Belonging

Here is a great story. It didn’t happen in Shake Rag, but it could have. It is about a man who lives on a mountain. Shake Rag doesn’t have any mountains, unless you count Chalk Bluff. Chalk Bluff is just that, a bluff that is as white as Mamma Bea’s freshly bleached sheets. Back when, the young folks would ride their mules over and have bon fires and roast hot dogs. Kids are too sophisticated for that today. There’s not an app for that.

Anyway, this is a story about a man and it starts when he starts, with his parents. His parents were a couple of young people who made a bad choice in life that resulted in a pregnancy. 60+ years ago, this was a source of shame and humiliation for families. The local sheriff came and gathered up the young man, took him and the young woman to the local judge and forced them to get married. It didn’t last long, the marriage that is. It was really just to give the soon to be born son a name. The young couple divorced and went their separate ways. The father remarried and soon had children that he was very proud of but his first born remained a family secret. The “family secret” grew up, joined the army, went to jail for a period and then moved onto a mountain and lived in the woods. No house, no plumbing, no electricity, just the woods.

The mountain man knew who his father was and kept a watchful eye on his secret family. During family reunions, the mountain man would linger along the fringes of the woods watching, just watching. It sounds a bit scary and strange to us but it was hardly that. It was really more about a young man who wanted to belong. He could see his own face in the face of his dad and no doubt felt a connection that was powerful. Yet, he remained on the fringe, just watching. Never being a part.

He eventually married, had two children and built a one room shelter for his family from scraps of lumber that he picked up here and there. He made a living from harvesting ginseng from the woods and selling it. He became well known in the little community nearest him. He was known to be trustworthy, despite his oddities. He once wanted to borrow $500 to buy a car. He walked into the nearest bank, told them what he wanted and walked out with $500. No collateral, just his good reputation.

One day, one of his half sisters learned about the family secret. She pondered as to what to do. She decided it was time to meet this mountain man who was her brother. She took a drive, turned down a road that lead deep into the woods passing “No Trespassing” signs all along the way. She was a bit nervous wondering what kind of reception she would receive. She pulled up to what can only be described as a shack and got out. She was greeted by a rough looking man dressed in overalls, no shirt, a beard down to his belly button and a shotgun. But she didn’t see any of that. What she saw was the face of her dad. “Hello, my name is ….” He cut her off and said, “I know who you are.” They hugged, he invited her in. Now, she visits this brother on a regular basis. She has begun taking her daughter. They belong.
How many times have we stood on the fringes wanting to belong? How many times have we overlooked those standing outside the circle of inclusion? What a tremendous gift of grace this sister offered when she reached out and gently pulled the “family secret” into the circle of welcoming love. We can do that. We can, with a little effort and just a bit of courage, reach out and include others. Jesus did: the woman at the well, Zacheus, the thief, the rich young ruler, Mary, the adulterous woman, . . . me . . . you.

Mamma Bea might say, "Come in the house."

God says, "This son, this daughter, was lost but now is found."

Thanks be to God.

Kwerky Kid

Five years ago next month a little boy came to our house for the first time. A friend of a friend had mentioned that we might be interested in adopting. So they dropped him off for a trial run, sort of. He had all his fingers and toes. He had huge brown eyes. On the back of his hands were scars. I’m not sure he even knew they were there or that they shouldn’t be there. They just were. They spoke volumes to us though. This little boy had already travelled a long road from being abused as an infant and then passed off to a strange family for safe keeping and even now was being passed off again. He must have wondered why and for how long. Would this be another lay-over on the journey or would this house, this family, offer sanctuary from a nomadic life that began with wounds from a world of sin.

We soon discovered the little boy was, well, active. Way to active. Off the chart active. He didn’t walk through the house, he bounced, like the super ball I had as a kid. ADHD were the letters that were attached to his medical file. Drugs were in order. It had to be either Adderal for him or Prozac for us. He needed help more than we did. Being tossed from Kindergarten every other day would not be a resume builder for the first grade. ADHD kids have difficulties in many ways. They are usually developmentally behind as much as three years. They can’t focus. They are often labeled lazy because they can’t concentrate to do their work so they do nothing. And, with a brain that never rests, they can have behavior issues. In lay terms, they are trouble makers. Labels, discipline, being ignored, considered lazy and not being able to relate to peers are bound to leave scars. These are not as evident as the others but scars none the less.

The boy still displayed unusual behavior, even for an abused child with ADHD. We had every test done that could be done. Nothing. Nada. No one could tell us anything definitive. There were terms thrown around by professionals that described a developing Hannibal Lector. About then we adopted the boy knowing that his journey was getting longer and harder every day. We hoped that permanency would help. It didn’t. Tortuous melt downs. Chairs being thrown. Screams that “the music is too loud”, “it’s too cold”, “I have to eat before I can put on my socks”, constant whining, ignoring adults, reclusive behavior, repetitive sounds, intense desire to be right, correcting adults, melting down when corrected, and oh so much more. Then Jana said the right word, “Asperger’s”. He was tested and that was it. The brown eyed boy had Asperger’s Syndrome. It explained it all. We were concerned and relieved at the same time. Finally, a diagnosis. Wait. What the heck is Asperger’s? It’s a form of autism and that’s about all I know, for now. We are learning, almost daily. What we do know is that you can’t see it. It’s not a scar on a hand that explains a world gone wrong. It’s invisible. What we see are symptoms. Not everyone gets it. Recently a teacher called the boy by a derogatory epithet when what she was observing was a symptom, not a “normal” kid making bad choices. I was angry. I wanted to say, “Look at the scars.” but there aren’t any that can be seen. Not for this. I realized too that this would be part of his journey. Misunderstandings, assumptions, judgments, and labels that he is “kwerky,” if people are kind, will be his lot.

Thomas asked Jesus if he could see his scars. Jesus showed him his hands. The scars verified for Thomas that it was indeed Jesus but for me, the scars speak volumes about a world of sin. A world that is not what God intended. It is a world where tornadoes rip through towns, wars begin over greed, adults are left on the streets to live and that quirky children are teased and maligned. It is a world where children on the other end of the autism spectrum are locked away behind blank stares. It is a world where adults sometimes behave like children. It is a world . . . well, you get it. What holds it together for me is the unassailable belief that God will and does continue to work. Creation continues. Grace somehow brings humanity forward even at the almost intolerable pace of a snail. So, thanks be to God for not giving up on quirky humanity and little boys who say, “No Dad, it’s 8:31, not 8:30.”

Thanks to “Geek Palaver” for the seeds for this story.

A Wild Rose

My mom used to say that Mama Bea could grow anything. Mom thought it was the dirt she used from the barnyard. I think it was Mama Bea. Besides the huge vegetable garden, her yard was full of flowers. I don’t remember what she grew; I just know she grew a lot of it. There were some flowers that she identified as poppies to me one time. She said that they helped you sleep at night. I didn’t ask any questions. She had the elusive green thumb that seems to have disappeared from the DNA chain after her. She once dropped a nail on the ground and the following spring there was a hardware store in that very same spot. She was good.

Mama Bea enjoyed sharing her plants with others. I think she took great delight in digging up a plant, wrapping the root ball in a paper sack and sending it off to another home. The house where I grew up was surrounded by plants and flowers that had migrated from Shake Rag to Grenada. Along the back fence there was a rose bush that had come from Mama Bea’s. It must have been twenty feet long. Someone said it was a wild rose. Every spring it bloomed for about a week and then it was done.

When Dad died, I dug up a piece of the bush and took it back to Waco. I planted it in a sunny spot, watered it and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. Nothing. Three years went by and the bush not only did not bloom, it didn’t grow, not even an inch. I guess being wild also means being stubborn. When we moved to Huntsville, I dug up the pitiful plant, threw it in a bucket, put it in the truck and planted it some three months after moving into our new home. After just a few days, it began to perk up. It grew . . . and grew . . . and grew. I think it sent runners out at about the rate of a foot a day. Then in May, like it always did in Grenada and has ever since here in Huntsville, it began to put on buds, little bitsy buds that begin with a yellowish tint and then open to white blossoms. Today, right now, there are about two hundred blossoms on the bush. They will showcase their beauty for about a week and then they will be gone until next year.

The wild rose requires a lot of work for just a week’s worth of enjoyment. I’ll cut it back at least three times during the summer and will suffer the pricks of some wicked thorns. It will never be tamed. But it is worth it, at least for me. The bush begins calling to me with the first signs of spring each year. I’ll peak out a window watching for the first of those tiny buds to appear. They are reminders. They remind me of a childhood that is long since gone, along with my parents and my grandparents. They remind me of the good and the bad of growing up at 922 Franklin Street in Grenada, MS. They remind me of my roots in Shake Rag and a farm that nourished many bodies and my soul.

“A wandering Aramean” the Hebrew grandfather begins as he recounts the story of his people. He remembers, because it is important to remember, the good and the bad, the lean times and the times of abundance, the delicate blossoms and the wicked thorns. We remember because where we came from makes us who we are and what we will become. We remember because it is important to recall God’s presence through all that life offers: the celebrations and the healing graces of pricks from life’s wicked thorns. Despite our hard work, life will always be untamed offering us a full slate of experiences. Thanks be to God for His faithfulness through all of it. Deuteronomy 26:5ff

I'll Fly Away

I have a favorite uncle on my mother’s side. Actually he’s my only uncle on my mother’s side but if he weren’t, he would be. I’ll call him “Uncle Fred”. Uncle Fred grew up at Shake Rag and is the source of many of my stories that occurred before I was even conceived, I mean thought about. He is a veteran of the Korean War and then served the state of Mississippi as a Highway Patrolman. He served faithfully for a hundred years or so, eventually becoming District Supervisor. After retiring, he had a brief stint as sheriff in his small town in north Mississippi. I always said he could have been on a recruiting poster. He is tall and has a stare that could stop most crooks in their tracks. I have a vivid memory of him pulling my mother and me over on I-55 as we made our way home from Memphis. As we stood on the side of the road chatting, my mother took her empty Coke bottle and heaved it out away from the highway. With arms folded, dark glasses, and wide-brimmed hat on, Uncle Fred stared down at her and said in a low but stern voice, “Sista, that’s a five hundred dollar fine.”

With his military and law enforcement career, it’s no wonder that folks would naturally turn to him when disaster strikes. There is one lady in particular that calls Uncle Fred even when the tiniest of clouds comes floating by. Now, Uncle Fred is a good man, a deacon of First Baptist Church and long on patience. However, Uncle Fred finally ran out of that patience and the next phone call that he got from the dear lady concerning some benign thunder cloud brought this response , “Mrs. Smith, why don’t you just put a cell phone in your pocket and when you land, call me. I’ll come get you.”

Dorothy could have used that advice when she landed in Oz. That is, if cell phones had been invented. “Auntie Em? This is Dorothy. Are you ok? That was some twister. Yes, I’m fine. The house isn’t quite the same. As a matter of fact, nothing is quite the same. There was this witch, and there are little people, and everything is black and white, and, well, I don’t know how to get home. Could you come get me?”

Or Elijah, you know, the prophet that was taken away by the whirlwind. Elijah: “Dude, I’m ridin’ this whirlwind and we just passed over Kilimanjaro. Oops, clipped a pink flamingo.” Then there’s Enoch. Who knows what happened to him? “I was there, now I’m not.”

One day, we will be here, and then not. Jesus said that He has prepared a place for us. What if we could have cell phones? “This isn’t quite what I expected, but you know, I like it. You won’t believe who I just saw. That grace thing was way bigger than I ever imagined. No, don’t be in any hurry about getting here. There’s plenty more to do where you are. Things are so clear now. Love. Peace. Grace. Tell Auntie Em not to worry. I’m home.”

Why don’t you join with me in singing or humming “I’ll Fly Away”? It seems appropriate. But, before you do, put a cell phone in your pocket. You just never know.

Fire Ants

There weren’t many dangers at Mama Bea’s and Daddy Freeman’s farm in Shake Rag. There weren’t any bears or cougars, at least outside of a little boy’s imagination. Probably the most prevalent and hated dangerous critter was the cotton mouth moccasin, like the one that bit Mama Bea in the strawberry patch (Snakes and Gardens). Daddy Freeman probably manufactured more dangerous situations than what actually existed. Like the time he had me stick my hand down into a paper sack to guess what was in it. Turns out it was a snapping turtle that grabbed my finger and wouldn’t let go. Ouch! Then there was the time he wanted me to ride a horse he had raised from a colt. As we were trying to catch him to put a saddle and bridle on, he busted through two 1 X 6 planks and ran straight through a four strand barbed wire fence. That was the end of that and I’m still quite certain my grandfather loved me, I think.

By and large, the 48 acre farm was a safe place for the meanderings of a little boy. However, there was one critter that caused grown men to cry. They had invaded our country from the west and were inching their way across the south. It was the fire ant. Most of us today know about fire ants but forty years ago they were rather new to the South. These little industrious insects would build mounds that dotted the pasture and gave fair warning to the cattle and kids that they were not to be messed with. For me, the mounds were invitations to wreak havoc upon these demon-possessed creatures. A long stick jammed into the heart of mound as if slaying a dragon brought ants streaming out in search of the invader. A few seconds of delight and off I’d be in search of the next beacon of terror.

One day I was fishing. Concentrating on the fine art of casting my purple worm, I hadn’t noticed that uninvited guests had arrived. It seems that fire ants have a way to subdue even the largest of their enemies. They, by the hundreds, will cover their victims and then, with a single signal from their blood thirsty leader, chomp down all at the same time. And they did. There is a very practical reason they are called fire ants. Fire literally began with my toes and seared its way up my legs to my knees. My screams offered no relief and I couldn’t wipe the beasts off fast enough so I decided to fight fire with water so with one great leap, I was in the pond. The damage was done though. I came out of the water and found my legs covered in dime-sized whelps. First there was pain, then itching and then for the rest of my life the memory and the hatred, no loathing, of those mean, deceitful, terrorizing, murderous, acidic, vile enemies of all that is right and good in the world.

Like the fire ant mounds that dot the pasture, it is sometimes easy to spot our enemies. They are the murderers, the rapists, and the terrorists that riddle our newspapers every day. They are easy to hate and we do, because forgiving them of such heinous behavior is crazy. Besides, it’s hard work to forgive. By in large they are faceless individuals or groups that we will never know personally so it is easier to relegate them to the hate column and save our forgiving for others. But even then, it becomes difficult. There are those folks that are closer to home that are our enemies. Maybe enemy is too strong for some of them. They just plain get under our skin. They are co-workers, in-laws, neighbors, and others that seem to take some bit of delight in making our lives miserable. They, like the ants, make their way into our space and then “chomp”. Damage is done. Forgiveness? We forgave them last week and the week before. That’s plenty, don’t you think?

Maybe those misguided words from a brother or spouse should not even be mentioned. It’s easier to overlook and forget, or at least try and forget, than it is to forgive. After all, why open the proverbial can of worms. We have a lifetime to live together and, well, it’s just easier.

Of course we know what Jesus said. Forgive seventy times seventy. Forgive as we are forgiven. Forgive, they don’t know what they are doing. All that stuff. It is stuff that takes hard work, tenacity, intentionality, patience, and love. Oh yeah, “love”, as in “love your enemies.”

Surely He didn’t mean the fire ants.

Naming Cows

Newcastle University in the United Kingdom reported that they have discovered that cows give more milk when they are called by name. The study reports that cows will produce as much as 500 pints more when named. It seems the cows respond better to humans when they are treated as individuals rather than just another bovine in the barn. The study doesn’t tell us how to find out what the cows’ names are. It would seem to me that Ol’ Bessie would not want to be called Ol’ Jill. In fact, Ol’ Jill might even take offense at Bessie being given her name. What would happen then? Less milk? They might even be moooooved to quit giving altogether.

As udderly ridiculous (sorry) as it might sound, we aren’t too unlike our hooved friends. We all like to be remembered and called by name. It makes me feel good when someone I barely know remembers my name. It makes me want to go out and buy them a gallon of milk or two. I had a friend in seminary, I forget his name, that after his first day of registration went home and wrote down the names of over 200 people he had met that day. He even included something that he had learned about them. He had a gift.

God has a gift too. Sixty buhzillion people and he knows every single one of them, by name. Not only that, he calls to us, each one of us, as he leads us on the journey. “Michael, follow me. Jennifer, over here. Leslie, it won’t be long.” Can’t hear God? Listen closer. God might be speaking through someone or something unexpected: like a friend, a book, a song, even blogs. We just need to pay attention.

The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. – John 10

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday was last week. Baptists typically don’t observe Ash Wednesday citing that it is “too Catholic.” Our church is one of the few but growing numbers of Baptist churches that do observe the day. It is my privilege each year to retrieve the dried palms that were used in last year’s Palm Sunday processional and burn them. It will be those ashes that are used to mark the foreheads of those who choose to have ashes imposed upon them in worship. It is a sacred task.

During the imposition, the worshipper comes forward to have the sign of the cross placed on their forehead. I plunge my thumb into the bowl of ashes and say, “From dust you came, to dust you shall return.” I then smear the black remnants of palms upon the forehead. It is a holy moment, each one. The act is to remind us that life is transient and all too short. We don’t have time to dawdle. There is too much to do, too much sin to deal with, too many injustices to make right, too many excesses to curtail, too many failures to overcome. Too many . . .

So with the mark upon our foreheads we enter into the season of Lent. It is a time of deep reflection as we ponder our relationship with God and with others. Some will practice the discipline of deprivation, giving up chocolate, or soft drinks, or some other craving. Others will give up time, volunteering somewhere or simply giving God the early morning hour for prayer. The 40 days, excluding Sundays, of “giving up” will allow us to be reminded daily that life is fleeting, that we are sinners saved by grace, that there is a day of great celebration that we are leaning toward. Let it also remind us daily that Christ gave up far more than we ever can. It was Christ who left the Presence and came to dwell among us, as one of us, and eventually bore a cross. A cross not of ash, but of death, for us.