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Archives for May 2010

Memorials and Memories

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My mother and father are both deceased. For years they asked my husband and me the question, “Should we be buried or cremated and where?” We talked about the options. But it was not a question we could answer for them. Sometimes, however, I wish I had. They chose to be buried at a cemetery in a building with ten-high rows of drawers. Their remains are at about level five.

I find it difficult to visit there or place plastic flowers in the vases provided on the ground floor between the walls of drawers. The place is cold and a little creepy. Nothing about it reminds me of my parents. Aesthetics were important to them. My mother was a ballet dancer and an artist. My dad loved to putter in the garden with his roses and geraniums.

My aversion to my parents’ burial place makes me wonder why any of us go to a cemetery to honor our ancestors and friends who have died. It’s clear to me; my parents are not in the drawer. My thought is this. I need a place set apart for reflection, honoring, and remembering. I need a tangible place where I have special permission to feel the feelings I have: sorrow, joy, gratitude, awe, guilt, release….

I wish my parents had chosen a lovely, hilly graveside with trees and flowers. But they didn’t. So I use other tangible objects and settings as prompts for remembering. Whenever I look at one of my mothers’ paintings, sit on the hundred-year old couch she passed on to me, or read from my little red King James Bible, I remember and thank her. When I pass by red geraniums or caladiums, my father comes to mind and I smile.

I hope even more than remembering at a cemetery or with an object that my life will ” honor my father and my mother, so that my days may be long in the land that the Lord my God is giving me.” (Exodus 20: 12 NRSV- you was changed to my)

Here is a little bouquet to you, mom and dad…and to all of the others we remember this day who have given us life, enhanced our lives, saved our lives, freed our lives….Thank you.

Drawing: Sybil MacBeth

Olives

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The Bible mentions olives, olive trees, olive branches, olive oil, and the Mount of Olives in at least thirty books. Olives were part of the economic system and the food chain. A good crop meant prosperity; a bad crop was disaster. Analogies using olives abound in the Hebrew scriptures. “Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your children will be like olive shoots around your table.” (Psalms 128:3 NRSV)

As a child, the oily, tart taste of olives was disgusting to me. My mother kept a jar of red-pimento stuffed green olives in the refrigerator at all times. The olives were no temptation, but the pimentos were pretty and quite tasty. Under the pretense of looking for something else  in the refrigerator to eat, I snuck out a green olive (or two) from the jar, sucked out the pimento, and returned the adulterated fruit to the jar. This sneaky pillaging went unnoticed until the number of olives without pimentos exceeded the number with pimentos.

As an adult, I love the oily, salty, tart taste of olives. I also associate olives with things I love: crusty bread, pasta, feta cheese, hummus, the Holy Land, and Jesus.

Last week while we waited for friends to arrive at a restaurant, my husband and I ordered an appetizer of olives and pita bread. It was not only delicious but beautiful. The half-hour of quiet conversation we shared amidst a plate of green, yellow, and purple olives gave me yet another loving association for this small, but potent fruit.

Photo: Sybil MacBeth 2010

Better, Batter, Butter….

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“Meet my better half.” How often I hear this statement when I’m introduced to someone’s spouse or partner. It’s usually intended as a compliment, a sweet comment about the esteem the person has for their loved one.

A couple of days ago I ate breakfast with a group of clergy and lay people prior to a meeting. One minister told us a story of a sweet elderly woman living with an increasingly cranky husband. After making some solo rounds of conversation at a recent party, the never-critical woman said, “I need to go find my bitter half.” Ouch! Since I fear becoming a cranky old lady, those words were painful. I don’t need my husband Andy to introduce me as his “better half,” but I sure don’t want to be introduced as his “bitter half” —in spite of some occasional justification for such a moniker.

I’m contemplating some alternative adjectives for what kind of “half” I’d like to be and still have the familiar, poetic ring of “better half.” I kind of like “buffer” although it has no validity whatsoever. “Bigger” is definitely out, true or not. ‘Brattier” or “battier” or “beefier”-no good. This is just not working. Maybe the “half” word is not so good either.

So here’s my ideal, fantasy introduction of me by my husband: “Meet Sybil. She’s my best friend, my long-loved love, and my funny, sometimes grouchy and impatient, but sincere companion on this earthly pilgrimage with God.” So much for the “better,” the “bitter,” and the “half.”

P.S. Thanks to Madeleine L’Engle for her expression “long-loved love” in her book The Irrational Season”
Chapter 4, “To a Long-Loved Love,” Crosswicks Ltd, 1979

Sybil MacBeth ©2010

Repairs

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I’m tired of being a careless slob. A month ago I damaged a brand new orange purse by tossing a permanent black pen into it. The ink seeped through the lining and left a quarter-sized, unbudgeable blob on the leather. The same kind of black pen left a conspicuous mark on the front of a pair of tan pants. Now I remember why most of my pants are black and my backpack purse of three years is also black.

Last night I decided to take a picture of the repair attempts I had made to the orange purse and tan pants. A tie-dyed piece of duct tape covers the blob on the purse; a trio of buttons masks the mark on the pants. Since I was wearing the pants, my brother offered to take the photograph. I handed him the camera but released my grasp before the transfer was complete. The camera landed lens-down on the floor. A foreboding message appeared on the screen, “Lens Error.” The five-month old camera, a gift from my husband last Christmas, is now nonfunctional and awaiting repairs way beyond my skill level.

My response to the purse, pants, and camera debacle is self-disdain. It’s as if I stand outside of my self and sneer at the klutzy person who wrecks her stuff with regularity. “What an idiot. How can you be so stupid…?” It’s harsh language to use on another human being, even if the other human being happens to be myself. What makes me think it’s okay to “pick on people, jump on their failures, criticize their faults….” “That critical spirit has a way of boomeranging” says The Message version of Matthew 7:1. “Carelessly call a brother ‘idiot!’ and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell ‘stupid!’ at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire. The simple moral fact is that words kill.”

I avoid all kinds of physical behaviors that might kill me: reckless driving, smoking, eating lots of fatty foods, drugging….But  when I criticize myself with contempt, I practice life-threatening psychic behaviors. Harsh words kill the spirit and make me forget I am a beloved child of God.

Repairing my purse, pants, and my camera are all good things. But repairing my critical spirit requires more than an application of duct tape and buttons. This is a job for daily prayer and vigilance, one I can’t do without God’s help.


Black Ink Blob                                                                                                                                   Duct Tape Repair

Button Repair

Sybil MacBeth ©2010

Fearless Mothering?

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My friend Cindy often creates a drawing in response to a word suggested each week on a website called Illustration Friday. The word for this week is “fearless.” Here is Cindy’s drawing and the words she wrote to accompany it on her blog Mostly Markers:

I was wondering what to draw for “fearless,” this week’s Illustration Friday word. Then the church service this morning reminded me of this Bible verse, one of my favorites. “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” Today is Mother’s Day, so the words connected for me with the thought of a mother’s love.


Much of the time I have to confess to being a fearful parent rather than a fearless one. But Cindy’s drawing and the quote above from 1John 4:18 (NRSV) remind me of my hunger for the “perfect love which casts out fear.” As a mother, perfect love and fearlessness seem like impossible challenges. My love for my children feels conditional and flawed; my mind and heart are full of worry and concern for their safety and their future. But with God’s help I get glimmers of perfect love and fearlessness. In tiny increments—maybe 10 seconds at a time—I surrender my self and my children to God’s love and into God’s care. In those few moments I am deliriously fearless and free.

Sybil MacBeth ©2010

Black and White Centering Prayers

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Centering Prayer, as I understand it, is a way to still the body and the mind and to deepen our relationship with Christ. It “facilitates the movement from more active modes of prayer — verbal, mental or affective prayer — into a receptive prayer of resting in God.” When I try to sit still and breathe, the fidget factor sets in. My body rebels and wants to be part of the prayer. So I draw. The movement of my arms, hands, eyes, and head helps me to get still on the inside so I can open my ears and my heart to God’s presence. I feel like I’m resting in the hammock of  God.

Here are a couple of black and white prayers I drew to facilitate my prayer of stillness and quiet—my unorthodox version of Centering Prayer. I start with a name from the Trinity and draw outward.

“Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him.” (Psalms 37:7 KJV)

Sybil MacBeth ©2010