Written following a sniper attack in Dallas, Texas, in which five police officers were killed and seven others wounded on Thusday night, July 7, 2016.
song turns to scream
violent discord
I cannot turn away from this pain
wounded and broken lives
shattered peace
Lichen growing on the gravestone of Opal and Howard Teal, Bullard, Texas
“…their wake reaches us, rocks us.” ~ Denise Levertov
When I visit the graves of my parents, I am not visiting them, I am remembering them, along with many other family members. In the Bullard, Texas cemetery are graves belonging to a number of aunts, uncles, maternal and paternal grandparents and even great grand parents. Lichen spreads and clings to the stones and reminds me of the spreading and clinging of their stories in my life. As the poet quoted above suggests, their “wake” reaches and rocks” me. I have been cradled in their love and faith. I remember. Without opening a single page of written family history, I thank God for lives lived, names that roll easily off my tongue.
Opal and HOward Teal
Veda and Woodrow Teal
Clyde and Ky Terrell
Ida and Tom Teal
Edna and Leo Warnick
Lela and Dewey Kirkpatrick
Wayne Kirkpatirick
Earnestine Matilde Curley
John Wesley and Elen Terrell
Vinnon Grady Terrell
Alice Stripling
plus many others whose names and stories I know even though I may not bring them to my mind at this moment, some who lived and died before I was born!
Alleluia!
For All the Saints (1864)
For all the saints who from their labor rest,
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blessed,
Alleluia! Alleluia!
O blest communion, fellowship divine.
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
Yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
And when the fight is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
And hearts are brave again, and arms are strong.
Alleluia! Alleluia.
From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
Singing to Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Alleluia! Alleluia!
William How
sprouting takes time
cracking the hard black seed shell
pushing through into darkness
reaching for light
then warmed in sunlight, kissed by rain
the green in me reaches up
for strength to lean into
wrapping around and holding on
I grow and bloom
The final figure has been hung in my Advent shadow box. In our Nativity scenes, the manger holds a baby. It is Christmas Eve, the time of laboring, receiving. As waiting and expectancy end, the intense work so aptly named labor begins, the urgency of a baby’s entrance into our world gives way to embrace. With the birth of our granddaughter this year so fresh in my mind, I think of holding her minutes after birth. So small and precious in my arms, so helpless, yet holdiing such power over my heart. In the hush of those moments, relationship locked and sealed forever. Relationship that began the moment I heard of her coming, that grew so sweetly when I saw ultrasound images, became one that will endure past physical life.
It is in that way Christ came to us. In that picture of receiving Him that we see God’s intention for relationship. We don’t just know he is coming . We welcome Him into our hearts.
This Nativity belongs to our youngest son. He first set it up when he was very small. As a boy, he built the little shed from scraps of wood shingles. Now it sits in his own home, where his daughter holds the figures as she discovers her very first Christmas.
Our entire Satsuma harvest – but the tree is very small.
As we move toward the end of November, our garden is a reminder of things that can be counted on: Gulf Coast Muhly fronds mound up like pink froth. Satsumas are ready for harvest, Meyer lemons are hanging ready on the tree, the last of our okra and tender herbs fade as the first frost comes. Marigolds, chrysanthemums and calendula bloom gold and copper. Thanksgiving is less than a week away. We will gather friends and family and favorite foods at full tables.
Marigolds
I am remembering childhood meals around my Terrell grandparent’s table in Smith County, Texas. There were hearty breakfasts with farm fresh eggs, sausage, biscuits and gravy, dinners (at lunchtime) that often included peas and tomatoes from their garden and an iron skillet of cornbread cut into wedges.There were suppers, often the same food reheated or a bowl of soup, and Sunday dinners after church. There were holiday meals at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas where the table and kitchen were both filled with chicken and dressing or a ham, plus those garden fresh vegetables which had been put up into canning jars. To follow, there would be an assortment of sweets – cookies, sweet potato, pecan, and mince pies, and often a pound cake. The food and occasion might vary, but there was always the same beginning: This, too, was something I could count on. Papa Terrell would say grace. Today we may say a blessing or give thanks, but he always said grace. The words were always the same, and rattled off so quickly I could never understand them. But his posture spoke to my heart with no need for words. Over 70 years later, now I see him clearly in my mind: gray head bent forward and bowed in humility.
“We offer grace at table as a form of waiting with confidence…reciting such a prayer is sometimes referred to as a way of preparing to receive all that has been granted to us. We offer grace in amazement that even the good things we have rejected are being offered again. And then we eat, and the food meets an earthly need of our souls, and we are made whole.” – Cynthia Rigby, W.C. Brown Professor of Theology, Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary*
For me, the calendar days designated to Thanksgiving are a wonderful approach to beginning of Advent exactly because of this waiting with confidence…preparing to receive all that has been granted to us. Our family will gather once again around the old oak table, the very same one that Grandma loaded with food and where Papa said grace.
Pink Gulf Coast Muhly, a coastal grass
*as quoted by Wayne Slater in DallasNews, a Texas Faith Blog
Days which lead up to Mother’s Day are a time of reflection and remembering.. I savor the model of mothering provided to me by my mother and grandmothers, express gratitude for their lives, and remember the simple tradition which marked Mother’s Day for me as a child: picking a red rose to wear to church in honor of Mother. Those whose mothers were no longer with them wore a white rose. It was a sweet gesture, and I miss it.
I cherish the images and thoughts of my sons as babies and little boys, and bask in the light of their lives as strong men of faith and integrity who have become faithful husbands and loving fathers. They love me and tell me so in word and actions. From the beginning, being a mother has been an adventure of faith and grace and joy. I have often spoken of the fact that parenting has shown me more about God’s love and care for me than any other element of my life. On Mother’s Day, our church’s order of service included a statement that affirmed this.
“It has been the amazing, often painful, often ecstatic adventure of being a parent that has most formed me. It is parenting that has made, unmade, and remade me into someone who comes up hard against the great religious questions that have always been part of the human quest:
Who in fact am I?.
What is a life well led?
What is most essential, permanent, and foundational?
What responsibility do I have to others?
How do I deal with evil and fear?
What is “the good?”
How do I love well?
How do I move in this wild and worrisome world with some grace and joy?
Wendy Wright, Seasons of a Family’s Life: Cultivating the Contemplative Spirit at Home
Advent is a season of anticipation, of expecting, of waiting for birth. My first response to the noun expectancy points to waiting in anticipation of important creation and change. I am reminded of my pregnancies – the anxious wondering of confirmation followed by wonder, amazement, and yearning for birth, then holding my sons to my heart.
Then, my grandchildren have been welcomed with joy in planning, preparing, making room! For each of our granddaughters, I have begun writing a letter as soon as I heard the announcement of their conception. I write that letter during our time waiting for them and give it to their parents when they are born to be kept until they are ready to keep it themselves. I am journaling right now to the girl child who will come into our arms in the Spring. She is already in my heart.
Advent is like that journal for me – an expression of unconditional love and longing, a looking forward to the promise of a coming that will forever change our lives.
Two of our granddaughters have been with us this week. Maddie and Jordann fill the house and our hearts with energy and laughter. They love playing with their cousin Skye, being in our garden, feeding the fish, gathering herbs, picking flowers, and tending plants. Maddie helped me make pumpkin waffles. Jordann drew everyone’s picture. We sang songs from The Sound of Music and then watched the movie. They love to play board games with Joe and me. They like to take out the Story Cube box and make up stories from the picture cubes. But they didn’t even know what a powerful story they were telling when I took these photographs. They asked to visit our church’s prayer garden, so we did. In one corner of that garden is a bench and a sandy area that contains 12 smooth stones and a clay marker engraved with the word “Peace.” When we arrived on this afternoon, one of the first things they saw and exclaimed about was that the marker was broken.
As I watched, Maddie put the pieces back together and smiled as she read “peace.” Then they began picking up the river stones and trying to dust the sand and gravel off, but decided to take them over to the small stream nearby and dip them in the flowing water. One at a time, the stones were washed and brought to put in a circle around the Peace marker.
When all 12 stones were clean and in place, I asked them if they would like to use the stones to help them say what they are thankful for. Without a moment’s hesitation, each girl walked the circle, saying, “I am thankful for…” They named each other, their Daddy and Mommy, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins, their cat and dog and home, the trees and flowers.
Their story is fresh and new, because they are. But it is also an ancient story, one that speaks of acknowledging brokenness, restoration, transformation, and redemption. And that this prompts deep gratitude.
I am thankful for unbroken peace. And Maddie and Jordann.
don’t let love lose
because of tripping and stumbling
don’t let light die
though it may flicker
as petals shatter
and thorns bring blood,
don’t let the rose die from drought
let it bud again with fragrant bloom
let healing happen
I choose you again
let love win
Stones and Feathers 