Road Trip

            We are entering the Red Apple grocery store in Coupeville when I notice Mom digging in the pockets of the spring jacket I gave her a couple Christmases ago:  a tan Land’s End classic.  Weeks, if not months, often go by before she wears it.  I am always the one to suggest it, and she is always delighted to discover she has such a fine coat.

            It takes a couple minutes before I figure out what she is snacking on:  a fortune cookie stowed away in her pocket.  “Fortune cookies don’t ever really go bad, do they?” I think to myself. 

            We make our way through the store to pick up the few items on my list:  mini cinnamon rolls, eggs, and coffee filters.  Mom stops every few steps or so to peer at a display and exclaim over how high the prices are.  She is having a grand time.

            On our drive back home, I suggest we take the scenic route: down a winding road to Ebey’s Landing, up a steep hill, on through the farmland looking out at the Sound and Olympic Mountains, past Fort Casey and the ferry, and on back to the highway.  The blue sky and sunshine are what inspired this foray, after all.

            As we travel along, Mom leads on with the same conversation we have every time we drive somewhere:  the exceptional cloud formations, the trees growing up so tall, the fact that she gave up driving five or more years ago, and the reminiscences of when she used to drive all around on Whidbey Island.

            Her desire to go on drives is fairly recent.  She used to spurn errands, preferring to work on some outdoor project.  Now she wistfully asks most days if we are going somewhere.  Tomorrow is our monthly trip up to Burlington to get cat food and shop at Costco.  John will drive his big diesel truck, I will sit in the uncomfortable middle spot reserved for those with short legs, and Mom will work her way through the familiar topics that are first-time conversation for her.

            One thing will be different.  She will probably wear her old blue coat.  I think she keeps M & M’s in those pockets.

           

Birth Order

            I haven’t even read the WebMD article yet, but the title (“Does Birth Order Dictate Your Lifestyle?”) sets me to thinking:  I have some Lussmyer answers to that question.

            Firstborns (that is, my late sister Anne) are brilliant research technicians who do unspeakable things to mice in the name of science.

            Middle children can take two different tracks.  Seconds (that is, me) are mild-mannered educators who enjoy the arts.  Thirds (that is, Bob) are entrepreneurs who take both business and family seriously.

            Babies (that is, my burly brother John) are laidback software engineers who love big cats.

            There, now that I have that settled, I can read the article and see if it agrees with me.

Benjamin

            Big blue eyes sparkle through big blue glasses.  A trail of drool reflects light off his chin.  Wispy light red hair crowns his head.  Blue hearing aids blend in, and the picture is complete:  there is smiling Benjamin.

            Bubbles of joy rise up within my soul, popping into smiles.  My heart seizes up with great love and longing as I consider the beautiful boy Benjamin is.  How I am blessed by his being in this world.

            Through my grandson God is teaching me about unconditional love by letting me experience it.  We are all Benjamins to God—full of promise, treasures to our King.  Our value is not in our accomplishments but in our being.  God counts each life as sacred.  Each of us reflects a bit of His image.

           

Not Me

            I’m working so hard and sounding so bad.  There is no resonance to my tone no matter what I do:  adjust the head joint, reposition my flute, relax my throat, pay attention to my embouchure.  The thin, reedy sound in the upper register and airy resistance in the lower notes exasperate me. 

            Practice is going so badly I decide it is counterproductive.  My throat hurts a bit, so maybe, I reason, inflammation is constricting my airflow.  I take apart my flute.  As I swab out the long middle section, something fluttering down to the table catches my eye.  What is it?  I pick up the two-inch-long cloth tag, black fuzz clinging to the back of it.  “Knapp Music Co,” it proclaims, just as it always has—except it is supposed to be securely fastened in the case lining, not floating around inside my flute.

            I start to laugh and put my flute back together.  I resume practice, relieved that this time the problem was not me.

The Problem Is On My Shoes

            The problem is on my shoes.  Shucks.

            I’ve blamed it on the house and on the carpeting.  I’ve blamed it on the aging cat and the litter box.  I’ve even blamed it on my mother.  And now I find out I need to blame it on my shoes.

            Walking around here at Casa Del Gato involves some hidden hazards stemming from two big outdoor dogs and one African jungle cat (housecat-size) whose litter box is the path to my brother’s back door.

            I’ve learned to watch where I am walking, but evidently I don’t see everything.  I have learned to limit which shoes I wear outside, but evidently it is not a perfect plan. 

            Admittedly, Mom sees nothing—rather, very little—due to her macular degeneration.  There is not much I can do about her shoes.  I don’t think I’m up to checking them multiple times a day.  But I can start monitoring my own.  The rewards for my nose could be great.

            The Christian moral is too obvious for me to ignore:  stop trying to sniff out sin in others and pay attention to what I track around.

A Broken World

I wrote this poem after the December 2004 Indonesia earthquake and tsunami that got me to thinking about what happens when tragedy strikes--more specifically, about the inner turmoil I was going through at that time.  The images of Japan's earthquake and tsunami are weighing on my heart, so I share this poem.

 

The earth tilted;

I fell,

Groping at ground cover,

Curled up until

Tremors thinned

Into seismic shift.

The sky was awry,

The world an unfamiliar rubble.

Groaning gripped me

While I, unbelievingly, saw

The chasm of chaos:

Gaping rock.

God became a fiend

And my inner landscape

Tumbled

With the roiling earth.

The blink was endless

As I took in

The terrible terrain.

In a jumbled second

Wilderness replaced my watered garden.

And only slowly

Did I know

That God lived in the gorge.

I am still learning

To add the “r” to fiend

And see Friend

In the midst of a broken world.