The cry is disturbing, discordant as it pierces the evening dusk. It raises the hair on your arms and vague memories of stories told about panther screams in the woods float to the surface. Speculation about the source of the sound is the new game at the farm until one afternoon, walkers spot a peacock in the pasture with the wild turkeys. It is the peacock cry we have been hearing…strident, strong, grating to the ears. Living in the country, you become accustomed to strays dumped by feckless folk who do not subscribe to the Saint Francis model for living with animals. This is a first for us though… a peacock who may have wandered from home and now runs with the wild turkeys that roost in the woods below our bedroom window. No one has seen the loud peafowl since the initial sighting but he has made his presence known nonetheless. The rooster crows, the peacock cries and our morning alarms have been sounded. Harsh sounds, minor key sounds…
Oldtimers knew that life was not always pretty, pleasant and triumphant. Their church music reflected their translation of life and faith as both minor and major keys. These days, most of what I hear in “modern” church music is relentlessly upbeat, cheery, toe tapping handclapping singalong tunes that exclude the possibility of anguish and defeat for God’s people… the minor key. Real life, life of faith and promise, is lived with both major and minor key changes as a part of our human experience. One without the other is a form of cheap grace or unending worthlessness. If all we ever sing is joy, joy, joy, what happens when we need to flee as a bird to the mountains?
In the Broadman Hymnal, number 459 is Flee as a Bird written by Mrs. M.S.B. Davis. Dramatic, a tad overdone perhaps, this song from my youth nevertheless captures me with the image of a bird fleeing to the mountains, the minor key sounds punctuated with occasional major key chords. A song full of words of assurance…peace then shall flow like a river; He will protect thee forever; thou shalt be saved from thy fear… sung in a minor key. We are the sum of both and not an expression of either or.
I sing with Mrs. M.S.B. Davis and the peacock… Flee as a bird to the mountain, thou who art weary of sin. I give thanks for all the songs of my life in major and minor keys that lift my spirit and keep me tethered to the One who hears all the songs of my heart, the One who sings along with me whatever key I am in. It is more than enough. Amen.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Monday, June 3, 2013
Friemily...
I looked around the table at those dear beloved faces yesterday and gave thanks for my family. We were gathered for a funeral. Catherine’s husband Art died last week after a long illness so his death was not unexpected. Walt, MaryLynn, Ida, Gus, Claudie, Janis, Michael and I had come to be a part of Catherine’s public goodbye to her husband. As we drank coffee and lemonade, I listened to Claudie try to tell MaryLynn what to do for the umpteenth time and of course she didn’t do it. Walt showed us his new trick... using one arm to lift another arm... taught to him by his myasthenia gravis. Gus, diminished by illness, could still summon a twinkle and a pithy comment. All the women hugged, compared outfits, spoke of the inconsequential along with the monumental as we loved on one another. Our presence was all that was required for Catherine who was surrounded by other family and friends. She sat with us towards the end of the reception and we planned meals for our next gathering at the end of June.
It is impossible to explain the connection we feel for one another, this family of choice. The early time together spent building a church in Cherokee formed bonds that somehow have been redeemed in our old age. Now when we sit around tables, we ask about children and grandchildren, bear and bare our struggles together with grace and gratitude, laugh a lot, hug a lot, cry a little and as always, leave looking forward to our next gathering time.
Good family is hard to come by and I have been graced with an abundance of friends who are family and family who are friends. Grady Nutt got it right when he coined that phrase. I do not take this gift lightly. It is a wonderful benediction to receive at this time in my life. Some friemily are of long standing years and some are relative newcomers but all are cherished for the gifts of love and straight talk they bring to me.
A phrase from Job... the friendship of God was upon my tent... is the perfect description of the manifestation of God’s love at work in my life through friends who are family and family who are friends. Catherine, how can I keep from singing?
An inside family joke_ Catherine used to get so mad at me in Cherokee when I woke up singing in the morning at the crack of dawn. She who must have coffee to speak was not amused by my morning concerts and told me so.
It is impossible to explain the connection we feel for one another, this family of choice. The early time together spent building a church in Cherokee formed bonds that somehow have been redeemed in our old age. Now when we sit around tables, we ask about children and grandchildren, bear and bare our struggles together with grace and gratitude, laugh a lot, hug a lot, cry a little and as always, leave looking forward to our next gathering time.
Good family is hard to come by and I have been graced with an abundance of friends who are family and family who are friends. Grady Nutt got it right when he coined that phrase. I do not take this gift lightly. It is a wonderful benediction to receive at this time in my life. Some friemily are of long standing years and some are relative newcomers but all are cherished for the gifts of love and straight talk they bring to me.
A phrase from Job... the friendship of God was upon my tent... is the perfect description of the manifestation of God’s love at work in my life through friends who are family and family who are friends. Catherine, how can I keep from singing?
An inside family joke_ Catherine used to get so mad at me in Cherokee when I woke up singing in the morning at the crack of dawn. She who must have coffee to speak was not amused by my morning concerts and told me so.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Sweet smell of grace...
I came back up the hill from the stables drunk on the scents of wild roses and honeysuckle. The air was laden with the sweet perfume of the obnoxious pests that choke out pastures and kill trees. Every thing has a saving grace, even these two invaders.
This assault on the senses comes with every season here on the farm. In the summer, the smell of fresh mown hay floats over our hills inviting you to come lie down and watch the clouds drift by. The soft songs of turkeys bedding down at night, the bell like peepers singing at the pond, the yipping of the coyotes in the darkness... my ears become attuned to the sounds of summer. Junie B’s coat is slick and shiny, smooth to the touch. Lettuce fresh picked from the ground tastes crisp and sharp. In the mornings, the air is still as the heat of the day builds until the breezes begin in the afternoon. The feel of wind on sweaty skin is a call to give thanks for my body’s built in air conditioning system.
At the local nursery a few weeks ago, I bemoaned the unseasonable cold weather we were having. Wilma smiled and reminded me that I would be longing for this cool weather soon. Now in the middle of hay cooking heat and dry weather, I remember her words and smile. To everything, there is a season indeed.
Two of my close friends are enduring times of trial and tribulation. One is walking the way of the widow while the other is living with a husband who is dying by inches. I watch and wait, looking for the signs of their seasons, signs of saving grace. For the widow, a time of redefinition as a person standing alone, seeking to find balance in her new tree pose. Some days are easier than others but almost always, in each day, a small grace abounds. My friend who is waiting is surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, some with her in body and some in spirit, all loving her through this lonesome valley. She is one of my sisters from whom I was separated at birth (not really) and we found in each other a kindred spirit. In the midst of the choking reality of death and dying, the smell of grace is present.
Help me, Lord, to be present to the grace that is present in my life even when I am struggling to find my way through the wilderness. Let me not forget that this is the day you have made. I want to rejoice and be glad in it. Please?
This assault on the senses comes with every season here on the farm. In the summer, the smell of fresh mown hay floats over our hills inviting you to come lie down and watch the clouds drift by. The soft songs of turkeys bedding down at night, the bell like peepers singing at the pond, the yipping of the coyotes in the darkness... my ears become attuned to the sounds of summer. Junie B’s coat is slick and shiny, smooth to the touch. Lettuce fresh picked from the ground tastes crisp and sharp. In the mornings, the air is still as the heat of the day builds until the breezes begin in the afternoon. The feel of wind on sweaty skin is a call to give thanks for my body’s built in air conditioning system.
At the local nursery a few weeks ago, I bemoaned the unseasonable cold weather we were having. Wilma smiled and reminded me that I would be longing for this cool weather soon. Now in the middle of hay cooking heat and dry weather, I remember her words and smile. To everything, there is a season indeed.
Two of my close friends are enduring times of trial and tribulation. One is walking the way of the widow while the other is living with a husband who is dying by inches. I watch and wait, looking for the signs of their seasons, signs of saving grace. For the widow, a time of redefinition as a person standing alone, seeking to find balance in her new tree pose. Some days are easier than others but almost always, in each day, a small grace abounds. My friend who is waiting is surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, some with her in body and some in spirit, all loving her through this lonesome valley. She is one of my sisters from whom I was separated at birth (not really) and we found in each other a kindred spirit. In the midst of the choking reality of death and dying, the smell of grace is present.
Help me, Lord, to be present to the grace that is present in my life even when I am struggling to find my way through the wilderness. Let me not forget that this is the day you have made. I want to rejoice and be glad in it. Please?
Friday, May 10, 2013
Standing on my head...
Our almost two year old grandson Colby came for a visit recently (along with his mother, father and brother). When he left to go home, in addition to the usual left behind socks and dirty towels, Colby left me an unintentional surprise.
In our bedroom, a wicker mannequin head sits on stacked hat boxes wearing a vintage 1950’s hat. I have a fascination, a love affair with hats. I wear hats to church every Sunday (no bad hair days) and love the feeling of instant elegance that comes with wearing a hat. I stand straighter, feel like a lady. Colby, who has none of my finer feelings for hats, stood the mannequin on her head while she was still wearing the hat.
For several days I did not notice this, seeing only what I expected to see when I looked at that space by the dresser. Then one morning I woke early after sleeping on the “wrong side” of the bed while Michael recuperated from shoulder surgery on the other side. And, there it was in all its absurd glory... I laughed out loud.
Life is all a matter of perspective. Sometimes when i am topsy turvy, standing on my head with worry, grief, anger or fear, I will remember Colby’s gift to me and take a minute to breathe and laugh a little. I will remember that the world upside down is still the same wonderful world it has always been. I will remember that my interior upside downess is a part of the gift of life for me, a gift that can lead to new ways of being and doing. I will remember that God will help me right side up myself and give thanks for all the different ways of being in this world.
Thanks Colby for the laugh and the lesson. The mannequin is still standing on her head. She is my new totem pole, my reminder of all that has gone before and all that is yet to come.
In our bedroom, a wicker mannequin head sits on stacked hat boxes wearing a vintage 1950’s hat. I have a fascination, a love affair with hats. I wear hats to church every Sunday (no bad hair days) and love the feeling of instant elegance that comes with wearing a hat. I stand straighter, feel like a lady. Colby, who has none of my finer feelings for hats, stood the mannequin on her head while she was still wearing the hat.
For several days I did not notice this, seeing only what I expected to see when I looked at that space by the dresser. Then one morning I woke early after sleeping on the “wrong side” of the bed while Michael recuperated from shoulder surgery on the other side. And, there it was in all its absurd glory... I laughed out loud.
Life is all a matter of perspective. Sometimes when i am topsy turvy, standing on my head with worry, grief, anger or fear, I will remember Colby’s gift to me and take a minute to breathe and laugh a little. I will remember that the world upside down is still the same wonderful world it has always been. I will remember that my interior upside downess is a part of the gift of life for me, a gift that can lead to new ways of being and doing. I will remember that God will help me right side up myself and give thanks for all the different ways of being in this world.
Thanks Colby for the laugh and the lesson. The mannequin is still standing on her head. She is my new totem pole, my reminder of all that has gone before and all that is yet to come.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Skunked...
Woody came home from his walk skunked. Either he rolled in dead skunk or he got sprayed by Petunia, the skunk that takes her nocturnal constitutionals in our driveway. However it happened, the smell was oily, overpowering, overwhelming. Woody looked sheepish as if he understood we were not overjoyed to see him but managed to pull off a nonchalant attitude as he came on the back porch.
I flew to the computer and googled “skunk odor removal” and gathered what seemed to be an unlikely combination of ingredients... hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and liquid dish detergent. After applying the mixture to poor Woody and letting it sit for five minutes (any longer and he would have had bleached hair), I rinsed him off and he smelled fresh as a daisy. Hallelujah! A skunk remedy that actually works is worth its weight in gold when you need it.
This set me to thinking about skunk remedies in general and skunk remedies in particular for myself. What do I do or what can I do when I get skunked? After 67 years I have had some experience in this field but I am still learning new recipes every day. Pastor Pat helped direct my mulling over “skunkedness” this week with her sermon on Sunday so I want to give her credit for some of the following.
Like the disciples after Jesus’ death (and like Woody), we can go home again. When we are smelling to high heaven, flat out in misery, don’t know which way to turn, we can turn homeward. It may not be the home or the people who birthed you but we all have a home somewhere... a person, a place, a piece of music, a memory or an experience that is our heart’s resting place. Go home first. Lick your wounds or take your medicine or as in Woody’s case, let someone else tend to your stinkiness. You can’t take up residence there forever, though. You will get bleached out, become a shadow of your former self.
Jesus came to the disciples as they were back home fishing, a stranger in the early morning fog, and told them to put their nets in on the other side of the boat. After a night of pulling empty nets in, a night spent in bone weary work trying to ease the pain and confusion of their past week, they put the nets over the side one more time after grumbling a little, and pulled in a huge catch. When they got to shore, Jesus had breakfast ready and to homecoming was added the act of obedience. It is easy to be obedient when you know the ending of the story but it is painfully difficult to practice obedience when you are in a skunk fog. You have to listen for the voice of God in some pretty strange places and be willing to take action, even if you grumble a little...obedience as an active participation in the dance of life not a passive spectator sport. Obedience to the great commandment, love God and love your neighbor as yourself, is always a good place for me to start.
Somehow, and herein lies a great mystery, the acts of obedience pave the way for provision to be made... crooked paths become straight, the fog begins to lift a little, little miracles abound and a new way begins to form. As I extend myself in the name of God to those around me, God reaches back and pulls me along to a new place, a higher ground. God provides for me some heartsease as I meet the challenges of living through my smelly skunk times.
God never gives up on me. If one remedy for my smelly self doesn’t work, there is always another one to try. God keeps on showing up, prodding, poking, worrying me to death until I get the message. What a relief to know that I can never be separated from the love of God. At my worst, God still sees my best and is my creative source for change and growth towards who I am meant to be.
Thanks be to God for skunk remedies of all kinds...home coming, obedience, patient persistence, presence and participation. Skunked or not, I am all yours, God. Keep me close to you so that I might never lose sight of the path that leads home. Amen.
I flew to the computer and googled “skunk odor removal” and gathered what seemed to be an unlikely combination of ingredients... hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and liquid dish detergent. After applying the mixture to poor Woody and letting it sit for five minutes (any longer and he would have had bleached hair), I rinsed him off and he smelled fresh as a daisy. Hallelujah! A skunk remedy that actually works is worth its weight in gold when you need it.
This set me to thinking about skunk remedies in general and skunk remedies in particular for myself. What do I do or what can I do when I get skunked? After 67 years I have had some experience in this field but I am still learning new recipes every day. Pastor Pat helped direct my mulling over “skunkedness” this week with her sermon on Sunday so I want to give her credit for some of the following.
Like the disciples after Jesus’ death (and like Woody), we can go home again. When we are smelling to high heaven, flat out in misery, don’t know which way to turn, we can turn homeward. It may not be the home or the people who birthed you but we all have a home somewhere... a person, a place, a piece of music, a memory or an experience that is our heart’s resting place. Go home first. Lick your wounds or take your medicine or as in Woody’s case, let someone else tend to your stinkiness. You can’t take up residence there forever, though. You will get bleached out, become a shadow of your former self.
Jesus came to the disciples as they were back home fishing, a stranger in the early morning fog, and told them to put their nets in on the other side of the boat. After a night of pulling empty nets in, a night spent in bone weary work trying to ease the pain and confusion of their past week, they put the nets over the side one more time after grumbling a little, and pulled in a huge catch. When they got to shore, Jesus had breakfast ready and to homecoming was added the act of obedience. It is easy to be obedient when you know the ending of the story but it is painfully difficult to practice obedience when you are in a skunk fog. You have to listen for the voice of God in some pretty strange places and be willing to take action, even if you grumble a little...obedience as an active participation in the dance of life not a passive spectator sport. Obedience to the great commandment, love God and love your neighbor as yourself, is always a good place for me to start.
Somehow, and herein lies a great mystery, the acts of obedience pave the way for provision to be made... crooked paths become straight, the fog begins to lift a little, little miracles abound and a new way begins to form. As I extend myself in the name of God to those around me, God reaches back and pulls me along to a new place, a higher ground. God provides for me some heartsease as I meet the challenges of living through my smelly skunk times.
God never gives up on me. If one remedy for my smelly self doesn’t work, there is always another one to try. God keeps on showing up, prodding, poking, worrying me to death until I get the message. What a relief to know that I can never be separated from the love of God. At my worst, God still sees my best and is my creative source for change and growth towards who I am meant to be.
Thanks be to God for skunk remedies of all kinds...home coming, obedience, patient persistence, presence and participation. Skunked or not, I am all yours, God. Keep me close to you so that I might never lose sight of the path that leads home. Amen.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Holy Heartburn
Holy Heartburn!? (no interrobang on my punctuation keys)
This Sunday I was at worship in Alison and David’s church...College Park Baptist... and their Pastor, Michael Usey, preached using the road to Emmaus passage. In retelling this old story about the two believers being joined by a stranger on their walk home after the crucifixion, Michael used the phrase “holy heartburn” to describe the aftershock the believers felt when they realized Jesus had been their guest on the walk and for a meal. That phrase has been rocketing around in my head as I begin to process the past two months of my life.
A quick synopsis... our dear friend David, part of the farm family began actively dying... one of our children hit a really rough patch that required my presence for a month during the week to help with children... David died... a weekend trip to Pennsylvania for the first memorial service... another weekend memorial service and potluck at Sabbath Rest Farm attended by over 100 people...a horse with a hoof abcess...and added to the mix, calving season with one young heifer that had to be put down when the twins she was carrying died and she turned septic. Not exactly the equivalent of post crucifixion pre-resurrection angst but close...So now what? I am looking for the holy heartburn in the middle of all my back and forthing. Where has God been while I have been on the road these past weeks?
God has been present in the faces and arms of other people...friends who come when I call or scream for help. They step up, they do the work, they don’t keep score, they listen and love me through without judgement or advice. I am blessed with travel companions on this road.
God has been present in our family... sisters who tend to each other, a son in law who loves his wife and children enough to do some really hard work to change, our children who call and keep in touch, who visit us and seem to enjoy coming home to Sabbath Rest Farm, grandchildren who give us great joy in the midst of life its ownself, farm family who have been family in word and deed.
God has been present in the world around me on the Emmaus road... daffodils blooming in abundance, green grass springing up, Carolina blue skies, pear tree blooms, the sounds of turkeys talking softly to each other in the morning in the woods outside my bedroom window, the hammering of a woodpecker on the dead tree in the woods, the does and their babies standing in silence as I drive by, rabbits scampering through the yard at twilight, blue birds and indigo buntings a flash of blue streaks in the air around me, sunshine and rain, morning and evening.
I am surrounded by God’s presence and I am ever so grateful for holy heartburn that reminds me I am not alone. I am living, breathing and seeing God all around me even in times of trouble. Jesus said, “Lo, I am with you even unto the end of the age.” And so he is.
This Sunday I was at worship in Alison and David’s church...College Park Baptist... and their Pastor, Michael Usey, preached using the road to Emmaus passage. In retelling this old story about the two believers being joined by a stranger on their walk home after the crucifixion, Michael used the phrase “holy heartburn” to describe the aftershock the believers felt when they realized Jesus had been their guest on the walk and for a meal. That phrase has been rocketing around in my head as I begin to process the past two months of my life.
A quick synopsis... our dear friend David, part of the farm family began actively dying... one of our children hit a really rough patch that required my presence for a month during the week to help with children... David died... a weekend trip to Pennsylvania for the first memorial service... another weekend memorial service and potluck at Sabbath Rest Farm attended by over 100 people...a horse with a hoof abcess...and added to the mix, calving season with one young heifer that had to be put down when the twins she was carrying died and she turned septic. Not exactly the equivalent of post crucifixion pre-resurrection angst but close...So now what? I am looking for the holy heartburn in the middle of all my back and forthing. Where has God been while I have been on the road these past weeks?
God has been present in the faces and arms of other people...friends who come when I call or scream for help. They step up, they do the work, they don’t keep score, they listen and love me through without judgement or advice. I am blessed with travel companions on this road.
God has been present in our family... sisters who tend to each other, a son in law who loves his wife and children enough to do some really hard work to change, our children who call and keep in touch, who visit us and seem to enjoy coming home to Sabbath Rest Farm, grandchildren who give us great joy in the midst of life its ownself, farm family who have been family in word and deed.
God has been present in the world around me on the Emmaus road... daffodils blooming in abundance, green grass springing up, Carolina blue skies, pear tree blooms, the sounds of turkeys talking softly to each other in the morning in the woods outside my bedroom window, the hammering of a woodpecker on the dead tree in the woods, the does and their babies standing in silence as I drive by, rabbits scampering through the yard at twilight, blue birds and indigo buntings a flash of blue streaks in the air around me, sunshine and rain, morning and evening.
I am surrounded by God’s presence and I am ever so grateful for holy heartburn that reminds me I am not alone. I am living, breathing and seeing God all around me even in times of trouble. Jesus said, “Lo, I am with you even unto the end of the age.” And so he is.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Cold winds, bright sun...
The wind was biting cold, searing numb with snow blowing sideways as I went to the stable for morning chores. My Pippi Longstocking red hat kept my ears warm but there was no shelter for my face. Smudge and Bud met me halfway up the hill, ready for breakfast and morning pats. Shirley and Kate came and stood waiting for some attention. We all walked down the hill together, cats twining in and out of the donkey legs. Cats fed, I carried hay to the feeder before I let the horses out. They raced out with tails streaming in the wind, enlivened by the cold. After breaking the ice on the water, I cleaned the stalls while listening to NPR. As I made my way back up the hill, I stood by Junie B, my face buried in her flank, smelling the sweet horsiness, slowing my soul down.
It has been a sorrowful week for those of us here at Sabbath Rest Farm. We are preparing for the bodily departure of David Bair, our dear friend. Plans are being made for a Brats and Beer covered dish party after the memorial service at the party barn. David laughed at that idea. We will plant a redbud tree in his honor at a place Dianne chooses. We have been blessed to have him as a part of our lives these past years.
This morning the snowy wind is gone, replaced by a bright hard edged sunshine light in a clear Carolina blue sky. In this light, I can see far away the overlapping mountains that seem to roll like ocean waves towards the horizon. It is a beautiful day, not yet spring but on the edge of new life...as is David.
I am transfixed by this period of time in-between, luminescent and light filled even as the cold winds of death claim the body. Life seems more alive, more precious in its immediacy, and infinitely more loving as the extraneous is stripped away. The everydayness is held at bay in the joy and grief of the moment. I find myself holding my breath as David becomes a new creation.
In the midst of life, we are death. And, in the midst of death, we are life. The resurrection paradox will not let me go as in David’s dying, I am forced to face my own limitations. I will not live forever and someday, I will be where David now is. That is as it should be. Only God is forever, limitless loving presence that is the essence of past, present and future. Letting go of the illusion of my everlasting life, I am free to fly to the One who knows me and loves me anyway, free to be, free at last even if just for a moment in time.
Dear One, hold those of us still tethered to earth in your loving light as we struggle to let go of the one we love. Be patient with us, Lord, as our souls and minds mired in earthly clay are weighed down with sorrow and grief. Give us grace, please, and a glimpse of the life yet to come beyond death as we wait with David and Dianne here by this beautiful river that flows by the throne of God. Amen.
It has been a sorrowful week for those of us here at Sabbath Rest Farm. We are preparing for the bodily departure of David Bair, our dear friend. Plans are being made for a Brats and Beer covered dish party after the memorial service at the party barn. David laughed at that idea. We will plant a redbud tree in his honor at a place Dianne chooses. We have been blessed to have him as a part of our lives these past years.
This morning the snowy wind is gone, replaced by a bright hard edged sunshine light in a clear Carolina blue sky. In this light, I can see far away the overlapping mountains that seem to roll like ocean waves towards the horizon. It is a beautiful day, not yet spring but on the edge of new life...as is David.
I am transfixed by this period of time in-between, luminescent and light filled even as the cold winds of death claim the body. Life seems more alive, more precious in its immediacy, and infinitely more loving as the extraneous is stripped away. The everydayness is held at bay in the joy and grief of the moment. I find myself holding my breath as David becomes a new creation.
In the midst of life, we are death. And, in the midst of death, we are life. The resurrection paradox will not let me go as in David’s dying, I am forced to face my own limitations. I will not live forever and someday, I will be where David now is. That is as it should be. Only God is forever, limitless loving presence that is the essence of past, present and future. Letting go of the illusion of my everlasting life, I am free to fly to the One who knows me and loves me anyway, free to be, free at last even if just for a moment in time.
Dear One, hold those of us still tethered to earth in your loving light as we struggle to let go of the one we love. Be patient with us, Lord, as our souls and minds mired in earthly clay are weighed down with sorrow and grief. Give us grace, please, and a glimpse of the life yet to come beyond death as we wait with David and Dianne here by this beautiful river that flows by the throne of God. Amen.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
We are marching in the light of God...
We are marching in the light of God...
Every good endowment and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. James 1:17
It has been a time of gathering darkness, a time of light in the midst of the darkness of death. This shadow time has been illuminated by love...David and Dianne’s love for each other, the love of family and friends, and the Love that has held David all his days shining more brightly than ever in his sweet face.
Yesterday when the two men walked into his bedroom, ready to take him to Solace, he raised his hand in greeting and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you fellas.” Somewhere deep under the pain and confusion, the essential David, beloved of God, summoned the courtesy to recognize and welcome the strangers. His eyesight clouded, his vision is pure and strong as he leaves this world, his eyes on the prize of Love realized and present in the life to come.
Old timers used to talk about someone making a good death. I never quite understood that as a child. How could something as painful as death be good? The years have taught me that a good death is the result of a life well lived, a life with regrets and mistakes owned and made right, gifts celebrated and loved ones held close, a faith in the continued loving care of the Creator who brought us into being. David is dying a good death.
At my church we sing a gospel hymn “We Are Marching in the Light of God”. And so we all are... marching in the Light that knows no shadow due to change. We grieve the approaching loss of the one we hold so dear and celebrate his marching to Loving Light that awaits him, no shadows, no changes, just the perfect gift of Love. Amen.
Every good endowment and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. James 1:17
It has been a time of gathering darkness, a time of light in the midst of the darkness of death. This shadow time has been illuminated by love...David and Dianne’s love for each other, the love of family and friends, and the Love that has held David all his days shining more brightly than ever in his sweet face.
Yesterday when the two men walked into his bedroom, ready to take him to Solace, he raised his hand in greeting and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you fellas.” Somewhere deep under the pain and confusion, the essential David, beloved of God, summoned the courtesy to recognize and welcome the strangers. His eyesight clouded, his vision is pure and strong as he leaves this world, his eyes on the prize of Love realized and present in the life to come.
Old timers used to talk about someone making a good death. I never quite understood that as a child. How could something as painful as death be good? The years have taught me that a good death is the result of a life well lived, a life with regrets and mistakes owned and made right, gifts celebrated and loved ones held close, a faith in the continued loving care of the Creator who brought us into being. David is dying a good death.
At my church we sing a gospel hymn “We Are Marching in the Light of God”. And so we all are... marching in the Light that knows no shadow due to change. We grieve the approaching loss of the one we hold so dear and celebrate his marching to Loving Light that awaits him, no shadows, no changes, just the perfect gift of Love. Amen.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Fine wine, roses and old corduroy...
Days of fine wine, roses and old corduroy...
The popular patron saint of love, Valentine, has always seemed somewhat lacking in charisma for me. Cupids with bows and arrows are cute but haven’t any substance. The t.v. show “The Bachelor” makes my skin crawl watching women and a man playact the art of love. I needed some new images and inspirations for love... real love between real men and real women.
Swan and Freddie Lou are one of the couples who make my Dean’s List of Love. They were a model for living life as a couple with passion and purpose. Strong personalities, different in many ways, they knew how to cut each other some slack and how to be each other’s cheerleader. Visiting them was always like a dose of spring tonic, rejuvenating and reviving. Fine wine...
My parents and Michael’s parents are on this list, also. Michael’s dad and mom had known each other since they were teenagers. When she developed dementia, H.O. nursed her, lived with her until he was no longer physically able to care for her. Every day, he visited her until she died. Mama and Daddy were an unlikely couple brought together by World War II. When she speaks of him, her blue eyes flash and twinkle as she remembers how handsome he was. Theirs was a passion that survives after death. Like the scent of old roses, pressed and dried in the family Bible, the fragrance of our parents’ enduring love is sweet and strong.
This is the time of year Michael and I met and we relive our whirlwind courtship every year, retelling our story, remembering the whys and wherefores of our love. Forty four years have passed with more than enough love, laughter, grief and good work. We have weathered our share of storms, reared three children who gave us pleasure as parents and are delightful adults, moved around and remodeled old houses before finding Sabbath Rest Farm. We made a life together. It was not always easy but it was always worth it. Old corduroy made soft through the years that has lost none of its strength...
Real love, true love, is a love that knows perfection is neither possible nor to be desired. And like fine wine, this love lifts us up, invigorates and energizes. When the first flush of new love fades, the memories, the scent still lingers to remind us of our beginnings. As the years pass, our love weathers times of trial and jubilee, boredom and hard work, and a new fabric is formed. This fabric, like old corduroy, is strong, velvety, comforting and beautiful with a nap that shows its wear. Love is the weaving of our lives together to form “a more perfect union”, a reflection of the One who first loved and still loves us. I’ll take this over cupids and valentines any day...
The popular patron saint of love, Valentine, has always seemed somewhat lacking in charisma for me. Cupids with bows and arrows are cute but haven’t any substance. The t.v. show “The Bachelor” makes my skin crawl watching women and a man playact the art of love. I needed some new images and inspirations for love... real love between real men and real women.
Swan and Freddie Lou are one of the couples who make my Dean’s List of Love. They were a model for living life as a couple with passion and purpose. Strong personalities, different in many ways, they knew how to cut each other some slack and how to be each other’s cheerleader. Visiting them was always like a dose of spring tonic, rejuvenating and reviving. Fine wine...
My parents and Michael’s parents are on this list, also. Michael’s dad and mom had known each other since they were teenagers. When she developed dementia, H.O. nursed her, lived with her until he was no longer physically able to care for her. Every day, he visited her until she died. Mama and Daddy were an unlikely couple brought together by World War II. When she speaks of him, her blue eyes flash and twinkle as she remembers how handsome he was. Theirs was a passion that survives after death. Like the scent of old roses, pressed and dried in the family Bible, the fragrance of our parents’ enduring love is sweet and strong.
This is the time of year Michael and I met and we relive our whirlwind courtship every year, retelling our story, remembering the whys and wherefores of our love. Forty four years have passed with more than enough love, laughter, grief and good work. We have weathered our share of storms, reared three children who gave us pleasure as parents and are delightful adults, moved around and remodeled old houses before finding Sabbath Rest Farm. We made a life together. It was not always easy but it was always worth it. Old corduroy made soft through the years that has lost none of its strength...
Real love, true love, is a love that knows perfection is neither possible nor to be desired. And like fine wine, this love lifts us up, invigorates and energizes. When the first flush of new love fades, the memories, the scent still lingers to remind us of our beginnings. As the years pass, our love weathers times of trial and jubilee, boredom and hard work, and a new fabric is formed. This fabric, like old corduroy, is strong, velvety, comforting and beautiful with a nap that shows its wear. Love is the weaving of our lives together to form “a more perfect union”, a reflection of the One who first loved and still loves us. I’ll take this over cupids and valentines any day...
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Lent...Grief and Gladness
And so I come to Lent with grief and gladness...
When Daddy knew he was dying, he sent us a starter herd of English Shorthorn cows. The remaining cows are old now, sweet tempered and slow moving. Fanny, Annie’s twin, is close to giving birth and is having problems...problems upon which I will not elucidate for the faint of heart. A farmer worth her salt would have sent these cows to market years ago but I have never claimed to be in it for the profit. These cows were my Daddy’s. He raised them, gentled them, and gave them as his last gift to us. Every time one of them dies, another little piece of Daddy dies. Grief...
Saturday morning I began calling around trying to find a large animal vet. They are hard to come by these days when most vets prefer the routine, lucrative,controlled world of small animal practice. I was referred to a traveling vet, a woman based in Flat Rock who only does large animals. Her office is staffed with two other vets who do the small animal practice while she travels to farms and stock yards. Reared in Tuxedo, this mountain girl graduated from Mars Hill with a double major in chemistry and math, a minor in biology. She took her vet training at N.C. State then came back home to establish her practice. I like her style. Talking to her was a joy.
Our friend David Bair is dying more quickly than any of us expected. He and Dianne leave for the Bair family reunion on Tuesday. It is the last one for him and he has been holding on to this hope...seeing everyone gathered together again. Twenty five years ago, David and his brothers began this tradition so their children, scattered across the country, could know one another. David is the last living brother and he needs to touch, hug, hold on to the family that gave him his place in this world. I weep for the loss in my life of this good man and for the grief Dianne is feeling and will feel when he is gone. I give thanks for our friendship which began years ago at First Congregational when he stood to announce the blood drive. It has been an honor to call this soft spoken white haired midwesterner a friend.
He and Dianne want to have his memorial service in the high barn, the party barn. So we will gather, have a service led by their pastor and Michael to remember and celebrate our friend. Afterwards, I told David we would have a German Irish wake with beer, brats and bawdy stories of his misspent youth. I have heard a few and they are priceless. He laughed. I laughed and cried.
Our two latest grandbabies, Clancy and Maddie, are thriving, tended by loving parents. Clancy is beginning to look just like his older brother Rowan with a quizzical quirk to his eyebrows. Maddie, the only girl in this plethora of boys, shines in headbands and tutus with her brothers wrapped around her little finger. Matthew, Mason, Mead, Aiden and Colby are healthy and full of little boy love of life. Joy, joy, joy...
And so abides faith, hope and love at Sabbath Rest Farm, but the greatest of these is love. Lent will be filled with grief and gladness this year but the unshakeable foundation, the rock of hope, is the Love that shines through the loving ones who are the faces of God for me. I am grateful and that is more than enough.
When Daddy knew he was dying, he sent us a starter herd of English Shorthorn cows. The remaining cows are old now, sweet tempered and slow moving. Fanny, Annie’s twin, is close to giving birth and is having problems...problems upon which I will not elucidate for the faint of heart. A farmer worth her salt would have sent these cows to market years ago but I have never claimed to be in it for the profit. These cows were my Daddy’s. He raised them, gentled them, and gave them as his last gift to us. Every time one of them dies, another little piece of Daddy dies. Grief...
Saturday morning I began calling around trying to find a large animal vet. They are hard to come by these days when most vets prefer the routine, lucrative,controlled world of small animal practice. I was referred to a traveling vet, a woman based in Flat Rock who only does large animals. Her office is staffed with two other vets who do the small animal practice while she travels to farms and stock yards. Reared in Tuxedo, this mountain girl graduated from Mars Hill with a double major in chemistry and math, a minor in biology. She took her vet training at N.C. State then came back home to establish her practice. I like her style. Talking to her was a joy.
Our friend David Bair is dying more quickly than any of us expected. He and Dianne leave for the Bair family reunion on Tuesday. It is the last one for him and he has been holding on to this hope...seeing everyone gathered together again. Twenty five years ago, David and his brothers began this tradition so their children, scattered across the country, could know one another. David is the last living brother and he needs to touch, hug, hold on to the family that gave him his place in this world. I weep for the loss in my life of this good man and for the grief Dianne is feeling and will feel when he is gone. I give thanks for our friendship which began years ago at First Congregational when he stood to announce the blood drive. It has been an honor to call this soft spoken white haired midwesterner a friend.
He and Dianne want to have his memorial service in the high barn, the party barn. So we will gather, have a service led by their pastor and Michael to remember and celebrate our friend. Afterwards, I told David we would have a German Irish wake with beer, brats and bawdy stories of his misspent youth. I have heard a few and they are priceless. He laughed. I laughed and cried.
Our two latest grandbabies, Clancy and Maddie, are thriving, tended by loving parents. Clancy is beginning to look just like his older brother Rowan with a quizzical quirk to his eyebrows. Maddie, the only girl in this plethora of boys, shines in headbands and tutus with her brothers wrapped around her little finger. Matthew, Mason, Mead, Aiden and Colby are healthy and full of little boy love of life. Joy, joy, joy...
And so abides faith, hope and love at Sabbath Rest Farm, but the greatest of these is love. Lent will be filled with grief and gladness this year but the unshakeable foundation, the rock of hope, is the Love that shines through the loving ones who are the faces of God for me. I am grateful and that is more than enough.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Theirs was and still is a love story...
Theirs was, and still is, a love match.
She has been my friend for so long that I cannot remember when we first met. I kept her children after school while she worked. We belonged to a women’s group that met for dinner once a month. And when she met James, we were given the great pleasure of seeing their love spring into being. Their children were grown and the scars from their first painful marriages were healed over. It was timing made in heaven.
James, whose wardrobe consisted of polyester, soon found himself wearing cotton and khakis. Cannan floated six inches off the ground lifted by his steady warming love. The sight of them together would make you smile and believe again in happy ever afters. Seasoned by the pain they each had endured, they rejoiced in one another and we celebrated with them.
Their wedding was perfect. Bridesmaids (none of them maids in a long time) wore dresses made specially for the occasion from a fresh floral chintz... curtain fabric. The rest of us were dressed in our best wedding finery and we all were beautiful, wrapped in joy and thanksgiving for James and Cannan. For twenty five years they have lived in loving amity, meeting each challenge with grace and good humor.
It was our great good fortune when they retired near us in Black Mountain. We resumed our custom of celebrating our shared wedding anniversary, July 12. Our friendship never missed a beat. Dinner dates, the theater, potluck meals, Derby parties, farm work... It was a lovely golden benediction, an affirmation of our friendship through the years. And then...
James began to struggle with what were thought to be small strokes. No treatment seemed to help. After a long, confusing time filled with tests and more tests, they discovered he had Alzheimer’s. It was a painful, scary time for them and for all those who loved them. A miracle was on the way, a miracle that did not heal the Alzheimer’s but transformed it into a teaching moment.
Cannan as a PollyAnna makes me look like a piker. She can find redemption in every sow’s ear that comes her way. It might be difficult but she keeps working with it until a silk purse emerges. She and James decided to share openly and honestly with everyone their journey through this next stage in their marriage. No pretense, no pretending, no shying away from the harsh realities... A path was chosen that focused on the gift of the present, the making of new memories and taking advantage of all the help that was available to them from doctors, Memory Care Clinic, Alzheimer support groups and other therapists. Once again, Cannan and James have given us a gift, a living example of loving through sickness and health, a love that grows to meet the need, a love that in its openness and transparency warms us all and we smile still when we see them.
I am sending a video James and Cannan did for the Memory Care Clinic here. James, a peacher and professor, and Cannan, a social worker, have taken this opportunity to share their story in the hope that it might be helpful. Keep the Kleenex handy. This love
story is for real.
To ensure delivery, add no-reply@vimeo.com to your address book.
Someone shared this with you: http://vimeo.com/58582155
Cannan & James' Story
http://vimeo.com/58582155
They asked us not to sugarcoat the realities so here it is, straight from our hearts and our experiences. Still want to watch it with you sometime. Thanks for being with us on this journey. Love, Cannan
About this video
"Cannan and James Hyde share their story of living with dementia. James, diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer's disease, and his wife, Cannan, tell how they are living with the challenges of the diagnosis and the unexpected turns it has presented in their lives."
Forward this email to your friends and family so that they can watch the video too.
She has been my friend for so long that I cannot remember when we first met. I kept her children after school while she worked. We belonged to a women’s group that met for dinner once a month. And when she met James, we were given the great pleasure of seeing their love spring into being. Their children were grown and the scars from their first painful marriages were healed over. It was timing made in heaven.
James, whose wardrobe consisted of polyester, soon found himself wearing cotton and khakis. Cannan floated six inches off the ground lifted by his steady warming love. The sight of them together would make you smile and believe again in happy ever afters. Seasoned by the pain they each had endured, they rejoiced in one another and we celebrated with them.
Their wedding was perfect. Bridesmaids (none of them maids in a long time) wore dresses made specially for the occasion from a fresh floral chintz... curtain fabric. The rest of us were dressed in our best wedding finery and we all were beautiful, wrapped in joy and thanksgiving for James and Cannan. For twenty five years they have lived in loving amity, meeting each challenge with grace and good humor.
It was our great good fortune when they retired near us in Black Mountain. We resumed our custom of celebrating our shared wedding anniversary, July 12. Our friendship never missed a beat. Dinner dates, the theater, potluck meals, Derby parties, farm work... It was a lovely golden benediction, an affirmation of our friendship through the years. And then...
James began to struggle with what were thought to be small strokes. No treatment seemed to help. After a long, confusing time filled with tests and more tests, they discovered he had Alzheimer’s. It was a painful, scary time for them and for all those who loved them. A miracle was on the way, a miracle that did not heal the Alzheimer’s but transformed it into a teaching moment.
Cannan as a PollyAnna makes me look like a piker. She can find redemption in every sow’s ear that comes her way. It might be difficult but she keeps working with it until a silk purse emerges. She and James decided to share openly and honestly with everyone their journey through this next stage in their marriage. No pretense, no pretending, no shying away from the harsh realities... A path was chosen that focused on the gift of the present, the making of new memories and taking advantage of all the help that was available to them from doctors, Memory Care Clinic, Alzheimer support groups and other therapists. Once again, Cannan and James have given us a gift, a living example of loving through sickness and health, a love that grows to meet the need, a love that in its openness and transparency warms us all and we smile still when we see them.
I am sending a video James and Cannan did for the Memory Care Clinic here. James, a peacher and professor, and Cannan, a social worker, have taken this opportunity to share their story in the hope that it might be helpful. Keep the Kleenex handy. This love
story is for real.
To ensure delivery, add no-reply@vimeo.com to your address book.
Someone shared this with you: http://vimeo.com/58582155
Cannan & James' Story
http://vimeo.com/58582155
They asked us not to sugarcoat the realities so here it is, straight from our hearts and our experiences. Still want to watch it with you sometime. Thanks for being with us on this journey. Love, Cannan
About this video
"Cannan and James Hyde share their story of living with dementia. James, diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer's disease, and his wife, Cannan, tell how they are living with the challenges of the diagnosis and the unexpected turns it has presented in their lives."
Forward this email to your friends and family so that they can watch the video too.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Farm wisdom for Lent...
Snow is falling this morning at Sabbath Rest Farm. There has not been much snow this winter so I am rejoicing in the bright white soft silence. Church is called off in weather like this so I am settling down into a comforting sabbath rest for body and soul. Time to think...time to let the stirred up snow globe self float down to rest surrounded by beauty.
I am reminded of the wisdom of farmers in my family as I sit here in front of the fire this morning. There were a few sacred laws in my farm family that were understood as necessary and right. All farmers were judged by their adherence to and practice of these rules.
Number one... All animals in your care must be fed and checked before you can rest easily. In the mornings, feed your cows, horses, chickens, cats and dogs early and generously. In the afternoons, feed again making sure all have what they need for good health. If circumstances dictate, feed them before you feed yourself.
Number two... Build strong fences and repair them as they break. Five lines of barbed wire... one on top, one down low with three strands equally spaced in-between, stretched tightly on wooden posts with solid bracing... will keep cows from sticking their heads under the wire and popping it loose. Keep fence lines clean of weeds and as wire rusts or breaks, repair the small breaks to prevent trouble. Even with good fences, sometimes cows will still make a break for it just because they believe the grass is greener on the other side.
Number three... Take pleasure in the work you do on the farm and the beauty of the land around you. Sometimes the work is onerous, boring and physically demanding but even in the hardest work, gratitude and joy can be found. Throwing hay bales on the trailer, loading them in the barn, hot and sweaty, laughing at the mistakes, drinking water greedily, smelling the sweet dry grass, feeling the accomplishment of laying up provisions for your animals in the cold winter...
Number four... Be grateful for the gift of living on a farm. Not everyone gets to live on land they love, be good stewards of the earth, enjoy room to spread out body and soul, to breathe clean air, see sunsets and sunrises, starry nights, hear the night noises as animals move through the darkness that surrounds us, watch the passing of the seasons reminding me I am a creature, too.
These rules will stand me in good stead for Lent, I think. In tending to others, I am reminded that the Lenten journey is best done in community, community that holds me accountable in loving presence. Keeping my fences tended, my boundaries in good order, will keep me from roaming without purpose, will keep me focused on the work I need to do within myself with God’s help. And as I travel the muddy roads through Lent, I must remember to lift up my eyes to the hills that remind me of the Source, the Loving One who has gifted me with life and laughter and death and tears and sorrow, life that runs like a mountain river tumbling over rocks in abandon as it rushes to its final destination. I am grateful beyond measure for another Lenten season, time to remember, reconsider, and renew. Help me to be a good farmer this time around, Dear One, as I travel through this dark time. Amen.
I am reminded of the wisdom of farmers in my family as I sit here in front of the fire this morning. There were a few sacred laws in my farm family that were understood as necessary and right. All farmers were judged by their adherence to and practice of these rules.
Number one... All animals in your care must be fed and checked before you can rest easily. In the mornings, feed your cows, horses, chickens, cats and dogs early and generously. In the afternoons, feed again making sure all have what they need for good health. If circumstances dictate, feed them before you feed yourself.
Number two... Build strong fences and repair them as they break. Five lines of barbed wire... one on top, one down low with three strands equally spaced in-between, stretched tightly on wooden posts with solid bracing... will keep cows from sticking their heads under the wire and popping it loose. Keep fence lines clean of weeds and as wire rusts or breaks, repair the small breaks to prevent trouble. Even with good fences, sometimes cows will still make a break for it just because they believe the grass is greener on the other side.
Number three... Take pleasure in the work you do on the farm and the beauty of the land around you. Sometimes the work is onerous, boring and physically demanding but even in the hardest work, gratitude and joy can be found. Throwing hay bales on the trailer, loading them in the barn, hot and sweaty, laughing at the mistakes, drinking water greedily, smelling the sweet dry grass, feeling the accomplishment of laying up provisions for your animals in the cold winter...
Number four... Be grateful for the gift of living on a farm. Not everyone gets to live on land they love, be good stewards of the earth, enjoy room to spread out body and soul, to breathe clean air, see sunsets and sunrises, starry nights, hear the night noises as animals move through the darkness that surrounds us, watch the passing of the seasons reminding me I am a creature, too.
These rules will stand me in good stead for Lent, I think. In tending to others, I am reminded that the Lenten journey is best done in community, community that holds me accountable in loving presence. Keeping my fences tended, my boundaries in good order, will keep me from roaming without purpose, will keep me focused on the work I need to do within myself with God’s help. And as I travel the muddy roads through Lent, I must remember to lift up my eyes to the hills that remind me of the Source, the Loving One who has gifted me with life and laughter and death and tears and sorrow, life that runs like a mountain river tumbling over rocks in abandon as it rushes to its final destination. I am grateful beyond measure for another Lenten season, time to remember, reconsider, and renew. Help me to be a good farmer this time around, Dear One, as I travel through this dark time. Amen.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Doggin' my heels...
The routine never varies. I let them up from the basement in the morning and they come up, stretching their dog stretches before I let them out one by one to tend to their necessary business. They come in and for the rest of the day, I have a dog at my heels. Michael takes two of them with him when he walks (we can’t let all three go at the same time because they would end up who knows where doing God knows what) and the one left behind sits at my feet while I write. When I go to feed the cows, the one left behind runs with me along side the four wheeler.
After morning exercise and chores, the dogs dognap on the back porch for the rest of the morning. Afternoon comes and the dogs go out one by one for a little outdoor time, running squirrels, porch sitting in the sun, barking at neighbors. All in all, its a good life for them and I have constant companions.
Most of my life someone has been doggin’ my heels. As a child, my father seemed to be omnipresent calling for help with farm work. My little sister was both companion and curse as most little sisters are. Most mothers are familiar with being unable to find sanctuary in the bathroom without a little voice raised in plaintive protest. Somewhere in the parenting process, turnabout comes and we begin to dog the heels of our children.
Dear One, I am giving you fair notice. Just for today, I am going to dog your heels praying for epiphany to come once again. I need a lot of starlight right now, light that will be my beacon for hopelovejoypeace. And if you could, Lord, a pat on the head would be greatly appreciated. Amen.
After morning exercise and chores, the dogs dognap on the back porch for the rest of the morning. Afternoon comes and the dogs go out one by one for a little outdoor time, running squirrels, porch sitting in the sun, barking at neighbors. All in all, its a good life for them and I have constant companions.
Most of my life someone has been doggin’ my heels. As a child, my father seemed to be omnipresent calling for help with farm work. My little sister was both companion and curse as most little sisters are. Most mothers are familiar with being unable to find sanctuary in the bathroom without a little voice raised in plaintive protest. Somewhere in the parenting process, turnabout comes and we begin to dog the heels of our children.
Dear One, I am giving you fair notice. Just for today, I am going to dog your heels praying for epiphany to come once again. I need a lot of starlight right now, light that will be my beacon for hopelovejoypeace. And if you could, Lord, a pat on the head would be greatly appreciated. Amen.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Dusky teal blue soul...
It is so old I have forgotten when and where it came from. It was way too large for me in my young skinny days but I loved the color, a dusky teal, so I bought it anyway. It was one of the first items made from recycled plastic bottles. For years it hung on me but as time passed, I grew to size. Surprisingly warm and durable, I am wearing it now as I write this gray winter morning. Many other sweat suits have come and gone but this two piece set is still a favorite. It will probably be in my closet when I die and the children will have to decide whether to burn it or donate it.
I was a mother with children at home, then an emptying nest mother and now a grandmother while wearing this set. As my life has changed, these clothes have stayed the same. Only, I have changed. I wonder if our souls when we come into this world are like my teal suit... sized and waiting for us to grow into them.
If I am growing a soul, every experience in my life...joys, griefs, work, family, friends, love, loss, seasons... is an opportunity for crucifixion, transformation, redemption, resurrection. Like the recycled plastic clothing I wear, old things can become new again... even me.
O God, who are you that you should be mindful of me? And yet I believe because of Jesus’ life, death and life again that you are a present help in times of trouble. Transform my living into a growth spurt for my dusky teal blue soul, please God, that I may love thee more dearly and follow thee more nearly day by day. Amen.
I was a mother with children at home, then an emptying nest mother and now a grandmother while wearing this set. As my life has changed, these clothes have stayed the same. Only, I have changed. I wonder if our souls when we come into this world are like my teal suit... sized and waiting for us to grow into them.
If I am growing a soul, every experience in my life...joys, griefs, work, family, friends, love, loss, seasons... is an opportunity for crucifixion, transformation, redemption, resurrection. Like the recycled plastic clothing I wear, old things can become new again... even me.
O God, who are you that you should be mindful of me? And yet I believe because of Jesus’ life, death and life again that you are a present help in times of trouble. Transform my living into a growth spurt for my dusky teal blue soul, please God, that I may love thee more dearly and follow thee more nearly day by day. Amen.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Sweet and Sour Sauce of Life...
I went to the beach with Walt and MaryLynn last night in my dreams. MaryLynn and I were in the kitchen cooking, just like old times, with her telling me what to do. Every now and then a terrible wave washed by the kitchen windows threatening to engulf us but MaryLynn was nonplussed. She reassured me this was normal for the beach, not to worry, just keep on cooking. I woke feeling sad but also feeling immensely grateful.
Over the Christmas holidays, one of our farm family, our family of choice, received a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer and I have been struggling to stay afloat in this unforeseen wave. In the midst of hopelovejoypeace, angergriefhopelessness have come calling. How do I keep on cooking while the shifting sands of the beaches of our lives together is washing out from under our feet?
In my life, bitter has always been accompanied by sweet. They seem to come as a pair. Like the Chinese restaurant standby, Sweet and Sour sauce, each seems to enhance the flavor of the other. Our farm family holiday gathering was more tender this year as we each recognized the great gift we have been given in our little community. Time spent with children and grandchildren was clearer, precious and an occasion for rejoicing. Christmas this year was balanced with joygriefgratitude keeping me afloat.
Gratitude is the life preserver that reminds me all I have is gift. Life its ownself is a gift and the lives of those I love is the most wonderful gift of all.
When our lives and the lives of those we love come to an end, we have a choice. We can sink beneath the waves or we can ride the waves floating on a raft of gratitude for all the goodness of life spiced with the awareness that nothing lasts forever. Only God is eternal, ongoing, everlasting. And when we are washed up, covered over with the waves of life, God is waiting with love that knows no end and we can go on, knowing death is not the last word.
I walked in the kitchen this morning and read the words above my sink...Faith is the strength by which a shattered world shall emerge into light. And so it is, but gratitude is the power that provides faith its solid foundation, its strength. Today, Lord, help me sing a grace song full of remembrance and thankfulness for all I have been given. And if you please, Lord, could you let your Presence wrap my friend and his wife in warm loving assurance that all will be well? We will float on these waves that have come our way held up by gratitude for our lives together in this world and the next, gratitude for a God who is our everlasting portion. Amen.
Over the Christmas holidays, one of our farm family, our family of choice, received a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer and I have been struggling to stay afloat in this unforeseen wave. In the midst of hopelovejoypeace, angergriefhopelessness have come calling. How do I keep on cooking while the shifting sands of the beaches of our lives together is washing out from under our feet?
In my life, bitter has always been accompanied by sweet. They seem to come as a pair. Like the Chinese restaurant standby, Sweet and Sour sauce, each seems to enhance the flavor of the other. Our farm family holiday gathering was more tender this year as we each recognized the great gift we have been given in our little community. Time spent with children and grandchildren was clearer, precious and an occasion for rejoicing. Christmas this year was balanced with joygriefgratitude keeping me afloat.
Gratitude is the life preserver that reminds me all I have is gift. Life its ownself is a gift and the lives of those I love is the most wonderful gift of all.
When our lives and the lives of those we love come to an end, we have a choice. We can sink beneath the waves or we can ride the waves floating on a raft of gratitude for all the goodness of life spiced with the awareness that nothing lasts forever. Only God is eternal, ongoing, everlasting. And when we are washed up, covered over with the waves of life, God is waiting with love that knows no end and we can go on, knowing death is not the last word.
I walked in the kitchen this morning and read the words above my sink...Faith is the strength by which a shattered world shall emerge into light. And so it is, but gratitude is the power that provides faith its solid foundation, its strength. Today, Lord, help me sing a grace song full of remembrance and thankfulness for all I have been given. And if you please, Lord, could you let your Presence wrap my friend and his wife in warm loving assurance that all will be well? We will float on these waves that have come our way held up by gratitude for our lives together in this world and the next, gratitude for a God who is our everlasting portion. Amen.
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