a string of broken lights and an apology

Stopping at a light on an early Saturday morning in my quiet, still-asleep city, I look over at a boarded up building, closed for business, just as a thought illuminates my mind, like the row of street lights ahead.

"What if your table at the Market is completely messed up?"

I quickly dismiss this idea as pure foolishness, although sometimes I know things before they happen. I don't know why. I just do.

Pulling into the parking lot, I grab the last of my ornaments and head toward the door. I am arriving later than planned since there is still much to be done, but because I had taken an hour before work the previous Wednesday to make sure my display was exactly how I wanted it, I figured I had enough time to be set up before we opened.

My bedsprings "Christmas tree" once tied securely to a small table with twine has come undone. One string of lights that has been turned on for reasons I cannot imagine, dangles aimlessly over the table toward the floor. The small box containing the batteries for the other string lies broken next to two of the three batteries, exposing the internal wiring. Garlands of paper and one of buttons come down one side while the glittery top star once wired into place is no longer upright.

The antique thrift store table has pieces missing, more than before, and the nails holding it together are now visible as the top threatens to detach from the legs. The pieces underneath are also coming undone. I know how they feel.

Though the table is faced in the same direction I had placed it, the tree is completely turned around. I take a couple of pictures in case I need evidence to prove why my table will not be ready by the time the customers show up. I find it odd that no one has engaged me as I start over, since someone must have witnessed this event.

I tend to think of the intent of people who do me wrong as being somewhere on the continuum between stupid and evil. And though I have been told if I can't say anything nice I shouldn't say anything at all, I reject that advice and reach instead for the truth. Those same people will say it is the Christian way not to say anything, but Jesus himself seemed to use a system much like my own, referring to the more clueless by asking his Father to "forgive them for they know not what they do" while at another time revealing their evil ways by calling them a "brood of vipers." Stupid or evil.

Before I have too long to ponder while I methodically put my display back together, a farmer whose table is across the aisle from mine comes over to apologize. It isn't a "nobody's-fault-and-couldn't-be-helped" type of apology that he could have given. It is the real deal. I've seen this man many times before as we are neighbors in the Market. He and his family have been friendly to me. He had hurriedly walked too close to the structure on my table with his display items causing my entire display to crash onto the cement floor. The look on his face reminds me of how my dog looks when he runs after a deer into the woods, gets lost, and then has to be retrieved, knowing he should not have left the yard.

He was wrong. He was sorry. It is the best kind of apology I can receive--perhaps the only one I ever consider completely valid.

As customers are coming in, looking at my table in disarray, I do not pay much attention to what they may be thinking. It is easy to judge when one does not know.

There is no way I can be angry while hanging angels with "rejoice" and "fear not" embroidered on them as bed bunnies smile at me, and I place in a basket the small gift book I wrote about how everything works together for those who love God. The problem with being a follower of Jesus is one is expected to act like one. No matter how broken your string of lights is or how much it can shine.

Not everyone who has ever wronged me has apologized or ever will. Some have judged me, choosing to believe something other than the truth. Others have created their own fictional accounts of who I am. The only people who will ever truly know me are the ones with whom I feel safe. Those who will reach out in love will find it.

On top of my torn-up little table is a "tree" that is now tied to the larger table so none of it can be toppled over. At least that is the plan. The beautifully tacky, glittery star looks out over the Market where all who have fallen short of something dwell together on a Saturday morning.

being known

Yesterday I went to an art show in an artist's backyard. I don't know her personally, and may not have had a conversation with her, but I've seen her work and I feel like I know her.

Walking up the sidewalk, going around the house and through the gate, I was greeted by artist friends who were excited to see me. I hadn't seen one of them since the last show. We talked about our art and about a movie she saw that made her cry, which was just what she needed at the time. She agreed not to give away too much information, sure that I would want to have the same experience. Every so often I need to watch movies that make me cry, too. It is good to know I am not alone.

I move on to seeing an old friend with whom I've had meaningful conversations. The reunion is sweet. Other artists I met at a show we all did together go out of their way to talk to me. One opens her little cooler and offers me a cranberry and vodka jello shooter. Greetings this good are hard to find.

Hand-made clothing hangs from the tent in the back while repurposed metal art is arranged on a table across from delicately made boxes and miniature glass bottles. Soap, perfume, pottery, jewelry and an outreach ministry that makes scarves for the homeless all find their place in this backyard on a November day as the sun shines through the leaves of the large trees, and children look down from a treehouse. I find the art to be as inspirational as the connection I have made with this group of artists.

A woman who makes jewelry reminds me of a pillow she bought from me that she still loves. I cannot even remember which one she bought, I've made so many. She said she thinks of me when she looks at it and cannot wait to get out the Christmas ornaments I made. For the past ten years, this has been my hobby, my passion, my other life--the part that makes the more difficult parts bearable.

Another woman asks why I'm not doing this show, adding, "Your art is great and we all know you."

We all know you.

There it is. The same feeling I had about the artist hosting the show. Because I know her art, I feel a connection to her. Her inspiration has touched many lives. Her vision for beauty has given others a reason to celebrate . . . life. Art has the ability to do that. It touches each one's heart in its own unique way, much like divine intervention.

With feelings of unwavering acceptance and love, I walk over the crunching leaves and drive home to my work room table where ivory wool star shapes are ready to have hearts cut from a red wool sweater sewn on them. They will be offered along with another self-published book project I sent off for printing. I will put up my bedspring Christmas tree and hang on it all of the other items I've been inspired to make.

And people who really do not know me will somehow know me really quite well. They will show up and tell me how much their babies loved the bed bunnies or share with me a story about the person in the last stages of cancer receiving one of my angels with words like, "fear not" embroidered on them. They will buy the advent garlands and bring them out again next year, and the year after that. What I have been inspired to make will become a part of their traditional celebration. It will become a part of their lives. I will give all I have to glorify God and for the greater good of my community. It will matter.

And in this way, I will be known.