Isaiah 43:19

Although it is early in the day, I want to give the flowers the last word in 2015.  They have been wonderful, and wonder- filled way stations for me this year.  Thank you for walking with me.  Blessings on your journey. Know that God is doing something new and wonderful with you and through you, and you are beautiful.

See, I am doing a new thing!
 Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.  

A Tiny Part of the Kingdom

Yesterday I was in a community dedicated to the care of those with Alzheimer's. The folks gathered with me were surprisingly quiet, including the staff. I was grateful to see Lois among those gathered. I have never heard her speak, but when she looks at me and smiles, I know her brightness could guide me through any storm. Nancy was far more subdued than usual.  She said she had not been feeling well.  She did not even want a song sheet. That concerned me; she has a very sweet voice and loves to sing.  Fortunately, we were singing carols, and she could not resist joining in, and a smile returned to her.  I met a new resident, a former professor of literature, who asked for a prayer for his wife who still lives at home.  

 

As I began the transition into communion, I felt the room fill with love.  There were no visible changes to the people, but love seemed to be everywhere. Not everyone here can take communion, but a surprising number do. It is very humbling to serve them; most of then struggle with even simple physical acts. As I served the staff, I was struck by how weary they looked. They all had worked Christmas. I blessed each one who had come to rest a moment in worship.  Like good shepherds, they come to watch over the residents, but I know they also come because in worship, they can pause, and be loved.

 

When I read the following prayer this morning, I felt God's gentle encouraging nudge, gathering me in. I heard Jesus saying that the burden is light, and that light is really all I am asked to carry.  This prayer was written by the late Bishop of Saginaw, Michigan, Ken Untener, and came to me through the Contemplative Life Weekly Update. I am grateful.  

Dear Friends,
It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.

The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying
that the kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.

We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation
in realizing that. This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well. It may be incomplete,
but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results, but that is the difference
between the master builder and the worker.

We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.
Amen.   

In the Temple

Just before Christmas, I had a surprise as I was serving communion in a skilled nursing community. As I placed the wafer on the tongue of one of the elders and said, "The bread and the cup, life eternal in Christ," she leaned over and kissed the cup. She then folded her hands, whispered what I must assume was a prayer, looked up, and said thank you. The moment startled me with both its swiftness and its tenderness. It was a vivid reminder that yes, I purchased the cup years ago and yes, when I am working I carry it everywhere, the cup does not belong me. It belongs to those I serve. Tonight I think of Simeon and Anna who waited with patience in the temple until the baby Jesus was presented to them. They did not hold on to him, but simply gave thanks. Perhaps when Mary and Joseph heard their blessings given by Simeon and Anna, they, too, knew they could not hold on, but accept that he would bloom in his time.    

She was very old; she lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, and then was a widow until she was eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying (Luke 2:36-37).   

    

Walking and Waiting

As Jack and I take our morning walks, I often see neighbors hurrying to their cars to go to work or get the children to school, or both.  I sometimes see an older man and woman slowly walk to their car with an even older neighbor who used to drive around town in a decades old yellow BMW, but who is barely able to walk with a walker.  I see neighbors walking their dogs, and kids joking with one another on their way to school. They are mostly on foot, but sometimes they zip around on skateboards and bikes.  One day I even spotted a young man walking and reading, not an electronic device, but rather an old fashioned paperback book. I frequently see a tall man with a pack walking with his slender dog.  I see them all over town so they walk a lot; it could be how they spend their days.  

 

While I try to avoid it, I sometimes must cross a particularly busy intersection.  There is little that happens leisurely at this crossroads.  At one corner is a small gas station that can get quite congested in the mornings. Across the street is a convenience store.  On either side of the street is a bus stop. It is here that people get on the freeway to head north or turn to go south to either BART or 880. I am often surprised at how loud traffic can be even when someone does not feel compelled to honk a horn to hurry things along. Even with traffic lights, the chaos, frustration, and distraction are barely contained.    

 

It was on such morning, as two drivers were honking at each other in the midst of busy traffic, when I noticed a  man simply standing at the bus stop by the gas station.  His stillness was in sharp contrast to the flurry of exasperation that was occurring all around him. 

 

I see him now about twice a month. I cannot tell whether or not he is homeless, but  I am certain his life has not been easy.  The knit cap he probably wears every day has been around for quite sometime. His jacket and other clothes are muted yellows, beige, and browns, faded from long wear. 

 At first, he would not look in our direction, but eventually he began to nod when he saw us, but then would look away.  We have now moved to a smile and a slight wave.  I have never actually seen him get on a bus, but I must assume that he does. However, for me, he is the one who waits.  There is nothing he can do to make the bus come more quickly. He has no horn to sound to clear the way. He does not appear to have any device to make a phone call, check an email, or take a photograph. I have never seen him with the ubiquitous paper cup obtained from either the convenience store or one of the coffee shops down the street.  Unlike most of us, he simply waits.  

 

Jesus walked much. But as he walked, I think he also waited. That is why people could find him. He had been waiting for them all along.  

  

Stand at the cross roads and look;

ask for the ancient paths,

ask where the good way is,

and walk in it,

and you will find rest for your souls.    

 

Jeremiah 6:16     

  

 

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