When Saturday Becomes Sunday

I sat in front of my computer yesterday morning, coffee next to me, my attention on the screen before me. I showed up, as I had promised myself to do each Saturday morning, but this time to edit someone else's words, rather than write my own.

It wasn't even really a choice. I had reported a job Wednesday--a difficult job--in downtown LA. The attorney who hired me let me know on Thursday he wants the job signed, sealed, and delivered by Monday. So Saturday morning I combed through each word spoken on Wednesday, referencing documents that were read from by muffled talkers during the proceedings, adding commas, semi-colons, proper spellings, all to deliver by Monday an accurate record of the deposition given on Wednesday.

Saturday morning was a lot of things, but reflective it was not!

Now it is Sunday, and I am here, and I wonder whether it "counts."

I went to my prayer spot early this morning, the loveseat near a sliding glass door at the back of the house. I saw Junior the Cat resting on the rug near my sitting space. Junior the Cat had not been seen for four days. Brent and I are catsitting two grand-cats for Kyle and Destiny while they and their children are transitioning between homes. Junior had snuck outside under our watch. We had some forlorn grandchildren over their lost cat (the family would have rather lost Autumn the Lesser Cat if they had a say in the matter). My daughter-in-law searched valiantly at the Humane Society and posted about the missing feline on social media. She stepped outside late last night and found Junior in the front yard. I am relieved.

Maybe I can't get Saturday morning back, but we got Junior back, and that just feels good.

Junior in the Guest Room

And I am thinking about space and wanting to write about space but keep writing about Junior and my lost Saturday morning. And I see Junior in my mind's eye, occupying the space of our newly redone guest room. New carpet, new paint, new bedding, a whiter-than-white chabby chic quilt, topped with pillows and a bright pink throw. The room is the best place in the house right now, uncluttered, fresh, and inviting. How does this animal know that this is "the place to be"? And what makes him think he can occupy that place without apology?

I wrote and published a book. My Bunco ladies, with a celebratory spirit, asked about it Thursday evening. I cannot recite the conversations, but the flavor of my responses was to make the accomplishment smaller than it is. "With apology," I said or implied things like, "It's just a little book. You should see how little it is! It's just a little something I had a desire to write for my aunt. Don't think you need to buy it, and by all means don't let it take up space on your bookshelf or space in your life by reading it."

I want to be proud of it. I want to treat it like my newborn babies. I invited others to behold the God-given bundles, to rejoice with me, to gaze upon them, to jump up and down with me in celebration, to be blessed also by my blessings.

An author friend wrote a beautiful foreword for my book. But before doing so, he expressed to me he would love to see me develop each chapter further. "Give us more of YOU," he emphasized over and over. "It's as if you are on stage holding the microphone and starting to share yourself then quickly lay it down." I read through my 108-page creation, and I do see what he meant. But I am proud of myself for taking the stage at all, for daring to hold the microphone for those few seconds. I am proud of me for taking the blankie off my baby's face and showing the lookers-on the beautiful thing God did for me.

And, no, I can't get Saturday morning back, but I can show up on Sunday. And I can't get the Bunco shrinking-my-accomplishments conversations back. But there will be more conversations about my book, opportunities to crawl into and rest on fresh, beautiful spaces, without apology.

Low

I feel like I should receive a free pencil and a sticker, a reward for attending three weeks in a row, a certificate stating I am now an official member of the Diane-Writes-on-Saturdays class, because this morning I again showed up to put a reflection in writing.

I thought yesterday I would write about the line in a song that stuck with me this week. Referring to Jesus' eyes, the song says, "How beautiful the tender eyes that choose to forgive and never despise." I felt my own eye twitch as I listened to those words being sung. It was my right eye, and I knew it often looks despicably upon others. I saw Jesus's forgiving, tender eyes (eyes that have tenderly looked upon me) contrasted with my own.

Then this morning as I was sitting quietly with Jesus, hoping for him to calm my mind and minister to my heart, something told me to sit on the floor. I immediately came up with some reasons to not sit on the floor. "But I would have to push this chest out to make space, because I won't fit otherwise," "Brent will come in an see me and wonder what I'm up to (or down to) now," and I forget the third reason to resist the invitation to sit on the ground, but it was there. The excuses came rapidly, practically overlapping one another, and they were all pretty good. But I lowered myself to the floor.

What came to mind as I sat in silence was a small group I used to be part of. Tammi, Diane C., Charlotte and I were the constant regulars. We were the pencil-bearing, certificate-carrying constant members of the group. Once we met in a restaurant and Charlotte, who had planned to not attend, came. She explained why she almost didn't make it. "I am playing racquetball with the ants," she said. "I didn't want you all to have to get down that low with me."

The opposite was true. We were honored to sit low with her and hear her heart. It's the same kind of honor I felt from Jesus this morning, he and I sitting in the dirt (I was actually on a not-very-clean rug but pictured a dusty road). He was glad to sit low with me. He didn't despise me for being down there. He didn't even hate me for that look he sees in my eye toward others--that unforgiving, you-owe-me look.

I'm thinking that as I let myself be looked upon by those eyes, the ones that choose to forgive, my own vision becomes more clear. Can I see others with Jesus's eyes? Yes! Not without his help, and not without letting myself be the recipient of his tender gaze.

Today I'm attending women's retreat for my church. I need to quickly shower to get over there. But I have the opportunity to "sit low" and listen to some ladies as they share their hearts with me one on one. It's a privilege to witness what God is doing in another's life, to partner with Jesus in letting them sit in his gaze.

Just as I "showed up" to my screen this morning, I will show up at the retreat. Not for a pencil or a certificate (maybe a free t-shirt) but to sit low, to lift God high, to listen, and to learn to see with Jesus's eyes.

Along the Way

Well, it is Saturday morning again. By what I chose to wear this morning, I can see I am hoping for a "Saturday-ish" day. Jeans that are a bit too baggy and my long-sleeved Subaru shirt made of recycled materials I received for "free" after purchasing my $26,000 car! Chunky, furry slippers cover my feet, and my hair, teeth and face have not yet been combed, brushed, and washed. My diffuser next to me is making bubbling water sounds while shooting up particles of Wild Orange, Lime, Motivate and Elevation essential oils, while the fake fireplace behind me puts on a show of flames accompanied by a strong, constant hum.

Brent is readying himself to go to the Chrysler dealer, where his truck's airbags will be replaced due to a recall. I will soon be on my way with him.

I long to settle into this day, into my life, but I find it challenging. Life is always moving ahead, and I always feel a little behind.

I once noticed on a hiking trail I kept saying to myself, "Why can't I keep up with Brent?" Then I switched it around and said, "Why can't he keep 'back' with me?" as though one of us were wrong for being right where we were on the trail. Often I notice that unsettledness as I navigate my days. I should be faster, I should be slower, I should be anywhere other than where I am now.

Maybe I am supposed to be right here, right now, writing my Saturday Morning reflection in my sloppy clothes.

Even as I type, the letters are on their way to the next word, the next line, the next paragraph. Soon I will be on my way to the auto dealership. Then on my way back. Rivers flow, life flows, nothing is stagnant. I suppose we are always "on the way" to somewhere. Maybe I can accept rather than resist the motion, notice the current, and pay attention to what I see, along the way. Maybe Love carries me--I'm certain it does. And even though Love is taking me places, to the next thing and the next thing, I can be still and unflailing as I rest in its embrace.

Today I will let Love usher me into each moment.

And that sounds like just where I am supposed to be, being still in Love, while Love moves me--along the way.

Diane Mann, 2018

Last Week

It was Saturday morning a week ago, and I felt reflective while baking some brownies for my niece's baby shower.  I used an old family recipe.  I had lots of things to say--about ingredients and life and gatherings and it all coming together to create something somehow. While I stirred the brownies, an idea stirred in me to write each Saturday morning, to start a series of writings titled "Saturday Mornings."

I didn't write it down. I left my idea in the bowl while putting the real brownies into the baking pan then the oven and letting the brownies idea become a reality. 

In fact I haven't written one day since making my resolution to write most days in the new year.  It is February 17.  It is a Saturday.  So I supposed I am keeping two promises to myself, albeit late-kept promises, the commitment to write most days and starting a series of Saturday Morning reflections.

I suppose if questioned, I could come up with 110 reasons to not be writing this morning. Tense words exchanged between me and my husband set my mood early in the day. A late transcript of a deposition, long and arduous, waits to be completed. Then there's the deadline Brent and I set for wanting to leave for the cabin by midday.

I sat to write and received some instant messages from my sister, who lives in Canada, asking about--guess what?--a family recipe! We shared our funny nonspecific instructions Mom had given to each of us. The recipe is for cheesy potatoes. One package potatoes (frozen? hashed browns? diced?), one small sour cream (what is small?), one can cream of chicken or mushroom soup, cheese, cheese, cheese. Top with cheese. Cover.  Bake for 45-60 minutes (what temperature?).  Then uncover and top with more cheese and bake another 10 minutes.

Together Paula and I pieced together what might work with what's worked and hasn't worked in the past. She wondered whether my grandkids enjoyed it, hoping hers would. Emmett, my oldest, did not want to like the cheesy potatoes dish but had to admit he did and came back for seconds. I assured her once they try it, they'll be hooked.

Meanwhile what I thought of writing about my niece's shower and family recipes and ingredients of life stays inside me, not ready to be baked. But the ingredients, vague, generalized, not set in stone, are there--to be baked and enjoyed another day.

diane mann