Up the Sunbeam

-- I can feel my own spine lengthen and stretch in empathic connection with the waves as they rise, and rise, tension building almost to breaking, until they finally arch their backs in defiant determination just before they commit to the forward, crashing, headlong fall into the waiting shoreline. Whatever sand and rocks await them, the water will both surrender and subdue. What is left of the mighty wave when the rocks are done with it? What is sand, but stone pounded fine by crashing waves? On the same day these giant waves were joyously galloping to shore, risking surrender to subdue, Drummer Boy set out for some beach combing. No matter that his age names him adult, when there is fun to be had on a wide open beach, he is a child at play, imagining all manner of adventures. I think this particular day he was caught somewhere between shipwrecked Robinson Crusoe and an episode of Man vs. Wild where he and Bear Grylls would be in full survival mode, needing to find shelter to st...

-- I can hear the telltale clanking. The monkey wrench has been thrown into the machinery again. The gears are grinding to a halt, and the flow of words has stopped. I keep anxiously watching like a weary traveler waiting at an empty baggage claim for bags that do not come. I wish I could see down the chute and open everything up to fix the problem. I wish it was as easy to focus my thoughts as it is to focus my camera. I flit and flutter, scanning my mind for an idea, just one good idea, to perch upon.  Where, oh where are the words hiding? Why won't they show themselves? What have I done to chase them away, and what can I do to bring them back? Are they alive and green somewhere under the frosty cold? What if I've already written everything I know? What if there are no more good ideas? What if nothing I say is original or creative or special? What if the keys have gone silent for the last time? Wistful wishes, wretched what if's, mixed up image...

-- Sometimes a tennis match can be a great sermon. On Sunday, June 5, 2011, Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer met for their fourth French Open Final. Much has been written and spoken of the epic rivalry between these two great and refreshingly humble champions; today's match only added to their lore. Each of them had moments where it looked like they would let it all slip away, only to rally and turn the momentum around. Each one had to exercise a little selective amnesia after an unforced error or a critical set lost. Each one played every point as if the whole match hung upon that one point (many times it almost did), and each one had to dig deep to believe he could come back even when behind and staring into the steely eyes of a powerful opponent. It was everything a championship match should be, one you wish no one had to lose.  One of the commentators highlighted the fact that these two great athletes consistently bring out the best in each other.   We live our li...

-- From the moment God put language in our mouths and made us people of words--created by and in the image of the pre-existent Logos, the Word --He made us people of symbols too.  For what are words but symbols?  Words represent, either audibly when spoken, or visually when written, an object, an idea or a piece of information. We use other things as symbols too--as for me, I have a little collection of frogs I'd like you to meet! This note I received from my parents several years ago is tacked up next to my computer monitor where I write: When I am tempted to get discouraged, my eyes are drawn to these amazingly affirming words, symbols in ink of a love I can only begin to fathom because I am a mother of two whom I also love to encourage!  My parents' words of encouragement accompanied one of the frogs in my collection--one of a number they have sent me over the years. I'll bet you're wondering, So Shaunie, what's the deal with the f rogs? And frog spit???...