Have you ever seen an angel
sporting sparkly wings
on a festive llama dress
with maroon Chuck Taylors
and assorted barrettes
seriously chomping
a mouthful of candy cane?
I have.
One came to my house
on Christmas Eve.
Perhaps you’ll see one, too,
if you only believe.
❤ Merry Christmas ❤
On the twelfth day of December, back in the Great Depression, my grandparents were married. My father was born the following October in a tenant farmhouse.
That’s my grandmother’s wedding band in the photo. It’s not the one she received on her wedding day. That ring was thin; it wore “clean through,” Grandma said. Broke in half due to overuse, in the days when washing machines had wringers, in an era of canning and preserving, in the time of sharecropping cotton and looping tobacco.
This is Grandma’s replacement ring. She had her initials and Granddaddy’s engraved inside, along with their wedding date. A wide gold band, made to last.
It is my ring now. I wear it every day.
Often thinking of December 12th.
For it’s not the only anniversary.
Almost thirty years after my grandparents married, their youngest daughter got married. On the same day.
She was eighteen. A senior in high school.
Her husband, my uncle, was going to Vietnam.
I went to that wedding. In utero. I wasn’t born for another five months. My presence was obvious; my mother couldn’t fit into the dress she planned to wear. She had to rush out and buy a new one that day.
My young aunt mailed black-and-white baby pictures of me to my uncle on his tours of duty.
He brought these pictures back home with him.
Fast forward three decades…
On December 12th, exactly sixty years to the day of my grandparents’ wedding, my husband and I learn that we will have another child.
A second son. Our last child.
My grandparents lived to see him and know him. To tell him they loved him, like they always told me.
It is a day of remembrance for me, December 12th. A deep and quiet knowing, a dark-blue glittering gem that I carry in myself in the middle of the holiday season. Meaningful. Valuable. Priceless.
I think of the long-ago Decembers. Family gatherings, celebrations. Layers of blessing. A blanket unfolding again and again to encompass the next generation.
I am a grandparent now; the mantle is passed.
It is one comprised of faith. Of courage and commitment. In it lies the story of persevering against unknowable odds. The Depression. Vietnam. In it I find strength for living now. I know that what keeps us pressing on is having someone to press on for.
Numerologists might wax eloquent on the significance of the number twelve, in all its powerful associations. We mark our time by twelves on the clock, by months in the year…there are ancient connotations such as twelve Olympians, twelve disciples, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve of days of Christmas… twelves go on and on. Twelve is considered the number of perfection, cosmic order, completion. Just now I recall that our second son was born in our twelfth year of marriage. I am not a numerologist, only a poet contemplating patterns. Not a mathematician, just a wonderer. A believer. Pythagoras is said to have said: “There is geometry in the humming of the strings, there is music in the spacing of the spheres.”
I sense a geometry in dates and a musicality to years…a song of life and the living of it. For me, this is the lesson of 12/12. There’s something of eternity in it.
Which makes perfect sense, if twelve is God’s number.
The song is love.
*******
Many thanks to Two Writing Teachers and the Slice of Life Story Challenge community.
And to readers…you’re all part of the story and the song.
Mighty pink-caped crusader
sunflower-power’d icon
flying on currents of love
Exemplar extraordinaire
a destined superhero
for your new baby sister
For my newborn granddaughter, Micah
What shall I tell you about the day you were born?
Your Grandpa and I were waiting in the carpool line to pick your big sister up from kindergarten when your dad texted: Micah is here! 9 lbs!
Gratitude flooded our hearts as photos flooded our phones.
We wept at sight of you. Your sister would say “happy cried.”
Looking at your beautiful rosy face, a thousand thoughts fluttered in my mind, like birds descending from the azure sky, landing one by one on soft, moss-covered branches…
I remembered it was supposed to storm that day, and it didn’t; the late October sun shone for all it was worth, illuminating the countryside with brilliant gold, orange, yellow, and scarlet.
I forgot the shadows, worries, and grind of daily life.
I remembered the story of my own birth, told over and over to me by my grandmother: She, Daddy, Granddaddy, and Grannie stood looking at me through the nursery window, Grandma “happy cried,” Daddy said I looked just like Granddaddy.
I forgot to be sad about not going to the hospital to see you on the day you were born due to limited visitors in COVID protocols.
I remembered that I’d be able to come the next day, and that it would suffice.
I forgot there was even a pandemic.
I remembered the joy of your father’s birth, the fierce motherlove which surged in my veins, which surges still, and exponentially now, for you.
I forgot about fearing my own inadequacies.
I remembered to wear Grandma’s locket.
I forgot, until your curious big sister opened it, that your father’s newborn picture was nestled inside.
I remembered the promises of God, that blessings fall on the generations of those who love Him, my precious, precious baby Micah, daughter and granddaughter of pastors: Know therefore that the Lord your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commandments (Deuteronomy 7:9, ESV).
I have never forgotten that.
Thankful for the infinite grace of God. Love you always, Micah. – Franna
********
with thanks to Denise Krebs for hosting November’s Spiritual Journey Thursday group, with a focus on gratitude.
and also to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge.
I am deeply grateful for you all.
ABCs for Micah, on the day after your birth
Autumn-child: So lovely
being born amid crackled-leaf,
cider-steeped, cinnamon-spiked
days of
ever-bright,
flaming color, crisp and
glittering under first-frost grace.
Hallowed moments
infused with
joy while I dream of
kissing your fuzzy head, your
little newborn face.
My precious Micah,
never doubt your Franna’s fierce love,
opal-bright, like autumn fire,
perpetual, eternal,
quietly flickering,
radiant and
sacred,
throughout all our tomorrows together.
Upon your coming, beloved Baby Girl,
veritable heart of my heart, I wait in the wings
with hugs (ooooooo) and kisses
(xxxxxxx) all for you from
your Franna, so blessed with new-life
zest.
Late September
across the street
the first few spots
of yellow dot the lush green
abundance of trees
despite the searing blueness of sky
and bathwater-saturated
Carolina air
lingering summer
yet in it I feel a tinge
the tiniest tinge
an almost imperceptible
coolness
deep in the wooded shadows
from a sun-patched limb, no doubt,
a lone cicada takes up his rattle
crescendo, decrescendo
they were late arriving this year
but still here
driving to work
along the winding backroads
a darting from the left
two gray squirrels,
scampering in tandem
right in front of me
on the double yellow lines
I stop for them
they stop for me
after a moment
of squirrel contemplation
one continues on across
but the other, the other
turns back
with something in its mouth
not an acorn, something hanging
pale-colored
I’ve never seen the likes
but instinctively know:
that’s a baby squirrel
and on I drive, thinking
of the old squirrel twins book
my grandmother read to me
so long ago
and of how I shall read it
to my own granddaughter
arriving in a few short weeks
the morning September sun shimmers
rose-gold in my rearview mirror
like promises steeped in time
I no longer dream of dying
like I did when I was nine
now, in my first tinge of autumn
I dream of new babies born
every night
*******
with thanks to Sarah Donovan at Ethical ELA for the inspiration to write poetry
around moments of knowing “I am alive.”
On the Ethical ELA Open Write for Educators today, Mo Daley invites poets to try the decima. Originating in Spain, the form is comprised of ten-line stanzas, eight syllables each, with the rhyme scheme ABBAACCDDC.
These poems typically go on for forty stanzas. I’ve managed only one!
Here’s my decima debut, as well as far more important debut…
First Poem for My Granddaughter, Micah (Whose Name Means “Who is Like God?”)
But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. —Matthew 6:33
Three things he said he’d never do:
marry, have a child, start preaching
like his dad, all the while reaching
out for what is solid and true.
God brought your mother. And now you,
Beloved One, coming this fall.
Blessing and fruition of all
my boy always longed for, despite
his fears. Now with tears of delight
he embraces his Father-call.
Franna loves you so much already, Baby Girl.
As I turned the pages of my academic planner from April to May, I discovered a quote from Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön…
“You are the sky. Everything else is just the weather.“
The implication is to just be. To remain. To not worry about things beyond your control. The storms of life may rage and wreak havoc, but not indefinitely. They pass. And they’re interspersed with moments of incredible beauty. The sky exists above clouds. It is the sphere through which the sun, moon, and stars pass…what would it mean, then, to “be the sky”? I feel more posts coming on this later…
Meanwhile, more Chödrön:
“Each moment is just what it is. It might be the only moment of our life; it might be the only strawberry we’ll ever eat. We could get depressed about it, or we could finally appreciate it and delight in the preciousness of every single moment of our life.“
On Mother’s Day my family gathered for lunch. Sunday afternoons have an ethereal quality; they are not your ordinary afternoons. They beckon sleep, or reading, or other quiet pleasures; they also offer an outlet for expending physical energy and embracing joie de vivre, joy of living. After lunch my granddaughter, age five, needed to “run and get her wiggles out.” Her mother and I watched her running through a sea of white clover in my backyard. I’d been irritated that our lawn service hadn’t yet cut the grass but as I breathed the sweet, clover-perfumed air, I thought How perfect is the fragrance of this day. My daughter-in-law and I began identifying all the different types of plants growing with the grass in my yard with the “Picture This” app on our phones: Tall goldenrod. Spreading hedgeparsley. Ryegrass. Bluegrass (who knew?). Posion ivy on the far corner of the fence under the pines (lawn crew must be notified). Woodsorrel. Wild geranium. And wild mock strawberries, which enchanted my granddaughter. She picked them and carried them around, tiny red fruit in a tiny pink hand… my son said, “I never knew those grew here!”
There are a lot of things we never realize. Such as the value of simple moments, in the living of them. We cannot imagine how the memory of these will remain with us, like the sky, for our lifetime.
One more quote…
“Rejoicing in ordinary things is not sentimental or trite. It actually takes guts. Each time we drop our complaints and allow everyday good fortune to inspire us, we enter the warrior’s world.“
One of the thick, spiky weeds we identified on our backyard exploration is a species of “Everlasting.”
I said to my daughter-in-law: “I had no idea so much poetry lived in the grass.”
I think about all that would have been lost in these dappled Sunday afternoon moments, if the grass had been cut like I’d wanted. My granddaughter didn’t complain. She savored it all, blue eyes as brilliant as the sky above.
I do not know what tomorrow will bring. For now I only know we stand as we are, in our shared sky and story, moments in the making, entering the warrior’s world, a family of everlastings like those growing in the universe beneath our feet.
Where nothing is ever really ordinary.
with thanks to my fellow Spiritual Journey writers who gather on the first Thursday of each month, and to Carol Varsalona for hosting today. Carol chose the theme “Blossoming of Joy.”
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
Song of Solomon 2:12
One of my favorite things about spring in North Carolina is the birdsong. Each morning when I rise, it’s to a chorus of cheery songs in myriad bird voices, a tiny angelic choir singing praise for the day from the pines surrounding my home. I listen, and am strengthened.
Another favorite thing is wisteria. It usually blooms for a short while in April. The pendulous blossoms hanging from trees fill my soul with nostalgia, for bygone times walking with my grandmother along the old dirt road of her country home, listening to stories of people who lived, loved, and died long ago. Wisteria threads through the landscape like pale purple banners of celebration for spring. It’s both old and new every year, full of secrets and mystery…and this year, for some reason, it is continuing to bloom into May.
I am not questioning.
I am just savoring.
Mysterious how
wisteria lingers on
disregarding May
This week I have been working with some kindergarteners on letter sounds and names. One little boy had his head down on his desk, buried in his arms, when I arrived. We started a game of naming objects that begin with “y” and he informed me that “yacht” is a boat and “people have parties on them.”
I sat blinking while he played with the toy yacht. He smiled at me: “I am feeling happier now.”
On leaving school, I saw a dandelion growing as close as it could to an old tree:
Y is for yellow
the self-confident color
of dandelion
Thanks to Carol’s prompt today, I am thinking of many facets of “blossoming of joy.” An image returns to mind from last week. At my church there are three women expecting babies in May, June, and July. We threw a shower for them on Sunday; it was one of those perfect spring afternoons, when the sun shines bright and a soft breeze blows like a comforting and encouraging caress from on high.
Sunday afternoon
three young women sat outside
their fellowship hall
greeting well-wishers
arriving in the driveway
bearing baby gifts
a drive-through shower
a celebration of love
a church family
multiplying grace
blessing by blessing outpoured
on expectant moms
blossoming with joy
and the new life they carry
despite pandemics
My own son and his wife are expecting a baby in the fall.
There’s simply just so much to celebrate.
Abundant blossoming of joy.
Friday the 13th of March, 2020, when school dismissed,
we had no idea we wouldn’t be returning.
Not to the building.
Not to life as we knew it.
Not to teaching as we knew it.
We left mountains of work undone behind us.
We faced mountains looming before us, the likes of which we’d never seen.
A mountain of my masks
In the maelstrom of so much change, we learned.
We learned we could.
We learned that some things, the important things,
never change.
Message from a student on my link
Saturday the 13th of March, 2021: Most of us have had our first vaccination and are getting the second.
We are preparing for all students to return to campus
on Monday,
except the children of parents who have opted
to keep them virtual until June.
Last March 13th, we thought it would only be for a week.
Maybe two.
It’s been exactly one year.
Today, March 13th, let us celebrate:
We did enough.
We had enough.
We were enough.
We are enough.
It is enough, knowing our why.
The children. Always our why.
Just sayin’. This was shared via text among my colleagues.
*******
The annual Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers is underway, meaning that I am posting every day in the month of March. This marks my fifth consecutive year and I’m experimenting with an abecedarian approach: On Day 13, I am writing around a word beginning with letter m. Just so happens to coincide with the anniversary.
lit bits and pieces 