What is it with cords?

I wonder if dance lessons would help me learn to trip lightly around cords! I don't care if it's the vacuum cleaner cord or the snake pit of computer cords, or the cords for my electric lawn mower, I am forever battling with them. And they do receive my wrath, poor things. I mean, how is it that I can wind up a 40' extension cord and place it carefully in the carport, only to find it full of knots when I'm ready to use it? Well, they aren't really knots, but they might as well be. And then, no matter what path I take with the mower, the cord insists on being in the way. I fume, I fuss, I swear. I've even been known to kick the vacuum cleaner. Do you think that makes a whit of difference? Of course not.

Not unlike our emotional, psychological, spiritual cords, I suppose. Sometimes all seems smooth and carefully under control. But just wait! Those cords will set out to trip you up. It's worth it, though, isn't it? To just let the cords be and dance your way between and among them?

Such little things, like electric cords, can be our teachers if we notice. Those cords allow us to use power, power we can use for good, if we choose. So do the invisible kind! Guess I'll try to focus my awareness on the power given and not on my wish to control the connectors. Maybe I'll even take a deep breath and stop swearing.

Christ Is In It All

Sometimes, living alone, I feel isolated, separate from God and others. Thankfully it doesn't usually last long. Soon Christ shows up all over the place. I had watched a little video showing the Grand Hotel staff preparing for its opening. Like a tsunami, memories of my last trip with Norris, the celebration of our 40th wedding anniversary in that Grand old hotel, poured over me. The grief went on for two days. I'll spare you details, but taking the trip required a huge amount of effort from both of us, as his health was fast deteriorating. That was in early August and by mid-December, he was gone. I hadn't felt awash in grief for quite some time, fickle friend that it is, teasing me into believing I was finally "over it." Hah!!!

I holed up in my house from Saturday noon till mid-afternoon Sunday. Couldn't face going to church. And then--Christ came. Christ came in the gentle hospitality of a young Turkish woman who invited me and other dear friends for Tea, which for Turks means lots of good food, as well. Christ came in the evening concert of the Lange Ensemble, composed of many dear friends. Christ came in the music of Leonard Bernstein and the voice of a little boy named Mattieu. Christ came in the many friends I encountered afterward and in the assurance that I would always be welcome to return to the Ensemble.

This morning I felt much better and then that Christ came again! Because my Godson taped it and put it on our church's website, I was able to see and hear a fine sermon my friend, Jannel, preached yesterday. Then a dear man re-rolled my lawn 'cause it didn't work very well the first time. Though this required him to haul equipment from quite a distance, he wouldn't allow me to pay him. I was so motivated by his work out there, I jumped into action, straightening up the house and after he left, I took Tessa, the dog, for a long walk through the wetland nearby. There I met Christ in people, plants, other dogs, wild birds, trees, warm sun and a lovely breeze.

Finally, a gentle woman whom I don't know privately chided me on Facebook, for publicly correcting someone's punctuation in a post for a very worthy organization. She did it kindly, I responded giving my rationale, she said she understood my point, but maybe I could have done it privately, I agreed with her. We thanked one another. And I publicly apologized for my critical words. Now if that wasn't Christ in action, I don't know what is.

Thank you, Christ, for being in it all, including the wonderful memories.

Little things

Do you remember that old song "Little Things Mean a Lot"? I've been thinking about little things. And to be honest, this week it hasn't been as much about the lovelies as the "boo boos". The other evening as I poured popcorn from the pot into the bowl, my arm touched the pot causing a burn about 1"x 3". The next day Willie the cat, sunk one claw into the end of my finger and it bled just like when the Red Cross nurse pokes it. Neither wound hurt much the first day, but as they've been healing, the pain has been a real distraction. How could such little wounds hurt so much?

Yesterday I experienced a couple of little relational wounds. Nothing big or profound, just small jabs, but resulting in a sad piercing pain, recognizing that we all can't agree on everything.

We get upset and righteous about "big" things, like the recent Arizona immigration law, and perhaps rightly so. I just wonder why the little things are so persistent in their pain, such a distraction. Another occasion for bafflement!

Meanwhile, it is a blessedly beautiful day and mostly I'm still singing a song of joy!

Keep going

I recently spent three delightful days at the Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin College in Grand Rapids! Being in the presence of hundreds of professional and amateur writers, interested seekers of all sorts, on a campus lush with spring blooms, listening to one inspiring presentation after another, was almost more than I could bear. Now I'm trying to sort out what I heard and what I felt and what I think about it all.

For this time, I'll tell you a story we heard from Wally Lamb, a successful novelist, his books twice chosen for Oprah's Book Club. My companion echoed my own reaction to Wally. He seemed like such an ordinary guy. He told of attending a writing retreat in Vermont years ago, feeling out of place, fearful that his writing couldn't possibly be worthwhile. Several of the students were asked to read their work, but only for about 3 minutes each. Wally hesitantly read his 3 minutes' worth and when he stopped, someone in the group loudly said, "Keep going." "Well, I can't; we only have 3 minutes," Wally responded. Another voice in the room spoke up. "I'm next; take my time; keep going." A turning point for this shy high school English teacher, now accomplished author. If he didn't think he could write, I guess I'm in good company.

Parker Palmer, my mentor and friend, said something similar when he spoke two days later. He held a large audience spell-bound for an hour as he spoke of his journey through life, telling us he was "born baffled." And all his life he's confronted his bafflements, sharing them honestly, insightfully, challengingly (is there such a word?) with those who would read his books or listen to his voice. He has written eight books, each time struggling, writing, re-writing, starting over, doubting his ability to put the words together in a way that truly expresses what he thinks and feels. I have a feeling the next one may be the most significant one yet. It's called "The Politics of the Broken-hearted." I've read every one of his books, I've heard him speak many times, I've participated in retreats he has led, and never did I doubt his wisdom or his gifts. But he did. And I doubt mine. And you probably doubt yours, as well. Nevertheless, "keep going."

By the way, if you find yourself in the opposite position, getting a bit puffed up over your own wonderfulness, remember what Parker's dad used to tell him: "Park, remember that today's peacock may well be tomorrow's feather duster."

Enjoy this beautiful resurrection time. Listen, look, laugh and love!