Sons of Zebedee

Several nets:
Not that many, but they are enough.
We cast they daily, and they,
in turn,
return full, brimming with fish, with contentment.

Flourish? Yes, sometimes.
But even when we flounder, we fish.
The squares of our nets bind our lives
Like so many bricks, so much mortar.
The are our purpose, our way.


Until
one day
He arrived.

He said very little - just watched us at our work
(we were mending the nets, I believe)
Tying the worn little squares back together.
We sat there, silent, both waiting.
But that gaze! In His waveless eyes we felt
The Lake after raising a storm
The Sky when the moon's barely up
The Wind when it blows in the Spring
And we loved Him.

"Follow Me," He said.
So we did.
Left our nets
And our Dad
And climbed aboard this Man's ship -
Oarless, netless
And fearless as if we'd had many.

I still remember the first puffs on the road, walking after Him,
Following Him down His path, toward His purpose
Following Him to the Deep we had craved.

We had found our true Way.

Vitamin Gift

Three kids. That's not a large number. Yet they are who the Lord has given me, and I know they love me dearly.

How do I know? That's easy! They shower me with presents! I receive so many knicknacks, portraits, bouquets, rocks and feathers, and abstract twig carvings that I have created a receptacle for them all. Euphemistically termed "Mommy's mailbox," it hangs innocently on my bedroom wall, collecting all the treasures for which I've no home. Periodically, I slink away and dispose most of them ... in the trash can.

But don't tell! A deep part of my mother-heart feels shame and remorse at not being able to receive each of these treasures with the joy in which it was created. I think this is due, in part, to the fact that my own childhood memories don't include a feeling of 'overgifting' my parents. To my recollection, my gifts were each so thoughtful, so artful, so apt! The truth that they were probably the same slips of paper and bits of string my own children offer me seems irrelevant - and maybe that's the beauty of childhoos. All our treasures are priceless - all our creativity is gold. In our minds, our parents have enough room to store every cherished offering indefinitely, pulling them all out and admiring them without end.

And this is as it should be. Our parents, human replicas of the Divine, are created to respond to us with the same open-handed joy as our Father. True, their receptiveness has an end, but our childish eyes don't perceive it.

And isn't it lovely that, in God's eyes, we all remain children? No matter how mature we may feel, we still function as kids, endlessly offering our bits of glitter and glue for His pleasure. And pleasure they bring! He delights in our offerings, filling up on the tidbits we bring. He wants it all - and He has no secret dumping-ground for these gifts! He savors them, displays them with pride, and gives us the encouragement to keep on creating - all out of His deep parental pride in our existence.

Thank You, God, for accepting my gifts. Thank You for being my Dad.