Old and Tired, But Still Going

                                      “Old and Tired, But Still Going”

                                        Painting as a Spiritual Practice

Guest Writers: Ken Fellows

ken fellows

     I’ve never been a car-guy, ‘never had a genuine interest in contemporary vehicles other than for utilitarian uses. But antique autos are in a special category for me …objects of style and beauty, nostalgia and craft.

     This fascination started one summer when, as a teen, I helped my adolescent friend, Tommy McConnell, completely dismantle ..and then reassemble .. the engine of his Model T Coupe. It didn’t matter that 4 or 5 engine parts were left over. That old engine started immediately and ran perfectly. According to mechanics, a feature of Model T’s is that if 2 of them are completely dismantled, there are usually enough parts to reassemble three functional cars.

      That Ford Coupe was central to our neighborhood gangs’ summers on Big Whitefish Lake. We would all pile in weekly, three in the cab, a few on both running boards, several standing on the back bumper, and two to three in the rumble seat to swerve down the gravel roads meandering around the local Michigan inland lakes. Fortunately, our parents never learned about a crash one night into a gravel pile that miraculously injured no one. It didn’t even dent that sturdy Ford machine.

    My cars were solely conventional, working and raising a family during my middle adult life. As I neared retirement age, I acquired a home in Maine, and an interest in old vehicles resurfaced there. Briefly, I became the owner of a 1940s dump truck. Why is a mystery, but it did establish me as a ‘character’ in our Kittery Point neighborhood. After a short period, I traded the dump truck for a more reasonable 1938 Plymouth pick-up. It was much more stylish …. black in color with red striping. It sported huge, sculpturally rounded front and back fenders. It was distinctive enough to maintain my reputation as a bit eccentric.

     The highlight of that truck’s 15-year ownership was driving it in a parade commemorating the restoration of a local antique bridge –with my 7-year-old granddaughter, Ella, riding beside me and extending queenly ‘royal waves’ to an amused throng through the passenger-side window.

     With this background, imagine my delight some years hence at spying the Model A Ford in this painting, parked in a small Maine junkyard. As a subject for a painting’s composition, I’m always attracted to scenes where geometric shapes (as with houses, sheds, vehicles, docks) contrast with the adjacent randomness of nature. As in this picture, the defined lines and angles of the old car stand out against the background of rounded shrubs and overarching trees.

     Shadows play another vital part in my art. Without shadows in a painting, there’s no variability in ambient light, which leaves only color to create interest. Perhaps it’s my former life as a radiologist that’s responsible. One of my former medical colleagues, attending a gallery showing of my paintings, remarked: “Well, I see that in retirement, you are still dealing in shadows.”

     I also like this scene because it seems a metaphor for human aging –the Model A representing a bygone style preserved over time and still exhibiting signs of solidity and resilience.

     In the final analysis, of course, it’s just another watercolor painting in which viewers, I hope, may find some interest or pleasure.

Ken Fellows

Joanna  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Sabbath-keeping

Sabbath

“Sabbath-keeping is a resistance movement, and it’s very counter-cultural. Sabbath-keeping is a resistance to the clutter, the noise, the advertising, the busyness, and the ‘virtual living’ that sucks the life out of our lives. Sabbath-keeping is a resistance to constant production, work, and accumulation. It may be the most difficult of the Ten Commandments to keep, and it may also be the most important.”—Br. Curtis Almquist, SSJE, from “Brother, Give Us a Word,” a daily email sent to friends and followers of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist (SSJE.org).

Keeping the Sabbath in our culture is more than problematic. I have one friend who rests entirely on the Sabbath. She does nothing work-related, trying to spend as much time as possible outdoors. I am reminded of my grandparents, who followed this rule. My grandmother would not even do a little sewing on Sunday. I often spent Sundays with them. We ate, rested, walked around my grandfather’s farm, and attended church. We watched the Ed Sullivan Show at night on television, after making Seven-Up floats. I would then spend the night in their guest double bed, which seemed unbelievably huge. I remember most of all the feeling of love and peace these days. I wonder how much was related to Sabbath-keeping.

They mentored me on how to keep the Sabbath, but I have forgotten. I am an important person. I will never make those deadlines unless I do a little work on Sunday. A little turns into several hours’ worth. Once I start, it is hard to stop. I will rest later.

I want to keep the Sabbath. It is not too late to start. Join me. Let us encourage one another. Maybe we need a Sabbath recovery group to share stories about what happens when we keep the Sabbath.

When I meet with people to offer spiritual direction, I ask them how they keep the Sabbath. I hope to learn from them and remind them of this spiritual gift, the third commandment. It may be the only spiritual gift that is a commandment.

The Ten Commandments honor God but were also given for our health and safety. Sometimes, viewing them as rules and guides to a healthy life is helpful—more important than diet and exercise.

Sabbath-keeping was even more problematic during this pandemic. Our usual practice to honor God was through a live-streamed service from an empty church, where we no longer could see or feel our community that once surrounded and supported each other. We only saw the faces of our faith community at formation meetings through a computer or phone on Zoom. Our clergy are masked and stay distanced. Our Rally Day and animal blessings were drive-through.

My experience is that our Sabbath-keeping, by necessity, has become more individual rather than community-based. As a result, we spent more time writing, reading, praying, meditating, listening, walking, or talking one-on-one to others. Suppose we can envisage this as a revival of old spiritual practices or starting new practices to spend time with our Creator. In that case, it can become a new adventure that may carry over into life if it ever becomes “normal” again.  

However, we must never forget what it was like to worship in person in community and kneel side by side as we receive the Eucharist, for this is where we will more often discern and taste the face of God.

Joanna. https://www.joannaseibert.com/

The Story of the Fourth Servant

The Story of the Fourth Servant

Guest Writer: Karen D

“Again, it will be like a man going on a journey, 

who called his servants and entrusted his wealth to them.” Matthew 25:14

I am the fourth servant

Somehow left out of the telling,

but very much still part—a player. 

The event was noteworthy, significant,

Memorable—before the extended journey—

With delegation of duties. 

I’m all about delegation, job description,

responsibility, accountability:

Just give me a task and stand back. 

The process, planning, purpose

captivate me as I am on my own journey:

—beginning and end points

—intermediate sign posts

—desired outcomes and goals

—estimated costs and returns

The timeline enchants and strategic vision justifies. 

I digress. As I said, I am the fourth servant.

Our loving-strict, fatherly, ex-military boss

assigned the duties:

One received five: a diligent guy, wise investment.

Two received two: a kindness, really. Two had just

            recovered from a personal trauma. Otherwise, capable.

Three received one: he would have to set his mind to it,

            but it wasn’t an impossible stretch.

I was Four. I also received one—but neither I nor it was mentioned.

Delighted to be included, of course,

I could certainly manage one.

The chance for two or three would have been welcome—

But I’m not ambitious, just a pleaser. 

So I set my planning into motion:

How to best look after this one. Thoughts

whirled with options and possibilities. 

This amount—one—was limiting;

It felt confining, anyway.

Yes, I was grateful, but I could have accomplished

—shone, if you will—

with a bit more. But there you are—

I come from sea-faring folk,

so I looked to the sea.

Fish to be caught and sold:

profit to be made and invested.

Started small: hired a captain and his boat,

bought a middling net,

employed a few seasoned fisher friends

and Out we went.

We started well—caught and sold

—mended nets—paid the men

bought another net—and repeat 

Every day the weather permitted

we were on the waves:

straining at bursting nets, catching fish,

delighting in the tired muscles and breathless laughter

and wind in our hair. 

Selling was not my strong suit:

I was tired and not shrewd

—those who sold for me were not kind,

not honest,

not just—

so I released them

and sold what I could

and gave the rest to the poor.

The weather turned and some days were empty—

but work was paid regardless of the take—

The seas were capricious:

what started well spiralled down.

The nets tore and wore;

We mended the mended bits.

No matter how we toiled and strove,

ends barely met.

Finally I could only pay my men with fish from the catch—

the net had out-lived its lifetime twice over—

there was naught to buy another.

What went wrong?

My plan had been careful,

the process clearcut,

the purpose obvious: make a bundle

make Him smile.

All I had to show was a battered net,

some faithful friends

and a few marginals with a bellyful

Quite unexpectedly our master came home—

I thought there would be so much more time

(He’d been gone for ages, so I expected more.)

But out of the blue,

there he was with his entourage—home

and called each of us who’d been tasked.

You know the story, you heard the score:

One had made five more—high commendation.

Two had made two more—top marks.

Three had hidden his and kept it safe.

(I was wishing I’d been more circumspect—

but how could I have foreseen the bleak forecast?)

My heart sank when he was rebuked for his caution

—his one was given to One with ten

—Three was exiled, fired, extinguished. 

Had there been somewhere to hide,

You know I’d have found it.

Instead I stood there—bare feet and tattered clothes

—stuttering my story

—I didn’t even have the one  

I had nothing

Except a useless worn out net:

Not a thing to offer

for all my effort and strain and danger

I’d over-estimated myself, took on too much,

and now I was in debt—

I could not even pay back the one

He had entrusted to me.

My eyes groundward,

I felt the others’ eyes on me:

How I wished I could have been clever,

shrewd,

productive

like One and Two.

They were basking

as they deserved.

Hoisting courage I looked into His eyes,

raised my empty, weathered hands:

then dropped them and fell to my knees.

“Sir, I am so sorry. I have nothing to report:

No profit

No payout

I spent the deposit and it is gone.”

Cringing, I knew I deserved worse than Three—

but what could be worse than to be thrown out? 

I felt a hand on my arm, a guard to take me away—

no doubt to debtor’s prison—

But it was my master.

“Reports of the poor being fed have reached me.

Widows and orphans,

the dispossessed and disabled.

Your fish have nourished hope in them—

You have repaid me

by feeding the weak in my land.

Come share my joy.”

Karen Dubert

Karen is a Third Culture Kid, married to one and has raised two. She has taught and mentored in Eswatini, China, Moçambique, Zimbabwe, and South Africa. Now, in her autumn years, she coaches young people in cross-cultural work in southern Spain.

Joanna Seibert. https://www.joannaseibert.com/