My friend, Etta, is going downhill fast. I don't think she will live beyond another couple weeks at the most. Etta is 95 years old. She had a stroke 8 years ago that left her unable to move her left side. She was able to walk to the bathroom with her walker until earlier this year. She's recently been sitting in a recliner chair during the day and put to bed around 8:00 at night. She stays in bed for 12 hours and is in the chair for 12 hours. Since she hasn't been able to walk, Etta has developed three small bedsores. One of them got terribly infected and she was in the hospital last weekend with a systemic infection. After a couple days of IV antibiotics, she improved. But at her age, she couldn't manage being away from her familiar settings very well, and she got very confused.
I took Etta flowers on Monday. When she saw me, she asked me how Otis (the cat) is. She thanked me for letting him come over to her house and told me that he was in the cupboard at the foot of her bed. I reminded her that she was in the hospital and that cats aren't allowed. Otis in fact was at home in his bed. She said in a loud whisper, "I've got Alzheimer's, I think!"
"No, Etta," I told her. "You got mixed up while you were here in the hospital. You'll get back to normal once you're home again." I had no reason to think she wouldn't. She's been as sharp as a whip, mentally. And funny!
Today I called Jack, her 94 year -old husband. He didn't sound too good. Etta had to have an indwelling urine catheter placed, which she hates. And she's having trouble swallowing her food. She can no longer feed herself and she chokes even on water. I didn't like the sound of that. She will probably inhale some water or food and give herself a nasty aspiration pneumonia. That will be the end of her. Jack sounded tired, but when I told him that I could bring by some soup for her he told me that he already made some. He's quite the cook--makes his own gluten burgers from scratch! But I also know that Etta isn't wild about his cooking or his meal combinations. I thought that maybe I could help by taking over some homemade cream of broccoli soup or something. No, he has everything he needs. But he was so grateful for the offer.
I hung up the phone feeling very sad. Two weeks ago on the day Etta went into the hospital, I dropped by to take her some blueberry scones. She was delighted. But she looked awful. Etta was sitting up in her wheelchair and was pasty-white in her face. "Barbara," she said with sincerity in her voice. "I'm tired. I can't go on like this."
"I know you're tired, Etta. I would be too."
"I just feel so weary. It feels like too much."
"Yes. I think it would..." I waited for several minutes just to give her room to collect her thoughts and to let her know that I was listening.
"I don't know what to do."
"Do you think there is something you should do, Etta?"
She looked at her hands in her lap. "No. I can't think of anything."
I wished I could have done something for her then--anything that could have helped her. Perhaps my listening and being someone she could say that to was enough. "Etta, you've done so well for such a long time. And it has to have been very hard."
"Yes, I did do well for a long time. But now I'm tired."
"I know." I cast about for something to say and stopped myself from saying something trite just to alleviate my dis-ease. "I don't know what to tell you, Etta. But I do know that God knows when it is time. We can be sure that He knows when to take you and we can trust Him to do that at the right time."
"Yes, I know that Barbara, and I'm glad we can trust Him that way."
She caught herself suddenly. "But I don't like being blue. Here--you tell me about you now." I took her cue and regaled her with stories for the next 10 minutes, giving her something to laugh about. She was so happy to see me and thanked me repeatedly for dropping in to see her. "It means so much, Barbara."
It certainly means more to me than she could ever know.
I am soon to lose a dear, sweet friend who has been an inspiration to me. Even with having to sit in a recliner chair for the last 8 years, I've only twice heard her make a negative comment about it. Mostly, she laughs when I see her and say, "Well, I'm still alive!" I always say, "Well, that's more fun, isn't it?" and we both chuckle.
Please say a prayer for Etta. She is such a dear soul and I will be very sorry to see her go. But I also know that it is time and she is ready. It comes to every single one of us. We just each need to be ready and live in such a way that we will be fully alive until we die. Few people live that way. Etta has.
August 23, 2008
Do you really care?
There are people in life who are carers. We typically like to be around these kind of people. They ask you if you're comfortable when you visit them, attend to you to be sure you have what you need, and follow you to your room as if to introduce you to the wallpaper or something. They just want to iron out the wrinkles, reduce awkwardness, help you ease into being in an unfamiliar place. Their warm, kind presence makes any unfamiliar room feel homey.
And there are people who are not carers. You enter their home with a "Welcome!" on their lips that quickly fades as they sit down and turn on the television, their backs to you. "Make yourself at home" you hear as you wander down the hall toward the bedroom they told you was there. Or they are on the computer, or talking on the phone, or reading and you are left alone in an unfamiliar place trying to figure out what to do, to find where the bathroom is and wonder what towel you are to use, or what is expected of you. Obviously, it is not to talk while your host is watching television. So you try to pick up a magazine and leaf through it or look out the windows at the view. You can make a couple general kinds of comments and receive a comment over the shoulder of your host, but that's where it ends. Until the commercial.
I remember a weekend I had once with a friend who is not what I'd call a carer, although she thinks she is tremendously caring and attentive. It was really hard on me because I come from a family in which when we get together we are all talking together, laughing, just enjoying hearing the other ones talk. We didn't grow up with a TV and so we know how to communicate together without having to watch a ball game or something. And we weren't the kind of family who all got together, picked up our individual books and headed to different corners of the house. We were the family who, once upon a time, all clumped together on the daybed on the front porch of the house--all four of us kids, with Mother and Daddy in rocking chairs--and one of them would read aloud to us for a couple hours sometimes. Or we would laugh and talk together all evening there. People used to remark about how much love and togetherness we had as a family. Sad to say, that is not the case between my siblings and mother now. But most of us kids are good to be around and we bend over backward to be hospitable because we all genuinely like people and enjoy chatting and just being with them. But back to the weekend with my friend. It was a really hard visit off and on over the weekend. She didn't say a whole lot and seemed to be intent on reading a book that she had just gotten. It was expected that I would have a book and sit across the room reading my book while she read hers. For the entire weekend, I think. Very few things to do together. When I left after two and a half very long days, I didn't ever want to go back again.
What is it? Why are some people so oblivious to the needs of others? It is as if they are in a world all their own, or they lack the ability to see that the other people around them need some sort of entertaining or at least conversation.
I remember one woman I roomed with once, years ago. On a weekend trip with a third friend, she fairly exploded at me. "Why does it matter whether I'm comfortable, too warm, too cold, happy, sad, or anything else? You're driving me crazy!" I was stunned. I hadn't hovered over her firing questions about her wellbeing: I had just asked her a couple questions over the weekend to check and see if I could somehow add to her experience. In my mind, that is what gracious, mannerly people do. But she came from a family of people who were all in their own worlds and she rarely felt cared for. When she did, it was such an unusual experience that she didn't know what to do about it except let fly at me.
I suppose it is also related to the fact that some people are givers and some are takers. There are groups of people that exhaust me because I know that while I am around them I will be asked for things, requested to do things, and it will all be about those people. They tell stories that are about them, steer the conversation to their topics, lose interest if we wander to something I'm interested in, and simply put--they tenaciously adhere to their agenda. There is no room for considering my needs or how they come across. I really dislike being in their company for any length of time.
Other people are such a delight to be around. I have a couple friends of whom I never tire. We have "inside" language, meanings, stories. We've been friends for 20 and 30 years respectively. They are closer to me than my own siblings. And they are both givers. They elicit stories from me and I listen while they tell theirs. We both give and take. True delights to be around. Because in addition to being creative, smart, humorous, they are also capable of seeing the world through my eyes. I guess that is what a soulmate is: someone who can see the world through your eyes and therefore goes the second mile to be sure that your experience is the best it can be in their presence.
Givers and takers. One gives of themselves and takes note of the needs and experience of the other person. The other is consumed with their own needs, feelings, wants. To be around a taker is to feel like you're drowning. To be around a giver, your heart swells and you feel like you just drank an ounce of warm brandy when you have a cold and it's time to go to bed--good, smug, happy, comfortable. I know what kind of person I'm happiest with.
And there are people who are not carers. You enter their home with a "Welcome!" on their lips that quickly fades as they sit down and turn on the television, their backs to you. "Make yourself at home" you hear as you wander down the hall toward the bedroom they told you was there. Or they are on the computer, or talking on the phone, or reading and you are left alone in an unfamiliar place trying to figure out what to do, to find where the bathroom is and wonder what towel you are to use, or what is expected of you. Obviously, it is not to talk while your host is watching television. So you try to pick up a magazine and leaf through it or look out the windows at the view. You can make a couple general kinds of comments and receive a comment over the shoulder of your host, but that's where it ends. Until the commercial.
I remember a weekend I had once with a friend who is not what I'd call a carer, although she thinks she is tremendously caring and attentive. It was really hard on me because I come from a family in which when we get together we are all talking together, laughing, just enjoying hearing the other ones talk. We didn't grow up with a TV and so we know how to communicate together without having to watch a ball game or something. And we weren't the kind of family who all got together, picked up our individual books and headed to different corners of the house. We were the family who, once upon a time, all clumped together on the daybed on the front porch of the house--all four of us kids, with Mother and Daddy in rocking chairs--and one of them would read aloud to us for a couple hours sometimes. Or we would laugh and talk together all evening there. People used to remark about how much love and togetherness we had as a family. Sad to say, that is not the case between my siblings and mother now. But most of us kids are good to be around and we bend over backward to be hospitable because we all genuinely like people and enjoy chatting and just being with them. But back to the weekend with my friend. It was a really hard visit off and on over the weekend. She didn't say a whole lot and seemed to be intent on reading a book that she had just gotten. It was expected that I would have a book and sit across the room reading my book while she read hers. For the entire weekend, I think. Very few things to do together. When I left after two and a half very long days, I didn't ever want to go back again.
What is it? Why are some people so oblivious to the needs of others? It is as if they are in a world all their own, or they lack the ability to see that the other people around them need some sort of entertaining or at least conversation.
I remember one woman I roomed with once, years ago. On a weekend trip with a third friend, she fairly exploded at me. "Why does it matter whether I'm comfortable, too warm, too cold, happy, sad, or anything else? You're driving me crazy!" I was stunned. I hadn't hovered over her firing questions about her wellbeing: I had just asked her a couple questions over the weekend to check and see if I could somehow add to her experience. In my mind, that is what gracious, mannerly people do. But she came from a family of people who were all in their own worlds and she rarely felt cared for. When she did, it was such an unusual experience that she didn't know what to do about it except let fly at me.
I suppose it is also related to the fact that some people are givers and some are takers. There are groups of people that exhaust me because I know that while I am around them I will be asked for things, requested to do things, and it will all be about those people. They tell stories that are about them, steer the conversation to their topics, lose interest if we wander to something I'm interested in, and simply put--they tenaciously adhere to their agenda. There is no room for considering my needs or how they come across. I really dislike being in their company for any length of time.
Other people are such a delight to be around. I have a couple friends of whom I never tire. We have "inside" language, meanings, stories. We've been friends for 20 and 30 years respectively. They are closer to me than my own siblings. And they are both givers. They elicit stories from me and I listen while they tell theirs. We both give and take. True delights to be around. Because in addition to being creative, smart, humorous, they are also capable of seeing the world through my eyes. I guess that is what a soulmate is: someone who can see the world through your eyes and therefore goes the second mile to be sure that your experience is the best it can be in their presence.
Givers and takers. One gives of themselves and takes note of the needs and experience of the other person. The other is consumed with their own needs, feelings, wants. To be around a taker is to feel like you're drowning. To be around a giver, your heart swells and you feel like you just drank an ounce of warm brandy when you have a cold and it's time to go to bed--good, smug, happy, comfortable. I know what kind of person I'm happiest with.
August 19, 2008
Ugly Story Lines
There are people in this world who have an awful story inside about themselves. It may have come from not getting the affirmation they needed, or living in the shadow of a beautiful, bright, winsome older sibling. Or it might be because they have a mental illness or grew up in a hostile environment where every incoming comment had to be internally screened for vicious barbs. So the tools they used to fend off assaults to their emotional integrity--tools that worked at the time and for the right reason--later become obsolete but still utilized and a definite hindrance to their ability to relate in a healthy way to people who aren't hostile or vicious.
What seems to happen is that because these folks are on the lookout for words that are a threat to them, if they even hear a "trigger" word, or you say a word, give a look, or make a gesture that has the elements of an insult--but actually may be positive comments about something good--these can be taken and somehow fed into the ugly story line they have about themselves. It becomes twisted to support their worst fear about themselves. As they consider this over time it grows exponentially until the innocent word of a well-intentioned friend or mentor becomes a cruel assault. A focal point of defensive, rageful protection.
Today I became the brunt of such an individual. At least there were witnesses. To be blindsided by accusations that are diametrically opposite of one's efforts, even prayers on behalf of that person--this is really hard to absorb.
As the vitriol began being hurled in my direction, my heart raced, blood pounded in my ears, and I felt my face throbbing. Two of my colleagues sat there and took it all in. I had no idea what was going through the mind of one of them. They later told me they were absolutely stunned at the shocking allegations made that could not be substantiated or explained in a cogent manner by the accuser. The other was also under attack and unfortunately, I knew too well what he felt like. I worked to stay matter-of-fact and unemotional in response to the harshness. It was really hard to even know what to say that wouldn't be misconstrued. Some of the comments completely blindsided me: I had no idea this individual had any dissatisfaction with me whatsoever. And here we're almost having to deal with a federal case about it.
After an hour and a half of exercising the strongest restraint, I was relieved to go my own way. But I was enraged and my body was hijacking my brain by sending a gush of adrenaline through my system. I could have gone to the moon, given the restlessness and impotent rage I experienced. I knew on one level that no matter what I did, this individual wouldn't be able to differentiate between my good intentions and the words, glances, posture, or combination of the three that would feed her negative inner dialogue. I could have just screamed, but I realized that nothing I could do would change anything. I had to let it go, walk away, pray for peace and the ability to forgive this person, and focus on part of my life that I can impact.
There are people in this world that give us a run for our money. I am convinced that God wants us to be pure and harmless in a very deep place. To be able to trust Him, see the soul of the person while being lambasted, maintain a kind demeanor because that is how God is living through me--this is what is required. This experience taught me that I'm obviously not there yet. Deep breath. Life goes on and I continue to pray to be more like Jesus no matter who I'm with, what they say about me with the greatest conviction, or how it makes me feel. These are people for whom Jesus would have died, even if they were the only one on earth. I have a long way to go.
What seems to happen is that because these folks are on the lookout for words that are a threat to them, if they even hear a "trigger" word, or you say a word, give a look, or make a gesture that has the elements of an insult--but actually may be positive comments about something good--these can be taken and somehow fed into the ugly story line they have about themselves. It becomes twisted to support their worst fear about themselves. As they consider this over time it grows exponentially until the innocent word of a well-intentioned friend or mentor becomes a cruel assault. A focal point of defensive, rageful protection.
Today I became the brunt of such an individual. At least there were witnesses. To be blindsided by accusations that are diametrically opposite of one's efforts, even prayers on behalf of that person--this is really hard to absorb.
As the vitriol began being hurled in my direction, my heart raced, blood pounded in my ears, and I felt my face throbbing. Two of my colleagues sat there and took it all in. I had no idea what was going through the mind of one of them. They later told me they were absolutely stunned at the shocking allegations made that could not be substantiated or explained in a cogent manner by the accuser. The other was also under attack and unfortunately, I knew too well what he felt like. I worked to stay matter-of-fact and unemotional in response to the harshness. It was really hard to even know what to say that wouldn't be misconstrued. Some of the comments completely blindsided me: I had no idea this individual had any dissatisfaction with me whatsoever. And here we're almost having to deal with a federal case about it.
After an hour and a half of exercising the strongest restraint, I was relieved to go my own way. But I was enraged and my body was hijacking my brain by sending a gush of adrenaline through my system. I could have gone to the moon, given the restlessness and impotent rage I experienced. I knew on one level that no matter what I did, this individual wouldn't be able to differentiate between my good intentions and the words, glances, posture, or combination of the three that would feed her negative inner dialogue. I could have just screamed, but I realized that nothing I could do would change anything. I had to let it go, walk away, pray for peace and the ability to forgive this person, and focus on part of my life that I can impact.
There are people in this world that give us a run for our money. I am convinced that God wants us to be pure and harmless in a very deep place. To be able to trust Him, see the soul of the person while being lambasted, maintain a kind demeanor because that is how God is living through me--this is what is required. This experience taught me that I'm obviously not there yet. Deep breath. Life goes on and I continue to pray to be more like Jesus no matter who I'm with, what they say about me with the greatest conviction, or how it makes me feel. These are people for whom Jesus would have died, even if they were the only one on earth. I have a long way to go.
August 17, 2008
91.5 FM
I listen to a classical music station most of the time. I love early chamber music scored for string and winds. A nice change is medieval music with sackbuts, viola de gamba, and crumhorns. Ah crumhorns: wonderful reedy instruments that sound like a cross between a basoon and the Aflack duck. A terrific piece of music with this gaggle of instruments is the Terpsichore (pronounced "terp-sick'-or-ee") of Michael Praetorius. You can hear one of my favorite dances here.
So while I love this music on the radio, there are times when the announcer is so irritatingly smarmy that I have to turn it off.
Here's what I mean. One guy in particular, seems smitten with the sound of his own voice. He carefully and slowly enunciates every word as though he thinks the English language is above and beyond the hearer's comprehension. Then at the end of a carefully crafted sentence, he pauses as if to reflect smugly on his comments. After a slow breath, he starts in again. I just happened to tune in the other night to hear this series of remarks:
"...a concerto for Jew's Harp. That's not a mistake, it's reality" (he gives the word reality a bit more air through his vocal cords as though singing it), "and oh my...it is quite a work by Johan, Georg, Albrechtsberger" (he pronounces each word carefully and discretely).
"Now" (his voice inflection goes up and then down with this word), "here's a musical vignette that evokes quite another setting. Although I must say it has never inspired me to punch a cow" (he chuckles a low, melodic gurgle), it is music by Thompson who wrote the score for the motion picture, "The Plow that Broke the Plain." "
We are immediately accosted by a somewhat atonal opening by strings and clarinets. I turn the radio off in disgust. As if this guy could even recognize a cow in a lineup.
Why do people have to talk like this? This announcer knows everything there is to know about music, composers, conductors, performers. But he talks about them in such a superior way, as if that is all there is in life which merits attention. As if I need to be concerned whether Alfred Brendel plays in a more spirited way than say, Murray Perahia. As if it is more important to know the name of Glenn Gould's dog and the odd way Glenn spoke to him, than to hear the music and be either cheered on or sent off on on a cloud of reflection.
Robert Fulghum wrote once that America needs more bad singers and piano players. In the evening when we all gather together we should be creating something of our own, not merely listening to perfection that was recorded after repeated takes. Something that comes from our own souls and helps us transcend our surroundings. Forget the bad notes, cracking voice and slurred fast notes. If it makes you smile, stand taller, and have a glimpse of grandeur, then singing is the best thing for you. The product that comes from this enterprise will not have a sniveling program host making a windy pronouncement about it. This kind of singing might make some people laugh, but not those who see and listen with their hearts. It is soulful music of the common man that we need to hear more of.
When I was in graduate school at the University of Minnesota, I used to listen to Minnesota Public Radio every morning on the way to class. There were two hilarious program hosts named Dale Connelly and Jim Ed Poole, as I recall. They played music with soul, right from the center of all that creates Americana. Songs like, I go out walking after midnight by Patsy Cline; 99 1/2 Just Won't Do by the Sabathani Gospel Choir; Waltzing with Bears; and a delightful song called Baby's Got the Car Keys:
Daddy put the keys in his pocket when he walked into the house
Or did he put them on the table by the telephone.
He thinks that's where he left them. He really isn't sure.
He knows he had to have them just to get inside the door.
Mom's in the kitchen, lookin' on the shelf,
She says this kind of panic is a hazard to her health.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
She puts them in the toy box and rattles them around,
Drops them in her diaper, now they can't be found.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Digging in the sofa gets a dollar, fifty cents,
A toothpick, a candy bar, a dozen fountain pens.
Chaos in the living room, disaster in the den,
Sister says she saw 'em but she can't say when.
Tick-tock the car is locked, Daddy's going into shock.
Smelly, dirty diapers on the breeze.
Dad says he'll change it but baby's got to wait
Until he finds those dad dadgum keys!
Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The baby starts to giggle, there's something in her hand.
That booger drops a wallet in the garbage can.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Mom's on the telephone trying to call a cab,
Daddy's changing baby's diaper in the living room.
The baby's on the table with a bottle in her mouth.
Daddy opens up the diaper, he begins to shout.
Treasure in the diaper, treasure in the muck,
It sure looks a lot like the keys to the truck.
Time to go to work, time to go to school.
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Baby's got the car keys and she had them all along.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The party isn't over, they're about to find out,
Daddy threw away his wallet when he took the garbage out.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
These are the kinds of songs that make you laugh right out loud at the unexpected when you're stuck in traffic on the bridge over the Mississippi River, or are backed up at the Grand Avenue exit. Long commutes are a delight when the music pulls you right in to sing along, laugh and gasp at the lyrics, gives you a surge of endorphins.
Yes, we need to have conceptions of performance perfection, and we are fortunate to hear samples of this on the radio whenever we are interested in turning it on. I love to hear a flawless rendition of the Nocturne from the Borodin String Quartet. It can make me go helplessly weak. But most of the time, we are all languishing for need of more primal, simple music. More people need to be singing over the dishpan, in the shower, and out weeding the garden. We don't hear people singing very much any more--they all listen to other people do it when they themselves are the ones who would receive the greatest benefit by singing. It doesn't matter if it is off-key or if you run out of breath before the end of a line, or can't remember all the words. More of us need to crash through Chopin's Revolutionary Etude on the piano, and more need to conduct invisible orchestras playing Brahm's First Symphony, no holds barred. We need to cultivate personal cultures that are full of life, tapping into something much deeper than the stagnant, canned accompaniament to life that many tolerate.
I am reminded of a visit I made to a tiny rural church in Ballinacrow, County Wicklow, Ireland. I was asked to sing several songs, and a couple other individuals played instruments and sang as well. The audience was most appreciative, as many of them were farmers and were not trained in music. Then a man named Tommy stood at the front of the church. "Come on then, Tommy. Let's hear ye sing" his friend in the back called out. Tommy cleared his throat. He was wearing ill-fitting dark pants and a soft brown shirt. He looked awkward and a bit apologetic, but he did not flinch. His wife was dying of cancer, he had just learned. He looked out the window past the cows grazing in the church yard. "I first heard this song back when George Beverly Shea sang it on the radio" he said deliberately. "And oi loved it." He drew in his breath sharply as the Irish do when they are making a point. "Oi use ta sing it out in the field walking after the cows. Oi sang it day and night. It's still muh favorite song."
Tommy's rough voice broke in singing then:
The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.
O love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints’ and angels’ song.
Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.
Oh Love of God!
How rich and pure;
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints' and angels' song.
A deep sense of tearful contentment and a reaching out for God was what I breathlessly held to my heart as he finished. There is not a time that I hear this hymn but that I see Tommy singing loudly, untamed graying hair tumbling over his collar, his hands held rigidly at his sides, eyes gazing up at the ceiling toward the back of the tiny church, the music coming from deep within him. It was just Tommy and God that afternoon. We were blessed to be allowed to listen in. The soul he shared with us that day was the most precious musical gift I've ever received.
My wheezing, affected radio announcer knows a lot about music. There are times when I appreciate his interpretative genius and delicate sensibilities. But I wish sincerely that we could hear more music that rises spontaneously from the hearts and souls of men like Tommy on that wonderful summer day in Ireland--music which needs no introduction and no interpretation.
So while I love this music on the radio, there are times when the announcer is so irritatingly smarmy that I have to turn it off.
Here's what I mean. One guy in particular, seems smitten with the sound of his own voice. He carefully and slowly enunciates every word as though he thinks the English language is above and beyond the hearer's comprehension. Then at the end of a carefully crafted sentence, he pauses as if to reflect smugly on his comments. After a slow breath, he starts in again. I just happened to tune in the other night to hear this series of remarks:
"...a concerto for Jew's Harp. That's not a mistake, it's reality" (he gives the word reality a bit more air through his vocal cords as though singing it), "and oh my...it is quite a work by Johan, Georg, Albrechtsberger" (he pronounces each word carefully and discretely).
"Now" (his voice inflection goes up and then down with this word), "here's a musical vignette that evokes quite another setting. Although I must say it has never inspired me to punch a cow" (he chuckles a low, melodic gurgle), it is music by Thompson who wrote the score for the motion picture, "The Plow that Broke the Plain." "
We are immediately accosted by a somewhat atonal opening by strings and clarinets. I turn the radio off in disgust. As if this guy could even recognize a cow in a lineup.
Why do people have to talk like this? This announcer knows everything there is to know about music, composers, conductors, performers. But he talks about them in such a superior way, as if that is all there is in life which merits attention. As if I need to be concerned whether Alfred Brendel plays in a more spirited way than say, Murray Perahia. As if it is more important to know the name of Glenn Gould's dog and the odd way Glenn spoke to him, than to hear the music and be either cheered on or sent off on on a cloud of reflection.
Robert Fulghum wrote once that America needs more bad singers and piano players. In the evening when we all gather together we should be creating something of our own, not merely listening to perfection that was recorded after repeated takes. Something that comes from our own souls and helps us transcend our surroundings. Forget the bad notes, cracking voice and slurred fast notes. If it makes you smile, stand taller, and have a glimpse of grandeur, then singing is the best thing for you. The product that comes from this enterprise will not have a sniveling program host making a windy pronouncement about it. This kind of singing might make some people laugh, but not those who see and listen with their hearts. It is soulful music of the common man that we need to hear more of.
When I was in graduate school at the University of Minnesota, I used to listen to Minnesota Public Radio every morning on the way to class. There were two hilarious program hosts named Dale Connelly and Jim Ed Poole, as I recall. They played music with soul, right from the center of all that creates Americana. Songs like, I go out walking after midnight by Patsy Cline; 99 1/2 Just Won't Do by the Sabathani Gospel Choir; Waltzing with Bears; and a delightful song called Baby's Got the Car Keys:
Daddy put the keys in his pocket when he walked into the house
Or did he put them on the table by the telephone.
He thinks that's where he left them. He really isn't sure.
He knows he had to have them just to get inside the door.
Mom's in the kitchen, lookin' on the shelf,
She says this kind of panic is a hazard to her health.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
She puts them in the toy box and rattles them around,
Drops them in her diaper, now they can't be found.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Digging in the sofa gets a dollar, fifty cents,
A toothpick, a candy bar, a dozen fountain pens.
Chaos in the living room, disaster in the den,
Sister says she saw 'em but she can't say when.
Tick-tock the car is locked, Daddy's going into shock.
Smelly, dirty diapers on the breeze.
Dad says he'll change it but baby's got to wait
Until he finds those dad dadgum keys!
Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The baby starts to giggle, there's something in her hand.
That booger drops a wallet in the garbage can.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Mom's on the telephone trying to call a cab,
Daddy's changing baby's diaper in the living room.
The baby's on the table with a bottle in her mouth.
Daddy opens up the diaper, he begins to shout.
Treasure in the diaper, treasure in the muck,
It sure looks a lot like the keys to the truck.
Time to go to work, time to go to school.
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Baby's got the car keys and she had them all along.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The party isn't over, they're about to find out,
Daddy threw away his wallet when he took the garbage out.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
These are the kinds of songs that make you laugh right out loud at the unexpected when you're stuck in traffic on the bridge over the Mississippi River, or are backed up at the Grand Avenue exit. Long commutes are a delight when the music pulls you right in to sing along, laugh and gasp at the lyrics, gives you a surge of endorphins.
Yes, we need to have conceptions of performance perfection, and we are fortunate to hear samples of this on the radio whenever we are interested in turning it on. I love to hear a flawless rendition of the Nocturne from the Borodin String Quartet. It can make me go helplessly weak. But most of the time, we are all languishing for need of more primal, simple music. More people need to be singing over the dishpan, in the shower, and out weeding the garden. We don't hear people singing very much any more--they all listen to other people do it when they themselves are the ones who would receive the greatest benefit by singing. It doesn't matter if it is off-key or if you run out of breath before the end of a line, or can't remember all the words. More of us need to crash through Chopin's Revolutionary Etude on the piano, and more need to conduct invisible orchestras playing Brahm's First Symphony, no holds barred. We need to cultivate personal cultures that are full of life, tapping into something much deeper than the stagnant, canned accompaniament to life that many tolerate.
I am reminded of a visit I made to a tiny rural church in Ballinacrow, County Wicklow, Ireland. I was asked to sing several songs, and a couple other individuals played instruments and sang as well. The audience was most appreciative, as many of them were farmers and were not trained in music. Then a man named Tommy stood at the front of the church. "Come on then, Tommy. Let's hear ye sing" his friend in the back called out. Tommy cleared his throat. He was wearing ill-fitting dark pants and a soft brown shirt. He looked awkward and a bit apologetic, but he did not flinch. His wife was dying of cancer, he had just learned. He looked out the window past the cows grazing in the church yard. "I first heard this song back when George Beverly Shea sang it on the radio" he said deliberately. "And oi loved it." He drew in his breath sharply as the Irish do when they are making a point. "Oi use ta sing it out in the field walking after the cows. Oi sang it day and night. It's still muh favorite song."
Tommy's rough voice broke in singing then:
The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.
O love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints’ and angels’ song.
Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.
Oh Love of God!
How rich and pure;
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints' and angels' song.
A deep sense of tearful contentment and a reaching out for God was what I breathlessly held to my heart as he finished. There is not a time that I hear this hymn but that I see Tommy singing loudly, untamed graying hair tumbling over his collar, his hands held rigidly at his sides, eyes gazing up at the ceiling toward the back of the tiny church, the music coming from deep within him. It was just Tommy and God that afternoon. We were blessed to be allowed to listen in. The soul he shared with us that day was the most precious musical gift I've ever received.
My wheezing, affected radio announcer knows a lot about music. There are times when I appreciate his interpretative genius and delicate sensibilities. But I wish sincerely that we could hear more music that rises spontaneously from the hearts and souls of men like Tommy on that wonderful summer day in Ireland--music which needs no introduction and no interpretation.
Writing in Flea Heaven
I spent 10 hours today writing an article, sitting at the dining room table. It is an article that was prompted when a graduate student in the Midwest called out of the blue and asked if she could be part of my research team. Since I didn't have anything for her to help with, I suggested that she start gathering articles for a critical review manuscript. She is the most motivated young woman I've met in awhile: good writer, hard working, eager to learn. After a couple months she sent me a list of articles. After telling her how to proceed, she then produced a rough draft of an article that was quite good, given her lack of professional writing experience and gaps of understanding about research. However, what this has meant for me is that since I'm first author, I'm responsible for the final writing, editing, and submission to the journal. She wants to use this article as part of her portfolio that needs to be ready for application to a PhD program this fall. Since this student has been very patient with me, I decided to take a week of my vacation and hammer this out.
The topic is one that would leave many cold in their tracks. It is entitled, "Mixed-Orientation Marriages: A Critical Review of Peer-Reviewed Empirical Work." Mixed Orientation Marriage (MOM) refers to marriages between gay or bisexual individuals and a heterosexual person. Suffice it to say, I'm just about sick of the topic after summarizing 15 research studies that pertained to it today. Particularly when a very scary movie came on that Sam was watching, and that I couldn't help following as I tried to focus on a particularly badly written study (It took two hours to summarize that one!) The movie turned out okay. I think it was a Mission Impossible movie with Tom Cruise. I remarked to Sam that if any two people experienced the extreme degree of psychological trauma the two characters did in that movie, they would not be able to live a normal life afterward and would probably lose their marriage. He agreed sagely, and I returned with a vengence to my studies of marriages that struggle to survive.
Perhaps the worst thing about my writing experience today is that I suddenly started scratching my ankles and legs. There's nothing to see--no bites or anything else. But I itch all over. I noticed it the other day when Otis started scratching like a monkey. After a visit to the vet it was determined that our house is probably flea infested.
"Flea eggs lie dormant until they feel vibrations. So if a house has been standing empty for awhile, it is probably full of flea eggs." The implications of that statement are truly awful.
So Otis has had worm medicine and isn't allowed to go out into the garage until we spray flea and tick killer there and all over our property. Because the vet also informed us that our yard and garden are probably full of fleas, too.
Meanwhile, we have an appointment to have the carpets steam cleaned and sanitized, and I'm hopping into the shower with the paranoid hopes of drowning whatever little characters are leaping over my body. Not that I've even seen a one, but the power of suggestion is pretty strong.
Tomorrow I will have completed this article. Tuesday I return to work. By Friday, our house will be new and improved inside. Tonight I'm putting up our pictures and rearranging some final items upstairs. Time moves on. I hope the invisible army of fleas will, too.
August 13, 2008
Vacation
Still on vacation: writing like crazy for a Friday deadline. Two books that need editing yesterday. Two other articles sitting in the wings. Dealing with emergency student issues even when I'm supposed to be sipping a drink out on a quiet beach this week. Still living amidst boxes and pictures that need to be hung up. I can't get Otis' pills down him--never saw a cat who could spit out pills like he can.
On the good side: I love my house, my husband, my job (most of the time), and writing. I love writing at home in my recliner with my cat begging for handouts. I love hearing Gil's key in the door at 5:30, and rushing to meet him. I like making cookies when Stepdaughter #1 comes in, and seeing her carefully guarded nonchalant face break into a grin when I hand her a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies.
I'm tired. Going to bed.
On the good side: I love my house, my husband, my job (most of the time), and writing. I love writing at home in my recliner with my cat begging for handouts. I love hearing Gil's key in the door at 5:30, and rushing to meet him. I like making cookies when Stepdaughter #1 comes in, and seeing her carefully guarded nonchalant face break into a grin when I hand her a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies.
I'm tired. Going to bed.
August 10, 2008
Bad Day
I have several interesting and unique blog posts in mind that I wanted to make this afternoon, but this was a wretched day. As I sat at my computer in bed, writing a talk that I have to give on Friday night, I suddenly got terribly dizzy. With my head spinning like a top, I lay in bed clutching the side of the mattress so I wouldn't roll off onto the floor. Sam had just gone out to mow the lawn and within five minutes I was sick. Separation anxiety? I hardly think so. Lying down didn't help. Sitting up didn't help. Covering my eyes so I couldn't see the whirling ceiling fan didn't help. Hugging the bowl with dry heaves did help some, though I couldn't guess why.
My concern was that it came on so quickly. Being a retired ICU nurse, I wasn't thinking stomach virus or inner ear inflammation. I was thinking the worst case scenario: brain aneurysm, stroke, brain tumor, or some sort of virus that would send me into a persistent vegetative state like an atypical Guillian-Barre type syndrome. I was very frightened and horribly dizzy. For awhile, closing my eyes helped. Then when I opened them, that seemed to help. But neither one really did much for me. I felt my way down the stairs and out into the garage. I needed to get Sam's attention because I felt so horrible. He was listening to his iPod, edging the grass. He is as deaf as a stone with his earbuds on. So I stood in the garage and weakly waved my arms to get his attention. I was in my robe and didn't want to make a spectacle of myself out on the lawn. (what if I barfed out in the yard before God and the neighbors?) He blissfully continued edging with the most intense focus on his work that I've ever witnessed. I slunk back into the house.
Sitting in the recliner seemed to help me feel a bit better. Otis was worried and had trailed me all morning, trying to help by licking my hand and gazing into my face. He shouldn't have been at such close range when I suddenly started feeling sick. Suffice it to say, he'll probably not be as solicitous again in the same way. Cats can fly...
After a three hour nap on the couch in which I never moved once, I think I'm feeling a bit better. I still feel like I've been hit by a truck and my stomach feels a bit secondhand. So much for writing brilliant blog entries.
Interesting--some people want to be left alone when they are ill. Others want to be hovered over. I get scared and fear dying. After so many years of being my own nurse when I was ill and alone, my need is great for having someone experience my worst times with me. I don't want anything to disrupt the way my life is now. I would hate to say goodbye to this life just as I am experiencing so much that is overdue. But even as I lay in the recliner today, I prayed as though I was dying. I certainly felt as though I was. What I said to God today still stands: my concerns for friends and family members whom I love. My regrets that I haven't been able to be closer to some people, couldn't correct some disrupted relationships, haven't had the wisdom to know how to do certain things in life. And overall, I felt ready to go if that was my fate.
It wasn't.
I'm still here.
Thank God.
August 7, 2008
Nana
Tomorrow my cousin should receive three boxes of my grandmother's dishes that I finally put in the mail to her. I have saved these for her daughter for at least 10 years, carting the dishes around from place to place, state to state. With this last move, it was finally time to get them out of the garage and into her hands.
Boxing up her dishes in bubble wrap, I couldn't help but remember her and the many visits we had in her home. Walking in the side door and up the steps into the kitchen, the first thing that I always noticed was the strong odor of stale coffee grounds. She always poured them into the trash and since no one in our house drank coffee, it seemed exotic but welcoming.
Then there were the milk bottles from Gates Dairy (I think that was the name). The glass bottles were made to fit in your hand perfectly and had a little cardboard cap that you could pull off and siphon off the cream from the top of the jug. Those were wonderful days, when the milkman left the milk jugs at the back door and mothers were actually up before it got hot, so the milk didn't spoil.
Nana loved white furniture, I think, because she painted her curio cabinet and dining room table white. Mother remembers that the paint was always chipping off but I only remember that it was a wonderful table that seated our family, my cousin's family, and Nana and Dale. We called grampa Dale because one of the older cousins started it, and he was always Dale thereafter.
There were two square pillars in the doorway between the living and dining rooms. They were also painted white. I have a picture of my father when he was two years old, sitting against one of the pillars and holding an orange in his hand. He's wearing the most darling little leather shoes and has a real impish grin on his face.
When we visited Nana and Dale on a Sunday, the lunch menu was predictable: mashed potatoes and gravy, peas, carrots, brussel sprouts (sometimes). If we stayed late, she served us Campbell's Cream of Tomato soup in her good ivory dishes that had two little handles on each bowl. We also got Ritz crackers to crumble up in our soup. Nana always acted like we were a burden and she was rather brusque, as I remember. In any event, I always steered clear of her while we were there. I got on much better with Dale because he was funny and made us laugh. He liked children and I don't think Nana did. The one time I was left alone with her I was terrified. She was very sweet though, and told me that when she was a little girl in school, the boys used to call her Kitty which made her furious. And that one little vignette was the only thing I remember about her telling me anything personal. Ever.
But I loved to listen to Nana rip through the Beer Barrel Polka on the piano. When she would play for Dale as he played his violin, I came alive. It was always a disappointment when she stopped.
Oh, there was the sewing room with the interesting lineoleum on the floor and the little half bath to the side. There wasn't enough room to even turn around in there. I was fascinated by the overpowering smell of Listerine that emanated from a bottle of the yellow stuff that sat on the back of the sink. More than once, I tried to taste it, but I couldn't keep it in my mouth because it burned.
Nana had a wonderful old fashioned bedroom suite: a three-quarter size poster bed with matching dresser, bedside table, and a little black rocking chair with a woven seat. She also kept a large antique pitcher and bowl with red roses painted on the side of it. What I loved most about Nana's room was that there was a walk-through closet that went between her room and the guest room where we kids slept. I always got the trundle bed bottom and slept near the floor. I remember worrying that the door to the closet would burst open and a ghost or ghoul--or my brother--would rush at me.
At night, I'd feel my way along the wall to the bathroom upstairs. I can still see it in my mind's eye. What was truly arresting was Dale's "Holy Nellies" that hung on the back of the door during the day. What is a Holy Nellie? Feet pajamas with mittens and an attached hat, made from white flannel by my mother. Dale must have looked like a giant bunny rabbit in those.
The back yard held hydrangeas and hosta lillies. I have five hosta plants in the front of my house, trying to take hold after being transplanted into the hard, dry earth. They are descendents from Nana's plants. I carried them in a large basin from New York to Indiana, then to Washington, and down to California. Amazing that they've lived this long. I also have a descendent from Nana's Christmas Cactus. Mother had a huge plant that she propagated from Nana's plant, but when we left New York last year, she gave it to someone else. I managed to make off with a little slip of it because I can't bear to see part of the family history die out.
Nana was a short, buxom lady who always wore stockings, black shoes, and an apron. When she hugged me, I would be suffocated in her soft, ample bosom. She smelled of talcum powder. I could see healing scratches on her calves from where Smoky scratched down her legs as she came down the stairs in the morning. Smoky was a snit of a longhair cat. Why she tolerated him, I don't know. But she loved him.
So as I packed up Nana's serving dishes, I remember the mountains of mashed potatoes, the gravy boat, the tomato soup, the side buffet with her nice dishes on it, and the curio cabinet with her glass cat collection in it. Her dishes symbolized all that a woman was to be back then: a good cook, hostess, support for her husband, mother.
Good memories. Rich past. I'm fortunate, indeed.
Boxing up her dishes in bubble wrap, I couldn't help but remember her and the many visits we had in her home. Walking in the side door and up the steps into the kitchen, the first thing that I always noticed was the strong odor of stale coffee grounds. She always poured them into the trash and since no one in our house drank coffee, it seemed exotic but welcoming.
Then there were the milk bottles from Gates Dairy (I think that was the name). The glass bottles were made to fit in your hand perfectly and had a little cardboard cap that you could pull off and siphon off the cream from the top of the jug. Those were wonderful days, when the milkman left the milk jugs at the back door and mothers were actually up before it got hot, so the milk didn't spoil.
Nana loved white furniture, I think, because she painted her curio cabinet and dining room table white. Mother remembers that the paint was always chipping off but I only remember that it was a wonderful table that seated our family, my cousin's family, and Nana and Dale. We called grampa Dale because one of the older cousins started it, and he was always Dale thereafter.
There were two square pillars in the doorway between the living and dining rooms. They were also painted white. I have a picture of my father when he was two years old, sitting against one of the pillars and holding an orange in his hand. He's wearing the most darling little leather shoes and has a real impish grin on his face.
When we visited Nana and Dale on a Sunday, the lunch menu was predictable: mashed potatoes and gravy, peas, carrots, brussel sprouts (sometimes). If we stayed late, she served us Campbell's Cream of Tomato soup in her good ivory dishes that had two little handles on each bowl. We also got Ritz crackers to crumble up in our soup. Nana always acted like we were a burden and she was rather brusque, as I remember. In any event, I always steered clear of her while we were there. I got on much better with Dale because he was funny and made us laugh. He liked children and I don't think Nana did. The one time I was left alone with her I was terrified. She was very sweet though, and told me that when she was a little girl in school, the boys used to call her Kitty which made her furious. And that one little vignette was the only thing I remember about her telling me anything personal. Ever.
But I loved to listen to Nana rip through the Beer Barrel Polka on the piano. When she would play for Dale as he played his violin, I came alive. It was always a disappointment when she stopped.
Oh, there was the sewing room with the interesting lineoleum on the floor and the little half bath to the side. There wasn't enough room to even turn around in there. I was fascinated by the overpowering smell of Listerine that emanated from a bottle of the yellow stuff that sat on the back of the sink. More than once, I tried to taste it, but I couldn't keep it in my mouth because it burned.
Nana had a wonderful old fashioned bedroom suite: a three-quarter size poster bed with matching dresser, bedside table, and a little black rocking chair with a woven seat. She also kept a large antique pitcher and bowl with red roses painted on the side of it. What I loved most about Nana's room was that there was a walk-through closet that went between her room and the guest room where we kids slept. I always got the trundle bed bottom and slept near the floor. I remember worrying that the door to the closet would burst open and a ghost or ghoul--or my brother--would rush at me.
At night, I'd feel my way along the wall to the bathroom upstairs. I can still see it in my mind's eye. What was truly arresting was Dale's "Holy Nellies" that hung on the back of the door during the day. What is a Holy Nellie? Feet pajamas with mittens and an attached hat, made from white flannel by my mother. Dale must have looked like a giant bunny rabbit in those.
The back yard held hydrangeas and hosta lillies. I have five hosta plants in the front of my house, trying to take hold after being transplanted into the hard, dry earth. They are descendents from Nana's plants. I carried them in a large basin from New York to Indiana, then to Washington, and down to California. Amazing that they've lived this long. I also have a descendent from Nana's Christmas Cactus. Mother had a huge plant that she propagated from Nana's plant, but when we left New York last year, she gave it to someone else. I managed to make off with a little slip of it because I can't bear to see part of the family history die out.
Nana was a short, buxom lady who always wore stockings, black shoes, and an apron. When she hugged me, I would be suffocated in her soft, ample bosom. She smelled of talcum powder. I could see healing scratches on her calves from where Smoky scratched down her legs as she came down the stairs in the morning. Smoky was a snit of a longhair cat. Why she tolerated him, I don't know. But she loved him.
So as I packed up Nana's serving dishes, I remember the mountains of mashed potatoes, the gravy boat, the tomato soup, the side buffet with her nice dishes on it, and the curio cabinet with her glass cat collection in it. Her dishes symbolized all that a woman was to be back then: a good cook, hostess, support for her husband, mother.
Good memories. Rich past. I'm fortunate, indeed.
August 6, 2008
Questions
When we lived in Indiana we often visited St. Mary of the Woods in West Terre Haute. It was a beautiful convent and girl's school that was up on a hill in (of course) lots of woods. The nuns raised alpacas and the students were allowed to board their horses in the convent stables. They had wonderful property that was always available for us to go walking on. It was one place where I felt safe in Indiana, given how many biggots and rednecks there were in our town. I knew we wouldn't be followed or taunted and I could walk alone and enjoy the contemplative atmosphere. I loved to pray my way through the labyrinth under the pine trees, or sit on the porch of the hermitage (a building built of straw bales) at the edge of the lake, or meditate in the beautiful chapel with blue walls and painted murals on the ceiling. One feature of the convent that I especially liked was the bronze statuary on the promenade that depicted the stations of the cross. I don't remember who the sculptor was, but the figures that lined the sidewalk were beautiful and moving.
One statue was of the soldiers mocking and tormenting Christ as He was trying to carry the cross up Golgotha's hill. As I looked at the sneering faces in that sculpture, it suddenly dawned on me that the only figures that depicted women were the ones of the women standing at the foot of the cross, and then as they took Jesus off the cross. (Perhaps there was also one of Veronica receiving the shroud). I was surprised to think what must go through the minds of the hundreds of nuns who have prayed at these stations, looking at the faces of all the angry, persecuting male faces. Christ's face was the only one that wasn't mean. These nuns who had each been married to Christ in a sacred service, must have had very fond and warm feelings toward Him. But how was their subconscious affected by being bombarded with images of men who abused and tortured a helpless victim? Maybe some of the self-aware had given this thought. My guess was that many had never made any connection between the visual depictions of their beliefs and their daily lives because most people are like this.
If you carefully read the Gospel accounts of the crucifixion, you will find that the men--those who had power in that day--were not the ones who come out looking very good. First, all of the 12 disciples were of no use to Christ during his trial. Nor do we read about any disciple rushing forward to help Jesus carry His cross or give Him water or an arm around the shoulders. John tells us that he was known to the high priest and was allowed to go inside to witness what was happening in Pilate's hall. But there is no evidence that any of Christ's followers ever spoke up in His defence or attempted to protect Him. Except Peter, of course, who cut off the ear of the high priest's servant. Perhaps when Jesus told him that this was unacceptable, the others didn't know what to do or how to act. So they did nothing. That would be the generous interpretation of what they did. Mark says that they all turned and fled. Then he implicates himself by telling the almost comical story about himself, who narrowly missed being seized by running naked out of his clothes. He sounds like a real hero of the cross.
Judas went out and hung himself when he realized the consequences of his acts. The other men were Caiphas and Pilate--both who were on the wrong side of the equation when it came to Jesus. But the priests and the soldiers were the ones who physically harmed Jesus. His disciples harmed Him emotionally, even though Jesus told them ahead of time that this would happen. The ones who came to bury Him after His death--Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimethea--did so privately (read, "cowardly" here) so as not to incur the suspicions of the priests.
When we look at the cross experience, we can see that it was the marginalized of the day who were the most useful to Jesus. Simon of Cyrene, a North African, Black man, was compelled to carry Jesus' cross. And there was a group of women at the cross: Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Jesus and her sister, and Mary the mother of Clopas. It must have been comforting in a small way to see His mother and some of the women who had followed Him.
John was "standing near" (John 19:20) and received Jesus' mother into his care. But where were all the other men? This was the question I had on the day when I stood looking at the statues at St. Mary of the Woods. Did the nuns consider themselves extensions of the group of women who had been standing at the cross? I think there is some evidence for this sentiment. How then, might they connote the priest's leadership in their male-dominated religion? Does this set up a subconscious man-bad, woman-good perception for these sisters?
It is quite possible that the disciples and other upstanding men were uncertain about the rules of engagement, since the crucifixion and life of Jesus had defied so many conventions already. I'm sure there are valid reasons why we aren't given more information about the "good" men at the crucifixion. And I'm not trying to perpetuate the man-bad, woman-good notions that some may hold. But the lasting image I have of the crucifixion is of a gentle yet strong man being tormented and killed by other men, while a group of women pressed close. Is it silly sentimentality or a feminine recoiling from violence that kept the women at the cross? It was a mother's love perhaps, that would not allow them to leave the site of their suffering loved One. And thus have mothers been, historically.
Walking along the back of the property at St. Mary of the Woods, one can see the cemetary full of identical white headstones that say RIP on the front of each one. There are hundreds of nuns who sleep in that graveyard, who lived amongst the stations of the cross for the better part of their lives. As I slowly moved through each row of graves, noting the names and dates of their living days, I wondered what they had really thought about men. I guess we're not going know that for awhile. But my contemplation there continues in contemplation here about how I am affected by Bible stories and their parallels in my life today.
August 3, 2008
Off to the Mission Field
Found here, along with other fascinating facts about Pohnpei SDA SchoolThis morning Sam and I were up and on the road at 5:00, on our way to LAX to see off Briana, Stepdaughter #2 to Pohnpei in the Marshall Islands. She will be teaching second graders at a small Christian school that is out in the middle of what looks like a tropical jungle. Above is an aerial photo of the school grounds and teacher housing. Apparently, this school has a reputation in the region for excellence, which we are very glad about. There are several other Christian schools with whom the students debate and play sports, so they are not as isolated as this picture connotes.
Briana, her sisters, mother and grandmother, looked positively exhausted this morning. They left their home at around 3:30 to be at the airport on time. Briana was excited and even though her mother and sisters tried not to cry, she seemed to be thinking about her destination. She and her college roommate are going to the same school. As we were standing in line at the airport Sam ran into the parents of another student missionary who is going to the island of Palau to teach second grade at a school there. I saw the parents of a young girl from our town who is also going to Pohnpei for a year. All the students are taking off a year from college to serve, and in return are getting some college credit and a life changing experience.
They will first go to Hawaii for four days of orientation and preparatory education with student missionaries from all over North America. From there, they will take a variety of large planes and puddle jumpers to their respective destinations.
We are very excited about Briana's choice to go abroad, and to serve. As she tells it, she heard other student missionaries speak at her college chapel assembly one day, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt compelled to volunteer. So did her roommate. They talked about it at length and then signed up together. I am so glad she is answering the call of God in this way. She has questioned whether or not she wants to study medicine (I think she'll take social work, nursing, or education) and she feels that she needs a clean break from school with some experience to be able to put her future in perspective. This should be a year of great spiritual and emotional growth for her--I hope.
And so as she hugged us all and told us she loved us, I couldn't help but think of the great Christian missionaries of yesteryear: Hudson Taylor, Amy Carmichael, Jim Elliott, William Tyndale, Albert Schweitzer. All headed off into the uncertain horizon of disease, hostilility, misunderstanding, and discouragement. But Christianity took root and became a healing and mobilizing force that could not be quenched even by revolutions, progroms, and dictators. As we speak, Briana is on a five-hour plane trip. Her spiritual fathers and mothers got on ships that took three months to cross stormy, dangerous oceans. She has a year's worth of medicines for every occasion: infections, digestive problems, skin eruptions. Her forefathers had prayer, caution, and common sense.
We worry about tsunamis, earthquakes, and sharks in the reef. And these are the least of what could happen over there. I know that out of real challenges and pain comes spiritual growth. As Dostoyevski wrote, "It is not as a child that I believe and confess Jesus Christ. My hosanna is born of a furnace of doubt." I look back on several excruciating junctures in my life that in retrospect, gave me spiritual discernment, perserverance, and taught me both how to trust, and to step forward on my shaky faith and beliefs. They became mature and strengthened by being challenged. This is what could happen in Pohnpei during the next 10 months.
Into God's hands we place Briana today. We are excited, hopeful, supportive, and in prayer for her. New beginnings can be tremendous opportunities.
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