Thousands will spend this Father’s Day without their fathers. The vast majority will probably have mental images of the last moments spent with these men. For some such images are peaceful – perhaps an aged man resting in a casket after a life well-lived. Others will remember the back of a father as he walked out a door never to be seen again. As for me, I remember my father standing on an idling tractor in the middle of a dusty plowed-up field, my ears burning from the tongue lashing he was giving me. I was eight, and he had sternly forbidden me from walking out in the field when he was plowing. That night he died from a heart attack as he was driving home from my brother’s Junior Prom. And it was good.

Saying “it was good,” is one of the great mysteries of my life, and yet I know it to be true. My father’s death undoubtedly changed the course of my life. I lived places I wouldn’t have lived, did things I wouldn’t have done, made friends I wouldn’t have made. I married a man I wouldn’t have met and had children I wouldn’t have had. I can’t imagine my life without any of these things – especially my husband and children. Yes, I suppose I would have married someone else and might very well have had a great life. But that was not meant to be.

There is a Bible verse that says, “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28) There is also an Irish saying that goes, “You’ll never plow a field by turning it over in your mind.” I agree with the Bible, and to the Irish saying I add my own take, “If your mind IS a fertile field, its plowing just might produce a harvest.”

In my mind I’ve often returned to that field where I had that last meaningful interaction with my father. Standing among the dirt clods, feeling like a dirt clod, I was being trained not to do stupid stuff, e.g., chase after a tractor when the driver doesn’t know you’re there. And though I wish I hadn’t needed that reprimand, I am thankful that my father was the type of dad to give it. That’s the image I treasure.

The Bible says something else, “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy!” (Psalm 126:5) If you are sowing tears as Father’s Day approaches, I hope you will take heart, and I pray you will find joy.

about me wondering if I should consider turning this into a blog featuring my daughters’ art work. It turned into me thinking about other upcoming events, which were probably already hovering like a delicate, wispy cloud in the back of my mind, not to mention over my heart.

This latest painting is from Daughter #1. She just returned from
Oregon, which might have inspired this piece. But everyone knows Oregonians don’t use umbrellas, so this must be her back in Arizona, reflecting on her time there, the umbrella a symbol of protection for those dear people and places she left back in the rain. Not that I’m trying to force my interpretation on her work. We’re long past…

me forcing anything on her. In 20 days she leaves home to begin a pursuit of another one of her artistic endeavors, culinary school. And if I could paint a picture of this process of sending her off – the excitement, the joy, the hopes, and fears – well, maybe I should just show you her art. It’s always best to let it speak for itself, right?

File this under “the quietly holy.” A trip to the swimming pool – specifically, the one at my son’s new apartment. He invited me and his two youngest siblings to check out one of the five pools in the complex. Incidentally, it was resort-like, especially compared to the one at my first apartment – indoors, in Colorado, murky, overly chlorinated water…I digress.

I reclined in a poolside lounge chair, reading and working on eradicating my pathetic pallor. But I was cognizant of the activity in the pool. My son with the apartment is especially good with kids. He is 22 now, but at every age he has been a good big brother. Today his playful, exuberant interaction with his siblings is attracting attention. Besides my three kids, there are a little girl and two little boys in the pool. With blond buzzed haircuts and goggles the boys looked like identical twins. It was only when they got out of the water that one could see the marked difference in their heights. The taller one was enjoying doing his own thing, but his little brother was eager to get in on the fun my kids were having. My son obliged, pulling him around by his arm floaties, answering all his questions, and addressing his antics for attention. When my son got out of the pool to sit in the lounger beside me, the youngster bundled himself in a towel and followed him. Then he stood over my son, slightly shivering and chattering away.

“Teagan,” we learned (I was eavesdropping) was six. His brother, “Hayden,” was eight. “He’s always mean to me!” Teagan griped.

“No, you’re mean to me!” (I wasn’t the only one eavesdropping.)

Teagan’s dad lived “someplace else,” and worked “at the new Applebee’s – not the old one.” His mom had moved them into these apartments because the people where they used to live “said bad things about her.” She works at a bowling alley.

Teagan was not only spilling over with information, he had questions, too. “How old are you?” (He asked my son.) “How old are they?” (He asked, referring to my younger children.) “That’s your mom?” I listened to my son’s patient answers and engaging return questions.

After awhile Teagan and Hayden were called away by a grandfatherly-looking man. My son and I began our own conversation. He started telling me about the candy-filled ice cream birthday cake he had made for his sister’s upcoming birthday. He was describing the second layer when I interrupted him, laughing. I realized that our food conversation was probably not the best one for us to have at that moment because we (along with others in our church) were spending part of the day fasting and praying for our community. “Probably not a good idea to be talking about ice cream cake!” I advised.

Remembering our fast, also reminded me of my prayers that morning. “What might our answered prayers look like?” I had wondered. “Who might God bring into our lives to show the love of Jesus?”

Funny, but a little blond bundle of chatter had never entered my imagination.

Before I discovered the word “quotidian” in a newspaper review of a Rembrandt art exhibit, it wasn’t part of my vocabulary. Now (as you can tell) I’ve kind of taken a liking to it. I think part of its appeal is its sort of oxymoronic vibe; i.e., the word itself certainly doesn’t sound very “everyday,” at least not in my quotidian circles. “Quaffing at the fount of quotidian quandaries” is part of my profile blurb and truly what I aspire to do, but I often need help to fully appreciate the “everyday.” Usually my kids are my best eyes and ears, and their quotidian object of choice lately seems to be lampposts/streetlights. First my youngest daughter wrote a poem about them (see my May 9 blog entry) and now my middle daughter has been inspired by one. What quotidian things have inspired you lately?

Last summer a friend let me borrow a book that was garnering much attention on bestseller lists. Reviews said that some critics were expressing doubts about whether the book’s white author could authentically give voice to the African American dialect. Millions of copies and a highly anticipated August 2011 movie release date later, Kathryn Stockett’s The Help proved that the writer was, in fact, very successful in her attempt.

Tomorrow, May 24, 2011, marks the 70th birthday of Bob Dylan. RollingStone magazine has dedicated its latest issue to him, and asked “the world’s foremost Dylan experts,” e.g., Bono, Mick Jagger, Lucinda Williams, Lenny Kravitz, et al, to pick his 70 best songs. Additionally, New York Times chief pop-music critic, Jon Pareles, contributed an excellent article, What Makes A great Dylan Song? His conclusion? “Dylan’s greatest songs don’t reduce the world to three minutes. They open it up to endless remappings, and force each of us to find our own way.” Not to brag, but that’s slightly reminiscent of what I commented in my review of my first-ever Dylan concert: “…in the concert Bob turned on the lights (literally and figuratively) with every song. That is how he points us to the full, brilliant pictures of life – his and ours.” [woman never sleeps, October 24, 2009]

In his book, 1000 Recordings to Hear Before You Die, Tom Moon lists “Highway 61 Revisited,” “Blonde on Blonde,” “Blood on the Tracks,” and “Love and Theft.” What is even more notable perhaps, is that a quick perusal of the General Index reveals that Dylan is mentioned an additional 21 times in the book. Only Miles Davis, Elvis Presley, and the Rolling Stones come close to that kind of additional ink, and they still fall at least five mentions short. More evidence of Dylan’s imprint on music history.

But what about us non-expert peons? It’s hard to argue with Bono’s assessment of “Like a Rolling Stone” being “the birth of an iconoclast that will give the rock era its greatest voice and vandal…the Jeremiah of the heart, torching romantic verse and ‘the girl’ with a firestorm of unforgiving words.” (RS, pg. 56) This peon would also argue that Dylan is not only the Jeremiah, but also the Saint Paul. Whatever one’s opinion of Dylan’s “Christian phase,” it’s hard to imagine anyone without a true understanding of the gospel message penning words like these: “Temptation’s not an easy thing/Adam given the devil reign/Because he sinned I got no choice/It run in my vein.” (“Pressing On”) Indeed, these words seem more Biblical and believable than some of the songs offered up by contemporary Christian music over the years.

Dylan’s 2009 album, Together Through Life, gets no mention in either the magazine article or Moon’s book. While this is not surprising given Dylan’s vast body of work, this was the album that made me revisit much of his older work. The tongue-in-cheek blues lament, “My Wife’s Home Town,” has me wondering every time I hear it, how many times my husband of 26 years has thought the same thing. And I will forever be indebted to the circumspect “I Feel a Change Comin’ On” for motivating me to finally read James Joyce.

How about you? How have Dylan’s songs forced you to find your own way?

*Note: My youngest daughter is filling in for me today. I was working on something to post – some Mother’s Day- inspired thoughts – when she asked me to read her latest poem. I decided that letting my child speak would perhaps be my best, “motherly” expression…

I don’t know if it was due to lack of sleep, allergies, or Casey Abrams being kicked off American Idol, but I was in a testy mood yesterday. It all started at the traffic circle when I was exiting my neighborhood to run errands. There, some idiot totally disregarded the sign and the yield rules and nearly ran me over. It only got worse.

My first stop was the library. I pulled curbside so my daughter could run up and deposit our books in the drop box. She got out of the car, but shortly turned back, and through the open window said, “Mommy, that lady behind us wants me to take her books up, too.” I understood her hesitation – we’ve discussed “stranger danger,” but I was thinking, “Some nerve! Get my little girl to do what you’re too lazy to do!” Grudgingly I said, “Go ahead.”

When my daughter returned to the car she said, “Mommy, that lady was so nice. She told me ‘thank you’ and said she just didn’t want to have to get her little baby unbuckled from its car seat.”

“YOU are the idiot,” I said to myself. How many hundreds of times had I had a baby (or two) buckled in a car seat and had to undo everything just to run something in someplace? I knew very well what it was like to long for a little help. Chastised, my daughter and I talked about how good it was that she could be a blessing to the lady.

Of course, my mind was not thinking about blessings three minutes later when I attempted to park my van at the grocery store and found that the SUV in the next space was a good tire width into my space. Once more I was rankled. I parked my van, scrunched on the opposite line, all the while mentally composing a little note: “Dear Idiot, Learn how to park. I’m taking down your tag number. If there’s any red paint on my van, I’m coming after you.”

The first person I saw when we entered the store was a tall, regal-yet-tired-looking older woman. She was pushing her cart towards me, faltering with a severe limp!

“That poor lady,” I thought. And then, “What if that SUV is hers? What if I had left that nasty note?” I envisioned the hurt look on her face caused by “Yours truly, Idiot Stranger.”

This morning, in a reading that was surely ordained for me, I read these words from Charles Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening,”Consider the corruption which is in thy breast, and then wilt thou wonder that there needs so much of the rod to fetch it out?…Does not that proud rebellious spirit of thine prove that thy heart is not thoroughly sanctified?…God always chastises His children twice, if they do not bear the first stroke patiently. But know one thing – ‘He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men.’ All His corrections are sent in love, to purify thee, and to draw thee nearer to Himself.”

That, indeed, is hope for idiots like me.

A few days ago my 9-year-old brought a paint-by-number set to the kitchen table. I watched her take out the little plastic paint pots and motley numbered picture, and meticulously line up the colorful set of brushes she’d requested as a Christmas gift. Then I went back to doing my best impersonation of my mother, puttering around the kitchen. For the most part I tuned out the running string of comments and complaints that began emanating from the vicinity of my little artist. That is, until she did to me what I used to do to my own puttering mother: she nailed me with a good question. With great exasperation she said, “Mom! Is it okay if I do this paint-by-number my own way?”

Creativity is celebrated around here. Our degree of accomplishment might be up for debate, but we have a great time trying. For me, seeing my child itching to exercise the creative nature given to her by her Creator is one of the most richly satisfying experiences of being a mother. Of course, I thought it was okay for her to do the painting her own way!

Soon, however, while my soul was still doing giddy acrobatics over her creativity, a more sobering thought occurred to me. She hadn’t just gone rogue and painted the painting the way she wanted; she’d stopped to ask if it was okay. This, I thought, was a beautiful picture of what William Cowper called “Love Constraining to Obedience.” It was a picture of being mercifully surrounded by an abundance of good things to enjoy, but knowing that the freedom to ask about delighting in the steak and Cabernet should also be followed by asking about when the wine “sparkles in the cup.” (Prov. 23:31) As Cowper put it:

“What shall I do, was then the word
That I may worthier grow?
What shall I render to the Lord?
Is my enquiry now.
To see the Law by Christ fulfill’d,
And hear his pard’ning voice;
Changes a slave into a child,
And duty into choice.”

If you’ve been here before, you might notice that I’ve made a few design changes. That’s what happens when I’m struggling to find anything meaningful to write about. I fiddle with the way things look. I went through this awhile back and the result was that I added some new features, one being “Followers.” I don’t know what possessed me – a moment of ego or a moment of insecurity. At any rate I thought this would be a cool thing to have on my blog…which is kind of peculiar because personally, I’m not that great at following things. I used to follow Calvin and Hobbes. Now I follow my friends on Facebook. I follow American Idol even though after every show this season, I’ve sworn I would stop. I am most serious about following Jesus, but even at that I’m pretty pathetic most of the time.

The fact that I have NINE followers is pretty amazing to me. I must admit that I, a.k.a. “Ego” was at one point a little embarrassed to have only nine Followers. Isn’t part of the idea of showing your Followers to show how MANY you have? And before you look at my followers and think I’m really pathetic, let me explain why one of those nine is ME. A friend told me she had tried to follow me, but couldn’t get the link to work. I decided to try it and see if I could figure out the problem. I didn’t figure it out, but I thought that maybe if I followed myself for awhile, I would…which kind of reminds me of how our dachshund used to chase its own tail.

If you’re still following me at this point, you deserve a good “following” song. I Have Decided to Follow Jesus would have been good. John Denver’s Follow Me comes to mind. (I was a big John Denver follower back in the 6th grade.) But I ultimately selected a song by the great Carole King. It’s also the theme song for a TV show I used to follow.