Author Archives: 805diva

Oct21

Beauty, Truth And Goodness

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Thinking upon these things…

This weekend was Homecoming on the campus of my alma mater, Carson-Newman University (although it was still Carson-Newman College when I graduated), an event which I always anticipate with excitement and joy.  This particular weekend was unique in that on Friday, current and alumni members of A Cappella Choir gathered in the sanctuary of First Baptist on the corner of campus to rehearse and record a Christmas CD.  Approximately 180 singers assembled, graduates from the 1950’s all the way up to last year, as well as current student members of the choir.  This event was held in honor of Dr. Eric Thorson (“Doc”) and his 30th anniversary directing A Cappella Choir.

I looked forward to this for months, imagining the fun of seeing old friends and sharing memories and fellowship, as well as the chance to make music with them and a number of my current crop of Delta Omicron students for whom I serve as Chapter Mother.  I knew it would be a special time together.  In my head I knew this…but I had no idea how glorious the experience would actually be.  I am still overwhelmed and processing all of it as I write and share here.

We began the day with a welcome and some announcements from Doc, and for our sound check we sang the college hymn, “God of Beauty, Truth and Goodness”, a beautiful hymn commissioned for the 150th anniversary of the college.  My ears and heart were filled with the sound of all of us lifting voices to one another and to the God we honored with our hymn.  And tears began to flow as I remembered so many wonderful times in the choir when I was a student.

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My years in A Cappella happened on the cusp of a changing era.  Prior to Doc’s tenure with the choir, A Cappella was directed and led by Charles Harrison Jones, affectionately known by decades of students as “Fessor”.   This man was a legend and lots of my peers were so intimidated by his reputation that they would not even audition for him.  I guess I didn’t have sense enough to be scared, because as a freshman I auditioned and was accepted into A Cappella in the fall of 1982, my first semester of college.  In the second semester I was accepted into a select group from choir known as “Renaissance”, which sang featured selections as we toured during spring break.  Fessor could be intense at times, and he was a big personality with a conducting style as unique as his DNA.  I remember how he used to go down the row and have people sing phrases individually, sort of like a vocal pop quiz.  One day he did this with the sopranos, and when he got to me, I sang my phrase and he pointed and me and shouted “GOOD!”  And I shouted back just as loudly, “THANK YOU!”  Someone told me later on that they couldn’t believe “a freshman had the nerve to do that!”  It was just me being me, even way back then.  And Fessor appreciated that.  My freshman year was his last year directing A Cappella, and I have always been so proud to have sung in Fessor’s last A Cappella Choir.  After he retired and I had graduated, he was directing another choir and he graciously hired me as a soloist for a couple of concerts, which were my very first paying gigs as a singer.  He referred me to another director who hired me for more work.  Fessor demanded musical excellence and valued work ethic and character.  He was a gifted musician, and one of the humblest people I ever met.

My sophomore year was when Doc took the reins of A Cappella upon Fessor’s retirement.  Doc also had the “joy” of being my academic advisor for my college years.  I have always said that he did a tour of duty getting me out of school on time and deserved combat pay and a medal for doing so!  In his own humble way, he always chuckles and says it was no big deal.  HIs conducting style was, and is, very different from Fessor’s, and there was a period of adjustment as he began his tenure with the choir.  As different as their personalities and conducting styles were, they shared a passionate commitment to excellence in musicianship and a self-effacing humility.  I consider myself doubly blessed to have sung in Fessor’s last A Cappella Choir and Doc’s first one.  Now I sing with Doc as he conducts Knoxville Choral Society and Chamber Chorale, and it is a joy to have the opportunity to continue my musical journey in this way.

On Friday as we sang the college hymn for sound check, the voices of generations of alumni and current students washed over me in a wave of emotion.  I felt a surge in both my soul and body and almost came completely undone by the magnitude of it all.  And I distinctly felt the presence of our beloved Fessor, who passed away several years ago at age 92.  He was with us in that room.  And I believe that both he and the Lord were pleased by our efforts as we sang and recorded our Christmas offering, adding “The Benediction” at the end.  I had the best seat in the house, on the front row between 2 of my very talented Delta Omicron students with a row of my peers from the 1980’s right behind us.  Past and present folded around me like a warm hug.

“The Lord Bless You and Keep You” by Peter C. Lutkin has been A Cappella’s closing benediction for decades, even since before Fessor’s time with the choir.   It is as sacred to us as scripture, which, in fact, it is.  The words are taken from Numbers 6: 24-26.  It binds us to one another, to members past, present and future.  We hold hands as we sing it, a tradition that I believe my peers in the 1980’s started, although I could be mistaken about that.  We never use music.  We don’t need it.  The singing of it evokes memories of tours, concerts, musical and spiritual moments shared, friendships forged, lessons learned and, I believe, a foretaste of what Heaven must sound like.

Beauty, truth and goodness indeed.

Oct17

Steppin’ In It

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Because life is short

Sometimes walking along the path of life, I step in it. You know the “it” I mean…the metaphorical pile of poop that stinks up my shoes and makes a bit of a mess. The only way to avoid steppin’ in it is never to take a step at all.

Before Mama died, I was much more insecure about reaching out to people who might reject me. I was afraid of getting hurt and looking foolish. Mama’s death changed my perspective about many things, including risk. In the 18 months following her death, 5 of my co-workers experienced the death of a parent. In each case I had a choice, either to risk reaching out in compassion or to stay inside myself and my own grief. And in each case I opted to reach out…to take the risk of opening myself to another hurting person. And I never regretted it.

Right now I have several friends who are dealing with illness and grief in their lives, and since their lives touch mine, I am touched by their suffering. My heart hurts for all of our feelings of helplessness and lack of control over circumstances. Self-preservation nudges me to isolate myself from their suffering in an effort to minimize my own.

But my heart of hearts urges me to step into their pain, to lean into human frailty and to try to shore up those around me who suffer. As I walk alongside, my shoes may become soiled with their blood, sweat and tears, and my arms may ache from trying to help carry their load. But it’s the only way I know to live.

My life is constantly teaching me lessons about how fragile we humans are, how fast time passes and how important it is not to leave things undone. I do not want to die regretting the thing I DIDN’T do or say. Sometimes saying what needs to be said or doing what needs to be done means steppin’ in it…and if that’s the case, then so be it.

Jesus knows the path we walk, including through the valley of the shadow of death. He knows what we step in. He washed the disciples’ feet, after all. I like to imagine a welcome mat at the pearly gates where we can shake off all that we’ve stepped in here as we prepare to enter Heaven.

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Oct3

Nine Diamond

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A quilting memory

 

Nine Diamond

The quilt patterns have all kinds of names
Dutch Doll and Dresden Plate
Flower Garden and 

Nine Diamond 

which I never understood because it was squares

I have a Southern Belle made out of Granny’s dresses

When I was little I watched my Granny sew
Little colored squares into
Bright patchwork patterns
On her aproned lap

Many nights I stayed up late
Talking, listening and laughing
With Mama and her sisters
As they sat in straight-backed chairs around the frames

Nimbly stitching through layers of gingham and calico
All the while
Sharing themselves with each other
And with me

“Measure twice, cut once, and
Don‘t be using your good scissors for anything else!
A number 7 needle is what you want to use, the kind
With the gold eye, if you can find them.
And don’t forget your thimble, it’ll save your fingers!”

Still, a thimble would eventually wear through and
That number 7 needle would prick a finger
Leaving a little blood-spot behind
Like a scar on the fabric

Sometimes the scar is what makes a thing
Most beautiful

 

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Sep25

His Eye Is On The Sparrow

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Why I collect feathers…

Yesterday I took the dog to the vet for a quick checkup, and as we were leaving, I spotted a beautiful, large bird feather on one of the shrubs outside the office.  With great joy I said, “Look, Roy!  It’s another feather for Mama!”  I am a collector, of objects and of memories.  I don’t remember exactly how my feather collection began, or even when, except that it was several years ago.  And it is not as though I have an organized system for keeping and viewing them, or for documenting when I found each one.  I tend mostly just to stick them in books or my Bible (along with the occasional pressed flower or leaf), although I have included a few in art projects and used some to make bookmarks.  Someday when I am long gone, others will inherit my books and find my collected feathers inside as a little surprise. I hope they will get a smile from them.

I know that these feathers come from birds, but I still like to imagine that they are dropped from the wings of some guardian angel that God has placed along my path.  A childlike notion, but a comforting one just the same.  God knows we all have moments when we need comfort, and I believe He sends us comforts that speak to us where we are, in a language we  can understand.

In telling his followers not to worry about the future or things they could not control, Jesus explained that God has numbered the very hairs on our heads, and not even a sparrow falls to the ground without The Father’s knowledge.  And He values us much more than many sparrows.Image

An old gospel hymn simply and sweetly reminds me of this promise, and I can’t remember whether I learned the song or the Bible passage first.  Both of them seem ingrained in my consciousness since before I can remember.  The chorus of the hymn explains my life, testimony and reason for singing better than anything I could have written myself:

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“I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,  For His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.”

Indeed, nothing in my life is beyond His watchful, loving care.  He sees when I am hurting, or joyful or at loose ends.  He sees my frustration and fear.  And sometimes, He places a feather in my path to remind me that He is looking out for me.

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Sep17

The Eye Of The Beholder

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What IS beauty, anyway?

 

We live in a world that is both beautiful and hideous.  We live in a society that is focused on selling us the idea that we can be “beautiful” if we will simply purchase and use certain products, starve our bodies into becoming a specific size and/or shape, and hide anything about ourselves that could possibly be perceived as a defect or an imperfection.  To me, these impossible standards of beauty are part of why our world is hideous.

Perfection is impossible…and if it were possible, it would be boring!  The iconic supermodel Cindy Crawford once told about a conversation she had with her mother in the very early days of her modeling journey about whether or not to remove her famous mole.  Her mother offered the insight that the mole made her face unique and memorable, and if she removed this unusual feature, all that would be left would be a scar.  

How many of us, in our efforts to fit into some arbitrary definition of beauty, have at some point or other, obliterated the very characteristics that make us identifiable and unique?  I am all in favor of beauty measures that help us to feel better about ourselves, that enhance the qualities and features that we like in both face and figure, and especially those that make us healthy and strong.  But I think the days of torturing ourselves and fighting against our looks need to be over.

God made us in His Image.  He made us beautiful.  At the end of His creative work, He declared all of it, including and especially humankind, very good.  Who are we to say otherwise?Image

Sep12

To Every Thing…

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…there is a season

I am beginning to feel the welcome approach of fall.  For the past few weeks I have been detecting little glimpses of seasonal change in the world around me and, after a wet, muggy summer, I am more than ready to greet autumn with open arms.  My dogwood tree is always the first harbinger of the coming shift, with its shiny berries looking like the red-hot cinnamon candies that Aunt Mary used to enjoy putting into her hot tea.  After the berries burst forth, the leaves begin their gradual change from brilliant green to the warm rusty orange and golden brown I so enjoy seeing.  Each day the sun’s touch on the leaves paints on more color.

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As lovely as the changing dogwoods are, my favorite trees to watch this time of year are the maples.  Several different varieties of maple grow around here, and they turn the most spectacular colors, from lemon yellow and tangerine orange to vibrant reds and rich shades of burgundy.  I remember one year when we were living in Florida, my sweet husband and I came back to the Knoxville area in October for a visit, and the leaves were so vivid that everyplace looked like a postcard.  It was the most wonderful welcome home I could have asked for, and a more lovely fall than I had seen in many years.  Image

Of course, the beauty of nature was only part of the sweetness of that visit home.  Jeff and I took a picnic in the mountains with Mom and Pop Cutshaw, stopping by a little stream to have our lunch.  At one point I noticed that Pop was wandering off by himself and I started off after him, until Jeff told me that he was probably looking for a place to pee!  Such a funny memory now.  We did a little shopping that day and I bought a handmade basket to take back to our little home in Florida to decorate our apartment, reminding me of home and that wonderful visit.  I still have it more than 25 years later.  We took lots of pictures that trip and the colors were incredible that year.

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This time of year holds lots of happy memories for me.  There are the reflections of falls gone by when I was a college student, walking the rolling hills of the campus, feeling the first hints of autumn’s chill on my way to class, breaking out my favorite sweaters and hanging pictures on our dorm room wall.  There have been Homecomings  where I have been united once more with friends and professors from my school days.  I love the change in the air and on the trees this time of year.  And I love the gentle rhythm of the seasons, the reminder that God indeed has the whole world in His hands, and as long as there are summer and winter, seed time and harvest, His hands are where the world will stay.Image

Sep2

Treasures In Heaven

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Visiting the place where I began to store them up

Yesterday I visited my childhood church home for services.  I have wanted to go back and visit for a long time, but Aunt Ruby’s recent death spurred me to get there, finally.  It was with her, Uncle John and our cousins that Reed and I first started going to church in this beautiful old building.  My memories of the times spent there, the visual beauty of the place and the familiarity of the order of service came flooding back, washing over me like a warm wave of comfort.  The Gloria Patri, Apostles’ Creed and Doxology with which I was raised issued forth just as they have for generations.Image

I parked my car in a visitor space and made my way to the nearest entrance, and when I stepped inside I was overcome with the fragrance of the building, warmth and home.  Immediately I was transported back to my childhood and youth group days by the mix of scents: antique wood and tile, varnish and candle smoke, old lady perfume and the “golden bowls of incense, which are the prayers of the saints…”Image

Some of the physical aspects of the place have been updated and changed over the years.  Padding on the pews and carpeting on the stairs make it a little safer and more comfortable.  But many more things remain unaltered since my days there.  The colorful windows are still intact, thank God!  Images of faith in glowing stained glass shaped my earliest memories of church and worship, and helped me to learn what being a Christian was all about.Image

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We spent a great deal of time there as children, and many times we went exploring the less public parts of the building, places we were convinced no one else knew about.  There are many back stairways and narrow passages in that place.  Once I remember making our way up into the pipes of the majestic organ, (NOT during services, we would have gone deaf!) an instrument that was funded, installed and dedicated during my childhood there.  Image

The organ and choir sounded just as wonderful yesterday as I remembered them.  A few members from my childhood days are still there, and still singing in that choir.  Some things never change.  I find that very comforting.

There has always been an intricate wood carving of the Da Vinci painting of The Last Supper in front of the choir loft, and it too is still there.  Yesterday was actually a communion Sunday, and I was privileged to partake once more in the elements of body and blood, in the place where I first learned what communion was and what it meant.  This service of communion was both solemn and joyful for me, and very poignant as I remembered all the times I have prayed, communed, cried and laughed in that place, with that branch of God’s family tree.Image

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My cousin Alan’s favorite window was the anchor in what used to be called the Little Sanctuary.  That space has since been closed off and renamed the Flossie Cox Prayer Chapel.  Mrs. Cox was Mama and Aunt Ruby’s Sunday school teacher for years, a wise and gentle lady who loved the Lord and loved His people.  I always loved the window that shows an offering being placed in a treasure chest, reminding me both of the story of the widow who gave more than all the others because she, in her poverty, offered her last mite, and of Jesus’s admonition to store up treasures in Heaven.Image

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I saw many childhood friends yesterday, hugged and smiled and got a little teary-eyed a couple of times.  This church, this place, was where I was confirmed and baptized, where I learned how much I loved to sing, songs like “This Is My Father’s World” and “For The Beauty Of The Earth”.  Image

It is where my faith journey began.  That journey has taken me into many other churches, a few different denominations and allowed me to meet and love many of my brethren along the way.  But there is something special about the places where one grew up.  And even though I no longer attend church there, I will no doubt find my way back from time to time, because it was…Is…Home.

Aug27

Hands That Loved Me

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Healing tears and comforting touches

This time 2 weeks ago we had just said goodbye to Aunt Ruby after spending the day at her bedside, keeping vigil and waiting for her to make her trip to Heaven. It seems both  like a lifetime ago and like it just happened.

 

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I cried little cries several times during that day, as we all did. And I cried when she left to go Home, as we all did. But I have not yet really broken down and had the big cry, the ugly one.

This is unlike me, and it feels like something is wrong. I realize that every loss has its own unique set of circumstances, and that grief follows no specific, or even logical, timetable. Having lost many loved ones in my life, having volunteered with hospice for several years and having completed a ministry course which put me face to face with people experiencing their own losses, my mind knows that I will process my feelings in their own good time.

I just feel…half-dead. I remember the events of the day clearly and vividly, the faces of my family as we all communed together in that sacred space, waiting and watching. I remember all of it. But my feelings have been feeling flat.

This loss hits me in a new place, as each new loss does. But this new place feels foreign, strange and unfamiliar in a way I can’t quite describe. I may need some help to sort this out, in the form of counseling or a major sabbatical from some of my volunteer activities…or both. Or something else. Or all of the above.

Of course, after Mama, (and sometimes even before Mama) the person I would talk to about this kind of thing would have been Aunt Ruby. Aunt Ruby told me when I was younger that it was OK to cry, and to just let my tears roll. She was the only person in my life who ever gave me this permission, and it was priceless. What I would give now to be able to sit at her feet, my head in her lap, and have her comfort me. I can feel her stroking my hair and hear her soothing voice telling me that it will be OK, that God gave us tears for a reason, that crying helps us to heal…to just let my tears roll.

And so they roll now. I didn’t start this post thinking that it would help the crying process to begin, but I am grateful that it has. I can feel Aunt Ruby with me as I sit here, telling me that it’s OK to let go, it’s OK to cry…and that I need to if I am ever going to heal. I don’t know if I will ever meet another person with her wisdom or her serenity, and I am going to miss being able to sit in her presence and enjoy those moments.Image

She possessed an enormous heart, a mind that never stopped wanting to learn, and eyes that always saw something worthwhile in me no matter what anyone else saw. And her hands sewed warmth and care into every piece of clothing and every quilt she ever touched, baked nourishment into every biscuit she ever served, and canned future provision and generosity into more green beans and tomatoes than anyone could begin to count.  She soothed my tears and fears with those hands.  Precious hands…hands that loved me.  Image

Aug22

The Big Six

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The end of a generation…and time for the next one to step forward

My cousins, my brother and I are living in a different world than we were just 10 days ago, one with a giant hole in it.  The woman Reed and I called Aunt Ruby, and who our cousins called Mother, Mom and Mama, has gone home to Heaven.  I will write more about her, her living and dying, in a future post.  Right now I can still hardly wrap my head around the idea that she is gone.

Right now I just want to reminisce about simpler times with Reed and my cousins, to find comfort and maybe some smiles in my memories.  Debbie was born to Aunt Ruby and Uncle John first, and she enjoyed 10 years by herself with them.  Then Aunt Ruby and Mama started the family “baby boom”.  Mark and Reed arrived less than 5 months apart, then I was born less than 3 years after Reed, Alan was born 10 months after I was, and Haven brought up the caboose about a year and a half after Alan.  Poor Debbie sometimes got stuck with babysitting the remaining 5 of us younger kids! I can’t even imagine what that must have been like!  Image

We grew up attending the same schools because we lived close together.  Reed and I began going to church with Aunt Ruby and Uncle John and their kids when Mama was taking care of Granny and unable to take us to church herself.  Granny made Mama promise that she would take us when she was able to, and after Granny died, Mama kept her promise.  Aunt Ruby and Mama were very tightly bonded and, as a result, so were we, often functioning as a single group of siblings rather than two separate sets.

Often we would “swap a kid”.  Haven would come to spend the night with me on Ford Street and Reed would go to hang out with Mark and Alan on Arnold Street.  Or vice versa, with any configuration of kids at either place.  I know I spent almost as much time at Aunt Ruby’s house growing up as I did at my own.  It was equally home to me.

As we’ve grown older, our lives have taken off in different directions, and each of us has dealt with individual issues and struggles.  Life as a family is not always pretty.  And even though 5 of the 6 of us all live in the same town, we’ve been hard-pressed to get together as a group…unless someone is getting married or buried.  But I agree with the immortal wisdom of the Facebook quote that asserts, “Our cousins are the first friends we have”.  In our case that has been the absolute truth.

Aunt Ruby was the last of her siblings, her generation, to leave this world.  She and her sisters, “The Big Five”, left us a rich legacy of strength, craziness, laughter, tears and love to draw upon as our generation is forced now to step forward and pretend that we’re grown-ups.  I don’t know how all of that is going to work out…but I pray that we can be more diligent about gathering now and then, just to spend some time connecting with one another.  We’ve learned once again, all too poignantly, how short life is.  Image

Aug7

Beauty In Brokenness

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Why the end is sometimes a new beginning

For several years we enjoyed birds nesting in a bush in front of our porch. What a joy to discover a little tangle of leaves, twigs and mud appearing, growing larger each day until a nest was recognizable. Birds are wonderful builders and watching them make a home for their brood is fascinating.

Once the nest was completed, the eggs began to appear, little vessels of sky blue holding the transpiring miracle of albumen and life. Mama Robin would deposit one egg per day until the nest was full of the four she ultimately laid there.Image

Watching her on the nest and waiting for the eggs to hatch was riveting for me and I stalked the bush and the nest with camera in hand and childlike anticipation of the coming baby-bird parade.  Several times each day I would go out to inspect the nest and see whether Mama Robin was sitting on the eggs or gone to find some food for herself.  Image

When the eggs hatched I happened to catch the process as it unfolded.  The miracle of birth!  I had just said goodbye to Jeff as he left for work that morning, and it was a day off for me, so I checked the nest and one of the little babies was pecking its way through the shell right before my eyes.  I was bolted to the spot as I beheld this spectacle of one tiny bird, then its nest-mates, fighting to be born.Image

My daily obsession continued as I followed their growth and progress, listening to the wails of hungry infant birds, watching Mama Robin as she took such expert care of her little family.  This was great stuff!  And I knew that before long the babies would leave the nest and fill my dogwood tree with birdsong and flight.

A new robin’s nest appeared the following year…but so did a neighborhood cat, who demolished the nest and the eggs. leaving behind only the empty nest with a broken shell to remind me that life is fragile and nothing is promised.  Nature is not always kind.

Like the shell of a robin’s egg, sometimes we have to be broken in order for a new thing to be born.  Jesus talked about wheat dying in the ground in order to sprout and grow grain.  Caterpillars have to break through the chrysalis to spread their new butterfly wings and fulfill their destiny.  Brokenness is a hard thing, a painful thing.  And sometimes it is a needed thing.  Lord, when I am broken, remind me that it’s not forever…and that it is for something new to be born.  Image