The refrigerated air hits my face as I enter his office. As I step into the waiting room, a slender, smooth-skinned woman--young and green-eyed greets me. Looking at her tailored clothing and perfectly coiffed hair, I suddenly feel old and somewhat disheveled, having driven to the appointment in the heat of the Carolina day, the walk from my car to the office causing me to perspire, my suit jacket wrinkled after a day at work. The lovely girl tells me with flawless courtesy, "Wes will be right with you." As I wait to speak with my financial consultant I stare down at the plush Oriental rug beneath my shoes--the swirls of sage, burgandy, cream and black so pretty--no crumbs or threads. I think of my own rug at home--always a few stray pieces of grass embedded in the carpet strands--and yes, surely crumbs.
Wes interrupts my thoughts. "Come on back. I've got your portfolio ready." Wes looks a lot like his assistant in a manly way. He is tanned, but not too tanned. His white shirt is crisp, trousers pressed, the crease impeccable. When he hands me a sheaf of papers, I note that his fingernails are slighty bitten--his one "chink" perhaps. We go over the paperwork. He smiles and talks to me about how the stocks are doing and makes some recommendations. Mostly I understand, however, investing is not my forte. I'm thankful for Wes and his expertise. I'm just starting to kind of relax. I'm not sweating anymore, thank God. The air conditioning is so cold, I'm almost chilly. But then Wes gently advises that I save even more. And now that you're sixty, it's time to be thinking about long-term care insurance. Even though it's plenty cool in the office, I begin to sweat again, anxiety blooming under my arms. I can feel my chest turning red, beads of perspiration beginning to form droplets on my upper lip. I'm thinking, "Oh my God, how can I ever begin to save that much every month and then think of adding that insurance policy into my monthly budget?" The figures just seem impossible. I so want out of the meeting. Wes is kind. I can't imagine that he doesn't notice that I'm sweating so much. I dread shaking his hand. My palms are wet. So I hold the printout of the reports he's given me in one hand and fiddle with my purse with the other so I won't have to do the handshake. I make it out in one piece and head for my car. There are crumbs on the carpet there too. As I drive home I observe a lean, tanned jogger. She has an enviable beach body. Even her dog is sleek and shiny. Wow, they make such a stunning duo. And I think of myself. I am so, so far away from a beach body.
When I get home I open my email box. There is a wonderful note from a friend. "I've been thinking about you," she writes. She tells me of her own life, a collage of bits and pieces that are good and not so good. She says, "We all have our own versions of 'hard.'" She continues, "Too often I'm comparing myself with others, and this is not a good idea." No it is not. Her words act as a jolt to my mind hemorrhaging with distorted thoughts. Maybe I can't save as much as Wes recommends, but I can increase my saving. It's not "all or nothing." Surely I will never have the physique of the muscled jogger, but I can keep working out--being more consistent. I can vaccuum my car. Yes. We all have our own version of hard. My friend is right. We will lose the comparison game every time.
Then I open the Word, the Lord so good to speak--to remind me that my life is not about constantly doing more, achieving more, but rather about trusting His supply, His wisdom, His abundant grace, His rest. I call out to God, the God who holds me together. God delivers generous love; He makes good on His word. Now I stroll at leisure with God in the sunlit fields of life. (From Psalms 56 and 57, The Message)
This week I found a penny. When I find pennies, I always look at the year and determine what was happening for me at the time. The year was 1975. I had lost contact with Giovanni. We could not bridge a relationship with an ocean between--we faded from each others' lives. I was heartbroken and trying to make sense of my reality without him. I wrote constantly--the page like a window in the wall of my tattered emotions. That year was also when I was born-again--Jesus made real in my life--His salvation and healing another window in the wall.
I rubbed the raised numerals of the date on the coin with my thumb and realized that from 1975 until the present, there was a forty-year span of time. A generation. The time it took the Israelites to cross the desert into the Promised Land. Somehow I sensed I'd had a crossing over into another better place, Giovanni now back in my life--the first man I loved and the last.
Several months ago I wrote a poem for a friend who had just turned forty. I pulled out my copy of the poem and read it again. The poem could be for me as well.
PROMISED LAND
Egypt is a distant memory,
Although you remember
Looking up into cerulean skies, craving deliverance--
The arid beauty ironic contrast with such brutality.
Then the waters parted, your feet set
Upon another geography.
Long suffering.
You shielded your eyes against the stinging sand.
Sometimes your mouth watered as you could
Almost taste the leeks from that place you'd left.
Manna sufficed. Honey from rocks.
Day after day.
Night upon night the fire. Survival.
And now a generation passed,
Your mind and heart poised for new territory.
Exploration of this moist, green land awaits.
Grace. Grace to it.
Crowned with favor.
Jubilee.
Today I wondered what is the worth of a day? So begins the first chapter of The Folded Clock--a book by Heidi Julavits. The material comprises two years in the life of the author in diary form. And as might be expected, the story takes on the surprise, humor, delight and ambivalence of her life, because that is reality.
I can relate. I attempt to focus on that very delicate balance of keeping life "day to day." I often fail, allowing the past to poke around in my psyche. "Oh God, if only I hadn't spent that money," or "I should have not said that or eaten that huge piece of pie." Sometimes I shift gears, and it's not ghosts noisily clamoring in my past, but rather anxieties spooling their way into my future like coarse thread. "I don't think I'll ever be able to finish that book project--I'm not good enough. I don't know enough. What if my health doesn't hold out? I'm getting old." I know that this type of thinking is not helpful, so I constantly go back to the concept of what I call "increments." Taking life in small steps and noticing the good helps me more than anything. And this is a coping tool that is not new. Jesus talks about the concept in Matthew 6:34 (The Message): Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don't get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes.
Often one of my best ways of remembering the notion of increments is on my way to work in the morning. I usually have the privilege of watching the sunrise. I drive over a bridge each day and never tire of that orange ball of sun prominent amidst so many varigated colors. Just last Thursday, the light streamed through the sky and the cloud plumes radiated shades of lavender and plum. Boats rested quietly in the harbor, their sails mirrored in the still waters.
Each day at work I have the ability to make my list for the day, giving over my time to God's direction and favor, asking the Holy Spirit to breathe over my endeavors. Just for today, that's what I have. What are the small steps that are needful for the day? What is in my hand today? I listen to classical music and drink hot, flavorful coffee--small pleasures that bring comfort.
And so I go on. Never perfect. Not alway ideal. Yet I keep practicing the principle of daily increments--the time that God has given me for this day--my destiny for this day. And with beauty and value the increments add up. The book gets written, the website becomes a reality, the exercise happens, the house gets cleaned, the trip is planned--memories made. I could go on and on--life bubbling up effervescent, the fizz of it, the slight biting taste of it on my tongue.
The call came early Monday morning. My colleague had suffered a stroke, so stated his wife. And then another problem--a heart problem--surgery needed. "But he's too weak after the stroke to undergo surgery, so we'll have to wait for several weeks." I felt devastated. Carl and I have worked together for over 15 years. He is the "Frick" to my "Frack" (of NPR's "Car Talk"). He can tell what kind of day I'm having by the sound of my clicking pumps in the hallway. I know what all his nonverbals mean. We are like brother and sister. I was freefalling without him.
Then that next morning. Nine precious people massacred in a church by a 21-year-old white supremist. The church is just five miles from my house. I felt numb inside. When could we get a grip on all the gun violence? And that Confederate flag--just seems time to bring it down amidst all the shame it brings to our state and country. I was freefalling with no parachute.
The last few days I have been roaming around in my life in a daze, having fallen hard from these losses. And they are secondary losses to me. I didn't have a stroke. My loved one wasn't murdered. And yet I can't shake the grief--my eyes welling up with tears over and over and over.
This morning I finally took a walk. When I gazed up at the sky, a cloud formation looked like a gigantic hand--long cloud fingers in the heavens. I sensed the Lord saying that He was covering the city with His warm palm of protection and mercy--that He wanted me to focus on turning to Him in my pain--to let His peace wash over me--to let His grace sustain me--to believe that He could bring healing to this tragedy that so ripped up His own heart. And so I kept walking. At the tidal creek I saw in the brackish waters some crab pincers that fishermen had left. If you've never seen a blue crab, they have two distinct colors on their pincers--a vivid periwinke and a deep orange red. I thought of those two colors--the symbol of blue heaven meeting red earth. I thought the colors stood for how much we needed--I needed--heaven to meet me in my pain--meet the citizens of Charleston during this sorrowful time.
And I do pray, "God in heaven, may we know your presence now. May the Prince of Peace rule in our hearts. Hold us close. Gather us near. Heal my colleague and those dear people who buried loved ones gone too soon. Remove the hatred from the heart of the gunman. Rest your palm upon our heads."
I woke up with a feeling of heaviness. Somewhere in a shadowy place I might have dreamed of elephants. Was this the heaviness? Random images barreled through my thoughts like a runaway freight train. I remembered my friend from sixth grade--sitting in the limbs of the tree in her backyard. I dreaded that I had a lot to do. I looked at the book on my bedside table. I read a few chapters before I went to bed, but for the life of me I couldn't remember what I'd read. I had guests. I needed to get up. I felt tired. Before I placed my feet on the hardwood floor, I was decimated with too many thoughts. And most of them were negative.
"Let me get dressed," I said to myself. My friend and I planned on going to the beach, so I dug through my mound of shoes on the closet floor and found a colorful pair of flip flops. I hardly ever wear flip flops. I couldn't find any shorts I felt looked good on me, so I opted for a favorite pair of black pants. I painted my nails with a new shade--clear polish with sparkles of glitter. I switched out my professional purse to a lime-green crossover bag. I felt like I looked good enough for the beach anyway.
But then it rained. My friend and I decided to walk downtown and eat seafood somewhere. My friend has this uncanny ability to look stylish in a black t-shirt and ecru-colored shorts. No make up, pearl earrings and a bit of lip gloss finish off the look, and she is gorgeous. I felt frumpy in my flip flops and hips wider than I'd like. My hair goes flat in the heat and my eye make up had melted off. I put on my new sun glasses. That helped some. But then we got downtown and it seemed every person that walked by looked hip and cool and put together. I felt self-conscious about my glittery nails.
Thankfully, I shouted to my brain, "Stop!" I was self-absorbed and comparing myself to others, telling myself grueling and negative thoughts. I knew I needed to get into the moment. Sometimes when I get tangled in the negativity, I visualize opening my palms and surrendering to the reality of that place in time. I force my mind to turn toward what is happening in the here and now and start to notice all that is good and positive around me. I noted that because it had rained, the air was cooler and it was pleasant to walk amongst all the beautiful people, my friend included. I appreciated that Charlestonians like to dress up, and observed the pastel dresses the woman wore, so lovely against their smooth, tanned skin. I reflected on the elegant curves of the iron work in this city replete with gates. I enjoyed the fresh seafood served to me in the light-filled restaurant, the din of happy laughter all around me as my friend and I held an intimate conversation. I forgot that I wore flip flops, and I could even see some beauty in my sparkling nails glinting in the sunlight.
The heaviness and anxiety of the morning lessened, my thoughts now soldered to the moment. There would never be this time again with my friend. As I looked into the sea of her blue eyes, I could embrace the imperfection of my own life, and it was good. Very good. Beautiful even.