News From An Acorn

Serafina by Sea

   She was among many,
   yet gloriously alone. Awash and adrift
   upon the mist, the wonder, the waves and the water;
   a mysterious homecoming of one without words.

  

 
 
 

Text and Photos by Kevin Lee
  

Voice Mails, 3:00 AM

Jacob said, "Sometimes I call your voice mail after midnight and just listen.
I've done it so many times that I've almost memorized your little story, Kevin.
I'd say it's time to record another, but I like that one. I like knowing it's there....
I mean, the sound of your voice....so don't change it--yet, okay?"

Jacob is somewhere in his twenties now and lives down South.
Years ago he attended our local high school now and then.
His world swirled between his gay friends and his family.
His friends remained but his family wrote him off years ago.
So I keep the voice mail message just for him.

And Kelsie, who calls from the group home she's in
whenever she's earned enough phone credits for sticking with her program.
(It's perplexing and humorous knowing that the human service system has
found a way to work phone privileges into their treatment plan.)
Anyway, she calls and tells me how she misses
being in town, and dreams still about one day finding her
father and shooting him in his sleep.

Then there’s John. He takes the cake. (And anything else that isn't nailed down, too.)
John recorded his own little rap song that he's been begging to record on my
voice mail. He sang it on my voice mail once.
It's good, actually... if you take the f____ins' and the gangster
lingo out.

I tell him, "John, You're white bread.
You're whiter than I am come to think of it.
You live in a white town, on a white street.
Even you're ghetto wanna be clothes look like you bought them
in the L.L. Bean White Bread Catalog."

He laughs, smiles. swears like his father taught him, and says
"C'mon Kev. It'll be fun."
"Sure John," I tell him. "Right after I die"

"Greetings, this is Kevin Lee, and thanks for calling. Please leave
your message after the tone and I'll return your call just as soon as I
can. If your situation is urgent, please call my....."

River Dance

It is late October. At five-thirty in the morning it is still very dark and night-like. But I am making my way down a narrow wooded sanctuary path at the Lloyd Centerand headed for a dock and waiting whaleboat along the Slocum's River. 

My head lamp guides my way and helps me dodge some of the protruding roots, stumps and rocks that work to hold the earth and me back in whatever way possible. In the midst of this gentle and pristine quietness it is apparent too, that I am not alone. Ahead, left and right,, forest creatures scurry under brush, and something with wings flaps upward into higher branches as I make my way. It becomes obvious that the "clink" of stones underfoot and the bailing buckets I am carrying are making too much noise, so I slow my pace and choose my footsteps, trying to be a less intrusive visitor.

The trail winds left and right, then over a rise into a tiny clearing that in predawn darkness requires choices of which way to go next. I've learned to just keep bearing right which dips down alongside a gloriously aromatic saltmash, where woodland yields to marsh grass, tidal pools and open water. This ancient intersection, especially at this hour of day, dissolves any sense of urgency I might have and stops me silent. Here, in this reverent moment hints of dawn and red begin to lighten the eastern sky. The far-off squawk of gulls and the stirring and clacking of nearby waterfowl in inlet pockets makes me appreciate that many besides myself are poised to rise into a brand new day.Slowly, if not somewhat reluctantly, I walk onward as the path opens to the river, wooden dock and waiting row boat.

Jingles for Jesus

So two good friends and students both from the nearby
parochial school head for the local Christian bookstore
one good Friday afternoon.

They shop
looking for the latest in catchy gadgets and
accessories that are popular with girls in Catholic high schools. 
And there, in isle three, opposite a cardboard cutout of the
Bible study series called "The Commandments and You,"
sit an assortment of brightly colored wristbands with little bells
attached that jingle, "jingle for Jesus," when worn and shaken.
It's a nice thought, supposedly,
a little reminder, if you will, of what it's all about.

They chatter while taking their time, deciding carefully on color and quantity.
In unison they turn towards the register and in one seamless
motion move their hands behind their pleated skirts and slide their Jingles for Jesus into their underwear
and leave without paying.

 
And one wonders; what would Jesus do?

(Text copyright, Kevin Lee)

Billy boy's ride

Boy and two-wheeled chariot
tore out of the backyard at three-thirty
bound for wherever handle bars and whim
would go.

Fresh, unfettered chasing god knows what
in a boys head on a windy roadmap,
Billy pumped and swerved and tore up the side
of Mrs. Baker's poor excuse for a raised bed
of blooming something or others--getting air--Yes!
And across the dirt lane, around the corner and gone.

Beads of dirty sweat

Five Hundred Friends and Funerals

Can anyone really have "five-hundred friends" on Face Book of all places?

I use the popular social networking site as a way of communicating and staying in touch with young people I work with professionally, and with their parents. I also use Face Book a lot with many folks, young and not so young, within my faith community of Quakers. (I like to joke with New England Quakers by teasing our elders, saying, that before long, it will be a prerequisite of membership for aspiring Friends (Quakers) to have a Face Book account! But that's a story for another day.) In any case, just having these two main groups of people in my life can easily account for the numbers.

When it comes to computer use and online organization, I'm a categorizing and folders kind of guy, so it may come as no surprise to know that I also use the categorizing feature on FB to group my friend lists. (What? You didn't know that I initially added you to a category? Sorry. You're in my best best friends list...of course!) Anyway, recently I noticed that my total number of Face Book Friends was nearing five hundred, and I thought about awarding my 500th friend with some kind of a special, silly award, like an old keyboard dipped in chocolate or a 1992 bound, four-pound beginners manual of how to use AOL.

Now I'm sure someone might ask, is this guy

Inbox Follies

Inbox. Consider this a notice:

We’re at war, and I intend to win…sometimes, sort of.

Even after filtering this and that, after creating folders that automatically capture God knows what at the speed of light, you still manage to reproduce faster than rabbits. In the morning, there you are, grinning, waiting for me to come to and dig in. To be sure, there are many days when I marvel, when I’m honestly astounded by the joy, content and depth of notes that arrive from all over the planet, and from young and not so young alike, who wrote to share what hungers, hurts, made them laugh or sent their spirits high.

My favorite email? It’s the one that comes now and then…mostly then, which are early morning updates from my Google calendar that tell me, “you have no appointments today.” I like that email. It makes me smile, actually. My least favorite emails are those sappy, sentimental Hallmark rejects that begin with, "This is a true story..."  Then there are the ones that say, "Please answer the following twenty-five questions, it will totally change your life!" Well, what if I don't want to totally change my life? "Delete!" Or the proverbial "Ten things to live by" lists that rumble through my inbox now and then. Of course, there are just a few of these kinds of emails that I do happen to like! And here's one for example! However, the mac-daddy grand prize winner in this overall category is fast becoming all things Twitter! I don't need to know that so and so has just brushed their teeth and is headed out for the night. And who the hell is Dominique Francis, anyway? (And yes I know, as a blogger, I too use Twitter. But you will never see a tweet from me that says, "I'm going to the mall now.")

Another one that makes my eyes glaze over are emails and any attachments connected to them, that feature cats. Now before people start calling PETA just know that I like cats a lot. In fact we have two of them. They're neat, cute, very intelligent and also very much alive. And that's key. But cats depicted online should be banned from the Internet. And Photoshop should be prohibited from ever allowing images of kitties to be shopped for any purpose whatsoever!  Someone should file legislation that makes it a crime, punishable with a week away from being online, for anyone sending sappy emails or images of cats, any cats, period. These otherwise wonderful folks would get one warning, and after that violation, the laptop police would arrive and put their modems into a lock-box for one week!

Another favorite offender is any number of my dear and precious youthful clients, whom, we are told, are now to be referred to as “digital natives,” (As in, being born pre-wired into the digital age) who have basically three approaches to keyboarding that they use interchangeably. The first is a twofer, who write to me using all caps or no caps at all. The second are twelve-hundred word missives from teens that arrive in one, long, exhausting paragraph that ends with, ‘Please write back soon, okay?” And the final winning offender in this category are emails that arrive from teens as “text speak.” yadadamean, dude? (You know what I mean, dude?)

So every now and then I amuse myself and announce (pretend?) that I've actually "caught up" with all my emails. I'll get down to one or two surviving emails (seed stock) in my inbox and call it a victory. I might even playfully brag to my wife about it, (who strangely couldn't care less!) "Whatever you do," I tell myself, "Just don't hit refresh!"

But before the inevitable happens, I log off, triumphant and a bit grateful, really, with an appreciation for being connected to people and topics that matter most to me. As we all know, there's nothing in an inbox that we didn't help to put there in one way or another. Still, as I leave my desk and head for bed, I'm convinced that there's a little man inside my computer that springs to life the moment I walk away.

Kevin Lee

A Story Without Words

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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What a tribute to humankind, when the wonder of science, art and compassion unfold in one place.

Postnote: The origin and author of this touching little story without words has been rolling around on the Web for over a year without credit cited for its creator. My efforts to find the original source have been unsuccessful as well. If anyone has accurate information about its origin, I'd appreciate knowing in order to assign credit.

Transitions, Diplomas and Grace

This is the season of transitions, graduations and moving onward to the next plateau for many of the young people within our community. Our core institutions, such as the schools, both public and private, and other large youth-serving organizations from Scouting to sports, all mark and honor the passing of time and accomplishments with certificates, awards, ribbons and of course the venerated diploma. Officials make speeches, hands are shaken, photos snapped and the traditions of time and culture continue.

Each of these observances is celebrated exactly as they should be. Still, this time of year reminds me also of the legions of people behind the scenes who seldom come to mind on the “big day,” but who otherwise were influential and sometimes pivotal in the lives of our children as they rolled through the grades, leagues and divisions in their respective march of accomplishments.

So here’s to the cafeteria worker who made it a point to say hello, to make that connection, with that one special student day after day, who knew that sustenance required good food and so much more; and bravo to the nurse, who dished out Band-Aids and love, who checked in and listened to Suzie on the day that the little girl’s hamster died. And to the coaches, every one of them, from T-Ball to Tennis who kept nudging and inspiring their athletes to try again, believing that they too had a shot at the title, and, when necessary taught them the lessons of last place.

Still, when the lesson is done and the game over, perhaps the greatest gift that any adult can give a child or teen, that supersedes all else, is the power and example of their own personality, grace and spirit. And that’s where community comes in and the true meaningfulness of our children’s lives comes full circle. Good work, Dartmouth! Good work, indeed.

Life into Binders

 I have an attractive leather-like binder that I use for weddings, memorials and graveside services. Occasionally when I am asked to officiate at these kinds of occasions I pull my binder from the bookshelf, empty whatever may be in it, and begin using it in the weeks leading up to whatever the day calls for. As final preparations take shape, with readings, prayers and poems selected, including text I've written to use, everything gets slid into plastic sleeves for easy page turning, which is especially helpful when a service is out-of-doors in windy conditions.

One of our dearest meeting members, Phyllis Brightman, passed away in March at the fabulous old age of ninety-three. Yesterday I led a private graveside service for Phyllis' family members as they committed her ashes to the earth inside their family plot. Shortly afterwards I officiated at Phyllis' memorial service in our nearby meetinghouse. There, we celebrated with music, remembrances and worship, a life lived long and well.

These things have predictable rhythms and outcomes, and when they go well...that is, when loved ones are satisfied, and things go according to plans, it is a good feeling indeed. Still, if I do it right, spiritually, it is tiring work and ministry, which is as it should be. It isn't important for anyone, especially the family, to know that prior to their service I also make it a point to briefly visit the graves of other services I have led in that same cemetery down through the years. I also, for whatever reason, like to be the last person to leave the meetinghouse, to shut off the lights, look around the room and close the door.

It's now sunrise the next morning. The low, yellow light streams across my home office and feels rich and gentle, easing me into a brand new day. The tasks and cares of the day before are completed. Flipping through my binder I remove it's contents, filing away what matters and recycle the rest. The binder is almost empty now, containing just one thing; a photo of Phyllis. I return it once again to its place alongside Faith and Practice, my bible, and other volumes I hold dear. It will stay there, almost empty, with just one picture, like a place marker, waiting for life to evolve two weeks forward and come out next for a wedding ceremony which I will happily lead.