Benji and the Drain Critter

One has to admire his tenacity, the clarity of his mission.  He is a sentinel whose job is to keep watch.  And watch he does.  Day after day he returns to the same spot.  His commitment is undeniable as he patiently stands guard.

What caused him to be so focused, so devoted?  Was the first time they made contact so extraordinary, so enticing that the thought of next time became his obsession?

His giddy enthusiasm for this seemingly futile enterprise causes others to take notice.  Some think he’s quite mad.   Some say he’s wasting his time.  Some mock him and his unrequited passion.  He hardly hears them.  He is undeterred.  

Perhaps he ignores the insults because he knows something they know nothing of, sees something they cannot see.  Perhaps he imagines a day when the doubters will be proven wrong, when the object of his longing re-appears.

I wonder if there is anything or anyone that I could be so passionate about, so sure of, that I would endure endless waiting and watching, fend of frequent mocking and do so with great exuberance and joy.  That kind of commitment just might require all of my heart, mind, soul and strength.

 

A field and an old House

 

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She pauses every time she drives by the field with the sad, abandoned house.  Something about the scene causes her to wonder if she has ever been inside the little house or played in the flower strewn yard.  Perhaps she visited this place when she was very young and she cannot quite remember who lived there; but that would be impossible because she did not grow up in Georgia.    It could be that she recalls an indelibly haunting painting she once saw years ago of a girl on the ground in a field, with her head pointing and her hand reaching and her legs dragging toward a house in the distance which has to be her home.   Maybe it’s simply because something about this spot perfectly frames an emotion she cannot quite access.  Today, as she drives by she becomes the girl in the painting, suddenly plunked down in the field of yellow.

What a spring this has been and today is the most lovely of all.  The temperature is perfect and everything is in bloom.  Capture this moment, I think, soak it all in.  If I could pick a spot of total freedom, it would be a field like this, a wild, twirl-around field of yellow flowers.  I am happy – until I am not.  Something heavy washes over me and pushes me down.  I am alone.  I can finally feel what I feel.  Tears come.  My mother is dead.

I’ve been busy and I’ve been brave and she was sick for a long, long time.  She was so tired and so frail and so confused.  I actually asked God on more than one occassion to take her home.  He answered my prayer so why do I cry?  I haven’t really been able to talk with her for years though I did get glimpses of her from time to time.  I cry.  Now I can never pick up the phone and call her again.

“She lived a good long life,” people say.  She did and I know that.  It’s a comfort.  I cry.  I think about the time my grandmother told me that losing her mother was the hardest thing she ever faced.  I’ve heard that from other people too.  I cry.  Up until now I didn’t know what it was like to loose your mother or how to comfort a freind whose mother died.  I still don’t.

Jesus looked down from the cross at his mother and asked John to care of her.  I look up from my field of yellow flowers and ask Jesus to care for my mother.  I look towards the house in the distance and try to get up.  I reach for a home that no one lives in anymore.

girl in field

Painting by Andrew Wyeth – Christina’s World 1948

 

 

 

This face

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You never know when it will happen, when you suddenly receive sight.  You see something in a wonderfully strange new way, as if You are the only one, ever, who has seen it.  You feel an immediate relationship  to the object of your attention.

I remember once, sitting by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere while my husband changed our flat tire and I noticed a little flower growing nearby.  An otherwise ordinary wild-flower made exceptional in the moment.  The flower moved in the breeze and moved me with her dance.  I could almost hear her whisper, “Look at me.  I am here just for you.  You will be the one I dazzle with my brilliance in my short life time.”  I saw, really saw this one flower in this one spot in this exact moment.  I had a mysterious notion that someone had moved heaven and earth, including blowing our tire, to bring that flower and me together to arouse me, bless me, love me.

I have passed by all types of flowers in my lifetime, zillions of them.  They all sort of blend and merge and make for great scenery along my life’s journey. People are like that too.  Faces flash by on the news, in the grocery store, at the airport.  I zip by them and  absent-mindedly categorize them into manageable varieties: beggar, pilot, American, businesswoman, mother, Asian, orphan, criminal, banker, movie star.  Perhaps I smile, perhaps not.

But this one day, this one face crossed my Facebook screen and caused me to pause for a moment.  Gracefully, miraculously I could see.
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Learn more about the amazing people who found and care for this child and others at Orbit Village.