Red Badge Of Courage

In the story, Red Badge Of Courage, Henry Fleming transforms from a fearful, doubting,  lost youth to a confident, duty-bound soldier. After abandoning a tattered soldier he resolves his guilt by using the memory of this act to keep himself humble. Through a series of events he converts his fear of the enemy into anger and becomes a leader, eventually assuming the role of color bearer for his regiment. I thought about this story, about courage, and my eyes conjured a kaleidoscope, colorful patterns reflected, light transforming all hues of bravery. And sometimes, like a jigsaw puzzle we  can't see the whole picture until each piece has been connected together. Choices and decisions weaving a tapestry of life, hardest ones producing blotches of sweat and ripples of fear, easier ones perhaps a swipe of brow.  I may not be a soldier, an airplane pilot or a scuba diver, I do not need to be any of these to use my best Lady Macbeth voice and "screw my courage to the sticking-place." I said good- bye to granddaughter after Thanksgiving, blinking back tears, praying for safe travel. Can this be courage? John Jay Chapman wrote: " Have plenty of courage. God is stronger than the devil. We are on the winning side." I like that. We are winners. Every day an opportunity to display fresh acts of bravery. Smile wide when hurt grows strong, discover hidden talents and use them. Host a dinner party when reading delicious book adorned in favorite pajamas sounds divine. Forgive someone, even if pebble of hurt is lodged in throat, not having made its way down to center of pain. Maybe it's really small acts of bravery that builds solid foundation to stand on when storms arise, like practicing for when it's needed the most. Deep down in core of the fear lies that golden nugget of truth, gift of joy, another layer peeled off, humbly drawing me in to blazing red beat of heart. I wanted to kidnap granddaughter, stow her away in pack-n-play, never kiss creamy cheek bye-bye. Instead, I pasted on brave face, leaned in for elfin kiss, fixed on badge of courage and screwed it to the sticking-place. Humble, brave, certainly color bearers my family and I. Our kisses good-bye, damp eyes and hugs, red badges flashing brightly, winners, winners, winners, most truly we are.

Not For A Moment

"A weak signal," cable guy said, "I detected a weak signal coming from your television." Retrieving ladder from his white van, he climbed toward cloudy November sky and worked at fixing our weak signal. One hour later, dusk draped orange ladder and young man working to add new cable line so we could watch Scott Pelley on Channel Six news. Once he finished, we offered our thanks and drove off to daughter's house to romp with toddler boys. Later that evening, my mind traced verses of a song I heard recently on the radio. It played like one of those old vinyl record albums, thin needle stuck in the groove. "Not for a moment will you forsake me, not for a moment will you forsake me. After all, you are constant, after all you are always good." The lyrics draped across doubts, swathed me in peaceful fog as I sat with them, pondering meaning. Earlier in the day cable guy stepped on ladder to re-connect a feeble signal. It was dark but he continued on until he finished. In darkness, in pain and suffering, our faint signals ping, always, always, audible to the One who hears all. Trusting He listens is key, unlocking clenched fist and opening door to gratitude, weakness morphing into power. Learning to say thank you, connecting to broader network, brighter picture shoots flares towards heaven, search and rescue assured. Yes, my pain is still there. And so are orange-tinted leaves, three toddler grandchildren, husband who washes floors and co-workers who laugh. In August I received a gift from a good friend. Leather bound journal with familiar encouraging words inscribed on cover: "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound..."She said I could write about my journey with pain. Surveying the size of journal, I decided not to heed her advice, rather choosing to upgrade my own thank you's to a bigger volume. More room to explore the practice of gratitude, more pages to capture precious moment. Frances Roberts wrote: "If you discern God's love in every moment of happiness, you will multiply a thousandfold your capacity to fully enjoy your blessings." All acts of gratitude have in themselves the power to transform circumstances. Not for a moment does He sit still, His ear bent in eager anticipation, all thank you's a resounding alleluia.

Happy Thanksgiving

A Kindled Fire

The book felt light in my hands, a slim novel with seventy pages, a treasured gift from a dear friend. I had forgotten she had given me the book many years ago. I picked it up the other day by chance, a coincidence, perhaps an omen. We had shared the same passion for delicious stories and traded books like high-schooler's sharing secrets late at night. We couldn't wait to discover the end of the story, to dissect each plot line, every character, good and evil. Flipping this slight book open, I re-read the inscription, her neat penmanship causing tears to well. The White Cliffs was given to her in 1942, I could see from inside cover. When rummaging through her old books she had thought of me and passed it along. My friend died almost a year ago and I miss her sorely. Gazing at the writing, the endearment, I swallowed hard, an ache from a missing place that commanded pause, stillness. She knew my passion for stories and writing. She understood my love of words and penchant for keeping titles I savored. Recently however, a confession fell from my lips and as the words spilled they tasted hard, gritty and foreign. "I've been thinking about getting a Kindle Fire," I admitted to various family members. I kept silent about test-driving a co-worker's e-reader in dark bathroom at work. Just to make sure she told the truth, it is possible to read with lights off.  Nagging doubts plagued my mind since revealing this new-found desire. Who would I share beloved books with? Inside covers would not bear witness to beloved friendships. Pages without tattered corners and blotches from unfortunate coffee spills. First-graders with noses pressed up against gray screen sends chills up my spine. Touching the slender novel once more, thank you, the two words breathed out, fingers passing over her handwriting once again. Simply to recall and reflect. And all angst over choice melted like lipstick left on hot dashboard. Books will never leave, just like cherished friendships, they lean against each other, bolstering and propping one another up. And the really great ones leave imprint on our hearts, same as loving friends--kindling a fire, fanning into flame ardent yearning for more. Yesterday at a baby shower, I watched expectant mother's awed expression as she read inscription inside cover of baby book. "Thank you,"she said to co-worker. A pregnant pause. Her countenance I understood, her gratitude mirrored my own, "thank you for writing in the book," she repeated. Inhaling familiar dusty smell of used book store, I vowed to never let my library card expire and always keep my book shelves well stocked. Maybe I will buy a Kindle Fire just for airplanes and bed-time and darkly lit rooms.