July 24 would have been my mother's 86th birthday. I think about her a lot, but you can imagine how much she was on my mind Monday. The night before, we had seen the play in honor of Susanna Wesley on the 275th anniversary of her death, and thinking of the relationship she and John shared reminded me of Mama. It was also my last full day in Epworth, a fact that produced its own sort of grief. I spent the morning after breakfast just wandering around the village, bidding a fond farewell, first of all to Wesley Memorial Methodist Church, and then to the Old Rectory. As I headed back towards the Red Lion, Louise texted me to suggest that we go to the garden centre (yeah, I know, but it's in England, so ...) and pick out some flowers to plant in Mama's memory in Wesley's Memorial garden. This incredibly thoughtful suggestion could not have been more perfect, because if there was anything my mama loved besides Jesus, it was flowers.
And so, she and I and her wonderful kids did just that. Her son Jack carried the flower for me, her daughter Holly watered it, and Louise took this picture of me planting it.
It was an incredibly emotional moment for me. I was leaving a piece of myself and my Methodist mother in Epworth, the womb of Methodism, if you will, and it was at the loving suggestion of my new friend who welcomed me into her life and family as if we'd known each other forever. Because of Louise, I met so many different people in Epworth and literally was able to greet them by name when I walked down the street or into the church or the Old Rectory. Because of Louise, I had someone to share my joy with over the various Wesleyan experiences that came my way (like my purchase of a Staffordshire figurine of, you guessed it, John Wesley.) Because of Louise, I felt the power of God's presence and grace that not even death can eradicate and was comforted by the simple ritual act of dropping a living plant into the rich soil of the church garden.
Paul reminds us that we all have gifts to be used for the good of the whole Body of Christ. One of those gifts is hospitality. I'm not particularly good at it, but I can sure recognize it when I see it, and Louise Howard is brimming with it. I will remember many, many things about Epworth (and the rest of Lincolnshire), and I am already wondering when I can go back, and Louise was a huge part of that. She is a woman of faith who loves the work (paid and unpaid) she does for the church, keeps an eye on elderly neighbors and their pets, encourages her husband and children in all their activities, and loves her own aging parents and worries over them. She probably doesn't think she does anything special. My mama was like that. She never knew how amazing and wonderful she was (though I tried to tell her).
Louise and Mama make me think of ordinary time. You know, the season of the church year when the paraments on the altar and the stole around my neck stay green for weeks on end. Ordinary time. Where most of our lives are lived. Not ordinary as in blah, boring, why even bother but ordinary as in the regular, usual, habitual ways in which our days are lived, our souls are enriched, and our growth in grace is marked in slow, steady heartbeats. Ordinary, yet laden with extraordinary grace in the planting of a flower, the hug when tears are close, the act of inviting someone to share a meal at the table.
In Epworth, an extraordinary ordinary market town in Lincolnshire. Epworth, home of the Wesleys -- and even more.
And so, she and I and her wonderful kids did just that. Her son Jack carried the flower for me, her daughter Holly watered it, and Louise took this picture of me planting it.
Paul reminds us that we all have gifts to be used for the good of the whole Body of Christ. One of those gifts is hospitality. I'm not particularly good at it, but I can sure recognize it when I see it, and Louise Howard is brimming with it. I will remember many, many things about Epworth (and the rest of Lincolnshire), and I am already wondering when I can go back, and Louise was a huge part of that. She is a woman of faith who loves the work (paid and unpaid) she does for the church, keeps an eye on elderly neighbors and their pets, encourages her husband and children in all their activities, and loves her own aging parents and worries over them. She probably doesn't think she does anything special. My mama was like that. She never knew how amazing and wonderful she was (though I tried to tell her).
Louise and Mama make me think of ordinary time. You know, the season of the church year when the paraments on the altar and the stole around my neck stay green for weeks on end. Ordinary time. Where most of our lives are lived. Not ordinary as in blah, boring, why even bother but ordinary as in the regular, usual, habitual ways in which our days are lived, our souls are enriched, and our growth in grace is marked in slow, steady heartbeats. Ordinary, yet laden with extraordinary grace in the planting of a flower, the hug when tears are close, the act of inviting someone to share a meal at the table.
In Epworth, an extraordinary ordinary market town in Lincolnshire. Epworth, home of the Wesleys -- and even more.
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