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Waiting for the Thaw

19 Feb

The sun is out today, for what seems like the first time in months, but winter’s calling cards are everywhere. It could easily depress me if I let it.

Snow-lined street

If it isn’t blocking a car, it’s called ambiance.

Our small suburban side streets are still a mess. After the last storm, most folks dug out only enough to free their vehicles, leaving a patchwork of tar and snow. Sand is strewn over the narrow driving lane, making everything dirty. A stream that formed on our sidewalk is rushing the rapidly melting snow into the gutters at the bottom of the hill.

Snow blob

I won’t name him, lest I become attached. If I DID, he would be called Blobbert.

I stare out my window; a child’s snowman stares back from across the street. He’s actually only a blob with a hat, surrounded by footprints. However, his creator is about five years old, so he’s perfect, of course. He’s the ideal shape for a melting reference so I’ll say it…the sun beating down on him makes his hat look most unnecessary. I’m sure he won’t survive the day. I can’t tell whether his lemon eyes and little O-shaped mouth are expressing surprise or if he’s pleading with me to save him. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I won’t mind it when he’s gone because for once, I’m tired of the snow. We didn’t even get that much this year, really. My sister in Denver, she’s still getting regular blizzards, as are my brothers in northern New England, and my friends in Washington and Maine. I grew up in Rhode Island. I know what a lot of snow looks like, and this is nothing. It just feels like a lot this year.I heard a weather forecaster say it’s not over yet, and that there may be one or two more snowstorms before spring arrives. It just makes me sigh. All those dirty white mounds piled high around the lamp poles in the grocery store parking lots—where will they put more? Let’s hope today’s sun melts them down a few feet.

Still, as I look over the tired, dirty landscape, I can’t help but feel hope. I know that just five feet from the snowman, crocuses are sleeping under that blanket of whiteness. I can almost hear the roots of the brown grass and of the giant Norway Maple in the middle of my front lawn drinking deeply from the crisp, fresh water that seeps into the ground all around them. The tree sports tiny buds like tightly clenched fists, just waiting for the sign to let go.

Even now, there are robins on their way here, and the Canada geese are making flight plans for the long trip south. Mama cardinals are holed up in the trees all around us, keeping their eggs warm. Butterflies are nearly transformed, still snugly curled in their cocoons. Everything is about to change.

Tree blossoms, tightly clenched

The trees of the field are ready to dance.

This is a time of hope and anticipation, especially for those of us who might be feeling weary. We can take heart because we know what’s coming, despite the apparent bleakness. We’ve been here before. We can hang in there. Just a few more weeks. Regardless of the shadows, and no matter how cold it gets, whatever you’re going through right now—know that it’s temporary and something joyful is on its way. Take heart, spring is coming.

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A Charleston Portrait

4 Feb

To celebrate our 30th anniversary (and to mark my leap from steady paycheck to struggling writer status), my husband and I spent last week in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. We chose Charleston because we wanted to go somewhere we’d never been, that was near enough to drive to but far enough away that we could escape the cold Virginia winter.

Naturally, we spent three of our five days practically snowed in.

“First storm like this we’ve had this decade,” said all the locals.

Ravenel Bridge

Beautiful, but quite useless in a snowstorm, Ravenel Bridge

It wasn’t much by Virginia standards, but it was enough to shut down the city. Even the elegant Ravenel Bridge, the main route to the downtown area, was closed throughout most of our visit. It was opened briefly when temperatures warmed, but quickly closed again when ice falling from the rigging began crashing onto crossing vehicles, apparently annoying drivers in them.

Because we were staying at Mount Pleasant, this meant either taking the alternate route with hundreds of cranky re-routed commuters or staying on the island and seeing the sights there.Initially, I was quite disappointed. I wanted to experience the Charleston I’d been hearing about for so many years, its lovely markets and restaurants, and that legendary Southern charm.

We instead went out to Isle of Palms, and explored Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island. It was all quite nice, but cold, and I’d hardly say charming.

Then we met Mazie Brown, a sweetgrass basket weaver with a small stand on Highway 17. Sweetgrass weaving, South Carolina’s official handcraft, is an art only found in this region, and the baskets are sold only in the downtown markets and along this highway. Mazie was one of only a few weavers brave enough to set up shop that day, when cold was warding off potential customers.

From the moment we entered her tiny hut we were charmed. Mazie flashed us a wide and welcoming grin, and commenced to chatting as if we were old friends.

“You’re lucky you come by when you did,” she said. “Soon the only place you’ll see baskets like this is in the museums.”

Mazie talked about her art, which she’d been practicing since she was 6, and this stand, which her Mama had established 29 years ago and which Mazie had taken over after retiring from her nursing career. While I listened, I pulled down some of her creations, running my fingers along the intricate patterns woven from grasses and palms.

“Those dark parts is pine and bullrush,” she said, pride emanating from her deep brown eyes. “And that’s palmetto, holdin’ it all together.”

Her weathered hands stayed busy, braiding a stalk of sweetgrass into a circle, the way her Mama had taught her: in the Gullah tradition maintained more than 300 years by Africans brought to America in slavery.

“It’s dyin’ though,” she said. “My children want nothin’ to do with it. They don’t have the patience…rather play on their textin’ machines.”

My husband held up a serving platter that she said took about two and a half days of weaving to complete. What a shame this art might disappear. We’ve since learned that not only is the coming generation losing interest, but regional development is depleting the sweetgrass supply. Access to the grasslands is limited; harvesters travel nearly 90 miles to find grass, or they buy it like Mazie does.

“When I was a girl, I used to go with my Daddy to pull it up,” she said. “Wouldn’t do that today. There’s so many snakes in the grasses now.”

We purchased the platter and asked her to sign the back. Her face lit up afresh and she pulled a sharpie of her pocket; our request wasn’t original.

“Some folks don’t want ‘em signed, but I’m always happy to do it,” she said.

As she carefully spelled out her name on the evenly spaced palmetto coils, Mazie continued to talk about her family, being alone despite two marriages, surviving cancer seven years now, and about her love for the weaving craft. We could have listened for hours; she had such a sweet storytelling gift.

Mazie Brown

Mazie Brown, artist and storyteller, Charleston personified

So enchanted was I by Miss Mazie, I did something I rarely do, as anyone who knows me will attest. I wanted to have my picture taken with her. I could tell when I asked that she shared my loathing for the camera, but she obliged (albeit, never looking into the lens). Jerry and I both felt compelled to hug her goodbye.

We eventually got to the city, to a few good restaurants (shout out to Page’s Okra Grill!) and to the market where baskets similar to Maize’s were triple the price and stalls were just business establishments. After Mazie, it was a bit anticlimactic.

I’m not sure we would have met Maize if not for the weather; I’m so glad we did. To me, she is now family. To me, she is Charleston. And a lovely, charming place it is.

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Leaping into the Light

12 Jan

I believe this earth is just one big battlefield for good and evil.

I believe that every one of us, whether we want to be or not, is part of the battle, and that during our short time on this earth we each do three very important things:

  • Chose a side
  • Find our role in the war
  • Help equip others to do the same

All roles in warfare are vital. We need soldiers on the front lines to shield us from the fire, factory workers to produce equipment, scientists to develop tactics and technology, doctors and nurses to keep us in fighting shape, listeners to keep us sane, and teachers; oh boy, do we need good teachers to prepare our children for the fight ahead and teach them to seek truth.

For the past 12 years, I’ve been an editor with an Intelligence organization. I serve with a fine group of warriors who stand at the edge of darkness, peering into the vast unknown for signs of the enemy. After they’ve sifted through evidence, trends, and potential implications, I help them articulate their findings effectively. It’s a good job. I’ve learned a lot about the world, made many friends, and enjoyed a steady paycheck. If I stick with it three more years, I’ll qualify for some good benefits for my retirement years.

Two years ago, I participated in a leadership training course that included an exercise designed to help us identify our strengths and passions and figure out what to do with them. After culling through a lengthy list of phrases beginning with the words, “I most like to ____,” we each created lists of 40 possibilities, then culled that to 20, then 10, then 4, then circled the one that we thought best captured who we are. We posted our discoveries on the walls around us, and I read with awe the passions of my coworkers:

  • “I most like leading a team.”
  • “I most like solving difficult problems.”
  • “I most like to collaborate on tough assignments.”

These were some focused individuals; I could see the Intelligence field was a perfect fit for them.

I, on the other hand, culled my list down to, “I most like to create art and beauty.” Hardly a warrior’s creedo.

Over the past two years since that course, I’ve been mulling my discovery; there’s no place on the battlefield for art and beauty, I thought. But lately, I’m not so sure. Perhaps that’s exactly what the world needs more of. Still, I cannot shake the notion that, although I am good at what I do in the Intelligence arena, I don’t belong there. My battle is elsewhere.

Where there is light, there can be no darkness

Where there is light, there can be no darkness

My role, I think, is to fight evil with light; to help those who may know which side to fight for, but have yet to make a formal pledge. I think I’m also supposed to encourage those who are fighting in the darkest corners and who think evil might be gaining the advantage. We can’t lose, of course, because the battle has already been won, but sometimes it can feel like we’re losing.Where there is light, there is hope. When I pick up a pen, light emerges through art and beauty.

That is why I made my decision; I’ve given notice at my work that as of January 24, I will no longer be an editor serving the U.S. government. On that day I will become an ordinary writer, serving in the Army of God. The pay will be horrible, particularly at the start, but I know the Lord will provide for our needs.

My first order of business, of course, will be to finish writing Joe’s story. He’s been more than a little patient with me since last summer, and I hope he will find the story worth the wait.

After that? Who knows? The Portrait Writer will be open for business; after that, anything can happen.

“The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.”  1 John 1:5

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The Early Bird Knows the Secret

4 Jan

I awoke to four sweet, staccato chirps, and smiled as I listened to the persistent warbler outside my bedroom window. Again and again he beckoned to me with the same four-note aria, paying no heed to the drawn shade that separated us. I knew he was calling to me, but I didn’t want to stir from my warm bed. Tossled, twitching branches on the tree outside cast a quivery shadow against the shade, and a blustering gust of wind buffeted the house’s siding, confirming my suspicions: It was a cold, windy day out there.

I think I’ll stay put, thank you very much.

Still he sang. His notes were melodious and clear; I was content to just lie there and listen. So much joy from such a tiny creature! I couldn’t imagine what this bird might have to be joyful about. Surely if he knew the snug coziness of an electric blanket he might be singing a different tune out there on that naked tree limb.

Eventually though, his song (and the thought of a hot cup of coffee) got to me. I extricated my lazy self from the soft covers, covered my flannel jams with my warmest robe, and crossed over to raise the shade, mentally prepared for a bleak January scene.

How wrong I was.

Instead of bleakness, the world outside had transformed overnight into a pristine wonderland. Two inches of pure white blanketed everything around me, and a rather spectacular sunrise was radiating its golden orange light across the snow-covered trees and rooftops, glistening majestically as far as I could see.

And there was my soloist: a tiny brown wren with his beak pointed up to heaven, singing for all he was worth. How could he not? He cocked his head to look at me, as if to say, “See? Didn’t I tell you?” and resumed his joyful twittering.

I watched for quite some time, mesmerized. All too soon, the golden hue dissipated as the sun rose higher; leaving a scene that was still beautiful, but slightly less enchanting.

To think I would have missed that just to stay comfortable.

Then I went downstairs, where the morning had more delight in store for me. Entering the kitchen, I noticed a particularly large shadow cross the window as something flew to the birdhouse in the back yard.

Probably those darned crows, I muttered to myself. Such bullies they are.

I headed over to the sliding-glass door to thump the window pane (like that ever works). To my amazement, it wasn’t crows, but the return of our favorite winter visitors, the Pileated Woodpeckers.

Pileated Woodpecker

This is Dactyl. Don’t be fooled; that’s a relatively small birdhouse he’s perched upon.

Now, these guys aren’t your average woodpeckers. In fact, we’ve named them Terry and Dactyl, if that tells you anything. They are so large, even the crows give them wide berth. According to our bird manual, the Pileated Woodpecker can grow to about 17-inches long. They also have a deep red crest. I could watch one for hours.

The thing is, they never stick around long, and they’re early risers so we don’t catch a glimpse of them often. If I’d stayed in bed, I would have missed this as well.

How many of us live our lives like that? Chosing comfortable, safe, and familiar over the unknown, wondering what’s “out there” but not curious or brave enough to go look for ourselves? What do you suppose we’re missing?

At my office, I work with quite a few brilliant people who sit in their familiar cubicles day after day performing mundane tasks, all the while saying there must be a better way and purposefully ignoring the “I wonder ifs” hovering overhead:

  • I wonder if I could make it as a professional photographer.
  • I wonder what it would take to start my own brewery.
  • I wonder if I’ll ever go to law school.
  • I wonder if I should homeschool my child.

I know this, because they do occasionally talk about their dreams, and because I do the same thing. For the past ten years, I’ve been talking about leaving my job to write full-time, but the office paycheck is steady and my coworkers are great people. It’s comfortable.

But change is waiting for me, like the wren outside my window, singing, beckoning.

The time has come to throw off the cozy blankets. Can I do it this time?

…I’ll let you know next Saturday.

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Taking Joy from the Trees of the Field

13 Nov

Last night’s howling winds have abated, leaving a bleak urban skyline outside my window where only last week a magnificent canvas of fiery color took my breath away. Today, as I look in most directions, I see mainly outstretched limbs of naked trees.

Full tree of red and orange

The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands

But right next door, and at the end of the street, and on street corners throughout the neighborhood, are trees (mostly maples, I think) still round and full, bursting with glorious color. I don’t believe the tree next door has relinquished a single leaf. It gives me great joy to witness such life, even as parts of it are dying.

People are like that, aren’t we? We’ve all had our leaves change color and darken. We’ve lost loved ones, said good-bye to childhood friends, felt that gut-wrenching blow of bad news from which we’re not sure we can ever recover. Some of us lay down our leaves as soon as we see their loss as inevitable. Others shine forth, seeing each day as a gift and each step in the struggle as part of a worth-while journey.

My life has been blessed by full trees—people who shine regardless of their situations.I see it in my friends Michele and Sheryl, whose lives are being buffeted by headwinds of heartache and change. I picture them, leaning forward against the gusts, sliding one determined foot just barely ahead of the other as they inch their way across the wet, slippery road. Still, they stand. And if you stand near them, they will put an arm across your shoulders or fold you into a hug so personal that you feel refreshed and strengthened for another day.

I see it in Doug and Matt, whose roots went without water for many seasons, until their eyes became dull and listless and they despaired of becoming lost in the darkness. Then they found their way back to the well and drank deeply, and today they radiate so much joy that all those around them can’t help but smile with them and lean in to listen when they speak. They give me hope for the future of this nation.

I see it in my neighbor Bill and in my friend Craig, giant oaks whose roots (or those of the trees around them) are being blighted by cancerous invaders. They don’t know if treatments will drive out the disease, but they sing anyway, and find reasons every day to be grateful. Their faces shine, and they speak light into the darkness.

These full trees have much in common. They each bear scars from harsh weather and lightning burns, and some of their limbs have been pruned, yet they are taller and stronger than they have ever been, and we who watch can only be inspired by their color. Most importantly, they emit hope. They know that brown leaves do not signify the end, because they’ve seen this before. This season will give way to a new one that is lush and green, and there will be fruit again. They know that God has promised to bring them through this, even if they don’t know where “through” will lead. We’ve learned from Shadrach and company that even if God does not bring us where we want to go, we can trust that what He’s doing is for our good.

This does not mean we cannot grieve or feel sadness as the leaves are stripped away, but that, as the season ends, we remember a new season is coming. Being unsure of our future does not mean we must be afraid.

As we go through trial, each of us must choose whether to display despair or hope. I’ve peeked at the end of the story, and I know it’s full of hope. I want my tree to be full until every last leaf falls to the ground and they come haul me away to be used for firewood—and even then I’m gonna make sparks fly!

Job 19:25-27   I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God; I myself will see him with my own eyes…”

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Sweet Summer Sunday

16 Sep

My brain has been dulled by a frantic search for unwritten words; I’ve been fooled by the calendar and its desire to propel me forward toward self-imposed deadlines. The leap-frog days of July and August have ushered summer off the stage, because that’s what days do. They usher in busyness.
On cue, school buses rev their engines, football stadiums open their doors, and mulch flyers find their way to our doorsteps. Candy corn is back on the store shelves. The woodpile has been stocked. It must be autumn.

Butterfly in the garden

Sweet sip of summer

But apparently, Nature does not use a calendar. Nor does Nature rush. So, this afternoon, when I could have been writing, I instead found myself lying on a park bench by the pond—eyes closed, pen lost—letting the sun bake my to-do list as if it were a bonfire marshmallow. I savored the rustling of the lush green trees, which showed no sign of changing color, and the gentle clucking of the ducks and geese, who seemed in no hurry to leave. I breathed in a summer bouquet: grilled steaks, roses in bloom, and freshly mowed grass. For the first time in months, I just rested. It took valiant resolve to rouse myself at sunset and head home.
Tonight I lie awake, listening to the symphony outside my open window as crickets and toads toast the glorious moon. I’m pulled from my bed, enticed by their joy. Telling myself I’m going to regret this in the morning, I quietly slip outside to listen to the concert and stare at the stars. There’s a soft rustling in the trees as they sway—perhaps we’re listening to the same song. Nope, I won’t regret this.
It has been a lovely day. A lovely, summer day. And in this peace, in the quiet of God’s amazing display of beauty and perfection, at last, the words come.

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Back Yard Bonanza

27 Aug

My family lives in Northern Virginia by chance. We moved here courtesy of the U.S. Military for our last tour of duty 17 years ago, and just haven’t gotten around to moving home. Truth be told, we don’t exactly know where home is.  I’m a native Rhode Islander, and I pine for the water and sand. My husband grew up in Montana and Colorado, where it’s all about the mountains and snow. So we sit here in the suburbs while the years tick away; we’re like sloths trying to choose our next tree. For years our only certainty has been that we won’t be staying in Virginia. The traffic, the hurried pace, the shopping malls—not for us.

Falling Spring, Covington, VA

Falling Spring, Covington, VA

However, a new family hobby may be bringing our future more clearly into focus. We’ve been geocaching for more than a year now. That’s a different story for a different time, but for the purposes of this article, I’ll describe it as an international pastime involving more than two million containers logged according to their longitude and latitude. Or, as one popular slogan explains, we use billion-dollar satellites to find Tupperware in the woods.

This hobby has taken us to places we’d never have seen otherwise.  We’re half-way through our quest to find a cache in every county and independent city in Virginia. That’s 95 counties and 39 cities. In the process, we’re discovering Virginia.

This past weekend, we drove along the West Virginia border, through the George Washington National Forest, stopping in counties with names like Bath, Bedford, and Botetourt. We spent a night in Harrisonburg and a night in Roanoke. Between the two stops, we found a breathtaking waterfall in Covington, we snaked alongside the James River through the Appalachian Mountains, and we stumbled across the gravesite of the WWII U.S. Marine Corps general whose artillerymen may have kept Uncle Frank alive at Iwo Jima (yet another story, coming soon to a Portrait site near you).

Pirates guarding the pier

Couple of beach bums guarding the pier at Colonial Beach

Our recent trip has left me reflecting on the many historical, peaceful, and bizarre sights we’ve seen in the past year or so—and how our opinion of Virginia is changing. There’s a lot more here than asphalt and tail lights. We’ve watched the Serenity Schooner sail into Yorktown, admired the pirates at Colonial Beach, and waited for the sun to set over the Shenandoahs.

We’ve visited so many monuments and grave markers that we’re developing a fascination and appreciation for America’s history while searching among headstones at Arlington for the graves of Iwo Jima flag raisers, standing at Stonewall Jackson grave site statue wondering what he’s looking at for all eternity, or even just hanging out in Middleburg, where Jeb Stewart and his cavalry were skirmishing just before the battle at Gettysburg.

Serenity Schooner

Serenity Schooner sailing to Yorktown..
is our ship coming in?

It’s been a most excellent adventure…and we’re only half-way through our journey. As it turns out, Virginia is a tad larger than we first thought, and much more interesting. In fact, on each trek, we add another site to our growing list of places we want to go back to when we can spend more time. More importantly, in nearly every place we visit, I think, wow, I could live here.

Next trip: Smyth, Grayson, Patrick AND Henry counties. I can hardly wait…

I’m starting to think we might be Virginians after all.

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I yam where I swam

12 Aug

I’ve taken on too much. Again.

It’s a regular thing for me.

A wife, a mother, a friend, a writer, a housekeeper, a supervisor, a wreck.

plates for spinning

How many plates can you spin?

Does my story sound familiar to you? I race everywhere, arrive five minutes late, and spend my time there thinking about where I’m heading next. I have a bag that is brimming with receipts, notes, and forms I accumulated this week that I keep promising myself I’ll sort as soon as I get a free minute. And, as you’ve no doubt noticed, my weekly blog post is two days late. My life has become a circus plate-spinning act. How hectic does life have to get before I start saying no?

So naturally, when the opportunity to learn Hebrew in a free, fast-paced, fire-hose of a daily commitment arose, I jumped at it. Feet first; no floaties.

That’s why today I’m wallowing in a pool of self pity, trying to remember that what sounds like “he” is the Hebrew word for “she” and what sounds like “who” is really “he.”

Me is who.

Dog is Fish.

And a yam is something we swim in.

Whose idea was this? Yes, of course. It was mine.

As such, I come to that all-too familiar scene, again, wherein I must create a list of obligations and responsibilities. Then I scrutinize, categorize, and prioritize the list, asking about each item, “Is THIS the most important thing?”

It’s a rather long list, but when finally sorted and cut back to the priorities, it looks, oh, so familiar: God, then family, then writing. Well, sometimes it’s writing and then family, but don’t let that out, ok?

Out of the blue, I’m reminded of a story I wrote a few months ago about this very topic, intending to post it on my Portrait Page, but instead I lost it in the yam of business that is my life (NOTE: that’s not irony; it’s a pathetic coincidence).

So today the story goes on my page, as a promise to myself that I will start again, focus on what’s important, and, if need be, do the same thing next week.

Its actual title is My Main Event, but perhaps I should post it as “Portrait of a Woman Who does too much.”

I won’t ask you to go read it today. (NOTE: that wouldn’t be irony; it would be pathetic hypocrisy). But, when you get some free time, or when you want to learn the secret to prioritizing, it’ll be there, waiting for you.

Shalom.

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Taking Flight

3 Aug

In my heart he’s still my baby, my youngest, my little man. But watching him stride through the airport to meet seven other Canada-bound Boy Scouts from his troop, I’m momentarily startled by the volume of space his six-foot frame commands. A mother should never have to look up to address her 14-year-old.

Wearing an eyepatch

Eyepatch, eh?

He’s been to Canada before. We went to Niagara Falls when he was seven. Back then he had to wear an eye patch to strengthen a weak eye; we would draw picture on each day’s patch to at least keep the process interesting.  Of course the patches that week sported Canadian Flags and waterfalls. He was adorable. And small.

He greets his friends with handshakes. (When did that start?) In mere seconds he’s absorbed into the line of khaki uniforms and overstuffed backpacks heading to the check-in counter, but I can pick out his size-13 hiking boots in the assembly of feet.

I’m struggling to identify an overwhelming weight pressing down on my heart, making it somewhat hard to breathe.

It’s not fear, of that I’m certain. I will say, though, in the months leading up to this 10-day canoe trip in the Canadian wilderness, I experienced a range of emotions, from envious elation at the incredible opportunity before him to brown-bag-deep-breathing-exercise-inducing moments of dread over what COULD happen. I conjured images of giant snarling bears, stampeding moose, and head-splitting falls against the rocks.

But this isn’t fear. I know he’s a responsible young man who is well trained, and I trust his leaders implicitly. I’m confident that the number of his days has been ordained by The One who knows how many hairs are on his head. I’m very much aware that every day we have to share with loved ones is a gift, and that I’ve received 5,323 undeserved one-more-day gifts with this boy thus far (and twice that for his older brother). I pray I have many more, knowing that our days on Earth are no less guaranteed in the wilderness than on the interstate beside a drunk driver if God decides it’s time to come home.

So, what is this pain?

The boys finish checking their bags and stop at the parent pool for a last round of good-bye hugs. I fight the urge to remind him not to spend all his money on the trip out, and stand on tip-toes to whisper in his ear that I love him. He surprises me by NOT rolling his eyes.

They head to the gate, walking away from us as one body. But my boy is the tallest in the group, and not at all hard to follow. He’s deeply engrossed in conversation with his pals, oblivious to the emotional wreck of a mom watching him leave. Then I see him turn and look back.

Ready for Takeoff

Ready for Takeoff

I suddenly know what’s going on in my heart. It has finally realized that my little man is about to walk through that gate and disappear, and that I won’t recognize the person who comes back. In ten days when I see him again, his face will be tan, his arms muscled from days of pulling the oars, and he no doubt will be even taller, but he will also be more confident, capable, and independent. This is the beginning of adulthood, and I’m just not ready for it.

Saying good-bye to my little eye-patch boy is breaking me.

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A Lesson from an Inchworm

23 Jun

I’m contemplating making a major lifestyle change that would mean giving up a perfectly good job for one with no guaranteed income: writing. Thinking about it consumes my every waking moment. I’m worried that if I make the wrong decision, my family will suffer. On the other hand, I’m certain my passion to write is God-inspired, and was intended for more than a hobby.

As I ponder, one particular memory keeps running through my mind of the inchworinch_wormm we saw at the bus stop before school let out for the summer. It was a minor event, but it won’t let me go, because as part of my morning prayer that day, I had asked God to give me eyes to see him.

My son and I were early to the bus stop, for a change. In the morning stillness, we sat in the car chatting and watching the trees sway with the breeze. He saw it first, hovering in front of our car. It took my ancient eyes a bit longer to focus. There was nothing unusual about him—you know—a tiny green critter about an inch long. He was creeping up a gossamer thin strand of silk toward some luscious-looking (to him anyway, I suppose) green leaves.

“He’s doomed,” my son said, with that teenagers-know-everything voice of authority. “Some kid is gonna come flying past and knock him down.”

So we watched. One-by-one, children would arrive and join the group waiting beneath the tree. The young boys, all laid back and cool, would saunter casually onto the scene. The girls, a bit more animated, raced in with a spring in their step, shrieking enthusiastic greetings at friends they hadn’t seen since…well, the day before.

Still he climbed, despite the blustering wind, and oblivious to the increasing activity, which occasionally stirred up gusts so strong they sent the silk strand nearly horizontal. He focused on those leaves above, intent on reaching the goal, and climbed. Inch-by-inch.

My son said good-bye and left the car, stationing himself near the inchworm as a buffer against the children dashing past. He hung back, even after the bus came roaring onto the scene. The inchworm was nearly six-feet in the air by then, within about three feet from the branch. My son took one last look around before turning to give me a victorious thumbs-up before bounding aboard.

I waited until long after the bus took off, watching this precious critter and thinking about his lot. Eventually, he made it to the branches, but what if he hadn’t?  I’m relatively certain he would have started over again. And again, if need be. Because that’s what he was made to do. It’s his purpose.

So what’s my point? That we all have a purpose—something that makes us feel exactly right when we’re doing it. A gift, a talent, a unique capability. Some of us employ that gift, and some make it a hobby, while others stuff it away until “some day.”

My purpose is to write. I’ve tried many times to kick start a writing career, but I’ve been buffeted by life’s winds, and occasionally knocked to the ground. Today, however, I can see that branch within reach. I know I’m supposed to inch forward. If that little ol’ caterpillar can do it, so can I.

So, it is with great excitement, and hope, and fear, that I make this announcement: Yesterday I sent my first story to a publisher, and next weekend I’m embarking on a new adventure that I hope will turn into a book. I will get there, inch by inch.

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