So...in early September the nice husband and I got to go to Europe for two whole weeks. I know, right? You're thinking, "dang how much do they pay priests in College Station these days?" Well...before you rush right out to apply for my job...we used MANY airline and hotel perk/reward things that husband has saved for 10 years. He's better at saving them than I would be! I get one of those, and think "cool, let's go to the Caldwell Holiday Inn tonight" and he says, "no, let's save them so we can go to Europe one day." We love him.
Anyway, besides the usual things that happen on vacation....sleep (remember I'm 50 now!) and then eating WHATEVER you want because the calories do not count especially when you change time zones. That's a fact I'm certain. And now you've read it on the internet so it's totally true. So in addition to sleeping and eating and shopping (could the stores BE any more fabulous in Heidelberg, Paris, and London?) we did something I RARELY do. We went to church. A lot.
I know you're thinking, "honey, you are a priest...you go to church ALLLLL the time, which is why you say you can't play with us on the weekends." No, this was different. This was GOING to church, not being responsible for a service. This was sitting BY my husband in church, which has happened only a handful of times in our ten year marriage. And this was not just any church.
We were able to have Communion at St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Then hear Evensong at Westminster Abbey and sit IN the choir stalls right next to the amazing children and men singers. Then we had Communion at Canterbury AND got to experience Evensong there too, also in the choir stalls. All of these breathtaking buildings literally built more than 1,000 years ago. I can scarcely articulate what that feels like.
Lots of you who have traveled way more extensively than I have (remember I'm the Caldwell Holiday Inn kind of girl), you know what I'm talking about and can probably articulate it so much more clearly. But all I have is "wow" and "Thanks be to God".
I mean literally Thanks be to God. To get to be in a place where since the 6th and 7th centuries (!) people have worshipped is just beyond my comprehension. To be on such holy ground where for centuries and centuries people have prayed and cried and sung and sought meaning and been afraid and been brave and been murdered (God rest Thomas Becket's soul) is simply indescribable. Even in those dark stories (again, poor Thomas), even among all the tombs and grave markers that are part of these glorious, majestic Cathedrals, I felt a renewed sense of hope. Something I'm almost hesitant to admit I had lost hold of before the trip.
Maybe just from being so very tired leading up to the trip, maybe just from being, like every other American, a person who is too busy (and in my case, too allergic! ha!)to "stop and smell the roses", but being in those gorgeous places reminded me in a visceral kind of way, that we are truly connected to a long long (long) line of the faithful....sinful, foolish, careless, yes, but a long line of the faithful.
Last week was my first Sunday back at my dear church, and the collect (prayer) for the day read: Grant us O Lord not to mind earthly things but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to cleave to those things that shall abide, through Jesus Christ our Lord.
As my sweet church prepares to celebrate her 75th anniversary (which is like 10 minutes in Canterbury Cathedral time!) I was just overwhelemed at the altar thinking about those places we got to travel, and thinking about all of those who have gone before us, who made it possible for this parish to be gathered in this place on that particular Sunday. Connected somehow through our Anglican heritage to the countless throngs who have passed through centuries old buildings and now in our small way adding to that.
Standing at the altar, and reading the almost 2000 year old story of the night before Jesus died, while looking out at people I love and remembering the impossible to describe beauty of those Cathedrals and watching out the glass doors of our worship space into the hallway as one of our precious parish babies was rocking on her knees about to take some first wobbly steps....well...I can only describe the confluence of all those things: memories of our trip, words from Scripture, people I love in front of my eyes, people I miss deep in my heart, people I never met but whose graves I touched, I can only describe that as transcendent...or WOW...or perhaps DANG.
So grateful. Grateful for time away for the usual reasons: sleeping, eating, shopping (duh, of course I bought some new cute shoes!) but so grateful to be reminded that even when I can't seem to pray, even when I can't seem to "connect" even though my time alive will, in the scheme of things be very brief, I am part of a long long line of faithful people....and so are you...whether you feel it or not whether you've ever even been to Caldwell much less Europe we are carried on the centuries of prayers that have come before us and we will carry those who come after us...even when we fail or are foolish or scared.
And whether we're in a 1,200 year old building or a 2 week old building or not in a building at all, the breath of God breathes in us, like it breathed in "them", like it will breathe in those who come after us. And I know that's not always enough...I know what's it like to want a clear voice from Heaven, and a clear "burning bush" kind of sign, and I know what it's like to want people I love not to suffer.
And...alas...you are looking at the wrong blog right now if you want clear direction on how to satisfy those wants! (Be glad you aren't paying for this!) But I've been reminded again...that there is "something"...something bigger than my small self, bigger than my worries, bigger than my church...etc etc...something that has driven people for centuries to hope and aspire and dream and build towering structures to praise God who is sometimes as near as our breath and sometimes as distant as a planet. And I want in on that!
I want to be part of that long line of people...flawed...messy...joyful..sorrowful...people who have told The Story for centuries. Thanks be to God.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Fifteen Hours
April was hard. I mean so hard that I didn't spend any time shopping. Seriously. I've gone shopping when I've had fever and staples in my body. This was some kind of April. Despite the usual frenzy of week day work at a church, and the weekly Sunday responsibilities and preparations, we also had Holy Week and Easter day too. Don't get the wrong! I love all of those extra liturgies, and by love I mean I'm still a little tired!
Throw in a 23 hour trip to Boston to bury a beloved friend and colleague and the death of my stepfather, and...wow I could seriously use a retreat...and by THAT I mean......I may need to have an overnight sleepover in the nearest Nordie's to regroup fully. (I feel like I could have a whole other side business working with extroverts who like to shop and who pray. Most retreat centers I've attended are lovely, restorative places, but could be improved with a little shopping center adjacent!...but I digress)
It's taken me this long to reflect on the events of the past month, the odd convergence of things, the juxtaposition of life and death, and I'm sure I've only just begun. (eww...now I have that Carpenters song in my head! )
April was one of those months in which I was reminded again of the sort of "luminous web" connections between all of us, and between the Holy. Delicate, fragile, and yet fiercely tough threads that connect us all. (Barbara Brown Taylor, a preaching GENIUS wrote a book I couldn't understand called The Luminous Web.) Celtic spirituality talks about "thin places"...those places in our lives where earth and heaven seem to intersect...even if just for a moment. Usually in Celtic spirituality that's about physical places...like some gorgeous setting in Ireland or Stonehenge or the semi annual shoe sale at Nordie's...ahh... (OK I'm not really THAT obsessed...just hopping to get a chuckle out of the 3 people who read this blog).
Flying to Boston on April 20th to preach and preside at my dear friend Catherine's funeral, memories flooded at an almost unbearable rate. How had our lives connected, and connected so deeply, so quickly, when on paper we could NOT have been more different? But there I was, doing what she had asked of me when she first learned that her brain cancer was beyond cure. She and I loved the Episcopal Church, loved Good Shepherd Austin in particular. And somehow I managed, while looking at her precious mother, to say the words from the prayer book...words that give me hope when nothing else does.... "for to your faithful people Lord, life is changed not ended." And then I flew home...exhausted, but so grateful.
Sunday April 22nd would have been the day that my precious husband and I visited my stepfather, also dying of a brain tumor. We began a pattern of making the hour drive every other Sunday. But Sunday April 22nd I had just hit my limit and so, after trying my best to be "sparkly" at my parish on that the 3rd Sunday of Easter, I went home and slept...hard.
So on Sunday April 29th, an odd 5th Sunday of the month, Rob and I drove the hour to go see Arthur. Our family has called him "Awa" since my now 19 year old nephew was 2 and gave him that name. Awa and my mama began dating when I was 19. They married 25 years go. Arthur was kind and gentle, expressed love to me and my siblings in a way that, at least for me, was more easily interpreted than the way my dad did (does).
Some strong feeling/voice/spirit/"deal"/ told me to hold Arthur's hand a lot that afternoon. And Arthur cried; I had never seen that. Arthur cried and asked me about Heaven, and told me about "things" (visions?) he was seeing, and pictures he wanted to paint...pictures that sounded like Jacob's ladder, earth and heaven united. And he asked me if I thought he had been good. And I could scarcely breathe as I answered "absolutely!" And Rob seconded that, enthusiastically. And I thought about how true it was that Arthur was "good"...and I thought about the power of that moment and how much we ALL need someone to hold our hands and tell us we are "good." And I knew in that deepest of places that there is something....something...that connects, and I don't begin to know exactly how to explain it. And sometimes I'm so tired and sad and busy that I completely ignore it. But there is some thread, and for a moment on a warm April afternoon I caught a glimpse of it shining in the lobby of a nursing home in Cameron Texas.
We left Arthur and mama at 4:30 pm. At 7:30 am my sister called to tell me Arthur had died.
For to your faithful people O Lord, life is changed not ended. Alleluia.
Throw in a 23 hour trip to Boston to bury a beloved friend and colleague and the death of my stepfather, and...wow I could seriously use a retreat...and by THAT I mean......I may need to have an overnight sleepover in the nearest Nordie's to regroup fully. (I feel like I could have a whole other side business working with extroverts who like to shop and who pray. Most retreat centers I've attended are lovely, restorative places, but could be improved with a little shopping center adjacent!...but I digress)
It's taken me this long to reflect on the events of the past month, the odd convergence of things, the juxtaposition of life and death, and I'm sure I've only just begun. (eww...now I have that Carpenters song in my head! )
April was one of those months in which I was reminded again of the sort of "luminous web" connections between all of us, and between the Holy. Delicate, fragile, and yet fiercely tough threads that connect us all. (Barbara Brown Taylor, a preaching GENIUS wrote a book I couldn't understand called The Luminous Web.) Celtic spirituality talks about "thin places"...those places in our lives where earth and heaven seem to intersect...even if just for a moment. Usually in Celtic spirituality that's about physical places...like some gorgeous setting in Ireland or Stonehenge or the semi annual shoe sale at Nordie's...ahh... (OK I'm not really THAT obsessed...just hopping to get a chuckle out of the 3 people who read this blog).
Flying to Boston on April 20th to preach and preside at my dear friend Catherine's funeral, memories flooded at an almost unbearable rate. How had our lives connected, and connected so deeply, so quickly, when on paper we could NOT have been more different? But there I was, doing what she had asked of me when she first learned that her brain cancer was beyond cure. She and I loved the Episcopal Church, loved Good Shepherd Austin in particular. And somehow I managed, while looking at her precious mother, to say the words from the prayer book...words that give me hope when nothing else does.... "for to your faithful people Lord, life is changed not ended." And then I flew home...exhausted, but so grateful.
Sunday April 22nd would have been the day that my precious husband and I visited my stepfather, also dying of a brain tumor. We began a pattern of making the hour drive every other Sunday. But Sunday April 22nd I had just hit my limit and so, after trying my best to be "sparkly" at my parish on that the 3rd Sunday of Easter, I went home and slept...hard.
So on Sunday April 29th, an odd 5th Sunday of the month, Rob and I drove the hour to go see Arthur. Our family has called him "Awa" since my now 19 year old nephew was 2 and gave him that name. Awa and my mama began dating when I was 19. They married 25 years go. Arthur was kind and gentle, expressed love to me and my siblings in a way that, at least for me, was more easily interpreted than the way my dad did (does).
Some strong feeling/voice/spirit/"deal"/ told me to hold Arthur's hand a lot that afternoon. And Arthur cried; I had never seen that. Arthur cried and asked me about Heaven, and told me about "things" (visions?) he was seeing, and pictures he wanted to paint...pictures that sounded like Jacob's ladder, earth and heaven united. And he asked me if I thought he had been good. And I could scarcely breathe as I answered "absolutely!" And Rob seconded that, enthusiastically. And I thought about how true it was that Arthur was "good"...and I thought about the power of that moment and how much we ALL need someone to hold our hands and tell us we are "good." And I knew in that deepest of places that there is something....something...that connects, and I don't begin to know exactly how to explain it. And sometimes I'm so tired and sad and busy that I completely ignore it. But there is some thread, and for a moment on a warm April afternoon I caught a glimpse of it shining in the lobby of a nursing home in Cameron Texas.
We left Arthur and mama at 4:30 pm. At 7:30 am my sister called to tell me Arthur had died.
For to your faithful people O Lord, life is changed not ended. Alleluia.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Dads and daughters and swimming pools
It's already that time of year again! CANNOT believe it! Not only is it Easter-tide..hallelujah...but it's time for the neighborhood pool to re-open! WOO HOO (another way to shout hallelujah)!! I know I know...there's a lot of me to cram into spandex, but I do it, and don't even care who's looking. Husband and I love love love water and will find any opportunity to plunge in...swearing each season that NEXT year we'll look better in our swimsuits. We won't. We are like children when it comes to excitement about pools and beaches. And I love living in a city that takes such great care of its neighborhood pools, and opens them in APRIL.
This week we had our neighborhood pool almost to ourselves...apart from the young and very svelte lifeguards (seriously, it's a good thing husband and I can swim cause those little guys are NOT going to be able to drag us out of the water), but apart from them and one other pair of joyful swimmers we were the only folks at the pool. The other pair, took my breath away and made me tear up and made me call home.
A little girl, maybe about 6, adorable in her bright patterned swimsuit, chubby...but not in that way that makes you think..."O no! We've got to do something about obesity in America"...just chubby in that wonderful 6 year old way was splashing in the pool with her dad. They were playing hard and laughing. She was riding him all over the pool, shouting "faster horsey faster", and he was laughing hard too. Answering her ENDLESS questions about dogs and ponies and panthers (panthers? sure), and obviously the two of them adore each other. She, just at that right age to think her dad is pure magic. He, most likely, wanting to freeze this moment, aware, I would guess, that time passes so so fast. I could imagine him thinking something like "wasn't it just yesterday that this child was an infant?"
Of course I have no way of knowing any of this...just speculation on my part. Although I'm pretty intuitive and was close enough to them in the pool to see how they looked at each other. And my eyes filled with tears.
I have zero memories of ever going swimming with my dad. Not to sound all whiny and like I clearly need to go to therapy (again)...I'm just saying, I spent a few moments searching my memory bank for times when my dad and I ever did anything with just the two of us when I was that young. And I came up empty. And it made me sad. I wanted to grab that little girl and her dad and clutch them tightly and say TREASURE THIS...but somehow I think they already are.
On the other hand....I do have memories of when I got older and my dad and I discussed some great books and the importance of reading and the time my dad taught me how to fill out a check. (A check kids is a piece of paper that works like money...err..your debit card...ha) And despite the many ways my dad failed as a father and husband, I do know that he loves me. And despite the fact that he's 88 and in really poor health, he's still alive, so I went home from the pool and called him.
And somehow I wonder if all of that can't be bundled up into the waters of baptism? By the waters of baptism we are sealed and marked as Christ's own forever...but it doesn't mean that we are immune from hard things, or magically protected from any sadness or illness. It does mean that we are Loved beyond measure, and given a new start, and given the gift of the Spirit. I think it's the power of the Holy Spirit (and some really good therapy...those things ain't mutally exclusive!) that helps me have eyes to see my dad for what he is: flawed, disappointing, and also a child of God who does in fact love me.
For all you dads and daughters out there, hang in there with each other. Moms and sons too! Make room for the Spirit, and no matter what you look like, wrangle yourself into a swimsuit once in a while and remind yourself of the healing power of Water.
This week we had our neighborhood pool almost to ourselves...apart from the young and very svelte lifeguards (seriously, it's a good thing husband and I can swim cause those little guys are NOT going to be able to drag us out of the water), but apart from them and one other pair of joyful swimmers we were the only folks at the pool. The other pair, took my breath away and made me tear up and made me call home.
A little girl, maybe about 6, adorable in her bright patterned swimsuit, chubby...but not in that way that makes you think..."O no! We've got to do something about obesity in America"...just chubby in that wonderful 6 year old way was splashing in the pool with her dad. They were playing hard and laughing. She was riding him all over the pool, shouting "faster horsey faster", and he was laughing hard too. Answering her ENDLESS questions about dogs and ponies and panthers (panthers? sure), and obviously the two of them adore each other. She, just at that right age to think her dad is pure magic. He, most likely, wanting to freeze this moment, aware, I would guess, that time passes so so fast. I could imagine him thinking something like "wasn't it just yesterday that this child was an infant?"
Of course I have no way of knowing any of this...just speculation on my part. Although I'm pretty intuitive and was close enough to them in the pool to see how they looked at each other. And my eyes filled with tears.
I have zero memories of ever going swimming with my dad. Not to sound all whiny and like I clearly need to go to therapy (again)...I'm just saying, I spent a few moments searching my memory bank for times when my dad and I ever did anything with just the two of us when I was that young. And I came up empty. And it made me sad. I wanted to grab that little girl and her dad and clutch them tightly and say TREASURE THIS...but somehow I think they already are.
On the other hand....I do have memories of when I got older and my dad and I discussed some great books and the importance of reading and the time my dad taught me how to fill out a check. (A check kids is a piece of paper that works like money...err..your debit card...ha) And despite the many ways my dad failed as a father and husband, I do know that he loves me. And despite the fact that he's 88 and in really poor health, he's still alive, so I went home from the pool and called him.
And somehow I wonder if all of that can't be bundled up into the waters of baptism? By the waters of baptism we are sealed and marked as Christ's own forever...but it doesn't mean that we are immune from hard things, or magically protected from any sadness or illness. It does mean that we are Loved beyond measure, and given a new start, and given the gift of the Spirit. I think it's the power of the Holy Spirit (and some really good therapy...those things ain't mutally exclusive!) that helps me have eyes to see my dad for what he is: flawed, disappointing, and also a child of God who does in fact love me.
For all you dads and daughters out there, hang in there with each other. Moms and sons too! Make room for the Spirit, and no matter what you look like, wrangle yourself into a swimsuit once in a while and remind yourself of the healing power of Water.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Super models, football, and prayer
In the days leading up to the Super Bowl (read: plug in the crock pot honey we're making the good queso!), there was something of an Internet firestorm around a personal email sent by Tom Brady's wife Gisele Bundchen. (Tom Brady is the quarterback for the New England Patriots, Gisele is a super model...both of them weigh less than I do). She apparently was asking "close friends" and family to pray for Tom and send him positive "vibes".
The email leaked, of course, because nothing online is private, friends! (repeat that over and over to yourself...and to your teenagers). And comedians and sport casters had a field day, and I have to admit I laughed at some of the jokes.
But then I started thinking about prayer and the common theme to most of the jokes. Most pundits and comedians, and even people in my own gene pool, said something like "Why does Tom Brady need prayer? He wakes up next to a super model every day? He has millions of dollars! He's famous! He plays football for a living" and on and on the litany of "good things in Tom Brady's life" continued. So is that what we've reduced prayer to?
Only praying for things when life is bad? Only praying when there's illness and no one in the bed next to us, certainly not a super model? I hope not.
I must admit that I catch myself being far more "prayerful' when things are hard, and I'm scared, or sad. When I was on my 5 day cruise two weeks ago, I'm not sure I spent a lot of time praying! (slumped over the slot machine saying please please...doesn't count!)
It's a funny thing about prayer. Prayer isn't just about spewing a laundry list of complaints or problems....though it certainly can include that! (see the Psalms!) However, if we only see it as an emotional band-aid, one that we don't need unless we're bleeding, then we've missed an awful lot of the point. Prayer is about relationship and drawing deeper and deeper into that relationship in all times and places. I don't just talk to my husband when I'm upset. I don't just talk to my girlfriends when I'm sick. It's times of sorrow and joy and sadness and celebration....all of those times...that's what I want to share with my friends and family. So how much more must that be true for the infinite holy mystery we call God?
As the season of Epiphany comes to a close (sigh), and the season of football has ended (heavy sigh), and as we anticipate the season of Lent, I would like to invite all of us, myself included, to a time of prayer....real...true....deep prayer. Not just rattling off lists of things we need, but listening, praising, thanking, petitioning, and praying for others....maybe even the rich and famous!
The email leaked, of course, because nothing online is private, friends! (repeat that over and over to yourself...and to your teenagers). And comedians and sport casters had a field day, and I have to admit I laughed at some of the jokes.
But then I started thinking about prayer and the common theme to most of the jokes. Most pundits and comedians, and even people in my own gene pool, said something like "Why does Tom Brady need prayer? He wakes up next to a super model every day? He has millions of dollars! He's famous! He plays football for a living" and on and on the litany of "good things in Tom Brady's life" continued. So is that what we've reduced prayer to?
Only praying for things when life is bad? Only praying when there's illness and no one in the bed next to us, certainly not a super model? I hope not.
I must admit that I catch myself being far more "prayerful' when things are hard, and I'm scared, or sad. When I was on my 5 day cruise two weeks ago, I'm not sure I spent a lot of time praying! (slumped over the slot machine saying please please...doesn't count!)
It's a funny thing about prayer. Prayer isn't just about spewing a laundry list of complaints or problems....though it certainly can include that! (see the Psalms!) However, if we only see it as an emotional band-aid, one that we don't need unless we're bleeding, then we've missed an awful lot of the point. Prayer is about relationship and drawing deeper and deeper into that relationship in all times and places. I don't just talk to my husband when I'm upset. I don't just talk to my girlfriends when I'm sick. It's times of sorrow and joy and sadness and celebration....all of those times...that's what I want to share with my friends and family. So how much more must that be true for the infinite holy mystery we call God?
As the season of Epiphany comes to a close (sigh), and the season of football has ended (heavy sigh), and as we anticipate the season of Lent, I would like to invite all of us, myself included, to a time of prayer....real...true....deep prayer. Not just rattling off lists of things we need, but listening, praising, thanking, petitioning, and praying for others....maybe even the rich and famous!
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Ferrets and the language of prayer
One of my favorite dads at our church affiliated preschool told me a WONDERFUL story yesterday... a story that made me want to put down the candy left on my desk this morning and write a blog post. Now that's a good story!
When this dear dad was recently helping to put his kids to bed, one of his children closed out their prayer time with "in the name of God, the father, the son and the holy ferret" O MY LORD!! That right there is why you have children my friends! How great is that story?
I have laughed and laughed thinking about that moment with those sweet children and their parents...and how the parents must have gotten cramps from trying not to laugh (too hard) at their sincere praying child. I couldn't help but flash onto the scene from Four Weddings and a Funeral where the funny old priest says "father son and holy spigot" So far I haven't made that slip at a Sunday service, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time!
The language of prayer is indeed a funny language...even when all of the words are technically "right". In fact I think we have so exalted the language of prayer in our minds that it makes us afraid actually to pray sometimes. Countless people over the years have said to me, "I don't know how to pray." Or, "I don't know what words to use". And I understand that...especially in times of extreme joy or extreme sorrow.
But even in the ordinary days and circumstances it can feel daunting to pray. And so maybe we take a cue from the culture that says "just do it" and we just do it! Just incorporate daily conversations with God. Like a person training for a marathon (so I am told! sheesh I can walk about 2 miles before I'm praying....for death!) it's the daily small steps. If we "wait" to pray until we have the time, the right words, or even the desire...we're going to be waiting a long time.
For the children growing up in the aforementioned household they will know from their earliest days that both of their parents are people of prayer. They will know that prayer is something you do all the time....not just on Sunday when the big lady in the white dress is praying fancy words from a book. Those kids will know that prayer can happen even at home, at night in a bedroom filled with dolls and stuffed bears.
A wonderful priest named Paul Fromberg is fond of saying "prayer is telling the truth to God". It's as simple...and complex as that. Like conversation with a true friend...one you tell everything too...and one you listen to as well. Prayer is about relationship....that's it...and sometimes relationships need words, and sometimes they need silence, and sometimes they need tears, and sometimes they need anger. All of it is bound up in true relationship.
So take a moment...right now....and breathe...and thank God, or ask God, or yell at God, or question God. Take a moment to pray. In the name of the Father, the Son, the spigot, the ferrets, and the Spirit. Peace.
When this dear dad was recently helping to put his kids to bed, one of his children closed out their prayer time with "in the name of God, the father, the son and the holy ferret" O MY LORD!! That right there is why you have children my friends! How great is that story?
I have laughed and laughed thinking about that moment with those sweet children and their parents...and how the parents must have gotten cramps from trying not to laugh (too hard) at their sincere praying child. I couldn't help but flash onto the scene from Four Weddings and a Funeral where the funny old priest says "father son and holy spigot" So far I haven't made that slip at a Sunday service, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time!
The language of prayer is indeed a funny language...even when all of the words are technically "right". In fact I think we have so exalted the language of prayer in our minds that it makes us afraid actually to pray sometimes. Countless people over the years have said to me, "I don't know how to pray." Or, "I don't know what words to use". And I understand that...especially in times of extreme joy or extreme sorrow.
But even in the ordinary days and circumstances it can feel daunting to pray. And so maybe we take a cue from the culture that says "just do it" and we just do it! Just incorporate daily conversations with God. Like a person training for a marathon (so I am told! sheesh I can walk about 2 miles before I'm praying....for death!) it's the daily small steps. If we "wait" to pray until we have the time, the right words, or even the desire...we're going to be waiting a long time.
For the children growing up in the aforementioned household they will know from their earliest days that both of their parents are people of prayer. They will know that prayer is something you do all the time....not just on Sunday when the big lady in the white dress is praying fancy words from a book. Those kids will know that prayer can happen even at home, at night in a bedroom filled with dolls and stuffed bears.
A wonderful priest named Paul Fromberg is fond of saying "prayer is telling the truth to God". It's as simple...and complex as that. Like conversation with a true friend...one you tell everything too...and one you listen to as well. Prayer is about relationship....that's it...and sometimes relationships need words, and sometimes they need silence, and sometimes they need tears, and sometimes they need anger. All of it is bound up in true relationship.
So take a moment...right now....and breathe...and thank God, or ask God, or yell at God, or question God. Take a moment to pray. In the name of the Father, the Son, the spigot, the ferrets, and the Spirit. Peace.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Friendship, aging, and toilet paper crafts....
The nice husband and I were in Austin last Friday to celebrate the aforementioned nice husband's 50th birthday. I am much much younger than he, and won't be 50 for 10 more....months. Before we went to a party, we stopped by our beloved friend Mary's swinging apartment. Mary's birthday and Rob's are just a few days apart. But Mary turned 93. Stopping by Mary's joy-filled apartment for a chat did NOT make us think 'wow 50 is really pretty young by comparison." Thank God! Because Mary, newly moved into her fashionable apartment in the retirement community, is a force of nature! She's out on the town...literally dancing, visiting, volunteering (!) and generally spreading joy and dropping sunshine wherever she goes. Husband I usually feel like we have to lie down after visiting with Mary because she just bursts with energy and good cheer...way more than we feel like we do at almost half her age! Just as her home had been in previous decades, her apartment is full of pictures and cards from her many many friends and from her grand children and great grand children. Mary's kindness and irrepressible optimism have drawn people of every generation to her. She has friends (like the real kind...not just like facebook "friends") who are 18 and friends who are our age and friends who are her age and every age in between.
While we were visiting and laughing and of course taking pictures (Mary and I are inveterate picture takers...we are both going to need a WHOLE lot more wall space and more refrigerators!) Mary taught me this great Halloween craft using a roll of toilet paper, some colored tissue paper, a brown paper sack, and some string! (email me if you want the "deets" or...check out my post on facebook...now THERE's a sentence I never thought I'd say!). I made my toilet paper pumpkin this weekend, but of course it doesn't look as cute as Mary's.
She's been on my mind so much even before our visit last week, but especially now. Mostly I've been thinking about different people in my life who have been present at seminal moments. Mary was the one holding me when I was crying so hard I didn't think I could breathe...on that day in 1997 when the moving van was hauling away my then husband's stuff because we were divorcing. There she was, volunteering of course, at the place where I was working and living. (that is..the Austin Ronald McDonald House) And she promised me that Jesus loved me and that things would get better. And she was right.
I'm so grateful that Mary and her whole family are in my life. She's taught me a lot of things (besides cute crafts...though never underestimate the value of cute crafts!) Mostly she reminds me to be friends with people of all ages and to embrace each and every day. 30 can be old if you don't give and receive love and the 93 year old who loves and laughs is the youngest person in the room. Hugs and love! Rhoda
While we were visiting and laughing and of course taking pictures (Mary and I are inveterate picture takers...we are both going to need a WHOLE lot more wall space and more refrigerators!) Mary taught me this great Halloween craft using a roll of toilet paper, some colored tissue paper, a brown paper sack, and some string! (email me if you want the "deets" or...check out my post on facebook...now THERE's a sentence I never thought I'd say!). I made my toilet paper pumpkin this weekend, but of course it doesn't look as cute as Mary's.
She's been on my mind so much even before our visit last week, but especially now. Mostly I've been thinking about different people in my life who have been present at seminal moments. Mary was the one holding me when I was crying so hard I didn't think I could breathe...on that day in 1997 when the moving van was hauling away my then husband's stuff because we were divorcing. There she was, volunteering of course, at the place where I was working and living. (that is..the Austin Ronald McDonald House) And she promised me that Jesus loved me and that things would get better. And she was right.
I'm so grateful that Mary and her whole family are in my life. She's taught me a lot of things (besides cute crafts...though never underestimate the value of cute crafts!) Mostly she reminds me to be friends with people of all ages and to embrace each and every day. 30 can be old if you don't give and receive love and the 93 year old who loves and laughs is the youngest person in the room. Hugs and love! Rhoda
Monday, August 29, 2011
Country Music and Spirituality
At the risk of alienating lots of you, I will reveal that I am a country music fan. I love opera too, and other kinds of music, but I’m just saying that some of the country songs on the radio actually have pretty good theology. Case in point, there’s a Rascal Flatts song entitled “God Bless the Broken Road.” The lyrics of the song remind us that the difficult roads, the journeys that seem like detours and our disappointments often end up leading us right where we need to be.
When I'm not listening to C & W music or watching TV, I will occasionally even pick up a BOOK! One of my all time favorite books (well, favorite book that you'd expect a priest to like...I also like football books but that's for another day) is Yearnings-Embracing the Sacred Messiness of Life by Rabbi Irwin Kula. I'll be offering this book as a book study during the Season of Advent plus our young adults group will begin reading this book in September. Rabbi Kula writes, “The process of becoming is circuitous. Life has no straight lines or easy paths.” Amen brother! That's the "broken road" theology in a nutshell.
At the time, most of us can’t appreciate the odd twists and turns. At the time it's hard to believe the broken road is anything but broken. At the time of my divorce back in 1996 I had no idea that 3 years later someone perfect for me would be coming my way. Someone I appreciate so much more having been down a winding road earlier. (This someone by the way introduced me to country music). All the times we wrestle with doubt, collapse into grief, or feel the chill of isolation can be times we actually draw deeper into our faith. Times that we draw deeper into that painful part of our faith that transcends the vagaries of our “feelings”.
When Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, when the Israelites wandered in the desert, their reliance upon God and their ability to pray even in the midst of despair had to come from a deeper place than “feeling like” doing it. For Jesus when He was alone and hungry or the Israelites longing for the promised land the journey included just making one step at a time.
We are quick to say that God blesses us when our lives are good and easy. We are quick to say God blesses us when we have plenty of money in our wallets. But I think the Rascal Flatts boys may be on to something. Rather than believe that God inflicts our suffering or arranges for it, I think God is more than capable of blessing it and by blessing it, transforming it. Through the Holy Spirit revealed in the arms of the community we can remind one another that the broken roads, the wilderness journeys take us where they take us. But no matter where the broken roads or the clear paths lead, we are never outside of God’s reach.
Blessings to you now and always no matter what road you are taking. Love, Rhoda
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