Saying Goodbye to the House

“How hard it is to escape from places. However carefully one goes they hold you—you leave little bits of your self fluttering on the fences—like rags and shreds of your very life.”

                                                                  --Katherine Mansfield

The house is almost empty except two garbage bags and a few items to give away. Moving from four bedrooms to 4 rooms takes some adjusting. Understatement. 

We looked at an empty house about twelve years ago. As we walked in the living room filled with light. I told Gayle: “This just might be the house.” And she agreed. We moved in December 15th that year. “It’s too late for a Christmas tree.” But my kids said, “You gotta have a Christmas tree.” And so we hauled down from our new attic our seven-foot Christmas tree. And when it was decorated we just stood back, saying little, just “Ah.” 

And that was the beginning of a slow but sure love affair with this house.

And so this morning walking trough quiet empty, empty rooms memories swirled. Moving Gayle’s seven-foot grand. Adding shutters to the windows we could afford covering. Putting carpet down those 15 streps so we wouldn’t kill ourselves. Buying a few things but not much. We moved in our stuff. But hopelessly sentimental so many things we brought had a history. And we hung the paintings. Matthew’s art work. Some huge and some small. And Cecile Martin’s work and Carol Tinsley’s and LIz Smith’s and Susan Wooten’s too.  We tacked up prints and paintings from trip after trip. And we loved them all. 

I took a room upstairs for my office, dragged up heavy book cases and began to fill them up. I had filing cabinets to house my too-many sermons.and there was my computer and big old walnut desk that someone gave me. 

We filled the place with furniture from garage sales and consignment and antique stores. And there were two or three TV’s and a great CD player. And a dining room table that could tell a hundred stories. 

Outside I tackled the tiny yard around our patio. Ferns and hostas and ajuga and inpatients and begonias. Out back I hauled in good dirt and compost and began to plant. Many things. Roses. Shastas and phlox and so many yellow daisies that my wife kept saying: “Don’t you think you are overdoing it?”

So for twelve years we loved the place. But in my late eighties it seemed a good time to move. From four bed rooms to four rooms. And the sorting out and trying what to decide what to take and not take was overwhelming. But somewhere I learned a lesson as we packed up books and called the Goodwill and filled a zillion black garbage bags. And struggled with what to do with all this dishes my wife loved and so much more. But what I learned was that we semi-hoarders began to realize we did not really didn’t need all those treasurers. 

And so the tears ran and there were huge lumps in our throats and we wondered if this was the craziest thing we had ever done. But maybe the weariness of packing and moving helped us know so much of what we thought was important was not really was precious as we remembered. 

And so everything is out of the house. We close on the house in two weeks. Thank God it sold. And there are days as we remember grief comes trickling back. But it doesn’t stay.

We’ve done this many times. And every time the leaving behind is hard. But we began time after time to open a new chapter. Every one proved to be different. And we found ourselves doing things differently than before. Looking around at all the emptiness we wonder. 

Buechner once told of a wonderful trip his family spent in the mountains. And after several weeks they had to pack and move on. And somebody said, “Why do we ever have to leave this place? Why can’t we just stay.” And Buechner said he learned that they left it all behind to become human beings and discover there would be fine things out there they had yet to know.

And this is where we are. Closing a chapter and opening up with new pages fresh and yet to be filled. In leaving I remember something  Dag Hammarskjold once wrote: "For all that has been thanks. For all that is to be yes.” May it be so not just for us but for the people out there whose names and faces we do not know. 

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Bill French--He Left a Mark

   

 

In a world that seems to have gone mad we all need some sustaining grace. Many of you have never heard of Bill French. Unless you live in Upstate South Carolina around Clemson. 

But this man in his quiet ways left a mark on so many lives. He and his parents moved South from New York in the 1960’s. His parents both developed progressive Alzheimer’s disease and Bill found the resources to keep them at home. What a Caregiver. As a devoted son he made sure his parents had physical and mental stimulation and because of his hands-on care his father and mother found meaningful quality of life. 

Only those who have experienced the hard work of caregiving know how difficult this task must have been for both his parents with dementia.But he took them on car rides, local outings, brought good friends into his home and at local facilities. He learned to cook nutritional meals for them. 

So he cared for both parents until the end of their lives. His father died in 1980 and his mother died in 1997.But this was not the end of his story. He began to work as volunteer at the local Retirement Center called Clemson Downs. 

I remember reading that when the nurse, Florence Nightingale moved through the hospital the sick loved her and many would kiss her shadow as she passed by. She changed the lives of the sick and the dying. 

Bill French learned the names and faces at the Downs and their families during this most vulnerable time in their lives. You could see him leave his car in the parking lot bringing in homemade cookies, entire meals, soup and ice cream, cakes for special occasions and flowers. He led monthly care giving support groups at this Nursing facility.  I saw him attending funeral after funeral for those he had loved and cared for. 

I could go on and on talking abut this man who never married but spent his whole life giving, encouraging, loving. He will be missed by so many of us. For once upon a time a man named Bill left his mark and made an incredible difference.

In our day when so much seems so wrong—whether you knew him or not remember this guy named Bill and all those cadre of angels in many places we have never heard of. Turn off the TV, push aside the newspapers and thank God that in this world there are still angels of mercy who leave the mark of love on whose in need. 

And so Bill we do not say farewell for we will remember that light you brought into the darkness and how it shone and how much it helped.

I leave Bill with this Benediction that comes from the Roman Catholic Prayer for the Dead:

“Into paradise may the angels lead our brother Bill, 

at his coming may the martyrs take him up

into eternal rest

and may the chorus of angels lead him to that holy city, 

and the place of perpetual light.”

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Attack on Books, Teachers, Librarians?

 

 I grew up in a cotton mill village in the 40’s in Columbus, GA. Neither of my parents finished high school. They had to drop out and helped with the farming in the middle of the depression. But both were readers. The Bible, 0f course but also books, books, books about everything. My mother  even subscribed to the Book of the Month Club then. Monthly all kinds of books found their way to our mail box. Salespeople knocked on our door and talked them into buying the one-volume Lincoln Library. Another person told my parents that the World Book Encyclopedias would make their children smart. 

AsI grew older maybe twelve or thirteen I would board the bus on Saturdays and head for the Carnegie Library three miles away. I discovered a treasure in that Georgia library. I would pilfer through the stacks and brought home Tom Swift and the Hardy Boys series. But these beginnings expanded to all kinds of books. And my mind was stretched and my imagination was deeply stirred.

My parents never checked the books I read. And in some of those volumes I learned about our country. These who believed and sacrificed for the rest of us. But I also read the way Indians were treated. Those awful days of slavery and the terrible Civil War. Curious I read books about sexuality, other religions besides Baptist and all those who lived beyond our borders. The door opened wide to a larger and wonderful world.

And so when I read that this is Banned Books Week I said yes. The theme for this year’s week is “Let Freedom Read.” I have studied the multitude of banned books from schools and libraries and been appalled. Over 3,362 books have been banned in the last year. And the list continues to grow.  I have read many of those books they now call dangerous. 

 I find myself furious that school administrators and teachers have been charged with ugly names like groomers and pedophiles. Some have even lost their jobs. Others have even faced death threats. School Board meetings have become a nightmare. All because of books? I have known librarians in many places where I lived. They are mostly kind and helpful even when many still make only a pittance.  

When both my children left home for college it was scary. We dropped one at a dorm in Louisville and another in Chicago. And this was a grief. Night after night we wondered if they were safe. But we had to let them go discovering that freedom is scary but so important for maturity.  

This country was founded on a dream of freedom. Since our beginnings we have struggled to make that dream a reality. But I do not want some group out there badgering teachers and administrators and monitoring how children must think. But not only children.

So I applaud this year’s Banned Books theme. “Let freedom ring.” Let it be so for your land and mine. And for us all.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Who's Blessed?

 

I want to talk to you today about a word we all know. Bless. And we Southerners say:"Bless yo' heart" whether we mean it or not. Or simply: "Bless you!" Some time people come up to me and say: "Ive been so blessed!" And I stand there thinking: "Hmm. What about me? Don't you think I've been blessed?" Leaving a restaurant the other day I looked at the tag on the back of a huge Mercedes. "I've Been so Blessed!" Well, I thought, I guess so. Folks, blessing is not just for the well-heeled or the pious--but for everybody.

The Power to Bless

One of the books that has meant a great deal to me is a little book called, The Power to Bless. It was written by a Pastoral counselor, Myron Madden. He said that the great power of primitive religion was the power to curse. This was a most fearful thing—to be cursed. But beginning with Abraham a new dimension was added to religious history. It was the power to bless. And over and over we read through the Bible these wonderful words: “I will bless you and I will bless your descendants.”

Now the great news is that the power to bless is much stronger than the power to curse. This is the heart of Judea-Christian religion. Instead of giving us some curse for our cussedness, God graciously holds out a blessing instead.

The Curse

Now we all know something about the curse. It’s those crippling messages we have heard all our lives. That we don’t count. That we’ll never amount to anything. That we are dumb, lazy, sissies. Dead-beat. Maybe foreigner or illegal. It is the feeling that we are just not important. And this curse cripples us. It shrivels our self-image. Sometimes it makes us too dependent 

 and we spend all our lives just hoping for a blessing a father for mother could not give. Hoping, hoping somebody will bless us.

The Blessing

But we also know something about the blessing. To be blessed is to be accepted. To be blessed is to be brought into the circle. To be blessed is to belong—to be a part. When her parents gave their blessing to your marriage, your career, your dreams. It is to be accepted by another person—though they know us warts and all. Bless is really is amazing grace. Remember how the old father blessed that boy that came back home in rags and shame. What did the father say? “My son…my son.” And standing at the door was the prodigal’s brother. Seething. Furious. While he was out there doing God knows what I have been here. Working. Working. Working. I took care of the crops. I have kept this house from falling in. I paid all the bills. And the father turned and said tenderly to that other son: “My son…my son. Don’t you know you have been a blessing to me all these years. 

So the gospel holds out a great promise for all of us. We are blessed despite all sorts of obstacles that are thrown in our path. Or that we throw in our own paths. You are blessed even if you didn’t not get your share when the will was read. Or your brother has a shelf with all those trophies and you have no trophies. And continually at the dinner table you have to hear over and over again about when your sister was crowned Miss Anderson and in bitterness you say:”Huh, I never got crowned for nothing except up beside the head.”

Opening the Door

But you know the Gospel opens the door and says everybody is welcomed and everybody is important. The New Testament reminds us that little group of scared believers—always in the minority—always seeming a little strange by most folks. Always looking into the plate glass window but no money to go inside. Paul knew this feeling when he first came into the fold and everybody in church turned their backs except Ananias who reached out and called him brother. And so later, much later this same man would write over and over:”We do not lose heart.”And some of those sitting there listening thought well, he has never been in my shoes. But that did not stop Paul for he told them: “we regard no one from a human point of view…” No one…no one. We are all blessed whether we know it or not.

Everybody

The common people kept following Jesus because he made them feel good about themselves. You know how it is when you are around somebody who accepts you helps you feel good about yourself They make you laugh and you find all your defensiveness just melts away. You are accepted and you know it. This is to be blessed.

But after all these years some of us still feel the sting of: “You’ll never amount to anything.” “You are just a woman.” Or a Democrat or a Republican. Or just a C student to never made the first team. Or queer. Or never had one of two or three of those little strings around you neck the night of your graduation.

Never mind. This gospel really is good news. For us all and nobody is left out. That’s what we call it the blessing. 

A Pastor named Dean Snyder told a story. He said that Norah came to stay for a few days at the emergency shelter on the first floor of his church. Her hair was colored like a rainbow. She wore tight plastic slacks, and a see-through blouse. She must have been no older than 16. Her parents had tried everything with her and finally threw their hands up and locked her out.

She chained-smoked, flirtatious, troublemaking—smart and stupid at the same time. Norah made sure she was the center of attention. Always.

One Saturday afternoon the preacher said he was alone in the kitchen when Norah came in and sat down across from him. She was quiet for a long time and finally she asked him a question: “I heard a priest say once that Jesus loved everybody even prostitutes Is that really true?”

Yes

He said he almost went into sermonette drive about how God loves the sinner but not the sin. But he didn’t say that. And to her question about Jesus loving everybody he said the only thing he told her was ,”Yes.” And Noah wept and wept.

It’s our story too. Jesus loves us all. And we are blessed whether we know it or not. We prodigals. We Elder Brothers. We Elder Sisters. Pass it on friends. Pass it on.

(This sermon was preached September 24, 2023 at the Mount Zion Presbyterian Church, SandySprings, SC.)

--RogerLovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Moving Yet Again...

 

Somebody out there is going to say:“I thought you were gong to write about moving and this may be the weirdest piece of your writing I have ever read. What’s all this talk about crabs?” “Well, bear with me and see how I hope this comes out.”

Crabs, Huh?

I have discovered that sand crabs move from shell to shell. But first they do what is called molting and then they grow a shell which acts as a protective cover. As the crab continues to grow the molting process begins again,  and slowly it will leave the old shell.This is a vulnerable time because w fish could attack and destroy a naked crab. Eventually the molting process begins again, and the crab forms a larger shell. Then when it is too large for the new shell, the process of shedding begins again and the crab finds a new home.

For us surrounded by boxes, trying to keep and give away, dealing with the lump in your throat, hoping you have made the right decision to move on knowing you have to stop and deal with your kids, saying goodbye to some of the closest friends . You put all your peculiar treasures in a moving van, look back at an empty, empty house—and the memories swirl. So many fine things happened in this house you are leaving.

And so you move to what will be a vulnerable time. Will your family say goodbye to the old and welcome the new? And what about you and your wife or husband or partner. Truth be told you have outgrown that house and that place. Like the crab you have moved beyond where you were. And it is time to leave.

Saying Goodbye

Saying goodbye is a hard thing, And there is a grief that we take with us to this new place that we cannot deny. Hopefully our molting will begin again and in time a larger shell or place or position. And home will take on a new look and a new growing. 

But it isn’t just putting your belongings on a van and moving to another place. It’s outgrowing where you are forced to deal with with life’s changes. 

Moving to a new place is only one of a myriad of changes that happen. You lose a loved one, you say goodbye to your child who leaves for college., you might lose a job and with it you lose status. Retirement is a dread for many. Watching slowly your body change or losing something vital. It could be the death of a friend. Or watching too much news and thinking My God, what is happening to this country? Why all this anger and rage? And violence?

It looks like our whole nation has lost something valuable. The old hardened  comfortable place is no more. You go back to where you started. The old house looks so small. Downright homely maybe. Or that huge brick building where you went to grade school is not as large as it used to be. And that school auditorium filled with kids, hundreds it seemed. Well, the place looks downright restrictive and maybe seats less than a hundred. You go to your 50th Reunion and look around and ask yourself, “Lord, what happened to them?” Maybe never asking ,”What happened to me?”

Hope

The danger is that you can get stuck in some old shell. It has long since quit making you stretch. It’s safe But you don’t move on. You stay close to the shore where you will never encounter the wonder of blue-green water or the waves and the swimming and fishing.  

But the moving van unloads all your stuff. The place is smaller. Strange. No neighbors yet. And you find you don’t need half the stuff you surrounded yourself with. This is the vulnerable time for you. Without the shell of yesterday it is scary. But you put your things in place and begin again. Different. But a good difference. One day you will grow another shell and it will be maybe the most comfortable place you have known. Isn’t that the hope we all have?  

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

What a night to get engaged!

(My granddaughter and her boyfriend have talked about marriage for quite some time but they had never firmed up their promise. So Devon decided to surprise her with an engagement ring while they were in Savannah on a weekend trip. Libby had no idea about the ring.   After Devon's surprise they traveled back to their hotel. Opening the door they found a room full of friends and relatives. Gayle and I could not go but Leslie, Libby's mother asked me if I would write a letter to be read that evening. Libby's sister, Natalie read my words that night.)

                                     *           *             *          *

 Dear Libby and Devon--Gayle and I are sorry we  couldn't be with you to share with joy on this special night. But  we are with you in spirit counting on all the days after day that holds so much promise. 

There is an old book called Crossing to Safety in which the author reminds us that there is no way that any of us can cross the choppy waters to safety alone. We have to have somebody with us. And this is really why you are here to remember how much we all need each other and how powerful for us to hold on to somebody else as they hold on to us too. 

And you all have been together long enough to know of all the people out there you two have decided this is the person that you want to help you get through all the choppy waters. And they will be there swirling a lot of times in your lives. 

Any relationship of two people is having a hard time today. But to one day you will stand there, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. And you will pledge and you will both promise. 

This will be a holy ground and there are days when your cups will be filled and running over. And there will be dark days when the waters will be so choppy that you will wonder if your little boat will make it through the stormy weather which comes when you least expect it. 

So your marriage will be like a trip and a journey. There will be ups and downs. There will be pot holes and sometimes you all might just run out of gas. But so many days you will look out and hear birds that sing, and so sky so beautiful you can’t say anything. And you will move along. Why? Because of hope. That this partner that holds your hand will help you both through whatever comes.

I saw a cartoon one time in which this old couple sit at their kitchen table and look at each other. And she says: “Do you know what 30 years of marriage adds up to? 22,000 scrambled eggs, 4,680 loads of laundry, 10,950 beds made, 30,000 cups of coffee, 60 trips to the dentist…”

Yep—she is right but also those years hold so, so much more. For love is really is a many splendored thing that  keeps us going. And that means there is so much more to this “I do” that any of us realize.

One of my favorite love stories goes like this:

“It is something…it can be everything—too have found a fellow bird with whom you can sit among the rafters while the drinking and the boasting and reciting and fighting go on below; a fellow bird whom you can look after and find bugs and seeds for; one who will patch your bruises and straighten your ruffled feathers and mourn over your hurts when you accidentally fly into something you can’t handle.”

My, my what a night of hopes and dreams galore!   —from Grandpa July 20, 2023

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

July Fourth 2023 is a Strange Anniversary

 

On this July 4th I look out my window where flags wave up and down the street. It’s quiet. But fireworks tonight will lighten the whole place. But outside our peaceful bubble chaos seems to reign. Whatever our persuasion most of us know the dreams of all those who fought, prayed, loved and worked through the years are not so clear this Anniversary day. 

You’ve probably heard this quote. When he emerged from Constitution Hall, Benjamin Franklin was recognized by a woman who asked of him “What kind of government are you giving us?” “A republic, Madam, if you can keep it.” And it looks right now that many of us are worried about keeping this wonderful land and all its promise. 

What are we going to do? Just watch the terrible news that will not stop. Or just be depressed. Tune out and just think of personal stuff or anything, anything like videos, sports, reading and shopping. Anything to escape from all this chaos. Maybe we can just stay angry and be furious with all these on the other side of the divide.

I have been reading John Meacham’s wonderful book about Lincoln. And There Was Light. He tells the Lincoln story in a powerful way. How could a man called Abe with almost no resources became the marvelous leader of our country in the terrible days of the civii war. 

I think maybe Mr. Meacham was thinking about us and our time as well as Lincoln. The country was so divided. The issue was slavery and the lines were so drawn. And war they lived through reminds me of where we are. I know people are talking about shredding the Constitution, longing for someone that can fix all of this.

As Lincoln began to talk about the wrongness of slavery he had an uphill struggle to get to the Presidency. And there were assassination whisperings everywhere. And there was a large group that decided even though Mr. Lincoln was elected, many would make sure the Electoral College went their way. They put every roadblock in his path that even though he was chosen by the people—this group was determined that Lincoln would never serve a day as President. And even when he did the hatred he endured would finally take his life.

Sound familiar? We have been here before. Again and again. And these folk that want to hide behind that silly word, woke would erase our history and ignore our dark side.  But this is where we are with our fears and rage and hope and dreams.

I have a lot of dark days as I think of this July 4th. But Meacham’s book reminds me we have been here many times. Terrible things did happen. But somehow we endured. Not pollyanna style but with the stubborn hope that that light that goes all the way back to 1776 would not be extinguished.

So here all are. In the same boat. Like it or not. And I do believe like the blacks and immigrants and so many others we might just overcome again some day.

Dear God, help us to keep our Republic.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

On Father's Day this I Remember

On this Father’s Day I remember my Father, John Lovett. He was born in 1898. He grew up in a hard a poor farm. When he was a little boy his ears ruptured and his family lived way out in the country and had no way to get to a Doctor. So their home remedies did not work.  So my Daddy grew up with probably 90% hearing loss. I can only imagine how difficult were not only his growing up years but his whole life. Cut off. Not understanding those around him. He kept to himself most days because he could not hear. There were few if any hearing aids back then and when finally ordered hearing aids they hardly worked. They whistled all the time. 

So he had a hard time communicating not only with his family but just about everybody. One heartbreaking scene I will never forget. The local Assembly of God Church (always suspect by us Baptists) advertised that a healing evangelist was coming to that church. So the night of the meeting my father told us about the service and that he hoped he would be healed that night. So he dressed in his suit and my brother, Mother and me went with him to the service. I don’t recall much of that evening but there came a time when people who needed healing would form a line some with crutches, some in wheelchairs, mothers with babies. They waited until their time came to meet the Evangelist. They came to be touched by the Evangelist. He would ask them their problem. And then he would touch their forehead and yell: “Be healed!” And almost every person in the line just collapsed as if in a trance. Ushers came forward to help those supposedly “slain in the spirit.” 

When his time came he told the Evangelist he couldn’t hear and wanted to be healed. And the Evangelist touched his ears and screamed: ”Be healed." As he touched my Father’s forehead my Daddy collapsed and we were scared. This is all I remember about that service except that long winding line of sufferers wanting desperately to be healed.

After the service we asked Daddy if he could hear. “Yes,”I can hear.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. But the next day he said he could not hear quite as well and the next day he was back where he had always been. I don’t remember what happened after that. I have wondered how he felt when his hopes were dashed and his dream was shattered. 

There is a religion that promises false hopes. That proclaims that God heals everybody if you stand in the line, trust the great Healer and repeat the right slogans. One of the worst things about holding out false hopes is what it does to the person who believes all things are possible. The false prophets have not gone way.

And so on this Father’s Day that sad night comes rushing back. Remarkably my Father went on. He was still Daddy. After a long hard week in the mill he would take me and my brother up the street to where the houses ended. We would walk through the woods next to the river. He would point out wild flowers and birds and wild animals and scary snakes. We didn’t say much but I didn’t think much about that dark night until years later. But here was a Father, despite whatever disappointments he may have had, he took his two boys and together they walked though the woods. Isn’t it strange the things you remember?

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com