Archive for November, 2015
The Dance of Life
0Gliding, flowing, streaming
across the surface,
without effort
without care
without fear,
she slides along.
The ice is slick,
but, on razor’s edge,
she is balanced and strong.
Her blade is firm,
posture sturdy,
confidence in full bloom.
Leaping, landing,
forward and backing,
running, jumping,
dancing and whirling,
spinning, stopping,
pure delight.
Shall we dance? says another,
gliding in, offering his hand.
She, unsure, at once unsteady,
falls in line, takes hold of hand.
Feet to feet and twist to twist,
the two make way across the ice,
yes to yes,
and no to no,
cheek to cheek,
and toe to toe.
Embracing, spinning, pure delight.
Leaning outward, daisy blossom,
coiling inward, serpent strike.
Oh how fragrant,
Oh how deadly.
Yet they turn with smooth precision,
No mistaking the dance of life.
Through the Eyes of Love – the Dedication
2“To MARY CATHERINE”… the dedication reads.
Short, sweet, and to the point. Very German, some would say. And I expect they would be right. Mary Catherine was my maternal grandmother, and had been Grandfather Rilling’s helpmate and companion for nearly 30 years at the time of this writing. Not to mention the mother of his three children. Talk about dedicated! Doesn’t she deserve more than a “To Mary Catherine”?
It was his way, and their way. Not effervescent, not ebullient, not over-flowing, but spare. And what they had, they gave first to the church. Not only Dr. Rilling but also his wife. I imagine the life of the wife of a pastor would be spent at functions and entertaining guests, keeping the kids quiet because “father is working” and generally managing the household so he could attend to “bigger” things.
How different those times were 🙂 When women’s rights debates hadn’t set us to quarreling about the harder task, the bigger contribution, the working in or out of the home. But this dedication, to his wife, certainly signifies to whom – apart from God – he felt indebted.
These days, book dedications are generally more than a name; they are accompanied by a description or a reason why this (or these) were foundational or inspirational or set the tone for the writing of this book. Today there is enumeration that books of that day didn’t have, not because it wasn’t deserved, but because it wasn’t the practice. The name was enough.
And so, as I enter this book, I take this under advisement. It is is my tendency to look through the eyes of my own age and evaluate according to the standards of my day. I want to read, “to My Sweet MC” … “who supported me completely” or “whose dedication to our family has ….”.
Looking back through my “today” eyes, I might be dismissive and prone to judge unfairly. I can hardly help myself because, after all, I do bring me with me whenever I read. And with me comes what I know, what I’ve done, whom I’ve met, what I’ve heard and read, what I’ve been taught and the many layers of cultural biases of my day and age. I don’t apologize for this. But I must recognize it and try to suspend it, or at least apply it responsibly.
Was Dr. Rilling being dismissive to dedicate such a book, the collection of his lifelong work, just “To MARY CATHERINE”? I don’t think so. As I look back into his time, through softened lenses, I read the dedication more like the simple card you attach to a beautifully wrapped gift. Dear Mary Catherine, this is for you.
And so it is with gift cards. I just needed to look at this one through the eyes of love, which seek to understand by standing for a moment in the other one’s shoes. Big shoes, these would have been. Plenty of room for me, the little girl trying on Grandpa’s big wingtips, clonking and stumbling about just trying to keep my balance.
That I hope to do as I advance through these pages.
Maybe we should judge a book by its cover
2You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but you can start there. In fact, I must.
I received a mailed copy of Dr. Rilling’s book, “Have a Good Day,” that appeared to be in quite poor shape. Mildew had stained the inside cover and, while the dust jacket was mostly intact, it was fragile and dusty. Clearly this was a volume that had sat alone for a very long time. My meager attempts to wipe and clean it were of small value and succeeded only in ripping the remnants of the dust cover right in two. Gratefully, the cover had done its work. The book’s innards were quite well kept. Hardly touched. No markings in the margins. No coffee stains. Apart from the wrinkles left by dampness and exposure, all that was left behind was the “Percy R. Morrison, 1958” signed inside the book’s cover.
If anyone thought to judge this book by its cover, they certainly never would have picked it up. But I do, looking to find the man underneath, the one who’s face smiles pleasantly from the back of the book jacket. I want to ask him…Why did you publish this volume? How did you choose just these sermons? For whom? To whom? What for?
I, now the Granddaughter-sleuth, scan inside the front flap. The words there surely were not written by Dr. Rilling. It begins, “Here is an anthology of twenty-three inspirational sermons written by a skilled preacher. They are warm, understandable, down-to-earth. They supply the answers to many of the everyday questions with which the average layman is faced.”
While I didn’t know John W Rilling well, I know he was not a man who would have called himself inspirational or referred to himself as “skilled preacher.” Those accolades would have belonged to the Holy Spirit. So, someone else thought highly of him and penned them for this occasion. A friend in the publishing house, perhaps, or a fellow preacher who had encouraged him to share these in a collection.
Dr. Rilling’s eldest daughter Beth tells me her dad was known in his day as a “preacher’s preacher.” I wonder how you become so elevated when you don’t speak it yourself.
Because that is today’s way in the publishing business. (Or, at least, that has been my experience, thus far.) I was asked to write my own cover copy, in third person. ‘Go ahead, tell us how great you are and what a remarkable contribution this book is to the sea of knowledge you set it adrift on. Be glowing!’
This surely was not JWR’s way. Thank goodness. But he did know the cover text was being written, and he must have approved it for print. He was interviewed by its scribe who, on the back of the jacket writes, “Asked why he had the sermons in HAVE A GOOD DAY published in book form, Dr. Rilling replied: “Many years ago Thackeray expressed his decided preference of the gentle, pagan Hagar to “bitter old virtuous Sarah.”
“Thackeray! Who reads Thackeray?!” my sister in law cried, upon reading this. “Wow, he was well read!”
Yes, he was. But not only of the Bible and Biblical commentaries and Biblical experts of his day. He even read detractors like Thackeray, who expressed their preference for a different way, a seemingly kinder and more logical lineage through Abraham’s (actual) firstborn son, Ishmael, born to Sarah’s servant Hagar. The Muslim tradition traces its ancestry to Abraham through Ishmael.
Dr. Rilling read widely, both for and against what he knew and believed, so that he could address the objections of his day in their best representations and speak into them, with gentleness and respect. How we do need such an approach today. A humble, learned, clear-mindedness to speak confidently and boldly for what we believe which is first borne out of a willingness to know and understand those who disagree and a desire to address them in love.
The book jacket’s text continues, “Perhaps his (Thackeray’s) experience with Christians was a bit grim but such an idea which many moderns share is really a libelous caricature. The beauty of “holiness” is real, winsome and altogether attractive. To show its source, its secret and its manifestation is the purpose of this book.”
Many moderns still have a grim view of Christians, for sure. We don’t want a sermon! they say. Give us answers, explanations, proof!
John W Rilling doesn’t set out to prove. He means to share, and even to put into print, so that not only his congregation but those beyond it can receive the benefit of his steady, dedicated, studied approach, collected in 23 stories meant for 23 Sundays. He sets out not to win us over but to engage us in the almighty struggle and set us on the road to discovering the truth for ourselves.
A very modern man, indeed.
Divide and Conquer is a Game Every Child Knows How to Play
0The smallest children must rely on adults to supply all their needs, but soon, they learn how to get their own way. They want something they’ve been told they can’t have, and the wheels start turning. If Mom is decisive and consistent, she can withstand these forays. But, if she is the least bit equivocal, they plead and they whine. They cajole and convince. As soon as they sense Mom is wavering, they up their efforts. They can smell victory. Now, they’ve got her. What’s a few dollars to avoid a scene?
Kids hone these “negotiation” skills as they get older and the stakes get higher. No longer is it the My Little Pony or the Transformer toy, now it’s… Who can I hang out with? What am I allowed to say? How far can I push back curfew? Same kid, advanced version.
If Mom and Dad have discussed this child and agreed on the proper response to these onslaughts before the heat of battle, they can stand firm in the withering fire. But, if the child senses the smallest crevice between the two – perhaps Mom is willing to give a little while Dad is rigid and won’t discuss it (or vice versa) – the child knows this instantly. And plays it to his advantage. He approaches one without the other. He panders to one and not the other. He plays one against the other. Something inside of him knows, without ever having been taught or trained, how to drive a wedge between his opposition.
What is this inside us that seems to arrive with us, which convinces us we should have what we want or what others have and seeks things for our own good even though we aren’t old enough to know our own good? How is it that a ten or twelve year old knows that if she can set her opposition to arguing about their differences, she gets the upper hand? If she can sow distrust and division, perhaps even get them fighting among themselves, she can get away with whatever she wants.
How?
- It’s born in us.
- It’s taught to us.
- It’s confirmed in us.
We are born with the desire to make our way. We are taught we should make our own way. We see that if we are very good at it, we can get what we want. In spite of, in the face of, in ignorance of, or in defiance of, the needs, wants and desires of every other being. That ‘good’ may displace the very humanity born in us.
We must guard against any desire we see in the other who seeks to set us at odds with our friend, our neighbor, our spouse, our child, or our best selves. It is a very clever force. When it senses wavering, indecision or dissension in us, it preys upon this. That’s how it gets its way. That’s how it wins.
It’s child play. And kids can be a holy terror, can’t they?
One Nation, Under God, Indivisible
0I pledge allegiance
to the flag of
the United States of America.
And to the Republic
for which it stands,
One nation,
Under God,
Indivisible.
With Liberty
and Justice,
For all.
Thank you to all who have served under this flag.
May we be reminded today that we the people, under God,
have a future because God has acted once and for all.
Kinesthetic Christian: Write, Rest, or Revise?
8Dear friends,
May I call you that? You, who faithfully (or only occasionally) read what I write here at the Kinesthetic Christian?
I regularly struggle with what it means, and what I mean, when I say I am a kinesthetic Christian. It is easier to say what I don’t mean:
- I don’t mean you have to exercise to be a K-Christian.
- I don’t mean to make you fit so that you can be a K-Christian.
- I don’t even mean you have to move to be a K-Christian.
What I do mean is that, as one who believes there is a God and that God is with us always, God lets us know that. The question asked of my life is: How do I know this God?
We can’t see God. We can’t touch God. Can’t actually hear, taste, or smell God. By virtue of these ‘special’ senses, the ones we learned about in elementary school, I can’t know God. I surmise that experiencing God through these sensations would overwhelm us, and the ancients said that such an encounter would kill us.
But, I believe God does offer evidence of His presence through our general senses. He appeals to the somato-sensory system, the body’s peripheral senses: pressure, temperature, pain, touch, vibration, position, and posture. Usually we associate these sensations with interactions in the world, but they seem more than that. We’ve been burned. Our hopes are crushed. Our heart has been softened. Our mind convinced. We are moved. All of these we can and do experience, and we live to tell about it. God is gentle with us.
As a K-Christian, when I say God moves me, touches me, inclines me, leads me, or taps me, I mean that I sense something about the circumstance or in the story or the interaction which speaks to me of God. It’s on-going evidence, if you will, that I as the kinesthetic detective keep discovering. By virtue of this blog, you have allowed me to share it.
While movement is fun, responsible movement needs direction. No matter how much we like running, our aim is the finish line. We don’t just keep rounding the bases, we head for home! I am seeking direction for the KC blog, and I’d like your impression regarding what seems right for the KC. Would you please kindly vote or offer comment?
- Select, edit and organize the KC postings (# >500) into categories and perhaps seek publication
- Start fresh and offer contemporary responses to the writings of my Pastor Grandfather
- Give it all a rest. You’re starting to repeat yourself.
- Get over yourself and just keep writing.
- Other?
As I offer this list, I feel a bit like I am side-stepping my responsibility to choose or discern what’s next. If that is true, I’m sure God will let me know. But, honestly, as I don’t know who’s reading this, I don’t want to short change anyone who has followed my blog and now will be disappointed with a new direction I take.
God has created me uniquely for a purpose, and I am meant to respond to that with my life. So are you. I am eternally grateful for your support.
Beyond the Clearing Where Life Gets Real
0Life is pristine through my close-up lenses.
My hand-writing, clear and crisp,
the grain of my table, inviting,
the lines of the photo, smile.
All, brush strokes of the master.
They draw me into the world on the page
that takes me far away
to that delightful Narnia;
Where children and creatures,
wardrobes and weather,
and a Mighty Lion play at life.
Or to that vacation destination, so alluring from the magazine cover.
Wouldn’t it be nice to drink a toast with my spouse
overlooking grand glaciers or pristine lakes before azure skies?
But, the morning paper screams headlines and exploding full color photos.
I shake my head to be rid the images…
hurt and hardship, death and destruction,
suffering for its own sake, inflicted man upon man.
Where, O God, is our humanity?
I look up in lament, but I can’t see you.
The world is a-blur through my magnifying lenses.
A foggy mess of all things further than my own hand.
Take off the close-up’s!
Be brave enough to see what’s in the distance.
It’s real; not a novel. Not a dream vacation.
It’s a way of life for real people who deserve my real response.
In the clearing, I can recognize my neighbor.
He’s the regular runner and the dog-walker.
She’s the Mom walking kids to the bus stop.
They’re the middle-aged couple,
then the chatty pair,
and the glum teen.
Beyond the clearing,
silent and still,
a trio of deer graze
under the blazing red of an autumn branch,
early to adapt to the shorter days
and the cooler ways
of the Fall.
There You are.
Perfectly Proportioned
0It’s empty now.
Empty of the thimble that belonged to Mom
and the fragile figurine. Gone is the
tiny pot with matching tea cups,
spattered in blue paint. And the
mini toilet seat with lifting lid.
Even the infant starfish
that accidentally tagged along
in our dive bag is somewhere’s else.
So many treasures,
gone missing or
set aside for later days.
It’s empty now.
As it has been for some time,
gathering dust and watching:
three children grow bold and strong,
several pairs of pups
playing and loving their ways into
hearts that will never be without them.
A father learn to lead without compelling
and a mother learn to follow without resisting.
It’s empty now.
And yet…
Each opening is perfectly sized:
More e’s than q’s,
more s’s than w’s,
but r’s and h’s, nearly the same.
The printer knows,
What runs low he replaces, because
What is receive without e’s?
What is suppose without s’s?
And I?
I am perfectly proportioned
for the letters meant
for the words I’m to share
in the notes, cards, and messages,
in the conversations and calls,
in the texts and emails.
Yes, even the poems, posts, and prose
are already supplied,
as are the comments, both
spoken and unspoken.
A work in progress, that listening.
“I’m not empty!” says the printer’s tray,
sounding a bit offended.
“I’m perfectly proportioned – to the very last letter –
to hold the words you will convey
with your life.”
Election Day: You were worth it
1Frankly, had it not been for the woman who climbed the steps to my porch a few weeks ago to introduce herself and tell me what she brought to the race for the office she was seeking, I probably would have been among the ranks of the apathetic on this election day. But we visited for a bit. She listened as I told her about an issue of particular concern to me. Then we chatted about her three grown boys who nearly matched my three grown girls.
So, when election day came I thought, if I don’t mark anything else on my ballot, I’m going to the polls so I can cast my vote for her.
Well, that’s when I realized how uninformed I was about the other races going on. It’s not easy to cram for an election, you know. Trying to find details about candidates, their positions on issues, their voting record or even their character traits – even with the magnificent internet – is a research project I really didn’t want to undertake.
I dabbled a bit and then headed to the polls, certain of only one vote I would cast. Along the sidewalk outside the elementary school, I gamely accepted both pink and blue sample ballots and then settled into a chair in the hallway, put there to accommodate the long line of voters waiting their turns. There was no line and no competition for a seat. So there I sat and scanned, like a kid hoping to glean just that little bit of information that will earn him the passing grade on the imminent test.
Then I entered the nearly vacant gym, produced my ID, got my ballot, and sat to bubble in (completely) for the candidates I had selected and the bond issues I chose to support. Satisfied, I fed the ballot into the machine that would tally my votes. Whew! What a relief.
That’s when I looked up into the face of a white-haired gentleman, whose furrowed lines all led to the kind smile beneath his well worn WWII cap. He stood, poised to deliver my ‘I VOTED’ sticker.
“Put it right here,” I told him, indicating my left shoulder. He did, and with such joy that I just had to shake his hand.
“Thank you for your service,” I said.
“You were worth it,” he replied.
Wow. When you put it like that…
What if my life were on that ballot? The poor excuse for due diligence, the casual approach to decision-making, the haphazard consideration given to allocation of resources. What if, after casting that vote, I got to shake the hand of the one whose sacrifice made it all possible, and He replied, “You were worth it”?
It’s an election year, folks. Bubble in completely.
What Lily Knows
0Buddy the bad and Lily the Good
start out the day that way.
Bud scampers off to find something to chew
Lil stays put where I tell her to stay.
“It’s way too quiet,” I say to Lil,
Which means for sure that Bud’s up to no good.
A flop of Lil’s tail tells me she knows what I don’t,
Better find brother Bud; that’s understood.
No! I shout from two rooms away
Just before the laundry towel is in shreds.
No, not that! I shudder,
tugging paws, teeth and body from velour pillow
now christened where some have laid their heads.
No! I say sternly to Bud who looks back at me,
Without repentance for his latest bit of fun.
And there sits Lil as prim as can be,
“Mom, forgive him, for he knows not what he’s done.”