Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

The other morning I was scratching the grey-haired head of Nolan, my wife’s hound dog who found her twelve years ago at the county animal shelter. I  talked to him as we humans like to do and scratched his head and behind his large hound dog ears, and something about the time caused me to remember Fred, a cocker type black dog that I found wounded under the house in which I lived while a sophomore in college. He had been hit by a car and his left back leg was damaged. After coaxing him out from under the house, I took him  to a local veterinarian who repaired the long-ago damaged leg as best as possible. However, for the rest of his life Fred walked with a distinctive limp, but his damaged leg never kept him from living a full, rich, and loving life. As I remember, I kept him for the rest of that school year, and he went home with me for the summer. After those few months living with my younger sister and mother, he decided not to return to the college, but to stay with them and live their way. While he and I shared times together when I came  home on vacations after that, he was now their dog, and when I  left my hometown to begin a career, he remained where he had chosen to be. So, when I thought of him on that recent morning, I  asked my sister to fill in the gaps of his life with them.

“You know,” she said, “after you went back to school, Fred became my dog. Yes, he and mother liked each other, but until I enrolled in Western Carolina, he was mine. But, after I went to college, he and mother formed a special bond because they both were now alone. She worked the second shift then, but they shared each day, and he stayed awake until she got home after her shift in the mill. He would ride with us when she drove me back to Western, and  when he heard the mailman step  onto the porch, he thought it was me coming home for a visit and would run to the front door. But, the most remarkable thing about mother and Fred was his leaving.

“He was not blind, but he could see only shapes. For instance, often he would mistake the white bathtub for the storm-glassed door and wanting out, he  would  walk into it, mistaking the white porcelain for the light of the door. Like us all, he aged, and mother sensed that his life was ending. For three nights she stayed home from work, but eventually had to return to her shift. But each night of that time, when she got home, she would sit on the floor and hold him  in her lap, they loving each other as they had for their years. But, he grew worse, and one morning when she let him out the back door, he would  pause on each step and look back towards her, then step to the next and look back. Finally, out of steps, he looked back one last time to her, hearing her tell him  it was okay,  before he crawled under those steps to die. Later that morning she called the mill refuge department telling the man who answered how there was a dead dog under her back steps. Could he come and remove it?

“You may not understand, brother, but I see mother’s act of letting her beloved Fred go the way he wanted as a courageous and loving act. As she had always done in her life, mother knew that she had done her best with Fred over the years and even now, so she had no regrets. He wanted to go his way, and she let him, no matter her pain with his choice.

“That’s what happened to Fred, and I hope when Nolan’s time comes, he will be given as much grace as was Fred. No dog’s last day should be his worse.”

By Roger Barbee

The Gospels and Rome

Jesus and the Empire of God

Warren Carter

Cascade Books, 2021

Carter wastes no time in explaining his use of cultural intertextuality avenue for reading and studying the Gospels. He reminds us that Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John composed while Rome ruled: “The empire does not disappear from the Gospels just because an emperor or  governor or soldier or tax is not mentioned.” He then uses selected Gospel texts alongside Roman texts to create an opportunity for the reader to “make meaning in the intersections among them.”

Intertextuality is an interesting way to read the Gospels and while I had unknowingly done it in the past, I had not been aware of its wide range. For instance, one of the Gospel stories that Carter uses is the scene where Jesus instructs two disciples to go into Jerusalem and they will find a donkey with here colt tied. If asked, the disciples are to say that the Master needs them. Jesus then rides the donkey into Jerusalem.

Carter shows how this well-known arrival by Jesus, where he is greeted by the screaming crown, is like the manner a Roman ruler or victorious general would enter a city.  He cites many historical accounts to support and then compare the entry of Jesus with that of Augustus, Gaius, and Titus into Rome or other locations.

I enjoyed Carter’s examination of the Gospels by intertextuality because it directly shows the Roman world that Jesus lived in with all its problems: “Rome-sanctioned, Jerusalem-based local leaders, pervasive sickness, food insecurity, occupied territory, language of sovereignty, fantasies of revenge, and visions of a new and just world all interact with Roman imperial structures and [practices.” Carter in those words shows us the world in which Jesus walked and preached. It should give us encouragement for the world we face.

By Roger Barbee

Two articles from last week’s reading resonate with me—one from a religious magazine written by a minister and the other in a major newspaper written by a columnist.

The columnist writes about “feelings of hopelessness and self-hatred [that] can leave you to live with a smoldering rage.” He writes that the problem facing Washington, D.C. is not one of moral failure but “public health problems coming our way at the point of a gun.” He asks, “But what are we doing about what we already know about the forces driving violence?”

The minister shares her need for heaven, but not the heaven “beyond clouds, harps, and chubby baby angels.” She objects to “Our culture’s images of heaven [that] are so saccharine, so sentimental, so boring.”  What she wants is for us to have a heaven with the “possibility of actual peace, reconciliation, and abundance for all.”

Both writers want the same thing—an assurance for a better world, one free from hate, poverty, chronic pain, violence, and more. They both want a world of justice, one full of hope. But how do we give hope to those who suffer from the massive violence of our country-the violence not only of guns, but the violence of injustice, the violence of a low-paying job, the violence of chronic pain, the violence of addiction,  the violence of believing that this is all there is? If we can give citizens hope, then they will more likely be equipped to fight the obstacles of modern-day life.

One writer’s obvious way to combat the ills she faces in her personal and cultural life is her religious faith and “The hope of heaven is the glimmer of steady light that guides and protects me in the valley of  the shadow of death.” Her hope drives her days.

However, the newspaper columnist tells us that “The exposure to violence does something to you.” It is that violence lived and seen daily that probably causes there to be “no hope in the future to drive the day,” so why not gravitate to the easy path of drugs, guns, wanton sex, and alcohol that make life something not cherished but something cheap and expendable?

How do we give hope to such a life as that? We can’t by ways of large government programs. They can help, but we should have learned that large government won’t succeed because we have tried for years to give hope to downtrodden members of our communities through that channel.

I grew up in a single parent household during the segregated south of the 1950’s and 60’s. My mother hemmed washcloths in a cotton mill and reared 6 children. We were poor. We were White. But we were not trashy because our mother demanded of herself and us children. She once told a sister that she, a fine-looking divorced woman, could have spent every weekend at the beach, but she stayed home with her children, doing the hard work of a single parent. She made us go to church, and she had expectations  of us. She parented us. She was not perfect, nor were we, but we all grew into professionals who contributed to society. She showed us “hope in the future to drive the day.”

Governmental programs, as churches and schools,  help individuals succeed. However, when an individual faces the brutality that some of us do each day, that person needs an adult to guide him or her as if lost in a dense forest. A map of that forest is like governmental programs—it can help, but it can’t offer encouragement at each step and turn the same way as that of a guide. The guide not only leads but gives hope, and that kind of hope can only be built from the intimate involvement of an adult who gives unconditional love at each  step on the path through the dense forest. We all need maps, but we also need guides who will help us, not hinder our journey. And the best guides are parents like my mother who did the difficult work of guiding and encouraging.

This kind of hope comes from a belief that there is more to life than what is seen. It comes from a belief that there is something larger than self—call that something whatever suits you, but real hope comes from believing that each of us is a part of a larger existence. This kind of hope will give a future to drive each day.

By Roger Barbee

Twenty five years ago this morning I awoke in an ICU ward in Fairfax Hospital. The night before I had had two nineteen-inch titanium rods screwed to my back because that afternoon a building I was taking down collapsed– pinning me beneath it. My broken back had to be stabilized, thus the rods.

I remember a little of  that morning: Seeing through the fog of morphine a friend who had flown on a red eye from California to see me; The ICU nurse’s long, black, curly hair that fell over my face when she leaned in to ask me a question; My body still carrying the dust and dirt from the collapsed building; My family huddled in fear and worry; But not much more. Snippets in memory that may or may not be accurate run together with what I know to be true. But what I know to be absolute is that that morning and many after it held doubt and fear and dread until I, as Mary Oliver writes, realized.

Like the narrator in her poem, The Journey, I realized one morning or at one moment or with a particular encounter that it was time—time for me to expel all the bad that I had allowed to enter into my life.  I realized that at times during those four years, my dark time, I ignored what I knew to be the truth and allowed the voices to continue tugging at “my ankles.” But as Oliver writes, “One day you finally knew/what you had to do, and began,…” And like most beginnings, mine was full of slow progress, but “Little by little” I improved, and I eventually left the “Old man” that Paul writes about behind. But like all journeys, mine was not just me placing a foot in front of another. I had begun journeying, but I was not walking alone.

After I set aside the leeches in my life, I was able to reckon myself and take an honest sounding. This sounds selfish, but when you find yourself so miserable that the only option seems to be to continue your denial or to admit that you have been at the bottom of a dark hole, digging and digging, all the while wondering why you cannot escape and see the sunlight and feel its warmth, it is then that you set aside the shovel those takers had given you and deeply consider where you are.  Finally able to lean the shovel against the hole’s side,   I began to stop going down and began to move up, ever so slowly. It was on that going upward that I saw my true friends and learned to allow them to help me.

One of the best advantages of any journey is the people you will encounter. You will meet them in unlikely places and in unusual circumstances. Because your journey is one of renewal, you will move slowly, so you will see and hear more. While your journey may not be one of steps,  you will still discover that your frantic pace to satisfy others has ceased, and you now see and hear what you had not experienced before. The ground you are traveling over becomes a sharing place for you to hear the stories of others, to smell the air of an autumn day, to feel the sun’s warmth through a  window, to hear a child’s laughter, and more. You are alive.

My journey continues because of family and friends. While I could list all of them, there is no need to because they each know what they did to help me as I finally leaned the shovel against the hole’s wall. The hole, by the  way, is still there, however, and it will never go away. It is a reminder of life’s danger, but I have learned to accept its existence and walk around it.

When measured in years, twenty is many. But when measured as a journey, it is short. Therefore, wherever you are on your journey, enjoy each step that brings more people to share it.  They are the balm for your sore and tired feet.

By Roger Barbee

A Bush, Bumblebees, and a Butterfly

Next to one side of our screen porch is an abelia bush. Now in early August, it is covered with small, white nectar producing blossoms, so each morning the hum of bumblebee wings bathes the summer air as they move from bloom to bloom for the bush’s sweet juice of life. It is a morning music that I have come to anticipate during these past days; however, earlier this week a visitor graced the bush in its search for some of the same life-giving nectar: An eastern tiger swallowtail butterfly with its full yellowed wings trimmed in black with a bit of blue, joined the bees in the nectar dance of the abelia. The splash of blue identifies this particular swallowtail as a female.

The swallowtail is a large butterfly and  a regular summer visitor to the Lake Norman area. Its bright yellow wings dazzle in the morning calm as it dances from bloom to bloom, and because of its size, the swallowtail appears too large to light on one of the delicate, white blossoms. But despite the size difference, the swallowtail perches over and over onto different blooms–in a ballet developed by a force stronger than any we know of, or any we can comprehend.

I read somewhere that a bumblebee, based on aerodynamics, cannot fly.  According to physics, it is too heavy and round in relation to its wing size to fly. As I watch and hear the flying bumblebees at the abelia bush, I wonder if the bumblebees know that they cannot fly.  But they have other things to consider each morning, and the rapid movement rate of their wings adds a soft hum to the morning.

The swallowtail, like the bumblebees, is an amazing animal. Its life cycle began just weeks before as a small, round egg on a leaf. Going through metamorphosis of four stages, this beautiful female swallowtail that I watch is the result of a process scientist do not yet fully understand. But I do not need to understand how the butterfly came to be any more than I need to understand the Milky Way in order to appreciate the beauty of both. In his poem, When I Heard The Learn’d Astronomer, Walt Whitman tells of having attended a lecture where he saw all the charts and proofs and heard all the explanations, but upon leaving the lecture, he “Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.”

Explanations and proofs are of value and are even necessary at times. However, each morning watching the insects fluttering about the abelia bush, I am filled with amazement that such delicate animals and small, white blossoms serve such a vital role in the world. And here it is each morning, a free show if I slow down to see it–a dance of life that gives new life for the cycles of life on our “small blue dot.”

By Roger Barbee

            Sometime last week I first noticed the seasonal changes on the mountain. Working in the raised flower garden, I went to the shop for some pruning shears and on the way back, I glanced to the saddle just south of Edinburg Gap. Yep, there was a light touch of yellow, gold, and specks of red. Since that day last week, the change has spread along the ridge, causing the mountain to take on an array of colors like those of an artist’s palette.

            However, before the cold and snow of another winter arrives,  we have weeks of sharp, vibrant colors to enjoy. Not only have leaves begun to turn on the ridge of the mountain, but I have seen some sugar maple leaves turning.  It is indeed a magical season that seems to have arrived unannounced, but I know that lack of awareness  is about me and not the seasonal cycle. Yet, we all are often taken aback by how quickly the change of seasons happens. On the last day of September, while working on a doll house in the shop, I opened the large doors that face the mountain so I could see the same saddle from last week.  I glanced up often to marvel at  how the colors had increased. Not only had the ridge taken on more color, but also the base shone with a dull orange tinge that announced the coming change. Sanding and painting the intricate parts of the doll house, I thought how as this seasonal change has come  many of us in the valley have continued on with our daily lives—the joys, the sorrows, the squabbles, and the mundane, without taking heed of the dramatic change happening on the mountain and around us. Then I thought of Sadie and her words to Mary Ann, my wife.

          When Mary Ann and I first met, one of the first people in her life about whom she told me was her long-time friend, Sadie, who now lives in Gettysburg. Attending the same church, Sadie and Mary Ann had shared much in their lives until Sadie was called to counsel violent, male prisoners in the Pennsylvania state system. Over the years of her prison counseling, Sadie came to realize that, until she became an ordained minister, she would be limited by the restraints of the state prison system. So, this  spunky lady in her late fifties enrolled in the Lutheran Seminary in Gettysburg so that she could do more for “her” violent prisoners. After years of hearing about her and her work in the prisons with the men that she said had been forgotten, I was finally going to meet her.

         Sadie and Mike, her husband, invited family and friends to her ordination. It was a lovely service in an old Lutheran Church near Gettysburg. However, what struck me was how much energy flowed from the small frame of Sadie. Like many celebrations, her ordination was over a weekend, but her glass-framed, smiling face seemed to be in all places with all her family and friends. With her ordination, her prison outreach expanded, and we began regular trips to Gettysburg to race the local marathon, see the historical sights, and share time with Sadie and Mike.

                        Sometimes we would share time with both, but on occasion  Mike would be out of town, so we had Sadie to ourselves. She showed us interesting, seemingly unknown parts of her hometown, she shared with us her work in the prison system, and her work as an assistant pastor. She told us how the men she ministered to had done horrible, unspeakable things, but also how they were human beings who had suffered abuse. She could sit over a meal and tell of these men without  judging; she acknowledged their horrific crimes and their humanity. And always, she was cheerful, bright, wise, and kind. Then  three years ago she shared, over a light salad, how she was having discomfort and could not eat much. That discomfort progressed into cancer.

                        Tears. Treatments. Pain. Fears. All of it and more, she and her family have gone through  much. Yet, like some people, Sadie has somehow continued to smile and radiate energy—until this week when she told Mary Ann, “I knew this would happen (her decline). Do what you have to do…it happens so fast.” The vibrant, loving lady who went to seminary late in life in order to serve humanity now has only about an hour of energy each day.

                        Change is happening on the mountain and in our lives. In the midst of all that change,  we are occupied with the ordinary concerns of life. But, are we living or just going through the motions? Perhaps we should heed Sadie’s words-”it happens so fast”-and do what really matters.

By Roger Barbee

If you travel our lake front street early on some mornings, you may see two old men between a small building and the street. One is riding a stationary handcycle while the other sits in his chair and participates, not in the riding, but in the conversation—which covers a variety of topics.

 Ken is the riding buddy. I am the hand cycler. I knew him before I met him. I liked him then, more now.

Ken and his wife Cheryl were moving here from Rhode Island, and I first met her when she was here to check on the renovations of their new home which is across the street from ours.   I saw her checking for mail on such a visit, and I introduced myself, and as we chatted she told me that her husband was a cancer survivor and organ recipient.

After our encounter, I kept thinking of the man I had never met. I kept thinking of the man who, like my friend Mike, was a transplant survivor. I kept thinking of a man and his wife who were moving to live near a daughter. I kept thinking of cancer and its horrors. I kept think of an organ transplant. I respected and admired him before I met him because of all that he had done, none of it witnessed by me.

The moving van arrived on a day of rain. The renovated house was becoming a home for the woman I had chatted with and the man I had never met. But one day while driving home I passed a man I thought was he. After parking my car in our driveway, I went to the street to talk with the walker. It was Ken. He stood on the side of our street, and we talked about everything but nothing. It all mattered but was mostly of little significance. Yet what is important is that the man I had admired from a distance was now present.

Some mornings he walks across our street and sits in his chair as I ride. We talk and in that loose, relaxed chatter and banter we relate. We have learned each other, and I wonder sometimes if we would have ever met in our previous lives. But I doubt that because we led different lives then, but not now. Now he and I are here, two retired men sharing life lived well.

I knew Ken before I met him, and when he walks across the street to sit with me, we share more and more of this life as it is reflected from our past lives with its scars.

The mystic William Blake wrote, “ The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.” Like the bird and spider of Blake, I have been gifted by the man I knew and admired before I met him. He’s my riding buddy.

By Roger Barbee

Two weeks ago, if you had walked through our back garden gate, the gardenia would have made you take notice of it because its full blooming filled the garden with sweet fragrance. And over in a neighbor’s yard, a large Ligustrum would be adding to the scents of early summer. The gardenia is only three years old, but its rich green leaves and its full bright white blooms add to what was a corner of the garden before we moved the fence to the far back, and the Ligustrum’s blooming scent sent waves of sweetness across the yards.

Now all that remains are dull brown blooms on both plants. No more does a visitor smell them before seeing them. But the abelia next to the screened porch has blossomed and its small white flowers not only attract bees but sends a soft scent more subtle than the others and powerful in the way its summons the bees. The going of one leads to the arrival of another, and that is the pleasure of gardens.

Yesterday folks gathered in various ways around the world to mark the summer solstice, but I marked the beginning of the season by observing the gardenia, Ligustrum, and abelia. Their life cycle and fading blooms are my Stonehenge sunrise, my notice that another season has arrived.

By Roger Barbee

            Our house on Lake Norman was built in 1996 and is as modern as the date states. Since it is of the newer era, there is a sixty-foot long berm between it and the house of our neighbor. There is no need to complain about such matters because that is the way things were done, just like all eras of any culture. However, ….

            The landscaper that built and planted the berm must have believed that “more is better.” In the sixty feet are three crepe myrtles, two hollies, five azaleas, two dogwoods, one unknown species of evergreen bush, and one camellia. That is what remains after we had two hollies removed and all plants professionally pruned. We did not commit “crepe murder”, so they have tall, strong limbs that are about to bloom, giving the berm an umbrellaed look, and one large gap where a holly grew gives a view to and from our neighbor. Yet, the berm plants still need thinning so that all its plants can get light and fill out into their natural selves., especially the ageing azaleas that struggle under the canopy of dogwoods, crepe myrtles, and the holly.

             When it was planted, all the trees, shrubs, and plants were small, so the berm was pleasing to look see. The black, landscape matting gave a false promise of no weeds growing in the berm, and the top layer of mulch gave it all an appearance of controlled, natural beauty. Then the plants did what they do, they grew in height and size. They spread their limbs reaching for sunlight. They sent out roots in search for water. They became competitors, and some won more than others, but the fight was so fierce that there was no winner, just sixty feet of exhausted warriors. Because of poor foresight or just not caring, the once fine-looking berm had expanded into a frightful mess. For the sake of the berm, some plants had to be removed, killed.  The berm has been a constant reminder for Mary Ann and me since we moved here nine months ago. As we plant our flower gardens, we are conscious of not planting too much. The temptations of Brawley’s Garden Center are many, but we remind ourselves that everything we plant will require space, water, and attention.  In years hence, we do not want our flower gardens to look like the berm did, but to be a joy to share and see.

            So many modern lives are like our berm—overplanted. We accumulate items in the belief that the wealth of our lives is stated in how much stuff we have. We commit to more and more charities, committees, luncheons, and such as if our worth as a person is tallied in how busy we are. We purchase houses and automobiles beyond our means to stay in the running of the race to financial ruin. The landscaping fabric of our lives, cheap credit and empty promises and beliefs, will not keep out weeds, but eventually be covered by dirt and seeds that will sprout into unwanted growth.

            Like any gift giver, God does not dictate what each of us does with His precious gift of life. Our free will allows us to spend our years on earth as we wish. But the life overfilled with things, commitments of all types, and desires of the world is like an over-planted berm that will  one day be too crowded to bloom as it should and full of unwanted growth.

By Roger Barbee

          An art dealer in Florida has been charged by federal agents with wire fraud, money laundering, and mail fraud. It seems he sold fake art works by Jean-Michel Basquiat, Andy Warhol and other well-known artists for millions of dollars. The dealer supposedly purchased one fake work by Basquiat on a website for $495 and sold it to an undercover agent for $12 million. His extensive fraud was uncovered after technology revealed the signatures on the art were false and examinations by art experts collaborated that the works were not originals. However, the dealer assured purchasers that he stood behind the work in his gallery 100 percent and that each purchase was a fabulous deal.

Forgeries have been with us, but the Internet gives the cheater easier access to those who may not have the knowledge to determine if an item is authentic.  However, what if the offering is not a concrete item like a work of art? What if the offering is a promise formed out of words from a respected community member like a teacher or religious leader? How does one not believe someone that is so revered?

In my career as a teacher of literature and writing, I would at times deliberately lie or make an outlandish claim to my students.(For instance: Romeo was too old for Juliet.)  I did this in order to teach them that a teacher was not infallible, and they should not accept as a cardinal truth everything a teacher said. In that small way, I was hoping to teach them that they were responsible for their educations. They had the text and were required to read it and draw their own conclusions based on the text.

Like teachers, religious leaders have influence, even power, over people. They can sway the way people think and act. Just as I did with Shakespeare, a religious leader can use a holy text to teach. However, what if that teaching is that all infidels should be killed, or the holy city of Jerusalem should be rid of all non-Christians. What if a religious leader taught that homosexuals deserve to lose civil rights or that only one political leader deserves a vote?

Christians have the Bible and its teachings. We can read and study the Gospels to guide us. We have the examples of Jesus. The written words of James, Paul, and other writers can instruct. We should read and study those lessons and upon hearing some “pastor” tell us that anyone not in agreement with what he or she shouts from the pulpit is to be despised and shunned, we should go to John 4 and read Jesus talking with the woman who was such an outcast that she had to go to  the village well at noon, in the heat of the day. But she, the Samaritan woman, encountered a Jewish man who spoke to her with kind words.

The Text is our expert guiding us in what we believe and how we act. That Text will reveal any forgery blabbering from a pulpit of lies and misinformation.