The END? No the BEGINNING

When I learned that Ray Parker no longer wanted to be married and that my children and I would not be a part of his life, I was beyond devastated. My dear Aunt Thelma sent me a card with this message: 

“Sometimes what seems like the end…. Is really just the beginning”.  

Those words have provided comfort and peace in my life for many years.

So many times, I’ve felt like something was over and I felt very sad, sometimes even destitute.  And I often draw from those words of encouragement.

I imagine that’s how the followers of Jesus must have felt on this day in history.

Even though Jesus had been telling them, it was more than they wanted to take hold of.  Surely Jesus was going to come into His kingdom as a King.

Why in the world this day has become known as GOOD FRIDAY??? It’s a horrifying day in History. Cicero called Jesus’s death on the cross “cruelty a most disgusting penalty” and Josephus said” it was the most pitiable of deaths.

 And yet hear Jesus' words:

“It is finished – not it’s finally over"

It’s as if he said “For this, I was born, and I have come to the world to bear witness to this truth”

On this day we remember the steps and the horror  - So we leave the story with friends coming to take Jesus down off of the cross and take his body to a tomb.  We all know how difficult it is to leave our loved one’s body in a cemetery or even a columbarium. 

Except – “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming”

                                               May your life have enough sunshine 

                                               to make you appreciate the shadows

Tell me a story

Have you ever heard this little song?

"Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell my a story before I go to bed

Tell me about the birds and bees; tell me what makes a chicken sneeze

Tell me a story before I go to bed"

My daddy used to sing that to us.  Now I have a very dear friend who tells a great story. If only I could get him to put those stories on paper.  The first time I met him he told me someone had told him he should write a book - and said he wouldn't know how to do that - and of course, I told him I knew a little widow woman who could write. . .

In the meantime, this week I read the book,, Chilled in Chattanooga by Deborah Malone.  Ir's fiction and a mystery.  I don't normally read that genre.  HOWEVER. . .

Reading about the place I lived from 1972 to 1979, the birthplace of my children, and one of my very favorite towns made me begin to remember that I have some of my own stories - particularly relating to that time in my history.  And the book I read reminded me. . .

It was May 1976.  Ray Parker had just received his Doctorate from Luther Rice Seminary in Jacksonville and as was our custom we were going part of the way to Chattanooga on Saturday afternoon and the rest of the way on Sunday.  

Sunday - that meant we would find a church.  We were in a small town in south Georgia.  I don't remember the exact location..

Now independent sort that I am, my choice would have been to find a church that was not our "denomination" so the girls (Becca was 5 and Renee was 2) could worship in a different setting.

Oh no.  Had to be a Baptist church.

But -- let's be sure it's not one of those who might be handling snakes as a part of their worship (that's what the story in the book reminded me of - a feisty little grandmother had actually done that. But I digress).

As Ray and the girls and I went up to the front door of the church we met the minister.  He was in his 70's and that seemed elderly then.  He was also a bit frail.

"I've been out of the pulpit for a few Sundays", he said, continuing that he had been ill and that this was his first Sunday back.

Ray told him that he was a minister.

About halfway into the service, the minister cane to the pulpit:

"I'm not feeling well and I'm going to ask Rev. Parker to come up and preach.

I don't know what you know about "preachers", but most of them have what is called a candy stick in their pocket.  This means they have a message they can preach on demand.

It was Mother's Day.  Do you think his candy stick was geared toward mothers???

To Ray's relief, the congregation sang all four verses of "Holy Spirit, Breathe on me".

And fortunately, there were no snakes in the church.

That was so long ago.  Sometimes I forget life as the wife of a pastor.  But all these years later I can remember some of those experiences with a smile.   

Usually what I write on this blog has some sort of a message.  I've been pondering why I thought I needed to tell this story today.  Who knows?

EXCEPT

I know we all have stories. . . and our stories should be told!  

                                               May your life have enough sunshine 

                                               to make you appreciate the shadows

PS - This year marks the 40th anniversary of the time that I stopped being a minister's wife.  It seems appropriate for me to say that the sunshine of those forty years has surely made me appreciate the shadows.  As I often say "Have you met my children?"  Thanks be to God!!!

 

 

"You're supposed to prune it?"

 "So, when's the last time you pruned this sago palm?"

"Uh - never", I replied.

We were getting my backyard ready for a necessary extension of the drain pipe that is on the back of my house.  This is in addition to loads of dirt that keep showing up in hopes that we can make the backyard level.

I've actually enjoyed the project.  Before it was finished there were four garbage cans ready for pick up on yard trash day.

As I have been working I've thought of the fact that we are just a few days away from what we now know as Palm Sunday.  According to Scripture, it was a day of celebration and proclamation as people lined the streets with palms and even their cloaks paying homage to Jesus as He rode a donkey through the town. 

As I snipped the fronds off of the Palm I wondered about the process for securing the palms that were strewed in front of the kingly procession.  

I have always loved Palm Sunday.  I love the pageantry, the celebration, the music.  Each year I listen again and again to "The Palms" by Jean-Baptiste Faure.  I have a special memory of the Junior Choir singing that with the Adult choir at Glendale Community Church when I was in the third or fourth grade.  I remember that we carried palms.

Back to my Sago Palm.

Yes, I know that sometimes we need to take the growth away to make room for new growth to come forth.  (You might remember how aghast I was when my yard man pruned my crepe myrtle). And by that same token, I do know that sometimes we need to remove something from our lives to make room for something else.

One of my Lenten Disciplines for years has been to take a piece of clothing from my closet each day for 40 days and then give those clothes to an organization that would provide clothes for those who need them.  An interesting thing this year is that I realized sometimes I need to give something I really liked instead of what I didn't.  That's where the sacrificing comes in.  So some of the shoes I really liked - have made their way to the bag.  

And now Lent 2022 is about to be a memory.  Holy week begins with the swaying of palms and the words from Scripture that are referred to as "the Passion".  I first experienced the reading of the Passion when Rich Suhey and I went to Mass at the Basilica in St Augustine in 1997. It meant much to me then and continues to.  The music, the discipline, the tradition - all are part of what is a wonderful season.  Two years ago I added this tradition:

Holy week begins with celebration - ends with desperation and defeat - only to be met with celebration - when the sun rises on Easter morning and we all respond  - The Lord is Risen indeed -

But I'm getting ahead of my story. . . 

                                              May your life have enough sunshine 

                                               to make you appreciate the shadows

 

 

 

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