DANGER AHEAD

I almost missed it!! I was hiking today on a trail shared with mountain bikers. I decided to go against the traffic so I could see the bikers as they were coming. But, since the last time I was on that trail, spring had sprung. The green undergrowth had burst forth. The trail twisted and turned and I discovered it was harder to see very far down the trail. I leaned into the hike, looking for bikers racing toward me.

And then I noticed it. This yellow flower. Right there where I was beside the trail. I stopped and looked around and the floor of the forest was blooming in purple and white, yellow and pink. I had been so concentrated on looking for bikers so as to avoid getting hit that I didn't even pay attention to the beauty that was right there beside me.

I sometimes think the future does that to us. We are straining to see far enough ahead to avoid danger that might be coming that we fail to look down right where we are walking. The more anxious we are about what is coming around the bend, the less attention we are paying our lives right now.

When I headed back down the trail to my car, I noticed that I was worried about what was coming behind me. I wanted to get out of the way of the bikers and so found myself turning to look behind me at every sound. My attention was focused on what danger from behind.

And I realized that sometimes we are so fearful of our past catching up with us that we spend more time focusing there than on the present and it's beauty and grace.

In all this walking and wondering, I remembered the words of Jesus: "So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today's trouble is enough for today." (Matthew 6:34, NRSV) Maybe if we become less anxious about what might happen or what has happened, we could notice the grace and beauty in what is happening.

RESILIENCE

Living well requires the capacity to adapt. Being reslient is the capacity to rebound. When one has had a significant setback (which we all experience at certain times in our lives) one's capacity to learn to live again beyond the crisis determines how happy they will be. When the past pain holds on so tight that we can't breathe the fresh air of tomorrow we miss much of what life has to offer.

Michael Sperber, MD suggests that one's capacity for resliience is related to one's capacity to "being-in-the-world." (Psychiatric  Times, July 2, 2012). He believes that the capacity adapt is related to the person engaging in three different conversations. One is being dialogue with nature. That is, the ability to ground yourself in the present is related to your being embrace by that of which we are a part and which sustains us. 

Anne Frank put it this way. "The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature, and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As long as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles." (Diary of a Young Girl, 1986).

As spring invades the heart land, I am discovering again the healing quality of being in nature. Dialogue with the expanse of sky and the solid footing of ground helps heal my pain and nurtures my soul. Maybe it can become a solace for you as well.

GLOBAL FAMILY

We stood, gathered in a church courtyard. There were about 30 of us standing around a plot of ivy covered ground. A hole in the dirt is waiting for the ashes of my big sister, Kay. We were her family gathered from around North America to honor a woman who had blessed so many. Her husband, David, had asked me to say a few words on behalf of the family. How do you sum up the life of one who has lived a rich and full life?

As I stood and looked out on the gathered family, I realized that words could not do what the community who encircled her ashes did by its very presence. There before me were people with northern European heritage, African heritage, Native American heritage, Vietnamese heritage, Guatemalan heritage. They were all in Kay's family. We had come from Vancouver BC, Vermont, Rhode Island, New York City, Virginia, Indiana, Southern California, South Dakota, Kentucky, Alabama, Texas, Illinois, Ohio. 

And we who were gathered were from every walk of life: grocery clerk, chef, teachers, business women and men, unemployed, nurses, professionals of all kinds. Some of us had multiple degrees, others had wisdom learned on the streets. Some lived with physical challenges, others with emotional complexities. Some were gifted in speech, others in music, others in compassion, others in empathic presence. All of us were there together, in all our diversity, because we were loved by Kay and we loved her.

What more needs to be said. Kay and Dave lived a life of generous hospitality. They always made room for more. Their family expanded the longer they lived, opening to people who were seeking home. There was always more room in Kay's heart even if she didn't have any more room in her home. Kay and Dave grew a global family and discovered the challenges and gifts of creative diversity.

It seems to me that the world needs more people like my sister Kay and her husband Dave. If we are going to learn to live together in this shrinking planet, we have to become family where all are honored whether they are like us are very different. As I say good-bye to my big sister, I say "Thank you Kay, for allowing me to see in you and Dave a taste of the reign of God. May your spirit infect us that we too might honor all as you did."

SPRING STARTS SMALL

Spring starts so small—so tiny. The buds poke their tender green out of the tip of the branch. The bloom is just a hint of color. The air—chilly—cooling to marginally cold at night. Spring stutter-steps into it’s bloom. It gathers steam as the sap rises—gathering momentum in it’s upward flow toward the longer sun shining days. Drinking from within and embraced by the warming southern breeze from without, the tree colors its canopy with purple.

Is this the way spring returns to a frozen soul? Does the winter season of the heart creep away in the lingering sunlight? Is the warming presence of human touch necessary ingredient for the shoots of joy to bloom?

And the inner energy?  Where does it come from? Is its resting place in the roots of the cold dark winter vacated when the warm light of human friendship lingers over a glass of wine? Does the hard ground drink in the spring rain of forgiveness and opens the heart to it’s courage—freeing it to come out of it’s hiding place? 

I don’t know, but maybe patience is the warming spirit that frees the energy and opens the frightened heart to color, to pleasure, to the emerging shades of delight.  Maybe joy visits when we open our heart to the warm love of friends and family. Maybe joy comes as a gift, slowly, haltingly, and we lean into it, noticing it when it is present. 

FLESH BECOMES WORD

Many people will have heard this passage of scripture even if they are not Christian. "The word became flesh and dwelt among us." This is from the gospel of John and it is the evangelist's way of talking about Jesus and his relationship to God. For John, "word" is God's creative and redeeming power in the world. This passage is often read at Christmas time to talk about he birth of Jesus.

But, lately, I have been reflecting on what happens when people's lives end. And it seems to me that when death occurs this phrase is reversed: flesh becomes word. When the person we have known is no longer with us in flesh, we busy ourselves speaking words about them. We gather at funeral homes, churches and houses and talk. Words are woven together into stories, and each story is a way of creating a perspective on the deceased.

And we keep talking long after the funeral as we bump into things that remind us of the person who is no longer with us in flesh. When we do, we speak again. We tell stories as a way of insuring that the person does not disappear. Our words, our memories, become the dwelling place. "The flesh becomes word and dwells among us."

And it matters that we get a chance to share the stories with others. For the presence of the person dwells not only in us but among us. Their presence seems stronger when, through words, we re-form them in the stories we tell and the memories we share.

When life ends the way you have known it, when you no longer know someone or something the way they were known, write your words, speak your words, share your words. In that way the gift of that which has been lost can be recreated and continue to dwell among us.