My Fair Share

Posted on September 21, 2014 by harasprice

Everyone in my household has a love of Charles Schultz’ Peanuts characters.  There is always wisdom in Linus, unedited truth in Lucy, the wishy-washy doubts and insecurity of human nature in Charlie Brown.  The way in which characters are so brilliantly depicted in simple ways shows the real gift of Schultz’ artistry.  More than once in a while, a complex topic that I’m wrestling with, either in my classroom or in my life, comes out through the cartooned mouth of one of these characters.

It’s the voice of Sally Brown, younger sister to Charlie Brown, that is in my mind today.  You may remember the scene:  it’s nearly Christmas, and the Peanuts gang is readying for a Christmas Pageant and trying to find the real meaning and holiday spirit in a commercialized time of year.  Sally has her clipboard, composing a letter to Santa Claus and spelling out all the things she would like as gifts.  She dictates out loud to big brother Charlie Brown, who is helping with her writing.  At the end, she sums up what a lot of people are thinking:  “…if it seems too complicated, make it easy on yourself and just send money.  How about tens and twenties?”

As Charlie Brown screams, “TENS AND TWENTIES!!  Even my baby sister…” we all chuckle.  Then, truth comes in Sally’s quiet voice:  “All I want is what I have coming to me.  All I want is my fair share.”

Whap.  Sally speaks words that most of us have thought…and probably said…more than we’d like to admit.

The truth is, we do want our fair share.  Nothing ticks us off more than when we see someone we judge as less worthy or deserving get something that we feel we are equally (if not more) entitled to.  It’s human nature, at least in contemporary Western society.  We work hard, we earn it, we deserve it.  Right?

I’m not so sure we really have our money where our  mouth is when it comes to justice and wealth.

What about the person who has worked two minimum wage jobs, both at 28 hours per week to avoid the dreaded “29 hour rule” that keeps her employer from being required to pay health insurance benefits on her behalf, which is why she works extra to buy into a health insurance plan on her own.  Does that woman deserve to be paid less than someone working a salaried position at 40 hours a week as an administrative assistant receiving benefits but “expected” to work at least 15 hours unpaid just to accomplish all the tasks assigned?  Do either deserve to make less money than an investor who has a good hunch (and maybe a good lead or two) and trades online 10 or 15 hours a week?

We put a lot of rhetoric equating work and money in the  United States, and it still doesn’t come out even.

I’m curating a weekly series for my faith community, starting today, on Sunday Thoughts for a Monday World.  Today’s Gospel lesson starts us out chewing on this topic of wealth inequality.  Feel free to check out all the links and questions in today’s weekly column, but most especially this video from Politizane which may give you something to ponder about wealth distribution.

In my own life, there have been times when I’ve received less or more than what I felt was my fair share.  I know this, and I admit this.  It’s called privilege, and when it’s given to us we have the responsibility to acknowledge it and do right by it.  Otherwise, it becomes entitlement which is never, ever something to which most of us aspire.  Let me talk about my privilege and unearned grace:  I wouldn’t be who I am today if a major University hadn’t decided I was worthy of a full scholarship and took a risk to offer it to me.  I am not more “worthy” than a thousand other people whom they could have chosen.  They saw something in my application, took a risk, and that is how I came to have the opportunity to earn a PhD.  It would not have happened without that.  But even in this story, I know that someone else didn’t get chosen, just the way that I did get chosen.

At an earlier point in my life, I was one of the non-chosen.  I had applied for numerous scholarships when I decided to pursue my MSW degree.  I didn’t receive any of them.  I took out loans…lots of them.  I took a job, and lived in a very humbling condition for a year to make ends meet.  I took a leap of faith in myself that I could eventually pay them off.  During that year, I felt bitter when one of my class-mates frequently flaunted that she received a full tuition scholarship and felt my indignation burn when she bought herself a car, a new computer, and was missing a few weeks of class to go on a cruise.  Bitter, bitter, bitter.  I admit it (and I remember it to this day).  At graduation, we both walked across the stage and had the same degree, though.  That, in itself, was a privilege to which not everyone had equal access.

So, why did I feel so bitter?  And why are we so focused on getting “my fair share?” when we sometimes fail to see that we are still getting more advantages than some others.

One of the realities I ponder is that being given an opportunity, especially in contemporary U.S. society, reinforces that we are considered worthy.  Someone believes in us enough to hire us, to give us a scholarship, to advance us money for a business investment.  It must be something about us, or what we have done that makes us worthy in someone else’s eyes.  We are clamoring for that sense of worth, to reinforce our value.

Does that mean that those without opportunity are less valuable in society?  Have we been telling groups of people that with our actions?

Today, people sitting in my church and many others hear a Gospel reading where Jesus tells a different story.  The parable of the landowners (Matthew 20: 1-16) asks us to chew on a story where a fair wage is offered to people for a day of working the fields.  Some are hired early and work all day, some hired mid-day, and some at the end of the day.  Everyone receives the same agreed upon fair wage at the end of the day.  But, the wage doesn’t seem “fair” any more, because some worked longer and harder than others.

I go back to my own college experiences and my wrestling with “my fair share.”  Its the tale of two graduate degrees.  I worked for both.  One, I paid off over 15 years.  The other was given to me without cost.  Was one worth more than the other?  Did I work harder for one than the other?  Was one more “fair” than the other?

Perhaps the Gospel parable is telling us something not about the value of giving based on hard work, but about the gift of generosity and abundance.  Grace is not dolled out according to how good we are, nor how hard we work.  It’s given, freely, to everyone.

As amazing as that is, it means we have to check our assumptions at the table (perhaps literally).  It isn’t about our worth.  We are already worthy.  It isn’t about earning God’s love and acceptance.  We are already loved and accepted.  That person next to me is receiving the full abundance of God’s grace, as I am.  There is enough for everyone, and grace is abundant.

Maybe it is about being willing to be transformed, to open ourselves to giving and receiving grace in a radically different way than we see in society around us.  That changes how we relate to others.  It begs us to practice generosity and abundance, rather than functioning out of stinginess and scarcity.  That, my friends, is an act of faith.

Living in that faith, one small point of light at a time, brings me into contact with more than my fair share of radical grace.  For that, I am humbled and grateful.

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Share the Hedge

Posted on September 20, 2014 by harasprice

I was enjoying a gorgeous summer-autumn transition day out in my backyard today; the weather was so perfect that I brought my hedgehog out for a frolic in the garden. It occurred to me, as I snapped a photo of Clover enjoying this natural environment, that most people might find this scene a little absurd. When people ask if I have a pet, they are awaiting stories of a dog or a cat. While felines and canines are delightful species, I have always had a special place in my heart for this prickly-yet-adorable insectivore, the hedgehog.

The first hedgehog I met lived with its people in an apartment in Buffalo. It was the home of friends-of-a-friend who were hosting a small dinner party. It was a scene worth remembering: a tiny apartment with multiple cats, a dog, and a fully grown rooster living in a cage in the kitchen. The rooster was particularly memorable; our hosts had covered the cage with a towel to keep it from crowing, but as they served up some grilled chicken I couldn’t help but think it was probably best that he couldn’t see the consumption of his own kind. I think I just ate some vegetables and potatoes out of respect. After dinner, they brought out the newest household member, an African Pygmy Hedgehog. It was like love at first bristle.

That evening, their hedgehog entertained me with its curious sniffing, its prickly quills, and its cute face and soft, furry underbelly. There was no way I was getting a pet rooster, but the exotic sweetness of the hedgehog had captivated me. Months later, after research and searching, I drove an hour to the country to an advertised hedgehog owner who was willing to sell me a tiny, baby hedgehog. When I arrived I thought: it’s too young, and this place looks horrible. It was, sadly, the kind of place with hoarded animals and run down homes that I don’t like to think about. I bought the tiny, prickly hedgehog that day more to rescue it than out of trust that it was a healthy pet. I named the little ball of quills Thistle and fed him milk with an eye-dropper until he could eat high protein kitten chow.

Thistle lived with me in my tiny house, along with the resident cat-in-charge Shadow. The two never really warmed up to each other. Shadow would spend hours staring at the hedgehog in its cage, practically boring holes in it with her squinting cat eyes. I would assure her that I loved them both equally but differently, but she remained skeptical. One day, while Thistle was roaming freely, Shadow showed her disdain by turning around and sticking her backside to the hedgehog’s face. Thistle reacted as hedgehogs do, every quill extending as he curled into a ball, effectively stabbing the cat’s rear end with a hundred tiny pencil points and sending her reeling with a loud meow across the room. At that moment, once I could remove myself from rolling on the floor with laughter, I knew hedgehogs were fully capable of self-defense. Shadow and Thistle co-existed for several years in respectful distance after that incident.

Sadly, Thistle wasn’t a healthy hedgehog, and I ended up having to give him injections daily several times a year for a respiratory condition that is genetic with poor breeding. As traumatizing as this was for hedgehog and human, we had three fun years together apart from those treatments. Eventually, I buried my first hedgehog pet in the backyard garden where he loved to roam in the summertime.

I spent a lot of years pet-less while moving around the country in graduate school. Two years ago, my daughter became interested in having a pet, and when I introduced the hedgehog idea she was ecstatic. I didn’t know anyone in Virginia with a hedgehog at that time, and it took a while to find a quality, respectable breeder. We found one…three hours away. Undaunted, we made a visit to check it out and found ourselves delighted by the little, prickly creatures and their kind and meticulous breeder. After waiting several months, our Algerian Gray Pinto was born and, at an appropriate time, we picked him up and brought him home. Clover (named for a white patch of quills on his back) became a part of the family.

What is it that warms my heart about hedgehogs? Maybe it’s the sweet face and soft underbelly co-existing with spiny quills. It’s also the affectionate yet solitary lifestyle they keep, perfectly content alone while happy to be picked up, too. Thistle had a spot in the crook of my arm where he liked to snuggle. Clover prefers to climb to my shoulder and nuzzle his face between my neck and my ear. Bet you didn’t know hedgehogs were so affectionate, but indeed they are. Hedgehogs are all about embracing duality, as am I. Maybe they are my spirit animal.

Clover is a blessed little pet and I am a blessed human to enjoy his company. Literally, he has been blessed the past two years along with all the cats and dogs at my church’s blessing of the animals. Last year, he sniffed away at the boxwood sprig dipped in holy water as our priest said a little blessing, and I thought it was a sight that would have made St. Francis take delight. The year before he was the center of attention as our English born Rector took great delight at the hedgie in the midst of her congregation. How a small, spiny animal can bring such joy is an ordinary kind of miracle.

Today, enjoying sunshine and sweet grass with Clover was a small point of light in the daily ordinary. May the carefree frolic of the hedgehog light your path, too…

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Talking Turkey

Posted on September 18, 2014 by harasprice

There are some times when I have well thought out planning sessions on paper that involve flow charts and reasoned action. I visualize a big picture, create strategies to arrive at a destination, and bring in others who share my vision to be sure we accomplish what we set out to do. Even when situations appear chaotic, I generally have a plan in mind. Then, there are days like today, when a bold step forward thrusts me headlong into unplanned experience.

I am talking turkey from now until November. Of course, there is a story…

I have been working to balance my time between the research, teaching, and service which I am committed to in my paid employment, and volunteer work with my faith community that has become increasingly important to me. It was almost a year ago that I had a bit of extra time and went to help out at our food pantry one Thursday, instead of just bringing in cans and grocery bags. All donations are a huge help, so I was playing the same important role that so many people do every week. That day, one of the food pantry’s founders, Ray, had died. Our priest at the time had to be at another event, and wondered out loud if I would be willing to say some words about Ray and lead a prayer at food pantry. I said yes, of course.

I was not aware of the plans that would unfold from that Yes.

Something happened that day when I found myself helping in that space. I was so compelled to be present with our clients and volunteers. I kept coming back to help whenever possible, and couldn’t stop thinking about the unmet needs I saw and the ways that I knew social work skills could help. We didn’t have money. I didn’t really have weekly time. But one day, I realized I did have something perhaps more valuable: a few amazing social work friends, and the ability to create a student learning opportunity. Soon, I was planning and organizing a social work presence at the pantry, working with its leaders and workers who were already doing so much for so many. Amazing people came together to make this happen, and now we have a whole group of amazing volunteers and students engaged in helping. My workplace is even supporting some of my time as a supervisor for the field placement. Its a divinely inspired win-win.

The neighborhood where I live and work and worship is a food desert. There aren’t accessible stores for our many low income residents. Food and transportation justice are serious issues that impact people’s ability to break cycles of poverty. We have a person-centered model of helping where our parish hall gets transformed into a grocery store and shoppers assist clients with selecting fresh and non-perishable foods to supply three meals a day for three days, times the number of people living in the household. We add coffee and pastries, cut fruit and lemonade. Those who use the pantry are also encouraged to volunteer at the pantry on weeks they are not picking up food. We have become community, and its (mostly) beautiful.

We have huge challenges, too. Supply doesn’t always meet demand, and sometimes our wholesale suppliers raise prices or stop providing something we consider essential. There are the usual personality challenges, and risk of both volunteer and donor fatigue. We have risen from an average of 50 to nearly 100 households served weekly in the past year. That translates to feeding nearly 300 people each week. Now, as the season changes, we are thinking about Thanksgiving. Just as the turkey topic entered the conversation, the local food bank announced they would not be providing turkeys at wholesale prices any more. Quietly, we have been asking ourselves, “should we do turkeys this year?”

Today, the topic came up again and we realized the price and the financial drain turkeys would cost. At the same time, our clients were already talking about how amazing it is that they can come here and actually receive a turkey that will feed and nourish their family. Even the idea of turkeys was bringing thankfulness and gratitude.

I was speaking with the chair of the food pantry advisory board when I heard myself say: “I will take on the turkeys.”

What?? Did I really say that??

Yes, I did. I did not enter this day with a plan to fundraise for 400 turkeys, but I am leaving this evening with one. I have an in-person and media turkey fund-raising plan emerging, and just ordered 400 cut-out birds on which we will be writing notes of thankfulness with each donation. Giving is a prayer of thanks. Our parish hall will be increasing in turkeys of thanks as we wear our turkey hats and see if we can reach our goal. Enthusiasm is building before the first day of fall even arrives. Look for your opportunity to virtually participate coming soon, because from now until November, I will be talking turkey.

And we will be talking thanksgiving, and gratitude, and abundance.

Today’s small point of light is in the unknown of where this “Yes” will lead…even when talking turkey.

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Singing Solo

Posted on September 14, 2014 by harasprice

Anyone who has ever met my Dad has also had the pleasure of encountering his unique sense of humor and his unmistakable whistle.  When I say everyone…I mean everyone.  I’ve heard him tell jokes to physicians, surgeons, nurses, home care workers, customers, neighbors, local shop-keepers, and of course, funeral directors.  All have made note of the fact that he’s a one of a kind guy.  Truth.

As a consequence of genetics, biology, and/or family imprinting, I tend to find myself in situations of dry-witted story telling myself.  I am no where near as quick-witted as my Dad, I must admit, which is probably why I write stories more often than telling them out loud.  Likewise, I have sometimes found myself whistling a familial tune in inopportune places and spaces, but with far more air and less flair than their originator.  On more than one occasion, a story or joke will roll out of my mouth which arguably might have been better left in the family vault.  But, there it is….a tribute to inter-generational wit and whimsy.  Or at least, a solid attempt.

Yesterday, I spent the morning with my church choir at a three-hour retreat to kick off the choral season.  At the same time, another group was gathered in the parish hall participating in a social program with adults from our neighborhood group homes.  Mid-morning, we took a singing break and I strolled in to say hello to the volunteers and participants who were gathered.  There were snacks, coffee, conversation, and even the beloved therapy dog of one of our parish volunteers circulating about in the parish hall.  I sat down at a table with two elder gentlemen who were sipping coffee, but didn’t currently have anyone chatting with them.  I introduced myself, and we exchanged names: Sarah, Isaiah, Leon.  I told Isaiah that I could see we already had something in common…both having being named something biblical.  “Oh yes, indeed” he replied, “and they never let me forget it!”  I told him that was my experience, too.  Being given a biblical name is like being born with an instruction manual: expectations are high.  Leon then introduced himself and asked me if I was in charge of the church.  “Oh no, no…not any more than any one of us!” I quickly answered.  We are, in my mind, all in charge of being Church.  I added that I was there practicing with the choir but we were on break so I thought I’d come and say hello.  “Well,” Leon said in a charming voice, “then you must be the star of the choir!”

Isaiah piped in to offer his agreement.  “Oh no, definitely not!” I chuckled, setting the record straight with the two finely-finessed flatterers.  I wrinkled up my nose, thinking of my performance on the last piece we just sight-read before the break “Let’s just say I’ve been making a joyful noise.”  Leon laughed.  I went on to tell him that I did love to sing but that for me, the joy of singing in a choir is that I didn’t have to hit every one of the the notes, just enough of them so that between all of us, it comes out right in the end.  [I was glad, in that moment, my choir director was not listening to my explanation.]  At this point, Leon said that he remained sure I could sing a solo if I wanted to.  I did confess that I do that in church from time to time, but also that it makes me a lot more nervous.

Suddenly, as if my father had entered the parish hall, I could hear his voice in my ear.  In fact, one of my Dad’s jokes was ringing so loudly in my ear that I laughed out loud.

Both men paused to look at me quizzically as I laughed and shook my head.  I grinned at Leon, “I was just remembering that my Dad used to ask me to sing solo all the time…” I began.  Leon nodded, thinking a nice family story was about to unfold.

I leaned over to Leon and continued, “…he used to ask me to sing ‘So-Lo’ that he couldn’t hear me, that is!”

Well, to say that Leon belly-laughed would be an understatement.  True to my father’s comedic style, I also repeated the joke for Isaiah and soon the three of us were in near hysterics over the incredibly bad pun and its perfect timing.  Leon kept saying, “I ain’t never heard that one…oh my…that is a good one…I am going to remember that…oh, that is a good one!”  It had clearly made his day, and it was probably the hardest I myself had laughed in a week.

My break was over, and choir rehearsal begged me back.  I thanked my two table-mates for giving me some company and conversation and they did the same.

As I walked back to the choir room, I thought about the dozens of times that my Dad has dropped that line on me over the years.  Sometimes I would chuckle, or groan, or roll my eyes.  Sometimes in my angst-filled teenage years, I would feel offended and put-off in the way that adolescents do about air, water, and anything parental.  Today, I thought to myself, it would be fine by me if that joke existed for no other reason than to have planted in my memory so that I could share some laughter with those two kindly souls who were seeking shelter and socialization that day.  It was like a little piece of treasure, perfectly passed along exactly at the time it was needed.  Grace, dignity, and humor all in a precious moment of human connection.  Laughter is, indeed, the best medicine.

So, thanks, Dad.  From me, and Isaiah, and Leon.  Your one-of-a-kind humor was a small point of light where our paths intersected.  Now, go whistle a happy tune.  So-Lo.

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Night Air

Posted on September 13, 2014 by harasprice

There are a few aspects of southern style that have found a soft spot in my Yankee heart. Gradually, my once-standard northerner group greeting “Hey you guys!” has been replaced with the more genteel “All y’all…” Then, there is the perfectly drawled, “Bless your heart” which, properly delivered, can be saccharine sweet and sarcastically biting all in one breath. I have learned to appreciate that I must order my tea “unsweetened” deliberately, with a touch of apology. I need not apologize for my love of magnolia trees, nor for the beauty of wild growing wisteria that has wound around my heart. But, one less spoken of…yet delightful…aspect of traditional southern living is the sleeping porch. Even as I type, I am enjoying its ambiance.

I was raised in a climate where winter extended from October through April. Porches were only in front, or on the side, and I hoped it would get warm enough to sit on the porch for months at a time. Living in Buffalo, there was little need for central air conditioning, and my version of a “window unit” was a double-faced window fan that could circulate cool air on a warm night. I might have called those Buffalo nights “hot” at one point in my life. Bless my heart….

Here in Virginia, the climate is moderate and pleasant, except when it isn’t. When it isn’t, it can feel like a wall of heat has engulfed the region. More specifically, I feel like a potato stuck in an oven set on “roast.”. We moved here several years ago in July, just in time for a record-breaking string of days above 100F. Great timing. We had two window units, and no central air. The daytime was brutal, and the night wasn’t much better. Until, that is, we discovered why the tiny spare bedroom upstairs had an outdoor porch that extended the length of the house. Before there was air conditioning, there was the sleeping porch. In Virginia, it has year-round use.

Our house (and its porch) pre-dated air conditioning. A mixture of cheapness, stubbornness, and a desire to keep a low carbon footprint has kept us from installing central A/C. We have small units for a few specific rooms, and otherwise we live like earlier generations of residents. We have learned to love the night air, most especially on the upper back porch. We have porch blankets for cooler nights, the ceiling fan cranked for hotter nights, and many enjoyed just sitting exactly as it is.

I am in awe of the brilliance of an elevated porch where breezes can circulate. We added soft mesh curtains to keep the sun from heating up the brick exterior of the house; we installed a ceiling fan, bought a double chaise lounge, and scattered candles to softly light the night air. We declared this the grown-up porch and created a space where no toys dared to tread. Even now, only boring grown-up music plays up here, and no streaming netflix videos are allowed. I have sat on this porch in the rain, even a few times in the snow. I have felt the luminous moon casting light over my shoulder, and watched the breeze blow the tree limbs as it wraps around my own body, as if in familiar greeting. The sleeping porch is a sanctuary of calmness, and a place where night air soothes the work-day soul.

Tonight, I pause to breathe the night air….

It is delightfully cool for mid-September. A blanket throw covers my toes and Mary Chapin Carpenter plays on the soundtrack of this evening. Candles glow and flicker. I wonder how many nights were spent in this place, sheltered not quite beneath the stars but seemingly within their reach. My spouse drifts off on the other side of the chaise lounge, in the midst of music and coolness. The glow of my iPad is the only other light and soon, I will close its cover and enjoy the flicker of candles and stars in the night air. Like many nights, this will be the place for my night prayers, the time when my conscious thoughts take rest, and open the doorway to dreams from within and wisdom beyond. The words of compline will find me in this space, elevated between earth and sky.

Night air and night prayer…small points of light in the vastness that surrounds and enfolds me.

My heart, indeed, is blessed.

Sleep, O sleep in the calm of each calm.
Sleep, O sleep in the guidance of all guidance.
Sleep, O sleep in the love of all loves.
Sleep, O beloved, in the Lord of life.
Sleep, O beloved, in the God of life.
(Excerpt from Compline, http://www.northumbriacommunity.org)

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Try to Remember

Posted on September 11, 2014 by harasprice

I posted this last year, and it still echoes my thoughts and feelings about this day. May small points of light continue to shine on the path as we reflect and remember.

Grant, O God, that your holy and life-giving Spirit may so
move every human heart, and especially the hearts of the
people of this land, that barriers which divide us may
crumble, suspicions disappear, and hatreds cease; that our
divisions being healed, we may live in justice and peace;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

harasprice's avatarsmall points of light

When I lived in St. Louis, I became a fan of the outdoor musical theatre company called the MUNY, which generally performed 8 shows each summer at one week duration each. The MUNY experience involved 10,000 people sitting shoulder to shoulder in the heat of a Midwest summer night, no air conditioning, giant overhead fans on tall poles that only turned on before the performance, at intermission, and when the curtain calls ended.

The summer of 2002 at the MUNY opened with a play rarely performed in a setting of this nature: The Fantasticks. The Director at the time, Paul Blake, had specifically chosen that musical for that particular year, when the country was still reeling in the aftermath of the terrorists attacks on September 11, 2001. In his opening talk, he reflected that to him, the musical…and one song in particular…captured a spirit of shattered innocence mixed with…

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In Your Eyes

Posted on September 7, 2014 by harasprice

At dinner a few nights ago, my daughter asked, “what is the most important thing to remember in a social situation when you get nervous?” I answered, without hesitation: “Look people in the eyes.”

It seems like simple advice, I know. But, I continue to be amazed at its truth and poignancy.

Last night, it was pretty late. We’d been out to the movies, and I needed to stop at the store on the way home to pick up a few things to prep for coffee hour after church. My daughter is at her social best the later in the day it gets. By the time I had unloaded our items onto the conveyor, she had already struck up conversation with the person in line behind us, giving a “two thumbs up” movie critique. The two were chatting back and forth like old friends by the time the transaction was complete. I love seeing her like this, spontaneously engaged even with adults. I noticed that she was taking the lesson to heart, making eye contact. I was doing the same with the very tired cashier, who also smiled broadly as if seen for the first time when I looked him in the eyes and wished him a good night and thanked him for working. My heart was warmed as I placed the bags in my car, even though there was nothing exceptional about any of these events. Yet, there was something powerful about the connection. We were present…we saw each other…instead of simply going through the motions.

That is an everyday lesson which took on divine significance for me today.

Today, I was humbled and grateful to be in one of my favorite roles, serving at Holy Eucharist. I am always in awe of how much connection is palpable during this sacrament in ways both simple and profound. Maybe it is more noticeable because I grew up with a very different experience. Communion in my childhood was matzoh bits passed down the rows on a plate covered with a paper doily and grape juice in individual, sanitized cups. It had a sterility like those little processed “communion to go” kits that I saw someone tweet the other day. There was no touching, nor any human to human contact. It was a symbolic act, and a meaningful one I will admit. But there was not a tangible, human connection and even then I craved something more. I practiced serving my dolls and my teddy bears, and it was always more like a tea-party than a self-serve buffet.

As an adult, I also remember vividly how I was raised to think of humanity as deeply flawed, wretched, and sinful. Maybe that’s why the action of taking communion involved as little “human” as possible. The goal was to move away from our humanness toward God. It took me the better part of forty years to realize the power present when we understand our humanness…my own humanness…as created by God, and beloved of God. We move through the world differently when we see God reflected in the people we encounter, when we see the eyes of our neighbors as reflecting the Presence of God.

So, it is different for me now, theologically and practically. Everything about serving, assisting, receiving at Holy Eucharist is human-in-divine, and divine-in-human. But, for the purpose and scope of this blog, let me just talk about the practical. Let me tell a few stories…

First, there was the young child who was so excited to dip that bread she had been given into the cup that I held that I thought the whole row might be wearing sacramental wine stains. I looked into her wonder-filled eyes and said the same words as I do to the adults, and her face exploded in a huge smile as she said back, “the cup of salvation AMEN!” and popped that feast in her mouth with unrestrained joy. I think every person kneeling there felt the palpable presence of God in that moment. I certainly did.

Other moments, I look into the eyes of those I know well and those who know me well. Our roles at that table are to be something to each other that changes the world in ways both subtle and great. There is joy, and yearning, and the beauty and pain of life all wrapped together, intertwined in this community where we worship. This knowing is present, with the real presence of Christ, in the feast that we share. Surely, this sharing is how we become Church, feasting together.

Then, perhaps closest to my heart, I knelt to serve worshipers from a neighborhood group home who are faithful in their attendance even if unclear at times in their cognitive and psychological state. Each person’s eyes met my eyes, focusing even in that singular moment, around wholeness. These are divine moments, filled with palpable humanity and beloved community. Eyes are meeting, and hands grasping to find a place to hold, and my hands are there to meet and steady their fingers that would otherwise tremble. Wholeness, together, in that holy moment. It is so clear to me, so real, to know that we were all seen as whole, and human, and partakers together in Divine Presence. Amen, my sister the last person I served whispered to me as we shared this sacred feast.

Amen.

Friends, neighbors, strangers….in the grocery store, and at the communion rail…we have one craving, one human need that outweighs the others. We need to be seen. When we are seen, we can be known. When we are known, we can be loved. When we are loved, God is there in our midst.

small points of light.

In Your Eyes.

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The Week Back

Posted on September 5, 2014 by harasprice

There have been very few years of my life that haven’t involved a significant shift in schedule immediately following Labor Day. In all honesty, there have been only two years of my life since my own start of Kindergarten where I didn’t notice the significant shift in cadence of life this time of year. One was lost in the blur of my first year post MSW where I was transitioning from student to both practitioner and administrator. By the next year, I had learned the ropes enough to take on student interns, and two years later I would find my way back to the class-room as adjunct faculty…thus, bringing my cadence back to the school year pattern. The only other year without an academic cadence was the birth of my daughter…I took that Fall semester off after her August arrival while I was fully immersed in mothering. That was learning of another form and cadence altogether.

So, this year I indulged the last days of summer wistfully. My semester actually began a couple weeks ago, but I remained in semi-denial until my last long-weekend of summer vacation faded off into the tropical horizon. This week, it was back to alarm clocks, carpools, parents nights, and a full load of academic meetings and responsibilities. Within the crucible of the week, I have experienced some of my worst and my finest moments of parenting. I have arrived in my office in the morning, shut the door and relished a moment of silence where I could think with my own brain and not repeat, “is your homework done yet???” for the millionth time. Yet, by the end of my own work week, I practically fled my own campus today in wild anticipation of a quiet night of pizza, wine, and a reprieve from meetings, appointments, planning, and teaching. This is a crazy, busy whirlwind time while we await…and struggle with…the return of a cadence of life that we shed along with our sweaters as we forged from spring headlong into summer.

I am not blogging about this because I propose some grand solution to slow down the pace. I am writing because tonight I was realizing the beauty in this time of motion, and chaos, and exhausting new beginnings. I have found an inner calmness emerging within the chaos. I love feeling the energy of incoming college cohorts, seeing Facebook feeds full of shining, small faces filled with the promise of learning, and yes…even daily doses of the angsty, annoyed eye rolling of the adolescents (like my own child) who are caught in the crazy transition between innocence and maturity. This week I have been threatened with being flipped the bird whenever I produce a camera, and begged to take pictures of crazy moments like raccoons in trash cans in the middle of the city. I have been summoned into a messy room with a scream, then quietly asked, “can I have a hug?” It is a crazy whirlwind of time, energy, emotion, and relationship. It is crazy beautiful, too.

The week has been non-stop. But, tonight is calm. The moon is bright and reflects against my iPad as I write under her luminous glow. The stars are out, and the crickets chirp. The air is still warm, but the breeze has a hint of coolness, and I am reminded that the winds have shifted. In a few weeks, I will be waking just before my alarm instead of waking in a startled panic at the unfamiliar noise. I will be remembering intuitively what days I should see my daughter wearing PE clothes when she heads out the door, or when to pack a snack so my stomach doesn’t rumble when I teach into the evening. Routine will slip in, unaware, and it will feel like I let out a sigh as I move into the cadence of daily life.

Routine will sustain us until the urge to be free of it is so great that we rejoice again at our release. And so it goes, the beautiful and elegant cadence of a life lived fully.

Small points of light, within both the chaos and the cadence of life.

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“A fish cannot drown in water,
A bird does not fall in air.
In the fire of creation,
God doesn’t vanish:
The fire brightens.
Each creature God made
must live in its own true nature;
How could I resist my nature,
That lives for oneness with God?”
― Mechthild of Magdeburg, Meditations from Mechthild of Magdeburg

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Labor of Love

Posted on September 1, 2014 by harasprice

It’s Labor Day, that American holiday where we celebrate workers, summer, and back to school all rolled into one. My family and I spent most of the weekend relaxing at the water, but we came home in time for a day of transition before heading back to work and school tomorrow.

Even though Labor Day is associated with not working, I woke today with one intention: writing. Writing is my labor of love, and the book that has been forming inside me was clamoring to be released in words today. This sense of being compelled to write is new to me, and it is wonderful.

It was 6:30 this morning when I poured some coffee and made my nest in the sun room facing out to my patio at my laptop. I started strong on this book a few months ago and have been pushing myself forward chapter by chapter. It’s been sluggish, though, and I have been struggling a bit to find my voice. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block, because I have always known what I wanted to say. I haven’t been sure how to find my voice in a new genre, so I have been experimenting with tones from the highly academic to the extremely colloquial.

I took a break for a few weeks to work on the “spiritual autobiography” which is part of my application to be considered for ordination. At the time, I was surprised that I was so compelled to write my own story when this book had been knocking at my soul for so much longer. I also have no time pressure on the autobiography, so it goes against my grain to have prioritized it. But today, my writing took me to a place where I was discussing the importance and meaning of autobiographical writing. My writing about this had an authenticity that had been missing before. I realized that other than these short excerpts on my blog, I had never paused long enough to put my story into words. Suddenly, the meaning and significance of what I was writing about clicked in a deeply personal way.

I have been learning to honor wisdom on my journey, so this realization together with the events that transpired from Friday through today make sense in that context. I have been feeling a tug in my spirit about a framework for my book. Floating in the brackish waters I recently wrote about solidified who I am, and how to embrace convergence in my identity. That gave me the inspiration today to sit, and write, and allow the voices of my experience to converge into words.

At around 5:00 this afternoon, I finally stopped writing when I realized that the words that my fingers had just finished typing were the same visual image that I had been gifted with a year ago. It was like that gift had been percolating deep within me, and had finally found the right time to spring to life. I moved from writing, to praying. My prayers were sheer gratitude.

This Labor Day, I am exuberant about the emergence of this labor of love as it begins to take shape. I am grateful tonight for the small point of light that emanates in writing, from words that flow from my soul.

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Brackish Water

Posted on August 30, 2014 by harasprice

Until I moved to Virginia, the term “brackish water” wasn’t a part of my vocabulary. I had visited oceans with crashing waves and salt-laden shores. I had spent time splashing in the fresh water Great Lakes and watching barges push along the muddy Mississippi. I had floated down the Missouri on inner tubes and basked in the cool river currents during the heat of Midwest summers. Yet, I had never navigated brackish waters.

The little cinder block beach cabin on an estuary of the Chesapeake Bay was an accidental find while I was trying to locate an affordable beach rental for a weekend family get-away. I went through several searches of private and public listings, hoping to find some rental of less than a week that was available in late summer and didn’t cost half my summer salary. Quite accidentally, I booked a beach house in a different town than I had intended. We researched the destination and somewhat hesitantly tried out the not-quite-beach, not-quite-river location. Instead, for us, it was both. Now, it’s our yearly escape, a pilgrimage marking the end of summer and ushering in a new year of school for a family of teachers and students. Like the brackish water of the bay, it has also become our place in-between.

I was thinking about the nature of brackish water today as I submersed myself into its depths. It was nearing high tide, and the sun began to burn through the overcast clouds of the morning. It has been a cooler than usual summer, and the water was surprisingly chilly for the south. I hesitated briefly as I waded, then quickly decided to go all in, swimming past the seaweed of the cove and out past the rocky barriers demarcating the shallow tidal basin. I swam just past the point where my toes could touch the bottom. There, I extended my legs downward, stretched out my arms, and turned my face to the sky. I was carried completely in this position by the waves of the tides, the currents of the river and the slight salinity of this place where fresh water and salt water converge.

Brackish water is neither purely fresh water, nor salt water. It’s name was purportedly derived from the Dutch brak meaning “salty.” But, I can also imagine that after an accidental mouthful of something assumed to be drinkable, people would wildly shake their heads after spitting it out, with mouth still pursed, and pronounce it brackish simply by taste. Either way, the non-potable brackish waters of this particular place are nonetheless soothing to my soul, and nurturing to my spirit. Today, that was true more than ever.

As I floated, arms outstretched, I closed my eyes as the water carried me in a trusting embrace. As the brackish waters lapped around me, my head and my heart converged in the realization of how these waters are a metaphor for my life. For a long time, I thought of myself as living in a place where I was apart from belonging. Caught in the middle waters, I have spent various points in my life being neither religious nor atheist; neither practitioner nor researcher; neither straight nor gay; neither an only child nor a person with siblings; neither Christian nor Pagan; neither micro nor macro. In my profession, in my faith, in my living…I have often found myself on the journey in a place somewhere in-between. For a long time, I chose to wear my separateness as a badge of honor. It was also a way to distance myself from full belonging with either group for fear that I would be found out, rejected, considered an outsider. This was with good reason: it was a self-protective response to having been hurt, rejected, and not fully known nor understood.

But, as the brackish waters lapped around my floating form today, I could feel their fullness. My life, like these waters, has become a convergence. Currents cool and warm brushed my skin, and tidal pull and river current worked in tandem to keep me suspended, upright with arms extended in open welcome to the river and the sea. My brackish form, floating in brackish water welcomed the “Both/And” of this time in my life, echoing my soul’s belonging as I continue to unfold into simple, authentic being. I realized, without a hint of irony, that even my posture held the most archetypal symbolism of my Christianity surrounded simultaneously by every element of the natural world in which my spirit is nurtured in repose.

In my floating meditation, I heard a splash close by and saw a fish leaping and gleaming in the sunlight. As I closed my eyes again, another splash caught my attention over my other shoulder. I leaned in that direction, opening my eyes expecting to see another fish. Instead, a Great Blue Heron had lighted from the rocks to the water. Now only an arm’s length from me, the majestic bird met my gaze, stretched out its neck and dove deeply into the brackish waters in which we swam. We continued this dance, circling each other without fear or hesitation. We both belonged.

You don’t have to love the brackish waters. You may love the ocean’s rush, or the river’s constant flow. But the brackish nature of my being flourishes in this space between, where convergence produces wholeness in the intermingling of the waters. Here I belong; I am baptized into the fullness of embracing the Both/And of my being.

Radiant points of light, glistening on the brackish waters.

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