Post-Easter

Last Sunday was the Sunday after Easter - and, since I was being drug to church by my boyfriend, I in turn drug Cristi and baby Samuel to church with us.  We had plenty of excuses not to go - and it’s not that we don’t like going to church, it’s that we travel every weekend and work in churches and sometimes on the rare Sunday morning that we have off, we try to catch up on rest - and well, we have been busy, and we are tired.

The minister stood in the pulpit and asked the question that should be, and used to be so easy - when did you see Jesus this Lenten/Easter Season?  For a girl who is a self-proclaimed seeker, finder of Jesus in the unexpected places, I had no answer.  40 days and nothing.  Could it be? 

It all started in the right direction - the first Sunday of Lent, Cristi and I managed to get ourselves to church without any prodding.  The minister spoke of how Lent is an anticipation of all that is going to break through...light through dark, flowers through snow, life through death - these 40 days of Lent, the days we were to live in the anticipation of the promise.  We were so moved that morning, that at the closing hymn - BE STILL MY SOUL - Cristi wept and her teardrops soaked the open hymnal. 

But, since that Sunday, we’ve been busy.  Crisscrossing the midwest and southeast, playing concerts, coming home, unloading the truck, washing dishes, cleaning the house, changing the sheets, setting up the sound system, rehearsing, planning birthday parties, giving the dog his medicine, tuning instruments, changing guitar strings, making coffee, making breakfast, making lunch, cleaning up after lunch, setting the table, holding the baby, singing to the baby, changing diapers, finding teething rings - and fast, sweeping off the porch, writing songs, taking out the trash, recycling, reading books, planning new CD projects, taking the truck to the shop, booking and scheduling more concerts, paying bills, rubbing coins together to make ends meet...

The seasons speak of the rhythms of our lives.  Our daily tasks, I am learning, also speak, and most times I miss the voice.  I don’t hear. 

But, I think of the daily ritual of sliding my hands into the warm dishy soapy water.  My kitchen window looks west out over the garden where the soil has been tilled, the dirt turned up and in early spring we face the task of pulling out the rocks so that something can grow out of the hard mountain soil.  I think of all the nights at sunset, that I have scrubbed the dishes clean, and glanced up and out at the garden - I have felt a digging at my heart, a need for a clearing of the dirt, so that light can come through darkness - flowers through snow. 

So, last Sunday as I sat fidgety in the pew, faced with the question - when did I see Jesus this Lenten Season? - I found great comfort in the New Testament reading, a camaraderie with the walkers of the Emmaus road.  I mean, Jesus himself came up and walked with them and they didn’t recognize him.  But, it was in the rhythm of daily life - feeling hunger, getting dinner ready, setting the table and sitting down with the stranger, that the moment of recognition happened and is happening.  Jesus was there - and had been there all along.  And, they ask themselves - where not our hearts burning within us?

The church service closed last Sunday with a prayer.  A 30 year old man with downs syndrome attends the church and he stood in the back and prayed out loud.  I couldn’t understand much of his holy utterances, but I did catch one phrase, as if he had lifted from the most ancient of liturgies - Oh God, keep our hearts burning within us. 

So, tonight, when it is time to do the dishes, I’ll look out at the garden.  I’ll notice the first brave green buds coming through the dirt, fulfilling the promise that winter doesn’t last forever, that light can come through darkness, flowers through snow, life through death -  and I will feel the truth of it in my heart - the moment of recognition - and I will whisper the sacred prayer - Oh God, keep our hearts burning within us. 

                                                     Cristi in the garden last summer.....

Freedom (and Water) in our Nation's Capital

Justin convinced me to accompany him on a business trip.  Since Alathea had the weekend off and Mandee was on a cruise with her sister, why not.

I knew it wouldn’t be a vacation, per se, as Samuel is 6 months old, but at least it would be something of an adventure, the conference being held in D.C.

I can sum up the first few days...  Justin was in meetings, mostly.  And Samuel was mostly either really great or really impossible.  No one ever told me that motherhood is an exercise in mental illness, euphoria to desperation in a matter of seconds and back again when baby smiles at you all innocently as if you had just imagined the fit he just threw.  All of this mania fueled by sleep deprivation, and it’s a wonder moms, as a population, aren’t guilty of more than wearing outdated jeans.

On the third day of the trip, Justin had only one morning meeting left, after which we had no agenda.  His boss recommended the architecture museum or the Jefferson memorial, both of which neither of us had visited before.  We also had the option of resting in the plush hotel room, only Samuel and his momma were ready for a change of scenery.  We also needed to leave enough time for the room to be cleaned as the trash cans were full of dirty diapers and coffee cups and to-go packages from the hotel deli.  Oh yes, and the poop smear on the bed sheets from Samuel blowing out of his diaper.  Long gone are the days of just asking for extra towels and forgoing the room cleaning.

Justin returns from his meeting with an idea.  At his meeting with Rachel, she informed him of a protest/demonstration for freedom in Egypt taking place at the White House. 

One of the many things Mandee said before she left was something to the effect of, “Throughout the centuries and through the course of history, we have heard the cries of freedom from the oppresor coming out of Egypt.”  Her profound statement came somewhere between, I hope I packed the right stuff to wear, and are you sure you know how to give Thumper his medicine?

I want to go to the protest.  I also know what it will take to get there in less than an hour:  Samuel needs to eat again and have his diaper changed.  I need to wash bottles so that I can pack his bag.  He’s finally napping peacefully and so we will have to wake him which may result in a fussy baby for the afternoon.

I also need to put on some make-up, do something with my unwashed hair, get the baby spit-up off of my jeans.

Post flurry in the hotel room, we somehow manage to get out the door in a timely manner.  We walk to the metro station, guess at where we were going and how much money to load on our tickets. 

Samuel has his first ride on the subway and he’s happy, taking it all in.

We get off at metro center where all of the different trains meet.  Still not exactly sure what happened but when we exit, we are literally dead center in the middle of Macy’s.  All I know is that we’re not in Unicoi anymore.

We find our way out of housewares, out of cosmetics, out of the mall and towards the White House.  Justin keeps commenting on how few people are out today.  It’s Valentines Day... our beloved nation’s capital is not exactly a hot-spot for the most romantic day of the year.

We are sure that once we get to the White House, we will find masses of people  congregated to celebrate the liberty of humanity.  Instead, we find a small but impressive demonstration of end-of-the-world-ers, replete with newly painted vans and a culturally diverse group of believers.

An asian lady asks Justin if he would like a brochure.  She explains, “We’re rooting for the rapture on May 21st.”

“No, I’m alright,” he says.

“I hope so,” she comments, with a bit more condescension than compassion.

Wow.  We laugh.  But I start to feel slightly guilty, as if we should have heard her out.  What if she’s right.  In my head, I make a reference to the verse, “No one knows the hour,” partly to convince myself.

The next morning, we head to breakfast at this cool little restaurant across from the hotel.  Great food.  Eclectic.  Charming. Diverse to the extreme.  Open to families, babies specifically, unlike the sushi joint we tried the night before.

We are greeted not only by the staff, but also by the man at the table next to us.  “Hey, little guy,” he says to Samuel.  “Alright.  How y’all doin?  Sure is nice out today.  What’s up little man?”

Being the introvert that I am, I start to get anxious that our whole meal will be talking to this man.  But he settles.  For whatever reason, I can’t stop looking at him.  He’s still smiling.  Kind.  He asks his server if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to get some more water.  I realize that’s all he’s having.

It’s never safe to assume, but likely he’s homeless.  And as he gets up to leave, I help Samuel wave him good-bye.  He smiles and waves back and grabs his crutches and hobbles out. 

I’ve been thinking a bit, ever since, about faith, about freedom.  I’ve been thinking about this man’s faith as opposed to the woman rooting for the rapture.  One triggers my guilty complex.  One leaves me feeling vulnerable, human. 

And I’ve been thinking about how fortunate we are to live in a land where our faith is not mandated, where we are free to root for whatever we choose.

Still, for all of our freedom, there will always be poverty and injustice, sometimes echoing out of Egypt and sometimes in the smile of the man sitting next to me.

And I’ve been thinking about our table-neighbor making good on Jesus’ offer, “Come and drink from a well that never runs dry.” 

I echo his words, “Excuse me, Sir.  If it’s not too much to ask, could I trouble you for some more water?”  I wait for my glass to be filled.