Without the contemplative dimension in our lives, we cannot be fully human. Mother Mary Clare
It had been a perfectly lovely Sabbath day. Worship with our church family, lunch, reading the Sunday paper, nap, international soccer game, lawn mowing of the walking path, brushing horses and donkeys, a trip to Barnardsville to check out the ten acre hay field we will be baling on Tuesday, visiting Vince and Tina who are still under the weather... The perfect end to a perfect day was sitting with our farm family watching the sunset, drinking cherry coolers and talking about the days of our lives. Jeannie will come home from the hospital Monday or Tuesday after her successful knee surgery. Sam, Leisa’s black lab, looked yearningly at our cat Wiley as a possible appetizer. Talk of helpers for the hay baling was counterpoint for the garden report from Tim. Gentle laughter at remembered bloopers, lovely sunset and moon rise, cicada song and bat flight, slow departures with hugs and pats...
Michael returned the phone call from our friend in Louisville as we sat in the swing on the front porch. Suddenly all the air was gone and I was gasping for breath. I was in a thin place where breath and life and death live next to God. Our friend has cancer and a new baby granddaughter at the same time. His treatment is going well and there is a good prognosis but the cancer was advanced. He has become one of the band of brothers who live with reality of their own death in a particular way. We sat for awhile, tasting our grief and tears, praying for him and his family. As I watched the fire flies bright points of light in the dark night sky, I imagined all our prayers for him as signal lights calling for God’s presence in his new life as grandfather and cancer patient.
I am reading Anne Lamott’s book Grace Eventually and one of her images has stuck in my mind. She describes our progress as Christians in motion terms... two steps forward, three steps back, marching forward triumphantly or scootching along on our bottoms... all are a part of our process. We do what we can as we can as best we can. And sometimes, scootching along is the best we can do. The important part of the process for me is not how I am moving but that I am paying attention as I move, a contemplative dimension as Mother Mary Clare says. The call from our friend last night was a reminder to savor, slow down, see the goodness that surrounds me and give thanks for all that has been, all that is and all that is to come. Whether I scootch or stride, live in health or sickness, am filled with joy or struggling with darkness, I remember to Whom I belong and give thanks. “Be still and know that I am God.” I am still and I know. Thanks be to God.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Green pants worship...
It is a splendid habit to laugh inwardly at yourself. It is the best way to put oneself in a good temper and to find God again, without more ado. Abbe De Tourville
The church sanctuary was festooned with huge orange and red and yellow kites, tails stretched across windows and fluttering loose in the breezes. Leftovers from Pentecost Sunday, they serve as reminders of the Spirit’s movement in this congregation. On the front of the pulpit hung a pair of bright green pants. The summer sermon series is based on Dr. Seuss books, children’s stories that are also written for grown-ups. This church knows how to play and laugh. Bumps in the road happen in this congregation as it does in all churches but somehow they seem to maintain a sense of foolishness that rounds the sharp edges and smooths out the rough places.
People come to church for many reasons...children’s religious education, loneliness, mission action, search for meaning... but one of the reasons they choose to stay is the fun of it all. Doesn’t that sound trite and cheap? Abbe De Tourville was right, though. To be able to laugh at yourself and with others is a splendid way to find God. The grace filled sound of laughter, the sight of faces wrinkled up in belly shaking can’t help myself bubbling over laughter, must be a pleasing sound and sight for our Creator, especially in church. Too often we who are church people have an exaggerated sense of our own importance in the grand scheme of things. We are called to change the world, be salt and light to a dark, tasteless world of the unsaved ignorant ones, and we go about our calling with a vengeance. Graceless and humorless, we browbeat those who believe differently, those who live in “sin”, those masses of humanity who aren’t as good as we are.
I believe Jesus laughed a lot, told awful jokes, maybe even puns. He knew how starved we all are for the juicy soul feeding power of laughter. “Real life” can be so painful, so difficult, so draining. Reminders of the Source of our Joy that come wrapped in laughter are life affirming and life giving. The Jesus followers I remember with the most gratitude are the ones that can still bring a smile to my face just by remembering them... and their sense of humor, good humor with God and others.
So as I sat at Sunday dinner with children and grandchildren, I laughed at myself. A church lady wearing a big brimmed white hat, covered up with grandsons all talking at the same time, laughter and good humor abounding, birthday celebrating and family connecting, such good gifts as these are cause for hip hip hoorays and soul kite flying. I knew Monday morning I would be shoveling horse and donkey poop once again without the big white hat but just now, here I sat surrounded by love and laughter. That is what I need when I go to church... family, love and laughter... that will keep my nose above water as I go to live out my calling in a world full of scary green pants strangers, strangers who become friends as I live for Jesus in a world starved for laughter and meaning.
Saint Paul nailed it on the head when he wrote, “So do not let your good be spoken of as evil. For the kingdom of God is not food and drink but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit...” Not just righteousness in the land where God dwells but also peace and joy. I need a heaping helping of that every day for the rest of my life. Thanks, Michael Usey, for your ability to help me laugh in church again. Keep up the good work. I can’t wait to see what you will come up with next. And thank you, God, for all the ways laughter sneaks up on me... friends who laugh at and with me... rubber turkeys that show up roosting in Christmas trees and sitting on toilets... children who laugh often and with abandon... giggles and snorts with my women friends... roosters who crow every morning at 6:07 exactly waking me up with a grin... I feel your presence in the laughing joy of life and I am so happy to be your child.
The church sanctuary was festooned with huge orange and red and yellow kites, tails stretched across windows and fluttering loose in the breezes. Leftovers from Pentecost Sunday, they serve as reminders of the Spirit’s movement in this congregation. On the front of the pulpit hung a pair of bright green pants. The summer sermon series is based on Dr. Seuss books, children’s stories that are also written for grown-ups. This church knows how to play and laugh. Bumps in the road happen in this congregation as it does in all churches but somehow they seem to maintain a sense of foolishness that rounds the sharp edges and smooths out the rough places.
People come to church for many reasons...children’s religious education, loneliness, mission action, search for meaning... but one of the reasons they choose to stay is the fun of it all. Doesn’t that sound trite and cheap? Abbe De Tourville was right, though. To be able to laugh at yourself and with others is a splendid way to find God. The grace filled sound of laughter, the sight of faces wrinkled up in belly shaking can’t help myself bubbling over laughter, must be a pleasing sound and sight for our Creator, especially in church. Too often we who are church people have an exaggerated sense of our own importance in the grand scheme of things. We are called to change the world, be salt and light to a dark, tasteless world of the unsaved ignorant ones, and we go about our calling with a vengeance. Graceless and humorless, we browbeat those who believe differently, those who live in “sin”, those masses of humanity who aren’t as good as we are.
I believe Jesus laughed a lot, told awful jokes, maybe even puns. He knew how starved we all are for the juicy soul feeding power of laughter. “Real life” can be so painful, so difficult, so draining. Reminders of the Source of our Joy that come wrapped in laughter are life affirming and life giving. The Jesus followers I remember with the most gratitude are the ones that can still bring a smile to my face just by remembering them... and their sense of humor, good humor with God and others.
So as I sat at Sunday dinner with children and grandchildren, I laughed at myself. A church lady wearing a big brimmed white hat, covered up with grandsons all talking at the same time, laughter and good humor abounding, birthday celebrating and family connecting, such good gifts as these are cause for hip hip hoorays and soul kite flying. I knew Monday morning I would be shoveling horse and donkey poop once again without the big white hat but just now, here I sat surrounded by love and laughter. That is what I need when I go to church... family, love and laughter... that will keep my nose above water as I go to live out my calling in a world full of scary green pants strangers, strangers who become friends as I live for Jesus in a world starved for laughter and meaning.
Saint Paul nailed it on the head when he wrote, “So do not let your good be spoken of as evil. For the kingdom of God is not food and drink but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit...” Not just righteousness in the land where God dwells but also peace and joy. I need a heaping helping of that every day for the rest of my life. Thanks, Michael Usey, for your ability to help me laugh in church again. Keep up the good work. I can’t wait to see what you will come up with next. And thank you, God, for all the ways laughter sneaks up on me... friends who laugh at and with me... rubber turkeys that show up roosting in Christmas trees and sitting on toilets... children who laugh often and with abandon... giggles and snorts with my women friends... roosters who crow every morning at 6:07 exactly waking me up with a grin... I feel your presence in the laughing joy of life and I am so happy to be your child.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Friday at the farm...
Friday at Sabbath Rest Farm... I woke up at six thirty with my three o’clock in the morning list on my mind. It was going to be a busy day. The donkeys were braying and the roosters ( those cute chicks weren’t all hens) crowing. There was no more sleep for me. I went to the kitchen and brewed my first cup of tea making a sequential list in my head as the dark black magic of Darjeeling worked, waking me up and getting me moving. Meister Eckhart said “Wisdom consists in doing the next thing you have to do, doing it with your whole heart, and finding delight in doing it.” My whole day was going to be one of those days where I could take delight in doing one thing after another.
At ten o’clock a group of pastoral counselors from all over the mountains were coming to our house to spend the day. These men and women were trained in the art and science of pastoral care, the melding of faith and psychology. They have used their skills to bind up the broken hearted, have listened and heard the unspeakable hurts. As wounded healers, they have struggled to name their own broken places and their knowledge is not just in their heads but in their souls. These men and women range in age from sixty to eighty, some still working full time, some part time, some morphed into different occupations and others fully retired. Whatever their primary professional identification, whether professor, pastor, author, or full time counselor, the bedrock of their working lives has been their soul work as pastoral counselors. Now they are beginning to meet on a regular basis here at the farm, doing what they know how to do best, tending to others and themselves, becoming community.
I began setting the tables using real plates, cloth napkins, Aunt Nina’s silver and the Fostoria glasses Michael’s mother gave us... red, blue, yellow and green... the colors of summer. Big bouquets of mint freshened the air. Michael left to go get the salad supplies while I ran the vacuum, made tea, straightened up, cleaned around the edges and got ready for company. Before everyone came, I fed the dogs, cats, donkeys and horses making a quick pass at the stalls gathering up the night time poop deposits.
After serving lunch, I left to make the deposit run to the bank in Mars Hill stopping back by my favorite little idiosyncratic store, Rose’s, for a walk through. They often have Land’s End shirts for the grandsons for three dollars so I cruise through the store once or twice a week. Keeping young boys in shirts and shorts can be an expensive proposition so I enjoy shopping for them and finding bargains. Michael’s mother did this for us and those clothes care packages were like Christmas gifts of love sprinkled throughout the year. I continue the tradition. I spent the rest of the afternoon with mama talking and napping. I came up the hill to our house around four thirty in time to say good by to everyone as they scattered, leaving to return to their lives away from each other.
Michael and I sat on the front porch talking through the day for a few minutes. The wisdom and good humor of the group lingered with us as we remembered each person who had come, named them, and gave thanks for the old and new friends in this group. Some of these folks have been a part of our lives for forty years. How I wish there were a way to distill and share the depth and breadth of experience and knowledge contained in this group with others at the beginning of their journeys who might have the same calling.
I called my friend Mary Beth. It was Zach’s high school graduation party night. Because I wasn’t sure when the group would end, I had not responded to the invitation. I called to see if they had any extra burgers they could throw on the grill. They did so we headed out to celebrate the ending of our young friend’s public school career and the beginning of his travel through the wider world of learning in college. Zach and I had spent endless hours painting porch ceilings and deck railings together while we were building the house three years ago. Conversations were wide ranging and fascinating. At opposite ends of age and life experience, we found common ground as question askers and answer seekers. His hopes and dreams for the future bumped up against my hopes and dreams from the past. We became friends. He has grown in so many ways and I see the outlines of who he is becoming. I won’t be here for all of his life but I would be willing to bet he will make a difference in the world, a positive force for good, a believer who knows the darkness always gives way to the Light and is willing to work holding his lamp high.
What an interesting juxtaposition of lives lived and life yet to be lived. Endings, which are just as important as beginnings, are so often opened doors to new life. If we can find the courage to walk through those doors, letting go of the past, stepping out in faith that God is not done with us yet, there are all sorts of discoveries, new questions and answers, work to be done that we have never done before. “In the struggle to try to understand what we know, and think about what we understand, we develop ourselves, and each person finds the truth the only way he can— by living it!”(Brigid Marlin) Zach and the pastoral counselors, me and mama, all of us finding our truths in the living of our days sheltered and called out by the One who gave us this amazing gift of life. Thanks be to God for this gift that keeps on giving.
At ten o’clock a group of pastoral counselors from all over the mountains were coming to our house to spend the day. These men and women were trained in the art and science of pastoral care, the melding of faith and psychology. They have used their skills to bind up the broken hearted, have listened and heard the unspeakable hurts. As wounded healers, they have struggled to name their own broken places and their knowledge is not just in their heads but in their souls. These men and women range in age from sixty to eighty, some still working full time, some part time, some morphed into different occupations and others fully retired. Whatever their primary professional identification, whether professor, pastor, author, or full time counselor, the bedrock of their working lives has been their soul work as pastoral counselors. Now they are beginning to meet on a regular basis here at the farm, doing what they know how to do best, tending to others and themselves, becoming community.
I began setting the tables using real plates, cloth napkins, Aunt Nina’s silver and the Fostoria glasses Michael’s mother gave us... red, blue, yellow and green... the colors of summer. Big bouquets of mint freshened the air. Michael left to go get the salad supplies while I ran the vacuum, made tea, straightened up, cleaned around the edges and got ready for company. Before everyone came, I fed the dogs, cats, donkeys and horses making a quick pass at the stalls gathering up the night time poop deposits.
After serving lunch, I left to make the deposit run to the bank in Mars Hill stopping back by my favorite little idiosyncratic store, Rose’s, for a walk through. They often have Land’s End shirts for the grandsons for three dollars so I cruise through the store once or twice a week. Keeping young boys in shirts and shorts can be an expensive proposition so I enjoy shopping for them and finding bargains. Michael’s mother did this for us and those clothes care packages were like Christmas gifts of love sprinkled throughout the year. I continue the tradition. I spent the rest of the afternoon with mama talking and napping. I came up the hill to our house around four thirty in time to say good by to everyone as they scattered, leaving to return to their lives away from each other.
Michael and I sat on the front porch talking through the day for a few minutes. The wisdom and good humor of the group lingered with us as we remembered each person who had come, named them, and gave thanks for the old and new friends in this group. Some of these folks have been a part of our lives for forty years. How I wish there were a way to distill and share the depth and breadth of experience and knowledge contained in this group with others at the beginning of their journeys who might have the same calling.
I called my friend Mary Beth. It was Zach’s high school graduation party night. Because I wasn’t sure when the group would end, I had not responded to the invitation. I called to see if they had any extra burgers they could throw on the grill. They did so we headed out to celebrate the ending of our young friend’s public school career and the beginning of his travel through the wider world of learning in college. Zach and I had spent endless hours painting porch ceilings and deck railings together while we were building the house three years ago. Conversations were wide ranging and fascinating. At opposite ends of age and life experience, we found common ground as question askers and answer seekers. His hopes and dreams for the future bumped up against my hopes and dreams from the past. We became friends. He has grown in so many ways and I see the outlines of who he is becoming. I won’t be here for all of his life but I would be willing to bet he will make a difference in the world, a positive force for good, a believer who knows the darkness always gives way to the Light and is willing to work holding his lamp high.
What an interesting juxtaposition of lives lived and life yet to be lived. Endings, which are just as important as beginnings, are so often opened doors to new life. If we can find the courage to walk through those doors, letting go of the past, stepping out in faith that God is not done with us yet, there are all sorts of discoveries, new questions and answers, work to be done that we have never done before. “In the struggle to try to understand what we know, and think about what we understand, we develop ourselves, and each person finds the truth the only way he can— by living it!”(Brigid Marlin) Zach and the pastoral counselors, me and mama, all of us finding our truths in the living of our days sheltered and called out by the One who gave us this amazing gift of life. Thanks be to God for this gift that keeps on giving.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Silt ponds for the soul...
The pond is filling up again with water from the stream after years of being a mud hole. When a careless developer upstream scraped the top off a hill without adequate erosion control measures, rains sent red clay mud straight down the stream filling up our twelve foot deep pond. We have lived with the results of his carelessness for years watching the mud sprout weeds and puddles grow mosquitoes. The mediated settlement money enabled us to rebuild the pond in time for the summer.
The fishing chapel is surrounded by water and a little waterfall provides the prelude for Sunday worships. There is a rock walkway over the stream and we will have a bench to sit on in the shade near the water. A shallow swimming hole carved out above the waterfall provides a resting place to cool off for dogs and children. Little minnows are already making their home there waiting to slide over the rocks down into the bigger pond. When you walk by the pond now, you hear the splish splash of frogs diving in to their newly remodeled home. In time, soon we hope, the old blue crane will find his way back to us and the snapping turtle will return from wandering up and down the road to settle in once more. Children (and non-children) will be able to stand on the fishing deck to throw their line out to catch fish again. Fishing in my daddy’s pond was always a great adventure for my children. Now our grandchildren can learn patience (they never bite all the time) and courage ( try putting a cricket or worm on a hook) fishing with Pop or Grandma. I help bait hooks but do not fish...
But the most essential part of the pond is unseen, tucked away a little bit upstream in the berry patch. We dug a deeper hole, a silt pond, and made it accessible with the tractor. A wall of gravel and rip rap serve as a filter for the water as it makes its way to the pond. Water going out is much cleaner than water coming into the hole. When it fills up with mud, we can clean it out with the scoop on the front of the tractor. Now we have some protection from other development as well as the natural forces that bring dirt downstream.
Watching the silt pond last night, I got to wondering where the silt ponds are for my life. The water of life is a year round stream, sometimes full of trash and mud, sometimes clear and bubbling. Surely I can build places to catch the debris before I am filled up with a muddy mess, lost and mired in the muck. Writing is one of my silt ponds. I take time to think and reflect, read and pray. Usually nothing profound, no Damascus Road experiences happen but the rushing stream of my life has some time to settle and clear a little. Feeding the animals, the donkeys and horses and cows and cats and dogs (I don’t do chickens... those belong to Michael), helps remind me I am only a part of the greater Creation, not its center. Working in hay affirms the truth that life is difficult and easy, sweaty and refreshing, hard work with a payday, and gives me renewed appreciation for my grandparents whose living depended upon their farm work. Praying, conversation with God while paying attention to the water of life, is another filter for the muddiness of life in this imperfect world.
The old hymn we used to sing at Pinetta Baptist Church gives me a lovely prayer for my silt pond soul. “Purer in heart, O God, help me to be; May I devote my life wholly to Thee: Watch Thou my wayward feet, guide me with counsel sweet; Purer in heart, help me to be.” As the muddy waters of life wash through my soul, be my gravel wall, Lord. Help me to become purer, clearer, sweeter in heart, mind and body. I love you and long to be your loving child. “Teach me to do Thy will most lovingly” as I wade in the muddy waters. Thank you for this most amazing gift of life and life here on the farm. I am grateful. Amen.
The fishing chapel is surrounded by water and a little waterfall provides the prelude for Sunday worships. There is a rock walkway over the stream and we will have a bench to sit on in the shade near the water. A shallow swimming hole carved out above the waterfall provides a resting place to cool off for dogs and children. Little minnows are already making their home there waiting to slide over the rocks down into the bigger pond. When you walk by the pond now, you hear the splish splash of frogs diving in to their newly remodeled home. In time, soon we hope, the old blue crane will find his way back to us and the snapping turtle will return from wandering up and down the road to settle in once more. Children (and non-children) will be able to stand on the fishing deck to throw their line out to catch fish again. Fishing in my daddy’s pond was always a great adventure for my children. Now our grandchildren can learn patience (they never bite all the time) and courage ( try putting a cricket or worm on a hook) fishing with Pop or Grandma. I help bait hooks but do not fish...
But the most essential part of the pond is unseen, tucked away a little bit upstream in the berry patch. We dug a deeper hole, a silt pond, and made it accessible with the tractor. A wall of gravel and rip rap serve as a filter for the water as it makes its way to the pond. Water going out is much cleaner than water coming into the hole. When it fills up with mud, we can clean it out with the scoop on the front of the tractor. Now we have some protection from other development as well as the natural forces that bring dirt downstream.
Watching the silt pond last night, I got to wondering where the silt ponds are for my life. The water of life is a year round stream, sometimes full of trash and mud, sometimes clear and bubbling. Surely I can build places to catch the debris before I am filled up with a muddy mess, lost and mired in the muck. Writing is one of my silt ponds. I take time to think and reflect, read and pray. Usually nothing profound, no Damascus Road experiences happen but the rushing stream of my life has some time to settle and clear a little. Feeding the animals, the donkeys and horses and cows and cats and dogs (I don’t do chickens... those belong to Michael), helps remind me I am only a part of the greater Creation, not its center. Working in hay affirms the truth that life is difficult and easy, sweaty and refreshing, hard work with a payday, and gives me renewed appreciation for my grandparents whose living depended upon their farm work. Praying, conversation with God while paying attention to the water of life, is another filter for the muddiness of life in this imperfect world.
The old hymn we used to sing at Pinetta Baptist Church gives me a lovely prayer for my silt pond soul. “Purer in heart, O God, help me to be; May I devote my life wholly to Thee: Watch Thou my wayward feet, guide me with counsel sweet; Purer in heart, help me to be.” As the muddy waters of life wash through my soul, be my gravel wall, Lord. Help me to become purer, clearer, sweeter in heart, mind and body. I love you and long to be your loving child. “Teach me to do Thy will most lovingly” as I wade in the muddy waters. Thank you for this most amazing gift of life and life here on the farm. I am grateful. Amen.
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