The Dove of Peace

This week we celebrated Pentecost at our little country church. Many folks wore red, we had red candles, red pinwheels, red vestments, red paraments. And then after worship, we had lunch with a red velvet (birthday!) cake with candles. It was a wonderful way to remember and claim the gift of the Holy Spirit. 

My sermon was ready early in the week. Our mother has had some health issues that have caused a lot of worry and uncertainty in our household, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to lead worship on Sunday. Here is part of what I prepared in advance and was able to preach on the Day of Pentecost: 

It is the Spirit that comes into the chaos of our times, when we don’t know exactly what to do, when we feel lost. The Holy Spirit is God in our souls; it is Christ in our lives. It is what gets us up and gets us going in the morning. It is what sings us to sleep at night. It is that part of God in Christ that cares for us, comforts us, calls us, and challenges us. When life seems chaotic, as it often does, when you don’t know what to do, when you feel like you are losing your grip, losing your way, losing your faith – look for the Holy Spirit. Look for the dove of peace.

 

And then on Saturday, the day before Pentecost, a white dove appeared in our yard. We live in the country, and there are lots of birds around, and I’ve seen a lot of mourning doves, but I have never seen a white dove here. My brother thinks it is a pigeon, one that was raised for racing and just got lost. But I worked in a city and I know pigeons –this is not a pigeon. 

When I wrote what I did (“….When you don’t know what to do… look for the dove…”) I don’t know that I really took that seriously. But the dove has been here for three days now. And it feels like the presence of the Spirit. It feels like a blessing from God. It feels like peace. I still don’t know what to do. It feels that we are still dealing with chaos and uncertainty, and at times we feel lost. But the Spirit is with us. And if it took a lost pigeon to make that point, then so be it. Thanks be to God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit!

 

Happy Birthday, Baby Brother!

I remember the day you came home from the hospital. Mama was in the front bedroom (which is now mine) in bed with you nestled in beside her. I was so excited to meet you! I remember running to the kitchen and back to bring a glass of water to Mama, but maybe to you! And I loved you with an undying love. Until at about six months old…. when you pulled the eye off my teddy bear! And Jane and I put you in our doll cribs and played with you like you were a baby doll. And then we had you join in our elaborate “Judy and Sandra” and “Miss Lane and Miss Vane” games. You were either Tommy (our child?) or our dog. You didn’t care – you just played with us! 

We have had lots of adventures over the years (some that involved stitches and switches!) and they have not ended. We love you, baby brother, and give thanks for your life!

 

Ash Wednesday

This is my land that I hold in my hand. 

But not mine – rather all who came before – 

 known to me and natives here eons ago. 

And not mine but all who come after – 

unknown to me – 

 ones I cannot instruct or control who will do as they will with this dirt, this place. 

May it grow food and flowers for them; 

 ground them in grass wet with dew; 

 harbor earthworms; 

 hatch dragonflies; 

 form a basin for puddles when it rains a century from now. 

May it form a basin for me, 

when I lay down my ashes, 

 when I live out the prophecy of ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

May I become one with this land, this earth, this dirt. 

May my soul, spirit, dirt 

nourish generations to come, 

those I do not know and never will. 

And yet they will know me 

and they will hold me in their hand. 

I will be part of the land – theirs and mine.

 

January 30

January 30 was a lovely day, warm and sunny.  I looked out the kitchen window and saw that the first breath of spring was blooming.  It is a lovely shrub that puts out small white flowers with the sweetest fragrance, very, very early in the year.  So I cut branches and brought them inside.

January 30 was also the day my sister-in-law died.

First breath of spring, and last breath of Janet.

Rest in peace, sweet sister.  We love you.

"Every Animal is God's Pet"

We are thankful for and blessed by the animals in our lives. We share the house with three cats; Buddy is becoming a true farm dog, roaming outdoors (to the limits of his invisible fence…). And there are the horse, the goats, the chickens, the bees. 

We are responsible for their care and feeding. They need hooves trimmed, feed mixed, mite treatment, daily feeding. But we are also responsible for a relationship with them: snuggling on the couch, playing frisbee in the yard, feeding horse treats, talking to the goats and the chickens and even the bees. It is a precious connection. As we care for them, so they care for us. 

On Sunday, the minister asked the children what they were thankful for, and one said animals. And my great-niece then observed that “every animal is God’s pet.” In God's kingdom, every animal is loved and cared for, every animal is precious in God’s eyes, every animal is a holy creature, a beautiful part of creation. Amen, Hattie B!

 

Thoughts on Election Day

We voted last week, early voting, curbside. The poll workers were pleasant and personable, helpful. The early voting site was not ideal for them – an ancient school gym with no heat, no place to plug in a coffee pot, no microwave to heat food. But they were there, doing an important job for democracy. 

 Many others are voting today, and I am so glad. The news reports that turnout is heavy, both in person and by mail. It is important. I want people to vote, even those who will choose candidates other than those I chose. I want people to vote, and I want all votes to be counted – no matter how long it takes. 

 My father was born in 1918 and lived to be 98. He saw incredible changes in the world. It is astonishing to me that during his lifetime women were granted the right to vote. In the last year of his life, a woman was the nominee for President of the US, and he voted in that election… 

Today, I made an Election Cake. This is a yeasted cake, really more of a sweetened bread, with dried fruit and nuts. It has roots in Connecticut, my former home. Baking it today somehow connects me to the early, early days of this democracy. I wonder if those who made the cake in 1771 worried about the turnout; I wonder if they worried about voter suppression; I wonder if they worried about election deniers; I wonder if they worried about the future of their nation.

The cake is delicious. I shared a big piece with our neighbor. And maybe I will eat some more in the hours and days to come as we await the returns.

Election Cake

 

Doing Unto Others

Many years ago, I was invited to a friend's home for Thanksgiving dinner. One of the other guests was a woman who was affected by dementia. I remember that we were all in the kitchen as my friend made the finishing touches to our meal: stirring the gravy, popping the rolls in the oven, dishing up the cranberry sauce. I’m sure we were all pitching in. It was the kind of happy chaos that precedes a fancy meal. Ruth was sitting quieting at the table, watching, not speaking, a little frown on her face. My friend took a stick of butter and a butter dish and set it before her, asking her to prepare the butter for us. Ruth’s face cleared, and this woman who had made thousands of meals for her family got right to work. It took her a long time to unwrap the butter and get it on the dish, but no one was in a hurry, she was content, and we were all helping get the meal ready. 

I’ve mentioned this event to my friend, and she doesn’t remember any of it. For her, that kindness was nothing special, just her way of including everyone. For her, it was second nature. She doesn’t remember it, but I’ve never forgotten it. I hope that I might respond the same way. And I hope that someone might put a stick of butter in front of me some day. 

“Inasmuch as you did it to the least of these, you did it to me…”. (Matthew 25:40)

 

The Noise of Politics, by Walter Brueggemann

We watch as the jets fly in                                                               

     with the power people and

     the money people,

     the suits, the budgets, the billions.

 

We wonder about monetary policy
     because we are among the haves,
and about generosity
     because we care about the have-nots.

 

By slower modes we notice
   Lazarus and the poor arriving from Africa,
   and the beggars from Central Europe, and
   the throng of environmentalists
   with their vision of butterflies and oil
   of flowers and tanks
   of growing things and killing fields.

 

We wonder about peace and war,
     about ecology and development,
     about hope and entitlement.

 

We listen beyond jeering protesters and
     soaring jets and
   faintly we hear the mumbling of the crucified one,
   something about
     feeding the hungry
     and giving drink to the thirsty,
     about clothing the naked,
     and noticing the prisoners,
     more about the least and about holiness among them.

We are moved by the mumbles of the gospel,
   even while we are tenured in our privilege.

 

We are half ready to join the choir of hope,
half afraid things might change,
     and in a third half of our faith turning to you,
     and your outpouring love
     that works justice and
     that binds us each and all to one another.

 

So we pray amidst jeering protesters
     and soaring jets.
   Come by here and make new,
     even at some risk to our entitlements.

 

Walter Brueggemann. Prayers for a Privileged People (Nashville: Abingdon, 2008), pp. 21-22.

Sunrise at Holden Beach

I went to the beach to sew with a group of folks I had never met. A wonderful woman from Virginia hosts a quilting retreat each year near my home, and I signed up last fall. All year I have looked forward to this week. The people were so nice, the food delicious, the sewing soothing. And the scenery was lovely – magnificent sunrises, full moon shining down, ocean waves. 

And then I took a tumble on some unlit stairs in the dark and shattered my patella…. So I came home early to rest up for surgery next week. My sister is waiting on me hand and foot (hand and knee?), and I am not in much pain at this point. And the wonderful women in my sewing room took such good care of me there and have sent me get-well wishes and pillow for propping up my leg. 

It is a little miraculous that people I did not know a week ago are now dear friends! I will see them again next year, if not before on a fabric-shopping excursion. And next time – no stairs in the dark!

 

Anniversary....

Twenty years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was the beginning of a long journey into a foreign land, a place with its own language, customs, dress, behaviors, and residents. I became a kind of dual citizen, I suppose, with one foot in the time and place before cancer and one in the aftermath. In these decades, I have grown stronger, kinder, gentler, and much more aware of my own frailties. I remember someone saying once in those early days that I was “brave.” I felt nothing like that, but I was carried, I know, by the love and prayers of others. I had lived a good life in those years before cancer, productive, helpful, useful, involved in good and important things, I like to think. But I had also taken on a lot that was not always life-giving. 

One of the great gifts of cancer for me was a reckoning of time. I knew in a different way that my time is limited; and I knew that I wanted to make the most of it. So I let some things go. I made new priorities. I reordered how I spent my precious time. Over the years, some of the superfluous crept back in, some of the busy-work, some of the things that seemed to separate me from God. In this anniversary year, I am again reassessing what it is I need to do. I am leaving behind some things that were good and right for a time, but not forever. I am taking up new work that seems a true calling. I am living as though each day is a gift – and of course, it is, but we often lose sight of that. So I am cooking for my family, taking up new work as a court-appointed special advocate for children, preaching and pastoring, gardening, sewing, and giving thanks every day for being alive. 

I will not die an unlived life. 

I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. 

I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, 

to make me less afraid, more accessible, 

to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. 

I choose to risk my significance; 

to live so that which came to me as a seed goes to the next as a blossom 

and that which came to me as a blossom, goes on as fruit.

                                                                                                        Dawna Markova