pool considerations

When my husband decides to go to the pool, he often chooses to run there whenever he can since he is always training for his next marathon. He will swim in the clothes he just ran in and will not care if he has so much as a towel, although he will require a book if we are to be there any length of time. For me, there are far more considerations.

As the Memorial Day weekend quickly approached, signaling the beginning of pool season, I started to prepare myself mentally for our involvement as pool members. Before we obtained membership years ago, I was invited by a friend whose boys are the same ages as mine and who would love to go to the pool to get some sun, a seemingly innocent activity that goes wrong for me every time.

I remain confounded as to why anyone should wonder about my reluctance to spend a great deal of time in the sun. Do they not notice the copious amounts of sunscreen I need to apply and reapply and then apply again? Do they ever see me making any progress toward the attainment of tanned skin? Do I look happy frying there like a chicken ready to be served with mashed potatoes and beans? No.

So pool membership helped me out because I then had more control over placement and timing. In other words, I could find a lounge chair UNDER the awning which provides needed shade and could plan to go to the pool and swim after the sun has started its descent behind the large trees that shade the pool in the late afternoon/early evening hours. This is a great plan, as long as there is a lounge chair under the awning available and I can persuade my husband to go at that time. Or I can go by myself, which works especially well for a lazy summer's afternoon nap.

Before I ever set foot on the deck of the pool there is the necessary consideration of a swimsuit, and let me be perfectly blunt--this is always problematic! From my earliest recollections, I would wear modest swimsuits in an attempt to not draw attention to my fair skin that was already blinding everyone near me by creating a reflection as the sunlight hit it, before it freckled and turned red.

I knew I would find last year's swimsuit folded behind the chair next to my bed, on top of my towel/bag combination, the swimsuit I wear to work out in that is in no way flattering, and the yoga mat I take out on occasion to stretch, hoping my middle-aged body will someday remember the exercises of my youth without the residual pain. Looking at the tag of the swimsuit I was horrified to realize it is a smaller size than I currently wear, as the complications of the previous year had led to some weight gain I am working hard to eliminate. It is bad enough it is an old lady swimdress to begin with, but now it is too small?

Twenty minutes later I had managed to get into it as I stood staring at myself in the mirror. I need to embrace this woman staring back at me, I decided. She has been through a lot and she deserves to be loved. It is not her fault her skin is pale and there is an ample amount of it. Even if she were thinner and younger, and foolishly chose a more revealing swimsuit, she has had children and the stretchmarks to prove it. She has scars; physical and otherwise. 

Checklist: natural sunscreen for sensitive skin, SPF 30; prescription sunglasses in case I want to trade out my regular glasses; The Sun magazine which is great to read anywhere; a headband, driver's license, phone. I would slip my Carole King Tapestry album in when I started the car to sing, "I feel the earth move under my feet" loudly on the way there. I know every word to every song since I have been listening to it since I was in 7th grade, but instead of making me feel old, I feel empowered.

As I drive into the pool parking lot I realize a lot of people have decided to come out for opening day. I knew this would be the case. I have a portable chair in my car in case there are no seats under the awning. I will find a place in the shade even if I have to create my own. I have no children to corral and my husband is running over. It is just me. Me, in my terribly tight old lady swimdress. Me, with my fair complexion that is going to be the same skin tone by the end of August that it is right now. Me, with my interesting magazine that is going to help me block out raunchy music and people who came to the pool only to socialize. I can do this thing.

The lounge chair is waiting for me, right where I want it to be. The music is better than usual. A soft breeze is blowing. The water will never be colder than Lake Michigan. The article in the magazine is fascinating. I am ok. Life is good.

A friend I haven't seen in awhile comes over to where I am sitting. Though I am certain she in no way meant to offend me, the first words out of her mouth are, "Your face is really red; you look sunburned."

to Charlotte

For the welcome you gave me when I joined you in teaching,
Your kindness and love are vast and far-reaching.

Jumpers, saucers, highchairs and cribs,
Time to do laundry; we're all out of bibs!

For the homemade meals eaten from small Pyrex bowls,
We shared our life stories while examining our goals.

Spit-ups, dirty diapers, tiny runny noses,
Our room does not smell like a bed of roses.

For laughter and conversation as we nurtured each baby,
No guarantees for naptime, we would settle for maybe.

Bottles and pacifiers, Desitin and wipes,
Color-coordinated hair bows, matching socks with stripes.

For a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear,
Regardless of your struggles, you were present to hear.

Baby food in jars or mixtures made by hand,
Pouches filled with goodness, cereal rather bland.

For another round of Jesus Loves Me, and Brown Bear once more,
Your gift was evident as you played with babies on the floor.

Rolling over, crawling, pulling up to stand,
Babies learning something new each day; isn't life grand!

Though we all have been called to love children in this place,
You have done your job well with beauty and with grace.

Sleeping, waking, playing, growing peaceful in our care,
Confident they are safe and loved, knowing we are there.

On behalf of the many babies you have greeted with open arms,
With a heart filled with gratitude, I thank you, Charlotte Barnes.

from where I sit

From where I sit in the choir loft, I can gaze into the faces of the people of my faith community.  There I can see looks of deep sadness from those adjusting to profound loss; strained smiles of those recovering from illness and disability; joy of birth and rebirth; and the peaceful countenance of those able to enter into Sabbath rest or at least enjoy a break before the next scheduled event.

I watch members greeting one another, coming in late, leaving early. I notice the seating arrangement making it possible to determine if someone is present or absent. I take note of the many details of their lives as they file into place and ready themselves to worship God.

During the sermon, I try not to get distracted looking at the people who are looking back at the pastor, even though it can be quite telling as to whether they sit with arms folded, scowling, whispering to each other behind a bulletin or more recently glow with unbridled joy and radiant smiles. It is not my business how someone else is receiving the message the pastor has been given to share, so I will often avert my eyes to the stained glass windows.

There are eight windows depicting the life of Jesus. The basics are covered: birth, baptism, the crucifixion, as well as several that show Jesus teaching either as a boy in the temple or during his ministry. My eyesight does not allow me to know exactly what the two windows furthest from me show, but I would like to think they have to do with casting out demons or turning water into wine, representing some of my favorite Bible stories.

My eyes usually rest on the window with Jesus kneeling over a large boulder with hands clasped in prayer looking heavenward. According to the Scriptures he is asking his Father one last time if it is ok not to go through with the plan, but in the end says he will do it even though it will be the most difficult path he will ever walk. The intensity of this difficulty includes: the heartache that accompanies betrayal from a friend; the excruciating physical pain of being put to death in the manner prophesied; and the emotional endurance it will require as those who love him most either flee in terror or stand weeping nearby waiting for him to take his last breath.

Even though I know I would probably have also fallen asleep like the disciples he had asked to wait with him for one hour during his time of need, I find myself wanting to pray with him now. I want to kneel next to him at that boulder looking heavenward with him to inquire of God's will for my life.

So many times in the quiet hours of the early morning, I have found myself praying. Wondering.  Asking. Waiting.

Today my eyes traveled to the back wall of the sanctuary and landed on the immense garland of prayer flags hanging there as a silent testimony to the faith of those just starting out on the paths where God is leading. Colorful, cotton canvases, each one a prayer, are draped peacefully in the back of the church forming what looks like the outline of giant bird wings.

Perhaps the bird is a dove, the symbol of the Holy Spirit, and with large, graceful wings unfurled he carries the prayers straight to the heart of God.

My spirit longs to feel the breeze. How I long to fly . . . again.

emerging

The problem with change is that once transformation occurs, one cannot go back to the previous way of being. This would not seem to be a problem, but strangely--it is.

Perhaps it is wrapped up in the expectation of others for the desired change they would like to see in me.

If someone assigns me a project and then stands patiently by, waiting for me to perform my duties, that person cannot help but want to see me behave in the way he or she thinks I should. But this may not have any bearing on the way I am capable or willing to proceed with the work--the unique contribution that only I can make. 

Not satisfied with my performance, the work is reassigned to someone who will be more effective.  Or, in other words, someone who will perform according to the unspoken standard.

Then I have to decide how to respond to the incompetence which now supposedly identifies me.

But I choose not to.

This only makes it worse. "We knew she couldn't handle it," becomes the prevailing shared thought.

I can.

But I can only do things the way in which I do them. And that is a problem--especially for those who want to change me.

What they do not realize is that in this ongoing effort to transform me into something akin to their image, thus making me acceptable to them, transformation does take place. But it goes terribly awry. I do not change to fit their ideals. I become aware of my own. I stop seeking their approval digging deeper to discover the love that has been in my heart all along. I find joy in the creation and in the Creator. I find peace in the strangest of places. I let go of the ties that bind me to those who insist that I adapt. I break free.

There is a price to be paid for freedom. Not everyone cheers for the one who discovers it. Rejection, not praise, is often the response. To let someone down for not being who that person wanted me to be is tough--for that person. For me it is another small victory in a life that seems to do a fair amount of struggling to emerge from under the heavy burdens others casually toss on top of it.

Like a seedling straining to find sunlight and a few drops of dew, the journey out of the darkness is not an easy one.

But it is mine. 

necessary

Sometimes I feel like I'm hiding . . . in plain sight. Not seen or heard. Or understood. 

When I attempt to translate what someone has told me to someone else for the sake of conveying information, and am told that what I have said is not true, I find myself becoming invisible. Again.

So as a good journalism student, I go back to the source and wonder if what I was told was true. True according to what happened or true according to how she remembers it? Truth as viewed through her particular lens? Is she near-sighted? Is there a smudge on her glasses? Are her eyes even open?

When someone tells me that no, I do not know what I am talking about, I have a tendency to laugh. Out of disbelief. So in essence the person does not believe me so I am laughing because I no longer believe her either. This does not promote communication. This makes me want to solve the mystery of what really may have happened. Gathering clues and taking the testimonies of those who may have been present at the scene, I piece together a convincing narrative. But convincing to whom? 

Who, what, when, where, why and how. And does it matter?

We are told in our teacher meetings that we are to ask three questions before we say anything: Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?

This sort of attitude sends my journalistic sensibilities into screaming fits. The where is truth part affects me on a theological level. Kindness may or may not have anything to do with what the truth is. And, yes, it is necessary. It is always necessary. Because to keep smiling in the midst of deep sorrow is not being at all truthful. What your mother said about if you can't say anything nice, do not say anything at all was wrong. She merely wanted to keep you from fighting with your siblings so you could all eat your dinner and give her a little peace at the end of another trying day.

Perhaps the real questions we should be asking each other are: Who is the source of the information?  What is that person's philosophy? How can we understand each other better?

It takes a great deal of love to tell someone the truth. It is that kind of love for another that breaks through the assumptions, the contrived scenarios, the inevitable judgments, the what ifs, and marches straight into the heart of the matter. It peels back the self-protective veneer we hide behind. It makes us feel wounded, but then binds our wounds so healing can take place.

It is worth pursuing the truth. It may not seem kind at first, but in the end it sets us free.

It is necessary.  

loved

Knowing how Jesus died does not make me love him more; knowing the extent of my sin does not make him love me less.

Reflecting on the heart-wrenching details of crucifixion compete with brief moments of joy I struggle to muster. Try as I may to deny it, I must forge through the pain to fully enter into the resurrection.

The darkness of a Good Friday triggers something deep within me, probably best left alone. Perhaps it is the momentary terror that I will end up back in my own tomb from which I was rescued long ago, when I was led out into the light of new life.

History is written, as the prophets foretold in the scriptures, giving us the image of a mother grieving at the foot of the cross where her son is dying. She does not forget how she did all she could to keep her baby boy alive in that manger, swaddling him with whatever cloths she could find. She recalls the time he ran off to teach in the temple, feeling proud of him once she knew he was safe. Her mother's heart breaks as she considers how she would have taken his place if only she could have.

On the third day, the tomb is empty, and Mary Magdalene hears her name spoken in the gentle way only her friend can say it. The truth is revealed to the friends of Jesus as the Spirit fills them.

Still, they will miss the twinkle in Jesus' eyes as he would laugh at a good joke around the table; the lightness of his steps as he danced at a wedding; the way he was never as concerned with who people were as he was with who they could become--if they would open their hearts to loving others.

Heroes often die at the end of a good story after laying down their lives for their friends. We want them to live on and grow old with us, but they save us, nevertheless.

What remains is an empty chair, stories to sustain us, and one less hug at the end of the evening. We rejoice in our eternal reality, though sensing profoundly the separation between what this life has to offer and what the next life promises. And yet, we go on, knowing we are loved.

when technology fails

Beep . . . beep . . . beep, the alarm sound I always regret hearing forces me to roll over and reach out to silence the clock, as my fingers move across the small table to locate my glasses.

Tired from going out to dinner the night before, I make my way down the hallway to the kitchen where I turn on the light and start the coffee. I sense the presence of my dog, roused from sleeping in his chair to follow me in his stealth-like way, waiting patiently by the door as I untangle the leash and lead him outside where the early morning sky welcomes me with its bright array of stars. I bask in the quietness, the chill of the air, the pause before the rush of the day.

Once inside, I reach down into the large bag of dog food, filling the scoop to pour into the dish. This same order of events happens daily though I am often the one who takes the weekend shift.

I then pull a standard white ceramic cup out of the cupboard, remembering momentarily how colorful the Christmas mugs were, already placed in the back of a neighboring cupboard to take their rightful place on the shelf above the coffee maker sometime after next Thanksgiving. A larger cup is what I need but it is too early for decisions so I take what I now have filled with coffee and enough cream to turn it the color of milk chocolate and walk back to my work room.

Online I read my lenten devotion and begin to peruse the newsfeed when I stop--abruptly.

The dog has gotten comfortable and gone back to breathing deeply, as I turn off the light and crawl back into my bed.

It is there my now wide-open eyes attempt to readjust to the dark room, unable to comprehend the coaxing my mind is doing to override recent events and lure them back into a state of slumber. I will have plenty of time to ponder the inescapable reality that the clock chosen to awaken me in time to go to the Farmers' Market is apparently no longer functioning correctly. Instead of sounding the alarm at 5 a.m., it went off at 3 a.m.

And I already drank almost an entire cup of coffee.