Returning

Although we have definitely been tending to lots of living around here, I have not felt drawn to post about it for quite some time.  But there is much to tell, and Steve and the love he nurtured is ever present.  There are griefs to be described and joys to be narrated.  There are questions to live and many, many more words of Steve's to hear in response.

I remember gathering with Frank in our living room for the 'reading of the will.'  Among other things, Steve left Margaret most of his journals, and he left his ipod to me.  Margaret often holes herself upstairs with computer at hand to transcribe his hand written words onto word documents for us.  I can only imagine her summer joy when her Christmas present idea came to her.

Margaret spent some time on Highland Avenue, taking pictures.  Really good pictures.  She then laid them out among the 'Walks on Highland' essays and had them made into books.  One Advent day I came home and Marge seemed particularly 'smug.'  Smug and satisfied with that sense that she had most likely nailed the 'most meaningful gift for all of us for Christmas this year' contest....if there was such a contest.  Her Christmas delivery had arrived and Mary, Margaret and I sat on my bed for the unveiling.

Although I was familiar with most of the essays, the last entry was one that had never made it from the journal to Steve's computer collections.  Fresh words. New tears.  Words written years ago and saved for this particular year's Advent waiting.  Old words to be read along with recent images of our beloved Highland.

There is no comfort like his words.  I do not think we are idealizing Steve or making him a saint or anything.  He was pretty frank about his foibles.  And we had at least a few days of 'normal married life.'  But he is alive in all of those sermon notes, journal entries and unexpected underlines in loved books.  He is alive in notes he wrote in the frontpiece of books he gave to us.  His poetry is especially living, we can hear as much in the words he did not say as the ones he did.  He is present in the authors he read and returned to.  And he is present in the songs he sang and listened to.

So, I am returning to this blog.  I like the idea of writing and posting each Sabbath.  Many parts of our grief are sequestered and particular.  But there is a communal and corporate side, a common side of our grief.  And this blog is the reflection of that sad but hopeful space that the absence of his body has made in our days.

I find it fascinating that Steve harbored his inner landscape for most of his years. He rarely inserted himself and was reticent to tell his secrets.   It was his exile and then sickness that propelled him to a more expansive, vulnerable openness.  Wanting to 'blog' and tell people about what was going on was a new reality for him.   He relished in his ability at the end to tell us what he was feeling, sometimes accompanied by an onslaught of tears or a giddy happiness.

I, on the other hand, have had little trouble living 'inside out'.... hanging my inner world out to see like daily laundry.  I am finding that his death and my grief may just do the work of turning me back inside inside and outside out.  So, if the blog entries become fewer and farther between, you will know that it is not because I am forgetting,  but because the things i am remembering seem to flower best with an audience of One.

orientation

This is a 'pre excommunication' work of Steve's, or possibly right after. He has written some essays on the Psalms, ones he imagined might one day become a book.  

1

            “We’re always beginners with God”, Karl Barth says.  We are novices in the ways of God, even after years and years of walking along the path.  In fact, sometimes it seems like every time we take a step forward, we are starting the journey all over again.

            Our city has an immense botanical garden.  I regularly spend hours strolling along the paths, sitting, praying.  I just discovered a new secluded spot.  I’ve been there 300 times and never seen it.  It is a small circle which is ringed by curved, wooden benches (mine was dedicated to the memory of Shirley Bargainer Something.)  There is rust-colored gravel on the ground, tinted by the local iron deposits.  I love the sound of it crunching under my feet.  Something wild has been knawing on several of the benches.  I like to think it is a dangerous creature, but I suppose they don’t knaw on wood.  They would knaw on bones.  Large camellia bushes surround and encroach upon the circle (one called “Daydream”, and another “Fantasia”.)  I can hear the wind in the pines, which is a distinctively southern sound.  It is pleasant, enclosed, quiet.   I can imagine never wanting to leave this small haven.  It’s just that I know that it is only one of a hundred such spots in the garden.  Just beyond the perimeter you can see that there is so much more- beautiful things.  Wild things.

            I picture life as if I’m standing in the center of a circle.  If I stay in the center of it, I can see and enjoy what is right around me.  I can feel sure about it too, about what I see there.  I feel safe.  But if I move away from the center, and reach out to touch its perimeter, the circle expands.  Suddenly everything I had seen before has been changed by the enlarging circumference.  More and more of what is real is exposed.  I feel seasick.  Disoriented.  I would prefer to stay where everything is pleasant, comprehensible and controlled.

            I believe that this is what the Apostle’s experienced in their life with Jesus.  If you lay Paul’s letters out chronologically, you find an interesting shift in his self-awareness.  It progresses like this over the course of his life:  First, “I am an Apostle!”  Then, “I am the least of the Apostles”, to “I am the least of all God’s people”, and finally, at the end of his life, “I am the chief of sinners.”  It seems that each time he touched the perimeter of his own human frailty and sinfulness, it expanded out.  It was worse than he thought.  We are worse off than we think.

            But Paul also told us that  as he moved out into his own brokenness, the immensity of God’s mercy became clearer.  The landscape of the love of God expanded as well.  There is so much more!  More than I could imagine!

            Fear would always keep us from exploration, moving from the center.  Exploration is disorienting, dangerous, vulnerable, and even lonely.  There are wild things out there, things that would knaw on our bones!  And if we had any sense, we would just stay where we are.  But then there is this call-  a call to this wild, other world, that keeps encroaching into this one.  It is a world of love, mercy and truth, and somehow we know that we were made for it.  Once you have felt that call in the depths of your being, it is very hard to ignore.  It’s very hard to not begin to step out.  This has been true for century upon century of the followers of Jesus.   The Psalms have always been the explorer’s guidebook.

            Psalm 1 is the orientation. 

            The first psalm begins with enticement.  The first word seduces us.  It encompasses what we desire in our deepest parts, whether we’ve been able to put a finger on it or not.  “Blessed”.  This is the person who is tasting fullness.  I think this one word captures everything we are meant to be, hope to be, long to be…but are not.  It is the opposite of disintegration.  Wholeness, peace, meaning, well-being.  What would it take for you to say “I’m flourishing”?  Not in some blissfully ignorant way, but in a way that makes you see that you are being lifted out of all the broken pieces of your life.  A deep seated sense that “All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”  The call to the way of God is a call to blessedness.  We are not told the exact shape that this will take, but it is the promise of the road.

            But there are conditions.  Everybody knows that only a fool would start on any dangerous trek without some sort of survey of the conditions.  What is required of me?  Two things:  Shift your loyalty, and shift your posture.  Here’s what I mean.

            “His delight is in the Law of the Lord….”  Followers of the way of God are called to be loyal to what is true, to what’s really there.  In our western conception, we might think this simply means that we are to hold to certain “truths”, a set of facts or propositions.  But that’s not big enough.  I’ve been told that in the Hebrew mind,  something is true if it can hold water.  In other words, true things don’t collapse or give way.  You can pressure a true thing, push against it, and it won’t fail or break. 

            “Like chaff…” An acquaintance of mine grew up in outside the States, and was deeply committed to the religion she was raised in.  She was very devout.  But at some point in her early twenties, she suddenly embraced Christianity.  When she was asked why she converted, her answer was simple:  the other ran out.  She had tested her old loyalties, and they collapsed to the ground. 

There is an underlying assumption in the Old and New Testament, and in all Christian theology, that the Living God is the Speaking God.  The Living God is a self-revealer who wants us to know him and be linked to him.  The Bible is God’s speech.  The person on this path is asked to lean into God’s words.  To live and even test what God has revealed about himself, about us, and about the world. 

Another assumption is that a letter from a person is the equivalent of the presence of that person.  The Apostle Paul assumed that when his letters were read to churches, it was as if he himself were in the room, and beyond that, that Christ was in the room.  This is why Christians have held onto the archaic practice of preaching.  Somehow, mysteriously, despite the preacher, Jesus is present in these words.  There is no disconnect between the word of God and God himself.  Even if he doesn’t tell us everything about himself, what he does reveal is true to who he is.  To delight in his Law is to delight in him.  Loyalty to his word is loyalty to him.  He is present with us, linked to us through these words.  You may not be interested in letting God go to the deepest parts of your being.  I would understand that.  But if you are, the Psalmist is saying, be loyal to his words.  Listen to them.  Press against them.  They are big enough, deep enough for every part of who we are, and they won’t run out on us.  The way of God is big enough for all of you and your ways.

The Psalm also contrasts two postures.  The first  possibility (and Psalm 2 describes this vividly) is to be “the man who walks in the counsel of the wicked, stands in the way of sinners, sits in the seat of scoffers”.  The second is to be “like a tree”.  There is a dramatic grammatical contrast here (well, it may not sound that dramatic, but I think it is).  The first has action verbs:  walk, stand, sit.  The only verb associated with the second is “meditate”, which we wouldn’t consider very active.  A contrast between active and passive.  The call is to shift from an active posture of frenzy, fear, and self-protection, to a passive posture of receptivity, of rest and peace and trust.

There is a small winery in California that puts out two zinfandels called Sin Zin and Redemption Zin.  They recommend on the label that you drink the former first, and the latter after.  I suppose the assumption is that the Sin Zin sneaks up on you, and you pop the cork unexpectedly at 10:30 one morning and drink the thing down- it sort of catches you by surprise and takes you over.  But then with the other you carefully plan out a moderate intake to make up for guzzling the other.  That’s backwards.  The psalmist is implying that we are very active in our sin.  We plan it out.  We plot it.  We calculate.  We control.  We know exactly what we are doing.  It’s the redemption of God that keeps taking us unawares and surprising us.

So we can choose out of fear to grasp and connive and control, or we can take the quiet posture of receiving (i.e. “like a tree”.)  This is the sense of the word “meditate”, patient, open handed waiting and listening. 

He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers.  Those who take this posture are waiting for God, receiving from God, and taking a patient, long haul approach to watching what God will do, knowing that in this posture, they will grow and prosper.

            One of my favorite stories in the Bible illustrates this.  It is the story of the two sisters, Mary and Martha.  You find this Mary three times in the gospels, and in each case, she is at the feet of Jesus- learning, weeping, worshipping.  In the first account, Mary is sitting before Jesus, and her sister Martha is mad and frustrated because she won’t come help with the dishes.  Jesus rebukes Martha, not for her housework, but rather for her posture.  She is anxious and worried.  “You are worried and upset about many things.”  Then he says that Mary has chosen a better way.  She has chosen to be like a tree. 

Now Mary gets mocked for this.  Every time you see her, someone criticizes her.  Choosing to be like a tree isn’t popular.  It isn’t popular now.  We’re not a “tree” culture- a passive, waiting people. 

            But what you see in Mary is that over time, her life becomes fruitful and radiant.  I think Mary understood, better than any other disciple, what Jesus came to do.  She had insight into the death and resurrection that no other disciple had during Jesus’ three years of ministry.  Where did she get this?  From being receptive, from listening to him.  The story says that while many were baffled by Jesus and who he was, “those who came to see Mary put their faith in him”.  The one’s who were around Mary began to see who Jesus was.  She is living the conditions of Psalm 1 and prospering.

           

            Sin seems right.  Your whole being will go after it.  It’s unavoidable.  But what you’re being asked to believe here is that it will always give way.  It is chaff.  “Go ahead,” he says, “Push on it.  Try it.  It will collapse”.  Sin is nothing.  God is everything.  Lean into him.  This will be our way throughout the journey.

           

            

a story

The Two Hunters by Kahlil Gibran

Upon a day in May, Joy and Sorrow met beside a lake. They greeted one another, and they sat down near the quiet waters and conversed.

Joy spoke of the beauty which is upon the earth, and the daily wonder of life in the forest and among the hills, and of the songs heard at dawn and eventide.

And sorrow spoke, and agreed with all that Joy had said; for Sorrow knew the magic of the hour and the beauty thereof. And Sorrow was eloquent when he spoke of may in the fields and among the hills.

And Joy and Sorrow talked long together, and they agreed upon all things of which they knew.

Now there passed by on the other side of the lake two hunters. And as they looked across the water one of them said, "I wonder who are those two persons?" And the other said, "Did you say two? I see only one."

The first hunter said, "But there are two." And the second said, "There is only one that I can see, and the reflection in the lake is only one."

"Nay, there are two," said the first hunter, "and the reflection in the still water is of two persons."

But the second man said again, "Only one do I see." And again the other said, "But I see two so plainly."

And even unto this day one hunter says that the other sees double; while the other says, "My friend is somewhat blind."

A Hidden Poem

Today, and for the last few days, I have been immersed in life with Steve's parents, siblings, children, nieces, nephews, aunts and uncles and old friends.   Steve's parents live in a house that lures one to sleep, to rest - it is full of 'shalom.'  It's funny because one of the relatives often refers to Gammy and Bebob's house as 'full of chaos!'  But for me, this is a home full of love, acceptance and laughter laced with intermittent tears.

Thanksgiving Day brought the traditional meal, cooking parallel, toasting to the joy of togetherness and overeating.

But today many of us are still in our jammies and for most of the day five of us have been sitting at the dining room table enjoying our laptops, with the canal waters drifting by out the dining room windows.  I have been perusing Steve's documents saved on a hard drive that I have not had access to before.

And I found this hidden poem,  written by Steve in 2009 or so.


On Mark 5…

Cast to the side where death hovers like a cloud.

Neighbors look away, stop their ears.
Tormented cries ignored
Night and day out among the tombs.
Healers can’t heal.  Life leaks away.
“Unclean!”  No priestly words.
“Unclean!”  No husband’s touch.
Tender, bright young eyes close.
The pulse slows then stops.
“Not a child!”
“Not a little child!”
Death.  Fear.  All alone.

Who is this who walks through the death cloud,
Whose voice reaches the lonely dead and dying?

A mind cleared.
A body healed.
Sleepy eyes open.
Life.  Peace.  Faith.  Wonder.

Way back in March.....

when Steve and i started this blog, we admitted that we would not only post updates about his medical sides of things but that we might use this as a place to process the larger conversation we were having with each other and in our heads.

So, it seems i am continuing that process.  All of my days now seem to be answering to our days together.  I journal and all, and I have really good friends to talk things to the end with.  However, as our family lives with this daily synthesizing of the way of life that  Steve was so sure of and preached about,  merging with our day to day without his body near,  I find that this blog is cathartic.

My friend Bonnie wrote me a while back, sending quotes from Hannah Coulter and ending her letter with these words:  "So I pray for you to cup, to hold each other, and to be filled with God's presence.  You would be smothered with beauty in the midst of grief."

and from Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter -

"A sort of heartbreaking kindness grew then between me and Mr. and Mrs. Feltner. It grew among all of us.  It was a kindness of doing whatever we could think of that might help or comfort one another....That kindness kept us alive."

and

"Love held us.  Kindness held us.  We were suffering what we were living by."

Bonnie's notes are housed  in beautiful artwork, thoughtful choice of stamp, a clipping or a drawing, often of wheat.  One time she made the envelope out of a magazine article about fiddleheads, just because she knew I loved them.  She addresses them to "Melanie Malone."  Sometimes she admits that she wrote the letter months ago but forgot to mail it then so is adding more now and whisking it into the out box lest it lie there hidden for another few months.

Simple attention and kindness that i find in my mailbox periodically.
Daily bread.
Manna.
But I am growing confident that this kind of kindness dripping in the pool of suffering must magically turn the cup of bitterness into joy,  for moments, for hours, sometimes even whole days at a time.
And those are the reliefs that we live by.

1000 Pilgrim Days (written by Steve)

1000 Pilgrim Days

I’m remembering when we set sail

With a new country alive in our minds,

Just right there,

Just beyond our reach.

Uncharted water,

Unknown harbors,

In between.

Taking tabernacle packs, cloaks and sturdy shoes.

(Dream homes left behind.)

Fear and hope and daily prayers as company.

Casting off with trembling hands,

With burning hearts.

Entering the channel,

No navigation on this river.

Carried now on the current.

No going back.

And with unpredictable weather

From north, south, east, and west.

Out of nowhere,

Clear, cool days turned to furnace blasts,

Raging storms becalmed.

Nights embroiled with fiery beasts,

“Have mercy, Lord, have mercy!”

Mornings provisioned under Angel feathers.

“You have brought me in safety to this new day.”

And for all these traveling days,

One thousand pilgrim days,

Solitude and togetherness,

Letting everything happen to us,

Found again and again.

We are almost there.

Just a while longer.

An Unusual Anniversary

Melanie asked me to write a few words about our family's celebration of her and Steve's wedding anniversary last night- our antidote to sadness. I thought about trying to be poetic about it, but the truth of the matter is, we ate a picnic dinner in a deep, dark storm drain between Highway 280 and the Wal-Mart in Sylacauga. That needs no poetry, I think.

We chose Sylacauga because it's halfway between Birmingham, where we were, and Auburn, where Anna Claire and Madeleine were for Anna Claire's play that afternoon. We chose a picnic because Sylacauga doesn't offer much fine dining, and we chose a storm drain because we met in the Wal-Mart parking lot and the drain offered plenty of space and shelter from the cold wind. I came from Athens that afternoon and met Melanie, Mary, and the boys at Whole Foods, where they were choosing cheeses, crackers, chocolates, and all the sorts of things that are necessary for a picnic. We headed on to our location, where the boys went exploring and discussed the zombie apocalypse, the girls caught up on the latest Auburn stories, and Melanie laid out the feast and lit candles. One of those candles hadn't been lit since the wedding last year, and was meant to be lit only once a year, at this anniversary.

We came together around this makeshift table, and passed around bread and cider and all the other foods (I'm still not sure of everything that was there, because it was so dark), and when we were drawing to a close, Melanie gave each of us a little box with a ring. We talked about how we loved being all together, and then someone spotted something on the horizon. It looked like fire, glowing red and growing rapidly, but in fact was the moon, rising as fast as it could through the clouds to hang overhead and watch us. My dad loved the moon- he used to walk and talk to it at night- and so I suppose it remembered, and wanted to check on us on this bittersweet day.

Melanie asked if we wanted to try to talk about Steve, or the loss of him, but none of us felt ready for that. I am slow with words, and I know it will be a long time for me. But I think for everyone, the moon, and the food, and the storm drain, and the togetherness were enough for a while.

-Marge