“The Greatest Glory of a Free-Born People is to Transmit That Freedom to their Children.”~~William Havard
Gospel of Grace
~from my May column in the Litchfield Connection (see Publication Clips on this website for published version). Originally published in the Best of The Litchfield Community Writers Group, 2017.
It had been one of those mornings when nothing went right, including my drive to work. My hair was a mess, traffic was congested, and, in general, life was chaotic.
While stopped at a red light, I glanced at a rundown church squeezed between two strip malls and noticed the name, Gospel of Grace Covenant Church. “Okay, God,” I dared, “show me some grace today. I certainly need something.”
When I pulled into the office parking lot, I glanced around. No grace here, I thought. The morning routine at school division headquarters droned before me.
Newly released test scores of the district had been in the morning paper, so the phones were ringing with questions about score discrepancies. Statistical analysis was the name of the game. No grace to be found as I worked the numbers, the formulaic answer to how well we’re teaching students.
With numbers dancing before me, an e-mail titled ‘Invitation’ caught my eye and I clicked to see that central office staff were invited to the stadium behind our building to participate in field day ceremonies. I didn’t know what field day it was, and didn’t expect to find any grace there, but at least some fresh morning air would be a respite from number crunching.
I joined the throng of central office personnel heading to the stadium where there was a scattering of parents in the stands, but we were the bulk of the cheerleaders. The large stadium was mostly empty.
Someone handed out rhythm sticks, pom-poms and banners. The high school drum line bounded onto the field. Something important is about to happen! the pounding cadence announced, just as the emcee roared a welcome to a parade of students entering the gates.
I leaned over to ask what field day this was and caught sight of wheelchairs in the distance, the crooked smiles of those unable to maintain facial composure, the determined steps of those who having trouble walking, and realized this was the school division’s special education field day.
Our cheers went up as school after school of students, little ones and not-so-little ones, streamed into the stadium. Our rhythm sticks pounded, our banners waved, and the parade passed by, with grins abounding.
Teachers pushed wheelchairs, held hands, cajoled the foot draggers and held up school signs announcing where their charges were from. Class after class, child after child, streamed on. Each one giving us a look that said, “Yes! We are here! We can do this!”
Oh, what grace it took. The grace of teachers giving up time, lots of time, to get ready for this day; the children themselves, working painstakingly to do whatever it would take to compete.
Yes, it was grace that streamed into that stadium amid the raucous chaos of a number-crunching school division, reminding us that achievement is more than the sum of score reports; reminding us that one teacher can make a difference; reminding us there is hope in a chaotic world.
It brought back to me the words of a chaplain who had served in the Iraq war and said that he served at “the juncture of chaos and grace.” Wherever there is a juncture, the path splits to either side—toward hope or despair, like a scale that can be tipped to one side or the other. That chaplain works to tip the scale of war toward peace and hope amidst the rubble and clutter.
Like the volunteer at our local hospital who each Sunday walks up to the nursing station and asks, “Who didn’t have any visitors this week?” and trots off down the hall, most often to the indigent ward, to pay a visit to the visit-less. A bearer of grace, tipping the scale away from loneliness.
Tippers are everywhere. Look for chaos, and you’ll find them; the ones who coax and cajole the world to a higher plane of meaning, to a more beautiful place. Yes, to a kinder, gentler, more civilized place. The teachers who put together the special education field day are tippers all.
As I headed home that night and passed the Gospel of Grace Covenant Church, my hair was still a mess, the traffic was still congested, but life in general was no longer chaotic. The balance had been tipped to the side of grace.
The Purple Carpet
I stepped out the door today and found a purple carpet next to my front step. How did this happen so fast? One minute snow, the next a purple rug.
It was so beautiful I had to get on my hands and knees to feel the lushness of the ground. As I moved my fingers, I felt the warmth of the sun on the tiny flowers. No wonder they were all facing the front of the garden like good students.
Hidden within the blaze of purple, one flower crying real tears. Holding on to earlier rain as we often do.
Uh-oh…what is this patch of white doing here, elbowing its way into purple territory? Just as pretty, but delicately different. Looks like it got into the party without an invitation. Fortunately my purple friends don’t mind the intrusion.
I tiptoed out of the garden, leaving the flowers to their sunbath. Why did I ever think purple wasn’t a good carpet color? It’s perfect.
Dish Towel Lessons
Sometimes it takes an essay to remember…
Here’s to Mother’s Day and Washing Dishes
Growing up, my assigned chore was drying dishes my mother washed. She kept up a constant training session, “Do not put wet dishes into the cupboard. I told you to dry, really dry the inside of the glasses. Stop banging the dishes, they’ll break. Get a new towel when it is wet,” and so on.
I got my professional drying license at parties that Uncle Dave and Aunt Alice hosted for our large extended family each holiday. While the rest of the family sat around the post-feast table laughing at old stories, my mother snuck away to the kitchen to wash the mounds of dishes…by herself. It made me angry that she didn’t participate in the relaxed table banter, and that no-one got up to help my mother.
I often wandered into the kitchen to ask, “Why don’t you come back for dessert?”
“Oh, this won’t take long. You don’t understand. When I came to live with Uncle Dave, he told me it was my job to do the dishes. So that’s why I do it.”
“Mom, that was years ago. You shouldn’t have to do all of Uncle Dave’s dishes now. Besides, why don’t the others help?”
“Janie, when you’re the youngest of nine children, you learn to do whatever the older kids say you have to do. This is simply my job. It’s okay. You are welcome to stay and dry.”
Most times I drifted off to find my cousins.
By junior high school, a small inner voice got louder, “Pick up a towel and help.” I thought maybe my added presence at the sink would encourage my aunts (God forbid uncles!) to join the dish-party. That didn’t happen.
What did happen was that I got to watch my mother wash Uncle Dave and Aunt Alice’s delicate pink-flowered china. She took special care of it as she kept up her training patter, this time about washing.
“Make sure you always use hot water! Rinse all dishes first. Let the pots soak for a while. Always wash in sudsy water and start with the silver; glasses are second, plates next, and then serving dishes. Save the pots for last. Rinse in hot water before setting them to dry.”
I listened to a litany of directives like Robert’s Rules of Order. I thought of them as Grace’s Ridiculous Rules for Washing Freakin’ Dishes!
After years of drying dishes with my mom, I slowly started to see the love that Mom put into that chore. I realized that it got her away from the table teasing she had to endure from her older siblings. This was her domain. Her place in the family. Far from being the low estate I thought it brought, it gave her status. She was the one who accepted family as the imperfect dynamic it is. The glistening china at the end of the meal meant all-is-well. And she was happy to collect the simple “Thanks Gracie” that she got from my aunts (God forbid uncles!).
I have been tutored by the best. And best of all, I inherited my aunt’s gorgeous pink-flowered china that I wash with the love and care that my mother taught.
Having no idea what to write this week, I thumbed through my pictures for inspiration. I did a double take on this picture I took last year while running to catch a subway under NYC. I remember stopping for a moment to listen to the beautiful music being played by this string quartet and thinking, Wow, that is a breath of fresh air down here!
I haven’t thought about this brief encounter until today when I looked closely at the picture and saw the banner hanging behind the quartet. Mmmm…they have a name: The Terra Symphony Orchestra String Quartet.
I dug around relevant websites and discovered that this NYC-based Brazilian orchestra began as a dream of violinist/violist Eliano Braze. He funded his dream through subway donations. I thought of the donation I put into the open violin case a year ago and how it, along with the many other donations dropped in the case, keeps Eliano’s dream alive.
When Eliano was a child, he lived on Brazil’s streets. Through a special project, Eliano learned to play the violin at age 10 and played with an orchestra at age 13. By 14 he was composing. In his twenties he followed love to New York, bringing his love of music with him. Now he works with his dream orchestra and continues his work under the streets of New York bringing joy to people like me.
Where does Eliano Braz get his inspiration? According to the Terra Symphony Orchestra website he is “Inspired by earth’s original symphony found in the Amazon jungle.” So while I’m combing my iPhone pictures for inspiration, he’s mining ancient history and finding funds in the bowels of the underground.
If you want inspiration, watch this (you have to scroll down to 2nd video) 5-minute documentary about Eliano Braz. By the end, I was thunderstruck by what people can accomplish through their dreams. I realize how small my dreams are compared to Eliano’s. This was a reminder that our dreams get played out in underground tunnels of life where we inspire one another in ways we’ll never know.
So what did this subway quartet teach me about writing?
- Inspiration can be found anywhere…from the Amazon jungle to the NYC subway.
- Look behind a story for the real story.
- Don’t just dream, dream big and dream beyond the boundary of your life.
Thank you Eliano for taking your music underground on the day I happened to be catching a subway.
Be Still My Beating Heart
Ribbons of Waterfalls…
I took this picture during a hike at Catawba Falls in Old Fort, North Carolina. It was a beautiful hike, preserved by a simple picture.
Simple picture led to a simple poem and essay which led to a simple submission to a lovely publication out of Warren, Minnesota: Woods Reader.
Ever since my writing partner, Amy Nicholson, had her beautiful essay, “A Place Outside of Time,” published in Woods Reader last year, I had a goal to join her as a Woods Reader writer.
I got my acceptance when I was in the hospital recovering from surgery. I threw off the covers and was ready to walk home after that e-mail. In the acceptance of my poem for their spring issue and my essay for the upcoming summer issue, they asked if I had any pictures related to my essay. One that I sent was the ribbons of waterfalls above.
Guess what? They wrote back and asked if they could use it for their spring cover. Oh, be still my beating heart. “Yes! Of course!”
Last week, I was washing dishes and my husband walked in the house with the mail. With my hands in soapy water, I turned to say hello. He held up the journal, packaged in a clear wrapper, “Look what arrived!”
“Be still my beating heart!!” I yelled as I walked away from the dish water and reached for Woods Reader, ribbons of water falling from my hands.
“Don’t you think you should dry your hands first?” my husband asked.
There it was in print….this beautiful picture reminding me of our lovely hike. Inside the journal, my poem–winner of the Woods Reader Winter and Snow Poetry Challenge. There, picture and poem, for others to appreciate. Not me…not my picture or my poem; rather the simple beauty of ribbons of waterfalls or sparse words about dancing trees and a child who dreams of sleeping on pillows of snow.
It is amazing that something tiny like a droplet of water, mixing with lots of other droplets, meanders down crevices of rock creating these beautiful falls; and that little me, a droplet meandering down the crevices of life, can create something that gets shared in this lovely publication.
Lots of writing lessons here…
- A writing buddy is a good, inspiring thing to have
- A writing goal propels you forward
- Beauty, in life and picture, enhances writing
- Getting something published…sharing writing, is incredibly satisfying.
- We have a voice through the written word or a photograph.
- Let your voice be heard!
I think it was January when I opened a WordPress account so I would have a place to share writing clips. Bit by bit I’ve added clips of articles, but ignored this blog page. Maybe it’s because I don’t like the word “blog.” It starts with that bl-blend, goes on to rhyme with fog, and disintegrates into “Blah-Blah-Blah.”
I don’t want to do words–write ones–that become a bland listing tuned out by readers. For months I’ve stood frozen over my keyboard, waiting to dive into a non-blog blog; wanting to first invent a new word.
Last Sunday was Easter. My husband and I walked Whites Woods near our home in Litchfield, CT. It was a warm, grey day–the perfect background for trailing spring from the underbrush to the canopy above. Yup! Spring is here. Finally it’s time to put fingers to keyboard and begin. I’ll let you know when I find a new word for “blog.” For now, a new beginning.