Does it ever seem to you that much of life is hurried preparation for some yet unseen event? And that when your preparation feels complete – I’s dotted, T’s crossed – the prepared-for thing tarries?
Do you live for days on end in that place called “Hurry up and wait?”
There’s a moment in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Return of the King that has haunted me since I saw the film weeks ago. Haunted me so persistently that I pulled my copy of the third book of the trilogy from the shelf, and searched for it again.
The Hobbit Pippin stands on the high ramparts of Minas Tirith, watching the darkening horizon. Something is coming. He feels it. Preparations for battle are being made all around him. Frodo and Sam are making their fearful way to Mordor. The fellowship of the ring has been scattered. Evil forces are forming and the signal fires have been lit. The whereabouts of Aragorn, the rightful king, are uncertain.
I was at the shoe repair shop last Saturday afternoon because my ten year old pair of black Cole Haan lace-up boots had died a rather ignoble death due to drowning. An unfortunate pause in a deep puddle had caused the top of one boot near the ball of my foot to pull away from the sole, leaving a yawning gap where plenty of sock showed.
Truth told, the shoe shop wasn’t my initial attempt at repair; I stopped first at my kitchen junk drawer to see what kind of glue might solve the problem without “professional” intervention. (For the record, Elmers’ wood glue did not.)
The nice, bespectacled man on the other side of the shop counter eyed my boots and asked me two questions: first, what kind of glue had I used to try to fix the problem myself…and then, without acknowledging the idiocy of trying to repair a leather boot with wood glue, whether the next day after 2 p.m. would be alright for pick up.
I discovered the writings of G. K. Chesterton rather late in my reading life, but they were well worth the wait.
Chesterton was a British intellect who played the literary genres like a hand of cards, penning biographies, poetry, social essays, short stories and shrewd Christian apologetics with seeming ease.
On a trip to Oxford, England, years ago I met a man who’d known him – an octogenarian bookseller from London whose chance acquaintance afforded me not only a delightful conversation, but two of my most prized books. One is a first edition of Orthodoxy and the other a collection of Elizabeth Barrett Browning poetry from Chesterton’s own library, bearing his personal bookplate and his quirky, artistic signature. (They both reside very near my front door – should my smoke alarm ever squawk loudly some night and require a hasty exit!)
I’ve never borne a child
I’ve never labored to give birth
To one whom You gave
Form and substance
Never held that precious one
Called “son” although I
Dreamed of it and longed for it
And dream it still
There’s never been a baby
Of my own placed in my arms
Except the One who
Never wasn’t
And will always be
For unto me
A child is born
Unto me
A son is given
Unto me
So undeserving
Unto me.
© Leigh McLeroy 2003