There once was a cuke
who wished she was a ‘mater.
She longed to be round,
thought it would elevate her
standing in the garden.
But the more she tried to cater
to specs of red and juicy
she got all bent out of shape.
Just be yourself, cuke,
everyone else’s taken.
You’re shape’s just not orb-like,
you’re more like a snake, and
whether pickled or on a nacho,
the world is your gazpacho.
So be a cuke and not a ‘mater,
not some warped, pale imitator.
And as the garden goes to seed,
live it up; grow like a weed —
like a weed, be unencumbered,
for you’re an exquisite green cucumber.
-Em : )
Across the lot
I saw crows
huddled picking at
Their eyes turned on
sent shivers up my shins.
wings peeled back
like a cartoon spinach can
whose fresh innards
now lived inside
not a drop of blood near
But her heart
pointed as a spade
just inches away.
a bird felt
somehow outside norms
of predator and prey
or animal etiquette.
But are we so
in order to
One evening as I changed into pajamas, I noticed I had only one earring in. I kneeled down and searched the bedroom floor but came up empty handed. Mentally retracing my steps, I had no clue where the earring might have fallen out.
It’d been a busy day. Since the weather was nice, I walked to school, spent a few hours working, and headed out front to meet other staff members for the drive-by parade. After an hour of waving at students and their families, I walked home, this time taking a different route.
They were my favorite everyday earrings—small, simple hoops in a brushed-gold color. I’d worn them at least weekly since sophomore year of high school when I bought them at The Limited.
No idea why I remember that.
As I recalled all the places I’d been that day, I made a mental note to check the school’s lost and found bin, but I’d pretty much given it up as a loss.
I hate losing things. It’s been a few years, but I still pine for the gloves I left in a Chicago taxi cab. Losing things makes me feel forgetful and foolish and—maybe this is the heart of the discomfort—not in control.
I’m lucky that I haven’t lost anything more important than gloves, umbrellas, to-do lists, a fleece hoodie. We’re living in a time of great loss—of jobs, security, and, most sadly, lives. One day last week, the front page of The New York Times was made up of thousands of tiny-print obituaries of people who had lost their lives to the virus, a moving tribute to loved ones lost.
And while loss of life is awful, how much worse is the taking of life? The loved ones of Mr. George Floyd must feel a ghastly sense of powerlessness. My heart aches to think of that moment of taking, captured on video, of something precious that can never be found, never returned. A senseless taking, a tragic loss.
In infinitely more trivial news, I found the earring. The next morning I walked past the school and there on the sidewalk, one tiny earring shone in the sunlight. I paused, amazed that it was there—scuffed and scratched but intact. I took it home, wiped it with alcohol, and reunited it with its mate.
This minor drama of jewelry lost and found reminded me of this: Jesus is the God of lost things. He described his job as having come “to seek and save the lost.” He told stories about a lost coin, a lost sheep, a lost son, all of which are eventually found and celebrated and cherished.
In times of crisis, I must admit it feels banal to sing, “His eye is on the sparrow . . .” when so many sparrows end up smashed against pavement. Yet I’m compelled, in the sense that I must force myself, to trust the God of lost things will make everything found.
Which sounds very vague: somehow . . . someday . . .
True, we believers in miracles don’t have the logistics figured out, but we can’t just forfeit. We are caught between the losing and the finding, but in the meantime—and these are very mean times—I want to counter the losing with finding and the taking with giving. That is, finding the humility to listen, giving the benefit of the doubt, seeking justice, giving love.
Maybe that’s the start of how lost things are found.
Lately, I’m the town crier of missed appointments. I’ll look at the calendar and say, “Tonight was supposed to be the spring band concert,” or “This would have been Book Fair week at school.”
I’m not sure why. There’s nothing I can do about the cancellations, and some things will be rescheduled. When I tell Phil or Caroline what they’re missing, they shrug. I’m not that torn up about most things, either.
The passing of March 31, however, felt different to me. On that evening, members of Women4given were supposed to celebrate our tenth year. We would also mark the end of the organization.
Women4given had a great decade, bringing together a group of women who each pledged a dollar a day to support nonprofits that cater to the needs of women and children. We gave away $200,000. And it all started with one woman who wanted to make a difference.
My friend KO approached me back in 2010 to see if I’d be interested in joining a “giving circle.” I had no clue what that meant, but the idea is that you gather a group of people who want to make the world a better place, ask them to donate a set amount, and then give annual grants to nonprofits.
It sounded okay, I guess, but the world of women’s groups and fundraising and nonprofits wasn’t really my thing. Fortunately, KO is relentless.
So I showed up to the first service project with a twenty-month-old on my hip and helped make sandwiches for a local summer lunch program. Before I could say no, I was Women4given’s first president. Later, I became the executive director, always glancing at KO to make sure I was doing things right — it was her dream, after all. For five years, W4G was my unofficial job. In 2015, I stepped down from leading, knowing my friends would guide the organization with great care.
Pooling our resources together, we were able to support outstanding projects like these:
- We donated $13,000 to underwrite the “Brain Bin,” a computer suite with Chromebooks; an elementary-age library and quiet space; and the “Here We Grow” edible garden project for the Christian Activity Center of East St. Louis.
- We gave $15,000 to purchase computers, printers, classroom furniture, and school supplies for the after-school program at Leu Civic Center in Mascoutah.
- We granted $18,000 to completely renovate the kitchen and dining area, including new appliances, at St. John Bosco Children’s Center in Belleville.
We funded many other projects, like a dozen wells for villages in Africa, a mobile outreach program for grieving children, and a construction-business internship program to help young people earn a livable wage. I learned so much.
While the life of W4G has run its course, and I’m sad to see it go, I’ve reaped some lasting friends. Marsha Heffner succeeded me as president, then executive director. We made a great team, and I might have missed out on her friendship, if not for W4G.
KO has always had her ear bent toward God’s whisper, and I feel fortunate that she thought I might be interested in this thing called a “giving circle.” For everything, there is a season. There’s a time for every purpose under heaven. I’m thankful for the decade of Women4given. I think we made a difference – together.
It was the scariest of times. It was the squirreliest of times. It was March 2020.
They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, but I’m pretty sure the lamb doesn’t fit this year. Is there another animal that fits my experience better? Yes. Squirrels.
I did a quick search of “squirrely,” to make sure it means what I think it means. Turns out it means “mildly insane,” “unpredictable and jumpy,” or “nutty.” So, yeah—in like a lion, out like a squirrel.
My sister and I have been taking walks around the neighborhood. On Friday evening, we noticed a squirrel out in the street flat on its belly. It appeared hurt. Both Amanda and I started talking to it: “Oh, poor little squirrel! Are you okay?” Etc. Etc.
As we approached, it hopped to its feet and stared back, alert.
Relieved it wasn’t hurt, we felt compelled to keep up the convo. “Oh, look at you, little squirrel! I’m glad you’re not hurt. What are you doing out in the street? It’s not safe to sleep in the street.” Etc. Etc. We kept up the small talk with the little creature as we walked on.
As we walked away, the squirrel said, “Arf,” like the one-syllable bark of a seal. My sister and I looked at each other in disbelief and asked, “Did he just talk to us?” I’ve had my share of one-sided chats with animals, but I’ve never had a squirrel answer me.
We laughed like a couple of idiots who don’t get out much and are beyond thrilled that a squirrel wants to talk.
Three days later, we were out walking the same route as on Friday, the evening of our fabled squirrel-whispering incident. As we crossed the street where we’d met our little friend, I glanced up at the tree and saw the squirrel flat on its belly, just a bored squirrel chillin’ on a bare branch.
Of course, we chatted him up. “Well, fancy meetin’ you here! How’s our little friend? Can you say Arf? Is that your home? I love your fluffy tail!” Etc. Etc.
He looked mildly amused, but not enough to move. Mostly, we wanted him to speak again — as confirmation that we’re not crazy. And also to fuel our dreams of hand-feeding a squirrel BFF, dressing him up in a red gingham shirt and denim overalls. Etc. Etc.
We gave him plenty of time to respond, but he didn’t even lift his head. We walked on. At the next corner Amanda and I parted ways, and I turned around to go home. When I approached the corner with the squirrel tree, he was standing in the sidewalk staring me down with sweet, little, beady, rodent eyes. I felt sure he’d thought of something to say and tracked us down.
“What is it, buddy?” I asked. Silence.
As I stepped forward, he darted up a tree trunk. Even so, I haven’t given up on the dream of making him our pet and dressing him in gingham and overalls.
Without a doubt, these are scary days. I recognize the immense blessing that cabin fever (and delusional squirrel-whispering) is the worst of our problems; for us, these have been squirrely days. And if I must lose my mind, I’m grateful to do so in a comfortable place among the people I love with the faith that this, too, shall pass.
March 2020 came in like a lion and went out like a squirrel, but I trust that “mildly insane” and “unpredictable” are not forever.
Know that I pray for your good health, friends. Take time to laugh in the midst of washing hands and sheltering in place. And if you can, take in the beauty of nature, especially the fluffy-tail parts.
I recently watched A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, the movie with Tom Hanks as Mister Rogers. The striking thing about it was how quickly the details – those garish blue-green curtains, the gentle ding ding of the trolley, the cardigan closet – took me right back to my view from the braided rug in our TV room. I vividly remember watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood with my mom, whose love for Mister Rogers took root in me over the course of many episodes and is still going strong.
Strangely, until I’d seen the Tom Hanks movie and the recent documentary, Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, I had forgotten about the music. Not so much the songs with words about “many ways to say I love you,” but those faint, jazzy piano chords that serve as the show’s backdrop. I hadn’t realized how hungry my ears had been for that gentle musical commentary.
Like so many people of my generation, my heart has a trolley-shaped place reserved for Mister Rogers. He was unique in his sensitivity to the feelings of others, children especially. I have known just a handful like him, such as my friend Mary Ann, a former kindergarten teacher with a special gift for relating to children.
Watching the movie, I remembered another Mister Rogers-type of guy, Rev. Bernie. Bernie was a salt-of-the-earth, joyful, soft-spoken man. He wore a small wooden cross around his neck and smiled with an endearing gap between his front teeth.
Years ago, Rev. Bernie would occasionally give the children’s sermon at church. The moment he took the microphone, the congregation would grin collectively, anticipating the hand-puppet that would soon appear.
It was a little, white cat with a high-pitched voice named Casey the I-Care Cat. I never thought to ask Bernie if he was inspired by Mister Rogers’ Daniel Tiger, but the resemblance, for me, was real. Casey had a single message, one moral for every story – a message that is useful every single day.
He would set up the sermon by talking with Casey the cat, who had managed to do something selfish or impulsive. See, the cat didn’t always take others’ feelings or God’s commandments into account before acting. Casey’s lesson was always the Five T’s: Take the Time to Think.
Rev. Bernie, I mean Casey, would say these slowly, as Bernie counted on his fingers to show there were not six, not four, but five T’s.
I don’t know if Bernie originated Casey just for children’s sermons or if he used the cat-puppet in his career as an educator. Either way, the message works, whether in church or school or anywhere. I bet those kids sitting at his feet remember Casey’s Five T’s all these years later.
I know I won’t soon forget: Take the time to think.
There’s a picture of Mister Rogers on the bulletin board above my desk. In it, he’s holding one of his puppets, King Friday, and entertaining a group of kids. Underneath is a quote from Fred Rogers, “Anyone who does anything to help a child in his life is a hero to me.” In Bernie’s unassuming, humble way, he was a hero of the faith to those who knew him. He was like our own Mister Rogers.
Rev. Bernie passed away last summer. My heart aches for his sweet wife Ann; how she must miss him.
Now he’s seen Jesus face to face. He doesn’t need to take the time to think. Now he knows.