Luminous Beauty

Luminous Beauty

I walk and walk along the way

Sometimes with my focus mainly on

The obstacles that would cause me

To stumble

To take a tumble

Rey sees a rabbit, a squirrel

And pulls as if to give chase

He sees a friend—known or unknown—

And with his growl asks to be petted

We walk many of the same paths

Each day

We learn the patterns of some

With whom we cross paths

The writer who takes time to shoot baskets

            And loves to give Rey a tousled head

The dog who charges from across her yard

            But cannot cross her invisible fence

The gardener who is making order among her

            Seemingly chaotic plantings

But then I look up

And see a luminous beauty

Of trunks with shedding bark

The blossoms fading amid the leaves

And all my questions vanish for a moment

Of absolute delight

And pure joy                             

Trying to Avoid What Can't Be Avoided

I first heard Mitch Albom speak about his book Tuesdays with Morrie shortly after it was published in 1997. I was touched by the subject since it was about Albom’s conversations with his former professor Morrie Schwartz as the latter was suffering from ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's disease). I avoided reading the book for several years even though it was highly popular. It brought my father’s last months and his death from ALS too closely to mind for me.

When a colleague, Cheryl Simmons, was diagnosed with progressive bulbar palsy, it felt as though a scab was pulled off a wound. Across the Conference, and on Facebook, I watched, and prayed, as she bravely fought for every moment she could. When she gave away her piano and her car, I saw Daddy’s frustration and tears again as he knew he could no longer play golf.

I had some of the same feelings of avoidance over the last couple of weeks as Facebook has been overwhelmed with the “ALS Ice-bucket Challenge.” In reality, I hoped I would escape being “nominated” for the challenge, but that was not to be. I had to think about it long and hard. Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for the funds being raised for research.

The reality is that each one of us will have to face a moment, either suddenly or perhaps slow in coming, when we will no longer have any control in this life, and we will have to say our goodbyes. And before we reach that moment, more likely than not, we will have had to face it with someone we love. Even those of us who deal with death and dying more than many others will sometimes try to avoid it, but sometimes it slaps us in the face like ice cold water.

[You can see what I decided to do here: my ALS Challenge]

United Church of Canada Creed’s final phrase:

“In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us. We are not alone. Thanks be to God.”

Oh, the Lies that We Believe

What are the lies that we believe? Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest, professor, spiritual director, found his deepest sense of purpose in being the companion of a core member of a L’Arche community. He said that there are three lies we believe:

         We are what we have.

         We are what we do.

         We are what others say about us.

When we believe these lies, we forget what is the singular most important truth: we are God’s beloved. That’s right—God’s beloved. God loves us not for what we have, not for what we do, not for what anyone says about us. God loves us for a very simple reason: we are God’s children. I am God’s child; you are God’s child.

Maybe in our best moments we can believe this, but there are so many more times when we do not-- and even more times maybe that we do not even love ourselves. If, in God’s infinite triune wholeness, the love of the Three-in-One flows so freely that we—you, I—are invited to sit at the table, to come into the fellowship, into the embrace, doesn’t that say something about being beloved?

I know that there are moments when we may find ourselves deep in darkness and cannot see any possibility of light, or love. In those times even the love that is expressed for us does not feel like enough of a cord to lead us to the light. Instead, we can only think of a “final solution” that might end the pain, the darkness.

And so tonight, I weep for those who know such utter darkness, who have believed the lies. I do not condemn them. And most of all, I do not despair completely, because I believe in One who is so powerfully Love itself that even death cannot end the invitation, the embrace.

Isaiah 49:15b-16a

Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.

A Time for Silence

I know that even as a very small child, I loved to talk with people, at least when I felt safe, like at home. I remember talking to adults who were guests of my parents. While that may be endearing for a little bit, it really can get annoying to the adults who want to carry on their own conversation.

I have been sensing the need for more silence in my life, the kind of silence that makes room for listening. I do work hard at that, but I still find that all too often I just have to make an interjection, often elucidating what someone is talking about. On the positive side, it is being engaged with the other; on the not-so-positive side, oh, all right, on the negative side, it can interrupt the other’s thought process, or even stymie their attempt or ability to work through an issue on their own.

I can’t promise that I will never speak up or that I will take a vow of silence, but I think I need to practice listening a bit more, to others, to God.

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 7b

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.