Magnificent Boo Boo

Lora Ruthe (Thompson) Jackson was born Oct. 29, 1920, the eldest daughter of John Lyle and Florence (Ector) Thompson, one of four girls and a boy who died in infancy. As the oldest, she was often called upon to do some parenting as a youngster. She described the year when she was 12 or 13 that her working parents asked her to be in charge of Christmas gifts for all the kids. She was given a budget and told where to hide everything. (Surely this was the beginning of her role as the Christmas Fairy for so many years!)

Life wasn't easy. The Great Depression hit her family hard. Struggling family members would often come to live with them. One of her sisters went to live with relatives in East Texas for a while. She remembered delivering payments to the loan sharks in Dallas so they wouldn't give her daddy a hard time for being late. But there were wonderful times, too. Imagine living in a household with four very lively girls! Ruthe, Mary, Doris, and Laura laughed and danced and made the most of what they had.

As she grew into adulthood during the thick of World War II, Boo Boo experienced the joy of motherhood alongside the grief of broken relationship. As a single mom, she worked as executive secretary to the night shift manager at North American Aviation, known for her typing skills (>100 words per minute on a manual typewriter) and her creative response to the privations of war (when her requisition for pencils was turned down, she re-worked the request with the description "wood-encased lead cylinders" and was approved).

Vernon and Ruthe Jackson on the tarmac at North American with a P-51 Mustang.

At the plant, she caught the eye of a handsome fella supervising sheet metal work on the line. He eventually proposed in the parking lot after shift one night; they woke her parents up from a sound night's sleep and found a Justice of the Peace to make it official. Thus began the love story between Vernon and Ruthe that lasted for so many years. One time on the phone, Bun Bun said, "She's crazy about me." Boo Boo replied, "I'm crazy when he's about me." That pretty much sums it up!

Boo Boo was a modern woman. She worked outside of the home all of her life and was an entrepreneur, both in the sign business with Uncle Ernie, and as partner in her husband's vending business. Her gifts in organization and public speaking propelled her to leadership roles in local and national PTA, Keep Texas Beautiful, and Dallas County School Board. Her ultimate public service was to the City of Grand Prairie, where she served for a combined 28 years as a member of the city council, with many of those years working as Mayor Pro Tem. She was still in office at her death Aug. 9, 2013 at age 92!

However, these aren't the things I'm thinking of most today. I'm thinking of the time she was in Austin for a meeting and decided to surprise us with a visit - she came down to school and took us out for the afternoon for fun. Riding through the Robo car wash for entertainment. Going to Cicero's or Kip's for hot fudge sundaes. Playing board games like Monopoly or Pollyanna (she was so patient!). Enjoying our favorite foods when we came to visit, because she always stocked up - maraschino cherries, grape juice in tiny bottles, cheese in a can, etc. (Didn't your grandmother let you eat cherries from a jar with a spoon?) Trips to the warehouse for jewelry or candy. Going to feed the ducks with her special duck food. Tea parties with the girls at Luby's with the little teapot of hot tea.



I'm thinking about the way she used words to build people up. Today I've looked through birthday cards from her and Bun Bun to see the phrases and pet names she used for me: "Love to a princess of the Lord..."; "Darling 'Ren-Ren'..."; "lovely lady..."; "what an inspiration you are...!" The thing is, I was just one recipient of her encouraging largesse. We always loved seeing what would be written in cards to the girls, including "genius," "princess," "brilliant," or "magnificent." The way she rolled her R's and used unnecessary quote marks and multiple exclamation points for emphasis. Her funny sayings, like "bigger than Dick Tracy" and "big as Dallas," or "everybody ought to go to Sunday school." When we were out in public, it was obvious that she had that same way of knowing what people needed and giving that encouragement.

Boo Boo loved kids and was loved by them! As a child, I would sit next to her in church and she would put me in a trance by lightly tickling my arms. She always had our favorite Life Savers and gum in her purse. She would dance babies around with her special baby song (doot-doot, a-lotta-doot-doot-dooty), and she offered up her costume jewelry to keep little ones entertained. For years she taught Bible class at Burbank Gardens. She's one of my role models as a minister to children. Every grandchild and great-grandchild who came along was drawn into her love and bounty.

More than anything, Boo Boo loved God. She was the prayer warrior, the keeper of the prayer list. Rain or shine, sickness or health, she managed to be at prayer breakfast 99% of the Saturdays since it began, and this was just an extension of her daily life of prayer. This was her quiet ministry. There's no telling how many people all around the world have been blessed because of her faithful prayers, and that includes me.

Go big or go home. That might be one way to describe my grandmother's approach to life. She really lived! But I think I like this description better:

Extravagant in love. 

Extravagant in life. 

Extravagant in faith.

Rest in peace, Boo Boo. I will miss you so much...but I know you'll have everything  organized when we join you and Mr. Jackson in heaven.

Boo Boo with all of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, Christmas 2012

The fellowship of the garden

The strains of Psalm 22 quietly sung by the choir –  "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" – began the soundtrack for the increasing darkness.  There was no more sunlight to illuminate the stained glass; the clergy changed from white robes to black; the lights were turned off one by one as the altar was stripped of all decorations and the cross removed.  The priests slowly and deliberately washed the altar to prepare it for Good Friday, and a crown of thorns was laid in the center.

Then almost all of the lights were extinguished, until only candlelight remained.  We slowly left the sanctuary, singing the haunting chant, "Stay with me, remain here with me, watch and pray."  The shadows on our faces from the candlelight seemed like torch light in the Garden of Gethsemane.  After a final reading, we left the church in silence.
 
I couldn't help but think about that day for the disciples.  They woke up to a beautiful spring day, expecting to celebrate the Passover with their friends – a solemn enough reenactment in its own right – yet they had no clue of what was able to happen to them.  Jesus woke up to that same day, but he knew.  It staggers my imagination.

The garden is where the rubber hits the road in terms of fellowship.  It's the moment where the veil is lifted, where unbelievers see what we're made of.  Sometimes it's a moment of failure like the disciples experienced:  "Fellowship?  What fellowship?"  At other times, it is where the best of redeemed humankind is revealed.  Someone sits and holds the hands of the dying; another cleans a kitchen or brings food to their neighbor in distress.  Some wait with Jesus, watching and battling in prayer for the soul of one who has wandered from the fold.  In darkness, in distress, in disappointment, in death – in these times, the fellowship of the garden comes alongside.

This is fellowship both given and received.  As a young person, I simply had no idea.  It wasn't until I faced my first true crisis that I understood what it meant to be cradled and cared for, to be loved with the same love Christ had for the caring one. And though I would never wish tragedy on anyone, the garden of suffering is where Christ in his fullness is revealed through His people.

The closing prayer of Maundy Thursday captures my hopes and prayer for me and for you:

Holy God, source of all love, on the night of his betrayal Jesus gave his disciples a new commandment: Love one another.  By your Holy Spirit write this commandment in our hearts through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.  And now let your servants go in peace, to watch and wait with the Lord Jesus, in prayer and divine affection, in silence and endurance.  May God's blessing abide with you, through the darkness this night and into the glory of the dawning of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

This is the third in a series of three reflections on Maundy Thursday.

The fellowship of the table

As the Maundy Thursday observance turned to the last supper, the symbols of Eucharist foreshadowed the grief that was to come.  Walking with the stream of men, women, and children toward the altar, I found myself surrounded by people I did not know, but who were connected to me.

In The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien brought together a cast of characters with different ethnicities, allegiances, and even languages, who shared a common enemy.  Their fellowship was based on an epic mission requiring epic action to succeed in destroying their enemy.

The fellowship of the table shares some similarities to this story.  We, too, are of many tribes and nations, and we share a common enemy. However, what draws us together seems so very ... ordinary. Jesus calls us to the "one anothers" – loving one another, serving one another, forgiving one another, building one another up.  He calls us to take up the towel and join at the table.
 
We sang a hymn that night that was not familiar to me, but it truly spoke to our part in the fellowship of the table – a fellowship that will come to fruition one day.

Here, O my Lord, I see Thee face to face;
here would I touch and handle things unseen;
here grasp with firmer hand eternal grace,
and all my weariness upon Thee lean.

Here would I feed upon the bread of God,
here drink with Thee the royal wine of heaven;
Here would I lay aside each earthly load,
here taste afresh the calm of sin forgiven.

Too soon we rise; the symbols disappear;
the feast, though not the love, is past and gone.
The bread and wine remove; but Thou art here,
nearer than ever, still my shield and sun.

Feast after feast thus comes and passes by;
yet, passing, points to the glad feast above,
giving sweet foretaste of the festal joy,
the Lamb's great bridal feast of bliss and love.
          (Horatius Bonar, 1857)

This is the second of a series of three reflections on Maundy Thursday.

The fellowship of the towel

As a woman who grew up in a "low church" tradition – with no official liturgy, very little emphasis on the church calendar, and skepticism about the use of icons and symbols – I've never celebrated Maundy Thursday.  Millions of Christians set aside this evening –  the night before Good Friday –  to somberly reflect on the washing of feet, communal meal, and the going out in darkness that Jesus and his disciples experienced on the night he was betrayed.  This past spring, my daughter invited me to attend with her at the Church of the Heavenly Rest, where we've been celebrating holy days for the past couple of years.  Heavenly Rest is a beautiful old stone structure, where sound echoes and silence can be tangibly felt.

It became clear to me as we began that the evening was designed to be a sensory experience that immersed us in the story.  We participated as re-enactors – not the cheesy kind wearing uniforms that were too small, anachronisms in this modern world, but participants in fact ... for we, too, are part of the same story that will continue until Christ comes again.

After the homily – a beautiful reminder that this night is, at its root, a community story –  the time for foot washing began.  All present were invited to participate in one of the most beautiful scenes I have ever witnessed.  Even though the clergy washed the first feet, it quickly became a free-for-all service of love one toward the other – parents and children washing each others' feet, spouses one to the other, lay members washing the feet of their priest.  My daughter washed my feet and I washed hers –  so humbling, both as receiver and giver.

I wept as I watched this act of love continue until all were washed, thinking about the words from John: "Jesus knew that the hour had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father.  Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end." (John 13:1)  "Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you should wash one another's feet.  I have set you as an example that you should do as I have done for you." (John 13:14-15)

I can only imagine how everything that happened to Jesus that night was heightened by the sense of last-ness – the last touch, the last word, the last meal, the last hymn.  And I am reminded how often I go about life as though it will last forever, putting off acts of service and fellowship until tomorrow or next week or next year, until the finality of death closes the door and the moment is gone.

Jesus had this amazing ability to engage his whole being in the moment of service, secure in his purpose and identity, never feeling the act was wasted – even an act as lowly as washing dirty feet. And he invites us today to join him in this fellowship of the towel, cementing our relationship to him and to each other.


This is the first of a series of three reflections on Maundy Thursday.

The next 30 years

Today Brian and I celebrate one of those surreal milestones – our 30th wedding anniversary.  Times like this remind me of our old friend, Bill Short, who would talk about the time-space continuum in relationship to God’s work in the world.  Some days it seems like we said our vows last week; other days it seems like we’ve been married forever.  Brian said, “We’ve been married way longer than we were single,” and that is true.  So much water has gone under our bridge!

Here at ACU we celebrate five-year reunions, and that got me thinking about some of those five-year markers in our lives.

1983:  I was almost 21 and Brian was 23 the day we said “I do.” I wore a beautiful borrowed dress; he wore tails (his mother, laughing, said the tails made him look like a roach!).  The air conditioning broke in the church, and our memories of the ceremony revolve around sweaty hands and the sound of box fans in the background…but we were surrounded by those we loved and that was all that mattered. We began our married life together in a one-bedroom apartment in south Grand Prairie.  Brian taught middle school band, and I commuted to north Dallas to work as a computer trainer.  We stayed up late with our friends, went to concerts, burned up money eating out all of the time, and basically had a ball. We learned that jobs don’t last forever, and saving for a rainy day would have been helpful, and yet, family and church and commitment gets you through things you didn’t want to go through.

1988:  This was a period of tremendous highs and tremendous lows. The previous summer Brian’s mother died, bowling us over with unexpected grief.  I grew large (really large) with child and in January we became parents for the first time.  Katie was six weeks old when we celebrated a new mom on the Hahn side, Jan, who brought great joy to Fred and to all of us.  Three years later, Rebekah joined the family.  We learned that parenthood, for us, was a great life-changer, a powerful magnifier.  I believe there was no experience of our married life that altered us more as human beings, challenged us to love more deeply, and forced us to come face to face with our sins and weaknesses.  But, on top of that, what blessing! We are so grateful for our girls.



1993:  We didn’t know it then, but we were on the verge of something big.  The next 12 months would see us leave our hometown and church of 12 years, change jobs, and pack up for Abilene.  In fact, one of our most memorable anniversaries occurred in 1994 on moving day (I say “memorable” as in “terrible” but we lived through it!).  After being separated for three months and selling the house, the stress build-up overflowed.  I remember sitting in the bare living room, eating pizza and watching L.A.P.D. chase O.J. Simpson through the streets of Los Angeles, while we both fumed.  But once again we learned about the faithfulness of God!  We had friends who actually drove with us to Abilene to help unload.  Once here, God provided a church family that loved us and helped raise our kids and has been with us through thick and thin.

It’s funny because the years since moving to Abilene have gone by in a bit of a blur.  School activities, piano lessons, road trips, holidays, births, deaths, baptisms, proms and graduations…this is the stuff and substance of a full life! And, in the midst of all those things, Brian has been right there by my side, steady as a rock, balancing out the crazy up and down that is me.  He is thoughtful (flowers “just because”), helpful (turning in to Chef Fred), fun to be with (movies! monkeys! back roads!) and patient (so many stops for photos!).  There is never a moment that I doubt his deep love for God, our girls, our extended family, and me.  What more could a girl want?

We were both given a great gift – we had parents and grand-parents and great-grandparents who modeled the sacrificial love of godly marriage before us.  For better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and health, victories and stumbles – they’ve walked through these things and shown us the way.

I hope and pray that, by God’s grace, we will live that truth over our next 30 years together. Happy anniversary, Brian - I love you!

Eagles vs. hummingbirds

On Good Friday I was able to spend several hours of quiet at Abilene State Park, enjoying God's beautiful creation and taking a much-needed technology break. The park has a small bird blind where you can watch birds (and squirrels) enjoy feeders and water. Among several species, I was excited to see a black-chinned hummingbird stop briefly by the feeder. Hummers amaze and delight me!

Black-chinned hummingbird, taken at Abilene State Park, March 2013

Amazing is the operative word when you think about how intricately they are made and how they operate.  Hummingbirds flap their wings from 12-80 times per second, and they have the highest metabolism rate of all animals, with heart rates as high as 1,260 beats per minute.  Can you imagine that?  They have to visit up to 1,000 flowers a day just to survive, taking in as much as 100% of their body weight in nectar. I also learned something new - at night, hummers enter a hibernation-like state known as torpor, where that 1,260 b.p.m. heart rate drops to 50-180 beats per minute. This allows them to conserve energy and the need for food while they rest for the next day.

Earlier in Holy Week I had one of those days. I had frantically flitted from project to project, interrupted by others and my own lack of focus. During lunch I went outside to the labyrinth to breathe and calm down. Even though the blue heron wasn't around, there were some other large birds soaring over the water. That's when it struck me - I was having a hummingbird day, and it was my own doing.

Large birds - like herons, cranes, hawks and eagles - operate very differently from hummingbirds. Their wing action is measured and deliberate, seeming ponderous compared to a hummingbird's. Much of their time in the air doesn't involve flapping at all - they ride on the lift of air currents, soaring long distances. God designed them to soar, instead of flapping their wings 80 times per second.

Blue heron flying over Faubus Fountain Lake at ACU, Jan. 2013

I guess that's why God, through Isaiah, talked about us mounting up with wings like eagles, instead of buzzing around with wings like hummingbirds. And it makes sense that the phrase is then coupled with "they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not faint." But, truth be told, I tend to be a hummingbird in a society of hummingbirds.  Overstimulated, overdosed with technology, multi-tasking my way to oblivion, with an insatiable desire for more - I'm afraid these things are more descriptive of me. And, true confession - part of me likes it.  I like looking busy; it makes me feel important.  I like the noise and stimulation; it distracts me from a long hard look at my inadequacies and spiritual poverty. But at some point I hit the wall - torpor sets in.

Shifting to eagle living takes more than a good night's sleep - it requires a change of my very nature. Perhaps that's why the text in Isaiah begins with this qualifier: "Those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength." Hummingbirds don't really soar. If I really want to soar like an eagle, it requires waiting, patiently waiting, for the God of the universe to fit me with a new set of wings. And this kind of surgery can't happen while constantly moving - it requires a stillness in God's presence so that He can do the work He does best.

Migrating sandhill cranes over Hawley, Feb. 2013

I've been slowly working my way through Ruth Haley Barton's book, Sacred Rhythms. In the chapter on prayer, she talks about using "breath prayers" to keep us focused on what we really want from God. This prayer can be one way to slow my wings for a moment and let God in. Mine is a shortened version of the Agnus Dei prayed by Christians around the world:

Lamb of God, grant me your peace.

I might add a prayer for all of us:

God, giver of eagle wings, help us to soar.

It ain’t over ‘til it’s over

Last week we enjoyed a few days of mid-winter warmth and sunshine, so I took advantage of that to walk around the Lunsford Trail at ACU after work. I was hoping for a beautiful sunset to accompany me!  Started out southbound and discovered fairly quickly that I had ensured my back would be to the sun most of the trip (i.e., mistake). We had some high clouds that were promising, but buildings obscured my view, and it looked like clouds close to the horizon were going to mess things up, so I just kept walking.  As I returned to home base, I thought sunset was over, but I decided to walk to the far side of the pond to stretch and cool down.  Then I turned around and the miracle began in earnest! First, bright red touched the tips of the clouds, then it expanded to the whole sky. Even the pond turned red as it reflected the glory overhead.  If I’d just gotten into my car and headed home, I would have missed it!

ACU's Faubus Pond, with the Hunter Welcome Center in the background

Sunrises and sunsets are like that.  They often unfold over an extended period of time, sometimes 30-40 minutes from start to finish.  There will be flashes of brilliant color, but those rarely last the whole time. Much of that 30-40 minutes will seem somewhat pedestrian compared to the times of magnificence.  Sometimes there are the cloudy days that seem colorless and endless. But even when it’s “over,” there is more glory yet to come – the beauty of a blue sky filled with cotton ball clouds, or the splendor of the Milky Way, or the rain that the clouds might bring.

Life is like that, too. Ups, downs, twists, turns - often more grey clouds than sparkling red and gold.

I think that’s why passages from 2 Corinthians resonate in our hearts. Paul must have been thinking about God’s glory and how it is revealed in the lives of women and men when he wrote these words:

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit. (2 Cor. 3:17-18)

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. (2 Cor. 4:6-7)

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (2 Cor. 4:17-18)

So many days I don't feel glorious! So many mistakes, so many flaws, so many dreams unfulfilled. The amazing news is that God is in charge of glory! He's the Glory-Giver, Transformer, User-of-Clay-Jars, Renewer. He sees the glory unseen to us, the final result that is hidden from our eyes for the present time. He even sees glory in what we would view as the least glorious parts of our lives - the things we would rather hide - because He knows that those things, too, are part of what is bringing us to glory in reality.

So if you're having a hard time seeing the glory in yourself this week, take hope in the glimpses of glory in the world around you. God's work isn't over in you, and His purposes for you will prevail.

Evening lullaby

In that stillness that comes but rarely to the land of wind,
     a blue heron stands like a statue,
          pondering the universe from the shallows of the lake,
               nature mirrored in beautiful symmetry
                    beside the paralleled images of man-made giants
               stretched out across the water's surface.
          As the deepening shadows move from gold to pink to blue,
     Father tucks us in with a soft blanket of color
and gently sings us to sleep.

The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love,
He will rejoice over you with singing. (Zephaniah 3:17)

The road less traveled

In 2012, I had more than my usual share of travel. Whenever I have business trips away from Abilene, I like to tack on a day or two on my own dime to see the local sights.  I had the chance to explore Boston, Gloucester, and Rockport in Massachusetts, then just a few weeks later went to Minneapolis for the first time, taking a side trip to the north shore of Lake Superior, and down through Wisconsin and over to Red Wing, Minnesota.

Here’s my motto for road trips:  It’s not a good trip unless you get lost at least once, and that usually involves me ending up in the worst part of town!  Technology has made travel easier, though not always better.  This is my third trip to Boston, and I really hoped that the nice GPS lady would talk me through successfully to drop off my rental car….but she failed me at the last moment.  Then came the words of death:  “Recalculating…recalculating.”  Twenty miles and a round trip of Boston later, I found out that the southern approach is much easier!

My experience in Minnesota was the opposite. Interstates are fine, but at some point I’d rather see some of the local color.  Since I had my trusty paper map with me, I had a pretty good idea of where I wanted to cut off the highway.  Usually once you get a few miles down the road, the GPS will get with the program and catch up with the back roads path. But this time, it did everything in its power to get me back to the interstate, including directing me to back track several miles north.  What beauties I would have missed! Rivers, flowers, cornfields as far as the eye could see and taller than my head, old churches and red barns, dairy cows and the small towns of the Wisconsin heartland – none of these were on the “planned” route.  Yes, it took me a lot longer to arrive, but the joy was in the journey.

Those two different experiences aren’t too different from the journeys you and I experience in daily life.  On the one hand, sometimes we think we know exactly where we want to go – everything’s planned out, the itinerary is in place, the timeline is tight. Then something happens – an illness, a job loss, the death of someone dear, or even something as simple as the daily, grinding burden of chronic worry and stress – and I’m left circling, disoriented, out of time and place, wondering if I’ll ever reach the destination or even survive the trip. Hope can be crushed, hearts broken, dreams seemingly unfulfilled. And, by the way, where is God in this?

On the other hand, sometimes I know the destination but have lost the wonder of the journey.  Mile after mindless mile of 6:30 a.m. alarm rings, diapers changed, reports submitted, church services attended, parents cared for – the mileage adds up, the trucks stops all look the same, the cry of “are we there yet?” is spoken by the adults instead of the children. Is God present in all these things, too?

I bet Noah could relate as he spent a year confined to the ark, doing the same things and surrounded by the same smells every day; the desert wanderers, the slaves in Egypt, the captives in exile – they, too, felt the heaviness of looking out to the horizon and seeing the same deserted landscape, day after day.  Peter, Paul, Philip, and the Ethiopian eunuch understood what it meant to have their travel plans suddenly interrupted.

I think there’s something in common we can reach for in either scenario.  Listen to the words of Isaiah 42:5-6a, 16:

This is what God the LORD says—
the Creator of the heavens, who stretches them out,
    who spreads out the earth with all that springs from it,
    who gives breath to its people,
    and life to those who walk on it:
“I, the LORD, have called you in righteousness;
    I will take hold of your hand.”

“I will lead the blind by ways they have not known,
    along unfamiliar paths I will guide them;
I will turn the darkness into light before them
    and make the rough places smooth.
These are the things I will do;
    I will not forsake them.”

Isaiah helps us circle back to the basics:

• God created me and breathed life into me – a deliberate act that speaks to His love and care.
• God created the beautiful world, and it shows the great extent of His power, might, and generosity. Looking at God’s creation helps me see God.
• God is present with me, whether I comprehend it or not – personally holding my hand.
• God can see the path when it is obscured to me, and He knows how to get me to my destination.

The road less traveled is one where my eyes are open to God’s work, God’s creativity, God’s presence, God’s direction.  I hope I’ll see you there!

P.S.  Here’s a few of the things I would have missed if my eyes weren’t open!

 

 

 

 

 

Balsam Lake, Wisconsin