were making our way back around to Limerick near the center of Ireland. We stopped for lunch at a pub as we visited Limerick that day. And as we listened to the fiddles playing and the dancers tapping, we found a high-top table outdoors near the river. We and our friends were sitting there, chatting and laughing, recalling fun events from earlier in our vacation, when a most interesting individual appeared near our table. He had long, rather dirty-looking hair. A scruffy beard. An old Led Zeppelin t-shirt with stains on it. An unusual twitch in his eyes. A mysterious sniffle. But he was just as friendly as he could be! He started conversing with us, warmly and casually as if we were old buddies of his. He asked us how we were enjoying Ireland, about the sights we’d already seen. Made recommendations. Bantered. We smiled and engaged his conversation. But I have to admit those smiles were tense. And as he wandered away after a little while, you could feel the tension release from our group of friends. We laughed nervously and admitted that we all had had an eye on our friends’ expensive digital camera they had placed on the table top. Because our mysterious visitor just looked like the kind of person who might steal expensive items from unsuspecting tourists.
We returned to our lunches and our previous conversation, when—all of a sudden—our friend appeared again! He chatted some more, and then said the most outlandish thing. “I’d like to give you a blessing. A blessing for your travels. A blessing in my language.” And he fumbled about in his pants pocket looking for something to write on and something to write with. He pulled out an old, dirty envelope with frayed edges. “Pension envelope,” he said sheepishly. And he found a pencil. Then he wandered away to an empty table to write. Meanwhile, I was skeptical. “A blessing in your language!” I thought. “Even with your Irish accent, you’re speaking English just like we are.” I might have gripped my purse straps a little tighter as I watched him.
When he returned to our table, he proudly put the frayed piece of paper down in front of us. He had sketched a shamrock and these words in Irish Gaelic: “Go n-éirí an bóthar leat.” “May the road rise to meet you,” he declared warmly. And all of a sudden I felt so stupid and so ashamed. “May the road rise to meet you.” The traditional Irish blessing that I know from so many choral anthems I’d performed in the past. And, of course, Irish Gaelic was his language. How foolish, how arrogant of me to forget that more than English was spoken here.
Once he shared his blessing with us, he wandered away again. And we sat in shock. “That was awesome,” one of our friends whispered. And my husband was inspired and said, “Let’s ask him if we could get him some food or something to drink . . . something.” And the guys called him over yet again and made our offer of a refreshment. But our unusual new friend simply smiled at us and shook his head graciously. “No. . . . No thanks. It costs nothing to be nice.” And he wandered away from us for the very last time. . . .
“It costs nothing to be nice.” That phrase has stuck with me for years now. We all know there’s so much anger and ugliness and sheer hatred in our world. We feel it around us. We feel it within us. It’s awful, overwhelming, exhausting. But there is kindness. Kindness is something we can choose. And the “cost” of kindness is totally worth it.
My challenge to myself today is to choose kindness and do kindness. Will you join with me, wherever you are?
Love, Light and Little Details 