My mom asked me to go through some boxes while I was home, boxes of my life. She wondered if any of it might be thrown away; I said nope. Sitting on the shelf with the memories was a metal rack full of 45rpms - remember those? I used to buy those things for .99, much like my kids buy iTunes today, except for the fact that I went to an actual store and felt the actual record sleeves and was surrounded by other actual kids all monitored by an actual clerk with an ELO t-shirt on who didn't care if we peeked at those racy Black Oak Arkansas covers...
Anyway, I took the rack of nostalgia over to the record player and started spinning the old lang syne. My lord. The Moody Blue's Gemini Dream; Steve Winwood's While You See A Chance; Survivor's Eye of the Tiger; Mellencamp's Jack and Diane; and of course, Fogelberg's Old Lang Syne. There was just something right about seeing the slow descent of the needle and then that snack, crackle, pop as the vinyl slowly bled the magic. Yeah, I'm not sure my analog heart is going to make the digital conversion...they may have to pry my cold, dead fingers from my rabbit ears...
Auld Lang Syne. Good old days. That's where the music took me. Just for a moment I was back at school, back to grade school and jr. high and high school and monogrammed sweaters and Levi 501s and reading A Separate Peace and bus trips to football games and scrubbing your face so the acne didn't go ape on you and carrying a long handled comb in your back pocket and braces and Members Only jackets and lifting weights so you wouldn't be so skinny and sitting behind Misty Bedford in algebra class while thinking about everything but sine and co-sine and going to the army surplus store to buy fatigues for $3 and sitting on the steps of Pine Street Jr. High after lunch just trying to be cool and drinking raw eggs like Rocky did and Ocean Pacific t-shirts and dancing like a white guy (step forward, step back, step forward, step back) and pep rallies and driving a '67 Chevy pickup with a column shift and a boom box strapped to the top of the seat and picking out 45rpms at the record store...
Some of those boxes my mom asked me to look through did have things in them that could've been thrown away, things some would consider trash. But I want to keep it all, the good and the bad, for it's my life. Some of those music induced good old days were actually days of pain and suffering: all Misty Bedford wanted me for was algebra answers; the weights and raw eggs never transformed me into Rocky; the braces were, well, metal railroads on my teeth my senior year of high school. But I want to keep it all; it's my life, my story.
The temptation on days such as New Year's Eve is to get all gussied up on Korbel and convert our analog lives to digital; clean 'em up so there's nothing but the pretty and wake up to a New Year with eyes glazed over with pastels. That temptation may be greater than ever this year as we're all about to embark on something called change. Now please know that I've no problem with a little escapism; I watched Mama Mia last night for pete's sake. But I want to resist that temptation today and I pray the same for you. As hard as it may be, I pray we all have some time, if just for a moment, to let the needle pull the snap, crackle, pop out of the vinyl of our lives and remember where we've been. I know what folks say, but I'm not sure any of us know where we're going; that's the huckster's selling stance for the future - nobody's been there yet, so everything is plausible. But most of us know where we've been, the lives we've lived and who we've become in the living of those days. And if I or you or we should remember that old familiar pain, then so be it. It reminds us that once, we were here...
Chingachgook: The frontier moves with the sun and pushes the Red Man of these wilderness forests in front of it until one day there will be nowhere left. Then our race will be no more, or be not us.
Hawkeye: That is my father's sadness talking.
Chingachgook: No, it is true. The frontier place is for people like my white son and his woman and their children. And one day there will be no more frontier. And men like you will go too, like the Mohicans. And new people will come, work, struggle. Some will make their life. But once, we were here.
Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Most Sundays in the very recent past, I've been blogging over at The Spoiled Priest. I'm going to break stride and stay at The Shame today. I appreciate all the comments you've pinned to the wall here, thoughts and such about Meggie's story. They mean more to me than you know. Based on your comments, the story meant more to you than I'll know, so I guess we're even.
This is my hands-down-most-favorite-time-of-the-year. I'm pretty sure it's always been that way with me, just something I love about being all Christmassy. And while some of the high-falutin'-spiritual ilk tend to shy away from the cultural swamps of the season, I happily wade knee-deep through it all, slathered in sentiment, with little Judy's Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas ringing in my ears. And I apologize not one whit for it.
I watch Charlie Brown every year, every year, and weep like a baby when Linus reminds us of what Christmas is really about. I also watch Frosty every year, every year, and I'm always relieved when that Christmas wind blows in the greenhouse and brings the blessed snowman back to life; something about little Karen crying tears of loss that reminds me of long lay the world, in sin and error pining. From the Ray Conniff singers in high fidelity to It's a Wonderful Life in black and white, I love it all. I've even got room in my pack for Feliz Navidad, no kidding.
And as for Santa Claus, well, I believe we need to tread lightly there, dear reader. How can you not believe in Saint Nick, whom we have seen, and then say you believe in God, whom you've not seen? I hold to the theory, purely my own, that John the Baptist became Santa Claus. I kid you not. When the fiery prophet was beheaded, God gave him the option of coming back as anyone he wanted to and John said well, I'd still like to keep pointing them to the One who is coming, but I'd really love an upgrade in clothing and diet. I'm fine to keep the beard and girth of my former life. And God said consider it done, John. They'll probably want to worship you, like they did before, but just keep pointing. To replace your leathers, how about this red fabric with gold buttons; kinda snazzy, don'tcha think? And yes, locusts are great for a season, but after that, well, not so much. How about milk and cookies? And concerning all that former crying, how about laughter this go'round? Instead of telling them to repent, ask them what they really want. There'll still be long lines to see you, crying babies and all. But just keep pointing. I'll be back again someday. And John said let it be to me as You have said. And God said oh, and John, the words reserved for me are holy, holy, holy; since you're close but no cigar, how about ho, ho, ho?
Well, I've got to get ready for church. We're lighting the fourth candle of Advent this morning, the last one before the Christ candle. I simply love this time of year...
This is my hands-down-most-favorite-time-of-the-year. I'm pretty sure it's always been that way with me, just something I love about being all Christmassy. And while some of the high-falutin'-spiritual ilk tend to shy away from the cultural swamps of the season, I happily wade knee-deep through it all, slathered in sentiment, with little Judy's Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas ringing in my ears. And I apologize not one whit for it.
I watch Charlie Brown every year, every year, and weep like a baby when Linus reminds us of what Christmas is really about. I also watch Frosty every year, every year, and I'm always relieved when that Christmas wind blows in the greenhouse and brings the blessed snowman back to life; something about little Karen crying tears of loss that reminds me of long lay the world, in sin and error pining. From the Ray Conniff singers in high fidelity to It's a Wonderful Life in black and white, I love it all. I've even got room in my pack for Feliz Navidad, no kidding.
And as for Santa Claus, well, I believe we need to tread lightly there, dear reader. How can you not believe in Saint Nick, whom we have seen, and then say you believe in God, whom you've not seen? I hold to the theory, purely my own, that John the Baptist became Santa Claus. I kid you not. When the fiery prophet was beheaded, God gave him the option of coming back as anyone he wanted to and John said well, I'd still like to keep pointing them to the One who is coming, but I'd really love an upgrade in clothing and diet. I'm fine to keep the beard and girth of my former life. And God said consider it done, John. They'll probably want to worship you, like they did before, but just keep pointing. To replace your leathers, how about this red fabric with gold buttons; kinda snazzy, don'tcha think? And yes, locusts are great for a season, but after that, well, not so much. How about milk and cookies? And concerning all that former crying, how about laughter this go'round? Instead of telling them to repent, ask them what they really want. There'll still be long lines to see you, crying babies and all. But just keep pointing. I'll be back again someday. And John said let it be to me as You have said. And God said oh, and John, the words reserved for me are holy, holy, holy; since you're close but no cigar, how about ho, ho, ho?
Well, I've got to get ready for church. We're lighting the fourth candle of Advent this morning, the last one before the Christ candle. I simply love this time of year...
The Flame and the Rose
[Here is my gift to you in it's entirety. I believe there was something special about writing and reading it one piece at a time; it accentuated the waiting. But a story's a story and if the whole thing doesn't work, then the pieces are just, well, pieces. I've put a new title on it, but I'm still open to suggestions. If there were a dedication page here, I'd dedicate this story to a special lady - her name is Meredith, she's my wife.]
Meggie absolutely hated Christmas carols and Silent Night was at the top of her list. She felt it mocked her. She had gone completely deaf at age six; she was now thirteen. She loved the sights of the holidays, but the sounds were a gift that had been returned. Now every night for Meggie was silent. Maybe it was easier if you'd never heard anything at all, if you'd been deaf from birth. As it was, Meggie had heard her father's whistle, the honk of geese, the sizzle of bacon, and Joni Mitchell sing Both Sides Now. Now that was gone, all gone. She used to pray with the faith of a child that God would please give back what he had taken. But she never heard any reply. This last year had been especially hard on her faith; she felt as if her heart might be dying. She desperately needed the nourishment of memory to live beyond this winter.
Her father had been completely taken with Rachel Ward's performance in The Thorn Birds, so much so that he prevailed in naming the third of his four daughters. He had written words on parchment paper and framed them for her seventh birthday. They hung above her bed, silently. There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.
Meggie had endured three surgeries in three years with no audible results. And last year, in what her father now referred to as the grand mistake, her wealthy aunt arranged an audience with a faith healer in Tulsa. The evangelist had taken her ears in his hands as if he might pull them off. He placed his forehead on her nose and with eyes tightly shut began to shake as if suddenly chilled. She smelled fear on his skin, but never heard a word. On the drive home, her mother turned and signed we'll keep trying. They stopped at a diner called The Purple Cow and had cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes. When her mother and sisters went to the bathroom, her father signed Meg, I'm so very sorry. I should have stopped it.
In early October, Rev. Paul O'Neill began making plans for the upcoming Advent season. He called and asked Meggie's father and mother to read the scriptures on the third Sunday of Advent - Gaudete Sunday. I'd like to have your family beside you when you read. And would Meggie be willing to light the candle for that day? Ask her to think it over and let me know. At dinner that night her father shared Rev. Paul's request. Her sisters became giddy simply at the prospect of being in front of a captive audience. They were strikingly beautiful girls. But Meggie felt something flicker deep within her, something almost hopeful. For as long as she could remember, her family had never been asked to visually participate in the Advent season. Why now, now in what felt like what might be her last winter?
As she fell asleep that night, Meggie could see the wreath of Advent: three candles of royal purple, strikingly beautiful. And then the one of rose pink, the candle she'd been asked to light. She suddenly remembered the subtitled lines from her father's favorite movie: Meggie's dress was rose. "Ashes of Roses", it was called. And in it, she was the most beautiful thing any of us had ever seen. With what faith she had left, Meggie determined to tell Rev. Paul yes. She might not hear on Gaudete Sunday, but she might half-hear; the fire and the rose might be one.
~~
Rev. Paul was delighted that Meggie would participate. He signed For some reason, you're supposed to light that candle. Rev. Paul had taught at the school for the deaf and blind for several years before going to seminary and had made it his custom to sign throughout each church service - the songs, sermon, announcements, the whole thing. Meggie knew that some, her mother being one, considered this just a tad showy. Meggie, however, regularly needed something just a tad showy to remind her God still cared. It might be a wicked generation that asks for a sign, but she was not a generation, she was one. Rev. Paul was a tender man, a stark contrast to the grand mistake from Tulsa.
And then, with two flips of the calendar, it was December. The fall semester usually went fast, with Halloween and Thanksgiving happening before you knew it. But this time, Meggie thought it passed especially quick, driven almost. She could not shake the feeling that her life was about to dramatically change. The gloom of what might be her last winter was coupled with Rev. Paul's for some reason. This tension had been enough to fuel childlike prayers once more: I've heard both sides now. Please let me go back.
Meggie knocked quietly, she only guessed, on her parent's bedroom door. Four hands quickly signaled come in, honey. She stood at the foot of their bed as her fingers made their plea: All I want for Christmas this year is a rose-colored dress, like the one Meggie wears in your movie, Dad. But could I please have it before Christmas, so I could wear it the day I light the Advent candle? Meggie usually knew when tears were coming, but these surprised her. Her fingers stopped their pleading and wiped her cheeks. As she refocused on her audience of two, she saw their tears as well. Deep does call unto deep. Her father motioned to his side of the bed. He took his third daughter's hands in his and nodded his head up and down, the universal sign for yes.
Advent's first Sunday was awkward, as it always was. Jessie Sanders, a single physician in her 30s, had been asked to light the first candle. Although a veteran at speaking before the congregation, she bumbled the psalm - How Lord, O long - and then took her seat, forgetting to light the candle at all. Rev. Paul gently walked to where Dr. Sanders was seated, extended his arm, and escorted her back to the wreath. Her face was as royally purple as the candle, but she completed her task. Somebody has to go first, to get the waiting started.
~~
Not a day had passed in seven years that John Randall didn't grieve Meggie's loss. He loved all his daughters equally, but he loved Meggie differently. He alone had named her, called her into this world. The other girls' names were decided on the day they were born, but Meggie's had been determined not long after Susan discovered she was pregnant. As his wife groaned the other girls, she heard her husband say she's coming, she's coming. But when their third daughter spilled into his hands, John Randall proclaimed Meggie's here.
The doctor had said sensorineural hearing loss; it's probably permanent. Those same six words had been confirmed by second and third opinions. The cause was tagged viral, but John Randall had seen bewildered eyes in each of the consulted faces. He pressed the last one, a specialist, to finally generalize: Mr. Randall, I really don't know why this happened. After all the tests and surgeries, he had finally heard an honest voice. Meggie had lost her hearing for some reason, no one knew why.
He had prayed with the faith of a child for years: Please let Meggie hear again. Take mine if you need to. But he never heard any reply. This last year had been especially hard on his faith; he had grown cold toward God. It was not anger he felt, but abandonment. John Randall wondered if his family, especially Meggie, could feel his chill. He had agreed to participate in Advent solely to pull a little wool over the eyes of those who might have sensed a father's doubt. He told Rev. Paul as much and was surprised at his pastoral response: John, doubt is the ants in the pants of faith. I'm not asking you to believe; I just need you to read.
~~
After Rev. Paul's invitation, it seemed as if her two older sisters entirely forgot the third Sunday of Advent. Almost overnight, they had quickly readjusted their sights on school, friends, and boys, in ascending order of importance. Her younger sister, Lori, had talked of it a few times, at Meggie's prompting; however, you really couldn't expect more than that from a eight year old. Meggie was trying her best to keep a stillness within, a waiting. She did not wish to be swept up into the rush of sisterly or seasonal things. But she could feel the pull. So did her mother.
Her mother had written the word on a 3x5: entrainment - "the phenomenon of two rhythmic beings gradually altering their movements until they're moving together in the same rhythm." Meggie, we have a tendency to align ourselves with those around us, we all do. If you want something different, you'll have to fight for it. As Meggie read her mother's fingers, she noticed the pronounced veins of the hands.
Susan Randall could be described in many words, but the one used most often was strong. She turned most heads, but not because of her looks. Beauty was there, no doubt about it, but more than that, it was simply her presence. After hearing the words it's probably permanent, she had determined within herself that she would not let Meggie be an object of pity, nor would she be a mother of such. She was not hard on Meggie, but she was fair.
Little did Meggie, or anyone for that matter, know that of all the words Susan Randall would use to describe herself, strong was not one of them. Meggie's hearing loss had literally crushed her. Regardless of what the doctors iterated, Susan believed she could have done something, something to protect her third daughter from the silence. But what that was, she could not say. It was not long after Meggie's diagnosis that Susan began her early morning runs. Of the ladies in her 10k age division, Susan Randall had kept the best time for years. One morning, early, as she was lacing up her shoes, John rolled over and asked what do you think about when you run? She walked to the door, turned and said John, I wrestle with demons out there. And like God's mercies, they are new each morning.
Susan went along with the whole Thorn Birds, Ashes of Rose dress scenario. She had never been as dramatic as John, but there were moments she wished she was; it was one of the things she loved about her man. She had never noticed the resale shop next door to The Runner's High. As she walked in, the older woman was adjusting a dress on the mannequin to the right of the register. Susan Randall knew how to breathe, she was a runner. Yet in this moment, as she approached the dress, her lungs felt frozen. The woman sensed her presence: Simply beautiful, isn't it? A color you don't see often. I've held it in the back for months, but for some reason, I brought it out this morning. Susan's early morning run had been particularly difficult, it was like she was fighting for something held to be released. She was suddenly aware of her tears, as was the older woman. I have a lovely gift box, okay? Susan breathlessly nodded up and down, the universal sign for yes.
~~
He skipped back to the porch as a light December rain slowly fell. Meggie's father sat on the steps and opened the envelope containing the photocopied scriptures he was to read Sunday. A neon post-it note adorned the first page: John, I just need you to read them. Thanks. He removed the note and read the first lines from Isaiah the prophet -
The spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion - to give them a garland instead of ashes.
John Randall had a gift for remembering first lines. Upon seeing Isaiah's, he immediately recalled those from the best-selling book his wealthy sister had sent him: It's not about you. As he looked again at the verses, it seemed like Isaiah might not completely agree, like something was about him -
The spirit...is upon me..the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me...
He then remembered that first line from the best-selling book he'd sent his sister in return: Life is difficult. Isaiah's words seemed to agree: brokenhearted...captives...prisoners... mourn...ashes. The prophet's last word stuck like a bone in the throat - ashes. Meggie's father suddenly had difficulty catching his breath. He had been focusing on the rub of first lines when the gift was in the last word.
The straight-down rain began to blow slant, mingling with his tears to wet the photocopied pages of God's words.
He looked up as the school bus slowed to a stop. John Randall could see his first three daughters walking in frames of windowed glass toward the door. The driver leaned forward to set his captives free. His oldest, Hannah and Jill, milked the three steps down for all their worth, turning and talking and waving and laughing. They never looked up to see their father; entrainment. Hannah's umbrella allowed them a few more turns and waves outside the bus. Meggie, however, had fixed her eyes on him from the moment the bus stilled. She hit the pavement skipping, smiling, covering her head with a book. He stood to greet her, thinking within himself: Meggie's here.
~~
Rev. Paul O'Neill was thankful for the brief shift of hue in Advent. The purple candles were symbolic of penitence, emphasizing our unworthiness before God. He believed this stress was needed and preached as such. However, he also believed that self-hatred was the alpha monkey on most backs; that deep down, far below the way people presented themselves, shame reigned supreme. With so many jobs and homes being lost lately, the purple candles just seemed to rub the red-nosed reindeer's question hard: why am I such a misfit? He was always afraid that purple muffled the thing most true about us all; that we couldn't hear the light for the flame.
Advent's third Sunday burned from the rose-colored candle; the day sometimes referred to as Gaudete, from the Latin for rejoice. Joy. Happiness. Mirth. Now that was more like it.
The ministerial alliance in town had adopted a year long emphasis: What if life is not about happiness, but holiness? The query had been emblazoned on everything from youth group t-shirts to banners stretched across church parking lot entrances and although each rendering ended with a question mark, the words left little room for discussion. Thankfully, for Rev. Paul O'Neill, the year in year-long-emphasis was almost over. He had conscientiously objected the pressure of his peers; he thought the whole thing just a hair shy of stupid. If God truly is Our Father, who art in heaven, then what father does not desire happiness in the hearts of his children? Joy on their faces? Laughter in his ears?
Most of his peers thought him arrogant and unorthodox, a man of contention. If they only knew how faithfully he prayed for them and their families, that they would find the pearl of great worth: the smile of God.
He had spent much of the week engulfed in pastoral care among the people. Monday held Christmas-and-Easter-only-Charlene's hip replacement, but somebody needed to sit with her nervous husband Bill. Tuesday was Dan's mother's triple bypass, complete with fifteen relatives at the hospital, two of which would receive Oscars for best dramatic performance in a waiting room. Wednesday's predawn hours saw old Mr. Gordon slip beneath the surface of time; his graveside service Thursday afternoon reminded Rev. Paul of that Eleanor Rigby line - nobody came. Friday was supposed to be his day off, but he had to get the oil changed in his Volkswagen and Jimmy was working that day at the Jiffy Lube and Jimmy spent most days depressed and Jimmy could talk the horns off a goat and well, it is what it is.
Although it appeared he had given most of himself away during the week, he hadn't. There were still secret spaces in Paul O'Neill's heart and mind that he kept open, reserved for things held dear. Meggie Randall's family had occupied one of those spaces all week long. He had prayed for them as he prayed for his peers; that they - John, Susan, Hannah, Jill and Lori - would find the smile of God. The week began with Meggie held in such a place, but as the days passed, she began spilling over into all the other spaces. Meggie Randall became the embodiment of his prayers for the people, all of them; that those with ears would hear and be happy.
He spent Saturday evening among good friends, eating homemade Italian food and watching Talladega Nights. Rev. Paul heard Ricky Bobby pray: Dear Lord Baby Jesus, I want to thank you for this wonderful meal, my two beautiful sons, Walker and Texas Ranger, and my Red-Hot Smokin' Wife, Carley. He laughed so hard he cried. It seemed a gift after quite a week.
~~
Meggie had considered a grand prayer the night before Gaudete Sunday. But she changed her mind; if her tears had not been bottled by now, a last minute gush was just not Meggie Randall's way. She was afraid she wouldn't be able to sleep, that her thoughts would keep her from rest. But sleep she did, as if held by a dream. Meggie dreamed she was the legendary bird who flew and flew, searching for the thorn tree. Soaring through clouds, she saw them below: her parents, her sisters, Rev. O'Neill, other familiar faces. They were gathered, huddled, signing for her to come down. She resisted the descent, for she saw no thorn tree, only their faces. But their pleas proved too much for her; she had been flying, searching for so long. She tucked her wings and fell. As the dream released her, she heard the voice, clearly, softly: sing.
She found herself sitting straight up in bed, short of breath. The room was silent calm, the clock read 6:19. But the word tolled in her broken ears like a bell: sing.
~~~
Her father was speechless, as were her sisters. Meggie had tried the dress on for her mother and they had made a few adjustments to the sleeves. But no one else had seen the union of fabric and girl. Until now.
There are those who downplay clothes, viewing them primarily as protection from the cold and covering for that which is private. And then there are those who know that clothing can also adorn; such is what the dress from the resale shop did for Meggie Randall. Finally, Hannah's fingers broke the silence: you're beautiful, Meg. And for some reason, Meggie believed her.
~~~
The first two Sundays of Advent had garnered a good crowd; today was no different. From the moment she entered the church, she'd had the distinct sensation of falling, so much so that she took her father's hand. John Randall was surprised, but gladly accepted the gift. As the Randalls found their seats, Meggie found Rev. O'Neill's eyes; he winked. Meggie felt a slight blush; for a brief moment, her face matched her dress. She knew what she had to do.
~~
And then it was time. The Randall family rose and single-filed up the aisle to the front of the sanctuary. This year, Rev. O'Neill had arranged the Advent wreath on the communion table; a circle of green garland nestled above the etching this do in remembrance of me. Meggie's family reached the table and Rev. O'Neill handed John Randall the reading Bible. He usually stood beside those he'd asked to read the scriptures, signing, as was his custom. Today however, for some reason, Paul O'Neill took a front row seat.
John Randall straightened his glasses and briefly became the voice of the prophet Isaiah: he has sent me to bring good news... The Bible then passed to Susan, who read from Thessalonians: Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances...
In a rather unorthodox move, Rev. O'Neill had asked Lori to read the Gospel, words usually reserved for the pastor's voice. John Randall gathered up his youngest daughter in his arms so she might be seen and heard. As Lori began, Meggie lit the third candle: My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. Then Meggie saw what only close observation could reveal; she saw the thorns.
Rev. O'Neill had subtly woven the Easter-crown-of-thorns into the Christmas wreath. The thorns were the confirmation Meggie needed, the prick of the voice from her dream: sing.
As the rose-colored candle slowly burned to life, Meggie Randall closed her eyes and smiled. She had found her thorn tree and she knew what she must do. With the voice of a child with broken ears, Meggie began singing:
Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
It was as if the whole world stilled to listen.
Meggie opened her eyes, assured that she had paid her life for the song and passed over into some facet of eternity. But the thorn bird hadn't died. She was still sandwiched between her parents, in their church, on the third Sunday of Advent. The congregation sitting before her was slack-jawed with wonder. Rev. O'Neill, front and center, was grinning from ear to ear.
There are moments in our lives dictated by an ethic of necessity: not that we should do something, but that we must. Such was this moment for Meggie, but also for the woman who gave her life. Susan Randall realized she must live up to the word most people described her by: strong. She stroked Meggie's hair to get her attention and then she signed: I'll sing with you, Meg. And sing they did:
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all
As Meggie and Susan sang, John Randall stood spellbound. He then remembered the lines from The Thorn Birds, lines that explained what the legend meant: That the best is only bought at the cost of great pain. He suddenly realized the scriptural words were not the focus of Gaudete Sunday; they were merely the means to the music, the backroads to a place known as joy.
Rev. Paul O'Neill rose from his front row seat and made his way to stand beside the Randall family. He spoke and signed, as was his custom: My good friends, Meggie Randall has introduced a new hymn into our Advent season. Frankly, I believe she's made a wonderful choice. I invite you to stand with us and sing. You may not know the words, but I bet you know the song. And at least in one church on earth, on Gaudete Sunday, Isaiah and Paul had to share the stage with Joni Mitchell. The voices were nothing short of glorious:
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day.
And then it was silent. Rev. O'Neill signed amen and the moment came to a close. The Randall family and the congregation found their seats. Paul O'Neill scrapped his planned message; sometimes, you know what you must do. He spoke instead from the hip about the truth of last lines: Well something's lost, but something's gained in living every day. God in his heaven smiled. For at least a day, the flame and the rose were one.
This would not be Meggie Randall's last winter; she would live to see seventy more. She would never forget the rose-colored waiting season of her thirteenth year. She had witnessed a birth, they all had; the difference between hearing and listening. And like God's grace, it was enough. No, it was more than sufficient; it was beautiful.
Meggie absolutely hated Christmas carols and Silent Night was at the top of her list. She felt it mocked her. She had gone completely deaf at age six; she was now thirteen. She loved the sights of the holidays, but the sounds were a gift that had been returned. Now every night for Meggie was silent. Maybe it was easier if you'd never heard anything at all, if you'd been deaf from birth. As it was, Meggie had heard her father's whistle, the honk of geese, the sizzle of bacon, and Joni Mitchell sing Both Sides Now. Now that was gone, all gone. She used to pray with the faith of a child that God would please give back what he had taken. But she never heard any reply. This last year had been especially hard on her faith; she felt as if her heart might be dying. She desperately needed the nourishment of memory to live beyond this winter.
Her father had been completely taken with Rachel Ward's performance in The Thorn Birds, so much so that he prevailed in naming the third of his four daughters. He had written words on parchment paper and framed them for her seventh birthday. They hung above her bed, silently. There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.
Meggie had endured three surgeries in three years with no audible results. And last year, in what her father now referred to as the grand mistake, her wealthy aunt arranged an audience with a faith healer in Tulsa. The evangelist had taken her ears in his hands as if he might pull them off. He placed his forehead on her nose and with eyes tightly shut began to shake as if suddenly chilled. She smelled fear on his skin, but never heard a word. On the drive home, her mother turned and signed we'll keep trying. They stopped at a diner called The Purple Cow and had cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes. When her mother and sisters went to the bathroom, her father signed Meg, I'm so very sorry. I should have stopped it.
In early October, Rev. Paul O'Neill began making plans for the upcoming Advent season. He called and asked Meggie's father and mother to read the scriptures on the third Sunday of Advent - Gaudete Sunday. I'd like to have your family beside you when you read. And would Meggie be willing to light the candle for that day? Ask her to think it over and let me know. At dinner that night her father shared Rev. Paul's request. Her sisters became giddy simply at the prospect of being in front of a captive audience. They were strikingly beautiful girls. But Meggie felt something flicker deep within her, something almost hopeful. For as long as she could remember, her family had never been asked to visually participate in the Advent season. Why now, now in what felt like what might be her last winter?
As she fell asleep that night, Meggie could see the wreath of Advent: three candles of royal purple, strikingly beautiful. And then the one of rose pink, the candle she'd been asked to light. She suddenly remembered the subtitled lines from her father's favorite movie: Meggie's dress was rose. "Ashes of Roses", it was called. And in it, she was the most beautiful thing any of us had ever seen. With what faith she had left, Meggie determined to tell Rev. Paul yes. She might not hear on Gaudete Sunday, but she might half-hear; the fire and the rose might be one.
~~
Rev. Paul was delighted that Meggie would participate. He signed For some reason, you're supposed to light that candle. Rev. Paul had taught at the school for the deaf and blind for several years before going to seminary and had made it his custom to sign throughout each church service - the songs, sermon, announcements, the whole thing. Meggie knew that some, her mother being one, considered this just a tad showy. Meggie, however, regularly needed something just a tad showy to remind her God still cared. It might be a wicked generation that asks for a sign, but she was not a generation, she was one. Rev. Paul was a tender man, a stark contrast to the grand mistake from Tulsa.
And then, with two flips of the calendar, it was December. The fall semester usually went fast, with Halloween and Thanksgiving happening before you knew it. But this time, Meggie thought it passed especially quick, driven almost. She could not shake the feeling that her life was about to dramatically change. The gloom of what might be her last winter was coupled with Rev. Paul's for some reason. This tension had been enough to fuel childlike prayers once more: I've heard both sides now. Please let me go back.
Meggie knocked quietly, she only guessed, on her parent's bedroom door. Four hands quickly signaled come in, honey. She stood at the foot of their bed as her fingers made their plea: All I want for Christmas this year is a rose-colored dress, like the one Meggie wears in your movie, Dad. But could I please have it before Christmas, so I could wear it the day I light the Advent candle? Meggie usually knew when tears were coming, but these surprised her. Her fingers stopped their pleading and wiped her cheeks. As she refocused on her audience of two, she saw their tears as well. Deep does call unto deep. Her father motioned to his side of the bed. He took his third daughter's hands in his and nodded his head up and down, the universal sign for yes.
Advent's first Sunday was awkward, as it always was. Jessie Sanders, a single physician in her 30s, had been asked to light the first candle. Although a veteran at speaking before the congregation, she bumbled the psalm - How Lord, O long - and then took her seat, forgetting to light the candle at all. Rev. Paul gently walked to where Dr. Sanders was seated, extended his arm, and escorted her back to the wreath. Her face was as royally purple as the candle, but she completed her task. Somebody has to go first, to get the waiting started.
~~
Not a day had passed in seven years that John Randall didn't grieve Meggie's loss. He loved all his daughters equally, but he loved Meggie differently. He alone had named her, called her into this world. The other girls' names were decided on the day they were born, but Meggie's had been determined not long after Susan discovered she was pregnant. As his wife groaned the other girls, she heard her husband say she's coming, she's coming. But when their third daughter spilled into his hands, John Randall proclaimed Meggie's here.
The doctor had said sensorineural hearing loss; it's probably permanent. Those same six words had been confirmed by second and third opinions. The cause was tagged viral, but John Randall had seen bewildered eyes in each of the consulted faces. He pressed the last one, a specialist, to finally generalize: Mr. Randall, I really don't know why this happened. After all the tests and surgeries, he had finally heard an honest voice. Meggie had lost her hearing for some reason, no one knew why.
He had prayed with the faith of a child for years: Please let Meggie hear again. Take mine if you need to. But he never heard any reply. This last year had been especially hard on his faith; he had grown cold toward God. It was not anger he felt, but abandonment. John Randall wondered if his family, especially Meggie, could feel his chill. He had agreed to participate in Advent solely to pull a little wool over the eyes of those who might have sensed a father's doubt. He told Rev. Paul as much and was surprised at his pastoral response: John, doubt is the ants in the pants of faith. I'm not asking you to believe; I just need you to read.
~~
After Rev. Paul's invitation, it seemed as if her two older sisters entirely forgot the third Sunday of Advent. Almost overnight, they had quickly readjusted their sights on school, friends, and boys, in ascending order of importance. Her younger sister, Lori, had talked of it a few times, at Meggie's prompting; however, you really couldn't expect more than that from a eight year old. Meggie was trying her best to keep a stillness within, a waiting. She did not wish to be swept up into the rush of sisterly or seasonal things. But she could feel the pull. So did her mother.
Her mother had written the word on a 3x5: entrainment - "the phenomenon of two rhythmic beings gradually altering their movements until they're moving together in the same rhythm." Meggie, we have a tendency to align ourselves with those around us, we all do. If you want something different, you'll have to fight for it. As Meggie read her mother's fingers, she noticed the pronounced veins of the hands.
Susan Randall could be described in many words, but the one used most often was strong. She turned most heads, but not because of her looks. Beauty was there, no doubt about it, but more than that, it was simply her presence. After hearing the words it's probably permanent, she had determined within herself that she would not let Meggie be an object of pity, nor would she be a mother of such. She was not hard on Meggie, but she was fair.
Little did Meggie, or anyone for that matter, know that of all the words Susan Randall would use to describe herself, strong was not one of them. Meggie's hearing loss had literally crushed her. Regardless of what the doctors iterated, Susan believed she could have done something, something to protect her third daughter from the silence. But what that was, she could not say. It was not long after Meggie's diagnosis that Susan began her early morning runs. Of the ladies in her 10k age division, Susan Randall had kept the best time for years. One morning, early, as she was lacing up her shoes, John rolled over and asked what do you think about when you run? She walked to the door, turned and said John, I wrestle with demons out there. And like God's mercies, they are new each morning.
Susan went along with the whole Thorn Birds, Ashes of Rose dress scenario. She had never been as dramatic as John, but there were moments she wished she was; it was one of the things she loved about her man. She had never noticed the resale shop next door to The Runner's High. As she walked in, the older woman was adjusting a dress on the mannequin to the right of the register. Susan Randall knew how to breathe, she was a runner. Yet in this moment, as she approached the dress, her lungs felt frozen. The woman sensed her presence: Simply beautiful, isn't it? A color you don't see often. I've held it in the back for months, but for some reason, I brought it out this morning. Susan's early morning run had been particularly difficult, it was like she was fighting for something held to be released. She was suddenly aware of her tears, as was the older woman. I have a lovely gift box, okay? Susan breathlessly nodded up and down, the universal sign for yes.
~~
He skipped back to the porch as a light December rain slowly fell. Meggie's father sat on the steps and opened the envelope containing the photocopied scriptures he was to read Sunday. A neon post-it note adorned the first page: John, I just need you to read them. Thanks. He removed the note and read the first lines from Isaiah the prophet -
The spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion - to give them a garland instead of ashes.
John Randall had a gift for remembering first lines. Upon seeing Isaiah's, he immediately recalled those from the best-selling book his wealthy sister had sent him: It's not about you. As he looked again at the verses, it seemed like Isaiah might not completely agree, like something was about him -
The spirit...is upon me..the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me...
He then remembered that first line from the best-selling book he'd sent his sister in return: Life is difficult. Isaiah's words seemed to agree: brokenhearted...captives...prisoners... mourn...ashes. The prophet's last word stuck like a bone in the throat - ashes. Meggie's father suddenly had difficulty catching his breath. He had been focusing on the rub of first lines when the gift was in the last word.
The straight-down rain began to blow slant, mingling with his tears to wet the photocopied pages of God's words.
He looked up as the school bus slowed to a stop. John Randall could see his first three daughters walking in frames of windowed glass toward the door. The driver leaned forward to set his captives free. His oldest, Hannah and Jill, milked the three steps down for all their worth, turning and talking and waving and laughing. They never looked up to see their father; entrainment. Hannah's umbrella allowed them a few more turns and waves outside the bus. Meggie, however, had fixed her eyes on him from the moment the bus stilled. She hit the pavement skipping, smiling, covering her head with a book. He stood to greet her, thinking within himself: Meggie's here.
~~
Rev. Paul O'Neill was thankful for the brief shift of hue in Advent. The purple candles were symbolic of penitence, emphasizing our unworthiness before God. He believed this stress was needed and preached as such. However, he also believed that self-hatred was the alpha monkey on most backs; that deep down, far below the way people presented themselves, shame reigned supreme. With so many jobs and homes being lost lately, the purple candles just seemed to rub the red-nosed reindeer's question hard: why am I such a misfit? He was always afraid that purple muffled the thing most true about us all; that we couldn't hear the light for the flame.
Advent's third Sunday burned from the rose-colored candle; the day sometimes referred to as Gaudete, from the Latin for rejoice. Joy. Happiness. Mirth. Now that was more like it.
The ministerial alliance in town had adopted a year long emphasis: What if life is not about happiness, but holiness? The query had been emblazoned on everything from youth group t-shirts to banners stretched across church parking lot entrances and although each rendering ended with a question mark, the words left little room for discussion. Thankfully, for Rev. Paul O'Neill, the year in year-long-emphasis was almost over. He had conscientiously objected the pressure of his peers; he thought the whole thing just a hair shy of stupid. If God truly is Our Father, who art in heaven, then what father does not desire happiness in the hearts of his children? Joy on their faces? Laughter in his ears?
Most of his peers thought him arrogant and unorthodox, a man of contention. If they only knew how faithfully he prayed for them and their families, that they would find the pearl of great worth: the smile of God.
He had spent much of the week engulfed in pastoral care among the people. Monday held Christmas-and-Easter-only-Charlene's hip replacement, but somebody needed to sit with her nervous husband Bill. Tuesday was Dan's mother's triple bypass, complete with fifteen relatives at the hospital, two of which would receive Oscars for best dramatic performance in a waiting room. Wednesday's predawn hours saw old Mr. Gordon slip beneath the surface of time; his graveside service Thursday afternoon reminded Rev. Paul of that Eleanor Rigby line - nobody came. Friday was supposed to be his day off, but he had to get the oil changed in his Volkswagen and Jimmy was working that day at the Jiffy Lube and Jimmy spent most days depressed and Jimmy could talk the horns off a goat and well, it is what it is.
Although it appeared he had given most of himself away during the week, he hadn't. There were still secret spaces in Paul O'Neill's heart and mind that he kept open, reserved for things held dear. Meggie Randall's family had occupied one of those spaces all week long. He had prayed for them as he prayed for his peers; that they - John, Susan, Hannah, Jill and Lori - would find the smile of God. The week began with Meggie held in such a place, but as the days passed, she began spilling over into all the other spaces. Meggie Randall became the embodiment of his prayers for the people, all of them; that those with ears would hear and be happy.
He spent Saturday evening among good friends, eating homemade Italian food and watching Talladega Nights. Rev. Paul heard Ricky Bobby pray: Dear Lord Baby Jesus, I want to thank you for this wonderful meal, my two beautiful sons, Walker and Texas Ranger, and my Red-Hot Smokin' Wife, Carley. He laughed so hard he cried. It seemed a gift after quite a week.
~~
Meggie had considered a grand prayer the night before Gaudete Sunday. But she changed her mind; if her tears had not been bottled by now, a last minute gush was just not Meggie Randall's way. She was afraid she wouldn't be able to sleep, that her thoughts would keep her from rest. But sleep she did, as if held by a dream. Meggie dreamed she was the legendary bird who flew and flew, searching for the thorn tree. Soaring through clouds, she saw them below: her parents, her sisters, Rev. O'Neill, other familiar faces. They were gathered, huddled, signing for her to come down. She resisted the descent, for she saw no thorn tree, only their faces. But their pleas proved too much for her; she had been flying, searching for so long. She tucked her wings and fell. As the dream released her, she heard the voice, clearly, softly: sing.
She found herself sitting straight up in bed, short of breath. The room was silent calm, the clock read 6:19. But the word tolled in her broken ears like a bell: sing.
~~~
Her father was speechless, as were her sisters. Meggie had tried the dress on for her mother and they had made a few adjustments to the sleeves. But no one else had seen the union of fabric and girl. Until now.
There are those who downplay clothes, viewing them primarily as protection from the cold and covering for that which is private. And then there are those who know that clothing can also adorn; such is what the dress from the resale shop did for Meggie Randall. Finally, Hannah's fingers broke the silence: you're beautiful, Meg. And for some reason, Meggie believed her.
~~~
The first two Sundays of Advent had garnered a good crowd; today was no different. From the moment she entered the church, she'd had the distinct sensation of falling, so much so that she took her father's hand. John Randall was surprised, but gladly accepted the gift. As the Randalls found their seats, Meggie found Rev. O'Neill's eyes; he winked. Meggie felt a slight blush; for a brief moment, her face matched her dress. She knew what she had to do.
~~
And then it was time. The Randall family rose and single-filed up the aisle to the front of the sanctuary. This year, Rev. O'Neill had arranged the Advent wreath on the communion table; a circle of green garland nestled above the etching this do in remembrance of me. Meggie's family reached the table and Rev. O'Neill handed John Randall the reading Bible. He usually stood beside those he'd asked to read the scriptures, signing, as was his custom. Today however, for some reason, Paul O'Neill took a front row seat.
John Randall straightened his glasses and briefly became the voice of the prophet Isaiah: he has sent me to bring good news... The Bible then passed to Susan, who read from Thessalonians: Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances...
In a rather unorthodox move, Rev. O'Neill had asked Lori to read the Gospel, words usually reserved for the pastor's voice. John Randall gathered up his youngest daughter in his arms so she might be seen and heard. As Lori began, Meggie lit the third candle: My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. Then Meggie saw what only close observation could reveal; she saw the thorns.
Rev. O'Neill had subtly woven the Easter-crown-of-thorns into the Christmas wreath. The thorns were the confirmation Meggie needed, the prick of the voice from her dream: sing.
As the rose-colored candle slowly burned to life, Meggie Randall closed her eyes and smiled. She had found her thorn tree and she knew what she must do. With the voice of a child with broken ears, Meggie began singing:
Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
It was as if the whole world stilled to listen.
Meggie opened her eyes, assured that she had paid her life for the song and passed over into some facet of eternity. But the thorn bird hadn't died. She was still sandwiched between her parents, in their church, on the third Sunday of Advent. The congregation sitting before her was slack-jawed with wonder. Rev. O'Neill, front and center, was grinning from ear to ear.
There are moments in our lives dictated by an ethic of necessity: not that we should do something, but that we must. Such was this moment for Meggie, but also for the woman who gave her life. Susan Randall realized she must live up to the word most people described her by: strong. She stroked Meggie's hair to get her attention and then she signed: I'll sing with you, Meg. And sing they did:
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all
As Meggie and Susan sang, John Randall stood spellbound. He then remembered the lines from The Thorn Birds, lines that explained what the legend meant: That the best is only bought at the cost of great pain. He suddenly realized the scriptural words were not the focus of Gaudete Sunday; they were merely the means to the music, the backroads to a place known as joy.
Rev. Paul O'Neill rose from his front row seat and made his way to stand beside the Randall family. He spoke and signed, as was his custom: My good friends, Meggie Randall has introduced a new hymn into our Advent season. Frankly, I believe she's made a wonderful choice. I invite you to stand with us and sing. You may not know the words, but I bet you know the song. And at least in one church on earth, on Gaudete Sunday, Isaiah and Paul had to share the stage with Joni Mitchell. The voices were nothing short of glorious:
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day.
And then it was silent. Rev. O'Neill signed amen and the moment came to a close. The Randall family and the congregation found their seats. Paul O'Neill scrapped his planned message; sometimes, you know what you must do. He spoke instead from the hip about the truth of last lines: Well something's lost, but something's gained in living every day. God in his heaven smiled. For at least a day, the flame and the rose were one.
This would not be Meggie Randall's last winter; she would live to see seventy more. She would never forget the rose-colored waiting season of her thirteenth year. She had witnessed a birth, they all had; the difference between hearing and listening. And like God's grace, it was enough. No, it was more than sufficient; it was beautiful.
The End
[Well, this is it. I'm sad to see this story end; it's been a hoot to write. Thanks for reading along. I'd love to hear what you think about the ending. I'll shut up so you can read.]
And then it was time. The Randall family rose and single-filed up the aisle to the front of the sanctuary. This year, Rev. O'Neill had arranged the Advent wreath on the communion table; a circle of green nestled above the etching this do in remembrance of me. Meggie's family reached the table and Rev. O'Neill handed John Randall the reading Bible. He usually stood beside those he'd asked to read the scriptures, signing, as was his custom. Today however, for some reason, Paul O'Neill took a front row seat.
John Randall straightened his glasses and briefly became the voice of the prophet Isaiah: he has sent me to bring good news... The Bible then passed to Susan, who read from Thessalonians: Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances...
In a rather unorthodox move, Rev. O'Neill had asked Lori to read the Gospel, words usually reserved for the pastor's voice. John Randall gathered up his youngest daughter in his arms so she might be seen and heard. As Lori began, Meggie lit the third candle: My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. Then Meggie saw what only close observation could reveal; she saw the thorns.
Rev. O'Neill had subtly woven the Easter-crown-of-thorns into the Christmas wreath. The thorns were the confirmation Meggie needed, the prick of the voice from her dream: sing.
As the rose-colored candle slowly burned to life, Meggie Randall closed her eyes and smiled. She had found her thorn tree and she knew what she must do. With the voice of a child with broken ears, Meggie began singing:
Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
It was as if the whole world stilled to listen.
Meggie opened her eyes, assured that she had paid her life for the song and passed over into some facet of eternity. But the thorn bird hadn't died. She was still sandwiched between her parents, in their church, on the third Sunday of Advent. The congregation sitting before her was slack-jawed with wonder. Rev. O'Neill, front and center, was grinning from ear to ear.
There are moments in our lives dictated by an ethic of necessity: we must do something. Such was this moment for Meggie, but also for the woman who gave her life. Susan Randall realized she must live up to the word most people described her by: strong. She stroked Meggie's hair to get her attention and then she signed: I'll sing with you, Meg. And sing they did:
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all
As Meggie and Susan sang, John Randall stood spellbound. He then remembered the lines from The Thorn Birds, lines that explained what the legend meant: That the best is only bought at the cost of great pain. He suddenly realized the scriptural words were not the focus of Gaudete Sunday; they were merely the means to the music, the backroads to joy.
Rev. Paul O'Neill rose from his front row seat and made his way to stand beside the Randall family. He spoke and signed, as was his custom:My good friends, Meggie Randall has introduced a new hymn into our Advent season. Frankly, I believe she's made a wonderful choice. I invite you to stand with us and sing. You may not know the words, but I bet you know the song. And at least in one church on earth, on Gaudete Sunday, Isaiah and Paul had to share the stage with Joni Mitchell. The voices were nothing short of glorious:
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day.
And then it was silent. Rev. O'Neill signed amen and the moment came to a close. The Randall family and the congregation found their seats. Paul O'Neill scrapped his planned message; sometimes, you know what you must do. He spoke instead from the hip about the truth of last lines: Well something's lost, but something's gained in living every day. God in his heaven smiled.
This would not be Meggie Randall's last winter; she would live to see seventy more. She would never forget the rose-colored waiting season of her thirteenth year. She had witnessed a birth, they all had; the difference between hearing and listening. And like God's grace, it was enough. No, it was more than sufficient; it was beautiful.
And then it was time. The Randall family rose and single-filed up the aisle to the front of the sanctuary. This year, Rev. O'Neill had arranged the Advent wreath on the communion table; a circle of green nestled above the etching this do in remembrance of me. Meggie's family reached the table and Rev. O'Neill handed John Randall the reading Bible. He usually stood beside those he'd asked to read the scriptures, signing, as was his custom. Today however, for some reason, Paul O'Neill took a front row seat.
John Randall straightened his glasses and briefly became the voice of the prophet Isaiah: he has sent me to bring good news... The Bible then passed to Susan, who read from Thessalonians: Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances...
In a rather unorthodox move, Rev. O'Neill had asked Lori to read the Gospel, words usually reserved for the pastor's voice. John Randall gathered up his youngest daughter in his arms so she might be seen and heard. As Lori began, Meggie lit the third candle: My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. Then Meggie saw what only close observation could reveal; she saw the thorns.
Rev. O'Neill had subtly woven the Easter-crown-of-thorns into the Christmas wreath. The thorns were the confirmation Meggie needed, the prick of the voice from her dream: sing.
As the rose-colored candle slowly burned to life, Meggie Randall closed her eyes and smiled. She had found her thorn tree and she knew what she must do. With the voice of a child with broken ears, Meggie began singing:
Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
It was as if the whole world stilled to listen.
Meggie opened her eyes, assured that she had paid her life for the song and passed over into some facet of eternity. But the thorn bird hadn't died. She was still sandwiched between her parents, in their church, on the third Sunday of Advent. The congregation sitting before her was slack-jawed with wonder. Rev. O'Neill, front and center, was grinning from ear to ear.
There are moments in our lives dictated by an ethic of necessity: we must do something. Such was this moment for Meggie, but also for the woman who gave her life. Susan Randall realized she must live up to the word most people described her by: strong. She stroked Meggie's hair to get her attention and then she signed: I'll sing with you, Meg. And sing they did:
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all
As Meggie and Susan sang, John Randall stood spellbound. He then remembered the lines from The Thorn Birds, lines that explained what the legend meant: That the best is only bought at the cost of great pain. He suddenly realized the scriptural words were not the focus of Gaudete Sunday; they were merely the means to the music, the backroads to joy.
Rev. Paul O'Neill rose from his front row seat and made his way to stand beside the Randall family. He spoke and signed, as was his custom:My good friends, Meggie Randall has introduced a new hymn into our Advent season. Frankly, I believe she's made a wonderful choice. I invite you to stand with us and sing. You may not know the words, but I bet you know the song. And at least in one church on earth, on Gaudete Sunday, Isaiah and Paul had to share the stage with Joni Mitchell. The voices were nothing short of glorious:
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day.
And then it was silent. Rev. O'Neill signed amen and the moment came to a close. The Randall family and the congregation found their seats. Paul O'Neill scrapped his planned message; sometimes, you know what you must do. He spoke instead from the hip about the truth of last lines: Well something's lost, but something's gained in living every day. God in his heaven smiled.
This would not be Meggie Randall's last winter; she would live to see seventy more. She would never forget the rose-colored waiting season of her thirteenth year. She had witnessed a birth, they all had; the difference between hearing and listening. And like God's grace, it was enough. No, it was more than sufficient; it was beautiful.
The Gift (even closer)
Meggie had considered a grand prayer the night before Gaudete Sunday. But she changed her mind; if her tears had not been bottled by now, a last minute gush was just not Meggie Randall's way. She was afraid she wouldn't be able to sleep, that her thoughts would keep her from rest. But sleep she did, as if held by a dream. Meggie dreamed she was the legendary bird who flew and flew, searching for the thorn tree. Soaring through clouds, she saw them below: her parents, her sisters, Rev. O'Neill, other familiar faces. They were gathered, huddled, signing for her to come down. She resisted the descent, for she saw no thorn tree, only their faces. But their pleas proved too much for her; she had been flying, searching for so long. She tucked her wings and fell. As the dream released her, she heard the voice, clearly, softly: sing.
She found herself sitting straight up in bed, short of breath. The room was silent calm, the clock read 6:19. But the word rung in her broken ears like a bell: sing.
~~~
Her father was speechless, as were her sisters. Meggie had tried the dress on for her mother and they had made a few adjustments to the sleeves. But no one else had seen the union of fabric and girl. Until now.
There are those who downplay clothes, viewing them primarily as protection from the cold and covering for that which is private. And then there are those who know that clothing can also adorn; such is what the dress from the resale shop did for Meggie Randall. Finally, Hannah's fingers broke the silence: you're beautiful, Meg. And for some reason, Meggie believed her.
~~~
The first two Sundays of Advent had garnered a good crowd; today was no different. From the moment she entered the church, she'd had the distinct sensation of falling, so much so that she took her father's hand. John Randall was surprised, but gladly accepted the gift. As the Randalls found their seats, Meggie found Rev. O'Neill's eyes; he winked. Meggie felt a slight blush; for a brief moment, her face matched her dress. She knew what she had to do.
She found herself sitting straight up in bed, short of breath. The room was silent calm, the clock read 6:19. But the word rung in her broken ears like a bell: sing.
~~~
Her father was speechless, as were her sisters. Meggie had tried the dress on for her mother and they had made a few adjustments to the sleeves. But no one else had seen the union of fabric and girl. Until now.
There are those who downplay clothes, viewing them primarily as protection from the cold and covering for that which is private. And then there are those who know that clothing can also adorn; such is what the dress from the resale shop did for Meggie Randall. Finally, Hannah's fingers broke the silence: you're beautiful, Meg. And for some reason, Meggie believed her.
~~~
The first two Sundays of Advent had garnered a good crowd; today was no different. From the moment she entered the church, she'd had the distinct sensation of falling, so much so that she took her father's hand. John Randall was surprised, but gladly accepted the gift. As the Randalls found their seats, Meggie found Rev. O'Neill's eyes; he winked. Meggie felt a slight blush; for a brief moment, her face matched her dress. She knew what she had to do.
Gift (getting closer)
Rev. Paul O'Neill was thankful for the brief shift of hue in Advent. The purple candles were symbolic of penitence, emphasizing our unworthiness before God. He believed this stress was needed and preached as such. However, he also believed that self-hatred was the alpha monkey on most backs; that deep down, far below the way people presented themselves, shame reigned supreme. With so many jobs and homes being lost lately, the purple candles just seemed to rub Rudolph's question hard: why am I such a misfit?. He was always afraid that purple muffled the thing most true about us all; that we couldn't hear the light for the flame.
Advent's third Sunday burned from the rose-colored candle; the day sometimes referred to as Gaudete, from the Latin for rejoice. Joy. Happiness. Mirth. Now that was more like it.
The ministerial alliance in town had adopted a year long emphasis: What if life is not about happiness, but holiness? The query had been emblazoned on everything from youth group t-shirts to banners stretched across church parking lot entrances and although each rendering ended with a question mark, the words left little room for discussion. Thankfully, for Rev. Paul O'Neill, the year in year-long-emphasis was almost over. He had conscientiously objected the pressure of his peers; he thought the whole thing just a hair shy of stupid. If God truly is Our Father, who art in heaven, then what father does not desire happiness in the hearts of his children? Joy on their faces? Laughter in his ears?
Most of his peers thought him arrogant and unorthodox, a man of contention. If they only knew how faithfully he prayed for them and their families, that they would find the pearl of great worth: the smile of God.
He had spent much of the week engulfed in pastoral care among the people. Monday held Christmas-and-Easter-only-Charlene's hip replacement, but somebody needed to sit with her nervous husband Bill. Tuesday was Dan's mother's triple bypass, complete with fifteen relatives at the hospital, two of which would receive Oscars for best dramatic performance in a waiting room. Wednesday's predawn hours saw old Mr. Gordon slip beneath the surface of time; his graveside service Thursday afternoon reminded Rev. Paul of that Eleanor Rigby line - nobody came. Friday was supposed to be his day off, but he had to get the oil changed in his Volkswagen and Jimmy was working that day at the Jiffy Lube and Jimmy spent most days depressed and Jimmy could talk the horns off a goat and well, it is what it is.
Although it appeared he had given most of himself away during the week, he hadn't. There were still secret spaces in Paul O'Neill's heart and mind that he kept open, reserved for things held dear. Meggie Randall's family had occupied one of those spaces all week long. He had prayed for them as he prayed for his peers; that they - John, Susan, Hannah, Jill and Lori - would find the smile of God. The week began with Meggie held in such a place, but as the days passed, she began spilling over into all the other spaces. Meggie Randall became the embodiment of his prayers for the people, all of them; that those with ears would hear and be happy.
He spent Saturday evening among good friends, eating homemade Italian food and watching Talladega Nights. Rev. Paul heard Ricky Bobby pray: Dear Lord Baby Jesus, I want to thank you for this wonderful meal, my two beautiful sons, Walker and Texas Ranger, and my Red-Hot Smokin' Wife, Carley. He laughed so hard he cried. It seemed a gift after quite a week.
Advent's third Sunday burned from the rose-colored candle; the day sometimes referred to as Gaudete, from the Latin for rejoice. Joy. Happiness. Mirth. Now that was more like it.
The ministerial alliance in town had adopted a year long emphasis: What if life is not about happiness, but holiness? The query had been emblazoned on everything from youth group t-shirts to banners stretched across church parking lot entrances and although each rendering ended with a question mark, the words left little room for discussion. Thankfully, for Rev. Paul O'Neill, the year in year-long-emphasis was almost over. He had conscientiously objected the pressure of his peers; he thought the whole thing just a hair shy of stupid. If God truly is Our Father, who art in heaven, then what father does not desire happiness in the hearts of his children? Joy on their faces? Laughter in his ears?
Most of his peers thought him arrogant and unorthodox, a man of contention. If they only knew how faithfully he prayed for them and their families, that they would find the pearl of great worth: the smile of God.
He had spent much of the week engulfed in pastoral care among the people. Monday held Christmas-and-Easter-only-Charlene's hip replacement, but somebody needed to sit with her nervous husband Bill. Tuesday was Dan's mother's triple bypass, complete with fifteen relatives at the hospital, two of which would receive Oscars for best dramatic performance in a waiting room. Wednesday's predawn hours saw old Mr. Gordon slip beneath the surface of time; his graveside service Thursday afternoon reminded Rev. Paul of that Eleanor Rigby line - nobody came. Friday was supposed to be his day off, but he had to get the oil changed in his Volkswagen and Jimmy was working that day at the Jiffy Lube and Jimmy spent most days depressed and Jimmy could talk the horns off a goat and well, it is what it is.
Although it appeared he had given most of himself away during the week, he hadn't. There were still secret spaces in Paul O'Neill's heart and mind that he kept open, reserved for things held dear. Meggie Randall's family had occupied one of those spaces all week long. He had prayed for them as he prayed for his peers; that they - John, Susan, Hannah, Jill and Lori - would find the smile of God. The week began with Meggie held in such a place, but as the days passed, she began spilling over into all the other spaces. Meggie Randall became the embodiment of his prayers for the people, all of them; that those with ears would hear and be happy.
He spent Saturday evening among good friends, eating homemade Italian food and watching Talladega Nights. Rev. Paul heard Ricky Bobby pray: Dear Lord Baby Jesus, I want to thank you for this wonderful meal, my two beautiful sons, Walker and Texas Ranger, and my Red-Hot Smokin' Wife, Carley. He laughed so hard he cried. It seemed a gift after quite a week.
Yet more gift
He skipped back to the porch as a light December rain slowly fell. Meggie's father sat on the steps and opened the envelope containing the photocopied scriptures he was to read Sunday. A neon post-it note adorned the first page: John, I just need you to read them. Thanks. He removed the note and read the first lines from Isaiah the prophet -
The spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion - to give them a garland instead of ashes.
John Randall had a gift for remembering first lines. Upon seeing Isaiah's, he immediately recalled those from the best-selling book his wealthy sister had sent him: It's not about you. As he looked again at the verses, it seemed like Isaiah might not completely agree, like something was about him -
The spirit...is upon me..the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me...
He then remembered that first line from the best-selling book he'd sent his sister in return: Life is difficult. Isaiah's words seemed to agree: brokenhearted...captives...prisoners... mourn...ashes. The prophet's last word stuck like a bone in the throat - ashes. Meggie's father suddenly had difficulty catching his breath. He had been focusing on the rub of first lines when the gift was in the last word.
The straight-down rain began to blow slant, mingling with his tears to wet the photocopied pages of God's words.
He looked up as the school bus slowed to a stop. John Randall could see his first three daughters walking in frames of windowed glass toward the door. The driver leaned forward to set his captives free. His oldest, Hannah and Jill, milked the three steps down for all their worth, turning and talking and waving and laughing. They never looked up to see their father; entrainment. Hannah's umbrella allowed them a few more turns and waves outside the bus. Meggie, however, had fixed her eyes on him from the moment the bus stilled. She hit the pavement skipping, smiling, covering her head with a book. He stood to greet her, thinking within himself: Meggie's here.
The spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion - to give them a garland instead of ashes.
John Randall had a gift for remembering first lines. Upon seeing Isaiah's, he immediately recalled those from the best-selling book his wealthy sister had sent him: It's not about you. As he looked again at the verses, it seemed like Isaiah might not completely agree, like something was about him -
The spirit...is upon me..the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me...
He then remembered that first line from the best-selling book he'd sent his sister in return: Life is difficult. Isaiah's words seemed to agree: brokenhearted...captives...prisoners... mourn...ashes. The prophet's last word stuck like a bone in the throat - ashes. Meggie's father suddenly had difficulty catching his breath. He had been focusing on the rub of first lines when the gift was in the last word.
The straight-down rain began to blow slant, mingling with his tears to wet the photocopied pages of God's words.
He looked up as the school bus slowed to a stop. John Randall could see his first three daughters walking in frames of windowed glass toward the door. The driver leaned forward to set his captives free. His oldest, Hannah and Jill, milked the three steps down for all their worth, turning and talking and waving and laughing. They never looked up to see their father; entrainment. Hannah's umbrella allowed them a few more turns and waves outside the bus. Meggie, however, had fixed her eyes on him from the moment the bus stilled. She hit the pavement skipping, smiling, covering her head with a book. He stood to greet her, thinking within himself: Meggie's here.
Still more gift
After Rev. Paul's invitation, it seemed as if her two older sisters entirely forgot the third Sunday of Advent. Almost overnight, they had quickly readjusted their sights on school, friends, and boys, in ascending order of importance. Her younger sister, Lori, had talked of it a few times, at Meggie's prompting; however, you really couldn't expect more than that from a eight year old. Meggie was trying her best to keep a stillness within, a waiting. She did not wish to be swept up into the rush of sisterly or seasonal things. But she could feel the pull. So did her mother.
Her mother had written the word on a 3x5: entrainment - "the phenomenon of two rhythmic beings gradually altering their movements until they're moving together in the same rhythm." Meggie, we have a tendency to align ourselves with those around us, we all do. If you want something different, you'll have to fight for it. As Meggie read her mother's fingers, she noticed the pronounced veins of the hands.
Susan Randall could be described in many words, but the one used most often was strong. She turned most heads, but not because of her looks. Beauty was there, no doubt about it, but more than that, it was simply her presence. After hearing the words it's probably permanent, she had determined within herself that she would not let Meggie be an object of pity, nor would she be a mother of such. She was not hard on Meggie, but she was fair.
Little did Meggie, or anyone for that matter, know that of all the words Susan Randall would use to describe herself, strong was not one of them. Meggie's hearing loss had literally crushed her. Regardless of what the doctors iterated, Susan believed she could have done something, something to protect her third daughter from the silence. But what that was, she could not say. It was not long after Meggie's diagnosis that Susan began her early morning runs. Of the ladies in her 10k age division, Susan Randall had kept the best time for years. One morning, early, as she was lacing up her shoes, John rolled over and asked Susan, what do you think about when you run? She walked to the door, turned and said John, I wrestle with demons out there. And like God's mercies, they are new each morning.
Susan went along with the whole Thorn Birds, Ashes of Rose dress scenario. She had never been as dramatic as John, but there were moments she wished she was; it was one of the things she loved about her man. She had never noticed the resale shop next door to The Runner's High. As she walked in, the older woman was adjusting a dress on the mannequin to the right of the register. Susan Randall knew how to breathe, she was a runner. Yet in this moment, as she approached the dress, her lungs felt frozen. The woman sensed her presence: Simply beautiful, isn't it? A color you don't see often. I've held it in the back for months, but for some reason, I brought it out this morning. Susan's early morning run had been particularly difficult, it was like she was fighting for something held to be released. She was suddenly aware of her tears, as was the older woman. I have a lovely gift box, okay? Susan breathlessly nodded up and down, the universal sign for yes.
Her mother had written the word on a 3x5: entrainment - "the phenomenon of two rhythmic beings gradually altering their movements until they're moving together in the same rhythm." Meggie, we have a tendency to align ourselves with those around us, we all do. If you want something different, you'll have to fight for it. As Meggie read her mother's fingers, she noticed the pronounced veins of the hands.
Susan Randall could be described in many words, but the one used most often was strong. She turned most heads, but not because of her looks. Beauty was there, no doubt about it, but more than that, it was simply her presence. After hearing the words it's probably permanent, she had determined within herself that she would not let Meggie be an object of pity, nor would she be a mother of such. She was not hard on Meggie, but she was fair.
Little did Meggie, or anyone for that matter, know that of all the words Susan Randall would use to describe herself, strong was not one of them. Meggie's hearing loss had literally crushed her. Regardless of what the doctors iterated, Susan believed she could have done something, something to protect her third daughter from the silence. But what that was, she could not say. It was not long after Meggie's diagnosis that Susan began her early morning runs. Of the ladies in her 10k age division, Susan Randall had kept the best time for years. One morning, early, as she was lacing up her shoes, John rolled over and asked Susan, what do you think about when you run? She walked to the door, turned and said John, I wrestle with demons out there. And like God's mercies, they are new each morning.
Susan went along with the whole Thorn Birds, Ashes of Rose dress scenario. She had never been as dramatic as John, but there were moments she wished she was; it was one of the things she loved about her man. She had never noticed the resale shop next door to The Runner's High. As she walked in, the older woman was adjusting a dress on the mannequin to the right of the register. Susan Randall knew how to breathe, she was a runner. Yet in this moment, as she approached the dress, her lungs felt frozen. The woman sensed her presence: Simply beautiful, isn't it? A color you don't see often. I've held it in the back for months, but for some reason, I brought it out this morning. Susan's early morning run had been particularly difficult, it was like she was fighting for something held to be released. She was suddenly aware of her tears, as was the older woman. I have a lovely gift box, okay? Susan breathlessly nodded up and down, the universal sign for yes.
More gift
Not a day had passed in seven years that John Randall didn't grieve Meggie's loss. He loved all his daughters equally, but he loved Meggie differently. He alone had named her, called her into this world. The other girls' names were decided on the day they were born, but Meggie's had been determined not long after Susan discovered she was pregnant. As his wife groaned the other girls, she heard her husband say she's coming, she's coming. But when their third daughter spilled into his hands, John Randall proclaimed Meggie's here.
The doctor had said sensorineural hearing loss; it's probably permanent. Those same six words had been confirmed by second and third opinions. The cause was tagged viral, but John Randall had seen bewildered eyes in each of the consulted faces. He pressed the last one, a specialist, to finally generalize: Mr. Randall, I really don't know why this happened. After all the tests and surgeries, he had finally heard an honest voice. Meggie had lost her hearing for some reason, no one knew why.
He had prayed with the faith of a child for years: Please let Meggie hear again. Take mine if you need to. But he never heard any reply. This last year had been especially hard on his faith; he had grown cold toward God. It was not anger he felt, but abandonment. John Randall wondered if his family, especially Meggie, could feel his chill. He had agreed to participate in Advent solely to pull a little wool over the eyes of those who might have sensed a father's doubt. He told Rev. Paul as much and was surprised at his pastoral response: John, doubt is the ants in the pants of faith. I'm not asking you to believe; I just need you to read.
The doctor had said sensorineural hearing loss; it's probably permanent. Those same six words had been confirmed by second and third opinions. The cause was tagged viral, but John Randall had seen bewildered eyes in each of the consulted faces. He pressed the last one, a specialist, to finally generalize: Mr. Randall, I really don't know why this happened. After all the tests and surgeries, he had finally heard an honest voice. Meggie had lost her hearing for some reason, no one knew why.
He had prayed with the faith of a child for years: Please let Meggie hear again. Take mine if you need to. But he never heard any reply. This last year had been especially hard on his faith; he had grown cold toward God. It was not anger he felt, but abandonment. John Randall wondered if his family, especially Meggie, could feel his chill. He had agreed to participate in Advent solely to pull a little wool over the eyes of those who might have sensed a father's doubt. He told Rev. Paul as much and was surprised at his pastoral response: John, doubt is the ants in the pants of faith. I'm not asking you to believe; I just need you to read.
My gift continues...
Rev. Paul was delighted that Meggie would participate. He signed For some reason, you're supposed to light that candle. Rev. Paul had taught at the school for the deaf and blind for several years before going to seminary and had made it his custom to sign throughout each church service - the songs, sermon, announcements, the whole thing. Meggie knew that some, her mother being one, considered this just a tad showy. Meggie, however, regularly needed something just a tad showy to remind her God still cared. It might be a wicked generation that asks for a sign, but she was not a generation, she was one. Rev. Paul was a tender man, a stark contrast to the grand mistake from Tulsa.
And then, with two flips of the calendar, it was December. The fall semester usually went fast, with Halloween and Thanksgiving happening before you knew it. But this time, Meggie thought it passed especially quick, driven almost. She could not shake the feeling that her life was about to dramatically change. The gloom of what might be her last winter was coupled with Rev. Paul's for some reason. This tension had been enough to fuel childlike prayers once more: I've heard both sides now. Please let me go back.
Meggie knocked quietly, she only guessed, on her parent's bedroom door. Four hands quickly signaled come in, honey. She stood at the foot of their bed as her fingers made their plea: All I want for Christmas this year is a rose-colored dress, like the one Meggie wears in your movie, Dad. But could I please have it before Christmas, so I could wear it the day I light the Advent candle? Meggie usually knew when tears were coming, but these surprised her. Her fingers stopped their pleading and wiped her cheeks. As she refocused on her audience of two, she saw their tears as well. Deep does call unto deep. Her father motioned to his side of the bed. He took his third daughter's hands in his and nodded his head up and down, the universal sign for yes.
Advent's first Sunday was awkward, as it always was. Jessie Sanders, a single physician in her 30s, had been asked to light the first candle. Although a veteran at speaking before the congregation, she bumbled the psalm - How Lord, O long - and then took her seat, forgetting to light the candle at all. Rev. Paul gently walked to where Dr. Sanders was seated, extended his arm, and escorted her back to the wreath. Her face was as royally purple as the candle, but she completed her task. Somebody has to go first, to get the waiting started.
And then, with two flips of the calendar, it was December. The fall semester usually went fast, with Halloween and Thanksgiving happening before you knew it. But this time, Meggie thought it passed especially quick, driven almost. She could not shake the feeling that her life was about to dramatically change. The gloom of what might be her last winter was coupled with Rev. Paul's for some reason. This tension had been enough to fuel childlike prayers once more: I've heard both sides now. Please let me go back.
Meggie knocked quietly, she only guessed, on her parent's bedroom door. Four hands quickly signaled come in, honey. She stood at the foot of their bed as her fingers made their plea: All I want for Christmas this year is a rose-colored dress, like the one Meggie wears in your movie, Dad. But could I please have it before Christmas, so I could wear it the day I light the Advent candle? Meggie usually knew when tears were coming, but these surprised her. Her fingers stopped their pleading and wiped her cheeks. As she refocused on her audience of two, she saw their tears as well. Deep does call unto deep. Her father motioned to his side of the bed. He took his third daughter's hands in his and nodded his head up and down, the universal sign for yes.
Advent's first Sunday was awkward, as it always was. Jessie Sanders, a single physician in her 30s, had been asked to light the first candle. Although a veteran at speaking before the congregation, she bumbled the psalm - How Lord, O long - and then took her seat, forgetting to light the candle at all. Rev. Paul gently walked to where Dr. Sanders was seated, extended his arm, and escorted her back to the wreath. Her face was as royally purple as the candle, but she completed her task. Somebody has to go first, to get the waiting started.
My gift to you...
[My gift to you faithful readers this season is a short story. My hope is to finish it by mid-December. I have no idea where the story line is headed; we'll find out together. I do, however, welcome your suggestions for a title. I hope you enjoy it. I really do.]
~~
Meggie absolutely hated Christmas carols and Silent Night was at the top of her list. She felt it mocked her. She had gone completely deaf at age six; she was now thirteen. She loved the sights of the holidays, but the sounds were a gift that had been returned. Now every night for Meggie was silent. Maybe it was easier if you'd never heard anything at all, if you'd been deaf from birth. As it was, Meggie had heard her father's whistle, the honk of geese, the sizzle of bacon, and Joni Mitchell sing Both Sides Now. Now that was gone, all gone. She used to pray with the faith of a child that God would please give back what he had taken. But she never heard any reply. This last year had been especially hard on her faith; she felt as if her heart might be dying. She desperately needed the nourishment of memory to live beyond this winter.
Her father had been completely taken with Rachel Ward's performance in The Thorn Birds, so much so that he prevailed in naming the third of his four daughters. He had written words on parchment paper and framed them for her seventh birthday. They hung above her bed, silently. There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.
Meggie had endured three surgeries in three years with no audible results. And last year, in what her father now referred to as the grand mistake, her wealthy aunt arranged an audience with a faith healer in Tulsa. The evangelist had taken her ears in his hands as if he might pull them off. He placed his forehead on her nose and with eyes tightly shut began to shake as if suddenly chilled. She smelled fear on his skin, but never heard a word. On the drive home, her mother turned and signed we'll keep trying. They stopped at a diner called The Purple Cow and had cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes. When her mother and sisters went to the bathroom, her father signed Meg, I'm so very sorry. I should have stopped it.
In early October, Rev. Paul O'Neill began making plans for the upcoming Advent season. He called and asked Meggie's father to read the scriptures on the third Sunday of Advent - Gaudete Sunday. I'd like to have your family beside you when you read. And would Meggie be willing to light the candle for that day? Ask her to think it over and let me know. At dinner that night her father shared Rev. Paul's request. Her sisters became giddy simply at the prospect of being in front of a captive audience. They were strikingly beautiful girls. But Meggie felt something flicker deep within her, something almost hopeful. For as long as she could remember, her family had never been asked to visually participate in the Advent season. Why now, now in what felt like what might be her last winter?
As she fell asleep that night, Meggie could see the wreath of Advent: three candles of royal purple, strikingly beautiful. And then the one of rose pink, the candle she'd been asked to light. She suddenly remembered the subtitled lines from her father's favorite movie: Meggie's dress was rose. "Ashes of Roses", it was called. And in it, she was the most beautiful thing any of us had ever seen. With what faith she had left, Meggie determined to tell Rev. Paul yes. She might not hear on Gaudete Sunday, but she might half-hear; the fire and the rose might be one.
~~
Meggie absolutely hated Christmas carols and Silent Night was at the top of her list. She felt it mocked her. She had gone completely deaf at age six; she was now thirteen. She loved the sights of the holidays, but the sounds were a gift that had been returned. Now every night for Meggie was silent. Maybe it was easier if you'd never heard anything at all, if you'd been deaf from birth. As it was, Meggie had heard her father's whistle, the honk of geese, the sizzle of bacon, and Joni Mitchell sing Both Sides Now. Now that was gone, all gone. She used to pray with the faith of a child that God would please give back what he had taken. But she never heard any reply. This last year had been especially hard on her faith; she felt as if her heart might be dying. She desperately needed the nourishment of memory to live beyond this winter.
Her father had been completely taken with Rachel Ward's performance in The Thorn Birds, so much so that he prevailed in naming the third of his four daughters. He had written words on parchment paper and framed them for her seventh birthday. They hung above her bed, silently. There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.
Meggie had endured three surgeries in three years with no audible results. And last year, in what her father now referred to as the grand mistake, her wealthy aunt arranged an audience with a faith healer in Tulsa. The evangelist had taken her ears in his hands as if he might pull them off. He placed his forehead on her nose and with eyes tightly shut began to shake as if suddenly chilled. She smelled fear on his skin, but never heard a word. On the drive home, her mother turned and signed we'll keep trying. They stopped at a diner called The Purple Cow and had cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes. When her mother and sisters went to the bathroom, her father signed Meg, I'm so very sorry. I should have stopped it.
In early October, Rev. Paul O'Neill began making plans for the upcoming Advent season. He called and asked Meggie's father to read the scriptures on the third Sunday of Advent - Gaudete Sunday. I'd like to have your family beside you when you read. And would Meggie be willing to light the candle for that day? Ask her to think it over and let me know. At dinner that night her father shared Rev. Paul's request. Her sisters became giddy simply at the prospect of being in front of a captive audience. They were strikingly beautiful girls. But Meggie felt something flicker deep within her, something almost hopeful. For as long as she could remember, her family had never been asked to visually participate in the Advent season. Why now, now in what felt like what might be her last winter?
As she fell asleep that night, Meggie could see the wreath of Advent: three candles of royal purple, strikingly beautiful. And then the one of rose pink, the candle she'd been asked to light. She suddenly remembered the subtitled lines from her father's favorite movie: Meggie's dress was rose. "Ashes of Roses", it was called. And in it, she was the most beautiful thing any of us had ever seen. With what faith she had left, Meggie determined to tell Rev. Paul yes. She might not hear on Gaudete Sunday, but she might half-hear; the fire and the rose might be one.
All of this day, this Thursday
I sat at a table round today and ate like a king in these desperate economic times. I helped her prepare the meal - turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, gravy, rolls, green peas, sweet tea. She was thankful for this day, this Thursday, and for the people at the table round: our son who ate his turkey-leg like a man, our middle-daughter who made place cards for us all, our youngest who ate nothing but butter and rolls, and me. Before we started eating, we lit a candle and held hands and I read from the Book of Common Prayer and they chimed in Lord, we thank thee. She's leaving Monday to spend the week with her dad; he's having some major surgery next week. I will miss her, more than she knows. I, too, was thankful for this day, this Thursday.
The last minute dessert, razzleberry pie, took 75 minutes to cook, so we had time to catch the end of Miracle on 34th Street, the old black and white version. It's the story of a gentle soul with a beard who did some fairly miraculous things and was patient as people progressively came to believe he was who he said he was. Oh, and he just loved children. It's doesn't make a lick of sense to me how some folks can gush all over Aslan and then pitch a conniption fit over anything Santa.
The razzleberry pie was topped with vanilla ice cream and washed down with coffee. It was worth every one of the 75 minutes we waited and every one of the 150 times the kids opened the oven door to see if it was ready.
I finished Jim Harrison's Farmer around 3:30pm. I've about decided that Harrison is one of the true master storytellers of our time.
As the black of dusk began to descend, white snow began falling.
The national news report began with scenes of death in India. The man's face was covered with bright red blood and our son said Dad, look at that. I did. Our local news broadcast showed scenes of bleachers full of teary-eyed wives and restless children, all waving American flags, all waiting for their soldier's safe return.
After the evening news, she sat on the couch with our oldest two watching This is Jeopardy! Our youngest asked me if I'd read with her, so we both got in our sleeping bags in her bedroom floor and she read Rabbit's New Rug to me, complete with sound effects and character voices. After the end, I said hey, wanna make some crescent rolls with me? She beat me to the kitchen. We popped the can and tore apart the perforated dough and rolled them tightly like snooty pastry chefs. After 13 minutes at 375 degrees, we pulled them from the oven and let butter run down their hips. So, for our youngest, both meals today, lunch and dinner, consisted of butter and rolls.
Our kids all wanted to sleep in the den tonight. I'm not sure why, but I'm not sure it matters. As I turn off the lights, one is on the floor in a Wiggy bag, one is in the recliner, one is on the couch, and the Beagle is in the club chair. It's still snowing outside.
She didn't want to sleep in the den tonight. Me neither. So, I joined her in our flannel-sheeted bed and we borrowed our son's TV and watched Shopgirl as the snow stopped falling. The narrator, Steve Martin, begins the film with these words: Mirabelle Buttersfield moved from Vermont hoping to begin her life. And now she is stranded in the vast openness of LA. She keeps working to make connections, but the pile of near misses is starting to overwhelm her. What Mirabelle needs is an omniscient voice to illuminate and spotlight her and to inform everyone that this one has value, this one standing behind the counter in the glove department and to find her counterpart and bring him to her.
The narrator's voice concludes the film with these words: As Ray Porter watches Mirabelle walk away he feels a loss. How is it possible, he thinks, to miss a woman whom he kept at a distance so that when she was gone he would not miss her. Only then does he realize that wanting part of her and not all of her had hurt them both and how he cannot justify his actions except that... well... it was life.
I do not want part of this life. No, I want all of it.
It just started snowing again.
The last minute dessert, razzleberry pie, took 75 minutes to cook, so we had time to catch the end of Miracle on 34th Street, the old black and white version. It's the story of a gentle soul with a beard who did some fairly miraculous things and was patient as people progressively came to believe he was who he said he was. Oh, and he just loved children. It's doesn't make a lick of sense to me how some folks can gush all over Aslan and then pitch a conniption fit over anything Santa.
The razzleberry pie was topped with vanilla ice cream and washed down with coffee. It was worth every one of the 75 minutes we waited and every one of the 150 times the kids opened the oven door to see if it was ready.
I finished Jim Harrison's Farmer around 3:30pm. I've about decided that Harrison is one of the true master storytellers of our time.
As the black of dusk began to descend, white snow began falling.
The national news report began with scenes of death in India. The man's face was covered with bright red blood and our son said Dad, look at that. I did. Our local news broadcast showed scenes of bleachers full of teary-eyed wives and restless children, all waving American flags, all waiting for their soldier's safe return.
After the evening news, she sat on the couch with our oldest two watching This is Jeopardy! Our youngest asked me if I'd read with her, so we both got in our sleeping bags in her bedroom floor and she read Rabbit's New Rug to me, complete with sound effects and character voices. After the end, I said hey, wanna make some crescent rolls with me? She beat me to the kitchen. We popped the can and tore apart the perforated dough and rolled them tightly like snooty pastry chefs. After 13 minutes at 375 degrees, we pulled them from the oven and let butter run down their hips. So, for our youngest, both meals today, lunch and dinner, consisted of butter and rolls.
Our kids all wanted to sleep in the den tonight. I'm not sure why, but I'm not sure it matters. As I turn off the lights, one is on the floor in a Wiggy bag, one is in the recliner, one is on the couch, and the Beagle is in the club chair. It's still snowing outside.
She didn't want to sleep in the den tonight. Me neither. So, I joined her in our flannel-sheeted bed and we borrowed our son's TV and watched Shopgirl as the snow stopped falling. The narrator, Steve Martin, begins the film with these words: Mirabelle Buttersfield moved from Vermont hoping to begin her life. And now she is stranded in the vast openness of LA. She keeps working to make connections, but the pile of near misses is starting to overwhelm her. What Mirabelle needs is an omniscient voice to illuminate and spotlight her and to inform everyone that this one has value, this one standing behind the counter in the glove department and to find her counterpart and bring him to her.
The narrator's voice concludes the film with these words: As Ray Porter watches Mirabelle walk away he feels a loss. How is it possible, he thinks, to miss a woman whom he kept at a distance so that when she was gone he would not miss her. Only then does he realize that wanting part of her and not all of her had hurt them both and how he cannot justify his actions except that... well... it was life.
I do not want part of this life. No, I want all of it.
It just started snowing again.
Happy Thanksgiving
The weatherman says winter's comin', but he sounds more hopeful than convinced. We've had an unseasonably long, warm autumn so far. I'm not complaining. All the leaves are off the Aspens and the neighbors are puttin' up Christmas lights.
We've had the Beagle one year now; he was the Christmas gift last year. He's always slept in a pen in my son's room, but this week we've started letting him sleep in the La-Z-Boy recliner. As I walked past him early this morning, he was on his back, snoring, with all four legs up in the air like a dead armadillo on the shoulder of the road. Upon seeing him, the only word that came to mind was happy. Should the thief cometh at the midnight hour, I'm betting he'll happily sleep right through it.
During our weekly visit to the public library, I witnessed a lady make a spectacle of herself in front of God and these witnesses. She and her son were both on the public computers and he exclaimed well what do I do now? She violently backed her chair and stood and said whatsa matter with you? Can't you figure it out? Her explosion was easy to hear, libraries being places of quiet and all. She looked up and our eyes met. Truth is, jr. had probably interrupted her 75 times before we walked in and couldn't he understand that she was trying to google something really important and he just kept asking and the 76th time she lost it. I immediately went to the front desk to pay my 70 cent fine. The librarian said oh, John, we'll take care of it next time. Blessing and cursing out of the same library. My lord.
I watched a news clip last night about a church in our area going green. The young, spiffy preacher stood before those assembled and waxed eloquently about stewardship and talked later to the reporter of proper water usage and the right bulbs. Something in me wondered if spiffy knew how utterly stupid it all sounded. We'll do about anything to avoid going red; being people of the blood won't make the news. I'm about ready for a John the Baptist type to come out of the wilderness, scratchin' himself, with locust legs in his beard, screaming Repent! But we didn't listen then, so I'm not sure we would now. Unless we were all in libraries.
A young lady in our office brought a homemade apple pie to work yesterday. I wasn't hungry when it was officially cut and tasted, but there was a little left later in the day so I took a piece and went back to my cubicle and ate it. It tasted so good I found tears in my eyes; it tasted golden, humble. Earlier in the day I'd encountered a man who was doing everything he could to come across as not humble, in charge, authorial. Maybe we should have given him the whole pie. Then again, I don't know if that would help. Maybe he never had a Beagle as a kid or his mom yelled at him in the library.
Went to the mall last night with my oldest two. They both needed winter coats; weatherman says it's comin'. We walked through several stores, looking, evaluating. Most all the salespeople were standing around the registers talking to one another. Nobody was buying anything, so I guess they thought hell, might as well visit a little. We finally found some coats they liked and they just happened to be on sale. I paid with cash. As the teenaged employee was counting out my change, I asked him about the return policy; it threw his mental counting totally off. He looked at me like whatsa matter with you? Can't you see I'm counting? He finished his counting and gave me the correct change. I disarmed him with ya' did good. Happy Thanksgiving. He blushed and smiled.
I walked out into the crisp night air with my son by my side and my daughter ridin' piggyback; her feet were hurting because she wore her boots without any socks. I've probably told her 75 times not to do that, but the 76th time allowed me to piggyback my little girl one more time in this long, warm autumn. I felt as happy as a Beagle in a La-Z-Boy.
Happy Thanksgiving. May all your pets sleep contented. May homemade apple pie find its way to your piehole more often and tears find their way to your eyes. May all your library fines be waved away until next time. May you find what you need on sale. And may your children stay children, just a little bit longer. Winter's comin'.
We've had the Beagle one year now; he was the Christmas gift last year. He's always slept in a pen in my son's room, but this week we've started letting him sleep in the La-Z-Boy recliner. As I walked past him early this morning, he was on his back, snoring, with all four legs up in the air like a dead armadillo on the shoulder of the road. Upon seeing him, the only word that came to mind was happy. Should the thief cometh at the midnight hour, I'm betting he'll happily sleep right through it.
During our weekly visit to the public library, I witnessed a lady make a spectacle of herself in front of God and these witnesses. She and her son were both on the public computers and he exclaimed well what do I do now? She violently backed her chair and stood and said whatsa matter with you? Can't you figure it out? Her explosion was easy to hear, libraries being places of quiet and all. She looked up and our eyes met. Truth is, jr. had probably interrupted her 75 times before we walked in and couldn't he understand that she was trying to google something really important and he just kept asking and the 76th time she lost it. I immediately went to the front desk to pay my 70 cent fine. The librarian said oh, John, we'll take care of it next time. Blessing and cursing out of the same library. My lord.
I watched a news clip last night about a church in our area going green. The young, spiffy preacher stood before those assembled and waxed eloquently about stewardship and talked later to the reporter of proper water usage and the right bulbs. Something in me wondered if spiffy knew how utterly stupid it all sounded. We'll do about anything to avoid going red; being people of the blood won't make the news. I'm about ready for a John the Baptist type to come out of the wilderness, scratchin' himself, with locust legs in his beard, screaming Repent! But we didn't listen then, so I'm not sure we would now. Unless we were all in libraries.
A young lady in our office brought a homemade apple pie to work yesterday. I wasn't hungry when it was officially cut and tasted, but there was a little left later in the day so I took a piece and went back to my cubicle and ate it. It tasted so good I found tears in my eyes; it tasted golden, humble. Earlier in the day I'd encountered a man who was doing everything he could to come across as not humble, in charge, authorial. Maybe we should have given him the whole pie. Then again, I don't know if that would help. Maybe he never had a Beagle as a kid or his mom yelled at him in the library.
Went to the mall last night with my oldest two. They both needed winter coats; weatherman says it's comin'. We walked through several stores, looking, evaluating. Most all the salespeople were standing around the registers talking to one another. Nobody was buying anything, so I guess they thought hell, might as well visit a little. We finally found some coats they liked and they just happened to be on sale. I paid with cash. As the teenaged employee was counting out my change, I asked him about the return policy; it threw his mental counting totally off. He looked at me like whatsa matter with you? Can't you see I'm counting? He finished his counting and gave me the correct change. I disarmed him with ya' did good. Happy Thanksgiving. He blushed and smiled.
I walked out into the crisp night air with my son by my side and my daughter ridin' piggyback; her feet were hurting because she wore her boots without any socks. I've probably told her 75 times not to do that, but the 76th time allowed me to piggyback my little girl one more time in this long, warm autumn. I felt as happy as a Beagle in a La-Z-Boy.
Happy Thanksgiving. May all your pets sleep contented. May homemade apple pie find its way to your piehole more often and tears find their way to your eyes. May all your library fines be waved away until next time. May you find what you need on sale. And may your children stay children, just a little bit longer. Winter's comin'.
The Sounding Joy
Several days ago, my girlfriend's dad heard a doctor say maybe pancreatic cancer; we'll have to do some tests. He's to have his test this coming Monday and we'll know something more then. For him, for her, for all of us, it's been days of uncertainty.
I don't know what this day will bring
Will it be disappointing, filled with longed for things?
I don't know what tomorrow holds...
A friend was flying in from New York yesterday. He arrived in Dallas to delays, and mechanical problems, and a flight schedule run amuck. Finally, he landed in Co Springs after a day of amuck. Another friend will fly out this morning with his family to visit his brother in CA. His brother, his little brother, is in the midst of cancer treatments.
I don't know if these clouds mean rain
If they do, will they pour down blessing or pain?
I don't know what the future holds...
My girlfriend and I stayed up to watch The Family Stone last night. It's the story of holidays and plans and kids and life and a mother celebrating her last Christmas with her family. If your girdle's on tight, it's got enough to offend you. But I don't wear girdles. One pivotal scene has Sarah Jessica Parker and Luke Wilson in bed as the snow slowly falls on the skylight above them. She begins humming the refrain repeat the sounding joy, repeat the sounding joy.
I don't know how or when I'll die
Will it be a thief, or will I have a chance to say goodbye?
No, I don't know how much time is left...
The lyrics in this post are from the song Faithfulness by Brian Doerksen. I got to spend time yesterday with Brian and his wife; it was a gift. He said John, the life of faith is about learning to trust. That's it. Brian prayed for sons that would sit around and discuss philosophy and theology with him. His two sons have Fragile X Syndrome; they don't talk much, if at all, but they hug and kiss their dad alot. Brian wrote the song after one of them was born.
None of my children have Fragile X Syndrome. But my youngest got in bed with us early this morning, head full of fever...
You could read this post and get up all shitfaced on melancholia, maybe even go back to bed and pull the covers over your eyes. Or, you could wade into this day remembering that the best-laid plans of mice and men and mothers and friends and fathers-in-law and Sarah Jessica and Brian and John gang aft agley. We don't have the foggiest idea what this day will hold; we are, all of us, fragile. But if we are people of faith, real faith, then we get up and brush our teeth and feed the dog and commute to work and face the day. And we trust. That's it.
Surer than a mother's tender love
Surer than the stars still shine above
I can rest in your faithfulness.
Repeat the sounding joy...repeat the sounding joy...
I don't know what this day will bring
Will it be disappointing, filled with longed for things?
I don't know what tomorrow holds...
A friend was flying in from New York yesterday. He arrived in Dallas to delays, and mechanical problems, and a flight schedule run amuck. Finally, he landed in Co Springs after a day of amuck. Another friend will fly out this morning with his family to visit his brother in CA. His brother, his little brother, is in the midst of cancer treatments.
I don't know if these clouds mean rain
If they do, will they pour down blessing or pain?
I don't know what the future holds...
My girlfriend and I stayed up to watch The Family Stone last night. It's the story of holidays and plans and kids and life and a mother celebrating her last Christmas with her family. If your girdle's on tight, it's got enough to offend you. But I don't wear girdles. One pivotal scene has Sarah Jessica Parker and Luke Wilson in bed as the snow slowly falls on the skylight above them. She begins humming the refrain repeat the sounding joy, repeat the sounding joy.
I don't know how or when I'll die
Will it be a thief, or will I have a chance to say goodbye?
No, I don't know how much time is left...
The lyrics in this post are from the song Faithfulness by Brian Doerksen. I got to spend time yesterday with Brian and his wife; it was a gift. He said John, the life of faith is about learning to trust. That's it. Brian prayed for sons that would sit around and discuss philosophy and theology with him. His two sons have Fragile X Syndrome; they don't talk much, if at all, but they hug and kiss their dad alot. Brian wrote the song after one of them was born.
None of my children have Fragile X Syndrome. But my youngest got in bed with us early this morning, head full of fever...
You could read this post and get up all shitfaced on melancholia, maybe even go back to bed and pull the covers over your eyes. Or, you could wade into this day remembering that the best-laid plans of mice and men and mothers and friends and fathers-in-law and Sarah Jessica and Brian and John gang aft agley. We don't have the foggiest idea what this day will hold; we are, all of us, fragile. But if we are people of faith, real faith, then we get up and brush our teeth and feed the dog and commute to work and face the day. And we trust. That's it.
Surer than a mother's tender love
Surer than the stars still shine above
I can rest in your faithfulness.
Repeat the sounding joy...repeat the sounding joy...
A Good Thing
It is a good thing to give thanks to the LORD
and to sing praises to your name, O Most High;
To tell of your loving-kindness early in the morning...
Psalm 92.1-2
It's early. I've got some loving-kindness. So, being all psalmicky and such, I might as well tell of it.
I signed a book contract yesterday. Yep, I really did. My agent, JK, called and said it's ready to sign. I grabbed for my Montblanc fountain pen and then remembered I don't have such a thing, so I borrowed the assistant's blue Bic clicker, and I signed the solid line.
I had wondered what that moment would be like. Would Glen Campbell step out of the shadows and start singing Wichita Lineman? Would the earth cough up little hobbits who would come close and dither about my knees? Would the sky suddenly turn dusk and stay that way all day, making it the best day ever?
None of those things happened. I know, hard to believe. No, I signed the three copies of the contract, stood and shook JK's hand, stepped back out into the bright sunlight of a Colorado noon, and got in my '97 Dodge and drove back to work.
And the Wichita lineman, is still on the line.
The book? Oh, yes. Sorry. I wrote through Advent last year, some reflections on the readings in Luke's gospel. That's what it's gonna be; a Christmas book, small, filled with a few sketches by a good friend. Maybe, just maybe, it'll be something to help folks walk a little saner through the moments leading up the big day. I reread them not long ago and I'm proud of them, I really am.
Right now, things are set for a September '09 release, just in time for you to purchase multiple copies both for yourself and those you call friends. We've still got to decide on a front cover and someone all spanky to endorse it, maybe Glen Campbell. We'll have a little party here at The Shame when it releases; you know, Ritz crackers, summer sausage, fancy coffee, maybe even some Blue Bell ice cream. I'll let you know. Dress is always casual, so don't fret about getting stuff pressed.
This book deal is a loving-kindness from His infinitely tender hand and I'm grateful. Actually, I'm humbled. A fella by the name of Pierce Pettis wrote a song entitled God Believes in You:
When you start to doubt that you exist, God believes in you.
Confounded by the evidence, God believes in you.
When your light burns so dim, when your chances seem so slim
And you swear you don't believe in him, God believes in you.
If you ever get the chance to see Pierce perform, carpe chancem. If you come away disappointed, I'll reimburse you for the ticket.
No, all this is humbling because it points to the presence of something that oftentimes lurks in the shadows: the thought that God believes in me. Some folks may think that bassackwards theology, but I don't. That thought makes me more grateful and these days, that's where I'm puttin' my money. If who or what you're holding to isn't making you a more grateful person with each passing day, then I say you've got a hole in your bucket, dear Liza, a hole.
Thanks for taking a few seconds to rejoice alongside him who rejoiceth. But, now it's up and back off down the main road, looking for another overload, a little bit surer I can hear Him singing in the wire, thru the whine -
And the Wichita lineman, is still on the line.
and to sing praises to your name, O Most High;
To tell of your loving-kindness early in the morning...
Psalm 92.1-2
It's early. I've got some loving-kindness. So, being all psalmicky and such, I might as well tell of it.
I signed a book contract yesterday. Yep, I really did. My agent, JK, called and said it's ready to sign. I grabbed for my Montblanc fountain pen and then remembered I don't have such a thing, so I borrowed the assistant's blue Bic clicker, and I signed the solid line.
I had wondered what that moment would be like. Would Glen Campbell step out of the shadows and start singing Wichita Lineman? Would the earth cough up little hobbits who would come close and dither about my knees? Would the sky suddenly turn dusk and stay that way all day, making it the best day ever?
None of those things happened. I know, hard to believe. No, I signed the three copies of the contract, stood and shook JK's hand, stepped back out into the bright sunlight of a Colorado noon, and got in my '97 Dodge and drove back to work.
And the Wichita lineman, is still on the line.
The book? Oh, yes. Sorry. I wrote through Advent last year, some reflections on the readings in Luke's gospel. That's what it's gonna be; a Christmas book, small, filled with a few sketches by a good friend. Maybe, just maybe, it'll be something to help folks walk a little saner through the moments leading up the big day. I reread them not long ago and I'm proud of them, I really am.
Right now, things are set for a September '09 release, just in time for you to purchase multiple copies both for yourself and those you call friends. We've still got to decide on a front cover and someone all spanky to endorse it, maybe Glen Campbell. We'll have a little party here at The Shame when it releases; you know, Ritz crackers, summer sausage, fancy coffee, maybe even some Blue Bell ice cream. I'll let you know. Dress is always casual, so don't fret about getting stuff pressed.
This book deal is a loving-kindness from His infinitely tender hand and I'm grateful. Actually, I'm humbled. A fella by the name of Pierce Pettis wrote a song entitled God Believes in You:
When you start to doubt that you exist, God believes in you.
Confounded by the evidence, God believes in you.
When your light burns so dim, when your chances seem so slim
And you swear you don't believe in him, God believes in you.
If you ever get the chance to see Pierce perform, carpe chancem. If you come away disappointed, I'll reimburse you for the ticket.
No, all this is humbling because it points to the presence of something that oftentimes lurks in the shadows: the thought that God believes in me. Some folks may think that bassackwards theology, but I don't. That thought makes me more grateful and these days, that's where I'm puttin' my money. If who or what you're holding to isn't making you a more grateful person with each passing day, then I say you've got a hole in your bucket, dear Liza, a hole.
Thanks for taking a few seconds to rejoice alongside him who rejoiceth. But, now it's up and back off down the main road, looking for another overload, a little bit surer I can hear Him singing in the wire, thru the whine -
And the Wichita lineman, is still on the line.
The Valley
[This is a fiction thread I'm going to follow for awhile; same title, but I'll add to it each time]
You shall be like a dove whose wings are covered with silver...Psalm 68.13
She had underlined those words from the Book of Common Prayer years ago. They had slowly, naturally, become her petition, her longing: Please, make me a silver dove. But the whisper beneath the prayer was to be his silver dove.
It was his hands she noticed first. They were not huge, bearlike gloves, adept at handling tools or rope. Neither were they small and demure. The hands of this man, his hands, would hold you and hang on. That is what she knew the aching moment she saw them, holding the hands of wife and children. Since that first sighting she was haunted by them almost every day. Not every day, mind you, for there were days when her mind felt rid of him. But the emancipating sun would always set and dusk would invite her back to the chains, the freedom of her chains. And the whisper: make me his.
How can you love, truly love, from afar? Is not proximity the core of affection? How she wished that the distance between her point and his were a straight line. If it were, she thought he might see her, notice her, hear her. But there was too much between them, too much that mattered.
A good friend bested cancer two years ago. She faithfully sat with her friend through the chemo, the loss. As each treatment would yield, she would rise to go, but not before a benediction: It's just a shadow, Lucy. Hang on.
Her good friend was in remission now; wigged, but alive. Lucy had dropped a statement once, during chemo’s reign: Tell me about the valley of the shadow of love.
***
Ah, he began to know
and is quiet now, exposed on the cliffs of the heart. – Rilke
He swore he’d heard her that day, years ago. It was only a whisper, but sometimes that’s all it takes. Such was that time, that day. The whisper grew into a statement that scared him, quieted him.
Mutual friends were celebrating 25 years of marriage. It was July. She had worn a simple linen blouse, cut so clavicles were prominent. To those his eyes were immediately drawn; from the Latin clavicula meaning “little key.” Those long bones turned something in him leaving him exposed in the moment. And also from then on. He was certain they shook hands as a greeting, but he could remember nothing of her hands, her touch, her smell. Just the sound of bone.
He would now celebrate 20 years, come September. Time had once seemed a stream to fish, but now it had become a torrent tossing him into each new day. He held on. It was what he did, who he was. He was confident in his strength, always had been. His was not a swagger of pretense, but rather the arrogance of belonging.
Shoulders brush in an elevator. Eyes meet at a stoplight. Hands reach for the same piece of luggage. Moments. Whispers. Little keys which spring something in us, something unexpected. We find ourselves short of breath, blushing, apologetic, quiet.
After being relocated to his town, he and Brad had ridden horses together most weekends for over 5 years. He was thankful for the opportunity to ride with his younger brother again. It made them feel like boys. That boyish feeling caused him to interpret Brad's slump a month ago to be a joke, a prank. His brother momentarily leaned on the horn and then fell from his saddle. The fall broke his collarbone, shoved it straight through his shirt. The doctor said aortic aneurysm as he held his sister-in-law's widowed hands. He gave a short eulogy at the graveside and then placed his carnation on the casket.
Now, most weekends, he rode alone, listening.
You shall be like a dove whose wings are covered with silver...Psalm 68.13
She had underlined those words from the Book of Common Prayer years ago. They had slowly, naturally, become her petition, her longing: Please, make me a silver dove. But the whisper beneath the prayer was to be his silver dove.
It was his hands she noticed first. They were not huge, bearlike gloves, adept at handling tools or rope. Neither were they small and demure. The hands of this man, his hands, would hold you and hang on. That is what she knew the aching moment she saw them, holding the hands of wife and children. Since that first sighting she was haunted by them almost every day. Not every day, mind you, for there were days when her mind felt rid of him. But the emancipating sun would always set and dusk would invite her back to the chains, the freedom of her chains. And the whisper: make me his.
How can you love, truly love, from afar? Is not proximity the core of affection? How she wished that the distance between her point and his were a straight line. If it were, she thought he might see her, notice her, hear her. But there was too much between them, too much that mattered.
A good friend bested cancer two years ago. She faithfully sat with her friend through the chemo, the loss. As each treatment would yield, she would rise to go, but not before a benediction: It's just a shadow, Lucy. Hang on.
Her good friend was in remission now; wigged, but alive. Lucy had dropped a statement once, during chemo’s reign: Tell me about the valley of the shadow of love.
***
Ah, he began to know
and is quiet now, exposed on the cliffs of the heart. – Rilke
He swore he’d heard her that day, years ago. It was only a whisper, but sometimes that’s all it takes. Such was that time, that day. The whisper grew into a statement that scared him, quieted him.
Mutual friends were celebrating 25 years of marriage. It was July. She had worn a simple linen blouse, cut so clavicles were prominent. To those his eyes were immediately drawn; from the Latin clavicula meaning “little key.” Those long bones turned something in him leaving him exposed in the moment. And also from then on. He was certain they shook hands as a greeting, but he could remember nothing of her hands, her touch, her smell. Just the sound of bone.
He would now celebrate 20 years, come September. Time had once seemed a stream to fish, but now it had become a torrent tossing him into each new day. He held on. It was what he did, who he was. He was confident in his strength, always had been. His was not a swagger of pretense, but rather the arrogance of belonging.
Shoulders brush in an elevator. Eyes meet at a stoplight. Hands reach for the same piece of luggage. Moments. Whispers. Little keys which spring something in us, something unexpected. We find ourselves short of breath, blushing, apologetic, quiet.
After being relocated to his town, he and Brad had ridden horses together most weekends for over 5 years. He was thankful for the opportunity to ride with his younger brother again. It made them feel like boys. That boyish feeling caused him to interpret Brad's slump a month ago to be a joke, a prank. His brother momentarily leaned on the horn and then fell from his saddle. The fall broke his collarbone, shoved it straight through his shirt. The doctor said aortic aneurysm as he held his sister-in-law's widowed hands. He gave a short eulogy at the graveside and then placed his carnation on the casket.
Now, most weekends, he rode alone, listening.
Writing to clarity, maybe
I'm going to try and write myself into some clarity on this. If you've any thoughts to add, so as to help the old man, please chime in.
Do you ever think we've gone a little too far? For example, consider this statement: you can worship God anywhere; you don't have to be in a church building. The gist there is trying to say there are no unsacred places. You know what? I fully agree with that statement. Shucks, I've pealed that one forth from the pulpit before. But what if, just because we can worship God anywhere, it's not best to worship God just anywhere?
The poet Wendell Berry writes:
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
What if, just think a moment, what if it's best for us to worship God in sacred places, places that are not desecrated? I realize that may feel like semantical two-stepping I'm doing, but dance with me a moment, wouldja?
That what if? leads me to yet another: the Church is not a place; the Church is the people. Yea, I say thee verily, I've proclaimed that one loud and clear as well, trying to get the folks to stop thinking about the brick and mortar. Again, I fully believe that statement, I really do. But what if, just what if, the Church can be the people AND a place? At least as long as we're here on this dark and bloody planet? What if this it's only the people mentality harbors within it a refusal to fully be incarnate in this world? You know, that I'm just a passin' through, don't want to put down any roots, 'cause this world is not my home stuff. That stuff, as spiritual as it may sound, can, and I emphasize the word can, excuse you from really caring about much in this world, from the people to the rain forests to yourself; it allows you to throw stewardship out the window while whistling I'll fly away...
And one more here, so as to have three points. Mercy, this feels like a sermon. Sorry. But just one more: every person is a minister; the priesthood of believers. For all you reformers out there, I believe that, I really do. It's something that's been overlooked and underutilized for centuries. But if everyone's a minister, then what do ministers do? Better yet, what do pastors do? Wanna know what I'm thinking? Well, let me tell you. We've emphasized the reality that all are ministers to the point where the earth is flat, so to speak, in the church. In trying not to worship the man or woman up there behind the pulpit, we've thrown out the collar with the cassock. And what's a pastor/priest supposed to do when everyone's a minister? What flies into the vacuum created by diluting the gifts? Leadership - the word that far too many pastors and churches worship like a golden calf. Last time I checked, being a leader meant someone was following you.
Pastors are to break the bread and offer the wine, pray for the people when they cannot pray for themselves, hold the hands of the dying as the river calls their name, try with all they have to rightly divide the word of truth, comfort the people in times of trouble, and stuff like that. Not everyone is to do that stuff; not everyone wants to do that stuff. But when and if everyone can and should, then pastors guess that they need a BlackBerry and a posse that they're pouring their lives into and vision statements and gospel trajectories and a missional manifesto. You see, leadership looks like you're doing something. The work of a pastor sometimes, oftentimes, looks like you're doing nothing. Eugene Peterson titled that book The Unnecessary Pastor for a reason. Leadership will get you rave reviews on your annual elder-led evaluation. Pastoring, at worst, just might get you fired, and at best, will cause the elders to give you a list of improvement goals for the next year. Let's work on being a little more effective, John; try to be one of those, what do they call 'em? Yeah, influencers.
I'm still wrestling with this angel, so please bear with me. But I'm just not sure I'm liking everything that I'm seeing. All things are possible, but not all things are beneficial. I read that, somewhere.
Do you ever think we've gone a little too far? For example, consider this statement: you can worship God anywhere; you don't have to be in a church building. The gist there is trying to say there are no unsacred places. You know what? I fully agree with that statement. Shucks, I've pealed that one forth from the pulpit before. But what if, just because we can worship God anywhere, it's not best to worship God just anywhere?
The poet Wendell Berry writes:
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
What if, just think a moment, what if it's best for us to worship God in sacred places, places that are not desecrated? I realize that may feel like semantical two-stepping I'm doing, but dance with me a moment, wouldja?
That what if? leads me to yet another: the Church is not a place; the Church is the people. Yea, I say thee verily, I've proclaimed that one loud and clear as well, trying to get the folks to stop thinking about the brick and mortar. Again, I fully believe that statement, I really do. But what if, just what if, the Church can be the people AND a place? At least as long as we're here on this dark and bloody planet? What if this it's only the people mentality harbors within it a refusal to fully be incarnate in this world? You know, that I'm just a passin' through, don't want to put down any roots, 'cause this world is not my home stuff. That stuff, as spiritual as it may sound, can, and I emphasize the word can, excuse you from really caring about much in this world, from the people to the rain forests to yourself; it allows you to throw stewardship out the window while whistling I'll fly away...
And one more here, so as to have three points. Mercy, this feels like a sermon. Sorry. But just one more: every person is a minister; the priesthood of believers. For all you reformers out there, I believe that, I really do. It's something that's been overlooked and underutilized for centuries. But if everyone's a minister, then what do ministers do? Better yet, what do pastors do? Wanna know what I'm thinking? Well, let me tell you. We've emphasized the reality that all are ministers to the point where the earth is flat, so to speak, in the church. In trying not to worship the man or woman up there behind the pulpit, we've thrown out the collar with the cassock. And what's a pastor/priest supposed to do when everyone's a minister? What flies into the vacuum created by diluting the gifts? Leadership - the word that far too many pastors and churches worship like a golden calf. Last time I checked, being a leader meant someone was following you.
Pastors are to break the bread and offer the wine, pray for the people when they cannot pray for themselves, hold the hands of the dying as the river calls their name, try with all they have to rightly divide the word of truth, comfort the people in times of trouble, and stuff like that. Not everyone is to do that stuff; not everyone wants to do that stuff. But when and if everyone can and should, then pastors guess that they need a BlackBerry and a posse that they're pouring their lives into and vision statements and gospel trajectories and a missional manifesto. You see, leadership looks like you're doing something. The work of a pastor sometimes, oftentimes, looks like you're doing nothing. Eugene Peterson titled that book The Unnecessary Pastor for a reason. Leadership will get you rave reviews on your annual elder-led evaluation. Pastoring, at worst, just might get you fired, and at best, will cause the elders to give you a list of improvement goals for the next year. Let's work on being a little more effective, John; try to be one of those, what do they call 'em? Yeah, influencers.
I'm still wrestling with this angel, so please bear with me. But I'm just not sure I'm liking everything that I'm seeing. All things are possible, but not all things are beneficial. I read that, somewhere.
A Little Scratchin'
Some of you know that I used to be a pastor. And some of you know that I'm not a pastor anymore, at least not in a formal sense. It wasn't the wine, or the women, or even the song that caused me to step away. No, it was the doubt. But that's for another post.
I still, however, have that itch to preach or teach or give a homily or whatever you want to call it. And, according to a facet of my personal credo, he who hath an itch, let him scratch.
I've decided that every Sunday morning, Lord willin', I'm going to do some scratching over at The Spoiled Priest. I plan to follow the lectionary readings for the year, just so you know. Some days it might be the OT reading, some days the NT, some days the gospel.
I've gotten the impression that many, or some, of you are without a church these days. I certainly hope you can find one at some point, but maybe, in the meantime, if you're itchin' for a sermon or homily or whatever, this might ease the itch.
The phrase spoiled priest refers to those Irish priests who never took their vows of ordination or dropped out of seminary or were defrocked for one reason or another, maybe doubt. Because of that, I feel a kinship with them. It is said that when the people of the countryside had problems, real problems, they would seek out the spoiled priests rather than going to talk to the priests who had big parishes or still wore their collars. The thinking was that these men knew about trouble, about problems, about pain and suffering and betrayal and loneliness and heartache. And doubt. And as such, it was they, the spoiled priests, who could really listen and pray. And hope.
I still, however, have that itch to preach or teach or give a homily or whatever you want to call it. And, according to a facet of my personal credo, he who hath an itch, let him scratch.
I've decided that every Sunday morning, Lord willin', I'm going to do some scratching over at The Spoiled Priest. I plan to follow the lectionary readings for the year, just so you know. Some days it might be the OT reading, some days the NT, some days the gospel.
I've gotten the impression that many, or some, of you are without a church these days. I certainly hope you can find one at some point, but maybe, in the meantime, if you're itchin' for a sermon or homily or whatever, this might ease the itch.
The phrase spoiled priest refers to those Irish priests who never took their vows of ordination or dropped out of seminary or were defrocked for one reason or another, maybe doubt. Because of that, I feel a kinship with them. It is said that when the people of the countryside had problems, real problems, they would seek out the spoiled priests rather than going to talk to the priests who had big parishes or still wore their collars. The thinking was that these men knew about trouble, about problems, about pain and suffering and betrayal and loneliness and heartache. And doubt. And as such, it was they, the spoiled priests, who could really listen and pray. And hope.
The Morning After
I wondered how scripture would greet me this morning, the morning after. This is what I found:
24 - Domini est terra
The earth is the LORD's and all that is in it,
the world and all who dwell therein.
I stood in line yesterday in small town Colorado for an hour and twenty minutes to vote. Everyone was cordial. I said yes ma'am and no sir to the election judges; their faces registered pleasure at those small acts of respect. They know the change has to begin there: small acts of respect.
The wait line was outside our town hall building and the morning air was a little too brisk for heavy conversation. I brought along Norris's Acedia & me to redeem the time. Two thoughts found my pen beneath their feet:
*Everyone believes in sin...what everyone does not believe in, as nearly as I can tell, is forgiveness.
*The culture may glorify people who do Pilates at dawn, work their BlackBerrys obsessively on the morning commute, multitask all day at the office, and put a gourmet meal on the table at night after the kids come home from French and fencing lessons, but...are these hyperscheduled, overactive individuals really creating anything new? Are they guilty of passion in any way? Do they have a new vision for their government? For their community? Or for themselves?
I kept wanting to read this stuff aloud while standing in line, stand up on one of the faded given-in-memory-of benches are orate. But I did not. Those words, I realized, were for me. The broad road is to orate, convinced that those in ear shot need to hear my words. The narrow way is to meditate, humbled that he with ears needs to hear: it's not about them first, but me. I realize that runs counter to the conventional evangelical wisdom - it's not about you - but that very perspective will forever and always keep evangelicals conventional. The spiritual life is always about you. The wisdom of those who predate the evangelicals have always told us this.
I was pleased when our new president hinted at that last night, in front of what I believe they call a throng. He said something to the effect of this is not about me, this is about you. This is not the change we seek, but the opportunity to change.
As we greet the morning after, are we, am I, ready for change to begin with me?
Scripture concluded with these words this morning:
26 - Judica me, Domine
As for me, I will live with integrity;
redeem me, O LORD, and have pity on me.
24 - Domini est terra
The earth is the LORD's and all that is in it,
the world and all who dwell therein.
I stood in line yesterday in small town Colorado for an hour and twenty minutes to vote. Everyone was cordial. I said yes ma'am and no sir to the election judges; their faces registered pleasure at those small acts of respect. They know the change has to begin there: small acts of respect.
The wait line was outside our town hall building and the morning air was a little too brisk for heavy conversation. I brought along Norris's Acedia & me to redeem the time. Two thoughts found my pen beneath their feet:
*Everyone believes in sin...what everyone does not believe in, as nearly as I can tell, is forgiveness.
*The culture may glorify people who do Pilates at dawn, work their BlackBerrys obsessively on the morning commute, multitask all day at the office, and put a gourmet meal on the table at night after the kids come home from French and fencing lessons, but...are these hyperscheduled, overactive individuals really creating anything new? Are they guilty of passion in any way? Do they have a new vision for their government? For their community? Or for themselves?
I kept wanting to read this stuff aloud while standing in line, stand up on one of the faded given-in-memory-of benches are orate. But I did not. Those words, I realized, were for me. The broad road is to orate, convinced that those in ear shot need to hear my words. The narrow way is to meditate, humbled that he with ears needs to hear: it's not about them first, but me. I realize that runs counter to the conventional evangelical wisdom - it's not about you - but that very perspective will forever and always keep evangelicals conventional. The spiritual life is always about you. The wisdom of those who predate the evangelicals have always told us this.
I was pleased when our new president hinted at that last night, in front of what I believe they call a throng. He said something to the effect of this is not about me, this is about you. This is not the change we seek, but the opportunity to change.
As we greet the morning after, are we, am I, ready for change to begin with me?
Scripture concluded with these words this morning:
26 - Judica me, Domine
As for me, I will live with integrity;
redeem me, O LORD, and have pity on me.
Super Tuesday
Well, I know you haven't slept much since THE GYPSYS, TRAMPS & THIEVES GRAB'N'RUN began, but such is the nature of the gambling lifestyle, eh? Kinda exciting in a dangerous sorta way. I called my old classmate, Jimmy Paul, at Jimmy-Paul's-Jiffy-Lube, an oil change establishment which also has a random integer generator in the back, and he was happy to help. He poured a little used 10w30, along with your entries, in the generator and voila! - a winner we do have.
Since we don't allow drum rolls, too dramatic, at the Dirty Shame, let me turn up the volume on that Cher song for effect -
I was born in the wagon of a travellin' show
My mama used to dance for the money they'd throw...
Brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it? Our winner in THE GYPSYS, TRAMPS & THIEVES GRAB'N'RUN is Laure. Laure, I realize you're probably flat on the floor right now, hyperventilating; breathe, my friend, just breathe. Some days, you're just, well, lucky. Congratulations! I think you'll enjoy Winn's new book and I hope you'll tell others about it as well.
To the rest of you who screwed up the courage to play this game of chance, I salute you and sincerely thank you for being a part of the faithful few who gather at the Dirty Shame. It does mean more than you know, you stopping by to read my thoughts and all. It really does.
Pastor Mark pastorally queried: Well, where would a loser get the book? Those weren't his actual words, but pastorally speaking, that's what he wanted to know. First of all, you can get the book at Amazon.com for the fairest price anywhere. And secondly, we're all losers here at the Shame. The quote over the bar is from Will Campbell: We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway. That is the ground upon which this fine establishment sits and, well, somedays thrives.
Lucky Laure (o.k. if we call you that just for today?), if you'll send your mailing address to my email (johnblase@earthlink.net), I'll send your book to you, all packaged nice and such. Grab'n'run and be happy! And Jimmy Paul, thanks for the random help; this world is not worthy of you.
Since we don't allow drum rolls, too dramatic, at the Dirty Shame, let me turn up the volume on that Cher song for effect -
I was born in the wagon of a travellin' show
My mama used to dance for the money they'd throw...
Brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it? Our winner in THE GYPSYS, TRAMPS & THIEVES GRAB'N'RUN is Laure. Laure, I realize you're probably flat on the floor right now, hyperventilating; breathe, my friend, just breathe. Some days, you're just, well, lucky. Congratulations! I think you'll enjoy Winn's new book and I hope you'll tell others about it as well.
To the rest of you who screwed up the courage to play this game of chance, I salute you and sincerely thank you for being a part of the faithful few who gather at the Dirty Shame. It does mean more than you know, you stopping by to read my thoughts and all. It really does.
Pastor Mark pastorally queried: Well, where would a loser get the book? Those weren't his actual words, but pastorally speaking, that's what he wanted to know. First of all, you can get the book at Amazon.com for the fairest price anywhere. And secondly, we're all losers here at the Shame. The quote over the bar is from Will Campbell: We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway. That is the ground upon which this fine establishment sits and, well, somedays thrives.
Lucky Laure (o.k. if we call you that just for today?), if you'll send your mailing address to my email (johnblase@earthlink.net), I'll send your book to you, all packaged nice and such. Grab'n'run and be happy! And Jimmy Paul, thanks for the random help; this world is not worthy of you.
GYPSYS, TRAMPS & THIEVES GRAB'N'RUN
Papa would do whatever he could
Preach a little gospel, sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good
Welcome to The Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves Grab'N'Run at the Dirty Shame. It's the first time we've ever done a giveaway or anything and to tell the truth, well, I'm just sorta excited, for more reasons than one. I'd love to give away a used '97 Stratus, but Papa does whatever he can.
Winn Collier has just released his third book, Holy Curiosity: Encountering Jesus' Provocative Questions, and I want to rejoice with those who rejoice. And I think Winn is rejoicing. And I'd love for you to have a copy. I've done some writing on the topic of questions myself and Winn's book is a wonderful contribution to this exquisite facet of the gem known as Jesus.
Winn sent me a galley to read and this is what I wrote afterwards:
As an editor in Christian publishing, I read a lot of manuscripts every week. Some are handsome, some are plain, as we are. But a few, every once in a while, are good. I’d like to go on public record and say that Holy Curiosity by Winn Collier is good.
E.B. White described that pig-lovin’ spider this way: "It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both." One gets that feel when reading Winn’s new book.
I could go on at length about this book, but I won’t. I’m an editor. I’ve got standards to maintain. So, here’s the approach of “where 2 or 3 are gathered” -
Number 1 – What I felt throughout Winn’s book was “spaciousness, room to grow.” In this age and day of books, most of them tell me what to think or not to think, what to feel or not to feel. Winn’s words allowed me room to ponder; such as he practices, he gives to us. There was no rush to get to the point or make sure I “get it” – no, these pages achieved an unforced rhythm. Permission to think/doubt/and wrestle with angels granted.
Number 2 – Winn quotes his wife and sons just as much, if not more, than he quotes Augustine, C.S. Lewis, or Bruner. Let me raise a glass to that modus operandi and declare HERE! HERE! A thread throughout this book is the necessity to keep on going; not a worship of the future, but an awareness of that’s where we’re headed. By paying attention (a form of prayer) to those voices closest to him, Winn demonstrates the ability to be formed by the past but not live there. No, he’s living with Mrs. Collier and their two sons, now, in the present. You may not think much of this point, but I read authors every day who cram quotes from dead folks in their books like teenagers from the 60s in phone booths. It’s kinda impressive at first and then it’s just weird. Thanks, Winn, for resisting that temptation.
Number 3 – A transparency exudes this book. Winn uses words like exude – so hang on. But, it’s a transparency that’s not exhibitionist. Winn doesn’t strip down to the buff, but he does tell us he used to part his hair down the middle and wear pink oxfords. And in the economy of holy curiosity, sometimes that’s enough to satisfy.
O.k. One last word – I was also struck by the belief that this author really loves Jesus. And that is not a slight thing. In fact, it may be the thing.
~~So, here's what we'll do. I'd love to arrange a dart game or something, but this being the onlinusphere, that's a little hard. Between now and Tuesday, Nov. 4th, leave me a short comment about something, I don't care, and on Tuesday, Nov. 4th, I'll download one of those counter-things and draw a random number and well, hell, you know the drill. Some of you know my skills in things like that are sometimes lacking, so I'll get my girlfriend to make sure it all goes down truthful-like. Yes, I know something else is going on Nov. 4th, but since that's essentially a crapshoot, let's rig one up with a beneficial outcome. Deal?
Winn, I'm proud of you, my friend. And I hope you feel honored to be the catalyst for what looks to be the first of many Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves Grab'N'Runs at the Dirty Shame. Your picture goes up on the wall, beside Cher's, and the drinks are on me.
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