Greylag {A Short Story}: The goose, the girl, and the midnight mystery

He came on the last breath of a nor’easter, an apparition gathered out of the morning mist. His form, that of a goose, but his substance of something yet unseen.  She did not recognize his orange beak, nor the pattern on his wings – feathers dark, the grey of a winter storm, but edged faintly white.  He stood in the bent grass beneath the spruce, a study in stillness, while the morning rolled on over the riverbank.

At first she doubted, but there was no mistake. He was looking straight at her, eyes pooled black with secrets. Rushes whispered, blackbirds chattered, rain pattered off the big old spruce limbs, but still he did not move. He was obviously the vagrant, yet poised without a quiver of fear. Was he waiting for something, or someone? The call of a mate? A lull in the wind?

She took a small step toward him.

He blinked.

She took another.

He tipped his head aside.

She stretched out her hand and crept slowly forward.

He shook the droplets from his feathers and stepped out from under the tree.

She paused and knelt in the wet grass, hand trembling out. Blackbirds quieted. The wind caught in her throat, and all the world slowed to still.

He walked over and laid his head in her hand, one black eye upturned.

She could feel the warmth, the weightless intimacy of each feather, the wild wing beating of the creature’s heart. She could feel him breathing, and somehow it was enough for both of them.

When she finally exhaled, he lifted his head. She met his gaze and whispered, “Hello.”

Her voice cracked with this faltering word, the first she had spoken aloud in weeks. And then, the wave of all that had been hit her again, like it had every morning, the rush of an emptiness too barren for grief. But this time, though it swept over her wholly, it receded and drew out a tiny rivulet of tears.

The goose stood beside her till her eyes cleared. Then he shook his head and raised wings to the sky, revealing a striking white web of plumage. With a slight nod, he turned and waddled to the riverbank. She was sure he would fly away, disappear as quickly as he had come, leave her there to drown with the next storm surge. But he returned to the spruce and settled in its shelter.

She walked down later in the day, this time with half a loaf of stale bread. He held back until she had torn and tossed all the pieces in his direction, then made short work of the meal.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. He only stared until the question seemed to echo back.

The next morning, when she opened the door, there he stood next to the stoop, head tipped and beak half open. This time she laughed. She went and got a fresh loaf.

On the third day, watching the goose parade around the yard, she picked up the phone.

“Dad?”

“Honey? Is that you sweetheart? Are you ok? I’ve been so worried . . .”

“Dad, I found a goose.”

“A what?”

“A goose. I found a goose, Dad. Well, I think it’s lost. After that big storm. It’s not anything I’ve seen before. “

The silence of confusion. And then, a break in the grey.

“Hold on, let me get my book.”

On the fourth day, the phone rang.

“Honey? Still got your goose?”

Picking up the old rotary from the kitchen counter, she moved to the window where she could see the bird paddling and diving on the calm river surface.

 “From what I can tell by your description – white coverts, right? – it sounds like a Greylag. A wild goose, native to the Old World. It must have gone off course somehow, or got blown over in a storm current. They don’t usually travel alone. A pretty rare sighting from what I can tell. Definitely newsworthy, among the bird world anyway. Maybe you could get someone to come take a look?”

The phone cord twisted in curls around her fingers. “Maybe.”

“Is he friendly?”

“He waits outside the back door for breakfast every morning, so yeah, I’d say so.”

“Hmm. I wonder if he’s part of somebody’s domestic flock, or from a zoo.”

“Never heard of anything like that around here, though him coming all the way from the other side of the Atlantic is just as unlikely. But he seems wild to me. Even with breakfast.”

“Well, God knows how these creatures get around. Migratory instinct. That’s just the scientific name for mystery. Stupid car GPS couldn’t even get me to your place the last time . . .” Words tangled into a laugh.

She tugged unsuccessfully at a kink in the phone cord.

“You know, the ancient Celts figured the Holy Spirit was more like a wild goose than a dove. For what it’s worth.”

She gazed out at the strange bird, graceful on the water.

“Did you read that in one of your books?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I’ve never talked to a dove. So maybe they were on to something.”

That night the wind blew unsettled. Out the window the old spruce swayed like a spectre, growling at the moon. She was worried about Greylag. She must have stood there for an hour, maybe two, staring into the dark. Finally, she flipped the lights off and went to bed.

A sudden cacophony startled her awake. Fighting to make sense of the pounding – was it in her ears or without? – the sound came into focus. Geese.  

She leapt out of bed, grabbing an old sweater, and ran outside. There were hundreds of them flying over the river, circling, calling. Dozens more were swooping down to the water, bracing, landing and dashing the moon tipped waves. Her eyes scanned frantic for Greylag.

All around her swirled beating wings, honking cries, the river alive with the dance of webbed feet. They were Canada Geese, the familiar black and white, yet here in the moonlight they had never seemed so deafeningly wild. And she was alive with fear and wonder and the frosty grass beneath her toes, and the storm of feathers raged, and she stood wide and bracing and then she saw it – the eye of the storm.

Greylag, there on the water, wings raised, conducting the whole movement, calling down the night. He turned and lowered his head in a quick bob. The rondo went on till every last goose had spun through the centre and back out into the sky, finally forming into silhouette V’s and disappearing to the south.

Greylag stayed.

When the noise faded at last, he swam to the bank.

She dropped to her knees.

He came once more and laid his head in her hand, and this time the salt river within her burst. When all was calm again, she knew only a silver web rocking her to sleep.

She woke to a playful midday sun, warm in her tousled bed and the old sweater. She would call Dad, tell him to come and identify the goose himself. Tell him to get out the GPS and bring his books and camera. Newsworthy, he had said. She pulled on her jeans and padded out to the kitchen. A honk sounded from the yard.

“Coming!” she sang, tearing into a new loaf of bread. “I know I’m late.”

She opened the door.

“Greylag?”  She threw the pieces out on the grass. “Breakfast is ready!”

She stuffed a chunk into her own mouth and stepped into a pair of boots. Her eyes scanned the yard. Empty. Maybe he had decided on minnows instead. She strode down to the river. Nothing.

“Greylag,” she whispered, searching the clear sky.

And then all at once her cheeks burned foolish. I’m talking to a goose. And then, the panic. The moon, the strange dance, the strange goose, the whole thing – a dream.

She closed her eyes, desperate for some evidence. She had none. No pictures, no other witnesses. Only shadows in the mist and the ravings of a sick mind.

No.

Eyes snapped open. The tree. She crept under the ragged spruce to where the brown grass had been flattened and formed in a gentle circle. She reached out her hand and felt the softness, the warmth, the real presence of what she had seen.

She took the remaining bread, broke it, and laid it in the grass with a whisper. “Good-bye.”

She walked to the house, went to the phone and dialed a number by heart.

“Dad? How’s your migratory instinct today?”

~lg

First Snow and the Grace of Morning

I am wakened in the grey light by her whisper. “Mom, I need to show you something. Something that happened outside in the night. It’s not what you expected.”

My sleepy eyes come in to focus on her smiling face. She points to the window, eager with her secret.

Snow.

I had known of its possibility, looking at the forecast last night. Yet it still surprises me now, as the first snow of the season always does. The white magic has gently coated the autumn world, icing the grass, frosting the pumpkins on the porch, dusting the carrot tops dozing in the garden.

Too often I am guilty of seeing the world through mud-coloured glasses. But this morning, my vision is wiped clear. Children have a way of waking you to wonder. It is their peculiar and powerful gift. To have their eyes – this is a grace of God. To know winter’s first kiss as pure joy – this, too, is a grace of God.

The sun breaks through the grey clouds over the hill, and the crystal covering sparkles even as the golden leaves are set on fire. The kids have already raced outside, snowsuits over pajamas, convinced that God sent the snow for their own mittened pleasure. Perhaps they are right.

And so this Monday morning we begin again. Begin with wonder, begin with grace, begin with new-fallen joy.

This is the mercy of each morning, if we have eyes to see.

“The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;

his mercies never come to an end;

they are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3:22-23

~lg

Choosing Light

What happens when you decide to choose joy, and your week starts off horribly wrong?

Somehow I manage to wake up more tired than when I went to bed. There’s no milk in the house to put in my coffee.

Arden wakes up sobbing because she didn’t see the red moon last night. She “stayed up” in a chair by the window, and we promised to wake her up when the moon was red. We did. We brought her out to the chilly porch, and talked to her, and turned her around, and keep talking, and she mumbled a bit and opened her eyes and kept falling back asleep. She doesn’t remember. Now, all she knows this morning is that she didn’t get to see the red moon. She’s crying bitter tears of disappointment, I’m crying too, then the two-year old starts.

Two of out two pigs are supposed to be on their way to the butcher today. After wrestling, wrangling, multiple escapes, stepped on toes, and general pig stubbornness, there’s only one pig in the trailer. Jack’s apple fell in the pig muck, and he’s more upset about that than the fact that he nearly got plowed over by an animal eight times his weight. At the end of it all I’ve got pig poop smeared up my legs and there are a dozen burs stuck to the back pockets of my jeans. I need another coffee.

It’s going to be a long day.

How do you choose joy when Monday morning brings everyone to tears?

At the Rend Collective concert on Saturday night, amid riotous singing and dancing, they paused to say joy was a spiritual discipline. It’s something we need to cultivate. It’s a choice. I knew I needed to choose it again. For too long this giant of discouragement has been looming large over what I thought was going to be a happy season. I’ve been living in a shadow, where I know the light exists but somehow it just can’t get to me. I’ve been eclipsed.

I was given a beautiful painting earlier this year. It’s called “Choosing Light.”* It meant something then, at the beginning of the year. And now on this wearisome Monday, I go into the living room, pull back the curtains, and stand before it. The sun isn’t immediately visible in the brush strokes. But it’s there, behind the clouds. And if I look closely, I can see its golden presence, the promise that if I reach out for it, it will shine back.

So I determine, again, to choose joy.

As the kids are waiting in the car to go on the ride to the butcher with Daddy, with just one pig in the trailer, I make funny faces at the window. I press my face right up on the glass, squishing it into all kinds of contortions which little children find hilarious. There could be bird poop on this window for all I know, but I don’t care. I’m going to make myself a little ridiculous if it means putting a smile on their faces. I stand back to wipe the drool off the glass. I can see my reflection. Sure, a little tried, maybe a little harried. But I’m smiling.

I can do this, even when the week starts off all wrong. I won’t be eclipsed. I’m choosing light. I’m choosing joy.

~lg

* "Choosing Light" by Katy Rose. See more of her beautiful work and the goodwill living it supports on her website. 

Falling in Love

No one tells you, when you choose this life of marriage and family and sticking to covenant, that you will get to fall in love again.

It happens all at once one morning, when you are drinking coffee at the breakfast table, and there is a little boy sitting there eating bread with jam and chatting about airplanes and bad guys.

It happens when she sidles up unannounced and slips her hand into yours, even though she's a big girl and doesn't need you in the same way she once did.

It happens when you catch a particular smile you've never seen before, because he's just discovered something of importance and his hair has never been that shade of sun-kissed before.

It happens when she jumps off a new height and puts a little dizzy in the pit of your stomach, but you hide it because you are so flushed with pride, and as she turns to grin she has suddenly sprung up taller.

No one tells you the unending capacity children have to make you see things new, to be plunged into love in a thousand wondrous ways. You thought that "to forsake all others" was to shut up your heart to the thrill of love, but this narrow path of two-become-one floods into acres of freedom. This life of co-creation is deep and wide, and here is all your heart's desire.


~lg

A.W. Tozer on Private Prayer

"Retire from the world each day to some private spot, even if it be only the bedroom (for a while I retreated to the furnace room for want of a better place). Stay in the secret place till the surrounding noises begin to fade out of your heart heart and a sense of God's presence envelops you. Deliberately tune out the unpleasant sounds and come out of your closet determined not to hear them. Listen for the inward Voice till you learn to recognize it. Stop trying to compete with others. Give yourself to God and then be what and who you are without regard to what others think. Reduce your interests to a few. Don't try to know what will be of no service to you. Avoid the digest type of mind - short bits of unrelated facts, cute stories and bright sayings. Learn to pray inwardly every moment. After a while you can do this even while you work. Practice candor, childlike honesty, humility. Pray for a single eye. Read less, but read more of what is important to your inner life. Never let your mind remain scattered for very long. Call home your roving thoughts. Gaze on Christ with the eyes of your soul. Practice spiritual concentration."

A. W. Tozer
- Of God and Men

Lub-dub

I lay beside you under the dragonfly quilt. We've said goodnight to the moon and all the cars and trucks and things that go. The room is almost dark, but I can still see your sleepy face.

"Can I hear your heartbeat?" I ask. A smile, a nod, then I lay my ear over your small chest. "Lub-dub, lub-dub," I whisper, in time with the beats. You always find that funny.

"Do you want to hear mine?"
"Yes!"

I jump out of bed, do a little dance to get things pumping, then settle back in. You lay your head down, and I put my arms around you.

"Can you hear it?"
You nod. Pause.

"Is that your heart?" you ask, wide-eyed.
"Yes."
"The one that God gave you?"
"Yes."

Yes, yes, yes.

How is it possible to feel my heart beating in two bodies? How can I give adequate thanks for these three year old kisses and chubby arms around my neck? How can so much wonder be wrapped up in a dragonfly quilt?

Sometimes prayer is simply this, quiet breaths of awe.


~lg

morning prayer :: 3

From the Book of Common Prayer, "Forms of Prayer to Be Used in Families"


Thanksgiving for the gift of another day

We give thee hearty thanks, O heavenly Father, for the rest of the past night, and for the gift of a new day. Grant that we may so pass its hours in the perfect freedom of thy service, that at eventide we may again give thanks unto thee; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

* * *

~lg

When all you have is dust

"But of all who pray, how many pray poorly?

How many, then, straightway dismiss this gift of God? How many grow restless over a period of time and despair of prayer - not because the thing itself is ineffectual, but rather because their practice of the thing is cheap and incomplete? Many. Oh, too many of the people turn their groaning inward (where it swells helplessly like an angry gas) rather than Godward (where the Deity himself breathes it in and transforms it)."


- from Whole Prayer by Walter Wangerin


Yes, that is it. In prayer the Spirit of God Himself groans along with us, and, by his creative nature, turns our helpless groaning into something more. We cannot pollute him by our prayer. He takes our sorrows and shattered dreams, our despair and doubt, our frustration and failings, and takes them into his heart. It is from that place we find the room to breathe again. It is from there he begins his Genesis work of breathing life into dust. It is how we all began. And it is how we can all begin again.

Yes, there is great hope in prayer.



~lg

Beach Days and Prayer: An Update on Habits in Formation

Summer's here, and my routines and habits are being sorely tested! There's nothing like camping, company, and beach days to throw things delightfully out of whack. So where does that leave prayer?

Some things have stuck a little more than others. I've discovered that with habit training (which is what this life of prayer is, among other things) it's pretty hard to introduce a whole bunch of habits all at once and expect them to stick from the start. I may be trying to do only "one thing" - pray more - but each intentional moment of prayer throughout the day is, in a sense, its own habit. And with establishing new habits, the common wisdom is: one at a time.

So where have I been sticking the most to my pattern of prayer?

Morning prayer
In a way this has been the least consistent time of prayer. Getting up at different times, in different places, with different people around has meant that I haven't been sitting down in my cozy blue chair before the world around me gets going. The prayer book that I have been using as a guide for my morning prayer times hasn't been used as much. (It's pretty big, so I didn't take it camping with me.) I also usually like to build in time for reading Scripture with my morning prayer. (I like to get my daily bread first thing, if I can.) But with a more relaxed routine, that hasn't been happening as often in the mornings either.

What has been sticking though, is that stirring in my heart in those first moments of waking - O Lord, let my soul rise up to meet you as the day rises to meet the sun. This day is yours, and I am yours. Some days this leads into a focused time of prayer and Scripture, if I've gotten up before the rest of the house. Some days I pray as I get ready ready for the day, showering and dressing, seeking to clothe myself with Christ and consecrate myself and my day to him. So it's been looking different, but the desire is the same. And if desire is such a thing that can be trained (and I do believe it is), then I think I have created a consistent habit of desire when it comes to morning prayer.


Midmorning prayer
This is the prayer the children and I do together with our morning snack. When we are home in the mornings, this almost always happens. The children help remind me! Which brings me to two important things about habit training:

1. It's easier to stick to a habit when it's linked to another daily ritual (in this case, a regular snack).

Linking a new habit to an existing one is a great way to ensure it "sticks." It removes a whole level of having to remember. It ties the new habit to something already anchored. It strengthens the new habit by supporting it with embodied actions. Now I can't sit down at our homemade harvest table for a morning snack without thinking about praying together. This is also the time we read a Bible story. It's now a package deal - snack, story, prayer. It's just what we do, and the kids don't let me forget it!

2. It's easier to stick to a habit when it's done in community (in this case, my own kids).

Forming new habits with others may take a little more work at first, but the community reinforcement is invaluable. If one person forgets, doesn't feel like it, or gets off track, there are others to help keep things going. Sometimes the momentum of the community is the only thing dragging me along (MOM! We forgot to pray!), and I'm thankful for it. We keep each other moving in the right direction.


Noon prayer
This is a habit that hasn't been firmly established yet. Most days I forget. I'm probably just distracted at this point. Or maybe it's just a matter of letting other habits get established before tackling this one. I don't have a wall clock in the kitchen. A simple thing, but it might help. High noon hands - time to lift my own in thanksgiving. Either that, or a little sign or sticky note by the kitchen sink to remind me to pause and praise.


Afternoon prayer
Here's another one I haven't gotten the knack of yet. I think it's partly because afternoons can be so unpredictable, especially in the summer. I've "tied" this prayer time to the kids' quiet time. If we're in our regular routine, it's much easier for me to take a few minutes and re-root myself in the Vine. There is still a struggle in those precious moments of quiet to silence the distractions and pull of the computer screen. To be sure, there is always something to attract my attention. But, realistically, this is often the only opportunity I have to go deeper into God's word for a few minutes, seek God's wisdom for the needs of the day, or put pen to paper. When I've done that first, I find my interactions with people afterwards (yes, sometimes on social media) are more meaningful. I find my activity around the house to be more productive and purposeful. When I prioritize prayer, other things fall into place, are put in proper perspective, and are filled with renewed purpose.


Supper prayer
This one is fairly consistent, if short. We thank God for providing and pray a blessing over our meal before we begin. Sometimes the adults pray, sometimes it's one of the kids. When the meal is over, we read a portion of Scripture before the kids are excused from the table. Right now we are reading the daily psalm excerpt from my prayer book. (It's easy in that the reading is printed right there for each day of the year.) Other times we've gone slowly through a book of the Bible together. The bones of this habit are there. I'm not sure how it may develop in the future into more of a family devotional time.


Evening prayer
This is another one of those still in formation. It all depends on how much brain power is left when my head hits the pillow! It has been a great help to process the day in the light of prayer, instead of fruitless worrying or replaying. I find the desire is usually there - the movement of the spirit toward God before sleep. Especially after a trying day, I can repent, release, and rest.



So that's how it's all been working out in the day to day. I'm encouraged by the habits that are sticking, because I'm seeing fruit! I still have a long way to go, and a lot to learn. This is more to do with the framework than the content of prayer right now. This is nuts and bolts stuff, but it matters. I am making opportunities for encountering the living God. I am training my heart to seek him. I am tuning my ears to hear his voice. He is not far off, no indeed. He is right here in the middle of it all, wanting to weave his life with mine.

The closer I stick to him, the more I see him everywhere - in the lively discussion with summer guests, and the quiet sunset over a campground, and the roll of waves as the children roam the beach. One of the rewards of prayer is how this sweet communion spills over into all of life, infusing it with colours of grace and making the ordinary sing with holiness. Thanks be to God.

The Card at the End of March: How One Prayer Keeps on Giving

Every year, at the end of March, one of these envelopes arrives in the mailbox at the end of the lane. 

It's from Wycliffe College, where I did my Master of Theological Studies, and I know exactly what's inside. This one piece of mail has had a large influence in my journey toward more intentional prayer. 

When I read it, I remember I am part of something bigger. When I read it, I know I am thought of with intention. When I read it, I feel as if a great circle of prayer has opened up and drawn me inside. 

I know what will happen, at some point in April, in the little brick chapel with the stained glass saints, at the end of the long hall lined with alumnae faces. 

A real live person will say my name in prayer, out loud, and the sound will rise up past those wooden rafters and make its way to heaven. 

I know because I've been there, and I've heard the prayers. It's all part of the Wycliffe Cycle of Prayer. A long time ago, the communal wisdom decided it would be a good idea to write down the names of all of the living Wycliffe alumnae, and pray for each person once a year as part of the daily offices. There's even a little booklet made up each year, sent to all the alumnae, with all these names divided up by date. It's not rocket science, nor is it empty ritual. It's an audible, tangible, intentional working out of Paul's admonition to "Devote yourselves to prayer" (Colossians 4:12). 

Somebody thought of me, and didn't want to forget, so they wrote my name down. They prayed for me by name. And they sent me this card. 

I don't know about anyone else, but I can be forgetful. I can have good intentions to pray for a lot of people, and a lot of things, but unless these intentions are formed into a plan, they too easily get lost along the way or elbowed out by the urgent. 

It's been a growing desire, these past years, to put more devotion into my prayer. And whenever I get one of these in the mail, I am reminded that a little planning can go a long way. 

This April, I kept it up on the fridge all month. And I started thinking what it would look like to create my own cycle of prayer, for me, and our family. Something simple. A starting point. A place to hang those dear names, those concerns and burdens, those stirrings of the Spirit, those passions and pursuits. A way to remember, and a way to keep me going in the habit of prayer. I've been experimenting with one or two ideas, and maybe I'll share them in posts to come. 

So, thanks Wycliffe! Your prayer keeps on giving. 

~lg

June ramblings

I've got seeds in my pocket and a sonata on my fingertips. It is a June evening, blushing with the colours of the sun up past its bedtime. These night hours seem stolen from some other world, some other time. There is the only the wind in the trees, and its noise does not demand, though we all bow to its power. There is no past, only these seeds that I place in the soil, space, cover up, then step to the next row. The garden gives, long before its fruits are ripe. Solitude. Solidarity with the earth and the mother spider that scuttles her egg nest to safer ground. Here is time, true and ticking, tuned to the turn of the earth and tilt of sun. Before the dark settles I put the tools in the shed and scrub the black dirt from my knuckles. Now limbered up, fingers fall easily on the smooth ivory keys, remembering patterns learned a decade and a half ago. The window is open to the night air, and I linger with the diminuendo, feeling the last vibrations sink away into the walls and floor of this old house. Then there is quiet. The quiet of children sleeping, and the breeze blowing through the rooms, and the frogs across the valley. There is a peace that comes when all the portals to the racing, rabid world are closed, and a thought can wander and turn without the clamoring opinions of a never-sleeping network. The house fills with the glow of lamps, but there is yet indigo through the windowpanes. Soon the night will leave us with only mirrors, and then what will we see gazing back at us? I have danced with June, let it in and taken its bait - and there, it smiles with me.


~lg