Celebrating that Christ Cannot Be Boxed and Sold at a Discount

"It's not over this birthing. 

There are always newer skies

into which 

God can throw stars. 

When we begin to think 

that we can predict the Advent of God,

that we can box the Christ 

in a stable in Bethlehem, 

that's just the time

that God will be born 

in a place we can't imagine and won't believe. 

Those who wait for God  

watch with their hearts and not their eyes, 

listening 

always listening 

for angel words."   

    

Kneeling in Bethlehem

Ann Weems      

  

photograph: "Emerging" 

San Leandro, December 2021   

 

Not sure what caused the formatting schism. 

Middling Along

 Tyler and I simply do not agree on Christmas trees. He feels uncomfortable with the idea of chopping them down. He does not go in for artificial trees either. I, however, love buying and putting up a Christmas tree, and I have no issues with recycling them in January.  I have been collecting ornaments since I was two years old. That was when my mother decided I needed my own little tree with non-breakable ornaments so I could at will decorate, un-decorate, and decorate again rather than experimenting with the family tree. While I don't feel the need to put up a tree every year, I do not want to abandon the practice altogether. Tyler and I  compromise as best we can, and he is always willing to string the lights. 

While I enjoy going to a Christmas tree lot, this year I spotted some small trees in front of the grocery store. Not perfect trees, certainly. However, I thought that perhaps a small tree might be easier to manage this year.  I lifted one up for closer inspection. 

"Not that one," came a voice from behind me. I turned to see a man, probably close to my age, sitting by the front door. I see him fairly often, and we always say hello to one another. I smiled, set that tree down, and lifted the one next to it and turned to him. 

"Yes, better, although it is still a Charlie Brown tree." I laughed and replied, "Well, this is a bit of a Charlie Brown Christmas." I turned to walk into the store to purchase it. He quietly asked if I could buy him a sandwich. 

I did not buy him lunch, but I gave him $5 on my way out. "This is for your interior design consultation." We both laughed and he then said, "Give my love to the family." I assured him I would. That is what I am doing now. 

I fear the story of the tree is better than the tree itself. I am not at all confident that it will last until Epiphany, and I am hoping it will not lose all its needles before Christmas. Also, I have learned that decorating a small tree is not easy. I am trying not to open every box of ornaments, but that does take some of the fun out of it. However, this morning I realized that I was not letting the tree speak to me, a step that my mother believed to be critical. I shall try again later today. 

 I decided to put my small terracotta creche on the desk in the dining room, just behind where I sit for my Zoom meetings.  This is the first year that I have not simply set up the whole nativity scene right out of the box. At the moment, there are only two sheep present. I don't know why I decided to leave the manger empty, but I am surprised how much comfort I feel when I gaze into that small, almost empty space. I think I am feeling gratitude that it looks like there just might be room for us all.  

A couple of years ago a friend sent me some lines from what she thought was an old carol. She wondered if I knew the source. I have not been able to find anything other than they appear in a book entitled,  A Way to the Heart of Christmas, edited by Brian Linard. The book has no further elaboration about these few lines:    

   

The middle of the night 

is the beginning of the day. 

The middle of need 

is the beginning of the light.  

      

Advent really is about learning to quietly find our way to Christmas. It is about making room for the Christ who sits by the door. It is about accepting that it is we, not Christ, who have not yet arrived. In a recent post, Sister Joan Chittister wrote, "And now, we all wait, not for the coming of Christ—God took care of that—but for the coming of the Gospel, which we are delaying in the name of God."  Those words are staying with me. I think that for some of us, it takes a long time to learn to live the Gospel. That is why both empty places and community are important. We need empty places to pray, and we need community to help us journey on. 

 

Let us boldly light the candle of love this Sunday and give thanks that we have a place.    

     

The Hermitage

"Every human heart is a hermitage, if we care to enter and find ourselves there in union with all. In solitude friend, foe and stranger are equally known in love."  

Web of Silence, Laurence Freeman, OSB  

 

Learning to meditate is learning to love. Father Freeman also writes, "In that stillness we learn the language of silence, the 'language of cosmic adoration' as Gandhi called it. Like all languages it is best learned by total immersion." 

 It is time to re-learn how to speak in our mother tongue.

Blessings on your journey.     

  

Meditation in the Christian Tradition is held on Zoom every Wednesday at 4:00 p.m. Pacific Time.  Contact me if you would like the link.  

 image:  San Leandro, June, 2021

Forbearance

 I recently awakened with an image of a door that had been forced open. As I cautiously peered in, I could only see darkness.  Being a somewhat practical person, and given the fact that the door face now had exposed and protruding nails, I placed a light in the doorway. However, the light was too big. I could not walk past it. This poem reminds me that I still need to explore this dream. I have not yet removed that light in order to step into the unknown.  

Tyler, Jack, and I spent a few days over Thanksgiving with friends in northern Arizona. The night sky was beautifully illuminated by the moon and stars; the air was clear and cold. Silence was both everywhere, and nowhere; its exact location could not be located. Eternity felt like a friend. 

   

My gratitude to the author of this poem, and to the person who shared it with me. "Bearing the truth." Such a potent phrase; such an important lesson.  

Allow

There is no controlling life.
Try corralling a lightning bolt,
containing a tornado. Dam a
stream and it will create a new
channel. Resist, and the tide
will sweep you off your feet.
Allow, and grace will carry
you to higher ground. The only
safety lies in letting it all in –
the wild and the weak; fear,
fantasies, failures and success.
When loss rips off the doors of
the heart, or sadness veils your
vision with despair, practice
becomes simply bearing the truth.
In the choice to let go of your
known way of being, the whole
world is revealed to your new eyes.   

 

Danna Faulds   

  

image: Sunol, February 2016. I love this tree.   

    

Meditation in the Christian Tradition, every Wednesday, 4:00 p.m. via Zoom

SpiritCare Weekly Meditation, December 2, 1021

 Advent Blessings to you all! 

The four weeks of Advent are a blessed reprieve,  especially for those of us who simply cannot spring from Thanksgiving into Christmas with alacrity. I am writing this on Dec. 2, and already two people have told me that their tree is decorated, and gifts have been bought, wrapped, and mailed. I smile. I am simply not that organized. However, in all fairness, nowhere have I read that Advent is a time to brush up on our organizational skills. It is a time to prepare our hearts once more for Christ, and that preparation probably looks different for each one of us.   

Certainly the season of Advent is not mentioned in the Bible (although Mary, Elizabeth, Joseph, and Zachariah were very much living in the spirit of Advent). Sister Joan Chittister in her beautiful book, The Liturgical Year, writes that " the earliest mention of a period of preparation for Christmas did not exist until 490 in Gaul, which is now modern France." Far from France, I grew up in West Texas and I remember asking my mother about Advent. She simply replied, "That is for Catholics." The result of that comment is that Advent has always seemed mysterious to me. My Methodist mother actually gave me a great gift.  At times, we must simply accept there is much that we cannot completely understand. However, one thing I have learned is that Advent is for all of us who are on a journey to make our hearts a dwelling place for God. Truthfully, that is all of us, whether we realize it or not.     

   

I leave you with the first verse of my favorite Advent hymn, People Look East. The music is a traditional French carol. The words were written in 1928 by Eleanor Farjeon.   

  

People look east, 

the time is near 

of the crowning of the year. 

Make your house fair as you are able, 

trim the hearth and set the table. 

People look east: Love the Guest is on the way.        

  

For those of you who are celebrating Chanukah 2021/5782, I leave you with this blessing from Rabbi Yael Levy (awayin.org):  

 

As the story relates: Amid the rubble of the desecrated Temple, a tiny drop of oil was found.

 The drop of oil was lit not knowing what would be -- 

and it burned brighter and longer than anyone thought possible.
Chanukah encourages us to lift up the light, even when so much lies in ruin.
Chanukah calls us to act even as we do not know if our actions will bring the results we long for.
Chanukah declares, do not get stuck in despair. Remember that a small act can bring great blessing.
Chanukah says, act for the sake of the sacred. Act with reverence and love. Miracles abound and so much is possible.
Chanukah Blessings to All.
Rabbi Yael Levy   

   

Holy One, help us to embrace all faiths, all times, and all the ways You show yourself to us.  

In gratitude we pray, 

Amen 

 Love and blessings, to all,   

Rev. Sue Ann 

When All Is Said and Done

 Laurence Freeman's book, Web of Silence is a  compilation of  12 "letters to meditators," and is a  thought provoking read.  I love that as our small group of meditators continue to come together on a weekly basis, I am discovering a sense of being part of something much larger than I was previously envisioning.  While I have often said that we are connected to one another in surprising ways, my sense of this connection is deepening.  We are simply, and wonderfully, a part of God's greater more. 

Yesterday, after our meditation,  we talked of learning acceptance and surrender. I know some people find the idea of surrender uncomfortable for it brings to mind all sorts of frightening images. Yet, if we do not learn to surrender to our lives in and to this moment, we cannot surrender our lives to God.  Faith is truly a come as you are journey. I can't take this journey, which is a journey to God, in any other body, in any other mind, but the one I have today.  At times, I think I am woefully inadequate. However, I must keep reminding myself that God never sees any of us as inadequate. As the psalmist says, we are "fearfully and wonderfully made."*

Because I do believe that we are part of a great web, I was not too surprised when I opened Father Freeman's book this morning and discovered the following passage concerning surrender:  

Meditation in this Christian perspective is an act of trust and surrender. It is empowered by the core Christian intuition that our spiritual journey matters deeply, ultimately not only to ourselves but to God to whom we are travelling. Our act of surrender, then, does not diminish us. Only partial surrenders humiliate. The all-trusting surrender of egotism in the shamelessness of mediation leaves us not less dignified but more humble, more real; and more at peace with ourselves because we are more at one with our true selves. 

If you have ever spent some time at the bedside of someone who is at peace while their physical journey is coming to a close, you may have witnessed the peace of such  reconciliation.  I have experienced  that peace filling a room and the hearts of those who drew near. Every time we sit down to our practice, we are practicing that art. January 6, 2021 would have been a very different day had the instigators learned that God is not found in the burnt offerings of  ideologies, but rather in our surrender to the great love in which we are held. Only then, can we find our freedom. Only then, can we live out our part in God's greater good.  

 

*Psalm 139:14

image: San Leandro, October 2021. I love the fact that the flowers of this tropical milkweed resemble a choir singing joyously of life.  

Group meditation in the Christian tradition is held most Wednesdays at 4:00 p.m. via Zoom. You are welcome to join us. 

       

Psalm 23 on a Saturday Afternoon

I periodically read Psalm 23 when among the frail. It is a beautiful psalm of life, and I encourage the residents to read and pray this psalm as often as they pray the Lord's prayer. Sometimes, residents will recite at least some of the psalm from memory as I read. I love those moments. 

This weekend I visited a rehab hospital. There, the residents who gather with us are quite frail. As I read these words: " He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul,"  I noticed that both activity assistants had fallen asleep. While they may have  simply been bored, I sensed a need to rest, and I was grateful they were able to do so in our presence.  

As I continued, Eve came into the room. I had to pause a moment and wave as tears came to my eyes. I was so grateful to see this tiny woman  alive and walking on her own with the assistance of  her walker. I had not seen her since before the pandemic. She waved back and smiled. As she settled in and I handed her a song sheet, the words continued, "for you are with me, your rod and your staff they comfort me." I suddenly had a new appreciation of a walker as sacred. 

 I quietly celebrated the table of people in front of me,  and I knew the goodness and mercy of which the psalmist sang. Then David arrived in his wheelchair. I had not seen him since before the pandemic either. We, too, waved to one another and I knew I was in the house of the Lord. And David, as he always did, finished the psalm with an amen.  At the end of the service, Eve took her song sheet and held it to her heart. She indicated she wanted to keep it. 

When the words come alive and you want to make them your own, that is worship. To be there with those who had been gathered was an anointing and yes, my cup overflows.

Walkers, wheel chairs, weariness, and illness all belong in the house of the Lord. Jesus continues to teach me this, and I am grateful. 

As David would no doubt say, 

Amen.    

   

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
 he restores my soul.
He leads me in right paths
 for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
    I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
    your rod and your staff—
    they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
 in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
    my whole life long.   

  

Psalm 23, NRSV      

   

image: San Leandro, sometime in 2020 

Yet Again

 I woke up yesterday morning thinking of this poem by Rumi and decided to share it with those I meditate with. So much of life consists of starting over, trying yet again one more thousandth time.  Let us remember that we travel with one another. We have a place in this great caravan.  As we journey, let us remember to pause and rest in God's love.

Ours Is Not A Caravan of Despair

Come, come, whoever you are.

Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times.
Come, yet again, come, come.

— Rumi    

  

photograph: San Leandro, November 2021. These leaves  look like they are floating, but they are being held by some netting placed at the foot of the tree. There is a lesson there for us all. We, too, are held. 

Learning the Art

 I have been thinking of this poem since I received it a couple of days ago. I do not quite understand the last line, but regardless, there is some good advice here. Learning to accept loss is important and helps keep bitterness at bay as we learn the art of compassion. Growing  accustomed to not having everything at our beck and call is a spiritual practice that helps us understand that often what seems to be a disaster is actually just a setback. Be gentle with that word disaster, and invite God into the empty places. If we can do that, we will find more than what we think we are looking for.   

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

"One Art" by  Elizabeth Bishop  

   

photograph: San Leandro, October 2021. Our neighborhood persimmon trees are not as heavy laden as I have seen in the past. I think it has just been too dry. Something I must learn to hold lightly. 

Experiencing Place

"Faith is the highway of the spirit. Every act of faith we make is an uncovering of the labyrinth of spirit. Belief, sundered from faith, leads to a maze of mirrors, a series of infinite regressions, the egotistical maze. Mazes lead to dead-ends and the more we get lost the more we panic. Labyrinths only ask us to follow faithfully their strange but ultimately symmetrical loops and bends in order to lead us home to the centre."  

   

Laurence Freeman, OSB, First Sight, The Experience of Faith, Continuum 2011, p. 14     

   

To cling to those ideas that we tenaciously call beliefs, leads to separation. Separation is indeed a dead-end. One thing about dead-ends though, is that we can usually turn around and go back out. Faith allows us to maneuver, sometimes with some dexterity, our way to love. In yesterday's group meditation, we discussed the November 3 entry in  John Main's book, Silence and Stillness in Every Season: "What we think of as our 'centre' is too often an illusion of the self-reflecting ego, somewhere we like to take up our stand and observe God at work in us. But this can never be the way.  The challenges that face us point to the mystery of union we are summoned to enter. But we find our way into this mystery of union with others and with God only when we reach in ourselves that place where Jesus experiences His oneness with the Father. That place where he prayed, 'I in them and Thou in me, that they may become perfectly one.'"*  

  

In other words, center (or centre) is not some private dwelling place, but rather a place of union with all.  For there Christ (or whatever sacred entity you worship) is. We are not called to ourselves but to the universal self.  We are that related. 

    

* I think Father Main threw in that word perfectly.  The translations I have seen of John 17:21 read, "That they may all be one." Even the King James version reads, "That they all may be one; as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be one in us: that the world may believe that thou hast sent me." However, so far, I have not seen Laurence Freeman or John Main cite what translations they are referencing when quoting scripture.   

       

photograph: San Leandro (just a block from our house), November, 2021 

Mantras

 I have finished, for the second time, Laurence Freeman's book, Jesus, the Teacher Within. I highly recommend it, whether you are a meditator or not.  It is a beautiful, thoughtful  and inspiring book. 

I will say that my Lenten decision this year to practice meditation in the Christian tradition is beginning to bring some subtle gifts to my life.  I worry  less and impatience is slowly loosening its grip. I am trusting my path a little more because I sense Jesus' presence there.  I am grateful and humbled. 

I  want to share what Laurence Freeman included in his book about mantras. I find having a mantra a helpful navigation tool, and I think this must  be generally true regardless of what meditation tradition is practiced, or if one does not practice at all. We all have those moments in our lives that threaten to upend us. Slowly repeating a mantra can help bring us back to our center, back to the Christ within us. There, we can find compassion and love that is almost always needed, either for ourselves or for others.  Here, Lawrence Freeman is quoting John Main's book, Word into Silence:   

 

"We usually begin by saying the mantra, that it seems as though we are speaking it with our mind silently, somewhere in our head. But as we make progress the mantra becomes more familiar, less of a stranger, less of an intruder in our consciousness. We find that less effort is required to persevere in saying it throughout the time of our meditation. Then it seems we are not so much speaking it in our minds as sounding it in our heart, and this is the stage that we describe as the mantra becoming rooted in our hearts..."* 

I think it is important for us to remember we all have mantras running through our heads that often we are not even aware of. These are the habitual thoughts that propel us into our lives. Many of these soundings are not positive nor helpful.  Too often, they lead to distraction and a sense of isolation, rather than illumination and a sense of union. 

If you would like to meditate with others on Zoom, but 4:00 p.m. on Wednesday does not work for you, drop me a note. Advent is on the horizon, and adding an evening session so we can come together to meditate in that beautiful season sounds wonderful to me. Meditating with others is an experience I cannot yet put into words. Perhaps it is simply that when we come together in silence, we can actually experience that yes, God is love, and we are knitted together in wonderful ways. I believe this is how we can bring peace to our world: one breath, one syllable at a time. 

 

And this I know in the secret silence of my heart

Where your awareness dwells 

And embroiders me into the fabric of the physical world 

Out of the slender thread only your eyes can see 

Recorded by your hand into the book of the world

All the days of recordable life 

Even before I live them   

 

from Psalm 139, Opening to You, 

Zen-Inspired Translations of the Psalms, 

Norman Fischer      

  

photograph: Oakland, October 2021   

 

*Jesus the Teacher Within, Laurence Freeman, Continuum International Publishing Group, 2000, page 222  

  

     

    

A Song Worth Singing

I woke up this morning thinking of the word co-creation. In any good relationship, we are called to co-create with one another. That includes our relationship with the Sacred. God is always creating, and is always willing to be in partnership with us if we make room for God to move with us. 

A few days ago, I visited a skilled nursing community.  Here, we must take a Covid test which means waiting 15 minutes before entering the community further than the reception area. I do not find that time unpleasant, and the pause means that the volunteer and I have some time just to talk and  "catch our breath" as my mother would say. 

Our tests revealed that we did not have Covid and we walked around the corner and stepped into the hallway together. The only person in the hall was Pamela who was singing a Beatles' song with full voice. The volunteer and I joined her in song as we opened the door to the activity room.  The three of us entered with laughter.  

A new musical key was invented that day, but I don't think Pamela gets too involved with such details as staying in tune.  I know nothing of her story, but I suspect that poverty and poor health care have played a part. She is a double amputee and is missing many teeth. Yet, she seems to contain a wholeness  that is worth emulating. I do know she loves to color, and she uses bright colors with abandon. 

The vision of her singing in an empty hallway stays with me. I think she is a rare bird with a song worth joining.  That is what God calls us to do.   

     

    

She says she loves you
And you know that can't be bad
Yes, she loves you
And you know you should be glad-  

John Lennon and Paul McCartney   

   

photograph: from my front yard, October 2021 

Deep Language

 Some care communities have some stringent steps one must go through to visit. We must answer questions about our vaccination status and where we have recently traveled and with whom  we have been in contact with. Temperatures are taken. Sometimes I am asked to take off my personal mask and put on a disposable one. Sometimes I must don a face shield. Only then, can I pass by the front desk, which now is invariably behind plexiglass. Everything seems a bit muffled and distant.  If someone smiles, it is sensed more than seen.  Often,  there is a weariness present that is palpable.   

This week, I was in one of those communities. How happy I was to see the activity director walking towards me. She is one who smiles, and no mask can hide the fact that she is smiling. She tells me that Barbara cannot join us because she is expecting her daughter. We walk past Barbara's room, and I wave at her. I ask if I can step in to talk with her for a moment. She is quite hard of hearing, so having a conversation at a distance is impossible.  The activity director assured me that would be fine. 

Barbara seemed not to recognize me until she saw my Bible. She then exclaimed in her gravelly voice, "Oh, yes!"  She spreads her arms wide and reaches out from her wheelchair to give me a hug. I find her delightful. She loves God, and that love pours out on  those she comes into contact with. She apologizes for not being able to join me today. I assure her that a daughter's visit is important. We bless one another, and I travel on to the activity room, where I am greeted with another hug. This time, it is from Estelle  who speaks very little English. The activity director often translates for her, including my prayers.  I laugh and tell the director that God's love translates quite well.  She agreed. 

As I walk back down the hall to visit another community, I see Barbara leaning close to her daughter. They are in an earnest conversation. I walk by unnoticed, and that is how it should be. 

I think a lot about faith when I cross these thresholds because I sense our being anointed by a  love that simply cannot be contained. It spills out everywhere. It cannot be masked or  measured.  I hear it in the laughter and I sense it in the weariness.  I feel it when we open our Bibles and help one another find our way to the same page.       

   

Image: Sonoma State University, June 2015

Relating

I needed to see the post below about forgiveness this morning. Maybe every morning. Father Freeman also reminds me that the real purpose of meditation is to let the meditation usher in a whole new way of being. "It helps us see that the place we should look for the fruits of meditation is not the meditation period itself - what happens (or doesn't) but in the manner and quality of our lives, particularly in our relationships." * We see this in Jesus, who would go to a mountain top, or across the lake, or into the desert. He always returned to the people. For most of us, this is our call. He also reminded people to forgive. Forgiveness and healing go hand in hand. 

'So our first responsibility, if we want to be in relationship and we want that relationship to be a healthy one and a healing one and a caring one for the people we are in relationship with, our first responsibility to others is to be as healthy and as happy as we can be ourselves. And that involves not being too hard on ourselves when we fail. In other words, we incorporate the sense of failure into our practice and learn from failure." **

 

   

   

*Jesus the Teacher Within, Laurence Freeman, copyright 2003, p. 199   

 

**Laurence Freeman, OSB, World Community for Christian Meditation,  Daily Digest, October 8, 2021 

image: San Leandro, September 2021   

Recognizing Royalty

In his book, Like a Thousand Suns, The Bhagavad Gita for Daily Living, Volume 2 (page 220-221), Eknath Easwaran tells a story he learned  from the Hindu scriptures.  In the story, a young prince is kidnapped by robbers. He is raised to ride and shoot with a bow and arrow. His livelihood is earned by ambushing people and stealing their money and goods. One day the king's spiritual advisor happens to ride by him, and pauses.  Despite the coarseness of the young man, the advisor sees in him a glimmer of his true heritage. He knows without a doubt that this bandit is the missing prince. He even goes so far as to give him a hug and address him as "your royal highness." 

Well, the bandit at first rejects the advisor, and no doubt does not appreciate the hug. However, the advisor continues to talk to him about his childhood, about how the father would carry him on his shoulders and how his mother would sing him to sleep with a mantra.  Slowly, the young man begins to  remember and realizes that he is much more than a  bandit; he is a prince. The young man then puts his arms around the teacher, and exclaims, "You're my greatest friend. You helped me to remember who I am!"   The prince then returns home.    

May we all embrace our  divine inheritance. Let us learn to really see ourselves and one another. It is then that we will recognize the Holy One in each of us. This is surely the path to peace, and our way home, prodigal sons and daughters no more.

My gratitude to Sagrada, a beautiful shop in Oakland,  for attaching this photograph to one of their posts.  We, too, glimmer with such light.   

   

    

 

Learning the Language

I am getting to know some of the  residents of a small skilled nursing community that I have just recently started visiting. Several of those who gather with me for Bible study are deeply devout, and this I find both encouraging and humbling.  Lou tends to hide her faith, but her attentive gaze speaks of her interest.  Barbara rolls in with her large print Bible in her lap. She is enthusiastic and also quite hard of hearing.  I help her find the scripture so she can read along. Estella, too, often brings her Bible. She speaks very little English, and I speak no Spanish (it really is time to do something about that).  The activity director helps with translation and we both help Estella find the text in her Spanish Bible. I come with my own Bible, mask, and face shield which makes me feel like some kind of modern day crusader on a budget.  I know protection devices are important, and without them, I probably would not be there. However, they do not help my being heard.  The result of all this is some chaos that everyone seems to take in stride.  

Yesterday, I read from Mark 5:25, the story of the woman who had been ill for 12 years. She dared to venture out of her isolation, with the intent to simply touch Jesus' garment. In that act of faith, she found the  healing that had eluded her for so long.

The healing stories in the Bible remind me that healing is part mystery, and is much more than just being able to return to the way things used to be. We are called forward. Surely, part of healing is moving into wholeness - accepting and becoming  the person God is calling us to be today.  

As I was reading, commenting, and repeating when needed, Barbara practically shouts, "We must pray for my roommate's fiance! He is ill! He must believe he can be healed!" I said of course we will pray for him. Then Mary, whom I just met, added rather determinedly that we must also pray for the trees that are in danger of burning.  I then realized that I had a small praying community with me, and so we began to pray.  I felt Christ settling in among us as we prayed for those who are ill, including all the trees and all the creatures, including humans, who are losing their homes.  We prayed that  children would always be able to walk among trees and flowers.  We prayed for those who had gathered together, and for those who could not. 

As I was preparing to leave,  Estella ended our time as she always does. In the only English I have ever heard her utter, she says, "I love you."  I smile and bow, as I always do, and tell them how grateful I am for them all. The activity director graces me with a new face shield, and off I go, happy in the knowledge that learning to understand one another is possible.  God's universal language is love. Ultimately, that is our native tongue.    

“Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction." 

Mark 5:34       

   

photograph: Sonoma State, June 2015

Timely

 I woke this morning of my 68th birthday  with a vision. I do not consider it a dream for there was no movement.  I shall try to describe it: 

In the upper left corner is what looks to me to be  a circular pen or corral made of rounded wooden posts.  In the center is a large old fashioned alarm clock, complete with a bell on the top of the clock that  always looks charming until the sound of its ringing  jars you awake  from a lovely sleep.  The face of the clock is white. The numerals and hands are black. The large hand is on 12; the small hand is on 4 or 5 (This is probably about the time I was having the dream.)  The front of the fence (could be a gate), is open wide, and some sort of stream was pouring from the clock.  It sparkles and  does not appear to be water.  I am standing in the stream in the foreground.   I am wearing a long grey dress and on my head is something like a wimple.  My hands are folded, but my head is not bowed. There is no movement. Even the stream is not moving. It really is like a painting.  I wish I could send this note to the surrealist painter, Remedios Varo. Yet, I suppose we all must find our own ways of bringing our dreams and visions to life.  Perhaps the dream is telling me that it is time.  I shall accept this gift.  

It would be a lovely gift to me if you all had a wonderful day today.      

    

 

photograph: San Leandro, September, 2021

Lightness of Being

 During the shutdown, I had a dream in which Tyler and I walk through the double doors of a church.  In waking life, I served this church for a time in the position of what the UCC calls a minister in covenant.  In the dream I am in search of some needed paperwork. The main room is  brightly lit,  and in it are several long tables laden with food. People were sitting at these tables laughing, eating, and drinking. Many wave to us, and we are  warmly greeted by my friend. She insists that we sit and have something to eat. Everyone seems so happy; we cannot resist. The dream came to a close when we sat down to join the festivities.   

I was so struck by the vividness of the dream that I sent Kathie an email the next morning. She wrote back saying that once the pandemic would allow, the community was going to begin working on a new space for the congregation in an existing church. Much renovation would be needed, but she sounded very positive.  

A week or so  ago, I learned that Kathie was in the hospital after experiencing a severe stroke. This morning I learned that she passed last night. I hold her family and that community in my heart. Many of the members of that church have known her since she was a child. I feel their sadness as well as my own.  To hold such sadness does not  feel like a burden, but rather a gift.  Unlike some gifts, I do not have to worry about where to put it, or what to do with it. It feels like it has had a place in me for a very long time.  It gives me hope that maybe I am learning to love. 

 My friend Kim, who passed a few years ago, served this community, and that is how I initially became involved with  them.  When I first heard of Kathie's stroke, I felt Kim's presence so keenly. I do believe Kim guided, and is still guiding her friend in the process of letting this physical life go.    

  

I recently had another dream that I believe is related. In the dream Tyler and I had just moved to another home.  I walk into the backyard. I am surprised to be greeted by a young hippopotamus. He is so playful and affectionate that I cannot help not help but simply enjoy his company.  At one point he trots over and opens his mouth as widely as he can. I then remember, with much concern, that this hippopotamus is going to grow into a very large creature.  I know I am not prepared to tend to an animal that size. While he did not actually speak, I hear his encouragement not to worry. He knows he will eventually live in a zoo and he has no worries about that. I receive an image of a beautiful zoo with lots of water, rocks, and beautiful grounds. I am relieved and I am able to return to simply enjoy his frolicking. 

On my walk earlier this week, I came across a give-away box. On the top was a huge book about dreams. I looked up hippopotamus, and was advised  that it could be interpreted as a sign of something positive coming, something to be enjoyed in the moment.  

This moment, while not particularly enjoyable, is positive for I am reminded that none of us will be in this physical form forever.  I know Kathie and Kim are in a beautiful place, and I thank them for the light they continue to share.  I also thank all of you. 

   

  

photograph: San Leandro, October 2015