Somewhere I have a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping announcing my Grandmother Fergus's graduating high school at the top of her class. Though her photo looks more like a drawing in my nth-generation copy, it's clear enough to notice her striking resemblance to me. Or mine to her, I should say.
There was a time I was not so pleased about this. My grandmother had a strong German nose which, more obviously than any other feature, I inherited. The memory of walking into my bathroom at eight months pregnant, in a cotton night-gown with my hair in a bun and being startled to see my grandmother looking back at me from the mirror will always stay with me.
Which brings me to her hair--that bun I mentioned. My grandmother never had one of those old-lady short perms that halo the head in order to hide the thinning. She wore her hair in a bun at the base of her head all day every day. Only rarely did I see it any other way, and then it was down. At bedtime, once in a great while, she would emerge from her bedroom at the cabin in her nightgown and when she would turn to go back in, I would see her long hair trailing down her back. It was fine and gray, and it was wavy from having been bound up all day. It must have reached close to her waist. I remember thinking how cool it was that my grandma had long hair. Not even my mom had long hair.
At the moment, my hair is longer than it has ever been. It has reached the point where I can no longer braid it without bringing it forward over my shoulder. It is so long that when I roll over at night, it gets caught under my shoulders and needs to be pulled free. Sometimes I worry about snagging it in the weight equipment at the gym. And I adore it! Because just recently I realized that I have my grandmother's hair. When I pull it into a bun it has to be wound at least four times and with each twist I think of my grandmother and smile.
Someone once told me that I was lucky I was still young enough to wear my hair long, because at her age (40-ish) it just wasn't acceptable to do that anymore. Hah! My grandmother was 84 when she died, and I assume her hair was as long as ever. How cool is that?
Although there are still moments I think it might be nice to have a nose job, by-and-large I have "grown into" my face and my grandmother's nose suits me. Not the inheritance I might have chosen, perhaps. Her hair, on the other hand, I adore, just as I did in those childhood moments at the cabin. I am grateful to have it and I only hope I can do it justice.
And anyway, wearing my hair long makes my nose look smaller.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Box of Bees
I dreamt I was holding a box, perhaps the size of a child's shoebox. I don't remember receiving the box, but I knew I'd gotten it from my father. It contained bees. A new hive, partially built, housing mostly larval bees and a few young adults. The hive had grown considerably since it had first been found--it had then been maybe the size of a finger. But it was growing rapidly. I could expect the hive to double in size in the very near future and, it would seem, nearly all at once. If I didn't find a larger box soon, the hive would literally explode sending a swarm of angry bees on the rampage.
I held the box deliberately between my hands as I and a couple others walked through a quiet wood. Although I can still remember the beauty of the forest, in the dream I was too distracted by the box to enjoy the reverent hush. The box was my responsibility: whatever happened to the hive was up to me. My burden made me very nervous, for I am none too fond of bees. As a biologist, I can certainly appreciate them, but as a person who has been stung more than once, I am wary and mistrustful of them. When it came down to it, what I wanted most was to be rid of the box completely.
But there were limitations to what I was allowed to do with the box of bees. I wondered why I couldn't just throw the whole thing in the lake and drown them and be done with it. But one of my companions told me that, no, the water wouldn't kill the bees and my action would just make things worse. I thought of a few other possibilities for destroying the box but these were similarly shot down. No one said anything to imply that I had any moral obligation to the hive or the bees, to guilt me into thinking my desire to get rid of it was necessarily wrong. It just wasn't practical. It couldn't be done that way.
I remember feeling frustrated at this point in the dream, wondering why the hive hadn't been destroyed when it was tiny and harmless. I didn't get a definitive answer from anyone, just the feeling that, once again, that hadn't been an option.
One corner of the box was starting to wear and break along the edge of the lid and I became quite concerned. I found myself with Dan in a house, the two of us observing the box as it sat on the breakfast bar. We could see through the lid, the little fuzzy bees gently undulating and humming as they drank nectar and grew. It was almost sweet, this little nursery I had charge of. But that tear in the lid was worrisome.
Then it struck me. I could tape the rip with clear packing tape. And if I could do that, I could tape the entire box completely shut. Seal it with layers and layers of packing tape. That would prevent the box from exploding when the hive suddenly grew and effectively suffocate the bees.
As I started wrapping the box, a few of the young bees escaped. Eiledon came up the stairs at that moment and smiled to see the little bees flying around. I, on the other hand, felt sick with anxiety. While Ledon saw cute, bumbly baby bees, out of the corner of my eye I could only see them as sinister wasps with long, skinny bodies and trailing hind parts hanging threateningly--and far too close.
We managed to return them to the box. Eiledon accidentally killed one with her fingers but only giggled and said, "Oh, they're squishy!" I continued to wrap the box as tightly as I could, hoping if I just covered every speck of surface, my problem would be solved. Yet I was aware of someone telling me, "No, you can't do that. At the very least, you need to allow a small hole for thus-and-so" (I can't recall the specifics) and I kept thinking, Why does it matter if, ultimately, I was supposed to destroy the box, or at least dispose of it? Wasn't I?
I awoke still with that awful, heavy feeling of unease. I was grateful the dream was over and I no longer had to try to figure out what to do with this silly box with which no one seemed to be able to help me. I couldn't destroy it, though I felt I was supposed to be rid of it. I couldn't give it away but I had no idea why I had it in the first place. When I tried solving what I thought was the problem, it created more problems. And through it all was this sort of dull dread that at some point soon, if I didn't figure all of this out, the box would explode.
What could it mean? I wondered, half awake. What on earth WAS that box of bees?
"Eiledon," said a voice. Not an actual voice, but the revelation was so clear and sudden it seemed spoken aloud.
The previous night she had been particularly difficult. I could grasp the significance of that fear I have of being stung. I want to do what's right, to be a good parent, but I'm tired of being the target of her anger. Much as I try to blow it off, those cute, fuzzy bees lurk, wasp-like just out of clear view, sinister and frightening. I find my worst character defects rising in response: anger, self-righteousness, the need to WIN the power struggle. I find myself seriously disliking my own child—or worse, wanting her to THINK I dislike her in an attempt to shock her into common courtesy or, at least, obedience.
It doesn't work, of course. Backfires every time and then I've my own guilt and shame in addition to the heaps I've just ladled onto her with my icy stare and dark scowl.
I don't know what to do with this box of bees. As a parent, I have to grapple with the implications of realizing that I wish she were other than she is. That she comes to me in my dream as something dangerous and unpredictable. There must be some instruction in the dream. Is it enough that I identify my own part in creating the problem? It's a start, I suppose. Maybe the box is my own heart and it needs to have room for the WHOLE Eiledon, not just the cute and fuzzy parts.
Bees are wild and beautiful, they fly, they sing, the make the world more verdant and bountiful. Eiledon is all these things. And ready or not, she is growing up. I need to find her a bigger box, and soon.
I held the box deliberately between my hands as I and a couple others walked through a quiet wood. Although I can still remember the beauty of the forest, in the dream I was too distracted by the box to enjoy the reverent hush. The box was my responsibility: whatever happened to the hive was up to me. My burden made me very nervous, for I am none too fond of bees. As a biologist, I can certainly appreciate them, but as a person who has been stung more than once, I am wary and mistrustful of them. When it came down to it, what I wanted most was to be rid of the box completely.
But there were limitations to what I was allowed to do with the box of bees. I wondered why I couldn't just throw the whole thing in the lake and drown them and be done with it. But one of my companions told me that, no, the water wouldn't kill the bees and my action would just make things worse. I thought of a few other possibilities for destroying the box but these were similarly shot down. No one said anything to imply that I had any moral obligation to the hive or the bees, to guilt me into thinking my desire to get rid of it was necessarily wrong. It just wasn't practical. It couldn't be done that way.
I remember feeling frustrated at this point in the dream, wondering why the hive hadn't been destroyed when it was tiny and harmless. I didn't get a definitive answer from anyone, just the feeling that, once again, that hadn't been an option.
One corner of the box was starting to wear and break along the edge of the lid and I became quite concerned. I found myself with Dan in a house, the two of us observing the box as it sat on the breakfast bar. We could see through the lid, the little fuzzy bees gently undulating and humming as they drank nectar and grew. It was almost sweet, this little nursery I had charge of. But that tear in the lid was worrisome.
Then it struck me. I could tape the rip with clear packing tape. And if I could do that, I could tape the entire box completely shut. Seal it with layers and layers of packing tape. That would prevent the box from exploding when the hive suddenly grew and effectively suffocate the bees.
As I started wrapping the box, a few of the young bees escaped. Eiledon came up the stairs at that moment and smiled to see the little bees flying around. I, on the other hand, felt sick with anxiety. While Ledon saw cute, bumbly baby bees, out of the corner of my eye I could only see them as sinister wasps with long, skinny bodies and trailing hind parts hanging threateningly--and far too close.
We managed to return them to the box. Eiledon accidentally killed one with her fingers but only giggled and said, "Oh, they're squishy!" I continued to wrap the box as tightly as I could, hoping if I just covered every speck of surface, my problem would be solved. Yet I was aware of someone telling me, "No, you can't do that. At the very least, you need to allow a small hole for thus-and-so" (I can't recall the specifics) and I kept thinking, Why does it matter if, ultimately, I was supposed to destroy the box, or at least dispose of it? Wasn't I?
I awoke still with that awful, heavy feeling of unease. I was grateful the dream was over and I no longer had to try to figure out what to do with this silly box with which no one seemed to be able to help me. I couldn't destroy it, though I felt I was supposed to be rid of it. I couldn't give it away but I had no idea why I had it in the first place. When I tried solving what I thought was the problem, it created more problems. And through it all was this sort of dull dread that at some point soon, if I didn't figure all of this out, the box would explode.
What could it mean? I wondered, half awake. What on earth WAS that box of bees?
"Eiledon," said a voice. Not an actual voice, but the revelation was so clear and sudden it seemed spoken aloud.
The previous night she had been particularly difficult. I could grasp the significance of that fear I have of being stung. I want to do what's right, to be a good parent, but I'm tired of being the target of her anger. Much as I try to blow it off, those cute, fuzzy bees lurk, wasp-like just out of clear view, sinister and frightening. I find my worst character defects rising in response: anger, self-righteousness, the need to WIN the power struggle. I find myself seriously disliking my own child—or worse, wanting her to THINK I dislike her in an attempt to shock her into common courtesy or, at least, obedience.
It doesn't work, of course. Backfires every time and then I've my own guilt and shame in addition to the heaps I've just ladled onto her with my icy stare and dark scowl.
I don't know what to do with this box of bees. As a parent, I have to grapple with the implications of realizing that I wish she were other than she is. That she comes to me in my dream as something dangerous and unpredictable. There must be some instruction in the dream. Is it enough that I identify my own part in creating the problem? It's a start, I suppose. Maybe the box is my own heart and it needs to have room for the WHOLE Eiledon, not just the cute and fuzzy parts.
Bees are wild and beautiful, they fly, they sing, the make the world more verdant and bountiful. Eiledon is all these things. And ready or not, she is growing up. I need to find her a bigger box, and soon.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Action
My grandfather lent me a biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer quite some time ago. I still had it on my shelf, unread, when he died in January of 2007. I'm not sure what possessed me to pick it up and read it this past week, but on the heels of the Children's Summit, it was a potent reaffirmation of the need to DO something in this life.
Bonhoeffer was given a teaching position in New York during WWII, but after only a month in the United States, he felt he had to return to Germany because he deeply believed you could not be a person of faith and stand idly (and safely) by while others suffered gross violations of human rights. He later wrote, "...our being Christians today must consist of two things: in praying and in doing what is right among men."( 1 ) He also wrote in verse:
As I struggled with the implications of Bonhoeffer's ideas and my own feelings of being called to service, I had an assignment in my 12-step program to discuss the following quote from the book Alcoholics Anonymous: "We are sure God wants us to be happy, joyous and free. We cannot subscribe to the belief that this life is a vale of tears, thought it once was just that for many of us." ( 3 )
This quote refers, of course, to the self-manufacture of misery in which I, as an addict, used to wallow. But I grappled mightily with the juxtaposition of this idea that God wants us (not just ME, but everyone!) to be "happy, joyous and free," the horrifying realities of the Holocaust, and the current epidemic of poverty, oppression, war and genocide.
Do I give up family, safety and comfort and wade into the fray at the cost of my own life, as Bonhoeffer did?
At the moment, I will return to Bonhoeffer's words: "...our being Christians today must consist of two things: in praying and in doing what is right among men." I will pray and in so doing, I will ask that I might be shown how to do what is right and for the courage to do it.
--------------
Citations
( 1 ) Wind, Renate, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: A Spoke In The Wheel, Eerdmans, p. 168
( 2 ) ibid, p. 169
(3) Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 133
Bonhoeffer was given a teaching position in New York during WWII, but after only a month in the United States, he felt he had to return to Germany because he deeply believed you could not be a person of faith and stand idly (and safely) by while others suffered gross violations of human rights. He later wrote, "...our being Christians today must consist of two things: in praying and in doing what is right among men."( 1 ) He also wrote in verse:
ActionIs it enough to be a writer? I wonder.
Daring to do what is right, not what fancy may tell you,
valiantly grasping occasions, not cravenly doubting--
freedom comes only through deeds, not through thoughts taking wing. ( 2 )
As I struggled with the implications of Bonhoeffer's ideas and my own feelings of being called to service, I had an assignment in my 12-step program to discuss the following quote from the book Alcoholics Anonymous: "We are sure God wants us to be happy, joyous and free. We cannot subscribe to the belief that this life is a vale of tears, thought it once was just that for many of us." ( 3 )
This quote refers, of course, to the self-manufacture of misery in which I, as an addict, used to wallow. But I grappled mightily with the juxtaposition of this idea that God wants us (not just ME, but everyone!) to be "happy, joyous and free," the horrifying realities of the Holocaust, and the current epidemic of poverty, oppression, war and genocide.
Do I give up family, safety and comfort and wade into the fray at the cost of my own life, as Bonhoeffer did?
At the moment, I will return to Bonhoeffer's words: "...our being Christians today must consist of two things: in praying and in doing what is right among men." I will pray and in so doing, I will ask that I might be shown how to do what is right and for the courage to do it.
--------------
Citations
( 1 ) Wind, Renate, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: A Spoke In The Wheel, Eerdmans, p. 168
( 2 ) ibid, p. 169
(3) Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 133
Monday, April 7, 2008
Overwhelm
I want to go to Seminary. No, wait. I want to go to the U of M and study human development and spirituality. Scratch that. I want to create, write and edit an ecumenical magazine for grade-school kids. Actually, I want to start an ecumenical online community called "FaithBook" that will focus on acceptance, justice and mission and stay away from the hate- and fear-mongering of so many so-called "faith-based" media resources. Whoa--too much? I know: I want to start a kids drama group at church that acts out Gospel lessons during worship. Or an intergenerational worship-experience program. Or a kids' mission partnership with an inner city church Sunday School. Or...
I left the April 4th and 5th Children's Summit at Luther Seminary absolutely overwhelmed with joy, hope, ideas, excitement, purpose and motivation. I actually had to leave Saturday's keynote address ten minutes early lest my heart and head explode: I simply could not take in any more.
Now it's Monday. My kids are back in school after an eventful Spring Break. The house is quiet. I have time to think.
I am still overwhelmed.
During the "Public Summit on the state of children and how Christian communities can respond," I jotted this in my journal: There is so much hope in this room it is overwhelming. I am filled and moved almost to tears. How do I maintain that hope when faced with the day-to-day realities we are all confronted with?
Before I could even end my last sentence with a dangling preposition, one of the Summit speakers, Dr. Lisa Kimball, of the University of Minnesota, opened her mouth and spoke my heart, rhetorically asking the entire assembly this same question, albeit with more eloquence. Even though I know God works that way, it still brought me up short to have my unspoken question voiced by another.
I thought I was a novelist.
Yet all I can hear are the words to a piece I once sang in choir:
All I can feel is this crushing urgency in my gut at direct odds with a sense of directionless paralysis.
I am a mom. A writer. A Lutheran. A singer and actor, a public speaker, a teacher, a church member, a volunteer, a dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions, a planner and organizer... What is it that God wants me to do? Because in the end, a much as I'd like to, I cannot possibly do it all. I can't single-handedly change the state of children in the world. All I can do is serve where I can.
And where, O God, might that be?
I left the April 4th and 5th Children's Summit at Luther Seminary absolutely overwhelmed with joy, hope, ideas, excitement, purpose and motivation. I actually had to leave Saturday's keynote address ten minutes early lest my heart and head explode: I simply could not take in any more.
Now it's Monday. My kids are back in school after an eventful Spring Break. The house is quiet. I have time to think.
I am still overwhelmed.
During the "Public Summit on the state of children and how Christian communities can respond," I jotted this in my journal: There is so much hope in this room it is overwhelming. I am filled and moved almost to tears. How do I maintain that hope when faced with the day-to-day realities we are all confronted with?
Before I could even end my last sentence with a dangling preposition, one of the Summit speakers, Dr. Lisa Kimball, of the University of Minnesota, opened her mouth and spoke my heart, rhetorically asking the entire assembly this same question, albeit with more eloquence. Even though I know God works that way, it still brought me up short to have my unspoken question voiced by another.
I thought I was a novelist.
Yet all I can hear are the words to a piece I once sang in choir:
Listen!All I can see are images of the children at Kinyago Dandora school in Kenya whose needs were supported by our Vacation Bible School mission project a couple years ago.
Listen, God is calling;
Through the Word inviting;
Offering forgiveness, comfort and joy!
All I can feel is this crushing urgency in my gut at direct odds with a sense of directionless paralysis.
I am a mom. A writer. A Lutheran. A singer and actor, a public speaker, a teacher, a church member, a volunteer, a dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions, a planner and organizer... What is it that God wants me to do? Because in the end, a much as I'd like to, I cannot possibly do it all. I can't single-handedly change the state of children in the world. All I can do is serve where I can.
And where, O God, might that be?
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