Beautiful Hands

I have ugly hands. I was waiting in the car the other day, looking at them and noticed the raggedy cuticles, the scraggly edges of my fingernails, the redness of my knuckles and the overall roughness of my hands. "Wow, I could really use a manicure!" I thought to myself. But as I mulled it over, I realized what a hopeless cause it is. I am really hard on my hands. I garden without gloves, wash dishes in scalding water without gloves, strip furniture, do craft projects, lift heavy loads of books at work, repair materials with harsh chemicals and glues, all without gloves. Not to even mention all the times in a day I wash my hands while cooking, cleaning, changing diapers, taking care of pets, children, and household. Yes, a manicure would last unchipped for about, oh, maybe fifteen minutes. And you know what? I don't care if my hands are raggedy, scraggly, red or rough! (Poor El Guapo!) And here's why:

This will make me sound like I am eighty-seven years old, but I used the McGuffey's Eclectic Readers as one of my main literature books in primary school. For those of you not familiar with McGuffey's Readers, they are what hundreds of thousands (if not millions!) of Americans grew up reading in school since the 1800's. They are aptly called "Eclectic Readers" because they contain a whole host of reading samples from poetry to expository selections on animals and natural history to stories and fables with moral lessons. A little selection in McGuffey's Third Eclectic Reader is called "Beautiful Hands." I must have been about ten or eleven when I read it, but it has stuck with me ever since. In the conversation that is the story, Daisy walks home with her teacher and comments on the course-looking hands of classmate Mary. But Miss Roberts tells Daisy that Mary's hands are the prettiest in the whole class. Miss Roberts goes on to explain that Mary's hands are rough because of all the hard work she does around her house and lists all of the grueling chores that women and girls performed in the late 1800's. And besides work, Mary's hands are used to be kind to her younger siblings and those less fortunate. Miss Roberts goes on to say that, "They are full of good deeds to every living thing. I have seen them patting the tired horse and the lame dog in the street. They are always ready to help those who need help." But my favorite lines are the last two. After Daisy hears of Mary's many good works, she feels remorse at having said that Mary's hands are ugly. Her wise teacher instructs, "Then, my dear, show your sorrow by deeds of kindness. The good alone are really beautiful."

I remember reading that story for the first time, and purposing in my young heart that I wanted to have the kind of beautiful hands that are set about meaningful work. This is not to say that caring for oneself or even having nice, manicured hands is a bad thing. For me, though, my hands are a visual reminder of what is truly important. That the outward appearances are much less important than the inward spirit and attitude. So if it takes having ugly hands to remind me that setting about kindness and goodness in my daily life is my goal, than I will keep them as they are and be content.

Often our bodies show the stories of our lives. Sometimes we reveal poor habits or unhealthy living. Other times we hint at our obsession with the superficial and the temporal. We can reveal if we have a low opinion of ourselves or too high of one, if we are modest or proud, if we are scared or confident. When you see people who bear the scars of hard work or hard knocks or hard living, how do you judge them? Think of the etched face of Mother Teresa. She was no beauty by earthly standards, but the lines on her face, the stoop in her walk, the cracks in her hands were testaments to the principles by which she lived her life. I think of One whose body most showed the way He lived His life -- all the way to His death on the cross. Jesus bears the scars of sacrificial love. I am so not even close to living out my love that way. But I'd like to move in that direction more and more every day.

Lastly, I have thought about this little story many times over the years. It has literally been woven into the very fabric of who I am and has impacted how I see the world and others. And it was this last time reflecting on it that something new was driven home. Oh, how the little things can impact who we become. What are my kids filling their minds with? How will those things shape who they become, how they see others, how they view world? What careless words do I say that will burn into their brains? What do we value enough to impart? What are they being "fed" each day to help them grow? So excuse me now. I have to go attend to Bear and Bug -- and turn off Sponge Bob!

Walking on Broken Glass

I often listen to the pastor from Moody Memorial Church on a local radio station. After I have gotten El Guapo and Bean out the door to work and school, dropped off Bear at preschool and am ready for a strong cup of coffee and some breakfast, Erwin Lutzer comes on. My favorite breakfast is eggs, and it's funny that even if I hear him at some other time of day, I suddenly will get a hankering for eggs as soon as I hear his voice. We have spent that many mornings together! He has a distinctive voice that El Guapo is not very fond of, but I have come to find such a sweet familiarity there, it is like sitting down with a beloved friend over coffee each morning and getting eloquent and humble teaching.

A few weeks ago he spoke about Paul admonishing us to walk circumspectly and to illustrate what this looks like, he gave the following word picture. When he took a trip to Africa, he noticed that most houses and buildings had high solid fences around them. To offer further security, bottles and glass had been broken and then embedded in the top of the concrete to discourage people from climbing over.

He then vividly recalled seeing a cat walking across the top of one of those walls. As it walked along the jagged shards, it picked its way carefully, mindful of each step, placing each paw in a safe spot. It was hard for the cat to always find a foothold, but Lutzer was impressed when the cat reached the end of the wall and leaped gracefully down, with nary a scrape or cut. He had traversed the broken glass unscathed!

(Imagine glass shards on top!)

Of course, the parallel is that we should walk in our own lives as carefully, contemplating each step and choosing the wisest course. I sure need to practice that more! How my life would change if I could just not open my big mouth as much, but use more restraint and reflection! I tend to be more like this:

You know, running headlong, tongue lolling out, stepping in who knows what! So even though I am a "dog person," I guess I need to be more of a "cat person," if only in this one way: to ask God for wisdom at each juncture of my day and to put into practice those things that I SAY I believe, but don't always act on. I guess this is the journey to authenticity that I'll be on for the rest of my life.

"Be very careful then how you live -- not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity." -Ephesians 5:15

Pulling Weeds & Feeding the Dog

"I swear I pulled that very weed two days ago!" Do you ever feel like this? Well, in my case, I probably had pulled that weed two days ago, because due to time constraints, my weeding philosophy (yes, I actually have one!) has been to pull weeds so that the bed looks good and not worry about getting it all the way down to the root. I'm more interested in my native prairie plants looking neat and tidy, than worrying about what is actually going on under the soil (this year, at least!). I can hear all you Real Gardeners groaning out there . . . .

As I was pulling the same weeds today that I pulled a few days ago, I started thinking about how much that is like life. How we all have things that really should be rooted out, but often we are more concerned with appearances and not actually getting down to the heart of matters. I rarely have these kinds of quiet moments where I can think like this (Bean & Bear are at church day camp all week -- THANKS, MOM!! and Bug was napping -- one of the sweetest words in the English language), so as I let my mind wander around with that thought for a while, I did stumble on a couple of other ideas moving within the same metaphor. For instance, this year, we took precautions by putting down weed cloth and mulch so that what weeds did grow would be easier to yank out. I also weed almost everyday, so the bane of my existence, (creeping charlie-the blasted stuff!) is smaller and less. This got me thinking about what precautions I need to take in the rest of my life to avoid letting garbage fester and bad habits take over. Forcing more peaceful moments each day with just my thoughts and God might be a good start! One more reason to start getting up earlier . . . .

And finally, all of this weed pulling and thinking and hot sun congealed into a crystallized moment (I think that is a mixed metaphor since congealing things aren't really crystallizing -- but just go with me here!) that has nothing to do with gardening. I don't know about you, but I have character flaws (frankly, this should read: SINS) that I think I will deal with until the day I die. But I was reminded today about a metaphor from C.S. Lewis about dogs. He likened our physical, natural character to a black dog and our spiritual, God-attuned side to a white dog. Whichever dog you choose to feed becomes stronger, while the other starves. I have found this to be so true. Even though I may never fully triumph over some issues in my life, if I choose not to feed that wrong desire or fault, it will become weaker and weaker in its pull on me. When I cultivate my relationship with Christ, I become stronger and more able to resist and flee temptation. To be honest, I recently failed in fighting an old issue that I thought was dead and there it goes, gaining in strength again. Starvation mode is now in full swing. I want to put that sucker down for the count!

So today, as I finish up some yard work and take care of Luna/Yu-Ya/Woo-Da/Lerda (that dear, sweet soul from Cayman who comes to a variety of names), I'm going to be thinking about what other things I might need to root out and starve and what needs to be fed more. I need to more concerned about what is going on in my heart, than what other people perceive about me. Just because I can say the right words or put up enough of a facade to keep people from seeing the real me, does not mean that everything is weed-free and pristine on the inside. That needs to be the never-ending quest of life --pulling out the weeds and starving that bad, bad dog.

Tribute and Aspiration

My ninety-six year old grandfather is ailing. He is the patriarch of our family, my only surviving grandparent and one of the most magnificent men I have ever met. He is a Jesus follower, poet, nature lover, gardener, carpenter, brother, father, grandfather, great-grandfather. Reams could be written and not scratch the surface in describing this deep man. Mr. Rogers carried the following quote in his wallet as a reminder of what kind of man he wanted to be. My grandfather embodies this. Without any further comment:

He has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often and loved much, who has enjoyed the trust of pure women, the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children, who has filled his niche and accomplished his task, who has left the world better than he found it, whether by an improved poppy, a perfect poem or a rescued soul, who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty or failed to express it, who has always looked for the best in others and given them the best he had, whose life was an inspiration, whose memory a benediction. ~ Bessie Anderson Stanley

True Greatness

Remember Mr. Rogers? That friendly, soft-spoken, cardigan-buttoning, Keds-wearing guy on PBS? Sadly, they don't air Mr. Rogers Neighborhood on our local PBS station anymore. He is probably too tame for the tastes of today's kids (and even I was never a big fan of the puppet portion in the Land of Make-Believe). Whatever you think of the show, you must appreciate the man. In a day when we see the moral failings of public figures every night on the news, vulgarity everywhere (everywhere!) and even commercials that make you cringe if you're watching them with your six year old, you have to admire someone who states their values and then lives them out with integrity. Since his death, his widow has compiled and published some of his quotes and sayings. Whenever I see these little gems come across the circulation desk, I check them out and often find myself faithfully copying them in the Flotsam Jetsam Journal. (You'll see lots of them!)

While I was thinking about the heroic sacrifices and courageous deeds of our military yesterday, (even though Memorial Day is not actually until Friday -- so I am not late, I am early!) I remembered a Mr. Rogers quote about American history. In answer to the question, "What is the greatest event in American history?" he replied:

"I can't say. However, I suspect that like so many "great" events, it was something very simple and very quiet with little or no fanfare (such as someone forgiving someone else for a deep hurt that eventually changed the course of history). The really important "great" things are never center stage of life's dramas; they're always "in the wings." That's why it's so essential for us to be mindful of the humble and the deep, rather than the flashy and the superficial."

The humble and the deep. In a culture steeped in and obsessed with the flashy and the superficial, we need to be on the lookout for something different and it seems increasingly hard to find. Well, maybe not. For the sacrifices made, for answering when duty called, for standing on the wall so that I could lie safely in my bed, for staring death in the face and sometimes meeting him, for being afraid but saddling up anyway, thank you men and women of the armed forces. Thank you. The "little" things you do each day, add up to greatness.

Dreamin'

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

-- John Howard Payne from "Home Sweet Home"

Somedays we get discouraged about our little house, but it is HOME. Mustard Seed House has its own name, but if we ever move, this poem inspires me to name our next house Traveler's Rest, with the hope that there will be some traveling that requires some resting from! . . . And if I ever have a sailboat, she will be christened Wanderer. . . . And if I ever buy my dream car, it will be a Mini -- British Union Jacked to the max! I can dream, can't I?

Actually, I will settle for having all of my shoes be the slip-on (or OFF!) variety. Shoes are right up there with the French . . . .

Wanderlust and St. Augustine

A lot of our extended family is traveling right now. I am not jealous at all . . . okay maybe just a little. My brother, just returned from Japan, is now in California taking in the majestic sequoias (did you know that is one of the only words in the English language that contains all five vowels?) with his wife and baby daughter. My folks are with friends basking in the desert beauty surrounding Tuscon. My in-laws are at the ranchero in the gorgeous mountains of Mexico. I am coming off of a homework marathon of three days watching gloomy, cold April rain slide down the windows.

I credit my parents with giving my brother and me the bittersweet gift of wanderlust. We took our first family vacation in 1980 and have been traveling ever since. I'll have to write some other time about that first trip. Even though I was only 7 years old, the details are burned into my brain and memorialized by my Young Author's Conference award winning book Bobcats, Thunderstorms and Me. It's hilarious, and the title hints at just a few of the misadventures we had on that camping trip to the Badlands of South Dakota.

So today, I will enjoy the sweet memories of trips gone by and be thankful for them. And as I scale mountains of laundry and contemplate countertop landscapes of dishes, I will meditate on the words of St. Augustine:

"People travel to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering."

Flotsam Jetsam

If I were pressed to say what one activity I find most relaxing, it would be beach combing. Living in the Midwest, I don't often get the opportunity anymore, but when I lived in the Cayman Islands, it was one of my favorite pastimes. It's totally addicting! I would walk the beach with a friend or my dog and my eyes would be constantly scanning the sand for a glint of sea glass, a sea bean from Africa or some other flotsam. I found bottles, pieces of roof tiles used only in Europe, driftwood in unusual shapes and sea glass of all colors including cobalt blue and lavender. Hearing a tropical storm whip the palm trees and pound rain on my windows only excited me because I knew that the next day, the beach would be littered with all kinds of new treasures. And each beach had its own specialty. Old Man Bay on the north side held Caymanite and rare shells, while the eastern shores were where the magnificent finds from afar washed ashore. It was on these stretches of sand that the idea of flotsam and jetsam first penetrated my brain.

Some very astute observers may have noticed the “Flotsam Jetsam” tag on some of my entries. Normally the terms flotsam and jetsam have somewhat negative connotations, a sense that they are debris and detritus left from a storm or shipwreck. But I witnessed that after the storm or the wreck, all kinds of treasures can be found and this is what led to my Flotsam Jetsam Journal.

Believe it or not, as much as I like to write, I have never been one for journals. I have friends who have diaries, prayer journals, gratitude journals and don't get me started on scrapbooks! I have a Flotsam Jetsam Journal. I turned thirty right after going through a pretty crazy eight years that stripped me down to the very core (I'll perhaps share that story some other time.) As I reflected on my life and legacy at that critical juncture of turning thirty, getting married and being a new mom, I happened to read a book by Frances Mayes called Swan. It's a pretty good book, not totally earth-shattering, a mystery novel written by a talented writer no more, no less. One of the main characters, however, kept random journals that were later found by her kids and it sparked my imagination. Here's a part of what I wrote as my first entry:

“I turned 30 two days ago and for a while now have been obsessed with leaving a legacy. Of course the greatest legacy I could ever leave is the one I myself was given which is a knowledge of and relationship with Christ. That is my greatest hope and prayer for my dear Bean and any others yet to come. . . [little did I know!]

This, however, is a legacy of a more mundane sort. I love to collect quotes, clippings, odds & ends, bits & pieces, ideas and “jottings.” For a while these have been collecting in “paper boxes” in grade school, file folders, binders, flotsam & jetsam in drawers, purse bottoms, pockets and crummy notebooks. So this journal is a new attempt at “organizing” all the clutter into a single place. The idea is not to be too organized, though . . .” And so was born the Flotsam Jetsam Journal.

So the entries tagged "Flotsam Jetsam" are just my way of marking the miscellaneous ideas that have come from this source, and in doing so, I guess this blog is an extension of the FJJ and a way of sharing some of the little trinkets I find after the storms on the beaches of life.

National Geographic and the Ambulance Man

I have had a life-long love affair -- with National Geographic. Ever since I was a little kid, I have loved poring over those glossy pictures and imagining the thousands of adventures that hide between the pages. I have also never had a subscription to National Geographic. My ninety-six year old grandfather does, and he passes his copies on to me. When I was younger, this bothered me; I wanted my OWN. But now, I like that connection we have had since I was a little girl. (Back in the 1930's, Grandpa had the opportunity to buy a lifetime subscription for $150. That was a lot of money during the Depression for a farmer/carpenter, so he wasn't able to take the deal. National Geographic sure would have been the losers!)

One of my most favorite recent articles is "Pakistan" from the September 2007 issue. Not only did this article offer a fascinating and succinct history of the country, but it profiled a man from Karachi named Edhi who runs a charity that helps children, women and the extremely poor. He has a crib in the street outside of his office door with a sign that says "Don't Kill Your Baby" where he receives about ninety infants a month. Edhi also scours the streets for the dead and dying so that he can offer a dignified death and burial. Imagine a city where human life is so devalued that dead poor people are just left in the gutters! He refuses to accept donations from organizations or government sources as he wants to be beholden to no one, but his most poignant quote was about not even accepting car rides from anyone. "I travel by ambulance, in case someone needs help along the way."

I thought that this was a beautiful picture of how we should travel through life -- as if in an ambulance looking for people who need help along the way. And it reminded me of what Jesus once said when people were grumbling that he hung around with the "wrong" kind of people, "It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick; I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners." (Mark 2:17)

Meditation on Salad

We've been trying to do a little spring downsizing of ourselves here at Mustard Seed House with varying rates of success. Toward that effort, we have been consuming quite a lot of green leafy things and bits of plants previously known only to bunnies and "hoggers" (Bean-speak for woodchucks). Now I love a good salad, but frankly, all the parts that make it "good" are all the things that make it bad for you! I hate that! As I was contemplating the irony of salads, I recalled one of my favorite quotes from a very odd and intriguing book called The Debt to Pleasure by John Lancaster. Let me preface it by saying that as much as I am Franco-averse, I am even more passionately an Anglophile. British = Better, except in the areas of dental hygiene and some cuisine. In the case of salad, we Americans have inherited the horrid English version as described below:

". . .a few melancholy slices of cucumber, an approximately washed lettuce (iceberg, naturally), which appeared to have been shredded by wild dogs, two entire radish heads (served whole, presumably to avoid the risk of their proving edible in sliced form), a pale and watery quarter of tomato, the whole ensemble accompanied by a salad cream that at least had the virtue of tasting 'like itself' -- that's to say like the by-product of an industrial accident." (page 145, attributed to Captain Ford, 1846).

Go eat your vegetables!

Refiner's Fire

My dear friend A. shared this story with me. I'll share it with you, as it has been a great encouragement to me.

How is silver refined? The silversmith places unpurified silver into a small cauldron and then lowers it into the hottest part of the fire to burn off imperfections and impurities. Knowing that if the silver is burned too long, it will be destroyed, a bystander asked how the silversmith knew when it was time to take the silver out of the fire. He replied, "I stand by the entire time and remove the silver when I can see my reflection."

"He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver . . ." --Malachi 3:3