The Gate

Eight-year-old Isaac was in front of me
leaping over deep ruts in the red dirt road,
his skinny legs ending in an oversized pair of crocs.

We were running on a road from the compound into Mukono,
a half-mile at most, but also a world apart.
For Isaac, a trip past the compound gate was a rare thing.

As we ran down narrow roads
past houses built from clay bricks dug from yards
(most without running water or electricity)
I watched him take in all the sights and sounds.

The orphanage where he lives
provides him with so much -
a safe place to sleep, food, clothes, an education,
medical services, church, 170 brothers and sisters
watched over by dozens of aunties and uncles.

It also made me think,
did living inside the gate make him a bit of an outsider?

We sat along the busy road through Mukono -
me, Isaac, Katie, Christian, and Jared -
counting the taxis packed with people as they
passed by at alarming speeds.
Watching people trying to get from one side
of the busy road to the other.

The language spoken around us was Luganda
and I wondered how much, if anything,
the boys understood.

We finished our meal, an egg and vegetable wrap
called a rolex, cooked in a tiny wooden booth,
odd-sized boards and sticks giving definition to a livelihood,
and started walking home.

Eventually we passed back through the metal gate that separates
these children from the surrounding landscape.

Watching my daughter and her husband,
walking hand in hand with these boys, I am humbled
by the many small things they do daily for the children
they are called to serve.

A quick hug ends the evening as the boys run to
the Children's Home to get ready for bed.

Tonight their dreams might be bigger than last night's,
which is perhaps a small gift that God can use in big ways.

Enough

Tell me, what is your greatest fear?
My greatest fear is that I am not enough.

Enough love, enough encouragement,
giving enough, doing enough...
all of these things.

You don't have to be enough.
(The silence that follows holds a space.
It gives me time. And courage. To hope.)

You don't have to be enough 
because I am enough.

(I swing my feet, and my toes touch the water,
bringing back memories of sitting on the end of the dock as a child.
I feel the sun on my face.
But even more, I feel a presence beside me.
An arm around my shoulder.
A sideways hug.)

You don't have to be enough, because I am enough.
Letting the air out, I realize I was holding my breath.

But who will--
You don't have to be enough because I am enough.

But what if-
You don't have to be enough because I am enough.

But how can you possibly do it all without me?
(A smile and a shake of the head, making me smile too.)

You don't have to be enough because I am enough.
Trusting. That enough really is.

Growing Seasons

People tell you, before you're ready to listen.
And when you finally do,

you're surprised to find yourself

already in the tight outer rings, 

the ones that make it hard to count

exactly how many growing seasons have gone by.

It dawns on me, the tree is around the same age
as my granddaughter.

(I will probably tell her, before she's ready to listen.)

Using my finger to count the rings,

smelling the wood, feeling the roughness,
slowing down enough to pay attention.
Hoping someday she will understand
the importance of doing the same.

A beautiful day dream

We were sitting in the screen porch at the cabin,
seated next to each other, but looking beyond ourselves,
down the hillside below to where we knew the creek to be,
even though we couldn't quite see it.

The dad I was with was my old dad,
the one that I knew before Alzheimer's took so much away.
It felt so good to be with that version of my father.

We talked about various things, but the conversation headed
to a place neither one of us really knew how to discuss.

He was a bit sad and worried,
feeling as if he was a burden to us in the last
half dozen years or so of his life. That bothered him deeply.

I was able to answer him confidently and honestly
as I told him, "No, you were not a burden."

He listened, quietly letting me explain.
I told him how he taught us all so many valuable lessons,
even when the chaos and confusion
muted the words.

He taught us what it meant
to be in the present moment. Fully in the moment...
with no past to reflect on and a future we weren't ready to explore.
Now. Together. Gradually slowing.
To nearly a stop. But not quite.

We learned from him that there is a gift in putting others
before yourself. It felt so right and so good to be there for him,
and with him. He brought our family closer together.
He was the catalyst for so much love.

I told him we experienced gratitude as he said "thank you"
even when it appeared that he had so little to be thankful for.
We found love in his smile.
He gave us a direct connection to joy,
making us laugh with his raised eyebrows and comical expressions.

And as I watched my mom beside him, day after day,
I came to understand what it is to truly love someone.
That much.

Then he turned his head away from the view and toward me.
There were tears in both our eyes.

And we knew.

Learning to Meditate Part VII

I can honestly say, I never know where
meditation will take me.
And for that I am grateful.

On this night,
I listen to my spiritual mentor and friend
as he leads our small group through a guided meditation
in the early winter darkness and quiet of the sanctuary.

A place where we are given permission to be still.
Where our breathing becomes the ryhthm of our souls.
Where we are invited to focus
on the present moment,
quieting ourselves and listening for the still small voice
that is not our own.

Tonight we are encouraged to take our worries,
our concerns, along with the physical manifestations of tension,
and place them in a boat
and then push the boat out into the water.

Sitting there with my eyes closed,
what I saw next was not what I expected.
(It rarely is.)

I saw somebody wrestling something into the boat.
It took a while for me to figure out what it was.
And then it came to me - that's my ego.
The being (I never clearly see faces)
was shaking his head and laughing
as my ego kept trying to get out of the boat.
Over and over.
Refusing to follow directions and stay put.
Thinking it was in charge.

Then something on the shore caught my eye.
It was me, or the shell of me,
without my ego.
Filled with light and love
(I know these things as God).

Standing there on the shore
shoulder to shoulder sharing sacred ground,
smiling at the ridiculous antics of my self
out there in the boat, as it drifted slowly away.

Amazed by the feeling of fullness
that emptying yourself can provide.

Buried Sadness

Perhaps this is what happens, over time,
when you lose someone you love, little by little.

(My story is of my dad's Alzheimer's.
Your story might be similar but different, yes?)

You learn to stuff the grief deep down inside
as far from the heart as you can,
compressing it into the smallest version of what it was,
until you can no longer recognize it,
or even feel it because all the sharp edges are tucked in.

It is what you do, it's what you have to do,
for days and then years,
until eventually death arrives
and suddenly you become aware
that you no longer have to hold it in.
Now you have permission. To grieve.

But by then the sadness is buried so deeply
it becomes impossible to find the tears.

Well meaning people say things, in love and kindness,
like "he's in a better place" and you know it to be true
but the words leave you feeling selfish
because you miss the person
here and now.

So you nod and smile and don't explain
because you don't know how.
Not yet anyway.

For now, you close your eyes and smile,
like your dad used to do when he could no longer put sentences together,
recognizing that someday you will cry.

Just not yet. Not today.

A Short Story (for dad)

There was once a man on a journey that took him many places on an amazing adventure.

Some of the paths the man took were planned in advance and well thought out. Some were a complete surprise, even to him. Several turns held challenges. Much of the journey held happiness.

The man collected things on this journey. Mostly memories. He carried them in a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

At the start of his journey, the bag was empty. As he grew older, the memories came faster and faster and the canvas bag began to fill.

The man was often accompanied on his journey. Strangers turned into friends as their paths crossed and as they traveled together. He grew into a young man and married the woman he loved. They joined their memories together.

Further along the way, the man became a father and then a grandfather. More memories were collected, some by him and others by his children and grandchildren. They laughed. They joked. They talked of serious things.

The journey continued. New memories were made. Eventually the canvas bag became filled to the top. And although the man could not see the end of the road, he knew the journey itself was a gift from God. He knew that he never traveled alone. He encountered God along the way, through the people he met, the beauty he experienced, the love he felt, and the peace he encountered.

But with time something started happening to the canvas bag, which by now was dirty and worn. The seams, stretched by a full and meaningful life, began unraveling. One at a time, the memories began falling through the holes. The man could sense his loss as the memories slipped away.

His wife saw what was happening. She lovingly picked up all the memories that she could and held onto them like treasures, sharing them with family and friends. People whose lives had been touched by his.

At first it feels like a tragic end to a beautiful story. But maybe not.

Maybe, in a place beyond time and understanding, there is a battered and worn canvas bag that is right now at this very moment being mended by heavenly hands.