Rambling Imagination

Know what this is?

It is, according to my two year old, a tunnel. For his beloved choo-choo trains.

Know what this is?

A choo-choo train, of course.

And what might this be?

Not, as you might imagine, a mess for mommy to clean up. I was informed, with much excitement, “Yook, Mama – a twack!” (Look, mama, a track). For the car. The car that was his cracker. He had taken his straw full of milk and used it to “draw” a track for his cracker-car to go round and round in.

Messy as it may be, my little one is reminding me of the power of imagination. I would say I am surprised by these little sparks of imagination, but my boy comes from a long line of wonderers. I’m a constant daydreamer. Hubby has a tell-tale face that means he is waist-deep in an ocean of thought. Brilliant things often come out of this thought ocean: sometimes sermons, sometimes ways to fix the broken things in the garage, sometimes a random argument in favor of him buying and restoring an old muscle car (Um, no).

The Queen of Imagination was my Grandma Gladys.

She used to make Brother, Sister and I go “rambling.” Rambling meant that we’d walk with her, along any little sidewalk, in a garden, beside the lake, or in the woods. I make it sound like we had these long hikes through nature. Nope. We were suburb kids and she lived in the city of Lakeland, FL. So most of our rambling happened on well-paved paths that looked a lot like culdesacs and mowed lawns. A few times, she dragged us on nature trails and butterfly gardens – when she could stand our whining about it being too hot – but mostly it was just around the neighborhood.

Still, rambling we went.

Rambling meant walking with no real purpose except to see what we see. An eternal second grade teacher, Grandma would stop and pick up moss or sticks that looked like animals. With a paper towel in hand, she’d collect what she called our “treasures” from the day’s adventure. She was famous for the dramatic pauses on the way. Walking along, she’d stop suddenly, gasp and exclaim, “Do you see her?!?” While we looked around for a lady hiding in the bushes, Grandma would point to a big puffy cloud in the sky. She’d make us squint until we could see it, too: a mermaid.

She’d stop abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, squat down in her “everyday” dress (you bet it was a dress; she wouldn’t go out and about in slacks!) and exclaim, “Well there you are, you prince of a thing.” We’d look and wonder why Grandma was curtsying to a caterpillar on her finger. She’d kindly proclaim that this was no ordinary caterpillar, but the prince of a “mighty fine kingdom.”

As we got older, I’m pretty sure I perfected my eye rolls on these walks. Sister faked a limp a few times. Brother usually wandered off. But we still knew something special was happening when we were drug outside into the Florida heat. We were asked to look around and see fantastic stories in the smallest, ugliest little things. She made me stop and wonder.

On one of our last rambles together, I was eighteen and just home from college. We made it as far as the driveway and she reminded me she was in her eighties and not feeling great. The walk became a moment of standing still. She told me, “There’s enough right here. Look.” She linked her arm in my arm and pointed to the sunset. I watched her face, knowing her imagination was running wild.

I want my imagination to dust off its running shoes again, instead of making a dent in the couch where it’s been sitting.

It was there once. It used to drive alot of creative adventures. It let me see more. It even gave me a nickname once.

One of my first sermons ever was about imagination. I was in a seminary class taught by a faithful, wonderful professor who challenged a lot of ideas that this suburban, white girl brought to the table. With his delightful Jamaican accent, he kept offering up ideas about liberation and reconciliation. No matter how often my classmates and I said silly things like, “Yeah, but how would that ever, EVER work in the real world?” He just smiled and spoke again of the radical, liberating Christ.

So, I preached and he was there. I don’t remember much of what I said, except some ideas about imagination and creation. Afterwards, he came up to me, looked me in the eye and said,

“Ah. Miss Imagination.”

I said, “Dr. Liberation.”

His face lit up with a smile and he said, “Ha! Yes. We need each other.”

You bet we do.

Imagination and liberation need each other. One speaks to the other.

Imagination lets me look at a thing and not be stuck in what it has always been, but see that it can be something completely different. My friend Meredith wrote about how the new female NBA coach has cracked some more of the glass ceiling for women. She pointed out that “visuals are important to imagination. Our imaginations are constructed of things we have seen.” I agree 100%.

And I also know that imagination is the power to look at those images and let the mind form some entirely new picture of what is there. Which is how world-changing things happen. It’s the power to look at a piece of trash and see a tunnel, and look at a mess and see a cool new way to play. It’s the power to stoop down to the smallest and lowest and say, “There you are, you prince of a thing.”

Maybe it starts with making time for rambling and looking around. All those images have to come from somewhere. I have to get a little inventory of images that make me wonder if I am to wonder some more. Maybe it’s letting those images soak in and move me to think, well, what else?

I mean, there’s this tree that grows forty fruits. Forty. One tree, people.

And there’s one of my favorites, about to have a baby at 42 years old. Let’s not miss how amazing that still is.

And even when the images of Ebola are breaking my heart, there’s this tiny picture of buckets of chlorinated water outside public buildings in Sierra Leone. It’s a little thing. But it is honest to goodness making a for real and for true difference.

So, I have to wonder. I have to look at these images and wonder . . . what else?

If you need me tomorrow morning, my little man and I will be playing with a “tunnel.”

And rambling.