Home Blog Page 208

reuben

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
21

My father-in-law is in the middle stages of Alzheimer’s disease. He and my mother-in-law left yesterday after an extended stay with us.

Reuben

Leah knew she was unloved
until she held the boy,
her firstborn,
and she named him Reuben:
“See, a son,” it means;
a love carrier —
“Because God has seen
my misery.”

The Reuben I know is a twin,
next to last in family line
a love carrier, too —
the hardest working man,
his blue eyes smiling
like a sunrise.
His labor, however, is not his legacy,
but the brilliant light I saw
in her eyes

and so I asked to be family.
He has loved me
like a son,
even when he didn’t understand
why I was cooking
or my earrings.
His faith stands as tall
as his shoulders;
love as deep.

He’s fading like an old photograph
left in the sun too long
I can still see him
the spark in his eyes that once
shone indelible now a dim
blip from a beacon
in an ocean of loneliness;
we haven’t enough
line to throw . . .

Whatever happy endings are,
they are not this.
This is wrong.
This is wrong. This is wrong.
Being right about that
changes nothing.
When he sits and stares into air,
looking for everything,
my heart hurts.

Reuben has lived a life of love.
We, the Loved, are a living
altar of humanity,
called and collected to remember
all he has forgotten,
all he has given.
I wish that felt like enough
but it isn’t enough.
It just isn’t.

Peace,
Milton

no enemies, only neighbors

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
10

I took my trip on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho today, as did many of you who are in churches that follow the lectionary, and listened again to the parable we have come to call The Good Samaritan. Many of Jesus’ parables have gotten misnamed over the years — the three in Luke 15 for example: The Lost Sheep should be The Good Shepherd, The Lost Coin should be The Persistent Housewife, and The Prodigal Son should be The Loving Father. I think, however, that we labeled this one pretty well because the Samaritan is the one who drives the point home.

When the lawyer quoted The Law back to Jesus – love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind and your neighbor as yourself – and then asked who his neighbor was, he was expecting a theological discussion, not a call to incarnational living. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus called us to love our enemies and do good to those who hate us. In this parable, he changes his vocabulary from enemies to neighbors: love your neighbors as you love yourself – oh, and by neighbor he meant anyone that’s not us.

That’s a tougher road to take than the Jericho Road ever was.

One of the best sermons I remember on this parable focused on the guy who was beaten up, though I can’t remember who preached it. The preacher said, “Everyone thinks the Samaritan is the Christ figure in the story. I think they’re wrong. Jesus is in the ditch.” Everyone is my neighbor because Christ is in all of them. Ginger made the point this morning by recalling the closing scene of the trial in A Time to Kill. Jake Brigance is a lawyer defending a black man who is on trial for murdering the white man who raped his nine-year-old girl. The jury is all white. Jake struggled the whole trial with how to get people to see something other than race. He has a breakthrough in his closing argument:

I want to tell you a story. I’m going to ask you all to close your eyes while I tell you the story. I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen to yourselves. Go ahead. Close your eyes, please. This is a story about a little girl walking home from the grocery store one sunny afternoon. I want you to picture this little girl. Suddenly a truck races up. Two men jump out and grab her. They drag her into a nearby field and they tie her up and they rip her clothes from her body. Now they climb on. First one, then the other, raping her, shattering everything innocent and pure with a vicious thrust in a fog of drunken breath and sweat. And when they’re done, after they’ve killed her tiny womb, murdered any chance for her to have children, to have life beyond her own, they decide to use her for target practice. They start throwing full beer cans at her. They throw them so hard that it tears the flesh all the way to her bones. Then they urinate on her. Now comes the hanging. They have a rope. They tie a noose. Imagine the noose going tight around her neck and with a sudden blinding jerk she’s pulled into the air and her feet and legs go kicking. They don’t find the ground. The hanging branch isn’t strong enough. It snaps and she falls back to the earth. So they pick her up, throw her in the back of the truck and drive out to Foggy Creek Bridge. Pitch her over the edge. And she drops some thirty feet down to the creek bottom below. Can you see her? Her raped, beaten, broken body soaked in their urine, soaked in their semen, soaked in her blood, left to die. Can you see her? I want you to picture that little girl. Now imagine she’s white.

Several of the jurors visibly flinched. They saw a little girl they knew and loved and that changed them. Love and pain are the common denominators of our humanity. Such is the profound power of the Incarnation. No enemies, only neighbors.

The parable is even more difficult to live because it pulls us to both compassion and justice. When we see the images of the victims of the genocide in Darfur, or any one of the civil wars going on around the globe, the call to do whatever we need to do to save them is crystal clear, even if our resolve to figure out how to live that calling is still muddled. But the racial tension between the Jews and the Samaritans adds another layer. What if it were Osama in the ditch? Is it still Jesus, too? How can we be at war with our neighbors in Iraq and Afghanistan? How can I stop to help someone when I know they want to kill or hurt me because they think I represent my government? Am I really supposed to stop to help heal someone who stands for things I’m against?

This neighbor business is messy, difficult stuff. I have a hard enough time with my actual neighbor who sits and his porch and yells at the driver of the ice cream truck to turn off the music. If only Jesus had met him, I’m sure the parable would have had at least another paragraph of exceptions.

Our foster daughter drove out from Boston with her girlfriend to have dinner with my in-laws before they go back to Alabama tomorrow. When she got in my car to go to dinner, she said, “I’ve got a CD you’ve got to hear” and put in James Morrison’s Undiscovered. He’s a young British singer who has both soul and substance. Here are the lyrics to the title tune:

I look at you, you bite your tongue
I don’t know why or where I’m coming from
And in my head I’m close to you
We’re in the rain still searching for the sun

You think that I wanna run and hide
I’ll keep it all locked up inside
I just want you to find me
I’m not lost, I’m not lost, Just undiscovered
We’re never alone we’re all the same as each other
You see the look that’s on my face
You might think I’m out of place
I’m not lost, no, no, just undiscovered

Well the time it takes to know someone
It all can change before you know its gone
So close your eyes and feel the way
I’m with you now believe there’s nothing wrong

You think that I wanna run and hide
I’ll keep it all locked up inside
I just want you to find me
I’m not lost, I’m not lost, Just undiscovered
We’re never alone we’re all the same as each other
You see the look that’s on my face you might think I’m out of place
I’m not lost, no, no, just undiscovered

I love that: I’m not lost; I’m undiscovered. Though they seem worlds apart, my own need to be discovered in the ditch is not really so far from my seeing Jesus in the ditch whether I’m looking at a transient or a terrorist. We are called to discover one another, or perhaps to discover the Jesus in one another.

No enemies, only neighbors.

Peace,
Milton

hunting and gathering

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
7

Since I had to work yesterday, I didn’t get to go to our Friday Farmers’ Market in Marshfield, so I set out today to find a couple of farm stands and buy vegetables and fruit for the week ahead. As I was driving down Route 123, I saw a sign that said, “Blueberries Next Right,” so I turned in the dirt driveway, parked my car, and walked up to where two people were sitting at a table covered with large cans. I had landed at Tree-Berry Farm and it was pick your own blueberries.

“What do I do?” I asked.

“Take a bucket, follow the signs, and then bring it back when you’re done picking and we’ll tell you what you owe.”

I learned I was picking highbush blueberries (I assume there must be a lowbush variety). There were rows and rows of bushes and about twenty of us out picking. I think I was the only one who wasn’t with a family. I filled my bucket about three-quarters full and went back to the table. He put the bucket on the scale and said, “You’ve got about two pounds. That will be four dollars and eighty cents.”

I didn’t tell him about the seven berries I ate in the field — the freshest I have ever had, but I did let him keep the change from a five.

From there, I drove a little farther into Scituate and found a farm stand without a name, but with some great native strawberries, summer squash, and zucchini. I picked up a quart of the berries and an arm load of squash.

“Nine sixty,” said the woman at the register as the man standing next to her bagged the squash.

It wa then I realized the other five I thought I had in my pocket had been spent at the store this morning when I made a quick dash to buy syrup for our waffles. I only had five ones in my pocket.

“I’ll have to put the berries back,” I said. “I don’t have as much money as I thought.”

“Oh, no,” said the man. “Take the berries with you. You’ll be back and you can bring the money then.”

I thanked them and drove home to fix lunch for my father-in-law and water my own garden. The tomatoes are still green but getting bigger, the chard is going strong, and I got one squash of my own this week and made squash croquettes.

There’s no great point here other than man, I had fun.

Peace,
Milton

working my way home

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
7

I sat down to write tonight and began by first by checking in at Pandora, which is a really cool music site that lets you set up your own “radio station” where you designate the artists you want to hear and then they surprise you with some others based on your music genome. I’ve created several stations, but the one I clicked tonight was “Boys with Guitars” and the first song up was one by Paul Simon off of his album Surprise. As I was collecting my thoughts and feelings, I heard him sing,

I figure that once upon a time I was an ocean
But now I’m a mountain range
Something unstoppable set into motion
Nothing is different, but every thing’s changed

I spent my day caught, or maybe pulled, between who I was and who I am. This morning I met with my friend Ann who is in seminary (and also wife of Doug of Red Sox jinx fame) and taking a class on Missions. She asked to interview me for a paper on missionary kids, or MKs for short. She had done a good amount of reading and research getting ready for our time together and the quality of her questions helped me not only to remember things but to feel them as well. We talked about all the places I lived, all the schools I attended, what I remember about moving all the time, what it was like when we came back to the States on leave. I talked so much we ran out of time before she ran out of questions; we’re getting together to finish up the interview tomorrow morning. When I left her house to walk back up to the church for the closing session of Avalanche Ranch, I realized I was all stirred up.

This is the fourth summer I have been the song (and dance) leader for VBC. Many of the kids who have come have been there all four years. They have lived in the same house on the same street in the same little seaside town all that time. I was twelve years old before I knew people like that even existed. We were on leave and living in Fort Worth and I was going to Hubbard Heights Elementary School. I came home from my first day and said to my mother, “I met the weirdest kid today. He’s lived in the same house his entire life.”

“There was a kid like that in my class, too,” my younger brother said; “in fact, there were several of them.”

“I hate to tell you boys,” my mother said, “but I’m afraid we’re the weird ones.”

At least I was twelve before I had to learn that particular piece of reality. I went on to talk with Ann about how home — as a place — is not something I know. (For those of you who have read this blog for awhile, I know this is a recurring theme; here’s hoping it’s not also repetitive.) There’s not an address anywhere I can drive or fly or walk to and say, “I’m home.” The house from which I write tonight is home because of Ginger and the pups, but when we move one day it will slide off somehow like every other place I’ve ever lived. I told Ann I used to think it was because I had never lived anywhere long enough to grow roots, but after spending all but three months of my married life in Massachusetts I think perhaps I don’t have roots to grow. What I know of home is in faces, not places.

I look at the careers that have found me and the one I have chosen and I’ve spent most of my life both searching for and working to create home. Last Sunday, as folks took Communion, I sang,

come home, come home
ye who are weary, come home
earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling
calling, o sinner, come home

That’s what I want church to be: home, which is why the administrative side of pastoring exhausted me. When I taught high school English, I wanted my classroom to feel like that as well, which is why having to give grades ate me alive. I know that’s why I choose to be a chef because cooking makes me feel at home and makes me feel like I can help to create home for others.

Tonight was my first night at the new restaurant. The people are really nice and the other folks in the kitchen were both helpful and friendly. The place is set up and maintained well and everyone seemed to work with a sense of collegiality and intentionality. The only thing that made it difficult for me (other than everything being new) was Chef had called me back after saying I was going to be Sous Chef to say the owner had decided to delay opening for lunch until September, so what I thought was going to be a full-time position is going to be a part-time line cook for awhile. I had planned to dive in and be at work again and I’m going to be prepping and learning and standing on the sidelines for at least a couple of weeks instead.

I don’t get to feel at home just yet.

I’m sad because I got my hopes up. I’m grateful because I have a good job in a good place with good people. I also feel good because he had to do some work to make room for me, which makes me feel like he wants me there. And it’s hard being the new kid in a room where everyone already knows each other. As many times as I’ve been that kid, I can’t say it has ever gotten easier.

When Ginger got home tonight after a meeting, I had dinner ready for her and then we took the pups on a walk to the water. I tried to start unpacking much of what has made it to this page as our Schnauzers dragged us around the block under a starlight sky, anxious to get back home to the couch and the cookies. I suppose my life today feels as different from what I knew growing up as an ocean from a mountain range. In some sense, nothing is different — if home is a place, I’m never going to find it – and, Paul Simon is right: everything has changed; I’m at home tonight because I’m with her.

Peace,
Milton

free fall

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
12

in the moment between
the orchestra tuning and
the curtain going up
lies a space big enough
to hold our expectations

in the last moment before
the wheels touchdown
and grab the runway
as we catch our breath
and let go of our fear

in that one moment before
beginning — when we know
what’s coming but not here
yet – that one moment
full of waiting room before

we climb up on a time
and the moment is gone
along with our memory of it
until the next time the air stills
and we free fall in possibility

a boy named sous

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
24

I got the gig!

It’s no Holy Grail, but there was much rejoicing. Yay!

In between the opening and closing sessions of our Avalanche Ranch VBS, I drove down to Plymouth to talk to the Chef and came back with a job as his sous chef. I’m pumped. I call back tomorrow to find out my schedule. It is a salaried, full time position: five days a week, dinners only, and Wednesdays and Thursdays off. Along with Chef, my coworkers are from Greece, Pakistan, Italy, France, and Brazil. My place on the line will be the fish station to start and then I will rotate through to learn all the stations so I can run the kitchen when the Chef takes his days off.

Here are some of the things I will learn how to prepare:

Prince Edward Island mussels steamed with pinot grigio and Rayes lemon pepper mustard, slivered shallots, flat leaf parsley, and giant garlic crostini

Carpaccio duo of yellowfin tuna and Atlantic salmon with marinated artichoke hearts, saffron aioli, capers, red onion, extra virgin olive oil, and crostini

Pan roasted Atlantic salmon with baby gnocchi, Portobello mushrooms, spinach, and sweet vermouth Dijon cream

Jumbo shrimp and local sea scallops with snow peas, bell peppers, cilantro, and slivered scallions in a coconut curry broth, wasabi whipped potatoes

Pan seared Atlantic halibut with sweet corn, green bean and roasted mushroom succotash, wilted Swiss chard, and lemon chive butter sauce

Cilantro pesto encrusted yellowfin tuna with veggie sweet pepper, cucumber, and red onion salad, sticky rice, and citrus mirin dipping sauce

And that’s just the fish station. I think this is really going to be a good thing. To top it off, I got home to find a message from one of the other restaurants where I left a resume asking me to call. Now I get to call and say I’m already employed. I’m thrilled and grateful.

Thanks for your prayers and encouragement.

When I got back to Vacation Bible Camp (our kids don’t like to call it “school”), I was just in time to do my thing as song leader. I’ve got this goofy cowboy hat and I get up in front of the kids and we sing and dance together, if by dancing you mean thrash around in joyous abandon. One year, a kid went home and was practicing the song he had learned when his dad asked him what he was doing.

“I’m dancing,” he said.
“That’s not dancing,” his dad answered.
“It’s how Milty does it,” the kid replied with confidence.

This year’s theme, Avalanche Ranch: A Wild Ride Through God’s Word, chooses different stories to focus on different aspects of God’s nature. Today’s was “God is with us all the time” and the story was Joshua telling the Israelites to stack up the stones for an altar after they had crossed the river, my touchstone from a couple of nights ago. We whooped and hollered and sang:

you better hold on tight
‘cause it’s a wild ride

Then, of course, we danced – my way. I love that we are teaching our children that we belong to an untamed God who is full of as many surprises as promises. In one of my other favorite theological movies, Three Amigos, they jump on their horses after thinking they saved the town, and Steve Martin says, “We ride,” and they tear off across the desert. In the next scene they are in the middle of nowhere and Martin Short asks:

“How far do you think we rode before we stopped and asked for directions?”
“Oh, just three or four miles,” Martin replies.

“Faith,” says Frederick Buechner, “is a journey without maps.” One day the Israelites are one side of the river and the next they have crossed over without getting their feet wet. One day I the function chef and the next I get fired by a crazy owner only to find get hired, not too many days later, by a good guy I don’t even know because I saw his restaurant across the parking lot from the Unemployment Office.

As long as I’m referencing movies, we went to see Evan Almighty the other night. It’s a variation on the Noah story. At one point, God is talking to Evan’s wife who doesn’t understand why her husband is doing what he’s doing. God says, “When someone prays for courage, do I give them courage, or do I offer them the opportunity to be courageous?” For all my uncertainty and even insecurity, I’ve been given an opportunity to do what I most want to do in what appears to be a healthy restaurant environment. About all that’s left for me to do is walk in on my first day and say,

“My name is Sous*. How do you do?”

Peace,
Milton

*with apologies to Johnny Cash.

enough

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
12

I have a job interview tomorrow.

Last Saturday I made a cold call on a restaurant that happens to be across the parking lot from the Unemployment Office (excuse me – the Career Center). It’s a funky little place with a really cool menu that runs ads on cable from time to time. As I was walking up, one of the cooks was picking fresh herbs from the bed planted in front of the restaurant. I asked if the chef was in and he told me to speak to the manager because the chef was on vacation. The manager and I had a nice conversation. He took my resume and told me the chef would be back Wednesday and to come back Thursday if no one had called. Later on that afternoon, he called me at home to say he thought I should call the chef at home, which I did. The chef called me back today. He sounds like a great guy and he knows his stuff; he trained at the CIA (that’s Culinary Institute of America, not the spy place). I go in to talk to him tomorrow about a sous chef position.

Six summers ago, I drove around trying to talk my way into a cooking gig. The chef at the little place where I started asked about my experience and I talked about church suppers and pancake breakfasts. A couple of jobs later, I hooked up with a friend who is also a chef and followed him to a couple of places. He is the one I worked with at The Inn. I’ve worked hard to learn my craft and improve my skills and I have still felt like I should put an asterisk at the end of the sentence where I talk about being a chef: (*his friend got him in the door). I am a mixture of confidence and insecurity when it comes to vocational things. I think I always have been.

As much as I know I have the chops to work in any kitchen, the work ethic to do things well, and the willingness to learn what I don’t know, I am surprised that a chef called me about being his assistant because of how I look on paper – not because I know someone who called in a favor, or he’s desperate to fill a position, or he’s feeling unusually compassionate. He thinks I can do the job because I have the experience to do it. I’m not a beginner anymore. I think I have a harder time convincing myself than I do anyone else.

He asked me two questions I found interesting. First, he said, “What area of the kitchen do you feel is your strong point?”

I thought for a few seconds and told him I felt I was a fast learner and I was good at keeping up with details in figuring out how to get the orders out and done well. I know how to look beyond the task that is in front of my face to see what needs to happen next to make things run smoothly. And then I said, “I also love being a part of a team. Working together to make things go well is really fun for me.”

Then he asked, “Are you self-taught?”

Professional cooking is made up of those who went through formal training and those who learned as apprentices without sitting in a classroom. Both are legitimate paths as far as the restaurant business is concerned. He, as I mentioned, was formally trained at the CIA. I would be one of the apprentices.

“Yes,” I answered.

He went on to talk about how most all of the folks in his kitchen were self-taught – and most of them had been with him five or six years. He also talked about how he enjoyed training and teaching people. (I think he must be one of the good guys.) As I’ve reflected on his question as my evening has worn on, I want to go back and answer differently. I’m not self-taught; I’ve been taught by everyone I’ve worked with.

Joao taught me how to make foccacia bread.
Carlos taught me how to make soups.
Kevin taught me how to flip eggs.
Sunichi taught me how to make maki rolls.
Eric taught me how to make a beurre blanc.
Jason taught me how to make Chicken Marsala.
Bill taught me how to test how well a steak is done.
Gigi taught me how to use the Fry-o-lator.
Jose taught me how to run the big dishwasher.
Alfonso taught me how to cut fruit with flair.
Pedro taught me how to make mashed potatoes for 300.
Robert taught me how to run a kitchen . . . and so on.

I’m not self-taught; I just like to learn.

Kasey Chambers is an Australian singer I came across a few years ago. On her album Barricades and Brickwalls she has a song that begins:

Am I not pretty enough
Is my heart to broken
Do I cry too much
Am I too outspoken
Don’t I make you laugh
Should I try it harder
Why do you see right through me

Enough is a hard word for me, something that stays mostly out of reach, particularly if I think I’m responsible for proving my value. Very few times in my life have I felt like enough on my own. OK, probably never. If, however, I think of myself as not alone but as standing with my teachers and those whom I have taught, then I can begin to feel differently.

I am enough because I am not alone.

Peace,
Milton

q and a

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
3

Ginger and I had a conversation with our friend Jay over coffee Saturday afternoon as we talked about the questions that shape our faith. Often, when people talk theology, the vocabulary centers on issues, which is ultimately polarizing, I think, because they end up doing things like taking a stand and defending a position. Neither of those verbs facilitates discussion or relationship, both of which are crucial to faith. Questions, on the other hand, are invitations to conversation, if they are asked honestly.

As someone has said, our answers are only as good as our questions.

Maggi Dawn has a great post asking about the word “missional” as an adjective churches use to describe themselves. The growing list of comments shows how important it was that she framed her thoughts as a question rather than an issue. She was clear about her thoughts and feelings, but in a way that invited others to do the same where we could all learn from one another.

My friend Gene pastors a church in Plano, Texas. One of the ways they choose to talk about faith is with “Life Mission Questions,” which they describe as follows:

  • How do I live as a Christ-follower?
  • How does your life express your worship of God?
  • How do you partner with God to rescue those around you?
  • What have you done to strengthen your core relationships today?
  • How do you act more like Jesus than when you first met him?
  • How do you invest your time, talents and treasures to serve God and others?

Though I understand the value of our creeds has they have been handed down, I find much more resonance in faith expressed as interrogative rather than declarative or even imperative. Several years ago, my friend Billy and I wrote a song in which we tried to ask questions that matter. Here are the lyrics to “The Question Pool”:

where did I leave my plastic halo
why can’t I speak to my good friend
am I sleepwalking through the best years of my life
how long is too long to pretend

what do I owe my parents’ generation
what do I want and who would know
can I live on answers that were handed down to me
do I just hold on or just let go

I am drinking from the water blue
down at the question pool

what is lying over my horizon
what am I afraid of going through
if whatever happens come to push me past the edge
will all I believe in still be true

I am drinking from the water blue
down at the question pool
I wonder what it all comes to

why am I moved by stories of Eden
what does its lovely sadness mean
am I a traveler who cannot remember home
why do I cry sometimes in dreams

I am drinking from the water blue
laying down at the question pool

The final lyric took shape as we poured over page after page of questions we had written down or solicited from friends or read along the way. When life is distilled to a set of principles, we begin to set as though we were made of plaster of paris, becoming more and more rigid and brittle as time passes. If our faith is fed by questions, we have the chance to keep growing and changing as we learn more about our God, our world, and ourselves. My seminary ethics professor began the semester in the fall of 1978 by saying, “The issues that will be at the forefront during your ministry are probably not even in sight right now. Therefore, you have to learn how to think and question so you will have a framework to deal with what is to come.”

Our answers are only as good as our questions.

In The Return of the Pink Panther, Clouseau sees a man on the street with a dog next to him. “Does your dog bite?” he asks.
“No,” says the man.
Clouseau reaches down to pet the dog and the pooch almost rips his hand off.
“I thought you said your dog did not bite,” Clouseau exclaims.
“It’s not my dog,” the man replies.

Let me say again, our answers are only as good as our questions.

As we talked together on Saturday, the question that intrigued me most was, how do we live out our faith without it exhausting us? We know we are called to live out our faith in our world. We don’t know how to deal with life in both the micro and macro. How do we ask questions about Darfur that will energize us to creativity rather than futility? How do we do church in a way that feeds the community instead of church life being an endless stream of committee meetings? How do we learn to say, “This is the day our God has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” and really mean it? How do we live so that when we are asked how we are doing we can answer something other than “I’m really busy” or “I’m really tired”?

When Billy and I came up with the metaphor of the question pool, we imagined a place that fed and invigorated us: to drink from the question pool would be to drink the Water of Life. If we really asked what we owed our parents’ generation, or what the Eden story really had to say beyond the creation wars, or how our faith was changing as it was tested, we thought we would be on a journey worth taking. Over a decade later, I still feel that way.

Truth grows in the face of questions the way my tomato plants are responding to the summer sun. Questions cause love to grow: that’s how the uncharted territory or a relationship becomes a home. Faith grows with questions because the point was never the answers anyway.

“I will give you water and you will never be thirsty again,” Jesus said to the Samaritan woman as they stood by the well in the heat of the day.
“What kind of water is that?” she asked.
“Exactly,” Jesus replied. And then he smiled.

Peace,
Milton

stacking up stones

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
6

One of my favorite stories in the Bible is Joshua telling the people to stack up twelve stones from the Jordan River for an altar after they had crossed through the river on dry ground.

And then he told the People of Israel, “In the days to come, when your children ask, ‘What are these stones doing here?’ tell your children this: ‘Israel crossed over this Jordan on dry ground.'” (The Message)

What speaks most to that story is the idea of marking a place to come back to as a way of remembering, as the old adage goes, who we are and whose we are. Bob Bennett sang about what I’m talking about in a great song called “Altar in the Field”:

I’ll build an altar in the field
Where I’ll remember

Understanding stacks of stones mean different things to different people as they find them along the way, I want to stack up a few of my own. Today marks my 401st post since I began my blog on December 27, 2005. I started writing about “food, faith, family, and friends” as a way to help me learn how to live with my depression and to connect beyond myself, both of which are inextricably tied together in my life. Stacking up the stones right now helps me because my depression is a rising tide these days.

For many years I’ve said I wanted to be a writer. Until I started writing this blog, I had a hard time feeling like one. Stacking up the posts like stones helps me remember I am a writer. It’s an altar to which I plan to return again and again.

Peace,
Milton

P. S. — There’s a new recipe.

tonight

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
5

we walked the beach in the dark.
I feel like I’ve walked all day in light
that’s been retreating like the end
of a silent movie, shrinking to a pin spot
and then disappearing into the certain
defeat of the black screen.

Sometimes I imagine a hand reaching out
of the shrinking circle, halting the darkness.
Then a second hand, and a third break away
the sides of the circle, as though it were
a thin facade and the light floods in
like a rain-swollen river.

Most of the time, however there are no
such hands; the light disappears and
the darkness remains. I’m left standing
as we were tonight, under a moonless sky,
with only your hand to hold,the consequence
of the love you’ve chosen to give.

Just before we turned for home you said,
“Say some love words — you’re the writer.”
I had no words. All I could do was pull you close
and hold you, the dark hanging heavy
as humidity and the shallow waves of low tide
keeping rhythm with the night,

marking time till daybreak.

Peace,
Milton

1...207208209...248Page 208 of 248
© Newspaper WordPress Theme by TagDiv