Michelangelo's inspired sculpture of the Pieta, the beautiful, poignant depiction of Mary, holding Jesus' body after the crucifixion, has much to say to us all in these difficult days.  The world unleashed all of the worst that it was capable of against her Son; He took it all, and forgave it all; it had no power to defeat His spirit, the embodiment of love.  His mother endured every ounce of pain with Him and now holds her Son, alive forever.

 For all mothers and nurturers, struggling to be strong for their families, I offer the following:

 

I don't think I can handle this,

I feel as though I'll break;

I've thrown my hands up in despair,

How much can my heart can take!

 

I'm not a superhero,

I'm a mother, hanging on,

Drawing on my fragile faith,

And trying to stay strong;

 

In the midst of this heart's struggle,

The voice of hope pushed past,

Whispering encouragement,

'Hold on, this too shall pass.'

 

'I know what you are going through,

That fear, I've known it too;

I've watched my loved one hurting,

Felt helplessness, like you;

 

Take courage, joy will follow,  

And sorrow will pass by,

For love, once born,

Will be tested and torn,

But it can never die.'

A Mother's Blessing

My prayer is in

These mother's arms

That enfold my family 'round;

My prayer is in

These tears I cry

When problems get me down;

When they press

To hold me under,

I will lift my eyes

To Thine,

And pray, with all

That I possess,

That You will hear,

And You will bless

This family of mine.

For Dad - A Father's Lullaby

With Fathers' Day approaching, I tried to put myself into the mindset of  today's young men who are trying to be strong husbands and role models for their children in the midst of so much change in society.

  I was extremely lucky to be blessed with a father who gifted me with many tender memories.   Most of those memories are happy musical ones, but one is a very poignant one:  The occasion was the celebration of life for my brother-in-law, Gary; That was the day Dad's flood gates overflowed, overpowered by waters that were just too heavy.  As I watched him trying to hide his tears, I felt such immense love for him - I wanted to tell him that men are allowed to cry, that fathers are allowed to cry; Tears act as a release valve for all of us when the flood waters of stress threaten to overwhelm us.

 I hope dad knows how much influence his tears had on me, both the ones that came from heartache and those that rolled down his cheeks as he indulged in wonderful belly laughs.

I wish all of you fathers a Happy Fathers' Day - Kleenex is optional!

When night falls hard upon your dreams,

And wakes you from your sleep,

And you contemplate the echoes,

For the meaning that runs deep;

When your ship of hope has run aground,

On fears you can't get past;

When you cry aloud for rescue,

From troubles that hold fast,

Then lay your burden down awhile,

And fill your lungs with air,

And when you take it up again,

Know that He'll be there;

A loving guide to clear away

Each rock along your stumbling way,

Who understands the load you bear,

And listens to your father's prayer;

Father help us all to heal, to  look beyond our pain,

To let go of hurt, and prejudice and to let love start again;

let us speak tender words to each other,

 And let our song somehow

Soothe the hearts of those who are crying,

For the world needs a lullaby

 Right about now.

I smiled at someone today - I smiled that smile forever.

We are never really ready to say goodbye to our loved ones -

 How do we cope with the shock that sets in when someone we care deeply about dies too early or unexpectedly?

  We go to our cupboard and pull out the warmest coat that we can find; sewn with love by a wonderful supporting group of family and friends.  That garment may be frayed at the neck and arms from being worn so often, and it may be missing a few strands of our favourite colours; but the Creator looks on it and repairs it each time a thread breaks.

  His repair kit includes our  every smile and kind gesture.   If you want to know what eternity is, look no further than your smile; The kindness in your eyes and the breadth of your smile is the most precious gift we can offer; Once it is given, it doesn't just go away, it is an irreplaceable stitch that is woven into the fabric of that coat - for eternity.

 Those who go to the cupboard can be sure of finding it there - waiting to do what only a familiar, favourite coat can do - warm our souls, wrap us in its arms tightly, and remind us that our loved one's smiles and kindnesses are part of its fabric forever.

When my heart is numb,

My mind a blur,

And I've pushed away the memories  there,

I reach into my trembling heart,

And feel a warmth come over me,

For I find that smile still shining clear.

Within that smile,

 I see those eyes,

And I hear a voice that calls to me,

"All the love I've given you

Is yours for all eternity."

Life's Relay Race

I have attended two funerals this week, each for a beautiful lady who I'm sure wondered to the end if she had run her race well; whether the love pressed into the  baton that she carried would find the hands of her loved ones, and be passed on to the next runner, and the next.  As I stared into the candle that I held at this morning's service, my thoughts were suddenly hijacked by my sixteen year old self:

As a grade eleven student, very small in stature, and clutching a miniscule piece of self-confidence, I somehow found myself in the school's track and field relay race. As I stood there, waiting for the baton to be slipped into my hand, my mind suddenly went completely blank; all of my focus was in the present - preparing to run with all that was in me.  As I tore down the track, I looked up to see my mother's face watching from the sidelines, pride and worry battling for first place in her emotions.  I don't remember finishing the race, or anything of the outcome - I just remember someone saying, "Did you see what you did?"  To this day, I don't know whether I did well, or if I totally blew it, and rather than destroying the fragile hope that I held onto,  I have avoided finding out.

We all have traumatic events in our past that have had dramatic ripple effects on our lives and our accomplishments; We too are left questioning how we have lived our lives, where we could have done better.  Rather than running our race reliving or regretting the past, let's seize the present moment, grab that baton of hope, and give life's relay race all we've got.  I know that's the advice that these two ladies would want to pass on.

At My Mother's Knee

Some memories never fade away,

And that's as it should be,

When they take me back to happy times

And quiet moments  when I'd  find

Myself at Mother's knee.

Special secrets I would share,

Secret hurts and fears,

Nothing seemed too silly there,

With soothing words and hugs to spare,

She'd wipe away my tears.

I'd place my head upon her lap

And feel her hands' caressing,

What peace I felt as I knelt there ,

 Her fingers in my tousled hair,

Receiving mother's blessing.

She'd wrap me in her mother's care,

My smile was her reward;

No one could resist her grin

And soon the giggles would begin,

Good humour was restored.

Those special moments live in me

In love they have been set,

All those lovely memories

Bring me often to my knees

I feel her softness yet.

I close my eyes and hear her voice,

So musical and mild;

No greater gift could ever be,

Than hearing my mom pray for me,

Now I pray for you, my child.

The Colour Of Sunshine

The colour of sunshine!

 This was the title of one of the pieces of music that I was listening to as I did my Tai Chi routine this morning.  I find the slow meditative pace of this exercise to be a time of deep and creative thought, and of heartfelt prayer.

Though I can't see the colour of sunshine, or the substance of prayer, I know that both have the power to lift my heart and spirit.  As the sun draws warm colours from everything it touches, and gives back life-giving food to mankind and the earth, I believe that prayer, though invisible to the human eye, is viewed as a beautiful, powerful rainbow of hope by the soul which, as it is lifted, shares its own amazing colours, adding to the brightness and warmth in the world.

The colour of sunshine

Depends on its diet;

If it drinks from the ocean,

Or a lake laying quiet,

Then it puts on bright blue,

With a sparkle of green,

And its hair sometimes gleams

With a hint of marine.

While crossing a meadow,

It bounces off flowers,

It feeds on red clover,

And sends back rose showers;

It picks up blue tips

From the bluegrass, I'm told,

And to compliment dandelions

Dons its bright gold.

The colour of prayer

Depends on its diet;

If it drinks caring thoughts

From a soul that is quiet,

Then it puts on bright blue

As it soars high above,

And returns, dressed in gold,

As it echoes God's love.

A Mother's Reflection:

My newborn slept against my breast,

And I whispered, "How beautiful."

I held him out to the world,

And it echoed, "How beautiful."

I sent him into the world,

And the world touched him

And I felt pride, and I felt fear.

He came home wounded,

And I held him against my breast,

And I whispered,  "How unfair."

Then I sent him out again,

Armed with tools that I hoped would help:

Love, faith, patience, tolerance, kindness, listening skills,

And I said to him, "Be my peacemaker."

He came back home confused and wounded,

And I said to him, "Don't despair, you are growing, and I am so proud of you,

This pain will be part of your strengthening."

And he went back into the world,

Bruised, but determined and hopeful.

Then he laughed,

And the heart of the world skipped a beat,

For he had touched the world, and it had responded,

He became aware of a unique something within that he possessed,

That was his to build, develop, and share.

He wondered aloud, "Who am I?"

And a voice answered;

He knew that voice,

It whispered, "How beautiful."

And again,

"You are mine, you are more precious

Than you can possibly imagine."

And this mother echoed in gratitude,

"How beautiful!"

My Ruby Shoes

My Ruby Shoes

Click, click, 'There's no place like home!'   There are so many clichés surrounding this one word, 'home' - that space where we feel that we belong, where we head for comfort when the pressures of life in the big world threaten to crush us, where unconditional love is generously dished out, satisfying our true hunger.

 A warm and welcoming home might not be a reality for all of us, but we all have a home that has nothing to do with our physical dwelling places, one that is located within our hearts, calling us to come in for regular meals of encouragement, to be bandaged up with a few strong hugs, to set down our load of harmful clutter.  We are all responsible for making sure that our 'home's welcome mat is dusted off and prominently displayed in our eyes and smiles; no fancy fixtures needed - just the genuine warmth of a little light.

The key is always under the mat - or tucked into the toe of a ruby shoe.  Those shoes are more than just decorative - they're a sparkling porthole that calls to each of us to follow our own unique path that leads to home - where the heart is:

My Ruby Shoes

My heart is walking,

Walking around,

In a pair of ruby shoes,

And wondering about

That clicking sound

That it cannot seem to lose.

With every step,

And every click,

It listens for a clue;

It dares not stop

Nor take them off,

Though they're leading it somewhere new.

I realize that my

Heart seems to have

A  destiny all its own,

And those clicking sounds

Are its gentle waves 

Carrying me back home.

To home,

Not a place,

But a state of mind

Where warmth and welcome meet,

Where love walks around in ruby shoes

That click with each heartbeat.

This Christmas - I Don't Want Much!

I Don't Want Much!

Christmas is not something that just happens,

It is built out of priceless gifts - our gifts to the Christ Child whose coming brought hope into the world.

Who and where are the wise ones who come to the manger today?

Take a deep look into the eyes of children when we think we have wisdom;

They have a way of unmasking us and revealing our unsure inner child.

The wisest responses are those spoken by our actions -

 A reassuring, love-filled hug is often the immediate answer that they are seeking, even if they don't realize it right away.

 They may hear our words, but  they will remember our actions, our kindnesses - no fancy wrapping needed -  there is enough beauty  in that gift.

I only want

A Christmas tree

With tiny bells that play,

And underneath, a little water

To give it life each day.

 

I only want

A song of joy,

Like tinkling bells that play,

To fill me up, like living water,

And lift my life each day.

 

I only want

A little hope

And happy bells to play,

When I get up on Christmas morning,

To ring in Christmas Day!

 

I only want

A little peace

And bells that ring and say:

"For all the world - the gift of water

For everyone each day!"

 

A  little joy, a little hope,

A little peace to help us cope,

That's water to my little tree,

The one that grows

Inside of me!

 

Christmas comes but once a year, but let's invite the Christmas Spirit to dwell in our hearts all year long, and promise to give it a top-up each December 25th.  In the meantime, let's keep building!

The Power Of A Quilt!

I know I wasn't feeling cold last night - perhaps it's the onset of Fall weather, and the promise of Winter, with all of its uncertainties, but I awoke at  3am, thinking about the multi-coloured crazy quilt that used to cover Mom & Dad's bed so many years ago.   I can remember sitting on that quilt with my sisters and playing travelling games on the beautiful landscape that we saw there; so many vibrant colours and textures - it fuelled our young imaginations!   I began wondering who had stitched that quilt - where all of the patches had originated - what clothing had been transformed.   As I wrapped myself in that warm memory, my older imagination kicked in and, lost in contemplation, I wrote the following poem:

My Crazy Quilt

Memories fade, and friends move on,

But in my heart they're bound;

I've pulled them into my crazy quilt

And stitched them all around.

I've pricked my finger many times,

But I soon forget the pain,

For my crazy quilt is a wondrous quilt,

That can never be made again.

I pull it 'round me every night

And I feel the love that's there,

All stitched up in my crazy quilt,

Each friend, a colour rare.

I've  travelled tracks, this way and that,

All up and down my life,

Those crooked stitches, funny patches,

Daughter, mother, wife.

My fingers trace the criss-cross path

That joins each memory,

And I wonder at the landscape fair

That my life has come to be.

As I live each day, I'll find a way

To gather patches new,

I'll pull them into my crazy quilt,

And I'll stitch them carefully too.

When the world seems scary, dark and dim,

I won't despair or moan,

For I'll feel the warmth of my crazy quilt,

And know I'm not alone.

Digging Out My Wings!

Digging out my Wings!

'Angels Watching Over Me' - I pulled out Amy Grant's CD this morning, and was listening to it as I went about cleaning the dishes, and thinking about cleaning the rest of the house.  Here I am, an hour later,  still thinking about it  - the song and the cleaning!  The whole subject of angels walks the fine line between hope and skepticism.  A very wise and beautiful aunt recently sent me a card telling me that she has become more aware of her own guardian angel watching over her and inspiring her with encouragement, wisdom, and an awareness of God's loving protection as she struggles with the challenges both physically and intellectually of her aging body.  She sent the message to encourage me and mine to not give up hope - to know that we are each much loved and worth so much more than our human minds can fathom. 

Rather than making ourselves and others sick with gloom and doom thoughts, worries about loved ones or about  the sorry state of the world, I have been reminded, once again, to pull up my attitude.   We are not alone, and we are really not in charge, no matter how many gurus give us the opposite message.   Rather, we are precious children all, big and small,  short and tall, and we all need help when we stumble and fall. 

Whether you believe in angels or not, the truth is that without hope, this life has no meaning, so we should welcome its messengers, whatever form they take:  angels, friends, or strangers with kind smiles and actions, who carry it with them and pass it on to us.

I usually grope, eyes half open, towards that first cup of coffee to start my engine each morning - Perhaps I should be reaching first for the hands of my Guardian Angel - hands that have been given a very busy task list, watching over me!   In gratitude, there is no reason that I can't put on my own small wings of hope and lighten someone else's journey today. 

 Pass it on - halos are optional!

The Skeptics' Dilemma

The Skeptics' Dilemma

 

Skeptics come, and skeptics go,

Their mantra being, "It 'ain't so!"

But deep within their hearts they know

That doubt alone is not enough,

That they are made of sacred stuff,

So, on they search for what rings true.

 

Truth is silent, so to speak,

If what is 'so' is what they seek,

Their minds must then in silence meek,

Submit themselves to spiritual realm,

And wrestle God who holds the helm,

And calms the storms that we create.

 

Drop anchor in this sea of doubt,

When our ship of life gets tossed about,

And our spirits writhe and scream and shout;

The rock of faith that lies below

Will aid the seekers of the 'so',

Will hold us firm, and calm our sea.

 

And so, it goes, in our to's and fro's,

In our hope-filled highs, and our let-down lows,

In bursts of light and in dark shadows;

Doubts abound; we're bound to have them,

Searching waters we can't fathom,

We lose our grip on our preciousness.

 

We all are seekers of the 'so',

Searching for the deeper flow,

Hoping that someday we'll know.

Perhaps it's not so complicated,

Doubt is highly overrated,

Truth and love are 'so' related,

Then so be it, for it is so.

Merry Christmas!

Nan, I love you - You're the best!

This whole 'rant' began to take form after my recent 3 a.m. TV viewing of 'It's a Wonderful Life'.  Through my bleary eyes, I watched and blubbered as the message of the tremendous ripples created by every life, unfolded and enfolded me:

I have two notes that I carry in my pocket;  one is a list with my children's names on it, the other is a little note from one of my granddaughters that reads, 'Nan, your the best'.  There is no greater compliment and nothing that warms the heart and says thank-you like those simple words - Honest words of love that come straight from an innocent heart.

 When I think that I have screwed up and wasted my time - that the efforts that I have made to try and contribute something positive to the world have been small and insignificant, I put my hand into my pocket and feel the love that emanates from those two well-worn notes, and I am reminded of what our bottom line in life should always be: growing love, in whatever directions our lives takes us.

The Advent calendar is running out, together with those yummy daily chocolates!  May I suggest that we make up a special 'pocket box' for the remainder of the season: In the days left before the celebration of the birth of Christ, let us place notes in His 'pocket' - notes that say, 'I love you - You're the best!'  and sign our names to them.  On Christmas morning, we can be sure that He will reach into His pocket, and feel those notes - notes well-worn by the love of His hands, as he has taken them out and read them every day - Better than chocolate!

 

Merry Christmas!

Little Building

 

When you die, "You can only take with you that which you give away."  This quote from the Catholic saint, St. Lawrence, popped into my head this week and gave me pause to reflect.  It seemed to strike a stronger chord as recent life events have taken loved ones from us, some prematurely, some beautifully fulfilled, and others violently. Giving takes courage; It is not always easy to put our loving intentions out there, and to risk being rejected by another - 'Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.' - or of being fed on by another.  It is much easier to put money into a donation box and then disappear into anonymity than to challenge our fears and commit to a face to face interaction with a fellow traveller in this life, who has fallen on hard times.

If I only have a little

But, I offer you a little

Of my little, then it’s bigger by one.

If we each take a little

Of the little that we have,

And share it with another who has none,

We would each have a little,

And that little would get bigger

Each time that it helps someone,

And little by little, we would all grow bigger,

Till our little building work is done.

 

The above poem that I wrote is entitled, 'Little Building' - one of a group of poems that will eventually make up my fourth children's book, "How To Patch A Puddle" .

Life is lived in little moments:  What a long, love-filled life this would be If we gave until we had nothing left to give, for the giver always receives something back in return.   I am not talking about material giving - that is certainly valuable, but it is not the best of what we have to offer;  Our most valuable resources are contained within our individual, private treasure chests - chests that hold our smiles, our kind words, our encouragement, the gifts of our precious moments. These are resources that we have in abundance and that have the potential to give us all a return of the true wealth that comes from building understanding and hope. 

 The instruction manual for opening that 'hope chest' reads:

1.  Click on the 'Courage' icon.

2.  Smile!

3.  Encourage others.

Best Before Date:  NOW!

 

You are the only 'you' there will ever be:

May you give as long as you live, and may love be in all of your giving,

May you feel great joy in your living, joy that will grow with each giving;

Don't  dwell on the size of the gift, just one little smile aids forgiving,

And may your bags weigh a great loving ton,

When your 'little building' work is done!

Counting To Ten!

 

So, there I was, holding up a bank this morning - ?

Actually, what I was holding up was a repository - of countless prayers, my mother's prayers, as I picked up her rosary this morning.  Prayer beads have been used in many religions for centuries - the word being derived from the old English noun 'bede' meaning prayer, and while there is no power in the beads themselves, they can be a valuable tool in meditative prayer.  It is what the beads absorbed from my mom's hands that gave them their value - the warmth of her love and simple faith as she hung onto those beads and poured her heart out.  Holding onto the rosary was like holding onto a lifeline for mom - a rope of beads strung together in groups of ten that helped to keep her life in order - counting to ten can be not only a mom's powerful threat, but also her private salvation.

Her prayer beads were an instrument  that she had learned to play very well.  I can remember her taking out her rosary, closing her eyes, and softly beginning to pray as soon as she heard of someone in the family needing help.  If you were present, you automatically added your voice, your prayer, your 'bede' to her sincere faith-filled ones.

 She could be depended on to hang that rosary out on the clothesline for each wedding or special outdoors event; an outward sign and challenge to the weatherman to dare defy the work that she put into making sure that the beads were fully charged with fresh prayers.  And although we inwardly smiled and joked about this, I can't remember a time that her challenge was met with anything more than a few sprinkles of rain - not all of the drops had gotten the memo! 

 Perhaps it is the same way with other mementos that our loved ones have worn or used countless times - we hold on, with respect, to favourite pieces of clothing or jewellery, dishes or cups, but what is special about a mother's instrument of prayer, whether it is a well-worn rosary, a set of knitting needles, or a daily journal, is that it has been a confidant, sharing her innermost struggles, hopes, fears, and a whole pile of her concentrated love.  So, I will continue to pick up those beads as I pray for all who are in my heart;  

Don't make me count to ten - because I will!  That's not a threat - It's a promise!

This Old House

This Old House

 

"This old house once knew my children
This old house once knew my wife
This old house was home and shelter as we fought the storms of life
This old house once rang with laughter
This old house heard many shouts
Now she trembles in the darkness when the lightnin' walks about"

                                                ...Stuart Hamblen, 1954

 

These nostalgic lyrics have been going around in my head for a long time now, and have become more poignant with the recent sale of our family home on the Rideau River.  It is the inevitable decision that more and more of us boomers are having to make: Our old house had certainly held on as long as it could, thanks to the heroic efforts of my sister and brother, and as it packed its bags to say goodbye, it delayed its departure for more year to give our family time to pick out some mementos and take a few more looks at the beautiful view down the river.  

Memories come flooding back of games of hide-and-seek out of doors until it was too dark to see anymore; of late night swims in the heat of summer to cool us off so we could sleep, of endless sing-a-longs and parties and sharing; of heading to the garden with Dad - a slice of bread in hand for a fresh green onion sandwich, of walks down the road to the one-room schoolhouse, to Rideau Valley Inn, Margaret Kelly's raspberry patch, and to all of the childhood haunts that remain engraved in my heart.

If houses absorb spirits, then that old house was certainly spirit filled.  It was the great Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy secret keeper, guardian of the many whispers of untold prayers from Mom & Dad and all  of us children alike, and the forbearing audience for all of our crazy antics and play acting.  I'm sure it must have closed its eyes and grimaced as it silently endured the graffiti and the countless blows that we kids in our exuberance, inflicted on its walls and  floors. 

As I reflect on all of the love that is our parents legacy, and of the house that contained so much of it, I am reminded of Aunt Mamie's words of wisdom: "Make beautiful memories" - They form a foundation that will last forever - like the one that held up our old house.

A Great Big Warm 'Boot To The Head'!

A Great Big Warm ‘Boot To The Head’!

We could all use one, every once in awhile!  Listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter singing ‘Grow Old Along With Me’ and along came that big fuzzy boot – knocking me on the side of the head and giving my heart a good kick in the process.   It’s amazing what music can do: jolt you back to exact times and places, and bring the people that you love into sharper focus.  My memory, not great at the best of times, (and don’t get me started on names!) is somehow given turbo boost when music is playing.  So many beautiful lives and events come in and out of focus, like precious flowering herbs – balms that have been there to feed and heal my life.

As we get further from our starting point, the map becomes very complicated – and in my case, fuzzy - and we forget where we started out, where we stood when that seed of love was planted in us, encasing a child’s hopeful faith that everything would be bright and beautiful.  It was planted in each of us, and left in our care to nurture and protect – and to fall absolutely in love with.

Lately, my mind is pulling on its own boots, kicking up a fuss and telling me that I’d better add some colour to this grey matter - fast!  Just when I think I have figured out some of the big issues, my spirit gives a big sigh, picks up one of those boots and whack!  ‘Sorry, you have landed on a snake and have to go back and try again to figure life out.’  So, I pick up my humility card and start out afresh with my little bag of hope in tow, picking up new perspectives, new colours for my garden.

That original plant is still calling out as well and patiently waiting for me to stop covering my head, and to notice the ‘with love’ salutations that accompany the boots.

‘Don’t worry about those weeds’, it is saying – ‘just pour on the nourishment!’

Though the road may bring twists, turns, sorrows and challenges, love, wearing its great big fuzzy boots, is ready to take on all challengers.  

“Don’t be afraid of the odd kick, and don’t worry – I am custom-sized just for you – Stay with me - ‘The best is yet to be’.”