Humble Works

Archived in my mind is a thought about our frantic race into the high-tech world of healing. The instantaneous use of powerful drugs experimenting their way into depleted veins feels blindly offensive. Where is the documentation that proves collateral damage is not being done while we delay departure of a body laboring to stop living?! With privileged witness I understand the world of the dying more than most and feel a kinship in the words of Bishop Spong when he writes, “No one should die alone. No one should seek high tech solutions to medical problems without a community to provide high-touch environment of love.” This statement burrows in my mind as I recall moments before a friend’s death I acquired an impossible feeling that I needed to let down the bed railing and crawl into bed with her. My hesitation to hold her outlasted her life as I debated about “if” that attempt might cause her pain. In hindsight, it revealed itself as a silent conversation between her soul and mine about the care she needed in her last moments. Human reason emptied me of being able to meet that sacred comforting need. As a mother, I recall those tender moments when nothing else would suffice than for me to lay with my feverish child and tuck him or her close to me. It is pure instinct when holding another to stroke the hair or rub the back with meaningful solidarity which, for my sick child, often led to complete relaxation of the body and then into sleep. Would that we could shrink ourselves in needful moments into that kind of maternal love and compassion; the world and its problems would streak across the night and disappear like star. 

The energy generated in purposeful human touch, I believe, houses an elixir for the transition of the body out of this life much like it aids in our instinctive care of a sick child. We can even take it further when dissecting what Mother Teresa said, “Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely and the unwanted according to the graces we have received and let us not be ashamed or slow to do the humble work.” The art of humble work weaves its thread into our environment one person at a time. Let us wear our responses with eager hands barred not by discrimination, but, instead; obedient in allowing the soul to guide us through the needs of others. Hold more, hug longer, touch often and bring your heart to life under the theater of the soul. 

Mona McPherson

 

 

 

From Me to You!

                                                                   

If I were sitting across from you today, just us in a quiet room with few distractions perhaps watching the steam from a beverage lifting between us, I would begin like this. I’m not one to tell you how to live your life or what you should believe in, nor are there any places to sign on the terms of my love for you. It is with this in mind that I speak boldly because my intent is pure. There is a matter looming but still so out of view that it can’t be seen with eyes dilated on todays cares. Some have figured it out, but have not been ones to shout it on the street corners wasting it on the roads of hurried minds. Most cannot hear above the whisper of  their cell phones, tablets or laptop computers. The call is light but strong, like a hitchhiker thistle that grabs the jeans without permission in the middle of field and won't let go. The minds that have heard this quiet tap  know of how mighty it clings once its heard.

Your opinion of me matters, but, not to the extent that my silence is required; that would abort my purpose and lay my truth in the dust where NO truth survives for long. This is a certain singular risk for me because the idea hugs the curves of eternity's autobahn and just might make or break this nation. There is a storm that has landed on the shores of humanity, it's deadly. This storm is not in the waters of the sea, it’s in the ocean of our people and encompasses the entire world and its population. It has come as lava inching down the mountain to Pompeii with no force of man or nature able to stop it. Anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear can feel the breath of its heat crawling down the skin of their mind and their souls each day. It wants to evaporate us in our place!

Today we’re just sitting here having a conversation. For a very brief time you're picking up my thoughts to look them over in consideration. No, I’ve not reached my point. You may be tempted to move onto something more entertaining since I haven't, and that's okay, move on if you must. The point I am going to make is not for everyone. It is not for the hurried minds bent on worldly gratifications. We’re always searching for that more important thing to come along. More interesting person, book, movie, youtube clip and idea when the true value of life is in the moment, right now. If you've stayed with me this far you're not thinking about the million things you need to do and all the stress in your life. Your mind is quietly resting, yet, keeping cadence with my words. This moment, void of entertainment, with only words weaving their meaning one strand at a time and holding their breath in the hope that your beautiful soul  will ask them to dance in the auditorium of your heart.

I’m not going to line your mind with sketchy ideas and senseless concepts, what I’m about to say has teeth that can shred complacency with one mighty swipe of the paw. We are designed to know truth! It can be felt as sure as bare feet softly rubbing against our understanding. We have got to make a change, each of us. Not as preppers building an arsenal of food, tools and weapons, but, instead, as people who see the poison of division rise in the waters of this country. What is the message you constantly feed your mind with in your: news, music, movies, words, books, friends and idols? Do these messages uplift, challenge and encourage you--others , or, do they lower your potential to that of being the victim of your circumstances. The world needs more from you to turn this next page!

Those choices won’t always be easy. They will require that you strip from your lives people you care about but who do not support this need for change. There is at this time in our country a great effort to divide us along the lines of race, religion, gender and ANYTHING considered "other"—it’s in our face daily. Please don't let it drag you back from a place you have long been liberated from. I’m not falling for it. And I’m not taking the fall for any crime I cannot own. A house divided cannot stand so how much more a nation of people divided cannot stand? We have not been listening as our apathy has let wisdom be extracted from our schools, our businesses, our communities and our country.


What is the message of Jesus? LOVE! What does this love look like when the covers are pulled back? It is a love that refuses to see the us against them mentality, or, to look upon others as unworthy in ANY way. It's the love that fastens itself to the wheelhouse and stays the course with purpose and commitment to bring kindness and compassion into every corner it possess. It is a love that liberates others from their past crimes and seeks their happiness as desperately as it seeks its own and breeds a better version of the world. Don’t listen to your accusers! Listen to truth and win back your discernment. If we allow the politics of our love to degrade anyone then it must be tossed overboard and reconstructed. We need to build within us a new road to our divine, shared, purpose. One that lifts our families, communities, cities, states, countries and world into a cloud of healing and sweet reconciliation. We must become more other oriented as you would have to be blind not to notice that something is not right in the world today and that we are ripe for an evolutionary or revolutionary change. So. Instead! Store provisions of hope, thirst for wisdom and compassion for your neighbors. Be preppers of virtue! The nation cries out for great men and women to rise out of this nonsense with fresh direction and immoveable character. We need the uncommon leaders to step out of the shadows and lift humanity to its highest self. If we do not do this, NOW, we may have forfeited this GREAT NATION!

My hope is that you fan the virtue within yourself and it fill the voids in your busy life in quiet ways. Allow every person to walk upon the carpets of your compassion and gain the reins of tongue back so that you will be the voice of wisdom in all your interactions. Lay aside idol conversations and bring light in by daring to talk about the significant topics that drape your tables. Within your words speak of HOPE. We are not a nation of fearful people needing to board up our minds. We are  Dream builders with the providential winds of grace. Roll up the sleeves of your will and return to the plow. The time has come to unearth new fields of thought where every tribe of people honor their heritage and allow each tribe to honor their own. Living within the walls of love and acceptance, starting first with our own person; we can expand our desires through the minds of others and create a better version of humanity.


Mona McPherson

"I Am the Bread of Life!"

Deepening my thirst for truth, I climbed atop an idea to revisit my understanding of Jesus and his message to the world, please, do not stop reading just because I mentioned Jesus; this will not be an exegesis of ancient text nor a sermon on the mount. Inspiration has not died with the Bible! Inspiration is an ever evolving animal in the species of the mankind, if, mankind does not abort its need to hunt and gather it freely. God is still inspiring us to grow and find meaning.

Have you made it this far without questioning the life you have, without whittling it down to expose its sweet tender wood and fine mangled threads, or, without breathing in the rich oak of who you really are and why you are here?! No one leaves the world without wandering in the Amazon of their purpose and securing the meaning. If you don’t’ believe me just ask someone in end of life care. I’m sure they will say that they are struggling with their life’s meaning when there is no longer a job to go to, no way to leave the bed, when dignity must take a backseat in personal hygiene and there’s no place to run from the sickle cloaked minutes hanging on the wall. Meaning’s forest is where their feet are planted in each day.

Jesus said, “I am the bread of life,” he was calling us to understand that he was representing the most basic of human needs, meaning. Bread has been the staple in diets throughout history in all the world. The bread we consume today is not the bread whose aroma and simplicity roamed aimlessly through the streets and fields of the past (its mass produced by machines not hands). There’s something about that bread that makes me feel a thin piece of sacredness on the crust of my thoughts. That bread provided strong nutritional value, but, too, the breaking of it provided community (love of others). To make bread is time consuming but the ingredients are bare. This is such a sweet reflection on what Jesus represents to me when he identifies with bread—with being our meaning. Gone is my need for organized religions that murky the waters of his simple message; those religions make Jesus’ bread out of tares and not wheat (they use machines and not human hands). Jesus was expressing that he came to give our lives meaning, and, in our understanding the meaning of our lives; he kneaded into us the ideas that loving others is the true path to meaning. It was made clear that we’re not just loving the loveable. Jesus said that in our growth we would learn to love those that are intolerant, hurtful, pot-stirrers, abusers and the list could go on. If loving others, all others...including homosexuals for those with a more fundamental faith that I once had ... is what brings meaning to us; and lessons that infuse our lives with purpose thus providing a sense meaning, then it would be a worthy endeavor to reflect on if we are practicing this love. It would also behoove us to seek relationships that embody the simplicity of Jesus' message and are not marred with overly crowded divisional language, or, us against them mentalities.

 My new look at Jesus, away from my fundamental past, is inspiring. He becomes who I believe he was always meant to be, an example of love and inclusion. I recall sitting in a church pew, being a Deacon’s wife, and being called for a special vote; it was a vote to vote a member out of the church. That moment has stayed with me. It was the moment that I realized that if there are no conditions to unconditional love, why would we be excluding a member out of our church?! I went home heartsick knowing that I was no better or worse than that member who was voted out, but, I was not brave enough to make a stand. This new Jesus allows me to boldly say that I will no longer pick up the rock of judgement and intolerance toward ANY human no matter what the church or others think the Bible is saying. Meaning for me revolves around the need to stay in my truth. The Bible is an allegorical wonderland that holds a rich history, but, to stop there and say nothing has been inspired since; I think would be foolish especially since everything God created is ever expanding into something new.

Mona McPherson

Love

With its jaws unhinged

It came up from underneath

Seized me away into its deep waters

And  drowned me, blissfully, in thoughts of you

                                                                                                                                   Mona McPherson

"THIS MAN HAS A UTERUS!"

The above statement was actually uttered during the last volunteer orientation class I was teaching but popped into my brain today while I was reading a rather thought provoking book about Christianity. My knee jerk reaction was to laugh, but, instead, I became perplexed. Why on earth is such a statement at the same table with a delicious morsel of thought challenging me to revisit my ideas about Jesus?! And then I remembered the pain meds I took a little bit ago! Yes! I’m sedated! Now it makes sense! It only took three hours at the dentist to unhinge my TMJ issues securing me a spot in bed for the day. The dentist also did a smashing job of evacuating my savings account of a substantial amount of loot (I actually wrote evacuwaiting by accident…LOL!). I suppose if it were a word it would mean a person who does not leave when told to do so. But I digress, I find the uterus statement to be horrifically funny so decided to slice through this rather dense medically induced high and self-imposed isolation to share it with you.

Please understand in this sharing that my mind feels like a Slip and Slide slathered with jello; I thought a healthy rant, or tangent, or squirrel chasing authoric cleansing might just be enough to keep it off the ledge the rest of the day. YUP! I said AUTHORIC! Making up words is coming to me rather easily right now. The official definition of Authoric = A person who has an overwhelming compulsion to slip and slide through the mental jello of their words and invite friends, family and countrymen to come along for the ride. In my world today, because the world is revolving, rather wobbly, around me; you ALL care about this man with a uterus. How do I know? Cause you’re still reading. I shan't leave thou hanging from the Shakespearian branches of wonder over this statement any longer. WARNING! This is not as exciting as a man with gender identification issues whose dealing with phantom body part delusions. DANG IT! That would be much more interesting!!!!! We could make him John Wayne and dress him in hot pink mini skirt, oopps, hold that thought—I gotta go shave his legs. The Duke, with shaved legs, is wearing a hot pink mini skirt with a plaid (white, pink and black) flannel shirt. The shirt is tied in a knot at the waist and nicely matches his shiny black Dingo boots. He’s untying Beau (his horse not his partner) and then does a prissy walk—bum leg and all-- to the barn. No one knows of his obsession over uteruses except Beau (his partner not his horse). You didn't see that coming?! It makes it more interesting to know that John Wayne named his horse Beau when he first fell in love with Beau, but, wasn’t out of the closet yet. John and Beau met at the feed store where Beau works (the horse not the partner—John rents him out to give little kids rides). Beau (the partner not the horse) was driving by one day in his delivery truck…he works for Lovely Loo delivering portable restrooms all over the state. When Beau saw Beau he had to stop because his grandfather used to have a horse with the exact same markings on his legs. John’s heart fell out of his mini skirt (it’s complicated; no, he wasn’t out yet, but, people around the dusty town of Ambiguous, TX suspected due to John's affinity for mini skirts).  It all started when Beau’s hand (I think you know which one) brushed against John’s as he reached for Beau's (again) reins and that’s when John Wayne realized that he had waited his whole life to fall in love with Beau.  

Sorry, I got twisted around in my saddle. The REAL story of the man with the uterus. He was a simple fictitious John Doe who lived a quiet fake-life with a made-up family in a coal-mining town of Bratty Hollow Kentucky (there is no such a place). John (Doe not Wayne) was out shoot'n at some food when he started feeling bloated. His fictitious daughter, Ellie Mae, suggested he see a doctor, and, regrettably, that was when he was diagnosed with end stage uterine cancer, AND, found out he actually had a uterus. Yes my friends, a diagnostic errr may or may not have occurred in this story (not error—I’m in my Ozark dialect to pay homage to John which is harder than it looks when using words like Shakespearian, shan't and thou together in the previous paragraph). Shan't feels a bit bigender to me, like it could just as easily slip into a smoking jacket in the halls of Stratford or wrestle around in daisy dukes deep in the belly of any black lung mine in Kentucky. Hmmm, I didn’t realize bigender wasn’t a word until just now (let me add that to my Monictionary). Back to my real story. We were using John (Doe not Wayne) as an example of the kind of paperwork our volunteers would be receiving about our patients and what they were to look for. It was at this time that one of our brighter students (the politically correct way to say she has OCD) raced ahead of the class-- true to her condition-- and ran aground at John’s unfortunate uterine cancer diagnosis which prompted her to bellow out, “THIS MAN HAS A UTERUS!” The class erupted. I’m sure fictitious John (Doe not Wayne) would have had a belly laugh over that had he not succumbed to his disease last August, may John (Doe and Wayne) rest in peace.

By now you’re probably wondering WHAT drug is this woman on!! I don’t know! But if it gives me words like: Monictionary, Authoric, Evacuwaiting, Bigender and lets me shave The Duke’s legs all in the same story … IT’S SOME REALLY HIGH END STUFF!

Mona McPherson

The Gift

The church sits at a skinny beach town corner resting nicely against its unassuming frame; I’ve passed by it before never realizing it was there amid the moss covered trees and leaning neighborhood. The United Church of Christ in New Smyrna Beach was my destination this morning for no other reason than a clear desire to hear a friend preach. Vonshelle and I have worked together for over a year and have recently discovered another level to our friendship which involves thoughtful conversations and an affinity to personal growth. There are so many joys in new and old relationships but what I most appreciate in the beginning is the layers of the story that bring the personality to life one page at a time. My appreciation for resonance with others matters, deeply; below the day in and day out of our lives is where the excavation of meaning begins. People who share their being-ness as completely as Vonshelle are as treasures to collect for sacred places that relax the soul with depth and intentional thought.

The parking lot was filling up with faithful members and I wondered about the last time I had even attended a church service; flashbacks to how deeply rooted I was in the Southern Baptist church took notice of my fleeting apprehension but my companion, Kathy, another friend of Vonshelle’s, and, another one of the treasures in my life, pulled me into soft introductions. The smiling faces of this church family all emoted a sincere welcome and I found myself letting go of the initial tenseness that shadows me when I step into new experiences. The analyst in me can get overwhelmed when all the information breaking through is new. Everything and everyone commanded the space we were in as we walked between the Chapel and its counterpart building that was reserved for socialization. But my eyes raced ahead of our gait once they saw the images lifting from the etched glass doors and they traced each line carefully. Being a visual person my tendency is to seek out the beauty in  everything surrounding me and these doors that led into the Chapel were certainly framed in beauty. They opened deeply and poured themselves over my soul with a warm awareness of the creativity that is lacking in my life. As we stepped through them into the foyer, the walls and the wood breathed the sounds of worship so sacred that I was tempted to take off my shoes as the Native Americans do when needing to connect fully from sole to soul. My attempts to ignore the embrace of this space as I wrote my name on the visitor label,  were in vain; so I welcomed the surge of gratitude that was building inside me and managed to keep my shoes on.

Kathy and I were settling into our place when a child appeared with a post-it note pad and tearing two pieces off instructed us to write down what the word peace meant to us. She went on to explain that we’re going to affix these post-it notes on a cross sometime during the service. Kathy secured a pen from her purse and then paused in mid air unsure and debating between using one word or a litany. The seriousness of her gaze caught my attention so I poked fun of her over-thinking until she stated that my note contained as much thought as hers. Peace? What does peace mean to me?! I now found myself couched on Kathy’s dilemma and struggling just the same with a perplexed gaze. It suddenly became harder than I realized to think of what peace meant to me but I managed something mildly profound and set the post-it down next to me as I began to bring my heart into stillness. Vonshelle’s significant other, Lissette, joined us as the service began. She is the newest person on the scene in my life and has quickly gained an honored spot due to her unique ability to bridge the gap between many theologies, and along with her affinity to study a broad stroke of topics; she is a dynamic conversationalist.

“Just Peace.” Vonshelle quickly made the point that the “JUST” was to signify “JUSTICE.” She went into her sermon with a degree of sincerity that is truly refreshing. She spoke about the injustices facing the world with violence against, and the targeting of, specific communities of people with so many police shootings of African American males, and, too, by civilians like what happened at The Pulse Nightclub. Her words were not collecting in a stagnate pool of separateness, but flowed unencumbered by such an idea into the greater understanding of our oneness. She was cherishing the fact that ALL LIVES MATTER! Injustice, however, cannot be tolerated if we are to have true peace in our communities and our lives. The silence of justice is condoning the very acts that are costing lives. Vonshelle challenged us to be the voice of justice—to be the peacemakers but thoughtfully so. We can create change but not with our silence. We must bring the voice of justice into each dark corner of our life no matter how small the encounter we face.

At the closing of the service the members of this church line the walls holding hands and sing, “Let There Be Peace on Earth.” Although I didn’t know the words to the song; I joined hands with my friends and watched a whole congregation do the same. The moment brought in old feelings of hope that the world is still housing those quiet souls who desire unity, peace and love. After the song, Kathy and I made our way into the line to greet Vonshelle on our way out. A small group of three was before us speaking with her about how welcomed they felt as I silently nodded in agreement. My eyes wondered aimlessly around the Chapel as we were waiting and began taking in its cozy warmth and friendly faces. It was then that I realized the degree of my own gratitude for coming and how blessed I was for the new friends in my life.


It was a simple wish, to hear a friend preach, but, I didn't realize; I was actually giving myself a gift. A moment in the Kindom. Kathy would enlighten me today about this new word I learned. She said that it was about family (kin) connections. We often use terms like the Kingdom of Christ but this word feels more appropriate, the Kindom of Christ. I LOVE the word! We all need avenues of connection and fellowship with others to grow in our service and love. It is my belief that the greatest growth of the soul occurs in relationships and that making time for fellowship, friends and community is paramount to your spiritual well-being and personal growth.


The whole day was my gift to me.


Mona McPherson

 

 

Why

They are stacked 5 bins deep in my front room, my mother’s clothes and shoes. Cindy and I were summoned by dad a few weeks ago to help clear out what she can no longer use and make room for other necessities that end of life care requires. I’ve tried twice to go through them and separate the ones in the best condition to donate. My mom, however, was meticulous about what she wore so much so that she made all her clothes until just a few years ago. It was no surprise that I’ve only found a shirt and a pair of pants with bleach stains that have my dad’s name written all over them; his struggle with the technology and my mother's care has made for several hilarious moments between me and my siblings. 

I can’t seem to let them go. It’s as though I’m being watched by eyes that reach across my memories and pull from their closets the visions of mom in each item. I’m becoming a professional at refolding and replacing them right back where they had rested. My thoughts have wrestled me to the ground again this early morning and sit across the width of my reason wanting to know why. Why can’t I let go? She will not return to my world and reclaim them. Each day brings evidence that barring a miracle this woman who now wears adult diapers and cannot do anything for herself is not going to hop out of bed one day and throw open her closet door and yell, "WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CLOTHES!" Still, I stare at them with wishful eyes-eyes that no longer remember how she was unless a weathered photo pulls its windows open and blows her through my mind.

There have been justifiable moments when I wished she had gone quickly and unannounced. Instead, the invitation to her decline came stamped with my RSVP and even though I didn’t want to attend this event, I'm here. This new role of caregiver is the hardest role I've played in the relationship with my mom. End stage dementia has cleared the roads of her memories out of her mind and left her with broken words and sporadic thoughts. There actually was a recent day that made me severely question my desire that she left sooner. The day she threw me a curve ball when she laughed and called me Charlie Brown. It was the nickname she bestowed on me at such a tender age that I was thoroughly concerned when starting First Grade how long my name might be on the page (Ramona Ann Charlie Brown Willis). It’s funny to me now but it was very serious business at the time. One day I marched up to my mom to share my angst at possibly being laughed at for such a long name, not to mention the extra time I had to carve out to write it correctly. My mom laughed and then explained that it was a nickname and not my real name. As relieved as a 6 year old with a normal size name could be, I went outside to enlighten my playmates about how nicknames aren't real.

“Why mom?” I caught myself asking and asking again. “Why did you choose that nickname for me?” She mumbled something about green sheets and cucumbers that some man had lost indicating that my answer would not be coming around the corner to meet me that day. Cindy thinks it might be because of my brown eyes but I’m not satisfied with the simplicity of that reason. I’m a person fixated on the complicated and hidden meaning in everything. There must be some great life-altering reason she was so compelled to call me that. If I could only crack the code. It can’t be because I lacked the ability to punt a football. Paul and I played with the neighbor kids for hours and I was always his first pick … except for the time he picked Alan first, but, we were all tired of Alan being dead last, especially when it made him teary. It can’t be because I had a beagle dog, I had a silver tabby cat. It can’t be because I was a boy with a big head who didn’t like to change shirts, I obviously wasn’t. But that nickname stuck with me my whole childhood. When I reached Middle School, thanks to my brother’s coaching methods in football, I began to excel at other sports. Mom told me once that she felt like a celebrity after my games because kids and parents would come up to her and ask if she were Charlie’s mom.  By then the nickname wrestled itself free from needing two names and tied itself to the back pocket of my life. It stayed there until my first crush. At that point the need to untie the boyish nickname became paramount and I regained my given name.

I’ve not thought about that nickname in decades. When my mom said it, I fell straight through a trapdoor and splashed into the pool of my inner child. It took me back to that one short season in my childhood when my mom and I were close. It was her father’s suicide that took her away from me the first time, and, now, it's the strokes that are killing off her brain one inning at a time. The reason behind this nickname has become yet another item I should have secured from her memories before she left the game. 


I'm left to sort through her clothes and it just dawned on me that maybe it's really the memories contained in their fabric that still smell like her that will not allow me to let them go.

Mona McPherson