too young and too old...

I am too old to be middle aged and too young to be old, an awkward developmental stage, teenager in reverse. It is an interesting, sometimes painful and funny way to live. Teenagers are bursting at the seams with all they think they know. So am I. Teenagers can’t wait to get out on their own so they can do it better, whatever "it" may be. I’ve been there, did some things better and some things worse, learned being on your own is harder than it looks. Teens can be preoccupied with their bodies and appearance. So can I. My bad ankle is giving way, my cute freckles have transformed into age spots and my body is settling towards the earth to which it will return. And like teens whose wisdom is often discounted because of their youth, I find my wisdom and experience discounted because of my age. I am not yet old enough to be revered for living a long time nor old enough to have my lapses in keeping up with the times fondly overlooked. It is not always a pleasant or warm fuzzy feeling to be my age. It is however, profoundly meaningful.
A friend and I were talking about the changes in our person as we age. Neither of us are as nice as we used to be. We spent years letting others’ opinions and thoughts and behavior glide over us as we laid low being nice. We raised children, taught Sunday School, served as deacons, decorated the church, cooked food for the sick, led Brownie Scout troops, ran car pools, attended numerous sports events and plays and recitals, did volunteer work, held part time jobs, cleaned houses, showed up for our family and our community, gracious and nice and pleasant and smiling. We were the unseen underbelly of family life, church life, community life, work life, that made the wheels of growth and progress run smoothly. There were no pay checks or retirement plans or health benefits for the job we did. Even though we were not able to have all the perks of a two career family, we were able to live comfortably on one income so we were freed to be the grace notes, the hard working grace notes for our families and communities. We are proud of that part of our lives. It was a busy, productive, meaningful time but it is over. Now we find ourselves full of wisdom, humor, perspective, patience and knowledge that is often devalued and under estimated.
And we don’t give a damn about being nice any more. Manners, paradoxically, are now more important because they provide a way for us to say and be who we really are, not camouflage ourselves. We are clearer about who we are, know where we have been and where we are going, see a little more of the big picture, able to shed the unnecessary trappings of what others perceive to be "important" for our own translation of life. And it is in our churches that we find ourselves most adrift.
My friend is in a church where she wishes the pastor would own his convictions about peace and justice more openly from the pulpit. I am in a church where I often feel the lack of spiritual depth because we spend so much time on peace and justice. We struggle to find solid rock on which to stand in our respective communities. We both yearn for a flexible, open community that can affirm all of who we are without feeling like we have failed the course in religious language and theology. What makes this funny is we have church communities that have been home for us in many ways from opposite ends of the spectrum but we are both seeking the same ground on which to stand, a hard to find balance between grace and works. We decided it has to do with our age.
Having lived long enough to see the failures of the Great Society and welfare and Social Security and government and the civil rights movement and the Peace Corps to provide peace and justice for all people, in spite of the best intentions of those who were workers in these programs, we find ourselves relying on God more and people less. We still work in programs and ministries designed to create change, provide service for those who are least among us, and do our best to be salt and light in a world that is short on both. But we no longer expect to be able to arrive at some perfect place where lions and lambs lie down together. That is God’s domain. We just try to keep them from eating each other alive in our here and now.
So here we are... undiscovered wise women on the road to Bethlehem to find the baby boy who has come to show us a new face of God, traveling under a star that leads us on our individual journeys, each of us coming home to God on the blue highways of life. It is enough. We are grateful for the journey and anticipate every turn in the road, knowing where we have been and where we are going. It is enough. We come from different hometowns, have made different stops along the way, travel in many different languages but we are all seeking the baby under the star, the one called the Son of God. It is enough. The road to Bethlehem is full of those who seek to find God, the company of joyful uncertainty, and it is more than enough. Thanks be to God. Peggy Hester

What if????

We put up the Christmas tree last night. Mama and I were remembering Christmas Past, mine and hers, as children. She and her daddy would go to the woods on their farm in Virginia, Cloverly, find a cedar tree and cut it down. Some of the ornaments came from her mother’s home in Richmond and were blown glass from Germany brought over when her father emigrated to America. In our home pine trees were the tree of choice primarily because there were so many of them and they grew so fast. Buying a Christmas tree was not one of our family values. We would carefully unwrap the ornaments stored in tissue paper and place them in the perfect spot after wrapping the tree in large colored lights. The final touch was the placement of the tinsel. Mother still has some of our old tinsel stored in the linen closet. A magical time, a time that lives now in our memories and warms our heart as it brings tears to our eyes grieving the loss of so many who stood by us during those dear days long ago.
I was a child who believed in magical people and events. Fairies and fairy rings could be found even in sandy south Georgia. Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny brought fantasy and life and color to my interior life, expanded my vision, taught me some lessons about giving and sharing. I am always grateful my parents did not restrict my entry into the Land of What If because of religious principles or fear of watching my disillusionment upon discovering the jolly old elf was my mama and daddy. What fun to play the game of make believe, explore all the possibilities... what if Santa Claus started early down south so he could have time for everyone (used to explain early Christmas for a trip to grandparents)... what if the Easter Bunny could bring fancy socks that matched your new Easter Dress as well as candy in your Easter basket... what if fairies and leprechauns emigrated from Ireland and made their way to south Georgia taking up residence in the old barn across from your house...what if all the animals do talk at midnight on Christmas Eve... what if for one blessed day the whole world could be free of hunger, suffering, death, and war with the peace that passes all understanding settling down like an old, worn quilt over the tired, aching bones of this world.
Faith during Advent for me is the "What If" of life. What if God is speaking Hope to me in the poem I just read? What if I could share my Junie B. Joy with others and my joy could be multiplied? What if I called everyone I Love instead of sending a Christmas letter? What if I could find hope and peace and joy and love just for this small slice of time in this one year of my life? Perhaps I could learn some new way of being that would carry over into the year to come.
Jerene Broadway, our preacher Sunday morning, sent us to the prophet Zechariah for an Advent image that captures the "What Ifness" of this season. The prophet has been having visions right and left, full of mysterious stories, predicting the future. One of the well known images for Jesus is found in Chapter 9, an oracle, "Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on an ass." My favorite image, highlighted by Jerene in her sermon, is found in verse 12. "Return to the stronghold, O prisoners of hope." This year I choose to live hoping, held fast in the vision of what might yet come to pass in the land of the living, the land of what if? I will not pack away my Advent Hope like a cherished ornament, to be kept safe until next year. I will live in hope held fast in the clutches of possibility, trying to catch a glimpse of the fairies living in the barn next door. May it be so.