George MacDonald Narrates Life

A poem out of Diary of an Old Soul, a meditation for September.

13.

'Things do go wrong. I know grief, pain, and fear.
I see them lord it sore and wide around.'
From her fair twilight answers Truth, star-crowned,
'Things wrong are needful where wrong things abound.
Things go not wrong; but Pain, with dog and spear,
False faith from human hearts will hunt and hound.
The earth shall quake 'neath them that trust the solid ground.'

Machetes, Mission Bamboo, Family

Why was my forearm hurting on Tuesday? Why was my hand cramped? Because I was wielding a machete all Monday. At Joella's family's home, affectionately called The Hideaway, some of her family, Becky and I worked at landscaping. We hacked at weeds and poison ivy, growing in large, jungly ropes up the sides of trees thick and tall. Some of the vines were so hefty that they were suitable for Tarzan-style swinging.

After the larger part of the work for the day was finished, it was decided that some of us should go find bamboo to be assembled into an archway at the end of the lane. The only problem was that no bamboo grew on their property. Normally, this is a blessing, for bamboo is invasive, as Asher pointed out, and Joella, and Zachary... "but the old place has bamboo!" "But we can't just go creeping around there. It's too visible. Plus that'd be weird." "There's some bamboo down the road at the neighbors'!" "Yeah!" "I'll go along if we can sing the 'Mission Impossible' theme!"

And so, Becky, Joella, and I took Snickers bars and the family pick-up down route 441 to a stand of bamboo on the shoulder of the road. We clambered out and hacked away, no doubt to the bewilderment of all passersby. But, I ask you, what would you do if you needed bamboo RIGHT NOW? That's what I thought.

We worked quickly, and I sat in the back of the pick-up with the 12 green stalks, my legs and arms around the bases of the stalks, foliage flying. Joella did not go slowly the half mile down 441, and several times the stalks wrenched almost free of my grasp, and out into the wide world. At the end of the lane, we deposited the bamboo and went flying up to the house to "get into our party clothes" for a picnic with Jo's family.

The Garbers are so sweet. The celebration began in a circle of lawn chairs, with Jared and Sarah, in unintentionally matching shirts, introducing the strangers to the family. Then we ate, and I drank up the atmosphere of family. Joshua, the one-year-old, was all the centerpiece anyone could wish for. He played alone in the middle of this circle, with the occasional family member stopping by to help him play his colored xylophone.

In little time, the circle had divided into three groups: the men, the women, and the youth, with Joshua, of course, on the outer edge of all three of these. I remained a member of the youth group for the purposes of this gathering, for even some of the young married folks found themselves still in the youth group. We told jokes and chatted about the silliest things. Haha, running barefoot...

It made me wonder what my family would do on such an occasion (if, say, we were ever to have one). Would there be outsiders? Would there be awkwardness if we were to so align ourselves in time and space as to be together? Would the men find a common interest? Would the women? Would there be pettiness? Probably not much, pettiness takes a certain level of comfort... I don't know. But I want to find out someday. I miss what I know of my extended family.

Geese and Work

I sat on the steps near the duck pond, reading J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories. Friday was hot, you'll recall, but dry. It reminded me of Arizona, where the wind and the heat hug your body. Class was in session, so the campus was quiet. The benches around the pond were filled with students not earnestly doing work. Peace reigned in this liminal space that marked the start of class, but not the end of summer.

Then goose honking filled the air. Fast-approaching, an air raid of geese swarmed overhead, flying in three close, lopsided V's. They normally inhabit the surface of the pond and surround it with wispy white feathers, causing some commotion which fades into the background. They are the hosts of the pond, really. And yet, I did not even know they were missing until they touched down in the middle of the pond, fully exploiting their rights as both denizens and hosts of the pond.

At first, they clustered in their flying groups and faced each other, West Side Story style. Then they became one large flock once more and faced the fountain on the eastern side of the pond. Little by little, their honking ceased. They were paying obeisance to the great fountain, which kept their water from stagnating and smelling. I half expected the fountain to talk, for it seemed as though they were all waiting for something. The geese held their positions in the turning waters, for a breeze had kicked up, and their own flapping had caused the water to stir.

As slowly as their honking had stopped, they turned to their different poses of life, as if suddenly remembering this was their home and they had housekeeping, after all. They preened and squawked a little, and dived down, and pecked one another, and forgot the fountain and their warlike entrance.

I turned to work. I have two jobs right now: The Cove at Millersville, and College Corner Cafe (fondly known as The Bagel Shop) at Franklin and Marshall College. It will probably get a little complicated to work out my schedule if I keep both jobs all semester... and goodness knows what next semester will hold in the way of work, for I'll be student teaching. I'm praying now. Pray, too, for provision that I might not have to work so much.