To Be Confronted

To be confronted 
to have my failures named
to be blamed and shamed

it is a thing noble, perhaps,
in intent, but nonetheless is felt the sting

and hope and love and kindness, just
a cup, just a sip, the confrontation
does not bring in any way that
can be seen, measured, grabbed hold of

yet in the aftermath
an ash-like arisen thing
comes forth – not brave
it is small, this thing
that looks like it just
might become
hope
kindness
love

and somewhere amidst
the afterbirth of this
new rising, there does
reside a tiny mustard-seed
of a kernel of something
that just might be
the dawning of
the new day possibility of
the resplendent chance of

full thanks
and
recognition
and
acknowledgment
and
honor
and 
indebtedness
and 
grace



_______________
A lectio reading of Matthew 18.15-20, taking the position of the one confronted, the sinner in need of making recompense, all I could feel was the sting, the wounding, of the confrontation, which prompted this reflection on what just might come after, if I am very open, very willing and very lucky.

The Hands of Kindness

A woman takes 

another woman 

by the hand

gently leading her 

to the bathroom 

to wash 

the tear tracks away  

They walk slowly, 

one matching her pace 

to the other.  

The bond of love 

amidst the chaos 

of broken things 

around and in them 

is strong.  

And in the tender space 

between two clasped hands

broken things do not seem 

quite so broken 

any more

The Lessons of a Boy's First Lemonade Stand

Today was my grandson’s first experience with that quintessential sign of summer: the lemonade stand.  He hung in there for a couple of hours, during most of which he sat waiting as car after car simply passed by – some waving, some honking, but none stopping for a little boy’s first offering in the world of exchange.

But perseverance won the day and he is $13 richer (half to go to his piggy bank and the other half to Food Bank, or in Rowen’s words, “to the poor people who need food”) for the experience and dedicated to having another go, maybe tomorrow – maybe in the church parking lot.

Watching this wee boy of my heart, I thought about lessons.  And they weren’t about capitalism or even about the value of hard work.

The lessons were about people.  Lots of folks wished him well, evidenced by their friendly honks and waves.  They were appreciated for a time, but after awhile, you just want someone to stop.  So to the fellow who pulled up in his truck just to say hi and who offered up 50 cents even though he didn’t want a lemonade, many thanks – you made a wee boy’s day.  And the first customers – from the big city in northern Virginia who stopped and turned around, who chatted and took a picture – you are rock stars!  And to my neighbor Cotten who stopped as a dedicated lemonade stand sponsor and customer from way back, a special thanks.

I’m not sure what my little guy learned today, but I know what I’ll take away from the experience:

1. From his Gran (yes, me, the preacher lady): “We don’t want your honks; we want your money.”

2. Waiting for a customer can feel like you’re waiting for Godot.

3. The people who frequent lemonade stands are kind.

4. It only takes a little bit to capture a child’s imagination, commitment and heart.

5. It’s like Tom Sawyer’s white-washed fence: once you get going, everyone wants to be a part of it.

6. When you live in a small place, everything and everyone are connected, so your grandson’s money box turns out to have been a gift made and presented to his Gran by the father of one of his lemonade customers, who recognizes the craftsmanship right away.

Lemonade – sweet with just the right amount of tart and cold – the perfect serving on a hot summer’s day on a country road.  Hope you’ll stop for a cup next time you’re by this way.

Kindness

kind·ness  'kin(d)nis noun :   the quality of being friendly, 

generous, and considerate

kindness (lower case)

tastes of warmth and liquid and a little salt
the perfect spoonful held up to waiting lips

smells of bread baking at the moment of
its crust cracking with yeasty life rising

sounds of songs and whispered prayers
offered into eagerly waiting hungry ears

looks like a tenderly kept field of wheat
golden in its giving for the sheer beholding

feels like gentle hands clasping the soles
of feet worn by life and time and far too
much the cruelty of indifference

Peaceful Coexistence with a Wasp

No, not WASP, but wasp – the flying, stinging kind.  And yes, I said peaceful coexistence with.

A big old granddaddy looking wasp of a thing has taken up residence on my sun porch.  And his stinger is formidable.

Apparently wasps live anywhere from days to a couple of years, depending on who they are (of course, the queen of the colony lives the longest and why not?  She, after all, is the recipient of the largesse of all ‘her’ workers).

I had no thought of wasp life-spans, however, when I beheld granddaddy on the door in to my office the other day.  I thought about getting out the trusty fly swatter (and no, I am not so dedicated a pacifist that I don’t have one) and bringing our budding relationship to a quick end.

But I did not.  I’m not sure why, but it did occur to me that he was doing me no harm and surely we could peacefully coexist within that space.

Being who I am, I gave thought to the notion of pre-emptive strike (as in kill him before he even thinks about stinging me).  And I remembered the ants – the ones I allowed to share my domain who turned out to have thousands upon thousands of close relatives and friends they invited to the party and who all came.  That did not end well for them or me.

Still I took the risk that this guy means me no harm and bowed out gracefully, leaving him to do whatever it is wasps do.  But perhaps I did him no favor, as I doubt there’s much for him to eat on the sun porch.

I saw him a couple of days later and he’s definitely moving slower now – the normal life cycle?  Lack of food?  Boredom?  I cannot say.

Thus can I claim a lack of vice by taking no action to end his life.  But there is hardly virtue in my (feigned) indifference, for surely if I really cared, I would have acted to return him to where he really meant to be, which is not captive on a sun porch with none of his fellows and a scarcity of resources.

After all, it was and is within my power to do so.

And yet, out of my own fears of granddaddy and that pernicious stinger, I know I will not.  And he will die.  And that will be that.

Another day on planet earth where I am left to conclude that our indifference is the greatest killer of all.  Guilty am I, for it turns out that peaceful coexistence requires a bit more of me than leaving you alone.

The Silent Witness of a Filled Sanctuary

I am tempted to conclude that . . . to believe that . . . always and ever . . .

Love begets love . . . but not always
Kindness given is kindness returned . . . but not always

And yet, and still, every now and then, we humans get it, like the proverbial Three Bears, just right.  And when we do, it is whelming and overwhelming.

One of those every now and then deeds is the act of showing up.  That’s it – showing up. . . being there . . . what we preacherly people like to refer to as the ministry of presence . . . and sometimes, that’s all about being a face in the crowd, for sometimes, it is the crowd that is the whelming thing . . . the silent witnesses to one’s grief and pain and joy and remembering . . . as in a funeral . . .

Last night was one of those times when love begot love and kindness kindness . . . and the husband who was saying his faith farewells to his dear companion beheld the crowd and pronounced himself overwhelmed . . .

The next day, I am struck by so many I know who eschew things like funerals because . . . why?  Because they are so hard?  Perhaps.  So final?  Surely.  So sad?  Definitely.

But sometimes, we’re called to do the hard, the final, the sad thing . . . sometimes it isn’t about us at all.  Sometimes it’s just about being another face in the crowd of surrounding love.

So the next time you dither, not wanting to go, you might think about that and you might go . . . go because you need to . . . go because you want to . . . and even when you don’t want to, go, because your presence matters to those most heart-struck in their loss . . . your presence will whelm them . . . and that is a good thing.

Guilty Thanks

Yesterday, driving the interstate a few car lengths ahead, the black pick up truck must have slid on some ice at the other end of the bridge.  I watched in horror as it slapped into a right angle to the road even as my foot went to the brake as my mind screamed don’t brake!  Do not brake!  at the same time it is responding if you don’t you’ll hit him!

These things happen so fast you can’t know for sure – but I think it was more the car’s abilities and technologies than my own that stopped our own slip into skid, but the pick-up truck was not so fortunate.

For a brief instant I thought all would be well as the truck simply faced into the median, but inertia had other plans and the truck propelled into the median, which has a steep middle.  The truck flipped onto its top and into the opposite lanes.

The driver (we think his name is Gary) was thrown from the truck onto the roadway.  He was alive at the scene as best we could tell, but his injuries were severe.  His mother managed to crawl out from under the smashed top.  She didn’t seem to be hurt, but she was in shock, so it’s difficult to know.

Several folk, we among them, stopped to render aid and as is so often the case, some who stopped were people with the needed skills – a fireman, a nurse, and others.  Cell phones become the blessing of the moment as people are able to call quickly for help.  All I managed to do was to silently pray, which is not nothing, but feels at the time so little.

Often have I heard folk speak about those who slow down passing an accident with scorn.  But I think it’s nothing nefarious or nasty.  I think they’re slowing down to make sure there’s help.  And to say a small, whispered, just-a-little-guilty thanks that it wasn’t them, for how easily it could have been.

We’re praying for Gary and his mother this Thanksgiving Day as we hope to hear news of whether he survived.  We’re saying our own (guilty) thanks that it wasn’t us this time.  And we’re giving thanks for firemen and nurses and random folks with tools in their trucks ready to be used to help at a moment’s notice when a stranger lies on the pavement fighting to live when, just moments before, whatever life he led was heading down the highway blissfully unaware of what was to come.

Life is so tenuous as well as so precious, with each moment offering no guarantees of another.  And so it is, for all the moments that have passed, I give thanks.

Where I Live - Redux

My mom was recently in a pretty serious car accident.  She’s doing better, but still has a long way to go, so your prayers for her continued recovery have been and are most definitely welcome.

Coming back home to Virginia on Monday after having been at her bedside virtually uninterrupted since December 22, I drove past where the accident happened and contemplated the vagaries of time and place.

In this time and this place, words of care are expressed in ways direct and indirect.

I learned of my mother’s accident as I was preparing to walk out the door to officiate an evening worship service.  The voice on the other end of the phone was the wife of another pastor.  It turns out that a lay pastor over in West Virginia, where the accident happened, had heard a paramedic say the woman in the accident’s daughter was a minister in McDowell.  David called Darlene to ask if she thought that was me.  Sure it was, Darlene called me to give me the bad news.

The next day, desperate to get to the hospital, I plotted a course the long way round the snow-covered roads made largely impassable and contemplated what to do about upcoming services – particularly Christmas Eve.  Someone suggested we cancel as there are a number of services on Christmas Eve in the area and our folks could attend another service easily.  That’s what we did.  Turned out virtually no one had services as the snow continued unabated the next days, leaving the community together in their apart-ness.

Calling the radio station to ask them to announce our cancellation, the congregant calling was asked if it was okay to say the reason why and to ask for prayers for my mom.  And so it was that the whole county has been praying for my mom.

There have been many other acts of kindness in these days, but for now, I am grateful that I live in a time when and a place where the radio station issues prayer concerns for a fallen one and folks go out of their way to get you the news you need to know, where the degrees of separation are small and largely irrelevant when it comes to crisis.

A Blanket of Caring

Today my friend Twila spoke of Christianity as a blanket to be shared.  I love this image.  The immediate picture called to mind for me was last week’s funeral for Bill Puffenbarger.

During the committal at the cemetery, it was cold and windy, so the funeral home folk had blankets for the family seated around the casket.  The blankets are wide and can cover 3-4 people easily.  From my vantage on the other side of the casket, I watched as Brian spread the warming of the blanket on the already-numb family.  It was a moving gesture of kindness in the form of practical care.

Kindness is a practical thing, isn’t it?

So I come back to Twila’s vision of us as believers spreading the blanket of our love and caring around a world numbed with its own woundedness.

And I am warmed.

May you be surrounded by a blanket of love and caring this Advent season and evermore.

I'm on Craig's List

Living in the country, being on my own and older now and being the preacher, I am the recipient of many random acts of kindness, although they aren’t really that random, especially this time of year.

It’s harvest time in the mountains.  Cucumbers are about done, and so are zuccinis.  But there’s still lots of squash and tomatoes and peppers.

You might be tempted to think I am a gardener.  But I’m not.

What I am is the beneficial recipient of the fruits of the labors of others.  Neighbors, friends and congregants will drop off at the odd time various vegetables from their gardens.  I am so grateful to them all – for thinking of me and including me.

One of my ‘angels’ is Craig Smith.  Craig always (so he claims) has more food from his garden than he and Belinda can use.  And so he comes by every so often to the neighbors with buckets filled with goodies that we get to pick through, taking what we can use.

We both spent our morning, Craig and I and lots of others, at Edna Mae’s funeral.  I came back to the computer and Craig to his garden.  And so here he came again, this time with green and jalapeno peppers added to the largesse.

I don’t know how I got on Craig’s list (I didn’t have to sign up or enter a password or anything – all I had to do was be here), but I’m sure glad I did – glad to have such kind neighbors.  Craig’s the kind of guy who would keep Edna Mae stocked with fire wood.  No fuss, just kindness.  That’s how the folks around here are.  No fuss.  Just a lot of kindness.

I Met a Thoughtful Man Today

I met a thoughtful man today.

His name is Earnest.

He suits his name.

In the midst of the hubbub of the exhibitors and the exhibited that is the Exhibit Hall of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA), a man sat alone at his particular booth as folks walked by.

Taking a stroll around to collect the swag on offer, I sat down and we talked.

Earnest was thoughtful and reflective and took his time to compose his words and offered wisdom, taking me much more seriously than I deserved and being much kinder to me than I was to him.

I wonder if I’ll ever be old enough or calm enough or thoughtful enough to simply offer my wisdom with such quiet grace.

I doubt it, but I sure hope so.

My life is richer because I met a thoughtful man today.

Blessings on you, Earnest.  May the spirit of repose that emanates from you flow into the crannies and crevices, sweeping away any tides of injustice and indignity which may surround you.

Lost in Translation

The well-meaning laughs of Iraqis I met when, unknowingly, instead of asking “Do you speak English?”, I was instead asking in my halting guide-book style Arabic, “Do I speak English?”

The howling laughter of a team mate in the Kurdish north when, rehearsing what I would say to a rude gentleman, in my best Kurdish, I demanded to know, “What is my name?”

My confusion when my Google translation for the Spanish “Toi Feliz” read “Happy toi”, confusion colored with laughter as all I could think was “Happy toys” [the translation is “I’m happy”, toi being short for “estoi” or “I am”].

Pronouns in other languages defeat me.  They’re mostly so much more logical and sensible and economical than English, with a different word for the plural ‘you’ and word endings to indicate the proper pronoun.

But sensible, logical and economical just do not translate in my brain into anything I can make sense of.  When it comes to language, I am the proverbial wanderer in the desert and the only thing that saves me from utter humiliation is my cheerful recognition before I even begin that I’m likely to get it wrong and that my listeners are likely to be very forgiving of my limitations.

And that is a wonderful space in which to be, desert or no desert: the space of forgiving acceptance of limitation.  Knowing that I rest safely in such hands, being lost in translation isn’t such a bad thing.  It teaches me compassion for others by the compassion shown me.  It redirects me away from judging and towards grace by the grace extended to me.  It creates patience in me by being on the receiving end of so very much patience from others.

And perhaps most important of all, it teaches me humility: the humility of the guest in a foreign land, relying, ever and always, upon the kindness of strangers.  After all, aren’t we all strangers in one way or another in this pilgrim land?

There is No Tenderness Behind Your Honesty

How are we to be true to our own sense of integrity while still valuing the integrity in others? How are we to meet the true, self to self? How do we know when what feels like an issue of honesty or integrity or truth to us is really an issue of having our own way? How do we yield the floor without yielding ourselves? How do we hold the floor without blocking the way for others? How can we be to our own 'thine selves' true without damaging the self of others? Is yielding, surrender, the only path of kindness in conflict? 


For me these are still questions without answers . . . 


For I am still a work in progress . . . 


And so I still wonder . . . wrestle . . . and pray . . . 


Lord, help me be kind.


And to borrow from Art Garfunkel, whenever I get too high on my high horse, thinking, well, it's true, I remember Mr. Garfunkel's words of indictment on truth . . . 


There is no tenderness behind your honesty.


Lord, help me be tender.


Amen.

Context Matters

Context matters.

It’s obvious, isn’t it?

But why do we, why do I, forget it so easily?

I made a friend cry today.

It wasn’t my intention, but I did.

Being the carrier of news less than positive, and delivering it at a time when she is mourning her mother dying before her very eyes, I made her cry.

Of course she cried.

But why did I carry anything but love and gentleness to her today, of all days?

My only defense is that I forgot.  I knew, but I forgot . . . forgot how very vulnerable she is right now . . . forgot her needs in the felt needs of others . . . forgot that her context matters too.

Of late, I find myself explaining people to each other . . . not their motives – their context.  And somehow, the learning of the context of shared human suffering makes detente, if not full out reconciliation, possible when it seemed impossible before.

Context matters.

When I am frustrated with someone almost beyond words, I am reminded of their struggles, of the pain they carry.  That pain may have nothing at all to do with my frustrations, but knowing that they struggle too somehow makes the frustrations of the moment seem like what they are . . . trivialities in the face of the enormity of life.

I hate that I forgot my friend’s context of pain.