I woke up this morning to unexpected sunshine and birdsong. The weather report predicting rain today was wrong (not an uncommon experience in the mountains) and I am grateful. This morning I needed sunshine and singing birds and spring green and bright daffodils to remind me that life still holds the promise of growth and joy. It has been a painful prelude to the cantata of this new season, full of illness and death, endings that are not yet beginnings. I find that all experiences of grief now awaken memories of past grief and it brings a song of gratitude as well as sorrow to my soul.
As I opened my Bible this morning, I read the 121st Psalm, a Song of Ascents. Scholars cannot agree on the exact meaning of the title, Song of Ascents. The poetry of this old song lifts me up out of the miry clay of sorrow. "I lift up my eyes to the hills. From whence does my help come? My help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved. He who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand. The sun shall not smite you by day nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore."
"A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song." Maya Angelou This morning I choose to sing songs of gratitude for all that life brings, not because I have answers but because I have a song. Thanks be to God.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
lean on me...
Junie B ran away from home Tuesday afternoon. We looked high and low all over the farm, called the neighbors, walked the hills and woods fearing she had stepped in a hole or gotten hung in an old fence line. She was nowhere to be found. Yesterday my friend Leisa widened the circle and began searching on neighboring farms and nearby roads. Junie B had been spotted at the end of Mountain Tea Road by our postmistress who thought she belonged to another neighbor. I went and met the neighbor who does own a gelding look-a-like for Junie B. She promised to keep an eye out for her. Leisa remembered horses at the end of Monnie Jones Road, a road that ends near the back of our farm. While I walked the old post road that runs through our community and by our farm following Junie B’s tracks, Leisa went to Monnie Jones. There she was in a pasture occupied by one other lonely brown filly. Leisa came and got me and we drove to get Junie B to bring her home.
She stood at the gate with her new friend at her side, their heads snuggled up to one another. Leisa and I began walking her up the road with the little brown horse close by. The two horses spoke, nickering, and watched to make sure they were still together. The little brown horse came most of the way as we walked the old dirt road towards home but left us as we neared the back of our farm. Junie B stood and watched her leave. I felt like a heel for separating these two new friends.
Last night I was supposed to be at a special gathering of Piecemakers at Leslie’s house. Her son Michael died this week and our group was coming to her house with food and drink. Our hearts are heavy as we imagine the depth of the sorrow she must be feeling. We needed to be together for Leslie’s sake and for our own as she begins a new life in this world without the presence of her son. Like Junie B, we needed to be with our friends.
After the crucifixion and burial, on the one day when Jesus was dead all day long, his friends gathered in a safe place to be together as they began their new life without Jesus. Fear, sadness, disbelief, shock, grief, anger... the feelings we all have when some terrible awful death comes to one we love. There they were in that room remembering and telling stories, trying to decide what to do next, where to go, how to pick up the pieces. I wonder if any of them remembered Jesus saying where two or three of you are gathered in my name, I am in the middle of you?
According to the story, Jesus did appear to them and was for a short while back in the land of the living. For the rest of us, we live with the faith knowledge that Jesus’ presence, though not visible to our eyes, is a part of all our gatherings in his name. We are more than friends. We, who gather in faith believing that God is with us as we weep for the deaths of those we love, are the embodiment of Jesus on earth. We say death is not the end of all life, just the end of life as we have known it here on earth. We say weep, grieve and know that somewhere, somehow, our God holds you with loving arms and shares your sorrows. Like Junie B and her friend, God is nestled up close to us and yearns over our broken hearts. And while we wait for joy to come again in the morning, we will gather and lean on one another resting in the arms of Jesus that surround us.
She stood at the gate with her new friend at her side, their heads snuggled up to one another. Leisa and I began walking her up the road with the little brown horse close by. The two horses spoke, nickering, and watched to make sure they were still together. The little brown horse came most of the way as we walked the old dirt road towards home but left us as we neared the back of our farm. Junie B stood and watched her leave. I felt like a heel for separating these two new friends.
Last night I was supposed to be at a special gathering of Piecemakers at Leslie’s house. Her son Michael died this week and our group was coming to her house with food and drink. Our hearts are heavy as we imagine the depth of the sorrow she must be feeling. We needed to be together for Leslie’s sake and for our own as she begins a new life in this world without the presence of her son. Like Junie B, we needed to be with our friends.
After the crucifixion and burial, on the one day when Jesus was dead all day long, his friends gathered in a safe place to be together as they began their new life without Jesus. Fear, sadness, disbelief, shock, grief, anger... the feelings we all have when some terrible awful death comes to one we love. There they were in that room remembering and telling stories, trying to decide what to do next, where to go, how to pick up the pieces. I wonder if any of them remembered Jesus saying where two or three of you are gathered in my name, I am in the middle of you?
According to the story, Jesus did appear to them and was for a short while back in the land of the living. For the rest of us, we live with the faith knowledge that Jesus’ presence, though not visible to our eyes, is a part of all our gatherings in his name. We are more than friends. We, who gather in faith believing that God is with us as we weep for the deaths of those we love, are the embodiment of Jesus on earth. We say death is not the end of all life, just the end of life as we have known it here on earth. We say weep, grieve and know that somewhere, somehow, our God holds you with loving arms and shares your sorrows. Like Junie B and her friend, God is nestled up close to us and yearns over our broken hearts. And while we wait for joy to come again in the morning, we will gather and lean on one another resting in the arms of Jesus that surround us.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
walking barefooted on the rocky pathways of grief...
We gathered on the side of the mountain, overlooking Deweese and Elsie’s home, in the Wolfe family cemetery. The mountains close gathered in, held us in their strong ageless embrace as we laid Elsie to rest yesterday. The men from the Boys Club had dug her grave in the hard rocky soil next to the grave of their son who died young from cancer. The flag draped coffin honored Elsie’s service in the Air Force and old Cherokee men in their uniforms stood at attention as the military service began. As the final prayer was offered, the guns were lifted and a volley of shots rang out over the mountains. The long slow plaintive notes of the final call, Taps, floated up to the sky and we wept.
Ida, a work camp friend, and I went to speak with Deweese as the family sat under the tent waiting for Elsie’s grave to be filled in. I knelt down, looked in his sad face, tears easing down through the new wrinkles of grief, hands holding the folded flag, and my tears joined his. I held his hands, told him I remembered how it felt to be sitting holding a flag as you leave the body of the one you love to the tender mercies of the ground. "Your heart is broken. You will miss her forever. Your love for each other will never die. I am so sorry." What else can one say in the face of such grief? Time enough later to consider the larger questions of faith and life after death. All that is needed from me is the recognition of the enormity of the loss, the absence of a loving presence, the new hole in the soul. God alone has what is needed to lead Elsie’s family through this new life without her.
Those of us who love those who are living with grief are the faces and arms of God but we are not God. The answers we have forged in our own fiery furnaces of despair and loss are ours and may not be what is needed for these who are facing new grief. The temptation is to reassure, to soothe, to try to fix the unfixable out of love. The face of grief is an uncomfortable reminder of the thin edge on which we all live. Our illusions of being the choreographers of our lives are stripped away as we face the deaths of those we love. All I can do is weep with Deweese, honor the importance of Elsie’s life by my presence at her graveside, and continue to be a friend who shows up as life flows on.
The season of grief continues. Mary Etta died early Monday morning. Leslie’s son is dying at her home. Andy’s absence in our church family is felt keenly when we gather to worship. Aunt Peg struggles to find her footing as her sons have to return to work.
I turn to the trilogy of Psalms 22, 23 and 24, reading ancient words of despair, assurance and joy. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?... The Lord is my shepherd...The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof." These familiar old words remind me that we are not the first to feel so alone, standing on the edge of life weeping for all that has been lost. I am also reminded of the journey that is to come, a journey that takes us from loss to new life, a new life that is grounded in God’s continued loving presence in our world. Like the Psalmist, I can sing, "I believe that I shall see goodness in the land of the living! Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your hearts take courage; yea, wait for the Lord!"
I am waiting with Deweese and Mary and Trina and Leslie and Aunt Peg and all others who walk barefooted on the rocky pathway of grief... waiting for the Lord and taking heart in the hope that we all shall see goodness in the land of the living once again. May it be so, Lord.
Ida, a work camp friend, and I went to speak with Deweese as the family sat under the tent waiting for Elsie’s grave to be filled in. I knelt down, looked in his sad face, tears easing down through the new wrinkles of grief, hands holding the folded flag, and my tears joined his. I held his hands, told him I remembered how it felt to be sitting holding a flag as you leave the body of the one you love to the tender mercies of the ground. "Your heart is broken. You will miss her forever. Your love for each other will never die. I am so sorry." What else can one say in the face of such grief? Time enough later to consider the larger questions of faith and life after death. All that is needed from me is the recognition of the enormity of the loss, the absence of a loving presence, the new hole in the soul. God alone has what is needed to lead Elsie’s family through this new life without her.
Those of us who love those who are living with grief are the faces and arms of God but we are not God. The answers we have forged in our own fiery furnaces of despair and loss are ours and may not be what is needed for these who are facing new grief. The temptation is to reassure, to soothe, to try to fix the unfixable out of love. The face of grief is an uncomfortable reminder of the thin edge on which we all live. Our illusions of being the choreographers of our lives are stripped away as we face the deaths of those we love. All I can do is weep with Deweese, honor the importance of Elsie’s life by my presence at her graveside, and continue to be a friend who shows up as life flows on.
The season of grief continues. Mary Etta died early Monday morning. Leslie’s son is dying at her home. Andy’s absence in our church family is felt keenly when we gather to worship. Aunt Peg struggles to find her footing as her sons have to return to work.
I turn to the trilogy of Psalms 22, 23 and 24, reading ancient words of despair, assurance and joy. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?... The Lord is my shepherd...The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof." These familiar old words remind me that we are not the first to feel so alone, standing on the edge of life weeping for all that has been lost. I am also reminded of the journey that is to come, a journey that takes us from loss to new life, a new life that is grounded in God’s continued loving presence in our world. Like the Psalmist, I can sing, "I believe that I shall see goodness in the land of the living! Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your hearts take courage; yea, wait for the Lord!"
I am waiting with Deweese and Mary and Trina and Leslie and Aunt Peg and all others who walk barefooted on the rocky pathway of grief... waiting for the Lord and taking heart in the hope that we all shall see goodness in the land of the living once again. May it be so, Lord.
Monday, March 31, 2008
I am out of breath today...
I am out of breath today, the breath of life. I weep for my friend who’s eight year old daughter’s awful death years ago broke his fatherly heart. I weep for my friend who has her son dying in her home. I weep for Mary as she stands by Mary Etta listening to the breaths come more slowly. I weep for Deweese as he buries his wife Elsie this morning. I weep for my friend who is now entering the new and unwanted role of widow... so much sorrow.
In our homecoming group last night we struggled with where God is when terrible awful unfair painful death comes. After much back and forthing with sharing of personal stories of loss and resolution (or not), Michael nailed it for me. When our children die, God is weeping with us. When our spouses die and we feel so alone, God feels alone, too. When we are dying and afraid of what is to come, God feels afraid. God is so near to us that our beings are inseparable.
Maybe Paul nailed it too when he wrote "For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels or principalities, nor things present or things to come, not powers, nor height or depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." Wherever we stand, whatever we feel, however we live, whoever we are, God will always be present. God’s love for us breaks his heart when our hearts are broken. Our tears mingle with God’s tears as we weep and mourn for those we have lost to death.
A friend sent me the following video and I have found new words to describe the indescribable, the experience of the Mystery. We are created in wonderful awe filled ways that we do not understand. When I hear someone tell their story in this way, I am overcome with gratitude for the mysteries of life and death that live in these bodies of ours. For now it is enough to rest in the knowledge that I only know in part. I can never know the "rest of the story" until I die. But what I do know... God is love and God loves me... is sufficient for today.
I watched in awe as this scientist discusses her stroke that lead to
very interesting insights. I hope you'll take the 18 minutes to watch
it....it is well worth the time.
Simone
The TED video:http://www.microclesia.com/?p=320Her own site:http://drjilltaylor.com/
=
Planning your summer road trip? Check out AOL Travel Guides.
.AOLWebSuite .AOLPicturesFullSizeLink { height: 1px; width: 1px; overflow: hidden; }
In our homecoming group last night we struggled with where God is when terrible awful unfair painful death comes. After much back and forthing with sharing of personal stories of loss and resolution (or not), Michael nailed it for me. When our children die, God is weeping with us. When our spouses die and we feel so alone, God feels alone, too. When we are dying and afraid of what is to come, God feels afraid. God is so near to us that our beings are inseparable.
Maybe Paul nailed it too when he wrote "For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels or principalities, nor things present or things to come, not powers, nor height or depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." Wherever we stand, whatever we feel, however we live, whoever we are, God will always be present. God’s love for us breaks his heart when our hearts are broken. Our tears mingle with God’s tears as we weep and mourn for those we have lost to death.
A friend sent me the following video and I have found new words to describe the indescribable, the experience of the Mystery. We are created in wonderful awe filled ways that we do not understand. When I hear someone tell their story in this way, I am overcome with gratitude for the mysteries of life and death that live in these bodies of ours. For now it is enough to rest in the knowledge that I only know in part. I can never know the "rest of the story" until I die. But what I do know... God is love and God loves me... is sufficient for today.
I watched in awe as this scientist discusses her stroke that lead to
very interesting insights. I hope you'll take the 18 minutes to watch
it....it is well worth the time.
Simone
The TED video:http://www.microclesia.com/?p=320Her own site:http://drjilltaylor.com/
=
Planning your summer road trip? Check out AOL Travel Guides.
.AOLWebSuite .AOLPicturesFullSizeLink { height: 1px; width: 1px; overflow: hidden; }
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