Josh

Tomorrow is Josh's birthday.  Josh is my son-in-law...bless his heart.  He calls me Marilyn.  He calls Mr. Lincoln Mr. Switzer...or The Fizzler.  Because Mr. Lincoln refuses to give Josh the go ahead to call him by his first name (shades of someone to whom Mr. Lincoln is kin), he remains "Mr."  Just one of the many eccentricities in this family with which Josh is learning to live.

Josh is learning very well how to live with the Switzer/Williams oddballness (is that a word?)  He has some difficulty understanding how people live in a house where only one of three doors is operational.  Well, that is not a totally true statement.  All three doors are operational in some capacity.  One cannot be opened from the outside, but it works very nicely from the inside if you have two people and a crowbar.  Another one, also cannot be opened from the outside, but works nicely from the inside with one person who is blessed with great strength.  One works perfectly from both the outside and the inside.  If it goes down, well, we do have windows to the floor, and several of them are not that far from the ground.  Josh would have the doors repaired.  In some circles, I imagine that would make sense.

I think the dear boy might be somewhat bumfuzzled by people who use a bent tube of hair conditioner to hold the handle down in the tub so the water will drain.  In the Switzer household, we just call that business as usual.  When our freezer was making snow cone ice...not in the ice maker, but rather in the entire freezer...Josh could not quite grasp why we did not do something about it.  Oh, don't get me wrong, he is not critical.  He is one of the kindest people I know.  He just doesn't get it.  Our remote has not been cooperative for some time now.  When one pushes the down arrow to check what is on, it either will not push down, or it goes 84 stations down in a nanosecond.  Josh very kindly told me where I could go to get another one.  He pointed out that I was in town every day, and it is just a short distance to Metro Center.  I smiled, incredulously, wondering from what planet he cometh.  Go to Metro Center to get a new remote?  Certainly not....well, not until this one just will not work at all, and even then, we are likely to just go to another room and watch there.

Josh has many gifts.  He is genius at staging homes to be sold.  It is sort of unbelievable.  He has a very high success rate of getting properties sold.  When he went to Michael's and bought 8 artificial trees to stage his and MP's condo, I'll admit, I thought he had gone a bit overboard.  Shows what I know.  They got 4 offers on it the first day they showed it.  He has single-handed boosted the real estate market in our neighborhood by putting offers on various houses.  The word has spread.  This neighborhood is having a resurgence in popularity.  Little do they know, it is Josh putting offers on all those houses.  I hope the inspection is encouraging, and they get the most recent one.  It is two doors up and across the street from us!!  I promise I won't be like Marie Barone.  I promise.

Josh calls Simeon, "little friend."  They are going to become great buddies, I am sure, because Josh will be keeping Sim on Saturdays and Sundays when MP is working.   Having two days to care for one's baby is a gift that many dads do not get.  In a lot of families, the dad just takes a backseat to Mom, whether willingly on unwillingly.  That won't be the case here, and so, Josh and Simeon are being given a beautiful gift.  Think of all the grand adventures they will have together.

Josh is one of the most thoughtful men I have ever met.  When they stayed with us last year, he never left to come home without calling to see if there is anything I needed.  Even when they are not staying with us, Josh will call and say, "I'm going to Costco.  Do you need anything?"  I credit his parents for good upbringing.  He learned well.  I love cooking for Josh.  He relishes his meals, and is very gracious and lavish with his gratitude...no matter what I serve.  Well, there was that night that I made those pocket things that were horrendous, and even Josh admitted it.  I knew right then, they were really bad if Josh said so.  He likes to cook.  He loves spices.  Lots and lots of spices.  He loves odd combinations of foods.  I think it was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with dill pickles that he mentioned most recently.  Really?  Dill pickles? 

On MP's 30th birthday, we went to one of those places where you paint pictures...everyone paints the same thing.  Our inspiration was a field of red poppies.  The picture, below, is of Josh working diligently on his painting.  I am fairly certain that the owner of the studio was fretting over the layers and layers of red paint Josh coated on his canvas.  Just exactly how were those red poppies going to show up on that red canvas?  Well, let me just say, his thinking outside the box resulted in the most unique and most pleasing of all the paintings done that evening.  Who knew?

If you want to buy something, and you want the very best item for the very best deal, call Josh.  He loves to research.  He loves to get a good deal.  He's genius at it...really he is.  Just mention, in his presence, that you might buy something, and he is on the job. 

They say you can tell a man by the company he keeps.  Josh has wonderful friends....lots and lots of wonderful friends.  He wisely surrounds himself with lovely people.  Recently, a mutual friend was having surgery, and there was no small amount of worry that she had cancer.  I sort of fretted all Thursday waiting to hear from her.  I texted Josh to see if he had heard anything.  He had not.  He asked if I did to please let him know, and if he did, he would let me know.  I then just called the church, and joyfully learned that the mass was benign.  I texted Josh the word, "benign."  He immediately called me.  "Benign?" he said, "Praise God."  Those are not just words with him.  I am certain that he, as did I, praised God for that good news.  Just one of the many things I love about him. 

So, happy birthday tomorrow, Josh.  I'll sing you a song.  I'll owe you a birthday dinner.  I hope, in the midst of your hard work packing the POD, that you find blessings in your day, and peaceful rest when the sun sets. 

And for anyone else reading this blog, I wish you precious in-laws who can teach you many things, but who don't try to change you no matter how baffling you may be, and I wish you

blessings

6 Years Ago



Six years ago today, I took Goodpasture Elementary School on a walking tour.  It was a Thursday.  I remember that because on April 27, 2006, an event that forever changed my life occured.  My oldest brother committed suicide. It was the day before his 62nd birthday.   It was one of those April days in Middle Tennessee that make you ache from the beauty with warm sunlight, cool breezes, and the world is that special shade of green which appears only in the spring. 

He went to work that day.  He had an appointment, and then telling his receptionist that he was going out, he left his office for the last time.  I do not know, but I imagine he had on suspenders.  Everytime I see a man with suspenders on, for a brief second, I think it is him.  Charlie then went to a place that he loved, Shelby Park, laid a short farewell note on the seat of his car, walked down to the boat ramp, called the police, calmly telling them who he was and where he was, then, while on the phone, he shot himself.  The brother I knew would have made sure there was no question as to the cause of his death in an effort to ease some of the pain for those he left behind. 

A rift had developed between different parts of our family.  It was caused by poor communication, no communication, misunderstandings, misquotes, too much of the wrong kind of talking and too little of the right kind.  It quickly eroded into a chasm after my brother's death.  No one is at fault.  Everyone is at fault.  When I say everyone, I mean those who were adults while the fissure was being systematically expanded.  For my part in it, I grieve, and will forever have regret.  I have tried to make apologies, but those apologies are seen by some as too little too late.  They are genuine and heartfelt apologies, and if they are not perceived as such, all my pleas for understanding will bear no fruit.  They are being filtered through hurt and anger and loss and disappointment, just as we all view life through our own filters.  I do not see this abyss being spanned by my generation, but I have great hope that our children will have more sense, lay the hurt aside, and come together once again as family.  I know some of them are slowly working at it. 

I find that today, as I did six years ago, I grieve the loss of the brother I knew rather than the man I had come to not know.  Oh, I do grieve for his wife the loss of her husband, his children the loss of their dad, his granddaughters the loss of their Bugsy. By the time he died, he had very little presence in my daily existence.   But, when I was a child, he loomed large in my life, and I watched and studied him.  He was 8 years older than I, so I knew he had knowledge and wisdom far beyond my own.  I adored him.

I have sweet memories of Charlie, Mike and me sick with the Asiatic flu.  We all stayed in the same room while Mom gave us Hawaiian Punch and took our temperatures.  I also remember sitting in the car, for what seemed like hours, while Charlie courted Carol at her house.  He was suppposed to be babysitting me.  Ma Wachtel would never have left me out there, so I am fairly certain he did not tell her that I was languishing out in her driveway.  I never told my parents that.  I remember him taking me to the swimming pool with his friends.  Can you imagine the joy of an eight-year-old girl surrounded by sixteen-year-old girls vying for my attention so they could get to my brother?  It was great! 

In junior high school I had a brown linen skirt and a brown and white linen floral jacket from Norman's.  I wanted that outfit so badly, and it was not in the family budget.  Charlie bought it for me.  He was always generous in that way.  I sat on a chair of wet paint in the skirt, and thought I would die, I was so upset.  Somehow, as only mothers can do, Mom got it clean, and I wore that outfit until it fell apart. Of all the clothes I have owned in my life, that skirt and jacket stand out among the few I remember.

Charlie helped me write the speech I gave when running for student council in junior high.  It was a beautiful speech.  I did not do it justice, however, when I failed to remember the words "Gettysburg Address."  Lincoln's address was really the thesis of my speech.  Thank goodness, I don't think Charlie was there for my shame.   

For one of his many jobs, he drove an ice cream truck.  It wasn't one of the ice cream trucks you see now, it was more like a large freezer on wheels pulled by a scooter.  He would bring me chocolate malts in the afternoons when his route was finished.  They were in little cardboard cups with a tiny wooden paddle-like spoon.  That was very new at the time.  I think I got the malts because they were not  popular among the children on his route.  I did not care.  I loved them because Charlie saved them for me.

Charlie is the one who comforted me when Mike ran away from home.  I was devastated.  Maybe, somewhere in my child's mind, I knew life was changing.  I remember sitting on our front porch, legs swinging back and forth, and Charlie sitting beside me explaining that both Daddy and Mike were being hardheaded, and until one of them was willing to back down for the good, the stalemate would continue.  It took a while, but Mike returned.

I have so many little vignettes of life with Charlie in my head.  He really liked nice clothes.  I loved to sit and watch him polish his shoes.  He would chase me around the house threatening to tickle me, and as terrifying as that was, I was thrilled to have his attention.  I remember a fist fight he and Mike had in the driveway...they were babysitting me.  Charlie's skills as a babysitter left something to be desired.  He loved music of every kind played very loudly.  He loved to drive fast, in fact he ran my father off the road in the Brush Hill curve one day.  Daddy was not pleased.  He loved boat races and car races.  He wrote the word "Guntersville" in bright red paint on a wall in the crawl space under our house in honor of an annual boat race.  He had mono as a senior in high school, and was very sick.  Because our house was very small, his clothes were kept in the livingroom closet.  He left his shoes on his car and drove off the day of my wedding.  He had to back track and find them.  The wedding planner told him and my friend, Nancy, to "shut up" during the rehearsal.  They could not stop laughing.   He was a champion of the underdog...always, a champion of the underdog.  He was loved and popular and handsome and funny.  He could not keep a secret for 10 seconds.  As a child, I longed to achieve his approval. 

So, on this day, six years after his death, I mourn.  I am fairly certain that I did not mourn successfully six years ago.  Perhaps, I felt I did not deserve the privilege.  His death was not about me.   His wife and his children were more important.  For me, my mother's grief was the most important, and the hardest to witness.

I wish I could turn back time to that beautiful April day in Middle Tennessee as I happily walked back to my car after a successful tour, checking messages on my phone.  I wish those multiple missed calls from my brother, Sam, had been an invitation to an impromptu lunch rather than the words I heard when I returned his call; "Mellie, there's no good way to tell you this...Charlie is dead...he shot himself."  If I could turn back time, perhaps, then I could bridge that chasm, and not leave it to my children to do so.  I pray they will.  I am assuming that when I move on to the next phase of my eternal journey, I will see Charlie again, and all will be as it should be.

 

So, for today, I wish you the chance to make things right, the fortitude to find joy and happiness in life if that chance has passed, and I wish you

blessings

Lost Opportunities

I missed the lupines this year.  I promised myself that I would get to Radnor to see and photograph them, but with one thing and then another, I missed them.  A lost opportunity; one that I grieve in a small way.  Oh, the lupines will return next year, and perhaps, I will get there to see them again.  I had not walked at Radnor for many weeks until this morning.  I needed a chance to clear the cobwebs, and commune with God from a different location.  It was a lovely morning.  Still, I missed the lupines this year. 

Missing the lupines made me think of missed opportunities.  Sunday, at church, an Episcopal priest spoke.  If you were not raised in the church of Christ, you do not realize how extraordinary that is.  He moved my heart.  He spoke about his book, Jesus, My Father, the CIA and Me. It was a great book.  In many ways, it is a book about missed opportunities.  I sat in the building, among so many that I love, and I grieved the absence of others that I love so deeply.  Ian Cron explained that on farms in the winter in Vermont, where he has a home, people are literally tethered to the house when they walk to the barn to feed the animals.  The tether prevents them from getting lost in the snow as they struggle to make it back home.  It is the metaphor he used to describe how God, for Ian through the eucharist, constantly tugged on his rope to bring him back Home.  I pray, daily, that those I love, who seem to have lost their way, feel the tug, and follow it home.

I want my everyday to make God belly laugh, glad that He gave life to someone who enjoys the gift." - Shauna Neiquist

A friend posted this quote on facebook this morning.  I know people for myriad reasons who let days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, and months turn into years often failing to enjoy the gift.  They get bogged down in past failures, present pressures, and fear of the future.  My mother taught me that every day has its opportunities for enjoyment.  Yes, some days are so extraordinarily difficult.  I find that I sometimes let the difficulties of yesterday ruin my today.  What an extravagant waste of what I have been given.  I grieve for myself and for those I love when the opportunities of this day are wasted because of yesterday's regrets and tomorrow's maybes. 

My precious niece, Channie, loves to get the family together.  She called my mom and asked if she and her family could come over for dinner on Sunday.  She asked if Aunt Mellie (that's me) could come too.  Because I would not disappoint Channie, I missed the opportunity of hearing Ian Cron speak again, but I embraced the time with my family.  Sometimes I hear people say things like, "I don't spend a lot of time with my (kids, wife, husband, family, friends, etc...), but the time we spend is quality time."  I say, balderdash!!!  It takes quantity to get quality.  How do you really know someone with whom you don't spend time?  You cannot.  So, for those family members who were invited Sunday night, and who either could not or would not come, we missed you.  You are important to us.  We want to spend time with you.  No one can take your place.  It was a delightful evening.  We pooled our resources, dinner was delicious, and the company stellar.  It was a serendipitous time; unexpected and lovely.  Thank you, Channie for the opportunity.

Yesterday, as I waited forever at a red light by Sweet Ce Ce's I watched a mom with her two little boys.  The mom was beautiful.  The boys were absolutely adorable.  They all had blonde hair; the boys' curly.   They played around, trying to talk to their mom, but she was on her cell phone, and it was as if they did not exist.  That brought back a memory that I will never forget.  My friend, Martha, and I were having lunch at a fairly nice restaurant.  A dad and his four or so year old child were seated close to us.  It seemed that it might have been a special occasion, having lunch with Dad. The child sat there, little legs swinging back and forth, eagerly anticipating the time that her dad would shut his cell phone and notice that she was there.  The father never did.  That precious little child sat there and ate her lunch in silence while her father completely ignored her.  What an extraordinary waste of an opportunity to make that sweet child feel special and important.  It must be an incredible blow to have your own parent find the phone, the TV, the computer, that book, work, golf, whatever, more important than you.  I have certainly been guilty of it.  Perhaps, everyone has.  When will we learn to turn the TV off, ignore the phone, go away from the computer, close the book, and look the people we love in the eye and hear what they have to say?  When will we grasp the opportunity to speak a word of kindness into the lives of those with whom we live?  When will we embrace the opportunity to make what matters to those we love matter to us?  When we let those opportunites go by unrealized, they do not return.  That is cause for deep grieving.

Last night, Simeon was at our house.  He got a bit fussy, which is really quite unusual for him, but I'm the grandmother, so what do I know?  Mr. Lincoln asked MP if she minded if he tried to settle Simeon down.  She was grateful to let him try.  It took a while.  But, Mr. Lincoln never gave up.  He spoke in Simeon's ear, he patted him on the back, he rocked him back and forth.  He was totally focused on that baby.  Eventually, his efforts were rewarded.  Had he given up on the opportunity, he would have missed a sweet, sweet moment. 

So, for today, I wish you the power to back away from the distractions of life and truly be present in the lives of the people you love, I wish you an awareness of God's pull in your life, I wish that you make God belly laugh, and I wish you

blessings

20 Years Ago

Twenty years ago today, I took Goodpasture Elementary School on a walking tour.  It was a Thursday.  I remember that because on that day, a very special event occured.  My sister gave birth to her first child; a girl named Maclellan; Ann Maclellan.  Mr. Lincoln and I had just returned from Boston where he had run the marathon.  I remember somebody in the waiting room that day, who had never run a marathon, telling me all about second winds and hitting walls etc.  Funny how that sticks in my head.   

My sister fought hard to get Mac here.  She spent a good part of her pregnancy in the hospital, and most of the rest of it in bed at home.  I learned how to insert a needle in her thigh for the pump that was administering medicine to prevent pre-term labor.  My daddy sat with my sister, my mother waited on her, cooked for her, ran errands for her, and kept her spirits up.  I tried to teach her to cross stitch.

I also tried to be the comic relief.  It is possible that I am not as humorous as I think I am.  I remember while in the hospital on magnesium, which must make a person very woozy, my sister needed help getting a shower.  I came to help.  Her eyes were unfocused, sort of rolling around in the top of her head, she was eight or so months pregnant, swollen.  Most of you know the drill.  As I helped her dry off, I commented on how enticing she must be for her husband at this particular time in her life.  I hoped she would not remember my comment through the drug haze, but to this day she still remembers my attempt at "cheering her up" with my humor.

How in the world have twenty years passed so quickly? 

I wrote about Maclellan last August when she was leaving for school in Arkansas.  We miss her about as much as we thought we would ~ A LOT!!  I could not let her 20th go by unrecognized.  This year,  Mac and I both have big birthdays that end in zero.  I am fairly certain she thinks it will be forever until she hits the milestone I will reach this year, but I can tell her that the next 40 years will pass in the blink of an eye.  I wonder where these past twenty years have gone?  These past 40 have gone just as quickly. 

It is always a pleasure to tell people that I am Maclellan's aunt.  Everyone who knows her, loves her. She isn't the type female that makes you embarrassed to be a girl.  She gives women a good
name.

Mac and Sim Meet

I think she might be absentminded, however.  I sent her a birthday present.  It was to arrive at Harding on Wednesday.  I checked with her on Friday, but she had not gotten it.  Of course I was worried, so on Saturday I went to that pig sty of a vehicle I drive (nobody would ever break into it because they would be certain that it had already been ransacked) to search for the UPS tracking number.  Finally, after sorting through upteem Sonic receipts, bank deposit slips, parking passes, and cough drop wrappers I found it.  When I checked on it (well, MP did it for me because I could not figure out how, and I got to hold Simeon while she figured it out) it had been delivered on Wednesday.  Good grief, girl.  Go get your present.  When I told her it had been delivered, she replied that she was a Hubbard and that she would check today.   For that reason, I will not be posting this blog until the afternoon.  Too bad Mac, no reading material during chapel.  :-)

I sent her 20 gifts, nay, 21 gifts.  Apparently, I cannot count.  I did this for MP when she turned 20, and was away at college.  This will be Mac's first birthday away from home.  I don't like it.  But, I did have fun putting the gift together.  SPOILER ALERT, MAC...GO TO THE POST OFFICE!!!  It is a collection of silly things, like a flashlight, flip flops, slime, a Woolly Willy (love those things), a book of words (is that redundant?)...well, "Words Everyone Should Know, a key chain, etc...  I wrote a poem with each gift.  Let me clarify; each note rhymed, but in no society could they be called poetry.  Elizabeth Barrett Browning would roll over in her grave!  My favorite was a package of peppermint sticks from Cracker Barrell.  I love that peppermint.  Sadly, the poem said something like..."I'm a bit embarrassed by this one, but let's face it, there could have been none."  I ate every stick but one, so I sent the remainder to her.  She'll get and appreciate the humor.  That is just one reason I love her so much.

So, I will miss a family birthday celebration for our Mac.  We'll just have to plan one for May, after she has returned home.  It is a family tradition for me to call everyone on their birthday and sing Happy Birthday.  Let me clarify; the words are there, the tune is not, and it ends with the last note being held as long as possible, which sometimes is many times longer than anyone would desire.  Mildred J. and Dr. Patty Smith Hill would be rolling over in their graves.

Happy Birthday beautiful Ann Maclellan Hubbard.  Your Aunt Mellie loves you to pieces.

So for today, I wish you birthday celebrations, fun times, and silly traditions with those you love, and I wish you

blessings

Life's Sermons

I come from a church tradition where women have not been allowed to participate in corporate worship.  The basis is a couple of scriptures about women keeping silent and women waiting until they get home to ask their husbands about the matters that confuse them.  I appreciate the heartfelt desire of those people who have faithfully tried to live out the scriptures, and who sincerely believed this was the proper interpretation of those words.  I am also grateful to those who delve deeper in an effort to understand what those words meant to the first century recipients and how we are to use them now.  I am no scholar, so I read my Bible and count on my "common sense," which I consider my divine spark, or the whisperings of the Holy Spirit, to gain understanding.

As I grew, I began to wonder why women could teach the children and not the adults.  Well, I say adults, but I mean anyone over the magic "Age of Accountability," generally believed to be age 12.  The "Age of Accountability" is the time at which one's behavior places one in jeopardy of the eternal fires of hell.  Heaven knows, we would not want women teaching people past that age. Their gifts of teaching must only be shared with the younger children.  I wonder; who has more impact, the women who are teaching impressionable children or the men in the pulpit speaking to a room full of adults, a lot of whom have already formed their opinions, and who are highly unlikely to change them?  It is very interesting to me.

I don't usually name names in my blogs.  I am not sure why, exactly, but today I name names.  I do not really think very much of that which is truly important is taught with words.  I would like to share some of the most vaulable sermons I have "heard."

Josh Graves is the young preacher at our church.  He is the age of my son, so I have to think of him as young or I would have to think of myself as old.  He is well-educated.  He is articulate and eloquent.  He is funny.  He delivers passionate, well-spoken sermons each week.  He never uses notes.  But, those are not the real sermons of his life.  His best sermons are the sweet and thoughtful way he treats his wife, and the kind and gentle way he loves his sons.  His best sermon is the way he loves our church family, his genuine grief over those who are hurting, his sincere joy for those who rejoice.  Josh is mature in ways that very few 33 year olds are.  One of his best sermons was when he attended a performance of  VeggieTales while Kansas was playing in the Final Four.   His best sermons are his love and his giving up of self.  He lives his sermon. 

There is a woman I know and love.  Her name is Sandra Collins. She is well-educated.  She is well-spoken.  She is not allowed, yet, to deliver a sermon in corporate worship (the day may come in her lifetime at Otter Creek) because she is a woman.  But, she does not need to.  Her life is her sermon.  She does not need to tell anyone anything about how to be a servant leader.  She exudes that lesson at every turn.  Her face radiates joy when she is helping someone.  She can be found tutoring inner city children, rocking inner city babies at their daycare, gathering clothing or household goods or cars, or whatever for those in need.  She might try to sell you hand-crocheted tablecloths to benefit women in India.  She spends her money to support children in our city and state and world.  When a call is made for the needy, Sandy answers.  That is her sermon.

There is another young man at church named Lee Camp. He is brilliant.  He is a wonderful speaker and teacher.  He is beautifully educated.   I do not overstate my feelings when I say that Lee is a modern day prophet.  He bangs the drum of New Heaven and New Earth, and our privilege and responsibility to be agents in bringing that about.  His wife says he is the bravest person she knows, and I would not disagree.  He has the courage of his convictions, and he stands for them no matter the barrage of insults he might receive, and he receives them.  It is said that a prophet is without honor in his own land.  The way Lee deals with that is his sermon.  Lee's desire to understand before being understood is his sermon.  I have learned so much from Lee.  His life's sermon is about grace and love and personal responsibility.  No words are needed.  His life is his sermon. 

There are so many more whose sermons inspire me every day.  My friend, Carol Barnes, tending to the needs of a friend who is going through chemotherapy.  She is living with Carol and her dear husband, Dennis.  This generous giving of self is Carol and Dennis's sermon.  No words needed.  Pat Ward, quietly and generously tending to the needs of all those around her.  Her ever smiling face and gentle spirit are her sermon.  No words needed.  Mr. Lincoln preaches sermons every day, loving our children, our grandchild and the one on the way, emptying the dishwasher, listening to other's problems, agonizing over the hurts of his "flock."  His life is his sermon.  No words needed.    What can one say about the energizer bunny, Doug Sanders, who spends his life seeking out those in need and meeting those needs.  He is comfortable in the company of kings and paupers.  Doug makes no distinction.  His life is his sermon.  No words needed. 

All those dads who change diapers, coach ball teams, respond patiently to their child's foolishness,  work at whatever they can to provide for their families, eat the chicken wings so the rest of the family can have the good pieces, go without so their children do not have to,  listen to and respect and love their wives...this is their sermon.  No words needed.  All those moms who are up at night tending to crying babies, who work to provide for their families, who wear a dress from five years ago so their children can have what they need, who cook meals and wash clothes and clean house, only to do it all over again tomorrow, who treat their husbands with respect, who make their homes a haven where all feel safe...this is their sermon.  No words needed.

I often wonder just what my sermon says.  I want it to be a sermon of understanding, sacrifice, love, compassion, and grace.  I want no words to be needed.  I will keep working at it.

For today, I wish you sermons of greatness in your own life and in the lives of those around you, and I wish you

blessings 

Holy Week

I heard this quote in a movie, "the difference between fiction and truth is fiction has to make sense." 

I am not a particularly inquisitive person.  I take things at face value.  I believe what people say.  I accept explanations.  People can say they are going to do something and don't, over and over, and every time I believe they will.   I have never been one to doubt the story of Jesus.  I have never been particularly concerned with discrepancies between Biblical explanations and laws of nature i.e. Jonah living in a whale's belly for 3 days.  I take neither blame nor credit for my belief process.  It is what it is. 

It took a minister, young enough to be my son, to help me see the truth of that movie quote in the Jesus story.   When one considers the upside-downness of Jesus as King, it has to be believed.  Who would make that up, and for what purpose?  Of course, people misuse the Bible to prove points and to make others tow the line.  But, what that young minister has helped me to understand is if one were going to make up a story about a king that saves the world, Jesus would definitely not be it.  Oh, I have heard all the explanations about birth in a manger, born to a virgin, and humble lifestyle.  I get that crucifixion between two thieves is not how one would expect a king's life to end.  This storyline is not going to sell books, nor will it be the stuff of Hollywood movies.  Of course, that is the point.

Of all the events in Jesus's life that tell me that truth does not have to make sense, it is what is called the Triumphal Entry, which we celebrate on Palm Sunday.  It is the grand coronation of understatement.  Who would boast of a king who rides into town on a donkey?  Where is his chariot?  But, this week that many of us call Holy Week, began just that way.  So, perhaps, more than most weeks, I find myself more aware of those events that I believe took place over 2,000 years ago.  What would be the point in the telling of such an ignominious opening act of a story so preposterous? 

I have been more aware this week of the people around me, wondering if this week is of any particular importance to them.  Each morning, I sit on the steps of Downtown Presbyterian Church awaiting the school group with which I will spend the next 3 hours or so.  I sit and I people watch.  I see the tall,  young man striding with great purpose, his legs as thin as the umbrella he carries.  I notice the residents of downtown walking dogs, and I see a particular gentleman, perhaps homeless, who loves to speak to those pets.  He hasn't much time for the owners, but the dogs entertain him. 

Yesterday, I saw the woman in the wheelchair who is missing both legs from below her knees.  Several years ago, I offered to help her as she struggled up the hill.  When I asked if I could help, she screamed at me, "drop dead."  To say I was taken aback would be a gross understatement, so I persisted in explaining my well-meaning in offering to help her, to which she replied, "I said, would you just drop dead!"  After two or three other attempts to assure her that I meant no harm and each time her instructions were for me to expire on the spot, I walked away.  I am not proud, but my first thought was, "lady, I could tip you over in that wheelchair on this hill, and there is nothing you can do about it."  Rather quickly, however, my thoughts were kinder as I considered that I had not a clue of what harm life had caused her, and why telling someone to drop dead seemed a perfectly reasonable response to an offer for assistance.

I meat a young German man this week.  I was walking to my car.  He asked me for directions to Music Row.  Bless him.  I figured there was some other reason he was sent to talk to me.  A lamp post could have given better directions.  But, we chatted.  He was telling me about how Nashville reminded him of home.  He is from Cologne.  He has been accepted into a music program about which he is most excited.  My family might have been skeptical since he had no German accent and no musical instrument.  I don't care.  I found him delightful.  He told me I was "cool."  Trust me, I don't get that very often.  I think he was just happy to have someone to talk to him.  Hope he found Music Row.  Perhaps, someone else refined the directions I gave him.  Entertaining angels, unawares?  Maybe.

From my seat on the porch of Downtown Pres, I I see a Contributor vendor, who faithfully stands on the corner of 5th and Church.  Many people pass without making eye contact.  Many stop to chat.  Some buy a paper.  I bought mine on Monday from the vendor at 16th and Wedgewood. We had quite the chat as I sat in my car and he shouted to me over the traffic.  He wants to write a food critic's column in The Contributor.  The food critic for the Tennessean has offered to help him with his words.  He watches Chef Ramsey, and knows what to look for in a restaurant.  I am sure he does.  I only hope that those who own restaurants will treat him with dignity, and offer him their best. 

When I walk through the fellowship hall at the church, I see photographs taken by formerly homeless artists.  The pictures were all taken with disposable cameras.  Some of them are, in my humble opinion, spectacular.  They are proof that a fancy camera is not necessary for good shots, but rather an eye for the beautiful.  There is one with a pink sofa sitting in the midst of overgrowth.  It is an outdoor livingroom.  I imagine those who frequent the spot have a greater understanding of that humble king, riding into town on a donkey, than many of us who drive fancy, new cars and rest upon sofas in air-conditioned homes watching TV.

So, during this Holy Week, I contemplate what it means to be holy.  I am struck by how miserably I fail, and how faithfully I am loved.  I believe this story helps me find purpose in my life.  I believe this story helps me understand the importance of relationship above stuff.  It is this story that prods me to beware of placing myself above others.  It is this story that encourages me to stop with the "navel gazing," and look up and see the face of Jesus in all I meet.  Oh, there are 51 other weeks in the year that do not bear the name, "Holy Week."  Oh, that I could find the holy in every week. 

So, as you approach Easter, may you find holiness in yourself, in this beautiful world, in the love of friends and family, in the faces of strangers, and may you find truth in the story of

holy blessing