Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!

One of my Christmas presents was a little desk calendar titled “Butter My Butt and Call Me A Biscuit.” Every day has a short folk wisdom reminder for the day. One of my mother’s favorite descriptive phrases... He’s too poor to have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of... is in there.
My Grandma introduced me to the wonderful world of wisdom phrases. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear... Pretty is as pretty does...Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. Every occasion had a saying that matched what was happening. The images in these sayings are often funny... a buttered butt or a sow’s ear purse... but the humor carries a pithy message. And even if you are dumb as a post or a brick shy of a load, you can catch the drift of its meaning.
Every culture since time began has had its own brand of wisdom phrases. The Bible is full of them. The book of Proverbs is nothing but “Sayings of admonition and knowledge to show you what is right and true.” My Grandma quoted these, too. Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it. A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches.
My Grandfather’s motto could have been “A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” He was known for his gentleness, my first experience with meekness. His strength was in his ability to return good for evil, an acceptance of the realities of life without being defeated by them. He lived through two world wars, one great depression, raised his family without much money on a farm that fed them, saw his son wounded in war, lived and died in the same community into which he was born. He is buried in the churchyard of the church he attended all his life surrounded by other family members laid to rest around him... a baby boy who died at birth lies near him and my Grandma.
When I remember him, I see him standing under the old trees in the front yard of Cloverly, dressed in his khaki work clothes with his straw hat on his head, smiling at us. His gentle hands played horseshoes or croquet with us and I never heard his soft voice raised in anger. When he was angry, his voice remained at the same level as when he was pleased but times of anger were rare indeed. Some of his sweet spirit lives on in his grandsons and great-grandsons. I catch a glimpse of Granddaddy in my son Adam sometimes and it takes my breath away.
This Christmastide I want to practice being meek... not mellow wishy washy butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth meek... but to be seemly and forbearing while strong enough to resist aggression. This will be a challenge since I have much of my Grandma’s tart tongued manner. Perhaps I can find the balancing point between mushy mealy mouthed meekness and sharp sword tongued large mouth cleverness.
This hymn, written as a poem for children by Charles Wesley, captures some of what Jesus must have meant when he said, “Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”
“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer me to come to thee...
Live Thyself within my heart.
Loving Jesus, gentle Lamb,
In Thy gracious hands I am;
Make me Saviour, what Thou art...
I shall then show forth Thy praise,
Serve Thee all my happy days;
Then the world shall always see
Christ, the Holy Child, in me.
So for today, I will practice being meek and simple like a child, powerless and yet filled with the power of loving obedience to the One who first loved me. I rest in God’s gracious hands and trust that my desire to become more like Jesus will please my Creator. May it be so.

Christmastide

It was a perfect Christmas. Like the stable of old, our home was full of animals... six dogs (Barney became an inside dog for the season)... eight grownups... and four small boys who were filled up and overflowing with tidings of comfort and joy. “Eddie the Elf is hanging from the light, Nana... It’s Jesus’ birthday... Rufus peed in the hall, Nana... I need to go potty, Nana... And when informed the toilet was clogged while he was sitting on it, Aidan responded, “Well, Dammit!” Must have happened at his house, too.
Sofabeds were pulled out in the barbershop and the away room. Cushioned with foam and covered in pads, they provided a resting place. The real guest bed usually goes to the first one to get here or the one with the youngest baby. The boys slept in one room on two single beds, a crib and a pallet on the floor. The girls remembered when they slept on pallets in Grandma’s dining room at Christmas and told their sons the stories.
Food, and lots of it, was fun. Thanks to a friend who wrote about Cuties, our family discovered the joys of eating those sweet little clementines that are just the right size for children. We ate our way through two boxes of them along with some red navel oranges. Pop always peels oranges at night for us to eat. And David is the designated cookie baker, turning out sheet after sheet of crisp sweet rounds that disappear as fast as he can bake them. Turkey, chicken, ambrosia, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, those little green southern summer peas that Granddaddy always grew, green beans canned from our garden, dressing and gravy... comfort food that reminds us of Christmases past.
Christmas Eve was quiet... a gathering in the barn lit by oil lamps and candles with the sounds of the creek. The wagon wheel Advent wreath, garnished with boxwood from the old bushes in front of the farmhouse and candles, was lighted and worship began. The strong clear sounds of a trumpet rang out the news... Joy to the world! The Lord has come! A sweet solo soprano sang “Oh Holy Night” and it was. My heart broke with gladness as I heard Mason sing that lovely old song along with Claire. The ancient words that tell the story were read by Michael and the children. We passed the peace, sang “Silent Night” and felt the holy quiet enter our souls.
Christmas had come.
Christmas morning was filled with excitement... toys ( most of them made noise of some sort), presents to unwrap, breakfast casserole (Nana overestimated how much to make), coffee (lots of coffee), laughter and glee, confusion and mayhem, toddlers toddling and dogs everywhere (Barney sleeping in the big blue chair with Michelle as his pillow). It was a celebration of family with all our ragged edges hanging out.
A subtle shift is taking place as our children now come home with their children. We are being cared for by this gift of time and presence they give us. It is no small gift to bring children and Christmas presents on a road trip to the farm. I know this time is limited. Soon they will need to stay in their own homes and we will be the ones traveling to them. And that is as it should be.
As I sit at my computer being nagged by Wiley the cat, the soft sounds of rain provide a gentle accompaniment to my writing. It is Christmastide, the season that includes Christ’s Mass, Epiphany and Candlemas, a quieter, more reflective season. Originally, like Lent and Advent, it was a reminder of those forty day liturgical sections of time in the church year. Most American Christians, except for the Orthodox and Catholic Christians, have lost the meaning and celebration of this time. Christmas happens and it is over for us. In the process we lose an opportunity to fully celebrate the meaning of God with us.
Advent, shaded by the darkness of the world without its Light, is preparation time. Christmas is a celebration of the birth of the Light of the World. Christmastide gives us time to see the Light, follow the Star, and remember to Whom we belong. There are no distractions of parties and sales and gifts and special programs...only the baby with a mysterious birth in a stable noticed by no one of importance at the time. We who know the end of the story can feel the bitter sweetness of the joy shadowed by the deaths of other babies, killed by a king’s orders out of paranoia and power. This combination of joy and grief in Christmastide reminds us that life is always lived in between... in between darkness and light, joy and sorrow, gracious giving and greedy grabbing.
I will be giving thanks this Christmastide for the good gifts of Christmas that are in my life all year long... a faith that will not let me go, a family who holds each other in their hearts, a farm that gives me a sense of place and home, friends who drop by and show up and play a mean game of Mexican Train Dominos. And I will be praying for God’s grace and peace to descend upon our world. I will seek to live my life this next year as an instrument of this Grace and Peace, playing and singing my solo for God. Good Christmastide to you.

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Christmas Communion

They came to the door all dressed up... some in their Sunday best and some in their Saturday night stepping out best... bearing gifts for Ebony and her family... faces warm and welcoming... arms open with hugs waiting... It was a night to remember.
And the food, oh the food was wonderful. Pat’s pork roast, Michael’s lemon chicken, Emily’s birthday cake, Pam’s cheesecakes, eclair cake, the raspberry tart cheese cakes, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, the broccoli salad, hot cranberry fruit mix, and the Wright’s traditional escalloped oysters, spanokopita, the wine and cider, collard greens cooked just right, potato salad. My favorite was the latkes with apple sauce and sour cream prepared by Todd on his first night of Hanukkah... a tray full of crisp brown fried latkes... a taste filled reminder of his religious tradition.
Michael and I had set up tables so everyone could sit to eat. Some dined in the bedroom, some in the away room, some in the kitchen, others in the dining room. Ruth Ann and Dianne came early to help set up. They were lifesavers in the last minute rush using their creativity to set the last two tables up. Tablecloths, cloth napkins, candlelight, conversation, Christmas communion over a potluck supper...
Claire and Tucker began the program with an inspiring rendition of Alvin and the Chipmunk’s Christmas Song sung in fine chipmunk voice. A disheveled game of White Elephant Gift followed with children hawking their presents to anyone who truly desired gold hair spray or four robin’s egg candles. The dreaded fruitcake got left in Courtney’s closet so it did not make a return appearance this year. But, there is always next year. We sang a carol and resumed our real program, visiting.
In the kitchen, women and men washed dishes, dried and put away dishes, gathered up food, laughed and worked together cleaning up the residue of our meal. I lost count of how many dishwasher loads they ran but I am grateful for their Marthaism in my kitchen. I am not a possessive kitchen keeper.
It was an untidy, unruly and utterly satisfying party. And, the final act was perfect in its own way. As folks began to leave, Tam came back in to ask, “Did you know your horses and donkeys are out?” No, I didn’t know but there they were, grazing in the front yard. Shirley and Kate wanted Tam’s leftovers really bad and tried to sneak a taste while she loved on them. They all roamed down the hill to mama’s yard. While I helped Megan put our four grandsons to bed (one of the two year olds was spending a night away from his mother), Michael, Tara, David and Diane had a horsey roundup.
Tara, God love her, walked the donkeys up the hill wearing heels. She deserves a special medal. David, Diane and Michael followed the horses as they ran down to the paved road and finally got them back on the farm. Closing gates behind them, they left them to roam during the night. Did I mention the temperature was dropping rapidly as a gusty wind blew a norther through our mountains? Our low was to be seventeen last night and I think it must have hit it early.
I wonder if Mary and Joseph were lucky enough to be traveling with friends on their way to Bethlehem. I hope so. Good food shared, warm hugs offered as anchors when life’s uncertainties swamp us, laughter under starlight, runaway donkeys for comic relief, the warmth of loving care that tempers the blasts of harsh winter... these make life worth living even when our faith falters. Someone is there to lean on, laugh or weep with, be the skin faces of God for us when our vision is blurred and our hope is hopeless. Christmas Communion over latkes and laughter... Thanks be to God.

Dakota...

He came to Sabbath Rest Farm nearly starved. Every bony knob on his spine and every rib could be counted. Covered in rain rot, his hair came out when I washed him for the first time. He stood patiently letting me doctor his sore places, clean his hooves, and scratch his sweet spots as a reward. He was tall and rangy, red body with a blonde mane. His wise old eyes had seen it all and his courtly manner disguised a wicked sense of humor. When Michael and I rode together, Junie B was on her best behavior because he was beside her. His name was Dakota and he died Saturday night. A cerebral hemorrhage or a stroke... he laid down and died before the vet could get to him. His timing, as always, was impeccable.
This morning I walked to the gate where Dixie, Junie B, Shirley and Kate waited for me. We stood with our heads nestled together feeling the empty space in our hearts. No jostling or pushing or shoving this morning, just sorrow and a need to be close. Dakota was Dixie’s stablemate, her companion, her friend at their previous home. Every morning, they ate breakfast standing side by side. Today, she had Junie B standing by her side.
The animals are not the only ones grieving his death. He was beloved by our friends and neighbors. Vince, Tina, and Mama brought him treats regularly... apples, pears, carrots... and he accepted them as his due with gratitude. David and Diane, Gary and Leisa picked him out as their favorite, too. Grandchildren had ridden on his high horse back squealing in glee as he loped and trotted, holding on and having the time of their lives. Whenever anyone came to the fence, Dakota was always ready for a visit.
When we took him in, someone asked me why in the world would we want such an old, sick horse. I thought we took him because we pitied him. The truth of the matter, though, is Dakota had some lessons to teach me before he died. Here is what I learned.
Lesson number one... Dignity matters. Even when you are broken down, sick and weary, how you behave matters. Stand as tall as you can and don’t whine.
Lesson number two... Accept help graciously, and remember who you are. Try not to nip the hand that feeds you. Help sometimes comes from those who mean well even if they are ignorant, so cut others a little slack.
Lesson number three... Always lean into the top rail on the fence. Sometimes it will break and you can go to greener pastures. Don’t let fences keep you from moving out into new territory. If you put all your weight behind your best efforts, sometimes you can succeed even if it looks impossible.
Lesson number four... Stay connected to your herd. When I would go out in the evenings to gather the horses up from their free range grazing, Junie B was brought in first. Dakota was second. All the way to the barn, he would stop every now and then to whinney loudly, calling to Dixie, “Come home.” And she would come flying up, mane blowing, hooves pounding as she ran next to him on the way to the barn.
Lesson number five... Even when love hurts because of loss, it is always, always worth it. I am a better person because I was given the gift of Dakota’s presence in my life. His horse sense will continue to guide me as I live with Junie B and Dixie. When I look out my kitchen window in the morning, I will always see Dakota standing at the fence, his head hanging over the top rail, patiently waiting for a pat and a snack... Good by and Godspeed, Dakota. Thanks for being my teacher and friend.

Peace like a river...

Michael is leading a memorial service this afternoon for a young woman who died at the age of twenty seven, killed by a brain tumor she had lived with since she was a child. All of her life was lived with the knowledge of the sleeping giant in her body that might awaken at any time. Her parents loved her, saw that she got the best medical care available and lived with the reality of a beloved child dying before them. She lived life as if she had all the time in the world and not enough time. She grew up, went to college and nursing school, became a cardiac nurse, a very good nurse, found purpose and meaning in her work. But life, as we all know, is not fair. The cancer returned with a vengeance and it could not be checkmated this time.
I sat with the father as he pored over his mother’s Bible, looking for dimly remembered passages on peace. We rambled through the Psalms reading the cries of despair and hope in the songs of David. The gospel of John contained the words he was searching for, the assurance for his heart to rest on as he begins this new journey of grief and loss. “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you; not as the world gives, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” John 14:27
Peace...freedom from disturbance; tranquility; free from anxiety or distress; harmonious relations... dictionary and thesaurus words that are accurate but not true for the soul that is grieving. When one is suffering from the death of a beloved, wandering in the fields of grey days and fountains of tears, passive definitions of peace do nothing to heal the heart. What this father needed, what we all need, is the peace that passes all understanding.
One of my favorite images for peace is contained in the spiritual “Peace Like A River.” The progression of the words is important, I think. The original words, not the folk song versions, contain the secret. It begins with “I’ve got peace like a river,” next “I’ve got joy like a river,” then “I’ve got love like a river.” It all begins with peace, the peace that flows like a river, the peace that comes from our headwaters, God. Peace that is not a passive state of suspended animation but a peace that tumbles and leaps, flows over rocky river beds and smooths out over sandy bottoms, ever changing, ever present, this is the gift of peace from God. Like floating on a kayak on the French Broad, we may bounce around, float lightly upon the waters, even get dumped out into the chilly currents of this mountain river, but the river continues to run inviting us to come on down, dive in, float on the ancient waters.
And when we are able to be at peace, to be peace, to live in peace, God will help us find joy, even after the death and loss of all that we hold dear. This joy will bubble up from the river of peace that flows through our soul. It is not happiness nor is it dependent upon circumstance. It is a joy that chooses to celebrate the gifts of life and offers itself up in praise to the Creator. Joy in my heart, joy in my soul, joyful noise unto the Lord that affirms death is not the final answer. Life is. We can sing the children’s song “I’ve got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart,” and mean it.
When we have the gifts of peace and joy, Love comes to us. It is the bedrock, the ground that holds the river in place. Paul Tillich taught us that God is not out there but here, the ground upon which our being, and our rivers, rest and flow. That foundation, that riverbed is Love, God’s ground of being. When we can see and feel and touch and taste God as Love, our peace and joy will be dancing like sunlight on a river, bright dancing sparkling diamonds of peace, joy and love.
As I go to the memorial service this afternoon, I will be praying for this family who are standing on the edge of the river. I will pray for the Advent gifts of peace, joy and love to sustain them in the long days and nights to come. Peace like a river to lift them up when they are sinking down in woe... joysprings to burst up and catch them unaware so that they might remember life is good... and Love to surround them with Her tender arms of comfort and mercy as they continue their journey without this beloved child. May it be so, please, Lord Jesus?

My way or the highway...

After school, Gayle and I would ride the bus to town. We would get off and walk a block to mama’s office, do our homework while we waited for daddy to pick us up on his way home from work at the paper mill. We lived over the county line and the bus did not have a route by our house. Daddy would swing by around 4:15 or so and we would be home by 4:45. One of us became the sacrificial lamb who changed clothes to go with daddy to feed the cows. This field duty was a pain and a pleasure.
As a child, daddy’s job was to tend the cows. Before school, he let them out of the barn to roam free range all day. No one had fences much then for stock. Farmers identified their stock by ear notches, brands or bells. After school, daddy would round up the cows, locating them by the chiming of the cow’s bell. He loved cows, knew the way they thought and felt. Years of living with them, watching and learning what they needed, study at an agricultural college preparing to be a county agent, left him with strong ideas on the proper way to raise cattle.
The tractor had a large spike on the front that lifted and held a round bale of hay. Perched on the side step of the tractor, daddy driving, I would ride down the lane to the pasture to help lay out the hay. Twice a day, morning and evening, the cows were fed and checked. There was a pattern to laying out the hay. Daddy would drive slowly while I peeled off a layer of hay in chunks. It had to be laid out in a straight line, separated by just the right amount of distance to prevent the cows from stepping on it, and enough to feed them during the day. The hard work of putting up hay makes farmers testy when animals waste it. And daddy would get testy if his helpers didn’t lay it out like he wanted it. “My way or the highway” was daddy’s motto about farm work. Routine farm work, nothing special, a life of tending, feeding, caring for and selling animals...
And now, in one of life’s many ironies, I find myself repeating the same pattern. I get up, fix a cup of tea, head down to the stable where I am met by two hungry donkeys and three hungry horses. I put them in their stalls, give them their grain and lay out the hay just so in the field they call home. As I place each flake in a straight line, just so far apart and no farther, I hopskipjump back in time and hear daddy’s voice saying, “There, Peggy... NOT THERE... THERE!” Laughter bubbles up at the joke God has played on me. I am indeed my father’s daughter.
Instruction, whether in laying out hay or living in hopelovejoypeace, is necessary for those of us who are students learning the ways of God. The liturgical seasons of the church year give us a time to focus on ways to lay out our spiritual hay. Every year we have another chance to add to our experience, our knowledge of God when we observe and practice Advent. Sometimes, after years of practice, a cow bell rings in our soul and we find what we have been looking for... hope..love...joy...peace...right under our noses, ready to be laid out just so in the pastures of our lives. This week I have been laying our chunks of hope and love while I wait on joy. I am blessed. Advent blessings to you. Remember to lay out the hay of Advent so that you might be ready for Christmas.

My leaning side...

Our away room is not a serene oasis in the midst of our house. It is home to the computer, the piano, a hide a bed sofa, two chairs, cats and dogs sleeping, bookshelves filled with books and pictures. It overflows with stacks that await the inspiration to clean and declutter. Yesterday was such a day.
I began on one side of the room and worked my way around to the computer desk. I filled a trash bag with paper to recycle. Unwatched junk mail breeds in the dark and multiplies. Rufus and Barney watched me from the relative safety of the sofa as I hustled and bustled around. One scrap of paper caught my eye. As is my custom, I often write down a phrase or passage that hooks my imagination. There, on a lavender scrap of paper that had been folded and refolded, were the words, “Lord, prop me up on my leaning side.” I stuck that scrap up on my monitor screen so I wouldn’t lose it again and there it sits this morning. No author, no name is attached to this quote so I have no idea where it came from but those words speak to me this morning.
The darkness and silence of Advent help me find my leaning side. Sometimes, even though I know it is impossible, I feel like I have more than one leaning side. Spiritual teachers of many different traditions warn us about this, our tendency to court humility with a false sense of our own unworthiness. A Zen Master, Shunryu Suzuki, after a session of sitting in meditation with his disciples said, “You are all perfect as you are.” After a short pause he finished by saying, “But you could all use a little improvement.” The art of balance, recognizing our leaning side while giving thanks for our gifts, is the hall mark of a grown up person of faith.
As a person who has an ADD brain, my tendency is to blame myself because my brain works differently from others. I forget, I muddle through. I can’t get organized and when I get organized, I can’t maintain the organization. But I can feed fifty or one hundred people and not be bothered. I can create works of beauty. I can listen and hear the pain behind words. The trick for my soul’s growth is to remember... remember that my way of thinking and being has its own strength, remember that I can still change and grow into a more organized style of living, remember to be grateful for all that I have been given in this package of personhood. I am propped up even if I still lean a little.
Riding on a donkey’s back towards Bethlehem during Advent gives me time to step back, see my leaning side, see my propped up place. I have many people who have propped me up when I have needed it. I have had the presence of God in my life from my earliest memory of time passing. That assurance of God’s presence as a prop sustains me even when all else fails. Denominations and churches change and sometimes I cannot go where they lead. God leads me to pastures green and flowing water that feed my soul even though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow. Once propped up by God, I am secure, steady even in times of doubt and worry, able to rejoice in all life brings me, darkness and light. So, Lord, please keep me propped up on my leaning side. Let me know, feel, see, hear, taste your presence in my life. Be my support when I cannot hold myself up or keep myself together. Let me rest in the assurance that You will always be the staff on which I can lean. Amen.

Tea for Two.. or Three or Four or More

Once upon a time I gave a tea party. I invited the women and girls in my life to come to the farm to share tea and goodies with me. My neighbors on the farm, my mama, my friends and their daughters all came. The only requirement for entrance was the wearing of a hat. I did not specify what kind of hat, just a hat, please. If you did not have one, I provided one from the stash I have. Peyton is wearing one of my flapper models, a red wool felt cloche with satin roses and feathers. Since like most of us, I pick and choose what I want to believe from the Bible, I choose to believe women should have their heads covered in church. This requires a collection of hats. I have a collection that spans thirty years and includes gifts from other mothers, aunts and friends. Hats add spice to our self image and you never have a bad hair day.
So here we were, a collection of disparate women who were connected through knowing me, gathered for a tea party, doing something we hadn’t done since childhood. The hats set the mood... slightly frivolous with an instantaneous change in presence with the donning of a hat. We fixed our cups of tea, served ourselves tea party goodies, mixed and mingled, laughed and chattered, set ourselves apart for an hour or so. During this time, our hat topped bodies softened, our voices brightened, our faces eased and our souls took a deep breath. It was a lovely sweet time. The hats and the tea gave us the framework we needed for a parentheses in our busy lives.
Advent is a tea party parentheses in my liturgical year. Unlike Lent which is shadowed in the clouds of approaching death, Advent’s darkness is lifting in the dawn of the birth of Love. I put on my tea party hat and make myself ready for the birthday party that is coming. Every day, I light my Advent candles, read from the Lake Shore devotional book, remember, give thanks, pray, write, anticipate the coming of God With Us. John Claypool said the real miracle was not the virgin birth but the coming of God to us in human form... incarnation. And so it is... a miracle of love. God so loved us that He sent his only begotten beloved son to live with us. We are beloved, much loved, dearly loved by the One who created us, brothers and sisters to the Older Brother Jesus. Through Jesus’s life lived loving, we catch a glimpse of the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth, a tea party for all, full of hopelovejoypeace. Love, God’s way of being, our choice to be, our Advent possibility...
P.S. Thanks, Sharlande for your writing yesterday that reminded me of the power of tea.

Barney's Conversion

Like Saul on the road to Damascus, Barney has seen a great light and been converted. Barney, a black mouthed Southern Yellow Cur, is a dog of massive proportions and a heart to match. This giant of a dog wandered over the hill at the farm wounded in body and soul. Barely healed torn places on his body matched the fear of humankind in his heart. Men wearing baseball hats, cameras, strangers to the farm, occasionally us, sparked a deep remembered hurt place in Barney and he responded with LOUD barking and fake charging. After two years of loving feeding walking talking living with us, Barney still approached us shyly and never came in the house. He was deathly afraid of being closed up in a space so we had to trick him to get him in the basement during winter’s bitter cold. When fed, he backed away and waited until you left to approach his food. Once in a great while, he would come to you and let you pet him.
We made the decision to neuter Barney hoping it would calm him down. The horse vet left me some ACE, an animal tranquilizer, to put on his food. “It will put him in a very calm place. He might pass out. You’ll have no problem getting him to the vet,” he said. R-i-g-h-t... I called my women friends to come and help me lift Barney into the car. I called the vet and had them lined up for immediate surgery. I gave Barney the ACE and we sat and waited and watched. It took about ten minutes to see Barney begin to get drunk. A slight case of the staggers and a quizzical look on his face, like some other drunks I have known, signaled the drug was at work. But every time I approached Barney, he lurched away and would not let me get near him. After an hour of trying to get Barney in the car, we admitted defeat and left him to sleep it off.
When the vet returned the next week, I asked for a bigger dose. Reluctantly, he measured out a dose of ACE for a 105 pound dog cautioning me about the dangers of an overdose. After he left, I gave Barney the drugs and watched. No staggers, no running to and fro, just a gentle calm and he climbed into the front seat of the truck like a veteran passenger. When I got out with him at the vet’s office, no one believed my stories of Barney’s behavior because all they saw was a lovely, well behaved, sweetheart of a dog, all 104 pounds of him. When I picked him up later that day, he was still groggy and had had a second dose of ACE so I could get him home. After he slept off the effects of the drugs, his behavior was somewhat calmer but the skittishness, fear of people and enclosed spaces was still there. Then came Rufus...
Rufus came to the farm on Monday night. Tuesday morning, Barney and Rufus met. Barney is a gentle giant with dogs, aloof and uninterested in the usual dog antics. He lets LuLu, a friend’s Corgi, hang on his neck, nip his legs and gambol around him without any complaint. When it gets to be too much, he leaves. But Rufus was different. He didn’t respond to Rufus’s attempts to play but when Rufus came in the house, Barney was right behind him. When Rufus jumped up on the sofa to nap, Barney took the other side. When I sit at the computer writing, Rufus and Barney keep me company. Barney is now a house dog, all 104 pounds of him. Occasionally he will get up and come lay his head in my lap searching my face for a loving response. He gets one.
I don’t know what caused the change... jealousy, competition, seeing Rufus’s overwhelming friendliness and our response, an assurance of safety in the presence of a young dog... it doesn’t matter. Barney is a changed dog with us and I am grateful for his conversion. Overnight he has learned he is safe with us and his desire to be close to us is sweet indeed. Barney lies at my feet dreaming dog dreams while Rufus sleeps on the sofa with his head hanging off the edge. I speak Barney’s name and he lifts his huge head up, sleepy eyes focused on my face as I rub his head and scratch his ears. No fear, no anxiety, no worries... all is well.
Like Saul who became Paul and Barney the Frightened who is now Barney the Beloved , I have hope that conversion will come again to my soul. Every year, I watch and wait for the arrival of Emmanuel, God With Us, hoping that I will be made whole and brand new, calm and at ease in my soul as Jesus, the Bearer of Good News comes to live with me again. Hope and love (a dose of ACE and Rufus) worked a conversion miracle for Barney. I live in Advent anticipation of my conversion changed life that will be my best Christmas present... for myself and for my God. May it be so, Lord Jesus.

Advent Biscuits

GrandMary, daddy’s mama, made the best biscuits. If she didn’t make biscuits, there would be no bread at mealtime because this was not the era of store bought bread. Everyday, three times a day, she would stand in her kitchen, measure out the ingredients by eye into her old cracked pottery bowl, and stir up the dough. She turned it out on to a floured dish towel that had been made from a feed sack. After kneading the dough a few times, she took her hand carved rolling pin and rolled it out into a smooth oval. A small glass served as a biscuit cutter. These were her Sunday biscuits. Everyday biscuits were pinched off from the dough before it was rolled out, formed into a small ball and placed in the old smooth black frying pan that was reserved for baking biscuits. Each ball, patted slightly to make a flattened circle, was brushed with milk before baking.
Always... always they were light and rich, ready for cane syrup and butter, or as an afternoon snack, a cold biscuit with a hole punched in it and filled with sugar. Mama and I watched, memorized each step, did the same things she did and never had our biscuits turn out as good as hers. She had a hand for biscuits that came from years of practice. Mama has her frying pan now and I have her rolling pin. Every now and then I make biscuits and remember GrandMary as I turn my dough out on to a floured towel.
Last Sunday morning as I stood in my kitchen making biscuits for our farm church family, I got to thinking about Advent and biscuit making. It seems to me after forty or so years of celebrating Advent, that practice is required to produce a rich, light, tasty Advent, one that satisfies the hunger in our souls. The ingredients are the same every year... hope, love, joy, peace, candles, Bible readings, the journey to Bethlehem... but some Advents are better than others, just like GrandMary’s biscuits. It is the practice, the repetition, the memorizing by the heart that gives us a hand for Advent.
Like GrandMary in the kitchen and monks at prayer, when we do what we love, a miracle happens. Sometimes it is a miracle that we don’t see or feel until later. Sometimes the miracle makes you shine like one of GrandMary’s biscuits fresh from the oven. Or perhaps the miracle is in the practice itself, caring enough to continue to pray and celebrate Advent even when you are not sure of the answers or the outcome. I hope, really hope, I can have a GrandMary biscuit Advent, a melt in my mouth covered in butter and cane syrup tasting of God With Us. I hope you do, too.

Brother Boniface’s Biscuits
The closest recipe I could find for GrandMary’s biscuits came from Brother Boniface, a baker at Mepkin Abbey in South Carolina. He came to the monastic community as a barber but as he says, he got stuck in the pots and pans. His secret? “You’ve godt to have gute recipes.”

2 c. all-purpose flour 1 tbsp. Baking powder ½ tsp. Salt 1/3 c. unsalted butter (Grandmary used lard) A little less than one cup milk

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Sift flour, baking powder and salt together. Using your hands, work in the butter until the mixture is crumbly. Add enough milk to make a dough. Add more milk to make a sticky dough for drop biscuits, less milk to make dough that can be rolled out. Place on a lightly greased pan. Sides touching for soft sided biscuits or separate for crispy sides. Bake at 400 degrees for 10 to 12 minutes. Yield: ten to twelve biscuits.

All the Comforts of Home...

The house I grew up in was a very different house from the one I now live in. The old South Georgia farmhouse, built of heart pine, must have been close to fifty years old and tilted a little towards Tildy. The pine floors waved at you when you walked in and the cracks in the walls allowed for the free passage of fresh air. There was one bathroom just off the central enclosed dogtrot hall that served as our kitchen, dining room and entry. For those who are not familiar with southern architecture, a dogtrot hall ran through the center of the house and was open, dividing the house into two wings. Its original purpose was to provide ventilation during the long, hot summers as well as a place for the dogs to rest. Most dogs with any sense, however, laid under the porch in the summer heat. All the other rooms, bedrooms and living room, also opened off the hall. High ceilings for the relief of summer heat made winter cold an adventure in survival techniques. A tin roof provided musical accompaniment when it rained. Large rooms gave each of us room to spread out for alone time.
Our lights were single light bulbs hanging down from the ceiling on a cord without shades or fixtures. “Let there be light” took on new meaning when you switched them on as light flooded the nooks and crannies in the room. Electricity had been added long after that old house was first built so there were only the basics.
Heat was provided by two large oil burning heaters, one in the kitchen/dining room/entry/hall and one in the living room. The bedrooms were uniformly icy cold in the winter which made getting dressed for work and school a family affair around the heater. My thirteenth year, I forgot daddy was there and put on some lipstick, a secret of mine, standing in front of the heater. Daddy had a coniption fit and my mother had to calm him down. I had spent a quarter of my allowance to buy some Tangee lipstick that turned a pink coral on my lips, my first purchase of cosmetics. Daddy was not ready for that which was why I kept it a secret. He never noticed I was wearing it (I was really good at making it look natural) until he saw me put it on. Family values were alive and well in that rickety old farm house.
The front room held a suite of furniture, sofa and two chairs, upholstered in a prickly nylon that would live forever. Pride of place was given to the old upright piano purchased by my mother for our piano lessons. Often mama and daddy would sit on the sofa and listen to Gayle and me play our songs for them. The large oil heater took up a corner and kept us warm while we practiced in the winter time. When I was twelve, mama took a mind to have a television set. Daddy didn’t approve so she bought a second hand one with money she saved from her salary. Mama, Gayle and I enjoyed that big old black and white television. Even Daddy would sit and watch Red Skelton and laugh but he drew the line at Ed Sullivan. We watched him anyway. After school, we would watch “Zorro” for thirty minutes but turned it off so it would be cool when Daddy came home. He always checked the tv to see if it was warm because he wanted us to do our homework when we came home. We did, after Zorro.
The large front porch was shaded by walnut trees that provided nuts for winter cracking and eating. It was our favorite place to sit until mosquito season began. Unscreened, it provided a feeding station for the South Georgia Air Force Mosquito Squadron. Spring, fall and some of the winter were the best times for sitting on the old porch. Often when company came, the grownups sat and visited on the porch while watching the children run amok in the sandy yard among the china berry trees. I dressed my old tom cat Goldie in doll clothes and pushed him around in a buggy on that porch. Tubby, our stinky stray Samoyed, sat and listened as I shared all my secrets with him. When my sister and I had a fight over sharing our one bicycle, she pushed me down the stone steps that led up to the porch. The porch, like the hall, was our outdoor family room.
I look around my house now and am overwhelmed at the differences. Phones in every room when we did not have a single one. Chargers for cell phones, Blue tooth, camera and rechargeable batteries snake out from the outlets in our bedroom and away room. Lamps, ceiling fans, sconces and recessed lights provide the light we need. Computer and printer, television and DVD system, speakers hung on the walls for the full appreciation of music, three bathrooms, a zoned heating and cooling system that can keep you comfortable year round... all the comforts of home... We have a lovely house. Friends and visitors tell us it feels like home, comfortable like a well worn shoe. Built like the old farmhouses in the south with a hip roof line covered in tin, it has wood plank walls and poplar floors. It is a home place indeed. But we are surrounded by the technology of our age and sometimes I miss the quiet simplicity of the past. Listening to answering machines and making lists of missed phone calls to return, erasing endless e-mail advertising, swapping incandescent bulbs out for fluorescent ones, changing the filters for air and water... maintaining the technology adds up to a part time job. I enjoy the benefits of technology but question when is enough enough?
I am reading a book “Crossing the Desert- Learning to let go, see clearly, and live simply” by Robert J. Wicks. The fourth century desert fathers and mothers experiences serve as the guide for this book. In the section on Enter Through the Narrow Gates, Mr. Wicks lists some of the gifts of humility. One of them is “a space for pacing ourselves while resisting the lure of speed and new technology.” That is what I want, to place my souls hand on the television set to see if it is hot. Speed, instant communication through texting and e-mail, television entertained, computer driven lives are not an evil until they run us ragged trying to keep up. When we lose the sound of the rhythm of life, the sunrises and sunsets that bracket our days, the gifts of the Spirit that surround us all our lives long because we are consumed with keeping up, then technology becomes a new idol that separates us from God and from God’s faces here on earth. So I will enjoy my e-mail but I don’t check it on vacation. I enjoy watching “Dancing With the Stars” but I don’t stay up til eleven to see who won. I talk on my cell phone ( a lot, Michael says) but I turn it off sometimes and drive in blessed silence. I am trying hard to learn the art of controlling technology, limiting the space it takes up in my life, to make room for living my life. Maybe Daddy was onto something after all...

Happy Thanksgiving

She came walking through the airport doors and for one moment in time, my heart stopped as I saw my sister shining through her daughter’s face. It took my breath away. And then the spell was broken as we gathered her in for hugs and welcome. She lives far away in California and our times together are too few and too short. She is my other daughter, my niece, the child I didn’t get to raise after my sister’s death. Her homecomings to my mother are even more precious now that my daddy is dead. Homecoming... a word full of meaning and feeling that conjures up images of warmth, affirmation, welcome and glad joyous reunion.
I have been blessed with homecoming all my life... people and places that call me to a life of deeper meaning. I live in the North Carolina mountains that have felt like my home on earth since I was a small child traveling through them on my way to Grandma’s house. I live on a farm that is an echo of all my childhood spent among farm animals and farm people. I am surrounded by a cloud of witnesses who remind me in the flesh and in memory of the Holy One who is our source of being. Everywhere I look, everything I touch, all that I hear, those who stand by me as friends and family, bring homecoming to my soul.
During this season of Thanksgiving Homecoming, my prayer is that we might all find a resting place for our bodies and souls, a place of joy filled glad reunion with the One who made us and those who are the skin faces of God Among Us. Welcome home. We have been waiting for you... Happy Thanksgiving.

Old Church Accompanists Never Die...

Old church accompanists never die. They just sit around reading hymn books. I sat reading through the old Modern Hymnal this morning. Published in 1926 with round and shaped notes and orchestration for fifteen instruments, it was the first hymnal I knew. The titles are in Gothic typeface and all the hymns have an Amen at the end of the song. When I read through this lovely old hymnal, memories of people I have known and loved in church float to the surface. Mr. Crafton, #25, How Tedious and Tasteless the Hours sung v-e-r-y slowly... Mr. Buchanan, #259, We’re Marching to Zion sung with gusto...Miss Jeanette, #29, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God sung with conviction... Brother Rowan’s favorite invitation hymn, #121, Just As I Am... I know their favorite songs because we had hymn sings often in worship, especially on Sunday night. For thirty minutes, we would sing two verses of whatever number was called out by someone in the congregation. It didn’t take long to identify individuals favorite hymns.
These hymn sings were always fun, filled with laughter and talk back. As hymn numbers were called out, Miss Jeanette, who lead our congregational music, would stand in front on the platform, and lead us with precise patterns that fit the rhythm of the hymn...a graceful curvy right angle triangle for three quarter or six eight time, a tilted hourglass for four four time. She kept us moving along together, singing as a family. Even though you could hear Mr. Buchanan’s deep bass voice, Mrs. Tyre and Mrs. Coody’s country alto, Mr. Crafton’s slightly nasal tenor and Mrs. Woodard’s reedy soprano stand out over the rest of us, we were a congregational choir with everyone, children included, singing in joyful voice. I learned some important lessons during these hymn sings.
The first lesson I learned was the power of music to stir the soul. Hymns of the church, ancient and modern, have power because they tap the hidden places, the places where our heart for God dwells. It was no accident that Mr. Crafton loved How Tedious and Tasteless the Hours. His life as a hardscrabble dirt farmer in North Florida’s sandy soil was painfully poor. His daily life was full of struggle and worry trying to wrest a living from worn out soil. Mr. Buck’s (Buchanan) favorite hymn, We’re Marching to Zion, matched his persona... robust, basso profunda, full of purpose and the joy of living.
The second lesson I learned was the inclusion of all in this process. Children were encouraged to participate. If you didn’t call out a number, grownups would call on you. We might have been little in size but we were giants in importance for that small country church. We knew we were important because the adults knew our names, talked to us as we all stood outside in the churchyard visiting after worship. Mr. Howard would be standing, smoking, call us over and give us some bubble gum, play with us and tease us. He was our Pied Piper. Wherever he was, we wanted to be. We were all a part of the Family of God and that belief was reinforced every time we had a hymn sing.
The third lesson I learned was it doesn’t matter how beautiful your voice is, or is not. All voices are needed to produce a well sung hymn. Mrs. Buchanan’s monotone blended in nicely, like a bagpipe, when we all sang together. My loud, high piping childish soprano rested comfortably next to Mrs. Rowan’s voice. Carolyn Woodard’s playing the piano was the voice that held us together, showed us the musical path and delighted us with new sounds. My heart’s ear still hears the joyful sound of all the voices in that little church family lifted up in song.
As our worship group gathered Sunday morning, we sang around my old piano. This piano is an upright my mother bought for our piano lessons. It was old when we got it and it is an antique now. When I place my hands on the keyboard, the memory of the hours I spent playing hymns as a child rush like a mighty wind through my soul. I have been blessed by church music and church people who loved church music. I want to share one of my favorite hymns with you. It is on Youtube. My friend Sandra sent this to me this week and it enlarged my soul. Find a quiet space and let your soul soar with the young voices singing Amazing Grace. And remember “There’s within my heart a melody, Jesus whispers sweet and low, Fear not I am with thee, peace be still, In all of life’s ebb and flow...”

Http:/www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtrnB4FZ-yc

Mercy Drops...

I sit at the computer this morning, dressed in my overalls, drinking hot tea from my Hadley mug, making preparation for a holiday that is profoundly sacred but not religious, Thanksgiving. All this week memories from the past year have been floating to the surface of my inner wisdom river, bubbles of gratitude and grief breaking the smooth surface of the small places of stillness in that ever flowing stream. A year full of endings and beginnings, new life yet to be revealed, and gifts of grace and plenty tumble over the rocks in my memory.
Friends and family have died... Uncle Tud, Aunt Mary, Mary Etta, Dot... and their passing from this world left empty spaces in the hearts and lives of those who loved them. New friends and family will come as time passes but the depth of the grief marks the importance of their presence in my life.
A relationship with a church that had been home for thirteen years was severed. It was painful to live with the ending of that long cherished connection but now I am free to move beyond the grief, to see what new life might be waiting around this unexpected bend in the road. A small worship family meets on Sundays and we lead one another in the search for the Holy Unexpected One. Without any formal structure or name or long term goals, all the light we need and all the soul food we need is there, enough to fill us up and lift us up over the rough and empty places in our lives. Grief and grace...
Michael and I read an autobiography this week written by a pastor friend of ours. He epitomized the old Southern Baptist Convention as we knew it, conservative, honest, hardheaded at times. The tent of his faith was wide enough to welcome those who were different, like us, and narrow enough not to provide protection for the power hungry and arrogant. Tough old memories of another faith home loss were made tender by the memories of a people and a denomination who gave us many good gifts.
Beloved animal companions have died this year. Lily, the elegant black and white cat who helped raise our children to be compassionate creatures, died after a long life. Bud, my Grey Garfield, was buried under the shade trees on the hillside. Zekie, my basset hound buddy who raced to the Kawasaki mule whenever it cranked up, riding wherever it was going, died. And last night, Phoebe, our eighteen year old basset hound, the last dog our children knew while they still lived at home, died in her sleep. She had been deaf and nearly blind for some months but she still walked the farm with Michael and Barney every morning. For the first time in many years, we have only one dog and no basset hounds. So this morning, we will call the children and give them the news. Like Judith Viorst’s story, “The Tenth Good Thing About Barney”, we will remember good things about Phoebe as we cry a little and laugh a little. This afternoon we will bury her along side Maggie, Sadie, Coke, Bud, Lily, Zeke, Nelly, Harvey and all the other animal friends who are resting in the shade of the oak trees.
But this year has also seen the advent of new adventures in animal companions, horses and donkeys. I have been graced with new four legged friends of a different sort... donkeys who play and bray for fun, horses who have admitted me into their family and offer me the gift of friendship. An albino wren made its nest in my front porch planter and an albino turkey left me some white feathers as it walked across the farm. A five point buck visited us this week and stood in silent strength watching me pass by. A bear came and cleaned out the Deerings bird feeders while we watched. I am surrounded by animal companions seen and unseen. I am grateful.
There have been some difficult times for our family. Michael’s dad continues his long decline into the world of unknowing. He was in the hospital for pneumonia and a small stroke recently. Each time of illness leaves him with more deficits and less reserves. Mason’s diagnosis of autism catapulted us into the world of children with special needs. His mother, our daughter Megan, has become a warrior for her child in a world that does not make the way plain nor the path easy for those who are different. Another child saw the ending of a professional dream and the beginning of a new one.
There have been gifts of grace for our family, too. Adam is back in North Carolina with a new home and new job. Matthew is knocking the top out in kindergarten, superstar student this week. Mason is thriving in his new school. Mead is throwing the best temper tantrums a two year old can muster. Aidan is ice skating with the big kids, the three and four year olds. Our daughter Alison will be ordained a deacon in her church this January. Megan embarked on a successful weight loss and exercise program. Our health and mama’s health has been good this year. All in all, we have much for which I am grateful.
One of my favorite old hymns is “There Shall Be Showers of Blessing”. The verb tense, shall be, affirms the future presence of blessing in my life yet to come Not only can I sing “There have been showers of blessing”, I can look forward to the fulfillment of the promised goodness in my life not yet lived. “There shall be showers of blessing; This is the promise of love; There shall be seasons refreshing, sent from the Savior above. Showers of blessing, showers of blessing we need: Mercy drops round us are falling, but for the showers we plead.”
The prophet Ezekiel spoke the words of the Lord to his people. “I will make them and the places round about my hill a blessing; and I will send down the showers in their season; they shall be showers of blessing.” On our hill, the hill that belongs to the Lord at Sabbath Rest farm, we have had mercy drops and showers this year, blessings that have filled us up and are overflowing. I am grateful. Thanks be to God.

Life,death,hope,despair,light,darkenss...Let us give thanks for all the good things in life

All faith springs from hope and despair. Studs Terkel

I was listening to an interview with Studs Terkel that marked his death at the age of 96. Krista Tippet was interviewing him at the age of 92 after a bad fall that left him dependent upon others for help. I only caught a piece of the interview so this morning I visited the web site for the complete program. He was a remarkable ordinary man who was able to see the extraordinary in all the rest of us, drawing out of us through interviews what we never knew lived in our hearts and souls. His life was spent listening and recording the collective wisdom and questions of our age. Krista began to ask him about his belief system in the face of his wife Ida’s death and his living with death close at hand. He described himself as an agnostic, then chuckled as he gave a definition... a cowardly atheist. All faith and religion, he said, is born of hope and despair. Those who are true believers are blessed with an innocence, not naivete, but an innocence that knows the despair while choosing hope.
This innocence is the heart of Advent for me. When I read the old, old story of a young mother to be riding a donkey into a strange country where she will give birth to an ordinary baby boy who is extraordinary in ways she can not know, I am struck dumb by the innocence of it all. Mary must have had despair for a traveling companion at times. Pregnant, uncomfortable in her last days before birth, traveling without mother or sister to help her in the coming hours of pain, humble and unimportant to those who saw her, she must have wondered what in the world she had gotten herself into. I wonder if she chose hope and thanksgiving, faith and patience as she rode that donkey towards Bethlehem.
As our Thanksgiving holiday draws near, I am choosing innocence and faith even as I give thanks for despair, death, grief and darkness. I ride my donkey through the suffering that comes to us all and I remember Mary, the mother of God Among Us. I choose to sing with her “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior...” Thanksgiving is not real until you have journeyed to the far off land and returned home. Coming home with wisdom, sadness, joy, innocence frayed around the edges but still choosing faith, hope, love and light in spite of all evidence to the contrary. I am grateful for the journey and thankful for the choices.

Sheepdogs and Jesus

My Faith Sheepdogs...

Worship yesterday was planned and lead by one of our families. The daughter chose the hymn...Savior, Like A Shepherd Lead Us... and that set the theme for our time together. Our scripture from John held the image of Jesus as the shepherd who knows his sheep and who is known by his sheep. The father spoke his reflections on this passage, remembering his initial reactions to this passage... God gave us knowledge and free will so we didn’t have to be sheep following a shepherd blindly... But we can get really messed up by relying only on ourselves... Perhaps we do need a shepherd. Talk back time produced some wise responses and then my friend Mark spoke. Mark marches to the beat of the drum circle at Pritchard Park. He can be counted on to have a many faceted view that produces something so outside the usual that you are left with your jaw hanging down in laughter and revelation. Yesterday was no exception.
Mark shared a short discourse on the varieties of sheepdogs and their differences. Basically, there are three types of sheepdogs. One type is devoted to and protective of the sheep. Relationships with humans are peripheral and nonessential. The sheep are of primary importance. The second type relates to both humans and the sheep, responding to direction while tending the animals. These dogs love both sheep and people. The third type of dog is primarily a people dog with sheep skills. All its work with sheep is done at the direction of a person whom the dog loves and respects. After our short tutorial on sheepdogs, Mark asked us who our sheepdogs were. We know our shepherd but who are our sheepdogs? So this morning when I woke before sunrise, I lay in bed thinking about my sheepdogs.
My first faith sheepdogs were my parents. They loved me into faith in God. Focused on me, their child, they carried me to church, read me Bible stories, modeled steadfast love by their presence in all of my life, rejoiced in my affirmation of belief and worried about my call to full time Christian service. Their calling as Christian parents was lived out by their keeping me in the flock of Christians called Baptists.
Other faith sheepdogs came along as I grew... Sunday School teachers, preachers, adult friends. Mrs. Tyre taught me the Bible, helped me memorize verses and showed me the mechanics of our sacred book. Brother Kannon was my lesson in true humility. Walter and Mary Lynn taught me you don’t have to be dumb to be a Christian. God made you smart for a reason. Celeste showed me the joy of creation, whatever its form, is the opportunity to be like our Creator. Others who never knew me helped guide me as they preached, taught, and wrote the what and the why of their beliefs. My faith sheepdog list is very long.
I sing the old hymn now with a refreshed vision, a new appreciation for my Shepherd Jesus who has provided the sheepdogs I have needed. “Savior, like a shepherd lead us, much we need thy tender care; In thy pleasant pastures feed us, for our use thy folds prepare...We are thine do thou befriend us, be the Guardian of our way; Keep thy flock, from sin defend us, seek us when we go astray.” For all the saints disguised as sheepdogs who have befriended me, defended me and sought me when I was astray, I give thanks. But most of all, I give thanks for the Shepherd Source who holds us all close, sheep and dogs alike, in his loving arms.

My Bucket List...

My Bucket List

All the water we used at Cloverly, my grandparent’s home, had to be drawn from the well and carried into the house. The well, dug by hand, sat in the back yard near the stone wheel that Granddaddy used to sharpen tools and knives. It was encircled with stones and covered with a wooden lid. A pulley over the frame above the well held the rope that let the bucket down into the well. Every morning and afternoon, Granddaddy let the bucket down into the well, the pulley creaking a little at the weight of the old oak bucket. He waited until the bucket hit the water and filled, then pulled up a heavy bucket full of sweet well water with the pulley squeaking loudly. Two white enamelware buckets were filled and carried into the kitchen where they sat on a table ready for use. The battered and dented aluminum dipper hung over the side of a bucket for quick drinks. Saturdays required four or five extra buckets of water for the wash tub bath in the kitchen. Water was a precious commodity. The well was always full and never ran dry.
This weekend a friend asked me what was on my bucket list, the list you make when you think about what you want to do before you kick the bucket. I thought awhile and then thought some more. I could name some things that would be fun to do but none of them were essential for my soul’s sake. Travel to other countries would be fun and educational, I am sure. Winning the sweepstakes would eliminate financial stress. Visiting the great art museums all around the world would be loverly. But the truth of the matter is that I have my bucket list already.
I am married and happy, a word that is too cheap these days. Happiness that is a slow flowing river of contentment, and thanksgiving for all I have been given in my relationships. Husband, mother, children, grandchildren and friends give me the gift of their presence in my life, a presence that upholds me when the river of life is rocky and dangerous.
I live on a farm like I always wanted to. Farm work keeps me close to God all year. This farm has beauty... sunrises and sunsets, fog and clouds drifting over the distant hills and settling in the valleys, the passage of the seasons just outside my front door. The lessons of nature are everywhere... life and death come in season, an animal bone drug up by a dog, the death of this season’s leaves, new baby fawns, kittens in the leaning barn, harsh winter weather that gives way to soft spring’s gentle winds, drought that seems to last forever, and the sure knowledge that nothing on this earth is permanent.
I have horses. A long cherished dream of being close to my own horse has come true. It is infinitely richer and more difficult than anything I ever imagined. I will be learning about horses for the rest of my life. They will be my teachers in the art of relationship with someone very different from yourself.
I teach. To teach others how to explore their own gifts of creativity and to do it well is a challenge and a gift. I am a good teacher. I don’t scare people who are struggling to find their artist inside. I know how to affirm what they produce and point out changes without overwhelming their tender child that lives inside. Work to do and pleasure in the doing of it...
My bucket list is more like Granddaddy’s bucket dropping down into the well, coming up full to overflowing. The well of God’s grace and presence in my life provides full buckets of thanksgiving and praise. Whenever I want to or need to, I can walk out to the well and pull up buckets of blessings given to me, not because I deserved them, but as a gift of grace. I guess my bucket list is a long one after all.
An old hymn written by Baptist minister Robert Lowell is my bucket list theme song for today... How Can I Keep From Singing. “My life flows on in endless song above earth’s lamentation, I hear the clear, though far off hymn, that hails a new creation. No storm can shake my inmost calm since to the Rock I’m clinging. Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”

Let Others See Jesus in You at the Food Lion...

Let Others See Jesus In You at the Food Lion...
Sometimes God sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Yesterday God showed up for me as I was leaving Food Lion and my heart shattered as I came face to face with God incarnate.
Megan and the boys had just left for their home after a visit on the farm. The larder was bare so I was grocery shopping for the basics... bread, milk, eggs. It was five o’clock, not the usual time I go to the grocery, and the store was full of folks on their way home after work. Moms were rushing through the aisles followed by children begging for sugar coated cereal. Men and women were standing in front of the frozen vegetable case trying to decide which one to choose. Hustle and bustle pervaded the store... rush hour for food.
I made my way to the check out line and began unloading the cart. A short, dumpy Hispanic woman held out two items and asked in broken English if she could break in front of me. I smiled and said yes. And as so often happens when you are trying to be a good Christian, it backfires on you. One of her two items price was mislabeled and had to be checked out. We stood and waited, she smiling in embarrassment and me smiling in spite of myself. Eventually it was sorted out and my turn came to be checked out.
As I was pushing my cart through the doors, an old man was coming into the store. His once tall body was bent and bowed. He caught my eye because he was wearing ironed overalls, once a common sight in the rural south. His ball cap was set firmly on his head and he wore serviceable sturdy black shoes. As I was looking at him, he looked up. I smiled and he smiled back, such a sweet smile. I wondered if he was buying food for supper for himself, or a wife who could no longer come to the store. Such a short interchange, a wordless recognition of one another’s presence, an affirmation of our connection in the front door of the Food Lion... I wanted to stop and talk to him, find out his story, know a little piece of the man behind the sweet smile. I wondered what I would look like in twenty years at eighty two. Would I be able to go to the Food Lion to shop and would anyone would smile at me?
I pushed my cart through the doors on to the sidewalk, moving over to let a woman pass me. She was followed by her daughter, a young woman with Downs Syndrome. Since our family has been inducted into the world of children with special challenges, I respond differently to these children now. The young woman was dressed nicely, her hair done and wearing make up. As we passed each other, I smiled at her, on purpose, and caught her by surprise. I wonder if she was used to being looked over, passed by without recognition. She tried to smile back but her embarrassment was evident. Her challenges are easily recognized because of her facial features. Mine are not as easily seen because they are masked by the appearance of normality. Yet I suspect she and I have much in common were we able to know one another.
For that moment in time, I felt the power of the presence of God as I smiled and was connected to those two very different children of God. The overwhelming painful compassion that swept through my soul brought tears to my eyes as I walked to the car. My heart was tender and my soul was soft as I let my self become part of their worlds. Compassion, from the Latin compati... to suffer with... God loved us enough to come into our world, to suffer with us, to feel our hurts and losses. In the gospel of Mark we read , “As Jesus went ashore, he saw a great throng, and he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd...” We all are sheep without a shepherd. Old men, young women, children and the rest of us, waiting for the smile and the voice of the Shepherd to gather us in. I hope the old man and young woman at Food Lion yesterday saw Jesus’ smile in my smile. I hope they felt the warmth of the Great Shepherd’s love as we passed by one another on the way to the rest of our lives. I did.

Stars of Wonder

It was too early to get up and too late to go back to sleep so I let my mind go walkabout this morning. Megan and her three boys are coming today for a Halloween visit so I rambled through a grocery list and fun to do list for awhile. Then I began to recite Bible verses and passages I memorized as a child. I was surprised at how many I remembered. I wondered if children memorized Bible verses today in Sunday School. It was a comfort to be able to turn those ancient beloved words over in my mind, hearing and seeing those words that have been a part of my faith for sixty two years.
And then I remembered last night. After supper with mama, I went down to the stable to settle the horses in for the night. I called them in from the pasture, gave them some feed and hay, patted their suddenly wooly winter coats and began the walk up to the house. After several days of windy, cold, snowy weather, the world around me was still and calm. The dark night was lit up with thousands of pinpoint lights. As far as I could see, from mountaintop to mountaintop, stars and planets blossomed with a living light and it took my breath away. I stood still, breathed in the crisp night air and fell on my faith knees in wonder. The world of the universe is a mystery and an enormity beyond my ability to understand. All I can do is stand in silence and awe in the midst of such abundance and beauty.
It is a worry and a wonder that the One who created the stars, the One who is as far from me as the stars, is also as close to me as my heart. My mind, which cannot encompass the infinitude of the universe or the endless being of God, must make room for the presence of God in my tiny, limited self. I am, in my own peculiar particular self, a home for a part of God, the same God of the stars in the heavens. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you which you have from God?” This question in First Corinthians reminds me of God’s gracious gift of Spirit to my body. And in my body, my heart, is a universe as infinite as the stars in the skies above. “Star of wonder, star of night, star with loyal beauty bright, westward leading, still proceeding, guide us to thy perfect light.” May I always be able to see stars and feel the wonder, accept the mystery, and celebrate the presence of the starlight within my soul.

The Art of Advent... Let the Lower Lights Be Burning

Looking for the Lower Lights

It is cold here on the hill at the farm... 36 degrees yesterday with the wind chill factored in. And last night it was snowing as we went to bed. No accumulation was expected because the ground is still warm but there it was, snow in October. Ski slopes are rejoicing but not farmers. After a difficult dry summer with not enough hay put aside, we are feeding winter rations already. Large animals need a great deal of hay during cold weather not just for nutrition’s sake. Digestion, the work of multiple stomachs, keeps them warm during winter’s blasts.
Last night when I fed the cows, I opened the gate to the barn so the cows could have shelter. I came up the hill to our house and gathered the horses in from the grazing patch to feed them in the barn. Then I went to get the donkeys. Shirley T and Kate always slip under the electric cord to go their own way for grazing. Last night they did not want to come in and refused to let me lead them home. So I did the rational thing. I drove the mule like a horse, ran their little donkey butts over hill and dale until they gave up and ran home. Their little legs can cover some ground quickly. Shirley T was so frisky from the cold weather that she kept jumping in the air with all four feet, braying (cussing) as she outran the mule.
Mama and I were laughing about daddy getting so mad with the cows that he would bump them (gently) with his truck. I have become my father. My only excuse is brain freeze. After an hour in the cold with gusty winds blowing, my ability to think was frozen. Oh, well... The donkeys have been getting too fat from too much grain so they needed the exercise.
This morning at nine, the vet is coming to check Dakota out. Dakota has turned out to be an easy horse to ride. He has good sense and his years of experience as a trail horse make him patient with beginners. Dakota is a good influence on Junie B when Michael and I ride together. It will be cold down at the stable and I might need to take a thermos of hot tea to stay thawed out.
Winter’s cold winds remind me that the darkness of Advent is approaching. Advent is s study in paradox and contrast. We mark the passing of the Sabbaths with words like peace, hope, joy, love... warm fuzzy words that make us feel good. But the truth of Advent is the absence of light. The One who brought light to our darkness has not yet been born. Like the darkness of winter days, the darkness in our hearts and souls needs a season for recognition and release. I stand outside at the stable gate, in the night darkness, seeing the glow of far off lights in Asheville over the hills and mountains. As I prepare to enter this Advent season, I will carry the memory of those lights and all the Light that has been a part of my life for sixty two years.
An old hymn based on seafaring experience is my theme song for this preparation time. “Brightly beams our Father’s mercy from His lighthouse evermore, But to us He gives the keeping of the lights along the shore. Dark the night of sin has settled, loud the angry billows roar, eager eyes are watching, longing for the lights along the shore. Trim your feeble lamp, my brother; some poor sailor, tempest tossed, trying now to make the harbor, in the darkness may be lost. Let the lower lights be burning! Send a gleam across the wave! Some poor fainting, struggling seaman you may rescue, you may save.” Luke 12:35, the Bible verse inspiration for this hymn, says “Let your loins be girded and your lamps burning...” I will try to keep my light burning through the darkness of Advent winter. I will clothe my soul in hope, love, joy and peace while I wait for the Light to shine on me again. And it will...

The Art of Alchemy... Transformation and Rebirth

Our friend Katherine received sad news this week. A beloved nephew, who came into this world fighting for his life, died unexpectedly after a year of living in this world. Another young mother in our community buried her little baby boy this week after weeks of extraordinary efforts to help him live. Her husband was a state trooper killed in a routine road stop shortly after the baby’s birth. All over this sad old world mamas cry for their babies who die before they can grow up. My heart cannot imagine the depth and breath of this grief... the one who birthed life must stand and watch as life leaves.
In my journaling reading this morning, I found the following passage written by Reeve Lindbergh, daughter of Anne Morrow Lindberg:

When I lost my first son just before his second birthday, she who had also lost her first son (who was killed by a kidnapper) knew what to say, and she was one of the few people I was willing to listen to. She told me the truth first.... “This horror will fade. I can promise you that. The horror fades. The sadness, though, is different. The sadness remains.
That, too, was correct. The horror faded. I left it behind me in that terrible winter, but the sadness remained. Gradually, over the years, it became a member of my family, like our old dog, sleeping in the corners...
At the time of my son’s death, when I asked my mother what would happen to me as the mother of the child, how that part of me would continue, she said, “It doesn’t. You die, that’s all. That part of you dies with him. And, then, amazingly, you are reborn...”

Rebirth... Jesus told Nicodemus he needed to be reborn into the Kingdom of Heaven, a physical impossibility from Nicodemus’ point of view. And yet, how else can we become a grown up in God’s family without the rebirth that comes through suffering and loss? Until I lost someone of great value to me in a senseless death, knew the feelings of grief and anger and guilt that come with the amputation of a part of ourselves, I was so firmly attached to this world and my own limited God reality, I was unable to see and hear and feel God in the deep dark shadows of my soul. Now I know that in the darkest hours of grief and loss,in the dark caves where I weep and wail, God is there waiting for me. As I move through my fears and griefs, God waits and like a good midwife, assists my rebirth into the land of the living. Suffering can be transformed.
Alchemy... one dictionary definition is a mysterious or paradoxical process. It is in the suffering that comes with the loss of what we hold dear, the death of those we love, that we can find new life and release from the fear of dying. It is the letting go that lets us grasp again, hold fast to the new life that follows the old. Jesus said we must be willing to lose our lives, give up all we have, in order to save our lives. How I wish that did not include letting go of babies who have not yet had enough time to live! But it does. And it includes young mothers and fathers who die from illness and war, old mothers and fathers who die, loss of sight and mobility and hearing, all that diminishes and reduces us. We can live with the hurt, feel it deep in our bones, face it and bring it into the Light where it can be warmed and reborn... new life, not the same life, but a new life where griefs and sorrows have transformed us into the grown up children of God. Like God, in whose image we are being formed all the days of our lives, we can now feel the suffering of others and choose to wait with them in the darkness, silent witnesses to the new life that can come from death. O God, be with Katherine’s niece and Michaela as they wait for the hurt to heal. Be with all those who are struggling with grief and loss this day. Help us to wait in the darkness with them, holding them close, being the Body of Christ for them as they wait on resurrection and rebirth. Amen

The Art of Setting the Table...

It was the way of the world in my youth... the boys took shop and the girls took home ec. While the boys were learning the art of wood turning and tools, we were learning how to sew, cook and set the table. Mrs. Barton, our teacher, was the wife of my elementary school principal. She was a tall, slender black haired beauty who spoke softly with a slight lisp. I wanted to be just like her, graciousness personified.
Our first unit of study was sewing. We made aprons followed by a simple skirt. Based on our sewing skills, Mrs. Barton helped us choose a pattern for our final project. Mine was a sage green linen sheath with a crop top lined in a green, grey and soft yellow print. With her help, I made bound buttonholes, stay stitched facings and hemmed, ripped out seams and redid them until my dress was as close to perfect as it (and I) could be. I modeled that dress in a fashion show for the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) and at Mrs. Barton’s insistence, entered it in the county fair. I won a blue ribbon, my first and only blue ribbon.
Our next unit was entertaining and cooking. We began by studying the chemistry of baking, baking all sorts of breads, cakes, pies and cookies before we moved on to complete meals. The smells drifting down the long school halls drew students and teachers alike to “drop in” to see what we were cooking. With each cooking project, we set the table. Mrs. Barton taught us how to choose a tablecloth or place mats, two items not used daily at my house. We learned how to place silverware and how to use the various implements for eating... always start from the outside in... salad fork first followed by the dinner fork... where to place the water glass and the wine glass (Wine glass??? None of my friends families drank wine!)...how to fold a cloth napkin in several different ways... how to arrange flowers and other items for a table centerpiece. Our little file boxes began to be stuffed with recipes, pictures and ideas for gracious entertaining.
Out of all the classes I took in high school, this class has been one of the most useful in my life. In addition to the skills I acquired, I learned the fine art of preparation. Before you sew, you check your fabric to make sure it is squared. You might need to wash and iron it. Before you pin your pattern on, you check the pieces and select the ones you need for the particular item you are sewing. Before you launch out into a recipe, you round up the tools you need, you gather your ingredients, measure them out and then read the recipe again to make sure you know what to do and in what order to do it. And before you cook, you prepare the table, set the stage for the meal that you will serve. I learned that preparation is as important as the act itself and has its own kind of pleasure.
I’ve been thinking about taking these home ec skills and using them to help me prepare my heart to entertain God. God, I believe, needs me to set aside a special time for our gathering, needs me to be willing to entertain the presence of the Most High. I will set the table... gather my Bible and books, art supplies and flowers, a cup of tea and a quiet space. I will do the work of preparation... read and create, ponder and write. Then I will be still and wait for the Hospitable One to sit down at my table with me so that we might be as one in the Spirit. We will both leave this time together refreshed and ready to face our different worlds with a renewed spirit of gracious love. Remember, just like with the silverware, you start from the outside in. Do the work, choose the proper tools and ingredients, prepare, create, serve and wait. God will come.

simply trusting...

Simple... I used to lift my lip ever so slightly at people of simple faith. They seemed so out of touch with all the world of learning had to offer in understanding our sacred texts and the insights to be found in the world of textual criticism... not interested in the intelligent expansion of our Christian faith. These folks are not fundamentalists in the current fashion, judgmental and excluding of those who march to a different beat. They just use simple words, simple ideas for their simple faith. The language of their faith is love God, love your neighbor, be a good Samaritan when you can and leave the rest to God. These folks rarely march in support of causes or sign petitions but they show up to serve in soup kitchens, volunteer in hospitals, bring meals to those who are grieving or ill, sit with elderly neighbors, show up at their churches every week, year after year, being and doing the Word made flesh.
When Michael’s mother died, we found her Bible, marked and written in, full of little quotes cut out and placed carefully in the book she read and honored as her center point. None of the quotes came from the great minds and authors of her time. All of them reflected her desire to be simply a better Christian as she understood it. When I look through her Bible, I remember how she welcomed people of all kinds and colors into her home when it was dangerous to do so in Montgomery, Alabama. Her Saviour said love your neighbor, so she served wonderful delicious food she cooked at a Christmas party for black and white church and political leaders, in the 1960's and 1970's at a time when her husband was receiving death threats for his work with black Baptists in Alabama. Simple, really... hospitality in its saving grace extended by a woman who graduated high school, married and raised a family as a pastor’s wife, loved Southern Living recipes, and somehow transcended her time in history because of her desire to follow Jesus.
Simple... easily understood or done; plain and uncomplicated in form, nature or design; humble and unpretentious. I wonder if we try too hard, use our knowledge (necessary as it might be) to keep a distance between our heads, hearts and souls. If our head is full of precious knowledge, and it is of great value, then we can set ourselves up as judges of what really matters, what Jesus really meant in those red letter quotes. We can get so caught up in arguing and expounding and preaching that we miss the simplicity of the good news. Love God, love your neighbor as yourself, and live your life of faith plain and uncomplicated, humble and unpretentious, easily understood. Let your light so shine that all will know to whom you belong.
“Simply trusting everyday, trusting through a stormy way, even when my faith is small, trusting Jesus, that is all.” Not so simple after all...

Lead us gently home...

It was magic making time, twilight, and time to bring the horses in from the pasture. The grass was wet with evening dew. The soft light, green grass, grazing horses, and old barn formed a beautiful composition, a performance work of art. I walked out to the high barn field carrying a lead rope and apple slices. The donkeys came running at the smell of fresh apple slices, taking them delicately from my hand and chewing in delight. Dakota and Junie B each took a slice but Dixie has never learned how to take a treat from someone. I brought Junie B back in first. Sometimes they will follow each other home like children coming in for supper, but not this time. After I put Junie B up, I walked back out to get Dakota and Dixie. Dixie followed Dakota as I led him back to the stable. Michael stood by the gate to let us in. He had been watching Junie B run the fence line, frantic for her friends. The three horses nuzzled and walked down to get water, together again, bound by invisible cords of community, a family not by blood but happenstance.
The past week has been difficult for my happenstance family... a heart procedure, two wrecks, a suicide attempt, an only child dying from cancer, dialysis complications and hospitalization, death anniversaries. After awhile, you begin to feel raw all over with grief, fear, and fatigue. No wonder Jesus cried out when the sick woman touched his robe. The spiritual practice of compassion can leave you dazed and drained sometimes.
Like Junie B, I run the fence line, trying to find my happenstance family, wanting and needing them home, tucked in under the sheltering arms of a loving God who will supply their every need. And as I run the fence line, I pray for these I know who are standing, facing death and loss, remembering past griefs. I give thanks for deliverance, ask for healing. I pray for courage, grace and Loving Light to surround those who walk through darkness, hoping and trusting that the One who brought us into this world will lead us safely home.
An old hymn rings in my heart’s memory and as I sing it, I weep for those who are in dark fields trying to find their way home. “Lead me gently home, Father, lead me gently home, in life’s darkest hours, Father, when life’s troubles come, Keep my feet from wandering lest from Thee I roam, lest I fall upon the wayside, lead me gently home.” O Dear God, gently lead us all home that we might rest in your loving arms, safe and free at last. Amen.

monkey see... monkey do

One of the joys of being a grandparent is watching your children pay for their raising. The little ones we loved and lived with as they grew now provide for us endless hours of enjoyment and occasional flat out revenge as they live with and love their little ones. The wheel of life can be a pleasure indeed.
Mason, my four year old grandson, talked to me yesterday on the phone. He was playing farm, feeding the cows hay and driving his blue tractor just like Pop’s. He knows what Pop does because he rides the tractor with Pop doing chores when he visits us here at Sabbath Rest Farm. A tractor is a fun toy for boys be they little or great big. Mason drives his tractor, pulling the little wagon loaded with grass clippings, stops and feeds the pretend cows that have names just like Pop’s cows.
Alison called laughing and asking what she must do with Aidan who has learned a particularly effective four letter word, He only uses this word in the car, driving, when his father or mother make a driving error. She knows this word will soon migrate to other areas of his life... church, school, family gatherings... and wants to nip it in the bud. She and David can’t decide which one of them is responsible for his learning this word but they both feel responsible for managing his vocabulary. I was no help at all because this word is one of my favorites for moments of stress. They have decided to substitute “jeepers” as the new family four letter word.
If flattery is the sincerest form of admiration, children flatter us in all their growing up by appropriating our behavior, our language, our beliefs, our quirks and peculiarities. I remember trying to talk “Virginian”. I loved the sound of my Aunt Peg’s pronunciation of the “ou” in words like house and about, the rhythm of the Tidewater language that flows like the rivers that run through it. I could have pulled it off but I sounded funny in South Georgia and my friends at school thought I was nutty.
My Bible verse for the day... Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children...is found in the letter of Ephesians. How can I imitate God? I can’t see God like I see people. I can’t hear God’s voice speaking out loud (at least not yet). My eyes and ears of faith see God at work and hear God’s voice speaking through the world that surrounds me. But it is faith, specifically the Christian faith, that informs my interpretation of these happenings.
That is not so very different from what happens with our children, though. They watch us, observe us and often don’t understand what they are seeing or hearing. They hope to be grown ups like us so they imitate our behavior hoping the behavior will change them in some way. Mason practices throwing hay because that is what grown up farmers do. Aidan practices his new word because that is what grown ups say. Neither child understands the reality behind the actions but they are trying to be like the grown ups they know and love.
That is all God wants from us. We don’t have to understand. We can’t fully understand. All we have to do is imitate what we know of God, even if it is only a small part of the total sum of God’s reality. If I could imitate God in only one way, I would choose to love the way God loves. God’s love comes to us so freely, unrestrained by oughts and shoulds, flowing in and around and through our bodies and souls. It is the unseen loving laughing taking delight in Presence that offers us a new way to live as beloved children. Today I will, as a beloved child of God, imitate the Loving One with all I see and speak and touch... students in classes, donkeys, horses, cats, dogs, mama, children and grandchildren, Michael, friends. I will love because I was first loved by the One who created me. Thanks be to God.

the good old (and not so good) days

You know you are getting old when you begin comparing the world around you with the world of your childhood. The differences between my growing up world and my grandchildren’s world run the gamut from the ridiculous to the sublime. I know this process of change has been going on as long as written history has been recorded. But my little piece of history belongs to me, and I have been stuck thinking about changes in life during the past sixty years.
Wearing shoes was optional after school let out when I was a child. Most of us went barefoot all week, only donning shoes for church or a trip to town. The delicious feeling of sand between the toes, the ticklish tender soles that toughened into a reasonable facsimile of shoe leather as summer wore on, the hot sand that caused you to hop from place to place when you crossed the dirt road, the sandspurs that were green and pliable at the beginning of summer and sharp instruments of torture as they dried, the cool squishiness of the mud at the edge of the creek... a connection to the earth was formed from the bottom up. It is hard to go barefoot when you are surrounded by asphalt.
There was no air conditioning in homes or cars. Only a few public places, banks and stores, had refrigerated air. Heat in the deep south of my childhood was a part of the natural order of life. We accommodated, sweated, slowed down in the middle of the day when the heat was at its peak, fanned with funeral home fans in church, built our homes with tall ceilings to help the heat rise and they were shaded by trees, sat and slept on porches screened to keep the mosquitoes out, drove cars with all the windows rolled down, wore lightweight clothing and drank lots of sweet tea. It was not always comfortable but we wore our sleeveless blouses over our skirts held out by fifty yard crinolines and managed to have a good time anyway. When you are forced outdoors to find cooling breezes, another connection to the world around you forms. It is hard to appreciate the breeze when you are inside with the air conditioner running.
Most families only had one car or truck. It was normal for families to make one trip to town a week to pay bills or buy groceries and shop. Dentists and doctors worked on Saturdays and took Wednesdays off. So did all the other businesses in town. During the work week, the vehicle was used for work. Children rode the bus to school and home without thinking twice about an hour ride. My sister and I rode less than twenty minutes in the morning because we were the next to the last ones to be picked up. But in the afternoon, we rode the bus for an hour over dirt roads, windows down, reading or talking and visiting, occasionally being called down by Mr. Woods, seeing each child’s home as they were let out, knowing their parents and their siblings by name. Going somewhere was not always convenient. Trips to town and vacations were Events, not a birthright. It is hard to appreciate the gift of easy transportation when you are a two or three car family.
The food our family ate was mostly grown or raised by my dad. My friends, like us, had garden chores in the spring and summer. We helped plant the garden, weed the garden, pick the vegetables, can and freeze vegetables for the coming months. We raised our own beef, had chickens and mama milked when Elsie was fresh. Oranges were a seasonal treat from Florida not readily available year round. Broccoli had not yet made its way into the grocery stores in our community but bananas were plentiful and cheap. Local groceries carried local produce as it was available during the season supplemented by others trucked in. If you lived in the town and didn’t have a garden, you could count on buying local potatoes or greens or tomatoes in season. When you visited someone in our part of the world, they would share an offering of something they had grown and preserved as a gift... cane syrup, pear preserves, honey, grape jelly. It is hard to appreciate food as a sacramental gift if all you do is buy it, not grow it yourself.
Because television was not a staple in most of my friends houses or mine, our information about the world came from reading. We read the newspapers... two different ones in our house, local and one from a nearby large city. Books (and the Bible) and magazines were stacked on all the flat surfaces in our living room. If we read of a family’s home being burned to the ground, chances were we had already heard of it through the community grapevine that functioned without the aid of the computer or many telephones. Our world view was limited and in some respects ignorant, but it was comprehensible, connected and bearable. It is difficult, painful and sometimes overwhelming to know how to love your neighbor if you don’t know your neighbor, and there are millions of them in need.
Not everything about the good old days was good. Racism and segregation, poverty, illnesses and death that are preventable today, a too small world view, a restricted understanding of God, a simplistic understanding of the natural world in which we lived, separation from and judgement of those we saw as different from us be they Yankees or Jews or Catholics or from Atlanta... And yet, some of these same qualities are still present in this day and age. The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.
The human condition is in many ways the same now as it was during Jesus’ time on earth.
Perhaps that is why he responded with the Great Commandment to love God and love our neighbors as ourselves. Everything else changes but this never changes. If we love God, love our neighbors and ourselves, all of the world is in proper perspective. We will treat our neighbors as children of God, our cousins in the faith, blood kin, who need and deserve our loving care. Church becomes a family reunion every Sunday where worship reminds us of our ancestors while we hug and connect with our living family of faith, faith kin who speak with the same dialect you do. We leave that reunion to search for ways to lift up the family members who need us. We know we are not Supermen and Superwomen gods who can save the world singlehandedly, but we are the Children of God each doing our own little bit to help out the family.
I am grateful for all the gifts of my time, my country childhood, and the time in which I now live with computers and heart stents. It has been a joy and a wonder to live through the changes in the past sixty years. But thanks be to God for all that is unchanging in this rapidly changing world... for Love that knows no end, for love of neighbor and self, for life its ownself as gift and opportunity. I am blessed to have lived all the times of my life and I know it.