Death came calling yesterday... not an unexpected visitor but unwelcome nevertheless. Mother called as I was in the middle of teaching class so I knew it was an emergency. Uncle Calfrey died yesterday morning. I finished teaching and hurried out to my car, surprised by tears. My first babysitter... the one who gave me books for Christmas and introduced me to Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women... the kind man who asked me to play the piano for his wedding as a twelve year old neophyte... beloved by his children and grandchildren... this loving man has died. He is another broken link in the Calhoun family chain.
As I drove up to our back door, my cell phone rang again. Our neighbor/friend/family of choice, was calling to tell us Betty had been sent home from treatment and Hospice was on its way. Betty, my mother’s friend in the mountains, gracious lady who loves flowers and her dog Pebbles, who took such delight in her new home close to Leisa and Gary, is dying. She sat in her recliner, down under in the land of in-between, surrounded by those who love her dearly, slipping away to her next destination. Each of us took turns holding her hand, touching her cheek, speaking words of love and grief, beginning to say good by and God’s Speed. We held each other and wept, told funny stories, remembered all that had gone before and gave thanks.
And as life is never just one theme, Alison came for the weekend with baby Aidan. Beginning life... life’s ending... the wheel of life turns in joy and sorrow. As I order flowers for Uncle Calfrey’s funeral, talk to Leisa about her mother, talk to Uncle Harold and weep, call my mother and listen to her cry, baby Aidan is laughing up at me... patting my face... chattering and going "Yea"... We go to visit Leisa and her mother taking baby Aidan into Betty’s room. Betty is awake... laughs and pats him... calls him a beautiful boy. For just a moment, life is full of promise and joy.
One of the saving graces of age is the recognition that life is never all sorrow... all joy... nothing but problems... always easy. It is a paradox... a combination... an embroidery that uses many different colors of thread to create the pattern of our lives. So I can laugh and grieve at the same time... celebrate Aidan’s presence and Betty’s life while I weep for her approaching death.
At age fifteen, I learned an important lesson about death and life. My grandfather had died and we were meeting my grandmother at the little funeral home in Walkerton, Virginia. As we walked in, my eyes flew to the open casket containing my grandfather’s body. Grandma stood, came and took my hand and my sister’s hand, walked us to the casket, talking to us all the way down that long, long aisle. She told us not to be afraid... Granddaddy’s soul had gone to be with God... what we would see was Granddaddy’s body. We would recognize him but he would look very different. She stood with us looking at his body, talking about him, telling stories, holding us close as she shared her love and grief. Her calm, quiet acceptance of the natural order of life and death... her explanation of the rituals of death... her touch... was a gift that has sustained me and warmed my soul as I have lived through all the deaths that have come my way.
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen". Hebrews 11:1 What I have in death and in life is faith... faith in the Hope that brushes lightly against my soul as I watch those I love die... faith in Love that holds me close when tears and laughter flow... faith in Life that does not end just because the body dies... faith in God who has been with me all the days of my life. I am grateful for the Presence that stands beside me, holding me in the arms of Love, never letting me go. Amen...
Friday, January 26, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Dunked and Drained... Baptism
Our lily white liberal diverse UCC congregation had a baptism by immersion in worship. When we moved into the First Christian Sanctuary space, we inherited a baptistry... an aqua blue tank with a river scene painted on the back wall covered with burgundy velvet curtains. It doesn’t fit with most of our members religious experiences (except for former Baptists) and our community does not know the rich history that surrounds this ritual (I really sound like a Baptist now). Conversation with several different people in our congregation has caused me to re-visit my baptism and reflect on its meaning for Lent.
"Buried in the waters of baptism.... raised to walk in newness of life"... I heard those words at every baptism I ever saw and at my own. Being buried in those waters is a messy business. Your hair gets wet... you are sopping wet from head to toe... no way to avoid being covered by the water... and before the age of portable hair dryers, you came back into the sanctuary with your hair clinging to your head. It is an uncomfortable process... a scary process... a public recognition of a private process. It can be a powerful transforming ritual that marks in a very tangible way one’s decision to follow in the path that Jesus walked.
In our little church, most of us were baptized as children. Baptists were big on the "age of accountability"... ages nine to twelve... and that fit my spiritual timetable. The baptistry was tacky but the experience was not. As the congregation began to sing a hymn...usually "Shall We Gather At the River" even though we had forsaken the river for clean well water... I walked down the steps into the pool wearing a clean white robe with lead drapery weights in the hem. You didn’t want your robe to billow up in the water. It was warm... and very, very wet. Brother Kannon waited for me, holding out his hand, guiding me to the little platform that was used for children to keep the water below their chin. He held my hands, crossed on my chest, raised his other hand and said... " Peggy Calhoun, you have desired to become a follower of Christ and a member of our congregation. Do you confess the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?" My voice quivered as I made my public statement of faith. "I baptize you, my sister, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost... buried in the waters of baptism... raised to walk in the newness of life." Archaic language... perhaps... powerful, transforming experience for me... absolutely.
The gospel of Mark tells the story of Jesus’ baptism. "And it came to pass in those days that Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And straightway coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens opened and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him And there came a voice from heaven saying, Thou art my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. And immediately the Spirit drove him into the wilderness." It was no accident that the wilderness followed his baptism. The wilderness of Lent is necessary for our souls. How can we celebrate newness of life at Easter without the deaths and darkness of Lent?
Baptism by immersion shares with Lent some uncomfortable images and symbols. We are buried... buried by water... buried by our inner darkness that threatens our soul’s survival... buried by the nit picky quality of our lives... buried by the trivial business of living that prevents us from doing the work that really matters. We run from our darkness. We use our daily living routine to protect us from ourselves. If you observe Lent honestly, faithfully, you cannot avoid the messy waters of self knowledge and judgement. Without this process, grace is cheapened... a house brand of grace that doesn’t carry the same flavor of grace that comes through true repentance and forgiveness. This is hard, hard work to do. It leaves us standing in front of ourselves and others, dripping wet, every part of our essential selves revealed... not an easy place to stand... necessary for growth and grace however.
As I came up from the water, I turned and looked in the congregation. Everywhere I looked, I saw joy... my parents, Mrs. Tyre, Mrs. Davis, Mr. Thompson, Mrs. Morris, Mr. Bland, my friends... I was home. Lent at its best can be for us a way to come home... a way to dive in to the dark waters of our true selves...offer them up, warts and all, to the One who loves us just as we are... wash off the dust and dirt that has covered up the light of the Holy that shines in each of us and start over... Easter is coming. I must get ready.
"Buried in the waters of baptism.... raised to walk in newness of life"... I heard those words at every baptism I ever saw and at my own. Being buried in those waters is a messy business. Your hair gets wet... you are sopping wet from head to toe... no way to avoid being covered by the water... and before the age of portable hair dryers, you came back into the sanctuary with your hair clinging to your head. It is an uncomfortable process... a scary process... a public recognition of a private process. It can be a powerful transforming ritual that marks in a very tangible way one’s decision to follow in the path that Jesus walked.
In our little church, most of us were baptized as children. Baptists were big on the "age of accountability"... ages nine to twelve... and that fit my spiritual timetable. The baptistry was tacky but the experience was not. As the congregation began to sing a hymn...usually "Shall We Gather At the River" even though we had forsaken the river for clean well water... I walked down the steps into the pool wearing a clean white robe with lead drapery weights in the hem. You didn’t want your robe to billow up in the water. It was warm... and very, very wet. Brother Kannon waited for me, holding out his hand, guiding me to the little platform that was used for children to keep the water below their chin. He held my hands, crossed on my chest, raised his other hand and said... " Peggy Calhoun, you have desired to become a follower of Christ and a member of our congregation. Do you confess the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?" My voice quivered as I made my public statement of faith. "I baptize you, my sister, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost... buried in the waters of baptism... raised to walk in the newness of life." Archaic language... perhaps... powerful, transforming experience for me... absolutely.
The gospel of Mark tells the story of Jesus’ baptism. "And it came to pass in those days that Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And straightway coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens opened and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him And there came a voice from heaven saying, Thou art my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. And immediately the Spirit drove him into the wilderness." It was no accident that the wilderness followed his baptism. The wilderness of Lent is necessary for our souls. How can we celebrate newness of life at Easter without the deaths and darkness of Lent?
Baptism by immersion shares with Lent some uncomfortable images and symbols. We are buried... buried by water... buried by our inner darkness that threatens our soul’s survival... buried by the nit picky quality of our lives... buried by the trivial business of living that prevents us from doing the work that really matters. We run from our darkness. We use our daily living routine to protect us from ourselves. If you observe Lent honestly, faithfully, you cannot avoid the messy waters of self knowledge and judgement. Without this process, grace is cheapened... a house brand of grace that doesn’t carry the same flavor of grace that comes through true repentance and forgiveness. This is hard, hard work to do. It leaves us standing in front of ourselves and others, dripping wet, every part of our essential selves revealed... not an easy place to stand... necessary for growth and grace however.
As I came up from the water, I turned and looked in the congregation. Everywhere I looked, I saw joy... my parents, Mrs. Tyre, Mrs. Davis, Mr. Thompson, Mrs. Morris, Mr. Bland, my friends... I was home. Lent at its best can be for us a way to come home... a way to dive in to the dark waters of our true selves...offer them up, warts and all, to the One who loves us just as we are... wash off the dust and dirt that has covered up the light of the Holy that shines in each of us and start over... Easter is coming. I must get ready.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
waiting on my roots
I’ve been wandering around my yard looking at the remnants of last year’s garden. In most of the beds, I see only brown, dried, ugly shapes... hydrangeas shriveled up at the end of the branch... chrysanthemum plants with tall dead stalks... shrubbery with no green leaves, just empty branches. And yet... if I look closely... under the leaf mulch... at the base of the old dead plants, there is a touch of green showing... new baby yarrow that has multiplied since last summer. It will have to be divided and transplanted. There are tender buds at the end of the forsythia bushes... almost a bloom. All around the edges and underneath the surface, new life is nibbling its way through the earth towards a warmth that is not yet here.
Uncaring about the possibility, the certainty of a hard freeze or snow or ice yet to come, this new life pushes its way to the surface. I know the tender new growth is at risk. It is too soon in the season for buds and blooms. But there is no denying the strength of the life force in these barely here plants. In the darkness of the underground home for these plants, there is movement... momentum... a mandate for growth that cannot be stifled. "To everything there is a season..."
This grey time... this fuzzy around the edges time... this in-between time for my soul has tried my patience. In the mornings I give myself pep talks... snap out of it... count your blessings... get a move on... it’s all in your head. But the truth is, it is not in my head. It is in my soul and spirit. Where are the spiritual gifts in this season? How can I find ways not just to passively wait for this time to pass but use it to help my root system grow? Where are my little green shoots popping up? And what are they?
Writing has been nourishing my root system. It is not easy to find the underground river of tears that waters the words I write. That trip to the place where I am my truest self is not always a pleasant experience. I remember as I write... I weep as I write... I struggle with being honest without being too too... too cute... too preachy... too wise sounding... too much about me... But something about this process has forced me out into the open. Much like the tiny green growth peeping out from under the top layers of brown, sharing what I write with all of you keeps me moving... growing towards the Light. This is a painful act for an introvert who treasures her creations and fears others responses to the words that bubble up. Like the yarrow, I can’t help myself... I multiply and grow in the act of creation.
Teaching nourishes my root system. I teach continuing education courses to adults at our community college... fun classes... picture matting and framing... paper art... the art of creation. The power and fun to be had in these classes always amazes me. What a pleasure to have someone who does not consider themselves "artistic"...watch them take a flying leap into the creation pond and see them come up laughing, surprised by the pure joy that comes with trying something close to God’s heart... making all things new by trying something new.
Friendship warms my roots. I am old enough now to have friends who have been a part of my life for 40 years. I also have friends who have just come into my life. What a gift friendship is. With each friend , I do a dance... a dance that holds us close to one another in times of joy and sorrow... a dance that allows room for togetherness and separateness... a dance that feeds and sustains my spirit... a dance that reminds me of my relationship to God. How could I not grow with all the warmth and light that has been given to me from my friends?
So... maybe I just need to wait after all... wait and trust the seasons... wait and trust God to be here in the greyness and in the spring green and in the fall color. My friend Tony Weisenberger says, "I don’t lead my life. I just follow it". I’ll try to follow my life... watch and wait and see what pops up... where is the green underneath...The green pastures are still here for my soul to lie down and rest. I’ll wait awhile longer. God will come by and there will be joy in the morning again someday.
Uncaring about the possibility, the certainty of a hard freeze or snow or ice yet to come, this new life pushes its way to the surface. I know the tender new growth is at risk. It is too soon in the season for buds and blooms. But there is no denying the strength of the life force in these barely here plants. In the darkness of the underground home for these plants, there is movement... momentum... a mandate for growth that cannot be stifled. "To everything there is a season..."
This grey time... this fuzzy around the edges time... this in-between time for my soul has tried my patience. In the mornings I give myself pep talks... snap out of it... count your blessings... get a move on... it’s all in your head. But the truth is, it is not in my head. It is in my soul and spirit. Where are the spiritual gifts in this season? How can I find ways not just to passively wait for this time to pass but use it to help my root system grow? Where are my little green shoots popping up? And what are they?
Writing has been nourishing my root system. It is not easy to find the underground river of tears that waters the words I write. That trip to the place where I am my truest self is not always a pleasant experience. I remember as I write... I weep as I write... I struggle with being honest without being too too... too cute... too preachy... too wise sounding... too much about me... But something about this process has forced me out into the open. Much like the tiny green growth peeping out from under the top layers of brown, sharing what I write with all of you keeps me moving... growing towards the Light. This is a painful act for an introvert who treasures her creations and fears others responses to the words that bubble up. Like the yarrow, I can’t help myself... I multiply and grow in the act of creation.
Teaching nourishes my root system. I teach continuing education courses to adults at our community college... fun classes... picture matting and framing... paper art... the art of creation. The power and fun to be had in these classes always amazes me. What a pleasure to have someone who does not consider themselves "artistic"...watch them take a flying leap into the creation pond and see them come up laughing, surprised by the pure joy that comes with trying something close to God’s heart... making all things new by trying something new.
Friendship warms my roots. I am old enough now to have friends who have been a part of my life for 40 years. I also have friends who have just come into my life. What a gift friendship is. With each friend , I do a dance... a dance that holds us close to one another in times of joy and sorrow... a dance that allows room for togetherness and separateness... a dance that feeds and sustains my spirit... a dance that reminds me of my relationship to God. How could I not grow with all the warmth and light that has been given to me from my friends?
So... maybe I just need to wait after all... wait and trust the seasons... wait and trust God to be here in the greyness and in the spring green and in the fall color. My friend Tony Weisenberger says, "I don’t lead my life. I just follow it". I’ll try to follow my life... watch and wait and see what pops up... where is the green underneath...The green pastures are still here for my soul to lie down and rest. I’ll wait awhile longer. God will come by and there will be joy in the morning again someday.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Lint, Lent and Life
Lint, Lent and Life
Those of us who wash and dry clothes are intimately acquainted with lint...the fluffy stuff that fills up the filter and prevents the free flow of air. Our spiritual lives often are equally cluttered with the lint of living that keeps us from reflection, honest self appraisal, and regular communion with the Holy. The liturgical season of Lent offers us an opportunity to clean the lint from our souls so that we might celebrate Easter with fresh, clean spirits.
Many images used at Lent make us uncomfortable... remind us of past religious abuse... confront us with our own set of limited knowledge and our own failings... It can be a dark, barren, internal time where we face ourselves honestly with judgement for things done and undone... where we experience confession and repentance individually and as a church family. Difficult as this time can be, it can also be the richest, most rewarding time of the church year as we reflect and prepare for the new life of Easter. Two images are central to a full understanding and appreciation of Lent.
The first image is the cross. This one symbol perhaps more than any other is the most painful and mysterious of our Lenten experience. It reminds us of suffering and death... raises theological questions about the sacrifice of life in atonement for sins... brings us to our spiritual knees as we try to find an appropriate meaning for taking up our own crosses in our own lives. It is not a happy symbol that is easily understood. The cross is a paradox where death, sin, darkness and sacrifice intersect with our own life experiences of loss, grief, anger, sin and pain. Our cultural norm is to view life on the bright side and discount the power of the painful. Lent rubs our noses in the imperfect... the pain... the wrong choices... the darkness...in the shape of the cross.
The second powerful image for Lent is the chalice... the cup used in the Passover supper before the crucifixion. It also is a paradox. As we pour the wine out, the chalice is emptied. The chalice can also be filled again and again. So we empty ourselves, we pour out our lives for one another and are filled again as we gather around the table for communion... communion meals that grew from the last meal Jesus shared with the disciples. We empty ourselves of our past darkness and we are filled with the new life and light that comes when we honestly own who we are during Lent. The new wine cannot be stored in the old wineskins... it will spoil. The new life cannot come until the old wineskins of our lives are replaced with new containers... new outlines for who we hope to be.
I will be marching towards Jerusalem, expecting and praying for the transformation and new life that comes when the old self dies and a new self comes into being. I want to clean out the lint that is keeping me from having an open, free flowing relationship with the Holy and with others. My prayer is that I will be able to keep a listening ear to hear how God is speaking... clear vision to see where I have missed the mark... an open heart ready to receive the forgiveness that only requires me to recognize the need I have as an imperfect being for wholeness. Thanks be to the God of second, third, and fourth chances.
Those of us who wash and dry clothes are intimately acquainted with lint...the fluffy stuff that fills up the filter and prevents the free flow of air. Our spiritual lives often are equally cluttered with the lint of living that keeps us from reflection, honest self appraisal, and regular communion with the Holy. The liturgical season of Lent offers us an opportunity to clean the lint from our souls so that we might celebrate Easter with fresh, clean spirits.
Many images used at Lent make us uncomfortable... remind us of past religious abuse... confront us with our own set of limited knowledge and our own failings... It can be a dark, barren, internal time where we face ourselves honestly with judgement for things done and undone... where we experience confession and repentance individually and as a church family. Difficult as this time can be, it can also be the richest, most rewarding time of the church year as we reflect and prepare for the new life of Easter. Two images are central to a full understanding and appreciation of Lent.
The first image is the cross. This one symbol perhaps more than any other is the most painful and mysterious of our Lenten experience. It reminds us of suffering and death... raises theological questions about the sacrifice of life in atonement for sins... brings us to our spiritual knees as we try to find an appropriate meaning for taking up our own crosses in our own lives. It is not a happy symbol that is easily understood. The cross is a paradox where death, sin, darkness and sacrifice intersect with our own life experiences of loss, grief, anger, sin and pain. Our cultural norm is to view life on the bright side and discount the power of the painful. Lent rubs our noses in the imperfect... the pain... the wrong choices... the darkness...in the shape of the cross.
The second powerful image for Lent is the chalice... the cup used in the Passover supper before the crucifixion. It also is a paradox. As we pour the wine out, the chalice is emptied. The chalice can also be filled again and again. So we empty ourselves, we pour out our lives for one another and are filled again as we gather around the table for communion... communion meals that grew from the last meal Jesus shared with the disciples. We empty ourselves of our past darkness and we are filled with the new life and light that comes when we honestly own who we are during Lent. The new wine cannot be stored in the old wineskins... it will spoil. The new life cannot come until the old wineskins of our lives are replaced with new containers... new outlines for who we hope to be.
I will be marching towards Jerusalem, expecting and praying for the transformation and new life that comes when the old self dies and a new self comes into being. I want to clean out the lint that is keeping me from having an open, free flowing relationship with the Holy and with others. My prayer is that I will be able to keep a listening ear to hear how God is speaking... clear vision to see where I have missed the mark... an open heart ready to receive the forgiveness that only requires me to recognize the need I have as an imperfect being for wholeness. Thanks be to the God of second, third, and fourth chances.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
grey days, grey tears, grey hearts
It is a grey morning... not the light dove grey of an approaching snow storm... but the dark, heavy, oppressive grey that weighs my soul down... keeps my spirit bent over. This light suits me this morning. It has been a difficult week.
All around me, I feel grief. My friend’s mother has no more treatment options for her cancer. Another friend is living through the anniversary of her husband’s death. My mother is grieving moving from her home on the farm in Georgia. Other friends are grieving the loss of a beloved uncle. Those of us who have traveled with grief in our lives know the roadmap is one with many detours, marked and unmarked. And, each persons’ journey takes a different route.
Our language changes and our bodies take on different shapes when we grieve. Unselfconscious pleas for remembrance in prayer... tears flow from the cracked hearts through our eyes and into the hearts of others... hugs become body prayers of love and hope... heavy hearts... heavy bodies held down by the difficult task of letting go. How can we take our road trips with grief and not get lost in the detours of hopelessness and despair?
As always, the Psalms provide one part of my map back home. The writers of the Psalms had no difficulty naming their griefs. "Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul. I sink in deep mire where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God". Psalms 69:1-3 The flowing water of tears shed for what has been lost can be the source of growth and expansion for the soul and spirit.
Too often we rush our grief. It makes others uncomfortable that we can’t get over it... it is seen as unhealthy to grieve too long (however too long is)... the naming of the person who died or is dying makes those around us twitchy... it might be their turn next. So we hurry through the pain, driving over the speed limit in our rush to get back to feeling normal again... happy again. The rush to "recover" prevents us from feeling not only the grief but also the gratitude for the gift of the person or place. Sitting, being still, letting the tears and the laughter flow, remembering and giving thanks for all that was, helps me find my way home.
The psalmists never stop entreating God to come..."Make haste, O God, to deliver me... make haste to help me...deliver me... save me... hear me..." They remind me of my cat Wiley who is a psalmist of sorts. In the mornings he begins scratching on our bedroom door at 6:30 singing a wake-up chorus of meows. Some mornings all he gets for his trouble is a "Go away, Wiley, dammit". Most mornings he gets his breakfast. But he always asks, and he always gets a response. Like Wiley, we need to keep asking God to come to us in our grief... help us find our way home.
So I will pray without ceasing... pray for the sense of the presence of God in the middle of my grey time... pray for rest and comfort for those who are walking in the valley of the shadow of death... pray for tears that heal and hugs that warm the spirit... pray for ears to hear God’s voice in the weeping... pray for eyes to see God’s love in the people around me... pray for a song to sing that transforms my grief... pray with thanksgiving for what has been and hope for a new beginning. Some mornings I may only hear "Go away, dammit"... but most mornings I will hear "I am with you always, even unto the end of the earth". That will be enough.
All around me, I feel grief. My friend’s mother has no more treatment options for her cancer. Another friend is living through the anniversary of her husband’s death. My mother is grieving moving from her home on the farm in Georgia. Other friends are grieving the loss of a beloved uncle. Those of us who have traveled with grief in our lives know the roadmap is one with many detours, marked and unmarked. And, each persons’ journey takes a different route.
Our language changes and our bodies take on different shapes when we grieve. Unselfconscious pleas for remembrance in prayer... tears flow from the cracked hearts through our eyes and into the hearts of others... hugs become body prayers of love and hope... heavy hearts... heavy bodies held down by the difficult task of letting go. How can we take our road trips with grief and not get lost in the detours of hopelessness and despair?
As always, the Psalms provide one part of my map back home. The writers of the Psalms had no difficulty naming their griefs. "Save me, O God; for the waters are come into my soul. I sink in deep mire where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God". Psalms 69:1-3 The flowing water of tears shed for what has been lost can be the source of growth and expansion for the soul and spirit.
Too often we rush our grief. It makes others uncomfortable that we can’t get over it... it is seen as unhealthy to grieve too long (however too long is)... the naming of the person who died or is dying makes those around us twitchy... it might be their turn next. So we hurry through the pain, driving over the speed limit in our rush to get back to feeling normal again... happy again. The rush to "recover" prevents us from feeling not only the grief but also the gratitude for the gift of the person or place. Sitting, being still, letting the tears and the laughter flow, remembering and giving thanks for all that was, helps me find my way home.
The psalmists never stop entreating God to come..."Make haste, O God, to deliver me... make haste to help me...deliver me... save me... hear me..." They remind me of my cat Wiley who is a psalmist of sorts. In the mornings he begins scratching on our bedroom door at 6:30 singing a wake-up chorus of meows. Some mornings all he gets for his trouble is a "Go away, Wiley, dammit". Most mornings he gets his breakfast. But he always asks, and he always gets a response. Like Wiley, we need to keep asking God to come to us in our grief... help us find our way home.
So I will pray without ceasing... pray for the sense of the presence of God in the middle of my grey time... pray for rest and comfort for those who are walking in the valley of the shadow of death... pray for tears that heal and hugs that warm the spirit... pray for ears to hear God’s voice in the weeping... pray for eyes to see God’s love in the people around me... pray for a song to sing that transforms my grief... pray with thanksgiving for what has been and hope for a new beginning. Some mornings I may only hear "Go away, dammit"... but most mornings I will hear "I am with you always, even unto the end of the earth". That will be enough.
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