Flee as a bird...

The cry is disturbing, discordant as it pierces the evening dusk. It raises the hair on your arms and vague memories of stories told about panther screams in the woods float to the surface. Speculation about the source of the sound is the new game at the farm until one afternoon, walkers spot a peacock in the pasture with the wild turkeys. It is the peacock cry we have been hearing…strident, strong, grating to the ears. Living in the country, you become accustomed to strays dumped by feckless folk who do not subscribe to the Saint Francis model for living with animals. This is a first for us though… a peacock who may have wandered from home and now runs with the wild turkeys that roost in the woods below our bedroom window. No one has seen the loud peafowl since the initial sighting but he has made his presence known nonetheless. The rooster crows, the peacock cries and our morning alarms have been sounded. Harsh sounds, minor key sounds…
Oldtimers knew that life was not always pretty, pleasant and triumphant. Their church music reflected their translation of life and faith as both minor and major keys. These days, most of what I hear in “modern” church music is relentlessly upbeat, cheery, toe tapping handclapping singalong tunes that exclude the possibility of anguish and defeat for God’s people… the minor key. Real life, life of faith and promise, is lived with both major and minor key changes as a part of our human experience. One without the other is a form of cheap grace or unending worthlessness. If all we ever sing is joy, joy, joy, what happens when we need to flee as a bird to the mountains?
In the Broadman Hymnal, number 459 is Flee as a Bird written by Mrs. M.S.B. Davis. Dramatic, a tad overdone perhaps, this song from my youth nevertheless captures me with the image of a bird fleeing to the mountains, the minor key sounds punctuated with occasional major key chords. A song full of words of assurance…peace then shall flow like a river; He will protect thee forever; thou shalt be saved from thy fear… sung in a minor key. We are the sum of both and not an expression of either or.
I sing with Mrs. M.S.B. Davis and the peacock… Flee as a bird to the mountain, thou who art weary of sin. I give thanks for all the songs of my life in major and minor keys that lift my spirit and keep me tethered to the One who hears all the songs of my heart, the One who sings along with me whatever key I am in. It is more than enough. Amen.

Friemily...

I looked around the table at those dear beloved faces yesterday and gave thanks for my family. We were gathered for a funeral. Catherine’s husband Art died last week after a long illness so his death was not unexpected. Walt, MaryLynn, Ida, Gus, Claudie, Janis, Michael and I had come to be a part of Catherine’s public goodbye to her husband. As we drank coffee and lemonade, I listened to Claudie try to tell MaryLynn what to do for the umpteenth time and of course she didn’t do it. Walt showed us his new trick... using one arm to lift another arm... taught to him by his myasthenia gravis. Gus, diminished by illness, could still summon a twinkle and a pithy comment. All the women hugged, compared outfits, spoke of the inconsequential along with the monumental as we loved on one another. Our presence was all that was required for Catherine who was surrounded by other family and friends. She sat with us towards the end of the reception and we planned meals for our next gathering at the end of June.
It is impossible to explain the connection we feel for one another, this family of choice. The early time together spent building a church in Cherokee formed bonds that somehow have been redeemed in our old age. Now when we sit around tables, we ask about children and grandchildren, bear and bare our struggles together with grace and gratitude, laugh a lot, hug a lot, cry a little and as always, leave looking forward to our next gathering time.
Good family is hard to come by and I have been graced with an abundance of friends who are family and family who are friends. Grady Nutt got it right when he coined that phrase. I do not take this gift lightly. It is a wonderful benediction to receive at this time in my life. Some friemily are of long standing years and some are relative newcomers but all are cherished for the gifts of love and straight talk they bring to me.
A phrase from Job... the friendship of God was upon my tent... is the perfect description of the manifestation of God’s love at work in my life through friends who are family and family who are friends. Catherine, how can I keep from singing?

An inside family joke_ Catherine used to get so mad at me in Cherokee when I woke up singing in the morning at the crack of dawn. She who must have coffee to speak was not amused by my morning concerts and told me so.

Sweet smell of grace...

I came back up the hill from the stables drunk on the scents of wild roses and honeysuckle. The air was laden with the sweet perfume of the obnoxious pests that choke out pastures and kill trees. Every thing has a saving grace, even these two invaders.
This assault on the senses comes with every season here on the farm. In the summer, the smell of fresh mown hay floats over our hills inviting you to come lie down and watch the clouds drift by. The soft songs of turkeys bedding down at night, the bell like peepers singing at the pond, the yipping of the coyotes in the darkness... my ears become attuned to the sounds of summer. Junie B’s coat is slick and shiny, smooth to the touch. Lettuce fresh picked from the ground tastes crisp and sharp. In the mornings, the air is still as the heat of the day builds until the breezes begin in the afternoon. The feel of wind on sweaty skin is a call to give thanks for my body’s built in air conditioning system.
At the local nursery a few weeks ago, I bemoaned the unseasonable cold weather we were having. Wilma smiled and reminded me that I would be longing for this cool weather soon. Now in the middle of hay cooking heat and dry weather, I remember her words and smile. To everything, there is a season indeed.
Two of my close friends are enduring times of trial and tribulation. One is walking the way of the widow while the other is living with a husband who is dying by inches. I watch and wait, looking for the signs of their seasons, signs of saving grace. For the widow, a time of redefinition as a person standing alone, seeking to find balance in her new tree pose. Some days are easier than others but almost always, in each day, a small grace abounds. My friend who is waiting is surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, some with her in body and some in spirit, all loving her through this lonesome valley. She is one of my sisters from whom I was separated at birth (not really) and we found in each other a kindred spirit. In the midst of the choking reality of death and dying, the smell of grace is present.
Help me, Lord, to be present to the grace that is present in my life even when I am struggling to find my way through the wilderness. Let me not forget that this is the day you have made. I want to rejoice and be glad in it. Please?

Standing on my head...

Our almost two year old grandson Colby came for a visit recently (along with his mother, father and brother). When he left to go home, in addition to the usual left behind socks and dirty towels, Colby left me an unintentional surprise.
In our bedroom, a wicker mannequin head sits on stacked hat boxes wearing a vintage 1950’s hat. I have a fascination, a love affair with hats. I wear hats to church every Sunday (no bad hair days) and love the feeling of instant elegance that comes with wearing a hat. I stand straighter, feel like a lady. Colby, who has none of my finer feelings for hats, stood the mannequin on her head while she was still wearing the hat.
For several days I did not notice this, seeing only what I expected to see when I looked at that space by the dresser. Then one morning I woke early after sleeping on the “wrong side” of the bed while Michael recuperated from shoulder surgery on the other side. And, there it was in all its absurd glory... I laughed out loud.
Life is all a matter of perspective. Sometimes when i am topsy turvy, standing on my head with worry, grief, anger or fear, I will remember Colby’s gift to me and take a minute to breathe and laugh a little. I will remember that the world upside down is still the same wonderful world it has always been. I will remember that my interior upside downess is a part of the gift of life for me, a gift that can lead to new ways of being and doing. I will remember that God will help me right side up myself and give thanks for all the different ways of being in this world.
Thanks Colby for the laugh and the lesson. The mannequin is still standing on her head. She is my new totem pole, my reminder of all that has gone before and all that is yet to come.