Allow for Now

According to the text of Matthew, when Jesus went to John the Baptist to be baptized, John reluctantly replied, "I need to be baptized by you..."  However, Jesus simply stated,  "Allow it for now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness."  

 

I think of this passage every time I see the sister sitting quietly in the congregation.  I would not even know she is a nun, except the executive director happened to mention it.  The sister now resides in a home dedicated to the care of those with dementia.  She has yet to speak to me, but she will join me for the Lord's prayer, and she smiles when she accepts communion.  Sometimes she even shakily takes my hand.   It is all I can do to not kneel and ask for a blessing from her, although I think she has already given it.  The director,new to this home, says that she does not know how the nun came to live at this particular community, but often the staff is very reluctant to give details of people's lives.   So, I make allowances for the now that we find ourselves in.  I am reminded that we are not simply a laundry cycle of remembering and forgetting - that we journey in and to God. There is more.         

          

I discovered the following prayer in an intriguing  book entitled, Leading from within, Poetry That Sustains the Courage to Lead.  This poem has some formatting that is impossible for me to duplicate in email.  My apologies, and my gratitude, to the author, Winston O. Abbott, and to all of you.  With you, I find fulfillment in this strange time of now.  

    

 

Let me remember 

 

Let me remember 

beyond forgetting -

let me remember -

 

let me remember always 

for my spirit is often shrouded in the mists -

let me remember beyond forgetting

that my life is not a solitary thing - 

it is a bit of the rushing tide 

a leaf of the bending tree - 

a kernel of grain in the golden wheat fields -

a whisper of wind about the mountaintop - 

a reflection of sunlight upon the 

shining waters - 

it is fleeting - 

it is of the moment 

it is timeless - 

it is of eternity.        

Echoes

n a few hours I will be officiating at a wedding of a lovely, young couple.  I have enjoyed getting to know them.   They have each written their vows, and I am the only one who has read both.  I am encouraged to see how similar the wording is.  I pray this really is a sign that their hearts are echoing one another.    

Today, many pictures will be taken, and I cannot help but see these pictures on a distant wall sixty or seventy years from now.  I lean closer, and wait. I sense a beautiful ancient story coming round once more.  

      

  

 

The minute I heard my first love story

I started looking for you,

Not knowing how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.

They have been in each other all along. 

 

-  from Rumi, The Book of Love, translation by Coleman Barks

   

Our Church

Until fairly recently, I never heard Pamela say a word.  Generally, she comes soundlessly into worship, accepts Communion, and then quietly leaves.   She always has make-up on, albeit slightly askew.  Her overall look is slightly unorthodox and a bit disconcerting, but does hint of a woman who enjoys dressing.    

Two months ago, she came into worship just a few minutes late.  This is not unusual for her.  However, instead of finding an empty seat as she usually does, she walked up to me and asked, "Will you be serving Communion soon?" 

Surprised, and in mid-hymn, I responded, 'Yes, in just a few minutes.'

'Good. I want to get out of here as soon as possible.  I miss my lover.'  I was completely taken aback, and could only mutter rather ineptly, "Why, yes, I am sure you do."  

 

After worship today, there was an empty seat beside her, so I sat next to her for a few minutes while the pianist continued to play.  We compared bracelets - mine a single plain silver bangle, while her four bracelets were made up of colorful beads.  She also had on a very nice pair of leather shoes.   I said, "Pamela, I do believe you enjoy clothes."   

We both giggled.  She replied, 'Oh yes, we must do the best we can.' 

 

Rae also lives in this community.  Today she said, "I love this church.  By the way, is this your church or my church?" 

I had to smile.  'Perhaps we should simply call this our church.'

'Good idea.  By the way, I love your long hair.'

My hair is actually short while hers reaches below her shoulders.  'Thank you, but you are the one with the beautiful long hair.'

She laughed heartily and said, 'Oh, yea.'   

   

I do love this church.  Even if I am a bit underdressed, we are all indeed doing the best that we can.     

Blessed Be the 5th of July

For those of us in urban environments, July begins with a bang, whether we want that or not.  Teachings and teachers show up in surprising guises, and often what we think we are seeking is indeed beside the point.  The image of the hookless fishing line makes me think of Jesus and the disciples who first had to set aside their nets before their journeys could continue.      

May you hear your teacher's call to peace today.   

My thanks to the World Community of Christian Meditation for bringing us this poem.  

“Finding a Teacher,” W. S. Merwin, MIGRATION: NEW AND SELECTED POEMS (Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 2005), pp. 206-207

FINDING A TEACHER

In the woods I came on an old friend fishing
and I asked him a question
and he said Wait
fish were rising in the deep stream
but his line was not stirring
but I waited
it was a question about the sun

about my two eyes
my ears my mouth
my heart the earth with its four seasons
my feet where I was standing
where I was going

it slipped through my hands
as though it were water
into the river
it flowed under the trees
it sank under hills far away
and was gone without me
then where I stood night fell

I no longer knew what to ask
I could tell that his line had no hook
I understood that I was to stay and eat with him.

Dreaming

This poem came to me through the Parabola website.  When elders or those suffering from chronic illness tell me what they miss or what they find themselves most yearning for, generally their richest memories are of what we might call simple things.  

As each of us tries to understand where our freedom truly is on this 4th of July weekend, perhaps contentment might be a good place to start the good and fruitful furrow.     

The Farmer's Winter Dream(after Robert Hass)

You would think it might be
bountiful harvest that in the night he
dreams of, bumper crops, great wealth
arising from fertile soil.
But a simple man dreams of simple toil,
the sweat labor to maintain or restore health
to the land; its loss is his only sorrow;
he dreams modestly, of plowing a straight furrow.

Red Hawk

Hearth Psalms

About a month or so ago, this blog was created. I recognize that I underutilize this space, but its existence does give me a sense of having a central place for some of my writings.  While I was trying to think of a name for this space, the word hearth, as in center, came to mind, as did the word psalms.  I love the image of singing at the hearth while tending to the fire.    

 

Recently I was perusing the Celtic Daily Prayer , and I came across this curious entry (p. 380).  This story of the psalmist singing while sitting on a narrow ledge "speaks to my condition," as a lovely Quaker friend of mine might say.   I do find writing as a way of keeping my balance.  I think I journey further than just outside the mouth of my cave, but that may be an illusion.  Perhaps none of us travel nearly as far as we believe.   

 

My prayer today is that the calm voice of a messenger bring us comfort and inspiration as we both tend to the hearth and journey just a bit further along the ledge.    

         

 

A story about David, one of the authors of the Psalms.  The angel Messenger takes Christian to meet David where he is squatting as a fugitive on a narrow ledge in the mountains. 

'Wait here,' ordered Messenger.   

Christian paused and looked down. They were on a narrow ledge high on a mountainside. 

'Who goes there?' came a frightened cry. 

'A friend,' replied the calm voice of Messenger. 

'How did you find me? Do others know of this place?'

Your secret is ours alone, and it will remain so.'

'What do you want of me?' came a slightly more confident voice. 

'A moment ago, as we approached, were you singing?' enquired Messenger of the man squatting in front of a small care on the the side of the mountain ledge. 

'Yes, I often do. There is little else I can do.  Things I feel here, deep inside me - I often write them down.'

'That goatskin bag beside you - are your writings in there? I would like to show them to my young friend.'

Christian balanced himself carefully as he squatted precariously before the open bag of scrolls. One by one he opened them and read. 

'It's the entire book of Psalms!' he declared, as he watched Messenger for some hint of explanation.  

'No - not all of them. Perhaps one third.' 

'Why have you shown them to me?' 

' No great reason,' came the reply, as Messenger lifted the sack and turned away. 'Although,' he added almost as an afterthought, 'I thought you might be interested in seeing the music room in which they were penned.      

In Passing

By the time I reached the first home today, I had learned of a beloved elder's passing.  When I first began serving this home, there was a small, but very loyal group who would join me for worship.  Velma was the last of this group to pass, and the home is now dedicated to the care of those with dementia.  They are doing a fine job, but it is different.  I could not help but think of those who had gone before: Thelma, Roger, Betty, and others.  I could see their faces and I missed them.  They really helped shape how I go about this wondrous ministry and I am grateful to have known them. 

 

When I got to the third home, I was really happy to see Rae sitting at her spot at the table.  She is frailer now and is in a wheelchair, but she is always glad to see us, and she still sings.  After the service, the pianist continued to play, and Rae and I talked.  I have known her for 3 1/2 years as well.   

 

Today she said, "After church sometime, you should come over to my house and relax. Just put your feet up. "  I replied that I would like that very much.  She then told me that she always talks to God and that she believes that He listens.   "I can see him in my mind,"  she said.  I asked if she would share with me what God looked like.  She grinned and said, "Oh, He is a doll.  He is always laughing, and He wears beautiful robes.  I tell him I am sorry for all the bad things I have done, and He reminds me to keep smiling."  

 

The room was a bit warm and it was such a lovely day on the peninsula.  I asked Rae if she would like to go outside.  She said she thought that would be a good idea, so I unlocked her wheelchair and slowly pulled her chair away from the table and out the door.  We stopped to look at the large roses and the beautiful large tree.  This garden is very safe for those with dementia, and we slowly strolled and rolled.  As we went around one corner, Rae said, "I don't think we can make it all the way to where I live."  

 

"Where do you live, Rae?"  "Tucson, "  she replied.  "No, I don't think we can go quite that far.  Shall we go through this door?"   I took her back to her spot at the table and locked her wheels.   "How about that, Rae? Door to door service!"  She laughed and told me I was kind of silly.   She then said, "I love you."  We hugged.  "I love you, too. I will see you in July.  I like the way they have done your hair today."  

 

I have often walked in that garden with an elder.  The pace is slow.  Sometimes we walk in silence.  Sometimes we have a conversation.  I may be pushing the wheelchair, or holding a hand, but regardless I am always following.  I want them to always feel safe in the garden, and with me.  I am renewed in that small garden.   

 

Perhaps God is as well.