Journal
Miss Priss
It is the glory of God that hides the word, and the glory of the King that seeks for the word.
~Proverbs 25:2 Aramaic Bible
A beloved sister suggested that I write an Alicia story. I was a bit reluctant since I do little vignettes well, but my real life is shot through with those same vignettes sailing through my mind in staccato rhythm, each a complete picture that makes sense to me, but is very confusing to others! But I want to try my hand at writing a remembrance of my beloved sister. But first a little bio to set it up.
This is my third piece on Alicia … I hope you don’t weary of them.
Some years back my spiritual direction changed dramatically, but unlike previous spiritual upheavals, this one quietly manifested itself, and few people noticed. My little congregation was going through its own inner crises as its pastor was stricken with the death of his wife and was unable to respond to many of the disruptive forces that quickly gathered around the beleaguered group.
We had started on a major reconstruction of the building after a tenant had moved out of a portion of it, and the Elders had given me a free hand in the allotting of space to the various functions and ministries. And it was a disaster of incomplete construction projects and moving of furniture. I was in over my head in incomplete projects and not getting a lot of guidance as I showed up each afternoon to sort furniture from one room to another, cleaning up one area only to make a mess in another needed room.
One evening I was sitting in the room where we had piled stuff we didn’t know what to do with. Someone needed the room for their ministry, and the stuff had to be moved, and I desperately desired to quit as I sat at the end of the evening of labor. You couldn’t tell that I had done anything. Stuff was coming into the room faster than I could move it out as people cleaned stuff out of their areas.
I sat amid the disaster and began composing a letter of resignation in my head when a small band of women came in to pray and prepare the sanctuary for services and passed by the door of the room. One of them turned around and walked in the room, placed a hand on my shoulder and began to pray.
I don’t remember the substance of the prayer, but I put the resignation out of my mind for the moment and went home to the first night of rest I had in some time. The next day, two of the women showed up with hair done up in bandanna’s and carrying cleaning equipment.
One was a small Cubañera with leathery, dark chocolate skin who found mirth in everything, and they began moving pieces of … stuff … out of the room. Alicia was her name. That evening there was actually a clear space about ten feet squared in the room. That doesn’t sound like much, but it was the first progress I had seen in weeks.
She and others continued to show up every afternoon for several weeks afterwards, that room and others got cleared, and eventually a prayer chapel and a classroom were completed, and a too-heavy burden was completely lifted off my shoulders even though the work of building continued endlessly on.
Afterwards we all sat in the sanctuary and chatted, prayed, and even sang sometimes. Those evening became special as Alicia and the others refreshed themselves in worship. Sometimes they went all through the night in the soft glow of the nir tamid, or eternal light that hung in front of the ark containing the holy scrolls.
I have never shared with those women the vision of them I carry around as I recall those evenings, but they glowed with power, and I am convinced that power barred the baying wolves from gaining a foothold in the congregation. Alicia’s answer to everything was prayer. A simple, brief request to Abba that was completely devoid of any flowery words. She asked and added amen. Then received.
I joined her in outreach from time to time. But. I am not a teacher. I am not a preacher. I am not a prophet. I am not a healer. However, at that time I was finding stuff hidden in the verses of scripture that were life changing to me. None-the-less, if something is hidden by the Father, it has to be revealed by him. When I tried to reveal those tidbits to my fellow congregants, I received blank stares in return. Alicia seemed to understand those hidden items and encouraged me to share them.
One time we were visiting a converso congregation in New Mexico, and we had gone down there as a group to support them. I had discovered something very profound in the way the camp in the wilderness was set up that concerned gentiles and was eager to share it. It was one of those “hidden” items in scripture.
I stood in front of that congregation and delivered the most incoherent and rambling teaching that I had ever given, and the elderly congregants spoke very little English. The pastor was trying to translate, but I could tell that he was just as inarticulate as I. Alicia was swaying and dancing to the teaching, and sort of sashayed up to the lectern with her eyes twinkling and whispered to me “Your fly is undone!”.
I never tried to teach again. And she never asked again!
As the pastor recovered and the health of the congregation was renewed, it became time to let go of the task. I was slowly disconnecting from that feminine council and finally, it was time to go. I slipped into the sanctuary late one night and sat in the darkness illumed by the nir tamid questioning my plans when Alicia and one of the women pulled into the lot to pick up the woman’s car, and they left. Shortly afterwards, Alicia returned and sat down with me.
I had retired as Deacon several times, but when someone didn’t pick up the slack, I returned. My retirement parties had become the source of humor in the congregation. But it was time, and the only way I could see me letting go entirely was to leave. Both Linda’s and my parents had passed on, and for the first time in married life, we were totally unencumbered with familial responsibilities.
We sat in silence for awhile in the comforting gloom, then I spoke to her of my decision to leave Denver for a warmer climate to live out my remaining time. I don’t recall whether we actually prayed about it, but I am sure we must have.
Throughout my misspent life, Abba has sent guides. One was a drunk Indian brujo. One was an advertising executive. One was a retired jock/drunk/truck salesman. One was a bald-headed sexual deviant and janitor. One was a rocket scientist. And one was a 5’ Cubañera with leathery, dark chocolate skin who I called Miss Priss for her love of dressing up.
Alicia Whitehorn.
Of blessed memory.
In a place now far away that I once called home, a beloved sister was memorialized by her adopted family. Wherever she was there was both mirth and seriousness, and I am sure that she will be remembered that way as her adopted family recounts her life. But my life as a vagabond has passed, and I shall not travel again, so my spiritual family in that far city will continue the tradition without me. I would have delighted in being there for the bittersweet time of remembrance.
I remember once traveling down to New Mexico with her and some other congregants to visit a converso congregation there, and the love they all had for her and the joy she brought … and the twinkle in her eye as she came up to me while I was delivering possibly the most inarticulate teaching I had ever presented in my life, and letting me know that my fly was undone!
And the late-night drive home singing, talking and just being with those I loved so dearly.
.הִנֵּה מַה טוֹב וּמַה נָּעִים שֶׁבֶת אָחִים גַּם יַחַד Ps 113:1
“How sweet it is to be sitting, surrounded by all of your brothers!” goes my favorite translation of this ancient passage in Psalms.
Shalom, most beloved sister. One day, others will close my eyes in this world, and Messiah will open them in Olam haBa and I’ll see you once again, Miss Priss.
Until then, Shalom, my sister.
A Culinary Disaster, and a Resolution
Sunday dawns gloriously wet, with dripping eaves and wet dogs wishing to share the joy. Rainy mornings need to be celebrated with soft silence and contemplation, though da Budgie disagrees with plaintive little yeeps and buzzes.
And so the week begins afresh, and my Sunday chore is online grocery shopping and planning two evening meals. My southern chicken-fried-steak was not one of my more successful creations, and I think I may redirect my efforts from southern cooking back to post war open a can and dump it in the saucepan cuisine. I just don’t have the chops for cooking.
I’ve been meditating on God’s three directives. Live. Breed. Die. They weren’t given as teachings, but oddly are all gifts, though each one has its own pain. And the pain is another one of those things that takes a whole new passel of pondering. I’d just as soon pass on the pain, thank you.
But the happy barking of dogs about to go outside with Snookums pushes the morbid meditation out of my mind, and the coffee cup needs refilling.
Good morning!
A gift from Eve
“Don’t answer the prayers of the traveler” goes the ancient prayer. Travelers don’t want rain, farmers do. Seems that I must have a traveler in my neighborhood as I watch the “Belton Sandwich” on the weather radar. Heavy rain clouds scoot on by on both sides wetting Killeen and Heidenheimer, but nary a drop in the middle. Gotta find that traveler a new route.
The sad tones “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond” played on an electric fiddle and banjo fills the air, but what does the bird know of happy and sad songs? Banjos and fiddles are always a cause for rejoicing, and rejoice she does, and it oddly effects me.
And it’s Preparation Day again as the summer slips by and the AC hums relentlessly in the background. My Japanese/American/Swedish cousin made it to visit her American ancestors and paid her respects at the graves of her grandparents and parents. Some of her cousins made the trip with her, but it was just one bridge too far for me these days. The wandering boy with the itchy foot hardly leaves the house anymore. Birth, engendering and death were impelled, while all else was optional. I am spent of all of God’s prime directives save one, and now what I put my hand to is optional.
In each of those options is at least one challenge to choose the good over the evil. And with each passing year, that choice becomes more refined. Once upon a time evil was in the deed, but today, the evil begins in the thought. I long for the day when this gift of Eve’s is rescinded, and I no longer must weary myself in the continual choosing.
So I sip coffee, skirt the evil thought, and ponder good triumphing.
Good morning.
Banjos and Collard Greens
Tuesday dawns a pleasant 77°, but we have moved into a moderate drought as summer clips on by. But when the droughts on, I mow once to keep the fuel down in case of a wildfire, and let the land rest while I sit under the air-conditioner and listen to music. I prefer classical music when I can’t have silence, but it is a rare treat now that da Budgie has heard fiddles and banjo’s together. I exist only to start the music in the morning.
Today Snooks works at the local food bank, which means yours truly prepares dinner. Today we eat southern. Chicken fried steak, collard greens, mashed spuds, and peach cobbler. Sans banjos and fiddles, however.
And so the morning unfolds. I have the feeling that this will be a two-pot morning. Lots to ponder, and many chores to ignore.
Good morning!
A Rabble Rouses
“There’s Another Baby Waitin’ For Me Down The Line” plays on Pandora Radio this sunny Friday morning. One chocolate and one vanilla Oreo sits beside the cup waiting to be dunked into the steaming darkness. Happy dogs are shredding their toys in the living room, and da happy Budgie is singin’ to her favorite cornball music.
Soon my serenity will be shattered by the political newsfeeds and their war with a President elected by the *ahem!* rabble, but first a happy moment of coffee sipping, cookie dunking and sunrise watching.
Mornin’
It’s Wednesday already, and fall is just six weeks away. Time slips by, and the future speedily becomes the past. Yet the moment always remains the moment. Snookums leaves the home for a haircut while men and dogs watch her departure from the windows. A friend writes a poem of love lost, and I pause before responding. Not all things require a response, yet I want to say I was there.
So I pour another cup of coffee, and pull a couple of cookies from the jar to go with it and return to ponder things beyond my ken while Snooks just does life. The odd couple.
Good morning!
Gentleman at yer service, Ma’am …
I have read several friends blogs recently who are lamenting the sad state of eligible mates in the world today. The more interesting reads were from the feminine side of the conflict. I am glad I am not in the dating game anymore. I think I would fail miserably as every girls dream date. In fact, I don’t think I would make it as any girls dream date. Suave is not my middle name and a lass looking for a LTR would only consent to a continued relationship if she was in abject terror at being alone. I am like the last potato in the grocery bin when it comes to desirability.
I started listing the criticisms as they cropped up
1st fail. I drive up to the neutral meeting spot in a mommy van with peeling paint on the hood.
2nd fail. Black socks, chino’s, brown shoes, stretch belt, blue polo shirt and straw cowboy hat.
3rd fail. I would either try for a full hug, or resort to a firm conventioneer’s handshake.
4th fail. I would be afraid of even the most casual glance toward her bosom and would compensate for that by staring into her eyes, never letting my gaze drop below the nose stud while trying to hide my disgust with things fastened into snot. A lip ring would immediately cause retching at the thought of kissing someone with one.
5th fail. I would open the door for her, treating her like a subhuman that totally lacked the facility to operate doorlatches without the help of an overbearing male who stomps on a women’s soul … *huff* *huff* *huff*
6th fail. I would either be clingy as all hell or so insufferably aloof that the world would appear to revolve around me. I have no neutral gears.
… Unfortunately, I don’t have time to compile an exhaustive list of my undesirable qualities. It would be a long one. I guess I’ll just have to keep the woman I’ve got.
Catharsis
… as I look back over the years, I can honestly thank those who ran out on me at the most fragile point in my life. I would still be leaning on them should hardship once again visit me.
Vanity of vanities …
“Vanity of vanities,” sayeth the preacher, “all is vanity!”
Habel habilem!
Vanity is one of many words we use that has lost its original meaning. The original meaning was closer to emptiness, from one Hebrew word meaning wind or emptiness. “Emptiness upon emptiness, says the collector of words. All is emptiness.” is a somewhat better, but still flawed translation …
The phrase went through my mind this morning as I read a little bit of my Japanese cousin’s life growing up in the slums of Tokyo after the war. The daily struggle with starvation, the eating crickets and wild birds, the lack of fuel and warmth. I once listened to a Taos Indian talking of survival on the reservation during hard times, and it was hardly different than Marianne’s account of life in the slums. And to many of my adopted people, Jews, who struggled during the hideous times in Europe in the last Century, that was their story too.
I think of the civilizations that rose and fell, devastated by wars, famines and pestilences, of lives lived in misery as slaves in salt mines and plantations, and the struggles of my own family as “Okies” in the years after the war.
We are born in blood. And we die when we bleed out at the end of life. In between we struggle to rise to the fullest potential that we have if we can. If we win, we die. If we lose, we die. And few of us will have our names written in the history books. We die forgotten.
Odd it is that so many of us, me included, try to restore what we remember of our families with genealogies. And for why? Still, my family is pouring over forgotten photos and historical press clippings. That a great grandfather was a grocer is a revelation. Some of my family were slave owners in the Carolinas. Others were clergy, and yet others were titled “the foolish” for their poor stewardship of wealth. So now I know what my fathers family did as far back as 1657.
Why do I draw comfort from that?
My cousin from Japan is soon coming to visit her grandparents grave, and she wishes to tell them that she is home now. That is important to her. And I draw satisfaction from that as well. I desire to share that moment with her if my health will just hold out a bit.
Yeah. Home.
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