Parting with a friend -- Death visits

Jeff died.  Two words that hold everything.  Jeff lived.  Ah, two words that hold everything, too.  Jeff breathed and laughed and loved.  Jeff often thought he knew too much, but often did know so much.  Jeff was a good husband, the best kind, the kind that stays, is faithful, and has eyes for no one but the wife he chose 30 some years ago.  Jeff was a good father, the best kind, the kind that models gentleness and courage, that shows his three magnificent sons that yielding the right of way is okay, that sharing a life with your wife is better than expecting her to support only yours.  Jeff was a dynamic teacher, full of passion, full of creative options and alternative ideas, no moss did this rolling stone gather in his classroom.  Clearing out his office we discovered gadgets for measuring the curve of the earth alongside a wooden antelope from Zimbabwe, where we met.  His dreams had been met, yet he had more. Too soon, this death, too soon. His family, his profession, his home, his golf, his squash playing.  All in their proper place.  All relationships well tended and cultivated. "Inspiring" That's the word his students wrote over and over on the tribute sheets taped to his office door.  Inspiring.  Indeed, Jeff, your life has inspired me.  And your friendship has been true. Thank you.

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.

It's a beautiful day!  No one and no situation can take that away.  Open my eyes to the beauty.  Open my ears to the song of birds and the whoosh of leaves in the breeze.  Open my heart to the glory of creation. Thandiwe, my daughter, shared this magnificent photo with me this morning --Bastei, Elbe, Germany by Boris Buschardt .  It says it all.

A poem for reflection

I've been re-united with poems by Jeanne Lohmann, a family friend whose husband died when her children were young adults.  I'll be using this poem in a funeral for a 52-year-old father of three, in which the eldest son, aged 25, will share a tribute--part of the story. 

Sunday Poetry

by Jeanne Lohmann

Our stories lie down in the orchard,
their time is not now, but something is
coming, something is going away. They

rise to the stars, and wait to be told.
There are listeners who know how little
we know, how much we are feeling.

We had to go our own way, a little off course,
always, no matter how specific the directions
seemed at the time. In this universe if we’re lucky,

we will live in our children’s stories,
their tales that will turn us to legend,
some absurd truth that has nothing to do

with our plans, our meticulous records.
No matter what stories we discard or keep,
they will give us a life we cannot imagine.

From The Light of Invisible Bodies
by Jeanne Lohmann

Thanks to Jeanne for her numerous volumes of thoughtful and moving poetry. (and for posting some on the internet, so I could find them when I searched!)

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.