Sermon from Pentecost Eve, 5/22/21

 Genesis 11:1-9, Acts 2:1-11

             The Genesis reading today is the story of the Tower of Babel.  That famous story that serves as a strange antidote to any well-meant pleas of “let’s all live as one” and “teamwork is the best way” and “we are better together.”  Perhaps the trite summary of this story might instead be something along the lines of “Confusion is best” or “Please God by being a bad teammate.”  In the passage God appears to be displeased by human unity, ideals and aspirations.  And so the result is confusion, ambiguity and a bunch of different languages. 

          I wonder though … might there be benefits to the resulting chaotic existence?  Are there perks of living in a crazy world?  Maybe there is a case for confusion …

          In Robert Alter’s commentary on this passage he explains a bit about the origins of the word “babble” as he says, “a word like babble occurs in a wide spectrum of languages from Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit to Norwegian, and [is] … of echoic origin; probably not of continuous derivation but recoiled from common experience.” In other words, all across time and all across the world people have come up with the word “babble” or something similar on their own and based on their own experience.  Babble seems to be a universal language. 

          In fact, it is the first form of verbal communication for humans regardless of time and place.  The babble phase that babies go through is something I have always found completely adorable.  I remember fondly my little niece toddling up to me and expressing random noises with so much sincerity and passion, changing her vocal tone and facial expressions as though she desperately wanted me to hear what she was saying even though the actual words were utter nonsense … babble. 

          That’s the thing about babble, while it may be heard as nonsense, it is a genuine effort on one side to be heard, to be understood, to communicate.  One person’s babble is another person’s attempt to communicate.  We can either dismiss it as nonsense and go on our way sticking to the words we know and understand, or we can try to hear it, try to understand another person who wants to be heard but is struggling to get their message across.  

          I was thinking about this as I was speaking to a young person who was offering me words to describe themselves that I had never heard before.  I tripped on my pronouns and appreciated their patience as they tried to help me understand (through a mask even) these words that many people of their generation understand and use to convey how they identify themselves.  I had a choice: dismiss all of this as the babble of a younger generation and stick to the words I have used for years, or accept the invitation to understand this person better and learn how to better hear others of their generation. 

          I started thinking about all of the words I hear others say that I quickly dismiss as babble and in my mind turn into “blah blah blah.”  Like if you meet someone and they tell you where they get their news from or who they voted for or some theology that you have decided is not for you … and instantly your mind turns their words into “blah blah blah” … babble.  And because of this, we often find so many people today babbling at one another, turning away from attempts to be heard, filling their ears with air pods that will instead echo back what they already believe and talking and talking but never actually communicating with one another.

          Instead of listening, we sit safely in our certainty.  We do not need to hear the experiences of others because we already know them.  We have the answers so we can tune out the babble.  We are so certain that we are right so we can safely stay in our corner. 

          Pentecost messes that all up.  It’s a confusing scene, everything is ambiguous and nothing makes sense.  It’s utter nonsense: violent wind, divided tongues on fire and everyone speaking different languages.  In the reading from Acts today we see the effect this has on people … it makes them start asking questions.  It creates confusion.  How do they understand each other?  Aren’t these people Galileans? How am I understanding this?  It breaks their certainty.  It shatters the labels they had put on the people and makes them look inward.  The babble breaks down barriers and people start to actually hear one another and to understand.  And that is how the church is born … from confusion … lack of certainty … an ability to hear others. 

          I don’t know about you, but for me this past week has created a lot of ambiguity in regards to mask wearing.  As a person who likes to follow the rules I find myself not knowing what I should be doing.  I am vaccinated but my kids aren’t, some places still require masks, but some don’t … the cod says I don’t have to, some still say it isn’t clear … what to do?  One happy result of this confusion is we can’t instantly judge one another by whether or not our faces are half covered by a piece of cloth.  We do not know why someone is or is not wearing one and it may not be malicious intent or overprotectiveness … so we can dispense of our instant face judging.  Perhaps the ambiguity and confusion will enable us to drop the judgements and certainty at least enough to listen?

          I’m sure we will still find plenty of other ways to judge and condemn others and probably judge and condemn ourselves too … but along the way maybe we can dive deep into moments of ambiguity to actually open our hearts and try to hear what each other is saying?  Perhaps when we see people speaking all kinds of languages with tongues of fire on their heads we can pause and say “maybe this is something I should hear?”  Perhaps … we can take a break from our certainty to accept that God is the source of all knowing and our role as humans is to keep learning and depending on God’s wisdom to guide us?  Maybe before we dismiss the struggles, experiences, and self-revelations of others as babble we can embrace the confusion and try to hear each other.  I don’t know that we need another giant tower, but we do need a world built more on mutual care.  Amen.

Hindsight

 

Sermon from 3/7/21 John 2:13-22

          This week we will mark an anniversary: One year since the world shut down in what seemed like the blink of an eye.  One year since everything on our calendars was marked canceled, the stores sold out of toilet paper and we figured out if our webcams worked and how to share zoom links.  Don’t worry, we won’t be rolling out a cake or exchanging gifts for this anniversary, I won’t even say “happy” anniversary.  Our memento is half a million graves and our gifts are the masks we have learned to tighten around our noses. 

 

          When I think back to one year ago I have so many emotions and thoughts.  There are things I wish I would have known then and things I am glad I did not know … like how long it would last.  When we look at things in hindsight we can see it all with new wisdom but the emotions can still feel very real. 

 

          The Gospel passage today is written in hindsight.  The passage ends with “After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.”  We get to hear the wisdom they have gained in hindsight. Looking back on it, they finally understand it and they believe.  I bet there are things they wish they would have known during those days of walking with Jesus and I bet there are things they are glad they did not know … like that the Temple actually would be destroyed in the near future.

 

          Even written in hindsight the emotions are still vivid, deep and palpable.  Perhaps more so knowing that the Temple was in fact destroyed and that the temple of Jesus’ body was in fact destroyed.  The “zeal” or passion Jesus has as he runs around shouting, throwing money and kicking over tables while flinging a cord around; the heat of the moment as he is challenged once again by arguments; the sadness of sharing his nearing death to ears that do not understand and the nostalgia the early hearers of this story must have felt as they heard their beloved and destroyed temple described … all of these emotions are strong, real and very relatable. 

 

          I can relate so deeply to these emotions and the rollercoaster of emotions during this past year.  The anger and frustration as we have failed again and again to come together, to agree to a shared set of data, facts and best practices that could end or slow the spread.  The political arguments, the anger and frustration over racial injustices, the people screaming at each other over mask wearing and the constant criticism for being too careful or not careful enough.  All the while marked by a sadness and despair as we wrestle with our mortality and feel the pain of so many mourning the loss of loved ones.  The emotions are strong, real and relatable. 

 

          I remember feeling just about every possible emotion during the holidays.  COVID numbers were spiking and so we carefully gathered in spaced apart circles, with masks, with limited numbers, mostly outdoors for our Christmas Eve service.  Meanwhile a quick swipe down my social media feeds showed people having large gatherings, going to parties and singing shoulder to shoulder without a mask in sight.  So there was frustration.  The service was beautiful and celebrating the birth of Christ in a field at night warmed my heart as we stood out on the lawn and held up the light of our candles.  But when I entered the worship space I felt a deep sadness that I wasn’t happily watching my children process down the aisle dressed as donkeys or angels.  During the days that followed as a new year approached I felt nostalgic for holidays of the past and my heart swelled with grief as my grandmother took her final labored breaths.  By New Year’s Eve I was ready to be done with the sentimental holidays and could only muster a half-hearted “celebration” with the kids as I set out sparkling grape juice and some silly hats for us to wear.  So we put on our pajamas, snuggled up on the bed with our new puppy and hoped we could at least faintly see the fireworks from Pike’s Peak.  It ended up being a clear night and the fireworks were lovely as were the giggles and hugs.  To my surprise I didn’t feel sad or nostalgic or frustrated at all … I felt complete peace, looking in hindsight at all the emotions of the past year as waves coming to and from the shore, gentle, rhythmic, changing, temporary …  

          That’s the beauty of hindsight; the emotions are still there but with the added wisdom and assurance that it all works out.  The destruction of the temple was utterly devastating, but as those earliest Christians retold the stories of Christ and remembered his words they understood, they believed and they knew it worked out just as he said it would. 

          Every year we retell these stories, every year we reenter into Lent and every year we have this time of careful reflection and repentance, but we always get to do it in hindsight.  We know the way the story ends.  When we read about the suffering and death of Christ the emotions are real but with the added gifts of wisdom and faith … knowing it worked out just as he said it would. 

          I can’t wait to one day gather together and look at the whole COVID experience in hindsight.  Some days I crave that deeply.  I wonder what our future selves might say to us as they look back to this time with hindsight.  Perhaps they might remind us of why we retell these stories, why we relive them, why we carry out our traditions and liturgies … so that we don’t forget the words of Christ … so that we never forget that they are always true and the love and assurance of Christ is true. 

Scary Sadness

    One of my go to methods for getting out of a spiral in my head is to go for a run.  This is especially true during these pandemic days when I start to feel trapped or frustrated or hopeless.  I count on the endorphins to do their thing and they usually do.  Recently I found myself in one of the valleys I sometimes encounter on this "safer at home" journey of peaks and valleys.  I set off for a run and put on one of my favorite podcasts "WTF with Marc Maron."  He was interviewing Zach Braff.  Zach was talking about the many losses he has been through during the past year and the impact that has had on his mental health.  He talked about his experiences with depression over the years. He talked about the times he felt sad due to circumstances and then the other times when his life was great but he just couldn't get out of his funk.  He talked about how those are the scariest ones, when there isn't a real reason but you just keep feeling depressed.  It resonated with me so much.  I am healthy, I have a great family, things are going well and yet sometimes I find myself stuck in a room of angst, sadness I can't put my finger on and a sense of impending doom. 

    When I am grieving a loved one the sadness makes sense and the tears flow freely with a kind of beauty that reflects my love for the person I lost. It is a sadness I expect and understand.  However, this other kind of sadness makes no sense to me, is unexpected, and I can never seem to "figure it out" or "solve it."  I have my go to methods like running, conversations with friends, meditation/prayer, long hot showers, therapy and other things that help, but because I never understand the why or how of it, there is always a fear that it won't go away.

    That fear came when I experienced post partum depression.  It was intense and terrifying.  It did not make any sense.  I was bonded with my baby, we were healthy, we were loved and I very much wanted him.  Yet there it was.  I couldn't shake it.  I kept thinking it should go away soon.  I should feel better.  I should feel grateful.  Yet there it was.  

    It did go away.  It took about ten months and there were a number of factors that helped.  I never lost my faith in God during it, but my faith in myself was pretty shaky.  I felt betrayed by my own mind.  I felt let down by my own inner resources.  I felt terrified that it wouldn't end and the person I was would be gone forever.  

    So when the scary type of sadness comes I have that voice in my head that says "what if it doesn't go away."  My life experiences have shown me that it will, but for many people it is hard to see that.  Believing that we shouldn't feel a certain way, comparing ourselves to others we feel are worse off and getting angry at our lack of gratitude ... all of this just adds shame to our sadness.  

    These days of isolation and uncertainty give us more time to think and more time in our heads.  My Facebook feed is full of people sick with COVID, my text messages are full of people grieving loved ones lost to COVID and the news is happy to report all of the dire statistics.  So the sadness can seem scary.  I try to remind myself that being human means having the full spectrum of emotions.  I remind myself of the gifts of faith and connection that I nurture when I am sad.  Mostly I remind myself that nothing lasts forever ... not even the scary sadness.  

Choosing Online School

              Decisions are hard and sometimes the decision-making process is the worst.  I am really good at seeing both the good and bad of any decision, which means I am really good at debating with myself.  When I have an important decision to make everyone can see I am distracted as I go back and forth in my head over and over again.  I also ask everyone I have ever met for their opinion, pray about it, meditate on it, and agonize for a while.  It’s not that fun.  But once the decision is made, as long as I know I came about it through good honest struggle, I feel much better.

              Lately life is full of hard decisions. One of those is the decision about sending the kids to school.  I definitely stressed about this.  I can easily see both perspectives.  If you would have asked me one year ago if I ever would send my 1^st and 3^rd grader to online school I would have assumed you knew nothing about me.  I am a huge believer in public education.  Honestly, I think all of the difficult situations our country is in point to the importance of a larger investment in public education!  But, life happens and we make decisions as best as we can and just try to keep up.

              My family decided that keeping the kids in remote schooling is the right decision for us.  I realize this is largely because I work a flexible part-time job which can mostly be done from home and so I am able to do this.  My oldest really misses school but he is such a sweet kid and serious thinker and he supports our decision.  My kids are doing great academically and we find ways for them to be social that we feel are safe, like an outdoor class at the Catamount Institute or social time with church friends after our outdoor worship service.

              There are several reasons we made this decision and several reasons that could have pushed us the other way.  One of the hardest things about the decision is the judgment.  Some people think that anyone being cautious these days is “living in fear” which conjures this image of us hunkering down with bags of rice and cans of beans with all the doors locked and curtains drawn.  I actually am not actively afraid of COVID (although like so many others I have my moments) because I know I am living in a way that minimizes my risks and the risks to my loved ones, like my mom who is very high risk for multiple reasons.  I realize I am doing my best so worrying won’t help.  But I know people have their strong opinions and think we are ridiculous because we see things differently than they do.  That will always be the case.

              The decision is also hard because of my FOMO.  A few weeks ago I deleted Facebook from my phone.  It was bumming me out for multiple reasons but I realized all the pictures of people partying without masks, going to large gatherings, and generally living as though this isn’t a thing were leaving me feeling like an outsider.  It’s a strange thing to see two very different worlds happening simultaneously. It also made me sad to read everyone’s posts about how awful online schooling is for them and how it isn’t working and they are all sad.  I totally get it.  Even with our very workable situation it gets hard and frustrating.  I miss my independence; I miss seeing the kids make new friends and hearing about their independent experiences. And I am constantly yelled for all day long to help find school supplies or address a technology issue or some other reason, but there wasn’t much encouraging on social media for those of us planning to stick with it.

              These days can be lonely for so many of us and we all seem to be pretty good at making this a more lonely time for each other by adding judgment, pressure, and projecting our own insecurities onto anyone who will bear them.  I have no judgment for people returning their kids to in-person or people homeschooling; I have seriously considered those and could have gone either way.  This is new for all of us, and it will one day be over. 

              A few weeks ago, as I was right in the middle of my indecisiveness, I was talking to a wise friend from church.  She has lived longer than I and is better at seeing the long view of things.  I said I was worried about the kids missing out and feeling alone.  She said, “They aren’t alone. You have all of us.  This church is your community and we love you and we love your boys and we are all here with you in this.”  She wasn’t telling me what to do, she wasn’t shaming me, she wasn’t mocking my amazing ability to make mountains out of molehills, she was just being with me.  And I felt less alone. 

In the Midst

               Ordinations are a big deal.  They involve: bishops, rehearsals, vestments, bulletins, choirs, rows of clergy, hotel reservations for family, plane tickets for seminary friends, chartered buses for church members, liturgical preparations and more.  Not to mention the mountains of essays, hours of interviews, years of seminary and copious amounts of prayer.  It is a life-changing experience one never forgets. 

                So I was excited on Friday to get to attend an ordination at our own church.  The assistant priest or curate who came to our church right in the middle of a pandemic had completed her time as a transitional deacon and was getting ordained as a priest in the Episcopal Church.  Much would be different.  Instead of a filled cathedral we would be on lawn chairs in carefully spaced circles outside.  Instead of bulletins we would find the responses on our phones.  Instead of singing together there would be a cantor inside the building with a microphone for us to hear him.  Seminary friends, former parishioners and family would follow a link to a live stream online.  But we still put on our vestments, wore our red stoles and processed with the Bishop. 

                We sat under a clear October Colorado sky and said the responses under our masks.  The Bishop preached a great sermon and everything was beautiful.  And even though there were many aspects of a typical ordination service missing, there were also many added sights and sounds unique to this experience.  The bishop’s inspiring words about calling and a persevering hope that love will win occasionally had the background music of a car driving by with the bass turned way up.  Claire’s ordination vows were spoken over chatter from patio diners at the restaurant across the street.  As the cantor sang, joggers and dog walkers looked at us from over the chain link fence.  The bright red vestments made those driving by turn their heads.  It was an ordination just as it should be … right in the midst of life. 

                Our sturdy churches hold stunning art in their stained glass and perfect acoustics for singing which makes for powerful worship, but our ministry is predominantly done out in the ordinary, in the midst of the chaos, beside the preoccupied and next to the distracted.  During these days of social distancing I have been meeting pets, seeing art work and getting college dorm room tours over youth group zoom meet ups.  Instead of youth group lunch after worship I am meeting up with teens in their neighborhoods for masked walks for catching up and thinking about God together.  Our relationships are no longer dependent on our building and we know more about each other’s daily lives. 

                School is also a very changed experience in our house these days.  I hear the teachers teaching, I listen to my kid’s responses and their classroom is sometimes the living room, sometimes the back porch and sometimes the desks we set up in their bedrooms.  Worlds have converged.  Some days it feels stifling, some days I feel like I can’t spend one more second in the walls of my house, but some days I see the ways in which these circumstances have deepened my relationships- relationships with my kids, my husband, my church, the kid’s school, the teens I work with and my friends.  Sometimes turning inward actually broadens our horizon.  Sometimes being forced out of normal circumstances challenges us to clarify our calling and focus on what matters.  And sometimes when we are pushed out of our familiar spaces we find that we are right where we need to be and right where the Holy Spirit is busy at work. 

photo by Steve Starr

Life's Heart

 Sermon for Grace and St Stephen’s 9/6/20 Matthew 18:15-20, Romans 13:8-14

          It’s September in Colorado which means the days will either bring snow to the mountains or 90 degrees to our back yards.  The aspens will start turning yellow, the sunsets are starting earlier and the kids are back to school … sort of.  Some kids are being home schooled, some kids are doing online school and some kids are going to school carefully spaced 6 feet from the other children and with little cloth masks over their runny noses and chatty mouths.  Many of us are now 2 weeks into this new creature called pandemic schooling and while I could share stories of technology glitches, websites not working and kids not understanding how to do school while sitting next to all their toys …. What has really struck me about this whole process is the mutual dependency and accountability created between parents, students and teachers.

 

          Three days in to online first grade I got an email from my son’s teacher.  She said “be brutally honest, how is this on your end, please tell me what you think.”  I was surprised and touched by this for a few reasons.  First, she wants to do a good job, she wants to do the best she can and really teach the children.  Second, she genuinely cares about the experiences of the parents.  And third, that is a super brave email.  Who does that?  In a world of “don’t @ me” and unfollowing and screaming and shouting … it is surprising and refreshing to find people opening dialogue and wanting to learn from one another.

 

          I responded with honesty but also taking seriously my accountability in the situation.  We are in this together.  I need to do my part to have patience, a positive attitude and to constantly say to my child over and over again “this is school, she is talking, go listen until she is done.”  And my kids are accountable in the situation too.  This is a unique opportunity for them to learn at a young age how to take responsibility for your own education.  They need to pay attention to instructions, know when to log in and navigate the various websites for learning.  And we all need to be mindful of when to mute and unmute ourselves.

 

          I thought about this schooling situation and the mutual accountability it calls for as I read the Gospel reading from Matthew today because it really is about accountability.  It is not saying “if someone makes you mad, take it to the parking lot and have it out.”  It is not saying “if someone offends you, never speak to them again.”  It is also not suggesting that as part of every Sunday worship service we hold an open mic “airing of grievances” and lay into one another. 

 

          Rather, it is a system of being accountable in love- a way to bind together this body of Christ in the world.  An admission that we will hurt each other sometimes and a call for all of us to be accountable to one another so that we can grow together in love- so that we can be for the world a beautiful family in Christ. 

 

          Notice in these instructions from Matthew that after you go to the person who has “sinned against you” directly and after you involve some other members of the church and after you involve the church … if the “offender” still “refuses to listen” then you are to treat them as a “Gentile and a tax collector.”  At first glance this might seem like an invitation to write that person off as someone different from you, someone outside of your circle, someone on whom it is generally acceptable to despise and look down.  But … this is the Gospel, the stuff about Jesus and how does Jesus treat the Gentile and tax collector?  Anyone who knows the Zacchaeus song knows Jesus didn’t write them off or toss them aside as unworthy and hated.  He broke bread with them.  In fact, the very next passage is about the importance of forgiveness and Jesus’ instruction to forgive not seven times but seventy times seven times.  

 

          This holding together the community stuff isn’t easy.  I remember reading in a book in seminary that it is hardest to be a pastor during a presidential election year.[1]  And that was before COVID, before Twitter and before shared Facebook memes.  This holding together the community stuff is about love, grace and forgiveness but also accountability.  Recognizing we all have a part to play in this difficult thing we are doing called “thy will be done on earth as in heaven” -  this beautiful thing we are doing called building the Kingdom of God.  

 

          Accountability means holding each other in love, not letting each other give up, loving through the darkness and despair, holding a vision of hope up for the hopeless to see, learning together, growing together, being open to one another, remembering that we are not alone. 

 

          The passage from Romans simplifies our Christian calling to “love your neighbor as yourself.”  It says “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.”  It almost sounds as simple as “all you need is love?”  … except that anyone who has loved anyone knows love isn’t always so simple.

 

          In his popular work “The Prophet” Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran writes these words about love and its depths:

          When love beckons to you, follow him,

            Though his ways are hard and steep.

            And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

            Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

            And when he speaks to you believe in him,

            Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.  Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.  Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. 

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.  He threshes you to make you naked.  He sifts you to free you from your husks.  He grinds you to whiteness.  He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

            All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.”[2]

 

Love is not always so simple or easy.  It opens your heart to immeasurable joy and elation but also pain and disappointment.  Bravely risking love means opening oneself to growth, change and accountability.  It means being held in something greater than oneself and holding oneself to that. 

 

          Friends, we are being shaped, pruned, molded.  It is love that makes my heart hurt when I hear stories of friends mourning the loss of those dear to them to this pandemic.  It is love that makes my heart hurt when the reality of racism and injustice is laid bare for all to see.  It is love that made the tears trickle from my eyes as a beloved child was baptized into the Christian faith last Sunday, our witness of hope and faith in the future.  It is love that makes me ache for visits, hugs and in person community as we used to know it.  It is love that draws forth an apology from my lips when I have let frustration turn into impatience and harsh words for those who are enclosed in the same square footage as me during these days of work from home, school from home … safer at home.  It is love that mixes together immense gratitude and grief in the same heartbeat.  It is love that we will see when we look back at all the strange things we did like online school and worship in chalk drawn lawn circles, all the new and difficult things we did to get through this together.  It is love that will carry us through as this beautiful body of Christ doing this important work of kingdom building. 

---

[1] Galloway, John.  Ministry Loves Company: A Survival Guide for Pastors. WJK Books, 2003

[2] Gibran, Kahlil.  The Prophet. Knopf, 2001.  Pp 11-12

Scars

 

We were gathered on the church lawn looking at chalk-drawn, spaced-apart circles and hashing out last minute details for our first in-person worship service since March. I was in a deep discussion with a newly retired police officer about the police reform bill recently passed in our state of Colorado. I heard the sound of rocks hitting chain-link fence and immediately walked across the parking lot to tell my six and eight year old sons to stop throwing rocks at each other. My eight year old said “but mom, I want to get a scar!” I said “why would you want a scar?” He simply replied “they look cool.”

 

While I can assume that he was thinking more “Harry Potter lightning bolt” type scars, I thought about my own (less exciting) scars. My kids love when I tell the stories of my scars, especially the permanent bump on my lower lip. I tell them about the trip to K-Mart to get new shoelaces for my sister. I was only two years old and sitting in the front part of the shopping cart. I saw a beautiful pair of Smurf shoelaces. Surely, these were the ones she would want. I tried to tell my family but after repeated attempts I took matters into my own hands. I reached and reached and reached until … the next thing I knew I was going home with my two front teeth in a plastic baggie and a stitched lip.

 

I have changed a lot in the 37 years since I got that scar, but it is still here on my body. A constant connection to that little girl. A connection to that memory of my mother as a young mom, my big sister whom I adored and that feeling of being very cared for even in scary times. My scars are also reminders that I have been through hard things … that I can get through hard things.

 

I recently overheard a conversation between my two sons. The youngest said “my fish died and that was really hard and sad” my oldest then said “but I had surgery when I was a baby and that is harder.” I do not know why, but they were each trying to prove that they had endured something more difficult than the other. I can understand then the appeal of a scar, a way of proving that you went through something really hard. A sign for others and ourselves that we can get through difficult things.

 

I thought about all of this as I sat in the sweltering sun with my mask on, listening to the cantor and organist through the speakers on the church lawn. We did it; we were together. It was very different than how we worshipped before the pandemic, but as I looked up to the blue sky and watched a yellow butterfly glide down over the carefully spaced apart heads I felt so incredibly grateful. We were all together again. We were all getting through something difficult. We are resilient and some day we will look at the cloth face masks tucked away in the back of our closets and it will be our scar. Our sign to ourselves and to others that we can get through difficult times.