A Cup Overflowing, 241-260

With this being November -- and the month of Thanksgiving, want you join me in adopting a season of "thanks living"?  Begin by counting...

 

#241  that apart from Christ, there is no joy

 

#242  at God's right hand are pleasures forevermore ... and in His presence is fullness of joy

 

#243  turning a knob and having instant water rush out ... and plenty of it, too -- how often I take that for granted

 

#244  reality checks that remind me of my place in life

 

#245  dancing with Lynn

 

#246  fair friends (and food)

 

#247  sitting around the table with my son and his wife enjoying family

 

#248  young talent

 

#249  disappointment ... it allows me to practice grace

 

#250  God's loving providence in my past

 

#251  His constant protecting love in my present

 

#252  pink mornings

 

#253  the rich warmth of a friend's voice on the phone

 

#254  the season's last hydrangea

 

#255  choir rehearsal ... and community

 

#256  cakes and a mother who taught me to bake

 

#257  content with the quiet

 

#258  that every day God says "Do it again!" and the sun rises in the east

 

#259  experiencing God's love afresh through the writings of St. Therese of Lisieux

 

#260  holding hands

Happy Thanksliving...
 

Appreciating My Pastors

I readily admit that I'm a church girl.  I grew up in the church; in fact, one could even say I was born in the church as I can't remember a time when I didn't attend.  So it's probably no surprise that the print "Sunday Morning" by Asher Brown Durand hangs above the fireplace in my den and blesses my heart even today.  Like I said, I'm a church girl. 

 

And so with October being Pastor Appreciation Month, I've taken some time recently to recall and think about the men and women who have filled the shoes of "pastor" in my life.  [For some reason, we rarely called them Reverend or Pastor.  It was always Brother so-and-so (always their first name).  Unless, of course, they had their doctorate, and then they were Doctor.] 

 

They came in all shapes and sizes; all forms and fashions.  Some were eloquent in speech, others were less articulate.  Some were witty; others were more serious.  Most served by preaching; some by cutting the church lawn.  They baptized us, married us, buried us.  They ate with us, played with us, wept with us.  They sat with us, comforted us, prayed with us.  They taught us, encouraged us, and preached to us.  And yes, some even fished with us. 

 

And so on this last night of "Pastor Appreciation Month," I call out their names and remember.

 

The Reverend .... (Ironically, I don't even know the name of the very first pastor in my life.  But I do know this; he held me as an infant and sprinkled my little head with holy water.  That thought has given me long pause lately.)

The Reverend Billy Key (Brother Billy opened his arms and said, "Come!"  And this 6-year-old did.)

Doctor Leonard Cochran (Being so young, I can't remember much about Dr. Cochran, but this church girl does recall listening to his "children's sermons.")

The Reverend Ellick Bullington (Brother "B" ALWAYS told me how pretty I was.  That was a huge thing for a young teenager struggling with her self-image.)

The Reverend J.B. Smith (Brother J.B. was a retired associate at the time but so instrumental.  It was to him my mother took me when I had questions and fears about life.)

The Reverend Tom Johnson (He married my husband and me.)

The Reverend Paul Sauls (This "Padre," as he called himself, was the first to welcome these newlyweds into his home in Louisville, GA.  And the first pastor to hire me as a church pianist.)

The Reverend Ed Deen ("Pattin' Ed" would straddle his chair and talk theology with me like he had nothing else to do.)

The Reverend Wayne McDaniel (He was as real as they come and would just as soon minister in a fishing boat ... and often he would.)

The Reverend Phil Marklin (Phil encouraged my gifting.)

The Reverend Bob Norwood (He allowed us to watch him go through personal grief.)

The Reverend Jim Burgess (He prayed on his knees.)

The Reverend Eugene Barlow (God used Eugene to unearth my gift of teaching.)

The Reverend Jenny Jackson-Adams (The Lord used Jenny to transform my thinking about women pastor's, and one of her sermons to confirm our move back to Perry.)

The Reverend Bill Strickland (Bill is the one who sparked my passion for seeing the holy in the ordinary and taught me to see life from a different point of view.)

The Reverend Ed McMinn (Ed gave it all up and jumped in with us to start a new church fellowship.)

Pastor Sean Cooper (God used Sean to move me in a direction I never would have considered otherwise.)

The Reverend Parker Agnew (His reverence for the Word and worship continues to inspire me.)

The Reverend Don Caulley (Don is not afraid to ask me the hard questions.  He's the real deal.)

No doubt, calling these names this last week has flooded my memory bank.  All had and have their particular gifting.  But if there's anything they ALL have in common it is this: at one time, they ALL individually heard the call of God on their lives and responded; and, in retrospect, they ALL were used by God is some way to transform me or my life, making me into the person I am today.  In the words of Ray Boltz, "I am a life that was changed."  And for that, I am grateful.

 

So to each of these pastors I say thank you. May God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ give you grace and peace (Phil. 1:2).

 

How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the messenger who brings good news, the good news of peace and salvation, the news that the God of Israel reigns! (Isaiah 52:7)

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.

The First Step Toward Imitation

I had been looking forward to the trip for 4 months: a 2 night get-a-way to the north GA mountains in mid-October, peak season for the brilliant fall foliage.  To top it off, my husband and I were staying at the Brasstown Valley Resort which offered wonderful accommodations and breathtaking scenery.  So you can imagine the letdown when I entered our room, threw open the door to what I thought would be the balcony and saw this:

... stacked scaffolding -- and beyond that, the parking lot.  And let me just admit, if there's anything this girl enjoys more than a coffee maker in a hotel room, it's a balcony with a view.  And I had neither of the latter.  And quite frankly, I was ticked at God.  After all, our friends on the 3rd floor got "the view."  Miles and miles of rolling mountain view.

 

But what could I do?  I just sighed and said to my husband, "Oh, well."  But honestly, inside I was more than a little ticked about it.  I had been short changed for heaven's sake.  I had waited a long time for this trip, and by golly, I wanted a balcony and a view so I could sit outside and enjoy God.  (I make myself so sick at times.) 

 

The next morning, as we were on our way to breakfast in the lodge, I pointed out across the lawn and said to my husband, "When you get through with your meeting, you can find me there."  Lord knows I love a swing ... and there were 3 of them placed high above the putting greens.  And so after breakfast, I donned my denim jacket, loaded up my book bag, stopped by the dining room for a fresh cup of hot cinnamon and orange tea, and took to the stairs outside.  And this is where I found my place to breathe.  Shades of red, orange, yellow and green gave way to a blue October sky and rolling mountain topography.

If there's one thing I didn't want to do it was to keep my nose in a book for the couple of hours I was to be there; I wanted time to enjoy this sacred space, utilizing all my senses.  And so I chose Longing for God by Richard Foster and Gayle Beebe as my companion, hoping that the few pages I would read would spark conversation with the One with whom I hoped to commune.  And did it ever!

 

I opened it to where I had left off a week prior and found myself confronted (and I mean that in every sense of the word) with the chapter on Thomas a Kempis' Imitation of Christ.  In it Beebe offers 8 steps or priorities if we are to indeed become imitators.  "The first step," he writes, "to spiritual transformation is to destroy our self-centeredness."  Oh, my.  This was not going to be good.  There were 7 steps to go, each one building on the former, and I was already stuck on #1.  And it got worse.  "Humility is based on perceiving reality accurately, including the truth that life does not revolve around our needs and desires."  Double 'oh, my" as my personal definition of humility was being challenged.  "The very nature of the spiritual life runs counter to our natural desires.  We do not discover happiness naturally.  In fact, our self-centeredness is so powerful that we fail to see that we cannot engineer our own happiness but only prepare for it." 

 

Wow!  Talk about a conversation starter.  It didn't take me long to recognize that my sorry attitude, outwardly silent as it may have been, was the antithesis of humility.  In fact, it was pure pride.  (Ouch. That hurts to even write it.)   Yet God, in His faithfulness, was quick to point out that sitting there in that swing was pure grace, in fact, as much so as on the one to whom He HAD given the balcony with  a view.

 

And so I relinquished my attitude along with the balcony and room view and thanked Him for His incredible goodness in that, while showing me His colors, He also showed me mine by calling me out in this first step toward imitation. 

 

Just an ordinary moment...

 

 

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...