Surrender

What a word - "Surrender." If you look at the context people use it under most of the time, it is often linked with defeat. The only time I can think of "surrender" being used somehow favorable falls in the category of romance novels. 

  "Violet's tumult of thoughts and hesitations slowly surrendered to the line of passionate kisses the captain was blazing down the length of her graceful throat." 

 As a woman of an ever more certain age, I'm not sure that's even a positive use of the term. 

 The dictionary also looks on the word in a downhearted light. Giving in to the enemy? How often are we at war?

...how often ARE we at war? With ourselves, with the people and world around us... with the universe. Hm.

At the bottom of the definition, there is another term: "yielding." Let's deep-dive into that, shall we?

Surrender as a positive idea came to me in a yoga class when a teacher encouraged students to "surrender to the pose." By this she encouraged first noticing your whole body, paying attention to areas where you feel discomfort or tension. Instead of letting the discomfort create more discomfort and tension in your brain or other areas of the body, you soften. Sounds weird, right? In that moment of tension, you practice keeping your breath calm, cool, and easy; and aim to bring ease to the tense places, not by backing out the pose; but instead by trying to relax the muscles and be comfortable just being where you are. With all of it. 

THIS, my friends, is surrender. 

Inside the old barn. 

Surrender doesn't mean giving up. It means allowing what IS to be. Hurt and hope, uncertainty and determination, fear and faith... all woven together in an extraordinary fabric that ultimately becomes something we can't begin to imagine. Surrender doesn't ask you to allow your purpose to be defeated, but instead to find peace in the process of finding out what your true purpose is. 

On the surface, just a couple of weeks ago, surrender for me was allowing the idea that we may have to rip our old barn down and use salvageable remnants to create something new. That hurt, and even still there was hope in it. What hurt worse was thinking nothing would happen with it in Uncle Hank's lifetime; and we surrendered to that too.

That's when the shift started. 

Today, I'm writing to tell you that there is work happening as we speak on the barn. Before the end of this month, arguably the weakest spot in the structure will be strengthened. This is happening because a kind man made time to survey the space inside and out, top to bottom; educate me a bit on the Amish perspective, and then took on the work. 

That guy will get a blog post all to his own. Maybe several, as early on in this process, he'd approached me about creating a how-to guide for other people with limited funds and giant structures who want to reclaim them. There's room for everything in cyberspace, isn't there? 

For now, the back wall is the place to start. Right in the middle of the barn. Aside from a patch over the biggest hole in the roof and new cement to fill the hole the woodchucks made in the foundation, the difference won't be noticeable from the outside. 

It's what's on the inside that counts though, right? 

Gratitude, Hope, and Drizzle

Levi shakes his head as he kicks at the cement at the base of the barn.

Levi shakes his head as he inspects the center posts, completely disconnected at the base.

Levi never looks up once. 

We all looked up. Only Levi looked down.

"Raise the whole barn up. Scrape the old cement away. Pour new. Lower the barn and then start repairing." That will cost a lot of money, and take a lot of time. 

Photo by Brianna Santellan on Unsplash

"There are good pieces. You could tear the barn down, and use what's good to build something new... something smaller."

With my gratitude, we parted. I walked through the fall drizzle, back to the house. 

At least he showed up. How many others have I called, described this crazy project, and been told "I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks," and never hear from them again?

The thought of tearing this behemoth down hurts. I feel the weight of this as though my shoulders and heart turned to lead. I have ideas as big as that barn and even if no one else can, I can imagine it strong and welcoming those ready to find respite within its great walls. 

The idea of using pieces of the barn to create other things had occurred to me. We've used some of the old tin to create cupboard doors in our house. I've seen several Pinterest crafts and wanted to use items from the barn to create them - it's a matter of time really. I'm awfully short on time. 

Two teens, a full-time job - two full-time jobs really. No one counts cooking and cleaning for a family as a job; but those of us that do it know that it is. A couple of my past occupations have sprung back to life in fun ways - I feel like I'm burning the candle at both ends, and somehow enjoying the burn. 

The barn is hard to fit in, and yet every time I go outside, there it looms. Not only is this relic in need of my attention, there is a dear man who knows as I do that this relic deserves my attention. 

Levi's words, penned in a lovely "hand crafted" card purchased at a department store. A little glitter, an oversized butterfly, and a realistic perspective written with love and greatest hope of not breaking a dear man's heart.

A week later, we sit in his living room. It's not so easy to get out of his chair these days. Two hand-crafted canes of his own making work better than one now. The easy smile and clarity in his eyes remains unchanged. Every time I'm with him, my grandmother — his sister — feels closer. 

The idea of building something new is intriguing! We could mark the pieces - somehow note their original purpose. While the ideal is saving the present structure, there is hope and innovation in the idea of something new. And the pieces are incredible, really. Where could anyone find 12" square posts made of solid oak these days?

"Why you could put it anywhere you wanted! You could make it look however you wanted. Maybe it could look like the old barn. Maybe it could have a gabled roof. I wonder what you could do with all of that old cement?" 

We agree bringing ourselves to tear down the old barn - that's the hardest part. 

"But you have time," he says. "You have time. That's in your favor."

His gaze unwavering. We can't really do anything in winter anyway. Best to start in the spring. 

I think he's turning 92 this month. He doesn't want to talk about it. 

"We're skipping this one," he says. The easy smile may fade from his lips at times, and yet somehow exudes from his every fiber. He is peaceful. The joy in his heart is unmistakable. 

I hugged him goodbye before he had time to try to get up from his chair. 

In the quiet bubble of my car, I can fold. Head on the steering wheel, tears slide in a steady stream. 

Hope surrounds the fall drizzle within.