11.03.2014

All Scattered About





The only art class I've ever taken was a hurried plunge into ceramics that lasted three weeks.  The final week of the course, a friend said that she liked it when our professor asked me to explain my pieces because I saw the world in symbols.  I realized she was right.  My responses to the professor weren't as much explanations of my clumsy art as they were fumbling attempts to translate private symbolism into a common tongue.

Another way I process the world is through words. John won me with a string of them that led straight to his heart, I read and sing them to our children, I feel the urge to plunk them out here from time to time, and they rattle around my head throughout the week, grouping themselves into phrases and sentences that never form an orderly line, let alone make it to paper or screen.

Over the last few days, I've come to myself with a start, realizing that for who knows how many minutes, I was composing a poem in my head that no one will see.  Poems about all that can't fit into a space of two weeks, poems about an ermine in the freezer and piles of notes on a microwave and bottles of peppermint, poems about a jug of cold water on a wood wagon and my father's camouflage hat.   They wink in and out, barely begun and quickly forgotten, but they're a silent salute to my Dad and a way for me to untangle things too large to understand.

I've never liked November, but this year, the landscape is a perfect counterpoint.  September's bustle of birds and insects, that riotous color of October-- all have slowed into long, bare stretches of sky and a span of quiet. 

The girls and I just got back from doing animal chores for my parents.  We fed, watered, and walked Ruger.   We fed and watered Mr. Brutus.  We rounded up the escaped horses, moved their sly bones back into the pasture without mishap, and slap-dash mended the fence.

And my heart was so full.  I don't understand the human condition.  I don't understand the tangled web of family and its immutable bonds.  I don't understand death.  I don't understand the resurrection of the body.  I don't understand forgiveness and grace and love-- oh, such great Love.  These are too large for me.  But, yet, I do understand.  Their truth shakes my bones and their presence brings peace.

My Dad starts chemo treatment tomorrow in a city three hours away.  My thoughts and prayers are with him and my mom.  I find myself walking around the house, too distracted to remember why I'm walking.  The tears suddenly dropping into my salad surprise me, because I didn't realize I was crying.

The statistics are impartial: a 20% chance that the short course of treatment will send his weak body onward to his waiting Father; a 50% chance of it doing little or nothing, in which case, he will come home to us to die.  The other percentage is what we hope and pray for, but God is above all of these.  If he chooses to gather my father in His arms before then, there is peace-- a reservoir of peace and so much gratefulness for what He has given our family in the last week.

And then there's my youngest sister Debbie, who seems to take the hay-strewn thoughts out of my head, and orders them beautifully.

13 comments :

Titi said...

Thank you for writing and for sharing. I wish that I had words to share back to you, but this all has left me strangely tongue-tied. Still praying.

sarah said...

All of my love to you, and to your family. I will be praying, and thanking God for your father with you.

Molly said...

My thoughts and prayers have constantly turned toward you and your family these past several days, my friend. We continue to lift your father and your whole family in prayer for peace as we beseech our God for healing.

Much love!

Rundy said...

Your words are true words.

Abigail said...

It means a lot to me that you all are here with us, praying alongside. Comfort in the company. Thank you.

Leah said...

We love you all so very much! And prayers are continually being sent heavenward on your behalf. Our hearts long to be near you all so that we might help in any way possible. (((Hugs)))

Renata said...

You've come to my mind often. I've been praying regularly for you all. Thank you for the update-I've been wondering how your Dad is going. I will keep on praying...

Unknown said...

I'm keeping you and your family in my prayers, Abigail.

Full of Grace said...

I just came on randomly to check and see if you've updated and saw deep waters, very deep waters. Makes my own problems look miniscule. Praying for your father, your mother, your family, and you. Be strong and glean strength from your children. They are resilient, be like them. Love You.

Rebecca said...

I wish I could offer you some eloquent words of comfort, peace and reassurance but they fail me.

I admire you as you bring glory to His name even while in the midst of a time when you may not like His will.

I continue to pray fervently for you, your family and your father. I can see the bright spots surfacing in even the darkest situations and for those bits of brightness I am so thankful.

The opportunity to speak and live love one to another is many times not possible and I am thankful that, though darkened with grief and concern, it is there. There has been time to say words that have never needed to be said and live love in ways that were never before necessary.

May God be with you all during this terribly difficult time... all my love to your whole family.

Sarah said...

you got me at ermine.

Psalms w guitar said...

May I quote you Sunday on the Resurrection?

Prayers

Michael

Abigail said...

Thank you all! I am so thankful for your willingness to pray for and with us.

Sarah,
Totally. Who knew that Dad's eccentricities were so well-suited to poetry?

Mike,
Sure. And thank you for those prayers.