for Shelby

Within reach of where I sit at my desk is a candle. I keep it nearby for those occasions when I want to keep a prayer concern going for longer than I can remain focused on it consciously, and where the flame (and sometimes the fragrance) will catch my attention over the course of its lighting to bring me back to the reason I lit it in the first place. It's my version of Paul's admonishment to pray without ceasing. Well, it's one version. 

This morning I lit the candle for Shelby Wilkie, the niece of a friend and colleague. Shelby was killed by her husband two years ago, and this week he goes on trial for her murder. She was in the process of leaving him as his physical abuse toward her not only jeopardized her life, but that of their infant daughter.

It has been agonizing to witness the impact of this tragedy from afar (my friend lives in Michigan, her niece was in in North Carolina), but distance does not lessen the importance of being present to and for my friend in whatever way I can, nor does it prevent me from adding my voice to those who seek a world where anger doesn't translate as violence, and every human being is empowered to feel significant and worthy.

As the court seeks justice for Shelby, I invite each of us to do at least one thing today to affirm a person whose confidence may be low, to extend a hand to someone who is isolated, to embrace someone who has withdrawn, to speak for someone who can't find his or her voice, and to love, by whatever means available, those we hold dear, and those we keep at a distance. 

Connect, smile, hug, reach. For the Shelbys of this world, and for us all.

love through light

It is my firm belief that the most intimate relationship we have in our life is the one we hold with God. Whether or not we can ever allow ourselves to embrace the fullness of the theology that we are loved beyond measure by him, the hope that God's love is constant and pervasive can get us through our bleakest hours, and persist when doubt rears its head. 

Oddly enough (or maybe not), I can immerse myself in relationship with the godhead far more easily than a relationship with Jesus. I suspect this has something to do with my understanding of salvation history, whose sweep over time and space can appear to gobble up the finite human life and times of Jesus and move on. History provides a context and a landscape for appreciating the full impact of what we know as the incarnation. Of late, that has been on my mind.

In a recent email from my friend from Newtown, she relates that the massacre there "tested the power and joy of the Nativity." In her words, the presence in their life of their first grandchild made the Incarnation palpable. Perhaps I missed it, caught up as the media was with reporting the story through almost every human lens, but it seems that the only theological reflection that was offered for the masses at the time hit on the theme of theodicy--the tension between the existence of evil with an omnipotent God. The questions of faith that were raised swirled around "how could God let this happen?" and the desperate need to draw on one's faith to be sustained in the face of what was inexplicable. I suspect there was some good preaching here and there that made the connection between the incarnation and surviving life's traumas, but I also know that by the time we found ourselves at the manger many people were saturated with grief and numbed by the horror that we couldn't escape. Joy felt out of place at the very time we perhaps needed to embrace it most fully.

As is natural and necessary, most of us have returned to the daily grind and demands of our particular lives, and the power and joy of the Nativity won't have an opportunity to penetrate the particular darkness that the massacre at Sandy Hook bestowed. That is why I am so grateful for Carolyn's words and the testimony it reveals. I have been given an opportunity to turn back for another look, to scrape away the scabs that have already formed and let the light into the residual darkness. My compassion, empathy and prayers will forever be present for the families and the community so devastated by that December Friday. For myself, I am burrowing deeply into that marvelous intersection between God and humanity. I have an immediate context and a new canvas for attempting to understand the very power to which my friend refers, and to taste the joy that is its promise. It isn't easy. It is laced with pain and vulnerability. And it is in that place that I can experience Mary as she succumbs to the event that will change her world, and then transform ours. Her pain ushered a life into the world, and her love made her vulnerable to all that would come by way of that life. Scripture describes her heart as being pierced, and now Newtown has pierced ours also. It can only be pierced because love and joy are already there, and perhaps the recognition of that reality is what we need to remind ourselves that no matter the season, we are Easter people. 

I am reminded of the words of an Easter hymn, "love is come again, like wheat that springeth green."  Grief is born of love, and through grief we find our way to resurrection. Whether through a first grandchild or the birth of an idea whose time has come, love trumps death because love creates and perpetuates. I think it is that aspect of the Incarnation that gets overlooked when we dwell on the miracle of a manger birth. It is all of a piece, but when we get love right we are then equipped for death in a way that, eventually, makes it bearable. It is my prayer that I may do my part to make love palpable, that joy will persist. 

love, love, love

I hope that Spider Solitaire won't take it personally that I have forsaken it (mostly) for Pinterest. Oh, gracious, how addictive is Pinterest! But it's a good addiction: I discover all sorts of great ideas that I can adopt, imitate, or use for inspiration. I discover recipes that I can dream about and feel like I've eaten without actually using and devouring the results of them. I learn about beautiful places that soothe my soul, laugh at the antics of people I have never met, and find inspiration through encouraging words and quotes. And more.

There have been some very moving items posted lately, and this one was in my vision this morning when I perused the latest pinings. It's an adorable story. Whether or not it's true, I don't care. Posted at herOinchic@tumbler.

Our 14 year old dog, Abbey, died last month. The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey.  She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her.  I told her that I thought we could so she dictated these words:

Dear God, Will you please take care of my dog? She died yesterday and is with you in heaven. I miss her very much. I am happy that you let me have her as my dog even though she got sick. I hope you will play with her. She likes to play with balls and to swim. I am sending a picture of her so when you see her You will know that she is my dog. I really miss her. Love, Meredith

We put the letter in an envelope with a picture of Abbey and Meredith and addressed it to God/Heaven. We put our return address on it. Then Meredith pasted several stamps on the front of the envelope because she said it would take lots of stamps to get the letter all the way to heaven. That afternoon she dropped it into the letter box at the post office.

A few days later, she asked if God had gotten the letter yet.  I told her that I thought He had.

Yesterday, there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch addressed, ‘To Meredith’ in an unfamiliar hand. Meredith opened it. Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers called, ‘When a Pet Dies.’ Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God in its opened envelope. On the opposite page was the picture of Abbey & Meredith and this note:

Dear Meredith, Abbey arrived safely in heaven. Having the picture was a big help. I recognized Abbey right away. Abbey isn’t sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me just like it stays in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. Since we don’t need our bodies in heaven, I don’t have any pockets to keep your picture in, so I am sending it back to you in this little book for you to keep and have something to remember Abbey by.  Thank you for the beautiful letter and thank your mother for helping you write it and sending it to me. What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you. I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much. By the way, I’m easy to find, I am wherever there is love. Love, God…

unexpected love

George at the wedding reception of his oldest daughter, 25 years ago

My godfather is dying. He is 91, has had a good life great life, and is being dragged to his end by cancer. I will be heading east in two and a half weeks, and I hope that he is still alive by the time that I get there so that I can pay him a visit and tell him goodbye.

George is the father of one of my oldest and dearest friends, Judy. In Junior High and portions of High School (should those be capitalized?) Judy and her family were my salvation when my own family's cohesion cracked and crumbled through various stresses. I spent evenings at their dinner table and weekends at hockey games, attended church choir concerts, and melded into the patterns of their family life. Judy's family became my family, and the bonds formed in those adolescent days are as sinews of my being.

I haven't seen George in several years, and as I hold his being in my heart during these difficult days for him and his family I find myself fighting tears. My affection for him runs deep, although it is generally unexpressed. George doesn't really express feelings. Raised by an American father and Canadian mother, he is the epitome of the proper and convivial professional. A state prosecutor who moved into the honorable ranks of superior and then appellate court judge, his manner was controlled and his views tended toward the conservative. We saw many things differently, but I knew through the joshing over sherry and peanuts and the song into which he might break after dinner that he included me among the treasures of his life.

In spite of my clear liberal leanings, there are any number of people among my own treasured friendships that view the world differently than I do. Though the differences in our politics (and sometimes our theology) may breed certain tensions, there is never any question in my mind or my heart that my love and affection for these friends trumps any differences of that kind. It dawns on me now, with love ferried through tears, that George would say the same.  This is an emotional awakening that I didn't know was dormant, but aware of it now it seems to open a door to understand other bonds of love unspoken or otherwise unexpressed in the usual ways.

It is a testament to the strength of love that though time may diminish contact, and even memories, its truth pervades distance of all kinds. As I begin to grieve a loss I find that within me there is an eternal presence that transcends loss. It resonates not only with what is divine and holy, but what joins us as human beings in relationship over time, space, and circumstances. Today grief bore me a gift. Tomorrow perhaps my heart may find a way to share that gift beyond the corner of my world.

ashes, ashes, we all fall down

There are a number of days in the church year that I find particularly meaningful and to which I look forward. Today is one of them. I have children to thank for that. The first time that I marked the sign of the cross with ashes on the forehead of a child and recited the words, "remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return" was a profound and moving moment. Thoughts of mortality and the fragility of life were the first to emerge, but they yielded in short order to deeper levels of connection to the earth, creation, and the divine.

Today, for me, is about grounding. It is a reminder of the opportunity to be grounded in God, to draw strength from the holy source of life and commit myself to honoring my "roots" by living the best life that I can. It is a reminder, as well, that no matter how hard I try to do my best, respect others and honor all that comes from the hand of God, I fail. It is a reminder that even when I fail, I am loved and embraced by the fullness of what is holy and gracious.

Words in today's liturgy invite us to the observance of a holy Lent. I love that the Church offers an invitation to the experience of holiness intended to draw us deeply into the mystery that is about the renewal of humanity through forgiveness. I love that the community is encouraged to journey together into the darkness of who we are so that we can rejoice together in the light of what we receive from the heart of love. I love that all of that is woven together so beautifully on this day of being marked with the ashes of death as a reminder of the life we are given.

I love this day. It is my prayer that you find blessing in it. May you experience a holy Lent.

the sound of fondness

A week ago today was the birthday of Robert Burns, poet laureate of Scotland for all time. Although the feast of St. Andrews, the country's patron saint, is a high holy day for national celebration, the Feast of Robbie Burns is probably the holiest day for Scots. It was the birthday of my beloved Border Collie, Brenna, and the date I chose to give McKinlee as her birth date as well, since we only had a ballpark estimation of how old she was when she was rescued.

The latter trivia notwithstanding, Robert Burns' birthday is a day I hold in high regard in my heart. Among his many poems, some set to music, is this beautiful lament, Ae fond kiss. It holds some personal significance, but mostly it is a tune that fills my heart with a bittersweet empathy for a love, even lost, that had such depth as to leave joy in its wake. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever
Ae farewell, and then forever
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and goans I'll wage thee.

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him
Me nae cheerful twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy:
Nothing could resist my Nancy
But to see her was to love her
Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never loe'd sae kindly,
Had we never loe'd sae blindly,
Never met - nor never parted -
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever
Ae farewell, alas, for ever
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

share the love update

I forgot to mention one of the really fun things about this sharing project. Kim's idea is that they are made to give away. BUT! Give two away at a time: one to the designated recipient, and the other for that person to give away themselves. The gift that continues to give, at least for another "generation." Love it!

So after I had finally nailed down the process of creating these lovely cozies I got busy yesterday for a while and made 11 more, yielding a grand total of 12 cozies. Thus far, three fabric combinations have been used, those that you see here. This is so much fun! It takes longer to pull fabric and put together color combos than it does to sew these, and soon I will need to venture out to buy mere portions of a yard for the little accent strip.

Anyway, just wanted to offer this update since Sunday mornings are never a good time for to sit here and be thoughtful about something to write. Too many other things going on in my head!

Have a lovely, cozy day, and if you'd like a cozy yourself, just let me know color prefrences in the comments. I'll see what I can do!

Be well...