Justice for Tyre. It's Personal

 

 

My heart is sad. 

 This past week, the world watched in horror as a man, a Black man, was stomped to death by police in Memphis. 

 My heart goes out to Tyre' Nichols' family and friends. May his soul rise in power. 

 However, I cannot help but to see the faces of Black men I know and love in Tyre's handsome face. I especially see the faces of two men whom I've known since they were students with my brother at The University of Cincinati over 20 years ago. These two men-- and their families-- are more family to me than some of my blood relatives. Yes, I am bold enough to say that these two men are brothers as much as Matt is to me.  

Tyre was someone's biological and/or fictive brother. He surely was someone's son. He had friends and relatives. 

 Tyre Nichols was stopped by the police for " reckless driving", and for that minor infraction he was murdered by a cop. 

 To be honest, friends, I find it hard to believe in cops.  Our Black, Brown and LGBTQ+ siblings have tried to tell mainstream White America that the very nature of the American law enforcement and corrections institutions are racist for years.  And as long as I'm being honest, I've hid behind my White privilege and defended the system. 

 I'm not hiding behind my Whiteness anymore. 

 While it is true that there are law enforcement officers who are good people, the fact is that the modern police forces are built upon years of oppressing anyone who is not White. 

 Things will never change until White people-- and I am totally including myself in this statement-- own the fact that our " law enforcement" is not and never has been equal for all. 

 How many Black men must die before things change? 

 To my Black brothers: I love you. Stay safe. 

 Kyrie elesion. 

 Sarah Beth McCarren  

 

Kate Bowler Quote # 2 Experiences over more " stuff"

 

                                            Yes, I take " piano selfies"  :) 

 Without further ado, here is today's nugget from Ms. Bowler's book:

" What a privilege it is to have stories to burn " Bowler, Chapter 4 

 As I've gotten older, I've discovered that what really " fills my cup" the most are not acquiring things, but rather sharing experiences   with people who matter to me. Yes, I'm a big purse collector -- just ask my husband-- and I always am looking to add to my home library but what I really treasure are shared experiences. 

 Thankfully, it did not take a terminal diagnosis for me to come to this realization, Brian and I have been giving each other shared experiences in the form of a road trip together for several years.  Back in 2021 we braved COVID restrictions and drove to Savannah, Georgia for a two-day urban hiking experience. 

 This year, we are celebrating both Valentine's Day and my birthday by taking a trip-for-two north to the Alabama Appalachian Foothills. We booked our first VRBO and plan to take our Hound Dog, Harry, along with us. We had to " fenagle" {this is one of Brian's favorite weird words} a few financial matters to make the trip happen for February, but it had to be done. 

 My soul has been running on empty for longer than I care to admit. A wise friend asked me what REALLY would fill my empty cup and press the reset button on my operating system."

 "Hiking in the mountains"

 " Then do it! " 

 She was not interested in hearing any of my flimsy excuses, insisting that there was no time like now to refill my cup. Of course, contrary creature that I am, {and she knows this about me} I offered all the excuses. True to form, she wasn't hearing any of them. 

Brian and I looked at a few things, made some adjustments, and booked the north Alabama mountain cabin for three nights and two-and-a-half days.  Even with the pet fee, we are saving money by taking Hound Dog with us, and he'll enjoy exploring the gorgeous woods that are several hundred feet above sea level. 

 More importantly, Brian and I are not waiting until May-- or even March {when the temps are warmer} to make this experience happen. It will happen as soon as possible-- during a week when we could clear our calendar completely for a few days. 

 Brian and I will have more " stories to burn" after this trip. After all, life is short. His cancer diagnosis-- stage 1 but scary enough-- reminded us that humans are here on earth for a finite amount of time. While our souls are eternal, our flesh, blood, bone and skin bodies eventually do reach an expiration date.   

Make the memories now, so the stories will burn for the rest of your life. The truth is: none of us know when our time on Earth might suddenly end, so honor The Creator by making memories-- memories that turn into stories. 

 No excuses accepted. 

 Peace, love, music and light....

Sarah Beth McCarren 

 

Kate Bowler Quote #1 { first in a series}

 

                                        What is REALLY important, are the PEOPLE in our lives. 

"Women can learn that their better selves can be measured in Weight Watchers points, squeeze into Kim Kardashian's waist trainers, or be enhanced by the latest shade of Mary Kay lipstick. ~Kate Bowler _ No Cure For Being Human_ Chapter 1

I'm reading Bowler's book about her battle with Stage 4 cancer. Although I am only on chapter 2, I've already had my highlighting and underlining pen working. 

Life threatening-- or in my case life altering-- medical diagnoses make one think about what is really important. 

I've suffered from terrible nerve pain in my spine for two years. While my chronic condition will not kill me, it has altered my life in many ways.

Running was a way that I would escape my troubles of the day. The treadmill was where I went to relieve my mind, body, and soul of stresses that were beyond my control. I'd don the earbuds, step on the treadmill and run a mile as fast and as hard as I could. I found comfort in getting my heart pumping quicky as I moved in time to the music on my Spotify app. I kept my posture tall and proud as I slightly altered the elevation settings to make the run more realistic. 

To be honest, I cannot run anymore. On some days, I cannot walk without pain. Thankfully, I am at the point in my treatment journey where I have several hours where there is no pain. 

I won't lie, for an athlete to be reduced to depending on a cane to walk due to pain and a weak right leg has been life-altering. 

It has taught me that I am, after all, more than my body. I had to learn that my worth as a person does not depend on how fast strong and toned I am. 

I'm scrawny from muscle mass loss. My right leg still won't get messages from my brain. And I still suffer from nerve pain at the end of every day because my small body cannot tolerate more than one pain pill daily. 

I'm still alive, and I am thankful. 

To be honest, there have been days when I felt angry at God for my physical limitations. 

Recently I was reminded that emotions like anger, shame and fear do not line up with what Scripture teaches us about God. 

God loves me, in spite of the fact that walking hurts. My physical ailments happened for reasons that are beyond my control. 

Many of us, if we live long enough, will face serious medical challenges. That is part of being human. Kate Bowler definitely learned this lesson earlier than most people. In my mid-forties, with a diagnosis that makes life literally pain full, I've had to learn this lesson, too. 

My life has been different as a chronic pain patient, but not always terrible.  I've picked up new hobbies {including playing the piano} that exercise my body, mind and soul differently.  Chronic pain has taught me to live life one day at a time. 

Amen. 

Sarah Beth McCarren  

The Mountains are calling {at least for a couple days!} and I must go!

 

                                             I love Pensacola, and it is home. But I also am a mountain gal wo craves higher elevation. This is a photo of me taken a couple of years ago at Grandfather Mountain, in Western NC . 

The mountains are calling, and I must go.”

-John Muir, Scottish naturalist and mountaineer, 1838-1914

Pensacola is home. Our chosen clan are here. We own a home here. We are happy here.

However, that does not mean that I-- an Appalachian-born woman--, does not miss Life in The Clouds. The Appalachians are part of my DNA-- a part that no amount of disgust at the sensibilities of Western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio can shake.

I need to see higher elevations and do some hiking that requires boots and hiking sticks. Brian and I do a lot of local hiking near our home, and this is always good.

However, I am a highlander. As much as I love Life at Sea Level, I need doses of mountain life.

In addition to growing up in the ridge- and-valley portion of the Appalachian chain, my family took several summer vacation trips to western North Carolina-- mountains that are much higher {and more majestic} than where I grew up. Brian and I honeymooned in the mountains near Hendersonville, North Carolina and we've returned there since.

Lately my soul has been troubled, but I am not writing about that business. Someone I trust, love and respect pointed out to me that I need to " refill my cup". On occasion, returning to the mountains, even for a brief stay, refills my cup like nothing else.

Brian and I booked a three-day, four-night stay at a cute little VRBO cabin in the north Alabama mountains. This is a day's drive from Pensacola, and we can take our dog. A pet fee will apply, but we save money in the long run because the fee is what we would pay PER DAY for Harry's overnight boarding.

Alleluia!

In less than one month, I'll be, as Dad says in North Carolina " watching the mountains wake up" with my beloved in a private mountain cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Friends, we cannot put a price tag on experiences that " refill our cup".

Amen

Sarah Beth McCarren

Pensacola Is Home

 

                                            One big reason why I love living here.....

I'm from " somewhere up north". I cannot deny that living in Central/Northern Appalachia has shaped me. My experiences there are part of my DNA. I cannot change that fact. 

However, Northwest Florida , and especially Pensacola, has been home for more than half my life. 

Recently, there has been some news about some rampant anti-Semitism occurring in Butler County, Pennsylvania, where I was born and where some blood kin still live. 

To be honest, anti-Semitism never went away-- especially in rural counties such as where I was born. Granted, the anti-Jewish and racist rhetoric was not as bold as I remember it being when I was a child, but it was still there and often in my face. I remember working one summer for a family friend's business when the matriarch made a comment to me " at least she/he did not Jew us down. 

She said this to me, a teen employee. It was NOT okay and a very firmly told her that I am Jewish on my mother's side of my family and do not use such language in my presence again. 

Oddly enough, I kept my job and managed to earn the respect of the old woman. She might have respected the spunk I showed in standing up for myself and my mother's family. 

There was another incident in high school when I did " talk back" to a teacher wo had been spewing anti-Semitism in his classroom for weeks. I'd reached my breaking point and lashed out at him. My efforts earned me a trip to the vice-principal's office and an after school detention {leading to being benched at basketball for " insubordination".}

Whatever. I'd do it again. 

I say all this to make a point that I've never felt any anti-Semitism here in Pensacola. Here, that weird girl whose mouth got her in trouble sometimes has found a home. 

I feel confident that my beautiful multiracial nephew and niece can visit in safety and that my brother can hold his wife's hand in public and not feel threatened. 

I am in no hurry to return to western Pennsylvania/ eastern Ohio, because many of my memories there were not happy. 

I feel nothing but sadness and shame when I think about where I grew up. 

I'm safe here. I'm thriving here. This is home. 

My people are here. 

Amen. 

Sarah Beth McCarren 

" Timing" on a Steinway

 

                   There is nothing like playing a Steinway.  Photo by The Pensacola Hippie

I got to practice on this gorgeous instrument today: 

My teacher has me working on time signatures.  She asked me to practice some familiar tunes, paying special attention to the values given in each note in every measure {in other words--- slow down, Sarah Beth! }  

As much as I love my little Yamaha piano keyboard, it does not have weighted keys. I noticed as I practiced time signatures that my fingers are literally not feeling the beat. Thinking that practicing on a weighted keyboard, I asked Brian to drive me the short distance to The University of West Florida so I could practice on some weighted keys {and on an instrument with real strings!!} for an hour. 

 

 Y'all: A Steinway piano is truly a piece of art.

  I almost felt as if I were entering a sacred space and I set my messenger bag down and sat at the piano. Carefully I opened the piano drawer to expose the keys. 

 

 At first the weights felt heavy to my fingers, as a ran through some simple warm-ups I did not try to play the scales on the Steinway-- as I still am entirely too clumsy with playing one-handed scales. Instead, I warmed up with some simple pentescales that I'd memorized-- using both hands. 

 When I felt that my fingers were warmed enough, I opened my bag and took out the workbook that is showing me how to read and play time signatures properly. After I worked in that book, I switched to my " fun " book of nursery songs and played _When the Saints Go Marching In_ on repeat, letting the music-- and the timing-- enter my body and reach my soul. 

 Music heals. 

 Playing a Steinway, in one of my " happy places" just added to the joy that playing the piano brings to my life. 

 I've felt broken as of late and am grateful that music is an outlet. I am also grateful for today's chance to play the piano at UWF. Somehow, today's " timing" was also one of my past aligning with my future. 

Amen. 

Sarah Beth McCarren

Open Letter To " Butler Man"

  Hey " Butler Man" ...

We've never met, but trust me when I say that I know your type all too well. I was born in Butler County, Pennsylvania and grew up in that general area. 

I'm pissed. Furthermore, I 'm embarrassed. Sadly, having grown up Rust Belt Appalachia, I am not surprised. 

Read it. I cannot make this shit up. {and as a writer, I own an active imagination} 

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/billboard-along-busy-butler-county-intersection-causing-commotion-among-community/ar-AA16e5kT?fbclid=IwAR3GHA1yRChqJVvodgB69_k-gebNWH6Pj39gz9Ew2DkwH2-_HOUJNuLcxnc

I'm from Butler County, Pennsylvania, and grew up in that general area. Many of my relatives and friends from childhood still call this area home. 

I've not been back since before COVID. To be honest, I do not think I'll ever willingly return to where I grew up. {unless for a wedding or a funeral}

I'd rather spend our precious Travel Dollars hanging out with like-minded folks at the cabin in Western North Carolina every summer than subject myself to hellish air travel only to return to a place that was not kind to me as a {minority} child.

Anti-Semitism is not new in Butler, and other rural counties that surround Pittsburgh. I heard/ saw more bigotry against Jews {Mom is Jewish} and Black people by adults I knew. {mostly friends of schoolmates} 

In the last few years, the anti-Semitism has grown worse in this part of the nation. {we all know why this happened, so I will not elaborate} 

I'l say it AGAIN for people in the back. HATE SPEECH IS   **** NOT**** PROTECTED. Furthermore, the use of a swastika is illegal.  

Perhaps sharing hate on one's property in the form of a small yard sign might constitute as " free speech". When one buys a whole damn BILLBOARD and puts the hate speech in colored lights that can be seen for MILES, this is not freedom of expression. 

Okay, " Butler Man", these are your views? Shame on you, but I am not one to tell you what to think. I cannot fix stupid, so let's agree to disagree.  Please contain such opinions either in your home or in the yard-- free from the eyes of every driver on the 422. Your words and images are offensive and dangerous. 

Ask the child of a Holocaust survivor what swastikas mean. 

I'm not old enough to have a parent who survived The Holocaust, but I AM the child of a Jewish woman who grew up in lovely Butler County, Pennsylvania. That is Mom's story to tell, but I know that being any sort of minority in your fair county made me a freak. 

Butler Man, you are surrounded by White, straight {although not as straight as you think} Christian people. My guess is that you rarely, if ever, travel south to the city. That is your loss, as Pittsburgh itself is an awesome city with much to offer. 

These are all your choices. Stay there until you die. 

But keep your dangerous images and rhetoric away from the general public. 

Butler Man, I am so done with your bullshit. 

Pensacola is home. These are my people. 

Ungratefully yours....

Sarah Elizabeth McCarren

Processing Grief at The Piano Bench

                                              I know she's with me, in a weird way that was unique to our                                                     relationship, when I sit at the piano bench. 

My piano lessons are every other Tuesday afternoon. For this lesson, I've been working on a simple rendition of _When the Saints Go Marching In_. It is a fun little song that I can play with my {dominant} right hand. 

Here is an article on the song and its rich origins in New Orleans. 

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/the-rich-history-of-when-the-saints-go-marching-in/

For me, learning this song has helped me to process the grief I still feel over missing a dear friend, who happened to be a proud native of New Orleans. It has been well over a year since Doc died, and often I still feel the loss heavily. 

I find that I feel closest to her when I sit at the piano. I do not need to play a recognizable song to feel Doc with me --even practicing the finger exercises that my teacher gave me brings me closer to the essence of who Doc was to me. 

I never took piano lessons from Doc-- even though she'd wanted to teach me. Several extra-talented musicians came from Doc's private and UWF studio, and I feared that I would disappoint her with my clumsiness. In hindsight, I know now that I'd never disappoint her if I'd have worked as hard at the piano as I do now. 

Part of the reason why processing the death of my friend has been so hard is that Doc was the first significant person whom I'd lost. Both sets of grandparents died, but none of those losses have been as hard on me as losing Doc. 

My maternal grandparents really did not show up much in my life, so I did not mourn them. dad's parents were a part of my formative years, but my grandfather died of cancer back in 2001 and Grandma died at the age of 91.  Although Grandma Mac and I enjoyed a good relationship when I grew into my adult self, she was not the constant presence in my life as Doc was for so many years. 

For 22 years, every day began with an email " Dear Doc".  Sometimes we'd continue a long conversation, other times one of us would start a new conversation. It would not be too unusual for us to have multiple conversation threads-- depending on what occurred in our lives at any given time.  Like me, Doc was a verbal communicator and wrote well. 

When I sit at the piano and play the morning exercises from the pink book, it is sort of like emailing Doc. I've found, that even in this beginning stage of piano study, that I communicate in a soul-way and know that the music somehow transcends time and even space. Through the piano, I share with Doc what is happening in my world-- just like it was before the illness took over her body. 

Grief is weird at this stage. I often find myself missing Doc acutely, but the piano is another vehicle for me to bring out emotions-- including grief. 

I miss you , Doc. I always will miss you. But music-- especially piano music-- will be another thread of communication until we meet again. 

Peace, love and music....

Sarah Beth McCarren. 

 

Beloved: And with me Abba Is Well-Pleased

                                            Salt Water 

This past Sunday Christians everywhere celebrated The Baptism of Jesus. This year, we read Matthew's account. 

    When He had been baptized, Jesus came up immediately from the water; and behold the heavens were open to Him and He saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting upon Him. And suddenly, a voice came from heaven, saying' This is My beloved Son, in Whom I am well-pleased.  Matt :3-16-17 NKJV

I pulled the last part of Sunday's reading from the pericope that was read yesterday, as it REALLY is what I heard the most yesterday. 

God the Father calls God the Son " beloved". Furthermore, *I AM* says that * I AM* is well-pleased with this person. 

Through Jesus the Son, each of us, at baptism, is adopted into God's Family. 

God says to us " This is My child; in them I am well-pleased. "

By grace and love, we are made kin with Godself. 

I know God loves me, but I struggle with self-love. Recently a wise person I know, and love said she wished that I'd show myself the same care that I show to another. 

She's correct: We all owe ourselves the same tender care that most of us offer to others. 

Especially lately, I've looked at certain parts of my life -- parts that I do not show people for fear that they will no longer love me. 

I've learned these past few years that some people who say they love me unconditionally actually quit speaking to me {unfollowing and blocking me on social media and not answering texts.} My " " crime" allegedly was being whom I am and expressing outrage at my personhood being stripped away by powerful people-- rights that are personal to over half the world's population. 

I've learned that human love-- be it romantic, familiar or any other sort of ways we humans love each other-- is fickle. 

As a result, I am even more careful with who gets access to parts of me that others might see as " abominable". 

In Jesus, Abba showed us a new Way. I do my best {and fail every day} to live according to this Way. As it was pointed out to me, I even fail at loving myself the way God loves me. 

Love:2 Sarah Beth 0. 

I need to remember that God loves me, and anyone who is worth staying in my life also will see me as God's Beloved-- no matter if they agree with me or understand me. 

Amen

Sarah Beth 

 

My 2023 Word: JOY

                                            Piano Hands Selfie. Note the SHORT manicure ! 

For the past several years, I've prayerfully chose a word on which to meditate for the year.  On some years, someone else chose the word, but as I meditated on Christmastide, coupled with some events in my personal life that jolted me during Advent & Christmastide, the word that kept returning to my soul is JOY . 

We all need more joy. 

One of the things that brings me a lot of joy is playing the piano. I've only started to take lessons recently, but I've discovered that time on my piano bench will bring me almost instantaneous joy. Being the curious person who majored in journalism in college, I did some Google research on the effects of playing an instrument-- especially playing the piano. 

This is a good article that shows how playing the piano benefits the brain. Check it out:

https://thebestpianoteachers.com/how-does-playing-the-piano-boost-your-brain

I know darn well that I am not ever going to be a great pianist. But thankfully, that is not my goal. My hope is that studying the piano will help me with some cognitive-motor deficiencies that have been a challenge for me since birth. 

Gee, whomever thought it was okay to pull a newborn into life on Earth with kitchen tongs must have found their medical degree in an old Cracker Jack box! 

I am very grateful that I have a teacher who not only understands that all piano students are not heading to Carnegie Hall, but she is also someone who has done a lot of work with piano-as-therapy. 

There is so much to be said for making art-- music, visual, drama, dance-- for the sake of making art. In our culture, we've come to see hobbies {such as creative or athletic endeavors} as a means to more achievement. While everyone should always strive to do their best, it does a disservice to expect that hobbies should always be competitive. 

Finding joy in life can be as easy as finding time for a hobby.  I've always been extremely drawn to the arts {although I grew up in a family of jocks} and spending time engaging my body and brain in creative endeavors has brought me joy. 

From the time I could walk, I danced {terribly, but I still danced} From the time I could hold pencils and crayons, I wrote creative pieces and drew. I still write and draw on a regular basis and spent my college years writing and reading others' written work. 

When I was in first grade, I joined a children's choir at the neighborhood Presbyterian church. My family was not churched at all: I was there for the music. Eventually I met Jesus at that little church, but it was not on my radar as a child. I love words and images. 

At the age of mid-40's, I am starting to learn to play the piano. It is challenging, as learning anything new as an adult is harder than people with young brains. Yet sitting at the piano bench to practice is not work in the sense that it is a task I must do. Playing the piano brings me joy. 

In 2023, maybe we all need to find what brings us joy and do more of those things. 

Amen. 

Sarah Beth McCarren

 

Feast Of Epiphany: and Second Anniversary of Capitol Insurrection

                                                      My home altar area, with lit candles . 

Today is The Feast of Epiphany. 

It is also the second anniversary of The Capitol Insurrection. 

To be honest, friends, I am not over it. People always talk about where they were when the horrors of 9/11/01 happened. Yet few talk about where they were when AMERICANS tried-- and almost succeeded-- in a literal coup of our government. 

What happened in New York, DC and rural Pennsylvania in 2001 was horrid. 

In my opinion, what occurred two years ago today was even worse. Many people died in September of 2001 and that is tragic. However, the horrors we all saw two years ago was orchestrated by AMERICANS, against other Americans. 

Regardless of whatever political party to which one subscribes, this was horrible. 

The Magi had a mission to find the Christ Child and report back to Herod. 

Herod, as many Christians know, had nefarious plans for this toddler. 

The Magi, upon meeting Child Jesus, sensed that this Child was no ordinary child. He would be a King, but not in a way that should have frightened Herod. This Child would grow up to bring people together.  He would rule not on Earth, but as part of Godself. 

The Wise People went home " by another way" and did not return to Herod. 

This was a brave act of civil disobedience that could have cost them their lives. Scripture is silent on what happened to the Wise People once the made the choice to avoid Herod. 

I'm still angry, and to be honest it is hard for me to avoid pointing fingers today. 

A wise friend pointed out that perhaps an act of brave civil disobedience on the part of Christians is to say less and work quietly to bring the world closer to where people work together-- a world that is safe for all of us. 

Herod acted cruelly, but maybe he also acted out of fear. His world was about to change with the birth of this Child, although not in the way he probably imagined.  Herod has one view of kingship-- and this Child threatened that status quo. 

Jesus is King of all, but His ruling is not partisan or nationalistic. 

His ruling is kind, but firm. 

Knowing Who Jesus was and is, how can my acts of civil disobedience bring about justice for all? 

Happy Epiphany, friends. 

Amen. 

Sarah Beth McCarren