"A Heap of Love"

In 1989, I gave my four remaining great aunts spiral notebooks, pens and a list of questions.  I wanted to know of their childhood years, their parents and their grandparents.  Please tell me what they were like. What did their home look like? Walk me through it, please.  What were their parents’ favorite Scriptures and hymns (and theirs as well).  I asked about their Christmas memories at ‘the homeplace’ out in the country.  It has been years since I read what my great aunts wrote.  Early this morning, by the light of the Christmas tree, I curled up on the sofa and read my Aunt Cecile’s memories of Christmas.  All of my great aunts have now passed away but in the scribbled words found in a notebook from someone who grew up with so very little, I received what I most needed to receive this morning … a reminder that LOVE is more important than anything else in this world.

 (Aunt Cecile’s words) …

 

"You should have seen our decorations.  Garland and Espie and I (and at times Beulah, your grandmommy) would go to the woods and hunt running cedar that could be draped over our windows and on our pretty tree we’d find.  Mother would pop and string popcorn and drape it all over the tree.  We used holiday pieces off of trees that had red berries on them.  We would try and help Mother place all of this where it would look the prettiest.  There was plenty of room for presents under our tree but we did not find many there.  Maybe some parched peanuts, some molasses candy that she would wrap and put in the bag with the peanuts.  Just something like that.  No gifts at all.  But with all of that effort there was A HEAP OF LOVE."

(Back to me … I will take some parched peanuts, some molasses candy and A HEAP OF LOVE any day)

 

 

"A Bleak Midwinter Day in Advent"

 

(The day after the great tragedy at Shady Hook Elementary School in Newtown, CT)

 

On this day, when we all are grieving with grieving parents and holding confused, scared and saddened children in our prayers ... when we lament and cry out “How long, O Lord” .... when we we seek answers to such violence in this world, we hear words that God came (and comes) for such days as yesterday, for mornings such as this, for us all. Thanks to my friend, Thom Shuman, for hearing the whispers of God and for putting these God-given words together for us. Yes, in a bleak midwinter day in Advent, God comes.          anna

 

Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.  Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God. (Psalm 90:1-2)

Once again, we are reminded about the meaning of this bleak midwinter we call Advent. For God did not come to create a greeting card industry, nor so we could string lights on houses and trees. God did not become one of us so we might have office parties and give people things they don't really need. God was not born so songs could be written and sermons preached.

God came for such mornings as this, after the long night of anguished tossing and turning, with visions of horror dancing in our heads. God came to walk with us as we wander the streets of our hearts asking, 'how? why? when?'

God came to huddle with terrified children in closets where school supplies are stored, and to give teachers the strength not to show their worst fears. God came to cradle the wounded and the dying, so they would know they were not abandoned in that loneliest of moments.

God came to give the first responders the courage to walk into the unspeakable, willing to put themselves between danger and little children. God came to gather the parents and grandparents up into the divine lap of comfort and hope, even as their arms would no longer be able to embrace their child. God came to have that most compassionate heart broken as many times as ours are, to weep with us even when we have run out of tears, to stand next to us with the same look of horror and disbelief.

God came for mornings such as this, with the same haggard face, with the same questions, with the same anger, with the same sense of loss and hopelessness, but with deep wells of grace from which we can drink, with compassion which will never end, with comforting arms which will not grow weary, with hope which stretches from everlasting to everlasting.

God came, and is still with us.

© 2012 Thom M. Shuman

Thom

Thom M. Shuman
Interim Pastor
Immanuel Presbyterian Church, Cincinnati, OH
Associate Member, Iona Communitywww.lectionaryliturgies.blogspot.com
www.occasionalsightings.blogspot.com
www.prayersfortoday.blogspot.com

'Scripture is like a river,
broad and deep,
shallow enough here
for the lamb to go wading,
but deep enough there
for the elephant to swim.'
- - Gregory the Great (540-604)

"The Lamb in the Creche"

It was a conversation
overheard.
It wasn’t eavesdropping …
not really.

“Isn’t our church lovely,
decorated so beautifully
for Christmas?”
“Yes, it is.
And aren’t we glad
that the three-legged lamb
is no longer
in the creche’ in the narthex?
Aren’t we glad
that it has been retired?”

Tears came to my eyes
in my eavesdropping.
Isn’t it for those of us
who are lame in some way …
who are pushed back
as ‘imperfect’,
who limp to the manger,
weary in body
and spirit,
who hobble toward Bethlehem
heavy-laden with
injuries inflicted
by others …
Isn’t it for those of us
‘three-legged lambs’
that the Christ-child came?

I begged …
“Put the little lamb back.”

©2012 anna murdock

"A Slice of Life"

(Thinking of All Saint's Day and realizing that there are saints among us ... even sitting at the table beside of me in an empty dining room!)

Tuesday lunches for me are different from all other days. I have learned to eat lunch by myself at the neighborhood cafeteria (not at all easy for me to do). It has become a wonderful routine actually. Tuesdays, I hope to find grilled salmon that is OK ('OK' as in great for an average neighborhood restaurant but not the same as a fine-dining restaurant) and chopped slaw that is a free side item (you can’t beat ‘free’). Sweet iced tea is a must, of course. I am usually at this cafeteria minutes after it opens for lunch so 'my' booth next to the far wall is always waiting for me. My Kindle e-reader comes out of my pocketbook and I have a glorious 45 minutes of quiet ... curled up in the corner of the booth ... just me, my book and a decent lunch.

This past Tuesday was much like all other Tuesdays. I held the door open for three men who had just climbed out of their work truck. They startled me with their polite and very Southern "Thank you, ma'am." As we moved through the cafeteria line together, the server asked one of the men a question that he didn't quite understand. "Do you want your roast beef au jus, Sweetie?" His reply was, "What?" She asked the question once more ... again ending with "Sweetie." Again he ask, "What?" Finally, she pointed to the roast beef juice and said, "That!" No, he didn't want any. She didn't make fun of him and he wasn't embarrassed. Both seemed to be good responses.

I found my way to 'my' booth and settled into the corner to read. The three men emptied their trays at the table beside of me. Now WHY did they do that? The entire dining room was empty. They could have chosen any place other than THAT table. They were too close to my little sanctuary to suit me! They were messing with my Tuesday lunch. My initial thoughts were that these three men would become loud in their talking, perhaps even laughing (how dare they? hehehe) and distract me as I tried to read.

They DID distract me. They were quiet in their conversations. They spoke sweetly and respectfully to the elderly lady who came to the table to fill their glasses of iced tea. They talked among themselves of the older man they had helped with much-needed home repairs. One told the others of his love for his wife and that opened the conversation for the other two men to tell of their love for their own wives. The conversations moved to their great dogs. I heard one say, "He's the best dog I have ever had." Another said, "When I put my ladder up against a house, he tries to climb up with me." The third admitted that he couldn't think of ever being without his dog. I smiled as I listened to three men speaking of love for both their wives and dogs. Frankly, I don't think that the wives or dogs would be offended at being a part of the same conversation.

One shared the 'au jus' incident with the others and giggled at himself for not knowing what it meant. The others didn't laugh at him but with him. The elderly woman, her shoulders bent low, stopped by the table once more to refill their iced tea. One of the men took a moment to chat with her ... to ask “How is life treating you?” She was honest and told him. She is struggling in many ways. They listened carefully and with compassion.

The men left before I finished my lunch but not before having one last conversation among themselves. "Why don't we leave her a good tip." As I passed by the empty table, I noticed that they had left $20 on the table for her. Oh, why did I have to go back to work? I wish I could have stayed in 'my' booth to watch as she found the generous tip.

As I think back on past Tuesdays when people have sat too close to me in an empty dining room, I am beginning to see little slices of life ... sacred moments. Two Tuesdays ago, there was a man who struggled to speak. There was not one word that I understood yet his wife clung to every word of his. Another Tuesday, there were two people who had come back home to gather with family for a funeral. Yet another Tuesday, two little girls, a mother and a grandmother met for lunch. No one from that table was overlooked in their conversation. Everyone's thoughts and stories were important. Still another Tuesday, a grandfather treated his young granddaughter to lunch. She was filled with words. He stopped her excitement only to have a blessing, holding her hands as he prayed.

Each Tuesday lunch has brought with it a different slice of life ... a sacred moment. I will still seek out 'my' booth but hope for such blessed moments in the Tuesdays to come ... hope that a saint or two might sit so close to me that I might hear their conversations.

anna

"You Are What You Eat"

(Thoughts that flowed from a difficult lectionary Scripture, John 6:51-58, and a mood to write!)

The brass tray was held briefly in front of the little girl and her dimpled hand reached out for the most perfect cube of bread that she could see. It was such a tiny bite. She tried to carefully lift a glass cup filled with grape juice from the next tray. Sigh … she did it again. She tapped the cup against another one, making a noise that turned her father’s head toward her. It reminded her of what she had always been told … that she had never really been a very careful child. She tried to drink the little bit of grape juice but always, ALWAYS there was some left in the bottom of the small glass cup. She never felt nourished … never satisfied. By the time that she went back to the pew, she had forgotten the taste of the bread and juice.

Later, there were times in the girl’s life when it seemed too hard and too much to ‘eat’ and ‘drink’. Times when she dreaded going through the motions (would she go to hell for doing that?). Times when the bread was no more than a wafer that had no taste. It stuck to the roof of her mouth. Yes, it was too hard for her to eat something that was not palatable and drink that which did not quench her thirst. Too hard.

The young girl who felt as if all things were too difficult and too much, relaxed as she grew older. The little child who yearned to be careful (but who never really was) and who wanted to remember the taste of the bread and juice, is now a woman who has heard “Eat my flesh … drink my blood.” She knows that these words can be too much for children to hear. She smiles as she remembers the words of her mother, “You are what you eat.” And with that, she rips off a chunk of bread and soaks it in the juice and becomes as messy as a child can be. If the juice drips on her hand, so be it. If she must chew the piece of bread on her walk back to the pew and chew even more as she is seated, that is OK.

She has grown into savoring the moment, smelling the juice, tasting the bread, feeling the stickiness on her hand, looking at the crumbs on the floor. It is a not-so-careful thing for sure. Messy. It can be too hard for some and too routine for others, but her silent prayer is that she might become more of what she has just eaten, even if the thoughts of what we are asked to eat are, at times, hard to digest.

"Giggles and Gentle Touches"

Recently, I attended a Bible study on the book of JOB. I had studied JOB before and always considered Job's friends to be failures as friends go. But during this study, I heard something different in the Scriptures. The first 7 days and 7 nights, the friends of Job tore their clothes, wept aloud, sprinkled dust on their heads, sat in silence on the ground with Job, no doubt rocking back and forth with Job in his tremendous grief. Yes, before they opened their mouths and began to say careless things, there were days when 'mourning with those who mourn' was the only right thing to do and they did it so very well. Let us do what is right first in light of the tragedies we have witnessed (the massacre in the Aurora, CO movie theatre). Let us first be willing to sit in silence with those who are grieving and to offer a gentle touch in their darkness. Perhaps intercessory prayers in our worship services would be a beginning and a way to allow us to do that. Spoken prayers and then periods of silence. There will come the time for other words and more vocal and active responses for change.  Today, allow me to share a moment 8 years ago, in a theatre, that changed my life forever. It is for this reason that I recognize the power of sitting with someone in mourning.

Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. (Romans 12:15 NIV)

She and I were strangers. The only reason we sat next to each other was that our ticket stubs placed us together in the theatre that day. Before the play, we giggled and rejoiced over little things. We probably giggled just a little too much because I noticed that her mother glanced my way with a somewhat helpless look on her face as if to say, “Please don’t encourage her.” Then, with a simple question, the child’s rejoicing changed to a beautiful expression of mourning as best as this 6-year-old knew how to mourn. As the lights dimmed, a gentle touch was offered by a small hand. A gentle touch that will forever be felt.

There must be a name for moments such as these - holy moments when God whispers, “Listen and understand.” It was that day in the theatre when I was reminded that there aren’t always words needed for shared joy. Time spent listening, smiles offered, excitement and yes, even giggles shout, “I’m rejoicing with you” much more than words could ever express. There was a lot to be excited about that day. She was staying with her grandparents (who wouldn’t be excited about that?). I was beginning my vacation (yeah!). She looked at me and proudly proclaimed, “I’m a big sister! My baby brother is 2 months old.” As a big sister myself, I could share in her excitement. I pointed to my younger brother and said, “I’m a big sister, too. My baby brother is 45 years old!” (giggle-giggle). She asked, "Where is your Mommy.” I pointed to my mother and she pointed to hers. Her next question was inevitable and I answered before thinking through my words. “Where is your Daddy,” she asked. “My Daddy died 10 years ago,” I replied. Giggles stopped. Her response was simply, “Oh.” Why did I say that? Ten years ago might as well have been ten days ago in a 6-year-old’s mind. She sat quietly with her hands in her lap, looking at the stage. She climbed up on her knees to whisper in her mother’s ear and then sat down again. The music began. The house lights were turned down. It was then when I felt soft, gentle pats on my arm from this child who mourned for me in her own little way. She had wisdom and comfort in her mourning that often eludes adults. No words needed. Just to pat my arm for a while was enough - enough for us both.

God mingles holy rejoicing with our rejoicing and holy tears with our tears. It is a beautiful expression of agape’ love when we can do the same for others in such a pure and simple way. Giggles and gentle touches. God calls us to do both as we look into faces and hearts. Yes, God calls us to those moments of giggles and gentle touches. My little friend in the theatre knew that and because of her beautiful, sweet and simple expression of compassion, I now know this.

"Floating ... and Crashing"

There was a stoplight,
a large intersection,
a square piece of cardboard,
an early morning breeze
and me.

The cardboard was lifted
from the ground by the breeze.
It began to dance lightly in the air,
floating up and dipping down.
It flipped end over end
and raced in front of me
as if it was a square tire.

Then the morning's breeze ceased
and the cardboard sadly floated
to the middle of the intersection.
It fell onto the hood of a moving car
and then onto the road.
I noticed words scribbled on it ...
"WILL WORK FOR FOOD."
Car after car sped over it,
leaving tire tracks on the words.

It was then when I wondered
about the person
who had written the words.
Who was this person?
Where was this person?

What changed this life
from one that once danced
joyfully and lightly on the
cool breezes of their days
to the life that found the need
to write such words
and hold this cardboard
along the roads of life?

Who was this person
who was much like
the cardboard
that he or she once held ...
floating one moment
in full view
and invisible the next?

The light turned green
and yet for a moment
I didn't move ...
I couldn't move
for I found myself praying.

(c) anna murdock

"The Kingdom of God is Like ..."

(Please read Mark 4:26-34)


The little boy
with a missing front tooth
and the blackest of black hair
(that was quite uncontrollable)
said to his mother,
“I need a few seeds
and some wet paper towels.”

The mother called
neighbor and relatives and friends
and found seeds.
They didn’t know what kind
and they hoped
that they weren’t too old
to sprout
(although they looked too old).

The little boy
wet the paper towels
and sandwiched
the tiny, begged-for seeds
between them …
and then he went to bed.

The next morning,
the little boy with ‘bed-head’
stumbled and yawned
his way to the seeds
that he so carefully
tucked into their own ‘bed’
of soggy paper towels
just before their bedtime
and his, the night before.

The child’s mother saw
his disappointment
and noticed the worry lines
on his brow.
In a soft voice, she said,
“You have done what you are to do.
That is enough, my beloved child.
The seed will sprout and grow.”

And so, he did
as the one who loved him most
had asked of him …
He would sleep and rise …
night and day.
He would wait
and trust
and hope
and allow
for a great mystery
that would sprout
from a child’s homework
and a little water.

“What is this all about?”
the little boy with unruly hair
and a missing-tooth-smile asked.
“It is such a mystery to me,
this little sprout,”
he exclaimed one morning.

As he looked for answers,
the beloved child heard words
from the one who loved him
more than life itself.
“The kingdom of God is like ….”

"In Darkness and Silence"

I awoke very early this morning,
for no apparent reason.
Like a child, I slipped out of bed,
carrying my pillow
and dragging my blanket behind me
into the dark, dark living room.

I sat,
hugging my pillow,
my blanket covering me,
my toes cold.
In this darkness
where there was not one piece of light
and in the silence,
where strangely not one bird was singing.
I wondered if this is what it feels like
to be empty of all worship.

Darkness and silence.
A nothingness.
Ah, but what is that I hear?
Is it a bird’s song?
A single bird, gloriously singing?
And is that a small bit of light
piercing the darkness of predawn?
Now, oh my, the birds are singing
in full chorus!

Even in darkness and silence,
there is the promise of worship
waiting to sing …
waiting for us to see
in yet another day
that God has indeed come into our lives!

And it was night …
and it was morning ..
and it is good!

"Reminders on this Good Friday"

The weather is like it always is on Good Friday ... or so says my mother. "There will be moments in this day when the clouds roll in. There will be dreariness and rain." I have heard this since my early childhood years and have grown to look toward the skies on Good Friday. I think that I shall do this every Good Friday for as long as I live. Yes, it is cold and rainy and dreary this morning. I need to remind myself ... "It's Friday, but Sunday is coming. It's Friday, but Sunday is coming. It's Friday, but Sunday is coming." That is our faith, my friends ... "It's Friday, but Sunday is coming!"

May you not weep alone on this Good Friday.  May God hold you steady at the foot of the cross.

Anything But Routine

Sunday, we left our palm branches
on the pews
and stopped shouting "Hosanna!".

Monday was just that ...
... a Monday with its same old routines.

Yesterday, people milled about
as if this week would prove
to be like last week.
No different.

But this week IS different ....
An upper room is being prepared.
A betrayal is in the final stages of planning.
Intimate prayers will soon be heard.
A command to 'remember' will be demonstrated.
Feet will be washed by the Servant.
Hands will be washed by one in power ...
washed to remove responsibility.
Disciples will fall asleep as Jesus prays.

Soon, there will be a kiss -
a kiss that will ultimately move us
to the foot of the cross
and finally to the victory
of an empty tomb.

This week is anything but routine.

O God, help us to walk together through this week as faithful, wide-awake disciples. Amen.

"A Nicodemus Moment"

(John 3:14-21)


She sat in a darkened sanctuary
  expecting little
  yet hoping for much.
She sat in a darkened sanctuary
  alone …
and then Light walked in,
  uninvited and unannounced,
  whispering, “For God so loves you….”

Her heart beat faster
  as she heard that
God had loved her in her ‘befores’ …
… before she asked for this Love,
… before she admitted to
       needing this Love,
… before she sought to
       understand such a Love,
… before she realized that she
       wanted this Gift of Love.

"Here I Am, Such as I Am"

(Ash Wednesday)

Here I am, such as I am ...
Imperfect.
Weak.
Broken.
In need of forgiveness.
In need of your Presence.

Here I am, such as I am ...
Confessing.
Repentant.
Hopeful.
Listening.

Here I am, such as I am ...
Willing to be melted
and molded.
Wanting a newly created
pure heart.

Here I am, such as I am ...
Branded with a mark...
your unmistakable mark.

Lead me, O God,
walk with me
in these 40 days....
walk with me always.

Amen.

"This is our Tomorrow"

(Thoughts on the day before Ash Wednesday)

Neglected,
it rests on the corner,
visible to all,
yet ignored by most …
for it has been empty
far too long.

This morning,
this day before
Ash Wednesday,
the front of the building
has been painted
a brilliant white
and the windows
on each side
of the entrance door
are now adorned
with new, royal blue awnings.

Yet the “For Sale” sign
is still posted,
weather-worn
from the years
of begging
and pleading
for someone to look…
just look and consider
the property’s value.

If one dares
to look closer,
beyond the brilliant white paint
and the royal blue awnings,
the other sides
of the building can be seen.

Three other sides
are a dingy beige
with peeling paint
and windows have been broken
by those who think nothing
of doing damage
to something that is not theirs.

The flat roof
can no longer withstand
the weight of
years of debris
or torrential rains
that only accumulate
and puddle
in its flatness.

The property is
overgrown with weeds
and littered by those things
that others have so carelessly
and thoughtlessly
thrown its way.

What are we to think
of an appealing façade
of fresh paint
and new awnings?
What are we to think
of neglect
and damage …
of brokenness
and litter …
of weeds
and debris
and puddles?

Perhaps this is exactly
what we will bring with us
tomorrow …
on this day we call
Ash Wednesday.
We bring with us
freshly painted facades
and new awnings,
hoping beyond hope
that those around us
will not see the
neglect and damage,
the brokenness and litter,
the weeds and shattered hearts.

The black soot
marks the façade
with a cross …
and the ash
falls onto the awning.
The difficult admission
that there are
other sides to be seen
are whispered in prayer
and are heard by the One
who has clearly seen
all four sides
of each of us.

This is our tomorrow.

Holy God,
we come to you
in need of repair …
not in part,
but throughout
our whole being.

Create in us
a newness in our days,
a wholeness and healing through you,
a purpose in your kingdom,
hope in your love
and a pure heart before you.

Amen.