Jubilee

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.

One of her albums that I loved from the moment I popped in the CD for the first time was the Stones in the Road recording.   On it, there is a song entitled, Jubilee.   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.  

I can tell by the way you're walking

That you don't want company

Well, I'll let you alone and 

I'll let you walk on

In your own good time you'll be

Back where the sun can find you

Under the wise wishing tree

And with all of them made

We'll lie under the shade

And call it a jubilee...

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.

I can tell by the way you're talking

That the past isn't letting you go

Well, it's only so long you can take it all on

Then the wrong's gotta be on its own

When you're ready to leave it behind you

And you look back on all that you see,

It's the wreckage and rust that you left in the dust

On your way to the jubilee!

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!!

I can tell by the way you're listening

That you're still expecting to hear

You're name being called like a summons to all

Who have failed to account for their doubts and their fears

They can't add up to much without you

And so if it were just up to me

I'd take hold of your hand, saying come hear the band

Play your song at the jubilee!

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.

I can tell by the way you're searching

For something you can't even name

That you haven't been able to come to the table

Simply glad that you came

When you feel this way try to imagine

That we're all like frail boats on the sea

Scanning the night for that great guiding light

Announcing the jubilee

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 x 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!

And I can tell by the way you're standing 

With your eyes filling with tears

That it's habit alone keeps you turning for home

Even though your home is right here

Where the people who love you are gathered

Under the wise wishing tree

Let us all be considered then straight on delivered

Down to the jubilee

Where the people who love you are waiting

And they'll wait just as long as need be.

When we look back and say those were halcyon days

We're talking about jubilee!

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! 

  

May the Peace of Jesus Christ be with you!

My Father

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.

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!

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.

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!

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!

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.

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!

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.

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.  

My father taught me through word and deed that:

1.       Family is of paramount importance after God.

2.       People are people, regardless of skin color, nationality, creed, gender preference or identity, etc.

3.       God is Lord of all.   What we believe about God doesn’t change who God is.

4.       Doing the right thing doesn’t make one popular, but it helps one sleep at night.

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!”

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!

In 1979

Picture of him and me just before walking me down the aisle

Mom and Dad on June 24, 2006, at my niece's wedding 

On his last birthday, November 22, 2014.

And God Made Liesl

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.

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. 

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!

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.”

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.

(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.

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.

On September 9^th, 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!

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!

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.)

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!

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!

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!

On Love and Vulnerability - - A Lenten Devotional

On page 77 of his beautiful book, Open Mind, Open Heart, Thomas Keating writes the following:  Suffering is part of the warp and woof of living.   It is not an end in itself, but part of the price one has to pay for being greatly loved.  Love, whether human or divine, makes you vulnerable.  And from page 14 of Heart of the World, he writes: Vulnerability means to be hurt over and over again without seeking to love less, but more.

Of course, most of us are familiar with I Corinthians 13, concerning God’s gift of love.  Starting at verse 4, it says, Love is patient, love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude.  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.  It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love never ends.”  (I Corinthians 13: 4 – 8a, NRSV)

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.    Over the past couple of years, I have been reminded numerous times about pain, suffering, sacrifice and vulnerability.    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.   No, chocolate does not begin to approach the magnitude of what many I have lost for the remainder of my time on this planet.    So what is the victory I will celebrate on Easter?  

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.   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!   I will celebrate that love endures all things and never ends.   I am not promised that it will never hurt.    I am not promised that everything will go the way I think it should, or that I can be entirely carefree.    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.   But  I am promised that I am loved, and that love will survive all ills, provide hope, and remain throughout eternity.  

Can your chocolate do that?

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.

With A Million Stars All Around



 

Well, it has been a while since I have added anything to this site.   I haven’t felt particularly moved to express anything until this morning.  

As I write this, events are happening in the sky above my home - - and likely yours as well - -  but you may not be witnessing  them.  In fact, if you are not retired, you probably are sleeping at this moment.  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.

I have been out already - -  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.   As I did so, several things came to mind, things that made me realize I didn’t need to see the actual meteor shower.     I’ve seen them before.   No, other  messages came to mind that I think may have been the real reason I was led outdoors instead of to my bed to sleep.   If you will permit me, I’ll share these with you here.

First of all, there was a haziness to the viewing at first.   Initially, I interpreted it as cloudiness, as we have had some rain this weekend.   But the longer I was outside, the clearer the sky seemed and the more defined the stars seemed in that sky.   I was reminded of the passage in I Corinthians about seeing in a mirror dimly but then face to face.   Now, our understanding is blurred; but eventually, it will all be clear.   Or, in the more recent words of Dan Fogelberg, “one day, we’ll all understand.”

My first reverie was rudely interrupted by the sudden appearance of a bat, flying about a foot from my face.   I had to scramble to ensure that it did not find its way inside my dwelling where my beautiful aging canine was sweetly sleeping.   But a few minutes later, I was back outside.

I was then reminded that John used to wake me up to come outside and witness meteor showers.   It used to irritate me a little, particularly if I had to work the next day, but he kept up with such events.   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.   It was a comfortable feeling, and one for which I am thankful.    This is a lasting gift he has given me!

I was aware of the sounds of the country.  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.   Bats fly around.   Breezes in the trees rustle the leaves.  Most animals are sleeping, but one hears an occasional twig snap in the woods…  It could be deafening for those not accustomed to it.    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.   This is my home.   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.

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.   In that moment, we were all connected!  We ARE all connected!   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.

And in that moment, with a million stars all around, the world felt just a little less lonely.

Happy Valentine's Day

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.  

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.

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!

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!  

Happy Valentine’s Day!

The Fullness of Emptiness

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, knowing what I know and having lived what I lived! 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.

I have written previously about feeling as if my little boat were stranded on some boulders in the middle of the river. I think I am experiencing a shifting of its position, and I am tentatively picking up the oars again to see if they will reach the water this time. I am emptying the boat of that which once threatened to swamp it, and with much hope, it is time to rejoin the current moving downstream.

May the Peace of Christ - - the One who experienced the most profound emptiness in order to live with us - - be with you!

Grieving

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.

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.

So often over the past four months, the tears have come - - with or without aid from other people! And that’s o.k.! It’s normal that some of the memories of my husband bring me to tears! I welcome them! 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 mattered! 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.

But my reality makes no sense right now without him. 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. I hope…

I recalled reading a book entitled, The Year of Magical Thinking, 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 exactly 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.

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.

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.

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 absolute certainty that God is with me, and I know that you are, too! For that, I am truly thankful!



Uncharted Territory

I 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.

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

Welcome 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

May the Peace of Christ be with you, and Welcome Home!

Confessing our Faith

This 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.

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:

BEATITUDES CREED
Written by the Presbyterian Women of the Warrenton Presbyterian Church
Based on the Bible study “Confessing the Beatitudes”
(Read Responsively)

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to honor the destitute and hopeless.
With Christ’s help, I will seek to work with others in ways that meaningfully honor those who are poor.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to honor the weepers and mourners.
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.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to stand with the humbled against the wicked.
With Christ’s help, I will look for ways to honor the humbled through my prayers, my choices, and my uplifted voice.

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.
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.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to to show mercy by our emotions, our actions, and the dedication of our lives.
With Christ’s help, I will rededicate myself to the practice of mercy that Jesus calls honorable.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to be pure in heart.
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.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to be peacemakers in the church and in the world.
With Christ’s help, I recommit myself to the joyful work of peacemaking, that all the world may know God’s shalom.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to follow him even in the face of persecution.
With Christ’s help, I trust that in times of trial, the Spirit of God will give us the words to speak.

I confess that Jesus calls his disciples to the fearless work of discipleship.
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.

May the Peace of Christ be with you!

Here'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.

I’ve thought about it off and on since then, especially in light of another “bird” scene I encountered on the way home.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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!