Twenty years ago this week, I was in a hospital in Chelsea undergoing in-vitro fertilization in hopes of getting pregnant. In December of that year, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. The future was unfolding in incredible ways, and I was raising a boy precious to God, beloved by his family, admired by his younger brother, and gifted when holding a soccer ball between his feet. Nobody could have imagined what we are enduring — that in his first year of college, at a school named Hope of all things, that he would be completing his coursework online, sequestered in his room, trying to avoid giving his older dad with an auto-immune disorder a horrible world-wide virus. Nobody planned for just such a time as this. Nobody predicted a world war against a virus that will leave, in the U.S. alone, perhaps 200,000 souls departing this earth in the next 6 weeks.
The earth aches, and our hearts break, and fear rises daily. We know our lives are changed, and that while newness ever arrives, and healing occurs, and God’s presence and love are steadfast — there are moments of doubt, of terrible strain, and perhaps, places of hopelessness. Be kind to yourself when those arrive. Be gentle. Be in prayer. In these times, we hold onto to the beauty around us, and simple joys. I find it helps to focus not on the big picture — but the small one. To dwell in despair is worse than a physical illness. We must make that only a temporary place. What helps me escape those dark moments is beauty. The blooming Redbud. The toddling child in the park. The lavender sunrise. A glass of wine over FaceTime with a friend, sharing our mutual woes, our mutual burdens bearing. Sitting in a comfy chair in silence, re-reading a book of beloved poetry. I find comfort in words, stories, and songs that give me perspective. I share this poem with you by one of my favorite authors, a man who knows something about the transformation of the earth, and therefore, of earth’s people. While it paves a sober pathway, still, I pray it brings you some beauty, and a path towards lightness and love this day. Wendell Berry “The Slip” The river takes the land, and leaves nothing. Where the great slip gave way in the bank and an acre disappeared, all human plans dissolve. An awful clarification occurs where a place was. Its memory breaks from what is known now, begins to drift. Where cattle grazed and trees stood, emptiness widens the air for birdflight, wind, and rain. As before the beginning, nothing is there. Human wrong is in the cause, human ruin in the effect–but no matter; all will be lost, no matter the reason. Nothing, having arrived, will stay. The earth, even, is like a flower, so soon passeth it away. And yet this nothing is the seed of all–the clear eye of Heaven, where all the worlds appear. Where the imperfect has departed, the perfect begins its struggle to return. The good gift begins again its descent. The maker moves in the unmade, stirring the water until it clouds, dark beneath the surface, stirring and darkening the soul until pain perceives new possibility. There is nothing to do but learn and wait, return to work on what remains. Seed will sprout in the scar. Though death is in the healing, it will heal. Peace be with you, Rev. Melissa Anne Rogers
2 Comments
Dear friends, I love stories. Our lives are “made up of stories” (to quote one youth from our Virtual Youth Group this past Sunday). And we are a people of the Word, filled with stories -- our stories. When talking about the Bible, we can acknowledge that it is messy. Our lives are all messy, and the Bible is messy because God’s story is so intimately woven with ours. So on Sunday night, we did a poetry exercise called, “I Am From” (an exercise written by Beverly Tatum) to share with each other a small glimpse of our own unique stories -- which are often messy. The exercise is quite simple, I’ll share it below and I’ll also share my own poem from Sunday night. If you feel so moved, I’d love to see your poem in the comments section! Stanza 1: I am from . . . (Specific sights, sounds, and smells from your home and neighborhood). Stanza 2: I am from . . . (Specific foods, especially those associated with special occasions). Stanza 3: I am from . . . (Specific sayings or phrases heard growing up). Stanza 4: I am from . . . (Specific people who influenced your life). Here is my poem: I am from… the smell of freshly ground coffee beans, chalked sidewalks, and a barking dog. I am from… fresh homemade pizza, arroz con gandules, & pozole on Christmas Day. I am from… “ay ya yai,” “pues ni modo,” and “it is what it is.” I am from… mis padres, mi familia, mi gente. We currently find ourselves in an unusual, strange, frustrating moment. Physical distancing as a way of being in social solidarity with our neighbors has cancelled the opportunity for many stories, but it also is an opportunity to remember many others, and to create unique, particular ones from this moment. I’m reminded of a piece of dialogue from one of my favorite stories (the Lord of the Rings): “I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” On this April 1st, may you be moved by the stories that make up our lives, from stories that guide our lives (like the Psalm from this past Sunday which is turned into a beautiful song here), the stories that bring us joy (like the stories shared in THIS video), and stories that we create (like pranking someone in your home by Short Sheeting their bed). Even though we also carry hard and painful stories, my friends, may you find hope and companionship in the stories that bring you joy that make up our lives. Grace y paz, Rev. Mark Mares |
Archives
May 2020
Categories |