The Man Who Holds Up the Line

The two lane road that cuts through the Snohomish Valley is posted with a 35 mph sign. And really, why would you want to go faster than that? Every hundred yards are so are curves posted with 20 mph signs, so rushing really has no payoffs. It’s a sort of “hurry up and wait” scenario.

Besides, in the early morning of my week day travels, the sun is just now often cutting through the low lying fog, illuminating stalks of corn with shimmering tassels. Or the blueberry fields peek just above the fog in perfect unending rows across the valley. On one such morning, as I reveled in the growing rays of light, a car approached from behind and began to menace my back bumper. The driver floored the accelerator and passed a double yellow line, ignoring the safety of the oncoming traffic, only to come to rest in front of me at the red light.

Sitting directly behind the driver as we waited for the light to change, I must admit my sanctimonious feelings were at an all time high. After all, this driver had been so impatient, he had let his emotions take over. I am sure in his mind’s eye he was going to gain valuable time, and I wondered if he even noticed looking in his rear view mirror, that his efforts were folly. Or if he noticed my smug, self righteous smile.

That smugness disappeared when I encountered The Man Who Holds Up the Line. I first met him about five years ago in the elementary school drop off. In this drop off line, there are rules posted, the first of which is “Parents, do not get out of your car.” And yet every morning, The Man Who Holds Up the Line would get out of his car, walk around to his young son, and hug him deeply. As his son walked off, he would wave and call out, “I love you,” before getting back into his truck leaving staff and fellow parents frustrated.

Waiting in line to drop off my granddaughter as she resumed in-person school, I had assumed his children had graduated to middle school. So it was a surprise to me when this same morning, as the signal was given to release our children and grandchildren from our cars and move forward, that none of us could move. The Man Who Holds Up the Line was back with a new, young student..

I felt a rush of frustration flood into my body. Then it overflowed out of my mouth and hung in the air. My granddaughter and I bonded in our frustration with this parent who could not follow the rules…who seemed so oblivious to the needs of others… As we waited, our impatience multiplied and I could feel the tension increase in the car.

I hurriedly dropped her off and got back on to the road and was unexpectedly flooded with the memory of the Man in the Fast Car.

If The Man In The Fast Car were to meet an untimely end in this moment, his heart would be probably still be full of rage, indignation, and frustration at the slowness of the world.

But if The Man Who Holds Up The Line were to meet an untimely end, his heart would be full of relaxed, oblivious love. And if his child, God forbid, were to meet an untimely end, his heart would be full of the essence of being inconveniently loved with reckless abandon.

Which got me to thinking: how do I want to spend those last precious moments with my

granddaughter waiting in line? If my words are focused on my frustration with The Man Who Holds Up the Line, then what she learns from me is that following rules is more important than stealing small moments of love. If I complain about the time lost, what she learns from me is that a schedule is more important than taking that extra time to show love. If my last few minutes, with her are spent expressing frustration, she only learns impatience instead of just abiding in each precious moment together..

So, I hope I get stuck behind The Man Who Holds Up The Line tomorrow and every day. And if I do, I want to say to my beautiful, thoughtful granddaughter, “I am so glad he is holding up the line…I get to spend a little more time with you.”

Maybe in the waiting, we can tell jokes or play games.. Maybe in the waiting we can share dreams about the future, both hers and mine. And maybe in the waiting , I can learn to practice inconvenient, oblivious, reckless love in the opportunities provided by The Man Who Holds Up the Line.

Hope is a Corn Stalk

This summer a small stalk of corn announced its presence in the corner of my driveway while I was weeding the cracks of the summer weed invasion. This driveway, rife with sunken cracks near its entry, provides slivers of dry, dusty dirt into which various weeds cast their roots and cling to life.

No amount of weeding eradicates them permanently. Two thousand pound cars cannot crush the life out of them. It is as though they flatten against the pressure of all the forces that seek to destroy them.

Weeds simply have claimed this territory.

But a stalk of corn? For years, I have tried to actually grow corn in the few patches of soft soil that exist on the hard pan upon which our home is built. To no avail. And then, untended and unplanned, a corn stalk emerged in one of the cracks of the driveway.

The first few days, I fought a need to pull it out, perhaps simply because of the incongruence of its presence amidst the riffraff of growing things. But then, my science background called me to simply observe and take note, having already determined the hypothesis: Left untended and unwatered, this stalk would wither and die.

But in the heat of summer, a suggestion of two ears slowly began to form. I watched them when they first surfaced on the smooth stalk in their infancy. Leaving my home each morning, I noted in the changing light of sunrise how they fattened and spread. And I reveled in their growth and cheered them on like a mother watching her own child take those first wobbly steps.

The corn stalk simply refused to surrender to my hypothesis. Rather than death and decay, this corn stalk, its tassels lengthening, now brought a tantalizing promise of an impossible harvest.

Emily Dickinson once wrote that “Hope is a thing with feathers.” Though I have been drawn to this image for decades, there is something about the metaphor that makes hope seem so illusory and transitory. In the comparison, hope seems fragile and torn from its moorings, like a ship at sea. Hope becomes something just beyond our grasp as it floats on the vagaries of life’s breezes.

Not for me.

Hope is this corn stalk, tenaciously clinging to nothing more than a whisper of soil between asphalt and concrete. This hope commands attention as it stretches ever more closely to the sun. This hope announces, “I am here…strong, vibrant…persevering.”

Life is like this, I think. Not the blooming carefully tended flower boxes bursting with color and confined to their design. Not the well tilled soil of a backyard garden. Not the geometrical rows of a farmer’s field.

No, life is an errant piece of corn carried in a breeze or dropped carelessly from a pocket or carried in the debris deposit of a passing crow.

Life is this: a stalk of corn stretching towards the sun, taking sustenance from the tiniest source of nourishment and declaring hope as it clings to barren places.

Flotsam and Jetsam

A minus tide forecast for Deception Pass is like a siren’s call to a sailor lost at sea, at least to me; the magnetic pull is almost irresistible. And yet something about the planned end of summer outing caused me to wake in the middle of the night and declare to my spouse that

I would stay home this day. Caught between the need to wander the shore and the guilt producing weight of things left undone, I became paralyzed. My husband provided a way out. “Think of it as a bookend… something we need to do to mark the end of summer.”

It is this same husband who loves to do “together…alone” as much as I do. When the tides call us, we walk the beach access path a short way together, but once at the shore, we go our separate ways – he to meander the rock strewn sand above water line and me to cross the slippery algae draped stones to the exposed sandbars, shoes in hand, to walk the wave line.

Once safely across the hazardous rock beds this day, I padded through the

cold, gentle waves that rolled across the sand bar with a chorus of squawking gulls as accompaniment. I remembered that the last time I walked this shore, I had stopped to write a love note with a piece of driftwood on these sands for songwriter, friend, and mentor Jimmy Yessian. After finishing that day, I took a photo and texted it to his phone with the message, “thinking of you,” as I contemplated his recent diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.

Today, as I walked this shore, I thought about writing a note again, one that would now mark his passing. Gazing across the sea, I thought about his life and the legacy of his deep well of love and compassion which he lavishly shared with all of us who were thirsty.

Lulled into contemplation by the waves caressing this shore, it is impossible to not think about life… in all its beauty and all its complexity and all its sorrow. This ocean, so vast…our lives so complicated and intertwined. I watched the waves as they lifted and swelled, providing glimpses of soaked wood and debris. Much like us, I thought, they too had lived out their purpose and then, battered by storms and tossed in the wind, had come to this shore for their final journey’s rest.

And yet, as soon as the comparison arrived, it was crowded out by this truth:

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Though we travel these waters, we are not like flotsam and jetsam at the mercy of a capricious sea.

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Every microscopic drop of this sea was spoken into existence. Every drop of this sea was created with a purpose. And every drop of this sea was being led home…by forces too deep to comprehend.

Standing there gazing at the rolling sea, I recalled a surfer I once met on the North Shore of Oahu who said he loved to surf because he was able to ride a wave that had traveled

across the sea and was now taking its last breath before reaching the shore.

My friend Jimmy has ridden that wave’s last breath. Once he had been a single drop falling from a water filled sky. He had journeyed down the mountain in the rush of gravity and flooded into the sea. He had intermingled in a vast sea of humanity, changing the course of the drops around him. He had been battered and tossed by storms, but he had been held and guided by Love greater than his own.

And now he was home.