An Ugly Mirror

Let me be a messed-up old mirror: spotted, dingy, and cracked. 

Clear enough to leave no doubt what you are, but clearly not anyone to talk.

"I Kept It"

I was just talking to our boys about giving at church, and remembered a story my grandfather once told me when I was a kid.

I don't remember now how the story came up, but Grandpa Dominguez told me that when he was a kid, and his mother gave him money to put in the offering at church, he used to pocket the money to use for his own purposes. 

In Grandpa's words, "I kept it."

Frightened at even hearing this story told, let alone pondering the risk involved in Grandpa's boyhood caper, I asked whether he ever got caught. Yes, Grandpa said, he did, and he got in trouble for it, but I don't remember now what exactly happened, or whether Grandpa even elaborated any further.

But still...

Imagining this scene from what would likely have been the early 1930's, somewhere in rural Southern California, and putting myself in my great-grandparents' shoes, I wonder what they thought of their son when they discovered his little scam. Did they worry about his character? Did they second-guess themselves as parents? Did they have trouble trusting him again?

Of course, it's possible the answer is none of the above, as these were poor people, likely more concerned with their children's daily bread than their children's weekly tithe, but I can't help but wonder if, in that moment, Mrs. Dominguez asked herself where she had gone wrong.

I don't know how long my great-grandmother lived, but I hope she lived long enough to see my grandfather become the person I remember, who lived a life of decency and faithfulness, who never earned much money, but never failed to provide for his family. Who nearly gave his life for his country but never boasted or scorned others on account of it, and who is mourned today by great-grandsons who have no memory of him, but look forward to meeting him in heaven.

Great-Grandma, three generations now thank you for catching your son pocketing his tithe, and for setting him straight when he needed it.

We just hope you didn't lose too much sleep over it at the time.

When we meet up there someday, can you tell me this story?

Cloudy Sky at the Beach

Let me be a cloudy sky at the beach.

Not the perfection the beautiful seek, but a relief to those who've been burned.

An attraction not to the regulars, but to those who thought they'd never brave it again, to those who had forgotten how good the water feels against their skin, who had made peace with leaving that joy to everyone else.

Better yet, a rain shower right on the sand, each drop making its own splash in the waves, while an unbroken seashell is found by fingers digging blind, an inch underground, the perfect reward for the bravery of returning.