Marriage Moats-Making Paper

Published: Sun, 12/19/10

Marriage Moats

Caring for Marriage

I like to make paper by hand.

I use blended paper scraps, wild grasses, and flower petals. The paper has its own conglomerate history too... there are electric bills, church newsletters, toy catalogs, thank you cards, invitations, supermarket specials, napkins, wrapping paper and credit card offers. It is a slice of the crucial and the lackluster information that congregates on our kitchen counter.

One of the tasks of marriage is sorting that information.

"Toss...remember...save...ignore...respond...celebrate...shrug...appreciate...."

The process of sorting, saving, shredding churns up our thoughts and time in a way that makes it mushy. I notice that when I put all this material in the blender, it goes around more than once. In fact it spins faster than I can keep track of. Sometimes my routine feels that way too. Make lunch? I barely cleaned up from breakfast. Is it Christmas already? It was just a few weeks ago that I got the last box of ornaments to the basement.

The process of making paper is probably painful to the raw materials. I have never asked, but it looks like it hurts to get ripped apart. The sound is loud and perhaps drowns out any faint gasp from the pictures in the catalogs. But then the blender stops and what is left is wet and slimy. I plop it into the pan and enjoy immersing my hands in the murky bath while I stir. Then I slide the deckle into the water, listening for a giggle if the water is cold, and scoop up a thin layer of pulp that has been elected to become Paper. Water falls through the holes of the screen like rain.

It is beautiful.

There is no need for glue. The pulp is willing to stay together via some invisible adhesive.

Snuggled with John under a quilt by the illuminated tree late at night, I feel sublime. It is as if the blending noises of preparation have stopped. No shopping, no rushing to a concert, no armloads of groceries. The spinning ceases and I can savor being mushy. Particles of the day stick to me like flower petals, and others settle off without pain. I hear the words of a carol about a rose.

Then, if I am mindful, I can almost feel the hands of an Artist scooping up all those shredded feelings on a kind of screen, and changing me into something new. My broken pieces come together, and I am remade. Glue I cannot see holds me firmly, and from being scattered, I am whole. I feel beautiful.

There were varying reactions to information around the Lord's birth as well. Some people remembered that He was coming, others ignored Him, the shepherds responded hastily, the wise men celebrated.

Jesus' ministry was a whirring blur of only three years: healing, forgiveness, rebuke, invitations, good news. There are hints that the process hurt, if rejection and nails are any indication.

Yet the God that lifted up from the scrim, letting all earthliness drain out of Him, is whole, holy and wholly new. The glue that holds His infinity together is no more visible than Love, no less visible than Light.

And if I keep still I can even hear the singing.

photo by Jenny Stein