A Mother's Prayer...

Mama wore a white rose to church Sunday to honor her mother. This old custom, a red rose for a living mother and a white rose for a mother who has died, is rarely observed except by our older generation. As a child, I remember going to the red rose bush in our front yard early on Mother’s Day Sunday to clip four red roses, one for each of us with Daddy included, to wear to worship. We pinned them to our Sunday finery and joined all the other folks in our little church honoring those who gave us birth. The pastor always honored the oldest mother, the same one every year, the mother with the most children, also the same each year, and the newest mother, that changed from year to year. We sang hymns from the section labeled “Mother’s Songs”… Memories of Mother, The Sweetest Story Ever Told, Tell Mother I’ll Be There, Faith of Our Mothers, Mother Knows, O Blessed Day of Motherhood, My Mother’s Prayer, My Mother’s Bible. Schmaltzy? Yes. Sentimental? Yes. Fun? Yes. True? Yes.
I know some who love theology scoff at these “secular cultural observances” in worship but I miss them. Our faith does not exist in a cultural vacuum. It never has. Christians have always appropriated the culture and transformed it. Our most sacred holy days correspond in many ways with holy days from earlier faith traditions and we sing Christmas carols to tunes not written for worship. Mother ‘s and Father’s Days seem to me to be a wonderful opportunity to teach and honor parents who lay down their lives for their children. Even those who have struggled with the pain of being childless or for those who have had children die, there is or was a mother. For those who suffered at the hands of their mothers, there is the possibility of redemption and resurrection.
God, our mother and father, the birth parent of us all, holds us close to his breast (how is that for a mixed metaphor?) and sets us free to find other mothers and fathers in our world. I am grateful for all the other mothers in my children’s lives. I couldn’t have done it without you. You took them to church and Sunday School, let them come over to your house to play, hosted the church youth group, were their friends on mission trips, listened to them gripe about me and never snitched, were their friends when life got messy, showed up for their weddings and keep up with them now that they are all grown up. Thanks for being the Mother Face of God for my children. And I need to thank all the women who have been my mothers over the years. You taught me how to cook for crowds, to wear beautiful hats, think for myself, pray without knowing exactly how prayer works, play the piano in church, patted me on the back and kicked me into action, challenged and supported me as I struggled to find my voice.
Mark reminded us in worship Sunday that Jesus’ first recorded words in the Bible are when he sassed his mother. She had the nerve to take him to task for staying behind at the temple instead of coming home. Mary’s anguished on my last nerve question…What were you thinking? Didn’t you know your father and I would be worried about you?...was answered with all the assurance a young boy could muster…You should have known where I was. I have begun my career as God’s Son. Makes you wonder if Mary yanked him up by the scruff of his neck to haul him home. Whatever she did, it worked because we read that he went back to Nazareth , lived with his parents and was obedient. And at the end of his life, his last task was to speak to his mother, giving her a son to take his place, his beloved disciple, John. His ministry at its beginning and its ending was bookmarked with words to his mother.
So for all my mothers out there, imperfect as we all are, I tip my Sunday hat to you and give thanks for your persistent love, the persons of Mother God in my world. I think I will wear a red rose this Sunday to worship in your honor and hold your names in my heart as I pray.

Burnout...a gift of grace

When we first moved to Sabbath Rest Farm, there was a lot of clearing out to do. Over the years the ground had grown up in multiflora rose, black pines, and briars. The pastures were run down and the grass blanketed with weeds. The hill in front of our house was cleared as the old road, deeply rutted, was reshaped and a new road put in. The debris was piled and burned on the side of the hill after the work was completed. The next spring, as the grass greened, a patch of grass at the site of the burn pile, was noticeably greener than all the other grass on the hillside. It continues to be greener each year.
Farmers in South Georgia routinely burn their pastures every year at winter’s end. Daddy always said it killed off some weed seeds, removed last year’s thatch from the grass and provided some natural fertilizer. Preparation was simple but necessary. You put some water in a tank on the truck and drove the fence line, wetting down the edges of the field and the fence posts. The water also meant you could drench wayward embers. Grass burns quickly and cleanly so the farmer always stayed with the fire, walking the perimeter, making sure the burn did not escape. You kept an eye on the fence posts because you did not want them to burn and when the little fire had raced across the field, you drove the field again, putting out hot spots. By protecting your fence line, you were also protecting your neighbor’s land and the surrounding woodland. When spring came, the green grass grew cleanly, evenly across the fields because all the trash had been burned away.
These past few months, the pasture of my soul has been burned in preparation for new life to come. These burns have come before and will come again. I hope I have been a good farmer, tending the burn line, checking the hot spots, being present to the process. I have used the Water of Life to contain the burn and now wait for the greening time to come. The thatch of complacency and the weed seeds of “I can do it myself” have been burned away. Once again I have been given a gift, the reminder that we all stand in need and as we ask for help, receive help and in return become helpers, we are the Family of God. Thank you, my loved ones for building fence lines, feeding animals, calling and kicking my rear end, calling and not kicking my rear end, bringing food, porch sitting, listening and loving me through this grass burn. When you need me, give a holler and I will return the favor. Grace was given to each of us, Saint Paul says, according to the measure of Christ’s gift. My tank is full, overflowing with grace and I am grateful.

Spring has sprung...

It is cool and quiet in the almost light morning. More rain is on the way. It is always surprising how quickly the earth hardens from mud to a baked surface. The hay is standing tall in the fields and if it warms up, we will be cutting hay sooner rather than later. Mother’s Day has traditionally been the dividing line for garden planting in the mountains. Gary and Leisa planted corn and beans in our garden space. The beans will climb the corn stalks and with a little luck, the human beings may get some corn before the raccoons get it all. Spraying the horses and cows for flies is now a weekly job, another sure sign the warm weather is here.
Baby rabbits sit by the road, frozen and hoping to become invisible. Bluebird parents fly back and forth, endlessly feeding the brood inside the birdhouses. A black snake slithers down the bank as I mow the walking path. In the old berry patch, a box turtle sits soaking up the sun and raises his head as I pass by. The black bear that shares our farm visited mama last night, spending time beneath her bedroom window and leaving his tracks through her garden. She wants to fire her rifle to scare him off. Animal lover that she is, she would never intentionally hurt an animal. But, she would scare the bejezus out of the bear to protect her cats. We haven’t seen the wild white turkey recently. Turkey hunting season culls the flock and he may have been killed. Gary has a beautiful picture of him with his tail spread.Once again all creation is obeying God’s admonition to go forth and multiply.
The turning point, the still point, the time when time holds still as one season ends and another begins, is sacred ground. For those who have ears to hear bird song and eyes to see invisible baby rabbits, God’s tracks in our world are everywhere. I listen to the soft turkey gobbles in the woods below our house as I walk to the stable in the morning and hear “all is well, all is well”. The rooster crows and crows, pushing the world to get up and get moving, doing the work he was given in creation. The horses’ coats are slick and shiny. They have shed all the extra coats of winter and lightened up for spring and summer. I need to let go of some of my extra coats that have grown this winter and prepare for new life yet to come.
God said in Genesis, “Let there be lights in the firmament of the heavens to separate day from night; and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years…” So it has been since time began and so it is now. The lights in the firmament of heaven mark the seasons and are a sign of God’s presence in our natural world. The ground we walk on is God’s ground. When we breathe in soft spring air, we breathe in God’s breath. When we sit in silence, we hear God passing by in the rush of wings or the rumble of thunder. Sunlight, moonlight, and starlight mark the passage of time, time with God in a world that renews and recreates itself year after year. Spring has sprung here at Sabbath Rest Farm and spring will spring in me. Thanks be to God for new seasons of rest and renewal. Selah.