Little Signs of Spring #3 (For Mama)

Morning Bouquet-On My Porch (For Mama)

Though she’s been gone for over 22 years, not a day passes that I don’t think of Mama.   Most times it’s the simplest things that trigger my memories—hearing a mockingbird sing or seeing  the dogwood tree illuminated by the morning light.  Or a vase full of the wildflowers I just picked—Mama preferred them over the store bought kind.  Although they never knew her, my children are so like her—dreamy and artistic, yet down to earth and plainspoken.  She would adore them. 

I’ve wondered a lot about where our souls go when we die.   People talk about their loved ones who have passed being in heaven, but really the Bible doesn’t say that we go straight to heaven when we die.  Years ago, on Ariel’s birthday, we were in Duke Gardens when we saw a wood thrush on the path ahead.  It didn’t fly away as we approached, but cocked its head and sang, looking straight at us.  Then it started hopping down the path, looking back at us as though to say Follow me.  So we did.  The wood thrush led us for quite a ways, hopping and looking back, before finally flying up away into the sweet spring morning.  It was a magical moment, made more so by the fact that it was Ariel’s birthday.  I must admit, my first thought was that the soul of my mother was temporarily housed in that wood thrush’s body.  After all, wood thrushes were one of her favorite birds. 

Who can say?  Is it so far-fetched to believe that our souls may reside in many different places before the day comes when our spirits rise to be reunited with our Maker?  And I know, for sure, my Mama would want to spend most of that time flying.  She couldn’t walk for the last five years of her life, so I love to imagine her soaring up far above our earthbound selves or perched singing in her beloved dogwood tree.

So I talk to all the birds I see, just in case, and chase the black cat that skulks about our property stalking birds.   I watch as the birds fly into the firmament, gazing at them until they disappear.  I listen to the wood thrush at dusk, singing its sweet but slightly melancholy song from the highest forest trees.  And I smile, thinking of Mama and relish the thought that she’s singing for us, that’s she’s flying through the clouds.  Waiting for the day that we fly, too.

Happy Mother’s Day to Mama.  And to all Mamas, near and far. 

And to all Mamas in this world…or the next.

The Light Has Come

 

(sunrise from my porch)

I wish you all a Joyful Easter and Happy Spring!  And may we all know peace, hope, and light.

          “Arise, shine for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.”

           Isaiah 60:1

(our flowering cherry humming with honeybees)

The Year the Messiah Came to Our House

 

(For those of you who have read my earlier memories of family, this post might be confusing.  It contrasts sharply with my earlier pieces.  But those were about my life after the age of 11 (when my oldest brother and sister left home).  This is about before.  It’s rather long—sorry.  But I decided to just go with whatever came.)

I apologize—I have been remiss in both my own postings and in my comments on others’ postings.  Part of it is that we’ve been so busy.  We’ve just sold our house and are rather suddenly faced with finding both a new home and a new job.  Also, a single violent cough from getting some fiberglass (from insulation) in my throat reawakened my rib injury, which I thought had healed completely.  So I hurt.

But mostly, I think, it’s Christmas.  I just can’t seem to feel the spirit this year.  Partly, I’m sure, because most of the family and friends we used to spend Christmas with have passed away.  And really, except for one of my brothers and a cousin, we wouldn’t even want to spend it with the extended family that is left.  We live in fairly comfortable denial of our estrangement from extended family the rest of the year, but at Christmas, we are bombarded with images of happy families gathered ’round the Christmas tree, which makes it harder to escape certain painful realities. ‘Tis the season to be jolly and all that.  I should say here, I am very close to my husband and children and I am thankful for that.   And we are indeed jolly around our Christmas tree and have some wonderful traditions, but still…my children miss the grandparents they never really got the chance to know and they miss their Aunt Ellen and Aunt Esther and our dear friend Ernie and other loved ones who’ve passed in recent years.  We have lost too many too soon and too often.

I do love Christmas music, and usually, I can get the spirit by doing what my Mama always did—listening to Christmas music while baking cookies.  Especially the Messiah.  Mama loved Handel’s Messiah.  I do, too and have ever since the Christmas I was six years old, and Mama got her heart’s desire.  And so did I…for a little while anyway.

The year I was six had been a difficult year in our family.  My oldest brother and my sister had been in constant trouble for the better part of two years, and our house was a battleground.  My brother had finally overtaxed the patience of the local law enforcement by stealing a car (previously, he had merely engaged in petty larceny and vandalism) and was facing reform school.  My sister was always picking fights at school and would fly into sudden frightening rages at home.  I remember one fight she and my brother had where she hit him on the head with a cast iron skillet.  John let out a terrible moan and fell over, unconscious.  I thought he was dead.  She almost killed me twice by choking me.  I went unconscious before Daddy pulled her off.  So I tip-toed my six-year-old self around, learned to be invisible, and just tried to stay under the radar.  I spent a lot of time outside talking to birds and squirrels and trees.  My other brother Paul escaped into books.

We didn’t have a lot of money, and usually Mama would ask for something practical for Christmas, like a mixer or a robe and slippers.  But that year was different.  She asked for a record player and for one single set of phonograph records—the entire Handel’s Messiah.  Daddy was hesitant—that was pretty expensive.  Wouldn’t she like another robe?

But she was adamant.  She told him that it could be a combination birthday and Christmas gift and she wouldn’t ask for another thing.  Daddy liked the thought of killing two birds with one stone and soon warmed to the idea.  He started making payments on a record player at Sears and Roebuck and finally secretly brought it home just after Thanksgiving and hid it in our attic.  I was terrified that the mice were going to chew on it.  We lived in an old house and had so many mice that our parents gave us a nickel for every mouse we caught.   So I kept pushing Daddy to go ahead and give the stereo to Mama.  He didn’t need much encouragement, as he could barely contain his excitement.  And so it was that Mama got her Christmas present early.

In a rare moment of family togetherness, all six of us were there when Daddy set up the stereo.  For once, my brother and sister weren’t fighting.  Mama’s face was shining as she opened the box containing the three records that made up the Messiah set.   I picked up the front cover of the box and ran my fingers over the pretty picture.  There was a scene of the Holy Family on the front, taken from an old Italian painting.  The Virgin Mary’s face was shining as she looked at her new son, a circle of light glowing about her head.  The infant Jesus was glowing, too.  Joseph looked bewildered, but happy, gazing upon his new radiant baby boy, the Christ Child.  I looked around at my family.  They were all smiling, watching my mother as she tenderly placed the needle of the phonograph on the record.

The music that swelled out from the stereo was the most beautiful I’d ever heard.  I sat down on the floor to listen, transfixed.  A man began to sing:

“Comfort ye, comfort ye My people, saith your God…”

My brothers and sister lost interest and drifted off.  Daddy had to leave, but Mama and I stayed there, listening, rapt.  When the record ended, Mama, without a word, got up and turned it over.  A deep voice that I thought sounded like God sang:

“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light…”

Then a chorus, like a mighty heavenly host: 

“For unto us a Child is born…and His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

Mama and I listened to most of the three record set.  I didn’t move the whole time; Mama got up to start supper.  Our supper that night was more peaceful than usual, and I didn’t have a stomachache afterwards.  Over the next two weeks, Mama listened to Messiah over and over again, and it was as though the Prince of Peace had come to our house. 

“And suddenly there was with the angels a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying: Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth, goodwill towards men.”

John and Mary fought less, and there were no calls from school or the sheriff.  Mary was spending a lot of time in the kitchen.  Though she was only thirteen, she had a knack for cooking, and a counselor had suggested my parents encourage this.  So Mama had asked Mary to cook the turkey for Christmas dinner, as well as some of the other dishes.  My uncles and aunts were coming for Christmas dinner, so Mary pored over cookbooks and tried out different recipes.  I ate everything she cooked enthusiastically and praised it heartily. Mary actually smiled at me once or twice.  Sometimes, during that period, I’d look around the table at mealtime, and my family seemed almost…normal. 

Christmas Day came.  Mama and Mary were up early, cooking, with the Messiah playing in the background.  Mary’s turkey came out perfectly browned and exquisitely tender.  All the aunts and uncles oooed and ahhed over the turkey and other dishes.  After dinner, we all went into the living room, the lights from the Christmas tree making the room glow.   Everyone was laughing and talking and praising Mary.  Mary’s face was shining, and John, for once, was sitting quietly.   Mama and Daddy were sitting together, beaming with pride at their son and daughter.  I stood in the door, looking at the scene and sighed with happiness.  It was almost as though the Christ Child was in our midst, filling our home with light.

Mama had kept the Messiah playing all day, and it was playing then.  My Uncle John, (who had been completely deaf since contracting scarlet fever as a baby) was standing by the record player.  He put his hands on the side of the stereo speaker and closed his eyes, an enraptured look on his face.  I went over and put my hand on his.  He opened his eyes and smiled at my quizzical look.  He pointed at the speaker and then his ears, and I realized he was feeling the heartbeat of the music—hearing with his hands.

“Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped…and the tongue of the dumb shall sing.”

*********************

So, I wish I could say our home was transformed forever and that we lived on in peace and harmony.  But we didn’t.  Mary still flew into violent rages; John kept lying and stealing and finally was sent to reform school by the courts.  Paul kept retreating into books and I kept talking to trees.  But Mama kept playing the Messiah, finding solace in the memory of the peace it brought to our house and its promise of eternal peace.  I’d listen to it like my Uncle John, with my hands on the speaker while the music flowed through my fingers, filling me with an electrifying joy.

I’m listening to the Messiah now.  And in a minute, I’ll walk over and put my hands on the speakers of the boom box.  I’ll close my eyes and think of my Uncle John and of my Mama and Daddy.  I’ll thank God and George Frederick Handel for this musical gift of glory.  Handel wrote Messiah in just 24 days, barely eating or sleeping during that time.  He said that, as he wrote it, “I did think I did see all Heaven before me, and the Great God himself.”

“And we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye…and we shall receive wisdom and strength and honor and glory.”

Hallelujah.

The Deep and Hidden Chambers of the Human Heart

When I began to think about having my own blog, I read a bit of advice about how to start one, how to keep it going, and how to increase visits to your site.  One thing I heard consistently is that one should have a “target” audience.  That is, blogs should have a predominant theme—be it parenting, politics, sports, or popular culture.

I knew then I was in trouble.  For one thing, my interests vary widely, and the thoughts that rumble through my head, like a runaway circus train, reflect that. And, naturally, those thoughts sometimes end up in my posts. In other words, sometimes it’s the lions that escape from the circus train; sometimes, it’s the clowns.  Besides, the blogs I like the best tend to be about a little bit of everything.

But some of you may have noticed that my posts tend to swing in a very wide arc—from happy to homicidal, from touchy-feely to just plain touchy.  Perhaps you’ve thought I should rename my blog Dr.Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde.  Maybe you’ve thought that the menopause I wrote about here was making me a little…moody. 

Well, no.  My kids and husband will tell you that I’m actually a very even-tempered person (perhaps even to the point of boredom) —not prone to moodiness at all.  But clearly, there is a dichotomy here. 

Years ago, I used to read the comic Cathy (back when she was a single girl and so was I). Once, describing herself, she said:  Brain of a cynic; heart of a Precious Moments figurine. Heh.  That’s me.  OK, I don’t really care for the Precious Moments figurines, but you get the idea.
 
Long story short:  The past twenty years have been very, very hard.  I have no desire to rehash it all here, and I’m sure you have no desire to read it.  So, trust me on this:  We’ve been rode hard and put up wet. 

So, I’m angry.  I’m sad.  And weary to the bone.  And sometimes I veer dangerously close to misanthropy.  But somewhere, in the deepest chambers of my heart, is the spirit of a cockeyed optimist.  There are so many things in my life to be grateful for.  And I am.

Though I am angry at God, I see Him everywhere.  Especially in nature, so that explains my sometimes enraptured essays on the natural world.  What I’m working on is seeing God in other people.  That’s hard for me right now. 

I pray every day that God will heal my brokenness.  I know He understands and forgives me for my anger.  After all, the Kingdom of God is for everyone.  Especially the brokenhearted.  In Isaiah 61, the prophet speaks of Jesus coming to “bind up the brokenhearted.”   In Psalm 34, I am reassured to know that “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”  And Lord knows, I’m crushed in spirit.
 
So, please bear with me. Some people drink to deal with pain, some smoke, some take Valium.  I write. Sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter.  But always the truth, as I see it.  It eases my heart and quiets my mind.  Jesus said that the truth will set you free, so my writing has to be honest and true if I’m ever going to loosen these chains that bind my heart.  So, for now…I’ll keep ranting.  I’ll keep raving.  I’ll keep rhapsodizing. 

I hope you keep reading.

The Transformative Power of Light

I was sweeping my porch a couple of days ago when I was struck (as I so often am) by the way a particular slant of late afternoon light set our woods aglow.  I laid down the broom, sat on the steps in the golden sunbeam and thought (as I so often do) about how light can transform the most ordinary things into breathtaking loveliness.

Of course, I know that’s not exactly an original thought.  Neither is the idea of that pure ray of light being a metaphor for how the Light of God can transform us.  But sometimes, the simplest things are the most profound.

But, anyway, I came up with the idea of seeing how much of this light beauty I could capture in just fifteen minutes, in my own ordinary yard, taking shots of ordinary subjects, on an ordinary day, with my ordinary camera.  To show that you needn’t go further than your own yard to find grace and beauty and how that (and those!) we deem most common are often worthy of a second look.
 
Behold—the transformative power of light:

Illuminated Dogwood Leaves

Bull Thistle Down Aglow

Light Escapes Under Our Deck

Down Our Light Dappled Forest Path

More Illuminated Dogwood Leaves

Fritillary on Luminous White Snakeroot

Leaf Alight

Shining Monarch on White Snakeroot

Looking Up

 

The faint iridescence you see in this cloud is called a sundog, which occurs when ice crystals shaped like hexagonal prisms refract sunlight.  These ice crystals are contained in cirrus or cirrostratus clouds. Sundogs happen mostly when the sun is low (at sunrise or sunset).  I took this photograph from my front yard a couple of hours before sunset.  As sundogs go, this one is pretty run-of-the-mill, but there’s something to be said for the happy serendipity of looking up to see something like this while you’re engaged in an ordinary task like watering the flowers.

And speaking of serendipity, while Googling “sundog,” I was clicking around when I found a website that made me laugh out loud with delight. (Sometimes, for me, looking up something on the Internet is like looking up a word in the dictionary. You know how it is: you go to find out if “folio” has the same derivation as “foliage,” and before you know it, you’re lost in the “F’s.”   Fogbow…Foehn….Foison…) 

Anyway, my vote for one of the Best Sites I Found While Looking For Something Else goes to the The Cloud Appreciation Society, who fight valiantly “the banality of ‘blue-sky thinking.’”  I’m generally not much of a joiner of clubs (mostly because I’m such an oddball, it’s hard to find a place where I fit in).  But I’d like to wear the badge of The Cloud Appreciation Society, if they’ll have me.  Check out their Manifesto and the Cloud Gallery.  I hope to capture a cloud soon that might be worthy of their Gallery.

Thank you, Cloud Appreciation Society.  I hereby pledge to “fight ‘blue-sky thinking.’”  And to look up at the clouds every day and “marvel at their ephemeral beauty.”

Looking up from my front yard.

Looking up from my back yard.

Mama

Her name was Winabel.  It was a combination of two names—her Aunt Winnie and Aunt Belle.  Her mother’s aim, I think, was to honor both in one fell swoop.

 But she was Mama to me.

When my daddy was courting her, he wrote her a poem, “To My Winabel.”  I wish I could remember all of it, but the first part went like this:

I’d like to win a belle,
A belle so dear to me.
A belle who in my loving eyes
Tops all the belles I see.
 
A belle whose ideals so match mine
With her in conversation
I lose all sense of time and place
In my supreme elation.

This poem to me is beautiful because it is so earnest and sincere.  And I’m sure my mother found it to be the loveliest poem she ever heard.

Mama died 22 years ago today.  If she had lived three more days, she would have been 65 years old.  Everyone said it was a blessing she was taken.  And they were right—she had lived and suffered for six years with ALS (also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease) .  I helped take care of her in her later years, so I know what she endured.  But she endured with great strength, grace, and dignity. 
 
“She is a queenly woman.”  That’s what people often said about my mama.  She was tall, five-ten, and she was proud of every inch.  She had the confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was and what she believed in and where she was going.  In fact, if you questioned her about that, she would probably smile and say, “I am a child of God, I believe in His divine love and grace, and I’m going to heaven.”
 
But she was no fundamentalist.  She was a free spirit—in the days when women weren’t always encouraged to be so.  She and my daddy used to joke that they didn’t know why they bothered to vote since their votes just canceled each other out.  Daddy was a “Jesse Helms” Republican.  Mama…wasn’t. 

My children both remind me of my mama.  Ariel has her easy confidence, Benjamin has her gentleness, and they both have her boundless creativity.  But they never knew her, nor did my husband.  She died the year before I met Tom.  I can just picture them all watching animal shows together.  My mama loved animal shows—especially Wild Kingdom.  She used to joke about how Marlin Perkins always let his sidekick Jim do all the dangerous stuff.  She would have chortled to hear Tom imitating Marlin, with his Midwestern drawl, “We’ll wait here while Jim swims with the deadly piranhas—how’s the water, Jim?”

I’m laughing and crying as I write this twenty-two years later.  I think about her every single day and feel my heart ache for missing her at least every other day.  Because of the suffering she endured and the grace with which she endured it, people often called her a “saint.”  Well, no.  She was no saint and would have laughed to hear herself called that.  But she was a shining light for Jesus and reflected His love and grace in everything she did.  And she was a remarkable mother, who loved her children fiercely. 

I think maybe the people that called her “a queenly woman” had the right idea.  When she was in a crowd, you could always find her.  She looked like the Queen Mother moving amongst her subjects.  I’ll probably never have her confidence, her grace, or her dignity.  But I did, for twenty-seven years, have her love.  And I count myself most fortunate for that.  I miss you, Mama.