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Sticks, December 2024
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I've been thinking about sticks.
When I was little, my brother and I would go out in the yard and pick up sticks before my dad cut the grass. He didn't want to run over them and damage the mower. So we canvased the yard for small branches that got shaken from the trees by wind and squirrels. They went into a pile that was eventually bundled up and hauled away.
Yesterday I took an afternoon walk and picked up a stick to carry with me for a couple of miles. It fit well into my hand. I noticed others as I walked - one floating in the water, several piled against the fences of my neighbors, others scattered here and there.
Some weeks ago, someone asked me to consider what shape my feelings take on.
Some of my feelings are like sticks. Specifically, my grief takes on the shape of a stick. Grief and sticks can be sharp and poke or scratch. They snap easily. Grief and sticks can get lodged or hung up and block the moving flow. Grief and sticks are what I walk along with - when I spot the first one, I began to see them scattered here and there.
I imagine gathering sticks. Not to collect and keep them all, but also not to leave them laying around. I imagine gathering my grief with the same motion as picking up sticks - to make them an offering - to give them into God's care.
For what? What good is a stick? Sticks become kindling at the beginning of a fire. Sticks become hospitality for bugs to burrow. A good stick trellises a young vine. Those are my hopes for grief too. That my grief becomes kindling, or shelter or unexpected strength for something (or someone) young and growing.
This Advent, I'll be picking up sticks - to remember and to hope.
