Month: April 2009

Author Doris Lessing once said that she was “preoccupied by a feeling that words are too thin for our experience”, and I would tend to agree with her. Language is a wonderful gift. Words are treasures, but they are truly as thin as the pages they are printed on. 

I’ve become aware of this over the past few thousand days, as I have spent most of them far from home and the faces dearest to me. We miss so much when all we have are words. Experiences can never be fully – or even mostly – shared, by words.

Last night, I went to the beach at Lake Michigan with some friends.  It was a warm day in Milwaukee, the first in months, so we got out to enjoy it before the temps plummeted back into the 40s today. We played two-hand touch football and talked and laughed. The wind was wild, whipping sand into my eyes and hair. I could smell the lake and marijuana from somewhere down the beach. The guys grilled up brats and burgers. Someone brought fresh strawberries that were big and sweet and perfect. My brat seemed to be equal parts meat, ketchup, bun, and sandy grit. It tasted like summer. 

I read what I just wrote, and it feels so not what happened. The night was much more vibrant than my words. And even if you never thought about it before, I’m sure you’ll agree with Ms. Lessing and me. Think about your life, your experiences. Words are just too thin, aren’t they?

Still, these little semi-meaningful squiggles on the screen are what we’ve got, so I’ll keep sharing as best I can.

They are building a median in the street by my apartment, which apparently requires an irritatingly regular pounding of the ground. My building is literally shaking every couple of seconds. I’m guessing 3.78 on the Richter Scale.

Good thing I bought Tylenol on my way home from work. My head appears to be trying to match the pounding outside.

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know I love Phillies baseball. Today the legendary voice of the Phillies, Harry Kalas, died at the age of 73. Fittingly, he was in the broadcast booth prepping for this afternoon’s Phils-Nats game at the time.

I’m sad. Very sad. I was surprised by the depth of my feelings when I heard the news, and the logical side of me kept telling me it was goofy to miss – so much – someone I never met. But then I realized that Harry wasn’t just the voice of the Phillies, he was the voice of my childhood. Even now, in my late 20s, whenever I hear(d) his smooth comforting voice (my brother Pete described it as “a warm blanket”), I slid back into little girl land.

I lost that today. 

A while ago, I wrote this poem – it pretty much sums my thoughts up.

Summertime Lullaby

On those nights when the heat overwhelmed

And the stickiness of the air made it hard to think,

Dressed in my thin cotton nightgown,

I’d sit at the table and wait for Daddy

To flip the switch on the radio

And turn the dial to my

Summertime lullaby.

 

But the voices that I heard on my way to sleep

Didn’t sing softly in mesmerizing tones, didn’t sing at all.

They shouted and chatted and groaned and joked

And when they talked, I was there

As the ball thunked – “He struck ‘im out!” – into the catcher’s mitt

Or squirted between the shortstop’s legs

Or was “OUTTA HERE! Home run, Michael Jack Schmidt!”

And in my young mind the dream was always alive,

No matter what the standings or how late it was in the season,

Back when the Phillies and Harry and the crew were my

Summertime lullaby.

 

Now I’ve moved on and discovered that no one else

Quite gets it right – not the way they did, the way they do.

So I still listen in from half a country away and

Something in the familiar rhythm of the game comforts me

And takes me back to when I was a little girl

Sitting at the table and waiting to hear

The latest version of my

Summertime lullaby.

I have discovered of late that most of my anxieties in life don’t come (first) from a lack of faith but from selfishness. I can’t remember a time that I ever feared that God did not hear a prayer of mine, or that he would not answer. I believe that he is my Father. I believe completely that he does answer the prayer, no matter how small (popsicles – see the previous post) or how big (salvation of a friend). 

Still my heart is often anxious. I’m selfish. I’m afraid that God won’t answer the prayer the way I want him to, with the timing I want, or in the place I want. I know in my heart he will give me what is best for me, but in my myopic selfish moments, I don’t want his best. Too often, I want what I want, even if what I want is not what’s ultimately the best for me, as decreed my an omniscient God.

Yikes. There were a lot of “I”s in that paragraph. That’s why I’m thankful for grace – grace that is greater than all my sin, all my wretched selfishness, all my foolish anxiety. 

Ephesians 1:7-8 In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace, which he lavished upon us, in all wisdom and insight”

My friends Pierce and Natalie got married today in a beautiful gospel-proclaiming, Jesus Christ- honoring ceremony. It was in the low 50s during the afternoon, with partly cloudy skies. That was a definite blessing, because this being Wisconsin in early spring, the weather is pretty much a toss-up. Today’s meterological niceties bump up against tomorrow’s wind and sleet and 4 inches of snow.

During prayer time at church on Wednesday, my friend Julie prayed specifically for “temperatures between 50 and 60 and partly cloudy skies [which are good for pictures]”. And God answered equally specifically. When I left home to head out to the wedding, the temperature was 50.4 degrees, the sun was shining between the clouds, and I imagined Him smiling.

He is my Father after all, and like any father, he delights in heaping blessings on his children. So why not ask? And what do little children ask for? Yes, they may ask for the “big things”, like food and clothing, but they often request those special little items.

“Daddy, can I have a popsicle?” “Daddy, can you read Fox in Socks to me?” “Daddy can you push me on the swings?” “Daddy, can you make it between 50 and 60 degrees and partly cloudy on Saturday so it’s nice for the wedding?”

Nothing is too big for God. And nothing is too small, or too specific. As today’s events clearly show, my Father loves giving his children popsicles.

Psalm 68:19 “Blessed be the Lord, who daily loads us with benefits, the God of our salvation!”