My Dad's day

I know it was in Princeton, because I can see my Mom and Dad around the table in the Dining Room there. They were doing the bills. That's what they did every month, together. Bern does our finances and has for years. If she dies before I do I'll have to get a CPA to do my finances as well as a cleaning service and a yard service. (I don't do anything of importance besides empty the litter box, take out the trash and feed the creatures.)

So, I must have been home for a holiday or summer vacation from college, because I never lived in Princeton until I went to college.

Anyhow, what happened was this: it was the first month ever, in their marriage, that my father made more money than my mother. She was a school teacher and he had lots of jobs--running a bar, working my uncle in a grocery store, picking up dry cleaning and finally, as an insurance agent. I have no idea how insurance agents are paid, but it has something to do, I believe, with a cut of each policy they sold.

And that day, sometimes after 1965, his cut of policies was more than here teacher's salary.

He was delighted, that I remember, as excited as I ever saw him, happy and fulfilled. Given that he was a man born in the first decade of the 20th century, to have gone that long having his wife make more money than him must have stung.

That's all I remember. His unhidden joy to, at last, have been the main wage earner in our family.

I don't remember what my mother said, though I'm sure she was fine with the reversal. She, after all, was a 'woman' of the early decade of the 20th century. She might even had been uneasy about bringing home more bacon than my dad for all those years.

I'm not sure why I'm thinking of my parents so much these days. They've both been dead over half of my life.

But I remembered that night around the dining room table when my father finally was the 'wage earner' of the two.

I remember that clearly.

I'm always finding stuff in my desk....

Maybe I should just clean out my desk once and for all, make a clean break with the past and the things I find in it when I open it up and root around from time to time.

But I've come to think of my desk as a Keeper of Memory that I should only dip into from time to time and find something wondrous.

Tonight it was a picture of my mother: Marion Cleo Jones Bradley.

Cleo, which is what everyone called her, was a school teacher, so she had her picture taken when the folks came to take school pictures. The one I found tonight must have been taken in the last years she taught, before she grew ill and died. She was teaching in those years in Switchback Elementary School, though all the years I was growing up she taught at Pageton Elementary School. Pageton was closed at some point when I was in college and she moved to Switchback, further away but because my parents moved from Anawalt to Princeton when I was in college, she didn't have to cross any mountains to get there.

Her hair is turning gray in the picture. She has on a blazer with one of the pins she always wore--costume jewelery and a tad tacky for my taste, on the left lapel. She has on a blouse with wide collars and her head is tilted to the left, probably because the photographer told her too. She is smiling slightly. Her glasses are clear, like a pair I had not too long ago. I have her nose and her hair.

She died when I was 25. She never met her grandchildren. She died young, in her 60's. I am five years older than she was when she died.

And here's the awful truth: I don't remember much about her at all. Not at all. Not her voice or her manner or her smile (which looks forced in the picture) or her laugh or her smell. She died 42 years ago and all that detail has faded.

My father lived another 12 years or so. Miserable without her. So I remember lots more about him.

They were older parents--much older in those days. She was 38 and he was 40 when I was born. They were the age of my young friend's grandparents.

And I don't remember her voice.

That haunts me.

Both my children are a decade older than I was when my mother died. I hope they will never forget the sound of my voice. I hope they are never haunted that they don't.

I stare at the picture and don't make any emotional contact with it. It looks kinda like I remember my mother, but not quite. She's too thin--maybe she'd lost weight because this was near the end of her health. She had a series of strokes and died. Once, at our kitchen table, she grabbed and pill bottle and put a pill under her tongue with no comment. Just a deep breath as the pill dissolved. I looked at the bottle later and realized it was nitroglycirin and my mother's heart was in deep trouble. She's never mentioned it to me and I was already married. Two years later, she died.

One thing I realized long ago is that my parents kept me from knowing 'what's wrong?' always.

Even when I was grown, they didn't tell me my mother had a severe heart problem. My father never told me he was having memory problems until the dementia was full blown.

I was an only child of older parents. Their instinct was to shelter and protect me. I know they meant well and thought that was best.

But it wasn't.

And I can't hear her voice. I never dream of her, almost never. I dream of my father often.

Flesh of my flesh and I can't remember her voice....Maybe looking at the photo every day might bring it back. Who knows?

Who knows anything about parents and children? Really....

If I can figure out how to do this, I'll share a post from August of last year about all this.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Another found poem

Looking through these papers is like experiencing deyavu "all over again" as someone wise (I've narrowed it down to William James, Mark Twain and Yogi Berra) once said.

Marion Cleo Jones Bradley was my mother. God bless her for that. She grew up during the depression and had a hard life. She somehow, climbing out of poverty and ignorance, became a teacher and taught 1st or 2nd grade for years, decades.

I found this poem about her. It seems a bit harsh, but I wrote it over seven years ago and who knows (certainly not me!) what I was thinking when I wrote it. But it was like meeting an old friend in Grand Central Station to find it. And I share it with you.

As the Africans say, 'this is my story, receive it with a blessing and send the blessing back to me...."


MOTHER'S DAY

Well, every day is 'mother's day',
if we are to acknowledge the broad, inclusive
knowledge of our best friend, Dr. Freud.

Who among us can disentangle from the clever, ubiquitous web
of deceit, devotion and dread she wove around us?

"Step on a crack and break your mother's back."
She didn't make that up,
but she would have, given the choice.
Control, control and more control:
that is the currency of Mother Love.

However, this is about my mother 
(write your own poem about yours!)

My mother made a mistake in timing.
She died the week of my 25th birthday.
Elsie, her younger sister, my aunt,
put her hand on my shoulder as I sat
by my mother's death bed, feeding her vanilla ice cream
from a little paper cup with a weird wooden spoon
as if it were exactly what she would want
as she lay dying--which is True as True can be.

"Happy birthday, Jimmy", my aunt Elsie said,
(though she may have said "Jimmie"--the spelling
of my nickname was almost Shakespeareanly varied)--
"did anyone else remember?" she continued,
into more ice cream I was feeding to an almost dead woman.
No one else had--not even my father,
not even me--I'd forgotten my own birthday,
twenty and five: a Big One.

He, at least, could be forgiven.
His wife, after all, was dying.
But why did I forget such an auspicious date?
Because 'mommy' was more important?
Of course she was--she'd made it so
through innocence and guile
and the web she'd woven around me
in all the years before.

She never hit me--not once--I swear it is true;
except with guilt and 'responsibility' and the sticky
lace of Mother Love.

I've lived a life-time since she finally died,
sated on ice cream from my hand.
I only remember her face from photographs
and remember her voice not at all.
She was a good mother--believe you me.
She did all she knew to do and more besides.
And she loved me. She did--she did.
And would love me more if she knew
the man I am today.

Yet, over three decades later, I remember this:
my father and I standing on the loading dock
of Bluefield's hospital, watching the dawn.
Nurses were unhooking all the lines that had held my mom
to this life. I expected some tender moment,
sleep deprived as we both were.

What I got was this: my father looked down at my shoes
and handed me thirty dollars--a twenty and two fives.
"Buy some new shoes for her funeral," he said.
And I said, holding the bills in my hand,
"this isn't enough...."

Although, in those days, it really was.

jgb-1/19/06

Why I'm an Episcopalian

Here is a sermon I preached well over a decade ago. And I stand by it yet. This messy, confusing, fragmented church is the one I still stand with. Mostly because it is 'messy, confusing and fragmented'. Go figure.

Why I’m an Episcopalian….

July 27, 2003

This little book is called 101 Reasons to be an Episcopalian. Since much of what I want to say today is about the Episcopal Church, I’m going to read several of them to you as we go along.

# 87 by a woman priest from Florida: “We don’t have all the answers and we welcome others who love the questions.”

# 86 by a laywoman in Rochester: “Catholic, without the pope and with women; protestant without the gloom….”

Tomorrow at 9:55 a.m., God willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll be on an airplane headed to Minneapolis, Minnesota and the General Convention of the Episcopal Church as one of our Diocese’s 4 clergy deputies.

I want you to know this: I am both proud and humbled to be one of the four priests representing the Diocese of Connecticut at the General Convention. Proud and humbled—both at the same time…. Both together…. Just like that….

Reason # 52: “this is the only church that is as lovingly loony as your family.” Mary Lyons, Diocese of Olympia

#80—a layman from Atlanta: “We don’t quiz you on your beliefs before worshipping with you.”

What I want to tell you about the General Convention of our church is this (it’s a quote from Dame Julian of Norwich): “All will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well….”

That’s not the message you will hear in the news media about the goings-on at General Convention. What you will hear—unless you log on the St. John’s web site and get my “reports” from the Convention—is this: the church is in a mess it can’t get out of…everything is falling apart…the Episcopal Church is about to split asunder and blow up like a cheap balloon.

My advice is this: don’t listen to that negative stuff.

My mantra is this: “all will be well….”

***

In today’s gospel, Jesus walks on water.

Twenty years ago or more now, one of my favorite poets, the late Denise Levertov, said this: “The crisis of faith is the crisis of imagination. If we cannot imagine walking on the waters, how can we meet Jesus there?”

Denise Levertov said that at a conference of poets and theologians. For my money, you couldn’t beat that combination—poets and theologians…people who anguish over “language” and people who fret about “God”. Poets and theologians—now you’re talking….

***

Let’s cut to the chase—the real issue facing the General Convention, in one way or another, is the issue of homosexuality.

There is a remarkable amount of disagreement within the Episcopal Church about homosexuality. And that disagreement will come to the General Convention in several ways. It will come up over the confirmation of the election of Gene Robinson as the next bishop of New Hampshire. Gene Robinson has been a priest for 30 years. He is currently the assistant to the Bishop of New Hampshire. He heads committees for the national church. He happens to be a gay man in a committed relationship with another man.

There are 10 other elections of Bishops that will come to the General Convention. Not since the 1870’s has the larger church overruled the choice of a Diocese as their bishop. And the 10 other bishops elected in the last 3 months will be approved by General Convention without debate and unanimously. But not Gene Robinson….

If I were a betting man, I’d say the odds of Gene Robinson being approved by General Convention are 4 to 1 in favor. And when that happens you will read and hear how the Episcopal Church is about to fly apart and self-destruct.

I would urge you not to believe that.

I would urge you to believe this instead: “all will be well….”

One thing the Episcopal Church is blessed with in abundance is “imagination.” We will walk on the waters…. And all will be well….

#32 by Elizabeth Geitz, a Canon at the Cathedral of the Diocese of New Jersey: “The Episcopal Church taught me that Jesus came to challenge, not just comfort; to overturn, not maintain; to love, not judge; to include, not cast aside.

Most likely the Convention will also vote on whether or not to ask the Standing Liturgical Commission to prepare a ritual for the blessing of committed relationships outside of marriage. No matter what you hear in the media—General Convention is not voting to approve “gay marriages”.

“Marriage” is a function of the state, not the church, so General Convention has no say in “marriage law”. Because of Connecticut state law, an Episcopal priest can legally sign a marriage license as an “agent of the state”. What I do, as a priest, in a marriage, is ask God’s blessing on the commitment and fidelity of the man and woman. What General Convention will most likely consider is whether there should be a service to bless the monogamous, faithful, life-long relationship of two people that is not marriage. The resolution is, in one way, separating what the “church does” from what the “state does.” If that resolution passes—and I’d put the odds at 2 to 1 in favor of it passing—the church will develop, over the next three years, a ritual to bless “relationships” other than marriage.

If that resolution passes, you will hear that Liberals and Conservatives are about to tear our church apart. I’d urge you to suspend your judgment and remember this: “all will be well, all manner of things will be well….”

# 11, Barbara Ross, Diocese of Oregon: “At our best, Episcopalians can respectfully disagree about a great many things—and still break bread together.”

#13, by Carter Heyward of Massachusetts, one of the first 7 women ordained a priest…before the General Convention approved women’s ordination: “We believe that love without justice is sentimentality.”

There is a sense of daja vu about all the media hype about this year’s General Convention. The Episcopal Church and the Anglican Communion, critics said, were about to implode and fragment a quarter of a century ago over revision of the Prayer Book and the ordination of women.

And it is true that a small number of Episcopalians chose to leave the church after those changes. But the great schism nay-sayers predicted did not happen. We had the patience and imagination to walk on stormy waters. And, if we in the Episcopal Church can find—in the midst of great conflict and disagreement—if we can find “our better selves” we can walk on waters again.

The secret to our “imagination” as a church is that we Episcopalians—deep-down, value “each other” more than we cling to our divisions. And we are, as a church, dominated by a commitment to Justice.

Reason #62 of the 101 reasons to be an Episcopalian comes from Nancy Vogel of the Diocese of Vermont: “Despite or perhaps because of our present disagreements in the Episcopal Church I am reminded that God calls us all together because we aren’t WHOLE without each other.”

Reason #68, a lay person from New York: “I love our church because we don’t think UNITY means UNIFORMITY.”

“All will be well” with us, if we can cling to our passionate commitment to “be together” in the midst of deep differences. We Episcopalians are the only denomination that is practiced at that. Somehow, over our history, we have found the imagination necessary to “belong to each other” even though we disagree. This is a “lovingly loony” church. You don’t have to leave your questions or your intellect or your deeply-held opinions outside the door to be here and share in the sacrament with each other.

We Episcopalians define our “identity” by our worship instead of our dogma. When Queen Elizabeth the First was asked, centuries ago, if members of her church should cross themselves during the Eucharist, she said, wise beyond words: “none must, all may, some should….”

That is the openness and inclusiveness that is one-half of the genius and glory of our church. The other half of that genius and glory is this: we are the most “democratic” church in Christendom. We make our decisions on small matters and great matters by “voting”.

I was “elected” nearly 15 years ago to be your Rector. We “elect” our bishops. The Presiding Bishop of the Church is “elected” by the other bishops. The deputies to General Convention are “elected” to vote for their Dioceses by their Diocesan Conventions. You “elect” the vestry members that make the decisions about St. John’s. And the Vestry makes decisions by “voting”.

The Episcopal Church is a unique American institution, formed at the very same time as our nation by some of the same people. And the founders of our Church understood the wisdom of the founders of our nation—the way to make decisions is by voting…majority rules…. Here in the United States and here in the Episcopal Church, we don’t believe “unity” means “uniformity”. We vote on difficult issues. Then we move on, unified but not uniform. And we deeply, profoundly value the “loyal opposition”.

An “inclusive democracy” is what the Episcopal Church is. The “loyal opposition” is greatly valued by the majority. That was true for those who opposed women’s ordination and the 1979 Book of Common Prayer. It will be true two weeks from now toward those who are disappointed, broken and angry about whatever happens at General Convention. They will be loved. They will be comforted. They will be included. Without them, the church will not be whole.

“All will be well…” It will take a while and some few may choose to leave the church if I’m correct about how the votes will go. But those who are happy about the “votes” won’t want anyone who is unhappy about the “votes” to leave. If they leave it will be their choice and their leaving will be mourned greatly.

And this church will go on. We will welcome all to taste and see how sweet the Lord’s Body and Blood truly is. We will value everyone, no matter what they think or believe. We will never require “uniformity” to have “unity”. And we will stand for love and justice—love and justice and the wonder of God.

That will not change. Not one iota, not one jot.

And all will be well, all will be well, all manner of things will be well….

Swearing off the news

I'm swearing off the news today for a week. I've read on-line today how President Obama's disposing of his chewing gum had international repercussions, how a man was electrocuted because he had on a copper ring while fixing a garbage disposal, how a woman thinks her son is possessed by the ghost of a Marine killed in Beirut 20 years ago, how Ted Cruz things 'internet neutrality' is like Obama care, how a Texas lawmaker wants to change the Constitution to make it OK to fire GLBT employees,how Mama June of Honey Boo-Boo wants to explain her relationship with a man who abused her as a child, how bread may cause cancer and how the Kardashians are doing most anything--none of it interesting.

So, I'm off the news for a week. I'll probably have withdrawal signs--eating newsprint, sobbing at my computer, having nothing to add to the conversation.

But I'm media-morose. I'm signing off for a week to get back my mojo and my balance.

Join me if you'd like. Don't look at any 'news' in print or on line for a week. Let's see how much purer and nobler it will make us.

What you don't know (part II)

Tonight, a week after my musings about the Cluster Council officers meeting, I was at the Cluster Council meeting. Only one member was not there--it's usually only one or a full house--what you get working with deeply committed people.

We're under-budget for the year--rare enough anywhere, much less in Episcopal Churches. And we passed a balanced budget for next year with no increase in the amount each congregation contributes. (If you're around churches at all, you'll know how remarkable that is.)

The meeting lasted less than an hour even though we were saying good-bye to Rowena Kemp, who has been one of the Presbyters for a year and is moving on to a full-time job at Trinity on the Green in New Haven as Assistant Rector. (Trinity, thank you're lucky stars and God--you got the real deal as a priest in Row....)

And there was some serious sharing about problems. And there was even more sharing about successes. And there was a lot of laughter and good humor. Rare to be able to touch pain and joy and humor in a meeting. Rare indeed in a church meeting!

These are good people, very good people who are committed to their congregations. And they are the tip of the iceberg of good, committed people I get to work with in the Middlesex Cluster Ministry.

I've been feeling so blessed and grateful lately I'm probably wearing you out with my joy and gratitude--but here to, to be with these people, these three little churches, these astonishing congregations is yet another blessing of my life for which I am profoundly thankful.

Really.

Maybe I should pinch myself just to make sure I'm not dreaming about how blessed I am....

(Just did. Didn't wake up....)

My five favorite writers

I'm an English major, for God's sake, and should have more refined taste in writing. But I'm also someone who reads five books a week and I know what I like.

My favorite writer of all time is Kurt Vonnegut. I even drove to Pittsburgh at some point to hear him speak. He was wonderful and at some point, right in the middle of something, he looked at his watch and said, "they paid me for an hour and the hour is up" and left the stage. Wonderful. My two favorites are Slaughterhouse Five and The Sirens of Titan but I've read them all. I haven't re-read them, though I should, because I don't want to know if the years have made his writing less wonderful.

My second favorite writer is William Shakespeare, just because I'm an English major and should have him in my top five. I love his sonnets and plays though I must admit I've not read any of them for decades, though I think I should, being an English major and all.

Tied for third are J.J.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, who knew each other and talked about their writing for hours. I read the Narnia books every year again. Nothing else Lewis wrote interests me. He was too Christian for my sensibilities. But the Narnia books stay fresh and wondrous every time I read them. We once owned a house on Oak Island, North Carolina and it was called 'Aslan'. Also, lots of people gave me lions over the years. I've not re-read the Tolkien books recently, but I have The Hobbit on my bedside table and will read it at some point.

John Sanford is my fourth favorite writer. He's written lots of books with 'prey' in the title about a Minneapolis  Detective, named Lucas Davenport, who  is also rich because he created computer games. He also writes about a detective named Virgil Trucks who knows Lucas and is in rural Minnesota. Priceless, all of them, and they are many.

A newcomer to my top five is Laura Lippman, who writes amazingly crafted novels that end up being mysteries that all take place in Baltimore, where my son and daughter-in-law and three grand-daughters live. She is a remarkable writer you should read.

There are lots of others straining for the top five: P.D. James, for example. But I'm sticking with these five for now.

Luke, the dog

Since I mentioned the funeral for a dog in my last post, I'll include that story here, though I know I've told it before...it deserves re-telling.

Luke, a dog

Luke was a beautiful Golden Retriever with the deepest, loveliest brown eyes ever. He was Michael's dog before he was Jo-Ann's dog. Michael was Jo-Ann's son and had lost both legs while still a young man. Luke was a trained companion dog who was Mike's legs. But he was more than that. Once, while asleep, an IV in Mike's arm slipped out and he began to bleed. When the blood was pooling on the floor, Luke started barking and pulling at him and woke him up. I don't know how long it would take to bleed to death from an open IV vein, but Mike was not healthy and I think he could have. After Mike stopped the bleeding, he must have washed the blood off Luke's fur and thanked God for such a brown-eyed angel of mercy.

Luke came to church with Mike and when Mike had his final illness, someone with enough sense to break rules that need to be broken let Luke be in Intensive Care with Mike. Mike's missing legs made room for Luke to lay where Mike's leg's should have been had life been kinder to him. And he laid there until Mike died. The medical personnel who initially had been horrified by a dog's presence in ICU melted when they looked into Luke's eyes. “I'm just laying here where I'm supposed to be,” he eyes said, “next to my human.”Anyone would have melted. So the nurses and orderlies took turns taking Luke out when he needed to go out. Luke could go to the bathroom on command. Would that we could train young children to do that....

After Mike died, the companion dog people were about to take him back when Jo-Ann, who was most of the time in a wheel-chair herself, convinced them to let her keep him and be a therapy dog. She took him to the hospital where Mike died and to nursing homes around the area. I saw him do it. It came naturally to him. He was never assertive, always patient, always waiting for the human to make the first move. And he was as gentle as a spring breeze, as sweet as the smell of honeysuckle, as healing as magic chicken soup. I can't imagine how many people Luke touched in those years with Jo-Ann. But I know he touched me profoundly.

Jo-Ann always came to the adult forum on Sundays. When she and Luke got to the church library, she let him come and greet me, putting his short leash in his mouth so he could guide himself. He'd come and give me a nuzzle and a lick (though he was also interested in rolling on his back on the rug in the library!) That greeting and lick was always one of the highlights of my week.

When I was in seminary, I had a course in 'creating liturgy'. Since I came into the church via a 'house church', I wanted to replicate that experience for my class. We met in our apartment in Alexandria and Robert Estill, the professor, was the celebrant. My dog Finney was standing next to Bob as we stood around the table. Bob broke the bread I'd baked and passed it around. But before he passed it, he broke a piece off and gave it to our Puli. Finney didn't leave Bob's side until he left for the evening.

I asked him about giving communion to a dog and he told me a story from his first parish church. They used home-baked bread, like we did that night, and since the loaf was always more than the little congregation could consume, Bob would take it to the back door and throw it on the grass for the birds. After a while, the birds would start gathering half way through the Eucharist and sing as they waited to be fed. Bob told me it was a wonderful addition to the music of the little church.

However, one day the bishop visited and was horrified when he saw Bob feed the consecrated loaf to the birds. The bishop forbade him from ever doing it. As someone once described me, Bob was 'reluctantly obedient' and stopped feeding the birds.

“They kept coming for weeks, months,” he told me. “Long after the bread was withheld from them, they kept singing for us. But finally, half-a-year later, they stopped showing up to sing the communion hymn.”

I think that's a metaphor for how the church misses the point of 'being the church'. We let rules and regulations and canon law and dogma come between the sacraments and those who long for them. I've known people that happened to—they were turned away, rejected, shut out by the church and the church lost them, finally.

So, when Luke came to the communion rail with Jo-Ann, I always gave him a wafer or a hunk of bread if we were using home-baked that Sunday. Since I was seldom the only one administering the bread, I kept an eye out if someone else was giving communion on Luke's side of the rail. If they passed him by, I'd rush over with several wafers or an especially big hunk of bread for him. I didn't want him to feel left out. (I always gave him communion with my left hand in case anyone objected to dog mouth. But I drew the line at the cup!)

One seminarian who worked with me was horrified at first. She even took it to her field work support group but most everyone thought it was decent and in good order. I'm sure there were people who found fault with it, but I never asked permission. It was simply right.

After all, Luke was as good a Christian as any dog could be—bringing joy and healing and comfort to so many. He actually was a better 'Christian' in his works of charity than most people. He'd earned his place at the Table.

The kids of the parish adored Luke. They would flock around him at the peace in ways that most dogs would have reacted negatively to. But not Luke—ever humble, ever hospitable, he took whatever the kids dished out with equanimity and generosity and doggy Love. One of the kids was moderately autistic but the parish had made a deal with her parents to treat her like any other kid. I don't think Luke did 'treat her like any other kid'. I think Luke, so used to being around the frail and helpless and confused, treated Twyla with special gentleness and love. Twyla grew better and better, more interactive, more social. I'd give Luke a lot of the credit.

At the General Convention in 2009, a resolution was passed authorizing the Liturgical Committee to prepare services for the death of an animal companion. Several people at St. John's were really excited about that. It spurred the creation of a Book of Animal Remembrances along with a statue of St. Francis that was placed in the collumbarium are in the back of the sanctuary. Dave, one of the guys who helps out around the parish, installed the statue. “Stations of the Cross and now a statue,” he said, “are we going back to Rome?”

“Wait 'til you see the racks of votive candles I've ordered,” I told him.

He laughed and shook his head. “Least we could make some money on that....If people didn't steal it.”

My Grandmother Jones, God bless her soul, used to divide the world into “church people” and those who weren't. She'd always say things like, “those boys I saw you with yesterday, they aren't 'church people' are they?” And she referred to a family down the mountain from where she lived by saying, “they're poor and not too clean, but at least they're 'church people'.”

I tend to divide the world into 'dog people'--those who love dogs—and those who don't. I like to be around 'dog people'. And besides, there is that oddity that 'Dog' is 'God' spelled backward. Luke could make a dog person out of almost anyone. He'd look at them, lower his head and wag his tail a bit. Those eyes, I've told you, make anyone besides a dogmatic hater of dogs just melt.

I heard part of a local PBS radio show the other day that was wrestling with the question: 'do dogs have souls?' The whole concept of eternity is a little vague to me—but if there are no dogs in the Kingdom it won't nearly be as blessed and happy as it's been cracked up to be. I personally am holding out for a heaven where every dog I've ever had as a companion will come frolicking across the streets of gold to greet me at the Pearly Gates. “Where've you been?” they'll be barking.

Just before I retired, someone said in the Adult Forum, “What's Luke going to do without Jim?”

Jo-Ann shook her head and frowned. “He'll be looking for him everywhere....”

Good Lord, I thought, I feel bad enough about leaving all the people, how am I supposed to cope with leaving Lukie?

But he didn't have long to look after me. Luke, who'd had trouble standing and moving around for a month of so, was diagnosed as having untreatable cancer. So, a week or so after I left, Luke died in Jo-Ann's arms, as was only right.

(In the past year or so I've known ten or so people, in and out of the parish, who have lost dogs. Somehow, it seems to me, the initial pain we feel when a pet dies is deeper and sharper than when a person we love dies. But it is a cleaner cut because when a beloved animal dies, their aren't mixed emotions on our part. There is no 'unfinished business' with a dog. There is no lingering resentment or words that needed to be said that are left unspoken. The relationship with a dog is so clear, so uncomplicated, so immediate and in the moment that our pain is 'in the moment' as well. But it is so acute. With a person, we almost always the question of how much they really loved us. With a dog such wondering is vain and pointless. Dogs love us as much as they possibly can...and then a little more.)

When Jo-Ann called about Luke, I told her—after we cried together—that she had to ask the Senior Warden if I could come do the service since retired priests are supposed to make themselves scarce from their former parish.

Of course he agreed. He called me to let me know it was alright. “Besides,” he said, “Luke wouldn't want it any other way....” All Senior Wardens should be 'dog people'.

We interred Luke's ashes out in the Close, as near to Mike's resting place as we could estimate. We did that first and then went in the church for hymns, a power point slide show a talented woman had put together about Luke. Then Jo-Ann spoke and made everyone cry. There were about 200 people there, a good number of them brought their dogs and the dogs didn't make a sound during the whole thing.

At the reception people in the parish provided, a man came up to me and introduced himself as the Intensive Care Physician that had made it possible for Luke to be in the room with Michael. I told him I considered him a medical saint. He told me there was no way around it--”I looked into those sweet brown eyes and just melted,” he said.

I told him I knew...I knew....