The Hopes and Fears of All Our Years ~

I was just meandering along this Advent, Christmas season, spending my days, minding my own business, when it seemed a few times, my breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t tell, by how I felt, whether I was meant to laugh or cry.

The old woman in period garb, hammering out an ancient carol on her dulcimer. My breath caught as she played in the cast of a million tiny lights on a windy night at The Grotto.

The young students of the St. Olaf choir, singing “Beautiful Savior” in brilliant, gentle harmony. My breath caught as they sang : “Truly I'd love Thee, truly I'd serve Thee, light of my soul, my joy, my crown.”

The little kids, walking the ceramic Mary and Joseph statues a bit closer to Bethlehem each Sunday morning at St. Luke’s. One Sunday I arrived early, and found Mary and Joseph set on a small table near the back, with a shiny nickel lying between them. My breath caught as I smiled and wondered which child had left an early gift for the baby Jesus.

As we worshipped together the Sunday after Christmas, we sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem”. I sang along as I played the piano, and got as far as the last phrase, when my breath caught again: “the hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight.” I couldn’t sing, but could only mouth those words, sure that if I sang it would sound like a cry.

The hopes and fears of all our years. Sometimes they shout, sometimes they whimper, making their presence known. And when they do, our breath can catch as we consider what they bring along with them, what they uncover: what we’re afraid of, what we regret, what we long for, why we laugh, where it hurts, how we’d do it differently, who we miss, why we still believe.

I can’t manage my hopes and fears on my own. Given the time, the day, the circumstance, I may handle things with grace and openness, with a hopeful heart. Or, I may be a mess and shut down, over-react, or simply take my ball and go home.

To find that I have a companion in Jesus, in whom all of my hopes and fears are “met”, is breath to me. A deep, life-giving breath.

In her book, “Listening to Love”, Jan Meyers writes that responding to Christ, responding to His voice in our lives can often come as a simple question... “is that you, Jesus?” A few years ago some friends and I read through this book together, and began to ask ourselves this question as the “hopes and fears” of daily-ness came knocking: a disappointment, a surprise, a loss. A change, a tension, an ache. A disruption, a joy. “Is that you, Jesus?”

Jan Meyers goes on to write that every longing, wrapped up in hope, wrapped up in fear, is actually, at its center, a longing for God. I want to live with that kind of Presence, with that understanding that I am never alone, never unknown, and that what makes me catch my breath sometimes could very well be the Spirit of God.

An ancient carol at the Grotto... a tune recognized by saints and angels that I long to sing in chorus with them.

Beautiful Savior... an ache and a hope to see Him with my own eyes.

The journey of Mary and Joseph that reminds me of my own... will I find my way, will I have what I need, will promises made be promises kept?

There’s a reason, I know, that I couldn’t sing that last “O Little Town” phrase on the Sunday after Christmas.

There are hopes, there are fears. Moments when things catch in our throats and we don’t know whether to laugh or cry. What we can know, is that we are met. In every hope. In every fear. In every breath.

In the Bleak ~

I was feeling the bleak-midwinter on Wednesday. A tough day at work, too much on my mind, too many dishes in the sink, too many nights in a row with something penciled in on the calendar. I longed for a bit of quiet, a bit of sanctuary.

It would seem that a single girl who lives alone would have all kinds of quiet and sanctuary, but things are not always what they seem.

I got home, threw something for dinner in the microwave, tended to what I could around the house, and then ran to the car to get to St. Luke’s on time. I was meeting a dear couple, Jim and Georgie, to prepare some music for Christmas Eve. Playing the piano, playing with other musicians always does my heart good. But it had been a crummy day. On the way to the church, I whimpered out a little prayer, a little plea. I told Jesus I felt like I missed Him. I told Him I needed some quiet for my heart and my mind, some light in some places that had been feeling dark. I told Him I hoped that there'd be some time and quiet for Him and me soon.

Georgie and I played through our Christmas hymns and got our songbooks in order for the 24th. While we did that, Jim fiddled around with some lights in the cold, dim sanctuary.

As we finished rehearsing and began to pack up our things, Jim walked over to the piano and said “hey, Kathy, would you do me a favor? Would you play hymn 112?” I reached for the hymnal and flipped the pages, and on page 112 I found “In The Bleak Midwinter”, the poem written by Christina Rossetti. Jim stood in front of the altar, and as I quietly played, he sang the first verse:

In the bleak midwinter, frosty winds made moan
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter long ago

He closed his hymnal. I wasn’t ready for the song to be over. I didn’t mean to sound selfish, but I asked, “Jim, would you please sing the rest of the song for me?” He walked back up to the altar, and sang the rest of the song… sweetly, tenderly, worshipfully. As he sang, my heart, my mind was covered with a blanket of calm. I felt my concerns, “hard as iron”, softening.

Our God, heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain
Heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign
In the bleak midwinter, a stable place sufficed
The Lord God incarnate, Jesus Christ

Angels and archangels may have gathered there
Cherubim and seraphim, thronged the air
But his mother only, in her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved, with a kiss

What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb
If I were a wiseman I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him, give my heart

As he sang, in the quiet, in the still, in the bleak, I felt Jesus say to me, "I'm right here, I’m right here.”

I left the sanctuary with Jim and Georgie, knowing my whimpered prayer had been heard, and that Jesus had sung me a song in reply.

Advent Calendar ~

Come, Thou long expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free
From our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in Thee

Her name is Mary Elizabeth. She’s 96 years old. She’s my grandma.

She lives in the valley in a simple room at a comfortable place, the kind of place where people approaching the end of their lives, who cannot live without help, settle in for as long as they have. Here, her most basic, human needs are tended to by underpaid young women with lavish tattoos and loving hearts. They care for her so tenderly, washing, changing, turning. With gentle voices, they call her “sweetie”, they call her “dear”.

By her bed on the wall is a calendar. A black felt pen rests within reach on the nightstand by her bed, somewhere between the tissues, the emergency call button and the bowl of butterscotch candies she has kept nearby for as long as I can remember. Each morning, as she wakes to a new day, she crosses “yesterday” off the calendar.

She can’t clothe or wash herself, she can’t walk or throw an extra blanket across her bony feet. She can’t open the mail or tend to her African violets. But she can raise that pen to the wall each morning and cross off another day.

Grandma isn’t waiting to die. No, she’s just waiting. “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus” has leapt off the pages of the hymnal for her.

Jesus has come to her over and again in her 96 years. He came to her in the tin-shack laden industrial town in Pennsylvania where she was born. He came to her in the lonely days of growing up with a daddy who was on the road, playing pro baseball, and whose image on a trading card could never make up for his absence. Jesus came to her as a young woman, as she gave her life to a man who dreamed of giving his life to the ministry. He came to her in the loss of a longed-for baby girl. He came to her in the suffocating silence that crept in after that loss, as she determined to never speak of such deep wounds. Jesus came to her in the small towns and churches filled with people who needed more than a young preacher and his wife could sometimes spare. He came to her as she found a way to spare what she could.

He came to her in the loss of her son, my dad, a loss that crushed her not so much because of the cancer that killed him, but the spirit of rebellion that plunged him into confusion and brokenness a few years before the diagnosis. She never dreamed her grown son would take a prodigal turn, and when she finally spotted him heading for home, he was taken.

Jesus came to her as she spent her later life tending to the lonely and forgotten. And He was there on that morning a few years ago, when grandpa touched his fingers to his lips, waved her a tiny kiss, and took one last breath.

Jesus has made himself at home with grandma ever since she invited Him to. As a fair companion on her journey, He’s held her through these sorrows and losses, but also kept sweet company with her through every joy, every delight, every surprise. And even in the mundane moments that make up a life, ninety-six years worth, He has been her ever-present Friend.

On a recent visit, I pulled a chair close to her bed, held her withered hand in my fleshy one, kissed her and stroked her face. I quietly told her a few stories; I asked her the simple questions I ask every time I visit. I asked if I could take her picture. She said I could, as long as her hair looked alright. I told her she was lovely. As we sat together in the stillness, I looked at the calendar. December. The fourth, the fifth, the sixth, all crossed off. I imagined her waking up in this room in the morning, reaching for her black pen, and crossing off the seventh. And in that moment, I realized, this is her Advent Calendar. This is her way of watching and waiting in the dark, in this time between Now… and Not Yet.

For years, grandma and grandpa kept a tiny ceramic plaque on the wall in their home. It followed them to a dozen humble parsonages; it kept them company through 70 years of marriage. It’s nailed today to the wall by the door in her room, positioned in such a way that she can see it from her bed. The inscription simply reads, “Perhaps Today”. I understood, even as a little girl, what that meant. Someday, Jesus will come back. Someday. “Perhaps today”. I never questioned it, but I did wonder. And sometimes I wanted to ask them both: ”I know you want Jesus to come back, but, um, grandpa, grandma, don’t you wanna live?”

Yes, yes she does. She wants to live. So she marks off her calendar, her calendar of Advent. About death, C.S. Lewis said that “one day we will turn the corner, and all our dreams will come true.” She wants to live in that place of dreams come true. “No more crying, no more separation, no more dying.” The place where “these former things are passed away”.

Her body is dying, and yet she is alive with the spirit of anticipation, the spirit of Advent. Her longing heart is filled with joy. She believes that Jesus will come to her still, again, and finally.

She’s 96 years old. She’s long-expected Him.

Young and Old ~

I work in the city, and on any given day, there’s plenty to see on a sneak-out-of-the-building-for-a-few-minutes-break:

eggplant and peppers at the Farmer’s Market
outdoor chess matches at Pioneer Square
strong young men hauling their food carts to their corner
tiny lights adding a twinkle to the grand old trees on 5th Avenue
jewelry vendors displaying their hand-crafted wares
new sculptures unveiled along the transit mall
the harried, the oblivious, the wandering

A sight I especially enjoy is “kids on a rope”. A few times a day, a nearby daycare center gathers up the kiddos and ropes them together for the day’s fresh-air stroll. It makes me smile every time. Toddlers holding on to their assigned knot in the fat red rope, enjoying their own space, but sharing the walk.

It’s their own little bit of journey. The rope reminds them to hold on tight, because it is safer out there when you are holding on. The rope reminds them that they are not alone. Just a bit of rope in front of them and behind, there’s a friendly face, a buddy who is holding on too. And leading them along is someone who is older and taller and wiser. Someone who is familiar with the path because they’ve been following it a long time.

I am observing the blessing it is to be part of an intergenerational community at St. Luke's. It is part of what draws me: the welcome and tenderness that’s generously offered to the little ones, the silver-haired ones, and the somewhere-in-between ones.

My own spiritual roots were nurtured in churches where the older and the younger met together to worship, to pray, to work, to eat, to cry, to celebrate, to walk. I still remember so many of them: Mr. Throckmorton, the McBees. Mrs. Plant and Selma. Mr. Moothart and Alma Beckley. Mrs. Crawford and Mrs. Fast. I remember a gal named Sandy. When I was about 7 years old and she was, oh, maybe 15, she took a special interest in me. I got to go exploring with her at the store where her father was a grocer, I got to play the piano at her house. A few times she took me out for ice cream for no particular reason. I felt like the only 7 year old girl in the world. I could hardly believe that someone like her was paying any attention to someone like me.

My roots thrived in that deep, rich soil of Christ-followers who were older and taller and wiser. I was starting out on my journey, and they were familiar with the path because they’d been following it a long time. I needed their wisdom, their perspective. I needed to be present to their compassion and grace, their faith. The kind of faith that comes from what is suffered and borne, from what is hoped for and not yet seen. I needed to be present to the gentleness that comes with years of living as forgiven, as beloved.

When Rev. Jennifer included me a few months ago in an email message meant for young adults, I was glad she didn’t ask to see my ID. Just a few winters from now, I expect to find an AARP membership packet in my mailbox. But I do my best to hang onto some child-like traits, or at least dust them off when I’ve let them sit for too long because I am busy being oh, so very serious. The little ones remind me of these things: to laugh with your whole belly, to cry with all your tears. To ask questions without checking to see how it sounds before I speak. To be present because there’s just nowhere else to be. Last year I was wandering around the children’s section of a used bookstore in Seattle and came across a poster spoofing Elizabeth Gilbert’s best-seller, “Eat, Pray, Love”. The brightly-colored poster showed the contented faces of children surrounding these words: “Snack, Play, Nap.” Now that’s some child-like behavior I can get behind. I need the little ones in my community. I need their sense of wonder, their openness, their spirit.

Rev. Jennifer shared at the Quiet Day a few weeks back that while our paths may diverge, our destination is the same. I don’t know what happened to Sandy. Our paths diverged a long time ago. But I believe that the connection we had all those years ago will be found intact one day, when the destination we share is reached.

When we value who we are, our stories, and what we have to offer, the young can teach the old, the old can teach the young.

A friend asked me a few weeks ago: “Kath, are we growing old together?” I was delighted to say, “Yes, yes we are.” We’re kids on the rope, holding on tight, because it’s safer out there when we’re holding on. We’re seeing just ahead of us, and just behind, the compassionate, spirited faces of companions, both young and old, who are sharing the walk with us. And we’re being led by Someone who knows the way.

Small Boat, Wide Sea ~

I’ve been worshipping at St. Luke the Physician, a small Episcopal church, for about six months now. I’m slowly finding my way through the liturgy, the Book of Common Prayer, the hymnal, the caring and gentle faces that make this a place of genuine sanctuary.

A cherished moment in the service comes for me when Rev. Jennifer leads us in this prayer after the Gospel: “Dear Lord, be good to us. The sea is so wide, and our boat is so small.” I had not heard this prayer before coming to St. Luke’s. I am moved by the simplicity, desperation and trust it speaks all at once.

My great-grandpa Sam Morris was a lighthouse-keeper on the coasts of Oregon and Washington in the early 1900s. Up until a year ago, we had our family history details scrambled, thinking he was keeper in Bandon. A bit of research and a dear old woman at a tiny maritime museum pointed us in the right direction. He was keeper at Cape Meares near Tillamook in 1903. As a child, my family camped nearby, but never visited the lighthouse. We didn’t realize that we were gathering seashells, wading in the tide, and sleeping in the shadow of the great spruce trees that Grandpa Sam lived among.

My mom and I traveled to Cape Meares last month. We left the car in the lot where Grandpa Sam’s house once stood, and walked the tranquil, fern-lined path toward the water. Just a few steps down the walkway, the lantern room appears. It colored in a few plain spots in our stories to see it, to press our hands against the tower, to take in the sea-air he breathed, the lush ground he walked, the brilliant light he kept. I’ve wondered what it was like for him, keeping that light, tending to it, so that its beam could warn of dangers and provide safe passage through both gentle and howling waters to the small boats on that wide sea. Providing light in the dark to those trying to journey home.

Grandpa Sam is not the first keeper I have known.

“God is light. In Him there is no darkness at all.” ~ 1 John 1:5

There is danger on that wide sea. Darkness and deeps, shadows and shades that leave us feeling isolated, afraid, overwhelmed, drowning. And yet, there is a Keeper, a Light. God himself, offering Passage through, and Presence in, that wide sea.

The boat is small. But there is room enough for two… my Keeper and I.

This is why we can whisper our simple, desperate, trusting prayer.

Oh the deep, deep love of Jesus,
Vast, unmeasured, boundless, free
Rolling as a mighty ocean, in its fullness over me!
Underneath me, all around me, is the current of His love
Leading onward, leading homeward, to His glorious rest above
(Lyric by Samuel Francis)

The sea is wide.
The boat is small.
The Lord is good. Amen ~

Come and Dine ~

A long mesh sock filled with thistle seed hangs from a low branch on my lilac tree. My friend gave it to me a few months ago with a gentle warning that I’d need to be patient and wait awhile until the promised finches would discover it and call their finch-friends with their finch-song to come and dine.

It’s been 54 days. Not that I’m counting. No finches yet. They haven’t noticed the feast I’ve set out for them.

I know. I’m supposed to be patient. Instead, I’ve been acting like a frantic Ward Cleaver, chain-smoking and loosening his tie, pacing the maternity ward til the ‘Beav shows up. Perhaps I exaggerate, but still. Where are my finches?

I haven’t been a life-long bird lover. Buying the little yellow house with the lilac tree in the front yard changed all that. I signed the papers a handful of spring-times ago when the lilacs were in deep, rich, purple bloom. The tree was showing off and she got my full attention. I didn’t realize at the time that she already belonged to several wing-ed others.

I tried to study a “know-your-birds” book once to learn the names of my housemates, but I possess very little left-brain, and the scientific descriptions and names left me flustered. I was hoping for descriptions I could easily interpret: little gray face, light brown speckles, soft orange beak, sweet happy song. I know my robins and my blue-jays, of course, and I had a run-in with a pheasant once while trimming back the laurel hedge (she was as scared of me as I was of her), but other than these, I don’t know who my little birds are.

What I do know is that watching them through the lacy curtain at the dining room window, or from the comfy chair on the front porch offers me an almost daily dose of gladness. And their songs, well, they provide a lovely hymn to their Maker that I get to enjoy. My favorites are “Good Morning in C”, “Welcome Home in D”, and “Goodnight in G#”.

Sure, the care and feeding of the birds-I-can’t-name adds a few extra tasks to the chore list: hosing off the paving stones that encircle the lilac tree (maybe I should reconsider the paving stone placement), tending to the houses and baths and feeders, sweeping up the piles of birdseed that always travel from the feeders to the walkway, mowing down patches of grass that sprout up in unintended (and entirely impractical) places after the birds get hold of the grass seed I’ve planted in the bald spots, picking up the bits of string and foam and wire and straw that they collect and store in a corner of the backyard, their birdie-version of Home Depot. I found a size 11 running shoe in the stockpile once, I don’t even want to think about the bird that hauled that back there.

And yet, where are my finches? When will they notice, when will they come?

I suppose I understand. The desire to be fed and sheltered, to find water and care is universal, all “kingdoms” included. And yet the path between need felt and need met is not always a clear one. There are lots of lilac trees out there. We don’t always notice the feast that waits for us.

"Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters;
and you who have no money, come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost.
Why spend your money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to Me and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.”
Isaiah 55:1-2

God’s invitation through the prophet to the hungry, the thirsty, is both strong and gentle at the same time. He provides, there’s plenty, and what He offers is just what we are hungry and thirsty for - the “richest of fare”. He has been inviting us to come and dine since before we took our first bit of breath. The invitation is so clear, we simply need to notice, to respond. To come and dine.

I want to fix my eyes on You
But Lord, I know sometimes the hardest thing for me to see
Is standing right in front of me
I’m blinded and I’m broken
But your great love can clear the haze so strong
And show me You’ve been there all along

He knows my hunger, my thirst, my need for protection and care. He knows my name. The invitation is open. He watches, He waits. And once I notice and respond, He welcomes me.

I believe that one of these days the finches will notice the feast waiting for them in the lilac tree… the seed, the water, the shelter, the shade. They’ll add their ‘alleluias’ to the front-yard hymns. I’ll be filled with gladness. One of these days, they will come and dine.

It’s been 54 days. Not that I’m counting.

Stay ~

I went to a reading a few weeks back. It was filling up by the time I arrived. I wound my way through uneven rows of dented metal chairs, set in crooked lines on the hardwood floor between European Architecture and Science Fiction at Powell’s Books on Hawthorne in Portland.

I’d been intrigued by a blurb in the local paper about the young writer who’d be the guest. I sat with the appreciative group of readers, writers, seekers, on-their-way-to-somewhere-elsers who’d stumbled in with a cup of coffee and a bit of spare time.

I love being read to. Living on my own makes that tricky, so I attend readings when I can.

The young writer, she was delightful. Honest, nervous, funny. A little amazed that anyone would come out on a school night to listen to the words she’d had the courage to write. She read to us from her newest collection of narrative pieces. They were genuine, heartbreaking, tender. She received the polite applause with an embarrassed grin, and then patiently answered the questions that invariably get asked at these gatherings: “How much time do you spend writing every day?” “How do you disguise your characters so your family won’t recognize themselves?” “How can I get my own book published?” Her answers were gracious and thoughtful, as if she were hearing these questions for the first time. She took the cap off a new Sharpie pen, grabbed a book off the stack fresh from the publisher, and signed her name over and again on the flyleaf that still smelled of bookbinding glue.

I was glad I’d gone. I was glad to spend a slice of evening with other grown-ups who like being read to. I’d gone intrigued and left intrigued.

But it isn’t this young writer’s work or her particular story that has stayed with me since that evening. It was what someone else said along the way. Truth has a habit of doing that, showing up unannounced, making its presence known when we’re not looking or listening for it. She mentioned, as she spoke to us, of a writing workshop she’d attended some time ago where she had been under the instruction of one of her favorite writers: Katherine Dunn, an award-winning novelist and poet. Katherine, during her own Q and A at this workshop, had said the following to the writers leaning in to capture her every word: “I don’t write so I can escape. I write so I can stay.”

“I don’t write so I can escape. I write so I can stay.”

The young writer told us of the deep impact this bit of truth had on her. I left Powell’s that night knowing just how she felt. These are the words that resonated with me that evening, these are the words that resonate with me still.

“I write so I can stay.” So I can stay. Stay.

I picture that award-winning writer, staying, choosing to be present. Staying with a character til his or her voice finds itself. Staying with a plot idea until it unfolds and sets out on its own winding path. Staying with the doubt that she can ever write another story until the doubt passes. Staying with the noise of everything that’s calling her away from what she truly loves to do… write, to be… a writer. Staying with the noise until she can stare it down, until quiet takes its place and she can pick up where she left off. Not writing so she can escape. Writing so she can stay. Allowing space and time and stillness so truth can weave itself into the narrative.

We struggle sometimes to allow for space and time and stillness. There are so many escape routes, so many getaway cars. They screech toward us, we hop in and disappear. We grab hold of any distraction, and the very things that need stillness are avoided: an unspoken concern, an unuttered doubt, a bit of wound unattended, the weight of what overwhelms. Even a bit of hope or joy unexpressed.

The noises, loud and large, drown out the voice that is still and small. The voice that says “Come to Me. Be with Me. Stay with Me.”

My friend Elliott told me that he doesn’t possess the “fight or flight” instinct that’s inherent in most of us. He admits he’s all “flight or flight”. When confronted, escape is his only option. It’s all “get me outta here”. I smiled at that, just because it sounded a tiny bit familiar.

“The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you… He will rejoice over you with singing… He will quiet you with His love.” (Zephaniah 3:17)

What if, increasingly, instead of escaping, we could “stay”. What if, tiny breath by tiny breath, we could allow ourselves to be quieted.

What if we could stay with our own story as it unfolds. Find our voices. See the path come into view a step at a time, and trust that we are not alone in the staying.

My heart is not proud and my eyes are not haughty,
I am not concerned with lofty things
I have stilled my soul like a babe with its mother
And my hope rests in God, both now and forever
I have stilled, stilled my soul, oh my soul, be still
Be still my soul
I have stilled, stilled my soul, oh my soul, be still
Be still my soul
(Lyric from Psalm 131)

Set aside, for a moment, the instinct to fight, to flee, to escape.
Take a tiny breath.
Allow for the stillness.
And stay.