Saying good-bye to my Father

With my father in hospice care at home with my Mom, my thoughts turn to what it has meant to be his daughter, what he has meant to me. As he peacefully "transitions," to use his term, even now he is teaching me, modelling dying well.

My father once said to me, "The only thing we can give you is our faith."  Not the words I was hoping for from my parents as a worldly and wayward teenager.  But words that mean everything to me today.  Both my brothers and I have followed in our father's footsteps and taken vows as Christian ministers; two of us are married to ministers, and one grandchild is recently ordained. Maybe my father didn't just paint prophets!  His faith, a living faith, compelled him to protest Apartheid in the 1950's, to march against racism and injustice throughout the 60's, to proclaim the horrors of war in the 1970's, and to stand at the Bellingham Friday vigil every week for the past 20 years.  I learned what faith means as I accompanied him in my stroller and later held his hand on Market Street in San Francisco, as he introduced me to the numerous ministers, all in their clerics and regalia, standing up against the corrupt and corroded powers of cities, states and nations.  I am so grateful today for this inheritance, the faith of my Father. 


SoSo, who is my dad?  The one who rides the bright yellow Triking three-wheeler!  Who stands vigil each Friday for 20 years at the Bellingham Federal Building holding up the placard-of-the-week.  Who loves to wear his fire-engine-red Doctor of Religion robe. Who attends weekly Kiwanis lunches because he believes groups committed to helping young people are essential to a healthy society.  Who gives his teenage daughter a pin declaring, "Question authority."  Who, in the 1950's and 1960's, teaches his children that love transcends colour, ethnicity and nationality. Who is fascinated with warriors of history, serves in the military, then witnesses as a Veteran for Peace. Who loves chocolate malt balls and hot caramel popcorn and A&W root beer floats.  Who loves Morgans, movies and solitaire.  Who loves Turner and Brubeck and bagpipes. The man

who paints oversize oils of scary prophets and writes lengthy verse.  The man who is a good friend, steady and true. That's my Dad.

One can list accomplishments and pedigree to describe my father: Methodist Minister in Illinois, California, and Washington, Doctor of Religion from Chicago Theological Seminary, Provost at Central YMCA Community College in Chicago, United Methodist Missionary to Poland and Fiji.   But he is so much more: a minister committed to justice, a student committed to living out his learning, a Provost committed to opening doors and windows for disadvantaged urban students, a missionary excited to be on an adventure.

But most importantly he is a husband who has remained devoted to his wife of 60 years, a loving father supportive of three offspring who have surely challenged his trust, if not his love, over the years.


Thank you Al for being my father.

Al died on Monday 3 March 2014, peacefully at home surrounded by his family.

Retreat

Off the grid, out of touch, not available -- a wonderful and important place to be from time to time.  Possible by unplugging and turning off the phones, but something different happens when we go, go to the ends of the earth. I travelled four hours north by train then 20 minutes south by cab, across the causeway during low tide. Some call it a pilgrimage, but just "going" works for me.  And then once arrived, just "being."  Lots of just being.  Rugged up against the cold island winds.  Drawn to the medieval castle rising overhead on the rock mound beside the sea.  Drawn to the glistening tidal beaches, the flocks of birds, the arches of the ruined priory.  Drawn to the ancient liturgy, the holy meal shared as the sunlight washes over each morning landscape.  Drawn back by the priest, her slender frame crooked with age, her voice lilting through the chapel space. Drawn into new friendship -- sharing stories, laughter, being true.  Walks together, noticing the ripples of sand, the smoothness of stone. Retreat -- going, being, and now the returning.  Daily life takes on a slightly different hue.

Called...the ordination of a daughter

How does faith move from one generation to the next?  How does God's call reach into the heart?  Does it pass from one heart to another?  Does it blow, like the wind, from a mother's or father's very breath?  Does it come from a new place, from a separate place, or does it pass through a shared point, a common link, through a single interlacing or web?  From whatever starting point, or source, God's call pulls one up into a new place, a vulnerable yet exhilarating place--open, receptive, truly oneself.  What an honour to share this powerful and gentle calling with father, with daughter, with husband, with God.

Prayer

My first prayer some 30 years ago started, "I don't believe in you, but someone told me to talk to you, so I am."  And my life changed.  And so did my practice of  prayer.  I came to believe in a higher power, and I came to believe in the power of prayer.

I'd love to say that I pray without ceasing, but I do, cease that is.  I would love to say that I pray with understanding, but I often pray from a place of not-knowing.  I would love to say that I pray with a deep sense of connection to the Spirit, but sometimes it feels that only a thin thread of hope connects me to anything.

What I can say is that prayer, the openness to connecting with a higher power, shifts my reality and my experience of it. 

When I stubbornly refuse to pray, refuse to ask for assistance or guidance, the world can seem to be pressing in on me, feeling overwhelming and unmanageable.  When I am convinced of a need to go solo, to handle a situation on my own, the experiences of panic and confusion often slide into my head, and if I persistently continue to withhold prayer, I begin to entertain thoughts of using alternative coping mechanisms, usually unhealthy.

When I open myself to spiritual guidance (whatever that actually is), the pressure decreases, and often recedes completely.  The feelings of being overwhelmed and out of control evaporate like so much mist, as a path to follow becomes illuminated before me.  The panic and confusion subside, replaced by trust and confidence, confidence that I am not alone, that I need not fly solo, and that I am held in love.

Rather than starting with a statement of not believing as I did with my first prayer, my prayers today start with the knowledge that I can never fully understand or comprehend this higher power before which I place my prayer, but I do believe.

Pause

Sometimes I forget to breathe, to pause.  I race through life without stopping long enough to take a deep breath. It happens most often these days on the computer; I approach the keyboard for "just a minute" and look up 45 minutes later, sometimes longer.  I know the wisdom of pausing, of looking up regularly, stretching, taking a break, but I push on.  I know the price --  a stiff neck and shoulders, sore arms,  the realization that I no longer have ample time for other things.  Yet...

Learning to breathe.  Learning to pause.
The day is full of opportunities for a deep breathe.
Breathe in.  Breathe out.

Joy

On each of the past five days a moment of pure joy has settled upon me.  Like a cloud, or aura, the sensation is one of being completely surrounded in a brilliance and sense of delight.  Not a surface glee, but a profound sense of rightness and peace.  A moment of knowing that, as the old hymn goes, "All is well with my soul."  -- at least for a moment! (smile).  I may go several weeks without this sense of joy in its purity, so this past week is almost joy-overload!

 First, on Wednesday in the late afternoon, the feeling overwhelmed me as Tod, my husband, and I strolled through Hilly Fields, the park near my home. The perfect moment -- safe, loved, loving, comfortable in my own skin, enveloped by God's love, grounded -- Joy.

Thursday, purchasing two kitchen pots, again with Tod -- like newly weds, looking forward to using them for years, finding just the right ones with glass lids, first pots we'd bought new since our cast iron stew pot in Zimbabwe some 18 years ago, grounded, comfortable and enveloped by love -- Joy.

Friday, skyping with my daughter a continent away, grateful, proud, not wanting anything to be different, loving and loved, enveloped indeed -- Joy.

Saturday, sitting at the end of the pier at Clacton on Sea, part of a church excursion to the seaside with 200 other people, sipping tea, watching the waves of the North Sea, sun streaming through grey clouds, present, grounded, safe, enveloped by love -- Joy.

Today, at our local pub, the Brockley Barge, enjoying a late lunch with Tod after church, enjoying the Olympics with other local folk, not wanting to be anywhere else, grateful and grounded, enveloped by love from others and for others, and touched by God -- Joy.

Gratitude

Gratitude - for all the spiritual teachers I have had.  Right now I'm reading a book from Phyl in Australia.  As usual I cannot recall the title, but it's about doors -- what doors are open, what doors are blocked, what door describes my life.  An image of a garden door, a half-door, I guess it's called a cottage door, comes to mind.  A bright red one.  Open to the sunlight from outside, yet safe from slithering asps in the grass, and hopping toads.  A door closed, but never closing off the possibility of conversation with a neighbour passing by, never blocking out the wafting aroma of the lavender now in bloom.  A comfortable warm image.