Eventually balance moves out of us into the world; it’s the pull of rabbits grazing on the lawn as we talk, the slow talk of where and when, determining what and who we will become as we age.
We admire the new plants and the rings of mulch you made, we praise the rabbits eating the weeds’ sweet yellow flowers.
Behind our words the days serve each other as mother, father, cook, builder, and fixer; these float like the clouds beyond the trees.
It is a simple life, now, children grown, our living made and saved, our years our own, husband and wife,
but in our daily stride, the one that rises with the sun, the chosen pride, we lean on our other selves, lest we fall into a consuming fire and lose it all. ~Richard Maxson, “Otherwise” from Searching for Arkansas
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it(anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling) I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
May the sun bring you new energy by day, May the moon softly restore you by night, May the rain wash away your worries, May the breeze blow new strength into your being.
May you walk gently through the world, And know it’s beauty all the days of your life. ~Apache Blessing
Our days are slower now, less rushed, more reading and writing, walking and pondering, taking it all in and wondering what comes next.
I am so grateful not to hurry to work every day, planning how I should parcel out each moment when my energy and strength is waning.
Should I stay busy cooking, cleaning, sorting, giving away, simplifying our possessions so our children someday won’t have to? Might our grandchildren tire of my attention? Or should I find ways to be of service off the farm to feel worthy of each new day, each new breath?
This time of life is a gift of grace, waking most days with no agenda and few appointments. What comes next remains uncertain, as it always has been. In my busyness, I simply didn’t pay enough attention before.
So I lean lest I fall. I notice beauty and write about it. I carry as many hearts as I can hold. I keep breathing lest I forget how.
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The world is indeed full of peril and in it there are many dark places. But still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater. — J. R. R. Tolkien from The Fellowship of the Ring
A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief Isaiah 53:3
Shut out suffering, and you see only one side of this strange and fearful thing, the life of man. Christ saw both sides. He could be glad, he could rejoice with them that rejoice; and yet the settled tone of his disposition was a peculiar and subdued sadness.
That gave the calm depth to the character of Christ; he had got the true view of life by acquainting himself with grief. ~Frederick Robertson from a 1846 sermon entitled Typified by the Man of Sorrows, the Human Race
An elderly mother/grandmother apparently kidnapped from her home is yet to be heard from.
And another school shooting takes hold of my heart and breaks it.
Our sorrows fill a chasm so deep and dark that it is a fearsome thing to even peer from the edge. We join the helplessness of countless people in human history who have lived through times which appeared unendurable.
We don’t understand why inexplicable tragedy befalls good and gracious people, taking them when they are not yet finished with their work on earth.
From the unconscionable shootings of innocents, to quakes that topple buildings burying people, to waves that wipe out whole communities sweeping away thousands, to pathogens too swift and devastating for modern medicine —
we are reminded every day: we live on perilous ground and our time here has always been finite.
We don’t have control over the amount of time, but we do have control over how extensively our compassion for others is heard and spread.
There is assurance in knowing we do not weep alone; our Lord is acquainted with grief.
Our grieving is so familiar to a suffering God who too wept at the death of a beloved friend, when He faced a city about to condemn Him to death and He was tasked with enduring the unendurable.
There is comfort in knowing He too peered into the chasm of darkness; He willingly entered its depths to come to our rescue.
His has an incomparable capacity for Light, bringing to the world a Love that lasts an eternity.
Lyrics:
Angels, where you soar Up to God’s own light Take my own lost bird On your hearts tonight; And as grief once more Mounts to heaven and sings Let my love be heard Whispering in your wings ~Alfred Noyes
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The children have gone to bed. We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet, the forgiveness of sleep.
Then the one small cry: one strike of the match-head of sound: one child’s voice: and the hundred names of love are lit as we rise and walk down the hall.
One hundred nights we wake like this, wake out of our nowhere to kneel by small beds in darkness. One hundred flowers open in our hands, a name for love written in each one. ~Annie Lighthart,“The Hundred Names of Love” from Iron String
I thought I had forgotten how to wake to the sound of a baby’s cry or a child’s voice calling out in the night.
I thought I wouldn’t remember how to gently open their bedroom door, entering their darkness from my own darkness, sorting out what was distressing them, sensing how to soothe them back to slumber, wondering if I might sing or pray the words they needed to hear, bringing a blossoming peace and stillness to their night.
When our son’s family arrived three years ago from thousands of miles away, staying with us until they could settle in their own place, I was reminded my nights were never meant to be mine alone.
As a child myself, I had such frequent night-wakenings that I’m sure my mother despaired that I would ever sleep through the night. She would come when I called, sitting beside my bed, rubbing my back until I forgot what woke me in the first place. She was patient and caring despite her own weariness, sleep problems and worriedness. She loved me and forgave me for needing her presence in the night; her nights were never her own.
So I too responded with compassion when my own children called out in the night. As part of my doctoring life, I woke regularly to phone calls from the ER or hospital and from patients during forty-two years of medical practice; I listened and tried my best to answer anxious questions with gentle understanding.
And when a grandchild sleeps here overnight, I’m on call again, remembering the sweetness of someone responding in the dark; the fears of the night need the promise of the Lord staying with us until the new day comes, usually only a few hours away.
Little child, be not afraid Though rain pounds harshly against the glass Like an unwanted stranger, there is no danger I am here tonight
Little child, be not afraid Though thunder explodes and lightning flash Illuminates your tear-stained face I am here tonight
And someday you’ll know That nature is so The same rain that draws you near me Falls on rivers and land On forests and sand Makes the beautiful world that you’ll see In the morning
Little child, be not afraid Though storm clouds mask your beloved moon And its candlelight beams, still keep pleasant dreams I am here tonight
Little child, be not afraid Though wind makes creatures of our trees And their branches to hands, they’re not real, understand And I am here tonight
And someday you’ll know That nature is so The same rain that draws you near me Falls on rivers and land On forests and sand Makes the beautiful world that you’ll see In the morning
For you know, once even I was a Little child, and I was afraid But a gentle someone always came To dry all my tears, trade sweet sleep for fears And to give a kiss goodnight
Well now I am grown And these years have shown That rain’s a part of how life goes But it’s dark and it’s late So I’ll hold you and wait ‘Til your frightened eyes do close
And I hope that you’ll know That nature is so The same rain that draws you near me Falls on rivers and land On forests and sand Makes the beautiful world that you’ll see In the morning
Everything’s fine in the morning The rain’ll be gone in the morning But I’ll still be here in the morning
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I heard an old man speak once, someone who had been sober for fifty years, a very prominent doctor. He said that he’d finally figured out a few years ago that his profound sense of control, in the world and over his life, is another addiction and a total illusion. He said that when he sees little kids sitting in the back seat of cars, in those car seats that have steering wheels, with grim expressions of concentration on their faces, clearly convinced that their efforts are causing the car to do whatever it is doing, he thinks of himself and his relationship with God: God who drives along silently, gently amused, in the real driver’s seat. ~Anne Lamott from Operating Instructions
The conversations I have with my grandchildren are the most unexpected and creative I have with anyone.
They lead, and I follow. Just to see where they are going to take me next.
They are curious what I think about things. And I want to know what they’ll say and do next, today and in the decades to come.
All the while, God, always in control, smiles at all He has made…
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Everything remembers something. The rock, its fiery bed, cooling and fissuring into cracked pieces, the rub of watery fingers along its edge.
The cloud remembers being elephant, camel, giraffe, remembers being a veil over the face of the sun, gathering itself together for the fall.
The turtle remembers the sea, sliding over and under its belly, remembers legs like wings, escaping down the sand under the beaks of savage birds.
The tree remembers the story of each ring, the years of drought, the floods, the way things came walking slowly towards it long ago.
And the skin remembers its scars, and the bone aches where it was broken. The feet remember the dance, and the arms remember lifting up the child.
The heart remembers everything it loved and gave away, everything it lost and found again, and everyone it loved, the heart cannot forget. ~Joyce Sutphen “What the Heart Cannot Forget” from Coming Back to the Body
The main thing is this– when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning. Then talk softly to your heart, don’t yell. Say anything but be respectful. Say–maybe say, Heart, little heart, beat softly but never forget your job, the blood. You can whisper also, Remember, remember. ~Grace Paley from “The Art of Growing Older” in Just As I Thought
Approaching seventy, she learns to live, at last. She realizes she has not accomplished half of what she struggled for, that she surrendered too many battles and seldom celebrated those she won. Approaching seventy, she learns to live without ambition: a calm lake face, not a train bound for success and glory. For the first time, she relaxes her hands on the controls, leans back to watch the coming end. Asked, she’d tell you her life is made out of the things she didn’t do, as much as the things she did do. Did she sing a love song? Approaching seventy, she learns to live without wanting much more than the light in the catbird window seat where, watching the voracious fist-sized tweets, she hums along. ~Marilyn Nelson “Bird Feeder”
I’ve relaxed my grip on the controls on the runaway train of ambition. This is a change for someone driven for decades to succeed in various professional and personal roles.
Who I am is defined by what I haven’t gotten done and what I managed to do. And now, at seventy, I hope I still have some time to explore some of those things I left undone.
I want to remember those who I wish were still here, their time over.
Reflecting to my grandchildren the calm I feel. Holding my own heart gently and treasuring theirs. Humming as I go. Just sitting when I wish to. Watching out the window. Loving up those still around me.
My heart remembers. It won’t forget. It is sweet to still have some time.
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She skimmed the yellow water like a moth, Trailing her feet across the shallow stream; She saw the berries, paused and sampled them Where a slight spider cleaned his narrow tooth. Light in the air, she fluttered up the path, So delicate to shun the leaves and damp, Like some young wife, holding a slender lamp To find her stray child, or the moon, or both. Even before she reached the empty house, She beat her wings ever so lightly, rose, Followed a bee where apples blew like snow; And then, forgetting what she wanted there, Too full of blossom and green light to care, She hurried to the ground, and slipped below. ~James Wright “My Grandmother’s Ghost” from Above the River: The Complete Poems
…now you have taught me (but how late) my lack. I see the chasm. And everything you are was making My heart into a bridge by which I might get back From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.
For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains You give me are more precious than all other gains. ~C.S. Lewis from “As the Ruin Falls”
Early one morning, we heard a sound, someone carefully pushing a door open, but both doors were closed. The air stirred. A whirring echoed through the room. That night we had left a small lamp on. In front of it, each time it orbited, the dark shape of a bird. ~Tina Barry from “Another Haunting” from I Tell Henrietta
when my father had been dead a week I woke with his voice in my ear I sat up in bed and held my breath and stared at the pale closed door
white apples and the taste of stone
if he called again I would put on my coat and galoshes ~Donald Hall “White Apples”
I saw my grandma’s ghost once.
She was the only grandparent I actually knew and who actually knew me — the others were lost before I was born or I was too young to realize what I had lost.
She had lived a hard life after her mother’s death when she was only 12, taking over the household duties for her father and younger brother while leaving school forever. She married too young to an abusive alcoholic, lost her first child to lymphoma at age 8 and took her three remaining children to safety away from their father. For a year, they lived above a seedy restaurant where she cooked seven days a week to make ends meet.
But there was grace too. The marriage somehow got patched together after Grandpa found God and sobriety – after his sudden death while sitting in church, Grandma’s faith never wavered. Her garden soil yielded beautiful flowers she planted and nurtured and picked to sell. Her children and grandchildren welcomed her many open armed visits and hugs.
She was busy planning her first overseas trip of a lifetime at age 72 when we noticed her eyes looked yellow. Only two weeks later she was bed-bound in unrelenting pain due to pancreatic cancer, gazing heaven-ward instead of Europe-bound. Her dreams had been dashed so quickly, she barely realized her itinerary and ultimate destination had unalterably changed.
I was nearly 16 at the time, too absorbed in my own teenage cares and concerns to really notice how quickly she was fading and failing like a wilted flower. Instead I was picking fights with my stressed parents, obsessing about taking my driver’s license driving test, distracted by all the typical social pressures of high school life.
Her funeral was unbearable for me as I had never really said goodbye – only one brief hospital visit when she was hardly recognizable in her anguish and jaundice. She looked so different, I hung back from her bedside. Regrettably, I didn’t even try to hold her hand.
Mere weeks after she had been lowered into the ground next to her husband and young daughter, she came back to me in a dream.
I was sleeping when the door opened into my dark bedroom, waking me as the bright hallway light pushed its way via a shimmering beam to my bed. My Grandma Kittie stood in my bedroom doorway, a fully recognizable silhouette backlit by the illumination. She silently stood there, looking at me.
Startled, I sat up in my bed and said to her, “Grandma, why are you here? You died. We buried you.”
She lifted her hands toward me in a gesture of reassurance and said:
“I want you to know I’m okay and always will be. You will be too.”
She then gave a little wave, turned and left, closing the door behind her. I woke suddenly with a gasp in my darkened bedroom and knew I had just been visited.
She hadn’t come to say goodbye or to tell me she loved me — I knew that already.
She had come to me, with the transient fragility of something with wings, floating gently back into the world to be my bridge. She blossomed in the light she brought with her.
Grandma came to mend my broken heart and plant it with peace.
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You’re in a better place I’ve heard a thousand times And at least a thousand times I’ve rejoiced for you
But the reason why I’m broken The reason why I cry Is how long must I wait to be with you
I close my eyes and I see your face If home’s where my heart is then I’m out of place Lord, won’t you give me strength To make it through somehow I’ve never been more homesick than now
Help me Lord cause I don’t understand your ways The reason why I wonder if I’ll ever know But, even if you showed me The hurt would be the same Cause I’m still here so far away from home
In Christ, there are no goodbyes And in Christ, there is no end
So I’ll hold onto Jesus With all that I have To see you again To see you again
And I close my eyes and I see your face If home’s where my heart is then I’m out of place Lord, won’t you give me strength To make it through somehow
Won’t you give me strength To make it through somehow Won’t you give me strength To make it through somehow I’ve never been more homesick than now ~Millard Bart Marshall
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Touch me like you do the foliage! ~Rae Armantrout “Conversations”
There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October. The sunshine is peculiarly genial; and in sheltered places, as on the side of a bank, or of a barn or house, one becomes acquainted and friendly with the sunshine. It seems to be of a kindly and homely nature. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne from The American Notebooks: The Centenary Edition
Of course I reach out and touch a leaf lit like fire though cool on the surface, the flame for show only
I can only guess at what the world might be like for my grandchildren but I do know this: the leaves will turn fiery red in the fall before they die.
So much has changed since my grandmother stood on her porch and wiped away a tear at the sight of the reddening maples on the hillside.
And so much has not changed.
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We walked downhill to the beach, her hand in mine, small step after small step. She said Hi to the doggie on the leash, Hi Mommy to a woman passing on the street, Hi Daddy to a bearded man. On the sand, she stared transfixed at the water, the slight waves, the tide not yet pulling out. She looked up toward a flap of wings. Bird, I said, pointing at the seagull, and she mimicked, Bird, then turned her gaze back to the waves’ slow slapping. Later I sat, looking at trees below me, a hint of haze burning off the far bay, the world busy working and sailing, waking, while I sat waiting as Evie napped that quiet Maine morning, the full tide of grandmotherhood lapping my shore. ~Laura Foley, “Full Tide” from It’s This
They each carried a balloon from a special event for kids and their families.
It had been a morning of our family being together, just because. Being a grandparent needs no other reason other than “just because.”
Big sister was saying how she planned to take her balloon to school on Monday to show her friends. She was enjoying the balloon’s bobbing and weaving in the air … until suddenly it popped, causing her to jump and then she had nothing left but tatters in her hand.
Her face crumpled and the tears began to flow.
Little brother gripped his balloon more tightly, looking at his sister’s tears and worrying the same thing might happen to his balloon. His face contorted, ready to cry right along with her. And then there was a moment of clarity and insight in his eyes.
He handed his balloon to her. He said, “here, you can have mine.” And though he was clearly sad at the thought of having no balloon himself, his eyes were shining with proud tears.
He had discovered what it meant to sacrifice, to comfort and care for someone he loved.
She was speechless. She held his balloon gently, struggling to know how to respond. If it was even possible, she loved him so much more in that moment.
So their parents said to her brother, “we think that gift deserves stopping for a hot chocolate on the way home.”
Big sister looked at her parents, looked again at her little brother, and handed the balloon back to him, saying “why don’t we share?”
Hot chocolate makes all things wonderful and cozy and better, when shared.
Especially for weeping, laughing, full-to-the-brim-with-love grandparents.
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How joyful to be together, alone as when we first were joined in our little house by the river long ago, except that now we know
each other, as we did not then; and now instead of two stories fumbling to meet, we belong to one story that the two, joining, made. And now
we touch each other with the tenderness of mortals, who know themselves: how joyful to feel the heart quake
at the sight of a grandmother, old friend in the morning light, beautiful in her blue robe! ~Wendell Berry “The Blue Robe” from New Collected Poems
Our hair turns white with our ripening as though to fly away in some coming wind, bearing the seed of what we know. It was bitter to learn that we come to death as we come to love, bitter to face the just and solving welcome that death prepares. But that is bitter only to the ignorant, who pray it will not happen. Having come the bitter way to better prayer, we have the sweetness of ripening. How sweet to know you by the signs of this world! ~Wendell Berry from “Ripening”
My husband and I have spent 43 years of late summer evenings together – much like this one – breathing in the smell of ripening cornfields and freshly mowed silage grass lying in windrows waiting to be picked up for winter forage.
Just down the road is the smaller farm we first bought when we wished to leave the city behind for a new life amid quieter surroundings.
The seedling trees my husband planted there are now a thick grove and effective windbreak from the bitter howling northeasters we endured. Our oldest son and his family live in that farm house now, moving home after more than a decade of mission work in Japan.
There is such sweetness knowing the first home we owned together is home for two of our grandchildren.
Our three children were raised on this road and they strolled these roads with us many times, before flying far away for their life’s work. My husband and I continue our walk together, just the two of us, pondering how the passage of time could be so swift that our hair has turned white.
We are going to seed when it was only yesterday we were so young.
Indeed we have ripened before we’re feeling ready. It is bitter sweetness relinquishing the youth we once knew, to face a future we can never know.
It is the mystery that keeps us coming back, walking the same steps those younger legs once did, admiring the same setting sun, smelling the same late summer smells. But we are not the same as we were, having progressed to a fruitfulness God intended all along.
Ripening and readying, our seed now flies with the wind.
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