An Ash Wednesday God Moment…

Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. It is a time of sacrifice and a time to remind us of the sacrifice of Our Lord. This year, Lent began on February 17.

My Dad had a stroke in early January. This COVID-time is no time for medical emergencies. Mom and my sisters had to leave Dad in the ER, and that was a heartbreak. He was in the hospital for 10 days, and was given up on by the hospital staff. This is no disrespect for that staff. God knows, they have been overburdened, under-respected, and under-supported. He came home on Hospice, and has been cared for by my sisters and Mom.

Meanwhile, I was counting time, until I could be COVID-vaccinated and go up to Wisconsin to help out. Once I received my second jab, I packed dog, cat, all the heavy clothing I owned, food from the fridge, and leapt in my car to get ahead of bad weather. I was driving north from North Carolina to Wisconsin. Who does that in the dead of winter, with record low temperatures?

And I did get ahead of bad weather, though I had snow flurries all the way through Virginia and West Virginia. I was only frightened once, and that was when I looked at the temperature on my gauges. It was 5 degrees F.

My second day of driving, intended to be only six hours, began at 6 AM. The ETA for a second hotel was 12:30 PM. Wow. That was way too early to stop for the night, with only 5 more hours until my destination. So, I drove on. Gratefully, I was definitely ahead of the weather. It was Ash Wednesday. I was on road. I was not going to receive ashes or the blessing that went with them.

Out of Rockford, Illinois, I made my last stop for gas, enough to get me “home.” I wish I had a picture, but I will try to paint a word one. So imagine cars that are salt spattered and a Road Ranger gas stop, right off the Illinois Toll Road. I pull into the pumps. I pull the gas lever, and get out of the car. I do all that’s involved to begin pumping gasoline into my car, and look up. There at the pump before me, I see a tall person in a long, ankle-length black skirt, rather large black shoes, black beanie, and puffer jacket. On this person’s forehead, I see the cross of ashes. I think. Then, I say, “Father?”

The person looks up. I say, “Father, I’m traveling. Can you give me an Ash Wednesday blessing?” He looks at me, and he blesses me, with no words.

I finished my transaction, parked and went inside for the restroom. I pottied my little dog, Hattie, and went on my way.

What are the odds? How many times have you seen a cassock-ed priest at a gas pump? On a holy day? Or even in public, for that matter?

It was out of character for me to even speak, much less ask for a blessing. But I wanted that blessing. I needed that blessing. I treasure that blessing. It was, for sure, a God moment.

A Few of my Favorite Things…

There are some very simple things that really bring me great joy, and I was listing them in my mind as I walked around the track today.  The Sound of Music is one of my favorite movies, and I know almost all of the songs by heart.  I used to listen to the soundtrack on reel-to-reel tapes on a tape deck that my step-dad brought back from Okinawa when he returned from one of his tours back in the 60’s.  I can belt out almost word-for-word every lyric.  I sound really good…to myself, by the way.

So favorite things… I just really love fresh, crisp, clean sheets, and a freshly made bed.  Sunday nights are glorious for me, because that is when I change my sheets.  I wear fresh jammies, and turn on my fan, and crawl in and scrunch up.

The Carolina blue of the Wisconsin sky on a breezy, dry day is a perfect joy.  I have lain in the grass and looked up through the trees.  I have lain in the bed of a pickup and felt thrilled.

I can’t even tell you how laughing with my sisters makes me feel…or the hug of a brother.  Hoo-boy.

When I open Yahoo, and see that I have an email from my beasties, my heart races.  I know I will feel the pull of friendship, and am grateful that I have been blessed with these beautiful women in my life.

I love the way my little dog, Hattie, will lie on my chest when we take a nap together on the sofa after lunch.  And I really love a nap, too.  When Beedle Ray Weedleman (boy cat, extraordinaire) joins us, I am in heaven.

I find joy in a red or yellow autumn leaf.  I can hardly step over a perfectly colored leaf.  I pick them up, take them home, and put them on my kitchen table until they curl up, and I have to throw them away.  I found a craft of making a bowl from leaves that I am going to try, just to make them last a little longer.

I love the smell of crayons, and I can’t help it.  Sometimes I believe that’s why I taught first grade for so long…so that I could smell Crayolas and arrange them by hue.

Freshly cut grass and new-mown hay are pretty special.  The look and the smell of the lawn send me back in time.  I also have a good bit of house-pride, so that attributes to my joy.

And bluebirds.  Seeing bluebirds makes me really happy.

Yep, it really doesn’t take much.  I’m a pretty cheap date. And now, I have the earworm of Julie Andrews, who I sound so much like in my own mind, and I must belt it out, My Favorite Things.  I wish you could hear me.

Friendship, Friendship, Such Perfect Friendships…

I’ve been thinking about friendships a lot lately.  Four times in my grown-up life, I have had to start all over.  That means starting by not knowing another soul of my peer group, and coming into groups of people who already had established relationships.  Four times I have put myself “out there.”  Four times I have had to leave my comfort zone, and contrary to my introverted personality, I have had to put on a happy face, stick out my hand, and hope that others would draw me into their circles.

It has been worth every single shaky social situation.  I have incredible friends, and I wouldn’t trade a single one, near or far, longtime or new, for comfort, an easy life, or security.

So, let’s go back.  My oldest friends, with whom I am still in contact, are two of my high school friends.  I love those two women who are very different, and who have picked up our friendships whenever I have re-entered their lives, embraced me for myself, and lifted me up from the depths more than once. There is my lake friend, who was my soul-sister from afar, is now much nearer, and whose generous heart pulls those she loves close and never let’s go.  I have my teaching friends who walked with me as I grew professionally, supported me, and held my hand as my marriage fell apart, and continue to rejoice with me as our lives progress.  There is my Australian daughter/sister/friend, who gives me encouragement and endless “onyas” because that is just the way she is.  And, last but never least, of course, there are my three sisters who were little girls when I entered adulthood, caught me as I free-fell into an abyss, and then danced around me as I climbed out of the hole.

That leads me to my new friends.  Making friends takes time.  People have busy-ness going on.  They have their nuclear families and their extended families.  They have long existing friendships.  Yet, my new peeps have opened their hearts to me and overlooked my social flaws.  They have brought me into their circles, and taught me their ways.

During these times of national division, let us all remember that friendship is everything.  We aren’t meant to walk alone.  We are meant for friendships.  Cherish yours.  Personally, I don’t want to even live without mine.  Ever.

Blue, the Color, not the Mood…

When the snow covers the rolling fields and hills of southern Wisconsin, at two times of day the world looks BLUE.  It is amazing.  The blue is a soft, light navy-ish purple.  Though I try to capture this color in a photo, because I don’t have the words, it needs to be seen in person.

I have a hard time pinning down a favorite color, and if asked, I would answer that mine is red, not blue, but blue takes a very close second place. The blues that I am attracted to are sometimes vivid, and sometimes subtle.  The two-blue-times of day are more subtle.

It is hard to have “subtle” on a sunny day when the snow covers rural Wisconsin, though. Then, the blinding light hurts our blue Norwegian eyes.  I say “our” with tongue-in-cheek.  If you know me, you know that my complexion is more Mediterranean than Scandinavian, but I do have those eyes.

Yesterday was a photographer’s dream day.  Everything looked sharp and focused.  As is typical for me, I did not have my phone, and couldn’t capture the blinding blue of the sky, which I would call Carolina Blue, the blue to which I return tomorrow.

Vivid or subtle, I can see why blue is often used to describe the moods of longing and need.  Next time I get my Wisconsin fix, it will be summer. That season brings a whole new pallet of blues, the color.

For right now, I struggle a bit with blue, the mood. Hoo-boy.

Snow Driving…

I grew up in Indiana, and learned to drive in the snow.  I don’t remember ever being concerned about it.  Then I moved to eastern North Carolina, where it snowed three times in the ensuing twelve years.  No big deal then, either.

I moved back to Indiana for six years, three of them the worst blizzardy winters on the books up to that time.  Still, when I ended up in a ditch one Christmas Eve, a neighbor-farmer just pulled me out with his tractor, and I was on my way…too much to do to linger with negative or fearful thoughts.

My next thirty years were spent in the Arizona desert, with again, only three big snows, total.  Each of those was a thrill!  And the term “big” is relative to Arizona snows.

Back to North Carolina, this time the piedmont area, closer to the mountains, but not actually in them.  We have had snow, and in significant amounts the last two winters, but I just didn’t drive.  I didn’t need to, because I can walk just about anywhere I really need to until the snow melts in just a few days.

I give all this history, because for the last three Christmases, I have been in Wisconsin, where we all know, the winters can be frightful.  The first year, I didn’t drive.  The second year, there wasn’t any snow until the end of my visit, and I didn’t drive.  This year…no snow for Christmas, but the last two days it snowed, and then sleeted.  I drove the whole mile to the folks’, and then watched as the world turned white and crusty.

In the late afternoon, with the folks’ vote of confidence, I drove to my sister’s where I sleep just before dusk with firm instructions about braking, going slow, and calling when I arrived.  At the blazing speed of 15 mph, give or take, I made it safely. Then came this morning, snow blowing, I drove again, over to the folks’ to return a car and to ride with Dad to his dentist appointment.

After saying a Hail Mary for feet on the ground and tires on the road, I crept in four stages.  Back out of garage, three point turn, end of drive, stage one, thank you Jesus.  Stop sign at Tolles Road and County Road M, stage two, breathe.  Left turn on M, to Wilder Road, turn right.  Stage three completed, safe and sound, but not feeling cocky.  Left turn into the driveway, exhale, stage four, and it was touchdown.  Another Hail Mary of thanks.

Courageous or Stupid?  It depends on the outcome, I guess.  This time I am going  with brave. It feels right.

 

Sounds of silence…

They are surprisingly deafening. We have had one of those snows that leave the world in silence, except for the crack of tree limbs breaking off and crashing to the coated ground.

In the midst of this, I have just finished reading a beautiful début novel by Rita Leganski called The Silence of Bonaventure Arrow. Bonaventure Arrow’s birth is marked with the lack of a cry. He is a young boy who cannot make a sound. Counterbalancing this phenomenon is the gift of extraordinary hearing. He can hear people’s feelings, the sounds of colors, the creating of the universe.

The character development of Bonaventure, his mother, his two grandmothers, his dead father, a man referred to as The Wander, and a mystical woman named Trinidad Prefontaine pulls the reader into a world of secrets, silence and sounds, and the mystery of his father’s murder. Did I mention that the protagonist is only seven years old?

Set in the area of New Orleans, in the 1950’s, it is a beyond beautiful story, magically developed, and descriptively written. I hope Leganski writes more. She has the gift.

It was the perfect read for a snowbound time, in a world muffled by heavy snow and…what else? Silence.

A moonlight walk in the snow…

Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?  Actually, it was pretty spiritual.  The moon was the shape of an egg.  I don’t see that very often.  Somehow, it had passed full, and gone to Gibbous before I knew it, and I like to keep up with that sort of thing.

I was walking to early morning Mass, and the reflection of the moonlight on the remaining snow was just too much to take in.  One branch of my family would say, “Too much for Helmer,” but that is an inside expression, and wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else.   Still, that is what I thought.  “It’s too much for Helmer.”

The stark twigs of the trees popped against the bright light of the moon, and I found myself feeling supremely grateful for so many things…being able to walk mostly wherever I want to go, this little life of mine that I am making, my faith, my surroundings, my loved ones, and my friends old and new, near and far.

Romance certainly has peculiar ways of showing itself, and it doesn’t actually have to involve, well, romance.

Snowbound, Southern-style…

In three hours, the ground is completely covered with snow.  The only things that stick above the white are the dead mum and coneflower stalks left from last summer.  It is kind of incredible.  Of course, I am prepared.  Very prepared.  I have the obligatory bread, milk, and toilet paper.  I have coffee, dog food, and hairspray.  I even have…wait for it…wine.

Several schools closed last night, before the snow began.  My little school, up the hill, held classes until 11:30 AM, in anticipation.  The students and teachers, I am sure,  all have arrived home before the flurries.  I have big plans…blog, check; letter writing, check; nap, check, check, and check.

Naturally, I am not even snowbound, yet.  I could actually go somewhere if I wanted or needed to do so, if not driving, at least on foot.  I am not going anywhere, however.  I am hunkered in.

Tomorrow it’s bread baking, and maybe even a jigsaw puzzle.  That’s the way we do it here in the south.

Home for the holidays…

“There’s no place like home for the holidays, ” as the song goes. That’s for sure. I am fortunate beyond belief. I have “home” in three different states. Wherever I have family is home to me, so when one of my sisters was coming down to NC for her annual December visit, and she said, “Why don’t you come back with me for Christmas,” I was on it.

It is fourteen degrees this morning in Wisconsin. A fresh few inches of snow greets me. It IS beautiful. I fear for my bones, though. I’m not sure if I have mentioned it before, but I am not the firmest on my feet. One of the many benefits of my yoga practice is improvement in balance, but I’m not sure that’s going to help on snow and ice.

I am spending the first Christmas since 1980 with my dad and ’em, as we say down south. Having lived in the milder winter climates of Arizona and North Carolina for the past thirty-something years, I am not prepared for this weather, even though I did bring my Cuddl Duds. My sisters are supplying me with wool socks and sweaters, heavy jeans and jackets; but they drew the line at loaning underwear. As if…

My bones and body many not be warm enough, but my heart will be. God is good. I am home for the holidays, I am definitely having a white Christmas, and the baby Jesus is born December 25, no matter where I am.

My mother’s arms are around me…

One of my most precious final memories of my mother was me crawling into her hospital bed next to her.  She put her arms around me, and I put my head against her breast and sobbed.  I knew that very shortly, there would be no Mother to hold me, comfort me, and love me.

So today it began to snow, at first flurries, and then later big wet flakes.  It was cold, and I dressed in sweats, boots, a big warm jacket, and took my pup out for her “constitutional.”  I felt warm and joyful.  The street was pristine, and only our footprints shown in the reflective streetlight.  I realized that every item of clothing I was wearing was once my mother’s. 

My sister had bought the jacket I was wearing.  She told me she wanted our mother to be warm, and she knew that I could wear it, and be warm.  I had bought the boots for Mom, for the same reason.  The sweats, well everyone knows sweats are the ultimate comfort wear.  Who knows who bought them, but who cares?

My mother’s arms are around me tonight.  The snow still falls.  The footprints left by me and my pup have been filled in by the freshly falling snow, and tomorrow it will be a BIG NEW DAY.