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."
Friday, August 16, 2013
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
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
My heritage is certainly not perfect; no one's is. Yet I pray I never forget I am about as blessed as they come.
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.
Monday, August 5, 2013
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.
Friday, August 2, 2013
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.
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.
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.
I settle into rejuvenating rhythms of co-travelers' footsteps,
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!
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
Where do you see beauty?
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 |
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 |
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