Share the Love

I think you will recognize the names in the conversation here. It's a beautiful and true story. All stories are true, this one actually happened.

This story relates to my previous two posts about Mark.

It's the February 26, 2008 post, just to be sure: "Thirteen Ways of Losing an Uncle"

Memorial Service

Mark E. Ferguson
July 12, 1964 - February 12, 2008

The memorial service was held at the Chapel of Broadway UMC in Indianapolis. I'll post the order of service and my comments for the witness. Margie's uncle Charles and I sang a duet of Townes Van Zandt's If I Needed You. Charles also sang a solo, The Lord's Prayer. Uncle Bobby Brewer, pastor of Dixie UMC (near Hattiesburg) preached the homily. Broadway's wonderful organist and choir master played gathering music and congregational hymns. The service was well attended, the chapel was full of friends and family.

Too Soon, Gone From Our Midst

Mark E. Ferguson, of Indianapolis, IN, died at home on February 12, 2008, following an extended illness. A memorial service in celebration of Mr. Ferguson’s life will be held at 10:00 a.m., Saturday, February 16, in the Chapel of Broadway United Methodist Church, 609 E. 29th Street, Indianapolis IN 46205. Family members and friends will preside. Mr. Chris Schroeder, organist and choir master of the church will provide music. Family members and friends are invited to attend.

Mr. Ferguson is survived by his wife, IUPUI associate professor of Political Science and Director of Graduate Studies, Dr. Margie Robertson Ferguson and son, Duncan, 7; mother, Evelyn Savell Ferguson of Perkinston, MS; father-and mother-in-law, Dr. James A. (Jr.) and Linda McSwain Robertson, of Hattiesburg, MS; brother- and sister-in-law Mr. James A. (III) and Shannon Robertson, of New Orleans, LA; and many beloved relatives and friends. He was preceded in death by his father, Dr. Travis Ferguson.

Mr. Ferguson was born July 12, 1964 in Pascagoula, MS. He was employed as an information technology consultant by Price Waterhouse Coopers in Indianapolis. He was a volunteer reader for Indiana Reading Information Services.

Those who wish to share their condolences to the family are invited to send contributions to the National Brain Tumor Foundation, 22 Battery Street, Suite 612, San Francisco, CA, 94111-5520, (800) 934-2873, http://www.braintumor.org, or to the charity of your choice.

Margie and Mark, thanks for coming to share in our celebration of holy union. May our devotion and love endure life's insults as well as yours.

















A good man, a good friend, quiet and deep, with lots of patience with little-boy energy for incessant video games. Right, G?

That's right, Margie -- we lift our glasses, a wee dram in his memory and feel his pleasure in good company.

On Eating Local

Yes, we're eating local! Not 100% yet, we're working our way into it.

Last week was supposed to be our start, we thought, and we got our first delivery from one community supported agriculture service (CSA). For $35.00, we got some beautiful organic produce, including root veggies, blood oranges, and apples from California. I think the eggs were local. We didn't realize the winter would mean the CSA service would supplement their income using organic produce from anywhere. I think they try to work with local farms, but it is deep winter now. We realized we could do the same for ourselves at Goose Market on College, where we have been picking up sweet potatoes, organic lettuce and veggies, beef, and chicken.

On Saturday, I journeyed out to Traders Point Creamery for the winter market (9:00 a.m. - noon) and picked up some beef, pork, and eggs, some dried tomatoes and bell peppers, and some home made soap. Today's New York Times had an article and some recipes about dried tomatoes. It's true, the flavor is intensified in the drying. We'll have to try that next summer. We lost so much in not being prepared to "put up" our abundance of tomatoes. Winter is a good time to find out what kinds of preserving we can learn by next harvest from our back yard gardens.

I cooked up the last of the potatoes and other root veggies, including carrot, parsnip, and a purple carrot. Here's what I had for dinner tonight: organic potatoes, carrots, and parsnips steamed in the good ol' Revere Ware, and the local pork loin. Hey, Mississippi folks -- recognize Emmett Collier's pottery?












Tonight, we got our first delivery from Basic Roots. Wow, that Brian is a nice guy. Here's what we got for $45.00.

We know this is not the best time of year to start this adventure. Brian told us that the usual supplier of winter greens, Yeager, was frozen out with that recent deep freeze. But, they went to Saraga and picked up some organic baby lettuce.

We're expecting this winter to eat more potatoes than usual, just because that's what people have stored away. These sweet potatoes from the Basic Roots bag look wonderful.

They included samples from a woman who works with beeswax that comes from bees in a church steeple on Rural Rd. on the east side. They also included a CD from the Dancin' Nancys, Everything Changes. Popcorn, apples, apple cider, tomatoes, salsa, eggs, and a yummy loaf of dessert bread completed the order, all from within 60 miles of Indianapolis. I'll check the next time I go to Kroger to see how we're comparing on costs. But, this is not the point. We're willing to renegotiate our finances to make this commitment to CSA.

I think this is a fine way to start something new with the beginning of Lent.

On Being Caustic

You know the kid who projectile-vomited on me in the playground (previous post)? Well, it happened again. Turns out she thinks I am caustic.

Caustic:

kôstk
ADJECTIVE:	1. Capable of burning, corroding, dissolving, or eating away by chemical action. 2. Corrosive and bitingly trenchant; cutting. See synonyms at sarcastic. 3. Causing a burning or stinging sensation, as from intense emotion: “Most of all, there is caustic shame for my own stupidity” (Scott Turow).
NOUN:	1. A caustic material or substance. 2. A hydroxide of a light metal. 3. The enveloping surface formed by light rays reflecting or refracting from a curved surface, especially one with spherical aberration.
ETYMOLOGY:	Middle English caustik, from Latin causticus, from Greek kaustikos, from kaustos, from kaiein, kau-, to burn.
OTHER FORMS:	causti·cal·ly —ADVERB caus·tici·ty (kô-sts-t) —NOUN

The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Copyright © 2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Published by the Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

--Bartleby.net dictionary

I'll admit, I'm sarcastic sometimes. Most of the time, it's not aimed at anyone, but at circumstances. And, usually, I'm joking around with someone who appreciates the wit. I can tell when the wit doesn't work, most of the time.

I feel surprised, I think, that I missed the cue with Dr. P-V, as I am now thinking of her. The wit is lost on her. I am finding in my new position that I am confronting more cheerless people under one roof than a convention of pessimists. I guess I need to watch my "caustic" wit if I want to get along here. But, wait a minute: do I want to get along here? How long before I join the convention?

I'll admit, it surprises me to find that someone actually doesn't like me and doesn't really want to improve that situation. How does someone become my age and stage of life and care about something like that? How does Dr. P-V get to her age and stage without more humor? I know she was sick, and I know she's exhausted.

I have decided to steer clear. For one reason, I am not long in this job and I choose to direct my energy for essential tasks; if we had to work closely, I would work at it more. Secondly, I really don't care very much about this person or the job to invest too much energy. I managed to live and work all these years without knowing her and I can live longer the same. Thirdly, I'll take responsibility for what's mine, but this is not just about me. If I cared more, I would pursue the question of what's behind her hostility. But, I don't care very much, so that's enough about this. I could care more, but not now.

Blogger friends: do you think I'm caustic? This is how I get therapy now -- invite criticism here.

No, wait -- don't answer that. I'd rather not know! I'll be so sensitive about it now that it will probably self-regulate and I'll learn from it and go on. Like a self-bailing raft, this wave has left my boat a bit unstable, but it will empty by the time I reach the next rapid, and it will be ok.

I admit, I'm sarcastic often. It's a defense against pain and fear. I'm smart and I have a good vocabulary. I can spot people's weaknesses and exploit them. Trouble is, if, on the receiving end, someone is looking to be hurt, they won't be disappointed.

My dad is like that. He is very thin-skinned and does not like to have his weaknesses handed back to him in a joke. I don't, either, but I have a streak of some kind that is ready to laugh at myself. That doesn't make me better than Dad, it just makes it easier to take a joke.

Now, if I came back to Dr. P-V, suggesting that she get a thicker skin or learn to take herself less seriously, then I would be perceived as victim-blaming. I do think there is something going on here that owes to victimization of some kind. People who experience trauma can have unresolved anger. It's sometimes easier to blame institutions and their representatives when overwhelming events cannot be blamed on anything more concrete. I could be projecting.

I need to consider that in my new position, I will be susceptible to these kinds of victims in my work. I am in a position that is more institutional and bureaucratic than I ever thought I would be. People will be looking for excuses to accuse me of abusing my power or seeking to exploit their weaknesses.

I think it would be better for me to learn how to live more into this reluctant gravitas, and to spend more energy trying to build people up, especially the weak ones, especially Dr. P-V. I can change my humor use in the workplace, but it's hard for a victim to change. I'd better take the high road here. I'll save my caustic wit for banter with my true friends, who are strong, smart, and enjoy word play.

On Work and Play

Today -- Friday, which, by the way, by just being Friday is probably significant to these coming thoughts -- we had a meeting. I came away feeling like we just left the playground, and one of the kids projectile-vomited all over me. I'm going to be sure I sit far away from her in all future meetings. It's so messy.

Another thought after the meeting was an appeal to my training. I wanted to say, "You know that anti-depressant you're taking? I don't think you're getting a therapeutic dose."

Two things have happened this week to cause me to think I need to keep looking for my vocation here in Indianapolis. First, I went to the web site of my former employer. I was so depressed to see what they're doing now, even more than when I decided to leave. It's hard to see a place in which I invested so many years taking such a turn "to the dark side." I was so relieved to get out of there. I should not have gone to the web site, but if I ever need a reminder that I made the right decision, I'll know where to look. I don't need a reason -- here's why:


... my precious family. Sister of my Darlin', my Darlin', and moi at the last RCA Dome game for the Colts, January 13, 2008, the ill-fated playoff game. The enemy of my enemy is my friend: Go Giants!

Secondly, today's meeting. Here's a chapter title or maybe an epigraph for one of the chapters in a book I'm going to write about my adventures in academe: If the faculty did not create it, it does not exist. It's a variation on, "The Emperor Has No Clothes."

So, here's the meme challenge:

1. Someone plays the peacemaker, the one who wants everyone to get along and play nice.
2. Someone plays the bully, the one who knocks you down and takes your lunch money.
3. Someone plays the sneak, the passive aggressive one who sets you up for a fall.
4. Someone plays the saboteur; just when you thought the game was almost over, this one picks up the ball and goes home, or changes the rules, or kicks you in the shin.
5. Someone plays the cry-baby, the one who wants everyone to play her way and let her win.

How is your workplace like the sandbox in pre-school?

Hoppin' John or Juan

Belated Happy New Year to my reader! Did you get your Hoppin' John this New Year's Day?

I like to make Jalapeño Cornbread with the peas and greens and all that. The fun part this year was using peppers that we grew in our pepper patch along the back fence. I froze them right off the plant in a plastic container. They thawed out just as beautifully as they went in, bright green.

I followed the recipe on the Bob's Red Mill Organic Yellow Corn Meal the way I always have to follow cornbread recipes that do not originate from my childhood family kitchen -- no sugar, a pinch extra salt, and buttermilk instead of milk, Clabber Girl baking powder -- no self-rising meal. I added a small can of whole kernel yellow corn with chopped bell peppers, a cup of cheese, and chopped chilis (jalapeños). I cut out the veins and seeds before chopping the peppers -- that's where the most hot comes from and not everyone in my household likes the same degree of hot that I like. I would like to run into a firey seed now and then, but it would be too much for Chiclette, not that she would touch my cornbread, anyway.

I made the same mistake my brother, Robert, ran into the summer he harvested his habaneros. He picked okra and squash before the peppers. If you've ever picked okra, you know how prickly the leaves and stems are, but maybe the damage is not evident unless you pick habaneros afterward. Merely picking the peppers and walking with them in his hands into the kitchen set his hands afire. If you handle chopped peppers, even an imperceptible whiff of juice or accidental contact with the knife blade or cutting board after de-veining, the capsaisin will burn into any bit of chapped or microscopically lacerated skin and stay there until some combination of washing, soaking in milk or other lactic acid like yogurt, and dilution by the skin's fluids gradually draws it away. I felt the peppers in my hands all afternoon. At least my hands did not swell like balloons the way Robert's did that day.

Diane gave me two nice ham bones left over and frozen from Thanksgiving for the pork meat usually called for in Hoppin' John. There was a generous amount of meat to pick off after boiling the bone with the black-eyed peas. We had such a wonderful gathering with those hams at Thanksgiving, so maybe some of the warm and generous energy of that day will follow us into the New Year.

Welcome, 2008, Happy New Year, love, health, and wealth to all my loved ones!

Sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent

Second Sunday of Advent

December 9, 2007

Ps. 72:1-7, 18-19; Isaiah 11:1-10; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12

Tuesday, December 4, 2007, 1:00 p.m.
Christian Theological Seminary
Chapel Service
Anne G. McWilliams, Ph.D.


Here in the seminary, it comes as no surprise when I say that the preacher’s task sometimes is hard. Every day that you rise from the congregation to preach, you want to bring God’s words to the people. You want to discern what we need to hear today.

Sometimes the lectionary seems like no help at all. Sometimes it is hard to tell why the lectionary provides all of the texts for a Sunday or a daily observance of the hours, in each of the scripture categories of Hebrew Bible, Psalms, Epistle, and Gospel. Sometimes they don’t hold together at all. Sometimes it seems like the only purpose in a given series of readings is to somewhat consistently lead those who want it through a faithful reading of their Bibles.

But, on these Sundays of Advent, the lectionary is very cooperative, solicitious, and helpful. Today’s texts for the Second Sunday of Advent all point to the future, to the eschatological vision of the reign of God, and to the qualities of peace and harmony among God’s people. Each of these passages sets us up for mending the splits, unifying the polarities, a return to Eden, Paradise, lions and lambs, red states and blue states together, under a ruler who resembles the perfection and the best of all that is good about God and persons in the best of all possible worlds.

Historically, these passages have been used by the Christian community to make several points at once. One idea is that the Old Testament is just theatrical foreshadowing in Christian history culminating in the coming of Jesus. It’s kind of like the Star Wars movies. You see the first film and live for twenty years in the simple awareness of the unlikely adolescent conquering hero, Luke Skywalker, until you see the prequel and learn that he was not the only unlikely hero, nor the most handsome one.

Isaiah’s text is one of those favored prequel passages of the Hebrew Bible. This passage foretells the perfect ruler, whose coming we anticipate, placing ourselves, by use of our imaginations and suspension of time and disbelief, eight centuries before the events of the Christmas story. We are supposed to see in Isaiah’s words the hope that is to come, while we, sitting in our pews 2800 years later, can be smugly satisfied, knowing that all of these absolutely perfect conditions and qualities have been fulfilled by our Jesus, our Christ. This is the snow-covered good, happy picture, so we can sing, “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus,” and know that this story is complete.

But, is this story complete? I don’t know about you, but I’m not sitting so comfortably with Isaiah: The Prequel today. Something is scratching at the back door of my consciousness as I hear this prophetic description. I think it’s because I have let the Psalm for today reach over and stick its elbow into the rib of this 8th century prophecy. The Psalm says, and I paraphrase: God, send us a leader, one who reminds us of you. Send us the one who leads with the kind of justice that you love, not the one we actually have now.

Isaiah’s word comes to us after a period of history that, if we try, we can understand pretty well from current events in which we are implicated. The people of Judah have been through horrific war and occupation by a cruel conqueror. They have been devastated, almost wiped out. If I use the word “decimated,” I would have to alter the definition from killing one out of every ten to only one out of ten left standing. I would almost describe it as an ethnic cleansing. It’s my interpretation of what leads up to this 11th chapter, this gloriously hopeful vision of the restoration of Judah.

Chapter 11’s vision of a future realm of the perfect Godly leader comes after the image of a wiped-out clear-cut vineyard. This destruction of Judah seemed to destroy God’s promise to make Abraham’s offspring more numerous than the stars of the sky or the sands of the oceans and deserts of the earth.

I know something about clear-cutting. It’s not a pretty picture. To tell you the truth, I was just responsible for clear-cutting 80 acres of land in my home county in Alabama. When the job was finished, the forester told me that the land looked like a bomb went off. Tree tops lay in a chaotic mess. There is nothing remaining of the pines, oaks, poplars, and cedars that grew up over fallow pasture land over the past fifty years or so.

If you are into conservation and ecology, I understand if you’re a little angry with me right now, especially if I told you that I intended to leave the land in that state of waste. You would not be the only one. The caretaker who hunts the land was furious because deer season was coming and his stands overlook the margins of the timberland.

But, here’s the rest of the story that I hope will save my reputation. Workers are coming in after the winter freezes. They will bring backhoes and bulldozers and pile the debris up, set fire to them, and reduce them to ashes. They will bring in seedlings and special tools and they will plant new trees, one by one. Over time, a new forest will grow. Every ten years or so, we will thin some of the trees to give the strongest trees the best chance to grow healthy. Maybe I will live long enough to see the fullness of the mature trees. Some day, in a few decades, it will be someone else’s turn to repeat the cycle, and take over this sustainable forestry plan – or, more likely, build some houses and condos.

The caretaker told me in an email over the weekend that the deer have returned and are using the same pathways they used when the timber was standing. Even the hunters are hopeful after the destruction of their playground. Good news, but not for the deer.

Isaiah’s prophecy of the recovery of Judah is restoration of the wasteland. In Isaiah’s story, the apparently dead vines are going to send out shoots on their own, and out of the wasteland, Judah will be restored. What an image!

Not only will the nation return to its glorious state of population, but out of the wasted people, God will bring forth a leader from the people, a descendant of David, not another foreign ruler.

Historically, we are told that this story was fulfilled already in history, 2800 years ago, in the reign of Josiah, a king from the lineage of David. And, to add even more drama and texture to the story, Josiah was just a child, maybe seven years old – a little child will lead them. Christian tradition uses this story of Isaiah’s account of Judah’s restoration and the reign of Josiah to foreshadow the coming of the Messiah, in the person of Jesus – the Christ.

Now, still, at least one more piece of this story is tugging on the edge of discomfort in my mind this Advent season. I just have to say, Come on! Isaiah’s vision is just too good to be true. It’s far too perfect to be believed. Can there be such a time of peace, harmony, and justice as Isaiah describes – now, 2007? I am pretty sure I pay taxes that enable a powerful nation to make wastelands of other nations.

From where I stand, looking at this story, and hearing about God’s heart being with the poor and helpless of the world, I have to tell you, it does not look good for those who abuse power and ignore the poor. I don’t see much hope in our current leaders using their gifts for sustainable practices of empowerment and restoration with the poor and the weak in the world instead of pursuing our unquenchable thirst for more oil, more control, more might.

But, just because the vision is too good to be true, we still should not leave this vision with Isaiah and Josiah back in the 8th century BCE. Nor does Isaiah’s eschatological vision end with the birth of Jesus Christ. Isaiah’s vision of God’s leader for God’s people comes forward to us and with us today.

This leader we seek is not coming from somewhere outside of our awareness, waiting to spring into our lives like an instant savior. I’m afraid the work is much more difficult than that, yet its reward is as rich and more joyful than Christmas. The call for justice and healing of this world begins inside of each one of us. Psychologically and theologically, we can let God’s leader be born in us beginning with this season. Here is my Advent challenge to you and me today: become the leader you seek.

Who Would You Invite...

Heavy sigh.

I am responding to a post on Thanksgiving by my friend, Mamalicious. For starters, the party would be small enough that everyone would fit around one 10- to 12-person round table. Better yet, make it an odd number. I remember what it felt like to be the one among the couples at parties. I was ok by myself, but invariably, someone would comment on the empty chair, with the suggestive wink, you know, "we'll have to work on getting someone in that chair beside you." For sure, there would be child-care, I'll pay, maybe at Mamalicious' house, just down the street.

Then, I would have my partner, Rachel, my friend Mary from Yellow Springs, Victor from Nashville, Mike and Kendall from Dayton, and Rachel's choice of four people. I would bring in Laurel and Cindy from Chicago, because they always have news of the Spirit that brings smiles, reflection, and a challenge to keep thinking.

Mike and Kendall would insure that the conversation would be witty. Mary would be sure there would be good dinner music and a long walk before and after the meal. With all of those people at the table, I don't think there would be a poet, writer, or philosopher whose contributions would add much more to the conversation. Besides, I know all of those people, and I don't get to see them enough. I can meet interesting strangers at Mamalicious's party. :-)

I love the big family parties, seeing the people you don't ever get to see except once or twice a year, and eating food you would not normally prepare at home. But, I have to confess, I get overwhelmed with the bigness and the manyness and the noisiness. I like it up to a certain point, and -- who knows what brings that point into being or when? -- then it is time to go.

I think the combination of not enough sleep the night before, and the third glass of wine, and realizing that I hardly saw a snap of the Packers game finally brought the point early in the evening for me. Back at home, I turned on the Jets/Cowboys game and immediately fell asleep on the sofa with Henry, Zen, and Caty piled around me. That nap was delicious. Later on, the Colts game (yea!) interrupted the nap, but not for long.

Thanksgiving this year was good, sweet people, my new family. We put out a tablecloth and permanent markers, had everyone sign the cloth. One of the parents drew her daughter's handprint, a great idea! The idea is that we will throw the tablecloth onto the table at future gatherings, and as more friends and children are added, the cloth represents all of the memories of all of those present, all of the meals, all the stories, all of the years. It's so sentimental, I'm sure I'll be out looking for a clear cover for it for the next occasion, to keep it from getting too soiled meal after meal.

Feast of St. Andrew

A few years ago, I started a practice that lasted just about three years, but it was great fun: celebrating the Feast Day of St. Andrew, the patron saint of Scotland. The holiday sometimes falls on Thanksgiving or that week, and sometimes, as this year, later. November 30 is the annual date. In the "for what it's worth" department, this feast day determines the beginning of Advent; the Sunday closest to November 30 is the first. Why I think of it in terms of Thanksgiving and not so much in relation to Advent, I am not sure. Maybe I'll figure it out by the end of this reflection.

I love Scotland. My heritage is some part Scots, but mostly Irish, and who cares, because I'm thoroughly a Southern American. Being from the South means that many families tell stories of origins. I know that most of my family told stories of County Cork, and ports of entry in the 19th century, not the 17th or 18th (no Pilgrims in our orchard, just Irish Protestants). So, my love for Scotland was learned, not a cradle birthright. I guess I have to credit Rachel B., her bagpipes, and that trip we took back in 1993, touring the Highlands and Western Islands. Then, in 1999, another stay with Rachel B. and Scott in Edinburgh, with another Western to Southern Islands (Islay, Kilmartin Glen, and fly fishing in the hills around the city), firmly situated my sense of familiarity with certain features of Scotland that I continue to love: single malt very peaty Scotch whiskey, folk music, the pipes, and pub food.

I have these friends, a colleague in a former job, and his partner, whom I associate with Scotland. They also have vacationed there. One went to graduate school there. I bounced off of this friendship with my first St. Andrews feast day celebration. They brought haggis, I cooked lamb and winter vegetables, 'nip and tatties, and, of course, a selection of Scotches that led us on a tour of memories of lochs, glens, distilleries, and favorite pubs. We concluded the meal with a fine selection of cheeses and a selection of ports. Port has some "rules" of obscure origin, having to do with bishops.

There are many traditions associated with St. Andrews Day. I must admit, my parties were selective in honoring traditions, but some, like a reading of the Selkirk Grace with the proper brogue does stand out in my memory.

I don't think I ever had more than a dozen people at the table. The order of lamb shanks, Frenched, always raised an eyebrow at the market, but this was a cost I gladly spent for an evening of brilliant story-telling, toasts of such eloquence and humor that bring a smile to my face even now.

What ended the tradition? I'm not sure, probably many factors, most of all, moving away from Dayton! I would love to try it again, or something like it, a holiday celebration that served as an antidote for the excesses of Thanksgiving, and opened the gate for the coming Advent season, which is loaded with parties. I guess I like a break, a threshold between one party season and another. The marketing of Christmas, after all, starts immediately after Halloween. It's just too much. Something there is that doesn't love the red-and-green onslaught so early. Like a betwixt-and-between transition, the Feast Day of St. Andrew marks the shift from all the over-burdened busy-ness of Thanksgiving.

Without the Feast of St. Andrew, Halloween, Presidents' Day, Veterans' Day, and Thanksgiving are all on the same avalanche to Christmas. St. Andrew stops the slide. The lamb, the haggis, the Scotch, they interrupt the insipid white potatoes, white meat (including pork, the other white meat), white gravy, white pasta much more effectively than the prodromal introduction of Christmas food onto the Thanksgiving sideboard, the cranberries, the deep winter cruciforms of Brussels sprouts, broccoli rabe, and kale. Before Thanksgiving slides into Christmas, give me the gamey chop or leg of lamb, the earthy parsnips mashed into that helpless potato. Give me Stilton on a Honeycrisp apple slice and an oakey Cabernet Sauvignon.

Those of us gathered for the St. Andrew feast were mostly transplanted to that city. Everyone at the table was there because they had returned from Home to this home away from Home, back to this chosen place, back from the travel-bound obligations. They could come from home and go back home with the distance of a pleasant errand. Work would resume. We would see each other on Monday, or in the coming week. The last of Ordinary Time would be over.

In order to celebrate like those few St. Andrews Day feasts, here in this new chosen place, the ingredients would have to be similar. All local friends and colleagues, a special menu unrelated to the Pilgrim feast, a long evening of stories and songs, the cozy familiarity, and then settling back into the mundane while shifting into a new season of life.

Are these ingredients close at hand? I would like to find out. Let Thanksgiving be Thanksgiving, and keep it from the inexorable slide into Christmas. I need something else, an evening so different, such an interruption of the same, to draw up the wooly blanket of the coming winter and to set the candle's glow against Advent's dying light.

How much can you love a place?

No, I don't love it here, but I love you. Do I have to love it here, the Midwest, to love you?

I choose to be here because I love you. I didn't keep going, I stopped here.

I like it fine here. It's a nice city, lots going on. Weather is ok, too cold for too long, but I can manage.

As long as I can travel to places I do love, I can live here.

I love our family, your family, our house, our home, our life together that is growing in this place.

I will probably learn to love it here. That's the way love is sometimes, a long slow growth into familiarity and easy living, after a long time of learning and allowing the rough edges to smooth out from frequent use, plowing over and over again the familiar terrain.

After lots of loss (the lessons of the past), I have loosened my grasp on Place. I'm a Southerner, so Place is supposed to be my Destiny, but that myth is over for me. That myth, grounded in some kind of nostalgia for an old aristocracy, of blood and land -- it's a powerful myth. I hold 80 acres as a security for the future, but it's a loose holding.

The 80 acres are all that's left of 160 acres of land grant to an ancestor in the Jackson era, Trail of Tears corridor, settlement of whites in North Alabama, the old Nashville territory, the old frontier. Dad sold 80 in my childhood to buy a house. Wise use, I think, but he sold the easier 80. My 80, I bought from them when my Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, to secure the land against catastrophic health care, Medicaid, in case something happened to Dad, and she had to go into a nursing home. All that "what if" never came true.

So, I hold on to 80 acres, just clear-cut the scrub pines, poplars, and red cedars that grew up in fallow pasture. Next comes reforestation, intentional this time, in pines, then every ten years, a thinning, pulpwood (more paper!). Eventually, if I live long enough, another clear-cut, reforestation, and on, and on.

Only, the city limit has gradually moved out closer and closer to the property. Cousins want to buy it. With this land, they could link their surrounding inherited properties in the middle of which my 80 acres sits like the puzzle piece that got lost under the sofa at the Thanksgiving party. Only it's a very neat puzzle piece, a rectangle of perpendicular lines and right triangles.

Imagine: a Jeffersonian engineer sent down from Nashville to draw out the parcels in neat horizontal and vertical lines, quadrants, townships; then, imagine, Andrew Jackson and the Cherokee inhabitants, farmers, lined up to march West. Something about this land stirs up enough trouble to loosen my grasp. (I think of CJD and her ancestors over on the western edge of the state). Hold on loosely.

I hold on to it like an ace up my sleeve. I think it's more like a jack, or maybe a queen. It's not that great, a couple of hills, a deep hollow, no access road. Not good for much, other than hunting and growing trees, maybe grazing cattle. Someday, it will be a nice feature in a housing development. Maybe a lake would fill in almost a third of the space, and around the lake, maybe a theme: log homes, an adjacent golf course, an improved road to the Elk River for early spring trout, summer bass and sauger, canoeing, kayaking.

I used to really love those 80 acres. I rode horses through it, sat in the log house window and daydreamed about living there.

Dad counted on my love for that property, to keep it in the family. He was so hurt when I clear-cut, wouldn't speak to me for months. But, then he needed something and now we're speaking again. So, his hold was tight, then it loosened, too.

Now, I wait, invest a bit in improvements, and wait. Someday, I may need to sell it. That's a bit of reality that cuts through the veneer of Place and reminds me that dirt and rocks and trees are not Destiny, they are not magical, but they are materials to be cultivated, tended, cared for, and, if necessary, traded for something of value.

So, I embrace you, but I loosen my grasp on Place. Here is home, where we are.

Croning

More about turning 50.

Some women have marked their passages into 50s with ceremonies of croning. Maybe without giving it very much thought (i.e., unconsciously), I had the idea in mind when I had the tattoo painted on my arm. Even as modern psychology recognizes stages of human development, so the ancient triple-goddess symbol of the triskele signifies a woman's development: child/child-bearer/crone. There would be much richness to draw upon from my own life and study.

I was born into a world populated by matriarchs, and I only knew my matriarchs, because the patriarchs died young, except for my father, currently residing in Alabama. My earliest memories are of, on my mother's side, my great-grandmother, whose husband was long out of the picture, my grandmother, whose husband died in battle in Germany in 1944, and my mother. On my father's side, I only knew my great-grandmother, whose husband died long before I was born. My father's mother died very early in my life, so I never knew her. Her husband abandoned the family when my father was 8 years old; he reappeared in death, by way of a life insurance check shared with my father by his estranged aunt, my grandfather's sister. So, if I drew a genogram, there would be symbols of death or estrangement attached to my male progenitors.

I am the first-born child in my immediate family of birth, and have two brothers (one is deceased), both, of course, younger than me in intervals of three and six years. With such a heritage, how could I not be a strong woman? Somehow, I became the adventurer, the risk-taker, and the tradition-smasher in my family.

There were other women in my family orchard who did not marry and/or bear children. By standards of small-town Southern mores, we were/are "eccentric." A student once jokingly called me eccentric one day, and I immediately recognized that he was right. I am not in the center of anyone's expectations, not even my own.

I recall having many late-night, wine-infused discussions with my mother about my not having children -- no, wait, start with not getting married -- and choosing to pursue a life of the mind. My heart would crack with guilt, I would cry myself to sleep, but I kept on choosing, making in the traveling a path that has become my life. Marrying into my family now, with an eight-year-old in the mix, does not really count, although I think there is something to be said for the exposure to the energy, the adjustment to, as a said previously, a much noisier and busier life.

Some say Chiclette will keep me young. Maybe that means I will not have the extent of eccentricity that comes with the kind of isolation and independence that some have after the child-bearing years have passed. No, Chiclette will not keep me young, but she will have an effect on the nature of my aging, that's for sure.

I think Chiclette's mom is the one who affects my aging the most. I'm sure I could fill another post with the benefits of exposure to her (Oh, yeah.).

The typical understanding of women in my orchard was that we who did not marry or bear children would stick around and care for the elders. So far, my elders have succumbed to disease, or, as with my Dad, remain healthy and independent. In the olde days, I would be expected to drop everything, build a room onto the family house, and take up nursing and housekeeping. This expectation is true in many communities here in the US, still, and everywhere. The extent of my compliance, so far, has been to reassure my father that if he should need me closer, I will always have room for him wherever I am living, and would not leave him to the kindness of strangers.

The embrace of the crone is, for me, a poetic venture. Do I see myself, as captured in my Wikipedia search on the term, crone, the hag, the scary old woman whose chief diet is small children (Hansel and Gretel), or the wise, beautiful elder woman, captured in this site? I would choose the latter, I think, although eventually, I think the former would be powerful, to carry eccentricity around the bend to a place understood by most people as somehow normal by the time a woman attains a certain age.

Croning is understood as a pagan ritual by most. So, what is pagan? Turning again to Wikipedia, I find that pagan, in its least value-laden meaning, obtains to the rural, the rustic, and the folkways of simple people. The negative meaning obtains to the uncivilized, religiously and socially backward, even hostile and anti-Christian.

Now, let's get real. My Christ-haunted life is really, honestly paganistic. I mean, I regularly take part in these kinds of rituals: worshipping a God who is actually three, celebrating feast days of beings who might be less than divine but who have, in death, gained elevated super-human status, and partaking regularly in a ritual of flesh-and-blood eating memorial to a ritual slaughter, complete with an epic mob scene probably more shocking than the public murders of Mussolini and Tito.

I do not kid myself. I live very close to paganism. What is there to prevent having a croning ceremony? I need to think this over. Maybe some will have suggestions?

On Turning 50

Considering that the alternative to turning 50 is pretty bleak, at least on this side of that mystery called "Life," but it's also still shocking to look in the mirror sometimes, I am searching for a way to sustain a sense of deliberate and mindful intent about reaching this age. Actually, I started celebrating turning 50 ever since I turned 49.

The age of 48 was a milestone for the simple reason that Nancy died at 48, and I immediately began to feel as if I were in my 80s, as if I could know what it felt like to be in my 80s. I'm told that is a common feeling, when one outlives a spouse, especially when the death is so sudden and the illness was not known fully until it was all over. And, in a strange symmetry, another important person also died within the year, but my age, so when I turned 48, I realized that not only had I survived, but he did not. Then, in 2001, my mother died too young. I hate Alzheimer's Disease. Then, my brother died at 44, he would have been 45 in September, in June 2005. So, when I reached 48, in 2005, fairly healthy and still standing up, I was sort of surprised. In 1998, and pretty much through 2006, I had very complicated grief.

I did not fear dying or wish for death at 48. Rather, I just had this burden of that age in mind the whole dang year. I made some very difficult decisions in that same year, like leaving a toxic relationship and a toxic workplace. So, after some good work on grief (Thanks to some good therapy and good meds, and in huge credit to PeerSpirit), I went into my 49th year with true rejoicing.

For my 49th birthday, as if to say, "I'm still standing!" I went out and got myself a tattoo, a triskele from my pre-Christian Irish heritage (lots of Irish in my background).

I also bought my vintage Airstream travel trailer (on another post). I went to Michigan to pick it up on a Wednesday, left it in the parking lot at my job, and left on Friday for a week-long retreat for "Isolated Activists" where I met Rachel.

This time last year, Rachel and I were courting and sparking, and I was wrestling with my determination to leave the Midwest and go to Seattle, in the Airstream, after sifting through all of my possessions, finishing my year of teaching, and letting go of tons of baggage of all kinds. But, by Thanksgiving, I think, I knew my move west would be far shorter distance than I had planned.

Let me just say, I made the right decision, to come home to Rachel. I also must admit that, at times, I do wonder "what if" about that cross-country plan to move to Seattle, but those are fleeting thoughts that have mostly to do with my own "stuff" related to my new role as a "woman of maternal influence" and having a suddenly much more noisy and busy life. My wishful thinking about going into my fifties with some gravitas? Forget about it.

Becoming 50 also brings the focus more sharply on the real health concerns that, addressed now, will make for a better body in which to live this noisy and busy life. I get the baseline colonoscopy on Friday. I've had some other tests, routine stuff, and it all looks good, except for the cholesterol. I really want to control that with diet and exercise and not the meds, so I'm going out to the market for dinner and staying away from my nemesis, fast food and having dinner out in restaurants.

Turning 50 needs to be a milestone for me. I am focusing in on it because there is so much good living to continue, so much to look forward to, and I do love my life so much I could shout! I just shouted!

Scum-sucking Bottom-feeders

Now that I have sort of settled in on Blogspot and Google (and for those who have the password, on .Mac), I am consolidating my blog efforts here.

I posted this piece after we had our service in the Outer Banks in July. I had posted part of it on our service photos, just in case someone identified one of my friends and threatened this friend with the church's witch-hunt against allies of GLBTQ persons.

Here it goes:

A joke is meta-logic, using a common situation and common language and giving it a little twist that magically connects to an experience of disorientation or discomfort that can also be commonly experienced. Most of the time, a joke makes one laugh. Sometimes, a joke evokes tears; and sometimes, the response is both (have to laugh or cry, but have to do something!).

Meta-analysis requires sophistication of logic applied to a bit of speech or other performance. It also kills jokes.

Meta-logic also can be quickly seen in an artistic expression. Recently, my partner and I had a ceremony of holy union, a covenant service, and we had a wonderful time. We were surrounded by life-long friends and family, across the generations, from age 5 to -- what? -- maybe 75?I posted on another blog all of the pictures and pieces of our ceremony, and I protected it all with a password, so only those who were invited could enjoy my presentation of our story.

Because the ceremony was attended by some whose ministry credentials would be threatened and by children whom I wanted to protect from predators, I felt I should act defensively. But, the caution also raised questions because not all was revealed transparently.

As some sort of joke, I posted a little warning sign with this message: Note to the scum-sucking bottom-feeding witch-hunting ordination-stealing idiots of the church: [The other clergy person present] did not preside over this ceremony of holy union. This site is password protected, so go away and mind your own business.

Someone who was somewhat removed from the situation, yet was given access to the site (always a risk) saw my message and sent this email to my partner:

I recently viewed the links you sent from your union.It has been over a year and half that we have thought about getting together for dialog. (I first mentioned this back in the fall of 2005) I think we will not get the chance to dialog about the [unidentified denomination's] stance on ordaining homosexuals, or admitting them for membership. Maybe I am just assuming you were ordained in the [unidentified denomination], and wonder how that came about as you are openly homosexual. I remain curious as to how you reconcile this stance as you live your life in a Church that does not value your whole being.The main reason I don't think we can dialog is the following note displayed on one of the links you sent regarding your recent union. [then she quoted my note above.] I don't know if this is your true feeling about your church, or your partner's feeling about the Church where you pastor and serve. I know, for me, while I may not agree with a particular religion's stance on homosexuals, I value dialog or accepting them as they are. I thought you did as well. The above note doesn't fit with dialog. I am sure we will cross paths …End of message.

So, my partner, of course, sent this message to me because it was in response to my blog. I have taken out all identifying information. After I read that email to my partner, I wrote the following on my own blog:

Good morning! There is a joke among private-practice physicians: What's the difference between a trial lawyer and a catfish? One's a scum-sucking bottom-feeder, and one's a fish. My late partner, N, told me that joke so many years ago, and it is so well-understood in my circle of friends, that I did not think much about it. So, now, I have to conduct a meta-analysis, which always kills a joke.

Someone was offended by my warning message on one of my photo pages. Since that person is reading this, she obviously has been given the password, meaning she was trusted with our thoughts and celebrations. But, perceptions can vary. The expressions on this blog are mine, not my partner's. This person has declared that she cannot be in dialogue with my partner now, because of my words. I'm not sure what that is about, but guess what? You're in dialogue now! I'm responding.

So far, no one has made a mission out of disturbing my partner's ability to be in ministry as an ordained minister. Her ministry has flourished within the choices she has made. She can speak for herself on this point. I celebrate and would defend her ability to be in ministry in the way she expresses that at [a wonderful gay-friendly church in our city].

But, the other clergy person present, has been threatened -- and she is straight! Married to [cool guy] Mom of 2 kids.This friend is guilty by association -- with me. She still has her credentials because people who are not scum-sucking bottom-feeders have exercised the kind of grace and reason that protect the innocent in times of witch-hunting. The same is true for my partner.

I did lose my credentials for ministry ten years ago because someone/s made a mission of having me blocked from ordination. Not only did I lose my credentials (I chose to resign rather than go through the public ordeals that have made news in recent years. That's a choice for another blog posting later), but, the credentials of lots of people I love were brought into question simply because they were my friends, including students in my campus ministry group, seminarians, or newly ordained clergy. I chose to go to battle for them with the Board of Ordained Ministry, not for myself. It's a long story, and I will write all about it soon. If you are not willing to support us, please be kind and gracious, and do not pass our passwords to anyone else. Please be in dialogue. I'm all ears.

And then what happened???!!!

Now, this is the perfect screen for all sorts of projections. Privately, I have had several responses to my private blog. These responses could have been comments posted on the blog, but I do provide email for private correspondence and that was the choice. Interesting that the one who wrote the email to my partner did not choose the blog comment link or the private email to me, provided on the blog, but wrote separately to my partner!

Then, when my partner responded to her, the writer scuttled sideways, taking back all of the animus of the origninal message, writing, I couldn't tell whose blog it was.

Come on -- it's on the first page, Annie Mac's Living Human Document! My partner and I are individuals, connected in very significant ways (viva la connection!), didn't this person also read about the construction of our rings? Of course, I can have an opinion about the denomination that differs from my partner's. I love my partner and support her ministry, while also not supporting the church. So, no wonder the writer is not in dialogue -- such practices do not move anyone toward light.

Of course, with such powerful emotions in play, I have had some encouragement to look deeper into my own motives for posting the joke about scum-sucking bottom-feeders. To wit, ....

... One response that I respect very much is that I am still trying to work out past pain, that of losing my credentials. I want to write more about this, and I will. I think there is truth in the observation, but there is also much that is very present, very current about the pain. It is true that my United Methodist ordained minister friend could get in lots of trouble for her presence at my service, and for making a presentation to us, a gift that I requested from her -- that was in no sense presiding over the exchange of vows or declaration of marriage! (I feel I should say it again!) I know she could get into trouble because she was threatened, along with many other clergy, for similar witch-hunting in another location.

Another response was the inspiration for removing the negative energy from my iWeb blog to this blog. The warning note that appeared on one of my photo pages appeared quite jarring to one friend whose observations carry the sweet old character of Southern gentility. I used some harsh names and set up the unpleasant sensory overload of scum-sucking and bottom-feeding alongside some beautiful sensory presentations on the iWeb blog.

I admit, I did have the dissonance ringing and the grotesquery of visual experience as I placed the warning in the fist place, with the rather harsh, "go away and mind your own business."It is tragic, isn't it, that a joyful occasion can be visited by such ugliness as the fear that something bad could happen to my friend? And, isn't this also like life, that we all make choices for happiness, and we prepare for the consequences the best we can, and still the life-giving strives amid the death-dealing.

I think the life-giving wins. Releasing dialogue and possibility into life, like this reflection, might be one of the positive steps.

Airstream Chronicles

1968 Airstream Trade Wind, twin model, built in Jackson Center, OH
purchased from a family in Michigan in September 2006

We took the Airstream down to Brown County State Park for a few days during the October break. Leaves were really confused by the warm weather. By the time we left, some cool weather had coaxed some color into the maples, yellow woods, and smaller trees and bushes like dogwoods, persimmons, and sumac. We had Rachel's perfect sabbatical schedule each day: breakfast, a walk, lunch, a nap, supper, and in between all of those highlights, lots of reading and "quiet time."

We've taught ourselves a lot about campground Airstreaming by making the short trip down to Brown County State Park, IN, a few times this past spring, summer, and fall. We've gone for as few as a couple of days, to as long as our recent six day sojourn. It's a beautiful place to learn about this kind of camping.

We will be working on the Airstream for years to come, from the looks of things. We feel pretty safe about driving at least as far as the state parks. I had the axles checked out, new electric brakes added, with new breakaway. Some new tires would be a good idea first thing next season. For now, we're good to go for tailgating downtown. And, we feel safe with the systems (water, gas, electricity). But, some major upgrades are needed.

Go Colts!

Go long, Gavin! Mom Krista warms up for the big game in the Lilly parking lot.

Rachel, Chiclette, and me hanging out pre-game. Remember how hot it was that day? Yuk! But, we won!!!

I even took the Airstream to Chicago to celebrate Laurel's new book. Here we are by the U. of C. Lab School, just down from the Robie House on 58th in Hyde Park. I'm sure stranger things have happened, but we did attract some attention, including very nice fellow Airstreamers (66 Sovereign). Jim goes to the Lab School, ninth grade, and dad John works for the university.

Paul's toast to the author for her latest accomplishment, Beyond Monotheism.

Parked beside the University of Chicago Lab School

The Robie House, houses the Frank Lloyd Wright museum and tour.

John and Jim stopped by after school (UC Lab School) one day, proud owners of a 1966 Sovereign of the Road, a much bigger family model of Airstream. They invited me to join in a rally coming up in Illinois -- maybe next time!

We know that the upholstery and carpet have to go. Someone updated the cushions in recent years, but the frames are original and the carpet is old Michigan hunting-lodge gross. Well, at least we don't mind having the old carpet while we are making repairs. How about that Naugahyde and the lovely floral print? I'm hoping to update with some of my collections of fly fishing "stuff" and to make more space for reading and writing.



But, such superficial concerns will come much later. First, we have to rehab at least the back end, gut the bath/shower/lav, holding tank, and, most likely, repair the flooring. The floor (don't have a good picture yet) is not rotten, but a previous owner seems to have cut away a piece of the flooring to make room for some plumbing repairs. That's not good for long-term use and travel. These rear-end bath models have a tendency to separate under the weight of the holding tank. The integrity of the frame/floor/shell are crucial to a happy trip, I'm told.

And, there is the matter of the accident that the previous owners had coming down from upstate MI to meet me with the trailer. Going 80mph on the interstate, the p.o. discovered that he failed to tighten the lugs on one of the wheels when the wheel came flying past him on the road. The skin is torn and will have to be repaired -- another winter afternoon or two (at least) of work to be done.

I'm told these skin repairs are not impossible -- just the kind of encouragement I need to tackle the steep learning curve it will require, including riveting and sheet metal cutting.

Speaking of travel, we learned that our Airstream was born to travel, not to park for more than three days with the kind of heavy use of the water system and the holding tank (black tank, sewer, etc.) that we had over the recent break. We felt that without water and sewer hookups, always the case at the state parks, we would have to refill the water tank and dump after three days, even if we didn't use the shower. We like to cook, and we use a lot of water with cleaning up the pots and pans and dishes. However, knowing these limits gives us encouragement to plan to travel more after we know we have the frame, axles, wheels, and tires to take us on a longer journey. Yes, this is certainly a PROJECT!

Some of My Favorite Things

This is me, IndyAnne, on the right.

Here we are back in the summer, between my move to Indy and our service in the Outer Banks in July.

Rachel and Chiclette are my family.

On a private blog, I recorded our service of covenant that we celebrated with extended family and friends at the Outer Banks of North Carolina, July 22, 2007. That was the spiritual and symbolic seal of our covenant. The legal part that most resembles marriage are the contracts we have for our home's deed, life insurance, and things like that. Maybe one day the politics will settle down and we can have the same rights as other adults who love each other, want to be joined in the civil part of marriage that offers the protections that we have to pay extra for now.

The private blog is much more romantic about our love, our beautiful rings, and how wonderful the whole thing was. This blog is much more about politics, and a place to extend contentious conversations out into the universe. When I put these kinds of rants on the private blog, it felt much too heavy. Perhaps this blog will be a better location for these heavier and sometimes very painful conversations and reflections. I say "conversation" because I do invite dialogue.

The next post will be about some issues that came up around our service.