Thanksgiving During Impeachment Hearings

photo by Victoria Pickering / flickr

These Impeachment hearings give me hope. Hope, yes. Not that we will nail President Trump for many things. Not that Democrats show how smart they are. Not even that some Republican Congressmen show how ugly they might be. Not even that all the commentators are having a field day.

No—the thing that gives me hope during this strange confusing time is that we have learned this week a message we should not forget. There paraded before us a whole cadre of people. Most of us had never heard their names or seen their faces. Yet—these witnesses walked into that room in Washington, sat down and faced a scary line of dignitaries and sat close to a microphone. I do believe they told the truth as they understood it.

My proudness was not in the question: Did Mr. Trump do all these things he is accused of. No. Not at all. I found myself grateful that behind the curtain of our government, in places in Washington and all over the world we have Secretaries and Ambassadors and professional government operatives and even custodians who are real people who go to work every day and try their best to keep this country strong.

They lighten my despair about the country I dearly love. They tell me that even though this time in our history may be dark—there are hundred and thousands I guess whose names we will never know. Yet—they keep working, some under dangerous conditions for us all. 

Let us this Thanksgiving lift up a praise not only for the things or people around our table—but all those others that have made sure through the years that the ship of state can weather even these stormy days. 

We have heard the old adage many times lately about Ben Franklin. When she emerged from Constitution Hall he was recognized by a woman who asked of him, “What kind of government are you giving us?” And he said, “A republic, Madam, if you can keep it.”

Our history, like our flag, has seen some hard days through the years. But the people who have stood and spoken in these hearings in Washington have reminded me all over again that behind the scenes in places all over our land are people still determined too keep this place a republic after all. And so as I bow my head this Thanksgiving I remember America and I am proud.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Where Would Thanksgiving be Without a Plate?

Plate. The word reminds me of a child’s plate. My plate. It is sterling silver. In the center of the plate Mickey Mouse rides a horse. On one side of the dish these words are inscribed: My Mickey Mouse Spoon Goes Here. Opposite that side are the words: My Mickey Fork Goes Here. This plate is 84 years old. My mother and father received this plate as a present when I was born. There may have been other presents but this plate holds a bundle of memories. Maybe for her then. Certainly for me now.

My parents were married in 1922. Like so many other folks they found they could not make a living on the farm. So they became part of a migration from South Alabama to textile mills in Georgia and other places. They were promised life would be better. My mother and father brought their meagre possessions and lived in a tiny apartment with another couple in a one bed room duplex owned by the mill. They found most of the promises made were kept. They could both get jobs in the mill. They had lodging within walking distance of work. They had indoor plumbing. They had electric lights. All utilities were provided. And so they worked long twelve-hour shifts six days a week. During the war—seven days every week. One day they got their own mill house over looking the mill. Train tracks ran in front of our four room house.

Everyone was having babies—but not my folks. They kept trying but for thirteen years they were

childless. My mother especially wanted children. Finally after thirteen long years their first child came along. They named me Roger after Will Rogers who had died a month before. Why Roger? My mother said: “He makes me laugh.”

Someone probably an official in the mill gave my parents this sterling silver Mickey Mouse plate. My mother loved that plate. It represented so much. Laughter, a healthy child, joy and answered prayers. And for a poor hard-working couple with little of the world’s goods, especially in the depression years of 1935 laughter filled their little four-room house. Four years later my brother was born.

Like most of us my journey has been winding and circuitous. There have been dark days and wondering what I would ever do. But this plate—the only sterling silver in our home—still after all these years reminds me that I was a blessed child. Out of their poverty they gave me a richness that money cannot buy.In the rush of many things I forget that joy and that laughter many days. But when I Look at this plate—I remember how proud my folks were when I came into the world. 

My mother and father worked in that mill all their adult lives. They sacrificed  enormously to give me and my brother what they never had. They never finished high school. They never owned a car. But their two children always had everything they needed. 

I was the first one in my family to go to college. And the September morning I left for school my mother came home from work to make sure I had everything, My ride pulled up in front of our house. I hauled my footlocker out to his car. I was too young to know how hard that morning was for my mother. She stood on the porch and did not come down to the car. She didn’t want me to see her tears. She knew what I then did not know. Things would never be as they were. I was moving out slowly in to a larger world that my parents had ever seen. But that morning she let me go. She did not hold me back. 

And for the next four years of school every week I received a crumpled up fifteen dollars from her in my mail. And about once as month there would be a huge homemade cake in the mail. I’ve had a lot on my plate through the years. College and Seminary and a wife and kids and church after church until here I am at 84.

But maybe I have not had as much on the plate through the years as that little tiny Sterling silver Mickey Mouse plate. It is piled high with love and acceptance and forgivenesses and joy and sacrifice. 

It is good and healthy and healing, too to hold that plate in my hands after all these years. She loved that plate. But she loved me—what more could anyone ask from a plate?

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

All Saints...More than We Realize

photo by Leo Chimaera/ flickr

 The preacher asked his confirmation class, “Do you all know who a saint is?” And one little boy raised his hand. “The Preacher said, ”What is a saint.” And the little boy said, “A saint is someone who lets the light shine through them.” And I think the boy was right. A saint is somebody who helped take the blinders off your eyes, who helped you see even in the dark. And when things were tough—they made you believe despite all the crazy things around you. They let the light shine through.

Looking over my shoulder at my twisting journey--I don’t think I could have made it without those who took their little lights—sometimes more than tiny and let them shine. For a long time I don’t think I would have considered my parents as saints —most of us don’t. Yet looking back if they had not been there and diapered me and hugged me and whispered that it was gonna be all right and keeping me safe I don’t know what I would have done. Or where I might be.

My, my at every juncture there has been somebody or a whole lot of somebodies that lighted my way simply by being there. Most of them had no idea what indelible influence they had on me and many others. 

Under the glass on my desk are some of those. My Mama her last Christmas. Dear Don’s friendship help carry me through. Liz—she helped so many of us. Faye who left her tiny little house on a side road—took the WMU’s money and finished college and was a missionary for I don’t know how many years. I have two pictures of my wife on my desk. One photo that summer we spent in England—beautiful with her wind-blown hair. Another is only a silhouette. We were in Scotland and she sat at this pub drinking coffee. Nobody loves coffee more than her. But it must be right. I cherish that picture. There’s Nancy, dear Nancy that became my second Mama at Clemson. A tiny picture of a drawing we used in a building fund campaign in Birmingham. Its reads F…A…I…T…H and underneath the words:  "Faith under construction.” They took me in, bruised and battered and tolerated my brokenness and cheered me on. Not just people but almost a whole church—they lifted me and my wife up and carried us along. There's smiling Judy. She opened up her house every Monday night and served those that came. Many were gay. I don't know how many gurys with AIDS that stayed at her house toward the end because they had no other place to go. A have a tiny picture of my two children—little and red-headed. There’s my daughter grinning wildly at a Clemson game with me…and my son and his partner. 

I wish I could call all their names—the ones along the way that made sure the darkness was not the last word. But there are too many, many candles that shine in my constellation. Funny all those sleepless nights I spent because of some irate member or some mean-spirited phone call. Yet—I don’t remember their names but oh, I do remember many faces whose genuine honesty, charity and fidelity through thick and thin helped me enormously. 

Come Sunday when people move to the front of our Sanctuary and call out names of some saint that has blessed their lives—I don’t think I will come to the mike. There are too many to name. But sitting there I will whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for all those whose little lights that really did shine…shine…shine.

“For All the Saints” is probably my favorite hymn. I’ve got a lot. But that fourth stanza gets me every time:

                                             “And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, 

                                              steals on the ear the distant triumph song, 

                                              and hearts are  brave again, and arms are strong,

                                              Alleluia! Alleluia!”

Yes…YES…YES!

photo by Georg / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com