It was about four o’clock in the morning. I was sleeping so sweetly. After a difficult, painful, often sleepless week, I was lost in the dreamworld that lurks beneath the surface. The sound of two basset hounds and a southern blackmouth yellow cur rushing from the garage in full voice brought me instantly awake. It was not the coyotes but another dog, also barking at the top of his lungs that started the fracas. The conversation continued for some time despite pleas and commands for Phoebe, Zeke and Barney to cease and desist. Finally I gave up, got up and went to the front porch to call the dogs home. As I sat on the front step, they began ambling up in the darkness surrounding me with their smelly dog presence. Farm dogs, good farm dogs always smell a little... or a lot.
Barney laid his head in my lap. Phoebe sat behind me patting me with her big paw. Zeke slobbered on my pajamas. We sat and enjoyed one another in silence awhile. It was a lovely night. The setting crescent moon was full and golden. I could hear the train going by down on the river. There was a peaceful liveliness to the night so I sat for a spell, bewitched but not bothered any more. The basset hounds followed me in and I put them downstairs to sleep off their intoxication. Then I went to my big blue chair and settled in with the squishy green pillow and white afghan. Once again I slept.
Waking in the night does not always bring pleasure with it. One of the joys of menopause for me has been night sweats (don’t tell me about hormones- been there, done that, didn’t work). I claw up from the depths to find I am sweating under my eyes, my hair is damp and I throw the covers off. A few minutes later I wake to chills from the dampness drying and scrabble for the covers. Not much reward there. Waking at three o’clock in the morning, listing and re-listing every worry or possible catastrophe for an hour is no fun either. But this waking in the darkness was different and perhaps my spiritual lesson about this season of drought in my soul.
Somehow I need to go sit on the front porch of my soul and call the dogs of grief and anger and worry home... let them snuggle up to me so I can scratch their ears, bring them in with love and tenderness. Then we can sit and see and hear the gifts the darkness brings. Everything looks different in the darkness. Shapes of the familiar shift and a new landscape emerges. Smells are different. The slight dampness carries the smell of darkness, so different from the smells of the day. It is earthy, musky, elemental, comforting.
Last night on my front porch, I was able to be still and know God, hear God, smell God, see God, feel God. It was a gift from the darkness. Thanks be to God.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
goodness in the land of the living....
I woke early this morning. It was still dark with light around the edges... suited my mood. I was going to an important meeting at church this morning and I needed my soul to settle. So I slipped out of bed and went to my Bible. It fell open to my favorite Psalm, Psalm 27. "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?... I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living! Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; yea, wait for the Lord!"
As far back as I can remember, these words have sustained me. When I was frightened as a child, when I was struggling as a teenager, when my first husband was killed in Viet Nam, when my sister died, when my children were hurt, when I waited in the hospital waiting room while Michael’s heart received a stent, when my daddy died, when my grandchildren were born, these ancient words, written on my heart, held me fast. They are my promise from God, my safe hiding place, my call to hope... I do believe I have seen and will see again the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. My faith in the One I cannot see is the source of all my life’s work.
Several of you have kindly responded to yesterday’s writing reminding me of ways I have mattered to you. Thank you for that. I do know my life has had meaning and worth. My droughts come but they also leave and soft spirit brings moisture and growth to my soul again. I am, as I age, trying to listen more carefully to my soul and to God, to pay attention to the meaning of my life and to live into being fully me as I was created to be.
It is not easy and it shouldn’t be easy. Nothing that really matters is ever easy. God may have been able to create the world quickly and easily but what a handful we have turned out to be! The creative process, the "aha-ness" of calling into being is always preceded by a time of darkness (or drought). The image of the Lord as light reminds me that darkness is necessary for light to shine. When I see light glimmering around the edges of my soul, it is a sign to me. The Day Star is still close by me. I can wait, rest, know that darkness is not the final answer... the Light is.
The temptation is believing I will never see the goodness of the Lord again in the land of the living. My head knows that is not true but my heart is a little slow to believe that. Faith.. Grace... Love... Hope... come to keep me company while I wait. And I remember all the faces of God in my past and present who were and are the goodness of the Lord for me. You are lamps and light on my path. I give thanks for your sharing of your lights with me.
In Ephesians1:18 is a life giving image for me... having the eyes of your heart enlightened that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you...I am praying for heart’s eyes that can see light in the midst of darkness... for heart’s eyes that can see hope... for heart’s eyes that help me see my calling in a new way... for goodness in the land of the living. Thanks be to God.
As far back as I can remember, these words have sustained me. When I was frightened as a child, when I was struggling as a teenager, when my first husband was killed in Viet Nam, when my sister died, when my children were hurt, when I waited in the hospital waiting room while Michael’s heart received a stent, when my daddy died, when my grandchildren were born, these ancient words, written on my heart, held me fast. They are my promise from God, my safe hiding place, my call to hope... I do believe I have seen and will see again the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. My faith in the One I cannot see is the source of all my life’s work.
Several of you have kindly responded to yesterday’s writing reminding me of ways I have mattered to you. Thank you for that. I do know my life has had meaning and worth. My droughts come but they also leave and soft spirit brings moisture and growth to my soul again. I am, as I age, trying to listen more carefully to my soul and to God, to pay attention to the meaning of my life and to live into being fully me as I was created to be.
It is not easy and it shouldn’t be easy. Nothing that really matters is ever easy. God may have been able to create the world quickly and easily but what a handful we have turned out to be! The creative process, the "aha-ness" of calling into being is always preceded by a time of darkness (or drought). The image of the Lord as light reminds me that darkness is necessary for light to shine. When I see light glimmering around the edges of my soul, it is a sign to me. The Day Star is still close by me. I can wait, rest, know that darkness is not the final answer... the Light is.
The temptation is believing I will never see the goodness of the Lord again in the land of the living. My head knows that is not true but my heart is a little slow to believe that. Faith.. Grace... Love... Hope... come to keep me company while I wait. And I remember all the faces of God in my past and present who were and are the goodness of the Lord for me. You are lamps and light on my path. I give thanks for your sharing of your lights with me.
In Ephesians1:18 is a life giving image for me... having the eyes of your heart enlightened that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you...I am praying for heart’s eyes that can see light in the midst of darkness... for heart’s eyes that can see hope... for heart’s eyes that help me see my calling in a new way... for goodness in the land of the living. Thanks be to God.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
wayfaring stranger
It has been a long, hot summer. The garden ran amok with weeds and greasy beans. Every day there seemed to be more squash than the day before. Mama and I have canned over 75 quarts of green beans, frozen 6 bushels of creamed sweet corn, frozen yellow squash and zucchini, canned tomatoes, picked and frozen berries. We are plumb wore out...
The weather on the farm has been hot and dry. Our hay cutting was reduced by drought to only one cutting and yielded half of our normal crop. The pastures were crispy brown in July and we had to begin feeding hay early. We cannot make it through the winter without buying hay. Putting food up for people and animals has been a long, hot gamble this summer. The late freeze followed by a drought decimated the apple crop, stressed and killed some trees. We ran our pump in the stream to water our garden most of the summer.
Like my beloved mountains, my soul has been parched this summer. No words of wisdom, no flowing streams of connection to the Holy, no soul searing experiences of joy and gratitude... only struggle with a change in medicine for my ADD, a sense of distance and separation from my spiritual home at church, a dryness in my mouth that has kept me from singing my song. In the middle of the summer desert of the soul have been glimmers of green pastures and cool waters... our grandchildren at the beach laughing at the waves... working along side my mother, sharing the old rituals of preserving the food we have grown... remembering those we loved who worked with us and are now dead... tears shed in remembrance as we shucked corn... old friends moving to town... it was not all dust and drought.
One of my dusty places has been my struggle to stay connected to my church. At sixty years of age I find myself once again losing my footing in an institution I love beyond measure. For the first time in my adult life, I turned down the opportunity to teach children in Sunday School. My language and theology are out of date... out of sync with the current liberal standards. I no longer feel free to speak my truth. If I use the word Lord or say Our Father or use masculine pronouns for Jesus, I will offend someone. I can no longer chuckle about the differences. I am gasping for air... for affirmation of my faith and language... for room to be one of the Wise Ones whose past and present are seen as a gift, not a handicap.
I am an anachronism. I know that... a white, southern, stay at home mom who mostly worked part time, married to one man since 1969, not poor, not gay, not oppressed, not living in a war torn country... just a woman who has loved her church, loves her family, loves her neighbors and tries to help out by "mom-ing" those who need mothering, offering the gift of hospitality to those who come my way. Why am I feeling less than? I do not march. I rarely sign petitions. I vote regularly but am not active politically. I hear echoes of the Social Gospel of the seventies in the current emphasis on peace and social justice issues. I agreed with it in the seventies. I agree with the current stands in our church on peace and justice issues. But then and now, like canning beans and freezing corn and squash and berries, it wears me out. There is not enough of me to spread out between all the causes... not enough soul in me to heal all the hurts of the world... it has become crucifixion without resurrection for me.
Maybe I am just getting old and crabby. Crabby runs on my mother’s side of the family. Maybe I am just tired of hearing nothing but bad news. Maybe I lost my belief in salvation by our works... salvation doesn’t show up often in my world because of my efforts. Like Elijah, I have been living in my cave this summer, afraid for my soul, weary of well doing, withered in the heat of a language and theology that provides no shade for my soul, waiting for God to save me and whining a little while I waited. As I wait in the cool darkness of the cave, I am listening for God’s still, quiet voice. All I have now is the silence... and hope.
"I am a poor wayfaring stranger, while traveling through this world below... I am just going home". Please, God, let me find home again.
The weather on the farm has been hot and dry. Our hay cutting was reduced by drought to only one cutting and yielded half of our normal crop. The pastures were crispy brown in July and we had to begin feeding hay early. We cannot make it through the winter without buying hay. Putting food up for people and animals has been a long, hot gamble this summer. The late freeze followed by a drought decimated the apple crop, stressed and killed some trees. We ran our pump in the stream to water our garden most of the summer.
Like my beloved mountains, my soul has been parched this summer. No words of wisdom, no flowing streams of connection to the Holy, no soul searing experiences of joy and gratitude... only struggle with a change in medicine for my ADD, a sense of distance and separation from my spiritual home at church, a dryness in my mouth that has kept me from singing my song. In the middle of the summer desert of the soul have been glimmers of green pastures and cool waters... our grandchildren at the beach laughing at the waves... working along side my mother, sharing the old rituals of preserving the food we have grown... remembering those we loved who worked with us and are now dead... tears shed in remembrance as we shucked corn... old friends moving to town... it was not all dust and drought.
One of my dusty places has been my struggle to stay connected to my church. At sixty years of age I find myself once again losing my footing in an institution I love beyond measure. For the first time in my adult life, I turned down the opportunity to teach children in Sunday School. My language and theology are out of date... out of sync with the current liberal standards. I no longer feel free to speak my truth. If I use the word Lord or say Our Father or use masculine pronouns for Jesus, I will offend someone. I can no longer chuckle about the differences. I am gasping for air... for affirmation of my faith and language... for room to be one of the Wise Ones whose past and present are seen as a gift, not a handicap.
I am an anachronism. I know that... a white, southern, stay at home mom who mostly worked part time, married to one man since 1969, not poor, not gay, not oppressed, not living in a war torn country... just a woman who has loved her church, loves her family, loves her neighbors and tries to help out by "mom-ing" those who need mothering, offering the gift of hospitality to those who come my way. Why am I feeling less than? I do not march. I rarely sign petitions. I vote regularly but am not active politically. I hear echoes of the Social Gospel of the seventies in the current emphasis on peace and social justice issues. I agreed with it in the seventies. I agree with the current stands in our church on peace and justice issues. But then and now, like canning beans and freezing corn and squash and berries, it wears me out. There is not enough of me to spread out between all the causes... not enough soul in me to heal all the hurts of the world... it has become crucifixion without resurrection for me.
Maybe I am just getting old and crabby. Crabby runs on my mother’s side of the family. Maybe I am just tired of hearing nothing but bad news. Maybe I lost my belief in salvation by our works... salvation doesn’t show up often in my world because of my efforts. Like Elijah, I have been living in my cave this summer, afraid for my soul, weary of well doing, withered in the heat of a language and theology that provides no shade for my soul, waiting for God to save me and whining a little while I waited. As I wait in the cool darkness of the cave, I am listening for God’s still, quiet voice. All I have now is the silence... and hope.
"I am a poor wayfaring stranger, while traveling through this world below... I am just going home". Please, God, let me find home again.
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