Magnificat Sermon from Evensong 12-20

Tonight, we encounter God’s embarrassing and threatening “challenge to good order” Pregnancy comes unexpected, and out of order to a young peasant girl named Mary who then runs off to visit her cousin Elizabeth after being made aware of her pregnancy. Elizabeth who has miraculously conceived in her old age, confirmations the miracle of Mary’s pregnancy and proclaims her blessed.

The scene is absurd, the coming of the Messiah who will redeem Israel is anticipated and proclaimed, not by archangels or high priests or emperors or even ordained preachers … Rather it comes from two marginalized pregnant women. Two marginalized, pregnant women carry the future and proclaim the messiah.

Last night I watched the movie Precious. It is a raw look at how the vulnerable are oppressed and can in turn oppress the even more vulnerable and one young woman’s decision to stop the chain of oppression. A very powerful scene in the movie is when Precious is given one more piece of bad news:one more way in which she will be marginalized, she begins to cry and says, “Nobody loves ME.” She teeters on giving up and giving in to her vulnerability. Yet in that moment.. she is able to hear, really hear her teacher say, “Your baby loves you, and I love you.”

Precious helped me to hear that powerful choice that Mary made in her vulnerability… to give praise and be grateful after being affirmed by Elizabeth. Hear again the words of her song:

My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.

Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.

Mary’s reaction could have taken many forms and maybe it did. Yet in her vulnerability as a young unmarried peasant woman, who did not know at this moment how her world would react to this pregnancy, chooses to give praise, not only for the reality of her situation; the new life growing within, but in the privilege of being an instrument of God. From her most vulnerable place, she gives praise and becomes a participant in God’s miracle. It is from our vulnerability that we can most easily connect with the compassion of God and from our gratitude that God can most easily make us instruments of God’s love, God’s peace and God’s mercy.

When faced with challenges, I am one who’s first reaction is often to lead with my strength, react with my intellect and persevere in self determination. It is hard not to use my places of privilege, such as being able bodied, educated, middle class and white. And yet it is when I allow myself to be vulnerable; out of my comfort zone; maybe in unfamiliar settings such as standing in this pulpit for the first time tonight, that God can use me.

Tonight as we listen to Mary’s song and we visualize her story, you and I can ask ourselves where God is calling us to be vulnerable to the work of God’s world?

As Mary in her vulnerability, accepts her role in this drama of the incarnation she becomes more than she ever thought possible. The vulnerable becomes powerful and at the same time, …just who God created her to be; bringing to mind the quote from Maryanne Williamson, used by Nelson Mandela in this acceptance speech.

You may have heard it many times, but permit me to remind you:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Then in her place of power beyond measure, Mary delivers one of the most subversive messages in the Bible. Mary gives voice to a song for the ages, a song that invites us beyond our realistic expectations and our dull imaginations. She announces the larger implications of the upside-down world that God has inaugurated.

Listen to her words again:

His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.’

The song proclaims the toppling of oppression and human power such as the oppression that grounds Mary’s very own worth in her ability to bear a son and the culture that deemed men as the owners of her procreative power.

I have seen two powerful movies in just over a week. The second was Invictus, the story of Nelson Mandela’s first year in office. He was faced with monumental challenges in bringing together a new government that would not only topple the oppression but would represent all South African’s regardless of race. One of the scenes that struck me was his wisdom in preventing those who had been oppressed for generations from becoming oppressors and retaliating against those who had once oppressed them. The South African rugby team named the Spring Bocks had once been a symbol of apartheid, and oppression. It was beloved by White So. Africans and hated by Black So. Africans as a symbol of oppression with its all white team.

While in prison, Mandela himself had cheered on any competitor of the spring bocks in hope of seeing this symbol of oppression loose. But in office he would not allow the now black leadership of national sports to change the name and take away this team beloved by White So. Africans. Rather he changed the country’s relationship with the team and the team’s relationship with the country. In All Saints fashion, he sent the team on a transformational journey out into the community teaching Rugby to the neighborhood kids, becoming their heroes and learning first hand the atrocities of oppression.

What looked like a foolish waste of time united a country to cheer and support this team which now represented a United So. Africa. The movie is named for the poem Invictus that Mandela used as a meditation, and mantra while in prison which he later shares with the captain of the Spring Bocks.

I could not help but believe that the poem Invictus also fit the life of this abused young woman, Precious. Especially the last two lines:

I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

At age 16, Precious, the mother of two topples the powers that be and becomes the master of her fate and the captain of her soul.
Few of us have ever faced those specific challenges, so what does that

Magnificat say to us on this night:
Begin with Gratitude. Allow your soul to magnify the lord and your spirit to rejoice in the lord. For God has scattered the proud and put down the mighty to make us the masters of our fate and the captains of our soul.In your vulnerability, connect with the heart and compassion of God that each one of us might become instruments of Gods love, peace and mercy. And, While Precious did become the master of her fate, she had hands along the way: A school administrator who went the extra mile to give her the information that eventually was a catalyst to change; A teacher who chose to work in the alternative school and chose to get involved in this young girl’s life; A nurse, who like the teacher used his own resources and went beyond his job description to give her a hand. None of whom had to go far or sacrifice much at all. But, their participation made a difference; their willingness to be instruments of God’s love and mercy and justice toppled the powers that be and created a new world for one young woman and her children.

Be vulnerable to those places in your life where you can make a difference. Amen

A Life Worth Living

Among the many things that my dad has given me, is the strong conviction to live a life worth living. I am committed to loving passionately, leaving the world a tiny bit better because I was here and to never stop learning new tricks or taking new opportunities. It is regretfully not how I see my father’s life in the last twelve years and therefore I cannot bear to think of repeating his mistakes. Knowing he has not been happy with his life after retirement for which he worked so hard, makes loosing him all the more sad.

My father hates dialysis, even though it has been his lifeline for the past two years. He hates the very thing that is entirely responsible for giving him two years of life. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays my dad has gone to a dialysis center and been hooked up to a machine that functions similarly to his kidneys. Years of high blood pressure had deteriorated his kidneys and his heart attack left them inadequate to sustain his life. I used to call him during his dialysis and try to bring some laughter and cheer to that time, but little by little, it became harder and harder. Our conversations seemed like reruns, and I felt hopeless to affect any change in his mood. I tried talking about sports, world politics and even resorted to the weather. During the presidential campaign, when the front runners were a female and an African American man, I still could not get him to engage me about this historic election. As a teenager, we had heated discussions and even fights about women’s lib and race relations. Where was that man who could argue me into a frenzy of passion over what a woman should have the right to do or who could love whom? Finally I decided I would just give him an update on my life and mostly an update on his grandchildren. It was usually a one sided conversation. Rarely did he add anything he had done or thought to the conversation. The one bright spot was saying “I love you, Dad” and hearing, “I love you too, Babe. You take care of yourself.” To which I replied, “I always do.”

I always do, Dad, take care of myself. I make the plans and execute them. I take care of the business of life and look after myself. Is that part of what you taught me, by being an example of the opposite? My father has abdicated responsibility for making plans and taking care of family business to my mother, possibly from the beginning of their life together. She has managed the money, managed the house; managed the parenting; managed what little social life they had. She made all the plans and led the execution of those plans. By the time I was born she managed almost every aspect of his life, what he ate, his clean clothes, his schedule and most of his time. Today she is totally responsible for his very life. She sees that he gets food, medication and to dialysis. He cannot even tell you what medications he takes or when he had his last pain pill. My dad has given his life over to her complete control, but that is not such a big stretch from where it has been for several years. God help me, Dad, I never want to abdicate my life to another or to have them abdicate theirs to me until the moment there is no other choice.

In my last conversation with him, I was driving to work and the discussion led me to say I would probably never be able to retire; that I will work until I am physically or mentally unable. To which my father replied that retirement had not been good for him. He expressed unhappiness with this life since retiring and I can see it so clearly. I had many talks with him about finding a part-time job or volunteering and doing things that would put him in contact with others, able to make friends and have conversations about the weather. He would always agree that working, having a place to go and interacting with others would be preferable to sitting at home reading, napping and watching reruns. But, it was a conversation that never materialized into action. He always agreed that getting active would be good for him and yet never made a change. Did he just procrastinate so long that his health failed? Was he depressed? Was he paralyzed by the fear of something new?

I am left to contemplate how to give him even the slightest joy in these last weeks or months. I am left to contemplate how to use this perplexing experience to grow stronger in my resolve to stay engaged in life. I am left to contemplate how to tell you not to procrastinate in doing what makes your life worth living. Risk it all to find where your greatest passion intersects with the worlds greatest needs. Risk it all to experience passion and love that makes your heart sing. Risk it all to partake of the opportunities you are given. Don’t be afraid to risk living large.

Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow!

Touched

The other day someone described me as “refreshing and real” after we had dined together for the first time. I have pondered those words since hearing them. Of course I am real. Maybe it is the phenomenon of turning 50 that prompts the need to be real, authentic and true to those 50 years of life’s lessons. And, I realize I have not always been able to be real. My desires to be loved, accepted and to excel in any given context have had more influence than I would like to admit. Whatever its origin, being authentic to who I am at the center of my being is very life giving at this time. What I have discovered also is that I am not significantly different at heart than the girl who left Radnor or the earthy young mother in Memphis, or the thirty-seven year old housewife from the burbs who entered seminary. One consistent longing identifiable in all of those stages has been for someone to connect with my true self, the real me, which I cannot always reveal.

Basketball great, Bill Russell once said, “Our whole lives, it seems, we are only deciding how often and to whom we should expose ourselves. We learn to make a shell for ourselves when we are young, then spend the rest of our lives hoping that someone will reach inside and touch us–just touch us. Anything more than that would be too much to bear.” [from Sports Illustrated, June 8, 1970]

Hoping that someone will reach into my shell and touch me, I have deliberately been more open and accessible in the past year. Along about February, I began to pray this simple prayer, “God make me open to love.” It has been my deepest longing and most confusing pursuit. I have experienced great joy through connections made and strengthened and I have experienced disappointment, maybe even heart break at connections that ended before they could bear much fruit.

Today I can identify three ways in which I have been touched beneath the shell.

As a theologian, I have strongly held beliefs that it is only God who can fill our deepest longing to be touched and to be known. I believe that each one of us has a God-sized hole within us that will continue to be empty until we know God dwells in us; that unconditional love is already ours. There also seems to be a requirement that we allow that love to flow from us out into the world; outflow governing the inflow. I have felt it flowing through me as I reach out to others in times of need and for no reason at all. One of my great joys is laying hands on someone who has come for prayer. I can feel the love of God pouring through me and out of me and when I am done I am more filled than I was before the prayers. As amazing and awesome as this is, sometimes it is not enough, the longing to be touched still exists.

Somewhere in my 37th year of life, I discovered the great joy of deep friendship -maybe for the first time. I walked across the campus of Pacific School of Religion headed towards orientation. In my path was an attractive woman with a pleasant smile. I remember her brunette hair was in a French braid that extended down her back and was tied with a white ribbon. On her left hand I noticed a wedding band. My first thoughts were, “someone like me.” It was immediately comfortable to talk and to share experiences with Phyllis. That evening I would discover we weren’t as much alike as I had imagined, and that it didn’t matter. In just 5 short months, Phyllis would become a pillar of strength in my life as I relied on her through my husband’s “coming out” process and divorce.

One day Phyllis went too far in an attempt to help me stand up for myself and we got into an argument. She had no idea that an argument with me meant I would not only walk away from the fight, but away from the relationship. Time passed and my interaction with her was limited to polite greetings. I had added another layer to my shell and closed her out as I had done every other female friend to that point. When the relationship got rocky, I would cut and run. But, Phyllis would have none of that. Tired of my attempts to close her out of my heart she got right in my face and confronted me. It might have been the first time a woman had ever said she loved me and then she let me know that it did not depend on whether I returned that love or not. She reached right into my shell and touched me. Phyllis showed me the great joy of loving a friend and being touched. Because of this breakthrough relationship, I now enjoy much more intimacy with friends and am able to resist the urge to take flight when the going gets tough. But for whatever reason, it isn’t enough.

The third source of touch that seems to complete the circle, when in combination with the other two, is the kind of touch that only happens with a man. I am blessed and cursed to have known the briefest of touches by some amazing men. The blessing is to know that there are differences in their touch and I have experienced the differences. The curse is that there have been several and not one with whom I can plumb the depths of our ability to sustain that touch. My experience has taught me that Russell is right on one level, anything more than just a touch would be too much to bear. But I have a belief -no an intuitive certainty that there is more to be experienced from a sustained relationship where the touch deepens our ability to sustain the connection. As evidenced by how the physical intimacy of a couple can grow to new heights of pleasure and satisfaction, I know the ability to bear the connection of true self to true self for more than a touch can be reached. I long for the chance to prove what my heart knows.

God help me to open my shell at just the right times.

What if This is the Last

What if this is the last time that we all gather around the table for Thanksgiving?

Holidays come with their own brand of stress but this one could be particularly anxiety producing. Thanksgiving has always brought stress and trepidation for my mother whether it was celebrated at our house or that of one of my aunts. She might stress slightly about food preparation, but most of her anxiety was around family dynamics. For me, it was exciting to anticipate seeing all of my relatives. I imagined playing games with my cousins and having so much fun. The funny thing is, it was usually not as much fun as I imagined. I had “thin skin” as they say; my feelings were easily hurt. They all lived in the same town and went to school together which made for closer relationships. I lived on the other side of the river, six miles away. Many of those holidays I found myself in the company of the adults, running to sit on my fathers lap when someone made me cry. Sometimes it was to my grandfather chair that I would run. He secretly professed that I was his favorite even though he said he loved all his granddaughters equally. I loved being “special” even if it might have been the source of friction with the other granddaughters.

There was never any question about whether our nuclear family would be together, Mom and Dad, Bill and me. We were a unit and always attended family functions together; always coming and going in the same car at the same time until I dared to move away. I am the one who split the family up. I am the one who married and took off for other lands. In the early days I would return occasionally for holidays and with me I brought extras. Audra, Jacob and Leah filled out the family table and made for even more joyous holidays. The noise level rose and the variety of foods increased as we brought new recipes from Memphis, Owensboro, Ann Arbor and finally from the land of fruits and nuts. The California kids brought colorful language to the table along with those colorful new dishes. Little did they know that grandma considered “pissed” a bad word and one should never even slip and utter anything close to the f-word. But they were from California, “that’s the way they do things out there.” They didn’t know any better.

What they did know was that Grandma and Grandpa would be waiting for them when they arrived from the airport; in the same old house where I had grown up; with the same old furniture and the same old furnishings that smelled like an antique store. No doubt there would be a Texas sheet cake, warm from the oven sitting in the middle of the table, begging to be eaten. They didn’t even have to ask if they could cut it while warm. They knew just where the knife was and Grandma would be reaching for plates. This is the place where food means love. Of course, there is no use of that word, but not much doubt about its existence when there is warm Texas sheet cake.

Whether it was Thanksgiving or any of the other big holidays, food would be prepared as it had been for generations. The women would slave over the hot stove and the men would watch sports until called to the kitchen, at least until I brought Mark into the family. He never seemed quite comfortable hanging out with the guys, talking about guy things and waiting to be called to the table. He would rather be in the kitchen for girl talk and he was the number one dish washer. I picked a husband like no other guy in the family. Looking back I wonder why we never knew. I wonder why we never considered that possibility that he was gay. Then again there was Audra, Jacob and Leah; pretty good cover wouldn’t you say?

When the men were finally called to the table, the windows would be steamed and my mother’s cheeks would be bright red, but the table would be filled with all the old favorites, turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, Grandma Kennedy’s stuffing, green Jello salad, green peas with butter …and that strange looking stuff from California. There would be the usual clamor and discussion around seating. The thin ones would be directed to slide to the back against the wall. It is funny to see how that changed over the years! Who is skinny this year and who’s not. What never changed was my father’s seat at the head of the table. No one would dare sit there. Once in awhile one of those kids from California might unknowingly try to sit there. Maybe they did it on purpose to hear his decree, “outta my chair.” Everyone would laugh and the chair was quickly emptied.

We never bothered with a Thanksgiving prayer. The Hamiltons aren’t much for public or private displays of faith. My dad never carved the turkey either. For us it was a useless tradition only observed in sappy holiday movies. We were more interested in ingesting the meat than appreciating the beauty of the golden browned carcass. As with most food preparation, carving was woman’s work, done before the bird reached the table. My dad was usually the first to be served and my mother would make sure he had everything he needed before sitting down to enjoy her meal. It has been her practice to always see to his needs before attending to hers. So many times I have asked him not to make her get up and retrieve something from the refrigerator for him. So many times I have asked him to get his own coffee when his meal was finished and she was still eating. It was a waste of words. They have their own ways that are not my ways and I have tried to love him in spite of what I perceive as his disrespect for her.

At the head of the table, my dad sits in honor for what he provided, his kingdom, his legacy, his offspring. He has always been faithful to that place at the head of the table. He has always been there. I can’t remember a time without him in that place. There he sat with his back to the door and his face towards his family; protector and provider. As a little girl, I believed nothing could get past my dad to hurt us. No person or beast would ever enter that door to do us harm. My dad would never allow it. At six foot three, and somewhere around two hundred and forty pounds, trained in martial arts and handy with the rifle that always sat to the left of the door, my dad was a force to be reckoned. No question the real man was tough but the little girl’s fantasy was able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

This year, like years past, Dad will take his place at the head of the table, but it will be in his wheel chair. My mother will serve him first and make sure that he has everything he needs before she puts food on her plate. But he won’t be able to eat much because the cancer has spread to his stomach and he is already having a hard time eating more than a few bites at a time. What I hope he enjoys most is the lively conversation of grandkids who have become young adults with hopes and dreams and challenges. I hope he will know how much a part of them he is and will always be. I hope he tells the old family stories and reminds the kids of all the things they love about him. I hope we can enjoy each other, laugh, cherish the time together and stay in the moment. We know this could be the last time, but in the moment there is nothing more we could need or want but to have those moments. To think about the future would be to steal from the present. God, help us stay in the moment.

When She is Ready

Due on Halloween, she took her time and arrived 10 days later -when she was ready. The blessing of that day is beyond words. “Flesh of my flesh” there is no greater joy than to have grown her inside of me and brought her into this world –when she was ready.

Whether because she was the baby of the family or because she marches to her own beat, Leah has crossed all thresholds and embarked upon all chapters of her life –when she was ready. Leah was in no hurry to grow up, small and cute; her classmates would carry her around, tie her shoes and button her pants. All she had to do was look cute and the world would open its arms to her. I worried about how the world would react; how she would do when she ceased to be cute. It happens to all of us at some point, doesn’t it? But, I don’t recall a moment she has not been cute.

Leah has always known she would be famous someday –when she is ready. By third grade we were sure it would be as a performer, singing and dancing her way into our hearts. Everything was a microphone and every guest in our home was obligated to provide an audience. She hates for us to remind her, but Celine Dion and songs from Titanic were her favorites. Then she discovered art; her ability to draw and to use line, shape, contrast, proportion, and color. She may have given up on becoming famous, but not on being successful. I am so proud of how hard she works at learning product development and the fashion industry. She just may make a name for herself someday in the fashion industry –when she is ready.

Leah turned 20 today: a beautiful young woman with loads of talent; a discerning intuition and an old soul that understands beyond her years. It amazes me at how well she knows herself, knows what she wants out of life and stays the course to achieve her goals. Where did she get such determination and such wisdom for her age? And bossy, how did this cute little girl grow into such a leader. She competes for leadership and leads with determination to reach the goal. No longer do classmates carry her around, they often end up taking direction from her as the project leader. She is still small in stature, that never changed but her cuteness turned into stylish beauty. She has a sense of style all her own, even if it is informed by the likes of Hepburn, Channel, Lagerfeld and Jacobs.

Without Leah, I would never have taken off to Southern California to pursue my dreams and promises of a new life. She agreed to come with me and embark upon this journey which meant leaving much that was familiar. She would reunite with her siblings, her father, and her friends on monthly pilgrimages to the bay area. She has been a frequent flyer on Southwest for the last five years. We made a new home together, shared the chores of everyday life and looked after each other. We have remained closely bonded even through difficult set-backs and adolescence. I can remember only a handful of times that we actually fought, or really got angry at each other. I know the closeness that we share and our time as roommates is short lived. It is not long before she flies from this nest and embarks upon her own journey, her destiny, her dreams -when she is ready.

Happy Birthday, Leah!

All Summer Long

All summer I was attracted to Kid Rock’s song “All Summer Long.” It not only brought back the memories, it made me feel the primal draw of that time in my life, the desire to kick off my shoes and dance under the stars, flirt with boys and do what feels good without thinking too much of the repercussions. I know it is because Kid uses the guitar riffs from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” which hit the charts in 1974 about the time I hit full swing in my adolescent experimentation with life. That song continued to draw me to the dance floor every time I heard it way into my 40s. In fact the “boyfriend” I had when I turned 40, played in a band and used to play and sing that song for me. I cannot hear those riffs and not want to dance today. Thank God I can still dance at 50, and my heart remembers that tug.

You have to see the video! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhjvpGt4r44 Throughout it, Kid is in a vintage Century boat that is IDENTICAL to my grandpa Hamilton’s. Take out the bikini clad girls and the stripper pole and you have my summers between Ohio and our cabins on Jack’s Lake in Ontario. Kid sings that it was 1989, for me it was ’74 through ’76.

It was 1989, my thoughts were short my hair was long
Caught somewhere between a boy and man
She was seventeen and she was far from in-between
It was summertime in Northern Michigan

Splashing through the sand bar
Talking by the campfire
It's the simple things in life, like when and where
We didn't have no internet
But man I never will forget
The way the moonlight shined upon her hair

[Chorus:]
And we were trying different things
We were smoking funny things
Making love out by the lake to our favorite song
Sipping whiskey out the bottle, not thinking 'bout tomorrow
Singing Sweet home Alabama all summer long
Singing Sweet home Alabama all summer long

Catching Walleye from the dock
Watching the waves roll off the rocks
She'll forever hold a spot inside my soul
We'd blister in the sun
We couldn't wait for night to come
To hit that sand and play some rock and roll

While we were trying different things
And we were smoking funny things
Making love out by the lake to our favorite song
Sipping whiskey out the bottle, not thinking 'bout tomorrow
Singing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long
Singing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long

Now nothing seems as strange as when the leaves began to change
Or how we thought those days would never end
Sometimes I'll hear that song and I'll start to sing along
And think man I'd love to see that girl again

WARNING: If you are one of my kids, you may not want to read this.

As a parent, I have never admitted to the wild nature of my youth although they try to convict me of it now and then. I have tried to steer my kids toward more productive uses of their time and energy. I did not permit lazy summers without sports, jobs or summer classes. Their curfew was my bedtime and sleeping past 10 AM was rarely acceptable. I have no doubt they found ways around some of my rules and I probably don’t want to know. At the very least it was much later in life that they got to be wasteful of their time and bask in the hormones of youth. And, maybe life is different and the dangers of wasting time in youthful folly more serious and important to avoid today.

My youth was very different and I don’t regret a moment as I reflect from this vantage point. My parents both worked and I was left in charge of the household from about the age of ten. I took care of my younger brother, seeing that he was fed and followed the rules I deemed appropriate. By the time I was a teenager out of school for the summer, I would sleep until noon and still have time to do all my chores, make dinner for the family and find a reason to necessitate going “out” that evening. The reasons given never matched the actual activity planned, but served to make everyone comfortable. My last two summers at home, I worked in town but that gave me more money and opportunity to follow my passions.

Cruising was still a popular way of finding the like minded and available. Firebirds and Camaros were the hot cars, but I dreamed of a red TR6 convertible. What I had to drive was a Dodge Coronet. Thank god, I had other assets besides a cool car. I loved hip-hugger bell bottoms, midriff tops, platform shoes, cut off jeans, long straight hair, afros, guys with tight jeans, WNCI and dancing. There was always a local band playing somewhere. Shoes found their way to the sidelines and I never waited to be asked. I didn’t need a guy to dance when there were girlfriends and the members of the band to flirt with. I admit we were trying different things and sometimes smoking funny things, but I was never into drinking whiskey from the bottle, maybe a beer now and then. Honestly, I felt high just from the music, flirting and dancing. It was intoxicating to move to the rhythm, know the power of sexuality and to make the guys do stupid things because they were thinking with the wrong organ. My girlfriend, Denise’s family wanted her to stay away from me saying, “that long blond hair attracts the wrong types.” Thank you god for long blond hair, because I sure liked the wrong types.

At my age, I have no use for mind altering drugs except for the post surgery vicodin, and a Starbucks latte. I have since given up midriff tops (to everyone’s relief), platform shoes and long straight hair. I would have added hip huggers, but everything hugs MY hips. The “wrong types” once attracted to me have been replaced by the kindest friends, most intelligent conversationalists, people who care about the world and their impact on it and just the “right types.” Although, maybe the wrong types just became the right types when we grew up. Ok, I still have an eye for bad boys who ride Harleys, but have hung up my leathers (notice I did not say I gave them away.) I prefer strong, intellectual, accomplished men; who, while wearing conventionality have just the slightest edge and dance to a slightly different beat.

What hasn’t changed is that in my mind (and maybe my heart) I am still that young girl; still capable of most of the same thoughts and feelings although I may choose a different experience. I have not forgotten nor have I aged beyond the capacity to desire the intoxication of life. What a strange place to be. I could have never imagined back in 1976 that I would still want to dance every time I hear the guitar riffs from Sweet Home Alabama.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

A Change is Gonna Come

Dressed and ready for next steps!

I woke this morning hearing strange, somewhat melodic sounds from my insides. Gurgle, whine, purrrr, gurgle whine purrr. Michael had warned me this would happen, that as my body began to recover it would get noisy reacting to the anesthetic and to the fact that even in a simple procedure, things had been moved, and everything had to readjust. When my mind became more alert, I realized another important change, I was almost pain free lying there in my morning haze.. There had been a significant change over night. It felt so good to experience the change.. the healing. It was such a hopeful feeling to have this very concrete feeling of change. My mind could not help but drift to wondering if I could keep going with the flow of change and experience the healing of my heart.

For some strange reason the song, A Change is Gonna Come, by Sam Cook as performed my Adam Lambert on American Idol came to mind. I had to sort through the DVR list to find it and listen again.

I was born by the river in a little tent
And just like that river I've been running ever since
It's been a long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

It's been too hard living, but I'm afraid to die
Cos I don't know what's out there beyond the sky
It's been a long, a long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

And then I go to see my brother
And I ask him to help me please
And he just winds up knockin' me
Back down on my knees

There were times when I thought I couldn't last for long
But now I think I'm able to carry on
It's been a long, been a long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

One thing in life is certain - change. With every second we are changing; the people around us are changing; the circumstance of our existence is changing. This morning was confirmation that I am changing towards strength and healing, recovering from surgery. It gave me hope that positive changes are happening in other aspects of my life. But, not everyone can say that the daily, momentary changes are towards healing and wholeness. What about those who are on a course of deterioration, who’s bodies are diseased and dying. What about those who are stuck in destructive patterns, of addiction or denial and avoidance?

I have come to know myself professionally as a “change agent.” Multiple vocational assessments have identified that I am one who is excited by change, help others to accept it and welcome new circumstances. I have changed jobs fairly often and been a part of restructuring within those jobs. It doesn’t always translate to proficiency in working with change in my personal life.

But I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

Trying Not to Flinch

At the beginning of the year my sole prayer for myself became, “God make me open to love.” I recognized how closed I had become in an effort to protect my heart. For those who have been hurt it is a persistent struggle to teach our hearts to be open. Whether it is pain experienced in friendships, jobs, churches or intimate relationships, the scars can become restricting. The desire to protect ourselves from pain is natural and even makes sense at times. But, I was aware of the potential to rob myself of all the love and enjoyment that I could be experiencing. There are so many ways that we allow the tragedies of the past to destroy our present. Hard as it may be, I have vowed not to let pain, and disappointment keep me from experiencing love and relationship now and in the future. I am trying not to flinch.

Naomi Levi writes, “The blows we endure in our lives usually come from the outside. But the worst torture is the one we inflict upon ourselves. Each and every one of us knows this curse all too well. Sooner or later we all find ourselves reacting not to the present event before us but to some old hurt, some distant wound. We are all aware of the pieces of ourselves that we have let die because of some pain that took place in the past. Perhaps we have lost our ability to trust, or to love, or to believe that our lives can and will get better. That’s what happens when the past invades and destroys the present."

Since making this simple prayer my mantra, I have made new friends and deepened some old friendships. Beyond the relationships I would label as friendships, I have seen and experienced a world that cares and nurtures. There is nothing like being dependent upon others to make that unavoidably clear. As I prepared to go to surgery, a very sweet nurse bent the rules to allow two friends to hold my hands and pray for me when the rules allowed for only one companion. As they let go of my hands I began to tear. I did not tear up when I was taped to the IV, as I had anticipated, but when I could no longer feel their touch and see their assuring faces. To my surprise, total strangers stepped in with reassuring eyes, and humor. Then, Dr. Patterson with is smiling face began to tell everyone that I am allergic to every adhesive known to him; that I have a history of breaking open stitches and making him redo his handiwork. Somehow in his recollection of me being other than the easiest patient, he makes me laugh and reassures me that he will be looking after me.

By the end of the day, friends had helped me put on my underwear (no small feat when on pain meds; held my hair while I vomited in the car and rubbed my arm until I stopped shaking and crying for no apparent reason after getting in my own bed. It was one small step for my friends and one hefty leap for this one who guards her independence, not to mention privacy. I know this is just preparation, bringing me one step closer to really embracing the loving, nurturing world in which I live, in which my heart will sometimes be heavy with grief or disappointment and yet I will try not to flinch. I will try not to resist the love that comes my way.

A Prayer from Levi:

It is hard to trust when we have been hurt. It is hard to hope again when we have known tragedy. It is hard to stop flinching, to stop responding to past pains. It is hard to face the present with an open heart. Help me, God. Restore me. Revive in me all the optimism that I once had. Remind me of the person I used to be. Help me to return to life, to openness, and to You, my God. Amen.

Fear of Tears

I seem to be stuck with the fear of tears these days. Where is it appropriate to cry and with whom can I cry? I may not cry in front of my father, but I am one who finds it almost impossible NOT to cry when I am frustrated, sad, or vulnerable. My tears are near the surface these days and I do not want to share them with everyone, it is a far too vulnerable place. Thinking of surgery tomorrow, I am reminded that I often begin to tear up when they tape the IV to my arm, and confine me to a hospital bed wearing that stylish gown. I have no fear of needles, I just hate being so dependent upon those caring for me. Few things make me feel as helpless as this hospital routine. It is anything but routine for me. I also remember that I usually come out of anesthetic crying. It is pure hell to think of how vulnerable I am going to be tomorrow; how dependent on my friends. God, I hate crying and I do it so much lately.

In the Genesis story of Joseph and his brothers, you may remember that after being sold into slavery by his brothers, Joseph becomes governor of Egypt and in charge of the food rations. His brothers come to Egypt begging to buy food to take back to their family during a famine. They do not recognize the now mature Joseph, but he recognizes them. He taunts them at first making them jump through hoops to get what they want and taking his revenge. But his heart is heavy. At first, when he is moved to tears he excuses himself and cries in private. But eventually he can no longer hold it back and he, "wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it and the household of Pharaoh heard it.” (genesis 45:2) In her book, To Begin Again, Naomi Levi writes that, “Perhaps in those tears was the pain of looking into the eyes of a brother and seeing a stranger. And perhaps in those tears was the joy of looking into the eyes of a stranger and seeing a brother.”

I think I am afraid of what I will see through my tears and what others will see through my tears. How will I react to others when the tears come and how will they react to me? I know that my tears will be layered with far more than surgery and my vulnerability is much deeper than being without my clothes in a hospital bed. I don’t think I could bear up if it all came blurting out; my real fears; my real disappointments; my real vulnerability. I can still hear my father warning me not to cry before my grandfather’s funeral. On one hand it would have been an embarrassment for him and he would not permit my weakness. On the other hand he was protecting me, showing me the only way he knew to survive this cruel world. Don’t show them your weakness.

When Joseph could no longer hold back his tears, and was unable to contain them to private moments, his tears were actually very healing. It was as if walls were torn down or callousness removed and he was able to forgive, to feel, to love and to be affectionate once more. It was the miracle of tears that enabled him to create new relationships with his brothers.

My friends will see me cry tomorrow, I don’t have much hope that I will be able to contain my tears to private moments only. Will I let it be a bonding experience to draw me closer to them? Can I show them that I am vulnerable right now? Can I stop trying to be OK for one day and just BE? I like being seen as a strong, independent and self-assured single woman, but it is quite possibly a burden and an impediment to true intimacy with those I love. Intellectually, I would choose true intimacy, but when faced with the first few minutes of uncomfortable, unfamiliar sensations will I let go, or will I revert to my tried and true toolbox containing impenetrable armor for my heart and a mask to hide the tears of vulnerability?

Tombstones and Tolle

Tombstones have become quite the story board these days. With both pictures and words it tells the story of this couple, the date of their marriage and a picture of their family farm. Notice how young they are, and that they have not yet died. They are my age and yet they have prepared their final resting spot. I also noticed that they leave no room for things like divorce, or death and remarriage. It is interesting to be so sure about one's future.

In Eckhart Tolle's book A New Earth, he cautions us about our preocupation with past and future time. He suggests that we eliminate what he calls psychological time, "which is the egoic mind's endless preoccupation with past and future and its unwillingness to be one with life by living in alignment with the enevitable isness of the present moment." He adds, "For the ego/false self to survive it must make time - past and future - more important than the present moment."

As I have mentioned before, the cemetery holds a special place in my heart and I look forward to visiting it every time I am in Radnor. I look for the tombstones of two boys with whom I started gradeschool. One died in a tractor accident as a pre-teen and the second died in a car accident at at twenty six. I like to remember them, but mostly I remember how I felt upon hearing the news of their deaths. I always visit the graves of family members and remember them, the good and the bad. The cemetery reminds me of a sometimes painful childhood and my strong desire to leave this less than nurturing community. It reminds me that I felt like an outsider, and dreamed of the day I would become successful and show them all how wrong they were about me. I dreamed as big as I could dream of education, and a career that would take me far from Radnor, Ohio. I dreamed of proving them wrong about who was valueable and who would make their mark on the world. I have always believed that these dreams about the future and desire to get beyone my present situation in childhood was the key to my "success." I have had the priviledge of more education than I imagined, and a life that took me to many more communities than small town Ohio.

Reading Tolle makes me wonder if I didn't miss something in the present moment of those years that may have been more valuable than seeing them as a means to a more desirable end. Keeping with his adviced to stay in the moment, I navigated this past week, with my terminally ill father by working to stay aware of and engaged in the moment. I found that it made me appreciate being a part of even things like picking a burial plot and talking about death. There was so much life in those few days that I am glad I did not miss.

I am still not sure what to do with my continual thoughts about past and future. I thought I was educating myself, learning from the past and being responsible by preparing for the future. I have this belief that if I don't make it happen, I won't get what I want out of my future. I have often made the present a means to the future, when I will have that which I believe will make me happy. Tolle says, "when you treat the Now as a means, an obstacle, or an enemy, you strengthen your own form identity, the ego" or false self. He says that makes you a reactive person and the more reactive you are the more entangled you become in form (ego/false self) and "your Being then does not shine through form anymore." According to him, when we are in the Now, and not reliving the past or calculating the future, our Presence (that which is beyond our ego) emerges which is a silent power far greater than our short-lived ego/false self. And, that it is more deeply who we truly are.

I have a long way to go to enlightenment, but it was a geat blessing to show up in Radnor, and strive to be present in the Now. I am grateful to have really lived those moments, not wasting a one. Praise God from whom all Blessings Flow.

My Cemetery

Radnor Cemetery Lynch Gate.

Built in 1910 the lynch gate was designed by local architect, William Robert Powell to commemorate early settlers of Radnor who emigrated from Wales.

As a little girl I couldn't wait until I was old enough to walk to the cemetery by myself. I would accompany my mother as she brought water to the flowers planted on the graves of my great grandparents and a brother who died shortly after birth. It was from the hilltop that my mother would play taps for graveside services and Memorial Day celebrations. I always loved this place. It did not feel scary or foreboding, rather magically filled with stories of those buried within.

As a fourteen year old playing tag, zig zagging between the stones I fell to the ground when tackled by an older boy and received my first kiss in Radnor Cemetery. He was the curly headed, bronze bodied, bare footed, motorcycle riding bad boy who had more than caught my attention, and I, was twitterpated! (You will have to remember your Disney movies to figure that on out.) Not having lived in Radnor since 1980, I always visit my cemetery when I return to Radnor to see family. Over the years it has been a place of contemplation and day dreams. Reading the names and testimonies of love inscribed on the stones gives way not only to memories but the imagination. I have always loved this place.

On Tuesday morning my mother told me to meet them in the cemetery. I followed their car to one of the newer sections sparsely populated with only a few stones and one fresh grave piled with flowers from the funeral. People in Radnor still have visiting hours at the funeral home where mourners view the body and share condolences with the family of the deceased which is followed by a funeral often with open casket present. In the midst of the open grassy space were four wooden stakes with twine strung between them to mark off a four grave plot. We were here to buy the family plot. It might have been nice if someone had warned me! But in true Hamilton style, I helped evaluate the location and took it all in stride. Remember, no tears in the ranks!

Later I laughed with my brother at the surprise and the kinds comments that were made as we evaluated the location. Who owned the adjacent plots? You surely wouldn't want to be resting for eternity next door to the wrong people. And what about views? Do you want to face the road or the rest of the cemetery? Is it proper to walk on graves? What about planting flowers or shrubs and maybe one of those eternal flames? You don't want it to be too dark at night. It is hard to tell what is funny and what is sad. When in doubt, I choose funny.

I will always love this place!

Country Girls Cook

...when the going gets tough.









Late October in central Ohio is a kaleidoscope of colors changing quickly as the leaves turn from green to deep reds, oranges and yellows just before fading to brown and grey. Today was a grey day. There were plenty of bright colors remaining but the mood was grey aided by the overcast sky and the drizzly precipitation. While driving Dad to dialysis, he began to speculate as to why the farmers were procrastinating in harvesting the corn and beans. The crops were obviously ready and yet there was little activity in the fields. "What were they waiting for?" I reminded him that the world had changed and most of these farmers had other jobs in addition to the family farm which could no longer support their families. He doesn't like to be reminded of how much the world is changing. I suspect it only adds to his frustration with the uncontrollable changes in his body and his life. Farming was not what it used to be and neither was he. The once strong and athletic marine, always up for a physical challenge is dependent upon crutches, wheelchairs and dialysis. His life expectancy is cut short by an aggressive cancer for which there is no treatment. He quickly switches to stories about his time in Korea, the powerful vehicles he drove and his top secret clearance. It is easier to talk about war.

When I dropped him off at dialysis, another patient greeted him saying, "this must be that daughter from California you were waiting on. I can tell by the smile on your face." The thought that I put a smile on his face brought tears to my eyes, but I fought them back. Marines don't cry and they won't put up with tears in the ranks.

As I drove away I was sad and the whole world looked sad. I have never seen so many sad faces, crippled bodies, old and infirmed. Were there any happy people in this whole entire county? Walking into Kroger's no one smiled at me, everyone looked gloomy. I wanted to go home; this has to be the saddest place on earth. But my plane doesn't leave until tomorrow morning. How will I survive this grey day?

I just came into the grocery store to get a latte from Starbucks, but it was a good thing I came to a more important realization before I left. The only thing to do when I feel this bad is to cook! I had a whole day to cook something savory, rib sticking and smile inducing. Chicken Pot Pie was it! Suddenly the world was brighter, my pace increased and there was a purpose in my day. I think I caught someone smiling at me. Each ingredient had to be carefully chosen for the perfect color, texture, and flavor. Over the next few hours, I manged to create quite a mess in my mother's kitchen. Hardly a surface escaped my preparations. Every burner on the stove was in use, the dirty dishes were mounting and the floor was a little sticky. Who cares if there were flour hand prints on my behind, the grey was lifting and the aroma of garlic, onions, and thyme were chasing away the tears. I could see the smiles to come when everyone gathered around the table to gaze upon my masterpiece and chicken pot pie filled their stomachs.

I was not disappointed. Cooking works every time!

Three generations sat around the table that had been in my family for 5 generations, laughing, joking and eating too much. I learned to cook in this kitchen forty years ago. Thank God, I remembered.