My foot is healed!  I had a stress fracture in my heel so I had to wear the boot you see above for several weeks.  Notice that it is all taped up at the top.  That is because it has had a bit of wear and tear over the past few years.  My sister wore it twice…the second time was during our trip together earlier this year.  All over Italy she hobbled in that boot, on and off trains, down into catacombs, up and down a mountain.  Amazingly it never slowed her up one bit, and she never missed a beat!  So when it came my turn to wear it, I considered it somewhat of a badge of honor.  If you’ve ever worn one, you know it can be a nuisance.  But I was proud to wear this boot!

I also wore the boot twice.  The first time for me was when I broke the same foot falling off a table at church on Sunday morning.  You know the song “Footloose”….lyrics go “Kick off your Sunday shoes”… Well, I should have when I climbed up on that table, but I didn’t.  So when I fell, I caught the heel of my shoe in the hem of my dress and landed on my foot backwards.  I also broke my wrist.  We have christened this boot the “Ballard Boot” because my Dad also wore one when he broke his leg falling off a horse.

There was one other episode with my feet when they broke out in an itchy rash.  I went to the Dermatologist and he determined that I was allergic to a certain Italian leather.  He rubbed some soothing antibiotic cream all over my feet, then put my feet into baggies and my shoes back on my feet to wear home.

Lovely!!  I walked to the elevator feeling very conspicuous.  When I got on the elevator, I felt all eyes were staring at my feet while trying not to be obvious.  Finally I said to everyone, ” I guess you are all wondering why I am wearing these baggies on my feet!  Well…it seems I am allergic to my shoes!”  There was a deadly silence.  No one laughed but me.  No one said anything.  Later as I was telling this story at church, my friend Rob Landes said, “At this point you should have introduced yourself as the ‘Shake N Bake’ pastor from St. Lukes!”

Comforting scripture for today….”How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of her who brings good news…”    Isaiah 52:7

nk

  

Yesterday my sister and I had a sudden impulse, or a wild hair, to get away, leave town and head West.  Maybe it’s my West Texas roots, but getting “out of Dodge” for me always seems to mean getting in the car and driving west into the setting sun.  It signifies SPACE to breathe and relax, and FREEDOM to have some fun and find one’s true self.

So, with no particular plan in mind, we headed west and ended up in Brenham, Texas in the middle of the historic town square.  We talked, listened, remembered, laughed, cried, explored, imagined, tried on a few things, and shed a few things.  A favorite moment is captured in the photo above.  We were in the ladies bathroom of the sandwich shop.  Beside the sink was a small collection of old hats….(such a novelty to us since we are not old!).  Perhaps you can tell from the faces whose idea it was to try on the hats, and who went along for the ride with anticipated enthusiasm, and a slight hesitation.

Not only does the photo capture a special moment on a November day in Brenham, even more it captures our whole life together growing up.  We shared a room, and we were very close.  I always came up with the ideas  and she always went along with it.  I honestly don’t ever remember us fighting.  We had a lot of fun!

In addition to the hat style show, we wandered in and out of several places yesterday, leaving a trail of laughter.  My sister found this card…

The memory it contains happened one morning on our trip to Italy together.  I was wearing a certain pair of jeans and announced to her that I was wearing my “sassy pants”.  My definition of that term is really anything that makes us feel a little spunky, free, and unconventional.  It’s sort of the same as getting “out of Dodge”, finding our true selves somewhere outside the everyday ruts of routines.

Happy Trails!

nk

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

Where to begin?…..

I am currently at Rivendell Writer’s Colony.  It is a beautiful isolated place tucked in the mountains and backwoods of Tennessee near Sewanee.  It is designed for writers to find the space around and within to allow the depths of creativity.  I feel like I have been captured and carried deep into Mystery.  I feel like Alice in Wonderland where the magnitude of God’s immense creation and the wonder of every tiny creature come to life in new and nourishing ways.  Sounds of nature make music through the intense silence.  Leaves of the forest begin to burst forth colors of Fall, before they fall.

The land sits on the precipice of a deep ravine.  The clouds hang low across the ravine encircling the mountains like puffs of smoke, signaling that essence of Mystery that invites the imagination into the yet unknown.  (Thus, the name “Smokey Mountains”).  A hammock hangs between two towering trees with a view across the ravine, inviting one who is willing, to surrender to the call of nature and listen to the whispering message of the smoke signals, the winds of the Spirit moving.

I have to say that I have never been in a place quite like this!  It seems there is so much to write about that I am filled up, and it wants to burst forth.  It’s more than I can possibly put into words.  But something inside me says I have to try!

nk

There are certain people in my life to whom I feel the closest.  In some cases that has to do with how long I have known them.  But even more, it has to do with how well I KNOW them and they KNOW me.  It has to do with a willingness to love unconditionally, to be totally open and vulnerable, to be intimate, to have total trust with every thought, feeling, expression…to be free to be one’s true self.  To feel that you are deeply known by someone else is such a gift of love!

This week I have had the opportunity to be in a place called Stone Mountain, Georgia.  My friend is a pastor there and she and I entered the ministry together 30 years ago.

The photos you see were taken in Stone Mountain.  The small village sits at the base of the mountain.  The photo of the Christmas tree on top was my first visit there.  That view was taken outside my bedroom window at night.  I felt like it was shining just for me.  I felt some connection to the mountain which is the landmark and represents the strength of that community.

This visit we went to “Tunes by the Track”.  It happens every Friday night.  Locals bring their lawn chairs and gather beside the railroad tracks which run right through the center of town.  As the little band played, I couldn’t help but notice the older couple sitting in front of me holding hands.  I was touched by this as I listened to the words of the music…”I’ll be here for you….that’s all you really need to know.” Something about that moment spoke to me of this entire community. They are very diverse, yet they have come together to love unconditionally and to be their true selves with one another.

As you enter the red door to the church where Ellen and I preached together on Sunday morning, the first thing you see is a painting on the wall where the angel proclaims, “Be where your heart can express.”

YES!  I think the angel says it all.

nk