Month: November 2015

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Transfiguration

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m grateful to be able to share this beautiful November reflection as a guest post by Carolyn, a fellow writer whose thoughts formed the July 11, 2014 post, Giving children room to wonder. The photo of the ice-encased crabapples was taken by her oldest son, Francis, whose pictures also were part of the earlier post. 

As I sat on the tractor, in the chill of the frosty November morning, it seemed as if neither the world nor I would ever warm up. But, watching from the edge of the field, I saw a slow transformation begin to unfold. The sun had been making a late appearance on these fall mornings. Now, just in time for my mid-morning break, it was finally rising over the tops of the leafless trees. Meter by meter, the dark, cold field was illuminated, reminding me of a shade being opened in a dim room. The Goldenrod, Joe-Pye, and Ironweed looked a little dull and “seedy,” but as the sunlight kissed them they caught fire. IP1080696 watched in awe and realized that each flower in the field, each stem of grass, was encased in its own very fine layer of icy frost. What had seemed a dead, wet, dull brown field was awakened into a warm palate of late fall color. Cinnamon, umber, ochre, and mahogany shades materialized as I realized that I, too, was beginning to warm up. My eyes hungrily attempted to take everything in before the angle of the sun changed and the magic dissolved. And then, there seemed to be a pause in the stillness as if an artist were taking his breath before painting the final and most difficult part of a scene. The sun reached a copse of crabapple trees. I never saw a diamond that dazzled me as much as each single ice-encased red or yellow crabapple. The light entered the ice at the top of an apple and kindled a halo of liquid fire around each one.

As if attracted to a beacon, a flock of birds alighted in the first tree. The bright red feathers on their wings and yellow-dipped tails seemed to want to find understanding in the clusters of red and yellow berries. But, at the same time, the bold, black mask and flashy crest of the Cedar Waxwings asserted their singularity.

Sitting back in my seat, overwhelmed by emotion, I realized that a corner of my heart had a profound sadness. I wanted to be able to capture the moment in a painting or picture, but would never be able to recreate in any way even a portion of the beauty I had just encountered.

When I sat on the edge of that field, I was 20 years old. My lifelong faith was just beginning to be caught by that transforming fire that turned it into something beautiful and alive. When I experienced the beauty of that field, I sat still and knew that God’s loving hand was touching my face. And I was thankful.

Now almost 20 years later, I look back on the encounter and see many more layers. Each year since then has been an unfolding of some new aspect of the beauty of God’s love. Little by little, the shade has been opened in my darkened room so that I can now begin to see the transformation of the events of my life. Things that would have looked at best, mundane, and at worst, like overwhelming suffering, I can now see as having their own profound beauty.

The sadness I felt on the seat of that tractor is still tangible. I am constantly faced with the depth of my inability to share the beauty of God’s love. But I also live a great hope. I know if I offer him this cold, dull, dark field, he can transform it into something that will reflect the splendor of his love — something even more dazzling than an ice-encased crabapple.

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Otherwise engaged


“I’m so sorry, but I am engaged tonight.”

With that simple expression of regret, Mary Lindsay, the lead character in Elizabeth Goudge’s novel, The Scent of Water, gracefully – and successfully – declines a dinner invitation from Mrs. Hepplewhite, the neighborhood social maven.

Goudge’s story, which takes place in England in an earlier, more genteel time, leaves me wishing that we in our day had such a lovely and acceptable way of responding to similar overtures. But in our “so busy” culture, it seems we are expected to either recite a litany of activity to justify our regrets or, better still, find a way to wedge one more gathering into an already full schedule.

On the night of Mrs. Hepplewhite’s invitation, Mary Lindsay had planned to pore over the old diaries she had found in the house inherited from Cousin Mary. To her credit, she kept to her plan, held her hostess at bay, and went home to have aP1040537n early supper, light a fire “for the sake of company and loveliness,” and sit beside it with the diaries piled nearby.

Had Mary lived in our time and place, I wonder if she wouldn’t have thought to herself, “Darn, I was going to page through Cousin Mary’s diaries tonight, but, oh well, I guess I can do that another time – or maybe look at a few when I get home.” Thankfully, though, in Goudge’s imagination, Mary stands her ground and lives on to inspire me – and other kindred spirits.

Like most people of our day, I have become deft at tweaking schedules and rearranging the time to meet a myriad of obligations – even if I arrive at them late or breathless. But as part of my quest to incorporate more quiet – and sanity – into my life, I’ve been trying to shed the practice of “wedging” in favor of weaving some breathing room into each day, whether it’s to stay home and garden or catch up with the laundry and mail. This means saying “no” to more invitations and “yes” to a few, remembering, as one friend has pointed out, that other people can’t see our calendars.

I’ve also learned, though, that the world in which we live is largely made up of Mrs. Hepplewhites who cannot imagine why someone would prefer staying home to any organized activity or social gathering. As a result, few of us have the wherewithal to say we are “engaged” when we have planned – and perhaps need – an evening at home with a good book.

Yet that is precisely what Goudge’s Mary Lindsay did. Would Mrs. Hepplewhite have understood if Mary had been more forthcoming about her plans? Unlikely. Which is why I sometimes wish for a world that permits and accepts “otherwise engaged” and does not pry into what that might mean.

Thankfully, I have among my friends a few Mary Lindsays who would understand if I said I needed some unscheduled time to recover from a packed calendar, or who are trying themselves to infuse their lives with a little more serenity and sanity.

Recently, one such friend and I made plans to see an art show and scheduled it around an afternoon party she already had agreed to attend. When we discovered that the art show was starting later than we had thought, I suggested we abandon the plan so that my friend could go to her party without having to rush. Kind and accommodating soul that she is, she wanted to “make it work” by having us get to the art show a little earlier, perhaps catching the artists as they were opening their booths.

I reminded her of a conversation we had had a few weeks earlier about building enough time into our schedules to get to where we are going, instead of rushing. That particular day, she had multiple commitments in wide-ranging locations and she later told me that the afternoon of seemingly nonstop driving had been exhausting.

After she finally agreed to skip the art show and let me go alone, she wrote: “You’re right. I’ve been trying to make my life more peaceful, which means not doing everything I’d like to.”

It took fortitude – for both of us – to come to that decision and to resist social messages that urge us to keep moving and to collect as many pleasures and diversions as we can – even if they’re not very enjoyable in the long run because they’ve left us tired, ill, or just plain irritable.

Doing one thing on a Sunday afternoon is not easy when everyone else is doing – and talking about – three or more. It can feel, at first, like you’re missing out or, perhaps worse, not as important as all those people with crowded calendars. Our world, after all, values activity – and the more of it the better. It loves the biblical Martha who was busy in the kitchen while her sister, Mary, sat at Jesus’s feet, seemingly oblivious to the work that had to be done.

We are told, however, that Mary has chosen “the better part.” And when I follow her example and that of Mary Lindsay, so have I.