Moments in Grace

So these kids of mine bring me a caterpillar in a jar, munching fall leaves, fat and striped.   He is munching, perched on a thin stick they have placed in the jar.   “Oh, look at that!”   the little ones exclaim. “Can we keep him, Mom?” “No, he has to go back outside so he can get ready for winter.   Caterpillars have to eat lots of leaves and get ready for their transformation into a butterfly.” “You mean he is going to become a butterfly?” “Yes, he will spin a cocoon and sleep all winter and in the spring he will hatch out as something completely new, a butterfly.” “Can’t we keep him just one day in the jar, so we can watch him?” “I guess but in the morning you have to let him go.” But by morning, he had spun himself into that dark cocoon hung by a silver thread to the dark wood.   He was already hidden and waiting for his change, his new life to begin. The girls had first found the caterpillar in my neighbor’s yard.   My neighbo...

There are days when you just can’t figure out where you went wrong.   You can’t determine how you got there or how to get back to where you were. You can be going along just fine and suddenly find yourself lost in some cave of despair.   Maybe that never happens to you.   Maybe it’s just me.   But in any case, maybe you realize you need a compass. Because life is full of places that you can just plain fall right off the map. And when you fall off the map, the only way back is with a compass. A compass that reads life and gives faithful directions.   And maybe what you need in that moment is just some deep down, soul-settling truth, for your True North.   Maybe what you need is to stop and first believe that your compass reads it right.   Because you can’t follow what you really don’t believe is leading you home. And if you don’t trust your compass, and you’re lost in some dark place, where w...

Standing in the line at the voting precinct, I'm smiling to myself.  There's just something about election day that awakens hope.  But there in front of me I met a man who has lived cynical. Cynical is easy to live. He was standing in front of me and said that in his 57 years, this was the first time he had ever come to vote.  He told me that he watches eight hours of news a day, and well, maybe all that overwhelming flood of cynicism had done something to him. But here he was, standing in front of me, about to sign his name on the register of people who had come to be heard, to be a voice that had too long been silent. He said that he had complained about the president and the government but he never did anything about it, and so here, today, he was finally going to be heard. And what I saw in those eyes was a light, like a candle in a storm, it was, I think, hope. We talked about our party and the candidates and the issues and all this hope of chang...

The sounds of laughing boys and running feet on crunching leaves meet my ears as we stand under gray November sky. The park is empty this day except for my boys and two little girls about 8 or 9 swinging. The girls eyes keep finding their way over to us and they are watching the running of these four, all fire and pulsing. The toddling one year old plunges over to them in curious wonder, running and then stopping short a few feet away, innocence pondering at these friends. And the girl full of her own curiosity, she calls, "Can I see your baby?" "Sure," I say. Her brown fingers gently stroke his corn silk tufts.  He looks up at her, his pieces of sky reflecting her chocolate-almond eyes. "I like his hair, it's so nice," she says with so much sugar. "Thank you, but I like yours." And I do.  Under this November sky I watch how it blows wild, like ten thousand sprigs of softest warm wool, dancing. Held back only by a head band, t...

The last rays of a perfect golden fall day were fading into a clear sky. Standing outside the front door, I've been busy cleaning the garage, sweeping. In the hustle of the moment I hear a voice behind me saying, "Look, Mama!  Look what I got you!" A sweet boy voice of the three year old speaks into the crisp air.  I love this voice.  This voice I wish I could wrap in a box and tie with a ribbon to place on my shelf.  Then I could go and open it over and over again.  I turn and look at this shy smile grinning up in pleased excitement.  In small cupped hands, I see the gift. Fragile, white fluff connected to a withered stem. Dandelion seeds. "See them?  See them?  I got it for you! Here take it!" And I do.  And I hold the crumbling pieces of fluff and marvel at the beauty of this moment. Because it's not that I love dandelion seeds.  I don't.  And really I don't need them. Or like them. But I love this boy....