Find Us Faithful

How we got from here to there I don't know.  One minute we were discussing the Boy Scout house that is long gone, giving way to weeds and overgrowth years ago, and the next thing I knew we had "the book" out.  No, not the Bible.  The Harper genealogy.  Surely the hump in the conversation was when I asked how we were related to Wayne.  I had thought all these years it was just by marriage ... not by blood.  But come to find out, my great-grandmother was related to her husband's first wife whose child by her first husband was Wayne's grandmother.  I think.  But like I said, one thing led to another until I finally pulled out the family book that my mom wrote for us a decade ago.

I agree, it's not always "safe" to go digging into family past.  One never knows what one might find.  And boy, did she ever find!  Let's just say we are rarely surprised anymore when something "new" shows up.  It is what it is and there's usually not a thing we can do about it.  But it has made for some lively conversations.

Yes, it is interesting to flip through the pages of family histories and discover something of the lives of those gone before.  For example, I just learned that I had a great-great uncle who was the mayor of Homestead, FL.  His life was cut short in 1937, however, when he and his 19 year old daughter Katherine were killed in an accident involving an ambulance on their way home from the horse races in Miami.  (They had left early to "beat the traffic.")

Something else I didn't know.  My great-uncle, R.E. Harper, was among the very first trustees of the Perry School System.  He also spent his last days in Milledgeville at the mental hospital.  Surely there was no direct correlation between the two.

And then there was that "little incident' of "Who Shot the Sheriff of Jones County."  No one can say for sure, but the three Harper boys did go a-missin' after that.  And such is how we ended up in "these parts."

I imagine every family has a story or two they can tell if they're brave enough to look.

But what overwhelms me the most each time I fan the pages of our family history are the obituaries.  And one in particular: that of my great-grandfather, Bright Harper.

"Papa" Harper
1846-1913

I remember reading the article years ago and it striking the same chord then as it does now.

August 14, 1913, 100 years ago, the Houston Home Journal obituary read: "After being in declining health more than two years, Mr. Bright Harper, one of the most highly esteemed citizens of Houston County, died at his home near Providence Church last Sunday. ... Upright and true in all walks of life, Mr. Harper held the absolute confidence of all who knew him. ... There never lived a more steadfast friend, a more excellent neighbor, and his home life was kind and true to his high ideals of morality and Christian duty. ... A truly good man...."

Four months later on Dec. 18 of the same year, another article appeared -- this one written by "A Former Pastor."  In it, I read, "As a citizen this good man ranked as the best, as a neighbor he was all that could be desired.  He was very tender and loving as husband and father, and his children rise up and call him blessed.  ... For years he was a member of the Methodist Church, having his membership at Providence church ... and the hands of many a pastor were made stronger from the faithfulness of this good man.  His home was the place of rest for many a weary preacher, as he made them the objects of his hospitality. ... He was true to God, sympathetic in the afflictions that came to others, liberal in all things pertaining to the church of God, one of its most faithful members and to his family a loving father and husband.  He was a follower of Jesus in whom was no guile.  May the mantle of the father descend upon the sons."

"May the mantle of the father descend upon the sons."  Even as I read and type those words again, fresh tears run down my cheeks and I want to fall to my knees in enormous gratitude to a God who has been so faithful to these generations.  At once I want to shout to those in the grave a loud "THANK YOU!!!!, all the while my heart bursting open toward the heavens knowing it is God who has done this thing for us.

Before me each morning as I sit in my "sacred space" is a picture of our family: my husband and me, our children and their spouses and our grandson.  

No doubt, it is very often the central focus of my prayer time.  And this is what I am learning:  to pray that the mantle of the father descend upon the sons (and daughters).  Don't just take it for granted.

Many months ago, I jotted "Psalm 112" on a piece of paper, tore it off, and placed it in the corner of the frame.

It became my prayer.  It begins:

Praise the Lord!

Happy are those who fear the Lord, who greatly delight in His commandments.

Their descendants will be mighty in the land;

the generation of the upright will be blessed.

Wealth and riches are in their houses,

and their righteousness endures forever.

They rise in the darkness as a light for the upright;

they are gracious, merciful, and righteous...

This week as I flipped through the pages of the Harper genealogy, I came to the front of the book where my mother had penned a personal message to me.  My breath caught when I saw it.

Though certainly not perfect, I cannot be more thankful for the generations that have gone before me ... of both my parents, their parents and the ones before them.

A number of years ago, Steve Green wrote and sang a song that still rings within me today as I flip the pages of personal history.  A portion reads,

We're pilgrims on the journey of the narrow road

And those who've gone before us line the way

Cheering on the faithful, encouraging the weary

Their lives a stirring testament to God's sustaining grace

Surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses

Let us run the race not only for the prize

But as those who've gone before us

Let us leave to those behind us

The heritage of faithfulness passed on through godly lives

Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful

May the fire of our devotion light their way

May the footprints that we leave lead them to believe

And the lives we live inspire them to obey

Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful

So what if you don't have that kind of heritage: "the heritage of faithfulness passed on through godly lives"?  Beloved, you start it right now ... with your very own life of faithfulness.

Yes, may those who come behind us find US faithful.  And may the mantle of the father -- and the mother -- descend upon the children.  Let it be, Lord!

Just an ordinary moment...

A Cup Overflowing, 221-240

I read recently that gratefulness is the measure of our aliveness.  And that we are dead to whatever we take for granted ... because to be numb is to be dead. 

 

So how's your pulse?

 

I'm taking mine now.

#221  a life-long friend ... literally

#222  three territorial hummingbirds

#223  1.74 miles -- it's a start toward a future 5k

#224  emotions -- messages from God that can tell me much about my spiritual quest

#225  pin-pointing a wound

#226  forgiving ... again

#227  trying to learn how to live with a sacramental view of life

#228  yearning for Christian community for it is my context for finding companionship in Christ

#229  inconveniences that cause me to slow down and exhibit patience

#230  praying with a mantis

#231  October skies

#232  quiet mornings -- so much so that even my breakfast toast is deafening

#233  making family connections with a mother of a dear high school friend who is long departed

#234  GA National Fair -- unless one lives in Perry, one cannot appreciate the excitement of "fair days."  It is counted down for 50 weeks on a local sign, and we all anticipate its arrival.  Only an 11-day season pass will do! 

#235  cowboys being cowboys

#236  spending the day with my parents on my dad's 82nd birthday

#237  my daddy -- a man of integrity and faithfulness -- so thankful for this man!

#238  laughing so hard with my kids that my side feels like it's going to split wide open

#239  time spent with family -- after 22 years, my husband's sister and brother-in-law were finally able to take in a full day of fair activities with us.  We love them so much...

#240  that God sees the disconnect of my heart and still loves me

Awake my senses, O Lord.  I want to live.

Friday's Volume: Andy Catlett -- Early Travels

It is no secret I have an affinity for Wendell Berry ... at least his writings.  Not one of his books yet has disappointed me, including this last one I've read: Andy Catlett: Early Travels.  I had already met Andy in The Memory of Old Jack.  He was a teenager then about to enter his first year in college.  And I imagine I ran into him in Jayber Crow as members of the Port William society continually come up again and again in all of Berry's novels.  In this particular book, he's a smite young.  In 1943, at nine years of age, Andy embarks on his first out of town visit ... on a bus -- and alone, to a whopping tens miles away to see both set of grandparents who live in the now familiar to this reader, Port William.  As he himself says, "As I saw it, it was nothing less than my first step into manhood."  His right of passage.

 

It's a story written through the lens of time and age as Andy remembers belonging to a community that loved him, a people that shaped him.  Mainly, his grandparents and their "families." 

I think one of the things I love so much about Berry's writings is the way his words turned into sentences turn into memories for me.  I am privileged to have known and remember well my grandparents and even great-grandparents.  They, too, worked the land and appreciated hard work and a tired back.  They, too, experienced change.  Some "came over" on horse drawn buggies and they all were taken to cemeteries in gas powered Cadillacs.  The difference according to Berry:  "The wagon passed through the country at a speed that allowed your eyes to come to rest.  Whatever you wanted to look at in the road ditch or the fence row or the field beyond, your sight could dwell on and you could see it." 

I think another reason I like Berry's Andy Catlett and all of the inhabitants of Port William so much is because I, too, live among my ancestors.  My ground is sacred to me.  Everywhere I look I see them.  Where they worked, where they played, where they shopped, where they fished, where they worshiped, and, yes, where they are buried.  And maybe that's why I was drawn to this particular passage nearing the end of the book.

Time is told by death, who doubts it?  But time is always halved -- for all we know, it is halved -- by the eye blink, the synapse, the immeasurable moment of the present. Time is only the past and maybe the future; the present moment, dividing and connecting them, is eternal.  The time of the past is there, somewhat, but only somewhat, to be remembered and examined.  We believe that the future is there too, for it keeps arriving, though we know nothing about it.  But try to stop the present for your patient scrutiny, or to measure its length with your most advanced chronometer.  It exists, so far as I can tell, only as a leak in time, through which, if we are quiet enough, eternity falls upon us and makes its claim.  And here I am, an old man, traveling as a child among the dead.

We measure time by its deaths, yes, and by its births.  For time is told also by life.  As some depart, others come.  The hand opened in farewell remains open in welcome.  I, who once had grandparents and parents, now have children and grandchildren.  Like the flowing river that is yet always present, time that is always going is always coming.  And time that is told by death and birth is held and redeemed by love, which is always present.  Time, then, is told by love's losses, and by the coming of love, and by love continuing in gratitude for what is lost.  It is folded and enfolded and unfolded forever and ever, the love by which the dead are alive and the unborn welcomed into the womb.  The great question for the old and the dying, I think, is not if they have loved and been loved enough, but if they have been grateful enough for love received and given, however much.  No one who has gratitude is the onliest one.  Let us pray to be grateful to the last.

And thus, Berry does just that.  He makes me grateful for those who have gone before me as well as for those who have and are to come. 

Read the book and be thankful...

 

 

Doing This Together

Just last weekend, I read Henri Nouwen's book, In the Name of Jesus.  In it he writes of going to the Center for Human Development in Washington, D.C. to speak to a group of priests and ministers about Christian leadership in the then approaching 21st Century.  Being aware that Jesus did not send out His disciples alone to preach the word, the Daybreak community, a home for mentally handicapped people and in which Nouwen was now a priest, decided to send Bill Van Buren along. 

 

Nouwen wrote, "Of all the handicapped people in the house, he [Bill] was the most able to express himself with words and gestures.  From the beginning of our friendship, he had shown a real interest in my work as a priest and had offered to help me during services."  So when he was invited to join Nouwen, he accepted it as an invitation to join him in ministry.  In fact, the words he said over and over again on the plane were, "We are doing this together, aren't we, Henri?"  And each time Nouwen would answer, "Yes, Bill.  We are doing this together."

 

In the epilogue of the book, Nouwen explains what happened during the speech to this prominent group of listeners.  He tells of Bill leaving his seat and coming up on stage with him and planting himself right behind Nouwen.  Each time Nouwen finished reading a page, Bill took it and put it upside down on a small table near by.  Every now and then, Bill would blurt out, "I have heard that  before!"  He wanted everyone listening to know that he knew Henri very well and was familiar with his ideas, reminding Nouwen it wasn't as "new" an idea as he would like for his listeners to think. 

 

When Nouwen related the most often asked question he gets from the residents of Daybreak, "Are you home tonight"? Bill interjected, "That's right, that is what John Smeltzer always asks."  He wanted people to know about his friend John.  Nouwen wrote, "It was as if he drew the audience toward us, inviting them into the intimacy of our common life."

 

To top off the evening, when Nouwen had finished his speech and was getting an ovation, Bill whispered, "Henri, can I say something now?"  Truly not knowing what might come out of Bill's mouth, Henri agreed and called everyone to order.  "Bill took the microphone and said with all the difficulties he has in speaking, 'Last time, when Henri went to Boston, he took John Smeltzer with him. This time he wanted me to come with him to Washington, and I am very glad to be here with you.  Thank you very much.' That was it," Nouwen wrote, "and everyone stood up and gave him warm applause."

 

No doubt a lengthy and unusual introduction to this particular blog entry, but allow me to use it to segue to an incident that happened at the GA National Fair last week.  My cousin Lynn, her older sister and her 96 year old mother came from Jacksonville, FL to the fair.  On Thursday afternoon, I joined them and my parents for a few hours of fun.  One of the stops was to listen to Leon Jacobs, Jr.  Lynn, who has Down Syndrome, LOVES music, especially "rock and roll."  And  NO one enjoyed the hour more than she. 

 

Leon ended the afternoon show with Chubby Checker's The Twist.  As soon as he hit the first chords, Lynn jumped up right where she was and began to dance. 

 

I snapped a quick shot and then knew what I needed (and wanted) to do.  We were to "do it together."  And, Lord have mercy, did we ever!  We twisted until the cows came home.

 

 

When the song ended, Lynn threw her arms around my neck and said over and over again, "That was so much fun!  That was so much fun!  That was so much fun!"  Indeed, it was, Lynn.  Because we did it together. 

 

Jesus positions Himself where 2 or 3 are gathered together.  And on this warm, October afternoon, a little piece of land at the GA National Fair became holy for me.

 

I might not remember a lot about this year's fair, but one thing's for sure.  I'll remember dancing -- because we did it together.

 

Just an ordinary moment...