Falling Down

I fell down into the well of Your perfect love

The walls scraped and cut me as I fell

And when I felt the water at the bottom close over my head

All that I knew and all that I held close

   was hanging to the rocks that paved the walls.

And I was naked, gasping for air, and bleeding

The healing waters cleaned my wounds and filled my lungs    

   with Spirit and with life

I am alive as never before—and filled with unspeakable love

All things are new

For the former things are washed away

This morning in my porch time, the picture of falling into a well came into my heart, and I knew it had happened to me, and that I was not afraid.

 

From Loss to Love

It’s been 15 and a half years since Spencer’s death, and this past Sunday I cried while listening to a song that reminded me of him. They are gift—these tears all these years later. And I realize that much of my grief is now connected to how Spencer’s life continues in my children, and he isn’t here to cherish that reality. Their big brown eyes, hearty laugh, encouraging words and angry words, and their courage and strength in adversity bless me over and over and fill me with gratitude for the life and love I had with their father.

Today I went with my Dad to the cemetery where my mother’s buried. As he carefully scraped lichen off the stone, we reminisced. Not perfect, my mom and dad did have a great marriage. They enjoyed each other and told each other so. We had fun together, Dad said. I’m happy, but I miss her. We perched on the grave stone that faced mother’s and sang several songs. As we started Amazing Grace, Dad reached his arm around my waist and patted me throughout the song. I pulled a few weeds around the base of mother’s stone, and then we slowly walked back to the car. I believe mother’s presence in her children, is a comfort to my dad.

As I have moved into my second half of life, my capacity for love has burst wide open. As I reflect on my grief and the grief of my dad, I feel an immense love for my family, my children and my husband; but most of all, I feel an almost inexpressible love for my Heavenly Father. It’s visceral and physical, and it springs from deep within. The mystery of here and there, of heaven and earth, of love and loss continues. With open heart and arms, I embrace it as gift.

Baptism: A Rite of Passage

I remember kneeling on the tiled floor in the front of the church. I was twelve and I was about to be baptized. Water would be poured on my head from a small pitcher reserved for just that purpose, and I would take a clean handkerchief and wipe my face and eyes. I would repeat promises to God and to the church, and I would be offered a hand to rise up into new life as a Christian. I don’t remember much about that day. I know my sister was baptized on the same occasion. I know that my parents were happy, probably relieved, that another of their daughters was now in the fold.

As I reflect on that day, I recall a mixture of feelings and emotions that rolled around in my gut. I was relieved to finally put an end to the fear that I would die and not go to heaven. I wouldn’t miss the nervous swirling in my stomach every time the congregation sang Just As I Am Without One Plea, and I had once again, not raised my hand or walked forward to accept Christ. On the other hand, that nervous faint-y feeling was replaced with a new kind of angst and dread. In my church, being baptized meant becoming a church member, and becoming a church member meant taking on all the outward changes that females in my denomination were required to embrace. My baptismal service had been positioned during the Christmas holidays, so I would be going back to my eighth grade classes at public school with a new look. One that I was loathe to take on; one that would mark me as weirder than I already felt. My baptism, while symbolizing new life as a Christian, was not really a joyous occasion of good news.

Each of my children was baptized in a non-traditional setting. My son and oldest daughter were baptized by the pond at the cabin where we spent the best days of summer each year during their childhood. My father poured water on their bowed heads as they knelt in the grass by the pond and promised to live for Jesus. My youngest daughter’s baptism took place in the living room of my parents’ home, where once again, my father performed the ritual as she knelt on the carpet in their small retirement cottage.

Through the years, my feelings and beliefs about this ancient and sometimes controversial ritual have evolved and changed. Like many of the practices or sacraments of the church, repetition can sometimes weaken or even diminish the deeper value and meaning of the original act. Water has always held special allure and wonder for me—its power, its beauty, its taste, its value. The symbolism of water in this ritual of death and resurrection is at once apparent and understated. There’s nothing like a cleansing shower after working out in the yard, to make one feel renewed, refreshed and relaxed. But if you’ve ever gone under a wave at the beach, the power and control of the water on your flailing body is frightening and leaves you weak and timid for hours. So even as a symbol, the water of baptism implies a lot more than stepping into a font. The truth of passing from death to life through resurrection is as violent and terrifying as it is peaceful and reassuring.  I’m certain there’s value in a ritual; indeed, as I have gotten older, I find that some rituals hold new meaning and add pleasure and joy to my experience of loving God. And while I know the story of Jesus in the Jordan with John the Baptist, I wonder if we do ourselves a disservice by so explicitly following the story that the meaning sometimes flows downstream with the bubbles and currents.

Kneeling on the floor of my childhood church was probably not a wasted experience, but it certainly fell short of the cleansing wash or the powerful surge of the reality of coming home to God. It failed to touch my heart with the good news that I was deeply loved by a rich and tender Father who would never leave me. That the difficult challenges that lay before me where not outside of his ability to keep and sustain me. Lacking that new life truth, I stumbled on for most of my life, trying to live up to the expectations of the church, my family, and subsequently, a harsh and often inaccessible God. Ritual aside, baptism has happened to me since that day when I was twelve. The challenges of death, disease and my own inability to walk a perfect line, have taken me under, flailing and choking on the truth that life is something I can’t control or predict, much less tie up in neat perfect packages. God on his throne in my heart, with his huge and tender wings outstretched, then folded tightly around me, has raised my head above the water, allowed me to walk in pleasant places, and given me new life. Caring family and faithful friends have walked with me, and given me spiritual CPR. My children are often the life-preservers I need to not only keep from drowning, but to peacefully float on the river of their love.

So much of what I thought I knew has disappeared under the waves, sometimes appearing on the foaming edges of the next wave, glistening with new meaning and insight. Baptism is so much more than membership in a church; more than a universal belonging to the body. For me, it’s looking back with respect and appreciation on my humble beginnings where the seeds of truth flowed in the stream that was my life. And it’s wading deeper into the lake and plunging into the waves, losing my footing and even going under. But it’s always coming up out of the deep to the knowledge of God’s hold on my life, his unfailing love for me, and my home in the shelter of his wings.

A Market Stand

This morning at market, an interesting exchange took place between a gentleman buying produce with food stamps, the lady working behind the produce stand, my daughter and I, who were also buying produce.

The gentleman, who appeared to be Middle Eastern and who did not speak English very well, had a list of the items that were approved for purchase with food stamps. It seemed the only fruit available was cantaloupe, as apparently, the food stamp approved items had to be locally grown. The man wanted some grapes—they were right in front of him and were, indeed, beautiful. No, he was told, you can’t buy those. As the young lady turned to get the items he had bought, I said to him,

Would you like some of those grapes? I’ll buy some for you.

He seemed to understand and nodded and pointed to the bags of white grapes.

When the lady who was helping April and I returned I said,

I want to buy a bag of those grapes for this gentleman.

No, we don’t allow that, she said.

I was sort of stunned.

Don’t allow…but I want to buy them.

Meanwhile the gentleman collected his bags and turned and walked away.

We don’t want our customers to feel sympathy and buy things like that.

But I do feel sympathy; I feel compassion for him.

She shook her head and went to get the strawberries and blueberries I had requested. When she returned, she said,

You don’t know the whole story.

I just wanted to buy him some grapes.

I could see that April was visibly quite upset. We paid for our produce and walked away. As we stepped outside I reached over and touched April and said

Sweetie…

She immediately started crying.  With tears pouring down her cheeks, on the cobbled street outside the big market doors, my daughter wept for the sins of God’s people. It’s hard to actually capture with words, the anguish and anger that April expressed.

Why are people like that? They’re so careful to wear their little skirts* and act so righteous, and then be so mean. What does it matter what the whole story was.

We continued talking on our drive to Costco, as we walked through the store, and as we drove home. And here’s what I believe.

I believe I am so blessed, as to be given children whose hearts are toward the poor. I believe that both compassion and righteous anger are gifts from God, which as they mature, will bring glory back to Him. I believe that Christianity as we know it and see it practiced around us, has lost its way. Had Jesus been standing beside us at that produce stand in market, I believe the lady behind the stand would have turned him away.

I was reminded of the trip I took with my elderly parents to Brooklyn, to visit the beautiful and inspiring Brooklyn Tabernacle and hear the choir sing. And how on that trip home, passengers on the bus were making harsh and unkind judgments of people who were demonstrating in the park. And how in the darkness inside the bus, I wept. Tears of anger then conviction as Spirit moved in my heart, reminding me of the love of God for all people, even those arrogant smug elderly ladies.

As April prepared to leave for work, I wondered with her, whether maybe God would bring our conversation back to the produce lady’s mind later today. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll wonder if there’s another way. 

*The stand is owned by a conservative Christian family; all the female employees wear skirts--no jeans or shorts.

A Prayer

Strengthen for service, Lord, the hands that have taken holy things; may the ears which have heard your word be deaf to clamour and dispute; may the tongues which have sung your praise be free from deceit; may the eyes which have seen the tokens of your love shine with the light of hope; and may the bodies which have been fed with your body be refreshed with the fullness of your life; glory to you forever. Amen.

- Book of Common Prayer

Precipitating Psalm

No poems or prose for quite some time

I think the heat slows down creativity

The air on my porch is so thick with thoughts of rain

You can almost grab a handful

And yet…

Sitting here this morning with my coffee and Crossing to Safety*

I’m conscious of the gentle sound of rain on the leaves

And the joyous sounds of birds who seem to love this clime

I am made to smile at how God’s love breaks thru the humidity and damp

And lays a finger on my uninspired heart and opens it to Him.

Nancy Perkins

7/3/13

*My current read by Wallace Stegner

Come and Worship

Why do my eyes fill with tears

Why is my mouth drawn upward in a smile

Why do the words of song and psalm tremble on my lips

What draws me to these wooden pews

To sit beneath the stained glass gaze of saints and angels

To rise and sit and rise again repeating ancient prayers

What draws me is the beauty and the calm

The offered sacrament of wafer and of wine

The songs—some old as time; some new as Superstar

The blend of secular and sacred

Into something holy and mysterious

Invitation to a new place filled with the familiar

Oh, Father, thank you for this house

For the peace exchanged with friends and strangers

For the ancient wood doors that open and invite me in

From ordinary time to sit one hour in sacred holy space

Nancy Perkins

5/16/13

Thankful for St James Episcopal Church, where I've worshiped for the past six months.

Winds of Pentecost

Spirit wind blow

the seeds of new life and possibility

the blossoms of experience and pain

Holy Spirit wind blow

clear away the anger and fear

the broken dreams and heartaches

Spirit wind blow

make space for desire and friendship

bring new growth of love and light

Holy Spirit wind

Nancy Perkins

5/12/13

I watched the wind blow through the trees in my backyard, leaves and flowers flying everywhere. It reminded me of the passing of old, and promise of new.

A Psalm to Welcome May

It’s why I get up in the dark

on winter mornings

It’s why I grab my umbrella

and hurry to my car through April rain

This perfect May-first morning

gathers up all the angst of rain and winter

And for this morning anyway

it’s stored beyond the blue and forgotten

For who can be sad on this

 gorgeous May day

or in sadness—who cannot smile

The twitter-pated birds

 the flowering trees

renew and restore all that’s life

I sit on the stoop with coffee and cat

and I smile; even break into song

Alleluia! May Day! Alleluia!

Nancy Perkins

May 1, 2013 

Here is Love

Here is love, vast as the ocean
Lovingkindness as the flood
When the Prince of Life, our Ransom
Shed for us His precious blood
Who His love will not remember?
Who can cease to sing His praise?
He can never be forgotten
Throughout Heav'n's eternal days

On the mount of crucifixion
Fountains opened deep and wide
Through the floodgates of God's mercy
Flowed a vast a gracious tide
Grace and love, like mighty rivers
Poured incessant from above
And Heav'n's peace and perfect justice
Kissed a guilty world in love

I first heard this song years ago, sung by Eden's Bridge, and remember how it moved me. And now I know why. It embodies everything amazing about God's love and His priceless gift, celebrated at Easter. And it still moves me.

Nancy Perkins
Easter 2013

The Second Half

I just finished listening to a set of CD's by Richard Rohr and Paula D'Arcy called, Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life. They have changed my life by giving me vocabulary and assistance in recognizing the changes that are already taking place in me. I wrote this poem after the final CD.

Oh Love of Loves

We have been reunited

And all that I have known of Love

is now complete.

My first Love—

You loved me when I first took form

inside my mother

and You breathed Your breath

into my tiny cells.

And all my life You’ve waited

through my wounds and pitfalls

through my staged attempts

at piety and faith.

And here at last

I finally fell across the threshold

into outstretched wings

that fold and hold me

in Your heart.

The blinders off

the scales removed

there’s no more wanting;

Your love flows through my heart

and out into my life

Oh, Love of Loves.

Nancy Perkins
March 2013

Winter Skies: Poems & Pictures

Everything is Gray
1/30/13

Everything is dead
and gray
and cold
Even the sun--
the brightest star
Can't break
through the
dense heavy gray.
Only my candle
glows with warmth
in my space
And tiny
purple flowers
bloom bravely
on the
windowsill.

It's Gray Again

2/8/13

It's gray again--

in fact grayer still

and now it's wet

as well

Yesterday

a bright pink streak

at the edge of earth

made attempts

to overcome

the clouds

but grayness won.

I take hope 

from the street light

and the sparkling

string of lights--

leftovers from

Christmas--

on my neighbor's tree.

Oh, Spring!

please come soon

and end this

eternal gray.

I passed by my quiet space

2/10/13

I passed by my quiet space

on my way to wash my face

and I was drawn

as with a child's tugging hand

to approach

and sit and bask

in the golden light

streaming through the

windows facing south and east

The mighty sun

has won the tug-of-war

with clouds and gray

and today reigns supreme

King of the sky

Even the bare winter

branches reflect the glow

and me,

I can't stop smiling

as I sip my coffee

and think about the day.

Redemption

 3/1/13

I'm not a fan of winter and yet, somehow this year,

while growling at the chill and cold,

my gaze was drawn upward and for once,

I noticed the beauty of winter skies.

I mean, really; I almost ran off the highway more than once

trying to get one more glance at an amazing streak or cloud.

From dawn until sundown--or shall I say from gray to grayer still--

the changing of the heavens could drive an artist to distraction, 

each pattern and design somehow more engaging and beautiful.

I still don't like the cold, but the skies have won me over...

Maybe it's redemption of those bitter January days 

When loved ones left this place

and moved beyond.

Hope Springs in February

I passed by my quiet space
on my way
to wash my face
and I was drawn
as with a child's tugging hand
to approach
and sit and bask
in the golden light
streaming through the
window facing south and east

The mighty sun has won the
tug-of-war with clouds and gray
and today reigns supreme
Queen of the blue sky
Even the bare winter
branches reflect the glow
and me,
I can't stop smiling
as I sip my coffee
and think about the day

Gray

Written Friday, 2/8/13

It's gray--again

in fact grayer still

and now it's

wet as well

Yesterday

a bright pink streak

at the edge of earth

made attempts

to overcome

the clouds

but gray-ness won

I take hope

from the street light

and the sparkling

string of lights--

leftovers from Christmas--

on my neighbor's tree

across my backyard fence

Oh, Spring

please come soon

and end this

eternal gray

A Winter Gift of Joy

How precious this gift
of my daughter's presence
while she breaks from university
To turn and find her standing there
wanting nothing, just closeness
Rich conversation as she seeks to
find her path of faith
from religions fraught with
baggage of mankind
Still struggling with identity
but step-by-step gaining bits of authenticity
Still hating but yet here to losing ground
to compassion and grace
How does one, at nineteen, have
such style
such courage to state belief
and not back down
Such strength to study hard, work
long, and still hit the pavement
running--even in the cold
Yes indeed
a precious gift
this baby child of mine
I'll miss her when she moves
back to Diamond St and
Temple and Starbucks...
remembering when I sip my coffee.

Last month, as my mother lay dying, April drove me each evening after work, to Landis Homes, and sat and read and waited for me. She kept the fires burning at home, some times literally with a welcoming fire in the fireplace when I got home from work. She was sleeping in mother's room with me the night my mother died. I could not have made it through that week without her presence and companionship. I am grateful. I wrote this poem a week before mother became unresponsive and subsequently passed to eternity.

Psalm for Saturday

I agree with David

The earth is the Lord’s

Who else could cuddle me close           

            in this little valley

Surrounding me with leafy sentinels

            for my protection and delight

Spreading bluest sky overhead

Broken only by the rays of sun

Which warm me in the midst

            of barely chilly breeze

He called to me from the

            bottom of the stairs—

            Go out the front door—

And I went

            following the inner urge

To a seat I never noticed before

Arranged just so I could

Have a glorious sight

The pines, the oaks, the autumn sky

The crickets, birds and occasional bee

The smell of cut grass

The toasty warmth of sun

It’s all mine

It’s all His

And He is mine.

9/09 Jesuit Center

Found this poem tucked away in my journal, written while on Retreat at the Jesuit Center. Just this morning I was again moved by God's presence...I wrote "When I sit down in my place this morning, I am immediately overwhelmed with the love of my Father. I think of Richard Rohr's comments of God being both-and, and it's so true. Here I sit in this simple corner bedroom, not-so-clean windows and my leafy African violets, and of course, my warm coffee. And I am moved to tears by the love of God pouring through my window and swirling around this wicker chair, wrapping me in its warmth. Simple and profound...all true."

It's Raining in my Heart

It's a beautiful day
The sun is bright; the sky is clear
A good day for a burial...
We have to stand outside.

Inside my heart it's raining
A cloudburst, and the skies are gray.
No matter how much I blink
The tears keep coming.

It's my mother
Who they'll lower into the ground.
And while I knew this day would come
I can't stop the rain.

Nancy Perkins
1/20/13

Passing

Fifteen years ago on a
January day in Mississippi
my husband made a leap
from here to eternity
and in seconds
left us prostrate
on the ground
in grief and pain.

Here now
in another January
Mother makes the leap
this time in slow motion.
We stand on the sidelines
Helpless as she draws
another labored breath
not yet the last.

He holds the book
the pages of each life.
He knows the number of our days.
And when the final page is turned
the life we love is gone
and we are left here
on the ground--
gazing upward.

Nancy Perkins
1/13/13

Ten minutes after I wrote this poem, I went and sat beside her, held her hand, and watched her complete that leap into eternity. All is well.

Going Home

There seems to be a struggle

Twixt the body—

Grasping to hold on to the familiar—

And the spirit

Reaching to break through

The veil.

And we stand

Watching

Weeping

Waiting

As the mystery

That is life and death

Works out in wonder

Before our eyes.

We’re caught between

Clinging to what we

Hold so dear

And wishing she would

Take that final breath

And wake beyond.

Nancy Perkins

1/10/13

Epiphany

Seeking

the grace of new beginnings

joining the magi with a gift

an open heart

a heart of love

laid down once more

before the Son

a spirit

opened up for more

an ear attuned

to words of love

the seeking

never ends

yet ever more

discovers

deeper mystery

greater truth

deeper wells of

love

-Nancy Perkins

1/6/13