A taste of what is coming

Day Twelve

Maybe it reflects some impatience on my part.

Yesterday's 5 inches of slushy, sloppy snow was all I could take.  March is always a tease in Minnesota, but in the mix of shelter-in-place orders and a sudden 60 degree afternoon, I had all I could take.

The girls enjoyed some back and forth time with an old soccer ball.  Kris and I enjoyed a little fire.  Penny, well she enjoyed everything all at once.

The gloves had come off at this point.  I knew this could only add up to one thing.

Step one.

Step two.

And the rest just happened.

The family descended.

They ate.  They laughed.  They smiled.

They left.

And it was a beautiful day.

One to be repeated many times over in the days ahead.

All the better it will be with friends, once again.

I otter get out more

Day Eight

It's amazing how the days start to run together so much faster than you can imagine.  I wish I could say it's because the fun never ends.  There have certainly been wonderful things happening in my woodland homestead.  But in truth, I think the time has passed because the uncertainty of what is happening, and what is to come in the midst of this virus is bigger than the time used to measure it.  

I have decided to do more to distance myself from the news and continuous "updates" that are re-tooling the same information and speculation.  

As a family, we have been blessed that, to get out and go for a walk, we are just as likely to see other people now (few enough to satisfy social distancing standards) as we were before people started staying home.  We are in a rural wonderland, with a little of everything in just a short walk's distance.  There are fields, lakes, streams, wetlands, pastures and my favorite--woods.  This time of year is in many respects the most magical.  Everything begins to wake up again, and the older I get, the more my inner Ferris Bueller tells me to slow down a bit and look around.

Every time I do stop and look, I see something new.  Over the past several days, the shrinking snow and ice mound on my deck has disappeared.  The moss on the slopes is already turning bright green, and the lake's edges are now water.

The cardinal was today's serenade, as I walked to the bench swing overlooking our tiny lake.  

But he was not the main event.

I did a double take, then a triple.  I have seen many things on the ice over the years.  Bald eagles, coyotes, foxes, deer, mice, woodchucks.

Today, an otter.  I froze, and he dove back into a hole in the ice.  A moment later, he emerged with something in his mouth, and noisily set about crunching away on it.  Then, back under the ice.  This continued for some time.  He would dive under in one place, and pop up in another.  A buffet in my backyard.

The world around me is waking up, again.  Even in the midst of what feels like a hibernation, a retreat from the civilized world, there is undeniable evidence that life is abundant, if we let ourselves see it.

I'm going to keep looking for it.  And I know it won't disappoint.

Pay it forward

Day Two

It started with less promise than I was willing to give it.  Cloudy, cool, humid, foggy.  I used to love days like that.

Two years ago, we adopted a border collie named Penny.  And that's when I noticed that cool, humid, foggy days like this had a corresponding price to pay for the austere beauty they offered--mud.

Penny is my frisbee-catching pal.  It's a type of meditation, the back-and-forth exchange of disc and dog.  She never tires.  And she never chastises me for lowsy throws.  All love.  

So, I was a bit grumpy when I looked out the window in the morning.  I was not up for bathing the dog.

I set about my work for the day as intended, noting numerous times a sad Penny at the base of the steps, near the back door.

In the afternoon, I drove into town to pickup groceries and a few things from work.  On the way home, I had the idea to grab a take-and-bake pizza.  The family needed a little mood lift, after a week of staring at screens and awaiting better news in the world.

The pizza place was empty.  I walked to the door, and as I opened it, I noticed a woman walking toward me, with some haste in her step.  I held open the door and we exchanged kind looks and smiles.

She jumped in front of me in line (okay, there was no line, and I was in no hurry), and I took the opportunity to review the whole menu.  After a couple minutes, she was still at the checkout, and the person at the till asked me if I knew what I wanted.  I didn't think anything of it, and gave my order.  At that point, I saw that the woman in front of me was waiting to pay for her order, and thought, "Great, their system must be down."  Another victim of COVID-19, or something like that.

After another minute, the woman was handed a receipt.  She turned around, and placed the receipt in my hand, grabbed her pizza, and quickly left.  

It took me a moment to realize that she had paid for my pizza.  I looked up at the person at the till, and she smiled, and announced, "She said somebody paid for her order this morning, and she wanted to pay it forward.  I guess that means it's your turn, next."

The other folks working that shift were delighted in watching this whole thing play out.  Downright giddy, to be honest.  I guess it must not happen all that often.  As my pizza was placed in my hands, I was told again, "make sure you do this for someone else."

As I told the story to my wife when I returned home, we both teared up a bit.  It seemed such a small thing, but not one we will soon forget.

And then I looked out at the grey and gloom.  It didn't look so bad, after all.

Shaking like a leaf

Day One

I admit that I am usually stubborn when asked to entertain the significance of coincidences.  I'm not superstitious.  I'm not a fatalist.  I don't look for, or wait for signs and guideposts to give me clarity or tell me what to do, next.  I don't go looking for answers in unexpected places. 

But every now and then, I'm given opportunity to reconsider things.  At least, for a moment.

Two weeks into my first year of teaching, 9/11 happened.  I remember so vividly the events of that day, not so much the planes and buildings, but the shape of my office, the stairs in the hallway, the posture of students gathered around a television, and the faces of my colleagues.  I have since walked those stairs thousands of times, and once in a while, I would suddenly be caught in a wave of memories.  When people would ask me how long I had been a teacher, I was tempted to say, "since 9/11."  The two events have become one for me.

I started a new career in January, and only a short time into it, finding myself reflecting on that first year of teaching.  It started last week, as I drove to work and decided to play a little music instead of the news.  I found a great cover of Paul Simon's "America," and by the first refrain, I was just about sobbing.  I couldn't even identify why--I just felt incredibly sad.  I thought about all the disruptions of life that were coming, closed schools and businesses, people losing their jobs, and families huddling together in their homes, waiting for the virus to come.  I thought about all of that, and kept seeing the images I remember from 9/11 in my mind.  Why?  I don't know, and I'm not sure I will ever know.  Perhaps it has all been a trigger to a time where I felt such strong emotions and worries for the world.  Perhaps it is about the meaning and purpose of working with young people, and those who teach them.  

I've come to think that when these unsettling convergences (and they are, for me, unsettling) occur, I need to at least acknowledge that they are affecting me.  And this "pause" in life, this time of social isolation, is a tremendous opportunity to find some new space to reflect.  

I remember seeing images of people gathering in the dark, with candles, praying and singing, in the days following 9/11.  They were collecting and sharing hope in a beautiful way--one that we need to, but cannot do at this time.  As our churches have now suspended gathering for prayer and worship, we are compelled to wait until we can do so again.  I know that this means new opportunities to grow with our families and to connect with others.  But I am sad.  And I can only shake it for a little while before I think about it, again.

For a considerable period of time in my life, I wanted to be Rich Mullins.  Rich was the antihero of Christian music.  He was a phenomenal storyteller, and his music bore his own unsettled conscience into lyrics that are not soon forgettable.  Rich seemed to have a gift for being able to say "just what I needed to hear" for so many people.  I haven't listened to him for a long time, and pulled up my favorite old album last night. 

Hold me Jesus

'cause I'm shaking like a leaf

you have been King of my glory

won't you be my Prince of Peace?

I took a walk in woods this morning, and had one of those moments that I usually find suspicious.  A coincidence?  A sign?  An answer?

It was the leaves.  The snow is melting quickly, now, and at some point will be gone.  But there, in the woods, most of the leaves which were atop the snow were now settled deep into it.  They rest, in safety, in perfectly formed "beds" where their gentle weight has bore their imprint on the snow.  Over time, the snow has formed a shelter that has kept the leaves intact, yet held them steady.  Hundreds and hundreds of them were around me.  No longer shaking.  

Won't you be my Prince of Peace?

Today, it was the leaf.  I don't know what will help lead the way tomorrow.

Thank you, Rich.  It was everything I needed to hear.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9T3tL5U67w&list=RDd9T3tL5U67w&start_radio=1