The Wednesday Pop - vol. 8 . . . it's about a bench

It's good to be back with The Wednesday Pop!

I want to tell you about a bench . . . not just any bench, but a bench that sits outside of a house in Atlanta.  It's at a bus stop, actually.  It's a bus stop bench, and it gets used over and over again each day.

The folks who sit on that bench, as they wait for the bus before their long days or after them, have no idea why the bench is there.  They just know that it provides a respite in a sometimes cold world and that it is there for the sitting.

I love the story of the bench.  It tells a grand story of why my Dad is so special.

Before I tell you all about the bench, you must know that I am blessed with an amazing father-in-law, too.  No one is more fortunate than me in the in law department.   My father-in-law, Grandaddy, is (among many other things) a very talented woodworker.  Some time I'll tell you about the fun we have in his barn and about some of the magic he has created with wood.  He's not just genius at wood-working, but he's also generous.  Fine crafted wood pieces, made by him, are all over the place; gifts of him to many family members and friends and friends of friends.  He has made many folks happy with his sweet gifts.

My family is no exception.  They have many times been the recipients of Grandaddy's wooden treasures, and his handiwork graces their porches and backyards.

A few years ago, my Dad (Pop) made a request.  He isn't quick to ask for things, so I took notice.  He asked Grandaddy if he would build a bench that he could put in front of his house at the bus stop.  Of course, Grandaddy obliged and the dark brown bench was constructed.  My interest was piqued.

Dad got the bench and made plans to secure it with cement on the other side of the sidewalk in front of his house.  (I must admit that one of the parts of this story I like best is that he didn't ask if it was okay - so uncharacteristic of him!)  He marched to the street side, armed with his new bench and a bag of Quickcrete and set about attaching the sidewalk and the bench to each other for eternity.  Done.

A zillion souls pass that bench every day, and I imagine that they never wonder about the bench.  Many people sit on the bench each day.  They might be walking along and perch there for a short rest or they might be anxiously waiting for a ride to the next part of their day.  Either way, the bench is part of their day.  The bench is there to help.  The bench is always there, always waiting quietly to hold them up when the way gets hard.

When I see the bench, I marvel at what a perfect symbol it is of my Dad.  It illustrates how he works.  He saw a need.  He figured out a way he could help.  He made it work.  He made sure that the help would be there, always, whenever someone (anyone) needed it.  He quietly went about making a difference without anyone knowing it was done.  That's how he works.

The bench is there, as I write this.  I wonder who sits upon it now.  I wonder what their day is like or what they are worried about or if they have smiled much today.  I don't know any of that.

I do know that the gift of that bench is constant and that it represents the love of two quiet men, who silently go about making their world a better place.

List 32 - I need a weekly test!

We're back in the school groove.  Well, we are beginning to move closer towards being back in the school groove.  Here are a few surprising facts about the academic year, so far - we have not yet been late to school, I am working diligently on our 'family command center' (sure to be a popular blog post in the future) and we have been packed up and ready each night before bed.  Impressive, I know.

Part of getting back into gear is the inevitable routine.  Some of the routine we love, and some we'd rather not have to endure; nevertheless, September finds us all trying to re-fit our square pegness into the round holes of the organized world.  It can be tough!

I like the predictability of it all, though, and sometimes I'm comforted by it.  I love that we have 'late start' Wednesday and that two days after that is 'spirit day/casual dress' Friday!  I love that current event paragraphs are always due on Thursday and that football games are on Friday nights.  I even love the ever-present FRIDAY SPELLING TEST.

It's odd, really, that I'd like such a mundane thing.  I can count on it, though, and, gosh darnit, I like that!  No children were consulted in the writing of this post.  The opinions shared here are not necessarily the opinions of the actual Friday test-takers.  Life told us long ago that spelling tests were on Friday, and we get it.  If you have a lot to do later in the week, you know you have to study your spelling words early.  It's like brushing your teeth when you wake up (or immediately after you told your mother that you just brushed) - school starts with a spelling test on Friday morn.  It's simple, really.

I got to thinking last night about how it might be a good practice for the rest of us.  Maybe we all need to be held a little more accountable (to ourselves) about what we're working on - maybe we need to spend a little time each day preparing for the quiz on Friday.  It wouldn't be for the whole grade or anything; it could just count like a small test.  It would need to be each week, though, as we'd need to get in the habit of it all.

Hmmmm.  That would change things!  I'm trying to imagine my weekly quiz needs.  Maintenance is foreign to me, so this could be life-altering.

Here are my Friday morning quiz questions:

1. Is there anyone you need to reach out to or be in touch with?  Do so now, before preceding to number 2.
2. What made you laugh this week?  Did you share it with someone else?
3. What needs to be removed from the 'worry' list?  Strike through it.  Be gone.
4. What did you learn this week?  Have you decided how best to alter things to arrange for the new knowledge?
5. Do you have any socks that need to be matched?  Go do it.
6. Could you open your closet door in front of anyone besides your best friend?
7. Is something trying to get your attention?  Maybe you should listen.
8. Did you remember to spend some time just listening?  Maybe you could plan for better next week.
9. You know those things that you do that you really love?  Think about why you love to do them.  You could add more of that.
10. What's the one thing that you could actually do to afford yourself some joy this weekend?  Do it!

What are the questions on your quiz?

Picture Prayers

Last week, my family was lucky enough to spend a few days at Kanuga.  If you read that, Cah knew gah, you've pronounced it correctly.  As far as I'm concerned, there are few places that compare to this  peaceful, fun, sacred space.  For years, folks have flocked to Kanuga for rest and renewal, for study and learning and to delight in nature alongside family and special friends.  It is a magical place.

Over the past few years, we have been invited to Kanuga for my Tim to serve as chaplain for a summer guest period full of happy folks on their yearly pilgrimage to the Blue Ridge mountains to a time and place that seems to stand still.   Normally, we are filled with the anticipation of a restful time, full of laughing and praying and walking and game-playing and long, lazy talks and learning and on and on and on.  This time, though, we were on the cusp of a big decision, a life-changing one that had the whole family on edge.

We were facing a big decision about leaving what we know and beginning a new adventure.  We were deep in thought; and, if I'm to be honest, we were angst-filled, too.  We were on edge.  We weren't ourselves.  We weren't 'doing what we do' at Kanuga.  We enjoyed our summer friends immensely, but we couldn't reach that peace-filled place that usually sets in about an hour after arrival.  We were surrounded by majestic beauty and quiet mossy waterfalls, but we weren't relaxing into it all.  The Kanuga lake was there in all its refreshing splendor, but our splashes in it weren't quite as care-free as most summers.  We were happy to be there, but our hearts were tied in knots.

We made our big decision while we were there.  We felt the push to leave what we know and begin another chapter in this crazy life.  We will soon make a move from Covington, Ga to Columbus, Ga - from Good Shepherd to Trinity.  Deciding feels good, but thinking about going home to begin the good-byes put us in an insular, awkward place.  I was happy to be surrounded by God's beauty; but I had a hard time wrapping my brain around all that was to come, and it was difficult to take from Kanuga all that it so freely gives.

One warm night after dinner, I wandered away from the group.  I grabbed my camera bag and headed down the hill, toward the lake, to have some quiet.  I reached for my camera with a confidence that it would help me see things in a different way.  I wanted to be silent.  I wanted to pray.  I wanted to gather myself, and I knew that the camera's lens was the friend I needed on the walk.

It might sound odd to pray with a camera, but I've done it a lot.  Bringing along the camera, makes me stop.  It makes me move slowly and watch.  Having the camera, and being alone, means I take my time.  I look more closely.  I take in the scene and I give it the thought needed to begin to understand.  I pause, I thank God for the moments I was too busy to notice before, and I listen.

I focus.  I press the shutter.

I pause.  I think.  I listen.  Sometimes I re-focus and press the shutter again. I'm not working towards perfection.  I'm not considering anyone else.  It's just me, being quiet and listening.  It's good for the soul - of that, I am sure.

I won't forget that walk.  I needed it.  I'll try to remember it.  I'll take with me the idea of knowing when it's time to walk away to focus, re-focus, press pause on the moment, be thankful and listen.  It's a good routine, I think, and I'm sure life always requires it.

That day I shot some photos I've already taken before.  That wasn't the point.  The process was what I needed - the seeing, the listening, the thanksgiving.

The pictures just help me remember.

Keeping cool . . .

Sometimes I like to consider peaceful things.  I like to remember places I've been, things I've seen.

(A long time ago) when I did a lot of SCUBA diving I would work hard to be conscious of what I felt.  I would move along in the water - flying, really - and carefully file away the scenery.

I wanted to remember that what I was seeing in the ocean, the peaceful and dreamy ecosystem, was happening all of the time.  I wanted to be able to bring those 'pictures' to my mind's eye whenever I needed calm.

When I'm having a stressful day or feeling overwhelmed, it works for me.  (Well, not all of the time, but I won't talk about that in the blog.)

If things in reality get TOO REAL, it helps me to stop and think about peaceful settings, places where I've known God's presence, where I've heard such calm, such quiet.

The colorful lands under the sea are just that - the beings there are moving effortlessly through coral and the sea fans are waving slowly with the currents.  I might be worried about the next hour or the traffic or the next shoot, but under the water's surface the same quiet still exists.

I like to look at these photos I took years ago.  I like to remember, to consider all of that happening still, right now.

 

I hope you enjoy.  Maybe you need to remember something quiet, too.

What helps you remember calmness?

Stillness . . .

Sometimes things get crazy.  Well, most of the time things are crazy.  I thought maybe today was a good day for the gift of stillness.  This is the best illustration I have to offer . . . my best shot of stillness.

This photo helps me find center and take a moment to breathe and slow down.  I hope it will do that for you, too.

I can transport myself back to this moment easily - can remember it well.  This photo was sort of my own little bitty miracle to witness all by myself.  We were at a fun spot in North Carolina, and by day this lake is busy and bustling with the laughter and splashes of people of literally all ages.  This is a family retreat spot, a place that has seen decades upon decades of multi-generational groups and place where three year old swimmers laugh and splash with their eighty three year old uncles.  It's a magical spot.

The magic of this moment, though, was that I came upon the lake just after the last of the lifeguards had tidied up and left the dock, just after the last straggling family had gathered their towels and such and headed up the hill.  There was almost a  deafening quiet.  I liked it.  I stayed around for just a few moments, listening and watching.  Slowly, I began to hear the birds, the waterfowl whose calls had been muted by the happy yelps of swimming kids.  I began to notice the turtles on the old logs popping their heads back up and returning to their sunning spots.  I watched the water, lazily lapping up onto the rowboats and canoes, felt the gentle breeze and enjoyed my time there.  I could hear the occasional yell from up the hill, as folks hurried for dinner.  I could hear a laugh or bits of a far away conversation and then soon . . . I noticed could hear nothing but the lake sounds.  I could only hear the birds or the slight splash of a tiny fish.  It was wondrously quiet.  It was.

And then I noticed this.  I noticed that as far as my eyes could see, there was absolutely no movement atop the water.  There were no ripples.  There were no splashes.  Nothing was blowing.  Everything was quiet, resting, being still.  I remember vowing at that moment that I wouldn't forget this special scene, that I wouldn't forget how it felt - how it felt when I witnessed this awesome quiet, this awesome stillness.  It was my own little silent miracle and I loved it.

I wasn't sure I could take a photograph that would accurately describe the moment, but I snapped a few in hopes.  And then I found a weathered rocking chair at the base of the deck and I just sat.  I sat.  I listened.  I watched.

And, happily, I can look at the photo above and transport myself back there.  I wish I could go there now.  Wish I could have a tiny taste of that moment in each day.  For now, I'll take the photo.  Hope it helps you, too.  Enjoy this little gift of stillness in the craziness that is our days.  Enjoy.