One of my favorite chores as an adult on the farm is cutting grass. Somewhere in heaven my daddy is laughing. As a child at home, I hated cutting grass. It was boring... push the mower back and forth, up and down. When you ran over a fire ant hill, you ran for your life. It was always a dusty hot sweaty job. The only chore I hated more was washing the car. After my sister and I left home, daddy bought a riding lawn mower. It wasn’t until we moved to the farm with its acres of grass to cut that I used a riding lawn mower for the first time. My attitude about grass cutting did a complete about face.
Two or three times a week I crank up the mower, put on my big straw hat, sunglasses and shorts and hit the grass cutting circuit. As I cut the same sections week after week, there are surprises everywhere. The black snake pokes his head out of the bluebird house by the leaning barn. The quail run in front of me as I drive down the gravel road. A doe in my mother’s driveway leaps in front of me as she crosses into the woods. A box turtle is sunning by the old chicken house. Some surprises are better than others. Yesterday I bumped the toddler swing hanging in a tree at my mother’s house and hornets came swarming out of an unseen nest. I got stung three times on my left eyebrow and lid. I ran into mama’s house calling for the Prince Albert tobacco tin and an ice pack. Two benadryl and one ice pack later, I lay on mama’s sofa woozily contemplating "life its ownself". There is nothing like pain and a slight buzz from booze or meds to help one slip into the glorious contemplative stage where you can consider your life and life in general.
As I lay on the sofa, I began remembering all the other times I had been bitten or stung by some of the winged and crawling creatures on this earth. I remembered the spider bite on my six year old thumb that caused my whole hand to swell... the hornet stings at Grandma’s house, Cloverly, that she doctored with a paste of Prince Albert tobacco... the fire ants that climbed my leg and left little bites with big pain followed by infection... the mosquito bites... the chigger bites... the ticks who fasten themselves to my body when I go walking outside...and like Grady Nutt, I ask myself why God let those creatures make it onto the Ark. What good are they? What purpose do they serve? Guineas could learn to eat something besides ticks and purple martins could learn to eat Japanese beetles in place of mosquitoes.
One ice pack later, several purposes for those annoying little creatures floated to the top of my lazily circling mind. Those stings and bites from hornets and ants are like the stings and bites in my life... the high blood pressure that no matter how hard I exercise and eat right can only be controlled by medicine... the deaths of those I love that have come in war and suicide... the ever present companion of depression kept at bay with medicine and spiritual practices... the daily awareness of my ADD mind that bounces from place to place and is a source of joy/creation/frustration.
We each carry within us our own set of stings and hurt places. And yet, it is precisely those hurts that help us become who we are meant to be. Living with death early in my life gave me a certain knowledge, unsought and unwanted at the time, that helps me know what to say, how to be, what to do when death, especially awkward death, pays a visit. Living with depression, sometimes very well, sometimes not so well, helps me value my whole soul, the dark and the light in others as well as myself. Living with high blood pressure reminds me my body is indeed a temporary home, imperfect in its perfection. I am not just my body. I am still working on my ADD’ness. It is, like so much in life, both a gift and a curse. Want an idea? I’ve got bunches free of charge. Want someone to be in charge of those ideas? Don’t ask me... I can not do organization.
So last night, Michael and I rode to town with four of our best friends for a celebration dinner. We were celebrating birthdays, a new truck, time to be together, our friendship, taking time to savor the present joy. In the midst of arthritis, kidney stones, heart trouble, parent’s death, and children’s struggles, we bowed our heads in the restaurant and gave thanks... thanks for the gifts that life brings us... stings and all... Tonight we will go to the deck at sunset, cut a Crimson Sweet watermelon, remember daddy who loved Crimson Sweet watermelons while we spit seeds, watch the sun go down and the moon come up. The sweet flavor of grace and remembrance in our mouths will help us savor the moment and remind us of sweet times yet to come. We are never separated from the God who loves us more than we love ourselves. The One who knew loss and death and joy and friendship here on earth knows our sorrows and joys too. How can I keep from singing?
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Time Travelers
With some luck, I may live another twenty years. I am sixty and my mother is eighty. When I look at her, I see my future. My body is changing as rapidly now as an adolescent’s body. I wake up with a stiff right hand, a back that loosens up after a yoga exercise, a mind that is present and accounted for even if forgetful, and a spirit that still soars. Most of my life is now history not possibility. This does not sadden me or weigh me down. In a strange way, it frees me.
I no longer have to worry about what people might think of me. I do not have to carry the weight of the responsibility for the saving of the world on my shoulders. I tried and nothing much changed. I now understand why Jesus said the poor would always be with us. We just can’t get it right no matter how hard we try. I haven’t given up on doing good. I just expect less. If one person is helped, changed, lifted up or laughs because of me, it is enough.
For all that is different in the new century, there is not much change in the basics of the human condition. Our needs are the same... food, shelter, love, work... as our great-grandparents. Our emotions are the same... joy, love, hope, anger, hate, frustration, despair... as the people who lived centuries ago. The outward forms change. The language and expectations are different. The world has changed in many significant ways but we are more like our ancestors than we acknowledge. This does not frustrate me or make me feel hopeless about our future. It comforts and inspires me.
We are all time travelers... carrying the past with us as we live in the present... holding the past, present and future in our own body and soul. My part in the large creation play is rather small. I am a southern white woman, baby boomer born to parents who lived through the Great Depression and the Second World War, came of age in the Viet Nam war, lived through the end of the twentieth century in a country that had freedom of religion and speech. The indignities and predjuidice I have experienced have not been earth shattering or soul splintering. My children are happy, responsible adults who are connected to God and are now grown-up actors in the same play. My griefs, stark and painful though they were and are, have given me opportunity to grow closer to the Fount of all Blessings. I choose to live in gratitude for all I have been given, for all that came before and all that will come after.
I know I have been given great gifts in this life... parents who loved me and provided for me, a childhood church family that called me out and affirmed my gifts, a safe community for my growing up, the gift of great grief in my twenties that taught me to value life, education that taught me to think for myself, a husband who financially supported our family so I could be an at-home mother, piano lessons, many different churches that I have called home in five states, the farm we now live on, friends near and far... I cannot name all the gifts I have been given in my life. All I can do is be grateful.
I choose to see and remember all I have been given not all that I don’t have. The list of what I don’t have is at least as long as the list of what I have been given. I don’t have a living sibling. I don’t have a million dollars in the bank. I don’t have a perfect body. I don’t have a perfect life. I don’t have talents that are recognized by the world at large. So what? Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. Like Pollyanna and the Psalmist, I will sing praises for what I have been given. "This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and give thanks for it". All we ever really have is this day... this time capsule that contains our past and present... this one tiny slice of time for our living... this one chance to get it right.
Hanging in my studio is a quote written by one of our pastor friends, Deryl Fleming. It is my guiding light in words. " If there is a dominant note in life as it is meant to be, gratitude is its name. What else is there in the face of all the givens but to be grateful? Sadness to feel and suffering to bear, yet even in the valley of the shadows, we are not alone; Another, the Other, is there, our help and our hope. Therefore, lift up your hearts and let us give thanks to the Lord our God". Selah. Amen and Amen.
I no longer have to worry about what people might think of me. I do not have to carry the weight of the responsibility for the saving of the world on my shoulders. I tried and nothing much changed. I now understand why Jesus said the poor would always be with us. We just can’t get it right no matter how hard we try. I haven’t given up on doing good. I just expect less. If one person is helped, changed, lifted up or laughs because of me, it is enough.
For all that is different in the new century, there is not much change in the basics of the human condition. Our needs are the same... food, shelter, love, work... as our great-grandparents. Our emotions are the same... joy, love, hope, anger, hate, frustration, despair... as the people who lived centuries ago. The outward forms change. The language and expectations are different. The world has changed in many significant ways but we are more like our ancestors than we acknowledge. This does not frustrate me or make me feel hopeless about our future. It comforts and inspires me.
We are all time travelers... carrying the past with us as we live in the present... holding the past, present and future in our own body and soul. My part in the large creation play is rather small. I am a southern white woman, baby boomer born to parents who lived through the Great Depression and the Second World War, came of age in the Viet Nam war, lived through the end of the twentieth century in a country that had freedom of religion and speech. The indignities and predjuidice I have experienced have not been earth shattering or soul splintering. My children are happy, responsible adults who are connected to God and are now grown-up actors in the same play. My griefs, stark and painful though they were and are, have given me opportunity to grow closer to the Fount of all Blessings. I choose to live in gratitude for all I have been given, for all that came before and all that will come after.
I know I have been given great gifts in this life... parents who loved me and provided for me, a childhood church family that called me out and affirmed my gifts, a safe community for my growing up, the gift of great grief in my twenties that taught me to value life, education that taught me to think for myself, a husband who financially supported our family so I could be an at-home mother, piano lessons, many different churches that I have called home in five states, the farm we now live on, friends near and far... I cannot name all the gifts I have been given in my life. All I can do is be grateful.
I choose to see and remember all I have been given not all that I don’t have. The list of what I don’t have is at least as long as the list of what I have been given. I don’t have a living sibling. I don’t have a million dollars in the bank. I don’t have a perfect body. I don’t have a perfect life. I don’t have talents that are recognized by the world at large. So what? Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. Like Pollyanna and the Psalmist, I will sing praises for what I have been given. "This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and give thanks for it". All we ever really have is this day... this time capsule that contains our past and present... this one tiny slice of time for our living... this one chance to get it right.
Hanging in my studio is a quote written by one of our pastor friends, Deryl Fleming. It is my guiding light in words. " If there is a dominant note in life as it is meant to be, gratitude is its name. What else is there in the face of all the givens but to be grateful? Sadness to feel and suffering to bear, yet even in the valley of the shadows, we are not alone; Another, the Other, is there, our help and our hope. Therefore, lift up your hearts and let us give thanks to the Lord our God". Selah. Amen and Amen.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
How do I love Thee... let me name the ways
Naming someone, your child, yourself, your God, is a power-full and power bestowing process. When we have children, we spend hours reading books of names, checking out the family history for names, looking at the meaning of different names. Our names not only separate us from others with different names but they can provide a pattern for our being.
When I was born, I was named Peggy Joyce. My beloved great-aunt was named Margaret, my mother’s sister was named Margaret after her, I was named Peggy ( the nick name for Margaret) and I named my daughter Megan (the Irish version of Margaret). Each of these forms of the name Margaret carry different meanings. When filling out forms, I am always asked if my given name is Margaret. Peggy is not seen as a "proper" first name. My name has many meanings for me. It sounds friendly, non-threatening, "cute", relaxed and easy to remember. It also doesn’t sound very grown-up, dignified, or complete. In many ways I have grown to fit my name and have had to work to grow outside my name.
For the first thirty years of his life, my husband was called "Mickey", a nickname for Michael. As he studied for his Ph.D. and began to claim his professional competence as a pastor and counselor, Mickey no longer seemed an accurate description for who he was becoming. It was fascinating to watch friends and family struggle with his name change. Many had a deep attachment to his "Mickey-ness". They needed him to continue being the "Mickey" they had loved and known for years... perceived as fun loving, carefree, easy going, cute young man with boundless energy and enthusiasm. This new "Michael" person was an unknown and many found the change profoundly disturbing.
Naming God is a complex process. God’s names are different for each of us because of our history, our belief systems, our life experiences, our education, our needs and our style of religious language. We can create adjectives, nouns and verbs to name God. We can call God by names that may seem patriarchal to someone else but feel comfortable and natural to us. We can call God "Mother" and connect with the nurturing motherly form of God while others find it difficult to attach any anthropomorphic images at all to God’s name. I can imagine resting in the arms of Jesus when I am suffering while friends of mine imagine God’s care being an unnamed Presence.
The bottom line for me is the total acceptance of all the names for God. My names are no more or less important than the names for God used by theologians and other cultures. The importance of God’s names is in the claiming of the names that suit your particular experience. There is no "one size fits all" name for God. It doesn’t matter whether it is exclusively gender inclusive, exclusively male or female, anthropomorphic or not, noun, verb or adjective... it matters not. What matters is our naming of God for ourselves. There in lies the power. And, the changing nature of our names for God is a part of our growth as spiritual beings.
There are times when Michael’s "Mickey-ness" surfaces and his playful, enthusiastic self is full and overflowing. There are times when his "Michael-ness" is on call and the talented counselor/pastor is available. Sometimes I am "Margaret". The nurse who got snippy with me in the doctor’s office when I complained about waiting an hour to see the doctor got a full dose of "Margaret". I am Peggy/Margaret when I teach and create art. I am Peggy, pure and simple, when I play with my grandsons. All of these names are nothing but a partial representation of who we are. The names we give God are only a piece of God and all the names in the world cannot adequately or accurately define God. The names we give God only reflect our perceived or desired experience of God.
Why is it then that we struggle so with others names for God that do not sound the same as ours? I suspect it has much to do with our own unresolved issues about the nature of God. It should not matter to me if another Christian can only see God as "Father" if the fruit of that person’s life matches the fruit of a Christian life. If I need to call God by many names, and ask for the right to do so, I must be willing to grant, even encourage the naming of God that doesn’t fit my theological construct. Again, the bottom line is the continuing engagement in the naming process for God. As we change, our names change. Perhaps our names change because God changes. We will not know in this lifetime which names are "right" and which names are "wrong". All we can know for sure is what names we call out when we despair, or rejoice, or suffer, or celebrate or give thanks to the One whom we call God.
I wonder what names God calls me?
When I was born, I was named Peggy Joyce. My beloved great-aunt was named Margaret, my mother’s sister was named Margaret after her, I was named Peggy ( the nick name for Margaret) and I named my daughter Megan (the Irish version of Margaret). Each of these forms of the name Margaret carry different meanings. When filling out forms, I am always asked if my given name is Margaret. Peggy is not seen as a "proper" first name. My name has many meanings for me. It sounds friendly, non-threatening, "cute", relaxed and easy to remember. It also doesn’t sound very grown-up, dignified, or complete. In many ways I have grown to fit my name and have had to work to grow outside my name.
For the first thirty years of his life, my husband was called "Mickey", a nickname for Michael. As he studied for his Ph.D. and began to claim his professional competence as a pastor and counselor, Mickey no longer seemed an accurate description for who he was becoming. It was fascinating to watch friends and family struggle with his name change. Many had a deep attachment to his "Mickey-ness". They needed him to continue being the "Mickey" they had loved and known for years... perceived as fun loving, carefree, easy going, cute young man with boundless energy and enthusiasm. This new "Michael" person was an unknown and many found the change profoundly disturbing.
Naming God is a complex process. God’s names are different for each of us because of our history, our belief systems, our life experiences, our education, our needs and our style of religious language. We can create adjectives, nouns and verbs to name God. We can call God by names that may seem patriarchal to someone else but feel comfortable and natural to us. We can call God "Mother" and connect with the nurturing motherly form of God while others find it difficult to attach any anthropomorphic images at all to God’s name. I can imagine resting in the arms of Jesus when I am suffering while friends of mine imagine God’s care being an unnamed Presence.
The bottom line for me is the total acceptance of all the names for God. My names are no more or less important than the names for God used by theologians and other cultures. The importance of God’s names is in the claiming of the names that suit your particular experience. There is no "one size fits all" name for God. It doesn’t matter whether it is exclusively gender inclusive, exclusively male or female, anthropomorphic or not, noun, verb or adjective... it matters not. What matters is our naming of God for ourselves. There in lies the power. And, the changing nature of our names for God is a part of our growth as spiritual beings.
There are times when Michael’s "Mickey-ness" surfaces and his playful, enthusiastic self is full and overflowing. There are times when his "Michael-ness" is on call and the talented counselor/pastor is available. Sometimes I am "Margaret". The nurse who got snippy with me in the doctor’s office when I complained about waiting an hour to see the doctor got a full dose of "Margaret". I am Peggy/Margaret when I teach and create art. I am Peggy, pure and simple, when I play with my grandsons. All of these names are nothing but a partial representation of who we are. The names we give God are only a piece of God and all the names in the world cannot adequately or accurately define God. The names we give God only reflect our perceived or desired experience of God.
Why is it then that we struggle so with others names for God that do not sound the same as ours? I suspect it has much to do with our own unresolved issues about the nature of God. It should not matter to me if another Christian can only see God as "Father" if the fruit of that person’s life matches the fruit of a Christian life. If I need to call God by many names, and ask for the right to do so, I must be willing to grant, even encourage the naming of God that doesn’t fit my theological construct. Again, the bottom line is the continuing engagement in the naming process for God. As we change, our names change. Perhaps our names change because God changes. We will not know in this lifetime which names are "right" and which names are "wrong". All we can know for sure is what names we call out when we despair, or rejoice, or suffer, or celebrate or give thanks to the One whom we call God.
I wonder what names God calls me?
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