Christmas Eve, In the Morning

It's the morning of Christmas Eve and I am worried the store will run out of the precise food items I need today. What is that? I think it has to do with these bleak grey-white skies, with this seemingly endless snowfall.

Because, yes, I got up and it was snowing again. We have been buried in ice and snow now for 2 weeks. Last weekend, it snowed Friday morning through Sunday night. Yes, I am sick of shoveling. I had the simple realization that snow simply gets in the way. In fact, inclement winter weather itself gets in the way of my life, especially as I walk everywhere. By tonight, this snow is supposed to have turned to rain. Rain! What the fuck. Honestly. I like to walk to Christmas Eve worship, and I was very much looking forward to seeing our lovely church, with candlelit luminarias lining the driveway, softly surrounded by snow. So now I am praying the rain will pass us by. Yes, praying. Dear God, may it please not rain this night so that my daughter and I may have our annual walk to and from church. How selfish is that? (Though it isn't like I am asking for a pony, or even a Porsche.) What it is is an indication of how desperately sick I am of this weather. Must be a sign of age, of wishing for the carefree ease of warm days when a person can simply run out the front door barefoot and go wherever she pleases.

Earlier I was out back re-filling the bird feeder with black oil sunflower seeds. I have been very careful and conscientious in keeping the feeder filled as best I can, because while I might be annoyed and inconvenienced by this bleak weather, the little birds, who have no warm house to go into, nor pots of tea to brew, nor soft blankets to snuggle under, nor even warm, waterproof boots, are out in it all the time. So, I filled the feeder, spilled some piles of seed on the ground for the mourning doves and other ground feeders, and moved the suet cage to a better place inside the branches of the apple tree, a place with more available perches around the suet. Then I retraced my steps in the foot deep holes that are my footprints back up the hill, and as I went, I heard a watery warble of birdsong unlike any I had ever heard before. It came from up high, perhaps from the large old tree next door. I looked, but could not see, and yet, I could certainly hear. A lovely, woodwind--flutey--call, that sounded, as best as my human language could mangle such music into verbiage, like 'Pretty bird." So I said to this bird I could not see, "How lovely! Where are you? And thank you! Pretty bird, pretty bird."

And the bird sang back, "Pretty bird."

And I called back, "Pretty bird."

And so we did this as I stood in the gently falling snow, in a hushed world of white and black and grey, until I finally came back to my senses and went into the house to dogs eagerly awaiting biscuits. They knew I would have to unlace and remove my boots first, always much too lengthy a process for their ever challenged (but mellowing with age) dog patience, and then brush off my pants, and then carry my boots into the other room to place them on newspaper to melt. They watched me with dark, reproachful eyes reflecting light shining out from somewhere to meet their dark gazes but where that light came from was something I could never quite say.

But what I was thinking of, as I sidestepped dog demands, what I was pondering was that transcendent moment with the unfamiliar bird, that strange visitor to our backyard bird buffet, and it briefly seemed to me that the birds, collectively, were thanking me for my efforts to keep them fed as best I can.

This wasn't a grand eloquent, Aren't-I-great? kind of thought, but a realization of a simple truth: that one single human person, tired and cranky by the end of the day (often tired and cranky even at the beginning of the day!)--that one single human person making the effort to consistently and simply place seed out into the snow can help nurture and nourish the collective world of birds. It has to do with helping to keep life strong. And life, like light, is a warm thing, a bright thing. And so, this faithful feeding of the birds is also a little like lighting candles in the dark, and as the candles join together in a network of light, all the world becomes just that much brighter and warmer.

It is upon as simple a belief as this that faith rests. That what we do, no matter how big, no matter how small, how visible or invisible, how private, secret, or blazing the headlines, that what we do to care for and nurture others, always matters.

Always. Matters.

"God is light and in him there is no darkness at all." 1 John 1:5

"The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has never put it out." John 1:5

Blessings of light in this season of apparent darkness, to you, one and all.

Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai

Image courtesy of minnesotapublicradio.org

What I Saw in the Light of the Ice

I just survived 30 hours of no heat or electricity. That also means I cannot cook--no tea! Last night the temperatures got down around 5F. I had spent part of the evening in a dim room lit by an array of scented candles--not any of them the same scent, quite the potpourri and not always a harmony of scents. I sat near the window and watched cars go by, the white of their headlights illuminating the ice as if from within. I talked on the phone to my mother. Around 6:30, I took the dogs and myself to bed. The dogs had been wild all night, not understanding a thing. Cold! No lights! Why? Little Bear and Bumby roughhoused and made puppy noises on the floor behind me, despite their elderly years. Bumby chewed my mitten like a puppy as I talked on the phone. Yes, I wore mittens. Heavy sheepskin mittens. I also wore a hat, two pairs of soft, warm pants, a sports bra, an undershirt, a turtleneck, a flannel shirt, a cotton sweater, a thermal shirt, a sweatshirt, a heavy wool sweater, and my bathrobe. Heavy sheepskin slipper boots. I had covered the fish tanks in blankets, 3 blankets each. I put towels over the African violets and the Rex begonia. I set the kitchen faucet to dripping so that the pipes would not freeze. I brought 2 candles into my room to read by. I wore my hat and mittens to bed. But just before that, I got a phone call from the power company. An automated message told me the outage was quite severe and I should call my local authorities so as to be able to locate a shelter. Somehow that message did nothing to reassure me that the power might be back on soon.

It was warmer in my small room this morning than in the rest of the house. One human, 2 dogs, and a cat shut in together generate a fair amount of heat in an enclosed room, especially with blankets hung over the windows. When I came out into the hall, the cold felt like a slight slap. My breath steamed out ahead of me. I persevered. The back door knob was frozen shut and I could not open the back door to let out the dogs. I exhaled on the doorknob until my warm breath finally thawed it enough to open it, but it was still stiff and persnickety, so I turned it to the open position and left it like that, using only the dead bolt lock to secure the door shut.

For my morning prayers and devotions these past 2 powerless mornings, I have drank a cup of water when I would usually drink tea as I prayed prayers of gratitude, and have my own small version of Communion--the time when I remember God loves me and feeds me and always takes care of me. This morning's devotion began with a reading of Psalm 23. How apt. You are there, God! You pop up in unexpected places just when I am about to fall into the blandest pit of despair. And the reading was about exactly that--falling into a pit, or, in this case, a well. An African writer told a tale of a donkey falling into an abandoned well, and instead of being rescued, the people decide to fill the well in, with the donkey trapped inside! The donkey brays and shakes off the successive shovels full of sand that land on her back. As she shakes off the sand, the well gradually fills up beneath her, and finally she is able to step out to safety. The writer writes, " When trials befall us, God listens when we cry out and helps us to persevere."

I clung to that thought, 'God helps us to persevere', for the rest of the morning. My spirits were descending with the cold. I hadn't had much to eat. Mostly I huddled under blankets with a book and dozed. It takes a lot of energy to keep warm, and the dogs still expected at least one of their daily walks. They were wild children last night not only because of the cold and the dark, but also because I had not taken them outside for our evening walk. It was cold outside, and cold inside! Why would I want to step out into the cold and dark when my house holds the same, if only to a lesser degree? Part of being able to venture forth out into the coldest dark night is the knowledge a brightly lit warm house awaits you on your return! Without that, why bother stepping out at all?

But this morning we walked. The world was a'gleam and a'glimmer with new day sun shining heavenly golden blue, and iced trees shimmered like a crystal forest from a magical world. I had never seen such light. Despite the intense cold, I stopped and took in this scene of wonder and beauty with my eyes, my heart, my mind, my soul. This kind of beauty is a rare thing, a gift only an iced over frozen world can bestow. It heartened me in a way the cold of my house did not. I began to remember all that I could be grateful for despite this time of solitary deprivation : I had enough food to feed the animals, including the birds outside. I had enough blankets to secure the fish tanks and myself, and hand towels to cover the tender plants. I had some hot water in the tank. I had crackers to eat along with cheese or peanut butter or sardines. My phone worked. The water worked. I had several good books from the library to read. I had plenty of candles, seconds brought home from work. I had my dogs and cats to cheer me and to warm me. (I also discovered an interesting thing: cats growling at one another sound like the furnace turning on.)

When I came back inside, I decided to use that precious hot water to take a bath, to immerse my stiffened and chilled body into hot water and stay there as it gradually cooled. Filling the tub used it all up. And when I came out, warm, but feeling the full weight of my exhaustion and ready to simply go back to bed to wait this time of trial out, the power came back on. Yes! I yelled for joy! I yelled, Thanks! I did a little happy dance. And then I made myself the first of several pots of tea.

Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai

Image: "Ice Storm '98 Vermont" by Gary Stanley

Don't You Get Cat Hair On My Casket!

Dotty is short, and very round. She wheezes. She walks with a cane. She is overweight, she has 'sugar', as some of the folks around here call diabetes, and she has very little confidence. She was raised by a woman who belittled her at every turn and razed any fledgling Dotty-confidence right to the ground and then stomped and salted that earth for good measure. Dotty will never think highly of herself, and she will rarely think well of herself. Her mother did a good job making sure of that.

Dotty worries. Dotty procrastinates as a way to deal with her worry. Dotty has a ready smile and a good heart. She sings in the choir. She can sign either alto or soprano as needed. After years of sitting in the alto section with us, she switched over to the soprano side when 2 people had dropped out. She used to perform in community theater musicals, but the most recent contribution she made to local theatrics was to work backstage. She has pretty much given all of that, and a lot else, up.

She got a cat several years ago, and even though she lived in her own apartment, she was terrified to tell her mother or her son she had a cat. She was in her 50's then. She is in her early 60's now and seems like a woman 15 years older.

From about the age of 10 onwards, Dotty's son was raised by her mother. Dotty's husband had left her when her son was quite young, a toddler. He had had to have surgery for a hare lip, and remained a very shy child, especially once he got into school and was teased for his scar. Since Dotty had to work full-time to support them, he went to his grandparent's house after school. Eventually Dotty's mother strong armed Dotty into believing she couldn't really do a good job raising him, having to work and all, and that the boy should just live with her. Dotty, having no confidence, acquiesced, of course.

Her son was idolized by his grandmother, and she gave all the nurturing love and attention she denied her daughter to her daughter's son. She was so good to him. He grew up into a gentle, sweet, funny man. He teaches music at the elementary school. He directs our choir. He has a warm baritone voice and a sly and wily sense of humor. He was very fortunate to get a teaching job in his home town and lives in his grandmother's house yet.

Two years ago, his grandmother had to be hospitalized after a small stroke. Alzheimer's Disease set in quickly and she never returned to their little house, staying in the hospital until a nursing home bed opened up. About a year ago, Dotty moved in with her son. He takes just as good care of her as he did his Grandma. He was raised right, trained for the role, in fact. He has a good and gentle heart.

Sometimes, Dotty is frankly a mess. She will come to church wearing a stretchy black cardigan, with silvery bright rhinestone buttons, that is also covered in cat hair. She likes the colors green and orange. She often dresses in shirts of horizontal stripes wrapping around her pudgy body. Her hair is cut short like a man's. It isn't flattering. But, her hair is also very thick and very straight, a gingery color, with hardly any grey. It sits like a thick cap above her chubby, round face. She will complain that her sugar is high as she eats her third doughnut. She doesn't take good care of herself, and why should she? She has known for years that she doesn't matter.

Grandma died this week. It was also Dotty's birthday this week. And guess what? They held the funeral on Dotty's birthday. (I wish I was making this up.) I had a small hissy fit with our pastor over it, but no one besides me seemed to think it was a bad thing to have Dotty's mother's funeral on Dotty's birthday. In fact, I was told, Dotty said it was okay. Of course Dotty would say that, I almost yelled. Why does no one but me see the tragedy in this? Why does no one but me understand that from now on, on every single birthday she has left, Dotty will remember it as the day of her mother's funeral?

The sanctuary of our church is upstairs. When you enter the foyer, stair cases wind up to the left and the right. Just ahead is a glass case full of historic items related to the church. It is a venerable old church, the first in the village, founded by the wealthy Dutchman who set up a plantation settlement in this one time wilderness, a settlement raided, razed and burned twice during the conflicts with the French in Quebec, what history books call 'The French-Indian War'. The existent church records date from after the Revolutionary War, because earlier records were destroyed in the fires of the raids. It is the church that, at one time, the first families of this village were proud to join. It was the 'status' church. Now it is probably the church with the smallest amount of members, a church that always hovers on the rim of financial ruin. It has beautiful stained glass windows though, and a sanctuary that holds love like light in its acoustically perfect space.

On either side of the glass case are 2 doors leading into our fellowship hall. On the morning of Dotty's birthday, it was in that very space that the funeral director had parked her mother's powder blue casket, on the far right hand side, for the calling hours. Dotty was the first one at the left side door, to meet and greet, and also the furthest away from her mother in her blue box. Dotty wore that same stretchy black cardigan with the rhinestone buttons over a black top and black pants. She had her pink cane held firmly in her left hand. She seemed to have gotten most of the cat hairs off of her sweater. I took her in my arms--she is barely 5 feet tall--and held her in a warm hug. I kissed her fat cheek and I told her that I loved her. (I do! Whenever I see Dotty, I see a little girl with a hopeful light in her eyes, and I want to put strong, protective arms around her.) She said, "I know, I know you do." She seemed unable to accept this direct gift of affection. It lay like a hot potato in her hand. What should she do with this? Finally she sighed and said, "We love you too."

I asked her how she was doing, and she said she was fine for the moment, but wasn't sure how she would be later, during the service. She thought she might fall apart. I told her not to worry, that she was surrounded by people who would gladly hold her up. She gave me that quizzical look again, and then I moved on to greet her son. I told him what I had told his mom, that I love them both, and his eyes overflowed with tears and he said they loved me too.

I did not go over to the powder blue box to look on the deceased.

During the memorial service, Dotty's son spoke clearly, eloquently and emotionally about his grandmother and all she had given him and taught him about life. He cried a lot as he spoke about this woman he loved and admired so much, and I could not help but look at the back of Dotty, her schlumpy rounded shoulders up there ahead of me, as she listened to her son praise his grandmother with the same words someone might use to describe their mother.

But Dotty is used to that. She knows she's nobody. And her family, and our church, reinforced that by allowing Dotty's mother's funeral to be held on Dotty's birthday.

Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai

Our First Night Back

The children's home sits atop a hill, much like a castle might sit, commanding a hillside, with clear views to the 4 directions. The drive up there winds around that hill. It is an unpaved path of creamy, slightly rusty, slightly yellow limestone, crushed and pressed by countless tires, a strip of green growing up between. And so, when our bus arrives, it is dark, it is night, it is nearly 10 o'clock. We have arrived later than usual, but the kids are all about, running out, walking out, to meet us, to greet us. Arnella approaches me steadily, her eyes on my face, her arms outstretched. She loves it that I remember her name, always, every year I remember her name. And there are new faces too, children we have not yet met, smiling, greeting, calling out, laughing, reaching out to us. The kids are eager to grab our bags, to help us carry them in. They are clambering all over the bus, all over us. Several of us have returned to the home for consecutive years, and others of us are new, and still others have come but many years before. None of that matters to the kids. They are simply overjoyed with welcoming us. As are we in greeting them. It is a crazy time when we first arrive, and I love it.

I don't see all my friends yet. Not all come out in the first rush of greeting. Some of the kids are slow to open their hearts again, and that is understandable. I always think about that -- what is it like to open in love and then to be left again when our week is over? How is it for the kids and the staff after we leave? Are the kids harder to deal with? Does it make more work for the staff? Does our leaving re-open old wounds of abandonment in the kids? These are questions I may never know the answer to, and they are not thoughts I have on arrival. I am not thinking, I am alight with joy and my eyes are seeking familiar faces.

So, we have carried boxes of water in and out, deposited our bags. It isn't quite time to eat yet and I feel like I am still going in and out, back and forth, seeing what is here and what is there, and who is here and who is there. On one of my trips back inside, I feel a tentative touch on my arm, from behind. I turn to look and it is Morris, dear Morris, whom I love. I do. I love that boy. He is simple and quiet and sweet and well accustomed to being overlooked and mistreated. He is quiet and shy again now, his eyes alight with tears. We greet each other softly--he is not a boy to reach out and grab up in a hug, he is all bones and angled arms and he is not comfortable in an embrace. Our smiles are huge, though, and our eyes are speaking what our shy words do not. One of the first things he asks me is when I am leaving. When am I leaving!? I just got here! But it is because he has something to tell me, he has to tell me he is playing drums in church on Sunday (today is Tuesday) and he wants to make sure I will still be there to see him play. Of course I will be there, I assure him, and then I tell him how happy I am he has been practicing the drums in the year's time since I saw him last, when I asked Kevin, a young man who also grew up in the children's home and who lives nearby yet, to teach Morris the drums, to promise me he would, and he did.

This is so important a thing, he has to tell me that first. He too has remembered all that he and I shared the year before -- when this shy boy opened up and revealed a talent for music and for art, a crazy sense of humor and love of singing, this boy who had been so quiet all the years before, and even now, if you did not know him, in his tentative shyness and stammered attempts to communicate with me, you would think him unable to say more than 5 words. But he has a vastness inside him that is kept mainly out of reach, hidden, safe, and yes, overlooked. He is accustomed to being overlooked, and probably he prefers it that way, as he is easy prey for the mean and the vicious, because he is so gentle, so simple, so quiet. He shows his agitation and nervousness when he is attacked by other kids only by twitching and itching. He never fights back, never raises his voice. He skitters away and keeps to the edges, and oh how I recognize all these traits in him, how familiar they are to me, though he and I are not the same, we share much in our approaches to life and to survival.

I do know what a fragile walk I must walk with him, balancing how to love and attend to him with a caution that comes from knowing I must leave again, knowing that I cannot make it all right for him. I can shed some light along his way. I am happy when others of our group reach out to him, but I also know he relates to me as he would a mother or a teacher, always seeking me out and asking me to watch, "Watch, Miss" as he draws or coasts downhill on a bike. So this small meeting of ours, our quietly ecstatic reunion, would look like nothing much to an outside observer -- it is but a brief touch, a small conversation, four eyes bright with tears shining in the night, and yet to us it is huge, it is so much. And I have had to trust, in faith, that God holds Morris in his hands as one of his own beloved children, an orphan at the mercy of a world that often offers little mercy at all. I have to trust that God is using me, my hands, my heart, my mind, to share his love with this gangly boy, and that when I fly away home again at the end of the week, God will continue to fill in the spaces of Morris' life, that other kind people will reach out for and care for and shelter him. I have to trust, in faith. I have to. God uses us in ways we might never imagine, until we offer ourselves up to be used by him. And it isn't all hearts and flowers and joyous love, it is also heartbreak and tears and fearful attempts at trusting, the agony of vulnerability. The naked edge of opening our hearts even though we know what heartbreak feels like and we don't like it, but we do it anyway because that is life. Life lived passionately. Passion as in suffering too--Christ's passion, intense emotion, the heart exposed in love. It is all that.

Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai