My Daddy is Dying

It seems so strange to type such a title for a blog post.  I haven't posted in a while, despite spending much time at the computer.  I told myself it was because I had other things to do.  That was partially true.

This month, however, a reality check came in the form of a note about my dad's last doctor's appointment.  And this week I have been ill, so have had a few days at home by myself to reflect and to realize how much I have been running without realizing it.  Last night while I was at home with the kitties, I found myself overwhelmed with sadness.  I finally broke down and sobbed.

I have known for a while that things were changing.  I know that my daddy's mind has been swiftly leaving him.  Moments of clarity and recognition are getting further and further apart.  The formerly egregious extrovert that used to greet total strangers in the store with great delight has turned inward -- now hardly able to engage in even a simple conversation with his closest family members.

My heart was nearly cut in two when the news of his body's loosing battle was announced a couple of years ago.  I packed up my husband and cats, wrapping up seminary with a shorter degree than I had originally set out for, and moved back to our childhood town so I was sure I would have some time to be with my daddy before the final day came.  This past year has been a gift, even if it has been filled with gut-wrenching sobs over the news of dementia settling in.  We are pretty sure that the treatment for the original illness has increased the speed of this mental decline exponentially.  It may have even caused the dementia.  Which is worse -- the original disease or the side effects of the treatment?  Both cause death of one kind or another.

Now, a brand new cruel beast threatens to steal my daddy away.

I do not know what to say in my prayers.

I have talked, a bit, about my daddy's decline.  It is very difficult to talk about.

The feelings are so raw and the reality so strong that the words get caught in my throat.

People are uncomfortable with silence.  As I am struggling to formulate my thoughts, attempting to find words, they often fill the silence with their own.  When I do find the boldness to speak, their discomfort becomes more evident.

They shift in their chair.  They look away.  They find something in the room that needs tending or they change the subject or fill the remaining silence with empty platitudes.

Sometimes they shift the conversation so that it focuses on a grief they have experienced in the past.  They may well be trying to sympathize, but somehow their grief becomes the focus of the conversation.  My feelings get lost -- fading into the background like something unwanted, unloved.

I do not fault them.  They just don't know what to do.  They think they must say something.  They don't know how to sit in the presence of pain.

The pain of watching someone you love battle an illness that is slowly eating their body away is horrendous.  Seeing the very same person's mind slipping like sand through your fingers on a windy day is worse.  This pain is present every day.  Sometimes it is a dissonant background note in the seemingly large orchestration of everyday life, and it is easily ignored.  At other times, the pain arises as a solo, demanding full attention, center stage.

Today it is the latter.

Death makes people uncomfortable.  Grieving, even more so.  Few people know how to be with someone who is watching a loved one die.

My daddy is dying.  Fast or slow, death is surely coming.  I am distressed; and I feel utterly alone.

Morning Coffee

Beloved,

Today the sun shines brightly here in the Pacific Northwest, and the wind cuts cold, slicing through  the hand-made cap upon my head, finding just the right pathway through the neckline of my jacket in order to touch that shoulder that aches a bit when the seasons change.  So, I bundle up a little tighter, pour myself a cup of coffee and wrap up in a thick blanket to sit on the patio rocking chair to listen to the birds sing the last few praises before they travel south to avoid the winter storms.  I can see my breath.  Steam from my coffee fogs up my glasses.

Breathing in deeply, I feel the cold air rush into my lungs.  It remains there, pausing for a long moment, growing warmer as oxygen moves into my bloodstream.  Taking its place, the toxins, the used energy, are returned to my core.  The chill has completely dissipated.  I exhale slowly, wondering if you can feel what I feel, and see what I can see.

My Morning View - Photo by Trista Wynne

The branches of the trees in the green space are now exposed.  Waving proudly in their nakedness, they are not ashamed.  If only I could be so bold!

My lips have lost their moisture now - stolen by the frigid wind - that rascally thief!  The warm liquid soothes them, if only for a moment.  My coffee is losing its comforting properties to the same bandit that wicked away the softness of my skin.  I do not care.  I am here with you.  For this moment, that is enough.

Vacuuming, Planting and the Intangibility of Ministry

In the last couple of months, a good portion of my time has been dedicated to helping to develop a contemplative prayer service on Wednesday nights in my worship community and aiding in the guidance and supervision of religious development of senior high youth in an inter-religious fellowship.  Online development of blogs, social media networking and the planning and implementation of worship services all take time.  The effectiveness of this spent time, however, is not always able to be quantified or evaluated.  The support of ministry is somewhat intangible.

During this time frame since my weekday job came to an end, I have used a large portion of my time in soul-searching, the tending and healing of old wounds, evaluation of my intended career pathway(s) and filling out applications and online inquiries for job postings that look like they may be fulfilling for me.  Since I have not yet found a position that fills these weekdays, much of my free time has gone towards housekeeping and self-care.  Just as the support ministries listed above, neither of these things are really able to be evaluated.  Although a clean house is nice, it doesn't stay that way for long.

While vacuuming this morning, my soul once more was directing its attention to our Creator.  I was inquiring about the direction in which to travel to bring economic security to our household (although my husband is working full-time, I need to bring in at least a partial income to supplement what he provides while I await my ordination and, hopefully, full-time ministry work).  Continuing in my housework, I simply watch and wait on the Beloved's response.  The Spirit had something to say today as the vacuum passed to and fro on the office carpet.

All is intangible, She whispered.  All that I have called you to in this time is preparing you for the intangibility of ministry.  You plant the seeds of faith in every kind of soil that I place in front of you.  You preach and teach, you hold the hands of the wounded and broken, you guide and advise the peoples who are looking for direction, you pray for everyone you see and hear, and you point people towards My work in your midst.  But that is as far as your work can go.  Everything else is up to Me.

My thoughts turned towards the bulbs I planted last fall and those that I added to the soil this fall.  Not all of them will sprout.  Some have already been stolen by the squirrels who need a little extra sustenance for their winter nests.  Others simply do not have the DNA structure within them to support a full blossom in the warm months.  A couple of them have already started to sprout and their tiny shoots will be frozen over when the winds of winter blow through.  I have no control over any of those factors.  Granted, I can cover the ground with chicken wire or stones to attempt to thwart the advances of the squirrels, and I can insulate the tender shoots with peat moss and leaves to try and protect them from winter's effects.  But, in these preventative measures, my options are limited simply on account of our dwelling in a rental property.

Planting in my Garden - Photo by Trista Wynne

I understand why some church leaders and certain personalities are drawn towards the tangibility of membership numbers and financial contributions.  These things are quantifiable.  They can be judged and thus give some people a goal towards which to proceed.  We've saved x number of souls this month and baptized y converts, some might boast.  Our staff includes more people than you have attending your congregation, another might say.  Competition sets in and self-assurance soars -- that is, until the numbers begin to decline and self-identity begins to spiral downward.

The ministry that Jesus calls me to is not one that appeals to that sort of power jockeying.  My identity can not be based on such things.  I have come to learn that my self-image needs to stand on its own, content to be dwelling in the arms of our Beloved.

Perhaps this is why I have been called into this time of transitional rest.  As my soul and mind are gently healed from the wounds of old and I am working towards ordination, I am called to lay my cares and concerns into the hands of the One who is guiding my path.  I am simply called into Relationship.  This is my preparation for ministry, so that I can firmly say with the apostles of old:

For my part, I am going to boast about nothing but the Cross of our Master, Jesus Christ. Because of that Cross, I have been crucified in relation to the world, set free from the stifling atmosphere of pleasing others and fitting into the little patterns that they dictate. Can’t you see the central issue in all this? It is not what you and I do—submit to circumcision, reject circumcision. It is whatGod is doing, and he is creating something totally new, a free life! All who walk by this standard are the true Israel of God—his chosen people. Peace and mercy on them! (Gal. 6:14-16, The Message)

A Pleasant Pumpkin Day

Pumpkin Carving with the Youth

It's been a very pleasant, pumpkin-filled and quite beautiful day today. I am offering thanksgiving for the continued gorgeous sunshine, for the gift of the harvest season, for the fun of fellowship in my spiritual communities, for reconnecting/date-time with my husband and the gift of musical endeavors book-ending the day.

My husband helps his
brother on the trampoline.

Last night, my brother-in-law stayed with us.  He is always a joy to have visit!  Since he views the world through a very different lens (developmental delays and visual impairment) we are reminded to slow down and to enjoy the simple things in life, like the feel of a giant stuffed tiger, the gift of balance on a trampoline, the vibrations of the bass through a small amp and the smell of a pumpkin spice candle.  A gentle rap-a-tap on a hand drum, the springiness of a slinky and a little music (played either at his hands or ours) will keep him happy for hours.  The joy of our Beloved is certainly evident in my precious brother-in-law.  For him, I am incredibly thankful.

Murray Hills Christian Church

Worship at my home church this morning was awesome. It was great to have the whole worship team back together again -- the first time we've *all* been together since the beginning of the summer. (One day I'll get a picture of the whole team to share here.) We were blessed by a wonderful harvest display near our baptistry. Between the surrounding beauty, the presence of a tiny new baby in our congregation and the worship team's heart-felt harmony this morning, I felt deeply connected to You, Beloved.  Thank You for Your presence in our midst!

My youth aren't afraid to
get their hands a little dirty.

My guitar was left at home for my kitty to curl up with and I was off to hang out with the wonderful Unitarian Universalist Senior High Youth I co-advise this year. We carved pumpkins and talked about Halloween traditions and family endeavors. The group joyfully welcomed a new friend into our midst and got our hands quite dirty!

Pumpkin smashing
at the Green Dragon
Killer Pumpkin Brewfest

After lunch, my husband and I headed to the east side of Portland for the Killer Pumpkin Festival.  We watched the smashing of giant pumpkins by the highest bidder, took in the sounds of the Oompa Band and sampled several different delightful pumpkin brews.  Some of our local brewing companies make great pumpkin beer!  I am thankful for the joy of this time with my husband.  Doing something completely unexpected, like swinging a sledgehammer at a pumpkin on a stump and sampling some new tastes is certainly a blessing.

Deep belly laughter filled our afternoon together, and then we returned to our church for worship team practice.  Later we had the sanctuary to ourselves, just us and our Beloved.  I played my guitar and my husband played the drum set.  We played with all of our might - a wonderful gift of freedom since we usually practice our music in our apartment and are always considerate of our neighbors.  Body, mind and spirit were united in glorious, freeing worship together.

Your Spirit, Beloved, was palpably present with us today.  I am deeply thankful.  I am truly blessed.

Longing for Peace & Acknowlegding the War within

As we dive deeper and deeper into the reality surrounding the atrocities in Syria, I am reminded, Beloved of the sermon You prepared in my heart to share earlier this summer.  While I do not know the best ways for our country to work with the people of Syria and the leaders there who are so very destructive, I trust that You do.

While we yearn for a world in which wars, violence and oppression do not exist, we must come face-to-face with the reflection we encounter each day when we look in the mirror.  If we look deep enough, we will find that no matter how we try to portray ourselves, we all have the tendencies towards violence, bloodshed, anger and tyranny.

Oh, Beloved, have mercy.  And help us to go and do likewise.  As you said from the cross, we just have no clue what we are doing...




This sermon, "Swords into Gardening Tools: Violence, Peace & True Victory", was delivered to the people of Murray Hills Christian Church on Sunday, July 7th, 2013.  Asking the question, "what are we celebrating?" as I reflected on Independence Day, I found the Beloved leading me to the following text.

Micah 4:1-4 

In days to come

the mountain of the Lord’s house
shall be established as the highest of the mountains,
    and shall be raised up above the hills.
Peoples shall stream to it,
2     and many nations shall come and say:
“Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,
    to the house of the God of Jacob;
that he may teach us his ways
    and that we may walk in his paths.”
For out of Zion shall go forth instruction,
    and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
3 He shall judge between many peoples,
    and shall arbitrate between strong nations far away;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
    and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
    neither shall they learn war any more;
4 but they shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees,
    and no one shall make them afraid;
    for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken.

Although war with Syria may happen, and wars and oppression will likely continue around the world, we have a promise from the prophets of old that there will be a day when all wars, all violence, all oppression and all fear will come to an end.  Our propensity towards violence, within ourselves and in the ways we interact with the world, will all be healed.  All people, everywhere, will be at peace and dwell in true Shalom.  May we do all that we can to live into this reality in our homes, our schools, our churches and our larger communities until that final day comes when we forget the devastation of war.  Amen.

Lamentations, Lazarus and Life

On this, the fourth day without our precious Camille-cat, my thoughts turn to Lazarus.

He's four-day-ish.  Voices from the past echo through the centuries.  He's begun to decay; the smell will be terrible.  He's without the hope of life again.  He is completely untouchable.  He is truly dead.

Deep grief overwhelms me as I see in my mind's eye the dear woman, a beloved disciple of Jesus, collapsing into a heap on the roadside.  Jesus has just returned from ministry in another town.  He has been healing the sick, feeding the hungry, returning the lost to their families, and in the midst of his ministry elsewhere, his beloved second family has been overcome with the grief of death.

Lord, if you had been here, my beloved family member, whom you yourself loved, would not have died!  The words of Lazarus' sister resonate deeply in my heart today.  Why were you so far away?!

My tears of lament this morning mirror my soul-sister's from so long ago.  Enough to cloud my vision, but not yet enough to leave the dry salt stains on my cheeks, my tears instead turn to aches and pains.  My muscles and joints feel weak this morning as I sit on the back patio watching our elder cat exploring the world without her little sister.  My heart and stomach feel heavy today.

Lord, if only...
Lord, if only...
Oh, Lord...

When we are weak and do not know to pray,

the Spirit steps in and articulates prayers for us

with groaning too profound for words.

(Rom. 8:26)

Saying Farewell

It is with deep sadness that I share this photo of our sweet Camille (the beautiful black cat with brown undertones) playing outside.  She, in this picture, was pouncing on a leaf that had just fallen from the trees behind our apartment.  She has been enthralled with the outdoors this year as she has spent the majority of her life as an indoor-exclusive cat.  We were happy to finally have found a place where the cats could come outside with us in the evening hours after work.

This morning when we woke up, we found Camille lying on the floor having trouble breathing. She was having a heart attack, as we found out from our vet a short time later. Camille took her last breath at 9:10 this morning. She died in my arms being showered with love. We brought her home to say our farewells and let Spokes smell her and say goodbye to her younger sister.

Through tears, I painted the kitty coffin our vet had given us. Camille was wrapped in a snugly blanket, hugged and kissed. We placed her favorite toy - our feather duster - in the little coffin with her. Then we buried her in the nature area behind our apartment. She spent countless hours observing the birds and ducks playing there from her window perch. Now she will rest with her nature friends.

Camille has been our baby for most of our married life. Next month would have marked her tenth birthday. She will be missed terribly.

Beloved kitten, may light perpetual shine upon you. May you be found pouncing in green pastures and climbing tall trees without fear. May our Beloved Creator stroke your soft fur and hold you close until we meet again.