All Out of Faith...Filled up on faith

I have a new book...All Out of Faith... a collection of writings by Southern women chronicling how they have been shaped by religion. On the cover of the book is a folk art image of a church that I know in my soul. Named Pleasant Hill, a welcome mat at the door, children and dogs running around outside where the ladies are setting up dinner on the grounds, a cemetery on the other side, with peace doves scrabbling in the dirt by the welcome mat...it is a picture of all my first churches combined. Some of my favorite writers are included. Barbara Kingsolver and Vicki Covington are among them. And I have discovered some new voices that sing a song I know all the verses to.
A discovery like this reminds me why I love books and writing and reading. I had no idea that the long Saturday mornings I used to spend at the little Carnegie library in my hometown of Valdosta, Georgia was the beginning of a life long passion for words and ideas and books. I read and weep and laugh and recognize kindred souls, cousins twice removed, perhaps, whom I will never meet. Their words inspire or entertain or tick me off but always I respect the books that contain those words.
In my growing up home, books were everywhere. Stacked on headboards, lined up in the tiny hall bookcase, sitting on top of the piano in the living room... Anytime you wanted to read, there was a choice available. Like most rural Southerners of their time, my mama and daddy believed in education as a way to better yourself, your station in life.
Now there’s a phrase for you... your station in life. In my mind’s eye I see an image of small towns split in two by railroad tracks with a depot for arriving and departing. Folks come and go on the train to visit and return or to leave forever but the train keeps on running, to’ing and fro’ing. Books and the ideas in them have been my train to other places and to a new station in life.
Mama and daddy were right. Books are powerful life changing possibilities in between covers. For daddy they were his salvation growing up with an abusive father. Reading helped him slip away from the painful realities of his childhood. While he read, he was not there but far, far away. In mama’s home, reading was recreation with potboiler turn of the century novels in the upstairs lawyers bookcase. Mama still reads for fun as does her sister, my Aunt Peg for whom I am named. They swap books, mailing their latest reads to one another, sharing still in the wonder of the printed words.
I still have all my Bibles, the first book for most Southerners of my generation. They are a little tattered and worn, smoothed by regular reading, page turning and note taking. Bible note taking, usually done during sermons delivered by preachers, Bible study or Sunday School, was an art form for some folks. Colored pens, tiny writing, underlining and little symbols were used to help you remember what someone else thought those passages meant. Being Baptist, we never took anyone else’s word for what those words meant because we believed in the priesthood of the believer. My take on it was just as good as yours even if you did read Greek and had studied at one of those seminaries that turned out educated preachers. Baptists in my day were hard core little d democrats. They really believed the ground at the foot of the cross was level and nobody was going to tell them what to believe or how to do faith.
That attitude still lives in me now. Having been other than Baptist as an adult, I can appreciate what I learned in my little country churches now. I am responsible for my own salvation and for the soul train trips I take. Having lost most of my early understanding of faith in a single, cataclysmic event, my faith journey took an unexpected and unwanted detour that left me with not much in the way of words that describe what I believe. The one abiding truth that I retained from my Bible book reading is the unshakeable conviction that God is, God is Love and God loves me. Can’t explain it. Don’t have to. Just like God said, “I AM.” And I still read that first book of mine looking for all the clues to God’s goodness, searching for affirmation and meaning, exclaiming in wonder and awe and horror at all the stories in the narrative. It never fails to take me on another train trip, filling up my out of faith soul with faith once again.
So, here goes. I am off to a different stop on the train tracks of life. I think I will read again the story of the Wise Men and see if there is any light for my nearsighted faith eyes. Like them, I travel to find new Light under starlight from my past. Both hope and memory are my traveling companions as I live looking for the Love and Light that first made itself known to me long years ago in country churches filled with the People of God. Thank God for books that serve as road maps.

Coming home...

Coming home after being away always is a mixed blessing. I am happy to sleep in my own bed, surrounded by all that makes this place home for me. But, the next morning I begin to play catch-up and my tongue hangs out. Somehow, animals always make you pay for your absence. The cats throw up and pee in the worst possible places. The dogs look at you with big brown eyes that say “I thought you were gone forever.” The cows stand and complain loudly that they were not given enough sweet feed. The barn cats rush you as you open cans of cat food. The donkeys butt you with their heads as you try to feed them. The horses, however, win the prize for payback this time.
Charles was finishing up some grading at the stable. I let the horses out to graze so he wouldn’t have to get out to open and close the gate while fending off anxious equines every time he drove through. They had been penned up for the five days we were gone so I knew they needed to stretch their legs, run with the wind and nosh on some winter grass. The donkeys were so excited to be set free that they ran and kicked up their heels, a funny sight.
Chip, our neighbor, called at 9:30 to tell me they were all in his front yard grazing. Someone had opened the gate I had closed and the equine crew love his front yard grass. He didn’t mind them grazing but there was an open road from his house down to the river that I imagined they would love to run. So I went in the mule wearing my bedroom slippers (I am never adequately prepared for these encounters of the frustrating kind) to haul the asses and horses back over into our farm pastures.
Junie B co-operated and let me fasten the lead to her halter. We walked without incident back through the open gate followed by Dixie, Shirley and Kate. A few feet past the gate, Junie B popped her head back and the metal clip broke. She was set free. In about ten seconds, she realized she was loose, wheeled around and ran for her life through the still open gate towards the old road bed that runs through all the farms here. The last I saw of her, she was running wide open with Dixie hot on her heels. The donkeys ran back to Chip’s front yard thumbing their noses at me. I drove home, changed clothes and shoes, prepared for a search and recover mission, cussing myself for being so kind to animals.
When I got back to the old road, there they were, sheepishly walking towards home, Dixie in the lead, trying to find a place to cross over the old rusty fence. I brought them home with the donkeys trotting at our heels. I closed the gate and set them free again. They ran towards the back pasture tails and manes flowing in the wind.
Around four thirty, I noticed the donkeys were back at the stable munching hay but there was no sign of the horses. Once again I climbed into the mule and headed out. First I fed the barn cats (again) then carried more hay to the cows. As I rounded the curve, there they stood, in between two fences, trapped on a narrow piece of ground with a steep drop off, heads hanging over the fence looking pitiful but unrepentant.
After feeding the cows, I climbed through the barbed wire fence and went to them. Dixie spooked and tried to push past Junie B, pushing her off the soft ground ledge down into grapevines and briars in the creek. Back I went through the fence (did I mention it was barbed wire?) to the mule. The clippers were not in the back so I grabbed the hatchet. Through the fence again, down in the creek, chopping grapevines and thorny rose stems, trying to free Junie B. She stood patiently, quietly as I worked, both of us bleeding from encounters with big thorns. When I freed her, she climbed the other bank to join Dixie where they once again were trapped.
Little Michael came to the burn pile to dump some wood. I called and asked for help. He came with his handy dandy all purpose knife that has forty other tools in it, and clipped the barbed wire to let the horses out. After I led the horses home, I returned and we patched the fence so the calves wouldn’t get down in the creek to play. All in a day’s homecoming...
I can’t help but wonder if God has this much trouble with me when I am running away from home. Knowing myself, remembering my run aways from the loving One, the One who always comes to find me, I send an apology prayer straight from my heart to God. Please don’t hold my folly against me when I run heedless towards other paths and recklessly away from You. It is but a momentary loss of good sense and a drunkeness on the illusion of freedom outside the fences of home. When I do not come to myself, turn around and start the journey back to your Loving Presence, will you come looking for me, please?

Marise's Down Home Cooking... Recipes for Remembering

It was a difficult trip, driving down the interstate to Morven in South Georgia. Mama was going home for awhile to tend to some business... tax appraisals, dentists, doctors... and to touch her place in this world one more time. All the way home mama and I talked about the remembers... Remember when your daddy and I bought the farm and built the house? You and Gayle helped your daddy plant the pasture with sprigs of grass. It had to be replanted twice because the hot Georgia summer sun dried that grass up. Remember Uncle Harold helping your daddy build fences (some still standing after many years) all over the farm? Remember your sister... remember your daddy... remember all that came before you were born and all that came after... remember.
And, the visit to Uncle Harold, now ninety one, stooped and frail with an irrepressible Puck attitude towards life. We sat in the small living room of my grandmother’s house, my Aunt Burma Lou curled up in an Alzheimer fog on the sofa while mama and Uncle Harold remembered. As we stood to leave for the three hour drive back to Morven, my uncle teared up as he hugged mama goodby. “This may be the last time for us to see each other, Shirley.” It may indeed be so.
We drove home with mama pointing out the homes and farms of great-grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins, some known and others unknown. Uncle Rob and Aunt Alice, Poppa’s, cousin Jaymon, poor Mrs. Parker... memories of lifetimes that were a part of her life with my father. Each homestead had a story or a description of those who had lived there in long ago days. Remember...
As the only surviving sibling of our immediate family, I find myself trying to hold in my heart all the remembers my mama has. When she is gone, the remembers will need me to tell their stories. Remember Aunt Elly? When she was too poor to afford meat, she would put her dishcloth on a board and pound it with a coke bottle so the neighbors would think she was tenderizing steak. I remember, mama. Remember Burma Lou’s seven layer chocolate cake with cooked icing? I remember. Remember when you were three and your cousins were shooting at you with the B.B. gun and nearly put your eyes out? Remember Sukie Lou, your first calf that you raised on a bucket? Remember Miss Ora, your step-great-grandmother, who made all the quilts I have? She needed the money and mama needed the covers. I’ll remember.
Then it was time to drive away, back to North Carolina, leaving mama behind for a month or so. As we walked out to the car, mama said “This is my last trip home. I no longer feel safe here alone.” We both wept as we turned away from each other, neither of us wanting to bear the other’s grief in our parting. The last trip home... the end of her life in Georgia... remember, now, where you come from. I will, mama.
On the drive home, we stopped in Vienna (Vi(long i)enna) for lunch at Marise’s Down Home Cooking. It is well off the interstate and you have to know where you are going to find it. On the outskirts of town, a modest rectangular concrete block building had a parking lot that was filling up at Sunday noon. The Methodists and Presbyterians had just gotten out of church and were forming a line. We beat the Baptists so the line was still short. The AME and Bethel Pentecostal Church of God would follow the Baptists.
Little Will was playing with Mr. Lee in front of us. We could tell they were friends from church. Will, like all the other boys there, was dressed in khakis, an oxford cloth shirt neatly pressed and a tie. A little girl, like all the other little girls, was dressed in her Sunday best with lace on her socks and a bow in her hair. All the grown-ups were greeting each other with small town familiarity, comfortable in their knowledge of one another, dressed for worship in their Sunday best, too.
Marise, along with her family members was serving dinner. Ham, fried or baked chicken, greens, pole beans, macaroni and cheese, dressing, mashed potatoes, potato salad, cranberry sauce, pickles, tomatoes, onions, cornbread or biscuit cooked like mama and grandma used to cook... meat and three sides with a drink for $6.95, dessert extra. Black and white folks mingled in the line waiting to be served, talking and calling each other by name. Comfort food... the food that feeds the community... the soul food that comes with remembering. These folks sitting in the dining room at Marise’s, members of that small town community, bowing their heads to say grace, laughing and joshing with one another taught me a lesson at Sunday dinner.
Show up for worship and for dinner. Wear your best and behave your best at least once a week. Listen to the preacher and your mama when they tell you the stories about your people and who you belong to. Remember my name. Remember who I was and where I came from. Remember me in my time of trial. Remember me in my youth and in my old age. Remember me when I am dead and gone.
Feed my sheep, Jesus said. I wonder if he meant for us to feed our souls with remembers? Do this in remembrance of me... Share a meal. Call each other by name because you know each other’s souls. Call my name and remember me. I remember, Lord, I remember. In my remembering, I will tell the old, old stories that live on in my heart of Jesus and his love. And I will remember, mama, where I come from and the stories you have told me.