Reading through my older posts, I found this gem, published over two years ago. I needed to hear it today. Perhaps you might find it encouraging as well. It’s my offering for this week’s Sabbath. Elouise
This poem is for anyone who, like Amy Carmichael, finds life changed in a heartbeat. Anytime. Anywhere. My comments follow.
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In the blink of an eye
Memories take me back
Surrounded by music
I want to stay here forever
Feeling the harmonies
The ebb and flow of
Joyful voices surrounding me
Filled with hope for tomorrow
Lost in a magic sliver of time
When all was right with the world
We were ambassadors
On a mission
Ready to die if needs be
My heart aches for what we lost
On our way from there to here
So many hidden wounds and
Untold secrets and yet
One concert after another
We entered gladly
Into His gates with thanksgiving
And into His courts with praise
Eager and ready for whatever
Tomorrow might bring
This photo was taken in 1962-63. It’s the Ambassador Choir—the concert choir of Columbia Bible College in Columbia, South Carolina (now Columbia International University).
It was D’s senior year, my junior year. He was president of the choir; I served as accompanist to the choir. Mainly piano, and a little organ. D is on the third row from the top, 2nd from the left. I’m on the same row, 3rd from the right (with glasses).
We’re in the college auditorium, in front of the college motto and a huge globe of the world. Many students studied at CBC/CIU because they wanted to be missionaries. Among them were bi-lingual ‘missionary kids’ who came from all over the world.
Bill Supplee, our beloved choir and music director, was a stickler for getting things right. In the photo we’re grouped according to gender and height. However, each concert required a new lineup created by Mr. Supplee. We stood in groups of eight (eight part harmony for many songs), never next to anyone singing our part.
Getting it right meant on pitch, from memory, with no sliding notes or coming in early or hanging on late. Precision mattered. Articulation was paramount. Drawing attention to oneself by swaying or making head motions was absolutely forbidden.
This wasn’t about us, it was about the Gospel. Always presented in a carefully crafted sequence of music. The choir processed from center and side aisles onto the risers. Unison at first, breaking into eight-part harmony at the end. All to invite the congregation into the Lord’s gates with thanksgiving.
Each concert ended with a brief challenge to consider what God might want you to do in response, followed by a glorious recessional. The message was clear, and always well received.
Not clear, however, was how many of us carried hidden, unresolved pain from our childhoods as we processed down the aisles. Today I’m aware of stories I didn’t know then, and have shared my own. Many of our friends are already gone.
Still, I’m no cynic. I value the privilege of having been part of this spirited endeavor. It gave me the privilege of being regularly surrounded and held by music that kept my soul and my spirit alive. And, along the way, gave me the gift of knowing and falling in love with D.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 22 July 2017
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Gate
Can’t get it out of my mind. Thank you WordPress for this delectable word of the day: Lollipop!
No, I wasn’t allowed to listen to it at home, or dance and romance to it, but I loved it. It was alive, incredibly fun to sing and cheeky in days when cheeky wasn’t on The Good Girl’s List of Acceptable Behaviors.
Here it is, in its original glory, performed by the Chordettes. One of their glorious hits from the 1940s and 50s, recorded and filmed in the good old days. Their biggest hit was Mr. Sandman.
Don’t blame me if you can’t get it out of your mind….
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 20 July 2017
Tootsie Roll Lollipop image found at sweetcitycandy.com
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Lollipop
I want to be in tune with You –
Listening to my heart sing
Surrounded by music
Maybe You could arrange for me to live in nonstop song
At home in my skin, content, grateful and unafraid
Connected with those I love or haven’t yet learned to love
Would You kindly spare a few moments
to sing me back together?
I’d rather not have another operation.
***
A few evenings ago I was listening to choral music, singing along from time to time. A bit weepy though happy. Grateful for small gifts during the day.
It dawned on me that I’m most content, most at peace when I’m surrounded by music. Especially, but not only, grand hymns old and new.
So I dreamed a bit. What would it be like to live in nonstop song? And might my Creator be willing to oblige me? Without ungodly pain?
Coming from a grownup, the ungodly pain part seemed a fair request. After all, I don’t have as much time for fancy procedures as I used to have. Besides, who wouldn’t love to be sung back together?
Hoping your day/evening is filled with music that softens your heart and sings you back together.
Elouise ♥
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 19 July 2017
rising and falling
earth-born cicada concert
shrieks through summer air
***
Do you live on the East Coast of the USA? This year’s crop of cicadas is huge. Here’s a great article that will tell you how many cicadas per square mile (sit down!), plus other fascinating cicada facts.
Or maybe you’d just like to hear one of these little buggers in solo concert (solo? a rarity in my experience). Check out this video:
All I wanted was a quiet morning walk. Not only were the cicadas ramping up into full morning concert, the tree experts were boring and grinding the remains of a large expired shade tree deeply rooted in soil next to the grade school. No complaints, though, since I already knew the prompt for the day, and enjoyed the walk.
Hoping your day brings good surprises along with whatever else comes along.
Elouise ♥
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 19 July 2017
Image found at livescience.com; video found on YouTube
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Soil
Edible. Such a lovely word. Especially for hungry people, and especially if it’s offered as a banquet served on silver platters, with drum rolls and fine patriotic music in the background.
So what’s for dinner? Why are you so secretive about what’s on the menu? You say it’s going to be Beautiful, even Great! Much better for my health than the food I’ve been eating all these years.
Am I to believe you and your not-so-carefully scripted words, or my own well-honed gut instincts?
Do you have a complete list of ingredients? A nutritional profile for the long-term edibility of this fine feast you’re serving up? My gut won’t tolerate just anything, you know.
Poison in any form is inedible. Especially when cooked up in a private club-like kitchen with chefs and assistants who look strangely like each other, smile a lot, and keep saying what a Beautiful Thing this feast is going to be. Just what I need to Make My Health Great Again!
Really? Why is my stomach already churning? And what’s that stench in the air? Don’t you smell it? I haven’t even taken the first bite, and I’m already looking for the closest bathroom!
Are you going to force-feed me? Did your parents force-feed you? Do you force-feed your children? Your grandchildren? Your nephews and your nieces? Why aren’t there any exit signs in this room?
Is it really too much to hold out for edible food? As I see it, a dry crust of bread shared with peace of mind would be better than this banquet of trouble.
With thanks to Proverbs 17:1 (Good News Translation)
Better to eat a dry crust of bread with peace of mind
than have a banquet in a house full of trouble.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 18 July 2017
Image found at pinterest.com
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Edible
My history with prayer is all over the map. I’ve probably heard more prayers than I’ve heard sermons. Too many to count. On the other hand, I’ve always struggled with prayer. Here are two posts talking about my childhood struggles with prayer: here and here.
Last year a friend gave me a slim volume of poems by Mary Oliver, a winner of the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. The volume I’m reading is Thirst.
What caught my eye this week was the first stanza of a longer poem titled “Six Recognitions of the Lord.” I’m still taking in the first stanza.
I know a lot of fancy words.
I tear them from my heart and my tongue.
Then I pray.
When I read these simple words, I feel lighter. I grew up hearing and trying to replicate, in my way, prayers that would be polite and proper. Yes, I spoke from my heart no matter when I prayed. Yet I also felt unbearably self-conscious about my prayers, especially about the words I used.
It didn’t matter whether I was praying privately or publicly, I feared my words wouldn’t live up to what God expected to hear from me. Or that they would be used by others to judge my spiritual formation.
Looking back, I know my family upbringing contributed to some of this. Whether by design or not, my prayers to God felt like baring my soul to whomever was listening. I feared someone was grading, judging or scrutinizing me. Would I pass the test?
Mary Oliver’s words are to the point and liberating. They’re also primarily about personal prayer, not public prayer. Though they may apply there as well.
The best analogy I can think of would be a child talking to a trusted parent or caregiver. Freely, without shame or hiding. With no need to impress anyone. Not calculating or careful about choice of words or what the other person might think about what I’m saying.
God just wants me to show up, talk and listen. Listen and talk. Using my own words. No matter how I feel today about God or myself.
First, Mary Oliver invites me to tear all fancy words from my heart and my tongue.
Praying your Sabbath is filled with childlike joy and delight.
Elouise ♥
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 15 July 2017
Artwork found on Google at http://www.royaldoors.net
I was only 8 or 9 years old when Auntie Rose Payne waltzed into my life. Well sort of. Even though she was very short, Auntie Rose dominated everything when she entered a room. She had a nonstop smile and sparkling eyes. She also delivered, unrequested, nonstop cheery comments, spoke loudly and often, and didn’t seem to care what people thought about her.
From my perspective, this was astonishing. At first I could scarcely understand a word she said. Worse, I couldn’t help sneaking frequent peeks at her lame leg that carried her along in huge lurches. One of her shoes had super-thick soles. But even that didn’t give her a level, evenly matched, pain-free stride.
I still see her walking ahead of me, swinging along in her off-beat gait. Her overloaded purse hangs from the crook of her right arm, a large Bible clutched tightly in her other arm. She swings along unevenly, rising and falling as her body ascends and descends with a jolt. Strange-looking orthopedic shoes help a bit, but don’t resolve her gait.
Never once did I hear Auntie Rose complain or see her downcast. That wasn’t her style. She preferred upbeat and onward Christian soldiers! In my presence she never stopped smiling, and she never stopped calling me ‘Love,’ even though she also knew and called me by my first name.
Auntie Rose was a polio survivor, an immigrant from Australia, and a visiting home nurse. She was bright, savvy and adventuresome. Unafraid of anyone or anything. When she entered a room she commanded attention. Especially if she spotted or even heard about anything that was out-of-order in our behavior.
Auntie Rose and my mother hit it off from the beginning. They bonded. Both lived with the crippling effects of polio, as did my sister Diane. Both were incorrigible extroverts. And Auntie Rose had a way of making everything fun or looking on the bright side even when it seemed bleak.
About ten years after D and I married, we visited Savannah and happened to run into Auntie Rose. She was just leaving church on a Sunday morning. She hadn’t changed a bit; she’d just grown a bit older. We stood there chatting about our wedding and what we were now doing in our lives.
As we moved on, Auntie Rose stopped several lively young boys who’d just come out of Sunday School. She smiled at them cheerfully, called them “Love,” and gave them a proper refresher on how to walk safely on public property!
I’d like to think some of Auntie Rose’s moxie rubbed off on me. Not just as the adult I am today, but as the little girl I was yesterday. Even though it sometimes got me into trouble.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 15 July 2017
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Moxie
It’s early Friday morning. Rain arrived
late yesterday evening breaking a short
oppressive heat wave. I have one hour
for a walk outside before the rain returns.
Morning smoothie safely tucked away,
I put on my rain gear and open the back door.
The rush of dense humid air assaults my lungs,
my face, and any part of my skin not covered.
It’s mid-summer. No rush of passing traffic
greets me as I turn left from our driveway.
No sidewalk here. Just a curb
and the sound of occasional tires
squishing over dark, damp pavement.
Quickly I turn left down a narrow side street
lined with neighborhood houses,
away from the flow of traffic to and from
wherever people go at this time of day
in midsummer.
I hear the sound of my shoes on wet pavement,
a few muffled voices inside a house or two,
and birdsong filling the air. Invisible waves of
of warm damp air magnify the chorus of bird calls
surrounding me from branches and treetops.
At the end of this short street I turn left
again headed toward more open spaces.
I’m now on a sidewalk, next to the grammar
school playing field on my right, and a church yard
just beyond. A white spire and white headstones
gleam beneath towering trees.
Turning right, between the school yard and
the church yard, I walk beneath trees still
filled with birdsong. Leftover rain and dew drops
fall rhythmically hitting damp ground
and empty parking spaces behind the school.
Circling around the school, toward a public park,
I start up the hill through another deserted parking lot.
My pace slows a bit. I notice
the dying hemlock now marked
with a large white X signaling the end
of its long fight against invasive insects.
Will it receive a proper burial?
A gleaming white headstone?
I circle another tree at the top of the driveway
then turn down a small path through
the park, back toward the school.
Tiny drops of water glitter on tips
of fir needles and low-hanging tree leaves,
brushing my face with cool water.
I turn left to walk behind the school, past
the athletic field on my way home. In the distance
I see the churchyard with its lush green trees.
The weeping beech towers next to rows
of white headstones rooted in earth,
soaking in summer’s gift of life-giving rain.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 14 July 2017
Image found at pinterest.com
I can’t count how many times people ask why I haven’t given up on God. Why I don’t curse God. Why I still call myself God’s beloved daughter-child.
Even though I’m a theologian, my reasons are deeply personal. Rooted in childhood experiences with my father who insisted I call him Daddy.
Daddy, a preacher, had his own kind of God. He desperately hoped his God would have mercy on him, though I never knew exactly why. Daddy also hoped his God would straighten me out into the submissive little girl and young woman Daddy thought proper and seemly for his #1 of 4 daughters, no sons.
So why didn’t I curse God, or at least bury God with honors? After all, Daddy kept saying he was following God’s law. God’s order. God’s instructions for parents and for children. And then he would beat me. All within a strangely church-like ritual that required my full attention, cooperation and submission to Daddy as God’s servant.
It wasn’t church. And it didn’t feel like a safe home. It was worse than being left out in the cold. Furthermore, I now know the God on which Daddy called was not God. He was more like a quixotic bully to be avoided and feared. Friendly one moment; cold and calculating the next.
So why haven’t I buried God? Because my parents did something for me, early on. My primers weren’t little Jack and Jill reading books. They were hymns, choruses, verses and entire passages from the Bible. All memorized and reviewed at home, and later in my grade school Bible classes from grade 2 through 7.
My father had a phenomenal memory and was eager for me, his daughter, to exercise her memory as well. Especially Scripture, but also hymns and poetry. I took to it like a duck to water.
My favorite was Psalm 23. Yes, it’s beautiful. And it’s more. It helped me endure many beatings. Daddy wielded his rod. But Jesus used his to comfort me. To shield my soul and give me strength to endure.
I also grew up hearing and reading the Bible. I loved the story about Jesus welcoming the children when large, grownup know-it-all disciples tried to send them away. Jesus rebuked the disciples, called the children to him and blessed them.
I don’t know what God looks like. But I know what God’s Son Jesus did with children just like me. The kind who seem to make too much noise. A distraction from the serious things of life. Always getting into trouble, or wanting to talk to Jesus about trivial stuff—not theology, or when the kingdom is going to arrive.
Like Jesus, God never sent me away, but offered a safe haven, especially when things weren’t safe. I never felt rejected or unwelcome. Nor do I today. I like to think that as God’s beloved daughter-child, I look a bit like one of Jesus’ sisters from time to time.
Why would I ever want to bury this God?
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 12 July 2017
Image found at pinimg.com
Response to WordPress Daily Prompt: Bury
Telling the Truth 