Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Hanging on a Line (revised)

Warm wind puffs,
lifts damp hair off my neck,
swirls shirts around my body.

Sleeves cling to my sweaty arms
while lifting linen to a clothesline
then secured with an orange peg.

If not for that breeze
the hot would oppress
with its humid breath.

I think of women who have gone before--
those who hung laundry in other climes:
sticky tropical, dusty desert, verdant hills.

I picture time-worn faces;
cracked and defined by age and fickle weather,
circumstances and life.

I imagine gnarled hands that grip
lids of jars of harvested peaches and apricots--
then put shirts and sheets on lines in the sun.

As I ponder, black clouds break open;
the wind shifts like a compass needle
and hot rain thunders down on freshly laundered shirts.

-30-

Precocious child on a river (revised)

"Have you ever been on a locomotive?"

"Why are flies black?"

"Why do bees sting?"

"How far have you traveled on that boat?"

"I don't like eggs. Why do you?"

"The Easter Bunny leaves me chocolate eggs. Do you know why?"

On my last of five days on the Glenelg River in Australia over Easter weekend, I was peppered by questions from a five-year-old like buckshot from a 12-gauge rifle.

I had settled in for the night with my companion. I moored my small sailing yacht at Saunders Landing and powered the outboard tinny for fishing before sunset. No one was at the picnic/camp area. We seemed to be utterly alone.

I lit the wood-fueled barbecue. We cooked steak, sautéed onion, corn-on-the-cob and potatoes in foil, then settled in for a game of Scrabble.

Dusk turned to night. Parrots and other sleepy birds settled in.

Midway through our dinner with the board game by flashlight nearly finished, we heard a foghorn-like female voice drifting over black water:

"Hoy! Yeah mate! That's the place we saw earlier today, mate! Oi! There's boats there! But I'm sure it's the same place! Oi! It looks like two boats are there! Pull in anyway! Oi! I see lights! Pull in hard right, mate! I'll watch out!"

Chagrined, my companion and I helped these boaters navigate with flashlights through a dark, snag-filled river underneath a star-filled sky.

Once landed, we invited them to share our fire and sparkling wine.

This couple, older than us in our late 40s, had Campbell, a five-year-old son with them.

Campbell is precocious to say the least.

Curious, he processed information quickly. He noticed our interrupted Scrabble game and asked questions about letters on squares with tiny numbers in the corner. I explained the game while his parents spoke with my companion by the campfire.

I enjoyed watching him learn. He was fascinated with our flashlight and randomly turned it on and off. He lit up the surrounding gum trees looking for ring-tailed possums and koalas. He asked how far light goes.

"How far do you think light goes?" I said.

He pondered a moment and answered, "As far as I can see."

"Really?" I said.

By this time the moon rose and sailed above the horizon.

"But light travels so much farther than we can see," I said. "What if someone was on that moon over there and saw your light? Do you think that could happen?"

Campbell didn't answer, he stared at the moon.

"What about the stars?" I asked. "What if the light shining down to us from space was really a bunch of people on planets with flashlights shining them in our direction--hoping we would see them?"

Campbell looked at me quizzically and said, "Flashlight?"

"I mean torch," I said. (Australian lingo.)

Thinking about that for a minute, Campbell smiled. With a childish laugh, he discounted the idea.

"Nah," he said. "That's just too far away."

The child was distracted by my companion offering a perfectly melted marshmallow from a stick over the fire.

As the evening wore on, Campbell was ushered off to bed on his parent's houseboat.

“Oi!” his mother called to me, trailing after her husband who held their sleeping son. “He’s pretty smart, ain’t he?”

-30-

When the lights went out (revised)

The power quit during a communion service in the little church I attend.

Our state in Australia was inundated for several days with storm after storm of wintry blasts from the South Pole...thunder and lightning, hail and rain, wind and stronger wind. Temperatures hovered around the 40s during the day and 30s at night.

On the way to church that morning, I marveled at how much standing water there was, in a land plagued with drought over the last two deacades. Creeks flooded, and paddocks looked like grass-fringed lakes with ducks circling and flapping in the frigid air while sheep and cattle sought higher ground.

As I entered the 150-year-old town hall in Buninyong where the congregation of 30-plus people meet, I noticed everyone was rugged up in woolly scarves and warm winter coats. I found a seat where our backs could be warmed from heat emanating from ancient radiators shaped like curvy Christmas candy painted pine green.

We settled in, sang hymns and modern songs, the offering was taken, and then it was time to remember Jesus' sacrifice, as scripture tells us to. The Body broken for me, the Blood shed to cleanse my sins and make a way for me to be in God's presence now, and forever.

Darkness descended in fits and starts as overhead bulbs flickered. The high windows near the ceiling in the old building are painted beige, so light was dim anyway. The storm had its way, and darkness won the fight. Our pastor's wife had a penlight so an elder leading that part of the service could read his Bible out loud.

I thought the chosen topic was apt; Exodus 32:7-14 and Exodus 33:12-16 describes an honest conversation Moses had with God. Moses argued with God, and talked Him out of destroying a nation He had rescued from the Egyptians and a life of slavery because they were so ungrateful, wayward, and stiff-necked.

But the kick-in-the-pants verse for me was out of Matthew 15:8-9, "These people honor Me with their lips, but their hearts are far from Me. They worship Me in vain; their teachings are but rules taught by men."

Ouch.

How easily distracted I am away from God's heart. I tend, sometimes, to focus on what I think is expected of me from others as a Follower of Christ, rather than what the Bible clearly teaches in the Old Testament and in the example Jesus set.

"Follow Me," he said. Not others and the way they think and the rules they make.

Sometimes I think that God became man in the form of Jesus because He understood that life is confusing, people are confusing; people are sheep needing to be herded and led. In His compassion He seemed to say, "Okay, my beloved children. THIS is what I want you to do, THIS is how I want you to love me, THIS is how much I love you.” His Way, His example to live and be, is clear in the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

Why do I forget that? Darkness descends and fights with the flickering light in my spirit.

Our pastor asked two questions, both of which I pondered: "What is hardest for you in your life to trust God in?" and "At the end of your life, looking back over the years, what would you change in your walk with God?"

The nitty gritty is that I struggle with trust in general. I resist trusting people, and I guess that brings me to trusting God. What would I change? For a start I’d be less stubborn in hanging onto my own "safe" way of doing things.

As the service ended, we sang a hymn with older and younger voices raised, no electric keyboard, and we prayed. Afterward we mingled and laughed about how there may not be hot water for instant coffee or teabags. However it was a subdued crowd--not because there was no power, but because we each recognized something in us that we struggle with, and that we are all on the same journey.

Then the lights came on.

-30-

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Sparrow Flight (revised)

Note: I submitted this story online at Faithwriters.com It won the Jewel Chest award for the week.

Sparrow Flight

By Heidi Wallenborn

At first I thought there was a mouse under the covered barbecue on the verandah.

I'd gone out to move the little tray of birdseed I keep near the door so I can enjoy watching rosellas and finches singing and dancing, with me as their private audience.

A pattering sound caught my attention. I spied a soft grey body, little beady eyes, then a flutter and flopping barely visible under the edge of the green canvas cover. I moved closer; a flurry of tiny wings stilled me.

Hesitant, I tiptoed forward then gently lifted the cover and spied a little bird. It twisted and turned, frantic to take flight; its leg was caught in a crevice of a double wheel.

I called to my husband. He gently held the sparrow. He felt her little heart beat a tattoo under his palm. Her foot was caught, held fast in the wheel's grip.

Several years ago I battled depression. A "house sparrow," I stood one morning in the bathroom of our second story home in a forest in Washington. Gazing out the window, I contemplated the death of my nearly 20-year marriage. It was late autumn and most frost-bitten leaves had pirouetted to their end, carpeting the forest floor. But one lone, yellow leaf caught my eye. It hung on a bare branch, stubbornly refusing to fall. It spun in the breeze, hanging on by a tendon. Despite the grey drizzle and cold winds, it stayed suspended between its summer haven and a loamy grave.

Sometime later, I looked for that stubborn, yellow leaf--it was still there. In fact it stayed for quite awhile until a severe, wintry gale knocked it loose. I was disappointed when it fell. I'd taken a few baby steps to change my future and had so much hope from such a little thing; I was on my way up, instead of falling down and rotting.

As he carefully handled the frightened little bird with one hand, he pried open the wheel with a small tool in the other. The sparrow's mangled claw dangled, useless. She peered at us through the top part of his fist and we discussed what to do. With tears in our eyes, we decided that neither one of us wanted to "put her out of her misery." I remembered some time ago seeing a bird hop around on one leg, and told him so. So he amputated the claw cleanly. He sent the tiny bird soaring over the verandah rail; as she took flight, I prayed.

Perhaps I'm still a bit like that house sparrow; maimed by life and a little crippled.

But I can still fly.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Australian Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving in Australia

Looking back, it seems absurd that I thought Australia was a mini-America.

I moved Down Under in January 2007. I discovered these truths: English is spoken here, but it sounds funny; the seasons are opposite of the calendar I know; holidays are more British than anything else, and yes, the water flows counter-clockwise.

During my first year, new Aussie friends asked about Thanksgiving and what it meant. They had no idea what Thanksgiving is or why Americans celebrate it. It's a unique holiday.

The best way to explain was to host a celebration at our house.

Turkey is not typically available year-round in Australia. When there are any available, it's not in frozen 25-lb plastic shrink-wrapped bundles with red pop-up pegs. In fact, turkey is an afterthought, sold in bits and pieces.

Nevertheless, we invited 14 people for the experience.

Oh my.

People laughed at me when I asked where I could find a 25 lb. turkey.

“This is not America, love,” one man said while cleaning his teeth with a bowie knife.

I called the local butcher.

'Could you get me a 25-lb turkey in a week or so?' I asked.

'Well...' Silence.

Thinking that perhaps he didn't understand pounds, I explained that it's roughly 12.5 kilograms. He said he’d get back to me. His best effort was about half that size.

I also discovered that there's no Crisco, Jello-brand gelatin, mini-marshmallows, French-fried onions to top green bean casseroles, freshly bagged cranberries to make a sauce, or Cool Whip available in supermarkets.

Guests arrived, bearing designated gifts of mashed potatoes and gravy, pre-dinner nibbles of cream-cheese stuffed celery, green and black olives without pits, deviled eggs with paprika, and wine and soft drinks. They watched me scurry around the kitchen and asked if I needed any help.

“Nope!” I said in my no-nonsense American accent. “Just talk to me and make me laugh.”

They did. Aussies are good for yarns.

Although I wasn’t able to pull off a genuine traditional Wallenborn family feast, I was happy. Laughter resonated in my home, and good-natured fun and camaraderie kept me smiling while waiting for the fowl to finish.

The beautifully browned bird came out of the oven and onto the counter-top to cheers. Two teen-age guests asked, "What is THAT?"

Because all the fixins' couldn't fit on the crowded table,  I lined up food buffet-style on counters (benches to Aussies). Hardly a scrap was left on the turkey, but nobody went hungry. It pleased me to hear 'mmmmm,' 'this is so good,' and requests for recipes strange to an Australian palate.

As the American in residence, I read a history of Thanksgiving. Because the lump in my throat was too big for me to speak, I asked someone else to read George Washington's proclamation of Thanksgiving Day.

Afterward, we gave thanks for anything on our minds. One guest was impressed with the idea of a nation setting aside one day every year to give thanks to God for His blessings, to remember their beginnings, and that the current Australian Prime Minister would be wise to take notice.

Despite springtime rather than autumn weather and the absence of my family, that Thanksgiving ranks top in my memories.

I am thankful for new friends, a different country to live in and experience, and the love of my God who takes care of me no matter where I reside.

Psalm 139:9b-10, "...if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast."

The lonely profession

Most writers believe the craft of writing is one of the loneliest professions known to mankind because it is difficult to know what your readers think of your work and you rarely meet your audience personally...(from Faithwriters.com)

Amen.