Deep Cleaning

deep clean: n. Any thorough cleansing, especially one conducted in order to disinfect a place that has or may have been contaminated with a disease vector such as a virus, bacteria, etc.

 

I have begun a deep clean of my home, though more thorough than disinfectant. After over nineteen years of tending the gardens and cleaning the homes of others, it is my turn. “Retired” is now my official title. With that title comes both the time and the energy to address the dirt and clutter throughout my own dwelling.

This is not going to be one of those quick Swiffer pass-through jobs. It won’t be “a lick and a promise” with a dust cloth as Mom directed on Sunday mornings before we headed off to church because company was coming for dinner.

It will be a “Leave no stone unturned” kind of task as I go deep into corners that have not seen the light of day nor cleaning solution for years. Items will be pulled out and cleaned before returning to their home. Piles will be made of things to keep, give away, or discard.

In preparation, I pulled my vacuum and cleaning supplies out of my truck this morning. I have stored them there for years. It was easier to have them available when I had a cleaning job, and I wasn’t forever moving things in and out of my house. 

When I was asked to clean up a large garden area, I always began in the furthest corner and worked towards the house. I’m methodical about some things, and that is often how I address a job. And so, I started in a corner of the living room, a corner no one sees or notices—except me. I was amazed at the amount of filth that had accumulated.

There is a real sense of accomplishment when a person does something that has been left undone for quite some time. It "feels" good. This cleaning process isn’t going to happen in a few hours, a day, a week, or maybe even months. I will, however, go bit by bit until it is completed. I began today.

This physical deep clean reminds me of what God does spiritually. He begins in the most hidden crevices of our inner beings, those areas we don’t want anyone to see or know about. He pores into the dark caverns within us. His very presence is like the head lantern on a spelunker. Secrets are revealed and, at His hand, dealt with one-at-a-time, one-on-one.

As with my home, a thorough inner cleaning takes time—a lengthy period of time. But it is priceless. And it is important. God's desire for us is that we live in purity, a life unencumbered by garbage. A clean spiritual home is a better way--His way.

 

Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts:

And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.

Psalm 139: 23, 24

It's Just a Slight Detour

 

detour: n. A diversion or deviation from one’s original route

piano: n. A percussive keyboard musical instrument, usually ranging over seven octaves, with white and black colored keys, played by pressing these keys, causing hammers to strike strings.

 

The piano has been a fixture my entire life, both literally and figuratively. It held court in my parent’s living room from the time it left the music store until it was moved into mine. 

“Place it on an inside wall,” they were told. I followed suit in my own home. Inside walls are not subjected to temperature changes in the same way as an outside wall, an important factor in protecting the piano’s strings. 

I began taking piano lessons when I was five. I begged my parents repeatedly for the opportunity, and they purchased a piano just for me. They were simple, country people who were not wealthy. A piano was a major purchase for them. Neither were they prone to giving in to a child’s pleading. As I look back, it must have been an act of faith on their part. Five-year-old children aren’t known for will and resolve.

Mom and Dad had one condition: “You’ll have to practice.” At the ripe old age of five I understood and made a commitment to do whatever was necessary.

I wanted to learn how to play. The passion and drive were real.

I abruptly quit lessons when I was seventeen. I’m sure I broke the heart of Mrs. Jacobs, my piano teacher, though I never considered that then. She was a talented teacher, and I suspect she had high hopes for my future. My repertoire consisted mainly of classical music, with a standard of perfection. The joy in playing was gone.

I continued playing in church for several years but stopped when my life became overwhelmed with depression and life’s lessons. I could not continue giving of myself. There was nothing to give.

I did not play for over thirty years. The piano took up space, another piece of furniture I dusted. They say, “If you don’t use it, you lose it.” It doesn’t get lost, but it sure does get buried. A resurrection took place when I returned to my piano bench eight years ago. My son asked that I play for him as a birthday gift, and I consented.

The passion and drive have never left me; they are a part of me. I’ve wanted more—direction and insight from another set of ears. Piano teachers are expensive; $75 per hour isn’t uncommon. I also knew I did not want intense instruction, but guidance.

Jennifer came into my world when she asked me to do some cleaning. The room where the grand piano stood was the first room I cleaned.

The thought was God-given: “Would you consider taking me on as a project?” I asked. I asked if she would consider trading cleaning for piano instruction. The answer was “Yes.”

I had my first lesson yesterday with input of tempo, how to practice and make the song better--and the importance of relaxing rigid shoulders. The music fills my being as I practice, play, and live out my day.

God is so good. I did not become the classical pianist Mrs. Jacobs had hoped for, but I am grateful He opened these doors. The joy has returned.

Many years ago, my Heavenly Father promised He would lead me and guide me in the way I should go. Some roads have not been direct. Some have taken a detour or two--this one was over sixty years in the making. But He knows the destination. That’s what counts.

 

“I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go;

I will guide thee with mine eye.”

Psalm 32:8 NRSV

On Time and the Giving of It

time:  The inevitable progression into the future with the passing of present events into the past.

 

Time is one of those universal commodities given to every man, woman, and child living on the face of this earth. Each of us is given twenty-four hours in a day. Sixty minutes in an hour. Sixty seconds in a minute. No more. No less. It is true equity.

Time has a different "feel" at different stages of life. A child has all the time in the world, whereas parents can't find enough of it to get everything done while meeting the demands of the family's rigorous schedule. Those of us who are 70-somethings find ourselves dealing with the reality of time passing like a flash in the night. Many elderly folks live a paradox. They have nothing but time on their hands as they live their days in solitude and loneliness, yet they have very little of it left.  

Whether consciously or unconsciously, we as humans categorize and prioritize our time. There is time for work, family, and leisure. Time is set aside for events, activities, and vacation. And--God forbid if it is interrupted--sleep. But often the most important of all is never factored in. And that is "people" time.

When I give my time to another, I am giving of myself. I am sharing "me." No one else can do that but me. Gifts can be purchased and delivered, but the gift of time carries no price tag. While there is a time and place for volunteer work, that is not what I am speaking of here.

"I'm busy now. I don't have time." How often are those words heard in a family? Or perhaps coming from one in a position of authority or a leadership role. Consider the message and the feeling it evokes: You have interrupted me and my life. You do not matter enough for me to stop what I'm doing. Go away.

That same message, though unspoken, is also delivered as we plow through our daily lives, making certain we do not interact with people we aren't acquainted with. After all, we have things to do, people to see, and places to go. Strangers are people we'll never see again, so they don't really matter. Or do they?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We have known each other for decades and have had a friendship for the past several years. Neither of us has a sister. The term sister/friend fits well.

I had gone to visit her, and we stopped by the grocery store to pick up a few things. While waiting in line to check out she quietly commented, "Just a minute. This lady needs some help." She had seen what I hadn't. An elderly lady, no larger than a minute, was struggling with bagging her groceries. She had an over-sized container of detergent, and it was far too heavy and bulky for her to handle. My friend stepped in and placed the items in sacks, telling her that she would help get the groceries into her car. "This is the last time I'm going to do this," the older woman commented. She shared she was in the process of moving into a facility where meals would be provided.

We finished and headed to her car, loading the items in the back. She chattered the whole time, talking about originally moving from Rhode Island and the current move taking place. She was grateful and thrilled, the recipient of the gift of time.

This is how my friend lives. She gives time where and when it is needed as she gives of herself. And she does it quietly, never seeking attention. It is second nature to her; it is the kind of person she is.

She and I spoke recently of being available when called upon. Her comment is one which has stuck with me--"You just have to make time. Loving the broken is loving Him."

The gift of time is a gift indeed. It is often not noticed, therefore not acknowledged, as no bells and whistles go off, no balloons are released into the air. It is the act of being present, lending an ear and providing companionship and help if needed.

Each of us is given time. Perhaps you've heard the charge to use your time wisely and make the most of it. The context of that admonition is generally connected to an activity or a goal. 

That is my charge too: Use your time wisely and make the most of it. But I ask you to consider the value and importance of giving time as a gift. Give and share yourself. The world would be a better place.

"And the king will answer them, 'Truly I tell you, just as you did it to

one of the least of these who are members of my family,

you did it to me.'"

Matthew 25:40

 

On Thumpers and Gliders and Other Differences

There are thumpers in this world. And there are gliders. At least that is my experience. They are as opposite from one another as the South Pole is from the North. Gliders are often upset and bothered by the sounds of a thumper; thumpers, generally, are not at all ruffled by gliders.

A glider enters a room quietly, barely making any sound, unless wearing high heels. On the other hand, a thumper can be heard approaching from quite a distance, with or without shoes as the sound of footsteps reverberates through the air. On occasion, the force is so solid, glassware rattles in cupboards. Such is the case with me. I openly admit and confess to being a thumper. I walk hard. And that is an understatement. In fact "thud" would probably be a more accurate description than "thump."

It had been a while since I gave it much thought. As a gardener, I don't make much of a sound walking behind a lawn mower and, living alone, am oblivious with no one to remind me. While cleaning a house today, I was barefooted. Because I land solidly on my heels first, the bare feet amplify the impact. I heard and observed the thump and the glassware. Memories of the chastisements from days gone by filled my mind. "Why DO you walk so hard? Can't you walk more softly? You're shaking the whole house. Try walking like a lady." The comments from gliders were gone, but not forgotten. I began processing the memories.

The unspoken message delivered was that something was wrong with me. I needed to change. I tried--more than once.The success rate was right at 0%, along with efforts to transform my curly hair to bone-straight, rid myself of a down-right stubborn streak, eliminate the procrastination factor, and change countless other traits and characteristics that make up the person I am.

It took a while to understand it isn't a right or wrong thing. It is a difference. I'm not the same as others. However, when one is struggling with self-acceptance and self-confidence, it's a monkey wrench thrown in that takes time and sorting to figure out.

Another person's differences are not cause for a rush to judgment. It is so easy to react, to respond critically without even thinking. We all handle situations differently, and when that is viewed as being right or wrong, negativity enters in. For example, I drive in a manner that is different from any other driver on the road. How often does that upset the one in the car behind me as I cautiously wait for traffic to pass before turning onto a street? I have a habit of asking questions I already know the answer to. That creates its own frustrations in my family. And I haven't even begun to discuss the differences in the way we each think and view ethics, philosophy, politics, the environment, nature, and religion...just to name a few. 

We are individuals; therefore, we are different from one another. No two people are the same.

Much of the focus in our country is placed on racial biases and prejudices. There is, however, a bias, prejudice, and an intolerance developing in our society and our nation toward any who disagree with those in the position of power and control. "We are right; therefore, you are wrong." Not so. 

We think, believe, and act differently, but they are differences, not a justification for division, rejection, or judgment. I am friends with many people with whom I differ in opinion and belief. That does not make me right and them wrong or vice versa. It means we are individuals, with a right to our respective points of view.

My uniqueness, including that of being a thumper, is God-given. So, too, is yours. God help us as a nation if we get to the point where difference is not respected, expected, and allowed. We are not--and must not be--clones. And, for myself as well, I need to be very careful I am not coming from a place of judgment when viewing other's differences, be they inner or outer. 

I told a former client my "thumper" story, telling of the criticisms and harsh comments I've received over the years. "Did you know that is a good thing?" she asked. She went on to say her doctor told her walking with impact increases bone density. In fact, the impact is what is important. Who knew? Certainly not the gliders in my life. Nor I. It's all in how you look at it, isn't it? 

May I treat others with the same level of respect I would like given to me--despite our differences.

"Do not judge, so that you may not be judged.

For the judgment you give will be the judgment you get."

Matthew 7: 1, 2

 

A Bunny, a Piano, and a Miracle

To say we started off on the wrong foot--the bunny and I--is a gross understatement. It was a year ago, more-or-less, that I first met her. And I didn't even find out "it" was a she until several months later--not that it would have made any difference. I did not like her from the get-go.

It wasn't a formal introduction. Bunny quietly appeared one late afternoon in my side garden, hopping merrily along as though she belonged. I had never seen her before and had no idea where home was for the little white creature with black ears. I thought she had strayed and fully expected she would return to wherever she came from. After all, cats do that, don't they?

New neighbors moved into the house next door about the same time the long-eared mammal appeared. I'm not the sharpest pencil in the box a lot of the time, but I did deduce (after a period of time) that bunny must be a family pet.

Time passed and war began. It wasn't between international nations or as injurious and widespread as that. I was the one openly at war--with the bunny. And her owners.   

From the beginning, my communication with them has consisted of sending an electronic message along with a picture of said bunny munching away in my back yard garden. The message was never very kind or pleasant. 

Initially I told them she and my strawberries would not be able to co-exist; they needed to contain her. I informed them rabbits should be housed in a cage well off the ground, as they are able to either chew or dig their way out. The owners tried other methods, and...they don't work. This past week bunny has, once again, ventured through the fence and settled in. My garden is heaven on earth for a bunny.

A friend loaned me a live bait trap, and I was able to snare her several times. However, the situation is similar to "bail reform" in some large cities where those who commit crimes are arrested, not charged, and walk out the same door they came in. It's the "revolving door syndrome," and it applies to small creatures as well.

Anger and frustration over the roving rabbit was readily directed at its owners. My war stance conflicted with the scripture "Love thy neighbor as thyself." Surely that doesn't apply to neighbors who own an obnoxious animal they are unable to keep caged. I conveniently boxed them up and put them on a shelf with a large label, that of "bad neighbors."

I did not want to associate with "those people next door" or even acknowledge their presence. A friendship and relationship was not a consideration. I wasn't outwardly unkind. I just avoided them and thought terrible, awful thoughts about them. After all, it is their responsibility to keep their pet fenced in. It is not my responsibility to have to protect my precious garden from it!

Sigh. 

Several days ago I heard the sound of a fledgling pianist, practicing. I sent a message: "Do I hear a piano next door?" Given my recent track record of complaints, I suspected Winnie, the recipient of my displeasure, might be on guard. "Yes," she responded. I went on to explain the reason I was asking is because I play the piano too. I was told the family has twin 10-year-old girls. One is taking piano lessons, the other violin lessons.

The proud mother shared a video of Yoyo playing the piano for an online concert. And this is where a miracle happened. I told her after the holidays I would like for Yoyo to come play my piano and Zoey to play the violin for me. She was thrilled over the invitation.

The recalcitrant little bunny will probably continue her ways. She will likely persist in wandering away from home. I'll have to figure out how to live with her.

The miracle is that my heart and my mind has changed. People matter. I espouse that often. I also espouse putting my money where my mouth is. I have done neither of those two things. I have been guilty of thinking only of myself and of not practicing what I preach. 

We cannot change ourselves. But we can be changed. And for me, a bunny and a piano had the lead roles in bringing that about.

 

 

 

The Earth is NOT the Center of the Universe

 

It was a wonderful day for thought. The weather was glorious. January in my part of the world, the Willamette Valley floor in Oregon, is typically gray and grim, cold and dank. This particular January, however, brought with it burgeoning evidence of spring. My quince shrub was blooming and brave daffodils were showing their faces; camellia bushes were awash with color and rhododendron everywhere were ready to explode into swaths of beauty. A record was even set the previous week for warmth on a particular day in January, having reached 68 degrees.

 My thoughts meandered while I worked in the sun, reveling in the bright blue sky with its fluffy, puffy, white clouds.

One of my first gardening clients in the area had passed away quickly and unexpectedly. Her response when given her harsh death sentence was “Wonderful!”  She knew the end of this life was a step into the next one.

The task at hand was to clean up her garden. In times past I could feel her presence, fully expecting her to wander out the front door with her smile and warm greeting. This time was different—I knew she was off to other, more important things and that the stash of oak leaves which had buried her plants was of no concern to her.

I spotted the property line marker as soon as I began. If she were still alive, I thought, she would be thrilled and relieved to see the bright orange indicator. Not knowing where the line was had brought her a great deal of anguish. And yet it matters not a whit to her where she is now.

My thoughts continued to wander as I remembered watching a video of a man who had dropped dead and yet fully recovered. A soft-spoken gentleman, he spoke of what he experienced, his conversation with God, the things he saw, and life upon returning back to his body.

Fortunate is the man or woman who knows that this earth and life on this earth is not the beginning and end of all things. Fortunate is the one who knows the things of this life are not transferable into the next one. No 401k will ever be rolled over into eternity. Neither will any contributions to charities or causes. Nothing of this world is applicable in the next—financial portfolios with investments and real estate; bank statements; listings with “Who’s Who;” political, religious, scientific, financial, or educational credentials; awards in any given industry, by any group of people. Fortunate are those who know this. This is truth.

Our physical lives are what we know, what we deal with on a daily basis. In this electronic age we can readily know what is going on around the world. Even at that, this earth and life on this earth is not the center of the universe.

And so my mind roamed. I do not know where God dwells. However, as I cleaned up the oak leaves in Dorothy’s garden, I decided that the center of the universe is wherever that is, and that is where I want to be.

As I sit looking out the window, fog has enveloped the scenery. I have wrapped myself in a blanket to ward off the chill. When I lived on the coast, there was a term for the weather we’ve had the past few days. They call it a “false spring.” When I finally head off to work I’ll put on an extra layer of clothing. And the thoughts will continue.

 

Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy,

and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

Matthew 6: 19, 20