Grow old along with me

True story.  I wish I could intelligently describe to anyone what it is exactly I do at work.  I just can not just yet.  I call it the confidence of the ignorant.  Part of what I do, (I think), is I read medical records and listen and look and investigate and read between the lines as to what exactly is wrong with the patient and then I try to interpret that into ICD 9 coding language, (which BTW, apparently, physicians don't understand, much less me), and then ask questions of the physician to see if I can help them translate symptoms into diagnostic code.  There are many barriers to this process.  First, physicians chart in symptoms.  Always have and probably always will.  Second, to a nurse, this makes complete and utter sense.  I see the symptom and in my head I can connect that to a diagnosis.  And so to me the medical record makes perfect sense.  But not in the coding world.  So I am a translator of sorts.  And I don't as of yet speak the language fluently. 

Take today for instance.  Doctors are getting younger and younger.  Most residents can not remember a day when cell phones, Apple, google, the Internet did not exist.  When they chart it looks as if they are tweeting.  They use acronyms I have never seen.  So yesterday, when I read on a chart, patient currently in ALF, I thought what is that?  So I googled it.  ALF can (and the operative word here is can), mean acute liver failure. Now, not only did the patient not have physical symptoms of liver failure, not only was that NOT why they were in the hospital in the first place, they didn't meet diagnostic criteria either.  Fortunately, for me and you, diagnosing is outside my scope of practice.  The Board of Nursing does not give me permission to diagnosis.  However, part of my job is translating and I really did need to know if that was a current working diagnosis on the patient.  I don't know what exactly told me to wait and see.  It certainly wasn't my very, very limited working knowledge on liver failure.  And it certainly wasn't my my stellar competence at my job.  I think it was the voice of God.  And I mean that in all sincerity.  So, today, when I read the chart, guess what it said?  (And I am so grateful I didn't call a doctor out of the OR to clarify ALF.)   Patient currently resides in ALF, commonly known as assisted living facility.  One word changed that whole chart.  I can only imagine how I would have explained to a busy physician why I desperately needed to know the patient's living arrangements.  I guess I could have said I was putting my Christmas card list together and just wanted to share the love. 

That little story will probably only strike you as humorous if you happen to work in health care.  But I am sure we all could tell tales of  I am so embarrassed I might die.   And I am so grateful that I have been a nurse long enough and have enough grey and white hair and have made enough errors and had my pride wounded enough that I can finally laugh at myself.   There was a time when I couldn't have.  There was a time when I never would have shared that story.  It is good to age. 

"Getting old is part of getting past whatever illusion we have about ourselves.  It is part of getting free."  -Rich Mullins

I know I am not quite over "myself" yet.  I hope I am not so naive as to think that people have not spotted some conceit, arrogance or false pride in me.  I know it is there and that I am not humble enough to squelch it or even clever enough to hide it.  A person can overcome it though, through prayer and service.  But no amount of praying or fasting or serving will ever hold a candle to aging. It is the beauty of living.  If we live long enough, we get old. 

I was awful at being young.  As a teenager I carried around complexes, had crushes that thankfully never flourished, (although at the time I thought I needed them), and I wrote really bad poetry.  I still write bad poetry.  Age hasn't helped that.  My twenties were turbulent and ended very quietly.  Finally at thirty, I no longer had to be "young and foolish"-  I wasn't old yet, but I wasn't young either.  And God who is always good through whatever age had graced me with joy, peace and even prosperity. 

I think I wasted my youth by being too eccentric and far too concerned about what others thought.  And pride consumed a great deal of my young and middle adulthood.  And thankfully, "God being good still, is doing what He has always done best and what I will never be able to do, and that is to undo what I have done". 

I think I am just beginning to realize as I age gratefully into the end of middle adulthood, that God lets us all struggle and succeed.  It is true we all don't struggle and succeed the same, be everyone does both to some degree.  And when we have done enough to create a false sense of pride and security, God allows us to age.  We do things slower and are less driven.  I still can embarrass myself, but I won't die from it and finally realize I am far more likely to die from natural causes or disease. And finally, I am beginning to see the wisdom in aging- we begin to become free of self-doubt, illusions about ourselves, irrational thoughts, false security, misguided perceptions, displaced love.  And as we grow older, we begin to see exactly how free we are.  We grow free.  Free to finally love as we are meant to love.  Free to really laugh.  And most of all free to forgive.  So, let me grow old. 


All is grace and growing old is a grace,

Kathleen

Why eating at Krispy Kreme is good for your soul

Hot and now.  Just thinking the words make me salivate and to have to drive past the sign when it is flashing- it is almost torture not to stop.  And to be honest, I never have NOT seen the hot and now sign NOT flashing on Stratford Road.  I could eat half a dozen, hot and  now, Krispy Kreme doughnuts in one single sitting and still have coffee left over.  Once on a dare, I dried to stuff three in my mouth all at one time to prove that they really do melt in your mouth.  Um, they don't exactly and as I remember the story, I ended up with someone slapping me hard between the shoulder blades, and yelling, "Kathleen, are you ok?  Can you breathe?"  Now I love me some Krispy Kreme doughnuts, especially the hot and now.  You can just feel the love.  What says love better yeast, butter and sugar deep fried in oil and drizzled with icing.  Talk about love in a box.  Personally, I am also quite fond of the chocolate cream filled and Vance loves the lemon filled.  Davis just the hot and now.  None of us care too much for Dunken Doughnuts though.  So about three times a week during rounds, someone brings love to us in a green, red and white box.   Three dozen are gone before rounds are complete.  One physician brings them every weekend he is on call and passes them out to his patients.  It almost makes me want to get admitted.   Almost. 

When I was a little girl I loved to go to the Krispy Kreme store and watch the doughnuts being made.  I would imagine how hot that oil was and in my mind it was hotter than the sun.  I thought they brought the sugar straight from the cane fields in Jamaica.   It was a very exotic place to me.  Once, I got to back and actually see it up close, the doughnut machine.  I was awed. 

But the Krispy Kreme doughnut tells alot about ourselves and how we see things.  There is a hole in the middle.  Right in the middle where there could have been more dough to eat, there is part missing.  The hole.  Sometimes our hearts are like that.  Missing a piece and I keep losing the keys and time and bits of my busy mind  and it’s hard to keep company with Jesus when you are losing your sanctification over piles laundry in the floor and unmopped kitchen floor.  I look at the hole my undone housework presents to me daily and I can forgot and lose Jesus by not thanking him for the house at all.  That dirt reminds me that we live here, love here, laugh here and eat doughnuts here.

All of life is messy just like Krispy Kreme doughnuts and it presents us with grace over and over again.  The kind of grace you want to lick right off your fingers.  And the response to grace is gratitude.  Grateful for it all, the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the messy, the joy, the sorrow, the pain, the release,  it is all grace.  Time to eat the doughnuts.

It is all about the food

And I don’t know why I don’t make that more than once a year.  My sausage and wild rice dressing.  Davis finally decided this year he actually liked it.  It might have had something to do with the fact that I will eat it cold out of the bowl as I am mixing it, or that it has rice in it, or that my brother has to have it a Thanksgiving. or perhaps it is just that good.  To be truthful and not boastful, it is pretty darn good. It is the kind of dish that will make you want to stand up and slap your mamma. And what’s not to love:  butter, wild rice, fresh bread crumbs, sausage and more sausage and more sausage, pecans, onions, celery, dried cherries.  While it is not complicated to make, it is time consuming.  And maybe that’s why I only make it once a year.  The recipe has evolved over time.  It started out as a recipe I copied years ago from an old Gourmet magazine. I have tweaked and added and taken away, and to be honest I probably never really make it the same way twice.  I don’t have the recipe written down and probably should.  I make it in the same bowl my grandmother, (my namesake), made her dressing in. I only use that bowl once a year.  It is an old white Pyrex bowl with an aqua design on the side.  They were produced in the 1950s.  This year my sister in law about fell out of her chair when she learned exactly how much butter and how much cream I put in my mashed potatoes and you don't want to know.

I was sitting in rounds Wednesday morning when it occurred to me.  The attending physician started rounds by asking – “So, what dishes does your family have to have at Thanksgiving?  And how many generations old are the recipes?”  At first the interns and residents thought it a trick question.  It is an odd question to start morning rounds with.  Most of the time the questions are more along the lines of, “Please tell the group the hallmark features of Wernike’s encephalopathy, the incidence, morbidity and mortality rates, as well as the treatment plan.”  They just all kind of stared at the attending and held their collective breaths to see what it was he really meant.  To be honest, on the day before a major holiday, when the hospital is full and staffing is skeletal at best, it was kind of a nice change of pace.  I do have to admit, I was a little taken aback too.  My initial thought was, “ I really am feeling the love right now, but we have a lot to do today, and maybe now isn’t the best time for sharing.”

There are things we only do once a year.  And there are foods we only eat once a year.  There are places we only go once a year.  And there are people that we only see once a year.  And that is what holds families together.  Those thin places where past, present and future all stand side by side.  Where joy and sorrow meet.  Where we are grateful for each hand we hold and blessed that we are even able.  Where we are grateful for what is understood, what is forgiven. And it is here that we learn that you end up loving because you gave. And it is here that you learn that time is precious and none of us know how much of it we even have and it seems like only yesterday we were doing the things we only do once a year. 

The power or ritual and the power of tradition are what make our life make sense.  Corn pudding will make your life make sense.  Eating oyster dressing (and I never will but I can tell you how to make it) will make your life make sense.  Eating that same cranberry salad your Aunt Jane makes will make your life make sense when nothing does.  Sometimes the only stable ground we stand on is our traditions.  Sometimes the only thing that seems to hold us together is mashed potatoes and limas and green bean casserole made with those imitation onions and cream of mushroom soup in a can. (And in case you are wondering I won’t eat that either).  And the truth is, while I love the turkey my brother cooks on his green egg cooker and I always say I am going to get him to cook one for me before the next Thanksgiving roles around, I never do.  And to be honest, I am not sure it would taste as good if I did eat more than once before the third Thursday in November.

The Blessing

Happy Thanksgiving to all...

Every year at my house, we sing a hymn and say a blessing...it changes every year....This is the one for this year and to all my friends I give thanks.  You are my greatest grace. 

Let us give thanks to God our Father for all gifts so freely bestowed on us

For the beauty and wonder of creation, in earth and sky and sea,

 *We thank you Lord

 For all the graciousness in the lives and men and women, revealing the image of Christ,

*We thank you Lord
For daily food and drink, for home and family, and friends, those present now and those in spirit,
*We thank you Lord
For a mind to think, and a heart to love, and hands to serve,
*We thank you Lord
For health and strength to work, and leisure to play and rest,
*We thank you Lord
For the brave and courageous, who are patient and faith in suffering and adversity
*We thank you Lord
For all the vailiant seekers after truth, liberty and justice,
*We thank you Lord
For the communion of saints, in all times and  places,
*We thank you Lord
In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, who is now and evermore shall be.  Amen.

*Adapted for The Divine Hours, Phyllis Tickle

All is grace,

Kathleen

The most dangerous place on earth

It’s All Saints Day. The sun splits the sky open this morning in a brilliant pink.  The crisp leaves crackle against my feet. The wind blows cool. He smiled as he handed me my tea and she spoke of her sadness over her friend and I could see the loss in her eyes and I wondered do I try to tell her how I see this as sacrament...that the laundry, the endless lists, the liturgy, the cooking, the crying, the hoping, the praying, the cleaning, the working, the loving, the losing, the beholding...all is holy? 

Today, I want to take you by the hand. I want to guide you through the the old carved, heavy oak doors and down the cool, grey slate floors.  When we reach the oak railing and look through the colored glass showing the brilliance of autumn and see the whisper of cold rain shower stains,  I will show where hands aged with prayer and work have carefully woven threads to tell a story older than time and how the first light pierced the darkness, where the table that is never quite empty sits.  I will push the door open and let you go first.  I will make the sign of the cross between us and whisper simply trust.  It is the only way.   Maybe you won't see me or hear me, maybe you will just "know."  You will hear the creaking of the floor and see the flicker of the flame and you will inhale the silence.  I will whisper again...it speaks a language we don't know, but I have learned if you listen to it long enough, you will understand something of the meaning.

Perhaps you’ll look up so long you won’t look down again and maybe you can't even look around the room or even look up from your chest where your heart is wildly beating and you have forgotten to breathe.  Then you will see the table at the front and it will be lit by candles and the wax isn't melting and the linens are crisp white.   And then you will notice them.  All the people whom you have met in this life and those you have remembered and those you have forgotten.  You will see the ones you have been angered with, the ones you have loved well and not so well and even the ones you have hated.  Perhaps the only one you lock eyes with is the one who hurt you the most and you have never quite opened your heart again.  They will be your people.  And there will be people that you and I hold in common.  And there will people that all people hold in common.  The table is full because it is always full.  You will take a seat in the middle amongst all the guests and given a full plate.  Someone will pour you a glass of water, maybe some wine or maybe iced tea.  Next to you will be the person that has loved you more than you could have ever imagined, more than you will ever understand.  And the person across the table will be the one you often hated and now you can't remember why.  The person on your left will be the person you have loved more than they ever could have imagined and probably never knew.  You will see the person who you most often disagreed with and you can't even feel the anger.

You will see an older woman with deep eyes quoting John's gospel.  You will see a young man clinging to the Book of Common Prayer.  You will see a man and a woman dressed in brocade and silk and raising their hands towards heaven and chanting a language you don't quite understand.  An aged man standing between them speaks quietly and hands them a pipe and a olive branch and they smile. A child jumps up on a mother's lap and asks for more.  You will hear words spoken that King David spoke.  You will hear the same song Peter and Paul sang.  You will hear the same prayer Jesus prayed and taught us how to pray.  You will hear the same words that men and women said some two millenia ago. This we believe. Some of the words spoken disagree but everyone holds hands and sings thanks to God who created it all.  Soft words begin to be spoken and there is some disagreement but never about how the words began and soon it is all forgotten.  You'll get your turn too.  To speak of your hurts, your deeply held beliefs, your opinions on the matter.   You’ll have your chance, too, to sort out your grievances.  A very astute child brings all the printed books and sings the songs and shows the pictures you need to prove your argument.  You pause and speak to the one who loves you so much beside you and then someone who has not been given a seat shows up and somone pulls up a chair and passes him a loaf of bread.  The argument continues softly and you say the thing that needs saying and when you are done and you realize how that some things always remain true and they are the old things.  They never change.  The old and true things.  And when you have hugged the last one, shared the last laugh, touched the hand of the one you were so angry with, passed bread to the one you hated.  When you have all but forgotten the pain, the hurt, the loss and when a deep river of peace washes over you, it is time to leave.  But we can't leave before we see it...if only for a moment.  You and I may see different things.

Do you see wine or grape juice or water?  Is it in a heavy chalice, a piece of old pottery or a tiny plasitc cup?  Is the bread broken on a napkin or held high in a silver dish?  Do you see a thin wafer stamped with the cross or a cracker?  Is it a man or a woman passing all of this to you?  Or do you see Christ himself ?  Did you eat supper, a memorial meal, or the Eucharist?  Were you in a cathedral surrounded by colored glass, a plain white walled meeting house or in a small church with beaded board walls or a home dusty with the lives of children?  And for a moment you realize that all of that does not matter because the whole of it is the Body of Christ, even the disagreement, the anger and the hate.  And for a moment you look around and you know deep in the marrow of your bones that we share the same food, depend on the same source for our daily bread.

You are in the place where all that needs to be said can be and will be said.  You are in the place where the broken is made whole, the hungry are fed, the poor are made rich, the mourners have their tears wiped away and the blind see and lame walk.  You are in the place where the peace of Christ dwells.  You are in the only place that we really dwell in safety.  You are in the place where the darkness is overcome.  Everyone you have ever loved, will ever loved and those you have not are here too. 
You will be told that you are always welcome back.
You will be told that the table is always a place to be fed.
You will be told that this table was made, in part, for you.
Today.
Today, I want to take you by the hand.
Today I want to take you to door behind which all the saints live. 
Today I want to remember with you all the saints...the ones living, the ones no longer with us here in body and the ones not yet born.  The ones remembered, the ones forgotten.  The saints we have loved.  The saints we have hated.
Because here-the most dangerous place on earth- here is where it all begins and ends.  Here love dwells and love is the ultimate trump card. 
Because the old oak door behind which it all began—never quite shuts.

And may mercy, peace and love be yours in abundance,

Kathleen

I get on my knees

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...





.

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.