Psalm 19:1 The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims God’s handiwork. (NRSV) A week and a day before Halloween I was up on the ninth floor of a high-rise just in time for sunset. And as I settled into the corner of one of the couches, I witnessed one of the most beautiful sunsets I’d seen in my lifetime. Coincidence? Right place, right time? Called by the One who knows me best? I don’t know. Even though it was late October, that sunset held a winter sky. There was a lot of gray. But the setting of the sun was a bright, yellow slit cut across the gray clouds. I sat and watched as that slit fell silently from the sky. More often than not when I have the time/take the time to watch a sunset, I am reminded of images described by the writer of Psalm 19. In those precious minutes, I'm aware that my mind slows and comes to a place of rest. I find that I start breathing deeper. Here, in this unexpected time more often than not, I remember to pray. In the next several minutes on that late October evening, I witnessed the slit settle into the horizon. I took a deep breath and exhaled a thankful “amen.” As I started gathering up my stuff around me, I turned to offer one last “thank you.” And when I did I was overwhelmed by nothing short of glory. The sky had exploded into layers of orange and red, yellow, blue and purple. I wished I’d had my phone, so I could have taken a picture. Or I wished that I was half the artist Mom was or John Brogan is ~ so that I might paint what filled the western sky. “The heavens were surely telling the glory of God….” There is a holiness in sunset-watching. I learned it from my grandparents in Illinois and it was strengthen at my mother’s side. It is truly a spiritual practice. It asks for attention and patience. Time is different here. More often than not (because sunset-watching doesn’t happen in a hurry or all at once) I find myself praying in that way that I don’t bring God my agenda. Instead this kind of praying is the sorting-through-thoughts-and-memories kind of praying. This kind of praying is that pausing, stopping, listening kind of praying. Just as the western sky holds a canvas that is gently and subtly changing shape and color, so then is my prayer. Healing of our hearts and hurts can come in unexpected ways. Moments like that sunset on the ninth floor reminded me of the holy-waiting that invites us to witness the glory of God. It invites to stop for just a time and remove our shoes, for surely we are standing on holy ground. Times like that, reminds us that we are not alone. We are reminded in those holy moments that there's something greater than ourselves. Someone greater than us ~ yet amazingly, thankfully, deeply connected to us. Always has been, always will be. Breath prayer: “witnessing” “God’s handiwork” All Encompassing One, you bring beauty into our lives each day. You have created and are creating still the miracles of our days. Open our eyes, our ears and our hearts so that we don’t miss your glory all around us. We offer our thanks and alleluia. Amen. [ Editor's note: This is one of the chapter's from my next book, "Grief and the Moon."] {And below is a picture friend, Susie took years ago with Sam. It's a different miracle...and the amazing truth is ~ miracles are shown us everyday} Psalm 36:5 Yahweh, your faithful love is in the heavens, your constancy reaches to the clouds. (NJB) “It’s been a year,” my friend said smiling with her whole body. A year. A year since her diagnosis of breast cancer. A year since surgery and radiation. A year since her life was turned upside down and inside out. All of a year…only a year. A year’s time can be like the blinking of an eye, or it can feel like eternity. It’s a marking of time, but these words only begin to tell the story. For some this marking is time living with an illness. For others it marks the days into weeks, weeks into months after a great loss. We can find encouragement in Psalm 36. Here we are reminded of God’s faithfulness to us. Constancy. Enduring presence. Continual source of hope. From beginning to end and into beginning again, God is with us. In the words of my friend, I heard her proclaiming celebration and as I listened closer I could hear “alleluias” sung by angels. In these same words spoken by those who are learning to live without a loved one, I sense the changing of trees from falling of leaves, to the barrenness of winter, to the buds of springtime. God’s faithful love is in the heavens and God’s love is right here beside us. God’s love is with us as we listen for one another’s words, as we listen for one another’s hearts. Breath prayer: “faithful” “love” Prayer: Holy God, we are in awe of your graceful presence. We look to the heavens and marvel at all that you have created and are creating still. Send your loving spirit and remind us that hope is all around us and holding us close. We give thanks for our days in years, we give thanks that always, always you are with us. Amen.
Grace Finds Us Every now and then - when we are paying attention - we are welcomed into grace. Perhaps grace is always there, holding us. It’s hard for us to see this and feel it when we are deep in our grief. But I believe at some of the best times, when we least expect it, grace finds us. Grace found me on a late spring afternoon while I was sitting and rocking on her front porch. It came in the quiet that followed a thoughtful question. I was visiting with a gracious, southern lady who had recently lost her beloved husband of 73 years. She had macular degeneration and I had learned early in our time together that even though she could barely see, she continued to experience beauty. She was kind and generous in her story-telling and although I hadn’t gotten to know her husband while he was alive, her stories provided vivid images of who he was and how they spent their years together. Their love continued to live on in her as we sat on her porch that afternoon and we rocked and talked side-by-side. After sharing several stories, she said to me, “Now Lesley, tell me why you do what you do.” And then she waited patiently while I searched for an image that conveyed what this work means to me. “Most days,” I began telling her, “it can be like entering into a wonderful art gallery. What I love about my work is listening to stories. When I begin getting to know someone, like we’re doing today, it’s as though I am imagining a blank canvas. “Through your sharing of stories about your husband, I imagine shapes and colors gently appearing. And as I listen, I am invited in as treasured, precious images of your loving and living together begin to take shape. “Slowly with each visit, with each story a bit of color appears. With time, these colors begin to blend together and I can begin to see. With time, what was blank takes on a form that I can glimpse with my heart’s-eye. With time, grace enters in. And the privilege of this work is that as I pass through this gallery of colors and stories, I believe that I am witnessing something that is held in the center of God’s heart.” I stole a glimpse of her then, rocking and listening, smiling and nodding. And I knew it to be true. The psalmist wrote of longing to see the goodness of God in the land of the living. Walking through this wonderful gallery of story-paintings with folks feels close to that goodness of God. I was reminded again while rocking in an old rocker and grace found us both. Breath prayer: “seeing goodness” “all around us” Prayer: Holy One, as we welcome more light returning again this night, we give thanks for all that we are given the grace to see. We give thanks for people who come into our lives, embodying your loving presence. Open our hearts, our eyes and our ears so that we remember and experience more fully your loving grace, holding us our whole lives long. Amen. +++++++ This is one of the chapters from my new book: Grief and the Psalms: Companioning the Moon in 29 Days. It's been fun to write again and I hope if you appreciate this chapter, you'll buy the book when it's ready. Thanks to friend Susie for most of these pictures in the slideshow... Very early on Tuesday morning, I am going to have my right knee replaced. I'm as surprised as anybody. I've had trouble walking for a while now, but a total knee replacement? Really?
(I can hear Linda's brain ticking through the list of surprises she didn't realize she was saying "I do" to on November 1, 1991. And here's the miracle of growing old(er) with someone ~ "the hits just keep coming...love you, honey.) 13 years ago I was playing on a women's softball team (what was the name of it, Bets? All you ever remind me is that I talked you into playing for "sister time," and I went on the D.L. during the first game). Don't remember the score, but do remember there were two outs and runners on 2nd and 3rd. "Just drive it to right field and outrun the ball to first base and two runs ought to cross the plate." And sure enough (memory has it that) a pitch came on the outside part of the place and I shifted my feet just a bit to punch it into right. To do that I brought my right leg back and shifted my front leg forward. And wham! [To this day, not sure if it was the ball sailing out to right EXACTLY where'd I'd planned, and the meniscus in my right knee popping.] I limped on down to first - "safe" and then limped on over to the dug-out. And with that my softball days were done. We didn't know until the surgery that my meniscus had popped and taken a bit of my kneecap with it (I remember in the recovery room, the doc holding what looked like the state of Iowa in my face...turned out it wasn't Iowa, it was a part of me...). "You'll have some arthritis in that knee and eventually it'll probably need to be replaced, but for now you're good to go." Fast forward: over the past 5 years I've had some trouble with my lungs and infections (someday, I'll tell you about the damn hospice rabbit, but that's another story) and I've been on steroids off and on most of that time. It turns out steroids are the magic bullet for my lungs AND my right knee. After the sinus surgery in March (thank you, God and Dr. Chin) I've been healthier (read: less steroids). And with that came more walking, and now (wait for it) my right knee is killing me. Trip to the knee folks (thank you Peachtree Orthaepedic Clinic) and it brings me to this tender good-bye. Very early on Tuesday morning, I am going to have my right knee replaced. [7:30 am EST for all who would offer a prayer or two with my deep thanks]. Hospital for 3 or 4 or 5 days, home health for a week or so and then rehab for 2-8 weeks. All these days of wondering and wandering in my head as I play this out, has made me very nostalgic and thankful. From my first steps until this day, I've led with my right. This knee has walked on hikes at Girl Scout camps in Indiana, California, and Arkansas. It's walked the dogs with Dad and our boys. It's walked beaches from coast to coast and then some. It's rambled Granddaddy's orange groves playing hide and seek with Claud and Bets. It's played some pretty good tennis, and guided me toward my lifeguarding certification. It's squatted more times than I want to remember as I caught softball and motored around the bases with a grand slam or two. It's walked me down the aisle with Linda. It walked the floors with each of our baby boys on those early mornings when they would have rather cried than slept. It's walked many a Saturday morning to sit at Booth 25 and on weekend afternoons walking around the neighborhood listening to the Braves on the radio. It's knelt with me for my ordination and at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. It's brought me from there to here. I want to say something profound and meaningful. It's served me well, even when / especially when it hurt to do so. And so, old friend I am mindful today and into tomorrow that we are fearfully and wonderfully part. As Mom said so beautifully, "The fearfully part (about the surgery and recovery and rehab) ~ I got. I'm interested," she said, "in the wonderfully part." So thank you, and here's to all that's waiting ~ just around the bend. From the first time we met Emma, it was all about her tail. On the day we adopted her from the Humane Society, we actually went looking for someone else. Brogan had his heart set on growing up with a particular kind of canine, “I want a golden retriever puppy, so she can sleep at the foot of my bed and we can grow up together.” There wasn’t a golden available on the day the family went, and 7 year old Brogan’s heart seemed about to break. He walked just about every dog in the place and none of them captured his heart. After a while he joined me on a bench in the courtyard with head hung low. Right about then a van pulled up having been at an Adoption Day at a Pet Smart or someplace and the three dogs who weren’t chosen exited. I nudged Brogan and tried to say something encouraging. When I looked back at the dogs, one dog sat with her back to us. It was her tail I saw first. It was the most beautiful tail I had ever seen. It was as long as the dog was tall. The tail was woven blond and red and copper. I’d never seen anything like it. I nudged Brogan again, he looked at her and agreed, it was a beautiful tail. When I asked the volunteer walking her back into the kennel about the dog, she said, “Her name is Emma. She’s a red-boned coonhound, pit bull. She’s our smartest dog.” Brogan went over to her and she became his dog. As she grew up her tail changed colors and Emma merged into a body of blondish, copperish, brown. It happened slowly and we never really noticed. It was her tail that became her identifier, it was her most effective communication tool. That tail let us know where she was in the room whenever one of her people entered. Thump. Thump. Thump. That tail let us know when she agreed with a suggestion, “Wanna go for a walk?” “Wanna go for a ride?” Her tail told us when we made her heart happy. Her tail was stronger than anything I’d ever known – it could wipe out whatever was on the coffee table and whack, whack, whack you on the leg, immediately getting your full attention. We gathered round her one last time this afternoon. She had developed a tumor on her back leg and treatment was not possible. Sarge (Emma's favorite person after us) was with us. Our vet, Dr. J. who has long-known Emma, came to the house to put her to sleep. She did not go quietly into the good night, and although it wasn't how we'd hoped, she was strong. She had a big, big heart. And she fiercely loved her family. She truly didn't want to leave us. Her spirit was just not enough, and we tenderly let it go. We thank you Emma for - being fiercely loyal, especially to Brogan and Sam - growing up with Brogan and being his most enthusiastic fan - teaching Sam how to pace himself in long-distance running (Sam was usually the first one out the back door, following after her when she was busting loose down the driveway and beyond) - loving Linda more than your natural instincts of eating the chickens in the backyard - taking (read: pulling) me on hundreds walks - teaching K'bu to love and trust us - all the rides through the neighborhood in the car - being such a great watchdog. Even when Dr J came this afternoon to help you pass over, you hobbled, barking to the door to let us know someone was here - teaching us not to judge a book by its cover ("pit bull" used to be an intimidating image until we met you) Grace upon grace to you, sweet girl. You companioned us lovingly and left way too soon. Please pass along our love to Maddie and Buzz when you see them. You will always be in our hearts, sweet girl. [thanks Linda and Susie for collecting the pictures] Psalm 119: 105 Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path. (NIV) There are days like this…days that just go wrong and I end up getting in my own way. Maybe it’s because I’m tired or anxious; maybe I’m angry or resentful. These snags catch me and I get tangled up and feel as though going back to bed might be the best possible solution…but the reality is ~ going back to bed isn’t always possible. Grief is a part of life. Losing loved ones is one of the many kinds of grief we experience. Losing hopes and dreams is another. Losing our sense of self and feeling like there is no longer a “true north” guiding us home is another kind of grief. These feelings of being lost in the world can sneak up on us, can overpower us, can snag our spirits. What can help us get un-snagged? What can bring us balance? This verse from Psalm 119 gives me an image for finding my way back…a lamp, a light. Breath prayers are helpful ways for me to un-snag. Breathing in and breathing out while focusing on a few words or a phrase, un-sag my wandering spirit more often than not and I find that these words companion me back. When I feel this snagging happening, it is helpful for me to stop….put both feet on the floor….roll my shoulders….and then try to find words that connect me with something greater than myself. When I have done this preparing thing, then I begin to breath in and out, speaking connecting-words, centering-words. Slowly, gently I am brought back to a place of balance. What has snagged me becomes secondary to what is guiding and leading me. Snags are emotional distractions. They drag me along so that I find myself reacting to things that come my may. Snags waste focus and energy. Give us a word, loving God. Send us a light, Gracious Healer so that we might come back to who we are and begin again to make our way toward healing. Breath prayer: “a light” “on my path” Prayer: Holy and loving God, your grace is greater than our fear. We give thanks for these words that serve as a lighthouse for generations of your children. Your words are lamps for us, leading us toward healing and hope, reminding us of faith and of focus. Guide us and in those times when we lose our way. May there be mercy and grace enough for holding on and letting go. Amen. ++++ One of the chapters I'm working on for my book: Grief and the Psalms: Companioning the moon for 29 Days I'm not very good at creating titles for sermons. When I was asked what my sermon title would be for preaching in Savannah on August 10th, I laughed. But when the second email with the same request arrived, I knew I had to do something. The gospel text for that Sunday is from Matthew with Jesus walking on the water. In that reading a storm blows up and the disciples are terrified. His response sounds so easy, “Be not afraid.” And from that came my sermon title (6 weeks out, me ~ the one who often can’t find her keys ~ asked to create a sermon title for 6 weeks out): “What Does “Be Not Afraid” look like?” What are we to do with these words in our world today? The violence and terror in the Mid East and Africa and in the hallways of our children’s schools. Here in Georgia, our Congressional representatives are passing laws for guns everywhere and we soon will be living with the uncertainty for what all of that means. Walking out of doctor’s offices with news and realize that our lives have just been turned upside-down. Downsizing to the point of no work for many of us, and frantic-catching up work for those of us still working. And yet, and yet, and yet I continue to believe in the possibility of grace and mercy. And yet, and yet, and yet I continue to believe that there is a greater power that holds us in love and light. In Wendell Berry’s piece Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front he writes, “Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die. And you will have a window in your head. Not even your future will be a mystery any more….So friends, every day do something that won’t compute. Love the Lord. Love the world….Ask the questions that have no answers. Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias…Be like a fox who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction. Practice resurrection.” Is this what Jesus meant by being not afraid? Can we possibly turn our fears into investing in something beyond ourselves? Can we turn our focus from the mundane to the millennium? Can we give up our need for controlling each and everything that comes our way to welcoming the reality of, the grace of, the holy that can be found in mystery? Life has been teaching me to trust “and yet’s” and I try to. More and more I trust less and less the notion that being in control is the answer to being in the world. I find myself leaning into what I’ve learned to be true: ~ time is limited ~ God created and is creating still ~ God loved me (and you) from my first breath, will love me (and you) in my last on earth and will love me (and you) in whatever is next ~ love lives on. So thank you, Billy Hester, pastor of Asbury UMC in Savannah for inviting me into this wondering: How Do We Live? We live our days, we live this day in love. Wait, you just heard my sermon… Grief and the Psalms: Companioning the Moon for 29 Days is the working title of my next book. Using a verse or two from the psalms and moving through the rhythm of the moon's cycles. This was the first chapter I wrote. It's for this time of the month, when we are moving from the New Moon moon (last Friday night) toward the Waxing Moon (next Saturday). Companioning the moon brings a comfort to my times of grieving. It gracefully reminds me that shifts come, and I won't always be feeling what I'm feeling now... Each chapter will have a verse, reflection, breath prayer (breathe in for "time is different" and breathe out for "here") and ends with a prayer for the night. This was actually the first chapter written. About Mom. Not much of a surprise there. She's always close by...let me know what you think and how many books you'd like reserved for you... +++++++++++++++++ Chapter 27 Psalm 90:12 Teach us to count our days that are ours, and we shall come to the heart of wisdom. Time is Different Here A few months after my mother died, I heard her voice as clearly as if she were standing beside me. “Time is different here,” she said. Four words. Simple, clear. Powerful, reassuring. And her words have been a comfort and guide ever since. So much of our days are spent racing against the clock or wishing for time to stand still. We long to be in control of these days we’ve been given. Chronos time is wristwatch time, calendar time, measureable-time. Grief time, God’s time is kairos time. It is the time in-between time. It is the time holding time. Sitting vigil with a loved one who is dying is kairos time. It can be exhausting and also the most precious, most holy time of our lives. We find ourselves breathing with the one who is leaving. There is so much to say and our words feel both so very intimate and yet not enough. Time is different….here. Counting our days and then coming to this time when we find ourselves counting our breaths, draws us unto the presence of the Holy. It is here in this place closest to the heart of wisdom that we draw near to the comforting grace of God. It is here where we catch a glimpse of the lifelove that has held us with each breath and will hold us until our last. And (as I’ve heard from Mom) beyond that. Breath prayer: “time is different” “here” Prayer: Wondrous God, teach us to count our days and to live into the beauty of this day. Draw us closer to you and to the grace and mercy as close to us as our next breath. Amen. “How long do we hope?” “How long do we hate?” Today marks an important milestone for me. Today I have come to understand that I’ve been asking myself to try to look in opposite directions at the same time. I’ve been expecting my heart to stay focused on what has been and what is present now. Today I have come to understand that I can’t do it, it’s just not possible. And today I’m living into the truth that I no longer really want to. “How long do we hope?” “How long do we hate?” These two questions were asked in A Trick of the Light by Inspector Gamache. And I find myself wondering the same. How long do we hate? Five year ago today I lived through a life-changing event. I was, without any warning "let go" from a job that I loved and that had come to be home for me. Five years ago I lost my home row (Editor’s note: When I took typing in high school a hundred years ago {back in the days of white-out} our teacher taught us that “if your fingers started wandering off and your typed words were no longer comprehensible, then return to your home row: a s d f j k l ]. That Monday morning five years ago, I found myself devastated and had lost my home row. When the dust began to settle, I realized that I experienced a life-shift. What had been true and certain the day before was no longer that. The job that I felt called to do was gone. And I felt so much hate. How long? And in the hours, days, months, years since I have learned so many life-lessons. I’ve learned about grace and mercy, about strength and resilience, about grief and healing. And I claimed these five truths: I didn’t die that day (even though I truly felt that I had). God is bigger than the institution of the church. Children listen and follow your lead. Things are stronger in the places they are broken (another Armand Gamache quote). Love is greater than hate. How long do we hope? This morning, five years to the day that I believed my world had ended, John Brogan was confirmed. This morning he joined NDPC where our family attends. He’s struggled long and hard with this decision. But/and what brings balance and thankfulness, joy and hope is that his struggle doesn’t seem to have been much about my previous struggle from years’ past. This morning his struggle has been about the three questions of faith asked of him: renouncing sin and evil, believing in Jesus as Lord and Savior and entering fully into the community of faith. As it should be. Hate. Hope. Home. How do we find our way home again? Today has been a good day, an important day, a rejoicing day. Today I was reminded of the strength of our sons, both Brogan and Sam. Today I felt the gift of family and graceful friends who continue to love us in and through life. Today as I held Linda’s hand I was so very grateful for the life we have created and continue to create. Today I felt held in God’s grace, and I felt that I was returning back home. We plan, God laughs. How long do we hate? Too long – the cost to ourselves and those who love us is too great. Too long – we waste our precious lives and miss out on so much beauty and laughter. Too long – we forget the priceless gift of trust. How long do we hope? Just a little bit longer...This morning in church five years to the day, I was reminded that we are all being carried by a river of grace. We've been invited into this great Mystery and called to attend to it as it is always attending to us. If your story knows my story, I wish you courage and strength enough to find your way home again. Today I can truly say that I believe anything is possible, because as John Brogan wrote in his statement: "I believe in the compassion I see whenever I'm in this church." As it should be. Here's to you, Barbara Ann. You continue in my heart and on my mind. Began working on the next book and the working title is "Grief and the Psalms: Companioning the Moon for 29 Days." It makes perfect sense to me that Mom's was the first chapter written. Thank you, Mom for loving me so well. I miss you everyday. +++++++++++++ (First day in the Waxing Moon Days) Psalm 90:12 Teach us to count our days that are ours, and we shall come to the heart of wisdom. Time is Different Here A few months after my mother died, I heard her voice as clearly as if she were standing beside me. “Time is different here,” she said. Four words. Simple, clear. Powerful, reassuring. And her words have been a comfort a guide ever since. So much of our days are spent racing against the clock or wishing for time to stand still. We long to be in control of these days we’ve been given. Chronos time is wristwatch time, calendar time, measureable-time. Grief time, God’s time is chairos time. It is the time in-between time. It is the time holding time. Sitting vigil with a loved one who is dying is chairos time. It can be exhausting and also the most precious, most holy time of our lives. We find ourselves breathing with the one who is leaving. There is so much to say and our words feel both so very intimate and yet not enough. Time is different….here. Counting our days and then coming to this time when we find ourselves counting our breaths, draws us unto the presence of the Holy. It is here in this place closest to the heart of wisdom that we draw near to the comforting grace of God. It is here where we catch a glimpse of the lifelove that has held us with each breath and will hold us until our last. And (as I’ve heard from Mom) beyond that. “time is different” “here” Wondrous God, teach us to count our days and to live into the beauty of this day. Draw us closer to you and to the grace and mercy as close to us as our next breath. Amen. |
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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