Psalms of Advent

These poems and reflections were written while on a one-day Advent Retreat at none other than the Jesuit Center. A potter was at the center of our day, working on a wheel, make pots, answering questions, and offering inspiration. The day was an offering of Kairos, to whom I am grateful for making the space and opportunity.

 

Advent

The darkest time of year

Poised for awakening

Begging for light

A Psalm of Advent

The darkest time of year.

Cold, dark, gray.

Bare branches line the

paths once green and verdant.

Gray skies hang low

and mist enshrouds.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting…

For the courage of Mary

for the chorus of angels

for bright stars and

full moon.

For God

breaking into His world.

For the love of a baby.

For the Light of the world!

 

Psalm of Advent II

In the darkness

Lurks my sin

My judging eye

My scornful word

My ugliness

My anger.

But thanks be to God

Darkness breaks

Into the eternal

Light of Love

That holds, embraces

Forgives, frees

Advent—coming

Comes in Christ.

All is well

All is well

 

Pottery

Almighty Father hands

strong and tender fingers

reaching deep into my soul—my guts

gently shaping

writing down my poetry

on the inner walls of my heart

and being

only to be read

by Him

Inspired by a story told of a Japanese potter who made magnificent pots and wrote poetry on the inside of the vessels.

 

Psalm of Advent III

Collapsing in the darkness

Stunned, like Mary

Wondering—sometimes frightened

At the Spirit’s growing

Presence in my life.

What is this call to love

To break through mist and darkness

A vessel made of clay

The silt of millions of stories

and floods and storms

Scooped up from the delta

by tender calloused hands

and loved into usefulness

broken and misshapen

then formed again—now stronger

with scars and streaks of blood

A tale of

humility and pain

of strength and courage

and the Father’s touch

Love is born

 

Reflection on Isaiah 25:67

Don’t you long for the feast?

For the lavish food and best wine?

For the laughter and chatter

of all the guests

gathered from around the world?

For God to remove the shroud

that blinds and separates and

divides all into us and them

eating and drinking

from separate bowls?

I weep and moan at the blindness

humbled by my own lack of sight

Am I missing the feast?

Is it now?

Is it here?

You came and You are coming!

Writer's Retreat - October 2012

HAIKU

Loved

Unconditional love

Father you have won my heart

Extravagant love

Sacred Garden

The scent of boxwoods

Pungent fragrance calls to me

I am on retreat

Son of My Heart

Johnathan my son

Courageous dragon slayer

Firstborn of my heart

Soul Mate

Gift of love to me

So brief our life together

Always in my heart

Writing Exercise

Write a page about a road or a room.

Rabbit Road

I don’t remember how to get to Rabbit Road, but I recall being on it. Dense brush and kudzu vines line one side; open cotton fields on the other. Under the cover of overgrown trees about halfway down the road is a tumbledown shack. Gray warped boards form a tilted porch and holes mark the spots where door and windows hung. Pull off the road and join me, as I push aside briars and vines and approach the house.

This is where my father-in-law grew up. He lives here with his grandmother and uncles. If you look closely you might find old brown bottles, some still whole, that once held the moonshine distilled by his family. We collect a couple of bottles as keepsakes and head back to the car.

Why’s it called rabbit road, Daddy, my son asks.

Because Grandpa and his uncles used to hunt and eat the plentiful rabbits. And, because when the law came looking, they hid away like rabbits.

We continued down the sun-filled country road with images of scurrying bunnies and men in our heads. The road brings us out to the highway.

Write a poem from the previous description:

Rabbit Road

Rural south

Just-picked cotton fields

Pines covered in kudzu

Here lies history

Falling down

Gray shack

Holes for doors and windows

Here’s where grandpa grew up

Brown bottles

Mostly broken

Once held moonshine whiskey

Rabbits thrived

Men survived

In poverty and want

It’s just a road

Rural south

Here lies history

Revise the Poem

Rabbit Road

It’s a narrow country road

Like hundreds of others in the rural south

Rows of cotton to the horizon

And pine trees draped in kudzu

Here lies history

Halfway down the road

Overgrown with vines and time

Remnants of a sharecropper shack

Gaping holes where door and windows hung

Sagging and weathered gray

What was a porch

Now angles toward the ground

Brown and broken glass

Relics of moonshine

To keep food on the table

To dull the constant ache of poverty

Then we’re back on the road

Rabbit Road…

Here lies history.

 

Writing Exercise

(Timed writings without lifting the pen from the paper.)

1. Sometimes I wish…

…I didn’t have so many voices in my head, telling me why I can’t do something or why I should or shouldn’t say something. Sometimes I wish I would just shut up and stop thinking I always have to say something, even to my …

2. I remember…

…my mother’s hands; the veins stood out. I used to trace them with my fingers when I sat beside her in church. Now I have veins like her and she is sitting in a nursing home with her hands folded in her lap—unable to talk, but I still remember her hands and now I see my own hands.

3. Outrageously Creative

Five Unanswerable Questions:

1.     Where do emails go when you hit send and before the recipient receives?

2.     Why does it seem that people of color experience such a disproportionate amount of the world’s pain?

3.     Why do some people die of heart disease—instantly, and some people have life-saving surgery, just in time?

4.     Why do cats seem to be attracted to people who don’t particularly care for animals?

5.     Will I get to travel in heaven?

Four Details That I Noticed From This Day:

1.     Morning coffee

2.     Scent of the boxwoods

3.     Hugging my housemate

4.     Greeting from the gentleman

Five Things For Which I Am Grateful:

1.     Family

2.     Friends

3.     The ocean

4.     God’s unconditional love

5.     Gifts in nature

Select 2 questions, 2 details, and 1 grateful. Write a paragraph.

Where do emails go when you hit send and before the recipient receives it? I pondered this over my morning coffee, and I considered asking the gentleman who greeted me on arrival at the retreat. Instead, I sat in my room and thought about God’s unconditional love and how I hoped that His love would include allowing me to travel in heaven, since it doesn’t seem as if I’ll get to see much of the world in this lifetime. Maybe I’ll be like an email, somewhere between sender and recipient.

 Writing Exercise

Write a thank you to a writer, whose book or writings changed your life.

Sarah Miles, Take this Bread

Dear Sarah,

Several summers ago at the cabin, I read your book, Take This Bread. I want you to know how it changed my life. I have always looked at communion as a sort of closed ritual for the few. Your story not only changed how I view the Lord’s Supper, as a feast open to all, but how I view eating a meal as well. When I sit down to eat with my children, I look at them, and with open eyes, taking in their loveliness, I thank God for the privilege of sharing sustenance with them. When I eat with friends, I look in their eyes and thank God for them and the gift of their friendship. When I watch my 90-year-old mother raise a shaking spoon to her mouth, my heart is filled with love and gratitude for the life she gave me and the meals she so lovingly prepared all those years.

When I finished your book at the cabin, we drug the old picnic table down by the lake to eat our dinner. Wounded and real, we sat down to eat. I could hardly breathe as we blessed our food and ate together.

Thank you for changing this ordinary experience into sacred.

Nancy

Following are several poems that I wrote while at the Writer's Retreat. They were not assignments...just inspired by time and place.

Fall Moment

It’s like a painting with leaves falling

Almost magical

Like a scene from Harry Potter

Beauty that makes me want to draw back

and enter at the same time

I can’t take a picture

because if I leave to get my camera

it won’t be the same when I return

It’s a moment for my memory only

 

I’m Awake!

My shower sucked!

Conserving water…I know

But the fine head

Forced needles

Into my unturned face

First icy then scalding

Torturous acupuncture

Not to mention

The mist that floated

Down toward

My legs and lower regions

How to rinse off

Suds with clouds

Ugh!

Bugs Life

Lady bugs are sort of cute

But in limited numbers

Not in the hordes that are

crawling up and down the

inside of the arch

where I pulled my chair

up to read.

How can I relax

when there’s a whole

community of bugs

doing the work of

bug life

all around me?

Yep. Here comes one

right now

crawling up the arm

of the Adirondack chair

right over my phone.

Relax.

Breathe.

They don’t bite

… do they?

Cookie-Baking Day

I don’t recall if I brought the idea of cookie baking day to Antioch Community, but it’s possible because it was a tradition I grew up with. Even after some of my older sisters got married and had their own homes, we would get together on a day in December and bake tons of cookies.

At Antioch, Cookie-Baking Day became a yearly experience that we all looked forward to, and once the date was established, we began making lists—lists of the kinds of cookies and bars we would make, lists of who would make what, and of course, lists of all the ingredients. We would get out the recipes and figure out how much of the basics— flour, sugar, brown sugar, butter—we needed, and then make a separate list of all the unusual ingredients:  powdered sugar for icing, food dye to color the icing, pecans, buttermilk, molasses, sprinkles, etc. The excitement began as the lists were formed, and grew as we planned the shopping trip to the grocery store, and then exploded as we traveled every aisle, picking up additional items that somehow missed the list and adding them to the bulging grocery cart.

Gloria and I were usually the first ones in the kitchen on cookie-baking morning. In fact, our excitement usually kicked in on Friday evening as we stirred up dough to refrigerate so we could get some cookies in the oven early Saturday morning. Gloria grew up in a series of foster care homes, without the stability and security of warm family traditions and memories. These shared experiences that we were establishing within our community were especially meaningful to her. She craved these kinds of family activities for her son, and her enthusiasm was contagious. Gloria, or Mimi as she was affectionately dubbed by my youngest daughter, was good for several batches of cookies; she was also the chief liaison between the bakers and the children, as her heart was as soft as cookie dough when it came to the little ones and their pleading eyes.

We each had our favorite or specialty that made the list every year. I always made Aunt Mattie cookies, a soft sugar cookie that was rolled out and cut into shapes. These were the ones we later decorated with icing and those red, cinnamon hearts. We made all the usual Christmas cookies—chocolate chip, peanut blossoms (the ones with Hershey’s Kisses on top), molasses, ginger, oatmeal raisin—and then we tried new recipes which sometimes became traditional—thumbprint (jelly in the centers), lemon squares, pecan balls, monster cookies and others.

As the cookies began to come out of the oven, we spread them on our huge dining room table, which had been covered with newspaper in readiness. As soon as they were cooled, they were gently stacked with their kind, to make room for the constant stream from the oven. After some burned cookie disasters, we began to assign someone to be the oven keeper. I feel like this might have been one of the not-so-much-a-cook adult members or maybe one of the young volunteers which were always a part of our household. The kitchen smelled heavenly, the smells wafting up the stairs and back the hall, all the way to our family area at the end of the hallway. Very quickly, the fragrance brought sample seekers, who were usually put off after maybe one little taste, unless of course, they sidled up close to Gloria. She was good for a little more generosity.

Another event that became an official partner to Cookie-Baking day was the purchase of our Christmas tree. The men and all of the children, even babies in snugglies, bundled up, if by chance it happened to be Mississippi cold, and went in search of the perfect Antioch Christmas tree. This served several purposes. It was a great time of bonding and warm fuzzies between the men and the children. Children crave the attention of the males in their lives, and this was a wonderful time for dads to hold the hands of their youngest and share in the enthusiasm of the older children. Some of our children had single moms, and so this time of male bonding was especially appreciated by the moms, but also by the children who were drawn into this inclusive tradition. Another purpose served was that the children were taken off location, giving the cookie-bakers the luxury of working without little ones underfoot or older ones begging to help.

Now lest you think that we were missing an opportunity to include the children in this glorious activity, we had a plan. When the tree seekers returned with the huge and perfect Christmas tree, which they promptly and proudly placed in the stand in the designated spot in the living area, the children were invited to approach the table, heaped with temptations beyond their imaginations. We usually allowed them to have two or three cookies. They couldn’t possibly be denied. And then, arming the ones who were old enough with dull table knives and bowls of brightly colored icing, we made space at the table for them to sit down and paint the Aunt Mattie cookies. Even with some supervision from the grownups, the painting of the cookies was a messy, chaotic time, but filled with laughter and silliness and affirmation and warmth. It was worth every broken cookie and icing-encrusted child. Soon that part of the table was covered with green stars, yellow bells, blue snowmen, red trees, and all sorts of variations as imaginations ran wild and sprinkles and colored sugar adorned or in some cases, coated, the cookie cutouts.

When the last cookie was taken from the oven, another time-honored tradition began: the counting of the cookies. Starting at either end of the table, each species of cookie was counted and the number recorded on yet another list. When the counters reached the middle and the cookies had all been accounted for, the numbers were added up and we had our official cookie total. The number was written, with a sharpie, on a large piece of paper or cardboard. Everyone involved—bakers and painters—gathered on the back side of the table with the cookies spread before them, holding the number aloft, and an official cookie-baking day photo was taken. As I remember it, the number of cookies increased each year, setting record after record.

The next step in this glorious day was making up plates and containers of cookies to give as gifts to neighbors and friends and coworkers. The remaining cookies—hundreds—were placed into tins and plastic containers, which were carefully marked as to the contents, and lined up on the counter, where they served as dessert and snacks for weeks to come. Cleaning up was always a communal endeavor, as the table was scrubbed, counters wiped and re-wiped, baking bowls and utensils were washed and stacked to dry, and the floor was mopped. A feeling of accomplishment and euphoria overcame tired feet and weary bodies, as we sat down in the living room and remembered past cookie baking days and agreed that this year was the best yet.

Antioch Community no longer exists. We went our separate ways, following the untimely death of my husband, Spencer. I’m not sure of the other households, but I do know that our family has continued this tradition. Friends of our family, and school friends of the children, have been drawn into our circle of cookie-bakers, and the participants vary from year to year. Someone’s Ipod is plugged into speakers, and O Holy Night and Jingle Bells accompany this festive occasion. Valued memories and deep feelings mingle with floured hands and icing-covered knives, as cookies cover our dining room table, and leave our house as gifts to neighbors and friends. We remember Gloria and her commitment and excitement to this annual activity, and about Aunt Joanie and her somewhat reluctant start followed with equal enthusiasm. We look at old pictures where we were proudly holding up our signs with the number of cookies from that year, clowning and laughing around the table heaped with our creations. Cookie-baking day is definitely one of our warmest and most memorable community treasures.

These photographs are from our cookie baking life in Lancaster; unfortunately, all the Antioch Cookie-Baking Day pictures are from before the digital age and are confined to photo albums.

Nancy Perkins
November 2012

Cabin Revisited

At the risk of hokiness, I wrote a poem using that popular children’s style of a line for each letter of the word. Hey…it was fun.

C is for calm

It settles over you like a blanket

You smile for no reason

The morning sun a sacred occasion

A is for activity

Fishing, snousing, eating

Eating again, sleeping, building fires

All things are possible

B is for bring your book

Your novel, your magazine

Your latest find from Barnes & Noble

Journals welcome

I is for introspection

Steam rising from my coffee

Sitting in a chair by the pond

My heart opens to possibilities

N is for NO Rules

Bring your inner child

Relax on the porch swing

Savor the morning sun with your

Pancakes and bacon…at 10am or noon

Nancy Perkins

November 2012

 

Love After Love

Derek Walcott

The time will come 


when, with elation 


you will greet yourself arriving 


at your own door, in your own mirror 


and each will smile at the other's welcome, 



and say, sit here. Eat. 


You will love again the stranger who was your self. 


Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 


to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 



all your life, whom you ignored 


for another, who knows you by heart. 


Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 





the photographs, the desperate notes, 


peel your own image from the mirror. 


Sit. Feast on your life.

I will make exception once again from my original compositions to print this wonderful poem which my friend, JoAnn shared with me. I see both loyal soldier and my authentic self.

Come

I know your past would raise it’s law-abiding head

and mandate regular devotions

I see you struggling as a young girl

to be quiet and still—reading

passages that informed but didn’t

really change you from inside

Thru the years it’s been an on and off experience

That’s okay

I invite you to sit like Mary

            at my feet

Or rest like John against my breast.

It’s true, there’s so much I would like to

            show you

But the greatest gift I bring to you is

            my all-encompassing love.

So come

Don’t have ideas about what it should

            look like

            or what should happen

Just come.

9/30/09

Looking through my old Word files, I found this poem. I love the invitation.

The Green Bench

Here you sit

enduring elements of the seasons—

wind, sun, rain and snow

your paint is peeling and birds use you

for roost and more

Lying on my back on your old weathered slats

the most amazing art takes form—blue sky

between green wood

You have no heart, no soul, no brain

but still you kindly offer respite

to weeping sinners and struggling saints

and maybe even an old Jesuit priest

has taken rest on your sturdy seat

You remain where you were placed

doing the work you were made for

bearing the scars and wounds of age and element

until some kind soul or gardener

revives you with fresh paint

or takes you to another place for kindling and scrap metal

Thank you for this most excellent service

you have provided me today.

9/09 Jesuit Center

I'm on my way to the Jesuit Center yet again. Monday I'll begin a 4-day writer's retreat with Paula D'Arcy, a gift from my friend, Lisa Mullen. As my thoughts center on this most beloved place, I remembered this poem I had written several years ago, and I wanted to get it into my blog because it reminds me of what I so treasure about the monastery--the simple things that hold such meaning year after year.

A New Psalm

Roof tops

Tree tops

Black cables

Drops of water from early morning rain

sparkle in the

southern sun

warming my legs

when it comes from behind a cloud

and shines through

the dusty window

Who knew

this view

from my daughter’s corner room

would give me

new pictures

of God’s love

But here He is

Throwing shadows on my page

burning in the flame

of my new candle

new wicker chair

happy pillow

Wrapped in my old prayer shawl

Reading from my old books

Loving my new space…

Our place.

October 2012

October Morning

The brilliant morning sky

All yellow and purple

Pink and gold

Shines off the tree tops

And buildings

Giving the city a golden glow

Filling my heart

With praise

For the One who

Made it so.

October 2012 

Lament

Beneath the brilliant colored leaves

and cheerful orange pumpkins

Behind the deep blue autumn sky

Deep within the chambers

of my heart and soul

I feel the pull of melancholy

Begging for expression

Asking to be named

And I must go

Embrace these open chasms

Darkness, grief, death and sadness

Cold and barren trees.

I know this truth is

Just as much a part of me

As golden leaves

and sunshine

I feel His wings around me

and I face the

coming winter.

Nancy Perkins

October 17, 2012

Leaves

I really don’t care for Fall

Cold weather and all.

But I have to say

The leaves have almost

Won me over.

Canary yellow fans

Scarlet maples with

Deep green veins

Red and orange and gold

Spears or fingers.

I mean

A song actually burst from

My lips as I walked down

The sidewalk…in town.

What was God thinking?

Is there any purpose

For this extravagance

Besides beautifying His world

And pleasing His creatures.

Well, it’s enough.

I’m pleased, and it’s still early

In the season.

Who knows, maybe next week

I’ll be skipping down the street.

Nancy - Fall 2012 in Lancaster

God has a plan...

I knelt in front of my aged mother, hugged and kissed her good-bye, and looking into her eyes, I said, Mother, God has a plan for you. She nodded and with tears, said, Yes.

On my way home, I thought about what I had said to this 90-year-old woman, who sits in a recliner most of the day.  Just what would that plan be? What does it look like? I don’t know. But here’s what I do know. I know she inspires and blesses me every time I visit with her. And I know she hasn’t stopped living. I know she has struggles, but she isn’t ready to quit.

Her pleasure when she eats food with texture, not pureed, is so evident in the smile on her face. Her determination when she grips the handle of the walker and pushes forward, refusing the easier wheelchair ride to the dining room. The firm grip of her hand and the smile in her eyes when you walk through the door. Reaching for my hand before she begins her lunch, inviting me to pray with her. Even her attempt at conversation; knowing it often doesn’t make sense, does not deter her from trying.

On Wednesday, I read her the story of Ruth, and as usual, she tried to talk about it with me. All she could say was, Naomi’s daughter… Yes, mother, Naomi’s daughter (in-law) went on to join the ranks of blessed women who were part of the lineage of King David and our Savior. Ruth brought her baby to her mother-in-law and she held him and blessed him. How many babies you (mother) have held—your children, your grandchildren and now great grandchildren. What a tremendous blessing you are in our lives.

What an incredible legacy she is passing on to me and to my children. Live life! Even when it doesn’t go the way you had planned, embrace who you are and live. I’m not trying to sugar-coat here. Mother gets sad and depressed, and yes, I’ve seen her angry. But that’s living…not dying. Surely she wants to be with Jesus in heaven, she has said as much. But she’s still here, and she still loves flowers, and she smiles at her grandchildren, she holds hands with her husband, and she sometimes weeps when I leave.

God has a plan. And I, for one, am glad to be included.

Nancy Perkins

10/11/12

This photo was taken on a trip I took with mother and daddy last 

year to New York City to the Brooklyn Tabernacle. 

We ate lunch at the at the Port Authority.

Streams of Mercy

In a beautiful house of worship

I sang the songs

I heard the Word

I tasted bread and wine

My tears flowed…

and it was good.

Nancy Perkins

10/7/12

Spencer...Fishing Remembered

Spencer’s favorite pastime was fishing. He grew up fishing with his mother and besides the fact that they put food on the table, it carried an emotional bond with his mother that remained until his death. I realized early in our relationship that if I wanted to spend quantity time with my husband, I would learn to fish.

Finding the perfect fishing holes was both challenge and enjoyment for Spencer. I remember four places in particular that we revisited time and time again. If you were to drive the Natchez Trace outside of Jackson, you would most likely notice the beautiful countryside and the historical markers and sites that frequented this well-known highway. Leave it to Spencer to find a small body of water, not even big enough to be called a pond, and not noticeable from the road. I’m not sure how he found it—maybe a tip from a fellow fisherman. I can recall late afternoon trips down this historical road, blanket, snacks and toddler in tow, to fish for a couple of hours. I could never recognize the spot; the trees and kudzu all looked the same. Johnathan and I would join Spencer for a while, but we soon tired of the bugs and mud and tangled fishing lines, and we would spread a blanket on the ground and eat crackers and apples and drink Kool-Aid. As darkness would be begin to fall, Johnathan and I would move to the car, and I would begin suggesting that it was time to go. Invariably, the suggestions became pleas, and Spencer would reluctantly join us in the car to head for home.

As Johnathan grew older, it was not unusual for Spencer to leave work and find his son and head down the Natchez Trace for a few hours of evening fishing. When Jubilee was 4 or 5, she was sometimes invited along, much to her delight. Learning to fish was a given for our children. And they took to it, well, like a fish to water. They learned to bait their hooks, take fish off the hook, dig out a swallowed hook, cut off heads, and scrape off scales. Spencer would patiently untangle lines that caught in tree branches during the days of learning to cast. While I enjoyed the camaraderie and time with the family, I wasn’t a fish eater, so the whole process did not call out to me. I was content to bring a good book and a chair and make all the appropriate comments and exclamations at the right times. And I never did bait a hook. While Spencer would not put worms on hooks for the children, once he showed them how to do it, he always did mine. He really wanted me to like fishing.

Which brings me to the topic of bait. Finding worms—the right kind and size, was an art and a science to Spencer. We kept a pile of leaves and grass clippings behind the house, and in preparation for fishing, the children would take a large bucket and go out to the pile and begin to push aside the top layer. If worms gross you out, you would have hated the sight. Huge, I mean huge, wiggling night crawlers everywhere. The children would pick them up by the handfuls. This was all part of the we’re going fishing excitement, and I can still see Jubilee, hands filthy with worm dirt, wiping sweat off of her face leaving dirty streaks of, yes, worm dirt, grinning from ear to ear as the bucket filled up with the huge worms. More about worms in a bit.

A second fishing location favorite was in a state park in north Mississippi near the town of Holly Springs. We rented a cabin for a week at Waldoxy State Park every fall and Spencer and the children fished in the huge lake every day. As April was small, she and I would spend part of the day by the lake, playing in the water at the edge. Sometimes Johnathan would climb on the roof of the small boathouse and tell his dad where to cast, as he could see the big blue gills from his perch above the lake. While this was a beautiful park with picnic and hiking in addition to fishing, it always came with an edge of fear for me. It was very dark at night, and because it was off-season, there were no other campers around. I felt like we were very vulnerable as an interracial family in the rural south. It was an affordable vacation for us, though, and we went every year for 6 or 7 years.

My good friend, Lisa Ware, and her husband Cobby, lived outside of Jackson beside a big lake. As our friendship deepened, Lisa invited us to come to their house, even if they weren’t home, to fish off their dock. It was a lovely place and we enjoyed many hours as a family, visiting with the Ware’s when they were home, and fishing and relaxing on the patio if they were gone. This was not without cost to them, as, once again, an interracial family raised the eyebrows and ire of many southerners. Once when Lisa and Cobby weren’t home, the neighbor approached Spencer and said he was not allowed to fish in the lake. We packed up and left, hurt and humiliated by the insulting racism of regular folks. Cobby and Lisa bent over backwards to make us feel welcomed and loved, and we continued to go and fish when they were home.

Spencer’s favorite place on earth was the cabin—an old rustic two-story house in rural western Pennsylvania owned by my sister’s family—where we went for a week every summer. Here’s the rest of the worm story. We actually packed up worms—each summer the system was perfected a bit more—and took them to Pennsylvania. Spencer declared that worms in Pennsylvania were not as big, and did not wiggle as vigorously as Mississippi night crawlers. When we stayed overnight in a motel on the trip to PA, the worms spent the night in the air-conditioned bathroom so as not to get to warm and distressed. This is not an exaggeration.

Members of my extended family often joined us at the cabin. Spencer patiently worked with the nieces and nephews to perfect their fishing skills. It was important to him that each child reeled in a fish, and not just a blue gill, one of the giant catfish that lived in the bottom of the pond. Toward evening he would pull out his pipe and push back his hat and fill up the stringer with fish to cook for dinner. We have a video that was made at the cabin the summer before Spencer died. April, our youngest child, too little to cast a line, is standing by his chair, playing in the bucket of worms. For April, this scene is especially poignant, as she was denied this rite of passage, learning how to fish, by her dad’s untimely death.

Some of our best family memories are from our times at the cabin. On Memorial Day weekend in 1999, our whole extended family gathered at the cabin and built a bridge from the bank of the pond to the small island. Once the bridge was completed, we placed a big rock on which was affixed a plaque bearing Spencer’s name, with the epitaph, He loved this place like no other. We stood around and across the bridge and shared memories and sang Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing, Spencer’s favorite song. We still go to the cabin each Memorial Day Weekend with my sister and her family, and although now grown, Johnathan and Jubilee still have fishing competitions and we all reminisce about Spencer’s love of fishing at the cabin.

-Nancy Perkins (9/29/12)

Ride the Chariot

Still inspired by porch and chair

I’m moving onward

pulled by horse or holy Spirit

strong Wings curved around my back

nudged onward into new experience

no shoulds and oughts—invitation only

hospice, hospitality and who knows what

the ride is exhilarating and Love is the fuel

always companioned by the Lover of my soul

Ride on!

I’ve not been one for imagery, but lately it’s become part of my ordinary life—or can I say, contemplative life? 

Anyway, here’s how I see myself these days!

-Nancy  (9/26/12)

Everyone Has Weeds

I’ve been looking with

disdain at the

weeds in front

of my porch, coming

up through the year-old

mulch. April and I pulled

them out weeks

ago, but the rain and

heat encouraged

their return.

I notice

across the street

where I’ve

been admiring my

neighbor’s beautiful

multi-colored petunias,
that they are
also beset

by weeds—some

taller than the flowers.

It occurs to

me that everyone has

weeds. I take a walk with

Mother God through

the garden of my

heart. There’s that

harshness of speech that

keeps coming back no

matter how many

times I yank it out; and

anxiety and worry

come up through the

cracks around unbelief and

sloth. As through my

tears I once again

confess, She reminds

me to smell the fragrant

blooms and buds that

are also rooted

there.

from my porch

8/7/12

Nancy Perkins