And this is all quite the dramatic change since just two days ago. On Maundy Thursday morning, the dawn looked like this:
The snow blew all day on Wednesday and that night, and it was easy for our minds to be distracted from the reality of springtime. The creatures in the woods fell silent once more for a brief, one-day season. Even Hazel II, Possum Cough's resident rabbit, was hiding somewhere in his hillbilly hole burrow. And we waited and watched the white day roll past.
Thursday, everything cleared up. The day warmed with green herbacious force, and it was a good time for things sprouting and growing and rustling and stretching. It felt as if all of Creation were swinging its legs over the side of the vast bed, rubbing its eyes, and reaching for its house-slippers.
MeeMaw spent her day off on Thursday baking bread for that evening's Maundy Thursday service. John (our pastor) and I planned the service together, and we decided that a common loaf would be nice for the observation of the Lord's Supper. So MeeMaw made two loaves that were about the size of medium pizza doughs, about an inch or so thick. They worked very well.
The service was simple, reverent, and beautiful. There were about thirty of us there, including the parents of one our newest members, Amy. She and her husband Scott are about our age, and they are vibrant folks who happen to have some serious physical handicaps. They are a radiant couple, very down-to-earth and un-stuffy. Watching them together as they help each other and hold hands is a tonic for the heart.
John opened the service with some readings from the Word while the pianist and organist played in the background. Then he stepped down and stood behind the table. He divested himself of his coat and rolled up his sleeves while telling the story of the night in which Christ was betrayed. He poured water into a basin to illustrate a point, and when he got to the passage in John where Judas goes out to betray the Lord, he read the words, "And it was night." At that point, our friend Chris turned out the lights in the meeting hall. There were candles burning in every window, so the muted lighting was very effective in setting a somber mood.
The elders remained seated for a change, and John himself brought the elements to each member. We tore off our own piece of bread from the common loaves prepared by MeeMaw. After the sacrament, Chris and I came down front, and he and John and I did a three-part choric reading. John would read from one of the messianic prophecies (mostly in Isaiah), and Chris would respond with a New Testament fulfillment. Then John would read another prophetic passage and I would respond with a verse or two from the Passion section. It's interesting how difficult some of those portions are to read ("...and they struck Him...")
At the end of the reading, John very quietly sang a portion of "Man of Sorrows, What a Name," intentionally leaving the lyric hanging, "Lifted up was He to die, 'It is finished!' was His cry - "And then Chris and I walked down the aisle and out the door, signalling the other congregants to dismiss in silence. At the beginning of the service, John had announced how the order would be done, and he exhorted the worshippers to leave the building in reflection on what Christ endured...and what He accomplished for His people. Lovely service.
On the way home, MeeMaw drew my attention to the moon. It was full, and was tinged a sorrowful orange-red. She took this photo over the mountains to the east. It doesn't do justice to what a dramatic and profound sight the moon presented.
I've thought a lot about heaven lately, particularly the new heavens and the new earth. I've said before, many times, that Christians tend to think of heaven as some abstract concept instead of a real place. If we have an airline ticket to Dallas, we have a real expectation that we will leave a certain city and arrive later in a distant but real city. So it is with me: I will leave this place one day, and I will arrive at a very real destination. Not drifting through ethereal clouds and playing a harp with a dreamy expression on my face, but arriving at my real home. This comforts me. And it reminds me that so much of what drives my stumbling path here is...homesickness.
But for now, I do enjoy my home here, temporary though it may be. I was looking at the land and the field this morning and reminding myself of what a good life we have. Notice Domino and Shorty, fertilizing the verdant fields even as they are captured on digital film.
Speaking of fertilizer, I read a lively and informative essay by the ever-lucid and pleasantly-grouchy Gene Logsdon. Give it a look-see here. I think his points about today's dandified society are right on the mark, particularly when applied to men.
After our Lord's resurrection, He was encountered by Mary outside the tomb. You may recall that she mistook Him for a gardener, like his ancient ancestor, Adam. I like to think that someday, someone will mistake me for a farmer. I would never be anything but honored to be so named.
In other manure news, Mr. D's yearling bull calf (we've named him Fergus, because he acts like a contrary Scot from the Outer Hebrides) continues to be enamored of our yard. Yesterday I caught him in the goat-pen next to the goat-shed (which will someday have actual goats in it, d.v.).
He stayed there, munching with happy langour while I cut the grass (first time of the season - now I'm committed for six months...I need sheep!). Then I shooed him off.The last I saw of Fergus, he was headed out across the western (front) pasture. But as I type these words, he's back in the side yard, cropping grass with the smug air of a landowner.
As I was typing the last part there, I received a phone call from a friend. When I used to work at the hospital, I made friends with an elderly man who was a frequent patient (he had multiple and complex health problems) named Mr. Morrison. We have kept in frequent contact through the last three years, and I have been to visit him many times.
Just now, his wife called to tell me that he died last night, just after midnight.
It's so odd...I have been thinking about Mr. Morrison for several days now, every single day. Thinking, "I should call him or go by and see him." But I didn't, and now the inexorable march of this life has shut a door between us, at least for the present.
I can remember taking care of Mr. Morrison in the hospital. He was a tough, angular man with a gruff voice and gimlet eyes. Not to be disrespectful, but he always reminded me of Statler, one of the heckling codgers up in the loge on The Muppet Show. But in his hospital gown, lying in that mechanical bed, he was frail and vulnerable, smaller than he appeared to the world.
When he was in hospital, he was usually too weak to do much for himself, so I gave him lots of extra attention. He was particularly fond of my shaves. I would draw a cup of superheated water from the coffee machine and immerse a little hospital-issued can of shaving cream in it for about five minutes. Then I would soak a washcloth in another cup of the same superheated water. I would spread this on his face and let him "steam" for a few minutes, and then I would remove the cloth and spread the luxuriously warm shaving cream onto his raspy face. He would sigh and close his eyes and talk to me about his experiences in wartime Europe while I sliced the whiskers from his creased face and neck. Then I would wash his face with more hot water and put aftershave on him. "You just like to slap me around, dontcha?" he would say with feigned brusqueness.
Mrs. Morrison told me that she hoped we could be at the funeral. I assured her that if it were humanly possible, we would. MeeMaw got to meet the Morrisons some time ago when I took her to the ICU to visit Mr. Morrison when he was in really bad shape, and Mrs. Morrison is very fond of MeeMaw. Mrs. Morrison asked for prayer for the family, particularly the grandchildren (all adults), who are having a difficult time in their grief. And so we will pray for them all. And I will look to see my friend again someday when my heart will no longer be clouded with care. The last time I saw him, he said, "Keep praying for me, my friend." I assured him that I would. He pointed a gnarled finger at me and glared at me with those hard eyes and said, "See that you do. See that you do."
I did, Mr. Morrison. I promise, I did.
Rest well, loved ones.
