INFLUENCES OF NOTE. .

               While listening to Mozart's 13th symphony this week, I wondered about the origins of my appreciation.  In my formative years, there was little classical music in my environment . . . except
Public School Music.  For maybe an hour or so per week, our Fourth Grade class (as I remember it) would go to Mrs. Mary Frances Morgan's classroom where she would extol the virtues and beauty of various pieces of classical music.  While she likely introduced  us to several composers and their work, two are locked in my mind . . . The William Tell Overture (which  every man my age knows as the theme music for The Lone Ranger) and Grieg's Peer Gynt Suites.  With the high school students, she even produced  Gilbert and Sullivan's The Mikado, which her husband, the Coach, called The Mickey-Do.  {Still unsure why trivia like that is stored away in the brain folds while 'important' matters are not always readily retrievable.}

       In an earlier post ('Music to My Ears'), I acknowledged my unsophisticated and subjective approach to music . . . I just know what I like.  I am unable to converse in depth about what makes 'good' music.  But, unlike another coach/teacher who told us that he did not enjoy music by "sympathy orchestras", I have my favorites.
I think the Second movement of the aforementioned Mozart 13th
ranks as one of the most beautiful ever composed.

       In that Mrs. Morgan's classes were almost seventy years ago, I assume that she has  since taken her 'final curtain call'.  I wish that I had recognized her influence earlier and thanked her.  That being no longer possible, I make it a  point to say my appreciation to those whose music I find enriching.

      John is Organist at the Presbyterian church my wife and I attend. For many years he was Organist at a large Chicago church but has now returned to North Carolina, living near his hometown.  His influence here is evident in many ways.  Members of the choir speak appreciatively of his insistence upon excellence. Thus far, we have been unable to convince him to play a Sunday afternoon recital/concert.   Each Sunday, in addition to appreciating how his talent enhances the worship service,  I look forward to his Postlude.  At times like that,  I hear echoes of my parents telling me that the time would come that I would wish I had been diligent in practicing my piano lessons.  Sure enough, I wish that I had allowed them more influence about such matters  . . . or maybe I just recognized my limitations.    

     Seventy years later, Mrs. Morgan, "Thanks".

        Satchel    

          

        
        

MOVIES, CINEMAS AND 'PICTURE SHOWS'

     We decided to do something today that is out of the ordinary for us . . . we went to a movie.  And the one that we  selected is somewhat controversial with mixed reviews.  Is it a 'true story' or 'based on a true story'?  (The academic historian in me knows that there is quite a difference. )

     One of my throw away lines when asked about the last movie that I have seen is "Gone With the Wind".  There is a nearby cinema which we have patronized less frequently than in earlier times.  When we pass it, my wife will say, on cue , 
"What is that building there?". And, on cue, I will reply that I think is is a skating rink.

    "The movies are great medicine. Thank you, Thomas Edison for giving us 'The Best Years of our Lives' " . . . so sang the Statler Brothers in The Movies.  I am unsure why we now attend less frequently.  Was not always so.  Guess I could claim in part the fact that there is no theater in our home town.  'Once upon a time' almost every small town had at least one. In the town where I grew up, the building burned one Sunday afternoon in 1954.  Fire trucks came from even as far away as Raleigh . . . 15 or so miles.  The town where I now live lost its downtown movie house by fire many years ago.  And the 'Drive In Movie' out on the By-pass gave way to 'progress' many years ago.

     Strange as it may seem to some who are accustomed to paying today's admission and concession prices, I have vivid memories of using my full 25 cents allowance for admission (10 cents), a box of popcorn (another dime) and a drink (a nickel).  Now that I qualify for 'Senior Rates', I am amazed at  what that can do to a portrait of Andrew Jackson ($20 bill) .
Maybe therein lies at least a clue for the decrease in 'going to the show' (as it was once called).  Doesn't make sense (almost an unintended pun) in that that we spend comparable sums for other entertainments, as well as for 'eating out'.

    Just this week, I saw a video clip on YouTube that had a segment with one of my boyhood heroes, Gene Autry.
He and Roy and Hoppy always wore  white hats.  These days, I like: Baseball stories such as Trouble with the Curve; Humor and Comedy; Historically- based such as Unbroken; and, while the last title does not fit, I usually prefer 'light hearted' stories, where the 'good guys' still win. 

   And the  previews shown today were an unending stream of egregious murder, mayhem, and other forms of chaos.  Perhaps it has to do in part with the fact that I hear ample hurt, strife, conflict, etc in my office that I want entertainment  at the movie.  In that the last two movies we have seen have been 'intense', when we left the theater this evening, my wife  commented that our next one needs to be a 'Chick Flick'. Uncertain of the precise definition of that genre, I still almost agreed.

    An often heard comment is  'the movie is not as good as the book'.  Each time that I hear that statement, I remember that when  Cecil B. DeMille's  blockbuster The Ten Commandments was released, someone asked my fraternity brother, Bob Little, if he planned to see it.  He answered, "No. I read the book."   Maybe that's part of my reason . . . while not all good movies have gone with the wind,  I frequently prefer reading  a book to much that is now on the 'silver screen'.
           Satchel

    

IMPORTANT BOOKS THAT I HAVE MET

         At the end of a counseling session last week, a client asked if I would think about and list for him the "five most influential books" that I have read.  Quite a request but it piqued my interest and curiosity.  Part of that is easy . . . for reasons long since forgotten, in 1961, I began keeping a list of books that I had completed. (No, I plead innocent to any insinuations of  Obsessive Compulsive tendencies.) So, I located the list and that is when the request became a challenge.

      I made two columns ... fiction and non-fiction ... and began identifying 'nominees'.  There are more of the latter than the former.
And, the fiction was easier. ( I probably might have created a third section...historical fiction ... and therein included the writings of my fraternity brother, Charles F. Price, who writes eloquently.)  And, in that category would also go McKinley Kantor's Andersonville which I read as a college freshman and likely influenced my decision to major in History.  

    For fiction, I have enjoyed several of John Steinbeck and Reynolds Price's books.  I have 'benefitted' from reading: All Quiet on the Western Front; Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman; Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five; Pat Conroy's Prince of Tides; and Ferroll Sams's trilogy: Run With the Horsemen; The Whisper of the River; and When All the World Was Young.

    But for now, I want to reflect on the non-fiction titles.  I quickly made three sub-categories: First tier, Second tier, and 'fun'.  Here, my various professions likely have influenced several choices but personal predilections have also had their 'say-so'.  So far, I have been unable  to choose a 'top five'.  While I am pretty certain of the top  two, there are others that cannot be eliminated.  "The Envelope, please". . .   Runners - Up include Charles Wells, Dear Old Man: Letters to Myself on Growing Old; David Halberstam, The Teammates: Portraits of a Friendship; Gail Sheehy, Passages: Predictable Crises of Adult Life; Martin Marty, A Cry of Absence; Father Thomas Keating's Open Mind, Open Heart; and various titles by Frederick Beuchner and Barbara Brown Taylor.

    In second place but not by far, because as I have noted elsewhere in these posts, I annually reread Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak: Finding the Voice of True Vocation.

    Marcus Borg died this week.  As a member of the Jesus Seminar, he was often vilified as 'Liberal' by more-'orthodox' and conservative Christians.  I first became aware of him and his writing in 1996 when he addressed the Council of Ministers at a nearby college.  My friend gave me a copy of Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time. Since then, I have re-read it several times, as well as reading several of his more recent writings. On two subsequent occasions, I heard him preach at Wake Forest University and  attended another lecture at High Point University. For some time, I had known that there were Understandings and Interpretations of Christianity that were at variance with my own but was unclear as to how to articulate these.  While there are points of differing understanding, because of him and his written and spoken words, I now without apology consider myself 'Christian'.

     Some time back, a client frequently railed against Borg and other "Liberals".  As a psychotherapist, my ministry is not 'evangelism' in the sense of trying to proselytize persons to my beliefs.  However, in the spirit of encouraging her be less judgmental and stereotyping, without identifying the speaker, I played Borg's YouTube sermon, What's Christianity.  After she indicated that she concurred with everything the speaker had said, I told her it was Borg.  Imagine her surprise.

    I have absolutely no interest nor intention to engage in theological debate in this space.  I am grateful that I encountered Dr. Borg and for his assistance in Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time.

     Satchel

FALLOW GROUND

    "I had reached the point that I had nothing to say and no great desire to say it," a then prominent Episcopal priest wrote me in the 1960's while on his vacation.  Many who write, preach, teach, and others who rely on their creative 'juices'  fall upon fallow ground from time to time.  

   Farmers know about fallow ground. .  . land that has been used and now for a season is plowed but nothing is planted.  Well, the muses of creativity sometimes go into hiding and 'the well is dry'.

   My younger brother writes a weekly column for our local newspaper.  Perhaps because I have known him for 60+ years and because I have been reading his material for almost 30 of those years, I frequently can tell when he is 'on' and when he just is grinding it out.  When he is 'good', he is very good . . . like the time that he won a North Carolina Press Association First Place Award for his story of Aunt Bea's funeral. (She of the Andy Griffith Show renown and who retired to our hometown.)  The funeral was by invitation and he was not an invitee.  How did he do it? As an ordained minister, he has conducted numerous funerals; he knew something of her 
story, and he talked with the priest who led the rites. Plus, I am convinced that somewhere along the way, he kissed the Blarney Stone.  Even so, he acknowledges that on occasion, he hits a fallow patch.

   'Papa' Ernest Hemingway when asked the secret of successful writing replied something to the effect of having the seat of one's garment adhere to the seat of a chair for extended periods of time.  (But is he not reputed to have written while standing? I digress.)

    I have come to enjoy . . . the word is too mild . . . writing blog posts.  Sometimes, topics will almost present themselves; at other times, there is nothing.  Gratefully, unlike Hemingway, I do not rely upon my prose for a livelihood.  Still, it is more than a bit frustrating to want to write, but creativity does not respond well to coercion.  As I wrote that last sentence, I remembered a term paper that I wrote for Professor Waldo Beach at Duke Divinity School in the Spring of 1963.  Though my grade was an acceptable "B", he sized it up well with his comment : "Signs of haste and imminent deadline".

    Perhaps the moral of this musing might be along the lines of  "What's the hurry? There's no deadline."  But, then, maybe my brother will tell me where to find the Blarney Stone.

    Satchel

A VOICE FROM THE PAST . . .

       Last night I heard a 'voice from the past'.  Amazing, isn't it , what technological 'gadgets' can provide.  The 'voice' that I heard was that of my Mentor and Academic Father, the late Reverend Doctor Harrell F. Beck.  In the Spring semester of 1961, I enrolled in his course "Hebrew Wisdom Literature" at Boston University School of Theology.  Easily the most academically challenging and gratifying class that I took during my year there, I remain proud of the "A" that was earned.  And while his status as a scholar was impressive, what most endeared him was his human warmth and 'approachability'.  (Harrell's scholarly credentials and achievements can be viewed at www.Facebook.com/HarrellBeck. The site was set up by some of his proteges as a way of remembering and continuing his legacy.)

    Well into that semester, I knew that I was "in the wrong pew, in the wrong church, at the wrong time in my life."  And while I hardly had vocational clarity (after all, I was 23 years old -- Time to 'get on with it' !), I felt that to leave school would have been a betrayal to many who had supported my matriculation.  Hardly knowing the man but sensing his integrity, I made a lunch appointment with Dr. Beck.  He listened carefully, then expressed his opinion that I was not being remiss but rather was attempting to be honest and find my way.  How liberating; how affirming!

    From May, 1961 when I departed Boston until Harrell's death in December ,1987, we saw each face to face perhaps on a half dozen or so occasions.  The most memorable of those visits occurred in the Summer of 1985 when he preached at my installation as Minister of a North Carolina congregation.  (God does have a sense of humor !)  Beyond the memory of those times together, I have a thick file of the correspondence we maintained over those years.
His letters abounded with humor, wisdom, encouragement, affection, and his humanity.

                                (With Harrell Beck, Summer, 1985)

     In late November, 1987, I wrote to him extensively about the vicissitudes of life as a parish minister and still seeking (at age 49, after an extensive tenure as college professor) the vocational path of fulfillment.  His response was, as usual, supportive and encouraging: "I am sure you have talents and gifts that are not being used and I think it is important to be specific about one or two of those and see that they are brought into use."

     I bemoaned that he was soon to depart for Hong Kong where he would again have a teaching appointment.  He responded: "I too lament the fact that we meet so seldom. . . . At least we can write.  We can be present to each other without either geographic presence or writing, but both of the latter are much better.  . . . Surely heaven is a place for the fullness of relationship."  Before that day ended, Harrell was dead from acute myocardial infarction.

    After his death, I learned of this prayer he had written:
   
  "I'd like to be a flower in the garden of God.  I'd like to take my
chances in the wind and the rain, in the storm and the sunshine. I'd like to be planted  among a variety of species in the midst of an assortment of colors--and sizes--and shapes; and to grow among the lilies and the lilacs, the crocuses and the chrysanthemums, the poppies and the  pansies, and yes even the dandelions.  I want to be part of an absolute riot of color and beauty.

    Pray God I might last long enough to blossom. And, then, Lord, early if you want to, late if you can, I want you to pick me.  And if I must be alone in a solitary vase, I'll take it.  I'd rather be in a bouquet. But could I be something beautiful, Lord, and placed on your table at somebody's covenantal mement, when they're bringing their child or when they're burying their beloved or when they are sealing a vow? That could be joy enough, God, but could I ask one more thing?  Could it be possible that someone would say, 'That reminds me of a flower I once saw, a rose in Sharon, a lily of the valley, who was once picked by God and gave up his life --to add beauty and significance to the lives of others.' "

    Last night, he was much on my mind and I did a Google search, and that is where I heard his voice.  There are two of his lectures on 
'SoundTheology.org/speaker/speaker-beck-harrell' . I heard just one of them  . . . 'Escape to Reality', apparently addressed to a group of United Methodist Ministers in Spokane, Washington, at an unspecified date.   It's a tad long . . . about an hour . . . but most substantive.

   I was delighted to hear his voice again with his depth of insight and faith and his warmth of  expression.  I invite you to listen.

     Satchel

LEFT- OVERS

     The late Reverend Doctor Peter Marshall upon facing left over holiday turkey for the umpteenth time told his wife that she would have to say the pre-meal grace because God knew that he was not grateful for turkey hash.

    Not all left-overs merit our scorn; rather, before we move on into the post-holiday period, there are a few things to remember that can offer soul nourishment.  High on my list are 'Christmas programs', especially those presented in small congregations.  My mentor, the late Reverend Doctor Harrell Beck, noted that probably every church has three bathrobes hanging in a closet somewhere for use by the 'three Wise Men'.

     In writing this, I remember one such program in which I had a bit part ...probably when I was 10 years old.  I was given a white cassock at rehearsal and I was so proud of it that I wore it on the  six block walk home that December afternoon.  The t.v. movie, The Homecoming, (if I remember the title correctly)(which was the pilot for the subsequent series, The Waltons) had a poignant scene of the 'program' at the neighboring Black church.

     This year, we attended what I consider to be among the best that I have ever experienced.
The church members whom we know well seemed remarkably unselfconscious in their various costumes and coming's and going's.  The sequencing of narrative, costumes, and music formed a unity that  powerfully conveyed the message.  Only after it had concluded did we learn that it had been written by Jeff, a gifted member of the congregation.  'Written'...well, he had considerable assistance from Luke, John and a few other Biblical authors.  But he wove it all together in a beautiful symmetry. Thanks, Jeff and members of Maple Springs for your offering.

    By contrast, on Christmas Eve, we attended a service at a church near where we have spent the week.  While there were spots for congregational participation, I left feeling that I had been at a 'performance' rather than at a worship service.  Perhaps I am more of a liturgical traditionalist than I had realized but music with a rock beat does not assist in my awareness of the Holy One.

   And, I did say left-overs.  Facebook, like many other things, has its benefits as well as its banalities. This year we have appreciated exchanging greetings in real time with several persons important to us.  I hope that the warmth of these exchanges remains through the coming Winter.

    Do memories qualify as 'left-overs' ?  Not all are 'turkey hash'; instead they maintain a zestful taste that can provide sustenance without exhaustion.  Not all the 'ghosts of Christmas past' are haunting.  While the past is not a good place to live, occasional visits can provide perspectives worth having.

    What's in your left-overs that you can give thanks for . . . with due respect for Dr. Marshall's candor ?
     Satchel

THE SHORTEST DAY OF THE YEAR

December 21, 2017. . . This was originally written three years ago.
Having  watched several sunrises and sunsets at the beach this year, I have again been reminded of how short the days are just now.  Today is the Winter Solstice . . . the shortest day of the year.  Which means that now the days will again lengthen --- a positive experience for those of us for whom 'cold' and 'dark' are not preferences :

      For the next 182 1/2 days, the 'trend' is positive  . . . at least for those of us who prefer more daylight.  A local meteorologist reminded viewers that yesterday was the shortest day of the year.  From here til June 21st, the days grow incrementally longer. Daylight lasting well past 8 p.m. (with the assistance of Daylight Savings Time) remains my preference.  Darkness at 5 p.m. can be, well, depressing, and not just in the clinical sense.

      'Dark' and 'cold' are a mean combination for many.  Often the former carries an undertone of things dangerous or evil or depressing. SAD ... Seasonal Affective Disorder . . . complicates life for many and if often treated by use of a 'light box'. 

    Along with the dark winter of the calendar, there can also be a dark winter of the spirit that begs for more light.  The American theologian, Martin Marty, wrote powerfully of such in his A Cry of Absence:Reflections for the Winter of the Heart. Barbara Brown Taylor, an Episcopal priest and teacher, recently offered some different perspectives on benefits of darkness in her  book, Learning to Walk in the Dark. (No book reviews offered here.  I found substance in both.) 

    Now it is almost Christmas.  Christian theologians who note that the  actual date of Jesus's
birth is unknown maintain that a time near the Winter Solstice is a fitting symbolic dating for the advent of One considered by many to be 'the Light of the World'. That the dating was an appropriation of non-Christian cultures's traditions does not negate the symbolism.

    Yesterday, a friend posted a poem by Edward Hays, a Catholic priest.  I had never known of him or his writing. His website looks interesting and I have bookmarked it for further reading of his blogposts.
But his poem captures much that I had felt stirring within as the seasons change and evidences of 'darkness' proliferate :
  
 "The dark shadow of space leans over us . . . .
We are mindful that the darkness of greed, exploitation, and hatred
also lengthens its shadow over our small planet Earth.
As our ancestors feared death and evil and all the dark powers of winter,
We fear that the darkness of war, discrimination, and selfishness
may doom us and our planet to an eternal winter.

May we find hope in the lights we have kindled on this sacred night,
hope in one another and in all who form the web-work of peace and justice
  that spans the world.

In the heart of every person on this Earth
burns the spark of luminous goodness;
in no heart is there total darkness.
May we who have celebrated this winter solstice
by our lives and service, by our prayers and love,
Call forth from one another the light and the love
that is hidden in every heart.
   Amen.
     
   Although the writer of the Gospel of John insisted that people love the dark because their deeds are evil, what of that 'spark' that craves greater clarity of understanding and action?  Maybe all the Christmas lights are pushbacks against enveloping darkness.
To me, the dying words of American short story writer O. Henry (William Sydney Porter) "turn up the lights, I don't want to go home in the dark" and those of Goethe, "Do open the shutter of the bedroom so that more light may enter"  are human echoes of God's "Let there be Light".

     An ancient prophet promised that "the people who walk in darkness shall see a great light". Another: "Arise, shine, for your light has come !"

     May the darkness and the cold not overwhelm us!
Perhaps that comes close to what Christmas is about.
    Satchel

   

LET THEM EAT [FRUIT] CAKE . . .

         'tis the Season !  For fruitcakes, that is.  And for those who enjoy making bad jokes about the delicacy.  (On the long-shot chance that you do not know about 'fruit cake', consult Wikipedia.)

       When did the bad rap begin?  Perhaps with Johnny Carson's often repeated  'joke' that there really was but one fruitcake in the entire world and it was passed around and re-gifted from year to year.  And, in Manitou Springs, Colorado, there is an annual post-Christmas "Great Fruitcake Toss", with participants vying for the longest fling.

    Not all fruitcakes are created equal.  Some, undoubtedly, are atrocious .  I have met a few that were much too sweet, too gooey, and just 'too much' to suit my palate.  However, fruit cake per se has a long and honored place in my Christmas memories and associations.

    The late author, Truman Capote, wrote a nostalgic short story, A Christmas Memory, about how his child-like aunt, Sook, and he 
made thirty fruitcakes each year during the days of the Great Depression.  Sometime in November, Sook would raise her kitchen window and, sniffing the brisk air, exclaim "Oh, my, it's fruitcake weather."  Their adventures in gathering the ingredients are too rich  to attempt summarizing here.  It's a great read.

    A key ingredient in Buddy ( her name for young Truman) 
and Sook's fruitcakes was the liquor, obtained from a local bootlegger.  For many, that part of the tradition lives on, especially with those cooks who bake their own.

     Berta Scott's recipe does not include 'spirits' but, then, it's not the stereotypical 'fruit cake'.  At Christmas when a hairdresser, Mrs. Scott gifted her  customers with fruitcakes made from her mother's recipe.  After many rave responses, she and family members began 'mass producing' them in their garage.  In 1984, the family began what has become an internationally successful business, selling not only fruitcakes but a wide assortment of 'goodies'. (Google the website for Southern Supreme Fruitcake for an overview of the Scott family's remarkable success story.)

     (Though she and her husband and their business are nearby and we are personally acquainted, I want to stress that this is neither a solicited nor paid endorsement.  We just like their  fruitcakes.)

     However, as much I enjoy the Southern Supreme fruitcake, my all time favorite, never again to be enjoyed, was my mother's annual production.  (Does anyone in the extended family have her recipe?)  And, it was a 'production' and similar to Sook and Buddy's, it was liberally soaked with 'apple jack', or apple brandy.  Mom would wrap these precious items in a cloth, keep them in  tin containers ,  and at intervals add a touch of the brandy.  When she deemed them 'ready', it was a grand occasion.

   Like many families,   we have stories that are told and retold whenever there is a gathering. . . a favorite involved mom's fruitcake.  One Christmas season as the masterpieces were unveiled, Bob Hultman, our parents' pastor, happened by for a visit.  He accepted mom's offer for cake and coffee.  When he had finished, she asked if he would like more.  His response has become part of the family's lore: "I think I will drink another slice."

     By the way, fruitcake at its best contains lots of nuts as well.
Probably you have heard of someone's being called 'as nutty as a fruitcake'.  One person wrote that 'the fruitcakes in my family were of the human species.'

       Whether your fruitcake is on or seated around the table, 
enjoy !
                Satchel

      
     

COUNT 'EM

      Specificity matters.
       Generalizations dilute.

      A hymn admonishes "count your blessings, name them one by one".  In yesterday's sermon, our minister noted that expressing gratitude is a "skill".  I acknowledge that I had not thought of it as a "skill" but I believe he is on target.  As with most skills, 'practice' hones the awareness as well as the ability.  While abstract appreciation can be important,  it is when our 'list' of 'blessings' becomes concrete and specific that expressions of thanks can flow from a deeper place within us.  And, maybe 'categories' for organizing and naming specifics can begin the process.

    As an aside, I have observed that for some persons, expressions of thanks  often sound a lot like congratulations to the Deity for having the good judgment to recognize their 'special-ness'. For the moment, this is not for the Narcissists among us.

     Two weeks ago, I heard an elderly clergyman say that he now understands that 'Relationships' matter more than anything else and that he wishes that he had learned that sooner.  So, there is one category:  who has made a positive difference in your life? And, telling them of their influence makes 'good listening'.  And,  if you notice that some (several) of these persons and no longer living, give extra portions to those still living.  Family, friends, acquaintances, as well as professional colleagues can be relational gifts that merit our expressions of appreciation.  (Yes, I know: some of those relationships have caused and still cause profound hurts for many.)

     At almost 77, I am increasingly aware that good health is a Trust  to be protected and nurtured.  "If I had known that I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself", while often tossed off as attempted humor among the elderly, actually is not very funny, especially when historical 'bad habits' come to exact their price.  And, yes, Bad Things happen to good and bad people alike.  Consequently, good health is not to be viewed as one's 'special-ness'; nor, for that matter, are health challenges to be understood as a kind of cosmic retribution.

    Do you remember the Norman Rockwell picture of the family gathered around the Thanksgiving table with turkey and a warm glow?  Whether that was ever the norm or more an idyllic wish, as Thanksgiving Day approaches,  practicing the 'skill' of expressing appreciation (as my mother might have said) 'will not hurt you and might help you.'

    And, "Thanks" for reading these musings, meanderings and mutterings.
   Happy Thanksliving.

      Satchel

    

SON-IN-LAW

       He is very modest and one least likely to 'toot his own horn'.  In his profession, he has been very 'successful', being at 43 the President and CEO of a major corporation in the US.  But, if you were to meet him outside that context and were otherwise unaware, nothing in his demeanor and conversation would be a clue of the position he holds.

     And, while his professional accomplishments and stature are 'impressive', what I admire most and am most grateful for is his love and care for his wife, my daughter.  During their wedding, I said 'a father can tell when a man is kind to his daughter' which he had already abundantly demonstrated.  However, in the past six months, the depth and expressions of his love and caring have been extraordinary.

    In the Spring, my daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer.  What a courageous, brave and honest woman she has been throughout those months of unexpected complications . . . during one chemotherapy session, there was a 'leakage' into her hand, resulting in a significant burn.
Her weakened immune system brought on C-dif which (the doctors later told her) came within "an inch" of ending her life.  Now, she has had a second onset of shingles to go with the neuropathy in her feet and the 'chemo-confusion' with her memory and thoughts.  Occasionally, she and friends have recorded her journey on a CaringBridge Blog. (CaringBridge.org,  site Kirstinhoff)

   Through all this, my son-in-law without complaint has 'stepped up' and filled many supporting roles.  (And, just saying it in that manner seems tame.)  On occasions when I have been there, I have seen many evidences of his love for her and their children.  Seeing him prepare the children's breakfasts, make their school lunches, check homework, attend to routine tasks around the home, continue to stay abreast of his work responsibilities, all the while being 'rock solid' for her . . .  well, I find it difficult to find the words to express my admiration, gratitude and affection.

    Recently, she completed her radiation treatment and on the last day, her hospital's staff had a party to mark her milestone.  Here is a picture of them leaving the hospital that day:

  

I am glad that he is "Family"

Satchel

BOO !!

      What scares (frightens) you?

     Tomorrow is Halloween. Boo! Are you frightened? It is an occasion whose 'meaning' and 'observance' have shifted greatly over the years.  The current 'fears' that mark the  date  derive from  some ominous realities . . . such as persons who put razor blades and other hurtful  substances in the candy given to "Trick or Treat -er's" and real vandalism that masquerades as 'pranks'.  In my youth (which was not, as some allege, the time when dinosaurs roamed the earth), the extent of mischief about which I had knowledge (please, not necessarily the same as participation) included activities such as marking windows with bars of dry soap or overturning outdoor privies.  And there are vague memories of  Halloween 'carnivals' in the school's gymnasium.  Pretty tame stuff.


     Some Halloween historians trace the origins to Samhain, an ancient Celtic celebration that marked the end of the harvest season and onset of Winter and a time when it was    presumed that the distance between the worlds of the living and the dead was thin.  

    Others claim a distinctive Christian origin for the occasion. It was the Eve (evening) before All Saints Day or All Hallowed Eve . . . a time for remembering the Saints, martyrs, and other beloved dead.  Try saying "All Hallowed's Eve" as rapidly as possible several times and what does the sound resemble?

    Perhaps it was but a short step from observances focused on the dead to 'scary stuff'.  Perhaps you have heard the ancient Scottish prayer: 
    "From Ghoulies and Ghosties,
      Long-leggitie Beasties,
      And things that go Bump in the night,
      Good Lord, deliver us."

In our sophisticated era, we don't believe in 'ghoulies and ghosties' and such, do we?  Probably no one reading these words has had an encounter with a real-life 'long-leggitie beastie'.  So, why has this prayer lingered and been recalled for centuries?   Beyond a certain lilt in the prose, I suspect that it has reminded many of their own internal ghosties such as the unknown and things we cannot control, as well as specific fears.

   There is a distinction between  'fears' and 'worries'(aka 'anxieties'). Fears are real or potentially so; anxieties are 'might be's' or 'what if's'.  "Do not walk down the middle of the interstate, there are speeding automobiles there" . . . the probability of being hit is high.   "What if you leave your house?  There are cars outside and one might hit you" is a stretch. Whether spoken or not, 'what if?' is a strong indicator of anxiety. 

   Perhaps only an incorrigible Pollyanna would deny that there are real dangers in the world . Among some obvious candidates : Ebola, ISIS, influenza, bankruptcy, war zones, cancer, unemployment,bullies, deranged persons with weapons, automobile accidents . . .  'Bad things' do happen. . . to 'good' and 'bad' people alike.  A certain prudence or caution is necessary and appropriate.  It is an entirely different matter when those  get ramped up far  out of proportion, whether by someone's   deliberately manipulating our  frailties for whatever motivation or by our own 'hot buttons'.

    So, whether we are opening our door to 'Trick or Treat' or opening our awareness of our 'ghoulies and ghosties', 
maybe this ancient prayer will have  contemporary relevance for us.
  
    Satchel

  

     

    

ON NOT LEARNING BY DEGREES . . .

        Several years ago,  a minister showed me the small library he had  acquired when a student at Duke University Divinity School.
He then boasted that he had not reread nor considered any of them useful since.  He implied that he had his degree and his education and did not want to be bothered with further learning.

      In the past two posts, I have made references to Joan Chittister's The Gift of Years: Growing Older Gracefully.  This book of  reflections on various issues associated with aging has stimulated several personal 'inventories' recently.  Reading her comments on "Learning" reminded me of the above mentioned minister who apparently felt that he had learned all he needed to know.  By contrast, she noted as a "danger" the assumption that with the completion of high school or college "we have completed our preparation for life.  The problem with degrees", she added, "is that they wear out quickly or prepare us for only one small area of life, at best." [p. 95]

    Illustrative, perhaps, was the good-natured lampooning of an instructor at a geriatric conference that I attended over  a dozen years ago.  Gil (not his name) was a physician who lectured on physiological changes brought on by aging.  In our 'Fun Night' skit at the end of the two-week course, one of the students playing our teacher groused that "half of today's knowledge was unknown at the time I received my degree; a quarter of what I learned I have forgotten, and another quarter has been superseded by new discoveries.  Consequently, I know nothing !"

    There is an outworn adage to the effect that "you can't teach an old dog new tricks".  The obvious conclusion in human terms is that mental acuity diminishes with accumulated birthdays.  The antidote to the error in the adage is that "an old dog can learn new tricks, provided two conditions: The old dog has 'half a brain' and the old dog wants to learn new tricks.  Ms Chittister again: "Neurological research now confirms that old brains are indeed physically smaller, but no less intellectually  competent than younger ones.  And in some ways, in terms of reflection and creativity, they are even better, if for no other reason than that they have a lot of experience to add to intellectual acuity."  [p. 96]

     Not to be flippant about the tragedies of various forms of dementia,  most 'old dogs' have the capacity to learn those 'new tricks'.  It seems that the keeping the 'want to' alive and fed that is crucial, for as Ms Chittister observed "ongoing learning saves the aging from becoming more  fossilized than transformed.  The problem with aging is not age, it is petrification, rigidity of soul, inflexibility.  Only ideas keep ideas flowing.  When we close our minds to what is new, simply because we decide not to bother with it, we close our minds to our responsibility to ourselves --and to others-- to keep on growing." [p. 98]

     Since my mid-20's, I have remained grateful for the influence of the Reverend William Jenkins, a then 89 year old retiree, who would  borrow my texts or supplementary readings and upon returning them would inquire , "What do you think Paul Tillich meant  by such and such ?"

   While the topic probably will not be some point in Tillich's  theology, like Mr. Jenkins, there is still a lot that I want to know.

    What kind of 'new tricks' do you want to learn?

        Satchel

FUNERALS

      Recently my wife and I attended two funerals. One was for the husband of one of her former colleagues; the other, a friend from a church where I had been minister for nine years and whom my wife had known all her life. Their services reflected that each of the deceased was a "good man", a kind person, a person of strong religious faith and practice. Other similarities -- both were older men with strong family ties, both had a love of Bluegrass music that  was  expressed in their respective funerals.  The ministers conveyed both the dignity and the humanity of the departed.

     In the years that I was a parish minister, I conducted many funerals.  Occasionally I was asked  whether it were more difficult doing that for someone with whom I felt close or for someone whom I knew only marginally, if at all.  Having done all of those, I replied that there is no 'easy answer' . . . each presenting its own challenges and opportunities.

     In 1963, Jessica Mitford wrote The American Way of Death, a critique of many of the practices of the 'funeral industry', as well as   some of the customs surrounding death and funerals.  Over the course of my life, I have noticed several changes in customs, as well as several constants. . . at least among my own cultural cohort. Among the 'constants' has been the custom of friends and neighbors bringing in lots of food for the family and their guests.  Floral tributes have likewise continued as a mainstay though now many families request that instead of flowers,  memorials be directed to specified charities or causes.  Cremation followed by a Memorial Service also seems to be becoming a more common practice.

   Gratefully, the custom of bringing the body back to the residence and there being persons to 'sit up with the dead' through the night has being largely replaced by the 'Wake' or 'Visitation', usually at the Funeral Home on the evening prior to the service.  Even that can sometimes feel oppressive.  Sometimes a family will 'receive friends' for a specified time just before the actual funeral. At the wake we attended, a full fifty minutes passed between our arrival in line and actually reaching the family, such was the outpouring. 

     Also, largely gone is the practice of having an open casket during the service, frequently accompanied by loud wailings.  A friend told me of his uncle's funeral in another state :  the first of three ministers recognized that he had a captive audience and launched into a 'come to Jesus tirade' that lasted 20-30 minutes.  The second speaker, not to be outdone, duplicated that performance.  When the third man began his comments, the daughter of the deceased stood and directed him to 'shut up and sit down', whereupon, my friend related, the funeral "came to a screeching halt".

   It is difficult, of course, to speak of 'funerals' without also speaking of 'death', few persons' favorite conversation topic.
The French writer, La Bruyere, wrote that "we hope to grow old, yet we fear old age.  We are willing to live and afraid to die."  Somewhere on my office shelf is the book, The Denial of Death.
I haven't yet read it.  Woody Allen perhaps caught the sentiment of many when he quipped something to the effect, 'I don't fear death; I just don't want to be there when it happens.'

    Joan Chittister whose writings on aging I have found helpful, sagely observed that "I have no idea what the moment will be like. I only know that I will be alone. . . . It is the moment of absolute surrender. . . . But not until I have sucked every minute out of life I can."  For persons of religious faith, she further noted, "whatever our questions about God, about Life, about the End, we have a certain confidence in our lack of confidence in the unknown.  We are not sure who God is, of course, but we are confidently sure of who or what God is not." ("Faith", in The Gift of Years, p. 212)
I just realized that I am writing this on the 22nd Anniversary of my dad's death.  Beginning in his mid-40's, Dad had been a representative of Metropolitan Life Insurance Company.  A man of quiet faith, he told me in his later years, "I have delivered too many death benefit checks to families to deny the certainty of death.  I do not fear it but I am not walking out to greet it."

     These reflections then have arisen primarily from having attended Lynn and Odell's funerals.  The music gave strong affirmation of their faith.  In Lynn's service,  Come, Angel Band, sung by the minister and two other men bespoke his bedrock belief.

    As a musician, Odell  had for many years  "made music" with several groups and individuals.  I had primarily known him as the Bassist in the Maple Springs Strings, our church's home-grown talented musicians.  His son, Stan, is a world-class banjoist, having once played with Bluegrass legend, Bill Monroe.  Stan's wife, Julie, is a classically trained artist as well. (Appropriately, it was Odell who had first introduced them several years ago.) They and their friends sang what I had known as Odell's 'signature song',  Not Afraid to Close My Eyes and Die.  At the conclusion of the service, the minister invited any musician in the congregation who had ever played or sung with Odell to come to the podium, whereupon they offered the classic, Will the Circle Be Unbroken.  Never have I heard Stan play with such energy, force, conviction.  While at no point was the grief of loss denied,  my dear friend, Billy, summarized the proceedings as we were exiting the church: "That's the way it should be . . . a celebration."

   RIP,  Lynn and Odell.

       Satchel