In the light of a spring evening
As day gives way to night
When the house becomes more quiet, more empty
This is when I seek You.
Here
Now
On my own
There is still purpose
A reason to be within this particular set of walls.
In the waning of darkness
As the moon hands over the sky to sunrise
When I awake in the house
So very quiet, still empty
This is when I seek You.
In this New Day
By calendar
By season of life
Always
May I seek You.
As I handed all that I do
All whom I care for
All that I worry about
Into Your hands this morning
Save me from taking it all back tonight
Loosely held may I let my worries for the future slip through my hands
Take my judgments about others' motivations out of my heart.
It's only me, only my life
That I am responsible
To present to You at the end
And
I'm not sure, but probably so
That the end is already under way
Grant me wisdom and vision to use
My time - Your time
My gifts - Your gifts
In the best way possible
Amen
Waiting for words to come
Pen poised for action
No words yet so
I'll just write these.
It's not the case of no words, though -
It's the case of too many words
Flowing, Spinning, Flying
Between images and memories
Around stories waiting to be written
Caught up in concerns, censors, crashing
If there was just one story with
One plot, one hero, one ending
Then only certain words would do
But
There are so many plots, so many heroes, so many endings
It's hard to start
And
It's hard to stop
Waiting for words to come
As for tonight
This piece is done
(Note: Written on 3/23/23, posted on 4/16/23)
Pierre de Beaumarchais was a very famous French playwright with the ear of Louis XVI as the colonies were on the brink of revolution.
He was also a secret arms dealer funneling cash and weapons from Spain and France to the newly forming American rebels in the 1770's.
And he was quoted in my Mom's essay in 1951 when she was a junior in high school.
She won $7.50.
"Freedom's Open Door" was a lengthy and hot call for Americans to fight the threat of communism in the early 1950's. Her father served in WWI and her two oldest brothers were in WWII. She lived in eastern Montana and I imagine she sat at the farmhouse kitchen table to write this very powerful and exquisite essay for her English class that was then submitted to the VFW essay contest.
It reads like a college paper on American government and values.
It reads like a call to arms.
It reads like a young woman with very clear ideals and beliefs.
It reads like my Mother.
The fact that this 72 year old essay reads at all is amazing because it's taped on the first page of a terribly yellowed scrapbook. The pages that follow hold very old, dried corsages, tickets to the US Capitol, and handwritten notes about boys named Harry and Eddie.
The world of a sixteen year old Montana farm girl in 1951 - so full of dreams and ideals.
And
I only just looked at this scrapbook and read about Pierre de Beaumarchais tonight.
It's March 23, 2023 and my Mom has been gone five years today.
The uncomfortable angst that comes on such days sent me on a search when I got home tonight.
I thought I was searching for collage pieces to make a design of my insides so the light of day could calm and cleanse them.
Instead I picked up this ancient scrapbook that's been in my guest room for the past five years.
I sat down and was startled to find my young mother on the first page as the second place winner of the VFW essay contest.
When the dead have been gone for too long, we begin to search.
We hope to find a piece of them to claim, to cling to.
Tonight the very intelligent, extremely well-written young woman, who bore me just six years later made a visit.
I am most grateful and inspired.
...I have taken refuge...be my rock of refuge...a strong fortress to save me...for you are my rock and my fortress...free me from the trap that is set for me, for you are my refuge...be merciful to me, O LORD, for I am in distress... my times are in your hands...be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the LORD."
Words from Psalm 31 that I prayed last night.
Books pile high all around me. Always ordering new ones while the list of just started or not finished continues to grow.
Tarrying around every edge of this landscape, my well worn interior path, are many ideas, many choices, many ways to navigate this life, my life, now.
And,
It seems to me, they arise from the unabashed premise that I can be in control of how I mature into my mid-60's life: I can call the shots. I can control my emotions. I can control my thinking. I can control my feelings. Just follow this formula and it'll all work beautifully and smoothly.
Instead, I've been nudged to return to the Psalms, to be in worship that speaks to my soul.
Today, the third Sunday of Lent, after we sang the responsorial refrain,
"If today you hear God's voice, harden not your hearts."
Father David preached about the Samaritan woman encountering Jesus at the well
And,
I was swept into the all encompassing love of God that, quite frankly, doesn't come from any of the books piled around my life.
It seems to only come from worship, from being in community, from singing, from praying, from kneeling, from standing, from passing the peace.
It seems only to come from drinking the very water that is Jesus' life which only happens with movement, with listening, with speaking, with hearing, with sharing.
And,
As father David said, we know next to nothing about this very human woman, who appeared alone on that particular day at Jacob's well
To encounter Jesus. To encounter the Christ. To encounter God,
And,
I am very grateful for her courage to speak.
Harden not my heart...Take refuge in the LORD...this covers it.
Amen.
I could feel it at the time.
I thought I knew the value of it.
I knew it was a huge priority in my life.
But now, my dear friend, Mon Fran, that you are gone,
The hindsight that only death can impart is falling upon me.
God-imbued, Rarefied, Kairos-time was ours.
Continual caring and sharing over the years, on the phone, through email, at the table.
Defining spirits of presence and learning, of passion and faith, of wisdom and truth, of humor and love.
Within which we grew as women, we grew as servant leaders.
Continual gentle urging to create, to write, to share the interiors of our hearts, our souls, our lives.
One summer afternoon we, the three, sat outside at Cynthia's picnic table to make a name for ourselves, to find a word to describe, to inspire, to infuse our intention, our commitment to each other.
We called ourselves the Cephers --- the biblical Hebrew word for Writing.
Continual creative conversation over the decades, on the phone, through email, at the table.
I miss our times. I miss us.
Mon Fran, the spirit you brought to friendship, the commitment you held to sustaining our conversation, and the many ways you empowered us were gifts that will never be replicated.
You will never be replicated.
You were, and continue to be, a brilliant gem in God's big bag of grace.
Through the remaining length of my days the gift of your friendship will accompany me.
The meaning of your life will continue to unfold.
Your voice will continue to call me to put the words down --
"Mon, Sher, what are you writing?"
LORD, Thank you for your servant, Fran.
Thank you for her spirit, her joy, her laugher, her creativity, her support, her inspiration.
Thank you that she is safely Home with you now.
Please take care of the rest of us who miss her very much.
And the people say Amen.
All the people say Amen.
Their names are typed on old documents by old typewriters. Carefully completed and solemnly signed in 1960 and 1961 at St. Joseph's Hospital in Orange, California, by hospital officials, county clerks, and my young parents. Documents folded in half and kept in safety deposit boxes, moved from place to place for decades, and tucked amongst well log reports and pension information in my mother's last portable safe. A strong box, fireproof, holding papers proving all of us were born and some of us have died. This box came to live with me when she could no longer live alone. It holds history. It holds eternity.
May 14, 1960 - Nurse Juanita Anderson bore witness to the two hour and twenty-nine minute life of my brother, Baby Boy Rowland. And during those precious two hours and twenty-nine minutes she baptized him in the name of the Roman Catholic Church. His birth certificate, his death certificate, and his baptism certificate all live in the strong box.
June 6, 1961 - RN Aide Patricia Brady bore witness to the five hour and twenty minute life of my brother, Scott George Rowland. And during those precious five hours and twenty minutes she baptized him in the name of the Roman Catholic Church. His birth certificate, his death certificate, and his baptism certificate all live in the strong box.
A simple, small, white linen cloth also lives in the strong box. It must have been used for one of their baptisms. It's the only thing I can touch that once touched them. Just like the white cloth folded in the Tomb, it bears witness to eternal life, to resurrection.
This past Tuesday was All Saint's Day and we went to Mass that evening. This morning I went to the Presbyterian church where All Saint's is celebrated the first Sunday of November. I wrote the most precious names of our spouses, Rod and Cheryl, on a note applied to a large wooden cross. Their names hung with about one hundred others from the congregation.
And then we entered into the mystery of the Body and Blood of Christ where we believe the Communion of Saints are present - those who have been canonized by the Church and those who lived their lives for God in very quiet and giving ways. This is how I think about Juanita and Patricia. They simply showed up for their shifts on those days and didn't know Mrs. Rowland would be there to deliver her very premature babies. They were ready with open hearts and lovingly fulfilled their responsibility to baptize my brothers.
Grief was ever present in my childhood home and I've always wondered how in the world my parents survived the deaths of three infants (my stillborn sister died in 1959) between my birth and my only surviving sibling, Mark in 1962. How did their marriage survive such losses? I can't say they were extremely happy or dealt with their grief in healthy ways, but I can say that something held them together. Something beyond them and beyond us.
Perhaps it was the comfort they may have taken from knowing their babies were with God. Perhaps it was the assurance they trusted as they continued as faithful Lutherans for many years. Perhaps it was the strength they drew from knowing they would see their babies again.
This had to have been the case. They rarely spoke about the babies, but I know they were always present to them. And I know they carried the grief of their unfulfilled lives until the day both of them died and were reunited with their little ones.
Juanita and Patricia each gave my family the most sought and the most undeserved gift this life holds -- assurance of God's love. They gave my parents peace of mind that otherwise would have been impossible. They gave my family stability and strength through their loving acts of gently holding those little one pound bodies while saying, "I baptize you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."
All of us, every single one of us, are shaped in profound ways before we turn five. Our personalities are set and our nervous systems are wired for whatever comes as we grow up. We now know that toddlers feel their parent's grief and they know when something is very wrong in their home. They understand that mommies go to the hospital to have babies and the babies are supposed to come home with the mommies. When this doesn't happen, over and over, the toddler can become insecure and begin to think they did something wrong to cause all the trouble. They have no capacity to understand what really happened, but only to respond to the environmental cues that something has gone very, very wrong. There were very good reasons why my Mom laid in her dark room for days and days, but I didn't understand. I just knew she wasn't with me. She was unavailable and I must have been a bad girl. This is very normal toddler thinking and understanding. I thought I could do something to make the next baby, or the next baby, or the next one come home with Mommy. I worked hard at it, and the truth is, I've been working hard at it all of my life.
But, the time spent this week with the old documents and the baptism cloth have helped me deeply understand what Juanita and Patricia did for my family. It's been very healing. I can stop trying to save the babies. They are just fine now and together again with their parents, my parents. My parents are just fine now and together again with their children, my siblings. I can take a deep breath and relax. I don't need to fix anything or be a certain way in order to help them anymore. There was nothing I could have done when they were born and when they died. Nothing. This speaks to the truth that so many things happen in life that we have absolutely no control over. As I age, this is something that becomes more and more real.
However, I do want to continue in amazement and gratitude for the simple act of two nurses doing their religious duty within the rules of a Catholic hospital which provided a healing stronghold for my family to survive.
"I baptize you in the name of,,," "Take, eat, this is the Body of Christ..."
These are not hollow religious phrases. These are the keys to the Communion of Saints. These are the mysterious containers we move within and have our beings.
May all of us continue within the Communion of Saints. It is our history. It is our eternity.
Amen, Let it be so.
