What Frank Did, For Me

I took a walk one afternoon around the small mountain town I call home on the weekends. I passed cabins I recognized and cabins it seemed I was seeing for the very first time. I walked at a fast pace, trying to burn some anxious energy that left me feeling uneasy.

On the highest street in town, a cul-de-sac with homes perched on the mountain's edge offering vast views, I approached Frank, who, leaning on his walker, took slow, small, deliberate steps. Frank's memory is fading, I'm told, his knees are weakened, and at 90-plus years old, he appears fragile. 

I stopped just as I was about to pass by him. "Frank," I said, "I saw a video on Facebook of you singing 'Tomorrow,' and I enjoyed it so!"   

His face lit up at my remark, and he broke into song. He sang as though he were on stage with a riveted audience enjoying his talent. Such hope and confidence he exuded with each word. Frank took an eloquent bow at the end of his performance. "That's from the musical 'Annie,'" he said.  "I don't recall much of the musical, but I do remember the song."  I clapped and smiled and thanked Frank for his lovely offering. He continued down the street, while I raced up the street. On my way back down, I noticed Frank had advanced not much farther from where he was when he sang "Tomorrow" to me.

Again I stopped. "I remember your singing 'To Dream the Impossible Dream' at a gathering we had at the clubhouse years ago. That was lovely!" I said, hinting at the possibility of an encore performance. 

Of course he began to sing, "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go." On he sang, bathing me in the music, while my heart sang along.

"This is my quest," he sang, "to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far." Again, an eloquent bow from Frank and my adoring applause.  

I suppose we both offered each other something that afternoon, something unexpected and unexplainable, a gift that now lives in me.

Normally I feel bad passing a person who can't walk fast, who has some kind of handicap slowing them down, and I'll tend to walk more slowly to not make them feel bad. But this was not the case that day. I continued on, trusting that Frank was finding all the good while going the speed he could go, and I was free to go my speed, to be where I am on life's journey. Sooner than I, more than likely, Frank will be walking and skipping on streets of gold, with no aid, no pain, and a clear mind. Meanwhile, here, my steps may become slower and my mind less sharp.

I desire as I age to emanate the hope Frank displayed and that, though I may not remember the details of all that's happened in the past, or the full "musical," I'll remember the song and the spirit of the song and pass it along to others, offering them a vast view of hope for tomorrow. 

Just like Frank did, for me.

 

Taste, and See

On a wintry Saturday, I baked cinnamon maple scones at our cabin, using a new-to-me recipe. They were so yummy, I was eager to share them at our church potluck breakfast the following morning. But I coughed through the night, and it became clear neither I nor my husband would be attending church that Sunday. I was disappointed to miss blessing my church friends with my flavorful scones.

Before driving down the mountain, we parked our car in town to take a short walk around the lake. Two ladies we recognized sat at a picnic table across the road. “Do you want some scones?” I yelled through my mask with my hoarse, raspy voice. 

“Absolutely, yes, we do!” Kathy and Donna replied.

My husband retrieved the container holding the scones from the car and carried the treats across the road to our excited friends. “Take two!” I called over.

“Can we have three each?” they hollered back.

We continued our walk around the lake, and upon arriving back to our car, our friends let us know how much they enjoyed the delicious pastries. I don't know whose joy was more full, Kathy and Donna's in savoring the scones, or mine, in getting to share them. 

There’s a taste-and-see simplicity I experience when I share what I’ve baked. I don’t have weighty expectations on myself to “be somebody” in the kitchen, to become known as “Diane the baker.”  It is as simple as, “Here’s something I’ve made that is good. I hope it blesses you.” 

I was due to deliver a set of six benedictions this week for the Black Barn, an online community I belong to. I’d written and rewritten many and could not decide which ones to submit. The angst I experienced squeezed the joy out of writing and anticipating blessing others with my offerings. I tell myself, oh, but this is not a scoop of dough; it’s a scoop of my heart. Of course it’s going to be painful.

Perhaps my “of course” is off course.

I learned recently the word "companion" is derived from Latin and, at its core, it denotes someone who is present to you "with bread." As we are present to each other on this journey, we offer life-giving nurture and enjoyment, friend to friend. We bring who we are and what God has given us to offer. How good it is to have someone fully present to you; how much better when together you “break bread,” when together you unwrap and savor the good gifts God has given you. Together, we celebrate the Giver of the gifts. 

Again and again my thoughts return to the simplicity of baking something then sharing it, with a spirit of, “Taste and see the goodness!” 

I wonder what it would be like to experience such freedom as I weave words together and then share them. I wonder what kind of companionship I could bring to others, free from self-judgment about what I bring to the table. And I wonder whether God is inviting me to taste this kind of freedom, and to see that it is good.

diane mann, 2022