"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!