The Grace Card

Recently, my husband and I watched a movie called The Grace Card. It was an emotional tear-jerker with so-so acting. Faults aside, it offered a profound message of grace in action. Several weeks ago I received my very own grace card. If you have followed my blog, you might have guessed by now that I have been walking through some serious pain. The kind of discomfort that causes barking words to tumble from my mouth before I can swallow them back down. Whole. Fits of tears that blotch my face, a recent addiction to television, and a hold on my gym membership. Not fun stuff. A few weeks ago, after an outpatient procedure, I shuffled through the garage to let our dog outside. My gaze landed on a cream-colored vase housing a bouquet of assorted flowers. They held court next to our dusty Universal gym, their presence presumably out of sight. Hmmm...Looks like they are meant to be hidden. My insides bubbled with excitement. Oh, when is he going to give them to me? Then, a keener understanding filtered through my mind. After everything he's been through this year, he thought of me. As darkness cloaked the house, the vase still stood in the garage. I couldn't take it any longer. "Aren't you forgetting something?" I blurted, nodding my head towards the garage. My husband's lips parted, a slight boyish smile crossed his face and he gave me a look that said, I-know-what-you-are-referring-to-but-I'm-not-going-to-answer-right-now. I readied for bed pondering those flowers with nobody oohing and aahing over their beautiful existence. When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, eagerly anticipating a cup of fresh hot coffee, their cheerful presence greeted me, surprising me, gaily exclaiming, "Wasn't it worth the wait!" The arrangement appeared vividly enhanced, an explosion of colors. A card addressed to me rested in front of the vase. I opened the envelope, pulled out the card and read the words inside. Gulping hard, I swiped wet tears from my cheeks. I found my husband reading the newspaper and I hugged him tightly. The flowers and card commemorated the exact date and time we met at a high school dance, forty years ago. "Ummm...the arrangement looks bigger than it did yesterday," I said. He lowered the newspaper. "The first one wasn't big enough, so I bought two." "Oh," I managed. Later, while admiring the brilliant display, my thoughts spooled backward, to a guy and a girl, a high school dance and a slow walk home on a cool Autumn night. Then I read his inscription on the card again. Even through the pain and suffering, he thought of me. He did this for me. Now how can I extend my card to another?

The Art of Waiting

The first thing I do after checking in for an appointment, say doctor or dentist, is to comb a rack or table for the latest People magazine. Not being fond of waiting, I find reading mindless material makes the time pass easier, gentler, and takes my mind off the tick tick tick. Usually, the wait is not as long as I anticipated. And sometimes, I release the urge to peruse the latest news on Brad or Jennifer, choosing instead to settle into a chair, close my eyes and corral my thoughts together, until I enter the peaceful place, the resting room. Having said that, I am finding that waiting all together is not an easy feat. This year I have experienced what I like to call, practicing the Art of Waiting. Whether it be sickness, marriage difficulties, economic struggles, death of a loved one, every one of us will at some time be asked to wait. I don't like that much. And this year, my resting room has too often posted a No Vacancy sign, its bold red letters telling me to give up hope, to trust my childhood God instead of truth. Today, I read a quote by E.M. Bounds. It goes like this, "Pray and never faint, is the motto Christ gives us for praying. It is the test of our faith, and the more severe the trial and the longer the waiting, the more glorious the results." Practicing the Art of Waiting requires me to switch off the No Vacancy sign every time it flashes. It requires me to pray in the morning, at work, on the fly, on my knees. It also asks that I trust God, trust his goodness, trust the unknown. My flip dictionary suggests other words for waiting, like rest, anticipate, interim. I like anticipate best. It feels good on my tongue, rolls off easier, and sounds more pleasant. I think I will add anticipate into my practice. I do not wish to miss the glorious riches that wait on the other side.

Coming of Age

I waited with my friends, the room charged with anticipation. Does he suspect? Will he be surprised? We pasted favorite memories in a large book, commemorating this special day. A Happy Birthday banner was hung in front of a long table adorned with food and chocolate cake. The room was filled with an array of people, friends, family and grandchildren, all gathered together for one common purpose. I chatted with my writing friends, some of whom I had not seen for ages. The conversations centered around our favorite topics, writing and books, with the occasional comment about quilts, canning and grandchildren mixed in. I heard his belly laughter coming from down the hallway. It was time. He rounded the corner and our jubilant HAPPY BIRTHDAY exclamation marks embraced him with full force. His surprised expression will forever be cemented in that hidden place, the space in my heart that never forgets, always appreciates, my treasure chest. As he greeted his guests and reached out for hugs, I knew that in this friend I had been richly blessed. A ruthless editor and critic of my book, he taught me to stay the course and truly appreciated my penchant for similes. His own book, a memoir still in progress, has given those lucky enough to be a part of, snapshots of his youth and authentic glimpses into a bygone era. This is what I have learned about friendship. When I witness someone cry with unabashed emotion and my own eyes well up in connection, I know  I have indeed experienced the richness of community, of friendship, of love. Today my friend, John is 90. He has truly come of age.