When Someone You Love Becomes a Memory, the Memory Becomes a Treasure

In memory of our baby granddaughter, Evelyn Hope

May 3, 2019

These are the words I mustered to share at the service held to mark her short time with us.
 

Ah Baby Girl,

 

How is it that the unspeakable has happened and you are gone from us?

 

We are flattened by the devastating power of our love for you pulsing forward into the cold emptiness of your horrifying absence.  Every tear is a scream against the vicious void that shocks us awake each day now, since that day you were delivered to us silent.  

 

This we did not see coming.

 

But sweet baby Evelyn Hope, you need to know this.

 

You have rocked our world and we are forever changed.  Perhaps in the brevity of your time with us there is a mystic distillation of your spirit, granting you in the nine months of your growing hidden, and the less than 24 hours we had you in our arms, the same profundity of impact that takes the rest of us a life time to realize, if we live intentionally enough.

 

I’m so glad I had the chance to hold you.  Your Momma loved you strong and brave even in her heartbreak, to deliver you to us so we could meet you.   And I held you and sang to you, letting you know that this is not the way I want things to be, or I’d be with you now. 

 

And now what?  How do we live like this?  What is to become of these aching hearts chasing after our phantom child?

 

I don’t know.

 

Except.  Except. 

 

The ocean of love that pours out of us for you does not come out of a vacuum.  This family already knows how to hold on to each other in the midst of the unspeakable.  How to love no matter what.  How to watch for all that God wants to do redemptively because of this, because you were born to us, and then had to go. 

 

You are now part of a family that loves fiercely, little one.  We will never forget you. 

 

I see you dancing.  In my imagination – some might call it a vision – there is a swish of yellow, like satin soaked in sunshine that catches my eye off to the right.  And I turn my head and a little girl full of delight grabs my hand and says, “Gramma! Come dance with me.” 

 

So, I will wait to dance with you, Sweetie. 

Yes, we will dance together, and none of this will be sad any more.

The Not So Comfy Couch

There's a new Sunday morning ritual in my life that's scaring me a little. 

I get comfy on the couch.

In this bigger picture of health-restriction life, not gathering on Sundays has been the hardest adjustment for me.  Especially right now as I have stepped back into a role where some of my most favourite parts of the job happen early Sunday morning, leading up to and including our time together as a community.

Two Sundays.  Last November there were only two Sundays where that actually happened.  Where I could set my alarm to be up before sunrise, head down to the church to begin to prepare my own heart for worship in the solitude of the building, indulge in several sets of worship as the band arrived and rehearsed, and then - together with my family - offer praise and open the Word.  

So I guess it's natural that I would seek to find other ways to set the day apart.  New rituals to prepare my heart for the on line way of being together.  Ways to still my mind and open my heart that I find so necessary, else I just end up 'watching church'.

It's healthy to adjust.  Not just for myself, but for all those I love and lead, I want that.  I do.  How awful if we could not find our rituals and routines to embrace the different ways of being the people of God, of approaching Him in awe, of tenaciously staying spiritually 'together' while we anticipate the day when we physically will be.

But what if this all gets too comfy?

It bothers me.  It seems that in our pandemic default to self-preservation there's a high risk of forgetting that we follow a Saviour Who calls us to deny ourselves.

"Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.   For whoever wants to save their lives will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it."  Matthew 16:24-25

The leaders at Highview, like many churches I imagine, are seeking input from their people to see what's working and what's not for Sunday mornings right now.  Rearranging the order of things.  Posting things so they can be easily accessed.  Thinking through how the on line experience 'feels' for various folks at various stages of life.  And we'll keep on doing that, for sure.

But something would be terribly wrong if we didn't also remind ourselves that being a follower of the Jesus who hung on the Cross isn't likely to be 'convenient.'  That the demands of discipleship don't jive well with 'church on demand.'  That our mission to go into all the world and make disciples probably won't find us comfy on the couch.

Heaven forbid (literally) if, in our efforts to make worship and teaching more accessible during lockdown, we convey a false message that this is all about making things easier.

This isn't just about Sunday mornings either.  Being 'the Church' has far, far wider implications than just what we're doing on the day we gather, whatever way that happens.  It's about ALL the ways we worship, and ALL the ways we love, and ALL the ways we grow, and ALL the ways we reflect to the world Who Jesus is.

This morning, in our 'on line' service, we'll be observing Communion together.

I really, really hope it feels uncomfortable.

Drown Proofing a Pandemic

 I am a swimmer.  And oh how I'm missing my early morning swims at the pool these past months!  

Honestly, it's been almost a year since I set foot in the building, except once to just chat at the front desk about how to put my membership on hold until I feel safe to interact in the gym/pool environment.  By now I'm longing for the quiet pull of my arms through the water, the rhythmic breathing on every fourth stroke, and the overall flood of endorphins when I climb out and towel off.

I feel safe and strong in the water, my swimming confidence the result of summer childhoods by the lake and Red Cross instruction at camp every July.  One skill required to advance to the next level (can't remember which by now) was the rather bluntly named 'drown-proofing.

The imagined scenario is that you are in over your head and for some reason are not close to shore or any other object to hold on to, AND you're tired.  Drown-proofing teaches you how to rest in the water.  You literally stop swimming and, holding your body in a certain posture, face down arms and legs spread, you allow yourself 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3, Mississippi, 4 Mississipi.... and longer as you get better at this, before you bring your face up out of the water, take a long slow breath, and do it again.

I remember really not liking it at first.  Wait?  I'm tired in the water, and I have to put my face IN the water?  I remember having a hard time resting while holding my breath, and coming up too soon in a gasp.  But after a while, with good coaching from the swimming instructor, I actually ended up enjoying it, finding it oh so quiet and peaceful in those moments of Mississipi counting, held up by the water itself.

We were not allowed to advance to the next level of swimming until we could do this perfectly.  It was essential, we were told, to have this skill if we were going to have any long confidence in our swimming ability.  It could save our lives, they said.

In a way, I feel like we all need this skill right now.

For this idea, I need to acknowledge Gail Patterson, mental health therapist at Joseph Brant Hospital, and her comments at a mental health webinar I attended Saturday morning through Anchor Ministerial Fellowship where I hold my credentials.  

In her talk she suggested that the pandemic has us all in over our depth, treading furiously just to keep our heads above the water.  All the pressing realities force us into skill sets we never knew we needed; navigating technologies, schooling our children, working from home, caring for elderly parents, leading and loving our communities of faith, grocery shopping, banking, you name it.  We're all on a learning curve and a coping curve and an anxiety curve that has us all exhausted.  And all without the normal supports - sort of like things we might grab hold of in the water - to keep us buoyed up and enjoying the swim.

Drown-proofing.  Resting in the midst of this.  Refusing to thrash about in an energy-wasting panic, but instead, floating face down with confidence, ready to swim again...in just a moment.  Stopping to look out the window.  Standing up for a good stretch.  Going for a walk around the block.  Moving to my reading chair not to read but to sit and meditate on some gratitudes for a few minutes.  Making sure to protect my restorative time in a world where work/rest rhythms are all off.  

And letting myself be Held by Arms that do not become fatigued.

Because the imagery of drown-proofing isn't quite complete without another memory from my swimming childhood.

I am maybe seven years old, swimming off the dock with my favourite cousin who was more like a brother.  A big brother, stronger and taller, who would put me on his shoulders and walk way out beyond the dock to where I am normally not allowed to be without a life jacket.  I love it up there.  I feel so safe, knowing his feet are on the bottom, allowing me to take the risk, push my fears just a little.  I trust him.  

There is a moment, though, where I realize just how much I trust him.  I am laughing and saying, "I could never touch bottom way out here."  And he takes one more step and says, "Neither can I!"

My mood rockets instantaneously from happy and fun to all out panic.  But just for the quickest of seconds, because all he does is step back, and we are all good.  And I am immediately in a space of joy and well being again.

This is such a long swim, my friends.  Some days it's like we're out in the middle of the lake and we can't even see a shoreline.  Whatever lets us count to 5 Mississippi, let's do it!  And may we ride with confidence, even joy, on the shoulders of a great big God who's feet are always solidly planted, no matter how far out we are.

For All The Mamas

 

[I'll begin with a disclaimer.  I celebrate and am in awe of all the Dads who are partnering with the Mamas to nurture and protect your young ones during this time.  I write from a mother's perspective and would not dare to assume I that I remotely know what that's like for you.  Kudos for who you are and what you do.  Perhaps one of you will write a piece For All The Dads.  We'd love that!]

My heart is stretched with many prayers these days.  

Top of the list right now is all the Mamas.  Especially the ones at home with new babies.  Especially the ones who are guiding their children in distant learning.  Especially the ones trying to work from home. Especially the ones cut off from the family and friends who, in another reality, would be your 'village' in a hands-on concrete, play-date, let-me-hold-the-baby-for-a-while, out-for-ice-cream, or sleep-over-at-Gramma's kind of way.  And VERY especially for those for whom all of the above is your reality in this momemt.

The mothering you are doing right now is nothing short of heroic!

These nurturing-band-new-people days are intense.  Even in the best of times.  I remember them well, and I'm almost 40 years past them!  The times when I would get an overwhelming sense of accomplishment if I got the bed made.  The times when the evening 'colic' (did anyone ever find out what that really was?) would hit like clockwork at 7:15 and run until 9:30 every night, reducing us all into a big sobbing mess.  The times when the one task of feeding these little humans seemed to obliterate anything else I might dare to hope to do in a day, hence that swell of wonder if I got the bed made.  The times when sleep deprivation made it ever so convincing that the balled up sock in the hallway was crawling its way towards me.   Those days.

And in none of this was I required to isolate.  Heaven forbid!  The group of sister-moms I belonged to was my lifeline!  Play dates were essential!  Just a walk down to Tim's for a tea and some Timbits was a grand outing that could redeem the most wretched of days.  My own kids didn't have Grammas that were geographically close enough, but in the community of faith they were certainly passed around as if.

So, Brave Wonders, know this.  I am in awe of you!   You and your wee littles are not forgotten.  Not by us, not by God.  By a God who sees a sparrow fall?  No way.  Every bit of this He's, on it with you.  

And right here and right now I so want to offer some sort of guidance or wisdom, but I really have nothing.  Because....how different this is from any sort of parenting anyone's done in probably a hundred years!  What could any of us from our generation offer you, as much as we'd long to?  But perhaps some of the mama mantras that carried us through may be even just a little bit helpful.  Just a little?  And with that faint hope in mind...

 It's not easy being the world's future (for when they are crying).                                                                Celebrate the little things (like making the bed).                                                                                  There will come a time when they sleep through the night/cut their own food/wipe their own bums. Fresh air is sometimes the best cure for crazy.                                                                                    Watch them for a little bit when they're asleep.                                                                                        Do one thing each day that's just for you.                                                                                                Your child isn't the only one that's growing, so pay attention to all that's transforming in you.                  This too shall pass.    

Reach out.  Trust your network.  They're still your village.                                                                          

And just one final note.  You really have no idea what your nurture is preparing them for.  The picture above is of my daughter Kristyn, age two, in a tender moment with her new baby brother David.  She's now mothering through a pandemic herself, heroically so.

Love to you Mamas!  Love and power and tenacity and peace and grace and wonder.

Quiet Upon Quiet, and Shining

I begin with a confession.

I've snitched our church's Advent Candle display to bring home to my own porch.  I did ask around -  a little - and no one else had need of it, and since we're not having services in the building right now, it seemed a shame to leave such a generous display of greens, bearing the significance of the anticipation and fulfillment of the season, all alone just sitting there.  I think of it as sort of adopting a rescue.  It can come and be glorious on my porch for a while longer into the winter.  Or so I hoped.

And then it snowed!

There's no lighting of the candles at the moment.  That glory is buried, waiting. 

I can't tell if it looks a little foolish, or if there's a new kind of beauteous to it.  I think both.  And it's sort of telling the story of how things are right now.

I love when it snows like this for Christmas.  All green, even grey leading up to Christmas Eve.  And then - a little Christmas miracle - it snows all glorious and pure and a little bit wild.  And quiet.  Snow can be all of that at the same time.  And it's like our lives right now.  

Today begins the lockdown we'd all been hoping we could avoid.  And with it an again-sort of weird quiet begins, where we all stay home, hunkered and hoping.  It's like the weather got the memo and wants to help us.  Stay put.  Be quiet.  

I'm receiving that quiet today.  A Sabbath of winter to follow the strange way Christmas was still 'busy' this year.  Not the visiting or the driving or even the shopping, but in all the new ways we had to think of how to be family and love each other and stay connected anyways.  Busy with re-tooling, re-imagining, being stubborn in our love.  Glad for all of it.  Glad for a pause of it just now.

Like being under a fresh blanket of snow, all hushed like this.

"Cease striving," we are told, "and know that I am God."  Psalm 46:10  In some translations it says, "Be still."

It's been said that there are "dark days of winter" ahead.  No doubt.  So yay and praise for the light of all the Advent Candles, and all they represent in the hope and peace and joy and light we have in Jesus Whose birth makes possible everything else.  Yay and praise for the receiving of the snow and the brushing of it back and lighting our candles anyways.  Defiantly.  

Even in this.  Even being strong and beautiful in the midst of this hushed-down space of waiting and longing that will usher in a new year in just days from now.

Even in the waiting, there can be glory and light and beauty.

And it could be argued, how much more so, the darker it gets.

All that we've just declared                                                                                                                                            in every carol chorused,                                                                                                                                              every reading rendered,                                                                                                                                          every gift given,                                                                                                                                                     every hope held,                                                                                                                                                        is still true.

Grace and Then More

 

"Out of His fullness, we have all received

grace upon grace.

John 1:16

It's a different kind of stress I bump up against this Christmas if I'm not careful.  I don't even really recognize it at first.  Maybe because I'm not in the mall.

In fact, speaking of the mall, there's a rather welcome absence of certain kinds of Christmas frenzy this year.  No big shopping push.  No big meal to prepare.  No quantum-physics level calendar co-ordinations.  No travel plans.  No rehearsals for the big Christmas Eve service.  In may ways it's unusually quiet, in fact.

Except a vague feeling of 'too much' remains.  What is that?

Too much news?  There's certainly been that, and it's hard to tune it out when every day something comes down the pike that might just change everything.  And that everything-change might require big decisions about really important things, like where your family will be all day, and whether or not you gather for church on Sundays, and what's going to happen with your paycheck.  

Too many numbers?  This is directly connected to too much news, but it's its own kind of stress.  Ominous, sobering, and by now rather numbing.  There's this scene in the Harry Potter movie "The Deathly Hallows" where Harry, Hermoine and Ron are fugitives, hiding in the woods and living in a tent.  They're hiding because a hostile entity (not a virus, but...) is out to get them and everyone they love.  They have with them a small radio on which each day a list of names, is announced, those missing and perhaps dead.  It's crushing in its dreadful monotone of recitation.  Sometimes, when listening to the numbers being given each day, I am reminded of this.

Yes, too much news and too many numbers.  But the too much factor I'm feeling is less defined than that.  It's more about just a hard to recognize and going on way to long undercurrent of fatigue and grief and frustration.

It manifests itself indirectly, in confusions and misunderstandings and distorted perspectives.  In all the extra effort required in speaking kindly.  In a strong temptation to overreact.  Talking about myself here.

Pause for a needful reflection on the need for grace.

It's a unique feature of John's gospel that it doesn't include any traditional birth narrative.  Instead, John bursts out of the gate with mystic prose and profound theology.  In introducing Jesus, he doesn't give us any other characters in the story but Jesus Himself, come from the Father, full of grace and truth.

And then he describes what I think could quite accurately be pegged as the first, pre-magi even, Christmas gift.   

Grace upon grace.

Grace to be loved anyways.  And then more of it.  Grace to be offered a way out of our own mess.  And then more of it.

I love how this grace is spilling out of the fullness of Jesus.  There's a picture underneath these words that conjures up it's own kind of 'too much'.  So much grace, it spills over onto us.  Undeserved and copious.  More and more grace.

If ever there was a Christmas where we need to just be kind and give each other slack, it's this one.  If ever the in-this-with-you sense of grace was needed, it's now.  Grace to cover a multitude of offenses, both real and imagined.  Grace to choose not to be annoyed.  Grace to patiently listen, patiently re-direct, patiently wait for the ways we can all find our way together to better understandings, more love.  

Grace given.  Grace received.

The countdown is on.  Only six days left.  

We've all be through a lot.  

I just needed to remember this.

What the Heart Sees

 

 There's a story (I wish I remembered the source so I could cite it) of the grand unveiling of one of the first computer programs that could translate from one language to another.  All the important business investors and CEOs were present for the media presentation.  Of course a demonstration of the program's capabilities was in order.  

To help convince everyone of the legitimacy of the test, the moderator asked the gathered crowd for a random phrase in English.  "Out of side out of mind", someone said from the back.  The phrase was typed into the computer.  Then the moderator asked for someone to choose a language into which this phrase would be translated.  "Japanese", someone said, wanting to give the program what they hoped was a rigorous challenge.

The person at the keyboard hit all the right buttons, and instantaneously on the demo screen there appeared some Japanese characters.  Everyone was impressed with the speed.  But they realized there were no Japanese speaking folks among them to verify.  So they typed the characters back into the program and hit all the buttons again.

What came up in English was "Invisible Idiot."

While this story is an amusing reminder of the nuances of language, translation and culture, it also speaks to me of that mystic sense of things made more true because they are unseen.

Evelyn's Candle

Just one example?

All the beloveds who aren't with us this Christmas.

I guess it's true that there are some things, maybe even people, we don't think too much about if they aren't physically present with us.  But when the heart has locked onto love, there is no un-seeing of the object of that love.  

We lost a baby granddaughter in May of 2019.  This will be our second Christmas being a family in that oxymoronic space of feeling her presence all the more acutely because of her absence.  "Out of sight, out of mind" seems not only altogether untrue, but completely impossible.  But maybe that's because she's not really 'out of sight' at all.  

Our hearts see her everywhere.

This bridges for me into how I'm experiencing almost all of my human connections this year.  Coming upon Christmas, I'm even more aware of the deep and beautiful relationships I have because of the fact I can't actually 'be with' them right now.

The blood family we won't eat with over the holidays.

The Thai family oh so far away for oh so many months now.

The faith family who isn't gathering, even on Christmas Eve.

"Out of sight, out of mind?"  Are you kidding me!!??

(pause to compose myself)

And here's another way this all comes together for me.

All the folks who are physically 'alone' this year?  You're not.

Okay, reality check here.  This blog goes out into cyberspace and in the off chance someone reading this doesn't know me or isn't connected to any community of faith or any community at all?  Yeah, I don't know about that.  I can't really speak into that.  My heart aches for you, and I'd so encourage you to look up a local small church pastor.  Or you can look me up at hcckw.ca and we can have a chat.  

But the rest of you?  Those who are part of my orbits, physically alone or not?  I see you.  I can't stop thinking about you.  And I think I can confidently speak for the collective of grace and love that exists as Highview when I say, we've got you covered.

There are many ways this grace and love is translating into something concrete in these weeks before Christmas.

Coffee runs.

Caroling with sparklers.

Meals.

Rides.

Little packets delivered.

Cards mailed.

And oh so many words written and sent and spoken and delivered.

But even in the absence of any of that... You. Are. Seen.

Just as surely as your own heart is 'seeing' anyone it's locked on in love.

And if you believe you are 'invisible' to the hearts of those who love you, 

then you are (I say this gently) an idiot.

Even so, we're all only human after all.

And therefore, I invite you to commit with me to an extravagance of connection this Christmas.

To the degree that you are able (because we need to respect our human limitations for sure), let's determine together to reach out and connect to as many other seen-and-seeing-hearts as we can between now and Christmas Day.  Or even afterwards.  No need to stop on the 25th.

It could be as simple as sending an email or Facebook message that just says, "I see you."  

If someone we know will be physically alone on Christmas Day, maybe arrange for a phone call and a quick prayer (yes, we can pray over the phone, it's fun!).

Or other ideas, like I've mentioned already.

And I'll repeat the invitation.  Anyone needing a chat or a way of connecting, contact me through hcckw.ca.  

What a strange Christmas.

But already, so many delightful surprises.

Twelve Days to Christmas.

Hey, that reminds me of a song!

(And just for fun:

I will give out a chocolate bar to anyone who can identify the reference of this last sentence.)