I am the hard bitter woman
I am the wandering wife
I am the child who screams in the dark
I'm the one wasting my life
Yet You take my hand in the darkness
You kiss this face stained with shame
You call me lovely, complete, and remade
You shelter me with Your own Name
[Psalm 20:1]
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
in sickness
He holds her arm, her crumpled little arm, in the crook of his elbow. He orders for her, makes sure we know she's there, too, and asks that her cup be only half filled so her shaking hands won't spill it onto her lap. He curves his arm around her body, while she gazes and lists aimlessly, and he steers her safe to the table. He seats her, arranges her coat around her, makes sure she feels secure, and he brings her the coffee and muffins.
He always tells us the truth when we ask how are you doing? Some days he says, we're doing good. Other days it's well, we're making it.
She's no longer the woman he married; her mind is spiraling into a place he cannot follow. But he made her a promise, till death do us part, and he is keeping it.
It makes me wonder, and think, watching them. Fairytale love is what we all wish for, if left to our own devices. It is so lovely, but rather gilded, I think. It is this love, the love that holds the shaking hands and wipes the drippy fingers, that is true, that bolsters those rash starry-eyed vows.
This is the love we're all looking for. And the love we're all seeking to become, too.
He always tells us the truth when we ask how are you doing? Some days he says, we're doing good. Other days it's well, we're making it.
She's no longer the woman he married; her mind is spiraling into a place he cannot follow. But he made her a promise, till death do us part, and he is keeping it.
It makes me wonder, and think, watching them. Fairytale love is what we all wish for, if left to our own devices. It is so lovely, but rather gilded, I think. It is this love, the love that holds the shaking hands and wipes the drippy fingers, that is true, that bolsters those rash starry-eyed vows.
This is the love we're all looking for. And the love we're all seeking to become, too.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
visions in the night
I used to dream—unconscious epic-length stories of espionage and adventure, of terror and unspeakable joy, of old friends and new faces, of angst and peace, of God and love and man and life. Sometimes they were realistic, and my feet plodded earth the entire time, and sometimes, just sometimes, I could speak Hebrew and run faster than the wind.
I don't dream anymore, at least not like that. Instead, my sleep is full of coffee-making and angry customers, of cash registers and never stopping to rest, of darkness and the crackle of the headset.
I am so very very tired.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
a Sunday in the fall
Pumpkin-grinning, seed-flinging, flip-flops-in-October, soup-and-grilled-cheese, sunshine-on-our-shoulders, piano-in-the-kitchen kind of happy.
But more than that.
Man-taking-initiative, girls'-unworried-laughter, glory-of-the-glowing-leaves, comfort-of-God's-promises, thankful-oh-so-thankful kind of joy.
And that can never be taken away.
But more than that.
Man-taking-initiative, girls'-unworried-laughter, glory-of-the-glowing-leaves, comfort-of-God's-promises, thankful-oh-so-thankful kind of joy.
And that can never be taken away.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
why I write free verse
The truth?
I am terrible at rhyming.
Rhythm, yes, I like to think I have that, the kind of rhythm that pulses in hips and heart and language.
But rhyming is too time-consuming, too thought-blocking, too rigid.
Give me a blank sheet, a pen, and let me scrawl my own rhythm, my heart-thoughts.
But don't make me rhyme. Please oh please don't ask me to rhyme.
My heart doesn't beat in rhyme.
I am terrible at rhyming.
Rhythm, yes, I like to think I have that, the kind of rhythm that pulses in hips and heart and language.
But rhyming is too time-consuming, too thought-blocking, too rigid.
Give me a blank sheet, a pen, and let me scrawl my own rhythm, my heart-thoughts.
But don't make me rhyme. Please oh please don't ask me to rhyme.
My heart doesn't beat in rhyme.
one and one
"How do you take your coffee, sir?"
It seems a question best reserved
for lovers,
groggy brothers,
rumpled-from-wrestling-with-life best friends.
Yet I ask it
a thousand times a day
of a thousand strangers.
It seems a question best reserved
for lovers,
groggy brothers,
rumpled-from-wrestling-with-life best friends.
Yet I ask it
a thousand times a day
of a thousand strangers.
Friday, October 21, 2011
charis
Some things grow bitter with time—
steeping coffee,
sautéed garlic,
angry hearts.
Other things, they grow better with time—
fine wine,
cheese,
beloved flannel,
thankful souls.
They talk about "aging gracefully,"
keeping your looks,
your strength,
your spirit.
I think that's the key, actually.
Grace.
Not physical beautiful movement,
or social-knowledge wit,
but a spirit and an attitude.
I need grace.
How I know it.
I need to bestow grace.
How slowly I learn it.
But grace—
yes, that right there,
that is the difference between
aging like coffee,
or
aging like wine.
steeping coffee,
sautéed garlic,
angry hearts.
Other things, they grow better with time—
fine wine,
cheese,
beloved flannel,
thankful souls.
They talk about "aging gracefully,"
keeping your looks,
your strength,
your spirit.
I think that's the key, actually.
Grace.
Not physical beautiful movement,
or social-knowledge wit,
but a spirit and an attitude.
I need grace.
How I know it.
I need to bestow grace.
How slowly I learn it.
But grace—
yes, that right there,
that is the difference between
aging like coffee,
or
aging like wine.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
shattered
He speaks to me, telling me how much he enjoys my writing. He tells me that he is unshockable, that he finds no piece of honest expression unforgivable. Then he says something funny--I know my words won't touch your deepest insecurity, but I still want you to know that you should not write for me.
I thank him, lungs dangerously high in my throat, dry my dishwashing hands, go for a tissue. But he stops me, puts his arms around me, and whispers, You are so beautiful, and you have no idea what kind of friends you have. No idea.
And I break, and sob, and tremble, but it's okay, it's fine, because he is there, his arms around me so tight that I can barely breathe. And somehow, that surety makes the deluge of tears less overwhelming, less frightening, safer.
I thank him, lungs dangerously high in my throat, dry my dishwashing hands, go for a tissue. But he stops me, puts his arms around me, and whispers, You are so beautiful, and you have no idea what kind of friends you have. No idea.
And I break, and sob, and tremble, but it's okay, it's fine, because he is there, his arms around me so tight that I can barely breathe. And somehow, that surety makes the deluge of tears less overwhelming, less frightening, safer.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
cherish every line
I see them every day,
take their orders,
hold my hand out for their money,
try to remember to smile and can you speak up, deah?
Many of them wear hats
baseball caps,
messenger caps,
various other types.
They always take them off before they sit at their tables.
I always want to cry,
watching their careful counts of the coins,
holding my steady hand under their shaking ones as they drop the coins in my palm,
trying to deflect the crankiness with a flashing smile.
They look at me
(usually up—age tends to hunch)
and most of them smile.
Those smiles, they break my heart more than the shaking hands,
or the grumpiness.
When the old men smile,
I can see who they used to be.
When the old men smile,
I can see the young ladies they wooed,
convinced to become the new missuses,
for whom they bought diamonds and groceries,
and built houses;
who became the mothers of vibrant families;
who were faithful wives through peace times and war,
through absence and presence;
girls who became women
because they were loved by the right kind of men.
When the old men smile,
I can see the families they fathered,
the laughing children,
the teenage-years' tension,
the peace of university and afterward,
the secret tears at giving away their little girls,
the aching pride at seeing their sons become men,
the delight of grandbabies.
When the old men smile,
I can see their old strength,
how they used to heave whole walls up onto their shoulders,
carry toolboxes and milk crates and hay bales like they were nothing,
rebuild car engines in astoundingly short time,
orchestrate big plans and big people,
move and shake the entire world,
rip out the old to make room for the new.
Now they are the old.
I wonder if it bewilders them,
this losing of strength, power, influence, energy.
I wonder if they feel small,
with their crumpled hands and rounded spines,
if their physical stature contributes to their timidity,
or if old-age hearing makes them unsure.
I wonder if they begin to wonder who they really are.
I wonder if anyone ever told them
you are amazing,
and not just because of what you do
but because of who you are.
I wonder if they know just how valuable they are,
not just to their families,
but to the world,
to God Himself.
When the old men smile,
I can glimpse something worth living and dying for,
something beautiful,
something precious,
something incredibly rare.
When the old men smile,
I see past the wrinkles, the gray hair, the bifocals, the canes,
and I just see good men . . .
take their orders,
hold my hand out for their money,
try to remember to smile and can you speak up, deah?
Many of them wear hats
baseball caps,
messenger caps,
various other types.
They always take them off before they sit at their tables.
I always want to cry,
watching their careful counts of the coins,
holding my steady hand under their shaking ones as they drop the coins in my palm,
trying to deflect the crankiness with a flashing smile.
They look at me
(usually up—age tends to hunch)
and most of them smile.
Those smiles, they break my heart more than the shaking hands,
or the grumpiness.
When the old men smile,
I can see who they used to be.
When the old men smile,
I can see the young ladies they wooed,
convinced to become the new missuses,
for whom they bought diamonds and groceries,
and built houses;
who became the mothers of vibrant families;
who were faithful wives through peace times and war,
through absence and presence;
girls who became women
because they were loved by the right kind of men.
When the old men smile,
I can see the families they fathered,
the laughing children,
the teenage-years' tension,
the peace of university and afterward,
the secret tears at giving away their little girls,
the aching pride at seeing their sons become men,
the delight of grandbabies.
When the old men smile,
I can see their old strength,
how they used to heave whole walls up onto their shoulders,
carry toolboxes and milk crates and hay bales like they were nothing,
rebuild car engines in astoundingly short time,
orchestrate big plans and big people,
move and shake the entire world,
rip out the old to make room for the new.
Now they are the old.
I wonder if it bewilders them,
this losing of strength, power, influence, energy.
I wonder if they feel small,
with their crumpled hands and rounded spines,
if their physical stature contributes to their timidity,
or if old-age hearing makes them unsure.
I wonder if they begin to wonder who they really are.
I wonder if anyone ever told them
you are amazing,
and not just because of what you do
but because of who you are.
I wonder if they know just how valuable they are,
not just to their families,
but to the world,
to God Himself.
When the old men smile,
I can glimpse something worth living and dying for,
something beautiful,
something precious,
something incredibly rare.
When the old men smile,
I see past the wrinkles, the gray hair, the bifocals, the canes,
and I just see good men . . .
Sunday, October 16, 2011
a sinner's prayer
God, be merciful to me, a sinner.
That's basically it, isn't it?
I know who I am.
I know Who God is.
And I know what I need.
So I ask, I beg, for His mercy; I throw myself on the only thing that I know will catch me . . .
God, be merciful to me, a sinner.
That's basically it, isn't it?
I know who I am.
I know Who God is.
And I know what I need.
So I ask, I beg, for His mercy; I throw myself on the only thing that I know will catch me . . .
God, be merciful to me, a sinner.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
gliding from sunny thunder
I was in the dining room, head down, heart down too, cleaning up soupy bowls and crusty forks, and it was a fluke that I happened to look up.
Outside our windows, the rain tore down, slanted lines, and the sunlight was fierce and yellow through the grey-black clouds. The tree leaves were turned upside down with the wildness of the wind, straining for the sky; their red bellies reminded me of a picture of inside-out umbrellas in an old children's book I read many years ago.
For a minute, a true full minute, I couldn't breathe for the violent beauty of the sky and the rain and the tree and the sun's shining. I wanted to cry out, to point to the windows and beg the people around me, Don't you see this? But they were drinking their coffee, huddling over their privacy, laughing at their own little worlds. I wanted to grab their hands, draw them to the door, say, Come dance in the rain with me, come laugh and cry and live with me. I wanted to rip off my headset, flee the short-ceilinged room and fling my arms to the heavens and tilt my face to the clouds and tell God, I know You are here, in me, in this storm.
But there was work to be done, tables to be cleared, dishes to be washed, coffee to be poured, supervisors to check in with. So I put my head back down, tucked my hopes into a far corner of my heart, and picked up the tray. The headset crackled, and I was back in the dreary world the rain couldn't touch.
Somehow, my heart remained outside, twirling in the midst of the violent rainshine whirlwind, and I knew that beauty, and hope, and the presence of the LORD, will always belong to those who want it, who look for it, who know the emptiness of their hands and reach up to God and say, Fill me.
Outside our windows, the rain tore down, slanted lines, and the sunlight was fierce and yellow through the grey-black clouds. The tree leaves were turned upside down with the wildness of the wind, straining for the sky; their red bellies reminded me of a picture of inside-out umbrellas in an old children's book I read many years ago.
For a minute, a true full minute, I couldn't breathe for the violent beauty of the sky and the rain and the tree and the sun's shining. I wanted to cry out, to point to the windows and beg the people around me, Don't you see this? But they were drinking their coffee, huddling over their privacy, laughing at their own little worlds. I wanted to grab their hands, draw them to the door, say, Come dance in the rain with me, come laugh and cry and live with me. I wanted to rip off my headset, flee the short-ceilinged room and fling my arms to the heavens and tilt my face to the clouds and tell God, I know You are here, in me, in this storm.
But there was work to be done, tables to be cleared, dishes to be washed, coffee to be poured, supervisors to check in with. So I put my head back down, tucked my hopes into a far corner of my heart, and picked up the tray. The headset crackled, and I was back in the dreary world the rain couldn't touch.
Somehow, my heart remained outside, twirling in the midst of the violent rainshine whirlwind, and I knew that beauty, and hope, and the presence of the LORD, will always belong to those who want it, who look for it, who know the emptiness of their hands and reach up to God and say, Fill me.
Friday, October 14, 2011
hairnets MUST be worn
Our uniforms are all the same, but I am an imposter, and everyone knows just by looking at me. I do my best, trot across the shop and flash friendly smiles and try not to splash coffee, but they know. It's sort of embarrassing, having random customers smile and wink and whisper, "It's okay; you're doing great."
The temptation is to slump, to hunch my shoulders and try to hide the uniform and myself, too. The damn pants are a size too large and the belt is barely working. I hate tucking in and buttoning the top buttons of my shirts, and I despise wearing socks and shoes all day. I want to let my shoulders fall into the sheepish lines that I feel in my soul. But I cannot. I know if I crumble once I will shatter, and it will all be over.
I can't remember much, though everything is repeated at least three times. I slip and fumble and hang my head and admit my forgetfulness and beg help, and it is given. Cheerful, patient, kind, their hands fly through the steps and their words remind me of what I'd already learned. Sometimes they give the product to me to deliver, and I try not to slouch across the room, try to look the customer in the eyes even though they see my shameful lack of skill.
It's pure humiliation, this whole job.
And I don't mean because of what I do, because I have a university degree and I'm serving coffee. I'm not ashamed of that. I need work, and they gave it to me. I am grateful for that.
I am at a place in my life where I am fairly good at everything I do. I am good at babysitting, I am good at working at the library, I am good at navigating the social circles I float in, I am good at living with my family without being grumpy all the time. I know how to do those things. If I don't know how to do something, I don't do it. I stick to the areas I know I shine.
This job is humiliation, because it proves I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
It hurts, being reminded of that. It stings to have it flung in my face a thousand times an hour. It makes me squirm, more each minute, to realize I don't even know how to place my body, or where to look, or what to listen for. I want to scream and fling off my uniform and fly from the store, never to return.
And yet, through the sting in my eyes and the shame in my throat, I realize that all of this humiliation is very very good for me.
There is still promise, even in the humiliation. So instead of slumping with despair, hiding within my uniform, I hold my shoulders back and lead with my hips, smile more than I feel is believable. I walk fast, and hold my head high like I am queen of the world. I don't let myself be afraid. I know that my God is coming to scoop up the scrambled pieces of me . . . and make something good.
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
He has brought me here. He has promised. He is strong enough to deliver on His word.
And I wait.
The temptation is to slump, to hunch my shoulders and try to hide the uniform and myself, too. The damn pants are a size too large and the belt is barely working. I hate tucking in and buttoning the top buttons of my shirts, and I despise wearing socks and shoes all day. I want to let my shoulders fall into the sheepish lines that I feel in my soul. But I cannot. I know if I crumble once I will shatter, and it will all be over.
I can't remember much, though everything is repeated at least three times. I slip and fumble and hang my head and admit my forgetfulness and beg help, and it is given. Cheerful, patient, kind, their hands fly through the steps and their words remind me of what I'd already learned. Sometimes they give the product to me to deliver, and I try not to slouch across the room, try to look the customer in the eyes even though they see my shameful lack of skill.
It's pure humiliation, this whole job.
And I don't mean because of what I do, because I have a university degree and I'm serving coffee. I'm not ashamed of that. I need work, and they gave it to me. I am grateful for that.
I am at a place in my life where I am fairly good at everything I do. I am good at babysitting, I am good at working at the library, I am good at navigating the social circles I float in, I am good at living with my family without being grumpy all the time. I know how to do those things. If I don't know how to do something, I don't do it. I stick to the areas I know I shine.
This job is humiliation, because it proves I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
It hurts, being reminded of that. It stings to have it flung in my face a thousand times an hour. It makes me squirm, more each minute, to realize I don't even know how to place my body, or where to look, or what to listen for. I want to scream and fling off my uniform and fly from the store, never to return.
And yet, through the sting in my eyes and the shame in my throat, I realize that all of this humiliation is very very good for me.
Humble yourself in the sight of the LORD.
Yes. That's what I need. Not what I want. Not what feels good. Not what makes me happy. But what I need.
Humble yourself in the sight of the LORD.
A thousand times a day, an hour, I am humbled, in this new job, this new position of being trainee instead of This is Katie, she's been with us awhile and she's wonderful.
It is good. And I am being broken, once again, of the pride I keep hoping has left my heart once and for all.
Humble yourself in the sight of the LORD
and He will lift you up.
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
He has brought me here. He has promised. He is strong enough to deliver on His word.
And I wait.
Sunday, October 09, 2011
earpieces and visors
I hadn't seen him in years, and I wasn't really expecting to, either. But there he was, standing behind the register, waiting to take my order, recognizing me, I saw by the look in his eyes. I balked for a second that I hope was invisible, and it was only by the grace of God that I smiled, spoke to him by name, asked him how he was.
I expected the rote answer, the quick smile, the back-to-business attitude. But instead he answered pretty honestly, told me about his life, his recent adventures, his brothers. Somehow I found myself able to be interested, not to think about what I would say next, but able to really stop and listen and care about his answers. He asked about my life, a startling development. The last time I saw him, he was a semi-sullen teenager, focused on his own self and not much else. I told him the quick answer, but tried to be as honest as possible in just a few moments' conversation. I told him about seeing his parents, tried to communicate how much I appreciate and enjoy them. Finally, I excused myself, placed an order, went and sat down with my small-group parents.
Strange. I knew much more about him than I verbalized. I knew about the running from home, the abrupt betrayal of familial bonds, the financial crisis, the head-hanging return. I didn't tell him I knew those things (who wants to be told Oh, I heard about all your recent failures?), but I found myself wondering how his heart was really doing.
Are you happy, though? I wanted to ask. You have a job and a girlfriend and a place to stay, but are you happy, really and truly happy? It wasn't morbid curiosity that made me want to ask. It was a concern so deep and full that I felt it wrenching at the roots of my soul. But how does one ask that of a friend not seen for so many months, weeks, days? It was those small increments of time that changed us most, and it was those small increments that I felt helpless to surmount.
I wish I had asked him. When I stood, walked to the door, he came to the register, smiled at me from under the visor, and said goodbye to me by name. I wish I had the courage to turn around, lean my arms on his counter, and tell him I pray for you whenever you come to my mind. I wish I did, was all those things . . . but God help me, I did not, I am not.
Oh, have mercy on my weak soul. Forgive me for the moments when my time or the task or my pride is all that stops me from reaching out my hand and touching another person. Heal me from the disease of fear and caring about what will they think?
I expected the rote answer, the quick smile, the back-to-business attitude. But instead he answered pretty honestly, told me about his life, his recent adventures, his brothers. Somehow I found myself able to be interested, not to think about what I would say next, but able to really stop and listen and care about his answers. He asked about my life, a startling development. The last time I saw him, he was a semi-sullen teenager, focused on his own self and not much else. I told him the quick answer, but tried to be as honest as possible in just a few moments' conversation. I told him about seeing his parents, tried to communicate how much I appreciate and enjoy them. Finally, I excused myself, placed an order, went and sat down with my small-group parents.
Strange. I knew much more about him than I verbalized. I knew about the running from home, the abrupt betrayal of familial bonds, the financial crisis, the head-hanging return. I didn't tell him I knew those things (who wants to be told Oh, I heard about all your recent failures?), but I found myself wondering how his heart was really doing.
Are you happy, though? I wanted to ask. You have a job and a girlfriend and a place to stay, but are you happy, really and truly happy? It wasn't morbid curiosity that made me want to ask. It was a concern so deep and full that I felt it wrenching at the roots of my soul. But how does one ask that of a friend not seen for so many months, weeks, days? It was those small increments of time that changed us most, and it was those small increments that I felt helpless to surmount.
I wish I had asked him. When I stood, walked to the door, he came to the register, smiled at me from under the visor, and said goodbye to me by name. I wish I had the courage to turn around, lean my arms on his counter, and tell him I pray for you whenever you come to my mind. I wish I did, was all those things . . . but God help me, I did not, I am not.
Oh, have mercy on my weak soul. Forgive me for the moments when my time or the task or my pride is all that stops me from reaching out my hand and touching another person. Heal me from the disease of fear and caring about what will they think?
Friday, October 07, 2011
the sweatshirt corner
It used to be so easy, reaching out for you. A simple phone call, a few steps down the sidewalk, and there you were, right in front of me. How many times did I sneak in where I knew I wasn't really supposed to be, blatantly interrupt work or homework or reading, abruptly spill my guts out on the floor? Too many to count, I think. And what about the crazy moments we had, when you followed me outside with the camera to document my harassment of our neighbors, or we danced in the muddy January rain, or we went to the grocery store in our horrible pajamas, or you shut me in a practice room and made me tell you about my troubles, or we had conversations in our sleep, or we took turns being the "boy" and giving dreadfully pragmatic advice? Mostly, when I think of you, I am overcome by the beautiful. The evening I crawled onto your lap and wept without any explanation. The afternoon you called me, voice trembling, and I rushed home as soon as I could. The nights of tears and homework and hopelessness. The breakfast dates. The last-minute morning rushes to the shuttle. ("We're going to be laaaaate!") The angst about losing our freedom. The discussions over things that made us angry. The hugs, given at just the right moment. The tenderness of living together, in community, in covenant. The way I learned your postures, your eyes, your smiles, your laughs. The lessons you taught me about choosing to love, no matter what.
It's not so easy anymore. You're not right there, not like it used to be. Now I clutch the phone, like I wish I could clutch your hand. I cradle my tea, like I wish I could cradle your heart. I curl into my sweatshirt, like I wish I could curl into your arms. I feel the emptiness when I try to study, alone; or need a walking partner; or wish for a late-night tea friend.
Oh, girls of my heart--whoever knew that eight months could wreak such havoc on my ideas of myself as a strong and independent woman. You are gifts, plain and simple, and I am overcome with my unworthiness to receive you.
How I miss you . . .
It's not so easy anymore. You're not right there, not like it used to be. Now I clutch the phone, like I wish I could clutch your hand. I cradle my tea, like I wish I could cradle your heart. I curl into my sweatshirt, like I wish I could curl into your arms. I feel the emptiness when I try to study, alone; or need a walking partner; or wish for a late-night tea friend.
Oh, girls of my heart--whoever knew that eight months could wreak such havoc on my ideas of myself as a strong and independent woman. You are gifts, plain and simple, and I am overcome with my unworthiness to receive you.
How I miss you . . .
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
you don't have to hide
There's a tear in my sleeve, at my elbow, but you will never know just by looking. I've learned how to fold the sleeve just so, to make it look like I'm simply hard-working and practical.
There's a fracture in my heart, but you will never know just by looking. I've taught myself how to smile over the jagged-edged pain, to make it seem that I'm confident and happy.
Most of my life is spent finding how to hide the tears, working to make the ragged look whole.
Why don't I ever just mend things . . . ?
There's a fracture in my heart, but you will never know just by looking. I've taught myself how to smile over the jagged-edged pain, to make it seem that I'm confident and happy.
Most of my life is spent finding how to hide the tears, working to make the ragged look whole.
Why don't I ever just mend things . . . ?
more an attitude than anything else
We went on a field trip today, she and I. We dragged tables into the abandoned hallways, prowled empty classrooms and tugged chairs loose from the furniture tangles. I helped her haul the long bookcase into the hallway, close to the door. As we rested, she pulled out her cellphone and dialed the number.
"It's like they think I have nothing else to do," she muttered. I knew the annoyance in her tone was more for show than a true emotion; she is one of the most tranquil people I know, yet she is best known for being firm and getting what she needs.
A few minutes later, the truck backed in and out stepped two men, close to my father's age, maybe a little older. I liked them on sight. One of them had a shirt that read Danny over his left pocket and an excellent mustache; the other wore a camouflage baseball hat and a grey pullover sweatshirt. They both had the stocky figures, broad hands, and strong shoulders of manual laborers. Their faces were worn by weather, hard work, long hours, underappreciation. She greeted them, explained what she needed done, showed them where the furniture was. They groused, grumbled, made fun of each other, talked shit about the "bureaucrats" that put us all in this predicament. When they headed back to the truck to pull it under the overhang, she shot me a look.
"They're not very happy," she said, and I was surprised. Hadn't they sympathized with our situation, seen us as fellow victims in this whole thing? Hadn't they called us deah at least once each? Hadn't they watched our mouths as we spoke, nodded at the right moments, actually heard what we said? I'd thought they were in a pretty good mood, considering what we'd asked and the fact that they were moving furniture in an open truck during a rainstorm.
"They're not unhappy; they're just Mainers," I blurted. Her eyebrows rose.
"Is that it? Is that how it works?" I nodded, but didn't stay to discuss further. I could see the tailgate of the truck was dropped down. The shorter one had clambered into the truckbed and was dragging chairs to its edge. Danny wheeled past me with an armload; they both seemed not-surprised when I reached up my arms and took my own load.
"You all right?" the one in the truck asked, and I nodded.
"Ayuh." (It always looks contrived in text, but we all say it. For me, it slips out when I least expect it.)
We worked in silence, the four of us (she came out, too, despite her bad ankle), the only interaction the men's guffaws at each other's pinched fingers and bumped foreheads, and Danny's quick slide to let me pass him in the doorway. They didn't laugh when we groaned or ran into doorframes.
It was only once we'd returned to our building, they'd unloaded our furniture and taken away the old things, that I realized they knew I understood them. I walked into the door, and there they stood, eyes on me, hands on the new children's bookcase.
". . . and one, and two . . ." Danny was saying as I glanced over. As I met his gaze, his eyes twinkled and he nodded to his partner.
"Takin' it away," the one in grey sweatshirt told me, and they both grinned. I grinned back. They had nice smiles. Their teeth looked badly abused by chewing tobacco or years of smoking, but their faces were honest, not used for pretension or acting like. Of course, I loved them. I could have kissed them right there.
I think about it now. It makes sense. I know these faces, have known them since my first week of life. They've cooed at me, uncharacteristic in their sweetness as they peered down at me. These hands are the ones I've watched fix houses and cars, and move furniture, and build houses, for as long as I can remember. These voices, with their soft R and dropped endings, have lullabied me before I breathed. The names change; the situations are ever different. But when I see them, I know them. Our feet are planted in the same earth. I love them, and they love me. It sounds strange, it sounds crazy, but it's true. I will always love them, and, I think, they will always love me back.
"It's like they think I have nothing else to do," she muttered. I knew the annoyance in her tone was more for show than a true emotion; she is one of the most tranquil people I know, yet she is best known for being firm and getting what she needs.
A few minutes later, the truck backed in and out stepped two men, close to my father's age, maybe a little older. I liked them on sight. One of them had a shirt that read Danny over his left pocket and an excellent mustache; the other wore a camouflage baseball hat and a grey pullover sweatshirt. They both had the stocky figures, broad hands, and strong shoulders of manual laborers. Their faces were worn by weather, hard work, long hours, underappreciation. She greeted them, explained what she needed done, showed them where the furniture was. They groused, grumbled, made fun of each other, talked shit about the "bureaucrats" that put us all in this predicament. When they headed back to the truck to pull it under the overhang, she shot me a look.
"They're not very happy," she said, and I was surprised. Hadn't they sympathized with our situation, seen us as fellow victims in this whole thing? Hadn't they called us deah at least once each? Hadn't they watched our mouths as we spoke, nodded at the right moments, actually heard what we said? I'd thought they were in a pretty good mood, considering what we'd asked and the fact that they were moving furniture in an open truck during a rainstorm.
"They're not unhappy; they're just Mainers," I blurted. Her eyebrows rose.
"Is that it? Is that how it works?" I nodded, but didn't stay to discuss further. I could see the tailgate of the truck was dropped down. The shorter one had clambered into the truckbed and was dragging chairs to its edge. Danny wheeled past me with an armload; they both seemed not-surprised when I reached up my arms and took my own load.
"You all right?" the one in the truck asked, and I nodded.
"Ayuh." (It always looks contrived in text, but we all say it. For me, it slips out when I least expect it.)
We worked in silence, the four of us (she came out, too, despite her bad ankle), the only interaction the men's guffaws at each other's pinched fingers and bumped foreheads, and Danny's quick slide to let me pass him in the doorway. They didn't laugh when we groaned or ran into doorframes.
It was only once we'd returned to our building, they'd unloaded our furniture and taken away the old things, that I realized they knew I understood them. I walked into the door, and there they stood, eyes on me, hands on the new children's bookcase.
". . . and one, and two . . ." Danny was saying as I glanced over. As I met his gaze, his eyes twinkled and he nodded to his partner.
"Takin' it away," the one in grey sweatshirt told me, and they both grinned. I grinned back. They had nice smiles. Their teeth looked badly abused by chewing tobacco or years of smoking, but their faces were honest, not used for pretension or acting like. Of course, I loved them. I could have kissed them right there.
I think about it now. It makes sense. I know these faces, have known them since my first week of life. They've cooed at me, uncharacteristic in their sweetness as they peered down at me. These hands are the ones I've watched fix houses and cars, and move furniture, and build houses, for as long as I can remember. These voices, with their soft R and dropped endings, have lullabied me before I breathed. The names change; the situations are ever different. But when I see them, I know them. Our feet are planted in the same earth. I love them, and they love me. It sounds strange, it sounds crazy, but it's true. I will always love them, and, I think, they will always love me back.
Monday, October 03, 2011
what I never did is done
We talked about dying today, four of us, all fairly young, with much life ahead of us—a near-father, a college student, two out-of-college-and-dreaming girls. It was mostly a joke, really.
"I'm pretty sure I'm going to die soon," he told us. "I ate cantaloupe the other day."
"To die is gain," smirked my sister, but despite her dancing eyes, we all knew her words were true.
"Do we really think that, though?" the oldest one asked. "Do you think if Jesus walked in here and gave you the choice, you'd go right now?"
I didn't hear much else they said. I started thinking about my grandfather.
About thirty-three years ago, he had his first heart attack. They rushed him away, into the belly of the emergency room, and not long afterwards my grandmother heard the words echo through the intercom. Code blue. She was hospital-lingo illiterate, but her friend wasn't. They didn't know what exactly was happening, or to whom it was happening.
Neither did my grandfather. He wasn't afraid; he wasn't in pain or even discomfort. Instead, he said later, he felt calm, peaceful. He didn't see bright lights, or hear voices, or see faces. It seemed to him that he was standing on the bank of a river, so wide he couldn't see the other shore. There was no visible person next to him, and no booming voice . . . but a thought crossed into his mind.
Do you want to come now, or stay?
He thought about it. And then he said, I think I want to see my youngest boy grow up.
A horrible pain ripped through his skull, and he was back. They'd shocked his heart back into rhythm, saved his life, they said. He lived twenty-three more years, long enough to see his nine-year old son grow up, and even to meet that son's two oldest boys.
I think about it now, through the safety and ease of time. What if he had said, I want to go now? What if he had never emerged from that trauma room? What if my grandmother had been left a widow before fifty? What if my mother and aunt and uncles had all been fatherless before I was born? What if I had never met my grandpa, this man who terrified and entertained and emboldened me all at once? God knows life would have been quite different. Ten years after his death, my grandfather is still one of the most important men in my life. He showed us all what it meant to be father and grandfather and friend and husband proudly and strongly, without apology or fear. And he did everything with the knowledge that the only Person he truly answered to was God Himself.
I wonder if that encounter, on the emergency room table, made him more aware of that.
Do you want to come now, or stay?
That last day when he lay in the hospital bed—fingernails and arms turning blue, breath more and more shallow each second, middle son and eldest daughter and wife at his side—I wonder if he heard the same whisper. I don't think it was a question, if the whisper did come that day.
I think it was a definite irresistible call.
Your time is done now; you've accomplished all I meant you to do.
Come Home now; come Home.
I wonder what I would say, given the same choice. Would I choose to leave, to go on to what I know to be a happier and brighter and safer existence? Or would I look back, see the unfinished business, and choose to stay?
It's a terrible responsibility. Which is why, I think, God usually doesn't ask if we're done with this thing we call earthly life. He doesn't usually ask, because He knows more and better than we do.
He just calls.
"I'm pretty sure I'm going to die soon," he told us. "I ate cantaloupe the other day."
"To die is gain," smirked my sister, but despite her dancing eyes, we all knew her words were true.
"Do we really think that, though?" the oldest one asked. "Do you think if Jesus walked in here and gave you the choice, you'd go right now?"
I didn't hear much else they said. I started thinking about my grandfather.
About thirty-three years ago, he had his first heart attack. They rushed him away, into the belly of the emergency room, and not long afterwards my grandmother heard the words echo through the intercom. Code blue. She was hospital-lingo illiterate, but her friend wasn't. They didn't know what exactly was happening, or to whom it was happening.
Neither did my grandfather. He wasn't afraid; he wasn't in pain or even discomfort. Instead, he said later, he felt calm, peaceful. He didn't see bright lights, or hear voices, or see faces. It seemed to him that he was standing on the bank of a river, so wide he couldn't see the other shore. There was no visible person next to him, and no booming voice . . . but a thought crossed into his mind.
Do you want to come now, or stay?
He thought about it. And then he said, I think I want to see my youngest boy grow up.
A horrible pain ripped through his skull, and he was back. They'd shocked his heart back into rhythm, saved his life, they said. He lived twenty-three more years, long enough to see his nine-year old son grow up, and even to meet that son's two oldest boys.
I think about it now, through the safety and ease of time. What if he had said, I want to go now? What if he had never emerged from that trauma room? What if my grandmother had been left a widow before fifty? What if my mother and aunt and uncles had all been fatherless before I was born? What if I had never met my grandpa, this man who terrified and entertained and emboldened me all at once? God knows life would have been quite different. Ten years after his death, my grandfather is still one of the most important men in my life. He showed us all what it meant to be father and grandfather and friend and husband proudly and strongly, without apology or fear. And he did everything with the knowledge that the only Person he truly answered to was God Himself.
I wonder if that encounter, on the emergency room table, made him more aware of that.
Do you want to come now, or stay?
That last day when he lay in the hospital bed—fingernails and arms turning blue, breath more and more shallow each second, middle son and eldest daughter and wife at his side—I wonder if he heard the same whisper. I don't think it was a question, if the whisper did come that day.
I think it was a definite irresistible call.
Your time is done now; you've accomplished all I meant you to do.
Come Home now; come Home.
I wonder what I would say, given the same choice. Would I choose to leave, to go on to what I know to be a happier and brighter and safer existence? Or would I look back, see the unfinished business, and choose to stay?
It's a terrible responsibility. Which is why, I think, God usually doesn't ask if we're done with this thing we call earthly life. He doesn't usually ask, because He knows more and better than we do.
He just calls.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)