Completed in 1929, the remarkable Ambassador Bridge over the Detroit River is about a one-and-a-half-mile suspension bridge that connects the U.S.A.’s Detroit, Michigan with Canada’s Windsor, Ontario. Being likely the most unobservant person you’ve ever (or maybe never) met, it amazes me that I’ve never found myself unintentionally on the entrance ramp. I’d have approximately 7500 feet to contemplate how to handle my situation upon arrival. My chances of being prepared, dignified, and self-assured are nearly nada.
“Hi! Give me a hug! Finally, we meet! And me, without my passport.”
Women who are new to our country, culture, and language enter Miss Tatyana’s classroom for their first day of school. For many, it is their first day of school, ever. They enter a clean, well-lit, lovely room. They are greeted with warm, smiling eyes, and an offer of tea. They see words they can’t read, written on a large whiteboard, “I didn’t come here to teach you. I came here to love you. Love will teach you.” These words, from ancient Indian scripture, speak the heart of their new teacher. She translates the words to their own language, and watches as their nerves visibly ease. They hug, love in return, and begin to learn.
When welcomed inside and planted in prepared soil, non-native plants thrive.
You know the saying: “There aren’t enough hours in a day.” For me, it seems true. Whether I’m swamped or have a relatively clear schedule, tasks sit languidly. Then there’s, “God gave them more than 24 hours in a day.” This isn’t a saying. It is simply what my husband and I tell each other regarding a few people we intimately know. These are people whose eyes appear to focus on the manifold good God seems to ask of them. Their hands and feet don’t falter. They accomplish more in one day than I do in perhaps a month. Evidently time is of no concern when motivated hearts are in sync with God’s own.
“She would have helped had she but found the time,” the saddest stone cries.
Mom and Dad used to live two doors down from us. Some mornings Dad would walk over, sit down for a cup of coffee and a few laughs.
Eventually, coffee became an excuse for a talk. For questions.
One day his question was, “Will you keep this in a safe place for me?” He opened a tiny matchbox-sized box, pulled out a piece of paper that was folded, and folded, and folded, and he read it to me. It was a poem. The first he’d ever written. He was a young boy, and it was to his dad who had unexpectedly passed. I watched him fold and fold and fold and carefully put it back in the box while I pondered why suddenly, after close to 7 decades, did he need me to keep it safe for him?
One day his question was from his doctor: “Do you have a plan in place for if she becomes violent?”
One day his question was, “Do you think I need to worry about her beginning to wander?”
One day his question was, “What will I do the day we wake up and she doesn’t know me?”
“But when he had thought this over, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife; for the Child who has been conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit.’” ~ Matthew 1:20
“ … an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. “Get up,” he said, “take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him.”So he got up, took the child and his mother during the night and left for Egypt, where he stayed until the death of Herod. And so was fulfilled what the Lord had said through the prophet: “Out of Egypt I called my son.” ~ Matthew 2:13-15
POSSIBLE PONDERINGS OF A CARPENTER NAMED JOSEPH
God gifted me a mind to work with wood, which business customers respect, it seems. I’ve taught my son my craft since his boyhood, but never spoke about my angel dreams.
The default mind of carpentry is ruled. It’s symmetry. It’s slated, and exact. A carpenter is practiced, skilled, and schooled. I see in my own son much more than that.
I cannot count the multitude of times these angels’ words return to haunt my mind. My years have not played out in paradigms — my anchor-bolted views left far behind.
I cannot say I’ve understood the role as asked of me by Mary, or by God. I’ve questioned in my heart and in my soul, if Mary’s story was a mere façade.
Though some advised me, “Have her put away,” I knew the horrid fate she would have faced. I could not stand the thought that they may slay the one whose love and life I have embraced.
But, truth-be-told, it’s turned me inside-out, accepting what the angels showed to me. I sometimes wish I’d chosen my own route, but then I look around me and I see:
The pureness of a son we can’t explain. His understanding of the ancient scrolls. An innate wisdom he could never feign. We’re wholly humbled to accept our roles.
A forest of hardwood and pine whispers calm to my soul as we stroll its quiet path of leaves and fine needles with the occasional call of small birds, conversation of crows, or tune composed of breeze strumming the trees to the rhythm of woodpecker’s tap, even as our own whispers overlap woodland’s song — one I wish to carry lifelong.
pictured words 