Little Lumpy

Rachael — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 23:53:07 +0000

Little Lumpy now has a blog home of his own.

Little Lumpy, Part 6

Rachael — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 02:01:28 +0000

Mr. Elder almost always wore a tired, yet somewhat contented expression on his face. His creaselines added to the enhanced graying, which aged him even further. Little Lumpy recognized him; when he was an even Littler Lumpy, he remembers seeing Mr. Elder pass by hurriedly, always seeming to have somewhere important to go. Lumpy had often watched him from the hammock, wondering where he was off to and why he was in such a hurry. In those days, the water basin was non-existent, but Lumpy vaguely remembered seeing a piece of clay named Ms. Hunchback with a basket of rolled up, wet white washcloths. She would check on the basket from time to time, replenishing the dried out ones with freshly wettened ones. As he looked at Mr. Elder, he thought of Ms. Hunchback. Both took good care of that corner of refreshment, perhaps making it just right should the Potter ever visit that part of the room. He wondered what happened to Ms. Hunchback. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her in years. He wondered if she had family or anyone to take care of her. She must have been a very nice lady to take such good care of that corner; it would be a shame if no one was looking after her. And at that thought, Little Lumpy felt he had enough thoughts and wonders to last for the day, so he drifted off into a restful slumber in the warm sunlight and accompanying breeze.

Little Lumpy, part V

Rachael — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 16:34:47 +0000

Little Lumpy headed straight for the hammock hung up in the corner. This was his favorite resting place, and whenever he went here he felt adequately prepared to answer the question: What did you do today? His ready answer of I hung out in the hammock brought him a sense of accomplishment, especially when he had to fight through the crowds to get there.

Right above the hammock was a white tic-tac-toe striped window with white shutters at its sides. Outside the window was a ledge on which friendly, bright pink and red geraniums sat in the summers. He loved to lie back and gaze out the window, especially when the sunlight played upon the blossoms and shared its warmth. On hot days when the window was opened, he’d close his eyes in tranquility as the breeze played upon his clay. Sometimes it would dry him a little, but there was always a little water basin set up nearby that he could use to refresh himself. Up until recently he had always wondered how the water basin always managed to be so full and the area beneath so clean and clear of water spillage. He found that answer just a few days ago on a hammock visit when he met Mr. Elder, an older, graying (well, they were all graying, but he was graying even more), refined and rather silent piece of clay. He wasn’t completely silent, but he was a clay of few words spoken with precision and quiet confidence. The way they met was not wrought with formal How do you dos? and the socially expected What do you dos? Instead, their first verbal exchange was: Would you like a scoop? and No thank you; I can use my hands. That was pretty much their first and last conversation, but Mr. Elder had Little Lumpy intrigued. He had such elegance and poise even as he conducted the most menial of tasks: refilling the water and patting dry the surrounding area. Little Lumpy wanted to ask him about his past and about his life philosophy – why it was that he could do what he does so well. He figured the answer might be something like to honor the Potter, but he still wanted to know, and, if that indeed was the case, how it could motivate Mr. Elder on a day-to-day basis.

Little Lumpy, Part IV

Rachael — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 19:02:14 +0000

The less agile clay chunk – let’s just call him “Less Ag”- didn’t exactly like Little Lumpy stumbling upon him. In fact, it displeased him to just about the same degree as the art of waiting. And, having just have given up on waiting for his fellow “green” friend to finish his flagging duties and accompany him back to the tables, he wasn’t in the most pleasant of moods. It was when he was mumbling and bumbling along that Lumpy stumbled upon him. Really they were equally to blame as neither were paying attention to the direction of their feet and were simultaneously stumbling over each other. But it was Less Ag who took offense. In the rudest voice he could muster, he started at it with Lumps. Lumpy half opened, or really, fully opened his mouth, but just as he was about to say some angry words back, he saw a piece of paper float out from his portfolio. He didn’t really have the time, energy, or desire to read all that was on that paper, but one glance was enough to read and register the word “quiet.” When he saw it, he paused for a moment – as that is all he had – in thought. But in that moment came a rush of thoughts, not all put to words. On the one hand, he had been told on more than one occasion that he should stand up for himself and express his feelings in times of conflict. On the other hand, he’d heard time and again of the benefits of holding the tongue. Surely there must be times where it would be just fine to share one’s feelings, but he felt that this time in particular wasn’t among them. After Lumpy’s moment of internal conflict, a look at Less Ag’s face snapped him back to the external conflict at hand. But the conflict was almost over, thankfully, due to Lumpy’s ponderous moment where, when deciding whether to say something or remain silent, he pretty much accidentally stayed quiet as he thought. To close the conflict, Lumpy muttered “Sorry” while meeting Less Ag’s disgusted eyes and went back to his newspaper, hoping to reach the corner of the room with no further incident.

Rachael — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 02:01:30 +0000

*Take “I” to be the protagonist.*

***************************

Busy-minded, whisked away, in another world, accessible only to few.

But I see you. Your slumped shoulders endear. Your soft, stuttering voice calls. Your tears are collected. Your creaselines worry. Your sleepless nights haunt. Your uneven steps sober. Your prayers balm.

Externals fade but are ever so real.

Forget me not

Rachael — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 21:59:13 +0000

PULSE. PULSE. PULSE.

I can’t move. Groan. No one can hear.

Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.

Hungry. Thirsty. No one’s checking in.

Dear God, forget me not!

Pulse PULSE PULSE PULSE Pulse.

——Silence——

*******************************

**Take “I” to be the protagonist.

Time

Rachael — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 14:31:32 +0000

When you see the good-sized plant with big pink flowers…

When you see the middle-aged woman with a crooked step…

When you see the friendly elderly couple who just found out bad news…

When you see the non-complaining hiker whose not supposed to climb with a bad foot…

When you see people weathering life’s bruises well…

Remember Philippians 1:6 (ESV):

“…he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion atthe day of Jesus Christ.”

Heart’s beat.

Rachael — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 03:42:43 +0000

Pulse, puLSE, PULSE.

How long the linger of the not yet? The unknown? The lack?

Pulse, pulSE, PULSE.

Not enough.

PULSE, PULse, pulse.

Childhood relics. Love.

pulse, pulse, pulse.

Heart’s beat.

Sleep.

Dreaming of feeling Everlasting Love and waking to Mercies renewed.

Trembles…

Rachael — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 03:28:50 +0000

Trembling heart, trembling feet until the end where there may be a tremulous fall onto the knees before the throne.

But it is encouraged to go to the throne in confidence -

Hebrews 4:16 (ESV):

¹⁶Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.

Wild Swans…

Rachael — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 02:39:39 +0000

…is a book I recommend.