Monday, July 25, 2016

Drought, Rain and Other Solutions

My husband likes his privacy, whereas I believe that my whole life should be broadcast, right on down to the warts. That may be why he let the bushes on our front porch grow into a veritable forest. I was starting to have fears that we'd be like this house I drive by often, where the house is completely hidden by a tangle of greenery resembling the wicked thicket in Sleeping Beauty. But finally, he consented and wacked it down to normalcy one afternoon. And of course, then came the drought. Our poor bushes! And my newly-planted Carolina Jasmine plants! We were watering them, but things were looking bleak. Everybody was praying for rain. It has been hotter and more humid than Hades this summer. The sky would clabber up and look like rain, but then blow over. This happened over and over. Finally, one fine afternoon, the sky let loose and it poured. I happened to be in the car with Ken and we had to almost stop the vehicle (which means that it is really bad. I've mentioned before that the man doesn't drive, he qualifies). Then the drought began to lift and the grass went insane. The bleak bushes started putting out some leaves. My Jasmine curled right up those 116-year-old columns like it's supposed to and I should have more romance added to my porch by next year. Hopefully we can keep the storybook thicket at bay.

I couldn't help but think about gratefulness and God's gifts. A lot of people think that we're supposed to be praying about living in the Promised Land, getting to a higher plane, experiencing the Deeper Life and all that. And some of that is good, it's positive thinking. But we don't live on a perfect planet and this life always has its stinky parts. Struggle is part and parcel of the plan. If there was no struggle, why would we need redeeming? Would we appreciate the good things if we never had to work for anything or experience the darkness? 

We prayed for the rain, but didn't expect it to storm. 

I heard a wise man giving a sermon one time. He talked about how good and bad run along parallel tracks and tend to arrive at the same time. Life is a mixed bag. A friend of his told him about how his son-in-law had cheated on his daughter, leaving her and two beautiful children. He asked him, "If you were God, what would you change?" His friend replied that he would go back in time and make sure that his daughter never met this man and married him. Then the preacher asked him if he would also be willing to part with those two precious grandchildren, because they wouldn't be here without that particular Daddy. He smiled and understood. Sometimes, and often, the bad comes along with the good. I believe that living in peace means finding that pearl in the middle of the nasty, stubborn oyster. When I get down or depressed, if I will stop and spread out my hands on the table and begin giving thanks to God for the good (and yes, even the bad) things, the fog lifts and I can find joy in the mud. The key is in actually doing it. 

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Do we have to fight this war again?

Our country seems to be on the verge of exploding into another civil war. My Daddy has often pondered that. I was a child of the 60s, where the world was changing. In that decade, we saw a President, his brother and a brave civil rights leader murdered. Marching, peace signs and hippies were everywhere. Privileged teenagers rebelled against staid institutions and ushered in a generation of free "love," pot and rock-and-roll. I grew up in the outskirts of suburbia, next to the edges where urban meets redneck. We might have been a little behind the times, but we were in the deep South and right close to Atlanta, where Daddy worked at the Postal Service. I had older cousins whom I saw spiraling out of control into drugs and alcohol, diving into the hippie culture. I would gaze in awe at their forbidden rock-and-roll albums and gauzy, tie-dyed outfits and wonder what California was like. The news was full of things that were scary but far away from my world. Or so I thought. 

Daddy coached two softball venues: our girls team and the Post Office team. I remember dreamy summer evenings, driving into Atlanta. We played around the bleachers and playgrounds with both white and black children, getting filthy with that persistent red dirt. Black girls would ask to touch my fine blonde hair. I would ask to touch their creative, wiry hair. We would laugh and wonder at the differences. My Daddy was (and is) a kind man and was keen on there being equality between races. He was called ugly names by trolls at work because he refused to be racist. When I was in second grade, a black girl in my class was shot while walking beside the railroad tracks in Powder Springs. Thankfully she wasn't killed, but I don't think much investigation was done into who did it or why. Daddy took me to the hospital to see her. He was outraged. Another time, we were at the public pool when a black family got in the water. The white kids started getting out of the pool. Daddy told us to get in the water, so we did. Others quickly followed. 

Maybe "following" is our problem. The human condition tends toward sheep-like behavior. Wherever the crowd is going, we like to follow, whether they're headed off the cliff or into a pasture. Mobs form when some passionate person or small cluster of people begin to move in a direction with impunity. What is good or right is often left behind, because it's difficult to swim against the current. It seemed our culture had made a great deal of headway, since the 1960s. There were horrible injustices, stemming back since slavery, that were still being foisted on people, but advances and changes were being made. I grew up in a mostly peaceful environment, racially speaking, once the 70s encroached. Underneath the relative peace, however, were roots that were quietly growing. Growing and spreading, poisoning those that they touched. Roots of bitterness and anger that had gone underground and untended. It's ironic that the fruit of a thing is usually perpetuated, not so much by those that were hurt, but by their progeny. Who of us has not seen whole family lines who nurse anger, generation after generation, passing on tendencies that seem to have no reasoning in them? It's that bitter tree, growing, defiling all it touches. Both sides of this war have history and reasons to find fault. Like a pendulum, swinging back and forth.

All of our DNA can be traced back to a single family. It started with Adam and Eve. The more we find out about genetics, the more we can prove this fact. The human race has a very diverse gene pool, which can manifest in many different appearances. But we are still humans. Put five families on an island by themselves and in a hundred years, you'll have similar traits, quirks, and a unique culture. We tend to find comfort in sticking with our own, with what is familiar to us. Genetic shuffling is a complex process. Look at dogs, for instance. A dog is a dog (unless it's a poodle, of course). Technically you can breed a toy Chihuahua to a Great Dane and you're going to get a dog. I would recommend the Dane being the Mama...but I digress. Mankind has bred them for many reasons, originally for practical ones but now more for appearance and temperament. Either way, we have breeds that we recognize, all the way from the tiny teacup Poodle up to the Irish Wolfhound. But they are still dogs. The same goes for humans. Thousands of  years ago, when transportation was at a snail's pace, people were isolated into pockets of civilization where they congregated to live, breed (if you will) and congregate to survive the harsh conditions of their environments. Physical characteristics morphed toward similarity, according to how the particular environment reinforced the survival of that people. Over millenia, "types" of people emerged as their DNA mixed and adapted to their territory. This is not macro-evolution, where we are taught to believe that species jump to become something else. This is genetic adaptation, where characteristics already encoded in our DNA are shuffled, through things like die-out, breeding, location. I am no geneticist or scientist and do not pretend to understand all the mysteries of this. I am making a point about race. Our "islands" and pockets of people that have produced different colors, races and ultimately cultures, have the common root of being not actually a bunch of races, but the human race. Race is an unfortunate word, because it infers that we are different species from each other. We are not. We are one species: mankind. One blood that has the capacity to mix.

I'm going to be honest. Even though I know better, I still wrestle with racism. Where I have relationships with people of other cultures and colors, people that I love and admire, when it comes to downing major barriers -- barriers like interracial marriage with my children or grandchildren, I have fear. Fear of cultural differences, of outside judgment, of rejection, of the unknown. I have several black friends who are some of the best people on this planet, people who have faced the giant spectre of this American culture and swam upstream, daring to raise their children differently, remaining steadfastly faithful to God and their spouses, laughing in the face of stereotypes and trials. They haven't allowed themselves to be distracted with hate, bitterness or discrimination, even when it has been all around them. They are better than me, giants in the land, even though they don't seem to know it. Where I feel fearful of the unknown, I think about what God has done in these people and families and I have hope. I pray that we can come together as a nation, to understand and embrace our differences. But without the grace of God and revival in our country, I don't know how this can happen. God, give me a clean heart and a love for those who are different from me. Help me to not fear or hate. Give us eyes to see what You see.

Monday, July 11, 2016

The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands

The world is an ancient place. Not ancient like we were taught in school, millions of years…but still old. Indian warrior old. When I drove up to this cabin where I am staying this week (for a little sabbatical from humanity), I accidentally came the long way around, which involved a sketchy gravel road and a mountain. It was already getting dusky. I rolled down my windows. The air was thick and green. I could hear cows, cicadas and chickens. I love the country but was beginning to get nervous until I came around a curve and saw several cabins scattered about. There it was, a tiny log house down in a hollow. Real logs, not those fake kind. A broad front porch that wrapped itself around to the back of the house. A kind place that asked me to come inside. Also a sad place because my friends who bought it are now divorced.  Sometimes life hands you things that you can scarcely believe. The thoughts that drift across our minds, the things we don’t speak of, the things we hide….sometimes they surface and manifest themselves despite our best efforts. I sit here on the porch, a soft breeze blowing up from the creek. I can smell the ferns and moss. The woods, I can imagine them five hundred years ago, where they grew unmolested with only an occasional Indian stealthing by. It’s not like other places, where there were civilizations that built grand palaces then got crushed by another great civilization, leaving behind ruins and structures to be rediscovered after being buried for millennia. It’s just the woods, the earth, the wind, and it has been like this since it was created. The stars out here are brilliant. There’s no unnatural light to obscure their beauty.  I’m reminded of the Scriptures that speak of the trees clapping their hands and the rocks and nature crying out praise to God. I wonder about all that. We are so intent on making our marks on the earth, rushing to and fro to stamp all over our territory and to leave a “legacy.” We are worried about other people, about what they think of us. So worried about being acknowledged, being important, being relevant. What if God really doesn’t give a rip about that? What if he just wants us to raise our eyes to him and clap our hands?


Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Freedom's Not Cool

Now that I am an adult and not so excited about sweating and being in the heat, the Fourth of July doesn't exactly ring my bells. I am embarrassed to admit that even though I love fireworks, hot dogs and America, I would really prefer to stay inside with air conditioning and a fan blowing on me. Or even better, float around in a swimming pool. No grilling obligations, whatsoever. Since we don't have a swimming pool (yet), I'm left with the sloth's solution to the holiday. This year, our wind ensemble had two concerts, one on the Third and one before the Carrollton parade, on the Fourth. Both involved sunshine, walls of heat, numerous hours, and blowing hot wind through musical instruments. After these commitments were fulfilled, our family went home mid-day and passed out, nursing lemonade and fresh fruit to rehydrate ourselves. 

I was still trying to avoid celebrating this broiling hot holiday. The heat index said 103 degrees at one point. But one of our sons called later, inviting us to come over and grill. The operative persuasion was that he was the one grilling. All I had to do was bring some meat, show up and pat out burgers. After our blissful afternoon siesta, my husband, daughter and I (and the dog) packed up and headed out to Rockmart. On a whim, I began pulling up patriotic songs on my phone and downloading them to the car speakers. Elvis started singing  Dixie about the time we rambled through Villa Rica. In the thirty minutes it took to get to our son's house, we also heard Allen Jackson, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Lee Greenwood's take on life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I had been crabby, crotchety and ill all weekend, completely missing what this fateful July 4th day means to our country. And to me. Parades, concerts, fireworks, crowds of people, heat, policemen everywhere....all lined up to make mention of what has been bought with the dearest price -- rejection, blood, death. All for the notion of freedom and a free country, unbound by the fetters of an oppressive government. 

We pulled up to my son's house; the sprinkler was running in the front yard. Granddaughter Maddie jumped off the stairs into my arms and we ran through the water over and over until we were soaked, grass sticking to our soggy skin. I remembered what it felt to be a child, to be free from so many obligations and worries... running through a sprinkler with your clothes on, just because. Holding that precious child in my arms and laughing with her, I prayed that God would have mercy on her generation (and ours)...that in these coming years we would not find ourselves more and more fettered by government or allow fear to overrun our good sense and imprison us, just to keep "safe." Lee Greenwood's admonishment to stand up means we stop, get our butts off our chairs, and come to attention. Freedom is a gift, but it doesn't come free. It can't be neglected or it will erode. Recall, treasure, revive the good, and leave behind the bad. We need to wake up! God bless America.