An Advent Journey: Stop, Look, Listen - Day 6

"I don't think, friends, that I need to deal with the question of when all this is going to happen. You know as well as I that the day of the Master's coming can't be posted on our calendars. He won't call ahead and make an appointment any more than a burglar would. About the time everybody's walking around complacently, congratulating each other -- 'We've sure got it made! Now we can take it easy!' -- suddenly everything will fall apart. It's going to come as suddenly and inescapably as birth pangs to a pregnant woman. 

But friends, you're not in the dark, so how could you be taken off guard by any of this? You're sons of Light, daughters of Day. We live under wide open skies and know where we stand. So let's not sleepwalk through life like those others. Let's keep our eyes open and be smart. People sleep at night and get drunk at night. But not us! Since we're creatures of Day, let's act like it. Walk out into the daylight sober, dressed up in faith, love and the hope of salvation.

God didn't set us up for an angry rejection but for salvation by our Master, Jesus Christ. He died for us, a death that triggered life. Whether we're awake with the living or asleep with the dead, we're alive with him! So speak encouraging words to one another. Build up hope so you'll be together in this, no one left out, no one left behind. I know you're already doing this; just keep on doing it." -- 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11, The Message

Generally speaking, I am not a huge fan of apocalyptic literature. Don't like dystopian novels (except for Margaret Atwood), am easily pushed to metaphor fatigue by the book of Revelation. There are days when I really, really wish Jesus had not talked as much as he did about The Last Days. 

And then there are the letters to the Christians at Thessalonica. Written early in Paul's ministry, they show us more clearly than anything else that the early church believed themselves to be living in the last days, at least initially. And for some reason, that has always bothered me a little. 

Or it used to.

However. . . this passage, this one right before us today, on the first Friday of Advent 2012, this one I have come to love. A lot. In fact, I believe it contains some of the most important teaching of all the epistolary writing in the entire New Testament. Why? Because it tells us how to live while we wait. 

And we are always waiting, aren't we? Waiting for something, someone, some time. Here is a definition of the verb "to wait": 'to stay in place in expectation of; to remain stationary in readiness or expectation; to look forward expectantly; to be ready and available.' (Courtesy of Merriam-Webster online dictionary)

While we wait -- in a spirit of expectation and readiness and availability -- Paul instructs us to: 
      *remember who we are
      *keep our eyes open
      *be smart
      *dress for the occasion
      *speak words of encouragement and hope to one another

And it is that last one that resonates with something deep inside: encourage one another. Offer good words, hopeful words, loving words. Now that's the kind of apocalyptic writing and thinking and living I can get excited about. 

How do you encourage others? And how are you encouraged as you wait?

Lord, you know how weary I am with doom-mongers -- always a discouraging word to be heard, always a fearful worldview to be touted, always an us vs. them mentality. I am exhausted by that attitude. Especially when I feel it creeping into me, into my thought life -- even into my language. Help me to read these good words from Paul again and again, especially when I feel discouraged by life, by the church, by the world. And help me to choose, every day, to push through the discouraging word and find an encouraging one; to make the move from passive resignation to active anticipation, trusting that there are good things yet to come.

31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty - Day 11

This is the main drag of our town,

State Street.

In this picture,

we are very near the northern end of downtown,

before the road takes a hard left,

and becomes something else entirely.

But here,

right here,

on the corner of Micheltorena,

you can find this beauty:

A beautiful, Gothic

brownstone church.

Trinity Episcopal Church,

to be exact.

It comes complete 

with bell tower and carillon,

which plays hymns at noon. 

And its large, red door

is open - all.day.long.

Like any brownstone church should,

it has it's interesting details,

including side doors,

hidden from the front.

But this particular church has something truly

special and unique.

It has a prayer labyrinth,

after the design of the one at Chartres,

in France.

It is beautiful,

and it is completely visible to

all north and south bound traffic

on State Street,

which as I mentioned,

is the main drag in our town.

I love that.

Every year, the students at
the School for Spiritual Direction
trek down from the Mission Renewal Center
to spend some time
walking
and praying
the labyrinth.

The beige color is the pathway in (on the left)
and the pathway out (on the right).
The charcoal areas are for stepping out if someone
is walking in the opposite direction
and your paths cross.

I've already written in this series about
how walking has enriched my prayer life,
here, here, and here.

The labyrinth is yet another way in which

movement can be combined with 

prayer, meditation and silence

to enlarge, refresh and enliven

personal prayer.

You enter the labyrinth in a spirit of quiet,

seeking to listen,

to receive,

to understand,

to discern.

Walking into the labyrinth,

you are invited to

let go

of the concerns and

worries of the day,

and all those things

which sometimes

distract from a

deepening interior journey.

When you arrive at the center flower,

you are encouraged,

in fact, invited,

to spend

time in reflection,

prayer,

thanksgiving -

taking as long as you

need, as long as you like.

As you begin the walk out,

take heart from

the time spent quietly at

the center, and prepare

to re-enter the world

of everyday responsibilities

and commitments,

refreshed and strengthened

for the journey.

The interesting part of this experience for me

is the rhythm of the walking.

Parts of the labyrinth are long

and graceful, allowing me

to move easily,

even quickly, if I wish.

But many parts are tight,

with twisting turns,

requiring concentration

and attention to navigate.

The path doubles back,

seems to repeat itself.

A lot like life.

But, in a labyrinth,

you are never lost,

no matter how convoluted

the pathway may feel

at any given moment.

There is one way in,

and one way out,

and when you leave,

you will want to come again.

This labyrinth is just across the street

from my dentist's office.

Occasionally, when it's time 

to get my teeth cleaned,

I come early

and walk the labyrinth for twenty

minutes or so.

It's a space of quiet beauty

and refreshment,

and I am grateful for it.

I particularly like that it

is situated on the main street of our town.

Because that's where prayer 

is so often lacking,

and where it is often most needed. 

The Call to be Wise - A Prayer for Worship

It's been a while. Twenty two months, to be exact. Twenty-two months ince I've prayed in public, in a Sunday morning worship service. I am rusty, and I am nervous. Really nervous.

We've been studying the book of James this fall, trying to discover what this small book might teach us about living the life of a disciple, a disciple who makes disciples. This small epistle is part of the lectionary readings as we cycle through the last weeks of Ordinary Time and this week's reading is from chapter 3, verses 13-18 - words on wisdom, true wisdom, godly wisdom. And, of course, the kind of 'wisdom' that is far from godly.

The gospel reading in Matthew 10 includes the words of Jesus, sending the disciples out on their own for the first time, encouraging them to be 'wise as serpents...' Oh  - and we'll be singing, "Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise," just before the prayer. 

Will you join me as we pray together this morning? 

It is good to praise you, Almighty God.

It is good to sing loudly, tapping our feet - at least

on the inside - joining right in with those angels,

the ones who are adoring you,

the ones veiling their sight.

Because even the angels cannot look directly

at you, O Lord of Glory.

They cannot behold your splendid and radiant Being,

because you are just  . . . too much.

Too much for them,

and surely too much for us,

"frail children of dust" that we are. 

It's hard for us to even begin to wrap our minds around 

the Truth that is you,

the Immensity of you.

You are the Wild and Untamable Source

of all that is beautiful,

mysterious,

awe-inspiring,

and powerful -

in this universe;

on our planet;

in these bodies, which we treat with such casual neglect;

this natural world in which we live - 

this world that speaks to us of 

your creative genius and

your overwhelming attention to detail.

And yet . . . you are the very same God who 

guides the likes of us, day by day,

and who invites and encourages us 

to join you in the ongoing renewal of creation. 

So, YES!!

It is good to praise you,

Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

God of Immensity,

Son of Humility,

Spirit of Comfort and Conviction.

Help us to do this always,

to offer our songs,

our words,

our hearts

in joyful thanksgiving for who you are,

and how you are working to revive and restore and refresh

all that you have created,

most especially each and every one of us. 

And some of us truly need to find that refreshment this day, O Lord. 

We're wondering what's coming next -

feeling overloaded at school,

maybe worried about our jobs, or our children, or both.

Some of us are waiting on doctor's diagnoses,

some of us have already heard hard news.

Some of us wonder if we'll have enough money to cover the month,

some of us have plenty of money, but not much joy in it. 

Some of us are young and curious, 

often thinking we know more than we actually do.

And some of us are old and failing, 

not sure if we know anything at all. 

Some of us are worried about a lot of things,

and getting plenty sick of worrying.

And some of us are just plain sick.

Sick and tired of all kinds of things and wondering

where you are. And even there, Lord God,

even there, it is good to praise you.

Maybe even especially there. 

So, Only Wise God,

will you help us to become wise people

who know how to praise you well? 

Because wise people are people who know how to say thank you,

even when we have to stretch pretty hard to do it.

Wise people are people who do good deeds,

even when that's the last thing we feel like doing.

Wise people are people who don't give in to 

bitterness, or cynicism, or sarcasm,

but choose words that honor, and uplift and encourage.

Wise people are naturally generous,

offering what they have to others,

sharing the gifts they've received.

Wise people are people who look like the folks Jesus is

talking about in our Gospel lesson for the morning. 

People who are 'wise as serpents, and innocent as doves.' 

Yes, Lord - that's exactly who we'd like to be. 

But we readily admit that we are not all that wise a lot of the time. 

So, will you remind us to say we're sorry,

to admit our frailties and flaws

and to consistently seek to grow into the people

you have in mind for us to be? 

O Lord, if everyone in this world who says they are a 

follower of yours would do this -

if we would all admit we're far from perfect,

if we would ask for help when we need it,

and if we would seek to be wise -

what a different place this old planet of ours could be! 

So, begin with us, will you, please?

Soften our hearts,

open our wallets,

give us words of peace to offer,

wherever we go, whomever we meet.

And we'll end right where we began,

by praising your Holy Name,

O, God Only Wise.

Amen. 

Joining with Michelle's Sunday invitation and Jennifer's sisterhood:

Paying Attention: A Prayer with Photos

Grant that I may I have eyes to see you, Lord.

To see you in the light,

to see you in the dark.

To see you in the rainbow,

to see you in the clouds.

To see you in the new,

to see you in the worn and weary.

To see you in the blessed and blissful details,

to see you in the rougher edges.

To see you in the easy, graceful gifts,

to see you in the slogging, stultifying backwater.

To see you in the immensity of the universe,

to see you in the intensity of a single cell.

Grant that I may have a heart to hear you, Lord.

To hear you in the laughter of children,

to hear you in the slowing of age.

To hear you in the soft sighs of the sea,

to hear you in the harsh cries of the hawk.

To hear you when the joy breaks loose,

to hear you when the sobs don't stop.

To hear you in a beating heart,

to hear you when the beating stops.

To hear you in the wonder of a well-fed child,

to hear you in the one who starves.

To hear you in the still, small voice,

to hear you in the silence 
of questions without answer.

Even there, O Lord.

Even there.

May I have eyes to see,

ears to hear,

and a tongue to tell

the glory of our God.

Even.There.

The photo of the 'shoes' near the end of this prayer is from eastern Europe - 
a WWII memorial sculpture commemorating Hungarian Jews 
who were lined up on the edge of the river, 
told to take off their shoes, and then shot to death.
This reflection was prompted by a post about photography and truth at Kelly Sauer's blog today. She was pondering old versus new in her photographic style. That got me to thinking and praying about the contrasts in this life; that the light and the dark are often closely connected and reflective of one another; that God doesn't abandon us when life looks dismal or terrifying. I need eyes and ears that look and SEE and hear and LISTEN for evidence of the Presence of God - wherever and whatever and whenever.
Sometime during the dark morning hours, I realized that this post was also triggered by the powerful WWII story shared by Ann Voskamp in yesterday's blog post. 
Even in the most horrific of human-devised schemes,
God does not abandon us, God is not absent.
So thank you, Kelly. And thank you, Ann.
I'll put this one with Michelle tonight, Jen tomorrow, and Ann on Wednesday and Duane and Jennifer, too.

Here is a legend for the photographs.

1. Reflections of stained glass on the stone walls of a cathedral in Cologne, Germany, 2009.

2. Sunlight breaking through the clouds as we flew from Florida home to LAX, May 2012

3. Cloud-covered moonlight over Puget Sound while staying on Whidbey Island, August 2007

4. Layers of color at sunset at the same place and time as photo #3

5. Our youngest granddaughter Lilly on the day she was born - 2/25/10

6. An oversized drawing entered in an art contest spotlighting the homeless population of Haarlem, The Netherlands, 2009

7. Our dining room pine buffet, loaded with my much-loved Fiestaware, taken on the day of my mom's 90th birthday party, June 2011

8. Silhouetted ruins above the Rhine River, 2009

9. A tableau of bicycle against the stone wall of a local Catholic retreat center, Spring 2011

10. Garbage gathered at the edge of a marina in Miami FL, May 2012

11. Yosemite National Park, summer 2010

12. A birch leaf in our front yard, fall 2010

13. Sunlight through amber windows at the New Camoldolese (Benedictine) Hermitage Retreat Center, near Big Sur CA, December 2011

14. Our granddaughter Gracie, aged 2, laughing at the antics of her cousin Griffin, aged 2, on Whidbey Island, August 2007 (They're six years old now, soon to turn 7)

15. My favorite centering prayer spot - the beat-up swing that hangs from an oak tree in our front yard, taken in the spring of 2010

16. Hendry's Beach, Santa Barbara CA (officially known as Arroyo Burro State Beach), sunset, winter 2011

17. A bird of prey overhead - maybe a hawk, maybe an osprey, in British Columbia, summer 2007

18. Municipal flower garden, Nuremburg, Germany, 2009

19. The cross on our back fence that marks the place where my youngest brother's ashes are buried. Taken in the spring of 2011.

20. Lilly, playing in her tent, Christmas 2011

21. Santa Barbara cemetery on a foggy morning, winter 2011

22. Lilly's adorable bunny slippers, Christmas 2011

23. A skeletized leaf, picked up by my grandson while we were hiking in the Redwoods near Santa Cruz CA, summer 2011

24. Window angel spotted in a side street of Regensburg, Germany, 2009

25. War Memorial in honor of slain Jewish citizens, Budapest Hungary, 2009

26. Approaching Laity Lodge through the Frio River, the hill country of Texas, September 2011

Losing a Mentor: A Re-Post Plus a Tribute

I am re-posting this one from last January,

in honor of Abbot David Geraets,

my spiritual director and friend,

who died on Friday morning.

These are words I wrote to a few friends earlier today about my response to receiving this sad news:

My mentor died on Friday. He was 77 years old - only 10 years older than I am - 

and he'd battled a number of ailments this past year. 

But still...I didn't think he would DIE.

We all die. 

I know this in my head. 

I even know it in my heart, 

as we've lost a lot of dear ones in the last 10 years. 

Yet each time I get a phone call like the one I got on Friday afternoon, I am bereft. Like part of me has been sliced with a very sharp blade 

and all that pours out are tears.

I took my usual evening walk on Friday, walking circles around our large driveway parking area. I've been learning to pray while I walk this past year - many fewer words, lots more images. But what I found myself doing on Friday was simply saying the name of Jesus, over and over and over again.

And here is why: a friend had posted a very old video on YouTube. A video of the mentor I had just lost. This clip, filmed in 1986, was an interview with Abbot David (who, at that time, led a much larger community in New Mexico) by a nun named Mother Elizabeth. Now may I just add, with a repentant heart and spirit, that if I had seen this video when it was filmed 26 years ago, I would have either switched it off immediately, or watched it with a sort of gleeful feeling of superiority to those 'weirdos' in the habits and collars. I'm ashamed and embarrassed to admit that, but it's the hard truth.

I watched all 30 minutes of that grainy old video, marveling at the sweetness in David's face, the kindness of his words and the truth of his life. I met with him monthly for the last three years, receiving spiritual direction in the form of dream interpretation. He was an expert at that and also at encouragement and gentle prayer. In this video, he suggested praying the Jesus prayer (which has been a favorite prayer practice of mine for about ten years) or just simply saying the name of Jesus over and over for 20 or 30 minutes. I have discovered that following Abbot David's advice is a very helpful thing. (I wrote a post about the benefits of one piece of that advice at the end of January.)

So on that first afternoon after this dear man's death, that's what I did when I walked. I cannot put into words how intensely moving it was for me, in these initial hours of grief, to just say the Name over and over and over again. And I wept my way through a 45 minute time of walking, praying, remembering, celebrating. I will never again feel the dear Abbot's fingers make the sign of the cross on my bent forehead at the end of our hour together. I will not be blessed by his hand when I receive my certificate in spiritual direction next August. I will not engage with him in friendly, loving conversation.

And that is a huge, huge loss to me.

And to so many.

Thank you Abbot David Geraets for your loving commitment to Jesus, for your years of kindness, wisdom and gentle correction, for your heart as big as the sky above the ranch you and the brothers live(d) in out in the back country of San Luis Obispo.

I will be grateful for your presence in my life during these pivotal years in mine until the day I die.

And then I will hug you fiercely.

 

SLO stands for San Luis Obispo, a town 115 miles north of my home. 

This was our late-lunch view today, as we traveled home again.

 

One day each month,

I take a road trip.

This particular road trip is not like 

the other ones I take.

I'm not going to take care of my mother.

I'm not going to enjoy my children and my grandchildren.

I'm not going on vacation.

Strike that.

I am going on a vacation, of sorts.

I am vacating the usual rhythm of my days 

to embrace a different one.

And I find that I am hungry for re-creation as I travel.

I am eager to be addressed as...

me.

Not as wife/mother/grandmother/daughter/

pastor/teacher/friend.

Just me.

Child of God.

Stumbling follower of Jesus.

Seeker after wisdom.

 

And this is where I go.

A strange looking monastery,

one that used to be the 'dream house'

of a retired dentist,

but was bought by some monks 

from New Mexico to be their community home. 

 

The monastery is the long white, 

red-tiled house to the left in this shot. 

To the right of the drive, is the chapel & bookshop

with a couple of additional bedrooms.

To the left of the drive, below the monastery itself,

is the home of Connie, the oblate who lives on the premises

and assists the brothers.

There are only five or six of them now,

praying the hours,

assisting the people of a dozen parishes

with healing prayer, special masses and spiritual direction.

 

This is where I meet my spiritual director every month.

The sign says it all:

 

And this is the view from that house, 

in the springtime,

when all the hills are green and the sky is blue.

 

And this is the man I meet with in that house:

Abbott David.

Spiritual Father to this small band,

and an acclaimed leader in the 

charismatic renewal movement 

 of the Roman Catholic Church.

He is a remarkable man, gifted and humble.

Did I ever tell you how we met?

Now, that's a great story.

 

"Once upon a time, there was a tired pastor,

full to overflowing with the needs of her congregation, 

the struggles in her family.

She had tried direction a couple of times,

with mixed results.

"Not a good fit," was the diagnosis,

whatever that means.

For her, it felt like failure.

And she is not a fan of failure.

So she began to pray about it,

to search for someone.

She even went online, used Google

and found a monastery website.

Not a fancy, bells-and-whistles kind of place,

that website.

And the monastery featured there was over 100 miles away.

But something caught her eye,

her spirit.

 And email responses were invited.

So she sent off a note.

"Is there anyone there interested and available

to offer direction to a tired

female pastor,

one who needs listening ears,

wise words,

some guidance along the way?"

That was in July of 2007.

Nothing came back.

Sigh.

So, she got on with life,

a life that was feeling a bit overwhelming

about then.

And she forgot all about that note.

One early morning, in September of the following year,

FOURTEEN MONTHS

after her initial inquiry,

her cell phone rang.

Puzzled at the early hour, she picked it up.

"Abbott David here," a strong, friendly voice declared.

"You wrote about spiritual direction?"

And she burst into laughter.

"Yes," she said. "I did. Over a year ago!"

"Really?" came the response. 

"Because I just received this yesterday.

Would you like to meet with me and see if this

might be what you're looking for?"

They set a date for one week later,

she drove up the 101, took the country road out to 

his place and sat,

absolutely fascinated and astounded as he told

her his story.

Raised on a farm in Wisconsin,

paid his way through college by playing

trumpet in a dance band,

became a priest,

sent by his order to

study in Rome,

multi-lingual,

specialist in Jungian psychology

and dream analysis.

"If you work with me, you'll keep a dream journal.

And that's what we'll talk through each month."

She was hooked - line, sinker, bobble, lure - 

the whole kit and caboodle.

"Thank you, Jesus," she cried to the heavens as she headed south again 

at the end of the hour.

Before their next visit,

there was a tragic death in her immediate family.

And before the following visit,

there was a ferocious wildfire in her community,

stripping lifetime memories from many in her congregation.

Within the first year, she herself landed in the hospital, was forced to make a major shift in her own training

program to become a director herself,

and by the second year, she was enrolled in the Abbott's school for spiritual direction certification.

Not sure that she lived happily ever after,

but deeper ever after? That would be a big 'yes.'"

Now I would call that whole tale

a God-thing.

My friend Jennifer might call it "God-Bumps" or a "God-Incidence."

All I can tell you is that my entire spiritual journey

took a decisive turn upward from the moment

I heard that voice on the phone:

"Abbot David here. You wrote....?"

 

Abbott David leading mass in the monastery chapel.

Today, I had only one dream for the month.

Of my own, that is.

I also shared a tricky one from someone I am directing.

Somehow, this kind, brilliant man

(who has been seriously ill this year)

wove those two together, asked me some penetrating

questions, and helped me think about myself

in some new ways.

"You've spent your whole life relying on your left brain, Diana, your intellect. 

It's time to learn to trust your gut, your intuition. 

You need to spend long stretches of time just sitting and looking at the ocean.

Do that long enough so that eventually, you find yourself on the other side of the picture - you'll be the ocean, looking back at you. 

And take a look at what you see when that happens.

I think you'll like what you find.

Be still long enough to let the beauty in,

to let God in,

to shift inside from reason to intuition.

Learn to trust that,

to know that God meets you there, too.

This is the gift of aging, Diana.

There is gift in all of life."

I sure hope he's right.

I'm counting on it. 

 

Stopping at Costco on our way home this evening,

I looked up from loading the bags into the back of the car and saw this. 

My gut said, "Grab that camera, even if it is the little one, 

even if the picture won't be sharp."

So I did.

The gift of the present moment.

Right brain all the way. 

Joining with Jennifer and her "God-Bumps" meme and with Ann and her Walk with Him Wednesday invite.  Even though this is way too long - two posts in one, actually - I'm also joining with a few friends with very different invitations - not because this post in any way 'matches' with most of them, but because it's a big piece of my heart right now and I'd like them to know.

 Bonnie & the two Laura's and Michelle, too: