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Last night I wanted to just get out and do something, just ride for a bit. So I drove into town with the windows down and the new Trisha Yearwood CD playing. I drove past the house that my cousin and her husband and son are hoping to buy, just to check it out. It needs a little TLC, but looks like a really nice house and definitely has potential to be a good home for them. I drove through downtown and went to Sonic to get a java chiller.
There was nothing happening here on a Saturday night, of course. Even though our town is growing some, it’s still very “old timey,” as folks say around here, and while there are options aplenty for lunch, when it comes to supper, not so much. This is a daytime town, so evenings are pretty quiet. And I like that. Sure, I like going to places like Huntsville or Birmingham where there’s plenty to do day and night, but then I like coming home to the peace and quiet. Life is a highway, as the song goes, and it’s moving faster and faster all the time. I like living where it doesn’t go quite so fast. Sometimes it seems odd that I lived in Orlando for 11 years. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything, but it still feels so good to be back here. It’s like cool water to a thirsty soul.
As I drove through town, with the summer evening breeze blowing my hair around and sweet Trisha singing her little heart out, I passed a house where the family was sitting around a table on their front porch playing a game. It was such a Mayberry moment. And in that moment, I felt so full, so aware of what a wonderful moment it was—what a wonderful evening, home town, life. And yet at the same time, I felt so incredibly empty. I love being back here, love the small town, love being around family again. Yet surrounded by all this plenty, I’m keenly aware of what I lack. Someone to sit in the passenger seat on outings like that, or better yet to drive so I can just ride and soak it all in. Someone to sit on my porch with and play games.
But it’s not just loneliness. My job duties have gotten so random and scattered, I don’t feel like I’m focused on anything, and I miss having a feeling of vision and purpose. Before, when people asked what I did, I said, “I’m a writer.” Now it’s become this long, convoluted reply that’s more explanation than answer. I’ve found myself wondering a bit lately, ‘what am I doing with my life?’
It’s odd that I feel so content and yet so discontent. I’m content in my Being, just not in my Doing, I guess. I’ve lived here most of my life but am still learning how to be me here. And I pondered this as I drove back home, sipping my tasty mocha chiller, wiping my hair out of my eyes as I turned off the highway and headed toward home.
It actually looks a bit more like aerobics to me than dancing, but still, it’s good for a smile.
A couple of years ago, Uncle Johnny got a little donkey to hang out with the cows in the pasture. Her name is Flossie. He got her because donkeys help keep coyotes away from the cows. If you’re like me, you’re asking, ‘How in the world can a donkey protect cows from coyotes?’ I mean, let’s face it, donkeys are not the biggest, strongest or most powerful animal the Lord created. Sure, they can be ornery, but that’s about it, right?
The cool thing is, a donkey’s power comes not from its powerful kick, although they can surely pack a punch. It’s not its killer instinct that would send it into a rage to protect a cow or calf. It doesn’t have powerful horns it could use to boot a coyote into the next county. What a donkey does have is heart. Its secret weapon is loyalty.
When Flossie joined the fold here at the farm, it took her several days to get used to being here and away from her mama. The cows didn’t quite know what to make of her at first, so for those first few days, she mostly trailed behind them at a distance. But then they saw that she wasn’t a threat, and just like that, she was ‘in.’
When the first calf was born, I began to see the value and power of a donkey. Flossie became like a nanny, watching out for the calf, sometimes whether the mom was nearby or not. Sometimes the mom had to shoo her away if she was getting a bit too overbearing.
As time went by, it seemed like it wasn’t just that Flossie was like a nanny–it was like she thought she was a cow. She’s one of them, and even though the calves aren’t hers, in a sense they are, and she will do anything to protect them. For a coyote to get hold of a calf, it would have to get it alone, away from the other cows. Flossie makes sure that never happens. No matter what’s going on or how much she wants to leave, Flossie will stand by her calves no matter what. If a calf is being stubborn or lazy and not coming when its mom calls, Flossie nuzzles it and gets it moving. If it’s headed somewhere it doesn’t need to go, she will block the way.
I have a much greater appreciation for Flossie and donkeys now. The other day as I watched her with the four new little calves we have, I thought about Jesus, riding into Jerusalem on a “lowly” donkey, as it’s often referred to. An ass. The animal everyone makes fun of. I’ve read some commentators who say the donkey was a symbol of peace, which I can see, because while they can be ornery if need be, they aren’t really troublemakers. But I wonder if Jesus might have chosen a donkey because of its loyalty. It was Palm Sunday, near the end of His life here on Earth. He didn’t choose a strong stallion that represented His power–He chose a donkey, maybe as a symbol of His loyalty to us. Just a thought.
The Poet Thinks About the Donkey
by Mary Oliver, from Thirst
On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited.
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.
How horses, turned out into the meadow, leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages, clutter away, splashed with sunlight!
But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.
Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen.
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.
I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him, as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped,
as he had to, forward.
I learned something new about ponds the other day. Occasionally something called “turnover” can happen when there’s not enough oxygen in the water. The water on the surface gets heated and doesn’t hold oxygen well. Cooler, more dense water sinks to the bottom and doesn’t hold oxygen well either. There isn’t enough oxygen to support algae, plants or fish, so they can all begin to die if the water isn’t stirred somehow to mix in oxygen.
Uncle Johnny churned the waters by backing the bush hog into the water with the tractor and letting it run for a good while. A few fish died, but not too many. I had no idea what he was doing when he backed the tractor toward the pond, but it was a good fix.
It’s made me think about how this applies to life. We need to stir things up every so often, or hang on when they’re being stirred for us, and know that it could be bringing us life and sustenance.
I don’t like to have my waters stirred. I like to be led beside still waters, like some pastoral Bierstadt painting with big fluffy clouds in the happy blue sky. But we all know life isn’t always happy or calm. I freak out and get upset when God stirs my waters, just like I imagine those fish must’ve been freaking out when this big, loud piece of sharp, turning machinery dropped into their world.
If I can just remember the key to it all next time my waters get stirred: It doesn’t stay for long, and it leaves you better off than you were before.
Last week at the Atlanta airport, a lady sitting beside me asked if she could borrow my cell phone to call her daughter; she and her husband had been in China for two weeks and because of their long flight home, her phone’s battery was totally drained. “You don’t realize how much you depend on your phone till you don’t have it,” she said. Her husband mentioned his old AT&T calling card (remember those?), and how he hadn’t used it in years.
Someone at work was talking about how many e-mail messages they had in their inbox, and how hard it was to keep up. We have too much to do and not enough people to get it all done. I get so many messages now, I don’t really have time to think or evaluate—I just respond and move on. Things are coming at me so fast, efficiency goes out the window. I don’t have time to think about the best way to do whatever I’m working on; I just have time to get it done as quickly and simply as possible. And I hate this.
I’m all for technology (a couple of friends call me a techno junkie). I’ve seen a lot of changes in my day (hang on for old-lady mode): I remember having to get up and turn the knob on the TV to change channels, or having to rotate the antenna for better reception. I remember having one phone in the house, and it was anchored to the wall. I remember having to stop at a gas station or looking for a pay phone if you wanted to call someone while you were traveling. Now a lot of people don’t even have home phones anymore—they just use their cell phone for everything. Now it’s almost odd to see someone driving who ISN’T using a cell phone. We used to have to wait for information to come in the mail; now we get it instantly via text message, IM or e-mail on our cell phone or PDA.
Quicker can be good. If you need to stop for something on your way home, it’s better to find that out before you actually get home and then have to leave again. If someone needs us, all they have to do is call—no more waiting for Lassie to go and get help. (Just for the record, Lassie is before my time.) The speed at which we can receive information now can definitely be a good thing.
But … and you know it was coming … it’s not always a good thing. In the words of race car driver Mario Andretti: “If everything seems under control, you’re just not going fast enough.” Speed can be good, but it can also make us lose control. That’s how I feel. I don’t have time to think anymore, and I need to think. Otherwise, it’s like eating without chewing, and it gives me indigestion in my soul.
Also, I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes waiting can be a good thing. If you happen to be an impatient person, getting things faster just fuels your impatience. Not that I have any personal experience with that or anything. I find myself standing in front of the microwave, going “Come on, come on!” Remember when we actually cooked? I eat microwave meals a lot because when you’re cooking for just one person, you have leftovers that last forever, but it doesn’t take that much time to actually make a meal.
The speed of life warps my perspective on life. One of the reasons why I love being outside with Bailey is because I have time to process and catch my breath. She’s slowed down a couple of notches from her puppy speed of go-go-go, and after she’s been out and run around a bit, she’s ready to park it on the back porch and just sit a while. Me too. Much like the cows out in the pasture, I like to ruminate. I chew on what happened, what it means, how I feel about it. I’ve always been this way. I remember being about 8 and climbing up into the hay loft in my grandfather’s barn to sit and think.
Anybody else need to slow down every once in a while? You know what they say—speed kills.
It took me two days and lots of frustration, but I finally figured out how to change my photo in the sidebar over there. I haven’t been blogging much, but I thought I’d freshen things up a bit, go with a new theme, do a little dusting, etc.
Our awards banquet at work is in two weeks. Hopefully after that, I’ll have more time and brain cells left to be able to put together some coherent thoughts here.
I played games on a Wii for the first time today, and it’s a blast. I tried getting one a few months ago but no one around here had any in stock, and I just let it go. My sister and brother-in-law got one this weekend, so I went to play with them. We bowled, played tennis and boxed. Lea Ann knocked me out every time in boxing—what’s up with that? Even though I got smacked down every time, it was great exercise. Richie and I played some golf too. I think I’ll try harder to get one of my own; it’s pretty dang cool.
Right off, let me say that I meant to spell “presence” that way. I just don’t want you to read the rest of this post, thinking the whole time, ‘I can’t believe she misspelled a word, and in the title no less.’
I took off work this afternoon to get some shopping done. It’s been hard for me to get motivated or excited much about Christmas this year, so I’m way behind on everything. I don’t know why I haven’t been into it much, but I just haven’t. Maybe because life has been so crazy, it’s been all I can do to keep up, much less put so much focus and energy on something else. ANYWAY, as my cousin says to my aunt when she’s telling every detail and he wants her to just get to the point already, I actually got a good bit of shopping done today.
Tonight I got the wrapping paper, gift bags, tissue paper and all that, and spread it all out on the living room floor so I could get the little goodies wrapped. While I was sitting there, I looked over at my stack of CDs and DVDs by the TV, and Shrek caught my eye. I hadn’t really remembered that I owned it, and I wondered what it had been about the movie that compelled me to get the DVD. I have no idea; nonetheless, there it sits, probably in its $19.95 glory, on my shelf. And it got me to thinking ….
Why DO we buy movies? CDs? iTunes? And why do we give each other the gifts that we do on birthdays or holidays? Why do we go about all this worrying and shopping and fretting and shipping? Because we want to give each other that good feeling. The feeling WE had when we watched that movie or heard that music or saw that sweater in the store or lived that moment we’ve captured in a photo and put in a frame. Aren’t we really trying to just keep (and give) time in a bottle, like a sample from the Red Sea or something?
“Remember that time you guys came over and we laughed so hard playing Mad Gab? Well, I got you a game of your own so you can play it whenever you want.” That’s what we say, but what we mean is, “Remember that time we laughed so much and just enjoyed being together? I loved that, and I want to feel it again, and I hope you do too, so here’s a little memorial, and I hope you’ll use it to relive that time and to treasure it.”
“I wasn’t really sure what to get you, so I just got you this gift card, so you can get whatever you’d like.” That’s what we say. What we mean is either, A. I had absolutely no clue what to get you, so here—you figure it out; or B. I want you to be happy and want to know that my gift, and ultimately my self, has helped bring happiness into your life.
Sometimes we give because we feel compelled, I know. But most of the time, we give because we want to make that person happy. Since we can’t actually give Happiness, or bottle Time, we give any number of other gifts that we hope will do the trick. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t.
I thought of my grandmother, who’s been gone for 2 years now. I don’t know that I have many of the material gifts she ever gave me, but the gift I long for most, I cannot have: her presence. I’d love to just pop up to heaven and see how she’s doing.
I want to keep this in mind when I give these little goodies to my friends and family. I want to remember it on Thursday mornings when work is crazy and I’m tempted not to take a moment or two to listen to a friend or to go say hello to a co-worker I know is feeling down. I want to think about this at the end of February when it’s the midnight of winter and it feels like the daybreak of spring will never come.
We can make our lists and check them twice, but it’s not whether we’ve been naughty or nice that we truly think about. It’s how much we care for one another. I hope you can keep this in mind too. (See there; I want you to have this insight too!)
Merry Christmas!
I made some eggs with bacon and cheese this morning for brekkie, as Sandra calls it. I’m not a big breakfast eater, especially the traditional breakfast foods, but sometimes I get a hankerin’.
I like eggs OK, but they really gross me out. I always wonder, how did somebody figure out that you could eat them? That puzzles me. “Hey, let’s crack this thing open, cook the stuff that’s inside, and eat it!” How did that happen? How could you possibly think you could eat that?
Maybe it happened in the same way that someone said, “Let’s take this thin, thin paper, roll it, put some ground up tobacco in it, seal it, light it, suck the smoke down into our lungs and then blow it back out!” These are the kind of mysteries that I ponder from time to time.
How many people died experimenting with this kind of stuff? I mean, how else do we know which berries are poisonous, except that someone ate them once and then keeled over?
So before my parents were walking barefoot to school 5 miles in the snow, and before my grandparents were out picking cotton and chopping wood for the stove, someone somewhere was picking berries, cracking eggs and puking in bushes, just so we could someday have IHOPS, Denny’s, Waffle Houses and Cracker Barrels.
There’s no such thing as a Food Martyr’s Day, but perhaps there should be.
We had communion yesterday at church. I love communion and all that it represents, but I wish my church did it like the Lutherans do, at least my friends’ Lutheran church in Florida. At my church, we all sit there on our booties and wait quietly for Jesus to be brought to us; at my friends’ church, you get up row by row and wait quietly in line for it to be your turn to meet Jesus at the altar.
There’s something about the action and movement of getting up and standing in line that just makes it much more moving to me. I know that I didn’t choose Christ—He chose me—so it’s still a response to Him and His call. There’s something a bit more powerful about standing in line with wiggly kids who feel so grown up, being in that line. With elderly, stooped men who lean on their cane while they move with the line toward Jesus. With sweet, petite, reverential little old ladies who always dress in their finest dresses and wear hats that match their outfits.
As the trays of bread and grape juice were passed down the rows yesterday, I noticed something that I’ve thought about a lot since then. We’re so careful as we pass those trays from one person to the other, especially with the grape juice, cause nobody wants to be the one who spills it. Jesus willingly shed His blood for us, but I am just telling you that I DO NOT want to be the one that spills it all over my neighbor’s leg.
And as I watched how careful we all were with those trays yesterday, I thought, ‘What if we were that careful with our love for each other? Our respect? What if we treated each other with that same tenderness?’
