the living of prayer

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I had a conversation about prayer with my friend Pitts. Having grown up in traditional Southern Baptist homes, we were taught it was supposed to work. Neither of us was sure about how it worked but we were sure that it does work. Pitts spent her life as a religious professional wandering in the wilderness peculiar to those who do faith as a calling. Some of her life she wasn’t sure about prayer. I had never doubted the act of prayer but I had wondered if it really made a difference. That doesn’t make much sense when I write it down but it seemed the best answer for me for a long time. My understanding of prayer has come full circle in a way I never anticipated.
The act of prayer... the living of prayer... has become a part of my soul’s daily life. I breathe... I pray. I walk... I pray. I eat... I pray. I wake up in the morning and see the bright sun and I pray a song of praise for this beautiful day. I call my friend who is struggling with grief and I pray in my heart as we talk. I see the new baby bull Betty and thank God for Betty Brigmon and for new life that follows death. I drink from a pewter goblet given to me by Pitts and I pray for her. I remember how she taught me the ABC prayer for those nights when I can’t sleep. You pray through the alphabet... one person per letter. This time of writing in the morning is a prayer for me... for each of you who read it... for the God who created me.
My soul and spirit would shrivel up like the grass in South Georgia July sunshine if I couldn’t pray. I still don’t know how it works... when it works... if it always works... but I believe it is as necessary to my soul as breathing is to my body. I’ve tried many different ways to pray and they have all worked. Some suit me better than others. Some suit different seasons of the year better than others. Some I really have to practice to find meaning in the prayer.
My quiet prayers seem to come when I sit my soul down and get still. Whether I am lying in bed watching the sun rise over the distant mountains... sitting on a rock watching the stream flow by... silence during worship. Be still and know that I am God... those words float through my heart when I am quiet and I can begin to hear prayers that come from deep in my soul. These prayers feed me... water the roots that have grown over the years as I grow towards God.
I pray for other people... known and unknown... and for myself. My childhood teachers called this intercessory prayer. This kind of prayer gives many folks spiritual indigestion. They can swallow the prayer that rises up from within but have difficulty with prayer having much impact on the outside world. It is a mystery but I believe the contemplative monks are right. Prayer for others does make a difference... a difference for the other person and a difference for me. I have been prayed for... it did matter. I have friends whom I can call and say "Pray for me"... they call and say "Please pray for me"... Pitts and I decided the positive energy that flows from concentrated prayer for others must make a difference... we are taught in science that for every action, there is a reaction... why should prayer be exempt from this natural law?
An old hymn says it best... "Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, unuttered or expressed; the motion of a hidden fire that trembles in the breast. Prayer is the simplest form of speech that infant lips can try; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach the Majesty on high. Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voice returning from his ways, while angels in their songs rejoice and say, "Behold, he prays". Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath, the Christian’s native air, his watchword at the gate of death; he enters heaven with prayer".
So I pray... I live... all of my life is becoming a prayer and I am grateful. I am grateful for those who pray and those who can’t... I am grateful for those who pray for me and those who don’t... I am grateful for teachers and friends who have helped shape my prayer life... I am grateful for the God who created in me a heart that can sing prayers of thanksgiving and praise and sorrow and joy and peace and loneliness and anger and hope and love. Thanks be to God...

Epiphany Light...Lenten Light

A winter storm is coming. The schools are closed in anticipation of snow and sleet. Our daughter has called to tell us it is already snowing at her house. The boys are so excited about the big fluffy flakes falling... and the special waffle breakfast that comes with snow days. The normal routine is set aside and there is a feeling of anticipation in the air. Whatever had to be done today, will wait. Snow days... a small window in time... room and time to play, rest, set a spell without feeling the pressure to do something... be somewhere.
We will put on a pot of soup... call our neighbors and invite them over... check the cows to make sure they have bedding in the barn and enough to eat... feed the ducks on the pond an extra ration of corn... turn the heat on in the basement for the dogs... fill the bird feeders... and check the oil lanterns to make sure they are ready if we need them. I’ll draw some water in the bathtub in case the power goes out and the pump won’t run for water. The wood box is full for the fireplace and we are ready.
Waiting... expecting... hoping... preparing... letting go of the usual... not just for winter storms but also for this Epiphany season. The Light that came to us in Christmas is slowly dimming... setting like the sun behind a distant mountain outline. We see a transformation underway... a new Light coming... the Light of Lent.
Epiphany light is represented by the Star... bright night light that guides and gives hope and direction. It can lead us to the home of the One who came to live among us as God’s Son... help us find a pathway to the Holy... the One who waits for us in this life and the next. This light is comforting, kind, trustworthy and bright. We have only to look up and see where we should go... follow the star... to find God... a clear path brightly lit to our soul’s home.
Lenten light is different. It is like snow light... the light grey brightness that contains promise and requires preparation. When Lent snowlight comes, one must listen carefully and look closely to see the path to Easter. There is no bright star... no full moon... no streetlights to mark the way through Lent. Our souls find the path dim, murky with our own darkness, shadowed by the pain and grief of our world that reminds us of Jesus’ pain and grief to come. This light is cold, sometimes harsh, flickering with bright splashes and dark patches... no rest for the soul here.
I used to hate Lent. It reminded me of John Bunyan’s Pilgrims Progress and Dante’s Inferno... prickly, uncomfortable, relentless, no fun at all... holding my spiritual feet to the fire and requiring sacrifice of me... what can I give up that won’t be too difficult? Now Lent is my favorite liturgical season of the year. When taken seriously, carefully tended like a garden, Lent can yield wonderful fruit for the soul. It is a time for honesty... time out from celebration and hoohah... time for preparation... time for setting a spell and seeing what is coming up... what is growing in your soul... time to do a little weeding if necessary. The Lenten Light can provide enough illumination for your soulwork... dim light that keeps one from growing too quickly... time to put down roots for the rest of the year. Like the Psalmist, I will rest in the Lord this Lent and wait patiently for the Light to show me the way.
Thank you God for all the light that shines in my life... the light of Epiphany and Lent, the light of Easter and Christmas, the light of Pentecost and Ordinary Time. Each Light leads me closer to you. Give me eyes to see... a heart that understands and a soul that does not fear the dark. I love you... because you first loved me. Peggy

Betty and Sassy

It was beautiful day yesterday... cold, clear, bright sunshine... a perfect winter day. As we walked to Betty’s grave, a kilted bagpiper played Amazing Grace reminding us that all of life, even grief, is an occasion for thanksgiving. We gathered round and heard the old words... Let not your heart be troubled... The Lord is my shepherd... Neither death nor life can separate us from the love of God. And as we left, our arms wrapped around each other offering loving comfort, the sun continued to shine.
I came home, changed into my overalls and went to do the afternoon feeding. In the winter, the cows must be fed and checked twice daily, especially when the weather is cold. I went to the leaning barn (so called because it does lean) and loaded hay into the back of the mule. As I drove through the glen, snow was still lightly layered on the ground because the sun does not shine there for very long during the day. The cows had heard me coming and were waiting at the hay ring and the feed trough. The count came up one short... Sassy was missing.
Sassy came to us a young heifer, already bred, from daddy’s farm. Because she was so young to have her first calf, she had difficulty giving birth and we had to pull her first calf. It lived and grew to be a beautiful yearling. Her next two calves died. New mothers sometimes start removing the membrane from the rear instead of the head and that caused one baby’s death. After two calves lost, we had been watching Sassy closely as she waited to calve. The loss of those two calves in a small operation like ours represents a great deal of money down the drain. Where was Sassy?
My eyes flew around the glen... I heard her before I saw her. Sassy is always greedy and she wanted her food but she wouldn’t leave the small red bundle lying on the ground. My heart stopped. I yelled at the dogs to stay put and walked to Sassy with the feed bucket. As I got close, a little red head popped up and looked at me. I began to cry. The baby was fine. As her mama cleaned out the feed bucket, I went to the baby and ran my hands all over her body in a joyful blessing. New calves have not learned to fear yet and if the mother knows you and will let you, you can pet the baby calf.
After the new baby has its sea legs, all the other cows will come and sniff it, lick it, say hello and welcome it to the family. If you are there at the right time and can join in this ritual, the baby will consider you a part of its family, too. When a cow from the herd dies on the farm, the same ritual is performed. They file by, sniff and lick, and say good bye. I have never seen the good bye ritual but my daddy told me he had. The rituals of welcome and the rituals of good bye...
The rituals of good bye... the open casket at the visitation so we can really know the body is not the soul... the flowers that remind us of new life that comes after death... the comforting words from our Holy Book... the arms that reach out to us and the shared tears of grief... the cars that pull over to the side and stop in respect as the hearse and funeral procession drive by...the graveside service that reminds us from dust we come and to dust our bodies shall return... the comfort of ritual whatever its form.
The rituals of hello... touching the newborn, rejoicing in the presence of new life, celebration at the continuation of the lives that have gone on before, shared tears of joy, arms that hold us as we laugh and cry together, a dedication or christening (whether by sprinkled water or licking) that sets the new life apart as special and a part of our family... bring us joy in the morning after the season of grief.
I think we will name the new baby Betty...

This is the Blood of Life...

Fall is approaching... you can smell it in the air... a certain sharp expectancy floats down with the turning leaves... the certain knowledge that death and dormancy are in the wings... waiting...
On the farm of my childhood, fall was the time for butchering the hog. The weather was cool and crisp, the meat would not spoil and the smokehouse could do its work without adding to the burden of the summer heat. The neighbor men would gather to help... the hog would be shot, bled and strung up by its heels to be gutted, skinned and butchered. Nothing was wasted. The skin was fried to make snacks, the fat was rendered to be used in cooking and soap making, the head was used to make head cheese, the hooves, the intestines, everything but the squeal as my granddaddy used to say, was used. At the end of the day, hams hung in the smokehouse along with the other parts of the pig to be preserved for wintertime meals. And our family enjoyed the luxury of fresh, hormone free, raised by us, meat. No room for Disney animals on the farm... all the animals, including us, had our jobs to do and we did them. In my grandparents day, survival depended upon everyone doing their part.
In my liberal church, we are fond of debating blood issues... the cross... did God really send His Son to die for us... some of us are still mired in our reactions to our fundamentalist upbringings ... some of us have had the luxury of living with intellectual choices that can be made without life altering consequences... not like my grandparents. They would be mystified by the uproar over blood. They knew their life depended upon blood being shed. Without the hog and steer dying, they would have had no food for their families. It was the responsible behavior....not easy.... you killed an animal you knew, had raised, often petted.... necessary but not easy. In our time, we buy sanitized meat... raised by strangers, fed in feedlots, butchered in strange places in large groups, wrapped, packed and sold without our ever having to have blood on our hands.
No wonder blood makes us uncomfortable...
My best friend’s mother is suffering with a blood disorder that is diagnosed as hemolytic anemia. Her red blood cells are not reproducing quickly enough. She is tired all the time and depressed... she doesn’t feel like herself. If they cannot find a treatment that works for her, she may die. One cannot live without healthy blood. The last three years of my dad’s life were possible because of regular blood transfusions. I became a regular contributor to the Red Cross donor bank in an effort to help replace what my dad needed to stay alive. I would be surrounded by other people donating blood to be used in a variety of ways. At first, I was uncomfortable... it hurts a little to give blood... it smells funny... sometimes I would feel faint and have to lie down after giving blood... it made me feel queasy watching my blood flow into a bag... but the memory of my dad and his need helps me focus on the gift of healthy blood, not the process. It is a perishable resource and needs to be continually renewed.
I wish my church could reclaim the blood tradition of Christianity with all its messiness and pain. It is still for me such a powerful image of life giving, life sacrificing, life transforming, "life its ownself" in all its joy, suffering, renewal... death and resurrection... all in the image of the blood... We are, I think, the poorer for sanitizing our faith images by removing the ones that make us squirm. The squirminess is a sign to us that something powerful lurks under the surface and we need to face it... name it... claim it...
We are born in a mix of blood and water... some of us die in a mix of blood and water... blood is life... blood is death... blood is messy...blood is necessary...blood is a mystery... thanks be to God for the gift of the blood...

Kindly Epiphany Light

Light in the dark evenings was not taken for granted in my childhood. My mother had grown up cleaning the glass chimneys of oil lamps that were used to break the darkness at night. Mother still has one of those lamps and it is a reminder of her most disliked chore. By the time I remember visiting Cloverly, her childhood home on a Virginia farm, single light bulbs hanging from the ceilings lit our way upstairs to the bedrooms. The convenience of light shining from these single bulbs was appreciated in a way I cannot fully understand.
I have always had light come at the flip of a switch. Even when storms temporarily knocked out the power, we waited knowing the lights would come back on. Darkness was no inconvenience and held no power over my pattern of living during winters’ long nights.
Without night light, lives had a different rhythm, especially during winter. Winter nights are long and dark. Warmth came from wood stoves and light came from oil lamps. Both required labor to maintain. There were no switches that provided wood for the stove or filled the lamps with oil. Heat and light were present because someone had done the work necessary to provide them. Families gathered in the same room to share the light and the warmth around the stove. For my mother’s family, the dining room was the gathering place. Homework and mending were done at the same time on the old square table where meals were served. The pot bellied stove ate wood like candy but kept that one room... with its doors closed... warm.
Epiphany... the season of winter light... comes after Christmas, the celebration of the birth of Light into our world in the person of Jesus. In my mind’s eye, this season is like my Grandma’s dining room. It is not overly full of itself... bright and shiny like Christmas... but soft light shines on the dining room table and banishes most of the darkness to the corners of the room. There is warmth that comes from sharing with those I love around that old table.
In that room I can see the division between darkness and light. The lamp light only shines a little way beyond the wood stove and I know there is true darkness in the hall, beyond the dining room door. When I step out into the house and leave the pool of light and warmth behind, I shiver as my eyes settle into the dark night that waits for me. The lovely half light of Epiphany prepares the eyes of my soul for the darkness of Lent. And for a little while, I can rest and celebrate the light.
Like the old hymn, I pray... Lead Kindly Light, a’mid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark and I am far from home, lead Thou me on. Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me. Amen.

Food, Fun and Funerals

Food and funerals were synonyms in my little south Georgia community. The word would spread... announced at church... on black, rotary dial telephones for those who had them... at grocery stores, small schools, the paper mill where many of the men worked, the news of death flowed smoothly like a small creek to everyone. Without any committees or church organization, the food would begin to come, delivered by the women, containers marked with the name of the cook... my mother’s fried chicken and real cream corn, Mrs. Bland’s made from scratch coconut cake... bright yellow yolk deviled eggs made with real eggs pulled from the nests in the chicken house... potato salad... ham... green beans canned from the side yard garden... home made yeast rolls and corn bread... lemon meringue pie... real mashed potatoes with no lumps and plenty of butter... the occasional adventurous Jello concoction. Food was still our friend then and a freely offered gift of comfort. There wasn’t much that could be done to ease the grief of death, but food was one way to say "I love you" and it was a practical help too.
The women would confer as they came and designate one person to be present for each meal until after the funeral gathering. This person would warm and set out the food, organize the refrigerator, keep the dishes washed and return the empty containers to their owners. The presence of these warm hearted women taking care of the grieving provided the assurance that life would continue. When the sadness in the living room was more than you could bear, you would move to the kitchen where laughter and love and food waited for you. Someone would hug you, get you a plate, fix your sweet tea (is there any other kind?), fill your plate with love and food, tell stories and laugh, gossip a little as kindly as possible. For a few minutes, the rhythm of life as you had known it before death, washed over your soul... smoothed out the sharp edges of grief... provided shade in the harsh light of death and loss. All those Marthas were and are the face of Jesus in the house of grief.
At Uncle Calfrey’s funeral, the women of Millege Avenue Baptist Church in Athens, Georgia gathered food for the family at the church fellowship hall just before the funeral. Those of us who had driven in from out of town were welcomed in an old, familiar way with fried chicken, sweet tea, green beans, deviled eggs, coconut and pound cake and our grief lifted for a few minutes as those kind women served us their best food. Babies laughed and were passed from lap to lap, stories were told... Did you hear Uncle Calfrey has a spoon in his jacket pocket? He told his children to do that so he could have some of Marjorie’s banana pudding as soon as he gets to heaven... Remember when Uncle Calfrey showed up at Tommy and Shirley’s door at the University of Georgia, ready to go to school, ready to move in and they had no idea he was coming?... Doesn’t his grandson Nick look just like him... just like all the other red headed freckled faces of the Calhoun clan gathered around him... free flowing waters of grace and laughter in the desert of grief and sadness.
And now Betty has died and it is our turn to bring food... soups lovingly cooked by Michael and me... our turn to sit in the kitchen offering hugs and laughter, stories and hope, love and fruit salad. We will remember her patting baby Aidan’s face and calling him a pretty boy... patting her grandson Will’s face and telling stories from his babyhood... her love for the flowers in her yard that were planted in the old fashioned way as flower gifts from friends and family yards by her daughter and granddaughter... we will pat the last great love of her life, her dog Pebbles, and hear her voice in our hearts calling the dog to come in.
We will sit down to the table prepared for us and God will be there. The Holy will come as we are served and as we serve... food for our bodies and souls. At this table there is no unbearable grief, only sorrow and gratitude all mixed together as we say grace over the food and over our lives... gratitude for all that has been and all that is yet to be. Thanks be to God for these most amazing gifts of life and death...