“There, about a dozen times during the day,
the wind drives over the sky the swollen clouds,
which water the earth copiously, after which the sun shines brightly,
as if freshly bathed, and floods with a golden luster the rocks,
the river, the trees, and the entire jungle.”
Henryk Sienkiewicz, In Desert and Wilderness
“Is the spring coming?” he said.
“What is it like?”…
“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine…”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
(the Mt. Mitchell range after the rains/ Julie Cook / 2023)
this is from a post I wrote one April morning 8 years ago…
When life has been demanding and there seems to be no time to self…
No time for…
noticing,
reflecting,
observing,
savoring…
No moments for a luxuriously exhaled Ahhhhhhhhhhhh…
It is at just that precise moment…
that single moment between breaking apart and holding on…
when eyes have glazed over,
nerves are at their rawest and stress is out the roof…
At that very and utter almost unbearable, catastrophic, breaking moment,
it is then…that it happens. . .
The familiar, the comforting, the nostalgic slips gently back into place…
An old familiar friend returns.
You find that long forgotten item of fuzzy feelings and internal warmth.
Happy loving memories come flooding to the forefront of the heart.
It is at that single miraculously wonderful moment that suddenly…all is once again,
right with the world…and you find that you can hang on one more day…
And so it seems as if I’ve stumbled across that previous post at a rather
fitting juncture in my life…a time that finds me at the proverbial fork in
the road.
It is fitting because after this previous winter…a winter that,
like most winters, vies to keep a tight hold on all that is…
holding on to the bleak, raw and barren…
And much like this previous year…a year not unlike others that has
often left me wondering if I could indeed avoid that seemingly inevitable
catastrophic breaking point…
A rain, not necessarily a storm mind you,
but rather a good old fashioned heavily grey, saturating rain comes along…
And it is precisely when those very final drops of rain are wrested and wrung
freely from what was just moments before thick and consuming,
that clarity is amazingly revealed.
For what was mere breaths prior cumbersome shades of all things tonal and dull…
is now suddenly washed anew. Scales fall from weary eyes unaccustomed to that
which is now brilliant and glistening.
A season has passed in the blink of an eye and all that was, just moments before
heavy uncomfortable and unbearable, radiates through a million freshly fallen
prisms.
Rays of blinding pure white light now bend on command as the colors of all
that was and all that is and all that will be, breaks anew…
reminding each of us that we can indeed hold on for just one more day…
hanging on with youthful expectation rather than aged trepidation.
All things now made new…
“Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.
Isaiah 43:18-19
“Nothing in life is to be feared,
it is only to be understood.
Now is the time to understand more, so that we may fear less.”
Marie Curie
(Two grandparents overun / Brenton Cook / 2020)
After nearly three months of going nowhere but to the grocery store,
the curbside pickup liquor store, occasionally to Target and most recently to a
Chick-fil-A drive-through…
After three months of being cooped up…caring for wee ones while others work from home…
Living life shrouded daily within a veil of trepidation, questions
and fear…today we opted for living life a bit more boldly and actually ventured
forth on Mother’s Day.
We took our small show on the road.
We drove southeast to a small quaint town, about 45 minutes away, in order to enjoy
a lovely alfresco Mother’s Day lunch.
Actually sitting outside, basking in the lovely May sunshine along with a
slight cool breeze, we couldn’t have been happier.
.
When we arrived, we were greeted by several gracious masked waitresses and waiters,
along with hand sanitizer at the ready…a familiar staff despite the covered faces.
Their twinkling eyes said it all…”Welcome back!”
It was finally a real sit-down meal away from our own kitchen of chaos.
A truly treasured moment.
Eating out has always been a treat and a diversion from the rut of the every day…
but today…today was different!
Everything seemed brighter, lighter.
This little restaurant is one we have enjoyed visiting over the years.
One we don’t mind driving to.
The husband and wife team who own the restaurant, where she is the chef,
have made the most of a farm to table restaurant with a relaxed french flair.
The host and husband of the duo, who I know, asked me, before we left if we had enjoyed ourselves…
my response was one of a long exhaled sigh of relief.
I told him that after almost 3 months of going nowhere…today was absolutely grand!
I could tell he smiled in satisfaction despite having a mask cover his face.
His eyes said it all.
They have provided curbside pick-up throughout the state’s lockdown but
today was their trial run for a “soft opening.”
After a delightful afternoon, when we were headed back home, satiated and content with
having enjoyed both a peace-filled afternoon and good food,
a small sign outside of a little country church caught my eye… Choose life over fear.
Today on this Mother’s Day 2020…we chose to live life just a little bit freer
pushing aside the nagging fear of the past three months…
Here was to a Mother’s Day not to be forgotten but absolutely cherished
for all sorts of reasons…
(“mom” and The Mayor / Gregory Cook / 2020)
(Dada with his brood/ Abby Cook / 2020)
(mama with The Sheriff /Gregory Cook / 2020)
(Da with “Je” / Julie Cook / 2020)
“Don’t fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name; you are Mine.”
Isaiah 43:1
I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over
I want to know right now what will it be
I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over
Will it be yes or will it be sorry?
Lyrics by Paula Cole
I was in a bit of a daze, lost deep in my thoughts as I pushed my
shopping cart up and down the aisles of the grocery store.
A familiar song, that was playing over the store’s intercom system, pierced
my melancholy mood with a bolt of searing heat.
Suddenly I was very conscious of my attempting to blink back stinging tears.
“I don’t want to wait…for our lives to be over…”
And just as suddenly, I had to stop myself from shouting it out loud, lest everyone look at
me like some sort of nut was now loose on the cereal aisle.
NO!
No, I don’t want to wait.
I’ve already waited for 60 years.
And in many ways, it is too late.
Most of you probably recall my recent posts regarding my quest to find my birth mother
along with how that abruptly ended via the response of an attorney to a social worker.
“You are in the past, and the past is where you will remain…”
However, biology teaches us that there are two parents involved in the
making of a baby.
A mother ‘and’ a father.
Yes, yes, I know… we are living in odd times when the father may simply
come frozen via a sperm bank…but nonetheless—there is a female and a male involved.
And to me, that female remains the biological mother and that male, the biological father.
The door was obviously gut punched shut regarding my birth mother but the social worker
followed that slamming of a door with a question… “would you like for us to now search for your father?”
Now let’s back up this story a tad.
You may remember me telling you how, at the first of the year, I opted to
participate in the growing DNA puzzle quest…23 & Me
And thus searching for my past, I sent in a vile of spit.
But if the truth be told, that was in part because my doctor suggested that I do so
in order to learn some of my medical history.
Odd things continue creeping up and my doctor didn’t want my son and grandchildren to
have the same sort of out of the blue surprises.
Once the specific DNA company sends you your breakdown, as part of the information
you receive, DNA matches are automatically shared.
And it just so happened that there was a very strong DNA match with a person
who was marked as a first cousin.
Out of the tens of thousands of “relatives”, I had but one close relative match
and that was of a first cousin.
As more tests continue being processed, more matches come your way.
And nearly 6 months after the fact, I still have but one close match.
There is a messaging option on the DNA site so when I saw the numerical link,
knowing this might be my only opening for some sort of answers,
I immediately knee jerked and excitedly reached out to this man.
His smile in the provided thumbnail picture was warm and genuine.
I explained who I was and provided an abbreviated version of my story of adoption,
an adoption of which eventually lead me to look for answers in a DNA test.
I’m sure it is no doubt a surreal feeling to find sitting in one’s inbox
a new and unknown relative has, out of the blue, reached out.
But I was fortunate—he messaged me back.
We exchanged e-mails and began corresponding.
I shared the redacted information from my original adoption file
regarding my birth father and he shared his family’s history.
I told him my father was…
28 years old
A Lt. in a southern state’s State’s patrol
Romantically involved with a 23 yr old nurse in Georgia…
He later shared this story with his two brothers.
Following a few days, he emailed back that both his dad and his dad’s cousin were
28 in 1959 and were lieutenants in their state’s State Patrol…
but that it was the cousin who had dated a nurse in Georgia.
And given our DNA percentage as only cousins and not high enough to be siblings,
he was pretty certain, the cousin was my father.
Sadly both men are now deceased.
There is, however, a daughter, now grown and two years younger than myself.
This cousin of mine has now encouraged her to do the DNA testing.
So when the social worker had asked about searching for my biological father,
I had shared with her about the DNA testing and the connection with this cousin.
She asked if I had a last name.
I did.
Yet the surreal thing throughout all of this process has been the fact that my complete file,
a file full of all the answers to all my questions,
has been sitting right in front of this social worker all along— a person who knows
the names, the states and the dates to my entire life but due to the laws, she
can not share a word.
It’s as if I’m telling her everything she already knows…things I’ve labored and toiled
over discovering yet information that is readily sitting in a dusty old file on the desk
of the person I find myself spilling my guts to.
Well… she called yesterday.
“Julie, do you have a few minutes?”
She begins by telling me that since her office has determined that my birth father is deceased,
they could release his name…
of which she did…
and he is indeed the state patrol cousin.
This story is obviously fluid and on-going.
I have once again reached out to “my cousin” with
this latest information.
I now wait as both he and his family must process this information…
There is a half-sister who must decide whether or not she is ready for
a half-sister she never knew existed.
How they will respond is yet to be determined.
One half of my life’s puzzle is now known.
Yet, I wonder if this will be welcomed news to this unsuspecting family
or will it be just too much?
I went from feeling a euphoric sense of joy following the news the social worker shared
to that of a guarded sense of trepidation.
And in all of this, the irony came flooding over the intercom system of
a grocery store with its choice of song.
And I couldn’t help but notice…
So open up your morning light
And say a little prayer for I
You know that if we are to stay alive
Then see the peace in every eye
She had two babies, one was six months, one was three
In the war of ’44
Every telephone ring, every heartbeat stinging
When she thought it was God calling her
Oh, would her son grow to know his father?
I don’t want to to wait for our lives to be over
I want to know right now what will it be
I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over
Will it be yes or will it be sorry?
He showed up all wet on the rainy front step
Wearing shrapnel in his skin
And the war he saw lives inside him still
It’s so hard to be gentle and warm
The years pass by and now he has granddaughters
I don’t want to to wait for our lives to be over
I want to know right now what will it be
I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over
Will it be yes or will it be sorry?
You look at me from across the room
You’re wearing your anguish again
Believe me I know the feeling
It sucks you into the jaws of anger
So breathe a little more deeply my love
All we have is this very moment
And I don’t want to do what his father
And his father, and his father did
I want to be here now
So open up your morning light
And say a little prayer for I
You know that if we are to stay alive
Then see the love in every eye
I don’t want to to wait for our lives to be over
I want to know right now what will it be
I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over
Will it be yes or will it be sorry?
Paula Cole
Immortal, invisible, God only wise,
In light inaccessible hid from our eyes,
Most blessed, most glorious, the Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, Thy great name we praise.
(Hymn Imortal, Ivisible
Welsh Melody 1839 John Roberts / Lyrics Walter C. Smith 1876
(Birth of Jesus, Francesco di Giorgio Martini 1460)
So far we have been reminded that we have entered a new season.
A season of waiting and watching.
And somehow, somewhere within our trepidation of the arrival of this unknown,
we sense that as we wait and watch, we are to remain hopeful…
Because curiously we are inwardly reassured that what we are waiting for
and watching for…
is good.
And not only is it to be good,
it is to be actually grand.
As in life changing, world altering…
GRAND.
And almost within the same breath of waiting and watching,
we are reminded that what we wait for and watch for
is actually something quite intimate.
Something dear and something even tenderly precious.
Perplexed we wonder, how can this trepidation, which is so full of anticipation
and perceived to be not only good but Grand,
how can it be sweetly intimate, tender and close…?
So many good Christians are dumbfounded or tremble in fear when something of Christ’s
future is told to them.
As Christoph Blumhardt notes in his essay The Wise Men’s Star…
If we would only look forward to the Last Day with a trembling joy, as the Savior said:
“When these things begin to take place,
stand up and lift up your heads because your redemption
is drawing near (Luke 21:28)
But now, when people hear of it, they are afraid and shake and tremble.
They fail to rejoice in the reality that redemption is drawing near.
And so we are left to we wait,
and watch…
Watching and waiting for a most intimate moment…
Yet we are now told to be ready…
Ready to rejoice…
While at the same time, being filled with
trembling joy…
Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout in triumph, O daughter of Jerusalem!
Behold, your king is coming to you; He is just and endowed with salvation,
Humble, and mounted on a donkey, Even on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
Zachariah 9:9
Because of its tremendous solemnity death is the light in which great passions,
both good and bad, become transparent, no longer limited by outward appearances.
Soren Kierkegaard
(a doorway, St Kevin’s Monastery / Glendalough National Park, County Wicklow, Ireland / Julie Cook / 2015)
It’s time…
The day has finally arrived.
It’s been what… a year?
For others, it’s been a life time…
Standing at the door…
There’s a bit of trepidation,
Apprehension,
Concern….
You’ve stood here before…
The internal debate…to enter, or not…
enter as one person
pass though, becoming another
It seems to be an obvious choice
He’s already entered
Everyone was excited
As He was openly welcomed
However, that’s all about to change
Everything is about to change
But only if you open the door
Only if you enter
Amazing how quickly things can change
The jubilation is now eerily silent
The welcome is long forgotten
The solemnity of the moment is now palpable
Gift better than Himself God doth not know,
Gift better than God no man can see;
This gift doth here the giver given bestow
Gift to this gift let each receiver be;
God is my gift, Himself He freely gave me,
God’s gift am I, and none but God shall have me.”
― Robert Southwell
(also known as Saint Robert Southwell–a martyred English Catholic Jesuit, known for being a clandestine missionary in Post Reformation England)
Conspicuous
Pretty
Inviting
Beckoning
A pretty little box, with a simple white bow, sits for no one in particular.
There is no sign of the one who placed it on the counter. There is no specific occasion in which one should or would leave such a gift.
Seeing such a box arouses curiosity,
wonderment
expectancy
delight
It begs to be unwrapped,
opened
explored
enjoyed
Just seeing such a box evokes excitement,
anticipation
joy
happiness
How does one wrap up insatiable Love?
How does one offer Light to the darkness?
How does one give Hope to the hopeless?
The gift of Life is given by the taking of a life.
The gift of Redemption is bought with 30 pieces of silver.
There are no pretty boxes or pretty bows on Golgotha
No sense of excited expectancy.
The gift evokes suspicion,
uncomfortableness,
trepidation
fear
When did forgiveness cost so much?
When did the accepting of a gift cause embarrassment?
When did refusing a gift become commonplace
And yet the season of gift giving is once agin close at hand
With too much spent on pretty boxes and pretty bows.
Frankincense, Myrrh and Gold fit for a king
while a mere babe offers the greatest gift of all
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.”
Anne Bradstreet
(image taken using a trail camera / Troup, Co. Georgia / Julie Cook / 2014)
Pausing briefly, this Sunday morning in order to welcome a new month to the calendar, this the first wee days of March, I cannot help but feel a great deal of anticipation.
Anticipation because I know that with March comes more warm days than cold.
Longer days than short.
More growth than death.
More sun than cloud. . .
or so we hope.
Old Man Winter is not dead and gone by any stretch of the imagination but He is in the death throws as the ending of another winter grasps for its final breath—for which, I am thankful.
I say all of this as I also find myself filled with a bit of foreboding trepidation on this beautiful brand new morning to a brand new month.
With the arrival of Spring, and all of its splendid glory, an epic climatic battle of the seasons is destained to ensue, relegating us mere mortals to that of spectator and victim.
The ferocity of the clash between a dying winter and a blooming Spring comes at a tremendous cost to Earth’s inhabitants. Such encounters seem only to be more fierce in recent memory. Looming somewhere in the atmosphere, as days warm and winter continues to fuel the strong north winds, the inevitable meeting of these two bodies of energy, warm and cold, spawns a fury that sends chills down the spine the most seasoned farmer, metrologist and emergency responder.
It is the phenomena known as the Tornado.
So whereas I am more than ready to welcome in a more temperate climate, sans winter’s cold winds and gray skies, I do so with one eye turned ever skyward, silently offering a small prayer, not today Lord, please not today.
cookiecrumbstoliveby 