A year ago, I was in the Wisconsin Dells, watching my daughter dance . . .
October 15, 2016: Beauty and Grace, Amusement Park, Forever Young
The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.
Dillard is speaking about God's beauty and grace in the world, and human beings have a tendency not to see them. Sometimes we ignore them. Sometimes we're blinded by our own fears and worries. And sometimes, on good days, when the stars align properly and the car keys aren't lost or the paycheck is larger then anticipated, we notice the goodness that God sends our way.
Over and over this weekend, I have been reminded of the beauty and grace of my daughter. Last night, at the water park, an older gentleman who was a manager there told me that she was beautiful. As she was dancing in her classes today, I was amazed by her poise and ease, how comfortable she is in her own skin. Tonight, at the Kalahari's indoor amusement park, a young male attendant on the ropes obstacle course had the balls to actually flirt with her in front of me. I felt like cutting his safety line and tossing him over the side.
Yes, my daughter has graduated from gawky, awkward tween to beautiful, graceful teenager. I don't know how or when it happened. I still think of her as that little girl calling for me in the middle of the night because she had a bad dream. It's difficult for me to accept that she has secrets. That boys are paying attention to her. That she's growing up, and part of that growing up is being her own person, making her own mistakes, allowing her heart to be broken. I can't protect her from any of that.
Saint Marty turns once more to the 2016 Nobel literature laureate Bob Dylan to end this post, something he wrote about growing up: "May you always be courageous, stand upright and be strong. May you stay--forever young."
And a poem for my daughter this evening. I know it's a Christmas poem, but I'm feeling a little nostalgic this evening . . .
Age of Miracles
by: Martin Achatz
My
daughter has reached that age
when
her body unfurls
gospels
of growth all night,
psalms
filled with arm, leg, hair, sweat,
breath
staled by the tilt
from
girl to woman. She will soon
inherit
gifts. Blood. Ovum.
Creation.
Then
she will be lost to me. Gone
on a
long journey across desert, mountain,
to a
distant Bethlehem.
This
December, she tells my wife
she
doesn’t believe in caribou
flying
over glacier, tundra. Questions
things
like seraphim choirs,
kingdoms
at the North Pole,
donkeys
that sing “Dona nobis pacem”
on the
winter solstice. I know,
she
says, nods as if she’s accomplice
to
some divine conspiracy theory.
So I
write her this poem
about
last Friday, when twenty inches
of
snow fell in Cairo, Alexandria,
Jerusalem. Brought the entire Middle East
a
silence it hadn’t heard in 112 years.
Children
in refugee camps danced
in the
blizzard, made rosefinches
with
ice bodies, palm frond wings.
No
bombs. No bullets. Just white.
Everywhere. White upon white.
From
the Mediterranean to the Mount of Olives.
It’s a
miracle, little girl,
like
the smell of baked ham and cloves
on
Christmas Eve, or the sound
of
your first breath
the
morning you were born.
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