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Tuesday, May 22, 2007 AD
Getting Even...or Not
On Sunday, our congregation honored our elders and their wives for their service to our body over the past year+ that we have been without a pastor. There was a cake, and a really cool bouquet of "flowers" made out of fruit, and gift certificates for a B&B, and a speech -- all to express our gratitude to Jeff and Ken for bearing the burden of shepherding our flock and to Karen and Jana for bearing the burden of their husbands' burden-bearing.

I also made a calligraphy for each couple with John 12:26 ("If anyone serves me, him my father will honor"). This poem (HT Abigail), though written about a mother, conveys the same sense of imbalance between what I've received and what I've given in return:
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.
Posted by Valerie (Kyriosity) at 5/22/2007 12:46:00 PM • Permalink

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