Spring

It's spring, and here's how I know.

The dog prefers bare floor.  The sourdough over proofed.  The fan is on high.  The grass is long.  The pilot light is out.  The throws are shelved.  The butter is soft.  Shorts for morning runs.  Cool water for after showers.  Salads for lunch.  Cold brews for treats.

It's spring, and here's how I know.

Bright morning is coming.  The day has a plan.  A friends wants to walk.  A song resonates.  The gospel of John is speaking.  Goals are on track.  Hearts are at peace.  I'm looking forward... to spring.

I haven't known the last couple springs.  They came.  They went, I think.  I didn't know.

But

It's spring outside.  And it's spring inside.  Me.  I know. 

 

Hole

 

"GrandmaKath... you fill a hole inside my heart."

Oh, littlebear.  You have it backwards!  You fill a hole inside MY heart!  A cavernous hole!  A real gap!  A lonely pit.  And you, your letter today, your hugs on other days, your texts and calls on still other days, cushions the hole in my heart.

You don't even know yet, about a hole, about how a heart gets ripped into a bottomless hole.  Your few young years expose you to words, and the occurrence, and a little of the sad.  But thankfully not the tear.  Thankfully not the hole itself.   

On the other hand, even littlebears experience heart-holes.  When a best friend moves away, when a mommy or daddy say unkind words, when a grandpa... dies.  These things muddle littlebears. Their hearts feel quivered, bruised, gloomed.  They can't really talk about it.  They don't know how to talk about it.  But a littlebear heart-hole is real too. 

So, if I can fill a hole in your heart, oh... let me fill it!  Let me smile up, happy up, laughter up your heart.  Because that fills mine too.

Someday you will know the fill you were and will always be to the hole in my heart.  Someday you'll know that this grandma was in great need, and you were what she needed.  You filled a hole.   

Tip

To tip, or not to tip, that is the question.  It never used to be the question.  For me.  

Because I didn't hire the roofer, the plumber, the installer.  I didn't pay the restaurant bill.  I didn't gift the service worker.   I didn't think about tips. 

But now I think about tips.  And who to tip, and what to tip and how to tip.  Every screen, every receipt, every we-do-accept-tips notice asks me to tip.  It's a big, confusing question.  For me.  

A couple of times, my ashamed face gave me away when our son asked if I tipped.   Uh... no.  Whoops.

A couple of more recent times, my proud face gave me away when he asked if I tipped.  Of course!

Tipping is the question.  I go to bed thinking about tips.  How much is 10%?  How much is %20?  How much is the right %?   Do I tip a cup of black coffee?  Isn't he paid for that?  Do I tip a bid that came in on target?  Didn't we agree on that?  Do I tip so no one sees me select "skip" on the screen?  Do they care about that?

Should it be a matter of quality service?  Should it be a matter of extended effort?  Should it be a matter of expectation?  Should it be a matter of budget?  Should it be a matter of generosity?  Should it be a matter of prayer?

I need my tipper.  But here I am trying to answer the question about...  tipping.  

Crusoe

 

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe

I learned to look more upon the bright side of my condition, and less upon the dark side, and to consider what I enjoyed rather than what I wanted; and this gave me sometimes such secret comforts, that I cannot express them; and which I take notice of here, to put those discontented people in mind of it, who cannot enjoy comfortably what God has given them, because they see and covet something that He has not given them.  All our discontents about what we want appeared to me to spring from the want of thankfulness for what we have. 

Defoe's expose' strikes me completely still.   Don't-blink, don't-breathe, don't-flutter still.  

When I can finally move, I'll start by saying, Robinson Crusoe, thank you for your words.

God, thank you for what I have. 

Computer

Computers are machines.  Cold, hard metal with teensy parts, various ports, slick surfaces, keys and buttons.  If they're old, they're like the dusty jacket, tucked behind all the others, that hasn't been worn in years and probably never will be again.  Newer jackets, the ones in front, are more modern.  They're made of breathable fabric with grommets for chargers and sleeve pockets.  Plus they're faster -- to put on. 

The old, desk-top jacket has got to go.  It's taking up space.  It's just getting... older. 

But who can do it?  Who can box up the jacket that the whole family has used at one time or another?  That a guest has used for a quick location or order or check-in.  Whose deep pockets are stuffed with notes and photos and files and personal data?  Whose very hang-from-the-hanger form reminds you of its owner?  Does anyone have the heart? 

No one slips it on anymore.  No one needs it anymore.  No one wants it anymore.  It has to go. 

Today I erased Bill's old desk-top computer.  The cold, hard metal, warm, familiar Bill-jacket.  Today tears spilled on its lining.  Today I mused over the folders and excel sheets and... photos.  Today I bowed my head in its folds.  Soaked up its whispers.  Savored its scent.  And then I clicked the erase, zipped up the front, and said goodby.  Another goodby.

Computers are metal and warm and oh so many memories. 

Home

 

Lord, through all the generations you have been our home!  ... For you, a thousand years are as a passing day, as brief as a few night hours.  You sweep people away like dreams that disappear.  Psalm 90: 1 & 5

A near 20 dwellings have called themselves home to me.   Including the current, not-quite-home-yet home.  They call themselves home.  Do I call them home?  

Most heard many footsteps, saw shoe prints, found scattered dirt clods.  Most baked cookies, fed kids and dogs, displayed handprints.  Most washed towels, cars, dishes, patios.  Home. 

Yet for God, a few houses, in a few cities, in a couple states are as a passing day in the life of "home."  He sweeps dwellings away like dreams that disappear.  A favorite chair, a sunny window, a full bookshelf, a pillow, a willow tree, a porch swing.  A husband.  Are here today, but not one day.  

Because 

God is our home.  He is like the puppy's wagging tail, like the family photo on the wall, like the pot roast spread on the faded tablecloth.   

Homes and people are swept away.  And that is why... 

I call God home.  

Purpose

 

Widows ask, What is my purpose?  They want to know.  Everyone feels a little lost without someone to serve, a place to contribute, recognition, significance.  Everyone feels a little lost without a purpose. Widows are everyones.

Well, yes, widows take soup to a neighbor, care for littlebears, listen to problems.  They make an extra call, they pray for extra help, they share an extra... dollar, stamp, blanket.  But, they need a purpose.

Widows volunteer for a committee.  They step in for a caregiver.  They take over in an emergency.  They fill a need.  But they want to know.  

Widows say yes.  They say yes again.  They say yeses all day.  Every day.  But, what is their purpose?

They used to be a wife.  Some have had children.  Some have had a career.  -- Purpose.  They didn't need to know then.  

But now widows host a get-together.  Now they scoop littlebears from school.  Now they sign up for cleanup.  Now they expand a turn-out.  Usually by themselves.  They need purpose.  They want to know.   

They this they that.  

They here they there.

They make they take.

But, what is my pur...

...pose... I think I know.  

Selfie

 

OK.  Steady.  Hold on. 

Whoops... turn the camera around.  Wait, I can't reach the button.  Can you reach it?  Are you smiling?  OK. 

Click

But just one click because even one was every ounce of wobbly effort from a stretchy stretch.  Just to get one. 

Never mind smiles, tinged with strain.  Never mind an unintentional center on a nose while faces fall off the frame.  Please don't notice the fuzzy focus or the woman's behind in the background.  Try not to raise your eyebrow.  Avert those tell-all eyes.  This is the best I can do.

I'm terrible, horrible, no good, very bad at selfies.  It's not my fault actually.  Every part of me is on the short side -- my arms and especially my hands, supposedly designed for this purpose before time began.  This is why others happily take the phone from my wrenched grip and turn out something professional.  Of course.

Selfying is another of the many not-my-job, now-my job, jobs.  When it comes to selfies, Bill was the arm, the steady, the fun behind them.  Centered, posed, captured -- Click.  Easy.  

When a post includes a selfie, know that it represents sweat, turmoil, and a gumby stretch for your complete pleasure.  Go ahead and hee haw.  I do.

I lost my selfier.  He was good at it.  I'm not so good at it, but still selfying.  

 

ComeandGo

 They will come and go freely.  John 10:9

Come to the barbecue.  Go to the game.  Come to the party.  Go on the hike.  

Come to the coffee house.  Go to the library.  Come to the gym.  Go to the park.  

Come to the meeting.  Go to the conference.  Come to the orientation.  Go to the open house. 

Come to the coast.  Go to the mountains.  Come to the island.  Go overseas.  

Come on our cruise.   Go on the tour.  Come to the resort.  Go to the destination.   

Freely. 

Widows suddenly have more freedom. Whether or not they have resources, they have freedom.  There is no other to insert an idea, a plan, an itinerary.  No other will mark the calendar.  Some will suggest, some will invite, some might insist, but a widow is free to choose her coming and going.  

Freely. 

Funny thing though.  Widows can hardly step a big toe out the front door.  They stay.  Put.  

At first they can't move.  Later they barely escape the front walk.  Still later they hurry back from just down the street.  They're bound. 

Those who come in through the gate will come and go freely.  John 10:9

Through Jesus, widows find their freedom.  They find their come and go.  They recognize His voice, recognize His gate, His mark on their calendar.  He offers the idea and plans the itinerary.  It's a matter of listening and watching and following, a matter of coming and going.  Soon widows are not so bound.  

Soon they're free to come and go.  

Why

Why me?

All traumas tend to wallow in this question.  All unfair, undeserved, unsolicited decisions tend to wade through this question.  All unexpected, forced, coerced situations tend to welter in the only question, Why me?

Because unjust situations do not know how else to respond.  They didn’t raise their hand, volunteer, seek notoriety.  They didn’t mess up, make a poor choice, and even if they did, it wasn’t that bad.  The only thing to do is ask the question, Why me?

They probably do know, somewhere inside, there is no rational answer to the question. 

There is no glossary in the back of the book. There is no website to research.  There is no lawyer, counselor, pastor who can satisfy the question. 

Because unjust situations do not respond to the right question.  They don’t know that the right question is:

Why not me?

Me, a part of this selfish world, living amongst broken, needy people.  Me, who is selfish, broken and needy.  Nobody-special me.  Nobody more worthy or valuable than other selfish, needies and brokens. 

The ultimate unjust situation featured a Savior who didn’t ask, Why me?                    He said, Yes, me. 

For me. 

...so that unjust situations could respond by saying, me too.  It’s OK.  Because a Savior who endured and overcame is able to save me in all the situations. 

Yes, me. 

Anniversary

A few have gone by, now.   The marriage markers.  The look-forward-to celebrations even if it meant a slice of pizza and hand-hold movie.  The day was special, is still special.  Will always be special.  

A few have come and gone, and only one of us celebrates.   Or we both celebrate from different places.  But not with pizza or a movie.  We celebrate in our hearts, in our memories, in our thankfulness.  We both know it's still special, this marker-day.

A few have passed by now.  No one else notices because time goes on and markers fade and new life replaces the pizza and movie.  But nothing can take the place of the special in the day. 

Today on this wedding anniversary, I did all my usuals.   I volunteered, I sorted the mail, I went to the school basketball game.  I talked to Jesus, talked to our sons, talked to my neighbor.  No one notices, but that's OK because even the usuals were still special today.  This marriage marker day.  This day we said yes til death do us part, is still yes and still special. 

Brain

 

Someday it won't be sharp.

Someday it will struggle to find words, struggle to follow conversations, struggle to recall.  It will falter and forget and fail.  This brain.

Which is why I'm thankful that today it remembers.  Remembers to call and text and respond.  Remembers meetings and reports and due dates.  Remembers to scan and attach and file.  Remembers requests and obligations and orders.  Remembers games and guests and gifts.  Remembers to study and search and schedule.  Remembers to light and lock and latch.  This brain.  

Deliver it by 3.  Pick him up by 4.  Send the card tomorrow.   Take the meal on Saturday.  Turn off the heater before bed.  Grind the coffee before morning.  Wear slippers.  Bring boots.  Water the plant, feed the dough.  This brain. 

It's taken on more remember over the last many months.  It's carried the remember for two.  By God's grace, it does that.  It thinks and remembers.  And keeps thinking and keeps remembering.  It's kind of amazing.  This brain.

I'm so thankful today for the think.  The remember.  This brain.  

 

     

Patience

 

Bible Study Session 4, Day 1 -- Patience

Sunday morning's message -- Patience 

Afternoon conversation -- Patience

Challenge Monday morning -- Patience

Hmm...  Is someone trying to tell me something?

Hmm #2...  but I prayed, I read, I counseled, I clicked, I even paused... once or twice.  I patienced.

And after microwaving coffee, Googling a how-to YouTube, ordering a deliver-it-tomorrow, I had time to be patient.  But my half hours of patience did not produce!  Good grief. 

Wait.  Could it be that patiencing is processing?  Over time.  Lots of time.  That God's lesson, message, conversation, and challenge to me is to know, down deep, that He will have His perfect way through the process.  He won't be rushed.  Won't be navigated, manipulated, operated.  He will not withhold the process for the product.  

Here are my patiencing processes:  adjusting to alone-life, feeling home at home, refusing insignificance, missing my sweet estranged girl, aching for more God-Kingdom in my kingdom.  Products.  Products requiring a process of reflecting, evaluating, understanding, expanding, and embracing myself and all my others.  A process probably longer than half hours. 

I know He will.  He will process me, product me and patience me.  

Know it down deep, Kath.