Journey of the Heart

I sat beside Father Mike in the overstuffed chair in his office.  I had decided to accept his invitation to come if I ever needed to talk.

“This is sacred time--your time--protect it.” he said. “Well-meaning people will try to rob you of this time by trying to make your sadness go away. Don’t let anyone tell you how to grieve. Grieve the way you need to grieve, but remember,” he said, “we need to claim every little bit of healing.” I couldn’t imagine what he meant.  It had only been two weeks since my daughter Tara had died. I doubted I would ever be well again.We think of healing as complete restoration to a previous more desirable state.  I knew nothing would ever be the same now that Tara had died. 

The problem with healing is that it can be hard to recognize when we see it. Maybe doubts about the authenticity of healing have been influenced by images of television evangelists, shouting, “Heal!” inspiring the questionably lame to rise.

I suppose it would be easy enough to claim healing if a miracle occurred.  That kind of healing would be hard to miss. It’s  true Jesus raised a girl from the dead, telling her shocked family she had only been sleeping. (Matt: 9) I hardly thought that was going to happen in my case.

Father Mike saw my confusion. “Bunny, didn’t you tell me the first time you tried to go out of the house, you only made it to the mailbox before you had to turn back?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“And didn’t you tell me the next time you tried to leave the house, you only made it around the block?”

“Yes,”

“Well Bunny, today you’ve made it all the way to the church.” he said, slowly emphasizing each word, “And…you are wearing a red dress!”

Remember to claim every little bit of healing.

Photo by Grace Gilchrist

 Reflections:


The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing... not healing, not curing... that is a friend who cares.--Henri Nouwen



Psalm 34: 18 The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.


--Is there a place in my life that wants to be healed?


--Where can I claim a "little bit of healing?"


--Grief is about loss.  Have I known grief in my life? Who or what helped ease the pain? What is my grief like now?

The Chaplains Voice

“The point for us all, perhaps, is never to give up on life and never to doubt that every bit of kindness, every tender touch we lay upon another in life can heal what might otherwise have died, certainly in them, perhaps even in ourselves.”—Joan Chittister O.S.B.

“You’ve made it,” the woman’s voice whispered. I didn’t understand. I wasn’t the one who died. My daughter had. I have no face, body, or name to associate with the voice. I was told later she was the hospital chaplain.

I don’t know how I got from the hospital lobby back to the emergency room.  I could not see.  I could not feel. Hearing was the only sense I had left. I barely felt conscious. I’ve been told that is not unusual in cases of shock, severe emotional trauma, or when we are close to our own death.  I could claim all three. It was 2 o’clock in the morning, and I had just been told, “Tara’s gone.” She was my beloved first-born, only 39, and had given birth to a baby girl only three days before.

The voice spoke again. “Bunny, you’ve made it.”  


Eyes closed, I shook my head, frowned, and tried to comprehend what she meant. 


“You’ve made it, Bunny.  You did not die. You thought you would die if you ever heard the words you just heard spoken, didn’t you?” she whispered. “You didn’t die, Bunny. It’s been five minutes.”  

She was right. I did think I would die if I lost a child. I always knew someday I would lose my parents.  That is the natural order of life.  When I married Sam and said, “Until death do us part,” I knew one of us would go first, and it might not be me, but I never expected to lose Tara. A child isn’t supposed to die before her mother.  

 

I could hear muffled sounds around me.  But, the only words that penetrated were the chaplain’s gentle affirmations, “You’ve made it, Bunny. It’s been ten minutes. You’ve made it, Bunny, it’s been fifteen minutes.”  Every five minutes, she counted for me, marking the miracle of my continued living and breathing.  Every five minutes she told me I had made it.  On and on she counted until I left the emergency room and perhaps until she assured herself that I would indeed live. 

Many times I have thought of the Chaplain and wondered if she knew the gift, the comfort, and the power of her words.   Sometimes I still hear her voice. She was right.  I didn't die, and on most days the greening of my soul conquers the gray of grief. But on tender days when sorrow resurfaces and tears come again, I mark time as did the Chaplain. I repeat to myself, “I’ve made it. It’s been three months. I’ve made it.  It’s been a year. I’ve made it.  It’s been seven years.”  I suspect, regardless of the years that pass, I shall be counting on the day I die. 

 

Reflections:

I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you took me in; I was naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you visited me; I was in prison and you came to me.  Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these brethren, you did it to me. –Mathew 15:35,36,40.


These things I have spoken unto you, that in me you might have peace. In the world you shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. John 16:33

"When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand."   --Henri Nouwen

--As I reflect on the stages of my life, who are the people who have reached out to me when I most needed kindness or a tender touch? What was happening? Why was it important at the time? Why is it important now?

--Practice:  Make a list of people whose presence in your life have touched you in meaningful ways, perhaps a friend or family member, a teacher, a doctor, an author. . .think broadly. You may wish to keep the list for your eyes only, or if appropriate, you may wish to write a note to that person to share your observation. 

A Man Named Jim

Many years ago, I met a man named Jim. Our paths crossed only once, but I've never forgotten Jim or the gift he gave me. Through his words, Jim invited me to share his experience of God and took me to a hilltop where I've never actually been. That is the power of story: 


Jim's story:

One summer afternoon, while on the Isle of Iona (Scotland), I hiked to the top of Dun I (done ee), the highest ridge on the island.  The day was sunny but was cooled by a strong wind.  At the top I was pleased to find that I was alone.  I nestled into the lea of a boulder, to feel the sun more and the wind less, and began to celebrate the day by improvising on my harmonica.  In the solitude of a pause I heard a moment of music from somewhere.  I was not alone!

I got up and walked around to discover who else might be on the hilltop but saw no one.  Reassured, I returned to “my boulder” and nestled in once again.  Just as I raised the harmonica to my lips to resume playing, I heard the music again and was startled to realize that it came from my own harmonica – a breath of wind blowing through the reeds.  It was as if I were playing a duet with God.

As I now reflect on this experience, I wonder, “Are we ever alone?” and “Is not all of life a duet?”                                                                
                        

Reflections:

John 14:18 I will not leave you as orphans: I will come to you.

Isaiah 66:14 As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.


Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.  ~Kahlil Gibran


-Is there a time when I was keenly aware of God's presence?  When?  What happened? What story would I tell?


Is there a place where I feel particularly close to God?  Is it possible to spend time there this week?  If not, is it possible to find another? 

Accepting Love

*Excerpts from Bunny’s keynote address at the inaugural gathering of The Bigger C Encouragers, a fellowship for people affected by cancer, Tuscaloosa, Alabama

During my husband Sam's treatment for cancer, we leaned on our faith and what we knew of God. We found it helpful to surround ourselves with visible reminders of God’s faithful presence.  For me, it was like putting on the armor of God. (Ephesians 6:11)


Every time Sam went in for more chemotherapy, before he climbed into the hospital bed, he hung a special cross from the I-V pole where the chemo would be placed. In the middle of dark and sometimes fearful nights, it was a reminder for both of us that Christ was in the room. 


We put a small box by his bedside and filled it with our written prayers, as a reminder to share our concerns with God. Many days I watched the chemo  drip through the clear plastic tubing that led to a port in Sam's chest. I prayed for each drop, thanking God for the chance they brought for Sam to live and to love again. We taped cards and letters to the windows and walls, surrounding ourselves with the love and well-wishes of others.

There are people in our lives who are the hands and feet of Christ--willing to carry our burdens, cares, and needs for us, to give us a break, to be the yoke, but there are subtle ways we won’t let that happen. It was during Sam’s illness that I discovered something about myself. I am much better at giving love than receiving love. 

When people asked me what they could do, or how they could help, I usually declined.  I didn’t want to be a bother, or perhaps I just didn’t want to ask for help. When a dear friend finally said, “You certainly are being selfish about this,” I was shocked.  But that’s when I learned--some days we have to receive so others can give, and in doing so we are giving. We are giving the gift of allowing them to love us.

Reflections:

"What a great favor God does to those He places in the company of good people." --St. Teresa of Avila

Ecclesiastes 4:9  Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor.  For if they fall, one will lift up his companion. 

-Is it easier for me to give love than receive love? Are there subtle ways in which I do not accept love? What are they?

Psalm 27:14 Wait for the LORD; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the LORD!


Symbol:  Something visible that by association represents something else that is invisible. 


-What symbolic item/s have meaning for me?  What would I choose to keep near me for strength and courage and as a reminder of God's presence. 

 

Some Days are Diamonds

*Excerpts from Bunny’s keynote address at the inaugural gathering of The Bigger C Encouragers, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, a fellowship for people affected by cancer, 

I suppose I’m revealing my age when I say I’m reminded of the words of that great theologian – singer John Denver –who wrote the lyrics, “Some days are diamonds and some days are stone, sometimes the hard times, won’t leave me alone.”

For me, today is a diamond day, but it was not like that on Thursday, November 20, 1997. 

We all have days that are burned into our memories—those days when we remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when we heard the news. I was waiting alone in a hospital room when the doctor walked in and said “Your husband has cancer.” I even remember exactly what weekend it was. The doctor said, “We’ll operate first thing in the morning.” I thought Sam was reacting to the shock of the news when he said, “Oh no, you won’t!”  But he added, “It’s the first time I have had tickets to the Auburn and Alabama game, and I am going!”  I suppose even on stone days we have to keep our priorities straight!

Sam had surgery the following Monday, and after that radiation, but the cancer returned and on February 22, 1999, Sam began what turned into an especially grueling round of chemotherapy. For a while it was nip and tuck as to whether he would survive  treatment.  When we thought the cancer had returned a third time, we were sent to Indiana to see the doctor who developed the protocol for Sam’s cancer and who, by the way, also treated cyclist Lance Armstrong, the 7 time winner of the Tour de France, for the same thing.   The doctor sent us home and told us, "Remember to live your lives."

Today is a diamond day, today we celebrate, because the man I call the Lance Armstrong of Tuscaloosa is still with us.  It has been 12 years and Sam is cancer free.


Reflections:


"If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, 'thank you,' that would suffice." --Meister Eckhart


"Live your life each day as you would climb a mountain.  An occasional glance towards the summit keeps the goal in mind, but many beautiful scenes are to be observed from each new vantage point." -Harold B. Melchart. 


The Beloved has given us this day of life.  Let us celebrate and live each moment of it. (Psalm 118:24 paraphrase)


For which of my life's circumstances am I especially grateful?


Am I remembering to live my life? 


What might I do to bring life to this day? What brings me joy?

The Great Possum Affair

My husband Sam had cancer and needed chemotherapy.  When he went into the hospital his mother came to help. Lillie cooked meals, ensured our daughter got off to school, and kept the house running so I could stay with her son. Supper warmed on the stove when I returned every evening. Each round of treatment was more grueling than the last, and Sam became increasingly fragile. Both Lillie and I thought he would die. Her once-a-month visits turned into a six-month stay, and I began to spend nights at the hospital on a recliner that could have doubled as a medieval torture device.  Fear and exhaustion crept in.

I had just settled Sam on the sofa the day he finally came home when Annie, our Brittany spaniel, appeared at the back door with a possum in her mouth, and it wasn’t just playing dead. Sam normally handles those types of National Geographic moments, but he could barely lift his head.   My city upbringing provided little possum removal practice, and all I wanted was to collapse into bed, but I knew procrastination to be ill-advised.  I braced to tackle the task.  

I coaxed the unfortunate creature from the dog’s mouth.  I pinched the tip of its tail between my thumb and forefinger and headed for the kitchen to put it in a zippered plastic bag.  I fumbled in a drawer for a bag with my free hand and held the possum at arms length with the other.  Lillie must have seen me cringe.

“Oh for heaven’s sakes” she said. “Give me that thing!”

“Got it,” I replied through clinched lips, trying to open the zippered bag with my teeth.   

Lillie popped open a brown paper sack that had been lying on the kitchen counter and reached for the possum. “Give it to me," she insisted. “And don’t waste a plastic bag.”

I should have yielded to her seventy-seven years of country wisdom, but I was convinced my zippered bag would contain odor better than a paper sack. I found out I was wrong, but that wasn’t the point.  I was perfectly capable of dealing with a dead possum, and how much could one zippered bag cost? I turned from her outstretched sack and continued the awkward task of maneuvering the possum into the plastic bag while trying to avoid touching it any more than necessary.  I wasn’t trying to be obstinate.  I honestly thought mine the better disposal option.  Lillie disagreed. 

  

 “I said give it to me!” she repeated. “And don’t waste that plastic bag!” 

I felt a flush of anger crawl up my neck. Why I didn’t just give it to her, I don’t know, but at that point it became a matter of principle.  I didn’t want to put my possum in her sack. I wanted to put it in my bag. I unwisely decided to take a stand.

“Lillie, I am putting this possum in this plastic bag right now!” I said, my voice rising, “Do you mind!” I probably should have left that part off.

“Yes!” she replied.

I was stunned, but even more shocked when she snatched the possum from my hand. I grabbed for it, but she was too fast for me. We were squared off in the middle of the kitchen with Lillie clutching the possum behind her back, and with me trying to reach around her to get it, when Sam raised his head from the sofa.

 “Mother, give Bunny the possum.”  

Now those were words I never expected to hear from my husband’s mouth.

Lillie glared at me.  At first I thought she would refuse, but she begrudgingly handed over the possum.  I had emerged victorious.

Without taking my eyes off Lillie, I jammed the possum into the plastic bag and sealed the zipper with a flourish.  I shouldn’t have done that. Lillie snatched the plastic bag with the possum inside, stuffed it into her paper sack, and stomped off towards the garbage.

We have since laughed about “the possum affair” and agree, if fighting over a dead marsupial is as bad as it gets between us, we have done pretty well. It is the only argument we have had in all the years I have been married to her son. 

Reflections:


"Fatigue makes cowards of us all."--Vince Lombardi

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion . . . . I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Temper tantrums, however fun they may be to throw, rarely solve whatever problem is causing them.  ~Lemony Snicket

Remember, "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath." Mark 2:27 

How does my heart respond to this statement? When the stresses of life threaten to overwhelm me, it is especially important to rest and connect with elements that refresh me, heal me, and nourish me—the sky, the birds, the trees, the flowers—whatever is refreshing, healing, and nourishing.

What renews my spirit?

The Healer

I was speaking with a new acquaintance when a wave of sadness rose from nowhere.  It broke over me, and without warning, tears began to flow. That's the way it sometimes is with grief.  Embarrassed by my inability to contain emotion, I choked out an apology. 

“Please don’t apologize,” my new friend said. 

“I am a doctor,” he explained. “When someone who is bleeding comes to me, the first thing I do is clean the wound with a saline solution that in chemical composition is identical to tears.”   

“I heal no one,” he said. “God does the healing.”

“By washing the wound, I only create an environment where God’s healing can occur.  Please don’t apologize.  I believe tears wash our wounds and are a gift of the Holy Spirit.”

Reflections: 

What are my thoughts about this statement: “There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.”  --Washington Irving

What are my feelings about emotions? Do I apologize for tears?


Have I known healing tears? 

Do I believe tears are a gift of the Holy Spirit?

Homecoming

One Saturday morning my grandson went to stay with friends until his mother returned from what was supposed to be a quick trip to the emergency room.  Tara was in the latter stages of pregnancy and something wasn't right. She never came home, and neither did he.  When Spencer left that morning he left behind the life he knew, all of his belongings and a bob-tailed cat named Cleo.

For a year after Tara died, I grieved and prayed for his safety. I ached for his return to my embrace. God worked a miracle. Spencer came to live with us, and at last I had hope for healing.  

We painted a bedroom and declared it his. We filled the space with books and games, trying to replace the ones that were lost. I hung his mother’s cross from the corner of his bulletin board to remind him of her love and her faith. No matter what I did, Spencer's heart wasn't with us.

He spent hours in his room playing his mother's guitar. He never spoke of what had transpired until one day he asked, "What happened to Cleo?"  It broke my heart to not know the answer, but I did know what needed to be done.

The kitten marched into our lives with a swagger and frisky confidence. He was a tiny, tuft of terrifying-in-his-own-mind orange fur.  His scrawny body and over-sized head gave no hint of the twenty-pound beauty he would become.  In his self-assured kitten heart, he was already there.

All bluff and fluff, he pounced on fuzzy balls that rolled across the floor. He stalked a stuffed mouse that Spencer pulled from a string. He leapt from a frozen crouch to a death-defying three feet in the air to capture imaginary birds on the end of plastic sticks. His tenacity and hunting skills would have brought pride to a mother lion’s heart. Affectionately named Mack O’Hara Cox, a nod to our family’s Irish roots, the Maine Coon kitten brought new life to the house.

And Spencer came home.

Mack--the healing cat--came into our lives and replaced tears with laughter and brought with him a love big enough to fill the hole in a boy’s broken heart.

Reflections:
Healing takes many forms--from physical cure to emotional recovery. When have I known healing? How did it begin?

Have I found healing in unexpected places? Where were they?

Savoring Stillness

I shall miss cold, drizzly February days that give permission to do nothing more than stir the soup and sit by the fire. But unlike the still winter garden that gathers strength for spring, I am chided by inner voices that demand, “Get busy! Do something!” It’s hard to claim fallow time for Sabbath or retreat. The world rarely respects the rhythm of rest.

We greet one another at parties asking, “What do you do?,” rather than saying, “Tell me about yourself.” We reply by rattling off our resumes, as if preparing for a job interview. We ask each other when reuniting in the evening, “What did you accomplish today?”  We respond with a litany of checked off-items on our to-do list.  I never mention the book I read or the nap I took, and I've never had the courage to reply, "I took the day to be with God."

I confess. On afternoons when I knew my answer would be “nothing,” I have hurried through the house before my husband's return spraying air freshener, hoping the scent would leave the impression of time spent cleaning.  I have turned on an empty washing machine hoping the churning sound would suggest activity. I didn't ask, “What is wrong with this picture, or why is it so hard to give myself time to just "be?"

There is a story about a South American tribe who marched day after day, mile after mile, when all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, they stopped walking, sat down to rest for a while, and then made camp for several days before going farther.  When asked why they stopped, they explained. They needed the time of rest so their souls could catch up with them.

The ministry of Jesus models for us the spiritual importance of retreat, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” (Mark 6:31) He taught the liberating truth that it is God’s care and not our busy striving that sustains our life. Retreat is not just a getaway from chaos, but an invitation to immerse ourselves in the companionship of God.

  

I place another log on the fire and claim this rainy, winter day as a Sabbath day, a day of retreat, a time to wait and listen and rest before God--a time to let my soul catch up with me.  I resist the urge to “be productive,” and I give myself permission to savor the chance to sit at the feet of Jesus and to accept his invitation, “Beloved, come away with me for a while. Be still and know that I am God."


Reflections: 

If someone were to say, "Tell me about you," rather than asking, "What do you do," how would I respond?  

Do I feel guilty if I'm not doing something?

Do I allow myself time to just be, to honor a rhythm of rest? Why? Why not.

Do I ever take time to get away for retreat?  What might that look like for me?

How might God be calling me to Sabbath time?

Prayer Practice:


Breath prayer is the most ancient and gentle form of prayer.  Take a moment to settle into stillness, begin deep, slow, rhythmic breathing. Inhale all that is of God. Exhale all that is not.  When you are ready, breathe in the words..."be still." Exhale..."and know." As you breathe, accept the embrace of God.  Return to breath prayer throughout the day to savor a moment for stillness.

Suggested verses for breath prayer:
Psalm 46:10  Be still/and know
Isaiah 43:1  I have called you by name/you are mine
Isaiah  30:15  In quietness and in trust/shall be my strength
Isaiah 43:4  You are precious in my sight/and I love you
Isaiah 43:5  Do not fear/I am with you

Tending the Flame

  

A story from Bold Expectations of the Gospel by Donald J. Shelby: 

            Winter was closing in, and the supply boat had not yet arrived with reserves of oil.  The few inhabitants of the little village were facing discomfort and possible death in the cold, bleak area, for their individual oil supplies were running out.  Because they were his neighbors and because he was a compassionate man, the keeper gave away, little by little, the reserves of oil at the lighthouse.  Then one night the bright beacon light went out, and there was no oil to feed the flickering flame.  The very supply ship bringing the needed reserves of oil was driven onto the rocky coast and destroyed.

            It is only a story, but it suggests this truth about life.  We are never to give away the oil of our lamp, be it ever so little.  Our gift is the flame.  It is blessed to give, but it is also blessed to keep, to reverence our own life.  If we do not rest, we soon will not be able to communicate.  To give to others, we must keep something for ourselves.  Before going out to serve others in the name of God, we let God in to serve and recreate us. 

“Come away by yourselves to a lonely place, and rest a while.”  (Mark 6:31)

Reflections:

• Do I give reverence to my own life?
• Do I set aside time to tend the flame?  When? How firm is that commitment?  
• What renews my spirit?

Love Song for Creation

I said goodbye as I passed the sycamore this morning.  Sadness and the memory of an anthem from my youth fill my heart and rise to my throat, “When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?”

The majestic tree stands in glory, shining white against the barren gray of its companions. Planted by the hand of God long before I came to honor its beauty, it graces the winter woods beside the river. For more than twenty years I have watched the sycamore praise God, its arms raised towards heaven in silent prayer.  I wonder if the river gently washing the earth beyond its canopy knows today the sycamore’s voice will be silenced.  I wonder if today the river will be muddied by the tears of God that mingle with my own.

The holly and the oak are also unaware that killing machines beyond the swell march ever closer to devour them. The sycamore awoke this morning to shine in the sun and give glory to God.  In minutes it will be felled to make way for concrete poles that have no arms for glory or hearts for prayer.  

I said goodbye to the sycamore as I passed today. I felt I should stand with my friend, to offer comfort as it slipped into memory, but I couldn’t bear to watch. All I could do was say thank you, and I’m sorry.  I am so very sorry.

When will we ever learn?  When will we ever learn?

Reflections: 

"God writes the gospel not in the Bible alone, but on trees and flowers and clouds and stars."  ~Martin Luther

"Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul."  ~John Muir

"The human spirit needs places where nature has not been rearranged by the hand of man." ~Author Unknown

• How does my heart respond to these quotes? Do I agree? 

• If we define the word spiritual as "connected to God," is there a place in creation that I would describe as spiritual? How would I describe it to someone who hasn't been there.  What does it teach me of God? 

The Gift of Silence

Si

"Silence invites the healing Spirit of Hope and is like balm to a broken heart." -Bunny Cox.

 I am a friend of silence, and silence is my friend.

Sometimes I have to remind myself of that truth—like this morning.  It is quiet except for the hum of the furnace and the occasional pop and crack of the house as it recoils from the fingers of winter.  The refrigerator motor whirs in strange paradox, as it battles the furnace and works to sustain icy temperatures in the heart of my kitchen. I am reminded that silence is not the total absence of sound.

Vibrations from a family reunited for the holidays still cling to this space. They ring like a prayer bowl being struck, the reverberations growing dimmer with time, no longer discernable by the human ear.  I am once again alone in a quiet made all the more profound for having been together.  But even as I miss my children who go on to all that God has for them, this morning I embrace the silence. 

Silence hasn't always been my friend.  I was first introduced to the practice at Bon Secour Retreat Center during the first residency of The Shalem Institute for Spiritual Formation's Spiritual Guidance Program. I approached the experience with fear and trepidation. I knew it was coming, having been pre-warned, but that did nothing to ease my dis-ease. I was afraid of emptiness, emotions that might arise when not masked by busy-ness or deflected by sound, and most of all loneliness.  Maybe I subconsciously agreed with my house painter friend who once declared, “It just ain’t natural!” So it would seem in our noisy world. 

Tilden Edwards gently and prayerfully led us into 36-hours of silence. I entered that place without words, clinging desperately to his prediction that I would not find myself alone. I entered silence with skepticism and emerged knowing he had spoken truth.

Today, silence fills the house and sunlight slips between barren trees beyond the window as if searching for spring that hides under cover of earth. There was once another kind of winter for me when there was no green.  It was a winter of the spirit, a winter called grief.   My first born had died.  

After honoring her life and her soul, after the last casserole had been consumed, after the last note of condolence had been read, stillness descended, and I began the painful struggle to survive in the aftermath of unspeakable loss.  Words were impossible.   I couldn’t pray.  I felt as if I were sitting at the bottom of a deep well, far beyond the reach of words that were no more than dead leaves floating on the surface, unable to penetrate the depths. 

 “Where do you feel closest to God?” asked my spiritual director.

“I guess sitting on the bench in my backyard,” I replied.

 “Go sit on your bench and know that you are praying,” she said.

And so we sat on that bench, God and I.  We sat without words and watched the seasons come and go.  Sobs eventually gave way to soundless tears. Raw pain gave way to perseverance and retreated to a private, sacred place known only to me and the heart of God. And in the silence, I found healing. 

      

This morning I once again release my children to the grace and mercy of God and embrace the quiet of the day.  I give thanks for the gift of silence and the lessons of Shalem where I first learned that silence is neither empty nor lonely when filled with the Holy Spirit. Difficult emotions can be borne when carried on the shoulders of the Holy One, and words are the least important part of prayer.

Reflections:

• Which one of these statements best describes my relationship with silence?
              Silence is like . . .
  _____a close friend
  _____someone I don’t know well, but would like to know better
  _____someone I’ve never met
  _____someone I prefer not to be around 
• Literally every religious tradition recommends periods of silence.  Yet many of us resist spending time in silence. Why? 
• What is my response to these statements?
  
  Silence is not the absence of sound.
  Words are the least important part of prayer.

Sacred Space

Sometimes spiritual wisdom comes in the strangest places. I didn’t expect to hear God’s voice when I turned on the television to indulge my HGTV addiction. I tuned in to an interviewer questioning an “expert” on his experience of helping others clear their space.   

I was relieved I had landed on a program I could relate to--something other than “House Hunters International.” It’s probably a flaw in my character, but it’s a stretch for me to sympathize too deeply with people who have had to make do with a house in Belize that didn’t have all the qualities they had hoped for in their getaway home. I admit I sometimes get sucked into the premise and wonder which of the three featured homes I might have chosen. I even temporarily share bittersweetness with couples who lament the short-comings of their chosen structure and state the rationale for their compromised choice. That is, until I think about it. They say, “It doesn’t have the fourth bedroom we really, really wanted.” Or, “The guest house is a little too close to the main building.” Or, “It doesn’t have a walk-in, climate-controlled wine pantry.” “But,” they add “It does have beautiful views of the ocean,” as if that were the consolation prize. Sometimes we all fail to recognize blessings when we see them.

I can relate to programs about messy houses and unwanted clutter--breath-stealing, life-killing, overwhelming clutter. But, in spite of my desire to do otherwise, I often view the actual act of clearing clutter as a chore rather than a blessing. Even though I rarely implement their suggestions, I cling to the advice of professional housecleaners, hoping this one will offer something beyond the expected array of plastic containers, praying that that one will say something that inspires me to actually want to do it.

I suppose I’m not unlike others, who each January winter vow to clean out every drawer and every packed closet.  I resolve to organize files and throw away papers that seem to multiply when I turn out the lights. I declare I am going to get rid of all this stuff because I want my home to be restful, peaceful, a spiritual refuge, ready to welcome anyone who might drop by unannounced. I promise to get rid of soul-killing clutter that makes it difficult to live and to move, or even to breathe.  I yearn for sanctuary, for open space. But in spite of that desire, I often do nothing to clear the clutter. I allow more to accumulate, suffocating any chance for the peace I seek.     

As the interview continued in the background, it occurred to me that we often approach our spiritual lives in the same way. We yearn for a deeper relationship with God, yet we don’t clear space for that to happen. We polish tarnished excuses with words like “other responsibilities,” or “maybe when I finish.” Thousands of reasons answer the question, “Finish what?” 

Worry, anxiety, and fear claim space in our souls, squeezing out spontaneity and joy. We pack more and more stuff into our lives and wonder why we feel unsettled. In spite of God’s promise to meet us in the open space, we act as if the blessing of even one minute stolen for Sabbath would be a sentence of solitary confinement, and silence would be like the clang of a prison door.

“So what do you notice most when you help people clear their space,” said the interviewer.

“The first thing we do is clear the room,” said the expert. “Then we look at every item, think about it, and decide if it deserves to come back in.  But, do you know what I’ve noticed most,” said the clutter-clearer. “In every home where there have been children—in every single one—it has never failed to happen--when everything is cleared, the children run into the open space--and dance.”

Prayer:

Precious Lord, we are grateful for the blessing of holy space, sacred space.  We yearn to dance with you.

REFLECTIONS:

• What "clutter" gets in the way of the spiritual life I desire?

• What needs to be cleared to make space for God?

• And he said to them, "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath" (Mark 2:27) What are my thoughts about this statement? 

• What is my relationship with Sabbath time? Does it sound inviting or restrictive? Why?

From the Big Red Chair

“Mom, you can’t just sit in this chair and stare out the window,” she said gently.

Her hand rested on my knee, and my heart was comforted by her concern and compassion.  I nodded and placed my hand over hers, hoping the gesture spoke the words of gratitude that I could not.  Something inside me wanted to protest. I couldn’t explain. Insight was beyond my reach and my energy. I knew with a wordless “knowing”---that sitting in the big red chair, looking out the window, was exactly what I needed to do.

Perhaps the Spirit had already whispered gentle encouragement to my soul and invited me to walk the path towards healing, but that was yet to be revealed. That morning, all I could do was tell my beloved youngest daughter of my love, pray for her as she too grieved the loss of her sister, and plead for safe travel as she returned to college. I didn’t know then that the big red chair was a place of renewal and healing.

Years have passed, and the big red chair is still where I pray and write and watch the seasons reveal their wisdom.  It is the place where I examine life and sometimes ask, “What do I believe now that this has happened.”    It is the place where I learned when we walk through the valley we don’t have to be afraid of shadows.  And, most of all, it is where I discovered God does keep his promises. Even though at times I was blinded by tears,  I can look back now and see. I was never left alone. 


And so as I write from the big red chair, this is my prayer: Precious, Lord, this is another day and a chance to live and love again. I don't know what it will bring, but make me ready for whatever it may be. If I am to stand up, help me to stand bravely. If I am to sit still, help me to sit quietly. If I am to lie low, help me to do it gallantly. Help me, Lord, to live with my eyes wide open to your ever faithful signs of encouragement. May your Holy Spirit equip me and use me for your kingdom's sake. Stir my heart and open my mouth that I may speak boldly of your love. Make these words more than words, Lord, and give me the Spirit of Jesus.