Luke is home

I picked up Lukie's ashes today. They are in a little half-pint box. I'm used to human cremains--that weigh several pounds and are at least a quart of ashes.

Luke was such a big cat--it's humbling to see how little is left of him.

For now we have his ashes in a basket on the piano, where he spent a lot of time in his last weeks, until he couldn't jump up on the piano.

I know some of you think I'm a real wuzz given how emotional I've been about the death of 'just a cat'.

That's what non-animal people say about cats and dogs and birds--"they're just a (fill in the blank)."

That's where non-animal people don't get it.

Yes, Luke was a cat, but for nearly 16 years he was a member of our little tribe, our family.

He's back on the piano for now. When it gets warm we'll figure out what to do with his ashes.

I like him on the piano. I do.

Home again?

I was at St. John's in Waterbury today to officiate at the funeral of Al King. Al had planned his funeral with me in 2007 but I had forgotten the details. As soon as I saw the sheet he'd filled out, I remembered what a conversation that had been!

Al was a humorous, smart guy with an ironic twist to his personality. He was, as I am, a tad contrarian, so his choices for the service were quirky. He ignored all the suggested readings and picked a passage from Ecclesiastes (The 'a time to...' passage made famous by the Birds' "Turn, turn, turn" record) and an obscure piece of Revelation 21 and 22. Psalm 138. 1-13 completed his choices. He didn't pick a gospel reading so I read the passage from John where Jesus tells the disciples that they will come to him and they know the way. Thomas, a character not unlike Al, says, "We don't know where you're going, how can we know the way?" Us contrary people have to stick together....Al, Thomas and me....

I hadn't been on the altar of St. John's for 4 or more years. I expected it to be nostalgic and a 'home-coming' of sorts.

But it wasn't. I saw some folks I love and the building is still as beautiful as always, but things had been moved around--pictures in the library, things in the office--and the vesting room was much neater than it ever managed to be when I was there for 21 years.

I retired in April 2010--soon six years--and, as much as I loved it, St. John's isn't 'home' anymore. It was like being somewhere in West Virginia: it was a place that helped make me who I am, but it isn't part of whom I am now.

It was odd to be in a place that meant so much to me and not feel sentimental. But I didn't.

It all goes to prove that folks do 'move on', even from absolutely favorite places with wondrous memories attached.

I retired the month I had 30 years in the Church Pension Fund because I knew if I didn't set a time certain to leave I might just hang on and hang on until I'd worn out my over two decade welcome at St. John's.

It was good to see Jay and Steve and Donna and a couple of other familiar folk. But my church 'home' isn't there--it's at St. James and St. Andrew's and Emmanuel. That's where I'm 'at home' now--those places.

All and all, it was a good thing to learn. It's always good to know where  home truly is.

If we can live through the weekend...

It's February in New England, what did we expect?

The news is calling it 'life threatening cold'. And it is cold. Really cold. Below zero cold. February in New England cold.

But, looking ahead, it seems if we can live through the next couple of days, it will be back in the 40's. Gulf Coast weather in February in New England!

So, live for the weekend and life will be better, the Weather Channel promises...so it must be true.

Until then, bundle up, or better yet, stay inside.

One thing about cold weather, though, I really can sleep when it's cold.

I slept until 9:45 this morning! Under about 6 inches of bedding. My dog would stay in bed most of the day, I think, if he could hold it. He was ready to go out at 10, let me tell you....

Sleep tight.

Dark and quiet and cold...

I took Bela for his evening walk about 10:30 p.m. tonight. It was so dark and cold and quiet.

The street lights on Cornwall Avenue aren't all on at once, they alternate on and off to save electricity, so there are canopies of deep darkness along the way. The darkness embraced us as we walked and he sniffed.

This is also one of the coldest nights of the winter--and the next three days will be as bad or worse. I could have been heard begging Bela to pee! He seems to be oblivious to the cold, at least until his foot pads start to hurt. He sniffed a lot more than he peed! It was so cold my back ached.

And quiet....Lord, was it quiet!

When snow is on the ground, the silence falls. When it is dark, the silence deepens.

Occasionally a car would pass on Route 10--a block or so away. But it seems more distant than usual and the cold and darkness swallowed up the sound, muffled it, made it seem far away, like a sound in a dream.

I hate winter, I do.

But, I must admit, there is something strangely comforting and redemptive about the chill and the darkness and the quiet of winter nights. Something soothing and comforting and whole. Bela gave me a gift by taking so long to pee.

Take a walk (a short one!) late at night some of the next few days. Feel the chill. Lean into the dark. Be present to the silence.

Feel, lean, be present. Not just on your chill, dark, quiet walk--but always....

owning up...

Well, I did say I wasn't sure I could remember all the bishops of Connecticut....

My friend, Rowena, who is always delighted to comment on my blog--especially when I mess up!--wrote to tell me I left out Wilfredo Ramos-Orench from my list.

I feel awful about that. Wilfredo was a gentle, sweet man and a good bishop. He left to go be a bishop in Central America. I pray he is well. I'm sure he's still a good bishop.

(Truth is, he was so soft-spoken and self-effacing that I should have never left him out.)

Sorry, Wilfredo. Thanks for the head's up, Rowena.

The simple man I am....

OK, most of the time I think about myself, I think I am complicated, ironic, multi-dimensional, complex, nuanced, brilliant and difficult to describe.

Then the other day I went to Marshall's in Hamden (which I like better than the Cheshire Marshall's because it's larger, roomier, not 'Cheshire-like' and still believes men buy clothes there) and bought 6 pairs of wool-blend, thick socks and 6 pairs of cotton boxer shorts.

Most of my socks have holes in them somewhere and, like a lot of people, my boxer shorts go back years. Time to restock!

Today I have on a pair of new socks and new boxer shorts and I am a contented, aware, joyful man.

All it took was new socks and new boxer shorts.

So, maybe not as complex and nuanced as I thought.

And maybe not 'brilliant' either--though I have a Phi Beta Kappa key I could show you if I knew where it was....

But contented. Socks and boxer shorts was all I needed.

A man of simple tastes, easily satisfied--that's me.

More bishop stuff

Two more Bishop Campbell stories--one as bad as the others, the other one no so.

That summer I worked at HEP, I helped out at Grace Church, Keystone with Pop Bailey.

Bishop Campbell made an Episcopal visit that summer. The altar guild had scraped together enough money to buy three candle candelabras especially for the bishop's visit. Had I thought about it hard enough, I would have realized the bishop would celebrate the Eucharist and the candelabras were more suitable for Morning Prayer. But I didn't think hard except to admire how the altar guild wanted to do something special for their bishop.

We were half-way down the aisle during the Processional Hymn when the bishop looked up and saw the candelabras and told the organist to stop playing.

"I will not celebrate without proper candles," he said, "put out the Eucharistic candles!"

Sheepishly, the altar guild took down the offending candles and put back the two single candles appropriate for Eucharist. Then we began again.

Needless to say, it was a somber and distinctly non-joyful service. Certainly not a way to endear yourself to others.

Afterwards, to his credit, Pop Bailey reamed Bishop Campbell a new one over Scotch back at his house. Pop told him in no uncertain terms that the sacrament would have been perfectly valid with the other candles and that he was, I think I remember the quote, "an ass in a purple shirt!" It was the only time I saw Bishop Campbell humbled.


The other story is about me. Back before all that happened, before I'd ever met Bishop Campbell besides at my confirmation as a sophomore in college, I was awarded a Rockefeller Foundation "Trial year in Seminary". The first piece of mail I got at Divinity Hall (some name for a dorm, huh?) was a draft notice. This was the autumn of 1969 and Viet Nam was on overdrive.

I called Snork Roberts, the chaplain at WVU and he told me he'd call the bishop and call me back. After Snork called me, I called Bishop Campbell to explain my situation. I was honest and told him I didn't intend to be a priest but I did want to go to school instead of South-east Asia. When he asked me what I planned to do, I told him that in Cambridge I was closer to Canada than to Beckley, West Virginia, when I was supposed to report for induction in five days.

The Bishop asked me if my father had been in the service and I told him that Dad had hit Omaha Beach on the second wave and fought all the way across France and into Germany.

Then Campbell asked me what my father would do if I went to Canada.

"I think it will break his heart," I answered.

The bishop told me to stay near the hall phone and 15 minutes later called to tell me my draft notice had been 'rescinded' and I was a Postulant for Holy Orders. I didn't know how a man could turn back the will of the Draft or what a Postulant was.

"Just remember," Bishop Campbell told me before hanging up, "this is for your father, not for you."

Whatever Campbell said to whoever he said it to about my draft notice, I never heard from Selective Services again. Not once. I've been thankful for that for over 40 years.

Giants and Ogres are cut from the same cloth, it seems to me. I'm happy these days with bishops who aren't of either ilk.