"How then shall it happen to us—this act of self-realisation, this pure impulse of surrender, this first beginning of our new career? Where shall the news of our royal vocation reach us: at what point shall a messenger lean out to us from the sheltering world of spirit, to cry Dominus tecum in our astonished ears? We cannot know. In the dreams of the old painters, Gabriel did not always flash upon Mary as she knelt in prayer. Sometimes he found her as she sat musing in the twilight; sometimes as she went to draw water at the well. Sometimes he woke her from sleep in the early morning; or slid within her vision as she worked at her embroidery frame. So too with us. Grace laughs at our little barriers: our artificial separation of sacred from profane. Perhaps we shall hear his murmurous Ave in a silent hour of contemplation: perhaps it will come to us, clear and startling, from out the ecstasies of love. It may be in the exultant periods of music, or shining in the eyes of the poor, the maimed, and the unworthy, that the angel of our Annunciation will come. It matters not. Whether that illumination come to us from the altar or from the teeming streets, out of a radiant sky, or from the midst of many sorrows—whether it find us at work or at play, at war with the world or at peace “one thing only is necessary,” the instant eagerness of our response." Evelyn Underhill in The Spiral Way
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
coffee and tea
steve always gave up coffee for lent and only drank tea.
days ago, after the valentine orgy of sweets (valentines is still
celebrated the old fashioned way at our school - lots of homemade
valentines and chocolate) i realized that i was longing for lent. i
wanted it to be here already. how weird is that? has my life been so
immersed in sadness that i am only my happiest when sad?
so i jumpstarted lent on feb 15 and made tea instead of coffee.
and i felt so close to steve that it made me cry.
and i knew coffee was still out there and that i would drink it again
after easter, and that the relishing of it that i will have in spring
will be the same kind of feeling steve had when he started drinking it
again.
and that made me feel close to steve.
and almost a year later, it is still true that i feel the most like
me, the happiest, when i am closest to steve.
days ago, after the valentine orgy of sweets (valentines is still
celebrated the old fashioned way at our school - lots of homemade
valentines and chocolate) i realized that i was longing for lent. i
wanted it to be here already. how weird is that? has my life been so
immersed in sadness that i am only my happiest when sad?
so i jumpstarted lent on feb 15 and made tea instead of coffee.
and i felt so close to steve that it made me cry.
and i knew coffee was still out there and that i would drink it again
after easter, and that the relishing of it that i will have in spring
will be the same kind of feeling steve had when he started drinking it
again.
and that made me feel close to steve.
and almost a year later, it is still true that i feel the most like
me, the happiest, when i am closest to steve.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Ash Wednesday Remembering
I started attending Ash Wednesday services at The Cathedral Church of the Advent ten or twelve years ago. When we started our little school 7 years ago, we would gather all the children and take them to this very textured service. Not only do the participants walk up to the front for the imposition of ashes, we also would walk back up to the priest for communion. Steve joined us soon and of all the liturgical calendar services, this one seemed to be our signature one.
It was such a relief to see that the church had a day that recognized our frailties and failures and answered with words for a fitting response and then the eucharist. We called our love a 'lenten love.'
Last year this time we did not know that Steve had cancer yet. But Ash Wednesday
was on March 9 last year, just one week after we found out that steve
was sick. Steve and I drove to our church for the imposition of
ashes, but b/c he was so weak we ended up not being able to attend the
services and went home instead. I remember this day very vividly. That afternoon, in the midst of nausea and the feeling that he could not breathe (we were just finding out about the lung fluid then), Steve and I drove to the bank to attach my name to all his financial records and to tend to all the final signing of papers and wills and documents.
Today marks 9 months since Steve's death. But i have realized that the actual moment of Steve's last breath was not the day of the most impact for me. Death came to me on an earlier Wednesday afternoon, when I joined him in the doctor's office and he looked at me and voiced, falteringly, "They think i have cancer." I have time now to imagine Steve in the minutes before when he thought of what words he would choose to tell me. I remember that i did not say a single word in that doctor's office. I remember holding Steve's gaze. I remember the doctor hugging me and I knew that hug meant that this was as bad and devastating as we suspected. I remember that I got lipstick on the doctors's shirt when he hugged me and he said something light to reassure me that it was ok. I remember holding Steve's hand as we walked through St. Vincents for blood work and I remember the numbness and heat and wet face.
Emptied. in a moment.
Lenten emptiness.
It was such a relief to see that the church had a day that recognized our frailties and failures and answered with words for a fitting response and then the eucharist. We called our love a 'lenten love.'
Last year this time we did not know that Steve had cancer yet. But Ash Wednesday
was on March 9 last year, just one week after we found out that steve
was sick. Steve and I drove to our church for the imposition of
ashes, but b/c he was so weak we ended up not being able to attend the
services and went home instead. I remember this day very vividly. That afternoon, in the midst of nausea and the feeling that he could not breathe (we were just finding out about the lung fluid then), Steve and I drove to the bank to attach my name to all his financial records and to tend to all the final signing of papers and wills and documents.
Today marks 9 months since Steve's death. But i have realized that the actual moment of Steve's last breath was not the day of the most impact for me. Death came to me on an earlier Wednesday afternoon, when I joined him in the doctor's office and he looked at me and voiced, falteringly, "They think i have cancer." I have time now to imagine Steve in the minutes before when he thought of what words he would choose to tell me. I remember that i did not say a single word in that doctor's office. I remember holding Steve's gaze. I remember the doctor hugging me and I knew that hug meant that this was as bad and devastating as we suspected. I remember that I got lipstick on the doctors's shirt when he hugged me and he said something light to reassure me that it was ok. I remember holding Steve's hand as we walked through St. Vincents for blood work and I remember the numbness and heat and wet face.
Emptied. in a moment.
Lenten emptiness.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
a story i have been saving....
Steve died on a Monday morning at dawn. Although our door was open to
those closest to us we were all beginning to see that the visits were
wearing on Steve and that they should be limited. Clint and Isbelle
were coming into town for a visit on Saturday afternoon. I had called
Steve's parents and they were making plans to come on Sunday.
On Saturday morning I went downstairs and just happened to notice a
man on my front porch. When I opened the door he introduced himself
and said he had been looking around and was hoping to see Steve. I
knew the answer would be 'no' but I went and asked Steve anyway. I
came back and invited the man in and sat on the sofa with him for a few
minutes, giving him an update, showing him pictures of the children.
As he prepared to leave he said that he would like to have prayer with
me before he left. I asked him if we could pray a psalm together or
maybe say the Lord's Prayer? At this the countenance of Steve's old friend
became more stern, maybe even harsh?, and he said, "Look Melanie, i don't know your
background or your story..." I interrupted and said, 'Oh, no,
this is not my desire, this is Steve's.' I told him how when
Steve first found out that he was sick he told Glenda and Eric, our priests, "Look, when my
old friends come back, they are going to want to take the room. And i
do not want you to give it to them. I only want the BCP or Psalms
prayed at my bedside. No extemporaneous prayers."
The old friend did not pray a Psalm with me that day but left.
I ran upstairs and crawled onto Steve's lap. I straddled him and
said, 'oh, Steve, wake up from your morphine stupor.' i told him what
had happened. And Steve said, "Melanie, if my friend would not pray the
psalms with you, he did not want to pray with you."
those closest to us we were all beginning to see that the visits were
wearing on Steve and that they should be limited. Clint and Isbelle
were coming into town for a visit on Saturday afternoon. I had called
Steve's parents and they were making plans to come on Sunday.
On Saturday morning I went downstairs and just happened to notice a
man on my front porch. When I opened the door he introduced himself
and said he had been looking around and was hoping to see Steve. I
knew the answer would be 'no' but I went and asked Steve anyway. I
came back and invited the man in and sat on the sofa with him for a few
minutes, giving him an update, showing him pictures of the children.
As he prepared to leave he said that he would like to have prayer with
me before he left. I asked him if we could pray a psalm together or
maybe say the Lord's Prayer? At this the countenance of Steve's old friend
became more stern, maybe even harsh?, and he said, "Look Melanie, i don't know your
background or your story..." I interrupted and said, 'Oh, no,
this is not my desire, this is Steve's.' I told him how when
Steve first found out that he was sick he told Glenda and Eric, our priests, "Look, when my
old friends come back, they are going to want to take the room. And i
do not want you to give it to them. I only want the BCP or Psalms
prayed at my bedside. No extemporaneous prayers."
The old friend did not pray a Psalm with me that day but left.
I ran upstairs and crawled onto Steve's lap. I straddled him and
said, 'oh, Steve, wake up from your morphine stupor.' i told him what
had happened. And Steve said, "Melanie, if my friend would not pray the
psalms with you, he did not want to pray with you."
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