In You.......

...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.

Dear Fran,

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.

For All the Saints, Especially Juanita and Patricia in 1960 and 1961

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.

Sounds of the Masses

Kneelers come down in unison

Kneelers go up in unison

In between people of all shapes, ages, sizes, genders, ethnicities move as one

All across the very large space.

It's the sound that caught me this week -

Rhythmic liturgy

Down Up Down Up Down Up

Where have I been since last week when I did this?

Who have I encountered?

How have I tried to bring healing?

What's held my focus and interest?

There is a healing rhythm in these simple things

There is a stability in this sea of humanity kneeling together

Confessing together

Receiving together

On our knees

On our feet

It's in the movement, it's in the sound of up and down, it's in the rhythm 

Where grace is sought and grace is received.

This is Grace

(Please read the May 24 entry before starting this one. Thank you.) 

The woman was so shocked that she could actually stand up straight and walk normally, but she was no longer the center of attention. No, now the crowd had taken over with wild approval and excitement. But, the leader of the synagogue was beyond irritated. He was angry.

"If you want to be healed, come on the six other days of the week when we do such work. Don't come on the Sabbath because we're resting...And as for you, the Rabbi, who did this the same thing applies: We work six days a week and we rest on the Sabbath."

Translated: "I really don't care that this woman was in distress. She's been here for years. Really, who cares? There are hundreds more like her. Why should our sacred rules be broken for one disabled, old woman? And for you, a rather upstart young Rabbi, who are you kidding? What makes you think you have the authority to break our Mosaic law? You have a long way to go if you plan a career working in the synagogue."

And then, with eviscerating authority the Rabbi countered with charges like "You hypocrites" and "You feed and water your cattle on the Sabbath so why can't this daughter of Israel be healed on the Sabbath?" This Rabbi had no interest in return teaching engagements in this synagogue. No, his career amongst the Jewish elite was swiftly coming to an end.

The crowd was completely hushed listening to this extraordinary dress-down of the authorities in charge of their sacred worship. What did this mean? Was he really saying the old, broken woman was worth more than their cattle? Was he really suggesting that caring of those in need was more important than the Mosaic law?

His argument sounded so risky to the crowd, but there was no comeback from the authorities. They went away in silent shame. 

They disappeared, the woman walked straight, and the crowd cheered.

Those cheers lingered for a few weeks at best. And then they turned on the Rabbi. 

In the meantime, he carried on his teachings amongst the people and healed again on the Sabbath.  Once again he was met with reproach from the authorities and once again he shredded their arguments. Once again he made the point that people are more important than religious rules.

As for the this woman, she isn't heard from again. We never learn her name and no other writer tells her story. But, her story was important enough to include in one of the earliest Gospel texts. And the writer of this text was Luke the Physician who cared for people just like her. 

This woman spent her life doing what she thought was right in fulfilling her religious obligation to attend the synagogue. It had never done anything for her, but she kept going. Then, one day out of the blue someone calls her forward to heal her body and her life is changed forever. And the calling her forward on that particular day broke all the rules. 

This is Grace --- it breaks all the rules.

                                                                                                                                                                            (Luke 13:10-17)

 

The Broken Woman and The Compassionate Rabbi

It was such a chore.

Just getting up that morning and dressing for church. For almost two decades it had been painful to bathe and took her so long to dress. Even though it was a difficult task she faithfully engaged in it sabbath after sabbath. For generations her mothers had been faithful. Even though they weren't allowed into the inner workings of the synagogue, they still attended. On this particular morning the woman's daughter and granddaughter were ready long before she was and they waited. They waited as they had for the past eighteen years. They knew it took her very long to prepare and they knew that one day they, too, would be in her shoes.

And those shoes....how would they ever fill them and how would the woman manage to get them on her twisted feet for another Sabbath? She didn't know. They didn't know. But, as was always the case, after a couple of hours she was ready to go. And then it began.

The long, twisted trek through the dusty streets to the largest building: the Synagogue. Husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons had left hours earlier to attend the male-only meetings. The women, though, were only allowed to come later when the Rabbi of the day came to the outer portico to speak. They were only allowed to listen on the outside, never on the inside.

The daughter and granddaughter gently moved the crowd aside so their mother and grandmother could safely make it close to the front. They had to provide a corridor of safety because she couldn't see. She couldn't lift her head enough to look straight ahead because her back was twisted and bent so far forward that she almost toppled over while walking. As was the case each week, she and they made it to the front row and waited. Waited on the teacher to come.

It was such a chore.

Sometimes they wondered, even aloud, why they went through all of this every week only to hear some Rabbi speak for a few minutes. But, there was something inherently mysterious and enticing about the possibility of a different kind of message in the midst of all the regular bland teachings from the same worn out regular bland Rabbis. Just the possibility for something new, something exciting, something revelatory made the weekly chore tolerable.

The crowd of women jostled and rambled around a bit when it sounded like today's Rabbi was coming out of the synagogue. Something akin to an electric current passed through the crowd and almost toppled the woman over, but her daughter and granddaughter sustained her. 

Then she heard his voice. She heard this voice and it surely wasn't that of a worn out regular bland Rabbi. No, this voice had some kind of authority. Some kind of charisma that completely demanded her attention. High voltage passed through the crowd. 

And then he called.

He called her out of the crowd. He called her out of the crowd. He called her out of the crowd.

She walked as best she could while looking at the ground and when she got to him she stopped as gracefully as her bent and twisted body could allow. Her mother taught her to walk proudly and she was determined to present herself as a graceful daughter of Zion in her very broken condition.

"Woman, you are set free from your infirmity" and with these words he placed his hands on her and she immediately stood up.

You are set free.... He placed his hands on her.... She stood up.

What?

She had not asked to be healed nor he did not ask if she wanted to be healed.

She was not part of his family and yet he placed his hands on her in public.

She stood and her body straightened for the first time in 18 years.

She was outside the religious structure and he came out to find her.

What had been such a chore for so very long became her vehicle of grace.

So many rules were disregarded and rewritten in this unsought and brief encounter between the broken woman and the compassionate Rabbi -

And this is only part of the story.......

Good and Enough

And when the ones who helped write the story

Are no longer here

And the ones who should pass the story on

Never came

How does the last one standing keep the story alive?

A strange and lonely spot, to be sure

To be the last one standing.

Someone should know, someones should see, someone should once again proclaim,

Everything that was done was good 

And

Everything that was done was enough

Good and Enough

Perhaps it's the living after the dying

That continues the story of redemption that he preached.

Perhaps it's the living after the dying

That continues the story of tenacity that she wove.

Perhaps it's the living after the dying

That continues the story of courage that he built.

Good and Enough

Living after the dying

Is always the story of redemption, tenacity, and courage

It's always the story of the last one standing.