Hands - Christmas 2012

His hands were huge, the skin rough. But, she supposed, that was to be expected. After all, he was a carpenter. The calluses, the flecks of sawdust in his hair, the faint scent of resin that hung in his clothes - all of these things were also to be expected. What was unexpected, completely and totally surprising to her, was how warm and gentle those work-worn hands also were.

It had started out well enough. An excellent match, her family thought. He was, first and foremost, a righteous man. And from a good family - a descendant of the line of David, no less. And, although he was certainly older than she, he was also well established in the community, with a good business and a nice home. And so she had accepted his betrothal, pleased to be the future wife of this tall, quiet man, this Joseph.

Then things had started to get a little odd. Actually, more than a little odd. There had been a visit from an angel. And then a pregnancy. And now here it was, nine months later, and she was on the road with Joseph, traveling to Bethlehem. It was tough going. She was very uncomfortable. Her back had been bothering her off and on for the better part of the day, and she couldn't decide whether it was easier to walk or ride the tiny donkey Joseph led. Still, she was reluctant to complain. He had been so kind, so understanding - waiting patiently each time she had to stop and rest along the way - but they were still shy with each other and didn't talk much. And now that they had reached their destination - much later than planned, thanks to all those stops she had been forced to make - there was no place left for them to stay. It was dark, the air chilly, and she could tell that, although he was doing his best to hide it, he was starting to get a little panicky. Finally an innkeeper, glancing over Joseph's shoulder to take in her tiny frame and enormous belly, took pity on them and offered them shelter in what was, no doubt, the last warm, dry spot in the city - the barn.

And so they settled, unloading what few provisions they had and making a place for themselves among the animals. It was one of those tidy stables, the stalls swept clean, with plenty of fresh straw on the ground. In fact, truth be told, it was probably better here than it would have been in the inn - it was certainly quieter. And she wouldn't have to answer any questions, nor talk to any strangers. That is, if she didn't think of Joseph as yet a stranger. He was, after all, her betrothed. But not her husband. Not in any important sense, at any rate. It didn't take long, though, once she had stopped the motion of traveling, for her to realize that, regardless of the fact that they had not shared a wedding night, Joseph was soon to be on very intimate terms with his new wife.

The actual delivery was blessedly quick. If she had been asked beforehand, she would have confessed to being frightened of it. Of course she had known women that had had a difficult time. She even knew some who had died in childbirth. It had been so always, since the time of Eve. But, like everything else in her life - at least since that angel's visit - she also knew that this was out of her control. There had been a moment of terror on her new husband's face, once he had understood what was happening. He had made to leave her, to seek help from a fellow traveler or the innkeeper's wife. But she - with a sudden confidence befitting her status - had grasped his hand and drawn him to her side, settling him with a smile and willing him to remain with her. And then, with a quick gasp, the Son was suddenly in the world. One moment she was with child, and then next moment the child was with her.

Once she had caught her breath, there were some other pretty astonishing moments. Amazing moments. Wondrous moments. She kept them all, carefully storing each in her heart. And through it all, wrapping each precious memory with those strong, calloused fingers, were Joseph's hands. Joseph's hands, tender and caring, as he swaddled the babe, the wobbly head dwarfed in his palm. Joseph's hands, strong and sure, as he lifted the child to its mother's breast. Joseph's hands, reassuring and loving, as he brought a wet cloth and gently wiped Mary's brow. Huge. Rough. Work-worn. Warm. Careful. Gentle. The hands of a carpenter. The hands of a man. The hands of her husband. 
 
"But Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart."
      - Luke 2:19



 

 

T-Town - One Year Later

A while back a writer friend of mine told me about a contest being run at Esquire magazine - in honor of their 78th year of publication they were looking for stories that were exactly 78 words. As Doug said, 78 words is hard! 


Anyway, here's my entry. (And no, it didn't win. And I didn't read the story that did.)

April 27, 2011, Tuscaloosa, Alabama

5:15 a.m.: Sirens: Check television. Storm past. Back to bed.

5:45 a.m.: Phone: No school. Back to bed.

7:45 a.m.: Jay: Have fun on your day off.

Me: If we keep the roof and power.

5:45 p.m.: Television: Sirens again. Check television.

Weatherman: Huge tornado. Over Tuscaloosa. 35th Street.

Jay: That's Katie's apartment.

Me. Oh my God.

8:15 p.m.: Text: Katie: We're all ok.

Me: Still have roof. And power. And daughter. 

A lot has been said over the past couple of days - the one year anniversary of that storm. The media - television and print - have been talking about it a lot around here. There have been some public ceremonies and stuff, commemorating the day. And some friends have asked me about it - and I'm glad to tell my part of the story, to elaborate on those 78 words. But, here's the deal... I can't really explain it. I am still, after all this time, at a loss for words. (And that's odd for me, since I consider myself a 'writer'.) I understand, now, why soldiers don't really want to talk about their experiences. I think I understand, a little bit at least, what PTSD is all about. There are sections of town that I just don't drive through without tears. I can weep over the sight of one lone tree in the middle of a field - no branches left on its massive trunk but with hundreds of green leaves sprouting all over it. I was sitting at a baseball game a week or so ago and the wind picked up - not even any storm, really, just some clouds and wind - and yet I could feel my anxiety spike. I don't know. I just don't know... 

Joey

Late one evening, a long time ago, on the way home, four year old Katie piped up from the backseat.

"Wishing on a star doesn't work," she informed us, in that special tone reserved for children who know more than their parents.

"Oh?" I asked, weary from a busy day and distracted by all the items still on my to-do list. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, I wished on a star that Joey would get a new eye, but he didn't."

It's a good thing Jay was driving.

Before you get the wrong idea, let me explain: Joey is a teddy bear. One of those big ones - roughly the same size as a small child. Roughly the same size as me, when my father won him at the state fair when I was two years old. That makes him old, too. Just like me.

Joey's been loved pretty hard over the years - not a bad thing for a teddy bear; just ask the Velveteen Rabbit - and he's pretty ratty looking. His original eyes, long since forgotten, have been replaced more times than I can count. Apparently I had managed to ignore the fact that Joey was in dire need of yet another button-eye replacement surgery. And now, not only did I have to fix this problem, but I somehow had to replace my precious daughter's innocence. Wow.

When we got home, Jay took care of bath time with both Katie and Burke while I flew into panic-mommy mode. Joey had one eye - a nice big, black button from an old pea coat - and I knew I had put its mate somewhere safe for when I had time to sew it back in place. The problem was, now I couldn't find it. Desperate for a solution before the end of Katie's bath, I found two rather gaudy but matching buttons, salvaged from an old pair of slippers, removed the single old eye and stitched the two 'new' ones in place just in time. Katie emerged from the bathroom, damp and smelling like only freshly washed little girls can smell, dressed in her Little Mermaid PJs.

I didn't say anything about Joey, and it wasn't until after the ritual of selecting a bedtime storybook that Katie noticed him, propped in his usual place on her bed. I was holding my breath - I thought the new buttons looked awful, and I worried that Katie would be disappointed.

Instead she turned to me, a huge grin on her face. "Look, Mommy! Joey has two eyes tonight! And they're blue, just like mine!"

Now, I know what you're thinking: Teachable Moment. We should have talked all about asking God for the things we need, rather than wishing on a star for the things we want. And I agree. We should have. But we didn't. And, looking back on it, I don't really thing that was the point. Remember, Jesus said to us: "Is there a man among you who will offer his son a stone when he asks for bread, or a snake when he asks for fish? If you, then, wicked as you are, know how to give your children what is good for them, how much more will your heavenly Father give good things to those who ask him!" God knows what we need. And He gives it to us. Even when we wish on a star instead of asking Him.

Baseball Moms

I've been a baseball mom for awhile now. 14 years, in fact. And it doesn't show any sign of slowing down. I've sat through games in 100+ degree heat. And games where it was spitting snow. Gotten up for games that started at 8 in the morning and gone to bed after games that ended at 2. In the morning. Yes. 2. We've played as far away as a nineteen hour drive and as close as a 7 minute one. At our house, if the UPS man delivers something, it's probably a new bat. Or glove. Or oil for the glove. Or weights for the bat. Pants. Cleats. If it's not baseball season we're thinking about baseball season. Or talking about it. Working out. Taking batting practice. You name it, I've either seen it done or done it myself.
  
But there was a time, a little over 19 years ago, when I never thought that would happen. In fact, three days after my son was born, I wasn't sure I was gonna be able to watch him grow up at all, let alone play ball. You see, he had what has since been diagnosed as neonatal seizure disorder. But at the time, all we knew was that he was having localized gran mal seizures. And when the doctors come in, as you're getting ready to get discharged from the hospital, to tell you that your baby boy is sick and having seizures and they don't know why, things get real awful real quick. First they start talking about things like meningitis and then move on to things like brain tumors. They put him on some pretty powerful drugs and moved him into the NICU. They discharged me but let me stay there, in an empty room, so I could come in and feed him every two hours. I wasn't allowed to nurse him, cause maybe he was allergic to my breast milk. I could hold him and rock him, but only if he was hooked up to a monitor. The anti-seizure medication made him incredibly groggy. And it had the potential to cause long-term problems, including learning disabilities. He had every test known to medical science: EKGs, EEGs, MRIs and CAT scans. They let us take him home when he was 5 days old but he had to have that medication every 12 hours. I made a little sign and hung it on the inside of the kitchen cabinet - phenobarbital AM/PM - and would move an arrow back and forth after each dose. The doctor encouraged me to taste it so I would know what it was like for him. It was pungent and sharp. It made him gasp and fling his little newborn arms out to the side. But he always swallowed it, like the good boy he is. Six weeks later they let us wean him off of it. They still didn't know what was causing the seizures, but they had stopped. And not knowing, I guess, is actually a good thing.  Usually, if it's something they can figure out, then it's something pretty awful. At any rate, he's fine now. Really fine. 



 Now, if you've been to as many baseball games as I have, you've seen all kinds of baseball moms. Some are quiet and some are loud. Some fuss at the umpire ('Have you ever played baseball, blue?') and some at the other team's coach ('You need to just go sit down!'). A few of them even yell at the players ('He's an idiot! He needs to be thrown out!') And I will have to confess, in the heat of the moment, I've been known to say a thing or two. Yell them, even. It is, after all, a very exciting game, and it's easy to get caught up in the heat of the moment. And it's an odd game too, in that each kid playing it - while most assuredly a part of a team - is on his own. He fields on his own. And most assuredly bats on his own. He can be the hero - or the goat - in the blink of an eye. And it's oh-so easy to forget, in the midst of all that, that baseball can be a cruel game. It's the hardest thing in sport, my husband is fond of reminding me, hitting a round, moving ball with a round, moving stick. Not only that, but if you are only successful three and a half or four times out of every ten you'll probably make it to the hall of fame.

But that's not why we do this, you know. It has nothing to do with us, or me, and everything to do with him. It's what he likes to do. Wait... it's what he loves to do. Sure, we like (love) it too. We'd have to, as much time and energy and money as we've invested in it. Sometimes it feels like we're the handlers of some rare and skittish thoroughbred horse - managing feeding and sleeping schedules, workout times and batting practice, making sure unis are clean and packed, Gatoraides and waters on ice, eye-black and tape in the car. And there have been more than a few times when I've worried that maybe his big sister has felt like she got the short end of the stick - that we focused way more attention on him than her. But here's the deal - the one thing that, in my heart at least, trumps all else. He loves it. He's good at it. And it's what he wants to do. And when I look back and think about the whole thing? The entire journey from mother of a sick little guy in the NICU to a big, strong, healthy, seizure-free son who has a talent and the passion to pursue his dream?

Yeah. That's it, isn't it? 

Thinking bout friendship...

(and yes, I know it's a topic that gets a lot of press - too bad. It's my blog.)


When I was in elementary school, maybe 2nd or 3rd grade, I had a friend named Doug. Now, I don't really remember what Doug looked like, except that he was kind of pudgy. Anyway, I invited Doug over to play. Nowadays I guess people call them playdates, but at any rate, this involved his mother driving him over to our house for a Saturday afternoon. We played outside, as best as I can remember, probably cowboys and Indians. (I know, politically incorrect but, once again, it's my blog...) Anyway, what I do remember, vividly, is what a big deal everyone made about me inviting Doug - a boy! - over to play. Now, they all knew that I was a tomboy. And they all knew - I think - that this was partly due to the fact that I had an older brother and partly due to the fact that this was just the way I was. (And I say 'was' when what I really mean is 'am'... The story goes that as a 4 year old I pitched a fit when Mom tried to put me in a dress to take me to a party with some friends of the family who had two boys - 'But if I'm in a dress I won't get to be the sheriff!' She relented and dressed me in jeans. Wise woman, my mom. I've been dressing that way pretty much ever since...) Anyway, as I was saying, I was a tomboy in elementary school and it made perfect sense to me that I would be friends with Doug. He liked the same things I liked. And when you're friends with someone, you invite them over, you spend time with them, you hang out... right? Um... in this case maybe no. I got teased about asking Doug over to play. 'Is he your boyfriend?' kind of teasing. Why do people do that? Anyway, I never invited him over again. And he must have moved away (although I'm pretty sure those two things had nothing to do with each other) because I don't remember him being in any of my classes after that... But Doug was my first 'friend' - and by that I mean he was the first person that I chose, all on my very own, to be friends with. I'm just sorry that our friendship couldn't withstand the pressures of the whole 'When Harry Met Sally' expectations. 

Elementary school was not a total wash, however. There was another friend I made there. Barbara. Here's the two of us on a band trip in high school. There's lots of things about Bebo to love... First of all we were born on the same day, in the same hospital, only two and a half hours apart. So, although we didn't really become friends until 1st grade, I like to think we met right then, at the beginning. Anyway, she's the smart, reasoned, careful one. I'm the practical, goofy,  irreverent one. She's the reason not only that I joined the band in 6th grade but that I picked the flute to learn to play - if Barbara was gonna do something then by golly, so was I. She lives in Nebraska now and I don't get to see her as often as I'd like, but she comes home every now and then to visit her mom. It's the kind of friendship where we just pick right up - almost in mid-sentence - as though we've not been apart any time at all. 

OK, now let's jump ahead to college. (High school... hmmm.... that's the subject for a whole 'nother post). Friendships in college - what to say about them? I read something someone else wrote recently that really struck a chord with me - that when you're young you can form close friendships easily because you're not so jaded and careful with your heart. I don't really know if that's true or not, but I do know that I'm still friends with some of my college buddies. Here's Carolyn, who was in band with me...

This was actually several years after graduation when we went back for Alumni Band day at homecoming. My mom had to borrow that tenor sax for Carolyn from our local high school band - she doesn't own one any more. And look at that red hair. Man, I was jealous of that. Still am, in fact.




 Anyway, same deal with Carolyn as with Barbara - don't get to see her all that often but when I do, it's just like old times...








There is one other friend that I made in college that I do get to see on a regular basis. In fact, he's asleep in my bed right now. (And no, I'm not referring to the dog in the picture. Silly.) It's nice, isn't it, when your spouse is also your friend? And look at the two of us there, so young, so innocent, so... skinny. Anyway, he's a keeper. 

What is it that makes one person a friend, someone else an acquaintance, and a third person someone who makes you want to stick a pin in your eye rather than be around them? Damned if I know. Shared interests? Yeah. Similar sense of humor? Check. But there's something more to it than that. Something at once more basic and a lot more important. And a little bit fragile, at least in the beginning. I'm sorry that I let the rest of the world make me feel uncomfortable about my friendship with Doug. And I'm determined never to let that happen again. Friends are important. And when you find one, you should hold on. I could make a list, but you know who you are.

Spring is Springing

So, this is one (only one, mind you) of the great things about living where I do... spring starts early here in the deep South. I planted these bulbs last fall. And now, here they are! Sweet!

Planting bulbs in the fall is one of my favorite things to do. It seems positively... hopeful. You do what you can to pick the right spot, protected but not hidden. You need to dig the hole deep enough, but not overly so. You water em and pat em and then cover em up and hope for the best. You hope that they are taking what you've given them and what they have stored inside of themselves and growing some roots, absorbing the things they need, and that, eventually, you'll see them sprouting above ground, sometimes when you least expect it, and blossoming into what it was they were supposed to be. Sometimes they struggle a bit when they first start to peak out of the ground. Maybe there's too much mulch. Or an unexpected cold snap. And you do what you can for them, really you do. But most of what they have to do, they have to do on their own. Really, they do.

Hey, wait a second... are we still talking about daffodils? 

Noel - a blessing from God

So, this all happened a long time ago, and you'll have to excuse me if a few of the details have faded. But recently a friend of mine sent me this photo from his hotel room window in Tokyo...

Anyway, I'm not sure why, except for the fact that he is now in the country that figures a little bit in this story, but it triggered the memory of Noel. She was a tiny precious little girl, born to the Youth Minister and his wife at my church when I was in high school. They knew, I think, pretty early on that something was wrong with her. But, as I know all too well with infants (and yes, that story is one that will be told here later), these things can be difficult to diagnose. By the time they had figured it out it was - for all intents and purposes - too late. There was some hope, though, and that was where Japan comes into the story. Apparently there was a doctor there who specialized in the kind of microsurgery that had the potential to correct the problem and save this child's life. So, money was raised and the three of them went. And the surgery itself was successful, I suppose, as far as those kinds of things go. I mean, the problem was corrected but her little body could not rally by that time to overcome the damage... She died a few months after her first birthday. We had her party at our house - it was an understated affair as by that time we all knew what was going to happen. My mom still has the pictures from that party on the wall in our den. She was smiling then, at the lit candle in the cupcake set in front of her.

When her death was announced in church, a couple of days after she had passed, I was, of course, already aware of it. But the preacher stood in front of the congregation and told everyone else. And then we moved on with the service, standing and singing the Doxology: 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow; Praise Him all creatures here below; Praise Him above ye heavenly host; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.' I cried bitterly then. And I'm pretty sad now, remembering. But that's the thing, isn't it? Children are a blessing. No matter how long they are with us.

What happens to us, then, that we somehow go along the way from finding the other people in our lives as a blessing to something less than that?