vision

When I was 12, I was told by an optometrist that I had the eyes of a 40-year-old. I wasn't sure what that would mean for me later on, but it was sort of a scary thing to say to an impressionable young girl.

I didn't realize that it was possible to see things clearly. As long as I held a book close enough to my face, I had no problems reading it, but when I got out of bed in the morning pretty much everything beyond the tip of my nose was at least slightly out of focus. I thought it was this way for everyone.

As a good student in school my lack of vision remained undetected since I usually sat in the front of the classroom and was able to see my textbooks. It wasn't until I started getting bad grades in math, since many of the problems were written on the blackboard, that I was given a vision test. A trip to the "eye doctor" filled me with excitement and dread. I already had red hair, pale skin and freckles. I would now have to wear glasses, too?!

I still remember walking out of the doctor's office wearing my new pair of gold, oval-shaped, wire-rimmed glasses. It was a beautiful, sunny day and as I looked up at the trees I was absolutely mesmerized as I watched each individual leaf blowing in the breeze. Never before had I seen this! I had grown accustomed to seeing trees as large, green images, more like paintings done in an impressionist style than as they actually were. Images that had never been in focus came into view. I could see the expressions on the faces of people as they were noticing a little girl who had just awakened to a brand new world.

Of course I was then teased mercilessly as "four-eyes" in addition to already being called "carrot-top" which then evolved into "cry baby" for obvious reasons. But if this was the price I had to pay for being able to see, so be it. The other price was the limitations glasses would impose on my lifestyle. I have wondered if I could have been more athletic if I did not need corrective lenses. If my glasses fogged up while skiing, I was in real trouble. I never progressed much beyond the bunny hill. And while swimming I was at a disadvantage since I never knew who that blurry shape was swimming near me or talking to me, unless I recognized the voice. In a pool I was nervous I would run into the wall. I didn't become a great swimmer either. Working out and running wearing glasses can sometimes be a problem in warm weather. Clip-on sunglasses have improved dramatically over the years and though I now have prescription sunglasses and even prescription swim goggles, I'm still not much of an athlete.

As I reached my young adult years I decided for reasons of pure vanity that I needed contact lenses. I was convinced my big, clunky glasses of the late 1970s were part of the reason I could never reach the ranks of the type of girl who would be a serious contender for homecoming queen. So when I left behind my small town and headed for life at college, I confidently showed up wearing contacts, which were great for everything except for reading--which for me meant that I was constantly taking them out and putting back on my glasses. I would wear my contacts out on dates even though they always made my eyes red and I could not wait for the point in which I could take them out and go back to my real self. I was like the opposite of Clark Kent, being far more powerful when I was wearing my glasses than when I wasn't.

I depend upon my glasses completely. I think about where I put them down, always making sure they will be protected. I ask myself when people are thrown into lakes or pools that if my turn ever comes up, will someone have the foresight to take off my glasses first? I would hope so. My glasses are the first thing I reach for in the morning and the last thing I take off before turning out the light. Life as I know it would be impossible without them.

Forty years later and I strain to see my computer screen knowing that I am well overdue to see the optometrist and perhaps get a stronger bifocal lens. I never did get good grades in math. I wonder, how old are my eyes now?

callouses

Due to the nature of my art, I often form callouses on the fingers I use most for hand sewing. The extra layers of skin serve to help shield the ends of my fingers from the sharp end of the needle that still manages to surprise me when I'm not fully alert. Sometimes when my hands become abnormally dry, since I wash them constantly in my other life as a preschool teacher, the tips of my calloused fingers will crack open and bleed. In order for the pain to subside, new callouses must form.

My heart, in a figurative sense, suffers the same condition as my fingers.

The way the process works is that in times of sadness, after the tears have dried up and the attempt for reflection and analysis has been made, I expect a resolution. But when answers are not forthcoming and the pain becomes too much to bear, a callous begins to form. Imperceptible at first it is nothing more than a less emotional response to words and images that would have previously evoked a deeper reaction. As a second layer of callous is well on its way of forming, I do not give my condition much thought, and look for distractions. And just when it would seem that numbness would set in, it is as though this thick callous of indifference actually gives itself one more chance by becoming angry.

Anger can be a powerful agent in motivating oneself to do and say things otherwise unthinkable. But when it comes to solving problems, anger falls far short. It wields its ugly head in defiance to reason and with whatever energy it can gather it takes on the matter at hand with judgment, not mercy and a strength that is not tempered with love. It seeks its own immediate gratification and not the long-suffering road once familiar to someone who values harmonious relationships. An answer must be found, anger decides. Caution is thrown to the wind. The possibilities of casualties mount. Anything resembling a peaceful solution be damned.

It is precisely at that moment of reckoning, when the callous on my heart breaks open, that I am startled back into reality. I once again experience clarity in my thinking and see how my need to resolve a situation resulted in more pain.

I remember a time after many months of suffering asking God what I could do that would be as outrageous as what had been done to me by the person I was at war with. In the heat of the battle, the Spirit of God spoke to my heart and told me that what I was trying to obtain was not mine. Gripped with anger and fear, but before I could even formulate a response, the still small voice in my heart reassured me that the other person was not meant to obtain it either. Provision belonged to the Lord as it always had. My calloused heart of stone returned to a heart of flesh and I was able to forgive the person I saw as my enemy and forgive myself for giving her that title.

And yet I continue to engage in a struggle to keep the callouses from forming on my heart when difficult situations arise. I find myself wanting to logically and intellectually solve issues that can only be dealt with by the Almighty. As I keep looking for new possibilities, options to try, paths yet untaken to traverse, right on schedule the callous breaks open and I welcome the pain I tried so hard to avoid, knowing that having faith doesn't mean having answers to trust in; it means having the willingness to trust in the One who has the answers.




     

when friend became a verb

Last night, while making an attempt to be understood in the fewest possible words on someone's Facebook post, with questionable success, I became aware of a post searching for a childhood friend's address so he can be invited to our upcoming high school class reunion. Similar to the thinking one uses when one tries to find missing keys, the online conversation had to do with where anyone had seen him last. The last day I remember seeing him was the day of our high school graduation. I remember running up to him out on the lawn and hugging him, knowing that even though we were from the same home town, there was no guarantee we would ever see each other again.

We had become friends perhaps in part because we grew up a couple of miles from each other on farms. Since our parents knew each other and we attended the same church in town, our friendship was convenient if nothing else, especially when we were sent to the Catholic school for first grade and would have to ride back and forth with each other's mother. We spent many hours playing outside as children who grow up in the country do. It was more than that though as we made our way through the difficulties of navigating the school social scene. We were friends with each other when others were not friends with either of us. As long as we at least had each other, it seemed ok. We could add others to our childhood games but there was an unspoken trust of friendship between us that was not broken.

After going to kindergarten through eighth grade together in our small country school across the road from my family's cherry orchard, we headed to the only high school in our tiny town where all of the outlying country schools would offer up their students. Friendship took on new meaning as we were suddenly thrown together with other groups of kids who had known each other since their first day of school. Finding one's place and status was a confusing process and being a one-friend kind of girl most of the time, I often was unsure who to call my friend and who I was better off not qualifying in that way. And even though we often ended up in different places with different people, I knew if I were to ever need anything, I could call on him. He was still my friend.

Going to college changed everything. Some friends were getting married while I was staying up all night studying. Others were taking over their family farms or heading off to serve our country while I dreamed of pursuing something bigger than the confines of small town life. Keeping in touch demanded a great deal of time and effort before modern technology and unless I was coming home and making a point of visiting old friends who had decided to continue their lives there, we would part ways and have only the memories to live on.

High school reunions are a bit of a cliche and yet the older I get the more interested I become in attending. What I once thought I had to prove about success has faded, along with the color of my hair as the gray/white strands are becoming more numerous around the edges of my face. Looking a certain way or having a certain career become blurred like my vision. What once seemed so important has had several decades to change its mind. What remains is a connection with a person who knows me. Someone who remembers what I was like before life happened. Someone I have always called friend.

But now that friend has become a verb, everything is different--again. What was once a term reserved for the most special people in my life, can be applied to a mere acquaintance or even a customer eager to do business with me. We no longer befriend someone. We friend them by requesting that they become our Facebook "friends" and invite them to this somewhat imaginary world of ridiculous posts featuring cats, political statements and motivational quotes. We act as if this is real friendship. We want to believe that it is. Because if it is not, we will have to face the fact that the hundreds of people who have accepted our friend requests may not really be all that close to us. We may only have a handful of people we can call when someone dies or we really need to talk or be reminded that we are loved.

My friend was found on Facebook and by the end of the night I had summoned the courage to invite him to be my friend . . . again.

more

It isn't that contentment is impossible or happiness elusive. It isn't that my hopes and dreams are always frustrated. I don't even let feelings of failure totally overshadow everything I do. But if I'm going to be honest, I need to say that I often want more.

More colors in the sky before the sun starts to peek through the trees at the beginning of another day. More quiet in the morning to so I can consider life before needing to leave my rocking chair, put away my book and start living life in all of its persistently loud, impatient, sound bite ways. Never do I long for more hurriedness or more work. I am not looking for more activities to fill up my calendar. Like my childhood preoccupation with arranging small rocks on the side of the hill near our house to create villages of people, naming them, and forming them into a community, I still like to consider how we can fit our lives together in ways that will meet our needs. It takes time to think about these sorts of things. More time.

I especially long for more on the rare occasion that a conversation takes on a life of its own and cannot be stopped by the hands of a clock, numbers on a screen or even an alarm--the kind of conversation that develops when the tasteless cardboard texture of small talk is replaced by the deep and complicated flavors of something worth savoring. New ideas are explored and laughter ensues. Explanations, reminiscences, and misunderstandings that require a step back and then two steps forward all factor into this grand feast of sharing between two people. One of the reasons I ever studied journalism was because I was fascinated with the process of two people taking turns to talk and to listen. Not the yes or no answers that come with the poorly planned questions, but the full disclosure that comes when someone feels listened to. It is a gift we give when we put aside what we want to say in an effort to let the other person express what is on his or her heart. An act of giving that leaves me wanting more.

So I intentionally try to be present in the moment, hoping my underlying motive of wanting more can be unnoticed and temporarily extinguished, like a candle put out before it completely burns down. I can then pretend to not feel disappointment when time passes so quickly my ability to comprehend, much less savor, the experience has suddenly come to an end. At some point I have to take a deep breath and recognize a certain amount of pain will always exist in having to say good-bye to someone or for a meaningful experience to end. As the childhood game of hide and seek that I would play with my cousins would finally get going as we would constantly invent variations to make the game more fun, we would always hear our mothers calling us to come back into the house too soon. It is not that different now, except I am the one who has to round up my family to end whatever it is they are doing to rejoin the dailyness of life. The sun has to set and though I become aware that it is time to put all of the ideas and words that dance around in my head all day to bed, they sometimes resist rest and continue speaking in the form of dreams. At three in the morning I awake mid-sentence, transitioning from a conversation I was just having back into the world in which I am supposed to be sleeping.

There remains a longing which cannot ever be satisfied this side of heaven. It is a longing for the conversations to never end--a longing for more.


 

before dawn

I strain to see the lighted face of the old digital clock that has continued to run long beyond its years. Without my glasses, everything takes on a softer shape and I have to orient myself like the visually impaired person that I am. I know the alarm I set on my phone will go off in 15 minutes and I could probably go back to sleep for another half hour, but my mind is prompting me to be awake and I decide to let it, forcing me to get up out of bed.

Quietly finding my robe in the dark and reaching for my socks and Birkenstock sandals, I put on my glasses and head out the door. Though having coffee with my husband is a lovely thing to do on a Sunday morning, I have a very strong need to get outside with the dog to feel the cool morning air on my face, hear the rustling of whatever leaves have remained on the trees this winter day, and witness the last twinkling of the stars before the sun rises to overwhelm the darkness with its light. Something about this time of day fills me with joy unspeakable. The hours are yet a blank canvas and I do not know what will be expressed upon them and through them. Whether the brush strokes will be beautiful and flowing or of harsher tones has yet to be revealed. My imaginary paintbrush hesitates.

I get a big mug of coffee and go to the computer to check to see if there are any messages of importance. The dog curls into a ball in the chair next to me as the sky continues to lighten in anticipation of the dawn. I want to freeze this moment and expand upon it. I want to accomplish any number of things within this timeless space.

My workplace area is cluttered with boxes that have not been unpacked since my last time at the Market before Christmas. There is a stack of papers and books off-loaded by our oldest son who left them here before returning to college. The new silk dress, my exciting thrift store find from yesterday, remains draped over my sewing chair. The closet needs to be reorganized. I need to get back to my work-outs at the gym so some of these clothes will fit better. Endless to-do lists threaten to cloud my peaceful moment and I have to willfully shut them out. This is not a time for work. This is a sacred moment of quiet to meditate on what it means to live this life--not the practical answers for living it.

Just as I start to contemplate whether to continue reading a book I'm enjoying, write a journal entry or better yet, pray--it is Sunday morning after all--I hear the bedroom door open and my husband head for the kitchen to fix his mug of coffee. What has felt like five minutes has been over an hour I suddenly realize. I put aside my solitary tranquility, take another look at the changing colors of the sky and head down the hall to re-engage with my world.

one night

Tables were set up and covered with fabric I had purchased at the Salvation Army for three dollars a bolt. Thrift store plates and glass tea light holders were arranged with ribbon left over from someone's wedding. The downloaded printable letter pendant I had made at home to spell out the sentiment of the occasion was hung in front of the window.

Servers from the catering company, where my teacher husband works his part-time job, transformed an ordinary table into a sumptuous feast. Another table would display the Costco cake and a floral arrangement given by a friend. The bar was set with a variety of beer and wine including my favorites since I was the one doing the purchasing. A variety of jazz music cd's were placed in the queue.

Having run out of the door with the excuse of going to the gym, I now had to change into my attire for the evening: more thrift store finds, save my pearl necklace Christmas present. Hair curled and make-up applied, it was time to dim the lights, start the music and open the door to the arriving guests.

Months of planning were over. Whatever details were missed would have to fly away in the cold night air as the exterior lights shone the way to the door of this rented house built for celebrations. Colder than usual, the screened-in porch would not be able to be used and certainly not the wide front porch that would be charming on a warm summer night. A fire in the fireplace may have been a nice touch but was determined to be unnecessary. Our laughter and cheer would be enough to warm the room.

Time had sped up as the day had worn on and suddenly my husband was walking through the door as the party-goers stood on the other side of the room, their faces beaming with joy as they shouted, "Happy Birthday" and immediately sang to welcome him inside to his party. He would see old friends and new; those he needed to catch up with and at least one he would meet for the first time.

Early considerations for whom to invite for such a grand occasion led to interesting contemplation. By the end of the process I was reminded of the parable of the wedding banquet in which the people who were originally invited had decided for whatever reasons not to attend. The person throwing the party in the story then went out to the streets to invite whomever would come so the celebration could take place. Having no way of knowing who may show up, I invited as many people as I could and was as surprised by who came as who did not. Letting go of expectation, I welcomed each one with a warm embrace.

And though this was a party for my husband, thought out and planned with the full intent of honoring him on a significant birthday, for one very special night I got to be the lady of the kind of house I would dream of having, waited on by those whom I had hired with money I had been working hard to save for months, and honored by friends who love me. I got to throw exactly the kind of party I had always dreamed of throwing.

And it was glorious.  

naturally

My favorite park is going through a renovation, and I'm not sure I like it. It is the closest park to our house so we have gone there for many reasons over the years.

Walking the dog on the trails through the woods has invigorated my spirit as well as the dog's. It has given my husband and I a place to talk as we see and feel the beauty of creation embracing us. The coolness of the woods on a hot summer day is a welcome relief. Gazing upward at the canopy of leaves overhead, I have wondered how many others have gone to that particular stretch of woods to unburden themselves, and whether or not the leaf covering can become a prayer covering, too.

When I began running a few years back, the trails welcomed me to try something I thought would be too difficult. I discovered instead that I enjoyed running on the mulch better than the road and as long as I could steer clear of the tree roots that are often painted so as not to trip the unsuspecting runner, I too could navigate the trails. My dog liked this plan even better since he needs the exercise even more than I do and like me--never tires of the being in the woods.

When the boys were younger we had birthday parties under park shelters. Since all three boys have September birthdays, we would designate a Sunday afternoon in the month of September as the day for the Shores Brother Boys Birthday Bash and would invite all of their friends to eat lunch and have cake. The parties would inevitably transform into some kind of pick-up soccer game after we sang to honor our sons and celebrate their lives.

One year my sisters came to visit and needed a place to camp nearby. The campground at this park was the obvious choice. It is the place for the outdoor senior pictures at our local high school to be taken. It is where I have seen our neighbor who enjoys fishing in the park's lake. It is where we have sat on a blanket in the summer listening to bluegrass concerts. It is our park.

Recently, a new entrance to the park has cut through the trees and paved its way over the grass. Sidewalks to make everything accessible to everyone are being poured, replacing a natural surface with concrete. Though these changes will allow for less traffic congestion during cross country meets, I selfishly think about how I will have to live with this renovation year-round with the regret of someone who doesn't love the color of the walls after they have already been painted. And as wrong as it is of me to want my park to remain the same, I know it is only fair that others be allowed the opportunity to experience it. Once the sawdust settles, so to speak, I will not worry so much about the changes, focusing instead on the twists and turns of the trails that remain in their natural condition--a place where I can go to pour out my heart as the canopy of leaves lift my prayers up to God.