If I Knew

If I knew that today was my last day on earth,
Would I do what I’m doing right now?
Would I say what I’m saying, though I know it might hurt,
If it was the last thing you'd hear from my mouth?

Would I spend so much time on such trivial things,
If I thought that was all I would do?
Would the things I’ve not done still be put off, you think,
If I knew I’d be leaving so soon?

Would the things that annoy me and get on my nerves
Maybe not seem like such a big deal?
Would I feel so offended at that one thoughtless word,
If I knew it was the last thing I’d feel?

Could I let some things go, and give others more care?
Would my speed to forgive be the same?
If I knew time was short, could I choose to forbear,
And quietly shoulder the blame?

Might my thoughts have more depth, and my words greater weight,
Would my deeds have more purpose and drive?
Would I hesitate so before doing what’s right?
Would I be so reluctant to try?

Yesterday’s gone, and it will not return;
Tomorrow may not come at all.
If you knew that today was your last day on earth,
Would you be ready to answer the call?

Lunchtime at the Nursing Home

I used to work in the kitchen at the local nursing home. This was (and remains) my opinion of the food there--and of almost all institutionally prepared "food" as well. (I'm cheating on this blog thing so far...by posting things I wrote months or even years ago. Eventually, however, I will write something new.)

"Bring the poison for the inmates!"
Calls the Captain to the guard.
"Cook them all the food that we hate:
Make it soggy, dry, or hard;
But if it's pleasant to the palate,
We will feather you with tar!"
"Might as well just feed them fishbait,"
Someone mumbles to the chard.

"What they like the best is plastic,"
Says the Captain with a smile.
"Soaked in chemicals and gases,
And the waters of the Nile.
Call it food (don't sound sarcastic),
And hum gaily all the while!"
Grumbles someone, "In the Arctic
There are things to eat less vile."

"Forward, march!" now cries the Captain.
"Down the hall we go to feed!
They are waiting in the dungeon:
Thence we go to quench their greed!
With a pile of Slime and Onions
We supply their every need."
"Nearer death with every luncheon,"
Mutters someone. "That's our creed."

Expectation

Every journey has a destination, and every story has an end. The song is beautiful while it lasts, but there always comes the moment when the last note hangs quivering in the air, and when it has finally fled away, we are left in silence. It cannot last forever. We long, as we turn over the last page of a beloved book, to go back to the beginning, reaching out desperately for what has been, but can never be again. As we see the end of a beautiful road drawing nigh, we wish hopelessly that it would go on and on...forever. But it must come to an end; it could not stay so beautiful forever, or if it did, we should grow weary of it. Better to let it go while the memory is still sweet, and hang on instead to that memory, however mingled with pain. But why then the pain? Why are we not content? Why do our hearts still ache for something more? It is because this is not enough. Even in our reaching backwards, we know that what we really want cannot be found there. What we are truly seeking lies ahead of us, not behind. We were created for perfection, but we have fallen--this we know. and in ourselves we are dead, and heedless of our plight. But our ransomed souls cry out for restoration; we long to be made whole. In this life, we will never be complete. Everything around us, and we ourselves, are only broken copies of what was; fleeting shadows of what will be. This world is not where we belong. It is full of joy and beauty, to be sure; but the highest beauty is mingled with pain, and the deepest joy is bittersweet...and there will always be an end. That is why there is that ache that will never quite go away; that longing we can never quite define; that hole that is never quite filled while we remain in this life. One day we will go home; we will become what we were made to be, and we will be complete. And then we will be caught up and swept away by a beauty and a joy so high, so deep, and so perfect, that an eternity will not be sufficient for us to begin to comprehend it. And this time, it will never, ever end. Hallelujah!

"For the earnest expectation of the creation eagerly waits for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope; because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now. Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the redemption of our body For we were saved in this hope, but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one hope for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with perserverance."

~Romans 8:19-25~

Bugs and Babies

I was driving a light blue minivan down a lonely gravel road, early one morning this summer, at a rate of approximately 56 mph. I was on my way to pick strawberries for a local strawberry patch, and I wasn't feeling overly enthused about the idea. I was tired of picking strawberries. You probably would have been, too, if you'd been doing it, in the blistering sun and pouring rain, for 5-7 hours every day for nearly three weeks. It's not the worst thing in the world (malaria and typhoid fever are worse), but it wasn't exactly at the top of my List of Favorite Things to Do on a Rainy Thursday Morning. I was trying to cheer myself up by listening to the radio, rolling the windows halfway down, and taking the humps on the gravel road without slowing down; and then I noticed a bug crawling around on the inside of my window. And I thought to myself, "What an odd bug." Because it was. It looked sort of like a rather flat tick, with somewhat larger legs, and long, graceful antennae. A "Great American Tick-alope", according to my slightly eccentric, but nevertheless clever and charming, sister Camille. (That probably won't make any sense unless you've seen the Pixar short-story-film thing that comes before The Incredibles. I think it's called "Boundin" or something like that. Pretty cute.)

Anyway, I was thinking about this bug (and trying not to go off the road while I watched it crawl hither, thither, and yon), and it occurred to me what a grand adventure it must be having, in a small, buggy kind of way. Imagine being half an inch long, and finding yourself plastered to the inside of the window of a van hurtling recklessly down a rather bumpy road. And this particular fellow still had enough energy and courage left to go exploring on this speeding sheet of transparency. I admired his pluck.

It made me think about the things we miss when we live too much on the safe side. When we slather ourselves in sunscreen, keep our feet carefully on the sidewalk, and always follow the recipe. Sometimes I like to take off my shades, even when the sun is shining in all its painful brilliance; just so my eyes can experience life "all the way". Sometimes I'd rather turn off the AC and roll down all the car windows instead, whatever havoc it will doubtless wreak on my hair; just because.

I know, they're little things. But I've never been to Cuba or ridden a motorcycle, and I don't live near any roller coasters; so I get my thrills when and where I can.

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Later that afternoon I was playing my cello, and my baby brother was hollering in his crib. At first he contented himself with making loud, squalling sounds like a tornado siren or a small fighter jet coming in for a landing. Eventually, however, I noticed he was more and more consistently yelling, "Neen! Neen!". That's my name. Probably he had started hearing cello-ish noises and deduced that I was ignoring him. (For the record, I wasn't precisely ignoring him. I was going to get him up....my plan just wasn't quite as instantaneous as his.) So I went in and turned off the box fan that's supposed to keep the sleeping child from hearing the wakeful noises that tend to permeate the rest of the house (like telephones and cellos), then went over to have a chat with my smallest sibling.

"Hallo, Beebee," I cooed, "Why are you screeching like that? You sound like a screech owl...a baby screech owl."

(People always say silly things to babies, small children, and animals. I can't explain it, but I do it, too.)

Sam babbled something incoherent in reply, and bounced impatiently up and down in his crib. I am fluent in Sammish, and I knew that this should be approximately translated, "Get me out of this death trap, you mean girl. I want some pretzels." I was in a benevolent mood, so I obliged.

"You want out of bed?" I asked sweetly, "Come here, then, baby. But why were you screeching so much before? You never told me."

"Owie," said Sam, and he stuck his thumb in my mouth. That would be Sammish for "Kiss it".