Renewal and Resurrection

On Peace and Resistance

A few weeks ago, I attended a Peace Conference at Lake Junaluska. When I signed up to go, I was unsure of what I might learn from those three days, but it was time well spent. The keynote speakers and workshops were both hopeful and practical, and the worship was life-giving. I’m glad I went.

The weekend has had me thinking broadly about what we mean when we talk about peace. On a world-wide level, we may think of peace making efforts in other countries, high-level negotiations with diplomats and heads of state. It seems distant, and yet the lack of peace in far away places does have an impact on us, sometimes financially, or at least morally. No one wants to see bombed out zones where people live and work, especially when the lives lost are of children and other non-military ordinary people just trying to live their lives.

While we were at Lake J for the peace conference, there were peaceful protests all around us, including one in nearby Waynesville. The “hands off” protests happened all over the U.S., and even in some other countries alarmed by the actions of our national leadership as programs, jobs, and whole agencies and departments have been gutted, resulting in real harm to real people’s lives and livelihoods.

Sometimes when we talk about peace, it is a very personal peace. As someone who is half extrovert and half introvert (according to every Myers-Briggs assessment I have done), I do enjoy being around people, about half the time. But both evenings of the Peace Conference had me “peopled out” and ready for some personal peace and quiet.

One of the songs we sang during our worship one day was one that I had sung in 4-H talent shows when I was a teenager. Let There Be Peace On Earth was a song popular at the time. Also popular in the 70’s was the 1971 Coco-Cola Commercial I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing. Singing it again with a whole room full of people brought back all the warm fuzzies of my misspent youth.

Since the Peace Conference, I have been busy putting some ideas from that conference to work, trying to keep up with my self-imposed reading schedule, and, oh yes, participating in the Artist’s Way practices with a group of inspiring folks going on this journey with me.

We’ve also marked the days of Holy Week and celebrated Easter. I’ve been trying to carve out time for all sorts of activities, meetings, and frankly, a little time to let my head, my heart, and my body recuperate from all of these (and more) activities.

As we head into spring, graduations will be happening, family and friends may be having cookouts and long weekend trips for Memorial Day weekend, gathering for Mother’s Day, and the list seems to go on and on.

I just want to keep with me the idea of peace, and how I can add to peace-making practices both on a world-wide/nationwide/state-wide/local community level, but also personally. I want to make more time to write, beyond the brain-dump “morning pages” from my practicing the Artist’s Way, and to continue to write and share some of that here, and also on my personal social media.

This time of year seems to nudge me to write poetry, so I’ll end this by sharing a few poems from the season of Lent and Easter in years past. If you are a new subscriber, thanks for finding me! And for my faithful ones who wonder why I haven’t been publishing more substack posts lately, thanks for your patience.

Here’s a few poems from years past:

A Song for Good Friday

You who were too young
And you who were too old,
You who lived long and happy,
And you who never could hold on to
Enough,
Today, for you,
Someone else carries
The burden,
Today, for you,
The sum of your days
Matters less than the
Measure of the immeasurable essence
Of who you are
Who you were.
We who still walk the green earth,
And lay flowers at your grave,
We trace your name engraved in cold granite,
Remembering the flesh and blood and being
That we held and loved,
For long, or for oh, too short a time.
We grieve, no matter the circumstance,
Whether we lost you with a cry and a gasp,
Or with a slow, moaning ache that lasted
Months or years.
We grieve,
We mourn,
And yet,
Today,
Of all days,
We know that we, also,
Do not carry this weight
Alone.
Holy hands have come along side you,
Sacred feet, walk even now,
Beside us,
Cresting whatever hill we climb,
Wherever the endless valley leads,
Past the horizon that may seem forever away.
Today, we may embrace our pain,
Remember yours,
But then wrap it all in linen cloth,
Put away in a dark, cool place,
Protected, guarded, waiting.
Today, we suffer, but not alone.
We sit in silence,
Taking account of our failings,
Falling on merciful hands.
Time now to rest,
To heal.
We wait.
Sunday's coming.
~Amy Vaughan April 14, 2017

Waiting

The soil has been carefully prepared.
Fine soil, big pieces of decayed twigs removed.
Water, 
And the seed.
Tiny, yet full of potential,
We plant,
And wait,
And watch.
We have been carefully preparing,
Forty days of letting go,
Days where we examine what needs
To be removed.
Water, the tears of 
Thursday evening and Friday,
When no words will convey
The emptiness we feel.
And the seed 
A distant collective memory,
Planted,
Wrapped in spices and linen,
Laid to rest in a garden,
Sealed and guarded.
This ashy gray Saturday,
Wind whispering through branches
That are trying to bud,
Remind me that sometimes 
The wait for the seed to 
Break through the crust of earth
The wait for life to be 
Renewed,
The waiting prepares the heart.
Surprising joy cannot 
Break free from that sealed and guarded
Burial,
Without the wait.
Time now for silence.
Time now to gently hold the space
Between yesterday's
Sorrow
And tomorrow's 
Joy.
Time today is the soft, downy feathers
Of the bird we hold in our hands.
Time now to look at the place
Where the seed is buried.
To take all forty days 
Of self-examination and all the 
Lessons learned,
And sit in darkened rooms
Waiting to hear the heartbeat
Of the resurrection morning.
~Amy Vaughan April 4, 2015


An Easter Retrospective

We cowered behind locked doors, afraid that what had happened to you 
Would be our fate as well.  How could you blame us?
The scene had been brutal, and we were terrified, 
And ashamed, that we had fallen behind, left you to pray alone.
We had not been able to protect you from the mockery and the scorn
Of that angry mob.  We denied even being in your presence.

How could we know? You had told us, but we had not seen, 
We could not imagine.  We had heard, but we could not believe.

With the persistence of those women, the followers who anointed you 
While you were here, who sat at your feet with genuine desire to hear,
The ones who reached to touch the hem of your garment,
The ones you reached down to lift up, the foreigner by the well.
The ones in distant and encumbered history who hid prophets in reeds,
Prophetic voices in their own right.  Who sang songs of unequivocal praise,
Who conquered kings and saved their people. Who would later hide saints
From sure destruction.  Who would build schools and hold unwanted children,
And be forever so in love with you that they would give their lives,
Take up their own crosses and follow you. ,

How fitting, then, that while we cowered in that hidden room, afraid,
These women came to do for you what must be done,
To bravely go and anoint you once more.
How fitting that they would be the first ones to know,
With their own eyes, that what you said was true.
They would be the first ones to go, and share, the Good News.
~Amy Vaughan  2016


What if

We expect egg hunts and chocolate
Hallelujah choruses and Sunday brunches
With ham and asparagus and a coconut cake
Shaped like a bunny. We expect the familiar after so many centuries of celebrating.

The empty tomb that surprised those faithful women 
Two thousand years ago is old news to us,
Easy to dismiss as irrelevant.
What if we expect the unexpected this Easter? What if our egg hunts  are rained out, and our choir members all  have laryngitis and perform in silent sign language.
What if the ham is spoiled  And the cake doesn't rise?

What if the child you hold in your arms isn't what you expected? What if the blessing blooms in a different color?

Isn't that just like Jesus lived and died?
Offering breath-taking surprises, and a new way of living.
~Amy Vaughan  March 24, 2014

Mama's Azaleas

In the fullness of spring
I see your azaleas come
To life, and
The jonquils you planted
Among the bluebells
And monkey grass.

Here is the live oak tree
And those odd shrubs with 
Yellow spotted leaves,
Even the porch swing 
Placed by your hands.

Your hands join with
God's hands every year,
To remind me
Of renewal, 
A gentle splash of water
To wake me up
To beauty all round.

You planted many things,
Even in me.
Would that I could be the 
Bloom of spring,
Signal of renewal.

Awake, now, 
Let us plant today,
So that there will be 
Beauty blooming in all
Of our tomorrows.
~Amy Vaughan           April 12, 2017