tart tongues and tender hearts

She stood out in a crowd like a sugar water starched hundred yard crinoline under a gathered skirt. Lowndes County High School had never seen anything like her before. Short in stature, she wore impossibly high heels that you could hear tapping down the halls long before you saw her. Her dark long hair was sprayed into a perfect asymmetrical pageboy style and her makeup was always perfectly fixed in place. Large, bright, jinglyjangly jewelry was the final accent to her daily outfits, and outfits they were.
This was the Time Before Pantsuits. Teachers and girls wore dresses and skirts to school. Our clothes were predictable. Bass weejuns with a penny in the slot, Ladybug small print tucked front dresses, sweaters worn over the shoulders with a decorative chain holding them on at the neck, straight skirts with slits in the back... these were the clothes the stylish ones wore, the ones with disposable income. The rest of us wore what we bought at Sears or Sam Lazerus or home sewn skirts and dresses. Mrs. Carter expanded our world in fashion and helped us see new horizons for women by her refusal to fit in the mold. Like PopEye, her motto was “I yam what I yam.”
She taught drama and glee club. As the accompanist for the glee club, I relished the changes she brought when she replaced starchy Mr. Sturchio. We spent many hours together practicing during and after school for special programs and Literary Meets. The trips to far away places like Cairo, riding in her car, listening to her talk about the wide world outside Lowndes County, kept us in her thrall. She would go to New York to see plays and spoke often of that other world, the world beyond our imaginations. Foolishness and fools were not tolerated in her classes. Her tart tongue could put anyone in their proper place, even our principal Mr. Wall.
Flying home to see daddy in his last illness, I heard that distinctive throaty laugh coming from behind me and turned to see her standing in the aisle, having a party time with her friends. Her hair style was different but it was still the same color, thanks to Clairol. Her last name was different but everything else was the same right down to the makeup, high heels and jewelry. We hugged and she pinned me with her eyes as she asked about my life since the last high school reunion. I felt sixteen again, held in the spell of that tart tongued teacher who loved me then and remembered me now.
Tart tongue and tender heart... a familiar relationship pattern for me with other women in my life. I suspect Martha, Lazerus’ sister, was such a woman. Tart on the outside, all mush on the inside, using the tough outer skin to protect the tender heart. Bustling around, doing the work that waited to be done, feeding the crowds and cleaning up after them, tending to those she loved in the best way she knew how, watching as her sister sat at the Teacher’s feet soaking up his words and not helping with the drudge work... no wonder she tipped over the edge. I hope Jesus was hugging her when he told her to sit down and take it easy. I hope he thanked her for all her hard work feeding and tending his group. And I hope he got a giggle out of her when he complimented her cooking. Surely he would have bragged on the food she prepared for him.
I am grateful for all the tart tongued women in my life who have loved me. They gave me gifts of spunk and self reliance, taught me to speak my truth clearly and not with a mush mouth. Tart can be good. It wakes you up like the feeling you get when you swing out over the river on the rope hanging from the old water oak limb, let go, and drop into the cool stream of brown water flowing south to the Gulf. I celebrate Mrs. Carter, Mary Lynn, Mrs. Tyre, Grandma, Dot and all the other tart tongued sweethearts who taught me to speak my piece. You encouraged me to swing out and let go. Hugs and kisses... and yes, I am doing well, thank you.

a humble mind and a tender heart

I was surrounded by country churches in South Georgia and North Florida. Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ, Church of God and A.M.E. churches could be found on all the dirt back roads and narrow paved roads in the county. Usually they were built out of concrete block or wood, painted white with front porches and azalea bushes flanking the front entry. Modest and unassuming, pine pews, short steeples and dirt parking lots were shared architectural features for all these churches whatever their denominational label. Town churches had stained glass, brick and multiple levels. Short steeple country churches couldn’t afford the outward show. We were farm and mill families who didn’t have much status or power in our communities or political system. Humility was our daily bread.
Humility seems to be a forgotten virtue. When I look at churches’ descriptions of themselves, I see importance placed on being special, unique, friendlier, better than, peace and justice, (and my least favorite) exciting. When I look at myself, I see a person who wants to be different from all the rest, set apart from the thundering herd by my extraordinariness. I am no better than the institutional church in my need to be singled out as special.
Jesus had a different vision. His students, like children will do, got into an argument over who was the best and the greatest and most loved. Jesus had an answer for their competition. He pulled a child out of the crowd and held the child at his side. Children have no power, no voice that can be heard by those who make a difference. They are at the mercy of the adults who surround them. “Whoever receives this child in my name receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me; for he who is least among you all is the one who is great.” Can’t you see it? Now the competition becomes who will be least.
As Lent approaches, I have been searching for my focus. Daily Bible readings, denominational themes, and devotional books compete for my attention. This year I am going to make the practice of being the least among you my Lenten gift to God. I will practice humility hoping that the practice will as my Grandma said, make perfect. What a paradox... the perfection of the imperfect.
I am the daughter of a man who was intelligent and valued education. He spoke his opinions often with a firm belief in his ability to reason and understand. His quick tongue could scald those who stood too near when they disagreed with him. Verbal intensity was his stock in trade. In self defense, I learned the skills of a quick retort and a nimble tongue. It became a game of sorts and I excelled. It was a gift and a curse. Like Daddy, I am not patient with slow tongues and baffled minds. So this passage from First Peter stopped me short.
“Finally, all of you, have unity of spirit, sympathy, love of the brethren, a tender heart and a humble mind.” 1 Peter 3:8 Maybe I cannot achieve humility in all of my life but perhaps I can cultivate a humble mind. My quick tongue that is connected to a multi-layered quicksilver ADD mind might slow down. And in the conscious slowing down of my mind, perhaps I might find room for connection to other minds that are created differently from mine. My pride in being smart and well read and articulate can be set aside for a higher good. Tenderness of heart and humility in mind...my daily discipline for Lent. This is going to be much more difficult than giving up chocolate!
Please, God, help me detach from my pride in mind and tongue. Give me a tender heart that seeks only to draw closer to you and to your other little children. Grant me the gift of humility so that I might see your face in all the faces that surround me. Slow my mind down, Lord so that I might think clearly, rightly dividing the Truth that lives in all of us. Amen.

Weeping rivers, floods of joy

May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy! Psalms 126:5

When I was a young stay at home mother being dragged from the Land of Nod into the Land of Now by children calling my name, I used to imagine other people’s lives as better than mine. “They” got to sleep later. “They” had more money because there were two paychecks. “They” paid bills on time without losing them in a stack of paper. “They” had careers. “They” had purpose and organization and meaning in their lives. For me, the green grass on the other side of the fence in others lives had no briars or weeds. Often, all I could see was the briar patch in my life, not the green green grass of home.
Thank God for the saving grace of time and vision... 3-D glasses that gave me perspective through the passage of years. Now that I am, as a friend told me, old as dirt, my 3-D glasses continue to clear up my muddy vision and put life in its proper order.
My 3-D glasses see time as a river full of rocks and deep holes, calm pools and slow flowing streams. Each part of the river has challenge and danger, rest and refreshment. Some parts of the river have more rapids than still water but the still waters do come along later. Thirty five year marriage ending, life threatening illness, struggles with addiction... all these rough waters for friends of mine in this past week remind me of the rapids we all encounter in our lives. Children are not always perfect angels and parents aren’t either. The perfect farm has animals that have to be fed twice a day and manure to shovel. The price we pay for living is the tears we shed, the rivers we cry, for all that is painfully imperfect.
And yet... there is the promise of joy in this Psalm of Ascent. These songs were sung as God’s people journeyed to Jerusalem, a city on a hill, for holy days. Hill climbing, singing songs, songs that include the sorrows and promises of joy to come... we sing these songs as a way to see our lives more clearly, see God’s presence in all of our river of life. And as we sing, joy comes again.
Whether we are floating on an inner tube through gentle soft flowing water or being thrown from one rock in the river to another, the water underneath us keeps us moving up the hill towards God. And if as we weep, we remember the joy to come, perhaps our tears will become 3-D glasses that help us see God more clearly. So I pray for all of us who weep, for we who are overcome by rough waters, struggling to catch our breath, that we might catch a glimpse of the coming joy and be held in the loving arms of the One who called us into life. Weeping rivers, floods of joy... may it be so, Lord.

Here I go again...

It has been an interesting weekend. We drove to Columbia, S.C. on Friday so Michael could lead a retreat for a church that is in the midst of a painful identity crisis. Friends of ours are a part of this community. The retreat was intense with some of the angry, hurt feelings still close to the surface. The large group conversation was painfully transparent at times. The woman who serves as moderator for this church cried out, “I don’t want to die without a church family. Is there any hope for us?” But there was also laughter, hugs, good food, and an earnest desire to restore the community. They have some hard work to do but are committed to doing whatever is needed to break down the dividing walls of hostility that remain.
One of the true North Stars for this community emerged as the weekend progressed. They began as a community that chose to use the process of consensus as their decision making model. This process often was messy and took time but it worked. If they couldn’t agree to a compromise on the really tough issues, they did nothing. As new people joined the church, this process and the value attached to it were not translated or taught to the new members. When they hit two tough issues this past year, places where people thought they knew one another’s values, differences emerged in hurtful ways. Consensus, which takes time and trust to achieve, was trampled underfoot in the crush of each person speaking their own truth without the willingness to wait on the process to work.
Another hallmark of this church was their feeling of being part of a family. Everyone matters and what happens to you, happens to me. This feeling of family extended to their larger community in their sense of being called to mission. Over time, this family connection frayed around the edges as other matters clamored for attention. As they examined the history of this painful crisis, they owned the need to focus again on church family relationships and the need to look outward to serve.
Sunday we met with our worship group and I saw us through the scrim( a piece of gauze cloth that appears opaque until lit from behind) of the retreat. As I listened and sang and prayed Sunday morning, my soul bubbled and simmered. The Heat and Light I find in this community of faith keeps my soul stew cooking. Like the woman in Columbia I cry out, “I don’t want to die without a church family.” My church family now is small and forming, not yet fully birthed or able to claim its birthright. It is in process and the possibilities are exciting. The realities of committing again to another faith family are scary. It could hurt me... again. I could let down those I love in this small community. We could grow and get larger and then what would we do? Or we could not grow and is that a failure of sorts? How can I let go of the loss and anger that seared my soul, left stiff scar tissue over half healed hurts, trust God again to be in this process, trust that God will make all things new and that includes me? And when the hard times come in this community, as they surely will, can I trust God to help us find our way back to what binds us together?
An ancient prayer written by John Chryostom, Bishop of Constantinople, slows my soul down and in it I find assurance and peace. “Almighty God, who has given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplications unto you, and does promise that where two or three are gathered together in your name, you will grant their requests: fulfill now the desires and petitions of your servants, as may be most expedient for them, granting us in this world knowledge of your truth, and in the world to come, life everlasting.” May it be so, Lord, for our small community here in Asheville and for the church in Columbia. Give us a church family, whole and wholly yours, where we may live Your truths and in the time of our dying, find life everlasting in the family of God that awaits. Amen.