the whelming flood

His oath, his covenant, his blood,
Support me in the whelming flood;
When all around my soul gives way,
He then is all my hope and stay.

(My hope is built on nothing less, by Edward Mote, 1837)

I hadn't been thinking about this old hymn, the new Noah movie, or any number of flood-related metaphors when I had a vivid dream the other night. "Whelming flood," a phrase I remembered from this old song, however, describes it quite well.

Being more realistic than it has a right to be, it was one of those dreams that will stick with me awhile, as my subconscious makes an attempt to give it meaning before it is safely filed away in my memory.

The dream begins with the promise of food and fellowship, and though I am only able to identify one friend around a long wooden table, the others who have gathered have kind faces. It feels like the type of dinner one has at the end of a retreat after laughter and tears accompany the stories told about our journeys through life. And with the emotional energy it takes for prayer and reflection, a hearty meal is a welcomed treat. Though I do not see or smell the food in the room, I am certain it is about to be offered to us. I await it in eager anticipation.

I find a place to sit at the end of a bench seat in this basement room, no doubt in a church, and revel in the idea of all being invited to the table, a concept I have considered often. And there we all are--all different yet all united within this common bond of love we have one for another.

As some talk quietly among themselves, an older woman sitting next to me asks if I am ready for my feet to get wet. She smiles with a knowing look as if I am supposed to know what she is talking about. I have no idea. Because we are in a basement room I suddenly notice a large storm drain a few inches from my feet and wonder if water will somehow back up and flood the floor. Surely we would not be made to endure something so uncomfortable in the midst of this grand occasion.

A woman, standing at the head of the table, about to give the blessing and instructions about proceeding with the meal, calmly tells us we should put our heads down, preferably under the table. I watch the others do this without question. I am beginning to feel more than a little unsettled. I hear a loud rumbling sound coming from outside the window. It is dark and the large window near the ceiling of this room reveals no more than our leader has. As I begin to sense that something other than dinner is about to be served, I can hear the glass breaking as a powerful wave of water rushes at us with an overwhelming force.

My last thought is, "Why hadn't someone told me what to expect?"

Funny thing about dreams is that they often have absolutely nothing to do with our reality. Never mind the elder retreat held in our church hall that I just attended; the dinner around a table with those I do not know well; the group exercise led by a woman who guided us through a process giving us only one piece of information at a time; my status as a newly ordained elder "getting my feet wet" as I am at times overwhelmed by the flood of information I am supposed to make immediate decisions on and not ever knowing what to expect at the next session meeting. Any semblance this dream may have to my real life is purely coincidental.

my name is not melanie

My name is not Melanie. It never has been or has ever wanted to be. I would have been named Debbie if my famous namesake, Debbie Reynolds, had not gotten a divorce, which turned my mother against the idea of naming me after her. So since I could not be named Jeffrey James, for obvious reasons, I was named after my mother's grandmother, Mary, and not after the Virgin Mary as some have assumed since I did grow up in a Catholic household. Of course this gave my devoted Catholic mother a legitimate reason to name me Mary, just in case my father's Protestant relatives were wondering. The Ellen part is an attempt to name me in some way after my father whose middle name is Allen.

It would not be until I started school that I was called anything but Mary. Because it was 1966 and Mary was a popular name, there were five little Marys which presented a problem for me and my need for an independent identity. I decided then and there that I could not possibly go through life as Mary Tate, or Mary T. as called by the teacher taking roll. To me my name was about as exciting as Jane Doe. So I suggested that the teacher call me Mary Ellen and though in the future I would have to endure, "Good Night, Mary Ellen . . . John Boy. . . Jim Bob . . . ,"  it seemed to be a better choice.

By the time I got to college, the nicknames began. M. E. was the most popular. Tate also worked until it evolved into Tater. A farm girl with freckles who liked to go barefoot could not possibly be helped by being called Tater. A wonderful graduate student who thought I looked like Meryl Streep called me Meryl, while a close guy friend whom I should never have dated called me Merlin. I think by this time each person I knew felt a responsibility to come up with his/her own name to call me. It gave them all a challenge.

The tricky thing about nicknames is that when one creates a term of endearment, it can be awkward if others try to use it. When my mother attempted to call me Melba, the nickname coined by my friend, Tia, I had to put a stop to it. Of course my mother may have been trying to get my attention since she decided once I became an adult I should call her Mother instead of Mama, like I have been doing ever since I can remember. She even started calling me Mary Ellen instead of Mary perhaps to emphasize the point that even she could change. I didn't buy it.

As I entered my young adult years and had moved away from the people who knew me by whatever name they had decided to call me, I thought at one point of referring to myself only as Ellen. There are not nearly as many Ellens running around as there are Marys. (Of course there is now one on television who is always dancing.) The name Ellen seems to stand on its own, unlike Mary which always seems to have another name attached to it. If I had gone with the name Ellen, someone undoubtedly would have started calling me E. T. and though I tend to be a bit otherworldly at times, I'm not sure being compared to a strange-looking creature would have reduced my insecure tendencies.  

I have possibly been called all of the following more than once: Mary Ann, Mary Kay, Mary Sue, Mary Lou, Mary Beth, Mary Alice, Mary Frances, Mary Jane, Mary Helen, and Sue Ellen. I've also been mistaken for other people quite frequently but that is a whole other story. My twin goes to the local synagogue I am told. I wonder what her name is.

In recent years I have been called Melanie probably more than any other name that is not mine. It is unfortunate that there is a woman with the same married name as me who actually has this name--unfortunate for me, not her. We used to go to the same church. I could never understand why when there were at least four or five Melanies and only ONE Mary Ellen that I would be called Melanie. I still don't.

So today, when a very sweet woman, excited to see me and hug me, exclaimed, "Melanie!" my heart sort of sank a little. When I corrected her, like I usually do, she said she was close. She wasn't.

superhero powers

"If you could have one superhero power, which one would you choose and why?" could be an icebreaker question. Children, who think they ARE superheroes, do well with this sort of exercise. The rest of us search our brains for images of caped crusaders, and those with well-kept aliases that enable the superheroes to blend in with society until needed.

I used to think it would be an awesome superhero power to become invisible. Like the character, Violet, who was the daughter in the movie The Incredibles, I thought it would be fun to have the ability to literally "blend" into the wallpaper. She could listen to what others would say about her when they thought she was no longer with them. She could spy on people to see what they would do behind her back. On the surface this power seems to be the greatest thing ever. The reality of living it out, however, is something quite different.

Desiring to be unnoticed may be the dream of an awkward adolescent girl but as one gets older it is nice to be recognized. It makes one feel good to receive a compliment about a change in appearance. Always wondering whether or not I am presenting myself well, it is helpful to get a little feedback once in awhile. Blending in no longer holds much of an appeal. Distinguishing oneself is preferred.

In the workplace it is wonderful to be seen as competent. An evaluation is sufficient but a kind word goes much further. If what we do does not seem to matter, then why do it? Again, who wants to be invisible when those who stand out are the ones most people are attracted to?

Being left out is not exactly the same as being invisible, but it hurts just as much. When I'm left out I wonder if by chance those superhero powers kicked in, making me invisible without me even knowing it. Then I have to analyze the scenario to figure out if my being left out was intentional or not. If I was not meant to be left out, then all is well. If I was, then why? If there is no explanation about being left out, then I become invisible. Even superhero powers have flaws.

A child will become angry when ignored by another child and demand to know the reason. Grown-ups are supposed to act in ways more becoming. But instead they usually do not say anything. They go about their lives pretending that they are perfectly visible and if someone cannot "see" them it is that other person's fault and not their own. They withdraw and find ways to soothe themselves.

Yesterday, after feeling like I had somehow tapped into the amazing superhero power of invisibility, I went to the pool and did laps until I was out of breath. I came home and created a pasta sauce from scratch that tasted delicious. I had dinner with my family. And for the first time that day, I became visible again.

one hour

From Ash Wednesday--in which the sign of the cross made on our foreheads with ashes, while the words, "From dust you once were to dust you shall return" are uttered, or at least that is what I'm hearing in my head--to Easter morning, those of us who follow the ways of Jesus are supposed to do something different to commemorate this time called Lent. Giving up a food item that one loves is a standard course of action.

As a child I was not sure I could trust myself to give up chocolate since I loved it so much. All these years later I wonder the same thing. And even though my pastor tells the congregation that doing something so trivial like giving up chocolate is not really the point because we should be focusing on loving others or giving sacrificially of our time or money to offer assistance to someone in need, he obviously has no idea how difficult it is for someone like me to give up chocolate! It is more than just a food group. It is right up there with coffee. (I shudder to think of what I would do if anyone ever suggested I give up that!)

Chocolate has been known to have properties to alter the chemicals in one's brain and give that person a greater sense of well-being. As if I don't need to have that going on! A little dark chocolate is even supposed to be good for you. Well, at least it isn't supposed to be as bad for you as other things. And I find that keeping chocolate chips in the freezer so I can just reach in and get a handful when I need them, which is at least once a day, helps me in the long run to be a better person. I really only need a few pieces of chocolate crunching between my teeth and then melting in my mouth to help me regain my sanity perhaps lost when I left the house that morning and went out into the world. Chocolate grounds me in the reality of love and peace. It makes me happy. It also goes well with coffee. I do not like to go without it. At all. Ever.

That being said, I stumbled upon a bigger challenge this lenten season that I hesitate to even mention, especially since I'm kind of failing at it--miserably. If you've ever gone to church or read the gospels, there is the account of Jesus heading to the Garden of Gethsemane where he asks his friends to keep watch and pray while he goes off to inquire as to whether or not he really has to go through the fate we learned about in Sunday school as children (unless you were raised Catholic and then you didn't go to Sunday school but went to catechism on Wednesday nights).

As it is written, Jesus comes back to find his friends asleep. It was probably late and they had already enjoyed what they did not yet know was their last supper with him (aka Passover) so they had reasons for being sleepy after eating a big meal and no doubt having wine to go with it. But the tone of Jesus' voice that I hear when I read, "Could you not keep watch for one hour?" sounds lonely and disappointed. I picture the men wiping the sleep from their eyes vowing to never fall asleep again. But they do. According to the account, they fall asleep two more times.

Trying to do something different this year for Lent and even giving consideration to how meaningless it supposedly is to give up chocolate (even though giving it up has forced me to pray more than once, by the way) I thought about Jesus' request and wondered if I could keep watch for one hour. Could I make one hour a day a time of prayer and reflection? Could I give that much to God?

So first I tried to define what that one hour would look like. Could I be exercising? If running is too strenuous (and trust me, it is) what about a nice, peaceful walk in the woods? Could I take the dog since he needs to be walked anyway? What about sewing? I can sit in silence stitching and praying, right? Would that meet the requirement? What about cleaning? Or cooking? I can't possibly stop doing all of my work, can I?

The still small voice has continued to ask me to just pray. For one hour a day--give my time, my energy, my heart, soul, mind and strength to God. It is the most challenging thing I have ever tried to do.

assumptions

NEVER ASSUME ANYTHING, were the words my journalism professor wrote on a chalk board in the old journalism building at Michigan State University in the fall of 1979 as the leaves changed colors and my new educational adventure began. As he turned to face the small group of wide-eyed freshmen, each seated in front of a manual typewriter--already outdated as we had been typing on electric typewriters in high school for years--he offered this explanation: Because when you ASSUME, you make an ASS out of U and an ASS out of ME, as he underlined parts of the word "assume" to make his point. This has continued to be one of my life mottos.

Though I try never to assume anything, many others do. This became clear to me in our recent ice storm.

Choices present themselves to each person when it comes to deciding how to navigate oneself through this life, and when temperatures plummet causing ice to form, trees to break and power lines to snap, there are different ways in which to handle this situation. Because we actually choose to live without electricity for at least a week a year when we camp, we are well-equipped with the kind of coolers that will keep food cold in the middle of a North Carolina summer for up to four days and can certainly stand up to the demands of cold weather. Our Coleman camp stove preexists our marriage and though I have never successfully lit the thing, I am married to someone who can. So boiling water for coffee that we grind with a hand grinder and later cooking a variety of tempting meals is not a problem.

Because we live in a subdivision with community wells, the water remains on during times when electricity is nonexistent so we are able to use the facilities and even wash our dishes by hand--something I had grown quite accustomed to in the time it took for us to replace our broken dishwasher. Lanterns and flashlights are always at the ready if we need them, and that Y2K candle we pull out now and then still has a ways to go before it will be used up. A book light clipped to my sweatshirt as a sort of beacon to ward off the darkness, giving me a Borg-like appearance (if you are a Star Trek fan), provided an amazing amount of light and entertainment as we were growing bored playing cards.

We had installed a gas fireplace after the last time we went without power quite a few years ago for a period of 9 or 10 days vowing to never be that cold again. At that time the fireplace stood empty and though we were not supposed to be making a real fire in it, we did just that to keep ourselves from freezing. When our furnace then did not work after the power had come back on and we had to call a repairman, he looked at me with kindness in his eyes and said, "Ma'am, it is colder in your house than it is outside," as I tried to hold it together and not seem as hysterical as I felt. As if being wrapped in a blanket, wearing layers of mismatched clothes, wandering around in a dark, cold house that was getting messier by the minute, smelling like smoke, with children clutching my knees begging for their next meal was not enough to give him a true sense of what I was up against.

But my little boys have grown into men--men with friends who had electricity or generators they could spend time with as we had little to offer that resembled their normal lives. The best we could do was take them to the health club for hot showers. Our monthly budget did not allow for turning this natural disaster into some sort of vacation. So we endured.

Because we live outside of the city limits, it took longer for our power to be restored and those I work with in town offered me much compassion and kindness as I had to return to work before our household would be returned to normal. Days without electricity seemingly stretch on a lot longer as everything stops and the work of survival becomes the constant. Though some people bunked with friends and family or found adequate accommodations at a local hotel, these were not options for us. We would make do with what we had.

At four o'clock in the afternoon as I was staring at the men gathered outside of my house on day number five, feeling less charitable than ever yet knowing these men were really tired and I should be feeling grateful that they were working so hard on my behalf, I instead felt like yelling at them Clint Eastwood-style, "Get off my lawn!" Gabriel, home from college for what he will consider the worst spring break of his life, first heard the beeps as we saw the beginning flickers of our house coming back to life. But my joy was short-lived as cable/internet remained dormant.

I then went to work and everyone rejoiced that power was restored. When I pointed out that I was still without cable and internet they laughed and told me to get over it. How sad it would be for me to miss my favorite programs, they said rather mockingly. I don't care about television, I said. I have been cut off from the world. It was as though I were speaking in a foreign tongue. Oh, by the way, why hadn't I responded to the recent emails sent by our director, she wondered. Why did I not participate in the online discussion we were supposedly having about choosing make-up days at our preschool? Why had I not posted on Facebook or seen the posts of others? Why did I go room to room before our power was restored looking for a phone charger for my old, outdated cell phone that was about to die?!

My plight became a joke. Though I got to see the hundreds of emails (most of them not vital) one afternoon at Starbucks on my son's laptop, I was still living an unrestored life. Though others assumed I could communicate, we could only call out on the old rotary phone hard-wired into our house from the previous owners that still works when the power goes out, and call or text with our cell phones. Technologically-limited, I tried not to assume that others would bear me any ill will. I forgave them for making assumptions.

Yesterday, one week since my connection to my world had died, I decided to go to the public library as was suggested by those who would never do this. Walking inside I realized how much I missed going to the library and how much things have changed with our online lives. As I went about searching for a computer, and not finding one available in the whole place, a calm came over me and I decided to go shopping at the thrift store run by the junior league. I knew this would cheer me up. I thought about how the women who had donated those clothes no doubt had whole house generators or the means to spend time at their vacation homes with every modern convenience. As I was buying another skirt for the kind of prices even I can afford, I noticed a handwritten sign with a word misspelled, giving me momentary satisfaction. I thought about my first boss always saying, "If they are so smart, they should be rich" as I walked to the minivan trying to prepare myself to go home to my communication-less life. I AM smart. I SHOULD be rich.

Unable to handle seeing that flashing orange light that indicates that internet is not working, I chose to instead turn on the television, and there in living color were programs that I was glad to see even if I did not care to watch them. I ran to my computer, took a deep breath and life began again.

untitled

Most of what I've written lately, I have deleted. Or my writings remain in a draft form with the hope of getting rewritten and being posted someday. It isn't exactly writer's block. It is more like a writer's flood--carrying with it all in its path whether it be considered debris or something of worth.

Titles and topics come at me when I least expect it. Sometimes I am not near my computer when inspiration finds me. And though I make an effort to jot down a few notes in the margins of whatever paper I can find at the time, I usually cannot figure out what had so captivated me when I come across these notes again.

Provocative lead sentences form themselves but then I head off in a direction I did not intend to go. I want to speak into the lives of those reading my blog without sounding self-serving or preachy. I prefer honesty over the infinite variety of ways in which the truth can be expressed, but sometimes I can't quite get there.

The image of thoughts as liquid filling up the reservoir of my mind came to me this morning in the shower. When the many thoughts spill over they seem to take on the form of tears to the innocent passersby. I then have to take a deep breath and try to hold it together. No one wants to go near the weeping writer.

I wanted to write about spaciousness and how that is beginning to form my idea of community within the church. I hope to put into words exactly what I mean by that. I may need to live it a while longer first. I tried to write about the concept of holding on to something to preserve it, but had to come to terms with how this represents the way I try to avoid loss. Didn't even want to go there.

Desiring to be clever and thought to be intelligent, I sit in my pink polka-dotted pajama bottoms, my Birkenstock clogs that are not keeping my feet as warm as slippers would, and my oversized gray sweatshirt that covers over a multitude of whatever I need it to. I try to delve into the depths of my mind so I can have my cathartic creative moment of the day and move on to cleaning the kitchen, doing the laundry and making cookies.

And yet, all that is coming to my mind at this moment is the tomato basil soup I just bought from Costco yesterday while trying not to run into someone as my windshield wipers completely froze up, simulating for me what driving would be like if I were not wearing my glasses, and the quesadillas I will make to go with it.

tea time

"I've been invited to have tea at the O'Henry Hotel this afternoon," I told the man I regularly buy espresso blend coffee from at the Market on Saturday mornings, after consuming the thermos of coffee I had already brought from home. He asked whether or not I would be bringing my own coffee to the tea and we laughed knowing that I sure would like to. But I managed to resist the temptation.

Walking into this beautiful hotel I was excited to have been invited to attend the birthday party for a friend. It was a beautiful place to sit even if the beverage of choice was going to be tea. I was instantly transported to a feeling of being on vacation that a person with my budgetary restraints does not experience often.

I then wondered who would be on the guest list. I had gone to church years ago with the guest of honor as well as the two women organizing the party, but the rest of the party guests would be new to me. Connections were made and stories shared. This town is just not big enough for the paths not to have crossed at some point. It always interests me which details one is going to include in an introductory presentation of oneself. Wondering if I should add to the details given by the woman introducing me, I relaxed and let my story be told according to someone else. It did not necessarily matter that all of my recent endeavors were not revealed because at that moment all I felt was a deep sense of gratitude. Not only that I was invited to this special party but that I had made a positive difference in someone's life.

Three pots of tea, several plates of scones with lemon curd and clotted cream, and a whole tiered plate structure containing sweet and savory treats were delivered to the table. Conversation revolved around how we each knew the birthday girl and what roles we had played in her life up until this point in time. We had been hand-picked to fill in our part of her life story--scripted by God and lived out one year at a time.

As the last bites of mini quiche, cucumber sandwich and tiny confections were taken, one of the women suggested we go around this circle of six friends to share what it is about this person that so moves us to love her. The beauty of honesty is breathtaking. Everything from wanting to run along side her, literally and figuratively, to thanking her for friendship in the midst of hardship, to being inspired for her perseverance in profound tragedy was expounded upon. To have the opportunity to share with someone why you love that person is a rare gift unfortunately often left for eulogies.


In this case we were all very much alive, buoyed by the beautiful pots of tea poured into our china cups. We were breaking the bread of scones and other delicacies together in an act of sisterhood and love. We were eager to give all we had in the way of emotional energy knowing that to bless this friend would linger far longer than any other gift we were capable of giving. It simply comes down to choosing to love. It always does.