How can I make a return to the Lord?

A few weeks back I cranked up my fancy blender and made honey roasted peanut butter. It’s a sort of special treat. I had a massage appointment  soon thereafter, so I took a jar of this homemade yumminess to my massage therapist. My shoulders are often so  tight that I feel sorry for her mission to loosen the muscles and help me stay able to turn my head with ease, so a token of appreciation seemed in order. She was quite pleased. I promptly forgot that I had taken it to her, until yesterday.

When I arrived for my appointment she handed me the same [sort of fancy canning] jar that had born the peanut butter. But, now it was filled with honey from her hives. (Isn’t it great to know someone who can give a wonderful massage and also keeps bees? I think so.) When I explained that this was totally unnecessary, she told me that she had been taught that you don’t return these sorts of things empty. So, she shared with me her gift. She also gave me another gift, I think. That gift was an understanding that I am called to accept and enjoy the gifts God gives me, and in return, it is a good idea to return the vessel with an offering of my own. It’s not required.  I never told her I wanted the jar back. But, it brings joy on both sides when there is a return. I begin to make concrete the idea that God loves me and that is a gift freely given. But, the relationship, and the growth come out of my openness and response to that gift.

And — I really the honey!



Mother’s Day – a couple of days late

I love to be read to. I am discriminating, true, with the voices I enjoy listening to, but in general I just really enjoy it.

Today the American Theater class recital filled our Brown Bag lunch hour. My mom is a repeat participant in this class, and both times I have been present for the readings, her particular readings (from plays) always amaze me. No wonder I love to be read to.

Mama sat and read from Nora Ephram’s play (title is something like “Love, Loss and What I Wore”). She had never seen the particular story before, but she read it as though she was relating her own story. I listened and thought, once again, “No wonder I love to be read to.””

The gifts our mother’s give us… so often we must grow up, and perhaps become mothers and grandmothers in order to appreciate these gifts. I think I read reasonably well. I practiced my craft by reading to babies as I rocked them. They never laughed. I was free to try out all manner of expression, all sorts of timing and inflection without fear of being laughed at. Did my mother learn that way? Or is it simply her gift?

Thank you Mama for this gift. I only hope I can pass it on.