All is calm...

It is the quiet before the storm.  Right now all is peaceful and calm.  But within a few hours a named bomb cyclone winter storm will barrel through Ohio.  The weather magi say there may be a blizzard in the midst of a 40 degree temperature plummet, sub zero temperatures and high winds.  We've been told to prepare for power outages.  And to stay off the roads.  Since this unbidden guest arrives early on the 23rd of December, the fate of the Traditional Christmas Eve Candlelight Service is unclear - for a third year in a row.  Of course, if we need to we will pivot and adapt with plan B or plan C.  But we are all hoping we can leave pivot and adapt home for the night and just have the @#$% Traditional Christmas Eve Candlelight Service.

Advent is my very favorite time of the year.  I look forward to it with a longing that is difficult to describe.  I bring traditions and rhythms to it that make my heart sing.  But this year they were all turned upside down. Again.

I did not expect to get RSV on the Monday of the First Week of Advent.  With my lungs being my weakest link, this was a problem.  It morphed into bronchitis, and I was forced to go down the road of multiple courses of antibiotics and the dreaded steroids in order to breathe.  I worked 1/2 days from home for two weeks because I didn't have the stamina or breath to do much else (including dishes, laundry, decorate the Christmas tree, send out the cards etc etc etc).

And yet - and yet - in the midst of those challenges, I had the most amazing Advent.  Perhaps it was because of what I couldn't do that there was more space for God.  Suddenly my life got much simpler - there was no energy for running around (or my approximation of running around). I discovered that when I'm sitting on the edge of my bed in the middle of the night coughing my lungs inside-out, God is a good companion.  Talking makes the coughing worse, so we had many silent conversations.  I got a whole lot better at being quiet and listening to the silence, and (surprise!) the quieter I was, the more I heard God.  Not in the deep, resonant voice of a Hollywood actor, but in the quiet, gentle promptings deep within my soul.  It was warm, and comforting and pretty amazing.  Wow.  

It was not the Advent I wanted.  Nor was it the Advent I expected.  Instead, it was so much more (even with the bronchitis).  In fact, it was the most wonderful Advent ever.  Even with...

I do not know what kind of storm this will be.  I don't like losing power for long periods of time, especially with subzero temperatures.  But if we do lose power, I will think about my friends in Ukraine who offer praise when they get power for three hours a day every few days!  I will pray for them and for those who are homeless and whose very lives are at risk in weather like this.  I do not have that fear - but I can try to put myself in their position and have empathy (causing my heart to grow just a little bit bigger).  And if they are right and in the middle of the night my house starts shaking, I know that God will keep me company, just as God has so many night during Advent.

I am loved.  I am safe.  I am not alone.  And Christ's light shines in the darkness.  I am enveloped in God's love - I take a deep breath and sigh.  I smile.  Blessed Advent.

And if Christmas Eve requires plan B, C or even D, I trust that it, too, can be more than expected - in a good way.

With love and prayers,

Kim

Your word is, Arise!

 Your word is - "arise."  I laughed out loud and pictured her putting the ceramic butterfly with that word on it somewhere on her prayer table.  I see her room so clearly, even though I haven't been there to sit in the rocker and look past the prayer table and through the window to the vistas beyond for almost five years.

She always makes sure that her prayer table has little ceramic symbols that connect with both the seasons and life in the Spirit.  On the back of each symbol is a word that expresses some aspect of the spiritual life (like grace, peace, patience, etc).  Our ritual is that when our session draws to a close, I choose one of the symbols and turn it over to see what my "word" is for the next month.  There are ceramic snowflakes for winter and colorful leaves for autumn.  And now there are butterflies for summer.  At the very least I get a word that could inspire my spiritual attention for the next month.  But it is often so much more...

...like two months ago, when, at the end of our phone session, she shared that she had new butterflies, and a couple of them might not have words, but we would give them a try.  I chuckled to myself - I hadn't had a chance to share with her that during the past few months, I was moving away from using words in every prayer time and instead focused sometimes on being wordlessly open to God's presence - being instead of doing.  As my spiritual companion turned over the first butterfly that I picked (by her description of how they looked), she paused and said - "huh - there is no word."  She turned over the second - same result.  And the same for the third.  She was audibly perplexed - I laughed as I wiped away tears.  As she started to apologize for the failure to provide me with a word, I stopped her and explained that I got exactly what I needed - no word - to affirm this wordless phase in my journey with God.  It was loving and playful confirmation that I am seen - and loved - by my Soul Companion.

This month's word was equally on the nose.  

Arise.  Again I laughed and cried as she shared the perfect word for me.  By the time of this conversation with my companion, I had been on steroids for 14 days, and would be on them for several weeks more - maybe longer.  While steroids are helpful for managing a sarcoid flare up, they cause a host of unintended consequences that include significant sleep disruption.  As of day 14, I was averaging 2-3 hrs per night of sleep, usually in 15-20 min intervals.  I dread taking this medication and struggle mightily to cope with the sleep depravation, having moments where arising feels a bit like this:  

I've been here many times before, and by day 2 of highly interrupted sleep I find myself feeling edgy, frustrated and beyond exhausted.  My self talk can drift towards the unpleasant, especially in the middle of the night.  My body feels like the preschooler who is learning to tie their shoe laces and wants to do it themselves (no matter how long it takes) right as you are trying to get out the door to meet a tight and important deadline.  You want to be supportive and encouraging, but you feel the tensions arise as you acknowledge other realities.  You want them to just get over it (!) and in anger you drag them along kicking and screaming!  I can live this reality easily at 3 am.

Several years ago my spiritual companion suggested I reframe these middle of the night times awake as an extra opportunity to pray - an extra time to commune with God.  Pivot and adapt - tell a different story.  I made that mental change, and over the years, it did help.  Some.

But this time the interrupted sleep has been unrelenting.  Usually by the half way point of the medication my body starts to adapt, but not this time.  The cough provides good justification for working from home (no one wants to be around someone who is coughing).  Tomorrow I go on vacation for a fortnight, so the pressure to function as a rational adult while crazed with sleep loss will be over (yay)!  

But the nights - the arising time.  That can be a whole other matter.  I sit on the side of the bed reading until my eyes are almost shut, have a short time of prayer (mostly intercessions) then get comfy in bed.  And my eyes pop open and here we are.  I sit up on the side of the bed again and pray, until I feel very tired and try again.  I will fall asleep several times during the night and wake up soon thereafter.  Rinse and repeat - until I fall into a deep sleep of exhaustion right before daylight - and have to wake up before 7 am to take the medication and begin again, feeling this familiar sensation of disorientation and exhaustion.  I sometimes can catch a half an hour nap mid day, but that is the exception.  

So - how has reframing my "arising" helped me to cope with these unwanted circumstances?  Seeing this time as an opportunity to pray has been helpful - it gives the time purpose.  And there is something liminal about that middle of the night time - no wonder many orders of monks awaken in the middle of the night to pray!  But I still felt an "edge" to the time - something was still out of sync.  I finally heard it last night as I listened to my inner "self talk" with my exhausted body.  "Look - there is no reason for us to be sitting on the side of the bed right now.  You need sleep - you are relaxed.  You are okay - you are going to get comfortable, close your eyes and go to sleep!"  There it was - the kind of force that causes children to push back against whatever you are trying to get them to do!  I was not treating my body gently or lovingly - I was trying to force it to do something it deeply wanted to do, but was unable to do.  As soon as I heard it, my inner voice softened and I was able to change the script.  "We will sit on the edge of the bed and read and pray as many times as we need to tonight.  Whatever you need to get through this and heal is what we will do - together."  That's it - love of self in the same way I would love my neighbor or God.  Now I was arising!

I am on vacation for two weeks starting tonight at midnight, and will probably be awake when my vacation starts, even though I need to be up at 5 am to make a 6 am appointment.  I am relieved to have the break to not worry about doing pastoral work with unreliable filters due to lack of sleep (what a blessing thought bubbles are invisible); I'm looking forward to this break for a number of reasons.  And tonight, at 1:52 am and 3:15 am and 4:30 am, when I am wide awake and cannot get comfortable, I will arise, sit on the side of my bed, take a deep breath and pray.  I have some lovely books on my nightstand all ready for the next few weeks.  As often as needed I will arise and give thanks, arise and share concerns, arise and read inspiring words, arise and take deep breaths, arise and show myself the same compassion and care that I would show to someone entrusted to my care.  Because I am.  And so I will arise.

What difficult situation are you dealing with that can benefit from a reframe and a healthy dose of compassionate care?

Arising with love, compassion and prayer,

Kim

A Raw Winter Day in June

Although it is a bright, balmy summer day, my heart is frozen.  I'm wrapped up in a blanket and have to remind myself to breathe.  It is a challenging time to be an empath and more challenging still to live with a commitment to keep my heart open and exposed even in this social tsunami America is weathering.  I'm not sure why my raw, battered heart feels frozen - over stimulation?  Deep grief?  Emotional overload?  I wonder...

NPR plays in the background.  I listen.  More analysis that doesn't fit easily in my brain.  I listen to men talking about why today's Supreme Court decision is to be celebrated.  One former governor describes the motives of women who seek abortions and I wonder why, in my 40+ years of ministry, I've never met a woman with those motives.  I suspect that she is a mirage - like the black welfare mother - created to support a bias.  Instead of a mirage I see the faces of women I've ministered to over the years, making hard, heartbreaking choices that they concluded were the best of the difficult options for them and their families.  I see the face of a young professional woman who recently told me that she and her husband were planning on having another child, but she is terrified that, should she have difficulties with the pregnancy, she would not get adequate care.  I shudder as I think about her fear.  And then I remember that once again, access to choice in reproductive healthcare will be determined by where you live and how much money you have.  The social gap gets wider, and once again poor women will suffer the most.

Once again, instead of never again.  What happened to never again?

Yesterday I listened to some men explaining why the best way to control gun violence is through more guns.  I've heard this many time before, and the argument never makes sense to me.  I hate guns.  In my view, they have no place in a civilized society.  Weapons of war are for the battlefield, not for the classroom.  Or church.  Or library.  Or shopping mall.  I hated "open carry" when I lived in Idaho.  And now the Supreme Court has spoken about guns.  The Ohio Legislature and Governor have again spoken about guns.  Again I shudder, and wrap up tightly in my blanket,  knowing in my heart that these new rulings that lessen restrictions around guns will do nothing to limit gun violence.  And I hate that knowledge (and recognize that I used the word hate more times in this last paragraph than in anything I've written during the last six months).

I am so weary of the endless and pointless gun debates.  Gun violence will only be lessened when Americans confess and repent of their idolatry of guns and the power guns represent.

I write this knowing that my views are my own - I am not writing on behalf of my church or its leadership.  And even as I write this, I know that some friends and colleagues are celebrating both of these Supreme Court Decisions.  They suffered each time gun use was limited and women's reproductive health choice was affirmed.  Now they rejoice while I weep.  

But I will not deny my tears.

I worry about how often I've heard God invoked today.  People thanking God for today's decision - urging women who do not agree with this decision to pray.  I shudder as one community within Christianity asserts itself again as the faith of the nation.  Many Jewish colleagues are horrified today, as within Reform Judaism, life begins at birth, not conception, and they feel that their religious rights will be ignored.  Buddhist colleagues, too.  Although I serve within a progressive Christian denomination that has long stood for choice in women's reproductive health, so many non-church people think of Christianity as only being the religious right.  We are all painted with the same brush.  

I went to the virtual UCC Service of Lament this evening to seek comfort.  I saw many colleagues who I respect.  I heard many words.  It has been a day of words.  And more words.  And while I agreed with many of the words spoken, the experience left me cold.  And my heart remained frozen.  No comfort.

Perhaps there is no comfort to be had today.

I have embraced the Benedictine middle way most of my adult life and have worked to be a peacemaker -a builder of bridges. I live in a nation that routinely blows up every bridge and no longer considers the middle ground to be aspirational.  The polarization that breaks my heart only gets deeper and deeper - and both sides get more entrenched and continue this seemingly endless cultural war of attrition.  And the call for renewed warfare went out today.  A righteous war.  A holy war.  A war for freedom.  A war to defend the rights of women.  

But as the mothers in Ukraine and the mothers in Russia tell us, the name we give to our war means little when we're standing in the cemetery.  

I do not know how to be a peacemaker in this season of the endless culture wars.  

I don't know how to be me in 2022.

I wrap the blanket around me.  It feels like winter.  I sip my tea and ponder the unbelievable reality that my granddaughter will have fewer rights and protections than I had.  I grieve how my generation has let her down.  I worry that this new lens used by the majority in the Supremes for interpreting the Constitution may have serious consequences not only for my granddaughter, but for her brother, and their dads, and all the wonderful families that do not carry the Religious Right Seal of Approval.  Their rights need to be defended, as do the rights of women to have autonomy over their bodies and reproductive health care.  But how do you defend and protect these rights and wage peace in a time of culture war?

The peacemaker in me will pray for grace and insight tomorrow.  

Today, I grieve.  

And lament. 

Without apology.

Wintering

Today I awoke to a snowfall that a girl from WNY could embrace!  This was no meager snow event -  it had depth.  And the power hadn't gone off, which was a great bonus!  It was officially a snow day!

The first clue that this was the real deal was the silence - true silence.  No boy racers with their loud trucks were gunning the engine at the intersection outside my house.  In fact, there were no sounds at all coming from my neighborhood.  It was 2:09 pm before I heard the first children outside, and their sounds were not long-lived.  It was 3:50 pm when my plow jockey arrived to plow and shovel.  I opened the door to smile at him and say thank you (even though I didn't plan to leave the house today).  I can't afford the cost of having him shovel all the sidewalk surrounding my house, so he shovels from my front porch down the walk and down part of the 8th St sidewalk leading to the driveway (nothing on the Monroe side of the house nor from my back door to the garage).  Sidewalk shoveling was not something I thought of when I bought a little house on a corner lot.  I don't feel like I'm a very good neighbor (there is a lot of sidewalk on Monroe), and I miss the little sidewalk plows that my hometown had when I was a child.  The little plows travelled in pairs and would start at the same end of the street but on opposite sides, and race each other to the end of the street.  We would sit in the window and wait for them to race by in a cloud of flying snow!

Plow jockeys and shovelers are as rare as hen's teeth this year.  In fact, the firm that plows the church told us that they were unable to shovel for us this year due to a lack of workers.  So I offer thanks for the shoveled walk and settle back into my snow day.  I also know that if I want to recapture the feeling of being snowed in, all I have to do is go to my back door (which I'm not sure I can open), and look at the impressive amount of snow that stands between the house and garage.  Suffice it to say, it is a blessing that I plan to stay in for a wee while.

View from my back door to the garage door and back gate

I am thoroughly enjoying today, which surprises me a little.  As a child I loved winter and snow days.  Dad plowed snow as one of his many side hustles, and would plow a great big pile of snow in the front and back yards - just perfect for a short saucer run or excavating a snow cave (or both).  I spent hours out in the snow as a child enjoying fun in my back or front yard.  Growing up in a suburb of Buffalo in a family that thought going to the park was a wilderness expedition best left for once or twice a year meant that outdoor play happened at home.  As I sat today at the bay window looking out at my neighborhood, I realized for the first time how much this neighborhood reminds me of my hometown.  Talk about coming full circle...at one time such a realization would have frustrated me, since I left WNY in my twenties and swore to never move back.  And although I doubt I'll ever live there again, I look back on it now with a gaze softened by the years.  Enough healing has happened within my soul that good memories can surface without being immediately swamped by the bad ones, allowing me today to travel back to deep snow and the backyard on Washington Ave.  Sometimes my Dad would let me go plowing with him - a big treat because as the only girl in the family, I wasn't usually invited to do those kinds of things.  He would let me operate the plow blade - great fun.  At least it was fun until all the bumping, abrupt stops and driving backwards made me sick.  I soon discovered that going out plowing was only fun for the first 10 minutes!  Then I'd get laughed at and teased for being a girl (not fun).  But for a moment, sitting high up in the truck and dropping the blade to plow the snow, I felt like I was on top of the world!  Ditto for when I'd ride in the tow truck!

Winter in Colorado was heaven - if you wanted extended snow you went into the mountains for it.  If it snowed in Denver, the sun would usually melt it the next day.  Snow knew its place.  But I lost my love of winter in the Adirondacks.  In fact, my first winter up there I HATED the snow.  Not being a skier, having snow that is measured in feet and hung around for weeks served no earthly purpose to me, and left me feeling trapped in a place that was, well, challenging.  One particularly nasty storm left my neighbors going out their downstairs windows on snowshoes - a perfectly normal occurrence for them but a bit too much like a wilderness movie for me.  I was lamenting my hatred of winter one day to a North Country colleague, who was surprised at my reaction and regaled me with stories of how he and his wife look forward to the cosiness of winter and all the beauty it brings.  I looked at him like he was in serious need of supervision.  He looked at me with deep pity.  It was a short lunch.

Little did I realize that moving to Scotland would amplify that hatred of winter - not because of the snow, but because of the length of the nights.  I was not prepared for the short winter days and had a visceral reaction to all the darkness that first full winter in Scotland.  I was also not prepared for our central heating to lack a thermostat like we had in the American homes I had lived in.  The heating was on or off, and since we were heating with propane and it was expensive, it was on for only a few hours in the morning and evening.  The rest of the time it was off, and I felt perpetually cold and would resort to carrying a hot water bottle around with me when I was home.  We had a fireplace in the living room for burning coal, and so if I was home during the day, I would keep a fire going in the fireplace (and every evening).  A coal fire gave off a good deal of heat (and dust) but sitting close to it would warm me up...  that is, if our labrador would share her space in front of the fire!

We had a coal bunker in the backyard where we'd go to fill up the coal bucket to bring inside for the fire, and one day when I was going out to get coal I saw my dear neighbor out tending to her horses.  I went over to the fence and started to spew about my hatred of the dark, cold, coal, snow (and on and on and on) and she just smiled that gentle smile of hers and in her beautiful Welsh accent (which is one of the loveliest and most musical of accents) suggested that, perhaps, I might want to make peace with the cold and dark; make peace with winter.  To everything there is a season...

Her advice landed like a seed deep in my heart (thank you, dear Ann).  It has taken me twenty-one years, but I have finally reached the point of loving winter again.  I have entered into the spirit of wintering, and learned to celebrate the blessings this season brings.  As I write this I glance out the window and notice that it is snowing again and I smile.  I notice how comfortable and cosy I feel - hygge, as the Danes would say.  I take a moment to pray for those who lack shelter today and those who are working in this weather, especially our first responders.  And then my prayer continues like a gentle conversation with a dear friend as we enjoy the scene together.  The experience wraps around me like a warm, comfy blanket.  Spiritual hygge.

Learning to find joy in the things we cannot change (like winter) and even learning to look forward to those aspects of winter that bring us joy (slower pace, natural beauty, hygge) is a new experience for me.  Finding that I once again love winter has been a surprise - something I discovered in December, which did not feel at all winter-like and left me feeling like something was missing (quite a surprise!).  I will celebrate the emergences of the crocuses and daffys in spring, the long days of summer and the vibrant beauty of autumn, but right now I will steep in the deep beauty and peace of winter.

And there is one more thing thing I've noticed lately - I'm enjoying my age more and more.  I absolutely  love being in my sixties.  Although aging brings physical challenges, it also brings an inner freedom and spiritual clarity that is revelatory!  Each stage of life brings with it both joys and challenges.  But truly, from the point of view of my heart and soul, and to echo Sunday's gospel, the best was saved for last!

If you are interesting in reading about wintering, I can recommend Katherine May's book, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times.  I enjoyed reading her chapter on January today as I gazed out at the snow and smiled.

What do you fight against in your life that would lose its negative power if you befriended it?  What is your winter, and how can you learn to love it?

Wrapped up in a blanket, with love and hygge,

Kim

An Advent Triptych - Advent 2021

 I.

I am sipping broth while savoring the winter sky.  Making broth is a family ritual taught to my younger self by my Grandmother, who's birthday comes soon after the day that lives on in infamy.  To remember which came first, I would tell myself first the war, then the party.  Sigh.  My young mind framed more truth in that mnemonic than I understood at the time. Grandma continuously relived the war, and every loss, pain and disappointment that ever came her way.  It was as if a deep rut was etched in her psyche that kept her stuck in pain and disappointment her whole life.  Trauma specialists now understand why that happens and can help people get unstuck; but that help didn't exist for Grandma.  Her only relief was through distraction, and cooking was one of her favorite medicines.  That and walking in cemeteries.

My Mother had no interest in cooking, so Grandma was happy to have me to mentor in the kitchen.  By today's standards she was clearly no foodie, but she could whip up basic farmhouse meat and potatoes cooking like a pro.  Once a year, for my Mother's birthday, she'd make her signature "fancy" desert - ice cream pie.  My Son cringes as I describe the store-bought graham cracker crust (or chocolate cookie crust) filled with a whipped concoction of strawberry jello and vanilla ice cream - topped with a spray of Redi-whip whipped cream.  My Mom looked forward to whenever Grandma would make it for her (which wasn't every year, because she'd only make it if she wasn't mad at my Mom).  Mad at Mom birthday dessert was a square devils food cake with buttercream frosting.  Draw your own conclusions...

Making broth was a religious experience.  First you make a meal roasting whatever poultry would be used for broth (turkey twice a year, but otherwise it was chicken).  Once you enjoyed that meal, the carcass was put in the soup pot with just a few extras (if it was a good chicken you don't need much else), and the remaining meat was used for chicken 'n biscuits or shepherd's pie later in the week (using some of the broth that was about to be made). Grandma's electric stove was huge - a 1940/50's 40" double oven with a deep well (the left back burner dropped down into a well, and there was a soup pot that fit perfectly inside it.  The broth would simmer all day, and in the evening we'd have the most delicious golden broth with thin egg noodles added just before serving.  Grandma would take the meat that was left from making the broth and turn it into chicken salad, which was served on saltine crackers.  Most of the remaining broth went into the freezer so it was ready when someone (usually me) got bronchitis.  When the coughing started, out came the broth along with Grandma's concoction of fresh lemon juice, whipped egg whites and honey.  I would get a teaspoonful of the lemon stuff every half hour during the worst of the illness.  It never seemed to help, but it tasted good.  The broth, however, always made me feel better.

I've been coughing now for over a month (trust me - now is NOT the time to be coughing in public).  COVID PCR tests are negative, and it feels like the normal tantrum that my lungs have this time of year.  The usual medical interventions have only quieted things down a little, so it was time for a BIG intervention - broth.  And the process of making it came close to Grandma's birthday, which was a blessing.  With my grandparent's and parent's generation long gone, birthdays and anniversaries remain bittersweet.  Sometimes I mark the occasion by enjoying a food they particularly liked.  That is hard with Grandma, because she loved boiled ham sandwiches on wonder bread with Bison chip dip instead of mayo (and sometimes with potato chips in the sandwich)!  That is one memory I'm in no hurry to eat.  But the broth - well, that is another story.  I kept Grandma's stove until I couldn't move it anymore (I loved that soup well), but notice that the "vintage" stove in my current home does slightly resemble it (but alas, no soup well).  Now I make stock in the crock pot and it turns out fine.  I'm not sure Grandma would approve (she did not like change of any kind under any circumstances for any reason what so ever)!  I imagine she would sip the broth and, given its questionable provenance, give me that look that says this is good but I'm not going to tell you I like it because you did it wrong.  Along with the look she'd make a huh kind of sound that you'd also have to interpret kindly lest your young soul get dashed on the rocks of disapproval.  It took me decades to understand that she was who she was - lovely and damaged and so tragically complicated - and that despite her flaws she was able to give me enough love and care to turn me toward the light that she herself could not see or feel.  And that is a miracle if ever there was one!

I sip this broth and think of her.  And I smile.  Advent brings memories of childhood and family long gone, and invites me to forgive what they were, accept that they were often not what I wanted or needed them to be, and celebrate what they were able to do with their complicated lives.  I hope my family can do the same thing with their memories of me one day.  

Is it the broth that promotes healing, or the soft eyed remembering and gratitude that heals the heart?  Perhaps it is both.

II.

My Advent is not going as planned.  To anyone living in 2021, this should be a foregone conclusion.  But as is my bent, I made plans - simple plans given the year, but plans nonetheless about what I hoped to experience in Advent.  And I looked forward to - anticipated - what Advent would be like this year.  But nothing - nada - zip - zero has gone to plan.  My beloved 100% beeswax candles that I get from a special shop in Canada that I place in my equally beloved Advent wreath - lit once since the eve of Advent 1.  Once - that has NEVER happened before.

And yet my mood is light.  My heart is open.  My spirit sings within me.  Despite the news surrounding all of us and the umpteenth surge of this @#$# pandemic, I feel an inner contentment that defies circumstances.  I should be MISERABLE because of the state of humanity right now (and not doing what I love to do during my favorite season).  And yet...and yet...and yet...

...I am embarrassed by my good mood.  Surprised by the joy I am finding in the simplest of things.  I shared my confusion about my good mood with a soul friend yesterday, lamenting the Advent that wasn't. As I talked, my focus shifted from what I wasn't doing to what was actually happening.

The candles have not been lit every night - the devotionals by the wreath have not been opened - O Come, O Come Emmanuel has only been chanted once - the Christmas tree is still not decorated - but...

...but every night I stop work around 9 pm, unwind and head to bed to read.  When I moved here and realized that, given the size of the bedroom, a twin bed would make the most sense,  I purchased a nice bed that would be comfortable - memory foam and adjustable.  I get into bed, pop the oxygen on, position myself so that I'm in no pain, and take a deep, cleansing breath.  I look up at the east wall where my icons rest, and greet my posse.  I look at the north wall where favorite artwork hangs, and smile.  I look at the west wall where my favorite pictures hang under my very high windows, and smile.  And I reach for the few devotionals that I'm reading this year, and sink into sacred reading.  I'm not reading what I thought I'd be reading.  Instead, I'm reading what I must need to be reading now because the other devotionals remain closed.  This selection of nighttime reading includes a favorite devotional I read each year, a new one that is okay, a new one that is INCREDIBLE and will be read again after Advent*, and my daily devotional that I use for Morning and Evening Prayer.  

When I finish with my reading and prayers for the night, I close my eyes and sleep peacefully.  And I awaken with joy in my heart, despite external circumstances that should keep me weeping 24/7.  Every trip to the newspaper should keep me weeping for a week.  And I do weep for the devastation, polarization, loss and lies that are such a part of daily life.  But at the center where I feel that pain, I also feel a lightness.  A joy.  No wonder Philippians calls it a peace that surpasses understanding- it makes no sense! But there it is, burning brightly in my heart - it is my Advent candle!  Joy/sorrow.  Both/and.  Wow.  

It appears that God meets me where I am, not where I think I should be or might want to be.  Even in an adjustable bed in a small room.  Oxygen concentrator whirling away.  Presence - joy - peace.  Wow.  

I wonder sometimes about what the last wee bit of my life will be like - will I end up in a small room, in an adjustable bed with the sound of the oxygen concentrator in the background (and hopefully not with a roommate who blasts the TV all the time).  But if God meets me here, God will meet me wherever I am.  God comes to me where I am, not where I think I should be.  And even when there is suffering and sorrow, God's presence also brings joy and peace.  Both/and.  Advent light.

Amazing!

III.

It started first as an idea that came from that burning brightly place in my heart - a quiet invitation to make a cup of tea and sit quietly in God's presence.  No words - no petitions - no musings or complaints or suggestions.  Just sit.  And sip.  And be.  One cup of tea, once per day, shared with God.  Each day I feel the invitation.  Each day I get too busy to act on it.  Busy doing good things - worthwhile things.  Things that need to get done.  And still I hear the invitation - come and share a cup of tea with me.  And still I keep busy and don't make the cup of tea.  

Why?

It is a perfectly lovely invitation.  God isn't asking me to learn coding or be on another committee or sit through a long Zoom meeting; God is inviting me to be still and share a cup of tea.  I love tea - I love God - this should be a no brainer!  And yet I don't accept the invitation.

I wondered at first if my resistance was due to the Mary/Martha dichotomy.  I am very much a Martha - I get things done.  In the world of horses I am a workhorse, not a show horse.  I'd be a clydesdale pulling the cart or plow and not at a fussy dressage event (with apologies to lovers of dressage).  Doing is always something I've understood; being is a growing edge.  And that may be part of it, but the other part is harder still to admit.  I confess, with some embarrassment, that I like being in charge of my relationship with God.  I pray when I want to pray, worship when I want to worship, and God meets me in those moments and all is right with the world.  Now God is offering an invitation that we try something different; sip a cup of tea - wordlessly - together.  Not my suggestion.  Not what I've always done.  Instead, I'm invited to respond and join in an activity proposed by one who is acting more like a friend or partner than a sovereign requiring deference or a fierce judge who invites fear. 

I note, with interest, that it is only recently that I could hear the invitation...and recently that the burning brightly place in my heart caught fire.  Only recently that I felt joy present among the many sorrows.  There has been a shift - a change.  And it appears to be connected to the commitment I made this fall to seriously embrace compassionate self-care.  My team was right - when you engage in compassionate self-care, you begin to heal from the inside-out.  There is more space for love, and service flows from a place of grace and abundance.  And isn't it just like God to issue an invitation that is, at its core, good for me. 

I wonder how long it will take the resistance to melt so I can make that cup of tea and share it with the source of my life, my love, and my joy?  That may be the most important question in my heart this Advent...

...an Advent like no other.  Advent 2021.

What invitation has God given you this Advent?  If you haven't received one, stop and listen for it...

With love,

Kim

__________

* Music of Eternity:  Meditations For Advent with Evelyn Underhill by Robyn Wrigley-Carr - tremendous!

Unfolding

 

I've been here long enough that the trees at my home are teaching me their pattern.  The silver maple on the northwest corner of the house is the first to start releasing her leaves - in August!  It takes her until November to complete her work, while it is late October before her sister (pictured above) even gets started!  This year the October silver maple created an absolute riot of colors, unlike her cousin across the street, who opted for a brilliant crimson-only showing.  The ground around her looked like a magic carpet of color - incredible!  Next for letting go is the young oak on the south side near the garage, helped along by the squirrels who are harvesting every last acorn (and burying too many in my potted garden)!  Finally, in mid November, the Japanese Maple begins thinking about letting go.  After severe pruning in 2020, her leaves this autumn were electric scarlet - proof that beauty emerges even after tough experiences.  She has yet to release her leaves, and they remain a source of hope and encouragement as I look out my home office window and gaze at her beauty.

Perhaps you really can find great visions of beauty right outside your window - right where you are.  And perhaps beauty can emerge after a time of severe pruning.

November 15th is the beginning of Advent for Eastern Christians (as well as those of Celtic origins and a few random European churches).  Advent has long been my favorite church season, and so I join my Orthodox and Celtic kin in beginning forty days of Advent today.  I do so with relief (beauty and familiar rituals!) - joy (silence and service) - and a little trepidation, for Advent is a season of many things, including a time for letting go to make space for what has yet to manifest.  Easier said than done!  The trials and losses of the past twenty-one months strain my ability to keep hands and heart open, especially when faced with the temptation to clutch and hold onto something to keep it from changing or going away.  Change and uncertainty have been amplified to an extraordinary degree, especially this past year.  I see that most clearly in the church I serve - we have made changes in the past year that, without COVID, would have taken at least a decade to accomplish (if at all).  Like my Japanese Maple, the severe pruning at church has opened up beautiful possibilities - and the possibility of long-term vitality.  But the transformation was not easy, and more than once I was grateful for my pastoral seatbelt and hardhat (and occasionally my fire suit).

The same is true in my personal life.  Along with stress, fear and uncertainty, this past year also brought the birth of my granddaughter and many other blessings for my son and his family.  A course taught through Cleveland Clinic on how to improve one's quality of life while living with an autoimmune disorder was an invaluable aid in helping me better understand lifestyle changes that make a world of difference (sleep really is important)!  And I have come to (reluctantly) accept that I cannot WILL this congregation through the pandemic without challenges.  They have shown such kindness, flexibility and resilience since this nightmare began, but I can see that they are getting tired.  We are all getting very tired.  The only thing that isn't showing signs of exhaustion is the pandemic itself!  

And so, one step at a time, we persevere.  Soon they will join me in Advent.  Until then, I listen and pray.  This Advent may we keep our hearts open to behold and celebrate a transformative love that caused God to enter creation as a poor, utterly dependent human child - born during a time of great political unrest - who soon after birth became, with his family, refugees. If Matthew 25 is to be believed, we can find the Christ child today with his family fleeing any number of horrible situations throughout the world.  We can find the baby Jesus in countless homeless shelters...in places where people are alone and isolated...or sick and afraid.  The question isn't whether or not Christ is present in the world - but whether or not we have the courage to stop and turn toward Christ-in-our-midst and respond with open hands and hearts filled with gratitude and love.

With love and Advent blessings,

Kim

PS (12.15.21) - My, did I ever get the leaf leaving sequence wrong!  The oak looked like it was losing its leaves before the Japanese maple, but the reverse happened!  The maple dropped all its beautiful leaves, and the oak - well,  I'd estimate that at least half are still on the tree!  I still have much to learn about my home...

Making Space for Joy

It has been a lovely New Year's Day.  I've always tried to honor the traditions of the communities where I've lived, and no one celebrates New Year's Eve  - Hogmanay - like the Scots.  Adjusting for the time difference, I tune into BBC Alba around 6:30 pm on New Year's Eve and thoroughly enjoy the traditional Scottish music (usually in the form of a céilidh, but this year they had to be more creative).  And okay, Western Isle Rock is not my cup of tea (with loudly shouted lyrics of we feed the sheep and cut the peat until the day we die).  But the traditional music - I love that.  There is always a piper to ring in the New Year as I sip a wee dram of Glen Garioch - distilled close to where I stayed in Scotland.  When Scotland was put to bed for the night it was time to worship with a wonderful little church in San Anselmo, California (it is near the Seminary where I did my DMin coursework and I would worship there for Vespers every Saturday night I was in residence).  And it was a lovely service!  I was able to sit and appreciate the many good things that have happened in this really awful year - a reminder that no time is all good or all bad.  And then it was off to bed to read until the fireworks shook the house.  My neighbors love pyrotechnics.

And in keeping with culinary traditions of NE Ohio, I made sure sauerkraut dishes were prepared for late last night and today!  A little good luck this year will go a long way, so I also lit my bayberry candles, which made my Mother and Grandmother smile.  I'm not a superstitious person by nature, but after 2020, I'm all in for a little bit of luck!

Today found me at the loom.  Exactly a year ago I wound a warp to put on LeClerc so I could weave something beautiful during Christmastide and Epiphany.  Now one year later I started dressing the loom with that warp.  I have yet to weave in my new home in Ohio, but I came one step closer today.  My studio is still hither and yon, so dressing the loom involved lots of improvising (including 4 cans of beans, 4 plastic bags, assorted lengths of texsolv and 4 S hooks).  No problem-solving or higher cognitive functions were involved in the fixes - it was all muscle memory.  And this very finicky and neglected warp slid on the warp beam as smooth as silk.  I was surprised - neglect a warp like this and it often kicks and screams while going on the warp beam.  But no misbehaving today - just smiles all the way around.  Tomorrow I will thread the heddles - it is a complicated pattern so that will require concentration.  Bliss.

Once upon a time I would spend New Year's Day in some kind of retreat - reviewing the previous year, taking stock of lessons learned, noticing my growing edges and planning for the New Year.  It was a very thorough and satisfying exercise hemmed with prayer and meditation.  But not this year - this New Year's Day it feels enough to have survived last year - no need for the post mortem or lessons learned review.  And I dare say that the growing edges are easy enough to see and the lessons learned came with enough ashes and smoke that they will not be easily forgotten!  I am fine with keeping up my gratitude practice and doing just one thing at a time to nurture the growth that is happening as a result of this past year.  That being said, I am pondering my experience of Christmas this year, as it was both wonderful (truly amazing!) and a little guilt-producing!  It is hard to accept feeling joyful when so many are suffering!  

I have been part of leading Christmas Eve services since 1984, and this was the first and only time I have thoroughly enjoyed my Christmas Eve and felt present to welcome Christmas Day.  Every other year involved the manic rush up to the highly choreographed multiple services of Christmas Eve.  The most stressful time was when I lived in Scotland and the singing of Silent Night by candlelight had to end immediately before midnight so the whole church was silent at midnight to hear the church bells toll for Christmas Day!  The first year I thought I would have an emotional breakdown trying to keep the trains running right on time!  After a few years I relaxed a little - but there was always the worry.  Sliding two and from Church in bad weather - not getting home until 1 a.m. and then being too tired to enjoy that it was now Christmas and too wound up to go to sleep.  That was the usual sequence of events.  Mind you, I find great joy in creating space for Christmas Eve worship that others find beautiful and meaningful.  But there was nothing left of me when it was over - and I didn't get to do what I needed to do to enjoy Christmas.  Christmas day was usually a blur (especially in Scotland where I had a morning worship service), and with any luck, I started to click in by Boxing Day.  But it always felt like I missed Christmas - like Christmas had passed me by.

This year was different.  As the snow feel outside and the winds howled, we celebrated the 7 pm service on Zoom - and although everyone would rather be in the sanctuary, it was still lovely.  When the service was over I didn't have to wait several hours for the next one or venture out in the snow.  Instead, I went into the kitchen and fixed a light snack, and sat by the tree enjoying my Advent and Christ candles and a little Windham Hill Christmas Music.  When it was time I pulled up the little church in San Anselmo on my iPad, and watched their service while enjoying the beauty of the lights in my home.  When the service was over I placed Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus in the crèche and I went to bed - feeling very much like I had welcomed Christmas.  I had created space - there was space for Christ to be born in my heart.  It felt both peaceful and joyful.  

Christmas Day was not a day of exhaustion - it was also lovely.  I was able to attend the Christmas Day service at the church in San Anselmo, do some things around the house, and accepted the kindness of friends who dropped a Christmas meal at my door (delicious)!  In past years I would have declined their kind offer, but this year I decided to try saying yes.  Yes can be wonderful - in return it feels like a hug from God when kind people share their love with you!

I always said I wanted to have a quiet Christmas like this sometime after I retire, and had slotted in Christmas of 2030 as the earliest that might happen.  I did not expect to have the experience now - I was completely surprised by the peace and joy!  And I wonder if there are parts of what I experienced that can carry over to future Advent and Christmas celebration...

I found this interesting reflection by Loretta Ross-Gotta in one of my favorite Advent devotionals.  I'm sure I've read this twenty times before, but this year it really spoke to me:  

Jesus observed, "Without me you can do nothing." (John 15:5).  Yet we act, for the most part, as though without us God can do nothing.  We think we have to make Christmas come, which is to say we think we have to bring about the redemption of the universe on our own.  When all God needs is a willing womb, a place of safety, nourishment, and love.  "Oh, but nothing will get done," you say.  "If I don't do it, Christmas won't happen."  And we crowd out Christ with our fretful fears.  God asks us to give away everything of ourselves.  The gift of greatest efficacy and power that we can offer God and creation is not our skills gifts, abilities and possessions.  The wise men had their gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  Paul and Peter had their preaching.  Mary offered only space, love, belief.  What is it that delivers Christ into the world - preaching, art, writing, scholarship, social justice?  Those are all gifts well worth sharing.  But preachers lose their charism, scholarship grows pedantic, social justice alone cannot save us.  In the end, when all other human gifts have met their inevitable limitation, it is the recollected one, the bold virgin with a heart in love with God who makes a sanctuary of her life, who delivers Christ who then delivers us.  Try it...

I did not intentionally try to approach this holy season a different way this year, but through circumstances and the opportunities of the readings and worship, something started to shift in my heart - in a good way.  And I experienced joy - even in these circumstances!  I think the pandemic pace played a role, as did the readings from the devotionals and my regularly making time for worship that I wasn't leading (thank you to the dear ones in San Anselmo)!  And the pandemic pace allowed for more time for prayer, which is something I need.  The work load wasn't less, but it was different. And these differences seemed to open up just enough space for grace to break through!

If I could give up this joy and make the pandemic go away, I would in a heartbeat!  But giving up my joy will not control COVID-19.  With so many people suffering, I want to take care to make sure my joy does not unintentionally minimize the pain anyone is experiencing.  I know that even though the date of the year has changed, the pandemic, polarization, systemic racism, political upheaval, economic uncertainty, climate calamity and all manner of frightful things are still very real and very present.  The peace and the joy do not change any of those very real circumstances.  But they do help to fortify me to continue God's transformative work.  Perhaps that is how God With Us works - the circumstances stay the same, but we have the inner comfort of knowing that we are not in this alone.

To this I can testify:  When we create space for God, God meets us in that space.  God is with us.  We are not alone.  And whatever we face in 2021, Emmanuel - God With Us - faces it with us.

How has God been present to you - God With Us - during this sacred time?  As you look back (gently) on 2020, what would you like to carry into 2021?  What one thing would you like to nurture?

You and God can do it together!

Much love and hope as we begin 2021,

Kim