Wednesday's Shopping Trip

I needed some kind of spike to hold up the wooden garden sign I’ve painted for a new garden at my church.

When I tried the Water Art store I found no sign spike but beside the parking lot was a chestnut tree. I picked up some gorgeous, mahogany-looking chestnuts. Others were still hiding within their, first green, then brown husks with huge spikes that actually feel a little painful to the touch. “Oh, God they’re amazing. What a design.”

When a car door opened beside me, I shared my delight with a little girl and her dad. Typically for her age, she didn’t smile or speak, but the curious things in my hand certainly focussed her attention.

I gave up on the artsy store and tried Rona Lumber. The clerk at the door pointed me to a tall young man in the hardware dept. He was standing doing nothing until he noticed us watching.

After listening carefully to me he seemed to get the idea, even though his Eastern European accent showed that English was not his first language. Instead of just showing me where the metal slats and rods were, he stayed with me to muse about what might work. I hadn’t thought about the metal spike rusting. He showed me aluminium options. Before I could ask the price, he took out his digital price reader so that I’d have an idea of the various costs. It was helpful. I bought nothing.

I thanked him and bustled away.

Thinking back, I was impressed by the amount of time he had taken serving me. Then I remembered that the store had been very quiet. The picture came to mind of him standing idly in the aisle when I first arrived. I bet he was bored witless. I think he was glad that a customer had come along, one who wasn’t sure exactly what she needed.

It was a simple interchange that likely pleased both of us. I just wish I hadn’t been quite so self-focussed and hurried away with only a quick thankyou. He might have appreciated a bit more friendly chat, especially as an immigrant. I’m always so worried about taking people’s time with small talk; I have a horror of becoming one of those irritating talkers who won’t go away.

“Spirit ,please slow me down and help me not to assume what others are thinking.”

Turning a corner as I drove home I caught a passing glimpse of love. A middle-aged Asian couple were bent over a white woman in a wheel chair. The man faced the disabled woman and leaned forward to hold the front arm-rests of her chair. The woman was standing behind holding onto the chair’s handles. The very elderly woman sitting in the chair had her pale face turned toward the sky, whether by choice or painful necessity. The wisps of white hair still clinging to her balding head lifted in the breeze.  Her eyes were closed, her mouth agape. She looked to be at a dreadful stage of life, the one I’ve seen so often in senior’s homes, where once robust adults sit hunched in a lobby, many of them mutely at the mercy of someone else’s decision to wheel them back to bed.

During the instant this trio was in my view, I noticed that the woman behind the chair was bent low enough to speak into the white woman’s ear. I smiled, seeing that the caretaker respected the older woman enough to still talk to her, even though she appeared to be mentally absent.

Was the caretaker hissing, “Oh, stop your noise. We’re almost there.”?

I don’t think so.

I think she was whispering, “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Dove Hunting

Well, She's everywhere , isn't She? The Spirit, I mean.

Someone asked if I owned anything like a sculpture of a dove, which they could use as a focus for an evening course on the Holy Spirit. After a futile tour of my home I offered that I might be able to find a seagull feather at the lake if she thought that would do. The hunt was on.

Before I could chase seagulls on that October Saturday, I had to join my husband in cleaning up the garden and stashing summer furniture in the garage. After an hour of marital negotiations as to which of the garage’s current contents could be given away, my husband was pleased to be left alone to store the rest of his junk in peace.

I drove to a park at nearby Lake Ontario, and started beachcombing for feathers. The shore at this part of the lake is covered in egg-sized, round stones, and what washes up is more likely to be broken plastic bottles or straws, not anything pretty.

There is a huge population of ducks, geese and seagulls, so you’d think feathers would abound, but

I couldn't find anything remotely feather-ish.

I eyed a pristine white swan, imagining what one of her giant feathers would look like, but she eyed me right back with a swan’s usual fierce, warning glare.

The fall weeds and the lake views were beautiful on this sunny cold day and I was glad to get the exercise, so I continued along a paved lakeside path to get to the next beach.

After a few minutes, I saw a tiny white fluff of feather on the mowed lawn beside me, and then another and another. A bit of hope sprouted. 

But what good are tiny fluffs for a symbolic display?

I stuffed the bits of feather into my pocket anyway. My search continued. I had to get closer to the water again. For the first time ever, in the years I’d been walking here, I ventured off the paved path to push my way through waist-high purple asters and dried goldenrod stalks, right down to the water. No one else was on this part of the beach where rock piers jut out between pebble-covered coves.

It was glorious. Who cares about feathers? The Creator was here.

Spirit wind blew strong at my back. Great Lake waves rushed toward my running shoes. 

As each wave ebbed, the retreating water draining through the stones made the most beautiful hushing sound, a Spirit song.

I started seeing lots of dirty bedraggled feathers, black ones and white ones, the quill still rigid but the plumes half gone. I guessed they had been dropped out in the lake and soaked and tumbled and finally dragged through the sand and stones until they were total wrecks.

Is there some spiritual lesson in their appearance?

What had begun as a task transformed into a walking meditation. Again nature’s ancient and powerful elements were giving me glimpses of the Mystery. God, you are frighteningly strong if you spoke this wind into being.

You are a brilliant engineer if you created bird feathers.

The way water, sun and sand produce driftwood art manifests your unfailing plan to redeem death’s destruction.

What if I don’t find the feather we want for the display?

Sometimes God stoops low enough to give us these little kisses even while we must still wail in confusion over abused women and new wars. Sometimes, childlike, we pray for a parking place or a sunny wedding day and are given exactly what we asked.

 Other times there are no divine hugs or kisses to be found.

I was getting tired of walking and was reminding myself not to get obsessed. It actually wouldn’t matter one bit if a gull’s feather never appeared. I decide to go home at the end of this beach section.

Alone at the lake, amid beauty and careless debris, I gave thanks for the pleasure of walking with the Holy One in her beautiful world.

Hidden secrets, big and small, also reflect God somehow. We can’t always find God in the ways we hope. I was ready to accept that I didn’t find the feather I wanted.

And then, surprise. When I saw it, I smiled knowingly at the One who was smiling at me – a feather, half hidden under a log, camouflaged by nearby speckled stones and sticks. 

Yes, amid black feathers and ruined, grubby once-white feathers, I found one whole pure white feather.

There You Are

She bounces into the cottage kitchen first thing in the morning, white-blonde baby hair frizzed by sleep into dreads and ringlets. Her pyjamas are a pink flannel one-piece. My granddaughter.

Although she has wakened all of us an hour earlier than I usually get up, my heart races when I see her on this new summer day. Anticipation floods me. I open my arms and she runs toward me.

I know that one day this pattern will change, but for now 2 yr.old A____ runs into my arms every time we greet each other.

With my widest grin and raised brows I bend down and scoop her up so that we’re face to face, with her whole length flat against my chest and belly. She clasps my upper arms as far round as her baby arms can reach, and tucks her head inbetween my neck and shoulder. I feel our bodies, so disparate, melting into each other’s warmth. Her relaxation is as complete as mine. I stand motionless as she lies against me in a full embrace, both of us lost in the feeling. For some reason, she doesn’t squirm in my arms to be put back down on her toddler feet, feet that have already learned the pleasure of running and dancing.

She is still.

I close my eyes so that I can focus on sensation. Quietly, I hum and murmur tunelessly, rocking a bit. I whisper, “I love you, A____”.  

She rests.

It feels like prayer to me.

Eventually, she lifts her head to look into my face. Our eyes meet and we gaze full on, soul to soul. I drink in her perfect, fresh-born face haloed by wisps of blonde, her flawless complexion and clear blue eyes. I forget what she is seeing, skin that blotches and sags, and my aged eyes.

She doesn’t turn away.

I wonder what she’s thinking.

Wordless, we hold each other and look long at love personified.

Ecstatic Union.

Mystery.