Amazing Grace

The last couple of mornings, I’ve been contemplating the act of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. Washing the feet of another was common in Biblical times. People walked most everywhere they went in open sandals exposing their feet to the dusty roads. But the job of washing guests’ feet was usually done by the least of the servants of the host. Not by the host himself. And the lesson of serving is what we usually glean from this passage. (John 13:1-17) But I find myself wondering more about the inward thoughts and feelings of those there that night of the Last Supper.

We know how Peter responded – with typical rash arrogance borne from ignorance and impulsiveness. (John 13: 6-9) But we don’t know how Judas responded. Nor do we know what was in the heart and mind of Jesus at the very time He was washing Judas’ feet. Certainly He knew what was in Judas’ heart even then, for scripture records, “The evening meal was being served and the devil had already prompted Judas Iscariot, son of Simon, to betray Jesus” (John 13:2) after which, John notes that Jesus got up from the meal and prepared to wash the disciples’ feet. (John 13: 4-5) Soon after, Jesus predicts his betrayal by one of his own. He knew. It was Judas. 

So what must he have been feeling while washing the feet of his betrayer? He may have felt some grief, perhaps remorse, that this was part of the plan…that Judas would betray and later hang himself in anguish at what he had done. Consistent with his character, Jesus probably felt compassion as he did even up to the moments prior to his entering Death. “Father, forgive them, they know not what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34) But what about anger and resentment? After all, he was fully human as well as divine. I find myself wondering “what would I be feeling if I were in the role of Jesus, washing Judas’ feet?” And sadly I realize my heart would be hardened, angry and proud. I doubt I could even bring myself to look at Judas, let alone touch him.

For which one of us has not felt betrayed by another at some point in our life? And how do we behave toward our betrayer? Humbly, with grief and compassion? It’s a rare person who has chosen to do so, and I’m surely not at the front of the line. Since within our culture, we don’t engage in the custom of washing our guests’ feet is there another similar action of service I have been denying those I presumed to have betrayed me? Or maybe more importantly, who have I betrayed at some point? And can I “wash the feet” of either? Not if I depend on my own will. Only by the power of the Holy Spirit, do great acts of compassion, forgiveness and humility manifest themselves in humanity.

We can’t know for sure what was in Jesus’ heart while he washed the feet of Judas. But we know what he ultimately did. And that’s the nature of grace. It substitutes love and forgiveness for anger and resentment. In the end, grace always wins. Lord, let me respond appropriately.

Color me Elmer!

 (If you haven't been following my blog recently, every Friday, I take one of the many elephants in my collection and write about it, the memories I have about it, the inspiration it might give me for daily living. So here's to another elephant!)

 Yesterday I mentioned all the books in our house.  Reading is my favorite pastime. I have trouble spending money on most anything, except books.  Amazon.com is my best friend on-line!  So it’s not going to be a surprise that I have some elephants that are characters in books. Since my mind is on books, I thought today I would highlight one of my elephants that also happen to be a character of a picture book.

Elmer is probably not known by many except preschool teachers and very young children.  Elmer is an elephant that loves colors, all colors.  Elmer is a patchwork elephant made up of all the colors of the rainbow and more.  Because I like young children, books and quilting, just looking at Elmer reminds me of the things I’ve loved doing throughout my life.

For me, children make the world so much more interesting and alive.  Can you imagine a world with only adults?  (I know some people who would love such a world!) But I would hate it!  Children bring freshness to everything that has become passé to us adults.  They bring energy to a world that would die without it.  They make us laugh, often without meaning to. They are honest and forthright about the way they see the world because they haven’t yet mastered the dubious art of hypocrisy as most adults have.  In other words, not saying what you mean and not meaning what you say.

Elmer’s colors and his patchwork skin remind me of the pleasure that quilting has given me over the years.  Everyone should have something they love to do, something that allows them to become immersed outside of time.  All the acts of putting a quilt together can do that for me--the planning, the choosing of colors and fabric, the cutting, the sewing, the quilting, the binding.  I often am somewhat disappointed when I am finished with a project, because until I decide upon a new project, I am in a listless limbo.

Reading is another pastime that allows one to become immersed beyond the present time. Because of my own love of reading and books, I naturally wanted to foster the same in my daughter and the children I taught. Elmer was a perfect choice.  He came with a picture book; both were in my classroom when I was still teaching.  Elmer would draw children to his soft, colorful body, as stuffed animals so often do, and from him there was the natural path to the book itself.

Elmer and his book remind me of all the creative energy and life in color, in books, in the very young.  And he just inspired me with a new idea for a quilt.  How about an Elmer-themed baby quilt?

Do something you love doing today!

I'm Booked!

A room without a book is like a body without a soul.

--Cicero

 I have many things that perform no function other than being beautiful to the beholder or at least interesting to look at.  Photos, art on the wall, flowers in vases, decorative candles, elephants in my collection.  I have a few wall quilts, not to be used for warmth, just for show. 

There are people I know which use books primarily as décor. They have books sitting in their houses that will not be read, for their sole purpose is to adorn a shelf or a table, a fireplace mantel.  I guess that’s a new way to look at literature as art!  Our books serve a function: to be perused, to amuse, educate, enlighten, evoke imagination, entertain, engage, enrage, or enclose one within a sacred space.

Few of our books are in mint condition; most of the non-fiction books have markings of some kind: highlights, underlining in a variety of colors, notes scribbled in the margins.  Many have wrinkled or torn covers, dog-eared pages, sticky notes, index cards or bookmarks caught within them.  Some books we have are older than we are, or just as old, or purchased only yesterday; some are library books due tomorrow.

The books cover topics in literature, history, mythology, spirituality, psychology, prayer, scripture, art, poetry, biography, “how-to”, college textbooks buried in the basement, picture books for children, and politics, politics, politics (thanks to my husband!)

Many are reference books: I have several atlases, three English dictionaries and one Spanish-English dictionary, three thesauruses (say that three times quickly!) and one set of very outdated encyclopedias from my childhood. 

Because of all these books, we have some fascinating roommates in this home of ours: Native Americans, great saints, presidents, civil rights leaders, presidents’ wives,  coal miners, migrant workers, Dorothy from Kansas, and her friends from Oz, a few hobbits, Harry Potter and his friends, (and enemies), inhabitants of Russia, Afghanistan, India, the Frontier West, future time travelers, Narnians, and more that I have yet to know.

We have several Bibles—one being an audio version, dating back to the days of cassette tapes.  That would be the only “electronic” book we might have.  We keep talking about the possibility of getting an electronic reader like a Kindle or Nook.  Something holds me back. I imagine some day I’ll give in and purchase an e-reader, if for no other reason than to give my arms a break when we travel.

My books linger lovingly on bookshelves, in baskets, on the coffee table, on top of the piano, in tote bags, next to the fireplace, on both desks, on the kitchen counter, in the kitchen cupboard, part of nearly every room, but never, ever as just décor.

Dream on!

Logic will get you from A to B.  Imagination will take you everywhere.

~Albert Einstein

 Americans do not play very well, in my opinion.  For us it is all about competition and winning.  A popular bumper sticker these days states, "He who dies with the most toys wins!"  Really? What happened with play for play's sake?

I do not remember when or where I got the little elephant on which I’m focusing today.  But I do remember why!  No one gave it to me.  I had to get it for myself simply because of the memories it brought to my mind.  This little elephant is one of many stuffed elephants I have.  It’s not in mint condition; there is a stain behind its right ear and one under its tail (who knows what that’s about!)


Whenever I look at this humble elephant, I don't see the flaws of a second-hand toy elephant; I see a very special place in my childhood.  I had one just like it as a child.  It was part of a set of small stuffed animals that I kept for several years.  My dad made a little shelf that fit in one of the corners of my bedroom – and I set these small animals on that shelf.  Being somewhat obsessive-compulsive, each of them, of course, had its own place.

These were the characters of many stories I created behind my bedroom’s closed door.  It was a favorite pastime for me, when I was 9 or 10…each animal had a name and a unique role. Sadly, memory being what it is, I don’t remember the names of any of them except that of “Amos” who was the wise king – and he was not one of the set but a frog-shaped ceramic “piggy” bank! How that I came about, I don’t know! But every time I look at this elephant I think fondly of those little adventures my animals had and the pleasure I took in creating them. 


Imagination was an important part of my childhood, as it should be all childhoods.  As an early childhood teacher I had the privilege of observing young children play. I learned the importance imagination plays in children’s ability to solve problems.  Play is the main vehicle of learning for young children.  During the last couple of years I taught, though, it saddened me to see the nature of children’s dramatic play.  Often it was “re-enactment” of television shows or movies they had watched and it took on a very competitive, aggressive nature.  It was apparent these children spent a lot of time in front of screens – playing video and computer games, watching television, and unfortunately, learning our culture's values: He who dies with the most toys wins.

Solitude can be an important aspect of imagination.  Chunks of solitude can refurbish the soul, allow for “daydreaming”, and provide the mindful atmosphere that fosters creativity.  Most artists, writers, poets, and I bet scientists, too, value their solitary time. 

Imagination can also be fostered in relationships.  In addition to the play with my animals, my brother and various friends and I also had a number of imaginative play “themes” that we enacted over and over.  Couches became boats; jungle gyms were fairies’ roosts.  Gates became the boundaries between magical lands of fairies, elves and witches, and that was just the beginning. 

Without the imaginative power of our greatest scientists and artists, our world would be so much poorer -- think of a world without the Sistine Chapel, or science without the theory of relativity. Albert Einstein obviously believed in the magic of imagination (see quote above).  If you look carefully at the word imagination, you'll see magic. 

I’m so glad I got this little elephant.  It's a great reminder of the magic of childhood. Who says it has to end?   Who wants to die with the most toys?  I'll take dreams instead. Toys stay here, our soul moves on, and dreams are the sustenance of the soul.

Got Prayer?

 

I just had an interesting conversation with my husband about prayer.  Eating our meals together often leads to deep conversation – if not politics, then theology! He noted, what I too have observed, that not many people – not even within our church – appear to be comfortable opening or closing a gathering with prayer.  But perhaps, we as Christians, need to broaden our “defnition” of prayer.

What is prayer?  Is it just a verbal execution that is prayed aloud? Does prayer even have to have words?  My paperback Webster’s dictionary has several definitions of prayer, the first being: “a devout petition to or spiritual communion with God or an object of worship.” (italics are mine).  Isn’t prayer then, anything that creates a connection between a person and God? 

During my spiritual journey, I’ve been blessed to be part of groups which have for me, broadened my own definition of prayer. Prayer can be as simple as lighting a candle to remind me of Christ’s presence, or to lift up a particular person in need.  Recently, in a Sunday School class I attend, we each had the opportunity to light a votive candle and name a person who was weighing on our hearts.  We did not have to state that particular person’s need.  It was enough to light the candle as a symbolic gesture of lifting that person up to God.  Throughout the class, while engaged in discussion of the lesson, the candles reminded us of our petitions to God to be with each person named.  This was moving, powerful.

Many people, and I among them, believe that prayer can be any creative expression which inspires one to look to a Higher Being: artwork, poetry, literature. This can be true for the artist as well as that person who appreciates the art.  Reading some poetry can be a prayer to me, a way of connecting with God, in a new, unique way.  Writing poetry can do the same for me.  Why else did God give us an ability to create, but than to give us another avenue in which to meet Him?

Prayer can also be the silent moments taken in solitude or in a group.  There is a powerful Presence experienced within the consent of a group to acknowledge God in silence.  We know that each of us is connected in our quiet unity and also with God.  “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I with them.” (Matthew 18:20)

And what about music?  I would be willing to bet that most Christians feel a prayerful, awe-struck sense of God when they hear the “Hallelujah Chorus”.  A gospel song can bring tears to my eyes or to my husband’s eyes. Isn’t that a connection with God? Then, is it not also a form of prayer? 

If I thought about it long enough, I’m sure I could name many other forms prayer has taken for me.  And I’m sure as long as I’m living (and growing in Christ), I will be learning and experiencing more wonderful ways to connect with God. 

Surely with such infinite creative capacity, God would not limit us to only one way to commune with Him.   And in all those ways of communion, there is prayer.  Hallelujah!

Here’s my prayer for today – a poem I first wrote in January 2008, and have since revised many times.

Sanctuary (or praying on a Thursday evening)

It is cold, my hands folded,

one offering warmth to the other.

The heavy wooden cross

above me, looms

suspended from the beams.

It is an act of faith to be sure

this cross will not submit to gravity,

as Christ surrendered to humanity.

Outside the traffic moans,

active chatter fills the foyer,

stops up my mind. A prayer

begins as all else drowns in the liquid

silence of this place.  It is what

I’ve come to need: no words, no thoughts,

Just Christ, now triumphant in

this holy space.

Friday is Elephant Day!

 (If you haven't been following my blog recently, every Friday, I take one of the many elephants in my collection and write about it, the memories I have about it, the inspiration it might give me for daily living. So here's to another elephant!)

All of us have had a bad hair day, or two, or maybe you’re one of those individuals whose every day is bad hair day, or a no hair day.  Well, how about a “bad ear” day?  The next elephant I’m going to write about perpetually has a “bad ear” day!  But it’s those ears and the work in making them that means so much to me.

When Jessica was a child, I wanted so much to nurture her creative impulse that in addition to enrolling her in art classes each summer through the local arts council, I allowed her to be messy. Hindsight makes me wonder about that…Anyway one summer, when she was in the 2^nd or 3^rd grade, she took a ceramics class. The teacher of this class is a wonderfully warm, bubbly art teacher in the grade schools, who lived across the street when Jessica was a baby.  Later, after we had moved elsewhere, she and her husband moved into and rented our house. When you live in a smaller community, there are connections everywhere.  Not only did this art teacher rent our house she also married the cousin of one of our son-in-laws!

But I digress.  One of the projects out of this ceramics class was a small elephant “bowl” which Jessica made for me.  I’ve been collecting elephants all of her life, so several in my collection are from her.  She knew as others do, that when choosing a gift for me, one can’t go wrong with an elephant!  (unless of course, it’s a real one!)

This little elephant “bowl” is smaller than my fist, has no real legs or body, but  it does have tiny little holes for eyes, a tail, a trunk (without which an elephant would be nothing more than an enormous gray pig with long legs.)

But this elephant’s outstanding features are its ears—they stand straight up!  These ears are not smooth, but a collection of finger indentions pressing around the clay.  The art teacher later admitted that she helped Jessica construct the ears because keeping them attached to the bowl-face was problematic.  With these finger imprints, the ears advertise the amount of effort that went into creating them. 

I love this elephant!  I love it because my daughter made it, of course.  I love it because it is unique….this elephant does not have multiple clones sitting on store shelves; you won’t find one like it in anyone else’s collection.  I love it, too, because it’s an example of my daughter’s creative spirit. And when I look at those crazy ears, I’m also reminded of the help that she needed from the teacher in creating them.

God had something special in mind when He created each one of us.  He doesn’t need any help in putting together any of His creation.   Each of us, made in His image, has the need to create.  Each of us creates all the time, whether we recognize it or not.  We write letters or e-mails to loved ones; we cook a meal, plant a garden, solve a problem.  We make a birdhouse, knit a sweater or sew a quilt.  We might be more enterprising and build a house or a new company.  And whenever each of us creates something, if we are open to it, help will come along when things get tricky.  Some might call it their muse, or inspiration; others might call it providence.  I call it the Holy Spirit, guiding me in my creative endeavors.

Thanks be to God for that little girl who made this quirky elephant with the crazy ears! Thanks be to God for making each of us unique, creative, often helpless, but just as often, inspired.

Sorrow's Words Are Seldom What We Pray

One thing I’ve noticed lately; I’m beginning to have the hands of an old woman.  The skin on my hand is starting to look like the skin on an elephant’s torso: loose, wrinkled, saggy, baggy, anything but taut and young.  Okay, so I have the hands of an older woman.  Funny though, inside my head I feel the same as when I was in high school.  Notice, I said inside my HEAD; my knees, fingers, shoulders, back, feet all feel the wear of 55 years of use.  And it’s just beginning, judging by my older friends and family and their various ailments.  However, for every older person that is ailing, I can point to another older person who is doing just fine, thank you.  Of course, it depends on what age one defines as “older”!  To my husband, my parents, many friends in my church, I’m just a spring chicken!

Speaking of aging, my husband and I attended a memorial service on Monday, and will be attending another one on Saturday, both members of our church. One of them was a coffee-drinking buddy of my husband.  This man was not afraid to die.  He was doing something much more difficult.  He was daily dealing with the incredible burden of painful and uncomfortable living; of years with a terminal disease. He spoke often of being ready to die, of being assured of his place with Christ in the next life.  And so when he did die, he did it peacefully, with dignity, and I imagine an incredible sense of relief.

Because we are witnessing the aging and dying of friends, family and acquaintances, Bob and I decided we must get down to the murky work of plotting our own memorial services.  I know a dear lady who was in a terrible predicament a few years back when her husband died.  Her husband was one of those characters that pretends he’s not aging.  So much so, he refused to step inside a nursing home…even if it meant visiting a friend who had been admitted.  Talk about denial (which actually is a way to mask fear.)  Don’t get me wrong.  I liked this guy very much.  He was a sweet, funny old man, who teased the children and always made me laugh.  But because of this denial, he and his wife had never planned for his funeral/memorial service. My friend was more stressed than she should have been; because in addition to the grief, she, her family and our pastor had to work out the messy details of trying to guess what “he might have wanted”.

That’s probably one of the benefits of a terminal illness.  The people I’ve known who have dealt with a terminal illness such as cancer must come face-to-face with the end of their life on earth.  Sudden death does not give the survivors that luxury.  So, in my type-A, “be prepared” way, I told my husband yesterday, I don’t want to have to deal with that.  And being the list-maker I am, that task is on our “to-do” list TODAY! I'm sure we won't get it finished, but we do the most difficult part--begin talking about it.

Below is a poem I wrote about three years ago, and unlike most of the other poems I post on my blog, this one has never been revised.  (Which means it is most likely far from finished, if such ever happens!) This poem is an example of a “villanelle” -- one of many poetry forms that I’ve been trying.  A villanelle is very structured in that in has nineteen lines with certain lines repeated in different stanzas.  End rhymes are also part of this structure.  I think they are enjoyable to write, as they allow my mind to create in a way I might not otherwise, and in this case, about a not so pleasant topic: grief, loss, death.

Grief Song (a villanelle)

The night must come before we see the day.

We children never want to go to bed.

Sorrow’s words are seldom what we pray.

The dark, inviting, only when we stray

from righteousness or flee the things we dread.

The night must come before we see the day.

A birth, a beginning, a proud display

is nothing but a raising from the dead.

Sorrow’s words are seldom what we pray.

Why is it that we want to lead the way?

To always win, to be in bliss?  Instead,

the night must come before we see the day.

The young are often easily led astray.

The old do what it takes to stay ahead. 

Sorrow’s words are seldom what we pray.

No matter who we are we all must pay

a painful penance, a gift of grief, tears are shed.

The night must come before we see the day.

Sorrow’s words are seldom what we pray.

Mother's Day every day...

Perhaps, I should have saved this reflection for Mother’s Day, but that writing muse of mine doesn’t follow the calendar.  And since we were gone yesterday, I'm celebrating my “Elephant of the Week” a day late.   

The concept of “mother” is a significant symbol in any culture; most creation myths include something of the “sacred feminine”.  Even today, we often refer to Mother Nature or Mother Earth.   And without a doubt the most celebrated woman in Christianity is the Mother of Jesus. Motherhood is an important part of all creation including the animal kingdom, including elephants.  

Many of the elephants in my collection are of mothers with babies.  The elephant I selected for my reflection this week is probably one of the first elephants I received. I know that I’ve had it a very long time.  It’s also one of my favorites.  And, yes of course, my mother gave it to me.

My first thoughts when looking at this mother are all centered upon one question.  Why, oh why, do her eyes look that way?

Was she up all night tending to her ill child, fussy child, bratty child?

Was she up all night drinking, carousing, partying, neglecting her maternal duties?

Was she crying because her partner left, gambled too much, or because someone she loved just died (elephants mourn their dead, you know.)

Or is she just perpetually “awake”, vigilant, fearful that someone, something will hurt her child---actually, this is probably more true of most mothers than not!

How old is that baby and what does it feel while wrapped beneath its mother’s trunk?

Is that embrace loving, protecting, smothering? How does the child feel? Loved?  Protected? Smothered?

One thing I can generalize beyond this statue of mother and baby elephant…behind every child there is a mother: absent, alive, dead, hovering, loving, anxious, frought with worry, frightened, funny, hopeful, caring, careless; perhaps none of the above, perhaps all of the above (with perhaps the exception of the dead mother, of course!) 

What do you think about when looking at this mama and baby?  What if what you see in the mother/baby is what you want to be? Or wish you had? Or loved about your mother? Or hated?  (Mom, I know you’re reading this, so don’t read too much into it!)  Does it make any difference?

What I glean from gazing at this mother/baby at this moment may not be what I’ll see tomorrow or next year or 20 years from now.  But two things I know for sure:  I love being a mother, with all the good, the bad, and the ugly that comes with it.  And I love my mother. 

How about some fruit?

A couple of weekends ago, we spent some time with our newest granddaughter, who is nearly 11 months old.  Allison is happy, social, fun and friendly; she loves to be with people.  And she was no different during this visit, but because she’s more on the move, she was discontented staying in just one place.  Consequently, she would go lap-hopping, from one person to the next. This was particularly true when we went to her older sister’s basketball game.  So many laps to choose from; so many silly faces making goofy noises for her attention.  (Have you ever noticed how crazy otherwise sane adults become when they are around a baby?) Anyway, Allison was consistent--we could count on her wanting to be wherever she was not!

Some of us never grow out of that phase.  Some of us are always seeing the “grass greener on the other side” until we get to that other side.  Then, once we get there we see the “yellowed, dried patches of grass” that we didn’t notice before and it’s on to something else that’s more lush.  As a result we miss our life.  We miss the joys, variety and miracles in the ordinary, the present.  We miss the simple sacred in our surroundings and the people in our lives.  We overlook all the various shades of green in our very front yard.  Because our culture is addicted to consuming and everything is marketed, many of us just don’t get it until we are older.  And unfortunately, there are some who never get beyond the illusions created in their younger years.

One of the things I like most about the church I attend is the number of seniors.  Wisdom abounds among these octogenarians and older.  In fact, this Saturday one of our most active and lively members is celebrating her 95^th birthday!  But as with everything else in life, we must take the bitter with the sweet.  Having a congregation filled with seniors means someone is always ill or dying.

Thankfully, I have been privileged to know some very wise, humorous, and lovely elderly people.  These people have taught me that aging can be about more than aches and pains and deteriorating bodies. They have given me inspiration for how I want to be as I climb up that ladder of years.  These are people who have lived through challenging times, tremendous grief, and debilitating illnesses, yet continue to exude a lifetime of faithfulness—to their God, to their families, to their church.   Lives lived well will show some fruitfulness; we can either become ripe or rotten.  Which will I live to be?