Labor and Delivery

Six weeks ago, early in the wee hours of a Friday morning, I was in a tiny, closet-sized room in the hospital Emergency Department.  I had two separate IVs in my right arm, pumping me full of fluids and electrolytes; they were drawing blood out of my left arm.  Every time someone walked into the room they apologized for the size of the room.

I was like, hey, I have a bed, a TV and a door, I’m good.  Every time they opened the door, I got a peek of a woman in a bed parked by the nurse’s station, so I wasn’t going to complain.

The severe abdominal pain that had sent me to the ER six hours earlier was beginning to lessen, but the numbers that showed up on my bloodwork didn’t lie.  I had known I had gallstones for ten years, and by watching my diet, I had been able to avoid surgery but finally, that night, the pain became more than I could bear and the bloodwork was clear, something, most likely a gallstone or the nasty, tar-like sludge that had been collecting in my very diseased gallbladder for years had blocked my bile duct and my liver was very unhappy. 

I needed surgery, so the hospital admitted me, but I was still stuck in the ER.

Finally, after several hours, the nurse burst into the room, “We have a bed for you!”

“Great!” I said.

“It’s in Labor and Delivery!” she said.

They had found me, a fifty-year-old woman, a bed in the maternity ward.

And I laughed.  And I kept laughing throughout the rest of the day.  I laughed every time someone texted me asking me how I was and I got to tell them, “I’m in Labor and Delivery!”  And when my dad, who had left to get some things for me back at my house, texted to see where I was, I said, “Check in with Labor and Delivery!”

Later in the afternoon, when I had two liver doctors in my new room and the surgeon and her resident popped in, the surgeon said, “Well, it’s a party in here!”

And I said, “It’s always a party in Labor and Delivery!”

And I kid you not, my surgeon started to dance.

And every bit of this was perfect.

You see Reverend Jane had asked me several weeks before if I would preach on June 14^th and when I pulled up the readings and saw the Genesis reading with Sarah laughing when God told her she was going to have a baby, I knew I wanted to preach on laughter, but I also like to give personal stories when I preach and I just didn’t have anything that fit with Sarah.

Until they told me at the hospital that I was headed to Labor and Delivery for my gallbladder.

The bad news was I needed surgery.  The good news was that I was going to have an awesome story to share.

In our reading today from Genesis 18 and 21, Sarah also winds up with an amazing story to share.  Sarah and Abraham are having a normal, routine day when three strangers approach their camp. 

Abraham treats the men as he would any strangers, providing them food and water, encouraging them to eat and rest and wash their feet.

The men ask Abraham where Sarah is and the fact that they ask for her by name should tell Abraham that these are no ordinary men.

Abraham says that Sarah is in the tent.  Actually, Sarah is hiding behind the tent flaps eavesdropping, because of course she is.  This is probably the most excitement she has had in a while, certainly the most interesting thing that has happened to her that day.  Let’s not kid ourselves.  We’d all be hiding behind the tent flap.

What Sarah doesn’t know is that her day is about to get wilder than she could ever imagine.

Because one of the men, who we are told is the Lord, tells Abraham that by the time He passes this way again, Sarah will give birth.

At this, Sarah laughs—we are told she laughs to herself, but I imagine she was a little vocal about it and that her laugh was more of a scoff or a snort, because Sarah is ninety years old.  She is long past the age where she can have children.

God, still addressing Abraham, asks why Sarah just laughed.  Does she not believe that anything is possible with God?

Now Sarah knows she’s in trouble.  She pokes her head from behind the tent flap and denies ever laughing.

But God, and I imagine Him smiling, says something along the lines of this, “Oh, Sarah, do not try and gaslight the Lord, your God.  You were laughing.”

Why was Sarah laughing though?

In Romans 5:1-5, Paul writes words that we are familiar with, that suffering produces endurance, endurance character and character hope, but at ninety years old, Sarah has long given up hope she will have children.

Sarah laughs not because she doubts God’s power, but because she doubts God’s grace.  Why would God gift her, Sarah, a child after all these years?  Why has He decided to answer this prayer now?  Sarah’s laugh was born from a lifetime of disappointment.

Later, after giving birth to Isaac (a name which incidentally means “he laughs”), Sarah laughs again, but this time with joy.  There is an implication that people used to laugh at her, mocking her, deriding her, shaming her for her lack of children.  But now, Sarah acknowledges, they are laughing with her; they are sharing her joy.

That Saturday morning when I had my gallbladder out, afterwards, they took me back to my room in Labor and Delivery.  You could hear babies crying.  Periodically, I could hear little feet belonging to a new older brother or sister running down the hallway outside my door.  It was a ward filled with joy.  What better place to be brought back to after having surgery.

That night was surreal.  Nights in hospitals are generally a surreal time, especially following surgery.  You live in a dreamlike state, a haze from the leftover anesthesia and the painkillers.  You never feel fully asleep or fully awake.

At one point as I drifted into waking, I asked the night nurse about the compression sleeves on my lower legs, the ones that inflate and deflate to keep you from developing blood clots.  I asked her if they were really necessary.  She moved to the foot of my bed and began undoing the sleeves, as she checked my legs for signs of swelling. 

When she began to take off those lovely, bright yellow hospital issued socks with treads on the top and bottoms, I started to feel embarrassed.  After everything I had been through in the last 48 hours, I was embarrassed for her to see my feet.  Afterall there hadn’t been time to stop for a pedicure when my dad raced me to the hospital.

She carefully examined my feet for signs of wounds or other red flags and then she walked to the bathroom.  A moment later, she reappeared carrying some of that no rinse soap they give you before surgery and a washcloth.  She walked back over to my bed and then she began to carefully and thoroughly wash my feet.

There are times when we only see God in hindsight, in retrospect, in memory.  We are Moses getting a glimpse of God only after He has passed us by.

But sometimes we see God in real time, in the moment, because when a nurse begins washing your feet at one o’clock in the morning after you have been through one of the scariest moments of your life, that is Jesus-love at work.  When you are vulnerable and weak, an unexpected moment of kindness and tenderness can humble you to such a point that, like the old hymn says, your soul begins to tremble, tremble, tremble as it wakes itself to a higher truth.

God is present. 

He is present in the night nurses and others (like the Stephen ministers we’ll be commissioning shortly) those who have answered Jesus’ call in Matthew 9:37-38 to be a laborer for the harvest.

God bless those laborers who have committed themselves to bringing God’s healing and love to others.

God bless the grace they bring, the hope they stoke and kindle within our souls.

And God bless their joy.

Right before they were set to wheel me back for surgery, the nurse who was checking me in and prepping me, looked at me, looked at my dad, looked back at me and said, “Do you want to give your glasses to your husband?”

I pretended to think for a second and then pointed at him and said, “Sooo, that’s my dad.”

The nurse was embarrassed, but we all had a good laugh about it.  I have a young dad.  I’m fifty.  He’s seventy.  His mother, my grandmother, is ninety-one and depending on the day we might all look the same age. And on that day, right before surgery, I probably looked somewhere between seventy years old and—you know—zombie.

When the surgeon appeared a minute later, she looked at me, looked at my dad, looked back at me, pointed at my dad and said, “And who’s this?”

And then we all started laughing again.

Author Anne Lamott calls laughter, “Carbonated holiness.”

And it was that holiness I felt bubbling up inside of me in those final moments before surgery.  I had no fear; I felt only excitement.

Suffering, a chaplain once told me, is a thin place, that place where the veil is thin and God’s presence is palpable, but I would add that hope and joy are also thin places.  God is with us through all times, both good and bad.

He is with you right now, as near as your own soul.

May God’s presence bring you joy today.

And may that joy be rich with laughter.

Amen.

When Fawns Laugh, They Do It Through Their Feet

The other day, early in the morning, I noticed my orange cat, Loki, sitting by the back door staring out the window.  He isn’t the talker that Pippin is.  Pippin will chortle and chirp at chipmunks, squirrels and birds.  But one thing Pippin and Loki are silent for is deer.

“Whatcha see?” I asked Loki as I walked to the back door.  Loki glanced at me over his shoulder and then returned to the window.

Sure enough, there in the back yard, with just her head and neck showing from behind my car was a deer.  I assumed that it was the same deer I had seen in my yard almost every day for the past few weeks.  It is still strange to me that there are deer here so close to the city.  I’m not downtown, but it’s definitely an urban environment.

The other day, when I left for church, and turned around to lock the back door and when I did I startled a deer I didn’t even know was there.  I jumped as suddenly there was an explosion of rat-tat-tat-tat, as the deer’s hooves made contact with the pavement as she leapt from the grass.

Whirling around, I caught sight of the deer who then froze at the sight of me. 

I froze too.

And we both just stood there, until finally I dared to breathe and the deer took off, leaping again over the neighbor’s fence.

Looking back at my interactions with the deer those couple of weeks, she seemed more jumpy and skittish than I have seen before in neighborhood deer.  And as it turned out, there was a reason for that.

That morning I spotted Loki by the window, the second I stepped to the window, the deer noticed me.  She stopped and stared right at me.

I took a step back from the window, hoping somehow I would just vanish, but she continued to watch even as I took another step back and reached for my camera.

(I am smart enough now to keep a camera by the back door.)

Still she refused to look away.

I slowly raised the camera to my eye and zoomed in as best I could through a dirty window.

I always have my camera set to bird mode, so that it takes a series of rapid fire pictures and I sound like the paparazzi outside some celebrity’s house.

Still the deer didn’t move.

I held my breath and prepared for another series of pictures when I saw something move just out of sight of my camera lens.

And then I gasped.

A small fawn had emerged from around the front of the car.

Knobby knees and speckled, still young enough to wobble, still fresh birth thin.  I could see the fawn’s ribs.

I had gasped when the fawn stepped out and I hadn’t taken another breath.

Isn’t it funny what makes us gasp?

In the hospital, when the surgeon wanted to see if it was truly my gallbladder that was inflamed, she took the knuckle of her index finger and dug it in up under my ribs on the right side. 

The pain was so intense, I gasped.

We gasp when we are in pain.  We gasp in fear. 

We also gasp in shock, both good and bad.

We gasp in awe.

That little fawn was so precious and so beautiful and so new, I gasped as I felt my heart grow large in love for God’s creation.

The mama deer had not stopped looking at me and even though I was no threat, when I finally did breathe and let the camera slide down, both mama deer and fawn took off down the alley.

I ran through the house, to the front door and opened it just in time to see the two deer fleeing across my small street and into the neighbor’s yard.

In the dew-laden grass, the fawn did not step as her mother stepped.  The fawn leapt.  She danced.  She bucked.  And dare I say that if fawns laugh, they do it through their feet.

There was so much joy in the fawn.

The mother was scared and protective of her child.

But the child had no idea.  She only knew that there was so much of everything, of space, of air, of smells of grass and trees with bark still spongey from last night’s rain.

I thought of last week’s reading of Jesus saying how we must be like the little children to enter the Kingdom of God and woe … woe to anyone who places a stumbling block in front of one of these children.

As I watched that little fawn, for a moment, I understood the protectiveness that God has for all of us.  We are all His children.  Because as I watched that fawn, I thought I would do anything to protect her.  I ached worrying about her safety with so many cars around.

Imagine, if you can feel this way about a wild animal, how much more does God love you?  How much more does God delight in you?  How much joy do you bring God when you dance, when you laugh?

God loves everything about you.

You breathe.  God loves.

Your heart beats.  God loves.

You smile.  God loves.

Remember that.  We are all newborn fawns to God.

Amen.

Walking On Sunshine

Several weeks ago, I found myself in the emergency room late one night with severe abdominal pain.  I had turned 50 just a month before and apparently my gallbladder had reached its expiration date.

All through the night, it seemed like whoever came into my room, nurse, PA, doctor—they all had the same question.  Had I taken anything for the pain?  What did I take for the pain?

To me, it was a very confusing question, maybe because the pain, and lack of sleep and lack of food made concentrating difficult, but eventually I said to the doctor, “I wasn’t aware there was anything that could help.”

I mean—right?  You don’t take Advil for a tummy ache.

What I didn’t tell the doctor was that I had tried something for the pain.

Prayer.

I had tried prayer.

Like many desperate people, I had turned to prayer and like many desperate people who turn to prayer, I tried to bargain with God and like many desperate people who turn to prayer and try to bargain with God, my end of the bargain was ridiculous.  And like many desperate people who turn to prayer and try to bargain with God by offering ridiculous promises, I believed one hundred percent in mine.  I would have done anything to make the pain stop.

And so I said to God, “Lord, if You stop this pain, I promise I will Never. Eat. Again."

Today’s readings highlight the stories of three mothers or mothers-to-be, Hannah, Elizabeth and Mary.  Really, these should have been our Mother’s Day readings from a few weeks ago.  All three women have one thing in common.  They all required a bit of divine intervention to become mothers.  But only one woman, only Hannah, became a mother after she made a bargain with God.

We tend to bargain when we are in pain, physical pain like I was in, but also emotional and spiritual pain.  Bargaining is widely known as one of the stages of grief.

So know that when Hannah attempts to bargain with God, she is suffering.  In that suffering, she asks God to give her a child and in return she makes what seems like a non-sensical offering.  She tells God that she will give that child back to Him, to serve Him.

It’s mind boggling.  If Hannah wants a child so much, why make a deal where God gives her the child and she gives the child right back (after he’s been weaned)—so almost right back?

What happens next is either inspiring or crazy—because God does give her a child, and unlike me who did not fulfill my end of the bargain when God took away my abdominal pain—in the form of a ragey gallbladder— (I am still eating), Hannah does exactly what she promised to do.  She gives Samuel to God.  She brings him to the temple and entrusts him to the priest Eli.

Samuel will go on to become a prophet and not just any prophet but the man who would anoint the first king of Israel, Saul and also Saul’s successor David and by doing so connect Jesus all the way back to a woman who prayed so fervently for a child that Eli thought she was drunk.  Hannah’s bargain, her decision, her promise to God winds up connecting her directly to Jesus.

And yet, her choice still seems so illogical.  It’s almost like asking God for a million dollars and when He gives you the million dollars, you hand it right back.

What is it that Hannah really wanted?

What if it’s more complicated, more nuanced than just wanting a child?

Hannah was married to man named Elkanah.  She was not his only wife.  His other wife had given him many children, but Elkanah seemed to favor Hannah.  He also seems to realize that Hannah is heartbroken over not being able to bear children.  And so he says to her, “Am I not worth more to you than ten sons?”

The Bible doesn’t tell us how Hannah answered but I imagine she answered in one of two ways.  Either she patted Elkanah on the shoulder and said, “Of course, sweetheart—of course you are worth more than ten sons.”  I imagine her with a sorrowful, wan smile.  Or perhaps she was completely honest and said, “No, no you are not—this isn’t about you, Elkanah.”

Perhaps she was just silent.

What does Hannah really want?

For pretty much all women at this time, having children was their purpose in life.  But this doesn’t seem to be Hannah’s motivation here.  Her husband has made it clear he loves her whether she bears him children or not.  Nor does it seem like a woman who felt her purpose in life was to have children would then offer said child right back to God.

So maybe Hannah wants a child to improve her social standing, to quiet people like Elkanah’s other wife who derides her and mocks her for being childless.  But that too doesn’t seem like the motivation of someone who would promise that child to God.

Hannah is not someone who wants a child just to have children.  She even references it in today’s reading, also known as “Hannah’s Prayer” or “Hannah’s Song” because it is very similar to Mary’s Magnificat, perhaps we can call this Hannah’s Magnificat.  Mary says, “My soul doth magnify the Lord,” (I love the King James Version here) and Hannah begins her song with “My heart exults in the Lord!”  I actually prefer the Message version which reads, “I’m bursting with God-news!  I’m walking on air.  I’m laughing at my rivals.  I’m dancing my salvation.”

In other words, Hannah is the living embodiment of that 1980s song by Katrina and the Waves … she is walking on sunshine and starting to feel good.

In her prayer, Hannah presents this list of opposites in regards to God’s strength.  He brings down.  He lifts up.  He brings death.  He brings life.  He raises the poor to sit with princes.  And then Hannah says something interesting about mothers.  She says, “The barren has borne seven, but she who has many children is forlorn.”

Becoming a mother to Hannah is more than just “heads in beds.”  It’s not a contest to be won.

Hannah doesn’t want a child just to have a child.  She wants—to borrow from another song, this time Queen—somebody to love.

To Hannah, motherhood is about love.

And because motherhood is about love, she can make that promise to God.  She can give Samuel back to Him.  She is not making a sacrifice.  She is making a gift. 

Samuel represents God’s most holy love.  God gifts Samuel to Hannah and she is so thankful and so filled with the light of that gift that it is not a hardship, not a sacrifice for her to share that gift with the world.  She wants to—she is compelled and propelled by her joy to share that love with everyone.

In Romans 12, Paul writes, “Love one another … rejoice in hope … rejoice with those who rejoice … be ardent in spirit ….”

“Let love be genuine,” he says or in other words, “Let your love be real.”

Hannah’s love for Samuel is real.  Her love for God is real and where the two intersect is when she presents Samuel to the priest Eli.

In the end, her bargain with God no longer seems foolish … it feels right … for her.

Ultimately, in those moments when we are desperate, and we turn to prayer and we try to bargain with God, we all want the same thing.  It’s more than just wanting a child like Hannah or relief from pain like my prayer in the hospital. 

What we truly want in those times is God, Himself.  We want His presence.  We want to know that we are watched and looked after.  We want to know that we matter to Him.  We want to be gifted with His love.

And He does.  He does gift us.  He does love us.  And that love requires no bargain on our part.  His love is unconditional. 

The only thing required of us is to not hoard the gift, but to share the love of God with others unconditionally as He has shared with us.

After all, that is exactly what I am doing with you now.  That night in the emergency room—and I told this story at Morning Prayer the other day—that night I was at just about the lowest I had ever been physically in my life.  I was in the restroom, bent over, hands on knees, seconds—seconds—away from passing out from pain.  I had been in pain before, many times in my life, but never anything like that night.

The emergency cord was too far away for me to pull, or I would have pulled it.

I was terrified and desperate and reached out to God in prayer.

And God spoke to my heart in that moment—I call it that still, small voice that speaks to us when the noise of the world is too loud to hear anything else.

God spoke to my heart and said, “You are right where you need to be.  Don’t be afraid.”

Yes, the hospital was right where I needed to be. 

But more importantly, I was there with God.

He was there with me, right where I needed Him to be.

God is here today with you, too.

May you feel the gift of His love, today.

May you know just how much you matter to Him.

And may you, like Hannah, walk on air in that knowledge and dance your salvation.

Amen.

 

 

The Breath of God Gives Me Life

The other day I was sitting at a stoplight when I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed my back window was spotted with rain, so I flipped on the rear window wiper to clear it and waited.  I could hear the little servo motor whirring to life, but the wiper wasn’t moving.  In fact, I couldn’t even see the wiper.  Sometimes it gets stuck though, bumped below the window and needs to be physically moved to get it working again.

So when I pulled up at my dad’s house a minute later, I got out of the car to take a look.

The wiper was gone.

Not just the wiper blade but the arm that holds the wiper blade was gone.  All that was left was a rusty bolt and some broken plastic.

When I explained to my dad that the wiper was gone, he asked me what I thought happened to it.

And I said, “Well, I’m thinking it might have gotten knocked off when you took it to the car wash the other day.”

My dad nodded.  “Yeah, could have been then.”

I continued.  “I warned you that it was possible the only thing holding my car together was dirt and that if you washed it, something like this might happen.”

Back when I lived in Florida and these little annoyances of life popped up, I would head out to the Wetlands or some of the other nature parks in the area and do what the Japanese call Forest Bathing.  It doesn’t mean actual bathing; it simply means immersing yourself in nature, breathing it in, listening to the sounds of God’s creation.  Ideally, it eases anxiety.

Most of the time, I found myself out at the nearby Wetlands with my camera first thing in the morning.  It was a good way to start the day, but sometimes, as my stress levels required it, I would head out later, around noon.

Around noon was lunchtime for the osprey.

That time of day at the Wetlands could be blistering hot depending on the time of year.  Some days the skies were cloudless and the sun so bright it washed out all color.  There were no blue skies only a limitless blinding white.

Somedays, though, there were clouds here and there and I would stare up and watch the osprey circle overhead.  The vultures would appear in another circle even higher than the osprey.  Even the vultures knew to give the osprey space when the bird was feeding.

The osprey always circled above the water.  And if you were patient, as they were patient, there would come a moment when it looked like the osprey had been shot from the sky.  It would fall, dive from above, seemingly reaching terminal velocity in seconds and would hit the surface of the pond in an explosion, a geyser of water, before emerging again, shaking the water from its feathers and holding a fish in its massive talons.

The only thing that rivaled the sheer coolness of that moment was when the bald eagle joined in the fishing.  As big as an osprey is, the bald eagle is even larger and while the osprey dives down from the sky, the bald eagle will swing down low, as if it was getting style points, as if it was posturing, showing off for me, maybe hoping I was with National Geographic. 

This one day, I watched a bald eagle swoop in low, its talons barely cutting through the surface of the water.  I took its picture, freezing it in time.

Think for a moment on our reading today from Genesis 1:2 … “… the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.”

Now picture again that bald eagle sweeping over the face of the waters at the Wetlands.

I dare you to spend time immersed in the natural world and not see the Holy Spirit at work.  Genesis tells us that the creation of the world took six days and on the seventh day, God rested, but every time I spend even a second in nature, I see that God’s creation is ongoing. 

What if the story of creation in Genesis is actually three stories, the story of what happened, the story of what is happening and the story of what will happen?  What if God is still creating?  What if God hasn’t rested yet?  What if the world is still changing, still growing—is, in fact, being reborn day after day after day?

Spring was always my favorite time of the year to visit the Wetlands—spring meant babies, not just birds, but alligators too.  I rooted for all the babies.  I rooted for the tiny little gators, yellow striped that emerged from the tall grasses by the water.  And I rooted for the sandhill crane chicks, whose parents demanded they be up and walking the moment they escaped the egg. 

I remember one year during a drought, I watched these day-old sandhill crane babies up to their necks in mud as they struggled to follow their parents to the road.  It was nerve wracking, but they made it and thank goodness because I was sure that if I waded into that mud to rescue them, their parents would have pecked me to death.

But the most awe-inspiring sight at the Wetlands happened on this island a ways back from the road.  You could hear the life before you could see it.  And you needed a good pair of binoculars or a superzoom camera to even see what was happening.

This was where ninety percent of the birds made their nests, Great Egrets, Cattle Egrets, Great Blue Herons, Little Blue Herons, the red-eyed Black Crown Night Heron and the angelic-appearing Roseate Spoonbills.  When all those babies hatched, the island was filled with crying, hungry birds.

In 2 Corinthians 13 verse 13, Paul writes, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.”

When I listened to those hungry baby birds, I felt a communion with them, because I was hungry too, not physically, but spiritually.  It was my Spirit that was crying out.

Once, when I took a friend to the Wetlands so I could show her a Great Blue Heron nest that sat close to the road, she was so focused on the nest, she almost missed an even more jaw-dropping moment when right then, a large, ten-foot alligator, forever known as Godzilla, began a leisurely walk across the road in front of us. 

On the other side of us, a car had stopped, the driver’s side door popped open, and a woman peeked her head out.

And meanwhile I was clawing and slapping at my friend’s arm, trying to get her attention, because she was still walking toward Godzilla, oblivious to him as she trained her camera lens on the birds’ nest.

She stopped eventually and then all three of us, the woman in the car included, held our breath and got very still.

Talk about a spiritual communion.

But at the Wetlands it was more than the Holy Spirit, it was the Word of God.

The Word of God, present at Creation, responsible for Creation as God literally speaks the universe into existence, that same Word existed at the Wetlands.

Whenever I stood in the Wetlands as nature came to life, I felt that Word in my heart.  And that Word was “Wow!”

Some years ago, I was driving somewhere with my dad and he ran his fingertips across the top of my dash.  “What is this?” he asked, rubbing his fingers together.  “Dust?”

I laughed.  “That’s Wetlands dirt.”

“How is it in your car?”

It was in my car because I didn’t always walk the Wetlands.  There was a dirt road surrounding the Wetlands and sometimes I drove that road with the windows down and that Holy Spirit wind, that same hot wind I imagine that struck the disciples in the upper room on Pentecost—that same wind raced through my car and left physical evidence of its presence behind.

I realize that this sermon may now sound like I am preaching against getting your car washed or detailed.

But seriously, on this Trinity Sunday, where Jesus promises in Matthew 28:20 that He is with the disciples always, to the end of the age, I want you to recognize that God is with you always—that the presence of God is always within and without.

There were times at the Wetlands, I was held speechless, both lost and lifted in God’s creation moment.

There were times all I could do was breathe.

I hope that you have had moments like that.

I hope that when you are caught up in our stressful world, you have a place to go where you can feel God’s presence, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. 

I hope that when your soul cries out in hunger for the presence of God that, at the very least, you can pause wherever you are at and breathe.

And remember this line from Job 33:4, “The Spirit of God has made me; the breath of God gives me life.”

Breathe.

Amen.

 

 

We'll Always Have Those Garage Sales

My grandmother was serious about Saturday morning garage sailing.  I learned this very quickly when I first moved to Florida 28 years ago.  Grandma’s weekend rituals comprised two things, Sunday morning church, and Saturday morning garage sailing. 

I was never that serious about garage sailing.  I’m sure Grandma dismissed that quirk of mine as coming from … the other side of the family, though my mom was also a thrifter.

I just never saw the appeal.  What I did enjoy though was spending time with my grandmother.  My grandfather never joined us, but he supplemented Grandma’s habit with a bag of quarters that he handed to her before we left.  Grandma was a haggler.  And the bag of quarters told you just how much she was willing to haggle.

Grandma was so focused on getting good deals that if you saw her blue station wagon coming down the street on a Saturday morning, you better watch out, because Grandma saw every open garage door as an invitation to shop whether you were selling anything or not.

I enjoyed garage sailing most when Grandma’s youngest sister, Myrna, was in town.  Myrna was this tiny little spitfire of a thing with a Tennessee accent that turned every word into a song.  She laughed a lot.  She refused to take herself seriously. 

But like Grandma she did take garage sailing seriously.  I joined them one Saturday and they put a penny in a cup for each garage sale.  I think we hit more than a hundred that morning.  And I learned some valuable lessons from that experience.  One, bring a snack.  They don’t have time for your hangry whines.  Two, make sure you are completely dehydrated before getting in the car because they’re not stopping for bathroom breaks either.

One time, the two of them were out garage sailing without me and Grandma walked up to a table filled with sunglasses.  She took hers off, so she could try on the others and finally, she settled on one that she liked and went and paid the woman for them.

It was after Grandma and Myrna were on the road again when they realized Grandma had actually purchased her own sunglasses, the pair she had laid down while she was trying on the others.

Myrna had her own stories involving eyewear, like the time she had her hair done, walked into the place with one pair of reading glasses and left with two pairs, having accidentally taken the hairdresser’s glasses as well.

As the years passed, Grandma’s health faded and she wasn’t well enough to go garage sailing, but Myrna still visited often and when she did, we all went garage sailing.  Even when I moved up here, Myrna and my dad’s cousin Debbie would visit, and we would go garage sailing or thrift store shopping.

It was tradition.

I almost never bought a thing when I was with them.  I was there just to be with family.  When there were too many of us to fit in one car, I would drive my car and Myrna would ride shotgun with me.  We would discuss church, her church and mine, what she loved about her women’s Bible study.  Myrna found a family everywhere she went. 

She read my books and when she was in rehab after a nasty car accident last fall, she read a copy of my spiritual memoir my dad sent to her.  And she texted me this when she finished: “I am so proud of you.  That must have been a difficult book to write … God is good.  He guided you every step of the way.  Your faith is remarkable.  You have learned to serve him in so many ways.  (Heart emoji) Aunt Myrna.”

Let me give you another example that describes Myrna and how much she cared for others.  When she was in that horrific car accident, she had shattered her leg/her ankle and broken her nose from the impact with the air bag.  They put her in the ambulance and she immediately called the memory care facility where Grandma lived to let them know she wouldn’t be visiting that day.  At the same time her ladies church group was supposed to be meeting at her house that day and even though Myrna was in surgery, the women still met at her house because that was what Myrna would want them to do.

Last week, our Morning Prayer reading was about the time that Jesus cast out these demons from two men and, per the demons’ request, sends them into a herd of pigs.  The pigs immediately run screaming off a cliff, fall into the waters below and drown.  Meanwhile, the swineherds are there, probably with their hands on their heads saying, “What just happened?”  Their entire livelihood gone in a second through no fault of their own.  They run into town to share what has happened and the townspeople confront Jesus afterward and say, “Yeah, we need you to leave.”

This is what happens, I said last week, when Jesus works a miracle.  It’s not just the two demoniacs that He freed—He disrupts and upends the entire town.  No one’s life will ever be the same.

And so perhaps, I said, thoughtfully—I hope—we need to look at the distractions in our lives or the bad things that happen to us seemingly randomly and think of them as opportunities instead of spending time mourning what we have lost.

And honestly, I look back on what I said last week and want to smack myself.

Because yeah, ideally it might be helpful to look at bad things in our lives as opportunities, but it also sounds a little like toxic positivity.  Bad things happen to all of us.  We don’t have to force or find meaning in them immediately.  It is okay to sit with our pain for a bit and mourn what we lost.

Last week, Myrna celebrated her birthday.  My dad and Barb Facetimed with her.  She was at physical therapy, but she took their call even when they offered to call back later.  Maybe she knew her time was limited.  I texted her that morning wishing her a Happy Birthday.  She got back to me late at night around 11 pm, long after I had gone to bed, and thanked me and said it was a great birthday.

The next morning, she suffered a massive brain bleed and died.

I find myself mourning not just Myrna, the person, but the end of her story, a story that I was a small part of, but a story I will not be able to join again.  No more garage sailing.  No more thrifting. 

I know that her spirit is home now.  I know she is with her husband and her other sister who passed very young, with her son, who also died too soon.  I know she is with God.  I know she is smiling and laughing.

And if I could I would thank her for letting me be that small part of her life, for sharing her story with me.

And I would offer her these words from Isaiah, “[Myrna] arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of God has dawned upon you … the sun will no more be your light by day, by night you will not need the brightness of the moon.  The Lord will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory.”

Amen.

WHEN THE E.R. BECOMES HOLY GROUND

The other day, Facebook reminded me that 15 years ago I had been in a minor car accident.  This was during that first year that I found Hope Episcopal church and started the discernment process for becoming a priest.  I spent a lot of time that first year writing, sharing with others where I was encountering God in my life and this car accident was no different.  A friend of mine commented on Facebook something along the lines of “I think these things keep happening to you, just so you can write something profound about them.”

Now, I want to make it clear—bad things happen to everyone.  I am no different, but, yes, the way I cope is by finding meaning, finding God in all areas of my life, especially in the upsetting and unsettling moments.

Almost two weeks ago, I found myself in the ER with excruciating abdominal pain.  I had been living with gallstones for around ten years, and I was very worried that this pain was my gallbladder.  I was hoping it was just gas—spoiler alert—it was not just gas.

My dad drove me to the hospital and both of us were sitting in the ER waiting room for hours, the waiting room maybe uncharacteristically packed for a Thursday night, although the moon was very full that night.

I spent those hours considering my options for pain relief.  Perhaps those two-seater chairs in the waiting room would hold me if I curled up in a fetal position.  What about the floor itself?  At least the floor would be cool.  But no, the hard floor would make my pain worse and getting up again would also be painful and require some assistance.

My vitals that night showed a resting heartrate of 124 and blood pressure at 150/100.  I always love how in these moments they ask you if your high blood pressure is normal and I want to say back to them, “Nothing about why I am here is normal—if anything about my visit to the ER were normal, I wouldn’t be here.”

Adrenaline was racing through me at this point and consequently, I was having to use the restroom quite a lot.  When I stood up for the second time to use the restroom, I discovered that one of the two restrooms was in use and I was stuck with the gross one, the one with the sticky floor that reeked of urine.  But I didn’t have a choice.  I used the toilet, I flushed, took one step and then two to the sink and was suddenly overcome with extreme nausea and the feeling I was about to pass out.

I stopped and leaned over, resting my hands on my knees. 

I hate puking, but my pain had been so intense, I hadn’t eaten much, so I wasn’t worried about what I might wind up depositing on the floor, I was more concerned with the pain of dry heaving.  I was concerned that additional pain might push me over my limit—be more than I could bear.

The nausea continued to build.  The emergency cord was not within arms’ reach or otherwise I would have pulled it.  I realized, suddenly, that I was scared.

And that was when I felt God’s presence.

This calm, still, small voice that speaks to us, to our hearts, to our souls, that reaches us when the noise of the world is so loud.

That still, small voice said, to me, “You are right where you need to be.  Don’t be afraid.”

I took a breath.

My legs wobbled.  I was going to pass out.  But I had a choice.  I could go ahead and sit down on that nasty floor, or I could wait, and faint and wake up with my face on that sticky floor.

So, I sat down, hugged my knees and breathed in and out, in and out.

I remembered—and if you have made it to the end of my spiritual memoir, you will remember me writing about this—the time when I was volunteering as a hospital chaplain and called into a woman’s room, only to find her sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably. 

At one point, her spirit clearly aching and in pain, she cried out, “This is how worthless I am; I’m sitting here on this nasty floor.”

I stood there silently for a minute and then I asked her if I could come in.  She said yes.  I asked her if I could sit down.  She said yes.  And then I sat with her on the bathroom floor.  (For the record it was far cleaner than the ER restroom the other night.)

I was thinking of that moment as I found myself on that grimy floor at the ER, because as the wave of nausea passed, as everything stabilized, I realized I was not alone.

God was there with me, on that floor.

Suffering, a chaplain once told me years ago, is a thin place.  That in our suffering, the veil between worlds becomes transparent and we can feel the presence of God.  As a chaplain, myself, I could feel God’s presence in every patient room I visited.

And when I wasn’t a chaplain, when I was a patient, at my very lowest, both literally and figuratively, God was there, because that is who God is.

When Moses asks God for His name, asks God who is sending him, Moses, God says “I am, tell them I am has sent you.”

I am.

He is.

Think about all the times in the Bible when God just … is.

Elijah in the wilderness.

Hagar in the wilderness.

Jesus in the wilderness.

The quiet but profound presence inhabiting every molecule, every atom of creation, and thereby holding us, embracing us, carrying us in His love.

Eventually, I was able to stand up and leave that restroom.  I was admitted a short time later—had surgery some 36 hours after that, and in all that time, I felt safe and loved.

Amen.

Exodus 33:18-19

I begin each morning

with the same sweep

of the arm, drawing back

the curtains to let

the light in,

 

even if it’s just a sliver

of the sunrise, winking, blinking,

rubbing its own crusty, sleepy eyes,

 

even if the clouds are dark

and looming, gloomy and pouty

and promising rain,

 

because even if the daylight

is cloaked and shrouded,

a somber monk appearing

for morning vespers,

 

it is still enough—

the light of day is still enough

to fight back against the night,

to drive the shadows away,

 

to open the window to my soul

and air out all the troubles of yesterday,

allowing them to flit and flutter

and fly up and out, along with the night.

 

And so I pull back the curtain

to the back door to check

on the robin’s nest—she has been

gone for days and I know

how nature works, but still

I hope, and in that moment

of hope, with the house finches singing

their joyful hymn—yes it’s a new day,

a new morning, a new dawn—

 

in that moment, a deer steps out

hoof by hoof by hoof by hoof

onto my back patio.

 

The cat has wrapped himself around

my ankles and I call to him,

“Look, look, look,” because I want to—

 

I need to—I have to share this second,

this breath, this wonder with someone

as the adrenaline pours into me

and then out, surging through my fingertips.

Every part of me tingles.

 

“Look,” I say.

 

And the cat does.

He chirps, he chirrups,

he chortles and the deer

turns her head to me,

and suddenly all three

of us are frozen,

unable to move.

 

She is not ten feet away,

only the window separating us,

but she perceives me,

watches me, unblinking.

 

Yes, time can stand still.

Oh yes, it can and it does,

and in that moment,

in that space between breaths

when all things are possible

and visible and knowable,

 

in that moment,

I am Moses

watching the glory

and the goodness of God

pass me by.

 

And I am alive.

I am wholly alive,

in a holy time that did

not exist just a second ago,

before I dared to let the light in.

 

Where will you catch a glimpse

of God’s glory today?

 

Amen.