The Taste of Memory

“Bring the food that you eat, when you need to know you are loved.”

This was our final assignment in a doctoral seminar class on the Eucharist. We were to bring enough of whatever food it was, to share with the class—sixteen doctoral and advanced masters’ degree students.

I didn’t have to think very hard about what to bring. Of course it had to be the lemon wafers.

These cookies are simplicity itself, which undoubtedly recommended them to the ladies organizing the Vacation Bible School at the Methodist church in Liberty, Texas that summer in 1978. One lemon cake mix, one egg, one cup of vegetable oil, mix and drop and bake at 350 for ten minutes…even the very youngest children could help.

When my grandmother picked me up that day at noon, I carried a plastic sandwich bag with a few lemon cookies in it, and the recipe printed on a half-sheet of typing paper. We shared them on the short drive home—still warm and soft in the middle, thin and crumbling brown at the edges.

Thereafter, these little treats were always available at her house. Gram made them in huge batches (they make a lot anyway) and froze them, layered between waxed paper in large shallow tupperware containers. When guests came to visit, she would ask “Would you like a cookie?” and unfailingly produce a plate of the bright yellow-gold circles.

On June 22, 2000, less than a month after I graduated from the Episcopal Theological Seminary of the Southwest, my grandmother died at home, in her sleep. She had lived a long, rich, full life, and yet when the minister asked me if I wanted to have a role in the service, I answered, “Yes. I want to sit in the front row and cry. That is my role today.” And it was, and I did.

Nearly a year later I was ordained to the priesthood in St. Paul’s Church, Waco, Texas. At the reception which followed the service, on the long buffet table in the middle of the hall, was a large platter of lemon wafers. I had never seen these at any St. Paul’s coffee hour or gathering before, so I asked my friend who was coordinating the reception, “Where did these come from?” She didn’t know. She asked her friends who were helping, who had arranged all the food and drink for the gathering. They didn’t know. No one was able to identify the source or origin of the lemon wafers that night. Nor were such ever seen again at a St. Paul’s event, in the two consecutive years I served there.

A coincidence, no doubt. Somehow completely explainable to even the most rational mind. Yet for those of us who seek the patterns, the connections in this world, the wondrous moments when the magic sparkles in the corners of our eyes…much more than that.

“Bring the food that you eat, when you need to know you are loved.”
“I made this just for you.”
“Take, eat… do this in remembrance.”

A View From the Porch: A Retrospective

From my porch, I have seen…

· Four cycles of the maple tree in the front yard, from bright gold to barren gray branches, to palest green to deep emerald and back again;

· Does and their fawns crossing the street at midnight;

· The Seeing Eye: dogs and owners and trainers up and down the sidewalks, learning to walk together;

· Wedding guests rushing to find a parking spot before donning jackets and hats, on their way to Assumption Church on a Saturday afternoon;

· Mourners of all ages, dressed in everything from dark suits and ties to blue jeans and t-shirts, going to pay their last respects to a family member or beloved friend;

· Neighbors on their way to the grocery store, or the dry cleaners, or the library;

· Squirrels engaged in a thousand gymnastic activities, from fence rails and tree branches;

· Basil and parsley and rosemary growing in hanging pots, luxuriant under the summer sun.

I have watched the life of a town there: a busy, lively community that has been my home for a while. A bit of my heart will remain here; I will always be grateful for the lessons I learned in this place and with this group of people.

Vacation Edition: August 2009

Hello dear ones!

This edition comes to you from the “gazee-deck” (not quite gazebo, not quite deck…the best of both!) at Croft Alden, just south of Hague, New York. Directly to the east, Lake George is barely visible, screened by a tall stand of pine and cedar. I can almost hear the water lapping on the shore. The sun has risen on a cool and bright August morning, and the deranged songbird outside my window insisted that I should get up and see this daily miracle for myself. He was quite correct—it is a beautiful sight.

In my lexicon “going to the water” is synonymous with rest and restoration. Growing up I spent summers on the Texas Gulf Coast, at a house that no longer exists, save in blessed memory, getting sunburned, playing in the surf and digging in the sand, reading ancient comic books and listening to Waylon and Willie and the boys, and eating icy-cold watermelon and sweet corn from the farm stand down the road. The house had no air conditioning, but with windows in all the exterior walls and ceiling fans in every room, it didn’t need it. We heard the sound of the wind and waves; we felt the breeze off the water (so much so that you actually wanted a quilt at night, even in high summer), we smelled the salt air and cut grass, and occasionally the “ew-ick” of a fish that had been left on the shore to decompose.

This time apart—this Sabbath here at the lake in New York—has been much anticipated and welcomed. We will leave two days hence, returning to our new place at Jubilee House, where we will continue to unpack and “make ourselves at home.” School starts again very soon (and already has, for some of us) and I will be beavering away on my great project that leads to “The Rev. Dr.” on my business cards.

The last few months have been something of a rollercoaster ride, but we seem to have come through with only a few chips and scratches. To all of you (and you know who you are) who have helped us in this time of transition and uncertainty, through your prayers and good will, and through offers of assistance of all kinds—may the Almighty return to you double those things which you have shared with us. We have been “bathed in grace” in these days, and the waters of this glorious lake have reminded me of that truth. “I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help.”

See you on the porch!

A New View from a New Porch

Hello my dears!

I'm writing in haste, but wanted the friends to know that the Precentor household is now fully relocated to our new digs at Jubilee House. Boxes everywhere--who knew we has so much JUNK? Relieved at having it done; a bit sad at the closing of the previous chapter of our lives; excited to see where the Holy Spirit may be blowing us now!

Email to precentor69 at yahoo dot com for direct contact information :)

See you on the porch!