A friend is one to whom one may pour
Out all the contents of one's heart
Chaff and grain together
Knowing that the gentlest of hands
Will take and sift it,
Keeping what is worth keeping, and,
With a breath of kindness,
Blow the rest away
Monday, October 15, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
And The World Turned
One of those Sunday nights, I guess... some thoughts:
Recently an acquaintance of mine died much too early and in much too sad a fashion for me to even begin to understand. She was young- 22- just had a baby, in fact they had to take him early because her stomach cancer was a threat to the well-being of them both. She could have been treated from day one, but she wanted to be sure her son would live, so she spent 5+ months allowing her child to grow in her womb whilst the cancer ravaged her stomach. The baby was born- prematurely, but healthy. The cancer spread. Her son is 8 months old; strong, growing, healthy. She is in Heaven. Such sadness. Such sorrow. I didn't really know her. I met her several times- her husband was roommates with a couple of my good friends. But hundreds of my Facebook friends knew her and mourned with her family as she departed this world. My Facebook feed (the medium by which I experience much of the world and the true litmus for what is popular and relevant) was chocked full with statuses of grief and wistfulness. Such sadness. Such sorrow.
But in the middle of all these tears were a different kind. Another friend. 23 years old - college classmates with the recently departed, in fact - posted a status of overwhelming joy as her new baby girl was born on the same morn as another mother's life ended. Such happiness. Such joy. The world turns.
Walk into any hospital and you are smack dab in the middle of one of life's greatest dichotomies: the same elevator that transport people with "It's a Boy!" balloons and deer-in-headlights fathers also send up the heavy-laden spouses and children unsure of what they are going see when they enter their loved one's ICU room. The tubes, the noises, the eery, unregulated hush- to some they bring glee, to others they bring gloom. Its almost like there should be two entrances: one for the joyful and one for the melancholy. But, as it is, they all share same doors, elevators, and even the same rooms. The walls that yesterday heard loss-full mourning today hear elated laughter. The same halls that hold folks with hearts eight times their normal weight with lachrymose sadness, hold those filled with lighter-than-air merriment and mirth. The world turns.
Ecc 3:20 (echoing the curse of Gen 3, of course): "All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return." The world turns.
Recently an acquaintance of mine died much too early and in much too sad a fashion for me to even begin to understand. She was young- 22- just had a baby, in fact they had to take him early because her stomach cancer was a threat to the well-being of them both. She could have been treated from day one, but she wanted to be sure her son would live, so she spent 5+ months allowing her child to grow in her womb whilst the cancer ravaged her stomach. The baby was born- prematurely, but healthy. The cancer spread. Her son is 8 months old; strong, growing, healthy. She is in Heaven. Such sadness. Such sorrow. I didn't really know her. I met her several times- her husband was roommates with a couple of my good friends. But hundreds of my Facebook friends knew her and mourned with her family as she departed this world. My Facebook feed (the medium by which I experience much of the world and the true litmus for what is popular and relevant) was chocked full with statuses of grief and wistfulness. Such sadness. Such sorrow.
But in the middle of all these tears were a different kind. Another friend. 23 years old - college classmates with the recently departed, in fact - posted a status of overwhelming joy as her new baby girl was born on the same morn as another mother's life ended. Such happiness. Such joy. The world turns.
Walk into any hospital and you are smack dab in the middle of one of life's greatest dichotomies: the same elevator that transport people with "It's a Boy!" balloons and deer-in-headlights fathers also send up the heavy-laden spouses and children unsure of what they are going see when they enter their loved one's ICU room. The tubes, the noises, the eery, unregulated hush- to some they bring glee, to others they bring gloom. Its almost like there should be two entrances: one for the joyful and one for the melancholy. But, as it is, they all share same doors, elevators, and even the same rooms. The walls that yesterday heard loss-full mourning today hear elated laughter. The same halls that hold folks with hearts eight times their normal weight with lachrymose sadness, hold those filled with lighter-than-air merriment and mirth. The world turns.
Ecc 3:20 (echoing the curse of Gen 3, of course): "All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return." The world turns.
Storyline
So what of it? As the great Steve Miller once said: time keeps on slipping into the future. This truth is just so frustrating sometimes. I don't want to say that the existential questions of life plague me- that would be far too harsh a word- but they do give me reason to pause. often. It is such a fine and blurry line between contentment and gratitude, and ambition and desire. What in life should I be fine with as-is, and what should I relentlessly pursue to change? This answer would be so wonderful to have.
The world turns. I sputter as I ponder whilst folks that make me glad dance together away. The ones I care to impact for good are the ones that will never notice, not as I would have them, at least. It is pouring water into a hole-bottomed glass. Unfulfilling. Frustrating. The world turns.
I have recently come to grips with the cold, hard reality that there are things - valuable, non-replaceable things - in my life that I have have caused to break and splinter. Some intentionally, most not. And there is nothing that I can do to fix those dear, dear things. No amount of talking or compromise or desire can make them new-in-box. The saying, "time heals all wounds" is indeed patently false in this regard. So the obvious answer is to learn from said brokenness and carry on, but wow, that is easier said. There is part of me in each and every one of those fragments, how can one who is not whole carry on? What does he carry? To where does he carry it? such sadness. such sorrow. The world turns.
Lord, take me from Lamentations 5:15 to Psalm 30:11. The world turns.
The world turns. I sputter as I ponder whilst folks that make me glad dance together away. The ones I care to impact for good are the ones that will never notice, not as I would have them, at least. It is pouring water into a hole-bottomed glass. Unfulfilling. Frustrating. The world turns.
I have recently come to grips with the cold, hard reality that there are things - valuable, non-replaceable things - in my life that I have have caused to break and splinter. Some intentionally, most not. And there is nothing that I can do to fix those dear, dear things. No amount of talking or compromise or desire can make them new-in-box. The saying, "time heals all wounds" is indeed patently false in this regard. So the obvious answer is to learn from said brokenness and carry on, but wow, that is easier said. There is part of me in each and every one of those fragments, how can one who is not whole carry on? What does he carry? To where does he carry it? such sadness. such sorrow. The world turns.
Lord, take me from Lamentations 5:15 to Psalm 30:11. The world turns.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
October?!?!?!?!
I am haunted by calls from this here piece of the internet to get back on. I have several things bouncing around my noggin', and they will be put in to 1's and 0's very soon.
Until then, a poem by R.G. Bell:
See October
Sheets of crystal on morning grass,
Flannel shirts the color of leaves,
Sweaters the color of corn and pumpkin,
Wooly worms crossing the road,
Furry forecasters of a hard winter.
Hear October
Groans of hard men hauling hay,
Muffled report of rifles in woods,
Chainsaw promising winter heat,
Boughs breaking with weight of fruit,
Ripe prophets of a hard winter.
Smell October.
Smoke of leaves, oak, maple, tobacco,
Steams of soup, coffee, stew,
School bus fumes and Russian tea,
Whiff of cold in northern wind,
Clean composer of a hard winter.
Feel October.
Weight of first blanket on the bed,
Distant warmth of retreating sun,
Thickening fur on an outdoor dog,
Firmness growing in the ground,
Heavy harbinger of a hard winter.
Taste October.
Apples, crackers and sharp gold cheese,
Last grilled hamburger of the season,
Farm-ground sausage, pepper-laced,
Warm yeast bread from an old recipe,
Sure sustainer through a hard winter.
Come October!
Bring the security of a hay-filled barn,
A warming fire and goal made real.
Crown the end of a summer's work
With needs well met and hopes fulfilled
To carry us through a hard winter.
Until then, a poem by R.G. Bell:
See October
Sheets of crystal on morning grass,
Flannel shirts the color of leaves,
Sweaters the color of corn and pumpkin,
Wooly worms crossing the road,
Furry forecasters of a hard winter.
Hear October
Groans of hard men hauling hay,
Muffled report of rifles in woods,
Chainsaw promising winter heat,
Boughs breaking with weight of fruit,
Ripe prophets of a hard winter.
Smell October.
Smoke of leaves, oak, maple, tobacco,
Steams of soup, coffee, stew,
School bus fumes and Russian tea,
Whiff of cold in northern wind,
Clean composer of a hard winter.
Feel October.
Weight of first blanket on the bed,
Distant warmth of retreating sun,
Thickening fur on an outdoor dog,
Firmness growing in the ground,
Heavy harbinger of a hard winter.
Taste October.
Apples, crackers and sharp gold cheese,
Last grilled hamburger of the season,
Farm-ground sausage, pepper-laced,
Warm yeast bread from an old recipe,
Sure sustainer through a hard winter.
Come October!
Bring the security of a hay-filled barn,
A warming fire and goal made real.
Crown the end of a summer's work
With needs well met and hopes fulfilled
To carry us through a hard winter.
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