Big Mommy: Loving Hands

Big Mommy, my great-grandmother, is in heaven now. We had her funeral yesterday. I read to everyone at the service. I hadn't planned on participating, but several nights prior to the service, I sat up in bed thinking, unable to fall asleep. I started writing my thoughts down, and they congregated into a cohesive page of thoughts about Big Mommy. I hadn't shed a tear about Big Mommy's death before this, but as the words came to me, so did the tears. Putting on paper what I thought about Big Mommy unleashed the feelings I had inside. I shared the page with my mother, and she asked if I wanted to read it at the funeral. I said yes. Here is what I wrote that night and read to attendees of Big Mommy's celebration service:

Loving Hands

It is uncanny how someone’s departure can shed light on what their life has meant to you. It is like this: Every home possesses its own peculiar smell, and the members of each home are steeped in a signature scent. While living in the midst of this scent, the householders gradually cease to notice it. It is when they are removed from it and return to it that their senses are awakened to the aroma, and they can then appreciate its sweetness. Again: A stamp leaves a mark, but the stamp itself must be drawn away in order for one to perceive the imprint. In the same way, we all bear an imprint from Big Mommy and are beginning to see the mark more clearly than before. As we reflect on who she was, we can breathe in anew the fragrance of her life. It is a good fragrance.

I think back on her phrases that used to be humorous to me. These sayings of hers mean so much more to me now; once they amused me, but now they inspire me. I’m sure I’m not alone when I confess that when she prayed for God’s blessing on the food, I enjoyed listening for the wrong reasons. I would smile to myself as she thanked the Lord for our family being gathered together in “the bonds of love” and for the food prepared by “loving hands.” She would revisit both of these phrases any number of times within the span of a single prayer. Sometimes, it seemed to me, she did this for the sake of continuity in the prayer: if she fumbled for words, she resorted to these tried and true phrases to patch things up. At other times, she seemed to have simply forgotten mid-prayer what ground she had already covered and unwittingly repeated herself. After she had finally cinched the prayer off with an “amen,” I would chuckle about what a doozy of a prayer it had been this time.

But now I can smell the sweetness of those prayers. Whether because of forgetfulness or something else entirely, the reason she said those certain favorite words again and again was they were at the top of her heart; they were the true words overflowing her inner being, and they spilled over onto her tongue and into our ears and down into our lives. I don’t think she really revisited the same words so much as the words revisited her. She kept finding them in her heart, and so she kept thanking God with them.

I now find the same words in my heart. I am thankful for Big Mommy. I am thankful for her loving hands that cooked and cleaned and caught flies at the dinner table. I am thankful for her loving hands that shucked peas, canned tomatoes, and shelled pecans. I am thankful for her loving hands that crafted napkin caddies, knitted dishrags and afghans, and gave them away. I am thankful for her loving hands that trained up younger hands to love. I am thankful for her loving hands that helped in ways big and small to weave all the fibers comprising the bond of love we have now.

A smile still splashes involuntarily across my face when I remember Big Mommy’s prayers, but the smile no longer flows from amusement. It is a smile of fond gratitude. It is a smile of loving memory. And it is a smile of radiant joy at the thought that Big Mommy feels no pain in her shoulders when she raises her loving hands to praise the God who made her, sustained her, and now holds her close in His bond of love.

Owl Eyes

I should have been in bed hours ago, but I am awake. It's not an accident. My eyes sting; my head hurts; my thinking is muddled and slow. My body gave me signals along and along, trying to alert me to my need for rest; but I disregarded the warnings. I chose this. The truth is, I like staying up.

I don't use the bathroom during these silent watches of the night. Instead, I go outside when nature calls. I like the coolness of the night and the openness of the sky above my head. I revel in a world at rest. My soul puffs up and fireworks of joy throw muted bangs around in my chest.

The night frightens people, I think, because they envision dusky shapes lurking in the half-light. Night is to them a veil for things that prowl and skulk. They much prefer the visibility of daylight and the safety that daytime's bustle extends.

Night has beguiled me because it is silent. It is at rest. I can feel the quietness of it. Some people can listen to music while they do homework or work on projects, but I can't; noise clogs my mind and retards my thoughts. I can think full-on about the music, or I can turn it off and think about something else—it's as simple as that: either or, not both. Night is a realm of solitude where thoughts can take main stage. The noise of color and movement and sound is tranquilized, making room for thoughts to light up the the darkness like a thousand fireflies whirring and blinking amidst tall, whispering trees. The night sky is stretched across the heavens like a giant connect-the-dots sheet, and each new thought draws a line from star to star.

But night is also lonely. I would never be able to enjoy the night if I knew I was utterly alone. I can enjoy the night because I know I am never alone; my Lord stands beside me and sees my every thought. And He doesn't have to break the silence to speak to me.

Last night as I stood outside and searched the sky, I had the crazy idea to write a book called Owl Eyes. It would be about a boy who loved the night in all it's purest forms. He was made that way, and he had a unique purpose to fulfill in that capacity. He loved the night because the world was asleep, and he could focus. Or something like that. He habitually wakes up and wanders around under cover of darkness. One night he wakes up and night never ends; the other people never wake up. It's up to him, of course, to bring back the dawn.

I think his name is Oliver, because it sounds close to "owl".

Goodnight, baby bear scouts.

The Quiet Individual

I know, I know—this is two posts in one day (what a waste of creative resources, right?). But when something bugs you like something is bugging me, it's better to get it out instead of leaving it internalized. This is not to say that you shouldn't use restraint in things you say; words are powerful and should be wielded with care. But I am compelled to write this down, so prepare to read it up.

(Whoa—I just got a really cool picture in my mind of eyes shining rays of mystical light onto a page and beaming up the words from off of the paper. Reading as alien abduction. Awesome.)

Anyway, I want to gripe about society's fear of the quiet individual. I happen to be a rather quiet chap. As a recovering peoplephobe, I resent the attitude some loud people develop towards me. "You're being too quiet," they say; "You should talk more." The attitude is this: they feel that people owe it to everyone else to be as loud and as talkative as they are. Perhaps I am too quiet sometimes, but where it is possible to err in one direction, it is usually possible to err in the other direction too. If I'm too quiet, they are too loud.

What if I said, "You're being too loud; you should talk less"? This seems reasonable to me, but I never hear anyone say it—probably because those of us who think it are too content staying quiet.

Many people spout rivers of speech, but who will take the time to listen? Where do those rivers of speech flow? Does anyone stop to care?

There are different reasons behind my episodes of quietness. I called myself a recovering peoplephobe, and that's what I am. Afraid of people? Yes. Why? I don't know; but many people are afraid of spiders, whereas I am not. You feel uninhibited chatting with strangers; I feel uninhibited in close proximity to a spider. Fear is fear, and we are all fearful of different things.

Sometimes I feel restrained from speaking by self-consciousness: will I come off as stupid? Sometimes I feel restrained by attraction to the opposite sex: girls have a way of making me nervous. Sometimes I feel restrained by hierarchy: as a younger or less experienced man, I should respect the speaking authority. Sometimes I am restrained by fatigue: my mind is taking a nap. Sometimes I feel restrained by track record: I didn't make an initial impression of talkativeness, so nobody leaves room in the conversation for my comments (I have to butt in awkwardly). Sometimes I feel restrained by the sheer volume of words in a crowd: with so much speech flying around, someone should listen instead of adding to the chaos. Sometimes I am merely shy—is there any further explanation necessary?

In any case, do not tell a quiet person to talk more. It doesn't work, whatever their reasons for being quiet may be. In fact, it usually makes them more self-conscious and less motivated to interact. Don't put your burden of loudness on their shoulders. Instead, maybe you should consider quieting yourself down. Try talking with a quiet person in a quiet way without drawing undue attention to the fact that you are doing it. Don't call them out—draw them out.

Later.

Contemplations On Direction

It seems remarkably hard to get on in the world when one disbelieves in accruing mountains of debt. I can't decide whether to give up on debt-free living or to give up on getting on in the world. Maybe there is a happy balance in the middle somewhere, or maybe I just haven't tried hard enough to "get on". Or maybe I am looking entirely in the wrong direction.

Common wisdom follows a train of thought similar to this: "If you love to do something, it will not matter how much money you make. It's better to be yourself and love what you do than to be rich and miserable because you hate your job." I was struck just now as I wrote this that such a train of thought seems rather self-centered—it's all about personal fulfillment. It bypasses my selfishness detectors because it seems to shun money, but in the end it's all about my own satisfaction. "How can I get the most for me out of life? Money is a dead-end, and fame is too. But who can fault me for simply doing what I love?"

It's not necessarily wrong to do what I love; this I know. But neither is it necessarily wrong to earn money by doing something that doesn't rank as my favorite pastime. Neither route will of itself bring me fulfillment. If I engage in activities I love because I think I deserve the freedom to pursue any interest I may have, or because I feel I am entitled to happiness through indulgence in personal whims, it is selfish and ultimately not fulfilling. By the same token, if I ignore my own skills, giftings, personality wiring, and general bent of mind in the pursuit of monetary success,—besides being a disservice to the God who formed me in such a way as He saw fit for His sometimes inscrutable purposes—it is, of itself, empty.

I will find fulfillment in carrying out the will of the Father. Jesus was a carpenter, but carving wood could never bring fulfillment in His life unless it pleased the Father at that particular time. There was a time for Jesus to carve, and a time for Him to minister. Each activity seems to be a container that can either be filled with God's good pleasure and blessing or else hollow, empty, and purposeless. I suppose I seek that path which will be a container into which the Father will plentifully pour His blessing. I present my vessel to Him. Guide my steps, O God.