I've always known that my four year old has some of my traits, but our recent move across the country really put it in plain view. Before the move we would talk about it as I tucked him in. Tears would roll down his cheek as he said "I'm not going to make any friends there." I would tell him that he is wonderful and of course he will make friends. I would tell him that we could make friends together, but he insisted "I will never make friends!" I would be thinking how I wished he would be more rational about it and see how silly it is to worry. Then I would hear those same words coming from my own mouth. My friend was planning a trip to come see us and asked me if a certain weekend would work. I said, "Of course it will work. I have literally nothing on my calendar after the move. I will just be sitting around lonely and friendless." Then she played the part of the rational reassuring one telling me that of course I would make friends and look at all the friends I made in Toledo. I heard her but I still had my doubts. And now here we are; loving our new home and already making wonderful lifelong friends.
When it was time to drive away from our home of seven years I said "woo-hoo road trip!" and turned around to see my four year old's chin quivering as he wiped a tear from his eye and said, "Mommy, I'm sad." I told him I was sad too and we held hands and let tears fall as we drove out of our beloved city. It was hard, but by Indiana we had joined the other two in singing along to the music.
Yesterday was his first day at his new preschool on his own. Before school was an epic meltdown. He was nervous and did not want to go. I reassured him, told him things he could do there, told him how much he liked it when we went together, and stayed firm that he was going. But inside I felt awful because I totally got it. I was nervous too. We have been spending so much time together, I was sad to be away from him all morning. Besides that, I had been there. I freaked when I had to go to preschool ... and first grade ... and youth club at church. I remembered how that felt. But I also know the rewards of doing things that are difficult. I don't know how I learned it but somewhere along the way I decided that I would force myself to do things that were hard. I remember clearly that moment as a 14 year old when I walked to the front of the room at my first speech tournament. All I could think was "why am I doing this?" After four years of speech team, two years of coaching and ten years of preaching I sure am glad I did it anyway. I hope my son learns that same thing. In the meantime I guess I have to keep compassionately pushing him but also keep knowing when not to push.
I struggle with that for myself. I love my current situation. I love being home with the boys, I love being involved at my husband's church and my son's school. I love volunteering and exploring. But I also wonder if I should be pushing myself more. Every time I did supply work (when you fill in for a pastor on a Sunday morning) I was like that 14 year old speech competitor. As I packed the kids up, took them to a sitter, programmed the church address in my phone and drove to a place where I did not know anyone and was completely unfamiliar with their usual worship routines, I thought "why am I doing this?" But every single time I was glad I did it. I felt renewed spiritually, emotionally, physically and mentally. I connected with people and kept working on the things I love like preaching and leading worship.
So what now? I
don't know. Moving here was right for my husband's career and a great
place for all of us to live, but what do I do next? I have no idea.
And this is coming from someone who decided her career at age 13. I
have always mapped out my life and followed it completely. Now I have
no plan. Maybe that's ok? Maybe after years of pushing past the worry I
am ready to live in a way that is less planned and more spontaneous?
... sounds too uncertain. A wise friend told me that God's calling is
less of a direct road map and more like the next stone across a foggy
lake. Sounds great, but hard for a person who over prepares and thinks everything out to the point of worry and reluctance. Maybe I
just keep hopping and surround myself with people who will push me to
the next rock ... and keep holding my son's hand as we jump together.
Every year many of us Christians struggle to find a way to be in a state of “not yet” while the world seems to be in a state of “now.” During a time of celebrations, feasts, gifts and extravagance, Advent calls us to be patient, still and reflective. Many of us cling to the image of Mary during this time of waiting. She had no choice but to wait. Her wait was physical, emotional and visible as her belly expanded with the days. Baby kicks and stretch marks were the words of prophecy and promise for her. Pregnancy is a waiting game. On the good days you embrace and enjoy the moment you are in- cherishing every feeling and the anticipation. On harder days you wince as you look at a calendar, wondering “how many more days of discomfort, worry, stretching and back pain?” The wait is physical, emotional and visible to everyone (and they like to comment on it). Waiting, preparing, making more and more room for new life.
The interesting thing about counting down the days of pregnancy is that you are actually anxiously awaiting something incredibly difficult and painful. When I went to the hospital having contractions with my second son Isaiah, I was hoping that the nurse would tell me it was indeed time. Even though he was a bit early, I felt ready. I did not want to be pregnant anymore and I wanted to meet my little man. I insisted on no drugs of any kind and no epidural. I calmly watched the clock tick through the night and the snow fall outside the hospital window. I helped Jeremiah figure out who would lead worship since it was a Sunday morning. I took deep breaths and repeated things like “faith over fear, mind over matter.” And then it got real. The nurse came in and looked shocked, she remarked on my change in demeanor. My calm, cool and collected face was replaced with discomfort, fear and dread. I remembered what it was like as the contractions got closer and closer together. I forgot about my mantras as my body contorted. The peace and calm was pushed out by a writhing pain that took over my entire body. Doubt replaced confidence. And then just when I announced to the doctor that she would need to do a c-section because I could not do it any longer, just when I had completely given up … new life. And within minutes I was blissfully holding a tiny baby with a perfect round face and asking my husband to please get me another Rice Krispie treat.
I found myself thinking about that memory in an unlikely place. I was sitting there in a dimly lit hospice room holding the hand of my dear friend. I was whispering encouragement in her ear and watching her husband encourage her by her bedside. There were so many physical reminders of childbirth. She was laying on her back as the painful cancer took over her body. Up to this point, during the months since she found out the cancer was back and it was terminal, she had prepared. She prepared her young children, her friends and family. She wrote letters, bought gifts, said what needed to be said. And I watched as the time came. It was hard. And then just when we started to settle in for the night, just after the hospice nurse left talking about increasing dosages … her last breath. I went home in a daze. I collected my kids from our neighbor and put them to bed very late. Jeremiah was at General Convention in Utah. I was worn out, hanging on the edge, about to fall into the depths of despair and just when I thought I could not do it, that I could not handle it, that the darkness would overcome … I laid down next to my then three year old and he asked me where I had been. I told him my friend died, he smiled and said “that’s good mommy because now she is with Jesus.”
Yes, new life. We wait with hope, we prepare, we make room, we count down, we try to say “not yet” to everything around us that says “now.” We look for hope and peace in a chaotic world that is full of fear and pain. Just when we think we can’t wait anymore, when this world needs a savior, needs hope … new life. A new life that changes everything, a new life that challenges us, that challenges the world we live in, that challenges our wish lists and plans and agendas and desires and relationships. It can be painful … but it is new life. A beautiful new reality ushered in with a tiny body. And just like my baby boys, just like resurrection … it is worth waiting for.
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
Seven years ago I was a name to many of you. A name as part of a
paragraph, a paragraph as part of an introduction that probably went
something like this, “The Vestry and the Search Committee are happy to
announce that Jeremiah Williamson will be our new rector beginning in
April. He comes with his wife, Jennifer who is a United Methodist
pastor.” For many you I stayed a name for a while since I was busy
being the pastor of Woodville United Methodist until 2013 when I became a
stay at home mom and started coming here. But now … well I’d like to
think I’m more than a name, or maybe my name means something more, more
fully a name. Now that we have celebrated the birth of children
together, we have mourned together, laughed together and prayed together
week after week. Now we are more. But at first we were names to each
other.
Names carry so much weight. When we named our children we
took it very seriously. We read and researched and reflected. In the
end we cheated, we went with names that had already become great. We
took two amazing stories, Oscar Romero and the prophet Isaiah and
attached them to our children in the hopes of bringing them roots and
inspiration. Names are a big deal, the first thing we learn to write,
the first question we are asked, the word we sometimes dread and
sometimes long to hear from others.
In the Gospel reading today
Jesus is identified. Sure, we already knew what he would be called,
but it’s here in this scene on the beach that Jesus is identified: God’s
son, the Beloved. This is who Jesus is, without this, before this he
may have been a name as part of an introduction, Jesus of Nazareth,
another name in the pages of history. But now he is God’s Son, the
Beloved. This is who he is, identified by the voice of God after he
emerges from the waters of baptism. Now it can begin, now his work of
saving and preaching and restoring can begin.
But more than just
Jesus is identified in this passage. This simple story of a group of
people by the river is an amazing revelation of who God is. It is a
complete understanding of the Trinity in one moment, one sentence, one
action. It’s not very often that we get a mention of all three members
of the Trinity in the same instance. But here we do. Jesus is praying,
the Holy Spirit comes down like a dove and God speaks. All three,
right there. What a sight.
This depiction might resonate
perfectly with your understanding of the Trinity. Jesus down here on
the ground, God way up there with a booming voice bestowing things upon
the earth and the Holy Spirit coming down. Like a divine hierarchy.
But let’s open up the picture for a minute, see if maybe there is
something more going on here.
Every now and then one is fortunate
enough to read a book that speaks directly to one’s soul and
revolutionizes one’s worldview. For me, that happened my first year of
seminary when I had to read a book called “She Who Is” by a Roman
Catholic nun named Elizabeth Johnson. The way she talked about the
power of symbols for God, God’s relationship to humanity and the Trinity
blew my mind, even in and maybe for it’s simplicity. She suggests that
the Trinity is more than a hierarchy or God looking down and giving
gifts to Jesus and the Holy Spirit running around doing the work.
Instead she sees the Trinity as active, alive, moving, circular. Less
about the parts and more about the connections, the relationships. God
the Creator giving God’s self to Jesus the Son, loving and moving in
him, all three bound together by love, equality and divinity. Elizabeth
Johnson explains what is sometimes referred to as a “social trinity” as
she says:
“At its most basic the symbol of the Trinity evokes a
livingness in God, a dynamic coming and going with the world that points
to an inner divine circling around an unimaginable relation … Not an
isolated, static ruling monarch, but a relational, dynamic, tripersonal
mystery of love.” “The threes keep circling round. Whatever the
categories used, there is reflected a livingness in God; a beyond, a
within, and a within to the world and its history; a sense of God as
from whom, by whom, and in whom all things exist, thrive, struggle
toward freedom, and are gathered in. To use one more model, this time
from the eleventh-century theologian Hildegard of Bingen, there is a
brightness, a flashing forth, and a fire, and these three are one,
connecting all creation together in compassion. All these metaphors
express the Trinitarian structure of Christian belief in God.”
What I believe Elizabeth is saying is that the Trinity is about
relationship, and we are invited to be part of that relationship. God
as Father, Son and Holy Ghost, all parts engaged in self-giving. God
says “this is my Son, the Beloved.” It is about the relationship. The
Holy Spirit comes down and then Jesus goes about his work in the love
and embrace of the Creator and Sustainer. They are more than motionless
figures, names in a book, images to be worshiped. They are not three
isolated separate Gods, but rather a relationship.
And so here
we are gathering together, experiencing God through relationship. We
come face to face, we join our voices in prayer because we are more than
just names, we are relationship. We are God’s beloved, saved by
Christ, experiencing the presence of the Holy Spirit and holding one
another’s hands.
We are invited to be part of this dynamic
relationship between God and creation. God gives God’s self to us in
love, mercy and compassion and we are called to give ourselves to God
and one another, keeping the relationship active.
When we
baptize we enter into this act of self-giving. The Holy Spirit is alive
and moving in the water, God is calling the baptized, and then the
newest Christian is sealed with the sign of the cross. In baptism we do
not use last names because we are part of this family, this
relationship where those distinctions do not matter because we are
called beloved.
But here’s the down side of relationships.
They can hurt. I take that back. They will hurt. We don’t get to
stay in this moment forever. We have to say good-bye at some point.
Whether it’s relocation or death or rejection or any kind of change …
and it hurts. When we open our hearts and give of ourselves to
another, through shared faith or shared pain or shared experience or
compassion or love or friendship, we open ourselves to immeasurable joy
and deep pain. Sometimes isolation is tempting, it might seem less
risky, more reasonable. But God calls us to love. Love God and love
neighbor. Give of yourself. This is our calling. This is what we are
baptized into, a relationship with a God who gives. So we keep at it,
cherishing the rewards and weathering the losses. We keep our place in
the divine dance, in our relationship with a living and moving God.
Seven years ago I packed up our stuff and headed west from Youngstown
to Toledo. I cried the whole way as I thought of all the wonderful
people I loved and that loved me that I was leaving. You were names to
me and I was a name to you. And then we knelt and took bread and wine
together. We said goodbye to beloved members and friends, we ate
donuts and chili, we sang Bible School songs, taught Sunday School, did
Bible study together. We sang and worshiped, we cried and prayed. We
grew, we welcomed more people into this place. And now our names mean
so much more to each other.
In a few weeks I will once again
pack up our stuff (a lot more stuff this time and twice as many people)
and head west, very west from Toledo to Colorado Springs. I will cry as
I think of all of the wonderful people I love and have loved me. I
will cry when I think of your names and what they mean … the
relationships. And then I will go to a place where I am right now just a
name, a name as part of an introduction that goes something like, “The
Vestry and the Search Committee are happy to announce that Jeremiah
Williamson will be our new rector beginning in February. He comes with
his wife, Jennifer who is a United Methodist pastor and their two
children.” And you will become a name and accept names as you look for
your next rector.
And then something will happen. God alive
and active, the names will become more. Relationships will blossom,
holy moments emerge, bonds form and the names will mean so much more.
This is life. A circle, a dance, always moving. This is how we be the
people God is calling us to be, engaging in loving relationship,
opening our hearts and experiencing Christ in one another.
I
will never forget watching my children get baptized here in this place.
Their wet baby heads and wide eyes as they watched the candle. I’ll
never forget the loving faces that greeted them as they were brought
down the aisle with the other newly baptized. I’ll never forget because
the Holy Spirit was in this place, making it more than a simple group
of people in a building, making it holy. Today Oliver will have this
experience. His wet head and wide eyes will be welcomed with love and
joy by people who will be so much more than names to him. The Holy
Spirit is moving in this place today. Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
active, alive, giving, receiving, loving. Right here. And we are a
part of it. Each of us with our own identities, stories and names, each
of us together, called Beloved.
As I stood there in the preschool pick-up line I watched as the
teachers carefully checked the names on the little paper plates under
the Play-Doh pumpkins and then handed them to each child as they were
dismissed. I stepped up to get my four-year-old and the teacher said
“We know which one is Oscar’s.” She then selected a flat pumpkin
sitting next to all of the nice round ones. He smiled as he took it and
proudly showed me what he made. I asked him why his was flat and I
have to confess my unspoken thoughts were “he didn’t follow directions
or he smashed it because he was being aggressive or he lacked some sort
of fine motor skill needed to make a round Play-Doh pumpkin.” It’s not
that I don’t think he is wonderful, I do, but I was just doing what so
many of us parents do and putting my own criticisms and insecurities on
my child. In a very matter of fact way he answered, “I didn’t want it
to look like all the other ones. I wanted mine to be different.” I was
embarrassed of my first assumptions and proud of him. A few days
later when he came home with a sparkly pumpkin with eyes spread as far
apart as possible I immediately congratulated him for his originality.
The
world in which my son will grow will only become more and more
populated with people more and more connected and also more and more
aware of standards, norms and “shoulds.” So, I’m happy that he can see
the value in being different. After all, you don’t name your child
after a Salvadoran Archbishop made famous by a radio broadcast that
boldly preached against violence and stood with the severely oppressed
poor people, a man who stood against what his religious authorities,
friends and government demanded, unless you are prepared for a child who
can go against the grain.
I thought about this as my mom and
I were having a conversation later. I was explaining to her that I
wanted to turn our basement into a play room because right now the play
room is the first room people walk into. I told her, “it looks crazy
and cluttered walking into a room of toys.” She looked at me with
surprise and said, “you’ve never cared about that.” It’s true. We have
a purple living room, a “Florida mango” nursery, a bright red living
room with a chalk board wall and a bright blue fireplace. Our house is
decorated with bright colors and things that we have picked up on our
travels or been gifted, things that have meaning for us. Lately though
as I found myself in other people’s homes for parties and play dates I
have looked at their carefully coordinated walls, uncluttered and
impossibly clean surfaces and found myself rethinking our decorating
strategy. But my mom is right … that’s not me.
I remember
nine years ago when I began my first appointment in ministry trying to
figure out who I was as a pastor. I worked with a wonderful senior
pastor who had his own way of doing things but never pushed that on me,
he encouraged and supported his associates as they expressed their own
pastoral voice. That was great, but I needed to find that voice. There
are so many decisions to make in ministry. I would find myself
wondering how other pastors I knew would respond to situations. It was
stressful and uncomfortable. Eventually, I gained confidence and began
to find my own way. It became a balance of learning from others while
also being the unique person God called.
All these years
later and I’m still in that process. Figuring out how to be who I am as
a mom, spouse, friend, preacher, someone who can learn from others
without losing my unique voice. Lately I especially find myself
wondering what is next for me in life. How do I balance the strong
sense of calling I feel for ministry with the rhythms we have
established as a family. As I look for models to follow or expectations
from others, I have to remind myself to be who I am and find my own
way.
So I have decided to embrace the chaos a bit.
Yesterday we decorated the outside of our house for Christmas and I
decided to bring up all the decorations, even the weird light up snowman
we bought years ago and never figured out what to do with. I even
brought up the wooden Mr. and Mrs. Claus figures that were left in our
house by the previous owners. I knew my one year old would love that
they were the same size as him. I hung up the snowman, stuck the wooden
figures in the ground and put every working string of lights on our
bushes. I laughed when I looked at it and told my husband to feel free
to edit. He did. He went into the house and came out with a big
plastic candy cane stick and stuck it right between the yellowed wooden
Santa Claus and the Mrs. Claus who for some reason has aged much
better. It was finished. The kids loved it.
I remember as a
kid being completely baffled by plain white lights, it seemed like a
wasted opportunity. Now I think white lights are very pretty and look
lovely, but it’s not me. I’m the house with the lights with big bulbs
because they remind me of the house I grew up in. The one with the
bright blue fireplace that matches the knickknacks from Mexico and India
we got during our travels. The one with the gel clings on the front
window that don’t make any sense because I promised the kids I would let
them be in charge of that part of the decorating. I’m the house with
the flattened Play-Doh pumpkin inside, where we are all trying to figure
out what it means to live in community, build relationships, learn from
others and still use our unique voices.
Preached at Bethlehem in Pemberville Exodus 1:8-2:15, 3:1-15 (Narrative Lectionary)
The days of Joseph were over … a distant memory. The days of feasting
upon the stored up grain in a time of famine were nothing but a passed
down story. The days of Joseph’s heroics, the people of Israel’s favor
with Pharaoh were no more. Maybe a story they told over campfires as
they bandaged their wounds and rested their worn down bones. Maybe a
song sung softly to mothers as they watched their babies taken from them
and thrown into the river. Maybe a dream imagined before the breaking
of dawn and the breaking of backs. As they laid the bricks for
structures that were not theirs, carried out orders for a people not
their own, cried out in agony from a foreign land, maybe it was
somewhere stored in their collective memory. A story of identity, a
glimmer of hope, a possibility of a different life. Maybe they told
each other the story so that their spirit would not be crushed along
with their will. Somehow, somewhere, some way they had hope enough to
cry out. Under the weight of Pharaoh’s oppression- the people of
Israel, enslaved, unheard by all earthly powers, cried out to their God.
The God of their ancestors, the God of the stories they told to one
another, the stories that lived on in their collective memory. The God
of Abraham and Sarah, Jacob … Joseph. They cried out for the next
chapter of their story. The story of God and God’s people. Come now,
save us, help us, continue in your relationship with us.
And God
hears them. It may not have looked like it at first. When Pharaoh
ordered all of the male babies born of Hebrew women to be thrown into
the river. God’s will may not have been clear when the midwives
protected new lives, or when a baby was rescued from a basket and given a
chance at life. Fear and confusion may have blurred out hope and
direction when the bush was in flames. But God hears them.
This story is so epic, so well-known, so true to human experience and
played out over and over again in human history. The Exodus was as real
for the slaves fleeing to the north in our own country as it was for
the slaves fleeing from Pharaoh in Egypt. A fight for freedom, a fight
for survival, a plea to God … the Exodus has happened many times in our
history.
As I watch the images of Syrian refuges fleeing war I
think of the Exodus. As I saw that image of a small boy washed up on
the beach, drowned when his family attempted to leave the fighting in
Syria, I thought of the Exodus. The baby boys thrown into the river.
The cruelty of oppression, the violence of the world, the human cost of
power games. I wonder what it looks like as those many, many Syrian
refugees desperately look for safety. As they leave their land and hope
to find impassible barriers parted for their safe passage. The story
of the Exodus did not end when the people of Israel left Egypt.
It is a story that we cling to any time we find ourselves up against
something that is just too big to change. When we find ourselves
without a way forward, desperate, beat down, afraid, unsure of where to
go. When the task ahead is impossible, too painful, too difficult, too
unjust. When we are up against a force much bigger than ourselves.
Like when someone in a position of authority makes decisions that hurt
us and there is nothing we can do about it. Or when we are the victims
of an injustice.
Maybe we find ourselves clinging to the story
of the Exodus when we feel crushed and all we can do is cry out to our
God. A close friend of mine recently went through a really difficult
time, a painful, impossible, devastating experience. She was a church
member in Woodville when I was the pastor there and some of you know
her. She was diagnosed with breast cancer and then after treatment it
quickly spread across her body. She was very beloved, especially by her
husband and three young children. She was a wonderful writer and so
many many people felt like they were part of her journey with her. When
she was waiting for test results or receiving news or having to tell
her children bad news she would put out a request for big, loud, noisy
prayers. And people prayed them. We prayed those big, loud, noisy
prayers. Prayers from a place of desperation and pain. Prayers from
broken hearts unable to see a way out. Prayers that sounded like those
desperate cries to God from the people of Israel. The ones from their
broken hearts. The ones they were praying when Moses was picked up from
that basket, when the bush was on fire. The ones they prayed that God
heard.
The story of the Exodus- the suffering, the crying out,
the response by God. It is epic. It is pivotal to the Bible. Over and
over again throughout the Bible it is referred to. It is taught, told,
celebrated, sung, prayed and remembered over and over again. Over and
over again the Bible says “this is who we are. Do not forget. We were
oppressed, we suffered, we were foreigners. We cried out to God. God
heard us and delivered us. Teach this to your children, write it down,
never forget.” This story is a story of survival, relationship, hope
and triumph.
This story is about the people and God. They both
act. And that is important. First the people cry out. They ask for
help. When we ask for help we admit that we are dependent. We can not
do it on our own, we are in desperate need of God’s grace and mercy. We
accept our humanness, our brokenness. In acknowledging that we are not
God we can reach out to God, open our hearts to God. We can fall on
our knees before God and take comfort in knowing that we are not alone.
It is ok if we can not carry the weight of the world on our shoulders.
We are weak, we suffer, we hurt, we fail, we are human. We are on our
knees crying out to God.
And God acts. God hears and when the
people call out, God calls back. “Moses, Moses …” In the middle of the
ordinary, in the leaves of a bush, God becomes known. The God of
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. God reveals Gods self right here in human
existence, and calls out. This is an amazing thing about the God we
pray to- God works with us. God calls back, invites us to be part of
God’s saving work, to journey with God.
Moses is the connection
between God and the people. The way in which God responds to their
cries. That baby floating down the river becomes a bridge between
heaven and earth. In his address to Congress last week, Pope Francis
said this about Moses: “On the one hand, the patriarch and
lawgiver of the people of Israel symbolizes the need of peoples to keep
alive their sense of unity by means of just legislation. On the other,
the figure of Moses leads us directly to God and thus to the
transcendent dignity of the human being. Moses provides us with a good
synthesis of your work: you are asked to protect, by means of the law,
the image and likeness fashioned by God on every human face.”
A
powerful way of understanding the work of Moses- leading us directly to
God. Witnessing to the transcendent dignity of the human being, the
human ability to transcend our earthly existence, our mortal bodies and
communicate with God. In the flames of a bush, Moses transcends the
God/ human divide, he communicates directly with God. And over time is
given the task of protecting the image stamped by God onto every human.
Moses becomes the connection between a desperate people and their God.
The path between their struggles and the God who journeyed with their
ancestors, who made them who they are, who created the world.
Their
broken backs, tired hearts and desperate pleas are met with a baby
thrown into a river and a bush on fire. God hears their cries, God is
at work, calling out. Even when the task ahead is as insurmountable as
mighty Pharaoh, God is at work. There is a way forward.
Sometimes
it’s hard to believe. I know that on that journey with Moses sometimes
the people had a hard time believing. As mothers feared for their
babies lives, wept for the ones not plucked from the river, the way
forward must have been hard to see. It can be hard to see anything when
your eyes are swollen from tears. For the Syrian refugees the way
forward is unknown, invisible and far off.
This week as I
heard the news of another school shooting, saw pictures of another group
of students huddled together, shaking, crying in front of police
vans-it felt like too much. It felt like too much some years ago when
the students huddled together were five years old. Too many shootings,
too much violence, too much pain, too many children killed, too much
politics, too much disagreement, fighting, hatred, no way forward. No
exit from our current situation. No balm for the broken hearts.
Insurmountable.
Don’t forget. Our story. What God did.
The God we believe in. Write it down, sing it, say it, teach it to the
children. The people cried out and God heard their cries. Moses lead
the people out. A way forward, a land of promise and hope. God walked
with them.
And what about my friend I mentioned who asked for
the big, noisy prayers during her cancer treatment? There were times
and are times when the way forward is hard to see. The night she died
it was hard to see much with swollen eyes from crying. We fell on our
knees, we prayed, loud, hard, passionately. Where is the way forward?
Don’t forget. Our story. What God did. The God we believe in. Write
it down, sing it, say it, teach it to the children. God does not
abandon us, God hears our cry. I tell myself that when I learn from her
memory, when I see her children smile, when I see the difference she
made on so many lives, when I think of her faith, when I believe in hope
beyond the grave. A way forward, somehow. A path for the refugees, a
hope for the hopeless, a possibility for the peace of the world, the
peace of the children in our schools, healing for grieving hearts.
Remember our story, hold on to it and keep walking forward, but don’t
forget to remove your sandals.
It’s
been over two months now since Laura died. Her name is no longer on my
“recently messaged” for text messages. I no longer instinctively pick
up my phone to text her after I put the boys to bed to tell her
something funny or see about getting together or ask how she is or vent
about something. I’ve started referring to her house as Aaron’s house
now. And yet in many ways it still feels like it just happened.
I
knew the funeral would be hard, but I also knew it was something we had
together. We worked on it together and I felt her presence so
strongly. I got to meet all these people I had heard about or had seen
on facebook. I got to see pictures of her and hear stories about her,
stories from long before our five years of friendship. I knew the hard
part would be when it ended. As I walked down that long aisle when the
service ended I looked straight ahead and there was that picture of her,
like she was looking right at me. I went in the sacristy and cried the
tears I almost kept back during the funeral.
I miss her. I
feel like I can barely breathe when Sarah comes on the radio. I wish
her supportive and attentive eyes were still in the congregations I
preach to. I wish she was still one of the first “likes” when I share
pictures of my babies on facebook. I miss the way she understood me.
Whether it was deep talks about belief and theology or figuring out
parenting, I miss the nods. The nods that said “yes, I get you.”
I sent her this text eight days before she died: “You
sang my song. Do you remember when you sang the song I wrote in
church? I was nervous and felt really vulnerable sharing words I wrote
like that, but you sang it with confidence and love. And in so many
other ways you sang my song, supported me, talked me up to people, got
on board with projects, Bible studies, etc. And you sang my song and
still sing my song because you get me. You get my sermons, you connect
with the deepest sharing of my heart and that gives me courage to dig
deeper. When I was having a hard time figuring out how to preach at
all these strange churches with people I don’t know, I figured out that
if I pretended you were in the congregation it was so much easier and I
did much better. Thank you for singing my song. I will try my best to
sing yours.” She texted back “I have no doubt you will sing my song beautifully Jen. I love you and trust you.”
I’ve
been debating with myself what I should share about that night that
Laura died. Even though she shared so openly through her blog and
facebook posts, there were many things she kept private. Plus, her
final moments were such a profound gift to me that I want to hold them
close and keep them for myself and forever have that intimate moment in
my heart. Yet I also know that Laura shared this journey and she did
not hold back whether it was about foobs or her anger at cancer or
grieving her loved ones. She even shared with us that moment that I
know many of us will never forget reading- when she told her children
she would soon die.
And I know that she wanted good to come
from this. As Tammy and I talked outside the Hospice room she told me
that Laura told her to make sure that good came from this. She wanted
others to be strengthened in their faith through her sharing. She
wanted to bring others closer to God and help people find joy and peace
in what she called a “brutiful” world.
So in an effort to keep singing her song, I want to share the way she courageously and with faith and love left this world.
When
I got there the room was full of people. I just started talking in her
ear because … it was a hard situation. Aaron was always by her side,
encouraging her, telling her he loved her, holding her hand. She just
got there around 12:30pm, it was only around 7pm when I got there but
the end was very close. She was still talking and in many ways herself
the day before. It all just seemed to happen so quickly. She didn’t
want to linger in a way that would prolong the pain for her family. Her
closest friends and family bravely and sincerely said goodbye with open
hearts and deep love. The crowd grew much smaller and the Hospice
nurse said they would clean her and make her more comfortable. We went
in the hallway. Who knows what we talked about, it was a strange blur.
It was getting late and I knew that her brother and Aaron were staying
by her side through the night. I saw that the nurses were finished and
I asked Aaron if I could go in and say goodbye. I held her hand and
talked to her. I told the Hospice Nurse about her, how we actually met
there at that same Hospice when I was visiting her father. I told her
all the many, many people who love Laura, all the lives she touched. I
noticed that Laura’s eyes were open, they had been closed since I
arrived hours before. I commented on this to the nurse and she told me
that when the nurses were cleaning her they saw the picture of her
children and told her how beautiful her children were and they saw tears
come down Laura’s cheek. I immediately started telling Laura about how
well her kids did when they said goodbye. I told her everything Aaron
told me about their strength, resilience and understanding. Laura’s
eyes were looking around the room but not at anything I could see. Her
breathing slowed and that’s when the nurse ran to get Aaron. In that
time of just the two of us I sang in her ear “I believe in the sun, I
believe in the sun, even when, even when it’s not shining …” Her
brother and her husband quickly came and each held a hand. I sat at her
feet and smiled through my tears. She looked around, her breathing
slow, calm and steady and she took two last breaths and then was gone.
This
is what I mean when I say she went peacefully. The scars on her body,
the swollen liver, the pain in her bones was not peaceful. The agony
she felt in saying goodbye to her children was not peaceful. The
tear-stained faces on her best friends as they could barely breathe
their goodbyes were not peaceful. But somehow, by what I believe to be
the power of the Holy Spirit the end was. She never wavered in her
faith. She knew she would be ok. So she did it bravely, she faced it,
she fought as hard as she could for every day she could watch her
children grow but when it was time she faced it with honesty, courage
and faith. I know that for me, it has and will always have a big impact
on my faith. I will hold on to the memory of that forever and it will
fight against all of my fears of death. The peace in that room, the
courage in her soul, the faith in her words throughout her final days.
I will never forget.
When I was ordained my husband invited
my friends and family to contribute to a custom made journey stole. A
stole is the scarf that ordained clergy wear when they lead worship and a
woman in New Jersey (Colleen Hintz, Fruit of the Vine Vestments)
hand makes custom stoles that tell a story about the person. So she
incorporates symbols and images from your journey onto the stole. My
stole has an image of the woman at the well because it is my favorite
scripture. It was Laura’s favorite too and the one she chose for me to
preach on at her funeral. Six years ago when I was given the stole I
would have never imagined how powerful that symbol would become. Now
she represents Laura. A part of my journey, a part of my soul, a part
of my voice as I preach. And in all the congregations I preach to, in
all of the new places, those times when I need to prove myself, or help
people understand what I am saying or bare my soul to pews full of
people … she will be there.
“If I know only one thing, it’s that everything that I see Of the world outside is so inconceivable often I barely can speak Yeah I’m tongue-tied and dizzy and I can’t keep it to myself What good is it to sing helplessness blues, why should I wait for anyone else?” -Fleet Foxes
