I just don't know

I don't know where to begin.

I have spent my day watching a friend reluctantly give in to the body and mind that has betrayed him and allow himself, give up his freedom and independence to be placed into a facility that he sees as the end. I have spend the day watching his children drowning in sorrow over the loss of a father and the loss of their own freedom and independence to become caregivers of a parent. I have spent the day watching a system that is supposed to help, professionals who make an oath to do all they can show just how limited and human they really are.

I have spent my day wondering just what the hell is going on. Why does someone so intelligent allow themselves to get so screwed up? Why does the loving, merciful God I believe in allow a life...so many lives to be so sad. How can a parent sit back and watch their children suffer so and do nothing but add to their sorrow.

I have spent my day trying to be a friend both in a situation where I don't want to be a friend and where I am not sure that friendship is known any longer. I have spent my day trying to provide the support of a mother, the wisdom of an elder, the knowledge of experience without interfering.

I have spent my day sitting with a wonderful young man, getting to know him better, agreeing and disagreeing, watching him be so caring, loving and gentle, and finding myself loving him.

I have spent my day watching people come and go with pains and sorrows of their own. Some with who we were able to share a smile, a laugh, a desire for answers, a common bond of people in crisis.

I have spent my day being tearful, filled with sorrow, anger, compassion, awe and total confusion. I have spent it feeling the presence of something bigger, knowing that “all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.” I have spent it knowing that what will be will be and that none of us are alone in it.

I have spent my day being the last place in the world I wanted to be, and, exactly where I wanted to be.  How can I say this?  Well....I don't know where to begin.

Just in case...

Just to share...if anyone is interested...some random things I love

the way the sun beams burst out from behind clouds
the way the mountains look like huge shadows when the sun sets behind them
the way the light shining through my dining room window casts lovely shadows across the room
the peaceful pasture I pass each day

How I wish that it would rain

I sat nearby watching and listening as life left her body.  I saw her body relax, her hand fall to her lap, her eyes close.  I heard her breaths become shallower and further apart.  I heard the tell-tell sound of lungs ending their work.

Even so, when she was gone, I had to check.  I had to feel her pulse…had to watch her chest to see if it would rise one more time.

This woman who had shared her life with me, who had expressed her joys and fears to me, who on the last day of her life reached out for me and fell into my arms laying her head on my shoulder..holding on to me with a grip not willing to let go…..this woman who I offered to walk through the last days of her life with had passed into that realm that those of us still alive can only imagine.  And…I just couldn’t believe it.

Odd.  Very odd that I had served as her hospice chaplain, had discussed end of life concerns with her and yet when the time came that we both had been expecting, even planning for…it did not seem real to me.

Of course I naturally stepped into my task mode and made the necessary phone calls, made sure the family was ok, sat with them until there was nothing more I could do.  But…that feeling, that disbelief of what I KNEW...it was so odd and yet…so familiar.

I did the same thing when Daddy died.  I heard him release his last breath.  I saw the pulse in his neck stop beating.  I saw Sue’s affirming nod.  And yet…for a brief moment, with my hand on the top of his head I knew, just knew I continued to feel a pulse there…didn’t I?  Then, as with Doris, I began the tasks I had been instructed to.  I made the phone calls.  I pulled his meds out of the drawer.  I welcomed the old school friend who, now working with Oakey’s, came to take the body away. 

Yes, I did cry…some.  I wept on and off over the next few days…months.  It wasn’t until a friend’s death and burial in the same cemetery a year later that the sobs came.  How long will it take this time? 

Odd, isn’t it, how things that we know so absolutely can take us so long to admit...or perhaps…live into.

Mamaw

For a recent song and story evening at Bethany, Dana Beth suggested I tell stories about Mamaw. I did share a couple and then realized that without writing them down I probably did not do justice to my memory of this beautiful lady. So, in memory of Elizabeth Conley Stiltner....

Imagine if you will a part of Appalachia where in the small gap between 2 mountains there runs a creek, cold and rocky. Alongside the creek a paved road has been cut that is traveled day and night by coal trucks rumbling through, spitting bits of coal here and there as it goes over the uneven patches of pavement, spewing coal dust and exhaust fumes into the air to eventually land coating everything with a layer of black. The mountains’ height and closeness block out much of the sun increasing the dingy, dark feel of the place. Daddy pulls off to the side of the road where a swinging bridge crosses the creek. I get out with my bag of clothes and he tells me to be careful. I hold on to the rope sides of the bridge and gently make my way over the gap that separates paved road from the foot trodden dirt path.

As I make my way up the side of the mountain I pass scattered homes where children play, women hang laundry out to dry and men sit and smoke. Some look up and greet me with a smile or a wave of a hand; some just stare, wondering who I am. As I turn a curve, my eye sees a long dark line stretched across the path ahead. I stop to focus and get a better look. It is a snake. We both freeze. Waiting to see who will make the first move. We stay like that for what seems to be hours when finally a man, carrying groceries in one hand and a walking stick in the other comes up behind me. “Girl, are you ok?” he asks. I slowly raise my hand and point at the snake that has stopped my progress. “Yeah, it’s a copperhead. I killed it on my way down about an hour or so ago,” he responds as he flicks it off the path into the weeds with his stick. Embarrassed by my lack of observation and angry at his not having removed the snake from the path earlier, I continue.

A while later, I come to a place on the path I know very well. I always hesitate right before I get to this place in my walk, take a deep breath and pray that it has not rained recently and the ruts in the middle of the path aren’t filled with mud. If they are I have 2 choices. I can either walk in the weeks on the lower side of the path chancing a snake greeting me there or, I can walk closer to the upper side. It may not sound like too bad of a choice except that on the upper side, there is a split log structure where one of the men living along the path boards a boar. As soon as the boar senses someone near, he begins to snort, squeal and bang up against the walls of his home…walls that I am sure will come tumbling down just as I pass by. Luckily, there is no mud and I run past the frightening animal in his unstable hut.

A bit further on, I come to a point where I can see it…the wide point in the path that signals the site where Mamaw lives. The first thing I can see is her garden. Mamaw has cleared a spot behind her house where she plants beans, potatoes, onions and tomatoes. If it is late summer or fall, I can also see saw horses set out where she will layer slices of apples between 2 layers of screen in order to dry them for dried apple pies. Where the path runs beside her house, there is a stone wall. At the top of the wall Mamaw plants flowers, Johnny jump ups, daisies, violets and more. I often wonder how her garden and flower bed do so well when it always seems so dark here.

Vegetables and bed flowers are not all she has growing. Growing alongside stone steps leading higher up on the mountain to my aunt Stellie and uncle Ott’s house are beautiful rose bushes. Old heritage roses spread their branches out stretching all over the side of the mountain scattering various shades of red and yellow blooms. The roses not only bring beauty to the dark mountain side, they also provide pollen for the bees living in the dozens of bee hives nearby owned by my uncle Ott…bees that always supplied honeycomb to chew and honey for Mamaw’s homemade biscuits or cornbread.

Before I can get to the porch I have to pass the pump house…a small structure seemingly built into the side of the mountain that houses the pump that brings water from the creek to Mamaw’s house. The roof of the pump house is covered with dark tarry shingles and is ground level at the back making for a wonderful oven for mud pies.

I turn toward the house and step up onto the porch. A broad covered porch with a swing on one end and rocking chairs at the other. In the middle is the front door through which I can see Mamaw coming into the living room. There she is, small, thin, hair pulled tightly back into a bun. She shuffles across the floor with her feet in slippers and an apron tied around her waist to protect her dress. Her smile brightens, her hand flies up in the air as she greets me, “W-a-e-l, upon my honor!” She opens the door and takes me into her arms. She feels small and fragile as I wrap my arms around her and I hug her tenderly. I know, though, that this woman is anything but small and anything but fragile.

I spend the week with Mamaw, learning how to knit, creek stomping with cousins, picking daisies for her kitchen table, swinging on the front porch swing reading or listening to the crickets and bees, watching the hummingbirds as they search the roses for nectar. I sleep in the back bedroom and pray for rain at night. It feels so good to go to sleep to the sound of rain on the tin roof all snuggled down into the feather mattress.

If it is winter, Mamaw will have a fire in the coal stove in the living room. It sits in the center of the room, its pipe extending through the roof. While it provided much appreciated heat, the stove was a bit of a scary thing to me. Hot embers could pop out when Mamaw went to stir them and add more coal and just walking around the thing was hazardous when it was hot! It didn’t help my relationship with the beast much when I learned that Mamaw had thrown in some birthday cards and envelopes to burn and afterwards discovered that she had also thrown in cash that someone had placed inside one of the cards.

Mamaw was always doing for others. I tell people she is where I really learned how to be Brethren, though she wasn’t. She always saw good in others and could not figure out why someone would do another harm. I recall when Mamaw would come and stay the winter with us. Daddy and I liked to watch western movies together in the family room downstairs where Mamaw would always have her quilting racks set up with a quilt in progress. Though she wasn’t much for television, she would always end up turning around or even moving to a more comfortable chair to watch with us. When the inevitable shootout would come along, Mamaw would always say, “Now why would he want to do that?!”

I have heard many stories where strangers would pass by Mamaw and Papaw’s home and stop to ask for a drink of water, directions or permission to sleep outside. Mamaw would always fix a full meal, wash their clothes and give them a warm place to sleep. I hear that their hospitality was widely known.

Mamaw’s service extended throughout her family. As a child herself after the death of her mother she scrounged for food and rags with which to clothe her brothers and sisters while her daddy worked. She raised a grandson as her own when he needed a place to be. She took care of grandchildren and great grandchildren when she made her rounds visiting her son and 7 daughters. She stitched the silky binding onto my own daughter’s baby blanket so many times that Dana Beth said no one could do it but Mamaw Stiltner.

Mamaw delighted in her children, grand and great grandchildren. She had 9 of her own and was gladdened with each birth that followed. When at the age 22 I called her to tell her I was pregnant with our first child, she said, “It’s about time!” She loved to cook for the children, to watch them play and always made sure they were cared for. Toward the end of her life, Mamaw experienced some forgetfulness…small things at first but it progressed. When my youngest, Leah, was a few months old, we took a trip to Kentucky to introduce her to the family there. As Leah grew tired, I spread a blanket on the floor and lay her down in hopes she would go to sleep. Leah was so tired, however, that lying down just wasn’t enough and she grew fussier and fussier. Mamaw, sitting nearby, grew agitated and said, “whose baby is that?! Why aren’t they taking care of it?!” She didn’t remember that I had told her just a little bit earlier that this was my baby. All she knew is that this baby wasn’t happy and to her, that just wasn’t right.

One evening in November 1987, Rob’s parents were staying at our house with the girls while we went out. When we got back, his mother told me I had a phone call from my mother about Mamaw. I knew that Mamaw had not been doing too good. She had been in and out of the hospital with pneumonia and had ended up staying with one of my mother’s sisters. For months Mother had gone back and forth to Kentucky to help care for Mamaw, giving her sisters who lived there a much need break from the care giving. I had a feeling the phone call wasn’t a good thing. It wasn’t. Mamaw had died.

For months following Mamaw’s death, I grieved. Rob would wake me up at night saying I was crying and calling out for her. “I want my Mamaw!” I would say. “I know, but she’s gone,” he would reply. One night, I had a dream that Mamaw was talking to me. There she was, larger than life and strong, hair pulled back into a bun, apron over her dress. “Don’t worry about me honey,” she said. “I’m fine now. I am here with your Papaw and God and everything is good. Don’t worry about me. Don’t cry for me anymore.” I awoke from the dream feeling so different from the dreams of her in the past few months. I wasn’t crying for her anymore.

There are many stories her children have told about my mother’s mother, my Mamaw. Some may be stretching the truth a bit, some may be wishful thinking, and some may be nostalgic wonderings. My story about Mamaw, in a nutshell, however, is pure truth. In the dingy darkness of Appalachia, through the dingy, dark times of my life and into what may seem to be a dingy, dark future Elizabeth Conley Stiltner, my Mamaw, brought and continues to bring warmth and light. Whenever I walk across a swinging bridge, eat dried apple pies, work with yarn and needles, hear bees or eat their honey; whenever I smell the sweet scent of roses, care for a child or extend hospitality I remember Mamaw and that sweet, gentle, loving light.

The way you do the things you do

Motown music, affirmations on theological quandries, playing the ? game with fellow Bethanyarians, driving through showers of orange and gold leaves, dinner with good friends, the privilege of sitting with and holding hands with a beautiful woman in her last hours and holding her husband while he cries and prays for strength, and the anticipation of getting here

The heart tells

Well, it has hit. It took its dear sweet time, but it has finally arrived. After 3 weeks my heart feels as if it is breaking. Perhaps it is being here at the beach, taking the time to breathe, to rest and relax that has allowed the cool, calm, reasoning facade to crumble. Being here has forced me to let down my guard. It is as if the waves have broken down the stoney resolve surrounding my heart and the gentle breezes have blown all the debris away.

Now I am left with a heart that feels very raw. Each notification I receive of another need, another concern brings tears to my eyes and an ache deep inside. How can people do this time and time again? How can I?

What's going on?

"I thought if I didn't hear laughter you all weren't here," said the one who came late. Unfortunately there was not much laughter for her to hear. Instead our lunch was filled with statements such as:

"I have a voice! I want to use it!"
"We have to support one another!"
"There are forces at work right here!"

Instead of humor, it was words of anger, fear, pain and need that were heard most. Instead of speaking through the laughter, we were speaking through the tears. Tears for others and tears for ourselves. Tears for what was, what is and what could be.

What is our focus though? Is it on the obstacles? Where are we placing our energies? Is it in complaining and angry words? The things blocking the way to peace cannot be ignored any more than the anger and hurt they bring to our souls. I can't help but believe, however, that if we focus on what we are called to do, to be; if we look to the One who calls us from the beginning, then the answers of peace will come.


But me, I'm not giving up. I'm sticking around to see what God will do.I'm waiting for God to make things right. I'm counting on God to listen to me. (Micah 7:7 The Message)

Peace be still and know

I sit here in my home office looking at the piles of books for classes yet to start, boxes yet to be unpacked from Cloverdale and classwork to be filed away. It is a mess. Then my eyes look up to the posters on the wall directly in front of me.

He Qi's Calling Disciples

and Peace Be Still

What beautiful reminders of why I have this office in the first place and what it is I am supposed to do here.

The Trouble with Epiphanies

Christ came into my room and stood there
And I was bored to death.
I had work to do.
I wouldn't have minded if he'd been crippled or something
- I do well with cripples -
but he just stood there, all face
and with that damned guitar.
I didn't ask him to sit down;
He'd have stayed all day.
Let's be honest. You can be crucified just so often -
Then you've had it.
I mean you're useless; no good to God,
Let alone to anybody else.
So I said to him after a while,
Well, what's up? What do you want?
And he laughed, stupid,
Said he was just passing by
And thought he'd say hello.
Great, I said, Hello
So he left.
And I was so damned mad
I couldn't even listen to the radio. I went
And got some coffee.
The trouble with Christ is
He always comes at the wrong time.

--John L'Heureux, quoted in Monk Habits for Ordinary People: Benedictine Spirituality for Protestants by Dennis Ockholm

I'm getting old

As we drive, we discuss work, family, church. We catch up on common acquaintances. We share common motherhood experiences. We talk about recent and upcoming graduates, students in seminary...then she says, "Wow! Those are kids I worked with at NYC and in youth activities! I feel so old!" Hmmmm...SHE is one of the kids I worked with at NYC and in youth activities...

I feel so old.

Color my world with hope

a quiet office in which to work, actually being able to complete a task, smiles and hugs from the little-bits from Day Care, Kenny's tilted but shiny halo, knowing that I have a safe place to go at night...and for some reason, this song

As time goes on
I realize
Just what you mean
To me
And now
Now that you're near
Promise your love
That I've waited to share
And dreams
Of our moments together
Color my world with hope of loving you
- Chicago

Listen...

Listen...why is it so difficult for some to do? A specific question, a specific topic...just listen. If you don't listen when other people ask questions, when you see their faces and hear their voices, how do you expect to hear God...who you cannot see and whose voice comes in many ways? Why should others take your responses seriously when you don't listen to their questions?

I really don't understand. Is it fear? Is it a need to be right? Whatever it is, it certainly is not what I imagine God's church to be.

Summer breeze makes me feel fine...

Funny how things you have done over and over again can seem so different. I have been coming to the beach with the Cassells for almost 30 years now but this time, well it is different.

The anticipation welling up inside me came bursting out in the car, "ROB!" "Yeah?" "WE ARE GOING TO THE BEACH!!!"

This morning I put my hands on Bobby's shoulders and shook him as gently as my excitement would allow, "Bobby!" "Yeah?" "WE ARE AT THE BEACH!!!"

My excitement turns to complete satisfaction as I expend my energy in the waves...then I lay on the sand feeling the heat of the earth seep into my bones. Such a pleasant heat. I love that feeling. So different from any other kind of heat. It feels as if Mother Earth is reaching out to ease my tired achy muscles and warm the very marrow of my bones.

I have work to do: a sermon to write, a worship service to plan, a letter to type, a decision to make, but that's ok because....

I'M AT THE BEACH!!!!!

Art Gish (1939-2010)

All of Hebron was under total curfew today. I could sense something was wrong. As I walked up the street I soon realized there was trouble at Al Manara. I was horrified at what I saw. There were two tanks and two bulldozers leveling the produce market which extended over two blocks. Produce lay scattered and smashed everywhere, here in this city where many are hungry. Shop owners were scrambling to save boxes of tomatoes, oranges, bananas, and more.

My first response was to just stand there, weeping and sobbing. The scene was so horrifying, so disgusting, so depraved. I could not emotionally bear it. I felt completely helpless.

Soldiers near Lutheran christmas churchDec 4, 02. The produce market was at Al Manara because the Israeli military closed the former produce market in response to the massacre of Muslims in the Ibrihimi Mosque in 1994. In every peace accord since then, Israel has promised to reopen the market. It has never been reopened. Israeli settlers now live in that building.
I continued to feel helpless, but I also felt I had to do something. I started carrying boxes of produce out of the way of the bulldozers. I saved maybe 12 crates of produce from being crushed.

I began confronting soldiers. In a loud voice, I asked them if they were proud of what they were doing, if this is peace, if this is what they want Israel to become. I shouted, "Baruch hashem Adonai" (Blessed be the name of the Lord).

The soldiers tried their best to ignore me, but I am sure they heard me. I ignored their commands for me to leave. One soldier spit at me, so I walked right up to him and invited him to spit on me. He declined the offer.

Three soldiers aimed their guns at and moved toward a group of Palestinian bystanders. It looked to me like they were going to shoot. I quickly jumped in front of the soldiers, raised my hands in the air and shouted, "Shoot me, shoot me, go ahead and shoot me." The soldiers immediately left.

A tank came roaring toward me, its big gun barrel aimed at me. I raised my hands in the air in prayer, and shouted, "Shoot, shoot, Baruch hashem adonai." The tank stopped within inches of me.

I then knelt in the street in prayer, with my hands raised. I felt alone, weak, helpless. I could only cry out to God.

Later this afternoon I went back to Al Manara and watched shop owners dig through the huge piles of rubble, trying to salvage what they could. What could I say?
The Israeli military had put all of Hebron under total curfew today, saying they were looking for terrorists. Now I wonder if there really were terrorists hidden among the apples and oranges. Or, are the Israeli soldiers committing acts of terrorism against the civilian population of Hebron?

I fear for what may come next.

http://mideastchristians.virtualactivism.net/articles/amongapples.htm

VBS music

Ancient words, ever true
changing me, changing you
We have come with open hearts
Oh, let the ancient words impart

It happens

Sunday I became overwhelmed with the sadness of those around me. Heartache, grief, pain, confusion, aging, violence, loss, fear. There was just so much. It happens like that sometimes.

Last night I became overwhelmed with the energy of those around me. Uninhibited preschoolers in the chancel dancing and signing with the music video, elementary kids sharing their vast knowledge, those about to enter Middle School trying to look cool and have fun at the same time...and the adults...dancing, signing, singing, tired after a full day of work and yet still able to minister to kids. There was just so much. It happens like that sometimes.

Turn, turn, turn

"To everything there is a time and a purpose under heaven."

Now is a time for prayer...a time for sitting with God and listening. It is a time to not worry about what to do, but a time to wait and trust. Seems like I went through this not too long ago, yet, here I am again.

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to build up,a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it's not too late

The Byrds

Sheltering Trees

3 years ago this fall, I received a phone call that literally took me to my knees. I had been taking classes for quite a while not really knowing what I was to do with the knowledge, and then the call came to serve as Asst. Pastor at Cloverdale.

The past 3 years have been exciting, educational, emotional and right. Whenever anyone has asked me how things were, I would say, "It is right." And it has been. I have really felt as if this is where I have needed to be. Time moves on, however, and we don't stay in the same place of life forever.

Nor do we see things as others see them. "Ever since you have been at Cloverdale, I have watched you struggle. My prayer for you has been that you would be able to minister in a place where you could relax and enjoy it; where your spiritual health could be nourished."

The insight of friends never ceases to amaze me.

Here I am trying to help this congregation through the changes headed its way, seeing possibilities beyond its current vision limits and someone is doing the same thing for me.

Today's song:

It's been said a friend is like a mighty sheltering tree
A place of refuge we can run when trouble comes for you and me
Someone we can count on through the thick and thin
When the storms of life are blowing, there's just nothing like a friend
(There's just nothing like a friend)

We all need sheltering trees
Friends in our lives who'll get down on their knees
And lift us up before the king of kings
We all need sheltering trees

There've been days that i was sure that i couldn't make it through
Clouds of doubt came rolling in and i didn't know what i would do
I would've given in and said i just can't go on
If it hadn't been for a friend that helped me to be strong
(Helped me to be strong)

You can face the highest mountain andthe climb won't feel so high
Or cross the darkest valley and it won't seem so wide
Nothing is impossible when a friend is by your side

(Newsong)

Today's Song

Hey Jude don't make it bad,
Take a sad song and make it better,
Remember, to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.

Hey Jude don't be afraid,
You were made to go out and get her,
The minute you let her under your skin,
Then you begin to make it better.

And anytime you feel the pain, Hey Jude refrain,
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.
For well you know that it's a fool, Who plays it cool,
By making his world a little colder.

Hey Jude don't let me down,
You have found her now go and get her,
Remember (Hey Jude) to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.

So let it out and let it in
Hey Jude begin,
You're waiting for someone to perform with.

And don't you know that it's just you.
Hey Jude, you'll do,
The movement you need is on your shoulder.

Hey Jude, don't make it bad,
Take a sad song and make it better,
Remember to let her under your skin,
Then you'll begin to make it all better

Hey Jude (Beatles)

I am tired, I am weak, I am worn

Glenn is out of town. The usual happens. 12 hour days of funerals, hospital visits, grieving with a tired elderly gentleman when his wife dies, worship planning, sermon writing, NYC planning, wedding planning, commission and board meetings..... When I finally get home, I am bone tired and yet I cannot go to sleep. My house is a pile of laundry and dirty dishes. Questions fill my mind and heart as to whether I could actually do this on a long-term basis.

Then I get a phone call. "She was actually livelier after your visit. She said if she had a pastor like you she would really like to go to church. This old mother's heart was so happy!"

My eyes are drawn to the picture of the first wedding I officiated.

Another phone call...someone from the congregation has a gift for me. I look around the office at other gifts.

I am still bone tired, but...can I not do it?