Thanksgiving Eve

Its the lull before the full court press; my feet are up, my house is quiet, the turkey is stuffed and waiting patiently to go into the oven at the crack-o-dawn.  I have been reading thanksgiving quotes and stumbled across on from Erma Bombeck: "Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence."  I think this is worth posting somewhere.

Erma Bombeck takes me back to my late teens and early twenties when I was trying to figure out how to be a wife and an adult all at the same time.  She wrote funny things about house cleaning, something I have never found naturally entertaining.  "Housework, if you do it right, will kill you". How about that for truth?!  I will have to confess the obvious conclusion is correct, I have never done housework right.

Funny that the things I remember most, as nostalgia rolls in with the holiday season, are the things that made me laugh.  There was the time I asked my eldest son what I could do to help him sit still during worship.  He was about four or five years old at the time.  He thought for a few moments and then said, "Well, Mom, church could be shorter."  The moment was lost, how can you correct your child when you have tossed your head back and you are howling with laughter?!   Or the time when we were standing in line at an amusement park waiting our turn to ride.  My middle child, who was paying no attention to me at all, wrapped his arms around a leg wearing jeans, close to where I had been standing.  The gentleman, to whom the leg belong, took it well.  My son however did not!  I got so tickled by that one, I had to apologize to most of the people standing in line.  I giggle over it still today. 

There was the Christmas my brother in law bought my sister underwear.  Now, in fairness to my brother in law, my sister asked for underwear.  He carefully discovered that she wore size 14 jeans so he bought her size 14 underwear.  Those underwear were so large that all of us could have worn them together.  I am not sure, but I think we did. 

Or the time I cooked the pecan pie and forgot to take the wax paper liner out of the pie crust.  The pie filling kept rising and rising and rising.  We began a great count down, knowing that Vesuvius was about to blow!   Or the first time I made homemade chili.  No one told me,nor did I bother to read the directions, that you needed to soak beans over night.  So I put them straight into the crock pot with the rest of the chili fixings.  The beans were hard as rocks.  In fact, we took the beans and started a rock garden.   I will point out here that there are countless stories of my cooking, including the never ending lasagna and my famous turkey pops, but that no one has ever died from my cooking.   At least it has never been a direct correlation.

I am grateful that God gives us the gift of laughter.  At the end of the day, when truly the dust has settled and the smoke has cleared, it is the gift of humor that is my prized possession.  I have certainly shed my fair share of tears, but never find them as comforting as I do a good laugh.   I am grateful for those who find the humor in life and giggle.  I am grateful that even in the dark places in my life,  God has often blessed me with someone who would help me find something to laugh over.   I know that much of life is not funny, there have been some very sad moments in mine.   I have had those moments when I couldn't grin for any reason under the sun.  Some of those memories are precious too, for God was especially near and carried me when I could not walk on my own.  I know that we ought to be content in all circumstances,  I just love the ones with laughter best!

May the joy of a good belly laugh be yours this year.  May God bless you with a community of those who will laugh with you. 

 

Riding the Waves

Do you remember the story of the little girl who's mother prompts her to pray before dinner with company?  She shyly responds to her mother, "I don't know what to say".  Her mother prods her a little and says "Honey, say what you have heard me say".  The little girl lowers her head, folds and hands and prays "Dear God, why did I ask these people to dinner?!"  I bet all across the world this week there are people praying this same prayer: Dear God, why did we agree to host Thanksgiving?  Dear God, why did we start this project?  Dear God, what was I thinking?!

I am in the Dear God category myself.  It is not the Thanksgiving dinner part, I am looking forward to that and the company who will join us.  It's not even the projects, I can see them coming to a close.  Its the standing still in the middle of the tornado that is blowing through the church that has caused me to say, Dear God, what was I thinking!  Let me say first and foremost, those who have counseled me through the years and said, " be careful what you pray for, God might just honor your prayers", were spot on!  Wouldn't it be a wonderful thing if I would listen when people talked to me?!

The Church is undergoing some much needed change.  Within the mass of institution and religion and agenda and politics, there comes a soft but driving force for change.  Five years ago it was a whisper, today it is a murmur and there is the sense in my bones that it will become an audible voice in my life time.  There is a call for discipleship, for relationship, for the Kingdom of God and the rule of Christ to be spread now, today, not just in eternity.  There is a hunger in the people God is calling into the faith for more: more love, more connection, more truth and more transformation.  It is the most exciting, exhilarating time and as I watch the little sparks spread to something resembling renewal, I am dancing with anticipation.  I am so grateful to see God move, to be faithful to the nurture and care of His people, even if His people are not all that faithful to Him.  It is just awesome to see hope return, the lights on the hill shine even if the light is small and feeble.

So why the Dear God moment?  Do you know how scary change can be?!  I do!  I can see the prayers I prayed over the years being answered, and while it delights my heart, it causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand up!  Someone mentioned the Prayer of Jabez in Sunday School this week and I thought....oh my goodness, I prayed that prayer too!  Oh that God would expand our territories still sounds remarkable, until I think what it might mean for me personally.  I am sitting squarely between being scared of revival not coming, and revival coming very close! 

Do not mistake my fear for regret.  I am so excited that God, who has so many more delightful children who play better with others, loves me this much and allows me to see daily the Kingdom of God on earth.  I will go forward in fear and trepidation, but I am going forward.  I do not know how the road twists and turns ahead, but if the road behind me is any indication, I expect there will be lovely green places to rest and renew.  I know there will be other places where the rocks are almost to big to get around, and there will be potholes you can get lost in.  There will be times when the people who travel with me are delightful and times when one wonders why it is these people can't walk faster, slower or on another part of the road.  Still, I would no sooner stay put than bungee jump!  The hair stands up, the heart beats a little faster, and I remind myself that there is no place any of us will ever go that God has not gone on before.  That He who is in us is greater than he that is in the world.  And that nothing can ever separate us from the love of God.  You know, seems like God must have known what a timid creature I am, to have given me so many promised to cling too!

Dear God, it is a good thing you love me so much and so completely.  You say you have known me from my mother's womb and have counted every hair on my head (and can I just share a good many of them seem to be falling out?) so all these personalities must not come as a surprise to you.  I hope when the transformation is complete the fun personality will remain, the neurotic one is just so hard to take anywhere. 

Packing up a Saddle Bag

Sister Kathleen Flood entertains us beautifully with a story of her mother.  It starts with the years of separation and pain caused by disapproval,and ends with reunion that is incomplete because dementia has robbed them of the resolution one would wish.  She tells of her mother waiting for a horse to ride to meet Jesus and after her death, and then later, Sister Kathleen packing up saddlebags of unresolved issues to send to meet Jesus too.  Trusting in God's time, time beyond time, there will be healing and restoration and redemption for those broken places.  It's a beautiful story!

This is where the story intersects with me in my own little reality.  "Saddlebags" was the curse of my existence in elementary school.  This was the recurrent nickname that used to send all kinds of horror into my life and make me feel rejected and worthless and friendless.  I still remember the dreadful day when my mother sent me to school in the olive green, hideous dress.  That day of all days, I was chosen to hold the doors to let everyone back into the building after recess.  A glorious job, by the way.  All of us lived to be chosen to be seen holding the door while the whole student population passed by.  There I was in that hideous dress, everyone is passing me by and seeing me, when one of the multitudes says something ugly ending in calling me "Saddlebags".  Could ever anyone have suffered such humiliation?  Why on earth the bully police did not rush in and arrest the culprit I do not know.  Worse, where were the child protectives service people who should have, at the very least, offered my mother the service of a fashion consultant, not to mention an allowance to purchase something ever so much prettier for me.  Alas, this did not happen, and today the memory remains.  Perhaps I ought to put that away in a saddlebag to ride on to Jesus!

Or the nasty year in six grade when a particularly vicious group of girls identified themselves as popular by identifying others of us as not popular.  The story would have been sad enough had the girls just never invited me in, but they did sometimes.  I was a marginal cool girl in the sixth grade.  Sometimes I was allowed to stay and then thrown out on a whim, usually painfully.  But the very worst part of that story was a girl named Helen.  She was never in the 'in' group and she was always the focus of the nastiness, always.  I remember now Helen opening her valentines and crying because of the ugly notes some of the girls had written her.  I don't think I was ever ugly to Helen, though I might have been.  I know that I never defended Helen to the others, my grasp on coolness was so tenuous and the pain of exclusion so great.  I am sorry Helen, where ever you are.  I hope you have been able to put this in a saddle bag and send it on to meet Jesus.  I am sorry I was too shallow to do the hard stuff of standing up for you, with you.  I am putting this in the saddlebag now, but I am remembering that in the redemption that will follow, God may allow me to have more courage in the future. 

And then there is Jim, who was gentle and kind, and whose family loved me as I have really never been loved.  They loved me enough to help me become a stronger member of my own church, which lead to distance and ignoring Jim, and I ended up hurting Jim and all of his family in my self absorption and very limited vision.  Even today, the horror I feel at my lack of feeling and sensitivity wash over me and I wonder just exactly how far I have grown.  Am I not today sometimes so incredibly self absorbed that others fade into the background and I am not aware of how little I am even thinking of them.  I am asking forgiveness, I am putting this into the saddlebag and I am trusting that for Jim and his family there has been redemption, and blessings for the many blessings they gave me.  I am keeping a little note to remind myself that love is precious and I need to make sure I nurture those I love, and who love me.

I am adding Bruce to my saddlebag.  Bruce was my love struck fellow in college, who betrayed my secrets to my roommate and caused division.  Bruce  loved me until he didn't, and then he was cruel and vicious.  Bruce sent to my mother complaining of my character defects, including that I forced him to visit my parents home against his will.  I remember the absolute fear I felt when my mother read the letter to me, I was so sure it would be believed and my own family would reject me.  How awful that moment was.  I remember my mothers response to Bruce, saying she wished he had told her he was being held against his will, that my parents didn't allow me to kidnap people.  What a relief that was!  A greater relief when, in the next semester, Bruce indicated that he had forgiven me and would like to go again, that I could say no and  walk away without regret.  Sadly, when Bruce told others that he didn't get an RA job, that I had complained to the Administration about him, some of them believed him.  I was told those people weren't real friends, but then how does one know a real friend?  So Bruce and my non-real friends, I am putting you in the saddlebag. I am pretty sure this one has already been redeemed, it is just now being release.

I think saddlebags have limited space, so I am sending this one on.  There will be more stuff, in this emotional purge, but for now, I am satisfied!  There is more room in here for God and less crap that I am forced to climb over or work around.  Way to go, Sister Kathleen.   What a means of grace your mother has been.  Wait, I think I see some redemption!

My father's daughter

November is the month my dad comes to mind most often.  It is the month that he was born, the month that he died and the month when my thoughts turn to family and tradition.  This year the memories have been aided by the discovery of the Red Hot Chili Pipers and the wonderful bagpipe/rock combination.  I drove several hours in the sun a few days ago, thinking of my dad and rocking away to the music, wondering if I should take up the bagpipes...wondering if my dad would approve...wondering if once upon a time, many generations ago, those writing music for bagpipes ever dreamed such a combination was possible.  The piano, the bass, some wicked drum solos, a little lead guitar and the bagpipes adding color and life and unifying melody.  I wonder if the same is true for people.  I wonder if the same truths to a different rhythm, one we haven't thought of yet, is the blessing given as the mantle is passed generation to generation.

My dad was a wordsmith.  He was witty and wise.  His humor was one of his greatest gifts and when he had been particularly witty, he so enjoyed his own humor that for days he chuckled over it.  I got that gift from him!  I have often tickled myself and had a hard time keeping the amusement to myself.  Quiet often I become giggly in all the wrong places, but it has been the source of tremendous joy.  What a lovely legacy to leave for me.  I hope it has been passed down to one of my children, or surely to one of theirs. 

My dad was a musician.  The last week I spent with him, just a few days prior to his death, he played for me some of his favorite music.  He played it for himself mostly, often in the night I would hear the music and know he was filling the quiet and the darkness with comfort and 'nourishment' for his soul.  He would describe each piece or perhaps collection of pieces, tell me what they meant to him, the history of the piece or the composer.  Haendel's Watermusic is one of the places I still meet with my dad, since this was one of gifts he shared with me this week.  Music is one of the best means of grace for me and has been long before I knew what a means of grace was.  I am often transported to other places in music and in that moment the current reality means little,  another lovely legacy that I have seen in my own sons.  Last Christmas it came full circle for me when my son sang a solo in the Christmas in the Wires concert.  As I listened to him sing  I was fill with great pride and real delight, and I knew that my father was sharing the moment with me.  I wonder today at the previous generations present in the heavenly host , do they gather when the gift is shared again and celebrate with joy?

My dad was a Scotsman.  He was proud of his Scottish heritage and often lost himself in its history and in the family genealogy of those who have gone before.  My introduction to bagpipes came from the Highland Games in Ligonier, Pennsylvania. We would take our lawn chairs, listen to the bagpipe competitions and the grand march when they would all take the field together.  I cried every year, it so moved me to hear them all play together.  Tears come today as I remember the feeling, on the edge of the fairgrounds when the music would start, when my heart will swell and be so full, it overflowed.  They come  now as I remember the very cold bagpiper, playing at the cemetery in the snow, as we laid my father to rest for the last time in the same place so many of his ancestors were buried.    I am grateful for the gift of a genealogy too.  I enjoy my Scottish roots and I am grateful that my parents lived in such a time when remembering who we are and where we came from was the vogue.  How much I would have missed had I not taken the bagpipes into my soul.

The Red Hot Chili Pipers are my hope for being faithful to the generations who have gone  before and leaving a legacy for those who will follow after.  Oh may the gifts we were given be passed on and transformed to suit the time and the season of those yet to come, and may we gather with the

heavenly host to celebrate the glories of God being revealed and reflected again. Then we will share in the blessing our hearts await,"well done, good and faithful servant", the mantle is passed and like Elisha, they will be able to do far more than we ever dreamed.  I am grateful that I am my father's daughter, and my Father's daughter.  And may those who come behind us find us faithful.