The Sylvr Pen

It was the best gift I could get at that moment.

When I went stumbling out onto the porch, nearly falling over it, the long box laid on the floor, it looked like…

Was it?

Who…?

And so I forgot my front porch errand entirely and hauled the box inside, ripped it open, eager, looking first for a note.

But the color hit my eye like a rainbow promise. And so apt that figure, my long-held symbol of that relationship of storm and raintears and  sun and thunder rumbles that God’s love and grace nonetheless streamed through.

The older son, the one Dad dubbed “Radar,” for how well he psyched out us others, sometimes anticipating thoughts and desires near the point of uncanny… Could he have detected, even from that distance, the yawning need for such gift, for right then?

He might have, this transplanted wild-grown child watered by the grace of God, now matured into the wonder of man- and fatherhood that could knock you flat with surprise blooms like this gift, this good gift, like he is.

Then next morning, came the best gift I could get for that moment:

…the card to encourage a doubtful mother, the book to encourage her soul to grow. He spoke uncertainty, not knowing its author or all its written content. But its title and direction and the giving said everything that mattered: “I get it. I understand where you’re aiming and know it’s a trek. I hope this is manna for the journey.”

I think it is.

I know the thought behind it is. And this mate of my soul behind the thought, that’s the real gift.

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And then, come late afternoon, the best gift for that hour in time: the long phone call, and somewhere near the end, “Mom, take a look at my Twitter. You’re in there.”

(shown on the previous post, but shown here again for those who won’t have gone there…)

Yes, we do go way back, over rocky roads leading to the hodge-podge family, and then beyond. Two against the world in days shortly after that shot. But not alone. Two with a Third, mightier than the world. Reminder of the way He blessed and held and guided us through, the wonders He did, the cord of three strands He made with us… Gift after wondrous gift.

The real earthly gift in the picture was the child, the real gift of the photo posting and phone call was the wonder of the man and father he’s become.

And the great huge gift in all of these things in the past two days: the God Who’s Giver of all good things.

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Sometimes you get gifts that outshine others. For me, they contain three things:

~something of the person him/herself, in the thought, in the medium of giving

~some obvious evidence of how the giver knows your heart

~something expressive of the bond between you.

… because the most real and best gift is the giver himself.

And then, the most blessed extra bonus thrown in would be the clear God-incidence of the timing. 

Because then we get to see the real Giver behind it all.

What an incredible weekend! Three perfect gifts a row. Just what I needed (and more), just when I really needed it!

***

Sometimes the marvel of motherhood goes awry. As with this little one.

Yet marvel it is, the mom phenomenon!

I think how we gaped awe-struck at goats birthing kids, then nudging their shaky-legged wobbling toward nourishment, as they cleaned up their helpless offspring.

I think how my own breath caught at even grandmother instinct, suddenly summoned by one sonogram of little girl kicking, kicking already, within warm womb. It startled me, that reflex, I’d known so little how it could surge, till it locked my heart to her for life! And oh, the first time I held her baby warmth close and soothed with swaying and back-massaging, and ceased the crying with calm… Melted together, we seemed.

But that so-real built-in mechanism, Creator-made, came clear more quickly for me in grandmother mode than mom-hood. Things—disturbing, distracting, destructive things—can get themselves in the way.

Like with the wee wooly.

The shepherd tried to point her from searching the pasture in all wrong directions, back toward her calling mother, mother stretching out her head searching, even as she birthed and nurtured her second-born.

But such slight human scent, where hand had touched a small wooly shoulder, plunged Mama Ewe into reject mode. Sniffing at her babe finally toddling near, she sent it reeling with sudden head-butt, flipping it away, away. “You’re not mine!” the gesture shouted.

She repeated it a moment later—leaving right there, in her presence, her lost and lonely little lamb, even amid the unfilled longing in her own sheep heart.

It happens to people moms, too, sometimes, that foreign scent—of fear or illness, depression or guilt. Or disorienting stupor—from some addiction or captivating sin or the world’s deceptions, so dearly bought.

For me what nearly ruined motherhood (though—thank God—never sent me into reject mode) was overwhelming angst, and deep depression birthed from that.

After the long prayed-for wonder of that boy-child in my arms,  my world crashed down and all around. The shock of debt I hadn’t known about. The alcohol trap that had fed it. The fear of future. They plunged me into a pit from which woe-weighted limbs cannot make an easy climb. Though it was the child that kept the mother living, the mom phenomenon still working in the numbness, she was barely doing, and for a while not much mom at all…

For some it’s for more than just a while. This world’s ills and deceptions can inject such toxins into the mother mind, they make a non-mother out of a mom. 

Maybe you or someone you know has, or had, such a crippled mom. Maybe you’ve been one. Maybe Mother’s Day is a great bleeding hurt, year after year. Maybe you feel like the rejected lamb.

“But…” says the rest of the Isaiah statement, from God Himself…

“I will not forget you. Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands.”

So the psalmist sang:

The shepherd took up the little lamb. And fed it, and covered its shaking with care and a coat. And when it came in, all of one day old, to pay our hand-spinning guild a visit, and made a puddle on her brand new floor, she only wiped up the mess, rejoicing at this sign of healthy digestion, sign that the lamb would survive, could thrive.

Picture of our Shepherd, greatest Shepherd of Love. Love even stronger than any mother’s. Love even stronger than death.

***

Epilogue

Just had to add in this photo, found on son’s Twitter. Evidence of the Great Shepherd’s gracious deliverance. No taint of angst here, is there? (Just a firm grip on the young one to prevent his escaping into the animal pens!)

God is so good.

*****

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The day glowed, it did, yesterday! So much beauty in the skies, the air, the greening of the world around, and in those words.

We looked at just two verses, so full we couldn’t dig to the bottom of their wealth, but left the yet unhandled to run through our heads and hearts later like shining jewels, like gold and gems through fingers.

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“But you,

beloved,

building yourselves up in your most holy faith,

praying in the Holy Spirit,

keep yourselves in the love of  God,

looking for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ unto eternal life”

(Jude 20-21).

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Loved by Him who is Love itself. Loved with everlasting love, given everlasting life to live and revel in right now, in love…

“Keep yourselves in the love of God”…

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And then, come evening, we watched that movie, birthed three years ago to celebrate four centuries of world influence and ethereal beauty:

KJB: The Book That Changed the World…

(Click link to watch trailer)

The film so shone with historical light I’d never known and so throbbed with drama it urged me hard to go dig out my own King James, blow off the dust, and read aloud in that lyrical language myself…

Which I am doing now…

*****

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{For when you feel you don’t mix in well.}

White clouds on blue…

…make me think of white wool washed and carded.

 White wool washed and carded makes me think of… salt.

…because I’ve been reviewing the Sermon on the Mount, and in it, right smack after the Beatitudes, comes the thing about the salt of the earth:

How we’re it.

How salt can lose its saltiness.

How we can, too, and end up as useless as un-salty salt.

How can salt lose saltiness anyway?

The wool shows me.

This… salty whiteness…

mixed with just a bit of this…

and this…

carded together…

It blends, like this…

Card it together again, just once more, and you get this:

Then spin it,

and ply it.

And voilá…

What happened to the white??

And how do we get it back again?

~

If I feel I don’t fit in, well, I probably can.

Just let the world, its mindset, mix in, mix in. Just a little of it might be enough. It probably won’t take long…

But is that what I really want?

My loving Savior, who shouldered agony and shed blood like tears, crimson and profuse, to make me pure white salt… Is that what He would want?

Just some thinking my wool clouds gave me… about salt.

*****

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“What is that in your hand?” (Ex 4:2, ESV).

When I heard the question that Sunday morning, in the sermon on Moses’ burning bush encounter, it rang right through me like a bugle call.

Moses held a shepherd’s staff.

I held a pen — and a tear-soaked Kleenex.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on me in either case.

I took the question quite narrowly — then.

But after the many times I’ve read or heard that question since, I realize it applies to us all, in a great, sweeping way…

If someone set a timer, for you knew not how many hours or minutes, what might you be holding when the beeper caught you by surprise? Think about it. Even if it’s a mop, or laundry you’re folding. How might God have you use it for His honor and glory, or someone else’s good? Consider these scriptures:

“Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might…”

“Whatever you do, do it heartily, as unto the Lord.”

These verses have echoed through me often. Yes, even when I held mop or laundry—also as I did my “Hands On What’s On Hand” self-challenge, when along with them rang the old adage, “Use it up, wear it out, make do, or do without.”

Digging through old boxes and hampers and various cupboards and drawers, clearing out the clutter, here’s some of what I came upon then, and how I used it, for hospitality, or giving:

A thin and raggedy “tea” towel, quite a disaster. My mother’s, or grandmother’s — and, I’m quite sure, one or the other embroidered it.

I folded it to cover the holes, ironed the creases sharp, and sewed two seams along those creases, at top and at bottom…

Cleaned it, removing an “age stain”…

And voila! From rag to tea tray covering.

Many an afternoon tea, or morning coffee, with this setting, can stir up thoughts of women’s hands blessing, in my growing-up home or elsewhere, and how we can follow their lead.

Next, piles of Grandma’s handkerchiefs:

Some of these, quite elaborate, or otherwise beautiful, some of fine silk, others beautifully embroidered, are going to Granddaughter, as a legacy, in unchanged hanky form. Some make pretty tablecloths or headscarves for her Dolly. Some can fold into Handkerchief bunnies and Hanky Sachets. 

After that I rooted through the fabric remnant stash—and disused clothes—for doll clothes fabric. A whole wardrobe arose from that, including jerseys and leggings, dresses, “jeans,” skirts, and a dressy coat. I forgot to snap photos, except for this one of ruffled pink dress (Granddaughter’s favorite color), made from a tee shirt sidelined by one small stubborn grease stain, easy to exclude:

(I  wish you could see the fabric rose at neck more clearly. A fun and simple thing to make from a long strip of knit fabric, ruffled.)

Applying “Use it up” to the non-heirloom, I pulled out some of the creamy white wool I’d spun, and let Granddaughter feed it onto the spinning wheel she loves to treadle, to tighten the twist (and give her the feel of hand-spinning).

All this, in cash, cost exactly… nothing. Yet all this, used well, became something priceless.

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That was last winter.

I’m back at it again now, that use-it-up-or-give-it-away adventure, pulling out plastic boxes full o’ wool, both white and colored, and having a “Mild and Wooly Day that Makes me Think of Salt.” (next post)

Meanwhile, what is that in your hand? 

*****

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