Seven Sacraments

There are seven sacraments in the church.  For most of my life I was unaware of these as a group, although I was familiar with baptism and the lord's supper.  I have since learned how central these practices are to the life of the church and the life of the follower.  A few weeks after Steve died I met with my priest and she brought it to my attention that Steve had participated in all seven sacraments.  That in fact, she had had the privilege of participating with Steve in five of the seven of them:

our baptism
the holy eucharist
confirmation
ordinatiion
holy matrimony
reconciliation of a penitent
and unction, or the anointing of the sick.

John Westerhoff writes:

"The purpose of a sacrament is to make us aware of a truth that is not self-evident so that we might benefit from it. Sacraments are symbolic, ritual acts of revelation. Sacraments, importantly, make something that is already true and available, real for us so that we might fully benefit from it … When an invisible reality is realized, or made real, that is a sacrament.

Or to put it another way, a sacrament is a point of connection between the invisible and visible - an outward and visible material sign of an inward and invisible nonmaterial reality."

49th Day

Today is the 49th day since Steve's death.  Seven weeks.  There is something complete about that number, and I am mindful of how the Spirit came to Jesus' friends on the 50th day.  Those who were so dismayed by his leaving must have still been holding to the promise,  'He does not leave us comfortless.'

Fernando Ortego, one of our favorite songwriters has a new album out and I received my copy in the mail today.  Here is a pentecost hymn from the album for tomorrow, our fiftieth day....written by a 15th century word carver, Bianco de Siena.

Come down, O love divine, seek Thou this soul of mine,


And visit it with Thine own ardor glowing.


O Comforter, draw near, within my heart appear,


And kindle it, Thy holy flame bestowing.



O let it freely burn, til earthly passions turn


To dust and ashes in its heat consuming;


And let Thy glorious light shine ever on my sight,


And clothe me round, the while my path illuming.



Let holy charity mine outward vesture be,


And lowliness become mine inner clothing;


True lowliness of heart, which takes the humbler part,


And o’er its own shortcomings weeps with loathing.



And so the yearning strong, with which the soul will long,


Shall far outpass the power of human telling;


For none can guess its grace, till he become the place


Wherein the Holy Spirit makes His dwelling.

  

From the mouth of a child

Our son Brennan is twelve years old.  He attended a christian retreat last week at the beach.  One of the sessions he attended was called 'How to Handle Depression' or something to that effect.  While narrating it to me at home,  Brennan said, ' I could have taught that one, Mama.  'I would have said, (and I should know, because well, I've been through alot), when I am depressed I listen to music, find my family and friends to be with, read the Psalms, and sit quietly in church. And that really helps.'

Chapter 3 "Sam"

This is my favorite chapter....you will see why.....

Sam

            Sam’s Grandfather had been a working man, and as it turns out, was a friend and neighbor to my own.  He had returned to the Gulf Coast as a war hero for shooting down a Japanese Zero at Pearl Harbor, and for pulling several other sailors from the burning wreckage of his ship.  

            The town of Gulf Shores, Alabama was, at that moment in time, virgin beach.  There were a few cottages along the shore, and one diner called Hazel’s.  Two small grocery and tackle shops kept the fisherman stocked.  One was a block from the beach, and the other on the north side of the Inter-coastal Canal by the draw bridge that was the only entry way to the beach.

            This quiet, untouched town had increasingly come under the attention of cities like Montgomery and Birmingham, and the well-to-do were beginning to dream of beach getaways on the sugar white sand.  Sam’s grandfather saw an opportunity and started a small construction company.  In the first few years, he built several houses, a bank, and the club house for Gulf Shores’ first golf course.  He also built and lived in the cottage in the woods.

            Sam’s father had grown up on the job site, and probably would have continued in the business if it weren’t for the Gulf of Mexico.  He was constantly aware of it’s presence, and when he was near the water, could not take his eyes from the far horizon.  It fascinated him, terrorized him, and called to him.  So, in time, he went to sea. 

            This meant that Sam, when he came along, was destined to a vagabond life, moving from coast to coast, and port to port, spending months at home with his mother and brothers, while his father sailed the world.  I suppose this sort of life could make a person feel homeless or rootless, but instead it gave the family a sense that they were citizens of the world.  His father would send home long letters telling stories of all his ports of call,  from Japan, Africa, India, and the Mediterranean.  All these exotic places were alive in Sam’s mind.  When his father was at home, he was always bringing new acquaintances to dinner.  “This is my new friend, Abdul.  He is from Turkey!”  Before the night was out they would all be singing Turkish songs.

            Sam’s mother would make each new move an adventure.  No sooner had they put boxes down in a new house, and they would begin to explore the town.  In no time, she would turn their house into the hub of activity for all the neighborhood children, so while there may have been some awkward first weeks (Sam was the “new kid in school” eleven times),  he would never be without friends for long.

            This was now the age of television, but it had not encroached on family life just yet.  Their first set was a small black and white that sat in a back room in the house.  In later years it would turn colors and make it’s way into the living room, pulling everyone under its spell.  But for now, days were spent, from morning to night, outside.  While there were some rules for the brothers, like a curfew, they were, for the most part, wild and free.

            There was one family ritual about which Sam’s mother was unbending.  Dinner.  Every single night, with few exceptions, the entire family gathered, not at the kitchen table where breakfast and lunch were served, but in the dining room.  It was a semi-formal affair, and the boys were expected to at least wear shirts and shoes.  The gathering would begin with cocktails (ginger ale with a maraschino cherry for the brothers), then everyone would move to the table.  I could see that Sam’s vesper ritual had been ingrained in him from childhood.

            It was here, Sam would say, that amidst the chaos and movement of living, his family was formed, and their ties deepened.  Each person would retell the stories of the day, and while there was a great deal of teasing, even the youngest members were given everyone’s full attention.  It was the sort of family where each member knew that they mattered, and yet at the same time, knew that they were part of something bigger than themselves.  An integral part, but of a whole.  The teasing only served to remind a person that while he or she was loved, they were not going to be allowed to be the center of attention for too long.  It was a home that fostered the growth of individuals, but individuals who were linked forever to others.  Sam still talks to his parents, and one or two of his brothers, every day.

            Through his school years, he was a bright, but unimpressive student, and a decent, but uninspired athlete.  For the most part, it was because his mind was elsewhere.  He could not have articulated this then, but Sam was ingrained with a sense that the world held more than the eye could see.  As a child this made him a daydreamer.  As he grew older, it became something else. 

            Sam, like his father, loved the sea.  But whereas his father was drawn to it as an adventure, Sam was haunted by it.  Sam was not just gazing at the horizon, but beyond it.  He knew he was flesh and blood, and shared a robust love of life and pleasure with all his family and friends.  But he began to know that he was also soul or spirit.  And he knew that there were dark things in the universe, and even inside himself.  More and more, these thoughts took hold of his mind.

            Nowadays I’m sure they would just write it off as depression, but for several months after Sam entered the university, he would lie awake at night full of fear.  The dawn would seem to brush the thoughts away, and he would go about his business, but they would return each night.  It became a torment, as if all the things he loved and held dear were going to be swallowed up by, and this was his word, evil. 

            On most nights when he couldn’t sleep, he would rise, slip out of the dorm, and walk.  The weather didn’t matter.  It was the only thing that would ease his mind.  On one of these walks, when it was close to dawn, something changed.  He was seized by a thought, and he froze in his tracks.  He couldn’t tell you if it was a gift from beyond the horizon, or just a thought in his own head, but it startled and amazed him.  “But, there is love in the world.”  It seemed to him that this thought was answering all his fears.  “But, there is love in the world.”  Could it be that there was a love that was bigger than war, poverty, hatred, and violence?  That there was a love that could perhaps swallow evil?  And in that moment, that love took possession of Sam.

           

Chapter 2

Chapter 2  ( I am printing this just as steve saved it....although, towards the end you will see that steve tried some names on his characters.)

            The next day the air turned cold.  It had stormed during the night, the sort of front that picks up fuel from the Gulf, and then comes through like a locomotive.  And the first truly cold snap of the fall followed on the storm’s heels.  The sky turned a deep blue, and you could hear the breeze in the pines.  It was my favorite sort of day, crisp and alive.

            I found the pathway to their house, and chuckled as I passed through my broken fence.  I had never even noticed their house before.  I suppose I knew it was there, but it was separated from my property by dense woods.  It was about the same size as mine, but whereas mine was a cabin, this was a cottage.  As it turned out, they had only moved in early that summer.

            I had smelled a wood fire before I had come out of the trees, and now saw the smoke rising from their chimney. 

            There was an oyster shell drive that came and made a circle in the front. It was bordered by a number of tall crepe myrtles, and a stately old Live Oak in the center.   One car, an older Volkwagon convertible, was parked in the drive. 

There was clearly some sort of reclamation under way in the flower beds, since the ground had been recently turned, and there were bags of potting soil and a large pile of cedar mulch next to the drive.   The back yard had been cleared out up to the creek, so that it could be easily seen from the house.  I then remembered fishing in that creek as a boy, and wondered if I should try that again.

            The house itself was painted white and had a tin roof.  There was a wide front porch with a wooden floor like mine.  I love the sound of my feet crunching on the shell drive, and then the hollow drumming of footsteps on a planked floor.

            I stepped up to the door and rapped on the window.  I could see the man hunched before the fire, with a poker in his hand.  He rose slowly, and came to the door.  I was ready to greet him, but then realized that we had not introduced ourselves the day before. 

            “I brought your wine back.  Nobody should drink alone…too often.”

            “Well, we’ll see if we can help with that bottle.  By the way, I’m ____.  Come in.”

            “Thanks for inviting me.  I’m ____.”

            I stepped into the house.  The center of it was one large open room.  I took it in while ____ rummaged for the corkscrew.  The kitchen spread across the back, with large windows opening toward the creek and the woods.  It was separated from the den by a counter.  “_______ will be out in a second.”  ______.  

            The furniture was arranged around the fireplace, with two very comfortable looking chairs, each surrounded on the floor by a clutter of books and magazines.  And there was also one very plush sofa.

            It seemed that there were bedrooms on each side of the center room.  It was a very warm place, and I was about to say something to that effect when _____ swept into the room. 

            “Hello new neighbor!”  She walked and kissed ____ on the cheek and smiled at him as he eased the cork from the bottle, and began to pour.  She handed glasses around. We all three paused over our glasses a moment, then sipped.

“Let’s see…can you make a salad?”, she asked me.

“I most certainly can.” 

“Well then, you may make a salad with anything you can find, I will wave my magic wand over the oven and see if something wonderful won’t appear, and dear ____,  can ensure that all glasses remain filled.” 

“First, it’s vespers,” said ____, and he reached for a small leather book on the counter.  I looked at him curiously. 

“Did you know,” he asked me, “that many old cultures held that the new day began with the sunset, not the sunrise?  It’s the loneliest time of day, so, we like to honor it with friends, a little prayer and a toast.”  He didn’t ask me if I minded, and I suppose that I didn’t, though this was a little foreign to me.

He opened the book and read this prayer (I found it again later and wrote it down, along with a line, with the initials W.B. underneath, that was penciled on the inside cover of the book- “There is always a fair allotment of lonely men who used nighttime gatherings to fend off between darkfall and bedtime the thoughts that come to the lonely and are hard to suffer alone.”):

“May the Lord Almighty grant me and those I love a peaceful night and a perfect end.  Keep watch, Dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.  Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake.  Amen.”

There was a silent pause, and _____ said, “To holes in fences, and new neighbors!”  We all raised our glasses, and then set about our various tasks.  I found any number of good salad additions, and tried to make as impressive an offering as possible.  I may have gone overboard.

As we worked, and then settled at the table, they began the interrogation.  Both of them asked question after question, taking every little detour to try to put together my entire life story.  At times I felt I was talking too much, but they were persistent, and listened in such a way that makes you tell more than you would have intended.

Two hours passed without notice.  We had settled by the fire and were working on the end of our second bottle of wine, when _____, who was sitting on the couch, suddenly pulled a quilt over herself and laid down.  She appeared to be asleep in seconds.

____ said, “She does that.  She may or may not rejoin us.”

“I’ll probably just make my way back, then, before I fall asleep in this chair.”  We both rose to our feet.  _____ lifted her head from the sofa and asked, “Do you have electricity and heat in that cabin of yours?”  I said, “I do.”  “Good.  Then you can have us over next time.”  Her head fell back to the pillow.

____ and I both laughed and shook hands.  “Thanks for having me over.  I’m glad to have hospitable neighbors.”

“Do you want to try and fix that fence?” he asked.

“Not really.  I cancelled my buffalo order, and it seems fitting that people ought to be able to pass back and forth.”

“Good.  We’ll work on something else sometime and pretend we know what we’re doing.”

“Deal. Oh, and you can borrow that old truck anytime.”  I headed out the door, and made my way back along the path, warm and well fed.  And they were still a mystery.

            In the coming weeks, we began to pass freely between our two places.  A couple days could pass without seeing them, but soon, one or the other of us would appear at the door. 

I frequently found them together, on hands and knees, tending to their revitalized flower beds.  Sometimes I joined in on the heavy work, but it seemed to be a ritual for them, something they loved doing in each other’s presence, so I didn’t intrude too often.

            Sam came over and lent a hand in screening in a section of my front porch.  Together we were able to do a fair job of it.  I knew I would want to be able to sit there once the weather warmed, but that I would be devoured by mosquitoes in the evenings.  I bought a chiminea for the porch, and we ran a metal stack through a hole in the roof.  Now I could work and sit by the fire inside and out. 

This screened room soon became my favorite workplace, even on colder days.  Sam and Mahlon gave me a small, weathered writing table and chair that they had discovered in their attic, and I could write there while overlooking the creek and woods. 

From my vantage point, I discovered that I had many hidden neighbors.  Often in the early morning and evening, I could see whitetail deer moving through a track in the woods and out into my small field.  I also caught a glimpse, on one or two occasions, of a coyote as he trotted past.  I hoped that the other creatures would stay on guard when he came around.  But I couldn’t help but feel for him.  He howled in such a forlorn way at night. 

The two had borrowed my truck for an errand one very rainy day, and later pulled up to my cabin.  They both dashed to the cover of the porch, Sam carrying a large cardboard box with a tarp over it that he retrieved from the back.  “Dogs!”, she said, “we need dogs!”  Inside the box were two very frisky pups of some dubious hound/shepherd descent.  “We each get one.  You pick first.”

I had never thought it fair to keep a dog in the city, but out here it seemed a sin to not have several.  I pulled them both up by the scruff, and gave them the once over.  A boy and a girl, I chose the girl.  I set her down and she began to leap up and down, then scamper around the porch.  We put her brother down and the two tumbled around and made themselves at home. 

For years to come, except for times she was scouring the woods with Dillard (as he was soon called), she was by my side.  I named her “Sass”.

             The mornings were sacred for their solitude.  One morning I drove down to the beach to watch the sun rise and to run.  I passed Mahlon coming from the other direction along the water’s edge.  She smiled and said “Neighbor...”  I said, “Neighbor…”.  And we both walked on without another word. 

I began to love keeping vespers.  I wasn’t so sure about praying, although I tried to be reverent enough.  Those evenings became sacred for being shared in company with friends.  Lingering over dinner was a rich pleasure.  Sometimes other neighbors, or members of my family (and even the occasional date) were invited, but many evenings, it was the three of us.  I was twenty years their junior, but they treated me like a welcome peer.  We soon moved into that economy of friendship where there is no obligation- no guilt or need to keep a tally of who did what for who.  I honored their solitude, but was free to come and go as I pleased.  And one or both of them often appeared at the cabin, Mahlon bringing me something to eat or reading me something she had read.  “Listen to THIS!” she would say.  And Sam would come to sit and smoke. 

           

            Slowly, through the days, their lives unfolded before me.  I began to ask them questions now, and they were as free in the telling as they had been in asking.  I had felt a mystery about them when we first had met, and now I was beginning to see what it might be.  I had been, in the last few months, in the presence of a great love.  That love became the story that I must now tell.

steve's novella - chapter 1 (Most of this has already been posted)

I’ve come to believe that one should either live in or live out, but nowhere in between.  What I mean is that, for me anyway, life is best experienced in the crazed hustle of a city, or in the quiet rhythm of the country.  Suburban life, which is neither in nor out, seems uninspiring, if not sub-human.  Writers will sometimes begin their careers in cities, since that is where the paying jobs are, then move into seclusion when they can finally afford to.  I was no exception. 

For as long as I can remember, I have loved words.  They were mysterious to me.  Why did they mean what they meant?  Who decided that “ph” made an “f” sound?  I loved words like “plethora” and “bountiful”.  I loved the way words rolled out of my mouth, how they connected with one another to form pictures in my head.  I loved to read them, and I longed to write them.

High School yearbooks and college magazines gave me a start, and I made a fair living writing as a freelance journalist.  An editorial here, an investigative article there, and soon I had a full blown, even respectable, career.  And somehow, through it all, the mystery never left.  And I knew I would follow the path of many writers. The road that led from “fact” to fiction, from information to imagination.  I would write a novel.

There was this nagging dilemma, however.  I had no story. 

I’ve read many favorite beginnings. “Once upon a time….” “I had a farm in Africa.” “Mine is a parish like all the rest.”  “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”  Or this doozy:  “Magnanimous Despair alone could show me so divine a thing.”  These were words that anticipated adventure, heartache, a life well lived, or a great love. 

I tried my hand time and time again, trying to find a story.  I lived the well known image of the frustrated novelist crushing page after page, the floor littered with balls made of false starts.  I could not begin because I had nowhere to go.

Then one day, my story found me.

My Grandfather spent his last years tending a small, eight acre patch of ground in South Alabama, near the Gulf of Mexico.   The soil was a mixture of red clay and white sand, and it yielded a variety of produce from okra to hot peppers.  He would pass a good part of the day in the tin barn with his cooking, canning, cats…and Jim Beam.  As a boy I worked many days under his eye and the hot Alabama sun, passing down the rows of vegetables, and doing odd jobs around the place.

Toward the back of the property was a pine wood, bordered by a wide creek that ran toward the Bon Secour River.  A small cabin had been placed in a clearing there, which had at various times been occupied by Grandpa’s workers and friends.   It was a simple structure, but sturdy and well kept.

When my mind turned toward leaving the city, it quickly took hold of that little farm and cabin.  After Grandpa died, no one could bear to part with the place.  The field was overgrown and the warehouse chained.  The little house was empty.  But it was still in the family, and mine for the asking.  I knew that with a little scrubbing, a computer, the internet, and a cell phone, it could be a rustic but wired novelist paradise.  So I went home.

Since I knew it would take the better part of a week to hook up phone and computer lines,  I set about bringing the place back to life.  My brother had kept Grandpa’s last Chevy truck in working order, and I was happy to exchange it for my small “city” car.  Though it had seen better days, I loved the “three on the tree” transmission, the AM radio, and the huge steering wheel.  There was also an old Massey Ferguson tractor and bush hog, which once it finally cranked, made fairly quick work of the undergrowth around the house, and the lane that led to the back of the property, over a small wooden bridge, and up to the wide front porch.

I could envision the pattern of my days.  Rising early to read and write, a run, a couple of hours reclaiming at least a part of the garden, then, quiet evenings on the porch.  I was not disappointed in the way my days went.  But once again, I was staring at blank pages, and the crumbled paper began to pile up, only now I had a fireplace to dispose of these rejects.

I arrived in late September, so any real hope of a garden would have to be postponed for months.  I had mowed down the weeds to at least declare my intentions for the next spring, but then left it at that.  So, as often as not, by late afternoon I would find myself in an old rocker on the front porch.  And it was from there, on an October afternoon, that I saw them for the first time, walking down the lane toward the house.

They had suddenly appeared from the woods behind the barn, instead of coming through the front gate from the road.  I wondered where they had come from.  It was a man and a woman, and from a distance it was hard to tell how old they were.  Not young, but not old.  They were clearly heading toward my house, as if it were their intention to eventually get there, but at the same time it seemed that they were in no particular hurry.  They had to have seen me sitting there, but I had not yet captured their attention.  They had caught mine.

The woman was not tall, but she was slender, and there was a lightness to her gait. She wore a brown, flowing skirt and cardigan sweater that hung loosely on her frame.  It was clearly his.  She held the man’s hand with one of her own, but with the other made lively gestures.  I could see she was talking in a very animated way, though I couldn’t make out her words from that distance.  He walked slowly beside her, with his face bent forward, clearly listening to what she had to say.  She suddenly stopped, grinned and said something softly, and he tipped his head back and laughed.

When they came to the bridge, they paused in the middle and looked over the rail at the creek.  A brief silence settled over them both, and held them for a moment.  They gazed at one another without a word, then began to walk toward the house.

Now they were looking toward me, as if I had suddenly entered their circle of awareness. 

I honestly couldn’t tell if they were 35 or 55.  If I had to just guess based on their faces, I would have guessed they were older, but there was a vitality about them that gave them something of an ageless quality. 

He was very tall.   For some reason, it was obvious to me that he was a quiet, reserved man, what most people would call “laid back”, but you could tell from his eyes that little passed his notice.  He looked right at me, and I don’t know how to describe how I suddenly felt that he knew what life held, that he knew joy and he had known sadness. 

And the woman.  She was, in a word, lovely.  There was a sense of serenity about her, as if she knew who she was.  But there was also an energy, something very inviting, open, and curious. 

She was the first to speak, and greeted me happily and warmly.  “Well, hello!”  The man stepped up on the porch and extended a huge, friendly hand in my direction.  I had not noticed before, but he had been carrying a paper bag, which he now handed to me.  She said, “A little house warming gift.”  It was a bottle of Italian wine, and, as I later discovered, a really good bottle of wine.  I don’t know why this surprised me.  A house warming gift wasn’t a surprise, it’s just that in south Alabama, I would have expected a blackberry cobbler or a casserole.  So again, I was a little intrigued. 

“So, is there a path through the woods there?” I asked. 

“Well,” he said, “there is a little path, but a huge hole in your fence.  If you plan on keeping anything in, we’ll have to try and fix that.”  I could tell he wasn’t too sure about fixing a barbed wire fence, and that he was kidding around.

“I’ve ordered a herd of buffalo from a catalog, but they aren’t here yet,” I responded, and I think it was suddenly clear that neither of us was a farmer, or rancher, for that matter.

The woman gave a little laugh and said, “We’ve been away and just came back today.  So why don’t you plan to come for dinner tomorrow.  We wander to the porch for drinks at about 5:30, and dinner around 7:00.  You can come for either or both.  We will interrogate you until we hear your entire life story.”

 “I’ll need a drink first if I’m going to be interrogated,”  I said, “so I’ll come for both and bring the wine.”

It was a brief exchange, but there was such an easy hospitality about them, that it seemed like friendship would come easy.

“We’ll see you then, new neighbor.”  She turned and looked up at the man with a smile.  He nodded at me, then slipped a long arm around her shoulder.  They both waved and turned to go.  She wrapped both her arms around him as they walked slowly away.  When they finally disappeared behind the barn, I realized that I had watched them the entire way, and that I hadn’t moved. 

Forty Days

Today marks the fortieth day.

On Friday I visited our local plant nursery - and was greeted by Marina, our friend from the Republic of Georgia.  As I was describing our grief and Steve's last days to her, I told her that it was odd, but we still felt his presence so strongly at home, and with our friends and family.  She reminded me about how members of the more ancient Eastern Orthodox churches believe that the soul stays near in a unique way for 40 days after death before moving on.

The afterlife is a mystery for sure, and I am more in awe of it now than at any other season of my life.  When I first met Steve I was in a season of learning to be unhurried, seeing time in a new way than I had been brought up in American Christian culture to think about it.  ( Jesus is coming back soon, so you better get busy bringing dying souls to him and making yourself holy....quick!)  Presence and attention became my new mantra.

Steve was in a similar shift, but his was more about place.  He wanted his inner landscape to reflect the hopes he talked about.  He knew that while he appeared 'easy going' and 'laid back' there was lots of internal turmoil.

Externally, the man who had moved close to 35 times in his 40 years had fallen in love with one place:  the Birmingham City Limits.  He loved Highland Park and 5 Points more than any soul I've known.  He walked its streets and knew its residents.   He offered presence and attention and care.  'Liminal' and 'kairos' became favorite and regular words in his lexicon.



Kairos is defined in the wikipedia:

Kairos (καιρός) is an ancient Greek word meaning the right or opportune moment (the supreme moment). The ancient Greeks had two words for time, chronos and kairos. While the former refers to chronological or sequential time, the latter signifies a time in between, a moment of indeterminate time in which something special happens. What the special something is depends on who is using the word. While chronos is quantitative, kairos has a qualitative nature.


and:

In the New Testament kairos means "the appointed time in the purpose of God", the time when God acts (e.g. Mark 1.15, the kairos is fulfilled). It differs from the more usual word for time which is chronos (kronos).

In the Eastern Orthodox and Eastern Catholic churches, before the Divine Liturgy begins, the Deacon exclaims to the Priest, "Kairos tou poiesai to Kyrio" ("It is time [kairos] for the Lord to act"); indicating that the time of the Liturgy is an intersection with Eternity.

So, today, I find myself returning to these initial themes and wondering again about time and place, about 'Liturgy intersecting with Eternity,' about being present to my life at this moment, in this place, as it really is, and not shrinking from sorrow but standing right in it until it eases and wanes, and sensing and believing that there is more.