As I sat in the waiting room while mama had a CAT scan, I heard her crying. I looked over my shoulder and saw her sitting by the front door, head bowed, hands in her lap. I entered the valley of indecision… Should I leave her alone? Should I go to her? Back and forth I argued in my head until I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I stood and moved towards her. What do you say to total stranger who is in distress? I settled on “Can I get you a cup of tea?” She lifted her face towards me, her cheeks streaked with tears, told me she had not been able to keep anything down for 72 hours and thanked me for asking. I sat down in the chair next to her as words and feelings began spilling out in an unquenchable flood. For the next thirty minutes, I was a chalice, the receiver of her lifeblood, as she told me her story. In the midst of her recitation of illnesses, an anguished cry came from her soul. “I am only 46. I don’t want to die.” For that, I had no words. All I could do was hold her hand and pass the Kleenex. Mama came out as the nurse came to get stephanie. She hugged me, hard, thanked me for listening and I promised to pray for her. Sometimes at the end of our ropes, prayer is the knot that helps us hang on. It was all I could offer in the moment so I am praying for her.
The name Stephanie is of Greek origin and means a crown or garland. It is also related to one of the first Christian martyrs, Stephen, who was stoned to death. Some of us wear our suffering like a crown and are readily identified. Stephanie’s struggle, her pain and fear were visible and it was easy for me to reach out to her. Most of us, however, walk around with interior tears, invisible struggles, and buried broken hearts. For those of us who weep on the inside, the phrase “How are you doing?” is a loaded question that rarely comes at an opportune moment.
Dear One, You remember the feel of tears on your cheeks, the pain of a breaking heart and the solitude of despair. Help me this day to be your voice, your arms, your hands as I move among your children who are in need. Bring someone to me, too, Lord, so that as I give, I might learn the lesson of letting others care for me. Thank you for the complexities of life and death, for our comrades who make the journey with us and for your everlasting love that holds us up when we can no longer stand on our own. Amen.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
I think I am becoming a child of mixed race parentage...
I think I am becoming a child of mixed race parentage…
The concert Sunday afternoon was lovely…African American spirituals, old hymns and a lovely contemporary Requiem. One of our daughters by choice was a part of the group so we showed up to fill the family pew. At the end of the concert, the singers launched out into a rousing gospel song, the kind that sets your feet tapping and your hands clapping. It was great fun and all the white people in the church were enthusiastic participants. That scene has been looping through my soul this week and I have been mulling over what it was that hooked me.
As many of you know, I am part of an African American Presbyterian church. Many times I am asked what it is that draws me to this Body of Christ and I think I have a piece of the answer. I am there because God is working on me, helping me become a part of a people who know the meaning of suffering and dying in their bones, their DNA. As a white child of the Deep South, dark skinned folks surrounded me but unlike The Help, my family didn’t have household help of any kind. My experience was limited to Sunday afternoon porch sitting while listening to the singing at the AME church across the road. It was a benign patronage, the recognition of our differences without much appreciation for the commonalities.
Now, every Sunday, I am a part of a choir and a community who are both much the same as I and yet very different. The music we sing is regular hymns and rocking gospel. The song at the end of the concert is a part of my new worship reality. Word theology is not nearly as important as the theology of experience. Martin Luther King Sunday happens every Sunday for me as I feel my soul’s way into a new way of being.
Pastor Pat preached on the Lazerus story Sunday and she gave me a new appreciation for Thomas, the doubting one. She reminded us that when the disciples were worried about Jesus’ safety if he traveled to Mary and Martha, Thomas was the one who was willing to go with Jesus and die in Bethany if that was what it took to save Lazerus. In a small way, I am laying down all my previous worship experiences and needs, my life as a white Christian, so that I might become a part of the extended Family of God. It is not always easy but it is always good.
I am being adopted into a family that is teaching me again how to lay down my life for all God’s children. It doesn’t happen just because you mean well but it happens when you show up, over and over, for choir practice, Bible study, Room in the Inn, women’s groups, gospel sings, worship on Sundays, parties in the home and the hospital. Thanks be to God for my family at Calvary Presbyterian/Berry Temple Methodist. They love me, Sunday morning hats and Southern Baptist can’t quite get the beat me, and I love them. I am beginning to hear and feel a little of the African American dance towards God. Who knows? Maybe one day I will be able to cut loose and join in!
The concert Sunday afternoon was lovely…African American spirituals, old hymns and a lovely contemporary Requiem. One of our daughters by choice was a part of the group so we showed up to fill the family pew. At the end of the concert, the singers launched out into a rousing gospel song, the kind that sets your feet tapping and your hands clapping. It was great fun and all the white people in the church were enthusiastic participants. That scene has been looping through my soul this week and I have been mulling over what it was that hooked me.
As many of you know, I am part of an African American Presbyterian church. Many times I am asked what it is that draws me to this Body of Christ and I think I have a piece of the answer. I am there because God is working on me, helping me become a part of a people who know the meaning of suffering and dying in their bones, their DNA. As a white child of the Deep South, dark skinned folks surrounded me but unlike The Help, my family didn’t have household help of any kind. My experience was limited to Sunday afternoon porch sitting while listening to the singing at the AME church across the road. It was a benign patronage, the recognition of our differences without much appreciation for the commonalities.
Now, every Sunday, I am a part of a choir and a community who are both much the same as I and yet very different. The music we sing is regular hymns and rocking gospel. The song at the end of the concert is a part of my new worship reality. Word theology is not nearly as important as the theology of experience. Martin Luther King Sunday happens every Sunday for me as I feel my soul’s way into a new way of being.
Pastor Pat preached on the Lazerus story Sunday and she gave me a new appreciation for Thomas, the doubting one. She reminded us that when the disciples were worried about Jesus’ safety if he traveled to Mary and Martha, Thomas was the one who was willing to go with Jesus and die in Bethany if that was what it took to save Lazerus. In a small way, I am laying down all my previous worship experiences and needs, my life as a white Christian, so that I might become a part of the extended Family of God. It is not always easy but it is always good.
I am being adopted into a family that is teaching me again how to lay down my life for all God’s children. It doesn’t happen just because you mean well but it happens when you show up, over and over, for choir practice, Bible study, Room in the Inn, women’s groups, gospel sings, worship on Sundays, parties in the home and the hospital. Thanks be to God for my family at Calvary Presbyterian/Berry Temple Methodist. They love me, Sunday morning hats and Southern Baptist can’t quite get the beat me, and I love them. I am beginning to hear and feel a little of the African American dance towards God. Who knows? Maybe one day I will be able to cut loose and join in!
Sunday, September 23, 2012
The five G's of my life
It has been an interesting week full of the usual… mucking and feeding and cooking and a birthday party for farm family and choir practice and bill paying (not much cleaning)… as well as the unusual… preparing to share why and how I write with a book group of friends. All week I have been chewing my writing cud, looking for themes, considering the causes, reflecting on the reasons I write what I write and why I write at all. So here goes, my journey down memory lane, the roads taken and not taken.
My family valued reading, education, and ideas. We were comfortable with the world of words and our family games were word games…crossword puzzles, Reader’s Digest Word Power. Interestingly enough, words connected to feelings were often in short supply but the language of ideas, history, science, the Bible, literature were part of our daily lives. We had no television or telephone so our evenings were spent reading, our noses buried in a book or magazine, occasionally coming up for air or a snack cozily wrapped up in a world of our imagining.
My love of words, the power of words, the endless possibilities in words began there, in my childhood. I loved hearing my Grandma cuss. She never used the cuss words everyone else did. She invented her own. “Dog bite it!” was her favorite. My mother’s Virginia accent gave an exquisite slightly foreign flavor to her speech, especially words with “ou” in them. My father’s family had the middle Georgia twang drawl and words with a different sound. Spoken words have an audible richness that is impossible to convey in written words. I loved them all.
As an introvert who did not learn the language of feelings, I have always had difficulty speaking up unless strongly provoked. Even then, tears and chin quivers could make what I was trying to say unintelligible. Writing feelings was easy. I could take my time, be precise in description, not have to deal with an immediate response and be on the defensive. The written word allows me to soar and stumble without feeling the pressure of immediacy and face to face response.
Even so, I could not have done this in my twenties and thirties. I was not enough myself. Caught up in the loving mayhem of having and raising a family, I had precious little time for reflection between homework, soccer, piano lessons, leading retreats, breastfeeding, endless conversations beginning with the word “Why?” , church responsibilities, part time work, shopping for food, planning meals, cooking meals, cleaning up after meals… all the outward work that accompanies family. Many days were spent moving from one task to another simply trying to keep up. And for a person with ADD, that is a special challenge all by itself. Those years were years of brewing, simmering, melding the ingredients of my life into a savory stew and I now have time to stir the pot and see what floats to the surface.
I began my public writing as a spiritual exercise. My calligraphy, a source of creative joy, had dwindled, my art classes at UNCA had ended and I had no steady outlet for my need to “make all things new”. So I began a small daily journal and shared it with a few friends via e-mail. The first time I pushed the send button, my heart stopped. To put my most protected self out in the ether, to be read by friends and others, scared me to death. In the midst of a crisis, the loss of a church community that had been a central part of my life, writing helped me speak my truth. Begun in anger and grief, fueled by feelings of despair and desperation, writing gave me distance from the struggle, a perspective that was tangible. And then Cindy came, showed me how to set up a blog and there I was, out in the world of anonymous internet relationships. So I was launched as a writer.
For a year or two, with the help of another friend, I danced around the idea of publishing my work. It never happened and this week, I figured out why. My introvert self could not bear the pressure of so much exposure. My ego needs are met in other ways. Being on Oprah and a part of Oprah’s book club has never been high on my bucket list. That’s one reason. I feared my ADD self would be driven to distraction by the demands of the process and I would lose more than I would gain. That’s another reason. I am a private person in many ways. Michael says he learns more about me through my writing than any other way. My river of life lives underground and when it comes up into the light of day, it cannot stay there without drying up. The business of my writing is the development of my soul, the enrichment of my spirit and the art of worshipping the One who gave me life. Sharing what I write is another spiritual exercise that pushes me beyond my comfort level, makes me vulnerable to others and their response.
Through the years I have learned that facts, logic and reason are not my forte. That arena belongs to others like my good friends Thomas Askew and Mark Kurdys. I am a feeler, a translator of feelings, an interpreter of my experiences in life, my encounters with all that is holy and transcendent in the muck and mire of my daily living. I am a mystic who believes in science and facts and reason, who sees the limits of both knowledge and feeling, who recognizes my limits and celebrates them. I am comfortable floating in the Sea of the Great Unknown and feel no need to be anchored to anyone or anything beyond the Loving One who is my buoyancy, my unsinkableness, my everlasting portion. I write because it is one of the gifts given me and it is the tithe I owe my God. And in the act of writing, I give thanks for the five “G’s” of my life… guilt, grace, grief, gratitude and God. It is more than enough. Selah.
My family valued reading, education, and ideas. We were comfortable with the world of words and our family games were word games…crossword puzzles, Reader’s Digest Word Power. Interestingly enough, words connected to feelings were often in short supply but the language of ideas, history, science, the Bible, literature were part of our daily lives. We had no television or telephone so our evenings were spent reading, our noses buried in a book or magazine, occasionally coming up for air or a snack cozily wrapped up in a world of our imagining.
My love of words, the power of words, the endless possibilities in words began there, in my childhood. I loved hearing my Grandma cuss. She never used the cuss words everyone else did. She invented her own. “Dog bite it!” was her favorite. My mother’s Virginia accent gave an exquisite slightly foreign flavor to her speech, especially words with “ou” in them. My father’s family had the middle Georgia twang drawl and words with a different sound. Spoken words have an audible richness that is impossible to convey in written words. I loved them all.
As an introvert who did not learn the language of feelings, I have always had difficulty speaking up unless strongly provoked. Even then, tears and chin quivers could make what I was trying to say unintelligible. Writing feelings was easy. I could take my time, be precise in description, not have to deal with an immediate response and be on the defensive. The written word allows me to soar and stumble without feeling the pressure of immediacy and face to face response.
Even so, I could not have done this in my twenties and thirties. I was not enough myself. Caught up in the loving mayhem of having and raising a family, I had precious little time for reflection between homework, soccer, piano lessons, leading retreats, breastfeeding, endless conversations beginning with the word “Why?” , church responsibilities, part time work, shopping for food, planning meals, cooking meals, cleaning up after meals… all the outward work that accompanies family. Many days were spent moving from one task to another simply trying to keep up. And for a person with ADD, that is a special challenge all by itself. Those years were years of brewing, simmering, melding the ingredients of my life into a savory stew and I now have time to stir the pot and see what floats to the surface.
I began my public writing as a spiritual exercise. My calligraphy, a source of creative joy, had dwindled, my art classes at UNCA had ended and I had no steady outlet for my need to “make all things new”. So I began a small daily journal and shared it with a few friends via e-mail. The first time I pushed the send button, my heart stopped. To put my most protected self out in the ether, to be read by friends and others, scared me to death. In the midst of a crisis, the loss of a church community that had been a central part of my life, writing helped me speak my truth. Begun in anger and grief, fueled by feelings of despair and desperation, writing gave me distance from the struggle, a perspective that was tangible. And then Cindy came, showed me how to set up a blog and there I was, out in the world of anonymous internet relationships. So I was launched as a writer.
For a year or two, with the help of another friend, I danced around the idea of publishing my work. It never happened and this week, I figured out why. My introvert self could not bear the pressure of so much exposure. My ego needs are met in other ways. Being on Oprah and a part of Oprah’s book club has never been high on my bucket list. That’s one reason. I feared my ADD self would be driven to distraction by the demands of the process and I would lose more than I would gain. That’s another reason. I am a private person in many ways. Michael says he learns more about me through my writing than any other way. My river of life lives underground and when it comes up into the light of day, it cannot stay there without drying up. The business of my writing is the development of my soul, the enrichment of my spirit and the art of worshipping the One who gave me life. Sharing what I write is another spiritual exercise that pushes me beyond my comfort level, makes me vulnerable to others and their response.
Through the years I have learned that facts, logic and reason are not my forte. That arena belongs to others like my good friends Thomas Askew and Mark Kurdys. I am a feeler, a translator of feelings, an interpreter of my experiences in life, my encounters with all that is holy and transcendent in the muck and mire of my daily living. I am a mystic who believes in science and facts and reason, who sees the limits of both knowledge and feeling, who recognizes my limits and celebrates them. I am comfortable floating in the Sea of the Great Unknown and feel no need to be anchored to anyone or anything beyond the Loving One who is my buoyancy, my unsinkableness, my everlasting portion. I write because it is one of the gifts given me and it is the tithe I owe my God. And in the act of writing, I give thanks for the five “G’s” of my life… guilt, grace, grief, gratitude and God. It is more than enough. Selah.
Church...Alternative and Otherwise
Born out of bewilderment, grief and anger, the book group has met monthly for over thirty years now becoming a family of faith and foundation, one for all and all for one.
They were among the best and the brightest in our church. Young families, aspiring professionals and at home moms, educated, faith seeking, willing to work for the kingdoms sake within and without the walls of Kathwood Baptist Church. Their creativity was matched by their commitment and it was an honor to be a part of their community. Other darker forces were at work within those walls, however, and eventually they drove Michael to resign suddenly and without warning leaving a hole of anger and grief among the group we loved so dearly.
This gifted group of individualists, bound together by experience, did their thing with flair, style and grace. Once a month they meet in a home, share a meal, discuss the book under consideration, check in on how everyone is doing and church happens. They have reared their children together worrying over all who have gone astray and rejoicing in their return home. When illness comes knocking at the door, they show up right behind the doctors. They laugh (a lot), they cry when necessary, they stay open to the possibilities of God in their midst and they are the Family of God for each other. I grieve the loss of our being a part of this community but I celebrate their wit and wisdom, their continuing commitment to God’s work, and their gracious inclusion of us in the family circle.
Pastor Pat preached from Mark a Sunday or so ago, told the story of Jesus and the disciples attempting to flee the crowds for some rest and relaxation by boat. The folks saw where they were going and ran on ahead. Others joined them and by the time the boat docked, there was no rest for the weary. Jesus must have caught a nap in the boat because he didn’t have a hissy fit at the sight of the multitudes of seekers. He waded into the water of all those souls in need and did his thing with flair, style and grace. Pat reminded us St. Augustine said we are restless until we find God. And when we find God, she said, sometimes we need to run ahead so we might be in place to touch God when She shows up.
The book group ran on ahead. Not waiting for God to come back to the same old place, they ran ahead to a new spot along the shore and God showed up every month for thirty years in the laughter and tears, the learning and lessons of Life creating a place of healing and hope for those who gathered there.
Thanks be to God for the steadfast love that binds us together. When all else fails, it calls us to run ahead, to keep on keeping on, to not forget and not give up, to go where we need to go to be healed. Help us run and not be weary, Lord, when you whistle from afar off calling us home before the night falls. May it be so, please?
They were among the best and the brightest in our church. Young families, aspiring professionals and at home moms, educated, faith seeking, willing to work for the kingdoms sake within and without the walls of Kathwood Baptist Church. Their creativity was matched by their commitment and it was an honor to be a part of their community. Other darker forces were at work within those walls, however, and eventually they drove Michael to resign suddenly and without warning leaving a hole of anger and grief among the group we loved so dearly.
This gifted group of individualists, bound together by experience, did their thing with flair, style and grace. Once a month they meet in a home, share a meal, discuss the book under consideration, check in on how everyone is doing and church happens. They have reared their children together worrying over all who have gone astray and rejoicing in their return home. When illness comes knocking at the door, they show up right behind the doctors. They laugh (a lot), they cry when necessary, they stay open to the possibilities of God in their midst and they are the Family of God for each other. I grieve the loss of our being a part of this community but I celebrate their wit and wisdom, their continuing commitment to God’s work, and their gracious inclusion of us in the family circle.
Pastor Pat preached from Mark a Sunday or so ago, told the story of Jesus and the disciples attempting to flee the crowds for some rest and relaxation by boat. The folks saw where they were going and ran on ahead. Others joined them and by the time the boat docked, there was no rest for the weary. Jesus must have caught a nap in the boat because he didn’t have a hissy fit at the sight of the multitudes of seekers. He waded into the water of all those souls in need and did his thing with flair, style and grace. Pat reminded us St. Augustine said we are restless until we find God. And when we find God, she said, sometimes we need to run ahead so we might be in place to touch God when She shows up.
The book group ran on ahead. Not waiting for God to come back to the same old place, they ran ahead to a new spot along the shore and God showed up every month for thirty years in the laughter and tears, the learning and lessons of Life creating a place of healing and hope for those who gathered there.
Thanks be to God for the steadfast love that binds us together. When all else fails, it calls us to run ahead, to keep on keeping on, to not forget and not give up, to go where we need to go to be healed. Help us run and not be weary, Lord, when you whistle from afar off calling us home before the night falls. May it be so, please?
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