For Micah

Things old and new: Spiritual Journey

/ Fran Haley / 6 Comments

The first Thursday of the month rolls around, meaning it’s time for my band of Spiritual Journey writers to gather and share. The theme for May, offered by Chris Margocs, is beginnings and endings. As Chris points out, May is always a major time of transition for those of us who are teachers; we are in the throes of wrapping up another school year.

The month also happens to hold some significant beginnings and endings for me.

I was born in May.

My grandfather died in May.

Chris referenced Isaiah 43:18-19 in her invitation: Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.

What God is saying to his exiled people here, through the prophet Isaiah, is to not live in the past but to recognize his miraculous provision and his ongoing exodus-like deliverance. It is all about reliance on him for the journey… says one of my study notes: “Where there is no clear path forward, God creates one.”

It could summarize my life.

I often write of the past, of time spent with my grandparents. I do so from a place of profound gratitude. They were the joy of my childhood. They lived to be in their nineties and got to see me grown with children of my own. I know that God is faithful to those who love him, from one generation to the next (Deuteronomy 7:9; Psalm 119:90; Psalm 103:17). The legacy of faith is priceless to me. It has framed and defined my entire existence. It is all God’s doing. It is the greatest thing I have to pass down.

But today I will not write of the past.

Today I consider the “new thing” springing forth.

A different granddaughter, a different grandfather…a different path.

*******

One afternoon
while I am at work
our son stops by the house
to see his dad

He brings our granddaughter
who asks Grandpa
if she can watch Bluey
and can she have
a popsicle, please

Grandpa (as always) says
Yes
of course
my little angel

Perched on the couch
legs swinging
beneath the TV tray
mouth stained red and blue
she pulls out the popsicle
long enough to whisper
to Grandpa:

I want
to stay here
forever

He says
I know, honey
I want you to

Then she says

Grandpa—
I don’t want
to die

And he tells her

Honey, you don’t
have to worry
about that.
Jesus
will take care
of you

(the same thing
his mother told him
when he was twelve,
after his daddy died)

Despite thirty-eight years
in the ministry
officiating hundreds
of funerals

when he tells me
what our granddaughter said
he breaks
into uncontrolled sobs

She is only four

She does not know
how damaged
his heart is—

stented, patched,
burned, stitched
more than once
by medicine
and mercy

And although he often quips
about living on borrowed time
and being a member of
the Lazarus Club
I watch him pausing
to catch his breath

He does not mind
the going
whenever Jesus
should come for him

but he cannot bear
the thought
of hers

my little angel

What can I do
except hold them close

every chance I get
for as long
as I can

(thank you, Lord,
for every day
for every minute

and Your every
promise.

Amen.)

Behold the dragon

/ Fran Haley / 9 Comments

On Monday, Dave Wooley hosted the March Open Write at Ethical ELA. He invited participants to compose small ekphrastic poems inspired by art, “to capture essential moments that are reflected in, or alluded to, in the work of art. Or, perhaps, how in reflecting upon a work of art, that might become a spark for a related idea that could be explored in the burst of a short poem.”

The key, of course, is selecting the artwork. Dave chose statues.

I chose a work of art in progress…

Envisioners

Segmented cardboard
pulled from a shipping package
is now repurposed

by the magicians
(known as my two granddaughters)
with markers in hand

a dragon rises
from their creative efforts—
Franna provides eyes.

The masterpiece in the making

*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge

Face value

/ Fran Haley / 11 Comments

My three-year-old granddaughter, Micah, has finally experienced enough snow to make a snowman.

Two snowmen, in fact. Five weeks apart.

The first snow really wouldn’t pack, so we ended up with a little heap of snowdwarf. It was cute and we loved it anyway (see the photo on To Life and Lafo).

The second snow packed beautifully. Micah’s artistic big sister, Scout, took over as snowman engineer and designer, rounding the body and deciding what to use for facial features.

Micah said, “The snowman needs a hat!” She chose the Santa hat from the toybox I keep for the girls. In her words, the “Ho-Ho hat.”

And here you have it. Our merry friend:

That night, as I put our exhausted Micah to bed, she kept stalling.

She fights going to sleep, has always been a restless sleeper. She asks for songs: Frère Jacques. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. She chats about a boy at daycare and calls him “my brother.” She says he’s going to the beach and she wishes she could go, too.

“All right, Micahroni,” I say at last. “It is time to sleep now.”

She twists around, lies still, and is silent for a moment. She looks at the ceiling, the wall. Her eyes are heavy.

Then those big eyes are on me. “We forgot the Ho-Ho hat! It’s outside!”

“Yes, but it’s okay. The snowman can wear the hat tonight. We can get it tomorrow.”

That seems a sufficient response, for she’s quiet again.

Then: “Franna.”

“What, Micah?”

“I don’t want the snowman to melt.”

“He won’t melt tonight, honey. It’s very cold outside. He’ll still be there tomorrow.”

She looks at me earnestly. Deep brown eyes, rosy cheeks.

“I don’t want his face to melt,” she says.

I murmur something soothing, I think, but my mind isn’t on my words.

It’s on the workings of her little mind, already understanding the temporary nature of things, fearing loss…yes, it’s just a snowman. But its face reflects humanity. She cares about it and knows, at three, it cannot last.

I stay with her until she drifts off to sleep and her breathing grows loud.

And then I go to bed myself, praying, I confess, for the snowman not to melt the next day while she’s staying with me… because childhood and life itself are so short. They melt away so soon.

When she goes home, the snowman is still in the backyard, joyful as ever, twig-hands raised in praise, undiminished.

I remember to rescue the Ho-Ho hat. She will remember asking. She remembers everything.

I hope she always will.

*******

with thanks to two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge

Coming to light

/ Fran Haley / 8 Comments

She is three
sitting by me
on the couch
open book
in her hands
head bent
so intent
in her study
of detail
in the picture

She is three
and I see
a reader
coming to light

and
very possibly
an illustrious
illustrator
of dawning
intensity

even though
she’s three.

My granddaugher, Micah.
I’ve read A Bad Case of Stripes to her over and over.
She anticipates events in the story now and comments on the drawings.
She studied this page a long time.

Her first sketch of her dad.

She made her dad tie a cape on her. “I’m Batman, she told him. “Read to the Batman.”

*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge.
This is my ninth year participating alongside fellow teacher-writers.

To Life and Lafo

/ Fran Haley / 8 Comments

A haiku story poem inspired by today’s prompt over at Ethical ELA, with thanks to Amber, our host.

The snow is too cold
and powdery for packing
but it’s the first time

in her three sweet years
we’ve had enough snow to try
making a snowman.

We scrape buckets full
as her little hands turn red.
She has no mittens.

I give her my own.
They’re far too big and floppy
but she doesn’t mind.

Face aglow with glee
she lugs the snow bucket to
her big sister who

creates a snow-heap.
Shifting, slippery, shapeless…
but we still love it

our tiny snow-mound.
Red and green Hershey’s Kisses
make a shiny smile.

Green olives for eyes.
A tiny tomato nose
(I’m out of carrots).

She proudly chooses
these facial features herself,
bringing her snowman

to life. I find twigs for arms
under the pines and Sister
crafts a tuft of hair

out of pine needles.
We name our snow-dwarf Lafo
(Olaf’s name scrambled).

Lafo has few days
as temperatures go back
to the seventies.

Traces of him stay
longer than I expected.
The Kisses fall off

and I salvage them
(as wild creatures shouldn’t eat
foil and chocolate).

Each day, the remains
of Lafo remind me of
my beloved girls

and that our time here
together is brief as snow.
Let us pack it well.

Our little Lafo

*******
with thanks also to the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life community

Firepetals

/ Fran Haley / 1 Comment

It would warm
any fantasy writer’s heart

this magical pillow fort

constructed in Franna’s
Spare Oom
during Christmas

Never mind the season

for in the hands of the creator
everything is made new

like the Halloween tree
guarding the inner tent entrance

a cone adorned with
black and orange ornaments
has become a pillar
of ember and ash
cascading into firepetals
(left over from a wedding)
where chunks of stars
(harvested from an old
crib mobile)
have come to rest

much like the creator herself
savoring the fruits of her labors
(having been aided by Franna
and Big Sister, definitely magical)

now stretching out on her back
little bare feet
to the firepetals

cozy and content

clutching her baby
while gazing up through the window
at the wintersky

for, as any fantasy writer knows,

worldbuilding is hard work

not to mention
most gratifying

The worldbuilder, age 3, resting in her fort with her doll “Jape” on her chest

Three song

/ Fran Haley / 7 Comments

for my granddaughter

When I tell you your story
in all the years to come
you will remember
bits and pieces
on your own

because Three
records memory

I will tell you of these days
my own autumn
in which you paint
infinite points of opal-fire
against charcoal-ash sky

because Three
is alchemy

I will tell you how my heart sings
at sight of you running
as hard as you can
your little arms held out
to me, to me

because Three
is utter glee

And I will tell you how I listen
as still as I can be
when you sing snippets
of hymns…
oh, always, always abide with me

beautiful Three
ever holy

love you forever, Micahroni – Franna

*******

with thanks to Linda Mitchell for hosting Spiritual Journey Thursday writers with this invitation: “As we enter Native American Heritage Month I ask that you respond to Joy Harjo’s Fall Song in any way that makes your heart happy.”

Our two granddaughters make my heart and Grandpa’s as happy, and as awed, as they have ever been. We pray thanksgiving every day.

A girl and her grandpa

/ Fran Haley / 8 Comments

She’s almost three now. When he leaves the room, she asks: “Where’s my grandpa?”

She’s not afraid of his eyepatch or his closed eye beneath it. She commands him: “Open your eye. It’s laying down.” He can’t keep it open, even with the prosthesis. One day he’ll tell her how he lost that eye, that beautiful brown eye, so like her own. But not yet.

She knows he takes heart medication. She sees the bottles and pats her own chest: “That’s Grandpa’s medicine. For his heart. From the doctor.”

She knows he’s wearing a heart monitor. She crawls in his lap, tugs on his shirt, and says, “I want to see your heart.” He pulls the fabric over to reveal the monitor. She studies it. Her little brows knit.

She knows he sometimes walks with a cane. She finds it leaning against the wall and carries it to him. She doesn’t appear to recall his recuperation from spine surgery last fall, or that it was months before he could pick her up again. He started doing it before he should have. He couldn’t resist those little outstretched arms and the request, “Hold you.”

She wants me to play hide-and-seek in the house with her so he can find us. She hides in the same place every single time: behind a chair in the living room. She wriggles with anticipation and puts her fingers to her lips with a loud, stage whisper directed at me: “SHHHHHH!” She doesn’t know how obvious we are in our so-called hiding place. He plays along, walking through the house: “Where’s Micah? Where’s Franna? Are they in the closet? Are they in the bathroom?” She answers him with a high-pitched, drawn-out “Noooooo!” When he peers over our chair, she shrieks with delight.

She demands: “Grandpa, upside down!” He takes her little legs, swings her upside down like a pendulum. Her brown hair flies and her face radiates with glee. “Again!” she cries. “Again!” He will keep doing it until his back makes him stop.

She came to the recent wedding shower for her Dada’s younger brother. She crawled under the church fellowship hall table to play. Grandpa, the pastor, crawled under with her.

My first thought: They really are on the same level.

Second thought: Look how that back surgery paid off!

At dinner this week, he told her: “You are Grandpa’s little angel, Micah.”

She looked at him a moment, those dark eyes shining. She replied, “You are Micah’s angel.”

He always will be, my little love.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge

Awakenings

/ Fran Haley / 20 Comments

Today’s post is inspired by Kim Johnson, who’s organizing a community event for National Poetry Month. Her local arts council chose the theme of “Awakenings” and in her Slice of Life Story Challenge post of March 12th, Kim sent out a call for short poems of 4-6 lines. Featured poems will be displayed on canvases in windows around the town square throughout April.

Kim: Here’s to power of awakenings, poetry, and community! Much success to you, my friend, and all involved in this exciting event.

Now…how might I play some little variations on this theme, let’s say, with snippets of my life?

*******

awakening (plural awakenings)

noun

  1. the point of morning coffee (may require more than one cup)
  2. a soul-spark generated by infinite possibility
  3. a heart condition caused by beautiful language
  4. (plural) the celebration of poetry at a local literacy event

*******

Sisters Seeing

One winter’s night, when I was ten, I dreamed of an angel.
My little sister stood by me at the window, watching it pass.
Morning brought this revelation: she had dreamed of it, too.

*******

First Rhythms

Love of words was born in me
upon my grandmother’s lap
reading stories in rhyme
rocking chair keeping time
with the beating of her heart.

*******

Cicada Rhythms

High in the oaks against the bluest of skies
the rattling swells as its season dies.
A paradox, this buzzing call
from amid the leaves, soon to fall.
This song of my childhood, lingering still
in the last of the light, before the chill.
Full force, cicada sings—don’t you know?
—summer’s gone on the wings of a song long ago.

Yet it returns, when you rise from the ground
Awaking the child I was, with that sound.

******

Lullaby for My Granddaughter

Precious darling, while you’re sleeping
I’ll be here, safe watch a’keeping
This time is such a fleeting thing
When you awaken, love, let’s sing.

My precious Micah after I sang her to sleep

*******

Composed for Day 27 of the Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers

with thanks to Denise Krebs for inspiring the Dictionary Entry poem

Franna’s house

/ Fran Haley / 24 Comments

Last Saturday morning my son texted:

Micah put her shoes and jacket on and now she’s standing here saying “I want to go to Franna’s house.”

My response?

“BRING HER!”

And so Micah and her big sister Scout came over for yet more adventures.

I feel a celebratory pantoum coming on…

At Franna’s house
We play all day
Singing a hundred songs
Wearing Franna’s jewelry

We play all day
We hide in our bedspread fort
Wearing Franna’s jewelry
While building our castles

We hide in our bedspread fort
We eat up all the ice cream
While building our castles
It’s always a magical time

We eat up all the ice cream
Singing a hundred songs
It’s always a magical time
At Franna’s house

— as magical for Franna as for her girls. ❤

*******

Composed for Day 21 of the Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers