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

At the Well

 "Bloom where you are planted," the poster reads. But the poster does not tell the whole story. 'Plant yourself where you know you can bloom' may well be the poster we all need to see. Or better yet, 'Work the arid soil however long it takes until something that fulfills the rest of you finally makes the desert in you bloom." *

As I was photographing this lovely blossom, a man dressed for construction work, paused before walking into the house. He said, "Everyone is stopping to photograph that flower." While that is probably a bit of an exaggeration, I do wonder what others are doing with their photographs. As more front gardens give way to hardscaping and succulents, maybe we are all becoming like flamingos migrating to what few floral springs are left.  However, San Leandro loves her dahlias.  Such love can outlive a drought. That is probably worth keeping in mind.  

 *Between the Dark and the Daylight 

Sister Joan Chittister     

    

  

  first photograph of September! 

This Friday

Air Quality: Poor 

Commute home up 880 North: Poorer  (Yes, Google Maps said to take 101 N to to 92 but I really wanted to see the white pelicans that one can often see from the Dumbarton Bridge.)  "What is an extra 4 minutes?" I asked. Well, not much until you add a car wreck and a stalled truck that overheated in the backup.  

Yet, to lead worship in a memory care home that I have not been able to visit in person since the pandemic began and to witness three residents who were sitting together on a couch smiling and singing so sweetly, and to almost be able to hug staff members whom I have loved and admired for years and I cannot tell you how happy I am that they are still there, was beyond wonderful.  A strange sentence I know, but there was such a crescendo of emotion and experience that periods just get in  the way. 

The pianist and I happened to walk in together, and we talked about how strange it felt to resume after we had been away for what seemed so long. I commented that I even had trouble remembering what exit to take.  I almost left the song sheets in the car. 

We floated out together.  She smiled and said, "This."

Yes.      

 

photograph: San Leandro, August 2021

Revisiting

I am reading Jesus, the Teacher Within by Laurence Freeman for the second time.  I bought the book used some years ago, and I loved it then, and I am finding it a rich offering now as well. It is interesting to see the highlights and comments left by the first owner, the marks I left from the first reading, and what is catching my attention now.  

I do not remember reading these two lines attributed to St. Augustine, but I find myself returning to them, and they showed up in my preaching on Sunday. I feel a soul shift and a clearing.  Please excuse the masculine language. Centuries have passed since St. Augustine wrote these lines: 

A person first be restored to himself, that making of himself 

as it were a stepping stone, he may rise thence to God.  

 

I am finding that thinking of my life as a series of stepping stones to God is both illuminating and encouraging, and is helping me regain some footing as I journey through the last third of my physical life.  I think we all go through periods of being repurposed.  Such times can bring us unease, even a sense of failure.  However, if we think of these times of redirection as stepping stones, hopefully we can then move in the direction where we feel called with confidence, a confidence rooted in the trust that we are being led ever closer to God.      

  

   

photograph: August, 2021, San Leandro

Hope

 "Hope is the aspiration to be totally at home. It is the strongest aspiration of our being. The word virtue means 'strength'. The virtue of hope is a strength of spirit. But to be virtuous does not mean only to do the right things and be a respectable person. To be virtuous means to be strong in the Spirit, to have accepted the gift of the Spirit's strength." *  

  

Although I have read all 159 pages of the book, The Selfless Self, I think it is a book that I will never conclude. Reading it has deepened my meditation practice, and my meditation practice touches every aspect of my life. In addition, meditating reminds me that we are eternally held in love. This is a gift I gratefully accept.  

 

The Selfless Self, Laurence Freeman, OSB, p. 152 

photograph: San Leandro, August 2016