He'd pulled up a chair at my office desk to view the computer screen. The man was at my agency to make sure I was doing my job--there to inspect spreadsheets and documentation--to ensure all my ducks were in a row. I had dressed for the part--a black business suit, the jacket cuffs rolled up to display leopard print accents. I wore Bandolino leather pumps. I had prepared for the site visit, my emotional notes tranquil and relaxed, my mind alert, sharpened. I had braced myself for the inspector's feedback as well--anticipating he would say there was much to improve. My numbers were down on persons I'd tested for HIV and Hepatitis C, and I'd not been able to complete as many education groups as I'd projected for the year. I sensed the inspector would gently exhort me to keep increasing numbers, leaving me with that wearying thought, "You'll never do enough." But after the examiner's perusal of my work, his response astonished me.
The middle-aged man looked at me directly, and I heard him swallow before he spoke. I observed his gray cashmere sweater vest, a black tie emblazoned with minuscule red ribbons, the symbol for fighting HIV/AIDS, peering from his collar. "Priscilla, you're an anchor," he began. "When I think of someone committed to the cause of preventing HIV, you're the person who comes to mind in Charleston. You are steady and loyal. Your work is solid. I know you've had a struggle over this last year, what with your colleague dying and leaving you to keep on going solo. Well done."
No one had ever described me as an "anchor." When the man provided this descriptor, I did not feel pride, but rather puzzlement. Most days at work, there can be such chaos, I am literally attempting to survive. With the rise in opioid use and more persons injecting drugs, increasingly I'm breaking the news to individuals that they have positive results. And these men and women are vulnerable and needy. Often when they come to my office for testing, the complexity of their lives is overwhelming, and I merely act as a presence who sits with them in their loneliness and pain, answers and solutions beyond me.
I asked God, "What are you attempting to tell me through this man's definition of me?" I sensed He said, "You are an anchor, because you are anchored in me. And when you are tethered to me, then you are an anchor to others. Remember, too, that my yoke is easy, my burden light." And then I imagined a scenario something like this: Each morning I rise. I often feel anxious about the day--the tasks I need to complete, the people who weave in and out of my life doing the work I do, the feelings of imbalance and helplessness I experience at times--a restive sea. And it's each morning that I make a decision. Do I continue on unmoored, trusting in my own efforts, or do I throw my anchor overboard, allowing its sharp hooks to leash me to the solidity of God's mercy--His wisdom? The act of tossing an anchor over my life's ship is linked to Christ's reminder to me of the lightness of His burden. My anchor is featherweight. Leave me here.
Giovanni gave me a manual Olivetti typewriter for Christmas. I'd seen an ad on Craig's list for a manual typewriter and said one day, "You know, I loved my old typewriter. I wrote all my term papers on a manual in college. I never even wanted an electric one. I liked the feel of my fingers pressing down on the keys, the gentle 'ding' at the end of a line of type, the contrast of black words on white paper." My husband is good at picking up on my desires. And he knows me. That's one reason he married me--I'm convinced--my eccentricities. Who else would want a manual typewriter?
This week as Christmas has neared I've waxed nostalgic in other ways. Giovanni and I don't have cable TV. We get a variety of stations that primarily broadcast reruns of old shows. One day this week a whole day was set aside for Andy Williams Christmas specials on one of the channels. I watched several episodes, remembering how excited my parents and I would get to sit down together and watch the programming, color television still new, grateful for good reception and no rabbit ears. Andy singing I'll Be Home For Christmas as fake snow swirled around him. The Osmond brothers dancing and harmonizing, adorable Donny not yet a star.
And to further my venture into nostalgia, I Googled every home I've lived in over my lifespan. It is startling how addresses surface in the mind after so many years. With Google maps one can take a surreptitious stroll down an old street. Most of the homes were recognizable, but with new roofs or shutters painted a different color. As I looked at the homes, I remembered where I was at each life stage. The memories blended together, and mostly I remembered that in each location, the house was a shelter, a place where I could light a candle, grab a book, curl up in a chair and feel warmed. A haven. I didn't expect to find the house where I spent my first seven years. For some reason I thought it might not still be there. But there it was. The stone front and bay window. I still remembered the names of the neighbors who lived in the houses on either side. My mother stayed home with me, and I had the backyard to myself with a swingset, a sandbox and a pet cat that I dressed in doll clothes and pushed in a doll buggy. The neighbor kids came over every now and then. I wore my long hair in a ponytail and rode a red tricycle down the gravel driveway. Safe. At Christmas there was a live tree with lights in the bay window and presents under the tree. I left cookies and a Coke for Santa, and couldn't sleep on Christmas Eve.
All those memories drummed up by going to Google maps. I noted that the first house I ever knew now has a blue door. In spiritual symbology blue is the color for heaven. One day I'll cross the threshold and be in my true home, and I have no doubt that you'll hear me pecking away on an Olivetti.
Merry Christmas, dear reader. Please know how I appreciate your visits to the website. I pray you find a sense of home on this page, that you grow more and more convinced of how much God treasures you and delights in your journey. May 2017 find you in His perfect peace.
...that world far off as a little picture hung on the wall...Carrie Brown (from The Stargazer's Sister)
We could hear the banter of people laughing and talking as we pushed open the door of the Italian eatery--that rush of indistinguishable words, at times accentuated with high pitches, then descending into quiet murmuring. The place was candlelit. An aroma of rosemary and basil drifted from the kitchen. We sat at the bar, and I held my elbows close to my side so that I wouldn't touch the woman sitting next to me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her pale flesh through tiny squares of fishnet hosiery, smelled the iconic scent of Chanel No.5 when she tossed her hair from her shoulder to take a sip of wine. My husband and I sat, heads together, speaking loudly over the roar, clutching tightly to our flutes of Prosecco, feeling people bumping our backs now and then, the line of individuals waiting to be seated curling outside the door. Through the restaurant's front window I could see people outdoors lighting up cigarettes, lifting their faces to breathe out smoke, standing arm-in-arm, stamping their feet to keep warm in the chilly black night. Finally we heard,"Garatti" above the din. I swung my feet around the bar stool, grabbed my husband's hand and followed him to our table for two.
The clatter of plates and the sound of people never diminished as we sat eating our food. My throat ached from yelling. I fell silent, and my gaze drifted to a little painting hung on the wall above our table. In the soft light I couldn't see the image clearly. I stood and moved my eyes only inches from the painting. I saw a rose-colored house with an orange tile roof sittng on a a verdant, Tuscan hillside. The image seemed to speak louder than the cacophony around us in its simplicity. I shouted, "Look Giovanni, this is our house in Italy. One day we'll be there." My husband smiled and said, "One day." Sharing that image together seemed to quell any need for speaking further. We finished up our meal with no words, savoring the food, not fighting the indistinct, undulating swell of speech around us.
This week I thought of that memory in the restaurant--remembered that simple oil painting. The memory led me to ask God this question, "What images would surface that represent what you have been for me in 2016?" Three pictures came to my mind. I saw myself standing on a rocky cliff, holding a red umbrella over my head. I thought of how God has been my shelter and protector as I've weathered the broken clouds that inevitably come in any given year. I've been okay, that red umbrella a symbol of His safety, the rock His solid granite under my feet. As I walked down my gallery of images, next I envisioned a wide open field. God has provided me margin in 2016--time for reflection, to sit in His presence, to write, to think, to enjoy solitude--real gifts in a world that swirls with distraction and noise. The third painting included the image of a gray stone castle. Castles are intriguing to me. I imagined running up a spiral staircase to the highest of the castle's towers and looking out over the landscape, the shimmering ocean a sapphire thread spooling across the horizon. This year God has been my high tower, my stone castle, my strength.
2016 will land somewhere in time and I will flip the calendar to 2017. I am grateful for all God has been to me in 2016, for these images of His faithfulness now hanging on the wall of my life. What images surface for you from 2016? What has God been for you? I pray that as you move forward into 2017, you experience all that God wants to be for you.
For God is sheer beauty, all-generous in love, loyal always and ever. ~Psalm 100:5 (The Message)
A few red leaves still clung to branches of the tree at the outdoor cafe, but most had already fallen and lay at my feet in clusters of gold and brown. I'd come to the quiet retreat of the coffee shop to perform an experiment. For a few weeks I'd been singing Christmas carols. Since a child, I've memorized Christmas carols, picking them out on the piano, transfixed by the old language, not minding the "thees and thines," the "ye's and thou's." That day I'd brought my hardback hymnal with me to the cafe. As I'd been singing, I realized there were certain phrases that captivated me with their beauty. I wanted to write them down--like stringing language pearls.
I write the lines here as I collected them:
Light and life to all He brings
Come adore on bended knee
And stay by my side until morning is nigh
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight
Cheribim and seraphim thronged the air
And ever o'er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing
He rules the world with truth and grace
O come let us adore Him
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by
Let loving hearts enthrone Him
To seek for a king was their intent
All humbly wrapped in swathing bands
Silent night, holy night, wondrous star lend thy light
Alleluia sounds through the earth and skies
Come and see from all that grieves you; you are freed
God with us is now residing
Gloria in excelsis Deo
Hail the heaven born prince of peace
Born to give us second birth
Glory to the newborn king
Hark! The herald angels sing
Come, thou long-expected Jesus
Now thy gracious kingdom bring
Joy of every longing heart
An hour passed, and I could have gone on writing, but daylight would soon be gone. All the other patrons of the cafe had packed up their laptops, pulled earbuds from their ears and headed home. I was alone. Before I left I picked up my phrase collection and began to read the words under my breath, whispers blending with the sound of scattering leaves. I began to weep. The language, this eclectic Christmas poem, released the awareness of His presence, the joy of my longing heart.
The noise started with a consistent clatter--round and round--metal hitting concrete. I thought the sound might be coming from my back tire. I turned up my radio in the car as I drove, in denial. But even the the soothing voice of Fred Child on Performance Today could not block out the persistent clacking.
When I parked the car, I looked at the back tire, and the silver nail head leered at me. I wanted to jerk it out from the tire's hefty tread, but didn't dare, knowing the air would leak from the puncture. I hadn't expected this. I didn't want this. Why did such simple annoyances unravel me, dysregulate me?
I sighed. I could feel my nostrils flaring, angered that I must go to Gerald's tire repair--not because the company didn't provide good service, but because they did. The shop was almost always packed. Located on a corner of a crowded city neighborhood, Gerald's exudes a chaotic friendliness. It's first come, first serve, and patrons often snake around its rust-colred edifice. Gerald's mechanics roll tires over to jacked-up cars and clanging tool sounds echo through the multiple car stalls. I stood in line waiting to spill out my tire problem to the manager at the customer service desk. I overheard the woman in front of me. "I'm not sure what's wrong," she said as she nervously twirled a strand of honey-blond hair. "The tire pressure light is on. Could you take a look?" I thought to myself, "Uh, that would mean you fill the tires with air." I was the Grinch.
My turn came and I blurted, "I've got a nail in my tire. Will it take long to give it a look?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, it's a long wait. Maybe three or four hours. Could you drop it off?" The manager looked up at me, his eyes the color of winter gray. Kind.
I didn't want to take a chance of further damage to the tire. I would wait. "Thank you ma'am for your patience." No wonder people came to Gerald's. I took one last glance at the man as he handed me my paperwork. His hair looked sculpted in a black wave, like he'd used old-fashioned pomade. With his smooth brow and clean-shaven face, he could have been a 1930's movie star.
I sat down in the cramped waiting area. I could smell the fruity scent of shampoo wafting from the woman sitting next to me. A man on my other side incessantly bounced his knees. Another woman took the leash from her buff-colored dog. The dog roamed over to where I sat, circled in place several times and sat at my feet, leaning against my left leg. He looked up at me, liquid brpwn eyes peering through his shaggy bang fur. I patted him and pulled the book from my purse. The long wait provided some time to start reading my enemy's novel. Earlier in the week, I'd been in Barnes and Noble purchasing Christmas gifts, and I saw her book. The material wasn't my favorite genre, but I picked it up and began reading. I didn't like the first sentence. I put the book back on the shelf. Why should I buy this book? The author had been dismissive of me at the conference we both attended, now over a year ago. She had not made eye contact with me when I attempted to engage her about writing. She'd turned away from me at the dinner and chatted with other people, pointedly ignoring me. Her actions jabbed me--pierced me--pins in the heart. I resented her arrogance. I took the book back from the shelf. I'd buy it. That was the action to take. Love one's enemy, support one's enemy.
I'd softened toward the author before I opened the book. I'd read some reviews online, and her work had garnered several terrible reviews. Scathing, really. How had she managed to transcend the critical feedback and remain intact as a writer? I learned she'd submitted the manuscript for over three years before a publisher offered her a contract. I admired this perseverance and her courage. I began to read. The story did not engage me as I'd hoped. Yet as I sat there in the room full of strangers, the warm dog at my side, I felt the the pins of resentment loosened from my heart. I prayed for this woman who dared to write and submit and shrink from her critics. "God bless her work, favor her, give her success in the competitive, ego-driven writing culture," I prayed. "Forgive me, God, for resenting her, for being jealous."
"Ma'am, your car's ready. There's no charge. You're all patched up."
"No charge?" I stood up and gently moved the dog from my leg.
"That's right. It was an easy fix, and we appreciate your patience--for waiting so long. Merry Christmas."
As I left Gerald's I noticed a strand of vintage Christmas lights outlining a shop window across the street. The glowing, retro blue and red bulbs gladdened my heart, now sans pins. And my tire sans the nail I hadn't wanted, hadn't expected.