With 35,000 original miles and mint condition appearance, the nine year old Oldsmobile seemed like a steal for only $4,500.00. Owned by a widow who kept it garaged and drove it only to the post office, bank and church, I almost didn't check further about how good a purchase it would be. I was astonished to find out that there are problems with a car that has been used too little, even more surprised that the Kelly Blue Book value on the car was $800.00 less.
Got me wondering about the Christian life and about how so many Christians want their road to be the safe one predictably to the same places, by the same route, escaping to the 'garage' to keep everyone and everything else out that might damage. However, like the car, we were designed for more: road trips to California, dings in parking lots, cruising along interstate highways, fender benders, starlit skies with the windows down, straining up winding mountain roads, occassionally running out of gas, maintenance necessary - not just protection.
I wonder which set of problems is worse, those created by the safe way or the highway? How does the Designer feel about it?
As we begin a new year, don't you really want to know how it feels to catch up with someone in the passing lane?
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Audience of Some
Do you remember when Susan Boyle's first performance went viral on the Internet? Awkward smiles and stifled giggles turned to utter amazement as the cameras panned the audience who first enjoyed her remarkable voice from a plain package. Her transformation before their approval was like watching a time lapse metamorphosis as she responded to their unexpected delight and encouragement. Cheers and tears marked the launch of a talented voice being noticed in a big way for the first time.
It took much self-control to resist buying a copy of her first CD as soon as it was issued. Requested as a Christmas gift, I knew someone in my loving family would be eager to buy it for their hard to buy for mother. Her voice accompanied me in the kitchen as I prepared Christmas dinner for our large and growing family. Her selection of music and her obvious talent were a joy to hear but I felt disappointed in the recording of the song that she sang in that first public performance. Why? What was missing?
After much listening, I decided that the difference in the first performance is that you could actually hear Susan responding to the audience responding to her! I knew it had been a visible change but didn't realize the transformation was something that could be heard until I listened to another recording for comparison.
Does this acknowledging others for something that they do or are when they feel invisible or unnoticed transfer into other areas of life? Absolutely! Consider these recent examples from intentional noticing on our drive home from our autumn vacation.
Even though it was late even for a late lunch, Lulu's in Sylva, NC was still crowded and we felt fortunate to be seated without a long wait. Our server was friendly, explaining in detail the lunch specials, getting drinks, clearing a nearby table, seating others, navigating the narrow paths between closely placed tables filled with happy diners. She'd been doing this for hours and I would catch sight of her out of the corner of my eye darting from table to table making sure everyone was taken care of. "You are amazing! You do everything! I hope they appreciate having you work for them!" I interjected as she returned with our beautifully presented meals.
"I think they do!" she responded, smoothing her shirt and standing a little straighter. I continued to watch her way for the next several minutes to see if the unexpected compliment affected her in any way. Indeed, it did. She was more animated and energized as she described the lengthy ingredient list in the lunch specials to the table across from us. There was a sparkle about her as she served another table and made short conversation.
After visiting a favorite gallery and antique store (which is really like a museum) down the street, we decided to check out the library's new setting in the former courthouse. We had been technology-free during most of the week away but needed a map to navigate another small town stop on our way home. The library in Sylva sets atop an enormous hill giving a long distance view of the rest of downtown and nearby neighborhoods. We asked to use their computers, explaining we were from out of town. A driver's license was all that was required to secure a password to access the information we needed. The forty-something clerk was serene and helpful and bundled up in winter clothes the way people who get lots of winter seem to dress at the first sign of cooler weather. "What a beautiful necklace! Was it a birthday present?" She explained that is was, a gift handmade by a dear friend, and her best friend's playful bantering in the giving of the gift.
As we were leaving, I turned around and went back to thank her for being so kind and helping us get to use their computers. "It was so nice to meet you, " she replied with a heartfeltness that let me know we could be friends if we lived there.
Simple words, Simple gestures. Simple slowing down and paying attention to someone else. Being the audience. Letting someone know that what they do and how they do it matters. Letting someone know they matter, even if you'll never see them again. Maybe, especially because you know you will never see them again.
You are the audience to some. Do they hear you cheering?
It took much self-control to resist buying a copy of her first CD as soon as it was issued. Requested as a Christmas gift, I knew someone in my loving family would be eager to buy it for their hard to buy for mother. Her voice accompanied me in the kitchen as I prepared Christmas dinner for our large and growing family. Her selection of music and her obvious talent were a joy to hear but I felt disappointed in the recording of the song that she sang in that first public performance. Why? What was missing?
After much listening, I decided that the difference in the first performance is that you could actually hear Susan responding to the audience responding to her! I knew it had been a visible change but didn't realize the transformation was something that could be heard until I listened to another recording for comparison.
Does this acknowledging others for something that they do or are when they feel invisible or unnoticed transfer into other areas of life? Absolutely! Consider these recent examples from intentional noticing on our drive home from our autumn vacation.
Even though it was late even for a late lunch, Lulu's in Sylva, NC was still crowded and we felt fortunate to be seated without a long wait. Our server was friendly, explaining in detail the lunch specials, getting drinks, clearing a nearby table, seating others, navigating the narrow paths between closely placed tables filled with happy diners. She'd been doing this for hours and I would catch sight of her out of the corner of my eye darting from table to table making sure everyone was taken care of. "You are amazing! You do everything! I hope they appreciate having you work for them!" I interjected as she returned with our beautifully presented meals.
"I think they do!" she responded, smoothing her shirt and standing a little straighter. I continued to watch her way for the next several minutes to see if the unexpected compliment affected her in any way. Indeed, it did. She was more animated and energized as she described the lengthy ingredient list in the lunch specials to the table across from us. There was a sparkle about her as she served another table and made short conversation.
After visiting a favorite gallery and antique store (which is really like a museum) down the street, we decided to check out the library's new setting in the former courthouse. We had been technology-free during most of the week away but needed a map to navigate another small town stop on our way home. The library in Sylva sets atop an enormous hill giving a long distance view of the rest of downtown and nearby neighborhoods. We asked to use their computers, explaining we were from out of town. A driver's license was all that was required to secure a password to access the information we needed. The forty-something clerk was serene and helpful and bundled up in winter clothes the way people who get lots of winter seem to dress at the first sign of cooler weather. "What a beautiful necklace! Was it a birthday present?" She explained that is was, a gift handmade by a dear friend, and her best friend's playful bantering in the giving of the gift.
As we were leaving, I turned around and went back to thank her for being so kind and helping us get to use their computers. "It was so nice to meet you, " she replied with a heartfeltness that let me know we could be friends if we lived there.
Simple words, Simple gestures. Simple slowing down and paying attention to someone else. Being the audience. Letting someone know that what they do and how they do it matters. Letting someone know they matter, even if you'll never see them again. Maybe, especially because you know you will never see them again.
You are the audience to some. Do they hear you cheering?
Monday, September 19, 2011
Tuesday Mornings
I first noticed them a couple months ago on my early morning walk around the perimeter of the nearby cemetery. One of the two women carried a large loaf of a homemade sweet bread and waited as the driver of a small front end loader approached, front bucket bobbing in a rhymthic greeting. The exchange seemed familiar between them and I kept walking, not wishing to intrude.
The next Tuesday they were there again, plastic tablecloth spread on the still dew covered grass near a newer gravesite. A simple breakfast of fresh fruit and yogurt lay at their feet, the comfortable comraderie between them also visible. I kept walking, beginning to speculate on the loss that brought them there together again. Had a mother been buried? Did her daughter and her sister decide to keep a routine of Tuesday morning breakfasts in remembrance? Was it their regular visit before the passing of their loved one?
Soon fresh sod was laid atop the grave giving a new softness to cushion the ladies' time of reminscence. A cell phone conversation overheard announced to another friend the improvement and the joy it brought. However, the improvement made the nearby grass look forlorn and over the next weeks it was sprayed and eventually replaced with a healthy lawn to match the improvement over the most recent resting place.
Like clockwork, the ladies appeared early every Tuesday morning. Always lingering over a small meal shared, sometimes joined by others: another male friend/relative one morning, salesmen from the cemetery on others.
Last Tuesday's morning's cooler temperatures had me finding more things to do outside at home but I didn't want to break my morning habit. Reluctantly leaving chores behind, I donned sunglasses as I walked toward the eastern sky and the bright morning sunlight. An hour later than usual, I was surprised to see the now familiar car and the two women still in their usual spot. "Oh, that's right. It's Tuesday," I thought to myself as I smiled.
The women both rose and brushed off as I approached and the younger woman, tablecloth in hand, greeted me warmly, "Good morning!" Delighted that they had initiated a conversation, I told them how I had been wondering about their Tuesday morning ritual and the loss that had them here on a regular basis. They easily shared their bereavement of husband and father before Christmas. "He died on the day of our 57th wedding anniversary, " his widow shared. Tears spilled unconsciously as they remembered out loud with me, not the crying that make your eyes red and swollen but tears that followed a familiar path, spilling like the overflow of a river that could no longer contain the surge of an abundance of rain.
Their only child, a daughter, began bringing her mother every Tuesday to visit. Tuesdays start very early for them as they drive from the Disney area where they live and then stop for fresh flowers in the Winter Park Village before their early arrival at Glenn Haven. Although great loss started their weekly pilgrimages, they have made new friends and acquaintances along the way because of it. They are known by the clerks who sell them flowers. All the staff, office and groundskeeping, of the cemetery recognize and greet them. Then there are the other regulars to the cemetery, some with names you'd recognize, who go from being familiar strangers to having a first name. All of them together are playing a part in the ladies' processing of grief and slowly moving into new routines and places.
A lot about their Tuesdays reminds me of our Sundays.
My husband and I gather every week to worship at a church plant that meets in our neighborhood YMCA. Weekly we may join others who remember Him and His death on the cross in sharing a piece of bread dipped in grape juice. Jesus' last meal with His dearest friends included similar elements and He commanded them to repeat this in remembrance of Him. Sometimes tears flow easily as such an extravagant love is dwelled upon. Sometimes the tears flow easily in repentance at disappointing such a love and at the extravagance of the grace to start again clean, still loved, still invited to come, still included in the remembering.
Great loss started us on these weekly pilgrimages, we have made new friends and acquaintances long the way because of it. We are known, recognized, greeted because we gather there. Some of the regulars go from being familiar strangers to having a first name. All of them together are playing a part as we process what it means to follow Jesus, helping us slowly move into new routines and places where knowing Him and being known help us move forward in faith.
Out of loss comes life, if you choose to regularly remember.
The next Tuesday they were there again, plastic tablecloth spread on the still dew covered grass near a newer gravesite. A simple breakfast of fresh fruit and yogurt lay at their feet, the comfortable comraderie between them also visible. I kept walking, beginning to speculate on the loss that brought them there together again. Had a mother been buried? Did her daughter and her sister decide to keep a routine of Tuesday morning breakfasts in remembrance? Was it their regular visit before the passing of their loved one?
Soon fresh sod was laid atop the grave giving a new softness to cushion the ladies' time of reminscence. A cell phone conversation overheard announced to another friend the improvement and the joy it brought. However, the improvement made the nearby grass look forlorn and over the next weeks it was sprayed and eventually replaced with a healthy lawn to match the improvement over the most recent resting place.
Like clockwork, the ladies appeared early every Tuesday morning. Always lingering over a small meal shared, sometimes joined by others: another male friend/relative one morning, salesmen from the cemetery on others.
Last Tuesday's morning's cooler temperatures had me finding more things to do outside at home but I didn't want to break my morning habit. Reluctantly leaving chores behind, I donned sunglasses as I walked toward the eastern sky and the bright morning sunlight. An hour later than usual, I was surprised to see the now familiar car and the two women still in their usual spot. "Oh, that's right. It's Tuesday," I thought to myself as I smiled.
The women both rose and brushed off as I approached and the younger woman, tablecloth in hand, greeted me warmly, "Good morning!" Delighted that they had initiated a conversation, I told them how I had been wondering about their Tuesday morning ritual and the loss that had them here on a regular basis. They easily shared their bereavement of husband and father before Christmas. "He died on the day of our 57th wedding anniversary, " his widow shared. Tears spilled unconsciously as they remembered out loud with me, not the crying that make your eyes red and swollen but tears that followed a familiar path, spilling like the overflow of a river that could no longer contain the surge of an abundance of rain.
Their only child, a daughter, began bringing her mother every Tuesday to visit. Tuesdays start very early for them as they drive from the Disney area where they live and then stop for fresh flowers in the Winter Park Village before their early arrival at Glenn Haven. Although great loss started their weekly pilgrimages, they have made new friends and acquaintances along the way because of it. They are known by the clerks who sell them flowers. All the staff, office and groundskeeping, of the cemetery recognize and greet them. Then there are the other regulars to the cemetery, some with names you'd recognize, who go from being familiar strangers to having a first name. All of them together are playing a part in the ladies' processing of grief and slowly moving into new routines and places.
A lot about their Tuesdays reminds me of our Sundays.
My husband and I gather every week to worship at a church plant that meets in our neighborhood YMCA. Weekly we may join others who remember Him and His death on the cross in sharing a piece of bread dipped in grape juice. Jesus' last meal with His dearest friends included similar elements and He commanded them to repeat this in remembrance of Him. Sometimes tears flow easily as such an extravagant love is dwelled upon. Sometimes the tears flow easily in repentance at disappointing such a love and at the extravagance of the grace to start again clean, still loved, still invited to come, still included in the remembering.
Great loss started us on these weekly pilgrimages, we have made new friends and acquaintances long the way because of it. We are known, recognized, greeted because we gather there. Some of the regulars go from being familiar strangers to having a first name. All of them together are playing a part as we process what it means to follow Jesus, helping us slowly move into new routines and places where knowing Him and being known help us move forward in faith.
Out of loss comes life, if you choose to regularly remember.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Eyes Opened
Michele's family had been given use of a beach condo in New Smyrna for the Labor Day holiday weekend. Despite much to do here, we decided the time with them and a refreshing respite seaside were time better spent.
Down from where we were playing in the sand and water were a handsome thirty-something couple and his twenty-something sister. The younger woman had the cocked head, exaggerated smile and halting gait of a muscular dystrophy patient. There were no wheelchairs in soft sand casting shadows on this sunny day. He supported her with a constant touch - his hand on her waist when she could carry herself in the water or on the sand, his arm wrapped around her waist or shoulders when she needed his strength to uphold her. Her thin legs looked spindly, like a newborn fawn testing its legs for the first time.
It was like watching a dance as he deftly anticipated her needs. Surely this was not the first time she had relied on him but instead a practiced routine as she relaxed completely in his arms and in his attentiveness.
Then he held her sitting in the water between his legs like a father would his little girl, lifting her quickly at the last minute when the incoming tide threatened to wash over her head. And her laughter filled the air at the pleasure of it and the delight of being rescued before being doused. He beamed with a joy that matched the sound of her laughter. His wife stood several yards away watching, smiling, enjoying. I wondered if she thanked God for her sister-in-law's special needs that made her husband such a practiced protector and giving man. He never stopped touching her until she was safely placed in a lawn chair where her feet could dangle in the incoming water.
I remembered the words from Isaiah 43 that the LORD has used so often to remind me of His constant presence as I embark on some new adventure with Him: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you."
I am the disabled girl unable to go it alone. But He is the attentive brother, always carrying and guiding me with His strength, always touching me in reassurance, letting me know He is always there.
May my laughter fill the air as I step into new waters.
Down from where we were playing in the sand and water were a handsome thirty-something couple and his twenty-something sister. The younger woman had the cocked head, exaggerated smile and halting gait of a muscular dystrophy patient. There were no wheelchairs in soft sand casting shadows on this sunny day. He supported her with a constant touch - his hand on her waist when she could carry herself in the water or on the sand, his arm wrapped around her waist or shoulders when she needed his strength to uphold her. Her thin legs looked spindly, like a newborn fawn testing its legs for the first time.
It was like watching a dance as he deftly anticipated her needs. Surely this was not the first time she had relied on him but instead a practiced routine as she relaxed completely in his arms and in his attentiveness.
Then he held her sitting in the water between his legs like a father would his little girl, lifting her quickly at the last minute when the incoming tide threatened to wash over her head. And her laughter filled the air at the pleasure of it and the delight of being rescued before being doused. He beamed with a joy that matched the sound of her laughter. His wife stood several yards away watching, smiling, enjoying. I wondered if she thanked God for her sister-in-law's special needs that made her husband such a practiced protector and giving man. He never stopped touching her until she was safely placed in a lawn chair where her feet could dangle in the incoming water.
I remembered the words from Isaiah 43 that the LORD has used so often to remind me of His constant presence as I embark on some new adventure with Him: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you."
I am the disabled girl unable to go it alone. But He is the attentive brother, always carrying and guiding me with His strength, always touching me in reassurance, letting me know He is always there.
May my laughter fill the air as I step into new waters.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
August 3, 2011
They cut it down this weekend. Its brittle branches stacked neatly in a high airy stack at the curb. The remaining trunk looked like a bonsai of the majestic oaks around town that have been cleared of their branches and leaves, delaying their inevitable fall, reducing the sail of the tree.
Even the stump with shortened limbs revealed the unnatural looking bark of a tangerine tree gone wrong. The dark outer bark had split randomly, revealing the blonde, almost white, inner wood. Today as I passed the branches had been collected and in its place the remaining trunk, without any roots, laying on its side awaiting removal. The blank spot in the yard was obvious but attention was diverted by a newly placed FOR SALE sign.
Why does this bother me when tree work is a daily reality in the abundance of trees in Winter Park?
Because I saw it often when it was gloriously and exuberantly healthy. Its location at a corner of Lakemont made it on the way to where I was going several times a week. Less than five years ago it was a showpiece with glossy deep green foliage punctuated with a bumper crop of perfect orange tangerines. Heavily laden with fruit, it resembled a Christmas tree whose decorator had an unlimited budget for ornaments. There it stood proudly displaying its harvest for the new family that had rented the home.
Slowly the fruit on the lower limbs was picked, enjoyed, shared, leaving a broad band of green, like a belt, around the bottom couple feet of the tree. Only what could be reached by standing on the ground disappeared. Yet the tree still impressed, its remaining fruit beckoning to be plucked. No one did and another FOR RENT sign appeared at the front of the yard.
Winter came and went and spring arrived early. Instead of setting on new blossoms for another crop, the fruit waited. It looked out of place so full of orange orbs, like Christmas decorations in April. Hot days finally made the tree release the now overripe fruit and it collected in the sand on the ground, splitting on impact revealing decaying flesh within the orange skins. The distinctive smell of rotting citrus filled the air instead of the sweet fragrance of blossoms.
The homeowners did nothing. I don't know what they could have done at this point but it soon became obvious that this was the beginning of the end for this once prime specimen of a tangerine tree. Its cycle and rhythm of care and production had been delayed and it was failing, even though it had done so well what it was meant to do for a season. No one was paying attention except drivers-by on their way to somewhere else.
Eventually the once evergreen leaves browned and curled, then fell, leaving the branches and limbs to persevere and perhaps be cared for. It was not to be. Most recently the tree stood with arms reaching skyward, bark splitting in long fractures leaving it more vulnerable to damage and disease. It was too late for a rescue but it remained, testimony to what once might have been.
I think of all the abundant things that get overlooked despite their offerings because no one is paying attention or they are too busy to notice that decline has set in. No one sees while intervening can still make a difference. Countries, economies, governments, institutions, organizations, families, churches, marriages, friendships, the list goes on of abundances easily taken for granted while their good production looks so good.
Who would have guessed that leaving all that beautiful fruit hanging would bring the tree's demise?
Even the stump with shortened limbs revealed the unnatural looking bark of a tangerine tree gone wrong. The dark outer bark had split randomly, revealing the blonde, almost white, inner wood. Today as I passed the branches had been collected and in its place the remaining trunk, without any roots, laying on its side awaiting removal. The blank spot in the yard was obvious but attention was diverted by a newly placed FOR SALE sign.
Why does this bother me when tree work is a daily reality in the abundance of trees in Winter Park?
Because I saw it often when it was gloriously and exuberantly healthy. Its location at a corner of Lakemont made it on the way to where I was going several times a week. Less than five years ago it was a showpiece with glossy deep green foliage punctuated with a bumper crop of perfect orange tangerines. Heavily laden with fruit, it resembled a Christmas tree whose decorator had an unlimited budget for ornaments. There it stood proudly displaying its harvest for the new family that had rented the home.
Slowly the fruit on the lower limbs was picked, enjoyed, shared, leaving a broad band of green, like a belt, around the bottom couple feet of the tree. Only what could be reached by standing on the ground disappeared. Yet the tree still impressed, its remaining fruit beckoning to be plucked. No one did and another FOR RENT sign appeared at the front of the yard.
Winter came and went and spring arrived early. Instead of setting on new blossoms for another crop, the fruit waited. It looked out of place so full of orange orbs, like Christmas decorations in April. Hot days finally made the tree release the now overripe fruit and it collected in the sand on the ground, splitting on impact revealing decaying flesh within the orange skins. The distinctive smell of rotting citrus filled the air instead of the sweet fragrance of blossoms.
The homeowners did nothing. I don't know what they could have done at this point but it soon became obvious that this was the beginning of the end for this once prime specimen of a tangerine tree. Its cycle and rhythm of care and production had been delayed and it was failing, even though it had done so well what it was meant to do for a season. No one was paying attention except drivers-by on their way to somewhere else.
Eventually the once evergreen leaves browned and curled, then fell, leaving the branches and limbs to persevere and perhaps be cared for. It was not to be. Most recently the tree stood with arms reaching skyward, bark splitting in long fractures leaving it more vulnerable to damage and disease. It was too late for a rescue but it remained, testimony to what once might have been.
I think of all the abundant things that get overlooked despite their offerings because no one is paying attention or they are too busy to notice that decline has set in. No one sees while intervening can still make a difference. Countries, economies, governments, institutions, organizations, families, churches, marriages, friendships, the list goes on of abundances easily taken for granted while their good production looks so good.
Who would have guessed that leaving all that beautiful fruit hanging would bring the tree's demise?
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