Words for the Weekend: The Little Way of Ruthie Leming

I love to read. I love to read because I love to think. Whether its a lengthy story with slow and deep character development that boldly declares a message without ever stating the message itself or a well-worded quote, just a few sentences long that gives me pondering fodder for days, I am attracted to, inspired, and challenged by the power of the written word.

So I've decided, at the beginning of every weekend, to share some words that I deem worth sharing. I hope they comfort, challenge, and inspire you as they have me. Enjoy!

This weekend's words are from a book I just finished called The Little Way of Ruthie Leming: A Southern Girl, A Small Town , and the Secret of a Good Life by Rod Dreher. The book is the story of the author's little sister, Ruthie, their relationships to each other and with their childhood home. While Rod left their small, Louisiana hometown as soon as he was able, Ruthie stayed and fostered a beautiful community. When Ruthie was diagnosed with cancer, the people of her town cared for her, her husband, Mike, and their family in remarkable and self-sacrificing ways. These words speak to the difficulty and joys of staying in a place.

"Those of us you have moved away are not necessarily callow and ungrateful people. We live in a time and place in which we are conditioned to leave our hometowns. Our schools tell our young people to follow their professional bliss, wherever it takes them. Our economy rewards companies and people who have no loyalty to place. The stories that shape the moral imagination of our young, chiefly by film and television, are told by outsiders who were dissatisfied and lit out for elsewhere to find happiness and good fortune.

"...I had spent my professional life writing newspaper columns, blog posts, and even a book, lamenting the loss of community and traditions in American life. I had a reputation as a pop theoretician of cultural decline, but in truth I was long on words, short on deeds. I did not like the fact that I saw my Louisiana family only three times a year, for a week at a time, if we were lucky. But that was the way of the world, right? Almost everyone I knew was in the same position. My friends and I talked a lot about the fragmentation of the modern family, about the deracinating effects of late capitalism, about mass media and the erosion of localist consciousness, about the consumerization of religion and the leviathan state and every other thing under the sun that undermines our sense of home and permanence.

"The one thing none of us did was what Ruthie did: Stay.

"Contemporary culture encourages us to make islands of ourselves for the sake of self-fulfillment, of career advancement, of entertainment, of diversion, and all the demands of the sovereign self. When suffering and death come for you--and it will--you want to be in a place where you know, and are known. You want--no you need--to be able to say, as Mike did, 'We're leaning, but we're leaning on each other.'

"...In the midst of marveling about the goodness of the townspeople, Julie and I wondered if we were romanticizing St. Francisville... A local friend had said to me, 'You have seen the town at its very best. You know, it's not always like this.'

"I knew St. Francisville's shortcomings. There is poverty. There is brokenness. There is drunkenness, and there are drugs. There is meanness, and conformity, and lack of professional opportunity. Of all the things that made me run from this place nearly three decades ago, most of them remain.

"But Ruthie transfigured this town in my eyes. Her suffering made me see the good that I couldn't see before. The same communal bonds that appeared to me as chains all those years ago had become my Louisiana family's lifelines. What I once saw through the melodramatic eyes of a teenager as prison bars were in fact the pillars that held my family up when it had no strength left to stand.

"We're leaning, but we're leaning on each other."

A Tribute to Abe and Ruth

This blog claims to be a literary investigation of seeking and dwelling, adventure and home, and the tension between the two in my heart and mind. Recently, however, I have reflected on how my thoughts, those published here and the ones incessantly rolling about my head, are mostly devoted to the former. Even when discussing home, my disposition continues to be that of a seeker. Questions, a critical eye, and a desire to discover the meaning found in monotony is its own adventure.

Yet occasionally I am gifted with an opportunity to truly dwell. To rest in the joy of a moment that does not require analysis. A moment so obviously good that no seeking is really necessary. Only dwelling is asked.

Last week I was at a family reunion celebrating my grandparents' 90th birthdays. Kin from Oregon, Indiana, Saskatchewan, Michigan, and Pennsylvania gathered, reminisced, and reconnected. To celebrate the lives my grandparents made for their children and children's children, we sang a song written by their youngest son, Dave Lefever. Old stories, worn and beloved like a favorite pair of jeans, found a melody among a ragamuffin choir:

Milking cows on a cold winter morning
You would give a hundred dollars if you could, to still be sleeping
But with the pulse of the milkers and the warmth you would find
Being right there with your father you could catch a glimpse of the divine

Hot afternoon shelling mountains of peas
Under the shade of the birch tree with a little breeze
Mother made up games so nobody would moan
We talked about whatever and no one ever checked their iPhone

Chorus: Those memories seem so far away, though in some ways they seem so near
                We can't go back but we remember the Love that brought us here

Riding in the night to a new home far away
She cried and cried to leave her friends and face another day
Her daddy at the wheel was patient with her sorrow 
He knew about the loneliness of an unknown tomorrow

(Chorus)

We laughed until our bellies hurt, we laughed with each other
And the one who said the craziest things was our oldest brother
He gave pop songs brand new words and sang them with a straight face
Like..."I believe in Melvin, he sets the pace"

It's not too hard to see where he got that silly bone
With a dad who'd tie a string to a purse and lay it along the road
And a mother who would chase us all around the room
And dissolve in fits of laughter while wielding a wooden spoon

(Chorus)

A girl will push the limits, it comes as no surprise
Icy roads won't keep her home when she's got to socialize 
Mother and Daddy were away and to reason she would not yield
She never made the party but got acquainted with a farmer's field

With a parent and a teen the heated words could fly
She was headed toward the front door seething, "Let me live my life"
Sitting at the kitchen bar no more did he speak
He just caught her as she walked by, pulled her down and kissed her cheek

(Chorus)

This song could last for hours or days so we better bring it home
Now the grandkids have stories too...

Of catching the bus and the Jubilee Shop and fishing
Of pretzels and cold fresh milk and Grandma humming hymns
Grandpa's teeth and a bobcat and wild swing rides
Bible trivia, crokinole and that spicy Old Spice
Farm stories and deer tales and watching birds
and Grandma exclaiming, "Abe, that's not a word!"

If you ever wonder where the years have gone
Look at all of us and smile or cry, and know we'll carry on 

Abe and Ruth we will treasure the love that's growing here

Abram Thomas and Ruth Naomi
Daddy and Mother
Grandpa and Grandma

My heritage is certainly not perfect; no one's is. Yet I pray I never forget I am about as blessed as they come.

Distorted Glory

*Disclaimer: This post and video discuss the very difficult issue of child abuse. Reader and viewer discretion is advised.

If we pay even the slightest attention to the news, our senses are inundated with stories of heinous acts each and every day. Events from Norway to Egypt to Boston serve as a constant reminder that we are not a people at peace with each other nor with ourselves.

Desensitization is nearly inevitable.

But on occasion we catch word of an event that comes like a punch in the gut. An atrocity that affects a person, cause or place close to our heart carries a weight that sends minds into tailspins and hearts into pieces. The closer evil comes to our world the more evil it seems.

And so was my reaction when I saw the headline about the arrest of a former classmate of mine:

"Lebanon man accused of seriously injuring infant" 

The article goes on to explain in too much detail the abuse of a four month old little girl endured at the hand of her father. I cannot imagine a greater wickedness than this grossly distorted relationship between parent and child. I am thankful my imagination cannot extend beyond the words of the article for the mere thought would be too much to bear.

Initially I could not pull forth the name that matched this man's mugshot. My mind flipped through forgotten names and faces as I clicked on the link and waited for the info to load. The name came to me like a second punch in the abdomen as the entangled web of human wickedness gained clarity.

In middle school, the two years my life intersected with his, this boy was known to all as "Gay Robert." I don't know what made him a target for two straight years, but he was it--one of two kids that all other students knew to avoid if they hoped to survive the ruthlessness of middle school peerdom. I don't know what his life was like outside of his personal twelve period hell, but I know his clothes were dirty and his hair, unkempt.

Since his arrest I have heard new descriptors slapped on him. The arsenal of junior high sneers have been replaced by the sole label of "monster." Indeed, his actions justify this name. His crime is unthinkable and his sentence well-deserved.

But monsters are not born.

Humans are born.

And humans bear the image of the holy and the good.

What, then, does it take for the image of God, a human being in all his goodness and glory, to be so twisted, scarred, distorted, and marred that their only human resemblance is the skeleton they carry?

How deep into people's souls do our mocking words penetrate?

How damaging is our neglect of each other?

At what point does bitterness become hate, hate become evil, and evil distort the image of God into a monster?

Sin is a complicated web. A web to which we all contribute.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.

Pray for this damaged little girl.
And if you are able, pray for Robert.

Calibrating to Beauty

Last Thursday morning I came down from the mountains after nine days of beholding fresh landscapes, ascending new heights, and breathing in the comforting paradox of nature's simple complexity.

Photo credit: William Hayes

Beautiful things happen within me when I'm in these places.

The hardened wax around my heart, formed by anxiety, cynicism and selfishness begins to crack, then melt, and finally shake off its residual grip that keeps my person from wholeness.

Photo credit: William Hayes

The pupils of my mind's eye dilate as my body and soul attempt to absorb the infinite beauty flowing, growing, soaring, rising and forming in every direction.

Photo credit: William Hayes

I settle into rejuvenating rhythms of co-travelers' footsteps,

Photo credit: William Hayes

the ebb and flow of speech and silence,

Photo credit: William Hayes

and the timely patterns of the sun and the moon.

Photo credit: William Hayes

Photo credit: William Hayes

I inhabit this space and no other. In this habitation my heart finds its center. As my soul both rests and awakens I remember why I write. I suddenly wonder why I stopped writing for so long; why I found it so difficult to put pen to paper. But in this place, in a place where my spirit calms and soars, I remember that writing is my response to beauty.

Worship is easy when beauty is near.

And then a peculiar thing happens. My experience of beauty does not abandon me when I descend to the foothills, the plains, and the even lower ground of Central PA. Rather my beauty-filled eyes are renewed and this renewed sight follows me back home. Sitting in my favorite park, my eyes discover new vitality in familiar rivers, trees, sidewalks, and friends.

I am reminded of my first unchaperoned visit to an art museum. It was the first time I was free to spend as long as I wanted wandering the great halls designed for displaying beauty. As I drove west out of Philly and past Boathouse Row, the sky seemed new to me. The skyline in my rearview mirror was stunning. The trees, exquisite!

Photo credit: William Hayes

Photo credit: William Hayes

Photo credit: William Hayes

It is amazing what we see when we calibrate our eyes to beauty.

So here I am, returned from my summer travels, thankful for the opportunity to be renewed and inspired. Yet also struck by how quickly our wonder fades. Left on our own, our eyes grow dim. How desperately I need the Holy Spirit who gives new mercies and renewed wonder with each sunrise!

"For we have sinned and grown old and our Father is younger than we." -GKC

Photo credit: William Hayes

Where do you see beauty?

When Monotony Shimmers

I recently heard about a book called A World in One Cubic Foot: Portraits of Biodiversity in which photographer, David Liittschwager, placed a green metal cube measuring one foot by one foot by one foot in various ecosystems around the world and for 24 hours observed and measured the life that passed through the cubic space.

Imagine. Walking into your backyard, choosing a random cubic foot of space and staring.

Perhaps your mind is being inundated with cliches--images of drying paint, simmering pots, growing grass and the like. Staring at such a small space for 24 hours? How excruciatingly boring!

Or is it?

You observe the meandering, yet purposeful path of a scavenging ant. A robin hops into your space and locates a worm burrowed in the ground (which is technically outside your designated area), but pulls it up into your cube of awareness. You take note of a discarded fall leaf, following the wind's guidance to an unknown resting place where it shall return to the soil that bore it.

The foreword of the book boasts:

"After encountering this book, you will never look at the tiniest sliver of your own backyard or neighborhood park the same way; instead, you will be stunned by the unexpected variety of species found in an area so small."

I believe it, for I am learning the unshakable beauty found in the tiniest of gifts; the joy of being attentive to every disturbance, each movement a sign of life and a reminder that the Creator never ceases to create.

The glory of the unimpressive requires something of the observer that the vistas of the Grand Canyon do not.

Faithfulness.

For it is only in the act of staying present that our wearisome, entertainment-seeking souls can know the splendor contained within one cubic foot. The majesty of the mountains is declared beautiful by its first time visitor. However, the square foot of forest is known to be most beautiful by the one who has spent time there.

The hidden beauty of the Wyoming mountains (Photo credit: Andrew Harlan)

It's an awful lot like living in a small town. It's easy to become restless moving about the same few miles. It's easy to become bored with the same sidewalks, same neighbors with the same gripes, same food at the same restaurants, same conversations with the same friends.

Oh, but the riches we miss when we run because of boredom! We miss goodness, beauty and the knowledge of a place that only comes with time.

Welcoming friends and strangers into a home that is known and settled.

Being surprised by how much you have yet to learn about friends you know so well.

Understanding the pain of a community, not through reading books, but by walking on the sidewalks, listening to the neighbors and observing patterns long ingrained.

Learning that love does not exist apart from loving the person, neighbor, townie right in front of you.

Realizing we must know one another in order to love.

Being known by people not because you've told them who you are, but because they've seen who you are.

My few cubic feet

Sometimes the world seems too big, sometimes too small. But either way I am learning that there is infinite beauty in each and every cubic foot of this beautiful planet, especially in our backyards, small towns and closest friends. Go. Explore. Discover. Stay.

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. 

-GK Chesterton in Orthodoxy

The Sacred Act of Creativity

Have you ever observed someone in the process of creating?

I don't mean appreciating a finished artpiece or even watching a rehearsed performance, although they are inspiring in their own right. But have you witnessed the sacred moments when inward conception becomes outward expression?

A writer pauses between sentences, squints ever so slightly and stares to the upper left.

A painter steps back from their canvas and analyzes shape, color, texture.

A musician sits quietly, attentive to unplayed melodies waiting to be voiced.

A few weeks ago I experienced anew the wonder of the creative act at a performance by The HALO Ensemble's Time Canvas. The concert was a melodic tapestry, weaving together classical and jazz traditions. A cello solo composed by Bach. A guitar and bass improvisation. More Bach. Another improv. Fugues and new ideas flowed in line, informing and enhancing each other.

The entire show quickened my spirit, brought a peace that only art can. Yet it was the improvisations that sent my mind on a thinking adventure.

I have heard in regards to music that silence is as important as sound. I knew this to be true in a new way as I watched a guitarist, violinist, bassist and celloist anticipate their first note. I waited with them and they with me, trusting inspiration would not falter.

The room was full of robust silence. Ached with it. A silence that sits on the edge of its seat, expecting beauty to emerge at any moment, wondering what it will be and when it will begin, but knowing it will.

And out of the longing, yearning silence, the line begins.

Slowly at first.

Anticipation is not yet satisfied as the other voices listen and reply until all are fully engaged. Conception and expression meet, an original creation set forth into time and space.

I know these emotions well, the wellspring of life that accompanies an idea becoming art. I know this moment as an observer and a creator. And I have come to realize these moments emerge from stillness, from spaces set aside for waiting.

The expectancy I feel when listening to live improv is what happens when I settle in to write. The final product is uncertain, but I trust if I show up, the stirring within me, the longing to create, will materialize into something new, maybe even beautiful.

As my mind explores the wonder of creativity I am led to the memory of a conversation with the very guitarist whose improv inspired this post. Full-time students at the time, we has an unclaimed afternoon on our hands and a question before us.

What about humans make them the image of God?

We made suggestions, dismissed some and explored others until we rested temporarily (for we were quite aware of our philosophical limits) on the conclusion that it is humanity's capacity and aspiration to create that reflects the divine.

I wonder, how does our experience of creating compare to God's?

I think it not too unlikely of a picture to imagine God, in his threeness, as a musical ensemble. Each Person with a stringed instrument in hand, pausing, breathing in the silence, the absence, that yearns to be full and alive. Waiting, listening, anticipating what their love will call forth.

And lifting his bow, the Father speaks, "Let us create!" The vibrations of his voice and of the strings hold power that sets stars ablaze, fills the earth with oceans and gives breath to creatures. The Son and the Spirit listen and join in bringing hope, resurrection, power and life with each melodic phrase.

"We do not first get all the answers and then live in light of our understanding. We must rather plunge into life--meeting what we have to meet and experiencing what we have to experience--and in the light of living try to understand. If insight comes at all, it will not be before, but only through and after experience." 

-John Claypool

How do you create?

Hope for the Poor? Not If It's Up to Me

My eyes grew wide as they absorbed the onslaught of visual information. Diverse faces and hunched bodies hurried past as I tried to focus on my mother's strides creating a crooked path through the Manhattan sidewalks. Her hand clutched protectively around mine served a better guide as my attention diverted to the towering feats of architecture in whose shadows we shivered. These behemoths of man's innovation dwarfed any building I had previously seen and simultaneously reworked my naive definition of "big." We scurried from one climate controlled store to another, this November winter feeling less forgiving here than in the open fields back home.

It was on this journey, inundated with foreign sights, sounds and smells that I met them. Our encounter was so brief as to scarcely be worthy of mention except for the questions they raised in the mind of a hopeful little girl.

A man and a woman. Huddled under how many layers? Three? Four? Seven? Each held a book in hand, escaping from the harsh reality of an impending Northeast winter, aloof to the brilliant sights and intrusive sounds that overwhelmed my senses all day. "My wife and I are HIV+," read the impeccable handwriting, black permanent marker on a cardboard canvas. "Please help." They never saw me staring. My unhesitating legs must have blended in with the ever-preoccupied crowd. But for me, all else faded into the background as we rushed past them and across the street.

"Mom." I tugged at my mother's sleeve as soon as the image of the woman's long brunette locks were out of view. "Mom. Why are they homeless if they can read?" My innocent question incited a response that shattered any previous notion my developing mind had concocted about the poor. Educated? Skilled? And still homeless?

There wasn't much time to think. We were in a hurry to catch the matinee show of the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City. The Rockettes, with their perfect height, impeccable kicks and shimmery leotards screamed for my attention, but all I could see was that man and that woman, cold, sick, ignored.

And we ignored them like everyone else.

I had never been warned that giving money on the street was unwise. I didn't know how often people abused the system. I had no learned excuses to relieve my conscience so I might enjoy the dazzling scene in front of me. And so I didn't. Until intermission when my mother assured me we would make a donation to a New York City homeless shelter when we returned home. With that promise, I was able to marvel at the second act, but a bitter aftertaste lingered.

How many homeless individuals have a walked by since then? As I enjoyed a day in the city, unwilling to be inconvenienced? While being consumed and distracted by the little universe whose center runs straight though me?

In the distant recesses of my mind there is a hint of a whisper, "What you do for the least of these...", but it is as easy to dismiss as an echo. The speaker of those words doesn't understand the modern system, a system that makes people untrustworthy, childish, manipulative. So I walk on by, hundreds, thousands of times declaring with my steps that I think those words irrelevant. And each step dulls the painful sting of compassion.

"Don't let yourselves be robbed of hope."

Pope Francis' words were directed to young prisoners, sure to be labeled, stereotyped and ignored by most. At first hearing of this exhortation, I received those words as if directed to me as well. For I, too, thirst for a hope that will not disappoint, a melting of my aging and jaded heart.

But, then, in horror, I see that I am the thief. The one who ignores. The one who labels. The one who daily fails to see the image of God in the eyes of the cold, the dirty, the unlovable. 

Kyrie eleison.

Going to the Chapel

28 Leacock Road has always been a place marked by the comforting blend of familiarity and celebration--holiday dinners, beginning of a beach vacation, a childhood sleepover.

I have been here, the home of my mother's sister, well over a hundred times. Past meals, conversations, laughter, tears and hugs have blurred into memories at large, pierced through with the fondness of familial love.

This day, the sixth of April, becomes another celebration infused with the familiar. The creation of a new family, new vows, new life will take its elevated place among the moments these walls have witnessed.

The bride--my cousin, best friend and in any way that means anything, my sister--has converted her childhood bedroom into a full out salon. Makeup and hair paraphernalia litter every horizontal space within reach.

So many whispered conversations took place in this room turned beauty parlor. A weekend spent here was the best my little girl mind could imagine. My school friends always knew they came second to my Lancaster cousin--the coveted title of 'best friend' among grade school girls always out of their reach.

As she waits for her cue and the chosen hour approaches, guests fill the living room turned chapel. Family and friends who have lounged here in pajamas and enjoyed easy conversation now gather in Sunday's best.

Grandparents settle into designated chairs, two of whom also exchanged vows in the bride's childhood home. Their lives intersected as a young man and woman and have now run parallel for 68 years. And we gather here to celebrate the parallelism of two more young lives.

The clock strikes four--a grandfather clock fittingly made by the bride's Pap. He is unable to be here in body, yet the work of his hands announce the long-awaited hour! The chimes are echoed by the steps of a frantic bride to retrieve her forgotten bouquet. She returns down the stairs with repeated exuberance. How many times has she raced up those stairs, and down? In excitement? Anger? Disappointment? Giddiness? This time she descends in a hurried anticipation and the ceremony begins.

Inside these four walls we played house, watched homemade videos, told stories, napped away holiday meals and talked for endless hours.

And within these four walls two became one that they may create a new home and write new stories.

Congratulations, Meghan and Jon!

Would I Have Stayed?

I used to wonder what I would have done if I was a disciple of Jesus at the time of his crucifixion. Would I have stayed by his side to the end as Peter so confidently promised? Would I have been a part of the crowd like Simon of Cyrene, passively looking on until being called forth into history?  Would I, like Jesus' closest friends, have fallen asleep at the very pinnacle of humanity's story and fled in the face of the deepest love the world has ever known?

Between the last supper and the resurrection, Jesus asked those who loved him to pay attention and they got bored. Instead of staying with him, they fled. In the face of uncertainty, they chose to doubt. They traded the pain that accompanied faithfulness for the immediate safety found in betrayal.

What would it have meant for the disciples to remain with Jesus, to be present? It would have required them to truly mourn. But what did they do instead? They were in denial. They distracted themselves. They escaped.

As I think back over Lent, I no longer wonder which choice I would have made. While the season and Scriptures are exhorting me to deny myself, remove distractions, and trust in the Holy Spirit's creative and transformative work I consistently choose everything else.

With history as my indicator, I am confident that I would have left Jesus behind just like the rest, just like I often do. I choose not to see and with eyes heavy from unilluminated realities, I escape into a world of distractions.

And I am apt to stay away until rumors of celebration catch my ear. Whispers of a resurrected Jesus draw me back. But then, like a son who has squandered my father's inheritance I am hesitant to celebrate exuberantly! After all, should not the ones who did not lose hope be the ones to experience their hope fulfilled?

Yet with each self-loathing reminder that I did not stay, I hear the counter remark:

Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on her, put a ring on her hand and shoes on her feet! She is back! Let the celebration begin!

A grace that never runs out

Return of the Prodigal Son by Rembrandt

Like the laborers in the vineyard we are all called to celebrate, no matter when we joined in the work. The light of the resurrection outshines any thought of unworthiness. The time of mourning is over! Each and every person is invited to the banquet!

For Jesus is risen! He is risen indeed!

A Holy Week of Celebration, Tradition and Hospitality

Childhood holiday crafts from 1991 make their annual appearance. The aroma of the upcoming feast wafts through the air. The warmth of friends and family reuniting to celebrate creates a home for strangers.

I am accustomed to these signs. In my case, they point to an opportunity to give thanks, to remember the birth of my Lord and to celebrate life overcoming death. This past Monday I was honored to sit at a table that was new, but not the least bit strange--at a Passover Seder in the Weber family's home.

I had participated in two Seders previously--one in a church, one at a college. One to celebrate Christianity's heritage. The other to remember the oppression of modern people groups.

The readings in all three rituals were similar. The Seder plate was comprised of the same elements. The celebratory spirit of freedom from captivity resonated equally in all three contexts. But this celebration was markedly different.

This time I was in a home, a home that went beyond the four walls. I was welcomed as a guest into a meta-tradition that has defined the Jewish people as well as into the family life and traditions of this particular Jewish family. We heard stories from past Passover celebrations that took place here. We sung songs about Pharoah, the plagues and the Red Sea that had been collected over the years and combined in a songbook labeled "Weber's Seder". We used plates, wine glasses and ritual objects that are reserved for this particular feast in this particular home.

There was a history, a remembering of recent years as well as the ancient memory the feast is about. There was real laughter, nostalgia, remembering the past, looking to the future, learning, drinking and merriment! The deep roots of heritage and tradition provided the nourishment for a flowering celebration year after year.

This evening reminded me of a reflection I wrote two Decembers ago:

This land is impoverished. We suffer from a deep poverty of family, of religion, of tradition. In our quest to know the universe we've lost the understanding of ourselves. Sabbath is seen as unproductive rather than a gift. Obligation and commitment understood as suffocating and antiquated as opposed to forms which give space for life. Laughter is cynical, not delightful. Traditions are experiments, an array of dishes to try. Don't linger too long! It may lose its gleam!

Oh the riches we've lost in the name of progress, freedom and diversity! We have become a homeless people searching for a place to stay, but finding no place to lay our heads. Although this time the rooms are not too full. Rather they are achingly empty. No fireplaces flicker a welcome. No scents of dinner catch the attention of a frost-tipped nose. No merriment can be heard as front doors open for guests.

Rather we are all cold, hungry and lonely--looking for warmth, fulfillment and comfort in the allies and long-abandoned homes. 

These words spring from a fear that the passing on of personal heritage and distinctive religious tradition is being replaced with an assimilation that fades fuchsia and vermillion, cerulean and emerald until the pluralistic rainbow of humanity is a drab, nondescript gray.

The hospitality of this Jewish family stands in stark contrast to the isolating picture of full streets and empty homes and it renewed within me a desire to dig deep into my heritage, my faith, my family story, my tradition. I want to learn the stories of my people and the reasons for my hope not just to capture a forgotten nostalgia. I want to learn so that I can welcome foreigners into a lived-in tradition and then when my visitors ask "why?" we can begin to know and be known.

May you know anew the richness of your celebration this Holy Week!

Manatees and Electric Companies

Our first day in Florida promised to be full of tropical delights--a warm March sun, short sleeves after sunset, a walk on the beach. 

And an extra special treat for ten winter-worn central Pennsylvanians? A visit to the Manatee Viewing Center.

Fully packed into our twelve passenger van with Tampa's concrete in our rear view mirror and visions of lethargic sea elephants in our minds' eye we dutifully followed Googlemap's automated voice.

We whizzed past a salt mine on our left. Factories and refineries of all shapes and sizes materialized and faded from sight as we traveled on. The trash heap seen through the passenger's window threatened to claim the title of Florida's highest point. 

My longing for the pristine environment where wildlife thrives increased with each smoke coughing chimney and rusted metal pile.

"In 100 yards, turn right." The tourist-friendly road sign seconded Google's directional sense. Eager to leave these eyesores behind us, I obeyed the navigational clues and steered our automated behemoth toward the manatees. 

It soon became clear that we were closing in on the very monstrosities from which we wished to create distance. An intermingled chorus of chuckles and groans arose as the reality became impossible to ignore. These smokestacks looming in the foreground are not just close to the manatees' sanctuary, they are the sanctuary.

Ironic juxtaposition

The website for Tampa Electric Company (TECO), which funds and operates the Manatee Viewing Center, explains why the manatees are there:

"When Tampa Bay reached 68 degrees or colder, the mammals would seek out this new refuge. The Manatee Viewing Center was soon born. Today, Big Bend's discharge canal is a state and federally designated manatee sanctuary that provides critical protection from the cold for these unique, gentle animals."

So at this point multiple things are going through my head.

If this power plant accidentally provided "critical protection" for these manatees, how did they survive before 1986 when this plant was built?

Is no one at least slightly unsettled by the blatant irony of a disruptive, dirty, coal-fueled power plant doubling as an animal sanctuary?

Which ecosystems are more affected--the world of the manatees in the shadow of coal burning furnaces or the stripped hills of Kentucky whose innards feed this electricity-doling monstrosity.

But the thought I can't shake is why this contradiction which can be captured in a single picture should trouble me more than any others.

"What is important to understand is that massive ecological destruction becomes more likely when people are not in position to see the effects of their decisions. When the location of our increasingly insular and urban living shields us from the harmful effects of our consumer preference, we are more likely to destroy what we clearly depend on: clean water, healthy forests and vibrant mountain communities. How many of us, living far from the coalfields of Appalachia, know that when we turn on the electric switch we also ignite another explosion in the mountains? Do we understand how our desire for cheap consumer products exhausts our lands and waters and pumps greenhouse gases into our warming atmosphere?"

Now I am not an ecologist, biologist, chemist or engineer and so I depend on those who deeply study these subjects for information that will hopefully help me lead a life of greater integrity and interdependence. 
However, I do know that presence changes things. Seeing and knowing the effects of our decisions changes those decisions.

What coffee would we drink, chocolate would we buy, bananas would we eat, if the children of those farmers played with our children?

Would we think differently about throwing so much out if the garbage dump was in our backyards?

How many hurtful words would go unsaid if we no longer spoke behind the backs of our friends, family, coworkers and neighbors?

How would our lives change if we could see every dirty puff of smoke prompted by our actions?

What do you see?

My Love/Hate Relationship with the Wilderness

Last summer I had the opportunity to lead a leadership and discipleship course in the Wind River Range of Wyoming. This trip and looking forward to future ones is the context of this post. Enjoy!

After playing in our snowy backyard, I pause with my co-instructors to soak up our current dwelling place:

The omnipresent slope of Arrow Mountain lies to the west with switchbacks tattooed on its landscape. The dazzling blue green of Turquoise Lake just beyond our camp creates a striking backdrop for the most resilient icebergs. The sheer granite face of Spider Mountain looms straight ahead. This cliff is a giant soon to be dwarfed by its larger comrades when we reach our 13,300 foot vantage point—the summit of Downs Mountain, which itself is showing off its snowy bald head off to our left.

I smile from our perch as I turn my attention just below us to our companions going about business in our temporary town.  I feel like the Grinch observing Whoville as I watch them scurry in and out of tents, to the stream to fill up water, out of the cover of the weathered trees asking for hand washing assistance.

After three weeks of backpacking through the Wyoming wilderness a strange thing happens. New friends begin to feel like old ones. Exotic places grow familiar. And my ideas of home and adventure become more intertwined. I came here with sixteen others to learn about community, maybe even experience it. Yet, as I look down on our nomadic village, I can’t help but ponder the glaring irony of our quest.

It’s different for the college students whose life is already segmented into three month chunks. But as instructors we left friends, routine, home in order to create a new community, to teach community.

Yet isn’t an essential element of community to be, to stay? Is a community as temporary as our shelter worthy of the title?

The deeper my roots grow in the small town I call home, the more bizarre and necessary wilderness trips seem. They are bizarre in their blatant disruption of the small, daily joys that result from commitment to place.

Yet...

Those times in the wilderness continue to shine light on the jaded parts of my heart. 

The desert shows me where I have misplaced my comfort. 

Sometimes we need to leave the familiarity of our slavery in Egypt to encounter the Divine on Mount Sinai. Sometimes it takes wandering in the wilderness to discover I was finding home in all the wrong places. 

Looking up at the mountains reminds me where my help comes from.

So, I'll continue to stay.

But I will also go.

I will go to be changed, renewed, refined, so that I may return to my place in this world.

Why I Do (and Don't) Want an iPhone

I nearly spent the entirety of last Saturday by myself, save a few brief encounters with my housemate, a half hour conversation with my mom and a trip to the hardware store. Saturdays like this are both the benefit and struggle of single adulthood. The difference between feeling blessed or cursed depends on my life perspective on that given day.

On this particular Saturday my perspective was narrow and my day penetrated with the pervasive fog of loneliness. Despite this cloud, my day was infiltrated with beauty.

Such is the mark of grace...I suppose.

I made two dozen beet muffins, an experiment (a successful one I might add!) in order to use up a frig full of these winter roots.

I balanced my checkbook and thought about doing taxes. I think I'll wait a month before the pressure really kicks in.

I bought potting soil and seeds and planted herbs, onions and spring greens in my newly built cold frame. I must say, doing this task on a cloudy day, both in weather and spirit, is a significant victory for a dreamer like me.

Usually a productive Saturday spent baking and gardening is a balm for my wearied spirit. But on this day, each completed project just emphasized that dull ache--the desire to share this moment with another. Yet to my surprise, instead of desiring the presence of a dear friend or family member, I longed for digital access to everyone.

I longed for an iPhone.

As I pulled out a tray of fresh, pink beet muffins, I saw them in my mind's eye as a white-framed vintage Instagram.

I sowed eight rows of herbs and veggies, covered them lightly with soil, gently watered the rows and created little signs out of old clothespins. When my work was done, I stepped back and thought, "I wish I had a smart phone."

On my way up to my attic room I spotted an atrociously large, gas-guzzling vehicle on my street just in time to watch its twin pull up two cars behind it. "What is this? A Hummer convention?" I quipped aloud to myself. I chuckled and daydreamed about how clever I would sound if only I could let my social media network into this joke.

In a normal, albeit lonely, day of simply pleasures, my good, natural desire for companionship twisted into a longing for a few thumbs up of affirmation. 

I need people. I need to be known. I need to share experiences.

But on a day when tears came quicker than smiles, all I wanted were disembodied profiles, approval of my choice of hobbies and a moment alone made public. On days like this I prefer absent-minded 'likes' to calling a friend because I know she would hear that ache through the phone. And then...

Then I'd have to look at it.

She'd ask me questions and make me cry.

I couldn't hide behind the instantly nostalgic photos of my muffins, garden or tax form.

I'd be loved into honesty.

Naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.

God, I want an iPhone!

Author's Note: Please read this post as a reflection on our temptation to escape pain, not as commentary on modern technology. I'll be the first to admit I often err on the side of technophobia, but that is not the intended angle of this post. Thanks!

A Dreamer's Vice: A Lenten Confession

I was born on a farm and raised by farmers. I read about farming, think about farming, facilitate discussions about farming and work two hours a week on a farm. I am passionate about the merits of farm life, the joy of putting down roots and the value in staying in one spot and tending to one place in the world.

Yet, my fervor is shallow.

It is fueled by experiences I inherited from my parents’ and grandparents’ decisions, wisdom I gleaned from compelling authors and lessons learned by watching friends take risks and make sacrifices.

I, however, have not lived on a farm since I was four. Sure, I get my hands dirty, plant something each spring when the sun comes out of hibernation and the novelty of the season makes light of hard work.

But I rarely last to see those seeds to fruition. The sun gets hot and the air balmy. Summer vacations beckon and the garden is abandoned. Weeding is boring; watering plants, tiresome. So I will ignore the task at hand and read Wendell Berry on my front porch instead.

"Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat
falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone;
but if it dies, it bears much fruit." John 12:24

I wish this pattern were true only of my relationship with the land. But, alas, I am a dreamer and this is the dreamer’s vice—to romanticize that which has been and that which is to come. Nostalgia and vision are my constant companions, my omnipresent rose-colored glasses looking behind and ahead. In my mental world the cousin questions “Remember when?” and “What if?” drown out the quieter voice of “What now?”

“What now?” asks the humble voice of the present. The same whisper the prophet Elijah heard in the cave. The whisper that invites me into the only possible life, the current moment. To be faithful. To stay when the task is boring. To feel the depth of my grief and the pain of my neighbors. To know the peace of single mindedness.

Escaping to the past or the future proves detrimental to much more than agriculture. It inhibits the development of my very spirit.

If I fail to love the person in front of me, can I claim to be loving?

If I seek joy in distant memories or future possibilities, do I experience true joy?

If I believe peace will come when I’m married, promoted, in the woods, debt-free or any other condition, will I ever know peace?

But there is hope for the dreamer. A present hope. It is the opportunity to make space for the small, still voice asking “What now?” The voice urging me to live where life is happening in its hardship and boredom, as well as its growth and joys.

These words from “Rest Your Tattered Heart” say it as good as any:

The visions used to seem so much clearer, but they were shiny and unreal. Now they're forming out of mud, out of our bodies and blood, and they're gonna walk and talk and holler in the world. ~Dave Lefever

May this Lent be a time for you and I to make space, to be present. To pray, to fast, to give so that we may better hear the gentle voice that is ever calling us to know life as it is.

Finding Home in a Strange Land

Four years ago I boarded seven airplanes in 24 hours to spend four months in a place as far away from my home as possible--West Papua, Indonesia.

I traveled there for an adventure, but what shocked me was how quickly the highlands of Papua felt like a place I had always known. What I expected to be exotic felt strangely familiar.

This subconscious comfort of belonging was suddenly shattered when we learned our visas were expiring earlier than expected. In that moment reality pierced through perception.

A place of belonging on the other side of the world

I am an alien in this place. I've outstayed my welcome. It is time to go home, to the home that is not here.

This may not be true, but I suspect Americans are quicker than most to feel like they belong in a foreign land. All that talk about being whoever you want to be when you grow up has predictable results. We are, after all, a country of recovering imperialists.

Either that, or immigrants.

What is the difference between an imperialist and an immigrant? Is there any other than the former claims "Mine!" over that which is not?

Both are aliens. Both far from home.

I talked to a friend last week who has been far from home for 16 years. After spending over half your life in a place, one would expect to develop the comfort of belonging I so quickly acquired in Papua. However, my friend--an undocumented, Mexican immigrant brought to the states as a minor--had this illusion of home shattered daily. Every job application, volunteer form, driver's license, lease, and health insurance card screamed "You do not belong!" Each thought of inaccessible opportunity in the land of opportunity reinforced the hypocrisy. The vulnerability of authenticity meant the fear of being sent to a "home" no longer remembered.

How does one hope to find home in a place which labels him an alien?

Thanks be to God, Hugo no longer needs to ask that question for himself. For the first time, thanks to an executive order and a unique nine digit number, home and a place of belonging are reconciled.

Unfortunately, this question resonates on behalf of many others in this country who are regularly reminded they are foreigners in the only home they have ever known.

Our legacy

May we as individuals and collectively as a nation learn to love the sojourner among us.

For the LORD your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, 

                                    the great, the mighty, and the awesome God, who is not partial and takes no bribe. 

He executes justice for the fatherless and the widow,

            and loves the sojourner, giving him food and clothing.

LOVE the SOJOURNER, therefore, for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt.

 Deuteronomy 10:17-19

 How can we love the sojourner?