Repositioned

It's been fun this week, exchanging hilarious stories on Facebook after I've shared the latest ditsy things I've done. Sunday, I  grabbed a bottle of Downey Wrinkle Release from the hall cupboard. I sprayed my oatmeal-colored sweater several times, smoothing over the wrinkles with my hands. It wasn't working as well as usual, I noticed, so doused the sweater again and again. The smell of bleach reached my nose, and I looked at the bottle's label to find I had really been using a foaming bathroom cleanser with bleach! Stories like this must be shared, so I instantly posted a picture of my newly tie-dyed sweater to Facebook, where I enjoyed being laughed with and hearing of other people's foibles. 

This morning, Tuesday, I made myself coffee from my Keurig, like I do most mornings. Unlike most mornings, I placed the mug under the spout, pressed the button, and immediately the mug started overflowing, spilling coffee over the countertop.  Upon closer inspection, I saw I had placed the mug under the spout upside down, as in bottom side up. Another Facebook post, more LOLs, more stories shared.

I've done some funny accidental things in my life, from wearing two different shoes in public, to being affectionate with a man I mistook for my husband in a crowded elevator. He was much more gracious than the ballcap-and-windbreaker-wearing bearded man in the self checkout at Wal-Mart, who after my accidental hug and sincere apology, refused to laugh with me and ran from the store, not looking back.

While on the outside, I am laughing, after this morning's coffee mishap, I keep having this not-funny conversation in my head: If you want to feel, "ept," just hang around me. I'm so inept.

That is harsh, is it not? 

Why am I exceptionally scattered this week? The calendar reminds me that five years ago I saw my mom alive and well for the last time. She walked into my house with a friend, without knocking—again. I stayed in the kitchen, fuming over her violating my well-defined boundaries, while my daughters doted over her near the front door. I hugged Linda, the friend she brought, and withheld a hug from my mom. Before she left, we discussed when we would have time to bake pumpkin bread together, and I pointed out to her a Mother's Day card on the counter I hadn't given to her. "I finally found it," I said, having misplaced it after purchasing it in May. "It's the prettiest one I've ever bought you, but I haven't signed it yet, so I will give it to you after I write something on it."  

Two days later she fell while walking to the church bus during a senior field trip. Her walker got stuck in a crack on hilly pavement, and she flipped, landing on her head. The impact caused a catastrophic brain bleed that within a few minutes led to her being unconscious. She was helicoptered to a hospital and attached to life support, which kept her breathing the next couple days, until family could all arrive to say goodbye. I whispered in her ear before the medical team unplugged her, "I forgive you. I hope you forgive me, too."  I did keep my promise and gave her the pretty Mother's Day card, signed, setting it next to her in her coffin.

This is the week each year I am spacier than normal, less aware of my surroundings, slogging through life in a fog. Grief disorients me, and these anniversaries of loss always sneak up on me unaware. 

"Give yourself grace," people say to me, and I have said it to others. But I'm not the source of grace and can't seem to brew up enough for myself, or for anyone else. Yet I know—how I know—a softer gaze is needed, on myself, and on my mom, who sometimes scooched her way through my front door and over the well-meaning fences I'd built. A nicer rule-breaker you've never met!

The ache feels like a hollow longing in my chest, and my eyes leak off and on throughout the day. But I'm not turning away from letting myself feel the regret of the withheld hug, not this year.

I sit and move through the day with Jesus, this grieving heart facing toward Him, exposed, empty, not upside down, like my coffee mug. Here, His grace pours into me. My cup is being filled, not resisting what Christ is offering. I sense His softer gaze upon me. Repositioned under the fount of grace, I am full to the brim, even overflowing. 

I'm letting my regret usher me into a place where I am re-greeted by grace. There is no room for harshness, here.

Is there an area in your life you need Christ's gaze upon you? Something you've refused to acknowledge before God? Perhaps you, too, see the need to reposition yourself under grace's fount. 

Postcards, From Home

My husband, upon delivering my coffee in bed this morning, noticed my new, summery PJs. Drawings of mountains, postcards, beaches, bikes, and written messages decorate the sleepwear in pleasant pastels.

"Hey, you've got bikes on your pajamas!" he noted, which seemed significant because we just purchased a bike for me.

After he left the bedroom, my eyes and heart landed on words written on my pajama pants: "Wish you were here."

The sentiment of that longing, this place we are in, fitting. Words scribbled across millions of postcards delivered over the world, now so weighty, so...wishful.

There will be no big trips for me this year, but today I sit in gratitude for what I've been given, here, at home. I do this most mornings, asking God to show me what to remember to give thanks for. What does He want me to not miss? What does he want me to share with others?

Today, in my mind, I step into a souvenir shop at a vacation destination. Eyeing the postcard rack, I seek a picture reflective of the gifts of yesterday, here, while you, my friends and family, are not here. You more than likely are nestled into your own homes, seeking shelter from the virus, searching for what is lovely and meaningful in your surroundings. My eyes rest on a couple of scenes that reflect my time here, on this summer non-vacation. 

Can this be adventure, this time looking longer and with more love at the space I've occupied for decades? Is it worth writing home about? Or in this case, writing from home about?

In my journal I draw both sides of a blank postcard. I fill in one side with a friend's name and address, adding a postage stamp. What would I tell her, about yesterday, in this cramped writing area on the postcard? I describe my time on the back patio last night, the twinkling lights, the fountain running, a music playlist offering a summer vibe. "Wish I could share this with you," I write, then sign my name.  On the photo side of the postcard, I etch out my rendition of the idyllic scene from last night.

Next I write to Paula, my sister who lives in Canada, so very far from me. I draw a bicycle on the front then write on the back, "You won't believe it, but I bought a bike! It is the brightest green you ever saw. The best thing is, there is a motor to assist my pedaling and to help me zoom up hills! How I wish you were here so I could share it with you. We'd have so many laughs!" 

My stationery drawer holds several postcards selected from past vacations, postcards I never sent. Some I even wrote on but never took time to mail. There's one thanking my mom's friend Shirley for baking our wedding cake! We bought it on our honeymoon in Alaska 37 years ago. How surprised Shirley would be to receive that card now!

I wonder tomorrow, when I reflect upon today, what memory I will want to celebrate by sharing it with another. 

Yes, "Adventure awaits," and "Adventure is out there," but is it not also right now, right here, waiting to be had? 

Yes, I say, yes. 

Whatever joy this day offers, whatever memories it etches that beg to be remembered, there will be some experiences that make me think of you. My heart will reach across the miles, with a bit of an ache, wishing you were here.

The Glad Giver

She handed me a cup of water. I was exercising at my gym and forgot my to bring my own water bottle, and due to the new rules to prevent spreading the coronavirus, we clients could no longer touch the water cooler.

"Your job description certainly has expanded during this pandemic," I said to Coach Eleisha as I received the drink she brought me from across the fitness center. Face masked, she nodded her head in agreement. I caught that smile in her eyes when she said, "Yes, but I am happy to serve."

She seemed to mean it.

I went on a three-day cruise with my mom and sisters a couple of decades ago. The ship's crew included workers from around the world. Many we spoke with expressed gratitude for their jobs and the ability to help their families back home by sending money. There was joy in their service, whether they placed a plate of food before us, refilled drinks, performed, or created fun designs out of towels.

I stood in a line at a service desk on the ship, and next to me stood a sign that read, "We are happy to serve you." Never before had I been the recipient of service so gladly given.

They mean it, I realized.

I scan my mind to look for times I've gladly given, offerings not absent of effort or sacrifice but given with cheer.

The time I came upon the last two packages of toilet paper in the grocery store and saw a woman on the hunt for the same. We didn't speak the same language as each other, but I waved her over, handed her the last pack, and we gave each other high-fives. We stood in the checkout line, while she in Spanish expressed glee at being able to find toilet paper. Giggles, smiles, knowing nods. I realized we shouldn't have touched then dug in my purse for some hand sanitizer I gladly gifted to her.

"God loves a cheerful giver." II Cor. 9:7 

God Himself gives cheerfully to us, and how I sense His pleasure when He sees us do the same for each other.

Can you bring to mind times you've received from a cheerful giver? Times you, yourself, have given cheerfully?

When have you sensed joy both in the giving and receiving? Think upon these things, and it will bring a smile to your face. 

And if this reflection blessed you in any way, please know it is my pleasure to offer it to you, like that cup of fresh water offered to me. I am happy to serve.

I mean it.

Welcome

The Black Barn at Maplehurst

I see the temptation in her eyes
To blur over my story
I'm taking too long to tell
To this, my dear friend
Who listens so well

There's this book
And an author
Who was led to a place
She talks about it in the book
She created a monthly care package
I subscribed

The only thing keeping my friend
Engaged in our conversation
Is my passion
The light in my eyes
The tones of delight
I struggle
To describe anything linearly
But I try

There's a real barn
Where retreats and classes happen
Where good things take place
Spiritual things
Creative things
It's a place
Built with a dream
To welcome people
To celebrate life and art and faith

I signed up for the care package
And was invited to the virtual Black Barn
A trial of sorts
Before the online Barn doors opened wide
It's a place of caring intention
A slower, more spacious place

There I receive
There I give
Conversations are created
Works of art celebrated
Benedictions given
Infusing good words, blessings
Into and over me

I've come to care
For those I've met there
In a way that says
"I will carry your burdens with you,"
And, "I will celebrate and pay witness to what you are noticing."

Most live far from me
But have become close
Soul friends
Let's-grow friends
Let's-water-and-tend-to-this-thing-
and-wait-to-see-what-happens friends

Someone called us cultivators
No one has ever referred to me as a cultivator
Not until now
But we were invited to pour into this space
Even as we were being poured into

We are witnessing others enter the barn doors
We are cheering them
Ushering them in
With hopes they too will find something
Very Special here

"Thank you," I say
To my listening friend
"I know I talk about the Black Barn a lot!"
She tells me to talk about it all I want
How she enjoys hearing about it

Look who came through the door today
My patient friend Tammi!
My heart jumps a little
Not true, it jumps way more than a little
My body follows, taking a little leap
I run to greet her

Welcome to the Black Barn
Take a look around
Have a seat
Receive all that is here
For you


Diane Mann 2020

It's Time

Amazed, I am
at the wretchedness
of man—of me
Stunned, I look on
then look away

Amazed, I am
at grace overflowing
to man—to me
Stunned, I look on
then look away

Perhaps the time has come
to, with courage, linger
and look a little longer
at what is.

Diane Mann, 2020

A Checkered Present

The photograph hangs on the entryway wall in my dear friend's home. Dozens of others surround it, but my gaze rests on this one each time I visit. Her grandparents sit on a cloth spread out on the grass in front of a parked 1930-something automobile, smiles on their faces, a breeze blowing their hair. They're not her grandparents or even anybody's parents yet; they were engaged to be married at the time. A picnic basket sits between them. The picture is black and white, but I've no doubt the fabric I see beneath them is red-and-white gingham, because what says "picnic" more than that?

I say it each year as the last edge of spring ushers us into summer: "This year I'm going to bring back the picnic." Memories rise of my mom packing an ice chest and six children into the car, driving to a lake or a desert or anyplace with a picnic table awaiting us. We would make sandwiches, explore a bit, then drive home. The scenes weren't photo worthy—no woven picnic baskets or charming automobile, although a vinyl checkered table cloth did cover the picnic table—yet the light mood and simplicity of these days leave a joy-etched print on my memory.

My husband and I sat at a picnic table this week, plastic grocery bags and food containers decorating our space. We picked up takeout food then walked a path to a lovely park area a short drive from our home. "What a great idea," he kept saying, as we enjoyed the breeze, our meal, and each other.

A friend and I hiked on a trail in our nearby mountains yesterday, and not feeling safe about yet eating in restaurants due to Covid-19, we both packed a lunch. After our hike, we sat just off the road under a tree, a cement block providing our seating. She ate her salad while I drank my smoothie. My ukulele happened to be in my car, so I brought it over. I'd recently learned how to play "What A Wonderful World." She sang, reading the lyrics off my phone, while I played. We enjoyed our meal, a song, and each other.

Today finds me, at the end of May, looking forward to that quintessential picnic I say I'll bring back each summer. I look back, however, on the past week, these two meals shared with loved ones in the outdoors, and discover I've been living out what I'm longing for. While I still do want to put some effort into that more intentional, old-fashioned picnic (and have just the perfect gingham dress picked out to wear), I look again at my friend's photograph of her grandparents. The surroundings are charming—the basket, the vintage clothing and car, the checkered cloth—but what makes the photograph sing is the the love and light on this couple's faces as they enjoy the breeze, a meal, and each other.

Among Us

Fear is in the air
A virus spreading too
We step back from each other
More than we used to

We're full of care
Burdened by it, even
We try not to talk about it
But our efforts fail

News of outbreaks, numbers deceased
Make us edgy
Ill at ease
I don't know when the problem
Flipped from remote
"Out there somewhere" to
Right now
Right here
But it did

Where we once said
"Have a nice day"
To people we greeted
We now say
"Stay well"
No physical touching
But our gazes linger a bit longer
To let each other know
We mean it
And we do!
People say it to me
And I to them

I suppose we are touching each other
Now more than ever
The kindnesses are lights in the dark
Streams of goodness
Winding through
Harsh terrain

How can we help
The vulnerable among us?
People are planning
Looking for ways to watch out
For the other

Yes, fear is in the air
A virus too
It's almost palpable
But I notice the care among us
The most

Diane Mann 2020

Her Beads, My Words - Creativity Observed

Necklace and photo by Magpie Madness Jewelry, Etsy

Commitment to her craft
I see it in the jewelry maker
Arranging her beads
One after the other
The next
  then the next
Saying, it is good
And finished
  then creating again

Is each piece her favorite?
Certainly not
But by faith she 
Reaches for her tools
Trusting the idea-giver
Using the materials before her

I'm blessed to see what she's made
It spurs me to be
Working on my own creations
But when I stare too long
At her gifts
I neglect to open
My own

God, 
Make me
Not so frightened
To pick up my tools
Arranging one word with the next
  then the next
Until we create something
Together
And say how lovely it is.

Diane Mann, 2020

I'm Learning

He should have known.
He should have known me.
He should have known me better.

My husband this Saturday morning hands me a cup of coffee he made, for me. He offered to make it, he made it with love, he delivered it to me in bed.

I am so grateful.
I am so upset.
I am upset with me for the part of me that is upset.

"Is this the largest mug you could find?" I ask?
"I didn't really think about it," he said. "I saw you've been using this for your coffee."
"Yes," I say, "But I use the Keurig during the week. "When you make my coffee, I like to drink it from the bigger mugs." (You should know that, I imply.)

I couldn't not say it. I couldn't resist implying he should know better than to not use a giant mug when he makes me his custom coffee.

I sit up in bed sipping, but not quite enjoying, my morning brew.

I rewind to seven years ago, that October when my backpacking, solitude-loving, introverted husband took me to New York City for my fiftieth birthday. After an adventure-filled week, the morning of our departure we Googled Dunkin' Donuts and found one a mile from our hotel. The shop was a novelty for us, since at the time no DD's existed in Southern California, where we live. We had just enough time to squeeze in one last visit so took the mile walk. There I found a mug I wanted, and Brent bought it for me, an item celebrating both NYC and Dunkin' Donuts, a perfect souvenir.

While packing after hurrying back to the hotel, I was realized I had left the newly purchased mug at the donut shop. We phoned to verify it was indeed there, and Brent ran as fast as he could a mile, retrieved my souvenir, and ran back, mug in hand, to the hotel, where we caught our ride to the airport just in time to catch the flight home.

He was my hero, and I told him so.

This mug that brings back happy memories is the same mug I'm upset about this morning. It's the one he chose to serve my coffee in.

Even now, I see those words, he chose to serve, and I know I should be thankful!

I've been practicing gratitude, I really have. I know it should win over ingratitude, I really do. How I can see my husband go from hero to zero over such a thing, I don't know. But I sense it has very little to do with him and a lot to do with me.

I traveled a few steps (not a heroic mile, however) between the above paragraph and the one I am writing now. I found my husband in the garage and told him I had something I needed to ask forgiveness for. "Whatever could you have done wrong this early in the morning?" he asked. I stumbled through my apology. He somehow had failed to be offended by my remarks but accepted my apology, along with my thanks for his kindness.

"Next time," he said, "it's OK to just ask for a bigger mug."

I think I have some things to learn, about receiving, about receiving imperfectly the imperfect gifts given to me, about allowing even my gratitude to be imperfect.

Lord, I'm grateful. Help my ungratefulness.


Diane Mann 2020

For Zac

I look at you with a blank stare
The young man
Who married my daughter
And fathered my granddaughter

You're asking about my dad
Listening
As we who knew him
Recall
What he was like
(How long do you have?)

I didn't know what to say, except
I wish you could have known him

I can tell you this:
If you've seen a kind man
Who is also strong
A man who can laugh at himself
Who is also proud
A man whose faith grows
With each impossible trial
A man pointing out the pretty in nature
Who recreates it in his art
A man who welcomes others
Yet needs time alone
A man who asks, "Why me?"
Wrought with pain
Who also asks, "Why me?"
Weighted with gratitude and wonder
A man falling more in love with God
To whom sharing Love is everything
An anxious man
Still learning
To trust
With an increasingly grateful heart
For all God has given him

Then you've seen someone like my dad,
Whom, as you've witnessed by our words
Loved Deeply and is
Deeply Loved.

Diane Mann, 2020