Gladys from Austin, Texas, called Ellen Degeneres to let her know she needed to move one of her spiky plants. At certain angles it made Ellen look like Alfalfa, a character with hair that stood up on his crown. Ellen called her back and the eighty eight year old woman was full of herself. She tickled the audience with her conversation. One of her best lines was, “I love Jesus but I drink a little”. Most of us do, I think, love Jesus and drink a little. We mean well, we try hard and we fall short as human beings tend to do.
“The Help”, a novel and now a movie, is full of folks, black and white, who love Jesus and drink a little. The temptation is to judge the Hilly Hypocrites of that world without seeing the Hilly in ourselves. It is so very easy to decipher right from wrong on the big screen fifty years later and miss right from wrong in the here and now. Punitive immigration laws in Alabama and Arizona don’t differ all that much from Jim Crow laws in the fifties. Relationships between the help and the boss ladies in Jackson, Mississippi hinge on the ignorance, the chosen ignorance, of the truth of the help’s lives and selves. And, therein lies the sin.
I listen to people talk about illegal immigrants, about the problems that have come with the wave of Latino workers sweeping across the south and the west. I know the rhetoric is heated and feelings run high. There is a problem with our immigration laws and their enforcement. It isn’t a fair and just system. It never has been. I know most of this latest influx of folks are coming for the same reason my great-grandparents did… a chance at a better life for themselves and their children. It is so very easy to see the Latino woman working at McDonald’s but not really see her, not know her or her story. It is so very easy to generalize… they are taking jobs away from our people, they are not trustworthy, they abuse our welfare system… and indeed some of that is probably true. But there is another side to the story.
One of my chosen sisters employed a young man to help her remodel her grandmother’s house. He was a talented, hardworking young man with a wife and baby, an illegal immigrant who worked hard, paid his taxes and dreamed of life as an American. Caught up in a traffic stop, he was deported to Mexico leaving his young wife and child behind. It was only a matter of months before he was back working hard again, trying to better his life and support his family. Knowing him, knowing his story, makes it hard for me to generalize about illegal immigrants.
I don’t know the best solution to the problems with our illegal immigration. I do know that as Christians who drink a little, we are called to see the face of Christ in all the faces of those who are the least among us. Abilene, one of the maids in “The Help”, taught the little white girl she cared for words to keep in her heart. “I is kind. I is smart. I is important.” In God’s eyes, aren’t we all kind and smart and important? Help me, Lord, to see your face not only in the least of these but also in the faces of those who have more than most, those who proclaim the answers with such certainty, those who look and sound like me.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
I love you like a dog...
There are two new faces on the farm…Woodrow and Marley. Blackmouth Yellow Cur brother and sister. Barney was our introduction to this breed and I fell in love with their loyal tender hearts. Often misidentified as a boxer mix or as mutts, these dogs range in size from 70 to 100 pounds, square muzzles or pointed, red, yellow or beige. Bred in the south as farm helpers, family protectors and hunting dogs, they are so tenderhearted they often will protect their family children from being disciplined. Woody and Marley were rescued from a kill shelter in Georgia and brought to us by their foster mom, Lois, on Friday. In one of those happy coincidences that so often seems to happen in the dog rescue world, Lois’s son lives in Asheville so she visited her son and us at the same time.
Forging a relationship with a rescued dog can be an interesting proposition. Their life before you is largely unknown and the influences of other people show up in strange ways. Barney was afraid of men in baseball hats and anybody with a camera. Where did the camera come from? Woody seems to be an open, friendly fellow with lots of bounce, a canine Tigger. Marley is more fearful, stays close to her brother and is protective of him. She loves to be loved. Lois did a wonderful job with them and they are beginning to settle in.
Saturday morning, Michael took all three dogs, Rufus, Woody and Marley, walkabout on the farm. He leashed Woody so Rufus wouldn’t take them on a runaway mission. After an hour they came back tired and ready for breakfast. When I went to muck stalls and feed Ferdinand, they walked down to the stable with me. The horses hung their heads over the half doors trying to figure out these new dogs while Woody and Marley approached warily. Shirley and Kate, the donkeys, have a more straightforward approach. They stretch out their necks much like an angry goose and rush the dogs. Woody and Marley take the commonsense response and get behind the fence where they are safe from donkey nips. Cats are being treated with respect since old Daisy hissed, swelled up and popped Marley on the nose when she didn’t like being barked at. And last night was the first ride in the Kubota to the pond to visit the ducks. Farm dogs here have two choices for locomotion…run by the Kubota or ride in it.
As I watch these dogs adjust to a new home, strangers, strange animals, different rules, scary experiences, I am struck by their ability to give and receive love even as they struggle to settle in. Marley comes to me, sits and snuggles her head against my knee, asking for physical reassurance of loving intentions. Woody comes and sits beside her, pushing into the magic circle of love. Soon Rufus comes and asks for his share. I am bathed in love just because I am there, I am safe, I love them back.
I wish we had the kind of world where we could share love with other people the same way these dogs do. When I was tired, or afraid I could rest my head on someone’s shoulder and feel a loving pat. If life was overwhelming me and sadness weighed me down, I could find someone to hold me up until I was able to stand on my own again. When anger caused me to lash out and bite the hands that feed me, there would be instruction on the way back into the good graces of those I had hurt. Love would flow for no other reason than the presence of the other. Perhaps this is the world the prophet Isaiah glimpsed, a new heaven and earth where the wolf and the lamb shall lie down together, where God answers us before we cry out our need, a world where love between those who are different creates peace and harmony of being. Loving like a dog might be closer to God’s way of loving than our own. Makes you wonder if the bumper sticker is true… Dog is God…
Forging a relationship with a rescued dog can be an interesting proposition. Their life before you is largely unknown and the influences of other people show up in strange ways. Barney was afraid of men in baseball hats and anybody with a camera. Where did the camera come from? Woody seems to be an open, friendly fellow with lots of bounce, a canine Tigger. Marley is more fearful, stays close to her brother and is protective of him. She loves to be loved. Lois did a wonderful job with them and they are beginning to settle in.
Saturday morning, Michael took all three dogs, Rufus, Woody and Marley, walkabout on the farm. He leashed Woody so Rufus wouldn’t take them on a runaway mission. After an hour they came back tired and ready for breakfast. When I went to muck stalls and feed Ferdinand, they walked down to the stable with me. The horses hung their heads over the half doors trying to figure out these new dogs while Woody and Marley approached warily. Shirley and Kate, the donkeys, have a more straightforward approach. They stretch out their necks much like an angry goose and rush the dogs. Woody and Marley take the commonsense response and get behind the fence where they are safe from donkey nips. Cats are being treated with respect since old Daisy hissed, swelled up and popped Marley on the nose when she didn’t like being barked at. And last night was the first ride in the Kubota to the pond to visit the ducks. Farm dogs here have two choices for locomotion…run by the Kubota or ride in it.
As I watch these dogs adjust to a new home, strangers, strange animals, different rules, scary experiences, I am struck by their ability to give and receive love even as they struggle to settle in. Marley comes to me, sits and snuggles her head against my knee, asking for physical reassurance of loving intentions. Woody comes and sits beside her, pushing into the magic circle of love. Soon Rufus comes and asks for his share. I am bathed in love just because I am there, I am safe, I love them back.
I wish we had the kind of world where we could share love with other people the same way these dogs do. When I was tired, or afraid I could rest my head on someone’s shoulder and feel a loving pat. If life was overwhelming me and sadness weighed me down, I could find someone to hold me up until I was able to stand on my own again. When anger caused me to lash out and bite the hands that feed me, there would be instruction on the way back into the good graces of those I had hurt. Love would flow for no other reason than the presence of the other. Perhaps this is the world the prophet Isaiah glimpsed, a new heaven and earth where the wolf and the lamb shall lie down together, where God answers us before we cry out our need, a world where love between those who are different creates peace and harmony of being. Loving like a dog might be closer to God’s way of loving than our own. Makes you wonder if the bumper sticker is true… Dog is God…
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The accidental gardener...
The sere summer breezes bring stirring of the air but no relief from the heat. Rain has been an infrequent visitor and the ground is baked hard. The only pleasurable outdoor time is early morning and late evening. This morning I woke early to a quiet house and went to the front steps to sit a spell. Wiley, my faithful grey cat, came and sat by me, purring as I scratched his ears. We sat and watched the rabbits play at the edge of the front yard. One rabbit would jump straight up in the air coming down where he started while the other rabbit ran towards him, a game of some sort. Birds flew by, crows cawed and the rooster crowed. The stillness of the air and the quiet broken only by bird and cricket song were my morning prayer.
As I sat, I surveyed the flower border that edges our front walk. Colors run riotously without any apparent rhyme or reason… pink (phlox, Echinacea, achillea), yellow (black eyed Susans, yarrow, early blooming mums, daylillies), orange reds (roses, painted daisies). The kale’s leaves are pale purple and past ready for picking. The garlic’s blooms have faded and fallen over. It is a late summer Technicolor show that defies the hot dry weather. Mixed in with the flowers are weeds that I have not pulled adding to the greenery.
I am an accidental gardener. Unlike my mother who tends her flowers, weeding and mulching and fertilizing, I plant and forget. Sometimes I remember to water or fertilize but more often than not plants are on their own with me. This leads to casualties (you can kill a nandina) and surprises (if kale is left to bloom and re-seed, it pops up in wonderful places). Tall hollies and crepe myrtle can be transplanted if you use a tractor to move them. Earthworms love newspaper layered under mulch. My gardening skills are improvisational and experimental. If it works and looks good, keep it. If it doesn’t bloom or smell good, don’t plant it. Feel free to move plants around and create new vistas. Share your extras.
I sat at the supper table last week surveying the garden of our children, their spouses and our grandchildren. A torrent of sound… laughter, questions, stories, little hissy fits… and a river of love’s history… my mother holding her two youngest great-grandchildren… good food from grandma… deviled eggs, fried squash, mashed potatoes… meals prepared by grown children who love to cook… Moravian chicken pie, orzo with fruit and veggies, pork tenderloin with pineapple pepper sauce. My belly was full of thanksgiving for this wonderful accidental garden of family. Who knew we would have six grandsons each one so full of themselves? Children are married to spouses we love and they all seem to tolerate our quirks with good humor most of the time.
I take a road trip through time remembering the years of birthing and growing these grown up children. Church, piano lessons, dance recitals, soccer games, plays, sleepless nights, worry and wonder a part of my daily routine from the birth of our first child until today. I see the perfection in the imperfection of our lives together, the love that runs over and under the occasional snarkiness, the sheer joy of being as grandsons splash and play in the Leaning Tower of Pool and my heart overflows with tears for the wonderful garden of family and life I have been given. It is grace undeserved and I know it. Thanks be to God for accidental gardens of all kinds and for the gifts of love that bloom in our lives year after year, popping up in unexpected places and ways.
As I sat, I surveyed the flower border that edges our front walk. Colors run riotously without any apparent rhyme or reason… pink (phlox, Echinacea, achillea), yellow (black eyed Susans, yarrow, early blooming mums, daylillies), orange reds (roses, painted daisies). The kale’s leaves are pale purple and past ready for picking. The garlic’s blooms have faded and fallen over. It is a late summer Technicolor show that defies the hot dry weather. Mixed in with the flowers are weeds that I have not pulled adding to the greenery.
I am an accidental gardener. Unlike my mother who tends her flowers, weeding and mulching and fertilizing, I plant and forget. Sometimes I remember to water or fertilize but more often than not plants are on their own with me. This leads to casualties (you can kill a nandina) and surprises (if kale is left to bloom and re-seed, it pops up in wonderful places). Tall hollies and crepe myrtle can be transplanted if you use a tractor to move them. Earthworms love newspaper layered under mulch. My gardening skills are improvisational and experimental. If it works and looks good, keep it. If it doesn’t bloom or smell good, don’t plant it. Feel free to move plants around and create new vistas. Share your extras.
I sat at the supper table last week surveying the garden of our children, their spouses and our grandchildren. A torrent of sound… laughter, questions, stories, little hissy fits… and a river of love’s history… my mother holding her two youngest great-grandchildren… good food from grandma… deviled eggs, fried squash, mashed potatoes… meals prepared by grown children who love to cook… Moravian chicken pie, orzo with fruit and veggies, pork tenderloin with pineapple pepper sauce. My belly was full of thanksgiving for this wonderful accidental garden of family. Who knew we would have six grandsons each one so full of themselves? Children are married to spouses we love and they all seem to tolerate our quirks with good humor most of the time.
I take a road trip through time remembering the years of birthing and growing these grown up children. Church, piano lessons, dance recitals, soccer games, plays, sleepless nights, worry and wonder a part of my daily routine from the birth of our first child until today. I see the perfection in the imperfection of our lives together, the love that runs over and under the occasional snarkiness, the sheer joy of being as grandsons splash and play in the Leaning Tower of Pool and my heart overflows with tears for the wonderful garden of family and life I have been given. It is grace undeserved and I know it. Thanks be to God for accidental gardens of all kinds and for the gifts of love that bloom in our lives year after year, popping up in unexpected places and ways.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
I was listening...
I am listening….
The full moon night light poured in through the windows of our bedroom as I lay in bed listening to Rufus the Basset Hound bay. It was his “I think I see and smell something” bark… one bark that ends on a shrill up note followed by two regular barks. I listened to the night sounds in between barks and heard nothing out of the ordinary. After a few minutes Michael got up and called Rufus in to the house. He had been sleeping on Barney’s old bed outdoors so we had left him outside last night to enjoy the moonlight.
I walk out on the back porch and see Junie B and Dixie standing at the gate. As I come down the steps, they speak to me. Junie B has a wonderful throaty nicker, a Greta Garbo voice that brings a smile to my face. I carry them a treat and rub their faces. They have been eating too much clover and are drooling like faucets. When Dixie is nervous or frightened, she snorts and huffs. Sometimes like a child, she plays at being afraid. She gives voice to those feelings and I listen, look around to see what is happening. It is a visiting dog, one she does not know, and she is giving notice.
My mother calls. Uncle Harold is very ill, his third heart attack, and she is so worried. Aunt Peg is coming for a visit. She is going to get her son to drive her to the farm and the two sisters will have another time to be together. Callie, my daddy’s cat is missing, and she is worried about what might have happened to the old girl. Mama’s cold and cough are hanging on and as I listen to her, I worry about whether or not she should see a doctor.
The red tailed hawk swings in wide circles above my head slicing the air with his sharp keening cry. I look up and listen as he searches for food from above. There are rabbits aplenty this year as so he need not look at our chickens. He is a beautiful bird flying with an economy of motion that is an aerial dance.
A Mary Oliver poem, “Days”, ends this way… (excuse the spacing)
Whatever it was I was supposed to be this morning-whatever it was I said I would be doing-
I was standing at the edge of the field- I was hurrying through my own soul, opening its dark
doors- I was leaning out; I was listening.
So much of my life has been spent listening. I sit in silence and hear the sound track of my life filled with the voices from long ago. There was so much I missed listening the first time and I hear more clearly now the love in my father’s voice, the fear in my sister’s voice, the sheer joy in my grubby young son’s voice, the pride in my daughter’s voice as she walks to school alone for the first time, the independent streak a mile wide in another daughter’s voice as she pushes my hand away from brushing her hair, my husband’s voice rumbling a bass accompaniment to our everyday living. And underneath, around and above, always there is the sound of God’s presence in my world. Sometimes the sound is silence and in the silence, if I listen, I can hear God pass by.
Today, God, I want to lean out and listen. I want to hear your voice in the voices around me and in the sounds of your creation. Give me an ear to hear, O Lord and incline your ear towards me. Please?
The full moon night light poured in through the windows of our bedroom as I lay in bed listening to Rufus the Basset Hound bay. It was his “I think I see and smell something” bark… one bark that ends on a shrill up note followed by two regular barks. I listened to the night sounds in between barks and heard nothing out of the ordinary. After a few minutes Michael got up and called Rufus in to the house. He had been sleeping on Barney’s old bed outdoors so we had left him outside last night to enjoy the moonlight.
I walk out on the back porch and see Junie B and Dixie standing at the gate. As I come down the steps, they speak to me. Junie B has a wonderful throaty nicker, a Greta Garbo voice that brings a smile to my face. I carry them a treat and rub their faces. They have been eating too much clover and are drooling like faucets. When Dixie is nervous or frightened, she snorts and huffs. Sometimes like a child, she plays at being afraid. She gives voice to those feelings and I listen, look around to see what is happening. It is a visiting dog, one she does not know, and she is giving notice.
My mother calls. Uncle Harold is very ill, his third heart attack, and she is so worried. Aunt Peg is coming for a visit. She is going to get her son to drive her to the farm and the two sisters will have another time to be together. Callie, my daddy’s cat is missing, and she is worried about what might have happened to the old girl. Mama’s cold and cough are hanging on and as I listen to her, I worry about whether or not she should see a doctor.
The red tailed hawk swings in wide circles above my head slicing the air with his sharp keening cry. I look up and listen as he searches for food from above. There are rabbits aplenty this year as so he need not look at our chickens. He is a beautiful bird flying with an economy of motion that is an aerial dance.
A Mary Oliver poem, “Days”, ends this way… (excuse the spacing)
Whatever it was I was supposed to be this morning-whatever it was I said I would be doing-
I was standing at the edge of the field- I was hurrying through my own soul, opening its dark
doors- I was leaning out; I was listening.
So much of my life has been spent listening. I sit in silence and hear the sound track of my life filled with the voices from long ago. There was so much I missed listening the first time and I hear more clearly now the love in my father’s voice, the fear in my sister’s voice, the sheer joy in my grubby young son’s voice, the pride in my daughter’s voice as she walks to school alone for the first time, the independent streak a mile wide in another daughter’s voice as she pushes my hand away from brushing her hair, my husband’s voice rumbling a bass accompaniment to our everyday living. And underneath, around and above, always there is the sound of God’s presence in my world. Sometimes the sound is silence and in the silence, if I listen, I can hear God pass by.
Today, God, I want to lean out and listen. I want to hear your voice in the voices around me and in the sounds of your creation. Give me an ear to hear, O Lord and incline your ear towards me. Please?
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