There is a magic time in the morning... the night song of the crickets is punctuated by the rooster’s voice as the bagpipe drone of the crow’s song hums along... light creeps ever so slowly over the distant mountains out my bedroom window and I lie here listening and watching as a new day dawns. The quality of the morning light changes in late summer. Drier, dustier in the late summer heat, morning light has lost some of its sparkle and lays heavy on the land as it slides up our hill.
Mama bear and her three cubs are ever present searching for food as autumn draws near. Bird feeders, trash, compost piles, and duck feed draw her to us and she makes the rounds of all the farm family to feed her three babies. I spotted the white turkey last week walking on the Sound of Music Hill in the middle of the flock. It was the first time I had seen her in months. The turkey chicks are nearly grown now, their numbers decimated by predators. The bluebirds and indigo buntings have raised their families and are not as visible as they were in the spring and early summer. We are on the cusp of autumn... the pointed end of summer not quite yet fall... an in-between time... a magic space where you don’t know what will come next.
Transitions in seasons, like our life transitions, can be a time to catch our breath, consider our possibilities, look ahead while we look back, get ready for the future while we give thanks for the past.
It has been a busy summer for us here at Sabbath Rest Farm full of family, gatherings, hay baling, restoration work on the old high barn, vacation at the beach, deaths of ones dear to us, new lives entering our world, house maintenance and fence building, the changing of the guard with a new young black Angus bull coming to live with the herd. Nothing is ever really settled forever. There is always something to be done or someone to set a spell with.
I read the 73rd Psalm this morning and there I found words for my time of transition. The writer is so honest and funny and particular in his confessions and judgements. “Truly God is good to the upright, to those who are pure in heart. But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled, my steps had well nigh slipped. For I was envious of the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.” The writer then describes in great detail the prosperous wicked ones and they sound a lot like the same ones I envy. He then complains about being faithful in vain and says it is a wearisome task to try to understand how others flourish when the righteous suffer. And then comes the passage that I will carry in my heart this day as my life continues its shift into the cusp of old age.
“When my soul was embittered, when I was pricked in heart, I was stupid and ignorant. I was like a beast toward thee. Nevertheless, I am continually with thee, thou dost hold my right hand. Thou dost guide me with thy counsel, and afterward will receive me in glory. Whom have I in heaven but thee? And there is nothing upon earth that I desire besides thee. My flesh and my heart may fail but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”
As Michael begins his semi-retirement and the rhythm of our daily lives finds a new beat, as we contemplate the limits of our money and bodies and lives, as I get lost in the longing for more than I have, these words will call me back to myself when my steps slip and I stumble. I will remember that God is the strength of my heart and I will give thanks.
Looking back while I look forward, I see the many ways you have kept me all the days of my life, Lord, and I want to say thank you. As you have cared for me in the past, I trust you will continue to make my way plain as I live into the future that remains for me here on earth. Keep me gracious and if I act like a beast sometimes, forgive me for the fear and loss of trust that separates me from you. You are my portion, my destiny forever, God and I am grateful.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
These are my people...
True Confessions (anybody else remember that magazine version of the Maury Povich show?)... I am a country music fan. If there is war talk on NPR, I switch to the local country music station and it never fails me. A song will come on that starts me to thinking. This morning on the way to get paint for mama I heard, “These are my people. It ain’t always purty but it’s real.” This is a wonderful description of my love affair with churches and church people.
I’ve belonged to all sizes of churches. Some had forty people in worship on a good Sunday and others routinely had over a thousand. The larger churches offered multiple programs for us and our children... choirs, youth groups, mission trips, many choices for adult programs, libraries. You could always find a small group within the large group. Worship that fed my soul with beautiful music and thoughtful proclamation was on the menu at these larger churches and our family flourished in these communities. The smaller churches, while not a cafeteria of options for the practice of my faith, provided a different way to live in community.
The smallest church I have belonged to was Pauline Baptist Church. The small, austere white frame no nonsense sanctuary with pine floors and pews that would break your back was crisscrossed with a framework on which curtains could be drawn to create Sunday School classrooms. The preacher, who belonged to the suck and blow school of proclamation, was a long lanky old man who still wore a black frock coat and string tie on Sunday.
We joined that church when I was a teenager who was sick at heart leaving the church and friends of my childhood. Only one other teen girl attended Pauline and I felt lost. Sunday mornings, once full of anticipation, now lay heavy on my heart. Slowly, a place was made for me in that small kinfolk congregation. I began to play the piano in worship, sing in a girl’s trio (another girl was imported for this group), listen to the stories told by Miss Flossie and Mr. Jess, visited the Rizer family and others who were our neighbors, and began to become a part of that church family. My first wedding was there and I was surrounded by those who had loved me through to young adulthood. I no longer saw what wasn’t there but celebrated what was there... kinship, community, a family of Christians who knew how to stick around for the long haul, unimpressed by fancy trappings(a good thing since we had none), straight talking plain Baptists.
The largest church I ever belonged to was in a growth spurt when we came. A charismatic preacher was pulling them in on Sunday mornings and the church was full of energy and excitement. Morning worship would have over a thousand souls sitting in the beautiful sanctuary. When we first joined, I would take our children on Wednesday nights for the evening meal and activities. Michael was often working and could seldom attend. Many nights in the beginning, I sat alone and left to go to the church library to read until prayer meeting began. I began teaching one of the children’s groups as a way to be useful.
Gradually we began to find community. We helped found a Sunday School class that used literature along with the Bible to hear the voice of God speaking. Sitting in the same place for worship every Sunday, we began to meet those who sat around us. I took organ lessons from the church organist and reclaimed a talent that had been neglected since college. I joined an exercise class that met in the church gym and brought my youngest with me to the childcare that was provided. There I met other young mothers who became part of my church family. A small church within a larger church...
Regardless of the size or theology or worship style, each community was chock full of people who were real, pretty or not. And, that included me. That is the gift and the curse of organized local churches... a place where folks are real like the Velveteen Rabbit, rough and worn out and angry and sad and happy and smart and dumb as a post. In other institutions where our livelihood or our public character needs protection, we play nicely. The church, however, is one place where most of us let it all hang out on the community clothesline to dry. To my mind, that is one very good reason for being a part of a faith community. Like home, most churches will take you whatever shape you are in. Alcoholic? Come on down. Nag? We have a seat saved for you. Single parent hanging on by your toenails? Sit by me. Upper middle class white male? Junior League soccer mom? Illiterate young adult? We have a spot for you. Come rub shoulders with the rest of us works in progress and lets be real together. Not purty, but real.
As I embark on a new church journey, I give thanks for all the real people who have been my faith family through the years. I am looking forward to being initiated into this new family of mixed up folks who are my travel companions on this trip. We are red and yellow, black and white, precious in the sight of the One who holds us together with the love that transforms the rough places into pearls of great price. Traveling mercies for us all, Lord, as we make our way home to you.
I’ve belonged to all sizes of churches. Some had forty people in worship on a good Sunday and others routinely had over a thousand. The larger churches offered multiple programs for us and our children... choirs, youth groups, mission trips, many choices for adult programs, libraries. You could always find a small group within the large group. Worship that fed my soul with beautiful music and thoughtful proclamation was on the menu at these larger churches and our family flourished in these communities. The smaller churches, while not a cafeteria of options for the practice of my faith, provided a different way to live in community.
The smallest church I have belonged to was Pauline Baptist Church. The small, austere white frame no nonsense sanctuary with pine floors and pews that would break your back was crisscrossed with a framework on which curtains could be drawn to create Sunday School classrooms. The preacher, who belonged to the suck and blow school of proclamation, was a long lanky old man who still wore a black frock coat and string tie on Sunday.
We joined that church when I was a teenager who was sick at heart leaving the church and friends of my childhood. Only one other teen girl attended Pauline and I felt lost. Sunday mornings, once full of anticipation, now lay heavy on my heart. Slowly, a place was made for me in that small kinfolk congregation. I began to play the piano in worship, sing in a girl’s trio (another girl was imported for this group), listen to the stories told by Miss Flossie and Mr. Jess, visited the Rizer family and others who were our neighbors, and began to become a part of that church family. My first wedding was there and I was surrounded by those who had loved me through to young adulthood. I no longer saw what wasn’t there but celebrated what was there... kinship, community, a family of Christians who knew how to stick around for the long haul, unimpressed by fancy trappings(a good thing since we had none), straight talking plain Baptists.
The largest church I ever belonged to was in a growth spurt when we came. A charismatic preacher was pulling them in on Sunday mornings and the church was full of energy and excitement. Morning worship would have over a thousand souls sitting in the beautiful sanctuary. When we first joined, I would take our children on Wednesday nights for the evening meal and activities. Michael was often working and could seldom attend. Many nights in the beginning, I sat alone and left to go to the church library to read until prayer meeting began. I began teaching one of the children’s groups as a way to be useful.
Gradually we began to find community. We helped found a Sunday School class that used literature along with the Bible to hear the voice of God speaking. Sitting in the same place for worship every Sunday, we began to meet those who sat around us. I took organ lessons from the church organist and reclaimed a talent that had been neglected since college. I joined an exercise class that met in the church gym and brought my youngest with me to the childcare that was provided. There I met other young mothers who became part of my church family. A small church within a larger church...
Regardless of the size or theology or worship style, each community was chock full of people who were real, pretty or not. And, that included me. That is the gift and the curse of organized local churches... a place where folks are real like the Velveteen Rabbit, rough and worn out and angry and sad and happy and smart and dumb as a post. In other institutions where our livelihood or our public character needs protection, we play nicely. The church, however, is one place where most of us let it all hang out on the community clothesline to dry. To my mind, that is one very good reason for being a part of a faith community. Like home, most churches will take you whatever shape you are in. Alcoholic? Come on down. Nag? We have a seat saved for you. Single parent hanging on by your toenails? Sit by me. Upper middle class white male? Junior League soccer mom? Illiterate young adult? We have a spot for you. Come rub shoulders with the rest of us works in progress and lets be real together. Not purty, but real.
As I embark on a new church journey, I give thanks for all the real people who have been my faith family through the years. I am looking forward to being initiated into this new family of mixed up folks who are my travel companions on this trip. We are red and yellow, black and white, precious in the sight of the One who holds us together with the love that transforms the rough places into pearls of great price. Traveling mercies for us all, Lord, as we make our way home to you.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Beach notes 2010...
Beach notes 2010...
I walk the beach early every morning. I wake, have my first cup of tea and go to the beach, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by my oldest grandson, Matthew. Sunrise and sunset are for me the most precious times of the day at the beach. Quiet, empty spaces of endless sand and water move me towards the boundless God who set this wonderful creation in the midst of an unimaginably vast system of planets, stars, suns and moons.
My first drawing for the week is of my foot on the beach seen from above. I walk the beach with my feet passing through a universe of small shells. As I examine the remnants of the little lives once lived in these tiny hard houses, I feel like a god. Then I lift my eyes to the flat horizon, the ocean waves that never cease their dance of praise, the dolphins with graceful leaps of joy, the pelican squadrons flying low and in perfect formation, ghost crabs lifting cautious eyes above their sand hole homes scouting out the territory, and I remember it is God who has made us all.
Ours was the last generation to worship the sun. Doctors prescribed walks in strollers outdoors for babies because the sun was good for us. We worked in the fields until we were old copper penny brown pausing in the middle of the day for respite from the heat. Ladies of leisure (and teenagers) laid out in their backyards coated in a mixture of iodine and baby oil in search of the perfect tan. We rode on the ocean stretched out on reflective floats with our feet and hands dangling in the water, riding the waves, feeling the rhythm of the earth dance in the waves that flowed beneath us. The sun was our friend.
Now like so many other body parts of Mother Nature, the sun has been transformed into our enemy. We slather on concoctions of chemicals designed to hold the sun at bay, to protect us from its harmful rays only to discover some of the cures may be as dangerous as the UV rays.
We beach walkers come in at least three models. There are the straight up walkers who walk (or run) standing tall with arms pumping, looking to the right and left occasionally but focused on the goal that seems to lie straight ahead. They speak but rarely linger for conversation.
Others saunter, relaxed, dipping in and out of the waves as they walk. Sometimes they bend over to inspect a shell or stop and survey the horizon line. If someone passes by, a conversation may ensue. They take time to pet the dogs, smile at children and speak to those strangers who might be new friends.
And then there are the shell seekers who walk bent over, scuttling like crabs amidst the treasures cast up on the beach by the shell god. They pick up shells, inspect them, choose to keep or cast away, and return to the search looking up only to avoid collision with other shell seekers. Occasionally they stand straight to walk to the next patch of shells.
I confess I am a member in good standing with the saunterers and shell seekers. I have no goal or purpose when I walk the beach other than the discovery of beauty in whatever form I find it... moon shells with their iridescent spiral towards center, Duchess the English bulldog who loved me, little children building sand castles, dolphin bodies glistening grey, the turtle nest protected by a web of orange plastic, the moonlight path on the calm evening sea...a labyrinth of beauty with God at its center.
I am fascinated with shell fragments, the left overs when sun, sea and sand have carved the original shapes into new forms. My drawings are of pieces of sand dollars, old clam shells that are pitted and worn, small whelk shells that are shaved off on two sides, beach glass worn smooth, jagged edged scallop shells. I am a shell fragment, my soul worn down over the years to its core shape, open on all sides, jagged scars where wounds have healed imperfectly, pitted and scarred by my passage through life. And I am beautiful in my own time, a creation of God that is perfect in my own imperfection.
“God has made everything beautiful in its own time and has put eternity into our mind yet we cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” Thanks be to God for the beaches in this world that remind us of endless love and boundless grace, perfection in imperfection.
I walk the beach early every morning. I wake, have my first cup of tea and go to the beach, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by my oldest grandson, Matthew. Sunrise and sunset are for me the most precious times of the day at the beach. Quiet, empty spaces of endless sand and water move me towards the boundless God who set this wonderful creation in the midst of an unimaginably vast system of planets, stars, suns and moons.
My first drawing for the week is of my foot on the beach seen from above. I walk the beach with my feet passing through a universe of small shells. As I examine the remnants of the little lives once lived in these tiny hard houses, I feel like a god. Then I lift my eyes to the flat horizon, the ocean waves that never cease their dance of praise, the dolphins with graceful leaps of joy, the pelican squadrons flying low and in perfect formation, ghost crabs lifting cautious eyes above their sand hole homes scouting out the territory, and I remember it is God who has made us all.
Ours was the last generation to worship the sun. Doctors prescribed walks in strollers outdoors for babies because the sun was good for us. We worked in the fields until we were old copper penny brown pausing in the middle of the day for respite from the heat. Ladies of leisure (and teenagers) laid out in their backyards coated in a mixture of iodine and baby oil in search of the perfect tan. We rode on the ocean stretched out on reflective floats with our feet and hands dangling in the water, riding the waves, feeling the rhythm of the earth dance in the waves that flowed beneath us. The sun was our friend.
Now like so many other body parts of Mother Nature, the sun has been transformed into our enemy. We slather on concoctions of chemicals designed to hold the sun at bay, to protect us from its harmful rays only to discover some of the cures may be as dangerous as the UV rays.
We beach walkers come in at least three models. There are the straight up walkers who walk (or run) standing tall with arms pumping, looking to the right and left occasionally but focused on the goal that seems to lie straight ahead. They speak but rarely linger for conversation.
Others saunter, relaxed, dipping in and out of the waves as they walk. Sometimes they bend over to inspect a shell or stop and survey the horizon line. If someone passes by, a conversation may ensue. They take time to pet the dogs, smile at children and speak to those strangers who might be new friends.
And then there are the shell seekers who walk bent over, scuttling like crabs amidst the treasures cast up on the beach by the shell god. They pick up shells, inspect them, choose to keep or cast away, and return to the search looking up only to avoid collision with other shell seekers. Occasionally they stand straight to walk to the next patch of shells.
I confess I am a member in good standing with the saunterers and shell seekers. I have no goal or purpose when I walk the beach other than the discovery of beauty in whatever form I find it... moon shells with their iridescent spiral towards center, Duchess the English bulldog who loved me, little children building sand castles, dolphin bodies glistening grey, the turtle nest protected by a web of orange plastic, the moonlight path on the calm evening sea...a labyrinth of beauty with God at its center.
I am fascinated with shell fragments, the left overs when sun, sea and sand have carved the original shapes into new forms. My drawings are of pieces of sand dollars, old clam shells that are pitted and worn, small whelk shells that are shaved off on two sides, beach glass worn smooth, jagged edged scallop shells. I am a shell fragment, my soul worn down over the years to its core shape, open on all sides, jagged scars where wounds have healed imperfectly, pitted and scarred by my passage through life. And I am beautiful in my own time, a creation of God that is perfect in my own imperfection.
“God has made everything beautiful in its own time and has put eternity into our mind yet we cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” Thanks be to God for the beaches in this world that remind us of endless love and boundless grace, perfection in imperfection.
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