They are elderly and beloved. They drove from Jackson to the coast, as we once did when I was a child. When they arrived, we piled into the car and toured, the way folks once piled into automobiles and went motoring when that was considered the thing to do. We laughed and remembered days that stretched back to when they were children. Some of the memories were vague, lost in time, some bright as diamonds.
After they left, my husband and I went downtown by ourselves. We were stopped by the train. The fast-moving train crossed from land to water, riding the trestle. The train was long, long enough for me to escape from the car and move closer until I could capture the image of the train disappearing into the fog.
My daddy—who was killed by a train—was the brother of these two beloveds. He is gone. Their memories tie me to him and them to me and me to the long line stretching behind me.
Jogging, I made it back to the car before traffic beeped at us to get going. Turning, I saw: the train was gone. Nothing but fog. I know my husband wondered why, when I settled into my seat, I was crying.
I wasn’t asking for much. I only needed to pee. But the toilet had a mind of its own. It kept flushing. An automatic flusher. Annoying, show-offy, overachieving toilet. Making that whooshing noise then shooting water into the bowl like a Yellowstone geyser on steroids.
I jumped up. If you think I’m gonna sit there and let a mad toilet spray dirty toilet water into my private places, you’ve got another thing coming.
It quieted. I sat back down . . . in an incorrect, insulting manner apparently because the toilet got angry again. Really flipped its lid. Whoosh! It attacked.
This time when I rose, I twisted to check out the gizmos. Toilets shouldn’t have gizmos. They should have a handle and a tank with a porcelain top that you raise only when you’re certain it’s about to overflow and you need to lift the rubber ball and hold it out of the water or jiggle the chain. Or something.
The gizmos looked okay. Just a black button the size of a pea with a sign that read: “Press to flush.” I wasn’t pressing. It was flushing anyway.
Feeling like a gullible fool, I gingerly sat down again. And finished. And stood up. It didn’t flush.
Stupid-ass defective toilet.
When I exited the stall and washed my hands, a woman wandered into the washroom (have I mentioned I was at a Mississippi “The Hospitality State” rest area?) The woman looked lost. I thought to warn her about the aggressive toilet, but she instinctively chose the handicapped stall. She didn’t need my help. If I could remember exactly which rest stop I was at, I’d tell you. Someone needs to do something with that toilet.
My definition of the Holy Spirit at work is when you think you’re doing a very important x, but, unbeknownst to you, the true point of your activity is y. You trundle along, doing your x, and all the while, God is doing y. Suddenly, a beautiful thing blooms into being, something you had no idea was in the works, and all you can do is stand in awe, mesmerized by God’s hand in the world.
Bead by Beadis part of the Active Prayer series that contains my Making Crosses: A Creative Connection to God (Paraclete Press, 2009) and written by my friend Suzanne Henley. It opens with the concrete—a history of beads and specific instructions on how to pray a set of beads—and moves to the metaphysical: praying “beads” even when we don’t have a string in our hand, and making our own lives into prayer beads. Suzanne has lived with beads for years, patiently creating her extraordinary creations, which are featured on the cover and throughout the book. I can’t help but think this immersion informs her ability to view the world as a luminous string of prayer.
In all ways, the book expands the concept of prayer beads beyond the traditional view of a rosary. The book contains a wide variety of prayers (or hymns or chants or whatever your little heart desires) to be used as we pray the beads. Those who love history and memoir and diamonds of insight will savor the book. Those who specifically appreciate the opportunity to combine physical activity with prayer will find a home in the book—Bead by Bead concludes with suggestions on how to draw and label our own beads. Along the way, there is no retreat from the messiness of prayer, or our lives, for that matter. Suzanne invites us into her experience of a “widow maker” heart attack, for example. The primary prayer beads are not called Cruciform beads for nothing.
Please, take the time to be with this book. Settle in. Absorb it as you slowly turn from page to page enjoying the beautiful photos of Suzanne’s prayer beads and the delightful phrases crafted by her pen (okay, probably her computer, but definitely her unique mind.) You are going to want to re-read sentences. You’ll pause and ponder the insights she is making. You’ll guffaw at her humor. You will never look at lemons in the grocery store the same way again. Instead, when you spy the lemons in the bin, you will stop and say a prayer. I can’t think of a more wonderful gift a book can give.
It takes a lot to break through my dedication to finishing an ongoing project and write a blog post these days, but the last 24 hours have succeeded. Or, as I like to think of it, The Latest Edition of Weird in My Life:
Today when reading the front page of the local newspaper, I learned how mules chew (sideways, if you feel I’m intentionally withholding information.) The mules had been abandoned in a cemetery. Their rescuers found them a new home, if you’re worried.
Tomorrow I go to the Wal-Mart to buy a metal detector so my husband and I can become old people who search for dimes on the beach (actually, this purchase is the result of arrows lost in the lot next door, an even weirder fact if you think about it.)
I had to ask the server at lunch today if the restaurant has a body buried in the front yard. She had no idea what I was asking. Here’s the photo. You decide. I halfway expected to see two abandoned mules wandering around.
Next week, I will go to a lecture on how to compost and another lecture on the history of the Hancock County Historical Society. At the latter, I intend to ask where the water was missing from when Hurricane Katrina pushed it over Waveland and inundated the county (water wasn’t created by the hurricane; it had to come from somewhere: were the beaches in Cuba or Cancun dry?) I’ll let you know if they consider this a proper historical question or tell me I’m full of compost. I might need to find the Hancock County Oceanographical Society.
I woke up at 5:30 this morning when the dog sat on my head. This is a meteorological event that might interest the Hancock County Oceanographical Society, should I find one: the dog is afraid of storms and considers my head a safe place.
I am reading children’s books. Middle grade, specifically Lemony Snicket. I’ve already read two. You can read them in one sitting. Or standing. The premise is that life is actually a series of unfortunate events, a philosophy I (and, I’m sure, the dog) can identify with.
I am now the proud owner of a live oak. If you don’t know what a live oak is, here’s a photo. This is NOT my tree. It’s the tree behind the “is it a grave or not?” headstone. My tree might become this beautiful with some TLC and time. My tree is situated on the lot next door with the missing arrows about to be located with a metal detector, which lot we just bought.
I may leave my brain to science. This thought occurred to me while in church this evening. I know you’re thinking, what damn church does she go to? I can’t remember the prompt, and thus can’t explain why this arose during the service. But I thought, if you like the brain so much, you ought to contribute to its understanding: leave your brain to science so that when you’re turning to compost, scientists will be learning from your brain. I haven’t talked to my husband about this idea. He might read about it in this blog post. My husband’s weird fact for the day: I read about my wife donating her brain to science in her blog post.
I bought two sailboats and a turquoise house and hung them on the window sill where they can hold my dreams.