The bell rang, and once again I rushed inside the classroom door, fumbling my books in my arms, as I slid into my desk seat.  The class was American History, sophomore year of high school. I was not particularly crazy about the subject; however, I WAS crazy about the boy I talked to every day just outside the door before class!  The teacher seemed really old to me, and who in the world would name a kid Ora Mae? I was somewhat puzzled and amused at the rose colored visor she wore low on her forehead.  I could barely see her face under the big brim of that halfway hat, and her frizzy grey hair tumbled recklessly over the top.

I was oblivious to the fact six weeks had gone by already until she began to hand out report cards at the end of class.  She paused when she got to my desk.  Peeking down at me through the pink plastic she said, “You have failed the first six weeks!”  I looked at that big red F which I had never seen yet on any report card, and I was shocked, scared.  I had no clue….WHY?  She spoke again,  “You got docked for every time you were late to class, which happens to be every day.  I have researched your records.  You will never get into National Honor Society with this grade.  You are to come early every day to school for the next six weeks.  You will redo every paper, retake every test, starting tomorrow.” I could have cared less, honestly, about National Honor Society at that point in my life.  But I knew I did not want that F, so I did what she said.

Two years went by and I was a senior, now sitting at the same desk, just a different classroom and a different day.  A white envelope was placed on the corner of my desk by my Government teacher.  She looked down at me and smiled.  I opened it to read my invitation to be a part of the National Honor Society.  I was shocked.  I had no idea.  Then I had a flashback.  Immediately I saw her face looking down at me through that rose colored visor.  This time she was smiling.  I felt something swelling up inside of me, but it was not pride.  It was a heart full of gratitude.  Suddenly National Honor Society became something very important to me and Ora Mae became beautiful!

On graduation night I walked across the platform in that huge football stadium, floodlights pouring down on me, surrounded by an excited crowd.  I received my diploma, wearing the National Honor Society stole, and holding in my heart the most important lesson I learned in high school….the Gift of Grace!

nk

Pictured above is my artistic expression of a stained glass window in the sanctuary of Montgomery United Methodist Church where I was a pastor. The painting is done in mixed media and collage, and looks somewhat Iike the window, but not exactly.  Rather than try to make it look just like the window, I wanted the painting to express my feelings about worship, about the light coming through the window, about the doves and what they mean in scripture and in liturgical art.  I wanted to express the passion evoked by the window which sits high above the altar.  How is God present here?

In the Bible, the Holy Spirit is manifested in the form of a dove.  When Jesus was baptized the heavens were opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, coming to rest on him.  And God said, “This is my beloved Son with whom I am well pleased.” (Matthew 3: 16-17).

There is a special memory for me of the doves at this church.  We had completed a new building which was wonderful, but also contained many challenges along the way to its completion.  I can laugh about it now.  The deep commitment and joyful presence of the people in this church made that journey one of my greatest memories as a pastor.

The day finally came for dedication of the building.  Someone had known of a dove we might release as part of the ceremony.  Sounded great!  That morning this person came up to me and said, “The doves are here! (Notice PLURAL).  You, pastor, will be handed the lead dove.  Do what you want with it, then set it free and the whole flock will then be released to follow!”  Oh my gosh!….my mind was instantly going 90 miles a minute. I began having a conversation with my deeper self.   Had I ever held a real bird before? ( Well, maybe that pet parakeet you had in a cage in your room growing up, but not even certain about that.)  And what will I do with the bird when I hold it?  (Talk to it!)  OK, but what will it do with me? It might poop on me, you know, scared!  (Yes, it might.  Best not to wipe it on your clergy robe.)  Where will it fly when I let it go?   What if it hangs around under the Pavilion with all those people?  (You know this church. They will laugh and enjoy it!)  What about the whole flock?  What will they do?  (Better say a prayer.)

The moment arrived.  I was handed the dove.  Immediately a powerful peace filled my hands and flooded my entire body.  The bird was so very still.  I knew I was holding a holy moment which I just wanted to capture in my heart forever.  The bird and I stayed in that moment and held it together.  Then I lifted the dove up high, opened my hands, and set it free.  The dove flew up into the heavens along with the fluttering of an entire flock close in formation.  You could hear the sound of the Holy Spirit as the doves flew up into a bright blue sky.  They circled around the cross sitting high upon the white steeple of the sanctuary, and then they all disappeared into eternity.

We all somehow heard the majestic voice of God whispering deep within our souls…”You are my children, and with you I am well pleased.  You make me happy!”

I am smiling still….

nk

This morning the Pastor spoke about visiting the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem. There is a building within this museum dedicated to the memory of the two million children who died in the Holocaust.  Of all the persons who died, one third were children.  I never knew.

If you were to visit this building, you would journey into a vast darkness, dimly lit by 100 candles, just enough light to enable you to find your way through. The deafening silence contains the simple reading of each name of the two million children.  One by one you hear their name called aloud, with the hope that you might remember. Step by step you listen, and wonder, and somehow you carry them….each one.

As the Pastor portrayed the experience this morning, that same silence fell across the congregation.  You could have heard the smallest pin drop.  Then a single voice broke the silence.  It was a poignant moment.  Caleb, the young child who had been baptized earlier in the worship service, began to cry.  There was no sound other than the cry of this little boy, who had just entered the family of God present throughout all eternity.  It seemed that his single cry contained the cries of the two million children, and no one dared to silence him.  We clearly heard their pain, and in that moment we remembered.  I will never forget.

nk

This is a drawing I did of the ancient door of the big house where we stayed at Rivendell Writer’s Colony.  It was the very first drawing I did while I was there, and what I was led to write about as I was leaving this morning.  Here is my poem….

Portal

Every morning the redbird sings,

and every evening the owls come.

Their different calls are the same,

saying “Pay attention!”

“There is a Calling Presence here.

It will not leave you when you go home.

IT IS HOME.”

~  Ah, now Calling Presence is everywhere.

The ancient door I entered speaks as well,

“You can no longer see me simply as door.

I am Door Way…..Portal…Passage

into tomorrow.  Don’t be afraid to step out.”

~  Ah, the way out is now the way in.

nk

I want to share with you the poem “Blessing for a Writer” by Pat Schneider.  If you click on the poem above to enlarge it on your screen, you should be able to read it.  The poem has especially blessed me in this time of being away in a beautiful place for focused listening and writing. I pray it will bless you in whatever place you find yourself this day.

The photo above is of novelist Amy Greene.  She has written two novels, “Bloodroot” and Long Man”.  Amy grew up in Appalachia and tells the stories of her homeland.  What a joy it was to hear her do a reading yesterday and then sit around a large farm table with her and other writers for dinner in this rural setting.  I sometimes have to pinch myself to believe that I am really present in this place, and ask myself, “HOW DID I GET HERE?”.  There is just such a Mystery present!  I love that and yearn to live into it.

Amy emphasizes “PLACE” in her writing style.  She says displacement begins to happen when we stop telling our stories.  She feels that you can’t really separate people and place, and she likes to believe we all come home in one way or another.  “We want to know story and story comes from home, the place that shapes us.”

Amy talked a little about “ancestral memory”, something she believes lives deep within us.  The poem above speaks to that as well.  I resonated to those words because I had already been feeling the roots of my Grandfather and Great Grandfather who were preachers in Kentucky.  Amy said to me, “Yes, that land is quite similar to Eastern Tennessee where we are right now….the essence of the “place” is the same.”

I found a connection to this writer.  She told me that she noticed me and felt drawn to me when I walked into the room where many were gathered to hear her.  She looks so much like my niece Ann that I had the same feeling.  Amazing how the Holy Spirit moves in “the surprise of mystery”!

nk