Destination Discipline

He didn’t believe her. There was no benefit of the doubt. He didn’t understand her fear, her resistance, her protestations. He rolled his eyes and said, “Why don’t you feel safe? They don’t have any power over you. They aren’t your boss. I am.”

She trembled. She didn’t speak. He was frustrated. “Why are you putting a wall between us?”

”I don’t trust you anymore.” She said. “And it makes me unspeakably sad.”

For weeks now he had been having conversations with them behind her back. They told him how she was belligerent, how she didn’t share information appropriately, how she had a bad attitude. She hid her calendar from them. She was not cooperative. He checked with other co-workers on her performance only to discover she was doing well in other areas. It was only from this particular group of women that he was getting a bad report. But he was tired of the interpersonal drama. He just wanted this nuisance to go away. He was a busy executive. He had more important things to do. So he did what made the most sense: put more pressure on her to comply.

”You have worked with people across every level of this organization. You have always done very well at getting along with just about anybody. What seems to be the problem here? I mean, why can’t you get along with them?”

She just sat there. Her arms folded. Uncommunicative. She stared at the boxed lunch he bought for her. It was unopened. She was wasting it.

She whispered, “I don’t feel safe. I’ve tried everything to get along with them. I’ve done everything you asked me to. I’m afraid to be in a room with them. And it seems clear you are no longer my advocate.”

“I am your advocate.”

”Then why do you talk to them behind my back? Listen to their lies about me? As if we haven’t worked together these many years?”

“It’s my job to check up on you. I have every right to ask around about your performance.”

She looked at the floor. The table. Her hands.

”Listen, if you refuse to meet with them, you are insubordinate. And frankly, if I had to give your performance review right now, I’d say you need improvement.”

Her face turned white. Her breathing changed. It was shallow, then came in short bursts. Then she started to cry.

“Calm down.” He demanded. He handed her a napkin. She took it and tried to wipe away tears. But there were too many. And the crying only grew worse. Her eyes were now dripping streaks of black mascara. And she was hyperventilating.

”Breathe.” He said. “Calm down.”

But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

Then she ran out of the building weeping openly like a child. He didn’t understand it. Why was she overreacting? What was wrong with her?

He thought back over all the conversations, the texts, the emails. It had all started when she called him to say a group of women in the department would not allow her to send out a simple email. They insisted on approving it as “part of a broader communication plan.” She told him they wanted control over her work and were bullying her. One of them was even taking credit for work she had done. So he told her he would handle it. And he did. He took care of it. The women weren’t bullies. They were good people and never meant any harm. It was all just a simple misunderstanding. He had never seen anything inappropriate so it must not be true. She was exaggerating and frankly, being a bit melodramatic.

Besides, he liked the pretty things they sang. He was charmed by their melodies and harmonies. After all, he was a tall, strong man and he had never personally experienced bullying before. And candidly, he liked their song; the siren song of the bullies.

I found myself on the couch buried beneath an afghan my friend crocheted for me. From within the warm layers, I rubbed my fluffy slippers together and tried to shake off the chill of the fever that made my bones ache. Worse, the tickle from deep in my bronchial tubes was trickling so that I couldn’t help but cough spasmodically. And when done wracking and choking, I stared at the book shelf and wheezed. What lovely books, I thought. How I wish I could read them. Alas, I was too sick.

Sickness always finds me unprepared and unguarded. It’s strange really, how life is moving along and then, well, everything stops. Time trips over itself. And the minutes become a long tangle of questions, or worse, exclamation points.

What are we if we aren’t producing anything?

My identity is so frequently tied up with the work I do, whether at home or in the office. I crave accomplishment. I need validation. So when I’m stuck on the couch and the only thing I produce is the carbon monoxide from my nostrils when I exhale, I get to feeling, well, rather stale. Who am I?

I don’t generally have a family that dotes on me. The people in my house tend to be wrapped up in their own situations. So when I found myself on the couch with my little grand daughter tending to me, I was rather humbled. As I lay there shivering, she sat in a chair at my side and sang little songs to me that she was making up as she sang. I didn’t understand a word but I felt her love and care. I also felt tears trickling down my cheeks. What made her bend low to sit with her “Grammy”? To talk sweetly, and pet her hand and to sing songs to cheer her? I was really moved by her tenderness. What a gift!

I’ve been going through a rough time lately. I’ve been having panic attacks and many sleepless nights. I’ve been praying the Psalms in all my waking moments and waiting for God to intervene. I remember a pastor saying many years ago that when God doesn’t remove the miserable situation, He sends His comfort. Sometimes comfort takes the form of a little girl with big brown eyes, cherub cheeks and dark frizzy hair. I never imagined I could love someone so much, or be loved in such a pure and unique way.

When the days are difficult, I am thankful for an identity rich in the love of my Heavenly Father and my precious granddaughter. When I struggle to remember who I am, it is a deep comfort to know I am loved.

The leaves on the Bradford Pear tree are fluttering. Their movement in the Autumn breeze is so delicate that the tree itself appears light enough to lift. The Chickadee is hiding among the green and red tassels, watching for the woman in the window sipping green tea. There are glittering specks on her cheek that catch the early morning light. But he is more concerned with the little black seeds and his crop, which is not quite full. He is waiting for the fat, greedy tree scaler with the bottlebrush tail to finish thrashing the feeder so he can steal a few more seeds. She gobbles and glares. As if she didn’t have enough acorns, she has to eat all his food too.

The wren is singing again. The show-off. He snatches little crumbs of walnut and peanut butter and then bursts into song. He flashes his tail and prances from roof to feeder to perch to, WAIT, that’s my spot! Too close! Get out of my space! With a flash of his tail, he snatches an insect from the branch and flits away again with a trill of laughter. The woman is smiling.

“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!” He crunches and snaps the seed in his little beak. His friend, the titmouse and her sisters swoop and dive nearby. “Bee bee bee!” They shout while they delight in their aerial dance. Then, they are moving through the Sycamore top with precision. Their melodies are harmonies even when they are just laughing at each other. They distract him for a time. And then he begins to mourn her again.

She was light. When first he saw her on the feeder, she was new and fresh. Her black cap glistened, and her white cheeks fluffed. She was sorting the seeds as if they were meant to be counted. Her eyes were like beetle’s bottoms but filled with mirth. She turned her cheek to him and assessed, though he knew not what. But quickly she was off among the branches with her flock. He followed her because the look she gave was like a summer morning and the sun of her smile warmed him.

He won her heart and they made their nest. He watched and protected. He chased the hawk away with his brothers. He allowed no danger, no fear. And they found gladness in the leaves of the Bradford Pear. Their young grew and prospered. When she was hungry, he found food. When she shivered, he warmed. They were a unit, proud and glad. More, they were a family.

But she didn’t return that dusk. And when he searched, he found her near the road. He stayed for while, watching the feathers that no longer fluttered, the eyes that no longer saw. Her feet were clenched with nothing to perch on. She was still and there was no breath.

He stayed through the night and the morning, until the smoking machines shook the ground with their loud engines and cruel motors. He had to leave her there. Murders! Wretched monstrosities!

Mockingbird

The mockingbird has disrupted his thought. She lands on the branch above and surveys him with a tilt of her head. The tree is shivering as the cold winds blow. Her Gray Majesty of long tail and song has known loss too. Today she quips and chatters. But she knows the way of things. And with her staccato notes she tells the world the way it is and the way it will be.

“Loss and Life are the circle of things.

Crickets and peanuts and wanderlust dreams.

Winter and Summer erupt in their way.

Bonding and mating and fresh sprigs of hay.

Little pink mouths with a tongue that does sing,

Life is still filled with such beautiful things.”

The mourning dove alights on the bath and dips his toes in the water. He is watching, watching, watching and waiting, waiting, waiting. And when he is sure that no predator comes, he splashes and shuffles. His mate is nearby so he rushes and preens. The geese honk and fly over in formation. The season changes again.

The chickadee grabs a seed. “Chicka-dee-dee-dee!” Hunger is the driving force behind life. For now, the world moves in seasons as a frame of reference, but one day it will not be so. One day all grief will be gone, and sighing will linger no more. There will be everlasting light to fill eyes once full of tears. The Creator and Maker will shine joy and gladness and right all wrongs–death being most wrong of all. And maybe the chickadee will meet his mate again. Maybe they will dance and sing. Maybe they will just be still. Maybe they will look back and laugh.

The chickadee chomps his seed from the feeder and watches the woman in the window. “Thank you,” he says, and flies back to the Bradford Pear and his chattering leaves. Food is life. And life is still beautiful.