Just This Once . . .

Here's the deal. God is sneaky. 


I’m not the only one who has come to that conclusion. Sister Helen Prejean, author of “Dead Man Walking,”  says had she known a simple request to write a letter to a prisoner would lead to visiting him on death row, much less witnessing his execution, she would not have been so quick to agree. But Sister Helen did not know. One step led to another, events unfolded, and she found herself in a place where she would never have chosen to go, but in the end, was grateful to be. And, she found she had strength she didn't know she had.

In my case, rather than a slow unfolding, God went straight for the big guns, and like Sister Helen, I didn’t see it coming. I guess God knew it was time, as the saying goes, for me to get back on the horse I fell off of, and only one thing could help that happen.  


My minister called saying she was side-lined with the flu and asking if I would be willing to make a chaplain's visit to a parishioner, a young woman, who had been admitted to the hospital. I knew the honor and privilege she offered me, but I did not want to go. I had not been back in a hospital since I walked out of one the night my daughter Tara died and after I baptized her baby Alden in the neonatal intensive care unit. Years had passed, but memories were fresh. I asked myself, "How hard could it be?" In the end, I agreed, thinking I would go "just this once." 

Standing in the corridor by the door of the young woman’s room, I prayed for strength and silently repeated my long-neglected mantra for courage before entering a hospital room:


“I go because my Jesus goes with me.  I go because he is waiting for me there.” 

What are the chances I would walk right back in to what I walked out of—the same symptoms, the same problem, the same possible outcome? My minister failed to mention the young woman was pregnant and not doing well. 


I listened to the young woman speak of rising blood pressure and blurred vision. Fear and sorrow returned as bitter as the night Tara died. I glanced at her mother who sat in the corner of the room near the window. I hoped my pounding heart would not betray my desire to flee.

“They are going to do a cesarean in a few minutes," her mother reported, almost cheerfully. "Then everything will be OK again. Everything is going to be fine.” I wondered if that were the doctor's prediction, or if she were trying to convince herself.  In spite of the mother's upbeat declaration, I knew on the inside she trembled.


“That is great news," I said, attempting to sound as if I believed my own words, "but you must be concerned for your daughter."  She lowered her eyes. We both knew that was the understatement of the century. 


I moved a plastic chair to sit beside the mother and held her hand until orderlies wheeled her daughter away to surgery. I dared not speak for fear of exposing my own struggle for composure. We waited in silence for what seemed an eternity until a doctor returned and pronounced everyone OK.

Retreating to the privacy of the hall outside of the room, I leaned against the wall to steady myself. My heart raced, my hands trembled, my breathing came in gasps, and I was angry. I doubted the experience had been a coincidence.

“God, that wasn’t funny!” I said. 


It definitely was not funny, but it was healing. 

I would not have gone to the hospital that day had I known what I would find when I arrived, but I did go, and for that I am grateful, because I discovered what I suspect God knew all along.  If I could endure what I had just experienced, I could survive anything I might encounter upon future visits to the hospital.

Prayers for strength and courage had been answered. The miracle of healing continued to unfold, and a day came that I thought would never be. I could be a chaplain again.

But. . .like I said. . .sneaky.

Reflections:

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. (Isaiah 55:8)

"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware."~Martin Buber

"Ministry means the ongoing attempt to put one's own search for God, with all the moments of pain and joy, despair and hope, at the disposal of those who want to join this search but do not know how."~Henri J.M. Nouwen 

We need to be angels for each other, to give each other strength and consolation. Because only when we fully realize that the cup of life is not only a cup of sorrow but also a cup of joy will we be able to drink it." ~Henri J.M. Nouwen

"Never worry about numbers, help one person at a time, and always start with the person nearest you."~Mother Teresa

-Am I called to be present with others?

-Have experiences in my life led to increased compassion for the suffering of others? If so, what are they?

-How might God want to use my brokenness?

-Am I being healed? If so, how? 

Prayer:

Spirit of God, water of life, you are the tears of God. Help me weep with those who weep, as well as rejoice with those who rejoice. Help me be less afraid to mourn what I have lost in my own life so that I can keep others company in theirs. In keeping company with them I will be with Christ. From him will come the comfort that he has promised when the time comes." Amen ~Martin L. Smith, A Season For the Spirit

Is That You, God?

I sank into my big red chair with my morning coffee. Why I recalled the minutiae of a day years before, I don't know. Maybe it was the quality of light beyond the window or the chill in the air on that fall morning. Whatever it was, it triggered memories of another autumn day when tears were fresh and hope had been trampled under the heel of sorrow. Or, maybe it was God saying, "Let's try this again."  


My mind wandered to a day shortly after Tara’s death, after we buried her daughter Alden, and before her son Spencer came to live with us. I remembered reading a sympathy card from a friend that included a hand written note, “Don’t let this make you lose your faith.” I recalled the numbness of new grief. I recalled my fear for Spencer who, moments after his mother's funeral, was taken to live in another state. Tortured thoughts of his plight had blocked healing and escalated my pain. At the time, I found my friend's words about losing faith shocking. In retrospect, I could see how dangerously close I had come to doing just that.

I remembered putting the sympathy card aside to turn on the television in an attempt to fill the room with mind-numbing sound until darkness gave me permission to escape to the mercy of sleep. I tuned in to the voice of a southern gentleman. To whom he spoke and about what I don’t remember, but I do remember his words.  
   

“Don’t give up, dahlin’,” he said to someone. “When these things ahcur, we just hafta hamma hamma hamma down the haaaahrd  hiiiway of liiiiife.”

Who knew God has a southern accent?

Twice in a matter of moments, I received encouragement--a card from a friend and the happenstance of words on a television program. Both reminded, “Don’t lose your faith. When these things happen, we just have to hammer, hammer, hammer down the hard highway of life.” But twice I did not hear. 

What hammers and highways have to do with each other I don't know, but in remembering the coincidences of a day long past, I could see. All along God had known the needs of my soul better than I. I recalled the words that had been given for strength and for courage. This time I listened. 


Keep the faith, hold on to hope, and always, always persevere.


It is said that God sometimes speaks through the mouths of people we encounter along the way, and if you think you are getting a message from God, pay attention. It might really be God, especially if you hear it more than once, and if it washes a wound in the hidden recesses of your soul.

Reflections:

Be strong and courageous; do not be terrified; do not be discouraged for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go. (Joshua 1:9)

When the world says, "Give up," Hope whispers, "Try it one more time."~Author Unknown

It helps, I think, to consider ourselves on a very long journey; the main thing is to keep the faith, to help each other when we stumble or tire, to weep and press on. ~Mary Richards


--What are my thoughts about the possibility of God "speaking" through others? 


--Have I had an experience of someone's words seeming to be a message for me?  If so, what happened?


--How do I respond to the thought that when I don't know how to pray the spirit searches my heart and prays for me?


--Have I experienced a time when I struggled with my faith? If so, what were the circumstances.  Has anything changed? If so, what?


--Am I struggling  now? What is my prayer?

Homecoming

"Do I have to go back?" Spencer asked.  "Never," said Sam. (From The Big Red Chair, Amazing Grace, 2/25/12)


On an August morning almost a year after his mother's death, Spencer became our "Double Son"--a grandson by birth, a son by adoption.  At last, I would be able to care for him as I yearned to do, and as I promised my daughter Tara I would.  At last, there was hope for healing.  

We painted a bedroom and declared it his. We filled the space with books and games to replace the ones that had been lost. I hung his mother’s cross from a chain over the corner of a bulletin board in his new room to remind him of her love and her faith. But regardless of what we did, Spencer's heart wasn't with us. 

He spent hours alone in his room playing his mother's guitar, grieving for her and for his little sister Alden. Spencer rarely spoke of what transpired during the year after his mother's death when he lived elsewhere. He rarely mentioned the life he left behind on the day his mother went to the hospital while he stayed with friends to await her return, until one day he asked, "What happened to Cleo?" 


My heart broke to tell him I didn't know what happened to Cleo, his little gray, bob-tailed cat, or for that matter his belongings or other pets, but with his question, I knew what needed to happen.

The eight-week-old kitten marched into our lives with a swagger and frisky confidence--a tiny, tuft of terrifying-in-his-own-mind ball of 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 Spencer 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 and Southern heritage, the Maine Coon kitten brought new life into the house.

And Spencer came home.

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

Reflections:


"Where there is love, there is life."~Mahatma Gandhi


Psalm 23: "He makes me lie down in green pastures.  He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul."


"An animal's eyes, have the power to speak a great language."~Martin Buber


-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?

Who's to Say?

"Never place a period where God has placed a comma."~Gracie Allen

There is a story about a Chinese farmer who had one horse.  The horse helped the farmer plow. It helped the farmer harvest his fields, and it carried the farmer to market when it was time to sell his crop. The horse was important to the farmer. 

One day the horse ran away. For days, the old farmer searched for the horse, but alas, it could not be found. The farmer told his neighbors in the village that he had lost his beloved animal.


His neighbors said, "What bad luck!"


The old farmer shrugged and said, "Bad luck, good luck, who is to say?"

Two days later, the horse returned, bringing with him six wild horses. Six horses were added to the farmer's wealth.


The villagers said, "We heard about the animals you now have.  What good luck!"


The old farmer shrugged, "Good luck, bad luck, who is to say?"


The farmer's son realized if he could tame the wild horses, they could be sold as farm animals. He climbed upon a horse's back, but the horse bucked him off, and he broke his leg. 

The neighbors heard about the farmer's son breaking his leg. "Sorry to hear about your bad luck," they said.

"Good luck, bad luck, who is to say?" the farmer replied.

Not long after that, a war broke out among the city-states in the province of China. The government came through and conscripted every able-bodied man under the age of sixty to go and fight. Because the son had been injured, he was not required to go. That turned out to be something very good because every villager who was drafted into service was killed in the war. 

Once again the farmer said, "Good luck, bad luck, who is to say?"


Reflections:


"True hope dwells on the possible, even when life seems to be a plot written by someone who wants to see how much adversity we can overcome."~Walter Anderson


"What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise."~Oscar Wilde


When Joseph sat in a deep, dark hole, thrown there by his brothers, I doubt if he knew in a matter of time, he would go from the pit to the palace.~Bunny Cox (Reference: Genesis 41:1-57)


-Have I experienced adversity?  If so, how did it affect my prayer life?
-What role has perseverance played in my spiritual journey?
-Have I had an experience that turned out quite differently than I thought it would in the beginning?
-Has God ever surprised me? What happened?
-Have I experienced blessings in disguise?

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