don't eat alone

When we mark time by the liturgical calendar, we only count and number the four Sundays before Christmas, which means the fourth Sunday—tomorrow—doesn’t have a week to go with it. We have had days to stretch out with hope, peace, and joy, but love get the short shrift, as far as Advent goes. So I decided to start a day early.

My favorite verse of a carol is the third stanza of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear”:

and ye beneath life’s crushing load whose forms are bending low
who toil along life’s climbing way with painful step and slow

There’s more, but those two lines are the ones that feel most timeless, and the most true. I don’t mean that as a statement of despair, even as I am weighed down by both grief and my depression. I am also aware of the shared grief with many whom I love and the love I feel from those who keep reaching out that is stronger than all of it. The toil and crush are not the final words.

I’ll send you out into the night with a song that has carried me for many years. Andrew Peterson is the songwriter and performer. “After The Last Tear Falls” is the song. I know about it because of my brother.

after the last tear falls, after the last secret’s told
after the last bullet tears through flesh and bone
after the last child starves and the last girl walks the boulevard
after the last year that’s just too hard

there is love—love, love, love
there is love—love, love, love
there is love

after the last disgrace, after the last lie to save some face
after the last brutal jab from a poison tongue
after the last dirty politician, after the last meal down at the mission
after the last lonely night in prison

there is love—love, love, love
there is love—love, love, love
there is love

and in the end, the end is oceans and oceans of love and love again
we’ll see how the tears that have fallen
were caught in the palms of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
and we’ll look back on these tears as old tales

’cause after the last plan fails, after the last siren wails
after the last young husband sails off to join the war
after the last, this marriage is over
after the last young girl’s innocence is stolen
after the last years of silence that won’t let a heart open

there is love—love, love, love
there is love—love, love, love
there is love

and in the end, the end is oceans and oceans of love and love again
we’ll see how the tears that have fallen
were caught in the palms of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
and we’ll look back on these tears as old tales
’cause after the last tear falls there is love

Even in these short days and long nights, there is love. That’s the last word.

Peace,
Milton

ellipses

I am fighting hard to hope . . .
Well—now I’m staring at the page
hoping to find a different verb.
I’m not looking for a fight.
why let my word choice turn
to violence over things that matter?

I am fighting hard to hope . . .
maybe the problem has more to do
with the subject of the sentence.
hope only happens in concert:
the shepherds flocked together,
and the angels had a choir.

I’m fighting hard to hope . . .
I keep typing those words thinking
they will take a different turn—
I would like not to fight.
I’ll struggle (that’s different, right)
or wrestle or wonder or wait . . .

I look at the page and see a
series of ellipses: “a trailing off
of thought.” but I’m still here
determined to remember
I am not alone in the dark.
I’m fighting hard to hope.

Peace,
Milton

highway song

here is a well-traveled
metaphor: life is a highway
but not an interstate
more of a two-lane blacktop
that hits all the lights
in every small town
an intentional inconvenience
that makes you decide to stop

at one of those roadside cafés
a filling station of the heart
where whoever comes up
to the table is wearing a
name tag and a smile, yet
holds sadness in their eyes
either one is an invitation
to act like you belong here

we are all people who are
driving through the details
lives without express lanes
unable to see around the bend
to the next stop light of sorrow
working our way back home
full of grief and gratitude
following the broken line

Peace,
Milton

I am happy to admit that one of the traditions around our house this time of year is to watch a whole bunch of Hallmark Channel Christmas movies. This year, between my depression, the state of the world, and the fact that pitchers and catchers don’t report for another two months, they have been a solace more than a diversion. It helps to see a happy ending, even when you can see it coming from the opening scene. Though I know the movies are fair game for criticism on a number of levels, I am choosing not to qualify what I’ve said so far. I’ll say it again: I’ve watched a lot of these movies and I have enjoyed them.

But I brought up my Christmas viewing habits tonight for a particular reason. The arc of the endings has given me pause for thought. They all follow the same formula: two disconnected people find each other, become attracted to one another, then something happens just as you think everything is going to work out to derail the love train, until they realize the complication was not the barrier they thought and they live happily ever after. What I noticed is the final turn always happens with ten minutes left in the movie. You can set you watch by it, if you still have a watch you have to set.

The consistency of the ten-minute pattern has given me what I think may be a viable plan for world peace. If we would set our alarms for ten till the hour and, when the alarm goes off, proclaim to whomever is around us, “We have ten minutes to make things right with one another. Let’s get to work,” I think we could change things. Ten minutes of every hour to clear the air, reset expectations, hug it out—whatever it takes.

Maybe I have watched too many movies. And maybe ten minutes could really make a difference.

Peace,
Milton

food for thought

the bible says
we are made of dust . . .
our bones, perhaps,
but our spirits are
made of the savor
of sautéed garlic,
the hope of rising
dough, the laughter
of bacon frying,the
simmer of friendship—
every morsel of our
mortality a reminder
to remember that we
came from love
and to love
we shall return

Peace,
Milton

On the cusp of the passing of an unfair and unjust tax bill, and a couple of days after the fifth anniversary of the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary school, and on the morning that a suicide bomber killed twelve other people at a church in Pakistan, and in the light of what feels like an endless string of suffering, how do we find the flame to light the candle of joy?

Ginger did it this morning by talking about Mary. Every time I hear the story, I am struck by the grit of the young woman as she encounters the angel and stares down both his presence and his proclamation, even as she tries to comes to grips with being “a most favored one.” She listens hard, asks good questions, and then says, “Let it be just as you say.”

Despite the fact that the dictionary treats joy as a synonym for happiness, Mary’s response demonstrates something more profound and and more informed that feeling happy. Joy has resolve and tenacity. Joy is courageous in the way Ginger defined it in her sermon: “Courage is believing something else is more important than fear.” Yes. Most every time an angel shows up in scripture, they lead with, “Do not be afraid.” I used to think they were simply trying to help whomever they were talking to deal with the fact that there was an angel in the room, but perhaps it was a larger challenge: don’t be afraid; be joyful. Learn what is more important than fear.

Ginger summed up Gabriel’s message to Mary in three phrases: God is proud of you; God believes in you, and you have God’s blessing. Then she asked what it would be like if we could all hear that message and take it to heart—and she had us practice. We turned to each other and said, “I’m proud of you, I believe in you, and you have my blessing.” For someone who inherited a legacy of feeling unworthy of love and who has worked hard to hear other voices, her words hit home for me. I found joy in both hearing the words and saying them to those around me. Joy is grounded in our belonging to God and to one another. Joy takes root and grows when we stand together.

Pierce Pettis has a song I have carried in my heart for many years called “God Believes In You.” The bridge says,

oh, everything matters if anything matters at all
everything matters no matter how big, no matter how small
oh, God believes in you, yes, God believes in you

And God is proud of you. You have God’s blessing. Let it be just as I said.

Peace,
Milton

PS—Here’s the song:

As I read news reports of the election results in Alabama and the dumpster fire that passes for the United States Senate, it struck me that people in power are not interested in peace. They thrive on agitation, on disruption. We have become accustomed to the word grenades that get tweeted in the middle of the night, and the legislative gymnastics of the congressional leadership (though I use that word cautiously)—both are designed to hold on to power, not to lead us to peace. They don’t know much about peace because they operate out of fear, and they foment it as well.

The brave people are the people of color who elected Doug Jones in Alabama, where the fear-gripped legislature passed restrictive voter ID laws and then closed driver’s license bureaus in predominantly African American counties. And the voters still turned out. The victory does not belong to the machinations of power, but to the peaceful determination of those who are mostly disregarded by the very system they used to bring change.

In Writing Beyond Race: Living Theory and Practice, bell hooks says, “Communities of care are sustained by rituals of regard.” (141) Over the years, I have come to see the difference between a ritual and a habit. A habit is something you do because you just got used to doing it that way. Some habits are helpful: I have a routine I follow every morning because I am not awake enough to think about anything. Some habits are not, and our repetition keeps us from seeing wider possibilities. Ritual, on the other hand, is meaningful repetition. We do what we do over and over again because it grounds us in the stories that matter most. When I hear rituals of regard, I see repeated gestures of kindness, regular gatherings together around dinner tables, and repeatedly looking for ways to tighten the bonds between us.

While the dumpster fire blazed, people drove others to the polls, people voted, people encouraged and took care of one another—showed regard for one another—and it made a difference. Our nation is in crisis. The people in power are fine with that. It means they will stay in power, and they will make money. Their is nothing in their repertoire that calls them to rituals of regard. “Blessed are the peace makers,” Jesus said. Blessed are those who spread peace repeatedly and on purpose.

I want to be one of them.

Peace,
Milton