"I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they are my own.
I am from fudge and eyeglasses,
    from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
    and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I'm from He restoreth my soul
     with a cottonball lamb
     and ten verses I can say myself………"
 ~excerpt, Where I'm From, by George Ella Lyons

I ran across this poem on a website the of Jan L. Richardson, a writer and artist I admire, one who inspires me. I have found it to be one of those poems that travels with me. I can't stop thinking about it.

Last night, I worshiped with some of my colleagues in ministry and those who are walking through the ordination process in the United Methodist Church. We have come together for interviews, for hearing the call stories of those who have felt nudged, pulled, shoved, into a life of service in the church. I have been privileged now for three years to be a part of this process. It is a holy time for me. Hearing the joys and struggles of these people, what they have learned, let go of, abandoned, held on to with white knuckles, what they have sacrificed to get to this point, always humbles and astonishes me.

We used this poem "Where I'm From" last night in our worship. After it was read, those gathered were invited to name aloud the places they were from. They were allowed a time to name the shape and texture of the land that had shaped them. They were asked to offer the names of the saints that had held their hands and rocked them to sleep. They were urged to dig deep into their psyche and offer to one another and to God what it was that had held them in Mystery until this day.

To say this was a powerful experience would be an understatement. "I'm from cotton fields, cornbread…..I'm from rolling hills and blooming prairies….I'm from coal mines and pie-baking women…I'm from the lake that is so deep it holds the secrets of countless boats in its depths….I'm from a father who taught me to fish even though I wasn't the first-born boy………." On and on it went creating a massive poem in the sacred space of the tiny chapel.  I watched the faces as the memories clouded and shone. My eyes filled with tears as we called into our midst the cloud of witnesses that had birthed, blessed and nurtured us, not all human but all Divine.

After the speaking, the chapel was full of light in a way that was nearly transcendent. It was a moment of the in-breaking of the the kin-dom of God. The ancients would have built an altar.  What a blessing……..

Where are you from?