Who needs lego?

The house is pretty quiet lately; proof of the next season of life. Our adult children are busy about their lives leaving us and our hairy boy, Micah, to fill the quiet rooms of our home.

Here's a little trip down memory lane. When I submitted it to a writing course I was taking I called it "Who Needs Lego?"


We had received a letter from the government implying my husband had worked and not reported his earnings while collecting unemployment insurance. Given a very short deadline, the official document wielded power, affecting our heart rate. Fully aware of the consequences of not satisfying their audit, we spread the file folder of receipts over our bedroom floor and focused on finding the proof of our integrity.
As we concentrated, we lost track of time and our adventure-seeking two year old.
Neither of us paid any attention to the noise in the bathroom down the hall. Nor did it register that Timmy was the only other body capable of flushing a toilet and shouldn’t even have a need since he was still in diapers. It wasn’t until I heard little feet sloshing and slopping through water that I finally tuned in and decided to investigate.
As I stood in the doorway, my socks were instantly soaked. The mat in the middle of the floor, held down by the weight of the rubber backing, was covered by a mix of water and mushy Purex, a discarded pair of black sweat pants lay in a soggy heap by the wall. Poised over the toilet, chubby fist clenching a fresh wad of toilet paper ready for the flushing stood our little man. He had discovered the joy of what-happens-when-you-flush-a-plugged-toilet.
Before I had a chance to say a word, Timmy realized he was no longer alone. His blue eyes, dancing with the thrill of the adventure, quickly dropped to the floor. His smile of delight changed to a frown, then a pout.
“I found it.” My husband called from the floor of paperwork.
Letting loose a giggle, I scooped up a soggy-diapered adventurer, tickling his exposed tummy. “I found something, too.” I mumbled into a mop of damp, blonde hair then planting a noisy, teasing kiss to the nape of his neck.
With Timmy in his daddy’s sight, I soaked the pool of water up with towels. As I rung them out over the tub, two nuggets of wisdom rose to the surface of my mind: First and most obvious, don’t leave fun-seeking two year olds unattended and expect them to stay out of trouble.
Secondly, whenever possible take the fun-seeking-two-year-old approach to life: Find delight in simple, available pleasures, like toilet-bowl waterfalls.

“So I recommend having fun, because there is nothing better for people to do in this world than to eat, drink, and enjoy life. That way they will experience some happiness along with all the hard work God gives them.” Ecclesiastes 8:15 NLT

A Much Earned Day Off

Ever have one of these kinds of days? Sometimes the things we long for, crave or dream about aren't as good as what we already have. Then again, maybe its good they disappoint because they make us appreciate the routine we otherwise groan about...

A DAY OFF

Energized by the day ahead of her, Jane set a breakfast-of-champions on the table before her husband, Bob.

“Hmmm, you should book a day off more often,” Bob mumbled around his poached egg and bacon. “Whatcha’ got planned?”

Handing him a napkin for the glob of yolky-ketchup hanging on his moustache, Jane just smiled.

Fifteen minutes later, coffee in hand, she was starting her day as she liked – slowly. Then the piercing ring of the cordless interrupted Jane’s thoughts. Going against better judgment, she ran to find it.

Nine-year-old, Sara, passed her on the way to the bathroom. “Morning, Mom.”

Three rings later… “Hello?”

“Hey, honey, I’m heading into a very important meeting and just realized I forgot my laptop. Think you could drop it off?” Bob asked.

The sound of running water could be heard from the hallway as seven-year-old Jimmy, now stood at the closed door. Hopping from one foot to the next, his grimace told the story.

Jane knocked, then yelled through the door. “Sara, Jimmy needs to use the bathroom.”

“Honey, is everything okay?” Bob called through the phone.

Jane took a deep breath. “We're fine Bob. Yeh, I can do that for you.”

“Thanks, Babe, can’t talk; gotta run.”

While Jane was dressing, she heard Sara banging on the bathroom door over the sound of the still-running water. About to suggest a more polite approach, Jane felt her socks getting wet. As they both looked down, the water flowed around their feet and into the hall.

“Jimmy, open the door...NOW!”

Jane turned as her son called from the kitchen, a slice of bread in hand, licking peanut butter off a knife. “I’m here, Mom, making my lunch. Whatcha' need?”

“Aahhhh.” Using a nail for the locked door, Jane got inside, shut the water off, and pulled the plug in the sink.

Sara scooped up a sopping, disgruntled cat, the sole occupant of the now-flooded bathroom. With a shrug of embarrassment, she explained, “Smokey was thirsty, Mom.”

Leaving to find dry socks, Jane was met by Bart, the golden retriever, happily crunching on kitty litter. Wanting to share his treasures, Bart pressed his nose into Jane’s thigh leaving a blotch of softened pebbles, saliva, and little bits of “best-not-to-ask” on her new jeans.

An hour later Jane was in her car, working her way back to peace and quiet. The bathroom fiasco behind her, children at school, she cranked the volume of the stereo playing her favorite CD. At the chorus, the car sputtered and stalled. Coasting to the side of the country road, Jane grabbed her purse and began the ten-minute walk to the nearest gas station, the Honda’s hazard lights announcing the unplanned stop to everyone passing by.

Across the street from the Husky, Jane waited impatiently for the light to turn green. As she stepped out into the crosswalk, a delivery truck rumbled to a stop beside her, waiting to turn right. Too late for Jane to move out of the way, the truck’s front right tire rolled perfectly into a water-filled pothole, forcing its contents out of the hole and down the back of Jane’s white, cotton pants.

Without the cash deposit for the jerrycan, she went straight to the bank machine. Conscious of the soiled state of her backside, she stood sideways. After three tries at remembering her password, the machine invited her to contact her local bank, keeping her card.

A familiar voice behind her asked, “Jane? Is that you?”

Once over the initial embarrassment of having her boss see the mess she was in, Jane was actually thankful for their chance meeting. He paid for the filled jerrycan and took her back to the car.

By the time Jane got to Bob’s office, her pants were dried and crusty. Attempting to remain incognito, she never noticed the trail of dirt dropping in mini-clumps as she darted in and out a side door leaving the laptop where he would find it.

Back at home, the phone rang as the mantle clock chimed one.

“Mrs. Willsome? We thought you’d like to know …”

This can’t be good …

“Jimmy had to spend his lunch hour in The Success Room. During Science he carried another student’s desk into the boys’ bathroom. We understand that Lisa had been teasing him, but Jimmy’s reaction broke the Code of Conduct ...”

That night as Jane readied for bed, she smiled at the excitement she felt over going to the office the next day.

Bob came out of the bathroom, a silly grin on his face. “Bet you’re wishing you had another day off.”

Jane feigned a scowl and muttered, “Funny, Bob, real funny.”


©bonniederksen2008

A Father's Kiss

With my hand in his, we sit gazing out the hospital window. My father propped in his bed, I to his right in a recliner. Though he hasn’t given up fighting the disease and I haven’t given up fighting for hope, I sense time is limited, each moment precious.

We wait, in silence, for sunrise.

The November sky is uncharacteristically clear. Night-greys are giving way to the pinks of early dawn, a canvas of colors, in varying shades, swirled together with skill and precision.

The sensation of my hand in his pulls me back to a time when I drew courage and strength from his touch. As a little girl the simple act of placing my hand in his provided safety and security. Now my grip is stronger; mine the hand offering reassurance.

An orange glow of anticipation is cast over the street scene seven stories below as the sun moves closer to the crest of the horizon. If I stand, I can see morning commuters going about their day like any other. Ordinary cannot be used to describe our lives. Because of cancer we are suspended in this time and place. Ordinary has been put on “pause”.

I lean back against the stiff upholstery of the hospital chair. The night was difficult and long; sleep disrupted, as my father’s body ravaged by the chemotherapy and radiation treatments, fights the transplanted stem cells.

I smile as I think of the need for the nurses throughout the dark nighttime hours. Even in the midst of pain and weakness, my father thanked them for caring for him. They had smiled briefly in response, refreshed by his gratitude.

Now the room is quiet in spite of the early-morning-busyness beyond the door. I gently squeeze the hand of my childhood-comforter.

Tears strangely absent, my throat released from the usual choke-hold of emotions, I break the silence. “I love you, Dad.”

A faint squeeze comes in response. He opens his eyes revealing the strong light of his spirit, tenuously held within a body on borrowed time. “I love you too, Bon,” he says with effort. Radiation has damaged his vocal chords, his voice barely above a whisper.

The morning sun breaks from the horizon, rising in its fullness. Streams of light, reflecting off the windows of surrounding buildings, fill our room with brilliance and warmth. As if given a holy assignment the sun caresses our faces, pushing cancer to the periphery of our thoughts.

As the brilliance fades to a normal hue, I turn to my Dad. “Wow. That was amazing.” I whisper.

He nods and smiles. A simple phenomenon of nature, recognized as a gesture of love from Heaven. Received like a kiss from our Father.

Releasing my dad’s hand, I move to the foot of his bed and try to help by massaging the atrophying muscles in his legs. After closing his eyes, his breathing evens out and he dozes off. A merciful albeit temporary, respite from the pain.

With the pungent aroma of the massage oil filling the room, a picture of my Dad’s life wafting heavenward like a fragrant offering, overwhelms me.

I smile, again, in spite of the tears.

Why worry?

Lately, I've been sifting through journaling from days gone by and dusted off this entry dated four years ago:


I'd thought I was doing a good job of covering up the worry. Despite my stomach feeling like it was on a spin cycle, I had smiled and started to say goodnight until a strong hand, placed gently on my shoulder, stopped me.

The same hand that God had formed in my womb, that I'd held tightly while crossing a busy intersection, that had bravely waved goodbye on his first day of kindergarten now, almost twice the size of mine, redirected my attention.

Standing before his six-foot-something frame, I lifted my eyes to look into his. A young man of very few words, he cleared his throat and spoke with profound wisdom. “I’m not gonna stop doing what I'm doing just ‘cause you worry, Mom.”


He was right. I knew it then and still know it but even though worrying is a waste of energy it often seems my first response to trouble. I need help in the rewiring of my mind...

"Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life." Paul to the Philippians

An explanation

Some people have asked "Why "Bees Buzzes"?"

They look at me strange and confused, in tender and endearing ways.

Call it my windy road of creativity.                                       
                       
                       My name is Bonnie...
                               ...Sometimes I shorten it to "B."...
                                         ...and phonetically that sounds like "Bee"...
                                                                   ...Bees buzz ...
                                                       ...and I talk...
                                                ...and ask questions....
                                    ...Lots of questions...
                                                   ...Just ask my family...
                                                           ...And from those answers, both partial and full, I write...
     
    So Bees Buzzes seemed creatively appropriate. And catchy - at least in my mind.

Then, like a soft ribbon of yellow floating on a gentle breeze, this thought came...

Writing is to me

As the buzz is to the bee.

It's my way of making known

The love that God has shown

For people just like me

And all creatures like the bee.

Fresh Mercies

I was wandering in my writing attic yesterday and dusted off this little meditation. Even though we've now entered the fall season and are in the midst of a beautiful, unseasonably warm Okanagan Autumn. I realized the fun of reminiscing back to the Spring...

Ah, a day off!

I stretched out on a lounge chair, facing full into the gentle morning sun and was quickly warmed through. There was nothing but blue sky as far as the eye could see. Joy bubbled within as I savored the freedom to be outside with no agenda.

The flower gardens joined as a patchwork quilt of living color, a collage of snapdragon pinks and periwinkle blue pansies, highlighted with tiger lily oranges and poppy reds. Like sipping iced tea in the shade of a hot afternoon, I drank in the beauty of the maturing yard. It satisfied the gardening-thirst deep within.

From the skittering ants at my feet to the osprey circling high above, the air was charged with the energy of life around me. As I opened my bible, finches chased each other through sprawling limbs of Chinese Elms to my left, pausing here and there to belt out their hearty arrangement of harmonies with no recognizable melodic theme. A robin, perched in the safety of a Cedar to my right, chirped a message of warning to our nonplussed cat lazing in the sun beside me.

Leaning back into the warmed fabric of the chair, morning-mouth greeted me as I swallowed.  Forgot to brush… When I go in next time...

A cup of tea, like soothing elixir, steamed my sunglasses as I sipped from a favorite mug, the perfect combination of milk and sugar, hitting the “spot” as my English granny would say.

Though the drying effect of the summer sun would soon be experienced by all it touched, a deep breath took in moist, humid air as multitudes of dewdrops sparkled on tips of the blades of grass before me. Like a soft, shag carpet, the thick lawn, a result of fertilizer and extra care, cooled my bare feet. Spreading toes wide into the depths, I noted the need for mowing as strands of dark green covered and tickled.

The sun touched the pages of my worn bible releasing a familiar scent to waft in the air like a ribbon. As coins plunk into a piggy bank, memories dropped into my mind. Each deposit was of time spent searching for Derksen-truths, Bonnie-anchors or hope-holds. The edges of the pages, soft and weathered, moved with the gentle breeze, occasionally lifting and flipping as if to highlight a different passage or story.

Then in the stillness of heart and mind, the Creator of all that surrounded me began to speak.

“My mercies are new every morning…”

Heart's Desire

It was asked of my heart,

The source of intentions,

“What would your desire for inner life be?”

“To soar like the eagles,
 To be anchored through life’s storms,
 To have heaven’s riches dwell fully in me.”

“To be like a tree 
That is planted by water,
 Whose roots go down deep, drawing food from below.

Where the wind
 Can blow harshly,
 The rain fall down heavy
 Yet still it stands, for its source it does know.”

“Ah, dear heart

That is noble,

And certainly lofty,

Just how do you plan to fulfill such a call?”

“Resting sure in 
His shelter,
 Hanging tight to
 His Garment, 
Leaning into the Wind of the Spirit, through it all.”