Tunnel Vision

Why do human beings have to suffer? A dearly loved one dies and your heart is broken, aching. A colicky baby cries for nine months straight and your strength is thin as parchment paper. The doctor gives you a diagnosis, one with few options, and each evening when the moon takes command of the sky, you lay your head down on a soft pillow and the wrestling match begins again. Fear sneaks between the covers. The experiences that cause hardship, anguish, grief, and even fear, make us doubt and maybe even question the existence of a God who loves beyond measure. During my recent experience of pain, I searched for God everywhere. In the Bible, in my heart, in the words of comfort from good friends. I wanted so desperately to believe that God was on my side, fighting this battle for me because I didn't have the strength or the ability to handle this alone. My vision clouded beneath the fog of medication, my emotions were tangled as loose cords dangling from a computer tower, until all I saw before me was the unrelenting pain. Yesterday, as I left a department store, I passed a man and woman making their way down the stairs toward the entrance. This woman walked on crutches, one leg of her jeans knotted just below the right knee. I stole a look at my husband and then glanced at my own two feet cloaked in black clogs. Instantly, the veil lifted and a deeper understanding blanketed my mind. I had been looking at my situation with tunnel vision, with a limited view.We don't know the whole story, or even the next chapter. However, once the picture expanded, my focal point shifted, pointing me in another direction, away from my affliction and toward something with greater meaning. For during this season I am learning to appreciate more, to accept more, and surpsingly to me, to love more. My vision is improving.

Grace Like Rain

Tiny pink cherry blossoms drifted slowly onto the path, swirling on their descent, a snow day in spring. A gentle breeze kissed my cheeks, the nape of my neck, my bare hands. Continuing on my way, I heard the pounding of a basketball, shouts of glee from small children on the playground, an airplane crossing overhead. Birds chatted together, their music threading through the air, an aerial choir. I stooped down to pluck a dandelion weed, brought the round fluffy circle to my mouth, blew a wish. Ordinary happenings, nothing super-cool or earth shattering. I searched the sky, the gray clouds pregnant with rain and flipped my red hood up to cover my head. I continued strolling, careful not to tax the back, exchanged a greeting with an older couple who were sitting on a bench. Drops of rain moistened the pastel petals on the ground. The lenses on my glasses grew wetter with each droplet. I often find God hidden in the ordinary, the simple pleasures of life. He must enjoy watching us pause to appreciate, to admire. Before heading home, my gaze scanned the scene one last time, the images a bit blurred through my glasses. This is the way it is, I thought that day. For I discovered once again, a love so magnificent that it snuck through the back door of my pain, broadening the path beneath my feet, lighting my steps, in yet again a most elemental way.

The Departure Gate

Our eyes encountered one another for the first time, hers a set of bright blue, mine clouded with a mist of pent-up longing. Over five weeks I had waited to meet her, to hold her, to kiss her chubby cheeks. Most importantly, to tell her how beautiful and precious she was. In  anticipation of this event, I had imagined a number of scenarios, one of which included a lucent circle that would surround our two forms, hers and mine, linking the past with the present, love and forgiveness, grace and acceptance. A generational embrace. The pain in my back bowed down to the toothless smiles, the gurgles, the innocence. Gazing at her fresh face, I tried hard to imprint upon my mind the round nose, the swatch of light brown hair reaching for the ceiling, the smooth flesh. The current distance between our homes remains vast, and babies change quickly. Will she remember the sound of my voice? As we readied to return home, from Virginia to Oregon, my mind spun backward, to a farm in Wisconsin, to a grandmother who taught me how to thread a needle, to play gin rummy, to milk a cow. And as the engine roared and I clamped my seat belt tight, a photograph snapped across my brain, displaying an image of my own mother cradling our newborn daughter in her arms. Rays of slanted sunlight from the picture window danced across their bodies, spilling across the daffodil-yellow blanket under my daughter, illuminating my mother's graying hair, her beaming smile, and my daughter's pristine face. A halo of sorts. The tender memories eased my fears, massaged the lingering doubt and I muscled up a little extra faith. As the departure gate grew further away, the airport a mere speck in the landscape, and the plane cruised above the clouds, traversing the electric blue sky, I played with the memories. I heard the sound of my grandmother's high-pitched voice advising me which  card would be perfect to lay down. A contented sigh escaped into the crowded airplane. There is no distance between love.