Category Archives: observation

All Grown Up

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My younger begins his high school sophomore year and is old enough for a learner’s permit and soon the inevitable driver’s license. My husband is driving my older son to his college sophomore year today; two nephews are back on this or that campus, and my newly married niece is starting grad school any day now. Four nieces and a couple of nephews are all in relatively new career positions.  There are no children among the generation that follows mine.

Giving children over to their adult lives is one of the blessings of aging. I don’t want my sons or my siblings’ children to stay at home forever frozen in a child’s reality. They aren’t my possessions or extensions of my own life: they are uniquely themselves, with God-given gifts and work of their own. Their eyes will see things mine never will, and their kindness will bless a world that stretches beyond my living years.

Still, it’s an adjustment – a holy privilege that takes me farther down this road of faith and love. I can’t quite see what’s around the corner, but I have faith that God will surprise me when I make the turn. The same goes for the ones whose hands I held until they were ready for me to let go.

Will you by your prayers and witness help this child to grow into the full stature of Christ?

I will, with God’s help.

(Baptismal promises)

Love and Cherish

A friend of mine was married for many years before her husband wanted a divorce.

“Don’t you love me?” my friend asked.

“Sure, but I want a do-over before it’s too late,” he said.

Her take on the whole thing: we may take for granted someone we love, but not someone we cherish. Somewhere along the way, her ex forgot the worth of all the qualities that were unique to her and all the shared experiences that made their life together precious.

It’s been years since we spoke of it, but I haven’t forgotten it. Cherishing is remembering the holy and unique characters that make up a person. It is seeing in that familiar face the infinite mystery of life, even after years of living together. It’s recognizing that life didn’t have to bring me this family and these friends, and being thankful that it did.

In sickness and in health

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In the Name of God, I take you to be my (wife/husband), to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow.

Two days after we got back from a family wedding, the hectic pace of the last few weeks caught up with me in the form of a virus. Headache, upset stomach, and a low grade fever put my plans on hold. I only did the bare minimum of work, leaving the rest for later. My husband picked up the slack without complaint, getting meals and making sure everyone got where they needed to be. I don’t think either of us thought much about it – that’s just what we do when one of us is sick. It’s part of being family.

My mother and father accepted sickness as part of married life. When one had the flu, the other shopped and cooked; when one had surgery, the other prayed in the waiting room. Through countless colds and viruses, diabetes, and one cancer each, they honored their marriage vows by caring for each other. This they did until they were parted by death.

It isn’t often I think about the “sickness and health” part of my wedding vows. It’s been a given for my husband and me for almost twenty-three years. But this week, I see it for what it is: an ordinary miracle of love and steadfast support. And I am profoundly grateful.

Promises, Promises

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Something new is coming into the world today. In front of family and friends, two people will come together and promise to live a life in common and to walk through this world together. They promise to celebrate their blessings together, share burdens, and each include the other in their plans, dreams, and griefs. Sometimes the sheer magnitude of these promises gets lost in lace, flowers, champagne, and romantic music – all lovely things, but trivial in comparison. The word marriage doesn’t seem nearly big enough to hold such promises, but I guess it does just as well as any other word.

I offered and received those promises almost twenty-three years ago. Through half a dozen moves, graduate school programs, raising children, and doing our best to serve God and neighbor, I’ve had the blessing of a loving companion. It hasn’t always been easy and we haven’t always been our best or kindest, but it has always been a grace and blessing.

For Grace and Tommy, I wish a wonderful wedding and a love rooted in compassion and humor. I have no idea what adventures are in store for them, but I know they will be uniquely their own. Blessings for the journey!

Given and Given Back

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Accept these prayers and praises, Father, through Jesus Christ our great High Priest, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, your Church gives honor, glory, and worship from generation to generation. AMEN.

When my boys were young, even before they could walk, we played a simple game. I would offer a wooden block or soft toy to them. They would take it, hold it for a moment, smile, and then stretch out their hands to offer it back. I would take the toy, smile and say thank you, and begin the game again. After the first couple of handovers, it was hard to tell which part they enjoyed more – the giving or the receiving. The toy itself didn’t really matter that much; it was the accepting and offering that brought them joy.

Sometimes when I pray, it feels like I’m an infant playing this game. I’m given a day and the miracles it holds. I hold it for a moment, then hand it back to the Giver. It’s a delightful game, at least for me and I assume for God – why else would God play? But there is one big difference: whatever I hand over to God in prayer comes back in a different form. The love of God transforms it into something more precious than whatever it was I handed over. Or perhaps it’s only when it’s given back that I see it for what it truly is. Either way, I am made new by what I’ve given and then been given back.

I think that’s one way to understand Church at prayer: a group of God’s beloved receiving Jesus, holding him close, then giving him back.

And this meal we share on Sundays? What a wonderful way to recognize in Jesus the giver, take the gift of life, and offer it back out of love and delight.

Eyes To See

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Lord God of our Fathers; God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Lord God of our Mothers; God of Sarah, Leah, and Rebecca; God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ: Open our eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us. Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name.

Risen Lord, be known to us in the breaking of the Bread.

[Prayer C, Book of Common Prayer. For full prayer, click “prayer C” above.]

Do I have eyes to see the hand of God at work in the world around me? With everything wrong and negative, everything harmful and hurtful reported with detail and (sometimes) relish, it’s easy to miss the good, gracious, and holy that surround me. If I don’t ask for eyes to see, will I miss it? If I miss it, how many will I encourage to miss it as well?

There’s a difference between knee-jerk optimism and a hope and joy that nourishes the soul. The first is dependent on things going well (or on denying when things aren’t going well), the second is laying claim to the presence of God in this creation, whatever the circumstances. Blessing and grace are everywhere, but they aren’t always immediately obvious and they come in unexpected forms and by unexpected paths. That makes sense, though. God is constant but not predictable: wouldn’t God-given blessings be the same?

When my eyes are open to God’s handiwork, I will find solace for my grief and strength to make of it something good. I will admit my mistakes and seek forgiveness; my life will be renewed so that I don’t make the same hurtful mistakes in the future.

What a marvelous truth, what a gracious life is offered to me and everyone else. How can I be anything but grateful?

Touchpoint

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At the following words concerning the bread, the Celebrant is to hold it, or lay a hand upon it; and at the words concerning the cup, to hold or place a hand upon the cup and any other vessel containing wine to be consecrated.

On the night he was betrayed he took bread, said the blessing, broke the bread, and gave it to his friends, and said, “Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me.”

After supper, he took the cup of wine, gave thanks, and said, “Drink this, all of you: This is my Blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you and for many (all) for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.”

(Book of Common Prayer, Holy Eucharist Prayer C)

It’s not enough to say the words. The words, the bread, and the wine come with a touch.  The sound of voice alone won’t be as meaningful as voice and touch. The words aren’t a generic blessing or a general rule of conduct: this prayer is about this particular day, a particular place, and a very particular gathering of people. It’s not a history lesson or a moral position. This is a connection, a touchpoint. Just as surely as Jesus was present to his disciples, Jesus is present to us. He blesses not just the bread the disciples ate and the wine they sipped: he blesses the food and drink we will be given in this time and place. We are blessed and we are fed – our bodies as well as our spirits.

For me, these words mean something like this:

I love you. I leave with you my blessing. See in your every meal my love – not just in the feasts but in the PBJ’s. When you eat, when you give food to others, my love blesses you.

Incarnation on a plate, the love of God in a cup. For these blessings, we are indeed grateful. Amen.

In Company

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And therefore we praise you, joining with the heavenly chorus, with prophets, apostles, and martyrs, and with all those in every generation who have looked to you in hope, to proclaim with them your glory, in their unending hymn:

Solo singing is very different from choral singing. The musicians take cues from solo singers, bending their talents to fit the style of whoever happens to be singing. If a soloist loses the melody or forgets the lyrics, there isn’t much anyone else can do to help. Responsibility and credit rest on just the one singer.

Choral singing is something else altogether. Every singer bends his or her voice to fit with the other voices. Singers listen to each other to keep a balance between parts and to honor the piece of music being sung. As a group, singers can hold notes much longer than any solo artist – singers just stagger their breathing. There’s a fullness in the sound of choral singing that cannot be duplicated with single voice, and the many voices together create a depth of sound quite different from even the most talented single voice. Low voices and high voices sing together, and no one person has to be able to do it all.

I think prayer is as much like choral singing as it is a solo act. It may seem like we each pray alone, separated from all others. But there’s a whole host of faithful through time and place who pray with us. We may not be able to see them, but the rest of the heavenly choir is always with us. All those who have ever prayed, all those who pray now, and all those who will pray in the coming years belong to the same choir. My strength becomes theirs, their strength becomes mine. Without this heavenly chorus, would I have the strength to pray?

Healing Hurts

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By his blood, he reconciled us. By his wounds, we are healed.

It’s understandable, avoiding the people who’ve hurt us. Who wants to spend time with the ones who teased us, called us names, bruised our egos and perhaps our bodies? It’s why family and high school reunions are about staying disconnected from those who hurt us almost as much as they are about reconnecting with those who love us. Some of us are haunted by the hurts we’ve suffered over the years and have no interest in an encore performance.

But what about the ones we’ve hurt? More specifically, what about the ones I’ve hurt? Facing them is looking in the mirror and seeing my own pettiness and aggression. It’ not a pleasant experience and it takes a great deal of strength to do it willingly. I’d much rather see my good deeds and intentions without the darker aspects that are visible in my true reflection. If I don’t see the harm I’ve done, I can pretend there are no consequences and no reparations necessary. It’s a negative riff on the “ignorance is bliss” theme.

But avoiding and denying the damage I’ve done is a snare for my soul. I’m trapped, repeating the same hurtful mistakes over and over. Only by facing the hurt and the harm, only by admitting my part in it can release me. If I learn the painful lesson that I have done harm, I can choose another action in the future.

I think that’s why the cross is such a powerful truth: I have harmed someone and avoided seeing my own faults. When I see the cross, I can choose another way. But it’s more than that. When I see the Jesus who suffered, I see in him forgiveness I don’t deserve. It’s not just a lesson learned and a pattern broken, its the love of God gazing at me with compassion in his eyes.

Island Living

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At your command all things came to be: the vast expanse of interstellar space, galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses, and this fragile earth, our island home.

By your will they were created and have their being.

It’s the cosmic view at the beginning, going smaller as the sentence progresses: every single thing in this created universe shrinks down to our off-the-beaten-path planet. This cosmic expanse keeps expanding, with everything around us moving out and away from the point where it all started. It’s impossible for us to see such movement  – the scale is beyond our perception, and we are in the thick of it. Some things are just too big to see, and our universe as a whole is one of them.

In some ways, our beloved earth is very much an island, a small dot in this vast expanse of interstellar space. It is a small home, taking up such a little piece of the galaxy that it hardly bears mentioning. But for us, for me and every other living being, it seems almost endlessly large. Perhaps this is why loneliness is something many of us experience- a vague sense of being unimportant and unnoticeable to the larger universe.

But our blue planet island isn’t really alone, and it isn’t disconnected from this immense universe. For the scientifically minded, we are connected to everything by gravity and strong and weak forces. For the poetically inclined, our common big bang origin makes us all kin. For the seekers of God, it’s our creator that binds all things together.

Years ago, Margaret Wise Brown wrote a lovely children’s book – The Little Island. A kitten visits a small island off the coast of Maine, separated from the main land by miles of ocean. But a fish tells him that at its roots, the island is part of the whole – not disconnected or alone at all, but a tiny part of this big world. Although he cannot see the connection, the kitten believes this wonderful truth.

I can’t see how my island home, my planet, is connected to everything deep down. But I am kitten enough to believe this truth, even if I can’t see it.

And it was good to be a little Island. A part of the world and a world of its own all surrounded by the bright blue sea. [Margaret Wise Brown, The Little Island, New York: Dell Dragonfly Books, 1973, last line. Originally published in 1946 by Doubleday & Company, inc]