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Today I watched with the rest of the world the video of 3-year-old Sofia Walker staring down an 8-year-old male African lion named Malik. No, it wasn’t the trailer of another TV reality show, rather it was un-reality at its best. I’m referring to the 3-year-old girl in New Zealand who innocently faced an 8-year-old lion living at the local zoo.

Of course, the ferocious beast was behind protective glass to shield his giant frame from harming the little girl. Adults who witnessed this huge king of the jungle, including a nervous mother nearby–bravely holding the camera as steady as she could, cried out in amazement and terror that something would go wrong—but not the 3-year-old. The reporter for the Dominion Post revealed that in the end, the little one asked if she could return to the zoo to celebrate her 4^th birthday next month.

Seeing this reminded me of today’s morning meditation. The Spirit led me to Psalm 8:3 for entirely different reasons. I had marveled that the full moon that began in the eastern sky had made the rounds to the western sky and was fading from view, but not before I looked at its amazing beauty and heard “When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him. . .?”

But then I choose to read the verses that surrounded the text because I was so awe-struck by the beauty of God’s word this morning. And that’s when I stumbled upon verse 2: “from the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise,” and the scripture’s insightful commentary. It suggests that as children, we are able to trust without doubts or reservations but as we get older, many of us find this increasingly difficult to do.

It was the little girl from New Zealand who taught me a lesson today and gave me cause to pause. Could I have child like faith like that in the face of danger, or distress, or attack? Will I ever be able each day to simply ordain, decree, establish and enact praise to God and trust Him in every moment? To stare down my lions?

I’m grateful to Sofia for this invaluable, visible demonstration of how this trust-thing works. She never questioned if the glass would hold, or if the lion would attack, tearing her little body to shreds. She simple trusted. Lord, help me daily to stare down my lions.

FMI: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/01/10/sofia-walker-new-zealand-zoo_n_1196784.html

Related articles

• Little girl’s face-off with lion (thesun.co.uk)
• Fearless 3-year-old Wellington Girl Faces Down a Fierce Lion (ibtimes.com)
• WATCH: 3-Year-Old Girl Faces Off With Zoo Lion (huffingtonpost.com)

If the first step to getting help is admitting you have a problem, then I admit I have a problem. For example, a writing prompt from earlier this week suggested that I write an elegy to someone or something that I had to lose or give up. I wrote about an inanimate object—a dining room table—that mom bought while she was living with my dad in California. It was one of many of her treasures. She often told me the story of how she found the table in the first place. How she and my father loved to wander through antique shops in Los Angeles whenever he was home on military leave from the Army.

My parents would spend hours walking from one shop to another along an avenue that was by description similar to the garment district in New York City. The crowded streets and sidewalks overflowed with racks and stacks of clothing items, shoes, purses, men’s suits and jackets, hats and ladies’ jewelry. Along the way a happened upon treasure of a finely carved pair of end tables or a mahogany rocking chair.

The street corner vendors’ invitations were irresistible to antique lovers like mom and dad as they leisurely meander from one storefront to another. Vendors everywhere hawked their wares, offering deals on some of the common items if they had overstock. Other one-of-a-kind items, like mother’s dining room table, were non-negotiable.

Mom was hooked the moment she saw the bright gleam of the mahogany surface. She loved the sensuous lines of the legs that extended from the center outward toward the edges, perpendicular to the short ends of the table. Fabulous. And with an extra extension, it would be perfect for dinner parties and family gatherings. She had to have it and Harry Earl would not deny her. He loved the look on her face as much as she loved old things.

Once the piece was home, she treasured it with a splurge of table pads, and an expensive lace tablecloth. Now the table was complete and she was ready for her first dinner party with the new piece.

My problem? I simply love this story. I can imagine the two of them walking, arm in arm after dinner. It would have been in the late ’40s and 50s, before I was born and the responsibility and obligation of taking care of me extinguished the fire of love and romance.  But the real problem is not an overly active imagination. It is something far more complex.

It has to do with my resistance to letting go of the past. It has to do with occasionally wanting to step into a time machine and revisit the past. It has to do with treasuring old things, loving old things, being sentimental about old things. Ultimately is has to do with feeling guilty about loving old things and being vilified for it as well.

Now, as I step in to the looking-glass of 2012 with only a few hours left of 2011, I long to go forward and backwards at the same time. You see, I have been struggling with what to do with mother’s things, even though they have sentimental value to me. I feel that it is wrong to feel this way about things. I feel that I might be a borderline hoarder or something because I have so much trouble parting with things. After all, any well-adjusted person would remind me that they are just that—things. A normal person would argue that the person to whom they belonged is gone and will not come back, regardless how tightly I cling to their things.

But the normal, well-adjusted person doesn’t understand that I hear their voices in their things, I remember what they look like in their things, I recall their admonishing and wisdom when I look at or talk about their things.

I hope 2012 is a better year for me. I feel I have learned a lot in these last 12 months: mother falling, mother admitted to the hospital and kept for over a week, mother being transferred to a nursing home, mother getting worse and progressively refusing to walk, get out of bed, and eventually she stopped eating and talking. Six months from the time of her fall, mother lowered into the ground. I put on a good front, but I am numb. It is too soon for me to let go.

But I have at least here, tonight, with you admitted to having a problem.

Happy New Year, everyone.

As I listen to the first snow of winter
I hear it through my mother’s eyes.

As I hear the first cuts of winter blues
I feel it with my mother’s fingers.

A slow tap, a hooded gaze
a stern rebuke
no gentle caresses
fill my memory tubes

While stuck in traffic today, I wondered why it is so hard to find the Christmas spirit any more. Did Christ come to earth for naught? Was the precious gift of salvation wasted on humanity? We war and fight, kill and steal, but do we pause to remember.

I beg of you–if you are knotted up inside about not being able to secure an X-box 360 or a pair of Air-Jordan tennis shoes, please take a moment and ask yourself if you know the true meaning of Christmas. The true meaning of Christmas. Ask Christ to come into your heart and turn the darkness of materialism into the light of love. Receive The Gift of Light today and let that light shine in dark places.

Which is more important: a person’s life or a pair of tennis shoes? Answer carefully and truthfully. It is only then that we will understand that we are created human beings, not human doings.

Merry Christmas to all. My prayer is that you pause to open The Gift, reflect on what it means to you, receive the blessing of grace and peace, and then share the blessing of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Men.

Read the full story in Luke 2:7-15.

From the angels who have descended on Kmart to pay off lay-away bills for unsuspecting families, to a charitable endeavor called “Fairy Dog Parents”, people are taking the little that they have and turning it into much for those who have nothing. Visit http://www.fairydogparents.org/ for more about this unique charity.

Everywhere I go I hear the same refrain:  I’ll be glad when 2011 is over. It’s been very hard. I am astonished by the heart-breaking stories that people begin to  tell when I share that my mom died this summer. I am in a new league of people–people who are mourning the loss of a loved one.

On my way home the other day, I drove through a very affluent neighborhood. Sprawling manicured lawns met paved driveways that led to 16-room houses with 2- and sometimes 3-car garages. The houses sat so far back from the street that I nearly had to pull over to see them. Those that I did see (while trying to keep one eye on the road) were brightly adorned with wreaths on doorways, strings of lights everywhere, and other decorations that heralded the coming day of Christmas. It obviously was important to the people who lived in this neighborhood to have a good-looking place to live.

I would never fit in here.

Then I thought about–as I always do–those who tonight will sleep underneath bridges and curl up in doorways and staircases. That is their home. It seems at times that there is no one in between the extremes. But people who appreciate paid-off layaways and veterinarian bills are there. I am there. I want to share what I have with those who may not necessarily sleep in doorways but need a little help.

Afterall, it’s Christmas. What better way to remember the gift of the Savior that to get started sharing.

I did write three little poems that I’d like to share here:

1.
while thinking about how faith is lived
moreso than spoken
by all accounts most haven’t the foggiest
of how faith works anyway
it is grace that holds them together

2.
faith should never be something
that you must defend
for its offense to others;
it should be the salve
that mends the wounds
inflicted by an offenders

3.
I tripped over grace and mercy
while running to God with the broken
fractured fragments
asking Him to take the shrapnel
from internalized brutality
transforming it
into the best he could do with it
for His namesake

Image by Scott Beamer via Flickr

Let me start by confessing that it has been a long road back to this place. A long road back. My back aches from dragging lifeless bodies that seemed to need saving, and my feet burn from walking over red hot coals strewn along the way to get at truth. Honestly, I don’t really know what to say except SORRY;  I let life interrupt a good thing but I felt I had no choice.

There were gems and diamonds along the way (i.e., I discovered my father’s military records among mother’s personal effects, including his death certificate which revealed more about him than I had ever learned from mother).  There were a few frogs to be kissed (i.e. a couple of cousins who did everything they could to scavenge like vultures picking muscle from bone) Ugh.

But despite some really trying times, I am still here. I am still here. I am yet here. And I’m back to blogging with zeal and enthusiasm.  I don’t even know when my last entry was. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am typing my life out, one character at a time. My fingers furiously fly over the keys on the computer keyboard as if they are running for their life–and in a way, they are. I have grown a lot and I have learned a lot about life. My blog represents a commitment to craft that got away from me. I regret that sooooo much. Now I am repenting of having wandered away from the “word-press” and I am back to seek redemption for myself as a writer; as a poet. That’s all I’ve ever been. I continue to be loved; I continue to live.

Related articles

• 12/20: St. Mary’s Nativity (unitedbyfaith.wordpress.com)
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Dear readers, please forgive me. I owe any/everyone who followed my blog an apology. I owe a great big thank you to Brenda, too.

I’ve been absent from the art of writing but today, in the most unusual place, under the most unusual circumstances, I am re-acquainted myself with the art and craft and why I wanted to write poetry in the first place.

While waiting in the lobby of the local Chevrolet dealership, I met a fellow writer and we had time to chat about our passion while waiting for our vehicles to be serviced. She is on a path toward a screenplay; I shared that I’m observing the world around me and trying to put it on paper. This opened a door of all kinds of curiosities. After our chat, while I continued to wait, I decided to make good use of the time and read a little more.

I found a couple of articles published on the Writer’s Digest website. One article in particular is ”16 Ways to Not Win A Poetry Contest” a blog entry written by guest blogger Miriam Sagan <http://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/by-writing-genre/poetry/16-ways-to-not-win-a-poetry-contest-guest-post-by-miriam-sagan>

And thus, along with some useful advice from Brian A. Klems entitled 1o Ways Writers Lose Blog Traffic and Alienate Readers http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/10-ways-writers-lose-blog-traffic-and-alienate-readers>, I have decided to reinvent myself, and so, my writing life as an 18-month veteran of blogging.

Brian’s article challenges me to make the thing interesting–to somebody other than myself. Tough assignment, Brian, but I hear you loud and clear. I’ve been consistently inconsistent with my blog and I repent of that. I stepped away from all of it when mother took her tumble. But now that she has passed I have time to write.

But here goes nothing.

Today i got a call from the nursing home where mother has lived for about 6 months. Six months of hell for both of us. They want to know if I would consider hospice care for mother. I ask, “isn’t that where people go to die because there’s nothing more anyone can do for them?” with only the slightest quiver in my voice. The social worker says “yes and no,” and insists i think about this as an alternative. after all, mother is confused and doesn’t know what she wants, and since she is refusing to eat, her body weight is dropping to dangerous, anexoric levels and the nursing home staff don’t know what to do.

So i am left to ponder hospice care for mother and i can’t shake the notion that it’s because the staff are good ole’ garden variety lazy and would rather sentence my mother to die than take 15 minutes and sit with her and help her eat. they are content to shift the responsibility onto me, suggesting that if I brought her food that she liked, perhaps she would regain some weight and hospice would not be on the table.

She would heal from the wounds that I’m more and more convinced the nursing home inflicted in the first place and everyone would like happily ever after.

SO you can understand why i had to come out of my captivity, at least temporarily so, to put my thoughts on paper.

But today I was able to break the surface and grabbed a gulp of air. I actually wrote one poem toward the end of March, but because things were still so hectic I wasn’t able to publish it until now. Then the miraculous happened; another poem came along behind it. 

Humbly grateful to God for keeping my talent and passion intact, I submit what I have to offer the world in the hope that it is a better place for it:

It’s More Than A Missing Tooth

it’s about truth
of who is left after life
has nibbled and scratched
dined at the table
yet offered the host nothing in return
but the open sepulcher
the grave where dining ends and mourning begins
for what is lost and what can never be replaced
it’s about life again
new opportunities, shiny brass rings
swinging in the wake of fierce winds
tornadoes and hurricanes of
living as she promised herself she would
fearlessly

I wrote the following piece earlier today while sitting in a Starbucks in Irvington. As I gazed out the window, pondering and waiting, this poem/song came to me.

Rev. Green

as the song plays on
she forgets her place
in the sprawling landscape of important things
to daydreams about
the power of love
the sermon Rev. Green is preachin’
until the song is done

*Love & Happiness written by Mabon Hodges and Al Green

Image by Ruukel via Flickr

It’s been a whirlwind–no question about it. As a writer, these last few days have been a tremendous struggle for me. It is now 5:30 am, the sacred hour of the day when I, as a writer, can get better acquainted with the writer I know.  I can spend a few minutes talking with her, and more importantly listening to her. I can catalogue and dialogue with her and she will talk for hours if given the chance.  Simply put, it’s worth the early hour of the day for the chance to spend time with her. I enjoy her company.

Almost at the exact moment I decided to take the “Post-A-Day” challenge from WordPress, everything began to spin out of control. And the poet in me was under siege. Mother fell a week ago, and my life has been in a tail spin ever since. I try not to think too much about it, but it makes me sad that things are changing the way they are. I’m moving so fast that I can barely grab a burger and a nap. Lately, that seems all I want. I long for the solace that writing provides, because I seem to never be alone and able to hear my own thoughts. Or when I am alone, I’m so tired I drift off to asleep.

On her first night in the hospital I tried to make it work. I approached it as a journalistic opportunity for me. I set out to chronicle every sound and nuance beginning from the ambulance ride, to the emergency room at the local hospital, to her time on the floor. But details quickly began to get away from me and I found myself swept away in the details of managing her life–leaving my life adrift in the middle of a big ocean.

Having never learned to swim my only hope was to tread water until help came.

Now somewhat suddenly my writing group becomes crucial. My writing practice becomes incredibly important and something to be cherished and protected. Perseverance is the name of the game. Defeating distractions and those things that inevitably get in the way of writing: procrastination, illness, death, technology, ineffective time management.

This is the first entry written since last week. It’s not much, but it’s a start…and that’s all that breaking free is; to begin.