All the Plans

On Monday afternoon, I went to the National Cathedral for our intern Dave’s graduation. Walking from the parking garage to the front of the Cathedral, I encountered a small wrought iron fence enclosing three pieces of stonework. These were chipped portions of the spires that were damaged in the earthquake last August. I remembered how that very area in front of the Cathedral used to be covered with all the stones that would eventually be used to build those towers. I so enjoyed watching the progress over the years as the collection of stones in the yard grow smaller while the towers of Sts. Peter and Paul soared higher. And now some of those very stones are back on the ground damaged.

Then sitting in the Cathedral, I looked up at the beautiful south-facing rose window and noticed that it looked shadowed. Shading my eyes from the glare of the spotlights, I saw that a great black metal mesh has been put in place over the entire interior of the nave and chancel areas. It’s far enough above heads as not to be too intrusive, and yet it’s a reminder of the fragility of even something as substantial as the Cathedral.

It took 83 years to complete this building, which weighs 150,000 tons. The central tower soars 30 stories high. It is a masterpiece of art and craft, bringing glory to the eye and mind of even the most cynical observer. And yet, one earthquake causes enough damage to close it for months, and it will take years to repair.

As I think about this, I am reminded of how all my plans to cover all contingencies that could possibly occur can so easily be brought to naught. I am reminded again of how small I am in the scheme of things. I am reminded that my only security is trusting in God, and that does not mean that I will not fail, or suffer, or die. It simply means that in God who is the Creator and Redeemer of all is the only place I can rest secure at any time and for all time. Not that I shouldn’t make plans and preparations, but I need to keep it all in perspective and not feel so crushed when my plans don’t work out. And this helps me to put even the General Conference of the UMC in perspective. 

Psalm 8:3-4, 9

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established;

what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?

O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!

Let Nothing Upset You

When I was much younger, as a child and youth, I was easily susceptible to tickling. I could quickly end up in a heap on the floor. This made me very uncomfortable. I resolved to change that. Over time, I controlled my reactions so tightly that not much would tickle me.

When I was in college and even in seminary, I remember some times when I wept deeply, almost uncontrollably. Over time, though without quite the same intentional effort I had made about tickling, I became less prone to weeping. I can still choke up with an emotional story, or watching a movie (my boys have always teased me about that), but I find that in close personal situations my tears last only a few seconds.

It could be a way of shutting my emotions down, I realize, but I also realize that becoming victim to my emotions will not help me deal with the realities of life. I recently came across this poem by Teresa of Avila, the 16^th century mystic. I find it to be centering and healing in the midst of turmoil.

Let nothing upset you,


Let nothing startle you.


All things pass;


God does not change.


Patience wins all it seeks.


Whoever has God lacks nothing:


God alone is enough.

Teresa of Avila

Romans 8:31

What then are we to say about these things? If God is for us, who is against us?

A Wedding, The Table, and Wounds

I love the United Methodist wedding service. Probably my favorite part is the Dismissal with Blessing, where I say: “Bear witness to the love of God in this world, so that those to whom love is a stranger will find in you generous friends.” It takes a marriage beyond a twosome to include the world. Another part I like is the Blessing of the Marriage. It encompasses all of their lives. Two portions of it are: “Bless them in their work and in their companionship; in their sleeping and in their waking; in their joys and in their sorrows; in their lives and in their deaths. Finally, by your grace, bring them and all of us to that table where your saints feast for ever in your heavenly home.”

This past Saturday I was the celebrant for a beautifully simple wedding ceremony for two non-members. For them, their primary goal in the wedding was the beginning of a marriage, a life-long partnership. I had enjoyed working with them in the process. When I came to the above portions of the Blessing, I suddenly had to work hard to keep my voice under control. This was the first wedding I have done since Jeff died.  In many ways, I have made peace with this fact, but to come face-to-face with awareness of it in new situations is still hard.

Actually the hardest part of those words for me this time was not the finality of death, but the image of the table. I know that table is for all those who come home to live with God, but in Jeff’s conversion he began to have a very different view. He worried that I would not be there because I would not convert with him. I pray for healing of the wounds this caused between us. And right now, I hold to the affirmation, “In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us. We are not alone.”

Revelation 21:3-4

I heard a loud voice from the throne say, “Look! God’s dwelling is here with humankind. He will dwell with them, and they will be his peoples. God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more. There will be no mourning, crying, or pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” [CEB]

The Shuttle

I missed it! Working at my computer in the office with my back to the window, I didn’t even think to look outside to see the shuttle on its last flight. Suddenly FaceBook was alive with photos taken by friends. I enjoyed seeing it from their perspectives—flying past the dome of the U.S. Capital, flying past the home of a friend in Fredericksburg, from the Iwo Jima Memorial, from Centreville UMC, and so many more.

I remember the first landing of the shuttle. It was on April 14, 1981. I was at a Winchester District clergy meeting. The TV was turned on so that we could watch this historic event. I was just as thrilled as I was in 1962 watching the first orbit of the earth by John Glenn. I mourned with the rest of our nation in 1986 when Challenger exploded on takeoff, and then again in 2003 as Columbia disintegrated over Texas.

Even though I missed seeing the shuttle’s last flight, my imagination is still captured. It’s a reminder to me that the universe is much larger than just the little piece of it I see each day. The views of the earth from space show the beauty of this part of God’s creation. The images from the Hubble telescope expand my horizons. The view of time seen in a composite view from the WMAP leaves me in awe at the wonder of all that God has set in motion, and all I can do is offer my praise.

Psalm 8:3-4

When I look up at your skies,

at what your fingers made—

the moon and the stars

that you set firmly in place—

what are human beings

that you think about them;

what are human beings

that you pay attention to them? [CEB]

When Joy Feels Far Away

There are times in life when joy feels good and bouncy, when all seems right with the world, and everything just purrs along. Then there are times when things don’t just purr along, and things seem off at least a notch or two. When the time is purring, praise songs come so naturally. It’s easy to given thanks. It’s not so easy at other times.

We’ve just celebrated the Resurrection in a really glorious way together. And deep in my spirit the joy resounds, but at times it’s hard to know it nearer the surface. Today, I was suddenly caught by memory and felt very raw. At moments like that, I don’t feel joyful. What I can give thanks for in moments like this is that the joy of Resurrection is real and doesn’t depend on how I feel at any particular moment.

In the midst of it all, I heard from two friends connecting out of the blue from other times and places in my life. It’s important to remember that I am not alone in this journey. Friends and companions along the way help remind me of that. In some way, they are the voice of Jesus calling my name.

John 20:16, 18

Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!”… Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.”

Endings and beginnings

Endings and beginnings, all in there together. “In our end is our beginning, in our time, infinity,…in our death, a resurrection,…unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.”^*

That Thursday, the disciples sat with Jesus around the table, having their feet washed, hearing his strange words with the bread and the cup, but still not realizing that an ending was very near. When it came, most of them weren’t there because in fear they had run away. Afterwards, they sat in the room together in sorrow and fear, not realizing that a beginning was taking place.

Fear is what often keeps us from fully experiencing the holiness of our endings and our beginnings. My brother-in-law Alan, in facing his time with open eyes and heart, is a witness to trusting in the One who is our home now and beyond now.

During these three holiest of days, our endings and our beginnings are so close together. Somehow, may we go beyond the fear of the ending and step forward in trust that the beginning is with the One who loves us beyond all measure.

^*Hymn of Promise, by Natalie Sleeth, 1986.

Emptied

“Emptied.” That’s the word and image that stayed with me while listening to the Christ Hymn from Philippians 2. Though he was in the form of God, Jesus did not grasp at or exploit his divinity, but emptied himself and became one of us. The word is echoing in my soul.

Paul tells us to have the same mind in us as was in Jesus who emptied himself to become one of us. There are many ways that we can empty ourselves. This week I am thinking particularly of some folks who have emptied themselves, or are being emptied, of illusions. It’s an illusion when we think we are in control. It’s an illusion when we think we, or someone we love, will live forever. Whatever the illusions are in our lives, they can keep us from seeing the truth. It often hurts to let go of the illusion but it is the only way to become free.

In the midst of the pain, I pray that I may not grasp at or hold on to that which does not truly give life, but that I may be emptied to step into new life. And that is my prayer for those who relationships are changing; who are watching loved ones die; who are seeing their lives become different than they imagined. As we head into Holy Week and walk the way of sorrows with Jesus, I pray that we may come to an Easter morning of resurrection so bright that everything is new.

Philippians 2:5-7

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness.

Jesus' Touch

This week, Max kept emphasizing that we need at least ten hugs a day, as he would come up to give me a hug. One of his friends at school has been going around giving hugs, saying “10 hugs a day.”

Last Saturday, I went to a cancer survivors retreat hosted by the Oncology Nurse Society. One chair at each table had a blank post-it note hidden on it. This note entitled the bearer to a 10-minute chair massage. I had the note from my table, and went for my turn during the afternoon break.

I’ve had massages before but never one in an official massage chair. The pads were soft on my knees and my head was cradled comfortably with my forearms resting on a pad in the front. As the masseur massaged my back and neck, I could feel my muscles relax a bit, Since my eyes were closed, I was caught off guard as he began to massage my hands, and memories flooded back in.

Touch has always been important to me. Jeff would sometimes hold hands as we walked but he never liked to do much cuddling. When we would travel by car the passenger had a couple of main jobs. The first was to read aloud to the driver. We read The Lord of the Rings triology, Madeleine L’Engle’s books, C.S. Lewis’ space trilogy and lots of others. The second task is that as the driver’s hands became tired with holding the wheel, the passenger would give a hand massage. It is one of the most wonderful gifts that someone can give—to have the tension and stress eased out through each finger until it all goes out through the tip of the pinkie.

Max’s hugs, hand massages—these are ways that God uses the hands and arms of others to offer healing. As we sing in one of my favorite hymns Now the Green Blade Riseth: “When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain, Jesus’ touch can call us back to life again, fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been: Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.”

Matthew 8:15

He touched her hand, and the fever left her, and she got up and began to serve him.

Anxious Moments

Often we hear that it is change that makes us anxious. Last Friday I was at a conference where one of the presenters conjectured that it’s not so much change that makes us anxious, but pain that brings us anxiety-- either experiencing it or fearing it.

Last year, during Jeff’s last several weeks, he kept asking for more and more pain medicine. His doctor and nurses didn’t deny his experience of pain, but they were baffled at the rapid increase. When his doctor finally prescribed an anti-anxiety medication without further increasing the pain meds, Jeff reported that his pain was better. His pain was real, but it was also being intensified by his anxiety at the fear of having pain or of not being able to control it.

I have never had to experience the level of physical pain he had, but I know that I find myself anxious when I face other kinds of pain. And so in my seeking to control my anxiety, I am most likely to either avoid –flee from the possible source—or comfort myself by feeding, consuming my way through it. I have been doing a lot of the latter in the last several months, eroding much of the good I had done for my body and health. As I realize this, I know that I am going to have move back out of a reactionary mode into a more thinking, reflective mode. This is going to be hard, and even the thought of that raises my anxiety. So what I need most is to be able to rest against God’s breast like a child that is already weaned.

Psalm 131:2

But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.

Listening

Listening is a really important gift. That’s one of the things that a spiritual director does—listening to what is going on in a directee’s life and listening for where God is at work. A director doesn’t lay out a path for someone to follow; rather they ask questions that may elicit insights.

Listening is not only important; it is also neglected in our lives. We don’t listen to one another very well. We are often formulating what we will say next based on our own need. There are so many times that I begin to speak before I have really heard what Max is saying, and usually I get it wrong. Or even if I get it right, it cuts him off short.

I also have a hard time listening to what God might be saying in my life. Sunday night at our Lenten Disciplines group, I was asked some questions that were hard for me to consider. They are questions that make me look at what God purposes for me at this time. I can’t say clearly what that is but I do know that God will be with me in the purpose, in the discerning, and in the future.

Jeremiah 29:11

For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.

So Much Love

I am surrounded by so much love, and I am thankful even right now when I think about having to take my niece back to the airport in the morning. More than anything else I have learned during my treatment for breast cancer, and during Jeff’s illness and after his death, is that I am really not alone. No matter how much I may feel as though I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, all I have to do is turn my head slightly to the right or left and see who is helping me hold it up. Even when I can’t see them, they are there: friends who check in with me, who ask deeper questions about how I’m doing, who accept when I want to talk and when I don’t. In all this I am truly blessed.

So when I think of the all the days and tasks that lay ahead and find them somewhat overwhelming, I want to remember that when Jesus invites me to share his yoke to make my burden light, he has given me sisters and brothers to be his face and his shoulders. As the rabbi said, “It is enough.”

Romans 12:15

Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.

Day by Day for Lent

On Fat Tuesday, I received an email from a friend and former member--Linda. She wrote of several ways that she was looking at this impending Lenten journey--rebooting a computer, training for a marathon, learning a new habit, and an image from history, the Bonfire of the Vanities. I found them to be intriguing. She added some fuel to stoke the coals that have been smoldering. 

I will have to see what this Lent holds for me. Physically, it is the recovery period for the radiation treatments which ended on Fat Tuesday. Part of my Lenten discipline will be accepting that it takes the same amount of time to heal that it took to do the radiation: 6-1/2 weeks. By Easter, my stamina and skin should be somewhat resurrected. 

Then there is the matter of my spirit which has also taken a beating, but that has gone on for a good bit longer. In the matter of grief, I have heard that it takes about two years to work through the initial stages to come to a balance of some sort. It’s good to know that a new balance will come because just now I am caught between the reactions to anxiety--fighting, fleeing and care-taking, mostly the latter two, though I have been know to get feisty lately too.

What I think I need to learn from this physical recovery period during Lent is that the spiritual and emotional recovery period will be just as slow and deliberate. I can’t rush it no matter how much I want to. I want to jump to the new balance, but that’s just not how it works. Day by day, step by step, season by season, and all along the way learning to trust in God’s grace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

((Sighs))

((Sigh)) I evidently have a tendency to sigh, according to my boys. Actually, I know I do. Different sighs can mean different things—exasperation, wonder, exhaustion, questioning, and more. And, of course, a sigh can mean nothing more than an expelling of breath, especially if I have been holding it for some reason or none at all.

Andrew Greeley, author of several novels that I really enjoyed, writing about people of Irish heritage would describe someone’s sighs as sounding like they were on the verge of death. I don’t think mine sound that bad, but they can definitely elicit groans or concern from my sons.

Right now, I think my sighs come more from tiredness as the radiation treatments have sapped my stamina, though I do still feel as if I am holding my breath, waiting. The question is am I waiting for the other shoe to drop or am I waiting in hopeful expectation.

These images from Scripture help me: God shaped me from the dust of the earth and breathed life into me; and then the risen Jesus breathed on the disciples, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

Even when I don’t know what my sighs mean, God does for God’s Spirit takes them and turns them into prayer.

May my ((sighs)) move beyond exasperation and exhaustion to wonder and being filled with God’s holy breath.

Romans 8.26:

Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.

Tears

Max and I use the Upper Room for our devotions at breakfast. Monday’s entry began with a couple going on a long-anticipated trip shortly after their retirement. A wave of grief hit me. Jeff and I did a lot of traveling in our early days, and we had enjoyed the travels we could take with kids in tow. There were places we still wanted to go visit, and favorite places to revisit. As I read, I suddenly felt the loss of a dream.

After my father died, those waves of grief often hit me at choir rehearsal as we sang phrases in hymns and anthems. I intentionally sat at the end of the pew during rehearsals so that I could simply turn my head towards the window and hide my tears. By the time Sunday morning came, I knew what we were singing and I was able to sing the words without tears.

I know that there are moments in sermons, especially during our current series, when I get choked up, but I have never liked crying in front of others. My boys have always liked to tease me about tearing up while watching movies. In reality, usually my eyes water up and that’s all. When somebody sees them, generally they stop.

I have a first-century tear vase that Jeff brought back from one of his trips to the Holy Land. The story about the tear vase is that a woman would catch in them her tears from the significant times in her life. After learning that tradition, I have always seen the woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her tears as pouring out all the tears of her life, not just those of a moment.

Grief and tears are something I am going to need to ponder further, but probably not where others will see me.

Luke 7:38b

She stood behind him at his feet, weeping, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair.

Waking Up

Today, as I drove to my twentieth radiation treatment, I was almost on automatic pilot. Do you know how it is when even something that is out of the ordinary can become so routine?

A Metro bus blocked traffic in front of the hospital for a while causing me to wait but I didn't worry because I had time. Then I looked up. Not far from VHC are two radio or communication towers. The closer one is taller by far. What caught my eye was the fact that two men were being raised on lines, to work on the tower, I assumed. As they went higher and higher, I was amazed by their bravery. I would have been terrified. The sight of them, trusting to the cables and those on the ground who were spotting them, woke me up from being on automatic pilot. I became more observant.

A woman who is almost always after me was there before me. I encountered a group of nursing students--women and men-- walking down the hall. I heard snatches of different conversations than normal. Everything today seemed just a bit out of the ordinary causing me to take more notice.

It reminded me of how often we walk through life no longer seeing the palpable grace at work. Perhaps when we first came to a sense of commitment to follow Christ, we were more aware of God's touch everywhere, but after a while we no longer saw with such fresh eyes. We became habituated to the holy presence, like the two disciples who walked along the road to Emmaus not even realizing that it was Christ himself who walked and talked with him.

Today, my awareness was shocked awake by the sight of the two men high in the air. The two disciples' eyes were opened when they saw Jesus break bread for them. Oh, to stay open to seeing Christ's presence in each moment of the day!  

Memories

I picked up a book at the Cokesbury store at Wesley Theological Seminary. It's by someone who was a student at Duke Divinity School when Jeff and I were there. I thought, "Oh, I need to show Jeff what Paul is up to." Then I remembered that I can't do that anymore. No tears were in that particular moment of remembering. It was more a sense of loss of shared memory. 

There are moments that I think of things I would like to ask my parents about--stories that they told, places we visited together, occasions shared as a family. Those moments are also losses of shared memory.

I know that we cannot retain all the details of all our memories. That's why it is helpful to have community around us. Last Friday, I was able to spend a few hours with Susan. We had not been together really for over 30 years. As we walked around looking at art, we talked. Different memories emerged that I thought I had forgotten. It was fun to keep remembering things together, and make some new ones for now.

I visit Fran who is still so sweet but whose memory has faded so much. Her husband remembers, but she doesn't. In a way, that is so sad, but are we just the memories we've accumulated? If those memories are gone, then are we too gone?

I don't think so. As Jesus prepared to leave his disciples, he promised them that the Holy Spirit would come and remind them of all he had taught them. So this Holy Spirit-filled community, this Body of Christ remembers. And even when we all forget, God does not forget, for we are written upon the palm of God's hand. 

Verbs

Last Sunday, Scott Tong shared three verbs from his perspective of twenty years of living after his cancer diagnosis. They were, with my interpretation of what I heard, invest: not in money, but in what is of lasting value, dance: celebrate in the midst of life and wrestle: grapple with the hard questions—with God.

Even though I haven’t thought of them as verbs, I’ve had right much time over the last few years to consider what are the really important values of life for me.

Love—I have to make a decision that seeks the best that is possible for the other, a reflection of the relationship that is God within the Trinity, and that seeks to draw each creature into it;

Hope—I believe that all life—yours, mine and ours together—has purpose, that at the heart of creation burns a furnace of purpose that comes before and goes beyond the span of my individual life; and

Sing—I have always believed that life is a musical—sometimes one where people burst into song, but more often one where the rhythm of God’s heart beats in the midst of life seeking to draw all creation into harmony and counterpoint.

These are some of the verbs that shape my life. Some days they are relatively easy to live into. On other days, I have to make a decision for them. They cannot simply be about how I feel, about my emotions. They are choices that I make and have to reaffirm each day.

Romans 12:12

Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer.

Oh, the Dash

Oh, the dash—the life that we live between when we were born and when we die. It could just be a way of marking time. It could be drudgery. It could be a celebration. I confess that at different moments it has been all those things for me.  

When I sit playing a card game on my iPad, I may well be marking time. That can be okay. Over the past nearly four years, I have spent a lot of time waiting in medical facilities. Sometimes the brain just needs to “veg.” There can be faithfulness in this.

As my father witnessed much of what he had been a part of in building at his company begin to be dismantled, he didn’t find nearly as much joy in going to work as he had previously. He talked about “beating that d… drum.” Sometimes we just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other in order to keep going. There can be faithfulness in this.

We often think of celebration as being occasional—birthday, anniversary, Christmas, and more. I would like to grow in the discipline of finding joy and celebrating in each moment. I believe this would widen my heart and my vision to seeing where God is at work in places that often appear hidden. Today the radiation machine “glitched” shortly before my appointment so I got the opportunity to talk with a woman for whom today’s treatment would have been the last of 47! She is a retired physicist. With the short time we normally wait, I would never have the chance to talk with her. I might get to see her tomorrow morning as we make up for today’s glitch.

May I live my dash fully and faithfully.

Re-entry

Our time in Texas was wonderfully relaxing. We didn’t keep a busy schedule. We basically chilled with my brother and sister-in-law, getting some time with my niece, her husband and their kids—the “gbs” as they are called (grandbabies).

Other than checking the church voice mail a few times a day to make sure there were no emergencies and getting my license replaced, I did little that was productive. I worked out at Curves, walked with Barbara and her neighbor, and ate too much. There were few demands on us and that was wonderful.  As we drove to the airport in San Antonio, besides being nervous about going through security with no driver’s license, I was aware that I was sad and reluctant to go. Not only would I miss being with our family, but I knew I was heading back into the storm in a way. Radiation loomed. The basement has to be waterproofed and everything in it moved. Things still have to be sorted. Coming back to my congregation was a joy; everything else felt like a chore.

In some ways, I would like to be an ostrich, sticking my head in the ground, ignoring what’s around me. I’m aware that there are times I do that—maybe not with everything, but with some things. If I ignore them maybe they will go away. I know, however, that’s not how it works. My Family Systems coach reminds me to make contact with what I find troubling. Facing it, rather than avoiding it, will be much better in the long run. So, I’m trying to face it, even when I have my ostrich moments. Thank you for your patience.

Psalm 131

LORD, my heart isn’t proud;

 
      my eyes aren’t conceited.

 
   I don’t get involved with things

 
   too great or wonderful for me.

No. But I have calmed 
and quieted myself

 
   like a weaned child on its mother;

 
   I’m like the weaned child on me.

Israel, wait for the LORD—

 
   from now until forever from now!

What Cancer Can't Do

A good friend gave me a bracelet for Christmas. In the middle it says, “What cancer can’t do.” On either side in small letters it says, “corrode faith, shatter hope, destroy peace, silence courage, invade the soul, steal eternal life, conquer the spirit, cripple love, kill friendship, suppress memories.”

It is a good reminder as I face the beginning of radiation next week. It is also a good reminder for me that many persons facing cancer, and other trials in life such as the death of a loved one, do find their faith corroded, their hope shattered, and all of it. As I ponder this, I confess that there have been moments that have been tinged with a bit of fear and despair. For me those moments come most often at night, and at times I am trying to power through all on my own.

I give thanks that God knows me so intimately, down to my cellular DNA as I said to someone today, that my moments of fear and despair aren’t hidden but held in a deep embrace of acceptance. It is when I am held in that embrace that my faith and hope are restored, that peace returns, that courage rears up, and my soul is strengthened. It is then that I know a hint of the joy of eternal life in my healing spirit, in the love that surrounds me, in my friends, and in my memories.

For everyone who is sitting on the edge of hope but not quite able to dive in, may the waters of grace lapping at their toes invite them further in.

Romans 8:24-26

For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.

Release to the Captives

Tonight, in our Renovaré group, we reflected on this question: “How does Jesus speak the good news of ‘release to the captives’ to your life?” There are so many persons who are in real captivity—to oppression, to addiction, to war—that to consider myself a captive seems a bit self-centered and maybe even arrogant. As we talked, I realize that I am captive in a way.

There are some, many even, mornings that I wake up and my first thought is not joy for a new day, but a sense of “oh, it’s yet another day.” Last week, I stood in the shower suddenly overwhelmed by all the decisions and details that face me; and I realize that I feel like I am held in captivity all alone.

It might seem that release from this captivity would be to be relieved of having to make the decisions, but that is not realistic, nor even desirable in the long run. So what “good news of release” can, or does Jesus speak to me? He reminds me that though I may feel alone in this journey, I am not alone. He is with me, and he has given me others with whom I can touch base, who support me, who lift me up when I feel low or overwhelmed.

When the people who sat in darkness saw a great light, it was not someone to take them away from their situation, but it was and is Someone who came to be with them in the midst of life—the One who chose not to grasp at equality with God, but humbled himself in human likeness. And so this Advent—this approaching Christmas—I hear a word of release, and I see a light in the darkness.

Luke 4:17b-19

He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written: ¹⁸“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, ¹⁹to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

An In-between Time

A time between two Advents: the first coming of Christ in the Babe of Bethlehem and the second coming of Christ when the New Creation will be all complete; in the-already-and-the-not-yet. This Advent seems to have more of this resonance than usual, especially the 14^th. It would have been Jeff’s 57^th birthday and it was the day before Aaliyah’s second birthday, so she was over to celebrate with us. I think all three of us have particularly been missing Jeff this week in our own ways.

The news yesterday from my medical oncologist was good. I don’t need chemotherapy so can start hormone therapy and radiation. Tonight I took the first pill that I will take every day for five years. It feels like an another already-and-not-yet for me. The happiness over the news has now moved into the reality of long-term treatment. I am mostly confident, but I confess to some tremulousness about the treatment itself and its outcome.

It is especially in a time like this that the almost mournful melody line and words of that great hymn echo in my head and in my soul:

Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand;

ponder nothing earthly minded, for with blessing in his hand,

Christ our God to earth descendeth, our full homage to demand.

         …the Light of light descendeth…

         …the powers of hell may vanish as the darkness clears away.

I stand, we stand, in this holy, tremulous place and time, in between, touched both by the grief of this world and the hope that lies ahead.

Revelation 21:4b-5

“Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” And the one who was seated on the throne said, “See, I am making all things new.”

Preparation

Preparation.  That's the word for this week in my online Advent retreat. In the season of Advent we prepare for the coming of the Christ-child, God incarnate among us. We also prepare for the celebration of the season, decorating our houses and our trees, putting presents under the tree.

Last Saturday, a group of six band students spent four hours in helping prepare our yard for the winter. In addition to raking out the leaves, they trimmed back the day lilies and the irises, the butterfly bush, the burning bush and the miscanthus (ornamental grasses). The year's growth has been spent, and now the plants need to lay dormant for the winter so that they can prepare for next year's growth.

Earlier in the year, I spent a lot of time in a different kind of preparation. At times, I prepared for what lay ahead by making sure that our legal papers were in order, that the forms for Jeff's disability leave were completed, that materials got back and forth to his school. I prepared by making sure that the appropriate pain medicines were on hand. I made plans for the services to celebrate his life and resurrection. And I tried to gently prepare the boys and Jeff's family.

All the while, Jeff was preparing as well. While my preparations involved more action in the world, Jeff's took him further and further within himself. He would rouse himself from this inward journey every now and then with instructions for the boys and for me--things that he wanted to make sure we remembered. As time went on, those arousals were fewer and further between. The last coherent words that Jeff spoke on Saturday in the hospice center were a question: did the dog get fed?

In a sense, Jeff's preparations were like the work in our yard. His outer growth had been spent, and now he was getting ready for the dormancy of winter in order to wake to a Spring of new growth.

Preparation for the coming of the God who is born among us.

Expectancy

“On the tiptoe of expectation.” I am doing an online Advent retreat that focuses on one word from the scriptures each week. This week’s word is expectancy. I signed up because I feel the need to go deeper this season, however this one word almost brought me to a standstill.

As a child, the expectancy before Christmas was wonderful. The preparations, the services—all led to an increasing sense of waiting with baited breath. I remember too the expectancy of waiting for Andrew to be born to another woman, yet placed in my arms. Waiting for the pager to go off to say she was in labor was almost agony. And then six years later, waiting for Maxwell’s borning cry was literally agony as the neonatologist worked to revive him right after birth.

There are so many different perspectives on expectancy, but what almost brought me to a standstill was the question How have you experienced expectancy in the past year? This year’s expectancy was difficult. Knowing that the death of one I loved was imminent drew me forward and pushed me back all at the same time. I was drawn forward to take the steps needed to help Jeff and all of us prepare; I was pushed back by my reluctance to say goodbye.

As I reflect on the experience of expectancy and waiting with baited breath, I become aware that I have not drawn a full, deeply satisfying breath for months. I am tensed. The tension could be from holding myself in so tightly that I cannot relax. Or sitting at the edge of expectation can be a sort of tension—the tension inherent in being poised for some action, or to spring into action. Maybe this time of grieving, and adjusting to a different life, is a season of being poised for something that is just ahead. What it is I cannot say, but I will wait for it—a new life, a new birth.  Was this how God felt waiting for Mary to come to full term? Is this how God feels waiting for us to come to full term in receiving grace?

Advent--Expectancy. Breathing. Waiting. Hoping. Abiding. Receiving.