Author: Penney Rahm

A SHEPHERD’S TALE

Luke 2:8-20

          Let me catch my breath. I don’t know whether it’s because I ran the whole way or because I’m still trying to believe what I just saw with my own eyes.

          I’m sorry you had to watch over the flocks by night back here in the cave, Ezra. But you did volunteer. You missed it. You didn’t really believe we were seeing angels. You thought it was bad shepherd’s pie.

          But it wasn’t, Ezra. They were angels and everything they said was true.  For once, I’m glad I’m not responsible and sensible like you. I wouldn’t have missed this for all the gold in the temple.

          I don’t know what we were expecting, but this wasn’t it. Yet it was perfect. I know what you’re thing. Deep breath, Asa, slow down. I’m trying to make sense, but it was so wonderful I can hardly talk.

          I’m babbling now, aren’t I, Ezra?  Don’t roll your eyes at me.  Inhale…exhale. Whew! Okay, my heart’s not thumping like a drummer boy’s now anyway.

          When we left here, we ran into town. We split up to cover more ground. Joshua and I ran to the high priest’s house. Abel and Levi headed to the rabbi’s. We thought, if a savior is being born, it must be to one of the religious men. No baby to be found. They thought we were crazy. The priest was angry because we woke him.

          We couldn’t figure out where to go. Where would we find a savior? We tried the inns around town. I’ve never seen Bethlehem so crowded. People all over the place coming to register for the census. People sleeping in doorways because the inns were filled to the brim. Why can’t the Romans have us be counted in the towns where we live?

          Most of the innkeepers wouldn’t even look up when we walked in.  Others screamed at us to get out. A couple of them remembered a woman in the family way, but didn’t know where they had gone.

          Be patient, Ezra. I’m trying to tell you the whole story…still trying to make sense of it myself.

          Can you imagine being a woman near her birthing time trying to find a place to do that?  She must not have had family around or she would have gone there. We may only be shepherds, but at least our women have the privacy of a tent…or at least the corner of a sheep pen to have a baby.

          The husband must have been beside himself. No family around. Wherever they ended up, he must have been terrified at the thought of helping his wife give birth. I remember what a mess you were, Ezra, when Miriam birthed Asher. You were useless. That’s why a woman needs womenfolk around at a time like that.

          When we got to Samuel’s inn, he told us he had felt sorry for them.  Plus, if she had a baby right there in the middle of the other travelers, it wouldn’t have been good for business. He sent them out into his cave where the animals are kept.

          It must have smelled like it does in this cave, Ezra. We’ll really have to muck it out a little tomorrow.  But at least, with all those sheep, donkeys and cows, the place was warm.  The man may not have wanted to deliver that baby, but he hade no choice. Hope he had delivered lambs or calves before.  Still, the mother must have been grateful for a little quiet and privacy.

          We ran to the cave. We were jumpy because of all the Roman soldiers in the street. They looked suspiciously at everyone and I know they hate shepherds…just like everybody else. We sure didn’t want to get beaten or dragged to the tax collector’s office.

          When we got to the cave, it was just like the angel said it would be.  It was a baby, all wrapped up and sleeping in a big stone feed trough. The baby didn’t look special. He had fingers and toes and a little bit of hair. He didn’t glow or have a halo. While we were there, he woke up hungry and started to cry. The mother looked tired from birthing. The father just looked relieved to have lived through it. Normal. Perfectly normal.

          But it can’t be, can it, Ezra? How many babies have you seen who have an angel make the birth announcement with an army of angels behind him singing back-up like they were Gabriel and the Pips? He’s just a baby. A baby in a manger born to a couple of poor travelers in a country occupied by foreign troops. But the angels were right about everything.

          As surprised as we were to find them there, the parents looked more startled than us when we burst in. I guess I can’t blame them.  A handful of dirty, smelly shepherds panting and sweating from running around town on an angelic scavenger hunt.  Just imagine how you would have felt. Nervous? Terrified?

          And the angel had told us not to be afraid.

          Their eyeballs almost popped out when we told them we were shepherds and that an angel had sent us to find them. I was afraid they’d want to have us committed to a home for deranged shepherds.

          But that look only lasted a moment. The mother looked down at the baby. Then a smile came across her lips. She looked at the father. And you know what he did? You’ll never guess. He winked, like they both knew some secret.

          Then the father said, “His name is Jesus.”

          Ezra, do you realize what that name means? It means the salvation of the Lord. I know. Shut your mouth, Ezra. Think about it, Ezra, the Lord saves. The angels said, “A savior will be born.”

          Everything is starting to tie together. Do you see it, Ezra? We saw the savior of the world.

          But that wasn’t the best part. After we talked a while, we just stood there not knowing what to do next.  The mother smiled at me and asked if I wanted to hold him. That mother offered to let me, some riff-raff shepherd she had never seen before, hold her baby.

          I was scared. I’ve never held a newborn human baby. Lambs. Lots of lambs. But never a baby! In a way, though, he was a lamb, a lamb of God.

          Ezra, I held the Savior of the world in my arms. I don’t understand it either. It’s crazy impossible. How can a baby be the Messiah? How can that baby be the Messiah? I don’t have any idea how he will save us or what’s going to happen now, but I know in my heart that the angel told us the truth.

          I’ve been thinking, too, and I have an idea why the angels told us and nobody else tonight. It’s an incredible, wonderful idea. Everybody looks down on us shepherds. They think we’re scum or stupid, not like ordinary people. Some of them even think we’ll steal them blind and are afraid of us. Nobody wants us near them.

          But the angels did come to us, Ezra. We were right there. The angels came. We heard them. We did what they said and we saw the baby.

          Maybe our God is not the angry, judging God we’ve always been told about. This God that sent the angels to us is full of surprises. This God must not play favorites. He’s not just for the rich or the powerful or the religious folks. God cares about us nobodies, too.

          God is breaking all the rules we’ve been taught. And if God is breaking rules and angels can talk to shepherds, then a baby lying in a manger can be the Messiah and save us all. With God, all things are possible.

          But, Ezra, you know what the very best part is for me?

          One day, I’ll be telling my grandchildren about the night I sang the Savior of the world a lullaby and rocked him to sleep.

THE CRISP LINEN BLOUSE

            She took the bag of damp clothing out of the refrigerator and drew out the white linen blouse. The iron was already hot, but not too hot lest it leave a scorch mark.

            She shook the bottle of spray starch and sprayed it on the sleeves. Laying the shirt on the ironing board, she lovingly ran the iron over the expensive fabric and imagined how elegant it would look with her new suit.

            She lifted the sleeve from the board and placed the front of the blouse down for its treatment of starch and heat. Buttons. Pearl buttons. Beautiful, impossibly small buttons to work around as she tried not to singe it. the button holes challenged her patience as she navigated the iron around them.

            Fifteen minutes she lavished on the blouse, caressing the collar gently as she hung it over the shower rod. Oh, she thought, this was worth the money. Brushing her teeth, she realized she needed to make an appointment with the dentist.

            She sat on the edge of the bed and carefully puller up her nylons, made certain the seams were straight and clipped them to the garters affixed to her girdle. After easing the satin slip over her head, she slipped into the shirt. The sensuous feel of the fabric sent ripples of excitement tingling through her body. She stepped into the navy-blue skirt and quickly zipped it up the back. The matching suit jacket finished the preparations.

            Stepping back into the bathroom, she combed her hair and applied just a dab of Dippety-Do. As she checked herself in the mirror, she remembered she need one last accessory. Sandra fingered the small silver cross, a gift for her 16^th birthday from her grandmother, before fastening it around her neck. Perfect. She felt confident that today would be the new beginning she longed for.

            While waiting for the bus, she felt the eyes of several men checking her out. She couldn’t decide whether she was annoyed or flattered. She clutched her pocketbook against her side with one hand and her bus token in the other. when the bus stopped, Sandra gracefully stepped in and took a seat near the front. She didn’t want to miss her stop.

            At Maple Street she pulled the cord and exited the bus. The September morning was cool, but she felt beads of perspiration under her arms. “Please, deodorant, don’t fail me now,” she thought. Without thinking, she let out a deep breath as she stepped off the bus and set out on the 2-block walk.

            She strode up the sidewalk and pulled open the heavy glass door.  A custodian, clad in a grey work uniform, smiled at her as he polished the railing on the stairway. She returned the smile and made her way down the hall, hoping she looked as confident as she as she was trying to feel. She stopped outside a door and checked the number above it. she was at the right place. Lifting a brief prayer, she turned the knob and pushed.

            The room quickly fell quiet as she walked to the middle of the room. “Good morning, boys and girls. I’m Miss Newton and I am your teacher. We’re going to have a wonderful time this year in second grade.”

            The children looked at her with a mixture of awe and excitement. Her first day of teaching. The pride she felt was almost enough to pop a button off that crisp, linen blouse.

ON THE BLUFF

I

            To my left and high above me, the Spanish moss wave from the cruise ship. “Farewell,” they cry to me while they laugh and twitter among themselves. They seem nervous, afraid of what I, untethered will do. Perhaps it is I who is on the cruise ship, leaving them to sail away to salty adventures on a green gray sea of possibility.

            They are jealous of my freedom. I envy their playfulness in the safety of their easy friendship and community. But I need a solitude they never enjoy. Still, their song wafts through the breeze to harmonize with mine. They are the strings to my brass, the tenors and sopranos to my alto. As I sail away, I make a vinyl recording in my heart of our concert to comfort me on gale-swept waves.

II

            Aloft in front of me, another tribe of Spanish moss dances in the breeze. They are a class of children untrained and exuberant, each dancing to her own song. Their recital demonstrates no unified rhyme or rhythm, only joy unfettered. Each tendril shows off for me, coveting my attention, waving to my heart. In my mind I applaud for each one, celebrating their innocence and imagination. They do not yet know judgment or disapproval. Delight fills their souls and they dance and sing unaware of rules and expectations. I will not intrude.

III

            To my right, hangs a chimpanzee, formed of clumping Spanish moss. Dangling by one arm, he motions to me with the other, an invitation to join him. But alas, my feet are firmly dug in, my days of climbing many years behind me.

            Next to him on another limb, hangs a sloth, barely moving despite the strength of the wind stirring the other mossy animals. A lion with a great mane languishes on yet another branch, peacefully digesting a gazelle which had stumbled and fallen. Satiated, he is no threat to me as I imagine I can hear him purr.

IV

            Beyond them and crowded together, sit rows of clerk-typists, fingers flying furiously across keys. So much work to be done, no time for foolish fun. Their brows furrow with uniform intensity as they race to meet deadlines decided for them. Hush that singing, cease that dancing. Too much to do, no time for foolishness.

            Are they driven or ambitious or trapped by guilt or duty? They make me sad. I leave them to their incessant industry.

            Me? I return to dancing, singing and sailing. The live oak leaves clap at my decision.

V

            On the ground lays a clump of Spanish moss. Brown, dead strands wind through hay-green fibers still clinging to life. Motionless, until I retrieve it, the moss stirs. Had the live oak expelled it for introducing death?  Had it floated on a breeze, deceived into believing freedom was to be found in leaving the community?  Or dying, did it hurl itself to the ground to end the pain quickly? In death, did it find an answer?

RETURN TO THE BLUFF

            The bluff is alive again today, so different from a week ago when I sat here. It has new stories to tell. I listen with my heart and see with my soul.

            Under the canopy of green, I sit staring at the blue sea of sky. She is happy, singing of cumulus clouds and cardinals. Her smile peeks through the branches and invites me to joy. I smile in reply and hum “Shoo, fly, don’t bother me,” as it pops from my childhood memory box.

            As the sky and I sing together, I notice that all the life I saw last week in the Spanish moss has disappeared just as the breeze has dissipated.  A breath of air whispers through the languid stirrings of green. The moss is lazy today with no waving, dancing or typing. The chimpanzee has disappeared entirely. I fear she lays on the grass in a rumpled pile, still clinging to a branch snapped off by a recent storm.

            In my mind I see her as sign of all the species which are being hurled toward extinction by human selfishness. The lion, too, has digested its prey and vanished. I hope he is on the prowl again.

            Today I notice the leaves of the live oak, renewed by the rains, the same rains that pummeled the moss into submission. But the leaves are hardy, now a richer green. I am always surprised when I discover that blessings for some are curses for others.

            I hear birds singing, but I cannot see them. Several different kinds must be hiding in the branches as a variety of melodies poke their notes through the thick, humid air. In my imagination, the leaves themselves are singing harmony, singing life, singing hope and possibilities.

            This tree is old, tall and stately. The bark has deep furrows, reminding me of the cracked, dry skin on my own arms. Do trees get psoriasis? We are both aging, she more gracefully than I.

            Draped in boas of Spanish moss, coifed in spring green curls of leafy playfulness, she looks as if she has stepped out of “The Great Gatsby.”  Looking ready to dance the Charleston, she stands, her long, slender fingers lightly grasping a cigarette holder where a wisp of Spanish moss smoke swirls enticingly.  Aloof she is, unaware of my presence, gossiping with the O’Hara sisters of Atlanta. (“Gatsby” meets “Gone with the Wind”. Indeed. Fascinated, I eavesdrop. But I will not share their secrets. A lady never tells.

          This is the week we call Holy. For more than 30 years, it was the most important week of the year for me. From the moment Christmas was over, even before Epiphany and the putting away of Christmas decorations, I was thinking about Holy Week and how I could draw people into its dram and significance for their lives.

          I need to live in this week with all my heart and senses. I have to see and touch the olive trees in Gethsemane where Jesus prayed, to stand near the cross on Golgotha and hear the hammer as it pounds the nails into Jesus wrists. I need to be close enough to smell the fear of the disciples and stench of thousands of gallons of blood flowing from the altar in the temple at Passover, I strain to hear the singing of “Hosanna” on Palm Sunday and the angry cries of “Crucify” five days later. I long to taste the bread and wine in the Upper Room on that Thursday night and share the bitterness of the horror and despair in the mouths of the women at the cross.

          Every week during Lent, the church offered a brief service in the church or in a home in the evening. There we sang, prayed and shared Holy Communion. We remembered. In many places where I served, the ministerium offered a weekly service and luncheon with each church offering its special dish to eat and its pastor to preach. The fellowship of Christians from many traditions blessed us and reminded us we were not alone in our faith.

          I miss these times of corporate worship, which supplemented our Sunday times together. Those times helped me to focus the rest of the week on my personal journey to the cross. Now that I have retired and have not found a midweek service, I have struggled to maintain my personal focus. God and I need to talk more about that failing of mine.

          In this, my fourth Lenten season in retirement, I am realizing the depth of my grief at not leading a congregation through this season. I appreciate every opportunity Lane gives me to participate through preaching, praying celebrating at the Lord’s Table and creating some of the special services and liturgies. But my soul and heart are broken because I miss planning and walking with my folks through the entirety of Lent, especially Holy Week so much.

          In my years as a pastor, I cried because so many people left church on Palm Sunday and did not return until Easter. How do we celebrate the overflowing joy of Easter if we do not go to Jerusalem in our hearts and remember, if we do not sit at the table and eat and drink together, pray and struggle with Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, see his pain infused with love for us on the cross, and feel the grief and loss at the finality of that stone-sealed tomb?

          I’m crying this year for the first time as the magnitude of my loss because of retirement overwhelms me. The first year I retired, there was a novelty to and a respite I appreciated. The second year, Lent and Easter came in the midst of Mom’s dying and death. Last year, I was numb from depression and only vaguely remember the season at all.

          This year, this Holy Week, I feel alive again. I feel into the depths of my being and I am glad, even though this week I am filled with grief and pain in every fiber of my being. I miss leading Holy Week services. I miss opening the path of the passion for people I have come to love. I miss the drama and pageantry, I miss the hours of creative planning, the fellowship of working with a team of singers, musicians, and readers as we carry out the ministry of worship.  There are many tasks in pastoral ministry I do not miss, but being on the sidelines of Holy Week breaks my heart. In ways I do not fully understand and struggle to articulate, the loss of this role, this purpose, grieves me more than the loss of my family. That may sound callous or crazy, but it is my truth.

          I am working hard this week to put myself into Holy Week, so that I can once again embrace both the Passion and the Resurrection. Sunday night I watched “The Cotton Patch Gospel,” a musical based on the “Cotton Patch Gospels” written by Clarence Jordan, who set the story of Jesus in the south in the 1950’ and ‘60’s. Tuesday night, I invited a friend to watch it with me and share the wonderful music of Harry Chapin. Before Saturday, I’ll watch “Jesus Christ Superstar,” “Godspell,’ and the last two hours of “Jesus of Nazareth,” a mini-series from the 70’s with Ann Bancroft, Rod Steiger, and Ernest Borgnine, and many other stars. I’ve watched this almost every Holy Week for over 40 years.

          I am moved by the music in many of the movies. This year the song that is speaking to me most is “Gethsemane” sung by Ted Neely in “Jesus Christ Superstar.” As Jesus wrestle with his desire to live and his call to die, I am confronted by my own struggles to discern and yield to God’s call at this point in my life. How often, unlike Jesus, do I resist and go my own way?

          I’ve also been listening to my favorite Holy Week songs from the classic “The Holy City” to more contemporary singers like Michael Card, Twila Paris, and Ray Boltz (at least they were contemporary 10-20 years ago). Music speaks to me in ways that words alone cannot. I often find myself caught up in worship as I sing along.

          I’ll continue my own journey by reading the passion story in Matthew and/or Luke. I will pray and cry and find myself in various places with different characters in the story. I will allow grief to seep into my spirit and take hold. I will let myself ache for the life I lived and give thanks for the privilege I had for so many years to lead and walk with people on their faith journeys. I need to be quiet and wait, never my strong suit, and let sadness have its time and space. I need to live my Good Friday completely, refusing to numb the experience just as Jesus refused the wine offered to him.

          Because of my faith in the truth of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection I can embrace this grief. Only if I allow myself to grieve the dreams and realities that are no more, to die to the life I loved, will there be any opportunity to fully experience the next chapter of my life. Only when grief has worked its way through me will I be raised to life again. I cling to my belief that because Jesus is alive now forever, that God is not finished with me.

          You see, it’s Friday now. But Sunday’s coming. And I have hope.

BEST MEAL EVER

            As soon as I walked through the back door, I began smiling. My nostrils came to attention and drank in the crispy aroma of Mom frying chicken. The popping and crackling of the flour-drenched oil played a sweet sonata on my taste buds. I savored the succulent, meaty goodness before even taking a bite.

            I kissed Mom on the cheek, thanking her for making my favorite dinner. She lifted the lid on the black cast iron Dutch oven resting over the gas flames. As I leaned over it to inhale the fragrance, a drop of oil burst and stung my cheek. Still I breathed deeply before backing away.

            Potatoes boiled on the adjacent burner. They were almost ready for mashing. Milk and butter stood at the ready, offering themselves for both the potatoes and the gravy.

            I ran up the stairs to my room and quickly changed out of my school clothes, before thundering back to the silverware drawer in the kitchen. On fried chicken days I didn’t need to be asked even once to set the table. Finishing that task, I played a game with John as we waited for Mom and Dad to drink their Manhattans as the chicken continued to fry.

            Finally, Mom called us to the table. A platter stacked high with golden, “goopy” fried chicken sat on the blue-flecked Formica table between Dad and me. I impatiently waited for him to spear a breast before I stuck my fork into a leg and plunked it on my plate.

            Mom reminded us that we needed to say grace. As soon as “Amen” left my lips, I scooped some corn onto my plate and passed it to Dad, who was placing a leg on John’s plate. After Mom served herself mashed potatoes, she handed the bowl to me. I plopped a generous helping onto my plate, then passed the bowl on to Dad.

            As I waited for the gravy to make its way to me, I prepared my potatoes. Using my fork, I carefully made a hole in the middle and built up the sides around it. taking the gravy ladle, I poured two or three large spoonfuls into the “swimming pool” I had created.

            The first bite of the chicken tasted better than the first sip of morning coffee. The golden flavor of the skin filled me with joy. I could have eaten a hundred pieces had I been given the opportunity.

            I sprinkled some pepper on the gravy, then sampled the potatoes. With precision I ate away the side of the pool. I knew the gravy was perfect when it failed to escape through the opening. Mom’s gravy was so thick that it didn’t move at all. I shoveled a forkful of the white, glue-like gravy into my mouth. The taste of milk and chicken dredgings lingered on my tongue.

            Chicken, potatoes, and gravy circulated around the table until there was no evidence, except for the bones picked clean of any meat and the empty bowls, that there had been any food at all. Laughter and sharing of the day’s events were digested along with the protein as we lingered around the table.

            One day, when I sit at the heavenly banquet, I’ll be feasting on Mom’s fried chicken once again. And the platter will always be full.

MY FRIENDSHIP WITH BOOKS

            I’ve always trusted books to be my friends. Growing up, I moved around a lot while Dad was in the Navy. When I learned to read, my world opened up in countless ways. I remember I got my first library card at the bookmobile that stopped on the street where I lived. I was 6. I crawled into the stories, was transported and transformed by Babar the Elephant, Nancy Drew and the orange-covered biographies of Ulysses S. Grant, Virginia Dar4e and Woodrow Wilson.

            I felt alive when I entered these worlds, totally engulfed in the “Mystery of the Clock Tower,” as I crept through the dilapidated mansion with Nancy. My book on world cultures introduced me to the mountains of Nepal, the colorful clothing of the people of Peru and the wonder of deepest Africa.

            I trusted the welcoming pages who nurtured my imagination and encouraged my creativity. Whether I rode with Roy and Dale or picked blueberries with the Bobbsey Twins or marched with cadets in the West Point books, I was there with my friends. No one laughed at me or excluded me between these covers. I became an integral part of the stories. I belonged.

            As a teenager, I spent hours several afternoons a week nourishing my soul on a diet of history, fiction, and poetry. ee cummings taught me that capital letters are overrated, Madeleine L’Engle introduced me to Meg and Charles Wallace as we tessered through a “Wrinkle in Time.” I pictured Clark Gable as Rhett Butler long before I saw the movie. My heart throbbed rapidly with Pee’s “Telltale Heart? I wept when I finished reading “Flowers for Algernon.” I was the happiest person in the world when I was hired to work there two afternoons a week. The library actually paid me to work in my happy place.

            I never finished cleaning my room because I would start by picking up the books strewn across the floor and was immediately captivated by “Seven Days in May”, a Robert Frost poem or a book on communism in the Soviet Union. To this day, my house often looks cluttered for the same reason.

            Books allowed me to roam the planet, meeting fellow adventurers as I shivered with fear or plotted our next move.  Books carried me far away from the hurt and confusion of teenage angst and offered continuing possibilities for my own real-life journey.

            In my mid-twenties, God called me into pastoral ministry, where my love of books served me well.  Introduced to the world of theology and Biblical studies, I gobbled up texts on the Old Testament and struggled to understand the theology of Moltman and Bultmann. At seminary I introduced myself to life-long friends and mentors: Frederick Buechner, Henri Nouwen and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Buechner showed me that faith was not a destination, but an adventure. Nouwen taught me compassion and cracked open a door to God’s heart. Bonhoeffer challenged me with the “Cost of Discipleship” and the concept of cheap grace.

            Books encouraged me to write my own stories, sing my own songs, and experiment with my own creative spirit. Now, whether I read or write, I find a home, a haven, a welcoming smile.

            Jesus said that he was going to prepare a place for us, that in his kingdom, there are many rooms. On my moving-in day, I envision myself in a mahogany paneled library with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a large picture window opening onto the ocean. As I study the shelves, I find all my old friends are there waiting for me. I pull one out at random.

            As I open it, Madeleine L’Engle steps out from the pages, as we sit and share a cup of coffee, we speak of the magic of imagination and the craft of writing. Together we visit the Austin family, sing with the stones, and wait for a dragon on the wishing stone. Later Miss Marple shows me around St. Mary Mead and we puzzle over the latest murder which she is investigating. Roy and Dale invite me to ride with them over the hills where we capture some outlaws. As they ride off on their “Happy Trails,” I dine with Buechner as we share the secrets that both froze and empowered us.

            The next day, I think I’ll drop in on Perry Mason to see what case he is solving or step through the wardrobe into Narnia to meet Aslan face to face.

REFLECTIONS ON THE FOURTH OF JULY

The only memory I have of July 4th until adulthood is that of marching in the band for parades. From 8^th grade through the summer of 11^th grade, I marched, playing my trombone. The first two or three years were unbearably hot, whatever the thermometer said. We wore heavy woolen uniforms of dark maroon. They were wonderful during football season, but in July, not so much. I enjoyed the trombone because we got to march in the first row. No one wanted to be goosed with a slide while marching. Of course, we also had the responsibility of leading our columns around the droppings from the horses.

The first parade I remember watching from the street was the Bicentennial parade in 1976. Mom, Dad, and I drove into Philadelphia and found a place to stand along Market Street near Independence Hall. We were there at nine in order to beat the crowds to a curbside spot and stayed until after three. The sun was blazing, the day humid. For some reason, there were no vendors along our part of the parade route and we were all parched and dehydrated by the time we drove home.

The floats were stunning, but the marching troops were applauded only lightly, as we were just a year out of Viet Nam.  Dad, a 20-year Navy man, who had served on a sub in the Pacific during World War II, took off his hat and placed it over his heart each time the flag passed by. Mom and I, sans hats, did the same with our hand. Although I had marched against the war, I loved my country and all the virtues it stood for. It was an amazing day to be an American and we all wiped away a tear now and then.

The next day, we took in the air show at the Willow Grove Air Station. Again, the sun was merciless. We were dazzled by the loops and spins of the jets and mesmerized by the formations flown by the Blue Angels. By the time we came home, I had chills and a temperature of 103 degrees from sunstroke. Despite the fever, I was glad to have been present at both events. Even though I believed Viet Nam had been a mistake and I was elate Nixon had resigned, this was my country. I rejoiced in the freedom to protest, worship, travel and work at whatever made me happy that was at the core of our democracy.

Fast forward to July 4, 1980, following my middler year in seminary. My friends and I rode the subway into Center City Philadelphia. As we disembarked by Independence Hall, we could already hear the explosions of individual firecrackers above us. I had forgotten how my body reacts to the kabooms of explosives. Before we had even ascended to street level, my body was already twitching at each pop. My friends laughed hysterically and pointed at me.

When we reached Independence Square, we found ourselves surrounded by hundreds of others who had also come for the festivities. We wandered around for a while until we found a spot where we could all sit together.  My head and shoulders jerked involuntarily with even small firecrackers. I loved the beauty of the fireworks but flinched at each pop. We sat talking and watching for an hour or more, waiting for darkness to fall and the spectacle to begin.

Suddenly, some future felon (I’m certain) rolled a cherry bomb in our direction. The surprise move left us frozen in place until it exploded just in front of my out-stretched legs. I could feel my heart accelerate. I leapt to my feet as quickly as I was able, which wasn’t quickly enough to catch the young hoodlum, who ran off with his friends. It was just as well. Had I been able to apprehend him in my shell-shocked state, I would have wrung his neck until his eyeballs launched int the sky like rockets. Then, I would have spent my life doing prison ministry from the inside.

After those few moments of fright, we had a great time. We talked with others who had come: black, white, brown, and every other shade humans come in, as well as native born, immigrants, and travelers from all over the world. We reveled at the success of the American experiment and the oneness that we felt as Americans. Our nation wasn’t perfect, but the fireworks, the cheering, and the laughter drew us all together as one family, at least for that night.

Years passed. When I moved to Wilkes-Barre in 1998, my clergy friends who lived in the area and I developed new traditions for the Fourth. If the local Triple A team, the Red Barons (a Phillie farm team until they sold out to the despised Yankees) was in town, we all went to the all game and stayed for the magnificent fireworks display afterwards. Baseball, hot dogs, fireworks and friends: how much more American can you get?

When the last burst of the rocket’s red glare settled, when my body stopped flinching, Pat, John and I headed out of the stadium for the next event, trying to escape the parking lot for the ride home. We usually waited until the crowds thinned, since we had no desire to play bumper cars with the other vehicles.

To pass the time, Pat and I would sing every patriotic song we could think of. We stood outside the car and san, ignoring the looks of people who thought it was obvious we were demented or intoxicated. We started with the basics: two or three verses of “America, the Beautiful” and “My Country Tis of Thee.” Doing our best imitation of Kate Smith at a Flyers’ game, we belted out “God Bless America.” Then we moved on to lesser known songs like “This is My Country” and George M. Cohan’s “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The crowds were down to a dribble by the time we got to “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,” which has wonderful, if unappreciated lyrics: Thy mandates make heroes assemble, when Liberty’s form stands in view! Thy banners make tyranny tremble, when borne by the red, white, and blue. We always finished with a medley of the songs of each of the five branches of the military, including the little-known Coast Guard song, whose chorus declares, “Semper Paratus is our guide, our fame, our glory, too. To fight to save or fight and die, aye Coast Guard we are for you.” (At least that’s the way I remember it.)

By that time, infinitely patient John was more than ready to drive us home.

One year, however, was different. I was still living in Wilkes-Barre, when my friend MJ called from the hospital. She was being admitted. Could I come right over? MJ had just been diagnosed with Stage 4 Lymphoma. She had had a nagging cough for months, but nobody thought anything of it. then one day her arm swelled to four times its normal size. A friend of ours, who was a nurse, told her to get it checked out immediately. That led to surgery, where doctors removed over a quart of liquid from around her heart.

MJ’s parents immediately came down from Endicott, New York, to be with her. For the first week, they stayed at my house, which was only 10 minutes from the hospital. MJ’s condition was critical and we knew she could die.

On the 4^th of July, her father and I sat in the huge waiting room on the top floor of the Wilkes-Barre General Hospital. MJ wanted no one but her mother with her. I kept Joe company. There were long periods of silence, followed by a few words of non-committal encouragement. Most of the time, we were lost in our private thoughts and prayers.

Eventually, darkness settled over the valley. We had a panoramic view of all the little towns that lined the other side of the Susquehanna River. One by one, each community launched its fireworks. The sky lit up down the street from us first; a Wilkes-Barre neighborhood began the celebrations. Up and down the river, bursts of red, green, gold, blue and white exploded and cascaded down like fairy dust. The fireworks rained down along the river in silence. We heard nothing through the thick glass windows. Joe and I talked and pointed, even laughed a little, grateful for the distraction. The colorful sky was a gift from God to lighten our mood and lift our hearts. For no logical reason, we felt encouraged. The cavalcade of color have us a hope that we could not articulate. The pall had lifted, at least for a time.

About two weeks later, MJ began responding positively to the treatment. Eventually the cancer went into remission. The next 4^th of July, MJ rejoined the gang of us at the ballpark. That night, the fireworks were not only a celebration of our nation, but a celebration of life.

For the three years before her death last year, Mom and I watched the Capitol 4^th of July celebration on PBS. I sang aloud with the Beach Boys and other groups, but that wasn’t our main focus. We were waiting for the real celebration. Mom loved to hear the Army Herald Trumpeter, which meant the show was beginning in earnest. The color guard, consisting of every branch of the service, displayed not only the American flag, but the flags of every state and territory. They reminded me of the many locales, traditions, accents, languages, and nationalities that make up this great nation.

The patriotic songs and Sousa marches always stirred something deep within me. I played air trombone to accompany “Stars and Stripes Forever” with all the passion I demonstrated with a real one in high school. Mom and I would “ooh and ah” as the fireworks exploded, accompanied by the orchestra and cannons playing “The 1812 Overture.” We watched all the way through the credits as the fireworks lit up the sky.

Last year, as I watched the show, I turned several times to make a comment to Mom, but she wasn’t there. Still I delighted in the fireworks, watched the proud men and women in their uniforms, and listened to the brass and piccolos playing “Stars and Stripes Forever,” reflecting on the state of our nation. Not since the Viet Nam War have I seen this nation so divided.

Today, I see fear and anger among people in every part of our country. I cry when I look at the Statue of Liberty and feel that her desire for “the huddled masses yearning to breathe free” is being denied, distorted, and even ridiculed. Yet, I have hope. This is still the land that I love. I don’t know if we are the greatest on earth, but I know that the ideals on which we were founded: the freedom to speak, worship and gather with others, the right of every citizen to vote, the freedom of the press, equality for all regardless of color, gender, religion, national origin, or who we love, and equal treatment before the law are the greatest ever adopted as a nation’s guiding principles.

This is my country. We are not perfect. We can do better. But with all I may criticize about America, I am still singing its praises. And praying that it fulfills the promise of its founding.

Today, as I read my devotions, I intentionally observed and listened. I’d like to invite you to share my joy.

AS I WATCHED AND LISTENED

Juneteenth 2018

As I bathed myself in the sights and sounds of my backyard this morning, I heard the songs of two different birds and watched a cardinal skip across my yard before flitting up to a nearby tree branch.  The sun shone brightly through the trees for the first time in several days, finally unencumbered by the humidity, which had been palpable.

I glanced up from my reading to see one of the bushes, dwarfed by a convention of 50-foot trees, lean back, opening her leafy face to the sun, smiling in sheer delight as the rays danced across her leaves. Nourishing herself, she drank greedily of the golden light. I could sense the chlorophyll celebrating and greening deeply as she slowed her breathing, relishing the energy surging through her veins, and translating it into oxygen. In sheer joy, she exhaled her priceless gift, of which I consciously took in small sips.

As I looked around at the trees far above my head, they lifted their branches in praise to the Creator.  I heard a song of thanksgiving being sung as a round moving from one tree to another to the birds. A languorous breeze interwove a countermelody, to which the shimmering ferns, hovering close to the ground, sang harmony.

My heart sings, too. The tears in my eyes are crystals of hope and promise. God is. God is here. Creation rejoices. Hope applauds. I am blessed.

In that moment, my two cats sat up, ears turned to catch the refrain.

As the news of two celebrities committing suicide this week spills out into the news, I needed to share my story, of which few are aware. This is not a plea for sympathy, just my attempt to let those of you who cannot understand this act catch a glimpse of what it has been like in my life. Know that although I still struggle, I am fine and you don’t need worry about me. I know others live in places like this every day, so let us be kind to each other. We never know the battles others endure each day.

SUICIDE

For some of us, there comes a moment when we stare into the abyss, feeling drawn into the free-fall call to escape the pain, the guilt, the shame, the pressure, the fear and to embrace nothingness or whatever is to come.

I have stood on the edge and the lure is like the feeling I’ve had standing close to a waterfall and feeling the pull of a strong magnet tempting me to let go and plunge in.  To stop fighting and struggling and just relax, to quit holding on and give in to the desire to be free from a now which promises no relief.  To admit defeat—defeat in life, defeat by life.

I have stood at the abyss and felt the fingers of failure, real and imagined, pushing me closer. I found myself at the precipice trying to escape the silence of loneliness, the shrill shrieks of accusation and the sobs of unrelenting guilt and shame which filled my head.  The sounds draw me closer, whispering my name and offering what I hear to be peace.

In those moments, I have felt I could not back away, that all on which I have stood has been erased, rolled up, confiscated. I have fumbled once too often and have been cut from the team. There is nowhere to go, but in and down and it is past time to get on with it. Where do you go when you believe, true or not, that you no longer belong, if you ever did?

At the abyss, love is silent. At the abyss, I was alone. Did I only imagine my friends had given up or abandoned me? Was it true that everyone held me in contempt or didn’t hold me at all?  Truth and fantasy swirled together always revealing the worst, the most desolate visions. The pressure to stretch out my arms and embrace an even darker darkness became more unbearable. Let go and all would be over, all would be past, all would be forgotten. I would be forgotten.

Once, about 15 years ago, I succumbed to that pull. Exhausted by the efforts to prove my worth or defend my existence, worn out by forced smiles that strained every muscle in my body, I lowered the garage door with the remote, turned on a tape of my favorite folk music, reclined the driver’s seat and allowed myself to sleep as the engine hummed. I had no more fight left, no resilience with which to struggle. The next time I opened my eyes, I would see heaven or hell. I prayed that all I believed about grace was true. But I had no strength to worry about that either. Then, as I drifted off to sleep, it occurred to me that this dirty, cluttered garage might be the last thing I saw before eternal nothing.

I opened my eyes. No pearly gates and a smiling Jesus. No hell fire and a leering Satan. Just a dirty, cluttered garage. The music was still playing, the engine still running. Confused, I checked my watch. Over three hours had passed. I was so pathetic, I hadn’t even been able to kill myself. I sighed and yelled at God for saving me against my will. That and an evidently less than an airtight garage. I had failed at suicide. Turning off the engine, I got out of the car and entered the house. For months, I told no one.

The abyss receded for the moment.

As a Christian, I felt guilty. I didn’t trust God. I couldn’t believe my friends really loved and cared for me, although I had no reason to doubt them. How could God love me now that I had tried to end my life? In my still jumbled mind, I believed that this was God’s punishment–having to continue to breathe and function (for I was not alive) until he paroled me to death at the end of my sentence. I returned to every day tasks, moving through a perpetual gray haze—no joy, no anger, numb.

Gradually the gray receded. Along with the usual bitter flavor, life sometimes tasted sweet. I retreated further away from the abyss where I could begin hearing love from time to time. Still, despite my faith, guilt, anger, and worthlessness walked beside me crept within me. Although I knew it was wrong, I heard the alluring call from the abyss and stopped to listen.

Thankfully, I have friends who have accompanied me to the edges of my darkness. Eventually, I told them of my close encounter with suicide. They did not condemn or abandon me but held me closer in their hearts. To this day, when they sense a change in my spirit, they’ll ask not just if I’m okay, but if I’m safe. I have promised to tell them if I am not and over the years have been able to answer honestly.

Since the garage, I have returned to the abyss several times. Sometimes, I walk by quickly, but other times I linger longingly. In the vacuum of those days, I cannot hear the voices or see the smiles of friends. I cannot reach out and ask for help. In my brokenness I feel unworthy of anyone’s love. I cannot see anything beyond my own pain. I am lost in my own sadness. It is then that my friends hold onto me through prayer and presence. They hold on to faith until I can grab it once again. Without my being aware of their efforts, they have pulled me back before I could take that last step or inadvertently slip.

Many years later, through their faith and friendship, through counseling, and through the love and grace of a God I often do not recognize, I live in a world that is more often filled with color than gray. Sometimes the colors are faded, washed out and hard to distinguish. Most days I see more blessings than sorrows. Some days I sense I have gifts to offer others. I even have days where laughter is genuine and light, not a shield of protection to keep others from seeing my scars.

Unresolved guilt, anger, and shame continue to walk nearby, but only now and then do they poke and bite. But walking among them today is hope, encouraging me to keep walking. Hope sings harmony with me and keeps singing when I cannot. Hope reminds me that I am not alone.

I know what it is to stand at the abyss of hopelessness and despair. I have stepped into that abyss and should not have survived. I have felt the pain of loneliness, been tormented by fear, and kept sleepless by guilt and shame. I have peered into the insidious temptation of death itself. I know the desperate desire to stop it all by free-falling into oblivion, perhaps to embrace peace at last.

I know. And because I know, I weep for those who take that step lunging, leaping or stumbling into the abyss out of desperation. I weep for those, who like me, hesitate for eternities, afraid to go forward, yet unable to retreat. I weep for those left behind, who had no idea the darkness had enveloped so completely their loved one.

I weep for myself. For how close I came, for the times even now when I come close again to escape the demons who continue to haunt me. But I also weep tears of gratitude for friends who hold on when I cannot, who refuse to give up on me when I give them every reason to do so; for my words which sometimes break through and are heard; for hope, which sings even in the dark, and for the God I know more through questions than answers, but who, I trust, holds us all until the last darkness lifts.

Today, I cried for a woman I never met, whose name I never learned.

Today, I drove two blocks to an estate sale. Since it was the second day, everything was 25% off. I walked into the house which used to be alive, but now sat still and silent. I asked the woman at the cash box if the owners had died. “Yes,” was the response. She died recently, her husband several years earlier. They had no children. Everything in the home was being sold, then the house would be put up for sale.

I walked through each room, listening and looking for her story. On tables in each room rested the heritage of days long past. Silver salvers and serving dishes, tarnished from disuse, pleaded to be returned to the times of their polished glory. I could see them proudly offering sliced roast beef, creamed potatoes and glazed carrots on a fine linen tablecloth covering the French Provincial table (table, two leaves, and four chairs could be mine for $200).

Eight black fine China dinner plates rimmed with gold haughtily sat aloof from the everyday dishes. “Remember those dinners we’ve seen?” they asked each other. “The men in suits and the women in the latest styles with matching heels.  And always cloth napkins captured in silver napkin rings.” I felt the elegance and envisioned pickles, olives, carrots and celery adorning the cut glass hors d’oeuvre plates and bowls.

Walking into the bathroom, I realized the estate sale included everything. Over-the-counter medications and Ben-Gay were lined up next to a box of industrial toe nail clippers. Soaps and cleaning products sat along with partially used bottles of lotion and a can of shaving cream.

To my right, I spied bathrobes and outdated dresses, belts and blouse hanging in the closet. Half-a-dozen pairs of non-descript shoes lay bunched in a corner. They were all quiet and lifeless.

On my left was the guest room, where a double bed stripped of sheets and character filled the middle of the room. By the window, I spied the sewing machine, where she had created fashions and looked into her backyard. Stacks of projects were piled beside the machine in easy reach. I could feel the satisfaction she must have experienced in the orderly assemblage of needles, fabric and thread which lay waiting in the wings.

I wandered back through the living/dining area where the china cupboard caught my eye. Sets of wine glasses, brandy snifters, and cordial glasses waited expectantly for a cocktail party that wasn’t happening. The layers of dust told me that they had been waiting for years, perhaps since the man of the house had died.

In the kitchen, spread out on the stove were the pots and pans which fill every home.  An indoor grill for the stove top remained in its box (a bargain for $8, today only $6). A woman half my age excitedly grabbed up a set of four Pyrex bowls: yellow, green, red and blue in size order. As she pointed out the paint, fading from use, I told her I had a set just like it at home that had belonged to my mother, a wedding gift in 1946. While she proudly carried her prize to the front room, I saw the yellow bowl heaped with Mom’s homemade spaghetti sauce, the green bowl filled with baked macaroni and cheese that had to be soaked for an hour to get clean, and the small blue one holding with beaten eggs ready to add to some other ingredients. I didn’t remember a red bowl ever being part of Mom’s set, probably broken in the early days of her learning to cook.

Looking out the window above the sink, I saw the hand-made, two-tiered stand built to accommodate at least a dozen big containers of plants. Only two or three remained, each lovingly cared for and thriving. I envied her green thumb.

Informal, mismatched cups and glasses, ready for a drink from the faucet or a fresh cup of coffee, were displayed on the small counter. How had she survived with so little cabinet space? I was surprised to see more of the elegant silver, china and cut glass than ordinary, casual dishes and glassware. The kitchen and dining room segregated the fine and common. Mom and Dad’s home had been arranged the same way. Both the elegant, formal glassware that preened in the china cabinet and the good china hidden away for special occasions in the maple hutch lived in the formal dining room. The riff-raff dishes and glasses formed a motley crew in the crowded kitchen cabinets.

Beneath the peninsula that separated the kitchen from the family room were several shelves that held a variety of half-full and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Sherry, whiskey and other varieties of wines and liquor stood in the open for easy access and selection. A bevy of shot glasses, haling from sporting events and vacations spots were on display next to the beverages. All that was missing was a cocktail shaker.

The family room nestled cozily around the brick fireplace. I could envision Christmas stockings awaiting Santa’s arrival hanging from the mantle, above which proudly hung a framed drawing of a golf course.  A beige sleeper sofa and love seat sat on an even more bland shade of aging beige carpet. Above the sofa were framed drawings from another golf course and a golf tournament souvenir portrait. Across from the couch, beside the television, were three shelves filled with a collection of bunnies, including a beaded one elegantly displayed in a blue velvet-lined display case.

I meandered into the screened porch where the Christmas tree and ornaments beckoned collectors. I sat in one of the chairs to look at the games sitting on a shelf. I almost yielded to my desire to finally own “Easy Money,” which I had wanted as a child. A French card game centered on driving called “Mille Bornes” also tempted me. My game had long ago disappeared during one of my many moves. I resisted buying either. Games need at least two people to play.

She must have slept in one of the twin beds in the back bedroom which was now stacked with sheets, spreads, and blankets. He had slept in the other. The room reminded me of “I Love Lucy” or “Ozzie and Harriet,” a time when all couples, at least on television, slept separately.  Although there were no men’s clothing in the closet, the shelf held a dozen or more caps with a dozen or more logos on them. Perhaps she had kept them as a physical memory of her husband. Other than a decoration made of woven, woody vines, the walls were bare.

The third bedroom revealed that she had entered the computer age. A desktop computer had occupied the corner of the desk and a printer waited for action on a small table caddy-corner from it. A bookcase held books on cooking, sewing and gardening, although nothing looked recent.

I returned to the living room and sat on the love seat which proved just soft enough to be comfortable. As I gazed around, I saw a cardboard box filled with dozens of small photo albums, each large enough for a roll of film. On top laid another, larger album. I was going to peek into one of the smaller albums, but groups of three or four were bound together with rubber bands. I didn’t look in the big one. I suddenly felt like that act would have been too invasive of her privacy. On another table were two old albums, the kind with black pages and glued-in corners to hold the black and white pictures of decades long ago, probably filled with photographs of their youth and long-dead family.

I walked out the front door, empty handed except for a first printing of “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” a gift for a friend. I stood and looked around at a house and yard that had been loved and cared for that was now just a house and yard waiting for a new family, a new infusion of life and spirit.

Sitting in my car, I felt sadness well-up inside me. This woman, unnamed and unknown to me, was being spirited away piece by piece. What will happen to all that is left unsold? Does anyone use silver serving bowls or cut-glass hors d’oeuvre dishes anymore? What will happen to the photo albums? Will they be taken to the dump and deposited unceremoniously in a landfill?

Who remembers this woman? What made her unique? Was she happy-go-lucky, serious and disciplined, haughty or carefree? Was she kind and generous? Did she have many friends who are now grieving her absence or was she lonely, as dated and out-of-touch as her silver sipping cups? Did she die in pain or peacefully slip away? At the end, was she surrounded by friends in her own bed or alone in a strange hospital room?

Who will remember this woman? Will anyone tell her stories? When her name is mentioned will people smile or shrug.

I wonder. I think about my house, my belonging, my life. And I cry.