Don’t Hold On

Mary Magdalene stayed by the tomb. Lingered in the wake of death. And in her waiting she was rewarded… Until Jesus said, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet returned to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am returning to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’ Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!”  John 20:17

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When I was in the first grade, I entered a kite flying contest. My father helped me handcraft my kite from scrap wood, glue and newsprint. The big day arrived warm and blustery, and he helped me tie on a long tail of rags in preparation for the Midwestern gusts.

The kite leapt in the wind as my six year old hands held tightly to the red handles around which spun the spool of string. I can still feel it turning in my hand, unreeling fast.

“Give it more string,” Dad encouraged.

I smiled watching it rise higher and higher, dipping and diving, floating on the wind. Suddenly, oh so suddenly, the string pulled free. My end of the string had not been securely fastened to the handle. I watched through tears as my treasured kite flew up and up into the clouds.

This childhood memory helps when I imagine how a surprised and overjoyed Mary must have felt when she recognized her beloved teacher standing before her. And how she must have longed to throw her arms around him and to feel his around her. To hold tightly and promise never to let go.

But Jesus said, “Do not hold onto me! I have not yet gone to the Father.” 

Surely it must have been through tears that she let her earthly Teacher go so she might welcome the Savior and then go and tell this good news.

Risen Lord, thank you for the stories you were telling us, even as children, that remind us of your promise to be with us always. Thank you for your strong arms that hold us and never let us go.

I wanna be that kind of book

I pick the book up from its assigned resting spot and attempt to flip through its pages. Each one sticks to the next. I can’t for the life of me get them separated. I fiddle with the edges. I try and slide the corner. I gather a handful of pages hoping the random shuffle will loosen the page I want. No luck. Thunk, thunk, thunk, go the chunks of text.

Clearly, no one has freed this book from its hot-off-the-presses status. But how… without licking my fingers? Such a Pre-Covid thought, that. In my bag I have a contraband water bottle, perhaps some moisture from that? Or maybe my gloves with fingertips designed to slide a screen would do the trick, but where are the?

Oh good grief. Yes, yes I did it. Surreptitiously, I dot my index finger with a dab of saliva and successfully work one page away from the other. Crinkle, crinkle, slide. There it goes. One page down. Only 373 more to go.

(I had the same experience at Harris Teeter yesterday, trying as I might to release the grip of the plastic bag opening without defaulting to stripping my mask from my nose and mouth and licking my fingers. Suffice to say, after setting my two gala apples on the cart left by the produce manager in order to recruit both hands for the task, I finally gave up and set both the apples and the unopened plastic bag in the bottom of my basket.) But I digress…

Today I pick up the same book from its assigned resting spot, but this one is in a different location. A more traveled location. A more popular spot. This book, I know right away, has had many visitors stop by for a visit. Its pages fall easily, one from the other. Its surfaces are crinkled and easy to grip. Its printed words seem to invite me in:

Look here and over here.
Turn to this page, now that. 
Oh, here's something you'll like! 
Wherever you want to go, I am with you. 
Just as I have been here 
for all those who have sat where you are sitting
and accepted my invitation to excursion through my pages.

I had what seemed an odd thought just then…

I would much rather be this book than the other, the one so seldom opened. I prefer risking a ragged interaction or two to sitting idle in a forgotten corner or at arms reach from an uninterested patron. I would rather be a book that’s read, that’s sung from, that’s paged through. I would rather be dog-eared, crinkled, scribbled upon or even mended after a bout of overly enthusiastic use, than pristine and shimmering, on display in some out-of-the-way spot gathering dust but inspiring no interest, no interaction, no comment.

Yes, me and that Velveteen Rabbit, we’ve done some communing over the years.

A toy, played with, is beloved. Real, even.

A book, read and re-read, beloved, too. Alive, even.

I wanna be that kind of book.

No structure, big problem

I’m a writer.

We operate in silence. in solitary. in fact, we like this. because as soon as someone interrupts us, we are done. Have to start ALL over again. from the beginning.

We are self starters. i mean, who is gonna start us? we, the people, who are here by ourselves.

Lonely? not us. we like it this way. usually. but it’s not as easy as it seems. have you noticed?

Creating a structure for yourself is a monumental effort. Not a soul in the house to tell you, “GET to WORK!” Nobody holding you accountable. No one demanding billable hours.

Just you. and the screen. or rather you and your thoughts before a screen.

So many have said, “you’re so lucky! You have no one telling you what to do!” no annoyance. no interruption. Pure, you-time. Well, now we all have you-time. Whatchu doing with your you-time?

I’m constantly looking for mine. Not kidding, it’s a 24 hour search.

And all that unstructured time you used to envy me for? all that time that I was free to spend however I wished?

Ah, now we’re all in this together. you and me and every we.

How’s that structure coming? now that we have to supply it. No structure, no problem?

No structure, big problem.

Ask a writer. we specialize in long, empty days that we fill with whatever comes. when it comes.

A lot has come.