snippets, songs and sacred spaces

Simple gifts...dirt

2012-01-09T08:36:00.001-05:00

My sister and I had some grand and glorious tea parties in the front yard of the old farmhouse in Clyattville. Mama would give us a pan and off we’d go. We carried out our tea set, an old tablespoon for mixing and a vase. Carefully mixing South Georgia sand and water, we would get our mud just right for shaping tea cakes. Laying them out in the sun to bake, decorated with poke berries, we then gathered flowers for our centerpiece. Every tea party is a special occasion and special occasions demand a floral centerpiece. We sat with our pinky fingers extended just so and pretended to be ladies of high fashion as we conversed elegantly with dirt under our fingernails.
Now my hands get dirty, really dirty, everyday. Hay is dirty. Cows and horses are covered in muck and mud. At night I scrub my hands and nails with a small brush to remove the accumulated dirt. I have found myself looking at other people’s hands for evidence of dirt. Not many folks seem to get their hands dirty anymore. Most of us no longer have jobs that dirty our hands daily. We live in a world that is cleaner, more sterile, than it has ever been before. And I find myself wondering what we have lost in our clean hands society.
Dirt reminds me I am of and from the earth. No amount of scrubbing with hand sanitizer can remove me from the essential ground of my being. Ashes to ashes…dust to dust… Adam brought into being from the fertile ground returns to the ground when he dies as do we all. While we live on and in the earth, we gather dirt under our soul’s fingernails. Life is not neat and tidy for most of us. There are unforeseen mud wallows that bog us down, keep us mired in the clay. The dirt that bogs us down also grows poke berries and turnip greens, altheas and roses, tomatoes and trillium. If we can see and listen, there are gifts in those muddy days, Gifts of the Spirit.
Our family is wading through a mud wallow right now and I am looking for those gifts. Yesterday I found one in the sermon, words that caught my ear, words that I wrote down and brought home. The preacher was reading the story of Moses and the Children of Israel in the wilderness. The Egyptians were hot on their heels and the people were complaining to Moses bitterly about the dangers of freedom. Moses’ response was, “Do not be afraid. The Lord will fight for you. You have only to wait and be still.” So today I am being still and waiting in the mud wallow, waiting for the Lord to fight for us, waiting for the presence of the Holy One to come for me and my children. And as I wait, I pray. What else is there to do, after all?

Simple gifts...Six dogs and seventeen people

2011-12-28T08:05:00.002-05:00

Seventeen chairs, four different kinds squeezed side by side around the table, held our Christmas family. Grandma, eighty five years old, was the oldest and the five great-grandsons were the youngest. Friends David and Dianne were a part of the mix along with six dogs. Serving the meal is an informal affair. Food is arranged along the bar and the stove with mamas serving their children first. We sit as we fill our plates then say grace when all are seated. The “talleyban” bowl is struck, the words of gratitude are spoken and the menorah is lit. It is mayhem with meaning.
The year has been the usual mix of grief and joy, struggles and accomplishments, worry and assurance. Uncle Harold died this year, the last of the Calhoun boys, and that loss weighed heavy on mama. New baby boy Colby came into the world after nine months of pregnancy related illness for his mother Alison. Michael’s transition into partial retirement and a knee replacement surgery are doing well after rehab for body and soul. All of us have had our usual share of challenges and triumphs but here we are, once again gathered as family in all its messy glory.
Watching four generations mill around, I can see bits and pieces of those who have gone before. Megan brought two banana nut breads created from her grandmother’s recipe, Michael’s mother Ann. Mason asks Grandma about Grandaddy’s picture, my daddy, that hangs in her hall. Adam and Michelle are giving Michael’s father’s desk a new home. We set the table with silver from mothers, grandmothers and great-aunts long dead. The living are surrounded by family unknown and unseen but present nonetheless.
I sit and listen to the Tower of Babel babble grateful for the mixed bag of family. There are no guarantees, no return policies, no quality assurance control for the family. The gene pool you get is not one selected from a USDA approved line. We all get a mixture of genetically predetermined possibilities with free choice as a leavening ingredient. The combinations are endless and fascinating. A world of hurt swims side by side with the goodies in the gene pool... predispositions to addictions, depression, physical conditions and other dark possibilities. We all get a generous helping of both and then begins the creative process as we go to work shaping who we become.
I watch my family and wonder what the future holds for them. I see through a glass darkly and am unable to know what life will be like for them. One thing I do know with certainty... the God who set all Creation in motion will be present for them all their lives. The Love that will not let me go will hold my children and grandchildren close when I am no longer here. And when I am gone from this Christmas gathering on earth, I will thank God for each year I have been given, for the murky gene pool from which I came, and for the laughter of children from one generation to another.

Simple Gifts... Word Wars

2011-12-18T08:44:00.002-05:00

The word wars have begun. I get e-mails every week exhorting me to hold the godless hordes at bay by wishing everyone a “Merry Christmas” instead of “Happy Holidays”. Evidently we are under siege and our Christian nation is at risk because of the words we use to wish each other well. Some of my friends who are very conservative, dare I say it, fundamentalists, do not celebrate Christmas at all so this is a moot issue for them.
Being the cantankerous South Georgia girl that I am, I Googled the phrase and found some interesting information. Merry Christmas was first used in 1699 in a letter written by an English admiral and then again by Charles Dickens in his book “A Christmas Carol” in 1849. The most common holiday greeting then was “Happy Christmas”. The word “merry”, of course, means happy and “Christmas” refers to Christ’s Mass in Old English. Most of the folks I know who get their knickers in a twist over this issue are not Catholic so I can’t help but wonder...
The fact of the matter is these words began as a cultural tradition in a time when much of daily life revolved around the church. They are not found anywhere in our Bible nor are they a part of a theological basis for Jesus’s coming into our world as God’s Son. My daddy and I argued a lot (arguing was Daddy’s favorite entertainment) about everything. One day we were arguing about the King James Bible, the one and only true translation according to him. One of my finer moments in that tradition was when I asked him if he believed in education (knowing he valued education and learning). He said “yes”, of course. Then I asked him if education had taught us many new things since King James time.We named a few. I moved in for the kill... Why is it we can use air conditioning, watch t.v., accept antibiotics for infections, drive cars and fly in airplanes but we cannot accept that Biblical scholarship could make the same sort of progress as the rest of our world? I love the language of the King James Bible. The images, the taste of the words rolling off my tongue, the comfort of my first words of faith are found in that book. The twenty third Psalm never sounds quite right in any other translation. But it is not the final word or the final words that sum up my faith.
How I wish we could worry more about how we live as Christians the rest of the year and relax at Christmas. There is nothing inherently evil in a cultural Christmas celebration. Santa Claus is great fun and having fun is not a sin. If we Christians live as the light and salt of the earth the other 364 days of the year, we have nothing to worry about. Ooops...

Simple gifts... mud, muck, mayhem and monotony

2011-12-15T08:27:00.002-05:00

Yesterday a friend said, “I wishI had your life just being on the farm”. Suddenly I realized that not everyone knows the reality of farm life. So gentle reader, here is the flip side of cute wildlife and pet bulls.
My days are bookended by morning work and night work (my Grandaddy’s words) as is every farmer’s day. In the morning I have to go to the stable and feed four equines and one bull, muck out two wagon loads of manure and feed the cat. After the nearly three inches of rain we had last week, the mud at the stable is impressive... suck your boots off mud. Then I have to go to the field to feed the cows. Again I walk through suck your boots off mud. Rain or shine, Florida warm or Arctic freezing, the work still must be done.
If I leave for the day or for choir practice or to eat out, the work is done before I leave or it will have to be done in the dark...day in and day out, the same work with no performance reviews or pay raises. Parenting was good preparation for this way of life.
As I drive down the hill to the cows, I see a busted fence board the cows can step over. I need to move the old hay into the leaning barn for bedding so the cows will have a clean space for the next cold snap. The bittersweet vines and the kudzu are taking over. Before spring we will need to cut as many of those pests as possible to kill them. I ponder when to fertilize the hay pasture and wish we could reseed our grazing pastures. The fence in the lane is leaning and almost down... another maintenance task. The horse trailer needs to be cleaned out after the trip home with Little Ferd. Many of these tasks Michael will try to get to on Saturdays and I help as I can. The reality of farm life is you do not get to punch out at five o’clock and go home. Your to do list is always full.
Jesus was born into this world surrounded by confusion and messiness. He, like us, lived and worked in a system that often did not make sense.The truth of the matter is most of us find hope and love and joy and peace in the midst of mud and muck and mayhem and monotony. The simple gift of life is not so simple after all. Our call is to give thanks not just for the hope-love-joy-peace parts of life but also for monotony-muck-mayhem-mud. One without the other has no meaning.

Simple Gifts...Squirrels, buzzards and a stray cat

2011-12-14T08:00:00.000-05:00

Simple gifts... Squirrels, buzzards and stray cats

I walked down to the stables, crunchy white frost underfoot, to the sound of old Ferd’s soft moo. He was ready for breakfast. Bud the Barn Cat met me, twining around my legs as I put his food out. Junie B nickered, Dixie snorted and the donkeys whined because I wasn’t moving fast enough to suit them. After the stable tenants were tended to, I headed down to the cows in the Kubota.
A flotilla of buzzards floated overhead on their way to the landfill. Their formation flies over the farm in the morning on their way to work and in the evening on their way home to roost. An addled squirrel ran in front of the Kubota and served as my escort all the way down the hill. The cows were gathered around the feed trough waiting for me. Our new bull, Little Ferd, stood apart from the crowd. I am trying to gentle him. When I put the feed in the trough, I walk around the cows patting each of them. Little Ferd will let me pat his rump now but not his head yet. On the way back up the hill, a stranger cat, solid black, jumps in the brush with a mouse in his mouth. He has been hanging around for a week or so. We are not sure if he belongs to a neighbor or is a stray.
At the top of the hill, I look back at the mountains and valleys beyond. Clouds separate the mountains leaving them floating, disembodied peaks rising from the white mist. I turn the key off and sit in silence for a minute watching the new day come into being.
And so my day begins with a psalm of praise for addled squirrels, buzzards, stray cats and a new bull. I sing along with the neighs, moos, meows and crow caws in joyful thanksgiving for this most amazing gift of another day of life at Sabbath Rest Farm. We are all waiting on New Light to come in the midst of winter darkness.

Simple gifts...Perfect imperfection

2011-12-07T05:10:00.002-05:00

Simple gifts…Perfect imperfection…Imperfect perfection
Every time I drove by and looked up, the mistake I made pops out and I cringed. It was such a lovely idea. We would create a barn quilt based on the design of Michael’s grandmother’s friendship quilt as the finishing touch for the restored high barn. The quilt, sewn by grandmother and her friends, was given to his grandfather when they married. I was captivated by the concept of a friendship quilt so I enlisted the help of the farm family. Jim, Jay and Michael assembled the wooden framework. Jay and Jim drew off the pattern. Leisa, Diane, Jeannie, Julie, Michael and I painted the quilt but the bulk of the painting was my responsibility.
I spent hours in the barn painting the last three days before the deadline to hang the quilt. Who knew painting stripes could be so time consuming even with the help of painter’s tape? The finished piece is eight feet square so there was a lot of striping going on. The final day came. Jim came to help hang it. As the men hung the new barn doors in the morning, I was still painting. Lunchtime came and I had to wash out my brushes and let go of the work. Ready or not, it was time.
Later that evening, I went to see the quilt panel and there it was! How could I have missed painting stripes on that star point? It is so high off the ground there is no way I can remedy the situation. All my joy in the project teetered on the edge of extinction. Old voices flew to the surface of my soul. Anything worth doing is worth doing well…What a stupid mistake…What’s wrong with you…If you hadn’t waited until the last minute…
And then, David had the word of grace for me. He reminded me of the Amish tradition of on purpose imperfection. Everything they create has some “mistake”, some flaw, some visual reminder that no one among us is perfect. I heave a sigh of relief and let go of the anger at myself. I, too, am an imperfect creation. In this holy season of Advent, I will remember to extend the grace of affirmation for the imperfection in myself and others. We are all stumbling around in the darkness awaiting the Light of Love to dawn. The gift of perfect imperfection, a simple gift not a design flaw… Thanks be to God.

Simple gifts... Joseph in blue jeans

2011-12-07T05:07:00.003-05:00

It was a bone deep cold winter night and the dark skies were sprinkled with star confetti. We stood leaning against a brick wall wrapped in coats, scarves and hats waiting for the play to begin. Two fat wooly sheep grazed on the courthouse lawn by the front walk with their plump rear ends facing us. All the stores in downtown Marshall were still open and the warm light spilled out onto the sidewalks. Fire engines rolled by closing off the three main streets into the town and folks began to gather. Little children with their parents, older couples, mountain old timers and newcomers mingled and met as we waited together. A young man shimmied up the telephone pole to run the spotlight mounted there as robed actors began to roam the streets in front of us. The narrator was introduced, a prayer offered and the old, old story began.
Joseph, with blue jeans and work boots peeking out beneath his robes, appears in the light with Mary. Both are sitting in a small lean to on the left side of the courthouse lawn. Mary folds clothes as the narrator starts to tell the story. Roman guards stand by a table on the front sidewalk blocking the entrance to the courthouse as the townspeople walk by. The spotlight shifts to the end of the bridge street as Joseph (or Joe) leads the donkey carrying Mary towards the stable. The donkey moves in fits and starts as donkeys are wont to do, but is calm and beautiful in its donkey way. After being turned away from the Inn, Joe and Mary and the donkey make their way to the stable set up on the right side of the lawn. A baby is coming and they begin to make ready.
The spotlight shifts and there are shepherds standing around a fire, a real fire, and all of us yearn to feel the heat of those flames. The blue and white lit star on the front of the courthouse shines as little children angels stand lifted up around the roof of the stable. Their tinsel halos, white robes and sweet for the moment faces catch my heart and I smile. Three wise men bearing gifts amble up to the stable and the story comes to an end.
For forty eight years folks have gathered here to see the story at Christmas time. It is the antithesis of the current slick big stage indoor productions so favored by many churches. This story telling, a little ragged around the edges, is a moment of mystery and possibility with real life peeking out under the robes. All the churches in the community band together with their choirs and musicians providing the music. Actors are young and old and everything in between. It is a big production number in that sense but one that fosters community between different churches, not competition.
As I stood there wrapped in my own robes to keep the cold at bay, I caught a glimpse of another small town thousands of years ago making ready, not for the birth of the Christ Child, but for a census. Small towns haven’t changed much since then. Everybody knows everybody and everybody’s business. Joes, clad in jeans and work boots, make a living for their families the best way they can. Marys work at home and outside the home but they are still mamas. Little children are sweet bundles of stickiness, our angel future. I give thanks for the simple gift of this evening spent with neighbors and friends, some known but mostly unknown. And I give thanks for all the Joes and Marys who live their lives surrounded by the commonplace wrapped in mystery. Give me eyes to see, ears to hear and a heart filled with joy, Lord, during this ordinary holy time.
P.S. Thanks, Leisa, my sister of the heart, for inviting mama and me to go with you.

Fearfully and wonderfully made...

2011-11-09T07:42:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I was Celeste for a moment. Celeste had the wonderful gift of connecting people to one another, helping strangers become friends. Two of my favorite women needed to “come to know one another” (Brother Kannon’s favorite phrase) so I set up a lunch. One has had knee replacement surgery and the other will be having the same surgery this month. I knew they would like each other because they are both educated uppity Southern women who remember where they come from. When I left the restaurant to drive to the car repair shop, they were still at the table, talking.
As I sat waiting for the car to be fixed, I closed my eyes and began to do the breathing meditation our yoga teacher had given us for homework. Bible verses were my mind graffiti as I tried to wipe the slate clean to focus on breaths. Finally I gave up counting breaths and used a phrase that kept floating to the top… breathe in…fearfully…breathe out… and wonderfully made. My breathing slowed. The frustration of the long wait eased and I relaxed into my body and soul.
At the end of the day, I soaked in a bubble bath in my old cast iron claw foot tub and read from a book given to me by a friend, The Gift of Years by Joan Chittister, subtitled “Growing Old Gracefully”. It is a thoughtful book and one I will read as she suggests, slowly with time to soak in (nice play on words, Thad, for you). The subtitle, however, is a phrase that is beginning to grate on my one remaining nerve. My friends and I decided at lunch yesterday that graceful is not how we are feeling about aging. Knees are giving out. Arthritis is distorting supple joints. Bodies that have been beautiful and useful are now needing medicine and artificial parts in order to maintain some basic abilities. We are grateful for modern medicine and its gifts but this process of bodies wearing out is anything but graceful.
So, I return to my meditation on “fearfully and wonderfully made”. For every body part we can treat and replace, there are so many parts we can neither maintain nor repair. The fearful complexity of our creation inspires awe and wonder. As this body of mine shrinks literally and becomes distorted and old, courage is required for the facing of these days. Courage is a virtue found over and over in the Bible. Remember Little David and Goliath? Noah and the Ark? Rachael and the spies? Peter who lost his courage and then found it again? The women who came to Jesus’ tomb early in the morning? Naomi leaving her adopted land to return home widowed and childless?
Today I am praying for courage to face the limitations of my aging body, courage to understand and make peace with my death, courage to celebrate the gifts of life and death in my fearfully and wonderfully made body. Thanks be to God for our bodies.

Teach me to number my days...

2011-11-01T06:35:00.002-05:00

A good sermon whomped me upside the head Sunday and my ears are still ringing. Pastor Pat was in good form preaching from the Psalms with additional words from William Sloan Coffin and Martin Luther King, Jr. The three words that were her main point have been waltzing around the dance floor of my soul since Sunday and they are helping me find a new rhythm for my days. Teach me to number my days…
One of the points of grace for me this weekend was my sixty fifth birthday. Farm friends gathered for dessert and laughter. Alison was here with her two boys so I got to do some serious baby holding. Aidan and I had a conversation about rainbows, joy and sorrow and his Grandma Mary. One of our special friends, Perry, in town for a conference, called so we had lunch together after church. Serendipity grace all weekend long kept my feet dancing. Teach me to number my days…
Aunt Peg, my mother’s sister is due at the farm today for a visit. My cousin Eddie called last night to see if I had or could borrow a video camera. He wants to film mama and Aunt Peg as they tell stories about their lives. We are all so very aware of the dance coming to an end for these two sisters, one ninety two and one eighty five. Pastor Pat said Sunday death is not our enemy. Death is our reminder to live with grace and gratitude for we are finite creatures. This week I will be numbering my days and theirs as we remember who and where I come from…who my people are. John Ed Pearce said, “Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to.” I will be going home again this week.
The season is changing. Summer is a memory that floats to the surface on an unexpectedly warm autumn day. Crisp, cold morning air shadowed by darkness reminds me that all creation is finite. Life does not last forever. Summer green has given way to bare limbs and the last roses of summer are brown and withered. The dogs drug up a deer carcass in the yard, mostly bone, and I know a hunter or a coyote ended the life of that deer. It is the way of the world. Death lives with life. My days, like the days of the deer, are numbered so I am living with gratitude for the most amazing gift of my life, all sixty five years of it.
In his last sermon in Memphis, Martin Luther King spoke of having seen the Promised Land invoking the memory of Moses seeing the Promised Land but not being allowed to enter. Pastor Pat reminded us that none of us are allowed to enter the Promised Land of endless future. The work begun in the present, like the oak trees we plant now, will grow and continue (or not) in our children and grandchildren’s time. We can see the future, perhaps understand some of it, but it will not be our time or our land. We must live our numbered days with the awareness of our own limits, our own ending. And in this awareness, we can sing with the Psalmist, “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”
T.S.Eliot wrote, “We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” One of the gifts of aging is the discernment, the discovery of our ending and our beginning. If we are paying attention, we can learn the dance steps so our ending days are a graceful, grace filled testament to our Creator’s generosity and love. This week I am waltzing my way towards home…

T.V. Reality Show Worship

2011-10-03T07:50:00.001-05:00

Trying to describe our church home is not easy. We are a polyglot of poor and upper middle class, black and white, educated and barely able to read, young and old, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic, Baptist, employed and unemployed. Our church building presents its back first. The city powers in the days gone by restructured the streets in an Urban Renewal frenzy and we lost the front door access as our main entrance. The ramp is at the back door, the NA group on Wednesdays comes through the back door, and most of our parking is at the back door. As we drove up yesterday, Miz Vivian was walking up the ramp slowly, hat firmly in place. Choir members Jackie and Ernestine were standing at the door. Mike and Judy, one of our interracial couples, were getting out of the car. A visitor was standing in the parking lot playing with her toddler son. As Michael let me out at the back door he said, “I know how to describe our church…it is like a t.v. reality show!” We have a core cast of characters who show up week after week and others who come as they can. But, you never know what is going to happen in worship even though we use a liturgy and an order of worship.
Yesterday our music director was absent. His grandfather died and he was back home with family. I grabbed our other pianist as he walked in the door and begged for help. He played songs he had never seen before as I stood in front of the choir pretending to be a director. Miss Louise told of a fire at her apartment building that morning. Our guest toddler worked his mother over during worship and ran the aisles during communion. Madge was back for the first time since her stroke. Mike has some construction work and is grateful. Mr. Eddington, the retired pastor of Calvary, came to worship for the first time since the funeral of his wife was held in our sanctuary. I held his hand and thanked him for the privilege of playing the piano at the service. He held my hand and spoke of his loneliness. I cornered L.J., one of our young men, and nagged him into saying he would play the trumpet for Thanksgiving worship.
And as always, the two most important parts of worship took as long as the sermon. We pray for each other and for our world. Time is spent voicing joys and concerns… deaths, illness, birthdays and births, new jobs, no jobs, wars and the soldiers who bear the burdens of those wars… everything is gathered into prayer and offered up to God. We pass the peace walking the aisles, hugging, shaking hands, speaking words of welcome and affirmation and concern. It is noisy and messy and wonderful. No one leaves our church untouched by human hands on Sunday morning. Pastor Pat’s sermon quiets us down as we hear the scripture and her words crafted just for us that morning.
In my life I have been without church two times. Those times were painful, lonely and meaningful. Like New York City for a country girl, they were a great place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there. Corporate worship matters to me. As a veteran of both large and small churches with conservative, fundamental and liberal theologies, I have seen and heard enough different kinds of worship to be able to fit in almost anywhere for a short while. But, there is one value I hold dear in worship. Above good music, thoughtful sermons, carefully prepared liturgy and beautiful surroundings, I must have a place where I can be myself, the good, the bad and the ugly. I can worship God with support and love from others in the same boat, wounded believers who worship because it keeps the loose ends tied up, binds up the broken pieces and sets our souls soaring towards the infinite… not many answers but peace with the mystery.
So I show up for worship hoping I can find God there. Most Sundays I do. Every Sunday I see God’s face in the faces that sit next to me in the pews and I hear God’s voice in toddlers protesting and Miss Ida Mae’s soft words, the joyful rhythms of gospel music and stately movement of traditional hymns. It will get me through until next week and I am grateful. Thanks be to God.

Wave tracings in the sand...

2011-10-02T07:05:00.002-05:00

Waves washing up on the white sugar sand shore leaving line drawings as a visual memory of their passage…

Our conversations were peppered with the phrase “Do you remember?” Do you remember the night we came home and found the fire engine in front of the condo… the time we spent shelling crabs we caught while we watched the Olympics… the cloud of mosquitoes we had to walk through every time we went to the beach… the thunderstorm and lightening that was so beautiful out over the ocean… the luminescence on the beach and in the water on our evening beach walk… the hurricane that chased us off the beach and then followed us inland to Williamsburg? We spent nearly twenty years of beach vacations with our children growing up as we roamed the beaches of the Gulf and the Atlantic.

We are separated now by distance, no longer next door neighbors but there is no distance between our hearts. Our children are grown with children of their own and the beach tradition no longer is one that includes both families. The logistics are overwhelming. But for this one week, the four of us were back together again bound by love and memory.

Our children would have been amused by us. One minute we are all absorbed in our portable technology… I Pads, Smart Phones, Mac Air… and then we are telling stories of summers past. Traditionally we have carried a box full of books for beach reading. This year we share not only books but Aps as well. Our mutual ignorance and partial knowledge of our children’s technological world is one of our hallmark memories this year of beach remembering.

World Communion Sunday is today, a time when Christians all over the world, share a meal based on memory. It is a simple meal, bread and wine, a meal that honors the past and calls us into the future. We remember the life of the one we call Lord, his death and new life, and we are part of a family that gathers around the table to weep and laugh together. Our church will gather in a circle, pass the bread and wine to each other, hold hands and sing, and for one brief moment, be the Family of God without barriers of color or creed. It is a memory worth holding on to, a memory that could lead us into a new world of loving connection and living sacrifice one for another. Memories… the ties that bind us and free us, that call us to new frontiers as Christians… can be past and future if we but let them lead us. May it be so, please, Lord?

Be careful what you ask for...

2011-09-15T06:38:00.001-05:00

I had a picquant conversation yesterday at the funeral… one of those that will continue later over a cup of tea… with a woman I want to get to know better. We first met in the parking lot of Berry Temple Methodist Church a month or so ago as she waited on her piano students. Standing by her car, I saw she was reading “The Help” and we had a brief conversation about the book. Yesterday I asked her what she thought of the book and movie. She replied with some fervor that she didn’t find it entertaining at all. It pulled up memories of watching women leave her neighborhood in the morning dressed as maids and coming home in the afternoon with bags of leftover food. I want to continue this conversation now that we have begun to move towards each other. She is an articulate woman, a retired teacher, and I like her. I’m trying to talk her into playing a piano duet with me in worship one Sunday. That would be fun.
One of the gifts of my age is my DGASA (don’t give a shit attitude). If I have a question, I ask. If I don’t want to, I say “no”. Sometimes I get in trouble and sometimes I find treasures. I have learned that you shouldn’t ask unless you can take the answer. Don’t go looking for pearls if you can’t stand the disappointment of many shells that only have oysters. So my conversations with Jackie may turn out to be the beginning of a real friendship or it might be an exchange of different world views or a piano playing partnership. Any one of those would be fine. All three would be loverly but I am alright with it whatever comes. I am satisfied with my question asking and her honesty in return.
A few years ago I prayed for church family. My prayers have been answered in a way I did not expect. Baptist to Congregational UCC to African American Presbyterian… I didn’t see that one coming. With relationship comes responsibility and I am praying carefully about how to do my best as a part of Calvary Presbyterian. After all, I might get what I ask for and God only knows where I would end up. Thanks be to God for answered prayers, answers that delight, surprise, and stir us up.

Water rocks in the wilderness...

2011-09-08T10:18:00.002-05:00

My new favorite book, recipient of two awards from teachers and the SPCA, is “The Goat Lady” written by Jane Bregoli. Beautiful watercolors are on every page with a story that does not preach at or talk down to children. It is a true story, a real story, a story like the stories Jesus told, that reaches deep into our souls and captures our best selves. It sits on my coffee table in the living room waiting for a visit from our grandchildren.
In the meantime, I have been watching people coming through my house pick it up, read it and look up with a sweet smile on their faces. At our church picnic Sunday, Pastor Pat read it as well as several others who couldn’t resist the title and the cover art. Like the “Velveteen Rabbit”, this book reminds us of truths that transcend culture and time.
The neighbors in this story, much like the folks in Jesus’ hometown, were willing to throw verbal stones, use legal means to oust the Goat Lady from her home. They did not know her and in their ignorance, chose to see her as a nuisance, an eyesore, a nothing. I’ve had to do some soul searching after reading this book, looking at my assumptions about those whom I do not know. Pastor Pat challenged us in her sermon Sunday to let go of what was holding us back… our preconceived notions about other people or ourselves… our unwillingness to move from the known into the unknown… our fears and our past. She called us to move out into the wilderness, strike a rock like Moses and wait on the water to flow. Easy to say. Hard to do.
Truth be told, I feel like the Goat Lady most days. The world seems to be moving so fast, change around every corner, strangers invading my space clamoring for their point of view, climate change that has altered the pattern of life in these ancient mountains, a farm lady who lives in the boondocks and loves it when most people live in cities with lights and noise and convenient shopping.
Some days I am overwhelmed with all the ways we keep in touch… Facebook, Twitter, E-mail, cell phones 24-7… and yet we seem to have lost touch in some very important ways. Speed of communication does not guarantee quality communication. Writing in the morning is one way I talk to God, to myself and to you. A visit from neighbors… Gary drives by in his Kubota with grandson Grayson in his car seat, Dianne comes by to check my beehive, Leisa drops by leave a plant start, Julie has some melon rinds for the chickens… brings slow talk, a hug or two, soft laughter, a new life beginning and my world turns right side up again.
Perhaps all God wants from us is some slow time talk, connection that does not depend upon the latest technological marvel, slowed down soul time that is face to face and heart to heart. Maybe all God wants us to do is to do the same for those we pass by in our days of busyness. Listen to the old man full of conversation at the checkout counter, really seeing the young Hispanic woman waiting on you at MacDonald’s, hearing your mother’s voice and seeing her as the vibrant young woman she once was, listening more and speaking less.
We sang one of Pastor Pat’s favorite hymns Sunday morning, “I Love the Lord Who Heard my Cry”. We sang it a capella and the richness of the individual voices lifted up in ragged song took my breath away. I heard Mamie and Mary and Jackie and Michael and Pat and Mark and Dave, all God’s children gathered for worship and communion singing. None of us the same and yet all of us alike. Our voices were water flowing from our rocky souls, running through the wilderness to the ears of God. This hymn has its roots in a Psalm and it will be my prayer for this day. “I love the Lord, because he has heard my voice and my supplications. Because he inclined his ear to me, therefore I will call on him as long as I live.” Slow soul talk…

Toilet cleaning and other meaningful work...

2011-08-29T11:03:00.002-05:00

Forty two years of marriage… calculating cleaning toilets for forty of those years once a week (two years off for vacations and hired help sometimes), I have cleaned one toilet 2080 times. Some of those years we had multiple bathrooms but I am depressed enough looking at that figure without adding to it. No wonder I occasionally feel like Eeyore contemplating the meaning of my life. My friend Leisa and I were talking about jobs you don’t get to retire from and this one was at the top of the list. Cooking can be creative. Cleaning the house can leave you feeling good about the way it looks but cleaning toilets has no feel good component to it at all.
Sometimes work can be satisfying, fulfilling, well paid if nothing else. And sometimes, work is just work, necessary but not much reward. Brother Lawrence had a great deal to say about using our work, even the least satisfying work, as a vehicle for praising God. In theory, I appreciate the sentiment but in reality, I have to keep kicking myself as a reminder. All work is not created equal. Somehow most of us find a balance between the necessary evils like toilet cleaning and the work that gives meaning to our lives.
I am the pianist for our little church. On Tuesday we have choir practice for two hours. Sunday mornings, I get to church early so I can get ready for the prelude and arrange my music. This is work. No pay but the satisfaction of being involved in a church music program again. Every morning I muck out the horse and donkey stalls, feed Ferdinand the bull, feed the cats and dogs. Most days I feed the cows and regularly spray them for flies. No pay but the satisfaction of relationships with animals. I am cleaning house this week getting ready for a church picnic at our house this next Sunday. Sprucing up, changing the slipcovers, weeding the flower beds, dusting, picking up and cleaning up. No pay but the satisfaction of extending hospitality to a faith community that is dear to my heart.
An old hymn I used to sing at Pinetta Baptist Church comes to mind. “To the work! To the work! We are servants of God; Let us follow the path that our Master has trod; With the balm of his counsel our strength to renew, Let us do with our might what our hands find to do. Toiling on, toiling on, toiling on, toiling on; Let us hope (and trust) let us watch (and pray) and labor ‘til the Master comes.” Like the Jews in Nehemiah rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem, give me a mind to work, Lord, so I might show myself worthy of this gift of life. Keep me moving on, toiling on, singing on my way as I do the work I have been given to do. Thank you for a healthy body that can work. And now, Lord, excuse me, please, while I go scrub toilets.

Down and dirty...

2011-08-28T15:33:00.002-05:00

There I stood in my light teal western cut Carrhart shirt with mother of pearl snaps, riding pants and FatBaby pink and brown cowgirl boots, all splashed with wet black muck…
It had been a perfect Saturday. There was a cool breeze all day that broke up the hot humid weather pattern. Still no rain for us so everything is dying… trees, grass, flowers… and the creeks are drying up. I pulled some weeds and finished recovering the wicker sofa’s cushions. After I mucked out the stables, I worked the horses in the riding ring for awhile. Tomato sandwiches for lunch were followed by a nap. Then I rode Dixie and Junie B for two hours, playtime for me but hard work for them.
Michael came and asked for help pumping water for the cows. The small creek that feeds the reservoirs is completely dried up so we need to pump water from the larger creek. It, too, is much smaller now and Michael had a hard time getting enough water dammed up to pump. The cows had knocked over the drain pipe so all the water had drained out of the cistern leaving the fish stranded, gasping in the black muck. I reached in and grabbed him. Holding him in one hand, I drove the Kubota with the other hand and took him to the other reservoir where there was still some water. While Michael set up the pump, I began shoveling the accumulated muck out of the bottom of the reservoir. It was wet and sloppy, splashing in unexpected places. Soon I was heavily decorated with big, black wads of mud. We left the pump running and will need to run it again today to refill the reservoir. Cows drink a lot of water so we will be doing this until we get rain. According to the weather report, none is in sight for this week.
The contrast between the flooding with hurricane Irene and the drought here is striking. To the south and east, there has been rain. But in our small community, the ground is baked hard and is cracking. As always, the paradox of plenty and not enough exist side by side in nature and in our lives. There is no grass to speak of in the pastures. We have been feeding hay for some time, now. The generous rain in the spring meant we had a wonderful first cutting of hay. The drought meant a scarce second cutting and we enter fall and winter hoping we don’t have to buy hay. We will sell our young steers to cut down on the number of mouths we have to feed and hope for a mild winter.
How do we make sense of rain that falls on our neighbor’s farm but not on ours? The age old question of “Why them and not me?” never seems to receive an adequate answer. While I stand with black muck splashed all over me, I remember that rain falls on the just and the unjust alike. I give thanks for pumps and streams and reservoirs and cows, all a part of the wonderful gifts I have been given here at Sabbath Rest Farm. I will live these breezy cool days thanking God in advance for the rain that will come our way replenishing the streams and greening the grass. Even when I am covered in smelly black muck, I am blessed and I know it. Selah.

I love Jesus but I drink a little...

2011-08-21T08:17:00.000-05:00

Gladys from Austin, Texas, called Ellen Degeneres to let her know she needed to move one of her spiky plants. At certain angles it made Ellen look like Alfalfa, a character with hair that stood up on his crown. Ellen called her back and the eighty eight year old woman was full of herself. She tickled the audience with her conversation. One of her best lines was, “I love Jesus but I drink a little”. Most of us do, I think, love Jesus and drink a little. We mean well, we try hard and we fall short as human beings tend to do.
“The Help”, a novel and now a movie, is full of folks, black and white, who love Jesus and drink a little. The temptation is to judge the Hilly Hypocrites of that world without seeing the Hilly in ourselves. It is so very easy to decipher right from wrong on the big screen fifty years later and miss right from wrong in the here and now. Punitive immigration laws in Alabama and Arizona don’t differ all that much from Jim Crow laws in the fifties. Relationships between the help and the boss ladies in Jackson, Mississippi hinge on the ignorance, the chosen ignorance, of the truth of the help’s lives and selves. And, therein lies the sin.
I listen to people talk about illegal immigrants, about the problems that have come with the wave of Latino workers sweeping across the south and the west. I know the rhetoric is heated and feelings run high. There is a problem with our immigration laws and their enforcement. It isn’t a fair and just system. It never has been. I know most of this latest influx of folks are coming for the same reason my great-grandparents did… a chance at a better life for themselves and their children. It is so very easy to see the Latino woman working at McDonald’s but not really see her, not know her or her story. It is so very easy to generalize… they are taking jobs away from our people, they are not trustworthy, they abuse our welfare system… and indeed some of that is probably true. But there is another side to the story.
One of my chosen sisters employed a young man to help her remodel her grandmother’s house. He was a talented, hardworking young man with a wife and baby, an illegal immigrant who worked hard, paid his taxes and dreamed of life as an American. Caught up in a traffic stop, he was deported to Mexico leaving his young wife and child behind. It was only a matter of months before he was back working hard again, trying to better his life and support his family. Knowing him, knowing his story, makes it hard for me to generalize about illegal immigrants.
I don’t know the best solution to the problems with our illegal immigration. I do know that as Christians who drink a little, we are called to see the face of Christ in all the faces of those who are the least among us. Abilene, one of the maids in “The Help”, taught the little white girl she cared for words to keep in her heart. “I is kind. I is smart. I is important.” In God’s eyes, aren’t we all kind and smart and important? Help me, Lord, to see your face not only in the least of these but also in the faces of those who have more than most, those who proclaim the answers with such certainty, those who look and sound like me.

I love you like a dog...

2011-08-07T07:25:00.003-05:00

There are two new faces on the farm…Woodrow and Marley. Blackmouth Yellow Cur brother and sister. Barney was our introduction to this breed and I fell in love with their loyal tender hearts. Often misidentified as a boxer mix or as mutts, these dogs range in size from 70 to 100 pounds, square muzzles or pointed, red, yellow or beige. Bred in the south as farm helpers, family protectors and hunting dogs, they are so tenderhearted they often will protect their family children from being disciplined. Woody and Marley were rescued from a kill shelter in Georgia and brought to us by their foster mom, Lois, on Friday. In one of those happy coincidences that so often seems to happen in the dog rescue world, Lois’s son lives in Asheville so she visited her son and us at the same time.
Forging a relationship with a rescued dog can be an interesting proposition. Their life before you is largely unknown and the influences of other people show up in strange ways. Barney was afraid of men in baseball hats and anybody with a camera. Where did the camera come from? Woody seems to be an open, friendly fellow with lots of bounce, a canine Tigger. Marley is more fearful, stays close to her brother and is protective of him. She loves to be loved. Lois did a wonderful job with them and they are beginning to settle in.
Saturday morning, Michael took all three dogs, Rufus, Woody and Marley, walkabout on the farm. He leashed Woody so Rufus wouldn’t take them on a runaway mission. After an hour they came back tired and ready for breakfast. When I went to muck stalls and feed Ferdinand, they walked down to the stable with me. The horses hung their heads over the half doors trying to figure out these new dogs while Woody and Marley approached warily. Shirley and Kate, the donkeys, have a more straightforward approach. They stretch out their necks much like an angry goose and rush the dogs. Woody and Marley take the commonsense response and get behind the fence where they are safe from donkey nips. Cats are being treated with respect since old Daisy hissed, swelled up and popped Marley on the nose when she didn’t like being barked at. And last night was the first ride in the Kubota to the pond to visit the ducks. Farm dogs here have two choices for locomotion…run by the Kubota or ride in it.
As I watch these dogs adjust to a new home, strangers, strange animals, different rules, scary experiences, I am struck by their ability to give and receive love even as they struggle to settle in. Marley comes to me, sits and snuggles her head against my knee, asking for physical reassurance of loving intentions. Woody comes and sits beside her, pushing into the magic circle of love. Soon Rufus comes and asks for his share. I am bathed in love just because I am there, I am safe, I love them back.
I wish we had the kind of world where we could share love with other people the same way these dogs do. When I was tired, or afraid I could rest my head on someone’s shoulder and feel a loving pat. If life was overwhelming me and sadness weighed me down, I could find someone to hold me up until I was able to stand on my own again. When anger caused me to lash out and bite the hands that feed me, there would be instruction on the way back into the good graces of those I had hurt. Love would flow for no other reason than the presence of the other. Perhaps this is the world the prophet Isaiah glimpsed, a new heaven and earth where the wolf and the lamb shall lie down together, where God answers us before we cry out our need, a world where love between those who are different creates peace and harmony of being. Loving like a dog might be closer to God’s way of loving than our own. Makes you wonder if the bumper sticker is true… Dog is God…

The accidental gardener...

2011-07-31T07:05:00.001-05:00

The sere summer breezes bring stirring of the air but no relief from the heat. Rain has been an infrequent visitor and the ground is baked hard. The only pleasurable outdoor time is early morning and late evening. This morning I woke early to a quiet house and went to the front steps to sit a spell. Wiley, my faithful grey cat, came and sat by me, purring as I scratched his ears. We sat and watched the rabbits play at the edge of the front yard. One rabbit would jump straight up in the air coming down where he started while the other rabbit ran towards him, a game of some sort. Birds flew by, crows cawed and the rooster crowed. The stillness of the air and the quiet broken only by bird and cricket song were my morning prayer.
As I sat, I surveyed the flower border that edges our front walk. Colors run riotously without any apparent rhyme or reason… pink (phlox, Echinacea, achillea), yellow (black eyed Susans, yarrow, early blooming mums, daylillies), orange reds (roses, painted daisies). The kale’s leaves are pale purple and past ready for picking. The garlic’s blooms have faded and fallen over. It is a late summer Technicolor show that defies the hot dry weather. Mixed in with the flowers are weeds that I have not pulled adding to the greenery.
I am an accidental gardener. Unlike my mother who tends her flowers, weeding and mulching and fertilizing, I plant and forget. Sometimes I remember to water or fertilize but more often than not plants are on their own with me. This leads to casualties (you can kill a nandina) and surprises (if kale is left to bloom and re-seed, it pops up in wonderful places). Tall hollies and crepe myrtle can be transplanted if you use a tractor to move them. Earthworms love newspaper layered under mulch. My gardening skills are improvisational and experimental. If it works and looks good, keep it. If it doesn’t bloom or smell good, don’t plant it. Feel free to move plants around and create new vistas. Share your extras.
I sat at the supper table last week surveying the garden of our children, their spouses and our grandchildren. A torrent of sound… laughter, questions, stories, little hissy fits… and a river of love’s history… my mother holding her two youngest great-grandchildren… good food from grandma… deviled eggs, fried squash, mashed potatoes… meals prepared by grown children who love to cook… Moravian chicken pie, orzo with fruit and veggies, pork tenderloin with pineapple pepper sauce. My belly was full of thanksgiving for this wonderful accidental garden of family. Who knew we would have six grandsons each one so full of themselves? Children are married to spouses we love and they all seem to tolerate our quirks with good humor most of the time.
I take a road trip through time remembering the years of birthing and growing these grown up children. Church, piano lessons, dance recitals, soccer games, plays, sleepless nights, worry and wonder a part of my daily routine from the birth of our first child until today. I see the perfection in the imperfection of our lives together, the love that runs over and under the occasional snarkiness, the sheer joy of being as grandsons splash and play in the Leaning Tower of Pool and my heart overflows with tears for the wonderful garden of family and life I have been given. It is grace undeserved and I know it. Thanks be to God for accidental gardens of all kinds and for the gifts of love that bloom in our lives year after year, popping up in unexpected places and ways.

I was listening...

2011-07-17T06:53:00.001-05:00

I am listening….
The full moon night light poured in through the windows of our bedroom as I lay in bed listening to Rufus the Basset Hound bay. It was his “I think I see and smell something” bark… one bark that ends on a shrill up note followed by two regular barks. I listened to the night sounds in between barks and heard nothing out of the ordinary. After a few minutes Michael got up and called Rufus in to the house. He had been sleeping on Barney’s old bed outdoors so we had left him outside last night to enjoy the moonlight.
I walk out on the back porch and see Junie B and Dixie standing at the gate. As I come down the steps, they speak to me. Junie B has a wonderful throaty nicker, a Greta Garbo voice that brings a smile to my face. I carry them a treat and rub their faces. They have been eating too much clover and are drooling like faucets. When Dixie is nervous or frightened, she snorts and huffs. Sometimes like a child, she plays at being afraid. She gives voice to those feelings and I listen, look around to see what is happening. It is a visiting dog, one she does not know, and she is giving notice.
My mother calls. Uncle Harold is very ill, his third heart attack, and she is so worried. Aunt Peg is coming for a visit. She is going to get her son to drive her to the farm and the two sisters will have another time to be together. Callie, my daddy’s cat is missing, and she is worried about what might have happened to the old girl. Mama’s cold and cough are hanging on and as I listen to her, I worry about whether or not she should see a doctor.
The red tailed hawk swings in wide circles above my head slicing the air with his sharp keening cry. I look up and listen as he searches for food from above. There are rabbits aplenty this year as so he need not look at our chickens. He is a beautiful bird flying with an economy of motion that is an aerial dance.
A Mary Oliver poem, “Days”, ends this way… (excuse the spacing)
Whatever it was I was supposed to be this morning-whatever it was I said I would be doing-
I was standing at the edge of the field- I was hurrying through my own soul, opening its dark
doors- I was leaning out; I was listening.
So much of my life has been spent listening. I sit in silence and hear the sound track of my life filled with the voices from long ago. There was so much I missed listening the first time and I hear more clearly now the love in my father’s voice, the fear in my sister’s voice, the sheer joy in my grubby young son’s voice, the pride in my daughter’s voice as she walks to school alone for the first time, the independent streak a mile wide in another daughter’s voice as she pushes my hand away from brushing her hair, my husband’s voice rumbling a bass accompaniment to our everyday living. And underneath, around and above, always there is the sound of God’s presence in my world. Sometimes the sound is silence and in the silence, if I listen, I can hear God pass by.
Today, God, I want to lean out and listen. I want to hear your voice in the voices around me and in the sounds of your creation. Give me an ear to hear, O Lord and incline your ear towards me. Please?

Forgiveness and forgetfulness...

2011-07-14T06:57:00.001-05:00

Michael and I celebrated our forty second anniversary Monday with our good friends Cannan and James by taking a time out at the Sourwood Inn on Elk Mountain Scenic Highway. Every year when July 12 rolls around, we spend time remembering our weddings. Cannan remembers us as young seminary students at Crescent Hill Baptist Church, remembers our wedding. I was her wedding director, a superfluous assignment, trying to herd cats at the rehearsal as all the strong minded participants felt free to tell us all how it should be done. This year our laughter was seasoned with tears as we listened to James share his journey into forgetting. Communication was an essential piece of his being as a pastoral counselor and professor. Words mattered and memory informed his life. Now, he tells us, he is learning to communicate from the heart since he can no longer speak and remember freely.
Our innkeeper, Nat Burkhart, was a longtime neighbor when we lived in town. In his retirement, he and his wife, his daughter and her husband built and staff the Sourwood Inn. It sits high on Elk Mountain near the parkway and is perched among blooming sourwood trees and clouds. At breakfast, Nat engages us in theological conversation as he serves oatmeal pancakes and juice. We learn he gives all his guests “propaganda” telling them they don’t have to read it, just don’t put it in the trash because when he empties the trash cans, it will hurt his feelings to find it there. He hands us some of his “propaganda” from various books and articles that have caught his soul’s eye and I bring it home to read. One of the passages is from “The Luminous Web” by Barbara Brown Taylor,
“It is not sufficient any longer to listen at the end of a wire to the rustlings of the galaxies; it is not enough to even examine the great coil of DNA in which is coded the very alphabet of life. These are our extended perceptions. But beyond lies the great darkness of the ultimate dreamer, who dreamed the light and the galaxies. Before act was, or substance existed, imagination grew in the dark. Loren Eiseley
The physicist Neils Rohr, who was so conscious of the limits of language, liked to tell the story about a young rabbinical student who went to hear three lectures by a famous rabbi. Afterward he told his friends, ‘The first talk was brilliant, clear and simple. I understood every word. The second was even better, deep and subtle. I didn’t understand much but the rabbi understood all of it. The third was by far the finest, a great and unforgettable experience. I understood nothing and the rabbi didn’t understand much either.’
Since I have studied under Rabbi Jesus, this story makes perfect sense to me. There are things no one can talk about. If we insist on trying, as we are inclined to do, then something unforgettable may happen in the air around our words, but it will not be because we understand them in any rational sort of way.”
We all live within the limits of our minds with or without Altzheimer’s. Our imagination is sparse and bound by our experiences. Do we imagine a God who hears our prayer or is prayer a means to action for us? Do we remember our faith stories and cling to the past or are we traveling into new unexplored realities of Imaginative Being informed but not bound by our history? Have we forgotten who we are and to whom we belong? Can we forgive ourselves for not remembering?
Forgiveness and forgetfulness… part of the Great Mystery… We are finite creatures who will never be able to see through the dark glass clearly no matter how hard we try or how learned we are. Like James, I am trying to learn how to live from the heart because no words, no memory can contain the Mystery. And, I must forgive myself for my forgetfulness, my inability to keep my eye on the prize. Tina Turner’s signature song asks the question, “What’s love got to do with it?” The answer is Love has to do with everything and even when words fail to come, when my memory begins to fade, Love will sustain me as it has these many years. And it will flow from James’ heart to mine unrestrained by the limits of language. Thanks be to God for the mysteries that I cannot begin to imagine.

dragging bottom...

2011-07-13T08:59:00.001-05:00

Getting into the inner tubes proved to be more of a challenge than we anticipated. Claudie held them for us as we plopped our bottoms down in the cold water of the Oconaluftee River that runs through the downtown park in Cherokee, N.C. As each one of us settled in, we held the rope on the other tube for the next person until our little four tube train was ready to go. Out into the current we floated and for a few minutes, it was bliss.
Watching the children scampering in the water and floating by us, it looked so easy from the banks of the river. Being IN the river was a different proposition however. First, Mary Lynn wailed she was losing air in her tube and sinking down. We began to try to head towards shore but the current speeded up and we were held captive to the flow. Mary Lynn’s bottom made a personal acquaintance with most of the rocks in the river as we struggled towards shore. As Mary Lynn and Claudie beached on the rocks, Janis and I were floating on down unable to extricate ourselves from the tubes or the current. The river was no longer friendly but scary and there were no easy places to land. Finally, we were able to make our way to the banks underneath the main downtown bridge after much anxiety and screaming.
Walking up the path back to the park, we were uncertain whether to try again or not. Janis needed some time off to regain her balance so she stayed with Andy, our work camp family historian and videographer, as the rest of us tried again to master the art of tubing. Mary Lynn’s tube was flat as a pancake so we were a three tube train this time. Getting in the tube was a little easier, the water was not quite as cold, and we watched our fellow tubers to ascertain an exit plan. This time out we found the flow, avoided most of the rocks submerged just below the surface, and made shore without too much trouble. Janis rejoined us and the bliss grew with each successful trip.
The children began to play with us, the only old tubers on the river. They watched us with interest and fascination as we careened past them laughing and screaming. One little boy became our friend and we dubbed him our lifeguard. When we floated past him, he would grab our tubes and take us to shore. One time he dove under the water and came up beside me roaring like a shark scaring the bejeezus out of us. We listened to his fish story… I almost caught a fish by hand and he was huge… and praised his minnow collection. We were river buddies.
The writer of Psalms 46 knew about dragging bottom. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult.’ Each of us in my work camp family had spent some time dragging bottom in the past year since our last reunion. Health issues, retirement or not, aging problems, financial concerns, relationship changes… those rocks in the bottom of the river of time had left marks on us. But we have gathered ourselves up and launched out into the river again and again, gathering courage and strength from those who love us and from the God of the Glad River that flows through the habitation of the Most High.
I give thanks for the laughter on the river that came after the fear on the river, the love that surprises me again every year when we gather, and for the One who first called us together in Cherokee, N.C. forty five years ago. We are children of God in the River of Life floating back to the One who is our resting place, our still water in the midst of the rocky bottoms. Thanks be to God for more than enough!

In the meantime...

2011-07-06T07:42:00.002-05:00

All farmers worth their salt live in the meantime. The hay is ready to cut but the afternoon storms keep on coming. In the meantime you repair fences or plant winter rye. Fanny is nearly ready to calve so you lock the herd down in the meantime to keep the coyotes from harming the new calf. Most things on a farm do not happen as you might plan or expect so living in the meantime becomes an art, a necessity.
I have been living in the meantime this summer. Truth be told, most of my life has been lived in the meantime. My best laid plans always seem to skid sideways at some point as life takes an unexpected detour. Being the at home professional requires the skill of meantime living. Dixie’s stall was flooded in the last fierce storm and a lake of dirty water pooled all over the floor. So yesterday I was shoveling waterlogged wood chips, manure, sawdust and dirt out of the stall for an hour or so. It took two loads in the Daddy O to strip her stall down to mud. Then I layered lime to sweeten the ammonia before putting the corn cob pellets down to absorb the moisture. While shoveling and spreading, I prayed for those I love who are living in a meantime place filled with uncertainty and fear. Waiting on a diagnosis, living with dementia, struggling in counseling, living with the aftermath of illness…
Meantimes can be filled with anticipation and hope… a new baby is coming, a wedding is planned, a best friend is coming to visit, a special anniversary is celebrated. Paying attention to these special in between times sweetens the pleasure and deepens the joy. We share a wedding anniversary with good friends. For years when we lived in the same city, we celebrated our anniversaries together. This year we will resume the tradition and are spending a night at a mountaintop inn. Our joy is tempered by the recognition of shared griefs and losses. But we are the stronger for it, and our celebration will be rich with laughter and life.
Jesus knew how to live in the meantime whether in a boat escaping needy crowds , praying alone and deserted on a dark mountain, leading a parade or having supper with a sinner. Nothing in his life was beneath his notice and when the unexpected came to call, his responded. Lazerus died? The young daughter is at death’s door? The sick woman grabs the hem of his robe? Five thousand people to feed? Twelve disciples to prepare and teach? He could shift gears and be in the moment whether it called for joy, sorrow, anger or action. Life in the meantime…
An English alternative rock band with the unlikely name of Spacehog wrote some beautiful lyrics to a song named “In the Meantime”. Thanks to the wonders of Googeling, I found these words and I pass them on to you, my morning prayer.

And in the end we shall achieve in time The thing they call divine, When all the stars will smile for me, When all is well and well is for all, And forever after.
Maybe in the meantime wait and see We love the all of you Our lands are green and our skies are blue When all in all we’re just like you We love the all of you.
And when I cry for me I cry for you with tears of holy joy for all the days you’ve still to come…

In the meantime, I laugh and love and weep and pray for us all as we wait for the stars to smile and all to be well. Amen.

Rooster light...

2011-06-28T06:09:00.001-05:00

As I lay in early morning darkness listening to the rooster crow, I began to count the different ways light has been a part of conversation in the past week.
The Electric Light Parade is in full swing here on the farm. Every night the darkness is punctuated with tiny dots of light. Each firefly dances to its own beat and the little lights swirl in the trees sending messages to all the other fireflies. I do not speak the language of firefly but I am a grateful observer of their beautiful communication.
Our power went out last week. An oak tree fell on the line that serves the farm family and left us temporarily in the dark. Electricity is an ephemeral necessity that goes unnoticed and unappreciated until it is interrupted by nature. The lights that shine in our homes are relatively recent inventions. My mother’s generation remembers the care and feeding of oil lamps as a daily necessity for evening light.
Standing in the aisle at Lowe’s, I ponder the choices in light bulbs. My kitchen lights need replacing so I study the choices. I will feel environmentally irresponsible if I buy an incandescent bulb so I waver between the more expensive LED and the dimmable fluorescent bulbs. I settle for the dimmable fluorescent bulbs as a compromise between my budget and the power grid.
Summer solstice, a light filled day that holds darkness at bay, was observed. We crossed the continental divide between darkness and light and now darkness has begun to nibble at the long summer days. Most of us never notice this annual ritual of light that comes twice a year, the ebb and flow of light. The Old Ones knew the power of light and darkness so this shift was ritualized and recognized in the times when light was not taken for granted.
Many of us find our emotional well being depends upon the light. Summertime brings a lifting of our spirits that is inexplicable. The circumstances of our lives remain the same but the light lifts us up and lightens our load. Light is our visual Prozac and we are able to rejoice again in the abundance that surrounds us.
Sunday morning we sang “This Little Light of Mine” in worship. A gospel song and a children’s song with motions… remember the hand covering the upright pointer finger candle? The gospel song book we use along with our regular Presbyterian hymnal, had verses I had never sung before. A new way of hearing and singing this song about light pricked my ennui and I sang with gusto.
God said “Let there be light”. The first order in creation was the separation of light and darkness…day and night. The Psalmist sang “The Lord is my light and my salvation” and reminded us that God’s word was a lamp for our feet on dark paths. Our soul’s inner light comes from God and we find our way through darkness safely when we remember the Loving Light that is leading us home. The Preacher in Ecclesiastes says “Light is sweet and it is pleasant for the eyes to behold the sun”. He knew how much the sweet summer light could mean to someone who lives with SAD. “I am come that you might have light”, Jesus said,” and have it more abundantly”. Light and life are poured out in equal measure for those who seek God even in the midst of darkness and death.
Rooster light… early morning not quite light yet light… seeing through a glass darkly light… for today, I have more than enough light. Thanks be to God.

I was a stranger...

2011-06-23T06:52:00.000-05:00

He was my lion hearted chicken livered guardian, chewer of bumpers, chaser of cars and coyotes. Monday morning with my hand on his head and his eyes on my face, he died and my heart broke. He came to us a stranger, abused in his early life, a stray living in the high barn who circled around us in ever narrowing circles until he became family. Loyalty and love were given freely on his part but always on his terms. Children loved him and they were the only ones he allowed to approach him easily. Cameras and men in baseball hats terrified him and his deep loud bark echoed a remembered fear that we never understood. On those nights when my busy brain kept me from sleeping, Barney and I would sit side by side, leaning on each other, on the top step of the front porch listening to the night sounds. He kept fearless guard over us in the night chasing coyotes and bears away, running and barking through our farm often waking us. And now I weep as I drive into our yard and there is no big yellow dog rising to meet me. Michael has lost his morning walking companion and he and Rufus are lonely. Mama misses his daily visits to her. He came so often that a path is worn through the pasture next to her house. How did this stray dog, a bundle of contradiction and command, become so important to me? To mama? To Michael?
My friend Janet helped me yesterday by giving me an image, a Biblical connection that I had not made. For Janet, Barney was the stranger we took in, a complicated not easy to love stranger who became the symbol of Sabbath Rest Farm, a safe place to rest. Our loving Barney became a testament to our willingness to love strangers, others who show up needing something or someone. Young men and women living through in-between times who need work and some community show up to bale hay, build fences, ride horses and do farm chores. Pastors and church staff come for respite care. Families come and their children run free. Neighbors walk over bringing friends and our circle widens once again.
I was a stranger, Jesus said, and you took me in. Heartbreak, frustration, joy, laughter, steadfast love… all are gifts from the strangers who are welcome here at Sabbath Rest Farm and in my heart. You will live in my heart Barney as a reminder of God’s gracious arrival in uninvited guests. Thanks be to God for love and loss, life and death, and strangers who become family.

The earth is the Lord's... and mine too

2011-05-27T09:05:00.002-05:00

The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof…
I’ve been reading Wendell Berry poetry again letting my soul fill up. This man reminds me of all the men and women I knew growing up for whom the land was both work and play. In my reading this morning one poem called my name.
BELOW
Above the trees and the rooftops
is the range of symbols:
banner, cross, star;
air war, the mode of those
who live by symbols, the pure
abstraction of travel by air.
Here a spire holds up
An angel with trump and wings;
He’s in his element.
Another lifts a hand
with forefinger pointing up
to admonish that all’s not here.
All’s not. But I aspire
downward. Flyers embrace
the air, and I’m a man
who needs something to hug.
All my dawns cross the horizon
and rise, from underfoot.
What I stand for
Is what I stand on.
This week I have stood on fields rowed by golden hay shining in the sun, smelling sweet and clean. Standing on top of the trailer high with hay bales, I see the hillside pasture with bull, horses and donkeys surrounded by pines and briars. Walking to the stable in the early morning dew, the morning mist lingers in the valleys as the sun rises behind a pink rimmed cloud. The spring fed red clay muck sucks my shoes off and I squish my toes in the mud, a guilty pleasure of childhood once again mine. I pull weeds from the flowerbeds gloveless and black dirt rims my fingernails. What I stand for, I do indeed stand on and I give thanks for farm, family and friends.

If I Could Save Time In A Bottle...

2011-05-24T07:23:00.000-05:00

If I could save time in a bottle… I would save the smell of new mown hay ruffled across the hills in sunlight. The sound of an old timer’s chuckle and a baby giggle, Appalachian Spring playing and dancers dancing, and Junie B’s good morning nicker would be in my bottle. I would save the smell of babies sweet from their baths frosted with lotion and love. The taste of mama’s fried chicken and Dairy Queen Soft Serve ice cream topped with a chocolate shell, Silver Queen corn on the cob straight from daddy’s garden, the first new potatoes soft and creamy melt in your mouth deliciousness would be in my bottle, too. The feelings of freedom and jubilation that were a part of my baptism, part of my music, part of my sacred dance, part of my art and writing… the times I feel God looking over my shoulder, lifting me up in a leap, guiding and applauding and loving me… These would go in my bottle.
Obituaries are one way we try to keep time in a bottle, I think. Our newspaper no longer provides free obituaries, just a one line death notice. The rise of lengthy obituaries, small short stories, combined with newspapers downsizing community news (no more cooking sections or news from the different small communities in the county, no more pictures of small boys holding up the large mouth bass they caught in Papaw’s pond) is an interesting irony for me. If we cannot have news of our neighbors daily lives that is not murder and mayhem, we can have an obituary that tells the stories of our lives even if we have to pay for it.
The Psalmist sings,” My times are in thy hand…Let thy face shine on thy servant; save me in thy steadfast love “.God is saving the times of our lives in the bottle of being that surrounds us in grace and mercy all the days of our lives. And when the times of our lives come to an end on earth, the time of our life is just beginning…
Thanks to Jim Croce for the song “If I Could Save Time In A Bottle…

Patience, Peggy, Patience...

2011-05-21T07:03:00.003-05:00

I graduated from the Pick Up Thy Bed and Walk School of Nursing. After two days or so, my well of compassion runs dry. When the children were small, they had to be bleeding badly or on serious drugs if they expected to stay in bed more than one day. This lack of patience I attribute to my gene pool… an impatient father and a brusque German grandmother. Lowliness, meekness and patience are not my strengths. With old age approaching, I need to develop my patient empathetic self. If Michael doesn’t need it, I will.
Daddy was diagnosed with myelofibrosis , a disease of the red blood cells, in his seventies. Initially, monthly blood transfusions restored his energy and he continued to live and work on his farm. Gradually the transfusions came more frequently and his world began to shrink until he lived primarily indoors. A daily ride in the pickup truck to the back of the farm, sitting in his chair reading the Wall Street Journal, keeping up with the Stock Market, going to church on Sunday… this was his life.
My father was not a patient man. My sister and I dreaded him “helping” us with our homework. As a driver’s ed teacher, he loomed over the hapless student (my mom, my sister and me) like a gargoyle ready to pounce on the slightest infraction. Putting out the hay for the cows had to be done just so or a bellow would rumble in your direction from the tractor. But during his last illness, I never heard him complain or whine. There was grief for life coming to an end, sorrow over unrealized dreams and patience. My mother says he grew sweeter, softer as his illness imposed limits.
I looked up “patience” in the concordance of my Bible. There was a small list of references, not as many as I expected. One phrase caught my attention from Colossians 1:12… endurance and patience with joy. Therein lies the challenge. Not only must I endure and be patient, I must do so with joy! Joy? Dear Lord… I have and can endure. I can be patient for a season. But to do so with joy seems impossible. I read on. Paul is doing his theological exposition with verve and vigor, instructing the faithful. Rejoicing while suffering seems to have been Paul’s strong suit , so he regularly exhorts his readers to join in.
So here we are… suffering saints and grumps… called to joy in the midst of struggle, patience with joy, endurance with joy. Perhaps the daily practice of joy will provide a minor miracle for me, a transformation of impatience and grumpiness to an active patient acceptance of whatever comes my way. Dear Lord, teach me the art of joy in small things… buzzing busy bees in the new bee hive, the sound of Junie B’s voice, the smell of new mown hay… so that I might have joy when life is difficult. And if you could help me learn patience in all things bright and beautiful as well as all things dark and ugly, I would be grateful.

Outward signs of an inner grace...

2011-05-20T15:01:00.000-05:00

Growing up in the Deep South on a farm before the advent of sunscreen, I always had a sunburned nose (at least) during the summertime. My fair skin came with a dose of small freckles that increased in number and size with exposure to the sun and age. The sun was courted for the gift of an even tan, a sign of elegance and beauty for our generation. We slathered our bodies in a mixture of baby oil and iodine to deepen our tans as we laid out in our backyards, by pools, lakes, ponds and beaches. Coppertone was a tanning aid not a sunscreen.
Trips to the beach were rare for our family. We were baling hay or putting up food from the garden during prime beach time. When my college Baptist Student Union took a retreat to a nearby beach, I went and spent the whole day in the water. Somewhere along the way I must have felt my sunburn setting in because I remember borrowing a tee shirt to wear as we played in the waves. By the end of the weekend, I had an ugly case of sun poisoning. My skin swelled, blistered lobster red, and I was nauseous. As the red faded, sheets of my skin began to peel off much like the shell of a boiled egg. It was not a pretty sight.
Fifty years later, I am reaping what I unknowingly sowed… pre-cancerous spots and basal cell cancer. Looking at my face, I can see the faces of a long line of farmers in my family, worn and weathered with brown spots from a lifetime of exposure to the sun. All those hours spent working and playing outdoors are written on my face and dermatologists read it like a book. Even though I have been wearing hats outdoors for years with sunscreen applied, my early love affair with the sun left marks that have not faded. My latest visit with my friendly dermatologist left me with four frozen spots on my face. Ironically they blister.
A phrase I heard frequently at baptisms in my church life… an outward sign of an inner grace… comes to mind now for some strange reason. These blisters, the scar on my nose from surgery serve as outward reminders of the inner grace that has come in the gift of my body. My body has been my teacher, my guide from childhood until now. To be incarnated in a body is an unimaginable gift even though most of us are not altogether pleased with our packaging. We see ourselves as too fat, too skinny, too tall, too short, big thighs, round faces, imperfect when measured against other bodies we see around us. And as we age, the free flowing fluidity of youth gives way to hitches in our get along. We long for the good old days when most of our body worked easily and without struggle or pain.
What if I could see these aches and pains, these scars, the gradual fading of strength and beauty as outward signs of the inner grace of being? Being a child of God, mortal, finite and limited but grounded in grace leads me to the Immortal, the Infinite, the Unlimited Loving One who called my body into existence. As my body changes and ages, gifts of the Spirit become ever more necessary. “ Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control…against such there is no law.” Thanks be to God for my body, the miracle of being and the reminders of my mortality. I pray my soul will be made whole even as my body begins to gently fall apart.

Pest plants, pesky people and pesky prayer

2011-05-19T07:41:00.002-05:00

The perfume of honeysuckle and rose slides through the air as I walk down to the stable in the early morning. It is so sweet you can taste it as you breathe. As a child, I loved to sip the nectar from the base of the honeysuckle blossom. The hills are punctuated with multiflora rose bushes and along the fence lines, rose and honeysuckle grow wrapped around each other forming an impenetrable barrier. It is sometimes difficult to celebrate the sweetness of these two plants because along with bittersweet, they are the worst pest plants on the farm. Left to their own devices, and with the help of birds, they spread rapidly and grow like kudzu, another pest plant.
Plants are not alone in being pests. People, young and old, can be obnoxious in their peskiness. Aidan, one of our grandsons, wanted us to visit his favorite gelato shop. As soon as we entered, his pesky streak swung into action. “Mama, can I have…Mama, can I have…Mama, can I have…” Remonstrances from his mother to calm down went unheard and unheeded. She yanked him up, went outside and had a “Come to Jesus Meeting’ with him. He re-entered the store a part of polite society once again.
Our young bull, Bully, is being a pest. He is breaking through fences and gates to go to our neighbor’s herd where another young bull resides. So far he has destroyed two gates, knocked down one section of a newly constructed woven wire fence, gone through barbed wire, and jumped flatfooted over a chain link fence like a deer. The young bulls pester each other, butting heads, mounting each other and bawling. Leisa and I suspect they may be in love since we saw Bully licking the other bull’s face. Gay bulls are not unheard of. Bully, however, may be bisexual since he has fathered a full complement of calves this winter. Or, it may just be the scent of one of the cows in Gary’s herd that is in heat. Who knows?
Jesus saw peskiness as a virtue sometimes. The Canaanite women was healed because she talked back to Jesus. Ask, knock, seek…pray without ceasing…make a pest of yourself until God listens. The answers to our prayers may not be what we expect or what we asked for. It may take awhile for the answers to come or we may not be able to see and hear the answers until time has passed. Prayers are always answered by change whether it is the change we asked for or a change we did not know we needed. It might be an inner transformation or an outward sign. Nature’s laws tell us that for every action there is an equal reaction. Prayer, its energy, its peskiness, circles back around and we get a Come to Jesus Meeting with God. Be careful what you pray for. You may get it.

A Mother's Prayer...

2011-05-10T08:33:00.002-05:00

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

Burnout...a gift of grace

2011-05-09T07:01:00.002-05:00

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

Spring has sprung...

2011-05-08T07:05:00.002-05:00

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

I need a little pentecost...

2011-05-07T07:40:00.002-05:00

I have begun three different times to write this morning and have run dry all three times. Two paragraphs in, I sit and look at what I have written and wonder where I am going with this. Select all, cut, start over… It has been a whirlwind spring without much time for silence and reflection. The riverbed of my soul is as dry as red clay baked hard in summer sun. When these fallow times come, it is difficult to let them be, to rest in the “not doing”. My old tapes play… get busy, you are being lazy, there is so much to do, get a move on. And there is so much I would love to do… finish painting the quilt panel for the high barn, do some calligraphy, ride Junie B, read, sew, have a party with all my women friends. But I can’t seem to find the energy needed to do much beyond what is absolutely necessary.
Some of this is physical, a response to the demands on my sixty four year old body, and some is psychological, the spring blues. My spiritual malaise however, echoes the church calendar and our history as Christians. After the long walk through Lent, the death darkness of Good Friday and the blinding light of Easter Resurrection, I am worn out. I suspect the disciples were, too. High drama, life and death and life again, fear and joy… the pendulum swings from one extreme to another had no resting place for body or soul.
And then, Pentecost came with such blinding speed out of the blue, knocking the socks off all who were present. Marvelous mayhem, words spoken and understood regardless of language, fiery crowns of spirit were an outward sign of an inward transformation. I do not seek to explain the miracle of Pentecost. I hunger for a Pentecost of my own as I pray and wait for my fiery crown. Perhaps my Pentecost will be quieter, doves not fire, or perhaps I will wake filled with the Spirit and singing (sorry, Catherine) in the early morning. However Pentecost comes, it will come and I will be ready.
Until then, I will do what I always do in times of drought. I will give thanks. I will pray gratitude and speak a litany of thanksgiving for all that has been and all that is yet to come. I will remember where I came from, to whom I belong, and be grateful for the journey with all of its joys and sorrows. And when Pentecost comes and my dry bones are covered with living flesh, I pray I will remember to sing the Lord’s song when the drought comes again. Thanks be to God for all the Pentecosts of my life, the Spirit that sings a new song in my soul year after year and the God who never leaves me nor forsakes me.

Secondhand resurrection...

2011-04-30T07:39:00.002-05:00

We came home from Texas to a rodeo of sorts on the farm. The cows chose the week before Michael’s knee replacement surgery to break out, to run free through the grass that was greener on the other side. Every day until the fences were repaired, I was singing “Get Along, Little Doggie” while I shooed the cows from neighbor’s yards, our yards, or separated our bull, Bully, from Gary’s bull in the middle of “Mine is bigger than your’s” contests. After two weeks of this, the fun was gone and my voice grew shrill. Thanks to friends and some young hired help, the fences were reconstructed and the daily routine no longer includes a cattle drive.
Being one farmer down has meant I have had to care for the chickens, not one of my favorite animals. Daddy had Rhode Island Reds and they were my after school chore… feed, water, gather eggs. Perhaps it was the context of the beginning of our relationship, one that was decided for me not one of choice, that set the tone but I never felt much affection for the chickens. Michael and our grandsons love them. They are named, picked up and cuddled, chased and caught, celebrated with laughter and story. I am glad for them and the chickens but feel no guilt (well, maybe not much) about my lack of feeling connected to the chickens. After all, you can love animals (and people) without liking them much, right Mary Lynn?
All the activity of the past six weeks has left my soul gasping for breath. So much to do, not enough time to do it all, and spring, like the cows, busting out all over. Easter came and I was wrung dry. My dry bones were crying out for resurrection. I came to Easter worship scattered and brain dead.
The first hymn, Christ the Lord Has Risen Today, should be pitched and sung joyfully. Due to a major oversight on my part, the trombone accompaniment was in the key of C which was too low for everybody but Pastor Pat and other basses to sing. My soul staggered along as we sang, passed the peace, shared celebrations and concerns, prayed, read scripture, listened to the sermon and I waited for Easter to come. Finally it did during the offering.
Marquasia, a young African American girl, stood in front of the church, dressed in her best Easter finery, to sing our special music. She looked at me. I smiled and began the introduction. Swing low, Sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home… a song I have known and loved since childhood… Her voice barely made it to the back row but her joy and pride in singing were loud and clear. The congregation joined in softly and suddenly, in the harmony of the moment, Easter came rushing in. There we were…young and old, black and white, all of us dressed in the best we had to offer… gathered together waiting on a resurrection we aren’t sure will come.
Reading the four very different accounts of the resurrection in the gospels, I feel the scattered lostness of the disciples. Their world has come crashing down and nothing is left to show for the years they have invested in Jesus and his mission. Huddled together for comfort, they sit and wait, not sure what will come next. And when it comes, they don’t recognize it, don’t believe it. The women insist Jesus is alive, they have seen him but until he appears to them, the men can’t take their word for it. Secondhand resurrection stories are difficult to swallow. I am those disciples. I go through the motions, sit and wait, hear the words and can’t quite believe resurrection will ever come for me. Then I hear and see Marquasia sing and resurrection flows right over me, fills up the crannies in my soul and waters my parched spirit. Thanks be to God for the deserts and dry places, times of death and dark nights of the soul. Without them, how could we see and feel the power of new life, the return of light after darkness and the blooming buds of a soul coming into full flower again? It is no longer a secondhand resurrection story but my story, my resurrection that teaches me there is more life to come than I can imagine. Thank you, Jesus…

The Eyes of Texas...

2011-03-22T08:04:00.002-05:00

We went home to Texas hill country this weekend to visit Michael’s brother and his family. Texas hill country is nothing like our green mountain home but it does have a beauty that I love. Like most of Texas, the wide open earth and sky views are breath taking especially at sunrise and sunset. At night one can see an upside down bowl view of our universe sprinkled with star light confetti. Hill country, so named because of the changes in elevation that provide long range views, has groves of majestic live oak trees with green ribbons of streams and rivers winding through its valleys.
If you have never been to Texas, it is hard to imagine the size of the state. There are six distinct mini-states within the one state...east Texas, west Texas, central Texas, south Texas, north Texas and the pan handle. Each part of Texas has its own personality and style and within each region there are variations also. A young couple sat in front of us as we rode the water taxi at the River Walk in San Antonio. Clearly they were from west Texas. The signs? He wore his cowboy hat (not unusual anywhere in Texas) over curly hair along with a big rodeo style belt buckle and worn cowboy boots. She also wore her cowboy boots and jeans. When they spoke, it was pure west Texas, friendly and inquisitive, curious about us and finding a connection with my sister-in-law, a shared acquaintance. Fewer people live in west Texas so it is not difficult to discover people in common. This couple had driven nine hours inside Texas just to get to San Antonio.
I wonder sometimes how the geography of where we live colors our souls. Here in these old, worn mother mountains, green and lush, I feel God holding me in the timeless cupped hand valleys surrounded by steep slopes soaring towards skies enclosed by other mountains. Some feel smothered by the mountains, unable to catch their breath. What is comfort for me is agony for them. They are west Texas people in need of distant open horizons, room to spread out, able to see what is coming at the same time seeing where they have been. All of us, I suspect, have places on earth that call us to them, where our souls rest in a way that is different from any other place. Some of us live in these homes for our souls and call ourselves blessed.
Wherever we live, wherever our soul calls home, it is good to stretch our horizons and see new places, other ways of living. Too often we see our place as the best, our way the only way and forget God is a God of the whole world and loves us all equally. Hearing different accents, new voices, and experiencing worship that is not the same as mine keeps my soul on its toes. The eyes of Texas (and of God) are on me as I stretch to not judge those who are different (not as good as) me. I’d like to blame this judgmental streak of mine on my daddy but I am afraid it belongs purely to me... and to you. None of us are immune to judgement first, mercy second if at all. Thanks be to God for reversing that order when dealing with us or we would all be armadillo roadkill!
Today I will be giving thanks for the many colors of life in Texas and in North Carolina, the life songs sung in Texas twang and North Carolina drawl, and for the God who made us all, male and female, an image of our multi-colored, many faceted creator. We are loved just where we are for just who we are and it is good. Ya’ll out in west Texas come... You’uns in Western North Carolina will be glad to welcome you in the name of the One who made us so different and alike. Mercy, mercy, mercy, Lord have mercy!

I went to prison last night...

2011-03-15T13:57:00.000-05:00

I went to prison last night for the first time. A young woman named Beth(not her real name) visited us for worship with the prison chaplain a few months ago. She spoke to us, told her life story and asked for our help, telling us of needs we knew not of. Her new copper penny bright soul shone through her face and she won our hearts. One of our church women is on the board that raises funds to support the chaplains and she had arranged this visit. Three of us took our training and are now official blue card carrying certified volunteers at the women’s prison near Asheville in Black Mountain.
Last night we led a worship service as our first offering to this community of women. Our bi-racial congregation is unusual in many ways. We have a woman pastor who has Mother God’s heart for all her children. African American women who are successful in work and at home, welfare mothers who are doing their best, old women who have struggled in their time to rise above the limits imposed on them by a segregated society, young women getting started in their fields of social work and teaching, and white women like me... college students, retired preachers wives, formerly homeless and now at home, a lesbian couple with their baby boy Silas, homemakers and social workers. Our men reflect the same differences and similarities. We are a congregation rich in experience and acceptance, wise to struggle with success and failure, a rock that provides shelter in a weary land for many of us.
Our little church has a heart for the invisible ones in our community. For years they housed the homeless in their basement and after the shelter was closed for renovations to bring it up to code, our congregation had a hole in its heart. We have been searching for new ways to minister. Some of our women have a regular time to visit the shelter for homeless women. Our men serve meals to homeless vets and others at an old motel that has been converted to a long term housing facility.
When we walked into the chapel there were women finishing up their sacred dance group practice. That felt like home to me after spending years as a part of a sacred dance group in church. We asked them to dance for our worship but some of them had to get up at three a.m. for breakfast duty so they just danced one of their pieces for us before worship, a rendition of Amazing Grace. Our next worship will be a dance worship, perhaps, with our dancers and theirs.
Community matters at Calvary Presbyterian so we began by milling around, meeting and greeting, getting to know names and faces. We sang, prayed, heard scripture read, passed the peace Calvary style and gathered in a circle around the table for communion. As Pastor Pat asked for prayers, women began to speak. Many were to be released soon and shared their fears of returning to old ways, those who were being left behind spoke of their yearning to be free and one could feel the loneliness, children and family, illness, Japan and her tragedy... Pat prayed over us all as we held hands and we were bound together in love. We passed the bread and juice, looking in our partner’s eyes while speaking those ancient words... This is the body of Christ broken for you... This is the blood of Christ shed for you.
In that holy moment, Lent began for me. I found myself reflected in the eyes of women with whom I share much in common. My need for mercy in judgement, forgiveness and restoration is the same as theirs. The sins that bring us to our knees may be different but our needs are the same. The chapel was full of love, laughter and Lent and I am grateful for the gifts I was given last night when I went to prison for the first time.
I was in prison and you visited me...

Barney the Brave

2011-03-11T08:06:00.002-05:00

My big, beautiful Barney the Brave has lymphoma. A Southern Black Mouth Yellow Cur (remember Ole Yeller?) who showed up on the farm battered and abused, has become our beloved companion. Dogs, even the pesky ones, always come into our lives bearing gifts for our spirits and Barney had a Santa Claus sack full of soul for me.
Men wearing baseball caps and anyone with a camera received the full court barking press from Barney. The UPS man leaves my packages with Jeannie now if I am not at home. Yet, he is unfailingly tender with the old and the young. The first person who was able to touch him was a child. When the grandchildren come for visits, he wants to be with them.
No one is perfect and Barney has his share of bad habits...barking at any motorized vehicle, chewing the bumper as he runs in front of said moving vehicle, barking loudly at perceived life threatening dangers in the night. The gifts of his spirit have leavened my frustration with his big mouth bark and car herding, however.
Barney has such courage. Whether he is confronting coyotes, bears or his fear of being touched, his stand up in your face courage inspires me. I have watched him on our front porch, struggling with his fear of our front door, yearning to be inside yet unable to step over the threshold. And then, out of the blue, you can see him take a deep breath, gird up his loins and rush through the door to come be with the family.
Barney has given me the gift of his love and trust. After abuse from my kind, he risked loving again, trusting a human again, let himself be loved. When I sit on the front porch step, he comes to sit beside me, nudging me for hugs. We sit in quiet loving kindness, side by side, friends. Wednesday as we waited at the vet’s for his chemotherapy to begin, he climbed up on the bench, laid down beside me and put his head in my lap. Leaving him at the vet’s feels like a betrayal but he never holds it against me. Forgiveness is his strong suit.
We don’t know yet if the chemo will work. One of the tumors is proving resistant to the medicine so far. I tremble at the thought of losing Barney, my special friend, as I enter the season of Lent and Loss. Life and love do not come with any guarantees save one... if you love truly and generously, your heart will be broken sooner or later. Barney teaches me that it is worth the pain price to love and be loved. We have rescued one another.
The most ardent atheist or failsafe fundamentalist of any religious persuasion cannot say with absolute certainty what happens after death. What we believe about life (or no life) after death is an article of faith for us all since none of us living have died and come back. Lent is a journey into death... Jesus’ death and our own. We are reminded of our limits, have our shortcomings highlighted in flashing neon during the quiet darkness of Lent, catch glimpses of our glorious and inglorious selves if we are paying attention.
Together Barney and I will journey through Lent with no assurances of a happy ending. And yet, in the midst of the darkness, a faint glimmer, a lightening bug of hope, flies towards us. As long as love lives, life will not end. Saint Paul was right. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. We, Barney and I, are held by Love That Will Not Let Us Go, and that is enough for this Lent, and for our life and death.

Spring time at Sabbath Rest Farm...

2011-03-09T10:05:00.003-05:00

Springtime at
Sabbath Rest Farm

Mountain spring time...living with change and contradiction... can tax the body and soul. Unexpected snow showers, warm sun, cold rain all in one day can leave you in a wardrobe quandary as well. Dressing in layers that can be easily shucked is a necessity. Everyday is an adventure.
Gardens are plowed but mountain wisdom is not to plant anything but cool weather crops...greens, peas, lettuce... until after Easter. We have had blizzards in April. I have been planting tree whips, though. Gary brought me some from the sale at the Farmer’s Market put on by our Soil and Water Conservation folks. I have planted redbuds, persimmons, river birch, butternuts and potted a wax myrtle. I will be dead and gone by the time the butternut trees are full grown but they will remember my name. Planting for the future I will not see is one way to thank God for my present time in these beautiful mountains.
Junie B, Dixie and the donkeys are enjoying the newly flattened riding ring even if it is only red clay mud at this point. Several times a day I see them running the circle playing catch me if you can. Junie B is particularly fond of rolling in the red clay and her black coat is now multicolored. Her long mane is clotted with red clay, a horse version of dreadlocks.
Light comes earlier in the morning now and just as I have gotten used to this, here comes the time change again. The balance between light and dark is shifting. More light kick starts us all out of late winter lethargy. Stained glass daffodils backlit by the morning sun accented by the royal purple hyacinths is visual caffeine for my soul.
This morning I fed everybody early. We are going to have heavy rains today (for the second time this week) and I wanted to get a head start. The gate is open so the cows can take refuge in the barn if they need to and I left the horse stalls open with the radio on. They will be closed in by the rain, too, and they like to listen to music. Today they will be listening to jazz and mountain music.
Aidan, one of our grandsons, came home from his church pre-school having learned about Lent. At first he said he was going to give up soda but decided that would be too hard. Candy, which he LOVES, was also too dear to his heart to give up. He offered to give up wearing underwear or socks, his nightly bath, applesauce or diapers(which he does not wear) but his mother is holding firm that these are not appropriate offerings for Lent. I am fascinated that he has caught Lent in his imagination as an important part of his faith. He is beginning to understand the concept of sacrifice.
Pastor Pat and I met to talk about our Ash Wednesday service. We both love the old songs of our childhood, the blood hymns, the ones that seem to drive some folks crazy. They are our soul comfort food in many ways. Whatever one believes about Jesus’s death and resurrection, these old hymns and the season of Lent are an in your face reminder of our calling as Christians to offer our lives up, a living sacrifice for the One who died telling us God’s story.
Squeamish as we moderns are about blood, it is the perfect symbol for life. Without blood, healthy blood, we die. We can share our blood literally with others who need it. And we can share the blood of our souls with others in worship, prayers, good works, love that is in our blood stream because we have been loved by God into being. Thanks be to God for this forty day time out, Lent, so that I may get ready to be more holy, more loving, more like my brother Jesus.

Go outside and play....

2011-03-06T09:21:00.002-05:00

Mothers for my generation were often heard to say to their children... Get out of the house and go play. Outdoors was seen as the natural place to send children to play, to settle sibling disputes or to get out from under parents feet and off their last nerve. Outdoors could be depended upon to supply entertainment and amusement whether digging for doodlebugs under the barn, climbing trees, catching lightening bugs or watching spiders weave webs. Dirty was the usual description of children who spent time outdoors and no one seemed to get too upset about it.
I had three sets of clothes. My Sunday dresses, two of them, were reserved for church, funerals and weddings. School clothes were taken off as soon as I got home and replaced with outdoor clothes. Since we were not allowed in the dark ages to wear jeans to school, only dresses, mama kept us in jeans, flannel shirts for winter, shorts and tops for summer as our outdoor wear. It was assumed we would go outdoors when we got home to feed the chickens, tend the hog, and hang around until mama and daddy got home from work and we did.
Adam, our youngest child, never needed to be told to go outside and play. When he was two and being potty trained, I heard him calling for me outside. There he was, standing in the middle of the little creek that ran through our backyard, calling, “I need potty, mama!” It was already too late but I gave him credit for self knowledge. Later in his childhood, he roamed the neighborhood with his pack of boy buddies exploring the park, climbing rock cliffs and chasing crawdads. Our family catch phrase for him was, “Where’s Adam?” knowing he was off somewhere having the times of his life.
Science is finally catching up with what our parents and grandparents already knew. Being outdoors, getting dirty, living with animals is good for you at the most basic level for your immune system. The increase in asthma, according to a recent study, seems to be linked to our increasing isolation from the great outdoors and all the clean dirt that is there. Eating dirt as a child was actually good for you. Who knew? Inside dirt, however, seems to be different. Inside dirt, composed of dust mites, roach and other bug detritus, mice and rat leftovers, do not stimulate your immune system but tax it.
My eighty four year old mother gets out everyday that the weather allows. She digs in her flowers, feeds barn cats and walks Rufus the Basset Hound. On Wednesday she was complaining about her knees hurting. She had been digging rocks out of her flower bed and rolling them down the hill. Some of those rocks were small boulders! She asked Michael to bring her a load of manure up so she can dig it in her flowers bucket by bucket. Her garden is tilled and ready for spring planting. As a child, she roamed the woods on the family farm and spent her time outdoors helping her father farm. This connection with the outdoor world has sustained and nourished her in ways that transcend modern medicine.
The Psalmist sang, “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein.” Rainy days, warm days, sunny days, cold days, country, suburbs, city... all the earth is full of God and for our health’s sake, our soul’s sake, go outside and play. Get dirty. Get wet. Sweat a little. Look for doodlebugs or creekwalk. Fly a kite or sit on a park bench. Walk your neighborhood and say hello to your neighbors. Get out of the house and enjoy God’s earth full of goodness and grace. Help prevent asthma for generations yet to come!

My body... a temple?

2011-02-28T07:46:00.001-05:00

When I was a child, my body was my friend. I ran barefooted in hot summer sand, climbed the chinaberry tree in our front yard and perched in a fork to read in its cool shade. If I saw an interesting grasshopper or dung beetle, I would squat down and follow the bug as he made his way through our yard. I jumped for joy skipping rope with gleeful abandon. My fingers were nimble and quick as I played the piano.
Like most of us, body self consciousness came with adolescence. Suddenly my thighs were too big and my neck was too long. My face was too round and those cute little freckles were no longer cute. Even though my body still was flexible and strong, I found little joy in it because of its perceived lack of perfection.
As an adult, I made peace with my body in a way. While recognizing what I saw to be flaws, I also took responsibility for it and began to exercise, eventually teaching aerobics classes. The onset of high blood pressure at the birth of our third child forced me to face some of my body’s other limits that had nothing to do with looks. I took medicines but exercise was also my medicine.
In my thirties, the Minister of Music at our church bullied me into joining a sacred dance group she was establishing. The world of dance had been forbidden to me as a good Baptist child. One was allowed to walk, run, skip, jump or fall but one was not to be caught on the dance floor when Jesus returned. Now I leaped, crossed the studio floor doing triplets, learned jazz, modern and ballet movements. Awkward inside and out, I slowly began to regain the connection with my body. Now however, I explored the junction of body and soul. The expression of faith in movement became very important for me and I celebrated the body that made that possible. In my memory, I still am able to dance those dances that helped me transcend my body so that I danced with body and soul.
Now in my sixties, I am having to learn to live with body limits that come with age. One of my fingers freezes sometimes when I bend it. My high blood pressure has not gone away. My legs are not as strong or as fast as they used to be. I need a mounting stool to get on Junie B. My hip is beginning to give me warning twinges and my feet creak when I get out of bed. My body shape has changed again and I find myself struggling to adjust to a new self image. Neither bodies nor souls are static. They are constantly changing.
Jesus spoke of his body as a temple and Paul reminded us that our bodies are temples for God’s Spirit, a place for God to rest within us. This perhaps is the one function of our bodies that does not change over time. As little children and as old ones, God still chooses to be a part of our bodies here on earth. When they are young and free, when they are old and tired, our bodies are evidence of God’s great gift of life to us. I am grateful for this gift that has been lived out in my freckled face and my Baptist hips. Life with God in residence has been and continues to be good whatever the limits I must face in movement and shape. Thanks be to God for all the bodies that surround me. They are reminders of the Great Dappled God that loves us just as we are...and who loves us enough to live within us.

Table manners...

2011-02-26T08:57:00.002-05:00

We went out to eat with friends last night and I caught myself leaning on the table with my elbows. My mother’s voice began ringing in my ears...”Keep your elbows off the table if you’re able!” Since daddy’s family was short on the graces of most kinds including social graces, it fell to mama to raise us right in this regard. Breakfast and supper were teaching opportunities for my mother in the fine art of table manners. We learned as little children how to set the table, where to place the fork, to put the glass at the tip of the knife on the right side of the plate. We sat up straight in our chairs with our napkins in our laps, passed the food to one another while having conversation. Daddy was exempted from the conversation rule because he often sat in silence when he was mad about something. That something was difficult to determine since he wasn’t speaking. His silence gave the rest of us plenty of time to talk and talk we did.
Home Ec in high school expanded my world of table manners. Mrs. Barton taught us there were two forks not just one and butter knives and soup spoons and at least three different kinds of glasses. I learned how to pick up my silver from the outside in and to recognize a finger bowl. Serving food was an aesthetic experience with centerpieces and artfully arranged food. Good table manners were the ticket to fine dining and the world of cultured folks. I was an avid learner.
Once the mechanics were learned, good table manners boiled down to be kind, listen to others and don’t interrupt, share what has happened to you today, eat gratefully, thank the cook. This is, I think, a pretty good pattern to follow for living in general.
The first Bible verse I learned, “Be ye kind”, works not only at the table but at the grocery store checkout line and with my children. Family, friends and strangers all need kindness as do I. Listen first and speak later is a discipline that helps others feel they matter, that what they say is important to you. Being heard and understood gives all of us a sense of belonging. When it is your turn to speak, running the risk of sharing what is going on in your world can open others worlds to you.
In the picture framing class I teach, I often see this happen. Last Thursday, there were only two women left in the room at the end of class. We began speaking about our lives, our struggles to find a new self in the last third of our lives. One woman, a professional photographer in her work life, now yearns to be a watercolor artist. When a painting is finished, she hears her mother’s voice telling her it is not good enough. The other woman began telling of a painful childhood. She was the child of a man her mother did not marry and her presence in this world was a visual reminder of that painful event. Consequently her mother treated her badly and she learned to live with a non-mothering mother. The conversation flowed on to the topics of forgiveness, grace and spirituality. As I drove away from school, I marveled at their willingness to open the doors on their pasts and be so vulnerable with each other... strangers who are now friends because they risked something big for something good.
So today I am grateful for my life, for the opportunity to sit at the table with all those around me. I partake of the food and experiences set before me with a thankful heart. I see resurrection all around me as well as crucifixion. Both are a part of life. And I thank the heavenly Cook, the One who prepared this feast for me and set me down in the middle of the South to learn table manners from a mother who cared. If I forget and put my elbows on the table, I will never forget to be gracious in remembrance of the One who brought me into being and who has shared the banquet of my life. I am ready for some table talk, God. Pass the creamed corn, please.

Because I said so! That's why!

2011-02-23T09:03:00.000-05:00

It is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers. James Thurber

We begin as children asking our first question, “Why?” We ask it until our mothers and fathers resort to the answer they swore they would never use... Because I said so, that’s why. Some of us keep on asking questions all our lives and never get answers that meet our needs. Some of us have enough answers to satisfy us and accept what comes our way. Job was one of these kind of people.
The most obnoxious people are the ones who have all the answers to questions, are convinced their answer is the only right one and share it with you whether you asked for it or not. Religious folks unfortunately can be the worst offenders in this regard. It doesn’t seem to matter whether Christian, Jew or Muslim defines the faith system because there are “true believers” in every camp ready, willing and able to explain why their way is best. Politicians on both sides of the aisle also seem chock full of answers to our deficit problem, immigration concerns and healthcare issues. Just once I would like to hear a politician acknowledge the questions without rushing to give an easy answer.
Living with the questions is not comfortable. In music an unresolved chord left hanging leaves a feeling of suspense. And, unanswered questions, unanswerable questions can leave us feeling suspended over the abyss of unknowing. We are programed to want to know... Why does the sun rise? Why does the light go off when I close the refrigerator door? Why does mama have to die? Why is there so much war? Why won’t God make everything right?
One of my favorite question askers in the New Testament is Nicodemus, a man of some importance in the community, who comes to Jesus by night to engage in a game of Twenty Questions. Concerned about his reputation and uncertain about this strange teacher who does miracles, night darkness is both safety and a symbol of the state of his soul. Question asking brings confusing light because the answers defy common sense and the order of the natural world. Sometimes answers bring more questions. And Jesus doesn’t say, “Because I said so, that’s why!”
In his answer to Nicodemus, Jesus speaks one of the best known verses in the Bible. “God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him shall have eternal life.” Questions and answers begin tumbling over in my mind. Questions... Why did God send Jesus? Was he really God’s Son? What happens to those who don’t believe in Jesus? Where and how and what is eternal life? The answers that settle in my soul are God loves the world, Jesus is the face of God in my world, and I can be with God here in this world and in the world to come. It is enough. Every question does not deserve an answer.

Be patient with all that is unresolved in your heart. And try to
love the questions themselves. Do not seek for answers that
cannot be given. For you wouldn’t be able to live with them.
And the point is to live the questions now, and perhaps without
knowing it, you will live along some day into the answers.
Rainier Maria Rilke

These quotes came from worship Sunday at College Park Baptist, Greensboro, N.C.

Preaching for fun and profit...

2011-02-22T09:47:00.002-05:00

I gather up their past orders of worship to carry home for devotional reading. Worship matters at College Park Baptist (not the usual kind of Baptist) and it shows. The order of worship is chock full of scripture, pithy quotes, songs, news and announcements. Organized under the headings of Gather, Grace, Grow, Give and Go, we are led through worship with good humor and attention to detail. Sitting in the pew with our daughter, her husband and young son, I give thanks for this particular community of believers. It is not the perfect communion of saints, far from it, but it is an interesting conglomeration of believers who care enough to show up for worship and work in the name of Christ.
The pastor, Michael Ussey, comes to the pulpit wearing a robe with a handcrafted stole over an open neck shirt. That reflects the style of College Park accurately... non-stuffy formal worship where souls matter more than style. I settle in and begin to listen to the sermon.
As the wife of a preacher, I remember how difficult it was for Michael to speak for God every Sunday. Standing in front of folks you know all too well, trying to dredge up verbal pastoral care for modern day Israelites who are just as cantankerous as the original Twelve Tribes sometimes, can be an overwhelming charge. Daring to hope your words will transform, praying for truth to emerge as you speak, listening for God’s words to you in your own sermon... this takes a peculiar kind of courage and persistence. It is not easy to preach Sunday after Sunday knowing what you say matters so very much to those who sit in front of you... or not.
There are many different kinds of preachers. Some preachers are terrible in the pulpit but live lives that are sermon masterpieces. There are preachers who stick to the Bible in their sermons with no intrusions from other sources. And, there are preachers who skim by the Bible and focus on causes and being “doers of the Word”. Other preachers preach for fun and profit, the prosperity gospel. Mostly it is the preachers’ fun and profit that is realized not their parishioners. I wonder though, what authentic fun and profit preaching would look and sound like.
Preachers and other ministers can drown in the sea of earnestness and be crushed by the weight of responsibility for the words they speak. The Curse of the Call is to take yourself too seriously as a Savior when you preach. They need the grace and good humor of Do Overs. They don’t always get it right but like Avis, they try harder.
Perhaps when a preacher stands in the pulpit, he or she should post a sign that spells out your rights to a refund and their rights to speak uncomfortable truths. Our contract with one another should include mutual respect, careful listening and reasonably righteous responses on both sides of the pulpit. Standing at the back of the church, shaking hands with the congregation as they leave and hearing the response of individuals to your sermon is as difficult as sermon preparation. It is your pass/fail report card once a week. Conversation over a cup of coffee is a much more Christian way to deal with differences than a loaded one liner delivered at the door as you shake hands and leave.
Laughter in worship is not profane but sacred. Preachers who help us laugh at ourselves, who laugh at themselves, who refuse to take life SERIOUSLY are among my favorites. They know a secret... none of us are as important as we think we are. They also know that laughter exercises our souls in ways that are pleasing to God. Souls that have laugh line wrinkles are winsome, beautiful and draw others to them with pleasure. They are a witness to the power of love.
Thank you, Michael Ussey for your sermon “Praying for Fishooks” Sunday. It set me to thinking. And thanks for including Clement’s Prayer in worship I will be praying that prayer all week. “Lord, I believe in you; increase my faith. I trust in you; strengthen my trust. I love you; let me love you more and more. I am sorry for my sins; deepen my sorrow. I worship you as my first beginning, I long for you as my last end. I praise you as my constant helper.” Thanks be to God for those who speak and those who listen. Let us each do what we are called to do with gratitude and laughter, remembering in all things we are the children of God.

Here we go Looby Loo...

2011-02-13T08:20:00.002-05:00

Drifting off to sleep last night, I began remembering all the games I played as a child. Hop Scotch drawn off in the South Georgia sand, marbles played at school with the boys, endless games of jacks on the big front porch of our house, paper dolls with original creations by me, Red Rover, Crack the Whip, Freeze Tag, Hide and Seek, and the ever popular Duck, Duck, Goose. We played Gossip on our bus ride home and Rock, Paper, Scissors. Our work and play flowed together in a seamless whole. Playfulness was the definition of childhood.
The few adults we knew who had not forgotten how to play were beloved by us children. Mr. Howard at church would give us chewing gum before worship and swing us into the air squealing in glee. Mr. Thompson told us jokes and laughed at them before he even got to the punch line. My teacher, Mr. Gurr, sent us out to the playground on the one day it snowed in my childhood, and stood there with his tongue stuck out to taste snow. My grandma who was very German in disposition, would cackle and giggle as we played Chinese Checkers. But most of the grown ups in my life were just that...grown up with most of the playfulness sucked out of them.
When I survey the creation that surrounds me, I see a playful God in evidence. The strut of the rooster with his raucous crow, the graceful deer running over the hills, the lumbering black bear standing up on back legs to rob the bird feeders, chattering squirrels calling each other names as they race through the trees, and all those stars scattered in abandon across the night skies. God’s playground is our world and we get to live in it.
We are, I think, created in the image of our Maker, hard wired to play. When we play, our brain lights up and our souls are lightened up. Today is the Lord’s Day so not only will I go to church, eat lunch and take a nap, I will play. Anybody want to play Looby Lou or do the Hokey Pokey?

Mayberry Moments...

2011-02-08T07:01:00.002-05:00

The Mayberry Moments of my life...

I step out on the back porch and Junie B calls good morning to me with her Greta Garbo voice. Dixie’s head pops out of her stall and my morning begins as I walk down to the stable to feed and scoop poop. Bud the Barn cat twines around my legs, ready for breakfast so I feed him first. As I walk down to the stables, the sun is warm on my back.
Later in the morning we take the morning paper and mail to our farm partners after we have fed the cows. Jeannie and her daughter Beth come out and we talk for a few minutes. While Michael heads off to other chores, I change the sheets on the guest bed and clean the upstairs. Good friends are coming for a visit this weekend and I need to freshen things up. The day passes in the haze of housecleaning not only for Gene and Brenda but also for our farm family gathering Sunday night.
In the evening I head to Pat’s house for a soup supper. The women of our church are having a get together. I bring a keyboard(Sorry, Andy. I can’t play the guitar.) And after the meal, we begin to sing. First we sing the spiritual that is our special Sunday morning. Then, we begin to sing our old favorites... Pass Me Not O Gentle Savior, Softly and Tenderly, Lift Every Voice and Sing, Do Lord, gospel hymns from the African American tradition that are new to me. The sweet harmony of voices was a benediction balm for my day.
My day, full of the grace and glory of Mayberry moments, also held grief and anger. One of our extended family members is facing a devastating cancer diagnosis. With no warning, she could be facing death in a few months, perhaps, just as a new grandchild comes into her life. Mayberry was not always an easy place to live either. Earnest T. Bass, Chaos personified, turned that community upside down more than once. Drunks, thieves, death and loss also showed up in Mayberry from time to time.
Most of my days are moments strung together like a string of pearls. Very few of them are “important” or newsworthy. My face will never show up on magazine covers wearing the latest in pooper scooping outerwear nor will I be photographed in a string bikini (thank God) on a far away beach. Every now and then a crisis interrupts or a time of great joy but there are more moments than “momentous”.
Today I am giving thanks for these moments, these little pearls of great price that make up my days. And I am praying for my extended family member who is watching her moments slide through her fingers, a rosary of grief and longing. I give thanks for her life, the love she has given to my daughter and grandson, and I pray for a peaceful passage to her life after death. For all of us who sit in the shadow of death, may God grant us light to guide our feet as we wend our way Home. Amen.

My soul rests...

2011-02-01T07:34:00.003-05:00

One of the things I love about my church is our two hymnals. One hymnal is the regulation Presbyterian hymnal with hymns that could be heard in any Presbyterian (or Baptist or Methodist) church that still uses hymnals. Our other hymnal is titled “The Songs of Zion” and it is just that... gospel songs with a beat, spirituals and songs with their roots in the African American culture through the years. We sing “I Want Jesus to Walk With Me”, “We Shall Overcome”, “I Don’t Know Who Holds Tomorrow”, “Precious Memories” as well as “O God Our Help in Ages Past” or “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”. What we sing mirrors who we are.
We are brown and white, young and old, doctors and young mothers on welfare, educated and barely able to read, old preachers who know a good preacher when they hear one, a set of baby twin boys who love to run the aisle when Pastor Pat preaches and could care less about the sermon. We are the Body of Christ, a rag tag bunch of believers who gather on Sundays to be about our Lord’s work, loving on each other in the process.
The Passing of the Peace is my favorite part of worship now. We circle the church, hugging and speaking the ancient words of peace as well as words of love and laughter. Miss Louise, 92, will hug you twice because she forgets the first one. Miss Ida Mae stands in one place and waits for you to come to her. We take a lot of time with each other during this ritual, more than most worships allow, and we like it that way. It is the one time during worship that we are not seated facing forward, side by side.
We can see, touch and speak to each other as families should. Old ones who do not get touched much take home a weeks worth of hugs. Little ones are oohed and ahhed over, patted and loved on. We do everything from handshakes to hugs but mostly hugs. Miz Vivian asks me to tie her scarf, Diamond and Alexis want to sing in worship next Sunday, Madge looks worn out from keeping her sick husband at home, Sue whispers in my ear that she has cancer, Tina tells me her leg still hurts, Carol and I talk about her daughter away at college. Janet has a new sewing inspiration. It is a weekly family reunion.
Truth be told, many of us, whatever our status in this life, come to church weary and worn most of the time. Life can be tough and tenderness is hard to come by. Our passing of the peace is exactly what I need every Sunday... the visible and felt expressions of a loving God who cares about me... from the faces of God and the bodies of God in our small congregation.
An old hymn written by Fanny Crosby describes how I feel after we have passed the peace, circled the church holding each other in the light of Love. “Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on his gentle breast. There by his love o’ershaded, sweetly my soul shall rest”. My brother Jesus shines in the faces of those I love at Calvary Presbyterian and my soul rests. Peace has been passed indeed.

Ages past and years to come...

2011-01-31T09:09:00.003-05:00

We are painting a quilt panel, eight by eight feet, to hang on the newly renovated high barn. It is the same pattern of the quilt that hangs in our dining room, a friendship quilt given to Michael’s grandfather over one hundred years ago. Each woman who worked on the quilt signed her name at the bottom edge and those names are mute testimony to friendship shared in youth and old age. Before our quilt is finished, everyone here will have been a part of its creation and it will have the names of the farm family signed at the bottom.
Leisa, Diane and I were painting Saturday afternoon when one of those priceless conversations occurred, a conversation that echoes in my soul as I sit at the computer this morning. We have known each other long enough now to be honest, seen each other through some really tough times and celebrated unexpected joys, shared meals and the daily tasks of farming, loved, laughed, wept and torn our collective hair out together. So, you never know where our conversation will go. We began to talk about aging.
Our bodies are changing. We are thicker, broader, slower, grayer, creakier than we used to be. If we had the chance to time travel back in our lives, we would tell our younger selves how beautiful we were and freed ourselves from the body anxiety we all carried as young women... the “Is my butt too big?” syndrome.
Now we know two things about our bodies. First, no matter the shape or color or size, in our youth we were always more beautiful than we knew. Few of us appreciated the gifts that came packaged in our young bodies... shiny hair (my favorite), limber ligaments, strong bones, muscle strength, smooth skin. Secondly, inside these wrinkled aging bodies we are young still. When we look in the mirror, we see not only what is but what once was. Underneath my eyebrows where the skin is wrinkled and drooping down, a body gift from my grandmother, are the eyes of a little eight year old Peggy, bright and shiny still. We feel young even though we appear old.
I can no longer climb the chinaberry tree, sit in the fork and read a summer afternoon away but I can still swing under our old oak tree and feel the freedom of youth when I hit the top of the arc. I used to gallop on horses without flinching and now a canter is my top speed, but the sense of joy is the same. I play the piano for worship with more abandon and less worry over missed notes than I did when I was young. My fingers are not as nimble but my experience compensates. And therein lies the wonderful truth of aging.
The Old Testament character Job says, “Wisdom is with the aged, and understanding in length of days.” Some of us have eyes to see beyond the surface and ears to hear beneath the silence as we age. And what Leisa, Diane and I know is this truth. We are all the seasons... spring, summer, autumn and winter... with memory of the past and hope for the future. Aging bodies are not all of who we are. We are bodies and souls, young and old at the same time, offered to God as a loving thanksgiving gift. Thanks be to God for old eyes that see young, aging bodies that carry strength and wisdom gained through suffering and joy, and the blessed assurance of life everlasting with the One who is ageless and age old. I sing my favorite hymn now with gusto and understanding... O God our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, our shelter from the stormy blast and our eternal home! It is more than enough.

Diamond and me...

2011-01-29T08:35:00.001-05:00

Every Wednesday afternoon I drive to our church in town to meet Diamond for our piano lesson. She is a bright eyed, bubbly nine year old girl with a passion for music who pestered me until I agreed to teach her piano. Her enthusiasm is infectious and we have such fun sitting side by side on the piano bench as we learn together.
This Sunday we will play a duet for the offertory, Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly. Originally scheduled for an Advent worship, a heavy snowfall cancelled church so we are a little late in schedule but right on time for Diamond. At the end of worship, we will sing the jazzy version of “Amen” and Diamond asked to play the African drum along with the piano. We practiced getting the beat and she is ready to roll. Her little sister Angel wants to play along on the other drum so we will have two drummer girls for that song. What fun!
As I sit by Diamond, I time travel. Fifty years ago another little girl sat by her teacher enthralled, entranced by the world of music in the piano. The pianist at our church welcomed me into the world of sacred music and gave me a place to share my love for God through the piano. She taught me her tricks of the trade and gave me room to grow by sharing her seat on the piano bench. And now, it is time for me to pass on what was given to me all those years ago. It is pure joy to be able to give Diamond this gift.
Diamond is talented and has that ineffable “feel” for music that is not learned but innate. I can give her a good foundation in the basics, a place to share her talent as she participates in worship, and help her find her musical voice. But she will outgrow me at some point and need more than I know if she continues to take lessons. The one thing I can give her that will never leave her is the gift of understanding what she is feeling, understanding that will help her find her joy in the piano and music.
At sixty four, I know a little about life. Some of my life lessons were painful and others were joyful. It is a gift for me to be able to give back, to share with Diamond one of my greatest joys in life, music. For the teacher as well as the student, important lessons are learned in this kind of sharing. I am learning again the lesson of hope, joyful anticipation.
Every Wednesday, Diamond comes to me, her face lit up with the pleasure of learning new songs and playing for me what she has practiced the week before. My soul lights up as I show her how to play the scales a new way, a way that makes her fingers stumble while she learns how to use them on the piano. “I’ll do this right next week, Miss Peggy”, she says, grinning up at me. And, she will. Next week we will begin learning a hymn from the hymn book, music far above her current capabilities. We will work along and by Easter, she will be ready to play that hymn for worship.
I will have paid my debt to Mrs. Drew and Mrs. Davis. But I am also indebted to Diamond for giving me the opportunity to share this gift of mine with her. Like the old priest Eli and the young boy Samuel, we will see what God can make of us, what use we can be to the kingdom of God on earth, and give thanks for the possibilities. In the meantime, Diamond and I will be singing “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in my Heart” as we take lessons together every Wednesday at Calvary Presbyterian. Thanks be to God.

Here I raise My Ebenezer

2011-01-25T08:20:00.003-05:00

I played the Bible game this morning and as it often does, the Bible fell open to an inconvenient place. The passage was in Hebrews and the topics are purification, sacrifice and the New Covenant none of which are hot topics in modern life. There was a lengthy discussion of priests, temples, purification procedures, sacrifices and lots of blood... LOTS of blood. The writer of Hebrews was creating a theological argument using the religious context of his day for Christ as the ultimate sacrifice, the final offering of blood shed for sins. There would be no more need for goats and calves, doves and heifers to be killed after Christ’s death and resurrection.
Blood sacrifices... how does this have any meaning for us? Most of us live in cities and towns far removed from the bloody realities of living close to nature. We do not find half eaten chickens in our yards or see the bloody patch on the pond ice where a duck has been killed by a predator. Our steaks and fish come wrapped and cleaned with none of the messiness that accompanies blood sacrifice. Consequently, we eat mindlessly without gratitude for the gift of life that comes at the expense of life.
Parents know the meaning of blood sacrifice. The first time you hold your child, the love that springs into being would let you lay down your life for this other person. And, you do lay down your life over and over again as you struggle through nights without sleep, fearful unexplained fevers, trips to the emergency room, more sleepless nights as they become teen drivers, presence and protection even as they grow up and leave your home.
My dad lived for two years after his illness was diagnosed because others gave blood for his transfusions. Once a month, then every two weeks he received the gift of life, fresh blood, offered by others as a necessary sacrifice.
One of my favorite hymns is “Come, Thou Fount”. The second verse, often a source of giggles and glee among the children of the church, provides assurance and a call for me. “Here I raise my Ebenezer, Hither by Thy help I’m come; And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, Safely to arrive at home. Jesus sought me when a stranger, Wand’ring from the fold of God; He, to rescue me from danger, Interposed his precious blood.”
Since Jesus laid down his life for me, I must lay down my life for others. My blood sacrifice is shaped by the gifts I have been given and the skills I have learned. It can be inconvenient, messy, painful, joyful, life giving and faithful, but it is the breath of life for my soul. Without sacrifice, the shedding of my own blood, no new life can come into being. So I show up in the places with the people to whom I am called. I listen, like the boy Samuel, to hear God calling my name leading me to a particular service. And, I give thanks for the Fount of Blessing who tunes my heart to sing grace, binds my wandering heart with love and calls me to offer myself, to lay down my life for others. May it be so, please, Lord?

Enough already!

2011-01-18T07:55:00.001-05:00

Even introverts have their limits! Since Christmas we have had snow and ice on the ground with snowstorms every week. Our church closed two Advent Sundays and Christmas Sunday because of the weather. If I time it right, mama and I can get to Weaverville, maybe Asheville, once a week. Asheville proper has not had as much snow so townies are able to move about more freely. Here in farm country in north Buncombe County we are on the edge of the heavy snow. Only four wheel drive vehicles(and my little all wheel drive Subaru) can be depended upon for relatively safe transportation.
Sunday we crept out to meet neighbors for lunch to relieve the cabin fever. Mid-day is the safest time to travel. After we ate, we all drove to Tractor Supply to buy food for the animals and then to the grocery store to buy food for us. A new storm was blowing in on Monday and we needed to replenish the basics. Cars in the parking lots had snow piled high on their roofs and people were unusually friendly in their gratitude to be out and about. Black humor in the checkout lines turned strangers into neighbors as we compared notes on this unusual winter.
Doubling my daily dose of Prozac is preventing a descent into snow madness and I am discovering even a confirmed introvert needs some external stimulation. To interrupt the snow quiet and the sound of howling winds, I leave the tv on, not to watch but to hear. Animals are hunkered down and so am I, doing what it takes until the temperature hits forty next Sunday. Twice daily feeding, mucking and watering trips take longer when the wind blows. After I get back inside I am limp as a noodle.
Michael has been able to drive to work in his four wheel drive truck. Our neighbor Gary is running a truck pool for family and friends in his four wheel drive pickup. And when we get stuck, as we all have (except for those of us who drive our little Subarus and are proud), Gary comes with his tractor to pull us out. The common tasks of daily life call for careful creativity as we all pray for a thaw. With the thaw will come mud and that will be another story. As I practice the presence of God in the grey winter routine of farm chores, I pray for patience and hope.
Patience, one of the gifts of the Spirit, is hard to come by as I yell at the T.V. weather woman while she predicts more snow. Patience and long suffering are not a natural inclination for me and I am practicing patience everyday... patience when housebound basset hound Rufus begs to go out ten minutes after we just got back in... patience when I slip and fall narrowly missing landing in a pile of Ferdie poop... patience when I cannot keep up with housework and farmwork at the same time... patience with myself and others.
Hope comes unawares, springing up at the sight of five new baby calves running through the snow with their tails held straight up... bright sunshine with warmth that seeps into my bones... the green of the little collards patch in my front flowerbed peeping out from under the snow. Squirrels racing up and down the tree outside our bedroom window make me laugh and my frozen spirit begins to thaw. I remember nothing is eternal and everlasting save God. I am able to give thanks for winter which will turn to spring when hope and new life will surround me, new life which could not come into being without the dark and cold of winter.
“Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” Thanks be to God for patience and longsuffering, hope, laughter and new life in the cold and dark winter. It is enough.

Pressure cookers, hissy fits and the Presence of God

2011-01-12T08:26:00.002-05:00

The sound track for meal preparation in my childhood includes the rhythmical hissing of the release valve of the pressure cooker rocking away gently. As a mother who worked full time outside the home, mama needed all the labor saving devices she could find and the pressure cooker was a mainstay in our kitchen. Not only did it cook meat and vegetables quickly, it was a time saver for canning. We had a large pressure cooker that canned 10 pints or 7 quarts of anything all at the same time, and in half the time it took with a water bath. The smaller pressure cooker was used for meal preparation. Each pressure cooker had a different style pressure release valve that sang its own distinctive song when in use. You could judge whether the heat was high enough or too high by the speed of the valve song. If it was too agitated, you needed to turn the heat down so the cooker wouldn’t explode. Rural myth was replete with stories of friends and neighbors and family members who had to scrape peas or corn or beef roast off the ceiling when a neglected pressure cooker blew its top.
One summer our family and my cousin Lorene took a camping vacation across the country to Colorado. Daddy built a camper for his red pickup truck. It had jalousy windows on the sides (important in those pre-air conditioning days), a bedspring mounted above and folding lawn chairs in the back for us to sit in. Meals were prepared across country by my mother (not much of a vacation for her) at various campsites. Somewhere in the midwest I remember mama cooking chicken and rice over a fire in a grill using the pressure cooker.
My hissy fits are, like the pressure cookers, a controlled release of built up steam. Sometimes it is more controlled than others but rarely are they a full blown explosion that sends my lid flying to the ceiling. Mama remembers getting mad at me because I wouldn’t get mad as a child. Some of that is, I think, a natural predisposition. My maternal grandfather was an easy going gentle soul who rarely expressed anger of any kind. And, some of it was learned as a reaction to my father’s often unpredictable expression of anger. Anger could be dangerous and hurtful so I learned to avoid and cope.
I’ve been thinking this week about the connections between anger and God in my life. I have never been angry with God. I have been angry when death or illness have come out of season for those I love. I have screamed in rage watching a friend die by inches with ALS, living with the aftermath of my sister’s suicide or because unnecessary war killed my husband. That anger has been directed at the human condition, our fallibility, our vulnerability, our lack of control of the universe but never at God. I cannot hold God accountable for the natural order of this world.
I am, in my old age, learning the lesson my mother tried to teach me years ago, how to be angry. Anger can be my guide to a deeper understanding of myself and others as well as a path to God. For me, anger turned inward leads to separation and depression. Anger named and claimed clears my internal space whether I ever speak the anger or not. Sometimes all I need to do is acknowledge its presence and let it go. It also helps that I have a friend with whom I have a reciprocal agreement. We can call each other at any time of the night or day and bitch, moan and groan, carry on and let it fly, whatever we need to do, however we need to do it. There are no judgements or helpful suggestions for anger management, just a listening ear. Often these calls end in laughter as we acknowledge the absurdity of our angers but we always feel heard and affirmed in our righteous indignation.
And in the quiet clarity that comes after the pressure valve is released, I hear the voice of God saying, “O.K. So now what?” I make changes or I let go, I give thanks for that which tips me over the edge because it is often part of a gift I have received. Giving thanks for the anger and its cause transforms me as I am able to see more than my feelings of the moment. Hissy fits... a possibility for God showing up in my life... pressure cookers that keep my life cooking and creating... all a part of God’s presence in my life and I am grateful.

Twelfth Night...

2011-01-06T09:03:00.002-05:00

I pitched a hissy fit earlier this week about being left alone in the manure and mud of cow tending. Help and offers of help arrived and I calmed down. Then a day like yesterday comes along and I remember why I love being on the farm with the animals.
Our young bull, Bully, came to live at Sabbath Rest Farm nine months ago and we are seeing the results of his first week on the farm this winter. His first baby, Noel, was born just before Christmas and she is a lovely black heifer. Yesterday when Michael and I went to feed in the early morning, there were two cows ready to calve, one of them a first time mama. All day long I shuttled back and forth between the house and the fields watching them in labor, worried about the new mama. Often first time cow mamas have difficulty birthing their babies and need assistance.
When the birthing time got close, I called Gary and asked for help checking the heifer. When we got to the low pasture, Fanny was there but not the heifer. As we stood and watched, Fanny’s baby was born. Gary turned to me and said, “No matter how many times I see that, it is still a miracle to me.” And, it is. Being present at birth is a reminder of the wonderfully mysterious natural order that brings new life to this tired old world in the dark of winter. I can imagine the Wise Men from the East having the same sense of awe and wonder as they saw the Christ Child for the first time.
We went looking for the heifer, worried that she might be in trouble. Our fences are not the best in the world and she had gone into the woods. We drove up to the high pasture and I walked the woods as Gary drove the fence line. We found her and walked her back to the barn. David and Diane came in case we needed help pulling the calf. As Gary drove to get ropes, David checked the heifer as she was laying down in full labor. The calf was coming so he pulled the front legs and helped it come quickly, pulling the membrane off the baby’s face so he could breathe. Immediately the new mama stood, began licking the baby giving him his first bath and the baby made his first sounds. Instinct... a mystery and a marvel... helped mama do what she had never done before, tend her baby and helped the baby breathe and stand.
I wonder if it is instinct that leads us to the Source of our Creation, our Mother and Father who brought us into being. Everyday, sometime during the day or night, I find myself turning towards God, searching for the comfort of loving care and presence. The Wise Men followed a star trusting that its light led to a new incarnation of God. I follow the signs of life around me and know that God is present in the birth of new calves and the tender care of their mamas. I see Bully come and help bathe the new baby, welcoming him into the herd. I see the babies lie next to their daddy and snuggle up to him. I feel the assurance of God being next to me in my daily life whether I am in the midst of manure or miracle. God is in my heart, my head and my understanding. Thanks be to God for instinct, birth, new life, darkness and light, winter and cold. All are a part of the miracles that surround me here at Sabbath Rest Farm.

Fanny’s baby was a little bull who we named Frank for Frankincense for the Twelfth Day of Christmas. The other baby bull was named Murray (Christmas). Ain’t life a hoot?

Aprons...

2011-01-02T08:22:00.002-05:00

Yesterday my theme song was “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen”. As I did my stable chores, hauled wagon loads of cow, donkey and horse manure through mud up over my ankles, I sang my solo loudly and not very sweetly. To add insult to injury, it was another grey rainy day. The animals are grumpy and bored with the weather so I am their twice a day entertainment. Junie B pretends to nip me with her ears laid back. Biscuit head butts me. Dixie nips Biscuit. The donkeys kick each other. Only Ferdinand, the gentle bull, seems immune to the vagaries of mood.
The mood swings in weather are producing mood swings in me, too. In the past week, we have gone from snow covered ground with temperatures in the teens to muddy thaw and fifties during the day. Just about the time I adjust to one weather reality, another change comes along.
After a long winter’s nap, my muddy mood lifted as we began to prepare for a farm family covered dish supper. Black and pink eye peas, turnip greens, cornbread, ham with cherry sauce, sauteed Brussel sprouts, dirty rice, stewed tomatoes were accompanied by conversation, laughter, the sound of baby Grayson laughing and trying out his new word, mamama. I was not the only one with post holiday blues. We all needed a lift last night. My solo was transformed from trouble to “I’ve Got The Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart”.
As we stood on the porch seeing everybody off, I remembered Mary Lynn telling me about her grandmother’s apron. Women always wore aprons around the house as they worked. Some aprons were sash tied and others were wrap arounds. Aprons could have pockets to hold treasures and trash. When company drove up, aprons were hurriedly removed unless they were close friends. Aprons dried tears and wiped smudges from faces. And when beloved ones drove away, aprons fluttered in a silent goodbye. Aprons were a useful comfort in times of trouble and in daily life.
I’m going to pull my aprons off the hook in the mud room and move them to the kitchen so I can grab them to wear during the day. It will be my concrete connection to all the women who have gone before, my grandmas, my great aunts, women I never knew and women I knew well. Those women sang the same songs I do and lived their lives with courage and joy. When Biscuit shakes her head at me, I’ll shake my apron at her. When we wash dishes after a shared meal, I’ll wear my apron. When my mood sinks beneath the mud or I celebrate the sunshine, when I cry tears of joy or sadness, I’ll wipe my face with my apron and move on along.
My soul’s apron is music. Whether I sing trouble songs or joy songs, music protects and enlivens my spiritual journey. This morning I will play the piano for worship, accompany one young woman as she sings a solo and another as she plays her clarinet and my apron will flutter in joyful accompaniment. I give thanks for music this morning and will sing “Love Lifted Me” not “I Was Sinking ‘Neath the Waves”. My apron is fluttering in joyful thanksgiving.

winterlight

2010-12-28T08:24:00.002-05:00

The winter sun, a pale white circle, hung in the dove grey sky. The deep snow shone more brightly than the sun as i went to feed the cows. Two days of unexpected snow had added drama and beauty to the Christmas family gathering. Once again the weather forecasters were wildly inaccurate in their prognostications. The mountains rarely co-operate with those who would try to predict the passage of weather fronts through them.
And now, I sit in front of the fire, watching the clock and bracing up for the afternoon feeding of horses, donkeys and cows. Several of our cows are great with calf and one was born this week just before Christmas. As I drove from the barn to the field this morning, Noel, our newest baby, scampered in front of me. She ran through the belly deep snow, her tail held straight up, playing with Barney.
At night the lopsided moon, nearly full, blots out the starshine and is is brighter than the morning sun. Walking in the snow by moonlight is beautifully quiet and luminescent. There are no chores to do, no busyness, just the lovely light on the quiet snow. The sounds of the day fade as all of the farm animals, wild and domesticated alike, seek shelter and warmth in the midst of the storm. Dark, quiet, snowlight…
I have a friend who became a Quaker recently. Still angry with our faith birth mother who cast us out as unwanted children, he declared he refused to die a Baptist. The silence after the Baptist clamor, the search for inner light not the proclamation of a particular truth, is a Balm in Gilead for his wounded soul.
I was a child who desperately wanted to please and was terrified of failure. My feelings were easily wounded and as a new Christian at the age of twelve, I searched the Bible for a verse that could be my very own. That was the beginning of my love affair with the Psalms. And in that book of songs I found my verse… The Lord is my Light and my salvation: whom then shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
Light…salvation…stronghold… It begins with the light, light that can only come with darkness. Fear, loss, illness, failure, death… these are the beginnings of light. Our culture does not value darkness of any kind. Eeyores are not allowed. Eternal Light is God, not we who are a pale winter sun reflection of our creator. Until we make our peace with our inner darkness, there will be no inner light.
Salvation is a dirty word in some religious circles these days. It smacks of sin and worms such as I for some Christians. It is a word that holds great promise for me, however. To be saved from my own darkness, to become my own true self as God created me to be, to live and die in Light of Love that never lets me go but leads me home, this is salvation.
Stronghold, a safe place that strengthens me, sends me back out into the scary world ready to love and lose again, to be a part of all creation as a Christian who is trying to reflect the Christ light from the inside out. I need a stronghold that reminds me to whom I belong, where I am going and how to get there. Not only a resting place, my stronghold is also a place where I "gird up my loins" . I always wondered how that was done. I figured it was akin to putting on pantyhose for Sunday church. I can go out putting my best self forward because I have been made ready, stronger, healed and forgiven in my safe place.
So in this wonderful season of light, Epiphany, I remember the source of my light and give thanks for a little baby boy born to be the Son of Light in a world of darkness. I remember the Lord who is my light, my salvation and my stronghold and am grateful for the gift of life with all its darkness and light. And for this season I will let my light shine. I will send my light. I will be light for those who walk in darkness. And when I walk in darkness again, as I shall, I will find my stronghold to rekindle the Light within and without. Peace and Light to all this Season of Starlight.

Christmas Cheer

2010-12-23T08:49:00.001-05:00

I hover on the edge of Christmas Joy with the house cleaned and made ready. The new heifer Biscuit lies next to Ferd the old bull waiting for breakfast hay. The sun shines on the far mountain tops this morning and I begin my Christmas Litany of joy and thanksgiving.
I am grateful for children and grandchildren who come home to the farm all year long, not just at Christmas. My mother’s presence at the farm has given my grandchildren the opportunity to know their great-grandmother, to hear her stories, to know her name and her person and I give thanks for family tradition embodied.
Other families have come to the farm and we will gather for Christmas Eve service in the new old high barn that Michael has been working so hard on. The Moravian Star hangs at the barn’s eve and the Christmas tree, decorated with Gary’s old multi-colored lights, shines in the distance like a stained glass window. Built in 1950, the old barn nearly collapsed but with the help of our talented friend Jim who loves old barns, it stands tall and proud once again, ready for a new life. The sight of the barn at the top of our hill is one of our picture postcard sights on the farm. I celebrate and give thanks for all who have worked long and hard to make it ready for Christmas.
My heart sings and my soul rejoices when I remember worship at Calvary Presbyterian last Sunday. After being snowed out the Sunday before, our community took twice as long to pass the peace. Miss Louise hugged me every time we passed each other as we circled the sanctuary. I love the old ladies in our church. They ground us and keep our backbones starched and in place. Ashley, a middle schooler, danced as LaJuana sang “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” from the balcony. The ladies choir sang even though we had only had two practices. We sounded good.
But the topper, the Magnificat for the morning was Alexis’ solo. Alexis and Diamond, cousins, caught me during the passing of the peace and asked if they could sing a song for me. During the sermon we went downstairs and I listened to this beautiful little African American girl sing a song she had written... Thank you Lord for standing by me. Her voice was clear and she sang beautifully. I took them upstairs and Alexis sang for the offertory with her cousin Diamond sitting on the step beside her. She sang it twice, small of voice but poised and happy. Next time she sings I will see to it that we have a mike for her. My heart bubbled over with joy.
I will continue to sing praises and give thanks this week as I dance my way to the manger. There is much to celebrate and even more to say grace over. Christmas Cheer to you all and may your hearts be made light with laughter. May our souls sing grace and thanksgiving to the One who came as one of us so that we might know God In Us. Great is thy faithfulness, oh God our father (and mother, Mary Lynn) the old hymn says. It is so...joy from sorrow, peace from discord, silence from clamor, healing from hurt and hope for bright tomorrows. Thanks be to God.

Biscuits and Gravy

2010-12-21T07:32:00.001-05:00

There is a new girl on the farm...Biscuits and Gravy. She looks like Grandma’s biscuits smothered in sausage gravy, white with brown and black spots. Her eyes are rimmed with black eyeliner. She is a beauty and knows it.
The first time Gary brought her over to our cows, she found an open space in the fencing and nearly beat him back home. This time we locked her down in Dixie’s stall for three days to give her time to separate from her mama and her herd. Every day I fed and watered her, gave her treats and worked to gentle her. When she gets aggravated, she shakes her head like a bull and claims her space. I got too close for her comfort one morning and she rushed me only to meet my boot on her nose. We have come to a mutual understanding.
Last night I let her out of the stall. She came out full steam ahead and began eating the hay I had laid out. The pecking order began with Junie B moving to Biscuit’s pile of hay to claim it. Biscuit moved but not for long. I watched the wheels turn in her bovine mind and she came rushing back to her pile, swinging her head, pushing Junie B who is twice her size, away.
Dixie, the alpha horse, tried next and received the same treatment. Whatever Biscuit wants, Biscuit gets. There is a new leader of the pack and she is the smallest one of all. After filling her belly she ran the fence line while I walked behind watching. She kept looking for a break, a place to go through and when she didn’t find one, began to run and buck.
She will spend a week or so in the horse pasture learning the ropes and settling in. Then we will move her down to be with the other cows and watch the games begin there. I can’t wait to see how Tilly Crowned with Horns handles this little upstart.
Personhood in cows and people is a wondrous gift. We each come wrapped as a Christmas gift to the world full of our own unique selves. Some of us are spitfires like Biscuit and others of us are more like Ferdinand the Gentle Bull. The mystery of our presence in the world is echoed in the paradox of our uniqueness and our sameness. We are all alike and we are all different.
My birth and your birth were incarnations of a loving God who takes delight in our being. Jesus was a more complete reflection of this Love but we too can be God’s children on earth. It has taken me a lifetime to begin to know and love myself, to appreciate the gifts I have been given and to forgive myself for my failures. During this mysterious holy time of new beginnings, I pray for a Biscuit spirit to rise up in me so that I might follow where I am led by Love. There is too little time left to dilly dally. Today I will sing the old spiritual “Rise Up Children and Follow” then get my head swinging as I move on down the road towards Bethlehem.

Advent...Tracks in the Snow

2010-12-17T08:10:00.002-05:00

It was the coldest morning of the winter...two degrees... and the snow had a frozen crust that changed the bright sunlight into a field of diamonds. After breaking the ice with a hatchet so the cows could drink, I stood at the cistern and listened to the silence that surrounded me. Deer tracks crisscrossed the white hill behind me, some coming to the cistern and others to the hay manger. Their small hooves left deep holes in the snow.
At the chicken barn Old Man Possum left his distinctive track marks as he came to clean up the left over cat food. There were a few cat paw prints but not many. Cats have enough sense to stay inside the barn during bad weather. And with mama delivering Meals on Wheels twice a day, they have no need to hunt.
The ducks were piled on top of each other under the willow tree glazed in ice and snow. With their heads tucked under their wings for warmth, they made a living sculpture. Duck tracks on the snowy iced over pond led back and forth as they walked on the water they usually swim in.
These tracks are a part of life every day at the farm but without the snow, I do not see them. They blend into the background of dirt and grass. Grey fox, birds, coyote, rabbits, snakes, bears young and old...all pass by silently (most of the time) and leave only their tracks behind marking their passage.
Advent is the soul snow before Christmas. I can see where I am going in the darkness before the Great Light by following the tracks in the snow. Years of lighting the candles on Advent wreaths, Advent worship, dearly loved music, Advent devotional books from Lake Shore Baptist... all have left tracks in the snow for me to follow. I sit in the winter still morning darkness remembering where I come from and where I am going. Thanks be to God for times of preparation and remembrance, Advent tracks in the snow.

Ready or not, Christmas is coming.

2010-12-16T08:43:00.000-05:00

I slept last night with to do lists, not visions of sugar plums, running through my head. Christmas is coming, the gooses is getting fat and everywhere I look I see holiday work to be done... beds to be made, floors to vacuum, kitchen to clean, food to buy, presents to buy and wrap, decorations to finish. I listen to religious pundits call for simpler Christmas celebrations... remember the reason for the season spiritualists... and I wonder how do you do simple for eight adults and five grandsons? And if I knew how, would I want to?
Our Christmas holiday is full of coming and going. Because of work schedules and other family commitments, some of our crew can only stay for one day and night. Yet they still come. The gathering, the noise of four boys and one baby boy, the teasing and jostling, the flare ups and soothing, the bedtime baths, the shared meals using tableware and silver from generations who have gone before, Christmas Eve worship, the lining up on the stairs for the grand procession down to the tree and Christmas presents... all of this is a part of family in process. And family is the reason for the season.
I suspect the season of Jesus’ birth was not all that simple. Traveling when great with child certainly was not easy for Mary. The prospect of giving birth to her first child away from her mothers, aunts, sisters and friends must have been frightening. But, she had no choice. Travel she must as decreed by law. Joseph bore the responsibility for food, lodging and care for his young pregnant wife in a time when there were no Holiday Inns at the exits on the Interstates with Cracker Barrel restaurants next door. And when they arrived in Bethlehem, it was crowded with outlanders, tourists on the same mission as they, obeying a law laid down by those in power. No room at the inn just like Asheville in the leaf season. Simple? I think not. And then there were those angels and shepherds singing and rejoicing in the middle of all the confusion and pain, loneliness and darkness, God the Father’s version of a covered dish meal for Mary and Joseph. Family...
So I sing “Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to us, O Israel” and “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!” as I become a Christmas Martha preparing for a full house. It is not easy or simple but it is rich in love and meaning. Family surrounds us when we are born, holds us in their loving care as we grow and live, cradles us as we age and die. And if our family here on earth lacks a little in the loving and caring department, the Family of God is able to supply our every need. No angels this year, Lord, please, but I wouldn’t turn a cleaning helper away.

Morning and Evening Star

2010-12-14T06:51:00.001-05:00

I lie in bed watching the morning star shine in the dawn darkness...

A gift from Michael’s grandmother, the quilt has hung on a wall in every home of ours. It is over one hundred years old, faded and with some holes made by hungry mice, a reminder of lives and loves long ago. The pattern is two four pointed star shapes, one long star and one short star, with stripes and a bow tie in the center of the shorter star. The long stars are a dark fabric that dominates the overall pattern with the short stars pieced in strips of varying fabrics and hues. Girl friends gathered, pieced and quilted this coverlet, signed their names to it and gave it to Michael’s grandfather as a friendship quilt when he married his grandmother. Her name is among the names at the bottom edge of the quilt. I read those names and wonder about the lives of those women. Were they friends forever? Were their lives full of love and good work and family? What were their sorrows and joys?
I wanted to paint a quilt for our newly restored high barn and chose this friendship pattern for the project. Michael and I stayed up late one Sunday night drawing the pattern to scale. That week I handed out copies to some of the farm family and invited them to help with the color selection. I was amazed by the responses. Jim, our gifted carpenter friend who is helping save the barn, saw circles around crosses in the pattern. Candace saw blue, green and white or lavender, yellow and blue arranged in different patterns. Leisa used dove gray, blue and orange. Michael saw dark blue for the larger stars. The variation in visions reminded me that all of us see the world through our own eyes and none of us see the same things the same way all the time. My challenge now is to incorporate the different ways of seeing into this quilt so that it, like the inspiration friendship quilt, reflects the friends who were a part of its creation.
Those women long ago had it right. They used bits and pieces for the small stars sewn together in small strips, reflections of the bits and pieces of our days. Most of our days pass by with the work of daily living, tasks that seem useful perhaps but not inspired. The holy days, the days that make a difference, loom large in our memories like the dark stars in the pattern and give our lives structure and meaning. One cannot exist without the other. A quilt made of only dark stars, holy days, would have no meaning without the pattern of the small stars of our daily life.
The morning star shining brightly in the dawn darkness disappears, blotted out by a dark cloud. I watch and wait. The star shine appears again as the cloud passes. I rest in the sure and certain knowledge that morning and evening starlight are Advent benedictions for darkness that gives way to light again and again. Even when I cannot see the Light, it is there waiting for me and I will rejoice in its coming. Thanks be to God for friendship quilt lives and for the Light that lights my path always. Amen.

Advent Labyrinth Life

2010-12-10T07:37:00.001-05:00

The light of the winter dawn creeps slowly across the dark sky like a cat stretched out long and lean as it crawls towards its prey. I lie in bed waiting impatiently for morning to come with my list already rattling around in my head. Slipping quietly out of bed I move through the morning darkness to the computer and sit and wait on God to show up.
Sitting by the keyboard is a small program for a Labyrinth Prayer Path at First Baptist. Inside are directions for drawing your own labyrinth, some questions to guide you in your journey and four steps for the experience. First step...focus, center and acknowledge the Presence. Second step...experience, observe and be attentive to the process. Third step...exit with a closing ritual while facing the center of the labyrinth. Fourth...reflect perhaps with writing or drawing to remember your experience.
My labyrinth life in Advent darkness needs these reminders of the part I play in the dawning of new light. Unlike the sun which rises on the just and the unjust alike, inner light comes only to those who seek and search for God’s presence within and without. I light the candle, I sit in silence, I read and reflect, I write waiting for God to come to me in words.
A thin band of red lights the far horizon and then scatters a red cloud patchwork quilt across the dove grey skies. Slowly, ever so slowly light comes and I lift my eyes up to the hills from whence my help comes, the Maker of heaven and earth. Thanks be to God for Advent dawns in the midst of cold darkness, light for our labyrinth lives and warmth for our bodies and souls. I am grateful for all the dawns in my life, those past and those yet to come. And when my days on this earth end, I know there is more dawn light in the life that conquers death. All is well.

Rejoicing my way through Advent...sort of

2010-12-09T07:42:00.000-05:00

Rejoicing my way through Advent is proving to be hard work but every now and then it sneaks up on me...

It has been a cold snowy week at the farm, in the twenties and teens most mornings with a biting wind that blows the snow sideways. Feeding the livestock becomes an adventure in survival. How do they do it in North Dakota for months? I layer up clothing, add a hat and gloves, shove my feet down into my warm muck boots and I’m off.
Yesterday was like any other day. I fed Ferdinand his feed and hay, let the horses and donkeys out, fed them, fed Bud the Barn Cat, mucked the stalls and hauled water down to the stable. The extreme cold has frozen the hose system at the barn so I haul water to the tank in the morning. Ferd and the donkeys and horses drink a LOT of water every day. This takes about an hour and a half. The next chore is to feed the cows.
When I got to the leaning barn (so named because it leans and is propped up with concrete block stacks), mama was there to feed barn cats. As we stood there talking, I heard some discombobulation in the barn. I turned to look expecting to see Barney in the barn. The barn floor sits up about four feet and has a small step below the door that lets us climb up into the barn with relative ease. Barney has been known to use that step to dine on cat food when no one is looking. Not so! I saw the big black rear end of Bully, our young Black Angus bull, as he munched his way through hay of his own choosing. It wasn’t a bull in the china shop but a bull in the barn!
Mama and I stood there dumbfounded at the sight of the bull in the hay barn four feet off the ground. I was laughing and cussing at the same time, a form of rejoicing I suppose. These things always happen when no men are home on the farm. Bully swivelled his head around, mouth overflowing with hay, and considered me the fool that I was as he returned to his breakfast. I left him to it as I drove on to the pasture to feed the others.
I worried he would break a leg when he descended from the barn and we would be forced to put him down. He is a big animal and it was a long way down. As I drove back to the leaning barn, frantically running ramp possibilities through my mind, I thought about calling our friend and neighbor Gary. I stood in front of the barn watching Bully with my phone in my hand. Bully saw the feed bucket on the ground, came to the door, delicately placed one front hoof on the now badly damaged step and descended with as much grace as a bull can have to the ground. He trotted down the lane to join the herd as I closed the gate behind him. Then I found the gap in the fence he had used for his exit and closed it off with a wooden pallet.
Some Advent days I feel like Bully in the barn, out of place and suspended in midair, unable to touch the anticipation of coming joy and light. I have more than I need and most of what I want yet somehow I lose sight of the river of joy that runs through my days... until I see the unexpected, hear the cry of the red tailed hawk, watch deer run up the ridge, wait on wild turkeys to cross the road marveling at their colors or laugh and cuss a bull who climbs steps to get to the best hay when he is hungry. Life is both joy and tribulation and I live dancing on the point suspended between rejoicing and remembering, my mouth full of the sweetest hay. Thanks be to God!

I remember... I believe

2010-12-03T08:39:00.002-05:00

It is the season of waking in the darkness here at Sabbath Rest Farm. Morning light continues to come but it does not call me from sleep. Evening darkness begins falling early and the animals are ready for the shelter of stall and barn by 4:30. The memory of summer light and the length of its days fades as I bundle up in Cuddle Duds, overalls, socks, muck boots, gloves, toboggan and Carrhart jacket to feed horses, donkeys and cows. Dressing for this excursion takes almost as much time as the work itself.
The cold, crisp air bites my nose as I breathe in the winter air. Walking down the hill to the stable I hear the donkeys call for breakfast and see the mist rising from the valleys across the way. The temperature has risen from twenty to twenty five and a high of forty is predicted for today. Sunshine is a gift after days of rain. The rooster is calling the hens out to play in the chicken yard and I hear Barney barking on the walk with Michael.
A poem written by Christina Rossetti is one of my favorites during this season of the year...
In the Bleak Midwinter Christina Rossetti (1872)"
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.
What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

In this season of darkness, iron earth and moaning winds, I remember light and warmth and length of days. I remember and rejoice in the seasons of light and darkness, warmth and cold, presence and absence. I pray for all the babies born into this world and all those who are leaving this world... from darkness to light to darkness and light again. Faith in the Creator who gave us the gifts of the seasons and the memory of the Face of God in Jesus Christ will light my path through winter darkness until spring blooms once again. Thanks be to God.

Dear Diary...

2010-12-01T07:56:00.003-05:00

November 30th

Dear Diary,
It is rainy this morning. A pale imitation of the sun peeks out now and then in between showers. I head out around 8:45 to let the chickens out and throw them some scraps. Then down to the horse barn to feed and scoop poop. Since Ferd began living in the horse pasture there is more poop to scoop under the run in where he walks to the water trough. The farrier is coming today so I try to tidy up the stable area so he can work comfortably.
As I walk up the hill to the house, Gary drives up in the Kubota with baby Grayson. They are out riding around since it is raining and Gary can’t do much outdoor work today. We chat a little while about fencing and other farm folderol while the baby boy drifts in and out of sleep.
After he leaves, I head down to the leaning barn and throw five bales of hay in the back of the mule then put the four wheel drive in gear to navigate the muddy fields. The cows are waiting for me. I dip out some feed and while they eat feed I stuff the manger with three bales of hay. I can’t lift the bales over my head to clear the top bar so I cut them and put them in. Two bales go out on the ground.
When I get back to the house it is 10:45 and time to start making my calls for the day while I wash clothes. No hanging clothes out on the line today but all this rain will fill Tim and Jeannie’s cisterns. We are not satisfied with our farm insurance package and I am calling around gathering information.
Called various insurance agents and am going to take copies of our current insurance coverage to two agencies tomorrow as well as talk to our current agency. I called a farm on top of Doggett Mountain, talked to the owners and had a lovely conversation about their operation. They rent three cabins, have 240 acres, Belted Galloway cattle, sheep, goats, chickens, guineas and are open year round. They were recently featured in Southern Living as a vacation destination.
Natalie came to work the horses and take a little ride. I am still washing clothes. 12:45- time for lunch break.
After lunch I paid bills, made calls about bills and checked on mama’s home insurance. Natalie came in afer her ride and we visited a little. Junie B was slipping and sliding on the wet clay so she walked her back home from the low pasture. The farrier showed up and I spent time down at the stable with him as he trimmed hooves on the donkeys and horses. Junie B looks like a mud puppy. Dixie is always much neater. Still washing clothes.
After the farrier leaves I will go to Weaverville to get a birthday card for Alison so we can get it in the mail tomorrow. Hard to believe all my small children now have children of their own. 5:30... The farrier left around four so I zipped into Weaverville. Came home to feed and bed down cows and horses and donkeys for the night before I cook supper. Cows were waiting for me at the gate. They had finished all the hay I put out in the morning so I replenished the manger. Cold wet weather ups their need for hay since we have no grass in the pastures. Still washing clothes.
I ate supper with mama while Michael made a run to Lowe’s. I will be starting to paint the quilt panel that will hang on the end of the barn and it needs to be framed in. Made a plate for Michael, came home and watched my favorite tv show, folded clothes and went to bed. Thus endeth this day.
Bully took treats from my hand. Dora let me pet her. Dixie loved on me. Junie B sang her throaty little song to me. Ferd smiled when I gave him grain. Barney ran to the fields with me. I ate lunch with a purring cat in my lap. I loved on a baby boy. This was the day the Lord made and I rejoiced and was glad in it.

Rest and Rejoice!

2010-11-29T08:51:00.001-05:00

Each morning this Advent I am reading a Bible passage on rejoicing. Today I began with a passage in Leviticus 23 that describes the establishment of the Harvest Festival for the Jewish people of God. This festival, Sukkot, follows the time of atonement, Yom Kippur, solemn high holy days. Each of these holy times carries an admonition to rest and a time set aside for rest. First worship, then rest, confess and make amends, rest, harvest, rest, rejoice. Each of these holy days carries with it specific instructions for rest. Wisdom knew our passion for being and doing, Energizer Bunnies that we humans are. And in that Knowledge, provided a resting place for our souls if we would listen and follow.
So first, worship. I will read Advent devotionals, the Bible and sing first thing each morning offering a small worship as a beginning to my Advent days. And in that time I will take a break, a rest from the busyness of my days, the unending to do list. I will rest in the Lord while I wait for the crocuses to bloom in the desert.
Second I will remember the year past, the mistakes, the sins, the blessings and the good work I have done. I will take inventory and lift it up to God as my part in atonement. Where there is a need to own my brokeness with others, I will speak and seek healing. I will affirm the goodness, the image and actions of God in me this past year as I do the same for others.
Third, I will harvest the past year of life reaping the joys and sorrows, the gains and losses with thanksgiving for it all. Without darkness we could not see the light and without suffering, we could not know joy. Gratitude for all that has come my way in life and gratitude for all that is yet to come will be my Advent prayer song.
Then I will rejoice like Snoopy dancing on top of his dog house, balanced between this world and the next, purely delighted to be here. Life is gift. Life is good. Thanks be to God for rest and rejoicing!

For unto us a child is born... again

2010-11-27T08:12:00.002-05:00

It was a lovely Thanksgiving. We had beautiful weather when rain had been predicted. The table was set with family silver, china and crystal, reminders of loved ones no longer with us. And gathered around our table on Thursday... mama, Natalie(a young friend in town for a month), our son Adam and his wife Michelle, and the centerpiece for our thanksgiving this holiday, their baby son Rowan (long o please, like the Archbishop of Canterbury). Rowan is a bundle of joy wrapped in diapers and onesies.
Adam and Michelle are tender parents, holding Rowan with loving arms and hands. All babies are a journey into a land of wonder and delight, fatigue and frustration, fear and trembling, an affirmation of life as gift. This baby with his father’s nose and his mother’s eyes holds the promise of God with us once again. I hold Rowan, he looks into my eyes, smiles at me with the corners of his mouth turned up, delighted to be in my presence and like Mary, my heart sings a Magnificat.
Last night Michael and I watched a movie... Eat, Pray, Love... that is taken from the story of one woman’s journey towards wholeness. The main character travels to Italy, India and Bali. The lesson she learns at a Hindu ashram is to forgive and love herself. She speaks of God in each of us, honoring and loving God in each of us... Incarnation in India, a land where images of God in us are overwhelming in numbers and need.
It is easy to see and delight in God Incarnate in sweet babies. Their smiles ignite joy sparklers in our hearts. The more difficult vision is to see God in us, the tired, mistake making grown ups who are weathered and worn by life. Our image of God is often buried under years of worry, struggle and pain with joy an infrequent visitor.
This Advent I will hold in my heart the joy that comes when I see God in others, babies and grouchy old men, worried women and fractious children, those who live with grief and those who have yet to experience the sting of death. Now that I am closer to my end than my beginning, I will not take joy for granted. I will search for the Christ Child born again and again in each of us, celebrating the presence of the Source of Life in each life gift. Thanks be to God for being born again and again and again. For unto us a child is born. Unto us, a gift is given...

Goin' home.. I'm still goin' home

2010-11-24T08:01:00.002-05:00

I sat in daddy’s chair at the kitchen table where everything is still the same and utterly different. The counted cross stitch framed in an embroidery hoop, a Christmas present from Aunt Peg, hangs on the wall over the table as it has for years. The stove, thirty years old and still working, is the same one my sister and I used to can tomatoes on summer visits to put up vegetables from daddy’s garden. Most of the little gold flecks are worn off the formica counter tops, polished off by years of cleaning. The empty space is full and overflowing with people and memories invisible to everyone else but clear as day to mama and me.
The truck is loaded with boxes filled with canned food, clothes, household goods, flowers to transplant, a visible symbol that mama will no longer be able to stay by herself in her home. As we walk out the door to leave for North Carolina she says, “If I ever get back, I want to bring the white rose, the first one I planted when we moved here.” If I ever get back...
We stop in Atlanta to visit our friend Pitts Hughes, now ninety four and one half by her reckoning. A year has passed since she made the move to an assisted living home and we had not seen her new place. Pitts moves around in a wheelchair now but the movement of her mind and spirit is unhampered as always. Mother God is still trying to order the universe and most of the time, it co-operates. I watch as we move through the halls, Pitts calling each helper by name and introducing us to them. They touch her, pat her shoulder and share a laugh as we make our grand procession to the parlor. Mama and Pitts talk about the process of leaving home and the adjustments required. Pitts moved often during her professional years so her home has always been with people not places.
I wake in the night and lie quietly pondering, wondering how I will do when my time comes to leave home. Mama and Pitts, forced by age and health to leave their homes, are my teachers. Pitts is surrounded by friends and is still in the same neighborhood where she lived. Mama has moved to another state to be with family. Each has lost and gained in their moves... lost independence and gained a new home. Home is in their hearts, their memories.
All our lives we go home from one house to another, farm, apartment, suburbs, city. And some day, some still, quiet day, we will all go home, home to our Beginning and our End, a Home that waits where love never ends and our moving days are over. Dear One, give me traveling mercies, I pray for the trip home and keep us all in the hollow of your hand. Amen.

Going home, going home
I’m jus' going home
Quiet like, some still day
I’m jus' going home

Nothing lost, all is gain
No more fret nor pain
No more stumbling on the way
No more longing for the day
Going to roam no more

Morning star lights the way
Restless dream all done
Shadows gone, break of day
Real life yes begun

Gratitude... the electric light parade

2010-11-18T08:03:00.001-05:00

It had been a difficult day. Friends had received a devastating diagnosis after a year filled with recurring illness and death, a forced march of coping and caring. I went to see them not only for their sake but for mine also. When someone I love is hurting, it helps me to touch them, see them, and for a little while, the demons are held at bay by love and laughter. As we sat around the table drinking hot tea and cider, my friend said she was rich in friendship, her life full of people who love and care for her. Tangible symbols of love... a bonsai tree on her front porch when they returned from the hospital, phone calls and visits, family who are friends... abound in her life and she is grateful.
Michael came home and opened the mail... a birth announcement and a thank you note. The birth of a new baby boy, life in the midst of trials and tribulations, his sweet face cuddled in a blanket makes me smile. The thank you note, handwritten and genuine, was from one of the nineteen teenagers who spent a weekend at Sabbath Rest Farm in our home.
Our daughter Alison and her Associate Pastor brought their youth group for a retreat and work day at the farm. They gathered hay bales (nearly 200 of them), fed cows, “picked eggs”, had a hay ride, saw more stars than they had ever seen before, rode Junie B, worshiped in the chapel, played games, and laughed a lot. Bless their hearts... their leaders had them vacuum the house and clean the bathrooms before they left. And now this gift of a thank you note. Suddenly the mountain of bed sheets and towels waiting to be washed are a sweet reminder of time well spent and memory makers for those not quite adults, these children of the church.
As I lay in bed this morning, the sky over the near ridge turned a dull khaki gold, followed by a narrow red strip. The red strip grew larger, the khaki gold turned bright gold and lavender appeared at the top of the sky. With amazing speed, the colors morphed into neon pink orange red gold and then the sun appeared for a brief moment before the clouds set in blotting out the electric light parade. But it is still there under the clouds and I will see it again, maybe tomorrow morning.
Gratitude is the electric light parade of the soul when life is painful and the path is rough. When I am lost in the valley of the shadows, each act of thanksgiving reminds me of past gifts of grace, helps me see God’s presence in my present, and gives me hope for a future filled with the Love that will not let me go. The clouds and darkness come for a season but they are illuminated by streaks of neon light that are the visible reminders of life, love and laughter yet to come. Thanks be to God for darkness and light, clouds and clear skies, friends and family, laughter and tears, health and illness, children and old ones, stars in the night that turn darkness into our friend. Keep us in your light, God, and we will walk in your paths. Amen.

Dream a little dream of me...

2010-11-16T08:59:00.002-05:00

I wake in the middle of the night, startled into consciousness by the ending of a dream. The sound of winter wind whipping through the trees and around the house are an acoustic accompaniment to my dream process. Barney howls and I wonder if dreams wakened him, too. Dreams that I remember come seldom to me. I ponder them for days, hold them fast as I try to find meaning in their hidden codes. Dreams are a creative wonder, dark paths illuminated by night time journeys deep into our souls.
There are many different kinds of dreams. Often I will dream a calligraphy quote or a solution to a design problem. These practical solutions to a creative problem float to the surface and I wake up feeling energized and ready to work. Sometimes those I have loved and lost to death appear in dreams and it is a comfort. But the winter wind dreams, the dreams that waken me into startled loneliness, leave me feeling like joining Barney in howling. Dreams can be dangerous, reminders of our limitations and frailties.
As a child, I dreamed dreams of the future. As an aging woman, I dream dreams of past, present and future. Years of living, loss, loving and leaving have marked the trail that leads to the source of my dreams. This dream path, this way to wisdom, is both gift and curse. Wisdom comes with a price and sometimes the price is painful. Wisdom, the way of knowing that honors past, present and future, is one of the creative possibilities in aging. Dreams are lamps that light up the hidden, the not yet known, the forgotten parts of our individual wisdom and we are lead to a different way of becoming the ones we were created to be.
Blue streaks of sky are slicing through the grey clouds as I walk Rufus outside. I watch a solitary oak leaf, far from its mother tree, circle lazily as it gently floats to the earth. I have been away from myself for awhile, floating like the oak leaf, caught up and swirling. Internal and external forces kept me apart from God and from myself. The grey sky with blue streaks reminds me that I cannot see all of the sky, only the little part that is in my world at Sabbath Rest Farm. My blue sky dreams are waiting underneath the grey winter clouds, waiting as I dream a little dream of me.
Thanks be to the One who dreamed me into being, whose dreams of love and light sustain me in seasons of darkness. For the grace that brought me thus far and will lead me home, I am grateful. For those who wander in the wilderness searching for wisdom, dreaming of peace and joy, I pray dreams will come true. And for us all, companions in life and death and life again, I pray for traveling mercies as we journey home. Amen.

Giggling Grace...

2010-11-10T07:37:00.002-05:00

Giggling Grace...

My friend Cara Pollard sent me an Advent meditation she wrote for her church devotional book. Cara writes beautifully about our need for grace. As I read, my mind went spinning back through time and I remembered Cara and our daughters Megan and Alison as children. The sound track for this memory video is giggles. Giggles and more giggles... They giggled at ghost stories, at who did what to whom and when, at and with each other, at adults who tickled their funny bones. They giggled for no reason at all sometimes except for the sheer joy of being together. The sound of grace for me is embodied in the laughter and giggles of children.
Somewhere along the way as we “grow up”, most of us lose our giggle. Not all of us do, though. Our friend Grady Nutt lives in my heart as a giggle. Out of the mouth of this tall, dapper Texan, a professional humorist who was a Baptist Will Rogers, would bubble up this giggle that would rope you in and you would giggle, too. I miss his giggle and I miss the laughing heart that was the home for his humor.
Children, and the occasional adult, visiting the farm always giggle. They giggle when the donkeys soft noses tickle their fingers as they feed them treats. They giggle as they swing high under the oak tree out front. Running down the hill or around the deck, they giggle and laugh. When a cow slobbers on them as they feed them cow jelly beans (alfalfa cubes), they giggle and go yuk! The sight of Rufus the basset hound brings on giggles.
Sarah, Abraham’s wife, laughed (or giggled) when the angels told them she would bear a son as an old woman. She tried to keep her laughter to herself but the angels caught her laughing and called her out. Later she worried that her name would be a joke all over the neighborhood when folks found out that she was having a baby. She would be the cause of giggles and a giggles first cousin, snorts. Sarah took herself much too seriously as do most grownups. It is impossible to giggle and remain dignified.
Grace is neither dignified nor deserved. It, like giggles, comes unbidden and to all whether you want it or not, whether you believe it or not. Somewhere deep in the heart of God, grace bubbles up and overflows covering us all with the loving assurance of our worth. We can let go of our illusions of control, our need to be seen as responsible adults, our fears of foolishness. We can giggle at the sheer absurdity of grace, marvelous grace, grace that is greater than all our sin. And when we do, perhaps God giggles along with us just as the girls did years ago. After all, giggles were made to be shared.

A new song...

2010-11-09T07:48:00.003-05:00

Miz Vivian was sitting in her car, the early bird as usual, waiting for the rest of us to get to Wednesday night supper. She opened her door and called me over to sit and wait with her. “Just listen”, she said. A black gospel choir began to sing “Soon and Very Soon” with gusto. “My favorite song”, said Miz Vivian. As we sat and waited for the rest to show up, she played one song after another, all her favorites.
Ashley, a cute sixth grader and an accomplished dancer, sat with me in the sanctuary listening to possible music for her dance on Women’s Day at our church. Diane and I had chosen a variety of sacred music... folk, reggae, hymns, sacred harp and one song I happened to pick up on my way to church “I Believe I Can Fly” sung by an African American woman gospel singer. When she heard that song, Ashley’s face lit up and we were soon watching her leap and pirouette around the sanctuary, believing and flying.
We have two hymnals in our church... the traditional blue Presbyterian hymnal and a gospel hymnal with African American gospel and spirituals. We sing from both every Sunday and that is one of the reasons I love this gathering of Christians. There is a balance between proper “Presbyterianism” which is the history of this 109 year old congregation, and the cut loose and let it fly gospel spirit which is also a part of the church’s story.
Miss Winnie, our eighty seven year old pianist, fell recently and as so often happens, began a gentle descent towards death. The first Sunday she was absent, Pastor Pat asked me to accompany the congregation on the piano. Our community is small and we all have to pitch in whatever our gifts may be. I was the only in house option. It is the first time I have played the piano regularly for worship since college. Not only are my fingers slower than they used to be but I am having to learn new rhythms, new songs, new ways of singing old standards. Each congregation has its own musical history, its own tempo and its own versions of songs.
My southern religious musical upbringing has much in common with black gospel but there are some major differences. The first Sunday I played “Soon and Very Soon” I got lost in the repeats and codas. Afterward, one older man said “We sang more of ‘Soon and Very Soon’ than we have ever sung before!” We laughed, hugged and I resolved to practice more. Maybe that is why Miz Vivian wanted me to hear her favorite song sung right.
Rejoice in the Lord, O you righteous!...Sing to him a new song, play skillfully on the strings with loud shouts. The Psalmist reminds me that I am a part of a musical tradition that stretches back thousands of years. My search for connection to the One who gave me a song to sing has led me through many different ways of singing and playing new music. I am equally at home with Just a Little Talk With Jesus, The Messiah, Soon and Very Soon, Just As I Am, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God and Amazing Grace. I love it all and do not worry overmuch about the theological implications of when we meet our King.
We do the best we can to put words to our beliefs but even the most learned among us can only present a partial and flawed word picture of God. Music with words transforms the imperfect word pictures and creates a place where the Spirit can sing with us a new song that praises and prays, perfect harmony. Our past, our present and our future as Christians can be found in our music.
On Women’s Sunday our girl’s and women’s chorus sang a hymn arrangement new to the congregation, The Hymn of Promise, one of my favorites, written in 1985 by Natalie Sleeth. It was dedicated to her husband Ronald who died after she wrote it. The second verse is my prayer for today. “ There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody; there’s a dawn for every darkness, bringing hope to you and me. From the past will come a future; what it holds a mystery, unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.”

I will be missing you...

2010-11-08T11:07:00.002-05:00

I will be missing you, Nana...

It had been a busy day with Matthew, Mason and Mead. Their mother was away at a training program and I was support staff during her absence. School, tutoring for Mason, homework, meals, and now it was bedtime. Bedtime with three boys is not tidy nor neat but it is full of laughter and love. Baths and shampoos are followed by pajamas and bedtime books. Matthew stays up a little later than the two youngest since his ADHD meds make it more difficult for him to wind down. Mason climbed into bed and “read” while I tucked Mead in.
I would be leaving to go home in the morning after I helped with school transportation. Mason, who has a form of autism that is focused on sensory processing issues, had been trying to deal with my leaving all day. His sad face looked up at me on the ride home from school as he said, “ You go to the farm tomorrow, Nana?” This question was repeated several times through the evening as he struggled to incorporate the information and deal with his sad feelings. As I bent down to snuggle and kiss him good night, his cheek, wet with tear tracks, undid me. He looked up at me and through eyes filled with sad love, he said, “I will be missing you, Nana.”
There are many things Mason cannot do as well as typically developing children but he has one gift that is beyond compare. He knows how to love and be loved. He lives in a world where he expects others to love him and offers his love freely to others. “They will be missing me,” he tells his mother when he is late for his school program. His self affirmations are “Barney loves me, Nana... Pop loves me, Nana... My brothers love me, Nana. Love is the center of Mason’s soul. And in a world that often does not see beneath the surface, Mason’s loving heart draws other children and adults to him.
When I lie awake at night worrying about Mason, praying for those teachers who work with him, praying for his parents who struggle to do their best for him, I remember “I will be missing you, Nana”. The Heart of God, Love Incarnate, lives in Mason’s heart. And I hear the echo of God’s voice saying “I will be missing you, Peggy” while I feel far away from Heart of God.
A new hymn written by Hal Hopson puts words to my longing. “Though I may speak with bravest fire, and have the gift to all inspire, and have not love, my words are vain as sounding brass and hopeless gain. Though I may give all I possess, and striving so my love profess, but not be given by love within, the profit soon turns strangely thin. Come, Spirit, come, our hearts control. Our spirits long to be made whole. Let inward love guide every deed. By this we worship and are freed.” Oh Dear One, make my spirit whole and grant me a loving heart. Help me see the world as Mason sees it, full of loving souls yearning to be loved and loving in return. I will be loving you, Lord even as you are loving me.

Faith darkness...

2010-10-26T06:35:00.001-05:00

Morning light has been replaced by morning darkness at Sabbath Rest Farm. I wake and turn to check the time unsure if it is morning. The rooster’s crow cannot be trusted. His crowing schedule is dependent upon some internal clock that has nothing to do with me.
Morning darkness is more difficult than early evening darkness. I am not tied to a commute to work every day so being at home makes the early nightfall manageable. Evening darkness brings candle and firelight, warmth and light, time to settle in, knit or read, catch my soul breath as the winter cold begins to creep up the mountain sides. But darkness at the break of day leaves me in limbo until I see the sunrise. Now I know in my head that the sun will rise but seeing the sun rise as I rise lifts my spirit. So these dark mornings I rise in faith... faith that the sun will come creeping over the mountain tops and make its way to our little hill beginning my day with light and warmth.
On the wall over my kitchen sink are these words... Faith is the strength by which a shattered world shall emerge into the light. I hold these words in my heart as I enter this season of morning darkness. Advent leads to Christmas, winter darkness will give way to spring light and my soul, on walkabout through barren desert, will find new life and light in this season. Faith... faith in the order of creation and the Creator will hold a light that shows me a pathway towards a light I cannot yet see. Faith keeps my feet moving and a small song in my heart. And now abides faith, hope and love...Rejoicing will come with morning light and faith leads me home.

I wanna be rejoicing everyday...

2010-10-22T07:20:00.002-05:00

Our home church in Waco, Texas has set the theme for Advent this year in a single word... Rejoice! Every year we look forward to participating in Advent through the devotional book that is written and produced by the members of Lake Shore Baptist Church. They are a creatively ornery bunch of Baptists who take their calling to be Christians seriously. They do not take themselves too seriously, though and have modeled for us through the years Christian community in its Raggedy Anne glory. So I have been thinking on rejoicing...
Wednesday night after church soup supper, the girls and women gathered in the sanctuary for choir practice. I sat at the piano looking at the faces that have become so dear to me in these past few months, listened to the teasing and laughter and wondered how in the world did I get here? I am an accompanist not a choir director. Little Angel tugged on my shirt sleeve and said,”I am singing in our choir, Miss Peggy!” There was my answer. Our inter-generational women’s choir will be singing Natalie Sleeth’s new hymn “A Hymn of Promise” in worship Sunday morning. Altos, sopranos, a descant, occasional harmony of voices but beyond the sound of the music is a bubbling up joy in the new life that is coming to be at Calvary Presbyterian. Our family ties are growing stronger as we open our arms to new folks who visit and feel the difference. I am scared to death and plumb happy at the same time.
Rejoicing comes easy when all is well with your life and your soul. It gets harder to rejoice when things go wrong. When I forget to put the parking brake on the new four wheeler and it rolls down the little hill to crash into the clothesline, rejoicing is not what come to mind. When we leave the beach vacation early because mama has been taken to the emergency room with what turned out to be vertigo, it was hard to rejoice on the long ride across North Carolina. When I feel overwhelmed with all that has to be done, when I look at that dreaded to do list and see all that has not been done, when I get stuck in my circular thinking racetrack that has no beginning and no end, rejoicing does not come naturally.
First Thessalonians 5:16-20 tells me the secrets of whole hearted rejoicing. Rejoice always... pray constantly...give thanks... Do not quench the Spirit! Rejoicing does not stand alone. It comes as a package deal with prayer, thanksgiving and allowing the Holy Spirit to flow through you to the world beyond. So here is my focus for Advent this year. Dear Lord God, keep me on track this Advent as I try to live rejoicing everyday. Keep me on my knees praying. Help me remember all I have been given so that I might have a thank you list as well as a to do list. And above all, Lord, let your Spirit not be quenched in me by fear or frustration. I do so want to be a living witness for you. May it be so, please, God?

The light of the eyes...

2010-10-15T08:55:00.001-05:00

The light of the eyes rejoices the heart, and good news refreshes the bones. Proverbs 15:30

The summer season of extroversion is coming to an end. Last Sunday we hosted the 119th Birthday Celebration Dinner for our church at Sabbath Rest Farm. It felt like a family reunion. Children were everywhere. The toddler twins, Darrence and Tarrence, went from pillar to post entertaining everyone. There was horseback riding, hay rides, plentiful wonderful food (who knew sauerkraut could be a salad?), storytelling and laughter. Alexis, terrified of riding Junie B, was given the consolation prize of driving the four wheeler with Michael by her side. Lawrence and Clare had the deck audience mesmerized with their foolishness. For the children and some of the adults it was their first experience with cows, ducks, chickens, donkeys and horses. As it always does, the wide open spaces on the farm let our souls expand and our spiritual backbones relax.
We live at the top of a hill not a mountain. Flatlanders often react as if it were a mountain but it is just a hill. Trees shade our home on one side but our long distance views are beautiful. From our back deck we can see ripple after ripple of mountains and watch the sun rise from our bedroom windows. The sunset deck is a setting place to see not only sunsets but moon rise also. The views in that direction include neighbor homes and farms.
I remember Jeannie calling me that day long ago telling me I had to come now and see this place she had found. We two couples had been looking for twenty acres or so for several years planning to buy and divide it. As we drove up the old rutted road Jeannie was saying “This is the spot I think you would like and I love the spot across the valley with the view of the old barn”. She was right. I did love the spot she named as ours and I love it still. Instead of twenty acres, we ended up with fifty four acres and formed a farm partnership.
Ten years have passed and I carry in my heart the memory of the light of my eyes when first I saw this beautiful place, Sabbath Rest Farm. And every morning when I wake to the feeding of the five thousand, the light burns brightly as I make my way across the horse pasture. The hills and valleys are wreathed in mist and the sun shines a golden light over the far away mountains. I have seen more rainbows here in the past ten years than I have ever seen anywhere else. They dance across the mountaintops against the dark cloud backdrops of rain yet to come.
I live in a place on this earth that calls to my bones. I carry the knowledge of these ancient mountains not only in my bones but in my soul. From my earliest memories, these old rounded mountains have called my name, calling me home.
As I prepare for the season of Advent darkness, the light of my eyes and the good news of this farm, my place on God’s earth, will refresh my bones and I will rejoice in Light from the past and Light yet to come. Darkness cannot quench the Light that sustains and surprises me through seasons of suffering and the grinding sameness of daily living. The Psalmist said “This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it”. And so I shall.

I love church historians...

2010-10-05T07:15:00.001-05:00

I love church historians. They have the long view. I am re-reading an autobiography now... The Living of These Days... by Harry Emerson Fosdick that is a long view of the fundamentalist/liberal clash in church. He preached a sermon in 1922 titled “Shall the Fundamentalists Win?” that ultimately cost him his pulpit at First Presbyterian in New York City. Fosdick, a Baptist with views on denominations and the Christian faith that did not meet the norms of his day, built a team of Presbyterian ministers who minded the church, tended the denominational home fires while he was the preaching/pastoral care part of the team. He, by his own admission, was not a good organizer or administrator but he was a top notch preacher. Fosdick defined his sermons as pastoral care for a group unlike the expository style of preaching prevalent in his day. He tried to “reach out and touch” those in the congregation who needed to be lifted up, encouraged, given hope.
I went online and read that 1922 sermon. It could have been preached any time during the latest Baptist wars and been on the mark. And it could be preached to any of our mainline denominations today who are up in arms over issues such as women, LGBT folks, the need for orthodoxy and regulation of the sheep and the shepherds. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
In an earlier church life I had a hissy fit when the words to Fosdick’s great hymn were changed to meet the current norms of liberal theology. It seemed to me then, as it does now, that even though our interpretations of the language may change, we “dis” our faith fathers and mothers, their experience as Christian men and women, when we rewrite their history, their words to suit our needs. We know and are known, our time in history is marked by the language we use and the faith we share transcends our incomplete understanding. I digress...
The tumult and hysteria centered on Fosdick as a liberal faded somewhat when he left First Presbyterian. Fosdick was always careful to distinguish between fundamentalists (mean spirited and on a power trip) and conservatives (fundamental views but honorable). He had friends on both sides of the controversy and valued the differences even as he proclaimed his own truth.
And, wouldn’t you know it, God took that religious war and new life came from it. Riverside Church, built in what was then the God forsaken end of Manhattan Island, away from the posh and circumstance of Park Avenue, became a living testament to Fosdick’s vision of church. The church had ten kitchens... ten... because the buildings were full all week with children’s schools, groups meeting, neighborhood activities and the regular meeting of the church community. Neighbors of Union Theological Seminary and Columbia, Riverside Church ministered to students as well.
Fosdick was known not only for his sermons but also for the prayers he used to open worship. Here is one of my favorites.

Eternal God, the Light that does not fail, we worship you. We seek you not because by our seeking we can find you, but because long since, you have sought us. We do not seek the sun but open ourselves to its light and warmth when it arises. We do not seek the fresh air of heaven, but open our windows, and lo, it blows through. So may our hearts be responsive to your coming and receptive to your presence. Amen.

The long view... God is present even in the midst of our time’s tribulations. God was present for Fosdick and will be present for our children’s children. It is enough for me.

Fall on the farm...

2010-10-04T08:26:00.002-05:00

The morning air is juicy crisp and tangy tart like a Stayman apple. Autumn has come to the farm and preparations are underway for winter.
The old high barn, once leaning into the ground like a ship run aground, now stands upright with new beams and sills. Soon the old wood siding will be back in place and holes in the roof patched with old tin. It will be ready for winter this year after nearly sinking into the ground under the weight of our twenty inch snow last Christmas.
Old Ferdinand the Bull, now retired from bulling, is being moved to the horse pasture. His arthritis makes it difficult for him to go up and down the steep hills. He needs extra feeding now that his teeth are so worn down that he cannot graze enough grass to fill his belly. It will be easier for us to tend him when he is in our back yard. My dad would be amused by my inability to act as a proper farmer who would have sent Ferdinand to market years ago, but I couldn’t. That sweet old English shorthorn bull will die here and then Michael and Gary will have to dig the biggest grave of all in the cow cemetery.
Jay Roberts is helping me prepare my flower borders for winter and the big fall church picnic next weekend. Brightly painted mums are beautiful complements to the leaves just tinged with color around the farm. While we were cleaning out one of the beds, clipping back bloomed out seed pods that had been stripped by birds, I saw two bright yellow large spiders, riding spiders, I think, building their zipper webs in the yarrow and black eyed susan stalks. We left them for Aidan and his friend Isaac to see when they came Friday. When I took the boys out to see the two spiders...ooops! In the center of the web, one spider was on top of the other spider who was now dead and being encased as a to go meal along with a grasshopper. Stocking the pantry for the next crop of spiders was an unexpected lesson in the realities of living with Mother Nature.
Autumn... bittersweet memories of summer’s fullness and life’s unending cycles of birth and death... my favorite season of the year. Fall contains new beginnings as well as endings and my memory safety deposit box contains the smell of new crayons and the feel of clean notebooks, the crisp starchy crunch of new dresses for school being worn for the first time, the feelings of a do over, a chance to begin again and an opportunity to do better this year. After the loosey goosey summer, order returns and schedules provide a safety net for me, deadlines and expectations.
Miss Winnie, our eighty seven year old pianist has been ill and I have been accompanying worship on the piano. My skills are a little rusty. Keeping up with what is sung where keeps you on your toes. We sang the final “Amen” a capella Sunday because I was getting ready for the postlude and forgot the “Amen”. Oh, well. Pastor Pat likes to sing a capella once in awhile anyway.
Years spent sitting on the piano and organ benches of various Baptist and Presbyterian churches have left their mark on me and those body memories are flooding back as I struggle to get my fingers in shape. One of my gifts as an accompanist is the ability to play with feeling. I am finding God again not by singing but in interpreting what I hear and feel in the notes and words on the pages of our hymnals. I am grateful for the chance to reclaim this part of my soul work.
Like the spider, I am drawing into the center of my web, making preparation for the season to come, dark night and winter cold. It is time to pull together what I will need for this next season of the soul...deep breaths of autumn air that set my teeth on edge remind me to be grateful for my body, this life and my age... no longer young but full of both memory and possibility. Darkness drawing near with the promise of more light yet to come...
My friend Deryl Fleming wrote these words that are my Autumn Prayer... We do not any of us get what we deserve in life. We live not by just deserts but by sheer grace. And here and there, now and then, we know it. When we do, we who have been graced become gracious grateful creatures of the Giver. Which is why we are here, to render our lives as compositions of gratitude.
And so I shall this winter work to render my life a composition of gratitude. I will write in my new autumn composition book songs of thanksgiving and praise that will warm me in the depths of darkest coldest nights, a reminder of light and warmth yet to come. Thanks be to God for the seasons of the natural order and for the seasons of the soul. Amen.

Clotheslines...

2010-09-08T10:57:00.002-05:00

Mama always had a clothesline wherever we lived. So did everyone else we knew. As soon as my arms could reach the line, hanging out the clothes became one of my chores. I didn’t mind it. The wet clothes smelled good and it was fun to make a tunnel by stretching the sheets over two lines. After all the other clothes were hung out, I could run through the sheet tunnel. Hanging clothes out in the winter could be tricky but usually, even on our coldest days, there was enough sun to dry them.
I did hate the pants stretcher, though. Someone invented a contraption that fit down in wet jeans and other pants to stretch them as they dried. Theoretically, this made them easier to iron. Practically, it took longer to get the stretcher in the jeans than it would have taken to iron them wrinkles and all.
There was an order to hanging out clothes. Every family had their own method and children learned to follow the patterns laid down by their mothers. No more than two socks to a clothespin. Underwear hangs from the waist. Link the clothes together with a shared clothespin. Pants hang from the waist as do skirts. Don’t pin red things to white things in case they fade. Hang colored things inside out so the sun won’t fade them. Don’t let anything touch the ground. Sometimes clotheslines would sag and a pole prop would be needed to follow this rule.
Bringing the clothes in was never as much fun for me as hanging them out partly because I hated to fold them. The clothes pins went back in the little bag that hung on the line. The sheets and towels, a little stiff, smelled of the sun. My children insisted that clothes dried at Grandma’s house also had a faint whiff of cow manure but I think they were prejudiced. City kids, they grew up with a dryer and wanted soft sheets and towels not stiff ones.
And now I have a clothes line again. Two metal poles built by my father long ago stand guard at the back of the house. Placement was crucial. The lines needed to be far enough away from the horse fence so curious equines couldn’t reach and nibble on clothes. Clotheslines are in again, a green alternative to power hungry dryers and I am a part of the avant guard. All things old are made new again sooner or later. Mini skirts and clotheslines...
It is hard to be uppity when all the kids on the school bus see your underwear hanging out on the line... humility is an under rated virtue. And, all the neighbors clothes flapping in the breeze gave us kids a chance to see everybody’s laundry (and underwear). Somehow clotheslines brought us together as a community. Driving by Miz Barnes house as she was hanging out clothes, we waved and listened to the adult conversation about her boys and their farm. Washing days varied from family to family but the sight of wash hanging out seemed to start conversations about relationships and families.
I need a clothesline for my soul, a place in the sun to hang out all the stuff I am working on. Hanging out on the line, others can see what is going on with me. This blog is my spiritual clothesline in many ways. I don’t always hang things out neatly but they flap in the breezes of your responses. Good church is another place where I can hang out some of my laundry to dry. I look around and see other clotheslines full of soul work. We could all use some clothesline time... hanging up and out, bringing in the laundry, seeing what is going on with our neighbors and friends, standing in the outdoors away from appliances that need repairmen.
Wouldn’t you know it? The first day with my new clothesline and it is cloudy and rainy. I will have to wait until tomorrow to hang out my laundry. Oh, well. Patience is another virtue I need to learn.

With one voice...

2010-09-07T07:49:00.002-05:00

I woke up suddenly to the sound of Barney’s song in the wee hours of the morning. He began his solo under our bedroom window and progressed around the house. I got up, went out on the porch and called him to me. The night was beautiful with clear skies and starlight so I sat awhile in silence with Barney beside me as we listened to the canine chorus singing. I could hear Leisa’s dogs, dogs from the next road over, dogs from the hills and valleys all around the farm, each singing their part in the Night Time Song of Dog. After awhile I went in and lay in bed slipstream thinking about voices and song.
Three grandsons were with us this weekend while their mother attended a high school reunion. Their voices began at 6:30 in the morning and stopped at bedtime. Sometimes they spoke separately but often, like Barney, they sang along with the chorus. A statement by one of them would lead to an accompanying riff from the other two. The ripple effect could be soothing if the decibel level was low or startling if there was disagreement or excitement in the choir.
Sunday morning I was called up to play the piano for worship. Miss Winnie, our 87 year old pianist, is ill and unable to play. The first hymn was “Soon and Very Soon” by Andrae Crouch, a hymn I love to sing but had never played before. It became apparent that what was written in the hymnal was not the way the congregation was used to singing it. We made it through somehow and I threw up my arms in relief to the laughter of the congregation. Thank God for the voices that knew the way it was supposed to be sung, who carried me along even when I played the wrong notes.
Morning time is quieter now as the birds are leaving for warmer winter homes. We wake to quiet stillness broken by the hum of crickets, not birdsong. There is a change in the choir loft as the season of autumn approaches. Different voices have begun to sing as another great cycle of change comes to Sabbath Rest Farm.
I reflect on the different voices I have had during my life... the voice of a daughter, a wife, a mother’s voice, a grandmother’s voice, the descant of a teacher, singing the song of a farmer or a deacon. Whatever the shape of the notes or the words, my prayer is that my voice will honor the One who gave me songs to sing. And if I stumble through an unfamiliar rhythm or my voice cracks on the high notes, I want to be fully present to the moment and belting it out.
Today I will sing the song of the farmer as I spray the cows for flies and feed them hay. When mama and I go to visit Margaret in the hospital, I will be singing as a friend and neighbor. As I pick up the truck from the repair shop, I will sing the song of the helper. In my heart I am singing a lullaby for Rowan and his parents, a lullaby of joy and thanksgiving as well as a prayer for sleep for them all. None of these songs are solos. Like Barney, I sing along with a choir. And I am grateful for all the voices and songs that lift me up. Thanks be to God.

In the beginning...

2010-09-04T09:08:00.002-05:00

As it was in the beginning...

The call came Thursday morning. “Mom? Michelle’s water broke and we are on the way to the doctor’s office.” Mama and I were in Weaverville running errands, getting ready for three of our grandsons who were spending Labor Day weekend with us. As we drove home after visiting with Margaret, a friend of ours who is under the weather, another call came. “Mom? We are on our way to the hospital.” And so this beginning began.
I called Michael and left word. I called the girls and gave them the news that another baby boy was on the way into the world to join our family. Many calls later, a plan was in place and that afternoon I drove to Charlotte to be with Adam and Michelle. Michael came after work and we laughed and labored with Michelle as she did the body work necessary for birth. As transition approached, we all left the labor room so Adam and Michelle could finish the task at hand. At 2:01 Adam called us caught between tears and laughter to tell us Rowan Reilly Hester had arrived. With Michelle’s cheeks and Adam’s nose, dark hair and rosebud mouth, another doxology of creation was sung in Presbyterian Hospital early Friday morning.
No matter how many times I see a newborn baby, I am always swept away by the sheer magnitude of the miracles that are required for the creation of new life. Even in this age of scientific understanding, there is such a joyous happenstance in the bodies of new babies. How did Rowan get Adam’s nose... the Hester nose... and his mother’s cheeks, the Reilly cheeks? Where did that mouth come from and how did the child of two blonde parents end up with such dark hair? In that tiny little bundle resting in his mother’s arms is a whole person who will unfold and grow with his parent’s help. As I look at pictures of our son holding his baby son, my eyes and heart shed tears of joy for his happiness, for the family he and Michelle have created.
I watch the family trio and see echoes of a long ago family, a new child born in a barn with loving parents and a future neither of them could fully imagine. As it was for Mary and Joseph, so it is for Adam and Michelle. All we can do is love our children, give them the best of what was given to us and hand them over to the safekeeping of the God who gave them to us. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, amen, amen.

Masterpieces large and small...

2010-08-31T09:04:00.002-05:00

The past four days have been a study in contrasts for me. Thursday night we flew to New York City for a wedding in Central Park. We had never visited New York City so we stayed a few days extra and took in some sights. I have always wanted to visit The Cloisters, a museum of medieval art. Remnants of medieval cloisters and chapels reconstructed in lovely gardens on the far northern end of Manhattan island was an experience of the sacred in the midst of the secular.
I couldn’t help but contrast my two museum experiences in my reflections this morning.
Visitors to The Cloisters spoke in hushed tones. Quiet and decorum, perhaps influenced by the sanctity of the stones that surrounded us, were a welcome break from the noise and perpetual rush of the city. All around me were the art and faith survivors from the middle ages. The illuminated manuscripts were beautiful and I studied them carefully, recognizing the skill it took to produce work that could last through the ages. And who knew that communion wine used to be sipped through a straw? For those long ago believers, the wine truly became Christ’s blood and they did not want to spill it.
As so often happens, there was one work of art that spoke to my soul. I went back to it several times, standing in quiet meditation, time traveling and remembering. The two pieces were painted on wood in a gothic arch shape. One was of Jesus on the cross with Mary and others gathered around. The second companion piece was of Jesus, down from the cross stretched out, with Mary lying down beside him. The faces pulled me in... called to me... rendered with great feeling and detail, so lifelike and filled with grief and confusion. The prone figures of mother and son, the awful grief and loss, the gathering of loved ones around the mother and son, echoed in my heart and reminded me we never are truly alone even in our darkest hours.
Our second museum was the Museum of Modern Art in downtown Manhattan. It was just a few blocks from our hotel so we walked to it and entered an open soaring space filled with people and noise. Languages from around the world, children, lines, bubbling activity wherever you looked... We began with the Matisse exhibit on the sixth floor exploring and learning about the artist and his methods.
It was crowded and we were caught up in the museum fever... see as much as you can because time is flying by... when we saw her. A little girl, maybe four or five, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of a painting with her drawing pad. She would look a little and draw a little, look and draw. Her composition was taking shape and she was not only seeing but drawing what she saw. Around her was a little still island of space as the busy noisy adults gave her the room she needed.
I will remember the beautiful paintings I saw on Monday. There were so many I have only seen in pictures or prints and they came to life for me in the midst of that crowded busy museum. But most of all I will carry in my heart the image of a little girl taking time to look, see and draw what was in front of her. She was a masterpiece in her own right. She will help me to remember to live in the present, mindful of what is right in front of me. She calls me to draw what I see and in the drawing to make a new creation that reflects the Old Master who created me.
Thanks be to God for the work of our hands that brings beauty and order to our world. I want my life to be a work of art, Lord, that is a still point of creation and connection. Give me eyes to see and a heart that is open to both noise and quiet, chaos and order so that I might find you in New York City and Alexander, North Carolina. Amen.

My whippoorwill song... with grasshopper grace notes and butterfly benediction

2010-08-23T20:49:00.002-05:00

In the twilight, I miss the sound of the whippoorwill’s song as the faint taste of loss and leaving lingers in my soul. This season, the crossing over from summer into fall, always brings a melancholy that is echoed in that shy bird’s song. As a child we would sit on the porch listening to whippoorwills sing from the woods that edged the pasture. Plaintive, sweet, floating over the heavy summer evening air, he called us home as darkness settled over the land. Gone now from the fields around us, I hope the whippoorwill has found refuge from the mad rush of development in the hills and hollows farther up the mountains. A world without the whippoorwill’s song would be sadly lacking. I sit on my soul’s porch listening to the whippoorwill song in my heart remembering my seasons of good by saying.
School’s beginning was always bittersweet for me as our children crossed another hurdle in the race to grow up. Kindergarten, first grade, first bus ride, middle school, high school, first car, driving off to college, first child to leave home, last child to leave home (the middle child gets a free pass)... all in the fall when the tangy smell of approaching autumn floated through the early morning air. I celebrated their coming of age, their growing into accountability, the sight of their individual personhood, the faint outlines of the grownups they would become emerging from their childhood. And as I celebrated, I mourned the loss of my babies... makes no sense does it?
In the luminous light of summer not yet autumn, I see the ones I have loved who have left this world, loved ones who no longer can come when I call. As I cut grass today on the farm, their faces rested in my heart’s memory and I called them by name. Grandparents, father, sister, husband, friends... their presence in my life was a gift and I honor them by remembering. The day is crisp and clear like my memories and I rest between laughter and tears.
I look down and see my shirt covered with grasshoppers of all sizes and colors, refugees from the mower who have found safety on me. Brown long legged ones, small bright green ones, brown and orange ones... crunchy legs climbing up my shirt towards my face, jumping away when I lift my hand to touch them. As a child I caught and raised grasshoppers in gallon jar terrariums, feeding them until their skins split like a snake as they outgrew their body covering. They fascinated me, and in them I caught my first glimpse of the transformation that comes with growth.
A cloud of butterflies suddenly surround me on the mower up by the high barn. I turn the mower off and sit, soul singing at this beautiful symbol of resurrection. Black and blue butterflies, sitting on the mower, lighting on my arms, resting in the clover... I think God just reached down and tapped my soul on the shoulder. Words come to mind and heart... “Remember to whom you belong. Remember there is more to life than death. Rest in the beauty that surrounds you and give thanks for all that has been and all that is yet to be.”
Tonight Michael and I drove the tractor and the mower down to the barn under the light of a full moon. The last few stragglers of fireflies glowed here and there as I meandered down the hill. Light enough for the journey...beautiful light... beginnings and endings illuminated, glowing with memories and possibilities. It is more than enough. Thanks be to God.

Oh to grace how great a debtor...

2010-08-20T09:35:00.002-05:00

All of my life I have prayed the Lord’s Prayer using different words as times have changed... Our Father and Mother instead of just Our Father... but one phrase has remained the same in meaning. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive others their trespasses against us... The interpretation of this phrase has remained constant. The quality of forgiveness for ourselves depends upon the forgiveness we extend to others. The gospel story of the man imprisoned for failure to pay his debts who is forgiven by the ruler only to imprison those who owe him is the foundational text for this reading of the prayer.
I am coming to a new hearing of these old words in this most important prayer. Sitting in a new congregation so different from all those I have known before, the Presbyterian version of this prayer startles me every Sunday with the words “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” I almost always stumble through the first part of this phrase catching up on “our debtors”. One Sunday a retired minister stood and said this particular phrase had meaning for Presbyterians because they were in their history shopkeepers and owners who often were called to forgive the debts owed them by those who could not or would not pay.
I sit sometimes in worship after the Prayer contemplating my debts, what I owe, what promissory notes I have signed in my life. I owe my parents for their loving care even when I was unlovely. I owe my children who taught me the dance steps for the circle of life. I owe my grandchildren for the pure unbridled joy they bring to my life. I owe my pastors who have each given me words every Sunday that often caught my God imagination and pushed me closer to my Creator. I owe my husband Michael who has worked to support us financially and keeps me from floating off into the ether of introversion. I owe my friends who continue to gather round for fun and frolic and come when I holler for help. I owe my God for life and sustaining love that will not let me go even when the way is shrouded in darkness.
“Oh to Grace how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be. Let thy goodness like a fetter bind my wandering heart to thee. Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love. Here’s my heart, oh take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.” Please Lord, bind me and remind me of my debts. Seal me in your heart so that my wanderings will always lead back to you. Amen.

Salty dogs...

2010-08-14T05:52:00.001-05:00

We moved to Asheville in 1980 with three small children and a dream. Since no bank in its right mind would loan mortgage money to someone with just a dream, it took all the money from the sale of our Columbia house to purchase the old house we bought on Vineyard Place. The three hundred dollars we had left over bought groceries and the speaking engagement at Fort Jackson paid enough to keep us afloat for a month. Michael launched his dream of being a pastoral counselor in the mountains we loved working first in an office at a church, then at our home in a remodeled basement office.
Upstairs I stripped wallpaper and woodwork, patched plaster and sewed Roman shades, answered the phone and took messages for Michael, ran car pools and was a full time mother and remodeling laborer. Michael’s practice was full in two months and we never looked back. Our children grew. We carved out a place in church and our community at large. The dream became flesh, the call was answered, the gifts were given and life was very good.
Then Southern Seminary called wanting Michael to come help establish a department in Family Ministry. Southern Seminary was Michael’s alma mater, the place where professors had nurtured and challenged him academically and taught him how to do and be a pastoral counselor. It was an agonizing decision but we left for a six year period of time to live in Louisville, Kentucky where he led the Gheens Center for Family Ministry and was a professor giving back some of what had been given to him.
In 1990 after the Baptists went to hell in a handbasket as a denomination, we moved back home to Asheville and Michael resumed his practice as a pastoral counselor. Professors don’t make a whole lot of money so our nest egg was the money we made on our home in Kentucky. Once again no bank wanted to make us a mortgage loan without a regular paycheck so with a hefty down payment, we found an owner willing to finance us for a year until we could get a loan. Our oldest daughter headed off to college after one week in town.
So here we were again... a rented office, a daughter in college with tuition payments, two other children at home, a mortgage payment and nothing but a dream and a call. Twenty years later, the dream has become flesh. Michael is now the counselor for the second and third generations of families he has known since the early eighties. Countless weddings and funerals, preaching and teaching in churches all across our county, tending pastors who need a pastor, his call to be a pastor, first heard as a small boy, has been realized in ways he never dreamed. Now working only three days a week in the office, Michael’s dreams are taking a new shape as he moves into partial retirement... old and new gifts, old and new dreams.
In the gospel of Mark I read... “For everyone will be salted with fire. Salt is good; but if the salt has lost its saltiness, how will you season it? Have salt in yourselves and be at peace with one another.” Our lives and Michael’s responses to his calling have salted us with fire at times. It can be scary to launch out into the unknown with little money and many responsibilities. But the fiery salt has brought us new gifts, new ways to be children of God, new ways to be faithful to the One who called us into being. And if the translation in my annotated Bible is correct, having salt in ourselves refers to being true to our gifts and exercising them peacefully. Salty dog Christians... full of flavor that transforms all it touches...
Some days, Lord, I feel like Krazy Jane’s Mixed Up Salt. Help me remember where all my gifts came from. Lead me to the places where my gifts can be given. And when fiery salt rains down on my head, keep me true to you and to myself so that I might live peacefully. Amen.

Horseback riding and soulwork...preparation and possibility

2010-08-10T06:26:00.003-05:00

Junie B and I took a little ride yesterday. I am trying to ride her at least three times a week or more for both our sakes. We each need the exercise. Our time together begins with a workout in the ring. We practice “Whoa Stand”, run in circles and backing up. Running the lunge strap up and down her front legs helps her stand still if she should get her legs entangled in something. Good behavior earns pats and hugs. It is sweaty, hot work for us and patience is a virtue that is rewarded. Junie B, like me, does not respond well to yelling but stubborn persistence on my part will eventually get her focused. I wonder if horses have ADD?
And then we leave the pasture for a trip around the farm. Every ride is an adventure... sometimes a sudden spook at a horsefly bite or a trip through the trees with low lying branches. Yesterday we rode through the Sound of Music Hill, the high pasture, the low pasture, the glen and up the hill home. Diane was walking with me and opened gates as we went. Getting up on a horse is not as easy as it looked in those old western movies. My body is a little older than it used to be and I need a mounting aid of some sort. So having a helper for the gates was wonderful.
In every ride there is at least one moment of pure joy...connection between Junie B and me, my body and Junie B’s body...and I remember why I do this. Yesterday I was posting in rhythm with Junie B’s trot on top of the Sound of Music Hill, the far away view of the mountains was crystal clear and the breezes were blowing. My soul laughed out loud with joy. Junie B wanted to trot, I could feel it through the reins, and we went back and forth between Diane and the far edge of the pasture. All the sweaty preliminaries forgotten, I reveled in the pleasure of the moment and let myself feel and be present to the joy.
Junie B got distracted by her companion Dixie’s whinnying from the barn in the high pasture and lost her focus. It is impossible to be out of earshot of her cries when we ride. Soon and very soon she will be coming with us and the two girls can enjoy the pleasure of each others company. Anxious to get home, Junie B stepped up the pace and slowed down only when she had to climb the hill to get to the house. Drenched in sweat, I slid down and stood by Junie B. She leaned her head around and nuzzled me. We stood in silent sweet communion for just a moment before I opened the gate. A bath and a hoof cleaning for Junie B, evening feed for everyone and then it was time for my bath.
My soulwork is akin to my horseback riding. It is composed of hard ring work, the basics... reading my holy book the Bible, other books that stir my thoughts and cause me to spend time sitting and thinking, and stretching my boundaries of belief. Then I begin to move out. I write, I teach, I keep the nursery at church. I meet an inmate and a chaplain from the women’s prison and commit to helping. I live with Michael, my mama and the farm family. And in those practices, sneaky little moments of joy pop up. In the nursery, Darrence and Tarrence grin at me with their identical twin faces. Mama giggles and sounds like the young girl she once was. Michael rings the prayer bowl calling us to grace. I sing a hymn in worship to Miss Winnie’s accompaniment and looking out the window, I see the mountains. Grace notes in a song of thanksgiving and joy... not possible without the preparation so that I might be focused and have eyes to see and ears to hear. It is more than enough for me today and I am grateful. Thanks be to God for preparation and possibility.

On the cusp...

2010-08-04T06:31:00.002-05:00

There is a magic time in the morning... the night song of the crickets is punctuated by the rooster’s voice as the bagpipe drone of the crow’s song hums along... light creeps ever so slowly over the distant mountains out my bedroom window and I lie here listening and watching as a new day dawns. The quality of the morning light changes in late summer. Drier, dustier in the late summer heat, morning light has lost some of its sparkle and lays heavy on the land as it slides up our hill.
Mama bear and her three cubs are ever present searching for food as autumn draws near. Bird feeders, trash, compost piles, and duck feed draw her to us and she makes the rounds of all the farm family to feed her three babies. I spotted the white turkey last week walking on the Sound of Music Hill in the middle of the flock. It was the first time I had seen her in months. The turkey chicks are nearly grown now, their numbers decimated by predators. The bluebirds and indigo buntings have raised their families and are not as visible as they were in the spring and early summer. We are on the cusp of autumn... the pointed end of summer not quite yet fall... an in-between time... a magic space where you don’t know what will come next.
Transitions in seasons, like our life transitions, can be a time to catch our breath, consider our possibilities, look ahead while we look back, get ready for the future while we give thanks for the past.
It has been a busy summer for us here at Sabbath Rest Farm full of family, gatherings, hay baling, restoration work on the old high barn, vacation at the beach, deaths of ones dear to us, new lives entering our world, house maintenance and fence building, the changing of the guard with a new young black Angus bull coming to live with the herd. Nothing is ever really settled forever. There is always something to be done or someone to set a spell with.
I read the 73rd Psalm this morning and there I found words for my time of transition. The writer is so honest and funny and particular in his confessions and judgements. “Truly God is good to the upright, to those who are pure in heart. But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled, my steps had well nigh slipped. For I was envious of the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.” The writer then describes in great detail the prosperous wicked ones and they sound a lot like the same ones I envy. He then complains about being faithful in vain and says it is a wearisome task to try to understand how others flourish when the righteous suffer. And then comes the passage that I will carry in my heart this day as my life continues its shift into the cusp of old age.
“When my soul was embittered, when I was pricked in heart, I was stupid and ignorant. I was like a beast toward thee. Nevertheless, I am continually with thee, thou dost hold my right hand. Thou dost guide me with thy counsel, and afterward will receive me in glory. Whom have I in heaven but thee? And there is nothing upon earth that I desire besides thee. My flesh and my heart may fail but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”
As Michael begins his semi-retirement and the rhythm of our daily lives finds a new beat, as we contemplate the limits of our money and bodies and lives, as I get lost in the longing for more than I have, these words will call me back to myself when my steps slip and I stumble. I will remember that God is the strength of my heart and I will give thanks.
Looking back while I look forward, I see the many ways you have kept me all the days of my life, Lord, and I want to say thank you. As you have cared for me in the past, I trust you will continue to make my way plain as I live into the future that remains for me here on earth. Keep me gracious and if I act like a beast sometimes, forgive me for the fear and loss of trust that separates me from you. You are my portion, my destiny forever, God and I am grateful.

These are my people...

2010-08-03T10:20:00.002-05:00

True Confessions (anybody else remember that magazine version of the Maury Povich show?)... I am a country music fan. If there is war talk on NPR, I switch to the local country music station and it never fails me. A song will come on that starts me to thinking. This morning on the way to get paint for mama I heard, “These are my people. It ain’t always purty but it’s real.” This is a wonderful description of my love affair with churches and church people.
I’ve belonged to all sizes of churches. Some had forty people in worship on a good Sunday and others routinely had over a thousand. The larger churches offered multiple programs for us and our children... choirs, youth groups, mission trips, many choices for adult programs, libraries. You could always find a small group within the large group. Worship that fed my soul with beautiful music and thoughtful proclamation was on the menu at these larger churches and our family flourished in these communities. The smaller churches, while not a cafeteria of options for the practice of my faith, provided a different way to live in community.
The smallest church I have belonged to was Pauline Baptist Church. The small, austere white frame no nonsense sanctuary with pine floors and pews that would break your back was crisscrossed with a framework on which curtains could be drawn to create Sunday School classrooms. The preacher, who belonged to the suck and blow school of proclamation, was a long lanky old man who still wore a black frock coat and string tie on Sunday.
We joined that church when I was a teenager who was sick at heart leaving the church and friends of my childhood. Only one other teen girl attended Pauline and I felt lost. Sunday mornings, once full of anticipation, now lay heavy on my heart. Slowly, a place was made for me in that small kinfolk congregation. I began to play the piano in worship, sing in a girl’s trio (another girl was imported for this group), listen to the stories told by Miss Flossie and Mr. Jess, visited the Rizer family and others who were our neighbors, and began to become a part of that church family. My first wedding was there and I was surrounded by those who had loved me through to young adulthood. I no longer saw what wasn’t there but celebrated what was there... kinship, community, a family of Christians who knew how to stick around for the long haul, unimpressed by fancy trappings(a good thing since we had none), straight talking plain Baptists.
The largest church I ever belonged to was in a growth spurt when we came. A charismatic preacher was pulling them in on Sunday mornings and the church was full of energy and excitement. Morning worship would have over a thousand souls sitting in the beautiful sanctuary. When we first joined, I would take our children on Wednesday nights for the evening meal and activities. Michael was often working and could seldom attend. Many nights in the beginning, I sat alone and left to go to the church library to read until prayer meeting began. I began teaching one of the children’s groups as a way to be useful.
Gradually we began to find community. We helped found a Sunday School class that used literature along with the Bible to hear the voice of God speaking. Sitting in the same place for worship every Sunday, we began to meet those who sat around us. I took organ lessons from the church organist and reclaimed a talent that had been neglected since college. I joined an exercise class that met in the church gym and brought my youngest with me to the childcare that was provided. There I met other young mothers who became part of my church family. A small church within a larger church...
Regardless of the size or theology or worship style, each community was chock full of people who were real, pretty or not. And, that included me. That is the gift and the curse of organized local churches... a place where folks are real like the Velveteen Rabbit, rough and worn out and angry and sad and happy and smart and dumb as a post. In other institutions where our livelihood or our public character needs protection, we play nicely. The church, however, is one place where most of us let it all hang out on the community clothesline to dry. To my mind, that is one very good reason for being a part of a faith community. Like home, most churches will take you whatever shape you are in. Alcoholic? Come on down. Nag? We have a seat saved for you. Single parent hanging on by your toenails? Sit by me. Upper middle class white male? Junior League soccer mom? Illiterate young adult? We have a spot for you. Come rub shoulders with the rest of us works in progress and lets be real together. Not purty, but real.
As I embark on a new church journey, I give thanks for all the real people who have been my faith family through the years. I am looking forward to being initiated into this new family of mixed up folks who are my travel companions on this trip. We are red and yellow, black and white, precious in the sight of the One who holds us together with the love that transforms the rough places into pearls of great price. Traveling mercies for us all, Lord, as we make our way home to you.

Beach notes 2010...

2010-08-01T08:07:00.002-05:00

Beach notes 2010...

I walk the beach early every morning. I wake, have my first cup of tea and go to the beach, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by my oldest grandson, Matthew. Sunrise and sunset are for me the most precious times of the day at the beach. Quiet, empty spaces of endless sand and water move me towards the boundless God who set this wonderful creation in the midst of an unimaginably vast system of planets, stars, suns and moons.
My first drawing for the week is of my foot on the beach seen from above. I walk the beach with my feet passing through a universe of small shells. As I examine the remnants of the little lives once lived in these tiny hard houses, I feel like a god. Then I lift my eyes to the flat horizon, the ocean waves that never cease their dance of praise, the dolphins with graceful leaps of joy, the pelican squadrons flying low and in perfect formation, ghost crabs lifting cautious eyes above their sand hole homes scouting out the territory, and I remember it is God who has made us all.

Ours was the last generation to worship the sun. Doctors prescribed walks in strollers outdoors for babies because the sun was good for us. We worked in the fields until we were old copper penny brown pausing in the middle of the day for respite from the heat. Ladies of leisure (and teenagers) laid out in their backyards coated in a mixture of iodine and baby oil in search of the perfect tan. We rode on the ocean stretched out on reflective floats with our feet and hands dangling in the water, riding the waves, feeling the rhythm of the earth dance in the waves that flowed beneath us. The sun was our friend.
Now like so many other body parts of Mother Nature, the sun has been transformed into our enemy. We slather on concoctions of chemicals designed to hold the sun at bay, to protect us from its harmful rays only to discover some of the cures may be as dangerous as the UV rays.

We beach walkers come in at least three models. There are the straight up walkers who walk (or run) standing tall with arms pumping, looking to the right and left occasionally but focused on the goal that seems to lie straight ahead. They speak but rarely linger for conversation.
Others saunter, relaxed, dipping in and out of the waves as they walk. Sometimes they bend over to inspect a shell or stop and survey the horizon line. If someone passes by, a conversation may ensue. They take time to pet the dogs, smile at children and speak to those strangers who might be new friends.
And then there are the shell seekers who walk bent over, scuttling like crabs amidst the treasures cast up on the beach by the shell god. They pick up shells, inspect them, choose to keep or cast away, and return to the search looking up only to avoid collision with other shell seekers. Occasionally they stand straight to walk to the next patch of shells.
I confess I am a member in good standing with the saunterers and shell seekers. I have no goal or purpose when I walk the beach other than the discovery of beauty in whatever form I find it... moon shells with their iridescent spiral towards center, Duchess the English bulldog who loved me, little children building sand castles, dolphin bodies glistening grey, the turtle nest protected by a web of orange plastic, the moonlight path on the calm evening sea...a labyrinth of beauty with God at its center.

I am fascinated with shell fragments, the left overs when sun, sea and sand have carved the original shapes into new forms. My drawings are of pieces of sand dollars, old clam shells that are pitted and worn, small whelk shells that are shaved off on two sides, beach glass worn smooth, jagged edged scallop shells. I am a shell fragment, my soul worn down over the years to its core shape, open on all sides, jagged scars where wounds have healed imperfectly, pitted and scarred by my passage through life. And I am beautiful in my own time, a creation of God that is perfect in my own imperfection.
“God has made everything beautiful in its own time and has put eternity into our mind yet we cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” Thanks be to God for the beaches in this world that remind us of endless love and boundless grace, perfection in imperfection.

Of morning songs and evening prayers

2010-07-21T07:23:00.000-05:00

Dan, Wendy and their three daughters, Lily, Chloe and Em are back in the states looking for a home and jobs. For the past four years Dan has been pastor of an English speaking church in Beijing, China. It has been a grand adventure and an opportunity for the whole family to become a part of another culture. Dan loves being a pastor and hopes to find a church where he can exercise his gifts. Wendy, fluent in Japanese, with experience in the corporate world, would love to find work, too. Dan has been our friend since his days as a student at the seminary where Michael was a professor. Now he and his family are here at Montreat doing camp for the girls and themselves as they seek to find their new home.
Sitting on the deck last night, we were watching the sunset and the moonrise. Venus shone brightly as the stars began to appear. The moon was wreathed in a mist and the air was cool and damp. As we sat, my heart settled down and my soft evening prayers began to fly upwards toward the brilliant gilt edged clouds. It had been a hectic day full of work and traffic jams of many kinds. I felt frayed and tattered but the evening sounds and sights worked their magic and I began to see and hear the world around me uncluttered by a need to do anything or go anywhere. Swifts were flying through the air gathering their evening meal and they were soon joined by the bats dining on mosquitoes.
I gave the girls wide mouthed Mason jars so they could catch fireflies. Dan and Wendy spoke of the pollution, the brown hazy air that surrounds Beijing and the ambient light that blocks out the starlight. The saddest thing to me, however, was not pollution (we have our share) or the lack of starlight (go to any large city here) but the loss of songbirds. Mao ordered all the songbirds in the city killed during his tenure as ruler of China. There are no songbirds in Beijing.
Every morning during spring, summer and fall, we wake to the sound of birdsong. The rooster is not the only one with a morning composition to sing. Cardinals, bluebirds, indigo buntings, wrens, finches, even the brash caw of crows give us a sweet transition from sleep to waking. I cannot imagine a world without songbirds... morning sounds that do not include songs that are sung for pure joy by creatures other than us.
From our beginning times, when God said, “...let birds fly above the earth... and let birds multiply upon the earth...” we have had winged song slip sliding through the air that surrounds us, often unheard and unnoticed, but there nonetheless. I am reminded that the voice of God can be heard singing in these multicolored creations that exist as pure pleasure in a world of utility and multi-tasking. Give me ears to hear today, Lord, the songs you send me. Let me lift my voice in song to join birds in praise to the One who gave me life and breath and joy in living. Grant me a heartsong that is as pure and joyful as the morning hymns sung by the birds, Lord. The old hymn is right, Abba...How can I keep from singing?

Of rifles and romance...

2010-07-20T08:22:00.002-05:00

Daddy gave me my first lesson in shooting the rifle when I was nine or so. I learned how to load the gun, clean it, hit a target and basic safety rules. The Sunday afternoon practice sessions were utilitarian as well as fun. A gun on the farm was a tool just like other tools in many ways. The tractor and pick up truck I learned to drive were also tools that helped with farm work. The rifle was a necessity sometimes, not pleasant but required. A rabid raccoon, a dying cow, a rattlesnake, butchering animals for meat... the rifle was used to end life and we knew it. There was no romance attached to the firing of the rifle.
Daddy kept the rifle in the back corner of his bedroom closet, unloaded. The bullets were in the top drawer of the chest. If he needed to shoot coyotes threatening the baby calves, he had to load the single shot rifle on the run. I don’t know that he ever hit a one of them but he surely scared them off.
As our agrarian roots have disappeared from the life experience of the majority of us, the fascination and unreal romance with guns seems to be exploding (pun intended). Television shows, movies, and video games show a no muss-no fuss approach to the life and death power of real guns. Albert Schweitzer’s reverence for life has been replaced with a reverence for firepower. Everyone has the constitutional right to own an AK47, it seems, even if it defies common sense. The bigger the gun, the faster it fires, the safer we are. I beg to differ.
Guns have never ensured one’s personal safety. Occasionally they protect from personal attack or home invasion or robbery. But, more often than not children die from accidental shootings because Daddy has guns and the children are playing with them. Or an “unloaded” gun goes off and a friend dies. No one living in a three bedroom suburban home with children “needs” an assault rifle. And if you are not a hunter or a farmer or in law enforcement, the gun is not a tool but an indulgence, a dangerous toy that needs supervision and training.
How is it, I wonder, that we need to take a driving test and get a license to drive a car but any fool can buy a gun as long as he passes the background check? A gun safety and training course should be required of anyone who wishes to purchase this instrument of death for that is what a gun does. It kills. If you skeet shoot or if you hunt... if you belong to a gun club and target practice at a safe location... if you collect guns like others collect china dolls...you use a gun that can kill. There is no inherent sin in owning a gun or in using a gun, but there is cowardice in ignoring the truth about guns.
Pretend guns, pretend violence, pretend blood, pretend death, pretend life... there is no safety in gun numbers. My help comes from God who made heaven and earth, my shade by day and the one who keeps me all the days of my life. Naive? Perhaps. But then I serve the one who urged his followers to turn the other cheek and forgive seventy times seven. No mention of guns or spears in Jesus’s plan of salvation. We’ll keep Daddy’s old single shot rifle for the true life and death crises on the farm. We will not depend on the illusion of safety to be found in gun ownership but we will depend instead on the One who in life and in death is never separated from us. Thanks be to God for life beyond life and death that is not the final answer.

Of hawk moths and heart's a-bustin'...

2010-07-15T06:59:00.002-05:00

I stand on my front porch watching the butterfly hawk moths. Shaped like little hummingbirds, their relentless activity creates a whirling dervish flowerbed. The sound of all those wings, the to-ing and fro-ing from blossom to blossom, hold me in place as I let my mind free fall into remembrance of the past weekend.
My work camp family...and I do mean family... came for a visit this past weekend. Officially we were celebrating Walt and Mary Lynn’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. Unofficially we were once again taking time to remember how we came to be a family and give thanks for all that has been as well as all that is yet to be.
It is rare these days in our well traveled lives to live where we grew up surrounded by those who knew us when we were young. That kind of continuous relationship can be a touchstone, a gift of “remember when” and “look how well you have turned out”. For a little while this weekend we were once again “the chillun” with Walt and Mary Lynn as our fearless leader friends.
Our family, like most families, runs the gamut of every measure you might have. From the theologically conservative to the way out there liberal to the non-Christian, our faiths remain central to our lives. And yet these major differences in the context of loving family, are cause for conversation and self-revelation not judgement and scorn. We are very different in how and what and who we are and yet we are more alike than different in our desire to love one another.
Our family meeting Saturday afternoon was full of raucous laughter and good humored repartee. You get as good as you give in these free for all family meetings. We spent time thanking Walt and Mary Lynn for the friendship that started us off in our lives as adults, their steadfastness and continued connection to us for forty four years. We named the gifts they had given us and with them, named some ways we could honor who they are and have been all their lives. As a fiftieth anniversary present, we are investigating translating classic children’s books into Cherokee for the language immersion program on the reservation. This is a way to honor Mary Lynn’s life long work with and for children. One of the Woolf clan leads this program and has told us of the difficulty in locating books for children in their mother tongue. Walt and Mary Lynn have also been strong supporters of the Southern Poverty and Law Center, a non-profit organization that fights hate and discrimination through education and litigation. We will also be looking for a way to contribute to this group who are near to their hearts.
Discussion of our next gathering, the forty fifth anniversary of our building Bethabara Baptist Church in Cherokee, led to the decision to gather there next year and work on a project to help that congregation. Claudie asked for a less strenuous project than in the past and we agreed. We have more B team members now than A team... B team members are limited by body strength, knowledge and skill. Our A team members are wearing out so we will limit ourselves to a one day project. As usual, we muddle through the discussion process and much to our surprise are able to come up with a workable plan. Walt sits and watches, making occasional comments, just as he did long years ago while Mary Lynn leans in to the conversation.
Gathered around the table for our celebration meal, I listen to the rise and fall of the sounds of family. Pop (Walt) had prayed our grace for us and now our table was full not only with wonderful food but cups full and overflowing with love and gratitude. Like the hawk moths, the whirring of the wings of the Spirit can be heard above the laughter and conversation. We have re-read the old letters and articles saved from our past. We have given thanks for all we were given and all we have been. In anticipation of life and work yet to come, we have planned and assigned tasks to our doers and our be-ers knowing that the God who loves us all is present in each of us. Our bodies are temples for the Spirit and communion happens with ham and potato salad and sweet tea. Thanks be to God for my family where I am known and loved just because. My heart's a-bustin' with love and joy. I am blessed.

Of colors and color blindness...

2010-06-27T07:19:00.000-05:00

Since we have begun attending an African American church, I have been paying attention to colors of all kinds... especially the language and the weight given to skin color. It fascinates me how often I hear someone white described as color blind, a virtue, in their interaction with people of color. I know what they are trying to say... this person treats everyone equally regardless of skin color... but I hope I never become color blind.
I love colors of all kinds... skin colors, flower colors, fabric colors, paint and ink colors. The color of spring green leaves and the deep green of loblolly pine needles, wild daisy white and Queen Anne’s Lace ivory, English shorthorn red and Rhode Island red, yarrow yellow and morning sunrise yellow, my farm tanned brown arm hugging Alexis’s cafe’au lait shoulders... Color is such a gift.
To not see our skin colors is to miss appreciating the wonderfully varied colored puzzle pieces of the creation that surrounds us. Our color, whatever it is, is a reflection of God’s creation and an important part of who we are. How can you really know me unless you know I grew up white in the south? And how can I know Pastor Pat unless I know she grew up with a different skin color in the south? How can we love one another unless we know and celebrate our differences as well as our likenesses? Skin colors are a part of our personal packages, a mirror image of a God of many colors, a technicolor God who has showered us with so many colors we can’t name them all.
As a child I would go to my mother’s home church, Bruington Baptist in Bruington, Virginia. After the Sunday School report had been given during the interval between Sunday School and worship, the children would stand and sing for the congregation led by John Ryland. This tall, spare man with a shock of bright white hair only knew two children’s songs, Jesus Loves Me and Jesus Loves the Little Children. They are two of my favorite hymns still and an accurate reflection of the bedrock of my personal theology. Jesus loves all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight...

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brindled cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Gerald Manley Hopkins poem reminds me to celebrate fickle freckledness and dappled things, the beauty of color and shape and light and taste and feel in all their forms. Keep me from losing my sense of color, Lord. Remind me every day to sing my thanksgiving when I see your loving face in the faces of all colors around me. I always wondered where my freckles came from and now I know...they came from you.

Of hay and hospitality...

2010-06-23T07:09:00.002-05:00

We are making hay while the sun shines this week on the farm. Around eight hundred square bales, five hundred and fifty of them ours, now are stacked under the protective tin roofs of hay barns. Plagued by early summer rains that kept us from cutting until the grass was high, and fell upon the first cutting, this last cutting is rain free. Hay is a gambler’s crop and your yield and quality are determined not by you alone but by the weather gods. Traditionally the second cutting in the mountains is the best quality hay, the opposite of the hay country where I grew up in South Georgia.
When the call goes out, all normal life ceases for awhile. Gary mows the hay then he and Michael rake it into tidy rows after it is dry. Cutting, raking and baling on our hills takes no small amount of skill and nerve. Gary runs our fifty year old baler, held together with love and prayers and good welding, up and down the rows as we follow to pick them up. Occasionally a part will break off and we all gather to look for it in the grass, hoping to find it or have a spare so the work can continue.
Hay baling the old fashioned way is not a solitary activity. We need a crew to help pick up the hay and put it in the barn. The day before we bale, we call friends, neighbors, teen aged boys, young men and women who need work saying we will be baling the next day, trying to gather four or five folks at a time. Upper body strength, enough to lift hay bales and swing them over into the trailer, is the only job requirement. A driver, two stackers and three or four to pick up in the field is a good number. Newbies take a lot of teasing as they are introduced to the hot physical labor in the field. There is a lot of laughter and joshing as we work and the pleasure of the company makes the work lighter. Riding back to the barn atop a full trailer load of hay is sweet with cool breezes and the grassy perfume easing your breathing. Cold water on the back of your neck and wrists cools you down quickly, water and lemonade to drink freely help cool you inside and out.
Hay work is hot, hard, dusty work that is also full of community and fun. We laugh at Gary’s dirt blackened face, giggle as a hay bale flies over the trailer when a young buck throws too hard, cuss when the baler breaks down for the second time, and I give thanks for those who have come to help. On hay days, I provide an evening meal when the work runs late or lunch if we work during the day. I keep the water coolers full of ice, water, Gatorade, lemonade and energy bars. I hand out sun screen and gloves and hats and long sleeved shirts for those who need or want them. Hay work is hospitality in action... the gift of hospitality given to us by friends and neighbors who come to do this hard work not for money but for love, and the gift of hospitality we extend as we include all who come in our farm family group.
Strangers become friends and friends become family as we each share what we have with one another. My need is met by your generosity knowing that tomorrow I may be meeting your need. That is hospitality at its finest... offering ourselves in ways that make us all the better for it... a two way street of sharing. So tonight I go to church to teach Vacation Bible School because my children were taught long ago by those who loved children and showed up. Saturday our group will have a HUGE yard sale and part of the money will go to a charity of our choosing. What I do not need will help someone who needs much. Saturday night our church has a fund raising dinner and I will help with the corn. These new family members in the family of God are becoming dear to me and I will help because we need to finish working on our fellowship hall.
In Romans 12:13 I read, “Contribute to the needs of the saints, practice hospitality.” And in 1Peter 4:9 I read, “Practice hospitality ungrudgingly to one another.” This weekend I will be practicing ungrudging hospitality because so many have extended the same kind of open hospitality to me. How can I do less?

Of handwipes and hallelujahs...

2010-06-18T07:17:00.000-05:00

I am beginning to feel like an alien in my world... the only living human being who doesn’t routinely use sanitizing hand wipes on her shopping cart. From Sam’s to Ingle’s to Bed Bath and Beyond (I”ve always wondered where beyond was in that name), there are dispensers at the door of sanitizing wipes for your hands and the carts. Grizzled old timers and young trend setters alike stop to conscientiously wipe themselves down, free themselves from germs before they enter the hallowed germ free halls of shopping.
I know, I know... I hear the nurses and doctors reciting the statistics of germs passed along on our hands, flu and other nasty bugs we can pick up on those shopping carts. But the truth of the matter is we are surrounded by germs everywhere. Sometimes I think it was God’s way of making sure our immune systems developed as they should. And other days, I admire the marketing ploy that has convinced us to buy all these little plastic canisters full of individual wipes to preserve our health. What happened to soap and water and common sense? Just because it is new and improved doesn’t mean it is better and worth it.
The real reason it bothers me so, though, is the implications of this cleanliness ritual. We no longer seem to trust our world, its ability to nurture us, to care for us, to provide what is needed. Our bodies have become not temples for God’s spirit but fortresses to be defended with hand wipes. Our companions in Sam’s are not neighbors but potential sources of illness and disease. Those who don’t step up to the plate, or the wipe dispenser, are viewed with disdain.
Somehow we humans can take a perfectly good creation and ruin it with overuse. Antibiotics... literally a life saver... we use them too much and suddenly the germs they destroy adapt and are immune to its effects. Immunizations... again life saving possibilities until we begin giving all newborns a plethora of shots for diseases before they leave the hospital. Food... once a delight and a pleasure, is now seen as a controlled substance. You can’t eat too much or too much sugar or too much fat. Food became fast, we slowed down and we became fat. It wasn’t the food’s fault.
God created this world and pronounced it good. We have forgotten that, I think, because we have isolated ourselves from this world. Sitting in air conditioned houses with all our windows closed, riding in air conditioned cars with our windows rolled up, riding through our neighborhoods instead of walking, buying food that we did not grow from countries far away, avoiding the eyes of those we pass by, living in places where ambient light wipes out starlight. We have forgotten how to walk barefooted on the Ground of our Being and we are the poorer for it.
So I will continue to pass up the hand wipes so generously offered and take my chances. I will celebrate the world around me as a good and precious gift not as a field of germs and death. I will eat with a grateful heart and grow as much of my food as I can. I will be sensible about my health but not obsessed with protecting my body. It is a temporary creation anyway. I will remember that God created this world good and so it is... good and beautiful and bountiful. And I will give thanks for all who share this blue space jewel with me whether they sanitize their hands or not. They are my neighbors and as I love God, so do I love them. Now if you all will excuse me, I am going to go play in the dirt a little while and sing hallelujahs while I pick bugs off my potato plants, pull weeds in my flower beds, muck the stalls and swat flies. Have a lovely day in this world of ours... germs and all.

Of Roses and Rainbows...

2010-06-17T07:57:00.001-05:00

It has been a sad week in many ways. Walking down to the stable last night to put the horses and donkeys to bed, my soul was dragging. A friend has died from cancer and another friend is waiting for test results that could be bad news. In BCD days (Before Celeste Died), I would have called Celeste and asked her to pray with me for these friends. We had an agreement that allowed us to call, ask for prayer and know that we were heard and loved as we prayed for each other and those we loved.
Prayer, believing in the power of prayer, is like sex in the olden days. Everybody wants to know about it but no one wants to own up to actually doing it. God forbid we should desert our belief in the rational long enough to let the irrational sneak into our daily lives. Pastor Pat used a quote from Wendell Berry Sunday morning in her sermon that nailed this double standard. A paraphrase... We stumble and quibble over the miracles in the New Testament like turning the water into wine but ignore the miracles that surround us everyday like seeds that lie underground, grow towards the light, are watered with rain and produce food. Miracles abound and we take them for granted in their “dailyness”.
I have for years believed in prayer for no good reason at all except I believe in a loving God. In my belief system, love is balanced between “just because” and “just do it”...passive and active. God loves me just because I am and because I am, I love God and love my neighbors. Prayer is the verbal and non-verbal expression of faith and belief that a God of Love will hear my heart, will care about my needs, and will answer one way or another. Sometimes there is no answer and sometimes there are no answers for what happens in this imperfect world. Children shouldn’t die before their parents from cancer or starvation. Good people shouldn’t have to bear the same burdens as those who serve themselves without consideration for others. Life is not fair and God knows that. Nevertheless, sometimes there are answers to prayer for those who have eyes to see and ears to hear.
For years I have found evidence of God’s answers to my prayers in strange ways. In my darkest times, God shows up in rainbows, roses, the faces of small children laughing, old mountains worn smooth by generations of time, sunsets and sunrises. Last night as I walked to the stable, Michael called from the deck, “Look up, Peggy!” And there it was... a double rainbow. Beautiful, bright, fleeting assurance that God is still in covenant with us, still present in our times of trouble, and all will be well even when all is not well. I walk to my front door where I have planted roses in memory of Celeste, breathe in their sweet fragrance and give thanks for all the gifts of love that have come my way. Most of all, I am grateful for my tears, a leaking heart, that connects me to the Heart of God that is broken for us all everyday. Thanks be to God for laughter and tears, love and light, rainbows and roses, life and death. It is all good.

Celeste...jumping for joy

2010-06-02T09:10:00.000-05:00

I cannot begrudge the manner of her dying... at her beloved First Baptist sewing costumes for the teenagers musical... a massive heart attack that ended her time on earth. If she, with her customary cheerful relentless efficiency had been able to order the time and manner of her death, it would have been this one. I have known Celeste since I was thirty three, a young mother in the Sunday School class she taught. I am one of many who treasured her as a friend, and she knew how to be a friend.
Our last communication this morning was by e-mail and began with her response to something I had written. In my little writing, I mentioned taking flowers to church. She e-mailed me back and asked where we were going. When I told her we had found a wonderful inter-racial community at a Presbyterian church, this was our interchange.

I do believe you mean Pat Bacon's church. Hallelujah! If I am guessing correctly I swim with this phenomenal woman three times a week at Brooks Howell. Love you right back. Celeste

i tell you what... you never cease to amaze me. it is pat bacon's church. tell her i said hello. she is some more kind of preacher and we love to hear her and what she has to say. peggy

Then her last e-mail to Pat and me...

Morning, Pat. Just couldn't wait until tomorrow to share this with you. Please read from the bottom up. Peggy and Michael Hester are long time friends of mine, and with the grip God has on both of them, and with their multiple talents, your church will come alive in the ways your are visioning. I am about to jump out of my skin with pure joy.
By the way, Pat, I celebrated Memorial Day by sleeping right through our swim! I am knee deep in making costumes for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and stayed up way too late Sunday night/Monday morning.
Love to everyone who is reading this... I am on the way to church for more sewing and to meet daughter Sandra and Ryan for a picnic and love feast before he heads for his last session of undergraduate school.

She never made it to the picnic. Surrounded by the walls of the church building where she had served for most of her adult life, she died wrapped in the fabric of love that clothed her spirit.
I have wept this day for the loss in this world of my dear friend but my tears meet my mouth turned up in a smile at the memories of this most amazing woman. Raised southern with the knowledge of how to do things right, she retained the best of her heritage and became a citizen of the world around her. Everyone she met was a new friend and her friends are legion. Her taste in people was eclectic... artists, musicians, young adults, immigrants, white bread people like me and multi-colored folks from all over the world. My husband Michael says we should have tee shirts to hand out at the memorial service that say, "Celeste loved me best!" Each of us felt loved best by her.
Life lived on her terms was gracious, busy and often featured a dinner party gathered around the table at her mountainside home.She was not perfect. She would have been the first to say that. But she was always open to change, in herself and in others.
As she aged, she became more liberal... in her creativity, her politics, her loving, sharing her money and herself, and in her love for God. Not too long ago she told me she had no loose ends left to tie up. As much as she could, she had made amends, paid her debts, spoken her love and appreciation, held great-grandchildren, seen some of the world and done what she could to keep her body healthy. Whatever time she had left was going to be spent in giving and creating and laughing and learning and cooking and giving thanks. She won't make it to the opera this weekend or see Wicked, but she had lived life more fully than anyone else I have known.
And so, she jumped out of her skin with pure joy... home to God, reunited with Ray and her beloved parents. I, along with many others, will grieve the loss of our great encourager but I celebrate the wonderful gift I was given thirty years ago when Celest Rast became my friend. Godspeed, Celeste... love back at you. Peggy

Sunday flowers...

2010-05-30T06:53:00.002-05:00

I have just come in from cutting flowers for this morning’s worship. My summer flowers are beginning to bloom and some of the late spring bloomers are still hanging on. Every Sunday morning the Lord’s Supper table in the little church of my childhood was graced with flowers from someone’s yard. There was a schedule and every family was expected to participate in providing flowers for worship. In those days, silk flowers were a disgrace and florist’s flowers were for emergencies only.
Some bouquets were more skillfully arranged. Some of us had greener thumbs than others. Some of us had black thumbs and had to ask for help from our neighbors. But all of us took our turn bringing flowers. Mama could stick a branch in the ground and it would grow and bloom. We always had zinnias, roses, marigolds, iris, hydrangeas, azaleas, old fashioned carnations, nasturtiums, spirea, forsythia, and more roses. Mama loved roses. They grew higgeldy piggeldy, a glorious riot of dancing color with bees and butterflies dining al fresco. I was the designated flower arranger in our family. Mama could grow them but she thought I did a better job of arranging them so I grew up being a part of the Ladies Flower Brigade.
This Sunday morning, as in my childhood, I will carefully set my arrangement of yard flowers in a five gallon bucket for the trip to town. The bucket will hold it upright and contain any spills. When we get to church, I will set them on the table and hand the pastor two empty quart jars so she can take flowers to those she visits on Sunday afternoon. All the Ladies Brigade knew this secret...sharing flowers shares not only their beauty but is a gift of grace, a blessing that comes from the renewal of the earth tended carefully by loving hands and given with loving pride.
One of the old hymns we sang began, “Bring ye all your tithes into the storehouse, All your money, talents, time and love...” Flowers are a gift of talent, time and love. I give them with a glad heart. They are a reflection of my soul’s desire for beauty, an affirmation of God’s gifts to us in our world, and a response to the call to bring all of myself to the table of plenty provided for me in the house of the Lord. Thanks be to God for yarrow and iris and achillea and lamb’s ear and catmint and echinacea and hydrangeas and bachelor’s buttons. Like the flowers, we are children of many colors and all beautiful in our time. It is a good and gracious gift. Amen.

Let's Make a Deal...with God

2010-05-17T07:27:00.001-05:00

It isn’t safe to bargain with God...

I sat in worship yesterday listening to Pastor Pat preach on the talent parable. With her characteristic sensible humor she pointed out the one talent man’s sin was not in having only one talent. His sins were fear of failure and comparing himself to the others who had been given more talents. Paralyzed by his fear, he didn’t use what had been given to him but buried himself underground and what he feared, his master’s wrath, did indeed come to pass.
As she preached, I watched Mary with her two young children in the row in front of us. Pastor Pat had asked the church to help Mary. She is moving into her first apartment and has nothing so anything we can give will be helpful. We are cleaning out the farm house this week because Jeannie’s twin sister is moving in with her furniture. I have a set of dishes and glasses down there I was planning to move up to our house. The glasses are a really pretty purple and I had a special place for them in my glass cabinet. The dishes have fruit on them and would be a fun addition to my entertaining stash.
I decided to play the Gideon Game. Gideon had been doing the Lord’s bidding and gotten his people into a world of trouble by pulling the altars of his neighbor’s gods down. Now there was going to be a war and God wanted Gideon to lead the charge. Gideon had been called by God but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go and he wanted to know the battle would succeed. So, he set up a mechanism to make God prove he was serious. Gideon laid out a fleece on the ground and had God wet the fleece while keeping the ground dry during the night. That wasn’t enough for Gideon. The next night, he wanted the fleece dry with the ground wet. God was patient but consistent. Read Judges 6 through 7 for the end of the story.
I bargained with God. It went like this... O.K., Lord... I hear you. I have much and she has little. I can help. But I really love those pretty purple glasses, Lord. Let’s make a deal. I’ll ask Mary what her favorite color is and if she says blue or green, I’ll keep the glasses and give her the dishes. If she says purple, you win and she gets the glasses and the dishes. So after worship, I make a beeline up to Mary and ask... You see the ending already, don’t you? Her favorite color is purple, of course. I swear I heard God giggle. So now the farm family has purple glasses, dishes, pans and other kitchen stuff, a bedroom set, and a sofa for Mary to help her with her new start. God has multiplied those purple glasses through us all.
So this week I will be figuring out how to get a sofa, a bedroom set, pots and pans and dishes to the church so Mary can see her new home taking shape. When the Housing Authority calls with her new address, she will carry a part of our hearts with her. When she sets her table for her first meal in her new home and puts those pretty purple glasses on her table, I hope she sees the love that surrounds her... God’s love and our love. Watch out when you make a deal with God. You might have to keep your end of the bargain.

Rules to live by...

2010-05-14T07:53:00.001-05:00

One of the great gifts of grandparenting is watching your children rear children. The old Biblical proverb of the sins of the fathers (not mothers, thank you) being visited upon the heads of succeeding generations comes alive before your eyes as you watch a grandson act out the very same way his mother did at his age. The gene pool is as strong as straight Clorox bleach sometimes.
As a child of my generation the rules for children were fairly simple and unequivocal. Children addressed all adults with the titles of Mr., Mrs., or Miz (Miss) before their names. When answering an adult’s question, or if making a response to an adult, ma’am and sir were spoken as a sign of respect. There were no exceptions to this rule. We were allowed great freedom to roam by today’s standards but held to a stricter code of behavior than most of today’s children.
We were protected from the knowledge of the Tree of Life with parents speaking in hushed tones away from children’s ears about the painful, the sordid, the evil that comes into all our lives as grownups. Globalization had not been invented and children did not see images of war and starvation in living color on the television in the living room. Sex was not a commodity to be marketed to young girls in music videos and clothing but a subject of much heated discussion in the seventh and eight grades. Those who knew or thought they knew the “facts of life” were all too happy to share this knowledge with those poor souls who were still out to lunch. I was still out to lunch until I turned thirty. Innocence was a virtue in those days.
In the latest Christian Century, Sheena Iyengar reports on a survey of 600 people ranging in belief systems from fundamentalists to liberals. Her findings were not what you might expect. It turned out that the folks most likely to suffer from depression and pessimism were Unitarians and atheists. Those who lived with rules seemed to be empowered by them, have more hope and optimism than their more liberal counterparts. Any mother or father from my generation could have told her that. Children who grow up with clear boundaries and discipline are almost always the ones who navigate life successfully. The trick is not in having rules and regulations. The trick is to create a clear consistent system that reflects your family’s values and then living by that system.
And therein lies the rub... living daily what we say we believe. Whether we are raising children or raising ourselves, we often say one thing and do another. Paul knew that dilemma all too well. What we ought to do, want to do, should do, we don’t do. And, what we oughtn’t to do, don’t want to do, shouldn’t do, we do. Rules are reminders of ways to be our better selves. Children (and their parents and grandparents) need these road signs to help us remember how to behave. Be ye kind. Love God and your neighbor as yourself. Brush your teeth everyday. Eat lots of vegetables. Love one another as I have loved you. Wait your turn. Tell the truth. Respect your elders. (Now that I am an elder I really like this one.)
Oh, God, I am not so good at living what I say I believe. Help me this day to remember the Golden Rule and do unto others as I would have them do unto me. And if I make it through this day, Lord, would you help me tomorrow, too, please? Peggy

Chicken...everybody's favorite white meat!

2010-05-13T07:06:00.002-05:00

Farming is not for the fainthearted... It has been a rough two weeks for the chickens and Michael. Seven chickens from the brood have been consumed by various predators during a short amount of time. This is the first time we have had difficulty with chickens being killed consistently. Some days there would be one chicken missing during the day and then one taken at night. Poor Michael has struggled with the loss of his girls. Farewell to Marshmallow, Dy, Nam, Ic (named the Dynamic Trio by our grandson Matthew), the Rhode Island Red, Egypt, and the Dominecker. It has been a sad and sorrowful time.
It seems there might be several different predators so Michael is beefing up the lines of defense. For the hawks he has covered the chicken yard with bright orange baling twine that loops the loop over and under the fence creating a circus tent top. This keeps the hawks from swooping down and grabbing a hen. The last time a hawk grabbed one she was so heavy all he could eat was the breast meat so Michael had to bury what was left. The fox has been stymied by closing the chickens up at night. Did you know foxes can climb a fence? But the great mystery was what could get into the coop, kill and eat a chicken leaving only a few feathers and get out? Our neighbor Gary tells stories from chicken farming days when he was growing up on his parents farm about owls coming into the chicken barn and decimating the flock. Chickens would be so terrified of the owl that they would stack themselves on top of each other suffocating the ones on the bottom of the pile. The vent at the top of the walls will be covered with screen this weekend and in the meantime we are leaving the lights turned on in the coop at night. Owls are nocturnal so we are hoping the light will prevent him from shopping at this particular supermarket again. Sometimes Mother Nature is not nice to chicken farmers... or to chickens.
Life, on and off the farm, can be painful and sad as well as frustrating and overwhelming at times. It seems to come at us so steadily with problems to solve and losses that appear to be unending. We have a hard time looking up to see if there is any silver lining to the clouds that surround us. And joys can be just as difficult to live with... new babies and hormonal changes and lack of sleep and loss of old self image can take its toll on a new mother. A new job interview leads to a time of waiting and wondering and dreaming and fear of not getting the job. The changes that come with retirement are fraught with gain and loss...changes that are both welcomed and feared. Where is the protective orange circus tent top for our lives? Who leaves the light on at night for us? Who tends the fences that hold chaos at bay?
One of my favorite passages of scripture is found in John 14, the funeral passages. Truth be told, those words could be my daily prayer. As a worrier par excellence, an anticipator of disasters yet to come, a child of parents who always planned for the worst and were surprised by the best, I need to not grow deaf to the sound of these words. “ Let not your heart be troubled. You believe in God, believe also in me... Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you; not as the world gives, do I give unto you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.”
Dear God, when I run to and fro piling on top of others like me who are running to and fro, stop me in my tracks. Show me the untroubled way, the way of peace. Keep my eyes and my heart centered on you, O Lord, so I might live each moment as an offering of gratitude for all I have been given. Turn on my night light of hope, love joy and peace so my soul can awaken to meet you in the morning sunrise. Amen.

Mother's Day...

2010-05-11T06:36:00.000-05:00

As we passed the peace in worship Sunday morning, I looked over and saw my Mother being embraced by an African American Grandmother, silver heads together, dark and light skin, Sunday best dresses, and I wept. Two old mothers, worlds apart in life experiences, one in the Body of Christ...
Once upon a time I belonged to a church that didn’t celebrate Mother’s Day. Many reasons were given. It was a cultural holiday not a religious one... so what? Christians have been appropriating and transforming other’s holidays for generations. We didn’t want to cause pain for those who had abusive mothers, absent mothers or were unable to be mothers. We didn’t want to use gender specific nouns and pronouns in worship either male or female because using mother (or father) as an analogy for God would make somebody mad. I was always a little sad on Mother’s Day when it passed by without much attention being paid in worship.
Sunday I went to church with Michael and my mother. We sat in the congregation, saw roses and orchids pinned on in remembrance of mothers and grandmothers. We heard the prayers of the people as they stood to voice words of honor, praise and concern. One young African American woman stood to thank her aunt (in the congregation) and her grandmother for being her mothers when her mother was unable to mother her. She gave God praise for her mother growing and changing and for the steadfast love of her other mothers. Another woman requested prayer for a woman she met in the doctor’s office who had lost all three of her children to death this past year. An aging Viet Nam vet gave thanks for his wife who mothered their three daughters while he served in the military. Prayers were offered for the pastor who was home in Georgia with her family for their first Mother’s Day without their mother.
Such a powerful word...mother... it evokes an emotional response, a deep down in your belly feeling that will stay with us all our lives. Perhaps that is one of the reasons we should re-examine our use of mother-father language for God. Too many of the words we use for God these days... Holy One, Three-in-One, Source of all Being... may connect us to the awe and mystery of God but we have no gut connection, no skin face for God in those words. When my child calls me weeping over the loss of a baby, I do not pray to the Source of all Being. I call on God as Father or Mother, one who understands the anguish of a parent. My grandchildren are learning to pray surrounded by the faces of God in other mothers and fathers in their church congregations.
So this Mother’s Day I celebrate the faith of the mothers (and fathers) who have been my birth parents as a Christian. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson who led our youth group, Mrs. Tyre who led the Sword Drill team, Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Morris who included me in the music program of the church, Brother Kannon who lived the Golden Rule, Walter and Mary Lynn who taught me how to think about my faith, Celeste who shared her creative spirit with joy, Grady whose laughter was infectious and most precious in church, John Claypool who blessed me out of worship every Sunday with words that ring in my heart still... faces and names that stretch out through the days of my life reminding me that God first and foremost wants to be in relationship with me. Because of the gifts I have been given by these skin face representatives of God, I want to be a faith mother for others, sharing my peculiar (I hear the laughter) gifts with others. May it be so, Lord Jesus.