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.