She sashayed down our driveway Easter Sunday morning many years ago, wearing her black headband and black eyeliner, on walkabout from the foster home up the mountain. Tail wagging, head cocked to one side, she was a flirt and we fell in love with her. Her owner had recently moved leaving her with a neighbor but she had decided on a different option. Our old basset and our retriever welcomed her without too much fuss so she became our second basset hound. We named her Phoebe for no good reason. It just sounded right for her personality. Soon the sounds of “Phoebe, dammit” echoed around the house. She was a beautiful tricolor basset with glamorous eyes and a roving disposition, a traveling hound with places to go and people to see. I began to make pickup trips, gathering Phoebe up and bringing her back home while I fussed at her for being such an adventurer.
Phoebe is old now, deaf and nearly blind, spending most of her days lying in the sun in the front yard sleeping and dreaming. Her black eyeliner is faded and her headband is silver. But in the cool morning air, her tail wags and she marches to the head of the line for the morning walk around the farm. When we leave home, she goes down the hill to mama’s house to wait for our return, lying out on the crest of the hill where she can see all the cars pass by. If it thunders, she will run over you to get to the safety of the basement. The afternoon walks Leisa takes with her dogs gives Phoebe a chance to revive her flirting skills... she sashays sideways, sidling up to Joe or Sam, coyly flirting with her eyes, feeling like a young girl again. And when I sit on the step, she comes to me, lays her paw or her head in my lap, waits, insists on being loved. Her life is drawing to a close but it still has meaning and joy.
I have lived my life as if it had no end like most of us do, I guess. Like Phoebe, each day comes and sometimes I travel through it without much reflection or recognition of my endtime. Living in the present is a spiritual practice that helps us be like the lilies of the field who neither toil nor spin, secure in the knowledge that life is a gift we neither deserve or earn. Lilies and old basset hounds know that the only time we have is the present, the here and now. They bask in the warm sun, turning their faces towards their Creator, and enjoy the gift of warmth. But all living creations come to the end of their time and it is the knowledge of this paradox that separates us from most of the rest of creation.
Living as if your time was always now and living as if you could die in the next minute is a balancing act for the soul. This is a truth I learned in my early twenties when death became more than an intellectual possibility. Death and grief were my constant companions for years. Living with the deaths of those whom I loved taught me to pay attention, to not waste, to value the presence of life. And now in my sixties, I am keenly aware of the flight of time. What my mother told me is true... time does seem to fly as you age.
The Old Testament writer speaks one time truth. “Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the men of skill; but time and chance happen to them all. For man does not know his time. Ecc. 9:11-12a” I want to know my time, the time left for me to live, my time living fully in the present with the sure and certain knowledge that my time will end. God of all time, help me to live with gratitude and grace in this time of my life. And if I lie out in the sun dozing and dreaming of days gone by, my heart is winging its way home to You full of laughter and praise. Amen.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Morning has broken... like the first morning
Morning light is changing. The first flush of dawn is softer, pastel rather than bright and sharp, often wreathed in fog, the hills below wrapped in clouds with only the tops peeking through. As I sit and look out at the front pasture, there is a misty impressionistic edge to the trees and fields. The cool stillness of the early morning is a gentle blessing for all the hurry of the day to come. The horses and the donkeys run and kick up their heels when I let them out of the stalls, rejoicing in the beginning of the day.
Each season of the year has its own special flavor in the morning... spring crab apple sweet, summer marigold sharp, fall tangy apple sweet and sour, winter dry wine. The mornings of each of these seasons is different and like my children, there is no favorite, just differences. Fall mornings with their softer edges are preparing me for my time of remembrance. The sour pain of loss is sweetened by the joy of memories.
I love early morning time. As a mother responsible for getting the kids up, fed and off to their days, I lost my mornings to the business of living and family. Now that children are grown and gone, I wallow in the pure pleasure of watching and feeling another day come to be. Perhaps it has something to do with my allotment of days growing shorter as well as time for appreciation... whatever the reason, I am grateful for fall early mornings.
Not only does the quality of light change in autumn, but the days shorten as well. Even though the change has been coming gradually, there is always one day when I wake up and feel the difference. It is dark when I wake up and dark when I come home from eating supper with Mama. I have to gather the horses and donkeys up before I go down the hill because it is harder to round them up in the dark. Morning light comes more slowly and evening shade comes more quickly. The sunset light no longer lingers as a benediction on the hills. The lazy light of summer is gone.
I wonder what the first mornings were like. Was the dawn of all creation a spring, summer, fall or winter day? Or perhaps it was all of them with creation time taking all the seasons to accomplish. Creation does take time... time to consider and savor the possibilities as well as the outcome. I suspect God took a long time, perhaps many seasons, so the pleasure of creation could sustain him in the hard, lonely, angry days to come as her creation children tested the Love that brought them into being.
The wonderful old Christian hymn “Morning is Breaking” was written in 1922 by Eleanor Farjeon. I love the images of the first dewfall, the first sunrise, the first day. But it is in the living of all the days that follow the firsts, all the seasons of the years as they flow by in a river of time, that we can choose to live as God intended, in the fullness of time. The fullness of time... not just our favorite season, not just in the firsts, but in all our days and in all our ways of being... filled with the Love that knows no ending. And as we live the seasons of our lives loving the One who first loved us, our light changes just as the morning light changes. It becomes brighter, steadier, softer, sharper, and sweeter as our soul’s creation ripens in the fullness of God’s time.
Dearly Beloved Three in One, let me not lose sight of times passing in the scurrying around days of my life. Catch me up in the glory of the season’s light that I might see Thee more clearly as my time is drawing to a close. For those whose light is flickering, keep them close by so that they might feel the warmth and see the LoveLight that surrounds their days even in the midst of fear and distress. May it be so for all of your Morning Creation. Amen.
Each season of the year has its own special flavor in the morning... spring crab apple sweet, summer marigold sharp, fall tangy apple sweet and sour, winter dry wine. The mornings of each of these seasons is different and like my children, there is no favorite, just differences. Fall mornings with their softer edges are preparing me for my time of remembrance. The sour pain of loss is sweetened by the joy of memories.
I love early morning time. As a mother responsible for getting the kids up, fed and off to their days, I lost my mornings to the business of living and family. Now that children are grown and gone, I wallow in the pure pleasure of watching and feeling another day come to be. Perhaps it has something to do with my allotment of days growing shorter as well as time for appreciation... whatever the reason, I am grateful for fall early mornings.
Not only does the quality of light change in autumn, but the days shorten as well. Even though the change has been coming gradually, there is always one day when I wake up and feel the difference. It is dark when I wake up and dark when I come home from eating supper with Mama. I have to gather the horses and donkeys up before I go down the hill because it is harder to round them up in the dark. Morning light comes more slowly and evening shade comes more quickly. The sunset light no longer lingers as a benediction on the hills. The lazy light of summer is gone.
I wonder what the first mornings were like. Was the dawn of all creation a spring, summer, fall or winter day? Or perhaps it was all of them with creation time taking all the seasons to accomplish. Creation does take time... time to consider and savor the possibilities as well as the outcome. I suspect God took a long time, perhaps many seasons, so the pleasure of creation could sustain him in the hard, lonely, angry days to come as her creation children tested the Love that brought them into being.
The wonderful old Christian hymn “Morning is Breaking” was written in 1922 by Eleanor Farjeon. I love the images of the first dewfall, the first sunrise, the first day. But it is in the living of all the days that follow the firsts, all the seasons of the years as they flow by in a river of time, that we can choose to live as God intended, in the fullness of time. The fullness of time... not just our favorite season, not just in the firsts, but in all our days and in all our ways of being... filled with the Love that knows no ending. And as we live the seasons of our lives loving the One who first loved us, our light changes just as the morning light changes. It becomes brighter, steadier, softer, sharper, and sweeter as our soul’s creation ripens in the fullness of God’s time.
Dearly Beloved Three in One, let me not lose sight of times passing in the scurrying around days of my life. Catch me up in the glory of the season’s light that I might see Thee more clearly as my time is drawing to a close. For those whose light is flickering, keep them close by so that they might feel the warmth and see the LoveLight that surrounds their days even in the midst of fear and distress. May it be so for all of your Morning Creation. Amen.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Morning has broken...
My fall every morning routine... get up at 6:30 or 7... fix a cup of hot tea and eat breakfast... go to the stable and feed horses and donkeys hay... write for an hour or so... feed cows two to four bales of hay. Winter sees another afternoon feeding added to the mix. On Mondays I go to town with mama for a grocery/cat food/used book store/eat lunch out/physical therapy trip. Tuesdays I catch up on household work and get ready for my Wednesday class. Wednesday I teach a group of women who are exploring their creativity. We play for three hours with many different kinds of art material and I am always surprised by the sheer beauty that lives inside each person’s soul waiting for a path to be made plain. Thursdays are consumed by two three hour classes in picture matting and framing that I teach at our local community college. One class is in the morning and one at night. Fridays and Saturdays are at home days with Michael, tending to farm chores... bush hogging, wood cutting... and visiting with friends. Sundays have traditionally been reserved for church but since we left church, Sundays are becoming Sabbath with rest, ritual and relief from the press of the world.
This morning I am sitting at my computer listening to the sounds of friends moving back and forth, up and down the stairs, fixing breakfast, soft conversation of the easy sort that comes with years of relationship. It is the Morning Hymn for this Sabbath. After twenty eight years, we are having a reunion and I am reminded why I fell in love with these friends in the beginning. They know how to be and do communion and community. For all these years, they have met monthly with a book discussion as the formal agenda while they lived their lives together as the Family of God. Death, divorce, weddings, children with cancer, illness, successes, joys and celebrations have been held close in the tender hearts of this group. Countless meals prepared, prayers prayed, hugs handed out, tears wiped away, conflict managed with grace, differences diffused by the Love that binds these children of God together.
This group of women taught me how to make homemade bread, danced with me in worship (I have the pictures to prove it), celebrated the birth of our son Adam, introduced me to the world of organic eating before there was such a concept, made sand candles at the beach retreat, showed me how to live a creative joyfilled life in the midst of the “dailiness” of life, included me in a sisterhood that continues to this day. They showed up Friday with their husbands, their own sheets and towels, and meals prepared. I was allowed to cook the Friday night meal but everything else was brought by the group. We ate high on the hog all weekend long. It was wonderful slow food prepared with care and love. Meals lasted long after we had finished eating as we sat around the table talking and listening. Candlelight and fireflames lit and warmed the room and love’s warmth eased our hearts as we sat together. Every meal was Eucharist and all were welcome at the table.
Eukharistia... origin Greek...thanksgiving... combination of eu “well” and kharizesthai “offer graciously”... For this small moment in time on Sabbath Rest farm, all was well and all was offered graciously. We gathered together, the wine and bread of our lives offered up to one another and to God. Laughter, tears, worship, walks, hayrides, animal blessings, a new Psalm written for me, good food, remembrance of the lives we have shared apart and together... There is no hitch in the getalong of my soul this Sabbath. It has been a gracious plenty and I am filled up and overflowing with thanksgiving.
Peggy’s Psalm for the Animals ( A New Psalm 151) Written by Judy Timmons
O God, you have created them for our care and our pleasure,
The horse Junie B to munch the grass and give me rides in her saddle
The source of my long awaited desire to have a horse of my own.
The once silent donkeys who have found their voices,
Braying to let us know of their hunger or displeasure,
Following close on our heels to greener pastures.
Daddy’s cows and their descendants who marvel at these hills,
So different from flat Georgia pastures.
Barn cats and yard dogs, creations of Yours, all,
Doing their duties-taking care of the grain mice and
Chasing away intruders, whether on two legs or four.
O Lord, how wonderful is your creation of all these four footed beasts
That we fondly call friends and helpers on this much loved land of yours.
You have loaned them to us for a time as you have shared all your world with us
For our care and pleasure.
O Lord, they and we need rain to grow their feed and to nourish our soil and our souls.
Hear our prayer for life-gicing showers of blessings from the heavens.
Turn not a deaf ear to our entreaties.
Answer this prayer and pour down your healing waters of liquid love on all of us.
This morning I am sitting at my computer listening to the sounds of friends moving back and forth, up and down the stairs, fixing breakfast, soft conversation of the easy sort that comes with years of relationship. It is the Morning Hymn for this Sabbath. After twenty eight years, we are having a reunion and I am reminded why I fell in love with these friends in the beginning. They know how to be and do communion and community. For all these years, they have met monthly with a book discussion as the formal agenda while they lived their lives together as the Family of God. Death, divorce, weddings, children with cancer, illness, successes, joys and celebrations have been held close in the tender hearts of this group. Countless meals prepared, prayers prayed, hugs handed out, tears wiped away, conflict managed with grace, differences diffused by the Love that binds these children of God together.
This group of women taught me how to make homemade bread, danced with me in worship (I have the pictures to prove it), celebrated the birth of our son Adam, introduced me to the world of organic eating before there was such a concept, made sand candles at the beach retreat, showed me how to live a creative joyfilled life in the midst of the “dailiness” of life, included me in a sisterhood that continues to this day. They showed up Friday with their husbands, their own sheets and towels, and meals prepared. I was allowed to cook the Friday night meal but everything else was brought by the group. We ate high on the hog all weekend long. It was wonderful slow food prepared with care and love. Meals lasted long after we had finished eating as we sat around the table talking and listening. Candlelight and fireflames lit and warmed the room and love’s warmth eased our hearts as we sat together. Every meal was Eucharist and all were welcome at the table.
Eukharistia... origin Greek...thanksgiving... combination of eu “well” and kharizesthai “offer graciously”... For this small moment in time on Sabbath Rest farm, all was well and all was offered graciously. We gathered together, the wine and bread of our lives offered up to one another and to God. Laughter, tears, worship, walks, hayrides, animal blessings, a new Psalm written for me, good food, remembrance of the lives we have shared apart and together... There is no hitch in the getalong of my soul this Sabbath. It has been a gracious plenty and I am filled up and overflowing with thanksgiving.
Peggy’s Psalm for the Animals ( A New Psalm 151) Written by Judy Timmons
O God, you have created them for our care and our pleasure,
The horse Junie B to munch the grass and give me rides in her saddle
The source of my long awaited desire to have a horse of my own.
The once silent donkeys who have found their voices,
Braying to let us know of their hunger or displeasure,
Following close on our heels to greener pastures.
Daddy’s cows and their descendants who marvel at these hills,
So different from flat Georgia pastures.
Barn cats and yard dogs, creations of Yours, all,
Doing their duties-taking care of the grain mice and
Chasing away intruders, whether on two legs or four.
O Lord, how wonderful is your creation of all these four footed beasts
That we fondly call friends and helpers on this much loved land of yours.
You have loaned them to us for a time as you have shared all your world with us
For our care and pleasure.
O Lord, they and we need rain to grow their feed and to nourish our soil and our souls.
Hear our prayer for life-gicing showers of blessings from the heavens.
Turn not a deaf ear to our entreaties.
Answer this prayer and pour down your healing waters of liquid love on all of us.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Moment by moment...
We had been gone from the farm for one night. It was a special memory trip for us... visiting Texas after a long absence. Our first church with Michael as associate pastor, our first child, our first home, our first new car... all happened in Waco, Texas. Those three years loomed large in our memory and had shaped our lives in ways we are still discovering. So, here we were, far, far away when we get the call. Annabelle is calving and it is a breech birth.
Birth at the farm, no matter how many times we observe it, is always a miracle in the making. Every calf that comes into our world at Sabbath Rest Farm is celebrated. Our cows and bull are long in the tooth but still procreating regularly and we are grateful. Annabelle is one of our younger cows but she was in trouble and so was her calf. She could not give birth without help. If she didn’t get help, she and the calf would both die. Gary came, and he and David pulled the calf. That is a powerful painful experience for cow, calf and helpers. The calf was limp and not breathing so Gary breathed life into him, mouth to mouth. Afterwards, all who had gathered to help, named the baby Gladd...Gary, Lisa, Annabelle, Dianne, David... all the helpers remembered in the little black baby boy’s name.
Erich Fromm says, “Birth is not one act; it is a process... To live is to be born every minute. Death occurs when birth stops.” The paradox of birth is that is it is both one act and a process. All life has a beginning, some more difficult than others. And all life is a process, a series of passages, a journey, a pilgrimage. Like Gladd, some of us are breech births and some of us slip easily into the new world, all of us life novices. As we are born into this world, so are we born into the world of faith. Jesus’ words, “You must be born again...” make perfect sense when you watch baby calves being born.
After a baby calf is born, the herd will allow the mother and calf some time alone to get acquainted. When the mother is ready, each member of the herd will pass by, gently nosing and smelling and licking a welcome to the new kid in the pasture. Our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, aunts, uncles and cousins in the faith help birth us again into the kingdom of God.
They are the midwives for the first birth of faith and as we grow, help breathe new life into our souls as we make difficult transitions. We must be born again and again and again if we are to live in the moment we have been given. When we stop being born, we die to the gifts of the present and get trapped in despair, boredom, ingratitude or any one of the many deadly sins that lie in wait for those who live unaware of God’s presence in every moment of time.
Our hearts will break and our hearts will soar if we live in the moment. As one songwriter said, “My heart is shattered and held together with crazy glue.” Being present to the moment, aware of all we have been given, seeing all the awful imperfections balanced by all the awesome
beauty, will break your heart even as Jesus’ heart was broken. How many times did he stand and weep... over Lazerus, in the Garden, over Jerusalem, on the cross... his tears flowing from the knowledge that great love brings equal measures of joy and sorrow. But if we live life in the moment, nothing is wasted, neither tears nor laughter. All are a part of our new births bringing new life to what was dead and gone.
My prayer is found in the words of the old hymn...“Moment by moment I’m kept in his love; moment by moment I’ve life from above; looking to Jesus ‘til glory doth shine; moment by moment, O Lord, I am thine.”
Birth at the farm, no matter how many times we observe it, is always a miracle in the making. Every calf that comes into our world at Sabbath Rest Farm is celebrated. Our cows and bull are long in the tooth but still procreating regularly and we are grateful. Annabelle is one of our younger cows but she was in trouble and so was her calf. She could not give birth without help. If she didn’t get help, she and the calf would both die. Gary came, and he and David pulled the calf. That is a powerful painful experience for cow, calf and helpers. The calf was limp and not breathing so Gary breathed life into him, mouth to mouth. Afterwards, all who had gathered to help, named the baby Gladd...Gary, Lisa, Annabelle, Dianne, David... all the helpers remembered in the little black baby boy’s name.
Erich Fromm says, “Birth is not one act; it is a process... To live is to be born every minute. Death occurs when birth stops.” The paradox of birth is that is it is both one act and a process. All life has a beginning, some more difficult than others. And all life is a process, a series of passages, a journey, a pilgrimage. Like Gladd, some of us are breech births and some of us slip easily into the new world, all of us life novices. As we are born into this world, so are we born into the world of faith. Jesus’ words, “You must be born again...” make perfect sense when you watch baby calves being born.
After a baby calf is born, the herd will allow the mother and calf some time alone to get acquainted. When the mother is ready, each member of the herd will pass by, gently nosing and smelling and licking a welcome to the new kid in the pasture. Our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, aunts, uncles and cousins in the faith help birth us again into the kingdom of God.
They are the midwives for the first birth of faith and as we grow, help breathe new life into our souls as we make difficult transitions. We must be born again and again and again if we are to live in the moment we have been given. When we stop being born, we die to the gifts of the present and get trapped in despair, boredom, ingratitude or any one of the many deadly sins that lie in wait for those who live unaware of God’s presence in every moment of time.
Our hearts will break and our hearts will soar if we live in the moment. As one songwriter said, “My heart is shattered and held together with crazy glue.” Being present to the moment, aware of all we have been given, seeing all the awful imperfections balanced by all the awesome
beauty, will break your heart even as Jesus’ heart was broken. How many times did he stand and weep... over Lazerus, in the Garden, over Jerusalem, on the cross... his tears flowing from the knowledge that great love brings equal measures of joy and sorrow. But if we live life in the moment, nothing is wasted, neither tears nor laughter. All are a part of our new births bringing new life to what was dead and gone.
My prayer is found in the words of the old hymn...“Moment by moment I’m kept in his love; moment by moment I’ve life from above; looking to Jesus ‘til glory doth shine; moment by moment, O Lord, I am thine.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
