It has been such a strange Advent, suspended between life and death, joy and sorrow, calm and frenzy. Hope Sunday was spent far from home, not with our church family as we usually do. Hope for new life was embodied in an old man dying, one body worn out but not yet moved in to his new one... hope for a peaceful passing over to the other side of the River Jordan, hope for joy in the morning, hope for all us mortals who live in the shadow of death. We were, in the words of the writer of Titus, “awaiting our blessed hope”. This year, hope is speckled with both darkness and light. I am the richer for it... richer in soul, steeped in gratitude for the hope that led a man to leave his cultural heritage and become a new being, one who saw no differences in the colors of skin.
We came home to wait for death’s arrival. One of the gifts and curses of being self employed is you are your own boss. When the boss wants to, he can choose to leave work... but he doesn’t get paid. There is no paid leave time for illness or family emergencies. Michael needed to work. During this week of Hope, I called family members, friends, funeral home, cemetery, churches, e-mailed the obituary, began preparations for Christmas. Life marched on, nay, it raced on with or without me. There were still meals to cook, animals to feed, clothes to wash, bills to pay, a house to clean, sheets to change, company coming. Wednesday night, the word came. H.O. died in his sleep, the sleep he entered before Michael left him. In the midst of life, we were in death. Those ancient words from The Book of Common Prayer stilled my spirit, calmed my frenetic pace.
And now we are living out the week of love. It has been a week of love filled up and overflowing. Church family calling and wanting to help... a clean house and food will be waiting for us when we return from Alabama this weekend. Friends of long standing, friends who have known us since we were hardly worth knowing, friends who knew Michael’s parents, new friends, all have opened their loving arms to us, enveloped us with hugs and pats, listened to our stories, wept with us, laughed with us. We know love because of the One who first loved us and our God kinfolk who have surrounded us this second week of Advent. Love is drawing the family to Alabama this weekend for one last time in the place Michael’s parents called home. All the grandchildren will be there. One will sing Amazing Grace, others will read scripture, their presence a witness to the loves that brought them into being.
For now, we rest... rest and wait. We wait for the promised joy, joy that knows no limits of circumstance but flows from the Source of all that is. We are singing our Requiem Mass this weekend as a family, our prayers for peace and rest and forgiveness, our song of joy for all that has been and all that is yet to come. I read the words of the Requiem Mass, the Mass for the dead. “In the midst of life we are in death: of whom May we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, Who for our sins art justly displeased? Yet, O Lord, most mighty, O holy and most Merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter Pains of eternal death.” The bitter pains of eternal death, our sins, all are wiped away as we seek the One who birthed us into this world. Hoping, peaceful, joyful Love awaits us all when our Advent life here on earth is completed.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Well done...
The old man died last night. Sunday, ten days ago Tammy called to say Michael needed to come on if he wanted to see his dad alive again. Hospice thought he wouldn’t live until Wednesday when Michael was planning to be there. Monday was a whirlwind canceling and rescheduling appointments, packing, getting the car ready to go, but he was able to leave in the early afternoon. The room across from his dad at Autumn Place was empty (Mr. Hudson had died) so Tammy had the room made ready for Michael. It was a tender week of care giving... hand holding, reading aloud from the Bible, the last haircut, H.O. aware of Michael’s presence intermittently. With his son by his side, the old preacher set out on his last road trip.
H.O.’s calling in life was to be a pastor. For the first part of his career, he was a parish pastor for 85th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The second parish was the whole state of Alabama, all the African American Baptist churches primarily. He and Ann traveled the state, the country and the world in the company of black Baptists. In an era when white people still gave their yard man a drink in a mason jar, Ann and H.O. visited homes, ate wonderful meals, preached and became friends with more black people than white. Whenever they came to visit us, wherever we lived, H.O. always knew who the black Baptist pastors were and was preaching in their churches or we went for worship. He has outlived almost all of his contemporaries black and white. The pastoral care he and Ann lived out during a time of turmoil is mostly forgotten now, eclipsed by the march of time.
When Tammy called last night to tell us H.O. had died, she was weeping. In his last parish, Autumn Place, the women loved him. The nurses and care givers loved him because he loved them. When they served him his meals, he would take their hand, kiss it and thank them. When he told his trademark corny jokes, they laughed and shared hugs. H.O. was proud of being a “hugging Hester”. All the helpers, black and white, loved him for who he had been and who he was now. Last night, Tammy and Cora bathed his body and dressed him for his last trip. It was a gift of love.
So today we wakened to a new world, a world where Ann and H.O. are together again, beyond our reach but in our hearts. After Ann’s death, H.O. couldn’t wait to get back home to Alabama. Alabama, his native state, where he and Ann grew up knowing each other, married, birthed children, lived their love story, home sweet home. The time after her death was lonely for him. She had been his sweetheart since childhood and his life after her death was lopsided and a little lost. This morning, in the midst of our grief is the joy of their glad reunion. Betwixt and between again...
Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Rest now in the arms of God with your sweet Ann by your side. We will catch up with you later.
H.O.’s calling in life was to be a pastor. For the first part of his career, he was a parish pastor for 85th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The second parish was the whole state of Alabama, all the African American Baptist churches primarily. He and Ann traveled the state, the country and the world in the company of black Baptists. In an era when white people still gave their yard man a drink in a mason jar, Ann and H.O. visited homes, ate wonderful meals, preached and became friends with more black people than white. Whenever they came to visit us, wherever we lived, H.O. always knew who the black Baptist pastors were and was preaching in their churches or we went for worship. He has outlived almost all of his contemporaries black and white. The pastoral care he and Ann lived out during a time of turmoil is mostly forgotten now, eclipsed by the march of time.
When Tammy called last night to tell us H.O. had died, she was weeping. In his last parish, Autumn Place, the women loved him. The nurses and care givers loved him because he loved them. When they served him his meals, he would take their hand, kiss it and thank them. When he told his trademark corny jokes, they laughed and shared hugs. H.O. was proud of being a “hugging Hester”. All the helpers, black and white, loved him for who he had been and who he was now. Last night, Tammy and Cora bathed his body and dressed him for his last trip. It was a gift of love.
So today we wakened to a new world, a world where Ann and H.O. are together again, beyond our reach but in our hearts. After Ann’s death, H.O. couldn’t wait to get back home to Alabama. Alabama, his native state, where he and Ann grew up knowing each other, married, birthed children, lived their love story, home sweet home. The time after her death was lonely for him. She had been his sweetheart since childhood and his life after her death was lopsided and a little lost. This morning, in the midst of our grief is the joy of their glad reunion. Betwixt and between again...
Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Rest now in the arms of God with your sweet Ann by your side. We will catch up with you later.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Valdosta vignettes...Morven minutes
Instead of driving Miss Daisy, I was driving Miz Shirley down to the farm in South Georgia for Thanksgiving weekend. We drove on the back roads through beautiful farmland, past black and white speckled Holsteins reclining under water oak shade trees, passing small towns with rich history, on our way to see Uncle Harold, my father’s only surviving brother, in Tarrytown. It was a straight shot from Soperton to Tarrytown, past the town cemetery where many of my relatives are buried, turn left at Miss Ora’s house (my step-great-grandmother, gifted quilt maker), past cousin Jaymond’s house, turn right at the four way stop, then left on the dirt road named Vance Road after my grandfather, second house on the right. After a short visit we headed out to Valdosta-Morven and the farm, needing to be there by supper time.
We were only going to be there for four full days and there was a lot to be done. The house had mold in it from being shut up for ten months. Our first task after eating a sandwich was to scrub cabinets, furniture, and floors to get the first layer cleaned up. We saved washing the dishes for the next morning. We slept the sleep of the righteous that night worn out by the trip, the cleaning and all the emotions of being home again.
The new well pump wasn’t working so mama called the well men early. They could come the first part of the afternoon so we occupied ourselves with work that needed to be done inside and outside. After cleaning chores in the morning, we began picking up pecans from under the trees in the backyard. It was a bountiful harvest and we filled two five gallon buckets quickly. After a walk down the lane to check out the barns and speak to the one remaining barn cat Sam, we began weeding the flower beds overgrown with dog fennel. The well men came and just jiggled the pipe. Much to mama’s aggravation, it clicked right on. A quick run to the grocery store set us up for food and we settled in for the visit. Thanksgiving Day was filled with more yard work, turkey and trimmings, grace and gratitude for our family’s life on this little farm, and picking up more pecans. The writing that follows are short snapshots of our days in South Georgia...Valdosta vignettes and Morven minutes, a collection of where I come from and who my people are.
Valdosta... We drove into Valdosta to take the pecans to Everett’s for cracking. They do a better job than Exum’s just down the road from the farm. It was a neat old brick building, open on one side with a closed in small office space-gift shop to one side. In the back, the cracking machine ran tended by a black man and in the front, a Latino woman minded the tables laden with vegetables. The greens were freshly picked from the patch out back. Mama asked the owner if anybody ever stole his greens. He said, “All the time but I planted enough to feed them and me, too. If they care enough to take the time and trouble to pick them, they are hungry so I don’t mind.” There was laughter and joking and teasing between customers, workers and owners, each giving as good as they got.
As the owner’s thirty something son was checking me out he asked, “Is life in the mountains wonderful?” “Yes and no”, I said. “Mostly its life like everywhere else surrounded by great beauty.” He continued to tell me of his fears. He said there was so much racial hostility now, more than ever before, volatile and dangerous. Ten murders in this little city this year with a shooting the week before that injured eleven and killed one... all young black men. The violence is fueled by drugs and gangs sending those who can afford it to the county to live leaving a shell of the vibrant downtown I once knew. He worries about the future of this town he loves, this business he runs. “I’m caught between here and not here”, he says, “and I don’t know what to do.” Betwixt and between my grandma would say and for that I have no answer.
With an expanded Air Force base, a growing state university, a sturdy base of manufacturing companies and a mostly rural community, Valdosta has felt the pinch of the recession but is not yet desperate. Jobs are not plentiful but there is still work available. It has never been an area made rich by high salaries, flush with money. Folks have not forgotten how to get by, to make do, to do more with less. Food and living expenses are much cheaper than here in the mountains so it takes less money to make a life in South Georgia. Most of the places I knew and loved in downtown are closed. Crime has shut down the business district and most of the beautiful old turn of the century buildings sit empty and idle. Betwixt and between... the old ways and places are gone and it is not yet clear what will come to take its place.
Morven minutes... Mama and I run to the Dollar Store to pick up some freezer bags for our shelled pecans. As we stand in the aisle, a young blonde woman walks by, stops and hugs mama. Her name is Debbie Cason. Her family lives in the Morven community and we bought cane syrup from her daddy every year. He still made it the old fashioned way and a trip to the Casons was an annual ritual for us. When Mister Cason bought his small farm, the bank wouldn’t loan him the money because he didn’t have enough down payment. Daddy loaned him his down payment money for no interest and Mister Cason paid back every penny. Debbie was a part of the medical team that tended my daddy the last week of his life in the hospital. She and mama caught up on family talk while I listened.
And around the end of the aisle came a buggy pushed speedily by Wilma Elliot who heard mama’s voice and wanted in on the reunion. Daddy bought his farm from her daddy and they lived up on the road near our house. Wilma is a little older than I am and had become a good friend to mama after my sister and I left home. She and mama keep in touch by phone. “So, how long are you staying this time?” Wilma asked. Mama explained she no longer felt safe staying by herself at home so far from us. I felt her struggle with the loss in those words, saw Wilma’s eyes blur with tears, choked up myself. Beloved community there in the Dollar Store aisles in little Morven... women who have loved one another for years facing bravely the loss of the presence of one of their own. “No help for it”, mama says and so it is.
Morven has changed some. An Indian family bought the little grocery store. There are more Latino faces now and along with a Bar-B-Que restaurant owned by an African American family, a seafood restaurant will be opening soon. Jean’s beauty shop is still in the former service station and the bank is doing fine. The old brick stores are a little more decrepit than before but still standing. The phone booth at the crossroads is gone and has been replaced by a pay phone at the Flash gas station. The Baptist and Methodist churches still look active and well cared for. The old school has become home to a plethora of offices and looks a little shabby. Crime here, too, is a growing problem with drugs and home invasions a new reality for this little country town. Personal safety is no longer taken for granted.
Life goes on there and here. Changes come. Some are good and some not so good. The ties that bind are stretched by distance but not broken. There is much to say grace over in the here and not here of life. From the betwixt and the between of life in South Georgia and life in the North Carolina mountains, I affirm the grace of God, the goodness of people and the gift of life. These were the days the Lord made and we did give thanks and we were glad in it. Amen.
We were only going to be there for four full days and there was a lot to be done. The house had mold in it from being shut up for ten months. Our first task after eating a sandwich was to scrub cabinets, furniture, and floors to get the first layer cleaned up. We saved washing the dishes for the next morning. We slept the sleep of the righteous that night worn out by the trip, the cleaning and all the emotions of being home again.
The new well pump wasn’t working so mama called the well men early. They could come the first part of the afternoon so we occupied ourselves with work that needed to be done inside and outside. After cleaning chores in the morning, we began picking up pecans from under the trees in the backyard. It was a bountiful harvest and we filled two five gallon buckets quickly. After a walk down the lane to check out the barns and speak to the one remaining barn cat Sam, we began weeding the flower beds overgrown with dog fennel. The well men came and just jiggled the pipe. Much to mama’s aggravation, it clicked right on. A quick run to the grocery store set us up for food and we settled in for the visit. Thanksgiving Day was filled with more yard work, turkey and trimmings, grace and gratitude for our family’s life on this little farm, and picking up more pecans. The writing that follows are short snapshots of our days in South Georgia...Valdosta vignettes and Morven minutes, a collection of where I come from and who my people are.
Valdosta... We drove into Valdosta to take the pecans to Everett’s for cracking. They do a better job than Exum’s just down the road from the farm. It was a neat old brick building, open on one side with a closed in small office space-gift shop to one side. In the back, the cracking machine ran tended by a black man and in the front, a Latino woman minded the tables laden with vegetables. The greens were freshly picked from the patch out back. Mama asked the owner if anybody ever stole his greens. He said, “All the time but I planted enough to feed them and me, too. If they care enough to take the time and trouble to pick them, they are hungry so I don’t mind.” There was laughter and joking and teasing between customers, workers and owners, each giving as good as they got.
As the owner’s thirty something son was checking me out he asked, “Is life in the mountains wonderful?” “Yes and no”, I said. “Mostly its life like everywhere else surrounded by great beauty.” He continued to tell me of his fears. He said there was so much racial hostility now, more than ever before, volatile and dangerous. Ten murders in this little city this year with a shooting the week before that injured eleven and killed one... all young black men. The violence is fueled by drugs and gangs sending those who can afford it to the county to live leaving a shell of the vibrant downtown I once knew. He worries about the future of this town he loves, this business he runs. “I’m caught between here and not here”, he says, “and I don’t know what to do.” Betwixt and between my grandma would say and for that I have no answer.
With an expanded Air Force base, a growing state university, a sturdy base of manufacturing companies and a mostly rural community, Valdosta has felt the pinch of the recession but is not yet desperate. Jobs are not plentiful but there is still work available. It has never been an area made rich by high salaries, flush with money. Folks have not forgotten how to get by, to make do, to do more with less. Food and living expenses are much cheaper than here in the mountains so it takes less money to make a life in South Georgia. Most of the places I knew and loved in downtown are closed. Crime has shut down the business district and most of the beautiful old turn of the century buildings sit empty and idle. Betwixt and between... the old ways and places are gone and it is not yet clear what will come to take its place.
Morven minutes... Mama and I run to the Dollar Store to pick up some freezer bags for our shelled pecans. As we stand in the aisle, a young blonde woman walks by, stops and hugs mama. Her name is Debbie Cason. Her family lives in the Morven community and we bought cane syrup from her daddy every year. He still made it the old fashioned way and a trip to the Casons was an annual ritual for us. When Mister Cason bought his small farm, the bank wouldn’t loan him the money because he didn’t have enough down payment. Daddy loaned him his down payment money for no interest and Mister Cason paid back every penny. Debbie was a part of the medical team that tended my daddy the last week of his life in the hospital. She and mama caught up on family talk while I listened.
And around the end of the aisle came a buggy pushed speedily by Wilma Elliot who heard mama’s voice and wanted in on the reunion. Daddy bought his farm from her daddy and they lived up on the road near our house. Wilma is a little older than I am and had become a good friend to mama after my sister and I left home. She and mama keep in touch by phone. “So, how long are you staying this time?” Wilma asked. Mama explained she no longer felt safe staying by herself at home so far from us. I felt her struggle with the loss in those words, saw Wilma’s eyes blur with tears, choked up myself. Beloved community there in the Dollar Store aisles in little Morven... women who have loved one another for years facing bravely the loss of the presence of one of their own. “No help for it”, mama says and so it is.
Morven has changed some. An Indian family bought the little grocery store. There are more Latino faces now and along with a Bar-B-Que restaurant owned by an African American family, a seafood restaurant will be opening soon. Jean’s beauty shop is still in the former service station and the bank is doing fine. The old brick stores are a little more decrepit than before but still standing. The phone booth at the crossroads is gone and has been replaced by a pay phone at the Flash gas station. The Baptist and Methodist churches still look active and well cared for. The old school has become home to a plethora of offices and looks a little shabby. Crime here, too, is a growing problem with drugs and home invasions a new reality for this little country town. Personal safety is no longer taken for granted.
Life goes on there and here. Changes come. Some are good and some not so good. The ties that bind are stretched by distance but not broken. There is much to say grace over in the here and not here of life. From the betwixt and the between of life in South Georgia and life in the North Carolina mountains, I affirm the grace of God, the goodness of people and the gift of life. These were the days the Lord made and we did give thanks and we were glad in it. Amen.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Don't forget your raising...
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...
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...
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