I need a little pentecost...

I have begun three different times to write this morning and have run dry all three times. Two paragraphs in, I sit and look at what I have written and wonder where I am going with this. Select all, cut, start over… It has been a whirlwind spring without much time for silence and reflection. The riverbed of my soul is as dry as red clay baked hard in summer sun. When these fallow times come, it is difficult to let them be, to rest in the “not doing”. My old tapes play… get busy, you are being lazy, there is so much to do, get a move on. And there is so much I would love to do… finish painting the quilt panel for the high barn, do some calligraphy, ride Junie B, read, sew, have a party with all my women friends. But I can’t seem to find the energy needed to do much beyond what is absolutely necessary.
Some of this is physical, a response to the demands on my sixty four year old body, and some is psychological, the spring blues. My spiritual malaise however, echoes the church calendar and our history as Christians. After the long walk through Lent, the death darkness of Good Friday and the blinding light of Easter Resurrection, I am worn out. I suspect the disciples were, too. High drama, life and death and life again, fear and joy… the pendulum swings from one extreme to another had no resting place for body or soul.
And then, Pentecost came with such blinding speed out of the blue, knocking the socks off all who were present. Marvelous mayhem, words spoken and understood regardless of language, fiery crowns of spirit were an outward sign of an inward transformation. I do not seek to explain the miracle of Pentecost. I hunger for a Pentecost of my own as I pray and wait for my fiery crown. Perhaps my Pentecost will be quieter, doves not fire, or perhaps I will wake filled with the Spirit and singing (sorry, Catherine) in the early morning. However Pentecost comes, it will come and I will be ready.
Until then, I will do what I always do in times of drought. I will give thanks. I will pray gratitude and speak a litany of thanksgiving for all that has been and all that is yet to come. I will remember where I came from, to whom I belong, and be grateful for the journey with all of its joys and sorrows. And when Pentecost comes and my dry bones are covered with living flesh, I pray I will remember to sing the Lord’s song when the drought comes again. Thanks be to God for all the Pentecosts of my life, the Spirit that sings a new song in my soul year after year and the God who never leaves me nor forsakes me.

Secondhand resurrection...

We came home from Texas to a rodeo of sorts on the farm. The cows chose the week before Michael’s knee replacement surgery to break out, to run free through the grass that was greener on the other side. Every day until the fences were repaired, I was singing “Get Along, Little Doggie” while I shooed the cows from neighbor’s yards, our yards, or separated our bull, Bully, from Gary’s bull in the middle of “Mine is bigger than your’s” contests. After two weeks of this, the fun was gone and my voice grew shrill. Thanks to friends and some young hired help, the fences were reconstructed and the daily routine no longer includes a cattle drive.
Being one farmer down has meant I have had to care for the chickens, not one of my favorite animals. Daddy had Rhode Island Reds and they were my after school chore… feed, water, gather eggs. Perhaps it was the context of the beginning of our relationship, one that was decided for me not one of choice, that set the tone but I never felt much affection for the chickens. Michael and our grandsons love them. They are named, picked up and cuddled, chased and caught, celebrated with laughter and story. I am glad for them and the chickens but feel no guilt (well, maybe not much) about my lack of feeling connected to the chickens. After all, you can love animals (and people) without liking them much, right Mary Lynn?
All the activity of the past six weeks has left my soul gasping for breath. So much to do, not enough time to do it all, and spring, like the cows, busting out all over. Easter came and I was wrung dry. My dry bones were crying out for resurrection. I came to Easter worship scattered and brain dead.
The first hymn, Christ the Lord Has Risen Today, should be pitched and sung joyfully. Due to a major oversight on my part, the trombone accompaniment was in the key of C which was too low for everybody but Pastor Pat and other basses to sing. My soul staggered along as we sang, passed the peace, shared celebrations and concerns, prayed, read scripture, listened to the sermon and I waited for Easter to come. Finally it did during the offering.
Marquasia, a young African American girl, stood in front of the church, dressed in her best Easter finery, to sing our special music. She looked at me. I smiled and began the introduction. Swing low, Sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home… a song I have known and loved since childhood… Her voice barely made it to the back row but her joy and pride in singing were loud and clear. The congregation joined in softly and suddenly, in the harmony of the moment, Easter came rushing in. There we were…young and old, black and white, all of us dressed in the best we had to offer… gathered together waiting on a resurrection we aren’t sure will come.
Reading the four very different accounts of the resurrection in the gospels, I feel the scattered lostness of the disciples. Their world has come crashing down and nothing is left to show for the years they have invested in Jesus and his mission. Huddled together for comfort, they sit and wait, not sure what will come next. And when it comes, they don’t recognize it, don’t believe it. The women insist Jesus is alive, they have seen him but until he appears to them, the men can’t take their word for it. Secondhand resurrection stories are difficult to swallow. I am those disciples. I go through the motions, sit and wait, hear the words and can’t quite believe resurrection will ever come for me. Then I hear and see Marquasia sing and resurrection flows right over me, fills up the crannies in my soul and waters my parched spirit. Thanks be to God for the deserts and dry places, times of death and dark nights of the soul. Without them, how could we see and feel the power of new life, the return of light after darkness and the blooming buds of a soul coming into full flower again? It is no longer a secondhand resurrection story but my story, my resurrection that teaches me there is more life to come than I can imagine. Thank you, Jesus…

The Eyes of Texas...

We went home to Texas hill country this weekend to visit Michael’s brother and his family. Texas hill country is nothing like our green mountain home but it does have a beauty that I love. Like most of Texas, the wide open earth and sky views are breath taking especially at sunrise and sunset. At night one can see an upside down bowl view of our universe sprinkled with star light confetti. Hill country, so named because of the changes in elevation that provide long range views, has groves of majestic live oak trees with green ribbons of streams and rivers winding through its valleys.
If you have never been to Texas, it is hard to imagine the size of the state. There are six distinct mini-states within the one state...east Texas, west Texas, central Texas, south Texas, north Texas and the pan handle. Each part of Texas has its own personality and style and within each region there are variations also. A young couple sat in front of us as we rode the water taxi at the River Walk in San Antonio. Clearly they were from west Texas. The signs? He wore his cowboy hat (not unusual anywhere in Texas) over curly hair along with a big rodeo style belt buckle and worn cowboy boots. She also wore her cowboy boots and jeans. When they spoke, it was pure west Texas, friendly and inquisitive, curious about us and finding a connection with my sister-in-law, a shared acquaintance. Fewer people live in west Texas so it is not difficult to discover people in common. This couple had driven nine hours inside Texas just to get to San Antonio.
I wonder sometimes how the geography of where we live colors our souls. Here in these old, worn mother mountains, green and lush, I feel God holding me in the timeless cupped hand valleys surrounded by steep slopes soaring towards skies enclosed by other mountains. Some feel smothered by the mountains, unable to catch their breath. What is comfort for me is agony for them. They are west Texas people in need of distant open horizons, room to spread out, able to see what is coming at the same time seeing where they have been. All of us, I suspect, have places on earth that call us to them, where our souls rest in a way that is different from any other place. Some of us live in these homes for our souls and call ourselves blessed.
Wherever we live, wherever our soul calls home, it is good to stretch our horizons and see new places, other ways of living. Too often we see our place as the best, our way the only way and forget God is a God of the whole world and loves us all equally. Hearing different accents, new voices, and experiencing worship that is not the same as mine keeps my soul on its toes. The eyes of Texas (and of God) are on me as I stretch to not judge those who are different (not as good as) me. I’d like to blame this judgmental streak of mine on my daddy but I am afraid it belongs purely to me... and to you. None of us are immune to judgement first, mercy second if at all. Thanks be to God for reversing that order when dealing with us or we would all be armadillo roadkill!
Today I will be giving thanks for the many colors of life in Texas and in North Carolina, the life songs sung in Texas twang and North Carolina drawl, and for the God who made us all, male and female, an image of our multi-colored, many faceted creator. We are loved just where we are for just who we are and it is good. Ya’ll out in west Texas come... You’uns in Western North Carolina will be glad to welcome you in the name of the One who made us so different and alike. Mercy, mercy, mercy, Lord have mercy!

I went to prison last night...

I went to prison last night for the first time. A young woman named Beth(not her real name) visited us for worship with the prison chaplain a few months ago. She spoke to us, told her life story and asked for our help, telling us of needs we knew not of. Her new copper penny bright soul shone through her face and she won our hearts. One of our church women is on the board that raises funds to support the chaplains and she had arranged this visit. Three of us took our training and are now official blue card carrying certified volunteers at the women’s prison near Asheville in Black Mountain.
Last night we led a worship service as our first offering to this community of women. Our bi-racial congregation is unusual in many ways. We have a woman pastor who has Mother God’s heart for all her children. African American women who are successful in work and at home, welfare mothers who are doing their best, old women who have struggled in their time to rise above the limits imposed on them by a segregated society, young women getting started in their fields of social work and teaching, and white women like me... college students, retired preachers wives, formerly homeless and now at home, a lesbian couple with their baby boy Silas, homemakers and social workers. Our men reflect the same differences and similarities. We are a congregation rich in experience and acceptance, wise to struggle with success and failure, a rock that provides shelter in a weary land for many of us.
Our little church has a heart for the invisible ones in our community. For years they housed the homeless in their basement and after the shelter was closed for renovations to bring it up to code, our congregation had a hole in its heart. We have been searching for new ways to minister. Some of our women have a regular time to visit the shelter for homeless women. Our men serve meals to homeless vets and others at an old motel that has been converted to a long term housing facility.
When we walked into the chapel there were women finishing up their sacred dance group practice. That felt like home to me after spending years as a part of a sacred dance group in church. We asked them to dance for our worship but some of them had to get up at three a.m. for breakfast duty so they just danced one of their pieces for us before worship, a rendition of Amazing Grace. Our next worship will be a dance worship, perhaps, with our dancers and theirs.
Community matters at Calvary Presbyterian so we began by milling around, meeting and greeting, getting to know names and faces. We sang, prayed, heard scripture read, passed the peace Calvary style and gathered in a circle around the table for communion. As Pastor Pat asked for prayers, women began to speak. Many were to be released soon and shared their fears of returning to old ways, those who were being left behind spoke of their yearning to be free and one could feel the loneliness, children and family, illness, Japan and her tragedy... Pat prayed over us all as we held hands and we were bound together in love. We passed the bread and juice, looking in our partner’s eyes while speaking those ancient words... This is the body of Christ broken for you... This is the blood of Christ shed for you.
In that holy moment, Lent began for me. I found myself reflected in the eyes of women with whom I share much in common. My need for mercy in judgement, forgiveness and restoration is the same as theirs. The sins that bring us to our knees may be different but our needs are the same. The chapel was full of love, laughter and Lent and I am grateful for the gifts I was given last night when I went to prison for the first time.
I was in prison and you visited me...