An Evening at McCrite

 

We had an interesting evening with the Butlers the other night here at McCrite. We have lunch with the Butlers most days so we knew a bit about our backgrounds.  Terry, Lowell and I were invited to their apartment to share hymnals and hymns from our two denominations..  "Pete" and Jo Ann are retired professors from Midwestern Baptist Seminary were they both taught in the music department.  

JoAnn taught vocal music while Pete taught hymnology.  She had written several books on children's music and several children's hymns.  Peter had written over 50 hymns including "Redeemed" a popular Baptish hymn world-wide (a Fanny Crosby hymn for which Pete wrote the music).  They also had donated their enormous hymnal collection to the Seminary. Here's more about the collection and the Butlers: https://www.mbts.edu/article/the-butler-collection/

While I haven't sung in a choir for a long time, I do write poetry which Lowell sets to music.  So, we shared that.  Terry, Lowell's brother, helped us better understand the theology and history of the Reorgaanized Church of Latter Day Saints (Community of Christ).  Terry and Lowell brought hymnals from their church and I brought "Glory Be to God" our Presyberian hymnal.

But, the stars were the Butlers who showed us several interesting hymnals they still had in their apartment.  We shared favorite hymns and looked to see if they were in the Baptist, Presbyterian and RLDS hymnals. We also shared favorite stories about those hymns.  The evening ended with Lowell sharing recordings of him singing spirituals and  our songs.  

We had a great time and hope to repeat it again.

Grow with Change

Photo by Javier Allegue Barros on Unsplash

As Summer drifts into Fall, I’m ready to move on from the blistering heat of Summer.  I am looking forward to the turning of the leaves, the cooler temperatures, apple cider, everything spice flavored —-OK maybe not the  Pumpkin Spice Toilet Paper you can get on Amazon. 

Transitions can be hard—-whether it’s the seasons, or our lives.  We don’t know what to expect—-some days are beautiful with 70 degrees and some are still brutaly hot.

Many of us are also going through transitions in our lives with the passing of a bridge partner, living without a spouse, losing our independence, moving from our home of 50 years.  Even changing our cleaning schedule can be hard.

Fred Rogers famously noted, “Transitions are almost always signs of growth, but they can bring feelings of loss. To get somewhere new, we may have to leave somewhere else behind.”

He also offers hope, “Often when you think you’re at the end of something, you’re at the beginning of something else.” 

Feel that loss on one hand, but on the other hand, try new foods, sit at a different table, meet new friends, take a painting class, read a new author.  

Grow!

 

 

The Pinball Machine

Sometime my brain is like

a pin ball machine

Darting from ding to ding.

That’s the point

Get as much done as quickly as possible.

Ding-ding-ding-ding

Type a poem, while eating breakfast,

Still thinking of protein powder on Amazon,

wondering how the grands are doing in college.

Am I packing enough underwear for my trip?

And of course remembering to wish my Love

Good Morning, 

Zing-zing-zing

Ding-ding-ding

But, by the end of the day, I’m exhausted

physically and mentally—-every ounce of ideas and energy,

wrung out—-

wanting nothing more than a quiet night

holding hands with my Love.

At night, if I see a movie or meet friends for Bunco:

it’s like putting in another coin for another round of pin ball.

But,  I’m slow to hit

the buttons to complete a task.

The dings are slower—softer less inviting.

I drag myself to bed: body seeking rest.

But, as I lay down, my brain is still flipping that damn ball:

ideas zinging around the recesses of my brain:

Hour       after      hour. 

Later, with my 10th trip to the toilet,

body weak from fatigue,

I finally slip into fitful sleep.

Not restful sleep, not recharging sleep—-

no REM, or deep sleep.

Like a pinball zombie, i awake in the moring , dragging my feet,

Fixing breakfast, needing my walker,

The zing has zonged and the ding has donged.

Alienor

 Alienor Aquitaine:  

“Trees are not known by their leaves, nor even by their blossoms, but by their fruits.”

Marie Countess of Champagne

Alice Countess of Blois

Matilda Duchess of Saxony

So Alienor, I know about you,                                                             

but I do still have a question or two. 

No, I’m not going to ask 

if you really rode to the Crusades 

with a band of Amazon warriors.

I’m not even going to ask 

what it was like to be married 

to the King of England and the King of France 

For sure, I’m not going to ask 

about your lovers or your schemes against Henry II.  

That is none of my business.

I’m your 24th great granddaughter, 

descended from Marie, Alix, Eleanor and Matilda

(John, too, but you were right about him).

What were my ancestors like?

I wonder if any of your daughters were like you—-

a strong-willed woman. 

Your “fruits” were not as well-known as you.  

I know about their titles: 

Eleanor Queen of Castille

“Queen of this” or “Countess of that” 

But what about 

their character, 

their values, 

their intelligence?

Royal titles mean nothing to me.  

You’ve had novels and plays written about you, 

but tell me about them. 

Were they respected and admired?

Were they benevolent leaders?

You had tumultus relationships with your husbands:

 Louis VII and Henry II.  

What did their husbands and children think of them?

You had 10 children—-5 daughters and 5 sons.  

We know your sons were not strong or principled.  

What about your daughters?

What about your daughters?

'S e Alba mo dhachaigh

 I’ve lived entirely in the Midwest

But my home is Scotland Lowlands

There I see people who look like me

walking down the cobblestone street

shopping in the small grocery stores

with a grocer to greet us:

small, lean, freckled with brown hair 

that is red in the sunlight.

And eyes of green and hazel-

smiling in recognition of my heritage.

I love the dim gothic stone churches

with the Celtic cross which invites me 

to pray and sing

Be Thou My Vision:

Riches I heed not, not vain, empty praise:

Thou mine inheritance, now and always.

Thou and thou only, first in my heart,

High King of Heaven my treasure thou art.

I love the bag pipes

and the kilted pipers

calling me to remember a time

in the deep recesses of my heritage

when those pipes called my ancestors

to stand taller remembering the vision

of Scotland greats like Malcom and Margaret.

I love the mist and the fog

Hiding the stone homes

until a veil slowly lifts to show

green meadows and stone walls

beyond.

I love the dark rooms 

with windows too small and cloudy

 But a fire in the stone fireplace

chairs beside it 

soaking in the warmth

a quilt thrown over the back of the chair

when the fire becomes embers.

It beckons me to sit and reflect.

I love the window seat 

that looks out on a beautiful wild

garden of red and orange flowers

Feet propped in the seat

my back againsr the wall

reflecting on the beauty of life:

the irony of this American feeling

at home in

the Scotland lowlands 

where my ancestors left many years ago.