One person

I don't know how to help

and that is paralyzing,

creating fear so great

it threatens to snuff out hope.

(Yes, you feel that too?)

The pandemic is tightening

its grip in so many places

while here we are happy

to be able to finally return to normal

and do our best to forget about it

because we are "so over it."

(Except for the people who lost

loved ones, lost businesses and jobs, 

lost their health... it is not a mere 

shifting of attitude for them.

And don't forget the people who live 

where vaccines are not available.

Where are their choices?)

We are not taking care of the Earth

and the repercussions are

being felt in so many ways.

What possible difference

can one person make in a crisis so big?

How do I move from reverence to action?

(You ask that too?)

People are starving,

while so much of our country struggles with

the ill effects of too much.

Of just about everything.

White privilege is something

that makes me uncomfortable

in my own skin, 

but I can't seem to find my role

in the effort to end systemic racism.

(Do you share the same questions?)

Children die every day 

from illnesses that can easily be treated.

Every child lost has a name

and a family who mourns their passing.

People show up on our nation's doorstep

fleeing violence and poverty

and we can't figure out how to 

put hope into their future.

(I see it breaks your heart too.)

Yes, it's such a long list and

this is only the beginning.

The answers are so very complicated.

I am one person 

living in a small town in America.

The only thing I know for certain is that

I am not doing enough.

Please, tell me what you do.

Show me how to help.

It can be the smallest of things,

just please help me see.

And in doing so, 

you will be giving me hope

so that I might pass it along.

The Brave One

I watch my daughter climb up into

the large faded-red truck, her water tender, 

to drive over the mountains,

carrying the responsibility of burn boss

along with drip torches, tools for a prescribed burn.

Pouring down rain here at home,

unseasonably dry on the other side.

"Be safe" you call out,

as she heads out the driveway,

knowing she can't hear you over the noise of the engine.

Not ready to fully consider

another daughter's desire to rappel

from a helicopter to gain access to a wildfire.

An experience that must be earned.

"Don't give me the details until the season is over,"

you say at the end of a long hug,

even though you have already stoked your

imagination with YouTube clips of shoulder taps

signaling the next rappeler's exit 

Not being even remotely prepared

to have more than two years go by without seeing 

your grown up little girl who calls Uganda her home.

One trip after another 

pushed back by the pandemic.

Grandchildren growing up before your eyes,

pixelated on the computer screen.

"I miss you," implies the hope of a reunion,

and the emptiness of the miles between.

Not thinking too closely

about our oldest who finds joy

in being lifted off high places by the wind 

paragliding on the thermals.

"Have fun," you say, wondering what 

it must feel like soaring so high, 

knowing you eventually need to come down, 

but not thinking about that part now.

When you think too closely 

about any of this,

you begin to see all the shadows

where the worries like to hide.

And so you pull your chair

into a patch of sun, close your eyes

and feel the warmth on your face.

Letting go

as best as you can.

Maybe that makes you the brave one.

                        

BirthEarthDay

She shares her special day

with the Earth -

April 22nd.

Fittingly, her totem, a mama bear,

known for the fierceness 

of her love.

So powerful. So protective.

Look closer,

a gentle compassion woven in.

Strength made stronger

through humility,

the authentic kind.

Always paying attention

to how she can take care of others.

Never seeking the credit.

She walks carefully on this Earth,

and still she leaves marks of her existence,

footprints barely visible

unless you are careful to look.

See those trees over there?

She planted those with her father.

There, that stream?

The focus of her current work.

That milkweed plant

growing tall in the middle of her yard?

Oh, for the butterflies, 

yes of course.

See her sitting in the chair

with two grown girls

piled on her lap?

So very confident they are loved.

I hear her in harmony,

in laughter, 

in words which are chosen carefully.

(She doesn't like to use her claws.)

Offering an arm to her mom,

who is always teaching us

the love of family.

She never thinks she 

does enough. 

But to those who know her,

she has made all the difference.

Happy Earth Day, sister-friend.

I am so glad you were born.

Good Friday

When shouts of praise are drowned out 

by voices of hate

becoming the only thing we can hear.

Leaving the "Hosanna" trapped within,

a half-finished thought, 

lacking the courage to become a voice.

Who was this man?

Beaten, mocked, spit on.

How did such love become

the object of consuming hate?

Fed by our need for being right?

Our misguided notion of religion?

Our incomplete understanding of God?

When the light of the world

was blown out,

with a collective breath,

leaving a curl of smoke in the darkness,

it must have felt

like the end. 

And still, the same darkness

lingers in our souls, 

but only if we let it.

Hate sometimes speaks the loudest,

but only if we listen to it.

Ask yourself, in the silence

and the darkness,

is it “Hosanna" I am shouting?

Ask yourself,

have I learned the giving

and receiving of forgiveness?

Good Friday.

A whispering of the hope

to come.

Just two people

No matter how hard I try,
I can't remember our first kiss.
But I remember every single detail
about our first hug.

It was on the sidewalk on Main Street
near the Overtime Tavern where we had been.
Arriving separately,
but leaving at the same time.

Bill the dog, waiting in the back
of Old Yeller (remember that pickup?)
parked in front of City Hall,
which makes the town sound bigger
and grander than it actually is.

It was not a first date
or any date at all for that matter.
It was just two people
enjoying each other's company
after work over a beer, belly-up to the bar.

For an Iowa farm girl,
he was an exotic cross between a hippy and a logger.
(I wonder what I was to him?)
His conversation was rapid and unpredictable,
as if bouncing off the bumpers in a pinball machine,
nearly impossible to catch up with.

As I recall, he mostly talked
and I mostly listened. Which is how I like it.
I understood some of what he said.

We left the bar together
and walked toward our vehicles.
Mine must have been parked
behind The Journal, where I worked.

And then suddenly,
I'm not sure how it happened,
I was in his arms in a perfect hug
that was exactly the right thing.
Unexpectedly perfect.

...

Now, many years later,
so much has changed.
The bar is a bistro, Old Yeller is gone,
the half-finished house is a mostly finished home.
The outhouse is now the recycling center.
The outdoor shower moved inside.
Kids have grown. Four beautiful daughters.
Grandkids arrived. Another on the way.

But one thing hasn't changed -
in his arms is still where I belong.
Exactly the right thing.
A perfect fit. Then and now.

...

(And no matter how hard I try,
I honestly cannot tell you about that first kiss.
More than thirty-two years ago.
But I'm guessing it was a doozy.)

Is it true?

"Is it true Auntie Lynn, that racism is
increasing in America?"

A simple question from my
'Ugandan daughter' Josephine.

How do I answer?
Living in a small town in Washington,
without television in my home,
I find myself isolated from so much.
How do I even know?

I try to pay attention.
I try to live my life in a manner
that encourages and supports others,
to be aware of the opportunities I have had
that are so easy to take for granted
and are not shared by everyone.

But I know, even though it is painful to say,
what I am doing is not enough.
Not if there are people
who are not safe to live their lives
in the country I call home.

...

Walking down the red dirt roads
in Uganda, I have experienced
being different, standing out because
of the color of my skin.
Children pointing and yelling "Mzungu"
but in an excited and curious way.
Friendly, not hateful.

I have climbed onto a boda,
a small motorcycle for transport,
and have wondered what the driver
thought of me, because of what I look like
and where I am from.
(Mostly, he probably thought
I could pay more for this ride.
And he would be right.)

I have experienced being a minority
for a couple weeks at a time
but I have never experienced racism.

I have experienced people
making assumptions about me
because I am American, and we are all rich,
but then I go home
to my middle-class life
where my culture tries to convince me
that what I have is never enough.

That is when my privilege
becomes something I want to hide,
making me want to take a scrub brush to my skin,
scouring off the white.

But wait - this is who I am.
And perhaps I can do a better job
choosing how I wear the color of my skin.

"Is it true Auntie Lynn, that racism is
increasing in America?"

Oh Josephine, the truth is that
it has always been here,
if we were honest enough to look.

Now, perhaps,
it is getting the attention it deserves.

Going Home

Behind every door, behind every curtain
in every ICU, there is a story.

It is a place where life is fragile and is held gently.
A place where the rest of the world falls away.
(It sounds peaceful when I say it like that.
But you know it isn't.)

Our family has a story.
Not all stories have a happy ending,
but I will tell you now - this does.

If you're looking for good news,
you are welcome to be part of this one.

Here's what happened.

The flu (the regular kind, not the pandemic)
turned into pneumonia in our mom's 86-year-old body.
It was February 8th.

The backdrop to this narrative
became a room in the ICU.
A room quickly filled with family,
trying to stay out of the way
as the nurses and doctors did their jobs.

It wasn't long, just a couple of days I think,
before hope was sent out the door
as if visiting hours were over.
We, however, were able to stay.

The doctor we named "glass half empty"
knocked the wind out of us
with his ominous description of to what to expect.
Preparing us for the worst, which is part of his job.

It felt for a while,
that the ventilator was keeping death alive.

And then later, so many days
filled with so many tears later,
that same doctor delivered to us hope,
as he went about his business
of saving our mom's life.

...

Off the respirator (for the second time)
trying to make sense of where she was
and what was going on,
and why so much family was there,
she asked, in a voice barely audible,
am I going to die?

No, no, we answer, you're getting better!
The words were a gift for us to say
and a blessing for her to hear.

And so she did. Slowly, bit by bit.
With much poking and prodding and hard work.
So much determination on her part.

Now she is going home. Today.
March 27th.

...

Writing this story down on paper,
I find myself careful not to equate God's love
with earthly outcomes,
as I speak of hope and healing.

Because we are all very aware that these
aren't the main characters in everyone's story.

Looking back,
recognizing the strength and comfort
we received from your prayers.
And for those of you who do not pray,
from your thoughts.
All flowing from the same love.

So very grateful.
Thank you.