Smile but Stubbornly Go

One of my searching times was way back in the 80's when I was attending seminary. I met weekly with a small group of students that first year for support and challenge, for opening eyes and hearts. One thing it was supposed to do was to help us become at least aware if not tolerant but hopefully accepting of other students' widely divergent views and experiences about what they believed. This may have been more true of Iliff School of Theology in Denver than for others such as Oral Roberts for example.

I made the decision to take this path because of my passion for making a difference, but not in the way you may think. I was not a preacher who was hell-bent on saving souls. I just wanted to do what I could to make a difference in my small way, like the star thrower who returned one of hundreds of starfish that had been beached to the sea. It didn't make a difference to hundreds of starfish but it made a difference to one. I was searching my heart for the best way to do that I guess. And I ended up at seminary. My passion for justice grew through church involvement. in social issues. Tom Sutherland, one of the hostages held in Lebanon was a member of my congregation. I was convinced then as I still am today that God is love. And love will win but only if each person tosses a starfish back into the sea.

As I recall the year I began was the first year the number of female students equaled the number of male students at Iliff. It was also marked by a growing number of students embarking on their second or third careers. I was 45 and I felt like a fish out of water. It was helpful though, to see that there were also lots of other fish. So if numbers mean anything I think there was beginning to be a critical mass. Many women thought of themselves as pioneers. And we were.

I remember thinking as I emerged from my first exam which happened to be in Old Testament that if I passed that test I would probably make it through to graduation. It was certainly the first time I had studied the Old Testament and to be honest it was also the first time I had read the whole thing through. I questioned my decision to attend seminary many times in the years following but this first exam was a make it or break it for me and one that made me keep asking myself "what I was thinking?".

So when I came across this poem by Denver poet Lois Beebe Hayna it became a kind of a mantra that I memorized and wove into my soul. From the day I took it to my first year discussion group till now it reminds me, even as I get older that it is never too late to "tend a vine of my own choosing.''

Late to the Vineyard

by Lois Beebe Hayna

Delayed Bloomer, ten o' clock achiever,jack of all directions but your own,lady, will you tend at last a vine of your own choosing?
Forget calendars, ignore warnings of frost and blight;discount praise for your delicate hands.Smile but stubbornly go,because Indian summer shines for the late-to-luckand time runs earlier, earlier than anyone suspects.

Frost will miraculously bypass your budswhile rain rounds harvest ripe for you.Your grapes will be sound, lady, sound and sweet.You will sip each fruitlike wine.

What We Need is Here

I could actually chart my life with the poems I have found waiting for me in magazines, newspapers, books or received from friends in cards and notes. Often when I am not feeling like writing or reading I open one (of three by now) folders and sift through it. Here is a poem I actually had on my desk. It is by one of my favorite poets, Wendell Berry. It connects into a longed for moment as I work with my family to create our farm, our sanctuary. It reminds me that our sanctuary may not neccessarily be in some imagined place but within us.

I think poetry, like all art forms, speaks its own truth even seperate from the poet's vision itself. So it can open a window into each of our lives, maybe clarifying or helping us come to terms with things we have hidden from ourselves or just providing a new point of view or information. I think that is especially important as I see fewer years ahead of me than behind me.

WILD GEESE

Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp, sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds them
to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.


Wendell Berry