I am the delight in the sunrise, the joy in the face that now sees
I am the bounce in the step no longer hindered by disease
I am the tears of joy of one who takes her first breath
And I am the hope in the one who no longer fears death
You can find me deep within the confident doctor's craft
For one lost on the ocean of despair, I am his life raft
I am marked forever in the skin of the gravely burned
I become the spark in the new love that now is returned
I can dance in the lives of those I've never known
And am loved by their grandchildren long after they've grown.
You see, my body, my vessel, I am blessed to outlive
My plan for my form at my end - a donation to give.
I chose a great life on this earth, while I could,
My legacy of contribution still does me good.
I gave, and still do, with all of my heart
And, I am, oh, so much more than the sum of my parts.
- Ellison 2/17/11
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
 |
JOURNEY
Tracks of my destiny
Where might we go?
Deep into the wilderness,
Far across the snow?
Are we off to the big city
Or to see the rivers flow?
Perhaps to kiss a long time love
Of which you'd never know.
Tracks of my destiny
Where might we go?
Take me there post haste
As straight as the flight o'the crow.
~ Ellison 2/14/2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
The human mind- a fictitious tale
There's a woman I know who rarely leaves her bed. She has been this way for eight years. She is not bed bound. She can walk. She chooses not to. Over time, her body has atrophied and it hurts to walk, so she doesn't. She lies in bed, becomes more atrophied and when she does get up , it hurts even more. And the cycle continues. She also chooses not to eat. It almost seems that in all that not getting up that she was doing, her circle of influence got really, really small and now in order to have a sense of control, she can't eat. She knows it's strange. She tells me so. She's young- in her fifties. She used to be a successful business woman. She's so used to this lifestyle that as the windows for change are opening up with the possibilities of successfully eating and strength building, that she is unconsciously manifesting new physical ailments to excuse away her not getting up and not eating. She sees it happening. She tells me so. But she can't see it stopping. She doesn't know how.
The power of the human mind...
The power of the human mind...
Thursday, February 10, 2011
On Being Present
Included in Miriam Webster's definitions of present are: 'something presented'; 'introduce socially'; 'to bring to one's attention'; and 'now existing or in progress'.
Presence, for me, is mindful.
To have presence as a state of being, is to have presence as a state of mind.
It's something one can have as an intention but something hard to plan for.
Presence is intrigue, intent and observation all rolled up into one.
Looking upon a situation, no matter how familiar, with new eyes as if for the first time.
Focusing your interest and sharing your value of that person through your silence, or your heart fully expressed affirmations.
Not listening to your head and how you relate to the issue, not comparing, not thinking about what you're going to say.
It's in the allowing someone to share their accomplishments and treasures without having to one up them with yours.
It exists when you breathe through your inclination to speak.
It is in the moments of time that pass without you noticing.
It's there when you watch a child's first steps.
It is in the conversation that delights, the forgetting of oneself.
It thrives in the closing of one's eyes to touch the music and dance along with the beat.
It's in the bird's wings as she soars along the edges of the strong breeze.
It's being lost deep within that artistic expression, or expressionless art.
It's being there, really being there for the person who is dying their death, their way. No agenda. No formula. Just love.
The ability to be present is a skill that we are born with. All it involves is remembering to take the "you" out of the equation.
Being present, for me, is mindful. Being present is a blessing, Being present is well....just that.
Presence, for me, is mindful.
To have presence as a state of being, is to have presence as a state of mind.
It's something one can have as an intention but something hard to plan for.
Presence is intrigue, intent and observation all rolled up into one.
Looking upon a situation, no matter how familiar, with new eyes as if for the first time.
Focusing your interest and sharing your value of that person through your silence, or your heart fully expressed affirmations.
Not listening to your head and how you relate to the issue, not comparing, not thinking about what you're going to say.
It's in the allowing someone to share their accomplishments and treasures without having to one up them with yours.
It exists when you breathe through your inclination to speak.
It is in the moments of time that pass without you noticing.
It's there when you watch a child's first steps.
It is in the conversation that delights, the forgetting of oneself.
It thrives in the closing of one's eyes to touch the music and dance along with the beat.
It's in the bird's wings as she soars along the edges of the strong breeze.
It's being lost deep within that artistic expression, or expressionless art.
It's being there, really being there for the person who is dying their death, their way. No agenda. No formula. Just love.
The ability to be present is a skill that we are born with. All it involves is remembering to take the "you" out of the equation.
Being present, for me, is mindful. Being present is a blessing, Being present is well....just that.
- Ellison 2/10/11
ELLISON
Several times, when I've shared a piece of literary creation, people ask " Who's Ellison?" referring to the named strategically placed at the end of the work along with the date. I don't write as often as I might want, and it's not always work that I want to share but when I do put pen to paper, or in this case, fingers to keyboard, I do so with intention.
I write for myself. For the me that has been, since childhood, and before, and for the me that will be in the future and forever more. In doing that, though, I also write for all of the aspects of me that I hold dear.
I write for my Mum, for her legacy, her origins and the things unsaid. As an only child, my mum didn't speak of her parents and when she did, it wasn't with overwhelming fondness. Kathleen and Tom, my maternal grandparents are long since gone. I write as a tribute to that belonging that is no more and that died with my grandparents- the Ellison name. In doing so, I feel somehow connected to a part of history and I install in myself a smoldering bit of pride combined with love and sorrow. It's a feeling I enjoy. I must, because I go there often enough. It's like a warm remembrance of days past, like how smelling a warm pie in the oven reminds one of carefree days. For me, it is the thought of bright blue kitchen tiles, appropriate manners and a cupboard with Maltesers in it. It's trips that Mum took to my college and walks around the grounds. Silliness and connections; boundaries being smeared and bonds being formed. A wonderful relationship that I almost never had, but that was generated despite the odds.
I also write for the child I've always wanted and that wistfully lingers in the maybe someday land of my mind, knowing full well that it is unlikely. She's a girl, my child- a daughter. I affectionately call her Lily, after my paternal grandmother- my Dad's Step-Mum. Her name is Ellison Elizabeth. Named after that nostalgic love that I keep contained inside that's on the fringes of bursting free. Lily is a relationship that I never had but that has been generated in my dreams.
I write for the part of me that roars womanhood. The connectedness with creative energy, drum circles, women's groups, girls' nights out and Bunko babes. For Friday wine nights, long conversations on the phone and for knowing that sense of being and belonging that is always there. That we are one, as women. I am sure men have a similar sense. I am a woman so can't be sure about anything man- you'd have to ask one. I am proud to be a woman. Intrinsically proud, to my core. Proud of what it takes to be who we are as an entity, as a force, as a holder of all things nurtured, and generated. The emotional beings connected to the moon cycle, the tidal waves and the heartbeat of Mother Earth. The gentle hand that wipes a tear, the laughter that cures a frown and that determination that brings down walls.
In this, and all things that make me who I am, where I've come from and who I hope to be...I write.
For Ellison. My past, my future, my sense of self. With Love.
I write for myself. For the me that has been, since childhood, and before, and for the me that will be in the future and forever more. In doing that, though, I also write for all of the aspects of me that I hold dear.
I write for my Mum, for her legacy, her origins and the things unsaid. As an only child, my mum didn't speak of her parents and when she did, it wasn't with overwhelming fondness. Kathleen and Tom, my maternal grandparents are long since gone. I write as a tribute to that belonging that is no more and that died with my grandparents- the Ellison name. In doing so, I feel somehow connected to a part of history and I install in myself a smoldering bit of pride combined with love and sorrow. It's a feeling I enjoy. I must, because I go there often enough. It's like a warm remembrance of days past, like how smelling a warm pie in the oven reminds one of carefree days. For me, it is the thought of bright blue kitchen tiles, appropriate manners and a cupboard with Maltesers in it. It's trips that Mum took to my college and walks around the grounds. Silliness and connections; boundaries being smeared and bonds being formed. A wonderful relationship that I almost never had, but that was generated despite the odds.
I also write for the child I've always wanted and that wistfully lingers in the maybe someday land of my mind, knowing full well that it is unlikely. She's a girl, my child- a daughter. I affectionately call her Lily, after my paternal grandmother- my Dad's Step-Mum. Her name is Ellison Elizabeth. Named after that nostalgic love that I keep contained inside that's on the fringes of bursting free. Lily is a relationship that I never had but that has been generated in my dreams.
I write for the part of me that roars womanhood. The connectedness with creative energy, drum circles, women's groups, girls' nights out and Bunko babes. For Friday wine nights, long conversations on the phone and for knowing that sense of being and belonging that is always there. That we are one, as women. I am sure men have a similar sense. I am a woman so can't be sure about anything man- you'd have to ask one. I am proud to be a woman. Intrinsically proud, to my core. Proud of what it takes to be who we are as an entity, as a force, as a holder of all things nurtured, and generated. The emotional beings connected to the moon cycle, the tidal waves and the heartbeat of Mother Earth. The gentle hand that wipes a tear, the laughter that cures a frown and that determination that brings down walls.
In this, and all things that make me who I am, where I've come from and who I hope to be...I write.
For Ellison. My past, my future, my sense of self. With Love.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Anne
A few moments of solace and reflection. Honouring a title that encompasses so much meaning and holds in its power the unleashing of emotion.
Mother.
Some may recall childhood days of play dates and apple bakes, others of sports games and laughter. I choose to recollect the memories of later years when wisdom and introspection had become the demonstrative norm. When being present was an art form and absence long since gone.
Motherhood as a journey must take many roads and the bearer wear many coats. Whimsically, I like to envision a bright yellow Mac and black Wellies.
I settle into the smile. A redirection from bitter days no longer here.
I sometimes see black leather, and other times, checkered suede with a fashionable belt. Comfy visions include a black fleece and a lined overcoat.
Memories flow like an ocean wave. Some days distant and barely making their presence with a peak. Other days, thrashing and crashing their frequent breaks over the rocks that are my mind.
I choose to focus on the little things that honour and respect your footprint on this world and bury those feelings and thoughts for which I have no more use.
It's Mother's Day.
My heart simultaneously aches with the missing and resonates with my love.
Happy Mother's Day Mum!!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
DENNIS
This morning, a spry young man of 82 years came to my door. Dennis the Menace, as he later introduced himself to me. He came because the "economy being what it is ..." he almost regally states "...has me going door to door...". He has an old blue makeshift electrical bike, part bike, part box on wheels with a small wooden rectangle for a sun shade for his head and a wooden box, part seat, part tool container for his rear. He is, without any sign of humility, painting house numbers on the curb for a mere five dollars.
I pleasantly declined behind a half opened door. Not for any specific reason mind you, I just didn't really see the need. Now, not withstanding, this same fine gentleman, wearing the same clothes and same hat, had come to my door seven days ago with the very same offer. Then, as now, behind a cracked door, I had politely declined the service, but had given him the five dollars for his time nonetheless.
This time when I declined, I, with social familiarity, reminded him of last week's encounter to which he shrugged and turned away only to look back over his shoulder. He turned again, teeter-tottering his body, in a pivot resembling a car making a five point turn in a tight space, shuffling his feet until he was almost fully facing me again. "In that case," he remarked, "I have a favour to ask of you". He said this in a tone that seem to suggest that him allowing me the privilege of giving him money for a service that he didn't actually provide, was a gift from him to me. He was so smooth and declarative about it that I was hooked. "My bicycle needs an electric charge". I welcomed him to my outdoor outlet to which he responded "should be about thirty minutes". I smiled and shut the door leaving him to shuffle away.
No sooner had I walked into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee was I compelled to invite him in. Actually, I walked into the kitchen, felt compelled and then put on the coffee specifically for him as coffee making is not part of my morning routine. I threw on some sweats and a shirt (having previously been in a night gown), tossed some scattered and deserted shoes into my bedroom and swiped the counter. I found him outside sitting on the large stone under the Hobbily-Bobbily Tree, listening to an old Walkman and struggling to figure out the buttons. He peered up at me from under the brim of his grandfather's cap and said "why not" to the invitation to share coffee and conversation while his bicycle charged.
"Dennis the Menace, Ordained Minister, Stand-up Senior Citizen Comedian" he proclaimed as he tentatively stepped over the stoop and shakily placed his belongings on the bookshelf to the left. I responded in kind with my name, feeling as if I should throw in a label of identity as well for good measure. I stopped short since I couldn't actually think of what it would be and I'm sure it wouldn't sound nearly as secure and stable.
Taking his coffee with milk and sugar ("haven't had black coffee since..." and I lost the end of what I'm sure was a joke), he opted to sit on the inside patio on the wicker sofas. So slight a man was he that this was probably the safest choice, as the over sized microfiber set in the den would have swallowed him whole. I'm sure experience pointed him to the sturdy easy-to-rise-from seats outside. As we sat, he spilled coffee on his black pants and I quickly found myself second guessing my invitation and wondering how on earth we would spend the remaining twenty minutes.
Dennis is a Husband. Dennis has been married 6 years. He was previously married 13 years ago. After forty years of marriage, his out-going gregarious wife had a stroke and became a vegetable. "Just like that!" he exclaims as he makes the gesture to snap his thin wiry fingers that never actually snapped. He shares how he sat with her in that hospital room every day for three plus years, leaving only to shower and change. He became her caregiver, taking over for the nurses. He fed her, bathed her, doted on her. She was facially inexpressive, unable to speak, paralyzed on her right side and showed no recognition of the man whom she had long time since wed and who now stood by her. He didn't specify how, but she died. He did say that the experience had humbled him but "what could else could I do?".
Ahhh, Dennis, the devoted husband. He speaks with a hint of tenderness and fond recollection, with a smudge of sadness and hardships remembered.
Dennis is remarried. On Tuesdays as his wife conducts group bible study at a Mesa Care Home in the dining room, he visits with those that can't leave their rooms. "Another type of ministry", he reminds me as I smile.
Dennis is a Salesman. Door to door has been his life. He sold for Hoover for many years. "It's not in the number of new account getting" he schools, "but in the maintenance and service of those accounts and of the relationship." And he shares of enlarged territories, increased and successful accounts and good business relationships. How his long stint with Schaeffer Oil left him with a trophy for having 27 percent of his initial accounts still active fourteen years after he started. He provides me with a glimpse of a sales pitch comparing an engine without oil to marbles run amuck when karate-chopped. Place those same marbles in rice and that karate chop barely causes any friction- just like oil in an engine. I was able to visualize the analogy and had he oil and I, an engine, would have bought, just like those farmers. And just like those farmers, I would have seen great return with machines being overhauled three times less often.
"I learned early on, and it is my philosophy in life" Dennis spouts as if standing, amidst a crowd, on a soap box "to find a need and fill it."
Dennis was, and still is, a good salesman. The pride is there. The distinction and meaning placed into his work. Building relationships with farmers who can only provide him with travel money and not just with the potential big hitters that have "three international harvester silos". He is proud of the relationship building that those following in his footsteps, after he left, neglected. The sadness of the missed opportunities and poor service still seem to weigh heavy on his soul.
Dennis is an Ordained Minister. He became ordained about a year ago. The "most exciting thing happened recently" when his daughter, and unwed mother of three who was delaying marrying the father of her third child because he didn't have a job, asked if he, Dennis would conduct the wedding service. The fellow had found a job and the couple looked around their home town area in the Midwest US to find a church in which to get married. Each encounter provided them with guidance to wait; to take couples support; to become a member and join a parish. Each opportunity was one which required time and commitment, patience and prolonging. Some of the very skills pertinent to a good marriage. The couple didn't want to wait and were able to find a building that is square, doesn't look like a church in which to wed, and Dennis has been asked to officiate.
He is speaking so fast , on auto pilot almost, but I can see the proud gleam in his eyes. No hint of the social judgements one might expect with his daughter's declination to wait, or to join a church; the psychological suggestions this might bring forth. Just the inner workings of a proud father who gets to marry his daughter and her fiance. Here, Dennis is a father first and a minister second. He is a good father.
"Now mind you," he sternly says "I plan to do it differently, not like other ministers." He proceeds to tell me of his intent to mandate that this and all wedding he conducts in the future be videotaped, at least during the vows. The groom will be asked to promise in front of the attendees, his wife, the minister, and the Lord to re watch the vows on every anniversary to remind him of his promises to "love, honour and obey" as Dennis puts it. That way, they won't be spending thousands of dollars on a wedding and marriage that is supposed to last a lifetime yet ends in two years.
I realize as this hits the page, that I am not doing justice to the eloquence and loquaciousness of this man's word, so please forgive me and accept that the content, although not quoted, is generally accurate.
"As you now have a new job, with a Boss who will give you direction", Dennis will remind his new son -in -law "and if you follow that direction you will not be turned away from the job, so too, as you enter marriage, do you have a new job, who's Boss, the Lord Jesus Christ, will also give you direction, and if you choose to listen, you will also not be turned away."
And so, the Minister has arrived.
I don't know that I've said a word. I don't know what I was worried about- twenty minutes. I don't know and don't care. I'm dancing into another life. Proverbially standing on the feet of this salesman, husband, father, minister as a young child does with her daddy as he waltzes around the room. Only we're dancing in his memory. His eyes never lose focus, his head tilts slightly, his words falter occasionally, but, wow, what a waltz.
Dennis used to minister to hitchhikers back when you could give a ride to one. Having a fairly new-found respect for hitchhiking, I find myself smiling on the inside. His special ministering talent was his ability to speak the Lord's word in rhyme.
Now, I wish I could repeat the next five minutes word for word. I can't. I was dancing on this man's passion for his Lord; riding his vehicle, hitchhiking on his tongue. His poetry bouncing, telling a tale of servitude and forgiveness, oneness with mankind and salvation possibilities- all in rhyme. Inflection on words causing pause, reminders of the preaching focus. The hitchhiker, me, a sinner, an opportunity to repent, confess and seek forgiveness and a life everlasting. Until this moment I have always felt grounded and secure in my personal relationship with the Divine and now I find myself questioning my devoutness. The what-ifs skirting around the edges of my consciousness as the awe and appreciation of the art before me evolved. I am moved and not afraid to let it show. I strangely feel more connected to my own sense of faith and yet desiring of more.
Dennis is a good minister and does not disappoint. "The Lord has also given me song" and after verbally making sure my spiritual seat belt is fastened "Are you ready?", he graciously shares. Steadfast and on tune, the Hallelujahs flow and intermingle with the message of love, connection and a relationship with a Savior. PHEW! Good minister and good salesman! A lethal combination!
Dennis stops, and smiles. He glances at his watch and sips his coffee. Meets my eyes. Acknowledges with his facial expression that he knows he has made an impact, and shifts gears.
Dennis is a Senior Citizen Stand-Up Comedian. I forget where, but he offers a clean show- no four letter words like some of the young folk today. He resembles more the Red Skeleton, Dean Martin type. His words, not mine.
He brings our visit to a close and brings festivities to the small patio enclosure which has never before felt so cozy to me. "A lady comes to a painter and asks him to commission a painting of her, while in the nude. Being a modest man he respectful declines. The lady replies that she was only going to pay him $500 to which he declares he will take the job if she will meet his one request - allow him to wear his socks so he has a place to put his brushes". Baadum-Bum.
Dennis stands. The audience of one, fully attentive, now standing too.
"A friend walks into a man's house to see a large puzzle laid out completed on the table. 'Looks nice' remarks the friend ' how long did it take to complete?'. ' Three weeks' states the man. 'That seems good' the friend says. 'It should' retorts the man ' the side of the box says 2 to 4 years. "
I'm laughing out loud to his words and he's responding with gestures and encouraged to share more. The third joke escapes me. I'm disappointed in my memory and inability to bring forth the full momentous and quick witted joy that Dennis has breathed into my home.
We walk towards the door. He graciously accepts the use of the wash room. I fill his water bottle with cold filtered water and he leaves to go about his daily business of finding work. He already has a job lined up next door. He thanked me. "Just what I needed" I stated and he reminded me of his philosophy to "find a need and fill it".
Dennis, the Salesman, the Husband, the Father, Minister and Comedian. He may have stayed longer than twenty minutes. I never looked. It didn't matter.
This morning, I had a cup of coffee with a friend I have always known, yet never met. I have traversed the years, got new visuals of a time now passed and relationships built. I had a conversation with God and felt renewed. I laughed, and I danced a beautiful dance.
It's still morning. I have all weekend to reflect and pay it forward.
Oh, and admire the newly painted house numbers on my curb!
I pleasantly declined behind a half opened door. Not for any specific reason mind you, I just didn't really see the need. Now, not withstanding, this same fine gentleman, wearing the same clothes and same hat, had come to my door seven days ago with the very same offer. Then, as now, behind a cracked door, I had politely declined the service, but had given him the five dollars for his time nonetheless.
This time when I declined, I, with social familiarity, reminded him of last week's encounter to which he shrugged and turned away only to look back over his shoulder. He turned again, teeter-tottering his body, in a pivot resembling a car making a five point turn in a tight space, shuffling his feet until he was almost fully facing me again. "In that case," he remarked, "I have a favour to ask of you". He said this in a tone that seem to suggest that him allowing me the privilege of giving him money for a service that he didn't actually provide, was a gift from him to me. He was so smooth and declarative about it that I was hooked. "My bicycle needs an electric charge". I welcomed him to my outdoor outlet to which he responded "should be about thirty minutes". I smiled and shut the door leaving him to shuffle away.
No sooner had I walked into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee was I compelled to invite him in. Actually, I walked into the kitchen, felt compelled and then put on the coffee specifically for him as coffee making is not part of my morning routine. I threw on some sweats and a shirt (having previously been in a night gown), tossed some scattered and deserted shoes into my bedroom and swiped the counter. I found him outside sitting on the large stone under the Hobbily-Bobbily Tree, listening to an old Walkman and struggling to figure out the buttons. He peered up at me from under the brim of his grandfather's cap and said "why not" to the invitation to share coffee and conversation while his bicycle charged.
"Dennis the Menace, Ordained Minister, Stand-up Senior Citizen Comedian" he proclaimed as he tentatively stepped over the stoop and shakily placed his belongings on the bookshelf to the left. I responded in kind with my name, feeling as if I should throw in a label of identity as well for good measure. I stopped short since I couldn't actually think of what it would be and I'm sure it wouldn't sound nearly as secure and stable.
Taking his coffee with milk and sugar ("haven't had black coffee since..." and I lost the end of what I'm sure was a joke), he opted to sit on the inside patio on the wicker sofas. So slight a man was he that this was probably the safest choice, as the over sized microfiber set in the den would have swallowed him whole. I'm sure experience pointed him to the sturdy easy-to-rise-from seats outside. As we sat, he spilled coffee on his black pants and I quickly found myself second guessing my invitation and wondering how on earth we would spend the remaining twenty minutes.
Dennis is a Husband. Dennis has been married 6 years. He was previously married 13 years ago. After forty years of marriage, his out-going gregarious wife had a stroke and became a vegetable. "Just like that!" he exclaims as he makes the gesture to snap his thin wiry fingers that never actually snapped. He shares how he sat with her in that hospital room every day for three plus years, leaving only to shower and change. He became her caregiver, taking over for the nurses. He fed her, bathed her, doted on her. She was facially inexpressive, unable to speak, paralyzed on her right side and showed no recognition of the man whom she had long time since wed and who now stood by her. He didn't specify how, but she died. He did say that the experience had humbled him but "what could else could I do?".
Ahhh, Dennis, the devoted husband. He speaks with a hint of tenderness and fond recollection, with a smudge of sadness and hardships remembered.
Dennis is remarried. On Tuesdays as his wife conducts group bible study at a Mesa Care Home in the dining room, he visits with those that can't leave their rooms. "Another type of ministry", he reminds me as I smile.
Dennis is a Salesman. Door to door has been his life. He sold for Hoover for many years. "It's not in the number of new account getting" he schools, "but in the maintenance and service of those accounts and of the relationship." And he shares of enlarged territories, increased and successful accounts and good business relationships. How his long stint with Schaeffer Oil left him with a trophy for having 27 percent of his initial accounts still active fourteen years after he started. He provides me with a glimpse of a sales pitch comparing an engine without oil to marbles run amuck when karate-chopped. Place those same marbles in rice and that karate chop barely causes any friction- just like oil in an engine. I was able to visualize the analogy and had he oil and I, an engine, would have bought, just like those farmers. And just like those farmers, I would have seen great return with machines being overhauled three times less often.
"I learned early on, and it is my philosophy in life" Dennis spouts as if standing, amidst a crowd, on a soap box "to find a need and fill it."
Dennis was, and still is, a good salesman. The pride is there. The distinction and meaning placed into his work. Building relationships with farmers who can only provide him with travel money and not just with the potential big hitters that have "three international harvester silos". He is proud of the relationship building that those following in his footsteps, after he left, neglected. The sadness of the missed opportunities and poor service still seem to weigh heavy on his soul.
Dennis is an Ordained Minister. He became ordained about a year ago. The "most exciting thing happened recently" when his daughter, and unwed mother of three who was delaying marrying the father of her third child because he didn't have a job, asked if he, Dennis would conduct the wedding service. The fellow had found a job and the couple looked around their home town area in the Midwest US to find a church in which to get married. Each encounter provided them with guidance to wait; to take couples support; to become a member and join a parish. Each opportunity was one which required time and commitment, patience and prolonging. Some of the very skills pertinent to a good marriage. The couple didn't want to wait and were able to find a building that is square, doesn't look like a church in which to wed, and Dennis has been asked to officiate.
He is speaking so fast , on auto pilot almost, but I can see the proud gleam in his eyes. No hint of the social judgements one might expect with his daughter's declination to wait, or to join a church; the psychological suggestions this might bring forth. Just the inner workings of a proud father who gets to marry his daughter and her fiance. Here, Dennis is a father first and a minister second. He is a good father.
"Now mind you," he sternly says "I plan to do it differently, not like other ministers." He proceeds to tell me of his intent to mandate that this and all wedding he conducts in the future be videotaped, at least during the vows. The groom will be asked to promise in front of the attendees, his wife, the minister, and the Lord to re watch the vows on every anniversary to remind him of his promises to "love, honour and obey" as Dennis puts it. That way, they won't be spending thousands of dollars on a wedding and marriage that is supposed to last a lifetime yet ends in two years.
I realize as this hits the page, that I am not doing justice to the eloquence and loquaciousness of this man's word, so please forgive me and accept that the content, although not quoted, is generally accurate.
"As you now have a new job, with a Boss who will give you direction", Dennis will remind his new son -in -law "and if you follow that direction you will not be turned away from the job, so too, as you enter marriage, do you have a new job, who's Boss, the Lord Jesus Christ, will also give you direction, and if you choose to listen, you will also not be turned away."
And so, the Minister has arrived.
I don't know that I've said a word. I don't know what I was worried about- twenty minutes. I don't know and don't care. I'm dancing into another life. Proverbially standing on the feet of this salesman, husband, father, minister as a young child does with her daddy as he waltzes around the room. Only we're dancing in his memory. His eyes never lose focus, his head tilts slightly, his words falter occasionally, but, wow, what a waltz.
Dennis used to minister to hitchhikers back when you could give a ride to one. Having a fairly new-found respect for hitchhiking, I find myself smiling on the inside. His special ministering talent was his ability to speak the Lord's word in rhyme.
Now, I wish I could repeat the next five minutes word for word. I can't. I was dancing on this man's passion for his Lord; riding his vehicle, hitchhiking on his tongue. His poetry bouncing, telling a tale of servitude and forgiveness, oneness with mankind and salvation possibilities- all in rhyme. Inflection on words causing pause, reminders of the preaching focus. The hitchhiker, me, a sinner, an opportunity to repent, confess and seek forgiveness and a life everlasting. Until this moment I have always felt grounded and secure in my personal relationship with the Divine and now I find myself questioning my devoutness. The what-ifs skirting around the edges of my consciousness as the awe and appreciation of the art before me evolved. I am moved and not afraid to let it show. I strangely feel more connected to my own sense of faith and yet desiring of more.
Dennis is a good minister and does not disappoint. "The Lord has also given me song" and after verbally making sure my spiritual seat belt is fastened "Are you ready?", he graciously shares. Steadfast and on tune, the Hallelujahs flow and intermingle with the message of love, connection and a relationship with a Savior. PHEW! Good minister and good salesman! A lethal combination!
Dennis stops, and smiles. He glances at his watch and sips his coffee. Meets my eyes. Acknowledges with his facial expression that he knows he has made an impact, and shifts gears.
Dennis is a Senior Citizen Stand-Up Comedian. I forget where, but he offers a clean show- no four letter words like some of the young folk today. He resembles more the Red Skeleton, Dean Martin type. His words, not mine.
He brings our visit to a close and brings festivities to the small patio enclosure which has never before felt so cozy to me. "A lady comes to a painter and asks him to commission a painting of her, while in the nude. Being a modest man he respectful declines. The lady replies that she was only going to pay him $500 to which he declares he will take the job if she will meet his one request - allow him to wear his socks so he has a place to put his brushes". Baadum-Bum.
Dennis stands. The audience of one, fully attentive, now standing too.
"A friend walks into a man's house to see a large puzzle laid out completed on the table. 'Looks nice' remarks the friend ' how long did it take to complete?'. ' Three weeks' states the man. 'That seems good' the friend says. 'It should' retorts the man ' the side of the box says 2 to 4 years. "
I'm laughing out loud to his words and he's responding with gestures and encouraged to share more. The third joke escapes me. I'm disappointed in my memory and inability to bring forth the full momentous and quick witted joy that Dennis has breathed into my home.
We walk towards the door. He graciously accepts the use of the wash room. I fill his water bottle with cold filtered water and he leaves to go about his daily business of finding work. He already has a job lined up next door. He thanked me. "Just what I needed" I stated and he reminded me of his philosophy to "find a need and fill it".
Dennis, the Salesman, the Husband, the Father, Minister and Comedian. He may have stayed longer than twenty minutes. I never looked. It didn't matter.
This morning, I had a cup of coffee with a friend I have always known, yet never met. I have traversed the years, got new visuals of a time now passed and relationships built. I had a conversation with God and felt renewed. I laughed, and I danced a beautiful dance.
It's still morning. I have all weekend to reflect and pay it forward.
Oh, and admire the newly painted house numbers on my curb!
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