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.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 13, 2008
an ordinary extraordinary Sabbathday...
It was an ordinary day and an extraordinary day yesterday, a Sabbath for the body and soul. We woke at our usual time and Michael walked the farm with the dogs, checking on the cows. The weather was jewel like... clear, crisp, cool warmed by autumn sun. While we ate breakfast, we watched CBS Sunday morning. Afterwards we went to the log chapel for our gathering. I had a pitcher full of late summer flowers and autumn leaves, bright yellows, reds, purples, oranges and burgundies... an explosion of color for the old poplar log communion table.
We stood outside with coffee mugs in hand, catching up on our lives, then ambled in to the chapel where we carefully chose our places to sit, some in the sun, some in the shade. The sounds of the wind and the skittering leaves on the tin roof reminded me of the unpredictable, unbelievable, ever changing dance of the Holy Spirit. Michael rang the bell and worship began. Gospel songs, a long sweet silence to listen for God and listen to our hearts, a time for us to speak our own praise and thanksgivings, a sermon on Exile and Homecoming written by a friend in 1978 that brought laughter and tears, the peace of Christ passed as we stood in a circle holding each other close, a closing blessing and we slowly began to go our separate ways. The images of riding an ox while looking for the ox, sharecropping an absentee landlord’s spiritual fields, and the vision of faith that values past, present and future equally will give me some pondering time this week
As we stood outside preparing to leave, mama drove up and got out to visit. She looked pretty in her suit and new blouse. She asked about Janet’s mom, got teased about how good she looked cleaned up, gave and got a hug or two, then drove up to her house to change. We began leaving, separating, sustained and challenged for the week to come. Michael and I drove up the road with sparkling souls that reveled in the multicolored beauty that surrounds us on the farm in autumn.
I had lunch prepared... baked chicken, mashed potatoes (not as good as mama makes but still good), limas, broccoli and fresh sliced tomatoes from Jeannie. Mama brought cake for dessert. We ate and enjoyed our food, grateful for our lives together in this present moment. We cleaned off the table and mama went down the hill to her home. Sunday afternoon naps after reading the Sunday paper are a ritual of long standing in our lives. When we woke up, we went to the stable and saddled up Dakota and Junie B for an afternoon ride.
Our riding tack is pieced together, gifts from friends and the odd purchase or two, so saddling two horses took some ingenuity. It was the first ride for Dakota who has been recovering from malnourishment and rain rot. He is a gentle old soul and a veteran trail horse so he was easy to saddle and easy to ride. Junie B behaves much better when she travels with another horse so she was in a good mood, too. We let Dixie Chick trail along behind unfettered so she wouldn’t get upset at being left behind.
As greenhorns, we have the occasional bump in the road rise up to meet us. Michael dismounted to close the gate and I asked him if he wanted to walk Dakota to the mounting bench. “Real cowboys don’t use a mounting bench”, he said and promptly sailed over Dakota’s back as he slid through the saddle on his way to the ground on the other side. I tried not to laugh because I have made my own share of pronouncements followed by abject humiliation. And humiliation for me waited just a few steps down the road as we began to go up a slight rise. I had forgotten to tighten the cinch and I slid gently to the ground, landing on my rear, as the saddle rotated to the right. Gary, our neighbor, says I wear my hard hat on the wrong end. Junie B stood quietly as I adjusted the cinch and finally, we were off. It was a perfectly lovely ride, walking our way around the farm, visiting each house, apple treats for the horses at each stop. A long cherished dream come true and the doing of it was every bit as good as the dream. That was a gift of joy for me in my season of grief and remembrance.
Dianne walked up as we finished up with the horses. We decided to go see the new bridges being built at the end of our road. Mama and David joined us. We parked at the barriers and walked all the way down to the Old Marshall highway checking out the changes to Lower Flat Creek Road. It looks like it might take a year to complete the whole job, especially with the work on the old bridge on the highway going on at the same time. There was a pile of oak wood from trees cut down for the widening of the road. The guys will come back to get that for winter warmth in stoves and fireplaces. We checked to see if Tina and Vince were home at the end of the road. Then on our way back to the truck, we picked up some rocks to help fill in mama’s sinkhole in her backyard. As we drove up to our road, our neighbor Pat, her son Nicholas and his children were walking down to check out the bridges, too...more farm time conversation and checking in with someone dear to us. David and Michael put the rocks in the hole then drove down the hill. I stayed to visit with mama while Michael washed the Kawasaki mule. Chilli for supper, a full moon rise, a chore or two, conversation about the week to come and we slept in the glow of the silvery moon.
It was a day the Lord made and I am still rejoicing in it. Nothing extraordinary and everything extraordinary... Thanks be to God for Sabbath, for eyes to see and ears to hear, for voices to lift in praise and thanksgiving, for friends present and absent, for Sabbath Rest Farm and all who dwell on it, four legged and two legged alike. We are blessed and we know it. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” Amen and amen and amen.
We stood outside with coffee mugs in hand, catching up on our lives, then ambled in to the chapel where we carefully chose our places to sit, some in the sun, some in the shade. The sounds of the wind and the skittering leaves on the tin roof reminded me of the unpredictable, unbelievable, ever changing dance of the Holy Spirit. Michael rang the bell and worship began. Gospel songs, a long sweet silence to listen for God and listen to our hearts, a time for us to speak our own praise and thanksgivings, a sermon on Exile and Homecoming written by a friend in 1978 that brought laughter and tears, the peace of Christ passed as we stood in a circle holding each other close, a closing blessing and we slowly began to go our separate ways. The images of riding an ox while looking for the ox, sharecropping an absentee landlord’s spiritual fields, and the vision of faith that values past, present and future equally will give me some pondering time this week
As we stood outside preparing to leave, mama drove up and got out to visit. She looked pretty in her suit and new blouse. She asked about Janet’s mom, got teased about how good she looked cleaned up, gave and got a hug or two, then drove up to her house to change. We began leaving, separating, sustained and challenged for the week to come. Michael and I drove up the road with sparkling souls that reveled in the multicolored beauty that surrounds us on the farm in autumn.
I had lunch prepared... baked chicken, mashed potatoes (not as good as mama makes but still good), limas, broccoli and fresh sliced tomatoes from Jeannie. Mama brought cake for dessert. We ate and enjoyed our food, grateful for our lives together in this present moment. We cleaned off the table and mama went down the hill to her home. Sunday afternoon naps after reading the Sunday paper are a ritual of long standing in our lives. When we woke up, we went to the stable and saddled up Dakota and Junie B for an afternoon ride.
Our riding tack is pieced together, gifts from friends and the odd purchase or two, so saddling two horses took some ingenuity. It was the first ride for Dakota who has been recovering from malnourishment and rain rot. He is a gentle old soul and a veteran trail horse so he was easy to saddle and easy to ride. Junie B behaves much better when she travels with another horse so she was in a good mood, too. We let Dixie Chick trail along behind unfettered so she wouldn’t get upset at being left behind.
As greenhorns, we have the occasional bump in the road rise up to meet us. Michael dismounted to close the gate and I asked him if he wanted to walk Dakota to the mounting bench. “Real cowboys don’t use a mounting bench”, he said and promptly sailed over Dakota’s back as he slid through the saddle on his way to the ground on the other side. I tried not to laugh because I have made my own share of pronouncements followed by abject humiliation. And humiliation for me waited just a few steps down the road as we began to go up a slight rise. I had forgotten to tighten the cinch and I slid gently to the ground, landing on my rear, as the saddle rotated to the right. Gary, our neighbor, says I wear my hard hat on the wrong end. Junie B stood quietly as I adjusted the cinch and finally, we were off. It was a perfectly lovely ride, walking our way around the farm, visiting each house, apple treats for the horses at each stop. A long cherished dream come true and the doing of it was every bit as good as the dream. That was a gift of joy for me in my season of grief and remembrance.
Dianne walked up as we finished up with the horses. We decided to go see the new bridges being built at the end of our road. Mama and David joined us. We parked at the barriers and walked all the way down to the Old Marshall highway checking out the changes to Lower Flat Creek Road. It looks like it might take a year to complete the whole job, especially with the work on the old bridge on the highway going on at the same time. There was a pile of oak wood from trees cut down for the widening of the road. The guys will come back to get that for winter warmth in stoves and fireplaces. We checked to see if Tina and Vince were home at the end of the road. Then on our way back to the truck, we picked up some rocks to help fill in mama’s sinkhole in her backyard. As we drove up to our road, our neighbor Pat, her son Nicholas and his children were walking down to check out the bridges, too...more farm time conversation and checking in with someone dear to us. David and Michael put the rocks in the hole then drove down the hill. I stayed to visit with mama while Michael washed the Kawasaki mule. Chilli for supper, a full moon rise, a chore or two, conversation about the week to come and we slept in the glow of the silvery moon.
It was a day the Lord made and I am still rejoicing in it. Nothing extraordinary and everything extraordinary... Thanks be to God for Sabbath, for eyes to see and ears to hear, for voices to lift in praise and thanksgiving, for friends present and absent, for Sabbath Rest Farm and all who dwell on it, four legged and two legged alike. We are blessed and we know it. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” Amen and amen and amen.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
a time to die... and live
She sashayed down our driveway Easter Sunday morning many years ago, wearing her black headband and black eyeliner, on walkabout from the foster home up the mountain. Tail wagging, head cocked to one side, she was a flirt and we fell in love with her. Her owner had recently moved leaving her with a neighbor but she had decided on a different option. Our old basset and our retriever welcomed her without too much fuss so she became our second basset hound. We named her Phoebe for no good reason. It just sounded right for her personality. Soon the sounds of “Phoebe, dammit” echoed around the house. She was a beautiful tricolor basset with glamorous eyes and a roving disposition, a traveling hound with places to go and people to see. I began to make pickup trips, gathering Phoebe up and bringing her back home while I fussed at her for being such an adventurer.
Phoebe is old now, deaf and nearly blind, spending most of her days lying in the sun in the front yard sleeping and dreaming. Her black eyeliner is faded and her headband is silver. But in the cool morning air, her tail wags and she marches to the head of the line for the morning walk around the farm. When we leave home, she goes down the hill to mama’s house to wait for our return, lying out on the crest of the hill where she can see all the cars pass by. If it thunders, she will run over you to get to the safety of the basement. The afternoon walks Leisa takes with her dogs gives Phoebe a chance to revive her flirting skills... she sashays sideways, sidling up to Joe or Sam, coyly flirting with her eyes, feeling like a young girl again. And when I sit on the step, she comes to me, lays her paw or her head in my lap, waits, insists on being loved. Her life is drawing to a close but it still has meaning and joy.
I have lived my life as if it had no end like most of us do, I guess. Like Phoebe, each day comes and sometimes I travel through it without much reflection or recognition of my endtime. Living in the present is a spiritual practice that helps us be like the lilies of the field who neither toil nor spin, secure in the knowledge that life is a gift we neither deserve or earn. Lilies and old basset hounds know that the only time we have is the present, the here and now. They bask in the warm sun, turning their faces towards their Creator, and enjoy the gift of warmth. But all living creations come to the end of their time and it is the knowledge of this paradox that separates us from most of the rest of creation.
Living as if your time was always now and living as if you could die in the next minute is a balancing act for the soul. This is a truth I learned in my early twenties when death became more than an intellectual possibility. Death and grief were my constant companions for years. Living with the deaths of those whom I loved taught me to pay attention, to not waste, to value the presence of life. And now in my sixties, I am keenly aware of the flight of time. What my mother told me is true... time does seem to fly as you age.
The Old Testament writer speaks one time truth. “Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the men of skill; but time and chance happen to them all. For man does not know his time. Ecc. 9:11-12a” I want to know my time, the time left for me to live, my time living fully in the present with the sure and certain knowledge that my time will end. God of all time, help me to live with gratitude and grace in this time of my life. And if I lie out in the sun dozing and dreaming of days gone by, my heart is winging its way home to You full of laughter and praise. Amen.
Phoebe is old now, deaf and nearly blind, spending most of her days lying in the sun in the front yard sleeping and dreaming. Her black eyeliner is faded and her headband is silver. But in the cool morning air, her tail wags and she marches to the head of the line for the morning walk around the farm. When we leave home, she goes down the hill to mama’s house to wait for our return, lying out on the crest of the hill where she can see all the cars pass by. If it thunders, she will run over you to get to the safety of the basement. The afternoon walks Leisa takes with her dogs gives Phoebe a chance to revive her flirting skills... she sashays sideways, sidling up to Joe or Sam, coyly flirting with her eyes, feeling like a young girl again. And when I sit on the step, she comes to me, lays her paw or her head in my lap, waits, insists on being loved. Her life is drawing to a close but it still has meaning and joy.
I have lived my life as if it had no end like most of us do, I guess. Like Phoebe, each day comes and sometimes I travel through it without much reflection or recognition of my endtime. Living in the present is a spiritual practice that helps us be like the lilies of the field who neither toil nor spin, secure in the knowledge that life is a gift we neither deserve or earn. Lilies and old basset hounds know that the only time we have is the present, the here and now. They bask in the warm sun, turning their faces towards their Creator, and enjoy the gift of warmth. But all living creations come to the end of their time and it is the knowledge of this paradox that separates us from most of the rest of creation.
Living as if your time was always now and living as if you could die in the next minute is a balancing act for the soul. This is a truth I learned in my early twenties when death became more than an intellectual possibility. Death and grief were my constant companions for years. Living with the deaths of those whom I loved taught me to pay attention, to not waste, to value the presence of life. And now in my sixties, I am keenly aware of the flight of time. What my mother told me is true... time does seem to fly as you age.
The Old Testament writer speaks one time truth. “Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the men of skill; but time and chance happen to them all. For man does not know his time. Ecc. 9:11-12a” I want to know my time, the time left for me to live, my time living fully in the present with the sure and certain knowledge that my time will end. God of all time, help me to live with gratitude and grace in this time of my life. And if I lie out in the sun dozing and dreaming of days gone by, my heart is winging its way home to You full of laughter and praise. Amen.
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