Finishing strong

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.

--Hebrews 12:1

Lately I've been getting schooled in life, especially in living. 

In my vocation, I spend a lot of time with people who are ill, who have lost someone or who are, themselves, dying. (We are all dying. It's simply more pertinent for some than others.) This means I spend a lot of time with hospice participants, volunteers and employees. And some conversations have left me thinking. (Uh-oh. Stand back. . . .)

Last week, I was walking across the parking lot of an absolutely gorgeous local hospice facility. The sun was out, there was a lovely breeze-- and I was enjoying the day. A woman coming out saw me, said hello, noticed my PASTORAL VISITOR identification tag and said, "How can you stand coming out here all the time to visit people? Doesn't it get depressing?"

In another conversation with a pastoral colleague, I made mention of someone who has declined treatment for an incurable form of cancer. My colleague's response: "It sounds like they're just giving up."

These two are related, because in my opinion, it speaks to who we are as professing believers in Christ.

Visiting hospice participants can be one of the most invigorating, life-giving parts of my job. I am invited into so many sacred spaces, listening to stories from long ago or last week. We laugh together, we weep together. We share the very amazing gift of being human with one another.

We talk about yesterday, we talk about today-- and we talk about tomorrow. Or more specifically, about eternity.

As Christians, we profess to there being more. More than just the thirty or sixty or even a hundred years we are given to wander this big blue marble together.

But as the hallway begins to narrow, as we are confronted by the mortality of self or other-- do we live like people of the promise?

For the record: hospice is not about dying. Hospice is about finishing well, running full-on in the race, as St. Paul might say, straining for the tape, knowing we have given it our best shot. Every single day, with every single breath, until we can draw no more.

Does that sound depressing to you?

As for "giving up"? We humans have not yet figured everything out. There are still things deemed incurable, conditions considered, as yet, insurmountable. Some people may choose to try everything in their efforts to have more time with family and loved ones. And that's fine. It is each person's choice.

But another person, perhaps one further along in years, may look at the prospect of chemotherapy, surgery, drugs, radiation, side effects . . . need I go on? They may look at this and reflect. Life has been great. Maybe-- maybe in this situation, finishing strong means accepting the disease-- and living full-out in spite of it all. 

Where now, O Death, is thy victory? Where, O Death, thy sting?

Whatever decision a person makes, in light of our faithful profession as Christ-followers, our choice should always, always be to affirm life. To decide for ourselves what it will mean for us to finish our race with flair and not fizzle. Red hats, purple shoes-- dancing all the way home.

And to remember that our faith tradition as Christians views the end of this earthly run not as the end, but as a bridge leading to eternity.

Giving up? Hardly. My friend is lacing up the Reeboks and preparing for a sprint. 

These decisions, these choices are tough-- and they are personal. If (when) you are faced with this choice, for yourself or a loved one, listen to your heart. 

Affirm life. Always. But only you can know what that means in the stretch run.

Almighty Lord, we are so grateful for this time you give us to wander and ponder together, and we thank you, as well, for what lies ahead. Help us listen for the voices of those who cheer us on, and help us each to live our lives as a victory lap run to the cheering of the saints. Amen.

A 97% Solution

He who walks with the wise grows wise. --Proverbs 13:20a

This morning, one of my devotionals talked about the need for discipline in our spiritual lives. The author, named Muriel (my mother's name), focused on walking. She observed that for her, walking becomes her time of contemplative prayer, a time when she and God "find each other" in the midst of everything else. Muriel is a "nature walker."

I live fairly close-- about a mile and a half-- to the tremendous Cleveland Metroparks System.  By the time I would walk to the park entrance, even to turn around and go home right away, that's already three miles and almost an hour of my morning. But I cannot mentally justify driving-- to go take a walk. So I have become a city walker.

Muriel points out that Jesus was a walker. (Of course, he had little choice, but I digress.) Jesus spends a great deal of time walking: to Jerusalem, to Galilee-- and back again. It is easy to conclude, as Muriel suggests, that Jesus spent much of this walking time in prayer, conversing with the Almighty.

So I believe I am in good company.

It's not always easy getting up and getting going. Some mornings, the bedclothes seem to draw themselves tighter around me and beg me to stay. Maizie will join the entreaty, snuggling up closer beside and softly (or loudly) purring. Nothing, she says, is more important than that itchy spot right behind my ear. R-i-i-i-i-g-h-t there.

But most days, it's worth it to shake off the sleep, get dressed and head out the door just as the sun is beginning to rise over Cleveland. This morning-- definitely.

It's humid these days, typical late August in Ohio. There wasn't much breeze. Clouds hung low and heavy, as though debating whether or not it was worth the effort to gather together and rain.

The clouds in the east seemed even less organized, stretching themselves thin until they parted, like so much cotton candy on the sticky fingers of a four-year-old. And through those thin clouds, playing hide-and-seek between and among the treetops and the rooftops, peeked the sun. Not the brilliant, shining sun of summer, but an uncertain sun.

The seasons are changing, it seemed to say, and it's time. Time for the next thing, familiar yet new. Time-- for a change.

I remember another season of change, a time when the sun looked different, yet familiar. My life was headed in a new direction. I was on my own now. So three years ago, I made a trip Down Under.

Each morning I would spend some quiet time sitting in the window seat at the beautiful home of my gracious hosts, watching the sun begin its daily course.

It was almost fall when I left Ohio, but when I arrived in Oz, it was nearly springtime. Amazing. The sun that had been losing strength in Ohio-- was gaining strength here.

And then there were these trees along the horizon behind their house. I don't remember what kind they were, if I ever knew-- but this one tree-- well, look for yourself and tell me what you see.

Or this one, over the Abbey of the Genesee early on an August morning a year later:

(I know, I know-- some people see Jesus on a piece of toast; I see elephants-- everywhere.)

The thing is, we can find "evidence" everywhere, if we choose to open our eyes. (For me-- the evidence is pachyderms.)

Some people need to get away from the city grind; others find the face of the Creator on every busy corner in the middle of a busy urban life. Or in a bank of trees, half a world away from home.

St. Augustine put it this way: Solvitur Ambulando. It is solved-- by walking.

An African proverb suggests, "When you pray, move your feet." But have you tried it the other way around?

When you move your feet, pray.

If sitting quietly is challenging, if you want to try something new or extra in your walk with God, actually make it a walk. God is already there, waiting to show you something.

Approach life in expectation of the holy. You will not be disappointed.

Thank you, ever-present God, for eyes that see, for ears that hear-- and for feet that move in step with you. Amen

Master Gardener

That person is like a tree planted by streams of water,
    which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither—
    whatever they do prospers. -Psalm 1:3

If you have read many of my ramblings here, you know how I feel about gardening. You know that in the three-plus years since my husband died and left me to care for his beautiful plants, the gardens and I have struck a truce. And part of that truce, on occasion, has included my redefining what is "weed" and what is not.

I am not a gardener. I think it's genetic for me, way, way back to the original Garden. 

You know. Eve said, "Adam, you go ahead and name 'em and tend 'em, and when they bear fruit, I will prepare a delicious dish from these plants. I am sure you will find it tempting and yummy." 

That was how Rich and I did it, too (minus the serpent). He grew 'em, I would put 'em up. And applaud. When the flowers were in bloom, I would oooh and aaah with the best of them. But the gardening itself was not my thing.

There was one gardening task, however, that I have always enjoyed. 

Dead-heading.

I have two beautiful butterfly bushes, one by my step and the other, a volunteer, around on the side of the house. During the season, they grow to a solid six or seven feet in height, loaded with beautiful purple clusters that droop and hang like grapes from each branch.

A week ago, I was going down the steps and stopped for a moment, just to listen. The bush was alive with the hum of bumbles and honey bees, working at extracting the pollen and nectar from each bloomlet. Giant tiger swallowtails silently doing their part, as well. 

And each day, as summer moves toward fall, some of those clusters die. They become brown and dry and no longer appealing or filled with nectar. They reach the end of their usefulness. 

But if I am fairly diligent about removing those brown clusters (dead-heading), the bush continues to offer more purple bliss to those bees and butterflies, at least for a season.

So I do. I go out there with my scissors and I snip and snip and pitch the dead heads under the bush, and pretty soon the plants are looking better again, more alive without all that junk they no longer needed.

And over the course of a few days, sure enough-- fresh blooms appear. Until finally, fall arrives and it's finished. 

I was out dead-heading this morning. It took a long time. But like many tasks, it became a time for me to think, to enjoy the quiet and focus on the task. Listen to the snip-snip-snip of the scissors, smell the heavy perfume that attracts the bees. 

Step back when one of those bees reminds me whose bush it really is. 

And then I started thinking about my own life and the need for dead-heading when "stuff" has outlived its usefulness.

Sometimes I recognize it-- and sometimes I don't. And sometimes-- the last thing I want is for that dried up, out-of-date thing, or idea, to go away.

But it has to. If those parts of me that are growing and lively are to continue to grow-- guess what. Snip, snip.

That's where the Master Gardener comes in, the One who holds the Divine blueprint that shows what's good and what's shriveled and sapping extra energy that could go in a more life-giving direction.

Believe me, dead-heading the butterfly bushes is so much easier than allowing God to chisel me. Letting go of old ways of thinking and acting? Ugh. Do I have to? 

Well-- no. I suppose not. If I don't mind becoming stagnant and filled with useless "stuff" that saps my energy and takes away from the good "stuff"? 

Nah. No modifications needed.

I know how my butterfly bushes look when I let them go untended. Do I really want my life to continue as is, with no attention paid to what the Gardener knows is best-- for me?

It's always our choice. 

God's Chisel

(Aside: There is a hymn about coming to the Garden alone, and the joys shared when it's just-me-and-Jesus time. But I have to tell you. Sometimes those me-and-Jesus moments can be a little painful. Necessary and good-- but painful.)

Lord God, show us your love, and help us to accept it, freely and willingly. One step at a time. Amen

How did he know???

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, 

“plans to prosper you and not to harm you, 

plans to give you hope and a future." --Jeremiah 29:11

Tonight I just want to share a story. I needed this. You might, too.

A couple weeks ago, I had something happen that left me puzzled. In the middle of the day, as I was going about my life, I had this sense. God seemed to pull me aside and place a name on my heart, someone I had not seen in a couple of years. I didn't understand why, out of the blue, this man's name was in my mind. I will call him Cedric. After puzzling over that for longer than I care to admit, I did the only thing that made any sense. 

I prayed for him. (And even that didn't exactly make sense at the time.) 

A couple days later, I received word that Cedric had been hospitalized. Needless to say, that led me, again, to prayer. 

A few days ago, I managed to go pay Cedric a visit at the hospital, and I am so glad I did.

He was in a common space when I arrived, and I am not sure I would have recognized him if I hadn't known it was him. He seemed even more slight than the last time I had seen him. His hair was longer and more scraggly, more grey than I remembered.

But when he saw me, he recognized me right away, called me by name, and his face lit up, smile spreading from ear to ear.

We spoke for a little while about him and his family, how he was feeling-- you know. The usual pastoral conversation. It was good to catch up. He seemed so very glad for the visit.

And we prayed. Cedric held my one hand between his two hands, and I rested my other hand on his shoulder. His hands felt dry and weathered, hands that had worked very, very hard in life. 

"Amen." "Amen . . . mmm-hmm . . . amen."

But it didn't end there.

Cedric kept my hand between his two workman's hands, looked up at me and said, "You know, when your husband . . . when Rich left us . . . you really started to find yourself. You are a very strong person, and you are really following what God wants you to do. And it's so good to see you. So good."

Did you see how that happened?

I went to visit Cedric. I went to offer hope, encouragement and love.

And in the blink of an eye, the blessing rained down on me instead.

The prophetic word of hope I needed. The affirmation that I was following faithfully.

Imagine that. 

How often that happens, that in blessing another, we are blessed ourselves.

You just never know, do you. Never ever ever.

The Lord Bless You

Amen. 

JUST what I needed

The Lord will guide you always;

    he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land

    and will strengthen your frame.

You will be like a well-watered garden,

    like a spring whose waters never fail. --Isaiah 58:11

(Have I mentioned lately how much I love the prophet/ poet Isaiah?)

Sometimes, the desert can seem particularly arid. The dust kicks up and stifles my breath, fills my eyes till they water. (Yeah, that's the ticket. It's the dust making me tear up.)

There are days-- and there are days. And sometimes, those days become weeks. Days and weeks when it just seems as though God has taken me to the curb, gone back inside, locked the door and turned out the lights. 

Places or activities that have brought solace in the past-- time spent in prayer or reading, hanging around the usual friends-- serve to mark time, but don't even begin to quench the thirst in my soul. It seems as if the harder I look, the less I see. Like straining to see in a really dark room, or trying to drive in a dense, heavy fog.

It feels cold and dark-- and very lonely. Even in August in Ohio. (Ever been here? I imagine you have.)

Then this amazing thing starts to happen. 

Suddenly, in the midst of life, new friends start appearing. Old friends emerge in a new light, or a new context, offering a fresh perspective (or a smack upside the head).

Those folks whom you've known forever, even though you just met-- or never met-- show up at your doorstep . . . or on the telephone . . . or across a crowded street. Their words wash over, refreshing, cooling, rejuvenating a parched soul. God is so good that way.

And yes, it's been that kind of week. Until today.

The climate had become a bit dry. Cactuses and camels were part of my spiritual landscape. I felt like I just wanted to pull away, take a break for me, but couldn't manage to do so. I needed to write. 

This morning, relief was in the air, the scent of long-sought moisture on the breeze. ("They" say that smell is ozone. To me, it smells more like hope.) A phone conversation with a wonderful Brother whom I have known, it seems, forever-- but just met, face-to-face, about ten days ago-- washed away some self-doubts that had been clinging to my heart like so much filth, helped me remember what this journey is really about. That was awesome. The prickly cactus began to bloom. I began again to glimpse the beauty of the desert.

And then, a scant few hours later, an encounter with someone I hadn't seen in months (or longer), and almost the first words from his mouth were, "I read your stuff sometimes. Keep it up. It helps. Keep stickin' it to 'em." (I admit: I am not completely sure what that means. But it sounds like a good thing, wouldn't you agree?) 

More conversation. More discussion of what's broken, not just in the church, but in education. In the world. Cool, cool rain on my parched soul. Arms open wide, head tilted back in gratitude.

And suddenly, that sermon I am writing for next week has a direction. The "stuff" that was clouding my mind has mostly cleared. Oh, sure, I still have an extra furry granddaughter who doesn't want to hang around me or go home with her human mama-- but it's okay. She won't stay forever. (Seriously. She won't. lol)

So the moral of the story is . . . hang in there. Jesus went willingly into the desert, knowing the Spirit was with him, guiding and comforting him in the dark and difficult days. 

All forty of them. Hang in there. Or maybe-- let go. Just let it go. Let Love reign (and rain).

Cool Cool Rain 

Sixty seconds? Just a minute!

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

    your works are wonderful,

    I know that full well. --Psalm 139:14

One of the many wonderful pages to which I subscribe on Facebook offered this Sabbath activity: 

"Take one minute and ponder the wonder of you."

What a great idea. As pastors everywhere offered lectionary sermons today on Mary and Martha (Luke 10:38-42), many of us have stopped and thought about how busy busy busy our lives have become, and where-- or when-- could we ever find time to simply spend time in Sabbath, in restful presence of the Lord?

Hmm. How about . . . now. Take just one minute (or more) and ponder the creation that is you and no one else. 

Start there. Think about the fact that there is no one just like you, and never will be. You are unique among all the humans ever created. 

* * * * *
Look at your hand. Notice the lines that crisscross your palm. Slowly bend and straighten your fingers and feel-- really feel the muscles working together. Don't focus on the pain or stiffness that may come with age (there, I said it), but on the way the palm muscles fold as the back-of-the-hand muscles stretch.

Your fingerprints. One of a kind. No one else has ever had those exact whorls and swirls that identify you. Years ago, I cut my middle finger quite badly, and the scar is still evident-- but the fingerprint remains. 

A palm reader could tell you about your lifeline and your heart line-- each special and unique (and I am pretty sure each palm reader's analysis is special and unique, as well)! The secrets of each one of our identities, carefully enswathed in the palms of our hands. 

Pretty amazing, eh?

* * * * *
Your legs. Your feet. The way those bones and muscles operate, allowing us to walk and to skip and to run (and sometimes, to fall flat-- but to get up again)! Every element of your body, in perfect design.

Oh, sure, there are times the design seems less-than-perfect. And I have no explanation to offer. So ponder for a moment the "real" you, the essence of who you are. The indomitable expression of your true self that goes beyond any physical appearance. Some would say . . . your soul. 

And a beauty it is, too. Designed to love, perfected in creation by the Almighty. Even if you have an identical twin, no one has your smile, your laugh, your sense of humor.

No one.

* * * * *
Take a look at your hair. Straight or curly, blonde, black, blue or grey-- or missing-- the Almighty took inventory of every hair on your head-- he cares that much!

And if you are at all like me . . . there will be days when there is very little about my hair that makes me happy. God, it's so humid today-- my hair just goes flat! Lord, when did all those grey ones show up? Ack!!

And I will walk outside, and a gentle breeze will grab one of those droopy, grey strands and move it around a little, and on my best days, that breeze will remind me of the Spirit that blows where it will, loves me no matter what kind of hair day I am having. (You, too.)

* * * * *
And your face. Your beautiful, perfect face. Maybe it bears the lines that tell of a life well-lived: lines from tears wept in heartache or loss, creases from spending time in laughter with good friends. Maybe, over the years, acne or injuries have left their mark. Still-- you are beautiful, inside and out. 

Perfect.

People look at a newborn baby and exclaim, "Oh she looks just like Aunt Martha!" "He has his father's nose-- and those ears! Just like his dad at that age!"

Or not.

Truth is, you do have your Father's eyes. And his sense of humor. And that nose-- well, your heavenly Father designed it, for sure. So yes, you even have your Father's (or Mother's) nose.

And no matter how much it resembles someone else's-- it's all yours. You are a unique, wonderful, perfect creation. Unlike any other, ever.

And the same is true for every person you will ever meet, regardless of race, or religion, or gender-- or anything else. Each person, deeply and wholly beloved of God.

That. Is. So. Cool.

So the next time life is beating you up (or down), stop. Take a breath-- there's another wonder-- and reflect on who you are and Whose you are. Rest in the knowledge that you are God's own beloved.

Psalm 139

Gracious, ever-creating God, thank you for each person, for their beauty and uniqueness. Help me, Lord, to love and appreciate myself-- and each Child of yours-- for the wondrous, fearfully made creation we are. Amen

All better now.

The heavens declare the glory of God, 

the skies proclaim the work of his hands. 

Day after day they pour forth speech; 

night after night they reveal knowledge. 

--Psalm 19:1-2

I have had one of those days. Not a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. More like a mediocre, lackluster, when-will-the-tides-ever-turn day. It started early, and was long in letting up.

My wonderful cat Maizie was going through her entire repertoire of annoying things designed to make me get up and feed her. Sitting on my chest. Bumping her teeth on the gooseneck lamp and making a really lovely sound. Licking the plastic bag in the bathroom trash can. Gah! A mom can only take so much.

Megan's cats joined in. Feeding them all (yes, there are now four for a couple more weeks) is a circus, anyway. This morning-- ack! I couldn't get it down fast enough, and there was yowling and prowling and rolling around on the floor. (The cats, not me.)

And "somebody" apparently was unsure she would get her fair share, so she ate really really fast-- and promptly upchucked on the window sill. Ugh!

I tried to psych myself up to take a walk. I really needed it. I decided for a change to drive down to the Metroparks and walk along the river. It should be interesting, I thought, in light of all the rains we have had.

I suppose it was fine. But there were lots of speeding bicyclists and road crews making noise. And my twisted ankle from a few weeks ago started barking again. Instead of three or four miles, I barely made it one-and-a-half. Grr.

Oh, and speaking of noise-- the neighbors continued with the power-washing and power-mowing and power-tooling. So many grinding, grating noises to make me want to close the windows-- but then I would lose the cool breezes. 

Sheesh.

So it went, for a good deal of the day. I just felt-- cranky. Off kilter.

Then tonight I was out running an evening errand, just before sundown. And suddenly, all the junk just washed away.

There were mare's tails and mackerel scales, contrails and puffy clouds, all tinged in various shades of gold and purple and pink and even mauve. Divine brush strokes highlighting the western sky.

No, wait-- that's not right. It wasn't just the western sky; it was the entire contour of the heavenly realm. Every direction, every corner tinged with color and light-- and of course, all just for me. 

All I had to do was open my eyes to see.

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. (Julian of Norwich)

I didn't need a rainbow to see the promise of God. There it was, laid out before me, brilliant and perfect in the evening light.

Thank God for happy endings.