Thought I'd share this poem received today from Liz Budd Ellman, executive director of Spiritual Directors International.
It's from the artist and poet John Squadra who wrote This Ecstasy, which is recommended reading at Heron Dance:
If you listen,
not to the pages or preachers
but to the smallest flower
growing from a crack
in your heart,
you will hear a great song
moving across a wide ocean
whose water is the music
connecting all the islands
of the universe together,
and touching all
you will feel it
touching you
around you. . .
embracing you
with light.
Liz followed the poem with this prayer:
"In the northern hemisphere, we move into increasing light as we approach the sacred Passover and Easter season. In the southern hemisphere, our members move into an increased awareness of diminishing light as the winter
months approach. Loving Creator, we ask your blessing on our search for new light among us, wherever we live, and that your light touch us in a new way during this sacred season."
Monday, March 22, 2004
Sunday, March 21, 2004
A tale of two sisters
A sermon based on Luke 15:11-32.
*********
The week started out quiet in Deep Root County, but it ended in a party—and not everyone was happy about it.
All week, Liza Tuttle had watched the wildflowers blossom in her yard, the grey rain clouds blow in from the west and sail past without a drop of rain, and—through the gap in her Venetian blinds—the comings and goings of her neighbor and best friend, Sharon. Just the usual sort of March week in their little town. Sharon even waved once or twice because she knew Liza was watching, even though she couldn’t see her.
But on Saturday afternoon, Liza heard a rumble that rattled the windows of her house, and she peeked through the blinds just in time to see a ton-and-a-half Mastercab pickup pull up in front of Sharon’s house.
Four doors popped open, and out tumbled three people Liza didn’t recognize—and one she did. That old grey woman walking spryly up to Sharon’s front door could only be her sister Angela. Liza was shocked.
Angela and Sharon hadn’t seen each other in 17 years, since their daddy’s funeral at First Presbyterian where they’d had a fight over Aunt Sissy’s egg plate and Angela had driven off in a huff with the plate and the rest of the china their daddy had inherited from his sister.
Sure, they kept in touch—birthday cards and Christmas cards and an occasional tense phone call when they needed to conduct some sort of family business. But they lived a thousand miles apart, and their relationship just sort of drifted to nothing over the years.
Angela had even been to Texas several times since then, but she never stopped by to see her sister. Sharon always found out about the trips after-the-fact, and she was always bitter about that; anyone who knew her knew what she thought about her sister, and warn’t none of it good. She thought about how to get revenge nearly every single day.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, out-of-the-blue, Sharon got an e-mail from Angela.
Hey, little sister, it said. I guess you know my grandson’s going to college in Fort Worth now. My daughter and I are going to drive down to visit him over spring break, and it’d be nice to drive up and see you one afternoon.
That e-mail caught Sharon off-guard. She didn’t quite trust it—in fact, she’d told her own children a hundred times she didn’t want a thing to do with her stuck-up, better-than-everyone-else sister. She wondered what Angela really wanted. But she e-mailed back anyway:
It’d be great to see you—I’ll even cook supper if you’ll bring along that grandson of yours. He was in diapers the last time I saw him.
That’d been at their daddy’s funeral, and Sharon almost mentioned that, but then she thought, “Why not let by-gones be by-gones?” Even so, she hid her own egg plate out in the garage under the old newspapers where she was sure Angela wouldn’t see it.
And she didn’t tell a soul her sister was coming to visit. It’d just be too hard to explain, after all the bad things she’d said about Angela over the years.
It was funny, the effect that e-mail exchange had on Sharon. She found herself looking forward to the visit, planning a special menu—15-layer lasagna, a special dish she usually only made for weddings and anniversaries; the women of the church had been begging her for years to bring it to one of their pot-lucks, but Sharon didn’t think that occasion was special enough to warrant all the work.
The morning that Angela was scheduled to arrive, Sharon found herself up early, pulling out the nice linen table cloth and her own wedding china—she hadn’t used either in years—and arranging the table, setting a vase of yellow daffodils in the center of the table and putting a silver candlestick on either side.
She cooked all day—not just the 15-layer lasagna, but Italian herb bread from scratch, a cold green-bean salad, and special cannoli for dessert that she’d gotten at her favorite bakery in Fort Worth the day before, when she’d driven down to get her hair done for this special occasion. And she put a special bottle of wine to chill in the refrigerator.
And about one o’clock, she started peering out the window, looking down the street to see if Angela was coming. It sort of embarrassed her, how much she was looking forward to seeing her sister.
And it was sort of embarrassing when Angela arrived—before she was half-way up the walk, Sharon found herself hurrying as fast as she could to swallow her sister up in a hard bear hug that lasted for a long time. She even had tears in her eyes.
And they had a wonderful visit—Angela’s grandson was as intelligent and funny and polite as Sharon had imagined he wouldn’t be, and they caught up on all the extended family, and her niece even said, “I don’t know why it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”
Angela and Sharon knew, of course. And Sharon said, “I’m sort of sorry that happened,” and Angela said, “I am too. And I never use that old egg plate, by the way—would you like me to send it to you?” and both of them knew that whatever had been broken between them had been restored.
When they left, Sharon stood out on the front porch and waved goodbye until that huge pickup had turned out onto the road that goes to the highway.
But before she could turn around and go inside, her friend Liza Tuttle was striding across the yard saying, “Sharon Fisher! Was that your sister Angela I saw spending the afternoon over here?”
It was, Sharon said.
“Well,” said Liza, “I hope you gave her a piece of your mind—let her know what you think of her. And I hope you asked for that egg plate back.”
Sharon just shook her head. “No,” she said. “I didn’t do any of that. Oh, Liza! We had the most wonderful visit, and I made my 15-layer lasagna, and Angela’s grandson . . . .”
Liza looked at her sternly. “After everything she’s done to you, I can’t believe you let that woman into your house,” she said, “How could you even trust her to come inside? And then you made her your special lasagna?! Sharon, we’ve been friends for twenty years and I’ve asked you to make that lasagna for me and you’ve always refused. How could you do this to me? How could you have done this to yourself? You should’ve gotten revenge instead of cooking for her!”
“Well,” Sharon said. “You’re always there for me, Liza. And I’d do anything for you—you know that. But that sister of mine—I thought I’d never see her again. I had to make that lasagna—and my best bread and that green-bean salad everyone loves, and serve that special wine from the vineyard down in Veal Station. Can you understand that?”
We’ll never know what caused Angela to come to herself and send that e-mail to her sister. And we’ll never know what caused Sharon to come to herself and hit “reply.”
I guess all of us have someone we wish would come back to our table—someone we’ve wronged or someone who’s wronged us, someone we haven’t stopped loving despite years of silence or anger or disregard. We want justice to be done—but oh, wouldn’t it be nice to set justice aside just for awhile and share a meal together?
All of us probably also long to go back to some table, somewhere, too—to pull our chair up with the others, to soak in the warmth of those old relationships, old friendships, to laugh and eat and say a toast and let the layers of resentment peel away, to feel good enough and worthy enough to share a meal.
We all return home as sinners—people who’ve done something wrong, nursed our anger, harbored resentment, hurt someone.
And those of us who live by the standards of justice and merit—getting what we deserve, earning our rewards, finally collecting on all our good deeds and faithful living—find it hard to believe that grace trumps justice every time.
But that’s the way it happened for Sharon and Angela. And that’s the way it can happen for us.
Nothing in creation is ever so lost that it’s beyond God’s finding, and in that finding, condemnation and judgment give way to a homecoming filled with feasting, and forgiveness.
May it be so among us this very day, in the name of the God who seeks us out and carries us home. Amen.
*********
The week started out quiet in Deep Root County, but it ended in a party—and not everyone was happy about it.
All week, Liza Tuttle had watched the wildflowers blossom in her yard, the grey rain clouds blow in from the west and sail past without a drop of rain, and—through the gap in her Venetian blinds—the comings and goings of her neighbor and best friend, Sharon. Just the usual sort of March week in their little town. Sharon even waved once or twice because she knew Liza was watching, even though she couldn’t see her.
But on Saturday afternoon, Liza heard a rumble that rattled the windows of her house, and she peeked through the blinds just in time to see a ton-and-a-half Mastercab pickup pull up in front of Sharon’s house.
Four doors popped open, and out tumbled three people Liza didn’t recognize—and one she did. That old grey woman walking spryly up to Sharon’s front door could only be her sister Angela. Liza was shocked.
Angela and Sharon hadn’t seen each other in 17 years, since their daddy’s funeral at First Presbyterian where they’d had a fight over Aunt Sissy’s egg plate and Angela had driven off in a huff with the plate and the rest of the china their daddy had inherited from his sister.
Sure, they kept in touch—birthday cards and Christmas cards and an occasional tense phone call when they needed to conduct some sort of family business. But they lived a thousand miles apart, and their relationship just sort of drifted to nothing over the years.
Angela had even been to Texas several times since then, but she never stopped by to see her sister. Sharon always found out about the trips after-the-fact, and she was always bitter about that; anyone who knew her knew what she thought about her sister, and warn’t none of it good. She thought about how to get revenge nearly every single day.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, out-of-the-blue, Sharon got an e-mail from Angela.
Hey, little sister, it said. I guess you know my grandson’s going to college in Fort Worth now. My daughter and I are going to drive down to visit him over spring break, and it’d be nice to drive up and see you one afternoon.
That e-mail caught Sharon off-guard. She didn’t quite trust it—in fact, she’d told her own children a hundred times she didn’t want a thing to do with her stuck-up, better-than-everyone-else sister. She wondered what Angela really wanted. But she e-mailed back anyway:
It’d be great to see you—I’ll even cook supper if you’ll bring along that grandson of yours. He was in diapers the last time I saw him.
That’d been at their daddy’s funeral, and Sharon almost mentioned that, but then she thought, “Why not let by-gones be by-gones?” Even so, she hid her own egg plate out in the garage under the old newspapers where she was sure Angela wouldn’t see it.
And she didn’t tell a soul her sister was coming to visit. It’d just be too hard to explain, after all the bad things she’d said about Angela over the years.
It was funny, the effect that e-mail exchange had on Sharon. She found herself looking forward to the visit, planning a special menu—15-layer lasagna, a special dish she usually only made for weddings and anniversaries; the women of the church had been begging her for years to bring it to one of their pot-lucks, but Sharon didn’t think that occasion was special enough to warrant all the work.
The morning that Angela was scheduled to arrive, Sharon found herself up early, pulling out the nice linen table cloth and her own wedding china—she hadn’t used either in years—and arranging the table, setting a vase of yellow daffodils in the center of the table and putting a silver candlestick on either side.
She cooked all day—not just the 15-layer lasagna, but Italian herb bread from scratch, a cold green-bean salad, and special cannoli for dessert that she’d gotten at her favorite bakery in Fort Worth the day before, when she’d driven down to get her hair done for this special occasion. And she put a special bottle of wine to chill in the refrigerator.
And about one o’clock, she started peering out the window, looking down the street to see if Angela was coming. It sort of embarrassed her, how much she was looking forward to seeing her sister.
And it was sort of embarrassing when Angela arrived—before she was half-way up the walk, Sharon found herself hurrying as fast as she could to swallow her sister up in a hard bear hug that lasted for a long time. She even had tears in her eyes.
And they had a wonderful visit—Angela’s grandson was as intelligent and funny and polite as Sharon had imagined he wouldn’t be, and they caught up on all the extended family, and her niece even said, “I don’t know why it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”
Angela and Sharon knew, of course. And Sharon said, “I’m sort of sorry that happened,” and Angela said, “I am too. And I never use that old egg plate, by the way—would you like me to send it to you?” and both of them knew that whatever had been broken between them had been restored.
When they left, Sharon stood out on the front porch and waved goodbye until that huge pickup had turned out onto the road that goes to the highway.
But before she could turn around and go inside, her friend Liza Tuttle was striding across the yard saying, “Sharon Fisher! Was that your sister Angela I saw spending the afternoon over here?”
It was, Sharon said.
“Well,” said Liza, “I hope you gave her a piece of your mind—let her know what you think of her. And I hope you asked for that egg plate back.”
Sharon just shook her head. “No,” she said. “I didn’t do any of that. Oh, Liza! We had the most wonderful visit, and I made my 15-layer lasagna, and Angela’s grandson . . . .”
Liza looked at her sternly. “After everything she’s done to you, I can’t believe you let that woman into your house,” she said, “How could you even trust her to come inside? And then you made her your special lasagna?! Sharon, we’ve been friends for twenty years and I’ve asked you to make that lasagna for me and you’ve always refused. How could you do this to me? How could you have done this to yourself? You should’ve gotten revenge instead of cooking for her!”
“Well,” Sharon said. “You’re always there for me, Liza. And I’d do anything for you—you know that. But that sister of mine—I thought I’d never see her again. I had to make that lasagna—and my best bread and that green-bean salad everyone loves, and serve that special wine from the vineyard down in Veal Station. Can you understand that?”
We’ll never know what caused Angela to come to herself and send that e-mail to her sister. And we’ll never know what caused Sharon to come to herself and hit “reply.”
I guess all of us have someone we wish would come back to our table—someone we’ve wronged or someone who’s wronged us, someone we haven’t stopped loving despite years of silence or anger or disregard. We want justice to be done—but oh, wouldn’t it be nice to set justice aside just for awhile and share a meal together?
All of us probably also long to go back to some table, somewhere, too—to pull our chair up with the others, to soak in the warmth of those old relationships, old friendships, to laugh and eat and say a toast and let the layers of resentment peel away, to feel good enough and worthy enough to share a meal.
We all return home as sinners—people who’ve done something wrong, nursed our anger, harbored resentment, hurt someone.
And those of us who live by the standards of justice and merit—getting what we deserve, earning our rewards, finally collecting on all our good deeds and faithful living—find it hard to believe that grace trumps justice every time.
But that’s the way it happened for Sharon and Angela. And that’s the way it can happen for us.
Nothing in creation is ever so lost that it’s beyond God’s finding, and in that finding, condemnation and judgment give way to a homecoming filled with feasting, and forgiveness.
May it be so among us this very day, in the name of the God who seeks us out and carries us home. Amen.
Workaholic . . .
It's a term coined by the late, great Wayne Oates.
But it's also a national epidemic--people investing more of themselves and their lives in the work they do than in the vocation God has called them to take part in.
But some people are working to reverse this trend. And check out the Faith and Values portal on work and spirituality.
But it's also a national epidemic--people investing more of themselves and their lives in the work they do than in the vocation God has called them to take part in.
But some people are working to reverse this trend. And check out the Faith and Values portal on work and spirituality.
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