Dusk

If I possessed any artistic talent whatsoever, I’d paint a picture for you of the dusky calm I’ve nestled into. The cool and cloudy-dark of a receding storm, the night bugs and tree frogs singing, the glow and scent of a favorite candle...after a whirlwindy-maelstrom of a month, this is what I need. Everything softens and relaxes with the waves of silky night air pouring through the windows.

The lack of posts all this time has been the quiet of happiness and thanksgiving, awe in the face of reflection. Yes, life has continued moving at a hectic pace and I frequently long to pause for naps in sunshine puddles, but overwhelmingly this season is one of wondering gratitude. It’s a season of hearing in the tree frogs’ song choruses of “it really is a fine evening, isn’t this moment grand?”

I don’t have a specific tale that comes to mind, but there is in Märchen a common concept of marking transitions, of recognizing the high and low points of life that cause one to be changed. Thankfulness, too, is a common theme and illustrated both in the positive and negative; those who recognize and express thanks are often successful in their venture, whereas those selfish and graceless “non-thankers” tend to encounter unpleasant repercussions. Scripture has a lot to say about thankfulness too (there are too many to choose from!).

“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.” Colossians 2:6-7

“You are my God, and I will give you thanks; you are my God, and I will exalt you. Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.” Psalm 118:28-29

“Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that can not be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our ‘God is a consuming fire.’” Hebrews 12:28-29

So I find myself, in this season of unexpected goodness that is NOTHING I can claim to have had a hand in, bowled over by achingly beautiful gratitude for and to my King. And my fear is not that failing to be thankful would be punished, but that I would become complacent and merely hoard the goodness that yes, is for me, but is ultimately to be shared for His glory. I’ve wrestled this whole summer with how to best offer thanks. I have been changed this past year, and none of it by my power. I have received a multitude of blessings, and none through deserving or earning or meriting. So then- how shall I mark this transition, and what expression of thanks is fitting to offer?

I have ideas, but no answers yet, and so I will bask in the cool dusk and the love of a great God and good King, and agree with the tree frogs- this really is a fine moment.

Yesterday

The announcement came over the radio yesterday morning… “Today is National ‘Tell a Fairy Tale Day,’ so call in and let us know which one is your favorite! I can remember being a kid and my Dad…”

What?? How did I miss this?

“Tell a Fairy Tale Day.” What a splendid thing to celebrate; I will do so and happily, even if I am a day late.

*             *             *

The shedding should have tipped us off. Each morning we’d come drowsily into the kitchen and stop, blinking in puzzlement at the near mountainous proportions of fur coating the floor. “How is this happening? It’s the middle of winter.” “Maybe it’s the breed; perhaps she doesn’t need as much fur.” We would shake our heads and continue on with the day, though with rather more sweeping than usual.

The fact of our owning a dog at all was an accident of location coupled with the inability to find another family willing to take in a stray of unknown origins. She made no demands, though, and required no discipline. I swore from the beginning that she understood everything we said and sometimes even the things we only thought at each other. She was an impossibly easy dog, so we agreed that she could stay. Putting up with inordinate amounts of shedding was worth her presence.

One morning after she was properly named and vetted and ours, an extra flash of movement caught my eyes as I entered the kitchen. Was that-? I rubbed my bleary eyes. No; the dog was asleep on her bed in the corner, not involved in whatever dream had crossed my vision. I said nothing of the incident to anyone. Soon it happened more and more frequently, these odd hallucinations of a strange woman operating a spinning wheel in my kitchen. I began dreaming, too, of solitary weavers singing to their looms, creating something altogether odd, something simultaneously fabric and story, textile and text.

The weavers’ song threaded its way into my waking hours. “What’s that song you’re humming? You’ve been at it for days. The dog sure seems to like it, but it’s starting to get annoying.” “Huh? Oh, I dunno. Must have heard it on the radio.”

Then came the weekend that I was to be home alone, everyone else having out-of-town plans. I was happy enough to be on my own since it would mean I wouldn’t have to hide my sidelong glances at the dog or humming of unknown songs. The first night the dog whined pitifully when I headed to bed; the second, she shook and moaned and whined; and on the third, she knocked me to the floor and refused to let me up.

The mantel clock chimed every quarter hour for the next several until midnight came. The fur flew faster with each of the twelve chimes, until a dog no longer sat on my chest but a woman stood before me, offering a hand of assistance to rise. I stood silently beside her for much of the night, watching as she spun fur into the finest thread and wove it with a song into encouragement with tassels of hope, or love within a pattern of longevity, or covered strands of loss with beauty and comfort. No two products were alike, but each she carefully folded and bound between book covers.

She produced a pen from thin air—hey, that’s the one I lost last week!—and wrote a single name into each volume. She looked at me and then bent to write a name in the last book: mine. I accepted it gently as she offered it to me and read in its pages the story of her arrival and an explanation of who and what she was. Her weaving song rose from the pages as I flipped through them, this time singing a powerful blend of gratitude and purpose held together with affection.

The chimes of the clock blended with the book’s song, and with no warning the woman vanished and my dog sat at my feet, softly wagging her tail and causing fur to drift along the floor. The book in my hands now appeared to be an ordinary volume telling the heartfelt tale of a beloved canine. These days it sits on one of my many book shelves, mostly silent except for times when I feel blue. It’s as though it just can’t help singing softly in those moments.

I have no clue what happened to the other books she made that night or over the many years she was with us, but I’d be willing to bet there are a few volumes on your shelf that sing to you when you need it most. Listen for their song—and if your dog sheds more than usual, tell her I say hello.