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April 2017

May 2017

The House of Our Realities

IMG_0243“In no sense was this the house of our dreams. But over our lifetime it has slowly turned into something better, the house of our realities.”

(Lewis Mumford, in Sketches from Life: The Autobiography of Lewis Mumford: The Early Years)

Our home is 32 years old, and we are the original owners. Its rooms and hallways have been the arena of much of our non-public life. While it has seen three partial renovations, one after a fire, there is still much that is vintage, that is, if you can say "vintage" about a relatively young house like ours. It is not the house of our dreams, if only because early in our marriage my wife and I may not have imagined such a house. We were neither dreaming nor looking, but some friends who lived in the neighborhood told us of the house, and we bought fast food and sat in the mud room of the empty shell and decided to buy.

We have a running list of complaints that waft through the air that blows from room to room, yet we have learned over time not to listen to their insistent pleas: the rooms are configured badly, the floors creak, and the pantry is tiny, the voices whisper. Everyone ends up in the kitchen, they say! And what, after all, is the “keeping room” keeping? Hardwoods bear scratches, carpet wears, and paint fades. The pipes object when the spigot is too abruptly closed. Imperfections abound. Entropy is evident.

Yet it is not, after all, just a house. It is a home. For better or worse, the life and memories it holds anticipate a better dwelling. “A house becomes a home, one of the ultimate expressions of place” says the inimitable Wilfred McClay, “not only by being congenial and familiar and comfortable, but by taking on a life of its own.” He calls it the “everyday magic of place-making." Place-making has to do with everything that is life inside a house: meal preparation, furniture choice and placement, the orientation of the house, the way the sun plays on the floor of a room, the perspective afforded by a view out of a study window, and the creaks and rumbles and whirs of the night, of the HVAC beast that wakes and slumbers, doing its work, or the house settling on its haunches, returning slowly to the earth. It has to do with the rutted pathways of life: up and down the stairs, hallways, and in and out of slamming doors.

There are, of course, the latest non-human occupants. Cats dust-mop their way across the hardwoods, flopping here and there, settling in a chair by a window to greet the birds. They do their own place-making, rubbing scents on doorposts and cabinet corners, burrowing into a cushioned chair, or sleeping on my pillow --- reminders that they have come this way. Paths to food bowls are particularly well-traveled, and the sloven mealtime habits of one are on display in the food spilt from her bowl.

And then there are the sounds of our voices: the low conversation of parents, the laughter of children, the yelling up and down the stairs. Even in the middle of the night, there are the contented breathings of deep sleep. Even in the absence of my now grown children, I still hear their voices echoing from their rooms, remnants left behind and etched in these walls. There are even the distinctive smells of our home, the result of dust, mildew, and paint mixed with the scents of thousands of dinners and cookies baking. Coming home from work, we open the door and even were we blind we would know we are home.

People who move every few years lose something, their place-making being tentative and temporary. Unless they are deliberate, they make no full surrender to a place. In a poem, Robert Frost said it well:

Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from the land of the living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

McClay says that "to withhold one's sense of belonging to a place is to leave oneself weakened and uprooted, trapped in a virtual reality, possessed by phantoms and abstractions that have lost their touch with referents, forced to struggle on without possessing the nourishment of the memories and concrete associations to be derived from the very soil on which one is standing." We are meant to dwell, in the full sense of the word, meaning to live and linger, to commit to the here and now.

Walking in our places is a way of taking possession, of place-making, of following the ancient command to "till and keep," to take "dominion." This pedestrian activity is imbued with spiritual import, our living into the Creation and not detached from it. Even our footfalls say, "I am here, this is mine, this is home."

So maybe it's not the house of your dreams, but it's better: it's the house of our realities. It's home. We cherish it, and forgive it. Like us, it is imperfect, even broken, but it bears in it the seeds of hope for a new place prepared for us, for the home to come. Perhaps that is what the keeping room is keeping alive for us: Home.


Graduation Eve

IMG_0292If I had lived in this room, I would have lain on the bed and peered out the window regularly. I would have considered the rusty electrical transformer, the current pulsing through the wires, firing lights and microwaves and students' ubiquitous smartphones and laptops, and when the magnificent thunderstorms blew through the plains and lightning lit the courtyard, then from the safety of the bed, covers over head, I would have relished its display and waited like Dorothy for the funnel cloud to descend, sweeping notebooks and papers and professors and small dogs up, up, up, only to set them gently down in another time, another place, in the fecund yet tentative fields of life after graduation.

"Did you ever lie on the bed and look out your window," I ask her.

"Well, sure." She reconsidered. "Well, no, not really."

I would have. On a day like today, when the Midwest sun beams down on the manicured lawn of the courtyard, I would have rested my chin on a pillow draped across the bedpost and taken in all that the rectangle of window would have allowed. Like the fluttering of the leaves on the maple trees, green and other green, flipping and flopping in the gusts. Or the students trudging back and forth to and from classes on the walk. Or just an empty sidewalk, just that, like an empty canvas for pedestrian art, the art of walking, the varied intentions and thoughts and dreams that each one carries imprinted in concrete.

"Are you going to miss being here," I asked.

"Well no, not really. I'm glad to be done."

I turn away from the window and sit on the bare mattress of her bed. A desk, chair and nightstand. Bare walls. A room returning to empty, a receptacle for new dreams. I begin to feel sad. Four years of classes, student drama, roommates, oriental cooking, papers, persistent class attendance, puddle-hopping, snow sloshing, chapel, poor food, and grades. Late nights. Occasional mistakes. Misunderstandings. Fun and games. Laughter. All over.

The late philosophy professor, Ronald Nash, a gifted child, often had trouble sleeping. Only four, he was asked what he thought about as he lay in the bed, awake. He said, with all the gravity that his four-year old life allowed, "I think about the past." So I guess this leaving, this ending makes me think of my own past, makes me remember that I have left school, home, parents, college, and more, and in all my leavings there is a touch of sadness, a bittersweet passing of time.

I look out the window again and see an ornamental lamppost, one that seems patterned after that one where the children met the fawn, Mr. Tumnus, in Narnia, and I imagine seeing that lamppost one frigid evening, its yellow light splashed upon the snow, a beacon lighting the way home in a snowy winter. And seeing that, I would have returned to my repose, warmed and comforted by that light. Lying there, sleepless, I might have worked out a problem from the day, worried over a grade, nursed a grudge, or composed a rejoinder to some perceived putdown, until, hopefully, I recall one of the few memorized scriptures that somehow adhered to the gray matter of my brain, and recite it once, even twice, like a pindrop in the terrain of my consciousness. "I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live. The life I live in the Spirit I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." And then, perhaps, after that reminder or who I am, sleep would come, while the lamppost shone, and winter blew away in the light of day.

"Did you ever lie on the bed and look out your window," I asked her. No, no she didn't, at least not just to look, not just to think about the past, about all that's been and all that might be. I pull the weight of memory. Not her: she lives the moment, the blessed freedom of the present.

"No, I guess you didn't. That's because you're not me."

"Yes, that's right. I'm not you."


Tumbling Toward Heaven

Bigstock-a-tree-in-a-field-with-space-b-41769235Like any good Calvinist, I hold to the doctrine of total depravity, meaning not that I am as bad as I could be but that sin touches all that I do. Beneath every good work lies subtle or not so subtle self-love: a bit of self-congratulation, elevation of myself at the expense of others, or an attempt to grab attention and praise. “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,” says the Apostle (Rom. 3:23), and yet some have inevitably fallen shorter than us, right? Or so we can think. If you don't think so, sit in the DMV waiting room sometime and look around you, finding yourself grateful you don't go out in public looking like that or have children that act like that.

The late Flannery O’Connor, a Catholic, Southern, and often macabre writer, had a penchant for telling stories that strip away our pleasantries and self-delusions, that hold a mirror up to us and show us who we are. They are often ugly stories, peopled by characters that we don’t wish to meet, and yet they are us: in them we see ourselves.

One of those stories is “Revelation.” In it a “stout” Mrs. Turpin is waiting with her sanguine and likely hen-pecked husband Claud in the doctor’s waiting room, Claud having been kicked by a cow. O’Connor: “Mrs. Turpin put a firm hand on Claud’s shoulder and said in a voice that included anyone who wanted to listen, ‘Claud, you sit in that chair there,’ and gave him a firm push down into the vacant one.” You see what I mean. You see how Claud is. Across from Mrs. Turpin a young woman is reading a book and casting nasty stares her way, disfigured faces which only increase in their severity during the wait. Another woman is what she refers to (in her mind, of course) as “white trash.” She spends most of her time espousing racist views. “‘They ought to send all them niggers back to Africa,’ the white-trash woman said. ‘That’s where they come from in the first place.’” Mrs. Turpin holds no such view. “‘There’s a heap of things worse than a nigger,’ Mrs. Turpin agreed. ‘It’s all kinds of them just like it’s all kinds of us.’”

O’Connor gives us a bit of Mrs. Turpin’s inner dialogue:

Sometimes at night when she couldn't go to sleep, Mrs. Turpin would occupy herself with the question of who she would have chosen to be if she couldn't have been herself. If Jesus had said to her before he made her, "There's only two places available for you. You can either be a nigger or white trash," what would she have said? "Please, Jesus, please," she would have said, "Just let me wait until there's another place available," and he would have said, "No, you have to go right now", and I have only those two places so make up your mind." She would have wiggled and squirmed and begged and pleaded but it would have been no use and finally she would have said, "All right, make me a nigger then-but that don't mean a trashy one." And he would have made her a near clean respectable Negro woman, herself but black.

At one point, overcome with gratitude for her blessing at being who she is, Mrs. Turpin exclaims, “Oh thank you, Jesus, Jesus, thank you!” At this point the girl making faces threw her book at her, hitting her in the face, and jumped on her, digging her fingernails into her neck. “Go back to hell where you came from you old wart hog,” she said, before being restrained. Eventually the girl is sedated and taken to the hospital, and yet Mrs. Turpin, even that afternoon, lying on her bed, cannot put what the girl said out of her mind, keeps telling herself that she is not an old wart hog. Lunatic, she thinks. “I am not a wart hog,” she says to the ceiling with clenched fist, Claud snoring away beside her..

Later that evening, near dusk, down at the pig parlor, she looks up, sees a purple streak across the sky caused by the setting sun. And in that looking, there was this revelation:

A visionary light settled in her eyes. She saw the streak as a vast swinging bridge extending upward from the earth through a field of living fire. Upon it a vast horde of souls were tumbling toward heaven. There were whole companies of white trash, clean for the first time in their lives, and bands of black niggers in white robes, and battalions of freaks and lunatics shouting and clapping and leaping like frogs. And bringing up the end of the procession was a tribe of people whom she recognized at once as those who , like herself and Claud, had always had a little of everything and the given wit to use it right. She leaned forward to observe them closer. They were marching behind the others with great dignity, accountable as they had always been for good order and common sense and respectable behavior. They, alone were on key. Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces even their virtues were being burned away.

Their virtues were being burned away.

Frederick Buechner once compared righteousness to a piano student who, while he might hit all the right notes in playing a piece, played with accuracy but no heart. Righteousness is not, he said, “playing by the book.” Pharisees do that. “Righteousness is,” he said, “getting it all right. If you play it the way it’s supposed to be played, there shouldn’t be a still foot in the house.” There should be singing and dancing and a lunatic grace. Old wart hogs from hell, virtues stripped away, join a throng of bastards and prostitutes and decidedly unhip , a “vast horde of souls. . . tumbling toward heaven.”

The lunatic girl spoke the truth. She saw the worst of us, the hell in all our virtue as we, thank God, tumble toward heaven, our only ticket grace.