And maybe there are seasons And maybe they change And maybe to love is not so strange The sounds of the day They hurry away Now they are gone until tomorrow When day will break And you will wake And you will rake your hands Across your eyes And realize That it's going to be a day There is really no way to say no To the morning ~ Dan Fogelberg, “To the Morning” Walking has always been my touchstone. It has become that place I know I can go to remind myself of what is real, true, possible. I’m blessed with a walk most every morning. I park in the employee deck and walk on a road cut through woods about a mile to work at the hospital. There are buses carrying folks passing by, but for more than half of the walk, there are only sounds of the woods waking up. What a gift to begin the day this way. “It’s going to be a day, there is really no way to say no to the morning….” Dan Fogelberg (God rest his sweet soul) was in his heyday when I was in college. He was a Peoria boy, so many of his songs rang true with his Midwestern sisters and brothers. He sang songs about falling in love and out and back again. Souvenirs speaks to his gift as poet, “And here is the key to a house far away where I used to live as a child. They tore down the building when I moved away and left the key unreconciled.” He sang a remarkable song, Leader of the Band about his love for his father. And in To the Morning, he sang a song acknowledging the hopeful truth about morning's faithful coming, "It’s going to be a day, there is really no way to say no to the morning….” We all have things we do, practices that bring us balance. My father’s was playing the piano late into the night. For Gamma Gamma it’s sewing costumes for everyone in the school play. And for me it’s walking. Maybe I love walking because it invites me to see things differently. Maybe it’s because I remind myself that I can (literally) get from here to there and back again. Maybe it’s because, in walking I am reminded of the importance and the gift of breathing. Maybe reasons vary or they really don’t matter. I just know that I am better for walking. Every time. There are hills all along the way on this trek from the parking deck to the hospital. Most every morning, I’ve taken to the habit of pausing at the middle of the bridge that crosses over a railroad track. Most every morning as I am pausing to catch my breath, I take a picture of what the sky looks like as the sun is coming up. And most every day I give thanks for this remarkable gift of being able to participate in this practice of walking. Two new knees, healed and now healthy lungs, a good strong heart. So much to be thankful for. And I welcome her coming, this new morning. And most every morning I hope to live into this gift given. “It’s going to be a day, there is really no way to say no to the morning….” I am not their birth mother. Linda is. We dreamed them together - and then again with their two Dads long before they were born. Each boy, each son I have held in my hands and my heart since each one's first breath. Each boy has been a teacher. Each one pushed me farther than I thought I could go. Each one has been just what I needed at just the right time. Linda and I had been together for nine years when we talked seriously and hopefully about having kids. Daddy John and I had shared work in the HIV/AIDS community and we talked with him being Dad. The three of us went into this notion of a shared family with a covenant and many prayers. John and Rande got together in the midst of this, and Rande courageously joined the family. Brogan was born in 1998 and Sam joined us in 2001. By that time Sam was welcomed by two mommies and two daddies. Being Mom to Brogan and Sam has given me a whole new lens for witnessing the world. With them, I see the world in much bigger ways. With them, I see the world as not ending when I die, but going on long past me. They have taught me about diversity, about forgiveness, about hope. Together we have learned about mistakes, large and small - and we have learned that no matter what, we are together in it. With them and through them, I have grown into a more graceful and generous person. With them and through them, the world has become a more endearing and enduring place. Being a mother has a truly impossible job description. Linda is amazing mother. She is somehow able to juggle an endless number of things at the same time – dentist appointments, leaky faucets, doctors appointments, band concerts, permission slips, the pictures from the prom, not forgetting menus and bills. I have no idea truly, how she does it. And she's amazing about the life lessons that she daily instills upon them. I am not that kind of mother. I am the kind of mother that coaches their baseball teams, the kind that hugs them at the beginning and ending of the day. I am the kind of mother that insists that they slow down with all this growing-up business. I am the kind of mother that cries every Sunday in church. Truly I believe that the boys are blessed to have us both. On this Mother's Day, I am giving thanks to God for the opportunity of sharing the lives of these two boys that I didn't give birth to. I give thanks for the privilege of journeying with them every day of their lives. Never thinking for one minute that I would be a mother, God has graciously shared these two young men. God has shared these two strong souls who faithfully nudge me into God's possibility of YES. These two precious babies, they have grown into thoughtful, compassionate men. I am forever grateful to Linda for believing this could happen. I am forever grateful to Daddy Rande and Daddy John for this co-parenting adventure that we have chosen. My life is rich and wonderful, most every day to be one of Brogan and Sam's moms. It's funny how our language can take us forward or backward. Back in time can take us into the midst of a memory or it can be words of relief at being at the right place, right this instant. Same words, but with entirely different feelings. Back in time is both the "going backwards" and the "being right here, right now." Used in either way it expresses some feeling that holds emotion, holds energy, holds heart. When we go back in time, it's usually for a purpose, for a relief, for a life-line. We go back because there is something we are seeking that can't be found in this very moment for us. Going back in time takes me to a special place that I treasure or back to be with people who are no longer here now. As I move from family to family working in a children's hospital, I'm especially mindful of the holiness of that back in time traveling. Most everyday I witness parents going back. If their child is 3 days old or 3 years old, they tell me a story or two about what their son did, or an expression their daughter had on her face just before. Most everyday I am aware of ways we humans have of measuring time. In my last work with hospice and adults, I daily heard stories from patients or their families of life experiences. Stories of past adventures or celebrations or life lessons. And in much smaller, tender ways, I am mindful to listen for the same as I sit with parents at their child's bedside. Going back in time, is our human way of holding on with our hearts. It's our way of navigating the present, of being guided by what was most precious in our past. Going back in time is often best done with the heart. Last night sister, Betsey and I walked up to `Butter and Cream' to buy an ice cream cone from our favorite soda jerk, John Brogan. Along the way we stopped to admire the sunset. Bets took these pictures to mark our journey. One of the amazing things about this life we've been given, this life we're living moment-by-precious-moment is - if I hadn't told you, would you have known the pictures are of a sunrise or a sunset? From a picture, it's hard to tell. You can't really enter in, until you've been invited into the story. And with these words or invitation, perhaps you see and feel these pictures differently. Back in time can also mean, "whew, just made it." You didn't start without me. I didn't miss the moment. I am here. With you. Right now. Turning sixty is a waking-up time for me. It is a deep knowing of the preciousness of this time I've been given. Decades now for me of places and people to visit going back in time. And as Brogan nears graduation and Sam is close to getting his driver's license, I'm aware that I'm just in time, whew for what is right here, right now all around me. Back in time, whew. And thank you, dear loving and gracious God for it all. Holy Saturday. This in-between day. This day when time seems to stop ~ lost in the woods, wandering. Trying to stay on the path, trying to follow toward what is ahead. But it's hard to focus. Left foot, right foot.
As time passes and I move in and through this life of mine, I find that of all the days, Holy Saturday resonates most within me. Today resonates most strongly and most tenderly. This day feels to hold what is true. Holy Saturday lives out for me the strongest, most raw and authentic images of faith, of hope, of love. Holy Saturday was the day that those early friends and followers of Jesus didn’t give up. It was the day that they got up. If they hadn’t they surely would have missed Sunday’s sunrise. Good Friday’s story holds the images of those who walked beside him or waited up on the hill where the crucifixion took place. There they watched as the One who embodied Promise slowly, brutally, painfully died. And after a time they watched as he was taken down off the cross, wrapped in a cloth and carried away to a tomb. I can only image how long they stayed on that hillside. I can only image the weeping, the cursing the silence. I can only image the darkness that came and covered everything. The One who had taught and laughed and cried, had healed and preached and held – the Holy, Beloved One had died before their eyes. And now, what was next? What could possibly come next? Somehow, one–by-one and two-by-two they left and went home. After what had probably been a fitful or even sleepless night, the sun rose on Saturday morning. Holy Saturday came for those early believers. How they spent this day, we can only image. Some stayed behind closed and locked doors. Some were seen walking the streets aimlessly looking for some sign of life, of hope. Some might have found a favorite tree, and sat with backs against a tree looking off in the distance. Somehow they lived in and through this day. And when the sun set the long, endless day came mercifully to an end. Every year the lost-ness, the aimlessness, the brokenness of Holy Saturday feels true for me. For the past eight months, I have been learning how to work at our children's hospital. Most everyday I walk with Holy Saturday's brokenness. In the postures of parents, I witness our human, desperate clingings to hope. For as long as it takes, I will stay right here. In the faces of grandparents I feel the terrible tenacity of not giving an inch, not giving up. All of this and more are here in Holy Saturday. This is the day when everything that is known, counted on, when everything stops. Even the ground beneath seems unsure. And yet, and yet, and yet it is here, even here where our faith lives. Perhaps it is here where our faith is strongest. It is into this Holy Silence, that God’s presence dwells. Even here, especially here – God is with us. Behind the closed and locked doors, God is as close as our next breath. Walking aimlessly (left foot, right foot), God is as close as our next breath. Sitting with our back against a tree, God is as close as our next breath. Many of us have been raised on this Holy Week story. Ever since our first hearing, we have known how this week will end. We rush to hide the eggs for the hunt, shine our shoes for the service. Somehow walking the halls at the hospital, Easter sunrise walks just up ahead. But for today, I am sitting with the Holy Saturday's silence. One hot, summer day at Girl Scout camp in Indiana our counselor gave us each about a foot and a half of string. She told us to walk out away from each another and find a shady place to sit. And then she told us to make a big circle with the string and sit and watch. That was it – sit and watch whatwould happen. I remember thinking that she had gotten too hot and she’d lost her senses. What did she mean, “sit and watch”? That wasn’t fun. We weren’t doing anything. This might have been the lamest of all lame-ideas in the history of the world. But I did it. We all did. And wonder of wonders, we were introduced to something brand new that had been there all along. It’s still a helpful spiritual practice for me. And after a while you don’t really even need the rope. Just get somewhere comfortable. And sit. And watch. And wait. Sometimes I notice the moving things first – ants and their cousins crawling around. Sometimes I notice the stationary things first – sticks, leaves. Sometimes I notice the wind or the sun on my back. Sometimes I hear our neighbor’s wind chimes. In the watching and waiting I am reminded of all around me. There are worlds within worlds. There are stories within stories. Living things moving in concert, sometimes aware, most times not so much. Living things share space and place. Since time began we earthly creatures (in so many shapes and sizes) have been sharing space – and with our pieces of string we can be reminded again. (thanks to Rande for these pictures taken as we were stepping out on another adventure - this time Cumberland Island, GA) Two years ago when I wrote my book, "Grief and the Psalms" I wrote this chapter right before I had my right knee replaced. Tonight as I prepare for my left knee replacement, I am reminded of how grateful I am to have this body - and this life. The musical Hamilton has a song, "turn around, how lucky we are to be alive right now..." and it's true. So tonight, I say good-bye and give thanks for Linda and this village; for all the doctors and nurses who have brought me to this place - and look forward to many long walks ahead. Thank you, God. (editor's note: where it says "right" think "left" -- `take 2.') Psalm 130: 5-6 I wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope. My soul waiteth for the Lord more than my soul watches for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning. (KJV) For 57 years my right knee and I have been inseparable. As my total knee replacement looms close on the horizon, I find myself growing very sentimental about this old joint of mine. This knee has shared all of my journeys: taking my first steps, learning to ride a bike, and kicking me through the water as I learned to swim, playing every sport that had a ball. This right knee propelled me walking across the stage to graduate from high school, college, seminary, and kneeling to be ordained. This knee stepped out when my partner, Linda and I walked one another down the aisle. This knee rocked our old rocker in those early mornings when I was trying to get each of our baby boys back to sleep. This knee has been on walks with most everyone I’ve loved, has brought me a hundred times or more on Saturday mornings to Evans restaurant and to Booth 25, and has made her way on long walks listening to baseball games on the radio, or seeking solitude and listening for God. Total knee replacement in a few weeks. “Before the morning watch I pray…” Change is surely coming, and as one who looks and hopes for the dawn of something better, I am especially mindful these days. This is what I’ve known for so long. Even with pain, I’ve come to trust this knowing to be enough. What if things don’t get better? What if the pain is the same? Or worse? There is a restlessness in me as I watch for the morning. There’s a mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. In many ways I’ve limped these final steps and don’t know if I’m able to push through much more. The fear of not knowing is somehow gradually becoming less the focus for me. Instead, as I wait and watch, I am almost beginning to envision what could be next. In this time of watching for the light that is surely coming, I can almost begin to imagine some of what my next steps may bring. And for this night of waiting, for this night I give thanks for this old companion. Thank you for literally bringing me here from there. Thank you for carrying me all this way. Thank you for continuing on, even through the last hobbling days. Change is coming and I hope that the pain ceases and healing comes quickly. For all that has been, and for what is next I am leaning into God’s grace and lovingkindness. Prayer:
Recreating God, I give you thanks for all in my life that supported me in the past—but no longer serves me. I need to let go of some parts of me, aspects of me, old strategies I used. I am still grateful for them, and ask for courage and your loving presence as I release them now to make room for what is surely coming next. Transform me and be with me as I learn to lean on new supports as I journey on with you. Amen. Rest in peace, sweet sister. I learned this morning that my friend, Jackie has died. She lived a remarkable life and touched so many of us along the way. She and I met what feels like a hundred years ago in one of Paul Plate's `Grief and Healing' retreats. She was a sweet soul who carried wisdom and strength, gentleness and courage with every step. She has been a treasured companion, and it's up to us to carry on. It's so hard to imagine this world without her. My heart is heavy this morning, and it is so very full of love and thankfulness. Sending love and prayers for her family and so many friends. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ (This is from a blog I wrote a while ago about meeting up with Jackie. I hope that she will save a place for me and maybe a little peach cobbler) Time and again, I’m reminded of the preciousness of people, places and times. It’s funny because in the business of health care, “people, place and time” are indicators of whether or not someone is “oriented.” And you know – that’s more true than we know. For me “being oriented” speaks to what matters most to me. People. Places. Times. Not all that long ago, my friend, Jackie and I used to meet most Wednesdays late in the afternoon. We would meet at Evans Fine Foods. Each time my friend Jackie and I would set a date to meet for cobbler, my heart was oh, so happy. Well, just to be clear I ordered cobbler, and Jackie seemed to have a taste for the Brownie Delight. It’s all good. Jackie and I have known one another for 20 years or more. We met as fellow sisters in the fight against HIV. Back in the day before protease inhibitors our paths crossed. We met in those dark days when so many of the folks we cared for were dying. In those days people mattered, places mattered, time truly mattered. At her retirement party not long ago, I said “let’s meet at Evans sometime,” and started doing just that. There was such a comfort for my soul when she and I set a date with one another. It was as though our souls put flags on a hill up ahead, and in doing that, we held a place for one another. In the hustle and bustle of our days, I was so very grateful for this time we would set and spend together. Some may say it was for the iced tea and cobbler, and don’t get me wrong that was part of the truth. But the greater part of the truth was the joy I felt when I saw my friend’s face across the table. We would catch one another up on stories, of what had happened since the last time we’d talked. Little-everyday-things like hearing about Jackie’s invitation to the White House to honor her HIV work – that was a pretty great story. But you know what always topped her list was talking about her grandkids. Stories to tell – with laughter and tender, wet eyes. Jackie and I didn’t bring an agenda. We set a date, and saved a place for one another. That simple, and that precious. It was a time to let go and catch up. It was a time for listening with our hearts. Everyone needs a place where they can save a place for a friend. Evans Fine Foods had for years been that spot for me. It was one of those rare places where hearts were given time to catch up with one another. My family and friends have been sharing a table there for years. Most Wednesdays our waitperson, Pam served our spirits as well cobbler. There was something just fine when someone smiled my way when I walked into the restaurant. There was something just fine when I sat down at a table and before I knew it, an un-sweet iced tea and a smile or hug would appear – without my needing to ask. There was something so fine in this crazy, hustling-bustling days when someone looked at me with smiling eyes and asked, “how about the usual today”? Using the past tense as I describe Evans continues to break my heart. The restaurant closed back in Novembert. Many of us regulars are much like wandering pilgrims trying to make sense of the world. We seem to have lost our compass. If you know of a place that has the feeling “come on in, and rest your weary, sweet self,” please let me know. As time passes and I move in and through this life of mine, I find that of all the days of the church year, Holy Saturday resonates most. Resonates most strongly and most tenderly. Holds what is true. Holy Saturday lives out for me the strongest, most raw and authentic images of faith, of hope, of love. Holy Saturday was the day that those early friends and followers of Jesus didn’t give up. It was the day that they got up. If they hadn’t they surely would have missed Sunday’s sunrise. Good Friday’s story holds the images of those who walked beside him or waited up on the hill where the crucifixion took place. There they watched as the One who embodied Promise slowly, painfully died. And after a time they watched as he was taken down off the cross, wrapped in a cloth and carried away to a tomb. I can only image how long they stayed on that hillside. I can only image the weeping and cursing and silence. I can only image the darkness that came and covered everything. The One who had taught and laughed and cried, had healed and preached and held – the Holy, Beloved One had died before their eyes. And now, what was next? What could possibly come next? Somehow, one–by-one and two-by-two they left and went home. After what had probably been a fitful or even sleepless night, the sun rose on Saturday morning. Holy Saturday came for those early believers. How they spent this day, we can only image. Behind closed and locked doors. Walking the streets aimlessly looking for something of life, of hope. Sitting with a back against a tree looking off in the distance. Somehow they lived in and through this day. And when the sun set, the long, endless day came mercifully to an end. The lost-ness, the aimlessness, the brokenness of Holy Saturday feels true for me each year. As I’ve experienced losses of loved ones, losses of treasured jobs, losses of relationships the emptiness that follows lives here in Holy Saturday. This is the day when everything that is known, counted on, everything stops. Even the ground beneath seems unsure. And yet, and yet, and yet it is here, even here where our faith lives. Perhaps it is here where our faith is strongest. It is into this Holy Silence, that God’s presence dwells. Even here, especially here – God is with us. Behind the closed and locked doors, God is as close as our next breath. Walking aimlessly (left foot, right foot), God is as close as our next breath. Sitting with our back against a tree, God is as close as our next breath. Blessings and peace to you this day. Blessings on what was, what it and what will surely be. In our end is our beginning in our time infinity, in our doubt there is believing, in our life eternity... ...unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see. ~ from "Hymn of Promise Life isn't always easy, and we all go through times of rolling uphill or down. In the past several weeks my life has felt all uphill. Up, up, keep on climbing. Dig a little deeper, push a little harder. Left foot, right foot. And lately it's felt like there has been little or nothing to grab onto for the climb. I've got to say that it's been tough. More days than not have felt harder than my heart could do. "More than you can pray over," I've heard it said. And that felt true. And now as I come to this this day of Spring 2016, this brand, new day it's as though my spirit has been invited to begin again. Wake up. Look around. Breathe deeply. Now as I come to this day I am reminded of a great gift: God has found me over and over and over again. And I can't begin to find words for how grateful I am. Truly wide – open grateful. My sister, Betsey gave me a copy of the soundtrack from the musical "Hamilton" and those songs have been companioning me. "It would be enough," has Eliza singing, `look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now..." This whole past weekend has been filled to overflowing with living, breathing examples of the gift of `looking around.' Friday night, Linda and I met our friends Jeri and Susan and sat at a sidewalk table and shared dinner. All around us Decatur was just being Decatur. People were walking side-by-side, hand-in-hand, talking and laughing. People at home with themselves, with one another. Then Saturday after a gracious and kind breakfast with my sisters of Booth 25, I stopped by the Y. Two old friends from St. John's Church reached out to me with love and compassion. They had no idea of my weary spirit. They just showed up. They appeared to me as messengers of light and love. In these past couple of days over and over and over again God has reminded me of yes. My faith is incarnational. When I trust and believe, I am invited look around and see the grace of God in folks around me. On this first day of spring I am ready for a change. On this first day of a new season, I am ready for the turning of the page and seeing what comes next. On this chilly Sunday morning, I am so very thankful for the God who created and is creating still all around me. Hard times come and go. Feelings of being lost and weary-spirited are part of this life we live. This day I give thanks to God for the grace that reminds me of coming home again. On this first day of Spring, the light is comin' on, lest we forget. If those tiny sprigs of new grass, can push through the Georgia clay and make their way to the sun, then it is my joy to do just the same with my life and this new season. When we were in seminary at Candler we talked about growing edges. I came to understand my growing edges as practices that no longer served me well. Saying or doing these practiced things that now were getting in the way of seeing the world differently, of being in the world differently. One of my growing edges is a belief I (somehow beyond all odds) continue to hold dearly is: “what’s true for somebody else, is (should, ought to be) true for me.” And each time, each time, each time I am surprised to learn that this just ain’t true. And lately, I’ve been surprised. Again. Yesterday’s Epiphany manifestation presented itself in this message: I am not a pine tree. My father worked one job at the First National Bank in Mattoon for his entire professional life. My maternal grandfather worked his whole life for CIPS ( Power Company as lineman); my paternal grandfather was a lawyer in Groton and most of it was as city attorney; Aunt Sis was a 9th grade algebra teacher at Waterford High. I grew up thinking I would have one career, one job that I would do my entire professional life. It would have a beginning, a middle and after a measured amount of time there would be an ending. Straight and true. Just like a tall, Georgia pine tree. I am not a pine tree. After exercising at the YMCA yesterday, I planted myself by a big, ole window. I was letting my heart catch up and stretching a bit. And just outside the window, there was this beautiful, old oak tree. Lying there and stretching, my eyes followed the branches up and out to the tree tips. And I was given a beautiful gift: I am not a pine tree. As I stretched and breathed deeper and deeper, I imagined my life instead, as that oak. Solid, strong trunk rooted deeply in the ground reaching up to the sky. As my eyes followed the limbs branching out and up from the trunk, I was reminded of the branches in my life. All those times I thought I knew what I was doing/where I was going – and always, always something shifted and changed. For example, I truly thought when I went away to college after graduation I would come back to Mattoon and settle down, raise a family and teach PE for 30 years. And here I sit in our home in Decatur, Georgia as Linda’s life-partner, a mother of two strapping and kind young men, ordained in the UCC and serving as a hospice chaplain. I am not a pine tree. Spring is coming. Even now in the first week of February there are signs of spring. These brave, fearless daffodils remind us each year that we, too can hold strong and hold on. We too, can hope ourselves into something miraculous and beautiful. We, too can bloom where we are planted. How strong they are to push up and through the cold, dark ground and reach beyond what was before. Stretching at the Y I was reminded that my journey isn’t my father’s or aunt’s. My course certainly has not been predictable. I, too was given strong and deep roots. My trunk is strong and for me, there are meandering branches. Limbs stretching up and over and through. I’ve felt the winter winds bow and so far I’ve been OK. I was not born to be a pine tree, God had something different in mind for me. And stretching at the Y, I whispered a great, deep, tearful prayer of thanks. |
Lesley BroganWorking in Family Experience at Children's Healthcare of Atlanta, Lesley is an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ. A Candler School of Theology graduate, Lesley has just published her second book, Grief and the Psalms: Companioning the Moon for 29 Days (available on this website). She and her partner, Linda Ellis are raising their two sons, Brogan and Sam in Decatur, GA. Archives
April 2018
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