Waiting, while trying not to....

Our dog and cat are getting old. Luke, the cat is already old--he's 14 or more, probably more (but I have this confusion about linear time...) and he throws up a couple of times a week and sometimes goes to the bathroom (poops mostly) in places outside his litter box. Plus, he drinks lots and lots and lots of water, which probably means his kidneys are in trouble. And I clean his litter box daily and their is so much pee (from all the water). However, he looks like a much younger cat and moves with grace and speed. So, who knows.

Bela, our dog, is 11. He weighs about 50 pounds, which means he's not a big dog, by any means, and smaller dogs live longer. He has some arthritis and his legs shake from time to time and he sometimes has trouble getting up if he's laying down. But he too seems younger most of the time and barks as much as he always has and is frisky.

Thing is, I worry about them, knowing (hoping) we'll outlive them. No one would take them if we died first--that's the worrying thing--because Bela is a bad dog and Luke is a pain. But beyond that, I worry especially about Bela because my wife, Bern, loves him more than she loved the other 30 or so pets we've shared combined. She loves him so much it frightens me. I'm more an 'animal person' than she is but her devotion to Bela is so overwhelming that I feel stress walking him because if I was the cause of him being hit by a car or something, I'm not sure Bern could forgive me.

It's just odd, worrying about creatures. My fiend John told us tonight that a person he worked with years ago (John is a psychologist) told him recently when they ran into each other that he knew he's been a better therapist (John's former client is a psychologist too) for having worked with John--though he didn't realize it at the time. Here's what he said to John: "when someone loves you, they teach you how to love."

I can't think of a more endearing and wondrous thing to be told. John's voice broke when he told us.

That''s the thing about animals, I think. They love you so unconditionally, so purely, so cleanly, that they teach you how to love.

Luke and Bela have been with us for over a decade and they have taught us a lot about love. But, old as I am, I know cat years and dog years are different from my years.

I try not to think about it, how we will lose them as some point to death. But sometimes I can't help myself. I think about life without them and sigh.

They have taught me a lot about loving. They truly have.

You don't like to imagine losing such a gift.

Little League

I watched Phoenix, third child of four and only boy of our next door neighbors, throw a baseball against a device designed to throw it back so he can practice catching grounders and line drives and short pop-ups.

I used to do that for hours, only I threw the ball against the cement block basement of the grocery store/our apartment. Hours, I did that. And it paid off.

I played Little League for two years and was all glove/no bat. I should have found a way to practice hitting as well. I played first base and never made an error in two years. I hit about .190, which in Little League really sucks. It was curve balls I couldn't hit--even bad curve balls thrown by 12 and 13 year olds. Throw it straight, I'll hit it. Make it curve, I'm helpless.

The last game of my Little League career, our coach, Jimmy Newsome, was standing with a friend from out of town about 15 feet away from first base, where I was throwing infield to Danny Taylor, Billy Bridgeman and a bully named Donald LaFon. Mousey McCrosky was warming up to pictch. We were behind 8-3 to Gary and our last at bat of the season would follow this inning.

Jimmy Newsome was talking about his team to his friend and since I used to have almost super-human hearing (no more, beloved, no more) I heard everything he said.

His descriptions of us was right on, but what amazed me is how he said it.

"That big bastard on third base can hit like hell but makes up for it with throwing errors," he said.

"That son-of-a-bitch pitching is already too old for little league but he's small and we may get away with another year," he said.

"Bridgeman is a solid player, but the mother-fucker is a show-off,' he said.

"The ass hole on first never misses a play but can't hit for shit."

Over 50 years later I can still hear his comments about us. I thought he loved us. We certainly loved him. My blood ran cold. The game couldn't have been over soon enough. And it was over quickly, three ground balls, two bad throws to first, I caught them all. When we batted, two pop ups on either side of my strike out on a curve ball.

I was 13 and could play another year. But on the way home, I told my father I was through with Little League. He was sorely disappointed since he thought I'd learn to hit a curve ball. Not! But I never told him why. Never told him about how our coach referred to us. My father, after all, was a grown up and I had figured out their was a 'Grown Up Club' that cut each other slack, even when it wasn't deserved.

That day is when I decided to never be a Grown Up like Jimmie Newsome.

I don't think I've ever been.

For that I am grateful.

Joy for Shane and Elizabeth

I went to Holy Cross Monastery (an order of Episcopal Benedictine monks) for the life-professions of my friends, Shane and Elizabeth as the first members of the Companions of Mary, the Apostle.

Here's what is amazing--this is a new order within the Episcopal Church. Shane and Elizabeth have been living into the order for 4 years, I think, and today it came to be! History was made--as the preacher, Br. Don Bisson, FMS (who knows what order that is?) said, "Back in his time, St. Benedict would have never imagined two woman priest founding an order based on his rule."

Big laugh line, I assure you.

There are also five people who have come to be part of Elizabeth and Shane's community who were received as 'Candidates for Covenant Companionship' in the Companions of Mary the Apostle. And one of them was a man! Shane and Elizabeth are trying to design committed Christian community for this new age. The two of them live together in a house owned by the brothers of Holy Cross and keep their vows there. But they want others to join their journey--by joining them in vows of poverty, chastity and obedience and living with them...or, joining them in 'spirit' keeping a rule of life and being part of a larger, more diverse gathering of Christians.

I had wondered what their 'habits' would be and was delightfully surprised. They both wore black pants and tops and put on bright red shawls after their professions. A great look. A woman bishop blessed their crosses and shawls. And in the Lord's prayer, we said, "Our Mother, our Father in heaven...."

Fierce feminist liturgy combined with welcoming men into their companionship. What could be better?

I know Shane and Elizabeth through work in the Mastery Foundation, which has been part of my life since--lost in linear time but depending on my friend, Ann's memory--1987. Shane and Elizabeth and I worked together recently (which month, don't ask me--linear time and all!) on a Making A Difference Workshop at Holy Cross. Many of the participants of that workshop were there today along with a few other Mastery folk.

It was impeccable--as worship at Holy Cross always is. A bit higher church than is my wont, but I enjoy it when I see it. Elizabeth and Shane prostrated themselves before the altar at some point. The only other time I saw someone prostrate themselves in front of the altar was when my friend Larry was being installed as Rector in a church in Maryland. I was sitting with is wife, Vickie and whispered to her when he did that, "is Larry OK?" She giggled through the rest of the service and Larry was not pleased.

I'm not sure what would provoke me to lay down in front of an altar--but it seemed natural and proper for Shane and Elizabeth. It was an humbling honor to see that--and their whole profession.

I wrote them a poem for their day. It is for them--but I don't think they'd mind me sharing it with you.

PROFESSION

Not just an occupation,

though that is the usual definition.

Oh, no, more than that, much more.

“Profession” as a verb, not a noun,

is wondrous indeed.

To avow, to declare, to promise--

“profession” leads into all sorts

of nonsense and wonderment and joy.

To actually 'say so' about

what your lives will be and consist of

and contain.

To 'profess' opens up the possibility

of a future you speak into being.

A future that wouldn't have happened

otherwise, until you spoke it.

Few people in the world

make such a 'profession'--

speak a future and a life

into being like that.

And today you two do.

Astonishing, memorable, inspiring,

full of being and hope and wonderment.

Like that.

Thank you for going to the edge

of what you can know and see

and then stepping off.

And I know, as you step off into what

is not known, not knowable,

you will be caught by loving arms

or learn how to fly.

JGB 7/21/2015

I might suggest that each of us consider and ponder what it is we 'profess' to be in this world. That, I believe, would be a pondering of great value, to us and to the world we live in. Just me thnkin'....

 

How did this happen?

Tomorrow, our baby Mimi turns 37. In about three months, our oldest child, Josh, turns 40.

How did this happen? How did they get so old and how did I, along side them reach the great age I'm at as well?

Bern and I were children of older parents. My parents were nearly or past 40 when I, their only child was born. Both my parents were dead before I was 37, much less 40. Same with Bern's parents--she was the late in life child with two much older siblings.

And here we are--Bern and me--with children that old! Amazing!

Here's the thing--both Mimi and Josh turned out 'just right'. We can take no credit for it for we were young when they were born, in our 20's, and had no idea what to do with babies, much less adolescents when they got there, much too soon by my timing....

We made it up as we went along, flying by the seat of our pants, improvising like crazy, having no clue about most everything about raising children. And only child and a youngest child trying figure out what growing up as brother and sister was all about. God help us!

God probably did--must have--since Josh and Mimi are remarkable, successful, wonderful, beyond lovely adults. I can't imagine how it happened, how we were blessed--truly 'blessed' to have them turn into the adults--nearing middle aged (imagine that)--that they've become.

Both are married to people we love and adore. All four of them (spouses and our children) are accomplished and successful. Mimi and Josh both make more money that Bern and I can imagine, putting the lie to the thought that children of Baby Boomers aren't as successful as their parents.

I'm actually tearing up, writing this. That's how wondrous they are. Things were not always seamless with them or between them, but somehow, right now in all our lives, something special is magically taking over.

We are all wonderful and well and full of joy and loving each other.

What could be better than that?

Nothing, that's what!!!

Happy birthday, my babies, now 37 and 40. Who knew, when this all started, how perfect it would be now?

Trump and Cosby--two tales sadly told

OK, there are few icons in the country larger than John McCain, prisoner of war turned US Senator and candidate for President. Love Sen. McCain or not, he is certainly worthy of respect. Yet Donald Trump has taken him on and dissed him big-time.

Trump  said publicly that McCain is only a war hero "because he was captured" and that he (Trump) preferred people who weren't captured.

Outrage was wide-spread and apologies were demanded. No way, Trump said. "I stand by what I said," he said.

Really. I don't agree at all with McCain's politics but anyone who spent over 5 years as a POW and still has physical issues from his torture has got to be given acknowledgement and respect.

Unless, of course, you're Donald Trump. If you're Donald Trump, you can say anything and not have to apologize--like to Mexicans....

And here's the thing to make you nervous, Trump is polling first in the over-crowded Republican field for President. It's only 15%, granted, but he's first! Something to give you pause about the party....

Then, with the release of 2005 court documents, it becomes blatantly clear that Dr. Huxtable was in fact 'playing doctor' with all those women--sedating them and raping them. It requires a rethinking of a life-time of admiring Bill Cosby. Even Whoopi Goldberg has withdrawn her support and President Obama said in a press conference that there is no mechanism to revoke Cosby's Freedom Medal but anyone 'who is given a drug and then forced to have sex' has been raped.

At least he's not running for President.

If only some stuff like this would come out about Ted Cruz....

The gloaming

The 'gloaming' is what we, in America, would call 'dusk'. It's defiantly a term from the British Isles. Gloaming, it seems to me, is a much richer word. It comes, this much I know, from the Old English word (which required diacritical  symbols my computer can't make--umlauts and such) that means 'glow'. That time of day, sans Sun, that is still light.

It's my favorite time of day, I think. Often I sit on our deck in one of Adirondack chairs Bern made with the help of our friend, Hank, in the gloaming and read until I can't see the words on the page any more. This year, because of the mild summer nights, it's always been pleasant until the light dies. I tend not to be bitten by bugs so I don't use the bug light or the organic oil Bern uses. I just sit and read until I can't see anymore.

It's 8:15 pm as I write this and it is still enough light to read, but I watched something in the gloaming I want to write about. Two young Cardinals (so many, many birds this year) were trying out their wings and flying through our back yard and then our side yard. Their mother, I'm sure, a full-grown female Cardinal was following them. They landed near a robin in our neighbor's front yard and the mother seemed distressed. But then the father Cardinal--so red it hurt your eyes, even in the dimming light--arrived to drive the Robin away.

Not something you see every day--the parental instincts of birds.

And how lovely to see it in the glow of the gloaming.

So rich it is to sit until the glow after sunset leans into darkness.

My favorite time of day by far--the gloaming....

Eliza

(This is something meant for my reflections on priesthood. But I never finished it fully because it is, in this shape, a sermon.)

Eliza

Her name was Eliza. She was a tall and willowy and beautiful African American woman in her early thirties when I met her. She had three children then—a boy 12, a girl 10 and another girl 8. I never met their father, but I didn’t have to—they all looked just like Eliza, from their coffee with cream colored skin, their deep set brown eyes, their tall and angular bodies and their perpetual smiles.

When I met Eliza she walked with an obviously painful limp and her fingers had lost much of their flexibility. By the time I left her—five short years later—she was confined to her bed and her body had started to curl back into itself. She had developed Progressive Relapsing Multiple Sclerosis—the most rare form of that debilitating disease, and the most difficult to treat.

The first year or so of my time as Vicar of St. James in Charleston, West Virginia, Eliza was able to drive and she and the children were in church every Sunday that she didn’t have extreme weakness or pain that made it impossible for her to drive. Gradually, she moved from a limp to a walker to a wheel chair and finally, took to her bed. Her hospital bed was in the kitchen of their small house so she could direct food preparation by her children.

Only once did I ask about her husband and what she told me was this, “he left after Tina was born and my MS was finally diagnosed. Tina was four or five by then, but Charles could see what the future held. He read up on my disease and then told me he had to leave. He just wasn’t ready to grow up the way his children have.”

Then she smiled from her bed and said, “who could blame him? I’m not bitter….”

And she wasn’t, not at all, not a bit, not even a tiny bit. Eliza wasn’t bitter.

And her children had ‘grown up’ faster than any child should have to mature. They weren’t bitter either, though they could see what the future held for them. Charles, Jr. and Maggie, the older two, were committed to do whatever was necessary to care for their mother and stick around until Tina was old enough to care for herself.

It sounds like a tragic, awful story, doesn’t it? A beautiful, young woman cut down in her prime; a marriage broken by pain and suffering; children having to grow up too soon?

And it wasn’t that at all, not at all.

In fact, when I was down and out, when I was depressed, when I was feeling sorry for myself—that’s when I’d visit Eliza and her children.

And they would cheer me up.

“How do you feel Eliza?” I’d ask.

She would smile that 200 watt smile of hers and say, “Oh, places hurt I didn’t know I had places…and everything is alright….If I could just get these babies to behave….”

Then Charles, Jr. or Maggie or Tina would shake their heads and roll their eyes—which ever of them heard her say it—and reply, unleashing a smile as bright as Eliza’s, “oh, Mama, you’re the one who won’t behave….”

Oh, don’t let me paint too pretty a picture about that little family. Life was hard for the children and for Eliza. Money was tight and the duties those kids had to serve their mother were demanding, odious, often heart-breaking. But when I was with them—no matter how self-centered and distracted I was—they actually cheered me up and sent me away a better person than the one who had knocked on their door.

“I’m just like Jacob,” Eliza once told me, “but my Angel wasn’t satisfied with leaving me with just a limp….”

Eliza read the Bible a lot and what she was referring to that day was the lesson we heard from Genesis this morning.

Jacob is running away from his brother Esau, who Jacob had betrayed, when he encounters an Angel in the night and wrestles with that Angel until day-break. Jacob demands a blessing from the Angel—which he gets in the end, along with a new name—but the Angel also damaged Jacob’s hip so that he always, there after, walked with a limp.

Encountering God in the dark spots of our lives, in the midnights of our existence, CAN result in being blessed and given a new name…but encountering God can also give us a limp.

Someone—everyone argues about who really said it—someone once said, “that which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

Our wounds, our pains, our sufferings do not ‘automatically’ make us stronger, but, in God’s grace, they CAN.

That is the gift to us from Jacob and from Eliza—by ‘our wounds’ we can be healed. Our limps can make us walk with more determination, by God’s grace. Our brokenness can, through the love of God, make us “whole”.

Life is most often not consistently “kind”. Bad hips and limps and brokenness are more often the norm of living. And there is this: IF CHRIST’S WOUNDS HEAL US, SO CAN OUR OWN.

The choice God leaves us is between “bitterness” and “wholeness”.

Jacob and Eliza chose “wholeness” as they limped through life.

With God’s help, that is the choice we can make.

So I invite you—I sincerely, profoundly invite you—to bring your wounds, your brokenness, your limps to this Table today. Whether those pains are physical or emotional or spiritual—bring them to this Table today.

There is a balm in Giliad…there truly is—that much, because I knew Eliza, I can promise you. Bring your pain and what may make you ‘bitter’ to the Table today.

And chose “wholeness” to go with your limp.