Providence...Sows' ears into silk purses

She is approaching the end of her first death anniversaries. Having survived the holidays, she now marks the first time he went to the hospital, the last family game weekend, the beginning of in-home hospice care, the day he left home for the last time carried by the capable hands of men he thanked for their care. Other moments carved by grief in her heart, known only to her, pass unnoticed by friends and family. From single woman to beloved and loving wife to widow to the as yet unknown… it has been a testament to the healing power of love even when the one you love is absent in body. She still weeps but she can also laugh when remembering him. She is learning to turn the sow’s ear of loss and grief into the silk purse of love and gratitude. It has not been an easy or wished for journey but a rich one, nonetheless.
Being present as her friend during this past year, my own memories of grief have informed my responses to her and to myself. One thing I know… God’s providence provides what we need for our transformation in the midst of pain and suffering. All that is required of us is to do the work that brings new life from death. It is hard, painful, messy work that does not have instant results. Often it can be years before we can see clearly the butterflies that come from the cocoons of grief. The wisdom that comes from this work is hard won and not easily expressed in words.
“Providence is the faith that nothing can prevent us from fulfilling the ultimate meaning of our existence. Providence does not mean a divine planning by which everything is predetermined, as in an efficient machine. Rather, Providence means that there is a creative and saving possibility implied in every situation, which cannot be destroyed by any event.” These words written by Paul Tillich are, I think, what my Grandma meant when she told me not to waste my grief. Own it, work with it, do not waste it, and in partnership with God, your saving possibilities can come into being.
Oh Love that will not let us go, give all those who walk the shadowed valleys of grief, strength and joy in the journey. Help us to find in you the saving possibilities for our lives as we search for new ways to be in a world that is strange and painful. Thank you for providential presence even when we cannot see or feel it. We need your tender care. And may we, with your tender care, transform our sows’ ears into silk purses of lustrous sheen. Amen.

These little lights of mine...

I dug out my SAD light last week. It had been cold and grey outside for too long and I longed for light. Sitting under the fake sunshine, I began remembering all the Bible verses and images I learned as a child that had light as a noun… Arise! Shine, for thy light is come…Don’t hide your light under a bushel basket… Jesus is the Light of the world…This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…Brightly beams our Father’s lighthouse…The Lord is my Light and my salvation… the list ran on and on. My thirty minute substitute sun session ended as the sun peeped over the mountains spreading golden light from the red clouds. The season of decreasing light and increasing darkness has ended. Every morning there is a little more light and the almost invisible journey towards spring and summer has begun.
I have always loved the night darkness. How else could you see the stars? The mystery sounds, the rustles and creakings, the light as a feather sounds of bat wings remind me of all I do not know and cannot see. Sunny blue skies do not spark my God imagination in quite the same way the night sky does. The vast lonely dark upside down sky bowl, punctuated by stars and planets, is beyond my comprehension. The more we learn about our universe, the more we do not know. Like the Psalmist, I am forced to exclaim, “What is man that Thou art mindful of him?”
All good mystics, whatever their religious persuasion, know there is a line, or as Paul said, a mirror through which we see darkly. This line, this mirror separates our knowing from our unknowing. Passing over the line, seeing through the mirror frees us from the burden of always having to have an answer. Sometimes there are no answers, just the questions.
Phillip Simmons in his book “Learning to Fall” quotes a distinction learned from the philosopher Gabriel Marcel. Problems are to be solved; true mysteries are not. All the self help books in the world cannot resolve this mystery of life and death, our life and death, in the vast universe. All of us, he says, find our own way to the mystery. And then, we must decide whether to let go and leap into the mystery or back away from the edge of the cliff. Letting go of solutions, he says, is the first lesson of falling and the hardest.
Dearly Beloved, in this season of resolutions and promises, clean calendars and fresh starts, keep me off balance, tilted towards You as I fall into the mystery of another year. Remind me life is too wonderful for words and I cannot have all the answers. I am loving You in the darkness of the season, the darkness of the night, and the darkness of my being. It is more than enough.

Ordinary time...balancing act

When I rode horses as a child, it was about freedom, fun and speed. Why walk when you could run? The exhilaration of leaning into the air rushing past as your horse sped down the dirt road was intoxicating, liberating and nicely scary. The tumbles I took while doing this had no calming effect on me other than concern for the horse. I learned quickly that good balance was a necessity if you wanted to stay in the saddle. Holding on to the saddle horn (nobody rode English style in South Georgia) was an emergency measure, not good for the long haul. Perhaps my daddy was right to be worried about me breaking my neck if he gave me my own horse.
When I began taking riding lessons as an adult, my teacher began with balance, developing a “good seat”. I learned to regulate my weight in the stirrups, how to adjust the saddle by shifting my weight from one side to the other. The reins were to be held with equal pressure on both sides, lightly but firmly, shifting only when I wanted to change direction. When the horse trotted, I practiced “posting”, adjusting my up and down movement in the saddle, a dance with the horse’s movement. My teacher told me if I normally used my right hand, practice with my left… change the side you mount from…test your balance on your least dominant side…scoop poop with your left hand up instead of your right. Shift back and forth to improve your balance. Learn how to fall because you will fall from the horse from time to time. It is a given.
I have been reading “Learning to Fall” by Phillip Simmons. It is a collection of essays written as he comes to a new reality, living while dying with ALS. One of the essays is titled “In Praise of the Imperfect Life”. He tells the story of settling in at the top of a mountain for the perfect meditation. He sat, balanced his breathing, quieted his thoughts and waited on his vision. A tickle, itch slowly climbed his back as he tried to focus and dismiss the distraction. When he could no longer stand it, he scratched and found a small ant had been climbing his back. Years later, he discovered God was not in the extraordinary but in the ordinary, the ants in the world. He became a seeker of the dark way, the hard way.
For me, keeping balanced, poised, open, aware in the midst of hard ways and happy ways is not the challenge. It is easy to see God when the sun shines brightly and all is warm and well. It is easy for me to find God when I am wounded, off balance and in need of Solid Ground. The in-between place, the place of ordinary time, is more difficult for God seeking simply because it is so ordinary. Days filled with farm chores, bill paying, family tending, oil changes for the car, housekeeping and home making slide by and at the end of the day, I am tired. Perhaps I remembered God but often I do not.
Simmons says, “The imperfect is our paradise”. In our ordinary imperfection, lies our redemption, our salvation, our road to glory, our way home. Let me never stop picking myself up, dusting myself off and getting back in the saddle as I live my extraordinary ordinary life with You. Thank you for the wondrous gift of horses who are my teachers and for falling off now and then. It keeps me humble. Love you…

Christmas Presence

It was minus 2 degrees when we woke up this morning at 6:30. The air was the clean crisp stellar air of winter in the mountains. Far away stars seem closer somehow and the animal tracks in the snow hint at the night time mysteries we never see unfold. Walking down to the stable, the sun was bright and there was no wind. Distant mountains are clearly delineated in the overlapping folds of faint colors. Smudge, the black and white barn kitty, and Bud, the tabby old tom, walk up to meet me seemingly none the worse for the cold weather. Katy and Shirley, the donkeys, have left their stall and are standing in the sun, condensed breath icicles hanging from their noses. Dixie leaves the stall with a flourish, kicking her heels up and jumping sideways. Junie B trots to the hay and begins breakfast. All is well.
I stand on the hill up to the house and survey the world around me. It is white, cold and still. Beauty and winter gifts surround me. A wisp of smoke from Julie’s wood stove rises in the air. Snow diamonds blaze in the morning sun. The sight of Mama’s house reminds me how graced I am to have her so near and still present in my life. Old hornet’s nests blow in the tree tops, a reminder of summer long gone… a summer that will come again in good time.
It was a wonderfully wild and wacky Christmas. Children and grandchildren came and went. Some stayed longer than others but all were gathered around the table Christmas Day… seventeen of us, a children’s table for the first time, turkey and ham (for Adam who does not like turkey), laughter, naps, picture taking on the front porch re-creating the poses of years past with our two latest additions, blessed commotion.
My best presents did not come in boxes. They came in people. Grandchildren playing (and fussing), riding the Daddy O to feed cows and taking baths in the whirlpool tub, Maddie in her new silver boots, Clancy’s smile, Matthew standing tall, Mason in Pop’s big yellow headphones, Mead vacuuming, Rowan snuggled up to me as I read a book to him, Aidan sharing Minecraft with me, Colby striding out in his farm boots that reach up to his knees. I watch their parents and remember long ago and far away when it was me being responsible for their baths and behavior. Christmas present and past overlap and I see the present through eyes blurred by tears and a heart full of thanksgiving.
This year I will practice living with the Christmas presence in my daily life. The hope, joy, anticipation and love so clearly evident on Christmas Day will not leave me if I pay attention. Howard Thurman wrote a poem read by my Pastor Pat Sunday in worship. It is named “The Work of Christmas”.

When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart.
Let me not forget the holy joy and the thanksgiving I feel in your Christmas Presence. Help me remember to do the work of Christmas in this new year so I may remain tucked under your wing with a heart full of music. Amen.