Listening just now to Liz McAlister's eulogy at Dan Berrigan's funeral, she quoted him as having said "We live in inexplicably evil times." This really strikes me. Yes, inexplicably, because we have had Christ and Moses and Buddha and so many other messengers of God from without and within. We should know better.
How much good is born into our own hearts, how many people in our own lives, how many faiths, how many humans have lived in our history who have given us clear and inspiring examples of how to live? How to play well with others. We can all feast on the goodness of the earth. What is it that makes evil so tempting? Why does anyone "want it all" at the expense of anyone else having simply enough? Why should anyone not be happy until they've taken all the toys from the sandbox? And the violence? The hatred, fear and loathing of imagined enemies. Our brothers, our sisters? Imagination turned reality, when finally, we do become one another's enemy.
I just don't understand it.
What's so hard about being good? We can see it, embrace it and live it. Go ahead. Spoil yourselves.
James Broadus Lawter, my dad, gone six years now. A friend asked me to tell his story, so here is a small attempt...
My first thought was to write "He was born a poor black child" a la Steve Martin's start to "The Jerk." But essentially, aside from not being African American, he was born a poor child in Greenville, South Carolina, just before the start of the Depression to John Charles Freemont Lawter and Rosa Magdelana Lawter (John and Maggie). He had two sisters born and deceased before him, Mary Yvonne and Margaret Irene who both, we are told, died of the measles. My Grandpa John took work wherever he could find it and was often gone.
Grandpa John, Jimmy and pup Buddy
On one trip home, he overheard two of his brothers-in-law talking about "giving the boy" to his Grandma to raise which prompted my grandfather to take my then 3 year old dad and leave his wife and South Carolina behind. He heard from family in the Northwest that there was work to be found in the boat yards of Seattle, Washington. He and my dad walked and hitchhiked the whole way there. There was indeed work and Seattle was where my dad was raised, often being left in the care of the woman who ran the boardinghouse they lived in. We met Mrs. Rice ourselves when we were kids, then an elderly woman who was grateful to see Dad with his own family.
Mom and Dad in the Navy
Dad, with his father's permission joined the Merchant Marines as a teenager, and after a time, lying about his age, joined the Navy at 17. That's where my parents met some years later, about 1950, Mom being a Wave. They married, had 5 kids, then divorced 15 years on. He retired from the Navy and we were mostly out of touch for almost a decade. He had married and divorced again, then moved back east from Minnesota and stayed at least in the periphery of our lives for the rest of his life. He had a stroke or two in his later years, the last one sending him eventually to the same Veteran's home in which my mother now resides. He was living with COPD and kidney issues which plagued him in the final few months before he passed away in 2010. We inured his ashes in the very traditional ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery. We had this all planned ahead of time, and I will always have the memory of his reaction to my asking him "How would you like being buried at Arlington Cemetery?" The look that came over his face was a combination of surprise and intrigue. He liked the idea.
Dad's honor guard at Arlington
That's a thumbnail sketch of some basic details, there's so much more to his spirit, some of which we offspring have inherited. He was a survivor, had an appetite to enjoy what he could of life and always some need, I think, to make up for his difficult childhood. Never a church goer, he called himself an agnostic - "just in case." I would tease him that he'd better get used to the idea of heaven because I was gonna get him there, even it was by dragging him, kicking and screaming. A curmudgeon and a hermit, he never quite got the handle on how to do family. I got to help him with a lot of life's minutia in his last years, for which I am grateful. I would call myself his "beck and call girl," which amused him no end. I remember at one point, when he was still in the hospital and we were arranging for which rehab facility he should go to, he paused a moment, got a wee bit misty and said to me, "What would I do without you? Why are you doing all of this?" I looked at him and said "This is what familes do, Dad." Silly wabbit.
Friend Aaron visiting Dad in Arlington
Until his final stroke, he always smoked cigarettes. I remember Camels and Bel Air, then in later years he bought them from Native American reservations because of the bargain prices and convenient mail order feature. He once tried a pipe for a time. He was passionate about his coffee. Gotta fuel that curmudgeon spirit! Ending up in the NYS Veterans Home in Montrose, it took him a while to settle in. But ever the survivor, he did just that. He made a lot of friends with the nurses and attendants, who all called him "Jimmy." Each time I came to see him at the Vet home, he'd be watching one of two things on TV - NCIS or Fox News. Every single time it was Fox, I always, always said "Dad, you know that's not the news." He'd occasionally say to me, "You know I'm Republican, don't you?" To which I'd reply, "Well, nobody's perfect," a favorite line from the end of "Some Like It Hot."
Jimmy at Six
Dad was always a fair wit, enjoyed a saucy and great sense of humor, a flair for the dramatic, he loved radio shows, music and movies. Using a photo as a model, I once did a scratchboard of him reading at the age of six. He said that it "classed up" his childhood. I have him reading a big old book when in reality, it was the funny papers. He was a news announcer on the radio in Minnesota and an actor, mostly in college and regional theater productions. He did a lot of theater, and made attempts to pursue acting professionally in NYC where he moved in the late 70's to the Village.
JB Lawter actor
He and my Mom both acted in the Sangley Point Theater Guild in the Navy while in the Philippines. They also had a children's radio program which they wrote and performed weekly to a live audience of kids on the Navy base. Dad was Farmer MacDonald and my Mom was Mother Goose, playing her as a dotty old lady based on wonderful character actress Edna May Oliver. I know this is my Dad's story, but I love thinking of my mother in Ms. Oliver's persona. If you are not familiar with Ms. Oliver, this is a TCM tribute to Edna May, enjoy.
My favorite story from this era was that one morning on a radio broadcast day, my parents overslept and in order to be on time, threw on their costumes at home, then sped off to the studio on Dad's motor scooter. I love the thought of seeing Mother Goose, one hand hanging onto her hat while hanging tight onto Farmer MacDonald as they go whooshing down the road....! It just tickles the whimsy!
So, Dad, Papa-san, Daddio, JB Lawter was born in December 1928 and scootered off this mortal coil in March of 2010. I think of him often enough and always will. Despite the huge absences we encountered in our lives, he taught me how to thread a needle, how to wire a lamp, the basics of riding a bike and how to look things up in the set of encyclopedias he "paid good money for." And, as my brother Jim recently said to me, "There's a lot of him in our DNA." Yes indeedy do, life goes on.
First, a mystic, then a hermit. I have been a very old soul. Then a teenage hermit. Finally, almost out of my teens, a conversion experience of sorts, quietly came out as a human. I was inspired to be part of the Mystical Body of Christ and to live Gods presence in this oft times mean little world of ours.
With a valiant effort it has remained my endeavor ever since. Joined the Little Sisters. Left, life unfolded, evolved towards the Catholic Worker world in which I have remained, always at least in some part, in spirit, if not in body. Lived here and there, thither and yon. A free spirit? Restless? A pilgrim, hopefully not a pill or always grim. Had hopes for a number of wondrous things in my life, some happened, many have not.
Wound up in Europe for a time, came back to my homeland, giving myself permission to evolve back in part, into my hidy hole. Signed my own permit to hermit, communing with God so much more inviting than with humanity. A Worker, a baker, a candle stick lighter. Colorado, Virginia, back to old New York. Then a bakers dozen years of struggle and service. Struggle to survive, service of love, loving my parents. The struggle went past bearable and I sought a new journey on an old path. This time Francis instead of Foucauld, back to religious life. (((sigh))) Not the right path, but a sojourn.
Now, a return to struggle? I choose to try back to hope. Approaching sixty years on this long hard road, I am trying to be open again to make something good, something happy, God willing. I look around, so grateful for my companions, new opportunities, for old, dear friends and yes, my experiences up 'til now. I fall down, I get back up again. I choose daily to walk in the light, I do. I will continue to, on this perplexing dark planet, until God says "Enough now. Come home"
Let's talk about home. Home is
where the heart is. It is sweet. God blesses it. There's no place
like it. According to an old English proverb, apparently it's a mans
castle. It is the place where, when you go there, they have to let
you in (Robert Frost). We don't all have one, but I believe we all
long for one to call our own.
I
had a great conversation, once upon a time, at Maryhouse, the New
York Catholic Worker, with Jeanette Noel and a few cohorts. We were
speaking fondly about family, about how much we share with the
siblings we grew up with.
No matter where life takes us, there is a shared history and a bond
with them like no other. What a great relief it can be to be with
folks you don't need to explain yourself to! I made the observation,
"But look where we are now, and who we're sharing our lives
with." We are drawn to one another in the values and dreams we
seek in life. We become new family members to each other as we live
those dreams and find our new homes together.
My first home was the one I
was born into. At the time I was born my Navy dad was away in a
training program. My mother was staying with her parents in
Peekskill, NY with my two older siblings Cathy and Jim. So, I was
born not actually into my parents home, but my grandparents home.
Being a military family, my birth happened at nearby West Point,
making me the only one of the five Navy brats in my family to be born
on an Army base. To make that distinction even more special, I was
delivered by an Army nurse because the doctor didn't make it to the
delivery room on time. So began my lifelong distaste of waiting for
doctors and my admiration for the skills of nurses.
My first passport picture was
taken when I was two months old in preparation for my first move at
age three and a half months. My father was assigned to the
Philippines, so off we went and I have been moving ever since. In
fact, I've lived in three countries, fifteen locations and moved
thirty one times, so far. I'm just an Irish American Navy brat
gypsy, moving for any number of reasons. First, at the behest of my
folks and the U. S. Navy, then on my own. I have followed different
opportunities, sometimes with as much whim as purpose.
As
an adult, I have lived by the gospel edict ~ If
the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it; if it is not, let
your peace return to you, shake the dirt from your feet and depart.
I've had to do that a time or two in the past. I've lived in
community and I've lived alone. I love solitude, silence, the
freedom to create my own environment in which I can welcome others.
I love being alone, but I'll admit it can get lonely. Then again,
once when I was living with others, my need for solitude became so
great that I took a tent and walked into the woods of our multi~acre
property for some much needed respite. Our community dog joined me
and she was wonderful company, but decided she'd had enough hermitage
time by dusk and went back home on her own.
Ever the stranger in this
strange land, I find myself most comfortable outside of the
pre~packaged box, among artists, anarchists and the odd monk or two.
At home with folks of common decency and uncommon minds and hearts.
I have been amazed and greatly blessed by the extraordinary folk with
whom I have shared some of my life. Each one has claimed their own
piece of my heart, some more than others. With each bit of my heart
claimed in life and in love, I find that my heart has grown stronger,
larger, brighter, lighter. It is a treasure~filled thing beating in
my chest, even when it grows weary from the journey!
Life is about choices, one of my
best treasures recently told me. Sometimes though, we don't get to
choose. Sometimes we choose poorly. Sometimes, we have to live with
the consequences of choices made by others. For myself, I always
include God and I always seek His will. I am smart enough to apply
common sense along with spiritual sense. I may choose to seek the
counsel of others in some of my more important choices, like finding
home. What to do? Where to go? Hoping that I choose well and that
this can be a long and happy sojourn, God willing!
I've
roamed the world finding kith and kin. I find myself at present
looking again for a place to settle my old gypsy bones and weary
heart. If I feel myself becoming discontent in my quest, I am
reminded of the words of Meister Eckhart, "God
is at home, we are the ones who have gone out for a walk."
Here we are, the morning after the day our Lord was crucified. Impossible to believe, even though we saw it with our own eyes. You said it would come to pass Lord. But so suddenly, too soon. There is so much more we wanted to hear, needed to ask; to know how to live. Now, how to live without you.
Even the unbelievers were made to see the truth at your death. When the ground shook and the Church crumbled, how else could Gods very creation react to so violent an end to the Christs time on Earth?
I look to my sisters. They are my fellow disciples and mothers of Christs chosen few. And where are my brothers? I feared they too were arrested. Now we hear they have hidden themselves away. To mourn together, to wait for my Lords return.
We haven't forgotten your promise Lord. As we watched over you and tenderly saw you to your grave. Not wanting to leave you, we kept watch by your tomb until the Church guards chased us away. How cruel to have to leave your side! We have not forgotten Teacher, your promise to come back to us. We look to your mother Mary, wanting to minister and to comfort her. But she, even in her grief is filled with peace and joy, knowing that the Father's plan for the worlds salvation is coming to pass. She comforts us and tells us to prepare for your return.
So we pray, we mourn and we go to our homes to make a feast to bring with us. We are going back now to your tomb to meet you. We know you are coming, you will tell us how to live. You will always be with us, guiding our hearts and souls in your way.
Our hearts are full of the glory of God. We come to meet our Risen Lord.
I was just four or five years old. I had a decent sense of the universe thanks to a childrens record my parents had gotten for us. I remember there was a picture on the album jacket of the planets around the sun. The recording explained the planets in orbit, the sun, our galaxy and the universe in terms a child could understand. I knew that I was but an infinitesimal part of matter in this reality.
I also had a sense of God and His Love from my Mom, from our church and from my childrens prayer book "Pearls of Prayer." Though I couldn't read yet, the illustrations provided me the ample confirmation that my Mom wasn't just making this stuff up!
So, one fine day I was lying on the ground in our yard watching an ant make its long, long way through the grass. I marvelled at how huge a challenge it must be to walk through this jungle of green. I watched as it journeyed many steps in what would take me only one or two to accomplish. Then I thought of my place in this vast scheme. After a bit, I rolled over on my back, feeling the ground under me, seeing the trees, sky and clouds above me, just thinking how tiny the ant was compared to me, and how much tinier I was than the universe. I started to think, "Why? Why the grass? Why the ant? Why the clouds and the sky and the trees and the planets? Why me? Why?..." Then, as clear as if I could hear the thought aloud - another voice, silent and gentle came into my head and my heart, with complete sincerity and assurance of a true answer saying, "Because I love you." And I felt the Presence of God for the first time. All knowing and all love. And I have been His from that moment.
Where does one go from there? I would have been happy to live in a treehouse in the woods by myself (with God, of course) the rest of my days. Alas, I was not allowed out after dark. Then, there are customs and I'm sure laws discouraging four year old mystics in Maryland going it alone. And so, I carried on, breathing in and out, getting up each day, learning, moving (we moved a lot), loving, laughing, crying, living among the rest of Gods world. Always looking to share this assurance of Gods love for each of us and all of creation. By being nice, caring, comforting, laughing and crying when life calls for it; sharing every good thing.
I've gathered so many experiences, so many loves along the way. There have been friendships, always to be treasured, some more than just friendships, and a betrayal or two. God wants us to struggle, just so we are sure that this love of His is real and will see us through. A good friend once told me that struggle is a sign of an authentic life. My life has been that!
What have I learned? All we have is now, the only place we have is here. I have tried to love freely as best I can, not to have expectations. Still, I find myself always longing for more. More love? Commitment? I'm not completely sure. Whatever the question, the answer is love. After having spent now more than half an average lifespan as my special bit of matter in the universe, I believe that voice and presence more than ever. I embrace life, the whimsy and the woe, ever grateful for every good thing as a precious gift to be accepted, then shared, wishing that we each can know this truth of God. As an old French love poem goes, "Je vis et je l'espère." I live and I hope.
Life two days gone is gone forever,
But tales from once upon a time
Still cherished and shared.
Laundry, pill bottles and mail threaten
To overtake the world; dust thickens
And crocheting begs attention.
The weary old woman she didn't see
Sneaking up on her now smiles
Comfortably in the mirror. She is still herself.
Quoting Shakespeare, loving God, laughing,
At new jokes and jokes made new
Thanks to fading memory.
And just now, she called to mind this poem
By William Ernest Henely, "Invictus,"
Memorized in her youth, now freshly full
Of meaning in a whole new light.
Rock on Mama-san!
M. Eileen Lawter July 2014
Invictus
OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
