It was a warm sunny Sunday so we decided to worship outside. Our table, draped in green with the prayer bowl and candle, was against the brick wall and we sat with our backs to the sun. As we waited for Mark to start, Janet and I began a conversation about boundaries. Others joined in. No white shoes after Labor Day... girls can be nurses but not doctors... don’t get above your raising... The consensus was some boundaries are made to be broken but some boundaries are a necessity. This age of few limits and boundaries can be treacherous to navigate without a some fenceposts along the way.
Worship focused on the story of Hannah, her husband, and his other wife, a story that could have been told in one of today’s tabloids. Beloved wife is sterile, second wife bears many children and taunts her rival, husband doesn’t get it, beloved wife prays for deliverance through children and her prayer is answered, she offers her firstborn as a servant to the God who heard her prayer. Mark, who has an eclectic taste in music, played the Dionne Warwick hit song, “I Say a Little Prayer for You” and the group read the drama out loud. I came home and read the rest of the story in First Samuel.
The rest of the story is about God coming to the end of the rope with old Eli’s sons who were breaking all the commandments. Eli was hearing from everybody how bad his boys were. They wouldn’t listen when their daddy tried to rein them in. They were having too much fun living on the wild side. So a man of God came to Eli with a vision he revealed, a vision that told of the death of his sons, “There will not be an old man in your house”, and the beginning of a new priesthood. Enough is enough, said the Lord God.
No instantaneous miraculous death dealing in this story, though. It comes true through the years as Samuel continues to grow up with Eli at the temple. “And the word of the Lord was rare in those days; there was no frequent vision”. That verse could have been written about my life... no frequent vision, rare connection to the Love of my Life, trouble listening and seeing God at work in the history of my life. Slight break here while I go mop up after the beagle who just threw up after eating a decorative birds nest he filched from the table top...no wonder I have difficulty with my God vision.
God works within the boundaries of time and space, allows the gradual unfolding of his purposes in our lives, lets us have some room to run and some time to find our way back. And when we pray, sometimes the answers to our prayers come in the form of those people of God who are living their lives next to us. The long slow working of God in our lives often cannot be understood until our lives are nearly complete. Like Eli, we hear the voices of the young Samuels around us and say, “Listen to the voice of the Lord and do what seems good.” Remember your raising, don’t wear white after Labor Day and girls can be anything they want to be...
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Writing... my prayer of the heart
Those who have made the prayer of the heart a daily practice come to experience it as a simple, yet beautiful way to their true home. It gradually leads us away from the house of fear and moves us closer to the house of love, God’s house. Henri Nouwen
Someone asked me last night why I write... how did I learn to write... As far back as my memory goes (and that is pretty far back now) I have loved words. I couldn’t wait to read and pestered my daddy into teaching me using the newspaper and maps as my first books. He and mama read every night and our home was full of magazines and books. When school began, I could hardly wait to see what our reader was for the year. I would sit in class and read ahead, bored with just keeping up.
The good teachers caught me at it and gave me more books to read just to keep me occupied. Mrs. Dees, my fourth grade teacher, required a term paper and taught us the intricacies of foot notes and note cards. My tenth grade English teacher, a part time Methodist minister in our small village who taught to make a living wage, set up a special reading program for me introducing me to Flaubert and Darwin and Steinbeck among others. Mrs. Adams, my senior English Literature teacher, shared her love of the written word with an extensive reading course designed to turn little South Georgia rednecks into reasonable facsimiles of cultured persons. A college course in T.S. Eliot’s poetry introduced me to the wonderful world of poetry with layered meanings.
A town librarian who overlooked my age and let me check out anything I wanted from the adult section set my mind to roaming through all those lovely books shelved in the Carnegie Library. My grandmother ignored all the basic chores in life and let me read all day if I wanted to, sitting on the front porch of Cloverly or curled up on the old green horsehair Victorian sofa in the front parlor. She had a bookshelf full of potboiler romance novels from the turn of the century and I loved all those stories of high minded young women and men suffering the pangs of love.
Verbal communication was not a skill my father practiced. He belonged to the school of thought that actions provided proof of love and affection and anger was an emotion only adults could indulge in. There was very little teaching of appropriate expression of feelings with spoken words. Writing and reading, however, were seen as valuable evidence of education and written expression (daddy wrote a lot of letters to congressmen and senators) was an acceptable way to express feelings. One of my learning curves in marriage has been to acquire the ability to express emotion in words without chin quivers and tears. I would much rather write it out than speak it.
So when I read the Nouwen quote this morning in my little prayer book, I laughed at the synchronicity of the Holy Spirit. Writing is my daily prayer of the heart, my way out of the house of fear, my way home to the house of Love. I cannot speak with the tongues of angels. I get choked up and have not yet found a way to cry and speak effectively at the same time. But, I can write. I am grateful for all my teachers in the art of writing and reading. It has been and continues to be a lifeline that connects my inner self with the outside world, an important survival tool for an introvert like me. So I write because I can, because I must, because it leads me home to myself and God.
We are all different, unique in our choice of ways to travel home to the house of love. I write, others speak, others use actions or service, some sing and some create art, some meditate and chant, others pray without ceasing. However we get there, by mule or horse, by Model T or Corvette, by train or bus, it is important that we be conscious in our travels of our final destination and “keep our eyes on the prize.” Thanks be to God for the journey.
Someone asked me last night why I write... how did I learn to write... As far back as my memory goes (and that is pretty far back now) I have loved words. I couldn’t wait to read and pestered my daddy into teaching me using the newspaper and maps as my first books. He and mama read every night and our home was full of magazines and books. When school began, I could hardly wait to see what our reader was for the year. I would sit in class and read ahead, bored with just keeping up.
The good teachers caught me at it and gave me more books to read just to keep me occupied. Mrs. Dees, my fourth grade teacher, required a term paper and taught us the intricacies of foot notes and note cards. My tenth grade English teacher, a part time Methodist minister in our small village who taught to make a living wage, set up a special reading program for me introducing me to Flaubert and Darwin and Steinbeck among others. Mrs. Adams, my senior English Literature teacher, shared her love of the written word with an extensive reading course designed to turn little South Georgia rednecks into reasonable facsimiles of cultured persons. A college course in T.S. Eliot’s poetry introduced me to the wonderful world of poetry with layered meanings.
A town librarian who overlooked my age and let me check out anything I wanted from the adult section set my mind to roaming through all those lovely books shelved in the Carnegie Library. My grandmother ignored all the basic chores in life and let me read all day if I wanted to, sitting on the front porch of Cloverly or curled up on the old green horsehair Victorian sofa in the front parlor. She had a bookshelf full of potboiler romance novels from the turn of the century and I loved all those stories of high minded young women and men suffering the pangs of love.
Verbal communication was not a skill my father practiced. He belonged to the school of thought that actions provided proof of love and affection and anger was an emotion only adults could indulge in. There was very little teaching of appropriate expression of feelings with spoken words. Writing and reading, however, were seen as valuable evidence of education and written expression (daddy wrote a lot of letters to congressmen and senators) was an acceptable way to express feelings. One of my learning curves in marriage has been to acquire the ability to express emotion in words without chin quivers and tears. I would much rather write it out than speak it.
So when I read the Nouwen quote this morning in my little prayer book, I laughed at the synchronicity of the Holy Spirit. Writing is my daily prayer of the heart, my way out of the house of fear, my way home to the house of Love. I cannot speak with the tongues of angels. I get choked up and have not yet found a way to cry and speak effectively at the same time. But, I can write. I am grateful for all my teachers in the art of writing and reading. It has been and continues to be a lifeline that connects my inner self with the outside world, an important survival tool for an introvert like me. So I write because I can, because I must, because it leads me home to myself and God.
We are all different, unique in our choice of ways to travel home to the house of love. I write, others speak, others use actions or service, some sing and some create art, some meditate and chant, others pray without ceasing. However we get there, by mule or horse, by Model T or Corvette, by train or bus, it is important that we be conscious in our travels of our final destination and “keep our eyes on the prize.” Thanks be to God for the journey.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Come unto me...
Come unto me all ye who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28
I knew when I married him that he wanted to be a pastor. His first church work after seminary was as assistant pastor (and youth minister) at Lake Shore Baptist Church in Waco, Texas, still one of our two home churches. I watched as parishioners made their way to his office... parents of teenagers, young married couples, young adults... all needing someone to tell their troubles to who embodied the face of God for them. After three years at Lake Shore, we moved back to the seminary for Michael’s Ph.D. in that peculiar discipline of Pastoral Counseling (not counseling for pastors), the discipline that marries the practice of faith and psychotherapy. For forty years I have watched him learn and practice the art and craft of pastoral counseling on church staffs, in church offices, in our home and at the office of Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center.
In 1980 when we moved to Asheville for the first time, he had an office at Beverly Hills Baptist and an office at home. Our outdoor swing was his waiting room in spring, summer and fall. Alison, our youngest daughter, was his greeter, often sitting in the swing with folks chattering away about her life and handing out hugs. When we returned to Louisville, Kentucky for Michael to serve as a professor at the seminary where he received his Ph.D., he had an office at home where he continued his private practice as a pastoral counselor. Our children grew up knowing clients as friends, neighbors, fellow church members and it was a seamless part of Michael’s ministry as a pastor whatever else he did.
When we moved back to Asheville in 1990, Michael established the Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center in an old house, 191 East Chestnut Street. For the first time, his practice was separated from a church building and our home. At first, it was just Michael with the other rooms in the house rented out. Gradually, a collegial practice came into being with other pastoral counselors joining him. As he had done throughout his years of practice, Michael continued to see people who could not afford to pay much at all for help. He always had a group of folks... teens paying their own way, families living close to the edge, pastors who worked for small churches... whom he saw for a very small fee, sometimes free. It was important to him that he tithe his time and talents for the greater good.
And then he had a dream... a dream of a foundation that could help pay the way for those who could not afford to pay, a way to provide help for the least ones, the lost ones, the overlooked ones. It would have been easier to establish a non-profit for his center, a way to expand his habit of tithing time and talent for those under the roof of Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center. But one of the hallmarks of Michael’s character is his generosity of vision and his generosity of spirit. His vision included all pastoral counselors in Western North Carolina and all the people they could help if some financial support was available. He knew that they, like him, depended on the fees collected to support themselves and their families. There was a limit to the help that could be provided by the individual counselors but a foundation could raise money, structure an application process, write checks to counselors for services given to approved clients and extend the ministry of pastoral counseling in Western North Carolina. And, so it has.
Every December, I watch as Michael sits at our big round table, surrounded by letters to donors, writing a personal message of gratitude and grace on each one, asking for their continued financial support for this important ministry. The list is long and it takes hours. He does so, not just for himself, not just for the other pastoral counselors, but for all those who labor and are heavy laden, those who need rest, those who need to see and hear the face of God in a counselor who will help them find their way through the valley of the shadow. He will never see or know most of those who will be helped by the money he raises but it is more than enough to know that they are helped.
Tonight we will gather for the foundation’s annual meeting to see the results of last years work, to give money, to meet and greet one another, to celebrate all that has been done, to see what lies ahead. We will write a check tonight, probably bordering on more than we can afford, not because we are special but because we have a dream. I will sit and give thanks for that dream of Michael’s all those years ago, for all the pastoral counselors who are able to extend a helping hand to those in need, for the generous gifts of the many supporters, and for the director of the foundation and the hard work she must do. But most of all, I give thanks for the opportunity we have to make a difference in others lives in the name of the One who has called us to walk with the weak and weary, to lend them a shoulder to lean on at a time when they are unable to walk alone. Seek and you will find, ask and it will be given... and so it has. Amen.
If you would like to support the Partnership for Pastoral Counseling, you can mail a check to PO Box 8177, Asheville, NC 28814.
I knew when I married him that he wanted to be a pastor. His first church work after seminary was as assistant pastor (and youth minister) at Lake Shore Baptist Church in Waco, Texas, still one of our two home churches. I watched as parishioners made their way to his office... parents of teenagers, young married couples, young adults... all needing someone to tell their troubles to who embodied the face of God for them. After three years at Lake Shore, we moved back to the seminary for Michael’s Ph.D. in that peculiar discipline of Pastoral Counseling (not counseling for pastors), the discipline that marries the practice of faith and psychotherapy. For forty years I have watched him learn and practice the art and craft of pastoral counseling on church staffs, in church offices, in our home and at the office of Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center.
In 1980 when we moved to Asheville for the first time, he had an office at Beverly Hills Baptist and an office at home. Our outdoor swing was his waiting room in spring, summer and fall. Alison, our youngest daughter, was his greeter, often sitting in the swing with folks chattering away about her life and handing out hugs. When we returned to Louisville, Kentucky for Michael to serve as a professor at the seminary where he received his Ph.D., he had an office at home where he continued his private practice as a pastoral counselor. Our children grew up knowing clients as friends, neighbors, fellow church members and it was a seamless part of Michael’s ministry as a pastor whatever else he did.
When we moved back to Asheville in 1990, Michael established the Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center in an old house, 191 East Chestnut Street. For the first time, his practice was separated from a church building and our home. At first, it was just Michael with the other rooms in the house rented out. Gradually, a collegial practice came into being with other pastoral counselors joining him. As he had done throughout his years of practice, Michael continued to see people who could not afford to pay much at all for help. He always had a group of folks... teens paying their own way, families living close to the edge, pastors who worked for small churches... whom he saw for a very small fee, sometimes free. It was important to him that he tithe his time and talents for the greater good.
And then he had a dream... a dream of a foundation that could help pay the way for those who could not afford to pay, a way to provide help for the least ones, the lost ones, the overlooked ones. It would have been easier to establish a non-profit for his center, a way to expand his habit of tithing time and talent for those under the roof of Pastoral Counseling and Growth Center. But one of the hallmarks of Michael’s character is his generosity of vision and his generosity of spirit. His vision included all pastoral counselors in Western North Carolina and all the people they could help if some financial support was available. He knew that they, like him, depended on the fees collected to support themselves and their families. There was a limit to the help that could be provided by the individual counselors but a foundation could raise money, structure an application process, write checks to counselors for services given to approved clients and extend the ministry of pastoral counseling in Western North Carolina. And, so it has.
Every December, I watch as Michael sits at our big round table, surrounded by letters to donors, writing a personal message of gratitude and grace on each one, asking for their continued financial support for this important ministry. The list is long and it takes hours. He does so, not just for himself, not just for the other pastoral counselors, but for all those who labor and are heavy laden, those who need rest, those who need to see and hear the face of God in a counselor who will help them find their way through the valley of the shadow. He will never see or know most of those who will be helped by the money he raises but it is more than enough to know that they are helped.
Tonight we will gather for the foundation’s annual meeting to see the results of last years work, to give money, to meet and greet one another, to celebrate all that has been done, to see what lies ahead. We will write a check tonight, probably bordering on more than we can afford, not because we are special but because we have a dream. I will sit and give thanks for that dream of Michael’s all those years ago, for all the pastoral counselors who are able to extend a helping hand to those in need, for the generous gifts of the many supporters, and for the director of the foundation and the hard work she must do. But most of all, I give thanks for the opportunity we have to make a difference in others lives in the name of the One who has called us to walk with the weak and weary, to lend them a shoulder to lean on at a time when they are unable to walk alone. Seek and you will find, ask and it will be given... and so it has. Amen.
If you would like to support the Partnership for Pastoral Counseling, you can mail a check to PO Box 8177, Asheville, NC 28814.
Monday, November 9, 2009
a day at Sabbath Rest Farm...
I walked out to the gate headed down to the stable and smelled the sharp tang of wood smoke hanging heavy in the air. The air was cold, crisp and clear. The ground was white with frost. A cloud lay in the valley below blotting out the sight of the other houses on the farm. Junie B spoke to me and the donkeys complained about my being too slow. I fed Bud the Barn Cat, put out morning hay, set the captives free and mucked out the stalls. When I walked back up to the house, the cloud was slowly fading away as the sun rose in the valley. Like the musical Brigadoon, a little community was coming into view wrapped in soft edges. I stood for a moment and savored the beginning of my day, gave thanks for the beauty that surrounds me, went in to cook breakfast for Michael... some of his eggs fresh from his hens.
It was hay baling day, the last of this season...freeze dried by now after several days of frost and warm sun. Little Michael was back from his time in Winston-Salem with his new used pick up truck ready to work. His exuberant greeting and hearty hug set the mood for the day’s work. We did stable work, traded out the screens on the side porch for the winter glass panels, he and Michael did some fence work, and it was lunch time. Soup for lunch and short naps... time to bale hay.
It wasn’t much hay, just 140 bales or so, dry and light mostly. I stacked alone since Diane’s hip is out, and Leisa drove the truck and trailer. That is no small job since you have all the men telling you where to go next and how to get there. The men, whom God blessed with more upper body strength and am I glad, tossed the bales into the trailer and we stacked them five rows high for the drive home. After unloading the hay in Gary’s barn, we three went to eat supper at mama’s. She had cooked for us... roast beef, her famous mashed potatoes, rutabagas, peas, beans and cake. It is such a good gift to come home to a meal made ready for you after work in the fields. We gave thanks and ate like we meant it.
We drove up to our house and I got out to go stable the horses and feed them. I stepped out of the Kawasaki mule and looked up at the night sky. It took my breath away. Clear, dark night with more stars than my eye could count, light from far away in time and space, bathing my upturned face in their shining blessing. I got lost in the otherness of the sky world that is beyond my understanding and sang my evening blessing... “Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh, shadows of the evening, steal across the sky. Jesus, give the weary calm and sweet repose; with thy tenderest blessing, may our eyelids close. When the morning wakens, then may I arise pure, and fresh, and sinless in they holy eyes.” It was a good day, a very good day and I did rejoice in it.
It was hay baling day, the last of this season...freeze dried by now after several days of frost and warm sun. Little Michael was back from his time in Winston-Salem with his new used pick up truck ready to work. His exuberant greeting and hearty hug set the mood for the day’s work. We did stable work, traded out the screens on the side porch for the winter glass panels, he and Michael did some fence work, and it was lunch time. Soup for lunch and short naps... time to bale hay.
It wasn’t much hay, just 140 bales or so, dry and light mostly. I stacked alone since Diane’s hip is out, and Leisa drove the truck and trailer. That is no small job since you have all the men telling you where to go next and how to get there. The men, whom God blessed with more upper body strength and am I glad, tossed the bales into the trailer and we stacked them five rows high for the drive home. After unloading the hay in Gary’s barn, we three went to eat supper at mama’s. She had cooked for us... roast beef, her famous mashed potatoes, rutabagas, peas, beans and cake. It is such a good gift to come home to a meal made ready for you after work in the fields. We gave thanks and ate like we meant it.
We drove up to our house and I got out to go stable the horses and feed them. I stepped out of the Kawasaki mule and looked up at the night sky. It took my breath away. Clear, dark night with more stars than my eye could count, light from far away in time and space, bathing my upturned face in their shining blessing. I got lost in the otherness of the sky world that is beyond my understanding and sang my evening blessing... “Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh, shadows of the evening, steal across the sky. Jesus, give the weary calm and sweet repose; with thy tenderest blessing, may our eyelids close. When the morning wakens, then may I arise pure, and fresh, and sinless in they holy eyes.” It was a good day, a very good day and I did rejoice in it.
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