Mike or Frank?

Last August I moved back near my childhood home in Michigan. As of late, about once a month my dad and I prune the fruit trees he’s planted over the years.  

One of my more obnoxious qualities: I ask questions… all the time—some philosophical, some, well, not.  If I’m really comfortable with you the questions, normally contained within the confines of my head, shoot out, quite unfiltered. So I ask him about global climate change; I ask him whether he thinks public schools encourage mediocrity; about Ted Bundy’s wife’s psychological state; whether it’s ethically sound to have children with the problems that could arise with global warming; why does it seem like when people try to help others, they often end up hindering instead; where will Cambodians get clean water when surface water is polluted and the well-water contains arsenic; who fights to legalize the serving of horse meat; if he could have lunch with one of the American Pickers, would he go with Mike or Frank?

When we prune, I’m the climber. Pops moves the ladder and takes the lower branches.

So we trim. I ask questions.  He answers,

“Try sawing the branch off there.”

“Don’t worry about that bald spot, it’ll grow back.”  

“See the vertical shoots? Those are called suckers. Trim all of those off and the tree will put more energy into the horizontal branches.”

“ The great thing about pruning is that if you make a mistake, you can go back in a couple of years and fix it.”

"Mike."

So I climb the ladder; step onto the branches; shimmy up the tree; cut all the suckers, the ones shooting straight up; saw off unnecessary branches; stop worrying about the accidental bald patches...they'll fix themselves; and silently agree that Mike would be the Picker with which to lunch. 

Bankrupt Descriptors

A while back I left my apartment around midnight and ran for about an hour. The snowflakes fell small and slow. They resembled glitter in the streetlights. At one point I took a right onto the trails—just me, the darkness, the light of the snow. I was fortunate enough to have been the first to run the trails since the snow fell. No other footprints marred the landscape.

Okay, stop. As I describe this, I’m sickened.  The description looks like any other winter night. There’s nothing special about it, yet there was something special about it, something that I cannot portray with my limited vocabulary. My brain scrolls through bankrupt descriptors, and as the words tick by, I check them off one by one and give up.   Attempting to describe this night has only served to silence me, to humble me. Maybe one of the precursors for beauty is that it can only be spoken through gasps, odd facial expressions, and absolute humility.  And if that’s the case, maybe it’s okay to receive confused looks and crinkled noses at my pathetic descriptions, which reminds me,

Last fall a friend of mine found a salamander for the first time. Even at 25 years old, she was so enthused that, as we ran through the woods, she stopped to show me the exact log it had been hiding under.

And then I recall when my little cousin, Joe, found a baby turtle. It was about the size of his thumb—cute.

“So, Joe, do you have a name for your turtle?”

He smiled, letting it crawl across his palm, “Yup.  Joe.”

As he passed it on to his little sister, she went on, “But what if it’s a girl?”

Joe shrugged his shoulders, “Then I’ll call her Josephine…but Joe for short.”

And as he ran off to find a camera, I had to look at the turtle again, extra carefully this time, because there must be something…

Most walk right by the sculpture, eager to see flashier pieces of art.  My dad, however, ponders the bronze and says under his breath, “He’s probably trying to pass his wisdom on to the younger generation.” The sculpture is an old man beside his grandson. He has a beard, a cane, and his bronze wrinkles are cut deep, especially around the eyes. A few weeks later my nieces come to visit. They take a picture with Papa beside the sculpture. Dad acts almost reluctant to take the picture, as if humbled by the prospect of being compared to the old man.  

And as I think on these instances of others’ experienced beauty (C.S. Lewis may call it glimpses of joy?), I run through the shin-deep snow, an empty palate awaiting the paint of my shadowy footprints…and revel at the fact that I can only gasp and continue on. 

Issues, the Rabbit

Larry lives in the Broad Ripple area of Indianapolis. His face is chalky weathered for his age. Chalky. He smiles often, showing off the space between his two front teeth. Larry works at a restaurant and often claims leftover bread so he can feed the ducks by the canal.

Larry rides a Mary Poppins bike, thick and upright with a seat like a life raft. A rust speckled cage rolls along behind the bicycle, rattling on top of its homemade wagon.

On arriving home, Larry sticks his pet rabbit in the cage, climbs back on his bike and heads for the Monon trail where he lets the rabbit hop freely around the gazebo. Afterwards, Larry rides a few hundred feet to feed the ducks. Dark will camouflage him before he leaves.

I met Larry one day while running the Monon trail. Stopping to stretch at the gazebo, I asked to pet the rabbit. “Yea, go on. You can pet her. Actually, if you cover her eyes, I may be able to catch her and put her back in the cage. If she sees me comin’, she’ll run away.” I covered the rabbit’s eyes. Larry picked her up and held her.

“What’s her name?”

“My girl’s name is Issues. You see, my ex’s ex gave her his Issues, “ Larry gestured to the rabbit, “Then, when we broke up my ex didn’t wanted Issues so she left her Issues with me.”  He smiled. Then winced as Issues’ teeth pierced his finger.

I told him my parents have a dog named Trouble who digs up my mom’s flowers and scatters my dad’s plant labels all over the yard.

I told him how much I love Trouble’s dirty footprints on black dress pants.

Larry smiled. He understood. 

The Oxygenated Rut

Lacey* was sent to the hospital a few weeks ago. On her return, the doctor ordered she wear oxygen all the time. Unfortunately, Lacey does not seem to enjoy the foreign plastic impeding her nose and continually blowing air into her nostrils. It’s a constant itch and the hose stretches across her right arm, hampering her ability to pick out correct crayon colors:  apricot or peach (according to Lacey, these colors are not different because one has hair and the other doesn’t. Who knew?!)?  So, she takes the oxygen off. I put it back on. She takes it off. I put it back on. She takes it off. I put it back on. She yells and scratches. I explain why she needs it and put it back on (while attempting to keep foul language from entering the explanation). So lately I’ve been quiet and fairly unresponsive to her pleas, attempting to avoid contact with her as much as possible… because she’ll take the oxygen out. Then I’ll have to put it back.  

We’re stuck in an oxygenated rut. 

Tonight, though, there was a slight breakthrough. She was angry. I was angry. She took off her oxygen. I put it back on. She took off her oxygen. I put it back on. She blew really hard. I flew back in my chair as if hit by colossal winds and accused her of trying to blow me away. She laughed a little. I blew back. At this point I was really hoping she would blow away…perhaps the wheelchair would roll, roll, roll until I could no longer see it or the oxygen tank attached to it.  Lacey made no attempt to acquiesce my feeble winds. Keeping the alien plastic in her nose, she continued to blow.

Later, we decided that she was blowing so well, the oxygen must be working. Maybe tomorrow she’ll be strong enough to blow me right through the wall! After the way I’ve been acting, this seems to be a master motivator.

The other day I asked my sister, Emma, about love. Since love is supposed to be a choice, is it more about actions and outwardly choosing to do what’s best, not giving in to what’s really on the inside? Lately, it has been difficult to love the screaming, scratching, swatting version of Lacey.  She only behaves this way because she doesn’t understand, and I imagined a wind blowing her away like a Winnie the Pooh episode, for goodness’ sake!

Our conclusion: I should probably pray more. For transformation. 

*name changed 

Thank you Dick Van Dyke

As I've mentioned in past posts, I work in adult foster care. There are only two residents in my house, both with behavioral issues. Often the woman gets riled up.  Sometimes she'll scream for hours and we can't figure out what she wants because of her limited language. She says "yes" and "no" quite clearly, some swears come through, and also "Shut up","Go"and "No, You!!" This used to be a problem for me, but recently I learned a trick. And it's beautiful.

I try to make her fart.

I know...this sounds real weird and slightly gross. But keep reading. Lacey (not her real name) farts when she laughs. Not when she fake laughs or pity laughs. She farts when she's laughing so hard that her eyes water and she can no longer breathe. Sometimes I wonder if it could be a health hazard to try to make her laugh so hard, but I figure it works her abs at the same time. Also, they say laughter is good for the soul.

So I tease Lacey. I give her stuff to throw across the room (because when I'm upset, I often want to throw stuff across the room...socks, pillows and whatnot). Then I act appalled that she would make such a mess, "Lacey Rose, I cannot believe what you just did!!!" Usually, at this point, a half laugh spews. Then I pick up whatever she threw and throw it behind me to demonstrate her awful cleaning methods. Usually, ( a little slapstick here...I give a heartfelt "thanks" to Dick Van Dyke for teaching me all I know) the sock ends up landing on my head. Her laughter increases slightly. Lastly, I sing her a song, usually about putting lip balm between her toes or reminding her to tell me when she has to fart so I can roll her into the other resident's room (no worries, we never actually do this. I love him too!!!). By the time one executes the Dick Van Dyke trip-and-roll, Lacey is usually farting.

The thing about Lacey that I love:
She detests my put-together fake version of me. She thinks it boring and, literally, can't stand to be around me...the Super-Hannah that I pull out in front of supervisors and people coming in on a house tour. Sometimes she'll cuss that Hannah out.  You want to know what she loves though... the crazy nut with messy hair that stumbles around making stupid jokes and sticking pencils in her ears. She loves when I have the audacity to stick a pencil in my ear , or when I tell her that she's to head up the next dance and then request the dosey doe in a southern drawl. In short, she calls me out when I whip out the fake smile and put-together front.

No one has ever done that before.

people who "stinketh"

So, for some time now, I’ve been pondering writing about people who “stinketh,” taking the stinketh from John 11 when Jesus goes to raise Lazarus from the dead. Martha is appalled at the thought and says, “but Lord, he stinketh!” Jesus goes regardless of the stench and raises Lazarus from the dead. He raises him, creating a miracle out of the rot that lazarus had become. So, as I was thinking a bout this idea, the people who metaphorically, “stinketh” I believe this will be the subject of this blog—me being the ultimate stinker—the stinker at the top of the list, of course. For any reader who may perchance to stumble across this blog, please scold me if I patronize people. I periodically need someone to say, “Hannah, I’m not a dog. Stop patting me on the head.”

By the way, it is my firm opinion that all people “stinketh”, and that most have been/were dead for much more than four days. Some may be dry, dusty bones right now. Fortunately for us, Jesus has the power to raise us from our smelly states—so when I say people who stinketh, what I really mean is people in general--ALL people! So, if I write about you … uuuhhhmmmm … Susie (no worries, i won't use your real name, Dick.) … please take it as an absolute compliment, a form of endearment because you must have taught me something of great importance.