We Thought it Was for Them

    I had planned to write this as prose because it makes an awkward and overly specific poem, but somehow I could not write it that way.

We Thought it Was for Them

 

We thought it was for our parents,

when we decided to go to Missoula

 for Thanksgiving this year.

It would be Reed's Mom's first one

apart from her youngest son,

and other family was gone that day.

My Dad and his youngest son,

no other family close about,

long used to holidays alone,

had no plans beyond eating out.

When we invited both to come,

we thought it was for them.

 

When we left the comfort of our home

so our parents would not be alone,

we thought it was for them.

 We'd forgotten the deep comfort of

resting in the lasting love 

of those who soothed us long ago.

 

When we made our change in plans

we did not fully understand,

though by this time, we should have known, 

  God's plans are bigger than our own.

It wasn't just for them--

it was for us.

Memories Knocking at My Heart

     That unsettled feeling I sometimes get around the holidays started after we returned from Colorado. Then I realized it was memories of Tracy stirring in my mind. I want to ignore them if they make me cry, but I remembered the Lord's message from last Christmas, that the memories are the part of Tracy I get to keep until I see him again. They are a gift from God that I would be rude to leave unopened. So I remembered my little boy charming the hats off of visitors by trying them on and looking so cute they let him keep them. The child who brought me his softest teddy bear to use as a pillow when I had a migraine. My purse and pockets full of rocks, miniature trucks and army men. Driving home from dropping the kids off at school with Tracy's stuffed animal of the day buckled into my passenger seat. My teenager coming home and crying on my shoulder when his girlfriend chose a rival instead of him. 

     I miss the solid substance of my son, but the memories are the pathway to those times. His expressions, his voice, even his stinky feet. And if crying is part of remembering, it is also part of healing.

 

Memories Knocking at My Heart

 

I sense it in the pulsing of my heart,

which inexplicably kept beating 

after yours was torn from mine--

memories knocking at my heart.

I feel it like the coming of winter,

like the holidays that lay ahead,

and with them, thoughts of you--

memories knocking at my heart.

Good memories, for the most part,

yet it hurts to hold them in my mind, 

to brush aside the mists of time for

memories knocking at my heart.

My Savior holds me close to Him. 

My family's love secures me.

I could not bear this on my own--

memories knocking at my heart.

 

For that would be a deeper grief

than I have ever known,

memories knocking at my heart,

and facing them alone. 

                                                                            11/15/23

Soaking in the Son

      This is another phone poem written on my phone. And another poem written at a hotel. I hated it yesterday. That happens, a writer does not have to love all her brain children. But today we have made a tentative peace. If it continues, I will post it.

Soaking in the Son

 

Thank you Lord for this,

for all the times like this,

sitting in front of a nice hotel

soaking in the sun,

when there is none at home.

For a time without schedules and lists

to think, and to breathe, and to be,

just be a daughter of a King

who loves me. Whom I do not,

cannot even, thank as I should.

And I go from these sunny respites

to a much more beautiful land,

to the place, people and purposes 

you have planned for me.

So many blessing, too few words.

And if this is how you choose

to bless me on a fallen Earth,

far from my King and Father,

what will heaven be like

when I come home to you?

 

To an indescribable land and

the people, purpose and home

you have planned for me. 

Soaking in the Son for all time,

yet still unable to thank you enough.

Quiet Quitting

     When we checked into our hotel on Monday, I was afraid it was in the midst of quiet quitting. That is the latest term for people who show up at work but give it their minimum effort. We used to call it being lazy--or a government employee. Lazy is also the housekeeping plan they encouraged us to choose--Decline service. No way! I can decline housekeeping at home. I would love to quiet quit that entirely. Since we are staying here for two weeks, they waived the $10 per day parking fee. Which they never had before. (And we have only seen at Marriotts in much swankier locations.) The airport Residence is hardly an in demand area. As platinum members of Marriott rewards, they are supposed to give us free bottles of water at check in. They did not, until we specifically asked. And our plutonium status also entitles us to either extra points or an item from their snack shop, I planned to do the latter, but she warned me to check it out first. I did. It was only one quarter full. The market pantry was definitely quiet quitting.

    I was looking forward to a cup of coffee from the urn in the lobby, but theirs is only available at breakfast. When we got to our room, it did not have an alarm clock or the USB ports which even flea bag hotels now have. I have so many good memories of sitting on the bench in front of this hotel, reading, knitting, praying, and just enjoying the afternoon sun. The bench is gone. Tuesday I was going to print statements from our bank and credit card companies on the secure internet in the business center. They had two nice printers. No computers. The desk agent told me where to go (to have documents printed). He said they haven't had computers since Covid. I was unaware computers could die of Covid and none of the other hotels where we have stayed are that paranoid about computer Covid cooties anymore. A business center without computers is definitely quiet quitting.

     Before we left for dinner Monday, I actually asked the front desk gal if the hotel was going out of business. She said no. The next day's breakfast, however, said yes. Both at 7:30 when Reed ate breakfast, and at 8:30 when I did, there was a only spoonful (hopefully not the same spoonful) of eggs in the breakfast bar that was supposed to be open until 9:30. Not a fan of eggs anyway, I decided to have oatmeal, but it had congealed into a hard mass that would not come out of the pot. My memories of their former assortment of fruit, cheese and pastries began to congeal too.

    I'm happy to report that things have improved. They managed to track down an alarm clock for our room and Reed had enough adapters for our USB needs. Breakfast the rest of the week has been pretty good, although they were offering bananas so brown I would only have used them to bake with. There are no flavored creamers for the coffee, but that is more than made up for by the pumpkin spice Torani coffee syrup the last two days. They even have cold brew coffee, which I have never seen in a hotel before. And for three evenings in a row, in the lobby spot where coffee used to be, there have been cookies instead. And as of Sunday, there is coffee in the lobby. Reed told a reservations gal at West Star what seemed to be missing from the hotel and she knew the manager, so that is probably what brought about the change. Sometimes it pays to be the squeaky wheel. There are even a few more items in the snack shop now.

    It helps a lot that it has been sunny and warm the past two days, so I am making new memories sitting in their courtyard until the sun quietly quits behind the neighboring hotel. So maybe the hotel is not quiet quitting, maybe it is just some of the employees. . . and whoever buys computers  . . . and orders alarm clocks . . . and breakfast items . . . and snacks. And with that, I'll quit.

When the King Meets His Steward

 

      I am still having a hard time harmonizing the diet that is eating it's way through the women of our church with scripture. Jesus commanded his followers "Not to worry about what you will eat drink or put on." (Mt. 6:25). Peter tells women to not focus on outward adornment but a beautiful spirit (1 Pet. 3:3,4). And in the Old Testament 1 Sam. 16:7 says, "For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

    I have asked a couple Christian friends for perspective. My perspective is that of a mother seeing her son's healthy weight, physically fit, dead body in a casket. Yes, I care what my body looks like and, of course, I want to be healthy, but having struggled with an eating disorder off and on for 20 years, I do not want to waste any more hours of my life focused on food. My concern for some of these women, including the one promoting it in our church and on Facebook, is that it is easy to mistake controlling food intake with controlling your life. The latter is a job the Lord reserves for Himself. 

    At ladies functions, I feel like a recovering alcoholic whose friends have started drinking. Maybe control issues will not be a problem for most of them, but I hate to see mature Christian women focusing on their figure flaws and food when, without exception, these are not the bodies we keep. Certainly there are no specific commands against dieting, but what we eat and drink is to glorify God (1 Cor 10:31) and our focus is to be on the eternal, not the temporary (2 Cor. 4:18). 

    I do not want to discourage women who have felt trapped for years by their weight or appetite, but my prison looked a lot like where they are living now--focusing significant time and effort on an artificial eating plan. I have known from the beginning that I cannot follow this diet because I know my addiction voice would roar back to life. I am also praying for those I think might be confusing controlling their weight with controlling their life. I know what they are eating, but I am afraid that what some of them are drinking is this world's Kool-Aid--to value yourself based on youthful appearance, fitness, weight, and that by these things we control our own lifespan. Once again, God has already called dibs on that. Maybe I can work this dilemma out of my system with a poem.

 

  When the King Meets His Steward  

 

 When the King meets His steward

    and the steward must account 

    for the time and resources given

    for the service of the King--

 

He will not ask 

   the size of your thighs or your jeans,

   how much your body weighed

   before it was buried or cremated,

   whether your skin was wrinkled or smooth.

   How many miles you hiked,

   unless it was in his service,

   how healthy your body was

   or how fit it looked

   when your soul left it.

 

There is nothing wrong with

health, hobbies and appearance

except that they do not matter

to the King, or in His kingdom.

 

They do not matter because--

  these are not the bodies we keep,

  and trying to save their youthful

  weight, vigor and appearance

  is dead weight in the eternal realm.

 

We are the stewards of our bodies,

the King is the owner.

They are not part of the treasure  

His stewards are commanded 

to be saving up in heaven

because--

  When the king meets His steward,

  He provides a brand new body

  worthy of a servant of the King

  and the service of His kingdom.

An aging steward's priority

should not be what time has done to me.

This body is an earthly thing

from which I'll then be free.

Relieved, I do not have to bring

this worthless treasure to my King.