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.

Spirit of Thankfulness

It has been a tough year. No, let’s be honest—it’s been a tough 3-1/2 years. From the first diagnosis of cancer for Jeff, through his surgeries, some not cancer-related, to his final stay in the Hospice Center, we have been through the ringer. And then to deal now with my own diagnosis of breast cancer has felt like a punch in the gut.

I cannot say that I give thanks for these things. There may come a day when I can actually give thanks FOR them; I can’t imagine that day just yet, but I leave open the possibility.

I can give thanks in the midst of these things. And so I do, I give thanks for the love and commitment Jeff and I had for each other; I give thanks for our two sons; I give thanks for our granddaughter; I give thanks for my loving family, and for Jeff’s; I give thanks for how my congregation and friends have taught me to accept their gifts and support; I give thanks for having a truly amazing health insurance program through the Annual Conference that we could face these years without being entirely bankrupted; and I give thanks for having Life Insurance that enables us to stay in our home now.

I could go on and on. I think you catch my drift. I do give thanks in the midst of all circumstances for the will of God is that I see my life as a gift, and through God’s Spirit I am filled.

Thanks be to God.

1 Thessalonians 5:16-19

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. Do not quench the Spirit.

Growing Up

What do I want to be when I grow up? Or more to the point, what do I really want to do when I am on my own? That’s important to figure out because the day is coming in the not too distant future.

I have spent so many years juggling the desires and needs of others that I am not really sure what I want to do all on my own. I get little glimpses into this dilemma when I find myself home alone for several hours. I have never been a stay-at-home mom. I don’t find great joy in doing housework. I love to read but I need human stimulation as well. I like to cook but really for special occasions. I think I would like to weave again, but it’s been so long that I’m not sure. All of these are things that are mostly on the outside of me.

What I really want is to be, as Jen has said, “so full of Christ that there is no room for regrets.” This is especially true as I have faced once again the truth that all the plans I make for the distant or even not so distant future can be thrown awry at anytime.

The phrase that keeps coming to mind is one from the old RSV of the Bible: “into the fullness of the measure of the stature of Christ.” What do I want to be when I grow up, or when I am on my own? I want to be at peace with God, with myself, with my family, with my neighbors. I want to be so full of Christ that there is no room for regrets.

P.S. My surgery went well. The sentinel lymph nodes were clear of cancer. Now I wait for the word on when radiation begins. Thank you all for your prayers, cards, meals and support.

Ephesians 4:13

until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ.

Mercies in Disguise

The Psalmists were really good at telling it like it is. When they were happy, they praised God. When they were mad, they railed at God; then they praised God. When they were sad, they rolled in it; then they praised God. When they were forgetful, they remembered their history; and then they praised God. When they thought God was forgetful, they reminded God who they were; then they praised God.

Over the past few weeks, I have been a bit mad, a bit sad, a bit forgotten. I have railed; I have rolled; and I have reminded. I have agreed with Teresa of Avila who said to Jesus, "If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you don't have too many."

And then in the midst of it all, I have remembered God's faithfulness. God never promised that life would be smooth sailing, or a piece of cake. God promised to be with me through it all, and so God is faithful.

A song that just came out this past spring, Blessings by Laura Stories, says, "What if trials in this life are your mercies in disguise?"

At 11 a.m. on 11/11, I will have a lumpectomy to remove an invasive ductal carcinoma in my left breast. It is small and slow growing, only a Stage 1. The MRI indicates that it is the only one on either side. A mercy in disguise? A chance to trust God’s faithfulness.

Railing, rolling, reminding, but also praising. God is faithful, and God is with me.

Psalm 27:1     

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
   whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
   of whom shall I be afraid?

Friends

Friends

So often, I think I have to do it on my own, contrary to the evidence all around me. I may be a slow learner about this but not only am I surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses—the communion of saints who have gone before me--I am surrounded by a great crowd who witness to me of God’s gracious embrace.

I know that my calling and profession put me out in front in many ways, but I have always felt that I am really a back-stage person like I was in high school, working with Jeanette to get the costumes all ready for the performers. And so, I am almost always surprised when it is apparent that someone “sees” me, and then reaches out to me. I am reminded of Hagar in the wilderness with her son Ishmael She thought they would die in the wilderness but God heard, redeeming their lives.

I know that God sees and hears me. You are the evidence of that. I give thanks for the “drink of water” you offer me.

Genesis 21:17

And God heard the voice of the boy; and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven, and said to her, “What troubles you, Hagar? Do not be afraid; for God has heard the voice of the boy where he is.”

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.