sweet photos and fragrant flowers: a Mother’s Day eulogy

My magnolia was in full glory on Mother’s Day. The cold spring had kept her flowers only half-open for a week, but Sunday’s onset of summer warmth let her burst forth fMagnoliaully. Glory hallelujah.
I camped under her canopy and drank in the intoxicating fragrance. Then I thought of a day several years ago when I was up in the magnolia doing a spring pruning. I wasn’t sure which branches to lop and which to save. I called Dad from right there in the tree but got Mom instead. Not surprisingly, she proceeded to tell me exactly how to do it, at length.
“Your dad is too soft,” she said, in a familiar vein. “You need to cut off any branch that’s touching another branch. That’s how you help it grow.”
This was typically tough talk from Mom, who came from the Miner clan on Detroit’s northwest side. The Miners were not pansies. Mom loved flowers but she was not going to be soft on the magnolia.
I was happy to have these thoughts of Mom on Mother’s Day, as I no longer had Mom herself. Since her passing in 2011 life has been a little shallower. It never again will include me walking into the living room of the homestead in Williamston, and Mom greeting me from her corner chair with a beaming smile and soft kiss, her hands gently framing my face.
I will never see another smile quite that joyful. Mom always called us kids “the jewels in our crown.” She did have a way of making us feel like royalty.
Sunday was a festive day on Facebook as friends shared photos and memories of their mothers. It was heart-warming to see all these lovely women, often with their children but sometimes solo photos of themselves as ravishing young adults. It was easy to see why their children shared the pictures so glowing with love and beauty.
For some though the beauty was tinged with sadness, a celebration of a life that was but is no longer except in spirit. For one dear friend in particular, there was as much sorrow as sweetness in sharing photos of her mother who had died just a week before. For those of us in the orphanage, seeing families gather for lunch on the patio in their Sunday best is wistful at best.
The traditional tune “Motherless Children” states it a little too baldly: “Motherless children have a hard time when mother is dead, Lord. /Nobody treats you like a mother will …” It’s been recorded by many from the Rev. Gary Davis and Bob Dylan to Eric Clapton and Lucinda Williams. The version I know is by Steve Miller, who softens the lyric to “when their mother is gone.” His dirge-like guitars and soulful vocal plaintively express the loss: “all that weeping, all that crying.”
My Andrea will cry at unexpected times about her mother, who died 11 years ago. A friend told me the other day that she had broken into tears that morning for her mother, who has been gone for 30.
The photo I posted of Mom on Facebook was from Rice’s Resort, a little patch of Eden on Lake Skegemog (then called Round Lake) where we spent many summers in the 1950s. Mom is sitting on a stump, chin perched on hand, smiling softly. She could be looking at us kids playing or just thinking about how happy she feels to be there. Her face says all is well with the world.Mom at Rice's
That is the Mom I think about on Mother’s Day, brimming with life, pregnant with joy. She still talks to me up in the magnolia, and her fresh beauty blooms in the sun.

 

 

 

 

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first the book, then the signing

At Schuler’s on 28th … author promises remarks will be mercifully brief

2014-0508_Charles_Honey

 

 

 

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as I walked out on Easter morning

daffodilsAs I walked out on Easter morning
Daffodils cheered the sunrise
Standing strong and straight and green
Reaching for the good new day.
Canada geese welcomed me
With their sharp exuberant honks
Flying from the river by the park
Over the still sleeping town.
Birds sang life’s most hopeful song
The one that celebrates light
Returning from the darkness
Chickadees and mourning doves
Raising a cantata of joy.
Like a young boy jumping out of bed
His feet hitting the cold floor
His legs carrying him to the ball field
Or to his banged-up bicycle
To toss the morning paper
On a hundred waiting porches:
That was what this day was like
To me, the once-young boy
Standing on my parents’ porch
Clutching a cup of coffee
Hot and strong and sweet
Like grandma always made it
Listening to the song
Looking at the flowers
Smelling the sweet soft air
Watching for the light
Just then breaking to life
Beyond the corn fields.

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how 20 years of life became a book

Front coverThe wonderful Russ Burpee, who used to greet worshippers in our church foyer with a warm hand and beaming smile, told me more than once: “You ought to collect your columns into a book, Charley. People would read it.”
I took his advice seriously, admiring Russ as I did. But I didn’t act on it. After all, my columns appeared every week in The Grand Rapids Press Religion section. Why would people want to read the same columns again just because they were bound together, and pay money for them to boot?
But as the years went by, the idea seemed to gain merit. The longer you stick with something it seems to acquire more value. Being a plumber for 20 years deserves a certain recognition. As I closed in on two score years of religion writing, a greatest-hits package beckoned.
Thus “Faith on First: Thoughts on God, Nature and Sacrifice Bunts,” which collects four score of the more than 900 columns I’ve written since 1994. That was when The Press’ previous religion editor, Ed Golder, asked me if I would like to inherit his job. Incredibly, I said yes, and even more incredibly, I loved it.
I hope that love is evident in the columns I’ve assembled. Truly, in my 35 years as a reporter and editor, no news beat has brought me as much reward as religion. In covering the meaning of life from week to week, I’ve met so many wonderful, interesting and inspiring people, some internationally famous, some who live down the block. It’s been a privilege to write about them, whether it’s the giggling wisdom of the Dalai Lama, the fortitude of Ed Dobson, the pot-stirrings of Rob Bell or the genius of Anthony Torrone and his amazing Lego creations.
It’s been a pleasure as well as to offer my thoughts on issues of the day and questions of the age. Such as: How did the universe begin? Where does the time go when it goes? Why doesn’t God answer when I ask him simple questions? And why do I keep losing my glasses?
The book also includes two of the blogs I’ve written here, a foreword by my friend and fellow journalist Pat Shellenbarger and an entirely made-up commentary by my favorite Detroit Tigers broadcasters.
Indeed, baseball is the colorful thread that ties these essays together, much like the Dude’s rug in “The Big Lebowski.” Baseball’s slow, ritual rhythms comfort my perpetually worried soul like a Gregorian chant. Why “Faith On First”? Because being on first base means you’ve gotten there through good effort. It feels good to be there, with the hope of rounding more bases and possibly coming home – much like the reassurance of faith.
If this sort of thing interests you, my book is available at Schuler Books & Music in Grand Rapids, where I will have a book-signing at 7 p.m. on May 8. If you don’t live in West Michigan, you can order it at http://www.schulerbooks.com, go to “Browse Our Shelves” and click on “Local Authors.”  Or just send me an email at honeycharlesm@gmail.com.
Self-promotion goes against the grain of any self-respecting reporter. But if Russ Burpee felt I should publish a book, that’s good enough for me. I hope you agree.

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a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second

That’s how long it took for the universe to get started, or even less. So say really smart astrophysicists after having detected “gravitational waves” left over from the Big Bang 13.8 billion years ago. Some say it might be one of the biggest scientific discoveries of all time.

To which I say, wow, hallelujah,Image and what was that again?

First of all, if no band has yet taken the name of “Gravitational Waves,” I hereby claim it should the Honeytones ever disband. (That will never happen, but I’ve still got dibs.)

Second of all, this is mind-blowing news of the first order, and of much higher quality than most of what passes for such. For this news points to how we actually got here, or, as one helpful video with a lovely British accent puts it, the beginning of everything.

But is it really the beginning of everything? Or if it is, what was there before the beginning? And who began it?

That is, what or who could take a “submicroscopic speck of primordial energy,” as The New York Times put it, and blow it up in the space of a trillionth of a trillionth etc., thereby starting a universe that now measures 14 billion light years across? And that’s just what we can see.

The discovery of little swirls in the universal background of microwave radiation – don’t ask me to explain it – by scientists camped out at the South Pole is breathtaking news. It’s almost like someone took a selfie of Genesis (the book not the band).

Reporters struggle to explain it to us mere laypeople. It’s like the ripples of sand left by the waves. It’s like seeing the same coffee cup cooled at the same rate wherever you look. It’s like a 40-minute jazz odyssey by Spinal Tap (that one is my contribution).

But what does it mean, exactly? Does it mean that the universe, or the un-universe, just sat there cold and dead until one day it decided to snap to life? If so, how long was it cold and dead before it snapped to life? And just how does cold, dead matter “decide” to snap to life?

With apologies to Neil deGrasse Tyson, who explains such things much more elegantly in the reboot of “Cosmos” now showing on Fox, these questions get my brain working overtime. These gravitational waves pull me toward the idea that there must have been a creator who got the waves rolling.

I was roundly slapped for posing that really unradical thought in my recent column on “Cosmos,” by an online commenter who said I might as well say a pink unicorn created all the flatulence on Earth. (Clearly this man has not read the Gnostic Gospel of the Pink Unicorn.) But Tyson himself, an agnostic, admits science doesn’t know the answer to Where It All Came From.

Certainly, a universe created by chance is at least as implausible as a universe created by a creator. The latter makes more sense to me. As the Jewish physicist and author Gerald Schroeder had posited, the universe could have started as an idea – God’s idea.

I don’t know about you, but to me a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth brings to mind a familiar phrase: Let there be light. 

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when lonely, I go Facebookin’

shivering boyThis morning I awoke with a general restlessness and insecurity. I was graced with a cup of strong coffee and the warm comfort of a real person, my dear Andrea. How nice to be able to start counting your blessings at 5 a.m.
But beyond that – Andrea must ready herself for work – how to answer this nagging insecurity, which borders uncomfortably on loneliness born of an unsettling dream? Why, all my friends from the ether, of course. Good morning Facebook!
Like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks finding a bit of solace in the quaint “You’ve got mail!” of opening their AOL accounts – in the romantic comedy of the same name — I find comfort from a short dip in the lap pool of What My Friends are Doing and Thinking. With two keyboard clicks I’ve gone from the isolated pond of my own thoughts to the swimming community of theirs.
In 1966 Robert Parker sang of the joys of dancing in his minor hit “Barefootin.’”So permit me the little joys of Facebookin,’ aimlessly floating down the stream of other people’s lives while I try to get back to my own.
So today I see a touching video of an 11-year-old boy shivering at a bus stop in Oslo, Norway, and all the people who offered him their coats, scarves and gloves. It was a promo film for SOS Children’s Villages International’s campaign to find clothing for children displaced by the Syrian civil war. It was staged with a volunteer boy, yet still a welcome demonstration of human caring – something I personally am always glad to see.
Also: an aerial photo of the Great Lakes frozen over, compliments of my friend Steve from Stratford, Ont.; a funny Far Side cartoon posted by Kenny from Detroit; two cats snuggling into an open suitcase shared by Tracy of Ada; news of a land gift to Meijer Gardens from Jim of Grand Rapids Township; a much-commented-upon think post about Miley Cyrus from Brian of East Lansing; and, God bless him, a clip posted by John Serba of the just-late Harold Ramis and his classic “print is dead” scene from “Ghostbusters.”
As you can see, nothing here will change the course of American foreign policy. But it did change the course of my day just a little, drawing me out of myself which at the moment was not a wonderful place to be.
Facebookin’ can also be an annoying distraction, of course, especially if you’re not the one doing it. You’re trying to have real human interaction with this person but he just keeps scrolling through his phone like a little kid glued to his Gameboy. This kind of Facebookin’ does not enhance community, it nibbles away at it.
Facebook can also be a mindless way to not deal with your own stuff. Rather than pay attention to your discomfort and sit with it, as Pema Chodron would advise, you cover it over with superficial surfing of other people’s stuff.
And, I do worry about Mark Zuckerberg’s potential power over the entire human enterprise when he’s got the buying habits and musical tastes of more than 1 billion users at his fingertips.
Still. Facebook as community when you keenly feel a lack of it can be a balm to the troubled soul. It can even be a place of spiritual sustenance, lifting you from your closed-in mindset to a broader view of what’s happening out there as seen through others’ eyes. It brings you closer to other souls, whether troubled or content.
Well, I will not make definitive proclamations about the social good of Facebook. I will just say that today I was grateful for it. And now I must get back to my own “real life.”

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confessions of a ‘Downton Abbey’ slacker

 

Photo by Nick Briggs, Carnival Film & Television Limited

Photo by Nick Briggs, Carnival Film & Television Limited


One evening many years from now, when Andrea is knitting a sweater by the fireside and I am sipping medium-priced wine, the college student we had over for dinner will turn to me and say, “We’ve been studying the Golden Age of Television, in the early 2000s. ‘Downton Abbey,’ ‘Breaking Bad’ and all those awesome shows. You were there – how great was it?”

I will have to take a long sip of chardonnay, look at this expectant young person and say, “I’m sorry, but I missed it.”

The young person will be disappointed, but luckily Andrea will chime in, “Oh, I saw a lot of it. ‘Dexter’ was amazing. So were the ‘The Sopranos,’ ‘Oz,’ ‘Six Feet Under,’ ‘Sex and the City.’ And ‘Homeland’ – my God, it just about killed me.”

I will be able to honestly say I too loved “Homeland,” having endured every single episode of CIA agent Carrie Mathison (aka Claire Danes) and her bipolar, sweat-inducing heroism. But as for the rest, I will know as little about them as I will about “War and Peace,” which I still will not have read.

In this widely acclaimed Golden Age of Television, I am at best an outlier, at worst a cultural pariah. I experienced a certain amount of shame every time I was at a bar and people started going on about “Dexter,” and can you believe that last episode?  I listened timidly like they were talking about their investments, waiting for the opening to say, “So, how about those Tigers eh?”

Nowhere is this cultural cluelessness more acute than with “Downton Abbey,” which in its fourth season is the finest wine on TV. People structure their Sunday nights around it. The New Yorker writes about it and NPR talks about it. It’s one of the hottest cultural conversations going, but dolts like me have nothing to contribute.

I recently came out as a non-Downton-watcher on Facebook, admitting the guilt I feel. Holy cow. More than 40 comments came forth, everything from “Yes, you should feel guilty” to “Maggie Smith is incredible” (I know, I know!) to “I don’t watch it either” to “all the truly intelligent people everywhere on the planet watch Downton Abbey.” (Pretty sure that last one was sarcasm.)

Despite several fellow non-Downtoners coming to my aid, I felt even guiltier afterward. Truly, it was clear how much many of my friends love and watch this show. So why don’t I?

The feeling this engenders is more than guilt. It is that I am MISSING OUT. Just like I missed out on “The Sopranos,” “Madmen” and all the other shows friends told me I should watch. Worse, thanks to Netflix and iTunes, the opportunity is always there to still watch these shows. Just set aside an entire weekend, forget the laundry and you’ll be all caught up.

I have watched enough episodes of these shows to know I would like them. But there are two problems in catching up on “Downton Abbey”:

1) I do not binge-watch.  I grew up watching “Rawhide” at 8 p.m. Friday nights. I just will never feel right watching 10 shows in two days, as if time has no meaning in the universe.

2) I’ve already seen it. Back then it was called “Upstairs, Downstairs.”

I religiously watched almost every episode of that marvelous “Masterpiece Theater” series from 1971 through 1975.  I delighted in its rich characters: the regal but fundamentally decent Lord and Lady Bellamy; their dashing but disappointing son James; the haughty butler Mr. Hudson and feisty cook Mrs. Bridges; and most of all, the stern but kind-hearted maid Rose.

To see Mrs. Bridges offer up her “win the war pie” as a patriotic menu during World War I brings back the humor and poignancy that anchored my Sunday nights as I recovered from the Sixties. Forty-plus years later, I have no need of new characters to enact essentially the same story. I want my butler to be Mr. Hudson and my maid the lovely Rose. I would rather be nostalgic than hip.

Oh, I will probably watch “Downton Abbey” someday, with Andrea knitting by the fire after we’ve had our Sunday-morning drive.

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