33. What You Have Left

Today in a notebook I’ve created titled “Nuggets,” I read once again the story about Itzhak Perlman. This famous violinist had polio as a child and in his concerts walked onto the stage with his legs in braces and with the help of two crutches. On one occasion, he made his way to his chair slowly, settled himself, removed the braces, straightened one leg in front of him and put one leg behind him. He put his violin in place and nodded to the conductor and they began.

Before even a few measures the entire audience could hear the POP of one of his violin strings and the music stopped. He sat for a minute and then nodded to the conductor again. They played together, Perlman on the spot revising and rearranging the notes to accommodate the missing string. At the end the audience sprang to their feet in applause and excitement.

Perlman motioned for silence and said, “You know, sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”

Isn’t that an amazing story—and true. At 79, now living the days of my 80th year, I switch and make back-up plans to see how much I can still do with what I have left.

And tomorrow’s writing of what I have learned will tell the other half of this.

32. Sniveling

I don’t know if sniveling is a real word or not. But when I get in a complaining place, or a whining place, or a poor-me place, that’s what I tell myself: “Ann—quit sniveling.”

Sometimes when I have that kind of a day I think of myself being a little like Eeyore in Winnie-the-Pooh. Remember how he’s just glum and so sure that things are not going to work out very well for him, and he wishes he knew what to do about it. Woe is me.

Well that’s a little like sniveling and I’ve learned that I want to snap out of it as quickly as I can.

31. One gem is enough

This is something I learned when I was in highschool and it has simply transferred to many other things. I started piano lessons when I was in third grade and I progressed quickly because I was a good sight reader.

By the time I got to highschool I loved getting new books of music—and I discovered something. I didn’t have to be thrilled with every piece. I thought it was worth the price of the book of songs to get one or two pieces that I loved.

This transferred easily to regular books. I can make my way through a book and sometimes even be wondering why it is that I am reading this—and then comes the gem. Suddenly I know that that gem is the reason, and it’s worth it.

Then I found that it also transferred to occasions and to people—suddenly there is an a-ha moment and I think “I am so glad that I am here in this place with this person.”

One gem is enough.

30. Don’t Worry – July 18

It’s not easy to not worry but some years ago I wrote a very short song and the words went like this:

I am held in prayer time,

Circled round by love.

God’s words are clear,

Speak to my heart,

Don’t worry, I will never let you go.

Don’t worry, I will never let you go.

Don’t worry, I will never let you go.

© Copyright 2007 by Ann Freeman Price

It reminds me a little of that last verse of the hymn How Firm a Foundation which I wrote about in #9. If you remember in that hymn God promises to never forsake or desert you. I think that’s the same as “I will never let you go.”

I still worry about some things but if I believe it as God’s promise to me, then I also believe it as God’s promise to the person about whom I’m worrying.

It’s called Good News.

29. Be Still

I recently saw an advertisement for a pendant. The quote on it was attributed to Thich Nhat Hanh and it said, “Be still and know.”

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still and know that I am God.”

This Buddhist monk from Vietnam reduces it to: Be still and know. And suddenly you have a slightly different message.

There are many times I experience frustration, anger, impatience. If, and it is a fairly big “if”, —if I will quiet myself and breathe, I can reach a more knowing place.

28. Trapped in a box

A friend of mine, Will Albertus, is a pastoral counselor and is also a woodworker. One time he gave me a gift that he created after seeing a similar cartoon.

You’ll have to try to visualize it. It’s the shape of a small wooden box. There is a solid base and the top is the very same as the base except there is a fairly large hole in it. There are four corner poles connecting the top and the bottom. On one side there are two more connecting poles so that that one side looks like a jail. The other three sides are open, having only the corner poles. On the side that looks like a jail, there is the figure of a person looking out. It appears that this person is trapped.

But wait? Is she?

Because all she has to do is to turn and walk out any of the other three sides.

That physical but very open (except for one side) box has served to remind me over and over of the learning that it teaches: When I’m feeling trapped in one direction, I need to be sure to look around and see if there are alternatives.

27. The Fuzzy Line of Reality

Today I want to tell a story about my puppet Josa. When I participated in Clown Ministry I got this brown, sea otter, who I named Josa, and consequently I had numerous adventures with her. This is one of them:

A daycare five days a week was one of the social outreaches of the Washington Square United Methodist Church in Greenwich Village. I visited the pastor, Paul Abels, many times and on one occasion took Josa to meet him. In his delight he said excitedly, “Let’s take her to meet the children.”

We walked into the daycare, Josa perched on my shoulder and looking around with interest. A small little boy came up to me, eyes wide, and breathlessly said, “Is it real?” I knelt down on his level and said, “Well, her name is Josa and I think she likes you.” Josa moved her head to look at the little boy. He reached to pat her. She ducked her head to hide in my neck and I explained to him “She’s a little shy at first.”

A bigger boy ran over to excitedly announce “She’s just a puppet!” The little guy looked dashed as the teacher appeared, followed by the other children. She gathered them around as I settled on the floor, moving Josa’s head to look at the twelve or so children.

The teacher asked “What do you think children? Look at her.” I told all of them, “Her name is Josa and she’s a sea otter.” They clustered around. The bigger children started to chant “She’s a puppet—she’s a puppet.” The original little boy looked more and more distressed.

The teacher settled them on the floor and said “Let’s see what everybody thinks. How many believe that Josa is real?” Many of the little children raised their hands, but some of them hesitantly, swayed by the stronger voices of the older boys. The teacher continued, “And how many think that Josa is a puppet?” The bigger children’s hands shot into the air and took up the chant again “She’s a puppet—she’s a puppet.”

The teacher quieted them and turned to me. I continued to move her slowly on my shoulder and I said “Well she goes lots of places with me and she’s gentle and easy. She is a puppet and this is how I help her move.” I raised my hand so that they could see her situated on my arm and how my fingers inside of her head made her head bobb and sway. “And,” I continued, “I really love her.”

The children scattered to other activities with a few coming by to pet Josa, who was once again settled on my shoulder. I started to leave and noticed the first little boy, still standing near me and pulling on my blouse. I bent down again to look in his eyes and he whispered to me “Is she just a little bit real?” I smiled. Josa turned to look at him and give him a kiss on his cheek. I whispered back “She definitely is a little bit real. I believe it and I think you do too.” He nodded enthusiastically and broke into a knowing smile.

26. Prayer and Time

When I went into Sloan Kettering Cancer Center for a second surgery, I had asked my children to pray and to imagine me wrapped in a yellow blanket. My youngest daughter asked what time my surgery was and I told her it was scheduled for 9:30am. She gathered her children around the table at that time and they prayed.

Later when we talked I told her about the delay and the surgery was actually at 11am. The children were disappointed and felt that they had prayed at the wrong time. Still later I told them what my pastor at that time, Charlie McNeil, said, “It’s never too early or too late to pray because God works with all times and with no time.”

I think that’s true and I’ve been glad to learn it. It takes the pressure off to find the exact right time. It helps to know that God can adjust it all and match the prayers at any time with the situation.

25. I Can Unlearn

I have discovered that I can unlearn things. There are brand new things you learn that are like light bulbs suddenly lighting and you say “A-ha!” And there is also an “A-ha!” effect when something you thought you had learned gets turned upside down and you unlearn it.

One quick example is that for years and years I heard the quote: Love God and love your neighbor as yourself. It was interpreted as: Love yourself last. And I thought that I learned that and implemented it.

Then one day I was preaching on that text and came upon that little word “as.” It turned upside down. Because in my book that means that you have to love yourself in order to be able to love your neighbor.

Never realized that “as” was such a powerful word.

24. Saying Grace

Years ago when my grandson Zack was four, I went with him and his mother, Dara, and their dog, Holly, on a tent camping vacation together.  During our stay in Boone, North Carolina, old friends John and Betty Johannaber drove up from Atlanta and stayed at a nearby motel for two nights in order to be able to hang out with us.

One morning we put Holly in a kennel so that we could all go out to breakfast.  As we sat in the restaurant, I said to Zack, “Remember when you and I held hands and said one thing we were glad for?  Why don’t we do that here?”  I reached for his hand, and Betty and John and and Dara held hands too.  The people at the table next to us quieted down and the waitresses stood back for a minute and we went around the table, each saying something we were glad for.  At the end we said, “Amen.”

Then we went on and were served and talked of other things.  In a little while, as the conversation became more and more adult-oriented, Zack suddenly reached for my hand and Dara’s hand and said, “Let’s do the ‘glad for’ thing again.”

During that breakfast we did the ‘glad for’ thing four times.

I sometimes forget to say grace, especially living alone. I remember Bishop C. Dale White saying that it was when he started to travel and saw people all over the world in desperation—that that was when he recognized for himself the need for saying grace at every meal.

It’s something I learn and forget and learn and forget over and over.