As you prance before me, seeking attention, I look into your eyes, large and full of love .I rest my head against yours and feel the warmth I hear you sigh as you rest on the floor at my feet.
Born to this world with eyes closed, your mother licked you clean. What was it like to open your eyes the first time and see? Who did you see did they look at you with love? What did you hear as you fought to suckle for life.
And then the other face. The one that turned you out. Leaving you at a gate, for others to find. Did they yell? Did they scream? Did they set you quietly in the seat next to them?
Sometimes I wonder how they felt, But most often I don’t care. I wonder if it was quiet in the vehicle that brought you I wonder if they refused to look you in the eyes when they dropped you.
You breathe deeply while you sleep Your breathing brings me peace when chaos reigns. When you look up at me with only love With affection so pure, there is no doubt you are my family.
I hope that you know, this is your home, Your bowl will have food. Your belly will be scratched And you will not be turned out.
This is my covenant and hope And this is my prayer to all yet unhomed. That you all find a place to be loved Because there is no doubt you will first choose to love.
At the beginning of the pandemic, I started baking bread. Since that time I have collected many of the receipes in a small binder, being the person I am, I wrote an introduction to that Binder, this is that introduction.
I was with my grandmother one afternoon; I am not sure where we were going but we meandered by Jones St. Outside of Wheeling West Virginia to the apartment she and my grandfather lived in when they were first married. She told me rent was 30 dollars, 15 to be paid twice a month. She talked about the months when there wasn’t enough money or work to go around. In these times she would say to my grandfather, “I can’t afford food and rent, what should I do?”
He responded saying, “Pay the rent, buy flour, and I will make bread.”
I don’t remember much about this context, I don’t remember why we were talking about it, but the strangest thing I do remember while listening to her, is that she told this story as if she were reliving every moment in her head. She wasn’t sad , or angry about it, she was simply thoughtful.
My grandmother had a pantry, full of canned vegetables, fruits, and all other things necessary to survive. Today a “prepper” might call it a 6-month pantry, she just called it the basement. They grew their own food, canned their own vegetables, and once a year made a giant batch of applesauce. If I were to ask her why they did it all I am sure she wouldn’t understand the question she would just say something like, “That’s just what we did.” I know looking back, that she grew up during the great depression, and that the memories of hard times were burned into her being, she came from a generation that truly understood that all jobs, money, and security were passing. What held her together, was her family, her faith, and trust that even if the worst happened, she was not alone.
I don’t think my generation understood that, and I don’t know if the generation before me did either. But the generation that are children now… they may know better than ever, life can be turned upside down in an instant, and in moments systems can fail. I wonder if they will be more like my grandparents, I wonder if they will have pantries full of home-grown vegetables, and applesauce.
When the nation went under quarantine for Covid-19 I thought about my grandmother as I read through Facebook and saw someone post a recipe to make a sourdough starter. I had time and I didn’t have anywhere to go. So I thought of my grandmother’s story and my grandfather’s words, “Pay the rent, buy flour, and I will make bread.” But I never asked Grandma while she was alive, so I had to learn now, how to bake bread.
These recipes did not come from Grandma, they came from the internet and from friends. They are my process to baking bread.
Like many of you the most recent pandemic has been very difficult for me. I learned a lot about myself, most of which is that I was not prepared to live though a pandemic. During this time, I often found that I was keeping myself busy. During times like this I often learn something new and continue to work through older things I’ve learned. Basically, I pick up hobbies. I did find however, that through quarantine I struggled with my depression and anxiety. And just in case you are curious, I don’t bare shame about my depression and anxiety. In fact, I am open about them. I choose, as a minister and all-around human being, to be open about them because of social stigma around mental health. Mental health is no different than any other health issue, in fact the refusal to practice self-care around mental health exacerbates other issues you may have. But that isn’t the topic I have chosen for today.
As a religious person, I try to practice spirituality, you might have heard this called spiritual practice. One of the ways I do this is through living authentically. Jean-Paul Sartre once said, “My life and my philosophy are one and the same.” When I consider spiritual practice, I think of Brother Lawrence and Saint Therese Lafleur. I think of my life lived as spiritual practice, also what makes me feel alive. The biggest thing that helps me through difficult time is throwing myself into something I’ve never done and learning a moderate proficiency in it. Often these are the things I post about in my blogs. The problem is that during the pandemic I started to learn a lot of different things, and the one thing I didn’t feel like was processing those things spiritually.
I had plans, during the pandemic do write about my Commodore 64, but before I could I started baking. I actually prepared some articles on the baking but before them I threw myself into a live action role playing game called “Call of Cthulhu.” I was considering an article on that, when I began to work on my ham radio license.
While all this was happening, I lost two canine members of the family, you may have seen my post about Princess, two weeks later we lost our friend Gizmo, he was a shock, his death broke me. Oh and there was work, adapting the church to a fully online model took a lot of time. I no longer just though about how to have a service, but how to do it livestreaming and archiving legally.
However, having said all of that, I hope to still add posts about bread baking, my Commodore 64, RPG, Ham Radio, spirituality, and even my friend Gizmo. I am beginning to feel renewed, let’s hope for a while.
I’m staring at empty space trying to work. I never knew silence could be so deafening.
Princess on a trip to the Mississippi Delta
I’m used to hearing the click clack of little dog feet. I’m used to looking down and seeing big eyes staring up at me. It was an absolute joy to adopt Princess in her last two years of life. Don’t get me wrong, having a geriatric dog can be difficult. She had to be penned in at night and surrounded by pads because she was losing control of her faculties. Most mornings we woke, and we found a mess, but we cleaned it up and moved on without day. She was a little dog, so as she aged, she began to struggle more and more getting up and down the two steps into our back yard. Understand Princess was already in decline when we brought her home, but we knew that whether it was 6 months or years she would be a perfect addition to our home.
Her owner had died, and we loved her, so we thought the best way to show that love was to take care of her little Princess.
Every morning when I came out, I looked at her and said, “Good morning little lady, lets go outside.” She looked up at me with acceptance and love, one of my greatest joys upon returning home after a long day was hearing her excited howl as I approached the door. When I picked her up just right and held her against my chest she would chitter very quietly, almost like a purr, then she would sigh, try to turn and lick my face.
Princess in her pretty sweater
In the last few months, her decline had become obvious. She was tripping over shoes, she could no longer climb easily into her bed, and she tried to hide from us when she couldn’t control herself. That’s when we start having the conversation. If you’ve never owned an elderly animal you may not know what I am talking about if you have you are probably crying just a little while you read this.
See, our animals can’t tell us when they are in pain, and unlike us, they don’t have an active imagination with a wonderful history to pull on. I am not saying they don’t remember, but for them, the moment is primary. I begin to ask, how are the moments that she’s having. More often I would reach down, and she would back away for just a moment because she was frail and sometimes touch hurt. Some mornings she couldn’t get out of her bed and I had to pick her up and walk her to the yard and set her down, and others she would pop right up and be waiting at the door.
The problem is, we don’t want to go too soon, and we don’t want to wait too long. There is no simple answer to this question. I know only that she shy’s away from our touch, she has little control when she has to go to the bathroom, and she sleeps most of the day. Oh, there were other signs but none of these seem good enough, because they are so good at loving us unquestionably and they want to make us happy too, and letting go of that is hard.
Then princess had a seizure.
I first laid her down on her bed, and her mouth immediately locked on her blanket. Then, powerlessly I picked her up and wrapped her in the blanket she was unable to release. She lost control of herself when I put her in my car, and she looked up at me with shame. I knew then that we could never let her go through this again. When we went to see her, she was so excited to see us, she reveled in us, her seizure had passed, but she was still 16 and I remembered her eyes when I laid her in my car to take her to vet, they were like a prayer. Maybe we could have gotten a few more days, weeks, or months of love, she would have given freely, but then I’d have to reckon with her eyes that moment that I laid her in my car.
Saying Goodbye
She was my little lady, and her eyes alone spoke volumes of joy and love… and trust. The decision is hard to make because it can’t be unmade, because if we can get just a little more love from them if we can just feel that acceptance one more time, but when does that become selfish? That is the price we pay for their love and that is why no one should take on pet ownership too soon. Having a pet is forever, maybe not our forever, but theirs, they trust us, depend on us, they love us, and want to see us happy. It’s more than walks and feeding. It’s more than spending time with them, they are family. The ultimate responsibility we have, is the willingness to say goodbye when their forever is over. And we have to make that decision, they cannot.
See, there is no real way to repay the love that comes from owning a pet, but then true love can never be repaid. But there must willingness to love them truly and that their pain is just as real as ours and they can’t always tell us.
It has been a day, my little lady is gone, I didn’t have a mess to clean up, I don’t hear the clip clop of her feet, I am not babysitting her to make sure she can get outside in time. But you know what I miss the most, her eyes, her eyes when she gets excited, when she pretends to bite my fingers, or licks my face. I miss the clip clop of her toenails on the floor. I miss the way she sighs when I pick her up and hold her against my heart.
And though I know it was not too soon, I will spend the next few months wondering if she went too early, that is the final price we pay for their love. And it is proof that we loved them truly.
I sat down to listen to music my Grandmother would never know, in a place my grandmother has never visited, in a home that has not felt her hands. I didn’t realize when I sat down that it was finally time to outline this next chapter. This has been the chapter that I have feared the most, the chapter that I have put off, but strangely the chapter with the most enticing title, a title I wrote many years ago, long before I realized this would require writing.
The last time I spoke to Elsie, she offered me all the photo albums she had left. We went through old boxes, I gathered treasures many would throw away. She was insistent that I take a few things, one of those things, was a list of sayings… an apocryphal gospel she was raised with, quotes from the Bible, her mother, her grandmother, and her friends. A code used to understand the world around her, at least the world she knew, a world as foreign to me as this world was foreign to her. It was as if she needed to know that our worlds were connected.
She never owned a computer. She was my bridge to the past, my bridge to a world long gone. When walking into her home, I felt like I was stepping into the past. She was nestled in a valley, with a small creek baptizing the land, in a place no cell phone signal dare touch, and though I know it was because of the mountains, the mystical part in me, that Grandma helped to grow, assumed the mountains considered the signal anathema to the timeless nature of the land that surrounded my grandmother. That is was timeless, because she was timeless.
And as we sat and talked, I felt something very profound, peace. On the porch of this little house hung a swing, on the swing sat Elsie, in the chair sat Dutch, and in between sat… me. I drank coke in my younger days, coffee as I grew older, but I always ate an oatmeal cream pie. I lost track of the hours we spent on the swing, I once preached that heaven must be a front porch swing, overlooking a large evergreen tree, complete with a coffee and an oatmeal cookie, because I could envision no place so peaceful as this.
I can’t remember a thing we said, I don’t know if the words were necessary, only the presence of mind, body and most of all, of soul. Her home was a magical place, where light refracted from window crystals, casting rainbows in the kitchen, and the basement full of the wonders of days gone by, where my cousins, brother, and I would play detective or musician.
So many treasures, I asked her once about a chair hanging on the wall, she told me came from her grandmother’s kitchen table, so I did the only thing I knew to do, I asked her if I could have the chair. I still have that chair, and no one sits on it, but I remember to tell anyone who asks (and many who don’t) that it sat on my grandmother’s, grandmother’s kitchen table. Her home was full of endless treasures… endless stories… and endless love.
So… though she has never physically touched this space, it is saturated by her spirit. Not just because of the chair, or glasses, or the plates (seriously she gave me a lot of stuff), or even the paper, written in her hand covered in sayings.
Grandma’s magic was faith, hope, and love. And, every time the crystal in our window refracts a rainbow, I am filled with her faith, hope, and love. But even without the rainbow and crystal, her touch, and her voice, her spirit will never be gone from me, because when Grandma gave you her love it was forever.
Black Creek Trail Sign: that is my finger in the lower right hand corner… GoPro’s are small.
I thought it important, to sit down and write my thoughts before they become too distant from my current state.
I completed a thru-hike of the Black Creek Trail just south of Hattiesburg Mississippi outside of a little town called Brooklyn. I have to admit, the hike didn’t start the way I’d hoped, and some of the emotional struggles were not part of my planning. We started late, we had later starting times every day and I was in constant fear of not finishing. On every crossing and every hole, I saw the opportunity for failure with a twisted ankle, a slip, and at one point a bite from a diamondback rattler. But I finished, I finished with the original members of my party. Even through much disagreement and frustration with each other we crossed the finish line together, we did that because we committed to one another silently, that when we started this journey we would end it together.
This snake looked me in the eyes and told me to stop complaining.
I remember while hiking the trail thinking, “I feel miserable, and I wish I’d never started.” On the last day while we were heading toward my car (to which I now call, My Blue Heaven) every step felt as though, in the moment my foot hit the ground, a hammer hit the bottom of my foot. The blisters tell me that I am not ready for an Appalachian Trail Thru-Hike, the pain from my feet tell me that I have more work to do. And in the moment, I ask, “Is this even worthwhile, coming out to hike just trying to get home?”
However, the problem with deciding “to never do this again,” while on the trail is, that feeling pales, in hindsight, to the feeling of finishing, the feeling of euphoria that drives me to get into these “messes,” in the first place. The problem is, now I know I can hike 13 miles in a day, and I know the peace of sleeping next to a rushing river in the cold.
When I came home last night I sat quietly in front of an off television and a computer that had yet to be turned on. My mind clearer than it had been in a long time. I sat and looked my record player considering playing a record, but then remembering the silence of the wilderness. My phone that had been off for 4 days now sprung to life, and with every beep and message I was afraid I would lose the peace of not knowing what to do next. But I didn’t lose that peace… at least, not yet…
I understand why many philosophers and physicians agree that nature can be helpful to stress. Because in the wilderness the concern is not a board meeting, a financial report, or a reading list, it’s practicing the necessary self-care to simply, “Get to the next campsite.” By the last night, sleeping in the woods, I began to dream again. The night would fly by, I wouldn’t wake up multiple times, I had worn myself out during the day, and was in a tech blackout, the only light was from the campfire built by our camping guru, and the stars reminding us how small we are.
Left to Right Paul, Micah, Justin
We all had our purpose on the hike, the peacemaker, the naturalist, and me, the logistician. I knew the map of the trail and had done more research than necessary but even in that time had forgotten the map of the human heart. Micah did that. While Paul made sure every sight in which we slept was warm and comfortable.
Today I sit on the far end of a goal I set for myself three years ago when I began to get healthy. I spent three years, the planner I am, gathering gear, reading trail guides and searching for partners, but now that day is over. Life in the modern world calls me. I hope I can carry this peace for a week before I am back to the ball of anxiety that everyone knows and love.
But even if I can’t, today I know peace, and that makes the misery of wilderness worthwhile.
I awoke this morning reflecting on the time I spent as a medical chaplain, and the past years I had spent in ministry. I noticed as a hospice chaplain I never met a normal family, that every family, no matter how shiny on the outside, was filled with rough edges. And though, there was a sense of degree to familial health it was never as dramatically differnet. All families struggle, all people struggle, and if I were to be honest the difference between us was not that great
When I met someone in the hospital, body riddled from addiction, often I would get tired. I would find myself sitting in the jury box of an unofficial court. I did this as I walked the streets at night in downtown Memphis with my friends, looking behind me, as the crowds of homeless would meander among themselves, not hurting anyone, just wishing to be left alone. It was hard for me, raised middle class and white to find empathy, and early on to deal in grace, I would be lying if I didn’t say I still struggle.
Many years later, I lost almost everything, at least that is what it felt like. After spending 15 years cultivating a career I found myself left unemployed. It is strange, it seems I was split in two at this moment. My faith telling me I had worth and my heritage telling my worth was connected to my employment. As time went on a different battle for my soul began. I was becoming someone else, someone foreign to the me had known, someone who’s fear was giving way to despair. I know in hindsight but I did not know then that the despair would soon give way to self-hatred; I didn’t see I was already on that path. I must admit, I didn’t like that person.
Some Buddhists practice a Death Meditation. It was through this process I began to confront the fear that was giving way to despair. I took the image of the homeless man and asked, “What would it take for me to be there,” and in my mind, I walked that path. I remembered the hospital patients admitted for suicide attempts and asked, what would it take for me to be there? Once again in my mind I followed that path. It is important to note I didn’t do this alone, I had people to process with.
This idea was not new to me, only a forgotten, but it helped me let go. As my mind went down the path, my heart broke and the Psalms came alive, God once again came alive, and I knew as David did after his sin with Bathsheba, that the only sacrifice I had to offer was a broken and contrite heart. I would love to say that healing began that day, but it took much longer than I would have liked.
Of course, this thing that happened, it was a gift, and I understand that I am privileged that I can call it that. Because now when I see the broken, those who are as I was, the homeless person, the suicide patient, the heroin addict, the alcoholic, I don’t see bad choices and I have no seat in their jury box. I see my reflection, I know that I am only a few steps from being there myself. And when I see my face in the broken, I am reminded not only of what was or what could be. I am reminded of what is, I am broken and just maybe that’s what God wanted me to see all along! Then something new is birthed into the world, compassion.
When I was younger and we left the house to work in the yard there was a process. We walked to the basement and sat on the steps, we changed from our shoes into our boots, we left out of the garage, past the second refrigerator full of coke, past Grandma’s car, past the tennis ball that hangs from the ceiling (so that she knew when to stop), past the air compressor on the left. We walked past the old well that’s been covered up as long as I could remember and took a right, walked parallel to the creek, and across the front yard toward the shed that looks out upon the garden.
Every move, every step, full of intention.
At the right time of year, the garden would be full of tomatoes, corn, cucumbers, and green beans. Lots of green beans, so many in fact Grandma and Grandad would sit on the porch after harvest to wash them to prepare them for canning, usually well over 100 cans. But that day wasn’t a canning day.
As we approached the shed we passed an old horse drawn plow, an antique, it was now a reminder of days’ past. I would always place my hand on its handle, thinking how strong the men who controlled it must have been, even if it is being pulled by some form of animal. The giant blade would cut into the soil, and the man behind the plow would guide it, walking every inch. Touching the plow, I wondered, “What is strength,” and then I would look to Grandad.
My grandfather grew bush beans instead of the pole beans I often see in the south, and that day I went to pick with him. He’d pick each plant three times because the beans would grow back. We would each get an old milk crate to sit on while we picked and a basket in which to place the beans as we moved down the row.
“Be careful” he’d say, “don’t pull the plant out of the ground, we will pick it again.” He repeated this so often it could be a mantra for some strange religion. In all honesty, I would get a little tired of hearing it, wondering when he would move on to something else.
I said, “Okay,” then pulled the plant out of the ground, hastily returning it, hoping he wouldn’t notice. I realized it takes a firm and gentle hand to pull the beans from the plant without pulling out the plant, and that’s my grandad, firm and gentle.
By trade my grandfather was a painter, I went on a few jobs with him to make extra cash in the summers, well, I just went on one, I was harsh and impatient, he was firm and gentle. I noticed his hand moved with intention, never swaying, never veering, and never any proof that paint had been anywhere it wasn’t supposed to be. I would stand in awe, I don’t think I did anything with that much intention, and for him it was so natural, though never mechanical. His movements were elegant and rooted in peace.
I remember coming in from the garden that day with Grandad.
I was a young minister, and I spoke to grandmother of sermons I would preach about that day, even though I wasn’t sure what they were. To this day, I’ve not preached those sermons, I don’t know if I will ever have the authority to preach them. On my best day, I struggle to live them. Grandad, a military veteran and a boxer would teach me that true strength came from peace.
I was never any good at my grandfather’s trade, but some Sunday’s as I prepare for church I put on my shoes with intention, and I think of Grandad. He is known by many names, Grandma calls him John, his friends call him Dutch, but to me, he is and will always be Grandad. My patron saint of peace.
I took an Instagram selfie, I was sitting on the patio of a local bakery, listing to Sea Change by Beck, an album to this point I had never heard but assumed I would like. I had not intended to listen to Sea Change, it was just there, on my MP3 player.
But let me back up for a second…
I came for oatmeal and coffee, which is common on Thursday mornings after my weight watchers meeting and when I have a few hours between other commitments. I just figure I will spend two hours in Jackson as opposed to driving back home for thirty minutes before I have to leave again. I went to Broad Street Café with the intention to eat my oatmeal, drink my coffee, and continue my reading of Wild by Cheryl Strayed. I loved the movie and it is a wonderful book, lately I have been reading about a lot about hiking on the American long trails. Understand that I’m not reading trail guides but stories, stories of accomplishment and stories of wilderness wandering, I followed the Appalachian Trail South then North again with the Barefoot Sisters then I followed Awol’s trek, after that I decided to read about the Pacific Crest Trail with a book called I Promise not to Suffer. After refusing to suffer with Gail Storey, I took a trip back to the AT and followed Earl Shaffer as he walked with spring. Then, back to the PCT after with some Hikertrash and now, I figure since I had read A Walk in the Wood so many years back I should also read Wild.
Broad Street Bakery -Jackson, MS
So there I was with the intention of reading, but my headphones sat, still covered in spider webs from my last hiking trip on the Noxubee Hills Trail in Central Mississippi. But instead of reading more of Chery’s story, I took a selfie and posted it to Instagram. Sadly I had to use my phone since I didn’t have film for my Polaroid Camera. Then, I took a picture of the patio and highway from the perspective of my chair. I played with the slidebars of the picture software on my phone trying to make the picture look like the music I was listening to (something the Polaroid would have done naturally).
I sat there silently, headphones on, with an empty bowl and cup, I wondered if I should start reading then I thought, Nah I will just continue to stare into space listening to music being consumed by the void… for just a little bit longer, before re-entering the world.
It was chilly in the shade that morning, I wish I’d brought a scarf.
