Christmas Gift

This is printed with the permission of my daughter, April, who tucked this note into my Christmas stocking. A precious, precious gift.

To the Great Stone Dragon*
   a stable, strong and
   protecting guardian

To The Gambler*
   always betting on Love,
   no matter the odds

To A Guiding Light*
   illuminating the way
   in times of trepidation and worry

To the Golden Thread*
   weaving veils of compassion
   that cloak even strangers and passersby

To a great owl*
   wrapping all in your wings
   of love and wisdom

Happy Christmas.

The *s reference things in our shared history that are loved. The Great Stone Dragon is from the Disney movie Mulan. The Gambler is a song by Kenny Rogers. Guiding Light is a song by Muse. Golden Thread is a song by Eva Cassidy. The great owl is from a movie, The Secret of Nihm.

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