mysterium tremendum et fascinas Not long ago I was invited to dog-sit and house-sit for my friends while they traveled. Great dog, great house, great neighborhood. It took us a minute, the white lab and me, to figure out the new arrangements. During my two and a half weeks, there were three activities that always worked for the two of us, no matter what. The first was meals. The girl loved her breakfast and dinner. She was a little goofy about it. The second place that worked for us was the bench on the front porch. Turns, my big-boned friend sees herself as a lap dog. So, if I sat down on anything but a straight-backed chair, she (oh, so subtly) plopped herself in my lap. And soon after the plopping would come the BIG SIGH. Her sighing let me know that she had settled in and we would be sitting for a while. The third place was walking around the neighborhood in the mornings and at nights. Sometimes in the dark, sometimes in the rain. My friend, Ada was a walker. The last Sunday I spent on this sleep-over, we were walking in the pre-dawn. It had rained over the night and the air felt misty. Typically, when we walked, Ada demonstrated her strong feelings about the surrounding landscape, by pulling me hither and dither and yon. That Sunday morning, she and I shared an easy pace and we pretty much stuck to the middle of the street. We were walking up the last big hill, and just like every horse I’ve ever ridden, I was heading to the barn. I was just starting to kick it in, lengthened my stride and book it up the hill when my companion stopped. This meant that I, too threw on the brakes. Then she sat down. There in the middle of the street, she just sat down. She was facing forward as she sat, but she casually looked over her shoulder and my eyes followed. And a little bit down the hill, I saw a mama and two teenage deer crossing the street. [For Atlanta you folks, we were in a neighborhood between LaVista and Clairmont. NOT out in the woods.] The moment seemed to stand still. Ada and I watched as the three appeared to take their time crossing the street and making their way on. I have no idea if they were aware of us. I have no idea where they were going. I knew that if Ada hadn’t stopped us both, I would have missed that moment. It was amazing to me that she was so calm. Truth-be-told this might have been the most peaceful moment we shared during my whole time with her. She and I just watched them cross. After they had gone, we both were quiet for a bit. And with a little encouraging, we headed up the rest of the hill and back home. Mysteries come. Unexpected more often than not. Some are more of a direct message than this one feels. I am still wondering about what this could have meant. What I’m holding on to today is how calm Ada was and (I believe) how she wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss the moment. It was the only time that she sat down when we were walking. She didn’t seem anxious or even playful. It felt, instead that she was marking a holy moment and invited me to share in it. "Good girl, Ada. Good girl. And thank you." Holding On Lent is a time for reflection. It’s a time for stretching and wandering around – circles, straight lines, hills and dales. It’s in and out. It’s holding on to endings and beginnings. It’s yes and no. Holding on to the Yes in Lent is about opening doors and entering into something new, something not yet. Yes in Lent is about Spring and the welcoming of all that is budding and blooming around and within. It is beginning and beginning again. It is stepping out along the way, trusting that what is next will bring life. Yes can bring possibilities, discoveries, new life. Yes can save our spirits in this season. Holding on the No in Lent is about mindfulness and self-care. It is about setting boundaries and conserving time and energy. It is about clarifying what matters most in this moment and what no longer does. No can bring new understandings, simplicity and affirmations. No can save our spirits in this season. How is it possible that we can go through this season holding on to both Yes and No? How can we not? Is this possible? Is this just double speaking? OR…is this inviting a more honest, clear and more fully human way of being in relationship with friends and family, coworkers and perfect strangers? Does it invite a fuller presence and participation in our days? Does it invite us to more fully answer when invited in? I truly don’t know how you answer these questions. It’s been fun for me to wander around and wonder about holding on to both of these as sister-words for this season. As old as this phrase is – “then my `yes’ means `yes’ and my `no’ truly means `no’ - this phrase still rings true. This Lenten season then is not a time of over-committing or under-delivering. It can be instead just me. Honestly. Fully present. Glad to be doing or being with. Me with no resentments, no “dad-gummits,” no “I wished I’da's…” Me. Awake. Present. Here. With you and whatever you asked of me. Heart open and here. With you. Here. Hymn of Promise ~ Natalie Sleeth In the bulb there is a flower; in the seed, an apple tree; in cocoons, a hidden promise: butterflies will soon be free! In the cold and snow of winter there's a spring that waits to be, unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see. There's a song in every silence, seeking word and melody; there's a dawn in every darkness bringing hope to you and me. From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery, unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see. In our end is our beginning; in our time, infinity; in our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity. In our death, a resurrection; at the last, a victory, unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see. Songs “There’s a song in every silence….” One of my greatest joys is that both my boys love to sing. Different voices, but drawn to similar music. Their music is something they will share their whole lives. Over the years, I’ve watched their music companion them and encourage them. Music is their outlet and their touchstone. Their songs set them free and bring them home. As a parent when I think about the life lessons to be passed on teaching them about finding a song for their silences is a most precious gift. “There’s a song in every silence seeking word and melody…” There are times when my silence is peaceful. Time spent in that silence is either waiting or spent, done exhaustion. More often than not, though I find that my silences are seeking something. The words from this phrase fit for me. “Seeking words” maybe not answers but seeking ancient guides or nudges or breadcrumbs left along the way. “Seeking melody” truly the rhythm, the energy, the keys of life that somehow, thankfully, mysteriously continue to hold me up and carry me on. “There’s a dawn in every darkness bringing hope…” More times than I can count I’ve sought out the sunrise. Literally and figuratively. I probably started in high school and still set my alarm to get up in the dark. There is a waiting that happens when you wait in deep darkness for more light. There is an anticipation in the waiting of what is not yet. I think about the darkest times of my life, and it felt impossible to hear the words of this phrase. And truly impossible to believe them. When I've been lost in the dark, it has felt like both a head/heart thing. Head and heart struggled with what to do, how to find my way back from this separated place. My head knew the facts of the situation, my heart wanted to something different/greater/easier, wanted light to come. My head probably would have given up, if it hadn't been for my heart's longing, waiting, hoping. Dawn speaks to hope. “From the past will come the future…” Getting out and away from the usual practices, intentionally setting ourselves apart can provide a space for thoughts to slow down and allow space for our hearts to catch up. Perhaps sometime on this Lenten journey you will find the place and space to slow down and even stop. Perhaps then there may be a space for reflection. It’s most always amazing when that happens, and I come away wondering why I'm not more intentional about those kinds of moments. Each day. Everyday. Slow down and breathe deeply. Let the noise quiet itself down. I was able to do that yesterday. I came home and turned off all the noise, the stimulus, and let go of the busyness of the day. I lit a candle, made a cup of hot tea and listened. Truth be told I was thinking about this hymn, one of my favorites. And I was thinking about how life does often circle back again. What was can sometimes enter into what currently is, but not in a repeating way. For me, last night it felt more informing and companioning. Both/and. There can be a building upon what has been our life experiences. In being mindful of the seeds we have planted, if they are good seeds, we will watch as they take root and grow. “What it holds, a mystery,” There is so little that we really and truly know. Life is fluid. Alive. Uncertainty walks side-by-side with expectations and both are held lightly. “Now we see in a mirror dimly” from 1 Corinthians 13 talks about our wondering as we make our way. In the living of our days, we are reminded time after time that we are not reading from a script. We are not hitting our marks and reading our lines in some play that already has the ending written (cue stage lights). Instead we are dancing and singing our way through, stumbling and bumbling our way through these days. The fact that we can find grace and compassion, kindness and love along the way is a living mystery. Often, we can’t explain it. We can just be thankful. “Unrevealed until its season something God alone can see.” This line holds us on this Lenten journey, just as surely as it holds our lives. Our questions won’t be answered, our struggles won’t be completed on timetables of our understanding or controlling. Our questions and struggles are for a season, and somewhere along the way in the fullness of time grace finds us. Even when, especially when we don’t think it’s at all possible – in those hours of those days, that is when we sing this song. From start to finish, this is a song to sing from the heart, for the heart. Even when, especially when we are ready to turn from – God, from what we've always known and trusted, from the whole thing – especially then it is the promise that can hold our hearts. Even when we think that we can’t, it is then that the singing of this song provides a roadmap for the continuing of our journey. God is here, with us. We may fumble with the melody and we may forget the words, but somehow, someway God knows it by heart. God knows it in and through us, after all, it's God's promise. Signum It's fun to think about table conversations. All the ones you've had. Good ones. Hard ones. Lost and found ones. It’s interesting to think about all they represent. Interesting to think about all that tables symbolize. Thinking back, I've sat around lots of tables in this past week. Different places. Different faces. Different stories. Different learnings. In this past week I’ve broken bread with friends at work and friends outside of work; with friends (long-time and newly met) at the Women’s Retreat from church; with Brogan’s god-mother, Dorri in Asheville; with the dads of our sons, and with the youngest (still too-tall) son, Sam. I've shared stories that made me laugh so hard that I cried and stories that just made me cry. Of those conversations, it was the lunch time that I spent in the Egleston cafeteria with Bob that haunts me a little bit. Tuesday afternoon, I was eating by myself (catching a little bit of the Yankee-Red Sox game on ESPN) at a four-top when a gentleman asked if he could join me. He introduced himself as Bob. He said that he was newly diagnosed with cancer. He said he had just had his first procedure of many across the street at Emory’s Winship and he `wanted to check out all the cafeterias. His home was India but he lives in the United States. He explained to me his theology about life’s difficulties being pay backs from past lives. I listened for a time. When I looked over his shoulder to see if the Red Sox were still losing (they were), he got angry and told me I was being rude. I struggled with giving him my full attention. I struggled not saying something rude and blaming it on the Red Sox. Part of this felt intrusive and equal part, from the book of Hebrews, “meeting angels unawares.” I debated politely exiting, decided to stay and then did my best to re-engage. Bob talked a lot. Throughout the conversation, he told me I was wrong a lot. He over and over explained what was wrong with the world. I was mindful of not wanting to objectify him (older gentleman, new diagnosis, here by himself). And then I wondered why it mattered what I thought about that. He and I were having a conversation about God and love and life. His glass was definitely half-empty, and I was trying to decipher if mine was half-full. We talked and I tried not to argue. He talked mostly and I was aware of disagreeing and wondering. A lot. Wondering about him. Were we being filmed for Candid Camera? Did he do this every meal? Was he Gandhi reincarnated? So many questions… Out of the blue, Bob asked if there was any water in the hospital that you didn’t have to pay for. We got up and I showed him where to get water in the cafeteria. He continued to talk to me about the life-stages of 1) being awake, 2) being asleep, 3) dreaming and “then there’s a fourth state.” I listened. After a time, I told him I was going back to work. We stood and walked out of the cafeteria together. I watched him walk away and wondered if he was going to disappear like George Burns at the end of “Oh God.” He didn’t disappear. He looked both ways and then crossed the street. The gospels are full of Jesus’ table conversations. Friends and adversaries. Named and unnamed. Teachers and followers. Stories, timeless and ever-teaching, continue to companion us as we journey through this wilderness. I wonder what Jesus did with the conversations that lingered inside? Letting Go You know, I think it's a good life practice to listen to children. These are our children, given and chosen. The littlest ones and those who are even taller than you, our children. We need to listen because they are paying attention. They too are listening. They are watching and they see much more than we realize or (give them credit for). So, when I was talking with Sam about things to let go of, the first thing out of his mouth was "judgment." Stopped. Me. Right. There. And so now I'm thinking about it. Acknowledging it. Recognizing it. And considering the wisdom of letting go of judgment. In this season of Lent, this season of holding on and letting go, I confess that judging is one of my go-to practices. Sometimes my judgments are knee-jerk. Sometimes they are attached to grudges, long carried. Sometimes they are unexpected, sometimes not. Judging another is so often about my objectifying another person. No longer allowing the other to participate in the conversation or the experience, often I make my judgment as easy as that, and then – whether the object of my judging knows it or not - it's done. Wrap it up. Put it in a box. Put it on a shelf. Done. Or is it? What if the process allowed everybody to be a subject? Subjects control their verbs. Subjects have feelings and life experiences. They have human frailties and foibles. Subjects make mistakes. Whether I acknowledge it or not, the other person is also participating in this moment. There’s a great quote by Viktor Frankl, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” There it is. Drop the mike. If I were being completely honest, I’d acknowledge that judging something or someone gives me the sense that I am controlling the uncontrollable. Often there is a feeling of power - of not letting this hurt me, not letting this change me, not even letting this in. To. What. End? On this Lenten journey there is time to sort through the answer to that last question. Time to unpack, discard, re-pack differently all of what I want to continue to carry. Is this judging practice life-bringing and life-giving? Does it bring life to me and those who are in my village, in my world? Does it bring growth? What would the children say? I think my kind son, Sam was telling me something pretty important. Now, what do with his message? mysterium tremendum et fascinans (mysteries that fascinate us) This past weekend I went on a Women's Retreat and was blessed. I was blessed by the women and by the time spent together. NDPC (North Decatur Presbyterian church) women are strong and funny. They are so very wise and kind. It was a great weekend. We had wonderful conversations and great food. There was much laughter, some tears, great singing. There was walking and talking and listening. Lots of leaning in. Our theme for the weekend was trees. Trees, the wonder of them and the mystery of them. Trees, ever companioning us through our days, and for me what had been a mystery became a strength and mercy. Way back in October when Ellen G and I were first planning for the weekend, I thought about the lessons we could learn by just being mindful of trees. As we were letting go of 2019 and heading into 2020 (and all that it would hold), we thought trees would serve as good companions for the weekend. We'd be in the woods, surrounded by our teachers. Then, I thought about the trunks reminding us of our core - strong, sturdy, steady. The roots, deep. The roots being represented by past generations and life experiences that were holding us in place. The limbs and the branches representing our stretching beyond what is now and our hope for what is yet to bear fruit. It turns out we really didn't talk about much of any of that. What we talked about this weekend was that and then some. We talked about time and pace. We talked about purpose and place. We talked about seeds and wounds and fruit and healing. We talked about the wind blowing and us not being able to see it, but somehow (mysteriously) knowing that the wind was there - and so were the trees and so were we. Isaiah 55:12 says that all the trees will clap their hands. I believe that it can happen. I believe that it does happen. And from this weekend, I’m coming to understand that there is a strong need for us to be grounded/rooted in deep patience while we wait to witness it happening. This weekend we talked about how fast paced humans are. I work in a hospital and I’ve been there about 3 1/2 years. I can honestly say that there have been maybe six days when I didn’t run into somebody or somebody ran into me. Things happen quickly, people are moving in different directions. In our hustling and bustling, we don't always pay attention or listen out or listen for another person close by. Trees don’t collide. They weave in and through one another. I don’t know if it’s hearing or feeling/sensing or seeing. Miraculously, they can live for hundreds of years being side-by-side other trees and never crash into one another. In the woods, as we look around it’s not like-trees-with-like-trees. Different kinds of trees, different ages. Side-by-side, communicating and weaving. For me, it’s a mystery. For the trees, it is instead their way of being in the world. My friend, Maggie is a lover of trees. She said she gets angry when people talk about being good stewards of the world. The truth is, for her and now for me after hearing Maggie's stories, humans need to be open to learning from the stewarding that has always been happening all around us. The trees have been stewarding humans as long as there have been humans. "What we can be," Maggie said, "is better better students of the trees, better listeners." Maggie's words still echo in my heart, "The trees have BEFORES before our befores. They will have AFTERS long after our afters are gone." Miracle? Mystery? Just something true we haven’t taken the time, the energy to experience. Yet. From our first step until our arriving, we know that we carry love with us. We step out with family and friends who even this minute are wishing us well. We step out with relationships that nurture and sustain us. With love that holds on to us when we have trouble making our way. Holding on to images of and memories of what has sustained us before, might be just the nourishment we need to keep us going. Who knows what we will experience in these coming days? Who knows what we will need? What we know is what we have carried along the way this far. Sometimes holding on takes work. Sometimes it takes intention. Sometimes it’s painful, and wounding. As we make our beginning steps into Lent, this is a good time to be mindful of what we take with us. What are we holding on to? What may be just weighing us down? Wounds heal, but that healing takes time. This may be just the time needed to tend to them. These may days to hold the broken places up and see what light still shines in and through them. Leonard Cohen's beautiful words can companion these tender times, "Ring the bell that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There's a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in." Other times, holding on feels as easy and as natural as taking our next breath. Life-giving. Encouraging. Inspiring. Holding on to memories that make you laugh out loud or smile with your heart, those kinds of holding on‘s don’t cost very much. They are like the sunshine following the rain, the spring that comes after a long, lonely winter. I’m holding on with a grateful heart today as I am following this Lenten path. What I am carrying today will help me through the long nights, and the lonely days. They hold energy, and wisdom, and more than enough for my heart. What I carry with me reminds me at all the best times that I am not alone. God's loving presence is surely beside. Holding On My friend Kimberly and I like to walk together. More often than not on Saturday mornings, we walk to breakfast to meet Booth 25. It’s a practice we’ve shared for 13 years – give or take. Booth 25 was the corner booth at Evans Fine Foods back in the day. For years, Susie, Kimberly, Ellen and I meet for breakfast most every Saturday morning. Through good times and bad, through celebrations and griefs, through holding on’s and letting go’s, we would show up at Evans and be offered grace from our guru, Martha on Saturday mornings. Booth 25 has been life together. Now that Evans has closed, we meet at different places in Decatur, but we share the same practice with one another. We show up. We check in. We listen. And in the midst and the mess, we share our lives together. We’ve lost loved ones and showed up for one another. We’ve had remarkable discoveries and celebrations and showed up for one another. We’ve had “nothing much to say,” and showed up for one another. A couple days ago Kimberly and I walked back from breakfast together. We talked about the virus. We talked about how that would affect our work and our lives. We talked about things we knew and things we probably would never know. And along the way… …and along the way Kimberly took pictures. In the middle of COVID-19 it matters that we not miss what is happening all around us. Along the way, walking home from breakfast, Kimberly and I saw glimpses of spring’s coming. In little and great ways, spring will come. In beautiful and unexpected ways, spring will come. In some of our most uncontrollable, some of our most vulnerable, some of our absolute best moments, just the best moments, spring will come. And it matters that we don't miss it. I am holding on to this truth. I am holding on to the promise of spring. I am holding on to the beauty of spring. I am holding on to the what-has-been-happening-all-this-time-to-get-us-to-this-moment truth of spring. Of all the weightiness, of all the despair, of all the fear of COVID-19, there are greater truths that COVID-19 will ever be able to touch – spring. Spring’s budding and blossoming, spring’s indescribable colors and shapes, the sound of the bird’s song at dawn, and yes, EVEN the pollen – COVID-19 can’t touch these. Because they are earth-born and human celebrated. A virus can never get its heart around these things, because it has no heart. But, we do, you and me. We do. And our hearts are leaning into spring. I’m holding on to this. |
AuthorLesley is an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ. Her passions are listening to her sons, John Brogan and Sam sing; great conversations, long walks and baseball. Archives
April 2020
Categories |