A Natural Grace

by Dee Wade

I.

An old piece of furniture, a day-bed,
waits for years, in two different garages,
for repair and re-finishing.

By the time transformation arrives --
after hours of large muscle workout
and small muscle, eye-hand intricacies
and artistic wood surgery performed
by then-next-door-neighbor George --
I do not want the process to end.

It has been such a pleasure,
seeing the grain come alive again,
feeling the resilient strength of wood fibers
under new stain and varnish,
hearing re-glued joints find home and hold.

It is like holding redemption in your hands,
another chance for order to replace chaos,
beauty to triumph over decay,
witnessing a pile of lumber reclaim usefulness.

Besides, this will be the last time I will work with George
in this way.

He has taught me how to be patient with wood
and with other matters:
slow down, pay attention,
clean up as you go, break it down to bite-size pieces,
only quality work is worthy, but perfectionism paralyzes,
and freedom to fail produces deepest learning.

A month after George and I finish this bed,
we will move away to leave George and Virginia
to grow old and we to grow older,
and our son Seth, the intended occupant of this bed,
will grow up and George won’t see it happen,
other than in semi-annual, snap-shot visits at first,
which we all know will diminish over time to one
and, finally, none.

Seth himself, set sail into full toddler-hood,
is taking his turn toward a real life,
and less will remain potential, fluid, options open,
and more will crystallize into history and pattern.

Though we would protect him from the pain
and the failure necessary for growth,
he will flourish half-way toward adolescence, do well,
and become his unique and prized self
before he stretches too tall for this bed, too.

II.

I want to do it all over again,
give it another go.

I would be better at refinishing this piece of furniture,
understanding its complexity,
unafraid to experiment, to make mistakes
and follow them to their natural conclusion.

I would re-live my time with George,
breathe more fully his practical wisdom,
absorb more completely his encouraging regard,
and savor longer his perfect Mint Julep.

I would re-launch the toddler named Seth,
increase presence and patience,
bend the twig more and be bent by it,
and love his mother with all the abandon she deserves.

But time spirals in one direction only
from here to glory,
and once we have danced with life,
that is plenty, and we are grateful.

III.

Whether writing a poem,
or rearing the baby,
or building a house,
or cultivating a garden,
or refinishing furniture,
we want to get it right,
or as close to right as talent and time allow.

As we draw near to the close of our work,
the lengthening shadows reveal our lapses
and the clock measures the extent of bad habits.

Just as our mortality, all too clear now, looms,
we become searingly aware
that we haven’t quite said it,
nurtured it or nailed it,
planted it or polished it
as well and as lovingly
as we were invited to do and equipped to do
in the beginning, at creation.

We could have surely, should have probably
done a better job,
practiced a more careful stewardship
of our heart’s desire
and sought a brighter perception
of the holes in the neighborhood fabric.

Ashes to ashes; dust to dust

Nothing is quite over until Omega declares it so,
including creation, especially creation,
and Alpha has a way of raising up
that which was dead and done.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

It’s all for our edification, our growth,
reborn from sharper angles of mercy
that point to the next chance,
the upcoming intersection of law and grace,
the confluence of art and necessity.

It will take a lifetime, maybe longer
to write new lyrics for that old tune,
but we are privileged to try,
happy for the entreaty
of fresh challenges.

For we end as we begin
and start as soon as we finish,
repeating nothing.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.