I keep just one type of journal, which is mostly prayers and the same prayers over and over, with no juicy details or anything, and so fairly uninteresting. But occasionally I’ll write down bits of dialogue or more story-like thoughts. I’ve brought some of them here for you.
It was a lovely year. It was a confusing year. Looking back, I can’t help but think of my Nana Betty’s oft-used words, “My, my, my! What a mess!” But setting out on this new year, the wisdom of an old school teacher also comes to mind, “Sometimes, honey, you’ve just got to tuck your ears back and dive on in!” So here’s to that, dear reader, because life is short and precious.
“What we need is a sixteen-year old boy with a chainsaw.”
I looked up from digging the encroaching Ginger Lily roots from the walkway. “Yeah. With no regard for his own life.”
“But they don’t make them like that anymore,” she said. “What are we going to do?”
It is not uncommon for us to begin the new year with such bright-eyed optimism.
We sat on the bed in the spare room, and threw away paperwork— His, not ours, so it was easily done. Mrs. Alice had a whole conversation with herself in grunts and humphs.
“When he asks me where this stuff is, I’m going to say, ‘I have no idea!, but what a LOT OF JUNK it was, my son!’ “
“So, did you prepare a speech or something?”
“Nah, I got this,” he said.
We were on the way to a lakeside club house, just the two of us. He was the guest speaker of the banquet, and we were all dressed up.
As he pulled into the drive, I panicked.
“Wait! What am I supposed to do?”
“You? You’re the franchise,” he said.
“Oh. Of course I am. Great. What does that mean?”
“Eat and drink as much as you possibly can, because they’re paying for it.”
Well, he really did have it. I was so proud. He made the history of blueback herring sound fascinating, from start to finish. It was a triumph. For me, as well. You ever need someone to be the franchise, I’m your girl.
After planting potatoes, we mulched them with old rank hay, to keep the weeds down. About half-way through the process I started to cry. Then I got angry and did some kicking and creative swearing. I finally worked myself into a better state of mind by the last wheel-barrow. I guess there is travail in every good thing this side of resurrection. Behind each heaping plate of mashed potatoes, there is a farmer, blowing dirt from his nose and wincing from a pinched, sunburned shoulder.
She turned sixty-one today. I was cleaning the milking pail in the kitchen sick when something hit the glass of the window. The house is built into a hill, and so the kitchen seems to be on the main level when approached from the front, but it’s second story from the side, and third story from the back. Anyway, the window is high up there. I lifted myself onto the sink rim to look down and saw her standing there on the ground. I ran over to the round hallway window and popped it open.
“Hey, everything okay?”
“Did something hit the window?”
“I threw a stick at it,” she said smiling, and pointed to the ground, where I guess the stick had landed. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
The end of August is our bleak midwinter. There inevitably comes that moment when the men want to sail to the Keys and the women want to cut off all their hair, that moment when everything expensive breaks and we’ve run out of spending money, and finally, that moment when Captain Dave looks down the table at us, scowling, and says, “It’s time to look for the fish.”
Somehow we always forget that these grim words habitually proceed the actual finding of fish, the coming of Fall and the general health and welfare of the offspring of fishermen everywhere.
I enter the doors of Walmart only for those I love who won’t accept this fact by any other means.
“Here’s my list,” and she handed me a little notebook page, covered back to front. “Now we’re not leaving until we get everything on it.”
I dug for a pen. “Here, Nanny! Shampoo. It’s on your list. Here they are. Which do you want?”
“I don’t need shampoo.”
“But it’s on the list.”
“Well I don’t need it.”
We got body powder (check), cat treats (check), baby dolls for the great-grand-babies (check), Special K (check), ice cream (check), cookies, frozen pizza and a can of refried beans (not listed).
“Butter! Here’s butter, Nanny. You need some.”
“No I don’t.”
“But it’s on the list… why don’t you get some just in case?”
“Sarah. You’re driving me crazy.”
I was with Ruby all day in the ER. Georgia came. We hovered over her a long time together, willing her eyes to open. It was like the day I searched for my favorite dog, and imagined over and over again his answering bark. You can picture it all, and how it should happen, you know. But nothing. Then just at the last, she really did open her eyes on us.
“Ahhh!” she said in that Norwegian way, a delighted, eloquent sound.
It was like how we will meet again one day.
I just returned home from Tennessee. It was wonderful. But there’s no adventure as satisfying as the lifted up and swung around kind of hugs of coming home. I was profoundly glad to see them, and I was glad to see it. There are few things in this world as beautiful as the Tennessee river, all green on the banks under a dark sky, but it still didn’t give me the shivers like the sight of our turnip field.
“The trustees of an institution are those who have forgiven it,” Andy Crouch said from the stage, and everyone scribbled it down as the room stirred with the memories of broken homes and churches. I thought of how close and how often my family has come to collapse, in all the anger and all the hurt and all the selfishness. This tangible home has been God’s grace to us, enfolding a fragile institution, a place on earth to lay our heads when they throbbed, to hold us when we couldn’t hold each other. This place has kept us long enough to see the day of reconciliation— to see my eyes, the barometer of our condition, weep, swell, recover and smile again. The pain would ease and we could reach for each other once more.
I know it’s just a cobwebbed ceiling and mud-tracked floor. I know it could burn up tomorrow, and I’d be just fine. But I also know that I have a run-away heart, and this place with the hundreds of ravines, animal stalls and trees to fly to, has kept me here, where I have been best tested and refined. Here, where I can be faithful by showing up, to feed and clean and milk and wash and love. Maybe that’s just my story, but I’m beginning to think it’s a good one.