The Rustling

     In honor of Valentine's Day I will post a love poem:

It was the first time she had declared her love
the first time she had even felt
its strange stirring of her heart.
She was half delighted, half dismayed
with the wonderful, but vulnerable feeling.
The setting was classically romantic,
an Oregon hillside at sunset.
They stood soaking in all the vivid sensations,
most were unfamiliar, but one
seemed distinctly out of place.
a rustling.
In the tall grasses, not too far away, was
a rustling.
Despite their overwhelming, almost scripted, drive
to gaze into each other's eyes
they couldn't help but glance around, looking for
the rustling.

It was almost dusk, the time when nocturnal
creatures begin to stir.
Finally, between the gazing and the holding
and all the things love awakens and begins to stir,
they saw the source of
the rustling,
a skunk.

Hand in hand they ran
down the hill,
tall grasses rustling--
but not for the first time.

Alzheimer's for Dinner

     Anyone who has spent much time cruising Christian relationship guides knows about the five love languages:  words of affirmation, physical touch, acts of service, quality time, gifts.  They missed mine, food is my love language.  Giving it, not eating it. Technically, making food would be an act of service, but if the authors had bothered to contact me, food would have had its own category.  I love feeding people and when they eat my cooking, I feel like they are accepting my love. I think I got this from my grandma, both her and grandpa took feeding people very seriously.  For them it was a part time, if not full time, job.  The following poem expresses grandma's gradual descent into Alzheimer's from the perspective of the dinner table.

                Alzheimer's For Dinner

No matter what time we arrived at my grandparent's house
for our annual visit, dinner was ready.
Eleven in the morning or nine at night
the table was set
and a roast was warming in the oven.
Grandma always cooked enough food
to stuff a threshing crew.

The first time we noticed grandma had changed
was when she put pepper in the chocolate pudding
thinking it was gravy.
Grandpa quietly set it aside.
There was still lots of food, but
we ate the roast without gravy that year.

The next time we visited
dinner was ready,
but it was hot dogs this time.
And I noticed, for the first time
hand prints on the wall.
Grandma had always kept her house so clean
you could eat off the floor.

The year after that, grandpa
took us out to eat.
At the restaurants, the waitresses already knew
what my grandparents would order.
Grandma kept repeating the same questions.

The following year, we took them out for dinner.
When we arrived at Pizza Hut, a waitress
raced out from the kitchen.
"Where have you been?  We were so worried."
They hadn't eaten there since they moved
into assisted living, and grandpa couldn't drive anymore.
Grandma passed the time counting cars in the parking lot.

When I visited grandma in the nursing home
she was sitting in the dining room.
Even though she didn't know who I was,
she pointed to her plate and said,
"Would you like something to eat?"

     I will probably be the same way.  I would not be disappointed if one of the last things my mind holds onto is my love language.

Incompletely In the Dark

     I don't like to brag (although, I would if I had more talent) but I can put away my earrings in the dark.  I can do this because, like everything else in my life, my jewelry box is organized.  My inexpensive earrings, which are most of them, are arranged by colors in a nine compartment drawer. The expensive ones, by which I mean over $10, are assigned other sections which I can also locate in the dark.  My spice rack is arranged alphabetically as are our DVDs, although Reed tends to be the alphabet Nazi of the DVDs.
     The reason I have so much experience putting away earrings in the dark is because my husband has started going to bed at 10 p.m.  He is the main mechanic at the hangar, and even when there are others available to launch and retrieve airplanes, he suffers from "indispensable" syndrome and believes he is the only one who should be burdened with the extra duty.  Sometimes he needs to stay late, sometimes he goes in early.  I love my husband and going to bed together is important to me, but I am 55 years old and would like to have a later bedtime than when I was 12.  I am becoming experienced at getting ready for bed in the dark and, being incurably organized, cannot just leave things in piles until morning.  At this point in our marriage, groping in the dark just means that I'm putting my clothes away.
     When we miss our time for pillow talk, I lie there in the dark feeling incomplete.  Also incomplete is whatever pass my husband was making hours earlier.  Even if he wakes up when I come to bed, too much time has passed and I am willing to pass too. There must be a way to arrange our schedules to make us more compatible, but right now I am in the dark.

Waiting for Winter's End

     My nephew once asked me if all of my poems were about old people. A lot of them are, both because of my work as a home health attendant (most of our clients happen to be old) and because of a life long love of old people (which means I should love myself more every year). Happily, this poem is not about old people, except by implications the reader probably won't pick up, about the latter stage of life.  Without my poetry class for critique, I'm not sure how to express the double meaning without sticking it in the intro as I have done here, which is the equivalent of having to explain a punchline.

Waiting for Winter's End

What is the song of waiting for winter's end

when the last notes of carols fade and fall

into the snow that covers all?

For snow will cover all.

What is the shade of waiting for winter's end

when the sun, by clouds is dispossessed,

and twinkling strands are laid to rest?

For all are laid to rest.

What is the sound of waiting for winter's end

when winds moan like wails of a widow's heart

who from her love is torn apart?

For in the end, we part.

-------------

When the joys that ornament our days

are packed into boxes and stored away

what is the hope that sustains us then

as we wait for winter's end?

Authority, Go Figure

     There is never an escape clause around when you need one, like in Romans 13:1-7 on the Christian's responsibility to human government.  Paul headed off any exclusion based on corrupt rulers by living (and dying) under the reign of insane, sadistic Nero.  He instructed payment of taxes when Rome was using that  money, and Christians themselves, to feed the coliseum lions.  He stated that God established governments to do good and punish wrong while believers, including Paul, were being martyred for their faith in Christ.  Rome may not have been the worst case scenario government, but it is probably in the top ten.
     And then there's us, U.S., beginning to feel the faint sparks of injustice and persecution, who sulkily submit, protest paying taxes and decidedly delete honor and respect.  In our arrogance, we even insist that the Lord's return must be soon if we are beginning to be persecuted.  Sorry to say we are not prophetically significant.  Scripture does not even give our nation an honorable mention, much less plan the rapture around us.  And then there's our culture, which respects neither rules nor rulers.  As a matter of fact, disrespect is now considered entertainment, especially in our Athenian talk radio and tv circuit.
     And then there's us, rebels by both nature and preference. For those who were raised in homes with an unjust authority figure, resentment of authority is even stronger.  I once met a woman whose alcoholic father had made her so despise authority that, late at night, when there wasn't much traffic, she drove on the wrong side of the road.  Talk about a meaningless gesture--Occupy the left lane.
    And then there's Christians, whose duty to our rulers and government is based on the fact that God established them--not by the whim of misguided voters.  Even worse is the revolutionary revelation that defying their authority is defying the God who put them there.  My daughter once considered the career of being an assassin for the Lord.  Frankly, the idea had a certain appeal, but I don't want my cynical nature, godless culture or American expectations to compromise the clear commands of the Bible.  God knows an escape clause would merely be a tool of our rebellious nature, I have that on good authority.

Christian Entitlements

     We live in an entitlement society.  Political liberals see it as compassionate care for the poor and unfortunate, conservatives see it as a way of keeping the poor and unfortunate content with their situation at the expense of tax paying workers, the poor and unfortunate see it as a right, even an inheritance for their offspring.  Like all taxpayers, Christians usually expect to be funding entitlements rather than receiving them.  One of the main reasons for this is that God forbids his people to be lazy, dishonest, addicted or promiscuous which is why many people receive entitlements.  A missionary friend in Brazil noted that after people accepted the Lord, the family's standard of living tended to improve, not necessarily because they were earning more money, but because they weren't spending it on gambling, alcohol etc.  This would not be applicable in places of persecution where being a Christian may cost a wage earner his job or freedom, but in the U.S., obedience to Christ generally makes us better workers and wiser spenders.
     However, I think there are a few areas in which Christians feel entitled to certain blessings from God: we all expect a healthy baby, and to die quietly in our sleep. Prayer requests are always for safe delivery of a healthy baby, funeral sermons often reinforce the expectation of the latter.  Because we reap what we sow this is generally the case.  Women who have not had abortions, STD's, have moderate lifestyles and live in more stable households generally have healthy babies, but this is not always the case.  Similarly, the healthier Christian lifestyle often reaps a gentle death, but there are many wonderful, obedient believers who die in horrendous accidents, martyrdom, or painful, lingering deaths and those are also within the plan of God.   I need to remember when life does not turn out as I expected, that  Christians are blessed, not entitled.

Being There

    Tonight I spent $5 to go to a girls basketball game to watch my nephew play--in the pep band.  I came because he wanted me to hear him play and I didn't want to make the mistake with him that I did with my own children.  If I cannot repair the damage, at least I will not repeat it.  Reed and I are not sports people, we didn't play team sports, we don't watch them on tv and my interest in the Superbowl is limited to the snacks.  Our children were involved in little kids' sports like tee ball and little dribblers basketball, but lacked both the interest and genetic material to pursue sports much beyond seventh grade.  But both Britten and Will assisted the coaches in high school volleyball and basketball and we were often told how helpful they were to the team.  We were told because we didn't know for ourselves, because we weren't there.
    When our children were players I didn't miss a game.  I helped keep stats for fifth grade girls basketball even though I had no idea what I was doing.  I froze on the bleachers at Will's, and then Tracy's football games.  I cheered and brought snacks and encouraged through loss after loss because I wanted to be there for the things that were important to my children.  I wanted to be the mom I never had.  My mom was never there for the mother daughter tea or the field trips or to bring cupcakes for my birthday.  And I wouldn't have wanted her there anyway because schizophrenics don't do well in  public.
     But somehow I missed the memo that being at the games was important to my kids even though they weren't playing.  Their involvement with the teams was an important part of their high school experience and I willingly, cluelessly missed it.  I know this is only one of many mistakes I made as a parent, but if I got one chance to edit my childrearing, this is the place where I would click undo and insert myself on the butt busting bleachers, because it was not about watching sports or interrupted dinner times, it was about being there.