Waving

 

She drove off down the street like she was going to the grocery store.  Her list said she’d packed everything in the suitcases, had her bag of shoes, her computer was in the back seat with her pillow, the small cooler was on the passenger seat floor, and her snacks were above it in easy reach.  She even remembered her phone charger.  That one would have gotten by me.  When I kissed her I told her to come back.  She said I could count on it, so I started, “One, two …”  The first thing I’ll tell her when she returns will be, “…five million, eight hundred thirty-two thousand, seven hundred forty-five.”  That’s before I give her the rose.  Hey, we have our traditions. 

I know, it’s only seventeen days.  The important word in that sentence is ‘only.’  It’s a word that is marinated in relativity.  It’s been a long time since we weren’t together most of the time.  And this business of absence makes the heart grow fonder is a bunch of hooey.  It’s strange.  It’s a little scary.  It’s painful. 

So I stood there and waved.    

Not One of the Crowd

 

Harry Dowdy joined the church in Shrewsbury when he was in his eighties.  He showed up with his wife, his love Beezie, and told me after that first visit that he was a refugee from the nearby big church where he couldn’t stand the theology being preached anymore and I had nailed it, for him. 

Being a sheep stealer was never on my agenda.  The probability being that if they were difficult to please in church A, they probably would have a hard time in church B.  I thanked him for his review and warned him that he should hang around a while before making any decisions about transferring.  He smiled into my eyes.  I don’t know if that makes any sense to you, but that’s what he did.  It’s rare.  He nodded and I felt that something had just happened.  He and his wife were in the next new members’ class.

Harry was a great guy.  I relaxed around him.  He had me out to his house about once a month for lunch, he’d cook.  Nothing fancy, but the conversation was amazing.  We played golf now and then, nine holes.  He’d choose the nine he wanted to play.  With him I didn’t get better scores but I had a great time.  My shots tended to go longer, that included over the green.  He told me I’d be a good golfer if I could curb my enthusiasm.  He wasn’t sure if that was worth a better score.

He loved Beezie.  She died a couple of years into our relationship but was limited physically and cognitively before that.  There was no doubt in his mind that she was a gift given by God to him that he didn’t deserve.  It helped him understand Grace.  One of the women’s circles, fellowship groups, did a reception after her funeral.  He gave them a substantial gift.  They told him they had made Beezie an honorary member of the circle, so he came to their meeting and joined the circle.  I don’t think he was looking for a date.

He gave me a book he liked, Daily Dose of Knowledge, Brilliant Thoughts.  It’s 365 quotes from everybody anybody can think of, covering just about anything anybody can think of.  I’ve used it ever since.  It’s one of those books that you start looking something up and end reading 20 pages.  The book reminds me of Harry.  Our conversations always went beyond any initial issue.

I found a quote from Harry’s book that I used in today’s sermon.  Edith Sitwell said, “I am patient with stupidity, but not with those who are proud of it.”  It spoke in harmony with the scriptures from which I was preaching, and it spoke articulately to so much that is going on in this day and age, and it reminded me of a single human being who never even considered being insignificant, or being proud of prejudice of any flavor.

Harry refused to be stupid.  He paid attention to every day, considering its issues and those who spoke to them as vital input for the banquet of every day.  Its courses were compassion, humility, and self-giving love.  His spirit thrived on the diet.

He died in 2015.  He wanted a funeral that was in harmony with Beezie’s.  I use the bulletin of the service as a book mark for the book of Brilliant Thoughts.  There are three pictures included, Harry and Beezie dancing the jitterbug on the front cover, in the center, a family mob with the two of them sitting at the front, the mob was their fault after all, and on the back cover was the two of them, holding hands walking away down a beach. 

I miss Harry, as I miss so many with whom I have had the privilege of sharing parts of the journey.  But he is here with me, smiling into my eyes. 

 

 

 

Rumble and Thud

Rumble and Thud

It’s been sunny all day.  We went swimming.  This afternoon the heat and the humidity made it an effort to work in the sun.  The sun set with wind coming in from the North.  The flashes came like headlights turning into our driveway, flickering for a moment and then gone to shine somewhere else.  The first rumble shook the glasses in the breakfront, taking away all question.  It rolled across the street, a party that wasn’t paying attention to the sound regulations.  The rumble had a movement to it, a roll that brought it down hill, out of the anvils up above.  But there was no roll or movement at its end.  Only a thud, a slammed door that made a point of power and finality. 

Now comes the rain.

Stiff Upper Lip

 

During the normal weather of the summer, that is sun, heat, and rain every couple of days, the grass of my lawn grows rapidly.  More than a week between cutting and it’s beginning to look like I do when I try to stretch a haircut to six weeks.  Shaggy.  Lately we’ve had a stretch of rain, lotsa rain.  A few days of lotsa rain.  The lawn reacted.  My grandfather would want to bring out the bailer and get the hay ready for bailing.  The forecast listed cloudy with no rain until the afternoon.  Time to fuel up the mower.

Trying to start a habit of being good to myself, I usually split the mowing into two sessions on two days.  Age, heat, push, pull, yada, yada, yada.  But considering the monsoon that had descended upon us, if I got a four hour window, get it done.  When I finished the first half, I chugged some lemonade, wrapped a wet tea towel around my neck and went back out into the 90 degree, 85 percent humidity. 

It was getting hard to see through all the sweat pouring down my face, and I had to push the chattering mower close to one of the big pine trees on that side of the yard.  The cone was one of the tight ones, it hadn’t opened yet.  Picked up by the rotary blade, the cone was flung at the tree that had dropped it, bounced back, and hit me in the mouth.  It felt like a sucker punch from an offended boyfriend, or someone who you just beat on a layup, for the seventh time.   Sometimes they take you by surprise, sometimes they’re embarrassing for the one throwing the punch.  This was the former kind.  I thought maybe I was hallucinating from overheating or dehydration.  But the blood in my mouth made me stop to make sure I hadn’t lost a tooth.  Immediately my upper lip swelled up as if to prove that I better watch running that noisy thing near the tree’s roots, his turf and all.  Or it could have been, I better watch running that noisy thing near her kids.  Either way, I had a fat lip.

I shook my head, restarted the mower, and finished the job.  The bleeding had stopped, but I still had a golf ball above my upper teeth to prove I had lost the fight.  As I was putting the offensive mower away, I wondered why nature doesn’t hit back more often.  Maybe it does, but people don’t give the trees or the raccoons or the squirrels credit for the assault.  We don’t give nature credit for having power. (Global warming isn’t real right?) Maybe I need to let the yard know I’m just giving it a haircut, no harm intended.  In the old days, our ancestors talked to the spirits of the trees and the sea and the animals.  Hey, it’s only polite.  After all they were here first.  Where do we get off messing around with their back yard?

Gotta remember that next time I gas up the mower. 

Being Famous

 

The other day someone asked me how they could find my blog.  I told them to just look up my name, I was sure it would be listed.  They got back to me to tell me all kinds of things about yours truly that they found.  “You’re famous!” 

It made me wonder about that title.  Surely the meaning now is vastly different than it used to be.  Anything we do is immediately recorded and released onto the web, making us well know rather quickly.  But are we well known?  Or is the nature of the things we’ve done apt to put our names out there? 

I have a friend who does his best to get his name into anything he can.  He figures the best way to remain anonymous in this digital age is to stand in a snow storm of trivia.  According to his theory, the ones who truly stand out are the ones who are off the grid.  I think he wears an aluminum hat.

Before the net created the tropical storm of information that lifts simple sand high into the atmosphere, it took something of significance to make a dent in ‘being known.’  You might have been a big fish in the puddle of your world, but the major tributaries won’t pick you up.  Being known took some major water pressure.  Now, piddles make news.  Enough piddles, you’re known.  But by whom?  And for what?

When I preached last Sunday, the congregation wanted to know what to call me.  Chris and I smiled and started making a list of things people have called me.  David, Rev, The Rev, Pastor, Pastor David, Pastor Dave, Mac, Rev Mac … The list went on for a while.  It made me realize how many roles and resulting titles I have assumed.  But that doesn’t make me famous.  That makes me busy.  Are they synonymous? 

Lotsa questions.  Not many answers.  But I’ll tell you this:  I ain’t famous.  But that’s only according to me, and what do I know.  I’m just a retired old fart from North Carolina.  

 

Glory Days

 

“It’s a weapon, not a sword.” The first words my coach said to a bunch of nervous adolescent boys put us back a step.  He was the only one holding the ‘weapon’ we were itching to get our hands on.  But there was a long way to go before thirty inches of steel was put at our disposal. 

I guess the past does get clearer as we age.  That was decades ago.  Those practices seem vivid as I pick up my foil today.  Learning to move my hands and feet.  Learning to lunge and parry.  Learning to hold and control this tool of the sport with fingers instead of fist, see?  Clear lessons.

There’s a competitive fencing club here.  I’m going down tonight to see what’s up.  I’ll be taking my mask and glove and weapon.  I’m wondering if, in this modern day, the disciplines that were foundational to my sport are still taught.  I’m wondering if the coaches are as tough as mine were.  I’m wondering what role this rusty blade will play here and now. 

This is a different weapon.  My first lessons were with a French grip.  I moved to a Modified Belgian.  That was stolen with the rest of my equipment.  It was like losing a child.  I got this one a few years ago on a whim.  It’s new, without experiences, without scratches, without bruises and blood, not one win or loss.  I feel a bit the same way.  All that experience, all that work and pain and joy, all that losing and winning seems to belong to someone else.  I’m covered with scratches and dings, I’ve lost and won all kinds of things, but now I feel like a kid again.  All that experience, knowledge, and skill is gone. 

Days and years add things to us and at the same time take things away.  I remember an insane confidence then, and I remember a terrible insecurity.  I remember hearing my name announced for the first match in the finals of the Mid Atlantic Conference finals and being sure that they’d made a mistake.  I couldn’t have made the finals.  I guess all our life is like that, a bouillabaisse of insecurity and confidence, neither extreme taking into account the potentials or the limitations of the moment.  

But the best times are those when we look over the edge of now and step, even when it feels like a grand canyon looms.  What’s to lose except an opportunity to experience a moment of life?  Another memory to consider as we remember the Glory Days.

Pasta Olio

 

Having been born in Bloomfield and spent most of my life in New Jersey, it’s no wonder one of our children is an Italian teacher.  Part of what it means to live in North Jersey or the environs of New York City is to know what ‘real food’ is like.  To experience Italian is to eat and to be passionate about it.  

To know Italian food is to know pasta.  Pasta goes way beyond spaghetti and red sauce (or gravy, depending on the region of Italy being represented by the cook).  To recite a litany of sauces and dishes is to go through a scrap book of the palate, a journey on which I have been fortunate to be spoiled by some amazing cooks, sitting down at their tables, most often kitchen, and having a hard time getting up.  At the core of all this Italian food is Pasta.

One of the most elegant and knowledgeable gentlemen I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing told me that Pasta Olio is the most basic and the most easily messed up approach to this foundation of good food.  If he had never been to a restaurant (he meant an Italian restaurant, of course), he would simply order a plate of this arrangement of the basics of Italian life, pasta, olive oil, and garlic.  If the establishment did a good job, it was worthy of his business.  If not, he’d wait for new management,  Pasta Olio being the litmus for good food.  He looked great in a tux too.

Chris asked me what I wanted for Fathers’ Day dinner.  We had pan seared scallops, tomato and cucumber salad with fresh basil, and Pasta Olio.  I’ll be coming back here.

 

    

Back in the Saddle Again

 

I don’t know why I get anxious.  The dude said, “Be not anxious.”  It’s a commandment.  So why should I do this to myself?  Hey, the shepherds and a few dozen others were told by the angels, “Be not afraid.”  It’s not quite the same thing.  I’m not really worried about what the people will think.  Reviews stopped being that important a while ago.  It’s more like I know what’s possible, and I gear up for it.   

In any case, I was in charge again and it felt right.  The hardest part was the benediction.  So, I told them the story of the benediction at Shrewsbury on the last day, how they schlepped Chris up to stand next to me and the congregation said the benediction to us.  Telling the story today helped me get through the moment with a sense of honesty and intimacy.

I truly don’t feel in charge.  It’s like being in charge of keeping an avalanche moving, or catching a wave.  That’s not something someone accomplishes, it’s more a facilitation, a getting yourself into the right place to allow the potential to become kinetic.

It’s a wonderful place to be.  And I’ll be there again next week.

Here Goes Something

 

I’m preaching today.  No big deal, right?  Not.  Always a very big deal.  But it has valences that are different. 

I’m preaching on compassion.  Appropriate, no?

Need

 

It was 100 degrees yesterday afternoon.  The cumulous clouds built mountain ranges creating canyons of white shadowed by the grey potential of thunder storms.  Our creek was down to a trickle.  I was pulling grass from a flower bed, replanting it in bare spots of the lawn.  A black eyed Susan came along with one clump and I separated it out, making a place with the trowel in another bed.  They spread you know.  The trowel slipped in easily, but when I lifted it, dust rose above the mulch.

I’d decided not to water because of predicted thunder storms, to come from the grand canyons sliding by above.  But by the time I saw the puff of dust, it was two or three in the afternoon and the blue between the clouds seemed on the ascendency.  I looked again at the plants and saw a droop to them.  The morning glory leaves were curled down on themselves, the elephant ears were bowing to the ruling sun.  In spite of the experts’ opinion it was time to water. 

It made me wonder how often we don’t really pay attention to the need that surrounds us.  We may even read about some expert’s opinion, riddled with statistics without ever noticing any specific puff of dust rising from the parching need calling to us to do some small thing that might ameliorate a bit of the drought weighing down our world. 

And how often do we ignore our own need, letting our fatigue and loneliness, our frustration and sense of entrapment dry out our lives until there isn’t a bloom to be seen.  We have all sorts of good excuses, ignoring the simple truth that if we don’t do something about our own back yard there is no one who will.

There may come the desired showers, but in the midst of such need, are we not doing damage rather than participating in a blessing, could we not be instruments of grace and reasons for thanksgiving?

It took a good two hours to give everything a good soaking.  But I was happier for it.  I’m sure if plants might express relief, they would have.  When I woke this morning the ground was soaked.  The rain had come.  Did I waste my time?  How is it ever a waste to let compassion have its way?

Backwards

 

I was looking at my blog, reading back into the past.  It’s a bit like archeology, the present is on the surface, the past is buried back there, underneath.  That part of it makes sense.  What doesn’t is that you come to the conclusion of the story before you get to the first chapter.  It’s backwards.

Having been reading books for a number of decades, I’ve gotten used to beginnings being at the beginning, where you start, the first page.  When I open this thing, I’m at the end, which has come to be as a result of that which went before. 

When I get a conversation emailed to me, it’s in this same bassackwards order.  So I have to become a detective, ignoring that which is on the surface, in the now, at least for the moment, going back to where this conversation started, finding the place where it stopped being a conversation and became a misunderstanding, which caused the wreckage dated today.

Considering conversations as symptomatic of the health of relationships, what cruises around on the surface can point to patterns and symptoms of what has been going on in the past.  But rarely do digital conversations reveal much of anything about the user of the machine, and when two or more users begin bouncing around, supposedly communicating about a specific subject, you’re involved in a bar fight. 

If you’ve never had such an experience, good.  But to make the metaphor stick, you get hit by friends and enemies alike, whether you give two hoots about the original cause of the fight or not; there’s no chance of making it to the door without getting assaulted just for being there, and there’s less chance of drinking the beer you paid for.

Which all goes to say, not much, except I can’t seem to get used to the way things work on these machines.  In other words, I’m backwards.  Took me long enough to get to that.  I should have put it at the beginning.  Oh, I did.  Maybe I am getting the hang of it.

Important Stuff

 

This morning at the end of our walk, a neighbor shut down his lawn mower and came to the curb.  We talked about getting the mowing done before it rained.  We talked about his twelve hour shift.  We talked about the long weekend he was getting and the good times he was going to have with his kids.  We talked about which ones had already gotten out of school and which one was finished tomorrow.  He asked about my knee. 

In other words we meandered around discovering nothing important, solving no problem.  It occurred to me that if we didn’t do our own yard work, we’d never have had that conversation.  Yeah, but we’d probably be making more money.  Yeah, but we wouldn’t have neighbors.  We’d have people whose addresses were close to ours numerically, people that we saw driving by on their way to we don’t know where. 

A lot of us are busy.  A lot of us have important things to do with our time.  But we don’t have the time to shoot the bull with the guy down the street.  We rarely see him.  We only communicate with people who are important to us.  People we work with.  People who share our ‘quality’ time at the gym or in our cycling club or at church.  We talk to them about our shared prejudices. 

I don’t know what my neighbor believes.  I don’t know if he goes to church or what party he votes for.  I do know that his father was a contractor and left all his tools to his only son.  And I know that if I need anything, or any help with anything, not important stuff, just things like plumbing or fixing he has the tool and he’ll come over and show me how to use it while he’s telling me a story about his father and his kids and his wife, if it’s a good day.

Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I think that’s what makes a community, a neighborhood.  And I think that’s important stuff.

Blue Skies

 

Carolina Blue…  It’s hard to think of being here without a sky that is almost hard to believe.  Day after day it settles into your soul, offering a setting for the sun with no blemish.  I heard that they built the sound stages here because the weather is fair almost all the time.  I’d disagree.  It’s not fair, it’s excellent.  The flowers bloom even without good soil.  It has to be that sky. 

I remember when I first moved to San Francisco, the weather was so clear all the time that the first time it rained, I danced in it.  I was so used to storms that it was anxiety provoking to live without them. 

Maybe age has offered me a new peace.  I don’t need the pushes and pulls of storms to provide a rhythm in my living.  Each day does that with its rising and setting.  There is enough there to allow me the space that change offers.

Maybe this is a place of peace.  Smiles seem to come easier here.  I know it drives some crazy, all this pleasantness.  I’m sorry for them.  Personally I’ll accept it, this peace beneath the Carolina sky.

Pudgy Fingers

 

On Sunday, during our morning walk, picking up trash ejected from cars, by people whose time and energy is too vital to take their beer cans, cigarette packs, burger wrappers and bags, and in this case, Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes complete with uneaten wings and biscuits (inhale), I noticed that some ants had found the ejected food stuffs and were making a picnic of it. 

I threw the wings and biscuits into the bushes to allow the picnic to continue and crumpled up the box and paper.  It was in the crumpling stage that I noticed the wee beasties were injecting fire into my hands.  Thus the name fire ants. 

If any of you have never had an encounter with this specific brand of the insect kingdom, don’t even think about comparing it to any other experience.  When I was in Ethiopia, I walked through a column of army ants because I was a dumb American who was half asleep at that obscene hour of the morning.  The rest of the work crew considered my dance rather entertaining as I tangoed across the work site, ending up in the concrete mixing trough.  Those dudes take out chunks of flesh.  The ants I mean.

But I will assert that the tune of pain accompanying my sashay into the concrete cannot be compared to the blooming agony that spread across my hands as I crumpled the Colonel’s packaging.  These little red nasties don’t bite, they sting.  Remember, fire?

We went to the ballet that evening, dolled up and happy to see Tchaikovsky’s  fantasy of Sleeping Beauty swooping around the stage.  I sat there feeling my left hand and a few fingers of my right slowly expanding, and watched blisters mark where the fire had been injected.

I guess it’s only fair, I messed up their picnic.  But I think it’s a rather extreme reaction.  If they do this for KFC wings and a biscuit, I think we should consider enlisting them as a weapon of mass destruction.    

Sorting

 

Every time I see a job that needs doing, I develop an enthusiasm for it based on the ideas I have for moving it along, making it happen, and in the process helping to lift the world (to quote my son Benjamin).  The church is my fishing hole.  After spending my life watching real good fishermen and women work here and having decades of my own experience, and having a few gifts to begin with, I know where the big ones lie up on a hot afternoon.  I know what kind of bait works.  I know how long to let them chew on the hook before a twitch sets it (I don’t fish anymore but the metaphor seems appropriate).  So when someone wants to make a job happen in the church, I automatically begin planning the excursion.  I have a good idea how to come home with dinner. 

There’s a problem with this.  Though I can make things work, it takes energy, intelligence, imagination, and love to do so.  And the question rises, is this what I am called to do?  I can do it, but is this where I should be spending my energy?  Then the guilts set in.  Who am I to determine that? 

I’m beginning to think that I am supposed to have something to say in that determination.  I’m beginning to see that the gifts that I’ve been given are in my keeping and I am to be a steward of those gifts, a manager.  If I’m taking on all comers until I run out of time, steam, and resources, am I being a good steward?

I hate to say this but I think I have to sort the possibilities and that includes saying no to some things that I know I can do. 

It’s an interesting place to be in life.  I think I’ll climb the willow next to the pond and consider the options. 

 

Equipment

I need a calendar.

Trying to keep track

 

The Beast is home from the hospital, purring like a maroon leviathan (I realize they don’t purr, gurgle?  bubble?).  It was a minor fix.  Little part, general breakdown, quick fix.  So, with relief I attended presbytery today.  People are beginning to say hello and know me.  I’ve got three preaching gigs this and next month.  Someone asked me if I’d be interested in a new position opening….

I’ve got a feeling things are going to start coming hot and heavy.  It’s been nice to be able to take things as they come, without being worried about getting slammed if something slides by.  Deadlines are friends I haven’t seen in a while.  Responsibilities that don’t have to do with my trees and flowers and lawn and tomato plants are strangers. 

Am I going to become unretired? 

I do worry about the headaches.  My doctors said move away from stress.  So I changed my address.  I guess you can’t move away from a life style.  You’ve got to change your approach to living.  Easier said than done when it’s a habit developed over 45 years.  But I have learned some things over this season of being fallow. 

I’ve learned to spend time being creative every day.

I’ve learned to take a nap when I need one.

I’ve learned to write and read at least three projects and books at the same time. 

I’ve learned that I like our new hometown and our neighborhood.

I’ve learned that I’m pretty good at being a partner with my wife.

I’ve learned we’re good at creating a beautiful home (an ongoing job).

I’ve learned that I’m happier when I’m getting my hands dirty and that I can actually fix, build, and grow things (lots to learn).

I’ve learned how much life has to offer when I’m willing to take advantage of the opportunities.

I’ve learned that I don’t have to live in the eye of a hurricane.

See?  Even a thick head can learn.  Now, let’s see if I can keep all that in mind, keep learning, and do some ministry without blowing a fuse.  Little part, general breakdown.

The general idea is to 'Keep on Truckin' 

 

 

The Beast

 

In 2004 I became the partner of the Beast.  This has nothing to do with goats’ heads or black candles.  The Beast is a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser.  Since the partnership was formed he has schlepped me and my family, towed a sail boat, made fifteen round trips from New Jersey to North Carolina, on five of which he was towing a trailer full of beds, books, dishes, plants, and rocks, don’t ask.  In other words, this being has been an integral part of our existence. 

The Beast is sick.  Something is wrong with the dreaded technological whatzits that make all his systems operate.  They have unbooted, fried, or gone into revolt.  Why something as brawny as the Beast should need whatzits to make it tick is one of the grim metaphysical glitches of existence. He is sitting in the driveway wrapped in two blue tarps to keep the rain out of the windows that won’t operate (they’re stuck in the down position).  This is an embarrassing state of affairs for such a capable fellow.  Too expensive to fix?   Such blasphemy was considered in the same manner that one considers selling a child.

But as I look out there, I realize that I am rather attached to him.  A piece of machinery, you might say?  If that is your attitude, I wouldn’t hire you as a baby sitter.  Surely he is a thing.  But then again, so am I.  And if I was busted, my wife, bless her heart would insist on having me fixed (you know what I mean). 

So, he’s going to the hospital today.  I take him with the anxiety of a family member having to trust a healer with their loved one.  So show a little respect.  OK?

 

So Much for Deals

 

Everybody wants a deal.  Deals to get more for our money, to get more money for our work, to be able to have things we shouldn’t be able to afford.  Deals are short cuts.  They let us cut corners.  They make allowances where there should be none.  Some students in my classes look for better grades for less work.  They want to be able to get away with absences, missing homework.  It seems that the ends do justify the means.  According to this approach to living it doesn’t seem necessary for us to live up to standards of decency, or personal ethics as long as we get our car, our clothes, our flat screen TV’s, our grades, our time off.

It disappoints me when my students try to work deals with me.  But when their parents start calling me, telling me that their children really should get a better grade because they don’t get anything but A’s, then I start wondering if they’re living in a fantasy land that doesn’t even require deals to make things work.  No wonder their kids don’t even see the need to use spell check.

I think that’s the kind of strange place that people often use when they attend church, or profess a set of beliefs.  It’s like a magic wand that they wave to get what they want, or to make things easy.  It doesn’t matter what the scientists say, or whether the ice caps are melting, global warming has nothing to do with how many cars my family drives or my carbon footprint.  I can have what I want because I’m a Christian.  I never picked that up in the gospels. But then again, I’m lousy at making deals.

 

Al Opdyke

 

The magazine from San Francisco Theological Seminary came today.  It comes quarterly.  I like to read through it, though to tell the truth, I have expressed little support for the institution.  Perhaps as I move along that might change.  Nostalgia and all that.

On the page titled In Memoriam there was a name that stopped me.  Al Opdyke.  It took me a few switch backs and double clutches to get it into any sort of perspective.  The Al Opdyke I knew was part of my mythology.  He worked green chain to make money in seminary.  Don’t ask, it’s dangerous.  He spent every spare moment in the Sierra’s, mountains that is.  He nursed me through my seminary internship and probably was responsible with helping me make it through with any sort of sanity. 

He could take a dare.  He had a great laugh.  He worked with cops and got along with farmers.  He liked dogs.  He got pancreatic cancer.  So my mythology intersected with mortality.  I don’t approve. 

Important people in my life have died before.  People do that.  But each time it happens it’s like a body blow.  I can hear him chuckle about my comments.  He’d shake his head a little and tell me I had better things to do than worry about him.  But right now, I don’t think there is anything that is more important than spending some time remembering my mentor and a man whom I valued and respected, and will continue to do so. 

You knew how to love life.  You fought the good fight.  You took time to care for fools and dogs.  You helped me find my calling.  Bless you on your way.

Forgive me

 

It is hard not to become enraged when so many choose to ignore our home.  If someone came into my house and spoke and acted without any sense of decorum, choosing to undo things that we have labored to create, a garden, art, a quiet place to sit and read, a conversation shared with manners and with peace, how would any of us respond? 

I pray for the man.  I do.  But his behavior and the attitudes and actions of his supporters in response to his illogical, dangerous, and just plain rude rantings and policies, make it hard to allow any sort of peace to rule my prayers.  He is polluting my home.  So my prayers for him tend to end with prayers of confession.

I know I shouldn’t throw rocks.  But when I was a child, people threw rocks through our windows because my parents stood for integrated neighborhoods.  The notes attached were awful, lies that threatened and condemned the people who chose to stand for justice and reconciliation.  My family told me to be proud and confident that we stood with prophets.  But I was angry and hurt and afraid.

Now I feel that way again. 

And I remember what my father told me over breakfast before I went to school the next morning.  “Others will know of this.  Some may say things, ugly things to you.  Witness to the truth.  Keep your head up.  They are bullies who live in fear.  They throw stones.  We’ve got better things to do.” 

Martin Luther King said, “The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice.”

I’ll remember my father’s courage and wise words.  I’ll remember prophets like Rev. King.  But once in a while, I get pissed off.  Forgive my language and my rage.

Blessed

 

Oh, I am blessed to see and know

Through him who has redeemed us

In his giving and his sacrifice

That which is the glory

In this joy of created glory

Light and beauty,

Simple and complex,

Accepted as a gift each moment

Not possessed,

But appreciated and embraced