SEPTEMBER MORNING

By Lisa Huddleston

September brings glorious, chilly mornings, the hint of color to come and already present in the trees, full fields ready to harvest, and the promise of change. Either a promise or a threat. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I know change is coming.

Before I couldn’t wait for change. I measured my age in half years, and anxiously anticipated every change in my own children: eating solid food, walking, potty training, learning to read, getting their driver’s licenses, going to college, getting married … each step leading them further away. But there was joy in the change.

Now change feels like fear. We have lost half our parents. The other half ages before our eyes. And I watch their faces, my mirror, and the news with anxious eyes and ears, and I want to stop the clock. Crazy men with bombs speak of fire and fury with threats that could kill us all, could stop the comforting change of the seasons that have always before promised to return. This harvest could be the last. Could always have been I suppose, and I am forced to chuckle at my dire response to beauty.

So on this early morning, I sit alone on my screened-in porch, breathing under heavy blankets and reading the morning words. God sees and knows and speaks: “The Most High God rules the kingdoms of the world and appoints anyone he desires to rule over them” (Daniel 5:21). And I breathe and know what he says is true, before and now and still to come. And I hope to be caught up in the harvest. To be judged as fruit and not as chaff. To abide in him and with him through seasons, and changing times, and end of time.

And September mornings are glorious still.

TAKE THIS CUP AWAY

By Lisa Huddleston

Verse 1

There now are wars
And rumors of wars

Take this cup away

But who knows what
We’re fighting for

Take this cup away

When all sides think that
Might makes right

Take this cup away

Gotta walk by faith
And not by sight

Take this cup away

Take this cup away, Lord
Take this cup away
Take this cup away

Verse 2

There’s a man in the north
Who’s reaching forth

Take this cup away

And a man in the west
Who thinks he’s best

Take this cup away

Big men who seek to
Settle scores

Take this cup away

Both think they’re right
To break down doors

Take this cup away

Take this cup away, Lord
Take this cup away
Take this cup away

Verse 3

Gotta turn our eyes
To the eastern skies

Take this cup away

Just the fear of the Lord
Will make us wise

Take this cup away

When that bright star comes
Then all will see

Take this cup away

He’ll break our chains
Set all men free

Take this cup away

Take this cup away, Lord
Take this cup away
Take this cup away

Verse 4

Until that day
Gotta see it through

Take this cup away

Their bombs may
Blow this world in two

Take this cup away

Until then grace
Around us pours

Take this cup away

Still time to learn
Not mine but yours

Take this cup away

Take this cup away, Lord
Take this cup away
Take this cup away, Lord
Take this cup away
Take this cup away

PERSPECTIVE

By Lisa Huddleston

Sitting on the screened porch looking out across layers of diminishing domesticity:

the furnished porch,

the dogs in the yard,

the goats in the field,

the deer beyond the field,

and the woods …

Still lovely dark and deep.

 

Interesting layers of an onion halved.

 

I wonder if the woods look back and think they, too, are the center of the universe?

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

By Lisa Huddleston

Perhaps the greatest pain is to be misunderstood by someone you love. By misunderstood I don’t mean that they didn’t clearly hear something you said or that they got the details to a story confused. No, the misunderstanding I mean is a misjudging of your character, your soul. A lack of familiarity and recognition of who you always thought you were—both in relationship and isolation.

Now it would be presumptuous of me to assume that there can only be one correct perception of ME and that I am the only one who knows it. I acknowledge that how I am perceived is at least as important as the ME I think I am. After all, true communication must have a message clearly sent, clearly received, and clearly understood.

But it hurts to find the message of ME twisted into a form I no longer recognize.

You know my name, Lord. You knit me together in the womb and touched every part of the person I am. Please, open my eyes. Show me the wicked ways within me and give me the will to change. And then, only then, help me clearly to express a SELF that is not selfish, a ME that is not mean, an I that is not an idol but a flesh and blood message of understanding both given and received. Insomuch as this is humanly possible and for the glory of God.

Amen and amen.

LETTING GO–AGAIN

Not me!

By Lisa Huddleston

This morning I took the risk of pushing my 56-year-old body up into a backbend. It took a lift from my yoga instructor and a lot of courage from within to accomplish, but there I was, upside down looking back at the wall. I had been afraid to try, afraid of the brittleness I’ve been experiencing, the stiffness of my self. But the stretch felt good as I let go of my practical doubts and pushed up.

On my drive home, I listened to NPR’s “On Point” host a discussion of the television series, “13 Reasons Why.” I will not get into the debate over whether or not the series is positive or negative in this post, but I do want to record a small epiphany that occurred as I listened to a high school student share why she was drawn to the idea of suicide. And this may be obvious to everyone but me, but she said that she had contemplated killing herself in order to gain control over her situation. It was all about control!

Aha! Control, my old familiar nemesis, rears its ugly head once again. As I said, although it may have been hiding in plain sight, I have missed it before this morning. And, big duh, suicide really is the ultimate step of mastery over one’s situation—at least for that moment.

So much (God?) has been pointing out to me my desperate desire to have self-determination in a world that feels so out of control. We humans search for purpose and meaning and happiness and beauty and wealth and power–whatever will control the fact that we are from dust and to dust we will return. Pippin’s four weeks of dying naturally were a microcosm that let me vicariously (and actually as one who could have chosen to end his life) experience letting go. And yesterday I attended the funeral services of a wonderfully warm and brave family member (Jerry Denton) who chose to forego extreme medical intervention and let nature take its course in his dying—or rather living all the way until he died. I remain so moved by his courage and example of trust. I know it must have been unbelievably hard to let go of the reins of control, feeble though they are.

And this morning this aha. Control is a mirage anyway. Fear is a faker. Letting go and pushing into the moment is the courageous choice and the only honest way to live all the way stretched up and into the space of the day. Why is it so hard to do?

 

A LONGSUFFERING WEEK

By Lisa Huddleston

My husband has gone to a conference, and I’ve had a lot of time to myself this week. That can always be a little risky for one with introspective, depressive tendencies, and that I’ve spent my time being the hospice nurse for my dying cat has added to my melancholy. Honestly, I’ve spent the week thinking a great deal about death and dying. (Doesn’t that sound fun?)

Interestingly and perhaps not coincidentally, I chose this same time to pull out a book a friend had recommended to me (twice) and to begin a serious contemplation of the value of life, the existence of the soul, and The Givenness of Things (essays by the Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Marilynne Robinson.) Heavy stuff but good and well worth pondering during a week of longsuffering.

Questions have floated back and forth in my thoughts as I’ve watched my cat hang on to his ninth life with tenacious claws. What is it that makes us alive? Is it more than the working of our bodily machines? And what is it that leaves when we die? We all have seen it or rather the effects of its departure—the deflating of the tent, the darkening of the lamp. There is a point in time at which alive becomes dead. A changing of the guard so swift that the ghost is gone without so much as a fare thee well. What is this thing and when will it leave Pippin and me to rest in peace?

While that point of time passes in the blink of an eye, a heartbeat, the getting there can take what feels like forever. Longsuffering is just that. L O N G and S U F F E R I N G. I nobly wrote last week that I was going to gift Pippin by allowing him to pass away at home, but more than once I have considered calling our veterinarian to make an appointment to have him put down. Please, don’t misunderstand, if he were in great pain, I would. But he is just slowly and quietly dying. I am the one who is suffering, and it is I who wants to be relieved of this gift. (Of course, Pip can’t really express his wishes to me, but he seems comfortable enough sitting and shedding on the back porch furniture and squinting into eternity.)

I woke up this morning hoping he was gone. I am ready to remove all traces of cat life and death from my house. I can already uncover the leather sofa my husband has protectively plastered with blankets for years in order to prevent the scratches and tears Pippin and his predecessor, Dusty, were so good at making. Mom, too, has tried to little avail to protect her furniture from the stiff white hairs that weave through any fabric and resist removal as strongly as Pippin himself. I need to remind her that she can clean to her heart’s content. And finally THE LITTER BOX can go! I have hated it for 20 years and even though my uninvited outdoor cats plead to take Pip’s place, it will be gone without remorse ASAP.

But really what I want to get rid of the most is this longsuffering and painful waiting and the useless plastic bubble wrap I have wound around my heart.

HOME SWEET HOME

By Lisa Huddleston

Sweet old Pippin, the cat I picked up in the Cracker Barrel parking lot as a kitten over 13 years ago, is dying. At least, I assume that is what’s happening. He has barely eaten more than a bite or two a day for about a week. He is drinking water, using the litter box, and still meowing like the bossy cat he has always been—but not very often and not quite as bossily. I have offered him a smorgasbord of treats from which to choose, and he has eaten some vanilla Greek yogurt, some cat food “gravy,” and a few bites of tuna, but not enough to really keep him going. I am sad.

I think of how Dusty declined when he reached the end. Weight dropped off and then his organs began to shut down. I took him to the vet, and he ended up dying in an animal hospital about a week later. I hated not being able to explain things to him, and I don’t want it to be like that for Pippin. So, for now anyway, I think Pippin will be given the privilege of dying at home—or at least living here in his comfortable surroundings for as long as he possibly can. He looks content right this minute sitting with me on the back porch listening to the birds sing and the wind blow through the chimes.

We stopped by Chuck’s folks’ place the other evening so that he could plant some sweet potatoes in the newly ordained “family garden.” His mom came out first, and they dug into garden talk about seeds and rows and mounds and dirt. I wandered around to look at the back of the old barn where the wood bows out and the indoor and outdoor meet. She asked me if I liked to garden, and I said I do not, but I was glad for those who do. And we smiled at one another.

New plantings were being watered when Mom brought Dad out to see us. He asked Chuck, “Is this your car?”

“Yes, Dad, it is.”

“Are you going for a walk?”

“No, Dad. We came to plant the garden.”

“Is this your car?”

“Yes, Dad.”

 

And the gardeners wandered off down the dampened rows.

 

“Is this your car?”

I smiled and said it was, and he asked what I was doing there.

“Going home in a minute,” I said.

“Then go. Get in the car or he’ll leave you.”

I smiled again, watching the gardeners and waiting for Chuck to finish up.

 

“What are you doing? Is this your car?”

“I’m still waiting to go home.”

“There are lots of ways to go home, you know. You can go in a car, or you can walk. You can even go in a casket. You know that?”

“Yes, you’re right,” I said. “There are lots of ways to go home.”

 

So I climbed into the car and waited for Chuck to take me home. And home is really where we want to be when all is said and done. Home sweet home.