Fleeting Bits of Melting Beauty

Seven of the eight of my office windows have 24 panes of glass separated by (metal of some kind) strips; the remaining has just 18 panes because of a permanently installed air conditioner. 

Of these 168 panes of glass, each was covered in frost when I arrived this morning. The patterns of the frost were different in each pane, yet each was beautiful and together they were as stunning as any stained glass. 

Slowly, as the sun rises higher in the sky, those panes in the east windows are melting; the sound of the crinkling ice is ever so slight, but noticeable in the otherwise silent building. 

So it is with God's voice in the midst of these frightful days. Barely noticeably the Realm of God crinkles into our midst like a fleeting bit of melting beauty. 

The Light of hope, shalom, grace, and extravagant love changes us too. 

The ice may be the result of the bitter cold. But the light still shines upon each of us and warms our souls.

Piles, sinkholes, and climbing out.

It's been a weird day.  I woke up early after a late night.  All day I've had a nagging desire to skip over what has to get done and make a phone call.  So much to get done, I really don't have time to go there. 

 I used to call every Saturday morning. Not because there was anything new to talk about but because it was a good way just to check in and make sure everything was okay.  

I called Dan earlier than usual this morning.  I woke him up.  And chitchatting with him was a great.  About nothing really: our schedules for the day, whether and what time we could talk tonight, a bit of politics and a bit of church talk: nothing of earth shattering importance. A good conversation nonetheless; but not really the one for which something deep inside of me is longing. Why? and Why today?

Every time I picked up the office phone, I considered twice the number to be dialed.  I still remember the number -- how weird is that?!  It was never my home phone number.  These days calling someone is choosing an icon from the phones screen.  But those 10 digits -- area code, town code, number -- still echo through my head. Numbers have always stuck in my head so that shouldn't surprise me; when I was just a puny 3 year old and was accidentally left at the lake, I was able to tell some tourist from New York City what my phone number was so she could call from the payphone and scold whomever answered the phone. 2269.  Just 4 digits then.  


0417.  That's the number.  255 the town code.  I wonder who would answer that phone number now. I see the number in my mind and my thoughts drift toward the wall phone in that kitchen. There were speakers plugged into it so everyone could hear every conversation, but most of all because the handset could never be loud enough.  Big, lit numbers replaced an old dial, the pale beige phone attached to the end of the upper cabinet over the end of the snack bar that divided the kitchen between work and dining space. Inside the cabinet and under the back side of the phone jack was a warm spot over the florescent lights on the underside of the cabinet; every night that warm spot held hearing aids with the battery case open so those tiny batteries would not wear themselves down.  Next to them, stacks of dishes -- unmatched and cracked -- that fed so many of us over the years.  And plastic tumblers that held ice tea with a splash of diet cola. Memory is a curse sometimes. 

I hadn't been clear about why this particular day this craziness popped into my head for the first time in a long time. Maybe because there's so much to do or maybe because it's a cool summer day.  When I accidentally put the cursor for the mouse over the bottom of the computer screen, however, it all became clear.  The date.  Another curse:  I cannot forget dates.  Yes.  It is August 6th. The first day of a long last 10 days.

It's been a long time since I've dialed those 10 digits and called.  And longer since I was there.  But it was on this date that I arrived for the last time.  The long, sandy driveway covered in crushed oyster and quahog shells, the buoy and lobster pot markers hanging off the rail of the deck, the bristly Cape Cod grass under my bare feet, and the faint smell of musty, marshy saltwater bogs.  Bikes were on the back of the minivan to keep two teenage boys occupied while I spent days cooking and caring.  Those last days I spent with my dying mother.  

http://goo.gl/w5lT7s

Don't ever believe that the pain of a loss leaves or heals; that is a lie.  The pain is there forever; we just learn to live with it.  With time we learn to jump over that hole, or walk around it in our travels. But it's always there, lurking and luring.   But even now -- 13 years later -- I've fallen into it again today by just looking at a date on a tiny calendar in the corner of my computer screen.  

So with stacks of paper and even more digital stuff piled on my desk and desktop, I've stopped to assess how deeply I've fallen into an old wound, and process a plan to climb over the memories, through the streams of thought and tears, and back onto the road of the living.  And assess the real value of that stack of things to be done.

Perhaps it is time to leave the stacks where they are and go for a walk on this lovely August evening.  It will all still be there in the morning, but the evening will pass.  Yes. The evening is more important. 

Henry

We adopted Henry when the family that had raised him from a bottle fed kitten moved to another state and were afraid this this "outside cat" would be eaten by the coyotes or bob cats that lived in the woods behind their new home.  Henry was 18 at the time.  He was declawed and neutered.  He was flea infested, had a matted coat, but was as friendly a cat as I had ever met.  He greeted me every time I walked by his house while I was out walking.  He begged for love when I knocked at the door doing census work.  The humans who brought him this far in life had put him outside because they had acquired two very large dogs who lived in the house. 
We adopted Henry in June.  After a trip to the vet and some de-flea-ing, he was the most affectionate cat I've ever met.  Anyone who came into the house would be "Henry'ed" -- he would jump onto your lap and climb up onto your chest, lay his head on your shoulder and purr.  He could never get enough. 

Just before Thanksgiving, Henry had a stroke.  It paralyzed one whole side of his body.  He could neither walk with balance nor get to the food or litter box.  Henry was not happy even on anyone's chest. 

The day before Thanksgiving, I brought Henry to the vet's for the last time.  He lay across my chest as the I.V. was put into his leg.  He purred as the chemicals flowed from the syringe to his veins.  He clung silently to my shoulder as his last breath left him. 

Henry, you lived a long life.  I can only hope that in your last months in a new home you found peace, love, and care. We will miss you.

Worshiping the walls

It's a framed award from May 2004. There's a photo of the building with a zillion flags planted in the front lawn. One flag for every soldier that had died in combat at that time. It was Memorial Day. The plaque was given 4 years ago.

They are three awards for outstanding service and generosity. They are simple certificates that thank the congregation for their support of the ministries of our covenantal partners. Three framed, plaques awarded to the congregation in 2008.

It is a picture of a young, vibrant woman. Perhaps her senior picture from high school. It carries with it a poem and her birth and death dates. It hangs on the hook placed under it in 2004.

It is a large wood base with a brass plaque and a ledger size list of names. Over 200 names. It's labeled "25th Anniversary Memorial" but no explanation of who those 200 people are. It hangs there with the dust that's fallen upon it since 1981.

I see dead people.

Why are there so many dead people in this place of worship?