Gathering up the Fragments

A few months ago Dad spoke at a little church in a tiny town about an hour away from home. His text was from John, and he spoke about Jesus feeding the 5000 men - plus women and children.


Here's the story, from the New American Standard Bible:
John 6
 ¹ After these things Jesus went away to the other side of the Sea of Galilee (or Tiberias). ²A large crowd followed Him, because they saw the signs which He was performing on those who were sick. ³ Then Jesus went up on the mountain, and there He sat down with His disciples. ⁴ Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was near. ⁵ Therefore Jesus, lifting up His eyes and seeing that a large crowd was coming to Him, said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread, so that these may eat?” ⁶ This He was saying to test him, for He Himself knew what He was intending to do. ⁷ Philip answered Him, “Two hundred denarii worth of bread is not sufficient for them, for everyone to receive a little.” ⁸ One of His disciples,Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to Him, ⁹ “There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two fish, but what are these for so many people?” ¹⁰ Jesus said, “Have the people sit down.” Now there was much grass in the place. So the men sat down, in number about five thousand. ¹¹ Jesus then took the loaves, and having given thanks, He distributed to those who were seated; likewise also of the fish as much as they wanted. ¹²When they were filled, He said to His disciples, “Gather up the leftover fragments so that nothing will be lost.” ¹³ So they gathered them up, and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves which were left over by those who had eaten. ¹⁴ Therefore when the people saw the sign which He had performed, they said, “This is truly the Prophet who is to come into the world.”

The story is familiar: the little boy with his little fish and small loaves of bread. Jesus blessing and breaking and passing food out. Everyone having enough to eat.


But the part that captures my attention in this story is afterwards. The part about Jesus directing His disciples to collect the crumbs, the morsels of food that people had dropped inadvertently, the crusts that picky eaters had thrown out deliberately.


All those fragments ... 


Dad asked the question: What do you suppose happened to those twelve baskets of fragments?


And I started to think about it. More about that later.


Shortly after this sermon started to take root in my heart and my imagination, Jocelyn and Curtis were working on a Sunday evening when our favourite blue tea cup unaccountably separated itself from its handle. Josie posted her woe on FaceBook and people's tongue-in-cheek reactions took over:

• • Suki Braich Badesha likes this.
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      Karyn Ironside ‎Jocelyn Belt, Tiffany Ibbotson,Curtis Benavides and Ken McDonald - maybe now we can have some closure for this whole traumatic event ...
      

      
      
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      Krista Lee Ewert so sad...by the way, I have been thinking all night how I could really use some of your rice pudding right about now.
      

      
      
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      Scott Harding Heather is tearing up, she used that cup a few times ;)
      

      
      
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      Delete CommentHide as Spam

      Allison Bale-Akizuki Can't you glue it? :(
      

      
      
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      Meleah Holloway What happened?
      

      
      
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      Karyn Ironside Here's the original trail:
      
      Jocelyn Belt: the death of a teacup is like an old friend moving away without saying goodbye. A crack in a teacup is the equivalent of seeing a hole in the sun. It just isn't right. Today we say goodbye to the most favorite teacup in the tea house. A part of us it will always be. You paragon blue beauty, you will be missed.
      
       Jocelyn Belt So young, so much potential. One wrong move and its dreams of serving tea for years, was crushed.
      
       Laura Giovanetto I can relate with this so much. :(
      
      Tiffany Ibbotson WHAT?!?!?!?
      
      Daryl Wilson Alicia says, "NO! Not dear paragon!"
      
      Jocelyn Belt Tiffany!! I'm sorry!! I... I... I was distraught!!!
      
      Karyn Ironside But the good thing about friendship with tea cups is that a new friend will be along right away to fill the void!
      
      Tiffany Ibbotson Awe! That's ok Josie.
      
      Ken McDonald This is one of the most emotional threads I have ever read on FB. I need a tissue.
      
      Karyn Ironside You should have been at the scene of the tragedy last night, Ken ...
      
      Ken McDonald Probably a good thing I wasn't. The emotional scarring would've set me back years in counselling and therapy.
      
      Curtis Benavides NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
      
      Katrina Holoboff :( this is a tragic event. I feel for the loss of a teacup.
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      Alana MacDonald Looks like it has been a rough weekend for your china :(
      

      
      
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      Bronwyn Spilsbury I know that feeling. I'm very sorry. Goodbye, all that the cup represents - and is. It always will be so beautiful.
      

      
      
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The loss of that tea cup was felt deeply by my staff, and by customers who for some reason had become very attached to the little blue Paragon cup. I saved the pieces in my "Broken China" stash and went on to choose another cup and saucer to fill the void in the Wall of Great China.

Life has a way of going on, though, and just a few days later I was packing and hopping the plane for Bangalore. Our time was filled with meetings, cooking, meals, children, friends, shopping, reading, music, travelling, visiting. There was no time to dwell on a few fragments of china.


When I arrived back in Trois Lumps from India this time, however, something had changed. The change was in me. I felt scattered, pulled in various directions, splintered even. I longed to be in India but wanted to draw my family close about me.


I felt like I had been fed time and again from the miraculous loaves and fishes - my Dad spoke about 31 times in 25 days; additionally, there was a wonderful Irish preacher and his travelling companion, Ronnie, whom we met at Dr Nair's college and who ministered to the local people and to Dad, Deb and me. 


But all in all I felt like I was not worth much more than some of those thrown-away crusts. What could I, with my disjointed, ,fragmented, incohesive life, have to offer to God and to the ministry of His people?


Gather up the fragments, Jesus had directed.


I pondered fragments throughout April. I have pieces of myself in the original Nilgiris, Trivandrum, Bangalore, Coimbatore and Assam; then there are strands of my heart in South Africa, wrapped around a boy called Alex; there are crumbs in Alabama and now a few have been left in North Carolina with my college friend Michelle; Calgary holds a handful, as do Regina, Kindersley, northern BC, Hanna, Big Valley and Edmonton. And then of course there's Three Hills, with Nilgiris the TH and all the people I love here.


A veritable Hansel and Gretel trail of crumbs!


Could I gather them all up, I wondered; and if I succeeded, what could this pile of fragments be used for?


What were those baskets used for? Who would be grateful for crumbs?


I let my imagination wander a bit to the faith of some of the people who were the recipients of miracles that Jesus performed. There was the Canaanite mother who came to Jesus beseeching Him to heal her daughter, who was oppressed by a demon. Jesus seemed to rebuff her, saying that He was there for the Jews and that a person wouldn't take food from their children to feed their dogs. The woman responded, "Yes, Lord, but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master's table!"


There were ten lepers who called out to Jesus as He went by and He healed them all.


There was Blind Bartimaeus, a beggar who beseeched Jesus from his spot on the ground to have mercy on him.


Then there was the woman who had suffered from bleeding for 12 years and who thought to herself, "If I could but touch the hem of His garment, I know I would be healed ..."


As I thought about them, I realized that they would all have had something in common: they were all dispossessed, all shunned by society. They would have had no way to make a living; they would have had to scrounge for their next meal.


They would have been thankful for fragments of bread and fish.


Maybe they received a portion of the fragments - that is also how they might have learnt of the great power of Jesus and - with nothing to lose - they could have thought of the crumbs and dared to ask for more.


As I thought of the power of fragments, I started to imagine what it would look like if I could gather up the fragments of my life, and if they could even be patched into something of perhaps a little worth.


I tried to picture what that would look like, what it would be good for.


And then my birthday came, and with it came a box.


Inside that box, very carefully handed to me from BA, was something that looked slightly familiar, but not.

There was a canvas, brightly coloured; as I peered more closely, I could see pieces of memories I had almost forgotten.

 
In disbelief I slowly reached out my hand to touch the centre of the canvas.

I saw how it nestled into the swirl of colour and texture around it. I saw how it anchored the entire piece.

It was a beautiful flower, this flower of fragments, its stem and its petals as delicate and as lovely as almost any rose you could pluck from a garden.





It was planted in a garden of pebbles and glass and semiprecious stones.

It was our treasured tea cup, taken apart and put together again in a setting more distinctive, more memorable, than when it was a mere two-pieced cup-and-saucer.


It was not alone: the fragments of three other treasured but damaged cups had been artfully tucked into corners and crevices in a way that brought out their understated, subtle beauty. 


Most significant of all to me was that the blue Paragon cup flower was resting in the centre of a cross.

The stem of the flower looked like it could also be a path - the crumb path of Hansel and Gretel? - leading the traveller to the heart of the picture.

As I gazed into the picture, trying various lights to bring out different hidden depths, it all coalesced for me.


In the hands of a Master, fragments that others might discard had been brought to life in this exquisite piece.


I have never met Marcia Hinds, but she is a dear friend and inspiration to Bronwyn and Paul and I have seen some of her pieces, heart-stopping in their beauty, adorning their home.


And now I owned one! How it all came about is that when I was in India, Bronwyn and Marcia started talking about The Teacup. They quickly prevailed upon BA to find the broken cup and other cups that might work with it, and to send them to Marcia. With the three of them communicating and sharing pictures of the work in progress - Deb and Dad were included in this stage! - the piece arrived (shipped to BA's care!) in time for May 3rd.




The other thing that moves me enormously is that the fragments had found a home. The cup had had to be broken into small pieces before its full beauty could be showcased. And its home was the centre of the cross. 


Fragments are valuable. Jesus knew this; that's why He got the disciples to gather them up.


The fragments of the tea cup have gained far more value than they would have as just a cup and saucer.


The fragments of my life are valuable too. None of them is wasted. None of them is a mistake. And when put together by the hand of the Master and both sheltered in the shadow of the cross and leaving a trail leading to the cross, these fragments will be woven into a work of beauty that I can scarcely imagine.

Year of the Nephew: Sir Oliver

My nephew, the king of puzzle solvers. Here's a lateral thinking puzzle for you:

Happy Birthday, Thirteen!

A man walks into a bar, and asks the bartender for a drink of water. The bartender pulls out a gun, points it at the man, and cocks it. The man says "Thank you" and leaves. What happened?

1. Question: Could the bartender hear him? Answer: Yes
2. Question: Was the bartender angry for some reason? A: No
3. Question: Was the gun a water pistol? A: No
4. Question: Did they know each other from before? A: No (or: "irrelevant" since either way it does not affect the outcome)
5. Question: Was the man's "Thank you" sarcastic? A: No (or with a small hint: "No, he was genuinely grateful for some reason")
6. Question: Did the man ask for water in an offensive way? A: No
7. Question: Did the man ask for water in some strange way? A: Yes

Conclusion: the man had the hiccups, and his reason for requesting a drink of water was not to quench his thirst but to cure his hiccups. The bartender realized this and chose instead to cure the hiccups by frightening the man with the gun. Once the man realized that his hiccups were gone, he no longer needed a drink of water, gratefully thanked the bartender, and left.

You probably already figured it out at about question number 2, didn't you?

Here's a puzzle I have been working on for 13 years; maybe you could help me figure it out.

How can one person generate such light around him that it transcends fear, transcends doubt, transcends distance? How can one person make the world seem like a better place, a place of hope, just by being himself?

You were born in Regina on the Monday of the May long weekend. We were all having a barbeque on the lawn at your cousin Matt's home when we got the phone call. Another boy? I must admit groaning to myself. However, plans were made to go to Regina and visit the newest addition to the nephews.

I remember the first time I saw you. Your eyes threatened to swallow up your face. They were so enormous and so blue and, even at just a few weeks old, they seemed to be trying to look into mine and tell me something. I firmly believe that's when we had our first conversation. No words, just eye to eye. I felt like you could read my mind and that I could catch a glimpse into yours.

One of the first actual word conversations I can recall our having was when I was visiting you in Regina and your Mom, Elliot, you and I were out shopping somewhere. You were with me, sitting in the front of a shopping cart, chattering about something or other and I was looking down into your eyes. The blue in your eyes was changing to almost a golden colour now, but flecks of the sky still lingered, adding magic and wonder to everything you gazed at. As you talked away you looked down and your incredible eyelashes swept the curve of your little-boy cheeks.

"Oliver, where did you get your eyelashes from?!" I exclaimed.

"From ThuperThtore," you immediately responded, tilting your face up toward me, smiling like only you could, no guile in your eyes.

As you grew older your eyes took in everything around you. You could somehow see the safest place to cross a road, the best angle to throw a ball, the shortest line, the most perfect bouquet of flowers.

Your eyes started to speak for themselves too. They reflected your intelligence, your logic, your quick wit, your ability to think on your feet.

You excelled at whatever it was you set your sights on. Sports, music, acting, reading, schoolwork - you shone brighter than your peers.

And yet you were so good natured, so witty, so entertaining, so enjoyable to be around. Even when you were pouting you could make it seem charming.

Right from when you were a toddler, your eyes have seen more than just what was on the surface. As you grew older, your eyes discerned not just the good versus the bad, but the better versus the best. 

You were quick to notice when a friend needed a little more support, a little more gentleness, a little more love. You were able to deflect awkward situations masterfully with just a few well-chosen words delivered with your subtle brand of humour.

You were the one who named your, Elliot's and my time together every other month. From when you were quite small we had started to go on "dates:" every other month I would take you to Chapters for a book and a hot chocolate and a chat. But when you were eight, just five years ago, we were in the car driving to our date when you said, "I can't go on any more dates with you." 

"Why not?" I asked, dismayed.

"Because you can't marry your aunt!" you burst out with some anguish. It seems that you had told one of your friends that you were going on a date with me and that is what he told you in response.

"What about if we called it something else? Could you go then?"

After a few moments of solemn deliberation you nodded. "Yes," you assented. When I asked you what we could call our time together, you thought for a while and then said, "An event. We could go on events."

And that's what we've done ever since. You have shaped and moulded these events to what they are today: the Birthday Events; the Summer Event; the joint November Event when you, your brother and I put the final touches on the Christmas Event, which is - as you put it - in Service to the Parents.

December 2011: Resting up in preparation
for Service to the Parents

The other thing that happened five years ago is we had to bury your Grams. I will always carry with me the picture of your little face, contorted in concentration as you held up the centre of the end of her coffin. Your eyes were enormous, reflecting the weightiness of this sacred task. Later you said, "It was so heavy. I was so scared I was going to drop her."

Oliver, you evince so many of the subtleties that made up her true essence, and they can all be captured under these three points:

• You love God
• You love people
• You love life

And when life is snuffed out unexpectedly - such as with your friend Josh - you are able to see the dreadful toll misguided decisions take on those who care for the one who acted in such a manner. Yet you still see the intrinsic beauty around you and the great worth of a person who thought that life as it stood was worthless.

If eyes are indeed the windows to the soul, the vista of your soul is multilayered and magnificent. And if you ever need a rest from all you see, if you ever need another set of eyes in helping you make decisions as you enter your teenage years, here is a promise for you from the Eyes that see above and beyond all that we can ask or think:

I will instruct you and teach you in the way which you shall go. I will guide you with My eye. (Psalm 32:8)

A long time ago, you said to me, "If Elliot is the Point of your Heart, what am I?"

Do you remember what I said to you? It is more true today than it was when you were five years old.

"Oliver Charles Spilsbury, you are the Apple of my Eye."

Comment #1000

A month or so ago I saw that RtL was getting close to its one thousandth comment. I wondered idly who the commenter would be ... should we celebrate it? ... would it be profound? ... would it start a conversation? ... and so on.


This morning it happened. And it was so unexpected that it made me burst out laughing and then it got me to thinking.


Here it is, in its entirety:

This comment has been removed by the author. By Unknown on "...One of the Least of These ..." at 9:22 AM

Do you, along with me, see the perfectness of Comment #1000?! It could have been written by any of us; it could be by all of us. Each one of us has said or written things that we have scratched our heads about later (at best) or been severely rebuked over, either in our own consciences and minds or by someone else (at worst).


What a gift it is, this gift of a second chance, an opportunity to remove something that didn't come out exactly as intended! What a rare chance to have a do-over that's completely free!


It could have been something as little as a typo that caused the commenter to delete the comment. It might have been that a more appropriate word came to mind as soon as the "Publish comment" button was pressed. It might have been that the commenter had revealed too much of him- or herself than was comfortable. There are any number of reasons for removing a comment; I've done it myself on occasion.


But as I was speculating on the words that were removed, it was reenforced to me that words are some of the most powerful weapons we possess. I am so grateful to Unknown this morning for reminding me to choose my words well and to use them wisely.


And it also reminds me of how grateful I am each time you share your words with me and with your fellow RtLers. Whenever you comment, you're nurturing this vine (or is it this tea bush?!) on which we are all growing together.


Here's to the next 1000 comments!

Is This What Happens at Fifty?

"This is your Jubilee birthday, you know," a friend commented in passing on April 30. "Better make the most of it ..."


The week was incredible, and I was awash in a golden haze of happiness.


I was going to tell you all about it.


And then ... nothing. It is like my brain has become tongue-tied. Mush. 


I'm sure I'll be back to myself soon enough; but in the meantime, let me share with you the sweetness of part one of the Week of Jubilee


On the Tuesday - May Day - I kicked off the celebrations with my Oldies at the Manor. I had told them two Tuesdays earlier that I would bring lunch for after our meeting; and when I arrived, I discovered to my delight that the whole room had been decorated for the occasion. Lace cloths adorned the tables, and everywhere I looked there were beautiful collector's dolls displayed with care.

There were flowers arranged carefully on the organ, as well as a card with my name on the envelope.


Everyone sang Happy Birthday and several of them prayed for me. Dad spoke, continuing his series on the blessings given to the twelve sons of Jacob, from the father's and from Moses' points of view.

Then it was time for lunch: roast beef buffet:

Dad's own strawberry shortcake
to wrap up the meal sweetly!

Then that evening, we went out to Allan and Angie's place for dinner that Dad had prepared: savoury ground beef with mashed potatoes, and golden turnips - my very favourite meal any time! Accompanied as it was with warm tender biscuits, also whipped up by Dad, how could I not know how loved I am?

My Dad loves me!

"...One of the Least of These ..."

I came home early this evening and my eyes went involuntarily to her window.

She was not there.


Of course she's not, I reproached myself, shaking my head impatiently. When I had left the TH at 10 o'clock this morning there had been an ambulance outside and a police car across the road.


When I returned, slightly over an hour later, the two vehicles had been joined by a hearse. Her body, blanketed and anonymous, was being carefully lifted into the back of it.


Her two daughters, unable to watch, walked to her back patio, where I went to see them and offer what comfort I could. 


As I held the younger one, she apologized for the shock of my having to drive back to this. "We believe she went peacefully in her sleep," she whispered.


My relationship with Colleen was all but non-existent. She was in the TH twice; I spoke to her once about her dog roaming around on my driveway doing what dogs do; I waved at her a few times.


And every time I came home from somewhere, as I pulled into the car port my eyes almost subconsciously went straight to her window. Nine times out of ten she would be at it, watching me arriving, watching me unloading, watching me sitting in my car listening to the tail end of whatever was on the radio or wrapping up a phone conversation.


Morning, noon or night - it made no difference. There she invariably was.


At first I was annoyed. I felt spied upon. Then for a short period of time I felt a little creeped out by what I perceived to be her unwavering stare, her unbudging presence.


Gradually I grew used to it. I would occasionally raise a hand or nod in the direction of the window.


She got sick. She stopped smoking. Oxygen became her new drug of choice, her constant companion.


She started to appear at the window with less regularity.


But I never thought - if I thought much about it at all - that the last glimpse I would have of her would be enshrouded, on this long-awaited sunny Tuesday morning, her destination the hospital and her final examination.


I went into the TH and was rebuked by the words that jolted me like a slap stinging my cheek:


Then He will answer them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me.’


The words were from the gospel of Matthew chapter 25 and verse 45. I am very familiar with verse 40 of the same chapter, And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.


If I am honest with myself, I might have slapped myself mentally on the back now and then, congratulating myself for some random act of kindness I might have performed. One of the least of these, I can hear myself thinking, perhaps even smugly.


But seeing Colleen today; seeing her daughters, distraught, no chance to say goodbye; seeing the compassion of the female RCMP officer, the dignity accorded to my neighbour by the paramedics and the funeral home representative, all pierced through the membrane of complacency that I have allowed to form around me.


I collapsed into one of the purple chairs as those words tumbled pell-mell around my brain. One of the least of these ... Me. I gasped as I thought of the implications of these words.


Why had I never gone to visit her? Why had I never reached out to her when I would see her slowly taking a turn with the walker and the tank, or when I knew she had had to get rid of her dog? Why would I brush her off as an inevitable minor annoyance when I would see her standing at the window?


Why didn't I bother with her?


My treatment of her, Jesus said, is my treatment of Him.


To the extent that I made no effort at all to get to know her, I made no effort to get to know Him.

Faithful to the end: her patio dog
holds a lamp, bringing into stark relief
the darkness all around tonight

When I would roll my eyes at her unblinking stare out her window, I was rolling my eyes at Him keeping me in His sights.


When I rejected relationship with her, I rejected Him.

This evening, as the clock approaches midnight,

O Lord Jesus, I ask Your forgiveness

for being irritated with You

for questioning Your motives

for rejecting You.

For not recognizing You in the eyes

of the frightened little lady

who lived, alone, next door