Ponderings . . . Something Cannot Come From Nothing (03/18/2015)

Something cannot come from nothing . . .

            "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth . . . "

Who created God?

             "I Am that I Am . . . "

A timeless statement. Incorporating yesterday, today, tomorrow. A forever statement. A "present" statement. "He" is now . . . always has been. No beginning, no end.

God is Ultimate Love. AND Ultimate Logic.

? ? ? ? ?

A circle has no beginning and no end . . .

* * * * *

There is something to grasp here. I’m not sure what.

Listening to the Music . . .

Sitting with my coffee next to the fireplace starting my day with some scripture reading and thanking God for my many blessings -- Easy Listening music on the TV (as always) and "I'm a Dreamer, Aren't We All" interrupts my thought and my thankfulness immediately turns to the sound --

Thank you, God, for the music. How can twelve little notes create such a beautiful variety of melodies? And where would we be without the music? . . .

Except . . .

There’s been an addition this past week. A little "chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp."

What kind of little bird is that, anyway? And how did he get in the house?

Oh, wait. It’s NOT a bird. It’s that thing in the ceiling down the hall and outside my bedroom. That alarm thing for smoke or carbon monoxide or something. There’s actually three of these round things up there in that hall ceiling . . .

And one of them is "chirping" because . . .

Because . . . I think . . . the battery needs changing.

Except my daughter was over a couple of days ago and heard it and climbed on the step stool and put in a new battery. I thought.

But the chirping continued.

So the next day I got up on the step stool and pulled off the cover. But there were no batteries inside – just a bunch of multi-colored plastic coated wires. Hmmmm.

So that evening I called son John, Master Fixer of Everything. Explained – or tried to – what was going on.

"Where do I put the new batteries?"

"You don’t.  It’s an old unit, over ten years old."

"So, then, I should just go to Home Depot and replace . . . "

"No, you can’t do that."

"Well, can’t I just take it with me and show them . . . "

"No, you can’t. Unless you want me to have to replace all the wiring."

"What?"

"Just leave it alone. I have to come over there and fix it."

"Oh . . . "

* * * *
So, for now, the chirping continues.

Adds kind of an interesting . . . unusual addition to the music . . . I reckon.

Ode to Innocence . . . (*)

So here you are . . . leader of the group . . . in this little community.

It’s not New York City and no one here is going to win a Rhodes Scholarship, but life is good. Simple, mostly, but good. And you definitely are the leader. Everyone looks to you to solve disputes. And protect them. And you do. You are the strong and mighty one. The respected leader.

But then the invaders come one last time. You fight them off and that gives the others time to run to safety. But they are many. And you are one.

Finally, they overcome you. And leave you dying in the jungle.

But not before -- to add to the unspeakable horror of it all -- they cut off your hands . . .and head . . . and take them to display as trophies.

A few hours later, the little group reassembles. They sit. And wait. For their leader.

But he never comes.

What must they think? How do they cope? (The movie (*) showed this scene. I found it heartbreaking trying to imagine how they felt and what they thought .)

* * * * *

And then, a few years later, someone did the same thing to the woman who loved them and fought for them . . . She was 53 years old.

* * * * *

In Rwanda Dian Fossey and Digit rest side by side in their graves in the Virunga Mountains.

(*) NPT Documentary, June 2013, "The Lost Film of Dian Fossey," (repeat).

I Found A Place . . . (written Oct 26, 2014)

Every . . . thing . . . matters,” says Andy Andrews (Christian motivational speaker/author). I agree. It matters that I am here at this time and place.

Moving to Ridgeport Subdivision in 2010, I was delighted to see two churches just up the road from me at the corner of Duplex and Hwy 31. I often spent Saturday night/Sunday with 1 of 4 grown children attending their large charismatic churches. (They all live 10-20 miles from me) So it wasn’t until sometime last year I finally ventured forth to visit – starting with Spring Hill Methodist Church.

I never got across the street . . .

From the first visit I have felt at home, at peace, within these walls. From the friendliness of the people, to the music that brings tears to my eyes every week because it takes me back to the songs of my childhood and memories of my parents. Church and parents who taught me always to “seek” the truth, don’t judge others, turn the other cheek.”

And then, of course, there’s the uplifting and thoughtful messages presented by our pastor. Again, almost always bringing a tear to my eyes or a grin to my face because of the poignant or quirky examples he references. I come seeking spiritual food. And I get it.

Pastor Keith always manages to bring to our attention issues that are relevant to the times in which we live. What a blessing he is to this community.

The teaching, the music, the loving acceptance . . . it is all part of a special spirit that fills this place . . . I think it’s called “Holy” . . .

God Bless Pastor Keith and God Bless SHUMC

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way . . . (11/14/2014)

. . to the surprise birthday.

"Mimi, did you burn something in the kitchen?" Bonnie asked as she stuck her head in the living room.

"No, why; what are you talking about? I baked a cake and I have some home-made soup simmering on the stove."

I put my laptop down, got up from the couch, and headed back to the kitchen I had left 15 minutes earlier after spending several hours preparing tonight’s dinner.

Entering the kitchen, I nearly stumbled over the floor fan that was whirring busily in the middle of the floor and felt the blast of cold air blowing in from the opened door of the kitchen.

"What’s going on?" I asked.
.
"We’re trying to air out the kitchen from the burnt smell."

"What burnt smell? I don’t smell anything," I replied as I walked over and lifted the lid from the big pot of soup simmering on the stove. Taking the big spoon ladle from the counter, I dipped it into the soup and stirred slightly.

Whoops, I thought, as the spoon touched the bottom and I realized it did, in fact, have a layer of food stuck to the bottom. I grabbed a small bowl and dished up a big spoonful into it.

"Tastes fine; the pot is just burned on the bottom," I replied. "We can just pour the soup off into another pot and leave the scorched bottom to soak."

I had scorched the bottom of the pot making soups and sauces a few times in my life. No big deal.

Bonnie and Mike exchanged perplexed looks.

* * * * *

I’d spent the night at Jake and Bev’s (son and D-I-L) and we had discussed the menu the night before. I would go to Krogers the next morning (today) and buy everything to make chicken/vegetable/rice soup and then stir up a single layer chocolate cake with cream cheese icing. Mmmmmm, just the right thing for this sudden turn of cold weather we were having.

Unbeknownst to Jake, this was going to be an early birthday surprise dinner. As far as he knew while we were making these plans on Wedneday night, however, tomorrow’s dinner was just a regular Thursday night with kids popping in and out and, oh, isn’t it great that mom decided to stay over and cook homemade soup the next day.

Ha!

Bev had left the list of food to buy when she left for work the next morning and I bundled and trundled over to Krogers. Once home, I started my chopping and dicing and stirring and simmering and baking.

I had chopped up bite-size chicken pieces and dropped them and three cans of broth into the big pot and once it got simmering, added the other ingredients as I got them chopped. Switching the burner from "Med" to "Lo" once each ingredient began to simmer. Then turned the burner to one notch above "Lo". I thought.

Then I mixed up the cake and baked it. It was now cooling on the counter.

Finally, around 2 p.m., my cooking chores complete, I headed for the living room and my Lap Top to connect with Cyperspace once more.

* * * * *

Bonnie and Mike (her boyfriend) continued their clean up activities (Bev had asked them to stop by and straighten up the house before our special dinner that evening). Then they left.

Once they were gone, I closed the kitchen door to the outdoors, turned off the floor fan, and put it away. And returned to the living room to check e-mail once again.

Less than an hour after Bonnie and Mike left, Bev got home from work. She commented on the smell. I explained what had happened. She dipped a spoon into the soup.

"Oh, Mom, it’s burned, really burned. I can taste it."

"Oh, no, please. Are you sure? I tasted it. I didn’t taste anything burned or scorched. It tasted delicious to me."

"No, Mom, really; I’m sorry, but it’s burned. Really."

About that time, Jake arrived home. He noticed the ‘burned smell’ as he entered the house. We filled him in on the conversation. Of course he grabbed a spoon, as well, for his own taste test.

"Yep; it’s burnt, Mom. I mean, really burnt."

"I just can’t believe this. I don’t understand. I put the burner on one notch above "Lo" and it has been simmering for a couple of hours."

Bev and Jake both hugged me because I was beginning to tear up.

"It’s okay, mom; really. This stove is funny. It cooks hotter than you think. Really, it’s okay. We’ll order pizza. No big deal."

But it was. A big deal. To me. I had wanted to make a delicious home-made soup; a special home-made dinner for my son. For his surprise birthday.

Maybe it will be a funny story . . . some day.

But not today.

* * * *

There is a happy ending to the story, however In fact, a very special wonderful ending.

It goes like this –

Jake loves cameras and photography and takes pictures wherever he goes. Some of his equipment has been broken or not working properly for some time and he comes home from work and searches online and studies books on cameras and photography. Relaxes in bed looking and studying. Almost every night.

Bev had wanted to surprise him this year with this special camera he wanted. But they didn’t really have the money. A few weeks ago she was talking with Skyler, one of Jeff’s close friends, who had become like another family member. (Jeff is Bev’s son from first marriage). Sky now works at the Sheriff’s Dept. He stopped by recently, as usual, and Bev mentioned she had an old antique gun her father had given her. She showed it to Sky. He said he wanted to buy it. Even though it was a $500 gun.

Bev was thrilled; this could go towards the camera. Maybe she could scrape up enough money after all.

Unfortunately, a few days later, Sky called to say he couldn’t afford to buy it now, after all.

Jeff just happened to be there that day and when Bev hung up the call, she explained to Jeff what she had hoped to do.

"Let’s just pray about this, Mom." Let’s just ask God to some how – some way – provide the money so you can get this for Jake."

So they held hands and prayed. And Jeff left.

About 20 minutes later, Jeff called. "Mom, mom," he was almost shouting, "you’re not gonna believe this. Guess who just called me."

"Okay . . . who?"

"Dad. Dad called. And he’s sending you a check for $2700 for the back child support."

"OHMYGOSH, Jeff! That is amazing. It’s more than amazing. It’s a miracle."

(Need to explain here that Phil, Jeff’s dad, has not worked in two years and so has been unable to pay his Child Support.).

Bev purchased the camera with all the proper attachments. It cost $3000.

* * * * *

After our v - e - r - y special dinner last night, with all the kids and me and Bev’s mom present, Bev left the room and came back with a big wrapped box.

"Oh, by the way, Jake, this came in the mail yesterday so I thought we’d celebrate your birthday early. Hope you don’t mind."

Jake looked questioningly at Bev for an instant before he started opening the present.

Then . . .

I wish you could have seen the look on my son’s face . . .



(*) names are ficticious; events are true.

I'll Be Seeing You . . .

"I’ll Be Seeing You"–

Reincarnation. Is there such a thing?

Who knows for sure. All I know is I am here, now. If I lived before, I don’t know. Will I return as someone else? Will I know if I do? Unanswered questions common to the human mind, I reckon.

All I know about is living now the best way I know how. Whatever else there is, whatever else there may be . . . will be.

BUT . . .

There it is again. That song. On Easy Listening.

They play it often, but that’s okay with me because it is one of my favorites. That and White Cliffs of Dover. So many others, too, from the WWII era but these are my BFF (Best Favorites Forever).

We didn’t have a car for much of my early childhood. Mom and I would ride the bus to Woodward (in Detroit, Michigan) and take a streetcar down to the RKO Theater to meet my dad on a Friday night, eat sandwiches and hot fudge sundaes at Sanders next to the theater, and then watch TWO movies with cartoons and News in-between.

Then we would take the streetcar and bus back home. Usually a couple of times a month. Beautiful memories.

But the feelings in my spirit/soul are so strong, so deep – when I hear this music. My heart is squeezed so tight, and hurts so good, it pushes the water out my eyes. Every time. No matter where. No matter when.

Almost like I was there . . . once . . . and I am remembering my soldier love.

Normal childhood remembrances of movies and music of the times?

Maybe, maybe not . . .

What Happened to the Joy? (Originally written May 2009)

The woman in front of me is swaying; her body and hands raised high waving back and forth like they do at Sports events. Many in the audience are doing the same, many are not. I glance to my left again, as I always do, watching the deaf interpreter. This must be where the expression "poetry in motion" came from. Watching them is one of my favorite things in churches like these. 
The worship service continues. The words are displayed on big screens at the front of the auditorium. Praise songs, you may know, are mostly scripture set to music. I am unfamiliar with the melodies and stand or sit quietly while some around me lose themselves in joyful spiritual abandonment. But I am moved by the music and the atmosphere.

I passed through this joyful abandonment some years ago. Does that sound strange?

It isn’t something I planned. It just happened. Looking back, I realize the time in my life when I experienced this "joyful spiritual abandonment" the most, was at one of the worst times emotionally and financially of my life. As in the first few months after my husband of 22 years moved back to Michigan and three of my four children and I stayed where we were. How ironic.

Well, we didn’t exactly "stay where we were". We lost the house we had been purchasing and me and the kids (and their buddies) moved us into a rental house in the country and then six months later, the owners decided to fix the house for their mom and we moved again; into an apartment across from Franklin High School.

Not exactly fun times. But I wrote about that in my book, "Sarah's Story" so I won’t dwell on those times now.

For several years my children and I attended The Lord’s Chapel in Nashville. That’s where I learned about the joy. I came from a conservative Christian church and experiencing the Chapel’s version of worship was like a floodgate of emotion opened up and sucked me in. I loved it.

A few years later, when I met Sam (ficticious name), who attended the Unitarian Church in Nashville, another floodgate opened. Not of joyful worship and praise, but of intellect and tolerance. Whereas many Nashville musicians attended The Lord’s Chapel, this church had an abundance of scholars, Vanderbilt professors, social workers, etc.

The thing I loved about the Chapel was the joyful worship. What I loved about the Unitarians was the acceptance and tolerance.

Intolerance, or judgment, by "the church" is largely why I am where I am today spiritually. Theologically, I pretty much agree with what I think of as mainstream Evangelicals, if there is such a thing.

But I’m a firm believer in separation of church and state, for one thing. So that’s one difference. Then I am Pro-Choice. I don’t personally believe abortion is a good choice but because my beliefs are so precious to me, I must assume others feel the same. I don’t believe it is my right to judge.

* * * * *

Unitarians are known for their tolerance and respect for everyone’s personal beliefs. So they tell this joke on themselves: is it intolerant to be intolerant of intolerance?

Based on my perspective and the separation I feel from "the conservative church", I could ask myself a similar question: aren’t you judging ‘the church’ for being judgmental?

  

* * * * *

I was a child in the Forties which means I grew up in an intense time of patriotism and love of country. The images from movies and newsreels plus the fact that the entire country was engulfed in participating at the citizen/job level made lasting impressions in my psyche. These feelings and emotions are embedded in my soul forever.

I know my childhood perspective was not necessarily valid. By that I am just acknowledging that children’s perspectives of things are not always the way things really are. But they are what they are. Child or adult, your perception of reality IS your reality.

So what I’m trying to say is, I love my country. Utterly. But now, I love it – utterly – from an adult perspective, not that of a child. And I know my country is not perfect.

It seems to me there are two types of people these days. I think the politicians do their best to keep it so. Patriotic Americans who love this country and think it can do no wrong and get upset or offended if anyone suggests otherwise. But there is another group of Patriotic Americans who love this country – just as much – but we believe it is important to recognize the imperfections and try to correct them. I am in the latter group. And make no apologies for it.

So that is another wedge between me and ultra-conservative Christianity.

I don’t watch much TV but enjoy programs like The History Channel, Discovery, HGTV, and public television. Especially I like programs and documentaries about World War II.

Recently NPT showed a movie, probably a repeat but I just saw it, about the Japanese fighter pilots, the Kamakazis.. A few years ago I saw Clint Eastwood’s movie, "Letters from Iwo Jima".

Whether it’s a movie, a documentary, or the nightly News about the current war, I react the same. My heart is racked with pain for ALL the boys of ALL the mothers. For ALL the citizens; men, women, and children of ALL the countries, who lose their lives or are maimed in some way by this awful thing called W-A-R.

I have gone beyond patriotism for my country. I have become a mother of the world. And then I watch a Discovery program about Space and I am filled with awe and humility. And I believe that I have become a child of the Universe. Knowing that "what I know" is about as much as a grain of sand compared to what there is to know.

Somewhere along the way of life I passed from the "joyful spiritual abandonment" stage to "how can God bear the pain of what His children are doing to each other" stage and I sorrow for the world.

I lost the joy.