Advent

In the tender compassion of our God,
the dawn from on high shall break upon us,
to shine on those who dwell in darkness
and the shadow of death,
and to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Luke 1:78-79, from the song of Zechariah

 

 

      

  

 

Distance

I did not learn much about Cleophus and Ruth.  They both obviously had some dementia, but they seemed to enjoy coming to worship.  They both took communion, and were warm and gentle with their gratitude.  I never saw them apart, so I was surprised to see Cleophus sitting at the table alone.  I handed him a song sheet and said hello.  He looked up and asked, "Where is my wife?" The activity assistant was standing close-by, and I could tell by the look on her face that this was not going to be an easy conversation.  I excused myself and went over to talk to her. 

 

Ruth had passed a few days ago.  Cleophus had been told several times, but he could not remember.  She said that his conservator was coming to pick him up the next day to move him closer to his sister.  No, she did not know where.   After the service, I went to Cleophus, and took his hand.  He looked at me and said, "I am lost, aren't I?" 

 

 "Cleophus, we are never lost in God.  Never."    

 

We talked for a bit more. Then, as I was leaving, the activity director, whose mother had just passed, wanted to give me a bag of chocolates.  As we were talking, Cleophus walked up and asked very cordially, "How are you doing?"  I knew that for a moment or two, he was at peace.  I also knew the anxiety and the questioning would return.  I also knew that I probably would never see him again.  

 

This experience has reminded me that the capacity to understand something of mortality and grief is a gift.  While we do not want to be completely engulfed by either (at least not for very long), without this wisdom that comes from painful experience, we are less than whole.  We risk not having a solid enough framework to carry us the distance we can and need to go.  Unfortunately, dementia can rob us of that gift.  Yet, God is always with us, even when we cannot fully comprehend or can simply travel no further.  Nothing can take that inheritance from us.

 

Cleophus and Ruth, I miss you, but I am grateful for this lesson your presence has taught me.  I shall do my best to spread the word. 

 

But this is what 

I can ask for you:

 

That in the darkness 

there be a blessing. 

That in the shadows

there be a welcome.

That in the night

you may be encompassed

by the Love that knows

your name. 

 

Jan Richardson, Circle of Grace   

 

  

 

 

 

Advent Poem

A couple of years ago, a friend told me about a newsletter called "Thin Places," that is published by Westminster Presbyterian Church in Minneapolis.  Wonder of wonders, it actually comes in the mail.   Most of the events I cannot attend, but it is nice to ponder them.  In the current issue is a beautiful advent poem that I thought I would share with you.    As I have been thinking about this poem, I realized I experience Christ in unexpected moments of clarity and love.  These meetings can never be planned or orchestrated.   When I am aware of these moments, I do not see or feel Christ as either male or female, but rather simply as Presence.  Yet, as I thought about that, I also realized the pronoun probably just does not matter that much to Christ.   I am loving this poem more and more.   

 

Blessings to all who are struggling with illness, despair, loss, or lethargy. If you are feeling joyous, I pray you will be good news for those who are working hard to make ends meet (financially as well as emotionally)  in this season that Christians know as Advent.  May we remember that the Bethlehem we journey to is in our hearts.  Let us make room.  

  

Thou shalt know Him when He comes

not by any din of drums

nor the vantages of airs

nor by anything He wears...

For His presence known shall be

by the holy harmony

that His coming makes in thee.     

 

15th century

  

 

Turning

At one point in my walk yesterday, I pondered whether to take a left or right turn.  For no tangible reason, I turned right, and was surprised to discover this tree beginning to bud.  I pondered winter and Easter and Jesus.  Jack and I then turned left to make our way home. I heard the sounds of traffic once more. We passed by three laughing people who were enthusiastically sweeping mounds of leaves out of their yard. Rock and roll was streaming through their front door. They waved and said good morning.  I did the same and continued on, savoring the silence that was, and giving thanks for kind greetings on the return.  

     
  

John 15:4

"Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me. "  

John 15:4 

 

When I walked in the assisted living community, I was greeted by the beautiful young Muslim woman who has worked there for over a year.  We hugged as we always do.  One of the residents who usually meets with me was on her way to a church event.  She paused, and introduced me to her friend, a Jewish resident.  I invited her to come sit at the table where we meet.  She said she would like that, but wanted me to know I would not be able to convert her.  I assured her I had no interest in converting anyone.  Dr. S. joined us.  She is Hindu.  We had tea.  We talked about lighting all kinds of lights at this time of year.  I asked, "You all live side by side. Why can't the world be like this?"   We could not come up with an answer.  More tea and hotter water are needed.      

Tonight I hear Jesus:  Alone, we cannot bear the good fruit. We must hang in there together.  

 

 

 

Luke 19:40

But He answered and said to them, “I tell you that if these should keep silent, the stones would immediately cry out."  

 

Eiko is one who barely speaks now.  Her frame is tiny, and while she is not as tidy as she once was, her thin grey hair is always neatly pulled back in a bun and held with a clip adorned with small flowers.  I have never seen her when she was not drinking a cup of tea. 

 

"Good morning, Eiko.  How are you?" 

 

"I really am not sure yet."  She says this without a hint of sarcasm. 

 

I tell her how nice she looks and she smiles.  I also tell her that we will be singing Christmas carols.  I place the sheet in front of her as she sips her tea. 

 

As we sing, she does not touch her song sheet, but she does put her cup down, begins to move her hands to the music, nods her head, and actually sings some of the words.  She recites  the Lord's prayer. 

 

Afterwards, I begin to gather up the song sheets and say my good-byes.  Even though she had not looked at it, Eiko asks if she can keep her sheet.  She has never asked that before.  She tells me that the songs were very beautiful.  She wishes us a Merry Christmas, picks up her cup, and sips her tea once more.    

 

From our first service in December until the last, we sing carols.  While more than one pastor has asked me how do I manage to sing the same carols all month without getting bored, December is actually a mystical time for me. This is when the ancient ones, who are growing silent, sing.  They may not remember all the words, and often they can no longer read, but together, we get the words out.  Together, we are faithful, and we sing. 

 

 

 

Psalm 150

Psalms for Praying

Nan C. Merrill

   

Praise to the Beloved!

Praises be to You in earth's sanctuary;

praises be to You the almighty firmament!

Praise the might works of Love;

Praise the glory and extol the

greatness of Love Divine!

 

Give praise with trumpets;

give praise with lute and harp.

Give praise with timbrel and dance;

give praise with string and reed.

Give praise with  booming drums;

give praise with crashing cymbals.

Let everything that breathes

praise the Beloved with their lives.

May it be so now

and forever,

Amen.  

   

I would add:  give praise by simply noticing this good creation, and giving thanks. A few mornings ago, I stood on a busy street and simply admired this rose. I know there was traffic, but I have no memory of its noise. I think I understand something of Hildegard's phrase, "lucid air."

Next I saw the most lucid air, in which I heard in a marvelous way many kinds of musicians praising the joys of the heavenly citizens. ... And their sound was like the voice of a multitude, making music in harmony.
Hildegard of Bingen

from the Friends of Silence, started by Nan C. Merrill in 1987.  They do have a web presence.    

  

Thank you, Nan C. Merrill.