Guinea Hens...

GrandMary always knew we were coming before she saw our car. The guinea hens would sound the alarm, running and flying and squawking and raising a loud hullabaloo. It didn’t take much to set them off so they were not always reliable watchbirds.

Guinea hens are beautiful birds... black and white speckled with a touch of red in their combs. But beauty is as beauty does because they set the standard for the definition of birdbrain. Tiny heads, tinier brain...Every year about this time, I consider getting some guinea hens for one reason only... they eat ticks and we have an abundant crop this spring. Then I remember how they sound, the desire fades and I continue to pick ticks off the dogs and myself as usual. Remembering those pesky guinea hens prompted me to think about other watchbirds in my life. I have three guinea hen birds that protect and nourish my soul. 

The first one is reading. I have a passion for words, their meaning, the stories they tell, the source from whence they spring and the wisdom that is contained in all writing. I have read great works and science fiction and mysteries and romance and sacred books. The first book I read in school, “Dick and Jane”, excited me as much as the book I just finished, “The Ecstatic Journey” by Sophy Burnham. Words, flawed and imperfect as they are, have power and possibility for the soul.

The second watchbird is creativity. I was the child who picked flowers for the table, drew endlessly, taught myself to sew so I could sew my own clothes, went back to college in my fifties just to take all the art classes I missed the first time around. Calligraphy, Zentangles, painting, drawing, sewing, writing... all lead me to a holy ground where God waits for me. It is my burning bush.

Hospitality is my third guinea hen. More often than not, God and angels show up when we have company, invited and uninvited. This weekend, children from College Park Baptist church in Greensboro are here with us at Sabbath Rest Farm. They are in awe at the “millions” of tadpoles in the syrup kettle, struck by the utter blackness of a cloudy night in the country, giggling with glee as they see chickens and gather eggs, conquering their fear and letting Junie B and Dixie take treats from their palms, running pell mell down the gravel road shouting their freedom from the usual. As our two very different worlds are shared in this hospitable place, I see and hear God in their joy. It is a lovely hostess gift, this joy, and my heart sings.

The ancient prophet Jeremiah was a watchbird for his people, trying to remind them to whom they belonged and what was required of them. One of my favorite verses, Jeremiah 6:16, says, “Thus says the Lord: ‘Stand by the roads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is; and walk in it and find rest for your souls.’”

Keep me close, Lord, so I might hear the guinea hens when they sound the alarm that calls me to come see You pass by on the good way. And give me a generous heart, Lord, so that I might share all that I am and have when you come calling as children and guests and unexpected company. I love you. Peggy

Lentangle IV...Are ye able?

The Journey to Jerusalem passage I have been reading this week is the story of sibling rivalry among the disciples. Two of the disciples, brothers, got to talking and decided they deserved to sit on either side of Jesus in his glory. So, they caught Jesus off to the side and asked if he would do something for them. He, like any good parent, asked what it was they wanted before he committed himself to the unknown. They laid their request out and Jesus’ response was …You don’t know what you are talking about… and then a question…Are you able to drink my cup and be baptized as I will be? By then the others caught on to what was happening and got ticked at James and John. Jesus had a family meeting and laid out the rules. Those who would be first or greatest, must be servant to all. No lording it over your brothers and sisters.

One of the old hymns drawn from this passage was a favorite invitation song at Clyattville Baptist Church. “Are ye able, said the Master?” Most of us, myself included, subscribe to the notion that we are indeed able. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, most of the time, I live with the illusion of being in control, able. We live as if our long term care insurance can stave off the fate that awaits us in our old age. Our children will all grow up without struggle or pain to become loving, kind geniuses who will change the world into a better place because we are able parents. My faith will provide all I need in times of trial and I will triumph eventually because I am an able Christian. Tarzan chest thumping accompanied by the proudly spoken words, “I am able” echo James and John’s response to Jesus’ question. And like them, we know not whereof we speak.

One of my Grandma’s favorite sayings was, “Pride goeth before a fall”. Often when all is going well in my life, I hear her voice in my inner ear reminding me not to get too cocky, not to believe in the illusion of my control, not to think I am the master of my fate. Walk humbly, the prophet said, not ably. Walk aware that you are not the center of the universe and have no business lording it over all your brothers and sisters. All of life, trials and tribulations, laughter and joy, accomplishments and failures, are a gift and not a result of our ableness, our abilities, our control.

On this lovely sunny daffy down dilly spring day, my heart leaps in joy, Lord, towards you. In my ignorance and lack of control, I find in you a resting place. You are my final destination, my home, my safety net when I stumble and fall from the tightrope that is my life. Have pity on me, Lord, when I crow like a rooster, proud of what I have done or who I am. I am indeed, unable to live without your abiding presence to sustain and challenge my limited knowledge. I love you. Help me to do you proud. Amen.

Memo to a Mockingbird...

Memo to a Mockingbird…

It was a Monday with all the unscheduled interruptions and unexpected happenings leaving my plan for the day in shambles. Mama’s routine visit to the doctor turned into a trial by needle stick that left her faint and worn out. The tractor tire installation was a two person job so Michael needed my help. When I went to cut grass, the mower had no gas and there was no gas at the shed. I had told Leisa I would come letter her quote on the kitchen wall at the river house and had to call and cancel. My day was bits and pieces leaving me feeling scattered to the four winds. Thank God for the restorative yoga class that knit my frazzled self together in silence and stretching at the end of the day.

Some days… some weeks… some months and years can feel like one damn thing right after another. We all have times when the merry go round won’t stop and let us off. If we aren’t careful, our lives can fly by consumed with trying to keep it all together at the expense of living in the moment. Easier said than done sometimes, to find the balance between responsible living and deadening accountability.

Last night Marley, who takes her duties as a watchdog seriously, refused to come in. She was chasing unseen terrors in the night and arguing with a visitor dog down the hill. In exasperation, I closed the door and left her out, knowing I would have to get up later to let her in. Around two thirty in the morning, she barked at the front door so I let her in to the basement to join the other dogs. As I lay in bed trying to go back to sleep, a mockingbird began to sing.

At first I thought it was an auditory hallucination but it really was a mockingbird just outside our bedroom window singing his entire repertoire with abandon and joy. What kind of bird sings in the darkness of an early, early morning? After internally cursing a bird who could be filled with such joy at such an infernal hour, my sense of the ridiculous holy kicked in. How like the Great Comedian to send a messenger to remind me my frustrations and worries are not the reason for my being… not Balaam’s talking ass but a revved up mockingbird, drunk on joi d’ vivre. My soul shifted gears and while counting blessings to birdsong, I fell asleep full of laughter and a sense of God’s presence.

Thank you, God, for knocking me off balance every now and then. Just when I think I’ve gotten my act together, you let life teach me another lesson about laughter and grace in the midst of trials and tribulations. The mockingbird was a wonderful reminder of your beauty in this world. I will try to find more of you in my day today. Amen.

Going Home

Layer by layer, the years are lifted away. Each transparent page, when lifted, reveals a deeper meaning. This trip to Virginia with mama to spend time with her sister, the aunt for whom I am named, is a journey through time and grief and gladness.

Yesterday we visited Hollywood, the old cemetery in Richmond where my great-grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles are buried in the Fritzsche family plot. This is no Johnny come lately cemetery with rows of level graves laid out in military precision  adorned with sterile silk flowers. It follows the rolling hills up to the bluff that overlooks the James River. Roses, flowering shrubs, pansies, geraniums, and hanging baskets light up the surroundings with scent and color. A large sign proclaims silk flowers are not allowed. Many of the gravestones are accompanied by beautiful sculptures of faithful canine companions and wherever you look, there are stone angels. This silent city contains the graves of Civil War dead along with those who came before and after, loved ones forgotten and remembered gathered together in this one beautiful spot.

Last night at Aunt Peg’s house, I found myself sitting on the couch sandwiched between Ken and Eddie, my two cousins. Once there were four of us grandchildren at Cloverly, troubadors in time gone by who spent summers gilded with gladness at our own Camelot, a farmhouse in King and Queen County in Virginia. I feel my sister’s absence more keenly here than anywhere else and tears lie just beneath the surface, sometimes overflowing when I least expect it. Life has not turned out as we imagined it long ago in those sweet days. The hole left in the space once filled by my sister is now filled with joy and grief in equal measure.

Sunday morning we go to worship at Bruington Baptist Church where my grandparents lived out their life of faith, where my mother grew up and was baptized, and we will hear stories of Aunt Thelma, Uncle Bill, Grandma and Granddaddy, Little Grandma and Big Grandma, all buried in the churchyard with generations of other families whose roots run deep in the swampy Tidewater soil. This dirt is under the fingernails of my soul and it calls to me... you are home... much as my beloved North Carolina mountains do.

Mama and Aunt Peg wear red rose corsages given to them by my husband Michael, an old Mother’s Day tradition. I watch Aunt Peg, 94 years old, stoop to rearrange the flowers on her parents graves. And then the two old sisters walk into the 1831 church building that is so full of memories... the voices of children, parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, friends and pastors swirl in the mist of time contained by the old red brick sanctuary. Cousin Lillian Walker plays the prelude and worship begins. Angel wings enfold us as we sit in the straight back pews and I am home.

I am grateful for these two old women, my living links to my “begats list”, who even now continue to tell the stories of homeplace and family. When it is my turn, I want to tell the stories of family and faith and amazing graces with the same sense of wonder and joy and particularity. Perhaps it is my turn even now? For all the stories of faith and family, I give thanks. For the all the laughter and tears, grace and goodness, for family even third cousins once removed, for the Virginia Tidewater dirt where my roots run deep, I sing a song of thanksgiving. For the God who has given me a home in this world and promises me a new home yet to come, I am overflowing with gratitude.  “Come thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing with thee...”