Carest Thou Not That We Perish?

When I was a missionary, I experienced some anxiety.  Not just some anxiety, the worst anxiety of my life.  It got to the point where I was crying multiple times a day, terrified to leave the house where I was staying.  Through this time, I had an amazing companion who held me when I cried and reminded me how to breathe.  Her support was amazing, but I never got better.  I was just looking over a hymn I contemplated during that time, "Master the Tempest Is Raging."  Then and now I can relate to lot of the feelings attributed to the disciples of Jesus as they were tossed in the storm.  The tempest of covid, the rising wave, growing bigger, coming closer, "Carest thou not [Jason Kenney] that we perish? How canst thou lie asleep When each moment so madly is threat'ning A grave in the angry deep?" The song calls out, to some powerful other, to act, to change the situation, to speak and be obeyed.  The song trusts that the will of the almighty is peace and stillness.  And yet, the disciple, I, continue to cry out as if not heard over the raging storm.  "Master with anguish of spirit I bow in my grief today. The depths of my sad heart are troubled. Oh, waken and save I pray!  Torrents of sin and of anguish Sweep o'er my sinking soul, And I perish! I perish! dear Master. Oh hasten and take control!"  While  the song continues to a place of rest on a blissful shore, no matter how much I cried out, that promised shore remained a frail hope.  The third verse of the song too quickly turned positive that I couldn't quite believe it possible.  Though I wish now that those in charge would take stronger actions to prevent the third wave from rising ever higher and crashing down on us, I am left feeling insignificant.  Nobody is listening to me.  The peace and calm of a post covid world are beyond my grasp and past a daunting third wave.  I see only the wave.  It blocks both the sun and any hope from my view.  How long must I wait?  How much longer?  I thought 2021 was the year. 

As a missionary, I too waited for the end to come.  Then, after I'd been a missionary for about a year, my anxiety began to go away.  Never completely, but the impending doom was lifted, and the sunshine no longer obscured.  There were some situational changes that were beyond my control, but those weren't the reason I could see the sun.  At some point I realised that happiness was a choice, it was a mood I could choose, and I didn't have to wait for God to change the circumstances.  I didn't have to wait until I went home.  I could find happiness where I was.  It worked.  My attitude changed because I decided it would change.  I sang.  I sang happy songs, not song about some distant hope nor pie in the sky, but songs about goodness on earth, now.  I sang:

"In a world where sorrow

Ever will be known,

Where are found the needy

And the sad and lone,

How much joy and comfort

You can all bestow,

If you scatter sunshine

Ev’rywhere you go."

 Rather than waiting for happiness to find me, rather than trusting some other being to rid me of anxiety, I took that decision into my own hands.  I wonder if I can't do that today.  Sometimes I feel that I have a right be be upset.  I have a right to be anxious as I am often in close contact with others at work.  I have a right to blame to government for letting people die, for keeping my workplace open.  I have a right to worry about the health of those I love.  I have the right to be grumpy when I start work early.  I have the right to be miserable.  So, maybe I do, but what good does any of that do me, or those around me?  I may have a right to be anxious, but what if I can choose to be happy?  I know it isn't easy, but I've done it before, so I trust that it is possible.  With some counselling, with constant little choices to see good in the world around me, with a smile on my face and thanksgiving in my heart, it is possible.

"When the days are gloomy,

Sing some happy song;

Meet the world’s repining

With a courage strong.

Go with faith undaunted

Thru the ills of life;

Scatter smiles and sunshine

O’er its toil and strife."

* Master the Tempest Is Raging: Text: Mary Ann Baker

** Scatter Sunshine: Text: Lanta Wilson Smith 

My Coming Out Monologue

 

Take Me to Church

There weren't many trees downtown, but the few in the plaza blew in the wind as Erica walked to church. She squeezed her girlfriend's hand, trying to steal her warmth. The two women hurried, they didn't want to be late for their first church meeting. Erica glanced at Helen, jealous of her long hair covering her ears, keeping her warm. Erica stopped for a moment to brush Helen hair from her face. Feeling the eyes of strangers, they walked, rather than kissed. It was a feeling Erica hated, the feeling that she couldn't just be her. Helen gripped Erica's hand as a man under the influence of who knows what approached them, asking for money. Erica said hi, trying hard not to judge his situation, not to breathe in his stench, as the walked hurriedly by.  It was still before 10 in the morning, the clouds overhead making the day gloomy and dark. 
"Church kicked us out," Helen said, the tone of her voice clearly showing she was reliving the feeling from the day the were told not to come back if they were going to be gay.  "I can't believe where we're headed."
"It's a different church," Erica promised.  "If I can't go there, hold your hand and tell people you're my girlfriend, we'll get the heck out."
The couple turned the corner. A group of young men, speaking a language they couldn't recognise walked rapidly towards them.  Erica felt small, intimidated. She squished into Helen as they passed the group.  A car raced down the street, moments later sirens followed. 
Finally they were at the church, not its own building, but a rented space among commercial real estate. A pride flag flew next to the door, already putting Erica at ease. The two women filed in as a woman with short white hair stood up to welcome everyone to church. Erica and Helen found two chair near the back, and hoped they could become wallpaper. The singing and sermon passed. A song they recognised, a new song. As the service came to an end, they thought about sneaking out quickly. The same woman who started the service, stopped them before they could. 
"My name's Betty," she said, extending her hand.
"I'm Erica, and this is my girlfriend Helen."
Erica held Helen's hand, holding it to make it clear exactly what type of girlfriends they were. 
“You’re more than welcome here,” Betty said, not even flinching, “There are cookies and coffee at the back if you have time to stay and chat a bit.”
Erica breathed out deeply.  She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath all morning.  Betty introduced her to others, not leaving out the fact that they were girlfriends.  Their relationship could be celebrated, not hidden.  Erica held up her cookie to Helen, offering her a bite.  When Helen turned, Erica removed the cookie and stole a kiss instead.
“Such a cute couple,” Betty said to another elderly churchgoer, loud enough to be overheard.
The women kissed again, and then Erica finally shared her cookie.

Moon Song

 
New moon, new moon
buy a roll or two
close your gates, close your doors
’til the moon is through

Crescent, crescent
wash you dirty hands
cov’r your nose, cov’r your mouth
cancel all your plans

Half moon, half moon
bake a loaf of bread
let it sit, let it rise
Watch it grow and spread

Full moon, full moon
when will this song end?
go to class, go to school
sing this song again

Bridge

Diamonds are Trump

They've got no Heart

Fineness the King of Spades.

Slough a Club. Trump a Club.

Keep 'em in their place.

In the Beginning

 In the Beginning.

100 Trees - Day 4

Chalk in hand, the girl drew a line.  “You say on your side, I’ll stay on mine,” Eva said to the boy.  She traced the line again and again, widening it each time.

“I don’t want to be on your side anyhow,” the Edison retorted.  “It’s ugly.”

She drew the line thicker, “My side has a beautiful tree, delicious fruit.  I can climb it and spy on you.  All you’ve got is bushes and—“ She froze as she saw a friend walk by.  “Abi!  come join my side.  It is beautiful.  Besides, all Edison’s got is a dumb bush.”

Eva handed Abi a piece of chalk and the two drew together.  When Kade walked by, the children called out to him, begging him to join their side.  Abi promised it was paradise with her and Eva.  Kade didn’t join a side.  Instead he drew Abi away.  Neither of them came back.  

When Zeth walked by, Edison called louder, promised grander and gained Zeth’s loyalty.  Eva was angered.  She was down, two against one, but she didn’t give up.  Others walked by, and she kept calling them over.  Some joined her, others went with Edison.  None were allowed to stand on the thick divide.  Those who tried were pulled one way or the other.  The degrading comments continued to fly, voices raising louder and the gap grew wider.  Eventually the two sides were so far apart, they couldn’t even see the other’s side to criticise it.  Still the criticism flew.  The criticism could no longer be heard by the opposition, but each side felt better, hearing from their own, about the atrocities of the enemies.  

When Kade returned, he no longer recognised the place.  He stood in the middle and called out to Eva and Edison.  They couldn’t or wouldn’t hear him.  He wasn’t sure which.  He set up a tent, hoping that others, disenchanted, would soon join him.

100 Trees - Face Mask Tree

 A couple years ago I decided to write 100 stories, on a day, about apples.  Well, I've decided to try this exercise again, but this time with a tree theme.  Here is my story for day 3.

From the distance I could see the leaves blowing in the wind; large, symmetrical, pleated.  I walked toward the tree, wondering if I could pluck just one leaf for myself.

“Save the tree!” protesters shouted.  The stood around the tree, holding signs that said, “leaves are for trees, not for me.”  “No leaves leave trees,” and “tree lives matter.”  I didn’t want to hurt the tree, in fact, from what I understood, the tree wanted to give its leaves away, yet those who gave voice to the tree told me otherwise.  

I looked away, seeking other pieces of information, wondering where I got my information from, which news to believe.  I could see it from where I stood, another crowd marching, leaves covering their mouths, but not silencing their cries.  “All lives matter,” they cried, “protect others with leaves,” “Be selfless like trees.”  Caught between the two group, I didn’t know where to go.  If I wanted to join the one, I had to get past the other that blocked the leaves. 

My eyes were first to sense the smoke.  I heard others cough.  People looked in the distance, a flame, ever growing, was coming nearer.  They turned and fled past me, while I stood immobilised, realising the soon fate of this tree. The fire, with a flame for a tongue was coming to devour it.  Only then, with the noise of the protestors far in the distance, could I hear the whisper of the tree, “come, please, take my leaves.”  I rushed to the tree, taking from it its final gift, loving it for its sacrifice.  I wept, wishing my tears could form a river, and oasis to protect the tree.  I imagined a world with just me and the tree and no other voices.  The tears managed only to clean the smoke from my eyes for a moment, long enough to see how close the fire was.  I hugged the tree as I reached for one last leaf, and then I ran.  I ran to safety with both those who had protested “leaves,” and “no leaves.”