The Best Medicine

Do you laugh easily?
Are you good at telling jokes?
Do you enjoy relaxing with a favorite comedy after work?

Maybe you're one who gets the folks around you laughing by telling a story about what happened at the supermarket Wednesday. That's not me. I used to be able to draw people in with an amusing story as I preached on Sunday morning. Not so much that I considered stand-up comedy but enough that I thought I might have learned some timing. Unlikely. In the twenty-seven months since I went on medical leave, my only recollection of making someone laugh was with a dubious expression when they defended their procrastination a little too innocently. They cracked up. I'm trying to stop joking with my bestie. Whether it’s my delivery, their reception, or both, it doesn't work. They invariably take me seriously. Thankfully, we laugh together enough that I get my daily quota.

Since humor can be challenging for autistic folks, this could be my problem. While I can laugh alone at Buster Keaton's physical comedy, for ’most anything else I need another person laughing to get me going. Two years in a row, I laughed most inappropriately in a conference room full of people as the bishop and a superintendent were announcing which churches were welcoming new pastors. Something in their traditional wording fooled me into thinking I heard a joke. I've adapted somewhat.

• This year, I covered my mouth so that if errant laughter erupted, most people (Bishop Jung) wouldn't hear.
• I don't bother watching comedy alone.
• I make a point of being around people who laugh. Together, we laugh at ourselves and life.

Last week, I spent a few days in Green Bay visiting my kids. When Jay mentioned enjoying watching “The Good Place” the rest of us weren't surprised. The fantasy comedy series delves into all sorts of philosophical questions. Ever since he discovered philosophy in college (took every class offered and earned a 3rd major!) he's had a passion for it. 

Leaving the supermarket yesterday, I told Kay about something I'd seen in the dairy aisle. She responded quickly with a “derriere” quip. We laughed heartily though little of it made any sense. Later we watched “She Hulk” and while I didn't laugh much at this unapologetic comedy, we both laughed frequently at Washington Irving's word pictures as we read aloud a seasonal favorite, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. (And we made it to “The End” for the first time!)

These last two and a half years have been hard for all of us. I suspect that the pandemic and the polarization we find nearly everywhere make it harder to find humor in everyday life. And yet, laughter truly is the best medicine. A colleague who contracted Lyme disease some years ago credits his healing, in part, to daily laughter therapy.

I've said many times that we humans are made for relationship. We're also made for laughter. Whether we actually cry or not, life offers many opportunities for tears. It's our job to make sure we notice – and create – abundant openings for laughter as well. This can be hard. When our days are filled with grief or the ones we laugh with are far away, it can seem like nothing's funny. Still, we need to laugh. To giggle and guffaw. To grab our sides with tears streaming down our faces. We need this!

Partly because of a limited capacity for screen time because of the disease, I don’t get my daily quota of laughter. I can feel it and I’m not sure how to resolve this. Do you have an idea? I’d be delighted (and grateful) if you offered a suggestion.

    

And as always, if you like what you read, please share it with friends

Yes, You Can! Touch Another's Life

Two weeks ago I opened the small book that had laid on the table all summer (except for when it was in my pack at the Boundary Waters). The first time I had read it, I didn't realize the author had also penned these words:

“The kind of work God usually calls you to is the kind of work (a) that you need most to do and (b) that the world most needs to have done... The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet.”i

When I first read Telling Secrets by Frederick Buechner (pronounced Beek-ner) I was at a crossroads. For months an awareness had been growing in me which I felt would be wrong to ignore. I knew that as a clergyperson I was expected to respond in a certain way yet in my bones I felt myself being let in another direction. I had made a habit in recent years of following such leadings but, mindful of how easily we can be swayed toward our own preference, I was cautious. I prayed… I journaled… I listened and watched… I prayed some more...Then, one momentous day in April, as the city readied itself for a snowstorm, I began reading. But not for long. I stopped short on page 3. 

“I have come to believe that by and large the human family all has the same secrets, which are both very telling and very important to tell. They are telling in the sense that they tell what is perhaps the central paradox of our condition – that what we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often just what we also fear more than anything else.”ii

It's important, the author explained, to tell the secret of who we are, even if only to ourselves, lest we begin to accept the version we show the world. Telling our secrets helps us to see where we've been and where we're headed. Our telling also encourages others to share their secrets with us. Such exchanges are “what being human is all about.”

Opening my journal, I began to write, copying those first two sentences and then composing my response. As I worked, I found peace and knew what was next for me. My life’s path was shaped, in part, by these words which confirmed what I already knew but wasn’t ready to believe on my own. I would live my truth – whether it worked out well, whether I faced repercussions, or not. 

We each have the potential to affect another’s life. It’s not just preachers and writers (though Buechner was both.) I began posting here again not because of the “Rev.” that precedes my name but because I have things to say that could lend others courage or temporarily lighten their load.

“Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”iii

That said, Buechner's art is part of what has kept me from pursuing a long-held dream. Although sometimes more florid than I prefer, he wrote as I’d like to write. I can’t compete. My writer-daughter would say I don’t need to – I just need to write my story. True, yet it’s hard to see past his ability to shape words into ideas. (Don’t even get me started on Victor Hugo!) 

Only after I began rereading Keeping Secrets on August 15th, did I realize Buechner's contribution to this incapacity. 

On that day, I read again that he was ten in 1936. “Hm, that’s the year Daddy was born.” And then “This was published in 1991. Thirty years ago. He’d be 96 today. He’s probably dead.” This thought left me sad. And surprised at the sadness. 

I too believe that “Coincidences are God's way of getting our attention” and found it an odd coincidence that – as I learned a few days later – Frederich Buechner died on August 15th. 

It seems strange that he’s gone when he had only recently come alive for me. I empathized when he wanted to fix his daughter’s illness. Sat with him in the cramped space of Little Ease, knowing that a place of torment can become home. Nodded when he said that a rustly license plate propped on the bookshelf was “as holy a relic as I have ever seen.” And I’m thankful, because my life is better for having known him, even just a little.

“One life on this earth is all that we get, whether it is enough or not enough, and the obvious conclusion would seem to be that at the very least we are fools if we do not live it as fully and bravely and beautifully as we can.”iv

i   Found at frederickbuechner.com/quote-of-the-day/2021/7/18/vocation on August 26, 2022, originally published in Wishful Thinking, 1973.
ii  Found at frederickbuechner.com/telling-secrets on August 26, 2022, originally published in Telling Secrets, 1991.
iii Found at frederickbuechner.com/listening-to-your-life on August 26, 2022, originally published in Now and Then, 1983.
iv Found at libquotes.com/frederick-buechner/quote/lbd4a2z on August 26, 2022, originally published in The Hungering Dark, 1981.

Resurrection. Alleluia!

No, the title’s not a mistake. In the Christian Church, the season of Easter lasts from Resurrection Sunday (what we call Easter) until Pentecost, 50 days later. So it’s still Easter. I’d planned to write and post this piece last week but during that marathon Lyric Choir weekend another one called to be written.

Perhaps it’s the time of year but recently I was asked what I believe about resurrection. In responding to the question, I seem to have moved the topic from the back of my mind to the front and, though my thoughts are no more complete now than they were before all this, I’ve been considering it further.

Resurrection

1. The act of restoring a dead person, for example, to life.
2. The condition of having been restored to life.
3. The return of Jesus to life on the third day after the Crucifixion.
4. The restoration of the dead to life at the Last Judgment.
5. The act of bringing back to practice, notice, use, or vibrancy; revival.*

As far as hard-to-believe Biblical claims, the Resurrection of Christ is right up there with the virgin birth (Matthew 1), a global flood (Genesis 7), and Joshua’s really long day (Joshua 10). Yet some of those who had known Jesus when he was alive and walking through Palestine, and Paul who hadn’t, experienced Christ’s presence – after he was known to have been executed – in a very real way. And after these encounters with the living Christ, their lives went in completely new directions. They risked, and in many cases, accepted death rather than recant what they had said. An unwillingness to withdraw one’s story in the face of violent death validates (for many, at least) their stories.

So, yes, I believe that something happened, something life-changing. Beyond that, I see no reason to puzzle over it. It’s like what happens after we die. Something happens (or it doesn’t) but until we die we don’t know what, and can’t, so why fuss? Yes, I believe my death will not be the end but I don’t waste life energy trying to puzzle out what that might be. God knows; that’s enough.

But that’s less than 400 words and the definition above offers five (!) understandings of resurrection so now I get to my purpose in writing.

God makes me lie down in green pastures, leads me beside still waters, and restores my soul. Psalm 23:2-3a

Imagine an acorn growing in the green warmth of spring and summer. It knows nothing but the oak tree. In autumn, the only life it has known ends when it tumbles to the ground. As dry leaves bury it, the sun’s light dims and disappears. All is darkness. Winter’s cold comes. Imagine it thinking, “This must be death” as it yields itself to nothingness.

We know that an acorn is a seed, a promise of new life. But if we were in the acorn’s “shoes,” we wouldn’t know that. We would see only an end.

I appreciate living in the Northern Hemisphere because a springtime Easter makes it so easy to believe in resurrection. Yet God is about God’s business of renewing, restoring, and resurrecting all the time – “making all things new” as we sang last week. I’ll borrow from Talitha Arnold’s devotion, as we think about the above verse:

“Who is one person who helped restore your soul?
Who has led you to green pastures and still waters?
Who has walked with you through the valleys of the shadows of death?
Who has anointed you and filled your cup to overflowing?”

Do you really suppose that God doesn’t have a hand in the comfort and renewal others provide? If God as Spirit nudges me to be that person – and she does – then surely God leads others to do the same. Maybe, pause here to consider a moment when you have been that person.

Being with Kay for a few days this week restored my soul. After completing a first draft, my cup was refilled as I walked on the Ringle portion of the Ice Age Trail. Mother’s phone call after that led me toward still waters. The word isn’t used in the 23rd Psalm but, as far as I’m concerned, the poem is all about resurrection. Some people find themselves resurrected after a loved one’s death. Some, after mending a relationship. When I left my marriage, I was counting on God’s resurrecting love to lead me into new life. And it has.

This is not to say that the way isn’t still difficult, sometimes to the point of desperation (more on that another time). But for today, I’ll work on resting in God’s green place. I hope you can too.

tough: adjective and noun

Saturday morning.

Toward the end of last night's Wausau Lyric Choir concert (the first of three this weekend) Carla Dul, the director, paused before “Sing Gently” (which I encourage you to listen to) to dedicate that song to her students from the Mosinee High School choirs. Turning to the members of the concert choir who had joined us in an earlier number, she spoke of the challenges they had borne together these last two years. Among other things, she reminded them that they had been ready to do whatever they had to do in order to sing. When told that they wouldn't be permitted to sing unless they wore masks, they had masked up. (Singing in a mask is not easy.) 

One sentence struck me: “When the going gets tough, the tough keep going.” It’s not a new sentiment. I’ve heard variations through the years, even in a truck commercial years ago. I never liked “When the going gets tough, the tough get going” but never considered why. Since last night, I’ve considered it and I have two issues with the truism, both in the second part.

I don’t like calling someone, myself included, “tough.” Tough is an old hen that has to be stewed for hours in order to be tender. Tough love is sometimes harsh and uncompromising. Tough is an unexpected break-up. A well-done steak. A hard truth.

Then there’s the “get going” part that seems to suggest that up until this point we’ve been doing nothing. I can’t speak for you but if a situation calls for activity, I’m already doing something by the time “…the going gets tough.”

Carla’s choice of words eliminated one of my issues. And given the past couple years, I’m willing to yield on the other. Things have been tough; for many of us they still are. Yet we have kept going. We are tired (oh, are we tired!) but we continue. Though sometimes ploddingly, we keep putting one foot in front of the other. Well done!

I’m not suggesting that you should have to do more or even continue as you have. (I gave up “should-ing” years ago.) You know your capacity; don’t let anyone tell you differently. I think what I mean to do is to encourage you to give yourself credit for the stamina you’ve shown, the perseverence you’ve mustered. Maybe you didn’t do all that you expect of yourself. Maybe you weren’t your better self as much as you’d have liked. (I didn’t and I haven’t.) But we have each been through a storm. As communities – local and worldwide – we have weathered a storm like none we’d yet faced. We still are. But like the willow, we have bent yet not broken. Well, maybe a little but in healthy, or at least understandable, ways. Those breaks are life scars that remind us that we are and continue to live.

Keep living. Fully. Gently. Loudly. In whispers. In whatever way is yours. That’s my message for this week. 

This prayer seems fitting...

Good Grief

“Aren’t you over that yet?” Bob Albers, an instructor while I was at seminary, shared these words from a friend. They were on their way to lunch when Bob explained that he was feeling low about his young adult son who had died six months earlier.

Most people are uncomfortable with illness and death. These realities point to the fragility of life, which unsettles us. So we push sickness and death to the edges of our awareness. We send cards and balloons rather than visiting. We shelter the frail and dying (away from us) with nursing homes and hospice facilities. We deny illnesses with stigmas and poor insurance coverage. And when someone has a personal loss, we expect their grief to be completed quickly in a way that doesn’t discomfort the rest of us.

Grief is a normal part of life. It takes as long as it takes and doesn’t especially follow a pattern (though many stick to Kubler-Ross’s Five Stages idea). When we deny grief, it breaks into our lives in other ways, mind, body or spirit. Better to welcome it, pull up a chair and sit with it for as long as it takes, and in whatever ways it manifests.

Having said all of this, the rest of my words today focus on the losses that are part of our everyday experience. Grief describes our inner healing process after loss. A good cry, like laughter, helps us to process feelings that will otherwise gum up our ability to live fully. Acknowledging our grief allows this healing process to begin. In spite of our preference that it would just go away, grief is healthy and good. Charles Schultz was onto something when he chose “Good Grief” for Charlie Brown’s most uttered phrase. This character was seldom appreciated and often suffered the scorn of “friends.” I’m sure he reflects a grief many of us have felt with the ordinary pains of life.

While some losses are tangible like an empty nest, retirement, a job or relationship loss, bankruptcy, or a tornado-flattened home, we also grieve the intangible. We mourn lost dreams. We grieve losses of familiarity, social position, community, independence. In 1989, Kenneth Doka conceived the phrase disenfranchised grief for the grief we face when a loss cannot be openly acknowledged, publicly mourned or socially supported.

What griefs were you unable to share? Which are not recognized by others? Through years of marriage, I grieved that it wasn’t what I’d hoped for and that I seemed unable to create something different. More recently, I grieved the loss of health. “Care” emojis are easy to come by but who is there to sit with us?

This week, I processed (again) a small disenfranchised grief. It was compounded by newly released climate change reports, a slowed-but-not-ended pandemic, a brutal land-and-resource-grabbing war such as we never thought we’d witness, oh, and a death in the family. When not otherwise occupied, I felt low.

You have a similar list, no doubt. Do you honor it? Do you allow yourself to experience the sorrow? Give yourself time to be still and simply feel what you feel? I wrote “when not otherwise occupied” above, because when we’re busy it’s easier to pretend we’re not suffering. Sometimes we can be fully functional! That doesn’t mean we should be a flurry of activity. You know folks who do this. Please, don’t be one of them. Strange as it may seem, we need to give ourselves permission and opportunity to grieve.

Part of my vocation is to encourage self-care. So hear me, please. Take care of you. Especially when our lives are so full that it’s easy to skip that which leaves us uncomfortable or embarrassed. Especially when national and world news distresses and even terrifies. Especially when society would rather we pretend that grief doesn’t exist beyond our losses of beloved people and pets (and then, only within preconceived boundaries). Especially because the world has become a scary place and we are small and too much alone, please make space in your days to rest and feel. Give yourself permission. Give yourself this gift.

If you enjoyed reading this, please consider sharing it on your social media.

“A song of peace for their land and for mine”

The National Flower of Ukraine

Driving across the bridge, past Interstate Park and into Taylor Falls on my way to United Theological Seminary of the Twin Cities, I regularly passed a small group of people standing at a street corner with placards. Returning home the next day I would see them again. Always at the same spot. It looked like a memorial, all cement with a raised dais. Maybe there was a plaque at the top of those three steps. Maybe they had good reason for choosing this place to stand and sometimes call out to passing drivers. These few individuals were protesting an invisible war that leaders of our nation had decided to wage in someone else's homeland. Maybe that spot was a memorial to those who had served and fallen in a previous war. Their “never again.”

As I passed I thought, our nation’s leaders probably think they have good reasons for the war. But what I was learning, and would learn, while in seminary left me skeptical.

Until seeing a film at UTS recreating the “recruiting” of boys to serve in El Salvador’s civil war, until reading The Massacre at El Mozote and more in preparation for traveling there with a class of 14 others in January 2010, I had believed I was a pacifist. After that, I knew better. If my child was threatened, I would do anything to keep them safe. And for me, as apparently for Glennon Doyle, “There is no such thing as other people’s children.”i

To see 11-year-old children lying still and silent on the corrugated metal roofs of their homes so that recruiters would not claim them made my heart sick. To watch as each boy taken had to choose, while a gun was to the back of his head, whether or not to “serve” left me sick and angry.

Though I mentally supported those protesters I passed in Taylor Falls, I would forget them by the time I was climbing the hill on the other side of the river. My mind and my time were full. I was pastoring three churches while also attending seminary a couple days a week. I was parenting a teenager. I was... Well, isn't that the way it is? We have so many reasons to excuse ourselves from doing more of what we know is right.

Maybe my reasons were valid. I don't know. What I do know is that seeing those protesters – week in and week out – I committed to myself that I would never again sit silently by.

War is an affront not only to our faith but to our humanity. Like many others, I’ve struggled for as long as I can remember against the nationalistic notion that military might, soldiers, and war are necessary and even good. The only thing war is good for is the economy. (Remember that!) How could people support having such a huge military budget? Didn’t this make war that much easier? Sadly, we have been so inculcated by our society that we see war as the norm.

In 2015, Pope Francis was speaking to an audience of 7000 children (!) during an event sponsored by Peace Factory. “Many powerful people don't want peace because they live off war.” Responding to a question from one of the children, he continued, “This is serious, some powerful people make their living with the production of arms. … It's the industry of death.”ii

Last week, a picture of the Dalai Lama came across my Facebook feed with these words:

“Most of us have been conditioned to regard military combat as exciting and glamorous – an opportunity for men to prove their competence and courage. Since armies are legal, we feel that war is acceptable; in general, nobody feels that war is criminal or that accepting it is criminal attitude. In fact, we have been brainwashed. War is neither glamorous nor attractive. It is monstrous. Its very nature is one of tragedy and suffering.”iii

There is nothing remarkable about this way of understanding governments’ inclinations for mass violence. Such beliefs have been recorded many times through the generations. Men's words shouting into a void. Men's, because, though most mothers who watched sons leave for battle would have had some choice words, women's voices were seldom memorialized.

If the core of Jesus' teachings is about living in beloved community – and I believe that it is – then we must strive to build community with our worldwide neighbors. To claim the name of Christian and yet fail to do this is to reject Christ. Should we not be shouting from the rooftops about every abuse? Each act of oppression?

I do not say that standing by as a bully attacks another, innocent or not, is right. It never is. I don’t pretend to know what is the one, best choice for the current circumstance – if there is one. What I do know is that, for me, remaining silent was not an option.

My country's skies are bluer than the ocean,

And sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine.

But other lands have sunlight too and clover,

And skies are everywhere as blue as mine.

Oh hear my song, oh God of all the nations,

A song of peace for their land and for mine.iv

i Glennon Doyle, Untamed, chapter title “racists,” 2020.

ii Many powerful people don't want peace,' Pope tells children,” RT International, May 11, 2015, https://www.rt.com/news/257545-pope-francis-war-arms, last viewed on March 2, 2022. Also, Jen Hayden, “Pope Francis: 'Many powerful people don't want peace because they live off war,'” The Daily Kos, May 11, 2015, https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2015/5/11/1384007/-Pope-Francis-Many-powerful-people-don-t-want-peace-because-they-live-off-war, last viewed on March 2, 2022.

iii The 14th Dalai Lama, https://www.dalailama.com/messages/world-peace/the-reality-of-war, last viewed on February 28, 2022.

iv “This is My Song,” 2nd stanza, words by Lloyd Stone, 1934 as found in The United Methodist Hymnal #437.

Communing (guest post)

Shiva

I'm vacating this week this week – taking a staycation (or cottage days). Jennifer Johnson, from First Church, shared this story with me last month, then graciously gave me permission to include it in this blog as a vacation post. Thank you, Jen!

My curly hair boy and I deliver communion for people who are not able to come to church. We have an elderly woman with whom we meet. She lives in a memory care facility with her cat. Pearl (not her real name) always remembers us—especially my son. They have such a sweet friendship. The facility where she lives also has a cat that lives on the premises and he often visits Pearl and her kitty. It was a sunny afternoon that we found Pearl sitting in her chair, with the building kitty snuggled down in her lap sleeping. Her own cat sleeping soundly on her bed. In her small room we pulled chairs around her. The sun was shining through the window as we all sat close together.

The communion kit was all ready for us. Bread and grape juice that had been blessed by our minister the previous Sunday. A small communion reading and a prayer written out on a card. My son was eager to lead in the communion and with Pearl’s permission he began. I could see the seriousness on his face as he read what was written on the card. Stumbling over some words he didn’t recognize as I helped him out. Pearl patiently waited and smiled at him in a way that encouraged him to continue. He then served us the bread and juice and I served him. Afterward, we prayed together and then sang some Country Western songs. The kitty on her lap sleeping through it all.

In those moments, our chairs smashed in the small area around Pearl, with sleeping kitties, and a 10-year-old curly hair boy so seriously reading the card and serving us the elements I felt such a deep connection with our Creator. We were there caring for her by providing communion and friendship. She was there caring for us by patiently listening to my son read and encouraging him with her smile. Helping him to grow in his faith and understanding of connectedness. Helping me as well. I grew up believing that God is Love. That Jesus is the great teacher of this love. In that sunny room, draped with sleeping kitties, in that small circle that we formed, listening to the curly hair boy reading the words of our faith, Love was indeed present. We were indeed in communion with the Almighty.

I think about ways that God is in communion with us as we go about life. If I have enough mindfulness as I go through the day, I find Him in many places. My husband, son and I recently went to a Willie Nelson concert. There were various other bands before him and it was going to be a great show. I looked around the packed auditorium and marveled at all the different people there. Young people and elderly. People with all types of beliefs, ideas, and hopes. And then the music started. A whole group of strangers connected through music. There wasn’t any negativity. People were not fighting. Singing and joy could be heard. And I thought about how God is present in such a moment. Teaching us through the music of the artists. Showing us how we are more alike than different. Even with our differences there are things we agree on. We have common ground.

And then I look around and God can be found everywhere and in communion with us. In the budding tree of spring time. In the old dog happily groaning in his sleep. In the sink full of dirty dishes. In sadness and tears that are shed and the fight for justice. In the sing-song voice of a boy calling me “mom”. In the echo of voices that will never be heard again. And at the beginning of a new day with birds singing their ancient songs. As Mies van de Rohe says, “God is in the details”. Albert Einstein says “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle”. God is in the miracle of the ordinary. He is the Love in the room that communes us together.

You Matter; I Matter

We welcomed two people into our church family today at Wausau: First. One of them is only months old and their name isn’t even in our church registry yet. (We’ll have to fix that!) We welcomed this beloved child of God through baptism. Family gathered from all over to witness the event. We spoke ancient words and spoke of “water and the Spirit.” An older brother and sister watched proudly and shyly. A delighted grandfather walked the little one up and down the center aisle as a member of our United Methodist Women told the parents of a gift they will make in honor of their child’s baptism. This event was a wonderful addition to our 10 a.m. worship time.

Yet the 8 a.m. worship service also celebrated a joining today. This one, another of God’s beloved children, is more old than young. He has already been a part of this church for twenty years (less than a quarter of his lifetime) yet over Lent he decided to make it official. No friends or family came from far away to witness the event, though it was no less special to me (or hopefully him.) We spoke words of “prayers, presence, gifts, service and witness.”

His partner had secretly been in communication with the church office to have a magnetic nametag made for him. As everyone applauded, she handed it to him with a few quiet words. (Later she said with a gentle smile, “It's about time.”) We all stood in the aisle and shook hands with each other, and saying “Welcome” to this new addition.

It was a good morning. (Of course, both have been a part of God's family all along. Only churches are fussy about membership and such.) All present were hopefully reminded that we are each invaluable to all the others with whom we worship. Each of us is special, unique and beloved. We needed this, I believe, especially after learning last month that one of our community had ended his life.

Too often we lose track of how very many people value us and of all who would feel our absence keenly were we to disappear. In my longtime favorite flick, one person gets a chance to experience this but it’s something we seldom get to do. And we need to know that we are valued. They need to know that they are valued. This month, maybe you could make a point of raising people’s awareness. Tell the folks – some of whom might never hear it – that they make your day a little brighter. Tell them about how they have wormed into your heart. Or about how you smile when you think of them. Or ... (well, you get the idea...)

Practicing and Failing

Since September I’ve been doing pretty well practicing my morning devotions. I took off during my staycation between Christmas and the New Year, but got right back into it in January. Then Thursday as I got ready for my day, I looked at my chair with the bible, study and prayer books and glasses on the table next to it and thought, “I’m not going to do that today.” I didn’t have any good reason except that I wanted to get to church while the men’s group was still meeting. I told myself since I hadn’t left the church until 8:30 last night, I’d be breaking my twelve-hour rule (staying away from there for 12 hours) but I persevered in my choice. 

Skipping devotions and breakfast, I made it to church around 7:25. I putzed around my office, putting things back in order after moving the desks yesterday. Looking around I liked what I’d done. It was almost 8 when I headed to the parlor. Six men sat in a circle, a round coffee table at their center. I recognized some of them also noting a couple of absences. A seventh chair sat vacant; they invited me to sit.

“We lost Matt.”

For the next twenty minutes, I sat with them as they took turns sharing thoughts and feelings about how Matt had influenced their lives, how he’d shaped their group, how they still had much to learn from his calm, centered example. We spent three minutes in meditation, something Matt had led in the past but which Steve led today. Two cell phones announced their presence during that time, and afterward we joked about that being a real test to being present to our meditation. Soon after, I excused myself.

When I decided to skip my morning practice, I thought I was just being lazy or something. I need regular prayer and meditation to help me stay centered. And if I skip even one day, it’s easy to skip the next. (That’s how my yoga practice fell apart, something I’m still working to reinstate.)

I need practices and didn’t think well of myself for choosing to skip out on this one. How could I have known that veering from my pattern was exactly the right thing for that morning? Only by showing up did I realize this was what I was supposed to do.

When night comes and you examine your day, hold it gently. Assume that you did what you could. Reflect on the lives you touched. And if you find yourself mentally scolding, dig a bit deeper. Notice what good thing might have come out of that choice. Whose day might have been better? Whose load a little lighter? Might creation have cheered for some little thing you did? If you need to, remind yourself of something you can work to do better. Then thank God and let it go. Rest in the confidence that your day was as it needed to be.

We Need That Light

The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness did not, will not, overcome it. John 1:5. adapted

I came home to a flooded basement this afternoon. I knew the floor drain was having issues. Last week, I went down there about 15 minutes after drained my bath and found a brown puddle. Yuck. This morning I'd finally Googled possible issues and solutions, and determined that I needed rent a power snake to deal with the problem. I'm glad I didn't rent one today. The pond surrounding the drain would have deterred me from using any electrical devices in the vicinity. Apparently I hadn't made sure the toilet shut off this morning, and water had been running since then. The waste of water is bad enough when everything’s functioning well. For a compromised drain, the situation's worse.

The water's gone down quite a bit already; by morning, it may be only damp downstairs but this did throw a monkey wrench into my plans for the evening. On the way home, I’d picked up an outside corner tool and was going to finish drywalling the bathroom. As it is, I watched some TV episodes I’d downloaded onto my tablet. Oh, and weeded a bit after the rain

I remember in the movie Forrest Gump, in one of its nods to cultural phenomena, it dealt with “Sh*t happens.” It seems lately that it's been happening more often than usual. Sewage in the basement, possible asbestos-containing kitchen flooring that I can’t decide what to do with, a handyman that keeps so busy with his prior jobs that he only occasionally makes time to work here, shards of glass that shows up mysteriously in the middle of the living room floor.

Yet none of this is of any significance when compared to the hatred, racism, and white supremacy displayed in Charlotteviille last week. Or our nation’s chief executive blustering with South Korea in what seems to be a bid for war.

What are we to do?

For some years, I played the ostrich, burying my head in the sand. Though there’re still plenty of people doing this, at ease with there ignorance, this no longer works for me. But, again, what to do? I wish I had an answer.

My hope rests in God, yet I have no expectation that God's going to help us out of the messes we’ve made. A god who would interfere with international politics is also a god that might arbitrary decide which ones survive the mudslide or bus crash, which people deserve to find easy parking spaces so they’ll be on time to their meetings. This is not a god I recognize.

God is the one we turned too, run to, flee to, when stuff happens. God is the one that gives us strength and courage to face our own and other people’s messes. God is the one we can cry with, complain to, scream at when we can't bear what faces us.

Right now maybe you feel like screaming. Or running away and never coming back. So, open that conversation. Tell God how fed up you are. Or scared or spent ir angry or uncertain. When you're done, when you've given voice to every bit of the moment’s emotional load, linger a while. Rest in the company of the creator of all that is. Let yourself rest in that presence. Accept that it's not all on you.

Then, when morning comes, a bit refreshed, face the world. Shake your fist at the powers that be. Stand tall. Declare that you, that we, are not defeated. Then, pick one thing you can do to help fill the hole in the world and start shoveling. And trust that you won’t be alone.

Happy Birthday!

Do you remember the last time you had one of those days when nothing exactly went wrong but you were still "off"?

For me, today was one of those days. Partly it was the weather. Cloudy, rainy summer days happen. I get that. But a summer day when the temperature barely reaches 60°? In a string of gray days that only rarely reach 70°? (I don’t like it when the Raynaud’s leaves my fingertips blue-white in June. It’s just not right.)

In honesty, it’s also my birthday and, lots of well-wishers notwithstanding, the number that marks my age today seems a lot bigger than the number that marked my age yesterday. I know it’s all in my head – I’m still the same me – but there it is.

Still, I tried to make the best of it even if I wasn’t inspired to work outdoors in the wind. I went to a local big-box store to look at tile and faucets and shower heads. Then I went for a free frozen custard sundae (I’m on an email list) even though every ingredient except the nuts is on my no-no list. As I spooned bites of custard, pecans, hot fudge, and candy bits into my mouth, I learned that an overly sweet frozen dessert is not as much fun to eat by myself as it is when I share it with someone. Still, I ate it. I didn’t feel guilty about ordering it, but I wish I’d stopped when I realized I wasn’t enjoying it.

Now I sit here with the cats, watching Mama Mia. (Kay’s helping her brother and sister-in-law get ready for their business’s grand opening on Friday.) Taking a break to wash up some dishes I wondered – in keeping with the movie theme – what unexpected turns my life might take in the next year.

We’re only experts about ourselves, so though I don’t know about others, I accept that some days are like this for me. Some days I have reasons for feeling low (as Alexander’s mother explains, “Some days are like that. Even in Australia.”) and some days I don’t really have a reason. Like today.

On the plus, I know that God Is. I accept that life is generally good. I acknowledge that I lead a life of privilege. (That hot bath felt delightful this afternoon.) I have much to feel gratitude for.

To the negative, my tummy hasn’t felt good since my afternoon splurge. I’ve felt guilty and a bit foolish. Reading a bit of Brené Brown I realized I was dealing with some shame. Surprisingly, just knowing this helped me to feel better.

It’s nearly 9 p.m. I’m going to let myself off the hook. “After all,” borrowing this time from Margaret Mitchell’s character, “tomorrow is another day!”

May you too let yourself off the hook when you find that you are hanging by your overly high self-expectations.

In the gap between Endings and Beginnings.

"Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. ... So Abram went ... Genesis 12

I had some tough moments this week as I continue my transition from what has been to what will be. This weekend I preach my final message at the church that's been my home for the last three years.

But the "tough moments" hasn't been so much about preparing for this last time of worship in Appleton. Rather it was noticing how I was completely in my "business-no-emotions" mode during Wednesday's final worship planning meeting. And then, not being in that mode, having to sit in the bathroom for a few minutes and focus on breathing after the afternoon's Volunteers in Mission team meeting. In both cases, I've worked closely with these people. I've sweated with the VIM team and that always seems to add another layer of intimacy for me.

A few weeks ago, a colleague who's retiring offered a book recommendation that he's finding useful in his own transition – William Bridges' Transitions: Making Sense of Life's Changes. I bought a used copy. Reading it, I've been finding ways to help make mine a healthy transition. The author writes about three stages that must happen in this order:

1. Endings. "We have to let go of the old thing before we can pick up the new one – not just outwardly, but inwardly, where we keep our connections to people and places that act as definitions of who we are." 
2. The Gap. A time-out when we seem to do nothing, a "moratorium from the conventional activity of [our] everyday existence." This is when we do the inner work that allows us to make a break from the old and embrace the new.
3. New beginnings. It's endings that make new beginnings possible.

So I've been paying attention to endings – a last meeting, a last rehearsal, etc. – and I've been creating space for doing nothing by limiting my evening screen time and coming in from the gardens earlier than I normally would. Why? As much as I love putzing around in the yard, I find that this can be as much of an avoidance as watching old TV shows. And I need to do the inner work.

We all do, though our culture makes it awkward. Transitions are seen as no more complex than crossing the street. When we try to explain what's going on, why we're going away for a couple days, or aimlessly wandering the park at night, people look at us askance. In looking for pictures to go with this entry, I found one that illustrates our challenge – a person trying to step over a barbed wire fence. Yikes! That's not the transition I want.

Other pictures showed butterflies in their stages of development. Friday, Kay and I went to High Cliff State Park and while we were in the rangers' station, we looked at an aquarium filled with tadpoles. Imagine their conversations..

George: Oh, look at my gorgeous tail. Don't you love it?
Fred: Grand. Mine's just like it. I can swim so fast. 

        ... days later ... 

George: I'm dying! Look at my tail. It's half what it was.
Fred: How will we ever swim? Oh, I miss it already! And these growths on our sides ... Life is so brief. It's been nice knowing you, George.

We may feel like life's ending sometimes too, but thankfully when we practice gratitude, when we're open to joy, we find that life continues to be good.

You know the changes you're facing. The changes I've heard about this week include:

• A parent wondering where their baby went now that she's running around and talking;
• A 90-year-old talking about moving to an assisted living facility;
• Another parent lamenting about the graduate who's going (too) far away to college;
• A teen going on a first date...

Right up 'til our last breath, we'll face changes, but we don't have to let them swamp us. To paraphrase Dory, "Just keep breathing." Allow the endings, make time for the emptying, and find joy in the adventures that follow. This is what I'm trusting to.

Good enough

New Horizons Orchestra, Spring 2017

“Remember, this is just another rehearsal.” This from Rachel, the director of New Horizons Orchestra, a local amateur ensemble of those who once played and those who want to learn. “The people in the audience are friends and family. They’re here to support you.”

I started with the group a year and a half ago. I was surprised at our first performance how nervous I was. After all, I used to lead high school bands and choirs; I’ve played in more concerts than I could possibly remember. But I was unsettled. I walked into the library conference room, looked around and said a little uncertainly, “The chairs aren’t set up like they are at rehearsal.” A passing musician – who'd probably helped set up – responded, “They’re not nailed down.” Oh, yes, right. I breathed a little easier.

I’ve written before about my challenge with perfectionism and expectations. I’ve struggled with a belief that "I’m not good enough" for most of my life. I never enjoyed playing solos because I’d invariably mess up – not because I didn’t know the part but because my inner critic was so stridently vocal that I didn’t believe I could succeed. Funny thing that I’m now a pastor who speaks in front of people every week.

Three years ago, after working with a counselor for a period of months, I announced in our closing session, “I am good enough!” He jumped in, saying that if he had his way I’d paper the walls of every room with those words.

I began reading a couple of Brené Brown’s books last weekend and was reminded of how debilitating the “I’m not ______ enough” lie can be (insert your word – thin, rich, old, young, smart…) If you’re unfamiliar with her work, you might listen to her TED Talk. She’s a researcher; her primary topic: shame. (Her writing’s accessible and so on-target about something most of us live with, often without knowing it.)

Anyway… Last month at a clergy gathering, I offered an impromptu devotion on

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” Psalm 23:1

We probably all know this psalm as an expression of comfort after a loss. And it is, yet how about another take on it?

Since God is our shepherd, we won’t want for more. We don't need any more. With God by our side, we have enough. We don’t need more clothes or money or friends (although more friends would be nice.)

“I shall not want.”

Trusting that God’s always near, we can also trust that we’re enough, just as we are. We’re exactly as we need to be in this moment. When someone doesn’t like what we say, or what we leave undone, we are enough. I might like it if my memory was less spotty, but I’m enough. You might like to be taller or healthier or more fun-loving (or serious), yet when we trust that God’s with us – right now and right here – we can choose to exclaim, “I am enough.”

You’re enough! Absolutely. (Don’t excuse yourself from being the person God needs you to be. Keep practicing loving everyone and everything, but also:) Practice telling yourself, “I’m ______ enough.” Keep breathing it, speaking it and dancing to its rhythm until that critic inside you packs up and leaves.

Tuck-Pointing

When I was getting ready to start a blog two years ago, I made a point of visited others’ sites and reading some of their material. I saved a few links to return to later. One was John Kobara’s “What is your story? Understanding your narrative and where it is taking you.” From the first sentence, he drew me in: “I have found that people do not appreciate their own stories.”

I’ve noticed this truth in my own life and as I listen to others. Only rarely do I hear a piece of someone’s story without their adding a dismissive, “It’s not important” or “I don’t have anything worth sharing.”

Yet our stories are our lives – the good and the bad, the amazing and the dull. Most of us realize we wouldn’t want life to be all the same, but we seldom value what it actually is – myself included. The ordinary stories are often treasures, yet we relegate them to the folder marked Not Worth Sharing.

My mother and I talk on the phone about a lot of “nothing”: movies we’ve watched, conversations we’ve had, and what’s we’re looking forward to, little stories about friends or silly things we did. None of it is earth-shattering but it helps us stay connected even though we’re a thousand miles apart.

Maybe you do this with someone, too. But what about with someone you see each week (or every day) when they ask, “What’s new?” Do you say, “Oh, nothing”?

A week has 168 hours in it. If it’s true that absolutely nothing happened, could we bear it? Realistically, “nothing” seldom – if ever – happens, right? We’ve just gotten used to not sharing the ordinary stuff of our days.

And that’s a shame.

We’ve trained ourselves to think of the “everyday” as: unremarkable, unexceptional, colorless, humdrum, mundane, unmemorable, prosaic, dull … (and that’s only a few of the synonyms I found!)

Yet, ordinary happenings are the mortar that binds us together. And lately, we’ve been isolating ourselves so much – for a variety of reasons – that we could all do with a bit of tuck-pointing to keep our relationships intact. (I have tuck-pointing on the brain right now. At First Church, we’re into a capital campaign to raise funds for needed structural work – like tuck-pointing, that mending of the grout between brickwork. And I’ve been reminded of how much I like the word.)

I get that not everyone is an introvert, and that’s great. (You’re probably more popular at parties.) Yet there’s something to be said for introspection, particularly for my topic today about knowing your own story. And sharing it.

Most of the people whose stories I hear think theirs is nothing special. They apologize for taking my time and belittle what they’ve said, but I feel like I’ve been blessed as they shared a piece their story.

In college, I took a class on oral history. I was moved by the idea that everyone has stories that are lost when we don’t share them. At the time I was thinking about frontier women or women of the Depression who held their societies together, unnoticed and unthanked, or people whose cultures were disappearing, like that in Appalachia.

Still, it’s not the big stuff that binds us. (As in: where were you when you heard… Kennedy was shot… Challenger exploded… about the bombing of… ?) As momentous as these events are, sharing how we respond to everyday life is what draws us together – like holding a baby for the first time or a friend who just lost the love of her life, like laughing over our mishaps and empathizing over each other’s sorrows. This is a huge part of what life’s supposed to be about. Are you doing it? Are you savoring every bit of what life offers, down to the marrow? And are you gifting others with your bit of the experience?

Only when we’re connected can we do this.

Today marks my one-hundredth blog entry. I’ve been sending these out into cyberspace most weeks, like bread on the water, hoping that they make some small difference in people’s lives.
Thank you for being a part of my story.

Alive!

Me at Devils Lake, 2015, courtesy of Kay

Someone to hold you too close. Someone to hurt you too deep.

Someone to sit in your chair, to ruin your sleep

Someone to need you too much. Someone to know you too well.

Someone to pull you up short, and put you through hell

Someone you have to let in, someone whose feelings you spare,

Someone who, like it or not, will want you to share a little, a lot.

Someone to crowd you with love. Someone to force you to care.

Someone to make you come through, who'll always be there,

As frightened as you, of being alive, being alive. Being alive.

Being alive!

(Stephen Sondheim, “Being Alive” from Company. Here’s Raúl Esparza’s performance.)

January is speeding by. With each ticking of the cuckoo clock on the wall behind me, we draw closer to February. I might wish that I could have known – like those in a far distant past – life without a calendar always marking what hasn’t been done or can’t be undone.

Life lived or life ignored, times passes. Days and years pass. I might say this is “all we have,” yet the phrase implies a scarcity that doesn’t exist, for “this all we have” is quite a lot. “This” is abundance. “This” is today, and today can be replete with good things if we will only permit it. The blood that seeped from my knuckle this morning after I snipped it along with some of my hair is life – good and full of promise. This afternoon’s painful finger will remind me that I am alive, that as long as I can feel pain, hunger, or lack of sleep there is life yet to be lived.

Being alive is THE WHOLE POINT. It means I have more opportunities to laugh with friends and to feel the sun’s warmth, the wind’s bite. Alive, I have a chance to help at Harbor House and to polish that Chopin waltz. It means I may yet share love with someone who – like me – appreciates the wonder and possibilities of being alive.

So when I’m feeling stuffy this week because of allergies, I’ll celebrate this proof that I’m alive. When soundtracks try to play on my Celtic station or rodents eat at treasured garden plants, I will work at rejoicing that I’m alive. And when in days of grief I find myself both crying and feeling joy, I hope I’ll remember that grief and joy can coexist, that they are both part of a life lived in love.

I’ll try to see whatever comes my way as invitations to live more fully. And I’ll make a practice (again) of asking myself whether or not what I’m doing will matter next week, next year.

Jesus told parables, example-stories, about this very thing.

A woman found a gem in a shop. She saw it and knew that this was perfectly hers, if only she would accept the cost. So she went out in joy and sold everything she possessed so that she might claim it. Matthew 13:44-46

He wasn’t speaking of some heaven way out there someday, but of living the life of justice, compassion, and relationship that God intends for each of us – in the here and now. We need to claim that life which is already ours. It doesn’t just happen. We may see hints of our true selves reflected in others. We may stumble onto pieces we'd never noticed. When this happens, we have to accept and welcome them. Make room for them in our being. And to do this, we have to be willing to give up those parts that aren’t leading us to deeper, broader, fuller lives. That’s the hard part. But to be who we are meant to be, this is the path.

God tries to first create a joyous yes inside of you, far more than any kind of no...
Just saying no is resentful dieting, whereas finding your deeper yes, and
eating from that table, is always a spiritual banquet.
~ Richard Rohr, Immortal Diamond: The Search for Our True Self

Treasures in our Care

"A gem I found in Harrisburg, PA" abandoned.photos 

“I think of myself as more of a caretaker.” This’s how Beau described his role as owner of an old house a few months ago. We were at a small holiday gathering and he was responding to something Shae (who also lives in an old house) had just brought up.

I was headed back to the living room after selecting a couple more yummy items from the array on the table when he said it. I don’t remember what Shae said that led to the comment, but I know that she’s also put a lot of time and energy into fixing up her place.

I don’t remember if I nodded either, but Beau words resonated with me. I've thought of them a number of times since then. Though I’d never described my care for the old houses I’ve owned as stewardship, it was only because I’d never thought of it.

Old houses have character that new ones don’t yet (and may never) have. People have lived and died in them. This can seem kind of morbid when it first comes to you, but it’s true. Babies were made and born – or at least learned to walk – here. Bones were broken as children jumped off beds, or dressers, or the roof.

near Brasschaat, Belgium

Those same children grew up, fell in love, got their hearts broken and poured out their sorrow to parents who could only listen. They married, left, and continued to process, while parents, aunts and uncles grew wiser and older, watching, listening, and eventually dying. Taken in context, death is not the horror we often make it out to be. It’s simply an uncharted (so, anxiety-producing) piece of a life continuum.

Before & After. thisoldhouse.com

The fibers of these old houses are full-to-overflowing with living and praying and loving… rather like the elders whose homes I visit when they can no longer join us at a church building. There are those among us who don’t see value in these treasure-houses of lives, well- or poorly-lived. They’re unwilling to invest in sifting through stories to find the wisdom gained through experiences that were “before my time.” This doesn’t negate the truth that these old ones do offer us treasures – if only we will open ourselves to the possibility that what we might dismiss could be a jewel beyond worth. 

Whenever we stop by for a visit, play checkers with them on a long summer evening, or shovel the snow off their walk, we’re practicing a kind of stewardship. We’re taking care of human resources, doing our bit to nourish their personhood as they have nourished ours or someone else’s through all the years of their living.

Abandoned botanical garden in Germany

Shadow work

In my sermon this weekend, I make a passing reference to confronting our demons, as one of the things we’re invited to do during this season of Lent. By demons, I’m speaking figuratively about the shadow work we all need to do if we’re to embrace the fullness of what we can be.

By shadow work, I mean bringing up from the basement of our minds those parts of our make-up that we buried and haven’t figured out what to do with or that are so much a part of us that we’ll never lose them but we still haven’t made peace with yet.

August Wilson, Pulitzer-winning playwright, offered this encouragement: "Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength."

I like this, although don’t quite agree with the second phrase, particularly for my purpose today. Rather, I’d say “work to make peace with them with welcome and forgiveness.” After all, what we’re talking about here are parts of who God made us to be that we’ve resisted, or been discouraged from. Better to work on integrating these aspects of ourselves into “who we are”.

Lent is a time for self-examination, for reflecting on the ways we aren’t fully what God longs for us to be. It’s a chance to face whatever we allow to get between us and God, and between us and everyone else. And, it’s a chance to grow a little closer to that wholeness God wants for us.

I don’t know what this shadow work would mean for you. It’s different for each of us. As an illustration, I offer a bit of my own work from last summer – something I wrote while away for a workshop. As a preface, shadow work is by its nature a very personal thing. So what follows, about a facet of my life I wrestle with regularly, is also personal.

“… I’d been standing in the parking lot following the afternoon’s Q & A session, wanting to be with other people, but, not having talked with anyone about their plans, not knowing where they’d be. This got me thinking about how often I’ve let others – usually without their knowing – influence my state of mind.

“Years ago I’d occasionally go to a bar with friends, there to put up with loud music and not hearing the conversation, and generally, be bored silly. Why would I do this? It is an unfortunate part of my nature that although I’m most definitely an introvert, I long for companionship.

“… Being unwilling to engage in small talk (an introvert thing), and so, not learning how to connect with people until well into adulthood, I’ve been alone a lot. To a point, that’s okay. Alone works for introverts. But like the rest of humankind, I’m made to be in community. I crave it even as I shy from it. This is my dilemma. 

“In the past I’ve made some bad choices trying to escape my self-made box. But one of the promises I’ve made since my divorce is that I will be honest with myself. Whatever I do or don’t do, there will be no more pretending that my reasons are nobler than they are. No prevaricating.

“It isn’t pretty. I’m still sitting alone. But I can face myself and I can face God.”

Loss... and Presence

I had the beginnings of a blog entry laid out in my mind by Tuesday – a good one. But I don’t make time to write until Saturday, so that idea has long since disappeared.

I woke up this morning wondering, “What topic?” I made tea, ate breakfast. I took down the Christmas tree – all right, it’s late, but it’s artificial, and I put it up late. And as I was working at it, I bumped a bulb, it fell off and broke. And I sat on the floor next to it and cried. I remembered how as I placed it on the tree last month I’d said to Kay that, I’d miss this one if it broke. I cried for all that’s wrong in my life. I cried for the world.

Then I cleaned up the mess and continued on. By the time I got to the point of removing the lights, I had my topic for today.

Grief is something everyone experiences. But I have to clarify. So often we think of grief as being what we go through when someone dies. And it is, yet it’s also something we feel when we lose just about anything – a job… a relationship… the ability to do something we’ve always done… a dream… independence (this’s a big one when friends have to move to assisted living). We can experience grief over many things. I remember Jay’s grief (and horror) when he accidentally hurt a small animal as a young child.

Grief is universal; everyone goes through it at one time or another. Another thing that’s almost as widespread is our sense of loss when we want to let a grieving friend or loved one know how much we care. We don’t know what to say or do; the words we have seem inadequate.

So, often, we do nothing. Or almost nothing. We send a card if it’s a death. We avoid them (or the topic) altogether if it’s a job loss, or a divorce, or … so many other things. Maybe we’re afraid of making them feel bad if we focus on their vulnerability. Maybe we don’t want to expose our own.

Today I thought I’d share Jayneann’s list for helping grieving loved ones – two lists actually, but both of them are short.

First...

What NOT to do…

1. Don’t EVER say (even if you absolutely believe it):

• God needed another angel
• She’s in a better place
• God needed him more than you did

If your grieving friend says it, go ahead and agree, but it can be like a slap in the face to hear it from someone who thinks they’re being compassionate. And,

2. Don’t EVER say, in any variation, “Aren’t you over that, yet?”
Grief takes as long as it takes. Each person is different. And even for one person, each experience of grief is different. Grief is cumulative. She may cry over the great-uncle she barely knew or even her goldfish, but what she’s doing is revisiting old griefs. Let her cry (let yourself cry ); it’s healing.

Having said that, what are we to do?

1. Be Present. Show up at their door, even if you’re clueless about what to say. This is soooo important! It'll mean so much to them. Don't skip it. You can stand there in silence and they’ll say, “Thank you.” (Amazing, isn’t it?) So go! Don’t stress; just do it. Even if you stick your foot in your mouth by saying who-knows-what, as long as you don’t say something on the Don’t list, what they’ll remember is that you cared enough to come.

That’s it. Short list. Just show up.

Oh, sure, there are other things you can do, like bringing food, or babysitting (or otherwise giving of your time). You can listen – that’s a great one – and keep in touch. They’re all fine things. But what we need to understand completely is that what people need, first and foremost, when they’ve suffered a loss is our presence.

If you want someone to know you care, be there.

   

When Jesus saw her weeping, and the [others] also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. ... Jesus began to weep. John 11:33, 35a