is clear with just a breeze. It soothes a weary soul worn from long traveling through years of struggle and sorrow. Sorrow fills the heart, burdens the feet, invades the warmth of the soul. But in the day to day, it is neatly bundled into a hidden corner. The struggle summons up the energy to take the next step.
Phong, phong, phong. The hollow sound of bamboo rhythmically striking stone measures time. It is slowed to a pace of reverence. The sound of water soothes.
The Japanese garden is the epitome of precision, perfection, and politeness, everything perfect in its place. A soul chaotic in emotion quiets in such order. The simplicity of beauty breathes peace into the core of the heart; the chaos of struggle and sorrow recede to a far place.
Bonsai with stark, bare branches greet the eye: gnarled branches grown into forms of grace and elegant beauty. While deep in thought, a few steps off the ordered path, a place is discovered where many bonsai in transition are scattered about. Wire, raffia lie all over a table. He who is working looks up, startled, sky blue eyes deeply sunk in Californian-tanned handsome blondness, makes a quick glance and returns to the work at hand.
Whatta ya’ doing?
Wrapping bonsai.
Why?
Making the tree interesting, more beautiful.
Oh, is it hard?
No… Someone comes before me and works with the limbs, making them ready for what is to come.
Strong tanned hands upon a firm, proud branch: bending, bending, bending, bending. Wire placed, wrap, wrap: bending, bending, bending.
For balance, beauty, in the deep character of this particular tree, a bend is needed right there. It is not in the direction the tree originally intended, nor does it want to go that way, at that time, nor for that long.
Strong tanned hands grip the limb: bending, bending, bending. Sweat begins to trickle, palms wet, breath held: bending, bending, bending the tree. Stretched far beyond its plan, far beyond its comfort, it strains, struggles against the force bending it to a new way of being. Pounding of heart in ears rises, rises, rises:
It will break, it will break, it will break. Silent screams echo in the soul.
Stop! Stop! Stop!
The exact place is reached and the tree is gently but firmly wrapped against the wire to remain molded where it needs to be. Silence fills the easing tension: breathe in, breathe out. The roar in the ears subsides.
How did you know when to stop?
You know because you have worked with the tree. You know the tree.
What if….? What if…?
I make a mistake? There are graveyards of dead bonsai.
Graveyards?
Graveyards.
Brown eyes meet blue.
Oh…it is like God working in our lives…
No… No…
God does not make mistakes.
God does not make mistakes.
I am the true vine, and
My Father is the vinedresser.
Every branch in Me
That does not bear fruit He takes away;
And every branch that bears fruit
He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.
You are already clean because of the Word
which I have spoken to you.
Abide in Me, and I in you.
As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself,
Unless it abides in the vine,
Neither can you, unless you abide in Me.
I am the vine, you are the branches.
He who abides in Me, and I in him,
Bears much fruit;
For without Me you can do nothing.
For without Me you can do nothing.
(adapted from John 15:1-5, NKJV)
Deep Calls to Deep
This small house with a sitting porch, a few chairs to watch the road, fields and sky is home to one in her nineties. You can smell the stories as you step out of the car, in the trees, the damp fields, the various remnants of human life scattered amongst the weeds and gravel carport. The “front room” is dimly lit, small, dwarfed by a good-sized man whose voice breaks the reverie of the smell of rain, rotting leaves, and open field.
Ya need some help with that?
No, but thanks.
His hand is big, worn, firm. His sister is quiet, tender tough. Her tiredness pervades her eyes and shoulders. She hesitantly hovers as I prepare to see her mom. Her mom is feisty with a reputation of kicking people out of her room. For one bed bound and having eaten very little for eight weeks, she is sharp and no nonsense. Her previous visitor, the hospice chaplain had asked her how she was. He was greeted with a grunt. To his query, “How many children do you have?” she had retorted, “That is a stupid question, get out!”
She is a diminutive wisp of a woman, white hair stark against the nutty, gnarly skin of her face. She has the country style “do” of the South, pulled back, simple bun. She watches me. I stand hesitantly at the threshold of her room. I do not go in.
May I come in to see you? I am Dr. Lee.
Hunh.
I hear tell you are quite a woman. May I come in?
Yes.
Her voice is firm, quiet, filled with authority. I smile, I have met my match. She watches me, eyes sharp, sunk deep in a face of brown wrinkles. Hands thin, so thin with nails curving two inches beyond the weather worn skin that clings to the bones. I lean in, touch her hand.
How are you?
Hunh.
We look at each other. The silence fills the room. Her daughter shifts and speaks:
“Talk to her mom, talk to her. Hey, the doctor is here and she won’t talk to her.”
The brother appears, concerned.
It’s ok, I say to the daughter, turning to her mother again.
We stare at each other. The quiet is warm, her face relaxes.
You must have incredible stories to tell.
I do.
It would be wonderful to hear them.
