Under the Ginkgo Tree

The only appropriate soundtrack for a morning such as this is the lovely Eva Cassidy’s version of “In the Early Morning Rain.”  Because that’s exactly what we’ve got–a soft, warm rain, gently falling all night long and into this Sunday morning, each drop like one of a million kisses from the heavens.

It’s a morning that calls for someone who knows you inside and out to be nearby.  For hot coffee and slow-cooked oatmeal (check!) and the morning paper.  I planted again yesterday and outside my window I can see the little zucchini and begonia and lavender babies reaching into this rain as if it’s a long-lost lover.

It’s Mother’s Day, and something about this sweet rain reminds me of all the unbelievably strong women whose care and advice and encouragement and remonstrations and unconditional love have made me who I am (for better or for worse).  I’ve been on the fence about Mother’s Day for a long time, feeling as if its commercial and consumer-driven qualities were just too much.  I suspect my cynicism about it all has its roots in the too-many years when I ached to be called “Mommy” and thought I never could.  Those years are long since past, The Curly Girl having blown apart sadness and longing into more merciful goodness than I ever thought possible.  Still, the memory of that ache is enough to remind me that, for many reasons, today isn’t a celebration for everyone and that, in our country and context, we tend to sentimentalize motherhood into a well-edited video montage of roses and lullabies.

All that aside, though, if today gives me pause enough to give special thanks for Mom, for Nana, for Grandma, for my incredible aunts, and for the host of other family friends who’ve been part of getting me to this place in my life, well, that’s a good thing.  Because for each of them, I am so very grateful.

Maddy came home from school on Thursday with two small plants–one basil, one zinnias–both of them adaptable to a hot Kentucky summer.  She was so proud to hand them to me and yesterday we put them in the ground, her tiny hands gently lowering them into space I’d dug out just so.  She patted the ground around them with such sweetness–then got distracted by a hopelessly fat earthworm and ran off to play with the creature.

This morning’s rain is, I think, the most graceful of blessings upon that time together yesterday.  Benediction falling down on our life together and what we’re becoming as we learn from each other and call forth the best (and sometimes worst) from one another.

I’ll take such blessing.  

I promised I wouldn’t be silent anymore a few weeks ago (click here for that blog).  And today, in speaking out again, I know that I am joined by friends, colleagues and many fellow bloggers who are heartbroken and outraged over the passing of Amendment One in North Carolina yesterday (such a benign name–”Amendment One”–for such a damaging piece of legislation). I posted this Facebook status last night, at a loss for any other words, “Love WILL win.  Always.”  And I believe that.  Today though?  Today my heart hurts.  And I am holding close to my hurting heart all those in North Carolina who must, this week, feel as if the day Love will win is too far away.

I was in North Carolina a couple of weeks ago, and while I was there, read the paper, watched the news and heard the scuttlebutt.  I thought, “Surely this won’t happen.  Surely people will not vote for this.”

I also talked with an old friend on her way to her church in Raleigh, where a prayer vigil was being held about Amendment One, and all straight and/or homosexual couples in her congregation (and anyone they wanted to invite) were welcome to come and have their relationships blessed and prayed for.  I heard hope in her voice, and it gave me hope.  And again, I thought, “Surely….”

Surely we will not, in this country, deny a person the ability to be who he or she is.  Surely, we will not, in this country, support a state’s efforts to limit the very definition of “human rights.”  Surely, in this country, we will not legally place more value on one human life than another.  Surely, in this country, we will not continue to pass judgment on some of God’s children such that their families, their loves, their very lives, are named “NOT,” or “LESS THAN.”

I was wrong.

You can call it politics (and news syndicates will).  You can call it “differences of opinion” (again, how very benign).  You can call it the country or the Church “just not being ready, Julie” (ask me how often I’ve heard that). You can call it whatever you want.  But what it is, is injustice.

I’ve promised my friend Doug, my friend Michael, my friends and family who shall go unnamed, that I would not make any one of them my cause.  Causes fade, you know, and the rush of supporting them generally doesn’t last.  I’m not interested in causes.  I’m interested in justice.  I’m interested in all people–no matter what–being able to fulfill their God-given humanity.  I’m interested in the fear, the anger, the exclusion, the judgment, the hate stopping.  Enough already.  Enough.

There’s a teenage boy I know who has known for some time that he’s gay.  This kid–he’s great.  He’s loving and hilarious and talented and faithful and intelligent and full of potential.  A couple of years ago, I found out he was dating another young man.  It was desperately important to me that my young friend know that it was okay.  And so one day I asked him about a class ring he was wearing. “Is that your boyfriend’s?” I asked.

He froze.  Looked frightened as he rose his gaze to meet mine.  And then he found me smiling–encouragingly, warmly.  It took him a few seconds, but finally he whispered, “Yes.”

“Good for you,” I said, and a grin finally broke across his face, lighting up his eyes as he replied, “Thanks, Julie.  Thanks a lot.”

And what I want for him, what I want for every young person I’ve ever worked with, what I want for my own daughter, is the knowledge that they are all okay–more than okay, because they are God’s.  And who they choose to love doesn’t matter so long as they are truly loving at all.  And how they define family doesn’t matter either, because families come in all shapes and sizes and colors and formations.

And I want them to know, Love WILL win.  It will.  It always does.  Against whatever comes up against it, tries to threaten it or destroy it.  Love WILL win.  That’s its nature, its very essence.  Even on the days when it is hard to see.

Love WILL win.  This I believe.  This I trust.

And so I’ll keep standing with those who don’t feel that Love.  Until the day we all do.

I never knew tulip poplars existed until a couple of years ago.  And then one late spring evening, the air just warm enough and summer hinting at the edges of it, a friend pointed one to out me on a walk through a local park.  (You can read about that first knowledge of these wonderful trees here.)

I run (albeit slowly) 3-4 miles a few times a week at another local park, and there are two tulip poplars there, too.  One of the things important to know about these trees is that you don’t really notice them unless the little tulip blooms have opened up from the leaves, the delicate stripe of color running around those blooms the exact same shade of orange as the Push Ups my great-grandfather use to buy for my sister and me on our childhood summertime visits to West Tennessee.  You can walk, drive, run or fly by a tulip poplar, and, if isn’t in bloom, miss it entirely.

There’s a good bit to learn in this reality–we generally, I think, fail to notice much of what’s around us unless it gets right up in our faces and hollers, “Hey!  Look at me!  I’m worth noticing!”  The Curly Girl has this very pointed habit of crawling up in my lap and shoving all those curls right up against my face when she thinks I’ve been at the computer too long. She cares not a bit that I might be working on a literary  masterpiece–all she knows that is that it has been too long since Mama noticed her.  So she blooms right out loud, in her own way, insistent and lovely and so very her, demanding that I pay attention to what matters most.

I was just as excited as everyone else about last night’s Super Moon.  May is my birth month and so for that moon to show up now is the very best of early birthday presents.  And it was so full and bright and luscious late last night, that I slept with my head at the foot of the bed for a while so I could watch it rise into its most beautiful (many thanks to whoever designed our house such that the moon shines in so perfectly).

The thing is though?  It’s always there.  Just so.  Even on the nights when storm clouds wrap around it or the mornings when smog smears it into oblivion.  Even when it’s the tiniest of slivers, just barely seen.  Even when our heads and hearts are too mired in our own angst to look up to the sky and see that fabulous moon lighting our way, signaling home, promising presence.

One of my favorite professors frequently reminded his students of the truth that, “Confession is good for the soul.”  I thought of his words last night as I stared at the moon, unable to break my gaze away.  Because , I must confess, I’ve been more than a little wound up in “self” lately–letting frustration or anxiety or loneliness dictate how I behave towards and treat others.  I haven’t been paying attention, and eventually, this takes its toll.  It did this week, and I’m thankful for the one brave enough to help me see it.  No crisis, no great drama, just a gentle reminder that, “Hey Julie?  It’s not all about you.”

Such is the human tendency, I think, this temptation to pull around ourselves all our doubt and insecurity and uncertainty and claim it as a badge of courage instead of naming it for what it is–our own inability to see a tulip poplar risking another spring, bearing her sweet vulnerable blooms to the world, offering the very essence of who she is up to God and hoping someone will pay enough attention to stop and drink in the pure grace of her life.  Our own blindness to the merciful constancy of the moon.

For the gift of tulip poplars and super moons and a five year-old in my face when I’m not aware enough of what’s around me, I’m thankful.  Or, as one of my favorite witnesses to miracle would say:

The first real heat wave of the year has hit the Bluegrass.  And, as Murphy’s Law (or something akin to it) would have it, the air-conditioning is out at a certain almost-100 year old bungalow.

‘Twas not bad at all to sleep with open windows and a fan last night.  I woke up entirely comfortable.  But this afternoon?  And early evening?  When it has hit 90 degrees? Ouch.  I’m pretty sure dinner will be eaten out and we’ll all be walking around in as little clothing as is decent.

When I realized that turning the air on had indeed been futile, the reaction of tension and frustration was immediate and obvious.  My shoulders got tight.  I could feel my lips tightening and my brow furrowing.  The inevitable worries about comfort and budget ensued.  For a few minutes things got pretty unpleasant.

And then, thanks be to someone or something entirely beyond my own ability, I decided I had two choices: misery or thankfulness.  I’d already turned toward misery, but it wasn’t too late.  And I figured it was in everyone’s best interest for me to back up, turn around, and choose thankfulness.

Thankfulness that I have a home at all.  Thankfulness that I’m in no danger of losing it.  Thankfulness that my sweet girl’s reaction to the news that it was going to be  hot for a few days was, “Then we’d better put my hair up in a ponytail!”  Thankfulness that it’ll be in the upper seventies by the beginning of next week and so we’ve got time to figure out what’s going on with that air unit and plan for getting it fixed.

Thankfulness that there’s plenty of sun and rain and wind to make the flowers and herbs and vegetables grow in our backyard.  Thankfulness I have a job.  And friends–the real ones, who never, ever let you down.  And family who care fiercely about me.  And possibility and choices and hope.

Just as I was making my very deliberate turn into thankfulness, my dad, without knowing it, put it to the test.  He texted me, “How are your arms?” (He knew I’d had some nasty bug bites that had flared into itchy red swollen messes.)

I texted back, “Better.  Not much too look at.  But better.  My bigger concern today is a broken air conditioner.”

Dad: “Oh…sorry.”  And then, “Funny.  That never seems to happen in the winter.”

I paused.  Took a deep breath.  And then just laughed.  And laughed some more.  And then typed back, “I’m choosing to practice gratefulness.”

And so I am.  

Although, my apologies to anyone who runs into me over the next few days–I’ll likely be a little sweaty and having a horrible hair day.

As we say in Kentucky, I’m likely to be one hot mess.  But then again–I’m not sure that’s different than normal, right?

Dear ______,

I don’t have words for how much I hurt for you right now, knowing how angry and scared and sad and unsure you must be.  I’m worried.  But I also know that you are one of the strongest people I’ve ever known–and that means, eventually, you’ll be okay.  It’s just that “okay” might mean something different than it used to.

I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the pain I heard in your voice when you called.  I’m glad you called.  Because no one should ever have to deal with that sort of trauma alone.  And I’d give anything to have had the right words–a magic wand, even–to fix it.  If I could have, I would have.  The only words I had for you, though, are the ones people have said to me in the midst of everything feeling like it’ll never be okay again: “You are not alone.  And I love you.  And I will help you through this.”

And really, those are the only words that matter.  To me anyway.  Because, as you know all too well, sometimes life just sucks.  And when it does, the only way to manage is with the hand of someone else nearby, ready to hold on to you until you can see your way forward again. Sometimes that means just getting through today.  And then thinking about how you’ll get through tomorrow, tomorrow.

The truth is (and I don’t know how you’ll hear this, so I say it with some trepidation), church taught me all this.  Church taught me that I’m loved (even when it was a scary place to be).  Church taught me that I don’t have to be perfect (even when I thought I had to be–every i dotted and every t crossed for fear of criticism).  Church taught me that when the bottom falls out there are those who will hold you up and away from more harm (even, my friend, when I felt as if I wasn’t worth holding).

Church isn’t perfect.  You and I both know that.  It can be exclusive.  It can be judgmental.  It can be uninspired and not at all what we need it to be on any given day.  That we’ve held it up for so long as something that should “rise above” is probably also its great undoing.  Because all too often, it doesn’t rise above the things in this world that are not of God, and in it you’ll find a whole lot worth fighting against.

But the same could be said of me.  Or you.  Or any of us.  I can be exclusive.  Judgmental.  I can be uninspired and not what someone else needs me to be on any given day.  I once made a very sarcastic remark within earshot of a church member.  She appeared horrified, “Julie! You’re supposed to be a minister!”  I’m no different than anyone else when it comes to shortcomings, flaws, failures and mistakes–and to place me on a pedestal (worse, for me to place myself on one) is to face certain disappointment.

(That doesn’t get me–or any other person of faith off the hook–we do have a level of accountability in how we live and move and have being as people of faith.  It does, however, mean that we often just don’t get it right.)

Still, I am grounded in good and born of love and capable of being so much more than how I or anyone else might define me.  So, too, is church.  I hope I’ve taught you that.  Even as you’ve been privy to my moments of church-despair, I hope I’ve taught you that.

What God calls any of us to–be we a congregation or individually members of it–is life together.  So much more is possible when we, as one my of favorite Indigo Girls songs goes, “multiply life by the power of two,” (or three, or four or many).  I am the worst at remembering this, even as I long for the wholeness of real community.

I don’t even know why I’m saying all this to you–except that in your sobbing yesterday I heard questions about church–whether some sort of faith could help in a time like this.  Whether it was worth seeking community.

I don’t know what the answers are for you–but I do know that you are, whether you realize it or not, surrounded by a host of people who love you.  Who care about your darkest days and who celebrate your brightest ones.  And tonight my greatest hope–my greatest prayer–for you is that you’ll let yourself be held in the safe arms of the circle of folks who know and love you best.

I still don’t have magic words.  But I do have presence.  Even from afar.  So too, lucky for you and me both, does God. No answers, no quick fixes.  But presence.

It doesn’t seem like much, I know.  But, then again, sometimes, it seems like everything.

I love you.  So do lots of other people.  And, I promise, one day, it won’t all seem quite so hopeless.  Trust me?

Blessings, dear friend,

Julie

The Curly Girl has watched The Sound of Music, in its entirety, no less than five times in the last week.  I kid you not. She is, at age five, completely obsessed with Fraulein Maria and her Austrian charges.  She is especially taken with the show-stopping “My Favorite Things” and “Do Re Mi.”  I’ll refrain from waxing prideful at how beautifully she sings both songs–because that isn’t the point of this blog–but, suffice it to say, Maria herself would be pleased at Maddy’s vocal efforts.

My lifelong crush on Captain Von Trapp aside, I’m delighted with this trend–it matters to me that Maddy knows something about music and theater and books and painting.  Mostly because I think the arts have a way of helping us express what we otherwise could not–and how we need such expression!

Besides, I read a quote from The Band’s Levon Helm this week that went like this, “If you pour some music on whatever’s wrong, it’ll sure help out.”  I know this to be true in my own life, and hope to pass it on to Maddy.  Learning to sing her heart now will help later when her heart’s been broken.

There’s a soft and easy April rain falling tonight–the sort of rain that makes you feel like maybe each raindrop is the sweetest and most delicate of kisses, meant to fall just so upon your nose and your shoulders and the tip of your tongue such that you’re reminded how alive you are and how precious that is.  It’s cool and breezy outside and spring seems to be curling around the world with a brand-new love.

Just before dusk I stepped outside to let Cokie and Gitzy out for an evening potty break, my bare feet cool and the clear damp air a fresh blessing.  Just beyond our backyard deck are a couple of knockout rose bushes.  My mom planted them two summers ago.  They looked like slingshots then, stuck upright in an otherwise empty flowerbed.  I had little hope that the scrawny branches would produce much.  My mother told me to be patient.  To wait.  To trust the process.

As usual, she was right.  They are three feet tall and two feet wide now, and I counted no less than fifty bright pink blooms furled open to the evening as the dogs bounded past me and across the yard.

I also saw raindrops.  Raindrops on roses to be precise (cue Maria singing, “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my favorite things!”), and a smile had curved across my face before I even realized it.  Only an hour earlier Maddy had been singing those very lyrics, the living room couch her stage.

And something about those roses, and the raindrops covering them with what seemed such mercy, felt like a prayer.  A promise.  A reminder of goodness and grace and all that makes life worth living.  

They were mystical–unknown and lovely, and I wondered what it would be like if we all found a way to pay attention to such small things.  Such simple beauty and such little truths.

It seems to me that if (to paraphrase Mr. Helm) we poured some of that sort of attention on whatever’s wrong (which, on most days, is a whole lot if you look around enough), it sure would help.