Prayers and Pie

My little six-year old nephew has quite the air of "sass" about him already. I'm fairly certain that it's one of the prerequisites for being born into our family. One of the many things out of his mouth today were the words "prayers and pie, OMG." Yes, he even said it in an almost perfect "Paula Deen" tone. He was mocking last night's church service. I didn't go this year. I haven't been in awhile. But I went once. It was either when I came back for a holiday visit or when I first moved back to town. I can't remember exactly, but my mom's church has "free" pie in the fellowship hall after the Thanksgiving eve service. Whatever you like, it's there for grabs. Pumpkin, apple, cherry, chocolate, even banana creme. The canvas of life is kind of like that. Here's all the flavors. Try one. Try one more. Keep sampling until you find the one that you love. And it doesn't matter what your neighbor chooses -even if it's the one you can't stand. You're all there, eating a bunch of fillings spread over the same kind of crusts. You laugh, you talk, you discover somebody new. Then you leave, full and satisfied. Your heart is light, your stomach heavy, and the sweetness of what's good is still lingering in between your teeth and on the sides of your mouth. You walk out into the parking lot. The air is cold and dry. You watch for patches of ice as you walk to the warm shelter of your car. Against a black sheet of sky hangs a few stars. You look, you smile inside, and you wonder. Will all the prayers and hopes in your heart and those spoken out loud inside a dimly lit sanctuary be listened to? Are those set of ears out there, hidden behind the twinkling lights or have they already recorded what you said? The ignition fires up the whir of the engine. You rub your hands together, shiver a little, and turn the heat dial as far right as it will go. Outside the windows are a few parking lot lights and old, fancy homes that were probably considered estates in their heydays. Back when the town was young and further west was just a bunch of untouched fields full of grass and open possibilities. The evergreens are there. They're always there. A few of them are lit up with the lights of Christmas. As if to say that the twinkling lights exist down here, too. You look around. This is your life. Everything is still here. Everything as you've always known it. Most of who you know is still here, too. The radio starts playing and the two boys in the back begin to sing along. You smile and close your eyes. This is the flavor that you keep coming back to. The one that you love. The voice that says "I hear."

The Old Lady with the Knitted Hat

I entered the room full of bluish-purple chairs, lined up in rows like pancake stacks. In front of me was a podium, a makeshift stage hung with studio lights and a white-screen backdrop. I was dizzy and unsure of myself. Lost and spinning in an ungrounded dismemberment of my former ego. I sat in a chair, by myself and looked around for something familiar, something I could know, something I could grasp. You sat behind me, unknown until your small voice gave me that something. I turned around to join you, to acknowledge your presence. There you were in bright blue, my favorite color. A knitted sweater, a knitted hat to hide the hair that you'd lost. The white hair that was growing back. Your skin was worn and fresh. Your face innocent, open, wise and bright. We said a few things. About Eat, Pray, Love. About Emma Donoghue's The Room, where we were from, how we got here, and why. You listened. I listened. I laughed. You laughed. You smiled. I smiled. You said it was okay to feel out of sorts, that was normal. You still did, at times. You asked me if it was okay if you could friend me on FB. I said of course, here's my name. And unlike many people, you lived up to your word. Six months later we sat together in the same room, near the front. You were graduating. I was only in my second term. We listed to other students, famous writers, and teachers read their words. We said more things. I don't remember all of them. Then we left. We both had long drives to make. You somewhere off the 10, me up to the hills just past the 101. "Makes for a long drive, after a long day," and "Have a good night" were our last words to each other's faces. We smiled and you turned down the hallway. I went the other way, out the courtyard with white lights and a staircase up to the 5th level of the parking garage. After a while we'd settled back home. You in the same city I'd departed and me on the plains looking up to the Rockies. You offered to keep reading my stories. I offered to keep reading yours. You published a few things. I read them. I smiled. I told you thank you for being so kind. Thank you for being a light in the darkness. Then you got sick again and somehow I knew that this would be the last time. I waited. I hoped for better. But when silence replaced your posts and your words, I knew that your release would come. And now it has. I hope that the release has brought you peace. In fact, I'm certain you have found it. Because your example has given me peace. If you can do this at the end of your life, without any hope but to leave behind your words of wisdom and light, then so can I. What we knew of each other seemed small and insignificant. But what you gave was part of the greatness of the unseen. An introduction to a writer that taught me to never stray from your instincts. They're always "right." A bright blue knitted hat that made me think twice about giving up on originality. A friend when I had none. And a reason to stay open to the good in the midst of something bad. Thanks "D." Keep shining, keep touching, keep traveling, keep smiling. And most of all, keep writing, in peace.

We Have Much to Learn

This morning I am finishing up the reading of a book, by Desmond Tutu. I am reminded, this morning, that as a nation we have much to learn from our own history and from the history of other nations. You see, we are not so different from our South African neighbors. We are not so different from Nazi Germany. Not even Iran, Afghanistan, or any other nation that Americans have somehow labeled as "racist," "inhumane," or as "terrorists." It pains me to see propaganda distributed about our current President. Not because of who he actually is, but because of this idea that a certain group will "lose" their political prowess and control over the rest of American society. I am sick that as American citizens we cannot display who we want to vote for or work in that candidate's campaign office without being harassed, shot at, or told that we are "sinners." It pains me even more that this harassment and this hate is coming from the guise of "Christianity" and the "Church." You see, we have much to learn from South Africa if we would only listen.

Everything was subordinated to the security of the state as determined by those in power. It made white South Africans feel that there was a bad world out there, eager to get them, to destroy their "South African way of life." This hostile world wanted to overthrow a Christian government and replace it with an ungodly, atheistic, undemocratic, Communist dictatorship. The apartheid government as propaganda machine was adept at pointing out the disasters that had befallen countries to the north of us in Africa that had adopted socialism - basically they had come to a sticky end because these unreliable, feckless blacks had taken over.

Desmond goes on to say, though, that there is hope. South Africa managed to take that path. I hope that America takes a good, honest look at the values that the founder of its main religion actually stood for, and not the hate, discrimination, and dehumanization that some of its members seem to want to use to rule this country. I hope that Americans choose to take the path of hope and true change (even though it is more difficult) that their fellow South Africans have chosen.

None but the most obtuse can doubt that we are experiencing a radical brokenness in all of existence. Times are out of joint. Alienation and disharmony, conflict and turmoil, enmity and hatred characterize so much of life.

Now and again we catch a glimpse of the better thing for which we are meant - when for a little while we are bound together by bonds of a caring humanity, a universal sense of ubuntu. Then we experience fleetingly that we are made for togetherness, for friendship, for community, for family, that we are created to live in a delicate network of interdependence. There is a movement, not easily discernible, at the heart of things to reverse the awful centrifugal force of alienation, brokenness, division, hostility, and disharmony. God has set in motion a centripetal process, a moving towards the center, toward unity, harmony, goodness, peace, and justice, a process that removes barriers. Jesus says "And when I am lifted up from the earth, I shall draw everyone to myself" as he hangs from His cross with outflung arms, thrown out to clasp all, everyone and everything, in a cosmic embrace, so that all, everyone, everything, belongs. No one is an outsider, all are insiders, all belong. There are no aliens, all belong in the one family, God's family, the human family. There is no longer Jew, Greek, male or female, slave or free - instead of separation and division, all distinctions make for a rich diversity to be celebrated for the sake of the unity that underlies them. We are different so that we can know our need of one another, for no one is ultimately self-sufficient. The completely self-sufficient person would be subhuman.

*Excerpts taken from No Future Without Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu.

A Lyrical Response to America's GOP

I've been listening to this song (off and on) since I was a young eleven-year old. It has such a strong message, and it's so fitting, given this year's political landscape. I try not to judge as the lyrics of this song reiterate. But I feel strongly that there is so much at stake for so many of America's people if a certain party gets elected to the White House. So, because this song sums it up beautifully......take a listen. http://youtu.be/bGayAVrH0gQ