Don't Be Afraid

Recorded as part of a Christmas cantata about 20 years ago.
Merry Christmas

Rocks from the Riverbed

“When the whole nation had finished crossing the Jordan, the Lord said to Joshua, ‘Choose twelve men from among the people…and tell them to take up twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan…and put them at the place where you stay tonight.’  So Joshua called together the twelve men he had appointed… and said to them, ‘Each of you is to take up a stone…to serve as a sign among you.  In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord…these stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.’”  Joshua 4:1-7

From the riverbed of my life,

I will pluck stones,

A stone of gratitude for my very existence,

A stone for His redeeming love,

A stone representing His guiding hand,

A stone for his sustaining grace.

A stone for comfort in sadness,

A stone for times of great joy,

A stone for all of His good gifts,

A stone because He himself is The Rock.

When my family gathers next time, they may find a pile of rocks as a centerpiece in the middle of the dining room table.  There may be some whispering to each other as they try to determine if Mom has finally lost her marbles or become as dumb as a box of rocks.

But surely one of the little ones will say, “Uhhh….Grandma….what is that pile of rocks doing on your table!?”

And I will talk to them about Joshua and the twelve men and say, “These are rocks from the riverbed of my life.  They represent the times when God held back the flood of danger or evil which could have swept me away.  I want you to know that He is the Rock on which I stand.”

Looking Across

Friday evening, I drove from western New York back to northern New York on I-90 (the Thruway) and I-81.  As I left the Buffalo area, I drove on a stretch of I-90 which parallels Genesee St. and is close enough that traffic on  I-90 can be seen from Genesee and vice versa.


As I looked across to Genesee St., I also looked across six decades of my lifetime.  I could see a car in the 1950s traveling away from Buffalo.  I had been in the city visiting grandparents and was riding in the back seat of my parents car on the way home to Town Line Rd. which divides Lancaster and Alden.  I peered out the side window of the car at the lights of the vehicles on the Thruway.  Who are those people?  Where are they going?  What are their lives like?  Will I be traveling there someday?


A few miles further on I-90, and I could see ponds.  When I was a child there were gravel pits in that area.  My parents would take us swimming in the gravel pits on hot days after my Dad got home from work.  I could sit at the water's edge and hear the sounds of the traffic whizzing by on I-90.  People about whom I knew nothing passed in proximity.


I did not know that the 66 year old me would be traveling that highway having been to western New York to work on settling my uncle's estate. I did not know that he would be the last in his generation to depart, leaving me as the oldest member of my family of origin.  I did not know any of the joys and sorrows that I would experience in those intervening years.  I did not know enough to be either excited or fearful.  So much, both good and bad, was beyond my view and beyond my ability to even imagine.


About half-way between 6 and 66, I wrote the following:


I ponder the "what ifs" of my life,
The wide range of possibilities,
A broad spectrum
From disaster
To spectacular.


I recount the "supposes" of my life,
The infinite complexities,
Puzzle pieces,
Some dovetailing,
Other in hopeless tangle.


I indulge in a dream of "if onlys,"
Those happy coincidences
That propel one,
Soaring upward,
To grand success.


I shudder at life's "near misses,"
Those frightening times
When something unspeakable
Was inches
Or seconds away.


I bow in gratitude to Him,
Whose all-powerful hand
Has in the maze
Pointed and pushed
And protected.


I cannot see tomorrow.  I do not know if I have decades left.  I do not know if I will travel a road parallel to the one I am currently traveling.  But, I continue to trust in the powerful hand to point, push and protect.

Dry Spot or Deluge?

I haven't written on this blog in almost 2 weeks.  It isn't writer's block....it's writer's overload.  A handful of friends know the events of the past several days and think I need to write a book.  Every time I decide on a topic...and there have been multiple possibilities....I realize that there is no way to throw that information out in the public arena without hurt to someone.  Changing names to protect the innocent...or the guilty...would not be sufficient.


If I can't write about what is consuming my thoughts, then I can't write about anything, and so I have been silent. If I ever extract myself from the vortex of chaos surrounding me and arrive at some focal point, I will have lots of material.

Gratitude for Little Things

My husband's return from a business trip to California was the occasion for me to be sitting in the baggage claim area of the Syracuse airport.  His flight was about 30 minutes late, so I occupied myself with a knitting project.  Although I was focused on my yarn and needles, I was aware of a woman of Indian or Pakistani origin who was obviously also waiting.  She walked around the baggage claim area coming closer to me with each circuit.  I figured she noticed me knitting and was eventually going to come close enough to engage me in conversation.


After several minutes, she did indeed approach and ask me what I was knitting.  I told her it was a sweater for a doll.  She sat down beside me, and we carried on a typical get-acquainted conversation.  Where are you from?  For whom are you waiting?  How many children do you have?  How many grandchildren?  What are their ages?  Where do your children live?


As we chatted, I came to a spot in my knitting where I needed to do something I had not done before.  I mumbled something to myself and made an attempt which didn't look right to me.  She questioned what I needed to do, and said, "Oh, I know how to do that.  Give me the needles."  She quickly did two stitches, and that was enough for me to catch on to the technique.  She handed my project back, and off I went.  I am not sure how long it would have taken me to figure this out on my own.


How nice that our paths crossed and that she was available with knowledge at the precise time I was in need of it.  We never actually exchanged names, but I am glad for those few minutes.  


I am grateful for the tiny slices of life when I receive an unexpected blessing.

Shades of Gray

I sat at the kitchen window this morning watching the visitors to the bird feeder.  Eventually, I got out the bird identification book.  A number of birds I saw were a combination of black, white and gray. My curiosity got the best of me.  What were they?  If one looked closely, it was clear that they were not all alike.  Markings, beak shape, tail length and patterns of movement were different.  I decided that I was seeing black-capped chickadees, nuthatches and juncos.


I sit looking out life's window at the world flying by.  People and situations which initially appear as combinations of "black, white and gray" need closer examination.  Who and what are they actually?  It isn't only curiosity that makes me ponder these questions....it is emotional survival.  What are their markings and what do they mean?


I pray for discernment.

Trachiniae by Sophocles

Deianeira was, as a young woman, very beautiful.  The river god Achelous, who sometimes appeared as a bull and other times as a snake, wished to marry her.  Heracles (in Rome known as Hercules) desired her also, and killed the river god in order to marry her himself. 


While she was crossing a river carried by a Centaur named Nessus, the Centaur attempted to violate her and was also killed by Heracles.  As he was dying, he told Deianeira to take some of his clotted blood.  From it she could make a potion which would cause Heracles to only love and be faithful to her.


Fast forward many years.  Deianeira is waiting for Heracles to return after an absence of 15 months.  She is apparently now at least middle-aged, as she has grown children.  Before Heracles enters the city, the spoils of war precede him.  Among them is a beautiful young woman who has been taken captive.  Deianeira pities her and is interested in her story.  Eventually she learns the truth that the girl Iole is the reason Heracles recently destroyed a city, and that he intends Iole to also be his wife.


Deianeira fakes acceptance of this, but then sends a robe to Heracles which she has treated with the potion given to her by Nessus many years earlier.  She gives instructions to the messenger to ask Heracles to wear it as he makes sacrifices to the gods.  Heracles complies.  The robe tightens around his body sucking the life out of him and causing agonizing pain.
  
Deianeira now realizes that the Centaur has tricked her.  Heracles will never look at another woman, because he won't be alive to do so.  The Centaur has reached out from the grave to extract his revenge.  Deianeira commits suicide.


Heracles begs his son to put him on a funeral pyre, even though he is still alive, and so end his misery.  He also makes his son promise that he will marry Iole.  His son Hyllus protests, but eventually gives in to his father's demands.  Hyllus exits chanting, No man foresees the future; but the present is fraught with mourning for us, and with shame for the powers above, and verily with anguish beyond compare for him who endures this doom.


Something tells me there is a sequel to this story....or there ought to be.


Also,  it isn't smart to believe what a Centaur tells you.


And, it is even less smart to replace your middle-aged wife with a young beauty.  Ever since I was a teenager, I have wondered how smart men can be so dumb when it comes to women.