Tag: love

Posted in Life, Love, marriage, Uncategorized

Tulips and Off-road Diesel

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“What are you thinking about?” I asked my husband, as we were driving home last summer after a day of playing outside in the Maine woods. Full of sunshine and fresh air, our bodies were comfortably heavy while our minds were clear, and we’d both been quiet on our way home from a trip “up-north.” But after 15 minutes of daydreaming, I was suddenly curious to know what he was seeing in his mind’s eye. “Off-road diesel,” he answered immediately, eyes still on the road. I turned my head to him as I laughed out loud, and a slow smile spread over his face as he slid his eyes in my direction. “What?” he asked shrugging, as confused by my reaction as he was pleased to hear me laugh. “Want to know what I was just thinking about?” I asked, and continued before he could answer, “I was thinking about tulips!” We both laughed then, mostly I think, about how different we are.

We fell silent again, and still a few miles from home, I had time to reflect on our differences, as I thought about the day we’d just spent together. We’d rode the four-wheeler on some old logging roads, stopping occasionally when one of us would spot something worth investigating up close. Sometimes, it would be a stream with large rocks as our only bridge to the other side, and he’d insist on going first to make sure the rocks were stable enough to land on, then turn back to offer me a steadying hand. Sometimes, one of us would spot the ruins of an old farmhouse foundation and since we both love a good treasure hunt, we’d stop and dig through piles of broken glass, hoping to unearth an unbroken antique bottle. And if I found one, he’d insist on pulling it out of the ground so I wouldn’t cut myself. I thought about the preparations necessary to even go on such an adventure, involving ramps and ratchet straps, tire plug kits and portable battery chargers, all things I rarely even mention, let alone ever, in a million years use. He knows about things that I don’t know about, he knows about off-road diesel.

But, he knows about tulips too; he can plant them, tend them, cut them, surprise me with them, and arrange them. He also knows how to build a house, sell it, and clean it. He can catch a meal, and cook it. I’ve also seen him sew (cloth, and on one memorable occasion when we were young and poor, his own hand! It worked!). He can walk around patting a colicky baby’s back for hours and make the best omelettes ever. He knows how to do things, but I know how to express things.

I can turn a conversation into a story, a memory into a paragraph. I can remember what was said, when we said it, where we were standing and sometimes, what we were wearing (although I’m quite confident that this whole statement will garner an objection from my husband when I read this post to him!). I can remember how I felt, imagine how someone else felt and put it down on paper. But I don’t know anything know about off-road diesel, I thought to myself, suddenly feeling panicky. A quick google search just as we pulled into the driveway reassured me I actually did know what that was, I just didn’t know I did. Just as there are things that I bring to our relationship that I might not know, I bet he knows, as I know the things he brings.

We are as differently shaped as two pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. Our outer edges don’t match up and trying to fit those parts together would never work, there would be nothing to hold the two pieces together. But, the inside pieces fit perfectly and easily. The colors, although slightly different, compliment each other so that when they are joined, become one. Both of us a small part of the big picture, just as God intended us to be.

Last night I was in bed when I realized that my lips felt uncomfortably dry and I found myself in the ultimate first-world conundrum – I felt desperate for some relief for my lips, but I was already cozy and perfectly positioned for a good night’s sleep and didn’t want to get up. Just when I thought I’d actually have to get out of bed, my hero arrived, and in the nick of time. He had come upstairs to give me a goodnight kiss but I seized the opportunity and asked him to grab me “some lip stuff” from my bathroom. “It’s to the right of the sink,” I reassured him as a look of uncertainty flashed across his face since he rarely goes in my bathroom. I could hear him rummaging through lipsticks, lip glosses, lip-stains, pencils, chap-stick and two lip balms, yet he emerged victoriously a few seconds later. “You use this little tub thing at night, right?” he said handing it to me with a smile on his face. “Yeah, I do.” I said as I reached up for it, smiling back at him, while inside I thought, “tulips.”

Posted in Life, Love, marriage

Light (A Dystopian Fairy Tale)

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away…

The land was dusty and dry, the sky red. They marched together, down a straight path toward a destination only their spirits knew. They knew they must keep moving toward the great light ahead. It’s purity beckoned them forward and they were pulled like magnets toward it’s sweet promise of rest and beauty. They knew this barren land was not their home; there was little comfort there. Instinctively they knew that they must not deviate, they must not let go, they must march together, and they must stay on the path.

They were focused and determined at first. Their faces were set toward the light and they broke their intense gaze only occasionally, and only to turn to each other to exchange a sweet smile of encouragement. Her gown was gauzy and light, and blew behind her as she walked. Her feet were bare, and her step was light. She wore a backpack stuffed full of joy, hope and devotion. And sometimes she was so happy she skipped like a child, while he smiled fondly and indulgently at her. His boots were sturdy and he was dressed for battle. He had pockets where he kept his weapons and a canteen on his hip. He had a backpack too; it was chock full of love, loyalty, and protection. His hands were rough, but held hers gently.

They were not tired, they were not thirsty. They had each other and they were sure of their mission, although they did not know what they would find when they got there. And although the weather had been calm, a sudden gust of wind tugged at her dress, and threatened to pull her way, but his grip on her tightened and her feet come back to the dusty earth. She smiled up at at him, unaware that a bit of joy had spilled out of her bag. He smiled back, but a creeping vine reached out and wrapped around his foot, nearly tripping him. He stumbled, and nearly fell, but her small hand gave him just enough stability to right himself, although when he did, a little love leaked out of the side of his backpack. Unaware of what they’d lost, they smiled at each other and marched on, but not before they stopped to pick up two beautiful pebbles as keepsakes.

They pressed on, although they were wary now as they saw it was not as easy as they had initially thought. For the first time, her gaze swept from side to side, instead of looking straight ahead at the light. She was looking for danger and she found it, although to her, it was not scary at all. It looked like a puppy floundering in a pond just off the path to her right. She started to pull away from him, and go off the path to help the pitiful thing, but he held fast. He did not see a puppy, he saw a wolf, and it was not in distress, it was nashing it’s teeth as she strained to go rescue it. He pulled her back, a little more roughly than he’d meant to, before she could go any closer, and together they continued, a trail of joy and hope staining the ground behind her, while loyality and protection ran down his leg and out of his boot. And although angry with each other, they both stopped at the same time to collect more beautiful pebbles scattered in front of them.

They continued on, but they were beginning to feel weighted down. Her feet were not as light as they once were, and she had no energy to skip. His feet felt hot and heavy, and he did not smile at her. Even her dress hung limply around her ankles and they were both vaguely aware that the pebbles they had collected were beginning to feel heavy, while the reassuring weight they’d always felt in their backs was uncomfortably light. Trudging on toward the light, following the path set before them, they heard a sound behind them, bearing down on them like a freight train.

They turned to look, hands still clasped and saw that it was a tornado, far away still, but coming closer. Still looking over their shoulders, they saw the dry earth and tumbleweeds rise up to join the swirling air, which sucked everything in like a vacuum. The cyclone devoured the sky and obscured the light, and it was headed straight down the path and right for them.

She wanted to run, but her burdens were too heavy, he wanted to fight it, but his arms were full. It was coming closer, following their path and threatening to suck them both up. They realized that the only way to be safe was to leave the path, break apart, and dive to safety, each on their own sides. They took one final look at each other, as the noise from behind them became deafening, her hair and dress swirled around her as they nodded to each other that it was time to let go and save themselves.

But the wind that was threatening to blow them apart had also stirred the earth stained with hope, joy, devotion, protection, loyalty and love. The letters swirled around, becoming words, words became meaning and meaning became feeling. Her gifts were all mixed up with his, and showered down on them both, until it became theirs. And the power that tried to carry them away, had instead blown away the once beautiful pebbles, which had become ugly rocks over the years. Resentment, anger, hurt and sadness were wrestled from their arms, instantly swirling above their heads and sucked up in the abyss behind and over them.

Lighter than they’d felt in years, they looked at each other, hands still clasped, and saw that they were infused with each others strengths. No longer afraid, they laughed and started running together, wind nipping at their heels, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them that was absorbed into the whirlwind chasing them. It followed them the whole way, but did not devour them, because love covered them like a shield. It felt good to run together, unencumbered and free. His boots supported him, and her bare feet flew as her dress and hair fluttered behind her. They did not leave the path, they did not stop, until breathless and laughing, they finally reached the light.

He was waiting for them at the end of the path, glowing as the light behind Him spilled out around Him. They stopped short and looked up at Him. He was spotless and beautiful and smiling at them both. Their smiles faded as they looked down and saw that they were both shamefully filthy. Her dress was torn and her feet were dirty. His boots were covered in dust and his face had dirt smudges on it. They were suddenly embarrassed to show up at such a perfect place this way. Together they turned to leave. But He put a hand on their shoulders and kindly said, “what is in your backpacks?”

They were so used to carrying them, and they had gotten so light that they’d forgotten them. They slipped them off their shoulders and unzipped them and inside, much to their surprise, they found new clothes, without spot or rip. “They are for you, “ He said. “I’m giving them to you so that you can come with me.” They were stunned, and grateful. He turned and beckoned them to follow Him. She was suddenly happy, so happy that she skipped through the doors, behind Him, light as a feather in her spotless clothes. He smiled at her fondly as he dropped the dirty backpack at the doorway and entered too.

And they truly, lived happily ever after. The end.

Today is Armistice Day at my house. My husband of 28 years and I have come to an understanding, signed an agreement, and shook hands on it, in keeping with the original of 1918, but we also sealed it with a kiss, which may or may not have happened back then. Probably not.

Wait, Armistice? You might now be thinking, if you’re still reading. Isn’t that in November, and isn’t that what parents, or maybe grandparents used to say instead of Veteran’s day? And what is Armistice anyway? I had to google this one because I really wasn’t sure, just as I really wasn’t sure what I wanted to do about some long-standing, years-running arguments my husband and I have had that have recently resurfaced. There is no google for that answer, but it turns out that I didn’t need it…but I’ll get to that later.

Apparently our grandparents were right in calling November 11th (now known as Veteran’s Day) Armistice Day, because it marked the temporary cessation of armed conflict between the Allies, and Germany at the end of World War 1. The agreement was signed on the 11th hour, on the 11th day, of the 11th month and effectively brought hostilities to a close (although true history buffs will know that while the fighting ceased on that date, a formal peace agreement was reached when the Treaty of Versailles was signed on January 10th, 1920). Armistice Day was the first step, and a major one, in ending a world war. While this War(ners! HA!), is not of world proportions, we are not for nothing, known in previous posts as The Bickersons.

My compatriot and I have always fought the good fight, side by side for a long time, longer than many. We’ve always had each other’s backs, and still do, but there are times, in any relationship, when a guard can go up, and a mask takes the place of that precious face you know better than your own, so that you might not know who this person is. It can be hard to know who to love, and who to hate, and if you are not careful, and constantly on guard, suddenly you might find yourself attacking your beloved, and he you, as if you were enemies instead of soldiers in the same army.

My husband and I have found ourselves here before. We’ve revived old hurts we should have drowned decades ago. We’ve given CPR to betrayals stiff and cold with rigor mortis. We’ve pumped blood into the broken parts of our hearts to watch it squirt out grotesquely, and all just to flaunt to the other, “See?!? You’ve hurt me! You did this! YOU!” And so, we hurt them back. An eye for eye. A heart for a heart. And, sometimes it ends there. Not just the argument, all of it. I don’t fault anyone for that. I don’t blame those who can’t do it anymore. I’ve thought I might be there many times, including yesterday, until I had an idea as I traipsed through the Maine woods, while taking pictures of the autumn display of scarlet maples and amber birches.

I thought, if bull-headed nations can honor a peace treaty, and put the past to rest, why can’t two bull-headed people? Sometimes talking about the past can be helpful, but it has not proven to be beneficial for us, and after almost three decades of marriage I think we can, and should move on. So that is what we did today, on the 10th day, of the 10th month at 10:10 am. Will this work? I have no idea. But, I do know that God honors agreements, and that my comrade in arms and I will do our best to do the same.

Addendum: In typical bi-polar fashion we skipped the armistice portion and went right for the treaty. We really saw no reason to wait. Bam!

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Armistice Day

Quote• Posted on by Susannah Warner
Posted in children, Love, Uncategorized

Traces of Love

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My mother once told me that when I was small, sometimes she would find my little things lying around that had not been put away before I went to sleep, after she came downstairs. An open book maybe, a crayon (to this day pronounced “crown”), that had rolled halfway under the couch, a little wooden truck, with a popsicle stick tailgate and actual wooden wheels, that my father had made for me for my Barbies, parked in the “garage” under the coffee table, and that seeing these little reminders of me sometimes made her feel a little sad. “Traces of Love,” she and my father apparently called these things. I always liked that, and thought of it often when my children were little and I found the same sort of remnants strewn about the house, after it was finally quiet for the night.

As happy as I was to have a couple of hours of peace before I fell into bed, I would always feel a little sad too when I would see a little teacup under the radiator, and remember shamefully my annoyance hours earlier about being asked to have another tea party, always inexplicably with a blanket over our heads. Or, an orange Nerf gun dart under the pillows of the couch, having gotten wedged there after a shower of them sprayed across the living room. I always recalled too, how I only half listened to my daughter talk about her horse, while I prepared dinner. The other half of my mind was occupied with all the things I needed to remember for the next day; sign a permission slip, pack lunches, throw a load of laundry in the washer…Or how, as I read to my son I might have skipped a page or two, eager to have some time to myself.

So, when the cries of, “I’m thirsty! I’m not tired! I’m scared! I have to pee!” finally subsided, and the house took on that late night, half-asleep hushed feeling, I would usually take a minute to mentally acknowledge the things I wished I had done differently that day, before I joined my husband on the couch. Looking around at their little things, always helped me refocus and remember that no matter how tired I was at the end of the day, I had been blessed with these little people to mold and shape the best way I knew how, so that someday they could appreciate traces of love from their own little ones.

 

Posted in Love

Red Hearts

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Valentine’s day…A day for lovers, celebrated with flowers, chocolates, and dinners out at restaurants, all edged in red hearts. The red heart has long been a symbol of romantic love, although a quick google search yields no definitive answer as to why, nor the exact origin of Valentine’s Day.

One theory is based on the life and death of Valentine, a holy priest in Rome in the 3rd century after he was beaten and beheaded on February 14th by order of Emperor Claudius II ( AKA Claudius the Cruel, yikes!). Apparently ol’ Claud was having a difficult time maintaining a strong army, and since Rome was involved in many bloody endeavors during his reign, he needed to boost his enlistment campaign. However, he believed that many men were unwilling to join due to their attachment to their families and wives. Naturally, being cruel, he banned all marriages and engagements. Valentine, an apparent lover of justice and believer in love, continued to perform marriages in secret, until his acts of treason were discovered and he was dragged before the Prefect of Rome who condemned him to death. Legend has it that while he was in jail, Valentine left a farewell note signed, “from your Valentine,” to the jailer’s daughter who had become his friend. The priest was martyred for his service after his death.

In addition to St. Valentine’s execution the day before, February 15th was the date of the Feast of Lupercalia, a pagan festival of “love,” which was actually quite a violent and bloody event. It was celebrated with animal sacrifices and random matchmaking in an effort to ward off infertility and evil spirits, until it was eliminated in the 5th century AD by Pope Gelasius I.

There are other theories as to the origin of Valentines day, and other stories of how it has evolved to be the symbol of love it is today, but those two stood out to me the most, because like love itself, they are contradictory. Someone once said, “there is a fine line between love and hate,” and while no one wants to believe that they could hate, even momentarily, the person they love, my husband and I would probably have to admit that we may have had a flash of that emotion a time or two in our 28 year marriage.

The expression, “seeing red,” means that someone is extremely angry, yet I think most people would agree that the color most represented by love is red. Unlike its meek cousin pink, red is bold, vivacious, and passionate. Red is alive, just like a thriving relationship. Red is rage and heat, fury and fervor unlike the emotionless blue of cool indifference. There is no one in this world who can piss me off like my Valentine, and no one who can make me laugh as much either. Because of this, I’d say that regardless of the reason for Valentines day, a red heart represents the day, and our relationship best. Sometimes it pounds in anger, sometimes it swells with pride, sometimes it skips a beat, and sometimes it drums on unnoticed in the background. But, no matter the emotion or circumstance, it goes on.

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In His Footsteps

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

When he was 6, the little boy liked to tag along after his grandfather, and try to follow in his footsteps in the snow. They were big shoes to fill; his grandfather was a man with a lot of work to do, and he did not tarry on his way to the barn. After all, a farm is no place for lollygaggers. There were 40 cows to milk, feed and clean up after, and it was wintertime in upstate NY. Plentiful snow, and wicked winds blew across the fields that in the summer, were dotted with cows; sometimes standing, sometimes sitting depending on the weather.

But the heart of winter meant that the cows had to be fed inside, and breaking a trail to the barn through the fresh snow was a very hard job, and the boy struggled to keep up. He wanted to walk where his grandfather had walked, because the snow was over his knees, and to walk in his footsteps would be easier than breaking his own trail, but mostly he wanted to walk where his grandfather had walked, because he wanted to be just like him. The little boy wanted to walk as upright and confidently as the old man did-to not waste steps or breath on foolishness, to be as steadfast as the sun, and he wanted to be absolutely sure of where he would wake up every morning, as his grandfather was, and had been every single day of his life, having never moved from his boyhood home.

The little boy did not always know where he would wake up in the morning at his parent’s house. He did not always know which house, which town, or sometimes even which state he would live in next. The boy’s parents moved a lot. They also fought often and sometimes hurled ugly words at each other like daggers, but they bounced off each other, and pierced the little boy in the heart, and made him afraid. He was often afraid, but not on his grandparent’s farm, where there was no time for fear, and no reason for it either.

There was always work to do, and it never changed. The rhythm and flow of the farm was steady; there were no high highs, but no low lows either. The boy knew that every morning when he woke up, his grandmother would be making breakfast, while his grandfather would be finishing the morning chores, and would soon come in the back door, stomping his feet to rid his boots of the snow, while his grandmother scolded him for leaving puddles on her clean floor. Sometimes after breakfast, he would help his grandmother bake, and sometimes he would work outside with his grandfather.  When he went to the barn, he knew the names of all the cows. His grandfather did not care about the names, but his grandmother did, and he did too. He knew that next summer, when he was 7, his grandfather would teach him to drive the tractor, and he couldn’t wait. He knew that once a month, on a Saturday, he and his grandparents would take a trip to Ogdensburg, 25 miles away, so that his grandmother could get groceries. He knew that she would put on her red lipstick before they left, and that his grandfather would not allow the old Desoto to go more than 25 miles per hour. He knew his grandmother would get him a new comic book when she shopped, and in the summer, he would spend the afternoon lying on his belly in the hay barn, reading his comic book, while the barn cats sniffed at him curiously and dust motes danced in the air. And he knew that every night after supper, after he and his grandmother had washed and dried the dishes, she would put Jergans hand lotion on, and give some to him, while his grandfather sat in his chair and read the paper, the smoke from his pipe drifting lazily above his head.

Although the work never ended, life was easy and simple for the little boy when he was on the farm. He wasn’t afraid of work, so there was nothing here to fear. He knew his grandparents loved him, and that they would always be in the same place, no matter where he lived. He knew that he would not hear harsh voices or jagged words on the farm. In fact, his grandfather hardly spoke at all, but when he did, he knew it was important, and he listened carefully. He knew that his grandfather was a good man, and that he wanted to be just like him when he got big.

What the little boy didn’t know, was that someday his own grandchild would want to follow him. This time, the grandchild was a little girl, and she loved him as much as he loved his grandfather, except that she said she wanted to marry him when she got big. She knew that her grandfather loved her, and would always be happy to see her. She knew that every time she ran to him to hug him, he would kneel down, and with open arms, would let her slam into him and laugh just as she did. She knew that he laughed when she accidentally gave him a black eye when they were play-fighting. She knew that she was always safe with him, even high up on his shoulders. She knew that he missed her when she was at school, and that he would play and wrestle with her on the weekends, and that he made the best scrambled eggs in the world, even better than her grandmothers. And she knew that he would play with her in the snow, and that they would look for deer tracks, and that when it was time to go into the warm house for hot cocoa, that she would follow in his footsteps, just as he had done with his grandfather, almost a half century ago.

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The Things We Keep

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I had a burst of energy that sunny, November morning. It was Saturday, at 7 am, and a few restorative sips of coffee under my belt found me knee-deep in old boots, coats, and sports equipment as I had ambitiously decided to tackle my entryway closet.  I spent an hour purging it of many of the things that I had binged on through the years and the “give-away” pile was growing; not nearly as quickly as the “keep” pile, but I was pretty satisfied with myself, and my progress, until I found an old pillowcase, shoved way in the back. Inside, were the vestiges of my life, and my little families life, and the physical reminders of them that I’d chosen to keep.

I remembered then, that I’d thrown it in there many years ago, after a strikingly similar botched organizational attempt left me so sick of sorting through everything that I thrown the whole mess in to deal with later. Well, later had come…albeit many years later. Except this time, I finished my task and was quite pleased with my efforts as I sat down, and sipping my now cooled coffee, sorted through that old pillowcase (why I had used a pillowcase, I really can’t say) full of things from the back of the closet. Most were school papers from the kids, things that I found impossible to toss then, and difficult to throw away even now, although at least half of the drawings didn’t have a name and only by subject matter, or personal style could I identify the artist; intricate perfectionist drawings half-finished by our son, slapdash but completed works of art by our daughter.

Amongst the schoolwork and report cards decades of years old, I found crumbling baby teeth, the “tooth fairy” was unwilling to part with, locks of baby hair, that I guessed to be our daughters because it was not blonde like our sons, miniature arm bands, worn by our babies in the hospital and even, to my great chagrin, two, + pregnancy test sticks. Clearly, I am a person with a heaping helping of sentimentality, who is prone to tidal waves of nostalgia. My husband, is not so much, and calls me a packrat. However, he has a romantic streak, which this pragmatic girl does not, as evidenced by multiple little cards that come with flowers in the pile sent to me, by him, many of which expressed a remorseful, apologetic tone, while still others, gushing declarations of affection. There were also several love letters, one of which was in an envelope with a return address of “heartbreak hotel” at “I miss you, USA, ” with a “county jail” stamp emblazoned across the front. What can I say? A long marriage is full of ups and downs.

They were all things, that for one reason or another, I’d chosen to keep. Things that although I’d felt were important enough to store for almost three decades, I had not looked at, or thought of in many, many years. They were tangible reminders of the feelings they had once evoked, and I must have felt that if I threw them away, I’d be throwing away the emotion itself.

When I was younger, I was foolish enough to believe that the best things in life came in packages, things that could be wrapped up, with a bow on top. I thought happiness was tied up that way. After all, things are tangible and can be enjoyed for a long time as opposed to experiences and ideas, which were either too fleeting and expensive, or too abstract for this practical girl to embrace. What I didn’t know then, was that objects lose their luster as we become used to having them, and so we crave more. The shininess wears off, revealing cheap plastic underneath, which we toss away with one hand while reaching out for something new with the other.

As I’ve grown older and a little wiser, I have come to realize that the abstracts in life are truly what we desire. Love, joy, faith, hope, loyalty, friendship, family, and memories…not one of these things can be bought, but all are trully precious. These things did not have as much value when I was younger, many of them were not thought of at all, but as wisdom increases, many of us realize that we’ve taken for granted many priceless possessions. The expectation of our youth gives way to the gratefulness of old age for the intangible things. Things that we have discovered, are all that matter, and the only things worth holding on to. We eventually learn the secret to one of life’s mysteries…that the imperceptible gifts of love, joy and friendship we give to each other, come back to us so multiplied, they are nearly palpable.

Sneezing as I looked at each photo, read every card, and fondled the broken teeth, I contemplated throwing it all in the trash, but I knew that I couldn’t do it. Stuffing everything back into the pillowcase, I wedged it all back in the corner of the closet, knowing full well that someday my children would come across these things after my death, or when they moved me into a nursing home, and wonder why in the world I’d decided to keep such ridiculous reminders of the past. But, I’m pretty sure they will know too, of the things we keep.

 

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The Pull of Addiction

Posted on by Susannah Warner

She calls your name, and you shiver. You try to ignore her, but without her, life seems meaningless. She whispers in your ear, and you strain to catch what she is saying. Shaking your head to stop the spread, insidious and encompassing, you can’t help but wonder how anyone can live without her. What a dull life others must lead without the pull of something so alluring and exciting.”Stay busy,” you think, “that will help.” But, on your feet or lying in your bed, curled up to stop the onslaught, she finds you; her voice urgent now. She needs you, you need her, her beckon is intoxicating. You think of your family, your friends. They hate her, they say she has taken you away from them, robbed you of your joy. “Don’t listen to them,” she purrs, “I love you, we have so much fun together. You are happy with me, how can something that makes you happy be bad? They don’t understand.” She tugs on the cable surrounding you, ensnaring you. It is a beautiful chain. Golden and glistening with diamonds, you allow yourself to be pulled. “She is so beautiful, beauty is good. She knows me, understands me, she accepts me,” you reason. On your feet now; walking, then running to her, excitement building, your heart pounding. Your loved ones watch you go to her once again, and they keep watching, hoping you will turn around and see that they are still there, right where you left them. But you become smaller and smaller until even eyes sharp and bright with love, can’t see you anymore. And you? You run to her now, the decision made, the die-cast. But she turns before you can reach her, a swirl of beauty, the ecstasy you have chased just out of reach. “Wait,” you say, “you promised that we would be together, you told me you loved me, I left everything for you.” Laughing, she darts out of your grasp, pulling you with her, you can’t keep up and you fall on your knees. She is dragging you now, you are no match for her strength. You try to stand, but she runs faster, the golden thread now a rusty chain, wrapped around your neck, choking you. Too late, you realize that your family was right. Her beauty is hideous, terrible and alive. How did you not see? Why didn’t you listen? Shame falls on you like a black blanket, stifling and paralyzing. You know that it won’t be long now, you have thrown away everything for her, and she will make you another victim. Taking one last furtive glance back, you can see your family, maybe a whole group still, or maybe only one left, standing on a hill, backlit by the setting sun, as steady and unfaltering as an oak, with roots so vast and so deep, they tremble below you now, and jolt you with the truth. You have been deceived, you were wrong, you hate yourself and you want to die, but you keep looking at that beautiful tree as you bump along ensnared by your master, Addiction. Hope gone now, regret is bitter on your tongue and you are ready to accept your fate, because this is what you deserve. But, you become aware of love and forgiveness raining down on you, a sprinkle at first, then a downpour. Clean and refreshed, with some strength returning, you struggle to your feet, causing Addiction to stop for a minute, bewildered. She’s coming back to get you, beautiful once again, whispering to you so sweetly. But, you have seen the truth, you have felt love and she is not love, she is deception. The decision made, the chains around you fall, and you trudge back up the hill, beaten and battered, but feet moving toward your shelter. She still calls you, you are still attached, but it is a thread now, and the velvet cord from your family to your heart strengthens. It has always been there, it will always be there. It is called love and it will never fail. You are still pulled, you will always be pulled, but you know that the love and devotion of others will tug at your heart with a strength that far surpasses the pull of Addiction. You are sheltered now. You are home, you are loved and forgiven, you are where you belong.

1 Corinthians 13:13 NIV

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

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Waving Goodbye

Posted on by Susannah Warner

It was dark when she left, bundled in her winter coat; full of hugs, fresh air and cookies. She was five and she was exhausted from a day of entertaining her grandparents and being the center of attention all day. I stood at the window, watching her mother, my grown daughter, strap her little girl in her car-seat. After they were settled, they looked to the picture window where they knew I would be standing. They drove off, as I blew her a kiss and waved, until I could no longer see them, just as my grandmother always did.

My grandmother was the sweetest woman I ever knew, and had the inexplicable gift of making me feel like I was her only grandchild, although she had 10 others. I didn’t see her very often, as we lived 500 miles away, but when I did, she was all mine, or at least she made me feel that way. Our visits were never long enough, and when we prepared to leave her house at dawn, she would be awake and downstairs in her pink fluffy robe. She always fluttered about, handing my parents care packages for the 8 hour trip full of things my mother never bought (Twinkies! Goldfish!) and, finally hugging me one last time, she always tucked money in my hand. Climbing in the backseat, I would spin around to see her. She was always there, clutching her robe, and waving goodbye. She never stopped waving until I could no longer see her, and I turned around with a lump in my throat, thinking of her going back in without me. She was the only grandparent I ever knew, but she was more than enough.

My mother waves goodbye to her children and grandchildren when we leave too, although her example was her mother-in-law, as her own mother died when she was 13. Still, she stands with the door half open and waves until we can no longer see her. She is a symbol of love, and a reminder that I will be missed. Is there anything sweeter in life than to know that you are special to someone, even if it is your own mother?

So, this small act of love comes naturally to me and probably to my three sisters too, although I’ve never talked to them about it. The women in my family are all very different in their appearances, political beliefs, education and career choices, but we have raised our children very similarly. How could we not, when the maternal figures we emulate were so kind and so sweet and so very motherly?

It is because of these examples, that I have no doubt that one day, my daughter will stand at the window, or the door and wave to her own grandchildren, until they can no longer see her. Then, they will turn around in their car seats, a lump in their throats, but with a fullness of heart knowing with this one gesture, that they are loved and missed, just I have always known.

 

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Horses are Love

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My daughter lost her horse yesterday. From the time that she got the first frantic call that he was sick, until he was gone, only a little more than 24 hours had passed. It was sudden and unexpected, he was in the prime of his life. Everything possible was done to save him and ease his pain, and if love alone could have done it, he would be fine now. In the end, it wasn’t meant to be. A tragedy with no faults, no one to blame.

Her love of horses started early, actually, she was born with it, although we didn’t become aware of it until she could talk. From then on, that’s all we ever heard about. We indulged her when we could, pointing them out as we flew past fields in the car, her little neck strained to raise her head above the car seat to catch a glimpse of beauty. We bought her horse books and movies and read and watched them together endlessly. Her father let her climb on his back every night and transformed into a “bucking bronco.” She would clutch his shirt and hold on until they would both fall laughing into her bed and I scolded him for getting her “all riled up before bed.” She would line up the kitchen chairs and loop ropes over them for reigns. My door frames nearly always had a broom or a stick lodged in them for her to jump over, and outside, she pretended to trot and canter around in endless circles. A work friend, and fellow horse lover, gave her an old saddle when she was about four, and from that time on, my couch cushion was always on the floor, and that old saddle on the arm rest.

She begged to ride, and although I called everwhere, it was hard to find a stable that would allow a preschooler to take lessons. Eventually, at the age of four, she was given the opportunity and has never stopped, all through her school years and into adulthood. Through many broken bones, surgeries and several concussions, at least one of which gave her amnesia for two days and a poor memory for months, she never stopped. My Mother-in-law admonished me after her second serious fall. She wanted me to stop her from riding because of the obvious danger. I told her that this was her passion and her joy, and as a mother, I could never take those things away from her. I could only pray for safety, which I did, every time she rode. Eventually, we went to a different facility, with safer horses and the injuries ceased, but the life lessons didn’t.

Now at 26, the obsession never having waned, she has seen many horses come and go. All have had a lesson to teach, some more painful than others. Some have taught patience, some courage, one, how to pick yourself up after a fall. Others have shown love and forgiveness. All have taught dedication, physical and mental toughness and how to work hard. She has loved them all, but none more than Sam.

Sam was a dark bay thoroughbred with a small star on his head, who had done a little racing in his first few years, with limited success. He really wasn’t the competitive type, maybe because he had a different reason for existing. My daughter acquired him at the age of 18, after a friend spotted him for sale at a barn she was riding at. He was only a few weeks off the track but was not high-strung or anxious. He was not a show-off and didn’t prance around nervously.  She was immediately drawn to his kindness and gentleness. Scraping up the money to buy him, although in college at the time, was a risk, but he was worth it.

He was a patient life coach and confidant. He saw her through hard times and never judged. He sensed when she was pregnant before she even knew for sure herself.  He sniffed her belly one day and was extra gentleman-like instead of being frisky from not having been ridden recently. He was patient and sweet with Chloe, her daughter and allowed little hands to poke at him and would bend his head down so that she could brush his face. IMG_1028

1 Corinthians 13:4-7 (NIV)

 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

This passage in the Bible is one of my favorites. It came to mind when I thought of Sam, and of horses everywhere. If you substituted the word love for the name of a horse, in this case Sam, it would make perfect sense, at least to horse lovers. Horses are patient and kind, they do not envy or boast or are prideful. They do not dishonor, they are not-self seeking or easily angered. They keep no record of wrongs and do not delight in evil. Most of all, horses always protect, always trust, always hope and always persevere. They do these things for us, frail and weak humans that we are. They allow us to boss them around, although ten times our size. They let us borrow their freedom and allow us to soar through the air with them. They let us cry on their necks and are patient with us when we are learning. Horses are love. Is it any wonder that we love them back? Even people like me, not exactly “horse people,” can appreciate the beauty, majesty and humbleness that is a horse.

One of the last times that my daughter went to the barn, she brought her four-year old daughter with her to ride. Sam patiently endured her little boots digging into his back and no doubt too tight hold on the reigns. He was completely trustworthy and would never have allowed her to fall off his back, if he could help it. What he wouldn’t do though, was go where Chloe tried to steer him. Instead he followed my daughter, everywhere she walked in the arena, much to Chloe’s dismay. “Mama!! I want to steer him!! Make him stop following you!!!” He wouldn’t though. He loved her as much as she loved him, and although he would follow her anywhere, this time he went first, to Heaven. Because as any horse lover knows, Heaven would not be Heaven without horses there. Someday she will follow him, I’m sure he will be waiting at the gate for her. IMG_1029Addendum: After reading this, my daughter, ever the proud mother, would like to clarify that Sam was actually a decent racehorse, and actually did make some money. My apologies to Sam and his mother!