Looking Back; Carried On

I have not yet read Walking Home by Margaret Guenther, so I am grateful to the Shalem Institute for sending the following excerpt.   I am reminded of Grandmother Donaldson, my paternal grandmother.  Despite my never really knowing her, I have always had a strong sense of her in my ministry.  Part of the reason is probably because in SpiritCare we focus on singing the traditional hymns that she no doubt loved to sing as well.  I know she was a dedicated and determined Southern Baptist, and went to church whenever possible.  I am sorry I never got to sit in a pew with her.  She evidently wrote religious poetry, but alas, no family member has been able to find any of her poems.  She was a sharecropper, and paper was scarce. These poems were written on the backs of envelopes and other slips of paper; I fear they may have been unceremoniously thrown away after she passed.                   

Guenther's piece is not exactly about singing or writing, but rather the art of looking back while looking forward - and this is the frontier where I and my grandmother stand and greet the elders I serve.  They have made a long journey, and many pause for just a moment before moving further on.  At this place, burdens and worn out baggage can, and should be dropped; they are no longer needed.  This is the territory of the mystics; only God's love can carry us further on. 

            

   

Looking Back

by Margaret Guenther

Pictures of my parents and grandparents look down on me from the top shelf of my computer desk. My father looks very much as I remember him:  gentle, benevolent, and wise, with just a hint of a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. My German grandparents are upright, stoic, no-nonsense folks; I suspect that the ordeal of being photographed frightened and oppressed them.  My mother looks a lot like me, with her head tilted slightly to the side; my friends tell me it is my own look when I am paying attention.  My grandmother, whom I knew only as an old woman, is beautiful and my Scottish grandfather, whom I knew only as a very old bald man, is a gorgeous blond.  As they look back at me wordlessly, they remind me where I have come from, they remind me that I am part of the long family walk that my children and grandchildren will continue when I have gone far enough.  They remind me to keep looking back as I continue to look forward, a feat that my ophthalmologist would judge impossible if I tried to accomplish it literally.

Surely there is a lesson here.  There are different ways of looking back.  Like the child at the Seder, we can yearn to know who we are and where are our roots.  When we look back on our own little lives, if we can manage such retrospection honestly, we can rejoice in what we have been given.  We can trace the path winding away behind us and chart the bumps in the road, the times when darkness fell before we had reached the day's stopping place, the times when we ploughed through snowdrifts, the times when we fell either painfully or with a total loss of dignity on the ice.  We can see all the places where we took a wrong turn, all the places where we received generous and unexpected hospitality.  We can see how the walk strengthened us even if, when we reached the end, we were worn out and quite ready to cross the second great threshold.  We can see ourselves clearly, maybe for the first time.

Excerpt from Walking Home: From Eden to Emmaus.  New York: Morehouse Publishing, 2011.

Gratitude on a Sunday Morning

In addition to hardware stores, I also like post offices.  Maybe not the mega-postal centers, but the older, smaller post offices.  I like going in and picking out stamps, or deciding what might be the best way to send a particular package.  I also like our mail box here at the house, with its kind of silly plastic red flag that can be raised and lowered.   In short, I like mail.   

 

A few days ago a friend sent me a birthday card.  I immediately recognized her large, flowing handwriting.  I knew there would be a very upbeat note inside,and I smiled.  However, I did not immediately open the card, but rather tucked it in my purse.  For a couple of days I simply savored the anticipation. 

  

This morning, after lighting my candles and pouring my tea, I opened the card and read that cheery note.  I then spent some time in gratitude for life and friendship.  Grateful that there are simple rituals and things we can hold in our hands - thrift store tea cups, birthday cards, and even a dog's curly head.   Even with all the greeting, preaching, and singing, so much of ministry is about touch - the gentle taking of a hand or touching a shoulder.  Then, quietly letting God do the rest.    

   

That which was from the beginning, 

which we have heard, 

which we have seen with our eyes, 

which we have looked at 

and our hands have touched - 

this we proclaim concerning 

the Word of life.     

                                   - 1 John:1  

    

Blessings in a Teapot

I love hardware stores.  Last month, when I was looking for a particular type of butter dish, I visited one of my favorites.  The store did carry several types of butter dishes, but not the type I wanted.  Yet, what I did spot was  a ceramic tea kettle.  The tag that was attached assured me that it was safe to use on the stove, and that the tea could be brewed right in the pot.   The label advised that the kettle is such a good inductor of heat, that the water would continue to boil for about twenty seconds after the burner was turned off.  I tried to put the pot down.  The purchase seemed so impractical, but I loved the way it felt.  The kettle came home with me, and I have used it just about every day since then.  

 

The kettle brought to mind a history program I saw quite some time ago.  I remember very little about it, except for the comments of a reserved English gentleman who declared that the decline of the Western world could probably be traced directly to the invention of the tea bag.  While still needing that butter dish, I splurged again and bought a tin of whole leaf tea - a second flush Darjeeling.  I believe the gentleman may have a point.  I love measuring the tea into the still rolling water, and catching a glimpse of the leaves beginning to unfurl before the lid is replaced.  I then wait four minutes, and strain the tea into a rather plain maroon teapot that I inherited from my mother.   When cool enough to handle, the tea leaves go into the compost.  The cool damp brown and bronze leaves are quite beautiful.  The kettle is rinsed, and that water, with whatever leaves were left behind, goes to the ferns growing beneath the dining room windows.  They seem to love a spot of tea.   The kettle is ivory in color, so its color is already deepening.  I wonder what it will look like in a few years.       

 

In a society where we often sip (or gulp) our coffee and tea from a paper cup, the simple process of brewing the morning tea seems almost revolutionary.  It starts a chain reaction - and that reaction is one of calmness. Of appreciation.  Of connection.  Of gratitude. Of remembering my mother who did not drink tea, but somehow ended up with a teapot that I have always loved.  

  

Communion.

 

I am grateful.    

Finding the Calm

Charlie has been struggling with illness all of his life, and the difficulties of keeping his medications in balance is taking a toll.  When I saw him this last week, he was in bed with a migraine.   We talked for a few minutes, and I said a prayer. He then said, "When illness finally takes hold, there is actually some relief, even in the pain.  A sort of innocence." 

"God?," I asked. 

He then surprised me.  "I would like to sing."  I have had migraines, but never one that inspired singing.  He continued as if he heard my surprise, "Yes, just a verse or two of How Great Thou Art, you know, the one written by Martin Luther.  I smiled. Lately, Charlie has been attributing more and more hymns to Martin Luther. 

"Charlie, are you Lutheran?" 

"Oh, yes." And so we sang.     

 

I think of that God filled place of innocence as I think of Heidi Skidmore, a friend who passed last night.  I shall miss her exuberant faith and encouraging notes and comments about my writing.  Her laughter and her tears blessed me in seminary.  Thank you, Heidi, for being, for singing, for crying, and for laughing - for making room for a friend through it all. 

   

When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation 

and take me home, what joy shall fill my heart.

Then I shall bow in humble adoration, 

and there proclaim, my God, how great thou art.   

Then sings my soul, my Savior God to thee;

how great thou art, how great thou art!

 

- written by Stuart K. Hine, who was inspired by a poem by Carl Gustav Boberg that was written during a thunderstorm.  Perhaps with a helping hand from Luther.  Who knows? I am learning to dismiss very little these days.    

Mary's Song, Continued

In honor of Mary's passing, I am posting an email I sent in May of 2010.  I learned this week that Mary has indeed passed.  For the past several months she had been bedridden, and I would visit her in her room.  Last month I was told she was in the hospital, so I really did not expect to see her again.  However, when I entered the convalescent hospital a few days ago and asked about her, the very shy activities assistant replied, "I think she is in another hospital," and looked away.  I was puzzled.  How many hospitals does a 99 year old body need?  After worship I gently pressed for more information.  He replied, "Well, we are really not supposed to talk about it except to a family member, but I know you were a friend of hers.  She passed away."  I felt very sad.  Not for Mary, for I could feel her dancing in the heavens.  I feel sorry for a society that so fears the full cycle of life that includes questions, grief, passings, and sorrows.  Recognizing that the assistant was trying his best to do the job as presented to him, I touched his arm and said, "Thank you for telling me.  We grow close to those we serve, don't we?"  He nodded his head and we hugged.  

 

Dear Mary,

Your presence was, and always will be, a gift to me.  You once said you would put in a good word for me with Jesus.  Would you kindly ask him to continue to walk with me as I discern how to best to serve this home?  Thank you.  And, oh, yes, please keep singing.   Sometimes I need the company.       

Love, 

Sue Ann 

***

 

Mary's Song

 

Mary tells me that she is close to 100 years old.  She now lives in a convalescent hospital where she sits with her large print Bible.  She does not sing out loud much anymore, but she expresses much gratitude that we gather for worship.  She is still able to take communion.  I think Mary has been coming to the table for a very long time.   

Every month, she takes my hand and tells me that if she is not at the hospital the next month, I should not be sad because I will know that she has gone home to her Lord.  She is one who seems to have achieved a wonderful balance between accepting her life today, and having confidence in the life of tomorrow.  In her I sense no fear.  

This week she told me that she will always sing with me.  I am grateful.   There are probably many Mary's with us.  We may not consciously hear their songs and prayers, but that may be because we have not yet learned to listen. There is indeed music in the air.   Let us lean our ear and rejoice that we do not sing alone.     

   

Their voice goes out into all the earth, 

their words to the ends of the world.   

                                                           - Psalm 19:4  

 

Through all the tumult and the strife,

I hear that music ringing.

It finds an echo in my soul,

How can I keep from singing?

                                                - Robert Lowry, 1869

 

Reclaiming

Whenever I am in San Carlos, I usually stop by their library.  They have a nice section of used books which they sell at a very low cost.  I do not always find something of interest, but I often do.  When I was there last week, I picked up a copy of the novel, Crescent, by Diana Abu-Jaber.  It looked to be an engaging tale, and I could not even argue with the price: $3.  I thought to myself that I might never get around to reading this novel, but I went ahead and bought it.  

 

This week, however, I found myself with a sore knee, and the routine of elevation and icing has taken up almost two full days.  While a bit frustrating for the dogs, this time has given me a chance to immerse myself in this novel, a story that weaves together love, ancient Middle Eastern recipes, poetry, an odd photographer, poignant tales of exile, strange stories told by a loving uncle, and more.  It has been so long since I have read a work of fiction that I am even hesitate to say, "This is a very good book."  I think it is, but sometimes after fasting, even the simplest piece of bread can seem particularly delicious.  I am reminded of a long afternoon into evening decades ago when I rented four movies, and watched them back to back.  Three of them I do remember at all, but the fourth, Babette's Feast, has long stayed with me. As night descended and the story continued, I did not even get up to turn on the light.  When the movie was over, I was amazed to find myself, not at Babette's table in Denmark, but rather sitting in a very dark apartment in Oakland.   

        

We humans are story tellers and story listeners, and I think it is important that we remember that - it is often stories that knit us into the fabric of culture, family, and tradition.  As a child, I was convinced that if we could imagine something, it must be happening somewhere, and that was of great comfort to me.  It meant anything was possible - maybe not right at that moment, but if one could just have patience...  

 

There is a recipe from the medieval book that she wants to try - an omelet fried in oil and garlic, a stuffing of crushed walnuts, hot green chili peppers, and pomegranate seeds.   She goes to the cabinets and the refrigerator and begins to work while her uncle sits at the table and opens his history of Constantinople.  She stands at the table, peeling and mincing onions, then fries the omelet lightly, turning it once, and its aroma is rich and complicated.  Then Sirine and her uncle sit together in the library and eat. 

 

The dish is sweet, tender, and so delicious that it's virtually ephemeral, the eggs dissolving in their mouths.  Sirine is hungry; she eats more than the she has in a single meal in over a year.  It's good - she can taste that.  For the first time in over year,she can taste her influence on the food.  She licks her fingers when she's done. Her uncle puts down his napkin, says, "Alhamdulillah, thanks be to God." Then he nods, points to the empty plate, and says, "The eggs have forgiven you."  (389).  

 

Thanks be to God.    

  

Ponderings

Often, when I am facing a moment, or days, of thinking, "I cannot write anymore.  I have absolutely nothing to say," I invariably will find a poem that lets me breathe a little easier.   David Whyte is one of those poets whose work always helps me to feel a little saner.  I probably have shared this poem before, but that happens from time to time.  When I was reintroduced to this poem a couple of days ago, I found myself thinking that much of the wisdom and beauty of growing older comes from acceptance.  Acceptance of who we are.  Accepting who God is (thereby accepting who God might not be).  Accepting it all.  Poetry helps those times when we fear we just can't measure up.   Poetry helps us to measure down.  Down to who are really are: beings living on the solid ground of love.           

 

That day I saw beneath dark clouds

the passing light over the water

and I heard the voice of the world speak out,

I knew then, as I had before

life is no passing memory of what has been

nor the remaining pages in a great book

waiting to be read.      

 

It is the opening of eyes long closed.

It is the vision of far off things

seen for the silence they hold.

It is the heart after years

of secret conversing

speaking out loud in the clear air.

 

It is Moses in the desert

fallen to his knees before the lit bush.

It is the man throwing away his shoes

as if to enter heaven

and finding himself astonished,

opened at last,

fallen in love with solid ground.  

  

                                    - David Whyte