Eclipse awe and the Rapture blues

 

While everyone else was rushing outside to stare at the sun (with protective glasses, we hope), I was sitting at my desk with the patio door open to a quiet and calm backyard. I wasn’t so interested in seeing the aura around the sun—heaven knows there’ve been enough pictures online and in the news media. I was more interested in watching the world go from light to dark and back again. The darkening was a slow thing, and the air took on a funny color, like it sometimes does before a Texas storm. Out my door and over the neighbor’s roof I could watch a patch of high clouds to the southwest without danger of looking at the sun. The dappling on the clouds changed slowly and was fun to watch. I didn’t see the crescent-shaped shadows that many others reported. I was surprised at how slowly the darkness moved in.

Then in Fort Worth we had two minutes and twenty-four seconds of darkness. While others have reported the wind kicked up, I didn’t notice that. I did notice the quiet—no birds, no squirrels. It seemed forever, and in the midst of it I wondered what would happen if the lights forgot to come back on. But then the light came back, I thought more rapidly than it had left. Totality was at 1:40 and well before two o’clock we were back in full sunshine with those high clouds that let some people see the sun and made others along the path miss it. Later, I would see people describe that silent dark time as everything from holy to creepy. I was sort of in between—it made me think how everything in our world works together, and most of it for our benefit. We knew the light would come back. I read somewhere this week that those science deniers on the extreme right see themselves as forced to choose between their faith and God or science, and they choose faith. What’s sad is that they cannot reconcile the two in their minds. That’s what the dark moment was to me—a convergence of science and faith.

The mood across the country was much less solemn and more celebratory, with news programs showing people whooping and hollering, and it struck me as significant that when nature went silent, mankinwas at its noisiest. I’m not sure yet why the joy in the eclipse—was it science? Faith? Survival?

Then, of course, there was the whole Rapture business that got wrapped into the eclipse. A friend, who bemoaned that it had missed him again, helpfully advised that if you missed your rapture today, you can catch another in 18 months. But if you miss that, it’s something like 350 years. In truth there are several total eclipses throughout the world each year, so I suppose rapture followers could just get the schedule and follow them-good excuse for travel. Some posts about the Rapture were hysterical—I saw someone who offered Rapture protection. Don’t want to be snatched up? Just call him, though I don’t know if his work was guaranteed or not. Another entrepreneur was offering pet care—if you are swept up in the Rapture, he will care for your pets (what? They can’t go with you?). Of course, his work was prepaid, no refunds. And there were several posts about leaving random clothes scattered around so it would look like you’d been raptured (does it required nudity? I’m shocked!)  My mystery mind can see several great plots around the Rapture—someone who wants to disappear can leave that clothing trail, or perhaps if you are into paranormal, someone is presumed to be raptured, until his or her body is found, the victim of murder.

A couple of serious notes: I hope we’ll hear about observatory studies of animals during the eclipse. A reporter in Fort Worth was assigned to zoo duty, studying the reaction of animals. That becomes a bit personal to me, because I’d been thinking about how I’d protect Sophie during the eclipse, though I had no idea if It would bother her or not. The thunderstorms predicted for later tonight would probably have bothered her more. Just one more thing to remind me of the hole in my heart.

Another serious note: if you want to recycle your eclipse glasses, there will be an eclipse in South America in August, and schoolchildren need glasses to be able to watch it. There’s a link on my Facebook page about how you can contribute your used glasses.

The excitement is over, and I for one am ready to move on. I was beginning to tire of the eclipse hype. So here’s to the rest of the week—may it be whatever you want it to be. In full sunshine!

Taking stock and moving on

 

June among the flowers

Weekends, I often think, are a time to sit back and reassess, look at what the past week has brought, and think about what the next week will bring. For us in the Alter/Burton compound, today seems a time to reassess all of what 2023 has brought us. (I really like the idea of calling the way we live a compound, and last night a friend used that phrase too, so now I’m officially adopting it).

Yesterday was the celebration of life for Sandra Burton, Christian’s mother, who left us mid-March. The service and a reception were in Coppell. I did not attend because the kids didn’t need to worry about me and my walker when they had so many other responsibilities. Jacob tells me it was a beautiful service, and his dad delivered a lovely eulogy. From the program, I know that Sandra and I shared a love of old hymns—the music was “Into the Garden,” “Just as I am,” and “Amazing Grace.”

Last night there was a small gathering of friends here to show love and support for Christian. What started out as just nibbles and a few people turned into a crowd with a lavish table as people arrived with food and wine. Friends of mine joined friends of Jordan and Christian—many of the latter are like family to me, so there were lots of hugs. A really supportive evening just when one was needed.

Sophie enjoyed the gathering too. She senses when there are guests in the house and would have had one ballistic fit if left alone in the cottage. So I took her on a leash, and various people took turns holding the leash. Of course, all her favorites were there, and she literally lunged to get to each one.

We’ve had a rough year getting to this point—it started at Christmas when both Sophie and June Bug sickened. Junie, the younger of the Burton King Charles Cavalier spaniels, had a heart attack over six years ago and was given a year to live. She proved to have the nine lives of a cat and each time we thought we’d lose her, she bounced back. But not this time, when her back legs had given out on her, and she was barely eating. On Thursday, the vet helped her to the Rainbow Bridge, with her family—including her sister dog—around her for love. A double whammy for the Burtons. Sophie meanwhile recovered and, on insulin twice a day, is doing just fine.

Sandra’s health suddenly declined dramatically in early February, so her illness and death have consumed Christian and his family for two months, with decisions to be made about facilities, etc. Ultimately she died peacefully at home, under hospice care, with her family around her.

About the same time, my older and only brother fell, broke his kneecap and had surgery. In rehab he caught Covid, which was followed by pneumonia and a variety of other problems. He was briefly in hospice but rallied enough to go to a skilled nursing center with the goal of building his strength enough to go into PT. This morning, I learned he is back in the hospital with a new variety of problems. So perhaps the Lord isn’t quite through with us with.

In my contemplative moments today, I think life is a roller coaster—some days you’re up, some you’re down. But sometimes it isn’t just a bad day—it’s a whole bunch of bad days piled on top of each other until you think life is coming at you too fast and hard. But it’s like I’ve always believed about household problems such as plumbing snafus and appliance breakdowns—they come in threes, and then they are over. And I truly do have faith that the good days outnumber the bad. So now I have faith that we of the Alter/Burton compound (do you suppose Christian would say Burton/Alter?) are due for some good days. And that includes healing for my brother.

I sort of want to say, “Thank you, Lord. That’s enough now.” Prayers are appreciated.

 

 

 

Another week begins--and some reassurance

 

Some Mondays I greet the new week with joy and enthusiasm for all its possibilities; other times, I think, “Ho, hum, another week.” I’m afraid this is one of the latter kind of Mondays. Not sure why but I have this niggling feeling that something is wrong.

There is illness in my family and friends, and that could well be it. From Covid to surgery to hospice, it seems too many around me have health problems. Granted, most are my age or close to it, but I don’t think it’s all age. I’m fond of saying there’s a spot on the moon, but I am not really superstitious enough to believe that. It’s just that 2023, for which I had such high hopes, seems to have gotten off to a bad start.

We did have a green Christmas. There’s an old saying that a green Christmas means a full churchyard. My dad, a physician and hospital administrator, always changed it to a full hospital. He was obsessed with the hospital census to the point he once, sitting in the yard, asked me to go in and call the hospital to inquire about the census. I refused, realizing full well what a laugh the switchboard would get if I, then maybe twelve, asked that question. But these days I think about Dad and his full hospital often.

Strangely enough, a memorial service was the highlight of my day. I attended using the church’s Live Stream, but I felt very much the presence in the sanctuary. I suppose I’m not the only one who’s church experience varies—much of the time I am intellectually engaged by the sermon. But frequently nostalgia overcomes me as I hear the words of prayer and the hymns of my childhood. Today, my experience went beyond that.

We were celebrating the life of a woman I feel privileged to have called friend, though in recent years we were down to occasional emails as health issues limited both of us. Still, I look back with happy memories on our connections—we met not in church but a the home of two men, a couple, who lived down the street from me. Ray was a cook extraordinaire and gave dinner parties; Susan taught high school English with Jim. And so I met her and her husband over dinner. Then in later years, we served together on the board of the Friends of the TCU Library. And, of course, we crossed paths on Sundays at church and talked often about how we must do lunch. We didn’t actually get that done a lot but I do remember one time when I was to pick her up for lunch and got the wrong house. She said she stood in front of her house, looked down the block, and thought, “Hmmm. Judy’s going to take my neighbor to lunch.”

There were other sporadic visits—she and John came to my front porch for supper once or twice, and once when they couldn’t make my annual big Christmas party, they sent her mother who was one of my absolute favorite women, a church connection again, and her sister. I wished today I had asked one of the presiding ministers to give Ellen, the sister, a hug from me.

But I digress. What I really want to say is that today’s service went beyond nostalgia and intellect to become an emotional experience for me. Hearing the words of consolation, of assurance about God’s presence, of gratitude (the Scripture was from the Psalms), I felt my faith strengthened. I had a sense, in this season of illness, that all will be well. Yes, I was sad—as I watched the sanctuary empty, I found myself saying, “Goodbye, Susan” with a finality that brought tears. But the overall sense I had was one of comfort.

Of course, then I turned on the news tonight, which is never encouraging, and an email got me smack dab again in a professional brouhaha in which, yes, I do have a dog in the fight. So the world is as it will be, but I feel a bit better able to deal with it.

So Tuesday is a new day. And I intend to treat it as the start of a new week. I have editor’s comments on my manuscript to deal with which is always fun for me, and I will spend much of the morning making German salads for Mary’s birthday dinner. She feels her German heritage strongly, more strongly than I do, but we both love the food. It will be a good day. May yours be good too—and your week.

   

Sunday night thoughts in a jumble

 

 

University Christian Church
Fort Worth

 My thoughts are all mixed up tonight with politics and religion. While I, perhaps too often, let this blog veer into politics because I can’t keep quiet, tonight I feel compelled to talk about the intersection of politics and faith. Because deep down, I know as sure as anything that my politics are dictated by my faith.

I am still chewing on the quote in Heather Cox Richardson’s column a day or two ago to the effect that William Barr, former Attorney General, believes that the constitution does not separate church and state. Somehow, he works the First Amendment, which states that Congress shall make no law regarding religion, into a statement that the Founding Fathers believed that man, being inherently evil, needs a strong Christian government. For one thing, that’s a terribly arrogant argument—does he believe that he is above evil and knows better what us poor nasty folk need? For another, how does he mis-read the Constitution to that extent?

Separation of church and state is generally traced back to a letter by Thomas Jefferson which essentially put into words the concept of the First Amendment (remember, I’m no constitutional scholar, so I’m on shaky ground here). But Article Six of the Constitution effectively rules out the establishment of any state religion. I wish I could just dismiss Barr as a wild hare, except he speaks for the “originalists,” people like Amy Comey Barrett, maybe Brett Kavanaugh and Clarence Thomas (that’s a whole different story for another time), and the whole of the Federalist Society. He’s not just a lone voice. Even Senator Ben Sasse, obliquely chastising Ted Cruz for seeking a Fox news spot with his rudeness to Judge Kentanji Brown Jackson, said he admired the judge but could not vote for her judicial philosophy.

Then this morning a state legislature candidate in Tarrant Country made oblique reference to the death penalty for abortion. That logic is so screwed I won’t even attempt to wrap my mind around it. But just after I read that I listened to Russ Peterman’s sermon at University Christian Church, where he talked about prescriptive or legalistic religions—religions with strict rules. The question: is religion made for rules or for mankind? Evoking those Christian churches where congregants emerge every Sunday filled with guilt for their sins, Russ questioned whether religion is about guilt or grace. You know the answer he led us to.

I want so badly to remind those who would restrict our lives with laws—against abortion, against gender affirming care, against widespread voting, against interracial marriage (yes, that has been mentioned), against certain books, that if they follow Jesus’ example, it’s all about love, not about hate nor rules. Read 1 Corinthians 13: 13 or better yet read all of 1 Corinthians. What these people are talking about is in no way a Christian state. And even if it were, that overlooks our Constitution. We are not a Christian nation; we are a nation of diverse people and faiths that welcomes all. Christianity in its many forms is the most followed religion, but it has no corner on the market.

What scares me about all this is that it all ties together—William Barr, the Federalist Society, Amy Comey Barrett, Greg Abbott’s mean and inhumane laws, Proud Boys, trump (though I doubt he understands the philosophy and just considers it from an opportunistic point of view), Ginni and Clarence Thomas (she apparently is a passionate believer). I don't mean to be a conspiracy theorist and yet I can see how this all comes together in a vast network conspiring to overthrow democracy as the Founding Fathers intended it and as, until recent years, we knew it. The emails exchanged by Ginni Thomas and Mark Meadows confirm this.

And it sort of comes down to your view of mankind—evil or beloved of the god of your choice. My faith dictates that I am on the side of those who believe, “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. And of these, the greatest is love.”

I’ll quit preaching now and promise tomorrow a light-hearted post about busy days and good food at the cottage. It’s hard to be lighthearted these days, but there is always a positive side to life.

A December day in Texas

‘Twas  a dark and stormy night—oops, no. I got carried away. It was a cold morning, slightly damp, and most discouraging. Another good day to stay in. Makes me think how fortunate I am to have that choice to make and to have enough “busyness” at home to keep me happy.

Though I confess I’m not that busy. A neighbor posted a picture of herself making a face on Facebook—not a happy face—and wrote that was what she thought of folks who have their Christmas shopping done, presents wrapped. Shhh! Don’t tell her, but I am one of those. There are still a couple of presents that have me biting my nails to see if they’ll arrive in time—one for a gathering tomorrow night, and I’m losing hope on that one even though the tracking says between the 16^th and 20^th. Another gift I thought perfect for old and dear friends in Omaha has apparently disappeared into a black hole. It may brighten their days in the dark of February.

Jordan and I are compulsive list makers—it’s a gene that Megan happily confesses she missed. But we have lists of groceries to be bought tomorrow, groceries at the end of the week, who’s cooking what when we all get together, what we’re having for dinner each night that all seventeen of us will be under one roof—yikes! Melanie even did a spread sheet, and to my alarm it read, “Breakfast on your own.” I asked Jordan to put cottage cheese on the shopping list.

Meanwhile, today I did odds and ends—some author-like chores, including looking for a picture I’ve had trouble locating and getting what head start I could on my neighborhood newsletter—but mostly Christmas. I’ve wrapped the last three presents (excluding those not yet arrived), written a few Christmas cards, figured out what to do about the last person on my list. My wrapped Christmas presents are pitiful—if you’ve seen that ad where a youngster about five holds forth in a hardware store and in one climactic moment hands a customer a clumsily wrapped gift with paper going every which way, you know what my packages look like. I strive for tight, neat corners, but somehow, I never get there. My daughters’ packages are always neat and square with fantastic bows, while I confine myself to red yarn. And, really, I like gift bags the best.

A lovely letter from an elementary school friend—we also went to church together for years—cheered me today. She and I share a love of Lake Michigan, and we’ve reunited on Facebook—one of the great pleasures of social media—but we’ve never directly communicated before. Now we share hip troubles—she is scheduled for January surgery—and I have been encouraging her about the benefits, not negative aspects, of a walker. She wrote of her appreciation, and I was grateful. It’s the season for spontaneous and unexpected communication, whatever we can do to bring a little joy into someone else’s life—not just those who need joy, but those who don’t expect to hear from us. The unexpected always brings special pleasure.

Tonight I ate the last of the coffee beef stew—even better tonight. The recipe called for three bay leaves, and by golly, I got all three in my modest portion tonight. And then Scottish shortbread from the gift basket the neighborhood association brought me in appreciation for my work on the newsletter. It’s also a bountiful season.

As we move into Christmas week, I am continually struck by how timely the theme of the message from our church is: “Be not afraid.” The words of the Angel to Mary, and the words to Joseph as he considered marriage to a young woman already pregnant. Those word have great meaning in our day and age, when fear is all around us, and we must fight to prevent it from shaping our lives. Be not afraid—the Lord is with us.

Could Fall really be here?

Not the world's best picture because it's what was left in the pot

after four servings and two 'to go" dishes but

you get an idea of he richness

           

The cold front isn’t exactly here but the air is much cooler already tonight. In my corner of Fort Worth, we got only sprinkles of rain—missed the showers that were all around us, but we’re ever hopeful that they’ll hit us tomorrow.

Tonight, anticipating that cold front even if it was in the 90s today, I made a pot of cheeseburger soup—hearty and good. All the things that make cheeseburgers good—ground beef, cheese (Velveeta, but you can use that occasionally), onions—plus some extras—celery, carrots, potatoes, chicken broth. I meant to make a half recipe but was far into it when I realized I was making the whole thing. We shall have plentiful leftovers all week.

Christian and I went to church this morning, while Jordan stayed home with Jacob who is not feeling well. But she met us for a lunch at the church—no agenda, no program, just a chance to visit. They called it a Connection luncheon, an apt term. We “connected” with people I knew slightly but never had really visited with. Made some small world connections, such as the woman I used to see at Lily B. pickup, when I went for Jacob, is the mother of a neighbor we all know. Good times.

This is the beginning of the church’s capital campaign, but Dr. Peterman, our senior minister, changed the focus with his sermon. Instead of telling us the pitiful stories of how much the church needs to continue its programs, especially outreach into the world, he talked about generosity as it benefits the giver and urged us all to live generously and appreciatively. “If the only prayer you ever say is ‘thank you,’ it’s enough,” he said.

As I sat in the sanctuary this morning, with the glorious music and rich traditions, I was indeed grateful to be there. It strikes me that an organized religion two thousand years old with billions of devoted followers around the globe, a religion based on love, will always triumph over the selfishness, greed, corruption, and, too often, perversion of Christianity we see around us in our country today. Our people are steadfast.

I don’t think this is a Christian thing either, although Christianity to me is most relevant today. Judaism in its pure form reflects a respect for the law that is sadly missing in some of our leaders today. And contrary to the distortions we are fed, many Middle Eastern religions—Muslim, principally—are built on kindness and concern for others. With a great body of believers, we will hold on, and perhaps one day achieve a measure of peace.

I haven’t really said that very well, but it was for me a powerful thought, and this morning was not the first time it came to me.

Peace, my friends. Be of good faith.

When I grow old, I shall wear purple...and red!

I did not make it to church this morning. There was uncertainty in the household about how Jordan’s 3:30 a.m. departure for a business trip would affect everyone’s sleep, so I elected not to scurry around and get ready for church only to hear at ten in the morning that my escorts were not going. I attended church via live streaming, which is a blessing.

And I was so glad I did. The sermon was about asking the bigger questions, such as if I am to love my neighbor, who is my neighbor. But the takeaway for me came when Russ Peterman quote Scott Colglazier, who was the UCC minister for eleven years (and married Jordan and Christian). Scott said there are two kinds of churches: answer churches and journey churches. Answer churches have a prepared answer for every question you ask—I would assume that encompasses their bans on abortion and gay marriage, among other issues. But at journey churches, we seek together to find the answers to question that arise. I love that approach, because I have always thought I go to church not to study ancient Biblical texts but to find the answer to how I can better live my life today. That’s a journey, and I am happy to be on that journey with my church.

My second philosophical moment came when I discovered an article by Mary Pipher, author of the forthcoming Women Rowing North: Navigating Life’s Currents and Flourishing as We Age. Pipher’s thesis is that women in their seventies and above are happier, more fulfilled than at any other stage in their lives. In our seventies and beyond, we are marginalized—something I am very aware of on my walker. But most of us consider ourselves vibrant and happy. We have learned not to expect too much but to find happiness in what we have. We have learned how to make our own happiness, how to create a good day.

This resonates with me because, after a series of fairly devastating health problems, I am feeling better, healthier, and happier than perhaps I ever have in my life, except maybe when my babies were little. There are some things I miss about my earlier life—the social involvement, the sense of being part of something important (In my case, publishing), the possibility of romance. But like magic, those concerns have disappeared. What matters to me these days is love of family and friends, and I have that in abundance. I have meaningful work and the avocation of cooking. My days are full and busy.

Happiness comes from small things—like a discussion tonight of family genetics with Jacob who was truly engaged and interested—and not from the most exciting party, the latest love of my life, the thrill of professional recognition. I make my own happiness these days.

I know all this could be swept away in an instance. A friend, much younger than I, died in her sleep recently, and the threat of a dread disease hangs over me. But I will not cross my bridges until I come to them, and I will not let the world spoil the extraordinary physical and emotional well-being I am enjoying.

Not over seventy? Not female? No matter. I suggest you read the article anyway. And the book, due out January 15—uh-oh, tax day for those of us who pay quarterly—is on my TBR list Find the article at https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/12/opinion/sunday/women-older-happiness.html?fbclid=IwAR0QCKRtOjiyIwwFnx21EEXmC7uCpTQ4_twX4TXvg-CLH6nsjlyAd_CGHqU

Happy week ahead, everyone!

Testing My Faith

Church this morning was a test of my faith. I attend an established, traditional church, a Disciples of Christ congregation. I like to think our theology is liberal, even if our congregation is fairly gray-haired, older, and conservative. This morning, we sat toward the front, in front of the pulpit. A young, Middle Eastern man slipped into the pew directly in front of us. He was cleanshaven but wildly curling black hair poked out from an unusual knitted wool cap that was a cross between a beret and a sac and totally inappropriate on a June day. Thin and a bit rumpled, he carried a backpack that he set on the floor and immediately rummaged in, pulling out what appeared to be a worn Bible. Was it my imagination or was he breathing hard? Was his cotton shirt sweat-soaked as it looked? My nose thought it answered the last question, but maybe he’d ridden a bike to church. When he turned a bit, I saw huge dark eyes, wide open.

I am not happy to confess that my radar went up. Throughout the service, he read his Bible, ignoring what was going on in worship. He didn’t pray; he didn’t take communion. Why was he amongst us?

A bigger question I asked myself was if I’d have had the same reaction were he blonde with pale skin. I think the answer is that I would still be concerned, but perhaps to a lesser degree. My thoughts raged from faith to instinctive caution. As a liberal progressive, I despise racial profiling and like to think I accept people individually based on who they are. But this young man set off something instinctive in me, a fear I could not deny. In our church, all are welcome at the table, and we believe God teaches us to love all his children, no matter skin color, clothing, whatever. And the other hand, as a woman, I’ve been carefully taught to pay attention to my instincts. If I sense something is wrong, I’m urged to take action to protect myself.

Nothing happened in church, of course. The young man may well have been lost, lonely, and afraid. When the hour of greeting arrived, I shook his hand and welcomed him, and he nodded appreciatively, those wild (honest, they were) eyes looking directly at me.

I’m left wondering what God thought of my dilemma, and, more importantly, what I think about it. Conscience or caution? I still don’t know the answer. I do know that for a moment there I was reminded of the first lines of a novel I just finished writing, “Susan Hogan thought she was going to meet her maker that March day. Her first thought was irreverent. ‘Really, God? In a grocery store in Oak Grove? Haven’t you got this wrong somehow?’” My thought was, “Really, God? In church on Sunday morning?” But I also felt strangely safe, as though I knew it would all be all right.. Perhaps our lives are going to be filled with that dichotomy in these fear-ridden, uncertain times. Fear certainly is a catching disease.

The day didn’t get immediately better. Washing dishes and my favorite cup, the one I drink tea from every morning, slipped out of my soapy hands; the handle broke off, so now it’s relegated to being a small vase. It was given to me by a close friend who has since died, so it has sentimental value, making the loss that much worse.

Dinner with friends tonight soothed my troubled soul. One of my wimpy friends and her gentleman friend ate on a patio, because it’s in the 80s with a nice breeze. Not sure I would have prevailed, but apparently, he gets cold easily too. Eggplant parmigiana that was delicious. And I thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere. Thanks to Kathie and Morris for a lovely evening.

I gave myself a holiday from writing today. Piddled at my desk with this, that and the other, even made notes for the novel, but didn’t actively work on it. Pleasant, but I didn’t get as much reading done as I expected. Tomorrow, back to work. And another week begins.

Cooking up a storm—and praying a lot

Spirituality—yours and mine—has been on my mind a lot on this Good Friday. I am only the least bit knowledgeable about two faiths—Christianity and Judaism—but I know for both this is the season of renewal and hope. Yet to get to that hope we have had to suffer through darkness—for Jews, it is bondage in Egypt, and Passover celebrates the release; for Christians, it is the crucifixion and Easter celebrates the Resurrection and Risen Christ. For all of us, it means our God, whoever, blesses us with hope. And I for one am deeply grateful.

Tonight Jordan had a b’day gathering for a friend, a girl I’m particularly fond of. I wasn’t invited—young women’s gathering—but assured the regulars would come see me. At 9:30, none have come to the cottage except one with whom I had a good visit.

I have been cooking a lot or so it seems—maybe some of it is anticipatory. Last night, Betty came for supper and we had a frozen spanakopita that Jordan baked for me. It remained pale and today, with leftovers, I discovered the trick—put the pieces in my toaster oven, they browned, and the result was much better. I had made a smoked salmon spread for an appetizer.

Tonight I made myself salmon cakes with an ear of corn and sautéed zucchini. So good, though it’s a fair amount of work in my small kitchen and a lot of dishes to wash. Tomorrow I’ll make pea salad to go with my leftover salmon cake.

Tomorrow I’ll make meatballs for our Easter brunch, and what a recipe calls “Crack Matzoh”—topped with brown sugar/butter/chocolate/chopped nuts and baked. Sounds yummy. We’ll go to 9:00 services and then have friends for brunch. Looking forward to it, as Easter is always a special day to me

I remember my Chicago childhood. I always had a fancy new Easter dress, often some light transparent spring-like material. And then had to wear my heavy winter coat over it. We usually had ham for Easter dinner, though maybe a time or two we had lamb. I wasn’t as menu conscious as I am now. In fact, I’m surprised that my memories, beyond the dresses, are so vague.

This year, in this household, we have outgrown egg hunts, for the first time. Another milestone to be greeted with sadness and joy.

Blessed holidays to each and every one of you, no matter your religious stripe. Take heart in this season of renewal and hope.

Insights in church…and politics at high tea

Tulips, the gift of a friend, bring

spring into the cottage

Started the day by going to church. It’s been months—at least last May—but since I am feeling so well and pain-free, I was more than ready to go back. Have been getting out to eat with friends, and if I can do that, I can go to church. Today was special—a reception for Cyndy Twedell, who's been a minister at the church for 30 years. The brief ceremony was the kind that inevitably brings tears to my eyes, good tears. Cyndy epitomizes as a minister and as an individual Christian love and caring—reaching out to underserved communities, active in our shelter for the homeless, going on mission trips, leading the prayer shawl group, more than I recount but always extending God’s love to others.

During the church service, I had one of those thoughts that surprise you and then seem so obvious: I read on Facebook and elsewhere wry comments that the sitting president has indeed made America great again, he has united the country but not in the way he intended. These remarks stem from the fact that undeniably many more people are politically active and involved than usual. But it dawned on me that this presidency and this Congress have also awakened the faith of many of us. Today in church I had a strong sense of my faith, its importance in my life and its role in guiding how I treat others. My goal is compassion and love for all—all peoples and animal life as well. I am appalled by stories of immigration sweeps that arrest anyone Latino, regardless of their immigration or law-abiding status. I am horrified by stories of people trying to enter or even return to this country who are turned away. For some reason, one story sticks in my craw: legislation to rescind the ban on hunting wolf pups, shooting bears in their dens, and using steel-jawed toe clip traps on bears. The traps cause unbelievable agony, and I cannot believe humans would resort to that when there are humane ways to re-locate bears if necessary. In short, I am appalled by the governmental lack of compassion and caring, by the selfish greed of voting immunity from prosecution for themselves while prosecuting others wildly.

Change to a light note: we had high tea tonight.

Jordan fixed it for a few friends some of whom contributed. I even made chicken salad at nine this morning, before church. She served a beautiful spread. This is my kind of food but I was afraid others would find it slim pickings for supper. I thought Christian for instance would be prowling for snacks by eight o’clock, but not so. We were all over-filled with good food.

A nice surprise, political at that: my neighbor, directly behind me, is president of our neighborhood association and has just announced for the school board. Jason Brown is the kind of guy who really cares about our neighborhood, our kids and schools, and our city. Jacob played with his son until after dark, so Jason walked him around the block to home. We invited him in, asked about his campaign—his campaign consultant told him to practice his spiel on friends and neighbors, so quite quickly, at our request, he was explaining his position on several issues. Fascinating. To my relief, he said Betsy DeVos will have little effect on us at this level.

If he’s on your ballot, please vote for Jason Brown for the Fort Worth ISD School Board.

Interesting day, and I’m tired. Sleep tight, y’all.

Things are out of whack

There are no words. The world seems to be collapsing around us. Thursday we awoke to one of the most terrifying hail storms I’ve experienced in 50 years in Texas. Today we woke to the news of the attacks in Brussels, a lovely city in a peaceful country. For those of us in North Texas, the news got even worse: the wife of the Van Cliburn-winning pianist probably suffocated her daughters and stabbed herself; a man went into a WalMart in East Texas, shot another man and then shot himself. When does the violence end? How do we cope with it?

Brussels is rightfully the tragedy most on our minds. Can you imagine sending someone you love off to work—or travel—only to learn that they’ve been killed in a suicide bomb explosion? On an ordinary day when you expected the world to go on as it always has? The mind boggles. On 9-11, Belgians held hands in support of America; today we pray in support of them. I am proud of America’s reaction but scared by the response of the two leading Republican candidates. Neither learned from the Bush’s trumped up (no, not a pun) war in Iraq. They would willingly lead us into such another futile war, sacrificing thousands of people in Middle Eastern countries as well as our own troops. It didn’t work before, and it won’t work again. I am afraid of the war-mongering mentality more than I am afraid of ISIS..

For Christians, this is Holy Week, the most sacred time of the year. I write as a Christian who feels this holy time has been defiled. But I am also convinced that we must keep the faith and believe. No, it won’t bring back the people who died today, nor will it heal the injured. But faith—whatever your chosen religion—seems to me the answer. I pray for the Muslims in this country who now live in fear. If my understanding is correct, the Muslim faith calls for peace, not violence It doesn’t sanction beheading stoning, etc. Yet people preying on the fear of Americans have made terrorists of all Muslims in this country. Do you know how many there are? Fifty thousand in Houston alone; an astounding number in the entire world. As one Facebook post said tonight, if they were all terrorists, we’d all be dead. We must stand by our Muslim neighbors and friends and also our friends of color who are under attack if not suspicion now.

Pray for our friends and neighbors, pray for the world, pray for this country. Things are really out of whack right now. And I for one am grieving.

This crazy poliitical year

“And now these three things remain: faith, hope, and love. And of these the greatest is love.” I am not a person who quotes the Bible often. Sad truth is that, although a lifelong Christian, I don’t know enough Bible to quote besides the 23 Psalm, the ten commandments, and maybe the Beatitudes. And if I did, I would not push my religion on anyone else. But these lines from 1^st Corinthians 13:13 keep coming back to me, especially when I survey the political world we live in.

Believing as I do that love is the most important value, I am appalled by the hate and vitriol around us. Both Trump and Cruz are promising to bomb the you-know-what out of Isis and the Middle East. Civilian casualties? No matter. And Paul Ryan recently said that the poor are like feral cats—as long as we keep feeding them they’ll be with us forever. Where is the compassion for our fellow human beings?

And the hate for President Obama is appalling. I read someone’s opinion tonight that he has led us down the road to destruction. In my opinion, many of his accomplishments have led us toward love for our fellow Americans—the ACA act, for instance. I am struck by the man who came forward and said he’s always voted Republican but now he thanks President Obama—and the ACA—for saving his life. I truly cannot see a reason to hate Obama unless it’s the color of his skin—and we should be so far beyond that.

Donald Trump is to me the scariest though many say Ted Cruz is more frightening. But Trump’s spectacular brand of hate for everyone from overweight and disabled people to Muslims has attracted the most attention. One can only hope he’s like a carnival barker who sheds his flamboyant ways the minute he’s out of the spotlight. What worries me is the anger he’s aroused in so many Americans—how long has that anger been simmering. And why?

That the anger exists is a great argument for Bernie Sanders campaign. He advocates for change of things that I think make many Americans angry—they feel powerless, they work hard and follow the rules but never get ahead, they feel insignificant as individuals. This is not a campaign speech for the Bern—I love his ideas but will probably vote for Hillary.

Bernie Sanders says we have to educate our young people because they are our future leaders, our doctors, our teachers, the ones who will keep American moving forward. Donald Trump loves the uneducated. Without sounding like a snob, I think that’s significant—the uneducated are angry because they don’t understand how to empower themselves, they haven’t been taught to think critically. Republicans have even been known to say they don’t want people to think critically. We’ll be Neanderthals in a couple of generations if that thinking prevails.

After all is said and done, we’ll be left with a nation of angry people, no matter who is elected president. What do we do then? We reach out with love as our guiding principle. They are our people. We do not need a divided society—we need unity, and that comes with love, not anger and hate.

I’ve lived a wonderful, comfortable life—sometimes I ask the Lord why I have been so blessed.  But I have seven grandchildren, and I want to leave them a world in which they have every opportunity for the same kind of life I’ve lived. So far, they’re all on the right track, but I don’t want them to have to deal with an out-of-control world.

Lord, give us peace and teach us to love one another, regardless of faith, skin color, sexual orientation, and disabilities. And PS Lord, deliver us from Donald Trump.

If I didn't speak out . . . .

Last night I posted a rather bold and forthright statement of my beliefs about politics and Christianity. I am grateful beyond measure for the many people who praised my words and supported my post. Perhaps one woman expressed it best when she said, “How did you read my mind?” Others pointed out that I tarred all Republicans with one brush, which was a mistake on my part. And some just flat disagreed, saying that I didn’t understand the Republican party. He’s right about that—I don’t.

But tonight, I want to leave you with something written by Martin Niemöller, a Protestant pastor who was a strong critic of Hitler. Ultimately, Niemöller spent seven years in a concentration camp. Here’s what he wrote

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

That, my friends, is why I speak out loud and clear about my political beliefs. Thanks to all of those who love me in spite of it—or because of it.

Twas the Night before Easter...or the second night of Passover

The night before Easter at my house is sort of like Christmas Eve. Shhh, don't tell Jacob but the Easter Bunny visited just after he left following supper. The house is decorated, and now the problem is to make sure Sophie doesn't think the eggs are for her. The table is set for breakfast, and Christian brought a potato casserole--so rich with sour cream and butter and cheese that I will only allow myself one bite. Everything is laid out and ready, and Jordan left me with great warnings to go to bed early because we're going to sunrise service at 6:45.
She and I were enjoying an after-dinner glass of wine when I startled and said I thought I saw a bolt of lightning. And then we both heard it--thunder. She was out the door and headed home in a flash. I wish our much-needed rain would come Monday instead of Sunday, but I guess we have to believe the Lord knows what he's doing. Sunrise service will be inside, which is a disappointment because I love to see the daylight come while we worship. But the rain will be so significant as part of spring's new start.
Texas has two good seasons--spring and fall, and spring is by far my personal favorite. I love the light green of new leaves, the brightness of my redbud tree, the flowering trees all over town. When my children were young we went to North Carolina for the spring bloom, where redbud and dogwood abound. Redbud does well here, but only a few hardy dogwoods survive to bloom.
Greg, my gardening neighbor, and I are full of plans for my yard, including ferns which I have always loved, oak leaf hydrangeas, which he assures me will disguise the hurricane fence in the back, and coral honeysuckle to brighten the fence between my dog yard and driveway. I don't garden--used to but was never one who felt renewed by mucking in the dirt. These days my back won't let me garden--or sweep or mop floors or any of those things I don't want to do.
I've been fighting back pain and balance issues recently, and I decided tonight I might better quit fighting and go with the flow. Part of it has to do with faith in the physical therapy program, but I think part of it also has to do with my spiritual faith. Perhaps fighting--which means tightening up--actually increases the problems. It may not sound like a big deal, but I walked down to get the newspaper in the middle of the sidewalk today. Then Jordan and I went for a short (very short) walk.
So like trees budding out, I'm going to loosen up, go with the time of renewal, and let the good Lord help me heal.
And so, my friends, I wish you all Happy Easter, Blessed Passover, or if it suits you joy in the new start that springtime brings. Peace.

Faith, Grace, and "Why me, God?"

Here I go, blogging about something I almost never share--faith. I think I said recently that I would occasionally blog about politics because sometimes circumstances--like the current Congress coming out as if they'd been named king of all things--drive me to the point that I can't be quiet. You'll notice that so far I've shown great restraint--wait for it, it's coming.
But faith is pretty much a private matter. You have yours, I have mine, and we each respect the other. But tonight I read something by Anne Lamott that I am compelled to share. I recently commented to a friend that my faith had deepened in recent years. I'm not sure how. It's not exactly church-related, though I have been a churchgoer (often irregular) most of my life. But what I sense lately is a deepening sense of faith that doesn't depend on the ritual of the church, which I have always valued. Anne Lamott said it perfectly in an article in the new issue of the AARP Magazine: ..."by faith, I don't necessarily mean religious conviction. I'm talking partly about belief in the existence of a divine intelligence but also about faith in goodness, in things mostly working out. And let's not forget faith in ourselves--the conviction that we are loved and chosen--which is such a component of the spiritual life."
A lot of people in dire circumstances, wonder "Why me, God?" Classic story of Jonah and the whale. On the other hand, I often wonder, "Why me, God? Why am I so blessed when there is so much misery in life?" We were talking about this the other night, and another woman and I agreed we could have been born in Afghanistan or Boko Haram territory or any number of other places; we could have been born homeless or in abject poverty in the good old U.S. But we weren't. I believe to a large extent that we make our own fortune--not exactly the doctrine of good works, but more that what happens to us that is good is of our own making--through ambition, education, kindness, inquisitiveness (ah, the open mind). You get the idea. And yet going almost back to John Knox's Calvinism I have come to believe in Grace as a strong component of my faith. In, as Lamott says, the essential goodness of things. So when I say of someone suffering some horrible misfortune, "There, but for the Grace of God, go I," I really mean it. And I am grateful.
But with grace comes, to my mind, obligation, the obligation to help those less fortunate than we are. And that may indeed lead me back to a political rant. But not tonight.
If you've not read Lamott, I suggest you do. Her book that most impressed me was a wonderful one on writing and life, Bird by Bird. When she was young her brother postponed a big project on birds until the last minute. Then he sat at the kitchen table, overwhelmed by the scope of his project. His father advised, "Just take it bird by bird, son." That's a good way to take life. Lamott's latest title is Small Victories, which is on my "To Be Read" list. But there are others you might want to explore.

How easy it is to be spooked

So much tragedy in the news--always, but it somehow seems worse to me tonight. The stabbing at a Pennsylvania school--you reach out emotionally over the distance to the parents of the wounded, especially the one boy on life support, and to the family of the perpetrator. Grief that I cannot imagine. And the hit-and-run at the California day care center, with one child dead and several injured--as with Newton, how do you send your young child to school one day and then learn that he or she is never coming home again? The ongoing search for Malaysia Flight 370--those families must be numb by now, and yet they need the closure.
I see minor tragedies all around me--ones that don't make the world weep but only those directly involved. They touch my heart as much. I'm known for posting lost, found, and endangered dogs on Facebook. Tonight I read about a woman whose Westie was apparently taken from her driveway. Several other expensive lap dogs were missing in the same Fort Worth neighborhood which points to a thief who probably took them for sale. I know only too well the panic that comes when a dog is missing. I watch Sophie like a hawk because she's convinced there's a great big, wide, welcoming world out there. She knows nothing of cruelty to animals--why would she? She has a coterie of people who love her. And she knows nothing of cars, has no street sense. A dog fight? What's that?
Tonight I got spooked, and I think it's because of that Westie in the context of larger tragedies. Sophie was outside, and I was at my desk when I heard a noise in the driveway behind me. Actually it sounded like drops of water, but I ruled that out since it's not raining. I decided I'd feel better if Sophie were inside--she's quick to bark at both imaginary and real threats, though we have few of the latter.
I went to get her, but she didn't come and I felt a moment's panic. If I'd thought for a second I'd have realized none of the motion-sensitive lights came on, and Sophie rarely comes immediately when I call her. But, with my usual bribe of "Treat!" I slammed the door and went into the kitchen, a technique that usually work. But I was thinking, "What if she doesn't come this time?" (I've been working on a Kelly O'Connell mystery tonight, and Kelly does a lot of "what if" thinking!) Of course, when I went back she was on the deck and ready to come in. I had let my imagination run away with me again--better at nine at night than three in the morning!
But I think we get more easily spooked in a world where tragedy, major and minor, seems to be all around us. I remember when that tsunami hit in December several years ago, a non-believer friend said to me, "I see you so firm in your belief and I think I could join you, but then something like this happens. How can I believe in a God who lets a tsunami kill thousands?" I was at a loss, so I asked a ministerial friend who said, if I remember rightly, "Shit happens." But I think the best answer I got was from another minister who said, "God doesn't prevent tragedy--man-made or natural. But he is there to guide us through it, to wrap us in his love and hold out his hand." I believe that.
And I'm not going to get spooked at three in the morning. Now I have to go let Sophie in again.

Joy at a memorial service

Years ago a colleague said to me, “I don’t do funerals,” when a designer we had worked closely with died. I was indignant, because sometimes you do funerals out of respect for the one who’s gone on and for family and friends. But in a lot of cases, I don’t do funerals either. Today I attended one because I really wanted to. It turned out to be the most uplifting and faith affirming memorial service that I think I’ve ever been to. Faith is a very personal thing, and I usually don’t write about it, but here I go.

The service was for Leah Flowers, a longtime major lay figure at University Christian Church and wife of a minister who taught for years in the Department of Religion at TCU. I saw his fine hand in the scripture readings—all affirming God’s love for us, all looking forward, never backward. The homily was given by Associate Minister Cyndy Twedell, and she had us thoughtful one minute, a bit teary-eyed another (the vision of Leah learning to break dance with a young son was touching) and laughing the next. It was a wonderful tribute to a woman who loved her husband, her family, and her church, and was always ready to welcome newcomers with a smile and a handshake or a hug.

Leah loved to sing in the choir and the choir sang today in her memory—“When I Survey That Wondrous Cross” and “How Lovely Are Thy Dwellings.” The first one had my friend Betty in tears—she had directed the choir as they sang that all across Europe and she was close to Leah.

I’m struck by the impact the service had on me. I came away uplifted, so grateful for my faith that sustains me, so grateful for the loving church community of which I am a part. What a blessing Leah was to the world, and what a gift the service was to me. Praise be to God.