Peebles Pond

Sun rising over Peebles Pond this morning,
faithful group beside its banks to sing their thanks
that the Son rose too. Churches joined in
fellowship for hearty breakfast after;
sitting here I wonder whose sermon was
preached in the coolness, little wisps of
fog with every word, whose kitchen filled with
sausage smell. I wish them well in Lillington,
remembering years past when I was there
by Peebles Pond myself.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


Cecil and Kay Peebles own a beautiful piece of land in Lillington, NC that includes a pond. The community sunrise service has been going there for years, pre-dating their ownership, so some still call it White Pond, or even White-Peebles Pond. We lived in Lillington for five years, and I attended several of the Easter services there, sang at one, enjoyed the breakfasts. Good memories. And I see on Facebook that both Cecil and Kay are sick this weekend, so sending prayers of healing their way!

Personal

Two thousand years ago, or something in that neighborhood, I was not there at Golgotha to see the bright sky darken, or despair as blood and water flowed from naked side beneath his ribs encasing broken heart. I did not see
the soldiers throwing dice to see who'd get his clothes, hear him bid John care for Mother Mary or forgive the crowd below the cross. I was not there in body,
but something of mine witnessed the great sacrifice.
Somewhere in the blows and bloodied thorny crown,
the molecule that would become my sin and sins received
their punishment, including that small and petty thought
that selfishly raised its head up from the grave just
yesterday, as well as bigger sins that I'll commit
as soon as I have time. The inclination's there,
no question, but they've all been paid for, nonetheless.
There's nothing more that I can do to make up for
tremendous lack of character or strength, no payment
from these meager coffers could come close to
matching what he did already, seeing that I'd need
forgiveness now and then and every moment
in between. It wasn't just for me, of course, the love
that held him there (you didn't really think a spike
could fasten down the weight off all the power
of the universe!) but still, I take it personally, take
it with a sob of gratitude, take it with a belly laugh
of thanks that I'm alive and get to stay that way
because God saw my sin ahead of time and
said he'd add it to the mix, settle up for everyone
that one dark day two thousand years ago, or
something there about.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Beurre Blanc

Table's set, ingredients at the ready

for preparation at just the right time.
Tablecloth and napkins ironed
because it's just that kind of night.
Dessert sits waiting, salad in
the fridge. New recipe to try for
special guests who've never
eaten at our table quite like this.
There will be music in the background,
something soft and smooth,
wine will flow as will the
conversation. No rush,
no background noise from
waiters, fussing babies or
rude cellphones, just five for
dinner, and I want it to be perfect.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Whistle Blow

Train calling in the night,
lonely warning that it
cannot stop to visit,
no station here, no packed
bags in hands just
waiting to step on
amidst the fumes. It
continues on a route
it did not choose
but has to follow.
I would pack a bag
and hop aboard if
it would let me,
seeing where the route
would take me, calling
home to tell new stories
until time to blow the horn
myself, announcing
my return.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Stomp

Tempest in a teapot, this furor over feet
that step on paper bearing one word: Jesus,
to follow this with a frank discussion
of their feelings. Golden opportunity
for those of faith to state their case
but no, the single student, first disciplined,
then deified for refusal to take part,
is the one who made the news.I grew
up with Jesus, singing hymns
and praying before meals and bed
but five letters can't contain his
majesty and power. Before you
protest some innocuous instruction
(that might have opened minds
and eyes to see that if there's
hesitation in defacing such a name,
perhaps there's more than meets
the eye about this so-called man from Galilee)
make sure that it's what he himself
would do. Blind guides, Pharisees,
upset by THIS with all that's wrong
around you?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

I'm not advocating the FAU instructor's exercise, but in a discussion of what religious symbols mean in the world today and why they mean what they do, his methods do not offend me as a Christian. Rather, I think any believer in the class would have a wonderful opportunity in such a situation to explain why he or she disliked the action, what the name of Jesus means to them, not because of the name but the name by which all men may be saved (Acts 4:12).

Betrayers All

Living Last Supper at the church
I went to as a child, spent hours
lying on a pew as Mama practiced
on the organ for the coming
Sunday's service, sanctuary
where I saw my sister marry,
little knowing I would follow
her example shortly,
walking down same aisle.
Tonight the church is filled,
or close to it, someone
advertised the drama, and
it worked. They've spent
longer on their lines
than on the costumes, but
the set is good, sincerity
making up for lack of
polish. At program's end
I take communion from
disciples and head out
with my parents but not
before I'm recognized by Judas.
He hugs me to himself, some
equivalent of "Long time,
no see" hanging in the narthex air.
Schoolmates long ago,
the irony nevertheless
does not escape my notice.
"One of you will betray"...
we heard it over and over
as gathered Twelve
explained their singular reactions
caught by DaVinci's brush.
Truth be told, each person
there could answer gentle
jesus in the affirmative, most
especially I, which sounds
prouder than I mean by saying it.
Judas thought he'd help the King
along, push him forward to his
rightful place, crushing Romans
in the process. Similarly
I have tried to do the same, just
help God out a little, forget that
"patience is a virtue." Such an
easy one to have, at that, compared
to others far more problematic.
All I have to do is wait.
All I can do, really, when you
think about it, wait until
the perfect time arrives,
proper placement of the moon
and stars and all that must align
before my destiny's fulfilled.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2013

End of the Run

The makeup's off, costumes back in storage.

Set sliced, diced, parceled out for future use

into appropriate piles of lumber, tables, doors.

Green room vacuumed, ghosts of shows

from long ago still watching from the naked 

ceiling pipes above, waiting for revivals of

their favorite parts, before they leave for good.

Lines memorized, recited, sometimes dropped

and covered by astute companions so the

audience was fooled, soon forgotten

with the advent of new roles or simply life

and all that means. To play another person,

different from the norm in every way,

refreshing, challenge and delight, but

post-performance blues are nothing new.

So much time back in one's schedule,

plenty there to fill it, true, but when you're

done, there's no receiving line where

countless hands are shaken as they assure

you that you're great. Having a director

tell you when to speak or walk or laugh

can be pleasant switch from that which

passes as reality, where all such choices 

are one's own and those for whom

we may perform are rarely known to

break out into enraptured and 

spontaneous applause.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013