Puffs of Anger

I have a confession to make. I know that often we want our leaders to already have gotten their stuff together, but I have to admit that I don’t. I may be taking a risk in making my confession public. I hope you can understand.

 I get puffs of angry feelings. Okay, sometimes they are more than puffs—more like clouds that hover, but not generally. Puff or cloud, they do have the effect of coloring my memories and my decision-making ability.

And since there is no one who bears fault for this situation—Jeff did not choose to become ill; he did not choose to die; God did not make Jeff ill—my anger becomes apparent to me in dealing with the stuff that is left to sort.

There were some things that I was never really able to come to grips with about some of Jeff’s decisions in life. I could understand and accept his desire to become Roman Catholic, but then he withdrew from so many other parts of our normal life experience. He would say he did not want to “scandalize” anyone with his conversion, but the effect was to leave me alone in dealing with the ramifications of his choices. He no longer wanted to spend time with people whose company we had enjoyed together. Or if he did spend the time, he would either become confrontational or morose when questions in conversation arose. And so, these feelings keep arising within me as I try to sort through the things that are left to deal with. How do I sort through the things while I am still sorting through the feelings?

I don’t have a real rosy answer to this one. It’s a struggle. I want to remember with joy, and often I can but not always. At this point, advice is not what I need but simply prayers and patience—and music. Each night I go to sleep listening to the beautiful piano music that AnnaMaria recorded for Jeff and me in his last days. And balance is found for the night.

Ephesians 4:26

Be angry but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger.

Dear God

For our Renovare homework this week, we were to write a brief letter to God, recalling the first time we sense God’s presence and some of the ways God has revealed Godself to us. This is a bit of what I wrote:

Dear God,

From my earliest memories you have been a part of my life. I remember in the third grade when the Celestial Choir was to sing in the worship service. Our seats were directly behind the Communion rail. As I looked up toward the altar, I was aware of a shimmering presence that I could only know as You. And you have always been there, even when I was in high school and felt like my prayers were only bouncing off the ceiling back at me. Even then I didn't doubt you. I just wasn't sure how to reach you, but over time I became aware that you were always there, especially when I didn’t “feel” like it.

Usually it was when I was looking back that I could sense your hand at work, guiding and protecting me. It's so hard to see it in the midst of the present moment, but I have come to trust your presence more and more. I know that's why the Israelites re-membered the story of the Exodus, moving out of slavery in Egypt through the wilderness, eventually to the Promised Land. They had to hear the story again and again, to learn that you were there with them, setting them free, leading them, providing for them. When we don't rehearse the stories, we forget. When we tell the stories, when we hear the stories again and again, they become engrained within us, a part of us--just as you have always been with us. That's why we tell the story of the Good News again and again. That's why we remember how you gave yourself for us as we celebrate the Holy Meal. Every time we tell the story, every time we taste the bread and drink the wine, you become even more a part of us.

And so I give you thanks for your love, for making and telling us the stories that draw us to you.

Your daughter,

Mochel

Anxious Grasping

Yesterday, during our Communion service for the Arlington District Clergy meeting we heard a scripture read and were asked to silently reflect on it and then share what words we particularly remembered and what effect does the reading have on it we think, do or believe. The reading was from Luke 12:22-31. Normally, I would have pulled the text up on my iPad to read along with, but I just listened to it. It’s familiar words spilled over me, “do not worry.”

I heard the admonition in two areas—first, the church—all of it: our congregation, the district, the conference and the general denomination; and second, my own life. When I worry, or am anxious, I am more likely to grasp hold of something, clinging for dear life. Unfortunately, when I grasp hold I tighten down and am less open to receive the gifts of God’s Spirit. It’s hard to have enough open to receive when it is clinched tightly to something else.

As the Church looks at the decline of the last 45+ plus, the tendency is to clutch at something, anything just in order to survive. That clutching hold is usually out of fear. What if God is calling us to be the Church in a new way? What if something needs to die in order for the power of resurrection to be manifest?

And as I look around my house and see all that still needs to be done, feeling all the responsibility resting solely on my shoulders, I hear Jesus telling me to open my hand and receive.

In both areas, I don’t know what it is that is around the corner, but I do know that God is already there so I don’t really need to worry and be afraid.

How Are You...Really?

I hear the care and concern in people’s voices when they ask how we are doing.  It is genuine. And I answer, “we’re doing okay.” And we are doing okay, for the most part. In some ways, I feel as though we should be ready to move on, and yet it is not really possible, not yet.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Back-to-School Night. It was something I had always done by myself so I didn’t think too much about it ahead of time. By the end of the evening, I felt raw. I had not prepared myself for all the caring, compassionate encounters with parents who hadn’t really seen me since Jeff’s death. In those moments passing in the halls, or sitting in classrooms, they conveyed their condolences. I received them, hopefully graciously.

In some ways, nothing has changed--I still do the shopping, planning, supervising of homework--but in reality everything has changed. There is a hole here in the fabric of our lives, and sometimes it is just too much to conceive. We’ve been rearranging lots of things in the house, in our lives. That’s kept me busy, and yet it can’t really assuage the feeling of absence, of loss.

So how are we…really? We’re doing okay, as well as can be expected, but even if we don’t say it, not even to ourselves, we are still staring into this gaping hole that we don’t really know what to do with. There will likely come a time when we find healing. Right now, the edges are still so raw that, as much as we would like to pretend that everything’s fine, we can’t ignore them. Even as we engage in the normal things we have to do everyday, there is always a nagging pull. And right now, that’s how it must be.

Psalm 13:1-2a

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long?