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April Journal Entry; Waffles and God’s Patient Love
Arrival in San Francisco was after midnight, the middle of the night (Cleveland time). We landed to twinkling lights in the darkness. Tired, we checked into a hotel in San Francisco—a
City that held such promise for me at age 20. A city I had left in
devastation and despair, yet now returned to three decades later,
hopeful of rediscovering beauty and peace. This was my first return
since I was an art student studying at the Academy of Art College,
waitressing at the wharf, and living in a studio apartment on Jones Street. My mother was born in San Francisco and died there too. I had moved away the day after her death.
We
awoke the next morning and drove out of the City down highway 1,
following the coast line on a day filled with the lightness of spring
sunshine. I put the windows down to breath in the smell of salt air,
poignant memories of the ocean of my childhood. There is something
about returning to the place where one was born and raised; as if
we need the geographical embrace of intimacy. It is felt in the marrow
of your being. Inexplicable and instinctive, we long to return to the
place of our beginnings, and maybe to the place of endings too.
By evening we had arrived in the small, oceanside town of Morro Bay and drove inland and up a mountain where my Dad now
lived. He
greeted me with one of his large bear hugs. My Dad is a big man—like a
large, old oak tree on a mountain side. His hugs have never been like
those that awkwardly impart back patting reassure, nor those hugs that
stiffly hold you a certain distance in an ‘A’ frame. My dad’s hugs are
massive and he almost picked me off the ground when we arrived,
enfolding me in his large embrace. My dad is full of paradoxes. He has
a volatile temper that rather frequently ignites, but he also has an
emotional gentleness and sensitivity for children, animals, plants and
underdogs in the world. The paradox is there in his hug too—a
physically large, strong embrace, yet with the gentleness you impart to
a child.
We
arrived at his little home on the mountain and his long time companion,
Mariella and my Dad had prepared a surprise birthday dinner for me. We
were hungry and to my delight we had two large, dark green, steamed
artichokes. My Dad remembered how much I loved artichokes. When I was
probably only about ten years old my mother had steamed enough
artichokes for a week one year and I was allowed to eat one artichoke
each night for dinner. A roast, salad, and baked potatoes followed. For
desert we had carrot cake—another of my favorites. It was the presence
of those I loved and had traveled to see around the table that was the best gift of all.
Walks
on the mountain, talks over coffee and the simple delight of a visit
with my Dad, I enjoyed every moment. The years where there had been no
visits only made me keenly aware of our time now. The next morning my
Dad made waffles for breakfast in a waffle iron
that he had forgotten to spray before pouring the batter. He opened the
lid to a ripped and burnt waffle, stuck in different places on both
sides of the iron. For about one minute it appeared my Dad was going to
try and patiently save the waffle by gently scraping it out. I watched
intently, knowing from a lifetime of witnessing such events, that it
would be a miracle if his patience held out for the extraction of the
waffle. As dark crumbs landed on the counter and floor, but the waffle
clung tightly to the top and bottom of the iron the ‘save the waffle’
campaign came to an abrupt end. Predictably he slammed the lid down and shouted *&?%!! Outbursts
of profanity used to scare me as a child, but I couldn’t help but laugh
today. It was funny how passionately he could swear at a waffle! I
laugh even now, recalling his fury at the crumbled waffle. Yes, this is
my impatient and passionate Dad, and it is a genetic vein that pulsates
in every member of my family. In fact it reminded me of how my kids
laugh every time I try to patiently open a zip lock cheese bag, and end
up stabbing it open with a knife. I smiled…God is so patient with us
and I bet he often laughs at our foibles that tend to run through us
like fault lines that run through the state of California.
We
left in the afternoon of the following day and drove back to San
Francisco. There we stayed right on Sutter, only blocks from where I
had lived 30 years earlier. My husband held my hand as we walked past
my old apartment, the art school, the last restaurant I had eaten in
with my mother. There was no pain from the past carried into this
beautiful day or this beautiful City. The Golden Gate Bridge
could be seen off in the distance and it jutted into the skyline in a
bold red and majestic silhouette, swinging over the City by the Bay.
God had been so patient with me during the years I had ignored Him,
blamed Him, been angry with Him. He had been a patient and sturdy
bridge over an ocean of grief and pain. My heavenly Father had infinite
patience, even more than my earthly father had with the waffle iron!
We returned home to Ohio for Holy Week.
Yet I think that all the weeks of our lives, all the moments are holy
if we can stay present to the pain, the joy, the ugliness and the
beauty in our lives; if we can stay present to our lives and the presence of God within our lives. On Good Friday
as the congregation went forward for the veneration of the Cross and
the choir sang, I heard the lyrics floating towards me, “kiss the
cross”. As I moved towards the large wooden Cross and kissed it, my heart swelled with gratitude. God
has patiently loved me and I could feel His large embrace, it was this
that allowed me to kiss the crosses in my life. “Thank you God, thank
you Jesus, you loved me enough to sacrifice everything.” Life, even
with its sorrow and tribulations, its despair and struggle, is
astoundingly beautiful. Gratitude is the only response I feel today for
this beauty, and this love.
Posted by Debra Classen at 4/13/2009 10:43 AM 
Categories: Journal
Tags: patient April God Love Journel
Categories: Journal
Tags: patient April God Love Journel
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