The Lanyard (Mother's Day)

Billy Collins was Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2005. The Lanyard BY BILLY COLLINS The other day I was ricocheting slowly off the blue walls of this room, moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano, from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor, when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard. No cookie nibbled by a French novelist could send one into the past more suddenly— a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake learning how to braid long thin plastic strips into a lanyard, a gift for my mother. I had never seen anyone use a lanyard or wear one, if that’s what you did with them, but that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand again and again until I had made a boxy red and white lanyard for my mother. She gave me life and milk from her breasts, and I gave her a lanyard. She nursed me in many a sick room, lifted spoons of medicine to my lips, laid cold face-cloths on my forehead, and then led me out into the airy light and taught me to walk and swim, and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard. Here are thousands of meals, she said, and here is clothing and a good education. And here is your lanyard, I replied, which I made with a little help from a counselor. Here is a breathing body and a beating heart, strong legs, bones and teeth, and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered, and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp. And here, I wish to say to her now, is a smaller gift—not the worn truth that you can never repay your mother, but the rueful admission that when she took the two-tone lanyard from my hand, I was as sure as a boy could be that this useless, worthless thing I wove out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Improvisational Gratitude

"Paul Duke once said that praise is the "jazz factor" of faith, that praise is love improvising its answer to love. Praise is love improvising its answer to love. When one is learning to play an instrument, one first has to learn the basic fingering and, with some instruments, the discipline of breath control. First pieces of music are relatively uncomplicated, as one learns to transfer the notes that one sees on the score to the breath and the fingers, and ultimately into simple melodies. Over time the melodies may become more complex, requiring more intricate dexterity and coordination. Some musicians become remarkable technicians, learning to play flawlessly and with great passion. And a few of them will discover a capacity to internalize the score, to sense deeply its ebb and flow, and then to float free of that score, improvising as they go... retaining the theme, but enriching it with their own grace....

When I'm at my best, I can improvise such praise. When I'm at my best, even simple daily occurrences can stir such feelings: the laughter of a young child, a sunset full of orange and yellow, a warm bowl of oatmeal on a crisp autumn morning, safe transit through heavy traffic, an unexpected act of kindness, a pedal note on the organ that makes the windows rattle and my heart stir, a disagreement settled and resolved. When I'm at my best, I can improvise praise and gratitude for such moments.

At other times I find my senses dulled by routines, or my conscious thoughts consumed by those things that cause anxiety, by pettiness and envy, by expectation and demand. In those days I do well simply to follow the score. By "the score," I mean the commands of God for faithfulness, for honesty, for treating others with respect, for demonstrating kindness to my neighbor. Sometimes just following the score seems like burden and demand. And in those days improvisational gratitude seems impossible, at least without some help.

There's an old story about a renowned pianist and composer - a grand one who lived at the beginning of the last century - and a lovely thing that happened at the start of one of his concerts. At this particular concert a woman and her young son came to hear the master play. The young boy had only recently begun his piano lessons, and the mother, wishing to encourage his studies, took him to the concert.

The two were seated just prior to the concert, but the mother spotted a dear friend along the aisle a few rows back and went to speak to her, telling the boy to wait in his seat. But, then, what child likes to sit still? And so seizing the moment of opportunity to explore a bit, the boy made his way down the aisle, through an open curtain in a doorway and disappeared.

The houselights dimmed and the mother returned to her seat, discovering as she did that her son was not in his seat. She began frantically to look all around, not paying attention to the curtains opening on stage. But at the laughter of the audience, she looked, and there, seated at the magnificent Steinway on the stage, was her son, haltingly playing the first song he had learned to play: "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

The mother was horrified, and started to get up; but at that same moment the great pianist himself entered from the other side of the stage, putting his finger to his mouth to still the audience. He moved to the piano and whispered in the boy's ear. The boy kept playing, and then the master reached down with his left hand and began filling in a bass part to the composition. Soon his right arm reached around to the other side of the child and he added a running obbligato. Together the old master and this young novice transformed an awkward moment into a moment of grace, and as they finished playing, the audience broke forth in thunderous applause.

The truth is the melody of gratitude is not always easy. We sometimes play it haltingly; we are sometimes undone by our own pettiness and insecurities. We may at times feel more like humming dirges of lamentation to ourselves. But by grace, sometimes we hear whispers of remarkable encouragement, whispers to us to keep playing. And as we do, in grace God extends and complements our own best efforts...transforms us in ways we had never dreamed possible. That's grace. And when it touches us maybe then we see something that others, like the other nine, miss. We see that life is a gift, that this day is a gift, and that our life's simple melody is never sung a cappella, never played alone, but is always accompanied, richly, fully. And those who are able to see in such a way cannot simply keep moving down the path they've been traveling, because what stirs in them...seeing what they see...is improvisational gratitude and praise. What stirs in them is pure jazz.

Let the music of gratitude play in us, O God. Let it play. Amen.

[from the sermon, "Improvisational Gratitude" by the Rev. Dr. Robert Dunham.]

Why Didn't You Say So?

It is the power of the witness that all of our lives can be changed as we believe. I am often reminded about the power received when something is properly explained. My wife and I are proud of our children. Our son and daughter have brought tremendous joy to our lives, as well as the unique challenges that young people give to their parents. Our oldest son is a recent graduate of the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Md. I am sure you can tell the parents are extremely proud of this achievement. Yet, we also remember this young man as a rising senior in high school, wanting a car like his friends. Remembering the counsel of our parents, we strived to do something they were unable to offer us. We searched and found a valued friend who sold us an excellent vehicle-a Honda Civic. It would later be called "The Blue Box" because of its color and shape. It was an excellent vehicle-one owner, seven years old, 6,000 miles, and the oil had been changed every month! The owner only drove the car to work and back home. It was an excellent deal and we bought it. Our task was to hide the car until Christmas day when the celebration would be experienced. On that day, all of us were excited. Having anticipated the gift of a car, our son, full of anticipation, slid down the stairs, found the keys, and ran toward the garage. His parents were excited as well. As he opened the door, I do not believe I will ever forget the expression on his face or the words from his mouth. He said, "Is that the car you bought me?" An uneasy silence enveloped us. I explained, "This is an exceptional car-one owner, seven years old, six thousand miles, and the oil changed every month. She only drove the car to work, and it is a steal!" He replied, "I do not like it, and I don't want it, and I want Mom's car."

A wonderful gesture had turned into a big failure. He wanted the vehicle with all the comforts we come now to expect. As a father, I fought back the displeasure of the moment, seeking insight for that time. It is in these moments that we need intervention. Truly, I believe the Holy Spirit enveloped that particular time with gracious understanding. In the midst of the conversation, I heard him ask, "What about me? What about me?" And I reminded him that a yellow school bus stopped at our house each morning, and I invited him to ride it. I shared with him the driver would take him to school and return to bring him home. Suddenly, a different countenance enveloped him. He replied, "Dad, why didn't you explain it that way before? This is an excellent car! One owner. Seven years old. Six -thousand miles. And the oil changed every month!" He continued, "It may not have all the bells and whistles, but I can get plenty of exercise by rolling the windows up and down and manually moving the seats. Dad, if you had explained it this way before, you could have saved us all of this heartache." Oh, the power of an explanation!

[from the sermon "Can I Get a Witness?" by the Reverend Jonathan Holston.]

The King's Loaves

A Jewish folktale entitled "The King's Loaves" tells about two beggars who went daily to the palace to beg at the king's gate for bread.

Every day the king gave each of them a loaf of bread. One of the beggars always thanked the king for his generosity, but the other thanked God for giving the king sufficient wealth to give charitably.

The second beggar's words always hurt the king. So the king decided to teach him a lesson. The king ordered his baker to bake two identical loaves, but one concealed precious jewels. Then he instructed the baker to give the loaf with the hidden jewels to the beggar who always thanked the king for his charity.

The next day the baker went to the king's gate and handed the two loaves to the beggars. He took great care not to confuse the two, for he feared the king's wrath. When the beggar with the special loaf felt how heavy and hard it was, he concluded that it was poorly made and asked the other beggar to exchange loaves with him.

The second beggar, always eager to help a friend, agreed. Then they went their separate ways. When the second man bit into the loaf, he discovered that it was filled with jewels. He thanked God for his good fortune, grateful that he would no longer have to beg for his bread.

The next morning the king was surprised to find only the first beggar at the palace gate. He had the baker brought before him and asked him, "Did you mix up the two loaves I had you bake?"

"No, your majesty," answered the baker. "I did exactly as you asked." Then the king turned to the beggar and asked, "What did you do with the loaf you received yesterday?" The man replied, "It was hard and poorly baked, so I gave it to my friend in exchange for his."

Then the king understood that all his riches had indeed come from God, and that only the Holy One can make a poor man rich or a rich man poor.

God is the giver of all bread and all possessions.

Bread is not merely food; it is also a metaphor for all that God has given us. In the fourth petition of the Lord's Prayer, we ask that God "give us this day our daily bread." In this petition, we are not simply asking God for a loaf of bread, but we are acknowledging that it is indeed God who gives us all that we need to survive: breathe, life, food, shelter, all our possessions, health, our family and friends. Everything.

We are bread for one another when we welcome a stranger and when we walk with someone through an illness. We are bread for one another when we love those who are most difficult to love and when we defend the defenseless. We are bread for one another when we teach and when we forgive. And finally, we are bread for one another when we share the bread we have been given.

["The King's Loaves," an Afghanistani folktale from The Classic Tales: 4000 Years of Jewish Lore, Ellen Frankel, ed., New Jersey: Jason Aronson, Inc., 1989. Quoted in the sermon "We are Bread When" by Rev. Beth Warpmaeker, 2000.]