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.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Dream a little dream of me...
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Giggling Grace...
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
A new song...
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.”
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.”
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