Finding the fruit, tending the vine

“Your wife will be like a fruitful vine…
your children like olive shoots
around your table…”
--Psalm 128:3

I was at the hospital yesterday visiting a friend and in the short time that I was with her she was visited by three chaplains. By the time the third came, we were laughing.  It was like the beginning of strange joke; three chaplains walked into a hospital room: the first was a Jew, the next was a Christian, and the third was a Muslim... Now, I just need to figure out the punch-line. 

And I am wondering if the punch-line has something to do with misunderstanding. Because I’ve been thinking about misunderstanding a bit lately.  And it all started when I read Psalm 128 about a week ago. As I came to the line about the “fruitful vine” I was elated; I realized this psalm was read at our wedding! 

Back in 1988, when we were choosing readings, I remember being struck by how apt these words felt. I was marrying someone who loved gardening and I loved olives! How much more perfect can you get?  What I understood the psalm to be promising was something like this:

Marital joy and pleasure, will be yours! A companion! Children! And spaghetti sandwiches whenever you want! (And that is not a euphemism.)  I understood them to be about opulence, comfort and security –sustenance and pleasure! I half expected a Nobel Prize, and invitations to speak at Cambridge and Harvard to spring up along with all those olive shoots.  But—in hindsight—I think that might have been a slightly immature understanding of God’s promise, even of God’s fruit…

You see, what I have come to understand after 30 years of life with a beautiful wife, loving daughters, and periodic struggles with depression and insecurity, as well as a file cabinet full of rejection letters is this:  the fruits God gives us are not always the fruits we imagine we want, but they are always the fruits we need (to paraphrase Mr. Jagger & Mr. Richards). 

Here is an example of what I mean:  Last Thursday I volunteered to print and bind several copies of an anthology for a children's writing workshop I was helping with.  The booklets needed to be ready to hand out to the students when they arrived at 9am the next morning. Not a problem, I thought.  I have access to copiers, and a little binding machine.  I figured it would take a couple of hours at most.  I started working on it around 4:30pm.  Of course, everything took longer than I imagined and by 9:30 I was calling home to warn my wife that I might not be home before midnight, and in my heart I was beginning to suspect that it could take all-night.  And I was beginning to suspect that it was my own incompetence that was making everything take so long; my disorganized ways, and my hunt and peck typing skills and my lack of focus and…

I guess my wife could hear the anxiety and frustration in my voice, because the next thing I knew she was volunteering to come help me. When she offered, my initial reaction was: No. Please, don’t come. You don’t need to do this.  It’s my mess. I’ll take care of it.  But, finally she convinced me that she wanted to help and by 10:15 she (and 2 daughters) arrived with dinner in tow. They told me to take a break, and went to work.  As I ate, I could hear their laughter, their joy, bits of silly conversation ringing out as they worked and chatted.  By 11:30 they were finished. and though we were all tired, and eager to get home, our spirits were high and laughter was still ringing out.  In fact, I felt positively renewed.  I had been overwhelmed and frustrated, frightened at my own incompetence; I felt broken and useless when I called her, but now I felt almost giddy and full of life.  As we headed out the door I kept thanking them and hugging them. I couldn’t help myself.   

What kind of fruitful vine does God promise us? When I was 30, I thought it would be all strawberries and cream, olive oil and mozzarella, but now I see: sometimes it comes in the form of a wife who won’t take no for an answer.  And sometimes it might even come in the form of a husband who needs more help than he can ever imagine.  What if the real fruit has nothing to do with comfort or pleasure or spaghetti sandwiches, but is found in the opportunity to help each other, to put the needs of another before your own; the chance to be a little bit more like Christ?  What if we started looking at each other's brokenness and saw not insufficiency or something to be rejected, but a gift from God, a fruitful vine, an opportunity to grow in love (and joy and laughter)? Wouldn’t that be something? 

Now, if only I could figure out how to apply that to a hospital patient and an abundance of chaplains.

The hurricane and the henhouse

“...Hidden in the storm, I answered you...”

--Psalm 81:7

 William Faulkner told an interviewer that writing a novel is like trying to “nail together a henhouse in a hurricane.”  He said: “You haven’t got time to be thinking about images and symbols.  You’ve got all you can manage without that.”[1] I know what he means.[2]  And what he is saying applies not just to writing, but to life as well.  In the midst of the storm one doesn’t have time for symbols and images and lessons and profundities.  In the midst of the storm you are too busy trying to keep the henhouse together to look for symbols and imagery; for grace and lessons. In the midst of the storm you are holding on for dear life –your own and those of the people you love. But, I think what I heard in Psalm 81 this morning was: if you open your ears –if you really listen—if you train yourself to be open to them –you will discover that they are there.  In the storm He answers us.

When we were at the hospital –in the midst of our storm—I had little time for thinking about symbols or images or meanings.  I was too set on trying to stay awake and by my daughter’s side.  And too worried about what might come next.  Also, I was worried about my wife and my other daughters and about my job and about getting lost in the halls, about the parking garage and what happens if I lose my parking ticket and back in the ICU there were all those monitors and those numbers that kept changing and the beeping and the IVs and the nurses who would come and go at all hours and I couldn’t remember anyone’s name and...  I felt frightened and helpless and overwhelmed.

To be there, by her side, feeling helpless and afraid, was to be in the midst of a terrifying storm; and sitting there by her side –especially in the middle of the night—I felt terribly alone.  And all I could do was keep praying over and over: Lord, help us. Please God, help us. Without realizing I had stopped praying or knowing how long I had been sleeping, I would awaken to see a nurse checking vitals or noting something on a chart or changing an IV bag –tenderly caring for my daughter—and without knowing it, I would fold back upon myself, eyes drooping closed, head slipping exhaustedly down upon my chest, mouth murmuring prayers and in my half-consciousness wondering whether God would ever answer.  Wondering whether the storm would last forever? Would we feel this helpless, this alone forever?  The storm beat us down, physically, psychologically, emotionally.  Even spiritually.  It stopped us in our feet. Everything we were doing, our lives, our work, our plans... all of it stopped. The storm came, and all that busy-ness stopped, and we were forced to put everything else aside and attend to one thing. And the strain, the effort required to focus ourselves in such a way, it was terrible. Exhausting. Utterly consuming.

And yet, looking back, as the storm fades, I can see there was signs.  There were symbols.  Images. 

I wasn’t alone.  There was the friend who spent that first night in the waiting room with my wife, the same friend who invited me the second night to come take a shower and take a break at her house.  After my shower, she and her son sat with me, talked as she peeled a kiwi and sliced it and put it on a plate in front of me. Refilled a glass with water and listened and laughed with me as I repeated stories about the hospital and my daughter, then --for some reason—the conversation wandered off to Dostoevsky and Camus and Marilynne Robinson and carrots. Invite a librarian to come take a shower at your house –see what you have to put up with.  

That was my first break from the hospital; from the storm.  And all I can remember from it is the patience and kindness of this friend and her son.

The next day I took a second break and went home to sleep for a while.  My wife and a friend were at the hospital, and they convinced me that I needed a nap.  I went.  Someone else drove.

At home I stretched out on my bed, certain that I wouldn’t be able to sleep.  Until I woke two hours later worrying about what time it was.  As I got ready to go back to the hospital, the doorbell rang.  It was someone delivering groceries.  Apparently, my oldest daughter had been getting calls from our co-workers and friends asking about what we liked to eat and what we might need.  As she was putting away the groceries she opened the freezer to show me all the frozen meals someone had already brought us. It was crammed full. As I was leaving, the counters were still covered with grocery bags and she was promising me she would find somewhere to put all of it.  Not to worry.  She opened a cupboard and a box of crackers tumbled out. 

“Not there...” she laughed.

Over the next week and a half more groceries would come, even meals from restaurants until our house was overflowing with food... In the back of my mind, I kept thinking how kind people were. How generous.  How blessed we were.  But somewhere deeper inside I was haunted by the thought that none of it mattered. All I really wanted was someone to fix my daughter.  To fix our family. To fix this brokenness. To make us whole again. 

By the end of the week we were home. She was home.  The storm was over. Maybe.  At least it had paused.  And I could breathe again.  I could put the hammer down –so to speak.  Take a long look around and see what kind of hen house the storm had left standing....  so to speak.

The first thing I noticed was all the groceries still on the counters.  The refrigerator full, the cupboards full and even as we were laughing at that somebody was pulling into our driveway with dinner from a Tex-Mex joint: fajitas and queso and chips. 

Still worried about my family, I was starting to get overwhelmed by the abundance.  It felt like one more responsibility to be worried about, one more source of stress, anxiety, and I couldn’t bear it.  But with time and a little distance I began to understand it differently. I began to recognize an image in the cupboards and refrigerator and counters overflowing with food... I began to see twelve baskets overflowing with broken bread and pieces of fish... I recognized in my own life the actuality of the miracle described in Matthew 14.  We were in a lonely place and we felt like we had nothing left; less than five loaves and two fish; and the Lord told us to sit down and suddenly there was more than we needed; the food was literally overflowing.  We didn’t have baskets, so we were putting things in boxes and bags.  But it was clearly a loaves and fishes moment! An image of God’s grace and generosity was lived out before our eyes.

But as Mr. Faulkner says: In the moment, in the middle of the storm, who has time to look for symbols and imagery.  Only when I had come to rest and feel a moment’s calm could I begin to see.  Yes.  The answer was in the storm.  And the answer wasn’t: “Everything is going to be fine.” Or: “Let me fix this.”   The answer we were getting wasn’t words or promises, it was a miraculous abundance of food and it was people dropping by to check on us and staying to have tea and share some of our cookies or crackers or carrots.  It was small acts of kindness and generosity. Acts of love.  Out of the storm God answered us: You are loved.  Your family is loved.  The answer was simple and clear.  And beautiful.

Hidden in the storm we may not recognize God, but He is there.  Hidden in the storm there is an answer, and it is simply this:  Love. 

It’s not an easy answer. And it is very hard to recognize when you are exhausted, and the henhouse seems to be falling apart... but when there is a pause in the storm, perhaps just a calm before the next, take a moment and look around at the signs and the symbols.  Take a moment to reflect; close your eyes and open your heart and listen.  They are there. He is there. And I suspect you will find the answer is always the same:  Love.

Can you hear it?

---

[1] This is quoted in Hugh Kenner’s essay, “The Last Novelist,” in his wonderful book on American modernism: A Homemade World.

[2] I’ve been trying to write a novel for years and every time I think I have a nail in place my hammer disappears!

The Perfection of Love

“God is love

and whoever remains in love

remains in God

and God in Him.

Love comes to its perfection

in us when we can face

the day of judgement fearlessly.”

--1 John 5: 16b-17

Two of my daughters graduated this past weekend; one from high school and another from college. At the same time, on the same day, two daughters graduating.  Quite a time for celebrating and, if it were only possible (Padre Pio...), bi-locating.  Instead to make sure we were present for both, my wife and I had to split up and each take one.  She did the high school and I did the college. It was quite a week (and weekend). 

Two things about the graduation experience that stood out to me:  first, the crowd of people arriving before the ceremony; almost all of them smiling.  Despite the fact that a graduation is a tedious and painfully drawn out event, most people seemed truly happy to be there. And somehow (of course) it all reminded me of Dante.  Second, afterwards I ran into a woman that I knew in college.  Her daughter was graduating too. Meeting her, I had the awkward experience of hearing something of the person I used to be.  And though this old friend spoke only kind words and greeted me eagerly, I was left with a sting of shame and the sensation of being haunted by the ghost of Herman past.

In canto II of Dante’s Purgatorio, Virgil and Dante witness the arrival of souls hopeful to climb the mountain of Purgatory.  As the joyful souls step onto the shore, they look around for some sign or guide, looking “like those whose eyes try out things new to them.” (53-54). They are confused and excited and happy and filled with wonder. But not sure which way to go or what to do next.  Like parents and grandparents at a graduation ceremony. Excited about the reason they are there, but uncertain which way to go and where to sit, and a little anxious about what lies ahead (a few speeches and 2 hours of names).  We all wandered those halls of NRG arena with a little trepidation.

And just like in Dante, as I was standing there waiting for someone, a soul approached me –an old friend.  Walking past with her daughter, she noticed me holding up a wall and came over to give me a hug.  Her oldest daughter was graduating that day as well. She felt a need to explain to me that this daughter had taken a bit longer to graduate: 8 years. And that the last few she’d worked for the university full-time to get her classes for free, and I said: Just like me.  I was on that same 8-year track and ended up working for the registrar’s office for 4 ½ years to finish my degree. Heck, that’s where I met my wife (when she came to get her diploma).  We laughed and she asked me if I still make great pizza.  Not as often, I said. But, I still dream of it.  As she left, she told me to watch for her husband --but I didn’t. I took a book out of my pocket and started reading instead.  Crowds can be a bit overwhelming to me, and hiding in a book seems like a safe coping mechanism: it’s legal, not too addictive, and if anybody asks, because I’m a librarian, I can always say: it’s okay. I’m a professional.

But, in reality, I only pretended to read. My eye kept rising from the page to watch the people. Parents carrying small children, laughing excitedly; dressed in their best. A small child clutching flowers and balloons looks so proud, a little boy wearing a fedora and suspenders wiggles about like he can’t wait to start dancing, and the elderly move with delicate, cautious steps; slowly and with great solemnity, intent on not missing this momentous day. 

That solemnity, that exuberance, that was a sign of true love. Graduations aren’t fun for the audience (or the graduates, usually). But these people were excited and looking forward to being a part of this special day –not because it would be fun for them, but because it was important to someone they loved.  Their very presence in the NRG arena was a physical manifestation of their love for someone.  It was a love so overpowering that it wouldn’t let them stay home in bed; it wouldn’t let them just send a card; it was too big to stay put; it had to get out and go. It had to become flesh, so to speak, and dwell among us (among the beloved).  Like Jesus, the word made flesh; God’s love made flesh; God so loved the world that His love became flesh and came to dwell among us, to live with us, to share our lives with us (all of it, the boring and the beautiful) and to bless it by His presence.  That’s what all those parents and grandparents and brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors, were doing; they were (in a sense) sanctifying the moment by their presence.

And what was the other experience? It was a more intimate moment. At the end of the ceremony there was a brief yet very moving talk given by one of the graduates.  As I listened, I sensed an odd familiarity in her voice.  On the big screen over the stage, I could see her face and it too had a strange familiarity to it.  Then she mentioned her mother’s name and suddenly I saw. Wow. That is the daughter of someone I used to see almost every day.  Someone I would visit and drink tea with and talk with; we’d discuss literature and music and why neither one of us had a date --ever. 

Afterwards, as I looked for my daughter, I kept an eye out for this old friend; wondering if I would even recognize her.  Looking for her, I was greeted by other friends and old familiar faces (mostly professors I knew long ago).  Even though very welcomed, I began to feel shy and a little anxious,  lost; began to try and call my daughter, though my phone wasn’t working very well, and neither were my trembling fingers.  I was ready to give up on finding anyone when suddenly I saw her. My old friend.  I hadn’t seen her in over 30 years, but there she was and I knew it the moment I saw her.  My first thought –sadly, I must admit—was to turn and walk away. I was afraid. All those people, all that joy, all that noise, and exuberance; I felt an urge to withdraw and go hide in my car. And I was a little nervous that she wouldn’t even remember me.  But, instead I walked toward her; telling myself I needed to at least let her know what a great job her daughter did. When I spoke her name I immediately saw that old familiar light flash in her eyes:

Herman! And she pulled me in and gave me a wonderful big hug and then turned to the young men standing nearby and said: This is Herman.  The guy who taught me about Max’s Kansas City and the Velvet Underground! And then looking back at me, exclaimed: These are my sons. They love the Velvet Underground. This one sings just like Lou Reed. He sings that song: shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather…

For a moment I was a little embarrassed. This was the mark I had left on my friend’s life? A song about… leather? But, as she continued to tell me of her family and tell them of me, I realized it was something more. It wasn’t about the music or the tea or the literary talk. It was the community that we had shared. We had –for a time—helped each other carry our crosses. We had given each other time, encouraging words, and most of all: presence. Our (very platonic) friendship had been a true self-giving. Whether it was sitting at her table sipping Celestial Seasons, or going for a jog at Hermann Park, or running over to Cactus records, we had dwelt together, borne each other’s burdens, and shared not a few moments of sanctifying laughter (and Velvet Underground songs). 

And perhaps the key to God’s love becoming perfected in us is that simple; perhaps all it takes is our willingness to become flesh, to dwell physically (and sanctifyingly) among others and give ourselves fully to them. Don’t be afraid, just be present to the moment and place wherein you find yourself.  God’s word, God’s love becomes flesh every time we give ourselves fully (and un-selfconsciously) to the person next to us –whether it is our spouse, an old friend, a child, or a complete stranger.  Let us bear witness to God’s love, let us become God’s love and let us bear that love to the world –one person at a time. Make it your mission today to let someone feel that they matter, that they are wanted, that they are loved. Wherever you are, even if it is only at some boring old graduation ceremony.  You may never know how much that will mean to them, or what details (or songs) they will remember, but be certain of this: it will matter. In fact, it will probably be the most important thing you ever do.