Not Goodbye, but See You Later--QM

After church today Dorie asked if we could visit Arie's grave together. Its been a year and a day since her home-going.

My sister and I held hands for a few moments while walking to her grave, our touch achingly tangible, but soon dropped, unsustainable.  We rarely hold hands for long.

Holly and I talked about shoes, mixing bowls, generous friends,
      and then we fell silent, looking out across the muddy field.
Tiny droplets fell on my cheeks, and lightly misted the scripted stone.

We remembered together our visions of the little lion girl, weak in body but fierce in joy.
In our hearts we had seen her whole, dancing, twirling in her grandparent's living room--neurons and muscles connected, body beautified.

My sister and I had a faith that wasn't conjured but had spun itself almost unbidden.
Of course this beautiful child would live and thrive.
I looked out across the field, and stared at the yellow school bus, the empty playground with the wet slides and swings. I could feel--almost see--the little hole in the scene where she should be,
           swinging,
          laughing,
          learning to read,
          smiling that million-dollar smile.

Instead that Arie-shaped hole was a little chasm at my feet, the grass already green and marked with a pink-toned stone.

My sister and I slowly walked back toward the lights of the church and Holly said "I want to love deeply-to take every moment to get to know my family and friends so that there is an emptiness when they are gone."

The moment after she spoke those words a shower plunged down from the sky, the biggest drops of rain I've ever seen, and we ran for cover.

The Real is in the rain, in the solid earth that can be dug up, and in the touch of two hands joined for a moment.

The Real is also in the vision of a little girl named Ariel, learning to dance with Jesus, in a place somewhere that is even more solid than here. 

32 reasons to be glad after my 31st year--QM

The best peanut butter pie I've ever had, available at Ronda's

I'm 32 today.
Yesterday Ethan said, "Well honey, after today, you'll never get your 31st year back again,"
and I replied rather caustically "Thank goodness."
But later my heart was pricked with the attitude behind my "good riddance to my 31st year" comment.
You see--

I've been listening to Exodus while I do dishes.

Those Israelites,
that ragtag crowd of slaves, they
ate roasted lamb
      with bitter herbs.
They knew 400 years of bitter treatment.
I have compassion for newly-freed slaves
      with scars cut deep into their strong backs,
       memories cut even deeper of
wet newborns silenced in the river
hearts and breasts sore from un-drunk milk,

I understand how they tripped up on trust, that their desert-thirst was bigger than their memory of the miracle of the Red Sea.

But I also understand the thundering of their-God-my-God, whom they drove to the brink of silencing forever their grumbling and complaining. I've never liked whining, even my own.

So, on this Ninth of March, I come to the Thundering Mountain, not trembling, but as a daughter—a grateful daughter, shoes off. I’m not necessarily forgetting the bitter salad of this past year, but I chose to focus instead on the feast of lamb with this list of 32 blessings. Most of these gifts would never have happened if I had been in the country and place of my choosing.

2014’s Spring

1  Meeting my beautiful niece Ariel and saying goodbye to her too, a hard gift

2     Driving through the misty flats of Delaware, the understated and under-appreciated beauty of home

3     Spur-of-the-moment meal invitations accepted by my sister

4     Dishwashers and stovetops with four burners instead of two

5     Story time at the Greenwood Public Library

6     Thrift Stores

2014’s Summer

7     Sweltering afternoons cooling off in the JAARS’ pool (James learning to swim!)

8     The surprise of working and loving the job as a JAARS Tour Guide

9   Cups of tea in the Wycliffe Counseling office and their compassionate conversations

10   Small pots made out of red North Carolina clay by Dorie, James, and their pack of neighborhood friends

11   Waxhaw Elementary School and a fantastic start to Dorie’s education

12  Stash tea, vinyl records, and deep friendship with the Sleeps

 13 Cavities missed or ignored by previous dentists, but found and filled here

14  A dozen delightful new friendships—John and Kristy Craig, to name one

2014’s Fall

15  Love shown in Orange: a table of sympathy full of orange flowers, orange lip balm & bath gel, and orange tissues on the hardest day of my year

16   A family vacation to Tennessee at the peak of the fall colors, and just when my heart needed time to gasp, to process the death of so many dreams, to gather strength, and to remember that the death of the chlorophyll is what brings out the beauty of Autumn.

17  Forever memories for Dorie and James of their GGma and GGpa (Ethan’s grandparents), a short two hour drive from our NC home

2014/2015’s Winter

18   Huddling up against the cold and enjoying Ethan’s family for two wonderful months—uncles, aunts, cousins, Omi and Opi, and lots of snow for James and Dorie to play with

19   Deepening friendships with Faith Bible Church, the Alianellos, and others

20   Meeting for a reunion with my RBC freshman-year girlfriends and our ever expanding brood—the good old days haven’t died

21   An easy transition back to Greenwood, Delaware—daily reminders of the rich community we enjoy

22   Sending Dorie to my old elementary playground, Greenwood Mennonite School

23   Saying hello to old friends—boxes and boxes of books packed away when we moved to Texas in 2011…we must claim the label ‘bibliophiles!’

24   Settling long enough to purchase a piece of furniture—a family sized bean bag!

25   Monday Game Night with my family

26   Landing a job doing exactly what I’ve wanted to do since high school—helping ESL students and their teachers

27   Reading time with Grandma Alene, a two minute walk away for James and Dorie

28   The joy of caring for elderly again: soapy washcloths, pureed food, answered bells, and wrinkled smiles

29   Attending Sewing Retreat

31.   A new job for Ethan (first day today!)

32.   Eating a Birthday Lunch with ‘the Yoder gals’ at Rondas (One of my favorite restaurants anywhere)

Here is to the changing seasons of life; to spring-green, verdant grass, Tennessee orange, and winter's white. This has been a year of change, but I'd be foolish to only grumble.

 

A Lament and A Psalm of Praise --QM

Taken on 2.10.13 by

Ananth Narayan S

Wind Chimes at Auroville

Under the instruction of Mary Oliver I've taken out a real pencil and paper several times this past week to see if some Notable Words will emerge on my notebook. I'm not much of a journaler; I like to write to an audience larger than one. Every time I wrote, however, (the dentist office, the minutes between brushed teeth and lights out, a stolen moment before work) only raw, teary words came out, the kind that might be better kept in the dark of a drawer, hidden in a diary. 
I'm going to bring one entry to the light of this blinking computer screen, with the condition that you also read the lighter notes of the second one. My life isn't all heaviness.


 A Lament: Wind-chimes

Outside my mother's house,
like tuneful broken glass,
they tinkle.
The day is cold, the house empty.
The cat meows at the closed door,
the wind pulls at my thin brocaded coat and
I can hardly hear their cheery notes.

The music in my life has been quiet this year,
minor keys.
The wind has shook out each note.
I want to play a different song,
and hear a fiddler's lilting song-and-dance.

But my favorite songs are never ditties,
twitching feet.
I like the harmonies 
that swell and 
Fall.

This season of loss, this confusing year--
Is only the wind
       the bass notes
and soon my song will richer, fuller ring.

My Children

 A Psalm of Praise: Blankets over a Table

The scraps of Sunday's dinner lie strewn over my counters--
The mess of rest.

Strainers
  Beans drying on Plates 
   White-rimed Spaghetti Pot 
      Pungent Garlic Press 
       Syrupy Peach Juice
    
 But the table is cleared,
       cleaned,
            wiped for a ROOK game, already won.
Now the little people of this house have confiscated the space.
Blankets thrown over and under,
A pillow for a secret book
a whispered reading.
The are surprised when I 'find' them, 
When I try to enter their world, I knock my head, adult-like,
on the underbelly of the table.

I'm a clumsy child, 
almost an onlooker,
but not too old to experience 
Thanksgiving at the Table.

It was Evening and it was Morning--at Sewing Retreat -QM

My namesake, Queena Kauffman. She grew up with this bunch.

It's evening now.
I hear one lone machine upstairs, humming across the blue and pink fabrics of my cousin's quilt.
My mom and aunts declared their bedtime long ago, but I hear them still, in their room, talking about their sewing projects
and their old lives
and updates about their friends in the Valley, the Lives that have moved on,
like the water in the river that flows by their childhood home.
The North River still has the same curves, the same banks.
This moment seems like an evening I've known before, a time when I listened to Sisters talking longer than my ability to stay awake.

My couch is cozy and I'm a child again, falling asleep to the rise and fall of my mother and aunt's southern accents.

It's morning now.
I wake to my mom telling me its nine and daylight's 'a wasting.

One of the photo opportunities--a quilt for my nephew.

I was sleeping during their rising but I can smell the hairspray and imagine the bustle. This is not a group that wants to start their day's sewing in pajamas and sweats. They sit at their machines with carefully combed hair, neatly arranged prayer coverings, colorful dresses, and cups of hot coffee next to their Berninas.
Scissors cut,
Machines whirl,
Women whistle quiet tunes,
Circular blades slice efficient piles,
Soon the quilts go from half-formed to
fully done.


It's breakfast now.
We read a verse, sing a song, harmonies weave
Gratitude.  
For egg casserole and fruit and family.

My Grandmother has painted all her life--in oils and on china.

The day moves on, Grandmother talks,
tells stories of Grandfather and
"You know I had nose surgery."
No, I didn't, but we laugh to think of our Grandmother trimming the size of her 'honker.'

It's nap time now.
Some of us venture out to the ocean, dragging quilts along for a photo opportunity.
A long sandy talk with my favorite cousin,
Sea shells for my children,
A break from industry. The coffee pot empties, fills, empties again.

Efficiency is so prized by these women, their speed takes my breath away.
An aunt mentions that "It is Sunday."
They put on a sermon,
Loud enough for the machines to keep humming, and
somehow
David Jeremiah's words are better remembered here, with busy hands, than if I had been in a pew.

My aunt that writes quilts: http://www.delightfulpiecing.com/

It's suppertime now.
We sing and eat and get back to work.
My Mississippi aunt designs a string quilt made of Grandfather's shirts,
The one from Dallas gets ready for bed,
The aunt who writes quilt books places fabric stars on a flannel-graph blanket,
And I enjoy the neglected hot tub.

It's evening now.
The house is dark, the machines are still.
I hear the sound of the ocean, and think of that river in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley,
and these amazing women,
those seven little girls,
working, and swimming, and growing and
Sewing
Together.

30-minute sketches, I doubt I'll ever polish them up for hanging on a wall. The oldest and youngest quilters.

I'm notorious for not finishing pictures--the colorful one is my 'finger-painting' project, to just give me a break from detail work.

Sewing a quiet seam, stiching together a new life. --QM

We have been in Greenwood, DE for two weeks now, and the sheet has been hung in a retirement cottage, just a stone's throw from the Country Rest Home. Here is a picture, for proof:

We've settled in quickly, pulled all our boxes out from the attic (James and Dorie positively squealed when reacquainted with their forgotten toys), made many short trips to see Grandma Polly and Grandma Alene, looked into possible education options for Ethan, and I was hired for a part-time position as a para-professional, working with an adult education program. What a whirl-wind of a beginning! I've been excited and thankful for this chance to be here with my family and Delaware friends, but when I have a still moment, and look inward, I feel the faint catch in my throat of disappointment. In my mind's eye I see us a few years ago, the last time we were living in Greenwood, full of purpose and certainty about what we were doing and where we were going--calling our friends and family to get excited with us. And now we are looking for work, to feed our family, to find a second car, a house, to perhaps even go back to school for something completely different.

At this point of my musings, I'd like to paste into this blog excerpts from a sewing poem. Yes, a Sewing Poem. First, a word about how I found it! Next week my mother and her sisters have their yearly sewing retreat, a week and a half long extravaganza of fabric and thread, scissors and Bernina sewing machines, mothers and daughters and granddaughters all gathered in bonds of industrious creativity. Well, I get to join them for three days! One drawback is that I have a strong dislike of sewing. So, I'm bringing my paints and sketchbook instead, and to prepare, I've been doing Google image searches relating to quilts and sewing. Tucked in a distant webpage I found this little poem that hit my heart. (Click here for the complete poem)

I Sit and Sew

By Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson

...

I sit and sew—my heart aches with desire—

That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire

On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things

Once men...

...

You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream

That beckons me—this pretty futile seam,

It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?

 
Its not that I don't enjoy Greenwood, in fact I'm thrilled to be in the ESL field, its a life-long dream. But as I read this poem, I see Alice, the poet, sitting in her home, frustrated that she isn't involved in more than just the quiet things in life. I see a temptation in myself to do the same--to chafe instead of bloom.
Dear Alice, you think Christ needs you, but he doesn't, and you don't know how he values humble service. I've determined to live as his expendable crewman, and if that means to sew at something small, I'll trust that in his hands it will become an everlasting quilt, a masterpiece to be unveiled in heaven's economy. Goodness knows I've wanted and tried to be on the front lines where "writhing grotesque things/once men" wished for rescuing. I believe though, that the greatest front line is the one in my heart, where I fight pride and selfishness, and that goes with me wherever my address.

  We shall see what sort of quilts and paintings and laughter will come from next week's sewing retreat. I believe strongly that creativity has an eternal quality, that in some way the beauty we start on here on earth will be taken up again in Heaven. I'm proud of the way my mother has given herself to her great quilting talent, and she always makes me wish I would paint more (For a glimpse of her work, visit her blog).

I found another little piece in my web-hunt, with quite a different attitude toward sewing than Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson, and I'll close with this quote from the fictional 'Aunt Jane of Kentucky' by Eliza Calvert Hall (Here's her book):

"I've been a hard worker all my life, but 'most all my work has been the kind that 'perishes with the usin',' as the Bible says. That's the discouragin' thing about a woman's work. If a woman was to see all the dishes that she had to wash before she died piled up before her in one pile, she'd lie down and die right then and there. I've always had the name o' bein' a good housekeeper, but when I'm dead and gone there ain't anybody goin' to think o' the floors I've swept, and the tables I've scrubbed, and the old clothes I've patched, and the stockin's I've darned, but when one of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren sees one o' these quilts, they'll think about Aunt Jane, and, wherever I am then, I'll know I ain't forgotten."

Here's to the small things in life, to living in Delaware, to sewing a quiet seam.