The Eucharist

The world is changing. . . . It is starting to utter its infinite particulars, each overlapping and lone, like a hundred hills of hounds all giving tongue. . . . Above me the mountains are raw nerves, sensible and exultant; the trees, the grass, the asphalt below me are living petals of mind, each sharp and invisible, held in a greeting or glance full perfectly formed. . . Walking faster and faster, weightless, I feel the wine. . . It sheds light in slats through my rib cage, and fills the buttressed vaults of my ribs with light pooled and buoyant. I am moth; I am light. I am prayer and I can hardly see

- Annie Dillard

Heavy

The time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer
and I did not die.
Surely God had His hand in this,

as well as friends,
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it–
books, bricks, grief–
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled–
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep wave,
a love
to which there is no reply?


- Mary Oliver

Words to what there are no words for....

How do we honor loss in our culture?

It seems to hem us in from every corner of our lives...no one is untouched by death.

And yet- doesn't it seem that the care and process of honoring the dead, of honoring the death within us is treated as if they are table scraps...

How may we, as mourners pick up these scraps and elevate them to our table. Allow them to be present with us...clear a place for them, so that we may feast on them as memories, suckle on them as painful as it may be-greet them.

What would it be like to take the ONE SECOND that we are allotted to grieve and multiply it to a lifetime? What would it be like to be a people who remember? How do we honor the dead? Where is the place on this earth for grieving? Where is the designated aisle that I may find to walk down... where is my place in this world as one who grieves daily? Where is my flag I should wave- that i can pass to you?

I am in Seminary because I deeply desire to enter more deeply into the way of my own grief, walk in that way and meet up with God there. It is there that i long to grasp His hand and ask others to join me there. I want to sing there, beautifully, as we craft a way together to cry out "why God why?!", shaking our fists in the air, crying out, yelling out and yet still holding hands full of red roses that symbolize hope. Together we will point to the moments of redemption and call them out, cheer them on as powerful!

This is why I study....

Today I had a day of deep grief...

and this poem below is an attempt

to put words to what there are no words for...

grief.

mourning

death....

may you all journey deep within the walls of your grief and come out grateful...

(please note that this poem is written with the intent to be spoken...so- will you please do me the deep honor of imagining me actively engaging this - of course with all the right poignant pauses!! :))

roaches desecrate the wood

that once

fed the fire

so they walk 3 miles further

and three miles back

to bake the bread , that feeds the ache within their stomachs

the screaming started at 1am

when the child remembered

the smell of that morsel that at one time had fed her frail frame

she had forgotten

the goodness of its taste

the wonders of it matriculating on her tongue

the way it makes her feel in her toes

when the warmth wanders just a bit down

past her belly...

the hugs she throws up in the room

when she feels whole

like parts of her are full enough to fill other parts

you see- she walks everyday.

everyday she wakes and walks

to soothe the torment of her empty vessel

to make flames.

to make flames for her family.

to stare at the empty eyes of the people

across from her she once knew..

to chew on the remains of the days

that held laughter

and dreams

these are the memory days

the days were she imagines the desert

to be full of daffodils

daffodils that grow grapes.

the memory days

hold within them

visions...

the clouds become his face

and they reach out for her hand

folding each finger back, ever so gently until only the pointer remains

And he thrusts it up for her, towards the sky

running/ leaping/ galloping

she runs across the mountain top pasture of her dreams

as if her finger is a flag

a flag that says

mourn.

she runs. and runs and runs and runs and runs and runs....

until, her sorrowing heart weighs her to the ground

her heavy body forms itself a place in the sand

her fingers buried deep within...

...she scoops up the handful-watching carefully as it pours to the ground

whispering to each small glimmer:

“its okay”.

Mary Oliver Poem

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
-Mary Oliver

Liturgy: Breathing Prayer

Liturgy: Breathing Prayer

by Christine Sine

Inhale: Breathe on us, Spirit of God
Exhale: Fill us deep within
Inhale: Speak to us with the language of our hearts
Exhale: Speak to us in ways we can understand
Inhale: Breathe in us, Spirit of God
Exhale: Fill us with new life
Inhale: Teach us the language of love
Exhale: Teach us the ways of compassion
Inhale: Breathe through us, Spirit of God
Exhale: Fill us with kingdom ways
Inhale: Send us out to do your will
Exhale: Send us out to transform our world

Breathe on us, breathe in us, breathe through us.

Connected...

"While there is a lower class,
I am in it,
While there is a criminal element,
I am of it,
While there is
a soul in prison
I am not free."
- Eugene Debs 1855-1926

... CONNECTED...

Hope is like a road in the country;
there was never a road,
but when many people walk on it,
the road comes into existence.
- Lin Yutang

The slow learning of hope...

As I haved walked past the motel next to me over the past few weeks, i have heard kids playing in the little bitty space of concrete between the motel and the sidewalk. I have seen their eyes peer through the fence as i walk past, fingers sticking through, and laughter echoeing. A number of times I have tried to talk with them through the fence, but, as good little kids are taught- "don't talk to strangers!" :)
Yesterday, i decided to go over to the motel and introduce myself to this family. I had a great excuse... 4 free tickets to the IMAX theater downtown, so i fugured that would make me a bit more approachable! So-, sure enough, i rounded the corner and saw a little girl sitting inbetween the fence and her motel... she was soo stinkin cute! I asked her if her mommy or daddy or grandma/grandpa were home? And within a matter of seconds 7 people surfaced out of the dark hotel room, TV blaring- into the beautiful sun-lit day. I introduced myself as their neighbor, gave them the tickets and asked if they wanted to come play in the garden. Then i left...
no more than 15 minutes later, the three kids and their mom came over to the house and we played together in the garden for hours. I pray it is the beginning of a friendship that will bridge love and dignity, hope and opportunity to this family that is homeless (they live in a truck outside our house...they just use the motel to go to the bathroom).
The timing was ridiculous, as this week, our church recieved a grant to help enable homeless famlies to defeat the evil of the housing obstacle of paying first and last months rent (this IS what keeps most homeless people homeless!) Soo- please join us in praying for this family, that we may journey with them well....

Here is a poem that I wrote in reflection to yesterday:

The little boy said, "mommy, look!"
as he pointed
to the icon of Jesus that hangs on our wall.
You are recognizable...

to the homeless.

The man reached out his hand
squeezed mine
as he said
he wanted "to go to the arms of God"...

to the dying.

The cross swung back and forth
around his neck,
17, sczhiophrenic,
a "teddy bear one moment, beast the next"...

to the lame.

They live, 5 of them,
in a van.
3 children, 2 adults.
night time bathroom breaks are "interesting"...

she says.

They laugh as they 'pop'
open the baby pine cones to see what lies within...
Star and I gaze at one another,
Me- in awe, Her- at ease...

You are recognizable.

The poor show us the hope
that we left at the alter,
with all our crimson
and gold

we took home only the crumbs of your bread.

We merely sip of your blood.
Our gratitude, for what...a slosh?
We sleep warm, we worry much...
while ever still watching those birds in our feeders...

Yet, in YOU they trust... in YOU they are found.