Almost Heaven

Friends, thanks for reminding me when weeks have passed without a “Tuesdays with Maggie” post. I  love connecting with you this way and reading your comments and in many cases your own posts as well. This has been an unusual month for me with the challenge of balancing an intensive theology course along with full-time work. A tradition we always make time for, however, is Rowe Family Camp in West Virginia - an annual reunion of four generations of Mike’s extended family – his parents and 6 siblings plus 23 grandchildren and at last count about 29 greatgrands. I won’t have time today for a “Tuesdays” post, but for those interested I am reposting a few thoughts from last year’s Camp. Given the horror of what took place in Aurora, CO on Friday, it’s all the more important to hold tight to those we love and cherish every rare moment we have together.

With my love to you all,

Maggie

————————————————————————————————————–

What makes a family?

It’s more than simply tracing one’s lineage back to the same set of ancestors, or being grafted into a group by adoption or marriage.

A family is a place to belong – a perpetual home without walls or borders.

A family stretches to welcome new members. The ties that bind are elastic; there is always room for one more hand to hold.

In a family each generation enters the dance of life through the generation that has gone before but adds new steps and a melody of its own. The music of life swells, surges, becomes a symphony with many voices. Parents and children change places in the dance.

Members are not valued for their successes or defined by their failures. They are accepted simply because they are family.

A family is pancake breakfasts and a baby’s first dip into a pool.

A family is a sister taking up the tradition of making peanut butter fudge when Mom can no longer do it. A family is four-generation baseball with Poppa throwing out the first pitch.

A family is banter and tears. Texting and Facebook. Card games and late nights. The first to arrive waits for the last to get ready so none are left behind.

It’s trying new things and respecting old ways. Poring through yellowing albums and exclaiming over a great aunt’s treasures. It’s sharing memories that are meaningless outside the circle of sisters and brothers, kith and kin.

And when the last cabin is swept and the bags are packed, it’stime to part for another year.  The marvelous mess of a family reunited sorts itself into vehicles marked Colorado and Louisiana, Illinois and Indiana, New York and Pennsylvania. Voices call farewell and are swallowed up by the West Virginia hills.

Family Camp is over for another year. Life camp will end someday too.

But on the other side of the ridge, just where the taillights disappear, awaits a reunion not yet seen – a final homecoming so grand it can only be imagined.

And there, too, we will be family.

“God’s home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them.He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.” Revelation 21: 3-4

When Is the 4th not “The Fourth”?

When is July 4^th not “The Fourth”? Is it when all festivities have been cancelled, as they have been here in our hometown of Wheaton tomorrow?

Our mayor has declared a state of emergency following Sunday’s   derecho – purportedly a type of land-based hurricane that roared through our region violently and without warning, taking countless trees and power lines with it.

No one around here is seeking pity, however – not with similar conditions on the east coast along with flooding in Florida and wildfires in Colorado. It won’t be a typical Fourth of July celebration for millions of people.

I have always loved the community feeling of the July 4 holiday: taking our kids to hear the cannons boom on the Boston Esplanade during the 1812 overture, watching fireworks with our church family on Kalmus Beach in Hyannis, and in recent years inviting thousands of people from Wheaton onto our church lawn for Fabulous Fourth @the First. It’s a day for honoring those who served, flying the flag our USAF son-in-law Ben gave us from Operation Enduring Freedom, and watching parades.

There will be no picnics or parties, pyrotechnics and patriotic displays this year.

But July 4^th was never really about that anyway. Our country isn’t even 250 years old – by historical standards, the United States is just entering its adolescence. As Americans, will we make it through the turbulent teen years and mature into the better society we are capable of becoming, or will we implode socially, spiritually and economically?

In Joel Rosenberg’s new book Implosion he tackles the question of whether America is an empire in decline or a nation poised for a historic Renaissance.

“I dearly love my country,” writes Rosenberg. “I was born here and grew up here, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to America. I don’t want to imagine worst-case scenarios, much less write about them. I don’t want to suffer through such times if they come. Nor do I want family and friends spread out all over this beautiful land to go through them either. Maybe none of us will. Maybe the worst-case scenarios will be avoided. I certainly hope so.

“Yet I live and work in the nation’s capital. I regularly and extensively travel this country. I see what’s happening all around me, and it is deeply disturbing. Marriages and families are imploding. Our federal debt is exploding. The tide of cultural pollution is rising. Our educational system is collapsing. Friends and neighbors are abandoning God and the church. The list of horrifying trends seems to grow longer each and every year. At this point, even a blind man can see the handwriting on the wall. The question is: what does it portend for the future of America?”

As I read those words this week, I felt helpless. What can one person do to stem the tide?

1)      Hold our elected officials accountable. It’s not enough to cast a ballot and walk away from the problem. If you’re considering supporting an incumbent, examine his or her record. Have they kept the campaign promises they made or are they offering a raft of excuses why they couldn’t do what they said they would? If so, why in the world would we elect them again?

2)      Make your voice heard.  In his farewell address in 1796, our first president said this:  “Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports. In vane would that man claim the tribute of patriotism who should labor to subvert these great pillars. Let us with caution indulge the supposition that morality can be maintained without religion.” ~ George Washington

3)      Intercede for our country. As you pray daily for your loved ones, don’t neglect to remember the place we call home. The Apostle Paul was adamant about this: “Pray this way for kings and all who are in authority so that we can live peaceful and quiet lives marked by godliness and dignity.” 1 Timothy 2:2 NLT

However you spend “The Fourth,” don’t neglect to take a few moments to take any concerns you have for America to God.

When it comes to the Father of our country, He’s the real deal.

‘Hawks, ‘Tats, and Hypocrites

Adam at Rowe Family Camp holding his little cousin Meredith (who couldn’t quite decide what she thought of his new ‘do)

So you know that famous passage that says judge not lest ye be judged, so- on- and- so- forth?

I’ve been thinkin’ about that.

Years ago, in response to a challenge from one of his junior high students, our oldest son, Adam, dyed his blonde hair red, shaved it into a mohawk, and slicked it into spikes five inches high.

It was scary.

That was not the object, but it certainly was the effect. The moment Adam got off the plane from California to visit us, my eyes became as round as Chicago pan pizza. With nearly a half-foot of flaming red quills added to his nearly six-foot frame, our son was fearsome. When we took him out for dinner at a Wheaton restaurant that night, my peripheral vision caught parents sneaking sideways peeks at Adam, pulling their own kids close and shaking their heads emphatically.

If they only knew, I thought, who our son really is – a culturally conservative, crazy-about-Jesus youth pastor who embodies everything we ever prayed for in a son.

Next week the ‘hawk was gone and so was Adam, but the lesson remained. How often do I mentally judge others based on appearance alone?

Our youngest son, Jordan, sports a permanent adornment on his right arm: a crown of thorns encircling a red drop of blood. He created the design in college and had it tattooed on his arm in memory of the one whose life it represents.

But it came with a risk. A risk of being stigmatized, judged or even rejected because of his tattoo.

Truth be told, I’m no fan of tattoos or the needles used to incise them. I shudder at the idea of indelible markings on the tender flesh of my young adult children when I would have thrown myself under a bus to keep them unblemished as babies. Yet they have come of age in a generation that does not regard tattoo parlors or the people who frequent them with the same suspicion mine did.

And what am I supposed to tell them? That Holy Scripture prohibits body art? My current theological studies have reminded me that interpretation would be taking Leviticus 19:28 (“Do not cut your bodies for the dead, and do not mark your skin with tattoos. I am the Lord”) out of its historical-cultural context. The ancient Israelites were warned against marking their skin with tattoos because in that culture it signified a pagan mourning ritual for the dead. “Do not be like them!” God warned the Israelites.

When I recall the disapproving glances that came our way when we were out with our mohawk-haired, tattooed-armed sons, I shudder again.

But this time it’s at the memory of the times when I, too, have slid my eyes sideways across a room and instantly judged someone else by how she dressed, accessorized or styled her hair.

So are we never, ever to “judge” another? The caution in Matthew 7:1 to “judge not” is not a prohibition against having an opinion or registering a legitimate concern. It’s a warning against the danger of hypocrisy. We will be judged by the same standards with which we judge others.

I’ll take the ‘hawk over the hypocrite any day.

Amish Hospitality 2.0

All photos were taken with permission of those whose yards and images are featured.

If you want to study biblical principles for “welcoming the stranger” first-hand, there are few better places to do it than among the Amish.

When Mike and I were in northern Indiana last June for the afternoon wedding of friends, we stumbled across the “Rentown Garden Walk” – an annual event where Amish families open up their property to guests as a modest fundraiser for their one-room country school. We so enjoyed it last year that we returned this year with Mom Wallem.

My post of a year ago describes what we learned about Amish hospitality, but this year’s walk brought a few surprises as well:

• The Amish have a wonderful sense of humor. Underneath those bonnets and beards are normal folks who love to laugh, enjoy life, and poke fun a bit at our English conceptions of their community.

We didn’t expect to purchase mint packaged in bags from Victoria’s Secret!

Their dresses might be plain, but when it comes to undies, it’s OK to get a little fancy!

Buggies and basketball. After all, they DO live in Indiana!

• The Amish demonstrate the significance of taking time to sit and be still, to read and reflect, to regard dialogue with others to be of more value than entertainment. Every yard we visited had carefully created areas for conversation.

A lovely spot to sit a spell in an Amish yard

• The Amish understand the biblical injunction to welcome the stranger into their midst. Rose shared gardening tips, Wanda gave us lettuce fresh-picked from her plot, and the Yoders prepared a hearty meal for us at the end of our day. We discussed faith and politics, cabinetry and RVs, raising children and lowering expectations of what true “productivity” looks like.

Rose sharing gardening tips with Mike as her twins look on

We loved this playhouse built for the Yoders’ grandchildren.

It’s tempting to idealize these gentle, unassuming people, but to do so would be to exalt them in a way totally antithetical to their faith. Ira Wagler’s best-selling memoir Growing Up Amish is quick to dispel any such notions.

Yet we felt completely at home among the people of Rentown this past Saturday. They gave us their welcome. We gave them a piece of our hearts.

The Holiness of Community

In Amber and Ben’s backyard, Tacoma WA, 6.10.2012

“I’m so glad we are related in more ways than one,” our daughter Amber remarked this past Sunday morning.

We were first-time attendees at Soma/Tacoma, a relatively new church plant in Tacoma, WA known for its missional communities. Our son Jordan has just relocated to Tacoma, and we decided to worship together at a church several people had recommended to Jordan.

As the church explains it, the gospel makes us children of God and brothers and sisters together. This identity is lived out in Missional Communities who work out faith in the gospel of Jesus in the everyday rhythms of life. It only took one visit to know that Soma does this very well.

Now that all three of our original kids, as we like to call them, live on the west coast, we rarely get a chance to enjoy the “everyday rhythms of life” together. So we reveled in four wonderful days exploring Seattle’s Pike Place Market, looking for whales in Puget Sound, and hiking along the beach in Point Defiance Park.

Having lunch together in Friday Harbour, San Juan Islands

Our trip had a triple purpose. Amber and Ben have lived in Tacoma for 2 ½ years but we’ve only been out there once, and we wanted to celebrate their fifth anniversary with them. Our youngest, Jordan, was also relocating to Tacoma, and Mike took a few days off to accompany him on a father-son road trip via Yellowstone Park.

And our oldest, Adam, turned 30 this past Sunday. Our gift to him and his beautiful wife Liz was a surprise flight (for Adam, at least)  up from San Francisco to celebrate this milestone with his sibs and – double surprise! – his mom and dad too.

How thankful Mike and I are to be related to these extraordinary young adults. They joined us by birth, by marriage, and then by their rebirth into the living faith we hold in common.

Towards the end of Soma’s service on Sunday, small knots of believers quietly left their seats and partook of communion together – each one dipping the bread into the cup individually but then gathering to pray as community groups.

As visitors, we were momentarily unsure of what to do until Amber rose from her seat, motioned for us to follow, and led us in communion. As we formed a family circle to pray, my heart swelled in gratitude.

We are related in more ways than one, I thought. Our bond is symbolized by the bread and the cup that we share in memory of the One who died for each of us.

As a family we are part of the “communion of saints”  of which the Apostles Creed speaks.

A most holy communion.

One of the communion tables at Soma/Tacoma

Holding Them Close, Letting Them Go

Sometimes being stuck smack in the middle of a metaphor is the last place you want to be.

It was Memorial Day five years ago when she saw the bird. Her daughter’s wedding day.

She was on a ladder wiring peonies into the backyard arbor when their eyes met – one pair black and beady, the other blue and slightly bloodshot. Protecting her nest, the mother  bird stayed. Preparing to empty hers, the mother of the bride held her gaze, said wryly – maybe out loud – “You and I have something in common, you know.”

Hours later, a photographer captured the moment when the young couple stepped through the arbor into their future together – brunette bride frosted in ivory lace, blond groom beaming in dark tux. When family photos were taken, the bride’s mother insisted that the bird be included.

She’s been thinking about Mama Dove a lot in recent weeks. 48 hours ago, her youngest child crammed the last box into his car. Fame and fortune do not interest him. Her son has never sought the limelight and would happily give away whatever he owns. He often has. But his future lies to the west, at least for now, and in the manner of legions of young men and women before him, he is going.

And she and his father remain. As it should be. Nests are not meant to nurture the young forever. Birds are born to fly. So reasonable, logical, common-sensical.

But a mother’s heart has its own reason.

Stay here longer, she says, sometimes even out loud. Till you have a bigger nest egg.  Till you get married. Until I am ready to let you go.

But her youngest child knows that day will not come. Calmly, he disentangles himself, says “Mom, it’s time. I’ll be fine.”

Of course you will, she thinks. It’s your mama who’s not. What if I forgot to tell you something, like the meaning of life or how to cook pot-roast?  How will you know which store has the best sales on underwear? Who will program the wretched remote control for me?

But it’s time.

She presses a little extra money into his pocket. She puts snacks sealed in zipper bags into his car. Food is something a mother knows how to keep safe. She brings the cat out to say goodbye, then the dog.

“They don’t want you to go!” she cries, but the car is already backing down the driveway. He lifts his hand, and he’s gone.

Foolish woman, she thinks, blinking hard. Ungrateful mother. What did you think, that they were supposed to stay with you forever? Never leave home, never move into the future God has for each one?

It’s what we raise them for – independence. It’s what we want them to do – fly. We have Skype, for heaven’s sake. Facebook. Instant-messaging.  Texting. Our grown children are as close as the tiny screens in our hands.

And as far away as the distance measured by our hearts.

Then she remembers the week after her daughter’s wedding five years ago. She had climbed the ladder to commiserate with her kindred spirit, the mourning dove. But the nest was empty. The babies were gone.

As it should be.

As it was meant to be.

Cat tales

Gen on Mother’s Day, ignoring me as usual

In the beginning, before there was Mike and Maggie, there was Mike and Joshua.

Joshua means “The Lord saves” and is much too spiritual a name for a cat, but there you are. Immediately following college graduation, Mike became daddy to a Siamese kitty he christened Joshua. Mike loved Josh and the feeling was mutual. When Mike and I married in 1976, we two became three instantly. Josh rode along in the U-Haul when we moved to Boston to attend seminary, and when we arrived on Cape Cod in 1989 he was still with us.

Josh lived to the respectable feline age of 18 – his tenure in Osterville overlapping that of his successor by a year or more. In 1993, a tiny gray kitten peeked out of Amber’s Christmas stocking.  19 years later, the cat Amber named Genevieve is still with us.

But unlike Josh, Gen is not a cuddler. She grew up to be, at least in our estimation, the meanest cat on Cape Cod. (“Cape Cod cats, they have no tails/They lost them all in nor’east gales.”)  The true tale of Gen chasing our neighbor’s cat into its own home through the cat door and proceeding to thrash him has become legend.

And nothing much has changed. When I arrived home from work tonight, Gen howled for her dinner, glared at me until it was delivered and then promptly disappeared.  She has been bulimic for years and I find the evidence in the oddest places. On evenings when I am reading at home, I beckon Gen to sit quietly in my lap, but she never does.

So why do I love that darn cat so much?

She only comes to me when she wants something.

She disappears once she’s satisfied with nary a backward look of appreciation.

She is arrogant, picks fights with the dog and pollutes the home we’ve provided for her with hair and messes emanating from both ends.

But I love her, yes I do. She hasn’t done anything to earn my love; she doesn’t have to. I love her just because.

And you know what? Someone loves me that same way too.

Too often I act as if He is here to serve me rather than the other way around. I ignore Him until I want something. I make messes and then expect Him to clean them up.

But He loves me, yes He does. Just because.