New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve was first celebrated by the ancient Babylonians 4000 years ago (Redbook, January 2009).

This is the day we craft our personal year-in-review; remembering events, milestones, losses, and resolutions made and broken.

How has God been at work in our lives this year? Better yet, what have we done for God this year?

Photo: New Year's Eve in Times Square, 1907
Photo credit: http://www.vintageculture.net/

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Christmas at the Beach

I'd never traveled to the beach for the Christmas holiday until this year. It was a renewing experience - one I'd like to repeat. By the shore, I focused my energy on family, the season, and nature.

A reflection from one of my nightly beach walks:

Enveloped in complete quiet, I walked along with shore nightly with pink clouds rushing above, breaking just enough to reveal quick glimpses of soft stars. I felt renewed by the sound of the waves crashing, the feel of soft sand, and motion of the water that never ceases. Walking the beach in the quiet night, one catches a glimpse of what it may have been like before hectic seasons and Christmas lights - when it was only God and the waves - a true glimpse of the divine.


© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Moravian Christmas

When Advent arrives and candles dress the churches and homes of America, I remember Moravian Christmases. My mind floods with the colorful traditions of beeswax candles, Moravian stars and love feasts, candle teas, fresh greens, carols, and brass instruments. They serve as simple reminders of gentle people whose quiet love for creation is welcomed in the frenzy of a consumer Christmas.

Painting by Marie Brewer Nifong

http://www.oldsalem.org/

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

January Term in Washington, D.C.

Adams Morgan: a month of Heaven
The Northwest Current
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Volume XLI, No. 49

He looked dashing in his business shirt, drink in hand, standing in the center window of Club Heaven and Hell on 18th Street. We’d spent one delightful month together, and this night seemed like the culmination. I was leaving soon to return to North Carolina, and he would continue his exhilarating city life without me. Eager to relish the moment, I etched his image solidly in my memory. I watched him from the sidewalk for a few seconds, savoring the lines of his face and shape of his figure. He saw me, and the black light of the club lit his smile. He rushed out the door, and even though I was there to rescue him from the loneliness of the city, he was rescuing me. He had liberated me from my isolated women’s college for a month of bliss.

I began the journey to Adams Morgan on a brisk New Year’s Day. I was an undergraduate, pre-law student at Salem College, a small school in North Carolina. I felt brave traveling from the sheltered Moravian village of Old Salem to the buzz of a city I didn’t know. My adventure was time-limited; it was my school’s January Term, a four-week investment in the future careers of Salem College women.

That January, I served as an intern with the American BarAssociation. Upon arrival at my Argonne Place apartment, I explored Adams Morgan, sampling the eclectic cuisine, used-book store and fancy drinks. There were many reasons for young adults to spend money and time in Adams Morgan, and the short walk from my apartment to 18th Street was always brimming with the anticipation of new food, new people and new adventures. During that month, friends from the American Bar Association fled 15th Street with me at 5 p.m. on the dot, ready to sample the sumptuous food and drink that “my” neighborhood had to offer. We were young undergraduates without a care in the world, laughing in smoky bars with dark walls and lush couches, feeling like this fantasy world would never come to an end.

And what big-city experience would be complete without love? In January, I met Dave, a handsome journalist. He was raspy and sharp, successful and romantic. I was the young student, and he was the accomplished professional. He taught me what it was like to indulge in the city, read Jack Kerouac novels and be so infatuated with someone it hurts. The month flew by. I gained great experience at the bar association, had more fun than I could have ever imagined and absorbed nearly each inch of the neighborhood.

Years later, I still think about the adventure. When the air turns frigid and frost dresses the North Carolina grass, I remember my January in Adams Morgan. I can feel the crisp nights, the closeness of friends and the excitement of cozy restaurants, dancing and Dave. The image of him standing in the center window of the club is fresh and haunting. I recall his smile and the month of fantasy city life that he gave me. January in Adams Morgan was a holiday, a winter oasis in the midst of routine.

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Three Months

November 27th marks three months of blogging on God's Acre. It's been an insightful journey; in these months, I've posted on various topics, most of which are related to the themes I set out with in the beginning:

- geography/journey

- cultivation/growth

- narrative/journey

- community/family

- Salem College

- working as a freelance writer

We began at the Old Salem cemetery, God's Acre - where stories and people rest. From there, may we continue to travel together - reflecting on community, culture, people, poetry, and challenges.

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Slush Pile

On an ordinary winter morning, a savvy New York City editor’s assistant, in fashionable Prada glasses and armed with discerning eyes, sits before a massive pile of unread query letters. Her job is to cull through this slush pile: the heap of unsolicited manuscripts that have been sent to her editor. Piece after piece, she reads the first sentence, groans, and tosses the paper off into oblivion. It’s a dramatic scene: she is the gate-keeper.

For any writer who wants to craft for public consumption, the ultimate is charming/energizing/alluring this gatekeeper.

As a writer, once you have the courage to admit that what you’ve written has some credibility - you realize that you’re competing with a large, bloodthirsty mass. Being prepared for a steady stream of rejection (having your work tossed off into oblivion) is healthy.

Writing is amorphous; what you thought was informative and carefully crafted today seems ridiculous tomorrow. Reminding yourself of your unique voice is a constant task. Praying too – is the other task at hand - praying that some savvy, Prada-wearing editor’s assistant reads the first sentence of your writing, and joyfully exclaims to the Heavens, "I've got the next big thing!" Or least, "Hmmm this looks interesting." That will do!

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Adams Morgan

The white flag waves
And calls me to surrender
To Kerouac and Fitzgerald
Valentine kisses and failure

A raspy voice warmed frosty days
With strong arms and masculine mystique
Heaven and Hell
In Adams Morgan

Connect – vanish – reconnect
Left haunts so deep
Strong hands pierced the crowded space
And melted the frozen night

The white flag waves
And calls me to surrender
While Kerouac tells me that
"Men have loved women without telling them"

Autumn greets winter
And winter breeds surrender
What if I had realized that
"Men have loved women without telling them"

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Prayer for an Election

Almighty God, to whom we must account for all our powers and privileges: Guide the people of the United States (or of this community) in the election of officials and representatives; that, by faithful administration and wise laws, the rights of all may be protected and our nation be enabled to fulfill your purposes; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

- The Book of Common Prayer, 1979

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Shrimp Boats and Daydreams

During a recent trip to South Carolina, I took a detour with my aunts and mother for an adventure in Calabash, North Carolina (just at the NC/SC border).

Calabash is home to 'calabash' style shrimp, shopping (Callahan's), and family vacations. Its neighboring beaches, Sunset and Ocean Isle, serve as the get-a-way spots for many American families.

While strolling the Calabash dock, we noticed that the shrimp boats had just come in. Excited, we wondered if they had yet unloaded their 'gold?'

It turns out that we were just in time to see their treasure. As we watched, the fishermen unloaded coolers of freshly frozen shrimp (caught out at sea and immediately frozen to preserve the 'just caught' taste) and prepared for business. They measured the shrimp in ten pound lots, cut their heads off, and put them in plastic grocery sacks for patiently waiting customers.

As I watched the fishermen, I wondered if they found joy in their profession. What was it like it to faithfully travel out to sea, catch something, and fill the (many) bellies of anticipating locals and tourists? I admired their lives and work as I watched them diligently weigh these sea creatures in the glistening sun.

Photo: Shrimp boat at sea

Photo credit: http://www.townofcalabashnc.com/

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Perfectly Gratuitous

With hopes of lightening your load and starting your day off well - here's something that's perfectly gratuitous ...

I listen to music when I write. It inspires me, and I associate words and melodies with people, moments, and places.

A few favorites ...

Crossroads, will you ever let him go?
Will you hide the dead man’s ghost
Or will he lie, beneath the clay,
Or will his spirit roll away?
- The Allman Brothers, "Melissa"
www.peomhunter.com

I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
"Come in," she said,"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
- Bob Dylan, "Shelter from the Storm"
www.bobdylan.com

If I said I love you would it be too soon?
Cause timing is everything in this old familiar tune
I would spend my life underneath a wandering moon
If every time i said goodbye
I could come back home to you
- Christopher Williams, "Every Time I Say Goodbye"
www.christopherw.com

There's a light at each end of this tunnel you shout
Cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out
And these mistakes you've made
You'll just make them again if you'll only try turnin' around
- Anna Nalick, "Breathe (2 AM)"
www.lyricsmode.com

What words/melodies have inspired you lately?

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

"W." - With God On Our Side

If you remain in your seat to watch the ending credits of Oliver Stone's latest film, "W." - you'll hear the old familiar and awkward melody of Bob Dylan's "With God On Our Side" playing as the credits roll.

Indicative of the tone of the movie, "W." is brilliantly portrayed by Stone as a cowboy called by the Almighty.

On an afternoon running trip after a night of heavy birthday drinking, W falls in the brush on the side of the running trail, and Stone simulates a "Road to Damascus" experience with careful use of camera focus and natural light. Several scenes follow with the "born again" W receiving support and counsel from his evangelical preacher (Earle Hudd, a composite character sketch of several evangelical preachers).

Most importantly, Earle Hudd returns later in the film, while W is governor of Texas. In a heart to heart chat, W announces to Earle that he feels called to the presidency.

“I've heard the call. I believe God wants me to run for president.” I can’t explain it, but I sense my country is going to need me. Something is going to happen, and, at that time, my country is going to need me. I know it won’t be easy, on me or my family, but God wants me to do it.”

(The dialogue for this scene comes from "The Faith of George W. Bush," by Stephen Mansfield, pages 108-109) http://www.wthefilm.com/

Earle Hudd looks startled at first, then supportive of W's aspirations for the presidency - seemingly with God on his side - and he prays for W.

Public servants have often attributed their dedication to service with a value system that includes a solid faith structure. But does "God on our side" grant us permission to do the unthinkable? Does God become the scapegoat for the hubris of humanity?

Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Please share!

Photo: Josh Brolin as "W."
Photo credit: IMDB

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

With God On Our Side
But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we're forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side.

Copyright ©1963; renewed 1991 Special Rider Music
http://www.bobdylan.com/

Near the sea ...

Near the sea
Counting is lost

Each sunrise and sunset
Retreats to the other


Cleverly calculated tides
Keep the World's greatest rhythm

Reminding humanity
That we are truly small

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

In Alexander Pope's epic poem, Eloise to Abelard, Eloise retreats to a convent longing to forget her love for Abelard.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

We rush to forget, regret, patch, and protect ourselves from these familiar haunts. Instead, what if we weren't frightened of the mess we've made of our narratives, and instead embraced each step of the journey? After all, each experience has created the careful composite of who we are today.


Photo: Morning Dawn at God's Acre
(Old Salem, North Carolina)
Photo Credit: Brian Leon, http://flickr.com/photos/ncbrian
Used with permission

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Grandmother

Diamonds sparkle
Reflecting the light of freshly polished fingernails
Always elegant, always shimmering
Face made, lipstick applied

Eyes richly brown with liner and shadow
Dressed flawlessly with accessories to match
Silly scarves and fun hats
Southern and graceful

You taught me how to be a lady
To wear colors and speak my mind
To embrace the seasons - and decorate accordingly
Remembering that anticipation is everything

Candy spaghetti and belly laughs
Endless stories and Andrews Sisters
Teaching us the blessings of our generation
While reminding us to value yours

Now resting at Bono
Where you can see the sun rise and set
Seasons pass, time moves on
And we remember that anticipation is everything

In memory of Dorothy B. Lewman
(March 6, 1922 - September 28, 2004)

Photo: The Andrews Sisters

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

The Glen Lennox Community

At Duke Divinity School, the word “community” is a staple in the vocabulary of theologians-in-training. Ethics professors Stanley Hauerwas and Samuel Wells form seminarians with wisdom of the gathered and scattered community. As a graduate of Duke Divinity and one formed by their writing and teaching, I have experienced that community is indeed a word that extends well beyond the degree program.

Recent news surrounding the fate of Glen Lennox cottages in Chapel Hill has prompted many citizens to think about their own notions of community and home. In the months since Grubb Properties announced their intention to develop Glen Lennox cottages in Chapel Hill, I have discovered the ever-growing meaning of the word for myself and many.

My first reaction is primitive and selfish: “Where will I live in Chapel Hill that’s affordable?” Now on to thinking beyond myself: “Where will the other 439 households find affordable housing?” In some portions of the United States, this number of households constituents an incorporated town. For example, Dana, a small town in Western Indiana that I've written about before has 252 households according to the 2000 Census.

Theologically, I know that community is about the gathered people, and not bricks and mortar. As a theologian, I struggle with this development on many levels: personal, sociological, and even Biblical (think the displacement of peoples in the Bible!). While the Christian sense of community suggests that we are not to be tied to material things (or places) of this world, I still think that these precious Glen Lennox bricks have fostered a community spirit in Chapel Hill unlike any other.

Still, I’m amazed that in a world where we are always plugged in, claiming we are lonely and longing for community, we tear down well-established single story communities rich with history, green space, and side streets (all conducive to relationship building), to produce larger, shiny, mixed-use, multi-story buildings for the sake of convenience and progress.

No matter what the outcome, I am confident that the process will be parsed out thoroughly by all of the interested parties, and that the spirit of this community will live on. I am thankful for the opportunity and privilege of being a part the Glen Lennox Community.


Photo credit: http://www.saveglenlennox.org/

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

To have and to hold ...

The sun setting on Belews Lake made for a stunning September wedding day. A gentle breeze complimented the scene as family and friends gathered at "the Point," a wide strip of land forming a perfect apex at the water's edge, where the bride and her father docked and processed together.

The heat of the evening in my heavy black clergy robe seemed completely tolerable in the presence of this powerful occasion. Vows were exchanged and promises made, and in the warm shadows of a setting sun, we (God, community, bride and groom) ushered in their new life together.

Life can't get much better than this ...

Photo: Sunset at Belews Lake
Photo credit: http://www.carolinamarina.com/

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

9/11 at Salem College

Seven years ago today (9.11.01)

Sitting in the Office of the President at Salem College Office, I tapped my feet impatiently as I waited for my Tuesday morning meeting with Dr. Julianne Still-Thrift. Our agenda: to review my plans as the 2001 Fall Fest Chair. Fall Fest, the decades-old Salem College tradition, was less than two weeks away.

Fall Fest is a day of competition among classes that begins with a lively breakfast in the Refectory, lasts all day (with classes cancelled) and ends with skits and songs in the Hanes Auditorium. As chair, I had begun planning for the event since May of the previous academic year, when I was ceremoniously tapped by my schoolmates to carry on this Salem tradition.

That Tuesday morning, I was missing Dr. Errol Claus' American history class, and it was one of those “I remember where I was when …” moments, because I recall vividly the president’s assistant (and the president herself) frantically running out of her office in the old Moravian home on Salem Square and asking, “Has anybody got a TV?” Radio? Anything?" These were the days before YouTube, and instantaneous Internet feed, and the word of the two planes hitting the Twin Towers in New York City was now falling on the nation's eyes and ears.

Given the chaos, I walked back to Dr. Claus' class to find that he had dismissed our class so that we could return to our dorm rooms and be tuned in. This was, after all, American history was unfolding ...

In the days that followed, we mourned the loss of family members and friends of Salem students, and as a school, we asked how and if our Fall Fest celebration should go on. Fall Fest was one of the most important days of the academic term, and often set the tone for sisterhood and community for the year. Could we and should we balance the recent tragedy of 9/11 with the day of celebration of our sisterhood? Would people want to laugh and celebrate again? Was it too soon?

People often ask me what it was like to attend a women's college. This day, and the ones that followed seven year's ago demonstrates the experience. Attending a women's college is about community, sisterhood, and being present with one another - both in joy and sorrow.

We did choose to celebrate Fall Fest that year, though with a very different tone. We chose to celebrate the lives of loved ones lost, and our common life together.

NB: Established by the Moravians in 1772, Salem College is the oldest educational institution for women in the United States. Celebrating over two centuries of educating women, Salem demonstrates a proud history of fostering independence in women.

http://www.salem.edu/

© 2008 J. Dana Trent

Feedback

I've been receiving fantastic feedback from these postings. By nature, I enjoy the review and suggestions. Over the weekend, a Duke Divinity School staff colleague (an experienced blogger!) of mine sent me a very helpful email about this blog. Per my last post, she too, was not clear as to what my blog is about, but is sympathetic to me traveling the path to discovery.

She offered also that the blog name, "God's Acre," is a bit presumptuous - something that I took for granted having known what (and where) God's Acre is. Certainly, I do not want anyone to think that this is "God's space" or that I am writing on God's behalf. Rather, as she pointed out in her email, it is important to identify the blog name as the sacred cemetery at Old Salem, North Carolina.

During my undergraduate studies at Salem College, God's Acre is where I found peace, and it is symbolic of my time there. It captures the experience, the Moravian way (all stones are equal), and the beauty of Old Salem and Salem College. My colleague suggested adding a photo (or a name plate) of God's Acre in the title - a stellar suggestion! It places the title back to it's original space, and reminds me each time I see it of its inspiration.

Most of all, my colleague encouraged me to keep writing - which for me means keep exploring, listening, and engaging my energy and passion.

As time moves on, I know that the objective for this blog will become clearer. It already has. I gravitate toward writing about land, home, sacred space - and for me, Old Salem and God's Acre are central to those themes. Writing about the experience of attending a women's college in a historic village is energizing, and something I have been doing for years. Now, each paragraph and each memory gets clearer with age - and a more mature, reflective Dana is able to process it readily.

So, thank you all - for your comments and feedback. Please, keep it coming!

Photo: God's Acre Cemetery

Photo Credit: Brian Leon, http://flickr.com/photos/ncbrian

Used with permission

Blogging toward ...

After learning that I was blogging, a friend asked me, "What are you blogging about?" My mind went blank, and I had to think of how I was going to articulate what this blog means to me in a clear sentence. Distracted by something else in the room, we both went on to the next thing (indicative of today's fast-paced, multi-tasking culture!), but his enquiry stayed with me throughout the day.

What am I blogging about? Many of my friends have clear purposes for their blogs: book reviews, sharing the adventures of their first home, travel, parish ministry, and the anticipation of a baby.

Thus far, I've written about the story behind the name of the blog, a very special small town in Indiana, and hometowns. These posts all have common threads: land, reflection, home, growth, geography. They are small glimpses of the grander themes that seem to be in keeping with "God's Acre." This indeed is a time for trying out new seeds, nurturing what works, reflecting on why (or why not) it's working, and knowing when it's time to plant again.

Thanks for joining me on this (sometimes) obscure journey!

Image: Spring Turning by Grant Wood (1936). Reynolda House, Museum of American Art, Winston-Salem, NC. http://www.reynoldahouse.org/

Where's home?

During the typical discourse of introductions and networking, we've all been asked, "Where are you from?" While some of us are certain of the answer, the rest of us are ambiguous.

In the profile section of Facebook, there is a window for the user to input your hometown. Users are forced to decide – where am I from? Where do I call my "hometown?" I’ve filled out this window more than once (and deleted it more than once), with the names of different towns where I’ve lived, never quite being able to land on which town I want to claim as my “hometown.”

In my last blog entry, I wrote about Dana, Indiana – a precious little place in Western Indiana where I visit during summers, and where lived a child. I could claim Dana. I was born in California, and so I could claim it. I would certainly call the long period that I lived in Reidsville, NC, my most formative years -middle and high school, first boyfriend, church formation, and accepting a call to ministry (First Baptist Church, Reidsville). Reidsville would certainly qualify as a suitable response for any hometown enquiries. Still, I'm ambivalent - having lived in California, Indiana, and several towns in North Carolina.

To be coy, "home is where the heart is," and that is always true. Hometowns, however, may be subject to other variables.

Where do you call your hometown? What’s in a hometown?

Dana, Indiana

At the point were US highway 36 crosses east from Illinois into Indiana, the road travels to Indianapolis, the most sought after Indiana destination. But the real jewels along US 36 are the long forgotten towns of rural Indiana.

When I was a teenager, I spent my summer months in Dana, Indiana, a small farming community in Western Indiana, at the Illinois border. I lived with my grandparents during my visits, and had adventures with my cousins, who were both close to my age.

At the end of each summer, the town of Dana held its "Dana Festival," the largest event for the community of just over 600 people (2000 Census). Held Thursday through Saturday night, the festivities included: the Dana Festival Queen contest, celebrity auction, flea markets, festival food, games, talent show, pet parade, cake walks, Jonah Fish Fry, jitterbug contest (we entered every year!), merchandise drawings, tours of the Ernie Pyle home, and a large parade on Saturday afternoon. The talent show and Jitterbug contest have long since been dissolved, but the other traditions continue. The 49'er Club, with members made up of my grandparents contemporaries, auction off a handmade quilt each year, and it is the time of the year for the entire town to come together.

This August, I returned for the Dana Festival for the first time since 1996. I had been home other times of the year, but was never able to catch the festival. My grandparents have long since died, and the town has changed into a smaller version of its bustling self. The Ernie Pyle Home is still open, and I celebrate each time I see it. What a treasure for this small town whose only grocery store burned down just over a year ago!

My uncle and father tell me Dana used to be a bustling town, with a movie theatre and five grocery stores (my grandfather owned one of them). Those were the days when folks stayed in town and didn't drive to get their goods elsewhere. The "good ol' days," I've heard people say.

At festival time, the good ol' days seem to return. The town comes alive again, and people return home to see friends and neighbors. And when I travel from the Indianapolis airport on Highway 36 west toward the quiet town of Dana, I long for the sign standing in the cornfields that says, "Welcome to Dana, Home of Ernie Pyle" that's when I know I am home.

God's Acre

Named for the Moravian cementary in historic Old Salem, God's Acre is the place where I spent four years of my life wandering about after quiet suppers in the Salem College Refectory. The sacred burial ground is a short walk up the hill from Salem Square past Home Moravian Church, and at sunset is kissed with orange and pink light peeking through the enormous trees. This ground is home to many humble Moravians who are only marked by matching white stones - level with the grass.

God's Acre is far more than one unit of land now, but I like the implication that each unit belongs to God. Many worldviews assert that all land is God's - created and given to humanity for living and good stewardship.

I invite us to imagine ourselves as acres: God's land, created and given, and in need of good care. Because we are God's, this implies that we are sacred and called. This land is a metaphor for the journey, the call to be planted, fed, grown, wintered, and restored. Let the journey begin ...

Photo: God's Acre cementary located in Old Salem, North Carolina.
Photo credit: Old Salem Museums and Gardens

http://www.oldsalem.org/