..she began to stand around the gate and expect things. What things? She didn’t know exactly. Her breath was gusty and short. She knew things that nobody ever told her. For instance, the words of the trees and the wind. .. She knew the world was a stallion rolling in the blue pasture of ether. She knew that God tore down the old world every evening and built a new one by sun-up. It was wonderful to see it take form with the sun and emerge from the gray dust of its making. 

–Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

In the months prior to my retirement from a 40 year educational career, I found myself standing around the gate, expecting things. Like Zora Neale Hurston’s protagonist, Janie, I didn’t know exactly what things I should expect. Still, the undeniable mantel of expectation hung from my shoulders like a cape. Tied around my neck, it trailed behind me as I navigated the obligatory retirement paperwork and filed a lifetime of work into manila folders. It was a constant reminder that when school bells no longer ruled my days, then I would fly, my cape of expectations billowing happily in the breeze.

What to expect after you retire your alarm clock and teacher clothes? What to expect after you no longer drink lounge coffee or spend your lunch hours doing cafeteria duty? What to expect when no one expects much of anything from you? Hmmm.  .  .

Perhaps it is our nature to expect the next phase (of whatever) to be better, grander, more noble than the last. The urgency that propels us forward is a compulsion that is hard to deny. So today sucked, tomorrow will suck less. So this job is simply a job, your next position will be a career extraordinaire. So you settled for this relationship, this place, this idea, you will not settle in the future.

Americans are largely a “pull- yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps-go-west-young-person” sort. Expectation courses through our veins, the giddy lifeblood of the hopeful. We leave sod homes on dry, desolate prairies for gold mining camps and the promise of prosperity. On factory lines, we toil and dream, toil and dream, our heads bent to the task before us, but our souls fixed on a life beyond. In classrooms, we stomach busy work–the miserable fodder of some “professionals”–as we imagine the pathway to significance.

But what if one buoyed by years of expectation finds herself first treading water and then sinking? For expectation is not only a strong belief that something will happen or be the case in the future but a belief that someone will or should achieve something. It was this belief, like the lead weight we had to retrieve from the bottom of the deep end during lifeguard training, that began to pull me under. It was this belief–that I should achieve something–that pinned me to the pool floor. And it was this belief that left me breathless to break the water’s surface where some kind soul would throw me a lifeline.

Expectation at the beginning of a life is so much sunnier than at the end of a life. In youth, much seems possible, even probable. For a number of years, I genuinely expected that I would join the Ice Capades as a professional skater. Never mind the fact that I had only skated (badly) on Kearney Lake a few times in my entire life. I could easily brush this detail away, for the vision of sequinned splendor on the ice was blindingly hopeful. Young expectation accepts delayed gratification as a necessary rite of passage. When I grow up, I will . . .  Although there may be occasional frustration in this delay, more often there is comfort in the promise of something that will surely happen at sometime.

But expectation that occurs as a life is winding down–let’s say at retirement–is clothed in apprehension. Whereas earlier expectation is a stout stem that will produce a certain bloom, later expectation is a gossamer filament in a lifetime web. It is tenuous, dubious, slight and suspect. Passing time dictates no promise of delay, no prolonged rite of passage. Time is literally ticking.

In her short story, “Yours,” American author, Mary Robison, writes:

He wanted to tell her, from the greater perspective he had, that to own only a little talent, like his, was an awful, plaguing thing; that being only a little special meant you expected too much, most of the time, and liked yourself too little. He wanted to assure her that she had missed nothing.

After an evening of pumpkin carving, Clark has just told his wife, Allison, ʺYour jack‐o‐lanterns are much, much better than mine.ʺ His cancer-ridden wife will die that night, a few weeks earlier than expected, and he yearns to make her believe that she has lived a good life, that she has missed nothing. As tragic as her impending death is, the “awful, plaguing thing” of his life–to “own only a little talent”–is just as tragic. At least to him. He is painfully aware of the fact that he has “expected too much, most of the time, and liked [himself] too little.”

Herein lies the blessing and the curse of being “a little special”: for some, the expectation of achieving something, of becoming something more special comes with a healthy dose of self-doubt. Perhaps even self-loathing. You find yourself expecting that the little bit of talent you have will burgeon into the achievement you have imagined. Even in the direst moments of self-doubt, you whisper: “Maybe. Someday.” But then self-doubt rolls in, a returning storm that blackens the maybes and blows the somedays into another, rosier country. Then you look into the mirror and accuse: “Who do you think you are?”

I recall a 20/20 episode that featured five octogenarians. These men and women were growing and changing, becoming better selves as they played in symphony orchestras, trained for marathons, or taught university courses. In short, they were nothing short of amazing individuals. Here were achievers who were not only meeting but surpassing expectations. As the television segment ended, I remember thinking, “Is it too late for me to take up the cello?”

And then there is the issue of what to achieve. Some of these octogenarians were continuing pursuits and talents they had cultivated their entire lives; others were taking up entirely new ventures. Although I have nothing but admiration for 86-year-olds who train for the Boston Marathon, I’m quite confident that I will not be taking to the ice for future Ice Capade performances. So, realistically, what achievement should I expect?

In looking back over years of work–both parenting and teaching–I admit that my days were filled with doing. And certainly in all this doing, there were achievements: building a family, making a home, growing into a good teacher, deepening my faith, and forging countless relationships with great people. I realize that many would look at me as one who had achieved much. And all of this made my post-retirement standing around the gate, expecting things surprising, at best, and ungrateful, at worst. Why expect more?

And why not just be? Isn’t that a natural and kind progression: doing that ultimately leads to being? Being is undervalued, understated, and underappreciated. When I think of those people with whom I feel most at home, they are those who have perfected the act of being. Just being in the moment, content to listen, to comfort with their sheer presence, and to convince you that there is no one else they’d rather be with and no place else they’d rather be. Ironically, being may be the greatest achievement of a life well-lived.

So maybe standing around the gate isn’t such a bad thing. Standing without expecting, that is. For if, like Hurston’s Janie, I can stand at the gate knowing that world was a stallion rolling in the blue pasture of ether, then this is more than enough.

for all those who have restarted or who wish to restart

“See right here,” the ER doctor held the EKG strip up to me, “this is where your heart stopped beating. Flat line.” I could only nod and give my most convincing smile. Flat line, great.

I came to the ER after my heart had raced for four hours, 180 beats per minute. I have a history of SVT (supraventricular tachycardia) that had been annoying and a bit scary a couple of times, but this was the grandmother-of-all-episodes. When my heart didn’t give any indications of stopping on its own–coupled with jaw and arm pain–I knew that this was not good.

In the ER, they hooked me up to an EKG machine, put in two IVs, made me chew a baby aspirin, took my temperature, and then administered a drug that literally stops and restarts your heart. As your heart restarts, it returns to normal sinus rhythm (at least that’s the plan). And sure enough, my heart stopped for several seconds and then restarted normally.

The doctors had warned me that when my heart stopped, I would feel pretty bad. “Pretty bad?” I asked. “Yes, we can tell exactly when the heart stops by the expression on patients’ faces. Are you ready?” Six doctors and nurses stood around my bed and watched as one doctor pushed the drug through my IV. I’m guessing that on a slow day in the ER, this may be about as exciting as you get. For them, that is–not so much for me. I could have done without all this excitement and attention.

Still, a normal sinus rhythm is nothing short of a miracle, and I will always be grateful for those doctors, nurses, and the wonders of modern medicine. The slower, steady beating of my heart through the monitor was a glorious thing. The down-shift from 5th to 2nd gear was hours overdue. Now in the quiet of the ER, my heart hummed along as if on a Sunday afternoon drive. This was a leisurely pace, and as the driver, I could wander the back roads, pointing out barns and ponds of interest as we made our way through rural Davis County.

But when you’ve suffered a minor heart attack, when your heart has stopped and restarted, you pull over to stretch your legs and reflect. The normal rhythms of your life seem anything but ordinary. Time which had previously unfolded before you in an endless maze of roads seems limited–at best–and scant–at worst. And those people who have been your favorite passengers seem all the more precious. Not only are you able to tolerate the frequent Are we there yets?, but you relish them as yet another sign of the life you have loved and will continue to love. Oh that the Sunday drive would go on and on and on . . .

In John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, the tenant farmers argue that the Sunday drive is essentially over for them:

But you can’t start. Only a baby can start. You and me – why, we’re all that’s been. The anger of a moment, the thousand pictures, that’s us. This land, this red land, is us; and the flood years and the dust years and the drought years are us. We can’t start again.

I admit that there are days–and I suspect this may be true for most of us–that feel more like the flood years and the dust years and the drought years than a Sunday afternoon drive in the country. There have been days during which I have lived as though I could not, I would not start again. These are the dark days of the soul, the days during which I simply put one foot in front of the other, plodding my way through the hours. Call it lack of faith, call it unwillingness to ask for help, call it pride or call it whatever you like. I dropped my shoulders, hung my head, and muttered, “I cannot start again.”

But in the Sanctuary of Restart, you do not have to be a baby to begin again. As a community college instructor, I spent several summers teaching in a national program called Elder Hostel. Senior citizens from all over the country would spend their summers attending week-long college courses in creative writing, wine tasting, local history, etc. My courses were filled with amazing men and women who were beginning again in spectacular ways. Rose, the wife of an accomplished attorney, came to Elder Hostel with a heavy heart. Her once-brilliant husband had been consumed by Alzheimer’s, and she was simply worn out from constant care-taking. She admitted to me that when her frustration reached the proverbial boiling point, she would take an armful of Tupperware dishes into her garage and heave them, one plastic dish after another, into the garage door. The image of an eighty-some woman madly chucking Tupperware in a suburban Des Moines garage still amuses and amazes me. For this week, for this one glorious week of respite, Rose was starting over as the vital and beautiful woman she was. And oh what a restarting it was! She shared with me some writing she had done in the past, and her ear for good prose was unmistakable. And, blessedly, more than ready to be revived for another go. You can begin again, and without reservations, Rose restarted.

In A Chesterton calender, G. K. Chesterton writes:

The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective.

So we may not have a new year. We may not have a new life or a long life. But, as Chesterton argues, it is not the new year or life but the new soul and new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. It is the starting afresh about things that truly characterizes the best restarts. Rose’s husband will not likely be cured of Alzheimer’s, and her life will likely be lived out through vigilant care-taking and continual worry. Still (and what a word this is!), still she can begin again with a new soul, new ears and eyes. Not to mention a new backbone, which–along with some wicked Tupperware heaving–will sustain her through the darkest of days. Starting afresh has little to do with circumstances and much to do with resting in the one who gives us abundant life.

And who is to say where things actually begin and end, poet Seamus Heaney asks?

“Since when,” he asked,
“Are the first line and last line of any poem
Where the poem begins and ends?” 

The first line of a poem, the first day as husband or wife, the birth of a child–are these the only real beginnings? The last line of a poem, the last day as husband or wife, the death of a child–are these the only true ends? Not so, Heaney posits. Not so at all. In the middle of a poem, a marriage, or a life, there are beginnings and endings too numerous to count. And after the last line, after a marriage or life has ended, there are also beginnings and endings, and Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand [Psalm 139:18]. The Sanctuary of Restarts defies conventional logic about beginnings and ending. It throws traditional wisdom to the wind and cries Redos are guaranteed at any time, any place! This is a space in which inhabitants come to see a life as a fluid thing, perpetually stopping and starting, darkening and brightening. Here is a place where first and last lines are but pieces of a larger whole, neither more nor less significant.

Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but in the ability to start over. So writes F. Scott Fitzgerald. Look around you, and you will see a whole lot of persistence. People with their heads to the plow, people whose backs are wholly bent to whatever is before them. Some will stop, lift their heads and fix their souls and eyes on something greater. And as they release themselves from the harness that has held them, they will restart. You will see it in the way they throw their heads to the sky; you will hear it in their easy laughter. More than anything, you will look on in sore amazement, for you will know that you are in the presence of a soul restarted.

In the Sanctuary of Restart, vitality is the ability to start over. I’m a fan of vitality and plan to be one who starts over. In a month, I will have a catheter ablation procedure that will, hopefully, prevent future SVT episodes and resulting heart attacks. This is a procedure to create scar tissue within the heart in order to block abnormal electrical signals and restore a normal heart rhythm. A few lesions in the heart, a little scarring and voilà! Bad heart rhythms end, and good heart rhythms begin.

The physical procedure sounds easy enough. It’s the mental, emotional, and spiritual process of restarting that is more challenging. How, then, shall I live? I plan to drive the country roads with the ones I love, stopping and starting when we wish, taking in the sites and relishing the time we spend together. Clichéd as it may be, I plan to spend more time in 2nd gear with my arm trailing in the Iowa breeze. When you live in 2nd gear, you simply see and feel things you cannot when you are speeding down the four-lane. And whatever your age, your health or circumstances, down-shifting and restarting is a good, good thing.

David and Goliath is a book about what happens when ordinary people confront giants. By “giants,” I mean powerful opponents of all kinds—from armies and mighty warriors to disability, misfortune, and oppression. Each chapter tells the story of a different person—famous or unknown, ordinary or brilliant—who has faced an outsize challenge and been forced to respond. Should I play by the rules or follow my own instincts? Shall I persevere or give up? Should I strike back or forgive? Through these stories, I want to explore two ideas. The first is that much of what we consider valuable in our world arises out of these kinds of lopsided conflicts, because the act of facing overwhelming odds produces greatness and beauty. And second, that we consistently get these kinds of conflicts wrong. We misread them. We misinterpret them. Giants are not what we think they are. The same qualities that appear to give them strength are often the sources of great weakness. And the fact of being an underdog can change people in ways that we often fail to appreciate: it can open doors and create opportunities and educate and enlighten and make possible what might otherwise have seemed unthinkable.

Malcolm Gladwell, David and Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits, and the Art of Battling Giants (2013)

In the biblical account of David and Goliath, the shepherd and obvious underdog reigns, leaving a literal giant of a man dead at his feet, felled by a single stone from a boy who would be king. Christian author, Philip Yancey, is not surprised, for he claims that “though the world may be tilted toward the rich and powerful, God is tilted toward the underdog.”

Our world is largely a Goliath world–if you consider the daily news reports, social media posts, and the like. We laud the big people, the big events, the gargantuan gestures. Larger than life is laudable. The Guinness world record holders, the first-round picks, the election winners, the kings and queens that reign over county fairs, school events, and nations, the all-stars and champions are the Goliaths that capture our collective attention. Our genuflexion is faithful and passionate as we watch them, read about them, and center them in our conversations and aspirations. Goliaths are natural targets of admiration and easy bets in a world of lowly shepherds.

Not so, says author Malcolm Gladwell whose research on Davids and Goliaths turns conventional wisdom on its head. One account of such a David and Goliath battle particularly interested me as I read Gladwell’s book. He recounts the story of a National Junior Basketball team, a group of 12-13-year-old Silicon Valley girls, girls that Gladwell describes as “the daughters of computer programmers and people with graduate degrees. They worked on science projects, and read books, and went on ski vacations with their parents, and dreamed about growing up to be marine biologists” (Gladwell, How David beats Goliath, The New Yorker, April 11, 2009).

Vivek Ranadivé, an immigrant from Mumbai who founded TIBCO, a Silicon Valley software company, knew very little about basketball. But his daughter, Anjali, wanted to play with her Redwood City friends. And so he became the unlikely basketball coach for a team of relatively short, wholly inexperienced girls. These were not girls who played pick-up games in their spare time or who had to be called into their homes at dark from hours of shooting hoops in their driveways. Rookies would not even begin to describe these girls.

This was a team of Davids who would face Goliath girls, girls who had attended basketball camps since they were preschoolers, girls who put the neighborhood boys to shame, girls who wanted to win and who almost always did.

Ranadivé understood how little he knew about basketball, and so he recruited Roger Craig, the former all-pro running back for the San Francisco 49ers, who is also TIBCO’s director of business development. Craig, in turn, recruited his daughter, Rometra, who played Division I basketball at Duke and USC. Together, they took their Redwood City girls to the national championships.

They followed two basic principles: 1) they would run a full-court press during the entire game, and 2) they would deny their opponents’ inbound passes. Ranadivé understood his team’s weaknesses and knew that playing conventional basketball would never work. He coached his girls to run, to work hard, to literally smother the girl Goliaths of opposing teams. And it worked. They stunned and dominated their opponents. Team after team fell to the full court press of a group of Silicon Valley Davids.

When I read this story, I couldn’t help but think about the possible ramifications of such a strategy. What if others who were less naturally talented, less experienced, and less advantaged simply out-thought and out-worked the Goliaths in their lives? What if parents, teachers, coaches, business and government leaders looked seriously at the Davids in their midsts? And what if stories of upsets–Davids beating Goliaths–flooded the airwaves and internet?

What if? Gladwell turned to the research of political scientist Ivan Arreguín-Toft. His findings concerning David and Goliath battles are surprising:

Suppose you were to total up all the wars over the past two hundred years that occurred between very large and very small countries. Let’s say that one side has to be at least ten times larger in population and armed might than the other. How often do you think the bigger side wins? Most of us, I think, would put that number at close to 100 percent. A tenfold difference is a lot. But the actual answer may surprise you. When the political scientist Ivan Arreguín-Toft did the calculation a few years ago, what he came up with was 71.5 percent. Just under a third of the time, the weaker country wins. Arreguín-Toft then asked the question slightly differently. What happens in wars between the strong and the weak when the weak side does as David did and refuses to fight the way the bigger side wants to fight, using unconventional or guerrilla tactics? The answer: in those cases, the weaker party’s winning percentage climbs from 28.5 percent to 63.6 percent. To put that in perspective, the United States’ population is ten times the size of Canada’s. If the two countries went to war and Canada chose to fight unconventionally, history would suggest that you ought to put your money on Canada.

We ought to put our money on the little guy, the David who uses unconventional tactics? History has confirmed that we should. Gladwell warns us that when we fixate on the giant “with the sword and shield and glittering armor,” we may overlook that “so much of what is beautiful and valuable in the world comes from the shepherd, who has more strength and purpose than we ever imagine.”

During WWII, the Nazi Goliaths grossly underestimated the British shepherds. Gladwell argues that “They bombed London because they thought that the trauma associated with the Blitz would destroy the courage of the British people. In fact, it did the opposite. It created a city of remote misses, who were more courageous than they had ever been before. The Germans would have been better off not bombing London at all.” The Nazis used conventional warfare, and it backfired. Hunkered down in their bomb shelters, the British hung on and bravely persisted. In the end, they became symbols of all that is “beautiful and valuable in the world.”

You don’t have to look far to see the shepherds around you. They sit on athletic benches, waiting for a few meager seconds of play. They sit in the back rows of classrooms, their heads often swallowed up by over-sized hoods. They sit in offices behind computers, quietly doing their thing. They stand in factory lines beside others, who–day after day–show up to work. They run government offices, making copies and coffee, answering emails and phone calls. They sit beside us in doctors’ offices and on buses, stand beside us in bank and cinema lines. We see, but do not see, them every day.

Years ago, I led my school staff in some professional learning around Carol Dweck’s research on the growth mindset. Dweck argues that we either adopt a fixed or a growth mindset and that the consequences of both are powerful. Those who hold a fixed mindset believe that they are born with–or without–a set of talents and aptitudes. Their success, then, is directly a result of these talents and aptitudes. Their failure? This is largely due to the simple fact that they were not born “math people”, not inherently “mechanically-inclined,” “artistic or athletic.” In short, they can’t help that they were not born with the skills to compete in such environments.

Those who hold a growth mindset are acutely aware of their unique talents and aptitudes but refuse to believe that these will define them or prevent them from completing tasks that require skills they hadn’t inherited. They believe that with effort, persistence, and support that they can grow and change. Perhaps they will not be the best, the smartest, or the most talented, but they will be better at something tomorrow than they were today. Dweck’s research reveals the positive consequences of teaching students about the growth mindset and helping them to understand that the brain–like other muscles–can grow and change. In short, just because they were not born with math aptitude, they are not destined to be math flunkies; they may not become Olympic figure skaters, but they can learn to skate backwards and, perhaps, execute a mean spin.

The growth mindset is generally the mindset of the world’s Davids. Goliaths are bigger, more accomplished, more advantaged, but destined to fight conventionally with their natural, inborn talents and skills. Davids, however, do not have to cower in their shadows, convinced that they can do nothing, that they will be nothing. They can choose to fight differently, using the skills and aptitudes they do have and working even harder to grow and develop these. They can full-court press when they lack the natural dribbling and shooting abilities of their peers.

I think of my friend, Rhonda, who won a national Betty Crocker Award when she was in high school. Even Rhonda would freely admit that she is no domestic goddess. (I can attest to the fact that she once stapled–not sewed–her kids’ Halloween costumes!) But she is an excellent test-taker, which ultimately won her the award. She may not have been a Goliath in the kitchen or sewing room, but she used the talents she did have to win. I can just hear Vivek Ranadivé: “So you can’t cook, but you can take tests? Well, then, be the best test-taker you can possibly be. That’s how you’ll win.”

The Bible is filled with underdogs and misfits and the least-likely-to-succeed. And yet, God uses them and who they are to lead his people out of captivity, to build nations, and to save the world. Time after time, the shepherds–not the giants–win the day.

Consider Jesus, a son, a friend, God-made-flesh. When he could have used conventional tactics, calling on God’s power to smote evil and to save himself, he used the most unconventional and extraordinary tactics of all: he loved his enemies, turned the other cheek, and gave himself up to a sacrificial and atoning death. Even today, Christ is full-court pressing the world with mercy and grace. He persists in denying the inbound passes of those who would do evil. And he wins souls as a shepherd, not a giant.

Consider Martin Luther King, Jr. and Gandhi. When others were all too eager to smote their enemies–literally–they embraced non-violent resistance. They marched in protest, suffering the insults and blows of those who wished to destroy them and their movements. Day after day, they hit the streets with dogged persistence and heart, keeping their eyes on the prize. In the end, their unconventional tactics changed the world and ushered in new eras of hope and equality.

Like Gladwell, I think we need to rethink our battle tactics. He writes:

We have a definition in our heads of what an advantage is—and the definition isn’t right. And what happens as a result? It means that we make mistakes. It means that we misread battles between underdogs and giants. It means that we underestimate how much freedom there can be in what looks like a disadvantage.

There is freedom in what looks like a disadvantage. There is much value in the shepherd who bravely, devotedly goes toe-to-toe with more powerful giants, using his or her disadvantage to an incredible advantage.

Maybe it’s time we celebrate the underdog, the disadvantage-turned-advantage, and the unconventional victories of shepherds. The world could use a lot more Vivek Ranadivés and Davids. But more than this, the world could use a lot more genuine fans and followers of these underdogs and all the underdogs-to-be.

For all of those who are–or will be–canning a bountiful harvest of garden fruits and vegetables, there are others out here who are canning-deficient. The Green Giant and the vendors at the local farmer’s market save us from ourselves, season after season. 

Life in Kitchen

The Tombstone Pizza was the last straw,

their breaking point.

Her family sentenced her to life in kitchen.

And it was no country club kitchen,

no.

They marshmallow-creamed her to their Amana door,

the neighborhood’s first human

refrigerator magnet.

Sometime during the seventh night,

the kids heard her scream for Nutty Bars,

and a few nights later for Ho-Hos.

But during the twenty-first night of captivity,

her husband swore she muttered

zucchini bread

and they let her down.

Consider her newly acquired skills:

She’s learned to make Ragu from scratch,

and after weeks of intensive kitchen work,

she, alone, unlocked the secret

to Velveeta.

Neighbors say her husband gives guided tours

of their kitchen daily,

that she is, indeed, a culinary wonder.

(Some admit, however, that her hands have grown

to look much like egg whisks,

and that when she speaks,

you can almost make out that pale pink spatula

that is her tongue.)

Last week, she made our local paper,

Community Events section, page two,

when she organized a picket

of the high school lunch room

the day they were serving tator tots

and meatball surprise.

And her children report that she has recently made

the Guinness Book of World Records

for the single largest order of Mason jars

from a True Value Hardware Store.

You see, she’s into canning these days.

And word has it, that on the last guided tour of her kitchen,

she unveiled her latest acquisition:

a twenty-by-twenty-foot pantry.

Lining the shelves there

were rows of canned goods neatly arranged:

corn, beans, tomatoes, rutabagas

And on the floor of the pantry,

in the largest Mason jar they’d ever seen,

she canned her husband.

He floated there in cucumber brine,

his skin and hair a pale and glossy green.

And as he bobbed about

to the extraordinary hum of the Cuisinart,

they say he was smiling.

And so was she.

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies.
And be it gash or gold it will not come
Again in this identical disguise. 
―Gwendolyn Brooks, Annie Allen

Ah Gwendolyn, your truth is magnificent! So much of life’s wisest counsel could be summed up in these four words: exhaust the little moment. And though there are those who are experts in exhausting the little moment, there are more–like me–who could benefit from some serious mentoring.

I admit that I naturally succumb to little moments that involve little people. Particularly the little people I love most: my granddaughter Gracyn and grandson Griffin. For example, I relished the moment captured in the photo above. Gracyn and Griffin wearing my ankle boots, clomping across the floor, giggling at each other as they worked hard to stay upright. When Gracyn commented, “I just love the sound these boots make when I walk on the wood floor,” the little moment deepened instantly into genuine deja vu. I remember loving this same sound as my sisters and I strolled up and down the sidewalk in my Aunt Susie’s hand-me-down beauty pageant pumps. And when Griff proclaimed, “These are my cowboy boots, Grandma!” the little moment burst into big-time glee as Gracyn and I could hardly contain ourselves. Little moments seem altogether right in the company of little people.

And when those little people grow into big people? These little moments are fleeting and run the risk of going unnoticed or being brushed over. This past week, my son moved out of our home into his first rental house. Once my little boy, he is now a man with a teaching job soon to begin and a home of his own. As we were moving boxes and furniture, he stopped, turned to look at the sofa and said, “Thanks for arranging the pillows, Mom.” Such an ordinary act, a little moment. Miniscule, actually, in the grand scheme of things. But for him it spoke love, and for me it spoke reassurance: you are still needed and appreciated. I am certain that in the days to come, when I look at the empty floor of our entry way, the floor that was once covered with athletic shoes and sweatshirts, I will remember this moment, for it will not come again in this identical disguise. 

And though these little moments will certainly pass, Henry David Thoreau writes that You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Herein lies the paradox of little moments: they ground you solidly in the here-and-now AND promise the mystery of eternity.

There are little moments that have–in many ways–defined my life. And perhaps they should have defined my life in greater, more lasting ways. When I was in fifth grade and an avid kickball player, I was chosen captain during afternoon recess. Having won the coin toss, I scanned the playground before me, my expectant classmates crowding in. Certainly I would pick David Wisch, the hands-down best kickball player at Park Elementary School.

But something on this particular day–something heavenly I’d like to think–caused me to look beyond the pressing throng of fifth graders to Don S., who stood sullenly at the back. No one ever chose Don; he joined a team by default, last man standing. Always. On that day, in that little moment, I spoke the name that no one, Don included, expected. “I choose Don.” I’m not sure if my memory is accurate, but in my mind’s eye, I see Don with his head down, his shoulders slumped forward. I see one of my classmates nudge him and urge him forward to join my team. And I see him cast me a look that both moved and shamed me. Me? You really want me? 

I don’t remember if my team won or lost that day. But I remember the look, the little moment during which I honestly saw Don, perhaps for the first time, as a human being worthy of being chosen first. Today, I can say that I wish that this little moment had defined me in deeper, more lasting ways. I wish that I had always looked at those edge people, those who were perpetually invisible, those who expected nothing but wanted anything from those who looked over and around them. I wish that not a single Don S. would have escaped my notice.

Holocaust survivor and author, Viktor E. Frankl wrote:

For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment.

Oh how I wish that the specific meaning of my life might have been shaped at that given moment. And how I understand that it is not the meaning of  my life in general but rather the sum of a lifetime of choices made and a lifetime of opportunities taken in little moments.

Author Maya Angelou understands a significant truth about little moments:

. . . I can be completely wedded to the moment. But when I leave that moment, I want to be completely wedded to the next moment.

To be completely wedded to the moment and yet ready to be completely wedded to the next moment. I have seen this truth lived out in people who genuinely live life abundantly. These are the individuals who live with the assurance that abundance lies paradoxically in the smallest, and often most ordinary, experiences. Wedding oneself to these small, ordinary experiences is, perhaps, the most sacred, live-affirming marriage.

The most wonderful thing about the Sanctuary of Little Moments is that its entrance is wide and admission is free. Anyone may enter, young and old. And those who have missed decades of little moments? It’s never too late to wed themselves to present and future moments. It’s never too late to join the fellowship of those who have been wedding themselves to little moments for years.

American author, Henry Miller, aptly describes the Sanctuary of Little Moments:

The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world itself.

Little moments unlock a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world itself. They give credence to the expression that less may be more. If we will but wed ourselves to them, give the best of our hearts and souls to them, they will bless us with mystery and magnificence beyond our comprehension.

So when Gracyn stoops to pick up a snail the size of a pencil eraser–small enough that I really need reading glass to see it well–I will stop and take serious notice. For this little moment–and those that will follow–may never come again in this identical disguise. 

Revelations 8:3-4

And another angel came and stood at the altar, holding a golden censer; and much incense was given him, that he might add it to the prayers of all the saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne. And the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, went up before God out of the angel’s hand. 

Summer Blessing

The hills wear gray today.

And for one hour,

the horizon is lost in mist.

In the hollows,

it sits solidly.

Along the road, watery webs string from weed

to weed.

It’s July, but I can see my breath,

can feel the damp assurance

of autumn.

At 6 a.m.

there is only You,

only me.

Here the unspoken words of my prayers

sleep protected in heart pockets

like vapors

wrapped in velvet.

Here in this dawn cocoon

I am unafraid as I unwrap each word:

a series of small nouns,

an urgent adverb.

And then a single verb rises,

tentative at first,

then determined to break

for sky.

Bless

Bless me

Bless me Father

for I have sinned.

Exodus 34: 33-35

The face of Moses kept shining and after he had spoken with the people, he covered his face with a veil. . . he would put the veil back on until the next time he went to speak with the Lord. 

Transfiguration

I seldom look up,

for each morning the panorama of green overwhelms me:

waves of hickory and oak,

elm and black walnut.

At once, the deep green forest

in the gullies,

then silver and sage

at the ridge.

The emerald sheen of new mown fields,

the yellow-green of roadside yarrow

and stems of sweet clover.

I walk and wear the veil of green at dawn.

And when I return home,

I cannot look upon the ordinary things of my day.

I pull the far corner of the veil across my eyes

and do not speak.

Our Father who art in Heaven:

the hazy vista of eastern Davis County,

the unexpected ditch of day lilies,

the sweet mingling of clover

and dew at dawn.

And above,

five redwing blackbirds

waving in the scarlet light

of the the first day.

Hallowed be Thy name. 

Bunting Light

  for Susan and David                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           June 17, 2017

When spring gives way to summer,

the world spreads out before us.

Once quiet and dormant,

now verdant and vibrant,

sacramentally brilliant.

The air is filled with bird song

and wild honeysuckle.

Nuthatches and rose-breasted grosbeaks take to the trees;

red-winged blackbirds and thrushes dot the thickets.

And in June light,

burnt umber and crimson flash in the foliage.

But the indigo bunting hides,

its silhouette dark atop distant trees.

It takes just the right light,

a single ray that pierces the clouds

and filters the too-bright.

And then black gives way

to cerulean and aquamarine

in bunting light.

So it is with love,

which waits, cocooned in the heart.

Quiet yet perfect,

patient, ever expectant.

Until just the right light–

a single prayer that pierces the heart–

unwraps its cocoon.

Then prayer gives way to love

in bunting light.

And in this sacred space,

this sanctuary of light and grace,

two souls wed.

During the last few months, I finished two historical novels that profiled ordinary people in the French Resistance and Americans who, in desperation and without work, traveled to Russia during the Great Depression in search of better prospects promised by advertisements in The New York Times. Different times, people, and places, but I couldn’t help but be moved and burdened with the abject hunger that serves as perhaps the most significant protagonist of all. There were too many passages in both novels that chronicled the ques of hungry people waiting for hours for whatever they could buy that day. A quarter pound of butter, an onion or potato, a wedge of cheese. There was no shopping for what you needed or wanted; there was only waiting and hoping that the day’s ration would be something to fill their empty bellies. There were too many descriptions of the persistent wasting-away, of the lethargy and hopelessness that comes from weeks of subsisting on broth, of the living who were daily dying. Both novels left me with a literal pit in my stomach and images that I will not soon forget.

I recalled similar passages in other works I had read. Hunger is always a major character in Holocaust works. In Elie Wiesel’s Night, he writes:

Bread, soup – these were my whole life. I was a body. Perhaps less than that even: a starved stomach. The stomach alone was aware of the passage of time.

To be reduced to a body, a starved stomach. To trade your dignity for a piece of bread, your soul for soup. I cannot imagine the injuries that hunger inflicts on on body and soul, for I have never been so hungry that my next meal was my whole life. 

We want to feed the souls of those who hunger, and we acknowledge, as Pranab Mukherjee argues, that there is no humiliation more abusive than hunger. We understand, however, that we must first feed their stomachs. Mahatma Gandhi writes:

There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.

The truest missionaries bring God to the hungry in the form of bread or cassava root or corn. They truly see those who wear hunger draped over their shoulders, a dreary moth-ridden cassock to hide their skeletal forms. They work lovingly from the stomach to the soul. And they never underestimate or forget the miraculous ways God works through bread.

But so many are ravaged by seasons of hunger. During my trip to Nigeria, I saw children who could have benefited from some meat on their bones. Literally. Distended bellies, upper arms and legs you could close your hand around, and clothing that hung much too loosely from their frail frames. For three weeks, I was habitually hungry because I didn’t like Nigerian food and chose to eat little. But the Nigerians were habitually hungry because they didn’t have enough food to eat. I had access to food; they didn’t. I would return to America and order a cheeseburger and fries on my first night back; they would share want with their brothers and sisters most nights.

And yet, it was this very hunger that drove them to the maize fields outside their villages, to the river for clean water, to the market to barter for whatever they can get. This hunger drives parents to spend precious naira on uniforms that will admit their children to private schools where they will spend their days in open air classrooms equipped with crude wooden tables and a single chair for every two students, with teachers who painstakingly write all they know and wish to impart on cracked chalkboards that serve as the only textbooks their students will ever know. No electricity for lights or computers–just the pressing hope that these children will find a better life with three meals a day, modern conveniences, and access to quality health care that will save their children’s teeth and eyes and lives. In the face of unimaginable unemployment, governmental corruption, and the brutal terrorism of Boko Haram, this hunger drives their dreams and fuels their hope. This is a hunger that both haunts and blesses them.

Where is this hunger in our country? In Africa, it enveloped me and left indelible scars on my soul and psyche. And though I occasionally see it in my own schools and community, I have never see anything of the magnitude I saw in Africa. Here, we staff soup kitchens and missions, food pantries and backpack programs, open our churches, schools, and community centers for free meals. We feed people. I have no doubts that most of these folk are hungry, but as we feed their stomachs, I can’t help but wonder if they hunger for more.

Do they hunger for the dignity and financial security that comes from work, any type of work? Do they hunger for the privilege to be educated? Do they hunger for their children’s futures? Does their hunger both haunt and bless them as it does for others in third world countries?

Whereas most will not turn away a free meal, many may turn away from other opportunities, including educational opportunities. I recall being at a regional meeting during which a college official addressed the high school administrators in attendance by saying Just send us some kids–any kids–and we’ll get them through our technical programs. And so my high school did. The young men we sent ultimately stopped attending classes, did not get through, and almost did not graduate high school. They were handed a tremendous free opportunity by those who intended to get them through using whatever means they had to use. But when they stopped attending classes, even the well-intentioned college officials had no choice but to fail them. In the end, these young men were not hungry enough to eat what was given to them. I suppose they were holding out for a better meal served on china–not plastic.

Did my students hunger to learn, to prepare themselves for a life beyond school? As I ended my career, I found that the most hungry were often students whose parents and guardians hungered for them. These adults were those who invested time and energy into their children’s educations, who sacrificed greatly for their children’s futures, and who harnessed and used their own hunger for the benefit of their children’s bodies and souls. The hunger that had haunted their own past lives blessed their children’s future lives.

Clearly, if it were within my power, I would feed all those who are truly starving. Then I would provide the necessary training, education, infrastructure, and economic means for all able-bodied individuals who wish to work and feed themselves and their own families. And finally, I would feed their souls. This would take care of much of the world’s hunger.

And for my own country?Again, I would feed those who are truly hungry.  But then, if it were in my power, I would create a genuine hunger for the dignity of work, for true education, and for service to others. I would work so that more could experience the potential blessing of hunger and not just the curse.

Novelist George Eliot writes:

It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are still alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them.

Many of our brothers and sisters in other parts of the world have not given up longing and wishing. They hunger for food, for better lives, for the beautiful and good. The fact that they hunger is both tragic and inspiring.

As I look around my community and country, I want all children’s bellies to be full. But I think we could do with some real hungering for the beautiful and good, as well as a keener appetite for educational opportunities, employment training, and generally improving one’s lot in life. This is the hunger that blesses, and we could really use some hunger of this sort.

Footnote:  Thousands of Americans migrated to Russia in 1931. Destitute and desperate for employment, housing, and benefits promised by Russian  advertisements in The New York Times, they left their homeland for a Worker’s Paradise. Once there, most were stripped of their passports and eventually accused of counter-revolutionary acts in Stalin’s totalitarian state. They worked and starved; they lived in fear and want.  Many were sent to prison or were executed. Antonio Garrido gives his account of this migration in his historical fiction novel, The Last Paradise. Through this novel, I learned of the terrible hunger that Americans suffered–hunger for food, for heat, for protection from the Russian secret police and Stalin’s regime, and finally for a safe return to America.

Disclaimer: I love dogs, pygmy goats, rabbits and horses, all creatures great and small. But I am decidedly and devotedly a cat person. Ask my family: I have yet to meet a cat I didn’t like. Short or long-haired, Siamese, Persian or Maine Coon, I love them all.

Two weeks ago, one of my outside cats (you know you’re a cat lover when you have inside AND outside cats!) had kittens. When I awakened that morning to find her in labor, I sat in the early morning chill, holding my breath and whispering push–push now as she gave birth to five kittens during the course of the morning. Cats are birthing machines, and I reveled in the relative ease and efficiency with which she birthed and after-birthed. What a woman, I thought as she nestled all five into her for their first feeding.

English Romantic poet Robert Southey wrote: A kitten is, in the animal world, what a rosebud is in the garden. Sitting on the floor of my screened-in porch, I was smitten with the five little rosebuds in front of me. I couldn’t wait to tell my granddaughter and grandson that we finally had kittens, for they had been coming over daily to check to see if there were babies yet. As the rosebuds wiggled and rolled into one compact gray and white mass, I couldn’t help but think What a great day this is!

Japanese haiku writer Kobayashi Issa is a cat lover after my own heart:

Arise from sleep, old cat,
And with great yawns and stretchings…
Amble out for love

This is one of the greatest things about cats: they amble out for love. No over-eager licking or jumping up or general pushiness for cats. They are amblers whose love is manifested in curling up and purring and general hanging out. And I like that very much.

British veterinarian and author James Herriot claims that cats are the connoisseurs of comfort. On a rainy day or a cold winter night, there is nothing like the sweet weight and warmth of a cat stretched out on your chest as you read or nap. This is comfort to rival the finest spa experience. Add a generous dose of purring, and this is heaven-come-to-earth.

As one who often turns off the radio as I drive, I value the quiet space in which I can think and dream. Cats afford a rare companionship in solitude. Mark Twain wrote that if animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much. This rare grace of never saying a word too much is an attribute I admire, one to which most humans might aspire.

In the weeks to come, my grandchildren and I will set about naming the kittens. Just as naming my children was serious business, so, too, is naming my cats. As the kittens’ personalities emerge, we will try out names in pursuit of the best extension and reflection of each cat. One day’s name may be discarded in favor of a new, and hopefully more suitable, name the next day. Some kittens may receive people names, while others do not. Serious as this naming business is, it is not a science so much as a labor of love. I currently have a Pierre and a Phil, the fanciful French cat and the redneck Iowa cat. A wild stray who took me weeks to tame, a peanut of a cat, finally earned the name Birdie when it was clear that she would remain forever petite, eating more like a bird than a feline. Over the course of decades, I have had a Scamper and a Puff–regular cat names–as well as a Jade and a Darth–not-so-regular cat names. Poet T. S. Eliot understood the difficulty of finding just the right cat name:

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;

            .   .    .

When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

[Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats]

A name that both cannot be uttered, cannot be described in words AND one that can. This is the paradoxical task of naming cats, and I tell you,  it is not just one of your holiday games. After all, the kitten with the face that looks oddly like a monkey (according to my granddaughter) cannot continue to be called Monkey Boy. There is a dignity in this naming process, and both she and I understand that he deserves much better.

Each morning before I make coffee, I walk to the sliding door onto my screened-in porch to check on the five rosebuds. Often, they are contently gathered into their mother, one furry ball of sleep. Other times, they are trying on their new legs, wobbling to the edge of the cat bed, desperately focusing their new eyes on the shadow and shape that is their mother. Knowing that I can open the door, scoop them up, and take in the wonder of kittens? This is one of the best ways to start (and end) each day.

We have a dog, two bunnies, chickens, a fish, two adopted ducks at the pond, and cats. If it were up to me, we would have more of everything. Still, there is–and will always be–a special place in my heart and my home for cats. Though I haven’t yet told my husband, we will have kittens again in a couple weeks. Birdie-the-petite is not so petite these days. And this is great news for a cat lover like me who understands that the rosebuds will have cousins to play with this summer. What could be more glorious than a cozy clutch of kittens and their mothers who devotedly amble out for love?

It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and the afternoon dragged on as I watched the snow blanket the playground. As a fifth grader, I was counting the minutes until we were loosed from school and could begin the official countdown until Christmas.

At the final bell, my sisters and I bundled up for the five-minute walk home. By the time we reached the back door, snowflakes clung to our our eyelashes, and our mittens were damp. My mom was waiting for us in the kitchen as we unbuttoned, unbooted, shaking wet snow from our coats. I know it isn’t Christmas yet, but I have an early present for you girls. Come with me. 

We followed my mom into her sewing room and there it was in the corner: a two-story Barbie house that my mom had lovingly crafted from cardboard boxes and furnished with velvet-covered tin-can chairs, cereal box bed, and real curtains. It was magnificent! Speechless, we gathered around the house to take in every room and accessory.

For as long as I can remember, my mom has worked miracles on a limited budget. Barbie houses, prom dresses, bedroom makeovers came to life through my mom’s vision and skills. She learned to upholster and to refinish furniture, to decorate our home for every holiday with pieces she made in ceramics and to make sure that we had special clothes for special occasions. From my mom, I learned to shop at garage sales and thrift shops before this became fashionable. Under her tutelage, I learned what I would need to know when, years later, I would attempt to work miracles on a limited budget for my own family,

More than things, however, my mom created events. Friday nights were hamburgers and chips on TV trays and one glorious hour of Lost in Space. Sunday afternoons might find us driving country roads, scavenging old door knobs from abandoned farm houses and searching the ditches for milkweed pods and cattails. And then there were the old-shirt-it’s-time days. When my dad’s shirts became worn enough that my mom was never going to let my dad be seen wearing them in public, she gave us the go-ahead to literally rip the shirt off my dad’s body. As he feigned surprise and gave half-hearted attempts to evade us, we ran and ripped, ripped and ran. Until ribbons of plaid sport shirt hung from my dad’s shoulders. Until, squealed out, we lay breathless in the grass clutching fistfuls of fabric as trophies.

And on 4th of July? She created THE event of the summer. With coolers of eggs, bacon, and juice and boxes of donuts, we made the annual trip to Ft. Kearney Recreation Area for breakfast on the beach and swimming after. As years went by, neighbors, college friends, and assorted other guests attended the annual event. Eggs never tasted so good as they did on these mornings. Our fingers sticky from glazed donuts and sunscreen, we washed them in the swimming area and stretched out on our towels in the mid-morning sun. As kids, we never gave a second thought to the fact that as we were sunbathing, swimming and making sandcastles, my mom was cleaning the skillets, cleaning up the picnic site, and packing the remaining food in our coolers. We never once considered the planning, the packing, the preparing that made our 4th of July at Ft. Kearney a splendid reality, year after year. We had a mom who would put most event planners to shame.

Best of all, though, my mom created sanctuaries. In my sleepless hours of adolescence, my mom’s constant presence and assurance became a sanctuary I retreated to night after night.  I love the photo above because years before she would accompany me to high school track meets, it reveals the mom who would brave wind and sleet to sit for hours in the bleachers as one of very few spectators. In this photo, she wears a hooded coat at a college football game, but during track season, she wore a black garbage bag over her coat to protect herself and the entire team’s stash of snacks. When races did not go well, when you needed warm hands to rub out the cold, my mom was a sanctuary of comfort. As I grew and moved to different cities and states, I depended upon the sanctuary of my mom’s voice over the phone lines that spanned the miles between my mom and me. Even now in the moments before I sleep, it is this voice that sends me into the sanctuary of dream.

In the Sanctuary of my Mom, you will never go without. Before you realize you need something–a word of affirmation or guidance, a new coat or set of dishes–she has anticipated just what you need and presents it as if it is no big deal. I have lived a life of plenty, for I have never gone without my mom’s unfailing love and support. And this a a very big deal, indeed.

I have always wanted to grow up to be just like my mom. For my entire life, I have watched my mom advocate for those in need of help, befriend those who need a genuine friend, and open her house to countless visitors who need a place to stay. Gathered around my family dining room table, I am certain that these individuals can’t imagine a place they’d rather be. Truthfully, I can’t imagine a place I’d rather be than seated at this table with a great piece of pie and the promise of hours of conversation with my mom.

My siblings and I are remarkably blessed to live in the sanctuary of such a mother. In this sanctuary, I propose that every day should be Mother’s Day. Not the Hallmark, FTD kind of Mother’s Day, but the real deal complete with phone calling, letter writing, and visiting. Sentimental verse and flowers are sweet, but our own words and presence are so much sweeter. How do I know this? I learned this–and so much more–from my mother.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom–today and always.