Going Walkabout for Lent

Thursday afternoon, late, and it is almost time to go to work... where is Rufus? The last time I saw him he was running in the glen with Barney while I fed the cows. Our new basset hound, Rufus, is red and white, short and loud. When he and Barney run, Rufus can run under Barney and not touch his belly. Lately, however, Rufus has been expanding his circle of experience. His nose picks up an interesting smell and he follows it without looking up to see where he is going. When the phone rings, a stranger’s voice asks, “Are you missing your basset hound?” Rufus has ended up two ridges over on Martin’s Ford Road. Randy tells me how to find his parent’s farm and off I go to pick up Rufus.
Randy grew up on this farm. His parents live in a little brick house that looks a lot like my parents house. He retired from the Marines, came home with his wife and built a house on the ridge above his parents. His parents, now in their eighties, need help with the farm so he came home. Years of living all over the world have erased his mountain twang but not the mountain hospitality. He invites me up to see his horses. So Rufus, belly full of dog food now, and I follow him up his drive. His two pretty paint horses come running when he calls. We stand and talk horse talk for awhile and then the conversation shifts. He begins to tell me stories of growing up in his little corner of the world... hill fields, now pasture, once growing corn, dirt clod fights with his cousins while chopping weeds in the corn, five hundred acres now shrunk down to eighty because farmers sell land to pay medical bills. We stand, leaning on his truck and swap growing up stories, learning a little about each other and part new friends. When I go to Dave’s Auto Parts the next time, I will see him working and know his name. He will know mine.
Going walkabout, whether it is Rufus or me, can have interesting results. Too often I find myself locked down, doing life the same way, day after day, without smelling the different and new that is all around me. My smeller is dulled by repetition and the requirements of being a grownup. After all, someone has to stay at home and be responsible for all the chores. Bills must be paid, animals fed, houses cleaned, food cooked, company entertained, children minded, the sick visited, the poor fed, the injustices of the world righted. Life is not a walk in the park, young lady... Oh, yes, it is. We just miss seeing the park because we have our noses, our smellers, down on the grindstone or up in the air. We are surrounded by the most wonderful gifts given to us in abundance by a Creator who loves us. How ungracious of us not to take time to enjoy all that we have been given... kind strangers who rescue lost dogs, beautiful spring flowers, soft rain in drought times, new hound dogs that are still learning their way home.
I think I will go walkabout for Lent, looking for signs and portents of life to come and life as it is now. I will say my thank yous to the One who made me and then gave me this wonderful world full of kin people not yet known. I will ask forgiveness for the carelessness and inattention in the living of my life. And I will let Rufus off his leash every now and then so that he might run and bay in joyful abandon. Maybe I will even sing along...

Transfiguration and Miss Ruby

She was a tiny little old lady... white hair gathered up into a knot on the top of her head, a reminder of hair styles from her youth at the turn of the century. Her posture was perfect and she observed the etiquette rules of her generation. She sat erect in chairs with her feet crossed at the ankles, leaning slightly forward. Her face, wrinkled and soft, was punctuated by two bright eyes that saw beneath the surface, x-ray vision of the soul. The bread she baked for communion services was light and tasty, kneaded by hand, not machine. Born and raised in Plains, Georgia, she was the epitome of southern womanhood, gentle on the surface and tough as nails underneath. The fire in her spirit broke through when someone made snide comments about her friend Lillian Carter’s boy, Jimmy.
We became friends when Michael was pastor of her church. She was in her eighties then, still adventuring through life, white water rafting, going to Atlanta Braves games, listening to Pavarotti sing at two in the morning when she couldn’t sleep. Her gift to Michael was afternoon tea parties, a balm for his wounds as he lead a church that knew how to fight but not how to get along. Children adored her. Grown ups respected her and no one argued with Miss Ruby.
Her life had not been easy. She and her husband had three children, one son and two daughters. The son was killed in World War Two in Italy. After the war ended, she and her husband visited his grave. In an Italian hotel, far from home, her husband suffered a fatal heart attack. Her answer to this tragedy times two was to write a hymn, her doxology. Much to her delight, Michael had us sing her hymn in worship one Sunday.
We visited her and kept in touch after we left the church to move to Asheville. Life alone in her apartment gave way to life with one of her daughters. Her mind began to lose its edge but her spirit was brighter than before. Her daughters gave her a one of a kind birthday present... a seat behind home plate for a Braves game with a kiss from the pitcher as a cherry on top of that sundae. Hearing her tell us that story was the last time we heard her soft, southern voice. The next call that came was to tell Michael it was time to redeem his pledge to Miss Ruby made many years ago, to perform her burial service at First Baptist, Plains, Georgia.
Miss Ruby wanted us to stay in a restored fine old hotel in Americus, near Plains, so we did. The cemetery was full of her friends, neighbors and family. Miss Lillian was buried not too far away. She and Michael had spoken of how she wanted this service to be and he minded her one last time. The transfiguration of Miss Ruby was complete.
Born into a time and place in history that was by our standards poor and narrow in view, she transcended the constraints of her culture. It must have been something in the water in Plains that allowed Christian character to be formed in persons like Miss Ruby and Miss Lillian. All her life was a journey towards transfiguration, occasional brighter than light moments that illuminated a life lived lit from the inside out. To be in her presence was to see the dancing Light of the Holy shining through her merry eyes.
I read the stories of transfiguration in the liturgy for today and remember Miss Ruby. I didn’t get to see chariots of fire carry her to God but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they were standing by waiting to carry her home. I know she had moments standing on spiritual mountaintops when she was transformed by the power of God. The Light she walked in still shone brightly through those wise old eyes. Like Elijah, Elisha and Jesus, transfiguration was both a once in a lifetime experience and an all her lifetime experience. There was no separation of the two for Miss Ruby. I’m trying to remember and learn this lesson today, Transfiguration Sunday. I want to search and find the Source of all that has been and all that will be, let the Light shine on and through me, share the Light I find as I live my way towards transfiguration so that when I die, others will hear the rumble of chariot wheels rolling by. Please, Lord, let me be transformed by your loving light so that I may become more like you. Tell Miss Ruby I said hello.