tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64148582488396423082024-02-06T21:52:22.328-05:00Watching the River Flow BySusanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-54127082660270216642016-07-20T23:46:00.000-04:002016-07-20T23:46:00.021-04:00Jubilee<div style="text-align: justify;">
As you are aware from reading any of my posts, I am a fan of most types of music. Most of my preferred selections, though, come from the realm of singer-songwriters such as Dan Fogelberg, Gordon Lightfoot, John Denver and others. But one that I thoroughly enjoy, yet do not reference a great deal is Mary Chapin Carpenter. The music industry doesn't always know what to do with singer-songwriters, and for some reason have classified Ms. Carpenter as a country artist. I consider her more folk-pop or folk-rock, but that's just me. Whatever her classification, I do enjoy her music. This song, music and lyrics are the property of Ms. Carpenter and her publishing company. I use them herein for discussion purposes only.</div>
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One of her albums that I loved from the moment I popped in the CD for the first time was the <i>Stones in the Road</i> recording. On it, there is a song entitled, <i>Jubilee</i>. From the first time I heard it, I was receiving it as a celebration of bringing a soul back to the fold after being away. This soul's absence had been of his or her own creation and it's perpetuation of that separation was also self-imposed. </div>
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<i>I can tell by the way you're walking</i></div>
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<i>That you don't want company</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Well, I'll let you alone and </i></div>
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<i>I'll let you walk on</i></div>
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<i>In your own good time you'll be</i></div>
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<i>Back where the sun can find you</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Under the wise wishing tree</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And with all of them made</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>We'll lie under the shade</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And call it a jubilee...</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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A jubilee? What exactly is a jubilee? It is defined as a celebration that occurs after 50 years, such as the 50th year of a monarch's rule, or an anniversary of a country's founding involving 50 years. It's origin, though, may well have come from Leviticus 25:8-55. In this passage, jubilee is discussed as being related to atonement; the redeeming of property, land, livestock, etc., the sale of which may have become necessary in the previous 50 years. The Bible is replete with references to the number 7; indeed, God created the world in "7 days", and Jesus himself indicated that number of times forgiveness needs to be granted is "70 times 7". Of course, 7 times 7 is 49. So for 49 years, business goes on, but in the 49th year, provisions must be made for that year of atonement, of redemption, of "making things right". During the 50th year, the redemption process - the atonement - occurs and so do the celebrations. I encourage you to find your Old Testament, and read this passage. (Leviticus is the 3rd book of the Holy Bible.) Jubilee is the celebration of the redemption.</div>
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<i>I can tell by the way you're talking</i></div>
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<i>That the past isn't letting you go</i></div>
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<i>Well, it's only so long you can take it all on</i></div>
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<i>Then the wrong's gotta be on its own</i></div>
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<i>When you're ready to leave it behind you</i></div>
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<i>And you look back on all that you see,</i></div>
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<i>It's the wreckage and rust that you left in the dust</i></div>
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<i>On your way to the jubilee!</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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One of the matters with which I find myself having difficulty is that message of forgiveness. I don't think I'm a terribly horrible person, but there are times that I still see or remember things I've done or said that I wish I had not. I have asked God to forgive me, but somehow I haven't been able to forgive myself. This is a failing on my part, for who am I to NOT forgive when God already has? That's pretty arrogant of me. I do know that when something I've carried for a long time is finally released, it is most wonderfully freeing!!</div>
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<i>I can tell by the way you're listening</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>That you're still expecting to hear</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You're name being called like a summons to all</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Who have failed to account for their doubts and their fears</i></div>
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<i>They can't add up to much without you</i></div>
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<i>And so if it were just up to me</i></div>
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<i>I'd take hold of your hand, saying come hear the band</i></div>
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<i>Play your song at the jubilee!</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Truly, one of the conundrums in which we find ourselves involves our conflicting senses of wanting to trust in God's answering our prayers, yet not being able to be patient, or deciding that God is not answering when He is either saying "no", "not now" or "I have something better in mind". Maybe He hasn't been able to get our attention away from TV, our "smart phones" or other distractions. We shrink away in horror at the idea of being angry with God, or not trusting him. We fear His anger. We fear the consequences of continuing on our way without that confirmation from Him that we are on the right path. We fear the silence in which we have to listen for His words, because we might not like the answers.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I can tell by the way you're searching</i></div>
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<i>For something you can't even name</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>That you haven't been able to come to the table</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Simply glad that you came</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When you feel this way try to imagine</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>That we're all like frail boats on the sea</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Scanning the night for that great guiding light</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Announcing the jubilee</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Perhaps most frightening for me, anyway, is knowing exactly what it is that is missing. I know that something is, but what? Like many, I find myself thinking that if <i>x</i> happens, then I'll be happy; only when it does, I'm not. It's easy to back away when I feel like a fool, than it is to simply stop, be quiet and look. The thing is, none of us have to feel this way!</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>And I can tell by the way you're standing </i></div>
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<i>With your eyes filling with tears</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>That it's habit alone keeps you turning for home</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Even though your home is right here</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Where the people who love you are gathered</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Under the wise wishing tree</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Let us all be considered then straight on delivered</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Down to the jubilee</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Where the people who love you are waiting</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And they'll wait just as long as need be.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When we look back and say those were halcyon days</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>We're talking about jubilee!</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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The last two refrains remind me of several of Jesus' parables, but in particular, the prodigal son. The son in the story has been in a sort of self-imposed exile, comes back begging forgiveness, leaving his wreckage behind him, hoping against hope that he will be allowed to be in his father's presence again. The father redeems him and there is great celebration in the household. Let's call it a jubilee! </div>
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May the Peace of Jesus Christ be with you!</div>
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<br /></div>
Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-52434680830431929722016-06-06T22:34:00.000-04:002016-06-06T22:34:45.028-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
My Father</div>
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On December 16, 2014, at approximate 5 pm, Oscar Floyd
Hooker took his last breath while sleeping. He was 92 years old. My mother was right where she always had been
in the previous 66 years and 4 months; sitting beside him, holding his
hand. The hospice nurse had just cleaned
him up and changed his bed linens; while rounding the corner of his bed, she
looked back at him and noticed a slight change in his coloring. She stepped back to his side with her
stethoscope, and determined that he had slipped away quietly. She went out to call my brother, who had gone
with his wife to run an errand. He
called me. I had been the night shift
the previous night, and had been napping for about an hour. Within half an hour, we were all again in
that room with my mom and my father’s remains.
As my brother would later make note in a beautiful poem, we told
stories, remembering things he had said or done - - usually funny things – half
expecting him to wake up and correct the errors in our story-telling. Maybe wishing that he would.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am a Southern girl, and we have special relationships with
our daddies - - and make no mistake, he was my daddy! It’s somewhat hard to explain. There are many issues that only my mother
could handle, but some were particularly “daddy territory”. Those usually related to my car. Or money.
I remember once when I had moved back to Charleston, South Carolina from
San Francisco, I had a job interview in South Augusta, SC. Dad just had to get the map out and show me
“the best route” to go, even though he had never been there. He had driven from Charleston to Atlanta a
few times, and never mind that I had found my way around San Francisco, Los Angeles,
Phoenix, Dallas -Fort Worth, Kansas City, Chicago, Syracuse, NY, all over
Florida and a few other places on my own, this was THE best way to go! I just listened. Now, of course, I just plug in the address
in my GPS and head out!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Dad had shown me the best way to go in many areas of my
life. Sometimes I listened and heeded
his words. Sometimes I just listened,
remembering his words after I had made a mess of things. Always, I hated to invoke his
disappointment, as I did on more than one occasion. He always, ALWAYS forgave me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There was one time, when I was about 18 months - - and no, I
do not remember this first hand - - that we were out in the front yard, and I
can only guess that he had been playing with us and stopped to have a
conversation with someone who dropped by.
People were always dropping by….
Anyway, I marched right up to him with those hard soled little toddler
shoes and kicked the heck out of his shin!
I am alive to tell the story because he laughed, even as he massaged his
leg!<o:p></o:p></div>
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That was not the only time his laughter saved me from
certain death. When I was about four,
maybe five, he had been left alone with us, and between the three of us, the
den was quite cluttered with our toys.
Most of the toys were usually housed in a cedar chest that I now have in
my living room; the longer ones - - the toy rifles, my baton, etc - - were
stood in the corner beside the back door.
We had been playing, and cutting up with him, and he had a defiant,
sarcastic sense of playfulness sometimes, when he suddenly looks at his watch
and told us that “mommy would be home soon” and to “put your toys away.” I was across the room from the corner where
my baton belonged, and I started walking – albeit slowly - - toward it,
twirling the baton as I went. It wasn’t
fast enough, and he interpreted my lack of speed as disobedience. The origin of the idea in my mind for what
happened next is still a mystery, but, he leaned over me with a very mean
expression on his face, clapped his hands and pointed to the corner. I set the baton down, looked directly into
his face, adopted the same expression, clapped my hands and also pointed to the
corner. I heard my brother’s gasp
behind me as I stared into my father’s face, instantly wishing I hadn’t done
it, but somehow knowing that if I moved before my dad did, I would surely
die. We were thus frozen for what
seemed like an eternity, but then I saw the twinkle come back into my dad’s
eyes and his facial muscles moving into a laugh. I jerked that baton off the floor, ran to
the corner to put it away, and picked up the rest of my toys as quickly as I
could! We were still talking about that
incident during his last week in the hospice, and still chuckling. My instincts were correct; he had forced
himself to laugh at me so he wouldn’t hurt me in his profound anger at my
defiance!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
For reasons that I’ll not share here, I spent a good part of
my early life with a sense of inferiority, and a strange idea that I was not
supposed to be alive. Indeed, I had a
few incidents of daredevil activity in my early childhood that could have
resulted in serious injury or even death, had others not been around to prevent
them. (I did get a broken right arm in
one such occasion. It only served to
assist me in nearly ambidextrous behavior for a while. I still do a lot of things with my left hand
because of it, even though I am right handed.)
I was driven to make good grades, to play music, to sing, to be the best
I could be so that I could win approval, even though I knew my parents and the
rest of my family loved me. I just
wanted to be kept around. I don’t know
exactly when the full on depression started, but I know it was there by my
teenage years. Folks just thought I was
weird or conceited. I’ll cop to weird;
never to conceited. If people only knew how much I felt like a
fraud.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
About a month before my father’s passing, I showed him a
document to which I had contributed significantly. It was published, and is in use. He told me he was proud of me. Not only for that, but for all the things I
had been doing, especially in the church.
He was proud of how I had handled my husband’s death a couple of years
earlier (don’t think he ever read about that herein; he might not have been so
proud). I might as well have received a
Nobel prize or something that monumental; my father took the time to list
things for which I had made him proud.
I’m not sure my feet hit the floor or the ground for the rest of the
afternoon!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
On the Sunday before he passed away on that Tuesday
afternoon, he called each of us individually to his side. If we weren’t physically present, he had us
telephone the missing ones. He talked
to me, to my sister-in-law, we called my brother, my niece with the great-grandkids,
and my nephew. He told each of us how
much he loved us, how proud he was of his family and how much he would miss
us! Many tears were shed, most of which
came when he took off his wedding ring and put it on my mother’s finger with
her rings that he had given her. We all
got to tell him how much we loved him, how proud we were of him and how much we
would miss him, too! He called out to
God and to the angels to please come and get him. Nothing important was left
unsaid. No regrets. No recriminations. Just love.
He mostly slept after that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once he was gone and we were planning his memorial service,
I learned that when we had first moved to Birmingham, Alabama, in the 1960’s,
there had been a Freedom March, in which all the local pastors had been invited
to participate. Dad went the Session of
our church, told them of his intentions to march, and invited them to march
with him. Only one of them had the
fortitude to do it. They became
life-long friends after that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My father taught me through word and deed that:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Family is of paramount importance after God.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->People are people, regardless of skin color,
nationality, creed, gender preference or identity, etc.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->God is Lord of all. What we believe about God doesn’t change who
God is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Doing the right thing doesn’t make one popular,
but it helps one sleep at night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Once, in 2000, when my parents had moved to Jacksonville
where my brother was living, Dad had to have a catheterization procedure on his
heart. He reacted badly to the dye, and
became critically ill. I was told to,
“get on a plane and get down here”. When I arrived, my brother met me at the
airport and drove me to the hospital.
As we were walking across the parking lot, he suddenly grabbed my arm
and said, “Susie Q, you are going to meet some people that I work with, in all
likelihood. They are coming to see Dad,
but also to see me. When they meet you
and refer to you as the ‘foster child’, just go with it!” I laughed, saying, “the joke’s on you; I
look more like Daddy than you do!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am proud of that fact!
And I am proud of the man that my father was on earth. My daddy…
I miss you so much!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAoY1r57hg7r3waH8nJy7fE-GWo1Vx1JNb1xUy7fOWtkBga8opWrlBYjdiNSFZ8u8MVJqSdcjgX-VIngpopaP-N1uhpQk6TvIZ80vGedhcoyOtG4M-bklNGNTz2xjw2v5r8Bs-AfswBh8/s1600/daddy+in+1979.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAoY1r57hg7r3waH8nJy7fE-GWo1Vx1JNb1xUy7fOWtkBga8opWrlBYjdiNSFZ8u8MVJqSdcjgX-VIngpopaP-N1uhpQk6TvIZ80vGedhcoyOtG4M-bklNGNTz2xjw2v5r8Bs-AfswBh8/s1600/daddy+in+1979.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In 1979</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqA11Erog9SI2KG2Rn5IyuRy2EsvrlQSc66zx8mSwSWhxR0TTFLqdSFweP0KE2fk6OlGCXI3XhL4sfXpafaNwO30t_uYtzKu8gxXFrQgwEKroQzXcAFsEQm1-kiRqsbJjSGqlxLe07390/s1600/dad+and+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqA11Erog9SI2KG2Rn5IyuRy2EsvrlQSc66zx8mSwSWhxR0TTFLqdSFweP0KE2fk6OlGCXI3XhL4sfXpafaNwO30t_uYtzKu8gxXFrQgwEKroQzXcAFsEQm1-kiRqsbJjSGqlxLe07390/s320/dad+and+me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture of him and me just before walking me down the aisle<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3RW9Ze1fyF6s5DnDvf-Gd2UBcralUgm3MDD4tCBlATylpS1RYVfQUFMH2sj7_PCQRuqkEgnzcl1DbFjpo_Nbm7wpMkasDiI51-Wiu3sYuIPJtf5k1vjjNXd-S8Q3iDhacx566kFPUnQ/s1600/mom+and+dad+at+Bethany%2527s+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3RW9Ze1fyF6s5DnDvf-Gd2UBcralUgm3MDD4tCBlATylpS1RYVfQUFMH2sj7_PCQRuqkEgnzcl1DbFjpo_Nbm7wpMkasDiI51-Wiu3sYuIPJtf5k1vjjNXd-S8Q3iDhacx566kFPUnQ/s320/mom+and+dad+at+Bethany%2527s+wedding.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad on June 24, 2006, at my niece's wedding </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwKc1zZggxuYjUoY-gzPeLotxRNZIh93EqJLuhh_VcyCchvBINlkJnWKzN6efUYXrx7iwCt1k-YoZmqEcqYgS7GjA5xBLQswULpIgsIa4_ogrU8IcNdYAonhCtGji5c5dVGYaDbnC3DRo/s1600/mom+and+dad+on+his+last+birthday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwKc1zZggxuYjUoY-gzPeLotxRNZIh93EqJLuhh_VcyCchvBINlkJnWKzN6efUYXrx7iwCt1k-YoZmqEcqYgS7GjA5xBLQswULpIgsIa4_ogrU8IcNdYAonhCtGji5c5dVGYaDbnC3DRo/s320/mom+and+dad+on+his+last+birthday.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On his last birthday, November 22, 2014.<br /></td></tr>
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Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-15196823318838823222016-06-02T22:13:00.000-04:002016-06-02T22:13:44.077-04:00And God Made Liesl<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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It has been a while
since I last posted here; over two years.
I was a little stunned by that the last time I looked at it, with that
entry being one for the Lenten season in 2014.
Much has happened in that time. When I wrote in March 2014, I was still stinging from a
string of three horrendous losses.
First, the loss of my husband in July 2012, then the unexpected, sudden
need to euthanize my beloved 11 year-old hound-pit bull mix, Opie, in May 2013
and finally the not unexpected, but devastating decision to send almost 16 year-old
Lab mix, Sandy, to Rainbow Bridge in December 2013. We had raised these two each from when they
were small puppies. In just over 20
months, I had gone from having a high stress job in Fredericksburg, a wonderful
(but progressively ill) husband and two loud, rambunctious canines, to being
retired, widowed and existing alone in a big, cluttered, and terribly quiet
house. “Stinging” doesn’t begin to
describe it; “reeling” is more like it.
More losses were coming, I just didn’t know it yet, and, as the saying
goes, they usually come in threes. That
was the case with mine.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I spent a great deal of time in 2014 traveling around,
especially the early part of the year. I
jumped into a lot of projects for the church, and for the presbytery. I spent a lot of time away from the house,
away from all the projects, the cleaning out and the pain of getting rid of
things that held such memories. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Around the beginning of May, I thought I was over the worst
of my grief, and realized that the house was entirely too quiet. I started thinking about needing a companion
- - one who would be by my side, who would love me unconditionally, who would
cuddle with me, who would let me cry when I needed to, yet be entertaining
enough to lift my spirits when I felt down; one who actually needed me as much
or more than I needed him or her. I
wanted someone to be happy when I came home!
In short, I needed another dog!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6414858248839642308&pli=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I decided after having a lot of contact with the dog owned
by my Crossfit trainers, that I needed a German Shepherd, and it needed to be
from an eastern European bloodline. I
wanted a puppy, figuring I had time to spend with one. I searched breeders, and found one in West
Virginia that specialized in DDR (the former East Germany) bloodlines. Many of their pups had the black sable
coloring - - which I love! I told the
breeder the traits for which I was looking, that I wanted my new four-legged
best friend and she told me she was preparing two of her females for breeding
with her newest imported male from Germany.
My name was put on a list, and the wait began. While waiting, it came to me that I should
call her Liesl, commonly used in Germany, but which is originally from the Hebrew, Elisheba, and means “oath of God.”</div>
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The breeder and I communicated quite a bit over the next few
weeks, and finally I got the word that the selected female was indeed in
whelp. (Pregnant, for all of us who
don’t know the correct terminology)
Finally, on June 29, 2014, I got the word that the puppies were born - -
seven males and three females, but one female had died. I was assured that one of the two would be
mine. Approximately five weeks later, I
received a photograph of the “crew”, with the one pup at the right end being
the lone surviving female. I fell in
love instantly.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20zZfASqyU0hLbYVtpy1s52q3wr3e_dfGAArMcJMK_cCSPb5OTBGITeHctJ6oCzLLNab9tV6v4xfQrJzHEGghp4nzfmtmTwxel1YLy-JxjuymyzbJur1p3Ti435Slepex7fzR5T47Esw/s1600/Liesl+at+5+weeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj20zZfASqyU0hLbYVtpy1s52q3wr3e_dfGAArMcJMK_cCSPb5OTBGITeHctJ6oCzLLNab9tV6v4xfQrJzHEGghp4nzfmtmTwxel1YLy-JxjuymyzbJur1p3Ti435Slepex7fzR5T47Esw/s320/Liesl+at+5+weeks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(See her cropped image). Of all the pups in the photograph, she was
the only one looking at the camera, and interacting with it! I knew she was my Liesl.</div>
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Of course, it was far too early to get her; she was too
little to leave her mother. So, for
five more weeks, I anxiously ticked off the days, waiting to get the word that
I could come and pick her up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On September 9<sup>th</sup>, after having been to the Lockn
Music Festival in Arrington, Virginia, I went to Lexington and met with the breeder
to get my girl. I had on a brand new
Widespread Panic tee shirt. Finally,
they arrived, took her little crate out of the truck, set on the ground and
opened the little door. She ran out
straight to me, stood on her hind legs, with her front paws on my knees. I picked her up. She showered my face with puppy kisses and
the front of my brand new tee shirt with puppy pee! I didn’t care; she was mine and the tee shirt could be
washed!<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJACaIgoryw3Vl-3EAQi5yv20sADB_aUrdkMjlB2ic8uxBSAWmxKIgkNfZJvphpR0nTDBANpLIxJZOdIpMAf-LbOzOPthrih4enJYNy9ezzg-cYeHbP_RZRHTWCPScnPjVr2vgh7F7fiY/s1600/crop+of+me+holding+Liesl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJACaIgoryw3Vl-3EAQi5yv20sADB_aUrdkMjlB2ic8uxBSAWmxKIgkNfZJvphpR0nTDBANpLIxJZOdIpMAf-LbOzOPthrih4enJYNy9ezzg-cYeHbP_RZRHTWCPScnPjVr2vgh7F7fiY/s320/crop+of+me+holding+Liesl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I found out on that trip home that she was (and still is) a good
little traveler! She quietly lay in her
crate and pooped all over it. I stopped
to clean it and her as best I could, and we began our adventure together!</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We were never apart for that first month. Wherever I went, so did she, except for
worship services. About a week after I got her, I took her with me to
Charlotte, NC, for the quarter- and semi-final matches for the first season of
GRID. In the lobby during our trips in and out of the hotel for potty breaks, she introduced me to the New York Rhinos GRID team! She was great, except for crying
and barking a little too much the first night while I was gone. She accompanied me to meetings, often laying
in my lap (or someone else’s) and sleeping.
I took her little lightweight travel crate and sometimes she would play
in there, but mostly she wanted to be out where the people were, and in that
first couple of months, introduced me to the majority of Warrenton! Our next door neighbor also has a German
Shepherd, and the two of them are BFF’s now!
Aside from 2 exceptions, she has never encountered a person or creature
with whom she did not want to play!
(one exception was the copperhead that bit her paw in 2015, and the
other was the cable guy from a couple of months ago.) <br />
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From the beautiful, auspicious beginnings, though, she has
been a handful! Her innate
friendliness and exuberance has cost me a bit of money. German Shepherds love to chew on
things. She is no exception. She has
greatly assisted me in “evaluating” things in the house about which I was
previously undecided to keep or toss.
She has been a struggle to house-train, as she figured out early on how
to escape her crates! She also has
figured out how to get out of the gates at my neighbor’s fenced in yard!<o:p></o:p><br />
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I had to have a fence constructed to allow her to run and
expend some of her energy, as she is far too strong for me to control any other
way. Just as she had introduced me to
many people in Warrenton, she has reintroduced me to my neighbors, as she will
go on rounds to see them, if she manages to wriggle loose from me when exiting
our gate! I am more a part of the
neighborhood now, than I ever have been before!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoyUxQagVv42Hv5YZkW3nzTQQ0MfMoW-pLPKikMheRrYc-A_14A10YnhJkKQRtLBTGFCD6W6GcR-3r9Chq6aS9hW1vAclyHbZD-zbQz0JAwLIA5a-44KYXHzjlYtzdzoNY00xJ7ptOa7k/s1600/IMG_2086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoyUxQagVv42Hv5YZkW3nzTQQ0MfMoW-pLPKikMheRrYc-A_14A10YnhJkKQRtLBTGFCD6W6GcR-3r9Chq6aS9hW1vAclyHbZD-zbQz0JAwLIA5a-44KYXHzjlYtzdzoNY00xJ7ptOa7k/s320/IMG_2086.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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For all her destructiveness, her boundless energy and her
stubborn unwillingness to obey commands on the first utterance, she is a loving
companion. She cuddles with me, lifts my
spirits when I am feeling down, needs me and always greets me with a wagging
tail and happy face! She has grown into
being a gorgeous GSD. God saw that I
was unhappy. He saw that I needed a
companion, and he made Liesl for me. She
is God’s oath to me - - with her, I will
never be alone, never need a companion, never go without affection or being
needed, never go without being loved!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-82407103881352176712014-03-21T23:45:00.001-04:002014-03-21T23:45:14.711-04:00On Love and Vulnerability - - A Lenten Devotional
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On page 77 of his beautiful book,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Open Mind, Open Heart</i>, Thomas Keating
writes the following:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Suffering is part of the warp and woof of
living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not an end in itself, but
part of the price one has to pay for being greatly loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love, whether human or divine, makes you
vulnerable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>And from page 14 of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heart of the World,</i> he writes: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vulnerability means to be hurt over and over
again without seeking to love less, but more.</i></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course, most of us are
familiar with I Corinthians 13, concerning God’s gift of love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starting at verse 4, it says, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love is patient, love is kind; love is not
envious or boastful or arrogant or rude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it
does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Love never ends.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I Corinthians
13: 4 – 8a, NRSV)</i></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lent is a season in which we are
reminded of God’s intense love for His creation, and the pain and suffering God
endured on our behalf, and the supreme sacrifice made for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over
the past couple of years, I have been reminded numerous times about pain,
suffering, sacrifice and vulnerability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have not seen the necessity in Lent for “giving up” something
relatively trivial like-- dare I say it-- chocolate, in the short term only to
revel in on Easter Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, chocolate
does not begin to approach the magnitude of what many I have lost for the
remainder of my time on this planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So what is the victory I will celebrate on Easter?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I will celebrate the fact that I
am loved by a family, numerous sets of friends and acquaintances, and a God who
loves me so much that He was willing to endure the pain, suffering and
vulnerability to allow His Son to be sacrificed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will celebrate that death does not have
the last word on a life, and that my sins were taken into the grave… and left
there!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will celebrate that love
endures all things and never ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
not promised that it will never hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am not promised that everything will go the way I think it should, or
that I can be entirely carefree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
not promised that physical, mental and emotional maladies will not rear their
unpleasant heads from time to time, hurling me into the depths of pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am promised that I am loved, and that love will survive all ills, provide hope,
and remain throughout eternity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Can your chocolate do that?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Heavenly Father, thank you for loving me so much that you sacrificed your Son. Thank you for the steadfast, faithfulness of your love and mercy, that rose victorious on that first Easter morning, and which sustains us still. Help us to be mindful of those among us who are in pain, are suffering and vulnerable. Help us to remember when we are hurting that it is a sign of being loved. In Jesus' precious name, Amen.</em></span></div>
Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-87516308374320099672013-08-12T03:54:00.000-04:002013-08-12T03:54:07.642-04:00With A Million Stars All Around<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, it has been a while since I
have added anything to this site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
haven’t felt particularly moved to express anything until this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I write this, events are
happening in the sky above my home - - and likely yours as well - -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but you may not be witnessing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact, if you are not retired, you probably are sleeping at this
moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there are meteor showers predicted,
and indeed some of my friends on social media have reported seeing them
already, with the best viewing times yet to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have been out already - - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a couple of times - - the last time, spreading
a beach towel on the ground in my back yard and lying back, gazing at the sky
above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I did so, several things came
to mind, things that made me realize I didn’t need to see the actual meteor
shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve seen them before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, other<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>messages came to mind that I think may have been the real reason I was
led outdoors instead of to my bed to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you will permit me, I’ll share these with you here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">First of all, there was a
haziness to the viewing at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Initially, I interpreted it as cloudiness, as we have had some rain this
weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the longer I was outside,
the clearer the sky seemed and the more defined the stars seemed in that
sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was reminded of the passage in I
Corinthians about seeing in a mirror dimly but then face to face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, our understanding is blurred; but
eventually, it will all be clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or,
in the more recent words of Dan Fogelberg, “one day, we’ll all understand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My first reverie was rudely
interrupted by the sudden appearance of a bat, flying about a foot from my
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to scramble to ensure that
it did not find its way inside my dwelling where my beautiful aging canine was
sweetly sleeping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But a few minutes later,
I was back outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was then reminded that John
used to wake me up to come outside and witness meteor showers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It used to irritate me a little,
particularly if I had to work the next day, but he kept up with such events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find myself doing it now, and tonight it
made me feel a sense of his being near that I have not experienced in a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a comfortable feeling, and one for
which I am thankful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a lasting
gift he has given me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was aware of the sounds of the
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nights in rural areas are loud;
not with sounds of sirens and horns so much, or even human voices, but insects
doing the various things they do that make noise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bats fly around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Breezes in the trees rustle the leaves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most animals are sleeping, but one hears an occasional
twig snap in the woods…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could be
deafening for those not accustomed to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I lay there, I realized that this ground on which I was reclining,
these trees that were inhibiting somewhat my view of the sky and this house
looming above me to my side are, for this point in time, mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not know that I have ever felt this
connected to this place, that it is so much a part of me, or I a part of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I lay there on that silly,
thin, little beach towel, relishing the firm, cool ground beneath my head and
back, I gazed up at the myriad of stars above me, and realized that in other
states, maybe even other countries, there were others similarly situated,
looking up at these same heavenly bodies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In that moment, we were all connected!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We ARE all connected!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing
that certain of these people happen to be friends of mine made that fact so
much more comforting because in that moment, I felt as if they were lying next
to me on the ground, gazing skyward and experiencing the same sense of awe and
wonder as was I. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And in that moment, with a
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Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-69133397483815481832013-02-14T18:57:00.002-05:002013-02-14T18:57:52.027-05:00Happy Valentine's Day<div style="text-align: justify;">
Like you, I have been aware of this designated day of love for most of my life. This is my first Valentine’s Day as a widow. I find myself telling many friends and family members to enjoy this day, and that I love them - - and I do - - and yet, something feels just a little bit off. It is not just because I am no longer married on this earth. It is something else. There is something about the meaning of this day of which I am not really a part this year, or at least, I did not think so.</div>
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Until this year, I never particularly cared how the observance got started, or why it has become such an expression of romance and love. Is this some centuries old tradition or an invention by florists, candy makers and greeting card manufacturers to sell merchandise? I was a tiny bit surprised at what I found just by looking on the website called Wikipedia. (I am drawing my descriptions of a few of the legends from that website.) As one might expect, there are a number of explanations - - all of them quite old. </div>
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It would seem that at least one legend goes back to third century Rome, when Claudius II decided that single men were better in battle than married men, so he outlawed marriage for young men. A priest named Valentine decided that this was an unjust mandate, and began performing secret marriages for these young lovers. When it was discovered, this Valentine was put to death. </div>
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Another story regarding the death of Valentine was that he assisted Christians in escaping prison, where they were beaten and tortured. He himself was thrown into jail. It is reported that he personally sent the first “valentine” when he signed a letter to the object of his affection, purported to be the jailor’s daughter, as “from your Valentine” just before he was martyred.</div>
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These are legends, of course. But apparently, this Valentine was known to be a sympathetic, heroic and ultimately romantic, figure - - one who literally acted out of, and for romantic love. He was reported to have been put to death on or around the 14th of February in the year 270.</div>
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As with many of our Christian celebrations, it is also thought that our St. Valentine’s Day is a “Christianization” of a pagan fertility festival called Lupercalia, occurring in mid-February. The Luperci was an order of Roman priests. They would gather at the cave where the founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus, were supposedly raised from infanthood by she-wolves. They would then sacrifice a goat for fertility and a dog for purification. After killing the animals, they would cut the goat’s hide into strips, dip them in the blood of the sacrificed animals and gently slap them against women as well as in the fields to engender increased fertility in both. Subsequent to this morning activity, the women would gather in the center of the town and place their names in a large urn. Young men would step forward and draw these names from the urn and thus, men and women would be paired. These pairings often resulted in marriage. And children.</div>
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Lupercalia initially survived the onset of Christianity, but was outlawed as “un-Christian” at the end of the 5th century. February 14th was designated as Valentine’s Day by Pope Gelasius. It was not until much later that it came to be definitively associated with love. In the Middle Ages, in England and France, it was thought that the mating season for birds began on or around the ides, or middle, of February, so that is another explanation of the timing of Valentine’s Day.</div>
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So, legends abound, and the day has long been associated with romantic love. Present day merchants are not totally to blame for this one… Not totally.</div>
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I’ve been very fortunate. Since my teens, there have been relatively few years that I have marked a Valentine’s Day outside of a romantic relationship of some sort. Certainly, this is the first in the last twenty years. Yet, I am not sad or feeling deprived of love this year! In fact, just to the contrary!</div>
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When “hosting” and “serving” a Valentine’s Dinner at my church earlier this week, I wanted to honor my love for, and marriage to, my late husband in some way. I did not want to feel sad or weepy; I wanted to enjoy the fellowship that such an evening could bring by serving others. (He had rarely attended these dinners due to his schedule and health concerns, yet I always knew he was at home waiting for me.) Thanks to my recent diet and exercise activities, I was able to wear the same outfit that I had worn to the rehearsal dinner on the night before our wedding in 1993. I put on the engagement ring John had given me, as I wore it that night 19 years ago, and wore also the emerald and diamond ring that he gave me to replace a marquis-shaped birthstone emerald class ring from college that got lost some years ago. My sister-in-law had given me a framed snapshot taken of us the night of the rehearsal where John was hugging me. I took that picture and placed it on the registration table at our Valentine’s Dinner. No matter what I was doing during the evening, I felt that John was there with me, in spirit, as he always had been in our life together. I remembered how happy and hopeful we were that night in 1993, anticipating the years we would have together, and by doing so, I was buoyed and joyous throughout an evening that perhaps some others were finding to be sad and empty. </div>
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This year, I did not need the flowers and since I am not supposed to be eating candy anyway, did not miss the chocolate! I have plenty of cards he had given me throughout our relationship. All I have to do is read them, or just look around to see the memories of the love he and I shared, and the life we built over the years in this house; whether through furnishings, the dogs we adopted, or pictures of us. I know that he loved me, and he knew that I loved him. We said so every day, multiple times, and managed to find ways of expressing it in other ways, too. I have not stopped feeling love for him, nor him for me, just because he has passed on to life with God in Heaven. As we held hands and he breathed his last on that day seven months ago, my final words to him were that I had and would always love him; and I always have and will. </div>
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As children of the living God, all of us are called to love each other. Love is action, not just an emotion. Love is putting the benefit of others before that of self. In the case of romantic love which today celebrates, the actions and demonstrations are more specific in nature, and generally support procreation activities. They have since the beginning of humanity, and are gifts from God, no matter how they have been perverted over the years for evil purposes. It is a gift worth celebrating!</div>
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If you are in a romantic relationship right now, celebrate it! Do those things for your beloved that tell that person how important he or she is to you! If you are “alone” physically due to the passing on of your beloved, remember with joy what you shared and celebrate! If you are between relationships, remember with joy those good times you have had, trust that God has something so very special in mind for you, and be open to it! And celebrate! </div>
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Happy Valentine’s Day!</div>
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Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-42499575686921659212013-01-22T23:50:00.000-05:002013-01-22T23:50:12.322-05:00The Fullness of Emptiness<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Apostle Paul wrote in one of his letters that the Christ emptied Himself of His divinity to become a human being named Jesus and to live among other humans on earth. We talk of glasses being half empty or half full when describing how we view the situations in which we find ourselves. Those who are widowed speak of a profound loneliness felt even while in the midst of a crowd of friends and relatives. And ministers and other writers struggle with those vast, blank pages or screens when deadlines are looming and the words simply will not come.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have become familiar with all but the first of these examples of emptiness. I have experienced it more in the last six months than I ever have even imagined before. There have been far too many days that were full of chores to be done, but no energy, interest or drive emerged to get them completed. In some cases, no energy, interest or drive emerged even to get them started! I have spent far too long in the land of “why bother and what’s the point”. I have been choosing to live in the past, dredging up memories - - good ones and not so good ones - - in part to smile, but often to feel pain. Feeling pain is an indication that I still have the capacity for feeling; that I did not die with John back in July. I have thought of the future as a nightmare I have yet to dream.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have been looking at my life as I would a piece of paper that has been crumpled into a ball and discarded, only to be retrieved and pressed back out; with worn places where words have been written and erased, no longer fresh, clean and crisp; but soft, worn in some places, torn in others and generally wrinkled. And few words remain. All of the terms that previously identified my life are faded, with some eradicated completely. The page is empty, devoid of what it once held. I’ve been mourning for this almost as much as I have been grieving the loss of my husband. I wonder who I am now, and who I am to be. There is a drained, cavernous feeling within my soul.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And yet, I realize that this very abyss is spacious enough for such potential! As I have crossed the meridian into middle age, retirement and widowhood, the bonds that previously described my life have loosened. This life, this canvas, much like a priceless painting that had been covered over then subsequently restored, may well yet hold a masterpiece that the Artist painted years before my birth. As I struggled in my early life, I awkwardly and pitifully painted over God’s purpose even as I searched for it, placing there instead a youthful and inexperienced representation of what my life could be. In places, I think I stumbled onto pieces of my destiny. But as a student tries to learn a skill without consulting a trained professional or at least without sufficient practice, my attempts at life have been ill informed and would have benefitted greatly from some additional instruction and apprenticeship. I hope to not make the same mistakes again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I raise the burning candle of my faith and peer into the darkness of the future, my hand trembles, sending the melting wax dripping down on my fingers, but I am not burned by regrets or guilt. It is not a tremor based in fear, but one of awe. It is the excitement of knowing that in a real sense, I can start over from here, <em>knowing what I know and having lived what I lived!</em> Yes, I have already lived longer than I likely have ahead of me, so those worn places are apt to permanently absorb the ink with which the rest of my life will be written, so I need to get it right. I have a limited amount of time - - the exact duration known only to God - - to live the life He planned for me. Where I go from here, and what I am able to accomplish is taking on a higher sense of urgency.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">May the Peace of Christ - - the One who experienced the most profound emptiness in order to live with us - - be with you! </span></div>
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Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-15068053938865429642012-11-05T19:42:00.000-05:002012-11-05T19:42:45.551-05:00Grieving<div style="text-align: justify;">
On Sunday, November 4, 2012, I participated in a venue for getting acquainted with two members of our church’s confirmation class, and to that end, they ‘interviewed’ me, and I likewise did with them. One of these boys is the teen I am sponsoring during this academic year. During the conversation, they asked me to relate to them the significant events in my life, and among those, times when I felt that God was present in my life - - times when I felt that God was leading me. Naturally, the important events include John’s illnesses and subsequent death. Both boys were sympathetic, yet curious. As with any first real conversation, each boy tried to indicate a common understanding, and yet, of course, they cannot match experience for experience. They have not been married yet, and therefore have not lost a spouse. One of them had faced the serious illness of a parent, and has watched his grandfather grieve the loss of his grandmother. As we discussed it, he abruptly said that he was sorry to keep talking about death. I guess he was afraid of hurting me, or of bringing up unpleasant memories.</div>
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As I reflected on this discussion throughout the ensuing afternoon and evening, it occurred to me that probably a lot of people fear approaching a grieving person for fear of causing that individual pain - - or evoking tears in the mourning individual - - as if crying were the thing to be avoided at all costs. Since I am now something of an expert in my own grief struggle, I decided to share some thoughts with you. I can’t say that my experience is true for others, but it is how it is for me having experienced the death of my husband.</div>
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So often over the past four months, the tears have come - - with or without aid from other people! <em>And that’s o.k.! It’s normal that some of the memories of my husband bring me to tears! I welcome them!</em> If I try to stave off the tears, it might mean avoiding the memories. And I don’t want to do that. Not a day goes by that I do not think of John; that I do not miss his silliness or even his tired grumpiness. For those of my readers who knew him, trust me, he DID have a grumpy, angry aspect to his personality that he tended to keep from most people, but felt quite free to share with me! He could infuriate me with his ultra-conservative political views, and we would occasionally argue, but in the end, it didn’t change what was important. We loved each other, and our being together <em>mattered!</em> We spent the last twenty years of his life together. We were two who became one flesh in the Father, but who have now been torn asunder - - ripped apart permanently. He’s gone and he’s not coming back! How do I wrap my brain around that? Or more accurately, how do I wrap my heart around it? My brain has accepted the facts of the situation; and yet, other parts of my soul have not. In my dreams, he and I have had conversations where he has indicated his awareness that he is no longer incarnate here with me. I wake up at first confused and then exhausted. Naturally, I am aware that dreams are often the attempts of the subconscious mind to make sense of reality. </div>
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<em>But my reality makes no sense right now without him</em>. I don’t know where I belong anymore! I want to scream that I feel a sort of emotional paralysis. I am unable to be consistently productive with the tasks involved in going on alone. Grief is physiological as well as emotional. There have been many days that I have escaped into sleep to avoid the dullness of another day without him, arising only to tend to the canines and to answer nature’s demands on me in the categories of personal hygiene, care and feeding. Many of those days have followed sleepless nights. Everything is just a bit ‘off’. I have bad days and some not so bad days. Once in a while, I even have a good day, but the good days are not quite tipping the scales yet. In time, they will. I think.<em> I hope… </em></div>
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I recalled reading a book entitled, <em>The Year of Magical Thinking</em>, written by Joan Didion. I pulled it off my bookshelf, and am rereading it; and this time, it is speaking to my heart instead of just being an interesting read from a skilled writer. I’ve found myself almost saying aloud, “yes, that’s <em>exactly</em> how it feels!” at times. Her story is the account of the horrendous events of December 2003 and early January of 2004. Their only child became desperately and gravely ill, on life support, on Christmas night. Less than a week later, on December 30th, as they are sitting down to dinner, her husband suffers a sudden, massive and fatal coronary arrest. She and her husband, fellow writer John Gregory Dunne, had been married just short of 40 years; and it was a relationship that was intricately intertwined and interwoven. They frequently worked together on writing projects - - some of them plays or screenplays of novels one of them had written. Ms. Didion writes of being simultaneously cool, even efficient in handling the necessary business details involving the facts of the situation, while almost delusional in some of her expectations for her future. I commend the book to anyone who has experienced the loss of a spouse or a child. Or perhaps, someone close to a person who has lost a spouse or a child. In a subsequent book that I have not read, I’m told that Ms. Didion recounts the further tragedy in which she experiences the pain of eventually losing her daughter to death less than two years later. </div>
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Of course, my experience is different in some very key ways. John and I were fairly independent of each other in some ways because we had been on our own as single adults well into our thirties before we married. We did not bring children into our marriage. We did not share a career path, and we were together for about half as long as Ms. Didion and her husband. John’s passing was not the bolt from the blue to me that Mr. Dunne’s death was for Ms. Didion. I had a little bit more warning that it was coming.</div>
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One of the things I am noticing is that in telling her story, Ms. Didion recalls little details of her husband’s last year that seemed, in hindsight, to indicate that perhaps he knew he didn’t have long to live. That is ringing very true for me as well. John told me fairly frequently in his last six months that he felt that he was dying; that he had waited too long to seek treatment for the condition that ultimately led to his falling so ill. I certainly knew the situation was of supreme concern, but he had pulled through before, and I believed he would again recover. Or perhaps I just wanted to believe it. But now I realize that even though the doctors had been straightforward with me the whole time, I was not prepared for his death in any respect but the factual. I was able to report the facts to my family and his; to get his immediate family there in time for us all to say goodbye. We were all with him when he died, but I was every bit as traumatized when he took his last breath as was Ms. Didion when she realized the reason the medical staff had stopped resuscitation efforts on Mr. Dunne. I was able to tell John that I loved him, and that I always would; that it was o.k. for him to let go and find his rest in the Lord. I can remember those details so clearly, yet much of the subsequent couple of weeks is a blur.</div>
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I realize that I need to bring this to a close for now. Grief is a process with which we will all be familiar at some point. Ms. Didion very skillfully described how it has been for her in her book; this blog is carrying you along my journey through the valley of shadows that the psalmist references. For the psalmist and for me, evil is not to be feared. I know with <em>absolute certainty</em> that God is with me, and I know that you are, too! For that, I am truly thankful!</div>
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Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-42958677995667927092012-08-11T05:29:00.000-04:002012-08-11T05:29:07.210-04:00Uncharted TerritoryI last posted on March 13, 2012. At that time, I was exploring what is meant by "coming home" in a number of contexts. One of those contexts was one of someone "being called home to heaven". Following my retirement and a wonderful trip to Wales, that someone in my life was my beloved husband, John Anthony Taylor.<br />
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Our final adventure together began as my Wales trip ended. I knew that he would be going into the hospital when I returned. Even as he picked me up at the airport, he was clearly struggling and I felt some pangs of guilt at having gone away. We stopped on the way home, retrieved the dogs from the kennel, and I spent the next few days getting over the jet lag. He was admitted to the hospital on May 13th for a procedure on his heart that was supposed to help with his congestive heart failure symptoms. On June 13th, John was flown (and I drove) to Duke University Medical Center in Durham, North Carolina for evaluation to determine if he would receive a rather complex heart and aortic arch transplant. His condition deteriorated rapidly after he arrived at Duke, and he developed pneumonia and a renal infection. He had a balloon pump inserted on or around June 20th and he was intubated on June 23rd. On July 5th, the doctors told me his kidneys were starting to fail. I called his family and suggested that they speed up their plans to come to Durham. They arrived on the evening of July 6th. We had the balloon pump turned off, the blood pressure elevating medication stopped and the breathing tube removed around 11:30 am on July 7th; and he was gone within ten minutes.<br />
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The next few hours were spent in meetings with various members of the Duke University's representatives for decedent affairs. My sister-in-law telephoned local funeral homes and cremation services in Durham. We selected a lovely box for the ashes. John's body was removed from the hospital and his cremation was scheduled for the following Tuesday. His brother and younger niece came to go with me to some appointments there in Durham and take care of some other items of business that needed to be done on Monday. We decided on the date for his memorial service and wrote the obituary. I waited in Durham for the appointed time to pick up his ashes on Wednesday, then I returned to Virginia.<br />
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The first few days I was back, I was a veritable whirlwind of activity. I cleaned up the kitchen, went to work out, and tried to get back to my Paleo diet. Everyone thought I was handling things so well. I was so proud of myself even as deep down, I knew better. I decided that I needed to visit my family, so I made arrangements to attend my family reunion. Then the memorial service was on July 31st. Once my family had left, and I was alone at the house, it really hit me; John is really gone and he's never coming back! I am never going to have a conversation or share a hug with him ever again! I was gutted; completely devastated. That evening, I received word that the cousin who, along with his angel of a wife, had been my support system in Durham, had also passed away. <br />
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Folks, the little boat that is carrying me down the river of my life has been tossed about on whitecapped waves, repeatedly bashed against the rocks and has now become marooned on a rather large boulder in the middle of the stream. I am wounded in a way I never imagined, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot seem to get off this rock and back to floating down the stream. The storms and flooding of retiring, the exhileration of going away for my first international trip, and the ordeal of watching the man I love lose his battle to stay alive have given way to the receding waters that have left me stranded with my oars out of the water. Despite my attempts to push myself off and back to the water, the vessel simply will not budge. So I sit here watching the currents that comprise the days of my life go by, wanting to get back into the stream but not being able to face the prospect of the storms and floods that would either enable me to float off this rock, or scuttle the ship completely. I have tried so hard to grab onto the ropes being tossed out to me, but I keep coming up short. So the sun's searing rays pierce my brain, resulting in my feeling burned, dried out and thirsty, all the way into my soul. <br />
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I know because I believe in the trinitarian God that at some point, I'll have the strength to work the oars, to catch a rope and to get back into the river. I don't know when that will happen, where the currents will take me or what God has planned for me at this point in my life. When I look back as far as my last post, I realize that I still have quite a number of my homes as defined therein. I still have my families, and friends. I still have the house in which my husband and I lived out our entire marriage. I still have the dogs we adopted 14 and 10 years ago.<br />
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So, I now have to figure out how to steer the vessel in the river once I get back into it. I'm sure that will take some time. I will probably allow my calculations and chartings to spill onto this page from time to time, and I ask in advance for your forgiveness. I've never been a widow before. I'm in uncharted territory now.<br />Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-73375768240032869132012-03-13T23:45:00.000-04:002012-03-13T23:45:09.785-04:00Welcome Home!“Welcome Home”. So much is conveyed by these two simple words. I’ve been thinking about home a lot recently, particularly as I am coming to terms with elements of my past, reconciling the truth with the ways I have chosen to remember them. In so doing, I have needed to delineate my definitions of home - - and there are several - - exorcise a few demons and wipe away the remaining debris. Herein lie a few random thoughts about home, as I have been pondering the subject.<br />
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In thinking of home as a physical address, well, I’ve had many. I counted it once, and I have lived at 18 different addresses in my life, with the longest at any one in particular being my current one in Virginia - - eighteen years and almost four months. I moved here when I got married. When I was single, I moved every chance I got at college in the dorms or the Wesley Foundation, and then at the ends of leases after I had embarked on my career. I guess I was restless and searching for something to ease the boredom. When I did manage to remain in one house, apartment or flat for more than the one year, I had to rearrange the furniture so that it felt as if I had moved. When someone asked me back in those days, “where is home,” I would answer that home was where my stuff was located. There were times that it felt as if home were a hotel room or an airplane. <br />
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My mother refers to me visiting her, my dad, my brother and his family as “coming home”, and there’s something to that. Home can be where one’s family is, and my nuclear family is there in Florida - - hundreds of miles away from our original home in Tennessee, and even well away from the homes I had in Orlando and Tampa back in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. To some extent, visiting Florida is a “been there, done that” experience because I resided in the state all those years ago for a period of about five years. On those occasions that I have been to Nashville over the years, it feels less and less like home, and yet, it’s where I was born and was home to the families of both of my parents for generations. As I write this, I am preparing to embark on a pilgrimage of sorts to Wales, birthplace of a number of distant ancestors on both sides of my family tree. Make no mistake, I’m about as American as one can be without having Native American in my heritage! And yet, I feel an indisputable tug when experiencing the music and culture of the Celtic countries.<br />
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Home may well be less of a place than a feeling of belonging. Home is safe and it is a situation, perhaps, where, or in which, I am at peace. Home is being in the company - - physical or virtual - - of those who know me the best, have my best interests at heart and accept me for the person I am, and not the one I would necessarily want others to think I am. For some, home may be a marriage, a deeply held conviction or faith, a long-standing or perhaps recently rekindled friendship, and it is often a prayer. For me, home has taken on some interesting meanings and situations: the Presbyterian Church USA, the Shenandoah Presbytery and the Warrenton Presbyterian Church congregation are home for me; my marriage to the man I love is another; my friendships with people I have known only a few months to those I met some 45 or 46 years ago, with whom I am once again in contact; all these constitute situations where I feel at home, no matter where I happen to be physically located.<br />
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I’m something of a Josh Groban fan, and on one of his more recent recordings, was a song written by Randy Newman entitled, Feels Like Home. I’ve never cared much for Newman’s compositions, but this one is absolutely beautiful, both musically and lyrically. It is undoubtedly written about a romantic relationship, but love is love. Whether agape or eros, love is that indefinable something that attracts people to one another and then binds them together forever. Similarly, home can be that inexplicable connection that people have when they are truly “mates of the soul”, whether mates in a biological or erotic sense or not. It’s that property that allows people who have not been in contact for years to meet again and pick up the relationship at the point where it was set down previously. There are a few people in my life about whom I can make the claim that they are “mates of my soul”, and the love I have for them is similar, yet still different than what I feel for my family in general and my husband in particular. Each of them “feels like home” for me every time we’re in contact. So perhaps home can be considered to be love in some sense. I’ll come back to this point.<br />
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Sometimes home lies in memories. Perhaps in vacation trips with loved ones, or in recalling those who have passed from this life. I became acquainted with grief at an early age, with the loss of my lone maternal uncle when I was still only two years old. Other relatives would follow soon thereafter in my childhood - - my paternal grandmother when I was eight and my maternal grandfather when I was twelve. My grandfather was my favorite person when I was little, and memories of spending time with him are warm and inviting, as well as comforting. This is true of others of my relatives and friends who have passed from this life, but I’ll leave them for another discussion. There are wonderful memories associated with all of them. So home can be warm and fuzzy memories.<br />
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Home is where one is known. I don’t mean that the face and name can be connected consciously, but rather, there is a deep knowledge of who this person is, his or her history, his or her opinions, and thought processes. Home is when and where one can pour out one’s very soul, trusting that the one on whom this torrent of words and emotions is being placed will honor it and respond to it with compassion and an equal sharing. Home is when and where one is the trusted recipient of such thoughts and emotions, too. It goes back to that “mate of the soul” concept for me. I have several friends with whom reestablished contact can just pick up the relationship where it was left off, even if years have elapsed in the interim.<br />
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So, if home can mean love, then by definition, home must mean God because God is love. People sometimes refer to death as being “called home” to heaven. God’s kingdom is here and now, and it will continue be home for many incarnate in the world today, as well as for those who have gone ahead of us. I cannot imagine it, but the kingdom is said to be a new heaven and a new earth. I’d like to think that earth will retain its wondrous beauties such as the Grand Canyon, or the mighty rivers such as the Amazon, mountains such as the Alps in Europe and the lush tropical beauty of a South Sea island. I also believe that all the filth and decay from evil and sin would be wiped away from all creation, whether animal, vegetable or mineral, and that we will be restored to our original purpose, which is to glorify God and enjoy him forever. <br />
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Prayer, particularly centering prayer, can incorporate many of the definitions of home. With eyes closed, in a quiet room, sitting in a comfortable chair, I can banish for a few moments some of the stresses of life, imagining myself to be enveloped in the loving arms of God - - almost like being held in my grandfather’s lap when I was little - - safe from harm, warm and comforted, resting in his strength. It sure feels like home to me! I hope it will for you as well.<br />
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May the Peace of Christ be with you, and Welcome Home!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-43504534335765050462012-03-11T19:08:00.000-04:002012-03-11T19:08:59.570-04:00Confessing our FaithThis morning, March 11, 2012, the worship service at Warrenton Presbyterian Church here in Warrenton, Virginia, was led by our congregation’s Presbyterian Women. The entire service was based on the Bible study being used this year by the Circles, called “Confessing the Beatitudes”. As it happens, our pastor, Carl R. Schmahl, has been preaching a series of sermons this academic year on Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, and this morning’s section had to do with giving to the poor. The entire service was very thought provoking, as the different segments of worship fit together perfectly, and I firmly believe that our Lord was pleased by the experience; I know I felt a renewal of my own commitment as I exited. <br />
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When I arrived home this afternoon and logged into my Facebook account, one of my friends from the church had indicated that she wished she had enough room to post the creed that had been written by the Presbyterian Women specifically for this service. I promised that I would share it in this venue. Without further ado from me:<br />
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<b>BEATITUDES CREED<br />
Written by the Presbyterian Women of the Warrenton Presbyterian Church<br />
Based on the Bible study “Confessing the Beatitudes”<br />
(Read Responsively)<br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to honor the destitute and hopeless.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I will seek to work with others in ways that meaningfully honor those who are poor.<br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to honor the weepers and mourners.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I will seek to honor the weepers and mourners by listening to them, standing with them, and telling their truth when they cannot. <br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to stand with the humbled against the wicked.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I will look for ways to honor the humbled through my prayers, my choices, and my uplifted voice.<br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to honor those who are hungry and thirsty, and those who are famished and parched for justice because they are the particular concern of God.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I will seek to honor, with my prayers and my gifts, my voice and my actions, these famished sisters and brothers of mine.<br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to to show mercy by our emotions, our actions, and the dedication of our lives.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I will rededicate myself to the practice of mercy that Jesus calls honorable.<br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to be pure in heart.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I will have a “heart condition” that compels me to live with more integrity as my vision of God gets clearer.<br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to be peacemakers in the church and in the world.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I recommit myself to the joyful work of peacemaking, that all the world may know God’s shalom.<br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to follow him even in the face of persecution.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I trust that in times of trial, the Spirit of God will give us the words to speak.<br />
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</b>I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to the fearless work of discipleship.<br />
<b>With Christ’s help, I will follow the way of Christ, honoring those who are destitute, weeping, humbled, and famished for food and justice; patterning my life after those who do mercy, walk with integrity, and make peace; and living a life marked by the unearned and overwhelming grace of the gospel of Jesus Christ.<br />
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</b> May the Peace of Christ be with you!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-85279267681708823642011-06-14T00:26:00.000-04:002011-06-14T00:26:44.291-04:00Here's One for the Birds (and a little fun)One day last week, I was preparing to exit the parking garage at the pedestrian alley when I heard some rather loud chirping. I watched as four or five sparrows flew down at the foot of the stairs I was descending, with two of the little birds flapping their wings at each other and all of them chirping. Only it wasn’t just chirping; there was an edge to it. As I looked down at it, I couldn’t help but be transported back in time to elementary school, hearing the chants of the little group huddled around two pint-sized combatants in a heated playground dispute. I stopped on the stairs, sort of mesmerized, incredulous that these little guys would need to fight about anything, when an employee of the hotel’s valet parking staff walked right up to this little cluster of avian beings, stood over them and exclaimed, “Stop fighting!” He waved his hands, and the tiny birds flew up as a group, travelled maybe five yards to my right, landed and continued their little rumble, apparently picking up where they left off. (If I understood “Sparrow-ese”, I could speak with more authority on that point.) It would have been amusing to hang around and watch how it all ended, but I had to get to work. Somehow, the specter of being labeled as one who enjoys watching bird fights also propelled me out of that alley and onward to my office! I didn’t notice any birdie bodies when I returned after work, so apparently it was not a fight to the death.<br />
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I’ve thought about it off and on since then, especially in light of another “bird” scene I encountered on the way home.<br />
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I have mentioned before that I live in a very rural area. The directions to my house include the words, “turn off the paved road”, which I think, in Jeff Foxworthy’s terminology, could mean that I am a redneck. But I digress! One afternoon, also last week, perhaps even the same day, I came around a curve to see the carcass of some unfortunate creature that had not managed to subdue the motor vehicle with which it came in contact, and had not made it across the road. I noticed that the bird picking at it was pretty large, and moreover, not too impressed with my Forester as it approached. As I drew a little closer to the scene, I realized the bird was a vulture. Almost immediately, my gaze arose and I saw that two additional vultures occupied the tops of two fence-posts demarking the boundary of a farm or horse boarding facility on that road. The vulture on the road looked once more at my vehicle, and slowly turned away from the dead prey and sort of nonchalantly meandered back toward the opposite edge of the road; and simultaneously, as if on cue, the other two also turned their backs! I don’t think I’ve ever been so disrespected before; especially not by a bird! <br />
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Even my beautiful parakeet back in Orlando never deliberately turned her back on me; even the first year I had her, before I discovered the handsome and wizardly looking creature I called Gandalf was actually a female, she never did that. She pecked at and nibbled on my fingers when I tried to get her to perch on them. Eventually, she grew so tame that she would ride on my shoulder or on my belt. She used to let herself out of her cage when I got home, and she would fly to the tops of the drapes. All I had to do was hold my hand up and she would fly to it. She forgave me for bringing home the German Shepherd puppy, although she stopped coming out of her cage after being chased around the apartment and losing a tail feather one afternoon when I was in the shower. She even forgave me for never finding a suitable female name for her, and became known after that simply as Bird. But she didn’t live long after we moved to Tampa. I found her lifeless body in the bottom of her cage one afternoon; I was so upset, a friend had to bury her for me. <br />
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No, this disrespect is probably payback from a childhood indiscretion. My brother and I were probably nine and six, respectively, when our grandmother was placed in a nursing home. This place had been a house at some point in its history, and was old even then - - and it is close to fifty years ago now that this occurred- - but the point of the elapsed time is that he and I were little kids. We did not realize that our grandmother did not have all that much longer to live. For a lot of the time, she was in a room at the front of the house, so we had permission to play on the front porch or in the front yard, as long as we did not make a lot of noise, and we stayed where Mom and/or Dad could see us from the window. We would say “hi” and “bye” almost in the same breath, and then run outside. Looking back, I hope that hearing us playing might have brought some enjoyment to the residents of the home, not the least of whom would have been our grandmother. But given the constraints of the front porch and front yard, we had to find creative ways to amuse ourselves. Once, we “tracked” a faint crying noise and found a tiny, tiny kitten - - a calico- - in the shrubbery. I wanted to take it home, but Mom said “no. Put it back where you found it.” I cried all the way home. I just knew it would die without me to take care of it. Another time, we discovered these large, green pimply looking things called “hedge apples”. Due to their size, we tried to play softball with them, using fairly thick sticks we found as bats. The hedge apples were more durable than the pears in our other grandmother’s back yard, but even so, only made it through an inning or so before we would have to go looking for another “ball”. As at home, we finally resorted to playing a game requiring few, if any, implements; something dredged up from my brother’s overactive imagination. (Yes, he has always been good at making stuff up!) That’s how “Bird Prison” came into being. It should probably be noted that often, if other kids accompanied their parents to this place and they were outside for any length of time, we included them in our games; they usually did not hang around for “Bird Prison”. They would actually go back inside the home! So, folks, don’t just suspend your disbelief here; go ahead and expel it completely!<br />
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The premise behind “Bird Prison” was simple and formulaic; it wasn’t “ripped from the headlines” or well written like any given episode of “Law and Order”. One of us would be the bird prison inmate on a chain gang, using an imaginary pickax to break up rock. (My brother would supply the sound effects) The other of us would be the guard. When the guard’s attention was diverted, the ax would be dropped (appropriate clanging noise inserted here) and the prisoner would “escape and fly” (jump off the porch and run). The game was to see how far the “prisoner” would get before being recaptured by the guard. If the prisoner managed to get as far as the concrete steps up to the sidewalk beside the highway, the prisoner was said to have made good his/her escape. The roles would then switch. The game would end for the evening when Mom and Dad emerged from the home. Of course, when our grandmother passed away, we stopped going there and "Bird Prison" was closed permanently. I never won this game; he was older, taller, had longer legs and could run faster than I could.<br />
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So there you have it. From the Sparrow Rumble to the Disrespectful Raptors, I am certain I am being paid back for “Bird Prison”. Bro, I think you'd better watch out for the furtive flamingos that may be lurking around! The Avian population is out for karmic retribution!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-63049772437869344792011-04-26T23:51:00.000-04:002011-04-26T23:51:39.632-04:00LESSONS FROM THE EASTERN REDBUD TREEIt is springtime in Virginia! The past few weeks have brought a fairly rapid warming, punctuated by cool snaps and violent thunderstorms; rushing, swollen rivers and the explosion of color everywhere in the dogwood trees, azaleas and my personal favorites, lilac bushes, wisteria and the Eastern Redbud trees.<br />
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I had never seen, or at least had never noticed, an Eastern Redbud tree until I visited Virginia back in 1993, not long before my husband and I were married. Everywhere along all the sides of the highways, one could see these lovely trees and shrubs, with their buds of a vibrant purplish-pink color providing a pop of color against the clean, fresh green of the emerging leaves of other trees. Bradford Pear trees with their white blossoms and almost perfect shapes and the different colors of dogwood trees join in the color concert, with the final glory being grabbed by the white, blue and lavender wisteria trees and vines and the delicate lilac flowers on spindly little bushes at the end of the drive into our property. My favorite, even though it is a tough choice, is still the Eastern Redbud.<br />
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These trees have demanded my attention - - almost as if they were yelling at me to look at them, or make note of their presence along my beaten path - - and I have cheerfully complied this year. I mentally greeted and checked off each one, with this morning’s trip into Fredericksburg being no exception. <br />
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And then, just like that, they were gone.<br />
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Oh, the trees are still there. The dogwoods continue to bloom, the azaleas are still flourishing and the wisteria flowers still hang in all their periwinkle blue and lavender lushness. But almost as if God flipped a switch during the hours I spent at work today, the Eastern Redbud’s “red buds” were replaced by fresh little green leaves this afternoon! The new clean shade of green is cool, soothing, and refreshing, and after all, green is my favorite color. But I already missed the purple-pinkness of the buds as I began my trek home this afternoon, with my non-driving focus becoming one of seeking out even one tree that still bore these little purple-pink buds. It was not until I left Warrenton heading west this evening that I finally saw a couple of them in mid-transition on the highway out of town! The abrupt changeover of so many trees at once is somehow jarring this year, and it is has left me a little wounded, a little sad, or perhaps nostalgic that another spring seems to be passing by just a little too rapidly. <br />
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The emergence of the leaves from within the redbuds marks the passing of another season of my life; indeed, Sunday will mark another anniversary of my birth. It always seemed that the redbuds were here for my birthday, and I’ll continue to miss them this year, even as I have enjoyed them for the past several weeks. The ornamental Bradford Pear trees turned from white to green somewhat abruptly a week or two ago, but not this quickly. The weather has turned suddenly hot from somewhat chilly (for us), with few of the perfect, idyllic seventy degree days to which I have grown fond in my advancing years since moving back east from California. April showers have been in the form of violent thunderstorms for the most part, with the odd tornado here and there; I have to wonder about the probability of May flowers, as the old saying goes.<br />
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The heat and humidity are making their presence felt all too quickly; we need a few more weeks of temperatures in the mid seventies, with little humidity. We need more days with a warm sun and a cool breeze; gentle afternoons with nothing to do but laze in the porch swing and dream of another time when the first loves of our adult lives were new, fresh and innocent, and the responsibilities of life still seemed far, far away. The present moment was all there was; we didn’t have pasts to forget or sins to be forgiven, and the future was a still a few nightmares off. We didn’t have wrinkles or sagging skin, gray hair or extra stress-fueled belly fat, and we didn’t need reading glasses to see the print at the end of our arms’ ever shortening reaches. <br />
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Summer will be here before long, bringing with it the reality of the sun’s harsh, unforgiving light and heat of responsibility and I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready for the newly grown grass to wither and die, or the red clay soil of our yard to crack, just as my hair continues its slow graying or thinning and my face its wrinkling and sagging. I’m not ready to pull up a rocking chair and my knitting that I’ve recently once again taken up. <br />
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Not this year.<br />
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This year, I want to enjoy a good “beach read”, whatever that is, although I think I’ll do it without the sand in my toes and the inevitable sunburn. This is the year I’ve sent away to get a new passport and I’m finally going to plan that trip to Wales, and possibly Scotland or Ireland. I’m going to finally clean out that loft room and set up the easel, canvasses and see if those paints I have are still good enough to mix and smear on with a brush. And if they are, I’ll see if I have sufficient creative talent to make something recognizable and beautiful with them! <br />
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I’m continuing with my exercise program and newly formed eschewing of gluten, overly processed foods and all but the rarely occasioned bit of chocolate, while embracing healthy proteins, fruits and vegetables. I’m trying to reorient my night-owl persona to one more amenable to quiet early mornings. I’m paying attention to sunrises and sunsets, often commemorating them in photographs. <br />
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Most of all, I want to reestablish my personal centering prayer life, in the meditative posture that brings me into the presence of God in the same figurative way as sitting silently with the loves of my life, watching the river flowing by on seventy degree days with that warm sun and cool soothing breeze, while enjoying the vantage point of a bank replete with blooming lilac, wisteria and - - you got it - - Eastern Redbud trees.<br />
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May our Lord richly bless you in this and every season!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-78400148913719058852011-03-09T22:51:00.000-05:002011-03-09T22:51:25.701-05:00And a River Spills Over ItGreetings to the four or five of you that actually read this blog! It has been a long time since I have written anything, but it has not been due to any lack of willingness. Life has been busy and interesting to say the least. I’ve been in something of a nostalgic mood recently, and have touched base again with some of my past experiences. In going through some things I had stored away, I ran across a book of poetry I wrote back in the late 1980’s when I was single and living in San Francisco. I thought I’d share one or two that aren’t just really dumb with you. The muse did not stay with me for long, so hang on every word; these are collectors’ items! <br />
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Musings<br />
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Darkness falls, meeting the rising mist.<br />
Out at sea a ship heads for port.<br />
The seals are splashing the jagged rocks,<br />
Oblivious to all but their sport.<br />
A pensive ghost melody haunts the cool air,<br />
Steamlike wisps are borne on the breeze;<br />
As if the sun had just dropped from the sky<br />
And submerged in the cold silver sea.<br />
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Beneath where I stand on the dark craggy shore<br />
Lies a structure succumbed and unnamed.<br />
Beside it are skeletal remains of a tree<br />
Which the forces of nature have claimed.<br />
This stark silhouette to the twilight sky<br />
Reminds me of love long since past.<br />
A great gardened mansion, it fell being built;<br />
And I fled from its gables aghast.<br />
<br />
I walk down alone to the cold windy beach;<br />
Second guessing decisions I’ve made.<br />
Pulling my cloak close around me, I shudder inside<br />
And a quivering confusion pervades.<br />
<br />
When I embarked on my quest for Fulfillment and light<br />
Did I relinquish my claim on romance?<br />
Did I really believe that the search for my Self<br />
Meant I could no longer join in the Dance?<br />
Why doesn’t God answer my prayers anymore?<br />
Were my dreams just some fanciful flights?<br />
If they were only imaginings of an unworthy mind<br />
Why were they sent to me night after night?<br />
<br />
I’m loath to believe I’m to stay all alone;<br />
There’s so much within me to share.<br />
Yet it seems that my destiny is found in between<br />
Little breaks in my dark solitaire.<br />
<br />
The breeze has combined with the thickening mist,<br />
Covering me in a light weeping rain.<br />
The seals are still playing and splashing the rocks,<br />
Oblivious to me and my pain.<br />
As I hear them, I smile and chuckle inside;<br />
They don’t question the lives that they lead!<br />
They just swim in the sea and dive from the rocks;<br />
Trusting God to provide what they need!<br />
<br />
I return to my ship and head back to port,<br />
Strangely calm from the voyage tonight.<br />
In a few quiet hours the sun will ascend;<br />
Somehow things will again be all right.<br />
<br />
<br />
SEPARATING<br />
<br />
“Why do you not love me now?”<br />
She asked to no reply.<br />
“Did you ever love me, then?<br />
And if you didn’t, why?”<br />
<br />
The question hung as if ‘twere limp<br />
And lifeless in the air.<br />
His facial muscles still and calm; <br />
His eyes just blankly stared.<br />
<br />
When he finally moved to speak, <br />
She inhaled a breath of knives.<br />
He told her, “I won’t make a move<br />
Which will ruin both our lives.”<br />
<br />
“That wasn’t what I asked,” she cried.<br />
“Don’t put me on a shelf!”<br />
To this he turned and whispered soft,<br />
“You did that to yourself.”<br />
<br />
<br />
SAFETY’S NIGHTMARE<br />
<br />
Running down the darkened hall<br />
Behind a bouncing dot of light,<br />
My mind shrieks as it recalls<br />
Other runs on other nights.<br />
<br />
On either side are many doors<br />
Some stand open; others locked.<br />
A pool of light spreads on the floor<br />
‘Neath the one on which I knocked.<br />
<br />
It opens slowly on its own<br />
“Do come in,” a voice invites.<br />
“You’ll find in here a safety zone.”<br />
From the bait I take the bite.<br />
<br />
The room seems warm and is furnished well<br />
Richly dressed in fine brocade.<br />
It has a faint magnolia smell<br />
And old Southern lemonade.<br />
<br />
While I admire a doily made of lace<br />
And a Swiss-made cuckoo clock,<br />
In the mirror I see a fleeting face<br />
And the bolt turns in the lock.<br />
<br />
“Please wait!” I cry and rush to find<br />
There is no doorknob there.<br />
But I shrug and think, “Oh, never mind;<br />
I’ll relax here in my chair.”<br />
<br />
But I discover as I turn that I<br />
Am now in another room.<br />
A bed of stone now greets my eye;<br />
Like one found inside a tomb.<br />
<br />
From somewhere far beyond the door<br />
I hear a wicked laugh.<br />
It pierces deeply to my core; <br />
Have I met my darker half?<br />
<br />
I hear my voice scream, “Let me out!”<br />
And feel a wind both cold and brisk.<br />
It seems safety doesn’t banish doubt<br />
And it carries its own risk.<br />
<br />
<br />
SAN FRANCISCO SKY GAZING<br />
<br />
I’m a hopeless fan of sunsets<br />
They’re so beautiful to see<br />
I’ve not encountered e’en one yet<br />
That failed to humble me.<br />
<br />
They’re stunning when high-cloudy skies<br />
Make purple and orange hues.<br />
Rivaled only by the next sunrise<br />
With its shades of rust and blues.<br />
<br />
For me, the mountains are the best<br />
For viewing our Father’s show<br />
When the sky’s reflected on the crest<br />
Of a soft, new-fallen snow.<br />
<br />
There’s a quiet, calm serenity<br />
As it sinks behind the ridge<br />
And gold magic clothes the City<br />
As it silhouettes the Bridge.<br />
<br />
Somehow deep within my soul<br />
There’s a wistfulness it seems<br />
As the sun’s now just a glowing coal<br />
And I’m lost inside my dreams.<br />
<br />
------------------------<br />
<br />
And as the rain softly falls outside, making the rivers that much more swollen, I’ll retreat to sleep and get lost inside my dreams. Wherever you are tonight, stay safe and warm and dry! Next time, I promise to post something relevant!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-90348895666687297112010-11-11T14:31:00.000-05:002010-11-11T14:31:22.904-05:00Belfast or PCUSA<i>Deep inside, my soul fights a war I can’t explain, I can’t cross over anymore. All I see are dirty faces, rain and wire, and common sense in pieces. But I try to see through Irish eyes. Belfast.</i><br />
<br />
So begins a hauntingly beautiful, very sad, yet simultaneously uplifting tribute simply entitled <i>Belfast</i>, penned by Bernie Taupin, and magnificently set to music and sung by Sir Elton John, on his recording from the 1990’s, <i>Made in England</i>. The piece details an Englishman’s attempt to understand and chronicle the turmoil in that embattled city, and does so with an unmistakable sense of admiration. This is a song about a city that is torn apart by a politically motivated struggle played out along religious lines, yet determined to survive and prosper. This is a fight born of patriotic nationalism on one hand, people who want to retain home rule as a unified, predominantly Roman Catholic country; and descendents of the protestant, likely predominantly Presbyterian, immigrants from the United Kingdom who have remained loyal to the crown and who have asserted their power on a small portion of the island. While not a split specifically involving religion, the battle lines have traditionally been drawn along these denominational lines - - all within Christianity.<br />
<br />
The analogy could be drawn between the situation in Northern Ireland and that of our beloved denomination in the brouhaha over the ordination of homosexuals to the leadership or ministry of the church. The division is every bit as political, with definite religious overtones and includes those whose positions are every bit as intractable as one has historically found the two factions in Northern Ireland. To follow is a comparison drawn in my mind with Belfast representing the PC(USA). <br />
<br />
The battle is one waged in the souls of those of us who do not, and in fact, cannot, live in the world of strict dichotomies of black and white, right and wrong, sin and righteousness. Everything’s a little grey, the lines a bit blurred. We are the segment of the population that sees both sides of the dispute, or at least cannot find a comfort level with one viewpoint to the complete exclusion of the other. Most of us probably would prefer to leave the language contained in the Book of Order intact. But, prior to the 219th General Assembly in Minneapolis, it seemed to us that neither side was actually listening to the other in our dispute; the rhetoric has been harsh, and the tactics unworthy of a Christian organization. It is based upon the worldly political battle lines of liberal versus conservative instead of along the guidelines of the peace, unity and purity that we seek. Our opposing forces struggle for control of the denomination by figuratively blowing it up, burning it down, and shooting the combatants with heated accusations of intolerance or abominations. Both are right and both are wrong, and I can only imagine our Lord weeping as the arguing continues.<br />
<br />
<i>Look outside; summer’s lost and gone; it’s a long walk on a street of right and wrong. And every inch of sadness, rocks and tanks, go hand in hand with madness. But I’ve never seen a braver place than Belfast</i>.<br />
<br />
The long walk on the street of right and wrong; it’s a daily stroll for each of us, isn’t it? At the far end of the road for all of us is our Lord and Savior. The distance in between us and the triune God is sin. We Presbyterians do not rank sin; we do not accept that God does either. We are taught that all sin is abhorrent to God; that he cannot look upon any of it. He reaches out to us, he calls to us. We get confused in our humanness and head in the wrong direction; and we do it every day. Each of us. Everyday. In different ways.<br />
<br />
The gift of grace is just that; God’s gift to us. None of us deserve it and none of us can earn it. God even provides the gift of the impetus to seek after his Word and his example. We hear the Word, and if it is God’s will, we believe. We still sin, but we believe, and we are mindful of our shortcomings. We try to minimize the intrusion of worldly matters on our relationship with God. But we all fail. Thanks be to God that He continues to pick us up. But, if we all are sinners, why is it we can only hear the Word of God being preached, or can only tolerate the idea that it is being lived out, by persons whose sins are similar to ours? And on the other end of the argument, why is it that we cannot see that in our stubborn resolve to live our own lives, we may be ignoring the possibility that our behavior might actually be sinful? Why has the expression of human sexuality outside of traditional marriage become an abomination while other sins are simply sins? If God, through his Son Jesus Christ, can cause a murderer and terrorist to become a great apostle, if He can awaken the faith in this example of a admittedly heinous sinner, why is it so hard to believe that He could awaken faith in someone whose predominant sin lies in the way he or she expresses love and devotion for another human being? How many of us, when listening to a sermon, obsess over how the speaker expresses his or her personal sexuality? And on the flip side, for those among the denomination’s population who are fighting to change the Book of Order’s ordination criteria, why can we not understand that our insistence on getting our way on this subject can be a serious stumbling block for other Christians? Most seriously of all, while we are embroiled in this battle, which of Christ’s flock are going unfed and untended? Is that not the primary task set before us in this life on earth? Did Jesus not tell Peter to “feed my sheep”? <br />
<br />
<i>And it’s sad when they sing, and hollow ears listen to the smoking black roses on the streets of Belfast; and so say your lovers from under the flowers: every foot of this world needs an inch of Belfast.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Who’s to say on whom heaven smiles; our different ways we try hard to reconcile. No more enchanted evenings; the pubs are closed, and all the ghosts are leaving. But you’ll never let them shut you down, Belfast.</i><br />
<br />
Who is right in this dispute? Only God is. God is always right, the Father, along with Christ and the Holy Spirit. Jesus told us that only those without sin have the right to criticize and hurl rocks; and he also told us to go and sin no more. Those instructions pretty much cover all of us, do they not? Like the embattled combatants in the Irish conflict heading out from the pubs, not knowing whether they will make it home or be blown to bits, some are choosing to leave the denomination. Many Irish have immigrated to the United States and other parts of the world over the years; but the yearning for the “auld sod” remains in their souls. They are not whole without Ireland, and most make the trip back home on a nearly annual basis. For those who decide to abandon the denomination, they are similarly not leaving whole. Even if they manage somehow to wrest the church physical property from the presbyteries, part of the heart will stay, as will some members of the congregations whose majorities decide to go. If it’s a sizeable minority, is it fair that those who do wish to stay in the denomination lose access to their place of worship, which, by the Book of Order, is held in trust for the Presbytery for use by Presbyterians in the PCUSA? I don’t think so. Furthermore, the precedent has been set by the PCUSA to maintain a presence in the communities in which these departing congregations are located. Whether they leave with or without the physical property, the congregations who go will be shadows of their former selves. The denomination will go on, wounded, scarred, and with rebuilding to do, but not destroyed. <br />
<br />
I personally do not want to see the Book of Order changed, and I will remain with the PCUSA. I pray daily that, regardless of the outcome of the tediously continuing debate over ordination, my particular congregation will also remain; I would find it very painful to not have this group of people as my church home. But I cannot run from my responsibility as an Elder and General Assembly Commissioner to work toward the peace, unity and purity of the denomination. It is the faith of my upbringing; it is much of my identity; it’s my spiritual DNA and a big part of the “auld sod” of my soul. I know there are some, perhaps even many, in the congregation who feel as I do about it, too. I hope we can stand together as the branch of the PCUSA in our community. I hope my colleagues on our Session will pray, re-consider, and then pray a lot more before embarking on such a decision. I likewise hope the congregation will take a similar routine of prayerful consideration. I pray that each of us confronts our own sinfulness, and that we ask ourselves why the “sin” of human sexuality is so much worse than say, the “sin” of judging people on their expression of human sexuality. The denomination has weathered such storms before; it will go through this one, too, and I intend to be right with her, working within the system to keep her on the correct path. We have too much of God’s work to do to spend any more time involved in this battle that will result in no winners.<br />
<br />
<i>The enemy is not at home; a jealous green streaks down this faulty diamond. No bloody boots or crucifix can ever hope to split this emerald island. And I never saw a braver place than Belfast.</i><br />
<br />
Within this decade now coming to a close, a new government was installed in Northern Ireland. For the first time in many decades, it is a shared one. The parties representing the Crown sat down with Sein Fein/IRA representatives and posed for photographs with the Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom and Ireland in Belfast at its inception. All were smiling. All were poised to cooperate and work together. Historical statements of intractability were laid aside on both sides. As the Irish and British get about the business of running their countries that co-exist on the same island, we Presbyterians need to take a page from the same book of cooperation. We, like they, will not always agree, and will continue to debate matters of polity and policy for a long time. It is time for us to get about doing God’s business and stop this squabbling amongst ourselves.<br />
<br />
<i>And it’s sad when they sing and hollow ears listen to the smoking black roses on the streets of Belfast; and so say your lovers from under the flowers: every foot of this world needs an inch of Belfast.</i>Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-62822748062176178732010-07-18T22:16:00.001-04:002010-07-18T22:43:33.817-04:00IN THE PRESENCE OF THE HOLY SPIRITIt is probably presumptuous of me to think that many people read this blog, but it is serving as an outlet for my thoughts and feelings. It has virtually nothing to do with my employment, or “day job”, as I refer to it. It has everything to do with the rest of my life. <br />
<br />
For most of my adulthood, I have sought for the truly spiritual experience, but looked for it in places where the spirits encountered might not necessarily be ones I should have been seeking. Somehow, religion and family were all tied up together, and for too long, I was in a slow process of rebelling against all of it to find my own way. I lived across the country from family, although I went through the motions for a while, and even attended a church. I allowed myself to be elected Deacon of my congregation, but it didn’t take long before I realized I wasn’t ready for that responsibility, hit the eject button and jettisoned myself out into the world of the so-called New Age movement. I spent hours in now closed Shambhala bookstore on Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue, reading about Eastern Christianity, astrology and mysticism. I took meditation “classes” and learned about “out of body experiences”. It was all interesting, even fun sometimes. I kept myself active with places to go, things to do, and people to see, except when I had nowhere to go but the living room couch, never changing out of sweats with the remote and whatever food I was using to try to fill up the huge hole in my soul, and with nothing to do but numb my brain with television or music. Those would be weekends where I said nothing to anyone. Sometimes, on Friday nights, I’d light my candles or even light a log in the fireplace, put Pink Floyd or Moody Blues on the stereo, turn the ringer off on the phone, extinguish the lights, and just stare into the flames while the music carried me away somewhere in my mind.<br />
<br />
I’m probably lucky that each of those following mornings, I found myself back on the couch or lying on the living room floor where I had gone to sleep when the stereo cut off and the log or candles burned out. Of course, then it meant I would have to face another boring Saturday with myself for company. If I did anything at all, it usually meant grocery shopping; or maybe down the block for some bagels, sometimes to the Safeway. Sometimes I dated, but the relationships wouldn’t last long, and I finally decided it would be o.k. if I stayed single, and decided to just be comfortable. I wrote silly poetry about dreams I had, commemorating the deaths of each. My manufactured existence evolved into my thinking I was actually successful, and I even fancied myself to be happy. After all, I WAS living in one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Certainly, there was something about the area keeping millions of people - - myself among them - - resident there when the entire nine-county area is built upon a maze of dozens of seismically active faults! It has taken me a while to realize that it was the city itself that I loved - - the hills, street patterns, landmarks and, of course, the fog - - rather than its people; the “prestige” of having that San Francisco address and actually adoring my flat, rather than feeling particularly great about my job or about the neighborhood, its six Irish pubs in walking distance notwithstanding. I just never envisioned myself leaving; I had become a Californian. It took a 7.1 upheaval to literally shake those realizations into my head; when I became aware that just as easily, I could have been on the Bay Bridge or on the Nimitz Freeway, or out at Candlestick Park, or in the Marina District. Instead, I was safe and sound in my office, listening to the shattering windowpanes, and watching my little knick-knacks falling off the shelves and the lateral file drawers opening and closing. Some fifteen months later, when my plane flew north over the “bay” and I looked out the window to the west, locating Highway 101 in the street light pattern and looking a block and half past it to where “my” flat was located, I sobbed, weeping for a good fifteen minutes before I finally stopped and decided that sleeping would be a better use of the “red eye” flight. I tear up even now just thinking about it. That was nearly twenty years ago, and I haven’t been back. Part of me is still there; whether it is my heart or not is debatable, but it was a little bit of something valuable, I think. <br />
<br />
By the time that flight landed in Charleston, South Carolina, I had managed to reapply my happy face, and assured my folks that I was just tired; that they didn’t call them red-eye flights for nothing. Over the next couple of years, my spoiled-brat-kid issues with my family dissolved, and we forged the intense, rock solid bond we now have. Initially to make them happy, but later because I really loved it, I started attending worship services at the Presbyterian church in which my folks were members. Over time, some of the other singles in the congregation and I joined with some from other churches in the area, and attended various and sundry events and activities together. My philosophy by this point was to get a group together to do stuff I liked to do. If I met someone to date, great; if not, at least I got to have a good time. No surprises, I met my husband there and following our wedding, came to Virginia. Our life here has been pretty happy, on balance; we all have good times and not-so-good times. <br />
<br />
In all things, God works for good for those who love him and keep his commandments. <br />
<br />
During my husband’s very serious illness a few years ago, I had my first real tangible, conscious experience of the Holy Spirit - - I know you were wondering what all this has had to do with the Holy Spirit - - when people and circumstances aligned in such a way as to be absolutely perfect for the situation at hand. These were not those experiences where one looks back at them and says, ‘oh yes, that must have been the Spirit at work’; no, I felt, I KNEW it while it was happening. And yet, I could say nothing; how can one explain it when one cannot perceive something with the five senses? I couldn’t articulate it because it was all too startling, too perfect to simply be the coincidences that other people might argue they were. The Spirit is the only explanation for what is otherwise a mystery.<br />
<br />
The same sense of awe surrounds the process we commissioners went through last week at the 219th General Assembly. We disagreed agreeably; we worshipped collectively and prayed in small, table enclaves, usually as presbytery groupings; we frequently sang hymns or stopped for prayer as we moved through the items of business. Questions were simply that, questions. Generally speaking, stands for or against motions were expressed in terms of the ideas’ merits, and never degenerated into personal attacks against those who made the motions in the first place. Even the protest group that briefly interrupted the Assembly on Friday afternoon was peaceful, and was treated with respect. If not by the Holy Spirit, how else were the emotions of the 700-or-so -commissioners kept in check while discussing the “hot button” issues? How else could we disagree with each other in one breath, yet hold hands in prayer the next? In nearly each and every decision made, whether at the committee or plenary level, common ground was vigorously sought. How else could that have happened? We dealt with highly charged, passion-eliciting issues! I’ve tried to explain it in my mind as good planning, as it was; good moderating, as it certainly was; the orderly nature of our polity, well maybe; or was it the unshakeable duty to stay united in spite of, or perhaps even because of, our differences? Sure, and it was all of these, joining in what - - a marvelous set of coincidental occurrences? I know better. Each of them absolutely played an important role, to be sure. But the Holy Spirit is the love binding us to God through Jesus Christ. I know this because I am a Presbyterian, an elder commissioner and a true believer. The 219th General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA) was visited by the Holy Spirit last week in response to our invitation; and out of our hearts the rivers of living water will flow as we glorify the everlasting and all powerful triune God. May the LORD be with you!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-87443419181855078292010-07-12T20:30:00.000-04:002010-07-12T20:32:29.494-04:00LEAVING CAMP MINNEAPOLISwritten Saturday, July 10, 2010<br /><br /><br />Well, General Assembly has concluded its business sessions, the final worship service was held and our group of commissioners has scattered. It was almost eerie, the speed with which everyone cleared out, retrieving stored luggage and boarding the buses for the airport. I was able to finally share a meal with my brother and sister-in-law, after only being able to sort of hug them in passing during this week. In an unexpected way, I think we were all sort of sad to see it end. And it reminded me of the countless retreats and summer church camps I attended as a youth in Birmingham - - perhaps due in part to seeing a couple of folks who were also at those camps!! But now that I’m at the airport, at loose ends for a little while until my plane actually boards and heads back to Virginia, I’m noticing some of the emotion has given way to a sort of nostalgia. A wistfulness, perhaps.<br /><br />My brother, who has attended a lot of General Assemblies over the years, said that this one was among the best, if not THE best he has ever attended or heard about. Over lunch, he shared some of the behind the scenes stuff that goes on at these events, that contribute to the make up of the positions taken by some of the factions - - and no, I’m not going to share them here in this forum. Gradye Parsons quipped that he was considering writing all of the 173 presbyteries to request that the same commissioners and delegates be sent to Pittsburgh in 2012. Our moderator and vice-moderator were just spot-on when items were potentially getting contentious or perhaps worse, repetitious. And when we were disrupted by a protest group, Moderator Bolbach reacted perfectly. So many divergent factors combined to bring about the right decisions at the right times, that I cannot think that it was anything but the Holy Spirit working through all the hands that worked to make this event happen.<br /><br />The names are entirely too numerous to list. They begin, of course, years in advance, and in the office of the General Assembly. GA staff works with the Committee on Local Arrangements, or COLA. And, oh, what a COLA we had! From the moment I emerged from the aircraft, made it to the baggage claims area, these volunteers were there en masse to assist us in finding our way through the airport which, for me, was unfamiliar. My fellow passengers and I were escorted through the hallways, to the tram and out to the buses; today, the process was essentially reversed, with the friendly folks wearing smocks with the Presbyterian Seal on the front and back and always, always a smile right there to bid us safe journeys. I could go on and on. <br /><br />Of course, in a scant few hours, I will be on the ground back in Virginia. I’ll be reunited with my husband, and eventually, our dogs. I hope to attend church in Warrenton tomorrow and I’ll go about various and sundry chores. I’ll return to work this week, catching up with the goings on that occurred while I was away. I’ll need to write a report about the week, it’s events and my experiences. I can say now that I want to be more ecumenical and open to other faiths; I can say I need to confront my fears on certain issues, and perhaps my prejudices with others. And I can say that I want to go back again, and hope to have the opportunity again before too long.Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-6567729342817898152010-07-10T01:58:00.000-04:002010-07-10T01:59:27.729-04:00THE RIVER OF LIVING WATER<br /><br />It is Friday night, and I have just packed my suitcase for the return trip to Virginia tomorrow. General Assembly has concluded the majority of its business, and as with most assemblies in recent years, some of the decisions we made were received well, while some were not. We will close as we began, in worship. Then we will depart and begin the real work of our jobs as commissioners.<br /><br />By now, it is possible that you have read some accounts in the secular media about our work here. I am told we made the front page of the New York Times. The decisions we made might be questionable in your thoughts. I urge you to withhold making judgments about our work until you can talk directly to us, the commissioners. The secular press tries, God bless them, but unless they’re Presbyterians, they probably do not understand our processes. Unless they had listened to the testimonies in the open committee hearings, participated in the prayers and the Roberts Rules explanations, it is unlikely they understand it all well enough to write our story. It’s hard enough for us to explain what happened here. We are the church, and while religion editors of newspapers want to get these sensational headlines, we are called to be holy, set aside to glorify God, and not be conformed to the modes of secular society. We are the PC(USA) and our General Assembly speaks to the PC(USA) with regard to how we are to live, even as we are in the world. We are not to be of the world.<br /><br />What I am taking away from the last few months of reading, and the past six days of intense deliberations and more reading, has been the experience of the undeniable presence of the Holy Spirit in our midst. There were impassioned pleas, there were stands taken, and yes, there were tears shed; there were also a lot of prayers for the gift of discernment, lots of hugs given, information imparted, friendships rekindled, laughter shared and other light-hearted moments such as the “Plenergizers” taught to the assembled adults of all ages by the Young Adult Advisory Delegates on Thursday and Friday afternoons. One was called “Istanbul” and the other was called the “Ants in your Pants Dance”. These young people are the present church, as well as the future, and we are truly, truly blessed to have them!<br /><br />Our worship services were glorious. The opening service incorporated the music of a combined choir from the Twin Cities’ area, interpretive dance from different cultures - - a theme repeated on Friday morning - - and throughout the service, a “performance artist” creating a painting on black fabric, utilizing some type of paints in swirls of blues, golds, greens and whites; it was completed a little bit after the service was completed and once dried, was hung in the plenary hall for the remainder of the week. <br /><br />We will finish our business meetings in the morning, and I’ll head out for the airport, where I will say “so long” to the Twin Cities and catch the flight back to Virginia. I think I will be leaving behind something of my self here, but hope I have put on something special here. I’ll get back to my routines next week, but I don’t think I’ll ever be quite the same again. This has been a life shaping experience. As surely as I poured the waters dipped from the confluence of the Rapidan, Robinson and Rappahannock Rivers into the pitchers that were poured out at the beginning of each worship service and each business session, rivers of living water will pour from my heart, because I am a believer. I am a PresbyterianSusanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-91876904829264932962010-07-07T01:36:00.000-04:002010-07-07T02:00:44.068-04:00Children of AbrahamIn this my second entry in my PCUSA General Assembly journal, I turn to committee deliberations. As I think I have mentioned, I was assigned to the Ecumenical and Interfaith Relations Committee. When I received this assignment, I was somewhat ambivalent, neither pleased nor displeased. We would not be discussing the “hot button” issues, and for that, I was both disappointed and relieved. But, I am nothing if not Presbyterian, owing my very Christian existence to what in 1983 became the PC(USA), and probably could rightly be accused of a sort of snobbery when it comes to Protestant Christian denominations. So, ecumenism? Me?<br /><br />Well, as it turns out, yeah! There is merit to engaging with our Christian brothers and sisters in dialogue and action where no issues of deep conviction compel us to act separately. This is included in a document from the 1950’s conference in Lund, Sweden, that has come to be known as the Lund Principle, and that was recommended in an overture. We dealt with 11 overtures, reports and recommendations involving these interactions. One, in which the behavior of the Evangelical Presbyterians was studied, the reports of the EPC “recruiting” congregations of the PCUSA to disassociate with the PCUSA and connect with the EPC were determined to be mostly unfounded. We heard inspiring reports from the newly formed World Communion of Reformed Churches, in which the body moved from a loosely allied group of Reformed Churches to a covenented body of Reformed Churches! This represents a much strengthened bond among our brothers and sisters of the Reformed tradition. Hopefully, Calvin would be proud!<br /><br />We then moved into the three overtures that would serve as the “meat” of our discussions. We reviewed recommendations and an overture involving two reports, or papers, one involving Christians and Jews, and the other about Christians and Muslims. We heard impassioned pleas from Middle Eastern Presbyterians who bemoaned their exclusion from the deliberative process that went into the composition of these reports. Simply put, they were hurt and resentful that these reports were written without their input, yet understanding that the reports' publication would have direct impact on the day to day lives of Palestinians, whether Jew, Christian or Muslim! The Presbytery of San Francisco had made overture to General Assembly, asking that the two reports not be forwarded, but be retained for further study. Our committee delved into each of the papers, ultimately forwarding for approval the paper involving Christians and Muslims, but referring the paper on Christians and Jews back to the Office of Theology and Worship and Interfaith Relations for further input from the Middle East Presbyterian Caucus and any other stake-holding group. (“Stake-holding is my characterization). <br /><br />Why did we “split the baby”, as it would seem that we did? It’s actually pretty simple. The recommendations accompanying the paper on Christians and Muslims presented it as an introductory study; a well written first step requiring and inviting further input and interaction among the groups. In fact, the recommendations directly addressed that need. On the other hand, the paper on the Christians and Jews was presented as a completed document, and we were concerned about the absence of input from the Middle East Presbyterian Caucus in the paper’s composition. So, in summary for this matter, we agreed with the portions of the San Francisco Presbytery's recommendation that the document involving Christians and Jews was not ready for widespread use, but disagreed that the paper on Christians and Muslims needed to be retained. We felt it was ready for use as introductory material and “conversation starter”, and therefore removed it from the San Francisco overture.<br /><br />It is important to remember that Jews, Christians and Muslims trace their origins back to Abraham. It is vital to remember that Ishmael also benefits from a covenant with God; and we recognize (I hope) that the Jews’ status as the “Chosen People” was not “trumped” by the covenant in Jesus’ death and resurrection. It is also important to remember that all have claims on the land area roughly defined as Palestine, where the nation state of Israel was established in 1948, but where Palestinian Arabs had been living for hundreds of years. Some of these Arabs are Christian - - and many, perhaps most, of the Christians are Presbyterians! And yes, many of the Palestinian people are Muslims. Palestine has no world recognition as a nation with land and borders. As we know, the land is but one point of contention, but it is a huge problem; one that has often degenerated into violence and bloodshed, with outright warfare breaking out several times in the past fifty-plus years of my life. The two papers were written from different perspectives, with the Christians and Jews paper focusing primarily on the similarities between our faiths, while the paper on Christians and Muslims highlighting the areas of disagreement between us. <br /><br />Am I still ambivalent on the subjects of ecumenical and interfaith relations? No. It is possible to engage, individual to individual, and group to group, in the spirit of welcome and with the intent to understand each other. One might think of it as a step toward the ultimate family reunion as descendents of Abraham!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-27700892163770447342010-07-05T00:07:00.000-04:002010-07-05T00:19:47.875-04:00OF FAA INSPECTIONS, WALL-TO-WALL MEETINGS AND EXTRAORDINARY WORSHIP EXPERIENCES<br /><br />Whew! The past couple of days have been something of a whirlwind, and I have just pulled up to the banks of rivers to review tomorrow’s business and get a bit of rest. To the extent that my writing is ever coherent, this may not be the best example. More likely, this will seem more like a journal.<br /><br />Friday, July 2nd. My wonderful husband took me to the airport for my flight to Minneapolis. After negotiating the borderline humiliating security lines, I walked to the gate to wait. And with numerous others who were either reaching their destinations in Minneapolis, or merely using it as a connection point, wait we did. The plane arrived at the gate, its passengers started to disembark and I noticed that outside, there was a man with a green shirt and khaki pants standing in front of one of the engines talking with some of the ground crew. I wondered what that was all about, and whether it was a matter of concern. As baggage was being loaded (or offloaded, in some cases) I assumed the cabin was being cleaned, too. Sure enough, they began boarding what used to be called “First Class Passengers”. And then something odd happened: one of the flight crew led the people who had just boarded back up the jetway, said something to the gate agent, turned on his heels and disappeared from whence he came. We were told first that some maintenance issues needed to be addressed, and it would be just a few minutes. Then we were told that the flight had been selected for a random FAA inspection, that it would only be about ten minutes. After about a half hour or so from that announcement, with the gold van still behind the aircraft, we were allowed to board. We finally pushed back from the gate house a full hour and a half late. Those who were using Minneapolis as a transfer point were disappointed, angry, and otherwise emotional. My row-mate, a young woman going to see her mother for the first time in 2 years, was in tears. I learned that her mother had made the trip from Japan, and was meeting her daughter in Boise, where she was staying with other relatives. Due to work, this young lady only had the weekend and Monday to spend with her and the FAA Inspector had ensured she would not get to have as much time; it was not likely that she would make her connecting flight. I said a quick prayer for her as she headed for the jetway. It was all good news for me, though; I encountered the first bit of hospitality put on by the Committee on Local Arrangements when I entered the baggage claim areas and met the welcome committee with the smocks decorated with the Presbyterian Seal. Everything was smooth from that point and I got to bed about 12:30 am Eastern time. It was comforting to know, through this “ordeal” that planes are routinely and randomly inspected, and that when caught early, little mechanical difficulties are readily repaired.<br /><br />Saturday, July 3rd. Following a seven hour nap, I awoke on Saturday, showered and dressed and headed over to the Minneapolis Convention Center. Aside from an over supply of Coca Cola products, the MCC is beautiful and perfectly set up for a meeting of this kind. The Riverside conversations started at 8:30 am, and I selected first to listen to the presentation of the task force on Civil Unions and Christian Marriage and then to the excellent presentation of the Form of Government task force. A quick tour of the Exhibit Hall followed and on to the first plenary meeting. <br /><br />I have to do a flashback at this point, so allow your eyes to go out of focus for a second and then refocus a few weeks ago. When my materials arrived to begin my preparations for being a commissioner, one of the instructions was to bring a small amount of water from a local river to the assembly. I was able to prevail on a couple of my colleagues at work who were going on a canoe float to collect a small amount from the confluence of the Rapidan, Robinson and Rappahannock Rivers. OK, back to the present, this water was combined with other samples from other rivers and some was poured in a bowl as the opening prayer of the first plenary session was delivered and the opening passage of Scripture - - John 7:38-44 was being read. “Out of the hearts of believers shall come rivers of living water…”<br /><br />We heard reports and accepted certain consent agenda items then broke for dinner. It was at this point that I located a Pepsi machine! It was all o.k. again! The MCC is now a perfect place for such a convention!!<br /><br />When we returned at 7 pm, we listened to the candidates’ for moderator: six individuals, any one of whom would have been good, but one whom I am happy to report is someone with whom I have been acquainted through hearing various presentations from the FOG Task Force. Cynthia “Cindy” Bolbach, from National Capital Presbytery, was elected after numerous ballots and then test votes with our cool little voting machines (we had some issues with them!). Once the Cindy’s election was secured and our evening prayers concluded, we were in recess. Once again, it was after midnight before I got to bed…<br /><br />Sunday, July 4th. Independence Day arrived with my awakening, startled, that I had overslept. The plan was to meet my brother and his wife for worship. A quick call to his cell secured my saved place, and I nearly sprinted one of the more glorious worship experiences of my life ensued. The rivers were again in use as, for the first time at General Assembly, a baby was baptized. I had wanted to describe this experience, but I do not have the words. I commend to you my brother's blog: paulkhooker.blogspot.com.<br /><br />Lunch followed worship, and immediately after that, our committee meetings began. As you may know, I am assigned to the Ecumenical and Interfaith Relations committee. We began with some fun team building exercises and heard a couple of presentations from General Assembly staff. <br /><br />I could have participated in a picnic and fireworks display at Nicolet Island, but I felt too tired for a picnic and I’ve never enjoyed fireworks. Following a quick nap, I am now writing to you and reviewing committee business for tomorrow morning. As I write, I hear the popping of fireworks…<br /><br />So. Here we are. Cindy Bolbach is moderator, God is in His Heaven and we Presbyterians are in Minneapolis, prayerfully requesting the guidance of the Holy Spirit as we seek to do the business of the PCUSA and further the glorification of Jesus Christ our LORD. Please keep us in your prayers! To God be all the glory, honor and praise!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-70790858194642820212010-06-29T01:03:00.000-04:002010-06-29T01:05:14.620-04:00Summer HeatWow! Summer has arrived in Virginia clothed in all her fiery, humidity-driven misery! Ever since I left California, I have had difficulty with extreme heat. I thought the heat in Charleston, South Carolina was the worst I’d experienced, even worse than in Florida, until I moved to Virginia. Out here in the north central piedmont, we do not get the breezes off the ocean, nor do we have the altitude of the mountains to provide lower temperatures. At night, the temperatures cool down, but are not deserving of the adjective, “cool”. At least Charleston had a breeze from time to time down near the point where the Cooper and the Ashley Rivers come together to form the Atlantic Ocean. (That last bit is true; ask any local the next time you visit there; they’ll tell you!) This week, the temps have not gone below 65 at night, nor have they stopped climbing during the day in the comfortable seventies; not even the 80’s, no, today, they shot right up past the century mark! We’ve been promised thunderstorms on a daily basis, but alas, none have materialized in our area. <br /><br />It was a scant four months ago that we had over two feet of snow piled up in our yard, and as it melted, the ground became very soft. (I am reminded that I have difficulty with extreme cold, too!) The mud was strong enough to literally pull the shoes off one’s feet! The same muddy area is now just a bunch of cracked and dusty clay. All the bodies of water to which I am routinely a witness are way, way down. The Rappahannock has a “sandbar” reaching almost from bank to bank in the mornings when I cross the Chatham Bridge on my way into the beautiful city of Fredericksburg’s old town area. We could really use some rain - - not the afternoon thunderstorms that sends brief, torrential downpours only to stop within a few minutes, and the water running down the hill taking topsoil along with it. We need a good, soaking, gentle, all day shower that lasts for a full day or two.<br /><br />The parched, dusty ground and ever diminishing bodies of water that I see every day remind me of the encounter our Lord had with a Samaritan woman at Jacob’s well, record in the 4th chapter of John’s gospel. It was the heat of the day, and Jesus was tired, hot and probably a bit thirsty; he had sent his traveling companions ahead to make the preparations for the evening’s sojourn. While He’s resting there, a Samaritan woman brings her water jar to the well. She is unnamed and nothing is known about her beyond what the passage eventually describes, but she suffers from a dryness of the soul, and of course, Jesus knew it. In the course of their conversation and her providing him with a drink of water, Jesus told her everything she had ever done - - all her foibles, warts and other blemishes of the soul - - yet, offered her the kingdom by saying that all who drank of the water she pulled from the well would thirst again, but those who drank of His Living Water would never thirst again. The woman saw the wisdom in accepting the gift, as she recognized that Jesus was, at minimum, a prophet, and might actually be the Messiah, and so she ran to tell her acquaintances in the town. Some believed based on her story, others followed, heard Jesus and believed.<br /><br />On Friday, I will board an airplane heading for the General Assembly meeting in Minnesota to which I have referred before in this venue. I am excited and anxious, hoping that God will guide me in the decisions I have to make, even in the comments I may have for topics at hand in committee. It is my fervent hope that I will be able to have such clear direction that I will wonder why on earth I was ever unsure. (That’s the dryness in my soul at the moment.) I am hoping that out of my heart indeed will come the “rivers of living water” promised by our Lord, and recorded in John 7:38. <br /><br />I plan to share herein some information each day as the meetings proceed next week. I do ask that you hold all of us - - the commissioners, delegates, and presbyters - - in your prayers as we go about our work starting Saturday, July 3rd through Saturday, July 10th. Please pray for our safe travels into and out of Minneapolis/St. Paul. Most importantly, please pray that the Holy Spirit take up residence in our hearts, that our discussions are filled with agape rather than rancor; that we are able to provide a clear message from the General Assembly to the members of the Presbyterian Church in the United States of America. This message will have to do with the mission of the church according to the direction of the Holy Spirit and how it has guided us to be a denomination of the larger body of Christian believers in the United States. This message will somehow inform us as the PC(USA) how we are to go about being part of the Church IN the world, but not OF it. May we truly glorify the Lord, and enjoy Him forever! Let the rivers flow!Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-84039234232774354392010-03-18T22:28:00.000-04:002010-03-18T22:39:29.806-04:00In the Boatman’s Lap<br /><br />This week, the Rappahannock was out of its banks again. Several days of rain, preceded by warmer temperatures that melted off the remaining snow patches, filled the streams, lakes and rivers to overflowing. From my favorite vantage point of Ingleside Drive, I looked back down at the curve of the river. The tidal currents pulled the water in violent splashes over the boulders, making actual whitecaps and reminding me of a painting I have hanging in my office. To be accurate, it is a print of a painting; the original, I am told, hangs in an old mansion in Nashville, Tennessee, that has been converted to a museum. The title of the painting is “Boatman and Child” and was painted by an artist named Robert Payton Reid.<br /><br />As you would infer from the title, the picture is of a man dressed in rain gear, a 19th Century version of a slicker like garment, probably oilskin, and a rain hat. It is apparent from the front left periphery that he is in a sailboat, and the water is white-capped. The Boatman also wears a countenance speaking of determined control; his left hand is firmly grasping the rudder and the other encircles a little girl as his hand grasps the rope line of the sail. In addition to the dark traditional dress and coat of the period, the little girl is wearing a plain, white cap that fits closely to her head and is tied underneath her chin. Her little hands are pressed, palms together, and brought up to cushion her head against the Boatman’s chest. The expression on her little face indicates she is frightened, but it also conveys trust. She is huddled against him, taking both shelter and rest as the storm’s waves rock the boat.<br /><br />One is struck by it. The colors in the piece are shades of browns and grays, adding to the somber mood of the scenario, yet it does not convey an entirely gloomy feeling. In fact, whenever I look at it, I am drawn in by its calm, and by how I identify with that little girl; safe in the arms of her protector - - perhaps her father or grandfather - - while being tossed about by the menacing combination of wind and waves. She is calm and settling to rest in the comforting power embodied in the Boatman. <br /><br />I tell people that the print is my faith statement, and to some extent, it is. On those occasions when I feel that my little corner of the world is disintegrating all around me, I can look at that picture and rest secure in the knowledge that God has the world under His control. It also reminds me of the physical sensation in centering prayer. That “resting in God” is physically akin to the relaxed and trusting serenity of a child climbing into the lap of a loving grandfather, and simply leaning against his chest. Words are unnecessary. While there is not a serious resemblance between the two, the Boatman reminds me a little bit of my own maternal grandfather. Not that I spent all that much time sitting in his lap, although I’m sure I did here and there, but more that I loved and trusted him almost more than anyone else in my childhood.<br /><br />As I write this, we Americans are watching as our federal government is grappling with many topics in legislature that will have major impacts on our population. There has been unusual harshness between the two major political parties in the past few years and the rancor with which the business of legislating is being done has been unprecedented. Or maybe it’s the press coverage of the verbal sniping that is unprecedented. I’m not certain. Similarly, the Presbyterian Church in the United States of America is also poised to debate and make landmark decisions for the denomination. Each needs our prayers; and we could all probably also use some time in the Boatman’s lap as he steers the vessel to safety. <br /><br />So, select a quieting word or phrase to signal to Him your intent, sit comfortably, with all distractions off or at least in silent mode. Now, close your eyes, take a deep breath and let it out very slowly, thinking gently of your special sacred word or phrase. Breath in again. And again.<br /><br />May you know the peace that comes from letting it all go, and resting in the love and presence of God through His Holy Spirit.Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-87729615325915654882010-03-02T23:15:00.000-05:002010-03-02T23:17:55.823-05:00<div>INNER TUBES AND MOUNTAIN RIVER RAPIDS<br /><br />Today was not a lot of fun. Everyone has those days from time to time, and today was one for me. I’ve been in pain all day, and work events could have fallen together more smoothly than they did. Still, as my Forester climbed the bluff on Ingleside Drive, I managed to quickly sneak a glance down at the river below. It is swollen from the melted run-off from all the snow, and it was drizzling, too. The currents strong, the extra water rushed along, splashing against the huge boulders and bubbling over the smaller rocks hidden beneath the surface. <br /><br />Suddenly, I was transported back in my memory to a time almost thirty-four years ago in June, when I joined a group from the Wesley Foundation at the University of Tennessee for an afternoon of “tubing” in one of the rivers up in the Smokey Mountains of East Tennessee, just an hour or so east of Knoxville. I had heard others talk about how much fun it was, but had never done it myself. All I was told was to wear my swimsuit under cut-off jean shorts and T-shirt, bring a couple of towels, Band-Aids, and to definitely wear sneakers. So, appropriately attired and adequately warned about the icy temperatures of the water, off we went. Once at the river, I was instructed that I would need to sit across the inner tube, as opposed to down in it. There were other instructions - - forgotten as soon as inner tubes with their assigned bodies slapped down onto the water and pushed away from the banks. We started our descent from just below Cades Cove, moving downward toward the placid pool that awaited us further down. It wasn’t long before I discovered the reasons for the instruction to sit across rather than down in the middle of the inner tube. The downward rush of the water propelled the tubes on varying speeds over, around, into and occasionally over some rather large boulders. Sometimes, one could get lucky and get a hand or a foot in position to push off of the boulder, rather than crashing into it. Once in a while, you’d just get stuck on a rock. More than likely, however, contact between boulders, vulnerable rear ends and the backs of thighs would result in marks of the encounters for a week or so thereafter!<br /><br />Among the other dangers of this little trip were these little eddies created in the spaces between boulders where the water would pool and spin against itself. When these are large enough and in larger volumes of water, they’re called whirlpools. Of course, I fell off my inner tube just where one had formed, got sucked under, and ended up needing to be pulled out of the water by some of my friends. This marked the second water related near-death experience in my life. Once safely on solid, dry land and still shaken by the whole thing, I looked back at the inner tube, speedily spinning where I had been separated from it only a moment before. My friends were able to retrieve it from the water and I carried it up the hill to the waiting van; it and I were done for the day, never to meet again. I stuck to hiking in the Smokies from that point forward!<br /><br />Rivers rushing along their courses to the sea, splashing over and around the rocks are hypnotic and beautiful. They sparkle and shimmer whether in sun or moon light, occasionally rushing loudly enough to disguise the sounds of the American version of the Lorelei that entice one to ride along only to be dashed against the hidden perils or pulled under to perform an eternity of underwater somersaults. I’m an old pro with these, turning over and over under the water, seeing the light that marks the surface, but never quite able to reach up to it or get one’s head above it or one’s feet on the bottom. Perhaps it’s the danger that intrigues us, motivating us to hop aboard that ship (or inner tube) instead of allowing it to just float on by. <br /><br />As I mentioned in my previous missive, the river flowing along beside us in our prayers is analogous to our stream of consciousness. When we go to God in our centering prayer, we are saying to him that we accept the invitation to be in His presence. We are saying that we will try to remain as quiet as we can so we might experience him in the stillness. I can tell you from experience that the stream can be as welcoming as that first dive into the pool on a sticky August day in the mid South. After all, the initial sessions of centering prayer function in ways similar to a psychological spring house-cleaning and fumigation. Who wouldn’t rather go for a motorboat ride or a quiet, yet invigorating sail?<br /><br />One of my more favorite memories of Charleston, South Carolina, in the months I lived there prior to meeting my husband, was an afternoon of sailing on a beautiful, windy afternoon in November. I had my camera, and wanted to take photographs of the City from the Harbor. So, leaning against the mast and looping my arm around it for balance, I did snap some pictures, but soon abandoned the photography for the pure thrill of the sail. The wind whipped the sails back and forth – ditto with my hair -- and the vessel was slightly tossed about on the choppy surface. Here and there, salt water would be slung up in a spray by the wind. The sun’s rays were warm on my back, balancing the chill of the air. In those few moments, for it seemed as if the entire afternoon only lasted an hour or so, I think I felt more alive, more present in the moment, and closer to God than I had felt in a long time. The elemental power of the wind, the fiery energy of the sun, the being away from the solidity and nurture of terra firma, and on the water, medium for the most delicate of sea creatures, yet a liquid cemetery for all non-gilled and non-swimming creatures all came together in those fleeting moments, and I wondered how could one experience this confluence of nature and deny the omnipotent, unmitigated glory of its Creator? What was I that He cared enough about me to allow me to be a witness to it?<br /><br />We are awakened into these revelations by the grace of God. He puts into us the desire to be with him; the yearning for spiritual nurturing through Bible study and the longing to seek and find Him in all the created order. We don’t do this of our own accord; He provides the impetus, and if we’re astute enough to understand it, we are given the freedom to act in imitation of His life and ministry embodied in Jesus Christ, His only Begotten Son. May the Grace and Peace of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit be with you, now and always.<br /><br />Susanne</div>Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6414858248839642308.post-6131564769759803332010-02-10T16:32:00.000-05:002010-02-10T17:24:41.237-05:00Sitting on the banks<div>Hello! You are the first to be reading my blog. I never thought I would actually create one, but I have found that sometimes I have opinions to share. This may provide a forum for them.</div>
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<br /><div>Why am I calling this "Watching the River Flow By"? Well, rivers (and other bodies of water) have been present in my life at most, if not all, important points in my life. When an infant and small child, we regularly crossed the Cumberland River on our way to visit our grandparents. And these same grandparents used to take us fishing on the Harpeth River. Our father's family had annual reunions on my uncle's property at Old Hickory Lake, a reservoir off the Cumberland River. As a teenager in Alabama, I dated a boy from Decatur, on the Tennessee River. On one occasion, I recall us going out on that river to water ski, and I looked up at the bridge my family and I crossed on a routine basis going between Birmingham and Nashville. I felt pretty small, and became quite aware of the depth and flow of the water, and the potential dangers it held. In college, of course, the University of Tennessee campus backs up to Fort Loudoun Lake, off that same Tennessee River. My career took me to cities with bays - - Tampa, Florida and San Francisco, California. In Tampa, my friends and I would go to Clearwater Beach on many occasions, and in San Francisco, I lived 30 blocks or so from the Pacific Ocean. I used to walk on the beach there, and frequently watched the sunset from above the Cliff House. In Charleston, South Carolina, the Ashley and Cooper Rivers come together to form the Atlantic Ocean, and it is at that point that I used to go sailing with friends, once even disembarking at Pinkney's Castle - an island in the middle of the Charleston Harbor. I met my husband in Charleston, and we frequently included the beach at Isle of Palms, or walking along the harbor at Waterfront Park or the Battery as part of our dating routine. In school I had read many times about Virginia locations, and George Washington's surveying. I remember reading about the Rappahannock River - - I now cross that river about 4 times per day going to and from work in Fredericksburg. I've seen it (and the Hazel River) flood; I've seen it nearly dried up. Most of the time, though, it just flows along, seemingly smooth yet possessing a strong undercurrent, splashing against boulders in some areas and becoming glassy in others. </div><br />
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<br /><div>There are obvious metaphors provided by rivers in our lives. I'm no exception to those experiences. As an adult, being dashed about against the rocks of human experience, I've sought serenity and tranquility that I mistakenly thought religion and meditation would bring. In that process, I stumbled upon Centering or Contemplative Prayer. I say "stumbled" because I was going down a path that, had I stayed on it, probably would have resulted in more bumps and bruises. But back to Centering Prayer. I attended a lecture of his, and then purchased his books, and in the imagery used by Father Thomas Keating, the process has to do with quieting the noises and settling the extraneous thoughts so that one's focus can be on God's presence - - or, more accurately - - one's intention to answer God's invitation to be in His presence. Everything else can be thought of as boats flowing down the river. That absolutely resonated with me. (Another image he used in his books is that of a small child climbing up in a parent or grandparent's lap and sitting quietly, calmly trusting in the protection of that person's arms. That is another subject I'll hopefully have time to explore later.)</div><br />
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<br /><div>Sometimes with this outlet, I will be trying to characterize the boats, distinguishing them from essential thoughts. (Occasionally, God does speak to us, even if we're not listening) Sometimes, I may jump on one of the boats and take a ride. Other times, I hope to find something that is meaningful to me - - a Presbyterian elder, Sunday School "teacher" , and first time commissioner to General Assembly from Shenandoah Presbytery. At all times, the opinion expressed herein will be my own. I hope that on occasions, they will be worthy.</div><br />
<br /><p></p>May God bless you!<br />
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<br /><div></div>Susanne Hooker Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13300195520636690654noreply@blogger.com0