You held me then, soft within your loving arms…
We gathered raspberries in buckets, then floured our fingers for pressing out dough.
“Don’t be afraid to give it a good pinch,” she laughed;
And her nimble fingers flew around the pan creasing a fluted edge to the pie shell.

I wrapped your apron twice around myself, hoping to cover the smallness of me,
You tucked yours neatly at your waist, and swiped a cloth over your shoulder.
“Now wipe your hands here once,” (with that PA Dutch delight!)
Pushing my hands back and forth she painted white tendrils across the calico print.

“Nana yours looks like fireflies dancing around

I stepped carefully onto my leg as I muttered, “Way to check out the old ACL reconstruction.  I guess the warranty is still valid!”

Dusty and I continued on, rounding the bend on the trail and came upon an elderly gentleman walking towards us.

“Be careful of the black ice up ahead,” I warned.

I thought that he needed some guidance if he planned to follow the pathway.  Surprisingly he leaned over to me, and paused to emphasize his instructions on navigating paved paths with melted snow and hidden ice.

“You must remember to take short steps, like this,” he said, as he marched in place to illustrate.  “Then you can be ready to move into the snow or walk around the shaded areas.  If you are taking short steps, you will see where to walk.”

He emphasized this with an encouraging tap on my shoulder and a nodding look that silently said, “This is what you most need to hear right now!”

“I appreciate your suggestion,” I said, as I turned to follow Dusty’s tugs on his leash. He had discovered a dog he needed to visit at the corner of the next yard.

“Okay, short steps is,” I thought.

The gentleman was right; when I walked with purposeful short steps I looked carefully around, beside and before me, to avoid any possible areas of black ice.  When Dusty and I came up a short hill the glare of the sun prevented me from seeing what covered the path until I began to slide on it. However, my “short steps” took me quickly to the side and onto the safety of the snow.

“Short steps like this,” he had said.  He hadn’t called them little steps, and he hadn’t shown me them as timid or testing steps.  They had been short, powerful, precise steps pushed forward with energy and momentum.

Throughout this past year I’ve been forced to learn how to overcome my fear of taking any steps due to my invisible friend, vertigo appearing when I least expect.  At first I feared to make any move in any direction: upwards, downwards, sideways, forwards, backwards.  The spinning sensations reminded me of how I felt during my ACL repair recovery for my right knee, because I was afraid to rely on the strength of my leg muscles to keep me from collapsing.  I needed to believe that I wouldn’t look like a drunkard when I moved, or that I wouldn’t stumble from unsteadiness.

Even today I am aware that any step I take could cause a crumbling of circles crashing around me, just like when my knee would give out unexpectedly when I stepped on uneven surfaces or turned too quickly.

It’s a new year; I’m moving with my vertigo, I look forward to improvements everyday.  I’ve learned to take a side step before I actually turn, as that slows my movement just slightly, but enough to prevent the swirling from starting.  I’ve learned to close my eyes when someone quickly swooshes by me, and to inwardly give myself a pressure pause, checking to see if I am still firmly connected to the ground.  If I feel myself swaying I press harder, literally pushing my palms toward the floor.  I suppose these “short steps” have come to be my reliable ones and will hopefully lead me to discovering other ways around this obstacle.

I’m so very thankful I fell today.  I’m marveling that it led to my impromptu conversation with a wise and caring elder who reminded me to keep moving, but to be mindful of how I step.

“You must remember to take short steps like this… then you can be ready to move.”

Maybe I’ll have vertigo with me for a fair bit of time, but I refuse to carry fear any farther.  I trust that it is there for a reason and with faith I will learn how to step carefully around it.

“I am the Lord your God, who teaches you what is best for you, who directs you in the way you should go.”
Isaiah 48:17 (NIV)

After chuckling over Kim’s frustrations, I shared my memories of the day over 29 years ago, which revealed the Ford moving gene as a study in positive packing.  I flew into Edmonton the day before the truck would arrive for Brad’s cross-country move to Massachusetts.  He had secured a job at a company in Norwood, MA where we would live after our wedding in July.  Imagine my shock when I discovered that Brad had saved all the packing for that evening!  He still maintains that we accomplished the necessary piling of goods into appropriate packages, moving his possessions in a patient and positive way.  Even as I review this particular pre-wedding dilemma, my stress receptors hum, and my body vibrates with the need to vent growing exasperation.  Clearly it seems that our moving methods present in very distinctive patterns; organization versus chaos from my perspective or annoying anxiety versus purposeful persistence from his point of view.

Brad and I made several more moves throughout the years of our marriage.  Each one offered its own unique set of challenges, and each one revealed the constant contrasts in our “moving personalities.”  Perhaps none so revealing as when we moved from Massachusetts to Virginia when I was 8 months pregnant with our second son, Christopher.

Every year during the days of Advent I marvel that Mary made one of the most significant moves of her life when she and Joseph made the journey to Bethlehem as she neared her time of giving birth.  While I cannot pretend to know how she felt, how she wanted to have everything packed and prepared properly for her pending predicament; I know all too well what it requires to put your limited physical self in an unknown, unexpected, new place.  She accompanied Joseph, who managed to pack the most important part of their household, the most powerful possession the two of them shared: their hope.

No matter how I look at the Christmas story, I will always hold immense admiration and commiseration for Mary, who after all was a woman about to give birth for the first time, and she found out that she also had to move with little time allowed for careful packing.  Oh dear Mary, I can only imagine how loudly your stress receptors hummed, and yet how Joseph probably reassured you by his certain attitude that the move would proceed despite any obstacles.

Throughout the day as we helped with Don’s move it was heartwarming to see him respond to Kim’s looks of frustration or exhaustion. He would come over to hug her and I could see the visible renewing of energy that each hug provided for them..

I remember during that long ago move, Brad would say to me over and over again, “There will never be another year like this, we just have to get through it.”  I wonder what did Joseph say to Mary as they travelled the dirty, bumpy road to Bethlehem?  What shared phrases kept them hopeful, how many hugs did it take to revive their spirits?  How much hope did they move??

A couple days later, we brought a meal over to Don and Kim to share in their new home.  Not every box was unpacked, not everything was in its perfect place.  But we joined in a blessing of the new home as we laughed together and planned for the Christmas season.  Kim pointed to a picture of her parents on their wedding day sitting on a wall shelf.  She asked if we would find a picture from our wedding that they could also display in their new home.  I suppose these small reminders that loving relationships last over many years, will serve as symbols of hope to them as they begin their own commitment.

Mary and Joseph shared a stressful packing experience and a challenging journey toward their new home.  They had no idea how it would all turn out, but they knew they were moving together following God’s guidance.  They packed and they moved with hope.

It is my prayer that during this Advent season, I will remember to let new Hope move in, and just as unpacking continues at Don and Kim’s, may it continue in my heart as I try to unpack God’s guidance in my life.  May I always find comfort and sanctuary at home with Him.

Luke 2:1-7

  Hope is the thing with feathers
  That perches in the soul,
  And sings the tune without the words,
  And never stops at all.

Picturing a ruffling of feathers stirring up energy and enthusiasm in my soul is like a deep breath surging through every fibre of my being. It’s as if I can sense tiny wings forming within, lifting on the current of my intake of breath. Hello Hope, you feel so grand!

Like so many of my friends and family members, I want hope this Christmas season.  But I don’t want soft simple flutters; I want a frenzy of motion that swoops in like the flock of waxwings that visited our backyard the other week.

One moment I contemplated in silence, the next I countered in shock.  I witnessed whirring wings with practiced precision pushing their body into perfect position.  Waxwings descended from every direction to delight in the delicacies of the shriveled crabapples.  I thought I had stumbled upon a crisply choreographed routine as I watched them take turns, soaring from precarious perches on nearby branches, then contorting and stretching to surround a prized morsel and bring it within reach.

Joyful chatter arose from the waxwings as they merrily encouraged each other to join the feast.  As if they had booked the backyard as their banquet site, they boldly boasted to each other as they stripped the crabapple tree to bare branches. Unlike any musical performance I had attended, this one inspired me with its rising crescendo.  A rising of wings, as if the conductor had signaled the strings of the orchestra, as if the momentum alone would transport all to another level.  A rising, a moment of hope.

Then as quickly as they came, they flew away.  Later, my dog, Dusty and I walked outside to inspect the tree.  Over to my right I heard the similar song from before, but offered in a quieter, gentler tone.  Looking up I saw a bird grasped firmly to a swaying branch.  I noticed the yellow tip of its tail feathers, the brush stroke of red on its head; I welcomed the waxwing with a wondering nod.  It stayed there as Dusty and I headed inside.  It’s singing accompanied us like a hopeful refrain repeating its rhythmic message.

It reminded me of the simple song I like to sing to myself as I start my day.  My paraphrased version is from a song I learned while teaching Bible school one summer.  I try to remember to sing it daily, to focus my thoughts, to continually hold hope within my soul:
  Good morning Lord, it’s a beautiful day!
  Good morning Lord, I’m going your way!

This Advent I’m welcoming hope’s enduring presence by reinforcing this hopeful refrain with the image of the lone waxwing singing merrily on its perch.  Like the waxwings that wait for the celebration of the feast to come, I want to embrace both ways to honour hope within me.  Sometimes I want it to slowly rise like soft feathers unfurling on a gentle breeze, but other days I want it to shake with anticipation as it purposely positions its feathers to align them for a powerful swoop. Then the celebration will begin!

  Good morning Lord, it’s a beautiful day!
  Good morning Lord, I’m going your way!

Every year this holiday settles around me bringing memories of pulling on long underwear, tucking toes into two pairs of socks that had yet to be stuffed into snow boots.  The mad scrounge for flashlights and missing mittens, the slam of the door behind us, as mom shouts, “Don’t go near the edge of the rock.”

Thanksgiving morning in Macungie, Pennsylvania where pies and turkey got shoved into the oven by my frenzied mom, while my sister and I joined our friends for a dark and cold hike to Sheep’s Rock.  We gathered at the Macungie Fire Company, in groggy groups of bundled bodies.  One of the Boy Scouts eventually would head toward the mountain trail and we would follow amongst our grumbling groups.  Looking ahead it always seemed like a bunch of glow balls had been tossed about as flashlights bounced back and forth to light the path.

We all knew that we had to keep moving to reach our destination before sunrise.  Despite tripping over rocks covered by wet leaves, and sliding on the steep sides of the rising trail, we would urge each other on through the darkness.  Regardless that scouts had marked the way the day before, it always surprised us as we rounded the bend for the final ascent.  We were sure we couldn’t have another push to the top of another curve. Yet soon we found the ropes where we could pull ourselves up with one last hurrah to the solid foundation of the rock.

And there we gathered.  On the rock that had stood for years and years above Macungie, overlooking the valley to the small borough below, on a wide, welcoming rock that gave us the opportunity to gaze with gratitude over our community.  We would huddle close waiting for the sun to break through and share its warmth with us.  We would listen to some words of encouragement and praise from a designated speaker, and then join in prayers and hymns as the sun rose above us.

Thanksgiving morning, I want to pull all those memories around me and settle into this holiday even though I am far away, without the sure foundation of the rock beneath me.

Perhaps the sun shoving its way through our foggy shadows has no idea that I am laying claim to its Thanksgiving glory.  It’s shining presence peeks under the spruce trees to uncover the tracks that tell the tale of deer traipsing through our backyard earlier this morning.  I think back to when I returned to make the Thanksgiving hike with my sons and husband a few years ago.

After the sunrise service, we were some of the remaining few who slowly departed from the rock.  We took our time enjoying the trail in the daylight, discovering what the dark had hidden from us.  As we paused to listen for any wildlife moving through the forest, we spotted a deer finding its way through the trees toward the stream.  It turned to glance at us, to acknowledge our presence in its home.

Perhaps that is what I am doing this Thanksgiving morning.  It isn’t an official holiday here in my Canadian country, but I am acknowledging its presence with me… here in my home.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends and family!

As Dusty eagerly led the way today on our morning walk, I tugged tightly on my scarf, I untwisted tangles of his leash, and I focused fully on pulling my thoughts into position.  I needed to pray; I needed to sense that with every step I would walk wrapped in a conversation of my concerns being heard with loving care.

I zipped my jacket against the cold, pulled on my gloves, and followed Dusty’s frantic leaps into the piles of leaves.  He poked his nose under a remnant of snow and simultaneously started digging to uncover a smell that instinctively urged him to action.  He felt the need to pry and pry and pry, while I felt pulled to pray and pray and pray.

“Okay, let’s pry and pray, Dusty!”

I often think that if someone listened in on my prayers it would sound like the beginning of a call between a service provider and a customer with an urgent need.

“This is Denise, Lord, thank you for taking my prayer request today. “

Okay, maybe I ‘m not always that formal, but I do consciously begin every prayer trying to focus on that tried but true “attitude of gratitude.”  For many years I have approached prayer as a gift.  We have the opportunity to accept it at any moment, and as such I attempt to acknowledge it as often as possible.  Granted I am a chatty person, I like my conversations with God, I linger in dialogue with Him, dangling all my hopes, dumping all my troubles, disposing all my regrets.  It’s a wonder He stays focused!!

However it seems that I sense those prayer nudges from God especially when Dusty and I take a walk alone.

“Do you want to talk about that, Denise? Are you ready to listen?”

I might hear it as a thought as clear as a letter written in my mind.   Likewise I could simply watch Dusty being pulled in a distinctive direction and just like that…  the invitation occurs to me.   “Let’s pray.”

Sometimes I don’t think I need to pray, so the nudge will begin to feel like a poke on Facebook… Remember me? I’m your friend!  Then I am reminded that He too wants to continue our conversation.

This morning I literally felt prayer nudges with every motion I made while I tied on my scarf.  I just wanted to pull on prayer and wrap it snugly around me.

Today I am thankful that I need to pray, whether to express my gratitude, to tumble about my concerns or joys, or to pull on a prayer while I listen to Him for guidance.  I am humbled that just as my Lord, my God sends His prayer invitations, He also accepts each one of my prayers as a beautiful gift from me.

November has arrived with a bit cooler weather…

So, go ahead, pull on your prayer… it’s the warmest scarf you’ll ever find!