There are days, more often than not that I believe the best of me is yet to come and there are days, far too few that I feel that I am letting go and I am I know I am exactly in the right place at the right time doing the right thing ( oh -and my hair looks great and I have my favorite white blouse and great black shoes on). Today was a more often than not day but it didn't start out that way or end that way.
And so after ten years, I still do. Because in the beginning I didn't know how and still don't on most days. In the beginning I just wanted to make sense of it all and to master it. It is a mystery to me and everyone else I suspect. And I would be willing to hazard a guess that you feel as if you fail at it most of the time. And I would be willing to bet that on more than one occasion you wondered - does this really matter? And so after I saw a movie about Martin Luther, who is said to have prayed the Psalms so often, he had them all committed to memory, thought I would try. And I thought maybe by the time I was 90, I would have them committed to memory too.
The Book of Psalms is an incredible gift of God to the Church. Regularly singing the entire book of Psalms is the spiritual practice I would stake my life on. Their uniqueness lies in while most of Scripture portrays the history of Israel from either a God’s-eye or birds-eye view, the Psalm give us the inside perspective of how Israel experienced their life before God, and simultaneously invites us into the personal experience of that very Story.
Even as far back as the Desert Fathers and Mothers (4th century), it was common for a monk to pray the entire book of Psalms every single day. As St. Benedict established in the sixth century, it became standard practice for the Psalms to be recited once per week. I’ll tell you, that when I did it the first time, I discovered how completely unfamiliar I was with the Psalms. Many passages, I felt like I had never heard or read before.
The Psalms are rather strange in the light of contemporary Christianity. The Psalms represent to us the most concrete and expansive expression of a truly Biblical Spirituality and it was the prayer book Jesus used. In all likelihood, he had the entire book of Psalms memorized as well from youth. The Spirituality of the Psalms is not an “I’ll retreat into my inner life because there nothing in the world matters” but rather a much more risky partnership with the compassionate God. A God who comes very close to us on this earth that is full of calamity but imbibed with meaning by the virtue of God who created it and continues to redeem it. This spirituality, though very much full of hope (and indeed precisely because it is), never allows us to “soar above the vale of tears” but again and again brings us into a suffering resistance to the violence, evil, injustice and death that so marks our age. I don't know about you - but that is the only God I can live with. There is not a human experience that is not mentioned in the Psalms. They are full of feeling and the human experience. Its pain and joy. The Psalmists seem to engage a God who welcomes dialogue and they seem to demand answers.
And that is why I still do- ten years later. Because I don't know how but there's power but it is on your knees. I don't know how God gives the power but it is on your knees. I don't why but the love that changes you is on your knees.
And so every now and again I will join people in Evening Prayer or Evensong. And admist walls washed as white as wool, admist candles burning, admist the color streaming in from the setting sun as it shone through the stained glass, in front of a simple wooden cross, the four or five of us recited words that Jesus recited. Words that were prayed by every disciple. Words that were prayed by the first century church. We prayed that ancient Greek hymn Phos Hilaron, that is dated to the second century. We said a creed that is dated before the Nicene Creed. Ancient words, eternal meaning.
I was not raised Anglican and I had never held a Book of Common Prayer until ten years ago. I had only prayed Rite II before tonight and was not familiar with the Cranmer way but there is power on your knees. And I was reminded that by falling to your knees is the only way to rescue the fallen. And when you meet someone at the level of prayer you meet them for all eternity.
And ten years later, even though I don't understand, even though I have NOT memorized the entire book of Psalms yet, even though I don't often feel God near, even though it can seem foreign to me at times, even though people look at me strange when I mention it, it continues to save me. And I always need prayers wiser than my own...
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Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Living a life they will write about someday
I am the eldest sibling. I have met many of brothers' friends who have often remarked, "I never knew Bobby or Brian had a sister." I guess I should mention that my brothers and I live in the same town within 5 miles of each other. I guess I should mention that our children attend the same school and some are in the same class. I guess I should mention that they knew my husband before I did. I guess I should mention that despite our geographical closeness, we probably only see each other about 6 times a year. My brother Brian and I talk on the phone twice a year, we call each other on our birthdays. Bobby plays war games with Davis and occasionally I talk to Bobby through Davis on Xbox. I am probably not a very good older sister. I do cook Thanksgiving dinner for them and have been known to host Easter. Brian loves my stuffing. I make it every year just for him. Bobby likes to tease me about my cooking, not because I can't cook, but because I can. Each of them is brilliant in their own right. Bobby can write code for anything, design an app for you and make a movie. Brian can sing (I can't), according to my Dad is a good shot, still plays basketball, (he is over 40), lay hardwood floors and travels literally across the world routinely. Oh, he can make small bombs and probably if you needed him to, could demolish your house in a single bang.
So, I don't think they mind having a big sister. Like I said, I am probably not good at it.
I think I was about 14. I was left in charge that day. Brian was playing in the woods behind our house. He was fascinated with he TV show The Wild, Wild West and James Bond. Our dad kept things like gunpowder around. To be honest, when he came screaming into the house and locked himself in the bathroom, I had no idea what had happened. I just knew I had better figure it out and fix it, or mom was going to kill me. When he opened the bathroom door, the first thing I noticed was that he did not have eyelashes or eyebrows anymore. He looked like Wiley Coyote after he stumbled onto the TNT left by the Roadrunner. It was comical. Apparently, he was trying to create a dam in the little creek behind our house to trap crayfish. I use the term crayfish loosely because this creek was actually a storm drain run off. I don't exactly what type of crustacean they were. Brian and Bobby just caught them, built a fire and roasted and ate them or so I am told. I personally never saw this. I have just heard the story.
So Brian and his friend Luke, (obviously not a physician), had taken gunpowder from the house, packed it into some small square container, added a piece a string and lit it. Brian waited and waited for it to explode. It didn't. He walked over, fiddled with it and lit it again. It still didn't explode. So he stooped down to pick it up and it blew up in his face. According to my dad, he had used enough gunpowder to level the house and the only reason he didn't die or loose limbs or suffer third degree burns, was what he used for a fuse wasn't that flammable. But it was combustible enough to implode and burn all the hair off his face. I don't remember if this required an emergency room visit and I don't remember what if any punishment was handed out, but we did live to tell about it.
Once, a flying squirrel got caught in the vent above our stove. I don't remember why Bobby cut the vent on that day, just that the mess- well it was bad. Real bad. Once a six foot black snake was laying in the ceiling light in our basement. I personally thought Bobby handled it brilliantly. He called the fire department and those nice men came and removed that very large snake and charged my dad about 150 dollars. My mom and dad weren't home that day either.
And I guess I should mention my fear of pressure cookers. They are death traps. Once, my mom was cooking a ham in one. My mother will cook anything and I mean anything in a pressure cooker. Our kitchen was small. Maybe 8X8. She asked me to go check and see if the jiggler thingy had started to jiggle. As I was approaching the kitchen, the lid blew off and the jiggler thingy was impaled in the ceiling. Even after the ceiling replaced, the oil stain remained. It was like a poltergeist or something. Do you know what my mother gave me for a wedding gift? A pressure cooker. She still thinks everybody should have one. I won't use the damn thing. It can kill. I prefer to bake my hams.
My brothers and I fought too. Like cats and dogs. The thing about three children, is that two will always gang up on the one and the teams always change. It just isn't easy being a sibling.
Today we celebrate the feast of St. James, the Just. He was the brother of Jesus. Tomes have been written on just where James was on the family tree. It can not have been easy growing up as the younger brother of Jesus. First, who can compete with intellectual brilliance? Second, when your brother heals the sick, raises the dead, and feeds the multitudes with crumbs, it could be easy to develop insecurity. Not to mention, that angels showed up at Jesus' birth and sang Gloria and rich men on camels traveled across a desert for about three years to bring him baby gifts. And there was a star (most likely a comet), that showed up in the night sky at Jesus' birth and overshadowed Orion and Pleiades. And then there is the king who was so scared about his birth, that he goes on a killing rampage. And who wouldn't be just a tad bit jealous of the fame and power? And who wouldn't have an identity crisis if their sibling was a prophet, obviously spoke directly to God and God talked back.
Scripture and history tell us that James was not a coward and quite certainly a visionary in his own right. He was the Bishop of Jerusalem and the non-canonical gospel of Thomas gave him the description of just. Paul tells us he was among the first of the apostles to hang out with the Gentiles. He was stoned to death, probably a political murder plotted by the high priest Annas. History tells us that what probably killed him was a blow to the head while he on his knees praying for his killers. I suppose James could have carried a chip on his shoulder. I suppose he could have resented Jesus and aged into a bitter person who claims to "have never gotten a break." I suppose he could have never dealt with the tension of living and growing up in someone's shadow. I suppose that he could have chosen not to identify with Jesus. He could have chosen many things. But James, chose to be enough. Just enough. He chose to be himself, not Jesus or live up to Jesus. And his story reminds me that each of us have circumstances that prevent us from recognizing who we are in God.
I suspect you are alot like me. Far too often we worry will we be enough? We don't always know if we belong or not. We don't know if our hair is okay-if our clothes are right-if our weight is right-if anyone will like you-if we will say the right thing or not and what if people could really see our insides-would they still like you?
So we could all take a lesson from the life of James on just being who we are and applauding God for making each of us a wonder and miracle in our own unique way. Don't strive and work so hard- just rest in God. Don't compete with others- just care about others. And James- well he didn't seem to want anything apart from holiness- which actually means "wholeness" not perfection. Affirm yourself in the certainity of the grace of God and identify yourself with the love of Christ- not your circumstances, your lineage, your struggles, your past, your imperfections. And as the writer of Hebrews (who may have been James-no one knows for sure) said in the daily office today: and these words are as true today as in the first century:
Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.
Pursue peace with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord.
So, I don't think they mind having a big sister. Like I said, I am probably not good at it.
I think I was about 14. I was left in charge that day. Brian was playing in the woods behind our house. He was fascinated with he TV show The Wild, Wild West and James Bond. Our dad kept things like gunpowder around. To be honest, when he came screaming into the house and locked himself in the bathroom, I had no idea what had happened. I just knew I had better figure it out and fix it, or mom was going to kill me. When he opened the bathroom door, the first thing I noticed was that he did not have eyelashes or eyebrows anymore. He looked like Wiley Coyote after he stumbled onto the TNT left by the Roadrunner. It was comical. Apparently, he was trying to create a dam in the little creek behind our house to trap crayfish. I use the term crayfish loosely because this creek was actually a storm drain run off. I don't exactly what type of crustacean they were. Brian and Bobby just caught them, built a fire and roasted and ate them or so I am told. I personally never saw this. I have just heard the story.
So Brian and his friend Luke, (obviously not a physician), had taken gunpowder from the house, packed it into some small square container, added a piece a string and lit it. Brian waited and waited for it to explode. It didn't. He walked over, fiddled with it and lit it again. It still didn't explode. So he stooped down to pick it up and it blew up in his face. According to my dad, he had used enough gunpowder to level the house and the only reason he didn't die or loose limbs or suffer third degree burns, was what he used for a fuse wasn't that flammable. But it was combustible enough to implode and burn all the hair off his face. I don't remember if this required an emergency room visit and I don't remember what if any punishment was handed out, but we did live to tell about it.
Once, a flying squirrel got caught in the vent above our stove. I don't remember why Bobby cut the vent on that day, just that the mess- well it was bad. Real bad. Once a six foot black snake was laying in the ceiling light in our basement. I personally thought Bobby handled it brilliantly. He called the fire department and those nice men came and removed that very large snake and charged my dad about 150 dollars. My mom and dad weren't home that day either.
And I guess I should mention my fear of pressure cookers. They are death traps. Once, my mom was cooking a ham in one. My mother will cook anything and I mean anything in a pressure cooker. Our kitchen was small. Maybe 8X8. She asked me to go check and see if the jiggler thingy had started to jiggle. As I was approaching the kitchen, the lid blew off and the jiggler thingy was impaled in the ceiling. Even after the ceiling replaced, the oil stain remained. It was like a poltergeist or something. Do you know what my mother gave me for a wedding gift? A pressure cooker. She still thinks everybody should have one. I won't use the damn thing. It can kill. I prefer to bake my hams.
My brothers and I fought too. Like cats and dogs. The thing about three children, is that two will always gang up on the one and the teams always change. It just isn't easy being a sibling.
Today we celebrate the feast of St. James, the Just. He was the brother of Jesus. Tomes have been written on just where James was on the family tree. It can not have been easy growing up as the younger brother of Jesus. First, who can compete with intellectual brilliance? Second, when your brother heals the sick, raises the dead, and feeds the multitudes with crumbs, it could be easy to develop insecurity. Not to mention, that angels showed up at Jesus' birth and sang Gloria and rich men on camels traveled across a desert for about three years to bring him baby gifts. And there was a star (most likely a comet), that showed up in the night sky at Jesus' birth and overshadowed Orion and Pleiades. And then there is the king who was so scared about his birth, that he goes on a killing rampage. And who wouldn't be just a tad bit jealous of the fame and power? And who wouldn't have an identity crisis if their sibling was a prophet, obviously spoke directly to God and God talked back.
Scripture and history tell us that James was not a coward and quite certainly a visionary in his own right. He was the Bishop of Jerusalem and the non-canonical gospel of Thomas gave him the description of just. Paul tells us he was among the first of the apostles to hang out with the Gentiles. He was stoned to death, probably a political murder plotted by the high priest Annas. History tells us that what probably killed him was a blow to the head while he on his knees praying for his killers. I suppose James could have carried a chip on his shoulder. I suppose he could have resented Jesus and aged into a bitter person who claims to "have never gotten a break." I suppose he could have never dealt with the tension of living and growing up in someone's shadow. I suppose that he could have chosen not to identify with Jesus. He could have chosen many things. But James, chose to be enough. Just enough. He chose to be himself, not Jesus or live up to Jesus. And his story reminds me that each of us have circumstances that prevent us from recognizing who we are in God.
I suspect you are alot like me. Far too often we worry will we be enough? We don't always know if we belong or not. We don't know if our hair is okay-if our clothes are right-if our weight is right-if anyone will like you-if we will say the right thing or not and what if people could really see our insides-would they still like you?
So we could all take a lesson from the life of James on just being who we are and applauding God for making each of us a wonder and miracle in our own unique way. Don't strive and work so hard- just rest in God. Don't compete with others- just care about others. And James- well he didn't seem to want anything apart from holiness- which actually means "wholeness" not perfection. Affirm yourself in the certainity of the grace of God and identify yourself with the love of Christ- not your circumstances, your lineage, your struggles, your past, your imperfections. And as the writer of Hebrews (who may have been James-no one knows for sure) said in the daily office today: and these words are as true today as in the first century:
Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.
Pursue peace with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord.
Monday, October 22, 2012
When I get where I am going
He turned and faced Jerusalem. That is what the writer of Luke's gospel tells us. Jesus turned toward Jerusalem. He knew where he was going. Sometimes, I forget where I am going. And that is what we read this evening in the little chapel at St. Timothy's at evening prayer. We read that Jesus knew where he was going and he faced it. And it made me think of how hard it can be to know where it is you are going and how to get there. And you have to be brave. Because going somewhere usually involves leaving and leaving can be a lot like dying. And as I looked out the windows of the chapel, I saw how the maple trees were making dying look beautiful. And I remembered that Jesus relinquished all his glory and stood bare on a cross to get where he was going.
And she was holding the big, black book in her frail hands and it was hard for me to understand. But between the thees, the Verilys, the thous and it came to pass, I watched her live the truth in front of me. And I stopped hard when I saw her on her knees asking Jesus to be the keeper of our lives. And he has been true to his word. Jesus has kept our life.
And he was holding the big, black, worn book in his big hands and I was amazed at the pages, how worn, how used, how tear stained. And he told me how he is finding more and more truth in the words written in red. And he raised his hands and he bowed his head and he gave thanks for it all.
When I get where I am going, I am going to touch moon. I am going to catch a raindrop. I am going to walk with my grandmother and match her step for step and tell her how Jesus kept us all. When I get where I am going, I am going to sit down with him and talk way into the morning. When I get where I am going, I am going to ask Abraham how did he know about the ram? When I get where I am going, I am going to ask Moses were those sandals really comfortable? When I get where I am going I going to dance a little more. When I get where I am going I am going to laugh a little more. When I get where I am going, there will only be happy tears. I will shed all the sin and struggle that I have had down here. But while I am here, I will love with my heart wide open and without fear till I get where I am going.
All is grace and counting joys
the leaves in their glorious fall color
the falling of the leaves like golden red rain
the cool night air with clear skies that show slivers of the moon
the orange pumpkins
warm apple pie fresh from the oven
grilled asparagus with goat cheese
chili
The Giants getting to Game 7
Reading the Daily Office at St. Timothys
8 strike outs in a game and 4 for 6 at the plate last game of the season
wool sweaters
hands that are worn with time and prayer
faces that show the grace of God
When I get where I am going, there will be only happy tears. I will shed the sin and struggle that I have carried all these years.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Laying down
Again today, too much for me to write but let me share words better than my own:
Joy, it comes in the morning…
Joy, it comes not in the gaining but in the giving, not in being someone but in being a sacrifice, not in laying up treasures, but in laying down self.
Joy, it comes in the mother who doesn’t think twice to do the unthinkable, to do the unlikely, the unlovely, the unheard of — who lives the Gospel.
It comes in the woman who loves the kid who has no one, the man who isn’t thinking about winning on earth but in heaven, the kids who cheer for the hurting- Ann Voskamp
Next week I hope to catch up and write about this month- some of my favorite Saints were celebrated this month. St. Francis. St. Teresa. Thomas Aquinas. St. Catherine.
I am most excited about my new app- The Daily Office. Now, I have no excuse no to pray.
Joy, it comes in the morning…
Joy, it comes not in the gaining but in the giving, not in being someone but in being a sacrifice, not in laying up treasures, but in laying down self.
Joy, it comes in the mother who doesn’t think twice to do the unthinkable, to do the unlikely, the unlovely, the unheard of — who lives the Gospel.
It comes in the woman who loves the kid who has no one, the man who isn’t thinking about winning on earth but in heaven, the kids who cheer for the hurting- Ann Voskamp
Next week I hope to catch up and write about this month- some of my favorite Saints were celebrated this month. St. Francis. St. Teresa. Thomas Aquinas. St. Catherine.
I am most excited about my new app- The Daily Office. Now, I have no excuse no to pray.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Pursuing Joy
I have been a bit overwhelmed of late, way more than my normal. Seeing old ghosts. Changing job roles. Parenting a high schooler and trying to remind my frazzled mother nerves that he will be ok. Watching friends hearts' break. Attempting to reconcile the past. Practicing assertiveness training. Buying a new data plan. Reading CMS guidelines, coding clinics and best practice guidelines. Writing what to my small world amounts to a thesis. Learning that vindictiveness has the same root as vindicate. Finding a lost voice. Practicing loving my spouse and I need to practice as if I was pitching the seventh game of the world series. Keeping up with a teenager's schedule. Making friends. Watching baseball. Getting new glasses. Bloodwork again. Finding a math tutor (and not for me this time!). Cleaning out closets. And I forgot in the midst of all this turmoil and change to look for joy. And so today, in the midst of all my chaos and noise I was reminded again by one of my favorite writers. I may not share all of her theology but no one writes about joy and grace and the point of it all better. So I am sharing her thoughts with you and when my noise quites a little and I expect it will by Friday...I will write.
But today just to remind us all why we are here and why pursue Joy:
"How can grace get a hold of you when the past won’t let go of you? How do you leave a legacy different than the one you’ve been left? That’s what I’ve got to gnaw through to. How do mangle the ones you love most?
“Sor…ry… Mama… didn’t… mean… to make you… cry.” And he’s the one who can’t stop.
And I kneel down and let go of his arm. And I hold his face. That’s what I should have done, done right at the beginning. What would happen in a world where anger was your flag to reach out and cup a face?
He looks so scared and wrung and thin — every child’s a thin place. I see God.
And that’s what comes:
If you don’t fight for joy, it’s your children who lose.
What do I want my children to remember — my joy in clean floors, made beds and ironed shirts — or my joy of the Lord?
You will be most remembered — by what brought you most joy.
The joy of the Lord is your strength and the person of Christ is your unassailable joy – and the battle for joy is nothing less than fighting the good fight of faith.
His cheeks in my palms, they’re so white, so wet.
It’s his eyes — if you’ve put the fear of yourself into a child, how is there room for the joy of the Lord? Joy isn’t an optional feature to the Christian life — it’s the vital feature of the Christian life.
Battle for joy or lose your life. Or other’s lose theirs.
And I whisper sorry. I tell the boy I know nothing yet, nothing.
Every ungracious moment means someone doesn’t understand grace.
And the boy crumbles into me and I hold onto him and a forgiveness I’ll never deserve and there’s a grace that can hold us, that can mold us, the way joy can bend you soft at all the joints.
And I murmur it into the thick of his hair, that even now He can still make us like Him.
The boy touches my cheek like a flag waving yes." Ann Voskamp
But today just to remind us all why we are here and why pursue Joy:
"How can grace get a hold of you when the past won’t let go of you? How do you leave a legacy different than the one you’ve been left? That’s what I’ve got to gnaw through to. How do mangle the ones you love most?
“Sor…ry… Mama… didn’t… mean… to make you… cry.” And he’s the one who can’t stop.
And I kneel down and let go of his arm. And I hold his face. That’s what I should have done, done right at the beginning. What would happen in a world where anger was your flag to reach out and cup a face?
He looks so scared and wrung and thin — every child’s a thin place. I see God.
And that’s what comes:
If you don’t fight for joy, it’s your children who lose.
What do I want my children to remember — my joy in clean floors, made beds and ironed shirts — or my joy of the Lord?
You will be most remembered — by what brought you most joy.
The joy of the Lord is your strength and the person of Christ is your unassailable joy – and the battle for joy is nothing less than fighting the good fight of faith.
His cheeks in my palms, they’re so white, so wet.
It’s his eyes — if you’ve put the fear of yourself into a child, how is there room for the joy of the Lord? Joy isn’t an optional feature to the Christian life — it’s the vital feature of the Christian life.
Battle for joy or lose your life. Or other’s lose theirs.
And I whisper sorry. I tell the boy I know nothing yet, nothing.
Every ungracious moment means someone doesn’t understand grace.
And the boy crumbles into me and I hold onto him and a forgiveness I’ll never deserve and there’s a grace that can hold us, that can mold us, the way joy can bend you soft at all the joints.
And I murmur it into the thick of his hair, that even now He can still make us like Him.
The boy touches my cheek like a flag waving yes." Ann Voskamp
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Excuse me, could you repeat that please.
One of the challenges of changing job roles is remembering. Right now, my brain is saturated. I can’t remember the last time it was this saturated. Memory can be defined as the ability to acquire, process, store, and retrieve information. Memory is indispensable for learning, adaptation, and survival of every living organism. In humans, the remembering process has acquired great flexibility and complexity, reaching close links with other mental functions, such as thinking and emotions.
It is also a tad bit frightening to me that part of my orientation involves a weekly support group for the next 3 months. I might become even more concerned if a critical incident debriefing team walks through the door. Often, when one orients to a new job, jokes are made about at least you didn’t run out the door the first day. To be honest that did happen to me once. I didn’t run out the door, the person I was orienting did.
I was a case manager for a local hospice. My job was to visit my patients in their homes weekly (or daily as sometimes was the case), devise and implement a plan of care. Sometimes this involved complex dressing changes, treatments or medication administration. Sometimes I put a load of laundry in. Sometimes I cooked lunch. Always I listened. Many times I was the referee for family disputes.
Once someone asked me to sing hymns over their deceased loved one. Singing from the Baptist Hymnal is not covered in nursing school. Fortunately for me, my dad was a worship leader. So, I was raised singing old hymns. I know the tunes to most. Unfortunately for the family and me, I can’t carry a tune. Not wanting to disappoint and hoping they would join in or suddenly an angel of the Lord would appear singing “Glory to God in the Highest,” I opened the hymnal and the first hymn I saw, “Rescue the Perishing.” To this day, I cannot believe I started singing that hymn over a dead body. I am quite sure at every single family get together, that family re-tells the story of that nurse who sang “Rescue the Perishing” when momma died.
A short time later, a woman asked me to put a thong with Santa on it on her deceased husband before his body left the house. I learned to rephrase the question, “Is there any I can do?” I also dropped the question, “What can I do that would help right now?”
Back to the nurse that ran out on me during her orientation. It was a normal day a hospice. Whatever that may look like. We saw three patients that morning. At noon, I told her to take a break, get something to eat and meet me back at my car at 1:30. At 12:30, the director of nursing called and asked, “What did you do to her? She just left my office and she is not coming back.” To this day, I have no idea. I didn’t sing or put underwear on anyone. It just sort of became the office joke, that perhaps one way to help people see if this job was for them, was to see if they could survive a morning with me.
I am now into my fourth week of orientation and I haven’t thought of running out the door yet and I guess if I do, my support group leader will seek me out and debrief me. But as far as remembering everything, that only comes with repetition, repetition, repetition. And while humans are hard wire to remember, we struggle.
They have been called glimpses, tickles, whispers, bumps or thin places. That piece of God that sometimes interrupts our lives in a brief instant and we touch the eternal God. Personally, I can be quite dense and need a shout.
The reading from the Psalms today is Psalm 78. If you read the Daily Office daily, you will read this psalm about every month or so. Let’s just say, I am not a fan of the 78th. If I were a monk, I would probably being asking my spiritual director why I don’t like it or the abbot would catch me skimming it at morning prayer and make me pray it 78 times a day for 78 days. I guess you could say I am glad I am not a monk. But today, it caught my attention and caused me to remember and to think and to ponder and to wonder and to step into that thin place for a moment.
Psalm 78 is an instructive psalm as well as a history lesson. It depicts Israel failed to appreciate the graciousness of God and as a result were punished. I am not entirely convinced that God did the punishing as much as failure to recognize grace will always lead to a destruction of the gift offered. But it was not so much the theology behind the Psalm that gave me pause. It was the memory it evoked. And it was odd that last night, I was encountered that same memory and it gave me pause. And that would be whisper of God.
I often forget and often need to be reminded that the same hands that created the oceans, hold the mountains, sustain the world, those same loving hands hold me. And that is why we need to read the Psalms over and over. That is why people will sit through the same lecture over and over and over again. We are forgetful. But imagine this-the hands that buried Moses, carry you. And try to remember every day those hands.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Eternal God it will take an eterniity to know you-thank God time is of little consequence to you
After the storm settled and the wind calmed down and the rain stopped pouring, she remembered to give thanks. She had used up all of her youth, and she felt wrung out everywhere. Spent. It was after that many years of storm, she stood looking at the blue sky that was crisp, perfect. Cool. She watched her dreams float by in the clouds. She had had dreams. Dreams as big as clouds. But she didn’t know that things can come true in the most unlikely ways.
Sometimes the crashing waves don’t wash you away, but wash you alive. Ann Voskamp
She still stood. And she really didn’t know how. Half her life was behind her now if she lived to see 90. Half her summers, half her autumns, half her firsts, half of it all behind. It made her hurt and smile because it is only in the leaving behind can a woman’s real beauty come to the front. She had learned that we live in the midst of the dying. And she learned that God strangely blesses us when we are estranged from him. And she had learned sometimes you have to rebreak in order to heal. And it is doing the small thing again and again that becomes the great thing that heals. It is in giving thanks again and again and again and again. The small things that remind us that He loves us.
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