Advent Reflections from Isaiah 25 and Matthew 15

A lavish feast

or simple bread and fish

both are offered at His table

and offered to all

Thank you for the rich meat and wine

which is mine from time to time

and more often the fish and bread

that daily grace my table

I long for the banquet yet to come

spread for all tribes and nations;

I even enjoy it on occasions now

when my eyes are opened to see.

And the simple table

spread from day-to-day

is the communion of love

shared with friend and family.

-Nancy Perkins, 11/30/11

A Winter Hymn

Last year I came across this song in a hymnal I found in the lodge my extended family was staying at in the Poconos. It really touched me, because winter is a difficult time for me. The darkness and cold, past losses and disappointments, and sadness tend to make my heart heavy and spirit sag. The words in this song encouraged me to find the beauty of winter and treasure it as God's love in the cold.

'Tis Winter Now

'Tis winter now; the fallen snow
Has left the heavens all coldly clear;
Through leafless boughs the sharp winds blow,
And all the earth lies dead and drear.

And yet God's love is not withdrawn
His life within the keen air breathes
His beauty paints the crimson dawn,
And clothes the boughs with glittering wreaths.

And though abroad the sharp winds blow
And skies are chill, and frosts are keen
Home closer draws her circle now
And warmer glows her light within.

O God who giv'st the winter's cold
As well as summer's joyous rays;
Us warmly in Thy love enfold,
And keep us through life's wintry days. Amen

Lyrics by Samuel Longfellow, 1864

Thanksgiving

This morning as I move around my kitchen, preparing cornbread dressing for our extended family meal, I am moved with remembrances of Thanksgivings past and how they have been woven into the fabric of who I am today. Not only the shared recipes, but the shared experiences and emotional ties and bonds that have followed me through the years--to this day, in a very different place and time. While I prepare and taste my cornbread dressing, I think of Gloria. How she lovingly made this dish each Thanksgiving, passed the recipe to me when we moved away from Antioch, and then, leaving us with fond memories, she joined Spencer in heaven.

Sometimes family came and joined us at Antioch, and we added another table to the already over-sized one. Ron and Elena and sometimes Maggie, brought an added dimension of thanksgiving to my heart as they fellowshipped with my Antioch family.

Now here we are, fifteen years and fifteen Thanksgivings later, celebrating a day of love and grace, and yes, thankfulness for family and friends and abundance of food.

And I am thankful-

- Thankful for my children. For their health and their unfolding journeys, of which I am sometimes a part, but often merely an encourager and listener and observer. They bring me great joy and I am proud of who they are becoming.

- Thankful for my family and friends. Thankful for our friendships and spiritual connectedness. For the encouragement and insights we share and the loving embraces and open invitations, despite varied life experiences and thought. Thankful for how they minister and come to my aid, making the rough places plane. God is watching and notes your generosity and kindness shown to me and my children.

- Thankful for my home and warmth and work and music and books and good food.

Most of all, thankful to my very loving Father who forgives my sins and embraces me with extravagant and lavish love. Who takes my hand each ordinary day, gives me grace and hope, and promises to never leave me.

I cannot ask for more this Thanksgiving Day.

Empty Nest?!?

Where did that term come from? It conjures up a picture of a confused mother bird arriving back at her next, only to find that her babies are gone.

Well, regardless of where the term originates, I’m in it—the empty nest, I mean. Yesterday my son moved to Philadelphia into his own apartment. It’s a move he’s been looking forward to for months. I never planned on staying in Lancaster, he has reminded me, as plans moved forward in his apartment and job search in Philadelphia. My daughters left earlier in the Fall. One moved to Jackson, Mississippi to attend college, and the youngest started college in Philadelphia.

I woke up with a sort of expectation this morning. What will it be like to have obligation to no one but myself? I chatted with my neighbors, went to market, stopped in for a few minutes at the homes of family, and went by the local Wine and Spirits shop for some boxes. I spent most of the day sorting my books: putting some into boxes for possible delivery to Goodwill, carrying some upstairs to bookcases on the third floor, and re-arranging my favorites on the bookshelves in my living room. I finished a puzzle I’ve been working of for more than a week, and watched Top Chef on my laptop.

Throughout the afternoon and evening I’ve been listening to music that I have in a folder called Favs on Itunes. Many of the songs are ones my children have shared with me, and I smiled as I sang along.

Now it’s almost nine o’clock, and I’m feeling a little sad. Maybe it’s the haunting tunes of Gabriel’s Oboe playing as I type. Maybe it’s because I’m talking to my cat, Tiger, and he’s not interested. I’m sure it’s partly that I never expected to come to this time of my life alone. And, yes, it’s a lot because I miss my children.

But here’s the reality. I do not feel abandoned or confused. I did not wish for them to stay with me forever. They are amazing young people, and they are each experiencing the next phase of their lives, just as I am. And they are thriving. On a recent visit, my daughter Jubilee (the one in Jackson) hesitantly confided that she was ready to go back to her home—her apartment and college friends. I assured her that I am so glad that she is settled and content in her place in Jackson.  April, my youngest, while she is excited to see me when visiting, is rising to the challenge of finding her way as a freshman on a huge university campus. I love it here, Mom.

And me? Well, I’m also cautiously excited to move into this next period of my life. While it will be quieter, probably slower, most certainly cheaper, I am looking forward to what each day will bring. I think I’ll start going to the gym after work—no need to hurry home. I’m going to read—lots! Scrabble on my computer—I put the Scrabble board away with the other board games in the basement. And I’m going to eat soup—I love soup in the winter.

The nest may be emptier, but mother bird still lives here.

Trust

Times of testing are as old as thirst in the desert.

We will die with no water to drink.

Then out of the rock—a river.

Sometimes seeking God’s face and believing in his care

drives me to the wilderness to beg for water.

When it comes I want to jump in and drown in His presence.

But I drink and walk on

and thirst and seek and drink

again

from Exodus 17:1-7
Nancy Perkins

Coffee

when I find myself sitting in my living room chair

early in the morning on the weekend

desperately drinking the coffee that I normally love to savor

to satisfy that part of my brain that rules this addiction

I make the decision to stop that regular afternoon infusion at work

so that when I forget to partake on the weekend

I won’t find myself sitting in my living room chair

early in the morning

with a temple-to-temple headache that screams for caffeine

gulping down draughts of Colombian dark roast

I can hear my children laughing

I’ve been here before

My name is Nancy and I’m a coffee addict 

My porch has become my quiet place

My porch has become my quiet place

Oh, it’s not quiet—

The sounds of the birds

the muffled noise of trucks on the highway

even an occasional distant train whistle

But it’s where I talk with God in the morning

No words, but conversation just the same

His loving assurance of His care for me

calls out from the tiny sparrows

that hop around near the steps

His love of beauty in the grass and leaves

gilded gold by the rising sun

Communion and friendship are shared

in the smiles and nods of neighbors walking their dogs

or just out for a morning stroll

My coffee mug warms my hands and my soul

The warm drink flows through my body and mingles

with the warmth of Spirit

No holy books or canon needed
We meet—and it’s enough.

A Parking Lot Prayer

I had a small breakdown in the parking lot at the grocery store this evening.

Last week my good friend, Lisa reminded me that God is not a bystander or observer in the events of our lives. He’s in them. He’s a participant.

So as I drove to the grocery store I began to talk to God about my son. And as I pulled into a space in the parking lot, tears filled my eyes and my voice broke as I asked God to show me where He is in this situation that has been dragging on for three months.

The answer came so quickly—

Look at your son.

I am in the strength he wears each day as he goes out the door to work.

I am in the forbearance he shows to the ones you find so hard to forgive.

I am in the loyalty he has for his friend, with his own future still unsettled.

I am in his persistent good nature, his ability to laugh, his love of his friends.

I am in his desire and drive and determination to live the life 

    that he has envisioned.

Once again, I am awed by God’s graciousness in hearing the cry of my heart, and wrapping the cloak of his care around me, reassuring me that I am His. My children are His. He is very present.

-Nancy Perkins

August 28, 2011

April Moves to Temple

My daughter leaves today

She joins the crowd of children 

   starting college

She’s ready—excited, nervous, and ready

I’ll miss her

She’s been beside me for 18 years.

We’ve laughed and cried

And shared our wisdom

She has delighted me with music

And humbled me with her words—

Insights beyond her years

For one so young she’s already

Experienced the tougher side of life

So fear and anger live side-by-side in her soul

But God is also there (She would agree)

And tears and compassion are familiar

And it is to Him that I entrust this child

It is in His hand I place her very soul

To protect and keep from harm

Afterall, she belongs to Him

I’ve been her caregiver for this time

And I believe she leaves today—

A courageous and loving child

Prepared to take her place in the throng

August 24, 2011

Moving-in day at Temple.

- Nancy Perkins

Listening

A couple of months ago I started meeting with Joann, a new spiritual director. It felt so good to talk to someone who understood all the noise in my head and tugged at the words in my heart. One of the changes I decided to try came from The Dark Night of the Soul, by Gerald May, a book Joann recommended to me—take a break from all the spiritual books I was reading. The author suggested that in order to hear God, one might need to put aside all the preconceived ideas and images of God. I’m the kind of person who, when seeking growth or answers takes on every idea or activity that sounds like it might enhance my experience. And all it really does is make me crazy trying to do all the steps or say all the right phrases in all the right ways. As I talked with Joann, I admitted that putting aside books and just reading the Bible might be difficult. I never know where to start reading. She suggested I might use the readings of the liturgical calendar. So, that’s what I’ve been doing.

I hope this is not just a phase, ‘cause I’m really enjoying it. Another suggestion of Joann’s is that after I read scripture, I might want to let it move from my busy analytical mind to my heart, and write what I find there. This has been inspiring and life-giving, and fun to boot! I’ve been posting some of my writing on my blog.

One evening this week I was talking with a friend, I’ll call her Nora, about making a big change in her life—she’s in her sixties. I hate what I do, she confessed.  I heard the anguish and fear in her confession.

The next morning I sat on my front porch, and read from I Kings 19. Elijah was hiding in a cave, crying out to God, and God responded by appearing to him in a still small voice.  Elijah covered his face and stood in the mouth of the cave. Then he spilled his guts—his loneliness, fears and disappointments. God answered, telling him what to do next. And in sort of an afterthought, he added, by the way, there are 7000 righteous people who have not worshipped idols.

As I started writing in my journal, I mentioned meeting with Nora the night before. She’s at the mouth of the cave—like Elijah, I wrote. Then I paused. That’s not what I was thinking. I was thinking it was me at the mouth of the cave. But I knew instantly that God was speaking to me about Nora. She’s heard God’s whisper and he wants to speak to her about what’s next. Help her Lord to hear your still small voice above the fear.

I smiled and nodded to God. I hear you, I said. A few minutes later I picked up my phone and called Nora. I shared with her what had happened on my porch. We had a brief heart-felt exchange and hung up. Later that morning I received a text from Nora:  I thank God for you. Sitting in my car reading I King 19. Nora.

I went on with my work, smiling. I’m so often the recipient of encouragement. It’s a gracious gift to be able to encourage a fellow traveler. And it’s exciting to hear God speak through His word.

Morning Worship

I opened my door this morning to a breezy cool

I sat on my green porch chair with my just-brewed coffee

And reveled in the morning

So welcome after days of clingy heat

Sounds of the neighborhood

Mellowed by the echoes from the wooden wind chime

Baby blue sky as backdrop to the tender green maple in my front yard

I look down the porches of this row of homes

A narrowing kaleidoscope of hanging plants and Adirondack chairs

My heart is filled with gratitude for the friends and family

Who have enriched our lives in this house

And in fact make it possible for us to live here

I am grateful for the gift this place has been

A good place to raise my children

And this morning this porch is sacred ground

Salvation

Through Spirit that lives in me I am your daughter

And because I am your child I am your heir

Not just in suffering—

Though that is a necessary part of the inheritance—

But also in your Glory

Right along with your Son

And the sufferings, says Paul, are not worth comparing

With the Glory

All creation

            the hummingbirds and robins

            the lavender and the weeping willow

            my cat and Juba’s African violet

            the full moon and the crackling thunderstorm

            the parched fields and melting icecaps

            the cows kept in barns

            the polar bear seeking colder water

            the hungry babies in Somalia

            and their desperate, dying mothers

            the orphans of Rwanda

            and the child-soldiers in the Congo

            babies born to children

            and children left to raise themselves

            men trapped in our prisons

            and still more men trapped in drug-filled days

            (I could fill pages with those suffering and groaning and waiting)

All waiting for our glory to be complete

As our deliverance from decay and death

Will lead to our redemption in glorious freedom

Together we wait…

from Romans 8:12-25

Nancy Perkins

July 21, 2011

I recently begin meeting with a spiritual director, JoAnn Kunz. At our last meeting JoAnn suggested that as I read scripture, I might want to listen to my heart (I am usually quite stuck in my head), and write what my heart is saying to me. I am humbled by how Spirit speaks to me in the poetry that flows from my heart. It is truly a gift and I am grateful.

Bethel

With Jacob*

I raise an altar

In thanksgiving to God

My heart is forever marked

By His demonstration of love

In the life of my son.

God be praised.

*Based on Genesis 28:10-18

Nancy Perkins, July 18, 2011

Garden Cantata Part III – Crescendo

 What a glorious symphony of color—

 The fiery bee balm and pink cone flowers

are now playing in full form
with the more melodic goose neck
blending and filling in the pauses.

White daisies, and more goose neck

(who knew those gentle flowers

would take over)

carry the tune in the center of the display

just to the right of

the still singing yarrow,yellow and white

 (the red never came through).

The pot of herbs is full—

now offering notes of flavor

to spaghetti sauce

and marinade for chicken.

Somewhere in the middle

of the pink and white and yellow

you might see the red cap of Patch Withers

the busy garden gnome

who doesn’t seem to mind

that he is barely visible.

Anchoring the garden toward the gate

are more cone flowers among some coreopsis

and black eyed Susans—late comers

to the musical, but adding their voice

with a strong showing.

And where is Saint Francis in all this?

He has now released oversight to the players

allowing the music to flow about this head.

Oh yes, not to forget the Nebraska sunflowers.

Along with the asters,

they hold their blooms for the encore

I think they want that attention
all to themselves

at the end of the summer
after the other flowers

have taken their seats till next year.

Nancy Perkins

July 2011

Max, The Cowardly Dog

Poor Max, he’s afraid of unexpected noise

He runs for cover when thunder cracks and rumbles

Or when neighbor children play with firecrackers.

Poor dog, he finds safety underneath the porch swing

Where his human sits serene in spite of storm

Gently rocking while he cowers fearfully below.

I’m not unlike you, Max, I must admit

I’m also scared of loud and sudden sounds

I’ve been known to run for cover myself—

Even if it’s only hands over ears.

I too find safety under things—if not porch swings

Then ‘neath the fellowship of others’ conversations

Or perhaps protection offered by a prayer at close of day

Max, you give me comfort

Knowing that all creatures—man or beast

Need shelter from the storms that rage around us

Maybe cowardice is wisdom underneath

Ron and Elena Helmuth 
are Max’s humans. 
Sometimes he shares their room 
on stormy nights.

One Day at a Time

I’ve been practicing, what for me, has become a spiritual discipline. I’m taking one day at a time. I wake up in the morning, and tell God that I will live and walk in this day. Today. I sometimes sit on my stoop and look at my flower garden and watch the sun come slowly up the plant stalks. I think about the day, and about God’s love, and sometimes I whisper the names of family members or friends, giving them to God’s care for this day. And when my mind begins to wander down a tomorrow or next week trail, my mantra brings me back—one day at a time.

Tonight I fell off the wagon. I had a conversation with my son about an upcoming event that is crucial to his future, and when I said goodnight and went upstairs, I felt my gut tighten into a knot of worry and anxiety. Even as I sit and type, I cannot fight back the tears of disbelief and sadness that have been hallmarks of this valley. In my mind I’m a week and a half ahead in time. And I’m afraid and I am anxious and I forgot my resolve. One day at a time…

I’ve been reading from a small book that my sister sent me, and it’s been a real asset to maintaining my one-day-at-a-time discipline. Just last week I read:

Pray about everything; then, leave outcomes up to me. Do not fear my will for through it I accomplish what is best for you. Take a deep breath and dive into the depths of trust in me. Underneath are the everlasting arms.

This morning I read again:

Nothing can separate you from My loving presence…When you start to feel anxious, remind yourself that your security rests in Me alone, and I am totally trustworthy…You will never be in control of your life circumstances, but you can relax and trust in My control.

I read these paragraphs and I say, Yes. That’s what I want to do. And on I go into my day, reminding myself often throughout the day that I can trust my heavenly Father. He will give me my daily bread. He will hold me. He holds my children. He loves my son.

But one conversation with this child of mine, one tiny hint of fear in his voice, one glance at the worry in his deep brown eyes, and my mantra takes flight on wings of what ifs and maybes. My mind is off into outcomes and futures where love and trust are empty platitudes, and my thoughts circle and spiral downward into an ocean of riptides and deadly currents.

I did say this was a spiritual discipline for me, so here’s where I must practice believing through my doubt and fear. I will not drown. I will walk on these stormy seas. I will not take flight into next week and next month’s schedules and plans. I will not move over and make room for the fear of all unknown. I will stand in the present and live and move in what I know to be true. I will dive into the depths of the greatest reality of all—God’s love for me and my children.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate me (or my children) from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus my Lord. - Romans 8:37-38

When I am afraid I will trust in You. In God whose word I praise, in God I trust; I will not be afraid. What can mortal man do to me? - Psalm 56:3-4

The eternal God is my refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms. He will drive out my enemy before me. - Deuteronomy 33:27

I know this mantra is not magical. But it’s a way of calling me back from that spiraling whirlpool into the darkness below. One day at a time. These tears tonight will dry in morning’s sun. One day at a time. Tomorrow God will still be here. One day at a time. Tonight I’ll rest in the everlasting arms. Next week He’ll still be my refuge. Nothing in all of creation can separate me from His love. One day at a time.

mother and child reunion

I helped her into the tub

soaped up her washcloth

gently bathed her back

that feels so good she said

I handed the cloth to her

to finish her bath

oh yes, I also bent and washed her feet

a pitcher from the kitchen cupboard

filled with warm water

rinsed off all the soap

she carefully stepped out of the tub

holding tightly to my hands

I helped her dry off

and put on her clean housecoat

all the while I was remembering

how as a child

she bathed and dried me

she sat on a kitchen chair

facing sideways

I loosened the tiny braid

hanging down her back

and ran the comb through her thin hair

that feels good she said

once again I was a child

sitting in the kitchen chair

my hair being braided into two pigtails

my mother is frail and fragile

but not a child

and taking care of her is a gift

her grateful smile and tear-filled eyes

almost more than I can bear

an intimate exchange of places

now she’s in the chair

Nancy Perkins

June 2011

Garden Cantata - Part II

The garden tunes are changing now
With white yarrow and those yellow flowers
    from Naomi’s garden
Competing for the lead
The fragrant tea—two kinds—rival the ferns for height

The newly planted annuals are content to bloom
    close to the ground
Brilliant yellow begonias
And some strange clover-like flower
That we thought was cool


The coneflowers and bee balm await the next cue
Bits of pink and red barely visible.
And the daisies are close behind
Big white buds resting in broad green leaves

An old window with broken panes has become
The backdrop for the brilliant blooms of foxglove—
That’s Juba’s creation.
(The foxglove got a head start from the garden center
At Home Depot)
And leafy spears promise gladiola buds and blooms

St Francis struggles to maintain decorum
As the remains of iris and the struggling
    old-fashioned rose
Rise above his shoulders, almost to his head.
He’s still directing—now behind the scenes

Stay tuned for Part III.



Nancy Perkins
June 2011

You’d Think That I’d Have Learned

 You’d think that I’d have learned

All these valleys I’ve traversed

That yes, life throws itself at you

And just when you think it’s worst

A word, a call, a whisper

From a book, a friend—God?

A reminder of perspective

A change of heart, a nod

To the weaving of my story

Into fabric strong and blessed

Where time reveals the valleys turned

To mountain tops of rest

In His provision suffering takes

On a countenance of grace

Reflection of His gentleness

A turning of the face

Away from fear and anger

To forgiveness, love and trust

And on to smoother paths I hope

More valleys, if I must.

Nancy Perkins
June 10, 2011

This poem is dedicated to Maggie, my sister-friend, who early one morning texted me a book reference. I found the book and read the paragraphs, and found that I was on holy ground, sitting at my dining room table. Thanks, Maggie, for loving me, and calling me to a better way. Below is the reading of that morning from the book, A Private House of Prayer, by Leslie D Weatherhead. (This book was introduced to our family by my sister, Elena, at one of our special sister weeks several years ago. Thanks, Elena.)

The measure of hurt and evil in what Thou dost allow (not intend) to happen to me is the measure of Thy purpose for me in what happens. I, therefore, seek to lift the measure of my faith to that high level. For nothing Thou dost allow to happen to me can have, in itself, the power to defeat me, or even to hinder my soul's true progress. Indeed, like Calvary to Jesus, it can be the means by which I fulfill Thy plan, a plan which was man-invented evil. All that Thou dost allow to happen is allowed only because it can be woven into the pattern Thou art weaving for my blessedness, and the nature of my reaction and the quality of my faith either help or hinder Thee and determine the speed and beauty of Thy weaving. I now, therefore, hereby determine not to allow my reaction to be merely the normal effect of what has happened. For the normal effect of suffering and other forms of evil is depression, resentment, self-pity, rebellion, worry, or even despair. I will gather the materials for my reaction from the treasures of the kingdom of heaven which thou dost offer me--love and serenity, courage and humility, faith and hope. So joy will not be quenched by suffering--even though temporary happiness may be--nor my faith annihilated by evil, even though sometimes that faith may be overclouded. So help me, O God, continually to affirm Thy purposefulness through all that happens, and to receive, for my encouragement, glimpses of an ultimate triumph in which nothing is wasted and everything is seen to be infinitely worthwhile. Amen. (Italics are mine.)

Threads

I read over this poem that I wrote one Saturday morning, and I realized that while it aptly described where I was at the time, God's grace has given me the strength and will to move on. I'm so grateful for His unwavering love and mercy.

I woke up from my drugged sleep
feeling sluggish and heavy
I sat with my morning coffee
and a great sadness returned
and soundless tears rolled down my face

I took my coffee to the stoop in the backyard
and the normalcy of life washed over me
new blooms in the garden—new weeds too
harsh cries from birds
disturbed by the wanderings of my cat

in ten years, mom, we’ll look back
and talk about this with disbelief
assurances from my daughter

where is my solid ground?
where my hope and strong faith?
they are drowning in the sea of present realities
and I am hanging on to the thread
of what I’ve known to be the greatest reality
God’s love for me and my children

Nancy Perkins
Saturday, May 14, 2011

Joanie Brings Hope

Because my natural bent is Debbie Downer
You know—worst case scenario and all that,
I tend to draw the breath and life out of an already sad situation

Here comes Joanie, auntie from the south
And like my son, she talks of hope and turning things around,
Looking for the proverbial silver lining

It’s a God thing—a sign of His grace and mercy in our life
That He sent us this gift from Jackson
Bearing gifts and collard greens and hope.

- Nancy Perkins

Justice?

An expression of my thoughts as my son struggles to right a wrong.

An unjust confrontation

revealing man in his true form

giving for one brief moment

insight into how injustice feels

has now turned around

doubled back and become a second wound

evil came and had his way

and great havoc has been wrought

and here is the innocent

at the threshold of his glorious moment

shut down and made to look like sin

turning the truth into a lie

with motivation of the deepest purity

to help provide for those dear to him

he persevered and worked his future

in spite of numerous obstacles—he ran

and now

was it for naught

it can’t be so

injustice cannot have the last word

-Nancy Perkins 

May 2011

Insane Love

The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell

It goes beyond the highest star and reaches to the lowest hell

The guilty pair bowed down with care God gave his Son to win

His erring child He reconciled and pardoned from his sin.

Could we with ink the ocean fill and were the sky of parchment made

Were every stalk on earth a quill and every man a scribe by trade

To write the love of God above would drain the ocean dry

Nor could the scroll contain the whole though stretched from sky to sky.

Oh love of God how rich and pure how measureless and strong

It shall forever more endure, the saints and angels song.

- Frederick M Lehman

The lyr­ics are based on the Jew­ish poem Had­da­mut, writ­ten in Ara­ma­ic in 1050 by Meir Ben Isaac Ne­hor­ai, a can­tor in Worms, Ger­ma­ny. It is said that the second stanza of this song was found written on the wall of an inmate in an insane asylum, after he had been carried to his grave.

Before I opened my eyes this morning the words of this song were flowing through my head. I lay there and repeated them to myself several times with a smile.

How has the western Christian world wandered so far from this amazing reality? Last night I was reading Evolving in Monkeytown by Rachel Held Evans, and as I read her musings about John’s vision on the lone island, I was moved to tears—even as I sit here now, my eyes fill up and I could very quickly melt again.

I’m not sure what the copyright rules are, but I have to share this, with credit to Rachel Held Evans:

…I wondered what exactly John saw and heard to convince him that the kingdom of God includes people from every nation, tribe, people, and language, people from the north and the south and the east and the west. I imagined that he must have seen women wearing glorious red, green and gold saris beneath their white robes. He must have seen voluminous African headdresses of every shape and color. He must have seen the turquoise jewelry of the Navajo, the rich wool of the Peruvians, the prayers shawls of the Jews. He must have seen faces of every shade and eyes of every shape. He must have seen orange freckles and coal-colored hair and moonlike complexions and the lovely flash of brilliant white teeth against black skin. He must have heard instruments of all kinds—bagpipes and lutes and dulcimers and banjos and gongs. He must have heard languages of every sound and cadence, melodies of every strain and rhythms of every tempo. He must have heard shouts of praise to Elohim, Allah, and Papa God, shouts in Farsi and Hindi, Tagalog and Cantonese, Gaelic and Swahili, and in tongues long forgotten by history. And he must have seen the tears of every sadness—hunger and loneliness, sickness and loss, injustice and fear, tsunami and drought, rape and war—acknowledged and cherished and wiped away. In one loud and colorful moment, he must have witnessed all that makes us different and all that makes us the same.

Last evening I read this aloud to my youngest daughter. It’s what I want her to know about God. This is the Good News of the Gospel that changed my life. That compels me to keep on and to resist the forces around me that would try to turn me against the different and keep me in a small confining box. This is the truth I want her to take in her heart to her college campus. This is what I want her to remember when she encounters the superficial and the counterfeit. God’s love is measureless and strong. It’s extravagant and lavish. And it’s present along side all the hurt and pain and injustice and evil, and it wins. Not just in the end, but now. It wins our hearts. It makes us compassionate and kindhearted. It gives us the strength and courage to fight injustice and bigotry, and to be peacemakers. And it’s the only truth that will forevermore endure.

The love of God is greater far…

Pink, Tea and Saint Francis

I gave Jubilee three words to help inspire her to write poetry. The words rattled around in my brain, and I came up with my own little creation. Later that day Juba also wrote a poem. Here are our offerings for your enjoyment. (Thanks to my daughter for graciously allowing me to share her work on my blog.)

“I’m in the garden,” she called. “I’m in the garden.”

She twisted the key into the hole and pushed open the ivy-covered door.

Her soul lifted as she began to walk among the Queen Anne’s lace.

Her long, pink t-shirt was worn and frayed, but it was the only thing that she would allow herself to wear in her garden.

As she bowed before the statue of St. Francis,

he looked up and smiled.

“I’ll walk with you,” the priest said and they strolled hand in hand.

They talked and laughed and finally with a kiss on the cheek, he returned to his creatures.

Wandering on the earth, she smelled the mint before she saw it.

With a bouquet of roses and a handful of tea she closed the door, locked it,

and walked back.

Another time.

- Jubilee

Garden Cantata - Part I

Fragrant mint

And pink drops of

Bleeding heart.

The opening song

In my garden cantata.

St Francis presiding.
- Nancy 

Love and Wings

Love and wings bloom inside me. – Anne Rivers Siddeons Off Season

Sometimes in my reading, a line jumps out and then lingers in my mind. I love it when that happens, especially in a novel that I’m reading purely for enjoyment. So I was thinking about love and wings…

Yesterday we had a time of paschal fellowship with extended family at the home of my youngest sister. We sang, listened to an Easter reading, shared communion, and then ate of a generous meal. Several times throughout the evening, I felt tears well up in my eyes, even running down my face. I knew where it was coming from. Love. God’s love for me. My love for Him. My love for my children. Love for my family. It sounds corny, but I just wanted to hug everyone in that room. I know that we sometimes disagree, and that we have blind spots and sins. But I also know that love is a great covering. My sister Maggie has been such an inspiration to me in her expressions of love. I just love people, she says. I can’t say it any better.

And that’s what’s so amazing about this season of death and resurrection. God’s extravagant love in the gift of Jesus. Jesus’ love in giving his life. The power of the resurrection to overcome the strength of un-love. Love wins!

Which brings me to wings. What sort of wings bloom inside me? Here I also have Maggie to thank.  Fairy wings. Wings of imagination and fantasy. Gauzy wings that are transparent and yet powerful, lifting me beyond my weariness and the mundane to view things from above and cherish the beauty of Spring. Wings of the tiny hummingbird and powerful eagle that hover over the blooms in the garden and sail around the mountaintops and pines.

Angels’ wings that carrying me to the arms of God and back to the embrace of my children. Wings that bear me over the stormy billows and into the safe cleft of the rock. Wings of freedom and life. Oh, I’m sure I sound loony—I’m almost laughing out loud at myself. And yet...

...Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Feel love well up inside you for all of creation. Let go and feel the wings unfold, catching the wind and lifting you up. Amazing, right?

The Palms

O'er all the way green palms and blossoms gay
Are strewn this day in festal preparation
Where Jesus comes to wipe our tears a way
E'en now the throng to welcome Him prepare
Join all and sing, His name declare,
Let ev'ry voice resound with acclamation
Hosanna! Praise to the Lord!
Bless Him who cometh to bring us salvation!

His word goes forth, and people by its might
Once more regain freedom from degradation
Humanity doth give to each his right,
While those in darkness are restored to light
Join all and sing, His name declare,
Let ev'ry voice resound with accalmation
Hosanna! Praise to the Lord!
Bless Him who cometh to bring us salvation!

Sing and rejoice. O blest Jerusalem,
Of all thy songs sing the emancipation;
Through boundless love, the Christ of Bethlehem
Brings forth the hope to thee forevermore.
Join, sing His name divine,
Let ev'ry voice resound with united acclamation,
Hosanna! Praised be the Lord,
Bless Him who cometh to bring us salvation.

-J. B. Faure

This is a song we sing every Palm Sunday at Bethel AME Church in Lancaster. Palm branches are given to each person and as we sing the refrain, the join all and sing part everyone waves their branches in the air. It's always an emotional time for me. I think it makes me think of the time when we will welcome Christ into our midst once again. Or maybe it's wishful thinking...that Christians everywhere could raise their voices together and celebrate the love of God without division or separation. Enjoy.

I turned 59 today...

I turned 59 today—not a landmark birthday. That comes next year. Still, it’s a good time for reflection.

I receive daily meditations from Richard Rohr, a priest/writer who I’ve come to appreciate over the years. He talks frequently about second half of life, and the unique opportunities for spiritual development in the second half of our journey—beginning somewhere around 45 or 50. We spend a lot of energy pursuing outward definition in our 20s and 30s. We usually begin marriage, parenthood, career, etc during that time. We plant ourselves in the convictions that we carry from our familial formation, and we join communities of believers that help us further define our beliefs and values. Sometimes we forge new identities. Picking up ideas from friends and institutions; also possibly from reading or other media. Most of us surround ourselves with people who agree with us, and, unfortunately, we are often judgmental toward those differ.

In our second half, it seems as though the Holy Spirit stirs us in a different way. We have by now experienced loss and woundedness; we have failed and we have fallen. Things haven’t gone according to our plan, and adjustments have to be made. Our children haven’t followed in the footsteps of our beliefs and lifestyles the way we expected. Loss and infidelity have entered our lives. Disagreements and arguments plague our familial peace. We become sad or depressed, disillusioned and disappointed

And here is where God’s love comes in a new way into our ordinary life. Now that our well laid plans have proven to be shaky and the pillars supporting our beliefs have cracked and sometimes crumbled, God finds us in a vulnerable and pleading place. He reveals once again to us, the grace that drew and held us in the first place. He removes the blinders that separated us from the crowds around us, and shows us our oneness with humanity. He expands our hearts, not unlike the expansion of the birth canal during childbirth—painful, but rewarding—for we are invited to experience him in a new re-birth.

This doesn’t happen automatically. It comes as an invitation, and one can say yes or no. I believe those who say no, continue on in their life as before. And the hurts and disappointments turn into bitterness. The anger and judgment become more evident. It’s sad to observe, and even sadder to live with one who says no.

As I look back over the last 10-15 years of my life, I am heartened and encouraged at the change that has taken place. God’s presence is more apparent to me in my day-to-day life. My eyes have been opened to see Him in small and big ways in the spiritual formation of my children. My heart is open to creation and humanity in a new way. The other day I was in the car with my daughter and we were listening to The Holy City. In the last verse is the line, and all who would might enter, and no one was denied. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of all the years I had spent pointing out those who would not get in. I have relinquished the cloak of judgment and put on the mantel of grace and compassion, and I feel set free.

A few months ago I was having coffee with my friend Lisa (Mullen), and as she shared some of the hard-to-understand things in her life, she used the word mystery to explain her peace and acceptance of God-at-work. That word has stuck with me, and it has come up again and again in my reading and thoughts—mystery. It’s at the same time exciting and comforting. What is God doing in my life? What happens next? Why do things seem to not make sense, and yet they seem okay? Oh, I love this reality. I can trust God to be in the flow of my ordinary life. Sometime I see him, sometimes I don’t, but I can trust Him with the mystery. And I can allow and embrace His mysterious work in the lives of my friends and loved ones, and yes, even in the world.

So welcome 59. You bring me joy and delight. I love and I am loved. I can’t ask for more.

Ave Maria

I'm reading a book by Sue Monk Kidd, Traveling with Pomegranates. Those of you familiar with her writing know that Kidd has a special interest in femininity and in the first few chapters of this book, there are lots of references to mythological women (Monk and her daughter are traveling in Greece), mothers and daughters, as well as to Mary. I remembered my own comforting discovery of God as mother, and some exploring of that aspect of divinity. And then I remembered this poem that I wrote one afternoon after I got back from a walk. My walking mix included Celine Dion's version of Ave Maria, and as I walked, tears ran down my cheeks as I imagined Mary as a young woman--her courage and strength, as she said yes to being the mother of the Son of God.

Ave Maria

Holy Mary?

How did I miss her?

Always of the thought that it was wrong

to revere the mother

It’s the Son

we worship and adore

But on this day

When I hear the words of this song

I am moved

in my love and respect for this young mother

Opening her heart and soul and body

To the Son of God.

Knowing the foretelling of the pain to come

She glorified the heavenly Father

…of her unborn son

Grateful for the privilege of carrying Emanuel

Without Lamaze or epidural

she labored in a barn

cutting the cord

setting free this newborn

from her safe embrace

Into the world to be wounded

and abused for her salvation

Watching from the edges

of the crowd and the front of the

cross

Ave Maria!

I love you and

I look to your example

of courage and submission.

Holy Father

Open my heart to Emanuel

May I willingly

like Mary,

Invite the Son

into the center of my being.

Amen.

A Re-Call to Righteous Anger

I’ve been doing some Lenten reading from a favorite book of mine, A Season for the Spirit, by Martin Smith. It was a gift from my friend, Lisa Ware, many Lenten seasons ago. I believe this is the 4^th time I’m reading the forty daily essays. I remember the first time through, being quite intrigued with the idea of the many selves of the self. Not selves in a schizophrenic sense, but the many faces, or masks perhaps, that I utilize in my daily l life.

Some years ago, I became familiar with the Enneagram, another gift from Lisa. I am a huge fan, and have found it to be extremely helpful with self-awareness, as well as an invaluable tool in parenting children whose personalities are often at odds. For those of you who are acquainted with this ancient form of identifying personality or inner essence, I am a One. Consequently, anger is the emotion that I most frequently go to as a reaction to what’s happening around me.

Over the years I have worked at turning criticism and judgment into compassion. I try to step back and examine why I’m angry or conflicted about someone or something, and figure out what’s at the beginning or root of my anger, and not simply denying and suppressing it behind false smiles. When I feel angered by words or actions of a co-worker or a family member, I'm learning to look at their life as a whole, and see them as someone who God loves and values, instead of jumping to harsh critique of their lack of insight or failure. This helps in parenting as well as in work and family relationships.

So anyway, back to the Lenten readings. This week one of the readings had to do with anger—entering God’s kingdom violently (John 16:16). Jesus demonstrated that aggression can be holy. He showed that it can provide the energy for us to assert the primacy of love, to cut away all that is not love, to differentiate the important from the trivial, to provide the strength to separate the authentic from the false and pretentious. Martin Smith’s challenge was to recognize the anger that becomes activism. To be open to God’s conversion of my anger into a righteous cause—a cause for love and justice.

When I was working with Spencer (my late husband) in a ministry of racial reconciliation in Jackson, Mississippi, I was not aware of how anger was driving me. As I look back, I realize that resentment and bitterness toward white people (especially southern white people in that setting) fueled my energy for justice and healing. It was a good thing. And along the way, I learned to have compassion and mercy on people who were caught up in the false assumptions and lies of separation and prejudice.

And what I now realize is that the compassion that I feel and demonstrate toward the co-workers, family and friends in my life, is only one side of the coin. What’s missing is the burning in my gut—the indignation at the injustice around me, that stirs me to action and mission. I miss that. I feel the anger, and can eloquently state my opinions, but the words seem an end to themselves.

Thank you, Martin Smith, for reminding me that while showing love and compassion in my ordinary life is a grand part of my personal conversion story, it’s not all the story. And so part of my prayer this Lenten season is that God will continue to open the eyes and ears of my heart to recognize and seize the opportunities to fight against the status quo, to embrace righteous anger, and to make a difference.

Johnathan

After I posted Peridots and Diamonds, about my daughters, Johnathan's comment was, I get one next. Unbeknownst (what a great word) to him I already have one that I wrote about him when he was about to graduate from high school. Here it is.

My son, my firstborn

My boy.

Soon he leaves my nest

Oh, he has been stepping out for days, now

But the pillow that cradles his head at night

is still in my house.

This child, this precious gift from God

Has brought me so much joy

Out of the pain of loss

He has gained strength and maturity

Stepping bit by bit into

the responsibility offered

he has gained the trust of family and friends

Off he goes

With fight and fire in his soul

He will take on giants

He will slay the dragons

He will change the world

And he will always keep my heart.

Graduation from High School May 2004 

Peridots and Diamonds

April and Jubilee

I have two jewels in my house

I live with them every day

They are my two daughters

They are oil and water

Not cut from the same cloth

Striving to understand and embrace

Facing off with indignant difference

They are my treasures

Filling my house with music

Fragrance of homemade cookies

Jubilee and April

Watching them grow

Reaching out with grace

Toward trust and faith and the

Possibility of friendship

When they are gone

I will think of them often

With smiles of knowing

Hello...It’s God Calling

Friday afternoons at work are sometimes so hectic. Why do patient’s always wait until Friday at 4pm to call for a return-to-work note for Monday. As if I can just pull one out of my proverbial hat.

Did you think to ask the doctor when you saw him yesterday?

I forgot.

Well, I have to have the doctor’s okay in order to write a note for you, AND THEY ARE ALL GONE FOR THE WEEKEND!

As I took yet one more call from a patient who couldn’t understand why I couldn’t just write a note for him, I turned to a co-worker and said, Don’t give me any more calls—unless it’s God calling.

She very sweetly turned to me and said. Who do you think has been calling you?

I wish I’d thought of that.

The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion

I was sitting in church. It was in a large auditorium, not unlike the Masonic Temple where Voice of Calvary (Jackson, Mississippi) met for several years during my earlier years in Mississippi. Many of my extended family members were there, as well as church members from the church I have most recently belonged to, (but not attended very regularly over the past year, I must admit), Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Rev. Bailey, my pastor at Bethel AME, was in the pulpit, wrapping up the service with some announcements.

We’ll be starting a new adult Sunday School class, he said. It will be centered around The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion. There was no reaction from the congregation—no giggles or murmurs of surprise. Rev. Bailey closed the service in prayer.

Usually after the service, our pastor greets and hugs us as we leave the church; however, this Sunday, he came down from the pulpit, and came down the pew, hugging and greeting each person. When he got to me, he bent down from his height of 6’10”, hugged me, and then whispered in my ear: I want you to teach that class.

Okay, I said softly.

This was a dream I had a few nights ago. It was strange for obvious reasons, but it was also strange because I remembered it so explicitly. I never remember dreams in such detail. I had just finished reading a book called Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See, so I’m sure that had something to do with the subject. But why in that particular setting. As I said, I haven’t been attending church very regularly, and it’s been years since I attended Sunday School, much less taught a class.

I’ve struggled with not attending church, first feeling very guilty, then not caring, to where I am now—on a church sabbatical. I miss Rev. Bailey and the members of Bethel. I love them, and they love me...a lone white face in a congregation of African Americans. I’ve tried attending other churches. I can’t accept all the whiteness. I actually sat and cried at one of the churches I visited because, while I liked most of the service, I couldn’t be at peace in such a homogeneous surrounding.

I was reading just this morning from I Corinthians 12 and 13. Paul spoke so explicitly about the importance of the community of believers representing the whole of the world’s community. How has the church managed all these years to skirt the issue and justify a congregation of people who look and think alike? I’m sure I sound pious and self-righteous. (I admit that is a dark side of me.)

I think when I married Spencer and through God’s grace, made the choice to totally embrace his life and culture, something happened to me. First came brokenness—how could all this history and pain and suffering and oppression have happened at the same time that I was deciding what to wear and whose house to hang out at over a weekend. Then guilt. I’m sure I became patronizing as I tried to make up for the ugliness of white America. I was harsh and judgmental to my siblings who tried not to be offended by my accusations of racism. I finally settled into a more hospitable language of white privilege and prejudice. I love being at home in two cultures. It’s double the richness, double the angst; but it’s all good. I wish I could wave my pomegranate wand and make reconciled converts.

So where is all this going? I guess I’m wondering if God is nudging me back to Bethel—certainly not to teach a class on The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion, but to return to the embrace of fellowship. Or, maybe He’s going to lead me to China.