Lack

This blog touts itself as a place where this writer will share, now and again, her meditations on struggling through this temporal world with disability. It's not what you might think; it's really quite a life. But there are moments when I grow damn sick and tired of one-handedness, of limping- of lacking ability. I can hear the little voice in my head now that says " be grateful, you are not worse off and get over your sorry self-pity". That, I suppose, the theologians would say, is the voice of evil itself trying to assert that one's pain and suffering is of no matter, because the precept of meaninglessness stands for the proposition that nothing matters, not even or especially suffering. Thanks be to God that proposition fails miserably. As we've discussed before at this blog, a proposition of truth, even if its core is to assert that nothing matters, still asserts truth. That my friends is the wily answer for the father of lies. When your arch enemy attacks with the wind of relativism whispering "did God really say, or stop whining, you don't matter anyway", you must turn with the sword of truth which is the Word of God - stabbing falsehood well and good.

Saint Paul encouraged the Corinthian church by saying:

I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

2 Corinthians 12:10

Because my Saviour knows my every need and the excruciating minutiae of my weaknesses, I can rest in him. Do I always? Sadly, no. Thankfully, his grace is sufficient, even when I wrestle with lack.

Numbers

I posted on facebook at the first of this year that I'd be calling the year by its proper name- "Twenty-Ten". I haven't the stamina to keep up with all the syllables it takes to say "Two-thousand and ten" It might sound like a trifling thing to you, dear reader, but heck, it's a shortcut with which I can, and will live. I hope you can. All this introduction and meandering to say that I wrote a poem a while back with numbers in the title. And I re-titled it today so it could go in this decade.

Twenty-Ten

Look how we’ve far we’ve come:

to see slaughter
of man in broad daylight,
while distracted experts
argue the temperature of earth.

There is no one righteous, not even one.

Watch the ascent of humanity:

Pharisees in Babylon order she has the right;
Science ordains the puncture of a helpless skull,
Does the pith in the verse stab your mind?

The More Loving One, by Auden

Because every once in awhile, I will post another's poem, today I choose Auden. And in the doing of it, I ask you to ponder the true "more loving one" He who made the stars has endured every hatred and indifference, including the full wrath of his own father. It is beyond me just as the stars themselves are, to fathom the greatness of God. Today, there is the staggering reality of an earthquake. How can a loving God allow something so cruel to unfold?? To which I first respond: GREAT question! Then, if I've my wits about me, and am open to indwelling of his Holy Spirit, I can, and have responded: have you considered what this loving God allowed his own son to endure...for our sakes? How can I be indifferent to that kind of love?



The More Loving One
by W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

"The More Loving One" by W.H. Auden, from Collected Poems. © The Modern Library — Random House, 2007. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Sinking Sand

The prior post about my dear sister and Flannery Making A Way stirred me to ponder where & in whom it is I place my trust. I love my sister. I admire Flannery. I am thankful for a home and a roof over my poor head. But were I to love my sister or the words of Flannery more than dear Jesus, I would be entertaining worshipping the made and not the Maker. The words of Edward Mote resound:

My hope is built on nothing less
than Jesus' blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus' name
On Christ the solid rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

It might look as though life is rich and full where family is at the core, or where your keepsakes and possessions are dust free. A life of abounding order and streak-free windows is nice, but not trustworthy.

Making a Way

When we get our spiritual house in order, we'll be dead. This goes on. You arrive at enough certainty to make your way, but it is making it in darkness. Don't expect faith to clear things up for you, it is trust, not certainty. - Flannery O'Connor

Her words have a seal of authenticity; Flannery O'Connor's short life remains vivid to me because she was a damn fine writer, and she suffered terrible pain. So she knew about suffering in a unique way, and therefore her voice is trusted, even to this day.

Over the last few days, I've been staggered by the kindness of my sister, her tending to my house with me, de-cluttering, cleaning and preparing it for sale. Now the house, is, as they say, on the market. I keep telling my sister, I could not have done it without you- and it's true. I would still be floundering and staring at all the stuff, wondering what to do next. She, armed with zeal like the north wind, buoyed me toward the finish line. Left to my own devices, I'd drift along, halfway content the rest of my days in dust and old daydreams. Maybe I could have finished this project of de-cluttering without her, but it would have been a lonelier job, and six months in the doing of it. With her help, I did it in almost one 14 hour day. We threw out a load of old stuff- things I did not need, things I would never use, that today could be smiling at someone from a pale Goodwill shelf.

And so we made our way. In the midst of it, when the piles of clutter were enormous, when my bones creaked and muscles ached, I did not think it possible. But as I watched my passionate sister carry on through the day and night, I was energized and inspired. Several times she would stop to clutch her back and sigh. I grew weary too and temperamental at times, biting my tongue on occasion, and letting it slip on others. Nevertheless, we muddled through. In making our way through that long day, I've been the one to reap the fruit of the labor. My home is a showplace.

My sister is the Flannery O'Connor of home fixer-uppers, she's a doer with stick-to-ittiveness. She calls it like she sees it. She loves the truth. And she inspires me. She is more like Flannery than any of you could ever know; her suffering has lasted a lifetime. And it has shaped her into a stunning woman with an authentic voice-for hers and Flannery's I am ever grateful.

For all the Saints

Today is All Saints day. At worship this morning, we were invited to celebrate the saints who've gone before us by testifying to their witness in our lives-how they, the saints at peace in Christ, showed us the Gospel. Instead of a gospel sermon in the usual fashion, were were privy to the gospel via stories of redemption & remembrance. It was a sweet time of honoring the dead in Christ.
For me, many souls came to mind. Istill say, the woman appointed to speak the crux of the gospel of Jesus Christ to me, was Betty Williams. This morning I could have attested to her faithfulness. If I were to stand right there in front of you now, dear reader, I'd repeat what I've said before.
I'd say she taught the Word so as to send it out to the dark recesses of my dark heart for safe-keeping. That, when some thirty years hence, I went overboard drowning in sea of relativism and caverns of darkness, her sound exposition of the Word of God resonated. It still does.

She would be the first to tell you that she herself was not faithful, nay, God himself was perfectly faithful for her, in sending Christ. As it turns, because of God's great faithfulness to saints like Betty, the rippling continues. We too can join with those who have gone before and declare the righteousness of God as our salvation. He, seeing our great need, came to us, lived among our kin, lived a spotless life for us, then took our iniquity on himself. To beat all, he defeated the last enemy death by his bodily resurrection. Thanks be to God for that great gift, and for sending his earthly shepherds who urge us to consider the efficacy of the Christ's gospel.

Sola Deo Gloria

The End of Rest?

Contemplating the end of convalescence, I decided to come back to blogging for awhile. It has been since late September that I last penned (tapped/typed) a thing. Work will be back on the docket tomorrow. So, it is with tad of sadness I bid adieu to this time of repairing. Perhaps I can take a slice of this time with me back to the 'work day' mentality; may I remember to rest, to take it slow at first, and to lean into the goodness of God when the insanity of the daily grind intensifies.

As you all ponder work days, whatever that means for each of you, be it the proverbial 9-5, the home-office freedom, the cold calls of sales, the government servant, or the soul looking for work, be mindful of what your body tells you. And foremost, be mindful of the fact you were created, not dreamed up or morphed. Take time to worship the God of creation. Be still, know that he (alone) is God.

Hysteria?

There's much to do before I head out the door Monday, September 21 for the hospital. I'm headed there to part with my uterus, fallopian tubes, and one remaining ovary. I'm ready to leave now, but hospitals are not in the business of welcoming the premature these days unless you happen to be an infant.
I keep looking for that other shoe to drop, but no thing prolapses. Waiting has been more difficult than this, and, compared to other waiting done, this pales. The prior post on peace might have a thing or two to do with that, the Giver of the Peace the more, I'd say. So I'll wait for the difficulty with one eye open. My restless heart is restless like the Egyptian Bishop's, til it rests in Thee, O Lord.

And I got to thinking (this, my friends, is one of the dangers of being me, a two edged sword, is the act of thinking) what about the etymology of this word, hysterectomy? I recall seeing a photo in a psych textbook depicting a forlorn woman wailing in the confines of a mental institution whilst suffering with what was then called hysteria. Hysterectomy: hystera Greek for womb, and ektomia, for cutting out of. Those pictured women in that textbook were thought to be mad with hysteria, Hippocrates theorized, because of a lack of conjugal relations. His proposition: the uteri dried, was therefore light, migrating north in the body, pressing on other vital organs, creating an interior physical disturbance that would, therefore, lead to madness. Like much of what is 'theorized', by the scientific, I can only shake my head and mourn for those dear women who were misdiagnosed by those situated to do so from Hippocrates to the present day.

I can assure you that if a lack of sex were the cause of hysteria, I too would be featured in the pages of a textbook, swooning from the condition. Think me too forward? Perhaps.

I can steel myself from the misinterpretations of the word hysteria, the stigmas, the wrong-doing, because, it has not been done unto me. I've even joked that I'm submitting to a hysterical-ectomy. For those dear souls, men & women who suffer from mental illness, this is not the case. Their battles have nary a thing to do with floating uteruses. I'm no modern day crusading Dorthea Dix. I haven't the the fortitude to fight that cause, I'm a vain blogger who's getting ready to lie down to ether, reflecting on the etymology of a word. As I reflect, I wonder if we might, you and I, stop and ponder before uttering words like hysterical, hysteria, or any other word for that matter.

Peace

For the troubled mind, for the weary, for the broken-hearted, there's but one solace. I submit to you it is the peace of Christ. Just as his supremacy is like light scattering darkness, so his perfect peace is. It is not because I believe it to be true, it is not mere existential truth. Nay, this peace of Christ has been from before the foundation of the world. This same peace reconciles us to the Father through Christ the son, by the Holy Spirit. He is the first, he is the last. No one comes to the Father but through Christ. I cling to the Gospel of peace for my life in the now, and for the life to come. Sola Deo Gloria.

Hope

Witness this wonderful rendering of T.S. Eliot by Nashville artist, Dick Murphy.
Today has been a lovely day full of the prospect of hope, due in part to Dick's fine capture of the brooding poet. Also, life is sometimes difficult beyond imagining. There are griefs, sorrows, hurts, and sufferings too numerous to count. Sometimes we find ourselves situated between a rock and a hard place. Eliot knew these dire roads. Yet he used words to provoke hope:

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope


For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,


For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith


But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.


Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:


So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.






from The Four Quartets East Coker

Thanks be to God for the gifts of T.S. Eliot and Dick Murphy.

Faces & Haiku

I joined Facebook about the time the spinmasters say it is going out of vogue. That's about right. I dug in my heels and would not consider it for the longest. Fear motivated that choice. Tired of fear. So- here we go.

I took an old friend's advice and wrote a poem about it:

Paranoid fools fear
Kept her away from faces
Some of whom she loves.

What's Up Doc?

I'll answer that question for you- my friend RoseAnne Coleman, er, Dr. RoseAnne Coleman, writer, speaker, & teacher is up and blogging, here. It would do you well to read her posts, and her book, The Stories I Keep. She has much to offer you, the reader. I know you'll appreciate her wit and wisdom, wrought by the caldron of God's mercies, new to her each day.

ENJOY!!!

Advice

I think of the word advice as intrusive, for some reason; or, maybe it is the doing of it that seems so, not the word itself. Yet, its sound, advice has a sharp edge to it, like a sword's blade. Sometimes, advice is most disruptive when it is not sought. I must say I'm practiced at giving it prematurely, but that is the subject of another essay, for another time.

Last night, friend RoseAnne Coleman, asked fellow diners and celebrants if we might ponder and share what advice we'd impart up to this point of our lives lived. I thought for a moment, and offered this:

You can run, but you cannot hide.

Someone far wiser than I said it before me. For much of my life, off and on, I lived by the maxim that if one stays busy, attendant to the task at hand, or given to the destruction inherent in a life spent running without rest, one might succeed in hiding. Our good God has proved me wrong by his gentle mercy over and over. One of the best renderings of the idea is captured in
David's Psalm 139: 7-12:

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the utter most parts of the sea,
even there, your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day
for darkness is as light with you.


The definition of advice (www.dictionary.com)
includes the word visage: the face of a person; countenance.

The sobering fact is plain: there is no place to hide from God. Because of his great love, in Christ's intercession, His face is toward you-always.

May I seek his advice, though it slay me, he is always and only good.

Peace and Dignity

Over a year ago, Jerome Sidney Barrett was indicted for the murder of Marcia Trimble. Just last Saturday, a jury of his peers convicted him of the crime of second degree murder in two counts. He'll likely spend the rest of his life in prison. Oh there'll be appeals, there'll probably be petitions for post-conviction relief. The lawyers will wrangle about the issues and posture to the judges, as with every case. I listened to most of the trial, and relived a great portion of the winter of my 12th year. Much came undone. Anguish surfaced. Fear stirred. After the verdict was rendered, Marcia's mother spoke to the media. Standing in the wake of three decades of swirling horror and grief, she literally sighed relief. Much of the time, a sigh of relief is bland poetry. For Virginia Trimble Ritter, last Saturday, it was reality. A well-meaning reporter asked her if, now, at the conclusion of the trial, she might have closure. Her response was gracious. She said something like this:

I think I'll have to see what Mr. Webster says about closure, I don't think I know what that word means. But I can say this. Today, I'm on the other side of pain.

Waiting thirty-four years for a killer to be found and brought to justice will leave a woman wanting. It'll slice you up and spit you out. Mrs. Trimble-Ritter has lived to tell. She has endured the dark nights, the fierce days, and attacks of hopelessness. At the end of this leg of the journey, Marcia's death still looms, and I'm sure it does in a new way for Mrs. Trimble-Ritter.

One of the details I appreciate about indictments in Tennessee, is the verbiage that follows each allegation. At the conclusion of every count of every indictment, prior to the District Attorney General's signature is the phrase that prompted my writing today:

in violation of T.C.A. 39-13-.....and against the peace and dignity of the State of Tennessee.

At every trial the indictment is read into the record, and those words jangle in the mind of a jury; against the peace and dignity. In the Barrett trial, I was fortunate to hear colleague Katrin Miller read the indictment. I focused on those words through-out the trial and at the end felt a curious peace, not so much afforded by the State, or to the State, but rather that peace that passes understanding, the contentment that comes from a long journey's endurance.

May Virginia Trimble-Ritter have attained some peace & dignity. She has shared hers well. Even in the revisiting of great sadness, I pray she be sustained. One day, all of what was lost will be restored to her, to Marcia, to us.

Sola Deo Gloria.

School Days

This post is for the parents and teachers. Kids can read it too. G-rated. I promise. But primarily I'm thinking of the adults who are either breathing a sigh of sweet and/or anxious relief that this leg of the journey is nearly over. It seems like just yesterday that little junior was born...how can this be that my eldest child is graduating from high school? Or, how is it that the first year of teaching at this new school is almost behind me..?
It is all in the blink of an eye, I suppose, because that is the nature of time, it is, at its core temporal. And, the good news for you is this, in eternity, there will be no tests, no hurdles of achievement or comparing one's child to another, no competition. As you pack up the things of your child, or your classroom, and you begin to ponder the stress of next year, take five. Stop a minute, if only in your mind and submit to the everlasting truth for which we wait, the very reason for which education was lauded in the first place: Jesus.

Christ has already won the prize, and there, in heaven with him, we will be about the business of worship. Always. Forever. Amen.

Confession

Cowardice and pride are at the root of what stalls me from living out my salvation with fear and trembling. Ugly sin to be sure, but thanks be to God, I have an advocate of the utmost courage and true humility. Fall now at the feet of him who saves. God's peace be with you friends, [for that peace is the only peace which will do].

Go this rain-soaked day and do what it is you do: write, counsel, argue, serve, teach, instruct, rest, live, and die......well, with courage.

Back in the Swim

Sigh.

It's hard to convey how deep that opening sigh is. Please use your imagination(s) This past Saturday, I planned to attend a writing workshop. As is usually the case, when I even stop to think about prattling on in writing, I get the jitters-picture multiple sighs as manifest in the muscles of your heart. I hemmed. I hawed. Thanks be to God, I went.

So, I decided to start posting here again. There's an awkwardness to the first plunge. Or should I say re-plunge? At the workshop, I wrote a verse about the swim class in which I was enrolled-as an infant. Yep. An infant. With apologies to Saint Paul and the Holy Spirit of God, when I was a child, I swam as a child, now that I am older, I still swim as a child.

In the interim- this long delay between posts, I waited on the side of the pool. I waited for the desire to stop writing. It never really took, but for a time, I had no words. There was the tradition of the Lenten season-how convenient for a law-keeper! So I waited longer.

For those of you waiting on God, keep waiting-listening. And when the time comes, jump in, the water's fine.

Sola Deo Gloria.

Mysterious

William Cowper was a poet and a hymn writer who lived a desperate life, oft challenged by despair. In fact, so deep was his darkness that he attempted suicide many times. While a patient in a mental hospital, he was in the care of a compassionate soul who lead him to Christ.

It is said that even after his conversion, Cowper suffered greatly. Yet he clung to the one who saves and wrote many poems and hymns in testament to his Savior. Surely it must have occurred to Cowper that though he was a new creature in Christ, his life was, from time, to time, still a troubled one. Perhaps that what he pondered when he wrote this hymn:

God Moves in a Mysterious Way

1 God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
2 Deep in unfathomable mines of never-failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs, and works His sovereign will.
3 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head.
4 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
5 His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flow'r.
6 Blind unbelief is sure to err, and scan His work in vain.
God is his own interpreter, and He will make it plain.

This hymn was sung today at the church I visited. As we sang verse four, I literally laughed out loud. Not a guffaw laugh, but an epiphanous giggle. I have long judged the Lord by my feeble sense of reality. I've given him what for and railed at him because of my own circumstance. Perhaps it is the life-long issue with which I wrestle, and by which I grow into sweeter communion with the God who is mysterious, yet faithful. For though I struggle and strive with him and his purposes, he mercifully tends to me by his infinite grace.

Sola Deo Gloria!

Dad and Dylan

It is no small wonder I am given to music. I grew up listening to my Dad sing a lot. He is not a trained or professional singer but he could have been. He loved then, and loves still, a good song. I mentioned Dad's penchant for song in this, the first post of this blog, May 22nd, 2008. Here's the relevant excerpt:

I remember my dad holding his hymnal out and lowering it a bit so I could see and sing along; my dad's deep baritone voice fully engaging the melody. Every so often, dad would start singing the harmony, and off I'd go, on the same trail, sometimes making the note, sometimes not, but seldom, if ever, staying on the melody. He'd gaze over his glasses, quizzical that I'd not harmonized. I wanted to sing with him, to go with him on that wild adventure of hymn singing!

Even though my dad's devotion to hymn singing is a big part of his repertoire, he is fond of popular tunes too. Cole Porter, Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart, all the greats. Vocalists like Frank Sinatra and Perry Como are two of his favorites. Being a rowdy "Deke"in college, he is prone to start wailing what I call bar tunes or drinking songs every now and again. Songs like Columbus Stockade Blues, for instance.

Originating in the 1920's the song immortalizes a Columbus Georgia jail that housed petty criminals of every stripe-drunks, thieves, and other 'ne'er do wells'.

If you listen close you can hear the plaintive lament of the narrator reverberating off brick walls of the jail :

Way way down, in Columbus Georgia,
Lord done turned his back on me,
Way way down in Columbus Stockade,
wanna be back in Tennessee..

Go and and leave me if you wish to,
never let me change your mind,
if in your heart, you love another,
leave me little darlin' I don't mind
leave me little darlin' I don't mind.



Imagine what delight I had to find that Bob Dylan has affinity for this particular tune too! In reading the first installment of Dylan's memoir, Chronicles, Columbus Stockade Blues is mentioned as a song he favored and sang early in his folk career.

But to really hear this song, you ought to hear my daddy sing it.

His a capella rendition is so blue it'll make you want to weep. Dylan is a poet and a king of story, but he could learn a thing or two from Dad.

Wallace Mercer R.I.P.

I noticed the other day a fellow blogger described my blog penned under the name Wallace Mercer as pseudonymical serenity. That alone gives me pause for what I'm about to do. Many of you already know me by my real name. Humor me while I entertain the fantasy that the word 'many' could mean there are thousands of readers out there. Whether I have a few or many readers, I've reached a decision to begin prattling on under the name given me by my earthly father and mother: Karen Ann Fentress.

In taking this action, I put to rest this fine name, Wallace Mercer; One taken so I could speak under a cloak. It is with a profound sense of gratitude that I release this veil. His name, conjured some five years ago by me, is actually a very real person. Wallace Mercer was, according to Wikkipedia, the chairman of the Scottish football club, the Hearts of Edinburgh from 1981-1994. He is best remembered for the controversial merger he attempted of the two rival teams in Edinburgh, the Hearts and Hibs. One need not be an expert in football or business to know that pushing for a joinder of enemies, whether for simple financial gain, or for the purpose of eternal good can make for some nasty conflict. That was the case for the real Wallace Mercer. His death in 2006 was was just prior to a match between the Hearts and Hibs. Some fans, still angered by his audacious attempt to merge the clubs, shouted disrespectfully during a moment of silence held in Mercer's honor. Presumably, it was both teams' fans that yelled during the silence. It usually comes down to that.

I do not know this real man. I know nothing about his virtue or lack thereof. Because I think this story has meaning, I won't pretend the real Wallace Mercer was someone to esteem. What I do know, is the name I chose for my veil is one I'm glad to have used. I chose Wallace because of Wallace Stevens, the complicated insurance executive/lawyer turned poet. I chose Mercer because it hints at the word mercy-a quality of God's I scarcely apprehend, yet for which I am exceedingly grateful.

Wallace Stevens is not a poet I read with regularity, but I fancy myself as like him, a bit. I do practice law. I tend to be a bit verbose, as poets can be. And Mercer, or mercy. I hesitate to even speak on the topic. Mercy and grace are words that, from time to time, are used interchangeably. The distinction is not readily apparent. The words of Rolfe Barnard clarify the difference for me:

Mercy is God's favour that holds back from us what we deserve.

Grace is God's favour that gives us what we do not deserve.-Rolfe Barnard

Perhaps it can be said that mercy is the greatest of the qualities of God. I've said it before here, on this blog, because of God's just wrath, you and I deserve death, the punishment for sin is simple and clear. But Jesus took our place. In him alone can we experience the true grace of the Father. I said I hesitate to even speak of mercy- in doing so, it seems to me, mercy is me centered-concentrates on what I can receive of him. But the more I think on it, the more God avails himself to me, mercy is his and his alone, and he, in his infinite goodness, chooses to give it.

Wallace Mercer, the real man, dared attempt the unthinkable. He was, if only in my imagination, a sort of radical to believe two warring factions might be one. I think it a tad hopeful that in my old pseudonym there's more to cherish than I originally intended. As the old, new me, Karen, may I write with hope of reconcilation in mind as a testament to the real Wallace Mercer. Not recklessly or with impure heart, but ever aware of the cost my dear savior paid for my falleness; May I sit one day in heaven over a tall pint of beer with the real Wallace Mercer, but always give thanks to God for his dear mercy in making us both. Rest in Peace, Wallace.



Soli Deo Gloria