all we have left to do

Death and dying seem to constitute most of the prayer requests I hear these days, causing me to wonder exactly what it is I am supposed to pray for, or for whom.

I remember an 86-year-old woman I was interviewing, in my brief life as a features reporter for a small newspaper, who said something to the effect of, "If we believe what we've been taught, shouldn't we, in the end, welcome death?" After living as a widow for decades and burying all of her friends, she told me she was ready for her life to be over. It was not until I attended her memorial service and heard the many stories of how this woman of faith had used her home to reach out to an inner city neighborhood in Denver that I knew she was indeed ready. She died peacefully in her sleep a few days after I spoke with her, just like she had hoped she would.

Suicide is different. No one wants to talk about it. And if they do, it is in hushed tones with a lot of self-imposed guilt thrown in, as if that helps.

My mind somehow always wanders back to the movie, Crimes of the Heart that came out in 1986 featuring Diane Keaton, Jessica Lange, and Sissy Spacek as three sisters who try to come to terms with their mother's demise. As one of the sisters considers doing herself in, following her mother's lead, she realizes it is not that life is so terrible or everything so wrong. It is because she had a really bad day. This, they come to understand, is the reason for killing oneself. In the darkness of the humor, the light of truth shines forth.

The scenario I heard about recently had a mother home with young children setting her house on fire. Her husband, an older child, and one of the two children who survived the fire remain. Questions abound. Friends and family are devastated. Who is to blame? Where was God?

I asked myself these questions when my aunt was found face down on her kitchen floor with a note she had written to one of her young children saying if he found mommy in the car to call grandma. The drugs and alcohol in her system had stopped her in her path; she never made it to the car.

This horrible event happened the day after I graduated from college--a day I spent on the beach gathering my thoughts in preparation for having lunch with my aunt the next day. Instead, the next day I would be put in charge of her 5-year-old adopted daughter who would share my meals and sleep in my bed with me. I had no idea what to do with a 5-year-old. She kept asking me when mommy was going to wake up. E. T.--the Extra-Terrestrial movie had come out a year earlier with its messianic twist on death. "But ET woke up!" she insisted as I tried not to let her see me crying.

In my dream, a few weeks after the funeral, it was as though I were back at the funeral home, leading a small child up to the casket to say good-bye to her mother. I do not think the children were taken there, but remember the dream better than I remember what really happened. In the dream my aunt sits up in the casket which would normally be more like a horror movie but in this case it was beautiful. The caked on make-up two shades too dark to disguise her broken nose peeled away, revealing her fair complexion. She got out of the casket wearing an emerald green cape that was incredibly dazzling as she twirled around. I looked at her and simply asked why. She said she just could not do it anymore. Life was too hard, but she was ok now and I need not worry about her. I slept soundly for the first time since the tragedy and when I woke up, I was at peace.

Like those close to people who end their lives, I felt somewhat responsible. I knew my aunt was not doing well. She had been diagnosed with mental illness and had spent time in psych wards. Her behavior seemed odd when we had gone out to lunch after my graduation. It was unusual that she was even with my family at all--begging to be included, I would be told later. She had renewed her faith as a Christian, wanting to leave her Catholic past behind. Having done the same thing, I wanted to share with her my story so we could support each other. Maybe it would be enough.

In retrospect, it helped me to know that the last bit of unfinished business she had wanted to accomplish on this earth was attending my graduation and celebrating my success. But we never had a chance to have that lunch which meant I would never get to try to encourage her to keep going. Though it was not up to me, I wondered for awhile if I could have done something more.

I think about my government/economics high school teacher who went down to his basement and put a gun to his head while his wife was vacuuming the living room upstairs. He had been a teacher so long at the high school my dad may have had him. He was well-respected as a teacher for generations in our small hometown. But on that day, he would end it. When his widow wanted to recognize his teaching excellence and maybe even offer a scholarship in his name, her proposal was rejected. He was no longer a good role model for children. He would instead be forgotten.

When my brother-in-law's body was found in his apartment, the autopsy revealed he had a lethal dose of his many prescribed medications in his system. There was no note saying good-bye, but lots of evidence to prove that he was not abiding by the restrictions against alcohol in his group home. He may have known he would soon be homeless. We had walked with him through treatment programs, group homes, psych wards, and even an intervention in which he said he had always been a happy-go-lucky sort of guy with no problems. What does one say to that?!

I do not believe people really want to die. I believe they really, really want to LIVE. They want to live so badly that when they are met with disappointment and heartbreak everywhere they look, it simply becomes too much for them. I also believe that if someone can just make it through a disaster of a day and through a lonely night, God's mercies are made new in the morning. If only . . . .

I know someone who is wondering if she should have said more or done more. Maybe she had a gut feeling that her friend was not ok. She respected her friend's privacy and in turn had to attend her funeral. She can blame herself, but it will be for nothing. I do not know what is in another's heart; I can barely figure out what is in my own. When she is ready to hear it I will tell her that after all is said and done, all we have left to do is to love.

Love when new life is found and love when despair seems the victor. Love the person for who he or she is or was. Love with questions that may never be answered. Love those grieving the loss. Love those celebrating life. Love.

another dream

Just as something important was about to happen in my dream, my alarm went off leaving me with unanswered questions.

Was I riding in a large hay wagon because when I was cooking the organic edamame spaghetti for dinner last night it reminded me of hay? While on the wagon I saw an entire house being moved one lot over. I kept waiting for the sound of creaking wood, breaking glass, a sound to indicate that something major had just occurred, but there was only silence.

Then I thought I would give someone a gift of shoes and tried to remember if I ever knew the size. Was this because I had read an article about a woman who felt so moved at the sight of a homeless woman that she traded boots with her? I then realized the person had moved and I would not be riding by her house in the hay wagon--as if that had become my new mode of transportation!

The wagon lurched to a halt at some unfamiliar destination and I was suddenly barefoot and walking on mossy rocks, careful to not fall into the water on every side. I had no idea where I was or where I was going--only that the moss was soft and bright green. Looking up I saw a beautiful stone house overflowing with people. Inside was a long wooden table covered with an amazing feast. I did not hesitate to join in the festivities.

Later as I went exploring, I found a large room filled with household supplies next to a shower room. Some of the other people were excited by that but I was much more taken with an antique box that I somehow found a key for and opened to discover old sewing items--a needle and thread kit, a package of old snaps and buttons and other stuff underneath I did not have time to examine as I suddenly realized the others had gone and I was in need of a way back to wherever it was I had travelled. By the time I returned to the main room and looked out the doorway, I saw horses and wagons leaving. I looked for familiar faces and found none. I was alone, yet not afraid.

As for the rest of the dream, I do not know if I found a ride or decided to stay. Had I gone back in time or was I visiting Mackinac Island?

Expectations--maybe that was what my dream was about. Maybe the contents of the old box were calling out for me to get back to sewing. Or maybe this dream is the result of eating organic edamame spaghetti.

words for a new year

I could sit here all day, looking out this window at the lichen-covered branches casting shadows on the lawn. The glitter of frost colors the grass a lighter shade of green and adds texture to some of the brown leaves still clinging to the trees, while the rest are scattered on the ground.

It is safer for me to sit alone with my thoughts, warming my hands on a big mug of coffee, than to share them with others. It is, however, a risk I foolishly take.

Often I awake with a feeling of gratitude. I look to the sky for the pink and lavender hues before orange/yellow light bursts forth. Birds, at the ready, sing in another day.

Words then need to be found to guide my thinking, my prayers, my preparation to engage with the world. In the beginning was the Word. It has always been that way for me.

When I was young, sitting alone with my journal, looking for the words to interpret the world, I would dream of traveling to distant lands and writing about my adventures so that anyone interested could share in the excitement life had to offer me. I could help them in this way overcome their sadness and boredom as they would instead become my vicarious traveling companions.

I remember being asked where I would want to go and my answer always was: London, England and Paris, France. To me those two places sounded like the most amazing places on the face of the earth. Someone once told me that there were spiders the size of dinner plates in Hawaii so I never wanted to go there. Other island destinations would only threaten my fair-skinned existence since adequate sunscreen had yet to be invented. I needed to go to climates that could accommodate someone used to Michigan weather. It would not be until decades later that I would finally adjust to the constant perspiration of living in the South, making travel to warmer lands more possible.

What I always wanted more than anything was to become a writer. It is only now I am realizing that what I wanted even more was to be understood, and therein lies the rub. Words find their way to me so I can redirect them back out, but sometimes they return unrecognizable. My intended message gets caught up in thorny vines and only fragments of it make it back to tell the tale.

I get asked a lot if I am ok. When was I ever ok?! What does that even mean?!!

If I say yes, I am ok, does that assure someone I am not on the ledge ready to jump? Does ok mean I will suppress my emotions and pretend not to feel like I already do? Maybe ok means I will disguise my personality to mimic that of a cheerleader. Funny thing is, I already fill that role in many ways.

For the deeply hurting, I am a catalyst. I give others the permission to embrace their sorrow deeply, permission not always granted to me. For those who will never really heal, never really get over their losses, I walk quietly beside. I no longer see life as something to be achieved, as having any kind of definite, final outcome this side of heaven. I see it as it is, each day, filled with good intentions and flawed people who try and fail, over and over. This does not remove any power from the supernatural or miraculous. But it does leave room at the end of the day, if prayers lay like unopened envelopes containing our deepest needs spelled out with our recommendations to be taken into consideration. Even when that happens I can still sense Jesus walking with me, holding my hand, requiring me to say nothing because he already knows my heart.

I cry a lot. This does not mean I am not ok. In many ways, it means that I am. Jesus wept. I am in good company.

If there is one thing I know for sure, it is I am not the Author of these words that find their way to me; I am the translator.

My prayer is that I will be given words of hope, truth and love to translate for anyone who cares to travel with me through another year. Au revoir mes amis.

a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off

The stillness of the fog wraps itself around me; a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off.

Looking up at the cottony white sky through the stark reality of leafless trees, I feel comforted as though wrapped in a blanket. No more this season will the harsh glare of the neighbors' decorative lights dispel the quiet darkness on our side of the decoration-less street. The lower boughs from the too-large-tree I brought home, the last one for sale at the Market that day, remain on the picnic table, never formed into a wreath for the front door. Our tree, still taking up too much space in our small front room, shows itself off with the bare minimum of lights, ornaments and garlands. The irony of my art business primarily concerning itself with decorating the homes of others is not lost.

The buche de noel was never prepared, nor was a gingerbread house or sugar cookies. Eight tiny bundt cakes, sweet potato Guinness gingerbread with cream cheese frosting, came forth as gifts, miraculously, as the cakes stuck to the pan forcing me to put their pieces back together and the frosting starting out quite lumpy threatened to stay that way. Chocolate fudge emerged after a tiny bit of water spilled into the chocolate I was melting for the turtle candies, forming itself into an uncreative shape with undesired texture. In my younger years I would have never dreamed of remaking fudge, as finicky as it is, but my curiosity often gets the better of me these days. I can barely get myself to follow recipes anymore as random ingredients find themselves joining in the fun.

I have been told that my Christmas letter is often read after the holiday when those who think I have something to say savor it with a cup of hot chocolate on a winter's day. To come forth with my truth year after year is a responsibility I do not take lightly. I realized, however, after the fact, that my original idea of pointing out how outrageous it was for my now former doctor to say I was "good enough," causing me to wonder how that would go over if, for example, an airplane pilot said he did not fully inspect the instruments but it was "good enough," or an anesthesiologist said the patient may not be administered enough medicine to be put under for surgery, but it was "good enough," was lost.

We took back the gift I ordered at the last possible minute that did not show up until two days after Christmas and then was not the one desired. Ordering online, then printing out a return address label and getting reimbursed electronically, minus shipping, makes life exceedingly easier than it used to be. UPS has a customer service center about a mile from our house with two employees eager to talk and willing to tape up the package themselves. Gifts are problematic. Whatever is given is not really the point; it is the representation of the sentiment. We try, we fail, we love. We will do it all again.

This is day six, the six geese-a-laying day, of the twelve days of Christmas. More homemade food will come forth to be enjoyed. There is yet time. Reading and drinking hot chocolate come next. Pondering what is or what is not "good enough" requires more thought. And since our Christmas tree lights have only been up for about a week, I have plugged them in so they can yet shine forth as a beacon to penetrate the foggy darkness up and down our street, as this year soon comes to its end.

O come let us adore Him.

reflection

I have thought better than to copy and paste my recent Christmas letter in this blog for two reasons: 1) There is family information that will make no difference to anyone who does not personally know me--though I often think the list of those who actually know me is far smaller than the number currently on it; and 2) I have misspelled a word I just realized in horror while rereading the letter. In the letter I refer to a situation in which I was humiliated in public using the word "publicly" but spelling it "publically," which is wrong. I know no one cares. Except for me.

There are, however, some happenings along my journey worth sharing that I was not even made aware of until about a month ago. Funny how we can trudge through our lives without knowing how our prayers are being answered until we stop long enough to ask for help.

This happened, of all places, while I was pumping gas. In the moments it took for me to stand, leaning next to my vehicle waiting for the tank to be filled, my brain was free to ponder. I had just cried my way home from an Advent Retreat I had attended at a Quaker church in which my friend led the study. We were to contemplate the hope candle lit during the first week of Advent. It was December and I had been trying to find hope all year. What happened to it? Where could I find it? Suddenly, God was rewinding the tape of the year and replaying it to give me the answer.

On one of my worst Sundays in recent memory, I decided to spend the afternoon with a group of people who had gathered in the fellowship hall of a Presbyterian church downtown to make scarves for the homeless. I have been sewing since I was 10 and knew that no matter how badly I felt about situations I was having to endure, I could sit and sew. The challenge would be to keep myself from pouring out my emotion on unsuspecting strangers. Stitching hearts onto scarves turned out to be the healing balm I needed. I would begin to talk and laugh with others at the table by the end of the day.

Looking for classes, a counselor, something to hasten my healing, I stumbled upon a Bible study that would be led by a man I knew from years before at a church nearby. Walking into a group of 16 people and only knowing the leader was much harder for me than anyone probably realized. I forced myself to participate knowing that if I did not speak the first meeting, I would probably not return for the second. As part of the class I even wrote a prayer that I shared along with my tears. They kindly invited me to their church, as I thanked them, returning to my own.

Silent retreats on the first Friday of the month became a regular event for me during the summer months. It had been so long since I was afforded the time to sit and listen for God's voice in the bird songs, the wind, and the raindrops on the lake. It was a rehab for my soul, a fountain of joy for my spirit. No talking allowed. Thank you Jesus.

I had been working hard to regain my health with no results. I had worked out, eaten correctly and had not lost one pound. Not one. Sitting across from my physician whom I have not trusted since he switched me to a synthetic hormone in the midst of menopause, causing the bottom to fall out of my life, and hearing him tell me that I was "good enough" as I considered the weight gain and fatigue let alone the many, many nights in which sleep completed eluded me, a switch clicked in my head. ENOUGH! I would finally force myself to find someone who could really help me.

By the time this new medical person would run the lab tests that amounted to pages and pages of how depleted I was and how stress was the culprit, I was ready to fight. Again. For my body, however, it is taking more time. But there is hope.

In October when I was relieved that the women's only 5k had to be cancelled because of rain since I truly was not prepared for it, I found myself at a women's retreat, and then called out from the pulpit by an old friend. She may not have thought much of it. For me to be publicly (NOT publically) recognized, instead of humiliated was the source of great hope. It was especially satisfying since I was sitting with women with whom I used to go to church. I was being valued and shown love.

By Thanksgiving I eagerly attended the Interfaith Thanksgiving service at a local synagogue even going early to sing with the choir, something I never fully intended to do at my own church. By this point, I felt somewhat invincible when it came to wandering into places of worship alone. 

God showed me that I had in fact found hope in every place I had looked. Hope greeted me at the door with open arms. Hope gave me a place to sit and listened to my stories. Hope walked hand in hand with me during my loneliest days. Hope never disappointed, though I had forgotten it was there at times.

What follows is how I ended my story in my Christmas letter about finding hope.  

"I read and prayed, constantly seeking healing for my wounded heart, but it seemed to be breaking open further. With each new experience, my ability to care for others expanded. New people with new issues; different believers yet the same truth.

I struggled to understand a God who kept peeling off the bandages I was finding to bind my wounds. And yet, by gently keeping the wound open, and not allowing closure, I have become aware of what true healing looks like. Healing is intricately linked with compassion. I always thought if my wounds could ever be completely healed, I would become a more effective leader, friend, child of God. Just the opposite is true. Disappear the wound to provide superficial closure, and the healing work stops. In order to bear another’s burdens, our hearts need to remain open, as in: never really healed.

We are to open our hearts to whomever he places on our journey. We are to seek him when we are not equipped to handle life, which is always. He binds our conscience and our hearts. As the Great Physician, he skillfully stitches us together in the way that is best for each of us, not according to our ways, but his—which ARE good enough! This is where hope is."

I then make a lame attempt at a joke about the Year of Jubilee versus Cherries Jubliee; one being a time of celebration and the other being covered in liquor and set on fire. It seemed funny to me at the time as I come to grips with my desire to celebrate often going up in flames, alcohol or no alcohol. 

Life is tough. It is. And no amount of coaxing will get me to state otherwise. That does not, however, mean that I have lost hope. In spite of my own proclivities, hope has found me.

discordant harmony

Walking past the fountain toward the entrance of the synagogue last night, I noticed a man standing near the entrance dressed in a dark suit sizing me up as I made direct eye contact to reassure him I was coming in peace. It reminded me of when I made a trip to New York City in the 80's and showed up at a Messianic Congregation unannounced, causing a momentary stir as those greeters had to quickly decide whether or not I was safe to allow inside. The Diary of Anne Frank came to mind as I was given access into their closed-off room to worship with them in spirit and in truth.

Ushered into the chapel, I found a seat among those who came to rehearse songs for the interfaith choir of the evening. As with many situations in which I find myself, I had no idea what I was doing, but felt profoundly happy trying to do it anyway.

Having been a part of a choir at my church for a number of years, I knew a couple of the songs. We all knew America the Beautiful which would end the service. And then there was a beautiful Hebrew song with translated English words. As we sang together it became obvious we were not all singing the same word. The choir director's manner was professional, almost abrupt were it not for the humor in this voice: "If you are Christian you will sing AMEN (pronounced ah-men); if you are Jewish you will sing AMEN (pronounced uh-main). It's all the same!" And so it was.

Entering the sanctuary was like being invited to the kind of party I think of when heaven is described. Jews, Presbyterians, Methodists, African Methodist Episcopalians, Unity, Society of Friends, Greek Orthodox, Catholics were among those who came. A folk singer with an Irish sounding name sang about healing; a black choir proclaimed the mightiness of God; various clergy spoke words of wisdom.

I was taken aback by the Imam of the Islamic Center who spoke eloquently from a sensitive spirit. He would need to teach us about the Koran since it is outside of the experience of most in the room. Because this was a Thanksgiving service he spoke of giving. A smile is considered charity as is removing a stick from a path where others will walk. He said everything belongs to God; abundance is in the heart.

Everything belongs to God. This is exactly what I believe! We are to give back to God a portion of what he already gave us, and give to others knowing that our provision is from the Lord.

We would hear from two directors of homeless shelters whose impassioned words could stir the coldest heart. We would be stretched further than opening our hearts to those of different beliefs; we would also consider those referred to as the least among us. All people--needing to find God; needing to be fed, clothed and given shelter; needing to be loved.

As I stood at the front singing with our make-shift choir and the clergy, I sensed conflict within the joy. The conflict comes when I am forced to think of individuals as groups. My beliefs are my own as are the beliefs of each one of us. We do not all agree on everything. We tend to be fearful of what we have not experienced.

I have had the good fortune of knowing personally a Muslim family who have shown me nothing but kindness. One of the sons played club soccer with one of my sons and the bond of friendship continues. When I think of Muslims, I think of them.

I have also had many Jewish friends starting when I unknowingly moved into what was considered the Jewish dorm at MSU. Some of the most wonderful people I have ever known are among them.

Living in different places, experiencing cultures unlike my own, my heart has been opened to a vast array of people each seeking after God in their own ways. Even those not actively pursuing a supreme being are looking for ways to live in peace with their neighbors and contribute to the world around them.

It is written in the Bible that we are to love the Lord our God with our whole heart, mind, soul and strength. Following immediately after that verse is: "Love your neighbor as yourself." Jesus says it all hinges on this--all the Law and the Prophets. Who is our neighbor? Ask the Samaritan.

My mind wants to tell me it is far more complicated than I am making it sound. It is.

But my heart will continue to sing in harmony with those who seek to love each other. Amen.

learning through experience

Plastic masquerade masks with eye holes covered with duct tape are going to be needed for the next experiential activity, we are told. I put mine on over my glasses, immediately wondering if I should have taken my glasses off first. We are encouraged to hold hands with those standing on either side of us. Relieved, I take the hand of one woman I know fairly well; the other one not so much. The activity is to navigate blindly a rope maze until each one of us discovers the way out.

When the command to find the rope is given, the women immediately let go of my hands. I can hear voices moving away from me and though I wave my hands around, they come into contact with no one. I cannot understand how anyone can know where the rope is since it is not within my reach. Perhaps they have skills I do not possess. Or worse, maybe I am being set up.

What if the others are only pretending to be doing a rope maze? They could be speaking out a script that has me believing they are engaged in the same activity when in reality they may be standing around the perimeter while I am the one left in the center of the room, alone. Not that I would have been intentionally chosen ahead of time to be the one tricked, but maybe it was bound to happen to the last one in line. Or maybe it was going to happen to the one who turned the wrong direction and did not find the rope--if there is, in fact, a rope.

Because this thought process could quickly deteriorate into emotional consequences for me, I need to collect myself by making a brief mental summary of all I know. 1) I am in the same room where we started; 2) There are still people in the room even though I have no way of knowing how many or if any of them are still blindfolded; 3) I am being watched and probably filmed; 4) I am not wandering lost in the dark because the lights are surely still on; 5) This is just a game.

I cannot allow anyone to know the terror I feel in the darkness behind my mask.

I call out, or at least think I do. Maybe I am so inside my head I can no longer communicate outwardly. I am pretty sure no one is listening to me anyway. I hear someone say, "Look at her hands," how they continue to be extended for self-protective reasons. Poor hapless soul. This is what abandonment looks like.

Counting the cost of possibly running into someone or the wall, I inch myself in one direction until I find the rope. Even if I am the last person to finish, there has to be an end to this activity. With no one to guide me, I find the way out myself.

In analyzing the activity, a correlation is drawn to our spiritual lives. I am asked what was going on with me when I was wandering around in the middle of the room while everyone else had seemingly put their hands on the rope. How could I explain the sense of confusion and loss I felt when everyone else seemed to find the way when I could not? Had this been one of those team-building exercises in which I was supposed to fall backward into someone's arms, I would have opted out. Trust no one has always been my motto. Good thing that was not the experiential activity. What would this say about my spiritual condition within my faith community?

I knew in the end I would survive, which I pointed out. I am a survivor.

Unlike others who seemed to be able to form an entire theology about the meaning of the rope, the importance of following it, and the need for community support along the way, I admitted I was not even sure of the existence of the rope. Someone said if I needed help, I should have asked for it. I did ask for help. Either no one heard me or my call for help was ignored. The result was the same. And who were they to think they could offer assistance when they were just as blindfolded as I was? Being led by someone as blind would have given me no more hope of achieving the goal than going it alone. Of course, having a hand to hold made me feel less afraid.

Psychological studies can be done with this sort of activity. The strong type A personalities forge ahead on the path, blindfolds be damned. Those with other kinds of personalities configure a variety of alternative ways to the same end. And then there is me, who is not at all sure that what we are supposed to be in search of is really even there. I have no way to win.

Surrender is counter intuitive. How do we hope to make it out of the rope maze if we give up?

And yet, only God can lead me out of the darkness. He is the only one who ever really has.