Marking Market Day

I made my way yesterday morning to our local farmer market. The goal was to buy some tomatoes for canning. I had a bushel in my sights. Along the way I gathered some goose paté, a half-bushel of apples, Emmental cheese and a piece of Gjetøst. This latter is an especially marvellous find, being a Norwegian cheese not in our supermarkets. I bumped into some friends and we chatted for a time. They told me that they are there every week because the market is where they source their bread. I don’t have that excuse since I make our bread, using a recipe given me by my father-in-law. All the same, visiting the market could be an easily acquired habit; with violins and such humming around a variety of vendors. There is something intoxicatingly humane about a market. Things are scaled differently. Everything is weighed and priced in parcel sized pieces. There are no gross quantities of anything and if I am too slow to take it up, the last New York Times escapes my grasp. For some strange reason I find this comforting. I look people in the eye and they smile back.

I was also on the hunt for Weisswurst, a heavenly German sausage. As I walked around a corner in the indoor part of this market, I saw two young traditional Mennonite children playing at the window on my left, looking out on the world their tradition so carefully navigates. My eyes went right, where Mom and Dad were engaging customers and attending to their nicely stacked counter of organic vegetables, all the while keeping an eye on both Sohn und Tochter. I felt a smile escape me. I turned another corner and a student from school happened past me, and we shared a quick hi on the fly.

Eventually I made my way to the corner where tomatoes were on offer. I landed a bushel and felt both of my shoulders burn with happy burdens. I happened upon a young woman playing the cello with a generous smile on her face. Her cheerfulness was entirely gratuitous, since my hands that would have otherwise gladly applauded her efforts with cash were clearly and utterly occupied. It struck me that she might well be smiling because she enjoyed what she was doing. About half way to the car I passed a young man heralding the the gospel with brochures en français, a seemingly incongruous fact given that an eastern European, or perhaps a tongue from the African continent is more likely to be encountered. But then I remembered that those speaking this latter might also converse in our other official language in their native lands. I happily meandered to my chariot.

Every once in a while, for a blink of the eye or the inhalation of a breath, all seems well with the world. Yesterday morning I had one such moment. I have learned to embrace such instances even while knowing that razored security walls are being erected around the world, and people are finding the mouths of sharks preferable to places they used to call home, and immigrants are being demonized in our midst. It is good to remember that this walk in a market of plenty was what my paternal Grandparents and my maternal Opa and Oma hoped for their Kindern and our generation and so on. It is good, every once in a while, to stop and breathe in the gift, knowing that others paid hard prices for our smiles. And so we smile even while sighing a prayer for still burdened souls.

Grounded in Gratitude

How do you thank a class,
soil for my soul?
Fecund with curiosity
they press me into life and
push me into passion.

How do you teach those
who teach me what I know
and so render me prostrate
before the One who alone knows me,
who sows me into the classroom?

How do you learn, save by rising
like a green blade,
striving for sun and
soaking in spring rain.

Snowing Down

Yesterday my wife announced “ Tomorrow we’re going to buy a snow blower.”

Small things can be bigger than they first appear, and something the size of a snow blower portends even more significant changes than one might imagine. This is clear from the rationale attending this pronouncement: “We aren’t getting any younger.” Of course, this has been true for quite a few years; and so this particular proclamation yesterday meant something more than it has before.

All week long I’ve been whining about a sore shoulder. We have had a few weeks of trying weather. For those familiar with south-western Ontario, this will not come as news. The snow we’ve received over the last few weeks has been unusually dense. Not much air, if any, is found between the needles of the ‘flakes’ in my yard. Shoveling has become a bit more onerous.

I should mention that this isn’t the first time the idea of a snow blower has been broached. Two years ago we had a winter with astounding amounts of snow, and I suggested we might buy a snow blower for my fiftieth birthday, which came and went during a green winter. This year has been a bit different – although most certainly not our worst. Still, my wife sees me shoveling and, I suspect, is mindful of my family’s heart history. A snow blower is as much a preventative caution as a prescriptive cure for the odd ache.

I appreciate my wife’s concern for my health, and suspect that a snow blower might not be a bad idea at all. This, not only because it will hopefully relieve my shoulder of its pain and my wife of my complaints, but also because it will serve as a regular reminder that this journey from cradle to grave has important markers that invite me , invite you to stop and take stock of where we have been, where we are, and where we are going. This is never a bad thing.

So, today in church, I will take a moment to give thanks for the many years that have been a rich gift to me. I will take a moment to savor being beside someone whose life intersected mine at just the right time. I will take a moment to ponder how I can live fruitfully into future moments fully alive in each day given me. I hope your day gives you occasion to do what you need to do to pause, to ponder and to anticipate the gifts of life and the gift of new life.

To Day; To Night

I slip on the

morning.

Sleep falls from my torso,

cast aside,

another laundering project.

The day fits well:

snug meeting,

loose lingering at

coffee’s break.  Later I take

issue with an unthreading of time:

a paucity of pauses exposes

my weak spot – mid day runs away with tasks,

a bit too tight – but at

night, I will loosen my tie,

and fall into the alluring arms

that strip me of busy as I search in drawer

for clothes of repose:

night’s shirt.