I put on my bright pink mucking boots, walked outdoors, turned my face up to the skies and let the rain rinse (or rinch, if you live in Texas) the red clay dust from body and soul. Yesterday I did all my farm chores in the rain without a raincoat or an umbrella, wallowing in the mud like a happy pig in a puddle. It has rained for thirty six hours so far, over two inches, and more yet to come. It came in waves so that the rain had time to soak in between showers. The grass is greening up and the birds are singing in the rain. The horses spent the day in the stable by choice and didn’t venture out until last night at dusk. Beautiful grey days and skies full of clouds of promise...
This feeling of being washed clean is intoxicating and clarifying. The world around me has sharper edges, no longer blurred by an accumulation of gravel dust. The grass blades stand up straight, not beaten down by drought. The smells of the rain world are as sweet as my butterfly bushes. The syrup kettle by my back porch is overflowing and the leaves of the water lily float to the edge. We are saved from utter despair and destruction by the rain falling from our heavens.
It is a baptism of sorts. Two days ago I was living on the edge with dust, drought and despair as my companions on daily farm chores. Today I am rebirthed, rebaptized and have another chance, an opportunity to grow again bathed in rejuvenating rain. Like the grass and flowers, I need regular rain for my spirit to grow. Droughts make my roots grow deep while my outer self shrivels. But the blessed rain lets me bloom inside and out, made new by showers of blessing.
Today I give thanks for water... rain that drenches the farm and turns the hay fields green again... rain that fills the streams and the cattle cisterns... rain that settles the dust in the road... rain that cools and bathes frogs and black snakes and box turtles... holy water that sprinkles my soul and causes me to leap for joy in my hot pink mud boots, singing “Glory, glory, hallelujah!”... “Rain in abundance, O God, you showered abroad; you restored your heritage when it languished; your flock found a dwelling in it; in your goodness, O God, you provided for those who are needy.” Psalm 68:9-10
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Share and share alike...
I watch my daughters teaching their boys to share. It is a hard won lesson often accompanied by bops from the “sharer” to the “sharee”. It is an act of discipline to let go of something of value and take the risk of letting someone else have it. It is one of the earliest and most important lessons we learn as members of the human family. Every religion has a statement commanding us to share. Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have. Hebrews 13:16 Most of us cannot be Mother Teresa or Albert Schweitzer but all of us can be common garden variety givers and doers of good.
We sat in our small group Sunday night worried about one of our own, a single parent, who is facing several intense issues... death of a family member, money woes, worry about a teenaged child. We love her and wanted to help, to do good. First we passed the gourd around and collected some money to help with travel expenses for the funeral and then we decided to put feet to our feelings. Her basement is a worry to her. It needs organizing and a broken closet pole fixed. She keeps trying to get the job done but it is a symbol of all in her life over which she has no control. So after the funeral, we are going to meet (and eat chilli) and get that basement done. She says she knows basement cleaning is a trivial thing but it looms large and weighs her soul down. Not so trivial after all.
In September Michael and I will be meeting my work camp crew in Cherokee again for another run at doing good. We will clean, do some construction jobs, nothing spectacular or particularly noteworthy in the history of the Cherokee people. But it will be a force for good for the Wolf family, our special friends on the reservation. They carry the memories of their clan and tribe, a rich part of our country’s past, and we are friends. Friends share time and love and energy with one another. This place and these people are dear to our hearts and we are dear to them. So we will work together, share meals, laugh and weep as we remember Elsie, Deweese’s wife, who died since last we met.
My friend Leisa told me a story about her beach trip. She was walking on the beach and passed a woman sitting at the edge of the water, her head down on her knees, surrounded by laughing children and adults. When she walked back by her, the woman was alone, in the same position, oblivious to the water creeping up on her feet. Leisa felt drawn to her and risked sharing with a stranger. She went to her, knelt down, put her arm on her shoulder and spoke simple words. “You look sad. You must be in a hard place right now. May I pray for you?” The woman’s tear streaked face was close to Leisa as she prayed a simple prayer. “Dear God, be with this child of yours who needs your tender care.” As Leisa walked away down the beach she heard the woman say, “Thank you for your kindness.”
Sharing... time, money, work, life, love, prayers, faith... is one way we can be good children of God. Taking the risk to let someone into your world, to be the “Sharee”, is scarier than being the “Sharer” but both places are holy ground in loving relationships, even temporary relationships with strangers. This holy ground is home to angels and we are surrounded by them. Help me, Dear One, whether I am the “sharer” or the “sharee”, to remember how you shared yourself with us. Let all my good deeds, large or small, spring from my love for You. Let me be one of your angels and help me see the other angels that surround me all the day long. Amen.
We sat in our small group Sunday night worried about one of our own, a single parent, who is facing several intense issues... death of a family member, money woes, worry about a teenaged child. We love her and wanted to help, to do good. First we passed the gourd around and collected some money to help with travel expenses for the funeral and then we decided to put feet to our feelings. Her basement is a worry to her. It needs organizing and a broken closet pole fixed. She keeps trying to get the job done but it is a symbol of all in her life over which she has no control. So after the funeral, we are going to meet (and eat chilli) and get that basement done. She says she knows basement cleaning is a trivial thing but it looms large and weighs her soul down. Not so trivial after all.
In September Michael and I will be meeting my work camp crew in Cherokee again for another run at doing good. We will clean, do some construction jobs, nothing spectacular or particularly noteworthy in the history of the Cherokee people. But it will be a force for good for the Wolf family, our special friends on the reservation. They carry the memories of their clan and tribe, a rich part of our country’s past, and we are friends. Friends share time and love and energy with one another. This place and these people are dear to our hearts and we are dear to them. So we will work together, share meals, laugh and weep as we remember Elsie, Deweese’s wife, who died since last we met.
My friend Leisa told me a story about her beach trip. She was walking on the beach and passed a woman sitting at the edge of the water, her head down on her knees, surrounded by laughing children and adults. When she walked back by her, the woman was alone, in the same position, oblivious to the water creeping up on her feet. Leisa felt drawn to her and risked sharing with a stranger. She went to her, knelt down, put her arm on her shoulder and spoke simple words. “You look sad. You must be in a hard place right now. May I pray for you?” The woman’s tear streaked face was close to Leisa as she prayed a simple prayer. “Dear God, be with this child of yours who needs your tender care.” As Leisa walked away down the beach she heard the woman say, “Thank you for your kindness.”
Sharing... time, money, work, life, love, prayers, faith... is one way we can be good children of God. Taking the risk to let someone into your world, to be the “Sharee”, is scarier than being the “Sharer” but both places are holy ground in loving relationships, even temporary relationships with strangers. This holy ground is home to angels and we are surrounded by them. Help me, Dear One, whether I am the “sharer” or the “sharee”, to remember how you shared yourself with us. Let all my good deeds, large or small, spring from my love for You. Let me be one of your angels and help me see the other angels that surround me all the day long. Amen.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Sounds of silence...
One of the luxuries in my life is silence. The children are grown and gone so I no longer have the constant interior conversation of active parenting racketing around inside my head. Michael leaves for work and I am alone with the blessed silence... no music, no television, no radio... just sweet, sweet silence. Birdsong... the albino Carolina wren singing to her babies on the front porch... interrupts my silence and I sit and listen. The soft hum of the ceiling fan in our study is a slow rhythmical accompaniment to my slow thoughts. I survey my surroundings. My house would not win a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval today. The leftovers from a Sabbath weekend flow around me in a river of disorder. I detach from the long list of “must do” and “can’t stand it any longer”as I settle into the silence.
And here I am, writing. Anne Morrow Lindbergh said, “I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.” Writing has become my four lane highway to my soul’s interior landscape. I travel this highway almost every day and sometimes the writing car flies along, full of high octane fuel. Other days it sputters and stalls, dying in the middle of the road. Both trips are of equal value to me. The days I write effortlessly with clarity and poetry are intoxicating. When I struggle to find words or images that start my soul’s engine, I am reminded that life is never easy all the time.
--------- So much for the silence! Mama came in to tell me rain was on the way and I needed to go feed the cows before it started. It will be our first rain in a month if it gets here. I took corn shucks from Jeannie and cantaloupe rinds along as an appetizer for the hay. Our hay stock is dwindling at an alarming rate and I must find some hay to buy this week. David was getting ready to turn on the pump in the stream to water the small fall garden so I stopped to talk. As we stood there, it began to sprinkle a little and then stopped. He decided to turn on the sprinkler just in case rain does not come. We have had so many false starts in the past month... small sprinkling rains that just settle the dust but do not really soak the earth.
---------Megan calls. Matthew and Mason started school today so her morning was going to be busy. Yesterday at her church Maria, the Minister to Children, incorporated a Blessing of the Backpacks into worship. Children brought their backpacks to big church and were called to the front for a special liturgy and blessing. They had already received a special book from Maria in the mail earlier that week. So all of the children in that church have heard and felt God’s blessing of their new school year because Maria is being the face and hands and voice of God just for them.
---------David calls. The yearlings are out. Even though I took the cows hay, the fields are dust bowls and there is nothing to graze after the hay is eaten. We talk and he takes some feed in a bucket to entice them back in to the pasture.
---------Alison calls. She, David and Aidan are sick with snuffly colds. We talk about Aidan’s promotion into the three year old class. Their church recognizes each child promoted in big church so all the children are in church for their special moment. Aidan’s school starts this week and they are all ready for the fall schedule to begin.
No rain... grey skies but no rain. Rain in Asheville but no rain here. Dear God who sees the sparrow fall and who knows me inside out, hear my plea for sweet showers of wet muddy blessing. We are covered in red dust and need to be washed clean by rain. Let us feel You filling up the rain barrels of our souls with love and thanksgiving. Thank you for the showers of blessing that have come my way this day and remember me as one of your own children. Peggy
And here I am, writing. Anne Morrow Lindbergh said, “I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.” Writing has become my four lane highway to my soul’s interior landscape. I travel this highway almost every day and sometimes the writing car flies along, full of high octane fuel. Other days it sputters and stalls, dying in the middle of the road. Both trips are of equal value to me. The days I write effortlessly with clarity and poetry are intoxicating. When I struggle to find words or images that start my soul’s engine, I am reminded that life is never easy all the time.
--------- So much for the silence! Mama came in to tell me rain was on the way and I needed to go feed the cows before it started. It will be our first rain in a month if it gets here. I took corn shucks from Jeannie and cantaloupe rinds along as an appetizer for the hay. Our hay stock is dwindling at an alarming rate and I must find some hay to buy this week. David was getting ready to turn on the pump in the stream to water the small fall garden so I stopped to talk. As we stood there, it began to sprinkle a little and then stopped. He decided to turn on the sprinkler just in case rain does not come. We have had so many false starts in the past month... small sprinkling rains that just settle the dust but do not really soak the earth.
---------Megan calls. Matthew and Mason started school today so her morning was going to be busy. Yesterday at her church Maria, the Minister to Children, incorporated a Blessing of the Backpacks into worship. Children brought their backpacks to big church and were called to the front for a special liturgy and blessing. They had already received a special book from Maria in the mail earlier that week. So all of the children in that church have heard and felt God’s blessing of their new school year because Maria is being the face and hands and voice of God just for them.
---------David calls. The yearlings are out. Even though I took the cows hay, the fields are dust bowls and there is nothing to graze after the hay is eaten. We talk and he takes some feed in a bucket to entice them back in to the pasture.
---------Alison calls. She, David and Aidan are sick with snuffly colds. We talk about Aidan’s promotion into the three year old class. Their church recognizes each child promoted in big church so all the children are in church for their special moment. Aidan’s school starts this week and they are all ready for the fall schedule to begin.
No rain... grey skies but no rain. Rain in Asheville but no rain here. Dear God who sees the sparrow fall and who knows me inside out, hear my plea for sweet showers of wet muddy blessing. We are covered in red dust and need to be washed clean by rain. Let us feel You filling up the rain barrels of our souls with love and thanksgiving. Thank you for the showers of blessing that have come my way this day and remember me as one of your own children. Peggy
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Theology walking...
Mama and I went to the Farmer’s Market yesterday looking for tomatoes to can. A trip to our Farmer’s Market is full of color, conversation, and canning advice. Our usual pattern is to drive by all the vendors with windows down, looking and asking prices. Sometimes we will get out and inspect the fruit or vegetables more closely. After we have made the loop, we go back and buy.
Yesterday we bought Roma tomatoes, dead ripe and in need of canning that day, from a Hispanic man who was sitting with his group of friends when we drove up. Next we bought another box of regular tomatoes, also very ripe, from another vendor. Very ripe tomatoes are always cheaper because the vendors need to sell them or lose them. Mama knows how to sniff the box, turn some of them over and detect if there are too many spoiled. Daddy used to say she had the nose of a hound dog when it came to tomatoes. After buying tomatoes, we visited the woman who we always buy something from... yesterday it was sweet potatoes and apples.
Then on to the melon section to see Jim. Jim sits on his walker seat, watching the parade of cars and people flow by. When he stands, you can see how tall he once was and still is, even crumpled with age. His hands are farmer hands, brown and strong still. He hears me call mama “meemaw” and laughs, saying he hadn’t heard that since he was a child in Tennessee. We tell stories about children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren connecting in the moment as children of God. He watches us picking out melons... a Crimson Sweet because Daddy thought they were the best and a Sangria... and we ask for his advice on how to pick the best one. He offers to teach us how to pick the best one. His brown gnarled hands float over the melons as he recites, “Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe...” We laugh and time is suspended for a moment as our hearts are joined in joy. A simple trip to the Farmer’s Market becomes communion with the saints as we share stories and laughter.
We get home and mama takes the tomatoes to her house to peel. It is a simple operation... dip the tomatoes in boiling water to loosen the skin, slip the skin off and toss in a pot. After she peels them I take them up to my house to can. My gas range works quicker with the pressure canner than her electric stove. I cook the tomatoes until they release their juices and are hot all the way through. Then I pour them into hot, sterilized jars, pop the canning lids and rings on, put them in the pressure cooker to process. At the end of the day, I have twenty beautiful red quarts of tomatoes ready for winter soups and chilli and spaghetti. (Yes, I do still make spaghetti sauce from scratch. It tastes better and is not hard to do.) One more canning and I will have enough to get us through winter and to share with children.
As I am working, three guys come in. Michael McCabe, David Bair and Michael had been unloading feed. Gary, Tim and Michael had gone to Burnsville that morning to a local farmer who grinds his own mix and brought back a trailer load. The men had shoveled that trailer load of feed into the old freezers we use for storage. They made ham and tomato sandwiches, pulling out Mommy Ann pickles for the sweet tart taste that goes so well on sandwiches of all kinds. Michael’s mother, Mommy Ann, made these pickles every year and gave them to us as Christmas presents. I could eat a jar of them all by myself. We continue the tradition and have a crock, her crock, in the basement, full of pickles made from her recipe. Laughter around the table, men telling stories of the morning and stories of time yet to come... communion comes again.
Joan Chittister says “Spirituality is ... theology walking.” All day long Saturday I was in the middle of walking theology and God was very near. In the work of gathering food for us and the animals, our spirits are nourished and fed by the communion and connection with those other Children of Light who stand and sit and walk and work next to us, invisible unless we take the time to see and hear their stories. Their story becomes our story and our hearts are warmed by the strangers among us. “When he was at the table with them, he took the bread and blessed, and broke it, and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened and they recognized him; and he vanished out of their sight. They said to one another, ‘Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with us on the road, while he opened to us the scriptures?’” Give me eyes to see and ears to hear, Lord, so that I might know you in all the different ways you come to visit. Let my heart burn so that I might feel your presence in all those saints who surround me in this world and the next. Amen.
Yesterday we bought Roma tomatoes, dead ripe and in need of canning that day, from a Hispanic man who was sitting with his group of friends when we drove up. Next we bought another box of regular tomatoes, also very ripe, from another vendor. Very ripe tomatoes are always cheaper because the vendors need to sell them or lose them. Mama knows how to sniff the box, turn some of them over and detect if there are too many spoiled. Daddy used to say she had the nose of a hound dog when it came to tomatoes. After buying tomatoes, we visited the woman who we always buy something from... yesterday it was sweet potatoes and apples.
Then on to the melon section to see Jim. Jim sits on his walker seat, watching the parade of cars and people flow by. When he stands, you can see how tall he once was and still is, even crumpled with age. His hands are farmer hands, brown and strong still. He hears me call mama “meemaw” and laughs, saying he hadn’t heard that since he was a child in Tennessee. We tell stories about children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren connecting in the moment as children of God. He watches us picking out melons... a Crimson Sweet because Daddy thought they were the best and a Sangria... and we ask for his advice on how to pick the best one. He offers to teach us how to pick the best one. His brown gnarled hands float over the melons as he recites, “Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe...” We laugh and time is suspended for a moment as our hearts are joined in joy. A simple trip to the Farmer’s Market becomes communion with the saints as we share stories and laughter.
We get home and mama takes the tomatoes to her house to peel. It is a simple operation... dip the tomatoes in boiling water to loosen the skin, slip the skin off and toss in a pot. After she peels them I take them up to my house to can. My gas range works quicker with the pressure canner than her electric stove. I cook the tomatoes until they release their juices and are hot all the way through. Then I pour them into hot, sterilized jars, pop the canning lids and rings on, put them in the pressure cooker to process. At the end of the day, I have twenty beautiful red quarts of tomatoes ready for winter soups and chilli and spaghetti. (Yes, I do still make spaghetti sauce from scratch. It tastes better and is not hard to do.) One more canning and I will have enough to get us through winter and to share with children.
As I am working, three guys come in. Michael McCabe, David Bair and Michael had been unloading feed. Gary, Tim and Michael had gone to Burnsville that morning to a local farmer who grinds his own mix and brought back a trailer load. The men had shoveled that trailer load of feed into the old freezers we use for storage. They made ham and tomato sandwiches, pulling out Mommy Ann pickles for the sweet tart taste that goes so well on sandwiches of all kinds. Michael’s mother, Mommy Ann, made these pickles every year and gave them to us as Christmas presents. I could eat a jar of them all by myself. We continue the tradition and have a crock, her crock, in the basement, full of pickles made from her recipe. Laughter around the table, men telling stories of the morning and stories of time yet to come... communion comes again.
Joan Chittister says “Spirituality is ... theology walking.” All day long Saturday I was in the middle of walking theology and God was very near. In the work of gathering food for us and the animals, our spirits are nourished and fed by the communion and connection with those other Children of Light who stand and sit and walk and work next to us, invisible unless we take the time to see and hear their stories. Their story becomes our story and our hearts are warmed by the strangers among us. “When he was at the table with them, he took the bread and blessed, and broke it, and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened and they recognized him; and he vanished out of their sight. They said to one another, ‘Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with us on the road, while he opened to us the scriptures?’” Give me eyes to see and ears to hear, Lord, so that I might know you in all the different ways you come to visit. Let my heart burn so that I might feel your presence in all those saints who surround me in this world and the next. Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
