(Big) Sister Blog

While I have taken a long and deliberate break from a Sprig of Hope, I will begin posting again here very soon. Until then, please read my newest blog Comforting Bitter Grace. It is my daddy blog, enjoy!

A Tree Called Home

I’m not sure why everytime I think of home, I feel compelled to describe the Spanish Moss-draped oak trees.  I feel the need to become rather verbose and compare the moss to trapped spirits of the men and women damned to never leave the lowcountry (I could think of worse fates).  But simply put, nothing speaks of the area like the oaks.  These ancient giants with their gnarly knotted elbows meandering to and fro are the epitome of the grandour and history that so defines the lowcountry of South Carolina.  They belong to a rare group of items like the mountains of Colorado and the sea, that no matter how many times you see them they still inspire awe.  As a kid they held a certain mystery for me, that if they could talk, God himself would pull up a seat to listen. Yet they also had a laziness about them.  The oaks have the appearance of the rivers they surround, a fluidty that can be rather mesmerizing.  When they have reached the grandfather stage of life, their limbs will rest on the ground much like a cane.  But most of all, I must speak of them because they are home, as much as mom is even. 

Yet, I have been cut off from that land, somewhat by choice and somewhat by force. And this saddens me because my blood has a brown tint to it thanks to those muddy rivers that these oaks line.  I know worthless tidbits of history about the plantations that inhabited the land before me, but it is not my home anymore and I wonder if it ever truly was.  Even though I was born on the banks of the black river in Georgetown much like my father before me, I always felt a stranger.  My great-granddad wasn’t a rebel and I’d lie straight through my teeth about the fact the my Grandfather was from Pennslyvania.  If anyone ever discovered that fact, I’d quickly remind them my mom was from Arkansas.  Yet I lived in a place where my friends last names matched those of the plantations and even though this heritage wasn’t always flaunted, I was always on the outside looking in.  

Home is a funny place.  The cliché is that it is where the heart is, but that is too vague for my sensibilities.  I need a place to call home and I think that I am not alone in this quest, that one way to describe our exisitence is that it is a search for place, for home.  The religious thing to say is that God or heaven is our homes and that is not far from the truth as I can see it.  When I think of home, I think of mom and our gardens and a tree.  Is it fair to guess that those things stick out because deep in all of us is a longing for a Father, a garden and a tree, a longing for a place that though we may stare into it for eternity it will never cease to inspire awe?  

Home with the Ones I Love

Yesterday, Michala, Mary Grace, and I headed over the mountains and through the woods to, well, Las Vegas, to catch a connection to Arkansas and eventually grandmother’s house (we call her Granny). Waking at 5 in the morning and finishing our trip at a quarter after midnight is an act of lunacy, yet when it comes to family we throw sanity out the window. Mary Grace has been gearing up to not only see her Granny but also Granny's dog, Buddy. When we asked her about going to see Granny, she would reply, "buh-ey (she has a slight enunciation problem with the d's in Buddy's name, which is strange cause she says my name perfectly)!" Now that we are all here and have at least a partial night of sleep under our belts, the morning brings peace. I love my family and, I tell you, I would do anything for them.


This adoration for my family has always challenged me when I am confronted by what Jesus says about family. He draws a hard-line when it comes to family, even His own. There is a story where Jesus is approached asking about his family and he responds with an almost dismissive tone, "Who are my mothers and brothers? Here are my mother and my brothers, everyone who hears the word of God and does it." The Prince of Peace also says things like, "I have come to set a man against his family and a woman against hers." Like so many of his words, I read these and feel the need to explain them away or simply wish they were not there at all. Jesus has a way of exposing us and when I read these words I feel naked and I'm not sure I even know why. I feel myself asking, "Well, Jesus, what am I supposed to do, just leave my family? That doesn't seem like love, but that is what I feel in your words."

I am reading a book named The Challenge of Jesus by N. T. Wright( aptly titled, in my opinion). In this book, Wright argues that we must read the narratives about Jesus in light of His Jewish roots and that he brought a message of Judgment and Vindication. Judgment on Israel for failing to be the "light of the world" and vindication for God in himself. Heady stuff, I know, but good stuff too. Wright sees family as one of the defining factors of Judaism, connecting them to Abraham and his promise but also excluding everyone else. Jesus says these things about family to expose their pride and exclusiveness, because the promise given to Abraham was for all nations and Jesus has come to deliver that promise to all nations, to you and to me.

We read Jesus' words through a lens, we have too. He was a man like us and spoke to his context and time, albeit timelessly. So we must hear his words through a filter, we must learn to listen with Jewish ears, because if not we miss his points altogether, that the Kingdom of God is at hand and the love that it gives is not limited to our own clan but to our neighbors and even to our enemies. I know that being a part of this Kingdom means I love my family, but it also holds radical connotations that demand me to love the stranger just as much, perhaps even more. Which is interesting because if we are honest sometimes our family's are the hardest one's to love, they know how to push our buttons, we have years of practice learning how to irritate one another, but every year we make sacrifices to simply be together; insanity, I know. But it is also a beautiful mess. Can we learn from this? Can we learn to love the very people who get at us in all the wrong ways and not just feel OK about them, but to sacrifice for them? Perhaps.
 
Insanity, I know.