Home Blog Page 203

god in the dirt

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
4

I’m an NPR nerd.

Several years ago, when we were on a mission trip to Philadelphia, we were walking to see the Liberty Bell and passed the building that houses WHYY. “That’s where Terry Gross is,” I exclaimed. Then I laughed at myself.

Sometimes as I drive, I switch over to our local talk radio station just to see what is being said. It doesn’t take long for me to realize how accustomed I’ve become to the tone of conversation that happens on public radio because I feel accosted by the volume and venom of what I hear from the likes of Bill O’Reilly and Jay Severin who appear to relish in their rancorous rhetoric. And I’m not talking about content; I’m talking about delivery. I can’t listen for long because I’m so agitated by what I hear.

I understand the differences in opinion. I don’t understand why we have to berate and excoriate one another.

When I punched in on Saturday, the talk was about Al Gore’s winning of the Nobel Peace Prize. I managed to hang in for most of my ride to work because I was intrigued by the reticence to give any credence at all to the reality of global climate change, or (perhaps, better put) to make climate change a partisan issue. I know there are more ways to look at the causes and consequences of our presence on the planet that what can be seen in An Inconvenient Truth and that a fair amount of what passes for “the environmental movement” is fleeting fashion. I am not a global warming fundamentalist and I take our human impact on the planet too seriously to leave it to the posturing of our politicians and actors. So enough about them. I’ll talk for me.

I wrote a few weeks back about my discomfort with the old gospel hymn that begins,

this world is not my home
I’m just a-passing through
my treasure’s all laid up
somewhere beyond the blue.

The song comes to mind again this morning because I think it voices an error in Christian theology that has left us behind the curve on environmental issues (understanding of course, that the response of Christians is not monolithic). Much of evangelical Christianity, which is where I grew up, has seen the need to care for our planet as superfluous at best. What I remember being taught, basically, was the point of our being here is to get everyone to heaven and our stay here is temporary anyway. Going green doesn’t rank high on that list of priorities. Though we talk more about the environment in the liberal branch of Christianity where I have found a home, we hop too easily onto the cultural bandwagon, picking up the slogans but not necessarily being any more substantive in our stance. On both ends of the continuum, we seem to see the issue as political and/or social before we think of it as spiritual. And we preach at each other much more than we converse.

Here’s my attempt to do the latter on this Blog Action Day.

“God claims Earth and everything in it, God claims World and all who live on it,” proclaimed the Psalmist (24:1, The Message), pulling together our care for the planet with our concern for one another, and calling us to a more thoughtful, intentional, nuanced, and incarnational theology that perhaps most of us want to engage. If that verse is true, then life has no discards; every action matters. I have to consider, as I stand in the supermarket, that the bananas from Costa Rica that cost me 69 cents a pound do not reflect the real cost of the fruit. Seriously. I can’t fly to Costa Rica for 69 cents a pound. Am I to believe that the people who picked them were paid a living wage and the owners of the farm are making the best environmental decisions for that kind of money? I might do well to consider another source of potassium for my diet.

Yikes. I’m dangerously close to preaching and not talking.

One of the best sermons I ever heard on the parable of the Good Samaritan was called “Christ in the Ditch.” (If I could only remember who preached it.) The point was the Christ-figure in the story was not the Samaritan, but the wounded one left for dead by the side of the road. Our call is to allow the Jesus in us to respond to the Jesus in those who have been discarded and beaten up by the world around them. We incarnate God’s love best when we see Jesus in the ditch. If God is in the downtrodden, then we might pull the psalm and the parable together to say God is in the dirt as well. What we do to the planet, we do to God. Like the old song says:

When through the woods, and forest glades I wander,
And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees.
When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur
And see the brook, and feel the gentle breeze.

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee,
How great thou art, how great thou art.
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee,
How great thou art, how great thou art.

Why I carry my recycling bin to the curb every Tuesday morning makes about as much sense as why I get up and go to church on Sunday morning or why we put our twenty-five bucks in the pot at Kiva.org so one woman in Mexico could try a make a living selling tacos. It doesn’t make sense, but it makes faith. We were breathed into existence by a God who relishes in what one life can do. The universe our God created is layer upon layer of infinite and infinitesimal activity, the minute and the magnificent both packed full of significance. Rather than oscillate between the arrogance of thinking we can do whatever we want without consequence to creation and the cynicism that says nothing we do matters anyway, let us choose the narrow path of intentionality and hope, believing that every step chosen well leads us closer to being the creation God imagined in the beginning.

Peace,
Milton

tbag

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
6

That was the nickname I had for the song “Thankful Boys and Girls” when my friend Billy and I wrote it many (dare I say many, many?) years ago. Ginger asked me to sing the song as a part of worship today and several folks stopped me at coffee hour and asked me to post the lyric. So, here it is.

let us be thankful boys and girls
for eyes and ears and toes
and puppies with wet noses
let us be thankful boys and girls
for lessons we have learned
and love we have not earned
we follow the beat of amazing grace
oh let us be thankful boys and girls

let us be thankful boys and girls
for kisses on the mouth
and teenage heartbeats pounding
let us be thankful boys and girls
for lightning in the sky
and laughter in the eye
we follow the beat of amazing grace
oh let us be thankful boys and girls

for all that brought us here
and all that will see us through
the passages of life that lead to you
lead us to you

let us be thankful boys and girls
for a little common sense
and painted picket fences
let us be thankful boys and girls
when packing up the plans
in rented moving vans
we follow the beat of amazing grace
oh let us be thankful boys and girls

let us be thankful boys and girls
for mendelson and brahms
and shadows growing longer
let us be thankful boys and girls
for years that slowly grow
and grandkids we can hold
for memories to keep
and sorrows running deep
oh let us be thankful boys and girls

for all that brought us here
and all that will see us through
the passages of life that lead to you
lead us to you

let us be thankful boys and girls
when hope is not enough
that death can’t bury love
let us be thankful boys and girls
for wine and bread and hymns
remembering again
we follow the beat of amazing grace
oh let us be thankful boys and girls

The song is on Billy’s Red Bird, Blue Sky CD.

Peace,
Milton

hakuna batata

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
0

I’m watching Chef walk an interesting creative line these days. He’s in the process of making some menu changes that work to incorporate his culinary creativity with the fact that our restaurant is, as he puts it, “in a meat and potatoes town.” Instead of each steak on the menu having a different starch and vegetable, he added a couple of new steaks and put garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus with all of them. People now pick their steak – 7 oz. center cut filet, 8 oz. flatiron, 10 oz. sirloin, 12 oz. rib eye – and how they want it cooked. He still dry ages the larger steaks and brings his creative touches to the dishes, but he’s working to meet his public where they are.

And he served steaks as fast as he could cook them last night, even though our crowd was down a little since a lot of folks stayed home last night to watch the Sox beat Cleveland. (Sorry, Davy.) And he did it without selling himself short.

I’ve learned a lot working alongside Chef. He has an artful simplicity to his combinations of flavors, textures, and colors. Our dishes taste and look beautiful as they go out. The quality of his thought and practice come through in everything from the salads to the pizzas to the steaks and seafood. He has also chosen to cook in something other than a fine dining restaurant. He knows all that stuff. For his dinner last night he brought in (and shared with me) a batata, which is (I learned) a Caribbean sweet potato. While it’s probably normal stuff if you’re in Jamaica, it was exotic to me. So we ate batata and dished up the roasted garlic mashed with the steaks. (I had some of the potatoes, too.)

What Chef understands is, no matter what the dish, people are always part of the recipe. Years ago, when I was a Youth Minister, I asked one of our church members who was also an educator, to lead a teacher training for our youth Sunday school teachers. He began the session by writing one sentence on the board:

I teach young people the Bible.

Then he said, “You tell me the direct object in this sentence and I’ll tell you what kind of teacher you are going to be.” After some discussion he said, “If you think you are teaching the Bible, it won’t matter to you who is in the room; if you think you are teaching young people, you can read from the phone book and change their lives.”

Thus endeth the lesson.

Cook. Teach. Pastor. Work. Live. None of it happens in a vacuum. Not only are we surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, but a gathering of fellow participants, companions for the journey and the meal. Sometimes that means you get to try new things and sometimes that means you serve up the steak and potatoes. Both are best done with the intentionality of a personal vision and the flavor of community.

Peace,
Milton

city of immigrants

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
1

As you make your to do list for today, write down, “Buy Washington Square Serenade.” Steve Earle’s first studio recording of new songs in three years is worth every dime.

For those of you who don’t know him, Steve’s first record, Guitar Town, came out in 1986 to rave reviews and afforded him fame that almost killed him, literally. His addictions took him apart and put him in prison for a time. What he has pulled from the ashes of that existence is a thoughtful presence, a tenacious spirit, and some wonderful music. His latest recording chronicles his move from Nashville to New York City and his marriage to fellow singer Allison Moorer. (Yes, she is quite a bit younger.)

The single from the record is “City of Immigrants,” which reflects the spirit of the whole project. (The video is a performance on Letterman.)

Livin’ in a city of immigrants
I don’t need to go travelin’
Open my door and the world walks in
Livin’ in a city of immigrants

Livin’ in a city that never sleeps
My heart keepin’ time to a thousand beats
Singin’ in languages I don’t speak
Livin’ in a city of immigrants

City of black
City of white
City of light
City of innocents

City of sweat
City of tears
City of prayers
City of immigrants

Livin’ in a city where the dreams of men
Reach up to touch the sky and then
Tumble back down to earth again
Livin’ in a city that never quits

Livin’ in a city where the streets are paved
With good intentions and a people’s faith
In the sacred promise a statue made
Livin’ in a city of immigrants

City of stone
City of steel
City of wheels
Constantly spinnin’

City of bone
City of skin
City of pain
City of immigrants

All of us are immigrants
Every daughter, every son
Everyone is everyone
All of us are immigrants – everyone

Livin’ in a city of immigrants
River flows out and the sea rolls in
Washin’ away nearly all of my sins
Livin’ in a city of immigrants

City of black
City of white
City of light
Livin’ in a city of immigrants

City of sweat
City of tears
City of prayers
Livin’ in a city of immigrants

City of stone
City of steel
City of wheels
Livin’ in a city of immigrants

City of bone
City of skin
City of pain
City of immigrants
All of us are immigrants


Peace,
Milton

raising my ebenezer

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
10

Though I was flying home alone from Durham last Thursday night, I was not by myself. Seated next to me in the exit row was a large man who actually needed the extra leg room and who quickly fell asleep; across the aisle sat a couple who each had a puzzle book to work as they flew. And, about twenty minutes into the hour and a half flight, I became aware of the little boy sitting behind me who, evidently, was quite proud of both his singing voice and his command of the alphabet:

a, b, c – ellaminnowpea
q, r, s – ellaminnowpea
x, y, z – ELLAMINNOWPEA

His mother spoke to him several times in a maternal corrective whisper, but to no avail. He simply changed his tune:

LA LA LA (I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy)
LA LA LA (I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy)

He was a little kid on a plane being a little kid. He was happy, he was learning, and he had a pretty good voice. I’m sure it never crossed his mind that anyone around him might not share those sentiments. I’m grateful none of us adults who sat near him felt the need to tell him anything different than what he knew was true in his childlike heart. Somewhere in our muscle memory we resonated with his version of the alphabet song. (Is there a better run of letters than L M N O P?) I know I wished for the kind of abandon that would let me sing out, “I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy.”

Though not yet verbal, the baby that sat across the aisle from me in church yesterday with her mother was singing the same song. She bubbled and cooed through most of the service, throwing in a gleeful squeal every now and then for good measure. When we reached the closing hymn, I couldn’t help but feel the words as a prayer:

Come, Thou, Fount of Every Blessing,
Tune my heart to sing thy grace . . .

At least those are the words I know. Our UCC hymnal is one whose compilers felt driven to revise for several reasons, some (to me) more valid than others. So their opening lines read,

Come, O Fount of Every Blessing,
Tune my heart to sing your grace . . .

I know it’s a small change, but it’s just the beginning. The one that really gets me is the second stanza, which revised reads,

Here I pause in my sojourning,
giving thanks for having come,
Come to trust at every turning,
God will guide me safely home.

Those aren’t the words. The changes here are significant because they remove a wonderful image, even if it does need some explaining:

Here I raise mine Ebenezer,
hither by thy help I’m come.
And I hope by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.

The power of symbol is it packages the weight of memory and hope in way it can be carried across the miles and the years. Sure, in my junior high days, “here I raise mine Ebenezer” made us snicker as we played that good old Baptist adolescent worship service game, “Under the Sheets,” where you simply added the words “under the sheets” to the end of hymn titles with some humorous results:

O, for a Thousand Tongues to Sing . . .
Love Lifted Me . . .
I Surrender All . . .

And as I sang and chuckled, the words worked their way into my mind and heart and stayed until I could ask what an Ebenezer was with a straight face. The reference is from 1 Samuel 7:12:

Samuel took a single rock and set it upright between Mizpah and Shen. He named it “Ebenezer” (Rock of Help), saying, “This marks the place where God helped us.” (The Message)

One of the ways we tune our hearts is by matching the tone of faith that resonates down from the generations that have come before. The little soprano voice that sang “ellaminnowpea” so enthusiastically will learn more and more about where those letters can take him as he finds them shaped and gathered in the words of those who have preceded him. Those letters will teach him about Pegasus, Moses, The Little Prince, Eyeore, and Milton (John, that is), among other things.

Billy Joel began his song, “Summer Highland Falls” with the words:

They say that these are not the best of times,
but they’re the only times I’ve ever known;
and I believe there is a time for meditation
in cathedrals of our own.

The crash of emotion in those few lines has pulled me since the first time I heard them. That we are aware that these are the only times we’ve ever known should pull us to notice the Ebenzers standing tall across the landscape, making sure to remember the stories, rather than knocking them all over for our own construction projects. It is hither by the help of the other runners in the human race that we have come thus far, as well. Joel concluded:

How thoughtlessly we dissipate our energies,
perhaps we don’t fulfill each other’s fantasies,
and as we stand upon the ledges of our lives
with our respective similarities:
it’s either sadness or euphoria.

The melody of faith is more complex and more nuanced that his polarity. From the sadness to the euphoria and all of life in between, the hymn calls us to pray, with gratitude:

O, to grace how great a debtor
daily I’m constrained to be;
Let thy goodness like a fetter
bind my wandering heart to thee.

Yesterday, Ginger and I made our annual trek up to Newburyport for their Fall Festival, a wonderful community celebration. We got there in time to see the bluegrass band play their first song – my favorite song – “Angel from Montgomery.” The last verse of that song says:

There’s flies in the kitchen – I can hear ‘em a buzzin’
and I ain’t done nothing since I woke up today.
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
and come home every evening and have nothing to say?

A little girl, not old enough yet to know Ella Minnow Pea, danced across the stones in front of the stage as they sang, twirling with total abandon, incarnating the depth of the song’s question. Whether morning or evening, coming or going, working or playing, let us answer together in song:

Prone to wonder, Lord I feel it:
prone to leave the God I love.
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for thy courts above.


Peace,
Milton

The video and recording is Sufjan Stevens.

41 down

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
3

The clue for 41 Down in the “difficult” crossword in Spirit, the in flight magazine of Southwest Airlines was “golden rule word”: unto, as in do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Jesus’ words are as obvious as they are wise. We, as a people, however, often have to be reminded of the obvious.


When the schedule at work operates as it usually does, Sous and I follow each other working the fish station. The normal flow of a shift is to arrive around two, figure out what needs to be prepped, prep it, work the dinner service, do all you can to be ready for the next day, and clean up the area. The cold top on the line has twenty-two bins, each one containing an item, a sauce, or a garnish for one or more of our dishes. On the fish station, I’m talking about bolognaise sauce, curry sauce, julienned peppers, julienned snow peas, julienned portabella mushrooms, heavy cream, sliced shallots, diced butter, Raye’s Seadog mustard, chopped garlic, chives, diced roasted tomatoes, whole roasted tomatoes, basil chiffonade, chopped tarragon, lime wedges, grated Romano cheese, and sliced chorizo.

That’s just the top. We have four cold drawers. One for pasta, lobster meat, ravioli, and back ups; one with spinach, gnocchi, Swiss chard, green beans, and mashed potato cakes; one with mussels, crostini, and more back ups; and one with the raw fish, shrimp, and scallops. Much of the prep needs to be done fresh everyday, so making sure the other stuff is stocked when we finish a shift makes the next day a little less hectic.

All of that to say, one of the other line cooks preceded me on the fish station Thursday night instead of Sous. He normally works the grill, but moved over because of some necessary schedule changes. When he works the grill (a station he shares with Chef), he makes sure everything is backed up and ready for when Chef comes in. He doesn’t share the same work ethic when he works other stations. I got to work yesterday to find my station clean, mostly empty, and disorganized. It took me an hour just to get it back in shape so I could do my regular prep work. My colleague would not have known the answer to 41 Down.

We buy the wines we use for cooking at the restaurant by the box because of the sheer volume of liquid we use. The box of white wine at my station is the equivalent of twelve bottles. It’s good wine – it’s just in a box with a spigot on the bottom. The Marsala wine at Chef’s station has a notation on the side that reads, “Tilt box forward to get last drop.” Chef showed it to me one day, smiling, and said, “Gee, I’m glad they told me.” One of our running jokes, when I get to the end of my box, is to say, “Man, I wish I knew how to get that last little bit out of my wine, but there aren’t any instructions.” (Ah – chef humor. Sigh.)

If Jesus had been a cook, which I’m sure will be discovered in the next round of discovered scrolls, he might have elaborated on doing unto by reminding his listeners someone always follows us, whatever our station in life. When we’re doing and cleaning and prepping, we need to remember the one who comes next will be directly affected by how we do our jobs. At the end of our shifts we need to be able to remember what it felt like to be the one coming in to the empty bins at the beginning of the shift, rather than allowing ourselves to only feel the exhaustion that comes with wanting to finish quickly and get home.

OK, so maybe Jesus wouldn’t have said it quite that way, so I will. We are 41 Down kind of people: we spend our lives doing unto, whether or not we do so intentionally. At the risk of stating the painfully obvious, we need to live like we’re being followed.

Peace,
Milton

P. S. — There’s a new recipe.

music to your eyes

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
2

I was going to write this morning, but I got to reading the annual Southern music issue of the Oxford American, which comes with an amazing CD. The periodical is a labor of love and excellence, and certainly worth a look. Check out this piece on yodeling by Roy Blount, Jr.; “The People’s Singer,” a chronicle of the life of Lee Hays, a founding member of The Weavers, along with Pete Seeger; and “Mystic Nights,” a memoir of Bob Dylan’s recording of Blonde on Blonde in Nashville. The articles taught me, challenged me, moved me.

Good people doing great work: that’s always worth noticing.

Here are The Weavers singing, “Goodnight, Irene” from 1949.

Peace,
Milton

building bridges

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
4

One of the ideas that continues to intrigue and haunt me is that most of the world lives their lives without knowing or knowing of me and they don’t miss me either. I even posted a poem about it called “Spokane.” This morning, I’m sitting in Foster’s Market and Café in Durham, which has been not-knowing-or-missing-Milton territory until recently. I flew down yesterday to begin looking for work and to look at houses, trying to find a way to begin to make a place for myself in a place that doesn’t know they need to make room for me. It’s a little like trying to get in sync with a jump rope that is already going in circles, something I never quite got the hang of.

And it’s not like that. The last twenty-four hours, my journey has been fueled by the incredible kindness of those who are determined to make it seem as if there has always been a place for me here. I talked to a one chef who not only talked about the possibility of my working in his restaurant, but also gave me the name of another guy he thought would be worth contacting. The interim minister at the church where Ginger will pastor picked me up at the airport and gave me her car to use while I’m here. The realtor we have been working with here changed her schedule to show me some houses and also spent a great deal of time creating conversations with people to help us figure out what to do since our house in Marshfield has not sold. And, of course, the members of the Triangle Red Sox Nation were more than welcoming as we gathered to watch the Sox beat the Angels last night.

I had two extended interviews/conversations about cooking gigs yesterday at two of Durham’s best offerings as far as restaurants go. At the first, the kitchen was bustling and informal. The Sous Chef who interviewed me, was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. He moved to Durham a few years back and understood what it feels like to try and break into to a new place.

“We don’t have anything right now, but you know this business. I have a full kitchen today and might have an empty one tomorrow. But when you get here, if you haven’t found anything, let me know. I’ll find a way to throw you a couple of shifts until you get your feet on the ground.” He then gave me the name of a couple of guys he had met when he first came to town that helped him get started.

The second interview was quite a contrast. On Tuesday I sent my resume in an email note to the chef of a fine dining restaurant here telling him I was coming to town. He wrote back and asked me to stop by and talk to him. This is a guy who trained with Emeril before he was a celebrity chef and worked alongside Charlie Trotter, who easily makes the top five list nationally. When I got to his place, everyone was in chef whites and focused. He changes the entire menu monthly and they were getting ready for a tasting for the wait staff so they could be informed as they served people that evening. The conversation with him was much more focused and intense. I think I intrigued him because I was much older than the usual applicant and not fresh out of culinary school. He was not off-putting and he maintained a professional distance. As I watched him interact with his staff, I could see the distance was more about him than me. As we talked he said, “I don’t have anything right now, but you know this business: the kitchen is full now but might be empty tomorrow.” He also said, “I imagine this is not your only interview. If you would like my take on some of the other places in town as you talk to them, I would be glad to give you some feedback.” He told me to keep in touch and then invited me to come and observe the tasting so I could see some of the food. He took nearly a half an hour to describe the twelve or fourteen offerings on the new menu; he talked as the wait staff descended on the food like hungry hyenas, chewing and laughing at the same time. His collection and combinations of ingredients were both imaginative and brilliant. (Baked oysters with smoked vanilla cream!)

As I was drinking my coffee this morning, I browsed through Bridge to the Soul, Coleman Barks’ new collection of translations of Rumi’s poetry in honor of Rumi’s eight hundredth birthday. In the introductory essay, Barks talks about his love of bridges and focuses on a bridge somewhere in Iran (I think) of which it is said the concrete was made with a mixture of sand and egg whites. He went on to talk about the imagination it takes to build a bridge, and to build a bridge that lasts.

Each step of the way on this journey from Marshfield to Durham reveals another ingredient in the bridge required to get from there to here. Each step lifts just enough of the fog for us to see the next step, and to see the bridge is there, though we cannot take in the entire span. Much like the mixture of stone and egg white, we are called to step out on the combination of resolve and faith that reveals all that connects our lives to one another.

Peace,
Milton

drinking beer with bob dylan

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
9

The prompt from Writers’ Island this week was “The Journey.” I have no idea how I got from there to here, but here’s the poem — and I couldn’t pass up the video.

drinking beer with bob dylan

It’s late and we are sitting in a tavern
I know well but can’t name.
“Oh, where have you been my brown-eyed son?”
he asks and smiles – I think it’s a smile.
I laugh a little and look at my shoes,
the ones I wear to work each day,
black and wrinkled, with specks
of something on one of the toes.

“I’ve lived in the darkness they call my depression.
I’ve cooked for a living and cooked out of loving.
I come home to a woman who makes me feel wanted.
I’ve written and planted and broken and hoped for.
I’ve traveled the world without leaving my city.
I’ve let myself dream what just might never happen.
I’ve staked my whole life on a faith that’s elusive.
I’ve stood under the stars to give thanks that I’m breathing.”

He turns up his mug and wipes
his mouth with his sleeve.
“You would think, after forty-five years,
I would have a new question,” he says,
“but there’s seems nothing else to ask.”
I look at his hands, now arthritic and unable
to play the guitar; only the piano.
Still, he plays and sings.

He is sixty-six; I, soon, will be fifty-one;
both of us just past the five and dime
birthdays that are so heartily celebrated.
Between us, we have over a century
of stories and so we sit long into the night
telling them, until the bartender
tells us he has a journey of his own
and sends us out into what is left of it.

It would have been perfect
if a hard rain had begun to fall,
but it didn’t. We stood there in the chill
of a petulant night resisting the dawn,
and realized we would not see each other again.
He’s not much of a hugger, so I didn’t even try.
“Thanks for the beers,” he said, as the lights went out.
I stood and watched as he slipped into the darkness.

Peace,
Milton

cdl

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
5

Yesterday was our Schnauzer Lola’s seventh birthday and my brother’s forty-ninth. (I suppose that makes them the same age.) Today, my friend Doug is fifty years old. By coincidence, today also marks my four hundred and fiftieth post since beginning this blog on December 27, 2005. Eliot said we measure our life in coffee spoons; I’ve measured mine in recipes and blog posts for the past couple of years. I think of the posts a little like the marks my dad used to make on the door jamb to let us see how we had grown. I didn’t always feel taller, but the marks gave me external evidence that I was growing and changing.

Marking this milestone borders on being overly self-congratulatory, I think, and is also worthy of note, for me at least. Like Doug’s birthday, my blog count marks a place on the journey I have never been before. As much as measurements are about what has been, they are perhaps even more about what is possible. Doug has never been on the planet as long as he has today. I’ve never written as much as I have now. Each new moment is uncharted territory for us all.

The Romans’ numbering system grew out of notches they made as they counted. They weren’t thinking in letters; they were making marks to show their progress. Now we use them for tombstones, the periodic table of elements, the Super Bowl, and Wrestlemania. Go figure.

One of the books I go back to from time to time is Dag Hammarskjöld’s Markings. He was Secretary General of the United Nations, among other things in his life, as well as a man of deep faith and integrity. Here are a few of the marks he left for us:

He who has surrendered himself to it knows that the Way ends on the Cross — even when it is leading him through the jubilation of Gennesaret or the triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Do not seek death. Death will find you. But seek the road which makes death a fulfillment.

Life only demands from you the strength you possess. Only one feat is possible — not to have run away.

Never, “for the sake of peace and quiet,” deny your own experience or convictions.
Never measure the height of a mountain until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was.

Respect for the word is the first commandment in the discipline by which a man can be educated to maturity — intellectual, emotional, and moral. Respect for the word — to employ it with scrupulous care and in incorruptible heartfelt love of truth — is essential if there is to be any growth in a society or in the human race.

We are not permitted to choose the frame of our destiny. But what we put into it is ours.

For all that has been — Thanks. For all that shall be — Yes.

Peace,
Milton

1...202203204...248Page 203 of 248
© Newspaper WordPress Theme by TagDiv