An unfamiliar season

It was a familiar trail in a place I had been to over and over, yet this time I recognized nothing.

It had the same starting point, the same ending, the same rhythm of walking, yet nothing was the same. Sounds were muffled. Colors were erased into white. The only smell was the cold.

A familiar place in an unfamiliar season made this a journey I didn’t quite expect.

Strapping my hiking boots into snowshoes changed my cadence into a duck-footed waddle, slowly easing into a more natural gait with time. Graceful? Not hardly. Practical? Definitely.

The 400 or more inches of snow beneath my feet elevated my perspective, making me eye level with the tops of the trees. The driving snow shortened my view, forcing me to focus on the world immediately around me, which I realized I often miss, distracted by the distant landscape or the hope of a view.

Today it was about the journey, and however far I went, even a short trek, made it a good beginning. I had finally gained the courage and the momentum to experience one of the places I love in a season that makes me feel more mortal than any other.

More and more I recognize that with each passing moment this same mortality tightens its grip, making me aware that now is the time: to try new things, to explore, to grow, to listen, to seek, and to live.

Winter is my wilderness. An unfamiliar season which could keep me inside, if I let it.

Perhaps growing older is also my wilderness, with more than half a century behind me, and who knows how much ahead? This unknown landscape could keep me from living, if I let it.

Huh. A familiar place in an unfamiliar season made this a journey I didn’t quite expect.

Or want to end.

Keep Looking

(Matthew 9:20-22)

We don't know her name, or much of anything about her. 

I can only guess who this woman was. 

What she looked like. The sound of her voice. The dirt on her feet. 

Who she held in her arms. What made her laugh. What made her cry. 

We know she had been sick for a very long time. We know nobody could help her. 

I imagine she was desperate. Perhaps even hopeless.

If I could talk to her today, what would I want to ask her? 

More importantly, what would she want to tell me?

How long did you pray before you received your miracle?

She smiles. Closes her eyes. She sits quietly, remembering a time, long ago. 

Her brow furrows as she remembers how sick she had become. How much she bled. 

How weak she felt. How no one could help her. How she was considered unclean.

“I have prayed ever since I was a little girl. I prayed for a miracle when I got sick. I was sick for a very long time.”

What did you expect would happen, that day in the crowd, when you reached for Jesus' robe?

She smiles again. Eyes closed.

Remembering the crowd of people. Remembering all the talk of miracles. 

Unsure of who this Jesus was. Where he fit into her faith. 

How much was true. How much was story.

“I had no idea. I just needed to touch his robe. That’s all I knew. I couldn’t talk to him, the crowd was too big. I was a woman. My bleeding made me unclean.”

Were you afraid when Jesus stopped?

Her eyes light up. 

“No! I felt strength and hope enter me." She gestures with her hands as she explains, her story too big for words alone. "There was no room for fear. Amazement? Yes. Excitement? Yes. Gratitude? Oh yes. But no, not fear.”

What happened afterwards? How did this change your life?

She is silent for a long time. Then she speaks softly, with a gentle conviction.

“It made me strong. It made me certain.”

What would have happened if you had not been healed?

“My story would have had a different ending. But God would still be part of it."

What would you like to tell me? What would you like me to learn?

“To keep looking for the miracles." 

Her gaze shifts somewhere distant.

"And to remember that sometimes the miracle is not what we expect or what we hoped for."

She reaches for my hand.

"Perhaps with time you will understand. Until then, keep your heart open. And keep looking.”

(This conversation came to me after focusing group, during the reflection and processing time. It was a time when I was wondering, why do some people get miracles and others get silence? A time when I was thinking that if you don't hope for miracles then you won't be disappointed. Wondering if miracles depended on the depth of our faith. I still have questions, but thinking about this woman and this familiar biblical story somehow helped.)

I thought it was God's mic

But it wasn't.
Let me explain.

Sitting in the church I grew up in,
home visiting family. Happy to be there.
Comforted by the people and things that haven't changed much at all.
Inspired by the things that have.

That morning, the Scripture story, done as a dramatic reading
(Isaiah 6:1-8, in case you're curious.)

One person, off to the left - Isaiah.
Another person, standing toward the center - an angel.
God stands off to the right.

The story builds until it is God's turn to speak.
The words are spoken but the sound doesn't carry.
It seemed God's mic was turned off.

But then I realized, the problem wasn't the mic.
The problem was at the sound board.
God's volume was turned all the way down.

Which got me thinking.
How many times in my life have I turned God's volume all the way down
and all the other voices all the way up?

Taking a step back, to enlarge the perspective,
I wondered, hey, who is in charge of the volume controls?

I thought the problem was God's mic.
But it wasn't.

It was me.

Powerful love

She is no longer real steady on her feet,

but her love is so powerful it can knock you over.

Tonight she holds tightly, choosing to be there again.

Her fingers, gnarled with living, hold his hand,

once calloused and rough, now soft and smooth.

She anchors him to this time and place, 

so he doesn't drift off on a solitary journey, 

confusion his only companion.

She leans into him, laying her head on his shoulder.

He closes his eyes slowly, the beginnings of a smile.

(Sometimes the beginning is all you get and you make it enough.)

A familiar song fills the room,

stirring memories of another time. Maybe? Maybe not?

Yes, I think maybe.

An early winter darkness fills the window

marking the season better than the calendar on the wall.

Soon she will kiss him on the cheek and leave his room,

returning to the house they shared.

Reaching for him during the night

unable to bridge the distance between what was and what is.

Coming back again and again

to make sure he knows he is not alone.

She is no longer real steady on her feet,

but her love is so powerful it can knock you over.

It can also lift you up.

Learning to Meditate

Looking beneath the water's surface. There.
A smooth stone. The size that fits in your your hand just right.
Worn smooth by the river. By life. By God.
Is God?
And then, "kerplunk." The ripples push away the thoughts.
(Breathe in. Breathe out.)

Seeking stillness. Seeking peace. Clear water.
Another glimpse of what is beneath.
"Kerplunk" - obscured again.
Perhaps obscurity provides focus?
(Breathe in. Breathe out. Be still.)

Then a thought floats up like a bubble from the bottom.
"Focus on the stone, not the ripples, you silly goose."
Oh, I think I see.
(Did I really just get called a silly goose?)
"Kerplunk." More ripples.
Concentric circles moving out from the center.
(Breathe in. Breathe out.)

Looking beneath the water's surface. There.
A smooth stone. God?
Yes, God.

Learning to Meditate: Part II

Trying to see beneath the surface.
The calm still water below the ripples.
Looking again for the stone, the one that fits perfectly in my hand.
(Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus.)

Seeking. Searching. Holding my breath.
Popping back up, too full of my own air to remain beneath.
(Breathe in. Breathe out. Release.)

There, on the water's edge,
a shore covered in stones.
Too many to recognize one,
alike in their uniqueness.
But wait, I see it. It is there.
(Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax.)

It was always there.
The wisdom from above.
Pure love. Gentle peace.
Willing to be found.

Learning to Meditate: Part III

Here's what I see.

Angry loud rushing water within the watershed of my spirit.
A swollen river, turbid and strong.
Rushing by. Threatening. 

Be still and know that I am God.
(Breathe in. Breathe out.)

There, the water slows and clears.
How? I have no idea and it doesn't matter.
The feeling shifts from angry to playful.
Calming. Quiet.

I can see the bottom. Clarity returns.
There it is, my rock.
There all along, just obscured for a time
by the rushing water.
Forcing me to stop. No, not forcing, inviting.
Transformed.

Be still and know that I am God.
(Breathe in. Breathe out.)

I feel a presence. Beside me? Within me?
A tear slides down a cheek (not mine)
and into the still water creating ripples.
Of joy, not sadness.

A hand reaches out to take
what I did not even realize I was clinging to -
a large, heavy, cumbersome, jagged rock.
Some would call it a burden. (You have one too, yes?)

In its place, a smooth stone fits perfectly in my hand.
Easy to hold. Rounded by the water. By life.
To make the exchange I realize I have to let go.

Be still and know that I am God.
(Breathe in. Breathe out.)

Release.

For Earth Day (2016)

Thinking about the places
where the trail meanders through the trees,
spider webs touch my face,
the winter wren moves through the understory
with a song big enough for the mountains,
this is where I find life's rhythm.

The places where sunlight erupts into wildflowers
set to a backdrop of high ridges and peaks,
where this present moment and tomorrow's hopes
interweave like the mountain breeze and my breath,
this is where I find life's balance.

The places where God the Father
comes together with Earth the Mother
in the oldest of trees, the infinite shades of green,
the smallest, most intricate flower,
this is where I find the greatest peace.

These are the places where I become aware
that I cannot be here without making an impact,
which encourages me to be careful, intentional, and grateful,
because this is where I find harmony.

These are the places
where I cannot separate what I believe
from how I live.

Learning to Meditate: Part IV

Eyes closed. Focusing inward.

(Breathe in. Breathe out. Be still.)

Seeking the center. Looking for my stone.
The rounded river rock that fits just right in my hand.
Did you see that?
Held in his palm, it covers the scar.
Forgiveness? Yes.
(Breathe in. Breathe out.)

Kerplunk. The stone drops in the pool.
Ripples form outward.
A finger touches my chin,
lifting my viewpoint beyond the first ripple.
Ahhh... there's more, yes? Beyond me.
Now I see.
(Breathe in. Breathe out.)

Worry watches from the edges.
Its presence is tangible. Almost.
Then it dissipates, moving outward with the ripples.
Release.
Moving outward with my breath. Trust.
(Breathe in. Breathe out.)

Release and trust.

For my friends

Tell me, how did we get here so quickly?

Watching children and parents grow older before our eyes
as we see our own reflections changing as well.
Older versions of ourselves suddenly look back at us.
Strangers in a way.
"Hey, don't I know you? You look familiar."

Sharing our stories, our experiences,
with friends who have known us nearly as long as we have known ourselves.
Common themes emerge and bind our unique and
individual stories - family, loss, life, faith, aging, death, hope.

Regrets? You bet. (How could there not be?)
Tears? Plenty.
Laughter? Yes, definitely laughter.

Looking back while moving forward.
Hanging on while letting go. Suddenly there.
Not quite certain where "there" is.

Tell me, how did we get here so quickly?

Reminded to be grateful.
For this moment. For the people in our lives.
Grateful for God's presence on this journey.

At peace with who we have become.
Thank you friends.

Learning to Meditate - Part V

(Rushing into the sanctuary, late,
trying to catch up to where the focusing group has already gone.)

Breathe in. Breathe out. Be still.
In a rush to be still? Huh. That's kind of funny.
Whoops, focus.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Release.
Taking my stone and dropping it into the calm pool.
Kerplunk. Watching the ripples push away the distractions.
Again and then again. And again.
The distractions seem to be fed by an unending source.
I realize I am in a hurry tonight to calm my spirit. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Trust and release.
Settling into the breathing. Drawing closer to the center.
"May I ask you a question?"
Yes.
"What do you think of me?"
He shakes his head, laughing softly, in the manner of a good friend,
and draws in the sand.
I look closer. There, a heart.

Once again, taking the focus off myself
and pointing me to his love.

Being still enough to notice.
Finally.

The appearance of a prison

From the outside looking in,
it has the appearance of a prison.
But look closer.

The locks and routines are not what limits,
it is the disease that holds people captive.
The cellmate is a bully who shows no mercy -
Confusion.

Move in even closer. Watch and listen.
What was that? A tender touch. A smile.
A reassuring gesture. Kind words,
both respectful and encouraging.

Listen carefully.
The quiet, deafening in today's loudness, is solace.

The stillness, so out of synch with the busy world outside the doors,
is actually a source of calm.

The routine, almost unbearable to those who don't belong here,
gives stability.

I kiss my dad on the forehead and tell him I love him.
He smiles and closes his eyes. I know he is safe there.
But honestly, is that enough?
I punch the code into the key-pad and leave.

...........

Walking through the doors, back into the sunshine,
I feel a sense of freedom in the fresh air
and the fall colors.

It's true, I realize. It does look like a prison.
But there is peace and love within. I have seen it and felt it.

And there is more. There is hope beyond.
Thank God.

The thief

Like the Grinch's attempt to steal Christmas,
the disease (call it Alzheimer's or dementia,
either way, dressed like a thief) steals the memories, 
the abilities, the words that define a person.
Even snatching away our opportunity to grieve the losses,
like the last crumb left on the floor.

But wait. Skip ahead to the end of the story,
where the song is heard, quietly at first and then clearer and louder.
True meanings revealed.

Now look closer at the story you are living.

There, a smile. A nod.
A comical expression - one eyebrow up, the other down.
A kiss blown in my direction.
Blue eyes, yes, still sparkling.

It's funny. So much has been taken,
shoved up the chimney in a burlap bag.
And yet, the words he speaks most often these days are
"thank you".

How could that be? All that has been stolen
and still, gratitude remains.

He reaches out and touches my shoulder.
He doesn't know my name.
He doesn't know his granddaughter sitting next to him.
That's okay.

I am reminded by his touch, his expression,
his presence, that we don't need words or memories
to manifest love.
It is here. It is now.

So we continue, one day after another,
connecting however we can, whenever we can.
Waiting for the happy ending on the final page.
A gift, a promise, that cannot be stolen or broken.

Thank you.

He laughed so hard

They said he laughed so hard tears ran down both cheeks.
They didn't know why, or what was so funny.
That part didn't matter.
(An inside joke that even he couldn't understand or explain.)
They shared in his laughter.
Contagious joy penetrating the constant backdrop of confusion.
That was enough.

His playful nature and years of practical jokes
revealed and relived in the present moment.
Bright blue eyes, sparkling.
A hand to his forehead, a shake of the head,
perhaps in disbelief of the hilarity of the situation.

Beneath the laughter resides the smile, which speaks beyond the jokes
to a lifetime of kindness and gentleness.
Connecting him to a time and place, then with now.

They said he laughed so hard tears ran down both cheeks.
(Remember, the tears are part of the story but not the main character.)
They shared in his laughter, enjoying the gift he has to give.
That was enough. Indeed it is enough.
It is all we have.

His eyes light up

His eyes light up when he sees me.
He smiles, welcoming me into his space.
He nods his head and says "yes".

With that, I become his little girl again.
(Even though he cannot find my name in the chaos of his mind.)

I tell him I love him.
He repeats what I say, but makes the words his own.

He closes his eyes, a smile still on his face.
When he opens them again, he looks for me.
And I am lucky enough to be there.

...

I crawl into the empty side of the bed.
The side that was, that is, my dad's.
I feel mom reach for me.
Her eyes open. She says, "there you are. I was waiting for you."

With that, I become her little girl again.
(And the empty space is filled for a moment.)

I thank her for taking such good care of dad.
She says simply, "I love him"
honoring who he was and who he continues to be.

This time I am the one who closes my eyes, smiling.
"Yes."

A simple question

The question totally baffles me.
"How is your dad doing?"

I start to answer, but then stop, 
mouth open with no sound.
As if punched in the stomach.
But the question is delivered with gentleness.

The intent is heartfelt.

"How is your dad doing?" 
To answer how he is doing,
you somehow need to define what has been taken away.
To describe what has been taken away,
you first need to explain the person he was.

(Are you sure you have time for this answer?
Do you understand what you are asking?)

"How is your dad doing?"
Honestly, I don't know.
I don't know what he thinks or feels.
He can't tell me.
But I can tell you this...

He can still make me laugh
using only his expressions and those goofy eyebrows,
sprung on you when you least expect it.

He can still make me feel loved,
when he looks at me, smiles, nods,
and then blows me a kiss.

He can still teach me what gratitude is,
as he says "thank you"
when I tell him I love him.

He can still remind me to slow down
and be present in this moment,
content with what I have,
even when it doesn't always feel like enough.

"How is your dad doing?"

The question totally baffles me.
But I am so glad you asked.