Words from The Crone

We all have that “most embarrassing moment” in our life. You remember it, don’t you? I thought so. I have often thought about mine and wonder what is it about being embarrassed that etches such a deep memory in our brain cells. I can’t remember the balance in my checking account but I can sure remember my most embarrassing moment. You too, I’m sure.

Mine actually happened when I was six-years old, or 64 years ago. It was even in March of 1946 so you know I remember all too well. I was on the playground at the Isaac School in Phoenix, Arizona in Maricopa County. I have all these tiny details because I ripped off my science book and they are stamped on the inside cover. I love that book and don’t plan to return it. But, back to my “Moment.”

It was recess, a time when we are all supposed to have fun! Sure. Does anyone remember those things called “monkey bars?” They come in various sizes and shapes, but the one I was on was very large and very high and looked like the skeleton of a very big tent. It was so inviting to climb and climb I did. Up one level of rungs, up the second level of rungs, up the third level of rungs, and up the fourth level of rungs. Several of my classmates were climbing all over it as well and many of them were performing a myriad of movements, some swinging by one leg, others by a couple of arms, another by two legs hanging upside down.

I wanted to be one of them and so I decided that the two legs hanging upside down was easy. I didn’t stop to think that they were all boys and had pants on. I, like any proper little girl, had a dress on. Whoops – upside down I went and swoosh, over my head went my dress. I couldn’t see a thing. Obviously, this was not working. The boys were snickering of course, they could see my under panties! Good thing they weren’t from Victoria’s Secret! It was also obvious that I had to get out of this embarrassing position.

It got worse! As I tried to use my torso to lift myself up to grab an upper rung and get down off this monster, I got one gawd awful cramp in my left calf. It hurt so much I couldn’t lift myself up to get off. And so, I hung there upside down, dress over my head, with my not-so-sexy under pants showing. Talk about being mortified.

It got worse. The recess bell rang and all the kids ran inside. The playground was empty except for one little six-year old girl hanging upside down on the monkey bars. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t even yell or cry or whimper. I just hung there.

What seemed like a lifetime passed and finally, thanks be to God, my teacher came out and rescued me. It was really hard going back into the classroom, but well, we all know that we have to face our embarrassment whether we like it or not. And so I did. I learned a valuable lesson that day however. No one laughed at me or tormented me or scolded me. In reality, they couldn’t care less it seemed. They said, “Hi,” and back to our classwork we went. I learned to laugh at myself and recognize that while our embarrassment is very personal and ego-bruising to us, to others it is just another minor event in this huge event we call life! I learned to get over it – quickly!

Here is it twelve days since I’ve written anything on this blog. I feel like a blog blob. I’ve searched my mind for something relevant, or a least funny, to write about and all there is a blob of nothing. I don’t think it’s because there isn’t anything in my brain because I am usually full of words, written or spoken or even thought for that matter. I think it is summer laziness. Or maybe it is just plain laziness. Yes, that’s it, I’m just being lazy.

There are many things I am lazy about actually and many of them have nothing to do with summer. Like, why don’t I want to take out the trash? Why don’t I want to empty the dishwasher? Why does the clothes hamper get to massive overflow before I do the laundry? Why do the clean, unfolded clothes sit in a lump on the chair for days before I finally fold them and put them away? Why don’t I sweep that buggy porch, or get out the scrub brush and clean the lawn chairs of their bird guano?

Because I’m lazy! Well, at least that is what my mother would have said. I’m not really lazy because most of the time I am really busy doing lots and lots of stuff. But, when it comes to certain things, I just plain don’t want to do them. Really, who likes to take out the garbage? No one. That is why we relegate it to the pre-teens in the family, or the hubby. And, who really likes to empty the dishwasher full of sparkling clean dishes. No one. That’s why the dirty ones pile up in the sink until there isn’t any more room for the dirty ones and we are forced to empty the dishwasher. Furthermore, I have never in all my years found anyone who likes to fold (or even iron) clothes! No one. And who really likes to pick up the dog poop or empty the kitty litter box? Huh? Anyone?

I am certain that there is a list longer than both of my arms that I don’t want to do, or that anyone doesn’t want to do. But this blog is meant to be short because I just don’t want to rant on and on and on and you don’t want to read forever. So, there you have it. I may be lazy after all, but then don’t we all have some things we really don’t want to do? Come on, be honest!

It never ceases to amaze me at the number of people who want to hear about my calling into the priesthood. I often wonder if people ask that of doctors or lawyers or plumbers. It must be that there is a great deal of mystery about being called to serve God in this way, much like the mere mystery of God. What is more of a mystery to me, however, are the variety and diversity of those whom God does call. Having been ordained in my 60th year I really believe my calling is a deep mystery, and one I will never solve. To this day I often wonder why I was called. Others seem to know, but often I do not.

Most mysteries start out innocently enough. The mystery of my call started out with my returning to church after a seven year hiatus. A time when I ignored God and went about my life. My second marriage was to a life-long Episcopalian but he never asked me to return to church. It was something stirring in me that wanted to have this union blessed by the God I had ignored. It was like the atheist or agnostic that comes to God in the face of a tragedy. But my coming back to God was in the face of joy. And so, our civil marriage was blessed in a small Episcopal church.

In 1980 we started attending services and I wept throughout the entire first service. I felt that I had come home and something deep and mysterious was moving within me. For the first time in my life I wanted to “serve” God. And, so it started. Helping out here, being Treasurer, on the vestry, reading, lecturing, whatever I could do. R and I even taught a step-parenting dynamics class for two years because our pastor asked us to do it. Serve, serve, serve.

Somehow through all this serving it just never seemed like it was enough. There must be more I can do I would think. But what? What is it that you want from me God. WHAT? After I had done most everything there was to do in the church I was very frustrated. What could this inner urging, this sense of needing to do more, to serve more mean? And, then I found out.

In 1990 in a small Anglican chapel on the island of St. Bartholomew it happened. R and I had found this small chapel while shopping on a Saturday. We went in to pray as was our custom when we were traveling. And I wept and wept and wept. For an hour I wept and finally I just got up and left. The next morning we went back to that chapel for worship services. They were doing Morning Prayer because they had no priest for communion. During this service I had an overwhelming desire to walk up and preach and celebrate the Eucharist. Me a priest? Could this be?

Overwhelmed at the thought I couldn’t wait for the service to end. We finished our vacation and I went to see my own priest. I told him of the experience and asked him if God could be calling me to be a p-p-p-p-priest (I could hardly utter the word). “Oh, you’ll know someday,” was all he said. What kind of an answer was that? What should I do? I moved to Florida.

To make a long story short, as they say, after many lunches with my mentor and good friend, The Rev. GK, I could no longer keep saying “No, no, no, not me!” Again, in the context of worship as we sang the hymn “Take My Life and Let it be, Consecrated Lord to Thee,” I wept (I was getting good at this weeping thing) and my R practically had to carry me out of the church. I went to my priest and told him that I was ready to explore this mysterious calling to the priesthood. I still wasn’t sure why, but I really wanted to find out and put it to rest once and for all. I was certain that the church would somehow convince me that it was nothing but an old lady’s nightmare.

Hah! In 1996, after a year of discernment, the Commission on Ministry (they advise the bishop on things ordainable) and the Bishop affirmed my calling and sent me off to three years of seminary! Oh – my – God! Was this really happening I often asked myself. Yes – it – was! Three and half years later I was ordained a priest in the Episcopal Church. I was 60 and then some! I pray daily that God continues to know what to do with me! I’ve had a varied and diverse ministry all these years and I no longer get that mysterious urge within me to serve more and more. I finally have that contentment that I am serving God in all God’s mystery as I am called to do. And, I don’t have to figure it out anymore. I leave that to God. Thanks be to God.

The Memorial Day I remember the most occurred in Hoosick Falls, NY, the birthplace of my maternal grandmother. I think it was in 1954 or 1955 but I can’t be positive. At any rate, my mom wanted to see where her mom was born (my love for genealogy really may be in my genes). The trip was planned for Memorial Day weekend.

Now, Hoosick Falls is a small town in eastern New York State and consists of only a few blocks of what we old folks would call “downtown.” But, OMG, for its size they had enough banners and flags out to make any veteran or any American proud! And on the day of the Memorial Day Parade everyone and everything and every official and every official vehicle and every horse, tractor, and a few cows participated. To a young girl (as I was back then) it could have been a downtown New York City parade (okay, forget the cows and tractors)!

The roads were jammed with spectators from all over the area, and the parade went on and on and on. Patriotic music filled every corner of the air, people waved those tiny flags, and sang God Bless America, America, and any other patriotic song they knew. People cheered as each car full of veterans drove by and, in a word, it was amazing! This small town’s expression of a nation’s thanks for the service of those who protected our freedom was a microcosm of what was happening in hundreds of small towns that day. I felt proud because my Dad had served in the war and this was a big “Thank You” to him and to all those who contributed to all past wars in some way. I’m sure there is at least one from every town in America.

My Bishop published the following on Memorial Day which helped me understand how that day begun in a way I never did before:

This coming Monday is Memorial Day. It is a day we now observe as the beginning of the summer season. This national holiday has much deeper roots. The first Memorial Day was observed by formerly enslaved black people in Charleston, South Carolina. Immediately following the end of the Civil War these freed slaves exhumed the bodies of fallen Union soldiers from a large, unkempt mass grave outside a Confederate prison camp. They reburied the fallen dead, honored the graveyard with an entry arch, and declared it to be sacred ground. Their work was completed in only ten days. On May 1, 1865, a Charleston newspaper reported that a crowd of nearly ten thousand, including 2800 children, processed to the location for a ceremony including sermons, singing, and prayers.

Let freedom ring. Unfortunately, Memorial Day parades have fallen by the wayside. I Googled “Memorial Day Parade Delaware” and only two parades were listed. Sure, we’re a small state, but I’ll bet we have at least 30 small towns that fifty years ago would have had a parade. One town did report having a “Return of Summer” celebration. Memorial Day is now more about sales and shopping, beaches and barbeques! We aren’t remembering anymore. And yet, we have men and women now serving in wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Not to mention the thousands of others serving in our military keeping our defenses up and running. Who will remember them? Who will parade and sing and show thanks for their service? Who?

If it wasn’t so serious it would be funny. Well, in retrospect, while it wasn’t funny, I can sense that it is going to be funny. Last Friday my spouse, R, had a partial complex seizure, or as the Doctor put it, a “brainstorm.” Essentially, his brain didn’t function properly and he lost motor control and had some weird thinking as he puts it, couldn’t walk in a straight line, lost depth perception, and was extremely tired. Unfortunately, he was out shopping alone and he took two naps (maybe blackouts) before he could drive home. He also had a minor fender-bender, thankfully in the parking lot, so no one was hurt. However, as a consequence, he cannot drive for at least six months to be sure he doesn’t have a recurrence.

So, our life changes as we get older and my daughter, K, and I will now become chauffeurs for a while. Also, R will be processing this change in circumstances so I pray that he will adjust graciously and his brain will not misbehave like that again. We expect him to be irritable and cranky for a while. Correct that…he IS cranky and irritable.

In fact, he was cranky and irritable from the get-go. On Friday when he came home in a foggy state I knew something was wrong. I had already started to worry because he was gone four hours on a two hour errand. He related his episode as we are calling it now (for those in denial, as is R, this sounds better) and I immediately got him into the van and took off for the emergency room. Yeah, sure.

For starters all the traffic lights were out in the town – really! So instead of a 15 minute trip it took 45 minutes. By the time we pulled into the hospital parking lot all of his symptoms had cleared up. He walked around the parking lot and refused to go in. “I don’t want to spend my evening in the ER for no good reason.” NO GOOD REASON??? The conversation was not what you would call polite, and I can’t repeat it in print.

After seeing the doctor, and not one hour back home, R is threatening to drive anyway, insisting that everything is fine, no problem, what’s the fuss, it won’t happen again – men! Then today he says he will drive in four months, not six. I remind him (not as gently as I should) that if he has a seizure and blacks out at 60 mph it might not only be his highness that he kills, but a van full with a beautiful family of handsome hubby, pretty wife, and gorgeous children. He was not amused, but then neither was I.

He is moping around the house telling everyone that he has completely lost his independence now that I am driving him everywhere. Losing his independence – him? If anyone is losing their independence it is me – I now have to keep up with his schedule and mine! Get real here. And, if his nagging about it keeps up I might be inclined to use a generous amount of duct tape to seal his whining lips. I must admit though that I did take his car keys away and hid them which, I guess if you are a guy, translates into losing your independence. I call it the “Vroom, vroom” syndrome.

So, all of you who read this please pray that the spirit of graciousness invades R’s brain and he settles into being chauffeured around quietly and without complaint or threat to grab my keys and drive away. I told him to pretend he is very wealthy and has a driver. Because, he does (at least the driver part)! And, while I am more than happy to do this, I’ll be praying for an extra modicum of patience!

We live in a rural area where the major industry is chickens and the associated crops to feed said chickens. The “crop” part is just great with rolling fields of winter wheat, soybeans, and corn. Sometimes the corn grows so high it is hard to see around corners for oncoming traffic, but it is beautiful to see amber waves of grain and corn as high as an elephant’s ear! Pastoral, I think they would call it. Serene, peaceful, quiet. Almost!

In the spring when they till and plant the land they put something in the ground to help the plants grow. Most people would call it fertilizer. Most people know it smells. Since we are in chicken country they are really good at recycling and guess what they put on the fields? Yup! Chicken manure. When spread it produces a great cloud of what I call “Chicken S—t Dust!” I hear tell that farmers in these parts call it the smell of money. The chickens probably call it the smell of death! And, rightly so.

The way we grow chickens in these parts, I am told, is through a system whereby the major chicken producers (Perdue, Allen, Mountaire) hatch fertilized chicken eggs in, I would presume, giant incubators. They then ship the chicks out to local chicken farmers who then raise them to adult chicken-hood. These farmers then summon up what I call “The Chicken Train.” Actually, it’s a big tractor trailer truck stacked way high with chicken cages. The chickens are loaded (jam-packed actually) into the train for transport back to the chicken producers.

Often while we are driving around our lovely rural area we find ourselves behind one of these chicken trains. For some reason it is disturbing to me, but I’ve never been able to articulate it. Recently, R said as we were behind a train, “I am always reminded of the Holocaust when I see one of these chicken trains. I think of the Jews being herded into trains and shipped off to be gassed and killed in the ovens. It bothers me.”

And, then it dawned on me that R had just voiced my feelings exactly. I knew those chickens were going to be killed. Stripped of their feathered clothing, and sent off to be roasted, broiled, boiled, fried, and grilled for our consumption. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love chicken and eat it on a regular basis. I also love fish, beef, lamb, and pork. But, I don’t have to see any of them crammed into cages being led to slaughter. Seeing is a lot more visceral than simply picking up the package in the local supermarket.

Of course, there is nothing to be done for these poor chickens so long as we like chicken and want to eat it (or any other animal for that matter). How then do I comfort myself and rationalize that killing them is okay. “They have small brains. Very small brains.” I say. “They probably have no concept of where they are going or what is going to happen to them.” Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better. I think a man named Hitler once said the same thing about the Jews. Maybe I’ll become a vegetarian. But sadly, probably not, because I am just ever so human and I really do like chicken. Maybe I just won’t eat so much chicken because I still feel the same way every time I see “The Chicken Train.”

I am now officially an “Anglimergent!” As I stare at that word I feel a bit like I have landed on another planet and am not quite sure where to go next. The planet feels safe and welcoming but, very unknown. There are many other people with me on this journey in ”Anglimergentland,” and they all seem friendly enough. What is most mystifying however is that many of us, well, okay, at least me, can’t quite make out the path or even where the end of this journey will be.

A word of explanation here. First, I am an Episcopalian in The Episcopal Church an organization of over 2 million people. Second, this Episcopal Church (TEC) is a member of a larger community called “The Anglican Communion,” at least for now. Some in that communion are upset with TEC because we ordain homosexuals in our orders of Bishops, Priests, and Deacons, but that’s another story.

Finally, I am a member of an ever growing group of people called “Emergents,” or “Emerging” people of God. We are seeking some new kind of Christianity that, as I understand it, takes us back to the very roots of our beginnings. I am seeking a way to think and be like Jesus in an honest and authentic way and to live my life in such a way that I promote Jesus’ wish that “We may all be one” (John 17:20 Holy Bible). This movement has been characterized as a cleaning out of the attic and holding a rummage sale. Getting rid of the old stuff that has no real meaning but that we keep around for no solid reason. Selling off useless items and using the income to produce something new and useful for all humanity.

And so, I am an “Anglimergent” (and I guess also an Episcomergent too). I still want to hang on to the best of my faith tradition while moving out in that faith to be a part of, and to make something better of that tradition. I am emerging and while the future is uncertain and the end unknown, it is exciting, and refreshing, and a spiritual journey that I welcome. Want to know more? Read Phyllis Tickle’s book “The Great Emergence,” or Brian McLaren’s book “A New Kind of Christianity.” Or, go to the link http://anglimergent.com . If you go to http://emergentvillage.org you will find many groups (called Cohorts) all over the world where you can meet these emergent souls. Or just Google Emergent Church and have a go at it! Who knows, you may become one of us too!

This afternoon I was sitting in my rocker in the solarium gazing out at the pond behind my new garden and listening to the musical notes of the water splashing from the fountain. I had been reading Lisa Miller’s Heaven in preparation for a seminar in July on Intercourse in the Afterlife. It wasn’t heavy reading, but I needed a break and so, I gazed. It was one of those daydream moments.

In my daydream moments I am not deliberately thinking about anything. Just staring out a window or at the sky or the sunset or simply the landscape. And what I find so amazing about daydream moments is what eventually does come into my mind. Sometimes I believe that this is how God speaks to me. Sometimes not.

Today I started thinking about my aunt who will turn 90 in November which then led me to think about her mother, my maternal grandmother. Grandma died just after her 76th birthday in 1963 and I realized that all I ever remember about her was that she worked in the house. Her children were grown and out of the house in about 1940 and for my entire time of 24 years with her she was what we call an empty-nester. Grandpa went to work, but grandma just worked in the house.

I don’t remember her as being warm or welcoming, but neither was she distant or foreboding. She was just, well, there. I never recall her knitting, sewing, or crocheting. She wasn’t an artist who either painted or made fabulous crafts. I never saw her sit down and read a book, listen to the radio, or watch a television show. It was always cleaning or doing the dishes or straightening up the house or cooking. For 43 years she did this. And I have no daydream moments or her that sparked my imagination or inspired me or did anything for me.

I do remember that she liked to garden and had the greenest thumb I’ve ever encountered. Her gardens were not manicured like an English tea garden, but each spring, summer, and fall they were filled with flowering plants of every imaginable kind. She would plant and weed and water day after day. And for all the flowers she had in her gardens she rarely ever brought any of them into the house and into a vase. But, oh, were they magnificent in their natural beds.

Not having such a talent myself (except that I can grow things in pots that thrive on neglect) I never considered my grandmother’s skills in the garden as a hobby or even a gift. Until I planted my own garden a week or so ago. And as I gazed over my garden, listening to the fountain, my daydream moment brought me to appreciate and recall those memories of my grandmother. She was an accomplished gardener. I wish she were here today to help me keep my tender green babies thriving to their full bloom of adulthood.

Thanks, God, for a daydream moment that, however late, helped me see my grandmother in a different light and with an enormous talent for tending to God’s green earth.

There are some things that happen to all of us without the benefit of explanation. Like for example, why does the phone ring just as you step into the shower. Or, why does your mother-in-law want to visit during the Master’s golf tournament or the final episode of American Idol? Timing, they say, is everything, but what I want to know is by whose timing? Surely it can’t be God even if God does have a sense of humor. I would imagine God has higher concerns. Maybe it is just the way the invisible force fields whizzing around in the universe happen to collide at just the most inappropriate times.

Last week such a thing happened to me and R. Being retired folks we tend to take our time moving around in the morning and getting showered and dressed. It is, after all, a perk of retirement. This particular morning it was 10:30 a.m. and we had both showered and were finishing our morning grooming, but were as yet undressed. Naked, as a matter of fact. And, the phone rang.

It was our real estate agent and he wanted to show the house in 20 minutes! Twenty minutes? You’ve got to be kidding, I thought. No, he wasn’t. Um, er, well, sure I muttered, but our cleaning lady will be here in a half hour! Surely that would delay him, I prayed. Nope…no problem, we’ll just look around her! Okay, I said very hesitantly and hung up.

“Who was it” R wanted to know. I gave him the bad news. He looked at my nudity and I at his and we burst out laughing. Getting ourselves ready and the house ready in 20 minutes was going to require a miracle. Just getting our daughter’s room ready usually takes us an hour. K, I yelled at my daughter, the realtor is coming in 20 minutes. Mobilize! And, so we did.

Replaying the scene in my head it was like one of those keystone cop silent movies. None of us said much but we sure moved around a lot, bumping into each other, throwing things in drawers, under beds, under sinks, in the car, and in the dishwasher. In exactly 19 minutes we were ready and waiting. No one showed up except the cleaning lady and she decided to wait for the realtor before starting her chores.

And so we all waited on the front lawn, holding dog and cleaning items, waiting. Five minutes late. Ten minutes late. Then they arrived and got out of the car, but no one made a move toward the house. We waited some more. Finally, I went over and asked if they were the folks to look at the house. Yes, they were, BUT they changed their minds and didn’t want to see it after all. It wasn’t in the right location. Why the realtor didn’t know this ahead of time is still a mystery to us.

After 19 frantic minutes we all had rather ugly thoughts about the folks who wouldn’t come into our house and the realtor who thought they would. But, like all of these things that happen at the most inconvenient times, they end and life goes on! And that’s the naked truth!

A couple of weeks ago it was Earth Day and reported on all manner of media people were planting trees to commemorate the occasion. I felt bad. We live in a condominium community and we are not allowed to plant anything without approval of our board. We have a landscape plan and a list of acceptable trees and shrubs, but that is only for the maintenance people to use.

We have a beautiful pond in our back yard and several of the neighbors have planted gardens around it without board permission I am told. The gardens are so beautiful until the neighbor moves on and then it becomes a tangled mess of flowers and shrubs gone wild and weeds laughingly taking over the once well groomed garden.

I woke up this morning and gazed at the neglected garden off my deck and saw a neighbor pulling weeds. “Are you going to plant some flowers?” I asked. “No,” he said, “I just don’t like the weeds and we are having company today.” My heart drooped and I walked back into the house.

Hmmmm….I thought. Should I? Yes, why not, others do it. Okay, let’s do it! And thus began my journey to plant a garden. I searched the internet for suitable annuals that would do well in the sun in poor soil. I printed off my list and went next door to confer with my neighbor to see what she might like to see in my garden. Then off to the nursery to purchase my precious few plants.

Oh, that nursery was so tempting. I could have bought dozens and dozens of beautiful flowering plants for my garden. My R bought a trowel to dig the holes for me. He is so good to me. When we counted 61 plants in our cart it occurred to me we had to get down on our hands and knees and dig holes and plant them! Suddenly, I wasn’t ready to buy any more. So we paid the piper and brought our blooming treasures home.

It wasn’t as hard as we expected, but it was work and it was exhausting. We rested after each dozen we planted, sat down, had a glass of ice tea, and rested our aching backs. We should have bought knee pads along with that trowel. And how I managed to get dirt in my hair is beyond me.

After two hours, a gallon of ice tea, and a really aching back we were finished and the new garden was properly watered and ready to grow into a beautiful flowering Eden for us. I haven’t done anything like this since I was in my thirties and it felt oh, so good! So this is what it means to take care of God’s creation, I thought. Today was my Earth Day and I planted a garden. I feel wonderful!