Holy Moments

My Sunday school class had a discussion on the word “holy” a couple of weeks ago. Actually it started out with the idea of each of us being priests, which ultimately led to us talking about what is holy.


None of us latched on to the idea of being priests. I mean, we’ve all read the papers in recent years and no one wants to sign on for that label. However, we all agreed that each of us had experienced moments in our lives that felt “holy.”

Even without a working, common definition, we described holy moments in the woods and forests, with the sun shining through the branches. We acknowledged times when the beauty of music or the grandeur of the sanctuary led to what we considered a holy time. Thinking back, we didn’t get much further than this.

More than what we actually listed, I noticed what we didn’t include: attending elementary piano recitals or church business meetings, walking the dog. Line dancing, mowing grass, and painting trim on a house were other moments also missing. As I write this now, I’m struck by the fact that most of what makes our actual lives did not make the list. I mean I’m very rarely in the woods looking at the sun and Easter & Christmas only come one time a year. But mowing grass and walking the dog, well, that’s another story.

Webster (I really hate writers who use the whole Webster thing as a segue but I couldn’t think of anything else, so. . . ) Webster defines holy as “devoted entirely to the deity or the work of the deity.”

I like that; if I choose to be a follower of Christ’s teachings then shouldn’t my life be devoted entirely to the “work of the deity.” (As my kids say, “Go big or go home,” which is a loose translation of the verse where Jesus said he really can’t stand the whole lukewarm thing, so much so that He would just as soon spit it out.)

Actually, I’m thinking that maybe my Sunday school teacher may have taught us that our very beings (bodies) were holy temples. I personally thought she shared that with us as we approached puberty to keep us from drinking or smoking or having sex – all of those things that you would never do in a temple, no matter how depraved you might be.

Now that I’m older and my BFF is menopause, I’m finally beginning to understand that maybe there’s more to this holy thing than my classes first response and maybe what Mrs. Bramel was referring to didn’t include drinking or smoking or sex. OK, I take that back. I’m pretty sure she meant sex, but maybe she also meant the way we actually live our lives should be holy.

A book that I recently read (which I can’t recall the title.. . remember my BFF) had a great quote that I actually wrote down: “There is a difference between what is pretty and what is holy.” Our recent Sunday school discussion, along with Webster and the holy temple thing made me begin to consider that maybe we were wrong about our holy moments.

I think that we sometimes confuse pretty for holy. Even my images of the Holy Mother are of a beautiful young woman, who gave birth (in a very neat fashion) to an equally beautiful baby (who never had projectile vomiting or diarrhea that shot up the back of his diaper.) But if the definition for holy is being completely devoted to the work of  God, my image doesn’t have to be reconfigured to fit my own interpretation of holy. Mary can be disheveled and screaming bad words and still be holy as a result of her devotion to His work.

Lucky for me, I’ve been witness to some holy times recently.

At my uncle’s funera, people stood in line for over an hour in an overcrowded, too hot room, to greet my aunt and cousins, most with sweat trickling down their back into their, well you get the picture. They were just a bunch of holy people hanging around to hug on Aunt Blanche.

The rest of the aunts hauled food and drinks and paper products, even a microwave, up two flights of steps so that we could all eat together after the visitation. They cleaned up late into the evening. That night they were all exhausted from holiness.

Ladies at my aunt’s church fixed macaroni and cheese and chocolate cakes to feed our family after the funeral. I bet their kitchens were messy with holiness.

On Saturday, a small, devoted group from my church continued to paint and clean a fellow member’s house. They good-naturedly harassed one another, gave water to the dog, shared their personal stories with the one standing next to them. . . big-time holy stuff.

Sunday afternoon was spent with Will and Carly. We played banagrams, ate lunch, listened to each other’s struggles and worries. We confessed and offered forgiveness; we even had a group hug, reminding each other how much he or she is loved. It was a fairly holy afternoon.

With all of this new found knowledge, I’m thankful that while my life is seldom pretty it certainly is holy.

Traveling Mercies

When I was a kid, my parents and I were part of Main Street United Methodist Church. A little church in downtown Covington, where there was often a drifter stopping by asking for food or gas money.

 On Sunday morning, the pastor wore a robe and the congregation recited The Apostle's Creed like all good Methodists. But our Sunday and Wednesday evening services took on a more casual style, where prayer requests were written down and the saints took to their knees to be about the serious business of approaching the throne of God.

Mrs. Clifton was one of those saints. On Sunday mornings, she blended in with the rest, singing the hymns and placing her offering envelope in the place. But Wednesday night, Mrs. Clifton took her place of leadership.

We protestants take a crazy kind of pride in the fact that we don't need a pope to serve as an intercessor to God, that we can approach Him individually, but even as a 10 year old, I instinctively knew that Mrs. Clifton was Main St.'s own personal pope. Trust me, God listened to her, if for no other reason, she could wear Him down because she took the Bible verse "Pray without ceasing" literally.

 She even had her own language, and it wasn't speaking in tongues either. She used words like "thou" and "thine." She addressed God as Father, Savior, Crucified One, Redeemer, Holy One, Lord and Sweet Jesus. She proclaimed her love and amazement for Him, asked for Mercy and Grace. She begged for forgiveness from our sins of omission and commission. She spoke specific names of the sick and the lost.

Sometimes I thought she was winding down when her voice grew quiet for a bit, but really she was just taking a break, regrouping, and she would start up again. Sometimes I prayed along with her, although my prayer was frequently that God would answer Mrs. Clifton's prayer so she would quit praying.

All of these years later, my favorite prayer phrase of Mrs. Clifton is "traveling mercies." Back then, my mom explained that meant she was praying for those who were traveling or were on the road. I thought they were both crazy because if you looked around at our working class congregation even I knew there wasn't a lot of vacationing going on with this group.

This week I couldn't help but think of Mrs. Clifton.

I traveled to Santa Fe with two friends, Cathy and Mary. It was a repeat trip of last summer, but my growing state of mental health caused me to think of other things besides how I was going to manage my eating disorder. This year, I thought about the actual trip. . the airplanes, the driving on unfamiliar streets, walking after dark without my dog. I actually thought this might be an occasion to use Mrs. Clifton's prayer for traveling mercies.

When I was safely home, I got a call from my mom telling me that one of my uncles had just died. Seems like I wasn't the only one traveling, and with that thought, I understood Mrs. Clifton's prayers.

We all travel whether we ever leave town or not. Each of us walks our own path, takes our own journey. None of us manages to travel through life without finding our way into a dark valley or two. We all get lost, our battery dies, we run out of gas. Sometimes we go on solitary walks and other times we march together.

Since my walk away from a painful relationship with my ex-husband and then again from anorexia, I've embraced Darryl Scott's song lyrics:

I walk a crooked road to get where I am going, to get where I am going I must walk a crooked road.

This reassures me that I'm not the only one who has taken the long route and it also reminds me that my road will continue to be crooked. And maybe that's the way it's designed. Maybe all the interesting roads, the roads worth traveling are crooked.

Maybe when Mrs. Clifton prayed for traveling mercies she was asking God to walk with us, to keep our eyes open on the journey. Maybe she was asking God to lead us to other travelers that could use some support or help. Maybe her prayer was for those facing changes, going through sicknesses, preparing to die.

I think from now on, when Grace and I walk we will simply pray for traveling mercies. . outside of thank you, it may be the best prayer ever.

Summer of Sanity 2011

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Will and I were sitting on the back porch talking about summer the other evening. I was actually reminding him to water my flowers in the early morning, not in the noontime heat, while I am away on vacation next week. Just so happens I'm leaving my dog with him too, and Grace is an early riser. So I told him to walk her when she barked in the am., water my flowers, feed the "zoo" THEN go back to bed. If you know Will, you know he is very good about pretending listen without any rancor and then doing it how he wants to do it. I know this, but for some reason, I always like to go on record with all of my instructions.

Will is in a crossroads of his life right now. He's finished with college, old friendships have shifted and, honestly, I think he's ready for something new. All of this angst and unknown crap has caused his summer to be less than stellar.

Mine on the other hand, has been maybe the best ever. Funny thing is, though, I think I might have said that last year.

When I was sharing this with Will, he asked what had made it so great and I really couldn't give a specific reason and as I considered all that had pleased me this summer I sounded a little too happy and I seriously don't want to be that person.

 I finally said that I guess I was just feeling sane and was able to actually be aware of the sanity. He quickly dubbed it, "The Summer of Sanity 2011." He said it sounded like a band tour and he thought I could sell t-shirts. So instead of listing all the cities where the tour has visited, I'm listing a few of the amazing spots this Summer of Sanity has taken me.

• the dentist -- first time in five years. . . I seriously hate the dentist. He/she gets all up in your face, and I've always been convinced they can tell everything I've ever eaten. And, I don't floss, which somehow brings me shame especially at the dentist.
• Judith - a psychotherapist who specializes in a treatment called EMDR, for trauma survivors.  After 4 visits, voila! no more nightmares with Jeff playing the starring role.
• Cousin Josh's wedding -- where I wore what I wanted and ate wedding cake.
• Family Reunion - where I hung out with the family, ate a total of 3 chicken legs and 2 revoltingly huge butter creme cupcakes. Cousin Aletia says it's ok because it's reunion food.
• Churchill Downs - made a few bucks off of Calvin Borel's good fortune and ate an ice cream cone Will bought for me.
• a new doctor -- no cutting or restricting or laxatives, even after she did a blind weigh on me
• hung out for an afternoon helping a hoarder go through her things. It was the first time I felt my own mental illness may have been helpful.
• ate at a Wednesday night church dinner
• joined a Wednesday night group at church. . . no shit, I mean, no kidding!
• Went to a Gatewood Galbraith fundraiser to hear the Goosecreek Symphony. Pot was everywhere and I felt no outrage or disgust.
• Saw a concert at Rudyard Kipling. It reminded me that so many wonderful little things are in the middle of messy, sad things, especially neighborhoods.
• Went to a free concert on the Great Lawn and watched the fireworks. 25,000 people and I was able to hold my own space.
• Went to McCreary County with a church group to help build a house.  At one of the suppers at the church that week I ate 2 pieces of angel food cake. I also heard a couple of "How do you stay so thin?" comments, which was a real boost to my body image, which will probably always be distorted.
• Spent the day with Cathy and her grandkids on the Waterfront, with enough energy to pedal a bike and enough sanity to eat an ice cream with Jax.
• Spent hours on my deck, reading and writing.
• Hiked in Bernheim Forest.
• Daily walks with Grace.
• Trips to my parents
• movies
• lunches with friends

The cool thing is that I was actually there. I mean, I tasted that Butter Creme cupcake. I smelled the manure in the paddock at the track. I felt the despair and loneliness in my new friend's home filled to the brim with dirt and dust and filth and stuff. My stomach hurt at the dentist. I was acutely aware of how bad a couple of the movies were that I had paid good money to watch. The feelings leftover from my marriage were real and painful as I sat in Judith's office. I saw the splendor in the flowers at Bernheim.  I experienced it all, and I survived the scary parts and thrilled in the mundane.

Sometimes I worry that my sanity will peak, that the joy and peace deep within me will hit a plateau and start to wane. . . so I have to let myself feel that worry but also remind myself of the work I have done to put safety nets in place. . and move on to the next moment.

The Summer of Sanity 2011 -- I think a t-shirt would be perfect because it seriously rocks!