The Power of Story (#SmallWonder Link-up)

This past weekend author and editor Andi Cumbo Floyd came and gave a reading of her new novel, Steele Secrets at our house.  You can learn more about Andi and her work here.  

Nine kids tromped up and down the stairs at random intervals, leaving a trail of fallen pretzels in their wake.  Adults sat in a circle of furniture listening politely and with interest to the author’s introduction. 

Someone fell on the stairs, someone else fed a handful of pretzels to the dog, and the kids continued to swirl as kids do, moving in clumps throughout the house.  Then the reading began.  The story slipped like spider silk from the author’s lips, spinning a web over the room as words danced from corner to corner. 

The children paused and grew still.  Drawn like magnets, their bottoms settled along the stairs, faces peeking through the railing.  As the story grew, my two oldest kids burst into the circle of adults.  First Solomon came and backed himself into my lap.  My arms settled around his middle like a seat belt.  How long has it been since he sat with me that way?  He stayed there through the whole chapter, tucked into me, even though his best friends from church and school were there too.  By the time we got to the part about the ghost, Sophia flew into the circle and belly flopped on the carpet.  

//

Story applies a centripetal force on its hearers, drawing us closer and closer to the source.  Even the most wily among us - children and adults - are not immune to its powers.  This is what I'm thinking of this week as we head into one of the Christian church's most storied times of the year - the power of story to draw us to the teller, to still our souls and bodies, to open doors we didn't know were closed.  

//

When the chapter ended, the reading ended, the spell broke and the kids scattered like dandelion fluff, consuming more pretzels, begging for another brownie and clamoring up and down the stairs again.  Almost as though they'd never stopped.   

*   *   *

We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  

In Which I Put Myself in Time Out (#SmallWonder Link-up)

I was sick and tired, literally.

And it was Friday afternoon. 

I was a few minutes away from the end of my last lecture for the week, just digging in to the part where I talk about my personal connection with the text.

A few minutes earlier, during a brief break between lectures, I talked with my husband about my oldest son’s fourth strep diagnosis since November.  Thoughts of specialists, surgery and possible hospitalization swirled in my head. 

Did I mention I was sick?  And losing my voice?  Sipping scalding hot tea between sentences I relished the burning liquid that rendered my throat numb for a few precious seconds of relief.

Looking up from my outline I saw them.  Back row, middle seats, directly in my line of vision.  She leaned over his desk, they giggled and passed a paper between.  Continuing to speak I watched as she started writing on the shared paper.  I had a quick memory of the notebook passed between a friend and I during a year's worth of Spanish classes, page after page of words scrawled in large loopy letters. 

Thoughts about the application of the Hebrew bible’s prophetic texts stopped mid-sentence and I blurted, “Really?!  Passing notes?!  This is college, people!”

This is what it must be like to be an extrovert – words flying out unfiltered, unmeasured.

They both looked up, startled.  The rest of the class halted, confused. 

Then he did the worst thing possible, well, two of the worst things possible. 

First he shrugged his shoulders his hands thrown out to the sides.  Not a word was spoken, but his body said it all, What’s your problem, lady? 

His gesture added fuel to my fury and I prodded, “What?  That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?  I can see you.”

Then he blamed the girl, threw her under the bus in his own defense. 

Oh, for shame. 

They were Adam and Eve, caught, in the garden and I was an angry God. 

I stared in disbelief, astounded at his defense, not the nature of it, but that he had the nerve at all to stand up before me, that he didn’t hang his head in shame.

I was done.  I looked at the clock. 

“Ok,” I said, “We’re taking a break.  We’ll come back together at 3:15.” 

I abruptly left the room, tea cup in hand.  Students sat stunned. 

I sank into a chair in the dark teacher’s lounge. 

This wasn’t the first time I snapped at students in the classroom – sleeping students, texting students, silent students who refused to throw their teacher a line.  But it was the first time I had sense enough to call a time out, to send myself to a quiet corner to reflect on my behavior. 

I sat in silence and a few tears, the ones I’d felt lurking all day long, sprang to the corners of my eyes.  Rather than blaming the students who were, by the way, just acting their age, I looked into my own soul.  I saw someone who was trying awfully hard to meet nobody’s expectations but her own. 

The truth is, I’m the kind of person who snaps, like a little dog, when cornered.  And I felt cornered that day – by fatigue, by sickness and the demands of parenting and my own high teaching expectations.  My self-imposed time out allowed me to see my snapping as an invitation to grace and compassion.   

I decided to throw myself a line. 

After my time out I went back to the class and finished the lecture.  We moved on, together, until our time was up.  Then I went home and recommitted myself to all the ways I know work best to keep myself from feeling cornered.  Mainly, I lowered my standards and got some rest.  I served myself up a healthy dose of compassion, so the next time someone near me needed grace, there’d be more than enough to go around.

*   *   *

We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area?  If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house?  You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

Do Not Despair (Holes, Laundry, and Dead Mums)

Six boys scanned the yard from late afternoon until dusk.  They walked with their heads down, six pairs of eyes scoured the not-yet-green grass.  Each step bore silent anticipation, nervous chatter bubbled up around their listening. 

When the metal detector beeped, they cheered and rallied around, shovel in hand.  Not-yet-green turned muddy brown as they dug holes haphazardly throughout the yard. 

Holes, all through the yard; potholes, ankle-twisting pits, mower-wheel-swallowing craters.

That night, after getting groceries and returning a movie while listening to a radio talk show dissect presidential politics, my husband arrived home agitated.  He was in a state as he filled me in on the groceries, the politics, the hole situation.  The way he talked, our yard was a war zone, the site of asteroid and comet landings, a grand canyon of potential grass laid to waste by six boys and one shovel. 

It was dark out, I had no way to confirm or deny, so I accepted his wild eyed assessment at face value.  Holes, everywhere.  And politics on the radio on top of it all. 

We complained about our ruined lawn and ruined country, feeling old beyond our years and went to bed early.  But in the dark, our minds raced and nerves jangled.   

//

I opened the door to the bathroom closet today and found laundry piled knee deep. 

I shut the door tight and left the room. 

All day that pile grew in my mind’s eye – waist deep, chest deep, until I was drowning in it.  Add to it the pile a mile wide in the twins’ room, the remains of the stomach bug laundry waiting to be folded and there’s nearly enough laundry, I’m sure, to fill in a good many of the holes in our yard. 

//

Something about those holes and the laundry remind me of the dead mums I wrote about on Monday.  Last fall they were a riot of burnt orange and red, waving their hands in the air all along the side of the little house.  But then cold weather came and they died back.  Flowers rotted, leaves shriveled, curled, brown until all that remained were the ugly husks.  Those bare, brown bones rattled at me all winter long, untidy, a reminder of unfinished business and I stared back at them from the kitchen window.  There was no door to shut on them. 

At the first whiff of warm air and sunshine, I marched out to attack the brittle branches like they were my mortal enemy.  I cut my hands on them, eager for the pleasure of their demise.  Take that, mums!  I snapped and twisted, conquering one small corner of disorder as if its tidying might hold the key to life.

Mid-twist, though, I noticed what hid at the base of each frail and failing branch – small, ruffled, green leaves, the beginnings of next year’s joyful riot.  Here I was, like those boys, finding treasure in the dirt (minus a hole, of course).  I continued to twist and break, more respectfully now, looking no longer to rid us of the dead, but looking for signs of life. 

//

The morning after hole-mageddon, I looked at it from a different angle and with new eyes I saw more than holes.  I saw my son excited to impress boys his own age, thrilled to have an awesome toy for once, to be the envy, the star with a shovel in hand.  I saw the treasure in his delight and it made the holes less glaring.  Walking outside later in the day I was surprised to find most of the yard still intact.  It would take six boys more than one evening to dig up two acres of land. 

//

There’s so much to fear, so much to overwhelm in this life.  The bones of things unfinished rattle at us, hard work is easily undone and more hard work awaits.  This is so very true.  Fear looms large at night, in winter, in the mud-before-spring season of despair.    

Do not despair, little ones. 

God is always doing something new, do you not perceive it?

Go dig a hole.  Tend your garden. 

Do not believe fear's whisper in the night.  

The good work of our hands, the feel of the earth between our fingers, the labors of love for a household, these all remind us - treasure is buried everywhere.  Even, maybe, at the bottom of the laundry pile.  

Open the door, dig deep, look again, always.  Treasure is buried everywhere.  Do not despair. 

Spring Arrives (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Dead mums staggered
in the flower bed outside 
the kitchen window 
and rattled their bones 
at me all winter long.

Today, under a
warming sun, 
I bent and broke 
their brown branches
at the base where new
green leaves spoke 
spring's surprise.

Then I walked around
the house, surveying 
winter's damages.
Like the disciples
returning to the tomb,
I found in death's bed
signs of life.  

This never fails to  
astonish me, 
like Christ popping 
through locked doors, 
bright with light,
a daffodil.     

*   *   *

We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area?  If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house?  You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

   

Return Again: The Blessing of Being a Prodigal (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

After the meeting I feel depleted, empty.

I return home to the house, the woodstove, the dog and cats, the gerbils tucked together into a tight ball in their plastic tunnel.  This internal absence follows me and I try to open my hands, my heart to it.  I feel lost and far from home, not the physical concrete place with the smell of animals and the constant tumbleweeds of shed hair, but the place inside of me. 

I pile wood on the fire in the wood stove and reheat old coffee which I forget to drink before trading Chuck Taylor’s and jeans for wool socks and leggings.  I roll out the yoga mats and cue up a fifteen minute video, hoping to find a pathway home through the stretching out long of legs and limbs and torso.  The little cat winds between my legs, leaving a trail of fur in her wake, then throws herself at my feet, purring.  Bent, with my palms to the mat, I rub her ears, her neck, and her eyes close in pleasure. 

I follow the routine.  Opening, bending, breathing, moving as I am led until, at last, I’m seated on the mat, the video complete.  The practice fails to work its magic this time.  I’m closer to home, but still carrying a distance within.

It’s then I think of the prodigal son, his leaving and the dissolution that precedes his staggering return.  

Every day, I think, that’s me. 

In the parable, the younger son traveled to a distant land and “squandered his property in dissolute living.”  I used to think the point of the parable was how the prodigal son lost himself, but now I see the heart of the matter isn’t how he’s lost, but that he is lost.  Like the older brother who imagines his brother “devoured” the father’s property with “prostitutes,” I imagined dissolute living referred to carnal sins, hedonism in all its various forms. 

And maybe it does. 

But a quick look at an online dictionary tells me “dissolute” comes from the Latin root for the word “dissolve.”  We know the son’s inheritance has been squandered and dissolved, but the prodigal’s turning point has little to do with money lost or sins committed and everything to do with identity. 

“But when he came to himself,” the story goes. 

A Jewish boy, feeding pigs in a foreign land – these external characteristics serve to communicate how very lost this boy has become.  And what identity is it that he’s lost?  It’s not his identity as one who does or does not sin, but rather his identity as one who has a place of belonging.  The boy’s return to himself is intertwined with a return to his father or – as Parker Palmer puts it, the question (or realization) of “who am I” leads, inevitably to the question (or realization) of “whose I am.”

It’s not so much that the prodigal sins, but that he spends his very soul, allowing himself to be dissolved of identity or, more clearly, this is the way in which he sins.  It’s not that his carnal sins don’t matter, but that they merely reflect an inward dissipation. 

And if this is the case, then yes, I am so very much like that prodigal.  

Every day I wander dispensing my gifts as though through their service I might gain some intangible thing – identity, respect, belonging, maybe even also love.  And sometimes in that process I come dangerously close to losing the one thing Jesus says is most valuable of all – soul, spirit, identity or true self.  Richard Rohr refers to it as the “Immortal Diamond.”  A diamond never meant to be spent, traded or squandered, no matter how great the reward.

The good thing about realizing you are in fact the prodigal is in that very moment of recognition lies the invitation to return.  The very awareness of lostness carries within it, like a seed, the memory of belonging. 

Here is where the spiritual disciplines begin, practices which over centuries have been affirmed to help us find the path toward home.  The prodigal is not only one who is lost, but one who returns. 

The most blessed thing about being a prodigal over and over again, which is the case for each and every one of us – is the opportunity it affords us to become experts in the journey toward home.

Blessed are those whom God allows 

to wander near and far, for they 

are the seekers, the finders 

who travel over stream and mountain 

hunting out the paths that lead toward 

home.  Blessed are the lost for they 

shall be found.  Blessed are those who

walk the path toward home.  Toward them

the loving father runs.  

*   *   *

We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area?  If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house?  You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

   

Not Where, but With

I never envisioned

being the kind of woman

who drives around with a dog

sitting sentinel in the passenger seat - 

I’m a cat person, after all. 

But she loves to go, so I let her.

On straight stretches I reach over

and bury my hand in her fur 

and she keeps my seat warm 

while I’m in the store. 

For her, it isn’t about where,

but with.  The excitement of a car

ride is no more tantalizing than following

me to the Little House where she curls

in a chair and I sit, still in the driver’s seat,

pecking away on a keyboard.  

It isn’t about where, but with.

Gerbil (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Tiny nose,

bulging eyes,

whir of white

whiskers. 

Pin-prick

precision fingers

carry bedding,

clutch seeds. 

Nest,

burrow,

run

‘round

the wheel. 

The cat,

obsessed,

incensed,

broods

on top of

her cage

sniffing,

spying,

swatting.

*   *   *

Guess what?  We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area?  If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house?  You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.