When Claire was nine, she spent a summer with her grandparents at their cabin in Northern Minnesota. Being the state of 10,000 lakes, this one was like any other, small and nondescript, but it met all the criteria of most of the lakes in the north woods, surrounded by long grasses and cattails, well supplied with rocks, sometimes covered in slime, shores with 'big' sand, and resplendent with mosquitoes of gigantic proportions.
Claire described the sand along its shores as 'big' sand, because it wasn't the fine white sand she had always imagined sandy beaches as having. Instead, it was bigger grains, almost better described as itty, bitty stones. She often took handfuls of it, slowly letting it sift through into whatever beach container she had at the moment, and was amazed at the individual pieces of sand flecked with mica or an occasional whole shell or snail as small as a one of the pieces of sand.
Her Grandpa watched her once as she studied a handful and said, "That sand is a whole lot like the people in this world. Some are ordinary, some shiny with talent and some unique and exotic, yet, in a handful like that, it makes up a complete component of its own," he patted her blond head awkwardly, a rare display of affection. "You can be whichever one you want to be," he added before meandering off with his fishing pole sticking up high over his shoulder and his straw hat moving with each step away.
At nine, Claire didn't have a clue what was he was talking about, but the memory and the words still clung through the years and now as she stood behind the counter at the Yarn Shop, she knew perfectly what he meant. Except now, the knowledge of what her grandpa had meant, came with tendencies toward labeling herself and others. It was important to remember the part about every individual making up a complete whole. It was far too easy to label a few people she knew as strange or even weird if they didn't fit into a category of what most people called 'normal'. Remembering Papa Ben's words and having the recollection of the handful of sand, served as an important lesson on loving people for who they were and how their differences complimented life and living.
Claire thought Doreen and Donna and Robin were perfect example of the handful of sand in her life. Doreen was colorful, not at all ordinary. Of course, Donna had felt in the past that her mother was too ordinary and didn't try hard enough to show her finer qualities but that seemed to be over finally. Claire was glad. She had grown weary of Donna's unhappiness prior to the visit home over Christmas. Donna was one of the unique pieces of sand. That, and maybe a little exotic. Robin was ordinary with talent brimming on the inside but she didn't seem to know it yet.
Claire didn't know about herself either. She knew she was too careful to avoid conflict. It wasn't that she didn't have thoughts or ideas about things. Just the thought of telling even good friends like Jacki or Donna what she really thought, when put on the spot, made her feel impossibly tongued tied. Her friends kidded her about bravery when she did let an opinion slip. It only served in making her feel more uncomfortable because then they took whatever she said as 'the word of truth spoken by Claire'. This gave her the same panicky feeling that others had when asked to climb into an attic where spiders or possibly mice roamed freely. She got that same itchy, hot, panicky feeling just thinking about giving an opinion.
Jon grew impatient with her quite often because of this trait. He'd often leave a conversation in frustration when she couldn't find the words to express what ever it was she was thinking on a subject. Lately, He'd gotten into the habit of bringing her a notebook and pencil when he discovered she was struggling with articulating an emotion or idea. He said she made more sense on paper and he couldn't stand to see her struggle so for the right words. Jon also believed Claire's thoughts and ideas were golden. Once he got her talking, her quiet wisdom was laced with balance and perspective that he valued highly.
The task at hand was spring cleaning the Yarn Shop. Claire had invited Sybil to come and rearrange the yarn into their freshly cleaned slots after she watched Sybil get lost in wonder one afternoon while gazing at the colors along the wall. Claire had invited her in for a drink, and had asked her what she was seeing.
Sybil had answered simply, "The colors." After a couple quiet minutes of preparing a cup of green tea, she continued, "I'm an artist. Well, sorta." she shrugged in frustration. "I used to paint for fun. I still draw. Since moving here though, we've been a little swamped with learning to know this town and the people." Sybil given a short, bitter laugh. "Ben needs me at the restaurant more than he thought he would. Not that there's any opportunity here anyway to paint." She had shrugged once more. " Just miss color. Everything is so drab and gray. I don't even feel like setting up an easel. I've lost my inspiration."
Claire had listened that afternoon and then suggested she come and play with the color scheme in mixing them up however she wanted sometime. This seemed like the perfect opportunity for both of them, Claire thought as she wiped out the last cubbyhole. She couldn't wait to see what would inspire Sybil when given a clear palette.
Claire like Sybil. She wasn't the warmest of personalities but she was honest and easy to read. It seemed like she was trying to fit into Peaks Ville and it was obvious she loved Ben and wanted to make their adventure work.
Claire sensed Sybil was a little skittish concerning talk of Jesus or anything about a personal walk with Christ. She prayed now for words, words that were a testimony of Christ's love and acceptance. Maybe even words of comfort for Sybil. It seemed like Sybil was sad and lonely. Claire wanted to encourage with words that weren't shy of truth because she was shy of giving them. So, she prayed as she prepared to share the afternoon with this talented individual, this person that made up a piece of her life. Claire thanked God for an opportunity to talk and share Christ even if words didn't come easy for her. She was pretty sure that somehow in that handful of sand she had studied as a youngster, that she was one of the pieces. It really didn't matter which one she was as long as she was showing Christ in some small way, even if it was through her fumbling words and simple actions.
Claire described the sand along its shores as 'big' sand, because it wasn't the fine white sand she had always imagined sandy beaches as having. Instead, it was bigger grains, almost better described as itty, bitty stones. She often took handfuls of it, slowly letting it sift through into whatever beach container she had at the moment, and was amazed at the individual pieces of sand flecked with mica or an occasional whole shell or snail as small as a one of the pieces of sand.
Her Grandpa watched her once as she studied a handful and said, "That sand is a whole lot like the people in this world. Some are ordinary, some shiny with talent and some unique and exotic, yet, in a handful like that, it makes up a complete component of its own," he patted her blond head awkwardly, a rare display of affection. "You can be whichever one you want to be," he added before meandering off with his fishing pole sticking up high over his shoulder and his straw hat moving with each step away.
At nine, Claire didn't have a clue what was he was talking about, but the memory and the words still clung through the years and now as she stood behind the counter at the Yarn Shop, she knew perfectly what he meant. Except now, the knowledge of what her grandpa had meant, came with tendencies toward labeling herself and others. It was important to remember the part about every individual making up a complete whole. It was far too easy to label a few people she knew as strange or even weird if they didn't fit into a category of what most people called 'normal'. Remembering Papa Ben's words and having the recollection of the handful of sand, served as an important lesson on loving people for who they were and how their differences complimented life and living.
Claire thought Doreen and Donna and Robin were perfect example of the handful of sand in her life. Doreen was colorful, not at all ordinary. Of course, Donna had felt in the past that her mother was too ordinary and didn't try hard enough to show her finer qualities but that seemed to be over finally. Claire was glad. She had grown weary of Donna's unhappiness prior to the visit home over Christmas. Donna was one of the unique pieces of sand. That, and maybe a little exotic. Robin was ordinary with talent brimming on the inside but she didn't seem to know it yet.
Claire didn't know about herself either. She knew she was too careful to avoid conflict. It wasn't that she didn't have thoughts or ideas about things. Just the thought of telling even good friends like Jacki or Donna what she really thought, when put on the spot, made her feel impossibly tongued tied. Her friends kidded her about bravery when she did let an opinion slip. It only served in making her feel more uncomfortable because then they took whatever she said as 'the word of truth spoken by Claire'. This gave her the same panicky feeling that others had when asked to climb into an attic where spiders or possibly mice roamed freely. She got that same itchy, hot, panicky feeling just thinking about giving an opinion.
Jon grew impatient with her quite often because of this trait. He'd often leave a conversation in frustration when she couldn't find the words to express what ever it was she was thinking on a subject. Lately, He'd gotten into the habit of bringing her a notebook and pencil when he discovered she was struggling with articulating an emotion or idea. He said she made more sense on paper and he couldn't stand to see her struggle so for the right words. Jon also believed Claire's thoughts and ideas were golden. Once he got her talking, her quiet wisdom was laced with balance and perspective that he valued highly.
The task at hand was spring cleaning the Yarn Shop. Claire had invited Sybil to come and rearrange the yarn into their freshly cleaned slots after she watched Sybil get lost in wonder one afternoon while gazing at the colors along the wall. Claire had invited her in for a drink, and had asked her what she was seeing.
Sybil had answered simply, "The colors." After a couple quiet minutes of preparing a cup of green tea, she continued, "I'm an artist. Well, sorta." she shrugged in frustration. "I used to paint for fun. I still draw. Since moving here though, we've been a little swamped with learning to know this town and the people." Sybil given a short, bitter laugh. "Ben needs me at the restaurant more than he thought he would. Not that there's any opportunity here anyway to paint." She had shrugged once more. " Just miss color. Everything is so drab and gray. I don't even feel like setting up an easel. I've lost my inspiration."
Claire had listened that afternoon and then suggested she come and play with the color scheme in mixing them up however she wanted sometime. This seemed like the perfect opportunity for both of them, Claire thought as she wiped out the last cubbyhole. She couldn't wait to see what would inspire Sybil when given a clear palette.
Claire like Sybil. She wasn't the warmest of personalities but she was honest and easy to read. It seemed like she was trying to fit into Peaks Ville and it was obvious she loved Ben and wanted to make their adventure work.
Claire sensed Sybil was a little skittish concerning talk of Jesus or anything about a personal walk with Christ. She prayed now for words, words that were a testimony of Christ's love and acceptance. Maybe even words of comfort for Sybil. It seemed like Sybil was sad and lonely. Claire wanted to encourage with words that weren't shy of truth because she was shy of giving them. So, she prayed as she prepared to share the afternoon with this talented individual, this person that made up a piece of her life. Claire thanked God for an opportunity to talk and share Christ even if words didn't come easy for her. She was pretty sure that somehow in that handful of sand she had studied as a youngster, that she was one of the pieces. It really didn't matter which one she was as long as she was showing Christ in some small way, even if it was through her fumbling words and simple actions.
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