Every year it was the same pre-Easter ritual. No matter how strained the budget, mama would find the money to take us shopping for new Easter dresses and shoes. I know now she went without new clothes herself in order to give us this gift and that makes this memory special for me. As a child, she wore hand me down clothes from a rich cousin because her family was too poor to provide much beyond the basics. The Easter finery for us was a present to the little girl that never got to Easter shop. The dresses were always pastel colored and the shoes were white or black patent leather. One year was different, however. I was twelve and wearing my first pair of heels... small, cobbler heels... but heels nonetheless... white with a small leather bow... the sign of my growing up. The shoes, the dress and the gloves were an outward sign of an important change in my life, a new stage of growth.
Michael and I continued this ritual with our children. We have the annual Easter picture with the Easter finery through the years. Sometimes parents and friends were a part of these pictures. I can see my children growing up and the fashion changes in these pictures. Memories of looking for just the right dress, or hat, or shoes... time spent together laughing and playing and trying on all the shoes and dresses... important passages marked by the change in dress. Adam’s toddler sailor suit gave way to his first coat and tie. Alison’s first hat, Megan’s first pair of heels, little girl dresses with twirly skirts changing into beautiful grown up dresses and suits... what a lovely way to remember their Easter seasons with us.
I don’t see this Easter ritual at our church very much. It, like other rituals from my childhood, seem trivial when compared to the suffering of Jesus during Holy Week. The extravagance of an Easter shopping spree seems not to be in keeping with the true meaning of Easter. Then I remember Mary who poured a whole bottle of expensive perfume over Jesus’ feet and I wonder.... perhaps an extravagant response is the perfect symbol for Easter. Like Joseph’s coat of many colors and the fresh clothes given to the prodigal son by his father, like the Easter dresses bought lovingly for my sister and me, new clothes at Easter can be our way of celebrating the new life that comes during this season.
When I go to a party, I dress up. When I go to a wedding, I dress up. Shouldn’t I dress up for this party of Easter? Shouldn’t my outward self reflect the inner changes in my soul? If I can dress up for a Margaritaville party, I can dress up for God. If I can look my best for a wedding, I can let my outer self reflect the inner light. A friend of mine who is older told me he believes we live up to how we look. He may be right. Anybody want to go shopping?
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Resurrection's Busting Out All Over
My friend Janet knows a lot about birds. She told me to watch for the spring morning the birds songs start. That day every one will be smiling but not know why... will feel lighter, happier and spring will have come. Lying in bed this morning, I heard many bird songs accompanied by a turkey gobble and I laughed out loud. Turkey gobbles sound like the bird looks. I began to wonder how many other signs of spring resurrection I was missing in the rush to finish Lent.
The bloodroot is blooming. This weekend I taught Matthew, one of my grandsons, how to use the orange juice in the flower stem to paint his face. He was speckled faced the whole time he was here. Beside the bloodroot, spring beauties are blooming... tiny pink and white striped flowers. There are violets everywhere with their dark purple and lavender and white faces smelling sweet in the sunshine. I picked a bouquet for my kitchen table. Bright yellow dots of sunshine, dandelions, cover the ground in front of the old chicken house and remind me that the sun is always shining when they bloom.
I heard my first Bob White song this weekend. We have a quail family that come every year to raise a new brood on the hillside in front of our house. Uncle Harold can whistle just like a quail. One of my sweet memories is watching and listening as he called to the Bob Whites, talking to them, calling them up to the porch where we could see them.
Jeannie saw five fawns in our berry patch last week. The mothers were hidden but close by. And Vince saw an eight point buck in that same place. The deer are coming out to graze on the tender grass. The three new calves run down the hill full steam ahead with their tails straight up in the air, then play catch with the dogs. The cows and Ferdinand the bull are shedding their winter coats and look like moulting chickens, patches of sleek summer coat peeping out from wooly winter wear. The old groundhog that lives beside the drive to my mother’s house was sitting out in the sun yesterday surveying his small kingdom. He will soon be glossy and fat again.
These are the easy to see signs of resurrection. It is more difficult to find the new life in my soul. Where are my dandelion blooms and spring beauties and bloodroot and violets in my spirit? What and who are budding resurrection for me this spring?
Babies... everywhere there are babies and pregnant women. Seeing and holding babies always makes my soul sing. Happy mother faces, happy baby faces, happy new life just beginning that reminds me I am a part of the wheel of life. These babies are the new me... I who once was a baby with a happy face. There is still a baby in me, new life with so much to learn and know and experience.
Music... For the first time in years I am singing in a choir again. Music has always been a direct connection to the sacred for me. When I sing, my heart leaps up towards God and I am removed from all that tethers me to the mundane and messy. The art of singing with a group, hearing all the voices, learning the music, feeling the emotions the composer and lyricist created in the piece, singing my heart out, singing my soul, singing my resurrection gives me new life.
Writing... Mrs. Adams, my high school Literature teacher, would approve of my writing. I can hear her soft, southern drawl, "P-e-g-g-y, you are a cap-ab-le wri-ter with style." In my sixties, writing has become an important part of my soul’s new life. I struggle sometimes to find words for what I am experiencing. And other times, the words fly from my heart to the page. I weep, I laugh, I remember, I learn, I read, I grow, I bloom in a way that is new for me. Resurrection...
The last verse in Mark’s gospel is my road map for resurrection life this spring. "And they (the followers) went forth, and preached everywhere, the Lord working with them, and confirming the word with signs following." I will be looking for the "signs following" this resurrection season. Wonder what is waiting out there for me? And for you?
The bloodroot is blooming. This weekend I taught Matthew, one of my grandsons, how to use the orange juice in the flower stem to paint his face. He was speckled faced the whole time he was here. Beside the bloodroot, spring beauties are blooming... tiny pink and white striped flowers. There are violets everywhere with their dark purple and lavender and white faces smelling sweet in the sunshine. I picked a bouquet for my kitchen table. Bright yellow dots of sunshine, dandelions, cover the ground in front of the old chicken house and remind me that the sun is always shining when they bloom.
I heard my first Bob White song this weekend. We have a quail family that come every year to raise a new brood on the hillside in front of our house. Uncle Harold can whistle just like a quail. One of my sweet memories is watching and listening as he called to the Bob Whites, talking to them, calling them up to the porch where we could see them.
Jeannie saw five fawns in our berry patch last week. The mothers were hidden but close by. And Vince saw an eight point buck in that same place. The deer are coming out to graze on the tender grass. The three new calves run down the hill full steam ahead with their tails straight up in the air, then play catch with the dogs. The cows and Ferdinand the bull are shedding their winter coats and look like moulting chickens, patches of sleek summer coat peeping out from wooly winter wear. The old groundhog that lives beside the drive to my mother’s house was sitting out in the sun yesterday surveying his small kingdom. He will soon be glossy and fat again.
These are the easy to see signs of resurrection. It is more difficult to find the new life in my soul. Where are my dandelion blooms and spring beauties and bloodroot and violets in my spirit? What and who are budding resurrection for me this spring?
Babies... everywhere there are babies and pregnant women. Seeing and holding babies always makes my soul sing. Happy mother faces, happy baby faces, happy new life just beginning that reminds me I am a part of the wheel of life. These babies are the new me... I who once was a baby with a happy face. There is still a baby in me, new life with so much to learn and know and experience.
Music... For the first time in years I am singing in a choir again. Music has always been a direct connection to the sacred for me. When I sing, my heart leaps up towards God and I am removed from all that tethers me to the mundane and messy. The art of singing with a group, hearing all the voices, learning the music, feeling the emotions the composer and lyricist created in the piece, singing my heart out, singing my soul, singing my resurrection gives me new life.
Writing... Mrs. Adams, my high school Literature teacher, would approve of my writing. I can hear her soft, southern drawl, "P-e-g-g-y, you are a cap-ab-le wri-ter with style." In my sixties, writing has become an important part of my soul’s new life. I struggle sometimes to find words for what I am experiencing. And other times, the words fly from my heart to the page. I weep, I laugh, I remember, I learn, I read, I grow, I bloom in a way that is new for me. Resurrection...
The last verse in Mark’s gospel is my road map for resurrection life this spring. "And they (the followers) went forth, and preached everywhere, the Lord working with them, and confirming the word with signs following." I will be looking for the "signs following" this resurrection season. Wonder what is waiting out there for me? And for you?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Resurrection Coming, Ready or Not
It has been Lenten darkness for so long this year. There has been illness, grief and death since Christmas. The Epiphany starlight sustained me through the beginning of the season. That light faded into distant memory and I am stumbling on my way through the crucifixion. It often is not the weight of grief and sadness that puts nails in my cross but living with my imperfect self and through the daily problems that come my way. I long for resurrection...
I love the Gospel of Mark. It is so straightforward... just the facts...tells the story without much theological embellishment and leaves the reader to draw their own conclusions. The crucifixion story in Mark is graphic... full of details that help me see the people involved... the naked young man wrapped in linen in the Garden... Peter weeping... the countryman Simon, father of Alexander and Rufus, who was compelled to carry the cross for Jesus...Joseph of Arimathaea, an honorable counselor...Jesus, beaten, dying, forgiving... and the women. Mark devotes two verses to listing the women who were there... Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem. They are the ones who stand by, who wait for the death and who see where his body is placed. I find it interesting that the only man mentioned by Mark who actively participated in the burial was Joseph of Arimathaea... no male disciples, just the women who followed him, ministering to him in death as they had in life. Their discipleship was rooted in love that would not let them deny him in death or in life.
I wonder about all those nameless women who followed Jesus. Mark says they followed him in Galilee. Mary and Martha, sisters of Lazarus, must have been there as well as Jesus’ mother, his sister perhaps? Aunts, nieces, wives, young women, old women, women restored to a state of grace by Jesus’ unconditional love that ignored the prevailing masculine superiority of his culture, women healed by his touch in ways that never made it into the gospel stories... women were always welcome to be a part of his extended family of disciples. Jesus was so particular in the attention he paid to women, including them in his vision of heaven on earth. The early church recognized the value of steadfast women and they become leaders themselves, many of their names lost as the church evolved into a male dominated hierarchy that bore little resemblance to the first band of followers. How did they keep the resurrection light burning when they were shut out, blamed for original sin, sent to the back seats of the church bus, not allowed to be who Jesus had called them to be? What can I learn from them that will help me find my way out of the darkness into the Light?
The first lesson is the gift of presence. They came and they stayed. The horror of the execution, the grief of the death, the loneliness when the men left did not chase them away. They came during the good days, were touched in ways that changed them forever, and were bound to this man in life and death. His teachings, his love, his vision were so important to them that they could not leave without leaving their hearts behind. So they stayed. I must stay... stay with the messes I make, clean up after myself, forgive myself and ask for forgiveness, live in the darkness awhile longer, remembering all that has come before and giving thanks.
The second lesson is the gift of watching. They not only stayed, they watched. They watched the death, knew where his body was laid, they knew who arranged the burial. They watched the whole process, knew who was there and what happened. They did not let their grief and anger cloud their vision or cause them to turn away from the man they loved. So, I must watch and see... see what my truth is in this time of darkness... where am I and who am I when all is covered with the grey clouds of imperfection. Let me have eyes to see. I want to see the whole of who I am... created in God’s image... moving through my own Garden of Gethsemane... suffering through crucifixions of my own devising... dying that I might come alive once again as I have done before, with God’s help.
I want to watch and remember... watch and prepare... watch and wait... watch and hope... watch with Mary and Martha, Jeannie and Leisa, Dianne and Amy and Cindy, Pam and Celeste and Dorri, Jackie and Fran and Pat, Mary Beth and Noel and Jeanine and Ann and all the women who watch and wait with me for the coming of new life after death. Thanks be to God that death is not the last word... love is.
I love the Gospel of Mark. It is so straightforward... just the facts...tells the story without much theological embellishment and leaves the reader to draw their own conclusions. The crucifixion story in Mark is graphic... full of details that help me see the people involved... the naked young man wrapped in linen in the Garden... Peter weeping... the countryman Simon, father of Alexander and Rufus, who was compelled to carry the cross for Jesus...Joseph of Arimathaea, an honorable counselor...Jesus, beaten, dying, forgiving... and the women. Mark devotes two verses to listing the women who were there... Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem. They are the ones who stand by, who wait for the death and who see where his body is placed. I find it interesting that the only man mentioned by Mark who actively participated in the burial was Joseph of Arimathaea... no male disciples, just the women who followed him, ministering to him in death as they had in life. Their discipleship was rooted in love that would not let them deny him in death or in life.
I wonder about all those nameless women who followed Jesus. Mark says they followed him in Galilee. Mary and Martha, sisters of Lazarus, must have been there as well as Jesus’ mother, his sister perhaps? Aunts, nieces, wives, young women, old women, women restored to a state of grace by Jesus’ unconditional love that ignored the prevailing masculine superiority of his culture, women healed by his touch in ways that never made it into the gospel stories... women were always welcome to be a part of his extended family of disciples. Jesus was so particular in the attention he paid to women, including them in his vision of heaven on earth. The early church recognized the value of steadfast women and they become leaders themselves, many of their names lost as the church evolved into a male dominated hierarchy that bore little resemblance to the first band of followers. How did they keep the resurrection light burning when they were shut out, blamed for original sin, sent to the back seats of the church bus, not allowed to be who Jesus had called them to be? What can I learn from them that will help me find my way out of the darkness into the Light?
The first lesson is the gift of presence. They came and they stayed. The horror of the execution, the grief of the death, the loneliness when the men left did not chase them away. They came during the good days, were touched in ways that changed them forever, and were bound to this man in life and death. His teachings, his love, his vision were so important to them that they could not leave without leaving their hearts behind. So they stayed. I must stay... stay with the messes I make, clean up after myself, forgive myself and ask for forgiveness, live in the darkness awhile longer, remembering all that has come before and giving thanks.
The second lesson is the gift of watching. They not only stayed, they watched. They watched the death, knew where his body was laid, they knew who arranged the burial. They watched the whole process, knew who was there and what happened. They did not let their grief and anger cloud their vision or cause them to turn away from the man they loved. So, I must watch and see... see what my truth is in this time of darkness... where am I and who am I when all is covered with the grey clouds of imperfection. Let me have eyes to see. I want to see the whole of who I am... created in God’s image... moving through my own Garden of Gethsemane... suffering through crucifixions of my own devising... dying that I might come alive once again as I have done before, with God’s help.
I want to watch and remember... watch and prepare... watch and wait... watch and hope... watch with Mary and Martha, Jeannie and Leisa, Dianne and Amy and Cindy, Pam and Celeste and Dorri, Jackie and Fran and Pat, Mary Beth and Noel and Jeanine and Ann and all the women who watch and wait with me for the coming of new life after death. Thanks be to God that death is not the last word... love is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
