Have you ever found yourself with a broken heart? Traced the edges of your wound over and over even though each pass of it's lines with your memory make it bleed ever more painfully? How long do you keep the would fresh, breaking it open every time you begin to forget; just to keep the memory of that relationship close to you because somewhere in your mind you are afraid if it ever heals they will be gone for good? How many times do you promise yourself you are done with love because the pain is not worth the loving?
I love my broken heart. In my mind I hold it up in the light of my memory and carefully trace each scar. Some are small and faint, others longer or darker in color depending on the size of the hurt incurred. One is fresh and still raw, it is the largest of them all. It is healed, but it's tissue is thin and still bruised along the edges. Of all the scars this is my favorite, because this one crosses the entire heart separating it in two. It is the deepest and of all has hurt the most. It is the one that taught me to be thankful for the other scars I had previously been ashamed of.
I am not someone who gives my heart away very easily. If you are over the age of thirteen it takes quite a while to earn my trust and quite a bit more to be given free reign with my heart. That being said, when I do give over my heart it is completely, no holds barred.
Well, a few years back I began a relationship and chose to give 100%. This was unprecedented as I have never given all of my heart in a dating relationship before and to do so without knowing for sure where the other person stood was not something I had ever been willing to do. I was terrified. What if I gambled big and gambled on the wrong person? How would I ever be able to take that chance again? Long story short, we are not together anymore, I gave all of my heart and wound up with it back in my hands in two pieces. For the last year and a half I have been standing there holding that heart and tracing the lines of my wound. Driving myself numb with the pain of it.
What if I had said or done something different? What if I were thinner would he have stayed? What if I were less serious of a person, more fun and engaging? What if my hair were different? If I were better, more kind, more understanding? I racked my mind thinking of things I could have said or done that would have made a difference, but there was no answer. Just a dark cloud that hung over my head raining down doubts and concerns. If he didn't want me would anyone? What's the point of dressing up, who would I dress up for? Why go out, I won't meet anyone and if I did why would they be interested in me anyway? I just need to work on me because there must be something wrong.
The crazy thing is I didn't even realize what I was doing to myself. That I was shutting myself off from happiness so that I could bemoan one relationship in my life. ONE......how many people do I know and love?! And I ignored all of that joy over ONE man.
My slow return to the sunlight began in September of last year. I decided to start writing this blog and focus on the things I love to do for ME. What I have been finding is that I love most to use my heart and love those around me. But I was still nursing that wound.....so it had to go. When you are holding your heart in pieces you only have two options. Keep it broken to remember and protect yourself from using it in the future or recognize that, being the strongest muscle in your body, when muscles repair they become larger and stronger allowing you to love even better than before. Since loving makes me happy my only option was to allow my wounds to heal over completely so that I can love bigger and stronger than ever.
It has been a four month process and it is not entirely over. But with every beat I feel the strength and joy of light and love coursing through me again and it is a beautiful feeling! I wake up in the morning with a smile on my face and cannot wait to see what the day will bring. Sometimes I am so happy I feel like I could fly.
These days when I consider my heart and see it's scarred surface I am glad for the jagged lines. Not glad for the pain incurred or the many bad decisions on mine or the other parties side, but glad for the lessons learned in the process. Thankful that in loving comes healing and strength. My scars make my life and my heart unique. A heart without scars is a heart that has not loved, therefore to me the loving will always be worth the pain.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Day I Found My Best Friend
When I was young I knew a girl who was unbelievable. She was always laughing and dancing around, singing songs and writing little poems. I remember how fun it was to be with her and how amazing it was to see the world through her eyes. The simplest things were magical and full of wonder. A lilac bush would somehow become a shadowy castle and we would become princesses hiding from a mighty dragon waiting to pounce. Walks through the pasture were an adventurous trek through the Saharan plain with lions stalking us just beyond the edge of the grass. I mostly remember how completely and fiercely she loved everyone around her. As if she was just waiting for a chance to show you how precious you were to her. She was my best friend.
Life is funny, the people you once held dear grow and change as quickly as you do. Even the ones you never want to lose track of somehow get lost in the shuffle. As the years went by and we both grew I did just that, I lost touch with my best friend and found new friends to take her place. Sure there were times I missed her, wondered how she was doing or what had become of her. But when you lose touch as a child it's much more difficult to find someone again. As the years passed I came to terms with the fact that the impressions made on my life would have to suffice because we would never be able to find one another again. For all I knew she was out there somewhere actually stalking lions on the plains of Africa. I hoped she was.
I have a friend now who tells me rather frequently that I 'think too much', I need to let go of my lovely illusion of control and go for what I am afraid to do. I know he is right, but being the opposite of my dear childhood friend, I find the idea of not 'thinking something through' makes me slightly nauseous. What if I just step off of the edge of a dream and fall into an oblivion? Wouldn't it have been better never to know the feeling of flight than to die in a twisted heap at the bottom of a cavern? But there is the memory of a dreamer I once knew and her memory tells me he is right. I need to start letting go. I will never see my full potential until I can take chances, regardless of what the outcome may be.
Thursday while I was on a run through the neighborhood I was pondering all this and realized I even think too much about how I run. I always hold back just enough strength in case I get too tired. It slows me, but I consider it a fair trade because then I can plan out my energy expenditure to get me through the run with little or no problem. As I ran it hit me, "It's not my body that holds me back, it's all my thinking!" What if I just run as hard as I can for as long as possible without thinking about it? Thankfully at that moment a quick paced song began playing on my ipod and without giving myself time to think I kicked my body into full gear.
It was only about two blocks to my house and I was at the end of my run, but as I rounded the corner I realized I had so much more energy than I thought I could have. My body did not want to stop moving. I was so elated I began a strange dance/run as I passed my neighbors' house. I saw my neighbor sitting in her vehicle as I passed and for a split second thought, "Oh no, you had better stop or she will see you. What if someone else sees." I slowed for a moment but was hit with the longing to just move regardless. For about three minutes I stood in the street dancing for all I was worth, refusing to look up or think of who might see. I danced and sang until I began to laugh out loud with joy...and that is when it happened.
Somehow in the middle of my random gyrations I found her again. My dearest best friend from so long ago. The smile on her face was radiant as she danced around with me in the mid afternoon sun. As the rhythmic beat of a bollywood tune played on we were inside the Taj Mahal at a banquet dancing for royals. In that moment the years faded away and we were as always together, two pieces of the same puzzle. She was, as ever, the best part of who I am. Why all these years have I hidden her from the world? What if I always held her close and told her she was precious and could do anything she set her mind to? What force on this earth could stop us then?
The song ended and I knew my moment was over, but as I started toward my front door I imagined grabbing her still childlike hand in mine and walking into the future together. This time I will not hold her back or leave her behind. After all, everyone needs the best part of them to come out and dance now and again.
Life is funny, the people you once held dear grow and change as quickly as you do. Even the ones you never want to lose track of somehow get lost in the shuffle. As the years went by and we both grew I did just that, I lost touch with my best friend and found new friends to take her place. Sure there were times I missed her, wondered how she was doing or what had become of her. But when you lose touch as a child it's much more difficult to find someone again. As the years passed I came to terms with the fact that the impressions made on my life would have to suffice because we would never be able to find one another again. For all I knew she was out there somewhere actually stalking lions on the plains of Africa. I hoped she was.
I have a friend now who tells me rather frequently that I 'think too much', I need to let go of my lovely illusion of control and go for what I am afraid to do. I know he is right, but being the opposite of my dear childhood friend, I find the idea of not 'thinking something through' makes me slightly nauseous. What if I just step off of the edge of a dream and fall into an oblivion? Wouldn't it have been better never to know the feeling of flight than to die in a twisted heap at the bottom of a cavern? But there is the memory of a dreamer I once knew and her memory tells me he is right. I need to start letting go. I will never see my full potential until I can take chances, regardless of what the outcome may be.
Thursday while I was on a run through the neighborhood I was pondering all this and realized I even think too much about how I run. I always hold back just enough strength in case I get too tired. It slows me, but I consider it a fair trade because then I can plan out my energy expenditure to get me through the run with little or no problem. As I ran it hit me, "It's not my body that holds me back, it's all my thinking!" What if I just run as hard as I can for as long as possible without thinking about it? Thankfully at that moment a quick paced song began playing on my ipod and without giving myself time to think I kicked my body into full gear.
It was only about two blocks to my house and I was at the end of my run, but as I rounded the corner I realized I had so much more energy than I thought I could have. My body did not want to stop moving. I was so elated I began a strange dance/run as I passed my neighbors' house. I saw my neighbor sitting in her vehicle as I passed and for a split second thought, "Oh no, you had better stop or she will see you. What if someone else sees." I slowed for a moment but was hit with the longing to just move regardless. For about three minutes I stood in the street dancing for all I was worth, refusing to look up or think of who might see. I danced and sang until I began to laugh out loud with joy...and that is when it happened.
Somehow in the middle of my random gyrations I found her again. My dearest best friend from so long ago. The smile on her face was radiant as she danced around with me in the mid afternoon sun. As the rhythmic beat of a bollywood tune played on we were inside the Taj Mahal at a banquet dancing for royals. In that moment the years faded away and we were as always together, two pieces of the same puzzle. She was, as ever, the best part of who I am. Why all these years have I hidden her from the world? What if I always held her close and told her she was precious and could do anything she set her mind to? What force on this earth could stop us then?
The song ended and I knew my moment was over, but as I started toward my front door I imagined grabbing her still childlike hand in mine and walking into the future together. This time I will not hold her back or leave her behind. After all, everyone needs the best part of them to come out and dance now and again.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
In the Stillness of Morning
I love early mornings, no love is not strong enough of a word, I adore them. The feeling of quiet peace and joy that overwhelms me when I watch the world wake up is more than I can put into words. Not all mornings are equal. Some are more perfect than others, this morning was a more perfect one. Let me set the scene for you...
It's about 6:30 and the sky is dark. The air is cool, but clouds moved in overnight trapping the dissipating heat of the desert so that there is no biting wind as I ride my bike across campus. While I pedal I am struck with the silence of deserted walkways and buildings. The only sounds I hear are the clicking of my pedals and the constant swish of my bike pants. It is early enough that only the most brave or ludicrous staff members are making their presence known. As I ride the light in the sky changes lazily from cobalt to indigo then navy blue with the edges lined in copper. I can't decide what to watch, the black birds flying silently against a stunning sunrise or the ever swelling light that plays against sandstone and brick buildings bringing out a shy blush from beneath their hard facade. All the while I hear the quiet click clicking of my pedals, like rhythmic waves against the shoreline of my ears. It is as though I can feel the earth shrug off it's blanket and rise for the day. I stop for a moment to soak in the sights and sounds of the day's quiet arousal, as I do I am struck with the knowledge that this is the one moment of my day when the world is perfect. All things are right and my heart is at rest.
Waking from my momentary stupor I see there are several people milling about now, on their way to work or school. A part of me is sad to move forward into the mania that is sure to come, but I am full of hope and joy for what the day will bring. For I know it's secrets. I have stopped and watched the day rise from it's slumber and shake off the encumbering dew of night. I have seen it's beauty and promise in the stillness of morning.
It's about 6:30 and the sky is dark. The air is cool, but clouds moved in overnight trapping the dissipating heat of the desert so that there is no biting wind as I ride my bike across campus. While I pedal I am struck with the silence of deserted walkways and buildings. The only sounds I hear are the clicking of my pedals and the constant swish of my bike pants. It is early enough that only the most brave or ludicrous staff members are making their presence known. As I ride the light in the sky changes lazily from cobalt to indigo then navy blue with the edges lined in copper. I can't decide what to watch, the black birds flying silently against a stunning sunrise or the ever swelling light that plays against sandstone and brick buildings bringing out a shy blush from beneath their hard facade. All the while I hear the quiet click clicking of my pedals, like rhythmic waves against the shoreline of my ears. It is as though I can feel the earth shrug off it's blanket and rise for the day. I stop for a moment to soak in the sights and sounds of the day's quiet arousal, as I do I am struck with the knowledge that this is the one moment of my day when the world is perfect. All things are right and my heart is at rest.
Waking from my momentary stupor I see there are several people milling about now, on their way to work or school. A part of me is sad to move forward into the mania that is sure to come, but I am full of hope and joy for what the day will bring. For I know it's secrets. I have stopped and watched the day rise from it's slumber and shake off the encumbering dew of night. I have seen it's beauty and promise in the stillness of morning.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Interactions
It has been said, a single pebble dropped into a still pond will change its entire surface.
I ruminated over that...
I stood looking at the pond. Watched the suns reflected light outline the trees at waters edge.
A single stone lifted above that crystal face.
I saw an arm mirrored perfectly there, and watched as fingers slowly opened.
One sound...stone meeting water.
The light moved in resounding waves as an earthquake shook the trees, first violently then slowly as if dancing a waltz.
Beneath the glass like facade, in depths I could not see, the stone plunged further still.
Then settling at last on the bottom, it sent up an echoing wash of mud and silt.
The arm moved back to my side and stillness returned.
I walked away, the pond remained.
Both appeared to be the same, both it and me....forever changed.
I ruminated over that...
I stood looking at the pond. Watched the suns reflected light outline the trees at waters edge.
A single stone lifted above that crystal face.
I saw an arm mirrored perfectly there, and watched as fingers slowly opened.
One sound...stone meeting water.
The light moved in resounding waves as an earthquake shook the trees, first violently then slowly as if dancing a waltz.
Beneath the glass like facade, in depths I could not see, the stone plunged further still.
Then settling at last on the bottom, it sent up an echoing wash of mud and silt.
The arm moved back to my side and stillness returned.
I walked away, the pond remained.
Both appeared to be the same, both it and me....forever changed.
Friday, January 27, 2012
The Origins of Laura Ruth
This is the story of how I came to love my name. I have not always loved my name. Laura Ruth Gill. Laura is beautiful without question. It is simple and elegant and almost exotic while still being very familiar. Gill is neither great nor horrible in my opinion. It is actually a shortened version of my family's true last name which was Gilbertson, but Gill is also a family name from India so it has an exotic twist of it's own. But Ruth.....I have always been haunted by the name Ruth. Maybe because I am such an independent creature I have disliked being an offshoot of my grandmother, like somehow I am a part of her even though I am my own person. Maybe it is much more simple, maybe it's just because in Spanish my middle name is pronounced root. For whatever reason, I have never liked sharing my middle name when asked to.
Now please don't get me wrong it's not that Ruth is a bad name to have. I respect Ruth from the Bible and would be honored to have her character traits. It's also a family name and I do appreciate carrying on my grandmother's name, I just always wished it sounded better. More romantic and flowery like Melanie or Angela or Marie or any number of other names that were less guttural.
You may be wondering where all of this is coming from. Well, I was asked this week at work whether I had ever been given the nickname Baby Ruth growing up. My immediate response was, "No, and I don't particularly like the name Ruth.". My co-worker was incredulous, "How could you not like that name, it's a Biblical name." "Well", I explained, "When you say it, it sounds like a dog barking. Ruth, Ruth, Ruth." Go ahead....say it right now out loud and tell me I am mistaken. I'm not. It most assuredly sounds like a dog barking in the distance.
After the conversation died away I found myself wondering why I still clung to my childhood impression of the name. Hadn't I learned to love my name by now? The answer is yes, and yet it is still my gut reaction to say I don't like it. This is to clear the slate so to speak. To explain to you not only how much I appreciate my name, but the divine providence I see in my name choice.
As I have previously said, I did not start out appreciating my middle name. But my first name I have always loved so when I was given a name origin assignment in first grade I was very excited to complete it. The assignment was to find out from our parents how we were named and share it with the class the next day. I remember sitting at the dinner table with my mom so excited to hear how they chose such a beautiful name as Laura. My romantic illusions quickly fell away with the strange tale my mother unfolded before me. I dreaded standing in front of my class and sharing such a ridiculous story with them. I remember asking my mom why she was making this up and her laughing and assuring me she was not making anything up. It was all true.
According to my mother she and my father had come to an impasse over what name I would be given. She wanted Megan and he wanted Marsha (seriously, he wanted Marsha). One night late in her pregnancy with me my mother had a dream. In her dream she and my father were inside of a spaceship traveling to a distant planet. It was a planet of love and it's name was Laura. She woke up and quickly woke my father asking, "Johnny, what about the name Laura?" he said, "Laura, I like that name." and so I was named. This name that I had been so proud of and thought so special. I was named from a weird and random dream my mother had. So much for something special right? That's what I thought at the time anyway.
I accepted my name story and it somehow grew on me. After all, just because it was weird didn't make it less special I supposed. But I still didn't love that name Ruth. I guessed on the whole two out of three wasn't bad.
In my second year of college I took an overnight job at the campus library. There were several hours a night when no one would come in and I would spend the time flipping through a giant old dictionary we had. (Yes I am that kind of book worm. I even enjoy thumbing through dictionaries.) One night I decided to see how many names were actually in the dictionary and I stumbled across the name Ruth. Did you know Ruth is actually an archaic verb? It is where the word ruthless came from. You see ruth is actually a verb used to describe someone who is compassionate and loving to others. As I read the entry over and let it sink into my head I recalled my mother's dream. How interesting that she would have a dream of a planet of love named Laura and then name me Ruth which defines someone who is loving...coincidence right?
Coincidence or divine providence? I have always felt it is my responsibility in life to show love to everyone I meet. I don't always accomplish my goal, but I have from the youngest age felt a great desire to share love with everyone around me. Does the name define a person or is the person defined by their name? Or was that moment in time designed to point me in the right direction? To show me how perfectly I was made, that even my name was chosen with my future in mind. You may not believe in divine direction and I will not try to convince you of it as that is not my job. But I firmly believe in it and I love my name because of it. It shows me there was a plan for me long before I took my first breath, it reminds me I am not alone in my trials. My name was chosen for me by a divine hand and although I still don't love the sound of the name Ruth, I love what it stands for and I love those who gave it to me. Is there a last name out there that stands for love? Maybe if there is I will meet a man who has it and then my name will be complete. Haha, okay that's taking it all a bit far I suppose. .....or is it? ;)
Oh, and Sven.....I forgot to tell you. Even though I was not ever called Baby Ruth, I was called Ruthie and I was always partial to that nickname.
Now please don't get me wrong it's not that Ruth is a bad name to have. I respect Ruth from the Bible and would be honored to have her character traits. It's also a family name and I do appreciate carrying on my grandmother's name, I just always wished it sounded better. More romantic and flowery like Melanie or Angela or Marie or any number of other names that were less guttural.
You may be wondering where all of this is coming from. Well, I was asked this week at work whether I had ever been given the nickname Baby Ruth growing up. My immediate response was, "No, and I don't particularly like the name Ruth.". My co-worker was incredulous, "How could you not like that name, it's a Biblical name." "Well", I explained, "When you say it, it sounds like a dog barking. Ruth, Ruth, Ruth." Go ahead....say it right now out loud and tell me I am mistaken. I'm not. It most assuredly sounds like a dog barking in the distance.
After the conversation died away I found myself wondering why I still clung to my childhood impression of the name. Hadn't I learned to love my name by now? The answer is yes, and yet it is still my gut reaction to say I don't like it. This is to clear the slate so to speak. To explain to you not only how much I appreciate my name, but the divine providence I see in my name choice.
As I have previously said, I did not start out appreciating my middle name. But my first name I have always loved so when I was given a name origin assignment in first grade I was very excited to complete it. The assignment was to find out from our parents how we were named and share it with the class the next day. I remember sitting at the dinner table with my mom so excited to hear how they chose such a beautiful name as Laura. My romantic illusions quickly fell away with the strange tale my mother unfolded before me. I dreaded standing in front of my class and sharing such a ridiculous story with them. I remember asking my mom why she was making this up and her laughing and assuring me she was not making anything up. It was all true.
According to my mother she and my father had come to an impasse over what name I would be given. She wanted Megan and he wanted Marsha (seriously, he wanted Marsha). One night late in her pregnancy with me my mother had a dream. In her dream she and my father were inside of a spaceship traveling to a distant planet. It was a planet of love and it's name was Laura. She woke up and quickly woke my father asking, "Johnny, what about the name Laura?" he said, "Laura, I like that name." and so I was named. This name that I had been so proud of and thought so special. I was named from a weird and random dream my mother had. So much for something special right? That's what I thought at the time anyway.
I accepted my name story and it somehow grew on me. After all, just because it was weird didn't make it less special I supposed. But I still didn't love that name Ruth. I guessed on the whole two out of three wasn't bad.
In my second year of college I took an overnight job at the campus library. There were several hours a night when no one would come in and I would spend the time flipping through a giant old dictionary we had. (Yes I am that kind of book worm. I even enjoy thumbing through dictionaries.) One night I decided to see how many names were actually in the dictionary and I stumbled across the name Ruth. Did you know Ruth is actually an archaic verb? It is where the word ruthless came from. You see ruth is actually a verb used to describe someone who is compassionate and loving to others. As I read the entry over and let it sink into my head I recalled my mother's dream. How interesting that she would have a dream of a planet of love named Laura and then name me Ruth which defines someone who is loving...coincidence right?
Coincidence or divine providence? I have always felt it is my responsibility in life to show love to everyone I meet. I don't always accomplish my goal, but I have from the youngest age felt a great desire to share love with everyone around me. Does the name define a person or is the person defined by their name? Or was that moment in time designed to point me in the right direction? To show me how perfectly I was made, that even my name was chosen with my future in mind. You may not believe in divine direction and I will not try to convince you of it as that is not my job. But I firmly believe in it and I love my name because of it. It shows me there was a plan for me long before I took my first breath, it reminds me I am not alone in my trials. My name was chosen for me by a divine hand and although I still don't love the sound of the name Ruth, I love what it stands for and I love those who gave it to me. Is there a last name out there that stands for love? Maybe if there is I will meet a man who has it and then my name will be complete. Haha, okay that's taking it all a bit far I suppose. .....or is it? ;)
Oh, and Sven.....I forgot to tell you. Even though I was not ever called Baby Ruth, I was called Ruthie and I was always partial to that nickname.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
A Father's Lessons
This last week I have been considering the long lasting impact a father has on his children's lives. How one single decision can have a permanent effect on who his children become/or in the same token who they chose not to become. I have been greatly blessed to have wonderful and loving male influences in my life including my dear father. And I am most thankful to the Lord for that great gift.
If you have ever met or spent much time with my father you know without my saying so that he is at once a very loveable and frustrating man. As I have no doubt I have gleaned some of his frustrating qualities I will not dwell on them. Instead I would like to tell you about a single decision he made many years ago which, to many, may seem inconsequential but to me it irrevocably changed who I knew my father to be and how I looked at him and others around me.
I have a small frame in my spare room with two photos in it. One is my favorite photo of my mother and the other is my favorite photo of my father. Each photo perfectly encapsulates who my parents are as individuals at their finest. In my father's picture he is standing next to an old, blind and miserably poor man who's hands are caressing a brand new wood cart. Next to the old man stands a grandson and a neighbor boy who at once look excited and bewildered. My father's arm is around the old man's shoulder and they both wear simple smiles on their faces. Every time I see the photo I am taken back to that moment in time and am again awed by my father's inspiration and dedication. I am awed by the man he is in his heart of hearts.
I remember the incident well. In one of the towns we stayed at in Honduras there was an old, poor, blind man who we saw every day. Each morning he would wake before the sun and travel with his broken down wood cart into the nearby mountains, he would then struggle back into town carrying the weight of his wooden load clumsily on his broken cart to sell for the support to his family. Even as a child I remember being moved to pray for him as I watched him struggle by, but my father was nearly brought to tears at the man's battle just to survive and provide for his family.
I do not recall if it was a few days or a few weeks, but my father determined he needed to build this man a new wood cart. I remember once my mother pointed out to him that we did not even know this man, he was a stranger to us. Where would we even take the cart, we didn't even know where he lived. That was not important to my father, we would stop him in the street if we had to. He would not sit by and watch the man's grief any longer without taking action. It seems to me that no time passed at all for the cart to be completed, but I am sure looking back it must have taken quite a bit of labor and time on my father's part. He made sure the load was equally balanced between the beautifully smooth tires. He lovingly carved hand holds that would be easily found and fit perfectly in a grown man's hands. He even put weight on it to make sure it would run smoothly when loaded down. Then, finally, the big day came.
I have no memory of how the blind man was located or how my parents explained to him what we were doing there with a new cart, but I remember the moment he first saw it with his hands. How he caressed every joint and groove. How he lifted it in his hands and wheeled it up and down the street. The quiet smile that never left his face the entire time as my father described to him all of the workings he had carefully planned with his special needs in mind. I don't remember the man saying much more than, "Gracias". Over and over he thanked dad for this great gift. It didn't change the hovel of a home he had into a castle. It didn't take away the economic needs he had or the work he still had to do every day. It only meant someone, a stranger, had seen his struggles and been moved to ease his burden in some way. He was not ignored or forgotten, his endless task planted firmly before him with no relief in sight. He was remembered, he was loved.
It was in that moment I learned who my father was, the core of his being. We all have mistakes we have made and parts of ourselves we wish were not there, but our core shines through in the random acts we think inconsequential. It was in that moment my father taught me who I should strive to be. That it is not enough to follow some prescribed ritual or formula to be righteous. But that being righteous is defined in those moments when we see someone in need, whether friend or stranger, and are so overwhelmed by our love for them that we cannot sit idly by.
There may be qualities of my father that I prefer not to inherit....like his beard. But to be like him in love for others...that would be nothing short of wonderful.
If you have ever met or spent much time with my father you know without my saying so that he is at once a very loveable and frustrating man. As I have no doubt I have gleaned some of his frustrating qualities I will not dwell on them. Instead I would like to tell you about a single decision he made many years ago which, to many, may seem inconsequential but to me it irrevocably changed who I knew my father to be and how I looked at him and others around me.
I have a small frame in my spare room with two photos in it. One is my favorite photo of my mother and the other is my favorite photo of my father. Each photo perfectly encapsulates who my parents are as individuals at their finest. In my father's picture he is standing next to an old, blind and miserably poor man who's hands are caressing a brand new wood cart. Next to the old man stands a grandson and a neighbor boy who at once look excited and bewildered. My father's arm is around the old man's shoulder and they both wear simple smiles on their faces. Every time I see the photo I am taken back to that moment in time and am again awed by my father's inspiration and dedication. I am awed by the man he is in his heart of hearts.
I remember the incident well. In one of the towns we stayed at in Honduras there was an old, poor, blind man who we saw every day. Each morning he would wake before the sun and travel with his broken down wood cart into the nearby mountains, he would then struggle back into town carrying the weight of his wooden load clumsily on his broken cart to sell for the support to his family. Even as a child I remember being moved to pray for him as I watched him struggle by, but my father was nearly brought to tears at the man's battle just to survive and provide for his family.
I do not recall if it was a few days or a few weeks, but my father determined he needed to build this man a new wood cart. I remember once my mother pointed out to him that we did not even know this man, he was a stranger to us. Where would we even take the cart, we didn't even know where he lived. That was not important to my father, we would stop him in the street if we had to. He would not sit by and watch the man's grief any longer without taking action. It seems to me that no time passed at all for the cart to be completed, but I am sure looking back it must have taken quite a bit of labor and time on my father's part. He made sure the load was equally balanced between the beautifully smooth tires. He lovingly carved hand holds that would be easily found and fit perfectly in a grown man's hands. He even put weight on it to make sure it would run smoothly when loaded down. Then, finally, the big day came.
I have no memory of how the blind man was located or how my parents explained to him what we were doing there with a new cart, but I remember the moment he first saw it with his hands. How he caressed every joint and groove. How he lifted it in his hands and wheeled it up and down the street. The quiet smile that never left his face the entire time as my father described to him all of the workings he had carefully planned with his special needs in mind. I don't remember the man saying much more than, "Gracias". Over and over he thanked dad for this great gift. It didn't change the hovel of a home he had into a castle. It didn't take away the economic needs he had or the work he still had to do every day. It only meant someone, a stranger, had seen his struggles and been moved to ease his burden in some way. He was not ignored or forgotten, his endless task planted firmly before him with no relief in sight. He was remembered, he was loved.
It was in that moment I learned who my father was, the core of his being. We all have mistakes we have made and parts of ourselves we wish were not there, but our core shines through in the random acts we think inconsequential. It was in that moment my father taught me who I should strive to be. That it is not enough to follow some prescribed ritual or formula to be righteous. But that being righteous is defined in those moments when we see someone in need, whether friend or stranger, and are so overwhelmed by our love for them that we cannot sit idly by.
There may be qualities of my father that I prefer not to inherit....like his beard. But to be like him in love for others...that would be nothing short of wonderful.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
A Silent Hope
I am home in Missouri for one week, and it has been wonderful. I have spent time visiting friends and family, but I have also spent time just sitting at home. Listening to the never ending mutter of the television in the background while Aunt Bonnie putters around the house doing her daily chores, coming home to see my laundry lovingly folded and left on my bed, looking out the back window at the never changing scene I saw every morning through my adolescence, hearing the cows lowing in the background, even just the smell of the house is comforting...it is home.
Yesterday morning I was reading a book in the living room when my Uncle Jim came in and half apologized for not making my vacation more 'exciting' I smiled and told him this was just perfect. A quiet morning, a slow afternoon just being with two of my greatest supporters... if that is not a vacation from the rush and grind of every day life, I certainly don't know what is.
My Aunt and Uncle, the second parents in my life who provided me a framework of support to grow into the strong and semi-confident woman I have become. (I say semi-confident because I am still working on that addition of my particular self) Their willingness to take me in as their own at the perfect moment in my life when I needed a steady and unchanging home, it irrevocably changed the very fabric of my being. Please know that in praising their love to me I do not want to diminish the importance of my own parents in my life, that is not at all the case. My Aunt and Uncle simply added to the support and love my parents gave. They were my parents at a time when I needed physical security and limitations. They were able to provide for me the constant security that my parents were, at that time, unable to provide.
I have always known that my Aunt and Uncle took me in and loved me as their own daughter, but the magnitude of it did not hit me until this morning, sitting here typing in my Aunt's office. Parents live forever eternally hoping for the best for and from their children. Even when all hope of something seems to be gone to everyone else involved, a parent silently hopes for the best outcome. Perhaps they make a comment here and there, perhaps they say nothing at all. Years and decades may pass, but they do not give up hoping. I have always known the love I felt from my Aunt and Uncle....but that silent hope (I believed) was reserved for their own children.
Years ago I was playing around looking through my Aunt's books of wedding cakes. (she makes beautiful wedding cakes) Half joking I told her exactly what cake I wanted when I got married 'someday'. I didn't ever think twice about it and, thus far, have never needed a reason to consider the cake again. Marriage has not been something that has happened for me and (90%) of the time is not even something I think about. It happens for some, it hasn't for me so far.
This morning as I began to play with facebook I happened to glance at the calendars my Aunt has hanging on the back of her desk. As I was looking I saw a small post it that was quite curious. All it said was: Book #7, Pg #70, Laura's. What in the world did that mean? It looked like my handwriting, but I couldn't think what it might be in reference to. Then all at once it dawned on me....it's my wedding cake.
My Aunt never talks to me about marriage, she doesn't needle me with questions of who if anyone I am dating. (she leaves that to my father) But here tucked away in her desk was a sign of her silent hope. That someday she might be able to make me that cake. That she has not written off that kind of happiness for me. That I am to her a special daughter who she will silently support and hope for just as her very own. It is such a good feeling to love and be loved, to not be given up on no matter what.
Yesterday morning I was reading a book in the living room when my Uncle Jim came in and half apologized for not making my vacation more 'exciting' I smiled and told him this was just perfect. A quiet morning, a slow afternoon just being with two of my greatest supporters... if that is not a vacation from the rush and grind of every day life, I certainly don't know what is.
My Aunt and Uncle, the second parents in my life who provided me a framework of support to grow into the strong and semi-confident woman I have become. (I say semi-confident because I am still working on that addition of my particular self) Their willingness to take me in as their own at the perfect moment in my life when I needed a steady and unchanging home, it irrevocably changed the very fabric of my being. Please know that in praising their love to me I do not want to diminish the importance of my own parents in my life, that is not at all the case. My Aunt and Uncle simply added to the support and love my parents gave. They were my parents at a time when I needed physical security and limitations. They were able to provide for me the constant security that my parents were, at that time, unable to provide.
I have always known that my Aunt and Uncle took me in and loved me as their own daughter, but the magnitude of it did not hit me until this morning, sitting here typing in my Aunt's office. Parents live forever eternally hoping for the best for and from their children. Even when all hope of something seems to be gone to everyone else involved, a parent silently hopes for the best outcome. Perhaps they make a comment here and there, perhaps they say nothing at all. Years and decades may pass, but they do not give up hoping. I have always known the love I felt from my Aunt and Uncle....but that silent hope (I believed) was reserved for their own children.
Years ago I was playing around looking through my Aunt's books of wedding cakes. (she makes beautiful wedding cakes) Half joking I told her exactly what cake I wanted when I got married 'someday'. I didn't ever think twice about it and, thus far, have never needed a reason to consider the cake again. Marriage has not been something that has happened for me and (90%) of the time is not even something I think about. It happens for some, it hasn't for me so far.
This morning as I began to play with facebook I happened to glance at the calendars my Aunt has hanging on the back of her desk. As I was looking I saw a small post it that was quite curious. All it said was: Book #7, Pg #70, Laura's. What in the world did that mean? It looked like my handwriting, but I couldn't think what it might be in reference to. Then all at once it dawned on me....it's my wedding cake.
My Aunt never talks to me about marriage, she doesn't needle me with questions of who if anyone I am dating. (she leaves that to my father) But here tucked away in her desk was a sign of her silent hope. That someday she might be able to make me that cake. That she has not written off that kind of happiness for me. That I am to her a special daughter who she will silently support and hope for just as her very own. It is such a good feeling to love and be loved, to not be given up on no matter what.
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