Cat feet grief

Grief has a way of sneaking up on quiet cat feet, sinking its claws into your heart when you least expect it, leaving you for a moment back where you started in tears and sorrow.

On my drive home after choir practice Tuesday night, I began naming and praying for my women friends. One is newly separated and her husband just moved out. Another younger friend is struggling to find balance in work, family and self. One friend I haven’t seen in awhile, my age, is on my lunch list. Four friends are living with husbands who are experiencing a slow slide into infirmity. I gave thanks for one who is building a new home, excited to see it coming up out of the ground, looking forward to a fresh start. As I prayed through my list, tears began to flow, surprising me, catching me unawares.

As I sorted through my feelings, examined my heart, I named the source of those tears. I was missing my sister, wishing I could call her, put her on my lunch list. Even now, thirty two years later, I yearn for a place in time for the two of us as old sisters, sharing laughter and stories about growing up with Tommy and Shirley Calhoun. Perhaps if Gayle had lived, we could have worked out our differences, become friends, cared for each other as my mother and her sister do. In this season of the year, the time of year when she died, I remember and mourn the loss of possibilities for her life.

I also give thanks for her presence in my life. She was my little sister, blonde, curly haired little sister. A thorn in my flesh who taught me how to live with my opposites, she was a bundle of stubborn determination, quicksilver laughter and a faithful friend to many. Thoughtful of others, she sent cards and letters to those she loved, remembering them in writing. She, like my mother, could take my daddy on in a battle of wills and win. I was a wuss who knuckled under.

Grief is a forgiving teacher. It returns to help you learn new lessons as the years pass. There is never an end to the wisdom that can be gleaned from the grief experience. Sometimes the lessons we learn result in action. One friend whose son died has channeled her grief and anger into a new organization. Uninsured, he received inadequate medical attention for his cancer and died as a result. She now campaigns for all those who are unable to access good medical care, working through her grief to save others from death. Sometimes the lessons learned are the ones that help us open up to the suffering of others, to be more in touch with the universal grief we all experience sooner or later. I have learned the language of grief and am grateful for the lesson.

The twenty second Psalm describes one broken by sorrow… heart melted like wax… a beautiful image for grief. Once your heart is melted, a new heart can come to be, one that is filled with gratitude for the gift of life however long or short it may be. If we listen and learn from grief, we can savor life, taste its sweetness while we mourn its losses. With grace and perseverance we can place our feet on level ground, the Ground of All our Being, while we are being redeemed. Thanks be to God who continues to relieve the troubles of my heart and restores my dancing feet. Amen.

Oh the wonder of it all...

Popping pills in the mouth of a pissed off donkey was not a part of my skill set until this week. Twice a day Shirley must take four antibiotic pills for her injured eye. Pills wrapped in bread liberally covered in sugar (Mary Poppins was right) makes a tasty package. The upper eyelid is still very swollen but the lower eyelid is back to normal. After dosing the eye with antibiotic ointment, Michael and I walked back up the hill to the house. The rainclouds were gathered over the far mountains but none seem headed our way. Jason the weatherman keeps on promising rain will come but so far it seems to come everywhere but here. The ground is hard and dry. Plants are dusty and toughened by the last of summer’s heat. Grasshoppers abound, leaping in joyful abandon as you walk through the yard, all shapes, colors and sizes. The bear has made a visit to Tim and Jeannie’s house leaving bent bird feeders and big footprints behind as evidence of its passing. Flocks of wild turkeys fly up from the overgrown hay field when Woody bounces in to chase them. The young ones are almost indistinguishable from their parents now, nearly full grown. The old white turkey survives still, against all odds. Color is beginning to appear early this year. Some trees are already turning red, yellow and brown. Leaves are dropping and the smell of summer’s end will soon be replaced by autumn’s tangy sharp scent. We are poised at the top of the ferris wheel of seasons awaiting the descent into fall and winter, holding our breath under the blue full moon, learning to live in the darkness that is creeping back into the long summer’s day. Oh, the wonder of it all… No matter how many times I feel the season’s change, the mystery and miracle of it still makes a thin place for my soul to touch God’s creation energy. We who live in this day and age know so much about the “how” of things but the “why” is still as elusive for us as it was for the Psalmist. In our acquisition of knowledge I fear we may have lost our capacity to recognize the miracles that surround us, the Mystery that cannot be known. To God who by understanding made the heavens, for God’s steadfast love endures forever, to God who spread out the earth upon the waters, for God’s steadfast love endures forever, to God who made the great lights, for God’s steadfast love endures forever, the sun to rule over the day, for God’s steadfast love endures forever, the moon and the stars to rule over the night, for God’s steadfast love endures forever. The call and response of the 136th Psalm remind me of the bedrock truth of all creation. In climate change and polar ice cap melting, God’s steadfast love endures forever. In hurricane floods and summer drought, God’s steadfast love endures forever. In season’s change and darkness descending, God’s steadfast love endures forever. In the wonder of it all, the mystery and the miracle, God’s steadfast love endures forever. Amen and amen.

Tell it to Jesus...

Some days just do not go as planned… Yesterday, for some strange reason, I decided to feed the cows first. Woody jumped in the Kubota with me and we headed towards the pasture. The new calf, Little Ferd’s first baby, was running around with his tail held high in the air. I fed them sweet feed and watched them for awhile, counting heads to make sure everyone was there. Tilly is beginning to look old but she can still clear a path for herself to the feed trough with that regal crown of horns. Sassy is as sassy as she has always been and Biscuits and Gravy (so named because she is milk gravy creamy white with red and black speckles) was anxious not to miss a morsel of feed. Sitting with the cows always slows me down, quietens my internal discourse, and connects me to my childhood. When I got back up the hill to the house, I walked down to the stable to muck stalls and put out hay for the donkeys and horses. After feeding Bud the Barn Cat, I let the horses out then opened the donkey stall. My stomach lurched towards my throat as I saw Shirley’s face. Blood was gushing from her eye, the upper eyelid was hanging and the lower eyelid was ripped loose. I quickly put the donkeys in the small holding pen behind the stable and ran up to the house to call the vet. An hour later a nice young man drove up and we went to work on Shirley. He gave her some happy juice, deadened her eye and began stitching her up. She stood patiently, a little drunk, as I held her head up for surgery. Two hours later she walked towards the pasture, wobbly but in no pain. I, however, was coming down from my ER high and beginning to feel the aftereffects. Michael called in the afternoon and I tried to tell him some of the details but his vagal nerve response kicked in (and a waiting client) so I cut it short. Mama came to check on Shirley and me but she stayed up at the top of the hill and called down to me. I called Diane but she was on her way to meet a friend and caught in traffic so she was distracted. Leisa was sympathetic but by then I had realized the gory details were not particularly appealing to those who were not there for the ordeal. Where could I go to lay down all these feelings and the worries? As I sat and drank my afternoon cup of hot tea, an old hymn title came to mind… Tell It to Jesus. I went to my piano, opened my old hymnal and found it. As I played and sang those sweet words from my childhood church worship, a calm settled over my frazzled self. In the singing, tears began to flow, not just for my fractured day, but also for those I love who are struggling with illness, old age, the death of a beloved grandchild, uncertain futures. “Are you weary, are you heavyhearted? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Are you grieving over joys departed? Tell it to Jesus alone. Do the tears flow down your cheeks unbidden? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Have you sins that to men’s eyes are hidden? Tell it to Jesus alone. Do you fear the gathering clouds of sorrow? Tell it to Jesus, Tell it to Jesus. Are you anxious what shall be tomorrow? Tell it to Jesus alone.” Dear One, Thank you for listening to me yesterday… all the gory details, all the memories of other emergency runs. For those I love who are in the middle of their own fractured lives and sorrows, hear the prayers of their hearts, oh Lord. Make me in your image, one who hears and loves and lifts up when life is more pain than pleasure. Amen.

Glad reunion...

As we walked up to the museum entrance, the small group turned to look and then began to laugh with arms outstretched for hugs. Friends not seen for fifty years…high school friends… gathered for their reunion in Birmingham, Alabama. Many of Michael’s school friends were in class together for all twelve grades, living in the same neighborhood, some even a part of his life since his birth. And now, after lives well lived, aged like fine wine, they began a two day journey of reconnection, a journey fueled by loving remembrance and gratitude for the present. I was an interested bystander, one of the spouses spending time waiting, meeting and greeting, observing the process. Name tags with senior pictures helped the identification of changed faces and bodies. The jockeying of earlier reunions for status and appearance seemed to be reduced by the passage of time. No one escapes unscathed in the aging game. Everyone put their best foot forward. Hair dye, a toupee or two, new clothing, carefully applied makeup and other gilding of the lilies highlighted the specialness of the occasion. But the one image that overrode all other images was the sight of these people, long separated, hugging, laughing, talking, sharing their lives with one another in glad reunion. Michael spent time with Carol, his girl friend in grades three through six and in high school. They were able to have some time to talk about their shared past, remember the good times and apologize for old hurts. Cheerleaders gathered, bouncing around and for a moment, it was as if they were once again teenagers in the halls of Banks High. Everywhere I looked Saturday night, I saw happy faces, heard the roar of the past and the present merging in Alta Dena Country Club as remembrances flowed like a river of time. When the commotion overwhelmed my introverted soul, I walked outside to sit in a swing and watch the moon rise over the golf course. The darkness of the night was broken with pinpoints of light, homes around the course, and the moon rise lit the sky with a pale glow. As I listened to the party inside, I began to imagine the glad reunion I believe comes when we die. Wonderful as this gathering was, I imagine the final reunion will be one of perfect love and joyous recognition. I know this by faith not by any demonstrable experiment or testimony. A new study is being funded to determine the reality of the afterlife. The scientists promise a fair, unbiased result. This amuses me no end. How can one prove or disprove a reality from which we have few return travelers? Near death experiences and death experiences are all subjective, peculiar to the person who lives through their own death and no one has yet returned after a burial to confirm or deny the existence of the afterlife. It has been and will continue to be an article of faith, knowledge through mystery not defined by rational thinking. Just as the Banks High School Class of 1962 gathered everyone into a loving embrace regardless of their place in the class, so will God gather us up in his loving arms when we breathe our last. “Fear not”, Jesus said. “I go to prepare a place for you and where I go, you will go also.” How that happens, I do not know. When that happens, I do not know. But my heart knows my soul, my essential self will be gathered up to God and have a glad reunion with all who have loved me and whom I have loved. Thanks be to God for love incarnate, love that will not let me go even in the cold waters of death… love that sustains and seeks to be my final resting place…home, sweet home at last.