provision

If there is one thing I have learned, it is that I am not in charge. I don't mean of my household because frankly, I am the one in charge. Sh-h! Don't tell my husband. But I'm talking about life on a broader scale and specifically about the provision needed to live this life.

Whenever I get nervous after paying bills and estimating how much money is needed for the rest of the month, knowing the numbers do not add up, I look around this house and remind myself of how we were able to buy it when we were existing in a financially deficient sort of way--not too different from the way I have always lived.

It all started with the first house we rented when we moved to Greensboro. It was a tiny, two-bedroom home equipped to offer us the biblical plague of the day. Rodents, fleas, flies, an unbelievable population of June bugs, crickets and whatever else could find its way inside waged war against us--when the landlady was not launching her own battles. When our family grew we moved into the rental house next door--more space, fewer bugs, same landlady.

After eviction, being falsely accused and having to take a stand against a woman who thought she could intimidate by sending certified letters, we got our full deposit back and moved out to our third rental house near a cow pasture. The house was in need of repair but the landlord was one of the sweetest men I had met. He would eventually put his property up for sale forcing us to revisit the need for housing. Daily I would pace the back porch looking up through the trees to a God who provides. Like the woman in the Bible who says she will eat the crumbs that fall from the table before she will go hungry, I would remind my Provider that I needed a "nest" for my young. And I would not take no for an answer!

Having our third baby threw us into an economic category that afforded us government aid and we discovered that if we could find a house for sale within a very narrow set of parameters, we could qualify for a loan. So the hunt began as we tried to determine which house could become our home.

It became clear early on that the idea behind this loan was to get us into a newly constructed neighborhood with houses built on speculation. None of these houses appealed to me so we continued our search. Throughout the process, the woman at the loan office began to figure prominently as she insisted we just accept the way the deal worked without trying to complicate the process with our own desires. Do what you are told and be happy about it, was her line of thinking. I continued to pace on my rented back porch.

One day we were shown a house in a small subdivision that belonged to an elderly couple who became original owners when the house was built in 1972. They were not eager to show the house since they did not want to be bothered and yet had a need to sell as their health was declining and they were on a waiting list to get into assisted living. Though far from my dream home, there was something about the place that seemed peaceful and comforting when we did a walk-through with our realtor. Surprisingly, the house actually fit the seemingly impossible parameters and we immediately made an offer which was accepted.

Taking this new and exciting information back to the woman at the loan office provided me with yet another opportunity to grow in my faith. For she was in no way happy about it! In fact she looked me in the eye with as much fierceness as she could manage, and said, "You will NOT get that house!" Having callouses on my feet from walking across that porch so many times, I thought, I will if God wants me to have it. I asked her what I could do. She said there was only one thing and it was an extremely doubtful long-shot that it would even work. All I could possibly do was--write a letter. WRITE A LETTER! There was no way she could know that of all of the skills I have, writing a letter is something I can do!

I wrote that letter like my life depended upon it, because it did--my life as well as the lives of my family. What we would later find out was that the elderly owners of the house were Christians who were praying that the first people to view their house would also be Christians and would buy their house to make it a home. We were the only ones to ever see their house before we would sign the papers right around Thanksgiving, more thankful than ever at how we had been provided for.

bread pudding

I have a craving for bread pudding.

As a young girl, I could walk almost the length of the cornfield, past my favorite climbing tree, over the hill, resting momentarily on a big rock, continue on beside a stand of trees, around the asparagus field and find myself at Grandma's house. I would open the screen door and immediately experience the aroma of whatever it was she was baking in her kitchen. The laundry room or mud room was where one entered her house with the modern appliances on one side and an old wringer washer in the corner. There was a big utility sink and a tin cup with a handle hanging on the wall for anyone who was thirsty.

Entering Grandma's kitchen was like walking into the gates of the heavenly realms. She baked her own bread, always wearing her housedress and apron, and usually had some loaves cooling on the counter. Her pies were made with whatever was in season: cherries, blueberries, apples, peaches. And she made the very best sugar cookies and molasses cookies I could ever imagine eating.

Sitting on a bench against the windows I would watch Daddy eating milk toast. Grandma would slice off a big, thick piece of freshly baked white bread, place it in a shallow dish and cover it with milk. Sugar would go on top and a simple, satisfying treat would be created. I would later discover bread pudding which offered the same kind of warm, feel-good comfort.

Walking into the dining room I would go over to the old sewing machine in the corner and become fascinated with the big basket of quilting squares and a large coffee can containing buttons of all sizes and colors. In Grandma's living room sat the old upright piano where she would play hymns to sing in church and at weddings. Her Bible on the table was always open. And whenever Billy Graham came on the television, everyone in the room got quiet.

There is a recipe in the Joy of Cooking for bread pudding with meringue.  I'm fairly sure I can round up the ingredients since it is mainly bread, milk, eggs and sugar--the staples of any kitchen. It is a resourceful dish, the kind that set the foundation for my life.

to remember

Pat Schneider, author of Writing Alone and with Others, makes the following assertion,

"The old saw 'forgive and forget' has it exactly backward. It should be 'remember and forgive.'  Remember fully, in detail--perhaps many times. Feel all the stages of grief, denial, anger, resignation, acceptance. Perhaps then forgiveness will come up when you least expect it, in the middle of a piece of writing, like a flower out of the muck."

This is life-changing.

No matter what I do, my writing is autobiographical. Try as I might to hide it, the truth of what I really feel comes out eventually.

Forgiving and forgetting has never been possible for me since my memory for detail is quite keen. There are scenarios permanently etched into my mind that cannot be erased. What I cannot fully remember haunts me. As a writer, I have been at a loss as to what to do about these troubling tales. I've had opportunities to tell-all but have chosen to only write what is noble and good with an absence of malice. And yet I have wanted to create characters that may have experienced some of the things I have been through but have been intimidated by the amount of emotion that is still attached to so many of these past events. How does one write a story if she loses her ability to tell it because of how overwhelming it becomes to manage?

The idea of remembering and writing about it seems to make more sense to me than anything I've heard in a counselor's office in a long time. Remember the scene, the people involved, the way I felt, the actions taken and words spoken, and then after it is all there in living color . . . let it go, allowing forgiveness to wash over it like the tide coming in. This is what I've been longing to do. Maybe by sharing this wisdom I could help guide someone else on a path of healing.

I know about the stages of grief and have been through them. Denial can last a very long time, as can anger. Schneider doesn't mention bargaining but that is an important stage as we think we can somehow change what has happened. She calls the next step resignation but it has always been referred to me as depression which is far worse than just giving up. It is a seething just under the surface that masks itself as something far less threatening. But when left unattended can lead one down a road of self-destruction.

Acceptance happens when there is no more game-playing. It is over and done and it is time to move on. The grip of pain that once held us captive is loosened and we are free.

When it comes to writing, there exists as much honesty as the writer will allow. It can be a carefully choreographed dance written for purely entertainment purposes, or something that will pierce the heart of the reader with a resounding truth that must be told. Writers are notorious liars, however, and that truth can only come forth if there is an acceptance within that person--a come-what-may attitude that will enable something real to be shared. The risk of the telling outweighs the need to keep it a secret.

I want to remember and forgive.

soul frog

Though I have taught 5-year-olds for five years; special needs adults with severe and profound developmental disabilities for a year and a half; subbed at the preschool in nearly every classroom; spent two years with toddlers and the past year with infants, not to even mention the years of Sunday school teaching and vacation Bible school leadership, I sometimes wonder how I ever became a teacher since I still do not completely know what I am doing.

Don't get me wrong. I am well aware of my creative abilities, learning how to make a wide variety of crafts and absolutely loving to do art with kids. I have also added a great many songs to my repertoire, complete with hand motions, and know that in a bind a rousing rendition of "If you're happy and you know it" can go a long way. Reading books to kids is extremely fun, especially when I really get into it and do different voices. I always hope I'm inspiring them to fall in love with books as I did when I was young. I also never grow tired of playing games with kids, no matter what their ages, and watching kid movies over and over, laughing at ridiculous and corny kid humor. But when it comes to classroom management, I seem to part company with appropriate teacher practices.

We've all seen the teacher look. It is similar to the mother look, if you were raised that way. It is usually accompanied by a hand on a hip and a shrill tone of voice. And though I've had my moments with my own children, I don't naturally act like that in a classroom. It isn't who I am. I am the teacher who does one-on-ones and gets to know the deeper thoughts of the more reflective children. I like to ask the naughty kids why it is they are choosing to break the rules, as opposed to just putting them into time-out. I want to offer counsel and prayer. I want them to express themselves without fear. This is perhaps why I work at a church-run preschool and not at some other place.

So even though we are supposed to be sharing the love of Jesus with the kids at vacation Bible school, are with them a very limited amount of time and do not want to even think about disciplinary measures since I'm not sure they would be appropriate anyway, I wondered what I was going to do to get the kids' attention, just in case they grew weary of my Bible story teaching. My set design would capture their imagination, I was quite certain, and the curriculum presented an interesting approach, complete with an introductory activity to gain their interest. But what would I do if it didn't?

Just before I walked out of the door on my way to the church that first night, I had a flash of inspiration, and remembered something I had purchased a couple of years ago at an outdoor craft fair. It is a hand-carved, wooden painted frog called a "soul frog" with a stick placed into its mouth. Its back has spikes carved into the wood. When this little frog is held by the back two legs and the stick is taken out and drawn across the spikes, a chirping sound is made that sounds just like, well, a frog--and also sort of like a cricket.

As I set the ground rules for how we all wanted to be good listeners so as not to miss the details of the story, I pulled out the frog and told the children that my pet frog could only make a sound when it was quiet. Otherwise he would get scared and have to remain silent. Every child immediately stopped talking to listen to the frog! I went on to tell them the Bible story about how we make plans that sometimes work and sometimes do not. But that God's plans are always the best.

pilgrimage

We all come to the water.

--the family of six celebrating their first year in North Carolina at Fort Bragg; mom organizing the kids while dad thinks about another organized run;

--a young couple collecting shells with their small child; the woman as bald as the man though probably unintentionally, perhaps hoping that as her hair lengthens so will her days to spend with her family;

--a gathering of generations all wearing white shirts getting ready for their family portrait on the beach; possibly remembering those who have gone before while holding tightly onto those coming up next;


We all come to the water.

--a one-armed man guiding his wife and children back to their campsite, embracing us with his cheerful disposition and even warmer smile;

--an older couple with too big of a truck and a ridiculously large trailer that does not seem too much when upon closer inspection the license plate reads: Nam '66 (with a purple heart emblem);

--a young woman with a certain glow who proudly shares with the world her good news blossoming in her protruding belly; the young man accompanying her having absolutely no idea what comes next;


We all come to the water.

--the Canadians--God bless the Canadians!-- who arrive primarily from Quebec with slightly different camping equipment, speaking their beautiful language--"Bienvenue;"

--a young man overcome with excitement for the waves, the sun, the incredible beauty of nature, breaks into song, "the seas are alive with the sound of music" and laughter can be the only response;

--the guy who looks like Jesus occupying the campsite we were hoping to have as we then realize that if we can't have it, who better to take it;


We all come to the water.

The sea oats each stand alone on the dunes, connected by deep root systems that unite and strengthen them against the fierce winds. They appear fragile, as though they could break without much force, but hold the sand in place so that the beach will continue to be a place for all to come. They withstand great adversity because though they seem to be independent of one another, they are actually created to live as a community.

"Everyone who thirsts,
Come to the waters;
And you who have no money,
Come, buy and eat.
Yes, come, buy wine and milk
Without money and without price.

Why do you spend money for what is not bread,
And your wages for what does not satisfy?
Listen diligently to Me, and eat what is good,
And let your soul delight itself in abundance."

[Isaiah 55:1-2]

almost technologically free

In the not too distant future I will be leaving this somewhat uncomfortable desk chair for a portable beach chair that I will place on the top of a sandy bluff, complete with ocean view. This will be where I drink the coffee my husband will make using the Coleman camp stove in the confines of the screen house which will be our home away from home. To sleep, we will walk carefully so as not to step on a cactus or sand bur the short distance to our tent. I will say, "Oh, let's leave the rain fly off," and he will say, "There is rain in the forecast and I don't want to have to get up in the middle of the night to put the fly on," and I will say, "I'll do it," and he will say, "Ok," and we will both know that when it rains in the middle of the night he will be the one getting up.

After reading, drinking coffee and not having to do anything, we will make our way down to the water's edge and try to determine how close to set up our beach tent so that when the tide comes in, we will not be washed away. This requires some thought because we may just read until we fall asleep and then wake suddenly to find ourselves scrambling to save our books.

We will splash in the water from time to time and walk along the shore. We will watch the little burrowing creatures hide themselves every time a wave carries them in. We will reflect sadly on how we have a difficult time seeing sand crabs as there are not nearly as many as there once were before vehicles were allowed to drive on the beach, and though there are roped off sections for nesting sea turtles, we wonder how they are able to survive as well in this place we are all trying to share.

When we first came to the Outer Banks almost 20 years ago, the island of Hatteras was less developed and the beach near the federal campground at Frisco felt more wild. For several years a man we called "the naked man," for obvious reasons, used to walk the beach as though nothing were unusual about his lack of attire. We would see women sunbathing topless and thought this was all pretty exotic for North Carolina. When the boys were small we let them run around in their birthday suits as well. Life at the beach goes at its own pace and has its own rules.

At dusk I will breathe a sigh of relief having made it through another day of being overly exposed to the sun's intense rays and will wash the layers of sun screen off my reddened, freckled self in the cold showers with the rope one pulls for the water to come down. I never even mind the brightly colored tree frogs who shower with me. It is all part of the experience.

After a dinner that always tastes better eaten outside, especially when we go to the local dock and buy something that was caught just hours before, we will then walk back up to our chairs and watch in awe at the expanse of stars that will get brighter with each passing hour. The Milky Way is even visible. We will watch shooting stars, see satellites and try to identify constellations. The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse light will shine its rhythmic pattern over the dunes as the sea oats wave in the breeze that will pick up sending the mosquitos away.

It is at times like these when there is no need for any technology more sophisticated than a bottle opener and a knife to cut the limes.

awaken

Sometimes a dream stays with me long after I am awake. My rational mind tries to remember the setting to determine whether I have traveled to the place before, and I like to take time to consider what the story line is telling me. Mostly I want to determine whether this dream has any hidden meaning of merit or whether I am just too stressed or ate something weird for dinner.

I laugh when people are asked if they dream in color as my dreams tend to rival Les Miserables for their lavish costumes, large musical numbers, expansive sets and engaging actors. At least once I used a dream to write a paper in school and was given an A for my imagination. Didn't have the heart to tell the teacher that all I had to do was go to sleep!

In my recent dream I was visiting a cathedral. In some ways it reminded me of the basilica I visited last summer in Asheville, NC, while on vacation with my friend, Tia. We were drawn to experience something that reminded us of our childhood faith tradition, and in my dream I seemed to have the same desire.

Alone in my dream, I thought I would spend some time in prayer. I became aware while touring this unknown cathedral that an opportunity to take communion and receive prayer existed as I discovered a schedule of services. Thinking this would be a nice experience, I continued my tour. I ended up in what appeared to be a convent, attached to the main sanctuary by a long hallway. There I could see nuns wearing blue habits getting ready to offer communion. A line of women formed to receive prayer. I could see a woman barely able to walk on her own holding up the line. She asked if someone would help her and as no one offered, I decided I would.

Once I had taken her down that long hallway back to the main sanctuary I saw a boy about the age of 12 sitting by himself. Where was his family? I wanted to know. He smiled and said he was with a group but because he could not walk he would wait for them to find him. I could not understand how he was going to be found since he was not at the meeting spot and could not get there on his own. He agreed to let me carry him and much to my surprise this was not difficult for me to do. He was nearly as tall as I am but carrying him was like carrying a baby.

Done with my good deeds, I want to rush back to the nuns. Running through a church does not seem to be a correct choice so I take a back door which leads to a rickety scaffolding I then have to navigate in the dark. This frightens me and I try not to look down as it now appears I am several stories in the air and attempting to run on narrow planks while holding onto the bars on each side. But I do not make it in time. Communion dishes are being washed and put away, and the nuns, in their matter-of-fact way, tell me they are sorry I missed communion and prayer but I may be able to participate in the main service if I hurry. So off I go hoping not to miss out on any more.

Before finding a seat I notice that someone had forgotten to light the candles! So somewhere I find a lighter and start lighting them. I pay no attention to the fact that the church is filling up and as I turn around I realize there is no where for me to sit or pray and I have missed communion altogether. I can't stay where I am, on the altar, because I really was not supposed to be there to begin with and yet I don't know where exactly it is that I am supposed to be. I say one of those panicked in-the-moment prayers asking why I could not spend time practicing my faith and celebrating tradition when it was my very intention to do so. I had come to take a little time out of my day to be with God. How could I have messed this up?

I then think about the woman I helped walk to her pew, the little boy I carried to find his group, and the candles that needed to be lit; all choices I knew I needed to make. Above the clatter of my unsettled thoughts, I heard a still small voice whisper, "You don't ever need to come looking for me when I am with you already."