31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty - Day 10

I've been thinking a lot about contrasts lately.

Light and dark,

small and large,

near and far.

And about how so many of those things that we 

tend to put into opposition to one another

are not all that opposed after all. 

Both things are true,

both sides are instructive,

both realities are beautiful,

each in their own way.

Last summer, I spent two weeks 

looking at this view.

Here is the view on a sunny day -

with all the colors popping,

the architectural details sharp,

distinct, 

easy to follow,

the palm trees leading your eye out to the horizon.

If you look closely at the wing of the building

that was just outside my window,

you can see that the right side of the roof

looks a slightly different color from the left.

It doesn't seem dramatic, does it?

Now - here are some similar views,

taken on a foggy morning.

The colors blend a bit more,

nothing stands out,

even the lines of the building

are fuzzier, the trees

fade away into the fog.

There is no horizon to be found.

In the cool of that foggy morning,

I began to see that the two sides

of that roof were quite different from one another.

I am facing due south in this picture,

so the westside of the building is the darker one.

I was intrigued by this and began to draw in

a little bit closer.

The fog was beginning to lift as

I screwed on the telephoto lens,

and this is what I began to see.

An astounding display of lichen,
moss, multi-colored plant life,
clinging like crazy-colored barnacles
to the terra cotta tiles

I found them stunningly beautiful,
especially in contrast to the rich red
of the roof; I was
fascinated by
these green and gray polka dots,
scrambling wildly down the rows.

I would not have seen them at all
if the fog had not rolled in,
forcing me
to take my eye off the horizon, 
to stop taking the long view,
and instead, 
to pay attention
to what was right in front of my face.

I have spent much of my life searching
toward that horizon,
thinking and dreaming about
what was to come.
One of my major regrets 
is that I did not fully appreciate 
what was
right in front of my face
while I was living it.

I got better at it over time,
thank God.
But how I wish I had
celebrated the glory
of the single moment
just a bit more,
especially when my 
children were small
and I was tired all.the.time.

I take some comfort from the disciples.

They weren't able to see what was 

right in front of them, either.

Yet even they,

with their stubbornness,

their denseness,

their projection of their

particular hopes and dreams,

hopes and dreams

that were so far from God's best

as to be laughable at times -

even they got to see the other side. 

Jesus came to them,

in his new,

resurrected body,

and he stood before them,

greeted them gently,

offered them peace

and then sent them out 

to change the world.

The truth is, both sides, 

both views

are important.

The long view,

and the close-up one. 

And both views contain truth,

big truths - long-term goals,

aspirations, dreams -

and small truths -

the glories of

the immediate,

the blessings of now.

Somehow, I don't think the world

can truly be changed

without some experience

of holding-both-sides-together. 

Because our world needs both:

the healing presence and comfort 

of the Jesus

who comes and cups our faces

and says, "Peace be with you,"

and the powerful creative energy

of the Cosmic Christ,

in "whom all things hold together," 

who wants to make all things new,

including every one of us. 

So, even though I'm not a foggy weather

kind of person,

I will celebrate and appreciate

those days when they come.

In fact, I will seek them out,

looking always for

Jesus 

right in front of my face.

The Talisman: a Writing Prompt

I am a person who wrestles hard with major transitions in life.

I never want to move too quickly, to make big changes

in the routines and patterns I am used to

without a lot of thought, prayer, and discussion

with trusted friends and family.

I surprised myself when our senior pastor was hired in 2005,

midway through my time as associate pastor.

I thought I would retire; that had been the plan.

But then . . . he came, with his high energy,

and his working style that was so different from anything

I'd ever experienced before,

and he knew so much about the liturgical calendar,

and, and, and. . . 

I realized I could learn a lot from this man,

things I hadn't done, in ways I hadn't done them,

so I decided (and he graciously agreed)

that retirement would go on hold for a while.

 By July of 2009, it was becoming increasingly clear 
to me that my time as a member of a church staff 

was coming to and end. 

What, I wondered, comes next?

Who am I without this title, 

this role, 

this connection to the 

community of faith 

I've worked alongside all these years?

So, I took a leap of faith - gasp! -

and enrolled in a post-graduate learning

experience, this one in Chicago,

to see if spiritual direction might be what the Lord

was moving me toward in this last stretch of life.

I flew to Chicago for a very intense week.

A good week, a rich week, an exhausting week - 

"Like trying to drink from a fire hose," 

is how I described it to my friends.

And at the very beginning of that week,

we spent a day on retreat, in silence,

with periodic worship times spaced 

throughout the day.

I took a walk around the grounds of that retreat center,
discovering a small gift shop with jewelry for sale.
Almost immediately, I spied this Jerusalem cross 
(second from left above) and snatched it up. 

Somehow that small, silver ornament became a
picture of God's promised presence amidst all the
things that were shifting in my life.
I wore it daily for the rest of that year.
It became a sort of touchstone,
a reminder that I was not alone as I
navigated the changing scene before me.

And I began adding other symbolic pieces to the chain.
The small bee, which says, "just be," on the reverse
and the beautiful spreading tree,
with, "free spirit," on the back.
Both of these, plus the charm with my first initial,
reminded me - as I caught sight of them 
in the mirror or fingered them while
reading or praying - 
that my deepest need is for stillness,
for practicing the presence of God,
for sitting in the silence, 
in the Mystery.

About a year later, six weeks after my retirement
became official, my husband and I took a 
lovely trip to Hawaii,
a place of my heart for the last 32 years.
So I added the heart with the palm tree on it. 

That summer,
after being too ill the previous year to continue
the program in Chicago with my own denomination,
I stepped into training with the
Benedictines.
Such a gift. 
So the last piece added was the medal
of St. Benedict.

Taken all together,
this set of charms,
of talismen,
speak to me of who I am becoming,
of where I am finding space and gift and grace now,
without the title,
without the role,
but with a life. 
A rich, wonderful, Spirit-graced life. 

During the hardest months of
this time of change - from about October of 2010
through May of 2011 - I took it off only to shower.
Somehow, the weight of it called to mind
the immensity of this time in my life,
this move from active ministry
to a more quiet and quotidian way of doing life. 

Gradually, this way of living became the new normal,
and as it did, the necklace sat on the counter more and more often.
I still love to look at it. 
And I still tend to wear it when I'm 
feeling uncertain or anxious.
I wore it every day during my
last two weeks in community with the Benedictines
in July and August. 
And I'll likely wear it every day that I'm on 
retreat at Laity Lodge.
But I don't wear it to bed anymore.
I don't wear it every day or even every week. 

Because I'm here.
I've settled - as much as it is possible for
a person of my personality to settle anywhere!
And I am grateful,
so, so grateful for what I'm learning,
what I've been invited to do,
how God is working through me
and in me and around me
even here, even now.

I'm glad I took that particular route as I walked around 
the grounds of that retreat center in 2009.
And I'm glad to have this tangible reminder
of God's faithfulness in the midst of major life changes.
It's just a necklace.
But it's also a story, an Ebenezer of sorts,
a marker of how the LORD has been here,
right through the shifting sands of change.
I look at it and say,
"Thus far, the Lord has helped me." 
And I say, "Thank you. Thank you."



My thanks to Amber Haines and her new writing prompt each week. The word this week was 'necklace.' I cannot write in poetic majesty as she does, but I very much enjoyed thinking about this one. So, thanks, Amber. You can click on this sentence to find her beautiful reflection and to find links to others who have taken up her challenge.
I will also link this to Jennifer's, Emily's, Duane's, and Ann's gatherings tonight.

 

Learning from the Humming Birds: A Photo Essay

It's been a wild ride the past few weeks - a major writing project to complete, followed by two weeks living in community with the charismatic Benedictines, wonderful friends who think deeply 
about life and spirituality and who teach me so much - with their words and with their wisdom. 
Our last evening together (in each of the two 2-week school sessions over the last two summers) is spent sharing stories, skits, reflections and laughter. This year, I put together a slide show with a narration. 
And I promised my friends there that I would post it in this space. 
It will not show up as a slide show here, but what I can do in this space is interweave the narration a bit better than I could with the time constraints of a 4 minute Chris Rice piano version of "Come Thou, Fount."

Fourteen days ago, I drove myself into the parking lot

of this beautiful retreat center, 

exhausted from too many deadlines and too few hours. 

I was not exactly ‘conscious.’*

Fumbling for words, dropping things, overwhelmed by the kindness of friends, 

I took a deep breath,

looked around at the curving architecture,

the quadrangled green space,

and thanked God that I had made it.

My room welcomed me to smallness and quietude, 

and I began to feel the almost imperceptible movement 

of muscles unclenching, stomach settling 

and spirit stretching.

The foggy mornings helped to slow the pace, 

gently covering all the sharp edges of the landscape - 

the one around me and the one inside me, too.

Morning walks helped point me to beauty -

light and shadow;

color and texture and shape;

pinks and yellows and purples and reds.

circles and oblongs and heart-shaped buds;

Afternoons found me tucked away in a small side garden, where leaves,

 backlit by the western sun, 

shimmered and shook with glory.

Water soothed and stilled me, running off the edge of a nearby fountain, 

abundant and nourishing. 

A deep-seated thirst found quenching.

Surrounding the gentle circles of water was a sea of deep blue lilies, 

held aloft by long stems moving in the afternoon breeze.

As I sat and soaked it in, those blue spires began to dance without the help of wind, stirred instead by fragile wings, wings that beat 2 to 3 thousand times a minute.

Tiny feathered flyers ducked and swiveled, 

hovered and darted,

long, thin beaks dipping deep for nectar in each periwinkle bloom.

To my right was one bright red feeder, and hanging far above my head, another. 

Sometimes one feisty bird at a time, they sipped and rested - gathering nourishment for the next few minutes of fevered flight.

And sometimes, they came in gangs, dive-bombing one another to find a seat at the table. 

One small trio shared well and drank deeply.

And so did we.

I will remember these two weeks for many reasons - for good conversations, for stellar teaching, for the nourishment of worship and eucharist. 

But I will remember the hummingbirds, too. Tiny carriers of creation goodness, reminders of the need to inhabit my own smallness.
 

For to see these glimpses of glory, I, too, must become small - small enough to sit still,
    to be quiet,
        to listen well,
            and to trust the goodness of God.


*The word 'conscious' in this context was an inside 'joke' (very feeble!) based upon much of what we learned together about becoming persons who can be more fully present to others and to God. Learning to be increasingly aware of ourselves and our own struggles/issues/shadows is often called 'coming to consciousness.' It is hard work to become more consciously aware of all the stuff that churns inside of us, often causing reactivity, defensiveness, projection-of-our-own-crap-onto-others. But the kind of work we strive to do with others in spiritual direction requires us to do our own work first. Much of what we learned together over these two years was directed at helping us become increasingly aware of when, where and how (and how frighteningly often!) we are not aware, not in tune with our own spirit or with God's. I feel like I am just beginning some days! 



I will join this with a few friends over the next day or so - most likely Ann Voskamp, Laura Boggess, L.L. Barkat, Michelle DeRusha, Jennifer Dukes Lee and Jen Ferguson.

And with Cheryl Smith, too - if this linky works -




 

           
 

Remembering with Gratitude: A Life Well-Lived

Abbot David Nicholas Geraets, OSB
March 4, 1935-March 2, 2012

Entered St. Benedict's Abbey, Benet Lake Wisconsin
Made monastic profession - September 1, 1957
Ordained to the priesthood - September 29, 1962
Baptized by the Holy Spirit - November 1967 and began 
ministry to the charismatic renewal.
Elected First Abbot of Pecos Monastery - April 11, 1973
Abbatial Service - 1973-1992
Conventual Prior in San Luis Obispo 1992-2012
  
I'm fumbling around for the right earrings.

Packing an overnight bag for a short trip.

My fingers trip and tangle,

the jewelry falls on the counter,

and I feel the tears behind my eyes.

Looking up into the mirror,

I ask myself:

"What does one wear to a wake?

To a Resurrection Mass for a priest,

an abbot,

a mentor,

a friend?

What do I wear?"

And the answer comes,

"Wear your heart."

And I pack it right up,

 lay it in the suitcase,

next to the small jewelry box,

the St. Benedict medal on its chain,

the clear colors he always noticed,

the small, ordinary pieces of an everyday life.

Because that's all I've got, isn't it?

This heart full of memories,

of words heard and received,

of sweet smiles and heartfelt prayers and gentle marks of the cross.

We drive north,

this drive we've taken together for almost two years now.

Ever since my health scare and hospitalization in May of 2010, my husband has chosen to make this trip with me each month. 

He takes long walks up and down the steep driveway of the monastery while I sit in the Holy Spirit House with the abbot.

We've both come to love this day-long venture together.

And I wonder as the wheels turn and the miles slide by,

will this be the last time?

 And I wonder,

is this really why we're going today?

To say good-bye?

We choose to stay overnight at the coast, 

15 minutes from the mortuary and the church.

A good, good choice for us ocean people.

Just walking on the bluffs in the warm wind, 

it blows courage into our souls.

We get there early,

the mortuary where the vigil will be held.

Because that, I learn, is what a monastic wake is all about.

It's a time for call and response singing and reading,

for sharing memories and stories,

for keeping vigil with one another

on the eve of the final good-bye.

A short, strong nun leads the sung part of our prayer time.

And she is gifted, so gifted.

Gracious, confident, calling us to join the song with the lifting of her arms. 

I relax into the music, letting the Spirit sink deep. 

The brothers read lines from St. Gregory about St. Benedict.

We sing the "Sucsipe" - the song sung by every Benedictine priest at the time of vows and renewal of vows:

"Receive me, O Lord, 

as you have promised

and I shall live.

Do not disappoint me in my hope." 

Can I just tell you how deeply

and strongly

my soul and spirit resonate with this kind of worship?

Simple melodies,

heartfelt words,

the ability to be silent without tension.

Too many churches in my life do not know how to do silence. At all.

These warmhearted, generous Catholic friends?

They know how.

And the next day, it is the same.

This time a formal Resurrection Mass,

complete with the presiding Bishop of the diocese and a trailing line of priests from all kinds of places,

sitting together, joining their voices throughout the litany.

"A motley crew," the bishop named them.

And they are that.

But I think perhaps these are a brave crew, too.

Standing and singing and praying together for a departed friend.

The same nun leads the singing, serving as cantor extraordinaire.

The scriptures are chosen from those David loved - 

the Shepherd's psalm

(which we sing and I am undone, just undone),

Habakkuk 3 - the vision will come...wait for it

Revelation 21 - behold, I make all things new...

John 3 - unless you be born from above...

And his friend and partner in work, 

Father Ray Roh preaches a magnificent memorial sermon.

I am blessed, grateful, aware that this was not an easy task to take.

Communion is moving, as it always is.

All stand, in prayer and attention, until each person is served.

And we sing, we sing.

New to this world of Catholic gatherings, 

we assumed a 2:00 service would be followed by a reception of desserts, to which we happily contributed a big bowl of beautiful fresh berries and some cookie bars.

Oh, no.

A full lunch spread - gorgeous and yummy looking.

Except, of course, we had eaten lunch.

So we watched and listened and felt the love vibrating throughout the Parish Hall.

And then we washed out our bowl,

loaded the car

and headed home.

Encouraged, exhausted, fed.

Grateful, grieving, content in a strange and satisfying way.

 We are left marveling that we 

never knew such richness existed in this Catholic space,

that we were so narrow in our view of life, 

of worship,

of God.

And the simple, haunting melody of that psalm,

that's what we each remembered,

that's what we continue to draw on.

Here is a YouTube version of Marty Haugen's beautiful liturgical rendition of Psalm 23.

The response comes first - to teach the congregation.

Then the verses, followed by the response each time. 

Watch, savor, listen, SING:

 All I can say,

all I can sing,

all I can pray is  
THANK YOU, LORD.

THANK YOU.

We're heading out of town for a while in the morning. I hope to have a chance to link this with Michelle at "Graceful" and with Jen at "Finding Heaven." But I'll publish it now and link to it on Facebook in case I can't find reliable internet service while we're away.

Thanks to so many of you for your kind words, your support and encouragement and your prayers. Oh, most definitely, your prayers. 
I also tagged onto both Laura's this week - Barkat at "Seedlings in Stone," and Boggess at "The Wellspring," and at Ann Voskamp's Wednesday round-up. And today, I'll tag in at Bonnie's place as she's taking six weeks off to finish her book! And at "Journey to Ephiphany," who has so kindly taken on Emily Weirenga's weekly log-in: