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.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
My soul rests...
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.
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.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Ages past and years to come...
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.
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.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Diamond and me...
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.
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.
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