The Work of our Hands

The large afghan I’m working on, lengthening as the nights lengthen, serves the dual purpose of giving me something to do. and contributing to my warmth as fall air grows chillier. This particular enterprise has been dragging on over several winters, partly because I’m cautious about muscle strain and partly because my old incentive to produce material goods has lost some steam. It seems the focus should be more about taking away things instead of adding them at this point.  I am eyeing our possessions through the lens of adult children who will one day sift through everything we own.

Still, there’s something magical about conjuring something useful up from strands of yarn. I was once very comforted by a kind person who tucked around me a handmade knitted blanket she’d received as a wedding present. My mother went through a phase of gifting knitted Phentex slippers for others: warm and sturdy, they were worn until worn out.  There were blankets, sweaters, hats, scarves, dolls that have been created over the years.   Before COVID struck, our Itty Bitty Knitting Committee at the local library enjoyed conviviality while clicking away, admiring the creativity of each other’s work.

This is a skill that has been passed down through generations and cultures, taught by mothers and neighbours and volunteers who gave of their time at local schools. Some of these teachers patiently and cheerfully untangled knots and picked up dropped stitches while still managing to encourage would-be yarn artists. And, in my turn,  it was a joy to spend time teaching the grand-daughter who found my casual knitting so intriguing that she clamored to learn. This summer, we worked on a little knitted bear, but also took an opportunity to add crochet to her skills.

As the family prepared to drive home, her mother at the last minute noticed that a large ball of yarn, still attached to the crocheting in her hands, had fallen out of the back car door on to the driveway. How far down the road that ball could have been unwinding!

Seven hours away is quite a distance, and so that yarn could never connect us, but in a strange way, conveying this skill was in itself an invisible bonding.  Yarn and patterns are only material things, and so may fall short, but the time spent together between teacher and student is like a synapse that relays essential knowledge.  It’s only a beginning, but there’s opportunity for discovery and growth and experimentation.  And, for our loved ones, it’s also about creating heart strings that will hopefully span great distances of space and time.

Teddy for Tragedies pattern

                                                                                              May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;  establish the work of our hands for us – yes,  establish the work of our hands.”  Psalm 90:17

Handle with Care

John Keats, Guy’s Hospital, London, Photo Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

 

 “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
                Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”  John Keats

“I believe nothing of any beauty or truth comes of a piece of writing without the author’s thinking he has sinned against something – propriety, custom, faith, privacy, tradition, political orthodoxy, historical fact, literary convention, or indeed, all prevailing community standards together.”    E. L.  Doctorow

Over a lifetime, I’ve accumulated a veritable treasure trove of words, a rich vocabulary that has proven useful in so many ways –  to identify nuances of emotion, to relate something of importance, to communicate with loved family and friends.  And certainly, if I have to someday account for every word I’ve spoken, we’re going to be there a long time!

Words are deeds, living and active.  These words can create universes, as God spoke light into the chaos before the creation.  The author of fiction can create such intricate worlds that we are loathe to close the book on them at the end of the story.

Words have impact, and many a childhood taunt has never been forgotten by the recipient.  They can break down strongholds, as the prophets of old demolished the pretensions of arrogant kings.

To speak the truth is a risky thing, and still today journalists can be subject to death threats or imprisonment.  Words expose, like the child who reports “the emperor has no clothes!”  We need the people who speak out against a fiction that can be subscribed to by entire communities.  In doing so, they loosen the iron grip of fear and greed.

Someone writing a memoir may need to be painfully honest about events in their lives, though they may fear being being ostracized by people they care deeply about.  By courageously digging deeply into their own truth and sharing this insight, they can enable healing and freedom for others.

This amazing power of words – to do great good, or cause incalculable harm.  Handle with care!

Romance

Pixabay – Erik-Karts


“He who binds to himself a joy        
Does the winged life destroy

But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in Eternity’s sunrise.”

William Blake

Sometimes being human is a difficult balancing act:  when to act, when to wait;  when to be independent and when to accept assistance; when to chart our own path or remember that it’s God’s story and stop anxious striving.

I recently watched a video entitled “Kosher Love” about a Jewish matchmaker, the “love rabbi,” as he counseled a young couple.  The wife said the rabbi had made such a good match: it was like her husband “must have existed, and then I made the list.”  God had given her everything she’d asked for, but she was upset because if she didn’t think of it, it looked like He hadn’t thought to include it.  It was difficult to understand the problem!

Her question, perplexing as it was, really was about romance in a life that follows society’s script.  What does it mean to have a soulmate?  Matchmaking could help in the recipe, but it could only go so far.  The rabbi’s response was that she was looking for something that didn’t exist except in Hollywood movies, but she challenged him on that, because she thought of it as a legitimate human need.

Like poetry, love’s connecting spark does need a form, but its essence is as elusive as a butterfly.  Because it’s a spiritual gift of God, not something that can be summoned up or scheduled.  You can only create the right conditions, be present and open to its ephemeral appearance.  Spirit-filled love can’t be predicted, controlled, or trapped.  And gives us the same privilege.  “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.”

What’s true of marriage is also true of faith.  Rules and rituals and planning are good and necessary in a society, but without love, rigid adherence to the letter of the law can kill spontaneity and joy.  Someone may be technically faithful to spouse or faith traditions, but withhold and refuse to engage within that relationship.

Love goes beyond duty to delight in the unexpected, the surprise, the extra mile. Human beings need that transcendence, need that light-hearted fun and laughter and connection.  How wonderful that our God is a God of abundance and creativity who far exceeds all our desires and hopes, “able to do far more than we can ask or imagine.”

Sometimes it isn’t until we look back over many years that we see that it was all  grace.  We’re been surprised by joy, like C. S. Lewis, and “romanced” by our Lord, Lover of our soul.

 

Be Careful, Little Eyes, What You See

A little rhyme we learned full well
In my childhood Sunday School
Verses sung to warn us all
To keep from playing the fool.

“Oh, be careful little eyes, what you see”
For the Father up above sees thee.
Keep your eyes from greed and vanity
And linger not in sinful envy.

Be careful little nose, before you follow
(Lest you fall into trickery!)
A scent that suggests the way to go.
And keep from sneering or snobbery.

“Be careful little ears what you hear”
Seems an impossible proposition.
“Ears can’t be closed!” Don’t stay near
To idle gossip’s conversation.

Be careful little hands what you do
Don’t strive to ever increase your wealth
Reach out in kindness to give to others
Always care for another’s health.

“Oh, be careful, little feet where you go”
And in your choice of a companion
Because you reap what you will sow
Stay far from the place of temptation.

“For the Father up above
Is looking down in love,”
So be careful little one
There is joy in a life well done.

                                                                                        Trudy Prins

Like a Child

Milky Way, by Felix Mittermeier, Pixabay

“At that time Jesus said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, this is what you were pleased to do.” Matthew 11:25-26

A course in Science was a required credit for an English BA, and I dreaded the college term ahead.  In high school science labs had been a frustrating experience.  Whether the fault was inattention to detailed instructions or just the normal Murphy’s Law tendency of my universe, there was seldom the predicted outcomes.  So, when I had a choice to complete the requirement by correspondence, it seemed serendipitous.

To my surprise, science proved to be far more interesting than I’d remembered, and another way to cross-pollinate truths of nature with the metaphysical, to see on earth what had been designed by heaven.  I’d always loved the Romantic poets’ appreciation of the natural world around them.  As a child I wandered around bulrush-fringed ponds, through small copses of woods with Jack-in-the-Pulpits, and ditches with their prickly burrs, Queen Anne’s lace and downy milk pods, savouring the berries that grew profligate in the fence rows.

So I linger still, sometimes, on the edges of science, the most recently in a library course on Philosophy and Physics, much of which I can barely comprehend, trying to glean a new way of viewing things.  Quantum physics, for example, implies a very weird world where choices are super-posed until actualized by an observer, Schrodinger’s cat both alive and dead.  I’m comforted in this incomprehension by the number of times the professor acknowledges ignorance as well . . . “Dunno.”  “I dunno.”  “We dunno.”    For every proposed theory there seems to be counter viewpoints.  It gets tiring, like watching a dog chase its tail.

So I’m grateful that God, in his wisdom, told the Creation story in language that is elegant and poetic in its simplicity.  We don’t have to know how everything works to experience peace and joy in our surroundings.  There is a time to intellectually pursue things, and a time to just be transfixed in awe, like a child.

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me
When I was shown the charts and diagrams,
to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer when he lectured
with much applause in the lecture room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night air, and from time to time,
Looked up in perfect silence at the stars.”

Walt Whitman