Come unto me...

Come unto me all ye who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28

I knew when I married him that he wanted to be a pastor. His first church work after seminary was as assistant pastor (and youth minister) at Lake Shore Baptist Church in Waco, Texas, still one of our two home churches. I watched as parishioners made their way to his office... parents of teenagers, young married couples, young adults... all needing someone to tell their troubles to who embodied the face of God for them. After three years at Lake Shore, we moved back to the seminary for Michael’s Ph.D. in that peculiar discipline of Pastoral Counseling (not counseling for pastors), the discipline that marries the practice of faith and psychotherapy. For forty years I have watched him learn and practice the art and craft of pastoral counseling on church staffs, in church offices, in our home and at the office of Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center.
In 1980 when we moved to Asheville for the first time, he had an office at Beverly Hills Baptist and an office at home. Our outdoor swing was his waiting room in spring, summer and fall. Alison, our youngest daughter, was his greeter, often sitting in the swing with folks chattering away about her life and handing out hugs. When we returned to Louisville, Kentucky for Michael to serve as a professor at the seminary where he received his Ph.D., he had an office at home where he continued his private practice as a pastoral counselor. Our children grew up knowing clients as friends, neighbors, fellow church members and it was a seamless part of Michael’s ministry as a pastor whatever else he did.
When we moved back to Asheville in 1990, Michael established the Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center in an old house, 191 East Chestnut Street. For the first time, his practice was separated from a church building and our home. At first, it was just Michael with the other rooms in the house rented out. Gradually, a collegial practice came into being with other pastoral counselors joining him. As he had done throughout his years of practice, Michael continued to see people who could not afford to pay much at all for help. He always had a group of folks... teens paying their own way, families living close to the edge, pastors who worked for small churches... whom he saw for a very small fee, sometimes free. It was important to him that he tithe his time and talents for the greater good.
And then he had a dream... a dream of a foundation that could help pay the way for those who could not afford to pay, a way to provide help for the least ones, the lost ones, the overlooked ones. It would have been easier to establish a non-profit for his center, a way to expand his habit of tithing time and talent for those under the roof of Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center. But one of the hallmarks of Michael’s character is his generosity of vision and his generosity of spirit. His vision included all pastoral counselors in Western North Carolina and all the people they could help if some financial support was available. He knew that they, like him, depended on the fees collected to support themselves and their families. There was a limit to the help that could be provided by the individual counselors but a foundation could raise money, structure an application process, write checks to counselors for services given to approved clients and extend the ministry of pastoral counseling in Western North Carolina. And, so it has.
Every December, I watch as Michael sits at our big round table, surrounded by letters to donors, writing a personal message of gratitude and grace on each one, asking for their continued financial support for this important ministry. The list is long and it takes hours. He does so, not just for himself, not just for the other pastoral counselors, but for all those who labor and are heavy laden, those who need rest, those who need to see and hear the face of God in a counselor who will help them find their way through the valley of the shadow. He will never see or know most of those who will be helped by the money he raises but it is more than enough to know that they are helped.
Tonight we will gather for the foundation’s annual meeting to see the results of last years work, to give money, to meet and greet one another, to celebrate all that has been done, to see what lies ahead. We will write a check tonight, probably bordering on more than we can afford, not because we are special but because we have a dream. I will sit and give thanks for that dream of Michael’s all those years ago, for all the pastoral counselors who are able to extend a helping hand to those in need, for the generous gifts of the many supporters, and for the director of the foundation and the hard work she must do. But most of all, I give thanks for the opportunity we have to make a difference in others lives in the name of the One who has called us to walk with the weak and weary, to lend them a shoulder to lean on at a time when they are unable to walk alone. Seek and you will find, ask and it will be given... and so it has. Amen.

If you would like to support the Partnership for Pastoral Counseling, you can mail a check to PO Box 8177, Asheville, NC 28814.

a day at Sabbath Rest Farm...

I walked out to the gate headed down to the stable and smelled the sharp tang of wood smoke hanging heavy in the air. The air was cold, crisp and clear. The ground was white with frost. A cloud lay in the valley below blotting out the sight of the other houses on the farm. Junie B spoke to me and the donkeys complained about my being too slow. I fed Bud the Barn Cat, put out morning hay, set the captives free and mucked out the stalls. When I walked back up to the house, the cloud was slowly fading away as the sun rose in the valley. Like the musical Brigadoon, a little community was coming into view wrapped in soft edges. I stood for a moment and savored the beginning of my day, gave thanks for the beauty that surrounds me, went in to cook breakfast for Michael... some of his eggs fresh from his hens.
It was hay baling day, the last of this season...freeze dried by now after several days of frost and warm sun. Little Michael was back from his time in Winston-Salem with his new used pick up truck ready to work. His exuberant greeting and hearty hug set the mood for the day’s work. We did stable work, traded out the screens on the side porch for the winter glass panels, he and Michael did some fence work, and it was lunch time. Soup for lunch and short naps... time to bale hay.
It wasn’t much hay, just 140 bales or so, dry and light mostly. I stacked alone since Diane’s hip is out, and Leisa drove the truck and trailer. That is no small job since you have all the men telling you where to go next and how to get there. The men, whom God blessed with more upper body strength and am I glad, tossed the bales into the trailer and we stacked them five rows high for the drive home. After unloading the hay in Gary’s barn, we three went to eat supper at mama’s. She had cooked for us... roast beef, her famous mashed potatoes, rutabagas, peas, beans and cake. It is such a good gift to come home to a meal made ready for you after work in the fields. We gave thanks and ate like we meant it.
We drove up to our house and I got out to go stable the horses and feed them. I stepped out of the Kawasaki mule and looked up at the night sky. It took my breath away. Clear, dark night with more stars than my eye could count, light from far away in time and space, bathing my upturned face in their shining blessing. I got lost in the otherness of the sky world that is beyond my understanding and sang my evening blessing... “Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh, shadows of the evening, steal across the sky. Jesus, give the weary calm and sweet repose; with thy tenderest blessing, may our eyelids close. When the morning wakens, then may I arise pure, and fresh, and sinless in they holy eyes.” It was a good day, a very good day and I did rejoice in it.

Thank you note living...

We have been getting thank you notes in the mail from Alison’s friends who came to spend a weekend with us as a retreat time. Written by hand on lovely cards, expressing gratitude for their time here, they lift my spirit when I see them on my desk. Going to the mailbox was an adventure in thanksgiving as they began to arrive. Snail mail still matters. My mama would say they were “raised right” because they took the time and made the effort to send a concrete expression of gratitude.
Our daughters have worked with our grandchildren to teach them the basic words of politeness... please and thank you. Every time they ask for something, the word “please” must be used and when they receive something, thank you is required. On birthdays and holidays, thank you notes come from them emblazoned with drawings and words and scribbles. They are learning the fine art of thanksgiving. It is an art that only requires a grateful heart and the will to express it concretely.
My niece Genny sent us several thank you notes for our help with her wedding. The most fun ones were the picture postcards from their honeymoon in Hawaii. We felt that what we had given really was important to her and that we mattered enough to take the time to include us in her life. I am astounded to hear how many brides and grooms never send thank you notes for wedding largesse.
A few Sundays ago, Hannah and I made origami books for our small congregation and stuffed them with slips of paper. We handed them out at the end of worship and asked folks to keep a record of what they were grateful for during the next week. I didn’t have any presents that week wrapped in gift wrap but I found so much to be thankful for. The horses and donkeys making me laugh with their morning antics, the taste of fresh eggs scrambled with cheese, the sunlight on bright fall leaves after days of rain, a new (to me) car that is fun to drive, hot tub bath in an old cast iron tub that is just right for soaking and reading, riding Junie B even when she is cranky, a baby calf that scrambles to find his mama, the shape of graceful deer wreathed in early morning mist at the edge of our front yard...These were on my thank you note to God that week.
John Claypool’s sermon Sunday on gratitude and generosity has echoed through my spirit as I try to get my self together for this week. Paying bills... more bills than money this week, worrying about a friend who has been diagnosed with myasthenia gravis, trying to figure out a way to help Tina, doing fall cleaning, looking for a home for Beagle Bailey who is driving me mad, changing summer clothes to fall and winter with a Goodwill bag collection... how can these be transformed into thank you notes?
Paying bills... We are not rich in money but we have more than enough even when we have to rob Peter to pay Paul. My sick friend... Walt and Mary Lynn were my best adult friends in college. Walt was my Baptist Student Union Director and he and Mary Lynn lived in an apartment in the center. They modeled another way to be married than the one I knew from my parents. Walt kicked my brain into gear with my faith, challenged my simple beliefs and loved me through an awkward transition to adulthood. When Tim was killed, he and Mary Lynn came when I needed them most to give me a day off from grief and anger. I am grateful to have them for friends. Trying to help Tina has been a tar baby. I keep getting stuck, pulled in feeling responsible for a woman I sometimes don’t like very much. Helping someone who is not like you can open windows into your soul and shine light in your internal darkness. What I see is not always very Christian. I think I am grateful for that. Fall cleaning... I have a house to clean when others have no home at all. Closet cleaning... I have more than enough clothes, enough to give away. Haven’t come up with a thank you for Beagle Bailey yet. Will have to keep working on that one. In all things, give thanks, the Bible says. This week I will continue to work on transforming gripes into gratitude believing God needs my thank you notes as much as I need to write them. This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it. Amen.

Tomato Soup Saints...

We sat at the table eating tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches Megan had prepared for lunch. Conversation was random, enthusiastic and loud as it often is when you eat with three boys ages seven and under. Mason asked for seconds of the soup and enjoyed it down to the last drop. I watched as he put the shallow mug to his face, held it there for several minutes before he put it down. As he lowered the mug to the table, he grinned, a large red ring circling his happy mouth. “I licked it clean!” he announced. And so he had... love of tomato soup led him not to waste any of the remains in his mug.
I thought of Mason this morning in worship as we celebrated All Saints Sunday. Our worship table held pictures, books and other reminders of those who are saints to us. We told our saint stories about teachers, grandparents, therapists, friends, aunts, and others who were the face of God for us. A sermon preached by John Claypool (thanks to the wizardry of modern technology) helped me understand a new meaning for saints in my life.
His sermon focused on two bedrock attitudes and behavior for a Christian lifestyle, gratitude and generosity. John spoke of Jesus’ gratitude for what he had been given. There was no sense of entitlement nor complaining about the cards he had been dealt in the game of life, only a profound sense of thanksgiving for the gift of life. And because he had been given much, his sharing of all he had and all of who he was, flowed like a healing river over all he met and loved. There was a recognition of the gift that life is and an equal desire to share the whole of it with others.
So I began remembering many of the saints I have loved in my life, none of whom were perfect. But, many of them shared these two important characteristics of a transformed Christian, dare I say saved by grace? Like Mason and the tomato soup, they drank deeply from the well of living water and loved the life they had been given even with its limitations. They lived with joy and thanksgiving even when life was difficult and the cup only half full. Whatever life brought to them, they licked up the last drops and were grateful for what had been and what was yet to come. In their sacramental approach to living, all they had and all they were, were gifts to be shared with open hearts and hands.
Mr. Reem, the best ever church custodian, who made care taking of the church building an art that cared for the ministers as well... Miss Panos, the daughter of Greek immigrants, who taught American history in my high school and ignited a love of freedom in our little redneck hearts... my grandma and Aunt Thelma who modeled constancy as members of the same church for all their adult lives... ministers I have known who spent their lives in small churches that never made it big in any way but in the ways of a loving Jesus... Mason’s school teachers who lay down their lives every day so that the children in their class can celebrate the gift of their lives... I am surrounded by saints and I give thanks for the gifts of their lives and the generosity of their spirits.
On this All Saints Sunday, I pray that we might be saints for one another, helping one another hold on to gratitude and generosity when life does not turn out as we hoped and planned. We are called to pass on the gifts we have been given, to share with thanksgiving as we live out our days on this earth knowing that our life was created in joyful relationship. Springing from One who was lonely in the Garden, we were created in God’s image and if we are true to our family heritage, we will pass on the gifts we have been given to those around us.
C.S. Lewis said “Nothing is ours until we share it”. So let me share, dear Lord, this week, the gifts from the saints I have known and loved. Let me be a saint and open my eyes and heart that I may see all the saints who surround me, that great cloud of witnesses, who are my kin people in the faith. Help me drain my life’s mug and let me lick it clean with enjoyment and enthusiasm and gratitude. Amen.