tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-145244252024-03-05T21:20:21.366-06:00Gwenrevere's Wild RideGwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1121699888627733482019-10-25T09:16:00.001-05:002019-10-25T09:16:28.351-05:00<div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Anne Lamott and Annie Dillard have both encouraged me (not personally, of course, but through their books) that if I want to practice writing, one of the best places to start is with what I know best, my own story. I'm making some of the first chapters available in this way because I do want to share what I'm writing, but the ephemeral nature of a blog is about the level of permanence this first draft deserves.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">As we begin, I'll share a couple of quotes from Annie Dillard's <em>The Writing Life</em> that express so well how I'm feeling about this enterprise.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">“Your freedom as a writer is not freedom of expression in the sense of wild blurting; you may not let rip. It is life at its most free, if you are fortunate enough to be able to try it, because you select your materials, invent your task, and pace yourself. In the democracies, you may even write and publish anything you please about any governments or institutions, even if what you write is demonstrably false.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><br />“The obverse of this freedom, of course, is that your work is so meaningless, so fully for yourself alone, and so worthless to the world, that no one except you cares whether you do it well, or ever. You are free to make several thousand close judgment calls a day. Your freedom is a by-product of your days’ triviality…Your manuscript, on which you lavish such care, has no needs or wishes; it knows you not. Nor does anyone need your manuscript; everyone needs shoes more. There are many manuscripts already – worthy ones, most edifying and moving ones, intelligent and powerful ones…Why not shoot yourself, actually, rather than finish one more excellent manuscript on which to gag the world?” (p. 11,12)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“Much has been written about the life of the mind. I find the phrase itself markedly dreamy. The mind of the writer does indeed do something before it dies, and so does its owner, but I would be hard put to call it living. It should surprise no one that the life of the writer – such as it is – is colorless to the point of sensory deprivation. Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world. This explains why so many books describe the author’s childhood. A writer’s childhood may well have been the occasion of his only firsthand experience.” (p. 44)</span><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><strong>Why Write?</strong> </span></div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><br /><div align="left"><br />No one else can tell this story. There are several reasons for that. The most obvious is that I am the only person who lived the story as I saw and felt it. But there are other factors that compel me to tell it. Neither of my parents is still living, but even when they were alive, ours was not a family that told many family stories. We didn’t hear much about our parents’ childhood, and as we grew older, we didn’t hear much about our own childhoods. In my twenties, or maybe thirties, I realized what a void I felt and I bought a “grandmother” book and gave it to my mom one Christmas. I asked her please to fill it with her memories of our family. It was all laid out with questions and brief, doable doses of information requested, but she still refused, saying, “I don’t like to remember the past, I like to look forward.”<br /><br />Another reason this story is mine to tell is that my brother Chip is seven years older, was a compliant child (I was not), and is a male person (I am not), and therefore experienced our family very differently than I did. My parents were in a very different place, literally and emotionally, when he was little (Europe) and when I was little (West Texas and Arkansas). His memories sometimes coincide with mine, when I ask directly and he’s feeling verbal, but most of the time he follows the family tradition and does not talk much about the past.<br /><br />My cousins and I grew up in such different parts of the country, they in Nashville, Tennessee and I mostly in Los Angeles, so although we share all the same relatives, we did not have the same relationships with them or memories of them. My cousin Bonnie Kay is a genealogist and archivist by inclination, and I’m grateful that she shares the products of her labors with me, but her history does not feel like mine.<br /><br />My childhood was largely spent with two sisters who became my sisters as well. The one I was closest to, Marilyn, has been dead now for three years. Her sister Sara, though thirteen days younger than me, born in the same Texas hospital and still my friend, is not a journal keeper or diarist, though she did write articles and speeches quite often in her work as a marriage and family counselor. (She became a full-time fundraiser last year, and I doubt she has any time to write at all these days.) So, although Sara and Marilyn and I shared fifteen of my first twenty years on earth, I am the only one of us three that will tell that part of the story.<br /><br />And it’s still more than that. I have slowly learned that no one else feels or sees or hears or remembers even one day of this life in the same way as another person does. Each of us has our own unique, passionate and incomplete take on life as we lived it. We’ve all missed events, mistaken comments, avoided facing realities, misunderstood meanings, and misremembered facts as we have created our own memories. They are nevertheless important because they are ours. Because they shaped us. Because they motivated us to act, or refrain from acting, in a million choices down the days. And because, ultimately, they are what we carry with us when we die. It is my conviction that the relationships we have formed and nourished throughout our lives will await us in the next world, the place we call Heaven. Relationships are built upon shared memories. I want to remember it all, as best I can, for my own sake. And if anybody else has the patience to read these words, and if they can benefit anyone in any way, I’ll be glad of it. </div><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>From Birth to School<br /></strong><br /></div><br /><div align="left">I am lying on an Army cot, the kind made of canvas that folded up, and seeing a brown paper barrel as tall as the cot next to me, where my toys were kept. This is the first place I can remember. I don’t think that was my room. We must have been in the process of moving from Lubbock, Texas, where I was born, to Searcy, Arkansas, where I was three and four years old. I’ve heard a lot about Lubbock, about dusty West Texas, the heat, the sand storms, the flatness, the dearth of education and culture. <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/1953%20Newborn.jpeg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/200/1953%20Newborn.jpeg" border="0"></a><br /><br />I met a woman in Nashville many years later named Mrs. Mann. She told me, “I drove with your mother to a baby shower in Lubbock when she was pregnant with you and I was pregnant with my daughter, Marita. So you two have known each other since before birth!” That’s one of two stories I know about my mother’s pregnancy with me. The other was told when I asked my mother if she and Daddy ever prayed out loud together, other than at meal time. She answered, “Just once. They were wheeling me into the delivery room and he prayed out loud for me then.” Later on I learned that two years before my birth, my mother had delivered a still-born boy, with the cord wrapped around his neck. They were both probably very frightened that another devastating disappointment could occur at my birth.<br /><br />I’ve gone back to dusty West Texas just once, for the wedding of Nita Bovarie and Russ DiNapoli. They were students with me in the summer of 1972 in Heidelberg, Germany. They fell in love and decided to be married in Lubbock, her home town, at her parents’ church where I too was on the “Cradle Roll” as an infant. (I still have the certificate.) It was the Broadway Church of Christ, where Norvel Young, my second father, was the preacher while my parents were missionaries in Germany. That church was the chief financial support for the missionary group that followed Otis Gatewood to Germany in 1947.<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/1953%20Christmas%20jpg.jpeg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/200/1953%20Christmas%20jpg.jpeg" border="0"></a><br />When my parents’ five years in Germany were complete, and they didn’t know what to do next, Brother Paul Sherrod, an elder at the Broadway church, offered my dad a job in his hardware store in Lubbock. That’s how I came to be born there in 1953 (in Lubbock, not in the hardware store). There’s a photograph of me as a baby almost five months old, sitting in my brother’s lap in the hardware store window in front of a Christmas tree and abundant toys. (One of my dad’s jobs there was window dressing.) I remember a tale about my dad’s kneeling in the hardware store and getting a tack stuck in his knee. I’ve been picking up tacks and pins and discarded staples off floors ever since.<br /><br />At any rate, that hot summer of ‘74 in Lubbock when we witnessed the marriage of Russ and Nita, we spent most of our time in the cool hotel bar, and I had long talks with Russ (a New York actor). He was so put off by the rigid, dull, judgmental, half-dead existence he had thus far witnessed among churchified people. I talked about living in the Spirit and how being a Christian actually makes life the most vibrant it can be. At their wedding I sang (a cappella, because it’s still a Church of Christ) the Beatles’ “In My Life,” which at the age of twenty already meant much to me.<br /><br />Back to Texas in the ‘Fifties. I have a memory of being in a car with a young woman babysitter, and seeing a tornado twisting towards us. She drove us to a shelter, and there was no tornado damage afterward that I remember. I am not sure if that memory came from Lubbock or Searcy years, because tornadoes were certainly possible in both places.<br /><br />I don’t recall it, but I do know of another significant event that happened in Lubbock. The story goes that I was on the kitchen counter when the phone rang and my mom turned to answer it. I fell off the counter and broke my collar bone and my leg. I’ve seen a photograph of me trying to ride a tricycle with a huge cast on my leg, but have no remembrance of that. Another sense memory I have could either be Lubbock or Searcy. I wore a thin, synthetic little dress that didn’t close in the back, but just tied at the neck. It was off white with tiny pink flowers, and had little cap sleeves barely there. I remember the feeling of wearing that dress, the texture of the material, and I remember getting old enough to worry about the back not closing. Modesty set in early with me. </div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left"><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/1954%20Lubbock.jpeg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/200/1954%20Lubbock.jpeg" border="0"></a>Then came Searcy, Arkansas and more memories pile up. In Searcy, my dad worked for Brother George Benson, the president of Harding College, as his assistant. Many years later I read an article in The New Yorker by William F. Buckley describing his dealings with Benson and other ultra-conservatives who served on the board of a foundation which distributed the wealth of another deceased arch-conservative. I was amazed that my dad had apprenticed with such a character. In his own words, my dad reported that he asked that the position be created because he “wanted to see how Brother Benson operated.”<br /><br />I have no recollection of how it felt to be adorable, but I met a lady in Nashville many years later who told me that I was. Marilyn Williams was in college at Harding while we lived there, and she worked part time as my dad’s secretary. She said that my mother would bring me to my dad’s office sometimes in the afternoon, and she would have me all dressed up to show off for him. When I hear about that, it sounds like something that happened to another child. Somehow that reality was stripped away by later feelings. I would have been three or four.<br /><br />It was in Searcy that I had my first experience with extreme fear. My mother had a degree from Peabody College as a librarian, and she decided to go back to work at Harding College, where my dad worked. They hired a black lady to keep me, but I didn’t understand (or wasn’t told) what was happening. On that first morning that Mommy left me, I remember being frightened of the black lady, because she was the first black person I had ever seen. Then I realized that my mother was leaving and I couldn’t go with her. I went berserk, screaming and kicking against a closed door (I guess it was my bedroom?) while this was happening.<br /><br />I feel so sorry for that lovely woman now, and I have a very sweet memory of her to balance the traumatic one. She and I were walking down a sidewalk, holding hands. I think we had been to a park. It was a hot day, and she had the courage to walk up to the front porch of a white person’s house and knock on the door. She said, “M’am, this child is thirsty. Could you give her some water?” She did not ask for any water for herself. (She probably knew that she would be denied.) I felt a warm rush of tenderness, because she cared about me and was trying to take good care of me. Could her name be Annie? I think it might have been. </div><br /><div align="left"><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/1957%20Christmas%20Card.jpeg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/200/1957%20Christmas%20Card.jpeg" border="0"></a></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Meet my parents, James Carlyn Moore, Jr. and Dorothy Long Whitesell Moore, and my brother Chip (James Carlyn Moore III), and me, Gwendolyn Moore. I have no middle name. Apparently when I was born, my father said, "Gwendolyn Moore - that's enough."</em></span></div><br /><div align="left"><br />While we lived in Searcy, Norvel Young and his family came through town on their way to California. My only memory of the visit is an unhappy one. I had been enrolled in the Harding Academy nursery school (where I spent most of two years), and at school I had made a little cart with wheels out of cardboard. I had brought it home, and I remember being in the top bunk of a bunk bed and having the Young girls brought in my room for me to tell them goodbye. Sara had my cardboard cart! I wanted it back! My mom made me give it to her, since she was company and she wanted it. I felt betrayed and angry about that. It was mine, all the more because I made it! How could somebody else’s desires be more important than mine?<br /><br />There’s a story I heard more than once and I think it may have happened on this visit. Apparently my dad was babysitting the kids one night. Emily, the oldest, called out from the bedroom, “Mr. Moore, I need to get a glass of water.” That was okay with him. Then it was “Mr. Moore, I need to go to the bathroom.” She got permission. But then a bit later, there was another stirring, and my dad found Emily in the bathroom again. “What are you doing this time?” he asked. “Mr. Moore, I have to wash out my slip to wear tomorrow.” That tells you a lot about little Emily Young.<br /><br />In Searcy, we lived in a house that had windows on both sides of one corner. In that corner, my mother set up a table and hung shelves in the window, and filled them full of African violets. It was the first time our family had any extra money, and her mother had taught her to love gardening, so she went a little crazy. I think I heard that she accumulated at least fifty plants. She took such care not to get water on the leaves. Once in Searcy it rained for forty days and forty nights, and the grown-ups talked about Noah and the Flood. I watched the rain filling up the gray sky outside the African violets windows day after day. </div><br /><div align="left"><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/1955%20Arkansas.jpeg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/200/1955%20Arkansas.jpeg" border="0"></a>There were summer days so hot that the grass burned my bare feet. I ran to get from place to place, the grass burned so hot. We lived on a street that ended in the woods, and at Easter our folks got Chip and me a baby duck. A neighbor boy told me he had taken the duck down to a snake pit in the woods and it had been eaten up by the snakes. Who knows if that really happened, but it was my first experience with a bully.<br /><br />Another day, I was playing on a swing set in a neighbor’s yard, and suddenly the sky begin to darken and there was thunder and lightning. The loud crack startled me so that I hit my chin on the cross-bar of the swing set and bit through part of my tongue. I remember running home bleeding and being so scared by what I had done.<br /><br />Our family was never quick to embrace new technology, and we were not the first on our block to buy a television. My brother would go to a neighbors’ house to watch TV, but it was in Searcy that I remember we bought our first set. My dad would sit and I would stand between his legs, and we would conduct together the Lawrence Welk orchestra, the Champagne Music Makers.<br /><br />Chip and I watched the Howdy-Doody show, and we actually had a little plastic Howdy-Doody doll the size of my hand whose mouth moved when you pushed on a little plastic lever in back of his head. I’m not sure what age I was when I fell in love with the Mickey Mouse Club and just had to have those white cowgirl boots with the tassles, so I could participate in Roundup Day. (Was it Tuesdays? They had a regular schedule where special programs landed on the same day every week.) I would stand in front of the TV and imitate the dance the girls did in their white boots.<br /><br />I had a doll named Tiny Tears. You would feed her real water in a bottle, and it would come out her eyes as tears. I loved that doll. We were at some big event like a church potluck or a college program at Harding, and I accidentally left that doll behind. I must have put up a big fuss, because we drove back to look for it, couldn’t find it, and I somehow convinced my folks that I would not be consoled until they bought me another Tiny Tears just like her.<br /><br />Another physical memory was holding both my mom’s and dad’s hands and being swung between them down some big church steps. I don’t know which church had those big, long steps, so I can’t be sure what age I was or which city I was in. I felt secure and happy when I was between them at church, or being swung like that. It was when my mom and I were alone that I started to be miserable.<br /><br />In the Searcy house, I was three or four years old. I was sitting in our green chair with the ottoman, curled up and crying. My mom was just across the room talking cheerfully on the phone, and then she spoke kindly to our fluffy white dog, Snowball. I said, “Momma, how come you can talk so nice to other people and to Snowball, but you can’t talk nice to me?” This feeling of not being safe with her, and not being treated kindly by her, characterized our relationship until she died at 82. What a sad, difficult and mutually painful relationship we had.<br /></div><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/1957%20Pets1.jpeg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/200/1957%20Pets1.jpeg" border="0"></a></p><br /><div align="left"><br />In Searcy, we had several animals. Tweety-Bird was a yellow parakeet who lived in a cage in the bathroom. (Or do I remember the cage in the bathroom because it was being cleaned? I’m not sure.) We had the big white dog named Snowball. We had the ill-fated Easter duck for awhile. Most special of all, though, was that my dad decided to buy a horse. We boarded her in someone’s stable further out in the country. Her name was Big Red, and I must have ridden on her, but that part I don’t recall.<br /><br />What I do remember was sitting on her back one day in her stall. Another horse was able to nibble at her tail from the next stall, and she got irritated and bucked. I flew off and landed in her feed trough, hitting my arm on the side. The doctor said I had a “green twig fracture” which he explained meant the bone did not break but fractured when it bent on the edge of the feed trough. So I’m only four years old and have already broken two appendages and a broken collar bone. Before we left Searcy, Big Red had a foal, and it broke my heart to say goodbye to them when Daddy told us we were leaving for California.<br /><br />We packed the car, sold Big Red and her colt, gave away Tweety-Bird, but took Snowball with us. He sat on the floorboards under my feet. I remember that car, a dark green Chevy with running boards. I was still little enough to sit on the pull-down armrest, and I called it “my seat”. So we headed out on the long drive to California, across the desert, and at one point we stopped for gas. Gathering us back to the car, my dad called out to Snowball who had wandered across the highway. Obediently, he started back toward us and was hit by an eighteen-wheeler.<br /><br />It was my first experience with death (The duck doesn’t count – we hadn’t bonded.), and I remember the shocked feeling that Snowball was no longer with us. The floorboards kept feeling so empty without him under my feet. I know my dad must have been terribly upset by what had happened, but all I remember feeling was the shocked numbness. I didn’t grieve by crying or being angry or talking about the loss. This was my pattern for many years afterward.<br /><br />We went to Carlsbad Caverns on our way, and I can still feel the damp cold and the majestic hugeness of the cave system. I was scared when they turned out the lights and everything was blacker than I had ever felt. I think that’s all I know about the trip until we started to approach Los Angeles. It was night, and my dad woke Chip and me up to look at a new sight. It was a river of red lights going one way and white lights coming the other. He said, “You won’t see this anywhere else, children. This is called a freeway, and it’s only here in California that you can see this kind of sight for miles and miles.”</div><br /><div align="left"></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280514426304935666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvgn5Q4EcP9NNdEo4mr3OFEgdbdnI4cz-dfQPSPofULYAZRBk0zw5gh_CS-A6fKd2SkZODVNQ45AmLpRUU47VOdcUjVTC6EAeD6R23am6ieycCu4_Xsqps2wP4EcLWDwZDEsIe0Q/s320/LA+Freeway.jpeg" border="0"></span></div>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-60387963961904759882019-02-04T13:15:00.001-06:002019-02-04T13:15:57.808-06:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj84ep1MyHh0dtj0vLgL_bDb2HIUC3YGEj62-Sp0rseiQb3unwkMnb4y7GXW7gFrOpyipQdTCZWMt8c5V0l5kDcwm2q009SGDDQT2_F0WC4aKhkSZZoN7n8_ua5QE6epN9aDPGdqA/s1600/Cultivate+love.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj84ep1MyHh0dtj0vLgL_bDb2HIUC3YGEj62-Sp0rseiQb3unwkMnb4y7GXW7gFrOpyipQdTCZWMt8c5V0l5kDcwm2q009SGDDQT2_F0WC4aKhkSZZoN7n8_ua5QE6epN9aDPGdqA/s320/Cultivate+love.JPG" width="320" height="318" data-original-width="597" data-original-height="593" /></a></div>
The latest post from Brene BrownGwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-18620899183830648702013-10-28T10:44:00.001-05:002013-10-28T10:45:44.486-05:00The biggest risk I ever took
created a space filled up with disappointments.
The cracks in my foundation,
the fissures in my universe
Meant the breaking of my chains… but
How could I see that then?
What I knew then was this:
The most tender-hearted man I’d ever met
was using me to reject all womanhood
The most world-renowned spiritual figure I’d ever known
was asking me to follow her into crazy
The most evolved and creative person I’d ever lived with
was treating me like a child.
The silver pressure cooker that is Jerusalem
exploded all the skins off my beliefs like lima beans
What I know now is that I was being born
The umbilical cord that connected me
to that which had given me nourishment
had to be cut or I would die
The silver lining in that cloud turned inside out my desperate need
and what I once controlled
was opened up by possibility.
The mourning doves have been released
and their wings beat the sky with joyous freedom.
© 2013 Gwen Moore
Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-75320405994690343682011-10-13T16:13:00.001-05:002011-10-13T16:17:34.839-05:00As I've watched Occupy Wall Street unfold, I've been reminded of William Stringfellow's <span style="font-style:italic;">My People Is the Enemy</span> (1964). He called on Christians to take a moral, ethical, prophetic stand against the machine of corporate America. That's the way he chose to live, and that's the way Jim Wallis has chosen to live. I'm grateful that I lived to see this, and pray that the young people whose hearts have been stirred to activism will live ethically and not lose heart.<br />I couldn't have said it better, and I began reading what Jim Wallis had to say back in the 'Seventies. So I quote:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">An Open Letter to the Occupiers from a Veteran Troublemaker</span><br />by Jim Wallis<br />10-13-2011 10:18 am <br />You have awakened the sleeping giant, too long dormant, but ever present, deep in the American democratic spirit. You have given voice and space to the unspoken feelings of countless others about something that has gone terribly wrong in our society. And you have sparked a flame from the embers of both frustration and hope that have been building, steadily, in the hearts of so many of us for quite some time.<br />Throughout history, often it has been left to the youth of a society to do that, and you boldly have stepped into the role of the emerging generation, which sometimes means saying and doing what others only think. You have articulated, loudly and clearly, the internal monologue of a nation.<br />Some of you have told me that you expected only to foment a short-lived protest and that you were as surprised by this “movement” as anyone else. Try to listen and learn from those whose feelings and participation you are evoking by encouraging more reflection than certainty.<br />While there are some among us who may misunderstand your motives and message, know that you are an inspiration to many more.<br />One of you told me in New York City last week, “This is not a protest, but a think tank.” Another of your compatriots wanted me to understand that you are trying to build something in Liberty Square that you aspire to create for our global village — a more cooperative society.<br />Most telling to me was the answer to the first question I asked of the first person I talked to at the Wall Street demonstrations. I inquired of one of the non-leaders who helped lead the first days of Occupation as to what most drew him to get involved in the demonstration and he replied, “I want to have children someday, and this is becoming a world not good for children.”<br />My 13- and 8-year-old boys came to mind when I heard his answer, and I felt thankful. It is precisely those deepest, most authentic feelings and motivations that should preoccupy you, rather than how best to form and communicate superficial political rhetoric.<br />You are raising very basic questions about an economy that has become increasingly unfair, unstable, unsustainable, and unhappy for a growing number of people. Those same questions are being asked by many others at the bottom, the middle, and even some at the top of the economic pecking order.<br />There are ethics to be named here, and the transition from the pseudo-ethic of endless growth to the moral ethics of sustainability is a conversation occurring even now in our nation’s business schools (if, perhaps, secreted inside the official curriculum).<br />Keep pressing those values questions because they will move people more than a set of demands or policy suggestions. Those can and must come later.<br />And try not to demonize those you view as opponents, as good people can get trapped in bad systems and we’ve seen a lot of that. Still, you are right for saying that we all must be held accountable — both systems and the individuals within them. It is imperative that we hear that message right now.<br />The new safe spaces you have created to ask fundamental questions, now in hundreds of locations around the country and the world, are helping to carve out fresh societal space to examine ourselves — who we are, what we value most, and where we want to go from here.<br />Instead of simply attacking the establishment “economists,” you can become the citizen economists, like the young economics major I met at the Wall Street occupation who discussed with me new approaches for society’s investment and innovation. We desperately need new vision like hers to come up with alternative ways of performing essential functions.<br />Keep asking what a just economy should look like and who it should be for. They are noble questions. But you’d do well to avoid Utopian dreaming about things that will never happen. Look instead at how we could do things differently, more responsibly, more equitably, and yes, more democratically.<br />Don’t be afraid to get practical and specific about how we can and must do things better than we have in recent years. One of our best moral economists, Amartya Sen, says that “being against the market is like being against conversation. It’s a form of exchange.” You have begun such a conversation about what markets could and should be. Keep talking.<br />Even in forums where business and political leaders meet, they too are asking those questions and using terms like “a moral economy” as a way to interrogate our present and failed practices. I’ve been in such a gathering this week — just days apart from visiting yours — where the participants slept on featherbedding in five star hotels rather than in pup tents on the sidewalk. And yet, surprisingly, they were asking many of the same questions you are.<br />Keep driving both the moral and practical questions about the economics of our local and global households, for that is what the discipline was supposed to be about in the first place.<br />I know you believe that the leadership on Wall Street, and Constitution and Pennsylvania avenues have all failed you. Indeed, they have failed us all. But while you feel betrayed by both our business and political leaders, don’t give up on leadership per se.<br />We need innovative leadership now more than ever. And you are providing some of it.<br />Think of stewards rather than masters of the universe as the model for leadership.<br />And remember, non-violence is not just a critical tactic but a necessary commitment to moral and civil discourse that can awaken the best in all of us. There is much to be angry about, but channeling that energy into creative, non-violent action is the only way to prevent dangerous cynicism and nihilism that also can be a human response to the injustice and marginalization many people now feel.<br />The anarchism of anger has never produced the change that the discipline and constructive program of non-violent movements has done again and again.<br />I remember what it feels like to see your movement as a lead story on the evening news every night, and the adrenaline rush that being able to muster 10,000 people in two hours time to march in protest against injustice and inhumanity can bring. I was in your shoes 40 years ago as a student leading demonstrations against the Vietnam War, racism, and nuclear proliferation.<br />I would advise you to cultivate humility more than overconfidence or self indulgence. This really is not about you. It’s about the marginalized masses, the signs of the times, and the profound yearning for lasting change. Take that larger narrative more seriously than you take yourselves.<br />Finally, do not let go of your hope. Popular movements are the only force that truly brings about change in society. The established order is never as secure and impervious to change as those who preside over it believe it to be.<br />Remember that re-action is never as powerful as re-construction. And whatever you may think of organized religion, please keep in mind that change requires spiritual as well as political resources, and that invariably any new economy will be accompanied by a new (or very old) spirituality.<br />So I will say, may God bless you and keep you.<br />May God be gracious to you and give you -– and all of us — peace.<br /><br />http://blog.sojo.net/2011/10/13/an-open-letter-to-the-occupiers-from-a-veteran-troublemaker/Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-83942263229827090342010-12-16T21:25:00.004-06:002010-12-18T16:23:25.890-06:00I haven't posted for quite awhile, one reason being that I re-entered Divinity School after a thirty-three year hiatus. I did a lot a things new to me in taking just one course. I had never been in a study group before, so I invited a few folks and we had a wonderful time helping each other study and getting to know a bit about what brought each one to this adventure, each a non-traditional student returning to school after much life experience. I had never been in a discussion group before, and one feature of that experience was writing six brief papers, one prior to each discussion. One of those appears below - it's my favorite because I let myself have a bit more than average fun with it.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Grace Abounding</span><br /><br />“Hi, I’m Gwen. I’m a recovering Pelagian…” What an opener for a 12-step meeting! Many times I have remembered a sermon from my youth. I knew then that it was misguided but I had no theological label for the belief system behind it. A much-beloved Bible professor from my college, also the minister at my parents’ church, did a series on the Beatitudes. He focused on each one in turn and admonished the congregation to “try harder” to demonstrate those qualities that Jesus called “blessed”. I knew even at that age I could never achieve blessedness by my own efforts. I had been trying, and failing, to do better ever since I was five. And I had begun to hear rumblings of a different way of life, a life dependent upon and empowered by the indwelling Holy Spirit. I sensed it was real, and I wanted it.<br /><br />I never knew until today that I grew up Pelagian. I did know that I have long struggled against a tendency within myself to think will power is the key to success in the spiritual and well as the natural life. I saw in scripture, particularly in Romans and Galatians, that such self-reliance was counter to the message of the gospel. It has required a life-long series wrestling matches for me to relinquish my imagined strength and determination to achieve spiritual goals by my own efforts.<br /><br />Along the path to recovery I have fallen into each of the pits which Augustine warns await us if we learn the moral law without receiving assistance from God to perform it. Pit 1: I thought that revelation and enlightenment and insight were going to change my behavior. Pit 2: I spent much too long a time under the condemnation of the Law, and then reacted by “presumptuously endeavor[ing] to accomplish [my] justification by means of free will as if by [my] own resources.” Pit 3: I was most definitely “puffed up” by knowledge, spending more than a decade in a church so characterized by religious striving that we were proud of our emphasis on humility.<br /><br />I resonate with Augustine’s assertion that “the man…who has learned what ought to be done, but does it not, has not as yet been ‘taught of God’ according to grace, but only according to the law, not according to the spirit, but only according to the letter. Although there are many who appear to do what the law commands…” That was Pit 4. It was my experience and that of many in my Pelagian church that within the strictures of that setting we could perform according to the higher standard to which we had aspired, but outside it we found our old addictions and attitudes rushing back to prominence. Indeed, “That love…which is a virtue comes to us from God, not from ourselves.”<br /><br />Once the veil of Pelagian self-reliance has been dissolved, one can clearly see that all one’s own efforts lead to, at best, temporary and shallow results. I bear witness to Augustine’s assertion that “it is not by law and teaching uttering their lessons from the outside, but by a secret, wonderful, and ineffable power operating within, that God works in people’s hearts not only revelations of the truth, but also good dispositions of the will.” To rely on God’s work, God’s grace, God’s sufficiency is to accept my role in our relationship as His creature. He initiated the relationship (I Jn. 4:19) and His love and grace must sustain it. As the old Sunday school song taught us, “They are weak but He is strong.”<br /><br />When I read Pelagius for the first time today, I was reminded of Paul’s rhetorical question in Romans 6:1, “Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound?” That’s just the kind of question Pelagius would be likely to ask. Pelagius’ concern for the bolstering of the human will reminds me of the modern concept of “learned helplessness”. He’s afraid all this talk of grace will be enervating and lead to spiritual sloth, while also reflecting badly on God Who, as the source of our competency and free will, could be blamed for our failures as well as our successes. Pelagius wants to empower people to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. Augustine would counter, with Paul, that “God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that you, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work” (2 Cor. 9:8).<br /><br />Quotes are from Aurelius Augustine, <em>On the Grace of Christ</em>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-56260519278132804532010-02-10T12:50:00.001-06:002010-02-10T12:50:34.207-06:00<a href="http://www.amnestyusa.org/iran"><img src="http://www.amnestyusa.org/countries/iran/unite.jpg" width="136" height="174" alt="Unite 4 human rights in Iran" border="0" /></a>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-8751816748902576632010-01-13T08:31:00.007-06:002010-01-25T16:39:29.050-06:00<span style="font-size:85%;"><i><span style="color:#ff0000;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:100%;" >2009 Inventory</span><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p><br /></span></i></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><i>Regular meetings I cherished:<o:p></o:p></i><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Book Club (monthly)</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p><br />Artists’ Way (co-leading a group bi-weekly with Carol Pigg)<o:p></o:p><br />ACA Book Study (weekly;</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <a href="http://www.adultchildren.org/">http://www.adultchildren.org/</a>)<o:p></o:p><br />Yoga with Emily Lange Epstein (12 weeks)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;"><em>Concerts/Events I enjoyed:<br /></em></span><span style="font-size:85%;">The Book of Revelation (read aloud with sfx & music at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Belmont</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Church</st1:placetype></st1:place>)<o:p></o:p><br />Yale Whiffenpoofs (<st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">University</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>)<o:p></o:p><br />Tim Keller (Christ Presbyterian)<o:p></o:p><br /><st1:place st="on">St.</st1:place> Olaf Choir (War Memorial)<o:p></o:p><br />One Night>One Voice (Women of Darfur) (<st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Vanderbilt</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Divinity</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>)<o:p></o:p><br />Amy Courts Koopman (French Quarter)<o:p></o:p><br />Tokens Shows (Lipscomb)<o:p></o:p><br />Madeleine Albright (Vanderbilt)<o:p></o:p><br />Natan Sharansky (Vanderbilt)<o:p></o:p><br />Carol Pigg’s 60<sup>th</sup> Birthday Gala<o:p></o:p><br />Shana Kohnstamm Art Show (Twist Gallery)<o:p></o:p><br />Women in the Round (Bluebird Café)<o:p></o:p><br />Nashville Film Festival (especially two shows with Chris & Jan Harris: “Thanks, kids!”)<o:p></o:p><br />Sojourners Mobilization to End Poverty (<st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">DC</st1:state></st1:place>)<o:p></o:p><br />A.-J. Levine (Blakemore United Methodist; <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Christ</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Church</st1:placetype></st1:place> Cathedral)<o:p></o:p><br />Christian Scholars Conference, where I heard authors Barbara Brown Taylor, Marilynne Robinson, Richard Hughes and Shaun Casey, among many others. (Lipscomb)<o:p></o:p><br />Diana Krall (Schermerhorn) (Note to self: Don’t go to this alone again!)<o:p></o:p><br />Michael W. Smith & Marty Goetz (<st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Belmont</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Church</st1:placetype></st1:place>)<o:p></o:p><br />Robert Hicks’ Primitive Art show & explication (<st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Vanderbilt</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Divinity</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>)<o:p></o:p><br /><st1:city st="on">Nashville</st1:city> Symphony: <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on"><i>Russia</i></st1:country-region></st1:place><i>’s Greatest Hits </i>and<i> A Space Odyssey</i> (Schermerhorn)<o:p></o:p><br />Fred & Martha Goldners’ pre-Yom Kippur Seder<o:p></o:p><br />Landon Pigg’s role in Drew Barrymore’s first directorial outing, <i>Whip It!</i><o:p></o:p><br />Southern Festival of Books: I especially enjoyed hearing from Shaun Casey, John Siegenthaler, Chip Arnold, Ben Pearson, and Robert Hicks<o:p></o:p><br /><i>Anglicanism 101</i>: 6-week class (St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church)<o:p></o:p><br /><i>Our Town</i> presented by Studio Tenn Theater Company (Loveless Barn)<o:p></o:p><br />John Keats Birthday Tea (Savannah Tea Room)<o:p></o:p><br />Doris Kearns Goodwin, award recipient (Nashville Public Library)<o:p></o:p><br />Lighting of the Green (Lipscomb)<o:p></o:p><br />50+ Christmas Dinner: Jan & Chris Harris singing <i>Light in the Stable</i>; Chip Arnold reading Truman Capote’s <i>A Christmas Memory</i>. Unbelievable richness. (Thanks, TVC!)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><i>Essays I wrote:<o:p></o:p></i><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">See <a href="http://www.gwenmoore.blogspot.com/">http://www.gwenmoore.blogspot.com/</a> for most of these.<o:p></o:p><br />A Tribute to My Brother<o:p></o:p><br />Musings on Aging in <i>Tabula Rasa</i> (Vanderbilt literary publication)<o:p></o:p><br />Sharansky & Obama<o:p></o:p><br />A Light for the City<o:p></o:p><br />And That More Abundantly<o:p></o:p><br />Workplace Wisdom<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i><o:p></o:p><span style="color:#ff0000;">Songwriting</span></i></span><span style="font-size:85%;">: Several co-writing sessions with new friend Laurie Smith and one song with Laurie and dear friend Gabe Pigg<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><i>Singing I did:<o:p></o:p></i><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">The <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nashville</st1:place></st1:city> Choir in Hymn Sing at the Schermerhorn<o:p></o:p><br />TNC recording session for David Huntsinger & Kris Wilkinson at RCA studio<o:p></o:p><br />TNC recording session for <st1:place st="on">Disneyworld</st1:place> with David Hamilton<o:p></o:p><br />Worship team at church (“Back in the saddle again…”; just once, but it felt good.)<o:p></o:p><br />The Village Chapel Choir<o:p></o:p><br />Christmas caroling at <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Sommet</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><i>Praise God, He brought these loved ones back from the brink:<o:p></o:p></i><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Julianne Hannaford<o:p></o:p><br />Gabe Pigg<o:p></o:p><br />Brian Carr<o:p></o:p><br />Michael Shumate<o:p></o:p><br />Marty McCall<o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><i>Remembering this year’s graduating class:<o:p></o:p></i><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Danny Petraitis<o:p></o:p><br />Nina Harmon<o:p></o:p><br />Mabel Harding Bean Wood<o:p></o:p><br />Henry Martin<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><i>Celebrating new lives:<o:p></o:p></i><br /></span><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Carson</st1:place></st1:city> Jerde<o:p></o:p><br />Sam Bruce<o:p></o:p><br />Isaac DePaula<o:p></o:p><br />Lylah Nash<o:p></o:p><br />Carla Sullivan’s nephews (newly adopted)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><i>House guests I enjoyed hosting:<o:p></o:p></i><br /></span>Ted and Jane-Ann Thomas<o:p></o:p><br />Dorothy Dresser<o:p></o:p><br />Michael and Ilona Haag<o:p></o:p><br /><st1:place st="on">Clyde</st1:place> Barganier<o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><i>Special thanks:<o:p></o:p></i><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">…to Mark Hollingsworth for providing this format with which to reminisce, for his community organizing and his zest for event attendance.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He has been very inspirational.<o:p></o:p><br />…to Carolyn Naifeh for hosting me a whole week while in D.C.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>What a treat!<o:p></o:p><br />…to Rhonda Lowry for inviting me to reconnect with my roots.<o:p></o:p><br />…to Jeff and Amy Cary and David and Angie Lemley for giving me such hope for the next generation of my roots.<o:p></o:p><br />…to Clyde Barganier for deciding to write that first email.<o:p></o:p><br />…to all who have prayed with me and for me this year.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You have touched and blessed the lives of hundreds of medical students and only God knows how many more.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: trebuchet ms" class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:#ffffcc;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I love all four seasons.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGzf4NjrxZQNwcni9vrRdTSVIpmfcKS1OOstM4e8KjX4J1GEuGNuKQYScUxiBJ87_v0kuQnAy9RoKjn1jxexh8Vek7-ATMDDuakG9QMenH3JBovkmeC8Lc406Tp142hiSrPcRbAQ/s1600-h/Wildflowers+Photo+Shoot+042+reduced.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 139px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426233473768229298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGzf4NjrxZQNwcni9vrRdTSVIpmfcKS1OOstM4e8KjX4J1GEuGNuKQYScUxiBJ87_v0kuQnAy9RoKjn1jxexh8Vek7-ATMDDuakG9QMenH3JBovkmeC8Lc406Tp142hiSrPcRbAQ/s200/Wildflowers+Photo+Shoot+042+reduced.JPG" /></a></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p><span style="color:#ffffcc;"><br />I love the exuberance of spring,<o:p></o:p><br />the laziness of summer,<o:p></o:p><br />the busyness and anticipation of fall,</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p><span style="color:#ffffcc;"><br />and the coziness of winter,<o:p></o:p><br />with its magical ice <o:p></o:p><br />and snow<o:p></o:p><br />and crispness,<o:p></o:p><br />its hot drinks and crackling,<o:p></o:p><br />popping fires,<o:p></o:p><br />and its sacred, reverent hush.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#ffffcc;">Happy Epiphany!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>May we all be surprised by joy in 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-53718379610090899372009-12-28T16:54:00.002-06:002009-12-28T16:58:31.947-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4iz-aX_yCX-fJKJ5n7pq8UmPFdKbbl_iEVnqfekrBJfvnGqNdc6wl_0rDA0hYmtx61hcntPF10VNAP33-awhyW_it3QevPcuAcpkaex7r2igkD4_45UdZf-0mxwsgaNJObiValg/s1600-h/2006+Chip+%26+me.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4iz-aX_yCX-fJKJ5n7pq8UmPFdKbbl_iEVnqfekrBJfvnGqNdc6wl_0rDA0hYmtx61hcntPF10VNAP33-awhyW_it3QevPcuAcpkaex7r2igkD4_45UdZf-0mxwsgaNJObiValg/s200/2006+Chip+%26+me.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420424842764101522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">A Tribute to My Brother</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">, James Carlyn Moore III<br />February 12, 2009 </span></span> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I would love to be there today to hear what you all are saying, see your faces, and feel the depth of friendship you are celebrating in this moment.</span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I have known Chip longer than you have, but from working with him day by day and year by year, you know him better than I do.<span style=""> </span>I envy you that.</span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I told Chip many years ago, “The only reason I can live in <st1:city st="on">Nashville</st1:city>, with you in <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">California</st1:state></st1:place>, is that I believe in heaven.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t bear to be separated from you this way if I didn’t believe we’ll have eternity together.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Chip is one of the finest and most fascinating men I’ve ever known.<span style=""> </span>Our dad exemplified the lesson that “Everyone has something he or she can teach me.”<span style=""> </span>He also taught the principle that we should do our best even when no one on earth will appreciate it, because God will.<span style=""> </span>Our parents left us a legacy of service, choosing work that yields rewards in people’s lives rather than in income.<span style=""> </span>Chip has added to these ideals by becoming a mentor to many, freely sharing what he has learned with those who seek him out.<span style=""> </span>At work, in his professional associations, through the church and in a wide range of friends and acquaintances, he has sought to help people and solve problems while making folks feel esteemed and valued for themselves, not for what they can do for him.</span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">He works hard, and he serves faithfully, but Chip also knows how to play.<span style=""> </span>He has led you on outings and adventures which have enriched your lives on many levels.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know anyone else but Chip who would get tickets for a play by Euripedes at the Getty and then read it aloud to you the night before, to deepen your enjoyment of the experience.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know anyone but Chip and <st1:personname st="on">Sharyn</st1:personname> who have rounded Cape Horn while reading <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Darwin</st1:place></st1:city>’s Beagle diary.<span style=""> </span>You may not know that he has written poetry, but you do know he plays the clarinet, enjoys a wide range of music, loves books and seeks out their authors, deeply appreciates fine wines and the world of art.<span style=""> </span>He loves to travel, reveling in the cultures of people groups all over the world.</span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">He does all this not to achieve an elite status in the eyes of others, but out of a genuine and contagious enthusiasm, with a childlike <i style="">joie de vivre</i>.<span style=""> </span>I honor him today as we anticipate the new adventures that await him and the surprising blessings that I know God has planned for him.<span style=""> </span>I’m proud to know you, Chip, and to be your favorite sister, Gwen.</span></p>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-88032489112354331982009-12-28T16:32:00.005-06:002009-12-28T16:44:56.925-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi774-lK-Q55ArT9ev_f7BVV_oaDqXC5wIgoEAP4HgGzcFsRzxdJlfdzzxZ85H5aPap9E7_42RTDT4d6G9AOar0Ju_j-XA0MV8Y5GIj8s6YSOAJlVP3l7qQc8TV-GgKnHkFDDU_gg/s1600-h/85+Me.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi774-lK-Q55ArT9ev_f7BVV_oaDqXC5wIgoEAP4HgGzcFsRzxdJlfdzzxZ85H5aPap9E7_42RTDT4d6G9AOar0Ju_j-XA0MV8Y5GIj8s6YSOAJlVP3l7qQc8TV-GgKnHkFDDU_gg/s200/85+Me.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420421209762964354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><b style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><i style="">And That More Abundantly</i></b></span> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was the summer of 1985.<span style=""> </span>I was thirty-two years old, way too young to have a nervous breakdown.<span style=""> </span>I was sitting at my desk in my bedroom sanctuary, a terracotta-colored room in a two-story brick house on a quiet residential street.<span style=""> </span>I lived a block away from the <st1:placename st="on">Lipscomb</st1:placename><st1:placetype st="on"> University</st1:placetype> campus in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Nashville</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">Tennessee</st1:state></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>That was the physical location.<span style=""> </span>Allow me also to locate the moment in terms of my recovery.</span> </p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">For me, recovery had not begun.<span style=""> </span>I had just hit my first “bottom” and quit my job.<span style=""> </span>I had completed six years in the music industry, working for a company in which every single person but me was the adult child of an alcoholic.<span style=""> </span>(My parents had made up for the lack of alcohol in our family life by using religion - "churchianity" - as our drug of choice.)<span style=""> </span>We were all hurting, struggling with the demons of the past and some in the present, but we never talked about it.<span style=""> </span>Most of us were in our twenties, striving in spite of immaturity and inexperience to be known as dedicated Christians in a highly secular industry.<span style=""> </span>This led to obfuscations, complications and hurts that would not have occurred if we had just admitted, “I’m mostly here to make money.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">None of us had read the literature or gone to Adult Children of Alcoholics support groups, because they weren’t yet available.<span style=""> </span>None of us understood why we were addicted to excitement, why we felt we were at our best amidst drama and chaos, why we therefore created unnecessary pressures for ourselves and each other, why some of us manipulated and dominated and others of us served and suffered silently, and why frustration and resentment festered.<span style=""> </span>We were expected to be unquestioningly loyal to the company, but I didn’t experience the company being loyal to me.<span style=""> </span>I felt used and, even worse, used up.<span style=""> </span>None of us had seen our common characteristics openly and clearly described, like you can today by looking on the internet.<span style=""> </span>(See a one-page description, known variously as “The Problem” and “The Laundry List” at <a href="http://www.adultchildren.org/lit/Problem.s">http://www.adultchildren.org/lit/Problem.s</a>)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p>In the midst of my struggles with that job and those people, I had sought help from a church friend who was “older in the Lord.”<span style=""> </span>I was hoping for help, wise counsel and – honestly – sympathy.<span style=""> </span>After pouring my frustration and confusion out to her, I was more than taken aback when she declared, “Your heart is black.”<span style=""> </span>I didn’t really believe her, but it was so painful to hear nevertheless.<span style=""> </span>I felt rebuffed, misunderstood, accused, and certainly not helped.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p>Most Saturday mornings I would sit in that terracotta colored room and read scripture and Oswald Chambers’ <i style="">My Utmost for His Highest</i>.<span style=""> </span>I had learned the value of journaling, and I also enjoyed copying scriptures and favorite hymns in calligraphy.<span style=""> </span>I was beginning to learn the meaning of the Hebrew word <i style="">Shabbat</i>.<span style=""> </span>Taking a Sabbath rest was becoming more and more important to me.<span style=""> </span>One morning I was reading in Proverbs when a verse jumped out at me I had never seen or heard before.<span style=""> </span>“He who is loose and slack in his work is brother to him who is a destroyer and he who does not use his endeavors to heal himself is brother to him who commits suicide.”<span style=""> </span>(Proverbs 18:9)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p>What?<span style=""> </span>I never knew the word suicide was in the Bible.<span style=""> </span>My Amplified translation explained that the second part of the verse does not appear in all manuscripts, but is found in the Septuagint, so named because seventy scholars worked together to translate the Hebrew scriptures into Greek.<span style=""> </span>This translation of what we call the Old Testament would have been generally available in Jesus’ day.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I pondered the verse and asked myself why it struck me with such force.<span style=""> </span>In a flash I realized that though I had never been tempted with thoughts of suicide, as friends of mine had, still I was not “using my endeavors to heal myself.”<span style=""> </span>I was working under a great deal of stress and constant deadlines.<span style=""> </span>I was not sleeping enough.<span style=""> </span>I was not eating healthily.<span style=""> </span>My eating was geared to emotional comfort rather than fuel.<span style=""> </span>In addition to unusual stress at work, I was involved in several other creative pursuits.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I had chosen a church community that demanded commitment and attendance at large and small weekly meetings as well as private weekly meetings with a spiritual advisor.<span style=""> </span>(At that time, I was meeting regularly with the woman mentioned above whose words had been so hurtful.)<span style=""> </span>I had a married couple living in my home, and two other women each stayed with us for months at a time, in addition to many others who came and went.<span style=""> </span>I loved the idea of an open, hospitable home but all that activity didn’t leave time for quiet, reflection, refreshment.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I realized that in order to choose life I would have to make changes.<span style=""> </span>I would have to set limits.<span style=""> </span>I would have to learn to say “No” to myself and others.<span style=""> </span>I would have to miss out on certain relationships and experiences and opportunities.<span style=""> </span>They would be hard for me to release, because letting go would feel like a death to me, a falling into the dark unknown.<span style=""> </span>I knew I would have to change my ways regarding eating and sleeping and exercise.<span style=""> </span>I began to chip away at these tasks, but it was very hard to deny myself short term satisfactions for these long term, unfamiliar goals.<span style=""> </span>Health – emotional, mental, physical health – had never been a priority in my family, and at first it really seemed unattainable to me.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Then I contracted hepatitis A.<span style=""> </span>I used up my sick time and vacation time and then went unpaid.<span style=""> </span>When I even <i style="">thought</i> about responsibility, I wanted to throw up.<span style=""> </span>Years later, I learned about the symptoms of burnout and realized I had come very close to a nervous breakdown.<span style=""> </span>In this same terra cotta colored room I sat in the bed and wept with the surprising realization that I was free.<span style=""> </span>I suddenly knew that I could leave that nutty company and that crazy industry, that I didn’t need to be a part of that system to survive, that I could separate from that “family” and be an individual and choose a more peaceful life.<span style=""> </span>They didn’t own me any more.<span style=""> </span>When I returned to work, I knew I could not long remain there.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">During further rest and recuperation, I was sitting in my porch swing reading my Bible.<span style=""> </span>A quiet awareness came to me that God wanted meet my needs Himself.<span style=""> </span>I felt He was gently challenging me to trust Him.<span style=""> </span>I sensed that I was not to work, I was not to seek regular employment, I was to look to Him to pay my bills instead.<span style=""> </span>And amazingly I thought He might be saying this supernatural intervention would last for two years.<span style=""> </span>I could hardly believe it, and yet it was so clear I could not really doubt or ignore it.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">This is the scripture I was reading.<span style=""> </span>“And [Hezekiah, says the Lord] this shall be the sign [of these things] to you: you shall eat this year <i style="">what grows of itself</i>, also in the second year <i style="">what springs up voluntarily</i>. <span style=""> </span>But in the third year sow and reap, plant vineyards and eat their fruit.<span style=""> </span>And the remnant that has survived of the house of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Judah</st1:place></st1:country-region> shall again take root downward and bear fruit upward.<span style=""> </span>For out of <st1:city st="on">Jerusalem</st1:city> shall go forth a remnant, and a band of survivors out of <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Zion</st1:placename></st1:place>. <span style=""> </span>The zeal of the Lord of hosts shall perform this.”<span style=""> </span>(II Kings 19: 29-31)</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">So much resulted from that moment on the porch.<span style=""> </span>The married couple who had shared my four bedroom house with me for three years, paying rent and buying all the groceries, now decided to move out.<span style=""> </span>Over a long period of prayer and seeking I became convinced that God was calling me to live in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city>, so I had to sell my house.<span style=""> </span>(Conveniently, my mom who co-owned it was in agreement with the need to sell the house, as she had decided to move to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Vienna</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">Austria</st1:country-region></st1:place> to help her friends Irene and Otis Gatewood in their work there.)<span style=""> </span>But the house was slow to sell.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I would wake up in the morning and my situation would hit me.<span style=""> </span>“I have no income.<span style=""> </span>I have no renters.<span style=""> </span>I have no one buying food.<span style=""> </span>I had a hard time meeting all my bills when I had those things.<span style=""> </span>What have I <i style="">done</i>??”<span style=""> </span>It felt like a panic attack.<span style=""> </span>Slowly, slowly I became aware that nothing had changed but numbers on paper.<span style=""> </span>God was still on His throne, I was still His daughter, I was not being slothful or irresponsible, I was being obedient to what I believed He wanted, and I could trust Him to show me if I were wrong about that.<span style=""> </span>The panic attacks grew briefer and fewer until they went away and I learned to float in the not knowing…with occasional lapses.<span style=""> </span>It was a process of taking it back and letting it go, again and again.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Then the house sold, after five months of showing it, and though my mom recouped her down payment, the unexplained and unexpected affect of previously paid “points” on the final profit brought me a total of $500.<span style=""> </span>The realtor handed me the check and I almost cried on the spot.<span style=""> </span>I came home from the closing so devastated I simply curled up on the living floor in fetal position and sobbed my heart out.<span style=""> </span>“But God!” I cried.<span style=""> </span>“I thought You wanted me to go to <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Israel</st1:country-region></st1:place>!<span style=""> </span>Now I have no money to go.<span style=""> </span>Now my house is sold.<span style=""> </span>I have no job.<span style=""> </span>What do You want from me?”</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Knowing I was selling it, I had already given away, stored or sold most everything from my big house.<span style=""> </span>I moved my remaining stuff into the basement room of a church elder’s home, with the agreement that I would clean their house twenty hours a week in exchange for the room and utilities.<span style=""> </span>The church office shared that basement, so there were mornings I would exit my room and walk through a church staff meeting on my way to the shower.<span style=""> </span>I babysat the elder’s youngest daughter, and we watched “Annie” and “The Sound of Music” probably fifty times each that summer.<span style=""> </span>I ironed.<span style=""> </span>I dusted.<span style=""> </span>I scrubbed.<span style=""> </span>I cleaned out closets and drawers.<span style=""> </span>Five months later, around my birthday, on the Sabbath of Comfort (according to the Jewish calendar), friends called to say that they wanted to give me $1000 to use as I saw fit.<span style=""> </span>They knew about my previous <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region> plan but assured me that if I wasn’t prepared to go now, the money was still mine.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Ironically, I now had as much cash in hand as I had five months before, but now my attitude had been changed and this same amount was now “enough” for me.<span style=""> </span>I bought the airline ticket, and then more money was released from various sources.<span style=""> </span>I went to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city> knowing that I would participate in a two-week Feast of Tabernacles Christian Celebration through the International Christian Embassy.<span style=""> </span>After the first two weeks, I would be on my own.<span style=""> </span>I went believing that I had the promise of a job from a Messianic Jewish man who knew my advertising and music background and said he really wanted to work with me.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t know where I would live, but I had several invitations from people I had met on a six-week exploratory trip the previous year.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Two weeks into my stay there, I was informed that the job was not available because the man was no longer hiring non-Israelis.<span style=""> </span>I had a cordial conversation with the man and his Israeli fiancée in a hotel lobby, and they took me back to the place I staying.<span style=""> </span>I let myself cry a few tears.<span style=""> </span>I was pretty deeply shaken, as I still didn’t know where I would be living, now knew I had no job, and my new friends, the other Feast people, would soon be leaving the country.<span style=""> </span>As I stepped into the dark forest where our cabins were, I heard a voice inside my heart.<span style=""> </span>“My little sister.”<span style=""> </span>That’s all He needed to say.<span style=""> </span>It was the voice of compassion and reassurance that met me in my trembling and fear and held me still.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">That summer I had read the autobiography of a Jewish woman who had become a believe in Jesus as her Messiah.<span style=""> </span>The book outlined the many struggles and losses and challenges she had faced with her family, the Jewish community, the Christian community, and on her world travels.<span style=""> </span>Since arriving in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Jerusalem</st1:city></st1:place>, I had been taken to her home by a friend.<span style=""> </span>I found myself standing next to her in line at a bank.<span style=""> </span>She asked if I knew anyone who could help her administratively, and I said, “Well, there’s me.”<span style=""> </span>I had been introduced to another woman who now decided that wanted me to stay in her flat while she spent a few months in the States, so I had a temporary home.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">God had spoken to my heart that He wanted to pay my bills, but I had conveniently forgotten the part about “two years”.<span style=""> </span>I figured that now I was in the country, it would behoove me to be productive and have a job.<span style=""> </span>The author hired me at a promised salary of so many shekels per hour, but as the weeks turned into months it seemed that she was without income herself.<span style=""> </span>For that whole year, donations to her ministry dried up.<span style=""> </span>She was never able to pay me the promised wage.<span style=""> </span>And God kept seeing to it that I was able to pay my bills.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I could write a small book about the financial aspect of this adventure.<span style=""> </span>There was the stunning fact that the raise my boss had denied me was mine anyway by the grace of God in spite of the fact that I had no regular employment for seven months that year.<span style=""> </span>There were people who handed me a check, or left money on the table, or mailed me an unexpected gift. <span style=""> </span>One couple sent me $50 each month.<span style=""> </span>(They were my only regular “support”, unsolicited.)<span style=""> </span>There was the Canadian woman who approached me at a church in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Jerusalem</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>She told me she had dreamed while preparing for her trip that she would see a woman singing on a stage in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city> and she should give her money.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Occasionally there were residuals from jingles I had sung during my employment.<span style=""> </span>One can never predict whether there will be residuals (which are payments made each time a commercial airs), or when they will come, but Armour-Star and Pepsi and several other products paid part of my way through this period with no salary.<span style=""> </span>Remember that the scripture had said God would feed me with “<i style="">what grows of itself</i>, also in the second year <i style="">what springs up voluntarily</i>.”<span style=""> </span>I was flying blind the whole time I lived in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Israel</st1:country-region></st1:place>, using a credit card.<span style=""> </span>My credit card bill was being paid by a bookkeeper in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nashville</st1:place></st1:city>, who helped me for $10 an hour.<span style=""> </span>I tried to “listen” and then spend by faith, trusting that resources would be provided to pay for what I needed.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">In May of 1987, I was sitting in a church in <st1:city st="on">Jerusalem</st1:city> when I heard inside my heart, “You gave up trying to fix your mother and turned your energies to healing my people <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region>.”<span style=""> </span>It wasn’t a rebuke, it was just a truth that stopped me in my tracks.<span style=""> </span>I knew that evening, sitting in the auditorium at the YMCA on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">King David Street</st1:address></st1:street>, more clearly than I had known to come to <st1:country-region st="on">Israel</st1:country-region>, that God was releasing me to return to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Nashville</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>He was sending me home to seek healing for the cracks He had revealed in my emotional foundation.<span style=""> </span>(Upon my return, I was surprised to discover a whole new section in my favorite book store called “Self-Help”.<span style=""> </span>Books on codependency had hit the market while I was in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>The stage was set for recovery to begin.)</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Days later I was in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Vienna</st1:place></st1:city> visiting my mom along with my brother and sister-in-law.<span style=""> </span>My brother handed me a check and said, “This is your share of Mom’s surplus.”<span style=""> </span>At first I thought it said $300, but then I was shocked to see it read “Three thousand dollars.”<span style=""> </span>That was much more money than I had held at any time in the past two years.<span style=""> </span>I knew God was giving me my airfare home and something to start with once I got there.<span style=""> </span>I knew my two-year sabbatical was ending.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">God gave me the priceless gift of time.<span style=""> </span>He gave me the adventure of learning to trust Him, replacing my old thinking that everything was up to me.<span style=""> </span>He showed me that He valued me in practical terms, even if others did not.<span style=""> </span>He proved to me in dozens of situations that He was paying precise attention to my circumstances.<span style=""> </span>He gave me the privilege of falling in love with His people and His Land, and literally walking where Jesus was born and lived and died and rose again.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">He did me untold good by taking me out of an unhealthy job and a destructive church situation, changing me enough so I no longer fit when I tried to return to it.<span style=""> </span>And He began to teach me how to “use my endeavors to heal myself.”<span style=""> </span>It’s a life-long lesson, apparently, because I’m still in school.<span style=""> </span>I thank Him that He intervened so long ago to show me that He came to give me life, “and that more abundantly.”<span style=""> </span>(John 10:10)</span></p>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-35830466720366732602009-08-20T16:05:00.008-05:002009-08-20T16:40:04.343-05:00<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><strong><span style="font-size:100%;">A Light for the City</span></strong><br />October 12, 2008</span><br /></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9o41iebhkygSHNdYtIJv7hoGY42bHnMe2BDCvWZ4SJ7xJeV29xvAG2kZtOW9hisfd5ZhUX1mHWDuQddr8icE2rUp3Z94GxsezE_YmbQU3XW3gdJmuM2vg_0Ib6DO07QQY0_60A/s1600-h/Schermerhorn+choir+loft_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372158408909453090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 195px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9o41iebhkygSHNdYtIJv7hoGY42bHnMe2BDCvWZ4SJ7xJeV29xvAG2kZtOW9hisfd5ZhUX1mHWDuQddr8icE2rUp3Z94GxsezE_YmbQU3XW3gdJmuM2vg_0Ib6DO07QQY0_60A/s320/Schermerhorn+choir+loft_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a>We were dressed in black and seated in the choir loft at the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. More than a hundred of us had rehearsed with the Nashville Choir’s leader, John Coates. We had rehearsed with the conductor of the evening, David Hamilton. It was our job to provide background vocals for several artists who had gathered to honor the career of Michael W. Smith at a 25th anniversary gala performance. We opened the evening with a medley of Michael’s worship songs, beginning with one of my favorites, <em>Shine On Us</em>. (It appeared on a recording, <em>My Utmost for His Highest</em>, for which Michael wrote several songs.) That led us into <em>Hosanna</em> and then all the way back to <em>How Majestic Is Your Name</em>, one of Michael’s first and best known praise songs.<br /><br />How powerfully music can return you in memory to a particular time and place! It was Belmont Church, in the early 1980s…I wasn’t a member there, so I must have been visiting for a special service or program. Michael came bounding down the aisle and gave me a hug and said, “I’ve met the woman I’m going to marry.” He was so excited. He and I had co-written a couple of songs together because we were both published by Randy Cox at Paragon Music, which later became Meadowgreen, a Sony subsidiary. These days those copyrights are administered by Universal.<br /><br />My favorite of the two songs, <em>Waiting</em>, we recorded in the eight-track studio at Hummingbird Productions, where I worked. I had heard Kathy Troccoli sing at church (before her first album), so we hired her to sing this ballad of yearning which compares a woman’s waiting for her true love with our waiting for Jesus’ return. As far as I know, no one else has ever recorded it, but just this year I received royalties from <em>Psalm 42</em>, the other song he and I co-wrote. I don’t recall our recording a demo of it. I’m trying to contact Universal to find out who recently recorded it. It would be amazing to hear the song after so many years.<br /><br />After the choir finished our opening songs and had been seated, the master of ceremonies for the evening took the stage. Bill Gaither is ubiquitous on TV these days with his Homecoming gospel music shows, but early on I knew of Bill and his wife Gloria as songwriters. In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s we were singing their praise choruses, <em>He Touched Me</em> and <em>There’s Just Something About That Name</em> and <em>Because He Lives</em>.<br /><br />I am grateful that many times I have been privileged to meet and thank songwriters who have moved me and changed my life. Bill is one of those. I was on a plane to L.A. when I recognized him across the aisle. I only said a few words of thanks to him, but it meant much to me to be able to express my gratitude to him personally. I’m thankful that he used his gifts to touch the lives of so many and help us sing out our gratitude for God’s love. Gloria is the primary lyricist, but I have yet to meet her.<br /><br />Next, on stage came four men who were Michael’s original touring band. So much history with the first guy! Chris Harris and I were band members together in Fireworks in 1977-78. We later worked for six years together at Hummingbird Productions. Many years and a lot of living later, Chris and I were sitting in the lobby of the Vanderbilt hospital where his son Brandon was recovering from a terrible car wreck. As he introduced me to another friend, we discovered something we hadn’t known about our shared history. We both made the decision to quit the jingle business on the same night.<br /><br />That jingle session in 1987 was yet another in a seemingly endless stream of late nights, impossible deadlines and frustrating circumstances. The product was Kotex and it was four in the morning when we finished the vocals. The music was FedExed off to Chicago or New York or wherever the client was. As he drove away from that session, Chris prayed, “God, You’ve got to get me out of this.” He said it was only weeks later when the call came from Smitty (This is how most friends refer to Michael Whittaker Smith, the honoree of the evening.) hiring Chris to be the bass player on his first big road trip. Instead of asking God to remove me from the situation, I just decided to leave it cold. I’ve wondered what might have happened had I exercised the same wisdom Chris did.<br /><br />Next on stage came Chris’s brother-in-law Mark Heimermann. I remember the night I first met the Heimermann family in the late ‘70s, so many of them crowding into my then-favorite Nashville restaurant, the Laughing Man. (It no longer exists, and nothing has taken its place.) The whole family was in town for one of Belmont Church’s Come Together Thanksgiving weekends. Chris may not have imagined when he found his wife Jan that he was marrying into a musical dynasty. Elder brother Charlie is a composer as well as a singer in the Nashville Symphony Choir; a choral composition of his was performed for the Pope in recent years. Younger brother Mark and Chris later formed a group called Prism which produced four albums of hymns, reimagined with contemporary pop arrangements. Brother-in-law Don Wise is also a gifted musician, as are many of the family’s next generation.<br /><br />Following Chris and Mark onstage was Wayne Kirkpatrick. When Wayne was still a student at Belmont University, he brought a demo tape to me at Hummingbird. At that time, it was one of my jobs to review all the demos submitted and evaluate them for quality of musicianship, writing, performance, etc. I would then give the evaluation sheets and tapes to the producers to recommend a small percentage of all the demo submissions. Wayne was one I had rated highly. Years later his evaluation form surfaced in some office housecleaning and the person who found it happened to know Wayne, so I think she gave it to him as a keepsake. I had never spoken to him about the story so I enjoyed sharing it with him in the hall before rehearsal earlier that day.<br /><br />The fourth guy, Chris Rodriguez, played guitar in Michael’s touring band and went on to accomplish much in his own musical career. He and I happened to share a flight to L.A. once and had an excellent discussion about Israel, which has been a subtext of my life. So there they were, his original touring band, singing another medley of Michael’s memorable ‘80s songs, <em>Secret Ambition </em>and <em>I Will Be Here for You</em>, along with a black gospel version of <em>Nothing But the Blood</em>.<br /><br />I’m not much of a TV watcher and especially not a fan of all the talent competitions which have become such a prominent part of our culture. I find that intense desire and yearning and disappointment very difficult to watch, having lived through it in my own life and in the lives of many around me. But Michael mentioned to me that his family regularly spends time watching <em>American Idol</em> together. The kids’ friends come over and everyone hunkers down with popcorn.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-4pNbMQZ7fldljkHfyjmkLBkYzu_JRzecS3fElXKZaCUlt8OEuf0122pYQK-0z3-op-RmacNDuvI3bCkT8Ok0jKxdSmkfyaMVtceboxmILJ8nYVUf9ovukezZF2qH-paIF3Drw/s1600-h/MW+Smith.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372158753920601714" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 86px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 130px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-4pNbMQZ7fldljkHfyjmkLBkYzu_JRzecS3fElXKZaCUlt8OEuf0122pYQK-0z3-op-RmacNDuvI3bCkT8Ok0jKxdSmkfyaMVtceboxmILJ8nYVUf9ovukezZF2qH-paIF3Drw/s320/MW+Smith.jpg" border="0" /></a>So of course it meant much to him to have Idol winners Melinda Doolittle and Jordin Sparks sing the song he wrote in memory of the Columbine High School tragedy, <em>This is Your Time</em>. Jordin was one of his backup vocalists when we in the Nashville Choir sang behind him in a Christmas concert a few years ago, and she did the same amazing job on that night as she did on this, powerfully interpreting Michael’s song <em>All Is Well</em>. I believe it’s one of the most moving melodies he’s written.<br /><br />The Nashville Choir also sang backgrounds for his most recent Christmas album, the 2007 <em>It’s a Wonderful Christmas</em>. I’d never recorded in quite this way before. With so many voices, there was no way each one could have headphones, so we were asked to bring personal radios with headphones and tune to a particular radio frequency, and the recording feed was broadcast to it. Amazing.<br /><br />I’m not sure why Ricky Skaggs was on the program because I don’t know what his and Michael’s association has been. Ricky’s been a leader in Bluegrass music, the protégé of Bill Monroe, and is well known for his Christian witness. I’ve never met him but I pitched a country song to his company (the only country song I’ve ever written, The Laundramat Waltz) and I stood nearby as he and his wife’s family, The Whites, sang in the lobby of the Green Hills movie theater for the premiere of <em>O Brother, Where Art Thou?</em> I know a lot of people who know him, including his recent production company manager, whose wife is in my book club. That’s Nashville for you.<br /><br />Earlier in the afternoon before the MWS gala began, I was standing in the hallway telling Wayne Kirkpatrick my story about his Hummingbird “evaluation” when Mark Heimermann, Chris Harris and his son Brandon all gathered with us. As we stood chatting, down the hall came Amy Grant looking for the dressing rooms. Amy had her Harris-Teeter grocery bag, a couple of other bags or purses, and her guitar. She looked weary and a little befuddled. You wouldn’t have imagined that she could put on a black dress and sparkly earrings and come out on stage looking like a million bucks just a couple of hours later, but she did.<br /><br />Amy is the fourth daughter of one of my grandmother’s doctors, Burton Grant. Her mom, Gloria, once went to get a prescription filled for my grandmother, because the weather was so cold. That’s the kind of gracious people they are. My grandmother was in a garden club with Amy’s grandmother, Zell Grant. I didn’t know these things until I was telling my mother about singing background vocals on a young girl’s album back in the fall of 1976 and she clued me into how many ways we knew the family. At the time we met, Amy was sixteen and a member of the Belmont Church’s youth group of which Brown Bannister was a leader. (More about Brown and me later on.)<br /><br />Brown had moved to Nashville, with his friend Chris Christian, after graduating from Abilene Christian University. Chris (aka Lon Christian Smith) was an ambitious young Texas businessman who saw his future in music and made a lot of things happen very quickly. That year, 1976, he had worked a deal with Word Records to produce ten artists, many of his own choosing. He charged Brown with the task of becoming a recording engineer almost overnight. Brown’s early engineering sessions included lessons from the studio musicians as to which dial on the sound board did what.<br /><br />With Brown’s help, Amy made a tape of some original songs she intended as a gift to her parents. She had written these songs in an attempt to communicate with her Harpeth Hall classmates about the love of Jesus which had become so real to her. Brown played the tape for Chris, and Chris played the tape over the phone for the Word people in Waco. “Sign her up!” they said. Thus Amy became one of the ten acts Chris had contracted to produce that year.<br /><br />Since it was low budget and since Amy was in high school, many of the recording sessions were done outside normal studio hours. Sessions usually ran 10-1, 2-5 and 6-9. I was one of a handful of slightly older singers who were thrilled at the opportunity to record, to invent our own background vocals, to stay up late being creative and sometimes, occasionally, make a little money. (Not union scale, but we were so poor that we were still grateful.) We were in our twenties so to Amy we were “grownups” but we didn’t feel very grown up.<br /><br />Marty McCall, Gary Pigg and I found that we worked well together. We were inventive, our voices blended (mine was the fuzzy bonding material between the two unique voices of the men), and we were quick. The three of us had the privilege of singing background vocals on most of the ten projects Chris produced that year, including B. J. Thomas’ first Christian album, <em>Home Where I Belong</em>. (His claim to fame was the Bacharach/David hit <em>Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head</em> from the movie Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid, and I loved his other hit from the ‘60s, <em>Hooked on a Feelin’</em>.)<br /><br />Marty had recently moved to Nashville to become a solo artist, but when Word Records heard the three of us together, they offered us a two-record deal to become a group on their label. We named ourselves Fireworks and Chris Harris (introduced above) became our bass player and Lanny Avery our drummer. Now, sitting in the darkened auditorium listening to Amy sing Michael’s songs (<em>Thy Word</em>, which they co-wrote; <em>Rocketown</em>; <em>Give It Away</em>), I glanced up to the seats in the balcony to my right and there sat Gary Pigg with his son Landon, also a singer/songwriter with much success nationally in the past couple of years.<br /><br />Marty now lives with his wife Vickie in Herndon, Virginia, and I have visited them twice, in 2007 and again this spring. But Gary and I see each other almost every week, as his wife Carol and I have been dear friends since 1975. I’ve watched their son Landon grow up, along with his sister and three brothers. It’s amazing to see the next generation taking off, doing what we aspired to do and doing it better. The youngest, Gabe, is a drummer.<br /><br />And their daughter, Cari-Ann, married a drummer. A few years ago, their wedding was held at Michael and Debbie Smith’s country house, in a beautiful garden beside a lake. Of course her brother Landon sang, but a young lady I didn’t recognize sang too. It turned out she was Jenny Gill, Amy Grant’s step-daughter with Vince Gill.<br /><br />Amy and I have never “hung out” but living in the same town has given me the opportunity to run into her at various times over the years. Once my mom and I were waiting in the airport at the same gate where Amy showed up, and I was able to introduce them and describe the family connections to Amy. Another time she and her sister Mimi were having lunch and we spoke. I was pleased to hear that they had been discussing our band, Fireworks, on her tour bus and wondering where everyone was now. When I quit the group I felt I had fallen off the face of the musical earth. Turned out I was wrong, but who could predict?<br /><br />After singing backgrounds on her first album, I also had the privilege of singing backgrounds with Gary Pigg and another girl when Amy first performed with a live band. (Until then it had been just Amy and her guitar.) The concert was at Vanderbilt, where she was then in school, and it happens that I currently work in the building next door to the Langford Auditorium where we sang twenty-nine years ago. It was not much fun for me since rehearsal time was too brief, and we were singing with a girl who flew in from Texas for the event and missed rehearsal. Also the pay was minimal, and I was beginning to notice.<br /><br />When it was time to record her third album, a friend and I co-wrote a song, <em>Say Once More</em>, which we handed on a cassette to her producer, Brown. (I still get tiny royalty checks for that song, even though it appeared on her second-least-selling album, <em>Never Alone</em>.) Those were the days, when you could simply walk up and hand a song to a producer! It wasn’t long until even the contemporary Christian music industry, the little brother of pop music, had become so complex and organized that all the songs came from known writers who had publishing deals. There were official song presentation meetings and the like. Of course, by that point we were talking about real money, so every Joe Schmoe and his sister were trying to get their songs cut, and there had to be some kind of filter.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fH_DfTTngbDHHW6kyFvdMyMkH8hH7Eh7N4iBVwcRfN7g1d47LBjve-Z-yRjCXr4j9CWMFCQq-7KfU-MKU5m5aO2whXV4E_tNXMWnnBR3xbDl1nY1CZxR_4RQGEhjcBTZcWdFsg/s1600-h/Taken+by+Reba+Baskett.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4uY9fq3ukpWCiQELLMyCuV95cWQCKBgtc1B-sf_2Bj3-1hch9GvCBs0PuVsl7MZ9kkwNhyvwss1A-k7Knb4PTjIoC24D9GPNfrToVPUYvwRWCs-rHbRzQ55v-r5G-uIYyDb-14w/s1600-h/At+Davis+Kidd+with+Mosaic.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372162688569061554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4uY9fq3ukpWCiQELLMyCuV95cWQCKBgtc1B-sf_2Bj3-1hch9GvCBs0PuVsl7MZ9kkwNhyvwss1A-k7Knb4PTjIoC24D9GPNfrToVPUYvwRWCs-rHbRzQ55v-r5G-uIYyDb-14w/s320/At+Davis+Kidd+with+Mosaic.jpg" border="0" /></a>I have always trusted Amy’s sincerity, but she made a huge impression on me years ago with the extra effort she took to bless a young friend of mine. She asked me for my friend’s name and actually remembered it, greeting her personally when I brought the girl to a teen fellowship/concert at Amy’s barn. I later told that story to Vince when I met him at a Belmont Church “family reunion” held in the ‘90s. He smiled and agreed, “She’s really good at the name thing.” That’s an ability some people have naturally, but Amy works at giving people this gift of recognition. She has grown up under constant public scrutiny and, despite untold harsh criticism, she has remained deeply genuine and consistently kind.<br /><br />I’ve run into her at restaurants and in the grocery store parking lot, but the most significant moment for me came when I had the privilege of encouraging a creative impulse. She sang, along with our old group Fireworks and several other groups and singer/ songwriters, at a reunion concert in November, 2007. We were standing backstage and I asked her if the scripture song she had just performed was “written” or if it’s different every time she sings it. (I’ve known people with the gift of improvisation who compose new melodies on the spot, as they sing.)<br /><br />She said she had many more like it and had been considering recording them. She had been discouraged that such a project could not be a commercial success. I exhorted her to do it anyway, saying, “We bought albums years ago that were musical dreck just because they were scripture. There is an audience. There are people who will buy this! Please do it.” Since she hasn’t recorded it yet, I’ve thought about writing to reinforce how moving I believe it would be to hear symphonic arrangements behind her very free, creative melodies.<br /><br />Back at the Schermerhorn gala, the next artist to appear on stage carried a significant chapter of my history with her. Wynonna has had a solo career for decades now, but when she was a teenager she sang with her mother as a duo. They were known as The Judds. Neither woman is likely to remember my name, but I played a deep-background supporting role in getting their career off the ground.<br /><br />In 1982 I was living alone in a four-bedroom house. One evening I went out to dinner with friends from church to meet a couple visiting briefly on their way from Florida to Rochester, New York. Their names were Don and Christine Potter. I felt an immediate, strong connection with both of them, and when I discovered they were considering moving back to Nashville (having lived here previously in pursuit of the music business), I offered without hesitation for them to stay with me while they looked for a place to live.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRC8vAKLfBhQnhcGE_yNdXwSTHCSWOGEnWLCVZp755T0agWIb8nzIJEStlZwIuCFq61bnpe-K8JySU6VHuQC1JpE4A0pcrhn4ARbhKsb5G6eHMADTuDJk1NmNR8xukiTh5Tt-fQw/s1600-h/Don+Potter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372162029050986050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRC8vAKLfBhQnhcGE_yNdXwSTHCSWOGEnWLCVZp755T0agWIb8nzIJEStlZwIuCFq61bnpe-K8JySU6VHuQC1JpE4A0pcrhn4ARbhKsb5G6eHMADTuDJk1NmNR8xukiTh5Tt-fQw/s320/Don+Potter.jpg" border="0" /></a>They loved visiting our church, but they could hardly believe it was real, so they made two or three trips down from Rochester just to go to church before they made the decision to move. When they arrived with their van full of stuff, I discovered they were in bad financial straits and would probably be staying with me longer than a few days or weeks. We couldn’t have imagined three years, but that’s what it turned out to be. Don, a fabulously talented guitarist, felt that God wanted him to lay down his guitar and work as a construction laborer for a time, and he was obedient. But one day, I believe it was Thanksgiving 1982, Don took his guitar on a visit to the home of an old music business friend, Brent Maher.<br /><br />He played for Brent, and when he heard the jazz inflected brilliance of Don’s playing Brent was amazed. Just that week he had been conversing with Dan Raines, a contemporary Christian music business guy, who described his search for a new artist with precisely Don’s capabilities. Eventually, songs were written, and two albums were produced. But in the meantime, during the production process, Brent said to Don one day, “There are these two girls living out in Franklin, a mother and daughter. I think I’d like to pitch them to RCA. Why don’t you go out there and work with them to get a few songs ready for an audition?”<br /><br />Wynonna and Naomi Judd had reinvented themselves as Kentucky country girls. Their real names were Christine and Diana and one of the mother’s previous jobs had been in L.A. as receptionist for the office of the Fifth Dimension (a pop group at the height of their fame in the ‘60s and ‘70s). Simple, unsophisticated country girls they were decidedly not. The mother was a nurse and had cared for Brent’s son when he was in the hospital following a car wreck. Naomi (Diane) slipped Brent a cassette of songs she and her daughter had sung into a cheap cassette recorder in their kitchen. That cassette went into the glove compartment of Brent’s car and months passed before he got the urge to pop it in and have a listen.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZsDxqCQM1rvh9EML2xvdI-di6CNhBfExKPZj_tx-J1OvKmv9gah5cHxOiJ7-6CD_Q6MAUJ4OBr_2fcpDalslhaERSO-MVDABRDYUnbogS74MWeAyE2RjbcSteRarDPQm1RIkIcA/s1600-h/thejudds17-336x280.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372162300086179554" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZsDxqCQM1rvh9EML2xvdI-di6CNhBfExKPZj_tx-J1OvKmv9gah5cHxOiJ7-6CD_Q6MAUJ4OBr_2fcpDalslhaERSO-MVDABRDYUnbogS74MWeAyE2RjbcSteRarDPQm1RIkIcA/s320/thejudds17-336x280.jpg" border="0" /></a>And so it was that Don Potter met Naomi and Wynonna and worked with them to get a few songs ready to perform. The executives at RCA agreed to audition the girls in person – unheard of since decades before – and offered them a deal the same day. Their first album was released in 1983. Don went on the road with them in the early months of their career, and then continued to coproduce the majority of their records with Brent. Don’s wife Christine and I visited the studio one night to hear what they were up to and met Wynonna for the first time there. Many nights we dropped Don off in the Kroger parking lot where the bus was waiting to take the girls on the road. I recall one evening when Wynonna came over and sat in our living room and discussed her boyfriend troubles.<br /><br />One morning in 1985 I was home sick and got to witness a little of the life that went on in my house when I was on Music Row working at the jingle company. The folks at RCA, or her management company, someone with clout, had decided that Wynonna needed to lose weight. They hired an Asian guy to go everywhere with her and keep her moving. He was the first personal trainer I had ever met. Dressed all in black, he reminded me more than anything of Cato, the servant of Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther movies.<br /><br />Back at the gala, the Nashville Choir rose to our feet to sing <em>Great Is Thy Faithfulness</em>, one of my favorite hymns. It was an evening conceived to honor the ministry and career of Michael W. Smith, but I’m sure many people felt, like I did, that it was a night of looking back over our own lives as well. Indeed, God has been faithful: to teach and train, to correct and comfort, to empower and to protect through many challenges.<br /><br />We ended the evening with a worship medley led by Brown Bannister. How appropriate that the last person to take the stage was the first person I met. Back in 1973, it was summer and we were gathered at the campus of Pepperdine University for a wedding. Our friend since seventh grade, Janice Hahn, was marrying a Texas boy, Gary Baucum. They had met at Abilene Christian University where Janice roomed with my best friend, Marilyn Young. Gathered to celebrate Janice and Gary’s wedding were all these precious Texas men.<br /><br />We found that God’s Spirit was at work in Abilene like He was in California, wooing our hearts and drawing forth worship. We all sat in the Youngs’ living room and sang and prayed together. Brown Bannister was one of those young men. He and I, with my college boyfriend Danny, were asked by Janice to sing Noel Paul Stookey’s <em>There Is Love</em> in her wedding. So I met Brown in the context of worship and music three years prior to our first recording session, in the Nashville studio called the Gold Mine (the basement of Chris Christian’s home).</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br /></div></span><div align="left"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcx4VVXg71cBc_32pQMMztSsVrbsUxPeD0xJTA2B_KfxwY9As6ifWxwAbGne6yecGAedA7AS0tp0LJx7M2drBJn73PfMRXdN-6bBY7TNXAJRYFk2pkq2v9H07g4V9NiK7vCHcz2g/s1600-h/MS+Smith+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372158979674821122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 130px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 104px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcx4VVXg71cBc_32pQMMztSsVrbsUxPeD0xJTA2B_KfxwY9As6ifWxwAbGne6yecGAedA7AS0tp0LJx7M2drBJn73PfMRXdN-6bBY7TNXAJRYFk2pkq2v9H07g4V9NiK7vCHcz2g/s320/MS+Smith+2.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div align="left"> </div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><div align="left">The Smitty concert ended with a song that has become a beloved anthem for many reunions and partings. Michael and Debbie wrote it on the spur of the moment one night for a friends’ going away party, and it became an instant classic. It was a fitting close for the concert and it also serves as an excellent blessing with which to end this stroll down memory lane.</span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">“Friends are friends forever, if the Lord’s the Lord of them<br />And a friend will not say ‘Never’ for the welcome will not end.<br />Though it’s hard to let you go, in the Father’s hands we know<br />That a lifetime’s not too long to live as friends.”</span></div>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-86173065834496844112009-07-15T12:50:00.003-05:002009-07-15T12:54:09.037-05:00<span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Sharansky and Obama, 2009</strong><br /><br />I was a junior in college when Anatoly Shcharansky applied for an exit visa to leave the Soviet Union and move to Israel. He was a mathematician and a chess prodigy. I didn’t hear of him until a few years after he had become involved in the Refusenik movement in Moscow. He became the spokesman of the Helsinki Watch Group and drew international attention to the failure of the Soviet Union to abide by the Helsinki Accords, which included relaxing travel restrictions on the signatories’ citizens. In 1978 he was convicted of treason and spying for the United States and began an imprisonment that lasted until 1986, much of it in a Siberian labor camp.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXi1ZCg3Nau4GPG953z8u-GVuAczdUkfPJA8l1h8FOUZAe5vlBNsBLjzEBGHyGwrBXJREk7Yif-m4TceLTsvf5Z6-t3F564n14mjbo56wUP5ZZJV7Sril_j5lB65usKpg-AzBxQ/s1600-h/Sharansky+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358746553889701650" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 100px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXi1ZCg3Nau4GPG953z8u-GVuAczdUkfPJA8l1h8FOUZAe5vlBNsBLjzEBGHyGwrBXJREk7Yif-m4TceLTsvf5Z6-t3F564n14mjbo56wUP5ZZJV7Sril_j5lB65usKpg-AzBxQ/s320/Sharansky+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />During the years of his imprisonment, I was involved in a church which focused much of its attention on Israel. Like many Bible-believing Christians, I felt I had a stake in that part of the world for several reasons. First, its towns and villages, its Jordan River and Galilee and Dead Sea were part of my mental geography from years of Sunday school and personal Bible study. They were more familiar and significant to me than the geography of my own country.<br /><br />Second, its prophets were my prophets. Didn’t Martin Luther King move me when he declared, “Let justice roll down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream”? (Amos 5:24) Wasn’t I thrilled to hear Commander Frank Borman read from the book of Genesis as Apollo 8 orbited the moon on Christmas Eve, 1968? The first words of scripture I ever took as a personal message of comfort from God were not from the New Testament. They came through the prophet Jeremiah in his Lamentations (3:22).<br /><br />Third, I had come to understand that my faith was a mostly Jewish faith until Gentiles were ushered in through the work of a Jewish Roman citizen named Paul. My Messiah was Jewish, as were his twelve apostles and the vast majority of his followers until decades following his death and resurrection.<br /><br />Still, the attention I paid to Israel was out of the ordinary, and led to many friendships with Jewish people, nine months spent living in Jerusalem, and seven trips to the country. I eventually also worked for eight years as executive assistant to the rabbis of a Reform Jewish congregation in Nashville, but that came later.<br /><br />Thus it wasn’t surprising that I had heard of Shcharansky and the tireless international work of his wife Avital to get him freed from imprisonment. When the moment came in 1986, he was released in exchange for two Soviet spies, and was asked to walk across a bridge from East to West Berlin. I learned from Wikipedia that “famed for his resistance in the Gulag, he was told upon his release to walk straight towards his freedom; Sharansky instead walked in a zigzag in a final act of defiance.” He was finally free to make aliyah to Israel, where he adopted the Hebrew name Natan.<br /><br />In the fall of 1986, I had just moved to Jerusalem, but I didn’t see Sharansky at that time. It wasn’t until 1989, when I had returned to sing at the bris of my friends’ baby boy, that I had the privilege of witnessing his dream come true. He was already rising in Israeli politics, and I heard a crowd, upon spotting him in a local bank, crying, “Sharansky! Sharansky!” Hail, the conquering hero! What a victory of persistence and hope. More information about Sharansky’s remarkable achievements and honors can be found at </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharansky"><span style="font-size:85%;">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharansky</span></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />I felt privileged to hear him speak in person this past March 18, 2009 when he participated in the Impact Forum at Vanderbilt University, where I work. The Forum has hosted many national figures, including some American presidents. The first of two evenings featured Madeleine Albright, focusing on the topic “Diplomacy in the New Millenium.” The packed audience was hoping for an encouraging word from a woman of such expertise, given the state of international events challenging our young president.<br /><br />I mostly gleaned from her experience a sense of the humanity upon which world-changing decisions depends. Phone calls (sometimes daily calls), friendships, the fragile ability to communicate person to person, are often the only things keeping us from tripping over the edge of crisis into chaos. She was just one woman – certainly a very bright, capable, intelligent woman, but nevertheless operating with only the same set of skills and tools any other human comes equipped with – and yet she represented our nation on the international stage and made a difference.<br /><br />The following evening belonged to Sharansky. I arrived early and expected the auditorium to fill close to the hour, as folks on “Nashville time” generally arrive a minute or two late. But the auditorium did not fill. I realized I should have taken it upon myself to do some publicity. I could have invited all four synagogues to advertise the event. I could have emailed all my acquaintances with a similar interest in things Israeli, and that network could have increased the audience size. It hadn’t occurred to me that perhaps Sharansky has not been enough in the news for this generation to find his appearance compelling.<br /><br />When he was introducing Mr. Sharansky, the young Vanderbilt student warned us that we would have to listen carefully, but he assured us it would be worth the extra effort. Indeed, Sharansky speaks English like the Ukrainian he was. If one is accustomed to many accents it’s not so difficult to make the adjustment, but for some, especially the young people in the audience, it must have been a strain to get past the accent to the treasure of his thoughts.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2iBUOdG9x5vbiwzWpLqvplsvypnHWPonVXSsOsE4PHxLcih0YDLl783uXQUNCHr4GAy6jPOR2wguaZzIdAWXnVuShiULyT4OeJ7qAzwWLhTqDTZd_gQkNT_0FeF0VD4hQVdl4w/s1600-h/Sharansky.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358746277992060130" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii2iBUOdG9x5vbiwzWpLqvplsvypnHWPonVXSsOsE4PHxLcih0YDLl783uXQUNCHr4GAy6jPOR2wguaZzIdAWXnVuShiULyT4OeJ7qAzwWLhTqDTZd_gQkNT_0FeF0VD4hQVdl4w/s320/Sharansky.jpg" border="0" /></a>It was awe-inspiring for me to sit and listen to this man about whom I had heard so much. In the brief time we had in his presence it became more evident to me the personal strengths with which he endured the extremities of his long imprisonment. Not only was he highly intelligent, determined and disciplined; he also has quite a sense of humor. His ability to see past externals into the meaning of the moment was deeply inspiring.<br /><br />He admitted to us that it may have been “mean” of him (his word), but he often used humor to disarm his guards. He would be brought in from time to time for pointless interrogations. He would take the opportunity to tell jokes about Chairman Brezhnev, which, he noted, were easy to make as Brezhnev provided such great material. The guards, staunch representatives of the State, had to suppress their laughter, which they could scarcely do. He realized at such moments the beautiful irony that he, though a prisoner, was a free man, and his guards, though powerful officers of State-authorized terror, were not free even to laugh at a good joke.<br /><br />Sharansky said so many memorable things that I was grateful I had bought his book (and had him sign it) prior to the talk. I can sum up his message, though, in just one major thought. Since the topic was “Diplomacy in the New Millenium,” of course he addressed the problem President Obama faces in dealing with so much unrest and long unresolved conflict in his own region of the Middle East as well as in many places around the globe.<br /><br />Sharansky posited that there are three kinds of people in any totalitarian regime. There are those who are true believers, who fully agree with the regime. There are the dissidents who vocally and publicly stand against it. And the third group, the vast majority, are afflicted with what he calls doublespeak. They think one thing but say another. The internal conflict which this disconnect produces must be encouraged, ignited, and raised to a level where they begin to say what they truly feel.<br /><br />Speaking from his own experience in the Gulag, as well as the years prior when he was an activist and still able to communicate internationally, Sharansky encouraged us to believe that our freedom is enticing. Our freedom to think and choose and speak and act on our convictions will ultimately strengthen freedom lovers in other countries to risk whatever it takes to gain those same freedoms. I wish I had taken notes that evening. It didn’t occur to me at the time that I would see his hard-won wisdom lived out so quickly on the international stage.<br /><br />Less than three months had passed when on June 4, 2009, President Obama went to Cairo to deliver a major address to the Muslim world. Being a Bible-believing Christian, as well as a person who has spent thirty years thinking about the Middle East, I certainly came to the moment with a full arsenal of opinions, but also with a great deal of hope. One of the campaign slogans last fall, “Choosing hope over fear for two thousand years,” spoke my heart. If we really believe our scriptures, we must take courage from verses like Proverbs 21:1, “The king's heart is in the hand of the LORD, as the rivers of water: he turneth it whithersoever he will.” Though constrained by wisdom, we must not succumb to fear and hopelessness in the face of tyranny and oppression.<br /><br />I have an unpopular conviction which my liberal arts education did not provide. I was raised in a university atmosphere where Islam was always presented as one of the three monotheistic religions, as if Christians and Jews were at least its cousins if not its brothers. In academia one doesn’t regularly hear discussion of such concepts as “the demon” and “the spirit of anti-Christ.” Yet I had come to an understanding that, since Mohammed received his revelations (or, as I perceive it, cobbled together his new religion) after Jesus had come, the underlying spirit empowering his system could be none other than the spirit of anti-Christ.<br /><br />This statement sounds like something from the Crusades, a rallying cry for the Knights Templar, a horrific and benighted belief that can lead to nothing but conflict and bloodshed. Let me be quick to distinguish between my rejection of Islam as a belief system and my concern and affection for those who embrace Islam. The much maligned dictum, “Hate the sin, but love the sinner,” is easily dismissed, yet it is precisely how I see this dilemma. I believe Islam is a tyrannical system which oppresses women, appeals to men’s baser natures, and ultimately is intent upon world domination. At the same time, I am personally acquainted with people who identify themselves with Islam who are respectable, honorable, loving people.<br /><br />I have confessed my inner convictions about Islam in order to demonstrated that my hope for President Obama’s Cairo speech was not easily won or lightly held. I hoped in spite of deep distrust for the system which he was addressing. I hoped for the sake of the millions of individual hearts he was addressing. I won’t quote his speech here, as hundreds of pundits have already done so. I will simply register my amazement and gratitude that I had lived to see the day that an American president would do what my Refusenik hero Sharansky had recommended. President Obama reached over the heads of the hierarchies of the Middle East, the mullahs and sheiks and imams, the councils and Ayatollahs, to speak to the vast majority of people who have been thinking one thing and saying another.<br /><br />He spoke of freedom, of change, of opportunity, of new, tentative attempts at relationship. He spoke of shared history, and honored their cherished scriptures, choosing to quote tenets upon which we can all agree. His very presence in the office of President of the United States spoke more strongly than any words, since his own family tree is one of such diversity that even people in our mongrel nation are amazed by it.<br /><br />Still, in my admittedly fertile imagination, I could not have come up with the scenario that now plays itself out on in internet, through cell phones, on Twitter, and eventually to the 24-hour news programs. We may be seeing the first fruits of the President’s invitation. Iranians have taken to the streets declaring their desire for freedom. They are standing up to their Supreme Leader.<br /><br />It remains to be seen how this unpredicted popular uprising will end, whether in a new government for Iran or in increased oppression. Nevertheless, I feel so grateful to have been a witness to the simple, humble wisdom of Natan Sharansky. And I am grateful, and amazed, to see that wisdom demonstrated by a President whose earnest desire is for civil discourse on the road toward peace.<br /><br />Some of my co-religionists who have been watching Israel play its part in the apocalyptic drama will ask me, “How can you possibly hope for peace in the Middle East? There will be nothing but war and unrest until Jesus returns.” I would counter with the psalmist’s exhortation, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem” (Psalm 122:6) And Isaiah 62:6,7 reminds us: “I have posted watchmen on your walls, O Jerusalem; they will never be silent day or night. You who call on the LORD, give yourselves no rest, and give him no rest till he establishes Jerusalem and makes her the praise of the earth.”<br /><br />Though I’ve sung about it for decades, I haven’t yet been able to imagine what the peace of Jerusalem will really look like. I’ve only known it divided, at war, on constant vigilant alert. But surely in spite of current political realities we can’t shake off the vision of the prophet Micah who saw the day when “they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid: for the mouth of the LORD of hosts hath spoken it.” (Micah 4:4)</span>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-35843835522218449562009-06-09T12:41:00.005-05:002009-06-09T12:51:39.256-05:00<div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIt7IDOiPsK5aLpjhoJO7kGAMf4P9ohNbJNWLzNCVUXi3ktAXu06wMZnmufJLpsfQPBf4q5jkWqyVCdLZilmnM5RQeFDC5Rcwg21SkO0kwFbL3hOUfT711BMDbXxEMoV5eCGyXqA/s1600-h/58+Portrait.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345385433722944002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 157px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIt7IDOiPsK5aLpjhoJO7kGAMf4P9ohNbJNWLzNCVUXi3ktAXu06wMZnmufJLpsfQPBf4q5jkWqyVCdLZilmnM5RQeFDC5Rcwg21SkO0kwFbL3hOUfT711BMDbXxEMoV5eCGyXqA/s200/58+Portrait.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Musings on Aging</strong></span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">When I was the child in this photo, my goal was to become a college student. So when I graduated from college, I felt more than a bit lost, having given little thought or energy to the life that lay beyond. For the next couple of decades I still felt 17. I enjoyed a reputation as a precocious young person amidst my elders, and recently realized I still take pleasure in exceeding expectations.<br /><br />In my thirties and forties I unofficially adopted a growing family. As “Aunt Gwen” I became a quasi-matriarch, ending up with seven grandbabies. My mother transformed from a plan-initiating, world-traveling woman to an Alzheimer’s patient, addled, dependent and childlike. Empathy for my mother’s situation, interacting in the workplace with folks decades older than me, and my own fibromyalgia and other complaints added to my feeling quite “old”. Still, eighty didn’t seem so old now that my mother was eighty.<br /><br />Life changes suddenly brought me into daily contact with young people. In the medical school, the energy of youth surrounds me. The intellectual dance of serious learning and playful cleverness is stimulating. Emotional and relational struggles in my younger friends’ lives reflect my own. Being single all my life adds to the fluid sense of age, since I have no family milestones from which to take my bearings. It’s freaky to have friends my age with receding hairlines, paunches and wrinkles and still recognize the young person they were when we met.<br /><br />Writing my autobiography in 2006 allowed me to revisit all the years from the first half of this journey and incorporate all those parts of me into who I currently am…child, adolescent, young woman, matriarch and (currently) a white-haired but “youthened” woman experiencing a creative renaissance, pursuing a wide range of activities and finding that play enhances my sense of well being and engagement. </span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpMukx6HGgdzq94xTxCGl-BWo-H4TA50W_VqotEfszIcai__KJw181HnuBsfpjW9XX2Z-F2zXTUKOKdb0EBdEXdCRyldIek6MglX5BQO1ZAPiXqCIshsHJ5amgtYvssSfUr2yBw/s1600-h/Wildflowers+Photo+Shoot+055+reduced.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345386198161987442" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 242px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpMukx6HGgdzq94xTxCGl-BWo-H4TA50W_VqotEfszIcai__KJw181HnuBsfpjW9XX2Z-F2zXTUKOKdb0EBdEXdCRyldIek6MglX5BQO1ZAPiXqCIshsHJ5amgtYvssSfUr2yBw/s320/Wildflowers+Photo+Shoot+055+reduced.JPG" border="0" /></a>At my fiftieth birthday I was asked to share any wisdom gleaned along my path. My response was instant: “For every ‘Yes’ you say in life, there are many ‘Nos’.” The finitude of this life experience has been my greatest ongoing challenge. I can’t be more than one place at once. I can’t practically incorporate as much adventure and relational richness and newness into my life as I would wish for and imagine.</div><div> </div><div>Poets and scholars affirm my confidence that there is another world, an experience beyond this one, where finitude loses its restrictive grip and expansiveness becomes our “normal”. “There will be no end to the increase of His government or of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9SGw7HG4Ckm2-7rw1rgkP4mFpl2SXurZ1X9C7a6Klcch7QQooPmuG13N69OAyIx81IozKKfv8bwwDsrWUW6SYubDh2DqoQYjiqtqLlmYkfG_lIV-gYKCALRsJd7vRVl5zpw8OQ/s1600-h/Wildflowers+Photo+Shoot+042+reduced.JPG"></a>peace.” (Isaiah 9:17) I’m dying, and living, for the dawning of that day.</span></div></div>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-10459644292979288312009-01-21T15:26:00.001-06:002009-01-21T15:28:23.520-06:00Elizabeth Alexander’s poem for the Inauguration<br />January 20, 2009<br /><br />Praise song for the day.<br /><br />Each day we go about our business,<br />walking past each other,<br />catching each others' eyes<br />or not,<br />about to speak or speaking.<br /><br />All about us is noise.<br />All about us is noise and bramble,<br />thorn and din,<br />each one of our ancestors on our tongues.<br /><br />Someone is stitching up a hem,<br />darning a hole in a uniform,<br />patching a tire,<br />repairing the things in need of repair.<br /><br />Someone is trying to make music somewhere<br />with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,<br />with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.<br />A woman and her son wait for the bus.<br />A farmer considers the changing sky;<br />a teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."<br /><br />We encounter each other in words,<br />words spiny or smooth,<br />whispered or declaimed;<br />words to consider, reconsider.<br /><br />We cross dirt roads and highways<br />that mark the will of someone<br />and then others who said,<br />"I need to see what's on the other side;<br />I know there's something better down the road."<br />We need to find a place where we are safe;<br />we walk into that which we cannot yet see.<br /><br />Say it plain, that many have died for this day.<br />Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,<br />who laid the train tracks,<br />raised the bridges,<br />picked the cotton and the lettuce,<br />built brick by brick<br />the glittering edifices they would then keep clean<br />and work inside of.<br /><br />Praise song for struggle;<br />praise song for the day.<br />Praise song for every hand-lettered sign;<br />the figuring it out at kitchen tables.<br /><br />Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."<br />Others by first do no harm,<br />or take no more than you need.<br /><br />What if the mightiest word is love,<br />love beyond marital,<br />filial,<br />national?<br />Love that casts a widening pool of light.<br />Love with no need to preempt grievance.<br />In today's sharp sparkle,<br />this winter air,<br />anything can be made,<br />any sentence begun.<br /><br />On the brink,<br />on the brim,<br />on the cusp –<br />praise song for walking forward in that light.Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-41764690878905842192009-01-08T12:03:00.003-06:002009-01-08T12:08:00.604-06:00<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><strong>Leiper’s Fork Christmas Parade</strong></span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">This caroling adventure started out as the brain child of a Leiper’s Fork restaurant owner. We’ll call her Miss Patti. She asked her music business friend – we’ll call him Mike Macintosh - to gather a few carolers to sing in the Leiper’s Fork Christmas Parade. Where I got the idea we would be standing under a pavilion looking all Currier & Ives, I can’t imagine. [Oh yeah, it was in his invitation email! I didn’t make that part up.]<br /><br />The plan was that we were to meet at her eating establishment an hour before the parade and “rehearse”. I imagined we might turn out to be an odd collection of out-of-work session singers, and hoped I would read music well enough to keep up. Instead of rehearsing, I was vaguely introduced to another lady and asked to follow her to I wasn’t sure where. Gamely we made our way down Old Hillsboro Road amidst the gathering crowd and across a large, somewhat muddy field to the area where all the floats were assembling. There we were joined by a few more caroling volunteers.<br /><br />We located our “float” by its identification number. This was a pretty long parade if we were number 41, I thought to myself. It was a flat bed truck, loaded with hay bales for sitting. Miss Patti had found a Santa and a snowman on sale somewhere and they were stationed at the front of the flatbed. She produced multiple Kroger bags full of garland to tape to the front of the truck and along the sides of the trailer. Everyone, guys included, hustled to get the decorating done. When we finished draping and taping, it was five minutes to the parade start time and we all piled aboard to “rehearse”.<br /><br />Then we realized that we were positioned immediately behind another float which had seriously amplified TRACKS and a drum machine. There was no way anybody was going to hear us, motley unamplified <em>a cappella</em> crew that we were. Miss Patti found the Parade Director (a woman with a clipboard) and insisted that the parade order must be changed. “But Demetria Kaladimos already has the script! This is being televised on local TV – it won’t be good if we get out of order!” Miss Patti declared that she would take the responsibility. So a few other parade participants slid between us and the drum machine float.<br /><br />The singers included the Mike Macintosh and a lady who I believe might be his wife; a gentleman in an overcoat; a cute young couple who showed up at the last minute bundled up in ski parkas; a family of young black men led by their matriarch; and a family of small blond children with <em>their</em> matriarch, who wrapped them in a huge camouflage quilt to keep them warm. I think the two matriarchs may have been the “singers” in the two families.<br /><br />The guy in the overcoat was very handsome. I kept trying to discern his eligibility and I think it ended up he was single. Still, since we were never introduced, there’s little hope that our sitting back-to-back on hay bales will develop into a lovely connection.<br /><br />How we might have sounded under different conditions, we’ll never know. Here’s how it went down. Miss Patti, restaurant owner and caroling entrepreneur, had a Mr. Microphone with amp which she placed next to her. She sat in the back of the truck facing the singers, who were facing outward to the crowd, back to back on the hay bales. Between Miss Patti and the rear of the flatbed, we singers seemed to be in two or three different time zones. Full of leadership energy, Miss Patti would start a song at quite a good clip and the guys in the back would end up singing it at their own, more (shall we say) <em>relaxed</em>, pace.<br /><br />Finally, the parade began. Since I was sitting directly behind the tailpipe of the truck, the sky was overcast and gray, the temperature was in the low 30s, and I had just spent a week at home sick with bronchial issues, my Christmas spirit was not exactly exuding. But the cheerful faces of the crowds, (one- and sometimes two-deep along the parade route), kids waving, old tobacco-chewing men looking sheepish or skeptical, young couples with babies in strollers trying to make some magical memories – it all started to get to me. Pretty soon I was waving and smiling and making eye contact like a professional float rider. And before you knew it, it was over!! We actually sang better, and longer, on the slow trek back to the field than we had during the actual “performance”, about two blocks long.<br /><br />There were some amazing sights to be seen. It was rumored that Naomi Judd was to be the Parade Marshall, and though there were no Judd sightings, we did see her red sleigh, very elegant. There were some awesome small horses with heavy fur, bedecked with multitudinous sleigh bells that made a shimmering sound, with their riders dressed in red finery. There was an old bearded guy gussied up as Father Christmas with long robes, his similarly garbed ancient wife and two enormous Great Danes draped in black velvet costumes that made them look like tiny horses. Demetria Kaladimos, looking small, cold and red-nosed, was indeed elevated on a platform in the middle of town (read two blocks of Old Hillsboro Road) announcing the parade, and a swarthy and mysterious gentleman, her announcing partner, noted as we passed that we ought to “Sing louder!” Right.<br /><br />We determined that next year Miss Patti’s float would use TRACKS and choose three songs to feature, all upbeat and cheerful. There’s no time for aesthetics or sensitivity in a high powered parade like this.<br /><br />Thanks to Mike Macintosh, the instigator of my Leiper’s Fork adventure, for inspiring me to write this little essay. Such memories should be preserved. Think what I would have missed if I had never left L.A.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:78%;">Below, see Puckett's Grocery, a famed Leiper's Fork music venue and eatery.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288985391357183714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2NEy1P-XgUi198UOG6sQGZ6BuM2FVdCSXw9jD3mTQSpfnFqzWZ8U8txfjxFzfexV5kzXUZR40mYce7-YTpOcd-zC2-fBUmwWKiImJOjxSTl-4saPMzuEGdcp8Wh36wTBS8D8gPw/s320/Pucketts+in+Leiper%27s+Fork.jpg" border="0" /></span></p>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-59460480140316256442008-12-23T11:31:00.006-06:002010-01-13T08:41:50.954-06:00<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2007 was an excellent year.</span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">January: I rang in the New Year in California with Chip and Sharyn and their international friends. I continued receiving a weekly massage from a neighbor, Michael Shumate, also developing a cherished friendship. I continued enjoying my monthly Book Club and the other three Tuesdays each month I participated in a support group on “Boundaries”. Henry Cloud and John Townsend have written some really helpful books and produced a filmed teaching series on this subject, which we watch and discuss.<br /><br />February: I started another series of watercolor classes at the Watkins Institute. Though I arrived at class exhausted (6:00 pm on a weeknight), three hours later I was feeling exhilarated and inspired!<br /><br />March: I did a recording session with a small group of singers from church and enjoyed being “back in the saddle” again. Friends who live on a farm hosted a wonderful potluck with music by an Israeli harpist and a Celtic guitarist and a wonderful big bonfire. It was great being introduced to all the farm animals.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQl86tuWV8NrfeZxgSzPLL1nmigfFpSH0BddzvfUOV9idyojMdz51xG-nMH7dmIjC-k1UZIVtReQ0-1UncNJ0EXU6PAm6ErRxUZ2013zZaXqznZJYKEI2d7Y0cKBuCRtLYBfTmwg/s1600-h/TNC-New-2007-Performances3_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283039916295680066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 144px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQl86tuWV8NrfeZxgSzPLL1nmigfFpSH0BddzvfUOV9idyojMdz51xG-nMH7dmIjC-k1UZIVtReQ0-1UncNJ0EXU6PAm6ErRxUZ2013zZaXqznZJYKEI2d7Y0cKBuCRtLYBfTmwg/s320/TNC-New-2007-Performances3_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a>April: A big month! What a privilege it was to share a Passover seder at the home of Sandra and Aaron Elkins. I enjoyed singing with the Nashville Choir at the new symphony hall, the Schermerhorn. It was a hymn sing sponsored by the Sparrow Foundation fulfilling a longstanding dream of Billy Ray Hearn. I loved seeing the movie <em>Gypsy Caravan</em>. (A documentary follows bands of gypsy musicians from four different countries as they travel and perform together.) I sang a David Foster-composed duet, <em>The Prayer</em>, with Courtney Schadt, a senior medical student, at the Fine Arts Recital at Vanderbilt – the first time I’ve sung a “big” (loud!) solo in public. Finally, I began having weekly creative meetings with my dear friend Carol Pigg. We’re each working on writing a book, hers about journaling, mine a romance.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItPOKcdy2cfzu9UURbU6S6MqgKw_uUmHlmIY6kEDfVySIhXw6pLCfCNqXAAAjSagNzvxVg44QIJ5vJ9ZMQR04Fq6-vbEETOrMTpGTqMUgakdqJZYYp-vwWGJJAUAlvGfRDRwXoQ/s1600-h/Washington+DC.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283040064455052946" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItPOKcdy2cfzu9UURbU6S6MqgKw_uUmHlmIY6kEDfVySIhXw6pLCfCNqXAAAjSagNzvxVg44QIJ5vJ9ZMQR04Fq6-vbEETOrMTpGTqMUgakdqJZYYp-vwWGJJAUAlvGfRDRwXoQ/s320/Washington+DC.jpg" border="0" /></a>May: I traveled to Washington DC with a group of sixteen from the Nashville Choir to participate in a Convocation of the Arts sponsored by the Washington Arts Group. What a rich feast of fellowship, fun, creativity and challenge. The trip was like going back to high school or college –getting to talk and play non-stop with a bunch of great people, our only responsibility to sing (and fight the temptation to criticize the chaos). Gary Pigg and I also enjoyed having lunch with dear friends Marty and Vickie McCall and Carolyn Naifeh.<br /><br />June: I finally began inviting dinner guests using the china, crystal and silver I inherited from my mom. I attended the Schermerhorn again and enjoyed <em>Carmina Burana</em>, performed magnificently by the symphony choir. With the Nashville Choir I had a great time recording for Michael W. Smith’s next Christmas album.<br /><br />July: A life-transforming process began when Carol Pigg and I began doing one chapter each week from the exercises recommended by Julia Cameron in <em>The Artist’s Way</em>.<br /><br />August: One of the dreams I listed in an exercise from <em>The Artist’s Way</em> was to sing in a Renaissance chamber music ensemble, and an email came my way mere weeks later announcing tryouts for such a group. I tried out and became a member of Collegium Vocale at Vanderbilt. Very challenging!<br /><br />September: The C.S. Lewis Foundation put on a wonderful one-day seminar at Belmont University which I attended with my C.S. Lewis-loving friend Diane West. At our first Collegium concert I reconnected with the first guy who offered me a publishing deal in Nashville, Randy Cox. I was inspired by my neighbor the massage guy to begin a detox program with an amazing Christian nutritionist named Celeste Davis. If you’re local and you would like to be healthier, go to her website at http://wellnessworkshopcoolsprings.com<br /><br />October: Jack Hayford spoke at a local church and it’s always a personal blessing for me to hear Pastor Jack, my spiritual father since 1973. I braved a Pepperdine alumni gathering for the first time ever and enjoyed meeting several new people and renewing a few previous connections. We were all grateful to hear that the fires had not damaged or injured any Pepperdiners. The most fun thing about October was rehearsing with Gary Pigg, Chris Harris, Cindy Hudson and Ric Simenson for a reunion of our group Fireworks, one of the groundbreaking early rock groups in contemporary Christian music.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG02CLGOFO3dpJFB6r7yP7pIdwMCjxzWaqAVQKzbapbLpEzdWMFKEUwdPhFnQc_RF9l_74Gt0R62f98X3OK9vhvC1UJdyju8bI5CnnrCjARl71gj9aoTr7L6I1qzo4dvDwqhfJIQ/s1600-h/GM&mebest.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283041255868113314" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 294px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG02CLGOFO3dpJFB6r7yP7pIdwMCjxzWaqAVQKzbapbLpEzdWMFKEUwdPhFnQc_RF9l_74Gt0R62f98X3OK9vhvC1UJdyju8bI5CnnrCjARl71gj9aoTr7L6I1qzo4dvDwqhfJIQ/s320/GM&mebest.JPG" border="0" /></a>November: Lead singer and songwriter Marty McCall has been battling cancer so we were not sure if he could join us, but he gloriously did, and we had a fabulous night singing at the Koinonia Family Reunion Concert on November 1. Other musicians included ‘70s groups Homecoming (Brown Bannister, Bob Farnsworth and Alan Robertson subbing for original member Mike Hudson) and Dogwood (Steve Chapman, Ron Elder and Ken Fletcher). We were all thrilled to hear Amy Grant, Billy Sprague and Jim Weber. Some of us did a promotional interview on Brian Mason’s Sunday morning radio show (photo below).<br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOlK7GWwuQkwSO0KtAD-BKE079XtQ4_6GDkVcaJLK6yO86vbzDKz9a3JO3RpNPmd4bUq37Abcn2OjYQVybdi4PrUfi6OcaYw_kCoCVrQUI_WCDCgc_D2fcckzBjrkWruE4fEO4A/s1600-h/11-7-2007-10.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283040900324575282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOlK7GWwuQkwSO0KtAD-BKE079XtQ4_6GDkVcaJLK6yO86vbzDKz9a3JO3RpNPmd4bUq37Abcn2OjYQVybdi4PrUfi6OcaYw_kCoCVrQUI_WCDCgc_D2fcckzBjrkWruE4fEO4A/s320/11-7-2007-10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />November also included two weeks in California. I enjoyed time with my brother and sis-in-law, Chip and Sharyn, as well as Thanksgiving Day with Sara and Sam Jackson, Helen Young, and their family. The Jacksons and Steve Stewart and I had a wonderful dinner with Janie and Mark Long. I had a great evening reconnecting with college friend Dan Hoard, who is the new minister at the Redondo Beach Church of Christ, where I also got to see Jimmy, Janice and Ramona Hahn, George Hill, the Smythes, the Grimeses – it was an old home week for long-time Pepperdiners.<br /><br />December: The most amazing month to top a remarkable year – I connected with an eHarmony guy who has visited from Illinois twice. Ted and Jane-Anne Thomas (with whom I attended a family reunion last year) stayed at my condo while Jane-Anne had a medical appointment at Vanderbilt and later returned to receive a clean bill of health. After performing in an Advent concert with Collegium and a Christmas concert at church, I enjoyed being a part of the congregation at the Christmas Eve midnight service at St. Bartholomew’s where I love hearing Eric Wyse lead worship.</div><div> </div><div align="center">“Now to Him Who, by (in consequence of) the [action of His] power</div><div align="center">that is at work within us, is able to [carry out His purpose and]</div><div align="center">do superabundantly, far over and above all that we [dare] ask or think </div><div align="center">[infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts, hopes, or dreams]--</div><div align="center">to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus </div><div align="center">throughout all generations forever and ever.</div><div align="center">Amen (so be it).”</div><div align="center">(Ephesians 3:20,21)</span></div></div><br /></span>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-20723004003139863692008-12-23T11:01:00.008-06:002010-01-13T08:41:50.956-06:00<div align="center">Ideas for a Really Great Year, Listed in No Particular Order</div><div align="center">(2006)</div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving.”<br />– W.T. Purkiser<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;font-size:85%;">= </span>Join or initiate a Book Club. I found it enhances your reading to know you will be able to discuss it later with friends. Our group began with <em>Soul Survivor</em> by Phillip Yancey, reading one chapter per month plus any outside reading we could manage by or about the person Mr. Yancey profiled in that chapter.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;font-size:85%;">=</span> Find a massage school where you can receive massage from their students for half price. What a gift this has been in my life, beginning this summer. I may never quit, now that I’ve benefited so much from it. Other discretionary income items may have to go; this one stays!<br /><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;">=</span> Order a copy of the <em>Illustrated Discovery Journal</em> by Sarah Ban Breathnach from amazon.com. (They’re currently available for only $1.00 plus shipping in good used condition.) I had more fun doing this project than I dreamed, and it met needs in me I wasn’t aware I had.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;">=</span> Break through your resistances (they’re flimsier than you think) and finally do that thing you’ve been talking about doing for years. A friend and I went to the Watkins College of Art & Design and took three evening watercolor classes, something I’d been talking about doing on and off for thirty (gasp!) years. We loved it so much we’re planning to take nine more evening classes starting in February. You might have thought how fun it would be to try a little pottery, or drawing, or a few sewing or riding or dance lessons. Just do it!<br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it.” – Goethe</span></div><br /><span style="font-family:Webdings;">= </span>Speaking of dance lessons, I tried one of those too! Two-Stepping is easier than you might think – that is, if you’re a lady and your partner can lead. I’m going to try more lessons next year, but in a slightly less seedy establishment next time. Aesthetics matter to me. : > )<br /><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;">=</span> Turn back the clock. Seek out a way to interact with younger people. I find it so refreshing and stimulating to work with the medical students at Vanderbilt. I think they are youthening me. We don’t always have to act our age.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;">=</span> Take advantage of iTunes free download of the week. If you are already doing that, you will have found Landon Pigg’s “Sailed On”. He is already experiencing real success in his short time as a professional musician/singer/songwriter. He’s the middle son of my old and dear friends Carol and Gary Pigg. Gary and I used to sing in the contemporary Christian band Fireworks, as well as lots of studio work. Here comes the next generation!<br /><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;">=</span> Gary sang background vocals for Neil Young’s album <em>Prairie Wind</em> and the accompanying <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeyod-HICyAM689YQ6AhyjPTH75YgVSzyzrLjDy-reSqfsOAvOl4P9zDI4Y7WSfzu5mD3WUdPMrLuEc87UjyGQAJbEdRuIqUiEcJU27jhbehg5Cgvsb4VE84W4bPdNnibWBm7Cg/s1600-h/Young+on+Conan.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283036703907110674" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 228px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 166px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeyod-HICyAM689YQ6AhyjPTH75YgVSzyzrLjDy-reSqfsOAvOl4P9zDI4Y7WSfzu5mD3WUdPMrLuEc87UjyGQAJbEdRuIqUiEcJU27jhbehg5Cgvsb4VE84W4bPdNnibWBm7Cg/s320/Young+on+Conan.jpg" border="0" /></a>movie, <em>Heart of Gold</em> (as well as other concerts including Farm Aid.) I enjoyed my 1.5 seconds of fame as the camera scanned the waiting crowd outside the Ryman Auditorium. The two evenings I spent in the audience so moved me that I wrote an essay about it, and Gary sent it to the director, Jonathan Demme, who wrote back that he enjoyed it. So my words have officially been scanned by the eyes of a Hollywood director, something I certainly never expected! If you’re a Neil Young fan, buy this DVD. It’s a treasure.<br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:webdings;">=</span> Write a book. No, I really mean it. Yes, you. What’s the computer there for but to listen to your memories as they trickle, and then flow, and then pour out? I posted mine on a blog in ten-page increments so friends could reminisce with me. I found it a therapeutic, integrating experience to tell my story, gathering up so many fragments all in one place. Some said it sparked their own memories, so I provided a community service as well. You can read it in doable doses at <a href="http://www.gwenmoore.blogspot.com/">http://www.gwenmoore.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” – Blaise Pascal</span><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3cW3oXWQMx8ghkKwSRQ-E38gYm6K0uaLji32HNcDuwxNPA8P7jZ1M83bbiQK75xT8Ij_J468yntiiYFoJCBAklvsyQjV5yKJWoT7iiLwT84STfvQTo0sL5OG7RuLS02Wv66Ubmg/s1600-h/06+Me+Dave+%26+Gary.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283035381133583554" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3cW3oXWQMx8ghkKwSRQ-E38gYm6K0uaLji32HNcDuwxNPA8P7jZ1M83bbiQK75xT8Ij_J468yntiiYFoJCBAklvsyQjV5yKJWoT7iiLwT84STfvQTo0sL5OG7RuLS02Wv66Ubmg/s320/06+Me+Dave+%26+Gary.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:webdings;">=</span> If you miss singing in a choir but don’t think you can commit to weekly rehearsal, find a choir that needs seasonal help. I had the blessing of singing in the 100-voice choir for the Michael W. Smith Christmas concert last Sunday, and this Sunday will sing three of Handel’s choruses from The Messiah during worship at church. Not many rehearsals, lots of singing pleasure. Here are dear friends and singers Dave Durham and Gary Pigg with me at the Smitty concert. (Thank you, Gary, for inviting me to participate in the Nashville Choir.)<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“Singing has always seemed to me the most perfect means of expression.” – Georgia O’Keefe</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-XIIZu_h4xOHr5b46IRBmqWUtlFSjmiHjPUw_qdbDa37cOeEvh2m-X6tJQr1_aIoAS_c-SqS_oZR2qSv01Lkz02iukwWMT8ClCWp6gkaX73WhAOejfGsgcDO_d1Ygk_2tw2E3A/s1600-h/Chip+%26+me+small.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283037520613088546" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-XIIZu_h4xOHr5b46IRBmqWUtlFSjmiHjPUw_qdbDa37cOeEvh2m-X6tJQr1_aIoAS_c-SqS_oZR2qSv01Lkz02iukwWMT8ClCWp6gkaX73WhAOejfGsgcDO_d1Ygk_2tw2E3A/s320/Chip+%26+me+small.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:webdings;">=</span> Go visit someone you love and miss. I believe that relationships are the only eternal thing we take with us when we leave this life, so they are undeniably worth the investment. I broke my personal record and will have had blessing of three visits with my California loved ones in just one year. What a gift. Sharyn took this picture of my beloved brother Chip near their home in Pacific Palisades. I’ve also been very thankful to renew ties with old friends there.<br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Every day is an opportunity to make a new happy ending.” – Anonymous</span><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:webdings;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWvq_buk2Rtj-ha10ck3bVyulHIShluSIKUmJDpNGFLcMXTTHvwP8p7QcplY6JowKNd_Nbb4BTmrHAA6BRdrmOMvPrA7xe7jvtoHwkIHn0XvoBFJ699wgrqEqcqUHD2VwN1AqYRw/s1600-h/Thomas+Reunion.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283036138284514658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWvq_buk2Rtj-ha10ck3bVyulHIShluSIKUmJDpNGFLcMXTTHvwP8p7QcplY6JowKNd_Nbb4BTmrHAA6BRdrmOMvPrA7xe7jvtoHwkIHn0XvoBFJ699wgrqEqcqUHD2VwN1AqYRw/s320/Thomas+Reunion.JPG" border="0" /></a>=</span> Attend someone else’s family reunion. You can be a spectator and visit with anyone you like. I highly recommend the Thomas family for such an adventure. I got to see Elaine and John Harris for the first time since their wedding! And their four beautiful kids. Great to be with Ted and Jane-Anne and their boys Todd (I last saw him when I babysat in Heidelberg) and Terry, their wives and children. Fine talks with Martha and Melody. I said thanks and farewell to patriarch J. Harold, who passed away only two months later. And I got to sing hymns not once but twice a day with this hymn-loving family. Thank you all for welcoming me. It was so delightful!</div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Great persons are able to do great kindnesses.” – Miguel de Cervantes</span></div>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1090889863398249982008-12-16T12:04:00.014-06:002009-01-15T12:28:54.945-06:00<div align="center"><strong>Neil Young</strong><br />August 18 & 19, 2005</div><br />The past two nights I have spent joyfully reliving many memories with friends. The Memory Fest was sparked by the arrival of Neil Young in Nashville to make a movie, directed by no less than Jonathan Demme. He’s most famous for his <em>Silence of the Lambs</em> but my favorite of his projects was <em>Philadelphia</em>. So now I know why Neil Young was chosen to write and sing the theme song of that movie – I wasn’t aware that Jonathan and he were friends. My friends (the reason I got in to the concert filming), Gary and Carol Pigg, didn’t know who the director was, they just knew he was “Jonathan”. He was so unassuming and humble and quiet, they would never guess he had such an impressive filmography, or status in the movie industry.<br /><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280453580642713810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ncFKbAEOYr722Mbbnb6Qyu_G97b6kUqH7t4ZZvQohPODOep_mOnEKkKLEaIIOIbp8HIzFMVP_O9TnhB5OnOc7z8_vFHl-sb27psGZOaARwE_fVCDYFsf7Hks14eM3Gkf1phsYg/s320/Pigg_w_Singersanddirector.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;">Pegi Young, Anthony Crawford, Jonathan Demme, Gary Pigg, Diana DeWitt</span></p>Gary Pigg and I met in 1976, when we were both called for a session at the Goldmine. That was the studio owned by Chris Christian, and we were working for his jingle company, Home Sweet Home Productions. It was my first paid session. My first time singing in the studio had happened the year before, when I did background vocals for free on the song “You Can’t Get to Heaven by Living Like Hell” for that wild man producer, Gary S. Paxton. (He sang on “The Monster Mash” and was the multi-tracked voice of the Hollywood Argyles, singing “Alley Oop”.)<br /><br />Gary and I continued singing on more jingles and then backgrounds for several albums, along with Marty McCall. Finally, the three of us were invited by Word Records to become a group which was intended to fill the void left by the 2nd Chapter of Acts on their artist roster. 2nd Chapter had moved to Sparrow Records and they needed a “replacement group”. Kind of a silly idea, since no one could hope to replace the brother and sisters trio which revolutionized contemporary Christian music with their rock ‘n roll voices, unique harmonies and intimate lyrics.<br /><br />Gary and I left the group, Fireworks, after not very long, but Marty continued it for several more years. Gary and I both did jingle and background vocal work for some years, but meanwhile he had married my dear friend Carol Ann Jackson Thomas and taken on her boys, David and Jason, to raise. He had a burden of responsibility I did not have, as well as greater drive and ambition, and he made quite a career for himself in the Nashville and Chicago recording industries. After about ten years singing, I became an administrative assistant for a number of musicians, companies and institutions over the years.<br /><br />Earlier this year, Gary was recommended by our mutual acquaintance, Diana DeWitt, to accompany her and Pegi Young, Neil’s wife, on background vocals for Neil Young’s new album, <em>Prairie Wind</em>. He couldn’t have been happier about the job, since he had never aspired to be a jingle singer in the first place – his dream had always been to be a rock star. Neil had a longevity and legitimacy to his musical career that was more than a level above what often happens in Nashville sessions, and Gary took a lot of pleasure in working with someone at that level of creativity, not to mention historical significance.<br /><br />Then the decision was made to record the new album as a movie concert, after the example of <em>The Last Waltz</em> by The Band and other such archival footage. Gary was hired! So he spent the previous two weeks in rehearsal, and Carol called and asked if I would like to attend the concert/filming. Would I!?! Certainly would. So I wandered down to the Ryman Auditorium Thursday night, August 18, 2005, to join a fascinating crowd waiting to get in to see one of our heroes, Neil Young.<br /><br />It was an incredibly hot and muggy evening in Nashville, which made waiting outside for Carol to show up with the tickets a very drippy half hour. As I waited, I was able to observe such interesting people and relationships, some folks making contact after years of separation. I heard one lady who looked to be a suburban, Republican grandmother – the epitome of unhip – talking about working with Neil in L.A. in 1969. Ah, the foolishness of judging a book by its cover.<br /><br />There was more long hair on the men than the women. Someone commented that they hadn’t seen that many VW buses in years. The crowd was mostly over forty, and everyone was glancing at everyone, trying to figure out who was who and whether any notables might be spotted. I recognized no one Thursday night, but then I don’t know the Nashville film community. I went back Friday night for the second concert and that night Meryl Streep showed up with a young man someone said was her son. We tried hard to politely glance and not stare.<br /><br />I also got to spend some time with Gus Laux, who caught me waiting in line the second night. He used to road manage Don Gibson, got me in one night to Harlan Howard’s Birthday Bash, and has been around the Nashville music scene even since I left it. What a delight he is. He says he’s currently splitting his time between producing sessions and doing fine wood working on remodels for very patient friends, which sounds to me like a lovely creative balance. But I digress. Back to the man of the hour, Neil Young.<br /><br />When I was just getting into music as a collector might, learning music history, making connections between various artists and groups, seeking out new writers and artists to love, there was a group calling the Buffalo Springfield. It was after the Watts Riots, it was during Viet Nam, I was in Southern California, it was the hippie generation, but it was pre-Woodstock. A song came on the radio called “For What It’s Worth.”<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“There’s something happ’nin’ in here…what it is ain’t exactly clear.<br />There’s a man with a gun over there tellin’ me I got to beware.<br />I think it’s time we stopped, children — What’s that sound?<br />Everybody look what’s goin’ down.”<br /></span><br />That song, written by Stephen Stills, became the anthem of an era. Matt Young was my best friends’ older brother and my musical guide. He had more money and more freedom than I did, being five years older, and he spent more time in record stores, although he did take me along occasionally. He played Buffalo Springfield albums (there were eventually three) and I fell in love with the articulate, searching, yearning, politically aware, romantic hearts of these guys.<br /><br />Even then, Neil Young stood out. “I Am a Child” appeared on the third album, and there was also “On The Way Home,” the meaning of which to this day I don’t fully comprehend but nevertheless I’ve always loved. The version I love most, though, came four years later, when the album <em>Four Way Street</em> was released, and Neil did a much slower, more ethereal version of it. That was my theme song in Heidelberg in the summer of 1972.<br /><br />But I’m jumping ahead. Back in L.A., I would sit in the Youngs’ bedroom where the big speakers were, or lie on the floor between them, and soak up the music. Musical groups and couplings in the ‘Sixties were relatively short lived, though very fruitful, and you always watched to see what the various artists who had split up would do next. What they did next was awesome. Woodstock happened, and one of the groups that played over those few days was Crosby, Stills & Nash. Neil Young joined them at Woodstock, though he was not on their first album. It was their second gig. (Their first appearance had been rather less dramatic, at a hall in Chicago.) Neil Young had not made any business commitments to these guys yet, but they were friends, so when they did their third gig, opening for Joni Mitchell at the Greek Theater in L.A., Neil sat in with them for the second half of the performance.<br /><br />That summer night in 1968 started with David, Stephen and Graham standing together before one mike, with Stills the only guitar, and singing those incredible three-part harmonies which had originally brought them together. (Cass Elliott of the Mamas and Papas was responsible for introducing them.) Graham Nash was later to remark on the magic that seemed to happen the first time he and David sang together, and then when Stephen Stills joined in, the powerful musical connection couldn’t be denied. So there the three of them were, in front of a curtain on the stage of the Greek Theater, and making this gorgeous but very gentle acoustic music. Their fans were wondering whatever happened to the electricity. Graham had been part of the Hollies, and Stills, with Neil Young, was in the Buffalo Springfield. David Crosby had been a member of the Byrds. All the bands had made big noise, with electric guitars and amps and effects and etc.<br /><br />After the first part of their set, the curtains opened to reveal banks of equipment…and Neil Young. And the rocking began. The crowd went wild. This was what they had been waiting for! This was what they came to hear. When the boys were finished thrilling us, they humbly thanked Joni Mitchell for allowing them to open for her. “This is our third gig, man,” David Crosby announced. What a night.<br /><br />The funny thing about that concert was the audience. We were sitting in a steep natural outdoor amphitheater, surrounded by trees. This was the late ‘Sixties, and there were a lot of young people who loved this music but couldn’t or wouldn’t pay to hear it. They hiked up the Hollywood hills and climbed the trees. The only problem was, some of them were too loaded to hang onto the branches, and occasionally we would hear a crashing of bushes and ivy as someone fell out of a tree and rolled down the hill.<br /><br />I was still in high school, living at home but spending as much time as possible with the Youngs, my second family. Matt kept me moving along the musical highway. <em>Déjà Vu</em>, the second album, after the introductory Crosby, Stills and Nash, had added “and Young” to the group. When the time came to record a third album, things got rocky. I didn’t hear this story until many years later, but it seems that at one of the sessions for that album, Neil became discontent with the way things were going, or the way he was feeling about it, and he simply left town. No warning, no “I’m not going to be there at the session tomorrow.” He just split. And thus ended Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.<br /><br />What was left for the record company but to put out an album featuring the individual strengths of each of the four players, all their diverse directions and leanings. It was clear, listening to <em>Four Way Street</em>, that theirs had been an explosive coming together, but not a lasting merging of talent. They were all solo artists…except Graham Nash, the one who preferred relationships to individual acclaim. The other three were the egos and he was the peacemaker, the oil that eased the scraping and banging of these Titans of rock music.<br /><br />Out of Buffalo Springfield came another group, Poco, with Richie Furay, George Grantham, Rusty Young, and Jim Messina, which we also loved. (See the Endnote for more about Poco. Isn’t the internet wonderful?<a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn1" name="_ednref1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a>) Their music reflected the happier side of the Springfield. It’s been said and written many times that the Southern California music scene was incestuous during those years. Cross-pollination was happening everywhere. People were hanging out together in Topanga Canyon, visiting each others’ homes and playing in a lot of the same venues, like Doug Weston’s Troubador.<br /><br />When Woodstock happened, Crosby, Stills and Nash were able to make it to their second gig, but Joni Mitchell didn’t get in. Roads were jammed for miles around, and she wasn’t even able to get to a place where a helicopter could have lifted her in. So she was stuck in a New York hotel room, witnessing only what little could be seen by everyone else on TV. That didn’t stop her finding an incredibly moving way to comment on the event. She composed the song “Woodstock” and sang it with her own quiet melancholy, and then gave it to “the boys” to interpret, who of course rocked it in their muscular, more powerful way.<br /><br />David Geffen and Elliott Roberts were managing many of these artists at the time. (Elliott has apparently continued with Neil until today, in 2005. He’s listed on all the albums as “Direction”. Gary also tells me that he learned Elliott managed Bob Dylan for twelve years.) The Eagles were in the same management stable with Joni Mitchell and Crosby, Still & Nash, and Don Henley and Glenn Frey have said that this represented quite a challenge to them in terms of sharpening their song writing.<br /><br />James Taylor and Joni were involved for awhile – her <em>Blue</em> album was all about that. Graham Nash and Joni were in love for awhile, and her <em>Ladies of the Canyon</em> paints a few pictures on that theme. Joni even drew a sketch of David Geffen in “Free Man in Paris,” on <em>Court and Spark</em>, though she says this made him uncomfortable for awhile. James was singing the songs of Carole King, who was making the transition from being a bopper in New York’s Tin Pan Alley to becoming an earth mother in the mountains of Colorado.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Neil Young was pretty rich at a mere twenty-four years old, and he bought himself a ranch. It’s in Northern California, but he doesn’t choose to say that. He tells the story that a man named Louie Avilla and his wife Clara lived on that ranch as caretakers, and Louie asked Neil how it came to be that such a young man was able to purchase such a lot of property. “Just lucky, man, very lucky,” Neil responded. Louie couldn’t get over it. Neil said he wrote “Old Man” for Louie.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“Old man, look at my life – twenty-four and there’s so much more<br />Live alone in a paradise that makes me think of two.<br />I’ve been first and last. Look at how the time goes past,<br />and I’m all alone at last, rolling home to you.</span><br /><br />(and that incredible banjo makes its statement…and then the pedal steel…)<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“Old man, take a look at my life – I’m a lot like you<br />I need someone to love me the whole day through<br />By one look in my eyes, you can tell that’s true.”<br /></span><br />(and then back to that ever so recognizable chord…)<br /><br />When Neil did that song last night, the audience recognized it on the very first chord. I was sitting next to Carol Pigg and she was amazed by that. I whispered, “Nobody else ever started a song with that particular chord!” While all of us single hippies and wanna-be cowboys were listening to Neil and Joni and James and the Eagles and such, Carol Pigg had been Carol Ann Jackson Thomas, a married woman raising two little boys, and she hadn’t paid all that much attention to music. Funny that her life has been immersed in music ever since, yet left her relatively unaddicted. She never quite caught the bug. She worked for Jerry Reed, she managed Sound Stage recording studio, she worked for Chris Christian, she managed the office for Hummingbird Productions (where I worked with her and then took over for her) and then moved to Blanton & Harrell where Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith were changing the face of contemporary Christian music once again.<br /><br />Then she married Gary, whose life has been music. Landon, their son and a mere twenty-one years of age, earlier this year was signed as an artist with RCA New York. Landon shared tales with me about private hours spent with Clive Davis. (Along with Ahmet Ertegun and Quincy Jones, Clive has been a primary mover and shaker in the music industry for most of my life, so this was quite something to me.) Yet for all this, Carol’s primary roles have been mother, wife and friend, throughout the decades.<br /><br />Another friend from the ‘Seventies was also in attendance both nights for this 2005 Nashville concert event. Chris Harris was friends with Gary Pigg back in college at Abilene, Texas, and they both moved to Nashville in the mid ‘Seventies. Chris drove his baby blue Texas truck into town and almost immediately became the bass player for that group that Gary, Marty and I had started, Fireworks.<br /><br />Lanny Avery, our drummer, lives in Florida, so I never get to see him, and Marty and his wife moved to the D.C. area a couple of years ago, but I’m grateful to still touch lives with Chris and Gary on occasion. With Chris, though, it’s been too seldom, he stays so busy as a record producer. Last night was a treasure, because he and I and Landon and his friend Costa went out after the concert and us two oldies reminisced for the boys at length. More about that later.<br /><br />Finally, we got to escape the heat and get into the building. A ticket! That’s all we needed to gain entrance, and more than usual, those tickets were hard to come by. There we finally were, in the Ryman Auditorium, infiltrated by scurrying men in black, and cameras both fixed and roving. A large timing device mounted to the left above the stage was clicking away the hundredths of seconds as the evening progressed, flashing the red digital numbers as if to underline the speedy passage of time.<br /><br />Neil commented on the incredible sound of the Ryman, like playing inside of a guitar. He was dressed in a light gray, loose fitting suit that could have belonged to a farmer or tradesman in the ‘Thirties, with a broad-brimmed light-colored hat that he regularly hid under, spending the majority of his time looking down, and only occasionally peeking upwards to make eye contact with an audience member.<br /><br />The moves that reconfigured the stage between each song were as multiple and shifting as a kaleidoscope. Those moves had been rehearsed for two weeks, and with only a couple of exceptions appeared to go flawlessly the first night. I say the first night, because the second night felt looser. I suspect that once they had the first night in the can, the crew all felt a bit freer and not quite so rigidly tied to the marks they had rehearsed. Stage hands moved tables, chairs, mikes, instruments, between each song. Musicians and singers rearranged themselves. Neil paced the stage, in his lanky, loose limbed, laid back way. Guitar techs traded guitars with him for each new song.<br /><br />A humorous moment for me was each time that this one stage hand came out to remove the little table that held a glass of water with Neil’s harmonica in it – as if that table’s presence would distract from the presentation of the next song. Someone was paying incredible attention to detail, and from what Gary reported, it was primarily Neil. Gary said Neil was amazingly aware of everything that was happening at all times, and would deal with anything he might find faulty or distracting on the spot.<br /><br />The musicians were many of the same guys that had been with him ever since his first work in Nashville which produced the <em>Harvest</em> album in 1972. How did this rock ‘n roller from Canada end up finding musical expression in the South? It was an easier fit than I would have guessed. His roots were in the Canadian prairie, and the agrarian, rural background of Southern musicians may be the closest thing available to his familiar sounds and feel.<br /><br />I didn’t know until last night that Neil was a chicken farmer as a boy. He told the story of the first instrument he ever owned, a plastic Arthur Godfrey ukelele that his daddy bought for him, probably at his request, though Neil doesn’t remember that for sure. He said he had never heard his daddy sing or play before, and also never seen the goofy smile on his father’s face which appeared as he sang and played “Bury Me on the Wide Prairie” for Neil that day. Neil said his dad and his uncle both ended up playing along with him and the whole family developed a tradition of making music together.<br /><br />So when Johnny Cash, the Man in Black, had a TV show in the late ‘Sixties, and invited these young California whippersnappers to appear on it, Neil visited Nashville for the first time, along with James Taylor and Linda Ronstadt.<a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn2" name="_ednref2"><span style="font-size:78%;">[ii]</span></a> Johnny was a visionary. Though he was deeply Southern, and solidly a country music star, he loved all kinds of music and used his success as an entrée for these younger musicians. Just one example of his musical sophistication? Witness his use of mariachi trumpets on his hit, “Ring of Fire”. Who else would have thought of that?<br /><br />Last night, I told Carol, who grew up in Nashville in the middle of country music, “See, we had never heard a banjo or a pedal steel used like this before.” We (my friends and I in California) were prejudiced against country music, which we ignorantly associated with all those spangles and twangs we saw on TV, and dismissed as “plastic.” I hated the TV show “Hee Haw”, which my Nashville cousins found delightful. Why, I was so ignorant of country music that I didn’t know Buck Owens lived not far north of me in Bakersfield, California! So when Neil Young was singing and a banjo enhanced his hippie aesthetic, like in “Old Man”, or a pedal steel reflected back the melody on “Heart of Gold”, it was a revelation to my ears.<br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280455568130568210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6p365lKZNdFTGkp-jmvK05qU65JKQ7A9yeFBW6tjt9XMp5g0GJv6-4P6JjWR6nL_XxzMS2bIR6qtqAAoPlMChqBMQgBfLWbCA9SE0TKqOAur-Mhg4nnnXwS1cbxn7UPzknUQ7QA/s320/Pigg_w_cast_NeilYoung.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-size:78%;">From top left: Clinton Gregory, Chad Cromwell (Memphis Horn player); </span><span style="font-size:78%;">Rick Rosas, Larry Cragg, Pegi Young, Neil Young, Emmylou Harris, Karl Himmel, Anthony Crawford, Grant Boatwright; (front) </span><span style="font-size:78%;">Gary Pigg </span></p>Neil continued to work in Nashville and remained faithful and loyal to these friends he had made here, so this week in 2005 there were men on the stage with him who had played on his 1972 album, Harvest. One friend, Grant Boatwright, had long white hair and wore a black cowboy coat to his knees, and postured a bit that first night. (He behaved more circumspectly the second night, and I wondered if he had been chastened by a correction from Neil.)<br /><br />Grant was featured in one of Neil’s longer tales during the show, about the guitar he played on “This Old Guitar,” a duet with Emmylou Harris. Apparently Grant had found this guitar for him 35 years before, which Neil was able to buy from Tuck Taylor. He quietly and respectfully informed us, “It was Hank’s.” The audience duly drew in its breath when that hallowed name was mentioned, then clapped long and hard for the rightness of Hank Williams’ guitar being reunited with the Ryman stage, where it had been played back in 1951, the year Hank got fired from the Grand Old Opry.<br /><br />Neil Young has always been slow, deliberate, close to tedious in making his dry-witted remarks. My favorite song introduction was enshrined on an album called <em>Four Way Street</em>, when he said, “This next tune’s guaranteed to bring you right down. It’s called ‘Don’t Let It Bring You Down.” (I love the pause, where one guy in the audience “gets it” a bit late, and cackles all by himself at the irony of the remark, and the rest of the audience laughs at his enjoyment.) Neil goes on, “It sort of starts out real slow…and then it peters out altogether.”<br /><br />Well, his delivery hasn’t changed a bit in 35 years. He told a quite involved tale of his favorite hound dog, Elvis, which he embellished each night with different details, and nearly every sentence was followed by a pause, pregnant with the audience’s anticipation of what on earth he would choose to say next. Elvis entered the story in a cardboard box under the Christmas tree, and he ends it reappearing after having been lost. The main humor in the story was how bad Elvis stunk after he got his natural and much-prized doggy smell covered up by some wretched perfume at the “Foo-Foo Parlor.”<br /><br />The punch line was the fact that Elvis, who had run off and been left behind on a road trip, was recovered and delivered back to Neil by a guy in a yellow pick-up truck, at a concert about a hundred and fifty miles down the road in Eureka, California. The truck guy got free tickets to the concert as a reward for returning Elvis. Not too stirring a tale, although there was some dramatic tension in the fact that Neil thought for a few hours that his dog was gone, and came to realize how attached he was to the “blue tick” Tennessee hound. Just to confuse things Neil had intended to simplify, in the song Elvis is called “King”.<br /><br />It’s that old country story-telling tradition that James Taylor honored in his concerts where he told the story of his pet pig, Baby. I declare, some years back in one of James’s concerts he spent a full thirty minutes on that story, and it had no dramatic tension and no punch line. There’s something so pleasant, though, about being told a story by one of these musicians with whom you’ve shared so many private hours. It’s a living room feeling, like he or she is talking just to you, and there’s something intimate about the fact that the story has no actual significance, except that it happened to them and they have chosen to take the time to share it with you.<br /><br />Let me back up a bit and tell you about the stage setting. When the curtain opened, we were introduced to the title of the album (and the concert), <em>Prairie Wind</em>, which was written in a rope-style font on a backdrop which filled the back of the stage. A local artist was called three weeks prior to the show and commissioned to create three different backdrops, which he did all by himself, one week each. They were pretty great. The first one, along with the words, was a simple depiction of a brown prairie. A few songs into the concert, a second backdrop was drawn across the first, and this one, again all in browns, was the inside of a log cabin, with a river rock fireplace, an open door on the left, and a little kitten walking in. The final backdrop was saved for the one silly song, “The Last Time I Saw Elvis” (This time we’re talking about Mr. Presley, “Thank you very much,” not the hound.) and it was a fantasy of guitars and piano keyboards in pastels.<br /><br />Neil used his musicians and singers judiciously, changing them up for every song. I never realized quite so clearly before how much like painting song arrangement can be. Each voice, each instrument, was like a color on Neil’s palette. He had my friends Gary and Diana DeWitt available to sing background vocals, and as I already mentioned, Emmylou Harris as well. Also singing along on many of the songs, and playing guitar on a couple, was his “lovely wife” Pegi. Carol had mentioned how much she and Pegi looked alike, but for the concert they had given Pegi blond hair extensions so she could have long hair like Emmylou and Diana.<br /><br />Another background singer that Neil used occasionally was also a guitar player, Anthony Crawford, who looked so much like Gary and Carol’s sons, Landon and Gabe, that it freaked us out. Then there was Grant Boatwright (in the long black cowboy coat) on rhythm guitar, and Spooner Oldham looking frail, on the Hammond B-3 organ and piano. (Chris told me that Spooner Oldham was the composer of “I’m Your Puppet”!) Neil mentioned that Ben Keith, his dear friend and the steel player, had been his producer ever since Harvest. Ben was a white-haired guy who seemed even more laid back than Neil.<br /><br />I know I recognized Rick (the bass player) Rosas, an Native American-looking picker, but he wasn’t in Crazy Horse (the band on Neil’s first solo album) and he wasn’t on the album <em>Comes A Time</em> (one of my favorites, from 1978), so I don’t know where I have seen him before. Larry Cragg, who did play on that album, stepped forward to do the banjo solo on “Old Man” (done by James Taylor on the recording of <em>Harvest</em>, James’ first and last attempt at playing banjo), providing an aural thrill to everybody gathered.<br /><br />Then there were the strings, eleven of them. I didn’t recognize Kris Wilkinson, a lady I had worked for as a personal assistant, but my friend Chris insisted she was the viola in the middle of the front row, and Gary said another old boss of mine, David Davidson, was playing violin too. So even though the Nashville String Machine got the credit, the A-Strings were well represented too. The string players had the only stage direction I disagreed with. They came on during a song, because they were only playing in the bridge of it, and then walked off during that song, and I found all that movement too distracting. Then there were the horns, Wayne Jackson of the Memphis Horns and two of his buddies, all in Blues Brothers suits and black hats. Karl Himmel, who was on the 1978 record, was still the drummer for this concert, along with Chad Cromwell on percussion and drums.<br /><br />Another “color in the palette” was the use of the Fisk University Jubilee Singers on several songs, a small chorale of about a dozen. I must say, had I been one of those singers, I would have felt terribly bored and underused, since their background parts were so simple and so sparse, but they trouped on like professionals and offered their best smiles and lots of energy.<br /><br />Gary tells me that the famous country music couturier, Manuel Cuevas, was hired to dress the band and singers and Neil himself. The ladies looked great in shirtwaist dresses, pastels for the first half and a darker blue for the second half. Neil changed out of his pale suit into a burgundy suit for the second half. The band didn’t really look “dressed”, but I guess they may have been. I’ll give Manuel credit for amazing restraint. He’s normally known for flash, sparkle, sequins and beads, but this whole stage dressing was very subdued.<br /><br />The first half of the concert was the new album, so I hadn’t heard any of that material before Thursday night. I liked a lot of it on first hearing, but by Friday night I had already become tentative friends with some of the songs. I especially loved the line, “If you follow all your dreams, you could get…lost.” Then after a brief intermission, the curtain opened again and Neil stood there by himself singing “I Am a Child,” a tune from his Buffalo Springfield days. It was so sweet to hear that same gentle choirboy voice, practically unchanged, singing those tender lyrics from another time and place.<br /><br />Then the band and singers rejoined him for a stroll down Memory Lane. As each old favorite began, the audience paused for a heartbeat to be sure they recognized it, and then burst into applause. The second night, they were rowdier than the first, perhaps picking up on the slightly more relaxed mood of the folks onstage. But they were also more passionate, giving a standing ovation to “The Damage Done”, which Neil performed all alone in a spotlight.<br /><br />Two of my personal-favorite songs got special treatment. Neil briefly noted the recent passing of Rufus Thibodeaux, who had played fiddle on <em>Comes A Time</em>, and just in the last week, Vassar Clements, and in their memory he called upon every free singer and band member to line up along the front of the stage with guitars and play first “Comes A Time” and then “Four Strong Winds,” a song I had loved ever since Ian Tyson had written it in the early ‘Sixties.<br /><br />On “Four Strong Winds” he put Diana DeWitt on autoharp, which I hadn’t realized had been the special sound on that record. It wouldn’t have sounded right without it. (That way, Gary got to play the guitar and join the lineup across the stage. Apparently there weren’t enough guitars to go around until Diana moved to autoharp.) Neil told us that as a kid of sixteen in Canada, he had spent a lot of time at a local diner which had a jukebox, and spent all his money listening to Ian and Sylvia’s record of “Four Strong Winds” over and over again.<br /><br />Neil mentioned Nicolette Larson, who was featured on <em>Comes A Time</em>, as if she was no longer with us, but never made that quite clear. He said he felt her there in spirit.<a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn3" name="_ednref3"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iii]</span></a> I must admit that Pegi sounded nearly as good when doing that duet with him. Then he explained that he had been full of love songs for the young ladies in his past, but that recently he had written a new kind of love song. He supposed you could call it an “Empty Nester” tune, and he had written it for his daughter, twenty-one and in her senior year of college. “I guess you could say, I’m there for you,” was the final line.<br /><br />Talk about there for you – I had heard that he and Pegi had founded a school for kids afflicted with cerebral palsy, called The Bridge, because Graham Nash had mentioned doing a fundraiser for it with Crosby and Stills. But I didn’t know it was because they had a son with cerebral palsy. He attended the concert both nights in his wheelchair. I was touched that they would go to the trouble not only to bring their son with them on this Nashville trip, but even transport him to the concert, not just one but both of the nights.<br /><br />My friend Chris told me that Neil has the most enormous Lionel train set. It’s housed in a separate building on his property. He has invented special controls that his son can use to run the trains. Chris also reported that Neil then decided to just buy Lionel Trains, the manufacturer. Why not, if you love them that much?<br /><br />The next song was “Harvest Moon” which I had heard a bit, from the <em>Harvest Moon</em> album Neil made in Nashville in 1992. For me, it’s not the kind of song you crave to hear, but it was so soothing and mesmerizing that you didn’t want it to stop. One mighty cute thing about that song was the percussion. Karl Himmel came on stage carrying a broom, and a roadie laid down a rubber floor mat in front of him. Throughout the song, the “brushes” sound that is usually associated with jazz was being produced by Karl sweeping that mat. A fun bit of knowledge, like my enjoyment in knowing that one of the percussion instruments on Delaney & Bonnie’s <em>Motel Shot</em> was someone banging on an empty briefcase.<br /><br />The concert ended with “One of These Days,” promising that someday Neil planned to write everyone a letter, telling all the people he had loved how much they meant to him. It was a great goodbye song, and when they were finished with the show, they really meant it. None of that coy waiting in the wings until the audience proves they want you back. No amount of stomping, pounding the backs of the pews, hollering or clapping could convince them to do an encore, though we tried. They just did a final curtain call, all arms linked around waists and bowing together, and the merciless curtain closed again.<br /><br />Then came the leaving. We didn’t really want to. Gary called Carol on her cell and asked her to keep everybody there till he could get down to us. Gabe and Landon were there, and Jason and Cari-Ann and her husband Curt Redding, along with Gary’s mother Lorene, his sister Brenda, her daughter and boyfriend. Chris and I waited with them until Gary finally made it out of the building, appearing to have showered and changed. I envied his freshness, drippy and hot as I was, waiting outside in the still oppressive night air.<br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280457326135987378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 160px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPF53COQeYhQI_dm9e4qAcvs5AKsKSNWydglHJ6U3M5X3xrVPOCbMzTQHrnVCeGTDqlDAkw8C85iv43l4LwnQuuyhTHjB9VEDki_6NhMGLAdqbMHXk5o4NNzbDewj6dJVuJmcxA/s320/familyandfriends_ryman.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;">Gabe, Gary, Carol Pigg; Chris Harris, Curt & Cari-Ann Redding, Gwen Moore, Landon Pigg, Jason Thomas<br /></span><br />Gary was thrilled we all had shared the evening with him, but soon he was off to the afterparty at the Hermitage Hotel. He told Landon to wait awhile until he scoped out the mood of the party, and if it was loose enough, he would call Landon and he could show up and be further introduced around. Landon had already met Elliott Roberts earlier in the week and had a good conversation with him, and had made friends with one of the camera guys. So Landon needed to hang somewhere else for awhile, and he and a friend, Costa, and Chris Harris and I went to the Sunset Grill to decompress and debrief.</p>I honestly didn’t realize how much I had missed being in my music persona. It had been years, if not decades, since the last time I really talked with anyone about my personal history in music. Chris started the reminiscing by describing the Laughing Man, the health food restaurant we used to love that has long since closed. That’s where I first met the musical family he married into, the Heimermanns. Then Chris proceeded to quiz me about some of my family history and Pepperdine where I grew up, since his two boys, Taylor and Brandon, are living in L.A. at the moment, and hoping to discover their professional futures. (Both are musicians…of course.) Then we moved on to how we both came to Nashville and why…he for music, me for library school at Peabody. Then the two young guys started asking questions, and it turned into a humorous and fascinating music business history lesson.<br /><br />What fun. I got to tell some of my favorite stories, including the Christmas Card debacle at Hummingbird. I talked about the ease of simply handing producer Brown Bannister the cassette of “Say Once More” and getting it on Amy’s third album with that little effort. I told about the fun of knowing most of the studio musicians in Nashville because I booked them for sessions. I told Chris about my favorite early vocal session, of getting to sing with Little Jimmy Gilmer, one of the first voices I could remember in my pop music listening career as a mere ten year old. Jimmy was the singer on “Sugar Shack.”<br /><br />The way that session unfolded really astonished me. Alan Moore had produced it at the Goldmine, before he moved to Chicago, and I sang with Jimmy and Hank Martin. Alan simply talked for a couple of minutes about what he wanted the jingle to sound like, and the Nashville pickers just played it. There were no charts, no arrangements, no notes written down of any kind. It was what they called a “head session”. The producer simply communicated an idea, and the musicians grabbed it and ran with it, creating as they went.<br /><br />I told them my favorite vindication story. I will omit the names for the sake of love, but it was so amazing to have Peter York (President of Sparrow Records) hand a famous producer my <em>Healing Heart</em> album, saying, “Make your next album sound like this.” I dearly loved that producer, but I had been hurt when I was not chosen to sing on an artist’s recording sessions after there had been some success. In my own mind at least, my status as a legitimate musician was more than restored in this moment with Peter. And God chose to make it happen more dramatically and to a greater degree than I would ever have wished for.<br /><br />Peter York is a whole nother story. He used to play guitar for the 2nd Chapter of Acts, that group that our band Fireworks was supposed to “replace” at Word Records. After I quit the band, I sang in a wedding of mutual friends with Peter, so we’ve known each other since the ‘Seventies when we were both starving artists. Who would have predicted he would end up as president of Sparrow Records?<br /><br />Chris got to tell about the first jingle account he won. His demo for Crisco beat everybody else’s and he got to produce the legendary Loretta Lynn singing it. He told about the time he showed Stevie Ray Vaughn how to play a demo he had written for some other jingle client. And how Stevie excitedly showed Chris the scriptures he had written into his AA 12-Step book, and how very well prepared Stevie was to go, when his plane crashed six months later.<br /><br />We talked about Chris’s four months (Seemed a lot longer than that to me!) of parking cars for the Spence Manor, when it was the only locked, 24-hour service private hotel in Nashville and all the stars stayed there, and how he had met everybody who was anybody, including Cheech & Chong and Wayne Newton and lots of celebrities between those extremes. Chris said it was Carol Pigg’s idea that he apply for the job.<br /><br />The boys asked us whether Mike Blanton was a genius, and was that was why Amy Grant had succeeded in such a massive way? Chris and I agreed, “No, we love Mike, but he’s no genius. He didn’t make anything happen. It was a God thing.” Chris told a story I was not aware of, that some Nashville guy had moved to New York, made contact with some wealthy Jewish backer, and had arranged for Amy to play a huge stadium there. When she sold out, with eighteen thousand people filling the stadium, that was when Blanton & Harrell could start booking her on that much grander scale. So Landon commented, “Mike’s genius was in not saying no, then.”<br /><p>Landon Pigg, the question man, asked, “So what do you think made Neil Young so popular?” Chris said a few words, but he didn’t cover any of my reasons, so then I jumped in. “First,” I said, “Neil Young isn’t the greatest singer, and he isn’t the greatest guitar player, and he stands there so humble and unassuming and thankful and generous that the audience relates to him as a normal guy. Second, he’s used a lot of the same people in his band for years and years, some of them as far back as 1970. That’s loyalty, and that’s friendship. He makes relationships the center, instead of money or fame. He just loves the music.</p><p>“See,” I explained, “many producers are not all that confident about their own choices, so they are constantly looking to see who other people are using, and who played on this or that hit, and they use those pickers, thinking it will make the same magic for their project. They’re more superstitious than baseball players.” I asked for confirmation from Chris, and he agreed.</p><p>I didn’t say this to the guys, but for the reader’s benefit, I will add that those kinds of producers don’t realize something basic. The magic doesn’t come with the “hit-maker” picker like a package deal. The magic comes from the right players, with the right amount of direction, playing the right kind of music, in the right atmosphere. Casting is as important in a recording session as it is in a movie or a play, and so is the amount of direction offered from whoever’s in charge. If you pick the right player for the song, he or she will naturally know what to do to make it feel the best it can, so a wise producer will leave them alone to do their job unless they really need direction.</p>I had many experiences where a producer would hire me (the Queen of Mellow) and two other mellow singers, and then tell us to make the song “exciting”. When I finally got just too fed up with that kind of thing, I asked one producer right from the vocal booth, “Why did you hire Mr. and Misses Mellow, if you want excitement?” He did not appreciate that comment, and as you may imagine, I did not work for him again. I had other experiences where the producer would absolutely love my performance – in one case, saying he had never produced a perfect solo, but that this one came close – and then be talked out of using it later on by someone else’s opinion. I slowly, painfully learned that insecurity runs rampant in the producer world.<br /><br />It was getting very late, and I didn’t get to offer my third reason. Neil Young has done the impossible, by constantly reinventing himself and trying all kinds of musical configurations, and yet always seeming to be a constant, someone you can depend on to always deliver his heart in everything he does. I didn’t get to say that, but I was definitely thinking it, or something like it. Then Gary called, saying that Landon should come on over to the party at the Hermitage, and the evening ended for us. Costa remarked, as we got up from the table, “I hope someday I have stories like these to tell.”<br /><br />I’ll say, in closing, that Sunset Grill sure beats the Vanderbilt area International House of Pancakes, which used to be the only place you could go to eat and drink in Nashville after midnight. So Thursday and Friday, August 18 and 19, 2005, gave me a great forty-eight hours. I was as excited as a child to get to participate, and incredibly grateful for the rich experience I had with my friends and one of my earliest musical heroes.<br /><br />Gwen Moore<br />August 20, 2005<br /><br />Neil Young’s Greatest Hits reprised just for me on August 18 & 19, 2005:<br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_F4AGf9kCx_EMPF18bZB6XeQ-wsjtYEciLkU-0BVFlgzi7RTo6SJ2yX-MAr1IOn_UiNIiMUDXp3mptmXEYdDIFp-Ee0rSeakHoSlsQfosxu8EeWy5d8jcjtS1Cru_ZEyYJtgXXg/s1600-h/Harvest.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280515431806622498" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_F4AGf9kCx_EMPF18bZB6XeQ-wsjtYEciLkU-0BVFlgzi7RTo6SJ2yX-MAr1IOn_UiNIiMUDXp3mptmXEYdDIFp-Ee0rSeakHoSlsQfosxu8EeWy5d8jcjtS1Cru_ZEyYJtgXXg/s320/Harvest.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNLrqLNmn-gGSbjcmVw4_e-lz-MKyncjscfaIEwOlcQjCXX9f7qxu69KAWecZfL36ssmMx71hTbJmn8BeYB0B-_DiFpvgnS9dfpwMLuvP-M0zsr-yVGxzRNeDQH1SV2pMGtn6BqQ/s1600-h/Last+Time+Around.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280515115791380130" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNLrqLNmn-gGSbjcmVw4_e-lz-MKyncjscfaIEwOlcQjCXX9f7qxu69KAWecZfL36ssmMx71hTbJmn8BeYB0B-_DiFpvgnS9dfpwMLuvP-M0zsr-yVGxzRNeDQH1SV2pMGtn6BqQ/s320/Last+Time+Around.jpg" border="0" /></a>Old Man; Heart of Gold; The Damage Done (1972, <em>Harvest</em>; “Heart of Gold” was his only #1 single)</p><p>I Am a Child (1968, <em>Last Time Around</em>, Buffalo Springfield) </p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7D1FwZMtLx_iVikm7ioC6-EEfB4YRUgEq2G9jcFNMU0i3vLnRTWji3DZmpQTBCAbjzFTU-HjedKz9Mvf0v4Bdx45G8OoGXYW7-ryH54yb5nCjvgY1B4nUs37QGinibd8FnsIsg/s1600-h/Comes+a+Time.jpg"></a></p><p>Harvest Moon; Old King; One of These Days (1992, <em>Harvest Moon</em>)</p><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFmN7mBSMVJsYu-Q71nEnWyZTj5vqz0pX7NASh5Im2ILUyd-f0lHemE8tsICbvRoI4DxD3je_9KuluHFSrjf6xvEwyKy3xu6jiXQi4leYub-h898WeQ1lpJwHMCWoueORRMGAvQ/s1600-h/Harvest+Moon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280515773941929778" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFmN7mBSMVJsYu-Q71nEnWyZTj5vqz0pX7NASh5Im2ILUyd-f0lHemE8tsICbvRoI4DxD3je_9KuluHFSrjf6xvEwyKy3xu6jiXQi4leYub-h898WeQ1lpJwHMCWoueORRMGAvQ/s320/Harvest+Moon.jpg" border="0" /></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280514825338898322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7D1FwZMtLx_iVikm7ioC6-EEfB4YRUgEq2G9jcFNMU0i3vLnRTWji3DZmpQTBCAbjzFTU-HjedKz9Mvf0v4Bdx45G8OoGXYW7-ryH54yb5nCjvgY1B4nUs37QGinibd8FnsIsg/s320/Comes+a+Time.jpg" border="0" />Comes a Time; Four Strong Winds (1978, <em>Comes a Time</em>)</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p align="left"></p><p align="left">NOTES</p><p><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref1" name="_edn1"><span style="font-size:85%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Poco was a </span><a title="Country rock" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Country_rock"><span style="font-size:85%;">country rock</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> band started by </span><a title="Richie Furay" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richie_Furay"><span style="font-size:85%;">Richie Furay</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> (vocals and rhythm guitar) and </span><a title="Jim Messina" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Messina"><span style="font-size:85%;">Jim Messina</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> (lead guitar and vocals) following the demise of </span><a title="Buffalo Springfield" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buffalo_Springfield"><span style="font-size:85%;">Buffalo Springfield</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> in </span><a title="1968" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1968"><span style="font-size:85%;">1968</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">. Other initial members were </span><a title="Rusty Young" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rusty_Young"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rusty Young</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> (pedal steel and dobro), George Grantham (drums and vocals) and </span><a title="Randy Meisner" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randy_Meisner"><span style="font-size:85%;">Randy Meisner</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> (bass and vocals). The first album Pickin' Up the Pieces was significantly delayed - so that Meisner had joined </span><a title="Rick Nelson" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rick_Nelson"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rick Nelson</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">'s Stone Canyon Band and later was a founding member of The Eagles. </span><a title="Timothy B. Schmit" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timothy_B._Schmit"><span style="font-size:85%;">Timothy B. Schmit</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> - bass and vocals - subsequently joined the band. Poco (</span><a title="1971" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1971"><span style="font-size:85%;">1971</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">) and Deliverin' (</span><a title="1972" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1972"><span style="font-size:85%;">1972</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">) followed. Messina then left the band - being replaced by Paul Cotton. Messina experienced considerable subsequent success with </span><a title="Kenny Loggins" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kenny_Loggins"><span style="font-size:85%;">Kenny Loggins</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> as </span><a title="Loggins & Messina" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loggins_%26_Messina"><span style="font-size:85%;">Loggins & Messina</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">. After two Poco more albums: A Good Feelin' to Know and Crazy Eyes, Furay also left the band - forming the </span><a title="Souther Hillman Furay Band" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Souther_Hillman_Furay_Band&action=edit"><span style="font-size:85%;">Souther Hillman Furay Band</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">.</span><br /><br /></p><p><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref2" name="_edn2"><span style="font-size:85%;">[ii]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> As host of The Johnny Cash Show on ABC-TV (1969-1971), he served up 60 hours of prime-time TV, which featured performers like Bob Dylan, Stevie Wonder, Linda Ronstadt, Ray Charles, Neil Young, James Taylor, Neil Diamond, Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, Kenny Rogers, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams Jr., Dennis Hopper, Judy Collins, Charley Pride, the Oak Ridge Boys, Patti Page and Merle Haggard, most rarely seen on TV back then. Chris Harris comments: “I remember it was the Johnny Cash show that got em all here!!!! Wow...and John Darnall was the music director for that show.” John is a guy we’ve all worked for, and I’ve booked as a guitar player. His then-wife Beverly booked background vocals for the majority of sessions in Nashville for the past twenty-five years.<br /><br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref3" name="_edn3"><span style="font-size:85%;">[iii]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Thanks to the internet, I learned that Nicolette died in 1997, at the age of 45, of a cerebral hemorrhage.</span></p>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-90129638869760378422008-06-27T08:07:00.000-05:002009-01-08T12:16:59.532-06:00<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oXixQYnOstaSjKRbof8waGoacRcumUag6uSlf0F2IFwWk5YtquK9ZCL2_3DlRcNpoFxCetC6i__5iDjesQwIY2T9tDgLZkUV6Y5uMp3Zly29ccK1Oyt5xzDTMPM9_UqIDxkqgA/s1600-h/Wedding+party.jpeg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216550053653597474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oXixQYnOstaSjKRbof8waGoacRcumUag6uSlf0F2IFwWk5YtquK9ZCL2_3DlRcNpoFxCetC6i__5iDjesQwIY2T9tDgLZkUV6Y5uMp3Zly29ccK1Oyt5xzDTMPM9_UqIDxkqgA/s320/Wedding+party.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><strong>Thirtieth Anniversary CD Mix</strong><br />Liner Notes for Sam and Sara Jackson<br />June 14, 2008</span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Sara and I were twelve years old in 1965, but somehow we discovered a singer whose fame had developed in dark lounges and New York City music clubs. Maybe we had seen her 1965 TV special, <em>My Name is Barbra</em>. Her brother Matt watched Dick Cavett more than Johnny Carson, so we probably missed her on the Tonight Show. <em>Funny Girl</em> didn’t arrive in the theater until 1968. We were young but our imaginations were exceedingly romantic and Barbra Streisand’s passionate voice expressed our yearnings. We used to lie on the floor in the study with our heads between the stereo speakers and sing our hearts out along with Barbra. I think her best album was The Third Album although the album from her second TV special, <em>Color Me Barbra</em>, was pretty wonderful too, and Sara loved all the high-fashion costume changes.<br /><br />Matt and Danny Jackson were friends, so when Danny’s younger brother Sam showed up at Pepperdine as a college freshman, we got to know him too. These older guys strongly influenced our musical tastes, and I doubt I would know of Fred Neil if not for them. He’s best remembered for his songs “The Dolphins” and “Everybody’s Talkin’ At Me” (which gained huge popularity on the soundtrack of <em>Midnight Cowboy</em> as sung by Harry Nilsson). Fred went on to do more than sing about dolphins; he started a foundation for their protection. With his deep, raspy, masculine voice, he was the most grown-up sounding artist on the musical scene at that time. A younger but equally poignant voice was that of Tim Hardin, who never became as famous as his songs, especially “If I Were a Carpenter” which has been covered by dozens of other artists.<br /><br />The Beatles had already established themselves as a phenomenon in 1964. The writing of Lennon and McCartney is represented here by Judy Collins (“In My Life”). Richie Havens interprets George Harrison's “Here Comes the Sun”. The Beatles were attracting screaming audiences across America, and our friend Janice Hahn made it into their Hollywood Bowl performance. If I recall correctly, she even went backstage. I remember her saying she couldn’t hear the music, the audience was so loud. I was jealous. In 1964 I stayed up really late one night with Beth Ross because the radio d.j. promised to play three Beatles songs back to back.<br /><br />The California music scene was underestimated by some of us who lived there. The Beach Boys were too popular and happy for those who preferred looking in the shadows for more obscure musical gems. <em>Pet Sounds</em> by the Beach Boys has been referenced over the decades as a seminal work influencing many other musicians, including the Beatles themselves. They said their <em>Sgt. Pepper</em> album was an attempt at competition with Brian Wilson’s genius. So in retrospect I honor Brian’s work with “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”. The song reminds me of all the years of yearning that Sara and Sam experienced as they wondered if they would ever have the privilege of being married.<br /><br />Bob Dylan was always lurking on the edge of my consciousness. I don’t think I ever bought an album of his, although I have memories of hearing a few of them in other settings. I remember one particular one night with John Scheifele and Dave Rice in Kaiserslautern, Germany when we heard the <em>Concert for Bangladesh</em> and Bob Dylan croaking out “It’s a Hard Rain Gonna Fall”. But that’s not a part of your history. I did always think of Sara, though, when I heard Richie Havens sing Dylan’s “Just Like a Woman”.<br /><br />Why did we find woodsmen and railroad workers such compelling figures? Doubtless because of Gordon Lightfoot. His “Canadian Railroad Trilogy” painted such a romantic picture of the northern woods, the visionaries that connected the east coast to the west (pre-environmentalism), and the tender hearts hidden within those strong, rough laborers. I always think of Sam and Sara when I hear Gordon Lightfoot, not only because I know they loved his music, but also because they seemed to inhabit the images in my mind as I would listen. (It didn’t hurt that Sam actually went to work on the railroad for awhile during those years, and grew the requisite mountain man beard.) Particularly in “The Way I Feel”, Lightfoot describes the tides of closeness and separateness that Sara and Sam experienced through the years of their courtship.<br /><br />1967 was a very good year for music. Peter Paul & Mary were often playing on the stereo in the family room at the Budlong house. Their <em>Album 1700</em> contained a song which captures a feeling of those times for me like no other: “Bob Dylan’s Dream”. I wasn’t really old enough yet to have the kind of relationships the song describes, but I could certainly imagine and long for them. I’m not sure how I discovered Judy Collins’ album <em>Wildflowers</em> but I feel sure it was Matt, because he was my musical guide throughout this period. Judy and the other artists on that album created such a specific and elegant mood, an environment of sound. She was the first artist I was aware of who had the nerve to use classical instruments on a pop album. A funny memory connected with <em>Wildflowers</em> was our booth at the AWP Gift Fair, where I played this music and burnt candles we had made, as well as incense. I think we scared the AWP ladies a little with this reminder of the hippie craziness going on in the outside world. We raised $80 for the Pepperdine scholarship fund that day with our sales of cookies and candles.<br /><br />Somewhere during these years Sara and Marilyn and I became involved with the Campus Evangelism movement. There was a fresh wind blowing through the spiritual lives of the college students we knew and some older men who were our teachers and guides. We attended prayer meetings, Bible studies and weekend seminars (including one all the way out in Dallas) where we were confronted with the claims of Jesus on our lives. “Is Jesus your Lord?” No one had asked us that before, and having the opportunity to invite Him to be not only Savior but Lord of every part of our lives was an incredibly significant turning point for us.<br /><br />“Crystal Blue Persuasion” was on the radio one night as Stephen Bennett drove Sara, Marilyn and me to one of those Bible studies. The composer later acknowledged that he wrote this song after reading some of the prophecies in the Book of Revelation. I was amazed that the movement of the Holy Spirit in those days was extending to the radio airwaves. “Oh Happy Day” was a hit by the Edwin Hawkins Singers, a black church choir. Judy Collins had a radio hit with “Amazing Grace” and Norman Greenbaum put his trust in the “Spirit in the Sky”.<br /><br />We close the first CD with a song that expresses the hope and determination of political commitment. Joan Baez had married an anti-war protestor named David Harris who was serving prison time for his convictions. As she raised their child and waited for his release, she wrote “A Song for David” to express her faith in their love and the importance of what he was doing. That kind of sacrifice of the whole person for ideals captured our hearts. We were challenged by books like Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s <em>The Cost of Discipleship</em> and William Stringfellow’s <em>My People is the Enemy</em>. In those days Sam decided to move to New Jersey to work with inner city children. He couldn’t have imagined then that he would be able to help children around the world later on through his commitment to World Vision. I thank God that not everyone who came through the ‘Sixties ended up disillusioned, cynical and self-centered.<br /><br />Because of Matt’s research in record store aisles, we had already met Joni Mitchell before her first album was released. “Our House” represents a whole conglomeration of people and memories and sensibilities. Written and performed by Graham Nash, “Our House” describes the brief partnership of Joni and Graham during the glory days of Crosby, Stills and Nash. Matt took us to a concert at the Greek Theater where CSN and their friend Neil Young opened for Joni. It was their third gig, their second having been at Woodstock.<br /><br />Joni also spent some time in the life of James Taylor, which partnership is captured musically in “Long Ago & Far Away” as well as in her album <em>Blue</em>. (Oh, you sweet baby James in your suspenders on the cover of <em>Mud Slide Slim & the Blue Horizon</em>.) In 1971 Cat Stevens appeared on the scene. That fall Sara and I were sophomores in college. She returned from Lipscomb for a visit and she and Sam and Danny Blair and I spent an evening in the Jackson apartment on Chester Place listening to “Wild World” and “Hardheaded Woman” (along with an album by Fevertree which I found again a few years ago through Napster and have now lost again). I always thought of Sara and Sam when I heard Cat singing about “one who will make me do my best…and when I find my hardheaded woman, I know the rest of my life will be blessed.” The Young family so emphasized “potential” and I knew Sam had it in him to rise to that challenge.<br /><br />“Never Ending Song of Love” was one of my favorite radio hits that year and introduced me to Delaney and Bonnie and their album <em>Motel Shot</em>. I was fascinated by the fact that they recorded that album in motel rooms and public meeting spaces where there might be an old, ratty piano. One percussion instrument credited on the album was an empty briefcase. The songs are just as raw and real as at a late night jam. Oddly, I just this week came across a documentary from that era called <em>Festival Express</em> where Delaney is featured. It’s an uneven film with some tedious and great moments, chronicling a cross-country Canadian rock festival tour with amazing acts like Janis Joplin, the Band and the Grateful Dead.<br /><br />What an amazing year was 1972, when I discovered Jackson Browne. He opened for Joni Mitchell at the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion in L.A. and, just months later, in the Jahrhundertshalle in Frankfurt, Germany. I was spending the summer and fall in Europe and Joni provided the perfect soundtrack with her album <em>Blue</em>. Representing that year is “All I Want” which features Joni on dulcimer. I also discovered Kenny Loggins, who had teamed up with Jim Messina from Poco, one of the groups that Matt was following because they morphed out of the Buffalo Springfield. “Danny’s Song” had more fame from Anne Murray’s Nashville-ized shortened version with strings and pedal steel, but Kenny’s cut with twice the verses reveals more of the Zeitgeist with his mention of getting high and astrological signs. I loved the Loggins & Messina album <em>Full Sail</em> which followed this, so 1973 is represented by “Watching the River Run”.<br /><br />What a culture shock for me, to return from Heidelberg, Germany to Malibu, California! Sara was at Pepperdine now, her family was enjoying the Adamson house on the beach, and she and Sam and Danny and I spent occasional time together. We all drove up to Hayfork to visit Danny and Sally in northern California, and we attended another Joni Mitchell concert together. That was another culture shock. Joni had made a jump that was natural for her but jarring for me and much of her audience, from the hippie princess in leather and velvet to a rockin’ mama in heels and makeup with an entire band behind her, Tom Scott and the L.A. Express.<br /><br />It took some doing for me to make that adjustment. “Help Me” from the album <em>Court and Spark</em> represents 1974. I remember buying that album and taking it to Sara’s, sitting on the floor in Marilyn’s bedroom where the stereo was and actually working at getting my mind around it. I really wanted to grow with this artist who had been such a creative inspiration and role model for me, but it was a challenge to make the leap from acoustic guitars to saxes and drums and Jaco Pastorius on a fretless bass.<br /><br />I can’t explain the lack of a song from 1975 unless it’s because I was spending all my musical time in Nashville at the Koinonia Bookstore, sitting on the floor singing along to the music of a band called Dogwood every Saturday night. (I got to be “Dogwood for a Day” when Annie had just delivered their first baby and I filled in for her at a gig in Abilene.) They focused their ministry on families and became nationally known as Steve and Annie Chapman, enjoying a musical career with the Dobson ministry. In the meantime both of them have written many books, and both their children (Nathan Chapman and Heidi Chapman Beall) have become professional musicians in their own right.<br /><br />I had moved to Nashville in the fall of 1974 with a sendoff from Sara and Marilyn that included an eight-track tape player for my yellow Camaro. I drove all the way listening to James Taylor’s album <em>Walking Man</em> – but that’s my memory, not the Jacksons’. I spent a year at Yale Divinity School but returned to Nashville in 1976 where the music business beckoned. Some of my musical colleagues opened by ears to new music, and one of those California artists I had missed, along with the Eagles, was Linda Ronstadt. “Hasten Down the Wind” from the album of the same title reminded me of Sara and Sam because their dance of separation and togetherness still continued. I also added “Give One Heart” because it’s such a happy affirmation of love amidst so much unfulfilled yearning.<br /><br />We had all loved James Taylor since his first Apple-released album, <em>Sweet Baby James</em>. I remember a New Year’s Eve party at Sara and Marilyn’s Pasadena apartment where I had brought my friend Marty McCall. We drove straight from Nashville, 40 hours, for a few days’ post-Christmas vacation. We danced to JT’s <em>In the Pocket</em> and drank champagne that night supplied by Gary Baucum, the only one of us present that night with a paying job. (the rest of us were graduate sudents except for Marty the musician.) “Golden Moments” memorializes that visit. We got up the next morning and walked to the Rose Parade down the block, then came back to the apartment for omelettes.<br /><br />The next time I was with you both was probably your wedding. The last three songs in this collection are a summary of the journey of your love, your coming together and parting so many times, the possibilities you had to face that you might never make a life together, and the final decision that you would. Although “The Water is Wide” could be heard as a bitter lament, I hear the determination and commitment of a partnership that God has blessed with longevity. Yes, we have all experienced the truth that feelings come and go. “Oh love is gentle and love is kind, the sweetest flower when first it’s new, but love grows old and waxes cold and fades away like morning dew.” But the final declaration is one of hope and confidence. “Give me a ship that can carry two, and both shall row, my love and I.”<br /><br />Thank you, Sara and Sam, for sharing your lives with each other in our presence. Thank you for all the battles you have fought to stay together and create a family and a home. Thank you for being our friends, and for making our lives so much richer. And thank you for celebrating with us these thirty years of covenant relationship, and nearly a lifetime of memories.</span></div><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216550369046811954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEird3qzoqE5KeMvvufCbouNFpAaBYWRUDTb6ZCqKZmo_ZsvA6z9kfe1EXicRJMl_1aqwL9hpwckHs3PGi5kKu-DvLbDDVT0cPMK-YQbE2JKs4gqm7q4VFKjMZ81OzOl2-LyxtUFGQ/s320/Bridesmaids+2.jpg" border="0" /></p></div>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1158153664394592802006-09-13T08:11:00.003-05:002009-01-15T12:34:59.167-06:00<div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>APPENDIX</strong></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">(Continued)</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>BOB DYLAN'S DREAM</strong><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Bob Dylan- M. Whitmark & Sons</em></span> <span style="font-size:78%;">ASCAP</span><br /><br />While riding on a train goin' west,<br />I fell asleep for to take my rest.<br />I dreamed a dream that made me sad,<br />Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.<br /><br />With half damp eyes I stared to the room<br />Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon,<br />Where we together weathered many a storm,<br />Laughin' and singin' 'til the early hours of the morn.<br /><br />By the old wooden stove where our hats were hung,<br />Our words were told and our songs were sung;<br />Where we longed for nothin' and were satisfied<br />Talkin' and a jokin' about the world outside.<br /><br />With haunted hearts through the heat and cold,<br />We never thought we could get very old;<br />We thought we could sit forever in fun<br />Though our chances really were a million to one.<br /><br />As easy as it was to tell black from white,<br />It wasn't all that easy to tell wrong from right;<br />Our choices were few and the thought never hit<br />That the road we traveled would ever shatter and split.<br /><br />How many a year has passed and gone,<br />And many a gamble has been lost and won;<br />And many a road taken by many a first friend,<br />And each one of them I've never seen again.<br /><br />I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,<br />That we could sit simply in that room once again;<br />Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat,<br />I'd give it all gladly if our lives could be like that.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"></div><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/Album%201700.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/Album%201700.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center">This album was released in 1967. This song says so much about the feeling of the times.</p><p align="center">~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~</p><p align="left"><strong>My Friend, J. C. Moore<br /></strong><br />He was a real friend—<br />The kind who accepted you like you were,<br />Who loved you in spite of your faults.<br />He would speak frankly to you when he thought you were wrong,<br />But you know he told you what he thought because he loved you too much to deceive you.<br />He loved the excitement of a challenge,<br />The joy of pioneering.<br />He was not afraid of life.<br />He kept on learning and growing and making new friends.<br />He loved persons more than things,<br />Although much of his career was spent in handling money and building buildings.<br />He never lost her perspective nor failed to see the forest as well as the trees.<br />There was a jaunty spirit about him which led him to ski and to wear a tam and ride a bicycle.<br />He was willing to help others achieve their goals, and often sat back and let them take the credit for work he did.<br />He believed in that motto, “It is amazing how much you can accomplish if you don’t care who receives the credit.”<br />He turned some people off with his frankness,<br />But he communicated with many more who found his straightforwardness refreshing.<br />He was a self-starter, an innovator who created novel approaches to solving old problems.<br />He would have made a reputation as an international banker or a professional in the State Department,<br />But he chose the mission field and Christian education,<br />And his contribution to thousands will live on and on.<br />He chose the better part,<br />And I am thankful to have been privileged to call him friend.<br /><br />—<em>M. Norvel Young</em></p><p align="center">~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~</p><p align="left"><strong>Naomi to Sam</strong> Summer, 1972<br /><br />this is dedicated to<br />good old Sam<br />who has<br />through times of emotional ups and downs<br />romantic highs and suicidal lows<br />been there.<br />consistent—<br />if rather independently morose—<br />and who most certainly has<br />brightened many an otherwise-dark afternoon<br />by sitting<br />with slightly furrowed brown<br />in the driver’s seat of various and sundry<br />(though mostly just old)<br />(or at least volkswagen)<br />cars.<br /><br />i won’t write down specifics<br />(though heaven knows i am plagued with such<br />a memory and an given quite happily to<br />over-sentimentality and carved or decoupaged<br />boxes full of bits of rocks and pocket<br />watches that never plan to work again.)<br />we will be concerned mostly here<br />with<br />the colors of people and days<br />six o’clocks in the mornings<br />and children’s faces.<br /><br />(the rousing worship services, family get-togethers,<br />first-time-for-everything’s, prayers, music,<br />accidents and feelings i believe will just<br />have to wait)<br /><br />if you can’t remember exactly where i fit in<br />with licorice and hummingbirds<br />please don’t worry about it<br />it was only after reading a suicide note from<br />Rodgers and Hammerstein<br />that i looked up<br />in despair<br />and noticed<br />in wonder<br />the color of your eyes.<br /><br />So hard to break down barriers<br />Verses hide better than prose<br />Long days instead of talks<br />Barbed granite in fear of affection.<br />But it’s there.<br />If it’s taken the long way around<br />my goodness what a fine ride<br />and who’s to argue<br />It wasn’t so boring<br />Certainly quite fine.<br />bird feeders and Topanga canyon<br />(oh, no, Mr. Jackson! Are we going to<br />Topanga Canyon again?)<br />Are we going to run out of gas again,<br />Mr. Jackson?<br />Oh, no, we’re going to run out of gas again, kids.<br />Get your walking shoes on.)<br />deserve a thank you now and then.<br /><br />Thank you, she said blushingly.<br /><br />It takes so long to know the feeling of a person.<br />Thank you for those times.<br /><br />— <em>N.F. Harper</em></p><p align="left">Below are Sara and Sam as they leave from the Beach House on their honeymoon in 1979. They dated on and off for eleven years, having met when she was 15 and he was 18. Sara saw the "potential" (a favorite family word) in Sam, who has raised more than $50 million for World Vision in his career with them. Sam was honored as the 2006 Wenatchee High School Graduate of the Year.</p><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/79%2008%20Sara%20&%20Sam.0.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/79%2008%20Sara%20%26%20Sam.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><strong>~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~</strong></p><p align="left"><strong>untitled (Naomi’s dream)</strong> Summer, 1972<br /><br />Hold on.<br /><br />A farm! A farm!<br />We’ll have a farm!<br />Out near the forest<br />lots of land<br />a cow for milk<br />plants in rows of fertilizer<br />and sheep<br />and a farm! a farm!<br /><br />I’ll spin thread and embroider<br />and crochet and sew<br />and paint and cook and make the<br />beds<br />quilts and heavy wool blankets<br />with your boots under the big<br />wooden bedstead<br />next to mine.<br /><br />One quilt<br />on our bed<br />will be the star pattern<br />made from<br />Sam’s blue nightshirt flannel<br />and Danny’s unbleached muslin Birthday shirt<br />dark flowered calico from Gwen’s dress<br />and red white and blue curtains from L.A.<br /><br />We’ll have Danny’s pottery<br />with plants Nancy sent<br />and candles we made one night<br />in the kitchen, before the winter came<br />huge, dark candles<br />browns and greens<br />made in large commercial ham cans<br />David got for us from his job back in L.A.<br />and a fine stereo, in a rustic<br />dark stained book case<br />made partly of tree stumps.<br /><br />We’ll have a huge home-made rag rug in<br />the middle of the front room floor<br />and that floor will glow on Saturday mornings<br />dark and shiny from a waxing<br />two chairs and a couch made by Matt<br />with cushions sewn by Sally and I<br />and huge pillows to lie on at night<br />in front of the fire<br />with Danny playing the guitar and singing<br />or all singing, or praying and<br />Sally knitting in the corner<br />me crocheting a doily<br />and Gwen, mending Danny’s pants<br /><br />Upstairs we would have four rooms.<br />One for Danny and Gwen –<br />probably the most artistic<br />hanging candles,<br />paintings, ink drawings done by Danny<br />(one Gwenniepooh etching)<br />Deep rich curtains, and bedspread<br />one easel<br />a wooden chair with lots of pillows<br />a full length mirror<br />and one round stained glass window.<br /><br />Matt and Sally’s room would be<br />simple, messy twice a day<br />(before and after Sally’s two cleanings)<br />and blue.<br />Feminine, simple decoupages, knit pillows<br />and an old dresser with a mirror<br />a simple bedspread, dark flowered curtains<br />a pipe on the cedar chest<br />a knitting satchel on the floor<br />and a pair of Matt’s huge boots<br />near the bed<br /><br />Next door<br />a huge, wooden bed with a home-made<br />fluffy quilt and patchwork pillowcases<br />drawings on the wall<br />dark curtains<br />one small table, with a doily<br />and two boxes on it,<br />one dark, containing memories and<br />pennies, and the other, a music box.<br />A guitar in the corner.<br /><br />A bath next to<br />the Study, a huge, airy room with<br />one large desk – always crowded<br />with papers and memos<br />coffee cups and cigarette butts<br />rows of bookshelves from the ceiling down<br />with sections for<br />Danny, Matt, Danny,<br />music, art,<br />movies, plays, Religion, crafts –<br />one index-file-card catalogue by Naomi<br />a big furry rug and a fireplace<br />cleaned once a week,<br />messy third day after.<br /><br />The kitchen would be huge and warm<br />especially close to Christmas<br />Sally’s pregnant figure, moving between<br />the shelves and the stove, bumping and<br />laughing with Gwen and Naomi<br />rolled-up sleeves and a lock of hair<br />falling down<br />filled up by prayer and pin money<br />from the job Sal has till when she<br />needs to quit.<br /><br />A loom in the front room, always filled<br />paintings on the wall<br />an old, huge upright piano with a scarf<br />over its top<br />an ancient Singer sewing machine<br />and lots of flowers from the garden<br /><br />Special schedules<br />prayer – eating – Bible study –<br />reading – singing<br />Mail to go out, laundry<br />trips to town once a week<br />in an old timey Volkswagon<br /><br />Working with each other<br />trying to build<br />deeper faith<br />developed talent<br />being<br />open, to the Lord<br />and<br />each other.<br /><br />Years<br />to develop<br />understanding<br />unity<br />love<br />books<br />a home.<br /><br />A home to leave<br />(maybe to others)<br />to go out,<br />into the world<br />prepared.<br /><br />— <em>N.F. Harper</em><br /><br />“It’s – just like you’d want it. It’s so perfect.” — Danny Blair</p><p align="center">~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~</p><p align="left"><strong>Grandmommie’s Cornbread </strong>1940s<br /><br />Mix/ 4 cups cornmeal<br />Sift 2 cups flour<br />2 ½ tsp. soda<br />4 tsp. salt<br />6 tsp. baking powder<br />Mix can refrigerated for some time.<br /><br />Preheat oven to 450º.<br />Add to 1 cup of mix:<br />1 egg<br />1 cup buttermilk<br />Stir quickly, don’t beat.<br />Melt bacon grease in seasoned cast iron skillet in oven.<br />Pour into mixture, stir just a couple of stirs.<br />Bake on top shelf at 450º for 20 minutes.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Naomi’s Coconut Cream Pie</strong> 1973<br /><br />¾ c sugar<br />1/3 c flour<br />1 tsp salt<br />2 c milk<br />3 egg yolks, slightly beaten<br />3 T butter<br />1 tsp vanilla<br />1 1/3 c flaked coconut<br /><br />Combine sugar, flour and salt; gradually add milk. Cook over medium heat until thickened, stirring constantly. Cook additional two minutes. Blend small amount of hot mixture into egg yolks, then add eggs to pan. Cook one more minute. Remove from heat. Add butter and vanilla. Cool to lukewarm, then add cocoanut. Pour into baked pie shell. </p><strong><p align="left"><br />John Hutchison’s Senegalese Soup</strong> 1975<br /><br />2 cups chicken broth<br />½ cup sour cream/yogurt<br />½ cup peanut butter<br />½ cup applesauce<br />1 cup milk or half & half<br />Season with curry to taste as it heats; also onion salt and garlic salt if desired, ½ tsp. each. Garnish with sliced avocado and shredded coconut.</p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">THE END</span></p><p align="left"></p><p align="left"></span></p>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1156170755074223382006-08-21T09:13:00.001-05:002008-06-27T09:25:25.366-05:00<div align="center"><a name="_Toc139702715"></a><a name="_Toc129427198"></a><a name="_Toc122423379"></a><a name="_Toc122416649"></a><a name="_Toc122223932"></a><a name="_Toc121501746"></a><a name="_Toc117312408"></a><a name="_Toc116040246"></a><a name="_Toc115944936"></a><a name="_Toc115693564"></a><a name="_Toc115664917"></a><a name="_Toc115484987"></a><a name="_Toc114922592"></a><a name="_Toc114905799"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Church in Nashville</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Now that I was back in the “Buckle on the Bible Belt,” I had figured that I would return to my old ways, showing up at church every chance I got. But I had changed, and times had changed, in the passage of only one year. Now I was a student at Vanderbilt Divinity School (which I’m sad to say I despised, judging it inferior in comparison with Yale), working and living at the Hospital Hospitality House, singing late nights in the studio, and somehow additionally carrying on a new friendship with Marty McCall. Not too much time left over for church. I didn’t know yet to be on the lookout for my extremist tendencies, so I overreacted to my immersion in the life of the mind the previous year and turned now to the life of the emotions, with a heavy emphasis on relationships.<br />I wrote an essay for a class at Vanderbilt. This isn’t the final version, which I can’t locate, but an initial draft. It’s definitely revealing of “where I was at” regarding my spiritual life. My brief time at Yale had left its mark on my language and my thinking, as is apparent.<br />“What is it about ‘low church’ worship that is so discordant and irritating, if not merely disappointing? Is it not the inappropriate moments of banality, the intrusion of commonplace concerns and emotions into the realm of what we sense as numinous, holy, awesome? I will never forget my first conscious response to the low church mentality, when at summer camp there was a night-time baptism, and almost before the hymn with words of rejoicing and praise had ceased, the camp director announced that the hot chocolate was ready. Not even a moment of silence marked a reverence for the new birth that had just been accomplished. An extended period of exultation would have been as foreign to that gathering as would a coped and mitered bishop and a marble baptismal font. I have since forgiven the camp director, but the impression made on my worshiping consciousness that night has been deepened by layers of repeatedly incongruous business-as-usual responses to the presence of the holy.<br />“As I continued along a semi-conscious path toward spiritual integrity, I found myself seeking the fellowship of people for whom worship was not only a vital experience, but for whom that experience was not embarrassing. I sought people who were capable of discussing their response to the Word of God, rather than the dynamism of the preacher or lack thereof; to the love of the Lord, rather than the beauty of the singing or the building or the day. People with whom, though it might be difficult, it was important and possible to communicate awe, and gratitude, and excitement, and acceptance, and — blessedness — in the presence of God. People who knew how to demonstrate their awareness of the shocking reality of worship, of exhortation from the Word of God, of being with one another before Him.<br />“I went to the ‘high’ churches and found: a respect for ritual and mystery, dignity, and infinite sensitivity to ‘taste’ and appropriateness. I found an awareness of the power of drama, music, visual arts and poetry, to communicate to more than the intellect, to involve the whole person. I found a sense of the weightiness, not only of standing in the presence of God, but of standing in the stream of the tradition of faith, the heaviness of the responsibility to think, to know, to understand, and to consider the meanings of words and actions.<br />“But I found, too, an uncomfortable, discordant separation between church and street, sanctuary and classroom, communion and meal, worship and party. The presence of God was too easily localized. The language was too easily set within tight boundaries and its use limited severely and strictly to ‘religious’ moments. The attitude of worship, like a pulpit gown or choir robe, or chasuble, or cassock and surplice, was shed at the appointed time and not taken up again outside the doors of the sanctuary. The addition of ritual, language, aesthetic sensitivity, and dignity to the secular mind was a temporary rather than a deeply transforming experience.<br />“From time to time along the path, I turned to the churches that are lower than ‘low’, that hearken back perhaps more sentimentally than accurately to the meetings of early disciples from house to house. And there I found them – people who could comfortably and often appropriately use their language, their awareness of His presence, their worshipful attitude, their consciousness of God’s particular, complex and all-encompassing claims on the details of their lives, to communicate and experience a fairly constant and consistent and livable, usable, integrated life of relationship with one another, as mediated by the Holy Spirit of God through His Son.<br />“They are those for whom awe in the presence of the holy is becoming a daily, hourly, expressible and exciting reality.”<br /></span><br /><div align="center"><a name="_Toc113534888"></a><a name="_Toc122416650"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Oh, What a Birthday Surprise…</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">All the instruments had been recorded, and it so happened that we were recording the vocals for our first Fireworks album on my birthday, August 5, 1977. We were in the Gold Mine, Chris Christian’s basement studio (he and wife Shanan lived in the house above it) and there was some kind of technical difficulty that caused us to be unable to use the vocal booth in the basement for awhile. So Brown set up a mic by the piano in the living room and we recorded my solo vocal, “Talks with My Father,” a beautiful song that Marty had written but generously allowed me to sing. It suddenly occurred to me that this was the birthday gift to surpass all birthday gifts – my first solo on record. It didn’t go as well as I had dreamed, but then reality never does if one tends toward perfectionism. The harmonies that Marty and Gary sang on the chorus are still some of my favorites. And Marty’s lyrics, as usual, were fantastic.</span><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Holy blood of Jesus,<br />Spirit, gently seize us<br />Brightly light the paths of night<br />And guide our hearts to oneness.</span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A few months later, Fireworks went on the road without me. I began to learn the difference between soul and spirit, since my spirit was at peace with this decision, but my soul was suffering. I was giving up my dream! How could God ask that of me? Although it was a fiery trial, I knew even then that it wouldn’t have been good for my heart to be the only woman traveling with four men, especially because I loved them and I was so yearning for someone to love me. Along with Marty and Gary, we also had a drummer, Lanny Avery, who was also a philosopher and watercolor artist, and Chris Harris, a Texas bass player who later went on to work with me for six years at Bob Farnsworth’s jingle company, Hummingbird Productions, and then become a producer in his own right.<br />The night I told them all goodbye, I felt like Dorothy saying goodbye to the Tin Woodsman, the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion and going back to Kansas. I thought I was “giving them up forever” in my dramatic way, but by grace I’ve been able to maintain some form of relationship with all of them except for Lanny. He married, became an insurance broker, had twins, and moved to Florida years ago. I still enjoy seeing some of his watercolors hanging on my walls, along with a painting by Vickie McCall, Marty’s wife, and three works by Danny Blair. What an abundance of artistic talent has surrounded my life. I’m deeply grateful to have such a rich atmosphere to enjoy. It speaks to me of the infinite creativity, abundance and life-giving generosity of our God.</span><br /><div align="center"><a name="_Toc122416651"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Postscript</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">When I moved back to Nashville to attend my second year of Divinity School at Vanderbilt, I fully intended to enjoy the Nashville fellowship, get my spiritual feet under me more firmly, and then return to Yale to finish the third year of my Master’s. But that fall of 1976, soon after I arrived in town, I got the promised call from Bob Farnsworth. Could I sing on a session, a commercial he and his best friend Mike Hudson were producing for Home Sweet Home, Chris Christian’s jingle company? That was the fateful night when I met Marty McCall. I had met Gary Pigg earlier, and the three of us were hired for that evening’s work. We had a blend, energy and creativity that was instantly recognized, and were hired for more jingles, then backgrounds on ten albums being produced that year by Chris for Word Records.<br />One of those albums was the freshman effort of a young girl named Amy Grant. Chris’s engineer was Brown Bannister, the guy Danny and I had sung with in Janice Hahn’s wedding. Brown was a youth leader at the Belmont Church where Amy’s family were members, and Amy was in his youth group. She made a recording of some songs she had written and sung for her classmates at Harpeth Hall prep school, and Brown played the tape for Chris, who played it for Word executives, who gave Chris the go-ahead to produce an album on her. The rest is certainly history. It was in this way that I found myself singing on Amy Grant’s first album. A couple of years later, I wrote a song called “Say Once More” with a friend (I hadn’t met him yet in this telling) and handed it to Brown who chose it for her third album, <em>Never Alone</em>. Marty McCall had encouraged me to write while we were in Fireworks together, and three of my songs appeared on their second album, after I had left the group.<br />Back in high school at the Dionne Warwick concert, the night I met Burt Bacharach and decided I wanted to grow up and be a background singer, I could have never dreamed or imagined that I could actually do such a thing, or by what a circuitous route it would happen. This opportunity availed itself and my Yale friends said, “Do it! School will always be here, an opportunity in the music business won’t wait.” And I took the advice of youth and left the Master of Divinity program, never to return.<br />I did work in the music business for ten years after this, singing in the studio and writing songs while office managing a jingle company that also produced records and theater on the side. At that point I determined I had my fill of the demands of being a studio singer. (The turning point came when I was standing for the third hour in the studio singing about “feminine protection” at 4:00 in the morning. That was my last jingle session.) Then followed the joy of producing my own music in three recordings over several years.<br />What an amazement and a blessing all this has been. I’ve had my regrets from time to time that I never finished that Divinity degree, but have still never determined that there was a career I was sure I wanted for which the degree would be needed. Meanwhile, I’ve been educated by a wide variety of “day jobs”: business-to-business ad agency; neighborhood newspaper; church; personal assistant to two musicians; assistant to the rabbis at a Reform Jewish temple; medical ethics office; and currently assistant to the Dean of Students of a medical school.<br />But this story must end somewhere, and so I determined to end it where my journaling began, in 1977-78. In the words of Neil Young, “Old man, look at my life: twenty-four and there’s so much more…”</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/77%2008%20Singin"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/77%2008%20Singin%27.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Appendix</strong></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>7851 Budlong Avenue</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Spring, 1971<br /><br />And now the time has come<br />to remember so many things.<br />Family.<br />Tall Christmas trees and old gas heaters<br />(“Patty Play Pals” with singed hair)<br />bathing babies in the attic<br />and draining the water through the floorboards<br />so that cracks came in the dining room ceiling<br /><br />Slumber parties<br />the guest rooms, always somehow eerie and forbidding<br />the strange old day bed with faded red tapestry and too many springs<br />musty attics and moldy damp basement rooms<br />mysteries and always a little fear<br />but also elegance and comfort<br />and the warm feeling of home<br /><br />Sunday afternoon naps<br />and then someone in the hallway brushing their hair<br />the special dressing room, like something in a story<br />watching old movies or Saturday cartoons<br />piled up in bed with that amazingly heavy pillow at your back<br />or just taking refuge from the hordes at a reception or a dinner<br />hiding in the Bedroom<br /><br />Shining dark wood and silver, and smiling faces<br />across the dining room table<br />running back and forth from the kitchen<br /><br />Mud in the gardens<br />the avocado tree with terrific drooping branches<br />cherry trees in bloom<br />hundreds of tall daisies, pine cones<br />the peacocks once upon a time<br />and still the parrots<br />Stonewall Jackson and Kettle<br />some parakeets and once a turtle<br />numerous kittens<br />and Buckwheat<br /><br />Plush wine carpet, old stained rugs<br />and one floor upstairs that wasn’t seen for year<br />because it was always covered with clothes<br /><br />Rearranging rooms, repainting and antiquing<br />never being satisfied for long<br /><br />Windows that always banged<br />windows that always stuck<br />the clatter of the screen door,<br />the screech of the backdoor springs<br />the unmistakable sound of the key in the lock<br />and the kitchen door swishing open<br /><br />The impossibility of getting up the stairs<br />without squeaking (or at least ankles popping)<br /><br />Sara’s hard bed and MariLynn’s cluttered one<br />the king-size in the master Bedroom that seemed enormous<br />(the bed in the wall of the study for when you were sick)<br /><br />A strange parade of art work<br />the awful bust of Sara (with white bird strategically placed atop it)<br />the fiery inferno above Matt’s bed<br />the “real William Russell”<br />Eli and Samuel in the Bedroom<br />the Family in the breakfast room<br />and the Children lined up over the mantle<br /><br />Watching Dickie Cavett late at night in the breakfast room<br />or William F. Buckley or whatever else was Worth Seeing<br /><br />Classical music blaring from the bedroom<br />or, just as often, Youth-type noise<br />“listening to the stereo” at all hours of the day and night<br />(Sara stepping through the window instead of the door<br />to float around out on the front porch)<br /><br />Serving<br />at luncheons and teas and receptions and dinners and breakfasts<br />and whatever other imaginable social occasions<br />feeling official and important, with inside information<br />privileges as well as responsibilities<br /><br />Strange people wandering around in the guest rooms<br />sometimes invading the upstairs<br />demanding service, or being so invisible and<br />unobtrusive that they make you nervous anyway<br /><br />Football long ago in the front yard<br />(later, with Boyfriends, eating pie in front of the T.V.)<br />family games of volleyball<br />and always tennis<br />(old balls lurking the corners and backs of closets)<br /><br />Addressing hundreds of envelopes, sometimes in the Bedroom<br />at least once in the study while listening to “The Messiah”<br />the annual aroma of Dad Young’s cigars<br />and Grandmother Mattox’s face powder<br />typing papers and reports by the dozens<br />(an ancient scene – last minute homework being done in the family room<br />when we’re already late for school)<br /><br />Instant Breakfasts<br />hot fudge sundaes<br />black licorice, pretzels and popcorn, pistachios<br />diet drinks<br />saccharin<br />leftover Dining Hall everything<br /><br />Dreams, ambition, Potential<br />traumas both imagined and real<br />cool gray winters (sometimes rain)<br />and damp sunny summers<br />school and vacations<br />Parties and Seminars<br />College Kids<br />(who sometimes lowered themselves and became<br />Friends<br />but were usually Sub-Ts and their girls<br />or Homecoming-court-people or cool freaks<br />or just Older aloof heroes)<br /><br />Memories of people walking down the driveway<br />visions of those as yet unmet (and maybe an old one<br />or two) coming up<br /><br />Our dreams will be refocused<br />the center of our lives is shifting<br />but memories are precious,<br />and our world remains firm.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><div align="center">*~*~*~*</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><strong>Peter Pan Summer, 1972</strong><br /><br />At seven, with a<br />romantic and stage-struck little heart<br />I fell in love with Peter Pan<br />and when I had grown up a bit<br />(against my will) I told my<br />Momma one day that I really longed to<br />play Peter Pan. But not just him —<br />I wanted to be Wendy, and Tinkerbell,<br />and all the rest as well.<br />And she told me,<br />“Someday you’ll be all those things<br />to somebody.”<br />She knew that from experience.<br />She had played each role<br />in her lifetime:<br />the maker of magic and romance;<br />the mother and the comforter;<br />the bringer of joy and lightness.<br />With a tenderness that soothes.<br />and a strength that upholds, and<br />challenges, she’d served as a<br />leader, and shown the humility<br />of a follower. She’s stood for<br />other’s rights, and submitted herself<br />to God.<br />She has a playful, sweet spirit<br />that’s too often misunderstood;<br />a wit and intelligence that’s<br />sometimes left untapped. So many fine and<br />useful qualities – but<br />as is sadly common, because they<br />are a mother’s, they go unappreciated.<br />Perhaps most importantly (though one<br />hesitates to make such a judgment)<br />my Momma is a lover<br />of all God’s good gifts.<br />In this she will always speak to me<br />of love, and of God. And this, surely, is<br />most important.</div><div align="center"><br />*~*~*~*</div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><strong>Coming to Heidelberg</strong></div><div align="left"><strong></strong></div><div align="left">1972<br /><br />Coming to Heidelberg—<br />it was like coming home.<br />Things had changed in L.A.<br />Though there were still<br />many who remembered my Daddy’s name<br />most had forgotten how it felt<br />when he was quietly<br />loving people<br />and making life prettier, in his special way.<br /><br />That first Sunday morning<br />I walked into the room<br />where we Christians sometimes worship<br />and sat in the wooden pew<br />and felt the peace<br />in a place he helped to build.<br />The window overhead, round and violet<br />let in the morning-colored light<br />and recalled for me the stained glass he loved.<br />He’d even had stained glass for office windows<br />in the building that used to be<br />a broken-down, early California style<br />medieval market (that office, half-way<br />between the President and the People—<br />you knew that if you took your troubles there,<br />Things Got Done.)</div><div align="left"><br />They took those windows away when he was gone.<br />And the fairy-tale windows of the Frankfurt<br />building (he had a childlike Sense of Wonder<br />for all his practicality) and the rose-window<br />he rescued from a condemned old Spanish house<br />that set the mood of Friendship Hall.<br />(Did you know that used to be a parking lot?)<br /><br />Downstairs Wednesday night.<br />Sitting in a circle and encouraging one<br />another with psalms and hymns and spiritual<br />songs. In an adobe church building on the<br />high desert he’d wanted to put the pews<br />in a circle. He’s noticed that there’s not<br />much love involved in staring at a brother’s<br />back.<br /><br />You three are living now<br />in an apartment he designed.<br />Despite the flaws, I think you love it.<br />At his strongest, that’s the way he loved<br />people – the jobs he worked at always seemed<br />to show him the seamy side of humanity.<br />He dealt with money, but also with dishonesty<br />and laziness and irresponsibility;<br />people who couldn’t, or wouldn’t pay their<br />bills, do their jobs, love their families,<br />remember their God<br />and he managed to love them<br />and help them when they failed.<br />He failed so often too<br />and he knew it.<br /><br />I know he loved that staircase, because there<br />was one like it in the cabin we had in<br />Idyllwild. He knew the Christmas feeling<br />of seeing a little boy’s face peeking<br />between the banisters. And the picture<br />windows, especially the one of the kitchen<br />sink – (Did I tell you about the time he said,<br />“I like to do the dishes – all day I work<br />with unending problems, but when you finish<br />the dishes, they’re done.”) He wanted to see<br />the sky and the trees, didn’t want to forget<br />God’s first creations. I remember working<br />in the yard with him, like that day when Ted<br />and Danny and I raked the leaves, and<br />played with the Autumn.<br /><br />He’d love to see you living here.<br />There are stories of all the apartments he<br />fixed up for newly married people.<br />He loved to help them get settled, to make<br />an apartment feel right away like Home.<br />I helped him do that for Chip and Sharyn.<br /><br />And Todd. He loved little children;<br />whether it was the purity, or the promise,<br />or the warmth of the hugs, he loved them,<br />and most of the time they loved him back.<br /><br />I’ve lived in Moore Haus since May, and I’ve<br />watched the seasons change outside my window.<br />(Now that it’s cold I appreciate the<br />American-style warmth of the rooms, though<br />I’m sure Daddy mourned the passing of the<br />fireplaces, when Central Heating arrived.<br />Our fireplace was always blazing at the<br />cabin called Träumende, and even in our<br />house in L.A. where a fire was just for<br />magic and not for warmth.)<br /><br />I’ve come to love being at home in Heidelberg<br />as I imagine he did.<br />The sight of the plaque by the gate<br />at first impressed me with the finality of<br />death, which I sometimes forget<br />but life in Moore Haus only reminds me of<br />my Daddy in living ways.<br />The sparkly shadows on the Christmas-party<br />faces<br />the atmosphere of learning and community<br />in the library<br />classical music and dark wood panels –<br />the basement on a Sunday morning.<br />Living together<br />a family of friends.<br /><br />Coming to Heidelberg—<br />it was like coming home.</span> </div>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1155654982519339312006-08-15T09:34:00.001-05:002008-06-27T09:24:17.285-05:00<div align="center"><strong>L</strong><a name="_Toc111783136"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>ast Summer in Malibu</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The times, they were a’changin’. I had worked before – for a brief time in my mother’s library, and in the cafeteria. Now I needed to make some serious money. Mom’s secretary was Dell Weldon, wife of Pete who had the accident with me on his tandem bicycle years before. Dell reported to me that Pete informed her, “I think it’s time we let the kids buy their own vitamins.” That sort of summed up the life-cycle changes for me. Here are Dell and Pete in later years with Helen Young.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/Weldon,%20Pete%20&%20Dell%20&%20Helen.0.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/200/Weldon%2C%20Pete%20%26%20Dell%20%26%20Helen.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>I wrote a prayer: “I admit before You, Lord – You’ve made me precious to a lot of folks. One reason why I want to be precious to one person is so I can have him with me wherever I am. You’ve kept me moving so much! I have to keep loving and being loved by <em>groups</em> – and then I leave them. What is Your will here?”<br />We return to the narrative from my journal, written in 1979-80 and reflecting back on divinity school days. “I went home for the summer, and proceeded to hibernate emotionally for the next three months. I lived with Momma and worked in the Payson Library as a pretend professional. What a joke. (The only real professional thing was the bucks, which all went directly to Vanderbilt the next fall.) […and the one ‘faculty meeting’ I attended, feeling like an imposter about to be discovered and thrown out.]<br />“I don’t remember my relationship to the girls that summer. Marilyn and Sara were living in an apartment in Pasadena and going to Fuller Seminary for a counseling degree. Caren Houser I remember only once from that summer. She and Kenny Waters and I went to church once together and afterward, while we were eating, I complained in my new Yalie tone of voice about how June Nichols [a Bible teacher from Church on the Way who had come to Belmont the year before to teach about women’s submission] just didn’t speak to the questions I was facing – not that she was wrong, just that she was not helpful.” (I wish I had written down some of the things that came out of my mouth that year! It would be so wonderful to rethink those thoughts from this perspective.) Here are Caren, Sara and Kenny Waters in the yard at the beach house.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/76%2007%20Care%20Sara%20&%20Wa.0.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/76%2007%20Care%20Sara%20%26%20Wa.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>“That was the summer of my salvation by Kenny Waters. He would call on Wednesday afternoons and ask if I wanted to go to Church on the Way with him. He not only saved me from the Malibu Church of Christ, but also from a negation of my womanhood. With Danny’s rejection and Mike’s emotional blockade, I was really vulnerable to more radical self-doubt than I’d already experience in the waiting years. We had some good talks. I enjoyed his future orientation, planning books and trips and projects. It felt so lively after Danny’s denial of future and Mike’s submission to the academic system. But despite the sharing, old Kenny was reserved and defensive of his emotions, and again I was frustrated, trying not to receive his reservation as rejection of me, but having a hard time with it…<br />“It had been a long summer of being mostly alone. I wasn’t yet ready to really be at home with myself enough to feel and think and grow with the alone time. Yet I was past my romantic period of fantasy and cleverness, music and books. Overall, the summer was pretty dull. I was numb, and sort of holding my breath. I wasn’t relating to anyone on a deep level, and except for Kenny, nothing new was happening. Here’s a meditation or prayer I wrote after one visit to Church on the Way, the First Foursquare Church of Van Nuys, California (as they always announce at the start of every teaching tape I’ve ever listened to from there.)<br /><br />23. August 1976<br />Whenever the Lord leads me to touch someone else’s hand, He’s there with His hand on mine…<br />If He puts someone on my heart, I can take it because the Lord is there covering both of us while I’m caring for that one…<br />Whenever I’m led to minister to someone, while I’m holding them, the Lord is ministering at the same time to both of us, holding us…<br /><br />Holy Lord God<br />Cover me<br />Impart to me gentleness<br />that in holding I do not grasp<br />that in covering I do not smother<br />Impart to me confidence in Your holding me<br />so that I may battle from a firm position of strength<br />that in speaking I may not shout<br />that in hearing I may not misunderstand<br />that in standing I may not struggle and thereby<br />lose ground You have claimed in me<br />nor ground on which You would establish the other<br />Minister to me Your peace<br />Your hope<br />Your faith<br />Your love<br />Circumcise my ears that I may hear Your voice<br />Circumcise my mouth that I may speak Your words<br />Circumcise my heart that I may feel and receive<br />others and their hearts as Your heart feels and<br />receives the pain and the joy of Your children.<br />Glory to Your holy and matchless<br />Your high and perfect<br />Your rich and gracefull<br />Name<br /><br />The reader will kindly allow a brief departure from the 1980 journal entry for a report on what I actually did that summer. I spent eight hours a day doing boring, mostly cataloguing, work at Pepperdine’s Payson Library. I discovered at that early age that it literally hurt my hands to be in contact with paper and cardstock for that long a time. My muscles felt irritated by the repetitive motions, and I thought, “Uh-oh, not a good career choice, this library thing.” In my spare time, I forced myself to read the Tolkein trilogy, since it was on the Must Do list for my generation. I had loved <em>The Hobbit</em>, but it was hard getting through the final volume of the trilogy.<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/76%20Library.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/76%20Library.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>I set a goal for myself that summer. I had never achieved a real tan in the fifteen years I’d lived in California, and I had often felt like a misfit amidst all the gorgeous golden brown skin on display around me. I would burn, turn lobsterish, then I would peel, then I would be white again. I determined that this summer I would give it my best effort. I sat outside during my lunch hour. I lay out by the pool at my mom’s condo. I went to the beach. I finally turned a very light golden brown. At the end of the summer, I told myself, “You’ve given it your best shot and this is all the results you got. It’s just not worth it. Don’t ever worry about a tan again.” And I haven’t. Now, back to the Journal.<br />“Being withdrawn as I was, there was no way I could gear up enough to be with Danny and Doug, so I spent the whole summer not calling them. Probably expended a good deal of energy not doing that. I also, not so consciously, was not calling John Gottuso. Then, in God’s timing, I went to a strange Heidelberg Reunion party at Sandy Lemm’s house. I hadn’t been close to any of the people there – except, in that abrasive way, to Karen Davis, aka Kraze. So she was hiding out in the back bedroom, and I sought her out.<br />“Within moments, I was spilling my proverbial guts – how I introduced the topic I can’t imagine – but there I was telling her about Danny and then Patrick, and Larry at Church on the Way, and my responses to all that. [Note to reader: Larry was a man I happened to sit by at church one night, and when it came time to form the traditional small prayer circle, I turned to him and asked him, ‘Are you struggling with homosexuality?’ He wept and agreed he was, and we prayed together.]<br />“She couldn’t believe it. She said in her incredible way, ‘I swore to myself, there’s one thing I’m not gonna talk about – especially not to Moore.’ And that was it. Oddly enough, she’d had a parallel experience. About a year previously, within a week or two, four of her male friends had confessed their gayness to her, and it had flipped her directly into that head of, ‘What’s wrong with <em>me</em>??!’ So we, obviously, had a lot to talk about. (I’ve speculated about who the guys were – she never told me – I’m pretty sure I know who one of them was, because four months later I met him at the LAX airport bar to confer about it.)<br />“The rest of that night’s conversation runs into the other nights, so I can’t distinguish what was said first. But what a connection. Another stage of awakening – I felt vital and alive and dangerous and interested again and here was someone to talk to. We decided we needed to meet again and continue the process. I think for her too it was an important experience, to be able to reflect all those feelings and agonizing thoughts on someone who was equally moved by them. So we met at the Magic Pan in Hollywood and talked some more. I remember it was hard to confess my past without implicating others.<br />“The most wonderful moment of connection for me was when she was describing some lesbian friends at MCC</span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn1" name="_ednref1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> and I ran her the rap about that kind of confrontation: ‘How can you deny one whole half of the human race your affection and love? How can you choose to give yourself only to men? How can you deny your feelings? Make up your mind! If you’re gay, why not act on it? You know heterosexuality is fucked up. There’s genuine concern and affection here for you, and great sex…” etc., etc.<br />“She screeched delightedly, ‘You’ve heard it too!’ and I said, ‘No, I just figured that’s what they’d say.’ It amazed me to hear all that coming out of my mouth. I hadn’t consciously thought it out, much less heard it from anyone, but I’d read enough <em>MS</em>. magazine to get the jargon down. [And Bev Nitschke and I had talked about the pressures certain people at Yale were putting on her to ‘admit she was gay.’ I was doing what I always had done, explaining that gayness is not a fate to which one must resign oneself. That God wouldn’t tell people not to do it if they had no choice in the matter.] In fact, that was the real amazement of talking to Karen – actually <em>talking</em> it out. I hadn’t <em>talked</em> to anyone, verbalized it, felt it, <em>shared</em> it with anyone ever before.<br />“That night we were walking to our respective cars and she said, almost as an aside, ‘You know, my two roommates are going to this incredible counselor; they think I should go talk to him.’ Out of a dark corner of my mind, I pulled out the question, ‘Is his name possibly John Gottuso?’ We both fell out. ‘WHAT?!’ ‘The same guy.’ ‘Incredible.’ ‘How did you guess?’<br />“Well, it was too obvious a set-up to ignore. We had to go see Gottuso together. It seems he specialized in counseling lesbians and gays. Lord Almighty. I called him and said, ‘Hi, remember me? I’ve got this friend, and we want to come see you.’ I was oblivious to the fact that he would doubtless assume that we were lovers. He must have been somewhat confused by our denial of that – trying to figure out why we were both so defensive if we weren’t involved, or why we would come to see him together if we weren’t. We showed up at his house in Arcadia and finally started talking at ten p.m. He and his wife had a new baby, and I felt jealous in the old Matt way, watching his wife and thinking, ‘What has <em>she</em> got that he married her? That she’s got <em>him</em>?’<br />“My memories of that talk are real specific – three of my most intense hours. The first confrontive technique he used was the same as before – the sexual shock test of sitting there with bare chest, just out of the shower with a terrycloth wrap on, which might or might not conceal nakedness down below. Where I only nervously looked occasionally, Karen was crassly verbal. So Gottuso said, ‘Do you want a look? If you do, I’ll give you one – don’t try to steal it.’ He said to Karen, ‘I did this on purpose to see what you two would do with it.’ It was the old, ‘Men’s bodies aren’t mysterious and scary, and the penis is not the focus of my maleness. I am not my penis.’ (I had said something about ‘seeing you’ and that had brought up the issue of ‘who you are’ – ‘You are not your genitals.’ Okay, but <em>really</em>. It was an in-your-face assault on my modesty.)<br />“He asked us to describe ourselves, and demanded that the healthy person is not defined by her roles. That left me up in the air – roles are all I’d ever thought in terms of. Left me feeling really unfinished on that one.<br />“The Moment for me was when he was talking to Kare about something and he said, ‘Look, Moore knows I accept her completely.’ I DID NOT KNOW THAT. But when he said it, it touched a deep hurt in my heart, and I began to want to believe that and take courage and comfort from it. The experience that most stands out from that night was the feeling of being confronted by someone so violently. Whenever Gottuso turned to Karen and questioned her, I could think clearly. I could hear him, and I could see her confused and flustered, unable to be straight with him. She could not focus and say what she was feeling, without defense. But the minute he turned to me, it went all foggy for me and I couldn’t cope any better than she had.<br />“I didn’t understand it until I realized it was an incredibly complex series of defenses that sent up that smokescreen. And there was more vulnerability rather than less for the person under fire – because it was so obvious that one was hiding and defending rather than being okay and present. That was my first taste of my own defensiveness and the dissatisfied, frustrating, intolerable sense of not being able to get out from behind that wall and make contact.<br />“I got a great behavioral revelation from Gottuso. Never before had I heard myself constantly saying, ‘My mother would say…’ I did it constantly until I met him. Noticing it helped me quit. <em>I was taking her with me everywhere.<br /></em>“I had always feared psychology people, and yet been ferociously attracted to them, because I felt they could see me, they could get behind my cloud and know how I really was inside. And I was afraid, but desperately wanted that too. To be <em>known</em>. Yet, before, I hadn’t trusted that someone could see me – they’d only be seeing a classic case of this or that neurosis.<br />My parents had always said disparaging things about the psychology people at Pepperdine, and indeed they were a squirrelly bunch. In my freshman year at Pepperdine, I had take an <em>Introduction to Psychology</em> class and found myself feeling resistant to some of it. I chiefly recall the last day of class, when the teacher asked us to line up in order of how open and vulnerable we had been in class. I was infuriated by how unfair that exercise was. Somebody was going to have to be at the end of the line, whether they deserved it or not, taking the least respectable position in terms of the desired qualities of openness and vulnerability. So I marched directly to that place as a silent protest against the injustice. I also knew that I really belonged toward the back of the line, and that made me mad too. I hated being classified and evaluated.<br />“Well, Gottuso <em>cared</em> about me. So I wanted him to figure me out, and I wanted him to be <em>right</em>. Oh, how I wanted to stay in that house indefinitely. It felt like finally being in good hands. Here was someone who could let me be screwed up, and out in the open, and maybe <em>HELP</em> me too. It was really painful to leave there that night. I felt a little desperate to be heading for Nashville the next week and maybe re-entering my numbness. I knew I was waking up to something, and if I didn’t have help, I was afraid I’d go back to sleep.<br />“Kare and I talked some more on the way home, coming down somewhat from the intensity, but not enough not to stay awake the rest of the night. We ever dared to talk in the same bed, but it was too dangerous to hold each other, both of us fearing the affection we wanted to have and give as being gay emotion. It was hard to think about not growing together, now that a level of compassion and companionship had been established.<br />“Incredibly odd experience the next night. It was my last week at home, so Momma had a right to be mystified about my behavior, spending two evenings of it with this strange woman I had never mentioned to her before. But the <em>gutsiness</em> of that lady! I was in bed and she came in and with very little preface simply asked, ‘Are you a lesbian?’ <em>Geez</em>. What a moment. I said, ‘No, Momma, I can assure you that I’m not a lesbian.’ Okay. How I wanted to tell her about Danny, but that was not going to happen for another year.<br />“How exactly did Gottuso prepare the way for what was to come?…I began to distance myself from [Momma] when I heard myself quoting her, and slowly quit doing that. The focus with Gottuso, though, was my father relationship – yet it was an unfulfilling direction, because everything I was in touch with while talking to him (which wasn’t <em>much</em>) pointed to the classic Electra complex, and neither one of us was satisfied that sex with my father had ever really meant anything to me. It was more a discomfort, an inability, in relating to myself as a woman (like Momma) and therefore an unhealthy identification with male roles, wanting to be like Daddy, to be accepted by him and by other men, but not as a woman. So there was lots of role confusion coupled with a real fear/attraction to the totally mysterious, frightening world of sexuality. That sent me along the paths of sexual roles, and insight into my selfhood – but no, before I could go there, I needed a real close first-time look at how I was, what I sounded like, what my needs and games and relationships were really like. The proverbial Awakening.</span><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><div align="center"><br /></span><a name="_Toc139702714"></a><a name="_Toc129427197"></a><a name="_Toc122423378"></a><a name="_Toc122416648"></a><a name="_Toc122223931"></a><a name="_Toc121501745"></a><a name="_Toc117312407"></a><a name="_Toc116040245"></a><a name="_Toc115944935"></a><a name="_Toc115693563"></a><a name="_Toc115664916"></a><a name="_Toc115484986"></a><a name="_Toc114922591"></a><a name="_Toc114905798"></a><a name="_Toc114850671"></a><a name="_Toc114840087"></a><a name="_Toc114205979"></a><a name="_Toc113561217"></a><a name="_Toc113534887"></a><a name="_Toc112479077"></a><a name="_Toc111783137"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Back to Nashville for Further Training</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My journal account continues, “Then there were two lonely, fearful, anticipating weeks in Nashville, getting settled at Hospital Hospitality House and into classes at Vanderbilt, and then I met Marty…His friendship served me in so many ways…Here was someone who <em>liked</em> me, liked who I was on all levels, who could befriend me in the new places I hadn’t dared to look before. He was that gentle mirror without which I couldn’t begin to see my outward behavioral bondages</span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn2" name="_ednref2"><span style="font-size:78%;">[ii]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">. He was a companion who held my hand as I walked down those dark halls in my past. He was the encourager, who said, ‘You can write. You can think. You can create. You can feel. You can hurt. You can grow. You can dare, and fail, and dare again. <em>It’s okay</em>. You’re going to be okay.’<br />“He encouraged me in my attempt to relate to my own painful identity as a misfit in standard American roles. He encouraged me not to run from my pain, but to use the pain, be with the pain, feel it and move past it. To be in a hurting place and be willing to stay there until somehow God could work His changes. <em>Not to deny reality</em>. Not to cover and hide and pretend. Gosh. To <em>feel</em> was an amazing new thing. I never knew I didn’t allow myself to feel. The whole rationalistic, legalistic view that feelings were bad, wrong, dangerous – because we believed they couldn’t be <em>changed</em>, dealt with, we had denied them, yet continually suffered because our actions were <em>based on them</em>, and not on rational truth, <em>rightness</em>, like we tried to claim. Marty referred to me as a woman, and every time I heard the word it shocked me into an awareness that I didn’t see myself that way.”<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/77%2011%20Fireworks.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/77%2011%20Fireworks.jpg" border="0" /></a></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">A note of explanation: Marty had come to Nashville to be a solo artist, but instead Word Records’ Myrrh label offered us a deal as a group – Marty (above middle), Gary Pigg (above right) and me. We became one of the first contemporary Christian rock bands, Fireworks, and then with an album under our belts, it was time to sign with a booking agent. I decided it was God’s will that I leave the group, one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. But it would have been even more painful if I had stayed in the group. Marty’s and my friendship shifted dramatically when Vickie [his high school girlfriend] moved to Nashville. I hadn’t processed anything of Daddy’s abandoning in his death, and the confusion and death I experienced when Marty turned away from our friendship was painful on that kind of level. So a door to my heart slammed shut again, and stayed shut for almost two more years – until the conviction of the Holy Spirit in regard to Jerry Gaston, the September that <em>A Severe Mercy</em></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn3" name="_ednref3"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iii]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> opened it again.<br />“Seems like it would be good to reiterate what came up about Daddy when I was with Gottuso. I had realized years before that I ‘needed a strong man’ because I would dominate a weak-willed, insecure or indecisive, accommodating personality. But then the Lord revealed that’s a desire to be dominated, to be irresponsible, and no more truly submissive than if I were controlling. Still, I knew I needed headship</span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn4" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn4" name="_ednref4"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iv]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">, and the way Gottuso seemed to offer himself was permissive and scary.<br />“The following spring, I was sitting in <em>Introduction to Counseling</em> [at Vanderbilt Divinity School] and a revelation came regarding my fear of intimacy with men. Not only had I received Momma’s already well-developed defense structure, but I had constructed my own to deal with the imbalance at home. The professor was telling a story about his own family, and a light went on for me.<br />“He said, ‘You know, the other day my little girl came to me and said, “Daddy, will you marry me?” and I gently told her, “No, honey, I love Mommy and she has me – I’m already taken.”’ He said that every child comes to the point of identifying the same-sex parent as a rival for the love of the other parent, and needs to be firmly assured that the love of that parent is theirs, <em>but not like that</em> – they’ll have to find their own mate.<br />“As he told his story, I realized that I had never felt that gentle but strong assurance as to what our proper relationships were at home. These were the messages I received from Daddy: ‘You are a treasure, you are extremely intelligent and talented, to be admired, even worshiped. I tell everyone else how wonderful you are, but I can’t tell you. (<em>Why not</em>?) Your mother is our mutual enemy – I don’t understand her, I fear her emotions, especially her anger. I don’t know how to deal with her much of the time. I resent her for hurting you.<br />“‘I’m angry that you can’t achieve a truce with her, but – I can understand why. I like to be alone with you, but don’t know what to say to you when we are alone together. You are not attractive physically, so you must become remarkably intelligent and informed to compensate. And you are that, so emphasize it in your goals. You will achieve much – I won’t be able to comprehend your thoughts or apprehend your world, but I will honor you as having surpassed me in the fields I respect.’<br />“Mostly the message was, ‘I don’t have a healthy relationship with your mother – I wish I could be affectionate with you – but since it’s taboo, we’ll have an agreement that you won’t grow up <em>as a</em> <em>woman</em> at all, and that way neither of us will have to deal with the dark sexual issues.’ And then, when I was newly discovering womanhood, groping for identity and definition and acceptance on a person level, and losing in the sexual contest, he left me. Strange that the night of his death I went to a wedding and realized he wouldn’t be there to walk me down the aisle, to give me away. I felt on some deep level then a hidden message, ‘I don’t want to give you away. I don’t want you to relate healthily as a woman to another man. So I’ll leave and you’ll always feel unreleased.’<br />“<em>Lord! How amazing</em>. I don’t think I’ve ever realized that one before. Only You can provide the release I need. I hardly need to mention that this very lack of permission (to seek a healthy relationship with another man) seems to be the very thing that turned me to unavailable men – they could be trusted to tell me ‘No!’ when I tried to relate intimately to them – and that’s what I was seeking from Daddy, a solid ‘No.’ Then, in his death, he seemed to be saying, ‘That’s right, have relationships with men like me – afraid of intimacy, not able to talk to you as an equal, but appreciative of your talents and tastes, while angered (passively) at the strength of your personality.’ Unavailable men. Of course.” And that's as much as I understood as I looked back a few years, journaling at the age of 27.</span><br /><br /><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref1" name="_edn1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> Metropolitan Community Church, a church established exclusively for the benefit of homosexual and lesbian people.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref2" name="_edn2"><span style="font-size:78%;">[ii]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> “Bondage” was a word used in Christian Charismatic circles to indicate spiritual oppression, habits of thought that led to sin, personality or character deficits that evidenced a spiritual problem. It had no connection to the sexual connotation that is common outside Christian circles.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref3" name="_edn3"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iii]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> A memoir by Sheldon Vanauken, A Severe Mercy included letters from C.S. Lewis and described a romance so intimate, so vulnerable, that I was confronted by my many defenses. Reading it, I realized I had been keeping my friend Jerry Gaston at such a distance that it was actually abusive to him. When I confessed, and promised to change, I discovered that Jerry was more comfortable with the relationship as it had been, and did not want to be closer.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn4" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref4" name="_edn4"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iv]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> “Headship” = a reference to the concept that the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is head of the Church, this idea has been misinterpreted as license for men to abuse and dominate their wives. See Ephesians 5:21-33.</span><br /><br /></span></span>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1154699344333983162006-08-04T08:19:00.001-05:002008-06-27T09:05:56.088-05:00<div align="center"><a name="_Toc114905794"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>More Amazing People at YDS</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><p align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Since I had developed quite a taste for cleverness during my college years, I appreciated the witty <em>bonnes mots</em> being constantly dropped all around me. Other times, I enjoyed comments that seemed to crystallize a certain New England attitude, an upper crust mentality. Then there were those remarks that could be heard in any liberal theological institution – but only there. I captured a few of them for my later enjoyment.<br />Donald Moteka: “Ned celebrates the dull in life…the routine, the usual…”<br />Ed Boucher: “You know, there’s going to be a total eclipse of the moon tonight, and you can see it over Porter Hall, there in the east sky…” to which Michael Haggin replied, “Is this something you and Moteka whipped up?”<br />Carol Seifrit: “We got yelled at by the Rector for laughing at the bingo announcer – it was the Turkey Raffle –“ to which Michael retorted, “Don’t you know that’s the Eighth Sacrament?”<br />Carol, a Roman Catholic, liked to poke at my low-church Protestant leanings. She was dictating a quote to fill in a hole in my notes, “Among the marks of the True Church, the Petrine office…” and, noting my unconscious hesitation, exhorted, “Go ahead and write it, the paper won’t burn!”<br />Prof. Rowan Greer: “Oh dear, I’m sorry – I’ve confused Gregory the Wonder Worker with Gregory the Illuminator; the Armenians had nothing to do with this. Though they were next-door neighbors…”<br />Jill Bigwood, Registrar: (After punching in a remarkably long string of numbers on her office phone) “You dial this many numbers, you get God. Hello, God?”<br />Prof. Aidan Kavanagh: “…when we assemble to be most ourselves, in the act of Christian worship…”<br />Prof. Biddle: “I am offering this term ‘From Puritanism to Enlightenment’ – not an autobiographical course, by the way.”<br />One of my classmates signed her library card “Seven Promises.” We could hardly believe her parents had been hip enough to name her that. In actual fact, they were not. He knew I would love the irony, so Michael Haggin shared it with me, much to my delight. “You know, the one who taught meditation…She told us her real name. It’s Margaret Alice Wilcox.”<br />John Ferrie was horsing around: “I’m sure that in a former life, I was a scribe, and before that, J.” “Jay?” someone questioned. “J – as in J, E, P, D</span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn1" name="_ednref1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> – that’s me!”<br />Two guys who lived below me in Seabury were lunching one Saturday in the Refectory and I sat down with them. They were discussing a Christmas shopping expedition to the City. “You should have seen this sale…I was able to get <em>two</em> Persian rugs, since they were only $600 each. And a really nice diamond for my sister, not too large…” It was not that they were financially out of my league. I felt like they were from another universe entirely. So it was fun, listening in on their world.<br />Mike Johnston…the initiator of this adventure, and its primary focus… had gone missing. He was afraid, I guess, or I wasn’t who he thought I was, or he didn’t know what to do with me once he had me. Something caused him to choose the life of a hermit, just for that particular year. He claimed to have little or no time to hang out with me. It was my turn to learn to depend on God for my affirmation, to turn to God for any affection or understanding or compassion I might need. The words of a Lazarus song became even more precious to me, and I copied them into my journal, with no explanation, on January 19, 1976. I heard this Bill Hughes song now as coming from the Lord to me.</span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Memories can’t bring you home<br />Childish dreams make you roam<br />And there’s no time for guarantees<br />Of everything you are to Me<br />Let your eyes let you see<br />Let your ears let you hear harmony<br />Let your days let you be<br />Everything you are to Me</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">But there were moments of sweetness that the Lord provided, all surprises:<br />• Lanny Vincent and I walking arm in arm downtown<br />• Ed Boucher, entranced by Mahler and soprano Phylis Curtin<br />• Duncan Hanson taking me to see <em>The Hiding Place </em>and <em>All the President’s Men</em><br />• Michael Haggin, affectionately holding my foot (!) one night as we talked<br />• Bailey from Georgia telling me, “Those were the best dances of my life!” after I dared a few rounds with him at a weekend dance in someone’s off-campus apartment.<br />• Phil McBrien and that great talk and walk after the <em>B minor Mass</em> performance, and a beer at Harry’s Bar<br />• Clifford Wünderlich, the Ugaritic scholar, with his “Yes, Ma’m”s and his always laughing at me, and his understanding, listening heart, and his confession to me, “I really liked Bernstein’s <em>Mass</em> – but I’m not sure whether it’s the Christian in me responding, or the pagan. I mean, I felt the same was at <em>Carmina Burana</em> – and that’s <em>secular</em>.” Mr. Wünderlich was also my informant regarding the arrival of Welch’s grape juice at the Eucharistic Table. “You know, Methodists used wine in the communion until Mr. Welch joined the church in the 1890s.”<br />I became friends with a young woman, Gretchen Law, who delighted and challenged me. She was an earnest person, very warm and bright, who confessed to me that she had never actually read the Bible. She explained that the reason she came to divinity school was that her adoptive dad had been healed of cancer, and she wanted to thank God with her life. I found this touching but also unbelievably foreign, being as I was a person raised on scripture practically from birth.<br />Gretchen was a feminist who was very comfortable with her body, and her unfettered freedom in that area sometimes made me nervous. She and a friend of hers, Linda Petrocelli, came to dinner one night while I was house sitting at the Worleys’. Linda shocked me by saying, “Gwen, you’re so much more comfortable with your faults that we are with ours. We find it difficult to talk about them.” She provided me with my first realization that everyone who loved God wasn’t necessarily prepared for my accustomed level of self-revelation.<br />Speaking of the Worleys, they were the couple whose apartment Mike and I had stayed in on my first visit to New Haven, Christmas, 1973. David and Melinda had since bought a house and had a baby girl. His family owned radio stations in Texas, and I believe they returned there after they both had finished their degrees. They were a very loving, welcoming, generous couple who loved to have people over for dinner, for Bible studies, to hang out.<br />The other married couple that was a huge blessing to me was Steve and Barbara Hays. They had migrated to Yale from Washington state carting loads of canned goods which had a prominent place on shelves in their living room. I felt like I was eating gold when they shared some of it with me. When I got sick at one point, they brought me food and Steve gave me a warm, padded winter jacket, which I lacked. They were most kind and hospitable to me, and together the two couples created a safe haven of family in my world of single oddness. Both couples were unreconstructed members of the Churches of Christ, though, so I was a bit of a misfit with them spiritually, having already partaken of so many non-C. of C. adventures.<br />Sue Wendorf was one of the handful of folks with whom I eventually had a few encouraging heart to hearts in those late evening dorm room visits. She shared with me a quote from her grandfather, a venerable old German Lutheran: “Was du nicht verstehen kann, mußt du glauben.” “What you cannot understand, you must believe.” This was the kind of thing one could say only late at night, in a whisper, to avoid being mocked by the less than pietistic.<br />I had a great time getting to know a friend of Mike Johnston’s, Dick Kantzer. Dick was the first true believer in biblical inerrancy I had ever met…at least the first intellectual one. I told him that I didn’t feel the need to claim for the Bible something that I don’t think it claims for itself. Dick was the most earnest, dedicated, kind hearted person, most intentional in the way he related to people. Sometime after we met, his father, Kenneth, became the editor of <em>Christianity Today</em>, and this was somewhat awesome to me as a longtime reader of the magazine. My parents had been subscribers.<br />Once Dick was house-sitting in the most marvelous old house in another town nearby, and Mike and I drove over to have dinner with him. I brought all the groceries and made my favorite, Senegalese Soup. I cooked a whole chicken to get the stock for the soup, and added peanut butter, applesauce, curry, sour cream. (See the Appendix for the recipe.) The main dish I had learned from Patrick’s mother the summer before, when we had spent so much time together at the Masons’ house in Nashville. She called it “What I Had in the House Chicken.” She said she invented it once for company on an instant’s notice: chicken breasts baked with mozzarella cheese slices, avocado slices and Liebfraumilch poured over it all.<br />I went with someone to see the movie <em>Clockwork Orange</em> that spring. I don’t think I knew what to expect or I might have thought better of it. My confidence and security were already a bit precarious, and the weirdness of this movie threatened to push me too close to the edge. I ran into Dick the next day in the library and told him how freaked out I felt, and he was so helpful. He simply said, “Those kinds of movies can really change your consciousness temporarily,” and was so kind and tenderhearted about it that I felt drawn back to reality. One guy I became fascinated with but never engaged in a single conversation was from Iowa. He had graduated from St. Olaf, was studying to be a Lutheran pastor, and was looking like a combination of mountain man and angel. He had the Sam Jackson ruddy complexion and blond hair, a thick beard and a glow about him. When I read the definition of the Hebrew word “chen” I felt it was embodied in Thomas Schattauer: “pleasantness that radiates from the Giver, through the gifted, to a third person.” I knew where he habitually studied, in the Missions Reading Room (my favorite room too), and occasionally he was the last one I had to kick out as I locked up the library in my part-time job. By never speaking to him, I maintained the happy illusion that he was the dedicated, upright, morally true and brilliant fellow I hoped him to be.<br /></p></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/75%2010%20Day%20Missions%20Reading%20Room.9.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/75%2010%20Day%20Missions%20Reading%20Room.6.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="left">And yes, there were a few moments with Mr. Johnston as well. As I recorded in a journal written about six years afterward, “Our last visit that year was the night before my last final in the spring. ‘You see what a terrible friend I am – I’m here tonight because it’s convenient for me, not for you,’ he said. He asked me what I had learned that year and together we made a six-point outline of issues (which I now long to remember, they were so perfectly clear) which YDS had raised for me and which I’d resolved in a Barthian dialectic. I told him how I’d failed him as a faithful friend (by desiring him as a romantic figure) and he told me about how he needed to study. I wrote a prayer about my relationship with Mike sometime that spring.<br />“Father, I want to talk to you about Mike. Here in the middle of my thoughts, in the middle of my life, I find myself, my heart, my days bound up mysteriously with his. I trust You that that’s because of Your plan for me, the ways You’ve arranged all the past, all the dreams, all the prayers. And he says to me, ‘It makes me wonder where we’ll be this time next year.’ And he says to me, ‘I need somebody who speaks <em>my</em> language; and you need somebody who speaks <em>yours</em>.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. And for a moment my heart feels terror, fear at the prospect of not being really bound, bound and intertwined in time and space, with him here. But, Lord Jesus, when I sense myself asking to go on with him, I realize that more than that, I want him to go on with You. I rejoice and glory in the deeps, the purposes, the great still awe before You that I share with him. Tonight in this room there were moments when I felt him saying, ‘No. No, I won’t go with you, no, I’m not <em>with</em> you here.’ But there were moments when I sensed in deed we were here before You together. Even in writing, because of writing, and trying to capture, to keep, those moments, they lessen a little, they slip away. But the trust You create and sustain in my heart looks to You and not to him, and tonight it says, ‘Yes, You will go with him on that road, to a city far beyond the skies.’ That’s the glory and that’s the promise. I accept it as from Your hand. And if it means we’ll share all along the way . . . or if it means I’ll be watching and praying and believing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things, and not being able to see as I go — if it means I won’t live with him but only die to him, I give that to You back again — as praise.”<br />I wrote in a journal some years later, “Typical of the ambivalence of our relationship was my trip to Bev Nitscke’s ordination the next spring, when we discussed Biblical inerrancy and the critical method and he apologized that ‘You’ve come all the way up here to visit and we talk theology.’ At that point, that’s what I wanted.”</p><p align="center"></span><a name="_Toc111783134"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Gottuso</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">I didn’t start to journal my personal life until the fall of 1976, so I didn’t write anything about this experience at the time it happened. But I did write about it reflectively in a journal during the winter of 1979-80. “I hardly introduced this section adequately, given its length. I didn’t warn the reader, or myself, what I was up to. I’m doing my usual trick of the eternal preface. [It’s] a little jaunt down memory lane, an attempt to recreate for myself the images and memories which shaped who I have been and what the Lord is dealing with now. So now, if anyone besides myself ever shares this history, they’ll be prepared for a possibly lengthy continuation of this study. Let’s not hold our breath waiting for this part to end…”<br />Reid Rutherford, a friend I had made during my senior year at Malibu, was now living at home with his dad in Mendham, New Jersey, a place made famous in my life by its association with Camp Shiloh. I wrote, “My dear Reid had come once to New Haven for supper, to be a friend and also possibly to check out his heart toward me, as he was now a college graduate and still unmarried and here I was in the east…Well, it was reading week at YDS, the week before finals, and Reid was coming again to visit. Such a relief I was looking for –<br />“It had been four months since Nashville, since I had truly relaxed with anyone. The atmosphere at YDS was one of questioning rather than trusting, but I don’t believe I would have trusted anyone even if that had not been so. I was too careful to preserve my difference from that world, and too unsure of all that I was and wanted and could be. So many people there were types to me, proffering worlds which they represented and which I was invited to enter through them: Linda Mary and her Anglican milieu of a decadent tradition; Gretchen and her feminist/earth mother romantic/sensualist experience; Ed Boucher and his classicist apprehension of life; the preppy, intelligent-woman world of Carolyn Lyday; Bev Nitschke’s bracing, monastic, liturgical approach to faith.<br />“So I was looking forward to an easy, comfortable relief in the middle of reading week, with finals ahead and papers not yet begun. And Reid appeared – with two strange men in tow. It felt like an invasion, like betrayal. What did he think he was doing? I felt a great sense of violation. And it must have been a prescience of what was to come, because it was disproportionate. The last thing I thought I wanted that night was adventure or confrontation. I never would have guessed what was coming.<br />“I had been playing the guitar, so when they were sitting around my room, one of the strangers said, ‘Play for us.’ Well, I was being my hesitant, withdrawn Yalie self (which Lanny and others found so charming) and that was probably the seal on the direction of the evening. I asked innocently enough, ‘Who are you guys?’ and the older guy said, ‘Why do you ask that? Can’t you just be here with us and experience us without trying to box us into categories?’ Oh, <em>please</em>. I didn’t recognize the <em>Zeitgeisty</em></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn2" name="_ednref2"><span style="font-size:78%;">[ii]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> psychobabble and it was not a <em>flow</em> experience for me. So I got mad. I pressed the issue for quite awhile until finally one guy said, ‘I went to Pepperdine and I knew your dad.’ At that point, I had already left trust behind and I didn’t believe him.<br />“We went on like that most of the evening – the four of us went to a Chinese restaurant and John, the guy who swore he was friends with Daddy, ordered loudly and obnoxiously, and continued to bait my anger most of the night. We went for ice cream, and back to YDS, around the school and especially in the prayer chapel (where we sang in the dark). By midnight, something had happened – I couldn’t bear the idea of them leaving and me going back to my room and my books. There was something in me they were waking up and it didn’t want to go back to sleep. Yet it was scary. I knew I was on foreign soil, I didn’t speak the language and I was already meeting things in myself I didn’t know were there.<br />“So I asked if I could go back to New Jersey with them, to Mendham and Reid’s house. No definite plans, just ‘Take me with you.’ So we got in the car and started to drive. At that point I’d regained my distance and drawn back from the immediacy of these men enough to realize that the verbal confrontation guy, John Gottuso, had to be a shrink or related to Psych in some way. So the burden of my heart surfaced. I turned to him in the back seat, and said, ‘Can I ask you a question?’”<br />“I don’t know if I’ll have any answer, but you can ask.”<br />“What would you do if…if…you were dating a guy and…he decided to be…gay?”<br />“I had never experienced that being so hard to say before, and something broke in me – I started sobbing. Only once before had I let my heart feel Danny and the hurt and confusion of his gayness, and still it wasn’t in direct relation to me. Tom, a wonderfully ugly man who came to YDS by way of Shiloh and Nashville, was in love with a girl named Sam (who played Victory at Sea for me in her Wellesley apartment in Middletown). He and she were sitting in my room at Yale and he was talking about a part of his past when in Brooklyn and the ages of ten to twelve, he was a male prostitute. This conversation was only months after my two weeks with Patrick, and I wept in anger at Satan’s cruel destruction of sexuality.<br />“This time, for the first time, I was crying for me. Gottuso held my hand.<br />“Go ahead and talk about it,” he said, and I said, “No, I need to cry a minute, this is wonderful.”<br />So he got out his cotton handkerchief and handed it to me. (I hadn’t seen a man’s cotton handkerchief since I ironed my Daddy’s every summer growing up.) I don’t remember his saying anything really insightful or helpful (maybe I couldn’t hear it) but it was the first time I had trusted enough to unload my pain.<br />“When we got into Reid’s house, what seemed like mere moments later, Gottuso said, ‘Are you going to kiss me goodnight?’ So I did, on the cheek, and he said, ‘Why are you afraid of me? Why don’t you kiss me on the mouth? We do that in my family.’ I still don’t feel perfectly trusting of his motivations when he chooses to confront sexually. But that night I really didn’t trust – and it was myself I didn’t trust. Though I hadn’t awakened physically yet, I had confronted the reality of desire for the first time at YDS. One night I fantasized going downstairs and knocking on Phil McBrien’s door and saying, ‘Would you please just sleep with me? Just be with my body?’ So I was more aware than ever of my physical vulnerability, and it felt like it wouldn’t matter who or why.<br />“I stayed on through the next day and night and rode into the city Monday morning on the train with Reid. No other confrontation took place during the weekend. Reid may have felt some confusion or jealousy – we had a couple of talks, took a walk the second night out in the fields, but I wasn’t interested in him, I wanted Gottuso’s attention. I see it so clearly as a daddy transference now – that’s why it felt so wrong to kiss his mouth, and yet I did it the second night, on his prior dare.<br />“It felt very sensual to be in that house, partly because it held so many possibilities that YDS seemed to negate. That second night, Reid’s dad and Gottuso were conferring and I hung around to say goodnight and ask if I could come to see him in California that summer. He gave me his answering service, his unlisted number and his 24-hour emergency number, and now I knew he was somebody that did this for a living. He said he had been interested in seeing where I was, as a favor to my father.<br />“On the train riding into the city, Reid told me Gottuso had pastored the church he’d attended in L.A. and had helped him to change and discover a lot about himself. So then I figured maybe he was evaluating me as a favor to Reid. Whatever the reason, I’m convinced that I failed the mentally-healthy test as an entirely unawakened personality.<br />“But I’m also convinced it was the mercy of God coming to rescue me. I’d spent all my life not looking inside my own heart and for over a year I’d been trying to deal with another human being’s heart in a totally external way: seeing Danny as an innocent in the evil, cruel, deceptive clutches of gayness, rather than perceiving him as a whole person, sinning and responsible, yet growing, learning, possibly on the way to a real walk with the Lord rather than the false one he’d attempted. I still feel a lot of ambivalence about my view of him and what he’s in, but it’s so much broader and realer a view of life than the perception of externals only, where I was walking before. And I thought I understood, that I was so insightful regarding gayness <em>before</em>. I praise You, Lord, for Your faithfulness as a Teacher in this regard.<br />“Reid took me for a quick walk down the diamond brokerage block where he worked, and I saw my first Hasids in their black coats and side curls. Then he took me to Grand Central and stayed on the train until it was ready to go. I could sense, I thought, a certain hope, an attempt to test our possibilities and the accompanying disappointment when the magic didn’t happen.<br />“Back at YDS a few hours later (as always, it felt like pulling into the Heidelberg Bahnhof), the first person I saw was Michael Haggin. Already I was perceiving what had happened as transformative, because I told him, ‘Michael, you should be happy to hear this – I really want to go to a counselor now; I’ve started to wake up to some things.’ He, brave boy, was doing the quintessentially Right Thing by seeing a lady shrink, since he feels his problem is with women.”<br />Before I left New Haven for the summer, I had a little experience that more than made up for my initial harsh reception. I was walking, merely walking into a simple little corner market, mind you, and a white-haired man looked up at me from across some loaves of bread, and smiled and said, “You must have just about the nicest personality I’ve ever seen.” I said, “But wait, I just walked in, you never saw me before…” and he said, “I know, but I can tell. Where d’you live? I hope you stay here.”</span><br /></p><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><a name="_Toc139702712"></a><a name="_Toc129427195"></a><a name="_Toc122423376"></a><a name="_Toc122416646"></a><a name="_Toc122223929"></a><a name="_Toc121501743"></a><a name="_Toc117312405"></a><a name="_Toc116040243"></a><a name="_Toc115944933"></a><a name="_Toc115693561"></a><a name="_Toc115664914"></a><a name="_Toc115484984"></a><a name="_Toc114922589"></a><a name="_Toc114905796"></a><a name="_Toc114850669"></a><a name="_Toc114840085"></a><a name="_Toc114205977"></a><a name="_Toc113561215"></a><a name="_Toc113534885"></a><a name="_Toc112479075"></a><a name="_Toc111956727"></a><a name="_Toc111956559"></a><a name="_Toc111783135"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>But First, A Word from Our Sponsor</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I need to take a break from my journal and tell about an incredibly significant week that I didn’t cover therein. Toward the end of my year at Yale, the spring of 1976, I was becoming more comfortable with the idea of staying there for the three-year degree program. I had become so acclimated that I even toyed with idea of running for a student government office. But earlier, when I was still excruciatingly homesick for Nashville and the Christians there, I had prayed, “Lord, if You want me back in Nashville, here’s what I need. I need to be accepted as a transfer student at Vanderbilt Divinity School. I need a job where I can live, so that I can make money and not have to pay rent. I need that to be in walking distance of Vanderbilt and Belmont Church. If You do all that for me, I’ll know You want me to return to Nashville.”<br />Well. Behind the scenes, events began to conspire to make all of that happen. It seemed Naomi Frances Harper had found her a man. Greg Brooks, a gentle, quiet pre-med student, had asked her to marry him, and would I please come to Nashville and sing in their wedding? Of course I would. I arranged to spend a week in Nashville on my way back from New Haven to Malibu. I contacted Steve and Annie Chapman from Dogwood to see if they would play and sing with me, because at that point I had never accompanied myself in a solo performance and was too scared to do it. They agreed they would be glad to help me out.<br />When I arrived in Nashville, I discovered to my great anxiety that they couldn’t do it after all, and I really couldn’t see myself playing all alone. They suggested, “Call Bob Farnsworth.” “But I don’t even know him!” I countered. “That won’t matter to him, he’ll be glad to help.” They were right – this guy jumped like an eager puppy at the chance to accompany me, and we got together to rehearse. He played rambunctious piano, and we did songs by Annie Herring from the Second Chapter of Acts like “Bridegroom” and “I Fall in Love.”<br /><br />“I fall in love so easy with everything that I see<br />that comes through the light of His love…<br />Sets my soul to flight, as He woos me and makes me new.<br />I hope you’re falling in love too,<br />‘cause Jesus loves you too…”<br /><br />Bob was enthusiastic about my voice. He explained that he and his best friend, Mike Hudson, and Brown Bannister (I knew Brown from Janice’s wedding) were working in a jingle company with Chris Christian. I had heard about Chris from Janice as well. She had been amazed at his chutzpah when he arrived on a visit to California from Texas, expecting her to introduce him to various prominent people in L.A. But that was Chris… Bob explained that their jingle company wrote and recorded music for radio and TV commercials, and would I like to sing for them in the studio when I returned to Nashville in the fall?<br />Would I??! I would gladly pay them for the privilege. I could hardly believe such a thing was actually happening. At that moment I could never have imagined the musical experiences that lay ahead of me. I had come to Nashville originally to go to library school, not to pursue the music business. I didn’t even respect the music business in Nashville. I thought it was all country, and I hated country music, the sequin-spangled people like Porter Waggoner and Ray Stevens and such. I thought of it like John Sebastian’s song, “Nashville Cats”. (I won’t quote it – you can reference it elsewhere if you so choose. Certain readers will be grateful for this mercy, I’m sure.)<br />While I was there for the wedding, I thought I would pay a visit to Beckie King, one of Naomi’s roommates. She was the Director of a place called Hospital Hospitality House, and I went there to visit her. I let her know that I was thinking about coming back to Nashville in the fall, and she looked at me in amazement. “Would you be interested in a job?” she says, and my amazement matched hers. She offered me a position as a live-in staff member at the House, where I would be on duty some weekends and some week nights, in return for my room and board, whatever might be available through donations and their charge account at a nearby H.G. Hills Grocery.<br />Hospital Hospitality House was located at that time a mere one block over from the street Belmont Church was on, and about four blocks over from the street that ran through the Vanderbilt and Peabody campuses. I would be able to walk to church and school. I would have a job that paid my rent – and food, which I had not even prayed about. And I would be working in an environment where I would be of direct service to people in need, which appealed to me greatly. Just a stunning answer to prayer, and the opportunity to sing in the studio as well…now that was over the top. Needless to say, I accepted the job, and went directly over to the Divinity School to see what transfer arrangements could be made. They had no problem accepting a transfer from Yale.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref1" name="_edn1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> The school known as “German higher criticism” used textual critical tools originally intended for the study of secular literature in an attempt to determine the sources of the Pentateuch in Old Testament scripture. “J” stood for “Yahwist” or those who called God by the name Yahweh; “P” stood for the school of priests, those concerned with ritual and practice in the Temple at Jerusalem; “D” was the Deuteronomists, or those concerned with the law; “E” I had forgotten and had to look up on the internet. It’s Elohist, or those who referred to God as Elohim rather than Yahweh. Then the theory goes that an editor, the Redactor, pulled these four sets of texts together into the five books of Moses, Genesis-Deuteronomy.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref2" name="_edn2"><span style="font-size:78%;">[ii]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> <em>Zeitgeist</em> = again, the spirit of the time; the spirit of the age. I made up the adjectival usage, “<em>Zeitgeisty</em>”.</span>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1153404273558260362006-07-20T08:46:00.001-05:002008-06-27T09:06:34.709-05:00<div align="center"><strong>U</strong><a name="_Toc111783133"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>niversal Longing</strong></span></a></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />I went to Nashville for winter break, spending some of it with my mom amidst the relatives, and later having some time for myself and my friends. My cousin Pamela had gone to Geneva, Switzerland to engage in some mission work, and my mom commented, “She’s sounding real missionary-like, all those clichés; it’s real sweet. I guess she’ll get over it.” Below is one of the festive groups that got together in Nashville that Christmas: Momma, Helen Buchi, me, Clara Fentress, and Chip.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/75%2012%20Christmas.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="240" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/75%2012%20Christmas.jpg" width="266" border="0" /></a>I went out to the Grant’s Bethany Farm (belonging to entertainer Amy Grant’s family) which some of my girlfriends were renting, and spent a couple of days alone while they were at work. It was a serious adventure. There was no heat in the house except for a wall heater in the kitchen, so I ventured out into the cold winter air to gather wood for the fireplace several times each day. I wrote this there.<br />“This is really ‘almost too perfect.’ When I look up from where I’m sitting, I see a steady burning fire in a big stone fireplace and out the window beside it there’s a couple of horses in the field. Gray Saturday afternoon, pot of chili on the stove, sittin’ on a couch next to a gangly young Irish setter named Shannon, CSN&Y on the stereo (same album we used to listen to downstairs in Heidelberg).<br />‘I fed the two baby goats their bottles this morning – they’re nannies named Deuter and Ronomy. And we went to pick up a couple of gallons of milk (mostly cream) from John Ford’s farm down the road.<br />“I’ve been with folks that prayed with me, and for me, every day this week. People who talk about the Lord with every other thought at least. Folks that call you ‘sweetheart’ and say ‘Hallelujah’ and ‘Bless your heart’ at the drop of a hat.<br />“I’ve had a talk about my Yale experience where the language was judged ‘hi-falutin’ and a serious question was asked: ‘Is any of what you’re learning going to do you any good?’ And another talk where my descriptions of teachers and classes were pretty enjoyable and I was encouraged that indeed God had a place where exactly what I’m turning out to be/become will be specifically used, and that the questions and discussions and reading would be really useful to some folks right here and now.<br />“I feel somewhat torn.<br />“I feel mighty blessed.<br />“I think I’d best buckle down and get some Bonhöffer and Küng and Dulles read and digested, or I might just flunk out this very first thrilling semester.”<br />I wasn’t kidding. I really labored under the false impression that I might flunk out at Yale if I didn’t study every waking minute. I truly looked forward to Sunday afternoon and evening as an uninterrupted stretch of studying alone in my room. I didn’t realize that it was more difficult to fail at Yale than it was to get Honors. Only one hour by train from New York City, I tried to pretend it wasn’t there except for one visit to Betty Hance. I had known her at Pepperdine and she was studying at Union Theological Seminary. We spent a day together, and then it was back to my highly structured life on Prospect Street.<br />That same winter break, I was lying on Brenda Tuck’s couch in Nashville and watching TV. I was visiting Beckie King, who had moved out of the Lone Oak house, and she and Brenda were roommates at the time. We were watching <em>West Side Story</em>, which I knew word for word and note for note, but this night a new element was introduced. As I lay there, I realized that God was showing me a universal longing for heaven which I had never recognized before. Tony and Maria were singing,<br /><br />“There’s a place for us,<br />Somewhere a place for us -<br />Time together with time to spare,<br />Time to love, time to care<br />Somehow, someday…<br />We’ll find a new way of living<br />We’ll find a way of forgiving – somewhere.<br /><br />There’s a time for us, somewhere a time for us.<br />Hold my hand and we’re halfway there!<br />Hold my hand and I’ll take you there,<br />Somehow, someday, somewhere…”<br /><br />I realized that there is a knowing, a yearning, planted in every human heart that this world is not what it should be, not what we need it to be. There is a hope that rises up from time to time, that we will find it, a world where everything is right and we feel truly at home. And we’re right. That world does exist. “The kingdom of God is within you,” Jesus said. And within us is also the place where the other, the wicked king rules and thereby makes this world so miserable.<br />Since I was very young, I loved the movie the <em>Wizard of Oz</em>. And I, like so many others, felt the yearning of Judy Garland when she sang, “Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue, and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true…Birds fly over the rainbow; why, oh why can’t I?” That longing for a better world, it’s the same desire, burning in so many hearts. And the atmosphere in many churches is so unlike this yearning, so disconnected from this hope, that it’s hard for anyone to imagine how a life with God could acknowledge or begin to quench this desire. And yet, somehow we know that at the same time, we want to keep the yearning alive and growing for as long as we are in this life, until it is finally, explosively fulfilled in the world to come.<br /></span><br /></span><div align="center"><a name="_Toc139702708"></a><a name="_Toc129427191"></a><a name="_Toc122423372"></a><a name="_Toc122416642"></a><a name="_Toc122223925"></a><a name="_Toc121501739"></a><a name="_Toc117312401"></a><a name="_Toc116040239"></a><a name="_Toc115944929"></a><a name="_Toc115693557"></a><a name="_Toc115664910"></a><a name="_Toc115484980"></a><a name="_Toc114840083"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Springtime in New Haven</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span> </div><br /><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/76%2004%20YDS.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;">I attempted to make my class work fit my deepest personal issue. I wanted to find out what the theologians and scholars had to say about homosexuality. I wanted some help, some support in my spiritual struggle in prayer for Danny Blair. I wanted to force the swirling thoughts and emotions raised by Danny’s “lifestyle choice” into an orderly, logical pattern, to control them somehow, so I wouldn’t feel so much like their victim. I wrote papers for several classes. I still have a copy of the one I wrote in December, 1975 for Paul Meyer, “Biblical Foundations for an Understanding of Homosexuality and a History of Their Interpretation.” In it I distilled my gleanings from 28 books and articles down to 13 pages of type, with 41 footnotes. Good grief! Glancing at it today, it reads pretty respectably. What did I learn from all that reading? Not much. Basically, I discovered that the church had not really begun to address what was happening all around me. I saw an issue of <em>TIME</em> magazine, my old buddy, a publication I’d been reading since I was about twelve. I felt betrayed because featured on the cover was the “Gay Revolution”. The enemy of my soul was screaming at me that the cause I had championed, declaring the possibility of God’s sexual restoration, was hopeless, that the spirit of homosexuality was taking over.<br />It freaked me out to hear that approximately 1/3 of the student body at the Divinity School was gay. (Of course, one can’t trust such statistics. I was soon to learn that all kinds of respected historical figures were being “outed” in the current climate, including King David and Jesus himself.) There had been a gay activist student on campus a couple of years prior to my arrival who had “raised the consciousness” on campus and encouraged many students to come out of the closet. I was so grateful that I had missed that particular period of the school’s history, but I felt the aftershocks.<br />In Henri Nouwen’s class I wrote another paper about my emotional and spiritual concerns regarding the gay life style, the tendency to promiscuity and the hedonistic philosophy associated with it. I proposed that God was able to restore, to heal, to transform, the sexuality of a person who was bent in that direction. Henri, in his childlike way, wrote a note on paper, “Why do you feel so sure God would want to change a person who is homosexual?” I didn’t discover until many years later that Fr. Nouwen struggled with these questions on a personal level.<br />Though I was sometimes threatened by all the newness and strangeness, still I loved so many things about being at Yale Divinity School. I loved the workout my mind was getting. I loved living in an atmosphere where serious intellectual work was being done all around me. I loved taking voluminous notes from the lectures of these amazing professors. I would write my favorite comments in the margins of my notebooks, the better to locate them for future reference. Here follows a brief selection of such marginalia.<br />My Comp Dog (<em>Comparitive Dogmatics</em>, aka Creeds Class) professor, George Lindbeck, had represented the entire Protestant world at Vatican II. In that role, he suffered the criticism of a Roman Catholic, “All you Protestants have said is, if the Pope becomes a Protestant you could find a place for him – if he promises not to boss you around.” “There’s nothing that makes me more uncomfortable than celebrating communion in a comfortable suburban setting with a bunch of well-meaning liberal Democrats like myself with leanings toward sympathy with what is vaguely known as the counter-culture. No blacks, no hard-hats, no Republicans – it’s a strange body of Christ.” “To put it more vividly, this model legitimizes our being bound to the Church in all its concrete messiness. The Church and I badly need that kind of loyalty these days.”<br />Lindbeck reported, “Peter Berger put the ideas together with such rhetorical force that it gave him quite a metaphysical shock…but that’s one of those excursive things I really didn’t intend.” He allowed, “The Holy Spirit always gets neglected in these discussions. There are historical reasons for this which you’re more or less aware of.” “Like all analogies, I’m sure this one breaks down if it is required to walk on all fours.” “If you’re going to sum up, I think that’s a relatively fair characterization.” “These abstractions of course don’t get at the living reality – but let’s go on with being abstract.” “Is this the Eucharist – or a spiritual snack?” “…the Anglicans, as they recovered from an initial bout with Calvinist fever…” “I trust that the lecture I’m embarking on will be stimulus, rather than directive.” Prof. Lindbeck almost never looked directly at us. Instead, he would stand by the window, pushing his hair back from his forehead as if trying to press out a perpetual, nagging headache.<br />Paul Holmer lectured us on Luther: “Martin Luther ended up issuing a few bulls himself.” “Luther wasn’t any kind of professor at all, he wasn’t very organized, he always spoke polemically – for those reasons he’s very agreeable to me.” He said something about worship that changed my thinking. “If the service steals the luster from the week, it’s missed the point…The best worship extends the furthest into the week, into life.” “Now if I accept Luther…” and someone in the class quipped, “…as a personal savior…” A phrase from a lecture reminded me of Caren, Naomi and me, The Humble Order of Preaching Sisters: “…the goal being education for all, the stance dogmatico-religious, and the method, dogmatico-admonitory.”<br />I took a class in <em>Christian Communication</em> from William Muehl, who had taught homiletics to generations of preachers. In a talk I made to the class, I presented a quote from one of my formative books, <em>My People is the Enemy</em> by William Stringfellow. Bill Muehl commented quietly that he had taught the very student Stringfellow referred to in the quote, and remembered him well , along with his tragic death. I was awestruck that I had stumbled upon such a moment. And I could hardly believe my blessing when William Stringfellow came himself to lecture in the Common Room. He spoke of his recent experience with cancer and a yet more radical deepening in his understanding of the Christian’s freedom from the tyranny of death, which freedom he had already proclaimed in this little volume years before.<br />I acquired some great quotes from the Rev. Muehl. In response to a student’s offhanded comment, “You can’t talk about faith…” Muehl remarked, “That just about shoots our job to hell.” Commenting on Fletcher’s <em>Situational Ethics</em>, Muehl said, “It’s a pretty sad situation when you see the church functioning only in giving comfort to people who do evil things in unholy settings.” “It’s a sort of reverse snobbery,” he mused. “Now when they get together, all the Yale faculty talk about is football. I don’t know what they’re trying to prove.” With a mischievous twinkle in his eye: “I’m still carrying the numinous vestiges of a papal blessing.” He noted, “I don’t end up with Barth’s position…if indeed you can identify it.” And I really loved this one: “You have to be very bright to be taken in by that kind of reasoning.”<br />The beloved Brevard Childs offered us an incredibly rich survey of the Old Testament. He had already begun his life’s work, the rebuilding of a Biblical theology from the “piles of scraps on the work tables” left by German Higher Criticism, as he described it. The marginalia collected from those class notes are too extensive to reprint here, but I’ll share a smattering. You’ll quickly realize why Brevard Childs was my favorite professor:<br />• Childs’ method: “a limited apology for a specific audience, to provide ground for dialogue by using sophisticated methods to create a usable canon upon which to again base discussion.” (My interpretation? He’s trying to give the Bible back to the people, and he recognizes that he has to be sophisticated enough in his use of scholarly language and method to give some credence to his pursuit among his fellow academicians…to sort of sneak it past them.)<br />• “If you learned to use the Bible properly, that’s what we’re here for. It’s not often you hear a secret let out around here, but here it is…If you don’t, let’s hope you manage.”<br />• “‘Yes, but what was God doing before the creation?’ and Martin Luther answered, ‘That’s easy –He was out in the woods gathering sticks to beat people who ask that question.’”<br />• “That interpretation [‘generosity’ as the dynamic in Jesus’ feeding of the five thousand] has been around only 150 years, yet it’s always in the air. We’ll always have Bultmanns hanging over our shoulder. I was reading the Noah story the other evening and my five-year-old said, ‘I don’t believe that!’ There are no areas in which one is protected.”<br />• “The serpent is <em>pious</em>. ‘Perhaps there’s more information, or perhaps you misunderstood God; this religious stuff is very complex.’ His role is one of tempter: he asks questions.”<br />• “Jews and Christians alike have heard and studied these words in their present form for centuries. And that form was not settled in some German professor’s office, snipping here and there. It was not decided in a vacuum. Unlike Near Eastern texts buried in dust heaps of Mesopotamia, these texts have been cherished through the centuries.”<br />• “You can drive Bill Muehl up a wall – just throw in <em>Heilsgeschichte</em></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn1" name="_ednref1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> or so in a sermon…”<br />• “The question of whether God speaks and how to know if it’s God, is a question not asked or answered in the Old Testament. The question there is how to respond to God when He does speak or when He doesn’t.”<br />• On the making of the golden calf: “The Midrash argues that Aaron is under great pressure, and never expected that those wives would give up their gold earrings.”<br />• “Then there Ai which means ‘ruin’ – who would call his town, even East Haven, ‘Ruin’?”<br />• “No theologian is a ‘James man’ – obviously he was brought in to avoid abuses of Paul.”<br />• “When Adam Welch used to comment on the loyalty David inspired, you could almost hear the bagpipes in the background.”<br />• “Some would say, ‘Since Wisdom isn’t historical, it can’t be theological.’ They think Wisdom was sort of the Unitarian branch of Israel.”<br />• “This is an amazing freedom, to allow disharmony and paradox to express the order of things.”<br />• “They aren’t focused on quite the same issue, but that’s what makes for good discussion.”<br /><br />What a blessing was the third in a series of Common Room lecturers, and this one brought the comfort of an earnest faith similar to that offered me by Brevard Childs. Here, in this “hotbed of New England liberalism”, someone had the nerve to invite the next best thing to C.S. Lewis: his assistant in his last years, Fr. Walter Hooper. Oh, what a gift to my soul! He was so gentle, funny, deeply admiring of his mentor, and full of intimate anecdotes that I just loved being privy to.<br />I was able to take a seminar focusing on my hero, Dietrich Bonhöffer. And finally, Henri Nouwen seemed to enjoy disturbing some of us every time we walked into his classroom. He insisted on yanking us out of the objective and into the subjective. He would read us stories. He asked us to meet regularly in small groups to discuss the material we were reading for him. He wanted us to relate to each other. He wanted us to <em>feel</em>. This was such a different goal from all our other classes, Lanny Vincent and I discussed how we could hardly switch gears to accommodate it. I couldn’t have guessed at the time that Henri would become a prolific author, a favorite of many people I come to know in Nashville.<br />Intellectually, I was thriving. But emotionally, I was barely hanging in there, coping with all my might. Nobody seemed to be spiritually similar to me. Everyone I talked to, it seemed, either didn’t believe in prayer, or was a gay activist, or was sleeping with his girlfriend right there in my dorm, or scoffed at the idea of supernatural healing or couldn’t imagine practicing the discipline of fasting, or had an ambition to become the first woman ordained by their denomination, one thing or another along those lines.<br />I was hanging on for dear life to the simple faith I had tasted in Nashville, and I posted the following scriptures by my door to keep them always in my consciousness: “He has granted to us His precious and magnificent promises, in order that by them you might become partakers of the divine nature, having escaped the corruption that is in the world by lust…of the flesh, of the eye, and the pride of life.” (II Peter 1:4; I John 2:16) Part of me was enjoying the rich array of opportunities and experiences, and part of me felt embattled and defended. It was sometimes hard to remember that my enemies were not flesh and blood but the principalities and powers. (Ephesians 6:12)<br />I also posted on my wall some quotes from Karl Barth, the German theologian I had come to claim as my personal favorite. I really enjoyed and appreciated the “well-muscled” (to use a Naomi phrase) and convicted mind of this man. I felt he had been apprehended by God, for all his intellectual prowess.<br />• “That we are good for nothing is true, but it is not so relevant that the confession of this truth has independent significance.” (IV.1.628).<br />• “Blumhardt never even dreamed he could control Jesus. He did something which is very different, and which is the only thing possible in relation to this person. He called upon Him for two years. He did so with absolute confidence, but still he called upon Him. It is this a matter of confidence in this Person…Is doubt so attractive that it must always be regarded as something justifiable?” (IV.3a.169-170)<br />• “At a pinch, Christian knowledge can be described and understood as the moral, sentimental, aesthetic, sacramental, or existential happening par excellence…For its theme, basis and content is the reconciliation between God and man effected in Jesus Christ and also revealing itself in Jesus Christ. As a human action it takes place in participation in His action…it can only receive it.” (IV.3a.220)<br />I was a bit disheartened that my faculty advisor, Abe Malherbe, world-renowned New Testament scholar, actually thought I really shouldn’t be at Yale, and said so…though I did not let him chase me away. I got the sneaky feeling he secretly believed women weren’t capable of becoming serious scholars. And my lack of interest in Greek made me truly a misfit in his world. I was occasionally put off by other people’s comments, like “Why aren’t you at Princeton where they <em>believe</em> things like you do?” I had lunches and dinners with different people almost every day for months, seeking out a spiritual companion, but I didn’t really ever find one. Instead, slowly, I learned to accept with gratitude the bits and pieces of fellowship where I could find them and as they were offered.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/75%2010%20Bev.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/75%2010%20Bev.jpg" border="0" /></a>One issue that kept coming up for me was the role of women in ministry. My best friend that year turned out to be a Lutheran woman who was planning on becoming the first woman to be ordained in the New England Synod. Bev Nitschke and I would discuss the incredible differences between her world and mine. I think we were both amazed at our mutual respect and growing trust, at how much we shared in common and yet how much we did not.<br />My religious tradition (as div school people referred to their church backgrounds) had put great emphasis on their “men only” rule for church leadership. Women were limited to teaching only other women or younger people. Women were instructed that their primary role was to exert an “influence for good” on their men. It was thus they would make a mark, leave a legacy. On the other hand, I had experienced a wildly different world in the Charismatic movement, which featured such internationally known women ministers as Kathryn Kuhlman and Corrie ten Boom. And I had years of experience in the egalitarian style of house churches and prayer meetings where everyone contributes and there is no “minister” – the priesthood of the believer in action.<br />So I struggled with the concept of women in ministry, and tried to answer honestly and thoughtfully when people asked me if I planned to be ordained. I made some notes on the subject, notes which open a window on the intellectual climate I was swimming in. “Two insights from this week — no, three:<br />“1) It becomes more evident why the ordination of women seems so natural to many. In the liturgical tradition, the celebrant, the liturgist, is an actor, who serves as an instrument for the tradition, a portrayer of the drama, a ‘leader’ in the ‘act of worship,’ the holy re-presentation of the cultic event. The female can actually add to the drama, if not merely serve as an asexual channel for the ritual. This entire movement is something qualitatively different from the kind of pastoral leadership experienced in charismatic fellowships. This is a role — only — ?<br />“2) In Von Rad’s terms, Christian art may be justified in dressing and portraying the apostles and other biblical characters in the mode of their time – this helps to ‘actualize’ revelation for the faithful. Restoration of ‘historical accuracy’ helps to avoid perhaps a provincialization, a bastardization, a betrayal of the meaning it had. But the hermeneutical principle of actualization interprets the revelation <em>pro nobis</em>.</span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn2" name="_ednref2"><span style="font-size:78%;">[ii]</span></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“3) Barth was trying to do only certain things well – he centered on transcendence and eternal election, and let disobedience go fish.”</span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn3" name="_ednref3"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iii]</span></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">From time to time I would surreptitiously peruse copies of MS magazine in the divinity library, trying to discover what the women’s libbers might be up to – sort of an attempt to scope out the “enemy territory”. I didn’t consider myself a feminist. I did believe in equal pay for equal work. Helen and Norvel Young’s relationship had taught me about the mutual respect and partnership a marriage could exhibit. But I had been steeped in the “submission teaching” the previous year, and it had claimed my emotional allegiance. I invented a title for a proposed study for Feminist Theology: <em>Prolegomena to An Inquiry into the Success of Egyptian Matriarchal Rule, or, ‘Isis, Honey, were you really happy?’</em><br />Since I was telling people I was studying to be a theological librarian, I took a class in theological bibliography, and I worked part time in the Divinity School library, shelving books, working the circulation desk. I sometimes studied there as well, in the reading room between classes, or in a carrel in the stacks in the basement. I was working so hard, plowing through so many textbooks, trying to think original thoughts for my papers, attempting to keep an open mind and glean something edifying from what I was studying, all the while hearing the voices of conservative fear and distrust in my head, “You better watch out or you’ll lose your faith!” “What’s the use of all that head knowledge</span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn4" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn4" name="_ednref4"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iv]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> anyway?”<br />Cognitive dissonance was running rampant inside my brain. One evening as I entered the stacks to re-shelve yet another cartload of books, I felt suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of all the years of study, the mountains of paper, the oceans of ink, the strivings, the enormous effort represented all around me. Words seemed to fly off the pages and whirl around my head, and I silently screamed inside myself, “Enough!! No one should ever, EVER write another book! Surely it’s all been said by now!” I couldn’t have agreed more with the writer of Ecclesiastes, “And further, by these, my son, be admonished: of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.” (Eccle. 12:12) But clearly, this mood did not last. Witness my well-packed bookcases…and the document I am typing right now.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><div align="center"><br /></span><a name="_Toc139702709"></a><a name="_Toc129427192"></a><a name="_Toc122423373"></a><a name="_Toc122416643"></a><a name="_Toc122223926"></a><a name="_Toc121501740"></a><a name="_Toc117312402"></a><a name="_Toc116040240"></a><a name="_Toc114905793"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Music at Yale</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">One thing I did to relieve the constant pressure of thought was to return to singing. A course in worship was offered which I joined in the spring semester. Jeffrey Rowthorn provided us quite a remarkable opportunity to delve into some worship experiences most of us would likely never have again. (And I enjoyed his British accent.)<br />Together the Cappella prepared three services which we shared with the Divinity School community over that semester. The services were presented in the Divinity School Chapel. First came the <em>Deutsche Messe</em>, a German Mass composed by Martin Luther. Then a Wesley Covenant Service, patterned after a service of commitment which one of the Wesley brothers, Charles or John, could have performed. This was followed by an avant garde service which sounded like it sprang from the mind of a crazed science fiction fan, complete with recorded synthesizer music and sound effects. Richard Felciano, a Californian, had composed this piece called <em>Three in One in Three</em>.” The music was so dissonant it grated on my soul.<br />Another style of worship we attempted, an “Adoration of the Blessed Virgin,” was a 19th century-style Anglican service, though Catholic it certainly sounds, and for that we used a Gothic church closer to the University campus. The sanctuary was steeped in decades of incense, a rich, spicy aroma I came to enjoy, and we dressed in cassock and surplice and processed down the aisle as if we were clergy.<br />As part of the class, we were also required to form small teams and put together a special service, and the professor expressed high regard for my creative additions, both graphically, in the readings and congregational prayers and in the music. I suggested we use a bit of Randall Thompson’s “Peaceable Kingdom” which I had the opportunity to perform at Pepperdine, senior year on choir tour. Dr. Rowthorn noted that until I demonstrated my engagement in that service, I had been very quiet. No kidding! I was still in a state of mild culture shock, though I was having fun too.<br />Two girls lived in a suite at the end of my hall, Gail Ransom, a soprano who was getting a degree in church music, and Florence Jowers, an organist. Florence invited me to “bulk up” the church choir she accompanied on Sunday mornings, and I did that a couple of times. One of those Sundays, I was struck with the sweet intimate knowing of the Lord when it happened that we performed “Sing My Soul His Wondrous Love.” This was a song I had fallen in love with when Sara and Marilyn performed it in Miss Carleda Hutton’s choir at Brethren High School. Here it was again.<br />The composer, Ned Rorem, had set an old text to new harmonies which my soul craved. I looked him up in the library and discovered that he had published his memoirs, a journal of his escapades in Paris between the World Wars. He was gay, and his decadent lifestyle seemed so incredibly opposed to the sensitive, gorgeous music he created. This served as one more reminder for me of an earlier lesson, that a gifted person’s character and his gifts have little if any relationship.<br />Another student in the School of Sacred Music at the Divinity School was Tom Lloyd, who presented a spring recital as part of his studies. After wowing us with a wide range of accompanied vocal literature, Tom did a couple of encores <em>a cappella</em>. He opened his Bible to Psalm 42 and sang it to us, inventing the melody as he went along. Gail Ransom told me this kind of thing was part of his Lutheran tradition. The other was “Simple Song” from Leonard Bernstein’s <em>Mass</em>, and the melody still stirs my Broadway-loving, charismatically inclined heart. It opened with a recitative-style rolling chord and a declarative, exhortative “Sing!!”<br /><br />Sing God a simple song…Lauda laude…<br />Make it up as you go along…Lauda, laude…<br />Sing like you like to sing! God loves all simple things<br />for God is the simplest of all.<br /><br />I will sing the Lord a new song<br />to praise Him, to bless Him, to bless the Lord<br />I will sing His praises while I live<br />All of my days<br /><br />Blessed is the man who loves the Lord<br />Blessed is the man who praises Him<br />Lauda, lauda, laude…<br />And walks in His way<br /><br />Remember how Ed Boucher had encouraged me to listen to Bach’s <em>B-minor Mass</em> once a week? That introduction came just in time, because a few months later after I had come to know and love the Deutsche Grammophon recording of selections from the work, the Yale University Choir and Orchestra presented it at Woolsey Hall. Amazing! I was so thrilled to get to hear it performed live, although I learned that the producers of the album had been most wise in their selection of highlights. I could understand why the unfamiliar sections performed that evening were <em>not</em> on the record…they were a bit dull in comparison.<br />The final musical adventure I knew I would probably not experience anywhere else was the Easter Vigil. I’m so glad I troubled myself to take part. A big bunch of us met late Saturday evening in the Chapel on the Yale Green, where William Sloane Coffin had been Chaplain when I first visited Yale. We sat on pews and on the cold stone floor for hours and passed the Vigil in centuries-old chant and song. Finally, after midnight, all the lights in the building were doused except for a candle held by each one of us. We processed out of the building and stood in the dark. Suddenly, lights flew on inside and the organ boomed out a glorious “Alleluia! He is Risen!” and we re-entered the sanctuary through the giant doors and rejoiced in the resurrection.<br />I had one more experience in that sanctuary that didn’t involve music but certainly was a liturgical and cultural experience. As I explained early in my story, my religious upbringing had placed a great deal of emphasis on believer’s baptism. (Code: Babies can be dedicated by their parents, but such a personal decision can’t be made by ones’ parents for one.) It had to be by immersion (everything goes under the water) because it represents my identification with the death and burial of Jesus. Drops of water just don’t get it. I really got this, but tried not to make it an issue in discussions with those of other persuasions.<br />Well. Michael Haggin decided he wanted to be baptized, and invited me to attend the ceremony. We met at the Chapel on the Green, where he was clothed in a white garment. He stepped into a nickel wash pan, the kind you would find on a farm. The priest took a seashell and poured water three times over Michael’s head. He led Michael in a confession of faith that blew me away. It was powerful. Much more extensive than the simple, short phrases I had grown up with.<br />This liturgy had Michael not only proclaiming his allegiance to Jesus and the Faith, but also renouncing the world, the flesh and the devil. The priest made a clever remark about how we would face the doors and let the campus outside represent all that Michael was renouncing, quipping, “It actually serves quite well to represent these things.” I was grateful to have witnessed this transaction. Even if it didn’t fit my baptismal theology, I knew Michael had taken a conscious step from the kingdom of darkness into the kingdom of light.</span><br /><br /><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref1" name="_edn1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> <em>Heilsgeschichte</em> = “salvation history”<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref2" name="_edn2"><span style="font-size:78%;">[ii]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> <em>pro nobis</em> = for us. Gerhard Von Rad was a German theologian I was reading.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref3" name="_edn3"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iii]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> Karl Barth was my favorite theologian because he was actually struggling with the Bible as his text, which I discovered not all theologians felt compelled to do. My dad told of hearing him speak somewhere in the late ‘Forties, and this made Barth more interesting to me as well.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn4" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref4" name="_edn4"><span style="font-size:78%;">[iv]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> Head knowledge, as opposed to heart knowledge, is despised in certain Christian circles as practically useless, as it is considered “human wisdom” as over against “divine revelation”.</span>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1151939718786533072006-07-03T10:10:00.001-05:002008-06-27T09:04:03.689-05:00<div align="center"><a name="_Toc111783131"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Spiritual Warfare or</strong></span></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Digging in for the Long Haul</strong></span></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">When I had first arrived in Nashville, Duane and Carol, my “houseparents”, went out of town for a week and I was alone in our house. I ended up reading a lot, and one of the books I read was Perelandra, second in a science fiction trilogy by C. S. Lewis. I already loved his Chronicles of Narnia. I had discovered those books a couple of years before in Heidelberg, so I made the effort to adjust to this different style and I forged ahead with the trilogy.</span></div><p><span style="font-size:85%;">What a preparation for the year ahead this book proved to be. Perelandra was an incredibly accurate description of the kind of spiritual warfare I had only begun to discover. Before that night in Heidelberg where I turned on the light and read scripture until the fear went away, I had always felt like a helpless victim. But now I discovered that I had power, authority, and even a responsibility to fight the attacks when they came. Whether it was fear, pride, criticism, self-centeredness, jealousy…whatever the temptation, I began to realize that it was coming from somewhere outside me, not springing from my own wicked center like I had been tempted to believe. If it was coming from some other source, and that source was evil, then I needed to take a stand against it, and in the authority of Jesus’ name, I could overcome it.<br />At Christmas of that year came the revelation of Danny’s decision to enter the “gay lifestyle.” I told the Lord that my faith had to get really practical now. It was life or death to me. I had to figure out how to handle this situation, or none of it made sense. It was a crisis of faith. I had to know where to stand, and how to walk. Then came the new idea of intercession. (The world I had been raised in was sort of typified by my uncle V.M., who, when I mentioned how long it took me to get through my growing prayer list, commented, “Why don’t you just point to your list and tell the Lord to take care of it?” Needless to say, I had received no prior training in sustained, fervent prayer.)<br />Then early the following summer, one of the Nashville ladies I had come to love invited me over to their house. It was Mamie Mason, who was married to Bob, a man who knew my dad because he had been Bob’s Boy Scout troupe leader. They had a beautiful, gracious home and they had a house guest staying with them she wanted me to meet. Amazingly, Patrick turned out to be someone I had already met in Malibu, with Danny Blair and Virginia Burch, about a year and half before.<br />Patrick quickly trusted me enough to unburden himself. He revealed that he had just returned from a time of living in Europe where he had been a male prostitute. I don’t think Mamie and Bob knew this, so once again I was bearing a burden I felt I couldn’t share with folks older and wiser than me. He had told his mother, at their home in Virginia, “I have to find out if God is real,” and she had shipped him off to the Masons to see if folks in Nashville could help him.<br />We stayed up all night the night we met, and drove around, and at one point he scared me pretty badly when he went into a gay harangue and wouldn’t shut up. His voice changed, his eyes changed, and it was clear I was dealing with a spirit, or several, not just Pat himself. I told him, “Let’s you and me fast together for three days and see what God does.” He agreed to it.<br />I spent the next three days mostly with him. We read the Bible, we talked, we listened to teaching tapes, we hung out on the Masons’ deck, we drove around, we prayed. On the third day, in the evening, Mamie came outside and told me I had a phone call. Someone had called at Naomi’s house (where by now I was unofficially living) and they had known I could be found at the Masons’. I called the number, and it was Danny Blair. He said, “I need you. Please come home.”<br />It was six months since I had started praying for him.<br />I called Momma and asked her if I could make a visit home. I don’t think I explained anything to her. I hadn’t told her about Danny’s revelation, because I felt it was too vulnerable and sensitive a place in my heart to open to her comments. She said I could come, and the next week I was in Malibu again. I drove out to Orange County to see Danny, hoping for some kind of breakthrough, but enough time had passed since the phone call that things had settled down again. He was now living with Doug, the older man I had met at dinner in January, and Doug had scared him badly by threatening suicide and/or violence if Danny left him. So in his panic he had called me. By the time I arrived, the vulnerability was gone and he had settled back into a helpless resignation. He was smoking a lot of dope to keep himself numb.<br />It was so hard to have prayed that long and then see him so not present. We roamed around their house, we talked, we made their bed…He said, “You’re a strong person, to be able to do this.” I said simply, “I love you.” Nothing came of the visit except that he was reminded I had not rejected him, and maybe that was the best way at the moment that God could demonstrate His love for Danny. I realized as I returned to Nashville that this battle was not going to be a short one, and that it was time for me to make a commitment for the duration. I also realized that even if Danny and I were meant to be together, it certainly wouldn’t be any time soon.</span><br /></p><span style="font-size:85%;"><div align="center"><br /></span><a name="_Toc129427188"></a><a name="_Toc122423369"></a><a name="_Toc122416639"></a><a name="_Toc122223922"></a><a name="_Toc121501736"></a><a name="_Toc117312398"></a><a name="_Toc116040236"></a><a name="_Toc114905789"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Really Big Surprise: Moving to Yale</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Meanwhile, my relationship with Mike Johnston was continuing through letters, and he really shocked me by suggesting I come to school in New Haven. With my library degree and a Master’s in Divinity, I thought, I could become a theological librarian. I had always had a fantasy of a relationship like the Youngs’, a partnership. Mike could teach church history, I could work in the university library. How perfect. I just knew there was no way Yale was going to accept me, and even if they did, there was no way we could afford it. So why not try?<br />I applied, they accepted, they offered grant money, I had a talk with Momma and Chip about the finances, they agreed it was a good idea, and in no time I was attending goodbye picnics in Nashville. After only one year in this slower-paced, simpler way of life, I had gotten used to the service station guys and the checkout lady at the grocery store smiling and asking, “How’re ya’ll doin’?”<br />I had already been spoiled, but I didn’t know it until I faced the shopkeepers in New Haven. I felt like crying when they barked at me, “Whaddya want?” as if I were an intruder in their space instead of their livelihood. Just an hour from New York by train, New Haven exhibited some of the City’s harshness. What a rude awakening, and a chilly welcome. I had become a softie after just a year of Nashville’s “down home folks” treatment. Later on, I would come to enjoy the quintessentially New York “in your face” style of interaction, but it took some getting used to.<br />Fred Walker was planning to make a trip up to Boston to see Sue Mead’s family (they were engaged) and he agreed to take some boxes by New Haven for me on his way. When he returned to Nashville, he said, “They’re in something called the RSV Room. What do you suppose that means, Revised Standard Version?” He was just kidding – but that was the truth! Yes, indeed…my boxes were waiting for me in the very room where the majority of the work had been done on the Revised Standard translation of the Bible. This was a mere foretaste of the richness of history and tradition that lay ahead.<br />I moved my stuff into a dorm room in Seabury, one of the buildings halfway down the left side of the Quad, past the dorm where I had found Mike the previous Christmas. I was upstairs in the girls’ floor, and the downstairs was guys. The room was wonderful, all built ins except for the bed and desk. The bed, on the left, was a piece of wood on legs, with a thin mattress on it, very monastic, and the desk straight ahead in front of the window was heavy brown wood that had seen many generations of students. On the right side of the room there were built-in bookshelves, a built-in closet, cupboards above for storage, a built-in chest of drawers with a mirror and dressing table top, and a sink. One touch that spoke of the quality of the place was the thick, shiny brass plates over the electric plugs and light switches.<br />We ate together in the Refectory, a large room with long tables over on the left side of the Chapel, with the Common Room just outside it. The library where I would work and spend so much free time was to the right side of the Chapel. I enjoyed fitting the Chapel services into my morning schedule each day, and experienced a taste of many different Christian traditions in that way, as the services were led by various students and faculty.<br />I called Mike to tell him I had arrived. We made plans to go to church together, but I wouldn’t get to see him until the Sunday two weeks after I had arrived. I was disappointed that he didn’t want to come over right away, but having a date to look forward to helped with that some. On our way to the Hamden Church of Christ, where he said he had attended occasionally, he said, “I’ll bet you know more people at this church than I do, even though you’ve never been here before.”<br />“That’s impossible,” says I, and we walk into the Sunday School classroom and sit down in the circle of chairs.<br />A young blonde says, “You’re Gwen Moore, aren’t you?”<br />Shocked, I reply, “Yes – how did you know?”<br />“Oh, your grandmother and my grandmother are good friends, and she told me to look out for you.”<br />“See, what did I tell you?” smiles Mike.<br />It was pretty odd to sit in this Sunday School classroom and watch nearly every guy there whip out his Greek New Testament. What a strange environment, more than a bit daunting for me. Oddly, I don’t recall any weird theology or even much speculation arising from this group, though they were translating from the text as they went. I would have expected at least an occasional revelation that would differ from our Church of Christ roots.<br />Mike and I went for pizza after church, and I poured out my responses to two weeks in New Haven. He was floored. He said, as we walked down Whitney together, “This is, to use your word, amazing. You’re asking all the questions I figured it would take you two years to ask.”<br />Shortly after I had moved into my dorm, I wandered down to the basement to try out the laundry room. Over in the shadowy corner in a heap was what looked to be a pile of rags. Instead I discovered it was a patchwork quilt. I had fallen in love with quilts the year before in Nashville, and I’d asked Grandmommie, “What ever happened to our family quilts?” She said, “I gave them to some poor families.” Of course, knowing this was a precious heritage too, but still I longed for a patchwork quilt of my own. And here one lay! I determined that if it remained in that corner in a heap for at least a month, unclaimed, it could be mine. And so it was. It survived a good washing, and I cherish that hand-me-down gift from a stranger still today.<br />I had a great Nashville moment concerning the sale of my car. After I had been in the wreck with the Camaro, my uncle Winston had taken me to buy a used car with the insurance money. I drove it to New Haven and then started the process of trying to sell it there, when I realized that the title said the car was a Tempest when it was really a LeMans. I wrote the Department of Motor Vehicles in Nashville to ask them to correct the title, because I didn’t think the Connecticut people would go for an inaccurate title in a car deal. In the mail I received back the title and the letter I had sent, and on the bottom of my letter, in someone’s handwriting, were the words, “Honey, you just change it on the title and tell them it was wrong.”<br />I promise, I am not making this up. I still have the letter, if you’d like to see.<br />I had made a friend in Nashville whose family still lived in Connecticut, and since she knew I was moving up there she invited me to visit her at their cottage. It turned out to be the extremely nice kind of cottage owned by the genteel poor, the children of wealth who haven’t turned out to do so well for themselves but still have expensive tastes. My friend’s name was Hope, and we shared a pleasant afternoon chatting away about Connecticut, her unsaved family, the Lord’s goodness, etc. I love the family joke she shared with me, “Yeah, I have a sister and a brother too. Faith is the oldest. Faith, Hope and Bradley…and the greatest of these is not Bradley!” </span><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">0 ~ o ~ 0 ~ o ~ 0</span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I had barely arrived at Yale when my world was shaken. On September 16, 1975, Norvel Young had an accident that killed two ladies and injured another. He was reportedly under the influence of alcohol and prescribed medication. In years following, he would explain that he was depressed at the financial condition of the University and subconsciously angry at the way Bill Banowsky had behaved in his presidency. Of course, the family and the institution were badly shaken. It was so weird to see a photograph the following spring of my best friend, Marilyn, in TIME magazine, clinging to her father’s arm as they exited a court hearing. The story was on the front page of the L.A. Times. It was everywhere.<br />I recall at least one occasion prior when we had picked him and Helen up at the airport and he had smelled and acted “funny”. They attended so many social events and were in so many settings where everyone else was drinking, it’s really no wonder that he would be tempted. What folks don’t know is that Norvel’s brother was an alcoholic. Anyone who knows anything about alcoholism knows that it’s a disease process that has a basis in body chemistry, but when we were growing up, the recovery culture had not yet come of age and ignorance was a common enemy.<br />Not only did Norvel pay for the tragedy in terms of community service, contributing to a study on executive stress, making countless efforts to communicate his newly gained insights through speeches and meetings, phone calls and letters; four years of probation in which he was not allowed to drive; and a fine. He and Helen recognized their unelected but powerful position of leadership in “the Brotherhood” both nationally and around the world. They agreed that they would travel to the other colleges connected with Churches of Christ, as well as the major churches, such as Broadway in Lubbock where he had ministered for thirteen years, and Madison in Nashville where Ira North had grown such a large and vital congregation.<br />Norvel would publicly repent, not only for the shame of the drinking and the accident, but for the public reproach which he had brought upon the movement. And this they faithfully did, crossing the country many times, of course at their own expense. They later reported that the grace and forgiveness with which they were met were both humbling and just a bit surprising. They discovered that in the face of such personal pain, the Brotherhood exhibited more forgiveness than the legalistic rigidity which it had sometimes evidenced.<br />From that time on, Norvel was an even more deeply sensitive, grateful, tender-hearted man. Whenever we would visit their bedroom in the evening, he would always ask to share a prayer before we left. He went on to succeed in his role as Chancellor, and then in the ‘Eighties, Chancellor Emeritus. He led the “Wave of Excellence” fundraising campaign, raising more than $100 million, and establishing the School of Law, the School of Business and Management, and the School of Education and Psychology, which was named in Norvel and Helen’s honor on September 21, 2005.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><div align="center"><br />0 ~ o ~ 0 ~ o ~ 0</span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The first thing in my journal from the days at Yale was October 10,1975, the day that Dogwood arrived in my dorm room. Remember Dogwood? They were that group of musicians that played every Saturday night at Koinonia, the Christian coffee house and bookstore run by Belmont Church. They were going to play at the wedding of Mary Bennett (a good friend of David and Cherie Shepherd – Cherie was related to the Young family through her father, Lyle Morrow, Norvel’s cousin) and Bill Murray in Mystic, Connecticut.<br />Mary Bennett had made a big impression on me the previous year in Nashville. She was talking to one of the young men in our circle of friends, one whom I considered the most attractive, a “Most Likely to Succeed” type who dated only gorgeous women. Jack was someone I wouldn’t dare to initiate a conversation with, obeying a feeling left over from high school that I was inferior to the “beautiful people” (as they were called in those days). I felt unworthy to approach someone of his social status.<br />Jack was talking about the possibility of becoming an author, and Mary spoke right up to him. “Maybe you had better wait until you’ve learned something before you try to write a book.” Wow! I didn’t even consider the possibility that her words might be defensive, or perhaps unkind. I was just so impressed that she dared to talk to him as an equal, to confront him in that way and risk his displeasure. I wanted to grow up and be bold like her!<br />In order to visit with all the Nashville folks, I drove east to Mystic, Connecticut’s naval base, for a couple of days and went to the wedding. I stayed at the home of Peg Crosse, a lady I had heard about from the Shepherds and Fred Walker. On their way back to Nashville, Dogwood (Steve and Annie Chapman, Ron Elder, and his wife Ann) visited my dorm room for a pit stop. It was so weird, so touching, to have these representations of simple faith and love and affection right there in this strange Northeastern environment. I really hated to see them go.<br />The next entry in my journal is another list, this time a list of blessings, which I made on November 20, 1975. “Lord, it’s 2:30 a.m. and I can’t wait any longer to praise You by recording some of the blessings in Your mercy-shower upon me. Two weeks, and how full you made them! Your love, and Your Self, and Your comforting fellowship are forever worthy of praise and thanksgiving. In order of their appearance:<br />• William Sloane Coffin, both in class and again, speaking in the Common Room – to see him as Your man, a man of faith, a man seeking, yet a man You’ve found. Continue to minister love and light. (This guy was Yale’s Chaplain, and had been immortalized in the Doonesbury comic strip by Garry Trudeau. He was retiring and making farewell exhortations to various groups of students.)<br />• Roland Bainton: Praise Your faithfulness for his integrity and kindness, for “table fellowship” and questioning. (A world-renowned Luther scholar, he rode around New Haven on a bike in his eighties. He had lunch with a group of us that day.)<br />• The Group: a weary afternoon together where we opened (You opened) our hearts a little wide to one another. (Henri Nouwen required us to have a small group discussion in addition to his classes; what a wise requirement, since his goal was to get people out of their heads and into their hearts. Ours met in my dorm room.)<br />• Martha: sweet servant of Yours. To speak language of Your Spirit, to share Your truth and each other’s faith. An angel sent to minister to me. To pray together. Glory.<br />• Bev Nitschke: to share struggles, to see You open ways of healing. Father, I proclaim peace and guidance from You in her heart. May she be made completely Yours.<br />• Bible study at the Worleys’: a victory for You and a blessing for me. Protect David, Your Hebrew son, as he comes home to You. Bless Melinda and David richly with power and truth, Heatherly with health. (She was a projectile vomiter for months.)<br />• Gary: “We need to talk about Him. I don’t know Him.” Glory to Your Name. Bless him to open his heart’s door.<br />• The Hays’ and more precious prayer. Bless their home with unity and wisdom. Praise You for their love for me. (They took care of me when I got a really bad case of bronchitis, and Steve gave me a warm jacket which I didn’t own.)<br />• Michael Haggin and our talk. Blessed be Your Name, the light shines even in my darkness, and will not be put out. Heal his marriage, Father. May he come to know You. ( I could have gone for Mr. Haggin if he’s been a tad more believing. He was balding on top with a brush mustache, like Peter Yarrow, and we liked each other a lot.)<br />• Mike Johnston: two gifts of Your timing in the library; the first phone call just to talk; the Wesley Covenant Service; and a quick but blessed supper.<br />Your Name be praised from the rising to the setting of the sun.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><div align="center"><br /></span><a name="_Toc129427189"></a><a name="_Toc122423370"></a><a name="_Toc122416640"></a><a name="_Toc122223923"></a><a name="_Toc121501737"></a><a name="_Toc117312399"></a><a name="_Toc116040237"></a><a name="_Toc115944927"></a><a name="_Toc115693555"></a><a name="_Toc115664908"></a><a name="_Toc115484978"></a><a name="_Toc114922583"></a><a name="_Toc114905790"></a><a name="_Toc114850665"></a><a name="_Toc114840081"></a><a name="_Toc114205974"></a><a name="_Toc113561212"></a><a name="_Toc113534882"></a><a name="_Toc112479072"></a><a name="_Toc111956724"></a><a name="_Toc111956556"></a><a name="_Toc111785341"></a><a name="_Toc111783271"></a><a name="_Toc111783132"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Group Two, Seabury Chapel, Room 55</strong></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">“These are praises to You, Lord, not to me,” I wrote in my Journal, “from the Henri Nouwen discussion group, Fall, 1975.<br />“Maybe nobody tells you what’s wrong with you here because we can’t find anything.”</span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_edn1" name="_ednref1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> – Michael Haggin<br />“I can talk to you because you listen – you can at least be present.”<br />“There’s nobody else I’d want to take to see The Hiding Place.” – Duncan Hanson<br />“Hi, sweetheart…(hug)…You were making a statement about who you are.” – Rachel Hanson (She encouraged me with these words when I shared my discomfort at the doctor’s shocked comment on my virginity at my first internal exam. She was still the Midwest farmer’s daughter, though she had studied psychology with one of the innovators of the day, R. D. Laing.)<br />“Did I tell you my good news?” I asked, and Michael Haggin replied, “What, that Jesus saves? Or that God answers prayer?”<br />“That’s really revealing,” says Lanny Vincent. “What is?” someone asks. “Well, that shows how I feel about Gwen.” (In the guessing game of “What kind of animal would this person be? What kind of weather? What kind of furniture?” etc., Lanny answered about me: doe, changing weather, Shaker furniture, violet, cedar chest, autumn. Very nice. Lanny was an exceedingly attractive guy, a graduate of Davidson College, and a sailor.)<br />“What I’m trying to suggest is that we don’t have to terminate…” – Lanny Vincent. (We decided to go on meeting into the spring semester, even though our Henri Nouwen class was ending.)<br />Ed Boucher looked at my Bible and commented, “It’s like a parson’s Bible out of the seventeenth century…simple, worn, well-used…”<br /><br />Mr. Boucher made another memorable comment one day while we were discussing my regret at not being able to take Michael Cook’s famous class, Christianity and the Arts. ‘My dear, just listen to the <em>B-minor Mass</em> once a week.’ I had never heard the <em>B-minor Mass</em>, nor did I have a clue who had composed it. I marched right out to the record store and bought it. What a wonder was revealed by that Deutsche Grammophon recording, with Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau’s beautiful baritone singing that gorgeous Latin text. (Here was <em>finally</em> a trained voice I could love!)<br />One day we had communion together, and I sang ‘Who Am I?’ which I had learned from Annie Chapman the Christmas before in Nashville. I remarked afterward, “I wish we could sing a song we all know,” and Lanny replied, “I think we all know that one.” He brought the wine, Duncan brought the chalice, I made the communion bread, other people brought readings to share, everyone really prayed.<br />I loved how the Divinity School Quadrangle looked in the snow. The chapel was straight ahead, with dorm rooms in several buildings along each side. The library was connected to the chapel in the right corner, and the left corner of the Quad led to the Common Room and Refectory. I haven’t visited the campus since they did a major renovation, so I’m not sure if those are all still in the same locations.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/75%2012%20YDS.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/75%2012%20YDS.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><br /></span><a title="" style="mso-endnote-id: edn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14524425#_ednref1" name="_edn1"><span style="font-size:78%;">[i]</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> I discovered later that this was not a compliment, as I took it at the time. Michael Haggin was really complaining that I didn’t let anyone in close enough to see my vulnerabilities and broken places.</span><br /></span>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14524425.post-1151590388184644352006-06-29T08:52:00.002-05:002010-01-20T08:36:17.548-06:00<div style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a name="_Toc113534877"><strong>Fred Walker</strong></a></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >In the spring of 1975, I discovered a new kind of relationship to single men. It was partly the fault of those guys who lived at the house on Oriole Place. I’ll never forget the night Jack Milam danced with me in that living room. It was just a short dance, I have no idea what the music was, but it was the first (and last) time that a truly gifted dancer had led me, and I found out I could respond and feel incredibly graceful and together with him. Mind you, dancing in my high school and college days was either far apart, with psychedelic gyrations, or if it was a slow dance, the feet were hardly moving and the emphasis was on pressing as much flesh as possible. I had never met someone before who could really partner me in a dance. This was a revelation to me as a way of experiencing and expressing the differences in masculinity and femininity.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br />You’ll remember those two guys I rode back from Abilene with, Clark Collins and Fred Walker. Well, Fred and I had some sort of instant connection. I felt comfortable talking to him, I felt his affection for me, and I wanted more of whatever this “brothers and sisters in the Lord” thing was. There was an intimacy and vulnerability and openness and willingness I had never met before in a male person of my own age. I wrote about it. This friendship with him made me feel for the first time how very untrusting and untrustworthy my heart had been up to this point, and made me want to change, and be changed.<br /><br />Father, these are some of the gifts You have given me in these days:<br />“Do you want to come get coffee with us?”<br />“Praise Jesus!” (in answer to my “I’ve gotten spoiled to seeing you.”)<br />“We need to do some sharing, heart to heart.”<br />“Father, we just want to do Your will.”<br />“Sister, I’m trying to walk in the Spirit.”<br />A warm Spirit-filled prayer of a hug…<br />An extended arm that says, like Jesus, “Come…”<br />A grip on my shoulder…<br />Arms that encircle me and lift me in the spirit towards God…<br />Someone in whom I see Jesus working through a yielded spirit…<br />A man who prays with me and for me…<br />A gentle, reassuring touch that says God loves me.<br /><br />And Father, what have I given You in return?<br />The groanings of a disappointed child<br />Attention paid to fleshly desires<br />Time stolen from relationship with You<br />The schemings of one who doesn’t trust her Father’s love<br />Fears and comparisons and spiteful thoughts<br /><br />But I confess before you, God, that You are doing a work.<br />You are working in me trust, and patience,<br />a greater freedom in Your Spirit,<br />the conviction that Your mighty plan transcends<br />momentary human desire,<br />but the corresponding conviction that Your love for me<br />is mighty, and that my heritage is really beautiful,<br />the hope and the faith that You are in me to will<br />and to work Your good pleasure,<br />and the desire to be pure and wholly Yours.<br /><br />I praise and bless Your name<br />I magnify Your glory, and confess that You are<br />exalted above all creation<br />I bless the name of Jesus<br />and I praise and bless God.<br />Make my life the life of Christ.<br />Make of me a blessing.<br />I praise You.<br /><br />Take our futures and make them work<br />completely according to Your holy will.<br /><br />Praise You for the faith that You can do it.<br />Praise You for the hope that You will.<br />Praise You for the assurance that You are at work.<br />Thank You, Lord.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><div align="left"><a name="_Toc111956718"></a> </div><div align="center"><a name="_Toc116040230"><strong>Springtime in Nashville</strong></a></div><br />I wrote my mother sometime that spring. I had never lived in a real barren winter or lush springtime before, and it astounded me. “Dear Momma, I’d love to talk to you but I’m just about broke and last month’s phone bill was a tad embarrassing. So I’m being conservative, and besides you can keep a letter. This morning I felt like I had to write you just to tell about the beauty. I drive down Fairfax between West End and 21st and it’s as though the street were planted to be beautiful in spring. This is the first week the leaves are really bursting out, little crinkled pale green and yellow, and that looks fairytale-ish to me all be itself. Then there’s lots of redbud trees, and the cherry trees are mostly in bloom, and the daisies (“weeds” Daddy called them) and daffodils, etc. are all over. The sweetest blessing for me is that our yard is full of wild violets! like the Pink House used to have on 29th. Not so lush, but they’re all over. Today it was warm and humid and green smelling (70º) and the sky was tremendous, lots of clouds. So the day itself was a blessing. Of course, there’s a tornado watch tonight but I’m not too worried.<br /><br />“The activities of the day turned out to be even more exciting. I got to go to ladies’ Bible class this morning, about six young mothers and six old ladies (70s) and Martha Finto and Martha Allen (one of Naomi’s roommates) all shared a scripture and talked a little. The theme of the morning turned out to be anxiety, and it was such a thrill to hear those sweet women who’ve walked with the Lord seventy years tell about His faithfulness. One lady read the 23rd Psalm and another commented, “Can’t be beat.” I loved it.<br /><br />“This afternoon was really exciting too (it gets better and better, just like life in the Lord). If you’ve ever heard of William Stringfellow, I read a book by him in about 10th grade about his experience being a Christian lawyer in Harlem and it really moved me. He was invited to speak to a class at Vanderbilt called “Death and Dying” and I got to go hear him. He nearly died two years ago of a rare disease and he talked about the same thing that he had said in the book ten years ago – that the power of the resurrection is available now. In other words than these he said that if you’ve already died you’re free to live, free from the fear of death. Death is the moral force against God and it’s what most ‘sins’ stem from – materialism, hunger for power, violence come from fear of death and are forms of idolatry of death. Anyhow, in essence he preached the gospel to these Vanderbilt students, who didn’t seem to get it. But we did and it was so neat to hear him speak in such faith and commitment and yet in such scholarly, sharp, intelligent terms. Whew. You might really appreciate the book <em>My People is the Enemy</em>.<br /><br />“Then since I wanted to go to his speech I missed Vultee and got to go to Belmont. I’ve only missed about three Wednesday nights all year so I figured I deserved a break (small joke – you understand). Anyway, the service was a real blessing, as always, and afterwards I got to talk to Bob Mason and several other fine people. Then as I was talking to Fred Walker (my dear crush, the first one I’ve ever tried to walk completely in the Lord’s will) he asked me to go with a bunch of them to eat. I was delighted, since two weeks ago I got to be with him so much, in that way twice (it was three weeks ago) and then the past two weeks I was really praying that the Lord’s will be done and I hardly saw him at all. Anyhow, as he dropped me off, he said we should get together sometimes and ‘do a little sharing heart to heart,’ and got my phone number. Now I’m trying to stay completely calm and just ask the Lord to work and thank Him for each little blessing. But it’s such a major encouragement to be with fine strong growing men who belong to Jesus and seek God’s will.<br /><br />“The Lord never did a better thing than bringing me here. I keep getting to know and be with more people every few weeks, as though I were settling in for a good while. Wouldn’t that be a funny turn of events. The fellowship here is just constantly available and always a great strength and blessing. If I thought I could keep you at Belmont I’d almost wish you would come live here. Never to Nashville for itself, just for what God’s doing. Bob Mason and I prayed for you tonight.<br /><br />“There’s been a crazy little thing happening this week which I should tell you about on the condition that you only pray about it and not worry. I’m concerned enough for both of us. I’ll tell you first that Don Finto and Bob Mason both know all the people involved and are somewhat excited about it and are praying. I’ll tell you names even though they won’t mean anything to you. Two fellows, Don Woerner and Jack Groschmal, and I got together at a well-known man’s home recording studio this Saturday and cut two demo tapes which will likely be sold soon. Demos are like sample recordings of songs that people take around to music and publishing companies to promote songs, etc.; but one of the songs may be sold as a final version and we’ll get the profits. Here’s the basic story – it all fell together last week without any planning. There’s a guy at Belmont who does the recording of sermons, etc., who’s a pretty well-known song writer, Gary Paxton (Tell Chip he wrote “Alley-Oop”) who talked to Don about getting a group up to do demos for him regularly, and if the group developed and was good he’d be glad to help it in whatever way.<br /><br />“Well – all this has rather bowled me over, to the extent that I’ve been nervous about it, sort of felt like it was all so quick that it might go on developing at breakneck speed and be like a whirlpool and suck me in against my will or deceive me somehow. But the Lord knows (because Don Finto and Bob Mason and others and I are telling him) that I want His will. That if it’s supposed to go, it’ll be amazingly obvious, and if not it’ll just be defeated. The real point in its’ favor it that everyone involved is a Christian and wants to praise the Lord only, and the songs are all gonna be about Him. So you can pray. It may fizzle out.<br /><br />“Bob Mason was funny tonight – he got all excited as I was telling him and said in his prayer that if this meant I should stay in Nashville and not go to Yale he was so thankful because that’s what he wants. (On the other hand it could be the way I could finance the year and not have to kill myself working. God’s will be done.) I told Bob I was trying to have a crush in the Spirit and he should pray God would find me someone (everybody’s so fired up about Christian marriages being made around here) and he said, ‘Some fellow’s in for a real blessing.’ So sweet…<br /><br />“I miss old Sharyn and Chip a lot. Give them both hugs, and Sara and Caren, and Mrs. and Dr. Young, etc. etc. I love you so much, sweet Momma. Bless your heart. Father God, bless us both with your peace and strength— Love you, Gwen”<br /><br />Well…it wasn’t the right time or the right people yet, but it turned out that this little flirtation with the music industry was a portent of things to come which I could hardly being to imagine.<br /><div align="center"><br /><a name="_Toc129427183"></a><a name="_Toc122423364"></a><a name="_Toc122416634"></a><a name="_Toc122223917"></a><a name="_Toc121501731"></a><a name="_Toc117312393"></a><a name="_Toc116040231"></a><a name="_Toc115664901"><strong>Jack and Frances Thomas</strong></a></div><div align="left"><br />I’ll introduce a few more players to the cast of Tennessee characters that came from my parents’ life. Momma and Daddy’s first home together had been in Tullahoma, Tennessee. Daddy had the nerve to be a conscientious objector during World War II (as were both his brothers), so his service time was spent at Camp Forrest near Tullahoma, where German prisoners of war were eventually brought. He worked at least part of the time as a supply sergeant, and managed the officers’ club. Someone said he had a silk smoking jacket (he didn’t smoke) and looked quite the elegant gent for an enlisted man. The story goes that there was a $500 governmental limit on how much one could spend on new construction, and they cobbled together a one-room home for that price in which many house parties were enjoyed, with folks spending the night on the fold out bed and in chairs.<br /><br />In Tullahoma, they met a couple at church who would prove to be dear friends for the rest of their lives. Jack and Frances Thomas were older than my folks by a few years, and well established in the community. He ended up the high school principal, and Frances would walk across the street to substitute teach “with a Bible under one arm and <em>Uncle Remus</em> under the other,” as she wrote in a letter to me. Frances was the one who taught me about B’rer Rabbit and the Brier Patch, a classic tale of brain over brawn.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"> </div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/40s%20Whitesell%20party.jpg" border="0" /> <p>Here’s a party at the Whitesells before most of the children were born, with Norvel and Helen Young, Suzanne Moore in Grandmommie Whitesell’s arms, Dot and J.C. (my folks), Frances and Jack Thomas and Marian Whitesell Moore. Her husband Paul (my dad’s brother) was probably taking the picture, as was usual for him.</p><p>I didn’t know this until a few years ago, and was properly horrified when I heard the story. Apparently one day after church Frances had invited a large gathering to their yard for a Sunday dinner picnic, and my dad walked up to her and said, “You know, you’ll be ruining a perfectly wonderful meal if you don’t make some hot bread to go with this.” So she dutifully returned to the kitchen and whipped up a batch of hot buttermilk biscuits to satisfy him. I couldn’t believe it.</p><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/Thomas,%20Jack%20&%20Frances.2.jpg"><img style="" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/Thomas%2C%20Jack%20%26%20Frances.2.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p>But the story fit with my mom’s tale that when they married, he said she needed to learn how to make perfect cornbread. She tried recipe after recipe until she hit upon the one that pleased him most, and indeed I’ve always thought her cornbread was the best I’ve ever had. Of course, most people think the way their mother made cornbread or biscuits is the way it should be done. I’ve included the recipe in the Appendix. I titled it “Grandmommie’s Cornbread” because that’s what Momma called it when she gave it to me. Could it be that after trying numerous recipes, Daddy settled on his mother-in-law’s cornbread as the winner? It seems so.<br />Frances was a great hostess. Even after she stopped cooking, she would take her own placemats and napkins to the restaurant where she and Jack would feed us. And both of them always made me feel as if I were part of the party, instead of an appendage to be relegated to the den. The day after Momma’s funeral, Chip and I went to visit them, and Frances remarked, “Now this is true friendship. We couldn’t come to you, so you came to us."</p></span><div style="text-align: center; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a name="_Toc115664902"><strong>Helen Buchi</strong></a><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br />More dear friends from the early days remained part of our family circle. Harold and Helen Buchi were also a couple a bit older than my folks who show up in the pictures of parties and gatherings from the Nashville days before children, and continued being dear to us till their deaths. You’ll note the photo of their daughter, Barbara, who was my age, standing with me in the Youngs’ driveway the summer we moved to California, 1958. They also had another daughter and a son closer to Chip’s age. He established Buchi Plumbing, and sadly was killed in a car accident not long after my dad’s death, so Helen and my mom began to take trips together from time to time. His accidental death occurred tragically just after they had completed their “dream house” which held many elements that also became my idea of a dream house.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/76%20Helen%20Buchi.jpg"><img style="" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/76%20Helen%20Buchi.jpg" border="0" /></a></span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was on a short block called Cantrell, and featured a round three story stone tower as part of the front door, with a spiral staircase to the basement. Dividing two separate guest bathrooms was a rough stone wall with natural ledges where Helen put tiny objects like a gnome or fairy. There was a landing on the second floor that overlooked the library, with a free-standing stained glass window in a frame, and in that library there was a great find, one of the study tables from a Peabody building that was being discarded.<br /><br />There were Persian rugs and a grand piano in the living room, and a real Japanese rock garden outside that room. A wonderful brick fireplace in the family room at the back of the house made a cozy corner where we would sit and chat with Helen in easy chairs. She was such a delightful, positive, lively person. She had a collection of “ABC” books which I added to every Christmas, and she built my collection of Arthur Rackham fairytale illustrations with a Christmas gift each year.</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a name="_Toc111783128"><strong>A Day in the Country</strong></a></span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Naomi had found a young man I would have described as “stone country”. He was named Clay Taylor and the three of us became friends. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Tillman Taylor, lived in Clarksville and one day we went to visit them. On their door was a calling card on which was printed “Mr. and Mrs. Tillman Taylor” and in pencil, “Come in. Back soon.” Clay said I could keep that, and it’s taped in one of my journals still. The day was so rich that of course I had to take notes. It turned out that the Taylors had known Dieter Alten, one of my favorite German preachers. When the American missionaries send him to school at Lipscomb, he would preach at the Taylors’ congregation. Mr. Taylor said, “Dieter Alten had compassion for a little orphaned opossum, and he fixed up an incubator and tried to feed it milk with a nipple.” Here are more quotes:<br />(Apparently, when he was a little boy, Clay used to go outside and preach sermons to his pets or the side of the barn.)<br />“I remember the subject of one sermon – it was shorts. Wearing shorts.”<br />“Were you for or against it?”<br />“Against.”<br />“See all the girls he knew was his sister, and all she knew was what her parents said, and so that was the way they saw things.”<br />I gleaned a series of classic Southernisms for my collection:<br />That’s a whole different set of dogs.<br />He was choppin’ cotton trying to get something done.<br />We searched for dear life…<br />Cute as a speckled puppy under a red wagon…<br />Slow as sorghum in January…<br />He probably preached to the barn what he and the fireplace had discussed that morning.<br />If it takes a woodchuck with a rubber bill nine months and thirteen days to pick a hole through a cypress log big enough to make a bundle of shingles selling for 65¢, how long would it take a grasshopper with a cork leg to kick the juice out of a dill pickle big enough to make a meal for a bull snake and a rhinoceros?</span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a name="_Toc111783129"><strong>Grandmommie</strong></a></span></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Springtime was full of Nashville beauty, with the redbuds and dogwoods and fruit trees all in bloom. Grandmommie decided it was time for her to sell the Primrose house and move to the nursing home on Wedgewood Avenue, called Lakeshore. Before she moved, I asked her to take me on a tour of her backyard garden for the last time, so I could write down everything she was growing at that moment. She had sweet peas, candy tuft, yarrow, larkspur, ragged robin, Queen Anne’s Lace, and something she pronounced “awthrawatera”.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br />I’m so grateful for that year spent “getting to know the relatives better” because it was mostly about Grandmommie, who was not going to be with us all that much longer. If V.M. hadn’t asked me to “carry” her over to his house every Wednesday night, I wouldn’t have been able to collect these precious quotes from her and save them in my journal:<br /><br />“My dad went to college, you know; he said it was a waste of time, he didn’t encourage his children to go to college. Anyway, he had numerous volumes of Thackaway and Miltons and do you know, I read them, and they were bastards from start to finish!”<br />“But I thought Milton was a Christian…” I offered.<br />“Well, who was another well-known English writer?”<br />“Maybe Wordsworth?” I guessed.<br />“That sounds terribly familiar. But I remember that Thackaway. Why, the terrible lives they led, why I just couldn’t imagine. I was 14 or 16, a young girl when I read them. Just bastards from start to finish.”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><div align="center">~ o ~<br />“I thought it was such a pretty name – Dortherea – </div><div align="center">but they wouldn’t call her that. When she started to school it was ‘Dot’.”<br />“Well, what’s on her birth certificate?”<br />“Oh, I don’t know.”<br />~ o ~<br />“Yes, your great-granddaddy was a ‘jelly bean,’ a real sporty young man. Dad Long owned a liquor store – it wasn’t so bad in those days, people didn’t get drunk so much – and when he went to courting my mother, she said, ‘I won’t marry a man who owns a liquor store,’ and he said, ‘Tonight’s the last time those doors will close.’ If he said something, he’d do it, so he went out and sold that store and bought a grocery store, and they went to live in the hotel.”<br />~ o ~<br />Grandmommie told me that her mother used to put her nine children out of the house in the morning after breakfast, and tell them they were not allowed to come back in until dinner time. If they got hungry, they were welcome to eat sugar cookies from a barrel she kept on the back porch. “I don’t like sugar cookies to this day,” she told me.<br />~ o ~<br />Mildred Thurman asked Grandmommie, “Which of your children are you partial to?” and she responded, “Whichever one needs me the most.”<br />~ o ~<br />Little Bob said, ‘Did you know I’m going to heaven? You’re going to miss me.’ It was almost more than I could take.” (Bob was V.M. and Lois’s first child, who died at the age of five.)<br />~ o ~<br />Momma told me to ask Grandmommie about the lady who got fatter and fatter until she wouldn’t go out of the house. “I don’t know why that strikes me so funny,” says Mom, cracking up one morning. The prisoner of her own girth turned out to be Eva Stinson, Uncle Gid’s daughter.<br />~ o ~<br />“Aint Addie, Virgil’s sister – you know, they’re all Cumberland Presbyterian – ”<br />No, indeed, I had never heard about any non-Church of Christ folks in the family tree. And I found out that a Methodist had snuck in there too!<br />~ o ~<br />“You’ve been a right industrious child…”<br />~ o ~<br />“That’s like my dad…he built a two-story house with half a saw and a hammer.”<br />~ o ~<br />“You know, Virgil proposed in a letter, and I answered him with that Ruth passage about ‘Entreat me not to leave thee…’ Dan Harless preached on Ruth the day Virgil died, and I told him, ‘Why, you like to killed me with that.’ He said, ‘I’m glad you told me.’”<br />~ o ~<br />“Now, be sure you know what you’re doing!! – and then you don’t.” (She laughed at herself, and the foibles of being human.) “A Ph.D., I guess it’s nice to have one, if you have your religion too. Now you make sure you have that.”<br />~ o ~<br />I asked her, “You know what you said to me one day?”<br />“There’s no tellin’,” she replied, with a smile.<br />~ o ~</div><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/40s%20Family.jpg"><img style="" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/40s%20Family.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>Here’s a family photo taken on the back porch of the Whitesell house on Primrose, before Chip and I were born. Grandmommie lived there for fifty years, and then sold it to friends of mine. The kids in the picture are the two oldest, Suzanne and Ronny, our double cousins. The others from the left are: my dad, J.C. Moore, Jr.; Patsy and J.C. Moore, Sr.; V.M. Whitesell and his dad, Virgil; my mom, Dorothy (Dot), just above “Munner” (Nannie’s mother). Up top next to Virgil is his wife Bonnie Whitesell (Grandmommie) with her daughter-in-law Lois just below her; Marian (Mom’s and V.M.’s sister) holds Ronny; and Martha Nell and Winston Moore, probably newlyweds.<br /><br />“Pappy Whitesell’s sister married ‘Font’ Harris. My great-great-grandmother, Martha Jane Harris, married a Stinson; her daughter Betty married a Long; and they had me, Bonnie. Uncle Gideon Stinson (a great-great uncle to you) was a big man in Lewisburg. Jim (James Gideon Long) was named after him. Cud’n Pokey (Pocahontas) Considine, Virgil’s cousin lived to be one hundred years old.<br />“Pap (J.L.) and Mammy (Betty) Long had nine children. I’ll tell you their names and who they married”<br />Vance and Ina Claxton had J.V. and Melissa (who married Trine Starnes).<br />Ross and Inda McNatt (these live in Huntsville, Alabama)<br />Raby and Mattie Lou McNatt (these live near Shelbyville)<br />Carl and Mary McNatt; Carl died, then Mary married O’Dell McKinney<br />Wilburn and Bess McKnight<br />Virgil and Bonnie Whitesell<br />Jim and Christine Long<br />Lester and Grace Mallard (Methodist!) Long<br />John Leon and Leona Long had Louise, a librarian who lives in Deckard.”<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/1600/60s%20Whitesell%20Sisters.jpg"><img style="" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3864/1317/320/60s%20Whitesell%20Sisters.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>Here are, from left, Bess, Mary, Mattie Lou (pronounced “Aint Maddalu” all my life) and Bonnie, four out of the six Long sisters.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span>Gwenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12741952100640474494noreply@blogger.com0