Welcome to the May edition of So I Won’t Forget.
An extra warm welcome to many of the new friends around We Have This Hope—I’m so grateful to have you! You are (hopefully) about to read a monthly series that was birthed out of my own desire to practice remembering as a spiritual discipline. Each month I aim to live fully awake to God’s good work in my life. This usually looks like collecting, observing, and pondering the little things while I drink coffee, take my kids to art camp, and walk around my neighborhood. It’s a light lift for anyone, but it does require a bit of cultivating—just like any worthwhile rhythm of life.
So let’s get right to it…This is May and here are the things I don’t want to forget.
#1…The Land of Counterpane
One of the few slow mornings May afforded me came with coffee in bed and the luxury of snuggles from my youngest daughter. She is a hard one to pin down—always buzzing with energy or fury or delight—so having her curled up under my arm still inhibited by sleepiness from the night before was a Mothers’ Day gift not to be squandered. I knew if I moved to grab a book or toy, even one as close as the dresser, would mean the moment was over for me so I brought out the most timeless play-based resource at my disposal—my hands.
With my fuzzy robe layered over the bedcovers forming hills and valleys across our laps, my fingers became little people traversing a mountain range. The hills were alive and she was enraptured. Her tiny fingers joined mine in a dance of delight, a race against some imaginative danger and eventually, to my sheer joy, she layered in funny voices. For ten whole minutes my busy girl giggled out her imagination using nothing more than what was attached to her body. Holy moly, I thought, it worked.
Growing up we often read from a poetry book called A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson. My sister, a literary nerd from birth, had a way of always elevating her preferences to the front of the room so this poetry collection became a staple of my childhood with her favorite poem, The Land of Counterpane, forever imprinted in my mind. In the poem, a little girl is home sick in her bed with nothing more to amuse her than the imaginary land she creates out of her bedsheets. As a child I remember realizing the Land of Counterpane was just a game being played by the little girl rather than a real place—what a riddle I thought I had uncovered! Now through adult eyes, this is adorably obvious.
I told Cece about her aunt’s love for The Land of Counterpane and looked up the poem with my phone in hand. I watched her little eyes light up with the same realization that mine had all those years ago. Now she was “the giant great and still that sits upon the pillow-hill” and my heart ached in more ways than one. I saw myself immersed in my sister’s world—one without pain as the poem alludes—introducing her namesake to a treasured thing only we shared. A thing now I hold onto for the both of us.
In a wild and precious ending to this story, my mother-in-law gifted me a copy of A Child’s Garden of Verses for my birthday this month. I had mentioned casually to my husband that I couldn’t believe we didn’t have it and I’d like to have one. Out of the book slipped a handwritten note that in the recesses of my memory I certainly had seen before. It was the handwriting—I knew it was hers before I even read a word. My sister had gifted this poetry collection to my mother-in-law, a connoisseur of children’s books, many years before and in the note even mentioned her favorite poem by name. I knew that already, of course.
And so I’ll keep them forever—the note, the poem, the memory—the combination of them a thin place for me, one where my daughter, my sister, and my future hope mysteriously mingle together in the pleasant land of counterpane.
And sometimes sent my ships in fleetsAll up and down among the sheets;Or brought my trees and houses out,And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and stillThat sits upon the pillow-hill,And sees before him, dale and plain,The pleasant land of counterpane.
#2…Totally Safe Sheep
I was there for the most adorable field trip in the history of field trips.
My darling first graders (plural because I have twins, not because I’m a teacher) visited a working sheep farm in rural Oklahoma led by a long-time veterinarian and shepherdess. I’ve actually been on this exact field trip before with my older daughter so I looked forward to it with a knowing anticipation. The farm itself is not massive and it’s not home to a whole zoo of animals, but you can count on a couple of donkeys, a goat, and a few eccentric looking alpacas. What they do well at Shepherd’s Cross is sheep—sheep they know.
We arrived on a perfectly drizzled day with rain boots and a van-load of enthusiasm. Dr. Dickinson, the shepherdess, met us with her crook in hand as we corralled kids into groups so they could ride out into the pastures. The hidden beauty of this day was really in the way she engaged the kids, speaking to them with the authority and tenderness of someone who really knows animals, who sees them as valued creatures with a job to do, but also doesn’t coddle them like a lap dogs.
Propped up on the back of her tractor in the middle of the pasture, Dr. Dickinson asked us to look around. What do you notice about the sheep? Little voices piped up with the obvious answers. They’re black and white. They look dirty. Ewwww, it’s pooping. As the laughter subsided and she called everyone back to attention, she drew attention to their stillness. See how they’re so still. Why do you think that is? I found myself captivated by her prompts, holding back my answers to make space for the children. She’s not talking to you—the voice in my head whispered. Except maybe she was.
It’s just that the sheep were so relaxed and her questions made me feel something. Their small, rather unimpressive bodies were curled up in the grass in such a way that communicated they had nothing to fear. I’d never noticed how still sheep could be and how stillness, the truly embodied kind, seems to overflow from an assurance that all will be well. I thought about how busy I am, how I wake up early and I get right to it—exercise, prayer, calendars—all the good disciplines I’ve cultivated over years of maturing, and yet stillness is quite obviously absent from my routine.
The sheep and I have many things in common. We’re fairly well-fed, we have room to do the things we like to do, we have donkeys (literal and metaphorical) around to ward off any disturbances to the stable life we lead, and we share the assurance that our Maker is good and has all things under His care. The main difference between me and the sheep is posture.
Am I still?
Do I know who God is?
Will I settle into the grass that He’s leading me to and just breathe?
I’m not sure, but I want the answers to be yes.
We ended our time in the pasture with the children all reciting Psalm 23 aloud. The sheep lazed about us, the shepherdess smiled knowingly on, and for a brief moment I mirrored the stillness of everyone around me. Their precious voices ringing out the familiar rhythms of King David’s words forced a stillness out of everyone. I swear even the grass stood at attention.
The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing…your rod and your staff, they comfort me…surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life…
How could I not stop in my tracks to these truths—recited by a chorus of single-digit aged children no less? So I suppose the lesson is simply to be more like the sheep.
May there be more laying down in the month of June.
#3…Here’s Your One Chance, Fancy…Don’t Let Me Down.
This month my family gifted me a goose. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while, researching online a bit, but uncertain if I could pull off. She’s white with a broad chest, an orange beak and yellow feet—a truly lovely goose. She lives on our front porch now and I named her Fancy.
Also, she’s made of plastic—a porch goose from Gaggleville.
First of all, I hope someone for a brief moment thought I owned a real goose. Secondly, I hope many of you can appreciate her name and the reference to a one Mrs. Reba McEntire’s infamous and deeply formational-for-me song Fancy. This song dominated the country music video charts for most of my childhood summers spent at Lake Tenkiller and I knew every word. Why in the world I was so enraptured by a song like this, I do not know. But I can say confidently that my mother must not have known because she would have vetoed it in a heartbeat.
I learned about porch geese because there is another home in our neighborhood that has one and I started noticing that the goose had outfits. Yes, outfits. In October, it was dressed in overalls with some hay. In November, it wore a turkey costume. The grand finale came in December when the goose turned into a Christmas tree with its little beak sticking out like it had no shame.
Reflecting on the hilarity of this whole situation made me realize that whoever lived in that house must be playful and lighthearted. I found myself driving more slowly in the hopes of catching them outside in the yard. They must be interesting and amiable people because how could you not be when you’ve dressed a plastic goose in a yellow polka dot bikini?
I talked about their goose enough times that I suppose my family thought I’d like to be a porch goose lady and it turns out they were correct. It’s not because I want to spend money in wasteful ways—like on the red checkered bathing suit with matching sunglasses that should arrive on Monday—it’s because I want to be playful and lighthearted. I want neighbors to giggle when they see it and know we don’t take ourselves too seriously around here. I want my kids to delight in the silliness of it all—to laugh together or roll their eyes while it burns a memory in their brains so that one day they tell their kids about it. Remember that time Mom dressed the goose up for Dad’s birthday? Or the time she pulled out the American Girl clothes to see what would fit?
I realize in sharing about this seemingly frivolous purchase that I am at once admitting to the luxury of being able to do such a thing—to be silly. I am well aware of the complex world we live in, one that is at times wrought with heartache so deep we can barely breath and anxiety so acute it wakes us in the middle of the night. I don’t pretend to have experienced it all, by God’s grace I certainly haven’t. But I have tasted it a bit and felt it lurking behind me in some unnameable way. While I know the real antidote is a defiant, mysterious hope that looks to God’s in-breaking kingdom, I also believe deeply that this shared humor is actually a legitimate investment that will produce a return—lighthearted people who invite others into silliness so we can go on sharing our lives. If we can’t laugh together, then we can’t cry together.
I don’t know about you, but I need people who can do both.
So in the words of the great Reba McEntire….here’s your one chance, Fancy. Don’t let me down.
* Want to learn more about the practice of remembering? You can hear me chat about it on this recent episode of The Second Cup with my friend Deidre Braley!
* Next week I get to share an excerpt from the book Mid-Faith Crisis: Finding a Path Through Doubt, Disillusionment, and Dead Ends. It’s co-authored by Catherine McNiel, an author who I really admire (and who is graciously mentoring me through my early days as a writerly person, a true gift!) This means I got an advanced copy and I’m halfway through it. I won’t spoil anything for you, but I can say that my first reaction was whoa, this book is so needed right now.
* Finally, if you’re still here, would you leave me a comment with any reactions, stirrings, or thoughts that came up for you as you read? These mean the world to me and are fuel to my creative fire. 🫶
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