Something about the perfectly still leaves above me this evening. It’s a late night for yellow dog and me. I brought her home from the pound four months ago as a therapy dog. Not for me.
Not
for me?? No. I’m just the one who has trained her to sit, lay, stay, heel, come.
And to curb her retriever enthusiasm enough to walk lady like through the back
door after adrenaline pumping squirrel chases. And to greet guests at front
door politely. No jumping and romping with them as if they were a litter of
puppies come to visit her.
I
am also the one who greets her in the morning and waits for her beneath limb
and leaf, living canopy and fluttering veil. Breathing in air morning fresh and
night charged. Feeling on skin first light, night light, air breathing sleepy or
panting fast in wind chase. Or held.
Pieces
of the moon are framed tonight. Fragments displayed twiggy and leafy. Yellow
dog disappears in shadows on far side of fence. I squint through the darkness then
peer, searching framed moon. Really I’m not sure why. But my heart is responding
to something. And I want to know, before God and moon, what it is. What is
empty frame inside me? I hold my breath and talk to God. Is He holding His breath,
too? He Who is so full??
And
there is quiet glow. Framed light fractioned out above me and quilting the
lawn. Patches of moon shadow-stitched. It’s bed time, but I’m not ready to pull
the covers up. Something in me is waking up.
Still
as all is, the air vibrates alive. Katydids sing burry, wings strum and shake
out ch-ch-ch rhythm. Obby-hummy whirr thrums long and legato frog song. I close
my eyes and let it all wash serenade and peace-song over me.
A
pastor once overlaid sound tracks of stars humming, trees clapping, insect song
and whale song. My youngest daughter heard it on u-tube after school. Amazed. I
had wanted to listen to it myself.
And
I am. Right now. All is orchestra praise beneath my tree.
I
fill my lungs with air and sound and stillness and vibration. Pieces of moon
fit my heart. A fragmented mural of frames. Scenes from the past. Thoughts,
memories, feelings.
And
it makes no sense to me that though I know the lines have fallen for me in
pleasant places, the shadows have been stitched into a quilt fit for my soul to
rest beneath, I don’t feel it. My nerve endings remember currents shocking
before they remember soft touches. My emotions still pound out adrenaline before
I can think straight. Dis-eased past infects before I can get out the ointment.
My heart still beats out cacophony at the first down-beat by memory before it
can hear the melody. But here it is. All long thrum and rhythmic strum. Hush,
burr, and vibration.
And
I will my heart to memorize this song.
And
there it is. Something in the stillness to do with memories. Ohh…
“Help
me, God,” I whisper low on paved patio where I hear the song, “Help me to
remember what to remember and to remember what to forget.”
The
answer came as the question fell up into the night praise. It came in pieces.
whenever…whatever…trials
as frames…
or joy.
Count them and you will be counting joy where you thought there was none.”
(ref. James 1:2)
give thanks…
(ref. Psalm 30:4)
It
doesn’t come easy.
It’s
shadow-stitched. Framed in fragments.
Right
now is moon in still frames. Night glow captured and shadow-stitched, and
patched in soft quilt spread over backyard grass. If I lay down in the grass,
this moon cast quilt would cover me. I would be covered in patchwork of moonlight.
Patchwork. Shadow-stitch.
And
at patio edge I am at edge of awe. It is laid out before me right there on my
lawn. And I would see it again covering garden floor outside my kitchen window.
And again cast over wood wall of fence, and trunk and stone path and patio. Sun
cast. Rippling in the wind as if clipped to a clothes line, drying out from
night dew. It’s the same quilt. Light patches shadow stitched.
I
pick up sponge at sink today, seeing quilt through the window. Sponge expands
in my hand beneath faucet flow. And fills it. And what is this familiar
feeling? My heart knows it. Heart has held it in hand. Heavy memories. Soaked sponge.
Sopping up light. I squeeze sponge hard.
I
hang my heart out on the line. Clip it there til dewy pain that cried in the
night, dries. Let it flutter its rhythm there til damp shadows pull back. Til past
and present “whenever” all sorts of “whatever” trials, recede. Become only
frame. Only stitch. Only reference for light.
Isn’t
that what shadows are? Wasn’t the cross wooden frame displaying the Light of
the world? Doesn’t the cross shadow stitch together mourning and dancing? Patchwork
weeping to joy? Pain to healing? Trials to faith? Past to present? Death to
life?
I’m
seeing it everywhere now. It is the pattern cast over all earth from heaven,
all time from eternity, all galaxie-spun universe from Quilter’s hand. And what
about this? Quilter’s hand has stitched in my small brain as many neurons as
stars in the Milky Way. And whatever memories are shadow, they are stitched to
display light patch worked. And what memories are pin pricks of star, let me
remember that some stars are trillions of miles in diameter. It’s all fluttering
alive quilt billowing over me.
And it is kind soul therapy for me. Simply that. The moon is kind light in darkness. The squeezing is kind. Heart hanging out to dry, sun cast shadow, quilt, frame.
Kind.
I
pray the word, “Kind.” Repentant-like.
I
climb beneath quilt beside my husband. Heart full of kind. And repentance.
I
fall asleep while my heart finds frame for “kind.” And it is being framed.
In
fragments to fit my heart.
But
something else is happening with this. Another frame. Because “kind” is
collaged with “joy.” It can’t be helped. Joy is the canvas and music of God’s
heart. It is all living art, mural, collage, sound tracks, full orchestra and
song.
And
oh, I am reaching long across His theraputic heart. All God heart framed in cross. Light
nailed down. Cross shadow. Quilted long stitches running through past. Needling
and pricking through present. Stitching needle. Piercing nail. Quilt. Frame. I
reach to pull it all up over.
And
I settle here remembering to give thanks at the remembrance of His Holy name. I
might forget tomorrow. Probably will. But the quilt is always outside my window
and beneath tree. And the cross has never stopped framing the Light.
written
by: Carolyn Roehrig
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