The Work Of Our Hands

pomanderYesterday marked the beginning of the end of dignified walking.  I awoke to a sharp pain in my pelvis as I swung my legs out of bed.  It’s known in the pregnancy world as pelvic separation and is caused by a hormone known as “relaxin” (aptly named) which makes the ligaments in the pelvic girdle all loosey-goosey.  It means that when my legs aren’t moved in symmetry (which is, unfortunately, most always), there is sharp pain from the instability in the pelvis.  Hello, waddle.  Or even funnier, if I scoot sideways like I’m country line dancing there is great relief.  Feel free to laugh at that image.

I’d love to be attending to my gardens, but I simply can’t.  I need to prepare a blueberry bed by digging-in white pine needles to raise the acidity.  I need to dig up my elephant ear bulbs before first frost.  I need to prune my nectarine and apple trees.  I need to dig out a tree sapling that pretended to be part of the grapevine.  I need to prune back the raspberry and blackberry vines that fruited this year.  There are potatoes to dig, there are weeds to pull, and there is an unstable pelvis saying “no”.

So, I ordered a pelvic support belt yesterday morning while chair-bound.  Yes, I am going to be actually manually pulling myself together.  Until that blessed relief arrives, my creative endeavors are limited to what can be accomplished sitting.

I had to wonder last evening, as I lay in bed with my pregnant belly covered in bits and pieces of whole cloves, how many husbands go to sleep with their wives beside them making pomanders.  Round and round the orange the cloves marched in staid procession, each puncture releasing a waft of orange scent.  It’s something I’ve wanted to do for quite a while; making these early American fragrant Christmas decorations, but had never gotten around to it.

“It’s amazing how strong that smells,” said my dear husband as I poked cloves into the orange.

“Yeah, and it’s supposed to still be fragrant for years if it dries nicely.  I’ve wanted to make these for a long time”.  I poked in more cloves and the thought came quick:  there are so many things I want to make.  I looked at my husband.  “What do you want to make?”

He looked puzzled.  “You know, like Tom really wants to make a wood canoe?”

“Yeah…I just don’t really have anything I want to make.”

How very different we are.  I have a list a mile long:  paper kites, red ware pottery, tinctures of all sorts, hundreds of soaps, handmade papers, chair caning, basket weaving, mosaics, etc.  I want to learn how to do everything.  Which is why I was poking an orange with cloves at ten at night while he enjoyed some peaceful, well-deserved, rest

“May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us; establish the work of our hands for us– yes, establish the work of our hands.” -Psalm 90:17

peppermint mochaI find great satisfaction in making things, whether it be pie dough massing between my hands or cutting thick bars of soap or stringing a batch of words together.  It all brings me joy; the disparate parts becoming a new whole, a useful thing, a thing of beauty.

While not everyone has this impulse, or, ahem, compulsion, to create, I hope that each does have that deep satisfaction in their work.  For my husband it is taking boxes of fittings and lengths of pipe and with them providing clean drinking water and waste removal to countless homes and businesses.  Ever thought of how much of a blessing it is to be able to flush away waste?  To be able to shower in fresh water to your precise temperature preference?

I imagine the particular joy of an accountant, having all the numbers tabulated, filed, and organized.  I picture the satisfaction of a surgeon, having implanted a new organ in the place of a failing one and seeing it come to life.  And the farmer seeing his hay stacked high in the barn and the nanny soothing the baby to sleep in her arms and the grocery bagger slipping the last tidily filled bag into a cart.  Do we see our work as a blessing, as a joy?

I hope you do.

Even if you have to walk sideways or endure any other number of impediments or hardships.  I hope this day that you can feel the satisfaction of work done well.

 

What The Wave Can’t Take

Sometimes the sermon isn’t scratching where it’s itching.  It was on marriage and keeping up the “puppy love” and such, and I looked at the trees dancing in the wind out the window.  It’s not that we’ve arrived when it comes to blissful matrimony, but it’s that we’re learning something else right now.  We’re learning about suffering and dying to self and having faith that the Lord provides when the bills stack up high.  And as it goes in the upside-down world of faith, we’re quite close, quite one.

We have to stare down a startling set of facts at present; the reality that this week we need to pay a bill for $1,800 for prenatal care.  Our tenant just moved out after not paying rent for four months, leaving us $4,000 short.  School taxes are due, which add a few more thousand.  We don’t have the sorts of margins in our accounts to absorb these figures.

Puppy love is the last thing I’m thinking about.  But money can’t be the first thing either.

I lifted Henrik up and out of his crib.  He was still asleep, his bum sticking up in the air, his little feet crossed, his cheek smooshed into the mattress.  As I lifted him, his legs squinched-up and his back arched in that way that the littlest of babies do when they’re picked up asleep.  It undoes me every time.  Cradling him close I carried him down the stairs, making sure of each step, because I never know when a Lego piece or a stray shoe could send me flying.

Henrik is bringing me my gloves as I type this.  He’s wearing these fuzzy blue fleece footie pajamas and a wool hat I made for him out of a thrifted sweater.  He’s gloriously cute.  All that blue makes his blue eyes radiant in the soft morning light.  Sometimes, when you can see the tsunami wave coming, it feels like God comes alongside and shows you some exquisite shells on the beach.  Um, God, shouldn’t we be running or something?

“I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.” -John 16:33

The morning light is growing stronger, bold rays catching on the rungs of the dining room chairs, and wave or no wave, the laundry needs to be started.  Yes, God, I’ll keep walking with You, and I’ll keep noticing and appreciating the glory You pepper everywhere.  I’ll slip my hand into Your scarred one and trust that when the wave hits at least I’m not alone.  Never alone.

shell

 

 

Not Unsinkable

Titanic“I thought her unsinkable, and I based my opinion on the best expert advice available. I do not understand it.”

-Philip A. S. Franklin, vice president of the International Mercantile Marine Company

I shied away from the dream that lingered on the fringe of consciousness.  In it the news had come out that two bodies had been found deteriorating in a major aquifer.  For some reason I was among the first to know that both bodies were infected with the Ebola virus and that the water for many cities was now contaminated and being consumed by millions.  It was the beginning of the end of life in the United States as we knew it.

I called a friend of mine that same day, Monday, and told her my disturbing dream.  We agreed that we hoped it wasn’t prophetic.  Tuesday morning, with coffee in hand, I sat down to read the news.  “Ebola Confirmed in U.S.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that we will stop it here.”

-Dr. Thomas Frieden, director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

Now, I’m not spending my day today painting a sandwich board with “The End Is Upon Us!” emblazoned across the front.  I don’t feel afraid.  But I feel aware, very aware of the fact that the CDC’s confident bravado is an unwise posture.  It feels like a big brother puffing out his chest, being the strong man of the hour, and attempting to quell the fears of his younger siblings with his cocksure confidence and swagger.

The Titanic was a pretty amazing ship; it had all the latest technologies.  Our hospitals are pretty amazing too; staffed by well-trained, competent staff.  But there are still icebergs.  There are still errors, which we’ve clearly seen in the communication break-down which led to the patient infected with Ebola to be sent home for two days with antibiotics when a staff member was made aware that he’d been in Liberia.

Pride makes us more vulnerable.  Pride says, “Not here!  Not on my watch!  That happens, over there, in those less-educated, more superstitious cultures where people act in ignorance.”  Oh, America, when will you learn that pride weakens us?  That humility and vigilance are the correct responses; that puffing our chests out just makes us full of hot air?

We are not unsinkable.  Let us pray that God would have mercy on us and forgive our arrogance.