In My Heart There Rings A Melody

If you have read much of my blogging, you know I have a memory and love for old hymns and gospel songs.  Sometimes they just seem to pop into my head like a jukebox of the past.  Some of the things that spin in my mind even Bill Gaither’s Homecoming haven’t done.  Some of them I hear with a Norwegian accent, others I hear with the magnificent sounds of the Salem Gospel Tabernacle choir.  Yet other times I think of Sister Crandall leading the Calvary Tabernacle choir or Sister Parker on the piano.  The other day a song popped into my mind, I searched for it on youtube and found it played on the organ.  That reminded me of a former Pastor, Lon Calloway who could make you love organ music. 

The last two days, two golden oldies have been floating around in my head.  Until I looked up the lyrics I had the two merged in my head.  I hear these songs with a Norwegian accent and picture Doris on the piano, Fran on the organ, Elise on the vibraharp, Bob on the saw, Erik on the trumpet, Ruth on the trombone, and Oscar on the banjo.  Later I would sit with these saints playing an odd little green instrument called a melodica. 

Sounds of my childhood forever etched in my ears memory.  With a thin red hymnal with three gold crosses in my hand, I would sing along. 

These songs floating in my head are happy songs.  For so long, happy songs have been absent from my mental jukebox.  As I have pondered the words of these songs, I realize they are my testimony.  A testimony of how God has worked in my life in the Storehouse of Snow. 

I’d share a youtube video with you, but it seems they are lacking of these two precious old songs.  The first one, “Whosoever Meaneth Me” was written in 1910:

I am happy today, and the sun shines bright,

The clouds have been rolled away;

For the Savior said, whosoever will

May come with Him to stay

All my hopes have been raised, O His Name be praised

His glory has filled my soul;

I’ve been lifted up, and from sin set free,

His blood has made me whole.

Simple words from another time still have meaning.  I am happy today.  I can see the sunshine.  My hope has been raised.  I’ve struggled with demons of depression, sadness, and fear for so long that I thought I’d never see the sunshine bright again.  I thought the clouds would never disappear.  Thank God, they have.  Lest anyone think it is just because I am leaving South Dakota, it isn’t the leaving that has given me hope.  It is the faithfulness of God to make me “whole” or ‘holy.’

Sin isn’t always about what you do.  Sin is often the effects of others who have sinned against us.  This time in the Storehouse has caused me to face and name the sins that have been done against me and experiencing the grace to make me holy and whole.  This is where my hope comes from.  And caused me to merge with those verses above, the chorus to It is Truly Wonderful What the Lord Has Done:

It is truly wonderful what the Lord has done

It is truly wonderful, it is truly wonderful

It is truly wonderful what the Lord has done

Glory to His name

My mental jukebox is playing another song now as I reflect further on my sojourn in the Storehouse – it reminds me that in my heart there is a melody.  It reminds me that Jesus still sweeps across the broken strings and stirs slumbering chords.  Amen.  

2800 Miles in a Week

In case you’ve missed me, I’ve been traveling a lot. During Holy Week, we hosted my husband’s brother and the daughter of another one of his brothers for a brief visit to South Dakota and then Tennessee. It was an interesting way to spend Holy Week.

On Monday last, my husband and I drove to Minneapolis to pick them up from the airport. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this area, that is a 3 ½-4 hour drive each way. We were late meeting them. Having a propensity for lateness in such activities, all was forgiven quickly. We took them for a short trip inside Mall of America. One cannot visit the cities without seeing this capitalist icon. Monday we logged 430 miles.

Tuesday we started late. We picked up a rental car to save the miles on my husband’s prize possession. Then a brief stop to show my relatives where I go to school. Next stop, was a visit with some friends at Fort Thompson SD.  I’d love to digress into a long story about this visit. It was unusual to say the least. I did write about playing with Destiny after the visit. Like our never-ending travels, I will just keep going.

By nightfall, we were safely in Rapid City having supper at the 24-hour Perkins Restaurant having logged another 400 miles. A brief sleep and it was on to Mount Rushmore. I like going to Mount Rushmore. I remember the first time I went the excitement of the little girl who used to look longingly at the picture of Mount Rushmore in her Social Studies book returned. It was a childhood dream comes true. Having seen it about 5 times now, the excitement has waned but the awe has not. No trip to SD is complete without a stop at Wall Drug. After eating there, we journeyed through the surreal landscape known as the Badlands. By the time we reached Brookings that night at midnight, we had logged another 500 plus miles.

Having begged my husband to reconsider his plan of leaving at 6 a.m. on Thursday morning, we left at 2:00 p.m. for Tennessee. Opting for a saner two-day trip, we arrived in Columbia Missouri at midnight.  Mileage log for that day was 550 miles. A quick breakfast with my son, a trip to the cemetery to see my mother’s date of death engraved on the stone, a whirlwind visit to our alma mater for the sake of the relatives, we finally arrived at our home in Kingston Springs TN at about 7:30 p.m.  Passing the Arch in St. Louis, we completed that day having driven 475 miles.

It was delightful in Tennessee during Easter weekend. It was warm. The daffodils were finished in my front yard, but the peach tree and the pear tree were blossoming. The view from the front of the house was breathtakingly beautiful as white blossoms covered the trees and the vibrancy of the forsythia was striking this year.

Easter Sunday, I attended the church I had visited for Ash Wednesday. I remembered the pastor’s admonition to remember I was dust, even when dressed in my Easter best. The service filled me with hope for my daughter and her family. They had found a good place to worship. My granddaughter sang about having Jesus down in her heart. I took home the lily we had purchased in memory of my mother. It is now planted in the front of my home in Tennessee.

Sadly, by 3:00 p.m. on Easter Sunday we were on our way back to South Dakota. Leaving the relatives to visit with others in Tennessee, we traveled together. The further north we traveled, the more the temperature dropped and we saw no signs of spring. I was sad. It was so good to feel the heat on your face, to see trees in bloom, and smell spring. Over two days, we traveled another 1000 miles plus. Monday night after a supper visit to Taco John’s we returned to our quiet apartment in Brookings.

Yesterday I saw some daffodils in Sioux Falls. The surprise of seeing bright yellow caused my breath to stop. I don’t remember seeing daffodils last year. Perhaps I did. Probably I did. But this time I really saw them.  I am seeing more beauty and purpose here in South Dakota. I will get to have two springs this year. One brief in Tennessee and perhaps one longer, here in South Dakota.

When I next return to Tennessee, it will be to start my doctoral program at Trevecca. It will be the middle of May. I will be glad to return. It will be the beginning of a new chapter in my life. As I’ve thought about writing a dissertation, something about South Dakota has taken root in my life. I have a passion for  the original people, the first nations, of South Dakota. I am thinking to write my dissertation on some issues that might benefit these true South Dakotans.  Maybe I’ve found my reason for being in South Dakota. It has taken a while, but there is hope. After all, I did see daffodils in South Dakota.

Has-Beens

Last night I was an invited guest for a Scholarship Banquet at the Seminary. I know I was invited because I have the invitation. I turned in the RSVP card, on time, to the receptionist at the seminary. Assured that it would be given to the proper person, I didn't give it another thought. When I got to the door there was no sticker with my name nor one for my husband.

Since that was my second trip to Sioux Falls, I was tired. My husband had a stressful day at work. I stood there wondering why I came. I was embarrassed and frustrated. I mumbled to the equally stressed and embarrassed woman in charge, that I really had turned in my RSVP.

She asked us to handwrite our name tags and go sit at table 13. I thought 13! That's not a lucky number. My husband wanted to know if table 13 would be outside. It wasn't. We hung our coats and found the table.

To my delight I recognized the other student sitting at my table. She has listened to my lament on living in South Dakota. She has said she'd pray for me. She has been kind sharing her struggles living in this state.

Also sitting at the table was a former dean of the seminary, a former administrator in fund raising and their wives. The fund raiser with typical friendliness of his profession greeted us with an engaging welcome and smile. His name was Ben. He said he knew almost all the donors who had funded our scholarships.

The former dean was less friendly. Nevertheless it was a nice table to sit at even if it was table 13. As we chatted across the table, that awkward chat of strangers pushed together at a social event, I asked Ben what he had taught before he became an administrator. He said "Oh I'm not that smart. I just raised money."

I said something about being fortunate to sit at this table with illustrious contributors to the seminary. He said "oh, no, it isn't such an honor, you are sitting with the 'has-beens.'"  Of course I said that wasn't true.

It's odd how we creep toward the final chapters of our lives that we see ourselves as has-beens. I am watching Crazy Heart, a movie about another so-called 'has-been.' I am fast approaching the age of has-been. Often as I sit in class, I see other students looking at me wondering what this old woman is doing sitting in their classes.

Ben should not consider himself a has-been. He was a contributor to all of us who came behind him at the seminary. Some of us couldn't go to school without scholarship money. What a great contribution he has made. As long as his contribution continues, he will never be a has-been.

I've been interviewing for another chapter of my life, a chapter of more education. In this interviews I have said several time, I'm not done. I still have something to contribute. I do!

Spring comes late in South Dakota, very late. While daffodils are blooming elsewhere they are not here. I haven't reached full bloom either. I may be old enough to be a has-been but I'm not. I have not been in full bloom yet. I'm still pushing through the hard ground. I'll get there. With God's help and grace, I will get there.

Return

We are back in South Dakota. I wonder if I will ever say I am back home when I arrive in South Dakota. I say it sometimes. Sometimes without thinking, I say I’m going home. Life is ordinary here, even boring. I think that will actually be good for a while.

I had a wonderful send off from my stepfamily. I suppose I should stop calling them that since I have discovered that they are more family than anyone else is.  I always wanted sisters. When my mother was married to Murl I felt like I had sisters. My sister Helen said to me after reading my Sounds of Hope blog about Patchwork Intimacy, “Joyce, you don’t have to have the same blood in your veins to be family, do you?” She is right. Families are those people that love you just the way you are. It has little to do with biology.

After a hearty breakfast and two more hours of fellowship, we started the long trek north. My stomach prone to turmoil churned from the results of the last two weeks. The tears expressed and the tears not yet shed seemed at war in my stomach. My stomach settled as the sun began to peak out ever so slightly near Kansas City.

By St. Joseph, the dreaded snow seemed permanent on the ground. After this, we never saw ground without snow, not always deep, but always there. It signaled to me that I was returning to South Dakota, the frozen land. Snow as it falls is beautiful; when it freezes to ice, it permanently locks everything in its frozen shell.  I marveled at the thought that the ice will give way to green grass and green stalks of corn.

I saw something I’ve never seen before on this trip. I saw at least 30 hawks. They seemed stationed to watch me as I traveled north.  High in the trees or low on a fence post they were vigilant. There was a time I would have tried to make out some meaning to their appearance. Yesterday I just marveled at their number.

I saw something else I’ve never seen before. I saw herds of deer grazing in frozen fields. At first glance I thought it was a herd of cows. As I got closer I knew they were two small to be cows. By the time the sun was setting in marvelous reds, I had passed many fields where deer were foraging for food. Yesterday I saw well over 100 deer in these fields.

This bleak frozen land had more than enough food to feed all of the creation that depended on it. The deer, the hawks as well as the thousands of geese I saw, all had enough food. I suppose they had to look for it, nevertheless, it was there.

I thought this frozen land, that I so dreaded returning to has enough to sustain me as well. I may have to look for it. I may have to look beyond the frozen ground and see that there is enough food to sustain me as well. There will be food for my soul provided by the hand of God. I will look for it. It will sustain me through these last days of winter as the cold of the death experience lays heavily on my soul. 

I thought of an obscure verse to an old hymn. I hummed it to myself trying to recall the words. As I did, I recalled its triumph. I have found the Lord and He will feed me.

Feeding on the husks around me,

Till my strength was almost gone,

Longed my soul for something better,

Only still to hunger on.

Hallelujah I have found Him

Whom my soul so long has craved

Jesus satisfies my longing

Through His blood I now am saved.

I remember a Norwegian elder in the church of my childhood breaking into the last verse spontaneously, particularly during communion.

Well of water ever springing

Bread of life so rich and free

Untold wealth that never faileth 

My redeemer is to me

Hallelujah!

Until spring comes, God's provision will be mine.

Burst of Yellow

I’m waiting and hoping. I am hoping that I get to see the daffodils in my front yard this year. I didn’t get to see them last year. In fact, I don’t think I saw daffodils growing anywhere last year. I bought a few at the Brookings Hy-Vee.

I absolutely love daffodils or as some southerners mistakenly call them, Butter Cups. I had a friend who passed away recently who could really drag out her sounds. I think every time I think of daffodils I will think of her saying buuuhtur-Kuups.  You’d have to hear her to appreciate it. She had this deep guttural southern accent. I miss her. She was always funny, direct and yet sensitive. I thought of her as a “steel magnolia.” Joined with her Mama and Sissy, they were a trinity of fierce strength and intimidation.

We didn’t have many flowers in our backyard in Brooklyn. A blue hydrangea bush and some roses were all I remember clearly. The roses were over a pergola as I recall. Our Italian neighbor had a beautiful flower garden. Its beauty rivaled the famous botanical garden in Brooklyn. I remember as a child being under strictest of orders to look and not touch. I do remember that our neighbor once gave me an exquisite rose.

It wasn’t in a yard that I saw my first daffodil. It was a Sunday afternoon in early spring in Brooklyn. I must have been around ten. If I had seen a daffodil before, I don’t remember. I turned a corner on a residential street and there stood this vendor of beauty. I encountered a man with a huge bouquet of daffodils. It astounded me. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I wanted those flowers.

I remember I had some money. I asked him how much he wanted. He told me and I bought some. I don’t remember how many, but I do remember I justified my purchase by giving the flower to my mother. While appreciative, I don’t think she fully appreciated that I would forever be in love with the color yellow and with daffodils.

The daffodils are out of the ground in my front yard in Tennessee but I do not know if I will see them bloom. I suspect that I will miss them again this year.  They are late because of the snow. 

Like me, they are resilient. I will push through this snow and bloom, even in South Dakota. I have resisted being planted in South Dakota. Perhaps though, this period of dormancy will soon be over. Then, like the daffodil bulb, I will burst open, even in the snow. 

It seems the storehouse of snow is unrelenting this year. It has followed me to middle Tennessee.  I want a break from the snow and cold. I want to see daffodils. I want to be astonished by a burst of yellow.