Someday I hope to be rid of the insidious disease

Someday I hope to be rid of the insidious disease that often resurfaces just when I think I am cured.  Most folks would never know I am ill.  There are few outward signs.  But just when I begin to feel fully alive and healthy, it surfaces like a stealth bomber and overtakes me.  The disease?  Judgmentalism.
 
The problem with this disease is that it sometimes comes disguised as misassumption.  For example, one school year, I once found myself musing about a student's hands.  They always seemed to be covered in grime, which seeped under his fingernails.  His pants were ripped at the knees, and he often came to class sweaty and disheveled.  Over the course of weeks, I began to create an elaborate interpretation of his life and tried to discern ways I could help him overcome his “circumstances”, all without ever asking him the reason for his condition.
 
Then one day he approached me before lunch and asked if I would come and see him dance on the playground. When the bell rang, I slipped out to the playground and found him next to the basketball courts standing by himself.  When he saw me, he began a solitary break dance performance, his only musical accompaniment coming from inside his head.

 I watched transfixed as he placed his hands on the unwashed asphalt to execute intricate spins and moves, often using his knees to ground his performance.  He radiated bliss. As I watched, I knew that in his head, he did not dance for his teacher; he danced for a cheering throng surrounding a polished stage where the spotlight shown for him and him alone. His hands and his knees had been sacrificed for beauty, and in that moment, I realized that my misassumptions had painted a picture of poverty where his dancing gifts had created the richness of the Sistine Chapel.
 
However, leaving you with only that picture would not give you a true sense of the depth of my disease, because the truth is, misassumption is a very minor symptom of Judgmentalism.  Misassumption can be rationalized away, but Judgmentalism has no defense.    Gratefully, we rarely notice it in each other, because unless it is voiced, it is invisible to all except the mind of the judge.
 
Case in point: My husband and I recently took my mom to a hamburger joint in a small town.  As we waited for our food, I noticed a woman enter and approach the counter.  When I say "noticed", what I mean to convey is a rigid examination down to the smallest detail accompanied by a running negative commentary.  Her shiny, sequin covered mini skirt would have looked trashy on a teenager, and she seemed to be a woman in her late forties sporting a deep fake tan.  The wedge heeled sandals revealed hooker red toenail polish, and when she sat at a table across from me, I saw a skin tight tank top that left nothing to the imagination and hands that were draped in a collection of silver rings.  Everything about her screamed, "Look at me!" and as I sat there judging her, I felt justified in staring at her and evaluating every aspect of her life.
 
And then I heard a voice ---the gentle, caring, quiet voice of the Holy Spirit--- who spoke to me in the deep recesses of my heart, "You were a much bigger mess when I met you."  I actually laughed out loud.  It was true. 
 
The gift of that moment was simple and profound for me.  A mirror held up by a loving God reminded me that my own reflection deserved as much judgment as the woman across the room, and yet He had embraced me and loved me without reservation and without condemnation.
 
I stared at her again, but this time, I tried to use my new found vision.  I prayed silently for her to feel blessed by this day...to feel unconditional love from every glance, and hopefully first and foremost, from mine.
 
Someday, I will be rid of this disease, but only in the next life, I think.  But until then, I will use what is becoming my new go-to medicine when I feel the disease returning.  I remind myself again and again what I know to be true:  I was a much bigger mess when He met me, and He loved me anyway. 

Someday I hope to be able to say to my father in person, "I forgive you."

Someday I hope to be able to say to my father in person, "I forgive you." I know most people hunger to be able to express love or gratitude, especially on this day to honor our fathers. But the wounds of the past, now thankfully healed, and the fact that my father's life was taken by a drunk driver when I was 16, have confined my expression of forgiveness to a memoir I wrote many years ago called Killing the Helicopter Woman.
 
I think about him often when I hear the debate about whether we should refer to God as He, which to some perpetuates oppressive language. The argument is made that for people like me who suffered abuse at the hands of a father, or for others who have suffered at the hands of rigid patriarchal societies, the image of God the Father further subjugates us to male dominated societies and reinforces our victimization. And so God becomes She or It or The Creator or whatever neutral term serves the message, the music, the reference. It is a well-meaning attempt to help us embrace the concept without the negative baggage a name might carry.
 
As usual, I cannot speak for anyone but myself, but in the deepest part of me, today I wanted to honor my Father, not the one who created the wounds, but the one who healed me and saved me and made me whole. This Perfect Father taught me things that my earthly, imperfect one could not. This Father taught me that I am worthy of being loved regardless of what I had done in the past. This Father taught me that no matter how much I had prostituted myself in the world and its ways, to Him I would always be a beautiful bride.
 
When I despaired throughout my life, He never judged me but only gently held me and wept with me. When I wandered off like the prodigal I am, He whispered the way to walk and rejoiced when I changed direction. When I hungered for real love and intimacy, He taught me how a real Father loves a precious child.
 
This Father gave me the gift of Life, abundant life, and joy and peace beyond my ability to comprehend. But he also gave me two other precious gifts. His Word tells us that God has a name chosen for each of us that only He knows. One day, my husband, my first gift from God, gave me a card in which he wrote that he felt he knew what God's name for me would be. In the envelope was a small white stone on which my husband had carefully written my "new name" ... Beautiful. I have it with me always to remind me of how I am seen by my true Father.
 
But the second gift of my heavenly Father was greater still...the gift of forgiveness. When I received this gift, I was in the middle of writing these words in my memoir...

“In my dream, I see my father walking along a dirt road. I am on a hill, and the wind sifts through the awakening grass around me creating a smell of the turn of winter into spring.  My spirit is light and I watch him for a while as he struggles, bent over and awkward.  He carries a dirty brown bag, tattered and tied with rough rope, and the weight seems to overwhelm him.  I know that inside are all the deeds that shredded my existence...

                You deserve it, I hear myself think as I see him.  But there is something terribly wrong as soon as the words are out of my heart.  He is not all powerful, he is not a giant, he does not rule the world.  He is simply a man, small in stature and ego, full of defenses and mixed up wires somewhere in his brain. 

                As I watch his slow, measured step, I realize that I cannot do anything to help him.  He can not hear my voice, and if we were to come face to face, I already know that his eyes would be clouded with sorrow.  He has suffered enough.  And so have I.

                I start to sing a song in my heart.  I sing it to him across the grassy slope and it travels to the dusty road that carries his steps.  I sing it across the years that have been veiled or lost entirely to the weight of my own guilt and shame.  I sing it 'til the very throats of the world join in the chorus

                                If I were to see you struggling down a dusty road,

                                I would ask Jesus to lighten your load... 

                It is done now...he is free.

                And so am I.”

Someday, I pray that I will meet my earthly father face to face. I want to let him know I have learned that out of the greatest pain comes the greatest blessing. I want him to know that my wounds led me to the Healer, and the Healer led me to my Heavenly Father, who embraced me like the long lost child I was. I want him to know that I am at peace.
 
And I want my earthly father to know that now, in forgiving him, I am finally ready to love him.

Someday...the harmonica player.

Someday I want to have the simple trust of the harmonica player.  I wish I could recall his name, but the truth is, he slipped into our lives one day without an introduction and slipped away just as quickly.

At my 83 year old mom's urging, we had agreed to play a concert for an adult day care program located in the basement of a moss covered local church tucked under a tangle of trees.  As we descended the steps into the musty basement, we were greeted warmly not just by the volunteers, but also by a small group of differently-abled adults who were assisting them in serving meals to several of the seniors also in attendance. 

Since we had anticipated only seniors, we had prepared an hour's worth of oldies but goodies, including the closing sing-a-long "Good Night Irene" in honor of my mom. As we began our set, one of these differently-abled adult helpers pulled out his harmonica.  In a child like voice, he yelled out a request to play along, a request we quickly granted in the casual environment of our basement lunch concert.

He jumped out of his chair and bounded over next to me.  As we led the group in some Pete Seeger song, he began to robustly play along, his harmonica in a completely different key and his skills somewhat less than stellar.  But as the song ended, he looked up at me, his eyes shining, and he announced with a wide, toothless grin, his voice heavy with a lisp, "rock and roll...we did that really good...rock and roll.."

For the rest of our time, he bounced between his role as lead harmonica player in the band and lead dancer for any  unpartnered lunch guest. He worked the room like a seasoned Vegas showman, and when it was all over, he sidled up one last time as we were packing up.

There was a swagger in his step as he took my guitar from my hand.  "I want to carry your guitar," he said, smiling his toothless grin.  "I will help you with the equipment." We walked out a side door and down a small concrete path wide enough for only one person at a time. He led.

"See the gray van towards the end?" I called up to him.  "That's mine."  I expected him to cross the gravel lot and meet me at the van, but he stopped cold at the end of the sidewalk and waited.  When I caught up,  I stepped off the curb, expecting him to follow.  But the only footsteps on the gravel were mine.

A host of thoughts crowded into my mind.  Perhaps he liked my guitar.  How would I let him know that he couldn't take it home?  What if he dropped it?  As I walked back to him, I noticed his face had changed.  It seemed younger, less confident.  I stood next to him awaiting his declaration.  Suddenly I felt his touch.  He had reached down and taken my hand in his.

"I can't cross the street unless  I hold someone's hand," he stated simply. We walked across the lot and loaded the guitar, and then, holding his hand, I walked him back to the safety of the concrete sidewalk. Back on solid ground, he resumed his rock star demeanor and reclaimed his confidence.

"We need to play music again," he called out, " rock and roll..."  As I looked back from the car, he was flashing the universal rock star sign.  

I want to be like him, I thought, full of life and confidence, able to dance and sing unconcerned about my lack of coordination or my inability to carry a tune.  I want to launch  into good deeds with strangers and help carry the burdens of others.  But more than anything, when I face any obstacle, any fear, I want to simply reach out and take the hand of a fellow human being and trust with all my heart that I will be kept safe from the dangers that lurk beyond the safety of the well kept path.

The harmonica player gets it.  Someday, I hope to follow in his steps.

Someday I hope to be able to listen to my garden better.

Someday I hope to be able to listen to my garden better. You see, we have a somewhat problematic relationship.  For I think in some far reaches of my brain, I view the garden through the same lens that I few myself:  I do not see what it was intended to be, and so I see only the flaws.

It is an easy trap to fall into in our current media saturated world.  None of us are thin enough, smart enough, glib enough, or possess enough of any other shallow attribute that passes for character in the world these days.  And so the weeds of inattention overtake the ground, choking out all that is intended to be there.

Having spent the last six days in the company of 60 eleven year olds and a crowd of people for my mom's 93rd birthday, I awoke on this, the Sabbath, with a heart unable to partake of conversation with another living soul. So against the tide of my own inner Legalist, I took the day to rest and renew in the company of what was created by the Giver of Life and all things good.

That journey took me to the North Creek boardwalk, uninhabited in the morning breezes.  At the end of the pond trail, I stood in the middle of a symphony of frogs, meadowlarks, red ring blackbirds and a lone duck on the small pond.  Gentle currents pulled underwater grasses like tendrils of hair weaving through the cat tails, and the ragged silhouette of tree tops scratched the canvas of the sky.  This was the worship music my soul craved, and this was a cathedral no man could imagine nor build.

 

As I neared home, the tangled mess of the garden around the pond called to me.  But once seated with unused new tools and facing the tumult ahead, my heart grew weary.  "How do you eat an elephant," popped  into my mind along with the immediate answer...."One bite at a time."  And so it began.

Part way through the discouragement that choked me like the ivy clinging to rock and wood and stone, robins began to cheer me on.  Rich, raw dirt smells filled the air; the soft breeze ran through the small pile of collected debris.  And then it hit me: The Creator declared it good. The Creator blessed the earth with these birds that sing, these plants that grow in such infinite variety so as to defy chance, this sun that arises each day at His command. 

Though this same Creator gave us the creativity to imagine roads, and medical miracles, and skyscrapers, He does not look down on our man-made structures and declare these works of ours to be "good"...it is only what He has crafted through His loving, merciful hands…which includes our often tangled, weed choked selves.

 

No wonder I find myself so often distant from this Grace instead of drawn to it.  I spend my days in the evidences of the work of the hands of mankind, with its tyranny of rush and worry.  My eyes are saturated with the images emanating from LCD screens and computer monitors.  My ears hear only the ringing of phones and beepers and cries for more and more of the little self I have left at the end of each day.

But someday, I will learn to better heed the voice of the garden, for there are lessons to be learned there: The weeds are more numerous and deeply rooted when not sought after daily and removed; the old debris of previous seasons muddies the water when not washed away.

But more than anything, without spending time in this garden's presence or beside a rippling stream, or gazing down a glacier covered mountainside, I would miss the handiwork of the Creator --- the symphony of praises from His orchestra, the moss covered rocks which, if I were to remain silent, would still cry out His name.

I would miss this Sabbath, created by Him, necessary for life itself, to pause and sing my own grateful praise.

 

Someday, I want to write about the soundtrack of our lives.

Someday, I want to write about the soundtrack of our lives. You know what I am talking about. It's the music that plays in your head in those grand, sweet moments of life. It's the pluck and strum of your heart strings in a quiet moment of beauty. It's the musical score of your world.

I have been thinking about this today as I sit in the foyer of Evergreen Hospital listening to Judy play piano. Judy is a senior who contributes to the healing of the universe by playing a grand piano at this hospital as patients and family members go about their business. Because she knows that my husband and I are folk musicians, she has jettisoned her usual set list of classical pieces for folk music arranged for piano. The grand two story alcove pulls the notes skyward as a steady parade of people pass by.

Dylan's "The Times They Are A-Changing' " floats through the air, and as the lyrics swirl in my head, couples of every size, shape and color stroll past all carrying plastic, life- sized babies. The first couple who passed by signaled an appointment perhaps, a discussion of insights gained while toting a lifelike but plastic nonetheless baby. But soon this steady stream of couples and their dolls parading by make it apparent that this is an appointment of much greater design. Stretchy shirts are pulled over swollen bellies while husbands cling to lifeless dolls, all in preparation for this upcoming event. They seem so serene, so quietly proud as they walk together, and I think to myself, “Yes, the times they ARE a-changing," in ways that these young couples cannot begin to fathom. Only we who have walked this road before can know the depth of what awaits them in the years to come. They will enter this brave new life blissfully ignorant and totally convinced that they are ready for what lies ahead.

But then, when are any of us ever ready for what lies ahead? If we could see through that dark glass dimly would we run to embrace the future or throw our hands up in despair? Would we dig into some well of courage deep within ourselves or shrink into our own insecurities and fears and never step into the challenges ahead? Perhaps that is the beauty of the future being revealed in infinitesimally small steps, so as to protect us from our own weakness of spirit.

But through that dark glass, grand moments of beauty await us also in the small ordinariness of this life. Biking to work, I have passed a wetlands bathed in early morning light as a meadowlark warbled and my hearts' voice burst into song. " ..how great Thou art.. how great Thou art..." A brook warbles over rocks, and a symphony plays Copeland's" Appalachian Spring, and I have realized anew that it IS a gift to be simple. A grandchild's face explodes into a smile, and in the light of that gaze, the room and my aching heart are bathed in a chorus of alleluias.

The soundtrack of the foyer swells and with it, the landscape of this ever changing canvas.   A voice on the intercom announces a life threatening emergency. I see a wheelchair being pushed... an elderly man shuffles passed us, nurses, doctors...a visible river of humanity. Someone is dying here today; someone is being born; someone is recovering and someone is losing hope.

My mind races with questions, the kinds of questions one wrestles with in the autumn of our lives. The kinds of questions that draw near to you when sitting in a hospital foyer watching life literally pass you by.

Why am I here? What is my purpose? Have I overlooked some work I have been put here to do?

In the swirl of questions, I look over at sweet Judy. She is mouthing the words to the folk tune her hands create as the notes circle in the air. I can read her lips as Dylan speaks to the unspoken questions of my heart.

"The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind...

the answer

is blowing in the wind."

 

Someday I will spend eternity with Steve Dooley.  His is not a name most of you know, and even I did not know him well.  But I have been thinking about him a great deal this week since learning of his death, too young, from cancer.

Every life comes with a gift, and Steve's gift seemed to be an abundance of grace in the ordinary moments of life.  As an older female musician, I first encountered Steve at a local chain guitar store where he worked in the audio department.  This was a hard store to shop in.  Most of the clerks would barely give me any time when I had questions, and if a younger, hipper male musician walked in, I was left to my own devices. 

Not so with Steve.

His patience with my questions was extraordinary.  I was trying to transition into the world of digital recording, and through many years of drop-ins as I progressed through the process, he would carefully listen and guide me through. In his presence I felt respected and valued, and his kindness was a warm blanket in the less than welcoming marketplace in which he worked.

Later, while working with a local prison ministry, I encountered Steve again at a large church where he was doing sound.  He was a gifted soundman who could mix a stage full of musicians and singers with such expertise that each part of the mix had a unique place, yet the whole was complete and well-rounded.  Again, no matter how busy he was, he would take the time to give full eye contact and listen, as though you were the only person who mattered at the moment.

Somehow, we kept running into each other over the years-- at the grocery store, at the church---and through those brief encounters, he shared snippets of his continuing struggle with cancer, always upbeat, always moving along to some more "important" subject.

And now he is gone, and I am left thinking about his legacy.

Our world is so consumed with the worship of celebrity and a desire to be noticed for being extraordinary.  But people like Steve teach us that the greatest gift to this world is the gift of ordinary kindness.  I treasure his footprint in my life not because he was an extraordinary sound man, though he was, but because he gave the gift of being present in the lives of others.  He gave the gift of respecting you no matter where you came from.  He gave the gift of letting others shine as he patiently listened.

It is hard to write about someone you do not know well.  Others may read this who called him a close friend, and to all of you, I offer my sincere hope that my recollection of Steve honors him as you  knew him.

I may not have known Steve well, but I do know well the arms who hold him now--- the arms that lovingly crafted him and molded him into the man who impacted my life and the lives of so many others. And with all my heart, I know those same mighty, merciful arms welcomed him home with, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant."

Someday, I will join Steve where he rests, but until then, I hope to master, as Steve had done, the gift of extraordinary kindness in the ordinary moments of life.
 

Someday I will be at peace...

Someday I hope to be able to write about the achingly beautiful life we have been given and do it justice. Our lives are so chock full of rush and worry...and these same lives are lived out at break neck speed with a cosmic sized to do list attached to our bended backs. Life passes by like a bullet train, and we stand at the platform waving at a disappearing shadow wondering why we have been left behind. Or perhaps it is just me...

 

But the train slowed down yesterday for me because of Athena, the small, frail Greek woman in her nineties who stopped my mom and I at the elevator at her senior apartments. She wondered if we would be around for a few moments because she needed two witnesses for her will. As we crossed the threshold of her apartment, I noticed a child sized easel with some excellently drawn pieces and asked if she was an artist. A humble woman, she was difficult to draw out, but finally she showed me a picture of two beautiful hands reaching out towards a ball of light. "I had a vision,” she revealed.

 

When I pressed her for details, she stated plainly, her voice nearly a whisper, "It was all of my senses... And I knew I could die in peace." Her son knocked at the door, and when we found out that the notary would not appear for about an hour, I plugged in my headphones and went for a walk at a nearby nature trail, thinking about being at peace with death.

 

The lyrics to a Robin Mark tune played in my head, accompanied by penny whistle..."when it all is said and done, all my treasures will be nothing; only what I did for love's reward will stand the test of time..."

A couple walked ahead of me with an unwieldy bike device. A small child tried to ride without success. Suddenly, mom jumped on and a laughing father and child pushed her awkwardly on the small bike. As the penny whistle played a score behind my steps, I begin to unravel.

 

A young father walked towards me, his face serene and filled with quiet pride. He pushed a stroller filled with a blanketed infant, too young to walk but not too young to smile. Her face was a mirror of her father's, and as they approached, I saw their lives pure and surrounded by promise. I came undone by the picture, and I could no longer hold back the flood of tears, my own joy and gratefulness overflowing out of these passing life pictures.

 

We have been given this life- this beautiful, awkward, joy filled, painful, abundant life. It unfolds before us every day in these tiny moments of hope and possibility which get swallowed up or overshadowed by the other small things that really don't matter.

 

But today, Athena spoke of a vision, and the day began to slow down. A family had a moment of spontaneous laughter. A father embraced a quiet winter walk with his daughter. And when I had returned for the signing, a fellow occupant of the senior apartment complex showed up in a furry bathrobe and announced she has worn her formal wear for the witnessing of the will. Suddenly, I am no longer necessary... We have one witness too many.

 

But I did witness this beautiful day unfold and embed itself into my heart. And like Athena, I was given a vision that someday I too will die at peace, having lived a life, if I am lucky, filled with tiny moments of love and grace.

 

And though I love this life with all the vigor and passion that emanated from that young father's face, that is a someday I welcome and embrace.