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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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Fire and Water: Wrestling with Doubt #739

30 Oct

The fire crackled with life as it swept its way across a stack of manuscripts, greedily consuming page after page. Through tears I watched the pristine white papers transform into thin, black feathery curls that peeled off, danced momentarily with the updraft and then drifted resignedly down into the ashes.

Fire consumes a life's work

Death of a Dream

I thought I might be able to rescue a scrap or two by pushing some of the charred lumps to the side of the fireplace, but my mother must have read my mind. She grabbed the metal poker and stabbed at the carbon-coated mass to separate the blackened pages; she was determined to destroy every remnant. I could smell the words in the stench of burnt ink that wafted around me. I was 14, and newly enamored with the life and writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder. This was my first experience with death.

“Writing is a waste of time,” she spat, her breath so laden with alcohol I worried the fire might flare if she got too close. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was matted against her head with the sweat from days of neglect. She pointed the poker at my chest and slurred, “Don’t you dare tell me you want to be a writer.  It’s a pointless dream that will amount to nothing, and 40 years from now you’ll be a sorry loser, wishing you’d never started.”

She flung the poker wildly, just missing my head, and staggered from the room. I stayed there for hours, sobbing and staring at the black pit long after the fire died, trying to come to grips with the idea that every word, every sentence, and every page of every story my mother had ever written, was gone forever.

Today, nearly 40 years later, I am profoundly aware of the significance that moment has had in my journey. Somewhere in my heart, I believed her. I’ve spent the past 40 years skipping along the edge of the sea, yearning. Occasionally I’ve ventured ankle-deep, savoring the warmth and trying to imagine what’s “out there.” But I’ve never leapt with abandon. People ask me what I’m afraid of, and I remember the charred remains of dreams and the scent of unread words. It is my image of hopelessness.

That was the image in my heart this morning after I missed yet another self-imposed writing goal. I could hear my mother mocking me, reminding me that I have no business dreaming when there’s work to be done. Another failure. Who am I fooling?

But I cannot quell that constant, gentle song of unwritten words that calls to me above the din of the world’s demands. As is my habit, rather than follow the call, I tend to lash myself to the Siren of perceived obligation that is my “real job.” How did things get so backward?

Then this morning I read a familiar verse in the book of Jeremiah (29:11), and it spoke to me anew:
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

I’m reminded that I can start again and again, as often as I wish to, because I have hope and a future. There’s a whole big ocean of possibility out there and I’ve not even dared to snorkel across the top. The only thing stopping me is me. I can choose whether to listen to voices past or the voice of the future. It’s not a waste of time. It’s His plan.

And He says, “C’mon in, the water is fine!”

 —–

“Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it” — Bill Cosby

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Love means ALWAYS having to say you’re sorry

9 Oct

“Oh Lord,” I say, “I know you’re on my side here. Why is he being so stubborn? I really miss his friendship.”

Then tell him that, and say you’re sorry.

“But I have nothing to be sorry for. He started it. He never apologizes. If I apologize, I’m saying it’s ok for him to keep doing this.”

So, you think that by staying angry, you’re going to make him sorry? Isn’t that somewhat manipulative?

“Well, when you put it like that, maybe. But I don’t know what else to do. I just want him to acknowledge that he hurt me.”

Then write him a letter. Say you’re sorry.

“For what?”

You’ll think of something.

I stare at the paper, too angry to write. I won’t be a hypocrite.
But I can picture Jesus, one eyebrow raised as He waits.

“Fine. I’ll do it. But just to get you to stop nagging.”

I grab my pen and scrawl, “Dear Friend, I’m sorry you’re so stubborn…”

Hey now! That’s not the way I taught you.

“At least it would wake him up. I’ve got nothing else.”

Nothing? Well for starters, you could apologize for trying to be me.

What do you mean?

Last time I checked, it was my job to change people.

My sarcasm gets the best of me, and before I know it, I sputter out an ace of a retort.

“Well, Lord, I don’t see you changing anyone.”

Haven’t I though? What are you thinking right now?

I refuse to answer. Instead, I fold my arms across my chest. I really hate it when He’s smug.

Come on, He coaxes. You know you want to.

He’s referring to a quote by some anonymous author that I have pasted on my FaceBook page. It makes me smile. He used my own words against me.

“I can’t believe you went there,” I say.

Nevertheless, it’s a favorite, so the words just flow through my mind…

“God grant me the serenity
to accept those I cannot change,
the courage to change the one I can,
and the wisdom to know it’s me.”

He grins, and points back to the paper.

I know He’s right. I know it’s the only way. There’s only one part of my life I can control—my own actions.

I pick up my pen and start again.

“Dear friend, I’m sorry I treated you so badly. I love you and I miss our friendship.”

Just writing the words, I feel release.

Portrait of a Real American

2 Oct
Columbus Abbit Frank

Columbus Abbit Frank

Today I have the honor and privilege of introducing you to Columbus Abbit Frank, a U.S. Marine veteran who fought in the battle of Iwo Jima during World War II.
Our family has known Frank for many years (he’s my husband’s uncle―who, incidentally, has been known only as “Frank” since he attended boot camp in 1944), but we never took the time to learn his story. All we knew about him was that he had fought at Iwo Jima.
In the 90s, Frank and his wife, Loretta, came to visit us in Northern Virginia, and we took them to a Sunset Parade at the Marine Corps War Memorial in Arlington (an amazing demonstration that I’d encourage every American to experience at least once).
Because of Frank’s service at Iwo Jima, he was seated in the hosting general’s section. Frank, then in his late-70s, wore the requisite veterans’ Iwo Jima ball cap as he walked past the gauntlet of civilians and Marines toward his seat. Every Marine who noticed the cap snapped to attention and saluted, adding either “Oorah, Sir,” or “Semper Fi, Marine,” or even just, “Thank you, Sir.” I’ve never seen a man treated more honorably, and was more proud of the Marine Corps at that moment than I’ve ever been, before or since. By the end of the night, Frank’s face was beaming, and his pride was evident.
Still, we didn’t ask for the entire story.
Nearly 20 years later, we visited the monument again, this time with our youngest. We told him about the battle, and that his great uncle had fought there, but we had no details to add. It was an awakening of sorts. We realized with regret that we’d been taking for granted the living history available to us just for the asking.
So, we set out to capture his story for the family archives, and got much more than we’d expected. Not only is this an incredible war story, but it also tells of a strong, hard-working man who refused to be kept down by the hand originally dealt him, and who made his own way in the world despite the challenges of his childhood. He is the epitome of Real America, where a person can advance as far as he can dream, if he’s willing to work for it.
Better yet, Frank has not only allowed me to tell his story, but also to hang it on my Portrait Page so we can share it with you. I hope you’re as inspired as we are by this ordinary man with an extraordinary story.

NOTE: Special thanks to Charles, my 14-year-old, who conducted the interview on a recent trip to Sacramento, and to his dad for getting him there.

God Bless you, Uncle Frank, and thank you for your service.

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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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Time Management for Cheater Moms

2 Sep

With all deference to published authors, to whom writing milestones are no big deal, I must make an announcement:

I’ve finished the first chapter of Joe’s book!

Oh, please, please tell me it will always feel like this. For me, this is big. Baby’s first step big. Underdog team makes State Finals big. Lost ten pounds on a bread and chocolate diet big.

I know what you’re thinking. Wow, just a few weeks ago she was complaining about taking on Hebrew classes and now this, and only a month behind schedule! She’s a working mom with a clean house and folded laundry, AND she writes a weekly blog! However does she do it all?

Well, from my lofty perch atop this Mile Marker One sign, I do, indeed, feel qualified to tell you my time management secrets. But first, you must glance furtively from side-to-side, shoo all family and friends from the room, and pinky swear that this will stay between us.

OK?

OK.

So, here goes…

I cheat.

Sorry, Chika, that’s all I’ve got.

But hey, if it were possible to do it all, we’d take on even more, right? So be glad there’s no way to win. However, if you want some cheater tips, I’ve got the inside scoop. The following are five tips on what I call Faking Your Way to Finished. Feel free to pilfer as needed.

Faking Your Way to Finished

Dirty Subaru

The Perfect Car!


1. Shop to mop. You’ve got to be willing to jettison the high fashion. Gray is a perfectly acceptable, all-purpose color. Find the right shade, and you can quickly wipe down a bookcase or table on your way out of a room, leaving it looking freshly dusted! Walk close to the walls. I sometimes wear my duster inside out until I get to the front door, giving it a quick snap to remove the big fluffy parts as I flip it around. Most days you can hardly tell. Additionally, there are many cleaning products you can spray on your socks that won’t harm your skin. Dance like there’s no money for a maid.

2. Multitask. By this, I mean, eat while you drive. I have enough syrup on my steering wheel to hold up to seven Hebrew flash cards in place so I can study vocabulary on my way to work. Oh, and in case it’s not obvious, I drive a Subaru because washing it is a chastise-able offense.

3. Treat numbers like the mythological creatures they were meant to be. Establish early on in your relationships with everyone that you are not a math person. When someone points out that it’s been eight days since you posted on your weekly blog, hold up 12 fingers, shrug coyly, and say, “Yep! Almost time, isn’t it?”

4. Define your boundaries and resist temptation to cross them. Ensure every family member understands that socks and underwear are not laundry. Ergo, they do not get folded. As soon as a child is tall enough to reach the laundry basket, he can fish out his own socks. Store the basket on the floor.

5. Embrace the eccentric, particularly if it saves you a trip to the store. Cereal is the new dinner. Red stripes and green plaid create contrasting but amicable artistic statements. And, it’s perfectly acceptable to bring mushroom soup to a potluck lunch, assuming you also bring a can opener—no need to be cruel. Although I’ve yet to convince my teenager that ice has nutritional value, we do keep plenty of peanut butter and canned cheese on hand as filler when there’s need for creativity. I’ve been known to produce some amazing peanut-cheesy goodness with a base dish of nothing more than old raisins and a stick of margarine—oh, and a coupon for Papa John’s.

6. When you get to the end of the day, tie a knot, and move on. If I’ve learned anything from NASCAR it’s that there’s always room at the end of the longest line. Tomorrow is another day. In a future blog, we will discuss five ways to convince your brain of this at 2 in the morning.

So those are my secrets. I hope they help. And yes, I realize there are six items here. I refer you back to item number three for a refresher.

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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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I am not a-mused

23 Jul

I’m waging a valiant, but losing battle Spoon on the keyboardagainst the demons of distraction—those self-centered brain sprites who care not a whit that I have a writing deadline to meet today. I will NOT go online, I say to them, I’m writing! At least, I would be if you’d just hush.

But they dance noisily through my brain, screaming like late-night infomercial salesmen…

“Why so serious? Writer’s what? Well that sounds boring. Hey, you know what was fun? That movie…the one with that guy in it? You know, the dopey one with the girl who did that thing? Who WAS that? Perhaps you should look it up!”

No, I say firmly. No online. None. It’s just me, my muse, and my Word doc—hey, how did that screen open? Well, as long as it’s here I’ll just type it in. Yes, Richard Gere. I thought so. Now if you would just—

I look across the room and notice the sprites have lured my muse away with a quart of jamoca fudge ice cream. Useless ditz. Usually I keep her close with a box of chocolate chip cookies. I couldn’t get her attention now if I piped in chocolate direct from Pennsylvania. . .but that makes me think of—oh, what’s that place we used to go to for that incredible chocolate Easter candy? I’ll just search it really quick. Criminy! Who knew there were so many chocolatiers in Pennsylvania? Oh, my, that one has tours; and this one is right across the border. How far is that from Woodbridge?

Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!

My muse is now in a jamoca fudge stupor, dancing around the room like a wood nymph while the sprites clap with delight. She’s oblivious to the cascade of ideas trailing behind her, tumbling across the floor like dry leaves in the breeze and disappearing behind the furniture.

Hey, those were MY ideas, I shout. Pull yourself together! I race to save a precious few but they seem to disintegrate the moment they’re out of sight.

Speaking of leaves, did anyone from the north east notice that the ends of nearly all the trees are blighted with dead leaves? I did, and yep, I looked it up. See here, it says that’s called flagging. Those are the last traces of our recent cicada visit. The trees will be fine next spring.

Dash it! That was a 30-minute detour. And while we’re at it, I absolutely abhor the sound of sprite giggle.

I decide I’ve got to do something about that low-wattage nitwit before she loses everything, so I quickly start typing: “It was a dark and stormy, um, um…”

She can’t help herself; she twirls by to see where I’m going with it. Quick as a wink, I lasso her with a noun string and tie her to the chair beside me. She rolls her eyes, or perhaps she’s trying to focus. She starts patting her now-empty pockets and looks up all wide-eyed and innocent, but I have no sympathy for her fudge-faced self. I hold my hand out, palm up, and give her my sternest no-nonsense look.

She pulls out a crumpled, cocoa-stained, barely legible morsel of thought—the last measly scrap of idea she has left. I snatch at it and read it hungrily, but it contains only two disappointing words:

“Writer’s Block.”

I can’t write about writer’s block, I sputter. What kind of idea is that?

But my question goes unanswered; my muse is now slumped over and snoring with abandon. It’s pointless to wake her. She’s going to hate herself in the morning.

So now it’s just me. Even the sprites have gone to bed. I look back down at the paper and then return to my keyboard, because I have to post something…

And so I do. Take THAT, my muse-less salad spinner.

. . .And because I just know you’re wondering, the search engine brought up 11,600,000 results for “Writer’s Block.”

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Well, Someone’s Guilty, but it’s not Zimmerman

14 Jul

So, the verdict is out. George Zimmerman has guiltybeen deemed “Not Guilty” of second-degree murder or manslaughter. This is not to say he is innocent of any wrongdoing. However, the nation will never know the entire story of what happened to Trayvon Martin. More importantly, his family will never really know, because the real victim in this trial was the truth. This entire saga has been railroaded by media and political interference.

You don’t think you were fooled? How many of you heard a transcript of Zimmerman’s 911-call on the news, in which he is quoted as saying he saw a suspicious individual—a black man wearing a hoodie? And, in disbelief, you said, “Why, that’s profiling!”

Would it have made a difference if you knew the 911 operator had asked him to describe the individual’s skin color, and then asked what he was wearing? Of course it would have. But those questions were edited out of the transcripts. (“Never let facts get in the way of a good story” seems to be the media mantra). In fact, many media outlets did everything possible to make Zimmerman look guilty. To add drama, they even called him a “White Hispanic man”…has the media ever called our president a White Black man?

Fortunately for Mr. Zimmerman, he had a fair trial in light of the available evidence. Had the media or politics not intervened, he might have been tried on different charges—charges that could have been proven.

So, now there are three families that will never get true closure: the Martins, the Zimmermans, and the Lees (the family of the former police chief fired by a city that was not interested in investigation, but wanted only a speedy arrest.)

If any good can come of this, it would be that we can learn from it, and hopefully, next time allow the law officials to do their jobs. This can also serve as a wake-up call for those of us who could do a little more thinking for ourselves and stop swallowing everything the media tries to force down our throats.  I’ve long believed we as a nation are only too eager to accept what we hear on the news as truth, and that it’s damaging our country and our relationships. Stop listening to hate-mongers and start doing your homework! You and I have the power to share peace and light with the world, regardless of the anger and darkness around us, just by choosing to do so.

Which brings me to another reason this case hits home for me. It offers a perfect segue for announcing the book I’m working on right now that is of surprising coincidence, only it isn’t. It is a true story about a man named Joe, who, in the ‘70s, was tried and actually convicted of a crime he did not commit.  His case was also affected by media and personal ambitions. But that’s where the similarities end.

The real story is not about the case against Joe as much as it is about the way he handled it—not with hate and bitterness, but with peace and light. As a result, lives were made better, for both family members and fellow inmates, and now he says it was the best thing that ever happened to him. If you want to follow our progress, watch “Joe’s Story” on my website.

In the meantime, wake up, America!

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I’ll say it…God Bless America!

4 Jul

declaration_independenceI’m celebrating everything that made us the nation we are today…warts and all. We are still the greatest nation, and we are still under God, though I fear we’re rapidly turning from Him as a teenager rebels from his parents. I implore you all to take out your copy of the Declaration of Independence (or search the internet for a copy if you don’t have it framed and on the dining room wall where it belongs). Read it. Cut through the flowery language—get an interpreter if you have to. Consider where we’d be today if it weren’t for a few incredibly brave, insightful, godly men who understood what it would take for this nation to prosper, and who knew that it wasn’t a king we needed, but a government that protected our rights instead of usurped them. Think of what went into creating this Declaration, and the Constitution that followed. No other nation’s founding documents can compare. Americans have fought and died for those words since the day they were written. This is, indeed, a day for celebration. I still believe we can turn this nation around again, through prayer and integrity, because I believe in the goodness of the American people and in the merciful hand of a loving God who is patiently waiting for us to grow out of our teenage years and return to Him. So I toast (imaginary clinking goes here) to our freedom, the courage of our forefathers, and the opportunities that lie ahead for this nation. May God bless America!

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