April 12, 2015
Today, our social media editor Craig Katzenmiller shares some thoughts inspired by his small, 64-square-feet farm.
My spouse and I relocated to Knoxville in mid-March, into our first home. Suddenly the strange pools of water in the garage, the door that won’t close all the way, the out-of-place gutter drain are our responsibility. Gone are the assurances of having a landlord. Likewise, though, gone also are the fetters of having a landlord. And so, this past week, I bought six 2x8x8 pieces of lumber and turned the soil over in two 8×4 patches. Then I constructed two 8×4 boxes with the aforementioned lumber, filled them with garden soil and seeds and compost. I sowed my first garden.
Growing up, my father always had a garden. One of my fondest memories of his many gardens is the year, long ago when I was perhaps 10 or 12 years old, we finished planting and were left with various varieties of many extra bean seeds. Dad quickly made a final row in the bean section and we haphazardly sowed all the seeds together in that row. And, several months later, we had a crowded row of many different kinds of beans—all growing together in harmony.
Those were the proverbial good old days. Somewhere along the way though I got a little too big for those britches.
Will Campbell, the much revered Southern preacher and contrarian, speaks of entering his “sophisticated period” when he went off to Yale Divinity School. After leaving Yale, and returning to the South, he learned that much of the stuff he learned in Yale Divinity School didn’t communicate in rural churches. So he had to become unsophisticated again. Somewhere in his writings, he mentions gluing his “ordination papers”—the handwritten document his church drew up when he was a youngster, complete with typos, that said he was a minister in God’s church—over his degree from Yale. One of my friends who used to visit Will reports having seen those ordination papers glued over Will’s Yale degree. Through the years, Will learned how to be thoughtful without being “an Eastern shit”—a term Stanley Hauerwas uses when narrating his own story of gaining sophistication, incidentally, after attending Yale Divinity School.
At any rate, after those good old days mentioned above I entered my sophisticated period in college and grad school. I was not deemed smart enough to enter Yale Divinity School nor did I move eastward. But in my own way, I became an Eastern shit. Regrettably, I looked down my nose on many things—perceived lesser theologies, perceived lesser vocations, etc.
Thankfully, I met people like Lee Camp and Richard Goode while in that sophisticated phase, and they introduced me to people who recognized their so-called sophistication and abandoned it—the Will Campbells, the Stanley Hauerwases, the Zooey Glasses. Through introducing me to various authors as well as to the men who I now count among my friends at Riverbend Maximum Security Prison, I was able to identify and abandon my pretense to sophistication—or at least, in my better moments I’m able to abandon that pretense.
And so, my tiny little garden out back. Gardening was one of those things I once thought myself too evolved for. I had Tyson chickens and Walmarts after all. All I needed to do was drive a couple of miles and pay for that stuff. Why go to the hassle of growing it? Well, I have since evolved to see that that consumeristic tendency is plain toxic.
So, having given up the pretense to being above it, I dug my hands into the dirt and buried some seeds. It is indeed a practice that is and will be good for me. Gardening, in a most concrete way, teaches the virtue of humility (for I cannot control the outcomes here) and it leads me to what Ragan Sutterfield calls “the agrarian mind” (Farming as a Spiritual Discipline, 31–35). According to Sutterfield, the agrarian mind has two components: first, becoming aware of the many dependencies we have—everything from grocery shopping to fuel consumption to clothes buying—and second, ridding ourselves of as many of those dependencies as we can. So we might sew together clothes instead of buying them; or we might ride our bicycles to nearby places instead of driving; or we might grow what’s needed for nourishment instead of relying on overly processed foods. These alternatives are, for Sutterfield, practices that inform virtues. As Sutterfield puts it, following Alisdair MacIntyre, “[W]e do not learn virtues through abstractions but through the concrete discipline and work of practices within a community and tradition. The intricate work of table-making is a better instructor in patience than a classroom dialogue and the discipline of a sport is a better instructor in self-denial than an abstract lesson in ‘virtue education’” (19). Sewing, cycling, and gardening are such community-based and tradition-involved practices.
Sutterfield goes on to identify gardening as a spiritual discipline precisely because it teaches us the virtue of humility, “the only sure path toward being fully human” (21), and forces us to slow down and to be aware of the gifts of God—for example, the gift of fallen leaves, which are ideal for composting. “We will have to beat the trash trucks through suburban neighborhoods to pick up bags of leaves we know are beyond value,” notes Sutterfield (39). “Gardens get in the way of progress. They start people thinking that maybe God gave us the means to feed ourselves without Tyson and Walmart getting in the mix.” And that bit of subversion initiates the defeat of the “forces who are working against the arrival of something abundant and healthy in a world that thrives on scarcity and disease” (38).
Gardening, then, allows us the time and space to grow and to become more deeply rooted to our place in the world.
Gardening allows us time and space to reflect on the fact that just as plants come from the graced nothingness of seeds, so we humans come from the graced nothingness of seeds.
And gardening allows us the time and space to be what God created us to be, namely, co-creators with God of new life around tables where there is food for all.
Craig “Dusty” Katzenmiller is social media editor at Tokens and is a soon-to-be stay-at-home dad.[Read More]
January 21, 2015
The Nashville Choir’s show scheduled at the Schermerhorn January 25 featuring the Tokens Show and friends has been re-scheduled for Sunday evening October 4, 2015. For more information on the 2015 Tokens Show schedule, please visit www.TokensShow.com/shows. Our first show in Nashville this year will be April 14, 2015, featuring special guest David Crowder. Season tickets for four shows, plus a special patron-only show, are still available starting at the Most Outstanding Discounted price of $97.50. Click here for season ticket information.[Read More]
December 15, 2014
This week’s podcast features host Lee C. Camp’s reflections upon the sesquicentennial of the Battle of Nashville, December 15-16, 1864, fought in Lee’s neighborhood, and then concludes with some segments from the Tokens Show entitled “Singing Down the Pain,” recorded in the Downtown Presbyterian Church which was used as a hospital following the battle. For more pictures on the trip, visit the Facebook album here, and to get the CD from the show, visit here.
Greetings my friends: a blessed Advent to you.
We have taken too long a hiatus from our podcasting; and I shall not promise that we shall be back on a good regular schedule. But I had a few things I wanted to say on this beautiful Monday morning in Nashville, December 15, 2014: early this morning, early dawn, I could make out the heavy mist that lay upon us here in Nashville, and I had time to make a fire in the fireplace to warm up the house when it was still quiet before the boys were up getting ready for school, and I looked out upon the sun beginning to peek through the gray in the south east, the barren trees bearing witness to 150 years ago: most of the trees in our yard our hackberrys, which local lore has it at least, are not native to middle Tennessee. Hackberry seeds were brought here, so some say, in the feed wagons of the Union Army during the Civil War: and it is appropriate that here in our neighborhood there are many hackberrys, for it was precisely 150 years ago today that the Battle of Nashville was waged, 5000 or more killed.
Soon this morning the sun soon burned off the mist, and now it’s a beautiful, clear, cold December day. It seems so odd that thousands of people were killed here around my house, in my neighborhood, and so little to be said about it.
So I wanted to say something about it: to remember that there were many men of virtue and courage who nonetheless killed and murdered that day, and were killed and murdered that day. They gave themselves to something they believed in; and they were willing to die, and to kill, for what they believed in. They obviously had immense courage. And in a day in which we are so deeply fashioned by fear, it is worth honoring men of courage.
But to say such does not mean that we do not also have something to say about war-making; about those who lead well meaning people into war; or about the fetish Americans continue to have with war-making, with violence and slaughter. The American Civil war has been heralded by historians of war-making as an epic event in modern warfare: it gave us the rise of so-called “total war,” in which civilian populations become targets for war, in which industrialized mechanization becomes the means for mass slaughter: some 600,000 would be slaughtered in that war.
To honor the courage of men killed around me does not mean we do not also have something to say about the way in which the Gospel was pre-empted by sectarian allegiances. We have, it seems to me, completely missed the point of so-called “separation of church and state” when we then proceed falsely to assert that “the Gospel is not political.” Well meaning people mean by that, of course, that they do not want Christianity co-opted into any partisan political agenda, like Republican, Democrat, Tea-Party or Socialist; and on that score, I am in full agreement.
But that is an altogether different claim than to say “the Gospel is not political.” The Gospel IS undoubtedly political: it is a claim about the Kingdom of God. It is not that the Gospel is not political; it is that we, that I, remain so stubbornly opposed to the political claims that the Gospel makes. Namely, we do not want to love our enemies; we do not want to forgive seventy times seven; we do not want to pray for the good of those who spitefully use us. Instead, we want to see them vanquished, defeated, even humiliated. We want to win, because we think (we always think) we are the good guys, and that God is on our side, and that we ought therefore to win.
But the Gospel proclaims that victory comes not through vanquishing or killing one’s enemies; instead, the Gospel claims that victory comes through suffering love; that baptism trumps any and all other pledges of allegiance; that even if our enemies kill us, that the resurrection of Jesus is the down payment ensuring that we too shall be resurrected unto life.
I re-iterate: it is a falsehood that such claims are “not political.” It is that we, that I, do not like that sort of political ethic, because it scares us to no end. That is one reason I can say today, on this cold December 15 morning, 150 years after those days in which numerous men were slaughtered here in our neighborhood, that I honor the courage of soldiers: for it is never easy to place oneself in the space of suffering, in the space that one may be killed. I pray to have the courage that soldiers have. And I pray to have the courage that does not take up arms, and I pray to have the courage that can enable me to be willing to love those whom I hate.
We gathered a few years ago for a Tokens Show in the Downtown Presbyterian Church, used as a hospital 150 years ago today and tomorrow, following the Battle of Nashville. We share here some segments from that show.
Lee C. Camp, Professor of Theology & Ethics at Lipscomb University, in Nashville, Tennessee, is the host of WWW.TOKENSSHOW.COM and the Dispatches from the Buckle Podcast, and the author of WHO IS MY ENEMY?[Read More]
December 4, 2014
Here in the Bible Belt I hear a few white men (mostly, and occasionally white women) appearing to question the reality of white privilege, and speaking in terms that seem to assume that the fundamental locus of moral questions is the individual, rather than the more complex, and I think more realistic vision of the New Testament: that, indeed, individuals must accept or reject a call to live according to a vision of the good and liberating and rightly ordered will of God; but that there are also, in fact, great powers of deception and lies and injustice woven into the very fabric of human existence, of our communities, and policies, and institutions; and no less important, woven into the stories we tell.
I came today, looking through old journals, upon disturbing stories I had long forgotten, from when I was a younger man, still a boy in many ways, and Laura and I were living in Nairobi, Kenya. The country was relatively new to independence, the marks of western colonialism still manifest in numerous social realities, of language and commerce and cultural morays. Laura and I were working at a school in a slum. My friends Sammy and Francis would take me out into the streets, and we would visit a particular group of street boys, boys who lived on the streets, who ate out of the trash piles, who survived literally trash-pile to hand to mouth. They slept and took refuge in a wretched alley, each end of the alley way blocked by immense piles of garbage, garbage that would ooze a yellowish filth over my shoes as I would try to ease my way up and over, trying to get to their little street-boy village hidden away behind those piles, the smell of that refuse searing the nostrils, staying with one for days, long after the yellowish muck had been washed from one’s shoes.
One day—April 6, 1994—we went to visit, and began to discuss Bible stories. These African boys began to discuss the origin of the black man. “Obviously,” one said, in my own paraphrase, “the black man was the result of something going wrong with the white man—after all, we know Adam and Eve were white, because we’ve seen them on movies.”
Then another street boy told the story of Noah: when Noah was building his ark, he grew weary, and so took a rest. While he was resting, some people came and started using the ark as a toilet. It was used to such an extent as a toilet, that it was filled with shit. As the people who had just used the ark as a toilet departed, their skin contracted an awful disease. They approached Moses to ask what they should do to cleanse themselves from the disease. They were told to go back to the ark, and cover themselves with the shit found there, and they would be healed. They did so, finally emptying the ark of the human waste, covering themselves in it. Such, so this young African said, was the origin of the black man.
Let the white men and women who have ears to hear, hear.
November 22, 2014
We at Tokens are very grateful to share the following information about our Presenting Sponsor for Sunday night’s Tokens at the Ryman – AGAPE.
For 48 years, AGAPE has been a trusted source for building strong families.
Adoption, foster care, and family preservation have been the cornerstones of their existence since 1967. They are also one of the largest Christian professional counseling and psychological services organization in Tennessee, providing children, adolescents, and adults with guidance through many difficult life circumstances.
Professional Counseling and Psychological Services
AGAPE’s counseling department has grown significantly in the past 35 years and consists of Christian professionals licensed as psychologists, psychological examiners, clinical social workers, marriage and family therapists, and professional counselors.
From preschool children to mature adults, we address life issues such as relationship problems and grief, to more serious clinical issues like depression, anxiety, ADHD, or eating disorders. We are also a source for support groups for children and adults. Counseling offices can be found all across Middle Tennessee.
Crisis Foster Care
Sometimes, parents may be faced with the critical choice of how to care for their children due to substance abuse rehabilitation, need of medical or psychiatric care, job loss, or homelessness. Knowing that children are being cared for and nurtured is vital to recovery and that is how AGAPE can help. We provide temporary, out-of-home placement for children with fully trained and approved foster parents who are backed by our staff of professional social workers. A stable home for children and temporary assistance with parenting may be the best step toward restoring families.
With the belief and conviction that every child deserves a family, AGAPE provides homes for newborn infants as well as older children. More than 85% of our adoptions are children who are older, have siblings or are of minority race; some are physically or mentally handicapped. A “forever family” is our goal for each of them.
We provide a safe, caring place for an expectant mothers to turn to when facing an unplanned pregnancy. Our professional staff works closely with each mother, helping to make a life plan for the child, whether through parenting or adoption.
In addition to the information above, it is important to note that in its history, AGAPE has served over 5,000 children in placement services. Over 1,000 have been adopted into forever homes. In 2013 alone, AGAPE conducted over 13,000 counseling sessions serving more than 1,700 counseling clients.
Location and More Information
AGAPE’s main campus is located at 4555 Trousdale Drive, Nashville, Tennessee 37204 (615-781-3000). Information about all their services, as well as contact information, can be found on their website, AGAPENASHVILLE.ORG.
Their missions statement sums it up well: AGAPE exists to serve the needs of families, children, and adults in Middle Tennessee with an unconditional agape love through Professional Counseling and Psychological Services, Adoption Services, Crisis Foster Care, and Maternity Counseling
We at Tokens are mighty thankful for the wonderful work and ministry performed by the most outstanding folks at AGAPE. And we encourage you to seek more information if they can be of service to you or someone you love.[Read More]
November 19, 2014
This is a revised version of a piece Michael McRay wrote after attending the 2010 Thanksgiving Tokens Show “The Welcome Table.”
For some, tolerance is a noble endeavor. Many speak of the need to tolerate other religions, other viewpoints, other orientations, other cultures, or maybe even simply other denominations. But for others, and hopefully for Christians, tolerance does not go far enough. Tolerance merely allows the other to speak without actually taking the time to listen and understand. Tolerance says the other can stay but just so long as we don’t have to genuinely engage one another. Tolerance, itself, is not a Christian discipline. Christianity teaches hospitality.
Hospitality takes tolerance to the next level. It is inviting, welcoming, and gracious. Hospitality encourages the other to speak, and then listens, and engages the other in their story. Tolerance says, ‘You may stay, but on your side of town.’ Hospitality, though, is an open door. It means inviting the Muslim, the Arab, the enemy, the poor immigrant, the former prisoner, the stranger, the friend to come inside and be at home. Hospitality invites everyone to the welcome table, to break bread and fellowship.
Since the creation of the Church, eating together has been a central component of Christian practice. The book of Acts tell us that the disciples met in each other’s houses for the ‘breaking of bread; they shared their food gladly and generously’ (2:42). Throughout the Gospels, Jesus is constantly seen participating in meals, eating with those that mainstream society claimed should not be welcome at the table: tax collectors, debtors, prostitutes; in short, the ‘other.’ Many of the parables Jesus told describing God’s kingdom centered around the image of a feast table where the poor and outcast are ushered in off the street to share in the King’s celebration meal. The Gospels record Jesus performing two miracles pertaining to food: the feeding of the 4,000 and the feeding of the 5,000. For some scholars, particularly referring to the Gospel of Mark, the miraculous nature (or at least emphasis) of these stories is not the multiplication of the food, but rather the fact that there was enough for everyone. This is God’s kingdom. All of people’s basic needs are met. No one has more than he or she needs, and no one has less. There is simply enough. The meal was a microcosm of this reality, but the disciples translated this ethic into all areas of their lives, sharing all they had so that all were provided for. As Ched Myers writes, the disciples, in keeping with the example set by Jesus, created an economy of enough within a cosmology of grace.
At the welcome table, everyone is disarmed, and society’s classes are destroyed. As ethicist and theologian John Howard Yoder notes, equality is present at the table as the meal provides the space for the ‘condemnation of economic segregation’ (Body Politics, 22). At the table, host and guest are made one as everyone eats together. Power structures do not exist at the welcome table, only relationship and fellowship. The powerful are dethroned, and the poor are exalted – all by the sharing of a meal.
During my time serving as a volunteer chaplain at Riverbend maximum security prison—before the warden banned me—I often shared a meal with those working in the chaplain’s department. Prison at its very core is a place of segregation, physically, relationally, visually, etc. Prisoners all wear the same attire, always with a white stripe down the leg that reads, “Department of Corrections.” One Friday, before a chapel service that night, a few other inside friends joined the chaplain’s department for dinner. We all gathered in the office and handed out plates of rice, salad, and enchiladas, compliments of the head chaplain, Jeannie Alexander. Some of us sat on bookshelves, others in chairs, others on tables, and still others stood. There was laughter; there was conversation; there was silence; and there were second helpings—but there were no stripes. There were no insiders and outsiders. There was just “us.”
The night before Jesus was killed by the powers of his day, he broke bread with those closest to him, those with whom he had shared his life of ministry: essentially, his community. The welcome table is the lifeblood of true community. We come together with those among whom we live and work so that we might encourage and strengthen one another in our vocations. The meal provides the opportunity for everyone to break from life’s hectic routines (except for maybe the cooks!) and be reminded of the presence of God and the vitality of community. During the holidays, the meal is often the central point of the seasons’ events. For many families, the meal is a chance to regroup and reconnect after a long day, or for extended families at the holidays, after many months. The meal is a place to be renewed and rejuvenated, and perhaps even to reconcile offenses. In my family, the table has always provided the occasion for laughter, tears, and storytelling. Some of the most important lessons and conversations of my life have occurred around the meal table.
Hospitality and the welcome table are central components of many cultures. Within Islam, for example, one of the names for God is hospitality. In Palestine, many families, especially the poorer ones, share a meal sitting in a circle, whether at the table or on the floor, and everyone eats from a single dish laid at the center of the circle. Here there is equality. No one sits above or below anyone else, and no one has greater access to more food. Everyone is the same. If inequality exists at all, then it is in favor of the guest, who is honored and cherished.
Jesus describes and incarnates God’s kingdom as such an event. All are provided for, all are welcome, and no leaves wanting. There is enough for everyone. Today, regardless of the origins or transformation of this holiday, this community of generosity and jubilee can be celebrated. As we gather as family and friends, we both rejoice in the hospitality and fellowship that we experience but also are mindful of those who are alone. As Dickens so profoundly notes in A Christmas Carol, this season of the year is one where ‘want is keenly felt and abundance rejoices.’ May we always and in all ways extend the welcome table to those who so intensely feel this want and are left in the cold of despair and involuntary isolation. And may we also celebrate this economy of enough, fellowshipping in the breaking of bread, as we both literally and paradigmatically participate in God’s beloved community.
Michael McRay (M.Phil. Conflict Resolution and Reconciliation, Trinity College Dublin | at Belfast) is adjunct professor at Lipscomb University, lecturing in forgiveness and reconciliation, international conflict resolution, storytelling, et al. He is the co-founder of No Exceptions Prison Collective, organizer and host of Tenx9 Nashville Storytelling, and author of Letters from “Apartheid Street” and the forthcoming Where the River Bends: Considering Forgiveness and Transformation in the Lives of the Incarcerated (Cascade, 2015), with a foreword by Archbishop Desmond M. Tutu.
As of the time of this post, tickets are available for the Tokens at the Ryman 2014. Visit our Tickets page for details.[Read More]
October 23, 2014
Digging around in some old archives I was pleased to discover this eulogy for my dear grandmother Camp, who died at age 97, on 24 October 2004. May she rest in peace.
Eulogy for Grandmother Camp, 26 October 2004, Talladega, Alabama. Died 24 October 2004.
1 Thes. 4:9-11: “Now concerning love of the brothers and sisters, you do not need to have anyone write to you, for you yourselves have been taught by God to love one another; and indeed you do love all the brothers and sisters…. But we urge you, beloved, to do so more and more, to aspire to live quietly, to mind your own affairs, and to work with your hands, as we directed you.”
Foremost among my memories of my grandmother is her front, screened in porch, at the house on Highland Circle. It was above the door-sill on that porch where Grandmother and Granddaddy kept the key, a symbol of the hospitality they extended to all. It was that porch to which I would run as a small child to see the trains when they would pass by, down at the bottom of the hill. It was on the porch I recall her teaching me to tie my shoe laces, and there where I recall her reading to me on summer afternoons.
There was a quietness and a security about that screened-in-porch. The quietness was not due to the squeaky aluminum frame furniture, but to Grandmother’s presence. And there on that porch I shall always remember her reading to me the story of the “Little Engine That Could.” Without preachy commentary, she read the story a great number of times, emphasizing with an approving tone of voice the little engine’s determination as he faced the hurdle before him, “I think I can, I think I can,” and almost celebrating with the little engine as it rolled ever more quickly down the back of the mountain, “I knew I could, I knew I could.”
This was, in so many ways, the philosophy of her life: she faced life with quiet determination. In my recollection she never complained, ever, and moved ahead, trusting that what would be needed would be provided. This was true even, perhaps, to a fault; so eager never to complain, it seems, she found it difficult to discuss the hardships of life; she found it difficult to draw near, emotionally, to the burdens and hills and challenges she had faced in her own life. I had no idea, as that child who loved his grandmother, what those hills were that she had faced. I did not know that she and Granddaddy had married the last year of the Great Depression, and the economic hardships that her generation faced. I did not know then that her father had taken his own life; that she had had three sons, not two, that third son having died at birth in their home. It was a source of great sorrow to me that dear Grandmother still thought “every day,” she told both my brother Conrad and me at different times in the last two years, about her father’s death, wondering what it meant, wondering what guilt she bore, wondering why he did it.
After I left her the day she told me that, I cried. I cried because I wanted her to know, deep in her soul, that of course she bore no guilt, and that she could allow herself to be free of such guilt; and that she did not have to bear that heavy burden alone, that there were many around her who would help her carry that burden, if she would allow them. This was her only weakness I knew—to carry these burdens alone, unable to talk about the things that caused her discomfort, without asking for help. It was not part of her consciousness to realize that the little engine with determination—“I think I can, I think I can”—can be all the greater when hooked together with others, so that the chorus becomes, “we think we can, we think we can,” by God’s help and power.
But in the way she knew how, in the way taught to her generation, she faced the hurdles before her, and she did so in an incredible way. Her sorrow never became self-pity; her life-long questions never gave way to self-obsession. Instead, she set a course of life that was, in so many ways, the embodiment of the apostle’s instructions to the believers at Thessalonica: she minded her own business; worked hard throughout her life; she quietly and simply lived and loved. (I should qualify: she minded her own business with two exceptions—guts and facial hair. She was not unknown to pat someone’s belly and remark, “you’re getting a little gut,” or in response to one of us having grown a beard, “have you lost your razor?”)
When I asked Daddy what remarkable memory stood out in his mind, he said that she was simply what anyone could ever want in a mother: she always put their interests first, loved them, and let them pursue their dreams and interests. It would seem a psychologists wonder, it seems to me, that this woman who had experienced tragic loss of a father, brother, and child, could still let her sons do all of the things they did, wandering unaccompanied and unsupervised through the hills and creeks of Munford, the caves around Cheaha mountain, hunting, playing, and roaming in a way that gave way to [my uncle] Bill’s getting run over by a car on one occasion, and receiving a shotgun blast to his abdomen on another—that anything of fun and play her sons wanted to do, she allowed, with the exception of Daddy’s request to go camping by himself somewhere up on Cheaha.
Her life with Granddaddy was one of rhythm and quietness, a rhythm that had place for work and play, productivity and entertainment, spiritual disciplines and naps. Granddaddy’s work ethic was undisputed, and Grandmother always sought to be helpful alongside him, howsoever she could. And yet alongside that work ethic was a joy in life that gave rise to their particular way of taking vacations: that when we would ask them, “where are you going,” they typically responded, “we don’t know.” And so they would take off with bro. and sr. Fields, with bro. Kermit driving, wheresoever the mood or the Spirit led them; or Granddaddy would drive Grandmother with many of the women in her family—Faye, Thalia, Jewell, Rene and Snook—to see the fall foliage Grandmother loved, or wherever the women wanted to go.
This kind of characteristic joy in life was undergirded by a quiet rhythm—lunch was always followed by some quiet time reading or just being still in their living room; and [my cousin] Jeffrey recalls how, no matter how late to bed, that the mornings had time before breakfast for Bible reading, which typically took the shape of listening to recordings of scripture on 78’s. Every Thursday was highlighted by fried Chicken Day at Tebo’s, every Saturday night was marked by Lawrence Welk, and every Sunday and Wednesday characterized by church attendance. Many afternoons gave opportunity for Grandmother to watch her “shows,” and time for Scrabble or Dominos. (It is a dear memory, which I wish every boy could know: me taking a nap on the sofa after we had eaten fried chicken for Thursday lunch, while Grandmother watched her “shows,” the sofa where I dozed next to her rocking recliner; the grandmother holding the hand of the boy, the boy waking sometime later to play Dominos, or read a book, with his grandmother.) And every Christmas was characterized by ambrosia, sausage balls, fudge, the “money tree,” and the old bell that hung from the dining room door-way, playing “Silent Night” at the pull of the string.
Grandmother worked not only at the office but at home; there were so many wonderful family meals at the dining room table, with Jeffrey, Conrad and [my other cousin] Andrew often throwing Grandmother’s parkerhouse rolls across the table to anyone who said “please pass the rolls.” Their home was a place of great hospitality, whether for meals or for spending the night, so that Grandmother said she often would not know how many boys might come up from the basement on a Saturday morning, never knowing how many friends [my father] Jim and [uncle] Bill had invited to spend the night. And before the preachers for the Gospel Meetings would be housed in motels, they would often be housed at Grandmother and Granddaddy’s.
As they loved their children, so they loved their daughters-in-law, Gayle and Betty-Lou, and their grandchildren. Their white Datsun was always at the ball games or tennis matches; Conrad recalls them honking their horn whenever he would make a hit or field a ball. They were always in the stands at Jeffrey and Andrew’s football games. And they were always present to [my sister] Kathryn’s and mine piano recitals, with that sole granddaughter having a special place in their hearts, which showed itself simply in the cinammon toast that Grandmother always made at Kathryn’s request for breakfast. And Grandmother had the opportunity of loving many great-grandchildren. And as Conrad put it last night, “you know you’ve lived a good, full life when, at age 97, you can play Dominoes with your great-grandchildren—competitively!”
Grandmother’s life was a job and joy well-done. We will miss her immensely. But our lives will always carry her with us, for we are, in so many ways, who we are because of who she was. We give God thanks for the gift of her life to our lives.[Read More]
September 8, 2014
September 3, 2014
We’re delighted to have AGAPE’s support this year. AGAPE was formed in 1966 when several members of the Otter Creek Church of Christ realized that homeless children and orphans were being housed in institutions and were denied the opportunity to experience a home or a family. Today AGAPE exists to serve the needs of families and children in Middle Tennessee through adoption, foster care, unplanned pregnancy support services, and faith-based counseling and psychological services with an unconditional agape love.
This year the agency will conduct over 12,000 counseling sessions in seventeen locations across the region, and at any given time will be serving fifteen to twenty families through adoption, foster care, and maternity support.
We’re thankful to have such most outstandingly wonderful partners.
The 2014 Tokens season continues Tuesday, September 9, 7:30 p.m. at the Collins Alumni Auditorium, Lipscomb University, Nashville, Tennessee. Ellie Holcomb will be joining us as our special guest
Buy tickets via our tickets page, or by calling 615.966.7075.[Read More]
September 3, 2014
We’re most delighted to have the good folks over at Climb Nashville joining us as a Presenting Sponsor of the show this year. Climb Nashville, in addition to being the finest indoor rock climbing facility in town, is one of the largest in the whole of the south-east. Climb Nashville’s a safe, family-friendly environment. And, good news for those of you living in East and West Nashville, they’ve got two locations – one at 1900 Eastland Ave. and one at 3600 Charlotte Ave. Indoor rock climbing’s fun for the whole family, so grab your sons and daughters, your grandmas and grandpas and head on over to Climb Nashville for a fun-filled outing.
The 2014 Tokens season continues Tuesday, September 9, 7:30 p.m. at the Collins Alumni Auditorium, Lipscomb University, Nashville, Tennessee. Ellie Holcomb will be joining us as our special guest
Buy tickets via our tickets page, or by calling 615.966.7075.[Read More]