Now you are four

Beauty is a heart that generates love.

Thich Nhat Hanh 

The Princess has taken to singing. 

Just the other night I stopped my frazzled attempts to clean the kitchen to give pause and listen to our daughter's tiny "Jesus Loves Me" as she quietly lay in bed awaiting sleep. The purity of the moment, her sincerity, humbled me anew. A glimpse of beauty. A glimpse of grace.

Another day she stretched her lean body in my arms as we all sat together, a solemnity on my heart as I read the beautiful book 14 Cows for America, remembering September 11th and describing that terrible day to the innocents around our kitchen table. And she began to sing. From her mouth, the Prayer of St. Francis, "O Lord make me an instrument of your peace..." A light in the darkness. A glimpse of God.

Our little light turned four last Saturday. An intimate gathering of family and friends came together at my mother's home to mark the day. She was near giddy with excitement and could not help lingering near the gifts, gingerly brushing aside the pieces of colored tissue paper, hoping to catch a glimpse at the hidden contents, giggling when gently reminded that she needed a bit more patience.

You are lovely Lucia Ethiopia Kebedech, chosen and special, carved into the palms of God's hands. Happy Birthday to you!

Our traditional Ethiopian clothes.

Her favorite...chocolate cake

Idle and blessed

What was it, I wondered, this seemingly unidentifiable flying creature? A giant butterfly? A moth? And then with a closer look, I realized in amazement that what I was watching gathering nectar from our flowering hostas was a hummingbird. I was awestruck. Really. In my forty years, I had never seen a hummingbird, it's vigorous flapping wings, it's long, thin beak seeking nourishment. Somehow that seems like a tragedy. 

School started for Thomas, Russell, and Elliot just over a week ago. And in the flurry of Thomas's and my challah baking and beeswax candle making (which was surprisingly easy), today's cooler temperatures and vibrant sunshine afforded the tinies the opportunity to take advantage of their day and throw an impromptu "tea" party. (It was milk. And no, I didn't realize that the milk had escaped from the fridge and was sitting on the front porch.) They were thrilled, and since they were not fighting and were enjoying themselves, so was I.

In order to further relish in the milder temperatures, tomorrow has been declared "field trip Friday." Our plan is to drop off our church's grocery offerings to a local food pantry; venture to the grocery store for some red carnations and probably some doughnuts; stop at one of my favorite places, the Riverside cemetery, and light one of the said candles, say some prayers, and leave our flowers; then journey to Blackhawk State Park for some exploring. "Are you happy?" Russell still likes to ask. Yes, Russell, happy and blessed. 

Peaceful weekend to you all.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? 

Live this day

I stretch my arm through the steel bars of his hospital bed and draw his hand out from the plaid blanket covering his increasingly emaciated body. With his consent, I wrap my fingers around his taut skinned and bony hand and begin to weave a story, a story of a life unknown to me. His eyes so often closed are open on this day, bright yet glassy, eyes which are seemingly searching the contents of my face for some sort of recognition. To my questions, he offers snippets after moments of silence. Is this futile? I wonder. Does remembering provoke pain? What is the truth? You whose diseased mind has dispossessed you of your memories, the date you were born, your mother's name, how you met your wife, even your children, whose smiling images sit posed upon your nightstand. Did you actually play the violin? Or have a brother named Al? Were you in the army? It is sobering and disconcerting how few clues to your life surround me in that space. Perhaps one day, when I have read your obituary, there will be answers to the questions riddling my mind. But at this moment, answers are not what matter, for together we sit, the hand of your habitual Sunday stranger clasped in your own, listening to Beethoven, Smetna, Dorsey, reading Berry, Oliver, and the poetry of the psalmists. I kiss your forehead before I leave and pray, and I recognize the bitterness under my lips, that of a body moving from life to death.

Then to you, beautiful boy just turned nine, crack your knuckles, wear those white t-shirts, spit profusely, sing with gusto, rock 'em "Gangnam style," cling to your blanket and Baby Owen, and by all means request to crawl up into the lap of your mother. May God grant to you a long and prosperous life. While, God willing, I will not be at your side as you lay dying, I pray that someone will sit quietly with you, holding your hand, whispering that you are loved. May you live, darling son, truly live, and grow to be full of courage, and wisdom, remembering that it is the poor who are blessed, the gentle ones who will inherit the earth, the peacemakers who will be God's children, the merciful who will be shown mercy, the pure in heart who will see God.