The Communion of Saints

I love this Japanese Maple in my backyard. When we planted it in the summer of 2013 it was very small. Now it covers the garden wall, stands at least 20 feet high and 10 feet wide, and extends above the fence. Below it is our special Shalom brick providing holy protection to a few of Rod's earthly ashes. As with each Fall, the tree's delicate leaves are turning deep red and purple, but the tips of the branches are birthing new growth. New, delicate, beautiful leaves are a surprising contrast to the ones that know it's time to change, it's time to go.

In church this morning I got to do something I just love -- serve communion. "The cup of the new covenant poured out for you," I repeated to each person as they dipped the bread in the cup.  It's such a holy and humbling privilege. I felt part of the wide body of Christ which is always old and new. My own body is getting a bit old, but sharing the cup with others felt like new life, new green leaves popping out all over the place on a beautiful November day.

There are some bumpy days ahead this month. There will be the seventeenth anniversary of my Dad's sudden death. There will be the first Thanksgiving without my Mom. There will be my thirty-eighth wedding anniversary and the fourth one without Rod. A few days ago was All Saints' Day and Pastor David talked about the saints in our lives.  I know who they are and their love is always present to me.

As the sad days of this month come like they do every year, I pray to remember the Communion of Saints, the cup of the new covenant, and the new life in my backyard in the midst of shorter days, longer nights, and the temptation to think I'm all alone, because I am not.

Paper Prayers

Dear LORD,

Place this prayer, this page
              Snuggly in the pocket of my heart -

That as I write,
              I may live.

And in my living
              May my writing be true and  honest.

Grant me the strength
              To carry your mission where You want it to go.

I need You in my prayer,

                      in my writing,

                                in my living -

Away from this page.

Amen

1095 Days

More than 1095 days ago, in fact 9.5 years ago the Pastor of Community Presbyterian Church in Brigham City, Utah wrote this prayer in his journal following a car accident that nearly killed two elderly parishioners in snowy Sardine Canyon --

Lord,

Loss and sadness are hard - real hard. There are so many mysteries to life and we spend a lifetime just trying to figure them out.  Give us - give me - the faith and courage to live in the moment and when I pray Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, give me the integrity to mean it. 

Amen.

There are so many mysteries to life and we spend a lifetime just trying to figure them out.

As I sit in this beautiful room overlooking the Pacific with Tahoe sleeping at my feet, Rod's words call to me over the expanse of the past 1095 days since he died. Three years seems like a long time and yet, when your husband dies, that moment is right there, right at the finger tips, right at the edge of every sentence.

It is such a mystery why he died so young and so quickly. It is such a mystery how my Mom, my dear demented Mom, could last until she was 83. It is such a mystery how lifelong friends can evaporate in a cloud of unmet expectations and lack of commitment. It is such a mystery how one heart can keep beating while the heart that kept it going no longer beats.  It is such a mystery how art introduces us to our new selves for the very first time. It is such a mystery how faith carries us through things we thought we'd surely never survive.

Loss and sadness are hard - real hard.

Harder than I've ever known, depths of despair and sobs of anguish I never knew my heart and body could produce. And, again, when your husband dies, that moment is right there, right at the finger tips, right at the edge of every sentence. Hard - real hard.

And when I pray Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, give me the integrity to mean it.

Integrity of heart, soul, body and mind are needed to follow where Thy kingdom may lead, to do whatever Thy will may ask. Yes, integrity is the utmost commodity for living these days of hard loss and sadness, of spending our lifetime figuring out such mysteries ~ how the young can die, how the friend can turn away, how the old struggle for years without mind or memory, how art frees us, and, finally how Christ gifts us with faith and carries us through mayhem we could never imagine while neatly planning our lives at twenty-three. Our plan never included these past 1095 days, but then again, it never included the astounding grace that has carried me this far, either, because I never knew I would need it.

Five Years

The Pastor said we can't hide from the Spirit. She also said the Spirit will blow however and wherever it chooses. But, I've heard this all before, of course. 

Five years ago was the last Pentecost that Rod preached. Just a few weeks later all hell broke loose in the Presbytery and our congregation. Four years ago his call had been ended and we were packing up to leave Utah. Three years ago we attended 1st Baptist and they don't really celebrate Pentecost. Two years ago he was too sick to attend church. Last year I might have gone to 1st Baptist, but I really don't remember.

This year, though, I wore my red shirt and prepared to celebrate Pentecost like we used to with beautiful banners, stoles, and hearing scripture in different languages at the local Presbyterian church. The difference, of course, is that I drove to church alone and sat alone. Rod wasn't the Pastor up front declaring the birth of the church by the giving of the Spirit. Rod wasn't the Pastor up front celebrating Communion, either. But, I was one of the many people in the pew. Some of the songs I hadn't sung since our last Pentecost in 2012. Absolutely beautiful songs that took me back to so many services, so many Pentecost Sundays. This morning was very emotional, but I was determined to see it through. 

The liturgy, the call and response of the people, the confession of sin, the ritual of forgiveness, the ebb and flow of sound and silence, words and reflection. Regardless of all the pain and terrible upheaval and injustices that happened in 2012 and 2013, this liturgy still speaks Christ to me and still draws me to God. It all speaks to me and calls me home. The institution itself is deeply flawed, but when its worship is strong and Christ-centered it feeds my soul and gives me strength. And within this experience I have found there must be forgiveness. There must be forgiveness.

The Pastor was pretty clear this morning that the Spirit will do whatever it wants with whomever it wants whenever it wants. In other words, when God's Spirit is moving there is nothing we can do to stop it. If we could impact it, we humans would have ended the Church an awfully long time ago. It's a wild testament to the power of the Spirit that the Church is still here, still thriving. 

As I sat in the pew this morning I asked God to simply tell me what to do. This is my heart, my soul, my faith, my connection with God and it has been so dismantled by the Utah experience and by Rod's death. So dismantled. But, in this pew, for the past few months, a relative calm has settled in my heart. I say relative because I'm wrestling with it like Jacob wrestled with the angel.  I feel so loyal, still so committed to supporting Rod and all the terrible angst he experienced. Am I condoning those who waged war on us in Utah by sitting amongst those with the same affiliation in Oregon? Does love and commitment require me to carry that pain and those injustices the rest of my life? What about Rod's statement to me on July 17th two years ago: "Don't let the past negatively influence your future"?  If he is with Christ, and he is, then all that he endured has been swept clean, made new, and redeemed. I am free to worship and follow Christ as best I can without him. In my dreams, he comes wearing bright shirts and always looks so happy and well. He no longer carries the weights or scars of his ministry. He gave his all. He definitely fulfilled his ordination vows.

On my studio white board I've written the last clear thing he said two days before he died: "I have so much left to say." I will wrestle with his last words for the rest of my life. This morning I thought of them in the context of ministry. We both had so much left to say in our ministry. We weren't ready for it to end. We weren't done yet. We still had a lot of ministry left in us. And therein lies my quandary. How do I carry our ministry on? Do I carry it on? What is my part in it now? 

To follow these questions I know well enough that the grounding and base of my experience has to be supported by that liturgy, this communion, those songs, and these prayers that held me through the ups and downs of our 20+ years of ministry. The calling of the Spirit was overwhelmingly clear this morning.  I found myself standing in a circle after worship with one Pastor, two Elders, one clerk, and one other new person expressing the desire to unite with this congregation. I met a few weeks ago with the clergy couple pastors so they know my full story. I told Pastor David this morning, "This is my home. Even though it drives me crazy, this is my home." He understands.

And so, the wrestling will continue, but I took a huge step today. I arrived at church as a "frequent visitor" and left as a member by re-affirmation of faith. I never thought I'd do this. I never thought I'd be led this way or have the strength for it. But, the Spirit moves as it wills and once in awhile I can stay out of the way. 

Five years is a long time. I can finally say tonight that chapter has been closed. I've taken a step of faith with a big helping of forgiveness. And, I'm sure Rod is OK with it. I'm very sure. 

Westminster Presbyterian Church

Eugene, Oregon

June 4, 2017

The Kind that Last

I was waiting for you, but you didn't come. Where have you been? We were supposed to meet with the guy about my application, she announced as she barged out of the bathroom shortly after I arrived.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mom, I've been at work all day. I didn't know we had an appointment. What guy were we supposed to meet?"

Never mind. I'm going to lay down in the bed. 

There was no guy. There was no application.

Silence... minutes pass like hours.... then she suddenly asks,

Can you tell me what happened to George? Where did he go?

Did she mean when he died?
Did she mean he was just here and now he's left the room?
It was really hard to tell.

I sure wish George could come see me.

"Oh, I know you do. Maybe he can come in your dreams."

What? What are you saying? I can't understand you! I can't hear you!

I bring up Mark's impending move from Montana to Oregon. It's as if she's never heard about it.

Why do you say he's leaving Montana when he lives in Nebraska?

Rod and I lived in Nebraska 25 years ago, but I don't try to explain this. Thankfully, this visit, she hasn't asked where Rod is and why doesn't he come to see her.

More silence ...... more minutes pass like hours ....

It's beautiful outside, but she refuses to walk ten feet to the patio. I feel guilty for feeling so stuck. One day I'll wish for these minutes again, these very same ones that are so brazenly taking her one brain cell, one memory, one interaction at a time away from me.

These minutes tease with flashes of the real person she once was even while they're constructed of long segments of the shadow she has become.

"I'll bring you fresh flowers on Sunday."
Oh, that's good.
"What kind do you want?"
The kind that last.

Yes, those are the best kind.

"I need to stop by the store to pick up dinner for myself," as I rise from her walker seat to leave.
I should go the dining room.
I help her get her shoes on while she protests I can't see them. I can't do it.

"I'll see you on Sunday and we'll call Mark."
OK, thank-you for coming, Sherry, thank-you for coming.

The tenderness and poignancy of hearing her say my name is never lost on me. Never.

And as I leave I wonder if Dad is really coming to see her.
Maybe he is.
Maybe they've been talking.
Maybe he was here right before I arrived today.

When the lines between past and present,
between reality and fiction,
are well on their way to being erased,
it doesn't matter anymore how the love comes.

All that matters is that it does come ~
From those who always carried it for us
Within the chambers of their hearts
That have never stopped beating.

For they have been and always will be
The kind that last.

By the River with a Stranger

Of course, I knew today was coming, but I reasoned that if I didn't think about it, then it wouldn't bother me. Nonetheless, my heart made other plans without telling me. I could feel the tension rising the past few days and know enough about grief to understand I was anticipating today, but again, I thought my brain had it covered and the weekend would go fine. Remember what I said about my heart?

I tried to get up on time this morning, but failed and was moving at a snail's pace. I was dressed for church when I conceded I was going to be 15 minutes late. And, with that acknowledgement, all I could do was to sit down and cry. Not a small cry, but a really big cry. OK, I relented, so the day is harder than I was going to allow it to be. I'll finish crying and then see Mom for our weekly call with my brother, I planned. But, it was another tough visit in that she can't see, she can't hear, she doesn't remember anything, and I was in tears, again, before I was out the door.

What was going on with me?  I kept repeating my morning prayer, "Lord, circle me with love. Keep light near and darkness afar" over and over and over. I knew I couldn't spend the beautiful Sunday afternoon in the house with so much angst so I loaded Tahoe into the car and off we went. The water was calling me, just as it had a year ago today in Sausalito. The hour was approaching when I'd let go of Rod for the very last time on the choppy Bay. Like I said, my heart had other plans for today.

As we walked the path at Clearwater Park the singing birds, the light through the trees, and the very full river were all so soothing. I told Tahoe we'd walk to the bench where we like to sit and look at the river. But, when we got there it was already in use. An elderly man was sitting there with a beer and some nuts with his bike next to him. Surprising myself, I asked if Tahoe and I could stand there and look at the river. Instead, he offered the other end of the bench. So we sat, and we talked, and we stayed, and we shared, and we learned. After an hour with Tom I knew more than when I first sat down. He's a very in-shape 82 year old retired military man who just spent a whole lot of money on a German e-bike, i.e., one with a battery to help you go farther and better.  Today's ride was only 10 miles. I found myself talking about where I'd lived through the years and somehow used the phrase, "When I was married..." which horrified me. It sounded like I'd been divorced so I had to correct it. I explained that my husband had died almost 2 years ago and I'm young to be a widow. I didn't mention that today is the first anniversary of placing Rod's ashes in the Bay.

Tom's story included several marriages along the way, with one referenced as "my last divorce," but I think he must have had a wife die, too, because at one point in the conversation he simply said, "It's hard to be a widow, isn't it?" "Yes, it is. It really is. But, I guess we just keep going," I replied. He agreed that's what we have to do.

He talked about swimming in the warm Mediterranean waters when he was in the service and being fined $25.00 by the military each time he walked out of a building next to his African American friend. He is the same age as my Mom, but worlds apart in his health and capacities.

When I rose to leave he stood and shook my hand. Gentlemen of his era are, well, gentlemen. I thanked him for his time and we started back down the path to the car. The hour of placing Rod's ashes into the Bay had passed. My nerves had calmed down. A perfect stranger had said the words I most needed to hear today, "It's hard to be a widow, isn't it?" Yes, it really, really is.

Once again (and why do I ever doubt this will happen?) the Lord circled me with love and kept the light near with the darkness very far away.

The Fifth Sunday of Lent

An auspicious date for hardly anyone, I'm sure, but for me the fifth Sunday of Lent will always be a very significant day. "Last Sunday in Brigham City" reads the note in my devotional book. This morning I read it quickly as I rushed to worship in of all places ... a Presbyterian church. Four years have passed since that note, since that last Sunday with Rod in the pulpit and me waiting for him when it ended. When it all ended. The moment of exit left our spirits lingering at the door for years. In the last months of his life he told me he was still there on the steps leaving the building. His heart and soul couldn't get across the parking lot. He was suspended there in a state of confusion and pain. Of course, our bodies had moved to a new house, a new life, a new city and state. At the very end he said he forgave all of them. The courage and clarity this took was amazing to me. It was stunning and compelling towards deeper faith. After all he had been put through, he was able to forgive them.

Since his death, I've had a greater struggle to forgive. But, something started stirring a month ago. Odd thoughts of attending a Presbyterian service entered my heart. My mind was quick to shut them down, but the heart can be so persistent. Maybe, I reasoned with my mind, if I go then I can finally make peace with that horrible institution. Maybe.

So, I went once. Then I went again. Today was my third visit. The liturgy, the reformed theology, the order of worship, the songs all spoke to me in a deep, aching place. The people all looked familiar even though I had never seen any of them. I knew how to Pass the Peace and participate in the responsive readings. The form and content were familiar and surprisingly comforting. If I could, even for a minute, let go of the bitterness and anger, then maybe I could hear God again in worship. Maybe I could reconvene my soul in worship.

As usual, I was late this morning and swung into the parking lot to find that same open space. Weird - it was open like this the last time, but the stranger part was the car parked next to it. A blue four-door Yaris was there the last time and this morning welcomed me again. You see, since I had to sell Rod's Yaris I've had several intriguing encounters with Yaris's. He loved his little white two door car with the center console. Flying around town in it was so much fun for him. It's not a very common car and I rarely see them around here, but the morning I pulled onto I-5 South, last May, to take his ashes to the Bay Area his exact car pulled in front of me on the freeway. We traveled together for many miles. Then, another one showed up the day before the service as I drove around Marin. My own personal escort, it seemed. When I went to see Mrs. G at her apartment in Walnut Creek I parked as she directed and, well, there was another one parked right in front of me. The next day on my way north to return home, another one showed up in front of me, showing me the way again. All of them were the exact model and year of his car and white. I took them as a sign that he was with me. And now, when I think it's important to see if the Presbyterian church holds anything for me, I end up parking next to another one. Although this one isn't white, the blue is beautiful. When I pulled in this morning, I just laughed, "Oh, you're here, again. Well, let's go see what we can figure out."

The text was about the raising of Lazarus and the affirmation of faith was taken from the Southern Presbyterian Church's "Declaration of Faith." Death often seems to prove that life is not worth living, but Christ has been raised from the dead. In his resurrection is the promise of ours. We are convinced the life God wills for each of us is stronger than the death that destroys us. In the face of death we grieve. Yet, in hope we celebrate life. No life ends so tragically that its meaning and value are destroyed. Nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ our Lord.

Death. Lazarus. Grief. Resurrection. This being the weekend of Rod's birthday, I wasn't sure I could handle all of this, but I stayed. I stayed to see how Communion would go. It would be the biggest test for me. Could I enter into Communion with a Presbyterian clergy, who wasn't Rod, reciting the prayers, holding up the bread and breaking it, holding up the cup and pouring it, and inviting the people forward? I really didn't know, but I knew I had to once again meet the Christ in the bread and in the cup as I had for decades. Forward I went, in line with people I don't know, until I reached the elder serving the bread. As I took a piece from the center of the loaf the very kind man saw my tears and said, "The Body of Christ broken for you." In my tearful fog I stepped to the cup to dip my morsel while absorbing, "The cup of the new covenant poured out for you." "Amen" with the Sign of the Cross as I returned to my seat.

Memories of the fifth Sunday of Lent four years ago washed over me as I was stricken by the enormity of what had just happened. The last Presbyterian services we attended were Palm Sunday and Easter in 2013. That was it. The institution had beaten us up very, very badly. We felt thrown out and discarded. We worked hard to heal, and for him, his final healing came in forgiveness and believing that Nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ our Lord.

For me, it has taken 1,460 days to walk those 100 steps off the church property in Brigham City. The people who perpetrated the injustices in Utah weren't there today, but the same Christ who was present in the bread and the cup, when Rod presided, was very present today. I caught a glimpse of the eternal truth of Christ's presence and love. The Body of Christ broken for you... the cup of the new covenant poured out for you... The same words, the same truth, different place, someone else wearing the robe and stole. My soul had been reconvened in worship. Perhaps deep and lasting forgiveness isn't too far behind.

As I was leaving a few minutes later, still with big tears and trying to keep myself together, I told the blue Yaris, "It was powerful. It was really powerful. Thanks for being here for me."