|This life’s a vapor, can’t be captured
Under glass. Yes, that is what we’ve heard.
Rich memories of days gone past
Now linger in the looking glass. But if we should visit childhood
And play tag in the mental woods,
Could they give strength today and
Kick off the restraint to create? Turning time-weary oldsters back
Into youngsters at heart, in fact?
Maybe a mental visit would
Energize and do me much good.
I’d ask you a question…
Revive the art of conversation.
Would you know I was listening?
Well, if I’d learn to ask
You might share,
And I’d hear.
Might I reflect you
Like the moon
Reflects the sun?
Can the sun see
This tiny moon
Trying to be reflective?
He sought a pebble on the sandy beach-
Calm and intent, he examined each
Small ancient rock left behind on the shore,
Made smooth through countless tossings o’er and o’er.
The waves set me down, and he picked me up.
Of process and
A cognitive expression.
The head says yes,
The heart says definitely,
Thank you, for
“The heart says definitely,
I always love to watch the instrumentalists play. The sweet melody coming from the trio of piano, flute and viola this December afternoon took my mind to another Christmas caroling memory.
I had made many trips to the hospital through the fall. Sometimes I went to the 4th floor ICU, sometimes to the 3rd floor Medical-Surgical unit. Always to visit, assist, encourage my dear friend Nancy. Before her illness, she was typically the encourager, the giver, the friend ever ready to lend an ear, a hand, expertise, ideas, dreams…
It was so difficult for Nancy to be the recipient of others’ care, love, gifts.
Her illness and subsequent complications from heart valve surgery in October escalated into placement of a pacemaker, and an allergic reaction to heparin resulted in loss of circulation to one foot, and several fingertips, ultimately leading to amputation of the foot just after Thanksgiving. Yet, Nancy remained an encourager, a sweet spirited gracious lady through each trial.
She was so overwhelmed when she received word that missionaries and friends around the world were lifting her up in prayer. Surely, God granted the petitions for peace of mind.
Christmas Eve was on Sunday that year, the 4th Sunday, one of the Sundays that my husband, and I, and our three sons served in the nursing home ministry with several other couples and families from our church. A Candlelight service was planned at our church that night, but there was no choir practice scheduled.
A couple free hours between the nursing home service and evening church meant that I could go up and spend some time with Nancy. I drove to the hospital and made the now familiar trek from the parking area to the lobby. At the elevators, I met up with our close friends, the Griffin family; they also served in the nursing home ministry. Beth had been the most constant companion to Nancy since our return from camp the first week of August. Beth and Nancy’s sister, Jo, took shifts staying with Nancy most waking hours at the hospital. Nancy was so weak after each surgery and recovery attempt that she needed an advocate.
I noticed as I met up with the Griffin family that they carried hymnals, and that Deborah had her viola. We rode up to the 3rd floor together and were greeted by Nancy and Jo with a warm welcome when we entered her room together.
The ensuing hour of singing carols accompanied by Deb on the viola was precious. A couple from a nearby room came and listened at the doorway as the room was quite full. The hour was such a gift to each of us and an offering of praise to God for the priceless gift of His Son. I treasure the memory of dear friends gathered together sharing love for each other and God.
I left the hospital after hugging Nancy and Jo and drove to church to join my family for the candlelight service. It seemed that my heart could hardly have been fuller with joy, but hearing the Gospel of Luke chapter 2 account of Jesus’ birth in the hushed, candlelit chapel further enhanced the peace and joy I felt.
As I drove home the streets were quiet in that particularly unique way that they are late in the evening on Christmas Eve. Simple white lights twinkled from the trees lining the street and a clear sky was filled with the splendor of God’s decorations: sparkling stars, a moon that caused the snow crystals to shimmer. It was an awe filled silent, beautiful night. A precious memory.
What was my mind saying when it heard?
What did You reply to the silent cry?
humble a heart.
Peace comes in trusting.”
re-visiting the feeling of disconnect when I sit in observation of my world…. rather than engaging in life.
wavy Monet images
viewed through old glass panes.
The world: beauty and sorrow
intermingled in muted impressions.
Secluded from the room
muted sounds, silenced voice
not touched or felt.
On my window seat
Not inside, nor outside
a veil between
hollow, aching limbo.
I dreamt that I am a newly hatched Monarch butterfly. I came out of the chrysalis to find no support to hang on while my wings unfurled, dried and the veins stiffened, became strong enough for flight. My wings have hardened, yes, but crumpled like a candy wrapper tossed to the street. I cannot fly and float on the breezes, I cannot visit the beauty of the flowers or show the beauty that I was meant to display. I may crawl on the ground for a brief time before dying with my purpose unfulfilled. It is hopeless.
Can I waken from this dream to find that I am still in my protective casing, not yet transformed, not yet broken out to try the world? That I am suspended securely from a branch, from a support. That I will have opportunity to expand my wings, straight and strong. I will fly in the air and visit the flowers – be a blessing of hope and joy to those who see the new-born creature flying, floating, gliding gracefully… wings as yet undamaged by this world…