In the morning, I say “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God,” and hold my hands on my heart and push inward. But I am not praying. God is very busy helping people who are still alive find ways to stay that way for a while. To cope. I don’t want to interrupt.
But suddenly, here she is, eating muffins, admiring my recent artwork.
“What in the world are you doing?” I ask. “Get back to the places you’re needed. I’m okay.”
“I know,” God said. “It’s the muffins. They’re delicious. And I love how you arranged those little rocks. I remember when that heart-shaped one surfaced eons ago. Good eyes.”
God settles into the outdated bent-wood rocking chair and helps herself to another muffin. I give her the last of my cold brew coffee, and sit. I’ve been a therapist long enough to know this is one of those times it’s better to wait.
Sure enough, the tears begin. I should’ve realized how bruised she’d be, and how drained. We throw a whole lot of shit at God. And we throw it hard and mean. I let her cry a while, offering my ugly collection of hankies, confessing my part in it all, and silently begging her to pull it together.
After a bit, she lifts her head. “I guess you’ve noticed some trends that don’t bode well for you all,” she says, sighing. “Violence isn’t new, just deadlier. And ignorance has gotten so damn popular. Almost no one tries to think anymore. And vengeful hatred is all the rage.”
I nod, miserable. God rocks rhythmically, sipping coffee, wiping her nose, staring out the window. The leaves have outdone themselves this year. Such brilliant declarations of transition and death. Soon, they’ll fall and become the elements they once were. Another generation will unfurl in the spring, lime green and innocent. This, of course, assumes intact roots. Food and water. Light. I close my eyes and imagine myself vivid magenta, gleaming gold, letting go. A transitory entity that prays and listens. A tattered shelter. A friend of God’s.
The chair is empty. The muffins, gone. And I cannot find the heart-shaped rock. I hope she took it with her.
About the Author
Rita Sommers-Flanagan is a guest writer at Spiritual Wanderlust. She lives somewhere between acceptance and agency on a busy farm by a beautiful river just outside a host of questionable realities. She is an avid repurposer, rock collector, and scavenger. People she trusts have proclaimed her to be a fantastic psychologist, professor, and mentor. Her writing has been called honest, wrenching, hilarious, whacky, and troubling. She’s quite pleased with those descriptors. Her first book, Godblogs: The Vernacular of Grace written in The Mother Tongue can be found here. Her second book is forthcoming.
What a kind and thoughtful adult child you and Richard have raised. I especially liked her gift selection. Thank you for this. Kindness and compassion are parts of the season as well.
Diana, your beautiful words spoke to what I have been feeling. Here's what I wrote in our local paper:
Letter to the Editor of the LJ World by Peter A Luckey
December 5, 2024
Be the Light
I heard the cries wafting through the Just Food pantry before I saw the child.
It was only after the mother and her toddler son finished their shopping and arrived at my volunteer post---the checkout desk---that I noticed his tear-stained cheeks.
With one arm the mom lifted her bag of produce onto the table, while cradling her son in the other. The kid gave me that “who are you?” look.
Just Food keeps a gold embroidered wooden box stocked with delectable treasures, like lollipops and tootsie rolls for moments like this.
I reached over, opened the lid, and tilted it towards him.
“Here, a present! Take one!”
The boy’s puffy face lit up. I could have been Santa Claus himself.
While still holding her lollipop sucking son, the mom gathered her groceries and left.
I’ve been thinking about that moment now that the holidays are upon us.
I’ve been slow to get into the spirit.
The negativity, the animosity, and the unfairness of the world has felt overwhelming. What can I do to bring light into this darkness, I ask myself.
Then I hear a whisper from within:
Let go of trying to fix the world. Instead, live in the moment. See the person in front of you, see this child.
Don’t just give a gift this season be the gift---the gift of light.
You may want to edit out your email address, Peter. This newsletter goes to 60,000 readers and can be read by anyone on the entire internet. It is never a good idea to share your email so openly. Just go to the three little dots at your comment, hit "edit," and delete just your address. (I can't do this - only you can.)
I have been gifted a year’s subscription of The Cottage. In one month, at 85 years of age, I have gained so much, connected with wonder minds on a deep level. I am forever grateful. The simplicity of your daughter’s gift, rich in spirit and knowing, is beyond measure. As a poet, I cherished my eldest son reading a birthday poem at my family birthday bash on Zoom. We then wrote a collective family poem loved by all. Thanks for recalling this memory that can so easily be lost in distractions.
A beautiful counterpoint to the commercialism that usually accosts us this time of year.
Ovid nailed it: “...acceptissima semper // Munera sunt, auctor quae pretiosa facit.” — “The most acceptable gifts are always those which the giver makes precious.”
And yet we all too easily fall into the trap of looking for “the perfect gift.”
In the morning, I say “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God,” and hold my hands on my heart and push inward. But I am not praying. God is very busy helping people who are still alive find ways to stay that way for a while. To cope. I don’t want to interrupt.
But suddenly, here she is, eating muffins, admiring my recent artwork.
“What in the world are you doing?” I ask. “Get back to the places you’re needed. I’m okay.”
“I know,” God said. “It’s the muffins. They’re delicious. And I love how you arranged those little rocks. I remember when that heart-shaped one surfaced eons ago. Good eyes.”
God settles into the outdated bent-wood rocking chair and helps herself to another muffin. I give her the last of my cold brew coffee, and sit. I’ve been a therapist long enough to know this is one of those times it’s better to wait.
Sure enough, the tears begin. I should’ve realized how bruised she’d be, and how drained. We throw a whole lot of shit at God. And we throw it hard and mean. I let her cry a while, offering my ugly collection of hankies, confessing my part in it all, and silently begging her to pull it together.
After a bit, she lifts her head. “I guess you’ve noticed some trends that don’t bode well for you all,” she says, sighing. “Violence isn’t new, just deadlier. And ignorance has gotten so damn popular. Almost no one tries to think anymore. And vengeful hatred is all the rage.”
I nod, miserable. God rocks rhythmically, sipping coffee, wiping her nose, staring out the window. The leaves have outdone themselves this year. Such brilliant declarations of transition and death. Soon, they’ll fall and become the elements they once were. Another generation will unfurl in the spring, lime green and innocent. This, of course, assumes intact roots. Food and water. Light. I close my eyes and imagine myself vivid magenta, gleaming gold, letting go. A transitory entity that prays and listens. A tattered shelter. A friend of God’s.
The chair is empty. The muffins, gone. And I cannot find the heart-shaped rock. I hope she took it with her.
About the Author
Rita Sommers-Flanagan is a guest writer at Spiritual Wanderlust. She lives somewhere between acceptance and agency on a busy farm by a beautiful river just outside a host of questionable realities. She is an avid repurposer, rock collector, and scavenger. People she trusts have proclaimed her to be a fantastic psychologist, professor, and mentor. Her writing has been called honest, wrenching, hilarious, whacky, and troubling. She’s quite pleased with those descriptors. Her first book, Godblogs: The Vernacular of Grace written in The Mother Tongue can be found here. Her second book is forthcoming.
What a kind and thoughtful adult child you and Richard have raised. I especially liked her gift selection. Thank you for this. Kindness and compassion are parts of the season as well.
Thank you for this.
Diana, your beautiful words spoke to what I have been feeling. Here's what I wrote in our local paper:
Letter to the Editor of the LJ World by Peter A Luckey
December 5, 2024
Be the Light
I heard the cries wafting through the Just Food pantry before I saw the child.
It was only after the mother and her toddler son finished their shopping and arrived at my volunteer post---the checkout desk---that I noticed his tear-stained cheeks.
With one arm the mom lifted her bag of produce onto the table, while cradling her son in the other. The kid gave me that “who are you?” look.
Just Food keeps a gold embroidered wooden box stocked with delectable treasures, like lollipops and tootsie rolls for moments like this.
I reached over, opened the lid, and tilted it towards him.
“Here, a present! Take one!”
The boy’s puffy face lit up. I could have been Santa Claus himself.
While still holding her lollipop sucking son, the mom gathered her groceries and left.
I’ve been thinking about that moment now that the holidays are upon us.
I’ve been slow to get into the spirit.
The negativity, the animosity, and the unfairness of the world has felt overwhelming. What can I do to bring light into this darkness, I ask myself.
Then I hear a whisper from within:
Let go of trying to fix the world. Instead, live in the moment. See the person in front of you, see this child.
Don’t just give a gift this season be the gift---the gift of light.
You may want to edit out your email address, Peter. This newsletter goes to 60,000 readers and can be read by anyone on the entire internet. It is never a good idea to share your email so openly. Just go to the three little dots at your comment, hit "edit," and delete just your address. (I can't do this - only you can.)
Thank you!
What a lovely memory and thoughtful gift!
Grateful!
I have been gifted a year’s subscription of The Cottage. In one month, at 85 years of age, I have gained so much, connected with wonder minds on a deep level. I am forever grateful. The simplicity of your daughter’s gift, rich in spirit and knowing, is beyond measure. As a poet, I cherished my eldest son reading a birthday poem at my family birthday bash on Zoom. We then wrote a collective family poem loved by all. Thanks for recalling this memory that can so easily be lost in distractions.
What a beautiful memory, a lovely, extremely thoughtful and moving gift. Thanks for sharing.
A beautiful counterpoint to the commercialism that usually accosts us this time of year.
Ovid nailed it: “...acceptissima semper // Munera sunt, auctor quae pretiosa facit.” — “The most acceptable gifts are always those which the giver makes precious.”
And yet we all too easily fall into the trap of looking for “the perfect gift.”
https://ancientwisdommodernlives.com/p/we-are-all-charlie-brown-during-the-holidays