The Box

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She picked up the box and examined it. It was ivory with the raised shape of a deer in the center and outlines of vines and berries traveling over its surface. How often had she passed by this box without noticing the detail that had gone into its design? How many days had she seen it without really looking at it?

Hers was a lifetime of inattention, she thought. A lifetime of distraction and hurry. Life was, after all, so full of details and important things that could not wait. It had happened so quickly that thinking of it now still made her shake her head as if to clear it. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Ms. Stryker?”

She turned and looked at the care attendant.

“Sybil. Just Sybil,” she answered.

“Ms. Stryker, the van is here to take you for your doctor’s appointment.”

A lump began forming in her throat. It would be the same as it had been for over two years now. Always the same. Probing and asking questions over and over again, questions she had by now memorized. The prognosis was set in stone.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she answered, dismissing the attendant with a nod.

Upon learning of her paraplegic state, it had not taken long for her husband to leave her and even less time for her to lose her job. Visitors had come and gone. Family members showed up on a rotating basis, except for her grandmother. Her grandmother had come that first horrible night and had taken a taxi every Sunday after church thereafter, sitting and visiting; telling jokes; singing in her warbling, wavering, winsome soprano; and bringing some small thing now and then – a tin of cookies or an article from the newspaper or a little memento from home. And sometime during each of those visits her grandmother would sit in silent prayer, intent and immoveable.

One time Sybil had said out loud what she thought whenever she saw her grandmother’s eyes begin to close or to stare off into space into a realm through which most others didn’t pass. “Grandma, stop praying for a miracle. It’s done. I’ve accepted it. We need to move on.”

Her grandmother had simply glanced up and caught her eye with an intensity she remembered from her childhood. It was a look that said, “Do not presume to know more than your elder”.

The next Sunday, her grandmother had brought the box from Sybil’s parents’ home where she had left it along with the things of childhood so many years ago. It was one that her grandmother had given to her when she was born. She had stored little treasures in it when she was young, then it had sat on her dresser through years of other, more important things. The Sunday she brought it, her grandmother had set it on her dresser and there it had remained without a glance from its owner.

Just this week, she had felt an inexplicable prompting to examine it, but ignored its pull. Why? It wasn’t as though she had pressing meetings any longer, nor appointments nor social engagements nor visits from friends. Not many, anyway.

The care attendant came to her door again.

“Ms. Stryker, the driver says he’s on a schedule. You really need to come. Here, let me help you,” she said as she moved to take the handles of the wheelchair.

“No,” Sybil said more firmly than she had in a long time. She softened. “No, tell him I need just another minute.”

She lifted the lid, expecting to find some little trinket of a forgotten childhood. None was there. Instead it was filled with slips of paper. She picked up one near the top and read, “Please help her to be a good girl. Bless her life. Keep her safe.”

Sybil’s eyebrows knit in confusion. She picked up another. “I don’t know what’s bothering her at school, but would you please help her? Please send a good friend. Please give her success.”

“She says she’s in love and she doesn’t see him clearly, so I’m asking you to help her see. Or change him. Either one.”

“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you for this dear girl.”

As she pulled slip after slip out of the box, tears burned her eyes as she began to realize what she was reading. Long after the slips should have run out, long after there were more in her lap than could have ever fit in the box, they continued, spilling onto the floor.

goodfreephotos.com7“If only that deer had crossed the highway a minute later. If only she had been delayed or left for home sooner. Oh, I know I’m going on like you know I do. Please heal her. Please make her walk again.”

“Please, somehow help her to believe that you are bigger than she is or her doctor is or anything is in this world. Help her to believe in miracles.”

Sybil reached for a Kleenex and dabbed harshly at her eyes. She pulled her chair closer to the dresser to set the box in its place, but as she picked it up, she lost her grip and it began to fall. It would break, she knew. There would be no putting it back together. She lunged for it, and that’s when it happened.

She didn’t fall. And as she stood for the first time in two years, the rescued box in her hands, she looked up. There in the doorway was her grandmother.

“I had a feeling you might want to go for a walk today,” was all she said as Sybil left the wheelchair and walked to the door.

Photo: www.goodfreephotos.com

The Two Blind Men

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The snow fell like little diamonds on the two as they walked, deep in conversation. Oblivious to the scenes around them, they reminded the company president of two ants as he glanced down from the window of his top floor office before returning to his work. As the friends made their way past the large window of a corner café, a patron looked out and saw that in the intensity of their conversation, they did not notice the woolen scarf of the one closest to the window had caught on the window ledge, was pulled from where it had carelessly rested on his coat and now lay in the gathering snow beneath. An old woman in a thread-bare coat turned the corner they had just rounded, found the scarf and, crossing herself, bent to retrieve it, wrapping it around her neck to gain its precious warmth. The stars began to come out, winking here and there in the dark velvet sky and casting pinprick lights from their million miles away in the heavens. The two increased their pace, as they trudged up a slight hill in their walk.

The voice of one rose, “I’m telling you, all of us want a miracle,”

“If such things exist,” the other interrupted.

“If such things exist,” the one acknowledged, “but no one wants to be in the place it would take to get one. Nobody wants to be in the place where a miracle is their only option. Who wants to have everything taken away with nothing to fall back on? Who wants to feel so desperate they think they’ll go crazy?”

His companion nodded his head.

“At any rate,” the companion replied, “if someone did witness a miracle,”

“If such things exist,” the one reminded him.

“If such things exist,” the companion agreed,” he would have had to wish for it or ask for it for a very long time, I would think.”

“Oh, no doubt about it,” the one remarked, as they unwittingly passed the life-size crèche in the yard of a local church, “a person would absolutely need to know they needed it before they witnessed a miracle.”

Atta boy, Clarence!

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Sometimes, actually very often now when I read or watch the news, I feel like I’m watching Bedford Falls turn into Pottersville. It’s hard to believe that things are moving at an ever increasing speed toward the loss of what is dear to most folks: freedom, morality, generosity … you know, the things that make life wonderful. I shouldn’t be surprised that a few people can convince many people that for instance, if someone has more than you do, they should be forced to give some of their assets to someone else to give to you; or that if you want something important it becomes a right rather than a personal goal; or that it’s wrong to actually have a sense of right and wrong. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I always am.

I speak to the George Baileys out there who do their part – big or small – to make a difference in these times. Don’t give up. One day you will find that the Mr. Gower in your life is better off even if he doesn’t know it, that the Violet whose path you’ve crossed really had it in her to be decent and she was because of you, and that the street you cross every day is better because you do that thing you do. Those thousand points of light really do matter. Overcome evil with good.

The Yes Man

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His heels clicked on the polished floor as he walked quickly to suite 300. The low buzz of his watch alarm sounded only once as he raised his wrist to press it off. This was exactly the time he usually sat down at his desk, placed his coffee cup neatly its coaster, and began the day’s work. People joked they could set their watches by his movements, and he felt proud. Not every man could join precision and structure so seamlessly. It was, to his mind, what made a man dependable.

He briskly knocked twice on the door and entered at the invitation of the voice within.

A smile tugged at his mouth, though looking at him, one would not have known.  Madeleine wore a red skirt and red and white pinstriped blouse with matching shoes.  Her short, red hair just touched the back of her collar. Looking at the combination made him wince. A gold bracelet hung heavy on her small wrist. He noted one earring lying on her desk by the phone. It was her habit to remove it to talk on the instrument, and she invariably forgot to replace it. He had once overheard her in the lunchroom saying that she had lost three earrings because of her habit, but it was obvious to him now the losses had not deterred her.

Madeleine was sitting at her desk typing and spoke above the tick-tack of the keys. “I buzzed her when you knocked, Mr. Nordrum. She’s expecting you. Go on in.”

“Thank you, Ms. Hallowitz.”

He nodded once and stepped toward the double doors. He knocked twice and turned the shiny knob. Its click was music to his ears. The doorknob was such a simple device, beautiful in its simplicity and precision. He wished he could have met its inventor.

He clicked the door shut behind him and stood, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Mr. Nordrum. On the dot as I knew you would be,” she said with clipped articulation, motioning to a chair in front of her desk.

“Ms. Marley.”

He sat soundlessly in front of her. Her black suit matched her hair which was pulled back into a neat chignon. Her nails were polished with a color that matched her skin.  He looked at her now; her face was carefully made up so that no blotches or variations of color were evident – only a clean layer of peach tone. Her eyes were as gray and direct as her speech.

“Mr. Nordrum, it has come to my attention that there is a poster – unapproved, of course – hanging in the hallway by the lunchroom.”

“I’ll take care of it, Ms. Marley.”

Ms. Marley leaned forward and tapped her fingers together.

“I’ve been giving this some thought, Mr. Nordrum. We’ve had trouble with this for three weeks in a row.”

“Yes, Ms. Marley.”

“It makes me wonder what our staff believes about this office. In fact, Mr. Nordrum, it makes me wonder what the citizens of this state believe about this office.”

“Yes, Ms. Marley.”

“I was elected Governor not once, but twice.”

“Yes, Ms. Marley.”

“I have served our citizenry well, Mr. Nordrum.”

“Yes, Ms. Marley.”

“It is time for a change, Mr. Nordrum, and,” Ms. Marley nodded her head slightly as though she was about to bestow a great honor on her employee, “I have determined you are the man best suited for the job.”

The import of such a nod from his superior was not lost to Mr. Nordrum.

He replied in his most confident voice, “Yes, Ms. Marley.”

“I have thought this over for some time. I can assure you, Mr. Nordrum, this has been long in coming in a state that begs for decency and order. There is far too much,” here she searched for a word and, finding it, spit it out like an air drill, “difference,” she pursed her lips as though she was tasting something sour, “difference,” repeated, “in our diversity.”

“Diversity is something you have given much time in promoting,” he answered.

Ms. Marley stood from her chair and threw back her shoulders.

“It has been a very effective effort,” she agreed with just the right amount of modesty and pride.

“However,” she continued, “not everyone cares as deeply about it as they should.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Marley,” Mr. Nordrum interrupted, “but you made the word ‘should’ a misdemeanor offense last month.”

His boss’s face reddened slightly.

“How careless of me, but,” and here she directed a steel-like gaze on her employee, “I think you know what I meant.”

“Yes, Ms. Marley.”

“I would like you, Mr. Nordrum, to make a list of all of the variations at work against our contemporary society; deviations from what we consider acceptable and appropriate in this state.”

The tall woman turned to face the window. Her eyes darted over the traffic beyond it to the commons spreading like a wide sea in front of the grand building.

Abruptly she spun around and commanded, “Have it on my desk day after tomorrow.”

Mr. Nordrum nodded.

“Yes, Ms. Marley.”

He rose from his chair and walked to the door.

“Mr. Nordrum.”

He turned slightly.

“Yes, Ms. Marley?”

“9:01 a.m.”

“Yes, Ms. Marley.”

He silently shut the door behind him.

As he walked through the reception area a muffled, “Good-bye, Mr. Nordrum,” came from beneath the desk.

The top half of Madeleine Hallowitz was enveloped underneath, undoubtedly looking for a lost earring, leaving the bottom half still in the chair to unwittingly entertain those awaiting their appointments.

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

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In this culture and time in history, the people who receive attention and honor tend to be those who are on T.V.: news reporters and commentators, actors, major politicians, and those in professional sports. I often wonder how this is regarded in its place in history or should I say with what degree of triviality this is regarded (save, perhaps, for major politicians. Or not).

The question then is: who should receive attention and honor?

 

The positions that receive the most attention and honor in our culture are usually not the most important. I think it’s marvelous that women have more options than ever to be successful and influential. They should. (In fact, it shouldn’t even be a discussion any more, but it crops up from time to time.) Two important roles, that of wife and mother, should not be overlooked in that success, and if they are it is to the detriment of society.

Although divorce is acceptable and commonplace now, it is in everyone’s best interest to work at staying married (save for abuse or unfaithfulness). Being a good wife is not always a bed of roses, and sometimes it’s the last place on earth you want to be. Sorry, guys, everyone has bad days, except my husband, of course. He is always thrilled to be married to me. Be the one who shows the world marriage is for keeps, not just for convenience. In this day of wimped out men, do what you can to encourage your husband to be brave, to be a man of courage, to be strong.

In this day of undisciplined children and an alarming future, raise children who can say no to others and to self, who can see beyond the immediate and develop long-term thinking, who have been taught to read their Bible every day and pray every day, who listen for God’s voice in their lives.

When did we get to the place of valuing something trivial because it makes money or brings attention and devaluing something that brings in no money or status but affects the lives of family members? We might assess our influence in terms of title or money. However, the consequence of our lives will be much larger if we don’t think in those terms. Ask God to use you however He sees fit without regard for the applause of others. He might give you a big place in which to serve or He might give you a rocking chair and prayer shawl. Embrace either. Because He, my friends, is the power behind the hand that rocks the cradle that rules the world.

Strawberry Walnut Salad

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Are you frantically searching for last minute ideas to put on the table for Thanksgiving Day? The following is something I’ve thrown together for years and we enjoy it at whatever meal it’s served. It’s easy, healthful, and tastes great. Enjoy!

Strawberry Walnut Salad strawberries_strawberry_fruit_214340

  • Cut up 2 lbs cored strawberries (just remove the green tops with a cheap vegetable peeler)
  • Sprinkle with a little sugar
  • Add chopped walnuts (Honestly, I never measure – just add until it looks appealing to you, maybe 1 c.; you’d rather have too few than too many, though.)
  • Mix together

photo: all-free-downloads.com

The First Thing For Which To Be Thankful

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Our Father,

When we think of your creation, not just the stars twinkling in the night’s sky or the sun flashing its brightness, but the vast heavens and planets and nebula and very possibly things of which we are unaware, we’re stunned by your power.

rose_rosebud_flower_221924 When we examine the intricacies of a single flower, the beauty of its design, the efficiency of photosynthesis, the blessing of its tiny breath; and multiply that by untold numbers of color and shape and scent; expanding that to plant and sea and animal life alike: multitudes of funny bugs and beings, both adorable and fierce; the minute detail of your artistry amazes us and the expansiveness of your work confounds us. Millions of years haven’t revealed to man the completeness of your creation.

When we think of You, your power and perfection, we must admit here and now that the smallness of man compared with the greatness of God – our smallness to your greatness –  makes it improbable that You would extend your immense love to us. Yet You do in so many ways, so very many ways. It makes us relieved and delighted that You not only provide sustenance, but give numerous and varied attentions to our lives. You are interested in us. You want our company. You answer prayer. Oh thank you for that. Thank you for being a kind and generous and loving God.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

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For the children: “God is great and God is good . . .”

photo: all-free-downloads.com

Beware the Pumpkin Pie

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Thanksgiving dinners provide a backdrop for all that is gracious and good and homey and, in most homes, familiar. Let’s take, for instance, pumpkin pie.

Or in the words of comedians everywhere, please, take mine. I have never loved pumpkin pie. I have never even liked pumpkin pie, though I discovered during a visit to Indiana that I liked the pumpkin pie a childhood friend made that included cream cheese. Cream cheese is my idea of a great addition to nearly any recipe, and so, in an effort to join the ranks of those who love this Thanksgiving staple, I volunteered to make it one year.

That was a mistake. I used the recipe from my friend for what I recall was a chiffon pumpkin pie. It tasted great! The uproar it caused among one or two at the Thanksgiving table (the good humored ribbing only slightly covered what I discerned was a personal horror at the perversion of the beloved pie), however, convinced me that for the satisfaction of all that is traditional, some things are better left unaltered.

So if you love pumpkin pie, you can have my slice. I’ll bring a cheesecake.

Now, about the stuffing . . .

Thanks, again.

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It’s happening. The Sunday paper is heavier with every week closer to Christmas. If you’re not careful, those flyers and advertisements will spill onto the floor before you can even reach your reading chair. And so, to give us a little break from what surely are lovely and alluring advertising spreads, I offer a quote from Robinson Crusoe:

“All our discontents about what we want appeared to me to spring from the want of thankfulness for what we have.”

Oh, Daniel Defoe, thank you for the wisdom of that one sentence.

Defoe, Daniel. Robinson Crusoe. (originally published in 1719), New York: Bantam Books, 1981.

It’s Nuts Here

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When we moved into our home twenty years ago, we were tickled there were three walnut trees on the property. We didn’t know much then.

Two walnut trees grew close together, like inseparable friends, in our front yard. One was in the back, perfect for shading the deck and eventually holding a tree house with a rope ladder, a fortress (I use the term loosely here) my husband built one year as a birthday present for our son. Our son never posted a “No Girls Allowed” sign, since he had three older sisters who used it nearly as much as he did and who would have ignored the sign anyway. He should’ve posted a “No Squirrels Allowed” sign, but that would have been ignored, too.

The kids had great fun with those walnuts that started dropping mid-summer. They gathered them in little sand buckets, or mixed them with leaves for “recipes”, or pretended they were some kind of treasure, or, on their humanitarian-minded days, even medicine.

I even got in on the action. Did I say we didn’t know much then? Because I think it’s important you remember that. I peeled the green outer coat of a great pile of walnuts one year – free food, right? The brown stain left on my hands lasted a good, long time. The taste of the walnuts – by the way, they are black walnut trees – is what some might generously call tangy and what I call bitter.

I have become an avid gardener. I’m not any good at it, but I like doing something in which I can feel productive and let my mind wander at the same time. I discovered our walnut trees don’t like my efforts. They don’t come right out and say it to my face. They simply kill anything planted nearby, including the lovely little hollyhocks I had envisioned happily lining our picket fence; many, many lovely little hollyhocks planted over the years. Those trees don’t back down. Our apple tree didn’t escape. It bravely and, in its final years, desperately tried to hang on despite it’s close proximity to what by now I knew was one of the very selfish walnut trees. Selfish with one exception: For years our yard has been a regular convention center for squirrels from all over.

I suppose I should have some sympathy. The front yard tree suffers from what happened to its friend, though I’ve told it on more than one occasion to suck it up and move on. One summer we came home to a sight. Well, let me back up for the sake of context and to give me an excuse for my lack of sympathy. Everyone loaded into the car for our trip back from the family cabin and we immediately learned that something was wrong with the muffler. We traveled those four hours unable to speak to one another or to find rest in the peaceful scenery flying by, never mind to sleep due to the incredibly loud engine noise. We arrived home, ears ringing, to find water in the basement due to what must have been quite a storm while we were gone. And, yes, one of the friends had fallen. It was quite a sight. I did not grieve over the fallen comrade. And then there were two.

I know more now than I did twenty years ago. I just nod my head when people remark about the lovely golden leaves those trees show every fall. They hold on to them quite late. This year they dropped the night of the first snow. ALL AT ONCE.

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Actually, there are steps leading from our deck down to the yard.

 

 

 

 

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I painted a checkerboard onto our picnic table. We have rocks painted red and rocks painted black for the game pieces. I’m beginning to think the tree doesn’t like our games.

 

 

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Sigh

At least the squirrels are happy. I suspect they plan to overwinter here while planning the next convention. school 017