Yellow Balloon

Several years ago I spent time thinking about a series of natural disasters that made the news.  This is a true story:

Today a child dies in Bangladesh

     I pay little attention: 

     Actually none at all.

     That kind of thing has been going on for so long...

     Anyway, what can I do?

A circle of living corpses whisper wordless prayers,

weep in tear-less agony -- for themselves.

The child is now free.

A town lies buried in Italy today.

     I watch the news and am horrified...

     for a moment.

     Natural disaster is part of living in this world.

     We must all face it.

An old woman mourns the grandchild she will never hold again -- 

grieves for laughter that lies buried 

in a communal grave.

A young woman dies slowly, each drink

     adds to the fear, the hate.

     She is to blame.

     There is help at the Center for those

     who really want it.

Her blinded eyes see only the times she did reach out

and was maimed by a Cross-shaped sword.

Her need was her only shame.

My little girl's yellow balloon burst today.

     Unexpectedly moved --

     her tears wet my face.

     It's only a balloon -- they burst.

     Why should I mourn?

Her laughter that warms me with joy dissolves into heartbreak.

Is it possible, for an instant, I shed my dispassion

and weep for a toy?

I do not weep for a yellow balloon;

     I weep for her --

     I feel her pain.

     I love her -- and what touches her

     touches me.

Oh my God -- a dead child, a buried town, 

a woman alive yet living in death ...

They are Your children -- they hurt.

You feel their pain.

The Parable of the Parrot

By Ron Zeiner

There once was a woman who lived alone except for two pets, a large tomcat and an African grey parrot She loved both pets but was disturbed to find that the cat wanted to catch and eat the parrot! At times she allowed the parrot out of his cage to enjoy the freedom of flying around inside the house for a while. Usually when she did this, she put the cat outside or confined the bird to a single room with the door shut. Still, she did not quite trust the cat.

Now, African Grey parrots are intelligent birds that can be taught to talk. So, the woman taught it to say, “When you see the cat fly to the top of the fridge.” The top of the fridge was a safe place for the parrot as the cat could not reach it there. Often the parrot would repeat the phrase to the woman: when she said, “When you see the cat…” the parrot would say “fly to the top of the fridge.”

One day the woman left the house to go to the store. She had forgotten that the parrot was out of his cage, and she did not notice that as she left the house the cat had darted in. When the woman returned from the store what do you suppose she found? Feathers! Feathers everywhere! The cat had caught and eaten the parrot! What happened? Although the parrot knew the words and could recite them perfectly, the parrot did not know what the words meant and did not put them into practice.

Many Christians, like the parrot, know the scriptures very well. They can recite them perfectly and, if tested on them, could give the correct answers. However, they do not always know what they mean, and they do not put them into practice in their daily lives.

Are you like the parrot?

Matthew 7:21-23 and Luke 6:46 note the same idea in Jesus’ parable of the wise and foolish builders. Both housebuilders heard the words of Jesus, but only one put the words into practice. They both faced storms in life – the same rain and wind, the same challenge and hardships. The one who remained safe put Jesus’ words into practice. He lived them out in his daily life. The one who failed in life heard but did not live them out. He was like the parrot. Which one are you like?

The Pond at Mole Cottage

The clouds roll across the hills to my right, drifting down into this low-lying depression lined with indigenous trees and landscaped garden. Coots hoot as they traverse the pond -- a red bishop peeks out at me from the bulrushes. The day cannot decide whether it will be overcast or partly cloudy -- patches of blue valiantly elbow their way through. Ron and I just went for a short walk up the pine-or'shadowed lane. My heart near bursts as we smell the crystal air, hear the birdsong and locusts singing all around. Beautiful cattle walk with us, curious as to who we are yet safely distanced beyond the wire fence. I'd forgotten the innocent softness of a young calf's gaze! Brown liquid eyes! Reminds me so much of my show calves Skeeter and Peanut -- unalike, yet the same. One poor fellow was at the wrong place at the wrong time -- a big plop of poop all over his head! My mother instinct wants to intervene with soap and water. This place has the rare, endangered Natal Blue Swallow -- pretty little things flitting across the pond, nipping insects in flight. A whisper of blue barely discernible as it teases by. An Egyptian goose with 5 goslings skirt the far side of the pond, now lost in the grasses except for the top of mom's head. How my heart craves the rural quietness, the unhurried pace, the noises of creation's own silence blending, calling, filling, emptying -- all in harmony with my spirit and with one another. In such a place I can be healed -- no, reborn!

Why Do I Write?

I was asked in an interview, “Why do you write?” My knee-jerk response surprised me! “I believe in the power of teaching by storytelling.” What? I’ve never thought of myself as a natural storyteller!” Upon reflection, however, I realized that most of my learning has occurred not from heavy text, but as revelation as I considered God’s word to me through a story. And not necessarily Christian stories. Then I realized that most of the musings in my mind were the result of listening to people, books, histories, tall tales, fairy tales, fiction and non-fiction, testimonies, celebrations, laments -- all stories of life that, if listened to well can take me into the presence of God and a better understanding of myself. Mark, the Gospel, says the Lord never taught publicly without using parables—stories. To those who drew close to Him and listened He explained the meaning. Why do I write? To tell meaningful stories; to emphasize the importance of listening within the story to myself, to the story's characters, to God. There really is power in teaching through storytelling, exemplified by the master storyteller Himself! Not a bad role model after all! 
See my stories "Little Pete's Great Big Life Lesson" and "A Miracle for Angelo" at dezeinerbooks.com. 

Mole Cottage, the Land

Ron and I were missionaries in Pietermaritzburg, KwaZulu Natal, South Africa, from September 1995 through May 2007.

December 27, 2006

I’ve been suffering from SADD the last couple of weeks. Though it is summer, it has been rainy, cold and half-twilight so long I’ve battled with seasonal depression. Add to that the many stresses I’ve been under with health issues, Ron being gone to East Africa, Christian Listeners-KZN’s admin realignment, missing our children over the holiday, etc. – I seem to have lost more than won the fight! Yesterday we arrived at Mole Cottage, a farm stay in the Drakensburg Mountains, where we’ll remain for three days. This is one of the loveliest places we’ve ever visited in South Africa. We drove down miles of country roads lined with blue gum trees that appeared as phantoms in the mist only to disappear just as quickly. Today, however, the sun shines. I’m listening carefully, deeply, and I still don’t hear it – traffic! The air is crystal; the surrounding green is emerald. I find myself wondering about how privileged the people are who get to live here. Or do they become so used to paradise it fades like yesterday’s phantom mist into their workaday world? Somehow, I think even with the responsibilities of making a living, the call of the land is greater still, and once one has heard its siren ‘s song, one can never be quite the same. I’ve heard it here, in the back places of KZN, and even though I don’t belong to this land it haunts my every waking moment and sometimes my dreams. It’s an irresistible tug on my heart. How much more if my children were born here, if my people were buried here. Which begs the question that has baffled me for some time now. Where do I belong? Where is my land? Where is ‘home’? When I leave South Africa to return to the States I’m going ‘home’. When I leave the States to return to South Africa I’m going ‘home’. I guess that’s why Copper speaks so much to me: Copper, the miniature dachshund the color of a copper penny, who in my imagination searches for home in all the wrong places. Only within his “dark night” does he realize that he is there all along – in his heart. For home has something to do with the heart – where it is fed, at rest, at peace. Lacking the first two, or either one, it will be difficult to find the third. Copper’s search is as much mine as his. In this paradise in rural KwaZulu Natal I spend time letting the beauty and peace of this place sink deep in my heart. I receive them as a gift for today.

(Copper became a reality when my children’s book Little Pete’s Great Big Life Lesson was published in October 2019 by Lucid Publishing.)

The Story Continues...

How can I begin to say what has gone on in my life since my last post in 2015? I began this blog with good intentions, but somehow they got lost in the crossfire of life. And I do mean crossfire, because at times I have felt a target for anything that would fire a disarming shot my direction. There is definitely a before and after to my ongoing story, and I believe this may prove to be the purpose to attempting once again to put fingers to keyboard. Christian Listeners USA Directorship, retirement, cancer, then another cancer, life, deaths, births, book publication, return to Christian Listeners (now re-branded Breakthrough Listening) -- just life lived. I have grown exponentially in my appreciation of the power of Listening as a healing presence in my life not only as the one hearing, but as the one speaking. I sit in awe when I hear another's story -- that never-ending saga of a person's life in which I am but a momentary guest. I've realized the exquisite pain and power of storytelling. Can I trust that person to handle my story with unobtrusive compassion, or will I once again lie wounded beneath a Cross-shaped sword? I've experienced both to the extent I am utterly committed not to wield such a weapon against another. Stories. And what I hear in them. That is what I'll write. They may come frequently or not so. But they will come freely as a gift, and they will always be authentic. 
💓 Joanna

Senón -- a Memory

...when you did it to one of the least
of these...you were doing it to me!
Matthew 25:40 NLT 

I see him on his knees, patiently re-arranging the bricks. Where I grew up, twin garden plots bordered the entry-way leading up the steps and onto the front porch of our old farmhouse. One hot mid-summer day I decided that I didn't like the arrangement of the half-buried bricks standing upright around the gardens, flat edges mirroring the sky. So I decided to tip the bricks a bit so their pointy edges zig-zagged upright. One brick -- two -- ten -- much better. About a third way around the first bed I stopped, stood back, and admired my work. As a matter of fact, I admired it so long I decided I was through and went on to other interests. Hours later I happened out onto the front porch and saw Senón on his knees placing the last of the bricks zig-zag fashion around the entirety of the twin garden beds. A crumpled straw hat shaded his leathered skin browned from the South Texas sun. His grandfather years maneuvered him slowly, one hand positioned on the ground held his body erect while his other packed dirt around the last of the bricks. He never looked up, even though he heard the screen door slam shut when I stepped out onto the porch. I admired my idea -- the border was sharp, much better looking than the former flat-topped stumps. Though I felt a twinge of embarrassment that I'd abandoned the job, my pre-adolescent maturity reasoned: That's what a gardener was for, right? Senón stood up and limped slowly away. I went back into the house.
I remember.
I'm ashamed.
I never even offered Senón a glass of water.