Stand...Walk On...Trot...Dance

Junie B and me... We are taking lessons learning, how to ride. Our teacher, Brookes, is a neighbor. She meets us in front of the high barn and the work commences. Like ballroom dancing, it is a partner process with choreography, balance, cues, and rhythm. At the end of the lesson, all three of us are lathered up.
In the beginning Junie B was barn sour, a term Brookes uses to describe a horse who has forgotten the rules of riding. She didn’t want to work and would buck a little when ridden. Saddling and bridling her was a chore for greenhorn me. Brookes is teaching us the freedom that comes with the discipline of work to do. A little honey on the bridle helps Junie B take the bit. Mary Poppins was right... a spoonful of sugar does help the medicine go down.
I am learning to lunge Junie B. A horse moves at the end of a long lead tapped lightly with a whip to verbal commands... stand, walk on, trot... until the verbal command is memorized. It reminds me of the poems and Bible passages I memorized as a child. We memorized to remember but also to put those words in our hearts. Junie B is learning some heart words now as am I.
Brookes tells me I am brave and I ask her why she says that. “Because you aren’t afraid to mount a horse who bucks. You are trying to learn how to ride on a horse who is learning, too.”Brave? Maybe. But I love Junie B, feel connected in some inexplicable manner to this beautiful black horse, and want to dance with her however hard it is to learn the steps.
Our first steps are the commands Stand, Walk On and Trot. I must hold the reins feeling the connection to Junie B’s mouth. I sit tall with my core strong and my butt tucked under, grip her sides with my thighs and keep my toes slightly up and in, lean back ever so slightly and keep my eyes on Junie B’s neck. I’m worn out and we haven’t even moved yet.
The command “Stand” will keep a horse still so she can be mounted, or you can move to pick something up without worrying about her taking off. “Walk On” and “Trot” help her know how fast to go. With each of these commands, I have to learn some body language myself. For “Stand”, I face her and make myself big. I am like a gorilla expanding and beating on my chest to claim being in charge. When I want her to “Walk On” or “Trot”, I urge her with my seat, voice, and leg pressure. If she doesn’t respond, I may lightly kick. If she is naughty, I may kick hard to get her moving. My hands on the reins, my balance and pressure in the saddle, my voice, my extrasensory perception are the means of communication with Junie B as we ride.
Sometimes Brookes will bring her great big horse Ranier over and we will trail ride. Junie B, like most of us, behaves much differently with company. I can catch a glimpse of the pleasure that waits for both of us after we have learned the steps to this dance.
Yesterday the horses met me at the gate to walk me down to the stable for breakfast. Dakota, the gelding, is playing the game “Who’s the Boss” and I am having to watch my back with him. When he gets too close, I face him and yell. Horses treat each other roughly until the pecking order is established so I am trying to channel stallion thoughts. That can be hard for a sixty one year old menopausal maiden. Dakota began to move in on me, crowding me a little. I stopped, prepared to back him down but here came Junie B. Ears laid back, neck stretched out low, she moved between the two of us and nipped him. He moved away and Junie B walked with me down the hill, Dakota following at a respectful distance. I am her person and she is my horse. We have each others best interests at heart... love can create a beautiful dance.
In Matthew 11, Jesus is fussing at a crowd of people. His cousin John the Baptist is in jail and has sent his disciples to question Jesus about his ministry. Jesus sent those disciples back with eyewitness accounts of all the healings that were taking place to ease John’s uncertainties. As Jesus turns to the crowd, he mocks them a little and tells them they are like children . I’ve heard that tone of voice before when my father compared me to his generation, the generation that walked five miles uphill in snow to school twice a day. I’ve heard that tone in my voice speaking to my children about the days when children knew how to behave.
Jesus says this childish generation complains “We played the flute for you and you did not dance; we wailed and you did not mourn.” Junie B and me... all of you who love the Lord... all of us sitting in the marketplace... are listening for the sound of the flute. We are on our way to being ballroom dancing stars, partners bound together by the reins of love. I will keep my ears perked up and forward today, listening for the sounds of your flutes and the pipes played by God.

Them that drives the bus...

Mr. Woods was my bus driver all through elementary school. Living out in the country, transportation by bus was required. Parents did not drive children to school. Most families only had one car anyway. The sight of the big yellow bus coming round the curve on a frosty winter morning was a welcome sight. As he opened the folding door, Mr. Woods always smiled and had a kind word. The little bus family was as familiar to me as my own birth family.
The bus took the same route five days a week, driving over a dirt road until it turned onto the highway that headed towards town. My sister and I were the last ones on in the mornings and the last ones off in the afternoon. It was a forty five minute commute, plenty of time to laugh and chatter for country children whose main social connections were school and church. The bus carried first graders through twelfth graders. Our school was full service, start to finish, so our busses carried a wide range of ages and stages.
Charlotte always saved me a seat. The boys sat in the back so they could be a little rowdy without upsetting Mr. Woods. In the spring and summer, the windows were let down and the smells of the Bland’s dairy, the wild rose blooming, the sharp acrid asphalt, the wet rain soaked earth flowed over us in gentle blessing.
I love Russell Siler-Jones and his way with words. In a conversation about life he said, “Them that drives the bus has got to pay for the gas.”That stuck with me this week and I have been chewing on it every day. As memories of my past history as a bus rider remind me, a bus is a community experience not a solo ride. “Them that drives the bus...” I have been riding a church bus now for twelve years. During that time I have had my seat saved for worship and communion, laughed and chattered with friends who were family, taught little children Bible stories, cooked countless pot luck dishes, sung, sewed and sighed my way through life surrounded by my church bus family. And now the bus is stopping to let me get off. The route the church bus is taking no longer runs by my house. As I leave the church bus, I am tired and weary, sad and anxious, worried a little about being stranded far from home. I am also relieved and ready to rest. I will be paying for a different kind of gas for my bus for a little while.
For the past month I have been reading and re-reading “Leaving Church, a Memoir of Faith” by Barbara Brown Taylor. Her words have comforted me as I have walked into the wilderness. She tells the story of being asked “What is saving your life now?”and incorporating that question into her spiritual discipline. Now that I am leaving my church home, I am claiming that question for myself and will begin to name my salvations.
All of you who receive my writing and respond are a part of my salvation. Your thoughtful responses, your words of wisdom, your affirmation of my words, your challenging of my thinking push me to deeper levels of knowing and I am grateful Some days I sit at the computer overwhelmed by the Presence that connects us one to another. I give thanks for our brother Jesus who showed us how to love. That was and is and always will be a part of my salvation. A phrase from the book of Jude... Our common salvation... reminds me that though we may ride different busses, we are all headed home to God. It is well with my soul.

Don't Fence Me In... at least, not permanently

Last week Michael and I bought fifty step in plastic fence posts and six hundred feet of electric rope. With the grass eaten down to the ground in their pasture, there was nothing for the horses and donkeys to graze. So now we can move the portable fence to use other grass that is outside the board fence.
I watched Junie B, Dakota, Dixie Chick, Shirley T and Blacknosed Kate get acquainted with the fence. They only bump into it once and then they remember. Michael, who climbed over my dad’s electric fence wearing shorts, had one brush with the power of electricity and created a lasting memory. The donkeys kept getting out and we couldn’t figure out how. Then we saw them walk up to the electrified rope, kneel and limbo walk under it to avoid the shock. Hillarious!
Moving the fence is easy compared to building a new fence but it is no picnic in the summer heat. Posts resist going into the hard baked earth. Ground bees are everywhere and happy to sting the unwary. Finding the proper length for the rope that will keep the donkeys in as well as the horses is not easy. Rolling up six hundred feet of rope and moving fifty plastic posts requires some sweat and organized thinking. I don’t mind the sweat but organized thinking is not my long suit.
We can’t afford to be picky about the place we choose for grazing. Horses have an amazing ability to find sweet grass among weeds and briars. We turned them out on a patch of pasture we have used for hay. It is overgrown with multiflora rose and weeds of every description because of the drought I watch them root down to the grass that grows under the inedible canopy and marvel at their patient thoroughness as they graze unfazed by the briars and weeds.
When I go down to open the gate to let them out to the fresh grazing ground, I only have to call once. They come up over the hill running with manes and tails streaming in the wind. They slow down to give me a nuzzle as they pass through the gate and then run again, kicking up their heels at the freedom of new places to explore. At dusk, I call and they come running once again, home for feed and hay. I have been learning some important lessons working with this fence.
Like the horses, I need some fresh grazing ground. If I remain in the same place forever, all I will have to show for my trouble will be a mouthful of dirt. So the challenge is to find fresh grass that feeds my soul. Art of any kind feeds my soul. I can spend time with my calligraphy or make paper, teach an art class or go to a museum and I feel the whisper of angel wings. Creation of beauty, appreciation of beauty created by others, the sights and sounds of music, drama and visual art never fail to stir my soul.
Another source of fresh grass is worship. Familiar rituals and language provide comfort and reassurance when life is overgrown with painful briars and inedible weeds. Language and hymns have been a part of my life since my earliest memory, memorized holy words that float on the surface of my heart and mind. The Lord’s Prayer and the Church Covenant, the Twenty Third Psalm and John 3:16, Shall We Gather at the River and Amazing Grace, the Doxology and the Hallelujah Chorus... Calls to worship, public prayers, offerings, sermons, altar calls, confession and forgiveness of sins, all are part of age old worship rituals in the south where I grew up.
Worship with others who approach the Almighty in different ways expands my fenced in pasture. Worship with the Greek Orthodox community, the Catholic mass, the Pentecostal in your face experience of the Spirit, the African American free flowing extemporaneous worship, the dignified Episcopal ritual, Jewish worship with its distinctive Torah centered liturgy, the Presbyterian and Methodist and Church of God and the Signs Hereafter... all have stretched my narrow grazing fields as I run through the fields towards God.
Moving to new ground is never easy. Placing new boundary lines is hard work. Creating a safe place for soul food requires some sweat equity and organizational skills. Keeping a balance between the past, present and future calls me to pay attention to all that can feed my soul within those time constraints. Running home to the barn balanced by lush new fields yet unexplored. Both are necessary and one without the other can starve a soul. And when I can, doing the limbo walk to escape the confining expectations of others to run around a little, kicking up my heels in joyful gratitude for all that is yet to be. Thank God for moveable fences, for barn homes that shelter and for freedom to choose my own path. Briars today, bluegrass tomorrow.

Shall we gather at the river...

The water in the cisterns for the cows has begun to dry up. Yesterday Michael had to pump water from the creek to fill them up so the cows could have water to drink. Tonight we will open the gate to let the cows drink from the stream. For the past eight years we have kept the cows out of the stream to prevent pollution but our backs are to the wall. When your ox is in the ditch, you have to work on the Sabbath. And when your livestock is thirsty, you have to find water.
Our well is struggling. The water pressure is very low, too low to run the dishwasher. I fill the washing machine with clothes regardless of colors. We are restricting flushing the toilets and capturing as much grey water as possible for outdoor watering. I lie awake at night and worry about what we would do if our well fails completely.
The flowers in my yard are dying. The grass is dead and the trees we planted are showing signs of stress. My grandson Matthew wanted to see a black snake while he was at the farm but there are no snakes, turtles or frogs to be found. A dry wind blows and the cloudless sky mocks our fruitless searching for rain. The French Broad River, which runs close to our farm, is at its lowest point in over one hundred years.
And in an ironic twist, the city of Asheville has more water than they need because industrial demands have decreased as plants have shut down. We no longer have much of an industrial base (no jobs either for regular folks) and are a tourist/retirement center. Water surrounds us and yet we are dying of thirst. Beautiful, crisp, cool sunny days... awful, arid, dog days of summer...
My soul shrivels even as the grass withers in the drought. I find my mouth full of dust and my feet perpetually dirty from the pulverized ground. At night my face is covered with a thin film of dirt and I cry out, “How long, Oh Lord, must I wait for the refreshing rains to fall from the heavens? How long must I wait for the soft soothing rains of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control to water my soul again? I am as dry as the ground I live on and I pray to be led to the still waters that will restore my soul.”
At Clare’s baptism last night we stood on the banks of a creek where people have been baptized for one hundred years. As the clear cold rushing water flowed around Michael and Clare, I gave thanks for this ritual, this immersion in water. It is a grace filled connection to the Living Water that quenches our thirst. As Michael read the story of Jesus’ baptism, I gave thanks for all the wet places in my spiritual life, places where the rivers run full and fast. I watched Michael lower Clare under the water and bring her up, both of them wet and dripping, running over with the Water of Life. And I am grateful. My soul is restored and the still waters bubble up with the movement of the Holy Spirit. I can lay my burdens down and let them rest on the banks of a river that never runs dry.