Tenderness

Tuesday morning I was up and on my way to a hospital in the wine country.  My journey there was relatively uneventful, but my visit was serious enough that I felt the need to don a collar. I also felt some time pressure, as I wanted to make certain I would be on time to meet with the medical staff and the family.   As I drove, I knew I was in the wine country, and it was fall, but that was about the extent of my celebration of the season.  My mind and heart were preoccupied.  

As the doctor addressed concerns and answered our questions, I had to give thanks for the medical team.  They had stabilized the heart, made a passage for the breathing, and stopped an infection.  Nonetheless, the prognosis was not good.  Yet, the family is not ready to give up.  After the meeting we went back into ICU and I was quite moved by how tenderly the wife talked to her husband who had not spoken a word in three weeks.  How she stroked his face, and offered encouragement.  Even as she left, she assured him she would return the next day.   

I left the hospital, thinking of the balance between medicine and love.  Hospitals can do much, but often it is the extra touch of love that coaxes a human back to life.  Not always, of course.  But enough that we all find courage. 

   

As I drove down the hill, prepared to take the same way back home, I spotted a sign:  "Heirloom Tomatoes."  I pulled into the dirt parking lot where pumpkins of all sizes were placed.   I felt oddly drawn to a large pumpkin, not bright orange, but of various hues of pale orange, grayish, blueish green, and yellowish white.  It was then I begin to notice the fall colors all around me and how fresh the air was. I asked where the tomatoes were grown, and was directed to the back of the stand, where there was at least an acre,maybe more, of shaggy tomato plants still bearing fruit.  I paid for my very fine pumpkin and dark red and green tomatoes, and decided that rather than take the same road back, I would turn left.

The countryside was magnificent - golds, greens, and reds glittered in the sun.   I drove in silence, and memories of other visits to the wine country came to mind.   I delighted in remembering incredible meals, and the taste of one particular Alsatian style wine that caused me to exclaim, "I am drinking flowers!".  I smiled as I heard again the laughter of friends as we shared a bottle of champagne on a terrace overlooking a vineyard and celebrated a weekend off. I felt no need to stop, but rather to simply drive and savor the beauty of the day, the beauty of the past and present coming together.     

  

God beckons us ever on, and this encouragement we can trust.  Let us breathe deeply, and live.  

   

Timing

Last week, I had the good pleasure of spending days in good conversation with friends.  Our ages vary  from late 50s to mid seventies.  We spoke at length of the various comings and goings in our lives. Some of the changes were troubling, of course, but many were quite positive: letting go of old fears, taking on new opportunities, and experiencing profound gratitude, among others.  Every once in awhile, someone would say, "I wonder why this did not happen earlier in my life."    

I thought of those conversations yesterday when I received an email that closed with the opening lines of this poem.  Yes, life will unfold when and as it will.  I give thanks that it does not unfold all at once, for in the rush and frustrations of my younger years, I am not certain I would have been grateful enough, or even open enough to celebrate the wonder of it all.  Before, I have tried to pry open too many doors.  I stand at the threshold and open more gently now.     

Wishing you all the gift of time today.  It is there for us all.  Blessed be.     

        

Late Ripeness
by Czeslaw Milosz

English version by Robert Hass

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,
I felt a door opening in me and I entered
the clarity of early morning.

One after another my former lives were departing,
like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas
assigned to my brush came closer,
ready now to be described better than they were before.

I was not separated from people,
grief and pity joined us.
We forget — I kept saying — that we are all children of the King.

For where we come from there is no division
into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be.

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part
of the gift we received for our long journey.

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago -
a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror
of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel
staving its hull against a reef — they dwell in us,
waiting for a fulfillment.

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,
as are all men and women living at the same time,
whether they are aware of it or not.   

The Wind Still Blows

I woke this morning while it was still dark and the wind was blowing.  It was not our usual wind blowing from the sea, but was coming over the east bay hills.   Inland winds are mysterious, gusting and swirling from who knows where.   I am sure my just planted tarragon, thyme, and lemon grass are wondering what strange force plucked them up from the safety of the nursery and my window sill and dropped them to a bed in my front yard where they have been subjected to rummaging racoons, and now this gusting dry wind.  Perhaps if I were an intuitive farmer, I would have sensed some change, and waited to plant, rather than making use of a few free hours on a Tuesday afternoon.    

That particular morning found me perusing the newspaper and grousing about the government.  I know just about everyone is grousing about the government for one reason or another, but on the first day of the shutdown, my grouse factor was heightened.  I knew that the volunteer whom I would be picking up in a short while would be grousing as well, and she certainly was.  When she was a young woman, she had to flee a violent and corrupt regime, so she is particularly wary of governments who do not tend to their people. We gave our grousing free reign for a few minutes, and then I gently reminded both of us that we were on our way to worship, and the gentle folks we would be worshiping with did not need to experience our unhappiness about the government, but rather our happiness in friendship and faith. She agreed, and accepted the change of direction (not always easy for her). She replied with stoic resolution, “Yes, we must be in a good mood.”    We had made a pact and our course was set.  

Yet, as I pulled into the parking lot, a vision came to me.  That vision was my folder of music lying, not in the trunk of my car, but on my dining room table.    I explained my dilemma to the volunteer.  Her newly found resolve of good cheerwavered a bit (she takes her role as song sheet distributor quite seriously), but I assured her that in my trunk I could find something.   The pickings were a bit thin, as I had been cleaning my trunk out the day before, which is how my folder came to rest on the dining room table.  However, I found song sheets and three of the four sheets of accompanying music.  I figured that we could sing the last hymn a capella.  We walked in and quickly explained the change of plans to the pianist.  She laughed heartily and looked through her binder.   I had no idea that she keeps her binder organized, not alphabetically, but by the month and year we sing them.  “Ah, yes.  These hymns are from July of this year.”  She had the fourth hymn so we were set.   It was then that I realized we would be singing patriotic hymns.  

Consequently, in just over an hour I was moved from grumbling over the newspaper to singing about the beauty of this land of spacious skies, amber waves, and fruited plains.  Our complaints and laments were turned into sung prayers that communally asked that our flaws be mended and that freedom would ring from every mountainside.  I felt God’s healing touch, and I was grateful.   Afterwards, the pianist said, “I believe we have done our duty today.”

  

The Spirit picks us up and moves us about in surprising ways.   Blessed be.

The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.   John 3:8

The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning to its course. 

Ecclesiastes 1:6   

   

Safety in Visions

I have written about Jill before because she has been worshiping with us since I began with SpiritCare.  She now grows more frail.  Her hearing continues to deteriorate, and she has been blind since she was a young girl.  She has always blessed us with a beautiful laugh, but we hear it less now as her physical struggles increase.  While I am not certain how much of the service she hears, she enthusiastically answers yes when I yell in her ear, "Would you like to take communion?"  After the service yesterday she asked me, as she periodically does, if I believe in the Holy Mother.  "Of course," I always yell. She told me again of the vision of the Holy Mother that she had while visiting Lourdes as a child.  If I am remembering correctly, the Holy Mother was sitting on a fence. Jill went to Her and asked if She could help her vision (at that time it was poor, but Jill could still see).  The response was a gentle, "No, I cannot.  You will be blind."   There may have been more to the conversation, but Jill has never mentioned it.  But she passionately loves the Holy Mother, and that one vision has been enough to sustain her for a lifetime.  

 

After my conversation with Jill, I saw a caregiver bring Roger into the activity room.  He has no mobility in his lower limbs and must rely completely on the care of the attendants. Just as I began to walk towards him, he raised his hand and asked me,  "Ma'am, please excuse me, but is Sue Ann still here?"  I touched him on the shoulder and replied, "Hi, Roger, I am here. Is your vision giving you trouble?"   Yes.  The vision in one eye is completely gone and the other eye grows more blurry.  Yet still he said, "Oh, it is so good to see you."  

  

These people love me.  I believe them when they tell me that.  I love them and I believe most of them know it.   And there, of course, lies great peril. Whom am I serving?

 

Fairly early in my ministry I was blessed to read Christine D. Pohl's very good book, Making Room, Recovering Hospitality as a Christian Tradition.  In it, she quotes Dorothy Day, and this passage (found on pages 185-186) often comes to my mind when I become flush with the emotions of the work:

 

I have had to stop myself sometimes. I have found myself rushing from one person to another - soup bowls and more soup bowls, plates of bread and more plates of bread, with the gratitude of the hungry becoming a loud din in my ears.  The hunger can be as severe as someone else's stomach hunger: the joy of hearing those expressions of gratitude. I remember a nun who came to visit us. We and sat and drank coffee after she had helped us work. She was a fast one. She went from table to table, arranging chairs and helping some of the men who really needed help. she was tactful and modest, and, of course, they took to her. She knew who could fend for himself and who needed a little boost from her. As we sat and talked she said to me in whisper, '"This is dangerous work....It is a grave temptation to want to help people."  

 

I know no of not other way to serve these elders but in love, despite the dangers of being tempted to always listen for the gratitude.  I can change very little in their lives.  I am grateful that Jill continues to share with me her vision of Mary simply sitting on the fence.  It reminds me of the strength that presence has to offer.  When I first moved my own mother into skilled nursing, I had such an immediate and profound sense of Jesus' presence that I kept expecting to see him leaning against a wall, in a sort of James Dean pose (this was West Texas, after all).  That sense has never left me.  I am beginning to think that I am a sort of well-meaning but slightly bumbling tour guide in this journey in, through, and to the kingdom.  Fortunately, Jesus and Mary serve as gracious sign posts to keep us from losing our way.  I surely could not do it alone.   

  

Blessed assurance in these dangerous times. 

 

A Lesson in Attendance

I seem to be at the age where spiritual legacies are on my mind and heart.  I am not referring to the act of physically sitting and writing out what we believe our legacy to be, although that exercise can be very helpful.  However, ultimately that may not the legacy that counts.  What really matters is our legacy that others experience, and how they live out that legacy - or perhaps avoid it at all cost.  

 

 I recently was reminded of this when I attended the memorial service of a long-time neighbor, educator, and life-long Christian.  Sally was in her late 80s and had been ill for awhile. As I sat and listened to the testimonies of adult grandchildren and others who loved her deeply, I felt gratitude for this elder who obviously lived her life and faith in such a way that it influenced, and will continue to influence generations.  While we saw many pictures of Sally and her family on the large screen front of the chapel, the focus of the memorial was really not so much on her, but rather her deep abiding love of Christ.  The church she attended is large (the main sanctuary holds between 1200 to 1500 people), so we gathered in and filled their chapel that probably holds about 200.  The family and many of the friends who attended the service also attend that church, so there was very much a sense of a congregation who comes together regularly to listen, to pray, and to take the teachings to heart. They seemed to listen in and with one body.  Very moving and very tangible.  For the first time in a long while, I felt the poorer for not having grown up in a church.    

  

Too often when I attend memorial services, I hear the deceased described as "a person of faith," and  then we listen to a reading of Psalm 23  (sometimes sung) because just about everyone likes it and nobody actually knew what the favorite scripture was of the one who passed. Somehow, in the busyness of life, those deeper discussions never happened.  The legacies we are left with are thin and weak - not much substance for the long road ahead.   

  

On the day of Sally's passing, one of the daughters told me that several of her family members were at her bedside singing her favorite hymns. While she had spent most of the last several months living with a daughter, her last day was spent in her home.   I also understand that for several days before she passed, she had private conversations with each family member.   

 

Several times in the service  I heard a phrase I was unfamiliar with: "winsome (perhaps win some?) for the gospel."   I think in Sally's life, the legacy of the joy of the gospel did indeed win.  We were not treated to a reading of Psalm 23, but rather one from Isaiah 40.  Her pastor laughed and said that the last time he saw Sally, she requested that he read to her from that text.  He asked, "Which verse?"  She replied, "All of it."    

 

Attending to our legacies is really not all that difficult, but it does require living life intentionally and lovingly.  It requires the courage to talk of God, of life, and death.  Of joys and blessings.  Of mistakes made and lessons learned.  What we might do differently, and what we can accept as finished.  Yes, all of that, and probably more.   Let's make it a little easier and start now.      

 

May your legacy be rich, and may all reap the rewards of  really knowing you.         

 

God gives power to the faint,

and strengthens the powerless.

Even youths will faint and be weary,

and the young will fall exhausted;

but those who wait for the LORD

shall renew their strength,

they shall mount up with wings like eagles,

they shall run and not be weary,

they shall walk and not faint.

                                                  Isaiah 40:29-31 

 

 

Prayer! Faith! God! Love!

We have started most our worship services this month by singing, "Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus."  After we sing the hymn, I have been asking, "How do we do that?  How do we turn our eyes to Jesus?"  Usually I am the one giving the response, but today in a convalescent hospital, I immediately heard these answers: "Prayer! Faith! God! Love!"   I am not making this up.  I told them they were ready to preach.  Truthfully, they have been all along. 

 

I then asked them, "Do you know how I turn my eyes upon Jesus?"  The room grew quiet.  I said, "I come and worship with you."  I meant that quite seriously.   I have been worshiping in this hospital for close to six years, and the people who gather with me, often 40 or 50 in number, still amaze me.  They sing. They laugh at my jokes.  They are gracious enough to nod their heads as I speak.  Almost everyone takes communion.   Yes, some are quite ill, and most spend their waking hours in wheel chairs and gurneys.  Today I noticed the arms of one gurney had been repaired with duct tape.  The piano is a mess, and I have learned the art of not losing my train of thought as I pause while announcements are being made over the intercom (I am kind of proud of this skill).         

  

On my way home, I found myself wondering why I was tired.  I realized  I had finished my day with arriving at the hospital a little early.  The residents were singing karaoke so I joined them.  We then had worship.  Afterwards, the pianist led us in a lively hymn sing.    

 

It is not easy trying to keep up with Jesus. 

Down (and maybe across) to Heaven

Mother Teresa once said that if she ever was made a saint she probably would not stay in heaven very long - the temptation to keep returning to help the poor would just be too great. I have always thought that about Jesus as well.  I really cannot comprehend a Jesus who sits on a throne in heaven while the white horse and the cloud stand by, ready to whisk Jesus in at the final judgement.  No, Jesus is right here today.   And I have no doubt that each of us has been Jesus at least once for someone else.  Yes, that is strong love.  Such potency is exactly what God created us for.      

  

Last year a good friend introduced me to this poem entitled The Truelove by David Whyte.  I love the image of the old man saying his prayer to the turbulent Jesus hidden in the water.  I am reminded of an old woman Tyler and I met years ago in Mendocino.  We passed her as she was making her way to the cliffs overlooking the ocean.  She was quite bent, and as she passed I noticed that the back of her much worn lime green jacket was so bleached by wind and sun that was almost the color of dried bones.  I believe the elements had been having their way with her for some time, but she seemed quite content with that. While I know that the temptation to romanticize the sea, Jesus, and old age is great, today they seem one in the same to me.   

 

This poem is long, so you may not have time to read it at this very moment, but I encourage you to do so when you can. In the meantime, I pray that each of you knows that you belong and that if times are turbulent, you will take a look to see who might be waiting for you in the midst of it all.    

   

The Truelove

There is a faith in loving fiercely 

the one who is rightfully yours, 

especially if you have 

waited years and especially 

if part of you never believed

you could deserve this 

loved and beckoning hand 

held out to you this way. 

 

I am thinking of faith now

and the testaments of loneliness

and what we feel we are 

worthy of in this world.  

 

Years ago in the Hebrides

I remember an old man 

who walked every morning 

on the grey stones

to the shore of the baying seals,

 

who would press his hat 

to his chest in the blustering 

salt wind and say his prayer 

to the turbulent Jesus 

hidden in the water, 

 

and I think of the story 

of the storm and everyone

waking and seeing 

the distant 

yet familiar figure 

far across the water 

calling to them, 

 

and how we are all 

preparing for that 

abrupt waking, 

and that calling, 

and that moment 

we have to say yes, 

except it will 

not come so grandly, 

so Biblically, 

but more subtly 

and intimately in the face

of the one you know 

you have to love, 

   

so that when we finally step out of the boat

toward them, we find 

everything holds 

us, and confirms

our courage, and if you wanted 

to drown you could, 

but you don't 

 

because finally 

after all the struggle 

and all the years, 

you don't want to any more, 

you've simply had enough

of drowning 

and you want to live and you 

want to love and you will 

walk across any territory 

and any darkness, 

however fluid and however 

dangerous, to take the 

one hand you know 

belongs in yours.