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