Escape to the Mountaintop

(We watched an artist paint this in about 3 minutes.)

Last Thursday was a low point.

That morning, Mother passed out and did a face-plant in her apartment. An 85-year-old landed squarely on her chin.

I didn’t find out immediately. It wasn’t until a caretaker came by later to check on her that we knew. By then, Mother had ‘come to,’ gotten herself up, and was sitting in a chair with a paper towel on her chin to soak up the blood. As soon as I took a look at the gaping cut, I knew we were hospital-bound.

I believe I’ve mentioned how I feel about hospitals. I’ve spent way too much time in them for my own good. As my physician father always said, “A hospital is no place for a sick person.” Or a well one, unless you’re paid to be there. Hospitals bring back terrible memories for me. (But I am still grateful for them. My child’s life was saved in one.)

Of all my least favorite hospital experiences, the Emergency Room is #1.

I could write a book about some of our family’s times in the ER. I don’t know if it would be a comedy or a tragedy. Maybe a tragicomedy.

We were there for 10 hours. Mother had fractured her jaw and a broken a bone in her face.

By the end of the day, we had answered the same questionaire four times.

Hospital Employee: “Do you smoke?” 

Mother: “No.”

H.E.: “Have you ever smoked?” 

Mother: “Weeeeell, I have smoked before.”

H.E.: “For how long?”

Me, starting to lose it: “A couple of cigs in the ‘50’s. Like 60 years ago.” (Impatient   eye roll.)

H.E., plodding along: “Do you drink alcohol?”

Mother: “Ummm. Yes, I do drink.”

H.E.: “How much?”

Mother: “Let me think. (pause, pause, pause, as she calculates)

Me, losing it: “Maybe half a glass of red wine per week for her heart! Now will someone please sew her up?”

(The worst was when we were finally admitted to a room upstairs. The English-challenged nurse added this question to the list: “Have you ever been diagnosed with dementia, Alzheimer’s, anything like that?”  “No,” Mother answered. “Yes,” I emphatically, but silently, nodded behind her back.

“Yes? No? Which is it?” demands the nurse.

I give her the evil eye.

I got home after 11:00 p.m., certain that I would YET AGAIN have to cancel a long-awaited event because of Family Emergency. Whenever I pre-purchase tickets for anything, there’s about a 15% chance I’ll actually get there. I was scheduled to attend the Women of Faith conference in Atlanta over the weekend with a group of ladies from my church.

My loved ones can tell when I’m about to slip over the edge. My husband said, “You’re still going.” Very definitive. My sister said that she would come over and spend the night with Mother Friday night. “You need to go.”

Mother was finally released from the hospital around 2:00 p.m. on Friday. I helped Kelly get her settled, then high-tailed it home, threw some things in a suitcase, and rushed to pick up the two friends I was riding with. Their days had been about as bad as mine. One had received sad news just before I got to her house, and then continued getting bad news texts up until the time we entered the Gwinnett Arena. Her husband of 30 years has decided he’d rather be with someone else, and there is constant painful fallout from that.

The drive there was nerve-wracking, we had trouble finding the hotel, and we finally gave up on finding the restaurant where we were supposed to meet. The three of us grabbed something to eat at the first place we could get into, and finally got to the Arena after the lights had been turned off and the music started. I was thinking the whole thing might have been a bad idea. My friend was depressed and anxious. My nerves were shot, my heart was racing. I felt achy all over. Plus, I don’t do well in crowds. Enemy Forces were working overtime.

Based on the law of averages, I assumed we’d be somewhere up in the nosebleed section. But ushers kept shining their flashlights on our tickets and directing us to go down through the crowd of 13,000 women. Down, down, down…

...until we were on the floor in front of the stage, about 6 rows back. Two platforms extended diagonally from the main stage. Our seats were directly next to one.

Amy Grant, Sandi Patty, Mandisa. Patsy Clairmont, Marilyn Meberg, Brenda Wagner.

Up close and personal.

(Sandi Patty and Brenda Warner about two feet away from us.)

Need I say what a mind-boggling mountaintop experience it was? 13,000 women praising the Lover of their souls. Inspiring testimonies from imperfect people, rescued by the One who loves them perfectly. Magnificent music. Beautiful ballet. Inspiring art. A feast for eye, mind, and soul.

We floated out of there Saturday night, limp with joy.

Back to the valley, where fresh heartaches and challenges await.

For the time being, it’s not possible to live on the mountaintop. We are transported there briefly for times of renewal, refreshing, and revelation.

Throughout scripture, the mountaintop is where God reveals himself. Moses received the gift of the Law on Mount Sinai. The transfiguration of Christ, the Sermon on the Mount, the commissioning of the apostles were all mountaintop experiences.

We are figuratively closer to God on a mountaintop than anywhere else on earth. We see Him more clearly there. The challenge is to bring that clarity of vision back down with us into the muddy mess of life in the valley.

Hopefully, the revelations we receive on the mountain will change us in some way. Leave an imprint of divinity. Give us hope in facing the perils of valley-dwelling. Remind us that the valley is not our natural habitat. Give us glimpses of our future home.

May the fresh mountain wind of the Spirit sustain us, and give us strength for the journey there.

***************

 “And he carried me away in the Spirit to a great, high mountain, and showed me the holy city Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God, having the glory of God, its radiance like a most rare jewel, like a jasper, clear as crystal.”

(Revelation 21:10-11))

“On this mountain the Lord Almighty will prepare
    

a feast of rich food for all peoples,


a banquet of aged wine—
    

the best of meats and the finest of wines.

On this mountain he will destroy
    

the shroud that enfolds all peoples,


the sheet that covers all nations;

he will swallow up death forever.


The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears
    

from all faces;


he will remove his people’s disgrace
    

from all the earth.


The Lord has spoken.”

(Isaiah 25:6-8)

***************

Anyone else struggling to keep a mountaintop perspective while living down in the valley? Want to share ways to keep an eternal perspective?

I want you to know how much I appreciate each and every comment. Each response is a blessing, and adds to the experience for all of us. I wish I were able to respond to each of you personally, but I’m kind of just hanging on by the skin of my teeth right now. Maybe one day, God willing, I will become that kind of blogger. In the meantime, I want to thank you dear readers for your unconditional encouragement and support. (Hi, Amie’s sorority sister!! Go Rebs!)

I am having my cataract surgery re-done next week, so I may be out of commission for a bit. But I’ll be back!

Love,

Kim

p.s. Please check out the Women of Faith website here.  The testimonies of both Sandi Patty and Brenda Warner (wife of NFL player Kurt Warner) were particularly moving and inspirational. You can purchase their books on the website if you’re interested. Actually, all the speakers and singers were all great! Their products on line, too.

Un-sour Grapes

(Magnet on refrigerator door at the lake house)

Hey.

Sorry I’ve been sketchy lately.

I returned home from California to be faced with a sad new reality that will mean some major changes have to happen.  A situation that causes daily stress, and will for an indefinite period. If prognoses are correct, there won’t be a happy ending.

(Sorry to be obscure, but it concerns someone else’s health.)

On top of that Major Situation, stressful Minor Situations seemed to pile up on top of each other. Every day. Layer upon layer of stress and anxiety. Things heating up to the boiling point.

Everything in my world seems broken or in need of repair. (I have a post 3/4ths written about Broken Things, but had to put it aside because I was in such a foul mood.)

And I was anxious about impending cataract surgery. Another sign of impending age.

I did what I often do in such situations. I let those heavy layers weigh me down until I found myself in a fast southward spiral to The Pit.

Instead of “Good morning, Lord!” it was “Oh Lord, it’s morning!”  Each day I prayed for enough energy to just-get-through-it.  I resorted to my favorite unhealthy coping mechanisms.

One of the many broken things was a flooded basement at the lake house we never have time to use anymore. (I know…W.G.P.)

Servpro had come and done their thing, including ripping up all the carpets. I was scheduled to meet the carpet people the week that Katherine broke her leg. Obviously, that had to be postponed and rescheduled until I returned from LA.

It was just about the last thing in the whole world I had time or inclination to do that first stressful week back. So Miss Bad-Mood-Betty hauled herself up there in the family ‘truck’ (car broken!), and pouted. Looked at all the happy Before Pictures, and had a Pity Party about how life has turned out.

I had to spend the night after the carpet guys finished (late), so the handyman could come in the morning and help me move all the furniture back. While there, he pointed out several other things that are in need of immediate repair before we get a Property Condemned sign on the door.

Wearily, I hauled stuff back up to the ‘truck’ to head home. It was a hideously humid, hot day. Bad words were in my head. If anyone had been around to hear, they might have come out.

The ‘truck’ was too close to the bramble. I got scratched trying to load things up. In frustration, I pushed back some branches.

And noticed this:

In 15 years of owning the property, we have never seen a single grape.

There were decaying grape arbors on the lot when we bought it. Evidently, the previous owners had high expectations for pursuing a gardening hobby at the lake.

But nobody goes to the lake to weed and prune. What kind of vacation is that?

By the time we purchased the cabin, nature had reclaimed most of its original territory. We loved it that way. We could drive an hour away and escape the modern world. Go back to the woods and water. From complexity to simplicity. From manmade to Godmade.

With zero yard maintenance.

The structures of the collapsing arbors were still visible underneath a screen of climbing vines and evergreen trees that grew above, around, and beside them. We totally ignored them.

During the past 15 years, they have almost disappeared from sight. We forgot they were there.

***************

I have spoken of the lake house before. It is a place rife with emotion for me.

Most people who own ”vacation homes” will eventually admit that they are no vacation. You could go to the Ritz in Paris for a month every year and still come out better off. Second homes easily turn into possessive Money Pits. If they involve the use of boats, you might as well stand over the toilet and shred large denomination bills to get an idea of what you’re getting into. If you value your freedom, my advice is just say no.

Nevertheless.

I don’t regret it. Financially, it may not have been the most brilliant investment. My husband always prefers stocks vs. real estate. But it was a significant investment in our family.

Our girls were almost 15, 13, and 7. We could see what lay ahead with peer group folly. (We knew from previous personal experience.) “The Laughing Place” was an antidote. An innocence-keeper. A virtue-prolonger.

No technology. No cell phones. Even… gasp… No TV!

Girls safely in the basement, instead of in someone else’s basement in Athens where the rules weren’t the same as ours.

Boyfriends safely sleeping on the pullout sofa in the Great Room… under watch.

That tacky little lake house lived up to its name. Our family had some world-class laughs there. Danced til we were dizzy. Ate til we were sick. Tubed and skied and swam and chilled in the hammock and played silly games. Indelible memories were made for us, our children, their friends, boyfriends, and for our extended families.

Who knows? The Laughing Place may even have prevented some catastrophes waiting back on the downtown streets of our precocious college town. A few at least. (We still had our share.)

In any case, it made the High School years a more magical time for all of us.

Then Life Happened.

If I ever write a book, I’ll explain how everything changed. How one loss came upon the next in such rapid succession that there was no time to recover in between.

The lake house became an increasingly infrequent escape.

A sanctuary.

Then there came a day… right smack dab in the middle of other stinging losses… when I drove up and saw that the lot next door had been clear-cut up to our property line. The lots are pie-shaped, on a point in the lake, so that meant that half of what we’d considered “our front yard” was bulldozed to the ground. The bulldozer was still there, touching the corner of our parking pad. The foundation of the new house was just feet away from the back porch. No more drinking coffee in pajamas on the porch swing. The sanctuary no longer was one. I felt completely exposed.

(Long story short: We’d tried to buy that lot over the years in order to protect our privacy, but were “done dirty” on several occasions. That made the sting even sharper.)

 I sat on the porch swing in disbelief. Where there had been a canopy of ancient, cool, sheltering trees, there was now a flat barren plain of rough red Georgia dirt. I cried over those gorgeous fallen trees as if they were relatives. It felt like another loss, another death, another end.

With the removal of the thick screen of tall trees, the temperature in the house increased substantially. One side was exposed to the beating heat of the western sun. Energy costs mounted.

***************

I held a perfect round scuppernong in my hand. I bet it tastes bad, I thought, before popping it in my mouth anyway.

It was sweet and delicious. Much better than the sour scuppernongs I remembered from childhood forays with my father.

I bet there aren’t any more on these old choked vines.

But there were. Hiding among the prickly wild evergreens like shiny round peridots.

I got a jumbo-sized gas station cup out of the car and started collecting hidden treasure. I discovered more and more as I moved towards the left through the overgrowth. Towards the west. Towards the side no longer shielded from the heat of the afternoon sun.

On that side, there was an abundant harvest of juicy green jewels.

I realize, at last, that this is a God-thing. A lesson. Another parable for the spiritually slow.

Spell it out, Lord. My ears have been stopped up lately.

I have to listen hard.

But the message comes quickly:

The heat of adversity produces great fruitfulness. 

And bountiful blessings.

It was the heat… the exposure to the light of the sun… that finally caused the tangled old vines to produce the grapes. 

I chew on that thought all the way back to Athens.

It’s not the easy-breezy times. Not when everything’s cool. Not when I’ve got it made in the shade. Not when I’m hiding out from unpleasant realities in my air-conditioned bubble, as I so love to do.

It’s when the heat is on that the qualities necessary for fruitfulness are developed. From the fiery furnace of adversity comes a willingness to be used... a desire to share the secrets learned under fire. Self-will and pride are burned away. 

If we cooperate with the purging process.

Later, I read this:

“A sword is tempered by heating it and then plunging it into cold water. As the room fills with steam and the sword sizzles, the outside molecules of the metal that make up the sword try to move inward while the inside molecules try to move outward putting the metal under tremendous pressure. It is this dynamic tension, this pressure, that gives the sword its strength. 
Out of the fiery trials of adversity, the Lord wants to produce strong, persevering character in our lives.

It boils down to whether or not we want comfort or character. We must embrace the process and permit God to do His work of making us more mature and useable — both for our good and His glory.” (Randall D. Kiddle)

Oh, how I want to be used in the time I have left.

Dear Lord,

Please expose me to the Light of your Son

so that I may bear the fruit of your Spirit.

(And help me take the heat.)

Amen.

***************

“But by means of their suffering, he rescues those who suffer. For he gets their attention through adversity.” (Job 36:15, NLT)

“…our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace…” (Daniel 3:17)

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. (John 15:1-2)

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, 

whose confidence is in him.

They will be like a tree planted by the water

that sends out its roots by the stream.


It does not fear when heat comes;
   

its leaves are always green.


It has no worries in a year of drought
    

and never fails to bear fruit.” 

(Jer. 17:7-8)

***************

Does anyone else feel under fire right now?

Have any advice for staying cool in the heat of adversity?

There is so much symbolism it all of this. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

(p.s. The house next door turned out to be lovely, and the neighbors are nice.)

Hot, Hot...

So.

We're back on the west coast, and IT IS HOT.

(Hot, hot, damhot, in Southernese.)

I am spoiled.

I’ve forgotten what it feels like to live in a house with no air conditioning.

It’s in the high 80’s, low 90’s here in West L.A.  (100’s further inland.) Lower humidity than home, but that doesn’t seem to matter around 4:00 p.m. or so.  If you try to take a nap to escape for a while, a trickle of sweat will wake you up. Then you’re even grouchier.

I was born in a hospital with no air conditioning. On a day in June when the temperature was 102. My mother has fond memories of the experience. (Or she did until recently.) I went to schools with no air conditioning. My home didn’t have central air until I was 10 years old.

In those days, Back-to-School jitters were intensified by the knowledge that you’d soon be trading the cool waters of an all-day pool adventure (complete with ice cream), for the torture of sticking to a hot wooden seat with sweat pooling under your pretty little cotton dress and starchy petticoat. (*BF, could you please send me that pic of us on the first day of First Grade? Pretty please?)

Anyway, I should be accustomed to scorching, unairconditioned afternoons. It shouldn’t be such a shock. But I feel like I’m in a time warp. The Depression South of literature.

Does anyone remember Harper Lee’s description of the heat in To Kill A Mockingbird?

Maybe I’m in a scene from Streetcar Named Desire. I think I hear Stanley Kowalski screaming on the sidewalk beside my open window. (But this one has a different accent.)

Too much heat can change your personality. Make you into someone petty and mean and lazy and crazy.

I feel like my brain is baking.

Tensions soar as the thermometer rises. Fuses are short. Tempers are as hot as the burning air.

Yesterday, an older woman stood on the corner across from the house and screamed profanity. But I didn’t see anyone else around. Maybe she was just cussing out the air.

When I’m perpetually hot like this, all I want to do is escape.

Instead, I walk around the house as scantily clad as possible. On extreme days, I leave the tub full of tepid water and take frequent dippings throughout the long afternoons. We keep the blinds shut, the lights off. Anything to take it down a notch or two.

Why have I become such a baby… a wimp?

I bet Katie in Uganda doesn’t live in an air-conditioned house. I wonder what percent of the world’s population even has the ability to “control climate.” I tried to Google the question, and ran across some interesting articles.

Many environmentalists are concerned that our obsession with keeping cool is actually contributing to global warming. Yikes. What will it feel like in 10 or 15 years? 70,000 people died from heat-related causes in the European Heat Wave of 2003. Less than 10 years ago.

This sentence from an article in Salon made me contemplate:

“…we get into a downward spiral with air conditioning, because science shows that our biological tolerance for the heat is eroded if we spend almost all of our time in climate-controlled bubbles.” (“Losing Our Cool,” Ryan Brown, Salon.) 

I want to live in a bubble.

A bubble whose luminescent borders keep out discomfort, pain, inconvenience, and ugliness. I want an anesthetized life.

But that not’s a real life.

The quote above revealed what’s wrong with me:

…years of ease have eroded my tolerance for discomfort.

***************

I’ve been desultorily writing this over a period of days. Five minutes here, five there. I’m not going to lie. This has been an extremely hard and stressful time. Katherine is still in active pain and having terrible side effects from the meds. Situations have been complicated. Even a bath is a complicated and exhausting procedure. The unusual heat has exacerbated the suffering. We’re all feeling frayed around the edges.

Yesterday morning, I read this in my quiet time:

“…it is important not to be surprised or alarmed by the many trials that enter your life. Until you reach your ultimate home in heaven, you will be at war. When you have a wartime mentality, it’s easier to handle difficulties as they arise: You don’t waste time and energy bemoaning your circumstances; you avoid the trap of feeling singled out for hardship.

     I do indeed equip you fully to handle your difficulties. But you have to have to make the effort to use what I provide: My Presence, My Word, and My Spirit. Come to me when you are heavy-laden and you will find rest for your soul.” (Dear Jesus, Sarah Young, page 102.)

And I remember:

The tolerance we manage to develop in dealing with the small battles in life equips us with the stamina to fight the big ones.

We’ve got plenty of big ones to fight around here.

Lord,

Help me put my big girl panties on…  and deal.

***************

Okay, you know that I’m prone to hyperbole. It’s cooled down a few degrees in the meantime. My body is learning to tolerate. My son-in-law has promised to find me a window unit. And James and I have found a great way to escape. (Not to mention the weekend trip the whole family made to a wonderful resort.) So don’t feel too sorry for whiny old me.

Is anyone else old enough to remember when schools weren't air conditioned?

Is anyone else affected by the heat like this, or is it just me?

***************

Best way to escape a sweltering day in L.A.????

The Annenberg Beach House!

Best dime I ever spent.

"...the cool waters of an all-day pool adventure (complete with ice cream...)"

Winning

After two and a half weeks of suffering, stress, and boredom, the Olympics came as a welcome distraction for all of us.

Sunday night, we were in Katherine’s room (the family room) watching the swimming competition. I was happy about the timing, because I’d been working with James on his swimming the day before. He’s been totally fearless around water since birth. My goal is to get him “drown-proof.” So far, he’s learned to dog-paddle on the surface, and ‘tadpole’ under the surface. He moves around fairly well in the water, but I keep trying to get him to use his arms more. I was thrilled to see all those big, strong Olympian arms propelling the athletes to the finish line. I thought they might make a greater visual impression on James than grandma’s demonstration of the butterfly or breast-stroke.

We tried to get James interested in watching by cheering on the USA. I found a flag to wave. It’s funny how kids have to learn affiliation. (Our team needs to win.) It made me a little sad to destroy the preschool innocence of everyone being a winner.

But such is the way of the world. The fact that someone “wins” means that someone must “lose.” I’m not going to get all philosophical about it now. At the time, I just wanted James to be engaged with the swimmers. Get him invested in watching so he could observe the powerful arm strokes.

So we cheered and cheered for Team USA and our friends. “Are we the winners, Mimi?” James asked. (“We” won the Bronze in that one.)

I thought Katherine watched a bit pensively. I imagined how hard it must be for her to witness the human body at the apex of freedom, movement and performance, when hers is so restricted and broken. So painful.

While the athletes were collecting their medals, something possessed me to run to the stairs going down to the basement and snatch a picture off the wall. I wanted James to see that his mom is a winner, too.

The picture was taken at our girls’ beloved Camp DeSoto in Mentone, Alabama. It was the only year when all three girls were there at the same time. It was Katherine’s senior year, Grace’s first year. That summer, Katherine received the honor of being elected “Chief” of her tribe. Her two sisters were also loyal “Chickasaws.”

The ‘Olympics’ of Camp DeSoto is an intense competition between the Creeks, Cherokees, and Chickasaws. Various events go on throughout the session. It is done in a spirit of loving Christian fun, but the loyalty to one’s individual tribe builds to a crescendo during the competition for the Cup.  

I got to witness the final night as a “backdoor blessing.” Grace got terribly sick the last week of camp. She was living in the infirmary. After a few days, the director called and said I needed to come. I high-tailed it up to the mountain and rented a room in a funky old boarding house, where I coddled my baby until she felt a little better. She was devastated about missing the end of the tribal competition. By the final night, we decided she was well enough to participate.

It’s a good thing she did: The Chicks won the cup.

I’m so glad Grace got sick so I could see it. The victory joy was wild. I tried to capture it from my seat in the balcony. (Forgive the quality. Our printer’s broken, so these are photos of bad photos. But you get the idea.)

I handed James the picture of his mom and aunts from that happy night, and he ran to show Katherine. “My mom’s a winner!” he announced as the TV crowd cheered for the Olympians.

A few minutes later, I noticed a tear trickle down Katherine’s face. She tried to whisk it away before anyone noticed.

Did the picture trigger it? Too much Before-and-After?

Later that night, Katherine made it upstairs for the first time since her surgery. It was a long, tiring, painful process. She had to go up seated backwards, holding the hurt leg out in front. She thought it would be worth it to get her first real shower in weeks.

But once upstairs, she started really crying.

It’s all just too much.

I was relieved. She needed to get it out. I did what moms always do: I hugged her and gave her a pep talk. (In other words, threw out some scripture. Frankly, I don’t have much positive to say at this point.)

I reminded her of that mysterious verse that had come to me when writing It’s All Good: “It has been granted unto you… to suffer.” (Phil. 1:29)

 A boon.

boon   <a noun

1. something to be thankful for; blessing; benefit.

2. something that is asked; a favor sought.

(i.e. “He asked a boon of the king.”)

No matter how much it appears to be just the opposite, the King has granted Katherine a boon. A special blessing of suffering. He has shown her His favor. He has entrusted her with a difficult job. He has chosen her for His special purposes.

It helps us to be reminded of these things now. The eternal perspective is the only one that makes any sense at all.

This week, as I’ve cheered and shared in the joy of Olympic medalists, I’ve contemplated this question:

Who are the real winners?

It’s not the ones who get all the glory and fame in the world.

Ultimately, the victor’s laurel goes to those who just finish whatever race is laid out before them. The ones who, with God’s help, bear their pain and suffering, and allow it to be used for His glory and for the good of their teammates. Those who keep the faith even when they’ve lost the laurels that don’t last.

I think my kid’s a real winner.

***

“Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.”  (James 1:12)

"...I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that day-and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing."   (II Timothy 4:7-8).

“Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.”  ( I Corinthians 9:25)

 ***

Re-reading this, it all sounds vaguely familiar. I think I’ve already shared about Camp DeSoto somewhere. And maybe talked about the “boon” concept.  The joys of old age: everything is new again. Oh well. I need to be reminded of these things right now. Because I forget.


Note to parents of girls 8-16: If you're looking for a wonderful, life-changing experience for your daughter, send her to Camp DeSoto next summer. It will impact her for life. Seeds were planted in Katherine's heart there that are bearing fruit even now. (And in the lives of my other two girls.)

When Dreams Are Dashed

Peripheral vision:

something falls from the sky.

(Swoops. Dashes. Dive-bombs.)

Even though I’m busy glopping on mascara, it gets my attention.

There’s a window next to my bathroom mirror. I look out, and notice a messy bird’s nest atop a square column* on the upstairs balcony.

*(On the capital, for architecture enthusiasts.)

Dumb birds! I think. Making a big mess all over the porch. Just can’t wait to clean up all that goop and poop. And feathers and moss and grass and twigs.

A while later, as I’m getting ready to head out the door, I see her looking at me. 

An insignificant little brown bird. Nothing special about her at all. But we stare at each other, separated by glass and about 5 feet. Neither of us blink. I try not to move. I can actually see her round brown eyes. Strange, I think, that she’s not scared of being so close to a human being.

 Truth be told, I am the one who should be scared of her.

But scared is not really the word.

Phobic.

I suffer from ornithophobia.

(Ornithophobia: an abnormal, irrational fear of birds. Can cause the following symptoms: breathlessness, dizziness, excessive sweating, nausea, dry mouth, feeling sick, shaking, heart palpitations, inability to speak or think clearly, a fear of dying, becoming mad or losing control, or a full-blown anxiety attack.)

I can pick up insect, spider, lizard, or (tiny) snake and remove it from the view of screaming friends or relatives without a flinch. I can march into woods, underbrush, or creek without a moment’s trepidation.  I can dive into any dark opaque green Georgia lake and let fish nibble my toes without freaking out. I can walk around the wrong side of town without getting the heebeegeebees. I can get through Russian Customs without even sweating much.

But I completely lose my mind if a bird gets too close to me.

Part of it has to do with experiencing Alfred Hitchcock at a vulnerable age. Then, there was the time when a large, flapping bird was seeking retaliation on my cat… and, when I tried to rescue the cat… on me. A pigeon nightmare at St. Mark’s Square in Venice, combined with several other European blueberry-ingested crow-dumpings in my hair, cemented the phobia. (Birds are obsessed with my head. Love it. Take every opportunity to baptize me in drippy excrement when there are no sani-wipes to be had. My husband thinks this is hysterically funny.)

But I think my phobia may be larger than merely circumstantial. It could actually be genetic in this case.

The loveliest… most elegant… genteel… relative I have (think Jackie Kennedy, but Southern and even classier) once overturned a bridge table when the hostess’s canary escaped its cage.

For whatever reason,

I HATE BIRDS.   
                                                                                                                                         
(Or at least I hate them up close. I like the idea of them. I like the romanticism connected with them... the symbolism.)

But I hate their sharp, mean, pointy beaks and their nasty, crunchy feet. (Claws that can scratch your eyes out.) I hate their frightening, flapping wings and their disgusting, unhygienic feathers. (Drive heave.) I hate their beady eyes and the way they rush at your table before you’ve finished eating outside. (Especially at the beach. They are without shame.)

But I am far more terrified of a dead bird than a live one. Then those horrible claws and gagging feathers can’t fly out of my way.

One of the worst terrors of my life was stepping on a dead bird in a pair of thin sandals. That’s the one and only thing I remember about a family trip.

Sad.

***************

Evidently, I must spend a lot of time “getting ready.”

I start noticing that silly little bird sitting on her nest outside my bathroom window more every day.

She’s there when I yawn into the mirror to inspect the depository of food in my “adult braces.” She’s there while I’m washing my face. Brushing my teeth. Drying my hair. Lining my puffy eyes.

Her swift, downward plunges still catch me by surprise.

Swoooooppppp!

Down, down, down she goes. Three stories down.

After a few minutes, she wafts back up to resume her perch.

I am reminded of Horton the Elephant. 

She sits, and she sits, and she sits, and she sits.

Man, is she faithful, one hundred percent!

Bizarrely, inexplicably…

The Enemy and I become friends.

 I grow sad if I don’t see her for a while. I worry.

Where is she? What happened? Have the eggs hatched? Have the babies flown?

Did that scary hawk get her?

Reassuringly, she always comes back home to sit on her eggs.

There’s something about it that touches me. Makes me feel like the world’s a better place. It causes me to think about faithfulness and selflessness and patience and tenacity.

The sacrificial heart of a mother.

Those baby birds will never even know how often she flung herself down from the heights just to feather their nest. How she clipped her own wings… gave up her joyous dancing flights through the trees… to patiently sit and warm them with the beating of her heart.

Just as our babies don’t remember the times we human mothers lay down our own desires in order to meet their needs.

Watching my little friend day after day, I see the beauty of self-sacrifice.

Weeks fly by.

We leave town several times and come back. She’s still there.

Until one day, when I look out the window and notice the nest leaning precariously on its side. I hear agitated bird-talk coming from the trees.

Since, technically, I’m still scared of birds, I go out to the hall and yell for my husband. I want him to do something… to fix it back before all the eggs fall out…

But by the time I get back to the bathroom, the nest is completely on its side, and I can see that there are no eggs left in it.

I feel a surprising, sickening sense of loss.

My husband and I go out on the porch. I guess that hawk got ‘em, he says.

One little broken egg remains on the porch, bright yellow yolk against the brick.

So that’s it, I think. All of those weeks she sat and sat… all of her dreams for her babies… come to this.

And I start crying.

For a bird.

But I realize that it’s about much more than a bird.

The world will break your heart into a thousand different pieces in a thousand different ways.

There’s a choice:

You can harden your heart until it’s as rigid and unyielding as a hard-boiled egg,

or you can allow it to stay soft.

Vulnerable.

Fragile.

Sometimes dreams are dashed.

Babies are miscarried.

There is death instead of birth. Emptiness instead of plenty.

Loss.

Separation.

Danger.

We cannot always protect ourselves. We cannot shield our children from pain and suffering.

Sometimes fragile hearts shatter against such hard realities, and life and joy seem to spill out like yolk from a broken egg.

For there is no truly safe place on this fallen planet.

No place you can hide, where your heart won’t sometimes be dashed into brittle bits, and your guts spilled out on the hot bricks.

Except for in the arms of the One who knows when every sparrow falls.

***************

Back in the house, I dry my eyes and get a grip.

Glancing out the French doors on my way downstairs, I see that mother bird perched back up on the overturned nest. Not willing to believe the story’s over.

And then this amazing thing happens.

Another bird comes and perches on the railing alongside her. They talk. They pirouette through the trees, then come back. She returns to the overturned nest; he waits on the banister below, keeping her company.

They repeat the dance several times, but keep coming back.

They’re still at it the next morning, even though the nest has finally fallen down to the brick floor of the porch.

They circle back by for several days.

(One is on the far left; the other on the far right. Can you see them?)

We leave town again. When we return, I come back to these musings. I start looking through the crummy pictures I’ve taken to illustrate my story. A technical difficulty has wiped out the recent photos on my Iphone, so I go back outside to take another picture of the fallen nest.

And this is all there is:

I get a little chill.

What happened to the nest?

What if those birds didn’t give up? What if they came back and picked through the rubble to salvage what they could? What if they used the broken bits to start again somewhere?

Sometimes dreams are dashed.

But there is always a future and a hope.

And there is love, 

which comes alongside to face the pain 


together

and start again from the broken shells of dreams.

***************

This was mostly written in June, when I started thinking wistfully about blogging again. I decided to publish it today because it seems to speak to our current situation in many ways. Btw, does anyone recognize what kind of bird it is?