Tomatoes, lemons, and remembering Clay

Please don't take offense at this:

I don't like tomatoes,

Normally, as a general rule.

But you are certainly the exception.

See, you are MY tomato,

And that changes things.

When I put a few vegetable plants in the ground,

Just a corner of the yard, two weeks ago,

I was only half-joking when I said aloud,

"Be fruitful and multiply"

As I covered your roots with compost and soil,

Hoping but fearful.

The problem is that I kill everything.

Keeping plants alive is not one of my skills,

And I told the man at the garden center as much.

"Not to worry," he said. "These are hearty."

I'm not sure I believed him,

Which is probably why I spoke my blessing as I planted. 

And now, through some strange alchemy,

Some miracle of sun and water, soil and fertilizer,

Time and luck, God and me,

Here you are, proof of life.

Small, green, promising ripeness in a few weeks.

By then, I may learn to love tomatoes.

SS
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      I reached in the onion bin to pull out an onion to chop for the Greek pasta salad I was preparing for dinner with friends who are staying with us.  It had been a busy week with two rounds of houseguests, leaky faucets, disappointing news, critters in the attic - plus the normal rush of work, church and life.
       But when I reached into the bin, I found not onions - but lemons.  In my hurried  absent-mindedness, I put the lemons in the onion bin - instead of in their proper place in the fridge. I've done this before - putting the cereal box in the fridge and the milk in the cabinet.  It's a cue to me, a red flag, that I've got too much going on in that moment or even in that day.  Absent-minded.  Those two words say it all.  My mind has gone AWOL and is off thinking about yesterday's worries or tomorrow's future stress.  I"m not at all focused on the present moment and the lemons end up in the onion bin. 
        Luckily, hiding under the pile of lemons was one yellow onion, just enough for a big bowl of pasta salad.  And the good news is that the dressing for the pasta salad used, you guessed it, fresh squeezed lemons.  Sometimes, life really does give you lemons,  and if it does, I have a great pasta salad recipe for you.

AF

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I Remember

      This week is my brother’s birthday. Happy Birthday, Clay!

      He would have been 52, but he’s eternally 33, always young in my mind. He asked me for two favors when he was dying. One was to help save him from the melanoma ravaging his body. Two was to not forget him.

      Of course, I could do nothing to save him, other than be there for the rough journey.   But remember him I have.

      Unlike my Mom, I don’t visit him at his gravesite. He’s not there for me. But when my boys play their sports and score a goal, I can hear my brother, who was an awesome athlete, cheering them on with me. I know he’s ecstatic that his frilly, ballet/jazz/tap sister ended up with three boys who can wield a Barbie as a substitute gun toy. He’d love that I sometimes wear camouflage instead of pink and have bruises from fending off his nephews.

      When I went to the movie, Hunger Games, I smiled at a gory scene he would have liked. He loved action, fantasy and horror movies. Sometimes I go to one just because I know he would have loved it. I'll laugh at jokes I know his mischievous self would have liked. I can still hear his deep, rich laugh.

      I have a friend who also lost her brother, but she says she rarely thinks of him now that so many years have passed. We all have our ways of coping, but for me, to remember is good – bittersweet and soul enriching.

      You mattered, Clay. I probably wouldn’t have had kids had I not lost you. My oldest son is named for you.  I remember.

      And I forgive you for calling me egghead, bookworm and apestink.

DB

Movies and macular holes

       As Hurley and I were running and walking through Palmetto Islands County Park today, I saw a lot of these old live oaks draped in Spanish moss, and it brought to mind once again a movie I watched a few days ago, Terrence Malick's "The Tree of Life."  There is a literal tree very similar to this one that is seen many times in the film.  But the title is also metaphorical, calling us back to the biblical creation story in the book of Genesis, where the tree was in the Garden of Eden.  I can hardly describe the movie.  It is by far the most spiritually moving and thought-provoking film I can recall seeing.  It is also one of the most aesthetically beautiful.  I don't want to give too much away to anyone who might want to see it (and I definitely recommend it, with the caveat that it is unlike any movie you've ever seen, so don't expect traditional anything), but I want to share a few moments that resonated with me.  

      The film opens with words from the biblical book of Job onscreen:  "Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth . . . when the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?" (Job 38:4, 7)  This same question -- "Where were you?" -- will be spoken in prayer by several members of the family whose story forms most of the main plot (if you can call it that).  The themes are so universal, the doubt of God's presence in times of trial, the demands to know why tragedy has befallen someone close to us, someone so good or young or both.  I think what I love about this movie is that it dares to ask out loud many of the same questions that have been on my heart at one time or another.  In snatches of whispered prayers, mostly from our protagonist family's eldest son, Jack, (sometimes as a child, sometimes as an adult) and his parents, who do not even have names besides Mother and Father.  

     Dialogue is spare.  Long stretches of the movie pass with only music or sound effects or even silence.  In juxtaposition to the family's grief, we have a nearly 20-minute sequence that aims for nothing less than to show the creation of the universe.  Beautiful does not begin to describe it and how it made me feel.  And over those images of nebulae, planets, volcanoes, waterfalls, bacteria, even dinosaurs, we continue to hear, sporadically, heartfelt whispered prayers.  "My hope, my God. . .  How did you come to me, in what shape?  What disguise? . .  How did I lose you, wandered, forgot you? . .  Was I false to you?  Lord, why?  Where were you? . .  Did you know? . .  Who are we to you? . .  Answer me. . .  We cry to you. . .  You let a boy die.  Where were you?"  Then we see onscreen a figure of light, shimmering, constantly changing shape, almost dancing.  Is this a representation of God?  Perhaps.  It is not an answer to all these questions that I and so many have asked, but it is a response.  

     Whatever else the film may have to say about God, it seems clear that the God of this portrayed universe is both present and busy.  The movie leaves us with indelible images of beauty and grace, like bread crumbs forming a trail that leads to God.  It awakened me to such sights in my real life -- the color and pattern of the clouds at sunset, a helping hand offered by one child to another on the playground, even something so simple yet majestic as this tree.

SS

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     We’re on day 4 of face down time.  My mother-in-law is staying with us as she recovers from surgery to repair two macular holes in her eye.  The surgeon repairs the holes (caused when the vitreous gel pulls away from the retina - I’ve learned a lot of eye anatomy this week! ) and then inserts a bubble of air into the eye which acts as a splint or a band-aid - holding the patch in place while it heals.  The tricky part is the recovery.  In order to hold the air bubble in the right place, the patient must remain in a face down -  face parallel to the floor - position for at least 7 days .  Face down.  Walking, sitting, sleeping, eating.  24/7.  

      I find myself holding my own head down in sympathy or perhaps encouragement as I hold her arm for balance. You can’t see much when your face is parallel to the floor. Lines in the hardwood. Stains on the carpet.  Cracks in the driveway.  You miss the big picture and it's hard to see where you are going.  But since you can't lift your head,  you begin to look more closely.  What are those white chips in my driveway cement?  Where did that black stain come from?  Why is my shoe laced crooked?  So many things to explore - in just a small square foot of the universe.   You see where your feet are touching the earth, where you are grounded.  

       We need the view from 40,000 feet to get the big picture and move forward, but sometimes we simply need to see where we stand. 

AF

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 GODS AND MEN Olivier Rabourdin as one of a group of Cistercian Trappist
 monks who are part of the life of a mountain village in Algeria in the 1990s.

As Lent approaches, I’ve been thinking about how to physically connect with the season – what I could give up or add that physically brings me to a more spiritual plane. I got the answer Sunday when I stayed home from church trying to avoid a migraine I could tell was coming on. Instead, I curled up with the movie, "Of Gods and Men," not my typical movie fare, but something I felt oddly drawn to. I was treated to a rich spiritual blessing watching the quiet, seemingly boring lives of eight monks, in the wrong place at the right time in Algiers. The movie follows how each finds his own pathway to a deeper relationship with God. It left me stunned by their fanaticism for peace and the director's artistry in capturing it. It’s such a rare sight, one that lights a candle in this time of terror and materialism, shedding light on how not to be overwhelmed by the tides of evil, doubt and oblivion.

Next time you need some quiet or inspiration, pop a bowl of popcorn and settle in. The movie is a gift that has to be unwrapped slowly to be best enjoyed. Like faith. It’s my challenge to find ways during Lent to be more quiet and do more courageous listening as they model in the movie.

DB

February thoughts

(Photo courtesy. www.trappist.net)

Early Morning

     It’s 4 o’clock in the morning. 

     I stare out the window watching the night rotate into day. I woke for some reason and hope to go back to sleep without my mind going down my to-do list for the day. The harder I fight to go to sleep, the more it eludes me. 

     Finally the dark shifts to the deepest of blues, a hue of the blue that reminds me of a retreat I took at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Ga. It’s been four years since my retreat there, but there are images that stick to me - that flow through my dreams.

     One is of the interior chapel at Vigils and Compline or evening prayers, the sun serving as a color wheel casting shades of dappled blues along the arches. I know the monks are in chapel praying and chanting now.

     I am not alone. My heart sings with them.

     I drift back to sleep.

DB

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     This has been my view for much of the week. I've had a lot of writing to do the past few days. What keeps drawing my attention is the space bar, and that worn out place in the middle where my thumbs have landed thousands of times. I can't help but wonder, if my life were a keyboard, which would be the worn out keys? Do I land most often on worry, fear, jealousy, anger? Or on hope, kindness, faith, love, joy? 

     I know which I want to be true, but still I wonder.

SS

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Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; 

they toil not, neither do they spin.   Matthew 6:28

     Laziness can have surprising benefits.   Last winter, I carefully planted shoots of baby romaine lettuce in a garden pot filled with fresh soil and a little compost.  The romaine loved the cool winter and I harvested romaine until the days got too warm.  When the lettuce bolted, I pulled it out and replanted the pot with sweet basil for the summer.  

     This winter found me lacking in time and energy for the garden.  I pulled the frost bitten basil out of the pot in late November and simply stored the pot full of dirt beside the house without even a plan for spring.  And look what happened!

      Free lettuce! Volunteer shoots of romaine appeared, growing again in the container.  I watered it a bit and now I have another winter of fresh romaine. 

     I love finding these small miracles in my life  - even when I've done nothing to deserve them.

AF

     

Thanksgiving

For the beauty of each new day here in the Lowcountry,

for a church where I am encouraged and challenged and loved,

for the gift of laughter,

for a rewarding and fulfilling job that also meets my financial needs,

for beloved friends and family literally all over the world,

for Hurley (the world's greatest dog),

for parents who raised me to love learning and never stop,

for memories and photos of the people and places I have loved,

for second chances (and third and fourth and so on),

for a house of my own so near the ocean,

for all the different colors my eyes can see,

for only having been admitted to the hospital once in my life (so far),

for books to read and time to read them,

for the inspiration to write and keep writing,

for music to hear and sing,

for good food,

for moments that take my breath away and give me goosebumps,

for great colleagues and a wonderful supervisor,

for foreign travels and foreign languages,

for being a work in progress,

for all the stories that have taught me about God and the world and myself,

and most of all for the One whose love surrounds me, and whose mercy and grace are redeeming me,

thanks be to God.

SS

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In this early morning moment, I find myself already full

of thanksgiving

for a husband who loves me deeply and completely,

daughters and a son in law who fill the house with laughter 

and the stories of their lives, 

for everyone together under one roof.

For rain in the middle of the night,

wind chimes that sing with a fresh breeze on the porch,

sweet basil clipped from the garden, 

and that holy trinity of garlic, onions, and celery,

for the unacknowledged luxury of clean water 

that pours forth with just a turn of my wrist.

For my old sewing table and scraps for new quilts,

long runs and strong legs,

time to write and to sew and pull weeds,

for a refrigerator filled beyond overflowing with food 

(and for family and friends who will be here to enjoy it!) 

for the mercy of stretchy jeans on feast days.

For new beginnings and old friends, 

for the freedom to move forward and explore new paths,

for the winds of change that keep my life fresh,

and for the quiet to know that just this moment,

just this breath, 

is enough.

AF

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Kiawah Island on a recent November morning 

(meditating on two scriptures Psalm 40:3/Isaiah 43:1-2)

Taking Flight

Where even to start with thanks for this holiday season.

There are the usual suspects, of course -

Friends, family, home and hearth

But what really has me on my knees this season

feeling so blessed

is how God's teaching me

to just be content 

in flight

No thoughts lingering on where I took off or where I'm gong to land.

Just this moment suspended in time, able to see the small gifts all around

to really be with people and hear what they have to say

to watch God plant a new song in my heart

though I tremble, and I'm not sure of the words

only the refrain in the wind

trust

DB