If anyone has been around me lately or near me during Christmases past, you know I am not thrilled with the holidays. For me, it is too much grief, too much missing. It is for me the worst of “orphaned holidays”.
Growing up Christmas WAS fun. We did the cookies for Santa thing (only it was cheese and crackers cause Santa had high cholesterol). We read the Christmas story. Decorated the tree. I was sent back and forth from my house to my god parents house with coded messages usually innocent enough but laden with sexual innuendo (it really was funny looking back on it!) and we spent the day with my grandmother and cousins…some of whom I didn’t see often.
This year is my first year with all of the family deceased. There has usually been ONE phone call to make at least. But this year, not so much.
So I am working Christmas eve and Christmas Day. I figure I can work and sleep and then it will be over! One can call me in denial or whatever. It is my choice and may keep me sane!
With all of that in mind, I did realize today, it isn’t ALL humbug. The following is a list I can live with:
1)I believe that Santa’s reindeer were on my roof that Christmas Eve when I was 5.
2)I think Handel’s Messiah is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written.
3)I like hot cider.
4)I stand and sing the “loo loo loo loo loo” part of the Charlie Brown Christmas show
5)Luke’s birth narrative warms my heart.
6)I love Christmas lights.
7)I love my stockings
8)Everyone seems happier
9)I can wear my Santa hat…if I can find it
10)I re read a Christmas Carol this year…..
11)I think it is cool that my parents were creative enough to have “Santa” call me every Christmas eve at 6:00pm. It’s even cooler that I never figured out who it was until I was a teenager.
12)I am intentionally making things quieter each year.
13)I say “Santy Claus” sometimes….I am from East Tennysee you know.
All will be well and all manner of things will be well.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Sec C Row 32 Seats 1,2,3,4
Sec C Row 32 Seats 1,2,3,4
These were the seats where I was raised. The are located in Neyland Stadium in Knoxville TN. If you believe the family stories, I was practically born there… in the rain in October 1966 as Joe Namath played for Alabama.
It was there that I sat and listened to stories of games played in Knoxville, Athens, Birmingham, “on the Plain”, Tuscaloosa, and Gainesville. Stories of games played in Emory VA, Jefferson City, TN and Bluefield, WVa. We talked football. And along with the sport, I learned the geography of my family and my faith.
Saturdays in Knoxville were spent in the ritual of getting ready for the game. When I was 5 or 6 I got to go to one game a year. It was usually Alabama because that was my “birthday game”. As I got older and that rivalry got more one sided, I usually chose the Georgia game. Our seats were alongside the visitor section. I learned all the school cheers, not just Rocky Top. I learned that “damn” was a cuss word and I was not to use it at home (thanks Hotty Toddy) and I never much liked cowbell (Mississippi State). I memorized the rules and the game program. I wondered about places like “The Plains” and Commonwealth Stadium. I got to go to Birmingham and understood why the Iron Bowl was played. I listened to "Lordy Hershel! RUN!!!" more than I care to remember.
This last Saturday, I had the privilege to go to Sanford Stadium with my friend Blair, also a child of the SEC south. It was a pilgrimage. With the ones who taught me the game long gone, I went alone to see a friend. I carried with me the memories, legends, and excitement of two men who I hope somewhere could watch me and see who I had become. That fact alone was enough for the weekend to serve its purpose. I touched the hedges, imagined a trip home in 1960 something that my father and Sam called “harrowing” as they were bumped “all the way down the highway”…the only time I recall my father wanting to fight someone, a feat hard to believe for his easy going temperament.
I wore red and black on Saturday, with orange socks. I wanted to experience Athens as a Georgia fan. As one welcomed home and into the fold. I am frequently asked why it is that I can sit and watch a game and enjoy it no matter who is playing.
It is because of those Saturdays in Sec C. I would cheer for Tennessee then. Still do most days. Sam and I shook our heads in dismay in those days…for the good and the ugly. I heard other fight songs and watched other mascots. I secretly hoped Vanderbilt would win most games.
Maybe it was in the section where I learned and saw differences. Subtle, obvious, and in between. It was in those seats that I learned some people win a lot and some people can’t win for losing. And that isn’t always fair.
And it was in those seats that I sat with my family, learned the rules of the game, and traded stories and knew I was loved.
These were the seats where I was raised. The are located in Neyland Stadium in Knoxville TN. If you believe the family stories, I was practically born there… in the rain in October 1966 as Joe Namath played for Alabama.
It was there that I sat and listened to stories of games played in Knoxville, Athens, Birmingham, “on the Plain”, Tuscaloosa, and Gainesville. Stories of games played in Emory VA, Jefferson City, TN and Bluefield, WVa. We talked football. And along with the sport, I learned the geography of my family and my faith.
Saturdays in Knoxville were spent in the ritual of getting ready for the game. When I was 5 or 6 I got to go to one game a year. It was usually Alabama because that was my “birthday game”. As I got older and that rivalry got more one sided, I usually chose the Georgia game. Our seats were alongside the visitor section. I learned all the school cheers, not just Rocky Top. I learned that “damn” was a cuss word and I was not to use it at home (thanks Hotty Toddy) and I never much liked cowbell (Mississippi State). I memorized the rules and the game program. I wondered about places like “The Plains” and Commonwealth Stadium. I got to go to Birmingham and understood why the Iron Bowl was played. I listened to "Lordy Hershel! RUN!!!" more than I care to remember.
This last Saturday, I had the privilege to go to Sanford Stadium with my friend Blair, also a child of the SEC south. It was a pilgrimage. With the ones who taught me the game long gone, I went alone to see a friend. I carried with me the memories, legends, and excitement of two men who I hope somewhere could watch me and see who I had become. That fact alone was enough for the weekend to serve its purpose. I touched the hedges, imagined a trip home in 1960 something that my father and Sam called “harrowing” as they were bumped “all the way down the highway”…the only time I recall my father wanting to fight someone, a feat hard to believe for his easy going temperament.
I wore red and black on Saturday, with orange socks. I wanted to experience Athens as a Georgia fan. As one welcomed home and into the fold. I am frequently asked why it is that I can sit and watch a game and enjoy it no matter who is playing.
It is because of those Saturdays in Sec C. I would cheer for Tennessee then. Still do most days. Sam and I shook our heads in dismay in those days…for the good and the ugly. I heard other fight songs and watched other mascots. I secretly hoped Vanderbilt would win most games.
Maybe it was in the section where I learned and saw differences. Subtle, obvious, and in between. It was in those seats that I learned some people win a lot and some people can’t win for losing. And that isn’t always fair.
And it was in those seats that I sat with my family, learned the rules of the game, and traded stories and knew I was loved.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Today is September 11.
Nine years ago I came out of a windowless training room with 7 co workers and the world had changed. We emerged to see small television screens fuzzy with images of ash, smoke, and fire. A coworker worried that her husband would be unable to return from his business trip. I worried that a cousin in New York was safe. Both were safe and sound though shaken for obvious reasons. I also gave thanks for my mother’s death three months prior as I knew she would be frightened in ways I would not want to see.
I have seen signs and facebook statuses that tell me to “never forget”. That will not be a problem. I don’t forget what I have experienced. A lot has happened in these nine years since. America has been at constant war, both at home and abroad. I have friends whose family members have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have cared for them, their children, and their families in many ways. Through prayer, presence, and phone calls. It is the least I can do for them.
Closer to home this week has seen calls for burning of sacred texts. I haven’t read a Qur’an. I will buy one today. I will read it and hopefully talk to a Muslim friend who can help me understand it. I will compare it to my sacred text, the Bible. These are streams of faith that run into rivers of holy waters. I am baptized in those waters created by a God who is seen and heard in many ways for longer than any of us have known.
The God I serve is called many names. Even Allah.
The God I serve calls me to love my enemies. I am not even sure they are my enemies. I disagree with them for certain. Ideologically, theologically. We may not even agree on what football teams we like… and in the South that’s important. What I do know is they look like Fred Phelps. They look like Terry Jones. They look a lot like Scott Roeder. Those are the easy ones.
What about the enemy that sits next to you on the couch? The ones you know who loved you on the first day of your life? The ones that taught you to pray for peace? The ones that sit next to you at the office and need to tell you they are hurting because of something they know you support? The ones you care for in body, mind, and spirit who speak ill against “people like that” knowing you are the “that” of which they speak? Can you love them?
Can you forget them?
Nine years ago I came out of a windowless training room with 7 co workers and the world had changed. We emerged to see small television screens fuzzy with images of ash, smoke, and fire. A coworker worried that her husband would be unable to return from his business trip. I worried that a cousin in New York was safe. Both were safe and sound though shaken for obvious reasons. I also gave thanks for my mother’s death three months prior as I knew she would be frightened in ways I would not want to see.
I have seen signs and facebook statuses that tell me to “never forget”. That will not be a problem. I don’t forget what I have experienced. A lot has happened in these nine years since. America has been at constant war, both at home and abroad. I have friends whose family members have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have cared for them, their children, and their families in many ways. Through prayer, presence, and phone calls. It is the least I can do for them.
Closer to home this week has seen calls for burning of sacred texts. I haven’t read a Qur’an. I will buy one today. I will read it and hopefully talk to a Muslim friend who can help me understand it. I will compare it to my sacred text, the Bible. These are streams of faith that run into rivers of holy waters. I am baptized in those waters created by a God who is seen and heard in many ways for longer than any of us have known.
The God I serve is called many names. Even Allah.
The God I serve calls me to love my enemies. I am not even sure they are my enemies. I disagree with them for certain. Ideologically, theologically. We may not even agree on what football teams we like… and in the South that’s important. What I do know is they look like Fred Phelps. They look like Terry Jones. They look a lot like Scott Roeder. Those are the easy ones.
What about the enemy that sits next to you on the couch? The ones you know who loved you on the first day of your life? The ones that taught you to pray for peace? The ones that sit next to you at the office and need to tell you they are hurting because of something they know you support? The ones you care for in body, mind, and spirit who speak ill against “people like that” knowing you are the “that” of which they speak? Can you love them?
Can you forget them?
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