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And The Birds Sing
And The Birds Sing
by Marilyn Mackenzie
What a day this was! It was cold, at least for Texas. But, even with the cold, crisp air, the sun shone brightly. I really love the sunshine, and I know that's why I've grown to love the south so much! It wasn't until I spent my first winter in Houston in 1978 that I realized how growing up with the gray, dreary and long winters of the north really affected my spirits. I've lived in either Florida or Texas ever since, and I've been able to be Ms. Merry Sunshine even in the midst of winter.
I awoke this morning to birds singing and squirrels running up and down the trees near my apartment. It appears that they love the sunshine as much as I do. They, too, didn't seem to mind the cold, as long as the sun continued to shine.
But it definitely was cold, and it made me remember how I used to long for spring when I lived through the long winters in Pennsylvania and Michigan.
And the Birds Sing
by Marilyn Mackenzie
In my back yard is an argument
Sprouting flowers contradict huge mounds of snow
In my back yard is a symphony
Beginnings of spring harmonize with traces of winter
In my back yard there are opposites
Black slush is being melted by the warm spring sun
Ugly signs of winter
Being pushed away by the beauty of spring
And the birds sing
copyright 2002 Marilyn Mackenzie
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Delight In His Commands
by Marilyn Mackenzie
Some days I wake up just having to write something for or about God. Today was one of those days! The birds seemed to be having a party this morning - really celebrating. They sounded so excited. Theirs was not a fearful excitement, like when a cat lurks somewhere in the yard. Rather, it was joyful excitement, as if they were just happy to be alive and singing. For almost five hours now, they've been rejoicing. Sometimes their voices have combined, with all varieties of birds singing together. At other times, there have been soloists. But, they have been singing and rejoicing continually all morning. Too bad more humans don't awaken that way.
I awoke this morning feeling young and fresh and new. Praise the Lord! Yes, and as I sat down to visit with God, the words on my lips continued to be "Praise the Lord!" As I got out my Bible, it opened to Psalm 112. "Praise the Lord. Blessed is the man who fears the Lord, who finds great delight in his commands." (Psalm 112:1) Amen! Yes!
After reading the verse above, I remembered a women's Bible study I held a few years ago. There were about eighteen women in that study, and I was the youngest and feeling rather badly about leading it. Doesn't God's word say the the older women should teach the younger ones? God shared with me that some can be older and wiser in their faith than than their chronological age. Hmmm.
Some of my dear older friends questioned that verse. "How can we delight in his commands?" they asked. Wow. How can we not?!?
God's word is such an awesome instruction manual for all who will read it! But some are so stubborn that they insist on trying to construct a life without it. Some will only pick up the Bible after their lives have been broken and pieces have been misaligned or are missing. After making a mess of their lives, they finally consult God's instruction manual to discover where they went wrong. Glory be, what's so wonderful about our God and his instruction manual is that our lives can be restored like new again!
When one has tried to assemble a piece of particle board furniture without instructions and has given up and finally checked the directions, the furniture piece often has to be taken apart and put back together the proper way. But in re-assembling the bookcase or table, there can be holes in wrong places or marks that cannot be removed. Not so with us and God's re-assembling of our hearts and our lives! God can make us new people. He does. But how much simpler it would be to just follow his commands in the first place.
Why do we doubt that our Creator has the best idea of all about our purpose and our path in life? Looking around at his world, we can see that he is the greatest inventor of all. Who else could have created the birds and flowers and trees? Who else could have put together these bodies - such wonderful working systems and parts? As we acknowledge that God is the best inventor ever, mustn't we also realize that his instruction manual will also be the best ever? If his commands were made for our good, how arrogant of us to think that we can possibly think of a better way to live than by following those commands.
"Praise the Lord. Blessed is the man who fears the Lord, who finds great delight in his commands." (Psalm 112:1)
"He will have no fear of bad news; his heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord." (Psalm 112:7)
Amen and amen!
Have a great day!
copyright 2002 Marilyn Mackenzie
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My Father The Child
My Father, The Child
By Marilyn Mackenzie
April 2, 2002
I have heard and read about the aging process. I have even experienced the many travails of weighing nursing homes and assisted living centers over home health care, when my ex-mother-in-law occupied the other side of our duplex home. But naively, I guess, I never imagined those decisions would be something I'd have to face with my own parents.
My dad was such a strong man, both physically and emotionally. As a sheet metal mechanic, tin snips that as a child I couldn't even work with two hands exercised his hands daily, hourly. As a kid, I remember wanting to kiss his "boo-boos" - calluses on those mighty hands.
But the tough guy turned to jelly, like most dads, when he interacted with his kids. The macho man, who was used to being waited upon by my mom, learned how to heat up a can of Spaghetti-O's or to make tomato soup and sandwiches on those rare occasions that took mom away from home during the dinner hour. If mom was away and dad was in charge, we knew what the menu would be.
As he sat and watched TV (probably some western or sports show), he "allowed" us to massage his scalp and forehead and to comb his hair for hours. We'd put mom's curlers in his hair. He'd pretend to "forget" with us that the curlers were in his hair, and when we finally pulled them out, he'd laugh with us at his new curly hairstyle.
We'd stomp around the house in dad's big, smelly work boots, clodhoppers he called them. They had steel toes for his safety. How heavy that made them, and even my little brother wondered if he'd ever be able to "fill dad's shoes."
Dad was a drinker -a heavy drinker, at least on weekends - like many of the tradesmen of the time. He was prone to fits of anger if antagonized in his state of inebriation. But for the most part, I've always remembered my dad as a kind and gentle soul, especially since he gave up drinking and smoking years ago for health reasons.
I've never seen my dad get very emotional, but other family members have, when I left my first husband. I escaped an abusive marriage, and rather than run home where I imagined I'd end up coddled and turned into a spinster, I fled from everyone. For three days, my family didn't know where I had gone. Dad sat on his porch and cried. When I learned that I also learned, for the first time, that my dad really cared about me. He had never vocalized his love to any of us.
He has now though, over the past few years. My baby sister and I have learned to finish our phone conversations with, "I love you Dad." And he responds, "I love you too."
Today, I'm flying to see my parents and my sisters, so we can decide dad's fate. I'm the "Switzerland" or neutral party in a battle that already rages about whether a nursing home is today's answer to our new dad.
I wonder how I'll react to my new dad - the one who might not remember me, the one who sees cars racing up and down the walls. His mental decline has been so rapid that I never had the chance to visit one last time before he started forgetting and imagining.
Is it really a surprise that dementia and Alzheimer's patients go through an angry stage? Imagine suddenly seeing cars running up and down the walls. Then imagine coming out of the fog just briefly - just long enough to recognize how silly your visions seem to others. Wouldn't you be angry if you had to be introduced to your daughter, or worse still to your wife?
I was pondering all of this as the airline personnel announced that my plane was boarding. Once settled in my seat I took out my notebook and pen and started to write, rapidly. The man next to me was quite curious about what I was scribbling so fast. On the trip from Houston to Chicago, I wrote two stories one and a half poems. (Sadly, one poem might not be completed until I'm back up in the clouds again. That was such an inspiration!)
I wondered as I wrote...if the tears welled up in my eyes when I hugged my dad, would he sense the love I have for him? In tears and in silence, my dad always communicated so well.
My dad. My father, the child. When mom wasn't around, I leaned over and whispered, "Daddy, may I wear your clodhoppers?" And just a moment, he smiled and straightened from his normal (now) elderly slouch. For an instant, he became once more my dad, the man, strong and proud and brave.
copyright 2002 Marilyn Mackenzie
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