FRIDAY,
FEBRUARY 27th: Jodi
Lee Kirk
Scripture:
Psalms 73:16-17
When
I pondered to understand this, it was troublesome in my sight Until I came into
the sanctuary of God; Then I perceived their end.
“I am slowly,
painfully discovering that my refuge is not found in my mother, my grandmother,
of even the birds of Bear River. My refuge exists in my capacity to love. If I
can learn to love death then I can begin to find refuge in change.”
― Terry Tempest Williams, Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place
― Terry Tempest Williams, Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place
Poem:
Poem
# 3 (by Terri Jean Gelzer)
Saint
Brigid come,
With
mops and brooms in hand.
Welcome.
What
wonders a little soapy water can do.
I
love the smell of clean.
I
miss Saturday morning routines.
Rituals
remembered.
Spring
came every Saturday morning.
The
sacred scouring of sinks.
Dishes
dunked in baptismal waters.
Everything
made new.
Windows
sparkled to let the light shine through.
The
house danced.
Prayer:
Dear God, wash away my worries and my woes Scrub clean my
feelings of unworthiness. Rub away doubt and fear so that I can let my light
shine through. Help me radiate the wonder and power of your healing grace and
simmering love.
Reflection:
On my bedside
table sits a picture of me and my mom. It is one of the few photos that I have of
both us and the only one that I have of me as a young child. As the youngest of five, early on you learn
that somehow the documentation of your milestones as compared to those of your
other siblings, particularly those of your eldest sister, are practically
nonexistent. Unfortunately, I think the
lack of photographic evidence of my early years is also due to family
circumstances…you see, my dad walked out on my mom and his five children the
Thanksgiving before I turned two.
The picture
of my mom and a very little me was probably taken not even a month later, our
first Christmas without my dad. I am in
a beige footed sleeper with one hand holding onto – ironically – a plastic, toy
vacuum and the other resting ever so gently on my mom’s leg. Mom is wearing a worn chenille robe, not the
faded plush forest green one of my early memories…the one with the big round
buttons and the Peter Pan collar with parts so thin you could see through them
… but an aqua one that feels strangely familiar. It is not the traditional Polaroid that seems
to capture the joyous rapture of an almost two year old on Christmas morning,
but rather a somewhat somber snap shot of what must have been a very difficult
day and an impossibly hard holiday.
My mom looks
like a ghost, rail thin and so very pale. The only color, other than the blue
of the robe which perfectly matched the huge aqua polka dots on the living room
curtains, is the red lipstick that my mom managed to put on her lips ... a shade
of red that matched the color and seemed as plastic as the shiny finish of my
brand new vacuum.
A toy vacuum?
Ohhh the irony! Among the many qualities that I wish I had inherited from my
mom, her cleaning gene is one that I often long for the most. As I look at
piles of laundry, and stacks of dishes
piled in the sink and shoes, toys,
papers and extraneous clutter strewn about my too well lived in house, I often
wonder what my mom would think if she walked into messy but love soaked home.
Cleaning for my
mom was both an art and a science. It
was her refuge. Windows glistened, floors were scrubbed bright, cobwebs and
dust bunnies never stood a chance.
Glasses were washed, dried and put away before finishing the last
sip. And, when she came home from work,
the house was expected to be spotless.
I can
remember many a night when I, being the youngest, was sent up the street to
meet my mom at the bus stop as decoy. My
brothers and sisters knew that I could charm and stall and add a few precious
minutes to her walk home after a long tiring day at work, Anything to buy a
little more time to get things “just right” … to finish dinner, set the table
and make sure the sinks were perfectly scoured.
Cleaning was
an everyday thing at the Maile house but on Saturday mornings it was a sacred
ritual. We all had jobs to do. We would put albums, mostly old show tunes, on
the record player and soon we’d be singing and dancing with dust rags and
brooms in hand. The house began to sing
and we began to shine … again.
Cleaning was
a salvation of sorts. It put order in a
world that no longer made sense. It was
palpable evidence that the mess of dad’s disappearance, the mess that never
really got talked about or examined, was somehow taken care of.
I look at the
picture on my bedside table. My mom endured. She prevailed. She thrived. Her strength and determination
to put her best face forward – literally – never fails to astound. She had five
kids to raise and provide for. Together we created home. We took care of the
house and each other. I look at my mom’s face in that picture – far older than
her 33 years - and cannot help but wonder at the wounds that never healed. I
look at my tiny hands clutching the hard plastic handle of that little red
vacuum and holding onto the soft worn chenille of my mom’s aqua robe and know
that somehow I became a bridge. Her
fierce and abiding love for each of us helped her move forward and all of us
cross over. Other Christmas photos are not so somber. There is so much joy….so
much laughter…so much LIFE even though the wrappings of packages were
immediately taken care of so as not to mess up the floor.
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·
“Salvation
comes through…”
·
“I
hide behind my…”
·
“Second
chances only happen when…”
May the healing power of Christ’s love cleanse and renew
our sagging spirits. Help us experience a sense of renewal and possibility even
when our burdens are great and darkness overwhelms us.
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