In the 1990’s I had the privilege of working for seven years with women and men infected and affected by HIV/AIDS. Dickens’ words “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” echoed during those days in Atlanta. Across lines of class, race, gender, and age those same words rang true. They were impossibly, precious days and shaped many in our generation. That work taught me a great deal, and I continue to learn from the many memories I carry with me. One of the pieces 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. We are people of stories. We move through our days collecting memories of encounters that comfort and sustain us; stories that break us open and gather us in. Especially in our times of grief are we most aware of them companioning us, as though we are wrapped in a storyboard quilt. We treasure them and these body-memories continue to live in us as we make our way on. Part of our grief work is letting go of what we’ve been physically doing during the ending, dying days. Our physical care for our loved one often took a great toll. And the body remembers. When we cared for our loved one, our routines shifted and we created a schedule focused on time for their care. And our body remembers. Our self-care often became secondary. And our body remembers. It’s a miracle really, carrying those hours and days in our bodies. afterward physical healing at a cellular level is needed as well as emotional healing. We need to take gentle care of our whole selves in these tender days of holding on and letting go. As we watch the moon tonight we are reminded that more light is coming. With this light may we be encouraged to do what is next for us. May we find comfort knowing that our bodies will remember the love that continues in us as we journey on. Breath Prayer: "Steadfast" "spirit" Prayer: Steadfast One, create in me a clean heart. Begin again with me so that I might be refreshed and soothed by your healing balm. Transform my weariness of body and spirit so that I might return to you, Healing God, and turn to what is ahead. And in the morning may I awaken to your light that is guiding me on. Amen. (thanks to friend Susie for this picture of the bowl and the ones below) Time is passing. Time is passing and we all watch as one day is moving in and through and quietly, steadily, faithfully passing into the next. It’s not unusual to look up and know that we are witnessing the passing of time. Somehow (really, how did that happen?) we are already in the middle of May. I don’t know if it’s because we are now firmly in the computer-age when everything seems to be instantaneous…or if it’s because I know in my bones that I am getting older…or if it's something in the middle of that, but surely, truly, in fact time is passing. So quickly. My Mom’s younger brother, Tom and his beautiful bride, Cynthia are here in Atlanta visiting this week. They generously make this trek from California most every year, “to keep track of how tall the boys are getting,” they say. Their coming shifts our schedules. Cousin Erika, Claud and Bets and our families eat dinner together each night, to lean in. We share one another’s houses and share the cooking, and each night we sit around the table to share stories. Past stories and present stories. We catch up we each other. Our prayers of blessing before each meal, and many of the stories name the ones who are no longer with us around the table. Our prayers and stories name the ones who are living in other parts of the country. Our prayers and stories continually, over and over re-call and re-collect our family. The picture taken here was from a night we went to the movies to watch a play. We got to see Angela Lansbury and James Earl Jones in Driving Miss Daisy. It was wonderfully done and wonderfully fun to be together to do that. We grabbed the moment and snuck off together to share that time. Time is passing. In The Summer Day, Mary Oliver asks that question, “What will you do with this one wild and precious life?” and it’s true. We spend each hour of each day answering that question. Having lost both Mom and Dad, my heart knows well that i am living my life holding on and letting go. My Uncle Tom holds the stories of our family. He can connect people with places and places with times and times with people. His hands so remind me of my grandfather’s and the love in his heart, so remind me of my mother’s. My Aunt Cynthia marks moments. She is one who cherishes times together. Her picture is under the word “hospitality” in the dictionary. They both so love their family – it matters to them that we all share a deep, rooted bond together. That is their living legacy for us all – and with each visit, we are reminded. I love that they've known me my whole life and now are knowing the boys in the same way. I love that they're interested in me and my family. I love that we all carry the family story - different tellings of this story, that's for sure - and we are all carrying it. Grab Each Moment. Grab This Moment. Seize this day. We won’t always have this luxury of time, these sharing of meals and prayers and stories. Time is surely passing. And for this one wild and precious time, we are together…and -- each time it happens -- I am forever thankful. (A great example of Mom's leaning in. This is moment shared during a visit with cousin Karen.) As I remember my Mom on this Mother’s day, one of the first images is how she was always leaning in. It wasn’t that she wasn't able to hear or see (although those things gradually did happen for her later in her life). Instead as I grew up and watched this practice of hers over and over, gradually I came to understand that Mom deeply loved the folks around her. Her leaning in was her way of literally drawing folks closer. It wasn't because she couldn't hear, it was because she wanted to hear more. It wasn't because she couldn't see, it wasn't that at all. Instead she wanted to see everything that she could possibly see - she wanted to see what was in the face, in the flower or on the picture. Mom was interested in what was around her. And in this lesson alone she taught me well about life. And with Barbara Ann, there were so many lessons… Mom died of lung cancer in October of 2005. When she entered hospice, she told us that she wanted to stay in her newly claimed home here Atlanta surrounded by her family. And so our family helped that happen. Her hospital bed was set up in the living room. She was up and in her courtyard garden the day before she died. Mom did her best to live into her death. This October will mark 10 years since her death. In so many ways that is just plain wrong. Without her leaning in - for everything and everyone who came into her life -- without that leaning in, there continues to be a tender, missing-place in my heart. My mom continues to be present with me, all the time. Even now when something amazing happens with the boys, I want to pick up the phone and call her. And sometimes that feels so real to me that I forget she’s not living a mile away in Decatur. ------------------------------------------------- One of the chapters from my new book, Grief and the Psalms: Companioning the Moon for 29 Days is about Mom’s leaning in and embracing her three girls. The verse used for this chapter is from Psalm 23, “Surely goodness of mercy shall follow me…” Not long ago I sat on our front porch swing here in Decatur and watched a thunderstorm blow in. Sitting there on my porch I remembered how Mom had loved watching storms just like that one when we were little. She would somehow gather us all in, holding my two sisters and me on the couch on our screened porch. The four of us would watch the storm blow in, somehow all held snuggly together. Often there was a fierce wind with torrential downpours. We could see the sky suddenly bright with lightening. I don’t remember her words, or if she spoke at all. I just remember being wrapped up in her arms and feeling so very safe in the midst of such noise and smacks of light. As I continue to lean into the comfort and reassurance of this psalm, I have a body memory of sitting on our front porch, being held by Mom. It’s not really logical in the midst of a great storm to feel safe. While some might say, “take cover,” here’s the thing that was true for me: I was already securely resting in the safest place I knew. I was being held and loved in my mother’s arms. Surely goodness and mercy ~ just four words. More than enough to encourage and comfort me. More than enough to bring me home again. Early one morning after letting John Brogan out of the car a mile from high school this past week, (so he could walk with his girlfriend…that’s a whole ‘nother story) I passed a Mom and 7-year-old boy and their 10+-year-old black lab walking to school. I couldn’t help but go right back there, to those days not that long ago when we walked with the boys and our black lab to elementary school. Maddie was the world’s best dog, and she would say that she had raised our boys as much as we had. Our boys have companioned Murphy (a black a brown shepherd), Maddie (a black lab), Buzz “down” Lightyear (an Australian shepherd), Emma (a red-boned, coon hound) and now K’bu (a chocolate lab). We’ve been blessed with really good dogs – and as it turns out, pretty darn good boys. I know this isn’t a universally shared view, but I can’t imagine growing up without a dog. We were lucky because when I was 10, we got Sloopy (a mixed [up] beagle) and she lived with our family until all three sisters had left home for college. Sloop lived in a time before leash laws. One of our family’s favorite memories was singing Christmas carols in the neighborhood. Sloop walked into almost every house along the route and was greeted with treats and hot dogs all night long. [That girl could “work the room."] Sloop would run beside our bikes all through the summers. And she walked Dad every night for a mile or two and so they could both be home in time for Johnny Carson. Dogs are unique in all the world. When the boys were little and our lives were chaotic, every night when I opened the door after a long day at work – there was Maddie sitting there, wagging her tail. Waiting. For me. She did that for Linda. And for each of the boys. Although we (actually) saw her rolling her eyes at each of the boys when they acted like kids around her. And I think she started (actually) sighing – a lot – after Sam was born. I don’t think she had anything against Sam, she liked him – it was the principle of the thing. We got Maddie when she was a puppy, 6 months before Brogan was born. And I truly think that her eye-rolling and audible sighs were overt signs of wishing for the good old days. As I watched the Mom, the boy and old dog walk slowly down the street I was mindful of their pace. Five years before, I bet the Mom and dog had intentionally matched their pace to the toddler's – as he was slowly and carefully taking his first steps. And that morning as I watched, the Mom and the son were matching their pace to the old, friend who would most probably not be making this morning trek too much longer. Grey snout and tail wagging, that good ole girl looked up at her two humans as they were talking. Nodding her head, every now and then. But always on her guard. Ever the protector, ever the companion. I could tell just watching her, that she took this child-raring very seriously. I could tell that this was her boy. A hundred million years ago, I never would have imagined having this conversation. On so many levels…having this conversation, would never have even been a blip on my radar screen. There and gone. Never recognized. Just there and suddenly gone. And yet, there it was…there we were … having it. By “a hundred million years,” I’m remembering my sophomore year at Illinois State sitting at the White Horse Inn on Friday nights writing out “life questions” on those white paper napkins. What if one of the questions that had been passed to me had asked, “What will you and your oldest child talk about when s/he is 16?” It’s impossible to explain to you just how alien that question would have been to me back in the day on those Friday nights a million years ago at ISU. And yet, John Brogan (age 16) and I had the most remarkable conversation yesterday driving home from breakfast at Evans. It turns out that Friday was the “Day of Silence” at Decatur High School (and in many places). Wikipedia says that “The Day of Silence is the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network's (GLSEN) annual day of action to spread awareness about the effects of the bullying and harassment of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) students and their supporters.” Our conversation was mostly Brogan’s talking and my (continually amazed) listening. “I think they’re going about it all wrong,” he was saying. “We don’t need to be silent. It would be much more effective if, instead of being silent, for each class we spent 10 minutes talking to each other about it.” He looked at me with this big smile on his face, nodding his head and said, “Now that would change things. We all need to be talking.” I wasn’t out in high school. I wasn’t out in college. I wasn’t out until I fell in love with Linda and the graceful, loving community at Candler made a place for us to be included – just for who we were. Two folks in love. We just need to talk to each other about it. The world is a much different place than it was back in 1977. For better, for worse things just aren’t the same. In our holding on and letting go as a culture, we have lost -- and gained -- a great deal along the way. We have wasted so many resources. We seem to have taken up ways to violently hurt one another, especially children. We now have words that mean/hold so much: “the internet,” “global warming,” “twitter,” “diversity,”“9/11,” “terrorists.” Our sons are growing up in a time when information constantly comes at them. They literally have the world at their fingertips. The potential for good has never been greater. Likewise the potential for destruction and wounding have never been so available to us. Each day seems to hold a tenuous piece of the puzzle, a vital and life-giving piece. Each day holds the chance for us to be silent; each day holds the opportunity for us to talk to and with one another. How wise our sons are. How kind. How open their minds and hearts are – in so many ways mine never was. I’m not turning over the reigns just yet. I’m not bowing out and going over to sit in the audience just yet. There’s so much yet to do. For all of us, for each of us. But for right now, I’m celebrating the hope that our children offer. Brogan says he's never heard of Act Up, but Linda and I both know that he’s standing on the shoulders of so many who have gone before. This living-out hope is in him. And because of our conversation, it is living a little bit stronger in me, as well. I was walking into Evans for breakfast one morning this past week (what a surprise, I know…). And because of the hour, it was just as the sun was coming up. Over the years, there have been some amazing sunrises. And that morning promised to be another one. Me (and my poor old tremors) pulled out my camera and started focusing. I found the colors through the lens, held my breath and snapped a couple pictures. What was so funny to me when I looked at the pictures I’d taken just a few seconds before…was how cluttered things looked…how crowded things looked…how city-fied my sunrise moment had become. “The wires are in the way. Look, everything’s distracted. There’s too many poles and cars and buildings to even see the sunrise at all,” I was thinking to myself. And then the “ah ha.” Actually, if the truth were told, so many moments are like this one: “If you could see past the wires to the sunrise, you would have seen the beauty I saw…” OR “If you had known her when she was younger…” “OR “if I had my old job back, you’d know what I could do…” Sound familiar? My "ah ha" moment invited me to pay attention... My “ah ha” moment invited me to be intentional about participating. My “ah-ha” invited me to be present in the moments that are always taking place around me. So often things can get swept up together and the beauty in the midst of the moment gets missed. The beauty is there. Right there in the center, right there in the heart of the picture. But there is so much busy-ness around it and too often, we allow that moment of beauty to get lost. Sunrises and sunsets come to us; a single bird singing out a solo chorus of “Alleluia” comes to us; a hand on the shoulder at just the right time comes to us and it’s up to us to celebrate. It’s up to us to breathe deeply and give thanks for this precious journey we are taking. It’s up to us to not miss the beauty in the midst of the busy-ness. It’s up to us to see past and through the wires to what is bringing us life and joy. Blessings and joy to you on this Easter Sunday morning. Every year these three final days of Holy Week bring comfort and strength. Each year I am reminded of their power and presence for me throughout the year. I am reminded of their presence in many of my days. Good Friday was a perfect day here in Atlanta. The sky was blue and the air warm. And it was a day for so many of living out Good Friday’s loss and letting go. As a hospice chaplain, I know well the living out of Good Friday days. As I walked the hallways of our unit it was palpable for me. As I walked past rooms hearing soft gospel music and quiet words of release - as I walked the halls watching families and friends keeping vigil and shades drawn – as I walked the halls I yearned for something to sing or hum. I wished for some melody to accompany my heart. Good Friday songs so often for me come from a deep ache and get caught in my throat. Holy Saturday has become more important and more meaningful every year. It is the next day. It is the dawning of the day after. After the death of a loved one or a dream has died. It is the day when you really thought the world had purpose and place and you fear you were wrong. It is the day of deep, deep silence. And by lovingkindness Sunday comes. By grace and mercy Sunday comes. Easter Sunday. Another day, the next day. And the one that has made all the difference. Easter Sunday has dawned this day in Atlanta. I wonder what would have happened without the faith of those few who got up on Sunday morning and went to the tomb. They had lived through the long, aching, silent day before and still, still, still they got up and stepped out into faith. We are told that they rose in the darkness to anoint Jesus. We are told that they walked quietly together to the tomb. And then the most amazing thing followed. We are told that when they arrived they were greeted by an angel who said to them, “He is not here. He is risen. Alleluia.” Three days that continue to hold my faith and hold my heart. Three days that walk with me and hold my life. Good Friday’s truth of death and loss. Holy Saturday’s silence and waiting. And Easter Sunday’s Alleluia. Friday and Saturday feel so empty, hours into days without a melody. But now, Sunday morning ~ well so many hymns are being sung to the glory of the one who lived, died and rose again. Death where is thy victory? He is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia. There is a great song near the end of the musical, “Wicked” that sings: "I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason bringing something we must learn and we are led to those who help us most, to grow if we let them and we help them in return. Well, I don't know if I believe that's true but I know I'm who I am today because I knew you... Like a comet pulled from orbit as it passes the sun like a stream that meets a boulder halfway through the wood who can say if I've been changed for the better? But because I knew you I have been changed for good" The more I work with those who work in hospice, the more I find these words to be true. The song's words and phrases companion me well on many days. And sometimes the whole feels true. Hallway through the woods. Many of us find ourselves halfway through Tender days. Holy days. Full and seemingly empty days. Hallway through days. As Linda and I are raising our two pretty amazing boys – one in middle school and the other high school, I’m daily aware of how important it seems to them TO KNOW things. Details. Answers. Truths. Definitive results. All these seem to be part of their worlds. All these seem to be a way for them to navigate their way through their lives. And most days when I am engaged in this work I am doing, KNOWING seems to matter less and less. It’s not so much a part of what matters for me. In so many ways, we are all halfway through the woods. All of us. Those in hospice and those in middle school. This is not meant to be morbid or fatalistic in anyway. Instead it is one lens through which I am looking these days. This song opens with the truth about teachers/ companions/guides/soul-mates coming at the most best times. Folks who have either lived something similar or folks who are loving us enough to share the journey – if just for a bit. I’ve surely experienced those sharing-journeys folks, and am experiencing them most everyday still. Grace abounds in those moments, when hallway through the woods invites me to stop and pay attention. Stop and take a good, long breath and stretch a bit. Halfway through the woods moments welcome us to focus on what brings joy and love and life. And then start again… Every now and then - when angels appear and grace abounds - we are continually graced by love. Every now and then - when we are blessed - we are re-gifted with the love that has been long holding us. Every now and then... Yesterday I drove down to see my friend Mary Jean "Joan" in Macon. Her son, Steven was on Bradley's baseball team and they were scheduled to play the Mercer Bears. I got to the game after it had begun and my longtime (you'll notice, I'm not saying "old" here) friend came and found me. I was standing at the top of the bleacher stairs and she found me. We figured out that it had been 22 or so years since we had last seen one another. So many years before we'd sat next to one another at Illinois State learning to be Music Therapists. She was also much smarter, and so kind and very, very funny. Most of my memories were of goofy things and lots of laughing. After graduation, we'd gone our own ways ~ she's married kind, Rich and they'd raised their family in the Chicago area. I'd eventually come to Atlanta for seminary, met kind, Linda and the two of us had likewise been raising our family. Time had passed. But every now and then when the angels appear... Steve was not pitching the game yesterday. [He's resting his shoulder, and I look forward to hearing the good word from his next start with the Braves next week]. That meant that Joan and I could catch up (honestly, I can't remember how or why "Joan" became her name for me, but it stuck...). And we had a lot of catching up to do. We'd both been raising families (theirs a daughter and son, ours two boys). So we talked and tried to shared highlights and struggles of those years; we'd listened to each other as we talked about disappointments and dreams for what's next. And we talked. And talked. The nine inning game played on and we cheered every good play, all the while listening with our hearts for how the other was doing. And we were both OK. After all these years, and all that we'd lived in and through - we were both OK. Harry Chapin sang a great song, I Let Time Go Lightly. A line from that song - "Old friends, they mean much more to me than my new friends. For they can see where you are, and they know where you've been..." I couldn't help humming that song on my drive back from Macon to Atlanta yesterday. Joan and were "old friends" and we were good friends, dear friends, loving friends. We picked up right where we left off those long years ago at ISU. So much had changed for each of us - and nothing had. We looked at one another and saw teenagers. We listened for one another and we heard stories of life - birth and death, holding on and letting go. Two old friends - catching up, watching a ballgame. If Steve had pitched the Braves to a victory, it would have been perfect. But as it was ~ it was good, so very good. As I move through this Lenten season I am trying to listen out for my ancestors. I’m listening and watching for messengers. In the hustle and bustle of everyday Atlanta, it’s so easy for me to lose my way. Our city is surrounded by I-285, “the perimeter” as it is called by the locals. And the truth is, more often than not the perimeter symbolizes the hurry and the scurry for so many of us in our work-a-day worlds. It’s as though we’re on a merry-go-round that we can’t seem to get off. Round and round we go and where we stop… And so in these Lenten days, I am trying to be mindful and intentional about making my way to and from places with purpose, with focus, with story. For this season that journeys with us from winter into spring, I am trying to create in me a clean heart that lives from the inside-out. As I listen for my ancestors, time and again I am brought balance and meaning. Time and again I am brought home again. Lent can symbolize a wandering time, a time when we journey through the wilderness. In these days we can think about what we carry as we make our way through; we can think about what has become burdens for us. During the Lenten season, we can consider and re-consider what changes we would like to make to free up our bodies and our spirits. That’s where ancestors come in for me. Throughout my life, I have been blessed with companions along the way who have served as guides, teachers, friends. Through our past times together I have witnessed lovingkindness and generosity. They have shown ways to sing new songs in foreign lands. They have done justice, loved kindness and walked humbly. And in these wilderness days, I am watching and listening for them. So many of these messengers are now in the Great Cloud of Witnesses. I miss them deeply. I miss walking and talking with them. I miss the way he played piano, or she painted on canvas, or they laughed with their eyes. I miss their lessons of faith and hope and love. But their living gift to me is that when I am mindful of the messages they brought, I am able to pay attention and to listen for the something similar in others. It’s as though, because they have begun those songs of justice and mercy, I can recognize the song when I hear it sung in new ways around me. And in this Lenten season this year, I am yearning to hear another verse of those old faithful songs. We’re not alone as we make our way. Companions share the journey. Step-by-step, story-by-story we are reminded that our Creator is always, always in the midst of it all. In the silence and in the singing, God is with us inviting to listen and to watch; inviting us to be surprised by what is and what is yet to be. |
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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