My friend Janet knows a lot about birds. She told me to watch for the spring morning the birds songs start. That day every one will be smiling but not know why... will feel lighter, happier and spring will have come. Lying in bed this morning, I heard many bird songs accompanied by a turkey gobble and I laughed out loud. Turkey gobbles sound like the bird looks. I began to wonder how many other signs of spring resurrection I was missing in the rush to finish Lent.
The bloodroot is blooming. This weekend I taught Matthew, one of my grandsons, how to use the orange juice in the flower stem to paint his face. He was speckled faced the whole time he was here. Beside the bloodroot, spring beauties are blooming... tiny pink and white striped flowers. There are violets everywhere with their dark purple and lavender and white faces smelling sweet in the sunshine. I picked a bouquet for my kitchen table. Bright yellow dots of sunshine, dandelions, cover the ground in front of the old chicken house and remind me that the sun is always shining when they bloom.
I heard my first Bob White song this weekend. We have a quail family that come every year to raise a new brood on the hillside in front of our house. Uncle Harold can whistle just like a quail. One of my sweet memories is watching and listening as he called to the Bob Whites, talking to them, calling them up to the porch where we could see them.
Jeannie saw five fawns in our berry patch last week. The mothers were hidden but close by. And Vince saw an eight point buck in that same place. The deer are coming out to graze on the tender grass. The three new calves run down the hill full steam ahead with their tails straight up in the air, then play catch with the dogs. The cows and Ferdinand the bull are shedding their winter coats and look like moulting chickens, patches of sleek summer coat peeping out from wooly winter wear. The old groundhog that lives beside the drive to my mother’s house was sitting out in the sun yesterday surveying his small kingdom. He will soon be glossy and fat again.
These are the easy to see signs of resurrection. It is more difficult to find the new life in my soul. Where are my dandelion blooms and spring beauties and bloodroot and violets in my spirit? What and who are budding resurrection for me this spring?
Babies... everywhere there are babies and pregnant women. Seeing and holding babies always makes my soul sing. Happy mother faces, happy baby faces, happy new life just beginning that reminds me I am a part of the wheel of life. These babies are the new me... I who once was a baby with a happy face. There is still a baby in me, new life with so much to learn and know and experience.
Music... For the first time in years I am singing in a choir again. Music has always been a direct connection to the sacred for me. When I sing, my heart leaps up towards God and I am removed from all that tethers me to the mundane and messy. The art of singing with a group, hearing all the voices, learning the music, feeling the emotions the composer and lyricist created in the piece, singing my heart out, singing my soul, singing my resurrection gives me new life.
Writing... Mrs. Adams, my high school Literature teacher, would approve of my writing. I can hear her soft, southern drawl, "P-e-g-g-y, you are a cap-ab-le wri-ter with style." In my sixties, writing has become an important part of my soul’s new life. I struggle sometimes to find words for what I am experiencing. And other times, the words fly from my heart to the page. I weep, I laugh, I remember, I learn, I read, I grow, I bloom in a way that is new for me. Resurrection...
The last verse in Mark’s gospel is my road map for resurrection life this spring. "And they (the followers) went forth, and preached everywhere, the Lord working with them, and confirming the word with signs following." I will be looking for the "signs following" this resurrection season. Wonder what is waiting out there for me? And for you?
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Resurrection Coming, Ready or Not
It has been Lenten darkness for so long this year. There has been illness, grief and death since Christmas. The Epiphany starlight sustained me through the beginning of the season. That light faded into distant memory and I am stumbling on my way through the crucifixion. It often is not the weight of grief and sadness that puts nails in my cross but living with my imperfect self and through the daily problems that come my way. I long for resurrection...
I love the Gospel of Mark. It is so straightforward... just the facts...tells the story without much theological embellishment and leaves the reader to draw their own conclusions. The crucifixion story in Mark is graphic... full of details that help me see the people involved... the naked young man wrapped in linen in the Garden... Peter weeping... the countryman Simon, father of Alexander and Rufus, who was compelled to carry the cross for Jesus...Joseph of Arimathaea, an honorable counselor...Jesus, beaten, dying, forgiving... and the women. Mark devotes two verses to listing the women who were there... Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem. They are the ones who stand by, who wait for the death and who see where his body is placed. I find it interesting that the only man mentioned by Mark who actively participated in the burial was Joseph of Arimathaea... no male disciples, just the women who followed him, ministering to him in death as they had in life. Their discipleship was rooted in love that would not let them deny him in death or in life.
I wonder about all those nameless women who followed Jesus. Mark says they followed him in Galilee. Mary and Martha, sisters of Lazarus, must have been there as well as Jesus’ mother, his sister perhaps? Aunts, nieces, wives, young women, old women, women restored to a state of grace by Jesus’ unconditional love that ignored the prevailing masculine superiority of his culture, women healed by his touch in ways that never made it into the gospel stories... women were always welcome to be a part of his extended family of disciples. Jesus was so particular in the attention he paid to women, including them in his vision of heaven on earth. The early church recognized the value of steadfast women and they become leaders themselves, many of their names lost as the church evolved into a male dominated hierarchy that bore little resemblance to the first band of followers. How did they keep the resurrection light burning when they were shut out, blamed for original sin, sent to the back seats of the church bus, not allowed to be who Jesus had called them to be? What can I learn from them that will help me find my way out of the darkness into the Light?
The first lesson is the gift of presence. They came and they stayed. The horror of the execution, the grief of the death, the loneliness when the men left did not chase them away. They came during the good days, were touched in ways that changed them forever, and were bound to this man in life and death. His teachings, his love, his vision were so important to them that they could not leave without leaving their hearts behind. So they stayed. I must stay... stay with the messes I make, clean up after myself, forgive myself and ask for forgiveness, live in the darkness awhile longer, remembering all that has come before and giving thanks.
The second lesson is the gift of watching. They not only stayed, they watched. They watched the death, knew where his body was laid, they knew who arranged the burial. They watched the whole process, knew who was there and what happened. They did not let their grief and anger cloud their vision or cause them to turn away from the man they loved. So, I must watch and see... see what my truth is in this time of darkness... where am I and who am I when all is covered with the grey clouds of imperfection. Let me have eyes to see. I want to see the whole of who I am... created in God’s image... moving through my own Garden of Gethsemane... suffering through crucifixions of my own devising... dying that I might come alive once again as I have done before, with God’s help.
I want to watch and remember... watch and prepare... watch and wait... watch and hope... watch with Mary and Martha, Jeannie and Leisa, Dianne and Amy and Cindy, Pam and Celeste and Dorri, Jackie and Fran and Pat, Mary Beth and Noel and Jeanine and Ann and all the women who watch and wait with me for the coming of new life after death. Thanks be to God that death is not the last word... love is.
I love the Gospel of Mark. It is so straightforward... just the facts...tells the story without much theological embellishment and leaves the reader to draw their own conclusions. The crucifixion story in Mark is graphic... full of details that help me see the people involved... the naked young man wrapped in linen in the Garden... Peter weeping... the countryman Simon, father of Alexander and Rufus, who was compelled to carry the cross for Jesus...Joseph of Arimathaea, an honorable counselor...Jesus, beaten, dying, forgiving... and the women. Mark devotes two verses to listing the women who were there... Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem. They are the ones who stand by, who wait for the death and who see where his body is placed. I find it interesting that the only man mentioned by Mark who actively participated in the burial was Joseph of Arimathaea... no male disciples, just the women who followed him, ministering to him in death as they had in life. Their discipleship was rooted in love that would not let them deny him in death or in life.
I wonder about all those nameless women who followed Jesus. Mark says they followed him in Galilee. Mary and Martha, sisters of Lazarus, must have been there as well as Jesus’ mother, his sister perhaps? Aunts, nieces, wives, young women, old women, women restored to a state of grace by Jesus’ unconditional love that ignored the prevailing masculine superiority of his culture, women healed by his touch in ways that never made it into the gospel stories... women were always welcome to be a part of his extended family of disciples. Jesus was so particular in the attention he paid to women, including them in his vision of heaven on earth. The early church recognized the value of steadfast women and they become leaders themselves, many of their names lost as the church evolved into a male dominated hierarchy that bore little resemblance to the first band of followers. How did they keep the resurrection light burning when they were shut out, blamed for original sin, sent to the back seats of the church bus, not allowed to be who Jesus had called them to be? What can I learn from them that will help me find my way out of the darkness into the Light?
The first lesson is the gift of presence. They came and they stayed. The horror of the execution, the grief of the death, the loneliness when the men left did not chase them away. They came during the good days, were touched in ways that changed them forever, and were bound to this man in life and death. His teachings, his love, his vision were so important to them that they could not leave without leaving their hearts behind. So they stayed. I must stay... stay with the messes I make, clean up after myself, forgive myself and ask for forgiveness, live in the darkness awhile longer, remembering all that has come before and giving thanks.
The second lesson is the gift of watching. They not only stayed, they watched. They watched the death, knew where his body was laid, they knew who arranged the burial. They watched the whole process, knew who was there and what happened. They did not let their grief and anger cloud their vision or cause them to turn away from the man they loved. So, I must watch and see... see what my truth is in this time of darkness... where am I and who am I when all is covered with the grey clouds of imperfection. Let me have eyes to see. I want to see the whole of who I am... created in God’s image... moving through my own Garden of Gethsemane... suffering through crucifixions of my own devising... dying that I might come alive once again as I have done before, with God’s help.
I want to watch and remember... watch and prepare... watch and wait... watch and hope... watch with Mary and Martha, Jeannie and Leisa, Dianne and Amy and Cindy, Pam and Celeste and Dorri, Jackie and Fran and Pat, Mary Beth and Noel and Jeanine and Ann and all the women who watch and wait with me for the coming of new life after death. Thanks be to God that death is not the last word... love is.
Monday, March 26, 2007
music, mayhem and mystery
Friday morning a young boy, twelve years old, the grandson of dear friends, sat at my upright piano and began to play. The first notes of "Fuer Elise" sparkled as he played the piece from memory. His technique was impressive. But the soulfulness of his playing caught my ear. Many people can play musical instruments but relatively few play with their souls showing. Zachary’s instinctive revealing of himself through music took me on a time travel trip back to the old farmhouse in Georgia... my twelve year old self sitting in front of that same old piano... at the beginning of a life long love affair with music.
Mrs. Drew, my first teacher, was a quiet, self-effacing woman who came to our elementary school every Wednesday to teach piano. Our parents had negotiated with the school to allow her to teach in the old canning plant that sat on the school grounds. Many of us lived far out in the country and the only way our parents could provide private music lessons was to have them at school. Every Wednesday I made my way from the classroom to the old piano in the canning plant and Mrs. Drew. My world was expanding at the speed of light as I learned to play the piano.
Such joy came to me from all the music she taught me to play... Face to Face with Christ My Savior, one of my first recital pieces...The Rustle of Spring from memory, all forty-eleven pages of it... Bach, Beethoven, Broadway... anything and everything I wanted to play, she showed me how.
Mrs. Morris and Mrs. Davis, the first ministers of music for me in church, included me as a child in the music life of our congregation. I was asked to lead the Sunbeam Choir, pre-school children, when I was twelve. Mrs. Davis asked me to accompany Sunday evening worship on the piano that year also and taught me some of the tricks of the trade. When I was fourteen, Mrs. Morris let me sing in the adult choir and I learned to sing alto.
When I walked into Lowndes County High School as a lowly freshman with my Rat beanie bobby pinned to my hair, the first person I saw was Mrs. Dorothy Carter, the Glee Club Director. She and her husband were Yankee transplants and she had a style I had never seen before. Her jet black shoulder length hair was styled in an asymmetrical flip... her heels were high, very high... her makeup was flawless and complete... her jewelry and clothing were a little flashy but not over the top. Her appearance told me this was a woman who knew a world far different from mine. To this day I do not know how she found me but I was immediately the accompanist for our high school Glee Club. Now I had four music teachers, all very different but equally gifted. As our drama and Glee Club teacher, she drove her students to competitions and literary meets all over south Georgia teaching all the way. Mrs. Carter taught me the art of performance... how to showcase your skills... how to accompany a Glee Club and a soloist without overwhelming the voices... how to live with passion and zest and verve that translates to your music.
And then came college... Valdosta State College in my hometown of Valdosta, Georgia. I was living at home and driving to school each day. The Baptist Student Union building became my home on campus. I went there between classes, to eat lunch and go to the mid-day devotionals, to hang out or study (not much) and to sing. There I met my next minister of music, Harold Cartee, the Minister of Music at First Baptist Church Valdosta. He was a short man with a devilish twinkle in his eye, full of laughter and song. He taught me so much about the wider world of sacred music... the history of shaped note singing and the music schools that taught uneducated people to sing... God’s Trombones... classical sacred music, gospel... pop sacred music (in our day that was choruses mostly, much like some of the pop Christian music of today), spirituals... hymn arrangements... the combination of any and all of the above at the same time. He was an amazing teacher for me. His humor and passion for all music in the church guided me to an appreciation for the many different ways we can approach God through music.
There have been other wonderful music teachers and ministers of music in my life but these were the teachers in my youth who helped me grow into the larger world of sacred music. For them, all music was sacred, inspired by God, a gift for our souls, a delight for our ears, an opportunity to live large and lift praise to our Creator in our one of a kind way. I never thanked them enough for their kindness to me and the doors they opened for me. But their legacy lives on every time I hear a child play and I say "You have such a gift"... when I sing a hymn that began as a shaped note hymn... when I hear little children sing and see the faces glow from the inside out... when our congregation sings a capella and the voices are pure and sweet. Thanks be to God for the Psalmist’s lesson... make a joyful noise unto the Lord. If the only instrument you play is your CD player, get a penny whistle and play, try a harmonica or a mouth harp, play spoons, bang on a pot bottom with a wooden spoon... make a joyful noise today. Experience the wonderful mystery of joyful musical mayhem offered up as a gift to God.
Below is a love letter I read in church yesterday to our new minister of music. Being in choir has been a saving grace during my lenten season of death and grief.
It has been a difficult spring for me... too much death and grief... one more coming. Choir practice has been a saving grace for me, Gary. No matter how difficult or painful my Wednesday has been, I count on choir practice to get me through the rest of the week. I know I will get a back rub. There will be lots of laughter. Between Ann Mojonnier, Dorri Sherril, you, me... lots of wise cracks and joking and blessed laughter. I will sing and for a brief moment in time, I will be lifted up out of myself into another world. You will pray for us... for Tad and Pam when Tad’s mother died... for Hal and Donna when their grandchild was sick... for the good of the cause, as you say. I have learned how to sing Gawd and cawhm instead of God and come. But the most important lesson you have taught me came last Wednesday night.
You introduced the hymns for Sunday and asked if we knew them. When we saw "Down at the Cross" Dorri said "We have never sung that song in church as long as I have been here" while John Widener and Michael high fived each other. That is us in a nutshell... liberation theology, feminist theology, covenant theology, creation theology, no theology... You are pushing us outside our comfort zone with music and I thank you for it. When we sing "Down at the Cross" you not only honor Mary Etta and Carolyn and John and Russell and Michael and me and others for whom this is the music from our past that we love, you honor the African American churches in our denomination that sing this song, too. When you sing the contemporary version of Hosanna like we did last week, Jan Buchanan and Cara Pollard get to sing their song and we touch those congregations who sing this music also. We sing a hymn with words written by one of our own, Penny and our own special voice is heard. As a MethodistPresbyterianEpiscopalLutheranJewish musician, you know the wider world of church music and I thank you for giving us this gift...the gift of singing from our whole hymnal...not just bits and pieces of it.
The mantras you have given us in choir are these... It is more important to make music than to be perfect ... a good example was the Sunday you were so nervous you forgot to give us our pitch and we sounded awful. You stopped us in mid-song, gave us our pitch and started us over. The second mantra... listen to each other... balance your sound... basses come up... altos sing louder... tenors, sing softer... the harmony and balance that happens when all the voices sing listening to each other. We said in our music survey a few years ago that we wanted diversity in our music... we are getting it... now I hope you can teach us as a congregation to sing in harmony... balanced... listening...with all our voices represented in worship music. I can’t wait to see what we sing next Sunday... a capella? Jazz? Classical? Gospel? Contemporary? Thank you... be patient with us... we are a work in progress.
Mrs. Drew, my first teacher, was a quiet, self-effacing woman who came to our elementary school every Wednesday to teach piano. Our parents had negotiated with the school to allow her to teach in the old canning plant that sat on the school grounds. Many of us lived far out in the country and the only way our parents could provide private music lessons was to have them at school. Every Wednesday I made my way from the classroom to the old piano in the canning plant and Mrs. Drew. My world was expanding at the speed of light as I learned to play the piano.
Such joy came to me from all the music she taught me to play... Face to Face with Christ My Savior, one of my first recital pieces...The Rustle of Spring from memory, all forty-eleven pages of it... Bach, Beethoven, Broadway... anything and everything I wanted to play, she showed me how.
Mrs. Morris and Mrs. Davis, the first ministers of music for me in church, included me as a child in the music life of our congregation. I was asked to lead the Sunbeam Choir, pre-school children, when I was twelve. Mrs. Davis asked me to accompany Sunday evening worship on the piano that year also and taught me some of the tricks of the trade. When I was fourteen, Mrs. Morris let me sing in the adult choir and I learned to sing alto.
When I walked into Lowndes County High School as a lowly freshman with my Rat beanie bobby pinned to my hair, the first person I saw was Mrs. Dorothy Carter, the Glee Club Director. She and her husband were Yankee transplants and she had a style I had never seen before. Her jet black shoulder length hair was styled in an asymmetrical flip... her heels were high, very high... her makeup was flawless and complete... her jewelry and clothing were a little flashy but not over the top. Her appearance told me this was a woman who knew a world far different from mine. To this day I do not know how she found me but I was immediately the accompanist for our high school Glee Club. Now I had four music teachers, all very different but equally gifted. As our drama and Glee Club teacher, she drove her students to competitions and literary meets all over south Georgia teaching all the way. Mrs. Carter taught me the art of performance... how to showcase your skills... how to accompany a Glee Club and a soloist without overwhelming the voices... how to live with passion and zest and verve that translates to your music.
And then came college... Valdosta State College in my hometown of Valdosta, Georgia. I was living at home and driving to school each day. The Baptist Student Union building became my home on campus. I went there between classes, to eat lunch and go to the mid-day devotionals, to hang out or study (not much) and to sing. There I met my next minister of music, Harold Cartee, the Minister of Music at First Baptist Church Valdosta. He was a short man with a devilish twinkle in his eye, full of laughter and song. He taught me so much about the wider world of sacred music... the history of shaped note singing and the music schools that taught uneducated people to sing... God’s Trombones... classical sacred music, gospel... pop sacred music (in our day that was choruses mostly, much like some of the pop Christian music of today), spirituals... hymn arrangements... the combination of any and all of the above at the same time. He was an amazing teacher for me. His humor and passion for all music in the church guided me to an appreciation for the many different ways we can approach God through music.
There have been other wonderful music teachers and ministers of music in my life but these were the teachers in my youth who helped me grow into the larger world of sacred music. For them, all music was sacred, inspired by God, a gift for our souls, a delight for our ears, an opportunity to live large and lift praise to our Creator in our one of a kind way. I never thanked them enough for their kindness to me and the doors they opened for me. But their legacy lives on every time I hear a child play and I say "You have such a gift"... when I sing a hymn that began as a shaped note hymn... when I hear little children sing and see the faces glow from the inside out... when our congregation sings a capella and the voices are pure and sweet. Thanks be to God for the Psalmist’s lesson... make a joyful noise unto the Lord. If the only instrument you play is your CD player, get a penny whistle and play, try a harmonica or a mouth harp, play spoons, bang on a pot bottom with a wooden spoon... make a joyful noise today. Experience the wonderful mystery of joyful musical mayhem offered up as a gift to God.
Below is a love letter I read in church yesterday to our new minister of music. Being in choir has been a saving grace during my lenten season of death and grief.
It has been a difficult spring for me... too much death and grief... one more coming. Choir practice has been a saving grace for me, Gary. No matter how difficult or painful my Wednesday has been, I count on choir practice to get me through the rest of the week. I know I will get a back rub. There will be lots of laughter. Between Ann Mojonnier, Dorri Sherril, you, me... lots of wise cracks and joking and blessed laughter. I will sing and for a brief moment in time, I will be lifted up out of myself into another world. You will pray for us... for Tad and Pam when Tad’s mother died... for Hal and Donna when their grandchild was sick... for the good of the cause, as you say. I have learned how to sing Gawd and cawhm instead of God and come. But the most important lesson you have taught me came last Wednesday night.
You introduced the hymns for Sunday and asked if we knew them. When we saw "Down at the Cross" Dorri said "We have never sung that song in church as long as I have been here" while John Widener and Michael high fived each other. That is us in a nutshell... liberation theology, feminist theology, covenant theology, creation theology, no theology... You are pushing us outside our comfort zone with music and I thank you for it. When we sing "Down at the Cross" you not only honor Mary Etta and Carolyn and John and Russell and Michael and me and others for whom this is the music from our past that we love, you honor the African American churches in our denomination that sing this song, too. When you sing the contemporary version of Hosanna like we did last week, Jan Buchanan and Cara Pollard get to sing their song and we touch those congregations who sing this music also. We sing a hymn with words written by one of our own, Penny and our own special voice is heard. As a MethodistPresbyterianEpiscopalLutheranJewish musician, you know the wider world of church music and I thank you for giving us this gift...the gift of singing from our whole hymnal...not just bits and pieces of it.
The mantras you have given us in choir are these... It is more important to make music than to be perfect ... a good example was the Sunday you were so nervous you forgot to give us our pitch and we sounded awful. You stopped us in mid-song, gave us our pitch and started us over. The second mantra... listen to each other... balance your sound... basses come up... altos sing louder... tenors, sing softer... the harmony and balance that happens when all the voices sing listening to each other. We said in our music survey a few years ago that we wanted diversity in our music... we are getting it... now I hope you can teach us as a congregation to sing in harmony... balanced... listening...with all our voices represented in worship music. I can’t wait to see what we sing next Sunday... a capella? Jazz? Classical? Gospel? Contemporary? Thank you... be patient with us... we are a work in progress.
Monday, March 19, 2007
confessions of a closet mystic
As a child, she often saw people others could not see. When she told her mother, she was admonished and not believed until the day she saw the strange man in the entry hall of her home. She ran upstairs to tell her mother someone had come and described him. Her mother ran downstairs expecting to see a family member from Germany and there was no one there. Word came later of his death on the day she saw him. As an old woman, sitting on her front porch, she told me that was the day she decided it was too painful to have this vision... this second sight. So she began to choose not to see... not to know. Only in rare circumstances did she break her self-imposed blindness. She was sitting at the supper table one night with her family when she cried out, "Alvin has been wounded!" The telegram came the next day with the news of her son’s injury in London, England during World War II. The night before we received word of my first husband’s death in Viet Nam, she saw him sitting in her living room rocker... mute but present. My grandmother had a painful gift, one she could not understand or manage. She saw no saving grace in the foreknowledge of death’s coming or in the ability to see the unseen.
As a child, I was fascinated with her stories. She spoke of her second sight as a matter of fact. For her, there was no mystery attached to this gift/curse. She could not explain it. It had been a part of her for as far back as she could remember. She could not tell anyone else how to do it... how to practice it and get better...where it came from. It just was. There could not have been a more practical, down to earth, pragmatic, bottom line person than my Grandma. But there it was... a piece of her soul that was mystical, unseen, unspoken of outside the family.
Some of you have been asking me how I know... how I get there... how do I do it. The answer is, I don’t know. Like Grandma, I can tell you my stories. I can show you my path. The way I travel may not be the same route you are taking but we are headed for the same destination. The words I write are only my signposts... nothing more and nothing less. When our paths cross, we can share our discoveries with each other, knowing that our journeys are different. What I write may, I hope will, call out your sacred memories but your path is different from mine, and your calling is yours alone.
This much I do know for certain about my faith experience. I am a mystic. For me, the experience of God flows from a deep well of knowing whose source I cannot name. It has been there since my earliest memories... the blessed assurance that I am not alone in this world or the next... the joy that supports me in times of sorrow and grief... the love that surrounds me in both despair and celebration. Some folks find their major faith experience in practical works... doing good...supporting causes... focusing on the part of Jesus’ ministry to the disenfranchised. That part of my faith flows from my mystical self. I can only do good for a short period of time, emptying myself out, before I need to fill my soul again with the unseen Spirit. If I run on an empty soul tank for too long, I sputter to a halt and am unable to move in body or spirit.
How do I fill my tank? I read. I listen. I watch. I hear. I see. I ask. I touch. I am touched. But most of all, I pray. Like Brother Lawrence in "Practicing the Presence of God", I try to transform my daily life into prayer. Paying the bills (which I hate doing) and praying. Washing the dishes and praying. Driving into town and praying. Feeding the cows and praying. Seeing and hearing the mockingbird sing and praying. Like Anne Lamotte, some days all I can manage is please, please, please and oh, well. Other days the prayers are magnificats. Some days I can pray "This is the day the Lord has made and I will rejoice and be glad in it." Other days I can barely lift my prayers to the ceiling. But whatever the form or feeling that I have in my praying, the act of praying is the single best gift I can give my soul. During that time, I know that "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
An old hymn asks the question "E’er you left your room this morning, did you think to pray?" This time of writing in the morning is the beginning of my daily prayers. I give thanks for you... for the gifts you give me when you read and respond... for the hard questions you ask for which I have no answers. For you, I am praying as I write... and for me... and for our world. So, Janet and Don... this is as much of an answer as I have for the question "How do you do it?" Go find your own answers. Pray your prayers that come from your hearts alone. Sing your own song to the One who made you and delights in your creation. Good luck and Godspeed on your journey.
As a child, I was fascinated with her stories. She spoke of her second sight as a matter of fact. For her, there was no mystery attached to this gift/curse. She could not explain it. It had been a part of her for as far back as she could remember. She could not tell anyone else how to do it... how to practice it and get better...where it came from. It just was. There could not have been a more practical, down to earth, pragmatic, bottom line person than my Grandma. But there it was... a piece of her soul that was mystical, unseen, unspoken of outside the family.
Some of you have been asking me how I know... how I get there... how do I do it. The answer is, I don’t know. Like Grandma, I can tell you my stories. I can show you my path. The way I travel may not be the same route you are taking but we are headed for the same destination. The words I write are only my signposts... nothing more and nothing less. When our paths cross, we can share our discoveries with each other, knowing that our journeys are different. What I write may, I hope will, call out your sacred memories but your path is different from mine, and your calling is yours alone.
This much I do know for certain about my faith experience. I am a mystic. For me, the experience of God flows from a deep well of knowing whose source I cannot name. It has been there since my earliest memories... the blessed assurance that I am not alone in this world or the next... the joy that supports me in times of sorrow and grief... the love that surrounds me in both despair and celebration. Some folks find their major faith experience in practical works... doing good...supporting causes... focusing on the part of Jesus’ ministry to the disenfranchised. That part of my faith flows from my mystical self. I can only do good for a short period of time, emptying myself out, before I need to fill my soul again with the unseen Spirit. If I run on an empty soul tank for too long, I sputter to a halt and am unable to move in body or spirit.
How do I fill my tank? I read. I listen. I watch. I hear. I see. I ask. I touch. I am touched. But most of all, I pray. Like Brother Lawrence in "Practicing the Presence of God", I try to transform my daily life into prayer. Paying the bills (which I hate doing) and praying. Washing the dishes and praying. Driving into town and praying. Feeding the cows and praying. Seeing and hearing the mockingbird sing and praying. Like Anne Lamotte, some days all I can manage is please, please, please and oh, well. Other days the prayers are magnificats. Some days I can pray "This is the day the Lord has made and I will rejoice and be glad in it." Other days I can barely lift my prayers to the ceiling. But whatever the form or feeling that I have in my praying, the act of praying is the single best gift I can give my soul. During that time, I know that "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
An old hymn asks the question "E’er you left your room this morning, did you think to pray?" This time of writing in the morning is the beginning of my daily prayers. I give thanks for you... for the gifts you give me when you read and respond... for the hard questions you ask for which I have no answers. For you, I am praying as I write... and for me... and for our world. So, Janet and Don... this is as much of an answer as I have for the question "How do you do it?" Go find your own answers. Pray your prayers that come from your hearts alone. Sing your own song to the One who made you and delights in your creation. Good luck and Godspeed on your journey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
