Today marks Easter Sunday, proclaimed around the world. Today marks the day that for centuries Christians have proclaimed, “Alleluia! He is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia!” Today marks the day that is the cornerstone of our faith. And today, this day in the midst of this Pandemic my heart is holding tenderly to my Alleluia. This day I am doing my best to stubbornly, faithfully proclaim my Alleluia. 
 
     Since seminary I have been held in an amazing circle of women and their lovingkindness. This group has stayed connected through the thicks and the thins of our lives for more than 30 years. We have promised each year to spend Labor Day weekends together. And now through the gift of zoom, we are checking in with each other during this Pandemic. We are spread out over six southeastern states, but our hearts don’t seem to notice the distance. 
 
     We are ordained clergy, two still serving in parishes. We are daughters of strong women. We are sisters of the heart. During yesterday’s zoom conversation, I talked to them about having no words for Easter. This has truly been a Lenten journey through the wilderness. I have had words throughout this Lenten season for the times of wandering. With the Pandemic as an uninvited fellow-traveler there has been plenty to pray over. But today, this day, this Easter I am honestly struggling with my Alleluia.  
 
       One of the things I treasure about growing up and growing older with these women is that more often than not, we remember things others have said/written along the way better than the speaker/writer. It happened yesterday during the call after I talked about struggling with how to write about this Easter. Les (yes, there are two of us) said to Jan, “Tell Les what you said about `stubborn hope.’” And when Jan started laughing, admitting that Les would have to say more, Les quoted many of Jan’s words to us: 
 
                “On this strange path of grief, I have found hope to be a curiously stubborn creature. It is persistent. It visits when I least expect it. It shows       up when I haven’t been looking for it. Even when it seems like hope should be a stranger; there is something deeply familiar about it. If I open my eyes to it, I know its face, even when I do not know where it is leading me.
                  Hope does not depend on our mood, our disposition, and our desire. Hope does not wait until we are ready for it, until we have prepared ourselves for its arrival. It does not hold itself apart from us until we have worked through the worst of our sorrow, our anger, and our fear. This is precisely where hope seeks us out, standing with us in the midst of what most weighs us down.
                 Hope has work for us to do. It asks us to resist going numb when the world within us or beyond us is falling apart. In the height of despair, in the deepest darkness, hope calls us to open our hearts, our eyes, and our hands, that we might engage the world when it breaks our hearts. Hope goes with us, step by step, offering to us the manna it holds." 

     As our zoom-conversation continued I remembered one of the life-lessons I had learned years ago when working with folks who were infected with HIV/AIDS. Back in the 1990’s I came to better understand how our bodies are truly fearfully and wonderfully made. One of the examples of that is the notion of memory cells. These are said to be antibody producing cells or infection fighting cells. Vital cells, life bringing cells. And it made perfect sense to me that of course our bodies remember, even our cells remember. In times like these, our memory cells can lead us back to remembering what we are afraid we may have forgotten.  
 
     Centuries ago, women rose before light and headed out to the place where Jesus’ crucified body had been laid to rest. These women were going to prepare his body, to do what they could do for their friend and teacher. Many of us have heard this story our whole lives and this year, we will hear it in a way we never would have dreamed of before. This year there will be no organs playing or trumpets ringing or choirs singing. This year there will be no shared alleluias raised by the believers gathered. This year, one-by-one and two-by-two, many of us will be witnessing it on television or computers/iPads/phones. 
 
     Even with all that this Pandemic has thrown at us, my friend Jan is right, there will be a stubbornness of hope that cannot and will not be stopped. There will be singing, even if just one voice at a time. There will be proclamations, “He is not here. He is risen!”  There will be Alleluias!
 
     From our first hearing of this Easter story, we have been promised that joy comes in the morning. And this morning, thanks to Love that is greater than fear, Light that is greater than darkness, Life that is greater than death – even my cells are remembering this truth passed down from generation to generation: Alleluia! He is risen! He is risen indeed, Alleluia!
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    Holy Saturday has come to be the most meaningful day of our liturgical year. Each year this is the day of our faith that so distinctly speaks to grief. This is the day after Good Friday. This is the day after Jesus’ friends watched him die and carried his body from the cross to the tomb. This is the day when the world stood still.

     And…

     …this is the day that even with their hearts broken, and filled with despair, even when they really didn’t know what to do next or how to do it, this is the day they kept going. This is the day those the early believers kept going.

     As I’ve gone through my life and experienced deep, deep losses I’ve been amazed at how much it takes some days to get out of bed in the morning. I have realized that to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again can feel impossibly hard. I have come to know that in the deepest, darkest part of my soul, that doing the next thing, that emotional, if not physical "left foot, right foot" takes more courage and strength than just about anything else.

      And...

      …Holy Saturday is the day of not knowing. This is a day for listening. This is the day for not meeting any expectations, except, when you can pay attention to your next breath. This is the day of intentional gracing ourselves and those around us...and... this is the day, that even though we have witnessed Love dying, somehow a greater Love continues to hold us. I have no idea how this is possible; I only know that it is true.

      This morning the sun rose again. Many of us, for whatever reason, doubted that sunrise would come. It did. Against all odds, the sun rose this morning. In the midst of COVID-19's pandemic, it rose. In the midst of social distancing and mandated isolation, it rose. In the midst of economic uncertainty, it rose. In the midst of yesterday's re-membering Jesus' death on the cross, the sun rose again. Centuries ago the early friends and followers somehow found a way to get themselves out of bed and somehow made their way into a new day. Perhaps it only took was faith the size of a mustard seed after all. Just enough to hold on to this Love that has promised to be with us, always. 
 
     Left foot, right foot.  
 

 
​  Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
     Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
     O, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
     Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
 
     Were you there when the sun refused to shine?
     Were you there when the sun refused to shine?
     O, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
     Were you there when the sun refused to shine?
 
     Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
     Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
     O, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
     Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?

​ ​     This song came into my heart sometime in mid-March and it has stayed close ever since. Not once have I been able to sing it without crying. It’s a song that has come in and has been moving through the nooks and crannies of my soul. It’s a song that can transport my spirit from what is happening right here, right now back to the hillside outside of Jerusalem.
 
     We are told that Jesus was forced to carry his cross through the narrow, winding streets of the city. As the story goes, people lined the path and witnessed as he passed by. We are told family and friends, those who’d heard of him and his stories, others who could only guess his coming fate – they all watched him pass.
 
     This year’s Lenten journey has been like no other time in our lives. I know that each of us have at some point in our lives journeyed through seasons of Lent during personal times of illness and loss. Person-by-person we have known the ache and woundedness of the Lonesome Valley. But this year we are, all of us person-by-person, family-by-family, city-by-city, country-by-country walking this valley together.
 
     There is a trembling that speaks to the fear, pain and gut-punch of this day. There is a trembling that fills the hours. This trembling brings in doubt and erodes our trust. Today’s Good Friday trembling has come uninvited, settled in and doesn’t appear to ever plan to leave. This COVID-19 Pandemic has covered the world, just as we were told the shadow came over the earth when Jesus was on the cross.
 
     We are told that there was a small group that gathered around the cross. Different stories tell us who was there. We will never know what took place on that day. We can only imagine how that was for those who were with him. I am mindful today of how impossibly hard it is to stand by, to bear witness when another is suffering. And I also know that in the times I have been with another, that moment is the closest I’ve known to be standing on holy ground.
 
     Today is our Good Friday. This is the day that marks the moment in time when the world witnessed Love’s dying. Slowly, painfully Love died on that cross. On this day, we are mindful, you and I of the trembling that is now happening in our world. We are mindful of our trembling that comes from knowing that there is a virus overshadowing everything around us. And we know that in spite of our fear and trembling we bear witness. It matters that we not turn away. It matters that we recognize that this place, too is holy ground. It matters that, even in our trembling, we believe that love somehow continues to live on in us.   

(Mom's painting of Mourners at the Cross)

Maundy Thursday

​     Everything feels heavier these days. Feeling lost or disoriented, feeling like everything's on autopilot, feeling like everything is out of sorts. There’s an aimlessness and restlessness in the air. Much of the time I seem to be slogging through. Slogging through and going…going...? With empty streets and empty tables, it’s hard to get my bearings these days. I’m feeling displaced and disheveled. On this Maundy Thursday my soul is having a hard time keeping up. 

     We are told from John’s Gospel that on the night Jesus and his friends gathered, none of the friends knew that this night would turn out so differently. We are told that Jesus wanted to wash their feet. We are told that some protested. We are told that Jesus yet again loved them into changing their hearts and minds. I can only imagine how quiet the room must have gotten on that night. Perhaps all that could be heard was the pouring of the water and maybe even their quiet conversations being whispered one to another. 

     Jesus and his friends had gathered to share a meal. No one knowing that forever afterwards this meal would be called the Last Supper. What they knew was they were together in Jerusalem. What they knew was the stories they had shared. What they knew was the collected memories of time spent together with Jesus. What they would soon come to understand was how much these memories and stories would strengthen them for the coming hours and the coming days.

     As we are living in and through these days of COVID-19's Pandemic, we, like those friends don’t know what lies ahead for us. We too can only see what’s right here before us. But I think it’s important for us to remember that like those friends gathered around the table, we too have stories in our hearts. I pray that they will be what we need in the coming hours and days as well. I pray that Jesus will love me into keeping my heart open to what is next. "Do this in remembrance of me."

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​ 
     Today marks the first day of Passover. I grew up hearing the story told about Moses and the Hebrew people being enslaved by the Egyptian king, Pharaoh. Tonight's gatherings mark the night when the last of ten plagues were delivered to the land. Pharaoh was told that an illness would come and strike down all the firstborn children. No one would be spared. "Loud wailing will be heard throughout the land," we were told. And it came to pass. But not all the firstborns were killed. The Hebrew families who had been warned by Moses marked their doors with lamb's blood as a sign that the illness should pass over their house. And the illness passed over them, and the Hebrew families were spared.
 
     COVID-19 brings this story to life in a way that has never been more real. It is impossible to not wish that we had the same means with which to spare our homes and families. Pass over, please loving God, pass over our houses.
 
     Later tonight at sunset Seders will be held around the world remembering and celebrating Passover. Families and friends will gather around their tables and sing songs and tell stories that they have heard their whole lives. The four questions will be asked and answered, explaining why tonight is different from all other nights. Traditional food will be shared, and wine will be poured.
 
     I’m grateful to be invited to one tonight with some friends and look forward to listening to the stories they tell. It will be different, like no other night, because this year we will all be joining in on a Zoom Seder. It promises to be a night to remember in so many ways.
 
     One of Passover’s highlights for me is the singing of Dayenu which means, "it would have been enough." This song recalls miracle after miracle. It speaks to God’s presence throughout time. It would have been enough, and yet God continues to act and bring life over and over again. Dayenu brings hope into this moment in a powerful way.  And so, with anticipation, I wait to hear the singing of this song tonight.
 
     This day holds so much. This day is Passover with all of the stories that have been told grandparent to grandchild for centuries. This day is one of Holy Week with a story that has sustained and guided me my whole life. And now this day holds COVID 19 – what is known and unknown. Just as I was putting these three parts together, my typing slowed down and I realized that it feels like too damn much. Our traditions and holy days hold our life stories full-to-the-rim with all of our precious and hard times. This plague which feels so much like what came to the Egyptians holds fear and uncertainty.  Today all three come together.
 
     My work for today as I prepare for tonight’s Seder is to not miss the singing of Dayenu. I hope that my spirit can stay open all day as I anticipate the stories and singing. There will be laughter and tears. There will be holding on and letting go. And for me, for this year this Christian Seder guest is leaning into the strength of this ancient song that names and claims God’s ongoing participation in life’s miracles. May it be ever true, Holy God of beginning and beginning again.    

 
 

​While he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he sat at the table, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment of nard, and she broke open the jar and poured the ointment on his head. But some were there who said to one another in anger, “Why was the ointment wasted in this way? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.” And they scolded her.  But Jesus said, “Let her alone; why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me.  For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me.  She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial.  Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.”
 ​Mark 14: 3-9

      During this past Sunday’s worship, one of our pastors, Mary Anona Stoops shared her reflection on verses from Mark’s 14th chapter. In those days before Jesus was put to death, we are told this story of time coming to a gentle stop. We are told in this story that the world was held in a moment of compassion. Here in this holy moment, Jesus claimed his humanity and received this act of lovingkindness. Here in this timeless moment love persisted.
 
     Through this story Mary Anona encouraged us to face our coming days in a posture of compassion rather than perfection. After all, what can perfection possibly mean in a pandemic anyway? Staying always in our homes and having provisions delivered to our doorstep? Carrying with us a 6-foot pole to keep everyone at least that distance away if not more? Drinking strictly quarantinis? What?
 
     In this Holy Week my heart is holding on to my stories of faith. In these days I am listening for Jesus’ words from the side of a hill, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” In my heart I am listening for his words of stories told to sisters and brothers along the way, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind and soul and your neighbor as yourself.” In my heart I am listening for his words when the darkness was growing, “Fear not, for I am with you.”  In my heart I am listening for the stones that are still singing out. 
 
     Taking on the posture of compassion is all about intention for these unfolding, unknowing days. It is keeping heart and mind open to YES. It is acknowledging attempts great and small of kindness from loved ones and strangers. It is eye contact. It is “thank you,” “yes, please,” and “no, thank you.” It is moments of not quitting AND self-care – both. It is left foot, right foot. It is, as our beloved Candler professor, Roberta Bondi taught us years ago when we asked her about prayer: Showing up, Paying attention, Being honest and Not being wedded to the outcome. 
 
     And so, for today, like the woman who saw Jesus as a soul who needed compassion, we are reminded of the power that comes when we do what we can do. It matters in the midst of these days, that we participate and not feel like all of this is just happening to us. Today it is enough to offer kindness, to give from a heart-place of generosity, to take on the posture of compassion. It is enough to lead with our hearts in these unknowing days. It is enough to pray prayers of petition as well as thanksgiving. It is enough. Offering compassion in these tender, unbelievably tender days is enough. To do what I can do, what we​ can do, is enough.

     All of “this,” all of these days feel like a steep learning curve. This online churching that we are doing continues to amaze and comfort me. Yesterday was another time of deep gratitude for this opportunity for connection. It felt like an oasis in the desert. It’s one more remarkable change happening in these holding on and letting go (6 feet away, of course) days. I am grateful for this gift that keeps on giving.

     North Decatur Presbyterian Church is a justice-seeking, gracious and loving community. There I’ve found generous and kind souls gifting hospitality, strong traditions, great preaching, and a loving pastoral staff. Pastor David Lewicki preached about the humanness, frailty, suffering of our lives. And because he is such a good preacher, it wasn’t awful to hear. Yesterday he talked about our human experience and our capacity to hope and love. Even in these days. Especially in these days. 

     Centuries ago a sunrise followed the singing of the procession’s Hosannas. Centuries ago people got up with the sun and began their day. Centuries ago they had no concept of what would unfold in what would much later be called Holy Week. And now we, too find ourselves on this Monday, in many ways beginning this new week, this Holy Week. In more ways than our hearts and minds can comprehend, we too find ourselves not knowing what will be unfolding for us in these coming days. 
 
     What I do know and what I am holding on to is what David spoke of yesterday – there is in us a remarkable capacity to love and to hope. We’ve seen this living around us in these past weeks. We’ve seen it in small and great acts of kindnesses. We’ve seen it in small and great sacrifices. We’ve heard it in small and great prayers spoken as we’ve somehow navigated our way through these days.  
 
      Wednesday at the end of the day last week, our Child Life Specialist team at the hospital showed their great capacity for loving and hoping. They grabbed a bucket of chalk and started writing and coloring and loving and hoping us into YES. Some of their artwork is in the slideshow below. Maybe it is all the happy drawings or the colors they chose, or maybe it’s that they saw bigger than what was immediately around them and allowed themselves to be led by their life-giving spirits. However their gift came to be, these chalk work inspirations have gifted all of us - parents, kids, staff alike. 
 
     David preached us into being mindful of our capacity to love and to hope. He preached us into being grateful for that capacity. And he gifted us into being intentional about that capacity. There is in us, you and me a deep well of living water. We have it always with us, and maybe this day is the perfect day to be reminded of it. We can always draw from it, this living water. It is for us and for all around us to drink. On this Monday of Holy Week, we are invited to drink deeply from it, and just as importantly to share it with others. 
 
     As we are living in these pandemic days, as we are living in this Holy Week, who knows what this week will bring?

 
     This pandemic has rocked our world. This pandemic has brought most all of this planet to a halt. This pandemic has so remarkably changed how we are now living our lives.  

     Each of us have stories to tell. I hope that we are doing that. Friends have gotten the virus. Some recovered, some not able to. Friends have had to spend their birthdays alone. Friends have lost loved ones and are told they can't gather for their funerals. Friends have had first grandchildren born days ago and are still only able to see pictures of their granddaughter. Friends have lost their livelihoods; some friends continue to go to work every day. Students have lost their senior years and graduations. …each of us have stories to tell. It’s the sharing of our stories that help us find meaning, help us stay connected, help us tend and care for ourselves and one another. It happens in both the telling and the listening. There will never be a balance. Sometimes it will feel like we are talking way too much, and that’s just what is needed in that moment. And there are times when we feel almost like a sponge, wanting to hear more and more from a loved one. There is life in our telling, there is reassurance in our listening, there is love in it all. Each story. Each time. 

     This isn’t how today is supposed to go. For Christians around the world today is Palm Sunday. Our ageless story reminds us each year, that this is the day when Jesus’ journey through the wilderness came to the road at the bottom of the hill below Jerusalem. Many of us remember the story, we are told that a couple of his friends went ahead and got a colt for him to ride and enter triumphantly into the city. The only part that feels true for me from that story is that today feels very much uphill. Somehow, even though the calendar marks this as the day of arriving, I don’t feel like I have the energy to make it up this last hill with him into the city. Left foot, right foot.
 
     Palm Sunday is all about the parade. Palm Sunday is about a procession winding its way through the Holy City. It is about Jesus being welcomed and proclaimed King over us all. Palm Sunday is all about gatherings and celebrations, about waving palms and singing songs of “Alleluia.” And for us, for this day instead there is sheltering in place and 6 feet distancing. It’s quiet, even in the big cities. It is strangely, almost frighteningly still. Few cars, few people, empty streets. 

     We have come this far by faith. We have not come this far to turn back now. How many times have you heard these words? How many times have you felt these words? How many times have you lived these words? This is surely our day to proclaim the strength and faith we have lived in and through to make our way up the final hill into the city. After journeying this far through the wilderness, surely this is the day to celebrate and announce his arrival into Jerusalem. Surely, this is the day. Left foot, right foot. 

     Only in the gospel of Luke do we hear the words from the 19th chapter, the 40th verse: “If the people hold their voices, surely the rocks would cry out.” I think this is the Sunday for just that. I think this is the Sunday when we need to listen, you and I, for those rocks already crying out. Here in these days when our countries, our cities and neighborhoods feel eerily quiet, here is the place where we stop and listen. Will the crying out come from the rocks that are singing? Will the crying out come from the dogs walking by or the birds flying overhead? Will it come from a stranger's greeting and kind eyes? Surely, we have not come this far to turn back now; surely the singing is already coming forth. Listen. Pay attention. The song has started, it began when we drew on our faith and inmost strength to journey up that last hill. Jesus is right here, right now in the midst of us. Nothing can hold back our songs, our stories, our crying out – we can take our lead from the stones. Listen, they are singing the most beautiful song. Listen, dear souls, the stones are singing the songs we know by heart. Alleluia.

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​    ​     We’ve been traveling on this Lenten path for a while. We began our journey to Jerusalem weeks ago back in February. Through the wilderness we have taken steps in and through what was then true and what is now so very differently true. The world has turned upside-down and inside-out. In so many ways, our world will never be the same. 
 
     We’ve come this far by faith. We’ve come this far by hope. We’ve come this far by prayer. Your prayer and mine, our prayers joined together have brought us to this place. They will continue to hold us and guide us. This I believe. This I hold onto. This I pray to be true. 
 
     Breath prayers are great for red lights and for walking. Now we are learning that they can companion us as we find ourselves sheltering in place. They are so very helpful for me when I am caught in mind-loops. This frustrating and stuck time when I get stressed and fixated on just one thing over and over and over again. Breath prayers can come to slow down the merry-go-round and bring it to a halt. Breath prayers can settle our shoulders and settle our souls. They can bring to the front that which will shift our hearts and quiet our minds. They can re-connect us to our spirits.
 
     Breath prayers are two words or short phrases. The first phrase is spoken when we breathe in, followed by the second when we breathe out. 
          (Inhale) “The Lord is my shepherd,” (exhale) “I shall not want.”  
          (In) “help” (out) “me.” 
          “You have created,” “and are creating still.” 
           "Beauty," "all around."
 
     What I keep finding over and over and over again is that the prayer is already in me, yet sometimes I need to be intention, to stop – so that I can remember to pray. Breath prayers are there to remind us to slow down. They can remind us to refocus. They are living prayers to remind us of our deepest truth: God is this close - as close as our next breath. 
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My life goes on in endless song
Above earth´s lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?
Songwriters: Eithne Ni Bhraonain, Nicky Ryan, Roma Ryan

                                                                                                                                                                                    Songs

​      Singing has been one of my treasured companions as I've been making my way through these COVID-19/ Lenten days. Songs have come as a Balm in Gilead, to heal my sin sick soul. Songs that call for the coming of a fount of every blessing, that tunes my heart to sing Thy grace. Songs that sing of streams of mercy, calling for songs of loudest praise. Songs have brought memories of strength, reminders of encouragements and promises of spring’s new life. Songs have gotten me from there to here and I believe that they will see me through to my very last step.
 
     How Can I Keep from Singing is one of those songs that stands tall in the face of fear. It's one of those songs that calls on the strength of ancestors and brings me echoes of their wisdom.  I'm worried now, but I won't be long.  Do Lord, oh do Lord, oh do you remember me? God's gonna trouble the waters. I know all these songs from the inside out, and when I sing them, they come back 'round again. When I sing them, they bring comfort and reassurance. When I sing them, they bring both groundedness and inspiration.
 
      My singing on this COVID-19/ Lenten journey has changed as the journeying days have changed. Sometimes the songs at dawn are led by the first birds who feel the surrounding darkness and call out for another with their song. Songs sung alone can be changed as my pace changes, can be as mournful or as goofy as my heart calls up. Songs sung with another or two or three calls for harmony, the kind of harmony you hear and the kind you feel. Songs at dusk are often reflecting and remembering songs, ones that hold my heart as it holds my story. Songs sung late into the dark are perhaps my most honest and tender, my most vulnerable and intimate. Day by day, hour by hour songs shepherd me as I take my next step. 
 
     How can I keep from singing? If there ever was a time for singing it is now. As we live in and through these days as this virus is growing, as we draw closer to Jerusalem, we are called to sing. These are our singing-in-the-shower songs. These are the songs that we sing at the top of lungs, the songs that we know by heart. How can we keep from singing? This long-ago tune reminds us that the song sings in us. This COVID-19/Lenten journey calls out to us to keep singing, to keep listening for another’s song and to know how we are all held in each faithful melody.