As I stood in the sun, listening to Clark and Karen sing “Bless This House”, my mind floated back twenty nine years to the summer of 1980. Our young family had just moved to Asheville. We were living in a wreck of the Hesperus house... three hundred dollars left in our checking account to tide us over until the payment came for the last retreat Michael had led. The house at Vineyard Place had not been touched or changed since the forties. Built in the twenties, it had unpainted chestnut molding and oak floors. Underneath the many layers of wallpaper lay the original stenciled borders on plaster walls. It also had the dirt and the grime that had accumulated with its last owner. It would take three years, blood, sweat and tears to restore the house at 6 Vineyard Place. But, when we drive by there now, I see the home it was for us and give thanks.
Our church home was First Baptist, the largest church I had ever joined. On Wednesday nights, I would take the children to church, walk into the dining room and not see a soul I knew to sit and eat supper with. Slowly that changed. I joined a Sunday School class of young mothers taught by Celeste. She mothered and befriended us, inviting us to her Glory Ridge home for soul food and fun. I began to teach a children’s class on Wednesday nights. Gradually that large anonymous gathering dissolved into single faces of people who knew my name and whose name I knew. First Baptist became my church home.
Now we have Sabbath Rest Farm, home for body and soul. Michael spent eight hours Saturday on the tractor fertilizing pastures for hay. The spreader came from daddy who spent many an hour pulling it across his fields in Georgia. The cows, deer and turkeys who graze on those pastures will have better grass this year. Maybe we will have a better hay crop if we get enough rain. I spent Saturday afternoon combing out the winter coats of Dixie and Junie B as they enjoyed the spring green grass on the hill behind mama’s house. Wild turkeys chattered in the woods. Crows and buzzards flew overhead while blue birds hopped, skipped and jumped around the fence lines. Warm sun, good company, God’s in heaven and all was right with my world for that brief moment.
And last Thursday, I stood at a wall raising for a Habitat Home being built in memory of Ray Rast, Celeste’s husband. We had moved away from Asheville and come back again. Our children are grown and married with children of their own. Glory Ridge has sold to another family who love it as Ray and Celeste did. Ray has died. So Celeste and the children decided to use money from the sale of Glory Ridge to build a house, a home, for others who need it. Ray was an active volunteer with Habitat since its early days, serving God with his building skills. He would have celebrated this decision to build a home in his honor.
In that gathering were some of my home folks from First Baptist, people who remembered me from back when. We visited and caught up on each other’s lives. Clarence and Scarlet live in Spartanburg now, their girls grown up, too. Cathy Butler has let her hair turn a lovely natural grey silver. Betty Jo and Tom look much the same as they did when we would see them at the pediatrician’s office. Sandra, Jim and Richard were there to work on the house for their dad. Lots of hugs, handshakes and “My, don’t you look good” was shared as we raised the wall and remembered Ray.
And in the middle of it all was another young family, not from these mountains, who are beginning to find home here now. Ghenadie, Natalia and their three young children live in the projects where drugs and violence are commonplace. Ghenadie works at a grocery store distribution center and has a bright future with that organization. Their children, two boys and a girl, were pointing out their bedrooms to anyone who would stand still. Racing up and down the pathway to their soon to be new home, their infectious joy spilled over into my heart making me laugh out loud. Home far away from their first home of Moldova, a home filled with gratitude and grace by builders and owners alike, is under construction in the Enka Hills neighborhood and it is already blessed.
Bless this new house, O Lord, I pray. Keep it safe by night and day. Bless all those who are giving the gift of home to all those who need homes. Bless the family that is working and waiting to move in. Thank you for the homes I have been given... my childhood homes and the homes of my adult years. Thank you for Ghenadie and Natalia, their children and their joyful anticipation of home at last. And in that great gettin’ up mornin’, when we leave our homes on earth behind, we will fly home to You, our resting place for body and soul, home at last. Thank you for waiting for us to get there. Amen.
Visit this web site to see a picture of Celeste and the Scerbina family.
http://www.ashevillehabitat.org/where_we_build/enka_rast_2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Standing Propped Up In The Need of Prayer
The call came at ten fifteen as I was walking down the hall headed towards the bedroom. It had been a busy day filled with a board retreat in our home, a run to Smiley Parker’s Feed and Seed to pick up fertilizer for the hay fields and feed for the horses and cows, and all the usual farm chores. I was tired from getting the house and yard ready for the retreat and a night of sleep, sweet sleep, beckoned me. It was not to be.
Tina’s voice was weak and frail sounding. She is in the hospital for complications from dialysis and is struggling. Yesterday she endured a heart catheterization, a needle in her chest to draw off fluid around her heart and dialysis. Vince, her husband, is having recurring pain in his leg from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He needed to go home to his bed, take his medicine and sleep.
As I drove through the quiet dark night, I marveled at our friendship with Vince and Tina. Vince was one of our main carpenters for the house we built here on the farm. He took great delight in fashioning wooden shiplap board walls and creating the cutout slat pattern for the front porch rails. Tina, raised hard and turned out cranky, is dear and tender underneath. She makes the best buttermilk cornbread I have ever eaten. Last night she needed a skin face for God and I was tagged It.
Hurting and afraid, she began talking as soon as I entered the room. “Tell me about our grandbabies”,she said. So I did. I told every story from this past week as she sat on the side of the bed resting her back. Aidan’s new girl friend Rory, Mason’s learning his letters and numbers, Mead sitting on the potty, Matthew going to his first lock in at church...As a final flourish I added the story of Jacob, a once upon a time grandchild of mine, peeing on his head at school... accidentally, of course. All though, knowing Jacob, it could have been accidentally on purpose. Then she began to talk and talk she did until two in the morning. We talked about spring, good weather coming, gardens to plant, fishing with the grandbabies, moving up the hill away from all the construction confusion and dust at the bridges, good friends, and life in the hard places. The pain pill came at two and by two thirty she was asleep so I slipped out and drove home to my bed.
Courage and grace come in the strangest packages sometimes. There she lay, tired and hurting and afraid of “passing out”, a salty dog of a woman, in her suffering transformed into creature of gratitude and grace. She thanked me for coming. No thanks were needed but I did tell her I would take a pan of cornbread when she got home.
All of us live on the edge. We live with the illusion of having our lives under control and that is what it is, an illusion. Our need for one another, our inability to manage alone in time of great sorrow or illness, mirrors our need for God. None of us stands on our own two feet. We are always propped up by others and ultimately, held up by God’s presence. It is easier to know our frailty and utter dependence when we are laid up or knocked down. Whether we choose to name it or not, to claim it or not, all of us will be laid low at some point(s) in our lives. That time of suffering, of absolute inability to manage, can be a holy time, a time to choose to let others care for us. The spiritual got it right... we all are standing in the need of prayer.
Tina kept saying, “You don’t know how bad it feels not to be able to do for yourself, Peggy.” The truth of the matter is I do know. I haven’t been laid low by physical suffering, yet, but I have stood in need, propped up by friends and family during dark hours of sorrow and depression. It is hard not to be able to do for yourself but it is also a great gift. In the dark quiet echoing silence of the soul when the body plumb gives out, you can hear the footsteps of God coming to you. Skin faces of God in the faces of friends and family surrounding you, propping you up, holding you in the Arms of Love until you are able to stand once again, infinitely grateful for the Love the will not let you go. When my time comes to face physical limitations, I hope I will be clarified and cleansed, transformed into a creature of graceful acceptance, my hard crunchy heart softened by need, keeping my face turned towards God and my soul rising up towards home. May it be so, Lord, please, for Tina and for me?
Tina’s voice was weak and frail sounding. She is in the hospital for complications from dialysis and is struggling. Yesterday she endured a heart catheterization, a needle in her chest to draw off fluid around her heart and dialysis. Vince, her husband, is having recurring pain in his leg from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He needed to go home to his bed, take his medicine and sleep.
As I drove through the quiet dark night, I marveled at our friendship with Vince and Tina. Vince was one of our main carpenters for the house we built here on the farm. He took great delight in fashioning wooden shiplap board walls and creating the cutout slat pattern for the front porch rails. Tina, raised hard and turned out cranky, is dear and tender underneath. She makes the best buttermilk cornbread I have ever eaten. Last night she needed a skin face for God and I was tagged It.
Hurting and afraid, she began talking as soon as I entered the room. “Tell me about our grandbabies”,she said. So I did. I told every story from this past week as she sat on the side of the bed resting her back. Aidan’s new girl friend Rory, Mason’s learning his letters and numbers, Mead sitting on the potty, Matthew going to his first lock in at church...As a final flourish I added the story of Jacob, a once upon a time grandchild of mine, peeing on his head at school... accidentally, of course. All though, knowing Jacob, it could have been accidentally on purpose. Then she began to talk and talk she did until two in the morning. We talked about spring, good weather coming, gardens to plant, fishing with the grandbabies, moving up the hill away from all the construction confusion and dust at the bridges, good friends, and life in the hard places. The pain pill came at two and by two thirty she was asleep so I slipped out and drove home to my bed.
Courage and grace come in the strangest packages sometimes. There she lay, tired and hurting and afraid of “passing out”, a salty dog of a woman, in her suffering transformed into creature of gratitude and grace. She thanked me for coming. No thanks were needed but I did tell her I would take a pan of cornbread when she got home.
All of us live on the edge. We live with the illusion of having our lives under control and that is what it is, an illusion. Our need for one another, our inability to manage alone in time of great sorrow or illness, mirrors our need for God. None of us stands on our own two feet. We are always propped up by others and ultimately, held up by God’s presence. It is easier to know our frailty and utter dependence when we are laid up or knocked down. Whether we choose to name it or not, to claim it or not, all of us will be laid low at some point(s) in our lives. That time of suffering, of absolute inability to manage, can be a holy time, a time to choose to let others care for us. The spiritual got it right... we all are standing in the need of prayer.
Tina kept saying, “You don’t know how bad it feels not to be able to do for yourself, Peggy.” The truth of the matter is I do know. I haven’t been laid low by physical suffering, yet, but I have stood in need, propped up by friends and family during dark hours of sorrow and depression. It is hard not to be able to do for yourself but it is also a great gift. In the dark quiet echoing silence of the soul when the body plumb gives out, you can hear the footsteps of God coming to you. Skin faces of God in the faces of friends and family surrounding you, propping you up, holding you in the Arms of Love until you are able to stand once again, infinitely grateful for the Love the will not let you go. When my time comes to face physical limitations, I hope I will be clarified and cleansed, transformed into a creature of graceful acceptance, my hard crunchy heart softened by need, keeping my face turned towards God and my soul rising up towards home. May it be so, Lord, please, for Tina and for me?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Down to the river to pray...
There it was in my dream, the river, much as I remember it from my childhood. Dark brown clear flowing water with old water oaks leaning over the banks, Spanish moss flung over the branches like gray scarves draped just so, white sand bars, fish that come to nibble the hairs on your legs if you stand still, and the hot still air that cools as you walk down the steep bank to stick your toes in the cool water...
The Withlacoochee River was our summer playground, fishing hole, baptismal pool and the coolest place we could find on South Georgia hot summer days in the Time Before Air Conditioning. We lived only a mile from the river, the boundary between Florida and Georgia. Often after chores were done on Saturday, we would flee to the river for its comfort, carrying a picnic supper. I learned to swim, sort of, in its flowing current. The closest I came to death was launching out in my timid dog paddle way, swimming to impress my daddy, losing my footing and going under two or three times. I carry a vivid memory of the circle of blue sky in the midst of the brown water as I slipped under and under and under again... peaceful image in the midst of great fear. And there the river was, again, in my dream last night.
It has been a hectic week, a week of contrasts, decisions and pain. Sunday afternoon I wrenched my knee badly when I fell from Dixie Chick. Tim, Bill and I spent all day Monday in the lawyer’s office, my leg elevated on various pieces of furniture, trying to reach a mediated agreement on our pond repair. Mama and I spent most of Tuesday sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to be seen. It is a simple sprain, painful and a pain to live with but nothing that time won’t heal. Wednesday I taught one class. Thursday I had two three hour classes. Friday I carried my neighbor to the hospital and sat with her and her husband for the morning. Saturday I finally made it to the grocery store, the feed store and Rose’s. In between all the activity, I lay around with ice packs on my knee. My house is a wreck, a dirty wreck, with piles of all sorts decorating every available flat surface and church meets here this morning. I needed the river.
In my dream last night, I was driving the geezermobile down the old blacktop faded gray by the hot summer sun. Instead of turning at the beer joint on the state line, I drove a little further and turned left at the white church trimmed in red. As I drove by the river, I could see fish jumping for joy, smell the sweet hot smells of dirt road and river and trees and moss. Like the fish, my heart soul leaped for joy and all was well. And there it was... a piece of the river flowed over the road, unseen depths, road going in one side and coming out the other. I knew others had crossed over because there were houses and people on the other side. Unknown depth, unknown risk, could the geezermobile (and I) make it through the water to the other side? I got out of the car and stood there yearning to cross over but afraid to try... blue circle in dark brown water time. I woke before I could decide and lay in bed pondering the meaning feeling of my dream.
Lent is my river these forty days and I have been standing on the banks wanting to get wet. The hectic events of this past week have kept me dry. It is time to drive the geezermobile down into the water to pray, let the brown clear rushing waters wash over me and rinse my soul out. Let the water carry all the dust and grime accumulated this past year away leaving me washed whiter than snow. It will be over my head and I risk losing my life to save it but that is what Jesus said we must do. So here goes... holding my nose in case I go under, I am wading into the unknown depths of the river, praying. It is well with my soul...
The Withlacoochee River was our summer playground, fishing hole, baptismal pool and the coolest place we could find on South Georgia hot summer days in the Time Before Air Conditioning. We lived only a mile from the river, the boundary between Florida and Georgia. Often after chores were done on Saturday, we would flee to the river for its comfort, carrying a picnic supper. I learned to swim, sort of, in its flowing current. The closest I came to death was launching out in my timid dog paddle way, swimming to impress my daddy, losing my footing and going under two or three times. I carry a vivid memory of the circle of blue sky in the midst of the brown water as I slipped under and under and under again... peaceful image in the midst of great fear. And there the river was, again, in my dream last night.
It has been a hectic week, a week of contrasts, decisions and pain. Sunday afternoon I wrenched my knee badly when I fell from Dixie Chick. Tim, Bill and I spent all day Monday in the lawyer’s office, my leg elevated on various pieces of furniture, trying to reach a mediated agreement on our pond repair. Mama and I spent most of Tuesday sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to be seen. It is a simple sprain, painful and a pain to live with but nothing that time won’t heal. Wednesday I taught one class. Thursday I had two three hour classes. Friday I carried my neighbor to the hospital and sat with her and her husband for the morning. Saturday I finally made it to the grocery store, the feed store and Rose’s. In between all the activity, I lay around with ice packs on my knee. My house is a wreck, a dirty wreck, with piles of all sorts decorating every available flat surface and church meets here this morning. I needed the river.
In my dream last night, I was driving the geezermobile down the old blacktop faded gray by the hot summer sun. Instead of turning at the beer joint on the state line, I drove a little further and turned left at the white church trimmed in red. As I drove by the river, I could see fish jumping for joy, smell the sweet hot smells of dirt road and river and trees and moss. Like the fish, my heart soul leaped for joy and all was well. And there it was... a piece of the river flowed over the road, unseen depths, road going in one side and coming out the other. I knew others had crossed over because there were houses and people on the other side. Unknown depth, unknown risk, could the geezermobile (and I) make it through the water to the other side? I got out of the car and stood there yearning to cross over but afraid to try... blue circle in dark brown water time. I woke before I could decide and lay in bed pondering the meaning feeling of my dream.
Lent is my river these forty days and I have been standing on the banks wanting to get wet. The hectic events of this past week have kept me dry. It is time to drive the geezermobile down into the water to pray, let the brown clear rushing waters wash over me and rinse my soul out. Let the water carry all the dust and grime accumulated this past year away leaving me washed whiter than snow. It will be over my head and I risk losing my life to save it but that is what Jesus said we must do. So here goes... holding my nose in case I go under, I am wading into the unknown depths of the river, praying. It is well with my soul...
Friday, March 13, 2009
Practice doesn't make perfect... but it does help.
It has been nearly a year now since I began riding lessons. Junie B and I were both green as grass. She had not been ridden regularly for several years. Her riders had been children with no training. We had lessons to learn in discipline, communication, understanding and pecking order. Those first months were tough for both of us.
I loved horses but had never had one of my own. As a child, the horses I rode were owned and cared for by others. My riding teacher showed me how to stand facing a horse who was pushy, expand my chest and speak very loudly while I showed them who was boss. My nervousness and inexperience was sniffed out by Junie B and she tried her best to move me out of the top spot. I was unseated (dumped) a time or two as she tested the limits of my persistence. No injuries since I managed to land on the most well padded part of my anatomy every time. And every time I picked myself up, yelled at Junie B and got back on.
Brooks, my teacher, was patient with me but demanded my best form. She stuck with us both, teaching us to listen to signals, how to communicate through reins and body language, how to work together. Horses, like us, need work to do and a sense of doing it well. Junie B and I are on our way to becoming a team. We are beginning to understand each other. Now when I go to feed donkeys and horses, Junie B comes, elbows the others out of the way and walks by my side down the little hill to the barn, my horse friend. I belong to her and she belongs to me. I am her person and she is my horse.
Winter has been more normal this year in temperature...colder than in past years... so I have not ridden much. But on the first balmy sunny day of spring to come, I tacked up and Junie B and I were off. I was a little nervous, wondering if we had forgotten some of our training during the long winter months. It was a lovely ride, all I have ever dreamed of. We ambled down the hill to the riding ring under construction by the old chicken barn, looped the loop a time or two and then struck off, climbing hills, visiting mama, practicing posting (me) and trotting(Junie B). We were both ready, at a new level of understanding that allowed us to enjoy being together without the earlier struggles.
There is something of my experience with God in this relationship with Junie B. My practice in being with God, my lessons, comes through the liturgical seasons of the year. Each season has something for me to learn. Sometimes I am not ready for the lesson and God lets me walk away. But the repetition, year after year, of lessons yet to be learned, brings me closer to God until one day, I look up, and see where I am. Like the prodigal son, I have somehow come to myself in a strange land. Knowing the way home, I leave the pig pen behind and run all the way back to God who is waiting for me with a lovely welcome. These moments do not come often but they are filled with grace and light and laughter and love. Like the first ride with Junie B this spring with rhythm and grace between us, God’s gracious waiting on me lets us dance together again. I belong to God and God belongs to me. Practice doesn’t make perfect but it does help me grow.
Lent will always be a mystery for me. The suffering, pain, loss and death sometimes cuts too close to the bone for my soul’s comfort. And yet I keep coming back, year after year, waiting on the lessons to be revealed. There is always enough grace to go around and enough struggle to keep me honest. That is more than enough to help me find a new way home to God. I am grateful.
I loved horses but had never had one of my own. As a child, the horses I rode were owned and cared for by others. My riding teacher showed me how to stand facing a horse who was pushy, expand my chest and speak very loudly while I showed them who was boss. My nervousness and inexperience was sniffed out by Junie B and she tried her best to move me out of the top spot. I was unseated (dumped) a time or two as she tested the limits of my persistence. No injuries since I managed to land on the most well padded part of my anatomy every time. And every time I picked myself up, yelled at Junie B and got back on.
Brooks, my teacher, was patient with me but demanded my best form. She stuck with us both, teaching us to listen to signals, how to communicate through reins and body language, how to work together. Horses, like us, need work to do and a sense of doing it well. Junie B and I are on our way to becoming a team. We are beginning to understand each other. Now when I go to feed donkeys and horses, Junie B comes, elbows the others out of the way and walks by my side down the little hill to the barn, my horse friend. I belong to her and she belongs to me. I am her person and she is my horse.
Winter has been more normal this year in temperature...colder than in past years... so I have not ridden much. But on the first balmy sunny day of spring to come, I tacked up and Junie B and I were off. I was a little nervous, wondering if we had forgotten some of our training during the long winter months. It was a lovely ride, all I have ever dreamed of. We ambled down the hill to the riding ring under construction by the old chicken barn, looped the loop a time or two and then struck off, climbing hills, visiting mama, practicing posting (me) and trotting(Junie B). We were both ready, at a new level of understanding that allowed us to enjoy being together without the earlier struggles.
There is something of my experience with God in this relationship with Junie B. My practice in being with God, my lessons, comes through the liturgical seasons of the year. Each season has something for me to learn. Sometimes I am not ready for the lesson and God lets me walk away. But the repetition, year after year, of lessons yet to be learned, brings me closer to God until one day, I look up, and see where I am. Like the prodigal son, I have somehow come to myself in a strange land. Knowing the way home, I leave the pig pen behind and run all the way back to God who is waiting for me with a lovely welcome. These moments do not come often but they are filled with grace and light and laughter and love. Like the first ride with Junie B this spring with rhythm and grace between us, God’s gracious waiting on me lets us dance together again. I belong to God and God belongs to me. Practice doesn’t make perfect but it does help me grow.
Lent will always be a mystery for me. The suffering, pain, loss and death sometimes cuts too close to the bone for my soul’s comfort. And yet I keep coming back, year after year, waiting on the lessons to be revealed. There is always enough grace to go around and enough struggle to keep me honest. That is more than enough to help me find a new way home to God. I am grateful.
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