Clocks

Each autumn, when I go around the house setting all the timepieces to Eastern Standard Time, I find myself humming a song I used to sing in school called “My Grandfather’s Clock.” It went like this:

My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf

So it stood ninety years on the floor.

It was taller by half than the old man himself,

But it weighed not a penny-weight more.

It was bought on the morn

Of the day that he was born

And was always his joy and his pride

But it stopped -- short -- never to go again

When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering,

Tick-tock, tick-tock

His life's seconds numbering,

Tick-tock, tick-tock

It stopped -- short -- never to go again

When the old man died.

It wasn’t only the onomatopoetic rhythm of the lyrics that fascinated me ( I liked to tilt my head sideways on the “tick tocks”), nor was it simply the neck-stretching vision of a tall clock that captured my imagination. No, it was the tantalizing story the song had to tell. Imagine -- a clock that stopped ticking at exactly the same time its owner stopped breathing!

Were the mutual demise of man and machinery mere coincidence, or is there a deeper story here? Is it possible that after many, many years, an inanimate object – a mere piece of furniture that houses a warren of cogs and wheels marking the passage of time – could become linked in simpatico to its owner? Could the swaying pendulum and the sword and scissors hands that sweep around the face of a clock each day and night develop an intelligence that informs them when their movements no longer have meaning?

In the same way that an athlete’s numbered uniform is “retired” when he no longer can play, so also does a father’s favorite chair stand empty in a grieving home.

For the Native American, according to Louise Erdrich in her novel The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse, the quality of animation from within – the harboring spirit – is not limited to animals and plants. Stones are animate, and kettles alive as well. And when their owners no longer have physical contact with them, their very substance is changed.

Admittedly, it’s a “tock-tick” idea that material things might be spirit surrounded by a shell of substance. But I like it – because I believe that’s what we are, too.

Signs and Wonders

My father-in-law was a Christmas Christian who never gave voice to his faith, though he did a lot of loving others through his quiet work in the Masonic Order. Occasionally, I would tell him about an extraordinary occurrence in my life; he would grow quiet, murmer "signs and wonders," and turn away. That would be the end of our spiritual conversation. But those three words gave me an enduring glimpse into his soul.

Yesterday would have been my husband's 74th birthday. Each year since his death nearly six years ago, I've felt a deep sadness when the leaves begin to turn their beautiful colors. The warm colors were all around me when I stopped by Bob's grave yesterday to give him a verbal love letter. I fought back tears much of the way on my drive to Karen's for dinner.

This morning when I walked into my sewing room to look at the fabrics on my design wall, I could scarcely believe what I saw on the carpet at the threshold -- the white feather pictured above. This isn't a "crafts" feather. It has a quill, and its softness and beauty is certainly not man-made. I don't ask the question, "where did it come from?" because I know. This feather is one of several signs and wonders that have graced my life. I believe it is somehow connected to the last such extraordinary occurrence during a particular lonely time of my widowhood.

A little more than two years ago, I wrote the following:


White Bird

I first saw the bird about June 6, 2004. He was feeding with a group of sparrows, he was shaped just like them, but his feathers were nearly pure white.

At first, I thought he might be an albino. But when I had a chance to look at him closely, I saw that his eyes were brown, just like his feathered friends.

All week long, I thought of him as “a little bit of heaven” in my back yard; a sign of peace and hope in a world gone crazy with hostage-takings and beheadings in the Middle East.

On Sunday, June 13, as my niece Sherry and her husband Chris were visiting with me on the porch, the white bird criss-crossed the yard numerous times and we all marveled at the sight.

After that, I didn’t see him again.

I wrote to my friend Judi Kirk in Canterbury, whose husband is a birder. He talked to friends Annie and Chris, who travel the world to see birds. They were puzzled at first, but then Chris said that it could be an elderly sparrow; they lose their coloring with age, just as we do, he said.

My dear friend Mimi, who is a Wise Woman, was very thoughtful when I told her about the bird later that week. “Was anything special happening in your life while the bird was here?” she asked gently.

Oh, yes, I realized. June 6 was my mother-in-law’s birthdate and deathdate, and she was very present to my thoughts. And June 13 was my 45th wedding anniversary.

Could it be that God sent the white bird to me because He knew my thoughts were turned heavenward that week? I like to think so, and I always will.


The feather in my sewing room and how it got there is, of course, a faith story. Yet, it is truer than anything my heart has ever known. I can't say anything more about it except to echo my father-in-law: "signs and wonders."

As I head toward the garage to try to start the leaf-blower -- my prayer on this beautiful autumn day is that you may believe that God still sends love letters to each of us.