Barbara Tucker: A Friend

 

A Reflection and Poem for Barbara Tucker: A Friend            Thomas Wilson

On the Occasion of a Celebration of Her Life                          October 30, 2021

A half century ago, I knew a lot of stuff. I knew facts, I knew theories and I thought I knew people inside and out. A half century ago, I was wrong, and over the decades I have come to the greater realization that I know very little. Over the decades, whenever I would play a part in the play, while I knew a lot about the character I was playing, I did not fully know them; I could only faithfully encounter them. Over the decades when I was counseling people, I thought I knew the people I was working with, but I came to realize that I would never fully know them; I could only faithfully encounter them. Over the decades when I was a theologian I knew a lot about God but I did not fully know the Divine - I could only faithfully encounter the Divine and I cannot know as fully as I am known by the Divine.

I have problems with Creeds because they are full of nouns. I will memorize them, but I always remember that God is not a noun but a verb, - and not just God but all creation. Einstein, over a century ago, wrote his General Theory of Relativity, and decades later, on his way to a half century later, he added an appendix: “The subtlety of the concept of space was enhanced by the discovery that there exist no completely rigid bodies. All bodies are elastically deformable and alter in volume with change in temperature.” Or as I translate it decades later; “there are no rigid bodies of people or ideas or experiences but all elastically deformable with changes in encounter.”

Aquinas said God was “pure act”, and Barbara, in the Image of God, was always busy and in action. She loved working on, or creating something for students, friends, and family. I met Barbara Tucker over 18 years ago. We have spent thousands of hours together. We have eaten hundreds of meals together. Killed scores of bottles of wine and laughed and laughed. One season of Epiphany, the season of light; John, Barbara, Pat and I went on a small group pilgrimage to the South of France together with a dozen others to encounter the light experienced by the artists of that region. It was an unforgettable journey of awe, and a lot of time was spent in silence encountering the divine spirit in art of Van Gogh, Monet, Renoir, Gauguin, Matisse, Picasso, Chagall, Cocteau, Cézanne and so many others; encountering the divine spirit in each other. There were several Priests in that group, so we had Daily Communion; our souls and bodies fed by the Body of Christ, which we wisely did not try to explain.

Yet, Barbara was never satisfied with too much quiet contemplation, for she was an extrovert and needed to connect to people. How I have listened to her pour out her soul and her heart. She shared her experiences with, and thoughts and feelings about, her husband, her children, her grandchildren, her extended family when she was a child, aunts, her sister, her nieces, her friends, her enemies, her acquaintances and her faith. She loved deeply often to the point of tears. She carried many wounds and forgave many more.

There is an old Yiddish proverb; “God creates people because God loves stories.” Barbara told many stories. The image I have in my imagination is of her leaning forward, putting her hand on the person with whom she was with, talking and sharing. She did love to talk. But she was a verb; and we don't know verbs, we can only encounter them. Another image I had as I tried to put together the poem, is of angels telling Barbara stories and the other angels nodding as they listen. When we finish here, please be like the angels in my vision and share Barbara stories. If you can; write them down and send them to her family, so her grandsons can pass on those stories to their grandchildren. Don't try to explain her, but just tell the story. Lewis Carroll. who wrote about Alice's adventures, passes on the advice: “No, no! The adventures first, explanations take such a dreadful time.”

Barbara Tucker: A Friend

How do you love someone with deep flaws?

By being aware she's doing same with you,

and everyone else, with the exception of a few

scattered memories of those, with just cause,

because they deeply hurt her cherished ones.

She would stand on her hind legs of passion,

and, she had such passion, for a compassion

on those pelted by life's vicious various stones.

Beware, she'd apt to bring a metaphorical gun

to a verbal knife fight. But then she'd holster it,

moving into an unaccustomed silence for a bit,

and then be still, living together under same Son,

to tell stories of friends she'd loved and missed.

Which we're doing 'fore she slips thru time's mist.

GOES: Guests of Ellen Strickland

GOES: Guests Of Ellen Strickland

There's a story of dueling Marys and Marthas

in our lives; but Ellen was harmony in both.

Kitchens, not slaved away, swayed in growth,

going deeper, not just resting on the surface.

Weaving space, welcoming guests in her heart

to rest, finding with her plenty of time and room

for healing One, who knew us before our womb.

Joining school children on past buses taking part

in a feast of accepting love she's setting before us.

We, who can never quite “get even”, no matter how

much we want, not just to win, but to place or show;

we've run out of time, competition is superfluous.

But in thanksgiving, we can take up her baton,

welcoming guests in our hearts in this new dawn.

Edward Duke Cowell Jr.: A Life of Quiet Thanks

 

A Poem/Reflection in Honor of Ed Cowell                       Thomas E. Wilson- Guest Speaker/Friend

On the Occasion of a Service of Remembrance        All Saints Episcopal Church, Southern Shores, NC

October 2, 2021                                                         Edward Duke Cowell Jr.: A Life of Quiet Thanks

I was talking to Carol a couple days ago and she was telling me how attached Ed was to an old couch and how he kept finding reasons not to get rid of it. He had brought that couch into the marriage 37 years ago and it had some age on it then. I don't know what meaning that particular couch had for him; a place to share, a place to look out the window at God's creation, a place to be still and look into his soul, a place to remember? We give meaning to persons, places and things, and what we are doing today is to stop and give meaning to Ed Cowell for how he touched us who loved him, we, the people who he helped in our life's odysseys, the communities in which he lived and made a difference, and the country he loved.

Let me tell you one thing I hold on to to remember Ed's love for me, his wife, his church and his community. Every time I pick up a cork screw I remember Ed. Let me tell you the story. Ed was not a drinker, neither was Carol, but he and Carol loved to entertain people who were. So, he had a collection of full wine bottles collected over the years. One night he pulled open the cabinet and asked me to choose one. I picked one from the back and it was a nice French wine that I thought would go well. I did mention that Ed was not a drinker, well that meant he was not all sure of how to store wine over the years. The one I picked's cork started to crumble when I started in with a corkscrew. The wine was a little bit beyond its time, but we, some of the others and I, drank it.We tasted it because it was a gift from Ed, he had always wanted the best for his friends; we had all received so much from Ed, all of us knew Ed's heart. I should have finished my glass and kept my mouth shut. I embarrassed him, to my shame. Later, I apologized and he laughed, for his love was greater than his pride.

Even years later, he would relate that story to me and we would laugh. Ed loved telling stories; stories without drama. In my business, I hear lots of stories; stories like a movie plot where the teller is either the hero, in command of the stage not taking a false step like Fred Astaire, or stories about being a sad betrayed victim to a boo-hiss villain. Rather Ed told stories about growing up in LIBET City, coming often to the Outer Banks as a child, his time in the service, his work (paid and volunteer), his love for Carol, his love for the churches he had attended, his devotion to All Saints and the people he met and admired. He would tell, with fondness, stories of the histories of the churches he attended, but never anything detrimental. He would not discuss theology or creeds, he saw no need to argue theology even as he would faithfully memorize the creeds. He was of the age, when he was growing up, to memorize the Ten Commandments, and they formed the basis of interpersonal actions with others of whatever faith. However, the letter of the law was less important than the love behind it, and the man knew how to love. He was a Patriot who loved his country, but he had no time for jingoism or arguing politics.

One thing he was very strict about; he would NOT tell stories of the times when he would corner me asking if he could help a family in trouble and how much he would give, telling me not to let them know from whence it came. He would soft pedal any compliments made from me and others about how thankful I and they were for his volunteer work. And yet, he knew how to thank people for anything they did for Carol and him. He was a gentleman from the old school and we miss him, but, like his couch, his love is still here. The soul of Ed Cowell remains fully with God's Heart and still here in our hearts.

Thank God.

Edward Duke Cowell Jr.: A Life of Quiet Thanks

While well versed in today's economies

of exchange for profit, gain and thrift;

Ed followed a different practice of gift,

a free loving response to life's odysseys.

Consulting not just wallets or calendars,

but diving into his soul's treasure chest,

he would answer, not as if it were a test,

but dancing to Divine music in the stars.

Critics could say his stories were lame,

and his body was clumsy, not an Astaire!

But, how he could dance love, and care

for friends or strangers - partnering as same!

Wasting little energy on defending creeds,

he lived by spending time on caring deeds.

Deeds for which no trumpets loudly sounded,

but we, knowing him, saw faith fully grounded.