Bees in My Bonnet

  Imagine if we had ears like dogs That can tell the world when we're afraid At ease  Safe Alert, angry, or  Disinterested.  And what if we had a tail,  A signpost to herald  Moments of shame,  Delight,  Joy,  Or hope?  If we could read the code - The ears, the tail,  The hair standing tall Or lying flat on the neck - Would we somehow offer A warmer welcome,  A gentler touch,  An uncritical gaze  To hold and cushion The curled-under tail,  The drooping ears,  The reluctant glance that says:  'I've failed!  I'm afraid!  You must not like me!' If we had ears like dogs,  And a tail,  Would the words soften its harsh blows?  Would we find respite from those who would Kick us to the curb?  Would the biting voice of disdain Break just a little,  Maybe even wither... into silence?  If you could read my shame on my face,  And know I cower in fear,  You might jus...

  For Previous post, click here At this time last year I had sat up all night, driven the hour to Chicago, wondering if my child - man-child, but still child - would be alive to greet me on the other side. The moments in the E.R. were stunning, shocking, bewildering. I barely spoke a word. When it was almost time to move him to the helipad, I stood by Timo and stroked his head. In the previous few years he had not been very conversant with me. (Parents who have never had teenage boys: this is normal, not a sign of distress, but a development where they want to make their own way in life. This is not to say they don't need us, and our input - they do, but the dynamics change). I often overstepped bounds with him, and frustrated him. I tried to give him space, but there were times my fears took over. Our relationship was not strained - he knew I loved him, he knew my care for him. But Mothers are often not easy for teenage boys. There's hardly a way around that. We birthed them. ...

 You can see that writing for me has ground to a screeching halt (probably literally, in the literal, not figurative, sense). It happened a year ago on this day, one day after Timo's 17th birthday. One year ago on this night, it was a night like any other. Routine. Normal. Kids doing kid things. Caleb and Priscilla back in their first couple weeks of college, away from us. Timo working his full-time tree-trimming job. He had just had a nasty incident with a wasps nest that had caused his entire arm to swell and had to spend a day in bed with fever and chills. He had so many stings we couldn't count them. He was on the mend from that. He had been back at work just a day or two, and the night before we had taken him to an all-you-can-eat dinner which he enjoyed with us - laughing and choosing his favorite foods - mostly meat. We were doing okay. I always carry my own melancholy, and hold a world within me, a reflective, prayerful, yearning. So a year ago, I suppose life was as st...

 I just began to journal...and it made me realize I never concluded the previous saga of the lost wallet. There is more  to that story, I tell you.  My journal began..."Sometimes I think my brain got fried. The ability - really, the capacity - of my soul to hold grief, pain, trauma, suffering, silencing - I'm guessing has been greater  than most. I used to think of myself differently; blaming myself for being weak, fragile, IN-capable. But if I honestly look at my life journey, I must arrive at a different conclusion than before.  I sacrificed myself on the altar of survival ." I stopped there.  Yes, that last line describes decades of my life. I needed to find a way through, a way to cope and survive as a mother of young children, in a struggling marriage, in a world that has normal everyday demands that a severely depressed person can barely hold up underneath. It's not the world's fault. It's not having children, or a husband, or any of these things that...

 People tell me I've had an interesting life. And finally, I've begun to believe them. But here's the thing: I was taught that talking and writing about myself was a form of self-centredness. When I was younger, I used to talk about myself and my life and experiences and stories quite freely. But likely some of this was excessive. And along the way, with certain ones giving me negative input and reprimanding me over this issue, I became more cautious. Now, likely some of this negative input was valid. Maybe I was self-centred. Maybe I did talk about myself too much. And well-meaning others meant to help me learn to interact better. And I hope, these many years later, I have learned something of the value of limiting the telling of my life. But I'm not sure the shaming and reproach were exactly helpful to my soul in this matter. And I've had to overcome a lot to even begin to tell some of my life here on my blog.  Joseph in the Bible comes to mind. He had dreams and ...

This time is like a conversation. I open my heart and say all the things - Sometimes nice things, Upsetting things, Confusing things. They’re all there, and I just say it all:  I don’t hold back. I imagine You curiously listening. You let it all come out, even when I’m frustrated. Especially when I’m frustrated. There is no slamming the door on our conversation. You are patient. Then there is a stillness - a pause. I wait. Maybe now You will speak. Maybe now I can hear. The pages of Your book are open before me: What might You say? You are alive in me - Of course in the words of the book too! The Spirit draws my eyes to read Your words. Oh You did hear me!  Your words soak into this parched soul. And I am satisfied.

 These are the days I walk around seeing life with new and different eyes. They are eyes bathed in the furnace of suffering, with understanding unobtained before now.  Those dreaded words landed like a thud: "They discovered cancer." My Mom has been diagnosed with Small Cell Lung Cancer, typically a cancer only seen in smokers or their partners. It feels heavy and dark, and menacing and cruel, and so many other things that words don't seem to describe.  (Taking Mom to the hospital in Arkansas with my sister) It is one thing to hear about it. And to feel sad. To think on it. To learn of it. To wonder where this goes - typically nowhere good, except, I suppose, heaven. Heaven is good. I'm okay with the heaven part. It's the process of getting there that somehow unnerves me. I've had little fear of death in my life. God gives us these years, some more, some less, and we must reckon with the undeniable reality that 100% of people die. The statistic stares us blank...

  Click here for the previous Jenny Story: (8) Jenny Sarah likes to take me on outings. She is careful to make sure my hair is neatly braided and the lint-balls are picked off. I am becoming worn-in. I was only new for about a year before I got to be smoother and squishier. Sometimes we go to the refugee camps, sometimes to the Home of Loving Faithfulness. And sometimes just to the market.  The Home of Loving Faithfulness is a big house and Sarah will go with her parents to visit the children who live there. In Hong Kong sometimes a baby is born broken and the parents don't want the baby. Then there is nowhere for the baby to go, and one day some missionary women from England thought, 'These poor children need love and care. We'll begin a home for them to be taken care of and to show them that God cares about them.' And that's what they did. Sarah will bring me to all her friends there and let me sit on their laps and say hello.  Sarah lives in her imagination somet...

  A friend let me know she was reading my blog and I was so touched, I instantly replied. As I read back on my reflections I thought I'd share it here - in case you, too, are observing nature speak. Thank you for responding to the things I've written. I have no idea who reads the things I write  and I know much of it is just random - whatever I was thinking that day.  Yes, I've become a peaceful parent for the most part. I have yet to write a blog post on my 7 years of yelling. But that sums up what it was. It was not good... I had much to learn.  And yes, grief...I'm well acquainted with it. I often wonder if every issue in our lives doesn't boil down to, on some level, grief. As I witness the leaves fall off the trees I am reminded of the cold, brutal, exposure of the trees' undressing - and how often we view winter as a metaphor for the end of life.  We are all today one day closer to that final revealing - nearer by one day, to the last day of our lives. The...