Amazing Grace

Time crawls when you are a child. The days from one summer to the next pass agonizingly slow. The wait for Christmas seems interminable.  A month is viewed as a major portion of life.  I remember when I was a child, I expected to grow up, get married, have children, and die. I had no concept of life after twelve, much less forty. Without the benefit of longevity, a child is unable to see possibility beyond the present moment or hear wisdom in “this too shall pass.”

I can only imagine how endless the year after his mother’s death must have seemed to my twelve-year-old grandson Spencer, who remained in his father’s household, or how difficult it must have been for him to endure reoccurring, month-long stretches of solitude in his room as punishment for disappointing grades. On infrequent occasions when we were allowed to speak, I heard the monotonous drone of lost hope in his voice. Panic rose that Spencer might resort to the unthinkable--self-injury--as a solution to suffering.

It is difficult to grieve for the departed.  It is unbearable to fear for the life of a child as you watch, desperate, but powerless, to rescue.

“He’s not going to make it. He’s not going to make it,” I cried, rocking back and forth in anguish, my arms clutched across my body in a comfortless self-embrace.  “We’re going to lose him, too! We’re going to lose him, too! I can’t get well.  I can’t get well,” I wailed.  

“Bunny, stop,” my spiritual director said gently. “Let’s pray. Let’s pray about it right now.”

I had prayed my daughter Tara would live. I prayed her baby Alden would live. Both of them died. Asking for the outcome I desired seemed pointless, and praying aloud in the company of another felt awkward and uncomfortable. But I was in no condition to protest. I choked out words between sobs.

“God, please,” I begged. “God please. . .please let Spencer come to us,” I cried.

It’s odd the things that go through a mind in times like that.  I knew my prayer was heartfelt, but I suddenly wondered if it were proper.  Self-conscious of my words, I struggled to stifle emotion. “What I mean, God,” I said, “if it sounds like a good idea to you--it sounds good to me—if you think it is a good idea, too, please let him come. Please let Spencer come home.” That was as close as I could come to “thy will be done,” before my feeble attempt at decorum failed, and I relapsed into shameless petition. 

“And God, please, please let it be his father’s idea,” I begged.  “I can’t take anymore. I can’t take anymore.” I said, collapsing into uncontrollable sobs.

I confess I had no hope of intervention. I suppose I should feel guilty about that, and I would, had not my spiritual director later told me that when I got to the part about “let it me his father’s idea,” even she thought, “I don’t think that is going to happen.”

One week later:

Sam answered the phone.  Sam never answers the phone. He says it is pointless because it is never for him, but that day he did.  In hindsight it seems like one of those unexplainable, serendipitous, preordained coincidences.  I wouldn’t have stayed as calm.  

At first when Sam remained silent, I thought the caller had dialed the wrong number.  When Sam spoke, my breath caught. "Yes," he said calmly, but firmly, "But we will need legal guardianship to get him into school and to take care of him if he needs medical attention. 

Spencer’s father asked if Spencer could come live with us.

The next day:

Sam answered the phone again.  This time I heard him say, “Let me call you back.”

Sam hung up the phone, walked to the window and stared into the backyard. His fists were clinched by his side. I stood behind him and waited for him to tell me what had been said.   

“He’s not going to throw that kid away like that. I’m not going to let him!” he said through gritted teeth. His voice was thick with battled tears.

Spencer’s father wanted us to adopt Spencer. 

I waited until Sam’s breath resumed a normal rhythm before speaking.

“Sam,” I put my hand on his shoulder, “It isn’t our job to make this man be a good father. It is our job is to save Spencer.”

Blessings sometime arrive wearing strange clothing. It was difficult to see grace in a request that sounded like abandonment, but slowly, a realization dawned. Beyond the spoken words of prayer, beyond anything I could have hoped or asked for, God heard the cry of my heart. Spencer was coming, but more than that, Spencer was going to be safe. No one would ever be able to take him again.   

Two weeks later:

Spencer revealed no emotion as we left his father’s house. We drove in silence before he finally spoke.

“Do I have to go back?” he asked.

“Never,” said Sam.

And with that one “forever” word, Spencer smiled.

Reflections:  

"He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted." - Job 9:10

“Grow flowers of gratitude in the soil of prayer.”~Terri Guillemets

“All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.”~St. Julian of Norwich

“God may not always come exactly when you call him, but he is always on time.”~Lemon, Brooklyn street poet

*“He’ll come back to you,” my lawyer-friend said, a tear spilling onto his cheek, “I don’t know when it will be, but I believe he’ll come back to you.”~ A wise man, who dared to give difficult advice and refused to let bridges be burned. (*Thin Boards--From The Big Red Chair, September 21, 2011.)

-What is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given? Did it exceed my expectations? If so, how?

-Did that gift happen because of anything I did or didn’t do?

-How do I define grace?

Rise

Grief has its own timetable. It is unique to the individual and each circumstance of loss. It cannot be rushed. It cannot be decided away regardless of how the griever or world wants to move on, get over it, suck it up, in short, do whatever it takes to get back to “normal.”  Trying to effect a resurrection of sorts by demanding a griever rise from sorrow is a like trying to climb out of a pit by pushing a rope.  It doesn’t work. Perhaps it is because the challenge isn’t about whether to grieve or not to grieve; it is about whether to live.  Sooner or later every griever must make that choice. It isn’t as simple as it may sound.  Returning to life from the gray existence of sorrow feels like abandoning the only remaining link to our loved one--our tears.

Living is more than an accidental combination of matter and form comprised of cells that continuously convert chemicals into energy.  Life is more than the autonomic nervous system functioning below the level of consciousness, reminding the brain to think, the heart to beat, and the lungs to inhale oxygen and expel carbon dioxide. Life, real life, is about seeing beauty in the world and about experiencing joy, something a griever doesn’t believe will ever happen again.

I breathed in and I breathed out, but the monotony of sorrow following Tara’s death and baby Alden’s death could hardly be described as living. Nothing interested me. Nothing intrigued me. I looked forward to nothing.

One lonely morning, when I questioned my ability to survive another moment of crushing grief, I heard gentle words more tender than the first violet of spring.   

“Bunny, there is still beauty in the world.”

I found myself pondering, “Is there anything that brings me joy?”

I searched the depths of memory and finally recalled a source of joy that hasn’t changed since I first discovered its decadent pleasure as a girl.  I love Chanel No. 5. 

I retrieved a half-empty bottle from the back of a dresser drawer and placed it beside my big red chair.  For months, whenever grief overwhelmed me, I removed the glass stopper, inhaled the fragrance, and repeated the mantra: “There are still beautiful things in this world.”

Who knew God could package healing and resurrection within the confines of a tiny glass bottle?

I have always thought of resurrection as a one-time, not-of-this-world, reserved-for-Jesus, spectacular event.  I've assumed resurrection requires a burst of energy and a flash of glory bright enough to burn the image of the resurrected onto a burial cloth or a power grand enough to roll away an enormous stone.  Perhaps there is more. Perhaps the miracle of resurrection happens around us every day, but goes unnoticed.  

Maybe resurrection is hope that floats unnoticed on a warm breeze at winter’s end. Maybe it is a tiny green shoot of grass that dares to raise its head after a terrible fire marches across the earth. Maybe it is as delicate as the scent of perfume mingled with her tears that Mary used to wash the feet of Jesus (John 12:3).

In time, I resolved to honor the life of my child by choosing life. I resolved I would not only breathe in and breathe out, I would live, and I would live abundantly, as she –and God –would have it.

And I will look for beauty in this world. 

I didn’t know it then, but the path I walked in the shadow of death had begun a gentle rise from the valley floor toward life. It began with a whispered reminder from God and the fragrance of heaven contained in a little bottle of Chanel No. 5.

Reflections:

Isaiah 40:30-31 “Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, They shall run and not be weary, They shall walk and not faint.”

“For in the dark stretches of life, the most difficult discipline of all is not that of soaring or even running. It consists of ‘keeping on keeping on’ when events have slowed you to a walk, when it seems that in spite of everything you are going to crumple under the load and faint away.”~John Claypool, Tracks of a Fellow Struggler.

"Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy will burn out the pain."~Joseph Campbell

"Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day."~ 
Henri J.M. Nouwen

"Joy is a mystery because it can happen anywhere, anytime, even under the most unpromising circumstances, even in the midst of suffering, with tears in its eyes...."~Frederick Buechner

-Where do I see beauty in the world?

-What brings me joy?

Prayer:

Morning sun, let your soft light fall gently,
Gently upon all that has grown dim in our lives.
Morning sun, pour yourself into places where we are weary,
Morning sun, refresh our bodies and our hearts.
Let us step into this new day as ones,
As ones expecting miracles.
May we live this day with the presence of disciples of joy!
~ Macrina Wiederkehr 

The Message

“Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks to us, and the art of life is to get the message." ~Malcolm Muggeridge

Brown pelicans skimmed the surface of the Gulf of Mexico.  Mere feathers apart, they searched for food.  The leader flapped his wings and pushed away the sky for his companions who glided effortlessly behind.  He faithfully executed his duty guiding the formation until a wing-mate, seeing him tire, moved forward to assume command.  I watched their precision maneuvers from the deck of a beach house perched upon a sand dune above the Gulf and pondered the troubled state of my marriage.  

    

“I warned you, Bunny,” my friend and spiritual director had cautioned. “The death of a child often strains a marriage to the breaking point. Some of them don’t make it. Are you going to let yours be one of them?

Our daughter Tara and her baby Alden had died. Our grandson Spencer was all but lost to us.  Requests to speak with him continued to be denied. The last thing I wanted was to loose Sam too. Remembering my friend’s admonitions and her refusal to commiserate with my discontent, I pondered my cause for complaint and reexamined the fabric of our relationship.

Sam and I are polar opposites.  He is reserved, thinks before expressing his thoughts, and saves words until they are needed. I, on the other hand, am outgoing, prone to superfluous speech, and quick to offer an opinion that, more often than not, the world could live without.  I am adventurous and spontaneous; a trait that balances Sam’s steadfastness and sometimes gives him permission to rest from responsibility to enjoy life. Our differences can be challenging, but when we are at our best, we have all the bases covered.

Sam’s quietness might be judged by some as detachment. That would be a mistake. Keenly aware of his surroundings, Sam watches. Mostly he watches me—always standing guard, always there to protect with an open hand and a gentle touch, always supporting me being me, and never interjecting unless absolutely necessary.  More than once Sam has saved me from predicament brought on by my impulsiveness by gently pointing out that I am standing perilously close to the edge on an icy cliff in imminent danger of falling off.  I can depend on Sam when I need him, even when I don’t know that I do.

“Please stay with me,” I had begged after Tara's death, fearing grief would devour me if he left me unprotected.  In spite of my pleas, Sam departed, choosing instead long hours at work and the distraction of labor. For the first time in our relationship, I felt abandoned--an unforgivable offense in my grief-stricken state of mind.

Sam is the yin. I am the yang.  He is strong when I am weak, and I’m there for him when he is the one who needs consolation.  What had changed? Why were we estranged? Why was he distant when I needed him the most?

Movement on the Gulf interrupted my thoughts.  With a burst of acceleration, the pelican in front of the flock thrust himself into the water. Trusting his lead, the others plunged into sea behind him.   Amid a frenzy of flashing foam and flapping feathers, the flock emerged from the waves.  A tiny silver fish dangled from each beak and quickly disappeared in one hungry gulp.  Their bounty consumed, the flock rose again to formation. The former leader gracefully slipped to the rear as another moved to the forefront. The change of duty was flawless.  I watched as over and over the pelicans repeated their well-orchestrated maneuvers, and as I watched a knowing slowly began to rise. 

Sam had not abandoned me.  Grief had disrupted the well-honed patterns of our relationship. Grief had robbed us of strength. Grief had stolen the ability for either of us to lead. I wanted desperately to coast behind Sam. I wanted him to ease my way through grief like the lead pelican parts the air for those who follow. Did Sam need the same from me? 

Compassion replaced anger and tears swelled from the depths of love. In the blindness of my own misery, I had not recognized the intensity of Sam’s pain or understood his need for the normalcy of work and the consolation of colleagues.  Tenderness replaced resentment when I imagined his heartache in observing my agony, powerless to make it go away, all the while, bearing the weight of his own despair. 

  

I resolved to release Sam from my expectations and to honor his unique path through sorrow. In time we would rise again to resume the rhythm of our relationship, but for now, just as we are opposites in life, we would be opposites in the way we grieve. 

I watched the pelicans fly away toward morning.  “God speed,” I wished them, "traveling mercies,” I whispered.  "And thank you.”

Reflections:

 “Ask the animals and they will teach you, or the birds of the air, and they will tell you. . .” Job 12:7


“I love to think of nature as an unlimited broadcasting station, through which God speaks to us every hour, if we will only tune in.”~– George Washington Carver


"Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit."~Peter Ustinov

 “Love is a fabric that never fades, no matter how many times it is washed in the waters of adversity and grief.”~Anonymous

“No two people will ever grieve the same way, with the same intensity or for the same duration. It is important to understand this basic truth. Only then can we accept our own manner of grieving and be sensitive to another's response to loss.”~Jinny Tesik, M.A.


--Has stress ever lead to misunderstanding in my relationships? If so, how?
--Is there someone who needs my understanding and compassion?
--To whom do I turn when I need support and consolation? 
--Do I see nature as "a parable whereby God speaks to us"? If so, where have I seen God revealed?

A Time for Peace

Over the years mighty battles have been fought in the name of sibling rivalry, mostly over inconsequential matters.  Bickering about who will be relegated to the rear seat of the car or arguing about who mother really loves best are hallmarks of childhood that are usually resolved by the truce of maturity. Some conflicts stretch into adulthood, if only by habit, but regardless of the intensity of the conflict, a bond of loyalty and familial love underlies. So it is with brothers and sisters, and so it was with my daughter Tara and her younger brother Nevin. 

Time after time, even into adulthood, a drama unfolded around our kitchen table as countless board games ended before beginning when Tara or her brother refused to participate unless the other relinquished the coveted green game piece. Non-family members appeared mildly amused and then slightly uncomfortable when observing adult siblings rush to circumvent the other by shouting, “I’m green!” --a declaration that never failed to incite anger. “No, you are not! I am!” the slower of the two would respond before stomping from the room. I never understood the implied misfortune of having to use the yellow piece, or be the red or blue man, but there was no doubt that being green had a deep symbolic significance known only to the two of them.

Whether we realize it or not, we are surrounded by word-replacing symbols that convey multiple layers of meaning. Octagon shapes at intersections dictate our movement and silently warn of danger if we fail to heed their warning. A gold band worn on the left hand represents love and life-long commitment. The symbolic gesture of a husband who brings a cup of coffee to his wife in the morning and secures locks every evening before bed speaks more of devotion and protection than words can articulate. Lions are symbols for courage.  Lambs are symbols of innocence. Cemeteries are full of tombstones containing symbols with meaning to the deceased or reminders of hope for the living. An unmarked grave denotes someone who dies abandoned with no one to remember them or to celebrate their life. 


With each passing day that Tara’s grave lay unmarked, my guilt rose over neglecting her. I spent hours struggling to select the perfect symbols for a bronze marker to be placed upon her grave, but made little progress. Trying to capture the essence of Tara in symbol is like trying to hold the wind in your hand or contain the sound of laughter in a box.

I finally decided a cross should be centered above her name, but none of the crosses offered by the monument company seemed fitting. Nevin helped design the perfect Celtic cross to reflect Tara's faith and her heritage. It was poured in bronze, the mold created just for her. Perhaps it was extravagant and maybe even unnecessary to go to such lengths and expense, but at the time it was important to me and to her brother. I suspect the symbol of the Celtic cross reminds Nevin of the day in Ireland when he danced upon the bog with his sister.

I selected a small butterfly to float in the corner as a symbol of hope and the promise of resurrection.  It is also symbolizes Tara’s poem, a gift to me one Christmas, that speaks of the butterfly to remind us that change comes at great risk, with great rewards, and it is through the life and death of Jesus that we take wing.*

Still Tara’s plaque seemed incomplete. Over a year passed while her grave remained unmarked.

One morning I answered the phone to hear my son’s voice.

“Mom, does the monument company have green marble?”

“I think so. Why?”

“She always wanted to be green.”

And so, a bronze plaque containing Tara’s name, a Celtic cross and a butterfly was mounted upon green marble and laid upon her grave, each element having complex layers of meaning. But none is more poignant than the symbolism contained in her brother’s request. For all eternity, he let her be green.

Reflections:

“I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea”~- Dylan Thomas

“To everything thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven . . .A time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.” ~Ecclesiastes 3:1,8

“Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.” ~Matt. 5:9

--Is there some way today that I can offer a gesture of love? Of peace?

--What symbols have special meaning for me? 


Practice:  Create a place where you go to reflect, pray, meditate or listen. In that space, place objects that symbolize things or ideas that have meaning for you.  It doesn't have to be elaborate or large. A table beside a favorite chair, a bookshelf, a windowsill, or even a bench in the backyard will suffice. You will know what objects to choose. For example, a photograph might represent a specific person, or it might represent friendship, community, love or family. A small candle might represent the light of Christ or be a reminder that you are always in the presence of the Holy. Other items might include a favorite rock, flowers, or other natural objects that remind us of our connection to the earth and to our creator God. By surrounding ourselves with these symbols of deeper meaning, we are reminded of the sacred in the ordinary. Each object becomes a wordless prayer.  Notice how the objects might change with the seasons, with happenings in your life, or with the desire to invite something new into your sacred space.   

*From "The Greatest Gift," Thursday, April 21, 2011, From The Big Red Chair

Parable of the Geese

Porches are portals of welcome and good-bye, keepers of memories, listeners to stories told by those who gather after dinner on summer nights. The front porch of the historic home in Falls Church, Virginia where I waited for my daughter Brynnan's return from her post-college internship brought back childhood memories of my grandmother’s porch in North Carolina. Unlike evenings spent in communion with family as my grandfather regaled me with tales of magic and stories of fairies, I was alone with only the swish of tires on pavement from the occasional passing car to keep me company.  A book randomly selected from a bookcase in the foyer lay unopened on my lap.

Almost a year had passed since Tara’s death and since her baby daughter Alden died. Repeated phone calls and pleas to speak with my grandson Spencer were denied. He too seemed lost to me forever. The sharp pain of new grief was now a perpetual ache that saturated my being and soaked into my bones. I wondered if my living children could see beyond the mask of well-being I wore in hopes of sparing them the burden of my grief. 

 

A cold wind that hinted of coming winter tugged on the branches of a nearby oak and plucked the last vestige of summer.   Brown, dead leaves fell to the ground and fluttered and flapped across the steep slope in front of the house. I moved my chair into a shaft of light that threaded its way through the swaying boughs of a nearby hemlock. Raising my collar to the chill, I clutched my jacket to my throat. The sun's rays could not penetrate the winter spirit within me or shine light upon the path that was lost to me. 

A sound in the distance severed the quiet. What is that, I asked myself? It came closer, louder still.  A chorus of discordant, raucous barks joined in refrain--a-hink a-honk a-hink a-honk.  I’ve heard that sound before, I thought, but I can’t name it. The syncopated cries rose to a crescendo as wild geese in V-formation sliced the air above me. They honked as if to encourage one another. Keep flying, they seemed to say.  A-hink a-honk a-hink.  You can make it. Don’t stop now. On they flew toward their preordained destination, the geese in the rear gliding effortlessly on the draft of those who flew before. As they passed, the air closed behind them, and silence rushed in to fill the space. I watched as they flew from sight, my loneliness heightened by their parting. 

With no interest in its contents, I opened the book in my lap and gasped at the coincidence of words before me:  

"Look at the geese of the sky. They neither worry nor are anxious about the winter warnings of their life, for they know within their deepest selves that their journey will take them to a place of shelter, comfort, of nourishment, a place where winter harshness cannot reach them. See how they fly, winging homeward with sureness, with trust in their hearts’ instinct. If these geese, who have not the faith and grace of human hearts, can follow the mystery and secrets of their deepest selves, cannot you, my loved and chosen ones, you who I care for as my very own, cannot you be in touch with the mystery of your hearts? Cannot you trust in me to guide you on your journey of life? For I have promised to give you rest in seasons of tiredness, comfort in seasons of sorrow, peace in seasons of distress, strength in seasons of great weakness.  Trust in me.  Do not be afraid.  I am with you.  I will be your peace."*

I wiped tears from my eyes remembering the day I heard a silent voice ask, “Do you trust me?” In pain I answered, “I want a relationship with you, but trust you? No. I don't think I do.”** Could this be God’s tender response?

When does a random occurrence have meaning beyond the realm of happenstance? When is a coincidence more than a coincidence? When do two events converging in one unlikely moment in time become an intervention of grace?  Perhaps it is on an early winter day, when a porch becomes a sacred place of hope, the language of nature becomes the voice of the holy, and the story-teller is none other than God.

Reflections:

If I flew to the point of sunrise, or westward across the sea, your hand would still be guiding me, your right hand holding me. ~Psalm 139:9-10

Overhead,
wild geese
wing their way
to a farther shore.
At their call
we leave
our fearful lives
and follow.   

     ~In the Presence of Flight by Nancy Compton Williams

Prayer for Trust: 

O Christ Jesus, when all is darkness and we feel our weakness and helplessness, give us the sense of Your presence, Your love, and Your strength. Help us to have perfect trust in Your protecting love and strengthening power, so that nothing may frighten or worry us, for, living close to You, we shall see Your hand, Your purpose, Your will through all things. Amen   ~St. Ignatius of Loyola 1491-1546

 -Is there a scripture passage that comforts me in times of despair?

-What role does trust play in my spiritual life?

-Does the voice of nature speak to me of God?  If so, how.

*Excerpt from Praying Our Goodbyes by Joyce Rupp

**Uncensored Prayer - From The Big Red Chair, December 1, 2011

Uncensored Prayer

Photo by Grace Gilchrist

A single lamp cast yellow warmth into the room’s semi-darkness. I settled into the big red chair, my feet tucked under me, a blanket over my lap. Exhausted from the emotion of the day but unable to sleep, I waited for drowsiness to overtake me. Quiet settled over the house.

The moonless night beyond the window obscured the barren branches of the peach tree and hushed birds that nestled against the cold until first light.  I envied their ability to sleep.  I feared lying awake in darkness with nothing to dull the sharp edge of grief. 

A box containing sympathy notes and expressions of condolence lay on the table beside me.  My once-a-day trek to the mailbox to retrieve them was my only foray into the outside world.   I pulled the box onto my lap and unfolded a many-times-read note penned by an old friend. One phrase leapt from the surface and captured my attention. All others fell away. “Don’t lose your faith,” it warned. 

I initially read those words as well-meaning, but dismissed them as unnecessary. Now, I pondered their significance. My heart was frozen by the chill of emptiness and loss. Prayer seemed pointless.  Had I lost faith?

A speechless voice emerged from the stillness and hung in the winter air. In a crystalline moment of comprehension, I knew it was God.

“Do you trust me?” 

“You have got to be kidding!” I said aloud. My voice rose, choked with tears and fury. “How could you ask that? I begged for the life of my daughter Tara, and she died.  I prayed for her baby girl Alden, and she died.  I prayed for my grandson Spencer, and he was taken away against his wishes, and I was powerless to protect him.* And, now you ask, “Do you trust me!”

Judging my outburst of negative emotion inappropriate when conversing with God, I struggled to regain the proper decorum. How do I feel, I asked myself. Numerous false starts later, I begrudgingly responded.

“I suppose I still love you. . .and I don’t want to live without you, but do I trust you? No . . .I can’t say that I do.”

True intimacy cannot exist until we abandon the mask of pretense, risk vulnerability and dare to state the truth. In that moment of raw, uncensored authenticity, I unwittingly stepped from behind the hiding place of propriety, discarded words measured to please, and experienced my first truly honest conversation with God.

Gifts are hidden in brokenness.  I realize now I was not asked if I trusted God would ensure the outcome for which I prayed.  I was asked, “Do you trust me enough, love me enough, to tell me the truth even if the words are not pretty? Do you trust me enough to allow me to share your pain?”

During that winter of spirit, I discovered God’s faithfulness transcends anger, and truth is the gateway to trust.  

Reflections:

“Only by expressing our anger and resentment directly to God in prayer will we come to know the fullness of love and freedom.”~ Pierre Wolff

“Trouble is part of life. If you don’t share it, you don’t give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough.”~Dinah Shore

“To have real conversation may seem like such a simple, obvious suggestion, but it involves courage and risk.”~Thomas Moore

“When hard pressed, I cried to the Lord; he brought me into a spacious place.” ~Psalm 118:5

-Do I speak honestly in prayer, or do I weigh my words carefully?

-What are my thoughts about prayers that seem to be unanswered?

-How does prayer influence my faith?

-How does faith influence my prayer?

Prayer: (Excerpts from “Psalms for a Stalled Heart”~ Edward Hays)

Send forth your spirit

     to revive my heart

Spark it with a relish for service,

     with a longing to pray

May I seek to love and serve you

     even when my wintry heart

     declines to dance with

     springtime grace. Amen


*Thin Boards, Sept. 21, 2011

   

           

The Mercy Giver

“Isn't there something we can do?  Couldn’t you baptize her anyway?”  I asked Father Mike when we met to make funeral arrangements for my infant granddaughter.

“No, Bunny, we don’t do that,” he said, not unkindly. “We don’t baptize someone after they are dead. We believe in baptism of intention," he explained. "If a baby dies before she is christened, if her family intended for her to be baptized, we consider her to be baptized. And,” he added, "She is, of course, in heaven.”

I wasn’t disturbed by Father Mike's response.  I knew what I requested isn’t done, and I wasn’t concerned about where sweet baby Alden would spend eternity. It seems to me Jesus settled that question when he said, “Let the little children come to me. Do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” But, not everyone thinks that way.

My concern was for another whose tradition teaches no baptism, no heaven, no chance for a heavenly reunion. I observed firsthand the inconsolable grief that occurs when all hope for eternity dies. I considered mentioning I secretly baptized Alden when she was in the intensive care unit at the hospital(*), but I knew my confession would bring little, if any, comfort to a person who didn't acknowledge a lay person, and especially a woman, as a sanctioned baptizer.

So, on a brisk December morning, on the day that was to have been Alden’s christening, the family gathered instead at the cemetery for a simple graveside ceremony, our misery too personal, too fragile to endure a church service as we had for her mother only three months earlier. A small contingent of intimate friends averted their eyes when we took our places in chairs near the small white coffin.  My grandson Spencer laid flowers on his mother’s grave only a few feet away from the seat he took behind me.  I wondered how such a young life and tender soul could endure having lost so much--his mother, his home, and now his baby sister.

The sun glinted from the gold processional cross held high behind Father Mike who stood before us. A breeze swept across the gentle swell where we sat near a winter-bare tree. It tickled the fringe on Father Mike’s stole and played with the hem of his robe.  When he began to speak, all who had respectfully kept their distance moved closer, as if to surround us with arms of unspoken sympathy.

I don’t remember the words Father Mike spoke that morning, but never shall I forget what he did.  Father Mike pushed his robe aside and dropped to one knee beside little Alden. From a small crystal cruet, he poured water slowly over the tiny white coffin.  Unable to cradle her in his arms he leaned close and embraced her with his voice.  “Alden,” he spoke gently, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Like Jesus, who dared to heal on the Sabbath, Father Mike broke the rules. He did what he could to heal shattered hope, and, most of all, he taught us a lesson in grace—always, always, err on the side of mercy. Father Mike did more than conduct a funeral for a baby that sad December morning.  Father Mike showed us Jesus.

Reflections:

The quality of mercy is not straineth, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the gentle place beneath. It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.” ~William Shakespeare

“You can judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him.”~James D. Miles

“For I desire mercy, not sacrifice, and acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings.”~Hosea 6:6

--Is there someone in my life who has shown me mercy? What happened? What affect did it have?

--Is there some way I can show mercy to someone today?

(*) “The Sacred Secret,” November 3

Seasons of Sorrow

I arrived home one evening in early December encouraged by accomplishing the previously unattainable feat of staying at the office for a full day. Three months had passed since my daughter Tara had died. It’s true I had to feign productivity, but at least the curtain of grief had lifted enough for me to partially resume normal activities. The light on the horizon was dim, but I could see the rising dawn of healing.  

My husband Sam watched for me as I drove into the driveway.  

“Hi, how was your day?” I asked when he opened the door. If I had been more observant, I wouldn’t have had to ask.

“Not worth a damn,” he said in his usual get-to-the-point way. “Alden died today.”

It took several repetitions before his words penetrated the barriers of denial and disbelief and settled into reality.   My granddaughter Alden Betts, Tara’s baby girl, was gone.  The family was to gather within the week for her christening. Instead, we would bury her. I noticed the sorrow in Sam’s eyes only briefly before, once again, I plummeted into the blindness of despair.

I don’t know why Alden died. No one does.  They called it Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, SIDS, “the sudden death of an infant under one year of age which remains unexplained after a thorough investigation, often leaving unanswered questions and causing intense grief for parents and families.” SIDS is a diagnosis of exclusion in the absence of explanation. 

There are experiences in life that are at the very edge, the borders of our intellectual reach. As painful as it was, I could make sense of Tara’s parting. It was a predictable outcome in light of medical decisions that had not been in her favor. Alden’s death defied comprehension or hope for meaning.   

Sudden, unexpected death threatens one’s sense of safety and security. The death of an infant threatens one’s sense of God. Children are not supposed to die before their parents. Babies are not supposed to die before adults.  Tara was gone. Alden was gone. Twice we were to experience the disruption of the natural order of life. Twice I would have to ask, “What do I believe about God now that this has happened?”

A day would come when I would know the answer to that question, but in that moment, all I could say was, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me.”

Reflections:

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”~Kahlil Gibran

“Sometimes the fear and pain are so deep that all we can do is come with our questions and our fragile desire.”~Ann Dean

“If knowing answers to life’s questions is absolutely necessary to you, then forget the journey.  You will never make it for this is a journey of unknowables—of unanswered questions, enigmas, incomprehensibles, and most of all, things unfair.”~Jeanne Guyon

“Hear my cry, O God, and listen to my prayer. From the ends of the earth I call to you.  I call as my heart grows faint.” Psalm 61:1-2

-Is my faith dependent upon knowing the answer to life’s most difficult questions?

-In times when life seems unfair, when incomprehensible things happen, how do I make peace with mystery?

Prayer: 

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.  Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake. Amen

~From the night service of Compline, The Book of Common Prayer 1979 (ECUSA)

The Sacred Secret

Prayers and instructions for his congregation by The Reverend George Charles Betts, contained within a small manual titled, “The Guide,” published Trinity Sunday 1877:


“Because by baptism we are ingrafted into Christ, it is most necessary that every precaution should be taken that no one should pass from this world without its grace. Therefore, if for any cause a priest cannot be had to administer it, and a person be in immediate danger of death, baptism may not only be validly but lawfully performed by any person whatsoever in which case, a deacon is to be preferred to a layman, and a man preferably to a woman, and a member of the church to a heretic.”

The Reverend George C. Betts is my great-great-grandfather. He was born in Ireland in 1840, immigrated to New York in 1861, and eventually settled in Chicago where he was in business for a short time before joining an Indiana regiment in the Union Army. When his enlistment was up, he went to Nebraska and studied for the ministry. George C. Betts was ordained in 1867.

You may have noticed. Grandfather Betts was a Yankee. That fact can be overlooked by his Southern progeny since, having hailed from Ireland, he wasn’t a “real” Yankee, and after all, he did redeem himself by becoming an Episcopal priest--a proud occurrence for a family of genetic Episcopalians.


Whatever Grandfather Betts was or was not, there is no doubt he was a product of his time with definite opinions regarding the role of women in the church.  If his instructions to his congregation are an indication, when it comes to suitability to administer the sacred sacrament of new birth, it is clear Grandfather Betts thought a woman falls far below a priest, a deacon, and most certainly a man, but thankfully above a heretic, even if only sightly. He did however concede a female would suffice if the probability of immediate death is evident.

I never gave much thought to Grandfather Betts' instructions. The chance of such an occasion arising for me was quite unlikely. However, his words came to mind as I stood beside my infant granddaughter Alden Betts in the neonatal intensive care unit on a crisp autumn morning.  I held her tiny hand and watched life-monitoring machines fluctuate wildly.

Alden didn't appear to be in danger of "passing from this world" as had her mother three days after her birth. If my prayers were the determining factor, she would not, and the doctors assured me all was well. I don't know why an urgent sense arose that perhaps we shouldn't delay her baptism.  


As is tradition in the Episcopal Church, plans were already made for baby Alden's christening. In only a matter of weeks, on the first weekend in December, the family would gather, this time not to bid farewell to a loved one as we so recently had for my daughter Tara, but to welcome her beloved child of God into the fold.  I tried to dismiss the notion of proceeding, not wanting to render the upcoming gathering unnecessary in the eyes of family members who might think their travels pointless if Alden were already baptized. Besides, I was alone in the room with Alden with no priest, deacon, or man in sight. 

I recalled my promise to my Tara as she lay dying, "I will take care of your children, Spencer and Alden, until the day you can do it."  Why that recollection came in that moment and what it had to do with Alden's baptism I didn't know.  In the end, the urge to act was so powerful as to not be denied. Even though I hardly thought myself qualified for the job, I resigned myself to the task at hand.  

I had no water, an essential element for baptism, so I did as mothers have done through the ages when their children need washing and water is unavailable.  I licked my thumb and made the sign of the cross on Alden's tiny forehead.

“Alden, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  You are sealed as Christ’s own forever.”

I told no one of the sacred secret between Alden, Tara and me. I wasn’t sure my actions would be accepted as a real baptism anyway. It was real to me, and I believe it was real for Alden. If it was real to God, that is all that matters.  And even though I know my baptismal method was a bit unorthodox, somehow, deep down, I think Grandfather Betts would approve. 


Reflections:


Matt. 19:14 Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”


"Rejoice with your family in the beautiful land of life."~Albert Einstein


-Are there traditions of faith that have great meaning for me?  If so, what are they?

Gift of the Garden - Part 2

Continued from Part 1 . . .

mir·a·cle

1.     A surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.

2.     A highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences.

As I sat in silence and solitude during an autumn day of retreat at the banquet table tucked deep in the garden behind the small country church , I realized I was no longer alone. Family members and loved ones who have gone before me were my companions. It is impossible to describe their appearance in worldly terms or explain how it could be possible at all, but they were there, and I could see them.

Cheryl, my dear friend and my younger daughter’s godmother was in the center chair on the right side of the table.  My dearly beloved grandmother was at my right hand.  My grandfather sat left center. Three chairs on the opposite end of the table were unoccupied.

Rather than being disturbed or frightened by their company, I felt joy in reunion. Each person is a treasured memory and special gift in my life. Why had they come? What memories and blessings did they bring? What remained of the gift they had been in my life?

Cheryl taught me faith doesn’t have to be complicated.  It can be as simple as a child’s prayer.  Her last prayer only moments before she died contained all that needed to be said. ”Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

My grandmother gave me the knowledge and priceless gift of unconditional love, and my grandfather, through magical tales of fairies and invisible cloaks, filled my world with fantasy, humor, play and laughter. The strength of their faith is the foundation upon which the faith of today's generation rests.

I was encircled at the table by faith, love, laughter, comfort and perseverance.

I sensed Tara at my left hand. What was the gift of her life to me?  I couldn’t force myself to think of that or to even glance in her direction. I wasn’t ready. The pain of loss was too fresh.

My eyes wandered to the empty chairs at the far end of the table, and a realization grew. They were reserved for the people in my life whose time has not yet come to join the banquet, the people who are present gifts of comfort and companionship--my mother, my father, my husband Sam.  

I sensed motion on my left.  Tara rose and moved to the far end of the table, stepping into view. The previously unoccupied seat at the head of the table was no longer vacant.  Jesus was there, gazing at me. Tara walked behind him and gently placed her hands on his shoulders. No words were spoken. No words were necessary. It was as if she had brought him to me, to comfort me, to assure me they were together, perhaps saying, “Jesus, my mother grieves so.  Won’t you go with me to comfort her?”

Tara returned to her place at the table beside me. My eyes followed her.  I allowed myself to ponder the gift of her life? In that moment, the answer became clear. Her gift to me was a deep love and abiding spiritual companionship. With a sureness of heart, in that moment I realized neither had died. Both still exist and will endure through eternity.

In time, the image of Jesus and the others at the table faded, but I knew they were still near. It was then that I noticed a word carved by the hand of the craftsman into the back of each chair.  Each word appeared to rise from the surface and spring towards me, not unlike the special effects in a three-dimensional movie. The words shimmered before me. Grace. . .Grace. . .Grace. Seven times I saw Grace.

I didn't want to leave the table, but it was time to depart. I left the clearing in peace, knowing my loved ones were together and relishing memories of their dinner party in the garden. I looked back only once to say good-bye. 

“Take care, dear one,” I said to my child. “Have fun. Your joy brings me pleasure.  I look forward to joining you someday. Though the coming days may seem endless without your physical presence, I will remember your words spoken to me in the psalm, ‘One day all will seem as a dream’.”

No longer drawn to take the path towards the cemetery at the edge of the woods, I instead walked through the center of the garden and on towards the church. On the ground as I approached the back corner of the white board structure, I stumbled upon a weather-worn slab of stone that perhaps marks the grave of an early parishioner. The name and dates were eroded by time and obscured by fallen leaves. Only three words were visible. I left the garden that morning knowing the three words preserved for the ages by the stone mason that spoke of a healing miracle of Jesus were a gift of the garden meant especially for me. 

What were the words chiseled in stone? 

“Your Daughter Lives”  

Reflections:

“In my father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you.  I go to prepare a place for you.”

In order to hear the voice of God, or see the handiwork of the Holy, we must be willing to invite the intruder named “could it be” into the sterile home of “logical” existence. Bunny Cox

‎“To be open to the miraculous is to be open to impossible things becoming possible.”~Roy Howard

“We are all of us from birth to death quests at a table we did not spread. The sun, the earth, love, friends, our very breath are parts of the banquet. Shall we think of the days as a chance to come to nearer to our host and to find out something of him who has fed us so long?”~Rebecca Harding Harris

“Sometimes what seems to be the end is really just a new beginning, like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly.”~Unknown

-Who are the special people in my life?  What are their gifts to me? What have they taught me?

-What are my thoughts about miracles? Do I believe miracles can happen?

-Have I had a spiritual experience that defies explanation? If so, what happened?


-"In my father's house there are many mansions. . ." What are my thoughts about this statement?