The memories of my early awakening to faith are still sharp and sweet. Raised in small country Baptist churches, I was taught by example, by sermons and teachers what being a Christian meant. At nine years of age, I told my parents I wanted to become a Christian and join the church. My daddy believed strongly in the Baptist principle of the age of accountability for children. He did not approve of childhood evangelism nor pressuring children to join the church. It was difficult for him to imagine that I was ready, that I understood what I was asking. So he required me to wait until I was twelve. The first Sunday after I turned twelve, I marched down the church aisle, shook Brother Kannon’s hand and made my first public profession of faith. Believers baptism, immersion for Baptists like us, and my first Lord’s Supper stand out in my faith memory scrapbook as clearly now as if it were yesterday. I had entered into the full fellowship of the larger church and was now deemed a member with all the rights and responsibilities attached to this privilege. Fifty four years later I am still a Christian, privately and publicly.
I’ve been intrigued with the results of a recent Pew Forum study on matters of faith and religion among the young, the millenial generation. Only 20% attend church but 75% believe in an afterlife. They feel alienated from religious institutions on both sides of the spectrum, liberal and conservative, that they view as too political. And one of the most interesting facts for me, the retention and growth rate for young people among evangelical churches outstrips mainline denominations. If I were a pastor or leader of a mainline denomination, I would be looking at the evangelical model and asking what they have that we don’t have.
I suspect the answers might be as simple as my experience in my little country church. I did not become a Christian because of a public stand taken by my pastor or church on an issue. I became a Christian because I was loved and taught the basics of the Christian faith by a family of faith that was committed to nurturing their young and witnessing their faith in language and life. The concept of a home church was very real for me as a child, teen, young adult and through the rest of my life. Faith was rooted in community and common belief. The personal experience of faith that flowers on the framework of our original source, the Bible, however one chooses to interpret it, seems to set the evangelical tradition apart from the more liberal expressions of Christian faith.
Much as I disagree with some of the traditional evangelical theology, I have experienced in my journey the power of the personal expressions of faith that are a hall mark of this tradition. Testimonies, verbal and lived out, charity at home and abroad, worship with feeling, a sense that one’s individual self matters to the Creator of All...I can understand how a generation raised on skepticism and computer screen realities would hunger for a skin faced experience of God. Most of us liberals are pretty wimpy and wishy washy about expressing our faith truths so no wonder our children are looking for someone who can and will speak from their hearts about a personal experience with God.
I teach a framing and matting class at our local community college. I am always amazed at how often conversation (without any help from me) turns to matters of faith. Thursday night our conversation centered on Lent and the practice of giving something up for Lent. In that room were conservative Christians who had never practiced Lent, liberal Christians who took Lent seriously, and some who were not affiliated with any faith system at all. It was fascinating and fun to hear folks speak what they believe(or not) with good humor and clarity. We have been gathering for eight weeks now every Thursday night so we know each others names, have grown to be a community centered on learning a skill, and in the process share much of our lives with one another. Sharing an essentially private experience, the practice of Lent, in a public setting led to a strengthening of those bonds.
Would to God our children can find that place, that community that will teach them, love them, be the Face of God in their lives whatever the denomination, whatever the politics of our secular nation, whatever the theology. I want my children’s children to have the sense of belonging to God, being a part of a church home where laughter and sorrow are shared, knowing others who live the life of a Christian, to be taught they are important and matter to the One who first loved us into being. I pray for each of them and for all the millenial generation that they will have a Clyattville Baptist Church in their lives, a church where they can be grown up in the faith. And as a part of my Lenten discipline, I will speak my private faith experience in public, sharing not only what I believe but also my joys and struggles and triumphs as a Christian.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Lent... Tough not rough
I stood in the check out line at Tractor Supply, my favorite store, with a load of horse, cow and chicken feed. The young woman checking me out heard me complaining about my rough hands. One of the side affects of farm work is calluses and rough skin on the side of my pointer fingers, split skin around my nails that bleed, and chapping during cold weather. She reached over and grabbed a tube of cream from a display next to the counter and handed it to me. “Try this”, she said. “It works for me and I tend horses and cows every day.” Holding her hands out for inspection, I could see they were a working woman’s hands but they were not split or rough. The calluses were smooth and not peeling. The cream was named “Tough not Rough... Intense Healing Cream”. Made in Aiken, South Carolina, it is a local product and I like using local products.
I have been using this cream every day now for a month and it lives up to her advertising. My hands are obviously the hands of a woman who works outdoors everyday but they are not bleeding, cracked and peeling. Every morning before I put on my gloves, I put on some cream. It sits by the back porch door so I won’t forget. Perhaps it is the regularity of application as well as the product itself... whatever... it works and I am grateful.
Lent is a little like my hand cream... tough not rough. It is forty days and nights of boot camp for the soul...giving something up to gain something. Friends of mine have given up various things for Lent. One has given up his glass of wine in the evening, a daily ritual that signals the end of the day and sets the tone for his evening. Another is consciously changing his life to simplify and live with only what really matters the most. Easier said than done. But this process of examination and repentance and letting go is absolutely necessary for anyone who takes Jesus seriously.
Doing without is not an easy sell in our current culture of easy come prosperity religion. Our culture reinforces this with buy now pay later plans. And, we are bombarded with images and words that promise beauty, health, wisdom, riches and happiness if we will just buy this or go there or eat this or do that. Giving up the illusion that acquiring something on the outside will change who we are on the inside may be the toughest thing of all to give up for Lent.
When we flee from the sight of our true selves, our souls stark naked in the harsh light of Lent, we give up our chance to see not only our sins and flaws, we miss the chance to see the unique miracle of creation that is contained in our being, the image of God that resides in our temple bodies here on earth. Those that have eyes to see, ears to hear and the stamina and will to persevere, see and hear and touch the face of God that lurks beneath the surface of us all. Its tough to hang in there for forty days but the journey is rich beyond measure.
Both Luke and Matthew record some words from Jesus that have become my Lenten motto. “ If anyone would come after me, let them deny themselves, take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save their life will lose it; and whoever loses their life for my sake will save it. For what does it profit you if you gain the whole world and lose yourself?”
So, way to go, Malcolm! Have at it Hugh! Hip, hip, hooray for all who are staggering through Lent, marching like Marines at boot camp, giving up and gaining, hanging in there until the end of this tough season of faith. Our souls and our selves will be better for this time of penance and release. Hope I can keep up with you and not let the team down!
I have been using this cream every day now for a month and it lives up to her advertising. My hands are obviously the hands of a woman who works outdoors everyday but they are not bleeding, cracked and peeling. Every morning before I put on my gloves, I put on some cream. It sits by the back porch door so I won’t forget. Perhaps it is the regularity of application as well as the product itself... whatever... it works and I am grateful.
Lent is a little like my hand cream... tough not rough. It is forty days and nights of boot camp for the soul...giving something up to gain something. Friends of mine have given up various things for Lent. One has given up his glass of wine in the evening, a daily ritual that signals the end of the day and sets the tone for his evening. Another is consciously changing his life to simplify and live with only what really matters the most. Easier said than done. But this process of examination and repentance and letting go is absolutely necessary for anyone who takes Jesus seriously.
Doing without is not an easy sell in our current culture of easy come prosperity religion. Our culture reinforces this with buy now pay later plans. And, we are bombarded with images and words that promise beauty, health, wisdom, riches and happiness if we will just buy this or go there or eat this or do that. Giving up the illusion that acquiring something on the outside will change who we are on the inside may be the toughest thing of all to give up for Lent.
When we flee from the sight of our true selves, our souls stark naked in the harsh light of Lent, we give up our chance to see not only our sins and flaws, we miss the chance to see the unique miracle of creation that is contained in our being, the image of God that resides in our temple bodies here on earth. Those that have eyes to see, ears to hear and the stamina and will to persevere, see and hear and touch the face of God that lurks beneath the surface of us all. Its tough to hang in there for forty days but the journey is rich beyond measure.
Both Luke and Matthew record some words from Jesus that have become my Lenten motto. “ If anyone would come after me, let them deny themselves, take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save their life will lose it; and whoever loses their life for my sake will save it. For what does it profit you if you gain the whole world and lose yourself?”
So, way to go, Malcolm! Have at it Hugh! Hip, hip, hooray for all who are staggering through Lent, marching like Marines at boot camp, giving up and gaining, hanging in there until the end of this tough season of faith. Our souls and our selves will be better for this time of penance and release. Hope I can keep up with you and not let the team down!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
A lady with a capital L
She was a lady with a capital “L”. Whenever and wherever she was, her first response to you was unfailingly gracious. She made you feel special and welcome and you wanted to be who she saw you to be. Visits with Pauline Oates soothed jangled nerves and smoothed out the rough edges.
Every Halloween we would take Megan dressed up in her costume to Wayne and Pauline Oates house for trick or treating. Pauline would come to the door and greet Megan, admiring her costume. She had a way of bringing out the best behavior in children and adults. We would have some “refreshments” served always on her best china because guests were special. Then we would be on our way feeling graced.
As an adult, one of Megan’s first jobs was in the medical school program Wayne had begun for ministers, pastoral counselors and chaplains. The completion of this circle was Pauline’s presence at Megan’s wedding and wedding reception. She stayed until the dancing ended and the we began to clean up, a smiling benediction presence for us all.
Pauline loved hats and wore them whenever there was an opportunity. She knew I shared that love and once she gave me a tour of her hat closet. Wayne had a special closet built for her with shelves to the ceiling, each holding a hat with a story. When Wayne was a young professor and money was scarce, Pauline saved her change from groceries each week to buy her first hat. Louisville did not have a hat store then so she traveled to Lexington to buy that hat. It was crafted in New York City by a famous hatmaker. She showed it to me and told me she still wore that hat and loved it. Whenever we saw each other at church or a party or any other function, we would nod and smile, each wearing our hats and perfectly happy.
The last time we saw her dementia had required her son to place her in a facility. Sitting in her chair, she greeted us just as she always did, smiling and kind. She had no idea who we were but her essential kindness and concern were still the outward signs of her gracious soul undimmed by the glaze of dementia.
There are not enough ladies like Pauline Oates in this world and we are the poorer for her absence among us. Never stuffy or overly concerned for her own self, she knew her gifts and was assured and competent. As a young seminarian’s wife, Pauline was both friend and stand-in favorite aunt for me. She was one of my teachers in the art of hospitality and I will remember her every time I set a table, serve a guest or wear one of my hats. God bless you, Pauline Oates for the gracious attention paid to everyone who was around you. I am still trying to live up to the vision you had of who I was and could be. Thanks for the memories...
Every Halloween we would take Megan dressed up in her costume to Wayne and Pauline Oates house for trick or treating. Pauline would come to the door and greet Megan, admiring her costume. She had a way of bringing out the best behavior in children and adults. We would have some “refreshments” served always on her best china because guests were special. Then we would be on our way feeling graced.
As an adult, one of Megan’s first jobs was in the medical school program Wayne had begun for ministers, pastoral counselors and chaplains. The completion of this circle was Pauline’s presence at Megan’s wedding and wedding reception. She stayed until the dancing ended and the we began to clean up, a smiling benediction presence for us all.
Pauline loved hats and wore them whenever there was an opportunity. She knew I shared that love and once she gave me a tour of her hat closet. Wayne had a special closet built for her with shelves to the ceiling, each holding a hat with a story. When Wayne was a young professor and money was scarce, Pauline saved her change from groceries each week to buy her first hat. Louisville did not have a hat store then so she traveled to Lexington to buy that hat. It was crafted in New York City by a famous hatmaker. She showed it to me and told me she still wore that hat and loved it. Whenever we saw each other at church or a party or any other function, we would nod and smile, each wearing our hats and perfectly happy.
The last time we saw her dementia had required her son to place her in a facility. Sitting in her chair, she greeted us just as she always did, smiling and kind. She had no idea who we were but her essential kindness and concern were still the outward signs of her gracious soul undimmed by the glaze of dementia.
There are not enough ladies like Pauline Oates in this world and we are the poorer for her absence among us. Never stuffy or overly concerned for her own self, she knew her gifts and was assured and competent. As a young seminarian’s wife, Pauline was both friend and stand-in favorite aunt for me. She was one of my teachers in the art of hospitality and I will remember her every time I set a table, serve a guest or wear one of my hats. God bless you, Pauline Oates for the gracious attention paid to everyone who was around you. I am still trying to live up to the vision you had of who I was and could be. Thanks for the memories...
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Lent... Tradition
I stood at the ironing board ironing damask napkins, napkins that once were used by my grandmother and Michael’s mother. The easy repetition of ironing one flat square after another calmed my mind and set my spirit to roaming. Memories of family dinners with china and crystal and silver, family gathered around large tables, small children twitching, grace being said and meals shared with laughter as the whipped cream on the dessert. Over forty years of meal memories are settled deep in the fibers of this beautiful old damask fabric. Our family with children and grandchildren now gathers around our old round table and these napkins I am ironing (at last) are from the Christmas season when we shared several meals here at Sabbath Rest Farm.
In the early seventies, our church, Lake Shore Baptist Church became an active participant in the “Greening of America”. We read the book, took the ideas on many of our church retreats for all ages, had study groups, heard sermons... full court church press to get us to consider how we were living and using earth’s resources. One of the changes I made was to switch to cloth napkins. Preachers didn’t make much money so I had to be creative. I made some napkins, found some at sales and bargain stores, collected napkin rings, looked for permanent press napkins that didn’t need ironing and some fancy napkins that did. Our children grew up with cloth napkins in a ring by their plate. You kept your napkin at your place at the table for a week’s worth of meals (unless we had a really messy meal or you were messy yourself).
Cloth napkins became a tradition in our family. And this tradition links me to the families that came before us. My grandmother’s napkins are a beautiful soft old damask. The woven pattern reflects the style of her generation, her time on earth. Michael’s mother’s napkins are a crisper damask that irons up without starch to a sharp crease. The pattern on them reflects the thirties and forties. When Michael’s mother died, we shared her napkins, each of us taking some from her bountiful store of table cloths and napkins. She loved to set a pretty table. Tradition...
The tradition of Lent is one that has been passed down to us by all those families of Christians who have gone before us. Like the pretty cloth napkins that need ironing, Lent provides a time out to let our spirits roam, to reflect on times past and to prepare for times to come. Lent as a liturgical season is about as popular as ironing but it has some gifts for us if we will take the time to celebrate it honestly and with gratitude for all that has been. The past is always with us whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. We may react against it, revile it, revamp our history, refuse it, or choose to re-new it by giving thanks for everything... the good, the bad and the ugly... during Lent.
We could not be who we are, be here at all, without our pasts. The history that brought me to this place in time has been a gift and I am grateful... traditional Southern Baptist, Primitive Baptist, liberal(and I do mean liberal) Southern Baptist, United Church of Christ... all have been my teachers and homes for my soul in their time. During this day, I will give thanks for these traditions and the richness of their teachings that linger still in my faith practice. Considering where I have come from shines a light on where I am going. Thanks be to God for the process of Lent year after year.
In the early seventies, our church, Lake Shore Baptist Church became an active participant in the “Greening of America”. We read the book, took the ideas on many of our church retreats for all ages, had study groups, heard sermons... full court church press to get us to consider how we were living and using earth’s resources. One of the changes I made was to switch to cloth napkins. Preachers didn’t make much money so I had to be creative. I made some napkins, found some at sales and bargain stores, collected napkin rings, looked for permanent press napkins that didn’t need ironing and some fancy napkins that did. Our children grew up with cloth napkins in a ring by their plate. You kept your napkin at your place at the table for a week’s worth of meals (unless we had a really messy meal or you were messy yourself).
Cloth napkins became a tradition in our family. And this tradition links me to the families that came before us. My grandmother’s napkins are a beautiful soft old damask. The woven pattern reflects the style of her generation, her time on earth. Michael’s mother’s napkins are a crisper damask that irons up without starch to a sharp crease. The pattern on them reflects the thirties and forties. When Michael’s mother died, we shared her napkins, each of us taking some from her bountiful store of table cloths and napkins. She loved to set a pretty table. Tradition...
The tradition of Lent is one that has been passed down to us by all those families of Christians who have gone before us. Like the pretty cloth napkins that need ironing, Lent provides a time out to let our spirits roam, to reflect on times past and to prepare for times to come. Lent as a liturgical season is about as popular as ironing but it has some gifts for us if we will take the time to celebrate it honestly and with gratitude for all that has been. The past is always with us whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. We may react against it, revile it, revamp our history, refuse it, or choose to re-new it by giving thanks for everything... the good, the bad and the ugly... during Lent.
We could not be who we are, be here at all, without our pasts. The history that brought me to this place in time has been a gift and I am grateful... traditional Southern Baptist, Primitive Baptist, liberal(and I do mean liberal) Southern Baptist, United Church of Christ... all have been my teachers and homes for my soul in their time. During this day, I will give thanks for these traditions and the richness of their teachings that linger still in my faith practice. Considering where I have come from shines a light on where I am going. Thanks be to God for the process of Lent year after year.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Lent, March 2... an extraordinary ordinary day
Snow is falling again this morning covering the ground with white meringue frosting. Even after all the snow and ice we have seen this winter, it is still a beautiful sight. There is no wind so the temperature is a balmy 32 degrees. Unless the temperature falls, the snow will not be around long. Michael is on his morning walk with the dogs. They love to walk whatever the weather outside is.
Last night Barney did a good job guarding the henhouse. I heard him barking a time or two chasing some night time intruder away. Unless it is freezing outside, Barney prefers to sleep in his bed on the front porch keeping an eye on things. Once or twice a night he will patrol the perimeter to assure himself that all is well.
Mama and I spent yesterday in town. She had a doctor’s appointment so we bundled all our errands together and broke the day up with lunch at the cafeteria. Mama loves the cafeteria. She and daddy used to eat in cafeterias when white gloved waiters served your table. The sight of all the choices provides an image of abundance and an opportunity to try something new. After cruising through Aldi’s, Target, Goodwill, Ross’s, the garage door opener place and Shaw Gas, we were ready to sit for a spell at the doctor’s office, content to read our books until she was called back. Supper was a put together affair of leftover roast beef and gravy, mashed potatoes, greens and creamed corn. Mama makes the best mashed potatoes in the world.
Today I will be at home all day. Feeding the horses, donkeys, cows, dogs, cats and ducks will start my day. Mucking out the stalls and cleaning the house along with washing clothes will keep me busy while I wait for the gas man to make his delivery. This unusual winter has reminded me to be grateful for the gas heat I take for granted. Sometime today if I have the time, I need to do some mending and ironing. I only have napkins to iron and I find that a soothing occupation. Perhaps I’ll make myself a cup of tea and iron while I watch a little t.v. this afternoon.
A new baby is being born into the farm family. Candace and Rodney, Gary and Leisa’s daughter and son-in-law, are having a baby boy in May so I am beginning to contemplate what I can create as a keepsake for this new life on the farm hills. All the women on the farm will help her paint her nursery since she is moving into her grandmother’s home near her mom and dad just before the baby’s birth. I sit and look at the snow falling and think of new spring life stirring that lies underneath the white blanket. A flock of robins tiptoe through the snow in the front yard and their presence confirms spring is coming.
Michael and the dogs have come in. I must go and cook breakfast. Eggs hot from the hens with Farside Farms sausage are on the morning menu. I give thanks for the ordinariness of yesterday and today, the routine, the humdrum, the daily necessities of life that make up much of my life. They are gifts from God and I forget to say thank you. So here goes... cooking, cleaning and feeding, waiting and watching, life moves on through the routine of day to day living. Today I will sing along with the Psalmist celebrating the steadfast love of God.
O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,
For his steadfast love endures forever...
It is he who remembered us in our low estate,
For his steadfast love endures forever,
and rescued us from our foes,
For his steadfast love endures forever,
He who gives food to all flesh,
For his steadfast love endures forever.
O give thanks to the God of heaven
For his steadfast love endures forever. Psalms 136
Last night Barney did a good job guarding the henhouse. I heard him barking a time or two chasing some night time intruder away. Unless it is freezing outside, Barney prefers to sleep in his bed on the front porch keeping an eye on things. Once or twice a night he will patrol the perimeter to assure himself that all is well.
Mama and I spent yesterday in town. She had a doctor’s appointment so we bundled all our errands together and broke the day up with lunch at the cafeteria. Mama loves the cafeteria. She and daddy used to eat in cafeterias when white gloved waiters served your table. The sight of all the choices provides an image of abundance and an opportunity to try something new. After cruising through Aldi’s, Target, Goodwill, Ross’s, the garage door opener place and Shaw Gas, we were ready to sit for a spell at the doctor’s office, content to read our books until she was called back. Supper was a put together affair of leftover roast beef and gravy, mashed potatoes, greens and creamed corn. Mama makes the best mashed potatoes in the world.
Today I will be at home all day. Feeding the horses, donkeys, cows, dogs, cats and ducks will start my day. Mucking out the stalls and cleaning the house along with washing clothes will keep me busy while I wait for the gas man to make his delivery. This unusual winter has reminded me to be grateful for the gas heat I take for granted. Sometime today if I have the time, I need to do some mending and ironing. I only have napkins to iron and I find that a soothing occupation. Perhaps I’ll make myself a cup of tea and iron while I watch a little t.v. this afternoon.
A new baby is being born into the farm family. Candace and Rodney, Gary and Leisa’s daughter and son-in-law, are having a baby boy in May so I am beginning to contemplate what I can create as a keepsake for this new life on the farm hills. All the women on the farm will help her paint her nursery since she is moving into her grandmother’s home near her mom and dad just before the baby’s birth. I sit and look at the snow falling and think of new spring life stirring that lies underneath the white blanket. A flock of robins tiptoe through the snow in the front yard and their presence confirms spring is coming.
Michael and the dogs have come in. I must go and cook breakfast. Eggs hot from the hens with Farside Farms sausage are on the morning menu. I give thanks for the ordinariness of yesterday and today, the routine, the humdrum, the daily necessities of life that make up much of my life. They are gifts from God and I forget to say thank you. So here goes... cooking, cleaning and feeding, waiting and watching, life moves on through the routine of day to day living. Today I will sing along with the Psalmist celebrating the steadfast love of God.
O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,
For his steadfast love endures forever...
It is he who remembered us in our low estate,
For his steadfast love endures forever,
and rescued us from our foes,
For his steadfast love endures forever,
He who gives food to all flesh,
For his steadfast love endures forever.
O give thanks to the God of heaven
For his steadfast love endures forever. Psalms 136
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Lent... Write a vision
Mrs. Dees, my fourth grade teacher, was relentless in her expectations of us in fourth grade English. We were to learn the rules of grammar and use them in our speech and writing. Nouns, adjectives, adverbs, verbs, diagraming sentences, verb tenses... all were force fed into our resistant brains with tests every Friday to check up on our progress or lack thereof. Her red headed stubbornness stood her in good stead as we learned the rules of the road for writing. Our main writing assignment was to produce a term paper and she led us like lambs to the slaughter through the steps required to produce our literary masterpieces.
In that pre-internet computer age we were required to do library research with real books and take notes on small cards that we then filed in a small box. The gathered information was organized and we could pull specific information from our note cards as we wrote. Footnote form required author, title, date of publication and the publishing company, page numbers, etc. Our little files grew fat very quickly with some pertinent information and a plethora of extraneous material.
Twice a week we went to the school library where we were first taught how to use the card catalogue, a tall wooden chest with small drawers stuffed full of small cards organized under subject, author and the title of the books. Mrs. Dees kept a hawish eye on us trying to march us forward in our education. Our time in the library was spent perusing the Encyclopedia Britannica (the printed book form of Google) looking for sources and information, standing at the card catalogue writing down the location of interesting looking books, looking up said books, taking notes and fooling around when we could get away with it.
The vision for our term paper had to be outlined in proper form first and turned in. Our note cards were checked every two weeks to see if we had made any progress. Mrs. Dees made little marks in her brown grade book held together with rubber bands after each inspection and gave us our marching orders for the next two weeks. The term paper was due at the end of the six week grading period and if we had followed her faithfully in our work, the term paper would have been almost a painless production.
I did not follow instructions faithfully. It was the afternoon before the paper was due the next day and I flew into the office of McKey Tillman Insurance after school calling my mama’s name. Falling all over myself in word and deed, I told her of my predicament. The paper was due in the morning. It was written, sort of, but not neatly and needed to be typed to make a good impression. Mama sat up late that night bailing me out and I had a beautiful looking term paper to turn in to Mrs. Dees the next day. Mama did not edit or improve the content. That was mine alone and Mrs. Dees took me to task for not living up to my outline. I did not write my vision and the grade I received reflected that lack.
Habakkuk the prophet wrote these words from the Lord... “Write the vision; and make it plain upon the tablets, so he may run who reads it. For still the vision awaits its time; it hastens to the end-it will not lie. If it seem slow, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay.” Lent is time for me to create an outline, gather my material, file my note cards and write my vision for this next year in my life with God. This time I will try to keep up with the daily work while I wait for the truth telling vision to come into being. I will read my Bible. I will pray. I will seek silence. I will look and listen for the face and words of the Lord as I finish writing my vision, my life’s term paper.
Thank you, Mrs. Dees for expecting me to do my best and being honest and kind when I missed the mark. You were one of my childhood faces of God and I am grateful for all you taught me.
In that pre-internet computer age we were required to do library research with real books and take notes on small cards that we then filed in a small box. The gathered information was organized and we could pull specific information from our note cards as we wrote. Footnote form required author, title, date of publication and the publishing company, page numbers, etc. Our little files grew fat very quickly with some pertinent information and a plethora of extraneous material.
Twice a week we went to the school library where we were first taught how to use the card catalogue, a tall wooden chest with small drawers stuffed full of small cards organized under subject, author and the title of the books. Mrs. Dees kept a hawish eye on us trying to march us forward in our education. Our time in the library was spent perusing the Encyclopedia Britannica (the printed book form of Google) looking for sources and information, standing at the card catalogue writing down the location of interesting looking books, looking up said books, taking notes and fooling around when we could get away with it.
The vision for our term paper had to be outlined in proper form first and turned in. Our note cards were checked every two weeks to see if we had made any progress. Mrs. Dees made little marks in her brown grade book held together with rubber bands after each inspection and gave us our marching orders for the next two weeks. The term paper was due at the end of the six week grading period and if we had followed her faithfully in our work, the term paper would have been almost a painless production.
I did not follow instructions faithfully. It was the afternoon before the paper was due the next day and I flew into the office of McKey Tillman Insurance after school calling my mama’s name. Falling all over myself in word and deed, I told her of my predicament. The paper was due in the morning. It was written, sort of, but not neatly and needed to be typed to make a good impression. Mama sat up late that night bailing me out and I had a beautiful looking term paper to turn in to Mrs. Dees the next day. Mama did not edit or improve the content. That was mine alone and Mrs. Dees took me to task for not living up to my outline. I did not write my vision and the grade I received reflected that lack.
Habakkuk the prophet wrote these words from the Lord... “Write the vision; and make it plain upon the tablets, so he may run who reads it. For still the vision awaits its time; it hastens to the end-it will not lie. If it seem slow, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay.” Lent is time for me to create an outline, gather my material, file my note cards and write my vision for this next year in my life with God. This time I will try to keep up with the daily work while I wait for the truth telling vision to come into being. I will read my Bible. I will pray. I will seek silence. I will look and listen for the face and words of the Lord as I finish writing my vision, my life’s term paper.
Thank you, Mrs. Dees for expecting me to do my best and being honest and kind when I missed the mark. You were one of my childhood faces of God and I am grateful for all you taught me.
Lent... a season of prayer
Sunday morning worship at Bethabara Baptist Church was not for the fainthearted or weak in spirit. Worship as I had known it at Pinetta Baptist, Clyattville Baptist, Pauline Baptist and the downtown church of First Baptist was no preparation for this way of approaching God. We filed in chatting amiably, sat in our appointed places, sang our songs with joy (sometimes), stood and sat on cue, listened quietly to the sermons, prayed with heads bowed and “behaved” in church. This was not the method of worship employed at Bethabara Baptist. We were a group of Baptist college students spending our summer building a church for this small congregation, primarily Cherokee, and worshiping with them every Sunday morning. We learned a new foreign language in worship that summer, a way of speaking to God that was vastly different from our own.
The first time an altar call was extended for prayer, we watched as most of the congregation came down front, knelt and began to pray out loud all at the same time. Some prayed in Cherokee, some in English and some in unknown tongues. Prayer lasted until the last voice faded away into silence, a season of prayer, prayer that was public and private at the same time. We sat trying to behave as if we knew exactly what was happening when we had no idea at all what was going on.
Sermons were not the same. Some of us had been exposed to the suck and spit method of preaching, preachers who suck in air and spit out the words in a rhythm, but not like this. This method of preaching was loud and messy. It called out a response from the congregation that scared us a little. People “lost control”, stood up and spoke in tongues, answered back to the preacher with fervent “Amen’s” and “Preach it, Brother”. Brother Owl, the pastor, was a small man who seemed to swell in size and volume when the Spirit moved. One Sunday the Spirit caught up Mrs. Owl and she threw her grandbaby in the air, jubilantly unaware of her grandchild’s danger of a hard landing. One of our fearless leaders, Mary Lynn, fielded that baby on its way down.
Worship was dangerous, exciting, upsetting, unsettling and a scary business for us that summer. These folks spoke a different language to the God we both worshiped and I learned some very important things that summer. I learned that the form didn’t matter to God nearly as much as it did to me. I learned that we are all more alike than different. I learned to watch and listen because if you are truly searching for God, you might get what you ask for and that can be dangerous. I learned that God is able to find us however we call out his/her name and if we are persistent and pushy, God will come when we pray.
Abram knew this, I suspect, because he dared to question God, asking for explanations of the inexplicable. “How can my reward be great when I am childless? What gift can you give me that will equal the hurt of living without a child born to Sarai and me?” God told him to do something... go out into the woods and kill some animals, split them in two, don’t burn them, just stack them leaning on their sides and keep the birds of prey away. It grew dark outside and inside of Abram as he slept. The light of the stars, the stars that God said were the numbers of his descendants, was not bright enough to hold the dread and darkness at bay. But in this time of darkness, God spoke a new covenant into being between them, a covenant that promised hope for the future. Hard times were coming for those who would be Abram’s descendants but God would not leave them. All would be well. The slaves would be set free and Abram would die in peace at a ripe old age.
Abram’s faith, his willingness to live with the darkness and dread, his acceptance of God’s answers to his questions, sets a pattern for me this Lenten season. I need to venture out into the darkness of my soul. Feel the dread and not run away from it. Do something that provides a time and place for God to come to me. Keep on asking questions and listening for answers. Make a new covenant between God and me. Wake up from my sleep and move on into the rest of this season of repentance and renewal. Like Abram, Lord, I question what lies in store for the rest of my life... what gifts do you have for me that my faith eyes are too nearsighted to see... what troubles are coming... will I have a good old age... will You be with me even until the end of life as I now know it... And, an answer comes for me as it did for Abram. All will be well because God is a present help in times of trouble and a stronghold for my heart in times of darkness and dread. God will bring rivers of laughter and joy, the shelter of grace and peace, and the assurance of more light yet to come after the darkness is spent. Thanks be to God for all of life and for Lent, my season of prayer caught up in the Spirit.
The first time an altar call was extended for prayer, we watched as most of the congregation came down front, knelt and began to pray out loud all at the same time. Some prayed in Cherokee, some in English and some in unknown tongues. Prayer lasted until the last voice faded away into silence, a season of prayer, prayer that was public and private at the same time. We sat trying to behave as if we knew exactly what was happening when we had no idea at all what was going on.
Sermons were not the same. Some of us had been exposed to the suck and spit method of preaching, preachers who suck in air and spit out the words in a rhythm, but not like this. This method of preaching was loud and messy. It called out a response from the congregation that scared us a little. People “lost control”, stood up and spoke in tongues, answered back to the preacher with fervent “Amen’s” and “Preach it, Brother”. Brother Owl, the pastor, was a small man who seemed to swell in size and volume when the Spirit moved. One Sunday the Spirit caught up Mrs. Owl and she threw her grandbaby in the air, jubilantly unaware of her grandchild’s danger of a hard landing. One of our fearless leaders, Mary Lynn, fielded that baby on its way down.
Worship was dangerous, exciting, upsetting, unsettling and a scary business for us that summer. These folks spoke a different language to the God we both worshiped and I learned some very important things that summer. I learned that the form didn’t matter to God nearly as much as it did to me. I learned that we are all more alike than different. I learned to watch and listen because if you are truly searching for God, you might get what you ask for and that can be dangerous. I learned that God is able to find us however we call out his/her name and if we are persistent and pushy, God will come when we pray.
Abram knew this, I suspect, because he dared to question God, asking for explanations of the inexplicable. “How can my reward be great when I am childless? What gift can you give me that will equal the hurt of living without a child born to Sarai and me?” God told him to do something... go out into the woods and kill some animals, split them in two, don’t burn them, just stack them leaning on their sides and keep the birds of prey away. It grew dark outside and inside of Abram as he slept. The light of the stars, the stars that God said were the numbers of his descendants, was not bright enough to hold the dread and darkness at bay. But in this time of darkness, God spoke a new covenant into being between them, a covenant that promised hope for the future. Hard times were coming for those who would be Abram’s descendants but God would not leave them. All would be well. The slaves would be set free and Abram would die in peace at a ripe old age.
Abram’s faith, his willingness to live with the darkness and dread, his acceptance of God’s answers to his questions, sets a pattern for me this Lenten season. I need to venture out into the darkness of my soul. Feel the dread and not run away from it. Do something that provides a time and place for God to come to me. Keep on asking questions and listening for answers. Make a new covenant between God and me. Wake up from my sleep and move on into the rest of this season of repentance and renewal. Like Abram, Lord, I question what lies in store for the rest of my life... what gifts do you have for me that my faith eyes are too nearsighted to see... what troubles are coming... will I have a good old age... will You be with me even until the end of life as I now know it... And, an answer comes for me as it did for Abram. All will be well because God is a present help in times of trouble and a stronghold for my heart in times of darkness and dread. God will bring rivers of laughter and joy, the shelter of grace and peace, and the assurance of more light yet to come after the darkness is spent. Thanks be to God for all of life and for Lent, my season of prayer caught up in the Spirit.
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