The Empty Nest: First Flight, First Night

Well, maybe the perspective of David to Goliath wasn’t quite this much, but to the baby phoebe which had just fluttered its wings for the first time, I must have seemed a giant.

  

One minute it and its siblings were snuggled in their nest on the rafters of our gazebo, and then in a sudden flight of passage they all pushed off, flapping untried wings in the air over my head. 

The others made it across to the rails on the other side, where they settled and absorbed their new identity as creatures of flight, but this one flapped straight down and landed at my feet.

The brave (or stunned) little guy faced me head on, not making a chirp, nor moving a teensy, fuzzy feather.

  

I secured the dog and considered how to help. Taking off from ground level seemed like a bigger task than baby phoebe was up to. My brother suggested I toss it up and give it chance to get some air under its wings, but as I drew near, it suddenly found its avian heartbeat and with a mighty flutter, rose to the rafters, where it sat for the next ten minutes.

One of the parents, apparently aware of the effort, brought it something to eat. Strengthened after a couple of feedings, the last of the babies flew off to the nearby woods, where for the rest of the afternoon, I heard the parents calling “Phoebe,” maybe giving some last minute parental instructions on “you’re a big bird now.”

As disgusted as I was getting with their annual takeover of our gazebo, and all their messy housekeeping (their nest must have been clean, but my floors were cluttered with bird poo), I felt sad this morning when I went out to check if anyone had returned—you know—maybe had to spend the first night back where it was safe and snuggly.

 But no. No little fuzzy faces peering over the rim. Just an empty mud-straw nest.

Finally, I say. I’m glad I don’t have to clean up after them or worry if my presence in MY gazebo is disturbing their egg-warming and chick-feedings. I can have my life and my gazebo all to myself.

My husband and I threaten to dismantle their nests so they can’t move back.But we never do.

Instead, each morning when I step outside, coffee in hand and absorb the new day, I first look to the gazebo—just in case—and then I pause to listen.

Perhaps I just might catch that high-pitched call, “Phoebe!” and know all is well.

Lord, I join my heart with other empty-nesters, happy to reclaim order, but always looking out for the sounds of well-being. We place our children in your hands. May you be a shield about them; may they hear your call directing the way to go, and may we entrust our parental hearts to your great keeping.

Ant power

There’s probably no better way to learn something than to teach it (other than falling flat on your face in front of the person you were most hoping to impress). So as my memoir class and I explore what our stories are really about, I ask myself “So what? What’s the story?” as I think of a funny anecdote, or a news headline, or even a scene that captures my attention.

Like this picture I took while my husband, pooch, and I were doing our daily doggie/owner health trip around the track. I keep coming back to it, wanting to draw wisdom, or life lesson, or something cosmically profound.

But it is in fact, simply an ant hole bursting through a paved walkway.

Beautiful in symmetry, I think. Rose-colored South Carolina clay mounded on asphalt. Maybe that’s reason enough to share it, but I, the forever lesson-maker, want to make something more.

I look up Scriptures referring to ants: Proverbs 30:25 says they are small but exceedingly wise because they use the bounty of the summer to keep them during the winter. Proverbs 6:6, curiously enough, uses the word wise again, telling us to look to them and be wise. I file the word “wise” and note the admonition to prepare and be good stewards.

I try the Internet: Ants. The largest around 11/2 inches; the smallest, a dash called the thief ant because it steals others’ larvae and food to feed its own. Impressive info; I move on. Ants are strong and can run fast. In comparison, if I had ant power, I could lift a car and outrun a racehorse. Amazing. Yet when you look at one of those little buggers (insects really) you can’t see the strength and power contained in that tiny body.

The thought of such marvels always brings me back to God. I think of how much strength He has put in the human will—attested to by the thousands of stories of endurance and survival over incredible odds. But even more than that—the power God says we have because of his spirit in us.

We don’t always grasp that so well. We know God says it. We memorize the verses:  “Now to him who is able to do exceeding abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to him be the glory . . .” but all we see is the little ant with its six skinny legs.

And then, there are those days when we are stopped in our tracks by a tidy tunnel of dirt bursting through the pavement, and we remember—God always makes a way. Sometimes it is just a sliver of a crack in the darkness, but it is enough.

How great you are my God. You are beyond understanding. Many are the wonders you have done so that men would seek you.

I glory in your holy name; I will seek you and your strength. I will seek your face and remember the wonderful works you have done.—1Chronicles 16:10-12

  

Thank you for stopping by. May you see glorious reminders of his presence this day.

Pivotal Moments: And then there's God

I admit I am envious of those of you who know clearly what your focus, life purpose, and (if a writer) platform is. You are the goal setters, outline makers, and Twitter collectors. You can settle down in your neighborhoods because you know where you want to live; you can write your stories because you know what to say, and you are comfortable with what you believe God has purposed you to do.

The pressure on me to join this group is becoming more intense because 1) I have written a published book for which I am somewhat responsible to market  2) I am becoming “full of days” and should figure this out sooner than later 3) My husband is putting his foot down about moving to another Renovation.

I’m not looking for excuses, but I do want to offer those of you in the tribe of life-stories-at- large the hope that gets me through when I can’t seem to find my spot: And then there’s God.

In most author interviews, people are asked, “When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”

Many answer something about how they scribbled stories on napkins at McDonald’s and never dreamed about anything else. I thought about what my own response would be. Forever fond of stories, I think I considered writing early on, but the desire was more defined when we decided to move south. I envisioned sitting by my own pool and writing a book. About what? I had no idea, but it was a vivid image.

And so we moved south; I sat by my pool and wrote a book.

As a child, I don’t remember, being smiled at by friendly strangers and asked, “What’s your name?” followed by “How old are you?” The question I do remember is “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Aware very early that I needed to be something, I chose my course. A fourth-grade lesson about ancient civilizations convinced me I would spend my life as an archeologist, unearthing hidden treasures—an idea dispelled in seventh-grade by the pictures in a Wonder Book on the universe, which convinced me to be an astronomer. (I waited about fifty years to see the faint return of Haley’s comet, which looked about as much like the illustration in the book as a hand-held sparkler to full-fledged fireworks display.)

Then I read a book about Albert Schweitzer in eight-grade that fixed my fickle fantasies. For the next six years I pictured being a missionary jungle doctor. (At the time I didn’t know too much about the missionary part, but God and good seemed worthy enough.)

I enrolled in a pre-med track at the University of Vermont. During my second year we went on a field trip to examine a corpse. It may have been a preserved body of some sort that the medical school had on hand, but all I remember was the hand with the perfectly formed nails sticking out from the sheet.

Fingernails were all I could attach to the science lesson that had once been someone’s daughter.

Still, my dream continued until the next semester when the pressures of college chemistry, delivered by an ancient man whose language I could never grasp, collided with the decades-old weight of “having to be something.” 

In one of those moments we call in writing memoir “pivotal events,” I ran into some recruiters for an organization called VISTA, signed up on the spot outside the college coffee shop, and walked away (for a few years).

I have been many things since that day, and am still longing to know what I am to be. (Those of you with vision suggestions or psychiatrist friends can email separately!) But this I know and cling to: 

1) I have surrendered my life to Christ—my gifts, talents, and lackings. 
2) Whether I feel it or not, He is in charge. 
3) I will do my part—the next thing—as best as I can identify it, and trust Him to intersect at the “pivotal moments.”

With a heart of thanksgiving, I say, And then there’s God.

What do you want to be?: And then there's God

I admit, I am envious of those of you who clearly know what your focus, life purpose, and (if a writer) platform is. You are the goal setters, outline makers, and Twitter collectors. You can settle down in your neighborhoods because you know where you want to live; you can write your stories because you know what to say, and you are comfortable with what you believe God has purposed you to do.

The pressure on me to join this group is becoming more intense because 1) I have written a published book for which I am somewhat responsible to market  2) I am becoming “full of days” and should figure this out sooner than later 3) My husband is putting his foot down about moving to another Renovation.

 I’m not looking for excuses, but I do want to offer those of you in my tribe the hope that gets me through when I can’t seem to find my spot: And then there’s God.

In most author interviews, people are asked, “When did you know you wanted to be a writer?” Many answer something about how they scribbled stories on napkins at McDonald’s and never dreamed 

about anything else. 

I thought about what my own response would be. Forever fond of stories, I think I considered writing early on, but the desire was more defined when we decided to move south. I envisioned sitting by my own pool and writing a book. About what? I had no idea, but it was a vivid image.

And so we moved south; I sat by my pool and wrote a book.

As a child, I don’t remember, being smiled at by friendly strangers and asked, “What’s your name?” followed by “How old are you?” The question I do remember is “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Aware very early that I needed to be something, I chose my course. A fourth-grade lesson about ancient civilizations convinced me I would spend my life as an archeologist, unearthing hidden treasures—an idea dispelled in seventh-grade by the pictures in a Wonder Book on the universe, which convinced me to be an astronomer. (I waited about fifty years to see the faint return of Haley’s comet, which looked about as much like the illustration in the book as a hand-held sparkler to full-fledged fireworks display.)

And then I read a book about Albert Schweitzer in eight-grade that fixed my fickle fantasies. For the next six years I pictured being a missionary jungle doctor. (At the time I didn’t know too much about the missionary part, but God and good seemed worthy enough.)

I enrolled in a pre-med track at the University of Vermont. During my second year we went on a field trip to examine a corpse. It may have been a preserved body of some sort that the medical school had on hand, but all I remember was the hand with the perfectly formed nails sticking out from the sheet.

Fingernails were all I could attach to the science lesson that had once been someone’s daughter.

Still, my dream continued until the next semester when the pressures of college chemistry, delivered by an ancient man whose language I could never grasp, collided with the decades-old weight of “having to be something.” 

In one of those moments we call in writing memoir “pivotal events,” I ran into some recruiters for an organization called VISTA, signed up on the spot outside the college coffee shop, and walked away (for a few years).

I have been many things since that day, and am still plagued by the question "What do you want to be?" (Those of you with vision suggestions or psychiatrist friends can email separately!) But this I know and cling to: 

1) I have surrendered my life to Christ—my gifts, talents, and lackings. 

2) Whether I feel it or not, He is in charge. 

3) I will do my part—the next thing—as best as I can identify it, and trust Him to intersect at the “pivotal moments.”

With a heart of thanksgiving, I say, and then there’s’ God.

Up close and personal

Blue skies, manicured green pastures, and white fences framed the idyllic scene. We paused to absorb the beauty of the moment, our drawing close catching the curiosity of the sleek Morgan horses in the distance.

 They quit grazing and hurried across the field toward us.

Closer and closer, face to face. Up close and personal.Sniffing, licking, rubbing.

Touches bridging that world between horse and human. My soul delights in the nuzzle, the getting-to-know-you.                                                                                      
 I think of how often I settle for a long-distance view of others--of the Lord, and yet it is in the up close and personal slobbering nuzzles that we do that which we were created for and which we long for--relationship.

Lord, today, may I run wide-eyed, curious toward those you put in my path, delighting in sharing my heart with you and your heart with another.