Back to What I (Don't) Know

Sunday, April 22

This Sunday morning, instead of going through our "get us to the church on time" routine, my baby girl and I are sitting on the couch, snuggled together, peas in a pod of pillows and blankets. She is snoozing away, sleeping off what I have diagnosed as nausea, an over-supply of snot, and generalized yucky-ness. She wakes up every now and then, usually from an inconsiderate noise, and tries to blink herself back into this world. After a few eyelid flutters and squints that try to set the world back on its axis, she gives up on seeing straight and drifts off again, back into a much more stable universe.

How quickly they get sick, I think to myself. Last night, just 12 hours ago, she was enjoying her set of back-to-back-to-back timeouts way too much. Just 12 short hours ago, she was looking at me with those coaxing eyes that say, "I know you want to be mad mama, but you really want to smile with me. Turn up the corners, mama." Oh, child.

Now, she sits next to me, breathing steadily through necessary slumber. How sick is she? I'm staring at her, wondering, What is my gut saying to me? People always say, listen to your gut. Well, she's sleeping a lot and that's rare, she hates sleep. She's nauseated, but that could be from anything from snot to the slight overdose of gas medicine to any number of things she ate yesterday, food or otherwise. She's warm, but she's been warmer. What would Mom and Dad do?

Has someone marketed that bracelet--WWMADD?

Well, this certainly doesn't seem to be an emergency or urgent. For now, I think I'll let her sleep this off. Now, what about medicine? Should I give her anything?...

She has no idea that a bevy of decisions are being made on her account. She's just wondering when I'll stop moving--sit still, Mama!

I kiss her flushed forehead. I remember that at the height of crying after one of her head's encounters with some object, I kissed her and said something like, "It's okay, baby, mama's here. A mama's kiss has special powers, don't you know?"

I know that a kiss cannot cure. I know that a kiss conveys that which medicine cannot:

I am here.  I love you.

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There is a couple that I visit who have been married long enough to have their picture on a Smucker's strawberry jelly jar and shown on TV. Before the husband leaves to run errands, he will walk over to the couch where his wife is sitting, lean over and kiss her, and then kiss her again for emphasis. Everytime.

I will be back.   I love you.

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I remember driving my grandmother and my cousins to the funeral home for our great-grandmother's service. We were running a little late and my cousins came to the consensus that my foot was the heaviest and therefore I should be the one to drive.  I think it was the last time we were all in the same car together, before life furthered the distance between us all.

At the funeral home, I remember seeing my grandmother lean over and kiss her mother's forehead.

We will see each other again. I love you.

Remembering the Good, Conclusion

So That I Might Live

1 John 4:9: God’s love was revealed among us in this way:
God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him.

Taking pause to remember so many of my life’s wonderful blessings has made for a wonderful, but curious, Lenten season. Lately, for whatever reason, my childhood has invaded my daily life. I find myself overcome with emotion because of my memories. There has been so much good in my life. Yet sometimes, I long for those days and the feelings of home and routine and security with so much desire that I get lost in those memories and feelings.

My eyes are closed, soaking up the pictures of days past. My eyes are closed, missing the happy pictures of days present. My eyes are closed, envisioning a future that unrealistically has me as a child and as a parent.

What am I doing wrong?

In remembering the blessings, I acknowledge that my life is full of reason to give thanks. I am reminded of who I am and of the people in my life that love me unconditionally. However, in remembering, I think that the shadowy side of nostalgia, the one that casts every part of a memory in a bright light, in fact does cast a shadow on the present, leaving the good in the dark. How can today ever live up to yesterday? Certainly, I don’t want to go back and remember every bad and tragic thing in my past to achieve balance for myself.

How can I remember well?

There has always been this belief in the back of my mind that in order to move on from past hurts and traumas, an individual must try and accomplish the task of letting go without forgetting. That way, lessons from tragedies and mistakes can be carried forward without taking along the emotional bondages that were established. It’s a hard separation. The task requires that someone objectify a personal memory, something that is naturally subjective--difficult, indeed!

I think that I have to apply my belief to the other side of the coin. I have to find some way to be grateful for the good, for I don’t want to forget to be grateful, while holding the sentiment at bay. There’s just nothing so bad in my present that I need to idealize the past. Sure, there are days and moments of days when I need an escape or a hand to lead me out of a hole. There are some behaviors to improve, some money to be saved, and some work to be done, but those are just good life goals to keep around because they help the motion of life move forward. Still, there is a wealth of good that is fresh, fragrant, and current. Open up, eyes.

I believe in a God who gave us life so that we might enjoy, even love, our life on earth. I think God wants us to smell the flowers and hear the birds and see the ocean and say, “Oh yes, this earth is good.” I believe that the phrase from 1 John 4:9, "so that we might live," refers to not only our eternal souls but also to our present selves, as we are here on earth.

I believe that God worked very hard to create me, a unique being, a unique child, and that graciously, I have been able to share in the creation of another unique being and child. When I sit and hold her in my lap, admiring the locks of curls, tinted with beautiful browns and blondes, I imagine that God is pleased with my admiration and is admiring along with me, each strand on her head and mine. Open up, eyes, realize what you are seeing.

With fond memories of my Old Testament and American Literature professors in mind, I believe that God allows us to wander in the wilderness, no matter the thickness of brush or dimness of light. The wilderness is Sacred Space. Open up, eyes, see the path before you; even though it might be a circle, God is alongside you, through each curve and each straightway.

Imagine calming anxious nerves based on the recognition that God is with us in the past, God is with us in the present, and God is with us in the future. The present is always timely. God is!, God is!, God is! What a good place to be! Is this “Om”?

I dropped out of Philosophy 101 in college because I didn’t want to memorize anything and I didn’t want to consider anything too deeply. Even though I have a little better grasp on philosophical thought now, I would still probably drop out of the class, 10+ years later. Let me throw on my own brakes…

I know this ramble is muddy, as unclear as my Philosophy and Theology professors' lectures--muddy, muddy, muddy (head shaking).

I know these things:

     It is okay to remember; it is okay to forget; it is okay to repress.

     It is okay wander; It is okay to let go; it is okay to re-form.

     It is okay to be grateful; it is okay to be satisfied; it is okay to recover.

     It is okay to have hindsight; it is okay to have foresight; it is okay to just see.

     It is okay to live in the open, bright valleys; it is okay to have a stay in the closed, shadowy forests.

The water should be much clearer.

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The return and the conclusion:

I am writing in the present intentionally.

This Lenten season is important for me. It is a convergence of time and emotions. I am a creation, a child, a friend, a chaplain, a wife, a mother. I am tangled. I am wandering, but my eyes are open.

I hear the rain.

Sermon: I Will Dance With You

Sunday, April 15, 2012

St. Charles Avenue Baptist Church, New Orleans, Louisiana

Lectionary Passages:  Psalm 133, Acts 4:32-35, 1 John 1:1-2:2, John 20:19-31

I grew up in Athens, Georgia, in a church similar to this one in many ways.  Many of the sights and sounds and smells are familiar to me.  The choir robes were a different shade of green, but green nonetheless.  During our service in Athens, we heard the noises of downtown in the background, much like the streetcar’s hum and other outside noises we hear from inside this sanctuary, sounds I only consider to be natural parts of worship; they are just further accompaniment, joining in with the pipe organ and choir.

The warmness of this congregation is also familiar and appreciated—your smiles and open arms bring to my mind sentimental memories of home each Wednesday and Sunday.  Thank you for so genuinely welcoming my family into this house of worship and thank you for inviting me into this pulpit.  I am very, very grateful to and for each one of you.

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In my first preaching class in seminary, one of the two sermons we gave to the class was filmed so that we could see and hear ourselves and receive feedback as we watched the replay with our professor.  For most of my sermon, my head was cocked to the left.  So, if you see me do that too much, kindly just make a gesture to let me know that my head is staying too long in its comfortable position.

My second preaching professor, Dr. Claypool, was both a wonderful Baptist and Episcopalian minister.  And so, with him in mind, I offer to you, “The Lord be with you…  Let us pray.”

Almighty God, we come before you, together in shared worship of you, and we ask that your Spirit join us as you speak to our hearts, through song, through Scripture, through teaching and reflection.  In Your Name we pray, Amen.

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I remember sitting with an elderly Jewish woman as she lay dying in the hospice inpatient unit.  Her family was coming, but they had not yet arrived.  The funeral home’s instructions were for me to, upon her death, open the window in her room, light a candle, and place it on the windowsill.  The symbolism was described to me as this:  the open window represented an easier passage for the soul to find its resting place.  The candle’s flame represented life’s beauty and its fragility.  At life’s end, the soul, like the flame, faded away.

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On this, the second Sunday of Easter, we live knowing that the light of Jesus has returned to earth.  The passage we just read from the Gospel of John sets the scene for us:  After making his initial appearances to Mary and the other women, Jesus walks into a locked room where the disciples are huddled together, fearing the unrest that is still around.  Jesus offers to them:  “Peace be with you.”  He shows them his hands and his side.  The disciples rejoice, and rightly so, the promise has been fulfilled!  Jesus again offers, “Peace be with you” and then breathes onto them, baptizing them with this new beginning.  “Receive the Holy Spirit,” he says, “if you forgive the sins of any, then they are forgiven.”

Then Thomas enters the story. 

I’ve always felt that Thomas gets a bad rap.  We call him “Doubting Thomas,” as if we were schoolchildren on the playground—“Ooh…look at Thomas…see what he did?...he’s in trouble!”  Poke, poke, nudge, nudge, giggle, giggle.  Poor Thomas.  Even the scripture has a nickname for him, “Didymus” or translated from the Greek, “the Twin.”

Thomas says, “I wasn’t there when you saw him.  I didn’t see.  I didn’t touch.  I need to see, I need to touch. 

A few days later, Thomas, now with the disciples in the same room as before, gets the chance.  Jesus beckons to him, “Here, Thomas, see and touch my hands, see and touch my side.”

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I want to pause and leave you with that image and look at two of the other Scripture passages we heard today. 

From Psalm 133:  “How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!”

From Acts 4:32-35:  “Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common.  With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all.  There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold.  They laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.”

 
What do we hear and what pictures do we see in these verses?  In Psalms, we hear that kindred—family—are living together in unity, and it is good. 

And in Acts, “the ones who believed were of one heart and soul.”  It’s a little unclear to me who “the ones who believed” are; the scribes don’t seem to like identifying their pronouns.  Earlier in chapter 4, in verse 4, we find that Peter and John have a number of believers around them—about 5000.  This number is significant to me—a large group of people are getting along—they are holding everything in common; no one is needy.  Actually, any number, be it 5 or 5000 is impressive.  My family is small and we don’t always get along.

As an aside, I don’t think this means that everyone had everything they wanted.  They didn’t all have I-Pads and convertibles—they had what they needed.  More importantly, and I’m presuming a little here, they were all able to voice what they needed so that they could receive it.

We also see in this passage from Acts that the apostles are giving their testimony of Christ’s resurrection with “great power” and that “great grace was upon them all.”  Again, it’s unclear to me what this power is—it could mean that they gave their testimony with an emphatic tone or it could be that they were empowered by the Holy Spirit—according to verse 31, they were filled with the Holy Spirit.  Regardless, there is something behind this testimony, something in it, an energy, a bubbling, like lava out of a volcano, like the excitement of a child whose mother has just come to pick her up—it is an emulsion of emotion, trembling and joy and enthusiasm—Jesus has returned from the dead!  Jesus has atoned for our sins!  For my sins!  For your sins!

I believe that this group of people, apostles and new believers included, who are able to live as a unified body, are significant because they all are able to live that way together.  But perhaps more significant is that this picture of unity is the testimony of Christ’s resurrection, or a testament to Christ’s resurrection.  They share their material goods and they share the message of Jesus.  Do we believe that such a picture would illustrate the testimony of Christ’s resurrection today?  Wouldn’t we work more fervently to realize harmony amongst believers if we did have that belief? 

Let’s look back at the verses we read earlier in the service from 1st John.  “We declare to you what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands—the word of life is revealed and we have seen it and testify to it.  We tell you so that you may be in fellowship with us—our fellowship will be together, with God and with Jesus.  We are writing these things so that our joy may be complete.”

What do we hear and see in these verses?  We have again this notion of sharing.  This community desires to share the word of life.  But these verses take us a step further.  The inference is that the joy of the message of the Risen Christ is not complete unless it is shared.

This community of believers, presumably the Johannine community, is several decades removed from the resurrection.  They are not in the locked room with the disciples and Jesus; they have not seen his hands or his side.  Yet, they know, and are declaring that the path of light is underneath the footsteps of Jesus.  Fellowship is on that path, grace is on that path. 

The excitement is still there, isn’t it?  Can you hear it in their words?  They “declare” it or “proclaim” it, 4 times in 5 verses.  

There is a story of an anthropologist in Africa who was amongst the children of one tribe.  He told the children that there was a basket of fruit underneath a tree and that the first child who reached the tree got the whole basket for himself.  The children formed a line, held each other’s hands, and ran together to the tree, claiming the basket for the entire group.

The man asked them, “Why didn’t one of you want to reach the tree first and have the fruit all to yourself?”  The children replied, “Ubuntu!,” which means, “I am because we are.”  “How can one of us be happy if the rest are sad?”  The story gives a picture at the end of the children sitting in a circle together, their feet touching, smiling, laughing, and enjoying the fruit together.

To me, this story perfectly illustrates and connects the three passages from Psalms, Acts, and 1st John.  Children just naturally communicate the heart of excitement to me.  They can’t help it.  I’m glad that they don’t have an emotion on the plane between extreme excitement and extreme disappointment.  I can see the children in this illustration running together, or maybe skipping together as one unit, bubbling over in anticipation of the sweet, juicy fruit that is to be shared between them. 

Our basket of fruit, the message of Jesus and the grace that God has granted to us through Jesus, is waiting to be seen, to be held, to be touched, and to be tasted.  If we were to keep it to ourselves, the joy that we would derive would not be complete.  It is in the sharing that we find the complete picture of joy and of nourishment. 

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Now, back to the passage with Thomas.  Jesus paints a lovely picture of sharing for his disciples.  He offers peace in the midst of a troubled time—“Peace be with you.”  He shows himself—the wounds on his hands and his side.  He offers peace again—“Peace be with you.”  He then breathes out—giving the disciples the message and power of the Holy Spirit for them to carry and proclaim to others.

He does no different for Thomas.  We are often led to believe that Thomas is a misfit and somehow asking more of Jesus than anyone else.  But Jesus does the same things for Thomas, giving him what he specifically needs—Jesus offers him peace and then shows him his hands and his side.

I sympathize with Thomas because I understand him.  I’m pretty sure that I would have asked the same things of Jesus.  After all, Jesus was there, then was on the cross, then was in the tomb.  That was what my eyes would have seen.  I would need to reach out and touch in order to believe something different.  I think that’s human nature.  Have you been out and about with a 1 ½ year-old lately?  My baby girl has to touch everything, and I mean everything!  Her hands will not stay beside her, or in a shopping cart, or in her high chair at the dinner table.  Life is a little messy for us right now.

Jesus understands the messiness of life.  He understands that God’s grace is illogical to us.  Why would a Holy Savior be sacrificed for us?  For me?  I hear this disbelief in Thomas’ words.

Furthermore, if I truly believed that Christ died for my sins and rose again, in a truly miraculous fashion, would I not constantly be testifying with joy about this joy? 

But no, I do not.  I need constant reminders from Jesus of his wounds.  Yes, I get Thomas—he is a twin—he’s my twin.

One choral concert I attended in college included a piece from Jacob Handl.  In Latin, the title is “Regnum Mundi Et Omnem Ornatum.”  Translated, and with more of the text added, it means, “I have held in contempt worldly power and all temporary joys because of the love of Jesus Christ, my Lord, whom I have seen, whom I have loved, in whom I have believed and found solace.” 

I copied the text onto a card and have kept it in my wallet ever since as a reminder.  While working with these scriptures this week, I remembered the card and pulled it out.  I like to read it and re-remember—I have seen Jesus because I have seen his work in me and in others around me.  I love him and believe in him because he loves me and believes in me.  He has offered me peace at many points in my life and I am greatly revived each time with solace.  I believe that Jesus has shown me his hands and his side before and I believe that time and time again, he will show them to me, lovingly granting me unending grace.

May I be brave like Thomas and ask for what I need.  May I acknowledge and validate others around me who have doubts, making sure that I am not a hindrance as they seek to see Jesus’ wounds.

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One of my favorite patients is a lady who is very sweet but very frail and very weak.  I sit with her sometimes and we talk about whatever she can talk about.  She doesn’t really know what year it is, doesn’t know who of her family is alive, and isn’t really sure of who I am though she smiles at me a lot, a gift for which I am grateful.

During one of our visits, she asked me to come over and help her stand up from the couch.  I obliged and went over to her, held out my hands and let her grab them.  Slowly, gently, she stood and then with one hand grabbed my side.  With a telling grin she asked, “Do you want to dance?”  “Sure,” I replied, “I will dance with you.”  I placed my free hand on her side. 

“Do you know any songs,” she asked?”  Racking my brain, pleasantly caught off-guard from the request, I came up with a song that I thought would be familiar to her and one that was fresh on my mind—I sing it to my child often.  “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. . . .”  We swayed, back and forth, and she chimed in with a word every now and then. 

The moments of dancing and singing were peace-filled, weaknesses were bared and needs were shared.  It is in encounters like this one that I feel most connected to Jesus and to his grace and to his promise of resurrection.

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How shall we share the gracious message of Jesus? 

While our candle is still lit, flickering, but beautiful, may we share our joy as children share their joy, as Thomas and the other disciples shared their joy. 

Like Jesus, may we offer peace in troubled times.  May we share and show our wounds.  May we offer peace, even again. 

May we breathe and speak and sing with the power of the Holy Spirit, having been blessed again and again with God’s grace, willing to share the basket of fruits, willing to dance, eager to experience joy that is completed. 

Amen.

Remembering the Good, Part 4

I remember several conversations with the recruiter from McAfee, the seminary that I attended following my extra-long stay at the University of Georgia.  The recruiter, a family friend, and I had known each other for a long time; he genuinely cared about me and my future.  We talked about my plans, post-college, of which I had none, what my interests were, which seemed to be everything and nothing, (hence the extra-long stay at UGA), and what I thought about seminary, which was “I don’t know.”  He kept talking to me and encouraging me through my doubt about a call and about my academic ability.  I am grateful for his persistence, his care, and his direction towards a path that was much more concrete and much less of an unkempt corn maze.

I am grateful for my seminary professors.  I am grateful for their support during my struggles in the academic world and in life and their celebration of my accomplishments and successes.  I am grateful that they affirmed my call, though the details of that call were extra blurry during that time.  (It’s still a little blurry.)  They were tutors, they were mentors, and they, even still today, will lend me a wise ear as I encounter more of life’s kinks. 

I am grateful for the friendships that I developed in seminary.  Learning with those people, engaging in meaningful, though sometimes difficult debate with them, and sharing with them was and is an honor and a blessing.  I feel like I carry my seminary community with me as constant companions.

I am grateful for my post-seminary chaplaincy training, my Clinical Pastoral Education experiences.  My supervisors and fellow trainees were of significant aid as I searched to find my place and tried, even desperately at times, to discern God’s voice from others.  Chaplaincy is a weird, difficult, and lovely appointment.

I am grateful for my family’s support of my education and my call as chaplain.  They daily see, and put up with, the weirdness, the difficultness, and the loveliness along with me.
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In “remembering the good,” I have also found myself just remembering. 

I remember—

the lady on hospice care who called me to her bedside in her final hours.  She looked at me and called me her angel.  Hers was the first funeral I officiated.

the baby I cradled, off and on throughout one of my overnight stays at the children’s hospital.  Earlier in the day, I promised his mom, who was suspected of hindering his recovery and therefore removed from his room, that I would hold him and rock him in her absence.  I remember his brown eyes and how they looked at me curiously at first and then, as they closed to sleep, in what I hope was satisfaction with my adequate arms.

the boy who came into the ER with a large gash in his forehead.  His mom was unable to watch her son get stitches, so I offered to go instead and make sure he was okay.  I remember leaning over him, trying to calm him, and then realizing that the room was spinning.  I remember the doctor telling me to sit down and find the color that my face had lost.  I don’t remember much else.

the family that allowed me to baptize their baby in the NICU, minutes before the baby was to undergo bedside surgery.

the child whose traumatic injuries  could not be overcome despite the nurses and doctors strong efforts that lasted throughout the night.  I remember the doctor holding out his hand as a stop sign, knowing that the boy needed to be let go.

the young Muslim mother who waited patiently for her Imam’s approval of a medical procedure for her child.  She willingly explained the process to me and then graciously entered into discussion with me about our religions.  We were different but we had a lot in common.  Those commonalities generally revolved around peace.

the older boy who had muscular dystrophy and then was later diagnosed with a brain tumor.  I saw him and his family again and again during their many stays at the hospital and visits to the outpatient treatment center.  A few months after I completed my residency at the children’s hospital, he came on service with the hospice with which I had found employment.  I remember releasing balloons at his funeral.

the ornery man with whom, despite his attempts to remain ornery and disagreeable, held my hand and sang “You are My Sunshine” with me a few days before he died.  I know I remember one smile, but I think I remember two.

standing with many members of a hospice team, including the medical director, at the bedside of a gentleman whose artificial ventilation was being removed.  His daughter stood there too, along with other members of his family, their presence significant due to the daughter’s recent reconciliation with her father.

the man who lived in his bed, confined there because of the absence of legs and the subsequent deterioration of the rest of his body.  He watched my belly grow larger and larger with pregnancy, and would place a look of shock on his face every time he saw me, making himself laugh each time.  I remember becoming visibly upset the day I went in and found him quite ill and in pain.  I had to excuse myself, realizing I was falling apart, apologizing to him in blubbering fashion as I hastily left.

the beloved wife and mother whose husband was concerned about a Baptist chaplain visiting his wife, for fear of what he or she might say to her.  I remember our first conversation, the relief we both felt during our conversation, and the stories he told me of Koinonia Farms, Clarence Jordan, and Millard Fuller in the many conversations that followed.  I remember how he spoke so lovingly of his wife, during our conversations and at her memorial service, bragging about her care and concern for the earth and for equality among humans.

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My tears, as I remember these and more, are not just from grief.  There’s a certain element of guilt mixed in too.  I have spent these past 38 days reflecting on the good and on this Good Friday, a day that normally mixes grief and guilt for me, the worlds that normally intertwine with each other, the outer me (the chaplain), and the inner me (the child), are tangled more than usual.

I’m not crazy about guilt.  It’s too often used as a manipulation tool.  But in a way, the guilt I feel this season is of some relief.  It has originated within me, not given to me by an outside source, and so, I am claiming it.  I am claiming my grief too.  Truth be told, I’m not crazy about grief either.  I hope that the title “Hospice Chaplain” does not imply that I am an expert on the subject.

This day’s entanglement of the inner, the outer, the guilt, and the grief, are all sitting together with me and we are trying to work it all out. 
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I would be lying if I said that my work as a chaplain hasn’t caught up with me.  A few times, in conversation with myself and with others, I’ve labeled my current state as “burn-out,” but that’s not what this is.  I think that the souls of the past are calling to me, forcing me to take pause.

Jesus is calling me, forcing me to take pause.

I grieve—

for those who have suffered. 

for those who have not found peace and yearn for its sweet relief.

for friends and family of mine who are struggling through many difficult trials. 

for the many people who have ministered to me in their last days, though they called me chaplain.

for Jesus Christ, who suffered and died.

I feel guilty—

for not more actively seeking out those who suffer.

for not being a more fervent conduit of peace.

for not being a more attentive friend.

for not feeling sustained by the ample and extravagant blessings that my congregation has given me.

for the suffering and cruel death Jesus Christ submitted to for the sake of my soul.

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As I watch the bright candle, the lone light in the room, leave the chapel at the end of this evening’s Tenebrae service, I find the darkness overwhelming, but more meaningful than it has been before.  The quietness that is present, except for the occasional rumble of the streetcar outside the stained glass windows, is heavy, but clarifying.

The darkness has come.  The silence has come.  I will sit with all this tonight in meditation and reflection, grieving, guilty, but very, very grateful.  My soul, my soul.

Remembering the Good, Part 3

You’re a Lucky Girl

In yet another elementary school memory, this time from kindergarten, our class was on a field trip to downtown Athens to hear a band that was playing in the annual Blue Sky concert.  I remember sitting on the ground, knees pulled to my chest, (which must have been my normal sitting position), watching the birds and the clouds, enjoying the sunshine.  My teacher came over, knelt beside me, and spoke in my ear, “I like seeing your foot tapping to the music.”  I don’t think that I knew my foot was tapping, it was involuntary, like breathing, or not stepping on sidewalk cracks.  I was just enjoying being under the big, blue sky.

From the beginning of my beginning, I have listened to music;  my entrance into the world might well have been accompanied by processional music.  Hearing Mom play the piano or Mom or Dad singing was part of the world’s natural noise and rhythm.  Dad truly contributed to the noise when he would pull up to the piano and pull out “Peter and the Wolf” from his memory, corralling his fingers in the white and black rodeo.  I knew the evening at home was going to be a good one when the large book of musicals, from Annie Get Your Gun on, came out to play.  The book’s pages were bound together by a plastic spiral strip that tried its best to keep them all together.  West Side Story is just barely hanging on, clinging with the few remaining notches.

My piano lessons started at age young.  My piano teacher from then to college was an important figure in my life.  She was always encouraging, pushing me gently to improve without reprimand or reproach.  I think I felt her sense of pride in me though I didn’t recognize it as such.  Her lessons were not only about developing my piano-playing ability, they were also about developing my self-confidence.  I am grateful for her and for her compounded instruction.

My high school boyfriend influenced my ear in music by introducing me to a different perspective.  I knew that harmonies existed, but I never listened to them as much or appreciated their beauty as much until I listened to music from that view.  Suddenly, I had a new set of songs to listen to.  I heard new and wonderful parts of acapella pieces, of (good) popular music, and even classical works.  Though my young teenage heart wished for a different outcome of our relationship, the gift that remained, for which I am grateful, is the consideration for the other lines on the page, allowing me to more deeply enjoy a song.

As a child, I sat by myself on the second left pew during “Big Church,” because Mom and Dad sang in the choir.  I could usually pick out Mom’s voice because, well, it was my Mom’s voice and I had/have a hard time not picking it up.  I could also usually hear Dad’s voice simply because his was the one that could successfully reach the place where music bottoms out. 

I am grateful for the emphasis my home church placed on music.  I cannot think of the church without hearing some melody.  Still today, worship for me, whether personal or congregational, occurs on a deeper level if I have a song in my heart.  I am grateful that through music, I am able to praise, to speak to, and to hear my Creator.   

My piano professor in college was tough on me, making me “work for it,” demanding that my fingers routinely go where they were supposed to go.  A few of my fingers are visibly twisted today, and I think that the initial turn was in response to the sudden commands, confused by the new timbre.  I am grateful to her for one, knowing that I could master a difficult piece and convincing me of the same fact, and two, for exposing me to the performance side of music.  Three, I am grateful to and for performance musicians whose hard work makes the days of my life sound better.

Still, my connection with music is much less centered in the soundproof practice room and much more in the open world.  To me, nature and music parallel each other and have a hard time going their own, divergent ways.  I relate to music much like the child who sits beside her mother at the treble end of the piano bench, tinkering out the notes as she can, mimicking the full version played an octave below by more apt hands.  That seat is still desirable and warm to me; it is a secure one, provided by a duet’s necessary connection.

Music has the ability to change my mood, from unsettled to calm, from unfocused to contemplative.  Too, it can perfectly match my personality and walk beside me and at other times feel completely foreign and unnatural.  There have been times when I refused to listen to a piece of music because I knew that it would shift me away from my anger or my sadness—emotions that I wanted to let brood.  I knew that the notes were right though I hated to concede.

Dad has always said that if he came home and Mom was playing something in a minor key, he knew he needed to tread lightly.  I guess this outward display was passed on to me; my playlist selection seems to be indicative of where my odometer will hover.  Jesse does seem to be more grateful for his seatbelt at times.

Not so very long ago, as I sat in the theater, watching and listening to a production of The Phantom of the Opera, I realized that while this was a repeat performance for me, it was an introduction to the baby I was carrying, the increase in her movement quite noticeable.  I’m sure a smile came to me, feeling her feet tapping along, thinking to myself, I guess we will have to have a place for a piano.  Perhaps this influenced my choice for her name. 

Natural, the sounds and rhythms are natural, only noticed when absent. 

Shall we dance, child?  Shall we sing?  Let’s sit on the grass, pull our knees to our chests, and enjoy the sunshine.  All our dreams of joy will come true, because you love me and because I love you.

Remembering the Good, Part 2

My elementary school was a very short distance from my house: down a great bicycle hill, (well, great one way—up), around a corner to the right, past the patch of bamboo shoots and sweet-smelling honeysuckle bushes, through a church yard, across Oglethorpe Avenue, and down another hill, directly into the schoolyard. Until recently, I thought that I walked home by myself every day until Dad confessed that this was not the case—somebody, either he, or one of his cronies, (the same cronies who reported to him my various locations through high school and college), made sure I entered my front door safely.

I’m not sure what experiences other elementary schools provide for their children, but mine offered some incredible ones. In kindergarten, my class spent the night with our two teachers; we made macaroni and cheese for dinner and picked up Dunkin’ Donuts for breakfast the next morning. In third grade, our teacher brought a barrel of horse bones to school for us to study and put together in a way that resembled a horse’s skeleton. In fifth grade, we were very involved in 4-H and therefore spent a lot of time putting together our projects for the county competition. I felt, and still feel confident that my presentation, “How to Wash a Dog,” would have won if I’d had a pointer stick to use as I showed off my posters. Janet had a pointer stick, she won—I was the runner-up.

Occasionally, all of a grade’s classes, or even the whole school, would get together for an activity like the school spelling bee. In third grade, I came in third, tripped up by the pesky word “doodling.” (Spell check just took care of the possibility of a repeat offense.) The weatherman from an Atlanta news station flew in on a helicopter, landing in the school’s immense backyard, and talked to us about meteorology. Well, I guess he talked to us about meteorology; we were all a little taken by the helicopter.

We gathered items from our school rooms, bedrooms, and toy boxes, and planted them in time capsules in one of the schoolyard’s clover patches. We learned how to use Apple computers, some of the first school computers, the ones with the true floppy disk drives. We “bought” stocks and followed their gains and losses daily in the newspaper. Some organization brought a large domed tent to the school, and when we went inside and lay down on its floor, we found ourselves stargazing and learning about constellations.

I am grateful for my public school education at Oglethorpe Avenue Elementary School. I think that our mascot was the fierce unicorn. As I write, the school’s song is playing in my head. O-g-l-e-t-h-o-r-p-e. . .

The whole 4th grade sat together for one lesson about the Civil Rights Movement. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor amongst my classmates, knees pulled up to my chest, listening to a teacher speak something to the effect of, “Many of the slaves held the last names of their owners. To show that no one held ownership over him, Malcom X ‘x-ed’ out his last name, Little.” She continued, but I heard nothing after “Little” because I felt like every set of my classmates eyes were now turned around to me. That’s Stephanie’s last name, whisper, whisper. . . My brain added to their whispers, her family must be some of the bad white people. She must be one of the bad white people.

Despite my fears, I don’t recall anything that occurred afterwards or in the next few days, though I don’t believe that anyone ever showed that they were mad at me, or that they laughed at me, or anything else. I guess everyone had good differentiation skills, thank goodness. I certainly remember those few moments though, and I don’t believe they will ever leave me. Not only did I feel singled out, a feeling that no child, especially a shy child, wants to feel, but I also felt a sense of responsibility, of belonging, of a connection to the past. Those feelings were not good feelings. Did my family own slaves? Could they have owned slaves? Could they have been bad people? I don’t think that I’m a bad person. The possibilities were terrifying to me; I wanted no part of that evil.

I have been watching the TV show, Who Do You Think You Are, where celebrities research their genealogical history. As I watched the other night, the thought struck me how many of their histories included slavery. That thought immediately brought me to the elementary school memory. Again, I felt those senses of responsibility and connection. I would love to think that neither side of my family owned slaves or supported the brokerage of humans. Unfortunately, the more realistic side of my brain knows that this is not likely the case. To believe that all members of my family, extended and long past, have been righteous and moral folk is unrealistic, and maybe a little egotistical. I want to feel connected to the slave, to the thought of liberation, to the thought of being oppressed—but those are odd desires. Is the desired association there just because the oppressed are seen as the “good” side? The truth is, I am connected to the “bad” side and the "good" side, regardless of whether I want to be or not. I have both the ability and the capability to be both good and evil, free or enslaved, oppressed or oppressive. Yikes.

Similarly, I think about the mind of a slave owner, perhaps related to me, and try to imagine her in her time and culture, and I wonder what must have been going on in her brain. How could she have thought that owning someone was okay or just? It is scary to think that some of those genes are some of my genes, just as physiologically binding as the red hair on my head.

I think to the mind of the slave and try to imagine her in her time, but away from her culture, and wonder what must have been going on in her brain. How could she have lived, how could she have made it, bound to laws and cruelty for which she had no vote and no control? It is scary to imagine her because I can hardly imagine her. Not only am I too removed, but I am also too privileged. Yikes again.

Though remembering that 4th grade moment, 20+ years ago, still hurts the child inside me, I am glad that I have the memory. While I did not directly have a role in that part of history, I am responsible for recognizing oppression in this age, the oppressive hands of those around me as well as my own oppressive hands. I am responsible for the recognition of oppression and the action that aids liberation.  My childhood memory and my name serve as catalysts for me to be a better human.

I hope that I leave behind more valuable artifacts than the Happy Meal toys that lie underneath a patch of clover, my contribution to our class’s time capsule. I hope that one day, as my three-times great-grandchild breathes underneath the same stars as I breath under, she will start to read about her family and feel pride and not guilt, compelled—no, bound, by a nurtured instinct to be a good human and to care for all of humanity.

Remembering the Good, Part 1

Our first house in Athens, my home from ages 3-12, had the perfect front and back yards for a child. They were large enough for child-size exploration, but contained enough to be safe and always close to home. My first dog, Scotty, (the best dog a girl could have), created paths in the fenced-in backyard from his consistent and constant perusing and patrol.

There was another path, I'm sure, between the side of our house and the backyard of our neighbors, the trampled grass due to the daily commute of either me to their backyard, or the two girls to mine. My own yard may have been great, but the combined yards were great territory for three young girls to conquer. Though I know we must have spent some time playing indoors, the bulk of my memories are staged outdoors. We giggled like girls giggle, we argued like girls argued, we made up like girls make up--usually returning to the giggles. We swung, we jumped on the trampoline, and we created a home and club in the playhouse. We gathered roly-polies by day and lightening bugs by night.

We had no sense that we were acting as neighbors should act. We shared. We took advantage of proximity, similar circumstance, and mutual affection. We three are still friends and though I am speaking for them, I believe that each of us would love for our households to have that same proximity today.

I am thankful that I had the chance to play in the dirt on a daily basis and I am thankful that I got to play in the dirt with my two neighbors.

I'm not sure where the shift takes place--the shift of waiting for your neighbor's school bus to get home to rushing inside before you see your neighbor. I think that as our culture continues to turn inward, replacing sunlight with artificial light, replacing the natural pace of the earth with the rushed, instant pace of media, we see a relationship with our neighbors as just one more forced interaction. Too, the language that is in use now is so very polarizing—it is scary to engage in conversation with people we don’t know—there is little gray area for compromise to breed and little respect for an opinion that lies on the other side of the fence. 

During our first stay in New Orleans, my husband and I lived across the hall from a couple and their young son. They were incredibly good at being neighborly. We played games and we ate together. I would watch their son sometimes and they would watch Jesse sometimes during football season. We didn’t agree on everything, including religious and political topics, but that never mattered. At the root of their belief system was the directive to love one’s neighbor, and they put that directive into practice. They reached out, not only to us, but to our other neighbors too. They reached out, even though the situation of living on campus in married housing was temporary (Lord, please let it be temporary); they knew that the day-to-day relationship would end, but they were willing to invest nonetheless.

Golly, they drove me crazy. I often just wanted to shut our door and watch TV by myself, dressed in my old, tattered pajamas. Now, I wish I could open my door and have them three paces away again. I wish their son could play with our daughter. I wish they could keep my daughter in their apartment while I watched TV, uninteruppted, in my old, tattered pajamas. 

I am thankful that they were our neighbors. I am thankful that they taught me to discard my excuses of being shy and introverted and enjoy the relationship between two families. I believe that I, as a Christian, must love, and if I cannot love my neighbor, who might be three paces away, then I will struggle to love my neighbors whose distance is much further.  I am thankful that my friends illustrated this belief for me in such a wonderful way.

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As I look out my window, the blue sky and warm sunshine beckon me to notice the irony of my own words—I sit here with a computer in my lap and with the television on in the background, turned to a basketball game that I care nothing about. I should at least take the computer and the baby outside, but I know I haven’t to this point because I’m afraid of something getting dirty. But really, what’s one more load of laundry? I’m going to put my tennis shoes on, get the can of Lysol wipes, and clean off the stroller that is hiding underneath the breezeway stairs. The baby may not have mastered “hello” yet, but she has a heck of a “bye-bye” and a wonderful wave. I hope I get to show it off to someone.