A Summer’s Memory

The tendrils of sleep still linger about him as he walks into the room. Without a word, he lies down beside me, snuggling closely beneath a blanket the color of raw silk. He is wearing his dinosaur pajama bottoms, but his chest is bare. I wrap my arms around him, and lean over to place a soft kiss on his honey-brown shoulder, where the sun has brushed its lips before me.

Later, when the air is thick and still with heat, we will make our way down the trail. We will walk silently as the sun beats down without compassion onto the top of my head, and his red baseball cap. The heat will make the trail seem longer than we remembered, and just when we reach the point of regretting coming at all, an opening will appear like a gift in the brush on the right. He will shout for joy, and then we will slip into the shadowed coolness.

It will take only a moment for him to abandon sandals, hat, and shirt on the bank before his dog follows him into the icy flow. I wade in as well, but only up to my calves as I watch the two of them explore under mossy rocks looking for crayfish, while hoping for a fiercer beast.

After awhile, I will return to the bank and find respite on a fallen log as I watch them settle into a quiet pool where dappled sunlight plays upon the water’s surface, drinking deeply of all it means to be a boy and his dog on a summer’s afternoon.

The deep shadows of that place will lull us into timelessness, and when we finally emerge onto the trail again, we will find the world a different place entirely, black storm clouds blocking out the once fierce sun. Suddenly, the wind will be upon us, and fear will seize us as we realize we have tarried too long, and have no place to hide. The rumbling thunder will break the spell, and then, with the driving rain behind us, and the trees lashing in terror above us, we will race for home.

“Run! Run!” We will shout to each other until at last, shelter is within reach, and we fling ourselves inside, slamming the door behind us, to stand dripping, radiant with survival.

Then, he will turn and climb the stairs to go change into something drier, while I busy myself gathering together the pieces of the memory, tucking it safely away for lonelier times.

The Miracle Maker

I’ll never forget the first time I held her.  When I knelt down onto the dirty concrete floor and gathered her into my arms after two years of waiting, there was no way to stop the tears.

She was tiny- so much lighter than she should have been, like a porcelain doll.  Weeks later, when my husband and I were bringing her and her baby sister home at last, we were forced to sprint through the Miami airport with them in our arms to make our next flight. 

Our carry-on bags were far heavier.

Two days later we took them to the doctor.  She shook uncontrollably in the waiting room, so terrified I feared she would go into shock.  As soon as the doctor walked into the room, both girls began to scream in terror.  We did all we could to comfort them, but the memories of previous experiences with medical professionals were too fresh.

A few days later the results of the first limited examination were complete.  She had not one vicious parasite, but five.  Many doses of medicine later, her distended stomach began to shrink.  The color returned to her face.  Bones lengthened, and muscles thickened.

Three years later she went in for her 8-year-old well check to the pediatrician who once terrified her.  He walked into the room, and she greeted him with a twinkling eyes, and a big hug.  The official diagnosis:  Strong as an ox.

Soon, we would discover that she had grown as fleet as a deer as well.

I watched her run tonight, a perfect stride than can only be inherited, not taught.  Long brown legs pumped to keep up with fellow track team members years her senior.  A little while later, the little girl who was so weak  3 years ago that she could not climb into the family van by herself, nailed 11ft 3inches in the long jump.

The Miracle Maker is alive and well.

And I am just honored to be a witness on the sidelines.

Where My Bookmark Is Resting

“….we have kept going with the faith that as we struggle, God struggles with us, and that the arc of the moral universe, although long, is bending toward justice…..We have seen truth crucified and goodness buried, but we have kept going with the conviction that truth crushed to earth will rise again.”  

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  December 20, 1956

Baseball Dreams

The season is over, but Little Man is still wearing his uniform, dirty and stained from that last tournament game.  It is hard to let go of something a boy loves so much. 

The Reds were a Little League team with a whole lot of heart, and a fair amount of talent to go with it.  It was Little Man’s first year to play, and that  early spring night of practice, a chill hung in the air when he nervously walked out onto the field for the first time.  He was a seven-year-old on a team of mostly eight-year-olds. Several of them were entering the season with four years of play already under their belts.  They could field with consistency, and hit with precision, racking up stats that would rival grown men in the Majors.

Little Man had none of that.  He was without question the weakest player on the team.  That first night, he had no concept of baseball.  He had never heard of RBI’s, double plays, or cut-off men.  He did not know how to hold a bat, and ducked every time someone threw him the ball,but after that first practice, he talked excitedly about baseball all the way home.  One taste of The Great American Pastime, and he was hopelessly in love.

In no time at all, he developed a fierce commitment to his team.  No one could outwork him, or felt a loss any deeper.  One day, as we rode along in the car, and he sat contemplatively in the back, he told me that he did not have to think about what sport he wanted to play in the fall, or the spring that followed.  It was baseball for him, or nothing at all.

Which is why it is so heartbreaking that, for Little Man, success was so elusive.  Oh, he made improvement, certainly, but time and time again, the outcome at home plate was the same for him.

Strike one.  Strike two.  Strike three.

The last game of the season was a battle.  Coaches were focused. Boys gave it their all.  Parents lost their voices from screaming encouragement.  Little Man had a strong hit that made it into the outfield.  He stood victoriously on first, as one of his teammates ran across home in his wake.  Later on, Little Man made it across home plate too. 

But in the end, The Reds fell, and the season was over two games sooner than anyone wanted it to be.

I saw Little Man fighting back tears as he packed his bag to leave the dugout for the last time.  I watched the battle for control of his emotions play out in those green eyes as he wrestled his broken heart into submission.  By the time he stepped out of the dugout, and took his place with his team to listen to the Coach’s speech one last time, he was fully composed.

The coach called on each boy in turn to stand, and tell the team what they liked most about the season.  When he called on Little Man, he stood quickly to attention, looked his coach in the eye and said, “I learned to play.”

“Yes, you did.”  The coach replied.  “Yes, you did.”

He told his coach good-bye, and that he would see him in the fall.  Then, he stoically walked to the car with a third place trophy in his hands.

The minute he made it to the safety of the backseat, he collapsed into sobs.  I stood at the door, my eyes filled with tears. 

“What’s wrong, buddy?”  I asked.  “You had a great hit.”

“I just wanted a few more games,” he wailed.  “Let’s just go!”

I climbed into the car, and we began the solemn drive home as warm summer winds drifted in through our open windows, and the fireflies crept from their hiding places to light the night.

After a while, his tears subsided.  I watched in the rear view mirror as he strapped his trophy into the seat belt beside him for safe keeping, and choked back tears of my own.

I think a lot of us enter parenting with this idea that we are in a position of being mighty overseers of our children.  We are so sure of all we will teach them, certain that the years that follow will find us molding their character, fueling their dreams…

What I never realized was how humbling the journey would be for me.  When I held my first newborn, no one could have told me how much my children would refine my character, or how much they would teach me.  

“I bet that first-place trophy is as big as me,” Little Man said wistfully as he wiped his tears.  “But, we did finish third out of twenty-something teams.  That’s good.”

I gazed lovingly at my boy in the rear view mirror.  Courageous.  Resiliant.  Loyal, and passionate.

And I knew beyond any doubt that when I grow up, I want to be just like him.

Oswald Chambers Quotes

“Our notion of sacrifice is the wringing out of us something we don’t want to give up, full of pain and agony and distress.  The Bible idea of sacrifice is that I give as a love-gift the very best thing that I have.”

 

“Pride, disdain for people you talk to, will shut your mouth quicker than anything.  When you speak, see that behind your voice is the life of God.”

I wonder…

How many times has the Lover of My Soul stood waiting to speak, but I failed to hear Him because I was too consumed by who I should be, what I should be doing, and where I am failing?

“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed.  Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”  Luke 10:41-42

Sanctuary

The sun has risen but the rest of the house is still sleeping, so I softly make my way to the front porch with a cup of tea.  The fog has drifted far from the river this morning, admonishing all creation to tread quietly, but the birds will not be silenced as they sing their songs of praise to the Creator.  A bright Cardinal flutters near; his less showy mate follows closely behind, and all is so still that I can hear the sound of their small wings beating the air.

Stony St. Francis stands at the foot of the steps, his bowl filled with water, not seed.  He waits quietly, but no birds come.  They are hungry, not thirsty, this cool morning.  A gleaming drop of water clings to the point of his beard, and another to each hand, and tips of both sleeves. 

Just above the good saint’s head, thousands of crystal beads trace every tiny branch of the still bare Japanese Maple, standing like soldiers waiting for battle, or birds on a wire huddled against the cold.

No one stirs in the house.  No one walks their dog along the street, or shuffles sleepily to the end of the drive to retrieve the morning paper.  Peace and the presence of The Almighty hang heavily in the air.  This morning, this hour, the world all around is a sanctuary, and that is good…

Because I need to hear the voice of God.

I need to be reminded that He spoke a word and all I see came to be.  I need to remember that he feeds the birds of the air, and knows when even the smallest one falls from its nest.  I need to hear again that He loves me and that I am safe in the palm of His hand.

“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have ordained, what is man that your are mindful of him, and the son of man that you visit him?”  Psalm 8:3 – 4

Sweet

The sun is setting rapidly, and dinner is late, but I am too tired to take another step; so I sink down into the front porch swing with a cup of tea.

The tulip magnolia behind me is getting ahead of itself.  Here and there velvety pods are swollen, and threatening to unfurl into magenta and cream colored blossoms.  “Slow down!” I whisper to it, because I know that frigid days and nights will return.

Not tonight, though.

The cloudless sky is beautiful.  The first star of the evening is a white hot point against deep blue that fades to white, and then orange at the horizon.  The large oak, and pecan trees stretch their still bare limbs to heaven - sharp, black sillhouettes against the brilliance behind them.

For the thousandth time, I thank God for planting us in this beautiful, nurturing, peaceful place.

Suddenly, the stillness is broken by my girls.  I watch them race along the sidewalk toward me, and then through the yard, legs pumping, braids streaming out behind them.  Skin paled by the long winter, reflects the half light. 

“Not for long…” I think. 

Soon, the first long hot day will come, and they will burst inside sweaty and breathless from their play to reveal deep mocha hues-three shades darker in one afternoon.

I watch them run. 

So strong.  So beautiful. 

From somewhere in the back yard is the sound of a bat making contact with a ball as Little Man hones his skills.  He has talked his oldest sister into practicing with him.  Patiently, she tosses the ball to him over and again, playing a sport she cares nothing about for a little brother she adores.

Inside the house, my oldest son, so quickly becoming a man, is absorbed in a poetry project for school.  The sculpting and molding of words has captivated him, and he loses himself infinitely in the search for the perfect illustration for each author’s work of art.

The girls race by again.  The sun sinks lower.  I swirl the last sip of tea in my cup.

Life is sweet.

“The blessing of the Lord makes one rich, and He adds no sorrow with it.”  Proverbs 10:22

The Face of Homelessness: LaShell Walks

This is one of the new articles I have written for the Metropolitan Nashville Homeless Commission.  Some of you may remember that the Commission has given me the wonderful opportunity of interviewing some of the homeless to tell their stories.

LaShell is homeless, and although her descent into homelessness began several years ago, her circumstances reflect the crisis so many Americans are facing today – layoffs, consumer debt; and eviction and foreclosure. 

Americans are finding it harder and harder to relegate the homeless to a character sketch that feels comfortable.  We are finding as a nation that not all homeless are mentally ill, or addicted.

Some of them, like LaShell, look an awful lot like us.

The Face of the Homeless: LaShell Walks

LaShell hobbles through the streets of Nashville trying to find her way back to the life she lost.  She leans heavily on her crutches in an attempt to ease the pain in her knee.  All that remains of her once full life fits easily into the shopping bag on her back.

LaShell walks on as best she can, and as she walks, she prays.  “I can’t take too much more of this, God.  I’m tired.  I’m hurting…”

There are so many steps before and behind as she moves like a shadow between businessmen wearing expensive suits and women tapping text messages into their cell phones with perfectly manicured nails.  No one notices her.  No one wants to hear what she has to say, but if they did, she knows just what she would tell them.

“Never overlook someone else, because you could be up today and down tomorrow.  Never take what you have for granted.  Be grateful for life, regardless of how hard it is.”

So far to go.  So much time to think, remember, regret…

She doesn’t understand just how it could have happened.  How could so much have changed in three short years?  She had always, always worked.  She had an apartment, a car, enough to eat, family, and friends. Then, a layoff slip and a few bad decisions, and bit by bit she fell so far that the way out seemed impossibly out of reach.  First, she lost her apartment, and then her car.  It did not take much longer to lose everything else.

Some nights, she sleeps at her daughter’s home; other nights she stays with one of her sisters, but she is a burden, it seems, to everyone she loves.  So, most nights she lowers her weary body into a bed at the Women’s Mission.

But during the day, LaShell walks.

She shuffles through the streets of Nashville, trying to find her way back home.

By Sherri Gragg

sherri@sherrigragg.com

Breath of Life

“My Father,

Breathe life over me.  I lift to you my mind, my soul, my heart…  If you touch me, I will be whole.  If you speak to me, the lies whispered long by The Deceiver will all be swept away.

Father, breathe life over me.

I trust your might, your goodness, your love.  I am willing to stay in your presence.  I am willing to wait.

I know, Father, that in you there is transcendence.  My heart clings to the truth that you will never forsake me.

Breathe life over me, Abba.

Abundant life.

I am here, and I am willing to wait.

~Amen”

“He shall be like the light of the morning when the sun rises, a morning without clouds.”  2 Samuel 23:4