Oh the wonder of it all...

Popping pills in the mouth of a pissed off donkey was not a part of my skill set until this week. Twice a day Shirley must take four antibiotic pills for her injured eye. Pills wrapped in bread liberally covered in sugar (Mary Poppins was right) makes a tasty package. The upper eyelid is still very swollen but the lower eyelid is back to normal. After dosing the eye with antibiotic ointment, Michael and I walked back up the hill to the house. The rainclouds were gathered over the far mountains but none seem headed our way. Jason the weatherman keeps on promising rain will come but so far it seems to come everywhere but here. The ground is hard and dry. Plants are dusty and toughened by the last of summer’s heat. Grasshoppers abound, leaping in joyful abandon as you walk through the yard, all shapes, colors and sizes. The bear has made a visit to Tim and Jeannie’s house leaving bent bird feeders and big footprints behind as evidence of its passing. Flocks of wild turkeys fly up from the overgrown hay field when Woody bounces in to chase them. The young ones are almost indistinguishable from their parents now, nearly full grown. The old white turkey survives still, against all odds. Color is beginning to appear early this year. Some trees are already turning red, yellow and brown. Leaves are dropping and the smell of summer’s end will soon be replaced by autumn’s tangy sharp scent. We are poised at the top of the ferris wheel of seasons awaiting the descent into fall and winter, holding our breath under the blue full moon, learning to live in the darkness that is creeping back into the long summer’s day. Oh, the wonder of it all… No matter how many times I feel the season’s change, the mystery and miracle of it still makes a thin place for my soul to touch God’s creation energy. We who live in this day and age know so much about the “how” of things but the “why” is still as elusive for us as it was for the Psalmist. In our acquisition of knowledge I fear we may have lost our capacity to recognize the miracles that surround us, the Mystery that cannot be known. To God who by understanding made the heavens, for God’s steadfast love endures forever, to God who spread out the earth upon the waters, for God’s steadfast love endures forever, to God who made the great lights, for God’s steadfast love endures forever, the sun to rule over the day, for God’s steadfast love endures forever, the moon and the stars to rule over the night, for God’s steadfast love endures forever. The call and response of the 136th Psalm remind me of the bedrock truth of all creation. In climate change and polar ice cap melting, God’s steadfast love endures forever. In hurricane floods and summer drought, God’s steadfast love endures forever. In season’s change and darkness descending, God’s steadfast love endures forever. In the wonder of it all, the mystery and the miracle, God’s steadfast love endures forever. Amen and amen.

Tell it to Jesus...

Some days just do not go as planned… Yesterday, for some strange reason, I decided to feed the cows first. Woody jumped in the Kubota with me and we headed towards the pasture. The new calf, Little Ferd’s first baby, was running around with his tail held high in the air. I fed them sweet feed and watched them for awhile, counting heads to make sure everyone was there. Tilly is beginning to look old but she can still clear a path for herself to the feed trough with that regal crown of horns. Sassy is as sassy as she has always been and Biscuits and Gravy (so named because she is milk gravy creamy white with red and black speckles) was anxious not to miss a morsel of feed. Sitting with the cows always slows me down, quietens my internal discourse, and connects me to my childhood. When I got back up the hill to the house, I walked down to the stable to muck stalls and put out hay for the donkeys and horses. After feeding Bud the Barn Cat, I let the horses out then opened the donkey stall. My stomach lurched towards my throat as I saw Shirley’s face. Blood was gushing from her eye, the upper eyelid was hanging and the lower eyelid was ripped loose. I quickly put the donkeys in the small holding pen behind the stable and ran up to the house to call the vet. An hour later a nice young man drove up and we went to work on Shirley. He gave her some happy juice, deadened her eye and began stitching her up. She stood patiently, a little drunk, as I held her head up for surgery. Two hours later she walked towards the pasture, wobbly but in no pain. I, however, was coming down from my ER high and beginning to feel the aftereffects. Michael called in the afternoon and I tried to tell him some of the details but his vagal nerve response kicked in (and a waiting client) so I cut it short. Mama came to check on Shirley and me but she stayed up at the top of the hill and called down to me. I called Diane but she was on her way to meet a friend and caught in traffic so she was distracted. Leisa was sympathetic but by then I had realized the gory details were not particularly appealing to those who were not there for the ordeal. Where could I go to lay down all these feelings and the worries? As I sat and drank my afternoon cup of hot tea, an old hymn title came to mind… Tell It to Jesus. I went to my piano, opened my old hymnal and found it. As I played and sang those sweet words from my childhood church worship, a calm settled over my frazzled self. In the singing, tears began to flow, not just for my fractured day, but also for those I love who are struggling with illness, old age, the death of a beloved grandchild, uncertain futures. “Are you weary, are you heavyhearted? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Are you grieving over joys departed? Tell it to Jesus alone. Do the tears flow down your cheeks unbidden? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Have you sins that to men’s eyes are hidden? Tell it to Jesus alone. Do you fear the gathering clouds of sorrow? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Are you anxious what shall be tomorrow? Tell it to Jesus alone.” Dear One, Thank you for listening to me yesterday… all the gory details, all the memories of other emergency runs. For those I love who are in the middle of their own fractured lives and sorrows, hear the prayers of their hearts, oh Lord. Make me in your image, one who hears and loves and lifts up when life is more pain than pleasure. Amen.

Glad reunion...

As we walked up to the museum entrance, the small group turned to look and then began to laugh with arms outstretched for hugs. Friends not seen for fifty years…high school friends… gathered for their reunion in Birmingham, Alabama. Many of Michael’s school friends were in class together for all twelve grades, living in the same neighborhood, some even a part of his life since his birth. And now, after lives well lived, aged like fine wine, they began a two day journey of reconnection, a journey fueled by loving remembrance and gratitude for the present. I was an interested bystander, one of the spouses spending time waiting, meeting and greeting, observing the process. Name tags with senior pictures helped the identification of changed faces and bodies. The jockeying of earlier reunions for status and appearance seemed to be reduced by the passage of time. No one escapes unscathed in the aging game. Everyone put their best foot forward. Hair dye, a toupee or two, new clothing, carefully applied makeup and other gilding of the lilies highlighted the specialness of the occasion. But the one image that overrode all other images was the sight of these people, long separated, hugging, laughing, talking, sharing their lives with one another in glad reunion. Michael spent time with Carol, his girl friend in grades three through six and in high school. They were able to have some time to talk about their shared past, remember the good times and apologize for old hurts. Cheerleaders gathered, bouncing around and for a moment, it was as if they were once again teenagers in the halls of Banks High. Everywhere I looked Saturday night, I saw happy faces, heard the roar of the past and the present merging in Alta Dena Country Club as remembrances flowed like a river of time. When the commotion overwhelmed my introverted soul, I walked outside to sit in a swing and watch the moon rise over the golf course. The darkness of the night was broken with pinpoints of light, homes around the course, and the moon rise lit the sky with a pale glow. As I listened to the party inside, I began to imagine the glad reunion I believe comes when we die. Wonderful as this gathering was, I imagine the final reunion will be one of perfect love and joyous recognition. I know this by faith not by any demonstrable experiment or testimony. A new study is being funded to determine the reality of the afterlife. The scientists promise a fair, unbiased result. This amuses me no end. How can one prove or disprove a reality from which we have few return travelers? Near death experiences and death experiences are all subjective, peculiar to the person who lives through their own death and no one has yet returned after a burial to confirm or deny the existence of the afterlife. It has been and will continue to be an article of faith, knowledge through mystery not defined by rational thinking. Just as the Banks High School Class of 1962 gathered everyone into a loving embrace regardless of their place in the class, so will God gather us up in his loving arms when we breathe our last. “Fear not”, Jesus said. “I go to prepare a place for you and where I go, you will go also.” How that happens, I do not know. When that happens, I do not know. But my heart knows my soul, my essential self will be gathered up to God and have a glad reunion with all who have loved me and whom I have loved. Thanks be to God for love incarnate, love that will not let me go even in the cold waters of death… love that sustains and seeks to be my final resting place…home, sweet home at last.

Keepers of the flame...

She came out on the porch with a stack of folders and papers, sat down in a rocking chair and began to shuffle through the magazines, articles and typewritten pages. Our conversation, liberally laced with laughter, rolled on as she began to pass around different sheets of information. One sheet, a program from a weekend gathering of Baptist students, was covered on the back with our individual contact information… names and addresses(no zip codes) carefully written in our best handwriting… a record of our first meeting as a group. We passed the sheet around and remembered the flame of youth represented in those carefully inscribed signatures. Courting stories, marriage and divorce stories told with laughter and tears kept us rolling along on the conversational river. Another typewritten sheet was pulled out with numerous handwritten additions of spouse’s names, dates, new addresses and phone numbers. Stories of Tim’s death and funeral, Viet Nam, professional and personal pursuits were accompanied by saved magazines, articles, pictures and newspaper stories. Our lives since our first meeting were held in those black folders, those stacks of yellowed typewritten papers, carefully gathered together and saved for this moment. Mary Lynn is the keeper of the flame for our Cherokee work camp family. Even in the years when we were distant from each other, raising families, marrying and divorcing, working, living our lives, she kept the cards, letters, articles and pictures that came her way, gathering us together even when we were far from each other. And on that tin roofed porch with rain as a musical accompaniment, we warmed our hearts and souls around the fire of remembrance. Those not present were held in loving arms of unspoken prayer as we shared what we knew of their current stories… new marriage for Donna and Francis, spouse’s health struggles, retirement, family reunions in other places… and they were a part of us, absent in body but present in spirit. I look at the picture my sister Catherine sent me last night, six of us laughing, side by side, older and weathered by life, and give thanks for the keepers of our flame of family. I give thanks for Mary Lynn who keeps the memories of our lives together and apart bound up in folders. I give thanks for the God who brought us together all those long years ago and has kept us to this day. In Isaiah 43 I read… Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. This weekend I was reminded once again to whom I belong, to whom we belong. The God who was in our coming together as a family, the God who walked with us as we passed through the fires and rivers of life, has been and is even now the keeper of our flames. The One who loves us, has loved us all the days of our lives, sat with us on the porch this weekend and is waiting for us to come home. Thanks be to God for all the tender mercies, the saving graces, the memories bound up in folders and printed on yellowed papers, the love and laughter of my work camp family. A-men… A-she.