I slip, grabbing twigs as I fall, assaulting an innocent hemlock— skinning my palms, arms, legs, landing muddy-bruised and sore, taken down by a path I thought kind— a familiar wooded walk hiding its ice beneath a sheath of old, dried leaves. ~Laura Foley, “Spring Treachery” from It’s This
“Tell us please, what treatment in an emergency is administered by ear?” ….I met his gaze and I did not blink. “Words of comfort,” I said. ~Abraham Verghese from Cutting for Stone
I was walking a kind and familiar path, part of my usual daily walk, not paying much attention when I stepped on what appeared a solid and trustworthy surface.
The danger was hidden from my eyes; I had no idea it would take me down, put me on my knees, render me helpless.
I believed I couldn’t be rendered helpless by something I trusted like the back of my hand … or the interior of my heart vessels.
But treacherous surfaces are almost anywhere we are least expecting. And so are the helpers, ready and able and willing.
When I lost my grip, I felt hands and voices lifting and supporting me, pulling me to safety, encouraging me with hope and refuge.
And so I’m here to share this, richly blessed by those coming along side me – still walking this path I love, despite its hidden and sometimes deadly, dangers.
AI image created for this post
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Now I become myself. It’s taken Time, many years and places; I have been dissolved and shaken, Worn other people’s faces, Now to stand still, to be here, Feel my own weight and density!
All fuses now, falls into place From wish to action, word to silence, My work, my love, my time, my face Gathered into one intense Gesture of growing like a plant. Now there is time and Time is young. Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun! ~May Sarton from “Now I Become Myself”
My grade school took part in an educational experiment in the early 1960’s. It was one of the first schools to mainstream special needs children into “regular” classrooms. At that time, the usual approach was to put kids with disabilities in separate rooms, if not entirely separate schools.
During those years, the average class size for a grade school teacher was 32-35 kids, with no teacher’s aides, rare parent volunteers, (except for field trips and room mothers who threw the holiday parties) and no medications or special accommodations for ADHD or dyslexia. I’m not sure how teachers coped with nearly three dozen noisy disruptive kids, but somehow they managed to teach in spite of the obstacles. Adding in children with mental and physical challenges without additional adult help must have been very difficult.
So some kids got recruited to help out the kids with disabilities. It helped the teacher by creating a buddy system for the special needs kids who might need help with class work or who might have difficulty getting around.
I was assigned to Michael so our desks were side by side for the year. He was a thin little boy with cerebral palsy and hearing aids, thick glasses hooked with a wide band around the back of his head, and spastic muscles never going where he wanted them to go. He could not remain still, try as he might. He walked independently with some difficulty, mostly on his tiptoes because of his shortened leg tendons, frequently falling when he got going too quickly. His thick orthopedic shoes with leg braces would trip him up. His hands were intermittently in a grip of contracted muscles, and his face was always contorting and grimacing. He drooled a lot, so perpetually carried a Kleenex in his hand to catch the drips of spit that ran out of his mouth and dropped on his desk, threatening to spoil his coloring and writing papers.
His speech consisted of all vowels, as his tongue couldn’t quite connect with his teeth or palate to sound out the consonants, so it took some time and patience to understand what he said. He could write with great effort, gripping the pencil awkwardly in his tight palm and found he could communicate better at times on paper than by talking.
I made sure he had help to finish assignments if his muscles were too tight to write, and I learned his speech so I could interpret for the teacher. He was brave and bright, with a finer mind than most of the kids in our class. He loved a good joke and his little body would shudder as he roared his appreciation. I was always impressed at how he expressed himself and how little bitterness he had about his limitations. He was the most articulate inarticulate person I had ever met.
As Michael appeared around the corner of the grade school building every morning, he would walk quickly in his careful tip-toe cadence, arms flailing, shoes scuffing, raising up dust with each step. He would wave at me and call out my name in his indecipherable voice.
Once, as he approached, a group of kids playing tag swooped past him, purposely a little too close, spinning him off his feet like a top and onto the ground. Glasses askew, he lay momentarily still, and realizing I was needed, I ran to help him up. Despite all he endured, I never saw Michael cry, not even once, not even when he fell down hard. When he got angry or frustrated, he’d get very quiet. His muscles would tense up so much he would go into even greater spasms.
I had no tolerance for anyone who bullied him. I could see the pain in his grimacing face. Although he would give me a huge toothy smile of thanks, his eyes, as usual, said what his mouth could not. Michael knew I needed him as much as he needed me. I relished my new role as the life preserver thrown to him as he struggled to stay afloat in a sea of classroom hostility.
There were many times when I resented being teased by other students about Michael being my boyfriend. Although he would blush bright red when he heard that, Michael really had become a good friend, who just happened to be a boy.
The following academic year, he moved to another school district, so I never saw Michael again. However, I heard him on local radio six years later, reading an essay he’d written for the county Voice of Democracy contest on what it meant to be a free citizen. His essay was one of the top three award winners that year. I was amazed at how understandable his speaking voice had become.
Years later, I went on to medical school, learning from patients who lived with even far greater limitations than Michael. I realized that my initial training in compassionate care had been as I sat by his side helping him navigate 5th grade. He showed me how important it was to take the time to understand his voice and his heart when others would or could not.
I didn’t appreciate it then as I do now, but he taught me far more than I ever taught him: patience, perseverance and respect for the journey through obstacles rather than focusing just on the destination.
He helped me surpass my own less visible limitations. I was his special friend – one who just happened to be a girl.
So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Galatians 6:9
This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”
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If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain. ~Emily Dickinson
Mostly, I want to be kind. And nobody, of course, is kind, or mean, for a simple reason. ~Mary Oliver from “Dogfish”
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend. ~Naomi Shihab Nye from “Kindness”
Have you ever noticed how much of Christ’s life was spent in doing kind things – in merely doing kind things? … he spent a great proportion of his time simply in making people happy, in doing good turns to people.
There is only one thing greater than happiness in the world, and that is holiness; and it is not in our keeping. But what God has put in our power is the happiness of those about us, and that is largely to be secured by our being kind to them.…
I wonder why it is that we are not all kinder than we are. How much the world needs it. How easily it is done. How instantaneously it acts. How infallibly it is remembered. ~Henry Drummond from The Greatest Thing in the World
It is tender kindness I miss most these days – this world aflame with anger and violence, distrust and bitterness, resentment and suspicion and cussed stubbornness.
There seems no relief in sight; we must find a way through.
It is time to offer and accept help when needed. It is time to give and receive mercy without shame or scorn. It is time to gently lift those soft vulnerable wings back into the nest.
We are saved by kindness, by grace given freely, thrown like a lifeline to us when we are overwhelmed.
I have been gently surrounded in a nest of kindness many times by the encouragement and love from those around me. When my heart is breaking, I know their mercy and grace becomes my glue.
…the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. Matthew 25:34-36
So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. …. in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. ~Philippians 2: 1-4
Walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. Ephesians 4: 1-3
This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”
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This is the country road we live on. I know where it ends to the east: at the very edge of the Cascade foothills, right in the middle of a small tribal nation trying to survive challenging economic times on their reservation land.
Heading west from here, there is another tribal nation trying to survive.
In between are farmers who are having to sell their dairy herds because milk prices aren’t keeping up with the cost of maintaining their business. There are families now without sustainable wage employment because large industries have pulled up stakes and closed their doors. There is land that is overpriced as people flee the chaos and lawlessness of the cities, hoping to find peace and quiet.
There is much sadness along the road we travel that leads to heaven, but as a diverse people who struggle together on this journey, we take turns carrying one another when one has what another does not. We still have the sun and the rain and the soil, the turning of the seasons and the rhythm of a sun that rises up and comes down.
If you sit down at set of sun And count the acts that you have done, And, counting, find One self-denying deed, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind That fell like sunshine where it went — Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day, You’ve cheered no heart, by yea or nay — If, through it all You’ve nothing done that you can trace That brought the sunshine to one face — No act most small That helped some soul and nothing cost — Then count that day as worse than lost. ~George Eliot “Count That Day Lost”
Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend. ~Naomi Shihab Nye from “Kindness”
I tend to forget – in my own self-absorption – the privilege I have to help make the world a better place for someone else each day — to share a drop of sunshine in some way. Each morning I’m given another chance to treat the day like the gift that it is and hand it off to someone else in a continual “pay it forward” act of kindness.
Only kindness makes sense in this fallen world. We have been steeped in sorrow for so long. I don’t want to lose one more day to anything less than a depth of kindness and comfort that never leaves my side, still present as the sun goes down into darkness.
Only such Loving Kindness will raise the sun again in the morning.
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How swiftly the strained honey of afternoon light flows into darkness
and the closed bud shrugs off its special mystery in order to break into blossom
as if what exists, exists so that it can be lost and become precious ~Lisel Mueller “In Passing”
None of us will remain as we are now.
For some, that is a source of deep regret as outer beauty fades, hair is lost or graying, skin wrinkles and strength weakens. Pulled along time’s ever-rolling stream to something new and eternal, we will become something far more precious than what our frail bodies could ever yield.
It is a special mystery with which God surrounds us: a thousand years is like an evening gone to Him. He guards us through our troubles now like irreplaceable treasures, even when we feel hopelessly lost.
We are mere buds now, waiting to open wide to a world far more glorious.
A thousand ages in thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun.
The busy tribes of flesh and blood, With all their lives and cares, Are carried downwards by thy flood, And lost in following years.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.
Like flowery fields the nations stand, Pleased with the morning light; The flowers beneath the mower’s hand Lie withering e’er ’tis night.
Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Be thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home. ~Isaac Watts
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First day of February, and in the far corner of the yard the Adirondack chair, blown over by the wind at Christmas, is still on its back, the snow too deep for me to traipse out and right it, the ice too sheer to risk slamming these old bones to the ground.
In April I will walk out across the warming grass, and right the chair as if there had never been anything to stop me in the first place, listening for the buzz of hummingbirds which reminds me of how fast things are capable of moving. ~John Stanizzi “Ascension”
It has been a harsh and cold winter so far with more days of snow on the ground than not. For a couple weeks there was a constant challenge of finding safe footing when surfaces were snow and ice-covered; local orthopedists were busy putting together broken arms and legs and dislocated joints from too many unscheduled landings.
It seems sometimes winter will never be done with us. The saddest moment a week ago was the discovery as our iced-over fish pond was thawing that it had frozen solid during the sub-zero temperatures – and a dozen decade-old koi and goldfish frozen with it. Our sorrow at this loss is deeper than the pond proved to be; we assumed the depth of the water was sufficient to keep our fish safe from harm as it has for decades. Yet this winter stole them from us.
I know in my head that winter is not forever — February will wrap up its short stay on the calendar and once again I will traipse about with ease without worrying about iced-over walkways. But my heart is not so easily convinced about winter waning. The unexpected loss of our fish reminds me of my guilt from the past: times I have failed to help others when I could have – like the priest and Levite, seeing the dying man on the road to Jericho, cross to the other side and walk past.
So my heart and head and old bones need reminding: Those who traipse on ice always risk being broken. Those who have fallen will be righted and put together again. Those who suffer regret are forgiven even when pain is not forgotten. And time moves quickly on despite our efforts to hold on to now; my old bones and tender heart will heal so I can be of use to others.
From the love of my own comfort From the fear of having nothing From a life of worldly passions Deliver me O God
From the need to be understood From the need to be accepted From the fear of being lonely Deliver me O God Deliver me O God
And I shall not want I shall not want When I taste Your goodness I shall not want When I taste Your goodness I shall not want
From the fear of serving others From the fear of death or trial From the fear of humility Deliver me O God Deliver me O God ~Audrey Assad
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I am hardly ever able to sort through my memories and come away whole or untroubled. It is difficult to sift through the stones, the weighty moments and know which is rare gem, which raw coal, which worthless shale or slate. So, one by one, I drag them across the page and when one cuts into the white, leaves a trail of blood, no matter how narrow the stream, then I know I’ve found the real thing, the diamond, one of the priceless gems my pain produced. “There! There,” I say, “is a memory worth keeping.” ~Nikki Grimes“Poems”
I have tucked-away memories that still scratch my tender skin: when they surface, I tend to bleed at the recollection, feeling the familiar sting behind my eyelids and upside-down stomach.
Some people work hard to completely bury painful history, unwilling to allow it back into the daylight to inflict even more harm.
I don’t welcome overwhelming memories back, but when they come unbidden, I grant them access only because I know, as this happened to me long ago, I will feel the sharp ache of sorrow when I witness bleeding in another.
I was there too. I am there with you now. What happened was real but done. Its healing leaves behind only a thin line where the bleeding was.
The road is long With many a winding turn That leads us to who knows where Who knows where But I’m strong Strong enough to carry him He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
If I’m laden at all I’m laden with sadness That everyone’s heart Isn’t filled with the gladness Of love for one another
It’s a long, long road From which there is no return While we’re on the way to there Why not share
I know where this road ends to the east: at the very edge of the Cascade foothills, right in the middle of a small tribal nation trying to survive challenging economic times on their reservation land.
Heading west from here, there is another tribal nation trying to survive. In between are farmers who are having to sell their dairy herds because milk prices aren’t keeping up with the cost of maintaining their business. There are families now without sustainable wage employment because large industries have pulled up stakes and closed their doors. There is land that is overpriced as people flee the cities to come to rural surroundings because of ongoing pandemic shutdowns and worries.
There is much sadness all along this country road during times like these, but that’s not new. In another 100 years it will still not be new. There will always be foggy and stormy days interspersed among times of hope and light.
We remain a diverse people of tears and struggle, but we take turns carrying one another when one has what another does not. We still have the sun and the rain and the soil, the turning of the seasons and the rhythm of sun up and sun down.
I am stirring at the sink, I am stirring the amount of dew you can gather in two hands, folding it into the fragile quiet of the house. Before the eggs, before the coffee heaving like a warm cat, I step out to the feeder— one foot, then the other, alive on wet blades. Air lifts my gown—I might fly—
This thistle seed I pour is for the tiny birds. This ritual, for all things frail and imperiled. Wings surround me, frothing the air. I am struck by what becomes holy.
A woman who lost her teenage child to an illness without mercy, said that at the end, her daughter sat up in her hospital bed and asked: What should I do? What should I do?
I carry the woman with the lost child in my pocket, where she murmurs her love song without end: Just this, each day: Bear yourself up on small wings to receive what is given. Feed one another with such tenderness, it could almost be an answer. ~Marcia F. Brown from “Morning Song”
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend. ~Naomi Shihab Nye from “Kindness”
It is the gentle tenderness I miss most – this world aflame with anger, distrust and bitterness, resentment, suspicion and cussed stubbornness. There seems no relief in sight; we must find a way through.
It is time to accept help when needed. It is time to receive mercy without shame or scorn. It is time to be lifted up with soft small wings.
We are saved by kindness, by grace given freely, thrown like a lifeline to us when we are overwhelmed. Such love can never be as ephemeral as a morning dew gone by noon.
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