Mom

She lived her life in a way

that touched others.

One person at a time.

One gesture of kindness after another.

Generosity was her nature.

Faith was her compass.

And boy did she love to have fun.

To be together. To laugh. 

To be surrounded by friends

and family.

She and dad enjoyed so many things together -

spending time at the farm, sailing,

traveling, family trips, hikes at the cabin.

They sang together.

They danced together.

They ran a business together.

They took care of each other.

Even when it was so very difficult.

She was grateful for her blessings,

so appreciative and so ready to share.

She was a planner. She loved atlases. 

She thrived on gathering her family together.

When they weren't together, 

she tracked them on her phone.

She and dad were amazing parents

and loved being grandparents.

As she got older, she tried to turn some of the planning 

over to her adult children.

With limited success.

She loved the Cyclones. Loudly.

She knew to never call her mother 

during televised football games 

and she taught us to carry on that tradition,

extending it to other sports as well.

"Can't talk, game's in overtime!"

She worked hard her whole life

and it took her a long time after retirement

to learn how to nap. 

But then she mastered it.

She had earned it.

A voracious reader

with a broad array of genres and topics.

She loved to share favorite books and authors with others.

She was so fun to go to the library with.

Being hard of hearing, whispering wasn't in her toolkit.

But she never got kicked out.

She treasured her friendships

and was the kind of friend who paid attention 

to the details of your life.

And remembered. 

Church was so important to her.

She was faithful in her attendance

and volunteered in so many ways over the years.

She was quiet about her faith,

but it was easy to see God in action

through her priorities and her values.

She had a busy life,

yet always figured out how to fit in volunteering.

Never seeking attention,

just doing what she could to help people.

She was a bit of a worrier,

with her best worrying done at 5am.

Little known fact:

She played the bagpipes in college.

She never professed to play them well,

but she has photos of herself holding one.

She was so many things to 

so many people. 

I had the honor of calling her mom.

And now I have been blessed 

with the responsibility

of carrying on her legacy.

One person at a time.

One gesture of kindness after another.

I miss you mom.

Always will.

This is why

Sometimes, I find myself

not wanting to show up and speak out.

Preferring to live my life the best I can 

without making anyone mad.

Waiting for things to get better

without me. 

Really, what difference could I

possibly make?

But at the same time, wanting so badly 

to be part of the solution

(without even knowing how to define the problems).

And definitely without getting my hands dirty.

And yet I find myself once again

on the side of a busy road

trying to respond to what is happening

in my country and the world

in a way that encourages love.

(It seems like there are so many better ways -

I would much rather bake cookies.)

---

There is no shade today.

The sun beats down on our small gathering, 

along with the same question, unrelenting -

what difference could this possibly make?

Why am I here? And where's everyone else?

And then, across the road, I see her.

A young girl walking into the restaurant 

with her family. She sees us. 

An excited smile immediately lights up her face.

She gestures big, with two thumbs up.

Then disappears inside.

She might not be old enough to fully understand

but she's likely old enough to eventually remember.

And so, I am reminded 

by a rather small person in a very big way - 

this is why I am here.

Woodsmoke

Long-handled loppers,

a grub hoe, a rake,

and a pocket full of strike anywhere matches.

Moving slowly up and down

the steep forested slope below our home,

losing track of the tools in the dense fern and Oregon grape.

Smoke rises from the brush pile burning below.

The song of the winter wren curls upward with it,

reminding me to listen to the two small streams joining together, 

in a meandering hurry.

Picking up branches and deadfall,

accumulated over the previous winter.

That's the objective.

The crunch in last year's leaves adds urgency to this year's task - 

how could it be so dry already?

And where are the slugs?

How could there possibly be so much change

in one person's lifetime?

I glance at the house above me,

cobbled together over a span of many years.

Made of the Doug fir and the western red cedar

surrounding it.

Like discovering a nest in a rather precarious position,

you ask, "why did this silly bird build its home in this spot?"

Hmmm. Good question.

Flat ground is rare on this five-acre parcel.

I pause, taking a drink of water.

This is home, but not just for me.

Pulling my dirty gloves back on,

I watch a robin flip over a vine maple leaf.

Then I keep working, trying to do my small part.

Perhaps the robin is too.

I drop another armful of branches on the fire.

That's where we need to begin, right?

Taking care of our little part?

Sometimes we have to narrow our focus

to keep hope in our grasp.

I turn and head back up the hill,

carrying my thoughts and the smell of woodsmoke with me,

done for the day.