Tuesday, November 29, 2011

any deliberate leap into chaos, small or large, with an intent to make order, matters.

Every year we call it down upon ourselves,
the chaos of the day before the occasion,
the morning before the meal. Outdoors,
the men cut wood, fueling appetite
in the gray air, as Nana, Arlene, Mary,
Robin—whatever women we amount to—
turn loose from their wrappers the raw,
unmade ingredients. A flour sack leaks,
potatoes wobble down counter tops
tracking dirt like kids, blue hubbard erupts
into shards and sticky pulp when it's whacked
with the big knife, cranberries leap away
rather than be halved. And the bird, poor
blue thing—only we see it in its dead skin—
gives up for good the long, obscene neck, the gizzard,
the liver quivering in my hand, the heart.

So what? What of it? Besides the laughter,
I mean, or the steam that shades the windows
so that the youngest sons must come inside
to see how the smells look. Besides
the piled wood closing over the porch windows,
the pipes the men fill, the beers
they crack, waiting in front of the game.

Any deliberate leap into chaos, small or large,
with an intent to make order, matters. That's what.
A whole day has passed between the first apple
cored for pie, and the last glass polished
and set down. This is a feast we know how to make,
a Day of Feast, a day of thanksgiving
for all we have and all we are and whatever
we've learned to do with it: Dear God, we thank you
for your gifts in this kitchen, the fire,
the food, the wine. That we are together here.
Bless the world that swirls outside these windows—
a room full of gifts seeming raw and disordered,
a great room in which the stoves are cold,
the food scattered, the children locked forever
outside dark windows. Dear God, grant
to the makers and keepers power to save it all.

["Thanksgiving" by Linda McCarriston]
[Hat Tip: The Writer's Almanac]

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints (Ps. 116:15)

RUTHERFORD, ELMO LUCILLE ADAMS - age 102, of LaFollette passed away Monday, November 21, 2011. A member of East LaFollette Baptist Church. Preceded in death by husband, Mose D. Rutherford; son, Wayne Rutherford; daughter-in-law, Margie; grandsons, Nathan & Scott Rutherford; parents, Lynn & Carrie Prater Adams; sister, Grace Bowman; brother, Samuel Adams. Survivors: daughters: Carrie & Greg Green, Ringgold, GA, Minnie Sue & Wyndall Simmon, Crockern, GA, Judy & Tim Phagan, Winston Salem, NC, Julia Darlene Banister, Somonauk, Ill; sons: Lynn & Louise Rutherford, LaFollette, Dennis & Mickey Rutherford, Dayton, OH; 24 grandchildren; 43 great-grandchildren; 24 great-great-grandchildren; sister: Naomi Creekmore, Jellico. Services 2:00 p.m. Wednesday East LaFollette Baptist Church, Rev. Dennis Rutherford, Rev. Greg Chandler and Rev. Paul D. Banister officiating. Interment Bakers Forge Cemetery. Family will receive friends 6:00 to 8:00 PM Tuesday at Cross-Smith Funeral Home, LaFollette.

Nanny being baptized at the age of 98.

 On the day of her baptism, Nanny wouldn't let us get up from our seats to let her sit down, so she sat down on the steps. She always put others before herself.

Nanny playing with my kitten a few years ago. Nanny herself had a poodle named Tom and a Havanese dog named Harvey.

Me, Carrie, and Nanny in January.

I will miss Nanny so much. She is an amazing person, and she is more alive now than ever.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

beyond my wants, beyond my fears

Shepherd me, O God,
beyond my wants
beyond my fears
from death into life.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

datta. dayadhvam. damyata.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Give. Sympathize. Control.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

taize prayer

The Lord is my light and my salvation
In him I trust

Friday, November 11, 2011

danch with me

I nanny for a family. The other day the two-year-old and I were listening to this song, and then he looked up at me and said, "Danch with me."

So we danced to this in the kitchen.

Sunday, November 06, 2011

tired of things that break

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

- e. e. cummings