Rosary

“Would it be too much trouble to have you open this case? I’d like to see the rosaries.”
“That case?” the dealer asked. “Let me get the key.”
I stood wondering if I seemed foolish, if she thought I had a strange fetish or something. Perhaps it’s my upbringing, third generation Pentecostal, about as protestant as they come. When my family hears about my experiences with ancient Christian spirituality, they often wonder if I’m becoming Catholic. I bounced on the balls of my feet nervously looking at other items.
I had been agitated walking around the expansive Bay City Antique Center. Dueling goals prodded me. One – to get out of earshot of the loud woman at the front counter, forced me to move quickly, eyes flitting from case to case looking for my treasure. This time, my mood was not helped by booth after booth, room after room, floor after floor devoid of the object of my search. They were full of Americana, kitsch, and collectables.
Occasionally something would catch my eye. A deco counter that one day graced a thirties bar, or theater back wall struck me in one room. A pince-nez in a case turned out to be no where near my prescription. A set of golf clubs set me imagining myself on the course in knickerbockers and argyles. When I’d seen enough, and I’d had enough of my mood, I asked to see the rosaries.
“This case is the worst in the shop,” the dealer returned.
I apologized and pointed to the one I wanted to see. The tag said it was “well used,” that was what I valued: the experience, the sensual devotion, and the passion of another’s life for their God worn into wooden beads.
Gingerly, lovingly, I guided the beads from the case. As I touched a wooden bead, I felt connected spiritually to the heart and devotion of the Holy Church Universal. The emptiness that had marked my day – made me grumpy, agitated – was filled with joy, a rushing joy, a silent river. My heart began to thump. Through the emotion and vibration, I was able only to count to seven.
“Why are there so few beads between the stations of the cross?” the dealer asked.
I had only just processed the number and whispered, “It’s Anglican, they have weeks instead of decades.”
I’d never seen an Anglican rosary in person, though it is an Anglican prayer I pray with my rosary.
I left in a new spirit. I didn’t buy it.
“I can’t spend that much with out talking to my wife,” I said. Just touching it and the discovery was enough.

Childhood charm

Ella’s round wide face with bright large eyes catches the elders’ gaze. They watch, her child life appeals to them. The sparkle in her eyes is reflected at the corners of each mouth. The softness of her glowing cheeks echoed in the smiling lines on each face. Youth and old age kiss silently, spiritually. Vicarious dreams inter the souls of the honored elders as they look on the child.

We have found our children to be a point of entry in to the solitary lives of many individuals. A new unfamiliar place, a new church, restaurant or doctors office is soon overtaken by their childish charm. To be sure they are sometimes embarrassing and misbehaved, but at their best they are ambassadors of our families love for each other to those around us. Ella is so good at making friends there have been times that she will adopt a new, strange, family at a restaurant and sit with them until our food arrives. We smile and watch her wearily, and somehow have a silent connection with the new members of our family.

The God Machine

Deus ex machina comes to the rescue again. In ancient Greek plays, when the plot was too thick, and a resolution too hard, a god was lowered in a machine and solved all the problems: the god from the machine. The Greeks had it right. Our critics today look and say that you can’t tie up loose ends so neatly, or you can’t introduce new information or characters at the end to solve everything.

I know better. Come what may, Ella breaking a brand new DVD trying to get it out of its case, or pouring juice on the computer, come cranky spouse or dark day, come cold blooded evangelicals with eyebrows of judgment, the god machine comes to my rescue. Either the sculpture of boiler, tubes and steam is more loving and powerful than the God of my heart, or dear machina is his own instrument. For nothing cures the attitudes of the heart or the maladies of the mind than a well-timed espresso.

Resurrection comes in two-ounce shots.

Later that day...

Though perhaps more responsive than the almighty (a shot of espresso is pulled in thirty seconds), machina is also a fickle friend who’s company is enjoyed only a little at a time. Manic days of too much caffeine and my concentration floats and flits like butterfly on the wing. The molecules in my body vibrate at the resonance of espresso. All else is empty – hollow. Food, I think, may fill the void and calm my vibration. My thoughts and humors are as flighty as my liver and pancreas. Heavy and substantive ideas are solid food, and I hunger, not out of need, but emptiness, want of fullness – of balance – of solidity – of depth. Enter the almighty upstage left.

Our Search for community

I recently attended a community Lenten service at Unionville Moravian church. As we wait for the service to start, I look around with warmth at the community I have been apart of for nearly three years. I think about how important that sense of community has become to me.
We sit in rows, mostly with our own churches. Some chat happily with a friend behind them. Normally, the walls of another church separate them. Others pray, or like me, look around absorbing the common spirit of community. Even before we say holy words in unison – even in the silence – we are one.
Elderly resting in pews of social activity, children defying coral, men and women worn from work – by the generation we come, enjoying and strengthening each other. Across the street and a few blocks down another group of people, enjoy community around the bingo table. In still another place, the sportsmen’s club feels the spirit of community.
We live in small towns, but it seems we are all searching for a place in our community. We are in a time when the hard work of a hard economy splits our communities and commuters find their living far from home. When downtowns dwindle and our sense of community could be splintered by a sense of depression and the hardships of making a living, the church fills up back to front with people from every congregation to enjoy each other and remember what living is really about – in community.
I share a smile and a wave with the pastor of another church across the isle from me. What we share is more, though, than a profession, a smile or a wave. We share the warmth of friendship, eyes of care knowing we are parts of the same whole. So even with out words the bond is sure. The spirit of community binds us.
Our somber reflection is broken as Father John disappears into his seat behind the pulpit saying, “I’ll be back here.”
As a community, we share a laugh. Together.

Lost memories

It is strange the things you remember. The kids got a matchbox car with a launcher in a box of cheerios today. It reminds me of my first moving day.

I was six. I remember the parsonage being empty, and walking through the bare basement, making sure I didn’t forget anything. Of particular concern was a matchbox car. I lost it months earlier. I carried the red plastic key that launched it with me. Even with every thing cleaned out, I never found it.

disapointment

“The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.” Why would he do that? Why? Are his gifts defective? He has given us three cars, all of them gifts made by his people. Why is it that all three do not run?

Why would he send loving visionary people to our church only to take them away? Why give the church momentum only to hit a wall? I am so disappointed today. Disappointed in what a few weeks ago were his marvelous blessings.

Do not cast me from your presence

or take your Holy Spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation

and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.