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?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Mayberry Moments...
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.
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 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.
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