Eternal life... Love that will not let you go

The gene pool is a lovely swimming hole for a grandparent. You are a child again in many ways... fun with limited responsibility. This week I have been given glimpses into the eternal life that is passed on from generation to generation. Our oldest daughter and her husband had an oops baby, a girl after three boys, named Maddie. At nearly two, her pictures are eerily reminiscent of her mother’s pictures at that age. She has begun feeling the tags in her clothes, holding onto them as she moves through her day. Her mom felt the tags in her pajamas as she went to sleep at night. Alison, our middle daughter, has my grandmother’s mouth. When you look at a picture of Grandma as a young woman, you can see the likeness. Now Aidan, her oldest son, bears the mark of a great-great-grandmother he never knew. Adam, our son, has two sons and his youngest son seems to have his father’s temperament. When Clancy’s eyes light up and he smiles at me, years fall away and it is Adam smiling at me through the mists of memory.These glimpses of the past paid forward into the future have been a joy and a wonder. 

In spite of all we know about the science of life, there is so much more we do not know. It seems to me we are a many layered creation, designed to surprise God perhaps, much as we are surprised by our children and grandchildren. When one takes the long view, the ever changing nature of humankind is a delight and a worry at the same time. My grandparent’s generation faced challenges and changes that shifted the balance of the world as they knew it. And, they changed in response to world wars, industrialization, horses to cars, telephones and televisions. Yet the basics, the essentials of self, are still being transmitted, passed on down to new creations in children they could only imagine.Along with behavior patterns and look a like characteristics, I wonder what else is passed down through the generations. 

Traditions help keep the past a part of our present in our family...saying grace at meals, lining upon the stairs to come down for Christmas gifts, going to church, farm time, story telling time, birthday celebrations. Each unit in our family has their own interpretation of traditions, a new creation based on their shared past experiences. One thing I hope never changes... the love that calls us together as family, that binds us together in good times and hard times, the love that is connected to the underground river of love that flows through all creation.

Cynthia Bourgeault describes this love beautifully in “The Wisdom Jesus”. “Even with death waiting in the wings, Jesus will allow no separation between God and humans, no separation between humans and humans, because the sap flowing through everything is love itself. In image after image he tries to impart to the disciples his assurance that they can never be cut off from this love, because their very beings are rooted in it.” The Psalmist sings, “For the Lord is good, his steadfast love endures forever, and his faithfulness to all generations.” 

I have been wading hip deep in love all my life, Lord, even when I didn’t know it. Thank you for my gift of life that came through the years of others loving. Thank you for the years of loving yet to come in our family. Most of all, thank you for the Love that does not let me go, the Love that endures through all generations. Amen.

Old woman, old donkey, new tricks

I thought I was losing what little mind I had left. Three mornings this week I walked down to the stable to find Shirley standing in the door of the donkey stall. Usually I put her up at night in the stall and leave Kate outside. If I put them both in together, they spend much of the night kicking each other and walking in circles. With Shirley in the stall, Kate stays close by and the problem of all night binge eating is solved… until this week.

 Routine is both savior and hobgoblin for my mind. If I do the same thing the same way every time, I begin to forget whether I have actually done it or not. So I blamed Shirley’s freedom on my absentmindedness until it happened three days in a row. Yesterday, a Eureka moment, I realized Kate had learned a new trick… how to lift the door latch and set Shirley free!  Old donkeys and old women can still learn and what a surprise that is!

Like Kate, I have been learning some new lessons this season. Cleaning out my closet for summer has become a metaphor for my life as I age. Bag after bag of clothing, loved in its time, culled from shelves and hangers, is on its way to a thrift shop. Some of the clothes I kept are old and have meaning beyond covering my body… old overalls, dresses worn to childrens’ weddings, my favorite jeans, a sweater my great-aunt Polly knitted for me… and some just no longer look good on me or I have tired of them. My closet is still full and there is no shortage of choices, but choosing is less complicated when I can see what my choices are.

One of the great gifts of aging for those who choose to welcome the gift, is the exploration of wisdom that comes as we begin to clean out the closets of our lives. We make choices about what has meaning, what suits us, what is no longer necessary, what to keep and what to let go of. I am making choices based on the reality of my limits, not the endless possibilities of youth, and it is exhilarating. Much like Kate learning to set her mother Shirley free, I am learning to set myself free from old patterns and once valuable restraints.

My reading this week has been a book, Wisdom Jesus, written by Cynthia Bourgeault.  One paragraph highlighted a closet keeper of mine, tears. “At any rate, I have often suspected that the most profound product of this world is tears…I mean that tears express that vulnerability in which we can endure having our heart broken and go right on loving. In the tears flows a sweetness not of our own making, which has been known in our tradition as the Divine Mercy. Our jagged and hard-edged earth plane is the realm in which this mercy is the most deeply, excruciatingly, and beautifully released. That’s our business down here. That’s what we’re here for.” One does justice, an action. Mercy, the gift I experience most fully in my relationship with God, is undeserved love and compassion accompanied frequently by tears in the midst of jagged and hard-edged times.

Have mercy on me, God whom I love, as I clean out the clutter that keeps me from seeing you more clearly, loving you more dearly. I am a creature of habit and sometimes my habits keep me in the stall where it is safe and comfortable. Set me free, Lord, to be mercy for myself and mercy for others, your faithful daughter in loving kindness. And if I cry, Lord, at odd times, help me see my tears as your sweetness bubbling up and over. Thank you for all the ways you are present in my life, seen and unseen.

Memorial day...mysteries, mercies and hallelujahs

Instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.                       -Mary Oliver

One of the good gifts of being old(er) is being able to look back, while still looking forward, to survey the topographical map of your life.  We all have mountains, hills and valleys, green pastures and rushing waters in our lives along with deserts and dark nights of the soul. Some of us come to trouble and grief earlier than others. Some seem to have more than their fair share of the table set before us all. All of us have choices to make even in the midst of a maze that seems to have no end, or worse, a bad ending.  During my quiet times this week… washing dishes, mucking stalls, sitting in the doctor’s office, driving to town to teach… three words kept circling the drain in my ADD brain… mysteries, mercies and hallelujahs.

My life is full of mysteries. These are not the kind of mysteries you can solve like a murder mystery or a   problem that has a solution. These mysteries come from deep within and without, leaving me with more questions than answers as all good mysteries do. John Jacob Niles’ Christmas carol, I Wonder as I Wander, is a word picture of my life.

 I made Death’s acquaintance early on when my husband was killed in Viet Nam the month I turned twenty one. That mystery, rooted in my childhood and adolescence, ejected me into a world where there were no easy answers.  This world of grief tempered by joy, a world of grace and mercy, was my entry into the reality of lost control. Never before had I needed God and God’s bodies in this world like I needed them then. And, God came. God came weeping, with others who loved Tim and me, the young officer who escorted his body home, Walt and MaryLynn and the work camp family, the words of my favorite hymn…O God our help in ages past, our hope for years to come. God came in the dark days after the funeral in remembered words from the Bible… Be of good courage, the Comforter will come, fear no evil in the valley of the shadow of death… and again in the Family of God, my aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers in the faith who held me in the light as I walked in darkness.

I look back now and see mercies, small and large, surrounded me not only in those days, but all the days of my life. Tim’s death gave me new eyes to see and ears to hear the endless river of grace and mercy flowing through my life. It was that unwanted baptism by fire that shoved me into the waters of life.  I was lifted up by the water wings of love and a new faith, a tender and severe mercy, as I began a life much different from the one I dreamed of. This new life was filled with more mysteries, mercies and hallelujahs.

Only now am I able to see how these mysteries, mercies and hallelujahs are entwined. When I had to accept a world that I could not control, a world that did not revolve around me, my eyes were opened to mystery upon mystery, world without end. None of these could be explained…Why do good people die young? Why does spring lift our hearts at the same time it saddens us? Where do babies really come from?...and it is good not to have all the answers. Having no control, I am forced to recognize the mercies that fill my life… health, Sabbath Rest Farm, family, friends, the sweet smell of newly baled hay, animals I love who love me back… and knowing these are a gift, I give thanks. Gratitude leads to hallelujahs for what good is a gift without an enthusiastic thank you?

 And I am back to the Buechner quote that started me thinking. “Thus you do not solve the mystery, you live the mystery. And you do that not by fully knowing yourself, but by fully being yourself. To say that God is a mystery is to say that you can never nail him down. Even on Christ the nails ultimately proved ineffective.” Hallelujah, amen!

 

Guinea Hens...

GrandMary always knew we were coming before she saw our car. The guinea hens would sound the alarm, running and flying and squawking and raising a loud hullabaloo. It didn’t take much to set them off so they were not always reliable watchbirds.

Guinea hens are beautiful birds... black and white speckled with a touch of red in their combs. But beauty is as beauty does because they set the standard for the definition of birdbrain. Tiny heads, tinier brain...Every year about this time, I consider getting some guinea hens for one reason only... they eat ticks and we have an abundant crop this spring. Then I remember how they sound, the desire fades and I continue to pick ticks off the dogs and myself as usual. Remembering those pesky guinea hens prompted me to think about other watchbirds in my life. I have three guinea hen birds that protect and nourish my soul. 

The first one is reading. I have a passion for words, their meaning, the stories they tell, the source from whence they spring and the wisdom that is contained in all writing. I have read great works and science fiction and mysteries and romance and sacred books. The first book I read in school, “Dick and Jane”, excited me as much as the book I just finished, “The Ecstatic Journey” by Sophy Burnham. Words, flawed and imperfect as they are, have power and possibility for the soul.

The second watchbird is creativity. I was the child who picked flowers for the table, drew endlessly, taught myself to sew so I could sew my own clothes, went back to college in my fifties just to take all the art classes I missed the first time around. Calligraphy, Zentangles, painting, drawing, sewing, writing... all lead me to a holy ground where God waits for me. It is my burning bush.

Hospitality is my third guinea hen. More often than not, God and angels show up when we have company, invited and uninvited. This weekend, children from College Park Baptist church in Greensboro are here with us at Sabbath Rest Farm. They are in awe at the “millions” of tadpoles in the syrup kettle, struck by the utter blackness of a cloudy night in the country, giggling with glee as they see chickens and gather eggs, conquering their fear and letting Junie B and Dixie take treats from their palms, running pell mell down the gravel road shouting their freedom from the usual. As our two very different worlds are shared in this hospitable place, I see and hear God in their joy. It is a lovely hostess gift, this joy, and my heart sings.

The ancient prophet Jeremiah was a watchbird for his people, trying to remind them to whom they belonged and what was required of them. One of my favorite verses, Jeremiah 6:16, says, “Thus says the Lord: ‘Stand by the roads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is; and walk in it and find rest for your souls.’”

Keep me close, Lord, so I might hear the guinea hens when they sound the alarm that calls me to come see You pass by on the good way. And give me a generous heart, Lord, so that I might share all that I am and have when you come calling as children and guests and unexpected company. I love you. Peggy