Live and in Technicolor

I got up early this morning. It's my first day back to work after the summer, and I had planned to go in extra early to get a jump start on all that needs to be done to prepare for a new class full of second graders. We teachers have this week to get ready before students arrive and, of course, it's not really enough. So I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled my lead feet to the shower. It had already begun to rain hard outside, and while I was waking up under the warm water, the power went out, and I was instantly annoyed by the thought of having to finish bathing in the dark. I was relieved when the outage was only about a minute, but as I listened to the thunder and saw flashes of lightning, I sighed at the thought of a soggy, sloshy work day.

I went about the rest of my routine. Clothes, a little make-up, food, teeth, kisses for my just-waking husband. Grab purse and computer bag, don't forget to-go cup of morning fuel (a.k.a. coffee) search for keys, find keys, swing open front door . . .

I stopped in my tracks, right there on my front doorstep. Had both my hands not been full I might have rubbed my eyes. The rain had stopped, the thunder and lightning subsided, and the clouds had broken apart into big clumps allowing the early morning sun to penetrate. The result was astonishing to me. The grass in my front yard was so green it seemed electric. I wondered if it was possible that it had changed colors while I slept. The sky beyond was a shade of blue that must be reserved for very special cosmic occasions. The lingering clouds had a faint purple hue. Even the air seemed lit with color or brightness or something there's no word for, at least not in my vocabulary. There was just something. Something shining and tingly about the whole scene - the yard, the shrubs, the sky, the air, the blossoms on the trees - like something divine was breathed on the earth the moment before I opened the door.

I know right now I'm not describing the scene in a way that will truly translate into the right picture in my readers' minds. The closest thing I can think of is Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, when she emerges from her farmhouse, filmed in a dingy black and white, after having been blown about the skies and dropped back down to the earth and then all is strangely quiet. Remember that moment when she pushes open the door and steps out into a world so full of color and wonder?

That's how I felt this morning. It seemed that everything I could see from my front door was more alive than ever, humming with the energy of creation, and bathed in super-technicolor.

I drove to work in a daze, winding through the roads of my neighborhood on the short trip to school. More electric green grass, more insanely blue sky, more sparkling air. I kept thinking, If I were working on some kind of magazine spread involving a photo of the grass and the sky, and it were up to me to adjust the tints and tones of all the colors, I would never choose these shades. I would say to myself, "This just isn't realistic. Grass isn't this green. The sky isn't this blue." But here they are.
I pulled into the parking lot already thanking God for the beauty of this world, determined that I would write this blog post sometime this evening. But as if all that wasn't enough, my God put the cherry on top, as He so often does, because when I gathered up my stuff and swung my legs around to get out of my van, I froze. Again. And this time I even gasped, out loud, all by myself, because right there in the sky before me was a fat rainbow. In technicolor. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. I could see them all. So I just sat back in the driver's seat with the door open, my eyes brimming with tears, praying, giving thanks, in awe of God's tremendous gifts and grace for me. I think I heard him whispering, See how much I love you? After all, wasn't it all just for me?

Okay, maybe not. But it was a gift, that's for certain, and I can't think of a better way to start this new school year, all glittery and bright and filled with color and wonder and love.

For Grandmother

Last weekend, my mother's side of our family gathered to remember my sweet grandmother, Estella Merle Reesor McLuhan, who passed away in June at the age of 90. She slipped away peacefully after languishing for a few days, during which my mother, her two brothers, and all their spouses gathered at her bedside and laughed, cried, and spent hours lovingly remembering their mother and the wonderful life she had lived. At the memorial service, several of her grandchildren shared comments and memories of our grandmother, using the well-known passage of Scripture that tells of the "woman of noble character". It's found in Proverbs 31, and it could have been written with Grandmother in mind. We divided the verses and took turns telling about how we saw them reflected in her life.

My sister and I shared following this portion of the passage: "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness." (v.25-27)

This is what I wrote, and I'm still mulling it over in my mind as I return to the routine of my very full and busy life . . .

That last part of the scripture says, "She watches over the affairs of her household. She does not eat the bread of idleness." When I think about the way these words apply to our grandmother, I picture a circus tightrope walker, crossing with well-placed footsteps from one platform to the next on a tiny thread of a wire, deftly balancing all manner of props, and smiling in a way that makes it all look so completely effortless. But when I was a kid, Grandmother was just Grandmother, so the true awe-inspiring nature of the way she lived her life was sort of lost on me. It's only now, when I have the affairs of my own household to watch over, and when I'm faced with the oh-so-tempting aroma of freshly baked "bread of idleness" that I truly appreciate the way she embodied this scripture.

Don't get me wrong; I was no less enchanted by Grandmother than any of the rest of her grandchildren were. She was all these wonderful things they've already spoken about, and I, too, have memories of delicious meals and blueberry picking and card games and bedtime stories. I, too, was deeply impacted by her dedication to Granddaddy and their pure, genuine love for one another and their clear devotion to God and to the work and the life to which He had called them. But now, as the wife of a pastor and mother of three, I more fully understand the context for all those things. Looking back I realize that watching over the affairs of her household and not eating the bread of idleness didn't simply mean that Grandmother was perpetually busy. It meant that she was walking a tightrope, and each step was deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful. So when she was playing card games with her grandchildren, it wasn't because she had some spare time to sit down at the table. It was because she made time to sit down at the table. When she told us fascinating bedtime stories (like the one about the time she took out a crocodile with one shot while hunting in Africa) it was because she wanted to share her experiences with us. So even in the midst of her very full life as the wife of a minister and as the keeper of her home, she took us places and told us things and showed us stuff and gave us experiences . . . on purpose.

So now, when I close my eyes and picture Grandmother moving about her kitchen or playing the piano in Granddaddy's Sunday School class, or sitting across the fold-up card table laying down a red canasta, I'm a little bit like a kid at that circus, watching wide-eyed as this beautiful, sparkling, smiling woman joyfully performs her amazing feat . . . and I am genuinely dazzled by her.

And I'm paying close attention to the things I remember, because now . . . I'm right behind her on the tightrope.


I love you, Grandmother. I will see you again.