Walls

As I read back over some journal postings I came across this one—a reflection on the story of the ten lepers from Luke 17. I never realized before that Luke makes a point to say that the leper who returned to thank Jesus for his healing was an outsider. I was inspired to write some reflections.

We love walls

and barriers and fences

All around the world

People of my hue

have staked a claim to lands not for sale

fields and forests and pastures

now they are ours

and a price must be paid

to cross over

I’m ashamed of this stand

we take against others

Jesus healed ten lepers

One came back in thanksgiving—

an outsider

You are loved and healed and saved

Words of Jesus to this man on the edge

Wall Street, said the tour guide

was actually a wall

to keep the colonials safe from the Indians—his words

Now reservations house

those once proud people

who roamed their land freely

Fences, wired and razor sharp

keep out the undeserving from the south

Never mind our crops lie

rotting in the fields

as laws are passed

against our neighbors

For I was a stranger

and you took me in.

Words of Jesus.

October 2011

Written after a trip to New York City to hear the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, during which our tour guide made the above statement about Indians, and harsh and haughty judgments were made against the occupy wall street people. I was ashamed and angry that the wonderful service we had just experienced at Brooklyn Tabernacle was laid aside as we walked out through the church doors.

We Got Tattoos

A month before graduating from law school, my son was the victim of racial profiling. The incident set in motion a series of unbelievable events, resulting in Johnathan’s not being able to graduate with his class. For the most part, we were held to secrecy, or more accurately, confidentiality, meaning we had to cry at home, but put on a smile in public. And cry we did—or at least I did. I could hardly hold a conversation without tears. We rallied together, trying to comfort each other. I must say that the children were stronger than me and often encouraged me.

It was in the middle of this pain and chaos that the children decided to get matching tattoos, an equals sign, and one evening, sitting on the patio eating dinner, they ambushed me. Actually, I can’t believe how easily I capitulated. I think the idea of doing something to show our solidarity as a family felt somehow valid and important. Before I could change my mind, they made an appointment, and off we went to Transcending Flesh.

Here’s where the tragedy becomes a comedy, and bonding becomes flesh. I went first, and with the children all seated around me, the artist began his work. I was unprepared for the extreme pain of the process. It felt like Nick* was holding a burning match to my leg. He outlined the two rectangles and then began to fill it in.

The familiar black cloud began to obscure my vision, my children’s voices became distant, and I knew that I would faint—and I did. At first the children were scared, but when they realized I would be okay, they were so entertained—even taking pictures. Johnathan dragged me to a nearby sofa to recover. I knew I could not have an unfinished tattoo, so I gathered my courage and got back into the chair. Nick agreed to allow me to recline for the remainder of the work.

The children went on to get their respective tattoos and I waited in the lobby.

I will never get another tattoo. It was way too painful. But I do not regret this experience with my children. There was something very visceral about sharing the experience of physical pain. I felt we had entered into an almost sacred communion of deep love and compassion for one another. That in some small way, we had lifted some of the suffering from Johnathan, and passed it around and said, yes, I’ll bear it with you. And whenever I see my tattoo, I smile and remember.

*Not his real name.

January Connections

At this time of year, my thoughts often turn toward my past, and my life with my husband. His birthday and the anniversary of his death are both in January.

A few weeks ago I was struggling with anger. Sparked by a situation, it fueled some deep resentment that I had allowed to lie dormant in my heart. Joann (my spiritual director) encouraged me to go there—to spend some time getting to the root and deciding how to respond. She suggested that I imagine sitting with God and Spencer, since he’s with God, and listen for what they might say. It was a very emotional time as it had been a long time since I had actually envisioned Spencer talking to me. But talk he did. Read my speech. Read my speech. I knew immediately he was referring to his last speech delivered at Belhaven University four days before he died. It was entitled: Playing the Grace Card.

Several days later on a quiet morning, I read Spencer’s speech, and I fell under the spell of the awesome invitation to grace, just as Spencer had 14 years ago. God’s gift of grace to us is not an end in itself—it was also meant to be a gift we give each other. Grace and anger are like oil and water. Let it go. It’s so not worth the energy. Give the gift of grace. It was good to hear from Spencer. I do miss his insights.

A few days later, my daughter called from Jackson. My niece was visiting her, and they wanted to visit Spencer’s grave site and needed some directions. I was surprised by their plans; the children haven’t been to the cemetery since we moved from Mississippi. I spoke with Jubilee later about the visit. It was an emotional time for her, as she told her dad, I’m a writer now. A giant step for a child who’s mourning is unspoken.

The next week I had lunch with my older sister. Esther and her husband had spent some time on an island in the Atlantic, celebrating their 40^th wedding anniversary. Walking on the beach one morning, there was a portal in the sky; the kind of hole that opens and lets rays of the sun shine through. The children and I welcome portals as openings that Dad uses to view us as we go about our lives. Esther knew of that, and as she looked up at the portal, she began to talk to Spencer, naming each of us and telling him how we were doing. It was a very emotional experience for her, and for me as well, as I read her account in her journal. It was another connection.

Yesterday I received a facebook message from a good friend. She was explaining to her children why it was important to remember Martin Luther King, and as she told them about the hardship and sacrifice of the civil rights struggle, she thought of Spencer, and she thought of me, and she just wanted me to know. Thanks, Lisa.

This morning I sat down to listen to a sermon from my virtual church—Redeemer Presbyterian in Jackson, and to my surprise and joy, the scripture for the message was Joshua 1:9. Be strong and have courage; be not afraid, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go. This was Spencer’s favorite verse. One he taught the children. And it’s been a mantra that I’ve repeated to the children when they have faced difficult and trying times.

I would just like to say, Thank you, Father, for meeting me in these days with Spencer connections. While fourteen years has certainly lessened the pain, a reminder of Spencer’s wisdom and his love for his family, is a welcomed gift in January.

January 2012

Empty Nest Revisited…

Saturday afternoon. We’ve been to market, the grocery store, J Crew, Polo, Bed Bath and Beyond and Target. Later we’re going to Starbucks, then a movie. I’m exhausted. My precious girls have been home since a week before Christmas. We’ve had such a good time. We’ve been to North Carolina for Christmas—Johnathan came along on that trip. We had cookie-baking day. We’ve played up-and-down-the-river, watched movies, moved the living room furniture, made fires in the fireplace, ate and more. We’ve put more miles on the car than I had put on in two months. We argued over where the thermostat should be set—I held it at 68.

For a few minutes this afternoon, the girls are visiting a friend. I’m here with Tiger, enjoying the solitude. I’ve come to realize that after empty-nesting it for only a couple of months, I’ve grown accustomed to the way I have arranged my feathers and twigs. The return of the baby birds, while a welcomed joy and pleasure, has ruffled my feathers, so to speak. I’ve gotten used to eating my mug of soup and bread-rounds sandwich. I like playing Scrabble on my computer, and listening to my music. I enjoy early morning quiet with just a candle and my journal.

This is good, right? I mean, the girls are ready to return to their routines as well—April to her beloved studies, and Jubilee to her own apartment. So I sit here with a smile on my face, waiting for them to return from their visit with friends, treasuring our time shared this month, and looking forward to settling back into my nest.

It’s all good.