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Bringing In The Light


I take so many things for granted. And, I often think there aren’t many miracles in life, in the ordinariness of the day. That is, until we pay attention, until we make room for them to happen.

In the rush of daily life, I almost let this one slip past me, unnoticed.

He asked me to help build the campfire so he could get it just right. Everyone was depending on him. It had to be perfect. This was his task, and he wanted to do it perfectly. He’d never been asked to do this before. It was the most anyone had every asked him to do.

Only men built fires, and wasn’t he just a boy?

We gathered his chosen sticks of wood, dry and perfect for his fire. He picked up the kindling, methodically splintering it over his knee. Even the paper was torn just so, all arranged, ready for the match.

We had to wait, a friend had to get the matches. We had some time, and I asked him about his campfires past, who had built them, what happened around them.

It was small talk for me, until he spoke. His voice got quiet, his eyes wet, his hands shaking. No, this was big talk, big stuff, big wounds.

Only a few campfires, only a few of the only good times in his past, what he could remember of them. Most of childhood was just a fog; he couldn’t remember.

He thought this fire would fail, it would not burn, and everyone here would think he was a failure. It was the old familiar story, it was the ending that he expected. Wasn’t that the story of his life?

This was his fire, his first fire he had built. He wanted to say his dad would be proud of him, but halfway through the words, he choked, looked away, not able to say that, that dad would be proud.

The matches arrived, and I handed them to him.

“Light your fire, son,” I said. “You can do this.”

There was a spark, a small flame that grew, catching the paper and kindling he had laid so carefully, his most important task ever in his young life.

I asked him to blow on the small flame, to make it grow. And he did, a smile breaking across his face.

The fire, his fire, was ablaze, catching the big sticks, sending flames up high.

“Good job,” I said. “You did well. I’m proud of you.”

Those words, ones he had never heard before, filled the air, filled his heart. The words he had never heard, until now.

He nodded, not saying a word. The fire crackled, as we let those simple words sink in, letting him really hear them.

He built the good fire, the fire everyone liked. Soon everyone crowded around to feel its heat on this chilly morning, to cook our lunch, warm our hands and our hearts.

The others, the builder of the fire, and I sat around the fire, sharing our lunch, a few stories, our friendship.

“Great fire,” they said. “Thanks.”

He looked down at his shoes, and then at the fire, taking it all in, feeling the warmth of their praise, their thanks, warming his heart on this cold winter’s day.

His big smile lit up his face, and added more light to our day together.

A miracle, in the coldest, most ordinary of places. But that’s where miracles happen, when its cold and lonely, and you think your life isn’t all that special.

We just need to be ready to let the light in.

Neal Lemery, 12/6/2015

Really Listening


I listen to the quiet between the words. In that interval between the sounds of us talking, the true, deep meaning is to be found, if only I am gentle with myself, and the speaker, moving into the space of the depth of true understanding.

If I listen to myself and to you, truly listen, then I will hear your true voice, and mine. I will hear the message that I need to listen, deeply, intentionally, and with love and understanding. In that lies my intention. I will connect with the heart of our true conversation.

Yes, the words have meaning, and stories are told from the words, and then some. More. I listen to the sentences, the rhythm of the speaker, inflections, the rising and falling of the cadence of the words. I am led gently down the path of the storyteller, and shown the meaning of the words.

What is really being told here, I wonder. There is more, there is always more. My task is that of the explorer, the miner digging for the gold in the midst of the rubble, the ordinary chit-chat that often passes for conversation. Herein lies something even greater. So, truly listen.

Go deeper, I am sensing. There is more to this than just what I am hearing, what is being said.

Underneath this, there is more. I can feel it deep within me.
There are many layers to this tale, and I listen harder, taking in the silence, strewn among the spoken words, wanting everything that is revealed. I am seeking the message of the silence, exploring its vocabulary, its nuances. What are you really saying here? And, what am I being called to really hear?

We feel the silence now; the spoken words uttered. There is tension, the tension of the anticipated, the expected, the comforting patter of more words, more sounds.

I am on edge; we both are. This space between these words is new, irritating, literally dis-quieting. I find myself yearning for a word, a phrase, to keep the banter going. Part of me is reticent, to not really listen. Do I prefer banality? Being on the surface, and not going deep. Can’t I stay here, gliding on the mere surface of our conversation? Then, I won’t have to ponder the silences, and hear in my heart the real meaning of what your heart is saying.

Now I hear your breath, and mine. There are other sounds, too. Clothes, papers rustling, air moving, the ordinary background noises of whatever kind of place we are in, the place of normal, everyday conversations, the detritus of our daily lives.

Yet, when I go deeper, beyond this ordinary sound clutter, my mind literally opens up, expands, so that I can take in all that you are expressing to me, the stuff beyond conversation, beyond the plain words of everyday conversation.

My senses broaden — feeling, seeing, hearing, touching, and yes, even smelling all that you are offering me, in this near vacuum of experience between us. Yet, it is rich and full, and not vacuous, a contradiction. Or is it? This is rich territory, and, so often, new to me.

If I would only truly sense what you are offering me, I would understand so much more. You have so much information, so many ideas to express to me, if only I would be open to you, truly open. If I do this right, my senses, my intuition, the entirety of my entire array of sensory neurons would be on fire, overloaded with all that you are telling me.

You share with me in so many ways, ways that we both would agree would be of such enormity that neither of us would be deemed to be competent to assess, even measure.

Henri Nouwen wrote: “Somewhere, we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening, speaking no longer heals; that without distance, closeness cannot cure.

He calls us to visit that “somewhere”, which is beyond our daily, mundane experience, and open ourselves as far as we believe we can go, into new territory of our existence, our humanity.

He calls us to embrace the silence, and truly listen, to stake out that space between us, and let us be able to reach out to each other within that emptiness, and finally grow.

Now, I can’t reach any further out and listen harder, for the harder I work at this, the more difficult it becomes. Another conundrum. But isn’t that life?

The more I try, the less I succeed. No, I need to be now, just be, in all my humanity. I must listen more gently, easier, more fully with all of my senses, with all of my feelings, on the edges of my soul, my very being. On the rim of my existence, I must stretch further, letting the experience become in and of itself, beyond mere thought.

In that, I will truly listen to what you are telling me, and I will, at last, hear you, in all of your wonderful mystery and beauty.
–Neal Lemery
11/11/15

Growing Our Garden


 

 

On Fridays, I garden. I drive down the road to a community garden, ready for a morning of planting, weeding and, often, harvesting.

I join a group of young men, and we set to work. Together, we tackle our list of chores and get the jobs done. I work up a good sweat, my muscles get tired, and we add a few smudges of dirt to our faces. We laugh, sharing the simple joys of a day in the garden.

We take a break and look at what we’ve accomplished. Every week brings new projects, and fresh results.

We surround ourselves with all the elements of a healthy garden.   We make sure we use substantial and complex soil, rich fertilizer, fresh air, sunshine, water, and tender care. Each plant gets its own place in the garden, and is encouraged to flourish. If there is a need for water or fertilizer or a little pruning, we are quick to respond, doing our work in nurturing and care taking.

The plants look great, but we’ve really been growing healthy young men.

And these young men flourish. They get the attention and care they need. They find their place in our work, and are encouraged to send their roots down into the soil. They open themselves to the warmth and sunshine we all share. They are hungry for this work, and eagerly take on their roles in raising chickens, planting seeds, in the designing and building of raised beds, compost bins, and trellises. They learn to plan their projects, to plant and harvest. Over the fire, they cook a meal from the vegetables they have grown, tasting and savoring what their hands have grown in the dirt, nourishing themselves with what they have grown.

They become connected to the earth, and the food that they eat. The garden sunshine brightens their lives and feeds their souls. They build community in their work and by their conversations around the campfire.

For many of them, this is their first experience at growing things, and in being caretakers. They become gardeners, not just of their community garden, but of their own lives. In their work, they make the connection between this work and the work they are doing to rebuild their lives, growing into healthy young men.

We do this work behind a prison fence, yet there are freedoms here these young men have never had. They grow here, encouraged to find themselves, and to see themselves as more than men scarred by the traumas and poisons of troubled, directionless childhoods. This is a place of new beginnings, new opportunities. Old wounds are healed and they can move ahead, becoming healthy men.

I treasure the simple moments, the quiet, one-on-one time with a young man, as we plant a flower box, or weed the potatoes, slice some tomatoes, or pick and shell some beans. Just a couple of gardeners, but so much more goes on here, more than the eye can see.

Sometimes, we sit around the campfire, cooking some food, toasting a marshmallow or roasting a hot dog, or just reflecting on what we’ve done in the garden. Soon, stories are being told, experiences shared, observations made. Guys being their true selves, deepening their friendships, and talking about their growing strengths and talents. They are farmers talking about their crops, and how they are making some improvements, tending their crops, growing their lives.

I’m the old man in this crowd, the guy with the gray hair, who just shows up and offers a helping hand, maybe a word or two of advice. I like to be quiet, taking it all in, letting them take the lead in whatever we are working on, watching them ask their questions and talk out the solutions, finding answers.

They need to be in charge here, the gardeners of their own garden. Part of our harvest is growing strong leaders, people who can take charge of their own lives, and make their own way in life.

They come up to me, wanting me to notice their work. They ask me questions, seeking my advice, and not just about gardening.

They are hungry young men, hungry for attention, for someone to affirm them, and recognize them for the goodness they hold inside of themselves. I show up, say good morning, and ask them how they are doing. We work together, as farmers and as life long learners of how to live a good, productive life. The other adults at the garden do that too, and the young men respond with smiles, their eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

We take time to measure our harvest, counting and weighing our produce, admiring the beauty and abundance of what the boys have grown.

Yet, there is more to the harvest than all the tomatoes and corn, chicken eggs and dried herbs. I count the smiles and the looks of pride and confidence I see in their faces. These young men have grown this summer in so many ways than what we see in their vegetables and flowers.

Their strength and their resilience shine in their faces today, and their newfound abilities to grow their own lives is the real essence of the harvest of our garden.

 

 

–Neal Lemery 9/14/2015

Changing Times


 

Change is all around me. I look outside and there is more than a hint of Fall in the air. Leaves are changing color, my garden is in harvest mode, and the air is cool and damp.

After a summer of unusual warmth and dryness, we have had some rain, and plants are reviving, coming alive again.

I turn the calendar to a new month. Summer vacations are ending, and there is a flurry of activities. Classes, meetings, events are happening. Community life is coming alive again. There are things to do and opportunities to grow.

Driving by my neighborhood school, I see it coming alive after the summer break. The parking lot is crowded, and families are heading inside to an evening welcoming, celebrating the opening of school. Excited, nervous little kids break into an enthusiastic skip as they walk into the school, parents smiling with pride.

Their child is starting school, and opportunity awaits. Anything is possible. I see that in their faces, in how they walk, and hold their kids’ hands.

At the store, I navigate through the hordes of tourists and weekenders, and I run into old friends. We reconnect, realizing we haven’t seen each other all summer. We pause to catch up, and reconnect, reweaving the fabric of community. This weekend marks the end of the high season, the wave after wave of visitors who crowd our roads, and walk our beaches and trails. Soon, it will be quieter here, and we locals will breathe big sighs of relief, and reclaim our peaceful moments in the places we treasure.

They, too, are caught up in this sense of change and transformation. It is a new season, a new beginning.

Before yesterday’s rain, I planted a new crop of peas, beets, and radishes. My new lettuce rows are already up. I harvest more broccoli for our dinner, knowing that my work will bring on yet another feast in another month.

A friend is soon off to college, and we pause for coffee, and share his excitement for his new adventure. He’s ordered his textbooks, and is already packing for his move to a new city, and a new school. Excitement is in the air and in his eyes. His future is happening, and he’s ready to grow.

All this newness and excitement. I feel alive and invigorated. Anything is possible. Anything can happen. I am part of that, and I am all of that.

Change. It is in the air, and I am ready to take a deep breath, and move ahead.

 

Neal Lemery

9/7/15

 

Separation


 

Growing up, older, maybe wiser, they part ways with me. On their own, finding their path, going their own way, I see them fly.

Perhaps they stumble, perhaps they fall. Sometimes, I pick them up and hug them, offering words of encouragement, maybe direction. They wobble, then stand again on their own, and move forward, leaving me, once again behind them, watching them go.

They are on their own, even though I want to pick them up and save them from their scrapes and tumbles.

I am not their rescuer, though that is what I want to do. I am not their protector, though that is the job I willingly seek.

I am that old number on their phone, that place where there will be a cheerful voice, full of encouragement and support. I am the voice that will say “I believe in you” whenever they want to hear it.

Time moves on. They are no longer my babies. At least, that is what I say when I’m asked about them. Deep inside, they still are my kids, my little ones, needing me to hold their hands, and kiss their boo boos, and give them the love that they need. Yet, I must let them fly, go out into the world and be who they are becoming, and find their own wings.

I am, now, their believer.

Thornbush or Juniper, Brier or Myrtle (Isaiah 55:13)


peggytl's avatarvignettesofmyheart

This is a sermon I preached today.  The text is based in Isaiah Chapter 55.  I know that many will not agree with what I say here.  This is where the Holy Spirit has led me over the past 45 years, by allowing me to see the pain that Christians and society have inflicted on people of color and my gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgender brothers and sisters, and by leading me to information that has informed my childhood homophobia and blessed me with many beautiful people in my life.  Having been silent for too long, I now offer my experience.

The past two weeks have been both wonderful and terrible. We have seen the power of love that has moved mountains in the lives of our gay and lesbian, bisexual and transgender brothers and sisters.

We have seen the power of hate that brought death to innocents,an occurrence that happens…

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Taking Up Again, At Our Fortieth Reunion


 

It was that class we took together, both out of our element. A business class, way outside our academic path, but it was really about what we we both passionate about, human interaction.  The psychology major and the political science major, finding the “juice” of our college experience.

Our big assignment for the term was to get together every week, for a day, maybe a weekend, and spend time together, interacting, observing each other. And, most importantly, observing ourselves observing others and how we behaved, inwardly, within a group.  We had to write about it all, without any real direction on what the professor wanted, how we were going to be graded.

It was, we agreed, standing outside in the hot evening after our class reunion dinner, the best experience of our undergraduate years, studying how people related with each other, how that really was the gist of becoming a better person, how we used those skills, those observations, in growing our lives, in making a real difference in the world.

We took our experiences together, all those late night conversations, the four years of living on campus during the social upheaval of the Vietnam War years, and went our separate ways.  We kept in touch, sharing news of our careers, our marriages, our kids, and how our lives were enriched by what we learned at college, and in navigating our lives in the world.

The best things in our lives, we realized, weren’t the things we thought we’d do, once we graduated and moved on.  Life happens, and we used our skills and brains to do unexpected things, growing ourselves and learning even more about life, and who we are.

One of the reunion organizers asked us to ponder whether or not we had changed the world, like we’d all talked about in those late night gatherings, and if we’d made a difference in our lives.

“Yes, indeed,” we answered, but not in the ways we had thought, back in the days of Watergate, and the week we staged a sit-in in the college president’s office, angry at Nixon bombing Cambodia.

The conversations that night were about good relationships, connecting with people, making a difference about how people felt about themselves, how we could make their lives better, simply by being who we were. No one showed their bank statements, their stock portfolios, their photos of their real estate or talked about their job titles, or the cars we drove to get here that night. We didn’t wear any fancy clothes. We laughed at the photos of our days on campus, the wild hair, how much beer we could drink back then, and the times when Angela Davis and Anais Nin spoke on campus.

We talked about the people we had become, how that one class, that one professor made all the difference to us as we went on about our lives, how we became better people, how forty years gives you a perspective on life and the world that we may not have had back during our days as eager, curious college students.  And, who we are today is still about who we were then, curious, looking inward, and figuring out how we can connect with someone, and change their lives.

—Neal Lemery 6/27/15

Fathers’ Day — Shifting The Sun


Fathers’ Day raises a wide range of emotions and reflections for me, giving me a rollercoaster ride of thoughts.  This poem helps me sort all of that out, and make some sense out of being a son of a number of men who were dads to me.

 

Today, I was a dad to a young man in prison.  We were out in the garden, admiring his gazebo he had built.  It is his first experience with wood, hammers, nails, and drills.  He has struggled with its design and construction, but has accepted the help of others, and has applied his own talents, and his own eye for beauty and simplicity.

 

His gazebo is a work of art, and his very own creation. It looks good, and fits well with the rest of the garden.

 

I expressed to him my thoughts on its stability, its beauty.  He tried to put himself and his creativity down, but I kept at him, praising him and his talents.  He told me he wanted his dad to be happy with it and tell him he liked it, but he was afraid of letting his dad know what he had built.

 

I saw that familiar fear of rejection, that sense of “I am not good enough” in his face.

 

I became his dad for a few precious moments, letting him hear words of praise and adulation fill his ears. I let him know he was a good man, a man of talent and ability.

 

He smiled, and shook my hand.  And, perhaps, in all of those few minutes, there was a feeling that he was, indeed, a man of worth, a man of value and talent.  And, there was a dad in his life who thought he was worth something after all.

 

Shifting the Sun

When your father dies, say the Irish,
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh,
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Canadians,
you run out of excuses.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the French,
you become your own father.
May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

When you father dies, say the Indians,
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the English,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever.
And you walk in his light.
~ Diana Der-Hovanessian ~

A Man of Service


 

This week, we said goodbye to a good friend, a man of compassion, a man who quietly built up others, offering his hand in friendship.

Herman Gonzalez was quiet, his voice low as he spoke to the men and women who came to court.  They were scared, not speaking the language, not knowing what would happen, not knowing what to do.

One by one, they came before the bench, listening to the judge, then listening to him, as he translated the strange words about law and court and traffic tickets into their own language.

He smiled, and so did they. He explained things to them, and they nodded.  They told their story and the judge listened to them, asking a few questions.

It was OK to tell the truth, he’d say. That’s what court is for, to find out the truth, and figure out an answer that was fair. And, everyone gets to have their own say, to tell their side of the story.

He’d talk to the police, getting a bit more of the story, a few more ideas of making things right, and finding the answers.

It was OK,  coming to court and talking to the judge, he would tell the people.  The cops were just people, just doing their job. They are good people, just people like you and me. It is OK to disagree, to speak up, and tell your own truth.

Herman offered a few questions of his own, giving out information, explaining their stories and explaining the judge’s questions and ideas of how the ticket could be resolved. Some of the suggestions seemed too hard, too overwhelming, until Herman offered to help them, to find the solution. He’d go with them, showing them the way, doing the talking for them, and getting things done.

It may have been a trip to DMV, or to an insurance agent, or maybe a quick trip to the auto parts store to fix a mechanical problem with their car.  Or maybe it was food for their child, or to find a job, or a place to live. He was always looking for true justice.

Nothing was impossible for Herman.  He would find a way, and he would help them out.

People called him all the time.  They came to his house, and knocked on the door, knowing that Herman would listen to them, help them out, show them the way.  He’d make a few calls, he’d give them directions, the name of someone who could help.

He didn’t know a stranger, and he’d greet everyone with a smile, a hearty handshake.

Sometimes, people would lie to him, trying to get him to do something that wasn’t quite right. Or, they’d shade the truth, or not tell him the whole story.  He’d catch on to that, and then you’d see his anger. You didn’t need some of the words translated; his red face and edgy voice told the story. And, then, he’d offer his lesson in honesty and decency, about living life with purpose and love. Father Herman, setting things right and getting people back on the right track.

It was always a good day in court when Herman was there.  People’s stories were told, and all the important parts were sure to be included.  People were able to resolve their problems, and move on with their lives, feeling better about themselves, and about the cops and the court.  They found some resources for themselves and their families, and were able to be a better part of the community.

Respect, that’s what they really got.

Herman loved to fish.  He always had a fishing story to tell. And jokes, so many jokes.  He always had you laughing.

At the funeral, the priest asked us to read this prayer together:

I pray that I may live to fish

Until my dying day.

And when it comes to my last cast,

I then most humbly pray:

When in the Lord’s great landing net

And peacefully asleep

That in His mercy I be judged

Big enough to keep.

We laughed; we told Herman stories. We smiled, celebrating a life filled with love and purpose. We cried, too, at all the good memories, all the funny stories.  We missed him so much.

We honored a great man, a man who made his community stronger, who made all of us more compassionate, better fishers of others in our midst.

—Neal Lemery, June 7, 2015