Telling the Truth

Prince Oliver Smudge the Second, August 2014

while Queen Elouise
is away Prince Smudge will play
be-bop-a-lula!

*****

I’m her baby
And I don’t mean maybe!

***

How’s that for my very first haiku + poem?
I think it’s way past time for you to hear about ME–
straight from the cat’s mouth!

*

My Short Long Tail Tale of Being Lost and Found

Someone abandoned me in a state park!
Lost, lonely, scared, hungry and soaked with rain,
No one seemed to care about me.
I cried a lot.

One day I looked up and saw two very large, long-hair animals
standing on two legs each.
They smiled a lot, talked sweet and held their arms out to me,
but I knew better.
I wasn’t about to let them get their big paws on me!

After a long time they left without me.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or…

This poem is for anyone who, like Amy Carmichael, finds life changed in a heartbeat. Anytime. Anywhere. My comments follow.

I’m writing this on July 4, Independence Day in the USA. A day that’s all about freedom. That intangible, inalienable ‘right’ highly valued in our national rhetoric.

When I was teaching theology I couldn’t help noticing how many seminarians defined Christian freedom as free will. The kind that makes choices—yes or no. As some said with fervor, ‘You can take away my house, and even my life, but don’t you dare try to take away my free will!’

I understand what they want to protect—their own freedom of choice, as a kind of inalienable right. Something God gave them that needs to be protected at all costs. The freedom to choose right or wrong, this church or that church, to believe and live this way or that way.

The ability for human beings to makes choices of any kind comes from our Creator. Yet I wonder. Do we understand the meaning of Christian freedom?

Even…

baptismal waters
rise gently enfolding her
world-weary body

* * * * *

I’m standing in a windowless, high-ceiling concrete room
with a concrete floor, drainage holes and air vents.
A deep whirlpool tub stands in the middle
filled with warm steamy water.
The room faintly resembles a large sauna minus the wood.
Functional, not beautiful.

Mother is in hospice care after suffering a stroke weeks ago
and then developing pneumonia in the hospital.
Her ability to communicate with words is almost nonexistent.
Today she’s going to be given a bath.
I’m told she loves this, and that
Sister #4 and I are welcome to witness the event.

For the past hour caregivers have been preparing her–
removing her bedclothes, easing her onto huge soft towels,
rolling and shifting her inch by inch onto a padded bath trolley,
doing all they can to minimize pain and honor her body.
Finally, they slowly roll the trolley down the hall.

The hospice sauna room echoes with…

Mom and Sisters #1, 2 and 3, Easter Sunday 1952 in Savannah. I’m on the right.

Dear Mom,

I miss you today. When I was growing up, I was pretty tight-lipped. I think it was my way of having some privacy. Still, there are things we never talked about that are on my mind today. Probably because I’ve been writing about going to seminary, and what Dad seemed to think about my decision.

Even though you didn’t say much about this, I knew you were proud of me and I never wondered whether I had your blessing. From the beginning you wanted to know about what I was studying, even though I didn’t always want to talk about it.

I can’t thank you enough for showing an interest in my studies and writing, even though you may not have agreed with everything I wrote. I often wonder whether you wanted to go back for more education. You would have been an…

Dear Diane,
Funny how things come together: Easter lilies, our first apartment, and Mr. Griswold.

Easter Sunday always reminds me of you.

Thank you, James DePreist for this poem. Please forgive me if you’re offended by my take on it. It seems appropriate for Palm Sunday and Holy Week. You lived this poem in your life; I believe Jesus did, too.

women’s work
is never done
sign here

* * *

Even though this is called a Teacher’s Contract, you’ll see it’s for women only.

Do you fall in love with gorgeous sunsets and starry skies? Here’s a sonnet from George MacDonald that talks about this and more. I’ll comment at the end.

red ochre seeps
through thin young veins
leaves blush

* * *

In Fall 1999 I went with D to a seminary near Nairobi, Kenya, for my fall sabbatical. D has a long history with the seminary. I’d been once before. This was my first longer-term visit.

Mom had died in February that year, 78 years old. I was still grieving, shaky and uncertain about my identity without Mom present in my life.

My teaching load was light. I facilitated my favorite seminar ever–how to reflect theologically on biblical narrative–attended seminary functions, did a little speaking and a lot of listening and travel.

Just after we arrived, we went to the fall faculty retreat at a conference center outside of Nairobi, near Mt. Kenya. D took this photo on our way back to Nairobi.

The area around and north of Nairobi is a riot of colors and lush greenery. At the very base of everything, though, is