A Peg in Holy Place

A Peg in a Holy Place

By Elece Hollis

When Ezra prayed he thanked God for giving the Jewish people grace for a "brief"moment and providing for them a "peg in His Holy Place." 

Through the King of Persia, the Jews had been given all that they needed to rebuild Solomon's Temple,which had been destroyed. 

 
I love that peg in His holy place phrase. It reminds me of the photographs I have seen of Shaker homes where the straight-backed chairs are hung on wooden pegs along the wall. Everything is simple and neat and clean and in place and all looks so peaceful. If we had such pegs I am certain I would be tempted to snatch up some rowdy children and hang them up by their belt loops and sashes.

I think of the rows of hooks that lined the outer hallway of my childhood school in Michigan where we hung our heavy overcoats and snow pants, scarves, hats and mittens on winter days to dry. We hurried inside the classrooms which were full of sunlight from the tall windows and warm from the radiators that lined the walls bringing heat up from the big coal furnace downstairs.

I have coat hooks in my own laundry room for hoodies, jackets, and sweaters. It's when you are home that you find "a place to hang your hat." 

For Aunt Bea, the hook on the back of the kitchen door was a place to hang her apron as she rushed off on some mission in Mayberry. A peg in a house symbolizes comfort and rest and security to us.

"A peg in His holy place," then can be a place to hang our hats spiritually, a place of refuge and where we find rest in the company of God. It's a place to be at peace with ourselves and the Lord and to be a part of His holiness, a recipient of His grace.

A peg in His holy place. how I do need it! A haven, a sweet place where I can pull off my heavy snow-laden overcoat and decide to stop struggling, competing and comparing myself to others. It's a place to lay aside cumbersome wraps that I try to protect and hide myself inside. 

It's a place where I can be secure in God's love and acceptance.It's a Just as I am without one plea sort of place.

Emotionally, spiritually safe at home in God's Holy place; with Ezra I say: Thank you, Lord for a peg in your holy place.

Justin and the Ferris Wheel

J-U-S-T-I-N

 

Today I watched little ones ride ponies 

under a sun-filled sky 

and a red and white canopy.

                      

I watched children's amusement at the antics 

of newly-hatched chicks. 

I saw piglets, lambs, and sheep 

and even petted a tame deer's spotted back.

But those were not the most extraordinary things 

that happened today.

And was ignored by this strange fellow 

who was willing to smile for a photo 

if I left him alone.

I perused some fine artwork and  some beautiful quilts, 

jars filled with clear jellies and jams, peaches, pears, and pickles. 

I admired my fellow Oklahomans' handiwork: 

baskets, carvings, drawings, sewing, and knitted sweaters. 

I watched bright blue-winged butterflies sit quietly

inside a huge green tent 

and watched young people fly and scream with delight.

 I listened to a L.A.street band drum on trash cans
 and I watched break dancers as fast and agile as gymnasts. 

I sat in the sunshine to eat a candy apple
and listen to 

  musicians panpipe Peruvian mountain songs.

I was at the fair,
without any accompanying students 
or any children of my own.
 It was an unusual experience for a mom of seven, 
a school teacher for twenty-five years, 
and a grandmother of eighteen.

 I bought tickets to ride the Ferris Wheel. 

Waiting in line I meet Justin, who really wanted to ride the wheel  and talk. He tentatively said hello to me 
and then began to chatter.
 He had questions. 

He asked if I had anybody to ride with me. 

When I said, "No, I came to the fair alone today," he asked if I wanted to ride with he and his grandma. I said that would be fine.  "Grandma," says the boy, grasping grandma's arm, "She wants to ride too. Do you have enough tickets for her to ride?" 

I smiled and showed him I had tickets 
and suddenly Grandma decided not to ride. 
Grandma disappeared, so I was now with Justin.
(I think she thought he knew me!) 
"That's J-u-s-t-i-n," he spelled robotically 
as he stuck out his hand like a pistol for me to shake. 
He asked my name, and my age, and if I was a mom, and if I was married, if I was scared of the ride and where my children were, which rides they liked, how old they were 
and what their names were.
He asked about my shoes and weren't they like his shoes? 
tennis shoes, black tennis shoes?

 He told me he was fifteen and asked if any 
of my children were fifteen. 
He asked if the ride would be high. 
He told me he had a seizure on another ride. 
"I do not like that ride," he declared pointing.

"Don't ride that one anymore, I advised.
 Soon it was our turn. We climbed aboard.
 "I have seizures," Justin warned the attendant.

While we were riding J-u-s-t-i-n worried. 

He leaned over the side to check 

that his grandma was still there.

He called her on his cell phone and told her he couldn't see her. 

She waved. He exclaimed, "There she is! Wave! Wave, Eleeza! 

It's Grandma." I waved to her.

He asked if we were on top. I nodded yes. He worried.

 I told him the ride was fun. 

He said, " YEE-HAW," 

(but not with much conviction). 

So I said,"Whoohoo! Here we go! Yahoo!"

And he joined in.

He asked if the ride was almost over. 

I said, "No, we get some more turns."

He looked frightened.

 I told him the wheel was starting to slow, 

So soon they would stop our cart and we would get off 

and his grandma would be there waiting. 

Our seat swung to a stop 

and the attendant opened the gate.

 J-u-s-t-i-n was anxious to get off, but wouldn't 

until he had waved me off first. 

"What a gentleman," offered the attendant. 

"I have seizures," answered Justin, 

wavering from side to side in a sort of fear dance

 at the instability of the still moving cart.

 I turned back to help him climb down.

When we walked down the ramp, I saw that

Grandma wasn't there, 

but a sister and Justin's mom

 were waiting for him. 

"Mom, this is my friend, Eleeza. 

She rode the Ferris wheel with me!"

"Hello," she said, "Thanks" 

and off they disappeared into the crowd.

Hard  Hard  Hard

 Hard was written three times on the face of the wheel.

  Some people's lives are super tough. 

I went to the fair feeling sorry for myself. 

I had no children who wanted to go with me. 

I had no friends or relatives who were available to go with me.

 I wanted to go and I did, but I was sad to be alone. 

I was at the fair and I was trying very hard to enjoy it. 

 I was saying "Yeehaw" at the right spots, 

(but not with much conviction).

 Because my kids growing up away from me is hard. 

Family changes and growth are hard for me. 

Yet, Justin was cheerful,

How he must struggle everyday with problems

 of how to fit in an ever-changing world that moves

 round and round 

and up and down too fast for him.   

and I really hadn't any excuse for my pouting. 

***

Thank you, Lord, for letting me ride

 the Ferris Wheel with Justin. Bless his heart. 

Forgive me when I fuss and sull' up to have to face 

insecurities and changes periodically. 

Forgive me, Lord, and thanks for the perspective.

Losing a Son

 Losing a Son?

 by Elece Hollis

'"Lose" and "loose" are not the same word. I read a discussion on the internet last week among teachers and librarians decrying the misuse of some English words. One lady's quote struck me.The one above about "lose" and "loose." The two words have an entirely different meaning, or do they? When I let something or someone go free I am loosing them or am I losing them? Maybe I have confused the meaning of these two words myself.

This past August one of my sons rented a house in town and announced to the world his intention of marrying his high school sweetheart. I struggled and I am still struggling with letting go, and cutting some tightly tied apron strings. 

It is difficult, for a mama like myself who wanted every one of her children so much and who loved and needed each of them terribly. Especially difficult for one who relished motherhood to the degree of wanting to be not only a full time stay-at-home mom and a homeschooling teacher mom besides.

Does loosing him and losing him mean the same thing? Well no, not at all. But, somehow I have felt as if it did. 

Instead it means I let go and stand back and watch as my boy becomes a man, as he discovers himself, tests his faith, and uses the education and skills I have attempted to help him develop. It will be fun to watch. Scary, maybe, but fun.

His moving out on his own is what I raised him for and it is normal and good and okay. It is hard because I want to hold on. It's my mom instinct to want him close where I can tend him, but it is time for him to be on his own, to make his own choices, pay his own way, tend to himself and his place. He doesn't need my sheltering anymore. He needs to be loosed. And that is a good thing.

Tonight he came over with a car part and asked his dad to help him repair a brake issue. He also stayed for supper and after supper sat on the couch beside me gabbing. (Alton talking, imagine that!) "You'd better get headed on home, " I told him.

"But I like it here. Thanks for supper. That potato soup was really good. I love you, Mom." He hugged me, his dad and siblings, and gathered up a few more of his stray possessions, and a helping of soup for his next day's lunch (?) and off he went. 

"See you tomorrow night 'bout suppertime," he said grinning as he left. "Just kidding." 

Nope, I haven't lost him at all.

Painting the Sky

I painted one wall of my bedroom the blue of an Oklahoma sky. It's a deep bright blue like a summer morning. 

Bluer than a baby boy's first blanket, 
bluer than periwinkles, 
bluer than water.

It's the blue of an Eastern blue bird, only bigger and grander.

The expanse of it always makes my heart feel joyful and close to God.

I painted the other walls the green of spring.  

The green of fern and hosta.
 The green of lily pads on a pond.

The green of the first daffodil shoots. The green of the oak trees' first spring leaves.

The green of hyacinth leaves. 

The green of iris fronds. 

I added a quilt with the pink of calla lilies. 
The yellow of daffodils, 

A wonderful shade of orange,

 And soft pinks of hydrangea and peonies. 

 The white sheer curtains I chose were the white 
of a blooming fruit tree. 
 The sturdy white of dogwood blooms,

 They mysterious texture of early morning fog, 
and the bridal veil
 of Queen Anne's Lace.

The doors and window sills we painted the glossy white 
of Easter lilies and the waxen white 
of a magnolia blossom.  

The room is full of sunlight and the soft tinkling song of windchimes blowing in a soft Breeze. 
It blooms and beams the life of a prairie meadow. 
It is a room of nature with wood, sky, 
grass, flowers, visions of butterflies, 
birds, and wisps of dragonflies. 
It is a place where I can feel at home
and at peace. 
It is a sensory haven, a physical refuge.
 But Jesus is my spiritual refuge.
 My helper in times of trouble. 
My comforter when I am grieved.
 He is my strength when my heart is weak 
And my courage ebbing. He is my refuge, a safe place. 
He brings me peace.