(Ir)Reverend Ramblings

“Rattled” that was a term my mom used to describe her disposition on a regular basis. As in, “I can’t think straight, I am just so rattled.” “I will do that when I am not so rattled.” “Don’t rattle me right now I am working on something.” I always thought it was an odd expression. Until now. I am so rattled! I can never remember what day it is. This always happens in this week between Christmas and New Years. Every day seems the same. I am sort of working and sort of not. I am in the office but the church is not busy. The Christmas tree stands in the corner a constant reminder of the season of good cheer but the daily onslaught of dire news about the latest variant overwhelms me to the point that I turn off the radio when the news comes on. The overlay to all of this is that I am now entering my last month of ministry here at Bracebridge United Church. I am rattled!

I am, right now, this minute, considering options to overcome this feeling that had overcome me. What to do to ease the rattling? Stop eating cookies and start eating apples. That is step number one. Focus on stories of wellbeing. Step number two. Connect with people who are younger than me and who have a youthful, chipper and enthusiastic attitude. Step number three.

Each week, twice a week, I send out an email to our prayer network. There are over 25 names on the email list. These are people who are dedicated to praying prayers of gratitude for the joys people share with us and prayers of intercession for the concerns that come to us. That activity in and of itself, writing an email to those dedicated disciples, is a mood booster and has a grounding impact on me. Focusing on the notes of gratitude and saying words of thankfulness can calm my rattled mind and remind me of what is important.

The threshold of the new year is also a time that I naturally fall to reflection – looking back and looking ahead. Counting blessings and naming hopes can ease that sense of panic that arises when I shake my head and wonder, “what the heck day is this anyway?”.

I also love words and the words of poetry and scripture calm my rattled soul. I have several quotes posted on my bulletin board above my desk. “Instruction does much, but encouragement does everything.” “Show me the road I must travel for you to relieve my heart.” “You make a life out of what you have, not what you are missing.” “Resting in God resting in me.” “Ring that bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”

How are you soothing your rattled soul these days? I would love to hear from you.

What is it about November that makes me melancholy? Is it the weather – always changing, neither fall nor winter? Is it the kick off of All Saints Day followed hard on the heels by Remembrance Day? Is it that there is a forced joviality in the stores as Christmas garish decorations take centre stage and saccharine sweet Christmas songs blast through the PA system? I am not sure but i noticed yesterday as I considered the last day of November that the whole month had passed without a blog post. YIKES! Had I nothing to say into cyberspace? Was there no reflection to be had? Was there no deep and illustrious perspective to be shared? Guess not !!!

But now, it is December 1st and Advent has begun. Advent, that slow and reflective season that takes us to Christmas. I have stirred my stumps enough to get some green boughs cut and placed in a vase on the table. I have rousted out the candles for the Advent wreath and begun to count the weeks. I have succumbed to the pressure of the warnings from all and sundry and purchased my Christmas tree before they are all snapped up by eager shoppers. It remains cool and slumped in the garage until a day closer to the festive 25th when it is decorated and standing gaily in my living room. But still there is a somber feeling in my soul.

What filters through to make us feel that way we do? Weather? Maybe. Busy schedules? Perhaps. Boredom? Could be. I think for me, this year, this season, it is the continuing anxiety of the impact of Covid. It brings with it such a wave of unease and it stifles all planning and anticipation. Sentences are peppered with phrases like, “Well, if we aren’t shut down.”. People are reluctant to make firm plans and when they do they face anxiety about travel, social gatherings, etc. Celebrations long looked forward to continue to be tamped down by restrictions and worry. Family members in hospital cannot be visited by more than one or two designated visitors. Businesses teeter on the edge of bankruptcy. Traditional family outings to celebrate the season are being cancelled again this year. Choirs, if they sing at all, are socially distanced and lacking in exuberance. I am so tired of the whole business and it makes me … well … MELANCHOLY!!

I am spending this first day of December searching for signs of hope. We light the first candle on the Advent wreath and we call it the candle of hope. Can I defeat this melancholy with reminders of hope? Well, dear readers, I am stuck! I need help. Send me a text, a message, an email, make a comment below, telling me what your sign of hope is on this dismal day as December dawns. I need your encouragement. Can I honestly say, “Hope is on the way”? Please tell me it is.

It was a month ago that I told the Council here at the church that I would be ending my contract with the congregation in January. Yep, I joined “the big quit” or “the great resignation” of 2021.

It was not an easy decision, nor one made in haste. In fact, it was made in anything but haste. It was months of discernment, prayer, reflection and angst. As I considered what I wanted to say in this post I looked up the definition of discernment. The first definition is “the ability to judge well”. Well, that sort of applies, but the second definition is the one I have in mind when I use the word discernment. It is, “in Christian contexts, discernment is the perception in the absence of judgement with a view to obtaining spiritual guidance and understanding”.

The funny thing about discernment is the sneaky way it invades all of life. When one opens themselves to an attitude of discernment, anything and everything becomes fodder for reflection. An offhand comment someone makes becomes a point to mull over and pray about as a possible hint from the Spirit. An unexpected change of plans becomes a potential sign from God to shift course. Seriously, it can make one a little crazy to always be on alert for signs, and reading into every nuance, to determine if it is the Spirit invading with a message that only I can see or understand.

There is a saying I have applied to most of my life, “If you want to make God laugh, tell God your plans.” Or, as Barbara Brown-Taylor once said, “I have usually ended up where I am because my five-year plan didn’t work out.” Throughout my life I have not had a five-year plan, or a ten-year plan … or at least not one that ever came about as planned. My main plan in life was to be a minister. I saw it as a vocation and a calling, not as an occupation or a job. Oh, I believe I did my job, but it was in the context of it being a vocation not employment.

Even though I did not have a locked-down plan, I was not whimsical! I always had something in place when I made a move – I knew where I was going before I left where I was. I also have had the very good fortune to pretty much love every place I have worked. That meant that discernment to leave one place and go to another always required a lot of soul work.

This time, because I am not moving from this work to something specific, because my next work is, as yet, unknown, I have chafed at the automatic assumption that I am retiring. I am quick to point out that I am not retiring but that I am shifting gears and looking for something else. I must admit it has made me curious as to why people need to place my decision into a category or some sort. If I am leaving I can’t just be resigning, I must be retiring. Now hear me out, I am not against retiring but it smacks of ageism to me. People look at me, see my gray hair, my wrinkles, know my era, and assume I am retiring. Hmmm, I guess my next discernment is about why I have such resistance to the notion of retirement. Or, at the very least, to the assumptions that people make about others even when they don’t fit.

What’s next for me? Well, my common response is, ‘I know God has a plan for me, she just hasn’t told me what it is yet. I am keeping all my doors and windows open for the Spirit to blow in.” I am also dusting off my resume to get it ready for whatever might spark my interest.

The impulse to leave emerges for many reasons. Sometimes it is just time to go. That is what the Spirit told me in my discernment and I am at complete peace with my decision.

There is not a day goes by that I do not think of my beloved Carl. His memory infuses everything I do. From places in our house, spots in our garden, to the vague memories that filter into my dreams, his presence is always close.

Today marks four years since he passed. It was mid morning when he breathed his last and the sorrow of that final parting still causes my heart to break a little. His decline was over several years and his last two weeks were filled with pain. Remembering and reflecting on the hard road he walked causes tears to spring to my eyes just by thinking of it.

I am not one to dwell in the past. I do not hang on to what was. I do not live with ghosts. But I do treasure memories and October 13th is a day on my calendar that never passes without a veil of melancholy and a touch of grief.

Today a few friends have sent emails, texts and notes remembering Carl. Remembering his kindness, his commitment to caring for the environment, his love of hiking and fishing and canoeing. I am also remembering his compassion for, and love of family, and his deep commitment to justice and fair play – oh, and following the rules! He was a stickler for rules and how things ‘should’ be.

In one of the emails today my friend sent this quote, attributed to Elisabeth Kubler-Ross:

“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again, but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to.”

My life has moved on, as lives do, but I carry with me the love and affection of someone who understood me like no one else ever has or ever will. I balance my grief with my deep gratitude that God blessed my life with a person who changed me for the better in so many ways. I miss him. I cherish his memory. I move forward.

Here it is Thanksgiving again. Just like that the year has rolled around and we are well into autumn and on the cusp of the season of rest, a term of comfort rather than just saying … winter!

Right now I am in my office with ears tuned to the sound of the door latch and the incoming of the Sunday morning crowd. Our turnout is still very moderate with many people choosing to continue to shelter in at home and watch church on tv or computer screen. We sing our hymns softly with masks firmly fixed in place. We don`t shake hands or hug. It is a reserved gathering. BUT – we are gathering and for that I am thankful.

I am counting my blessings this year with an eye to global concerns. On this Thanksgiving Day, while I enumerate that many riches I enjoy as a Canadian of a certain age, I pray for the world. Uppermost in my prayers are the women and children of Afghanistan. I pray for the people of those countries in Africa who are not wealthy enough to afford the vaccine or who make it so costly most people cannot afford it. I am praying for the many people whose medical concerns have been delayed because hospitals are filled with Covid cases and medical staff are stretched to capacity. I am praying for the millions of people who are homeless and know only the life as refugees looking for a home. You will have prayers to add to this short list. Prayers for the many who find it hard to count their blessings today but do so anyway.

May your day be blessed with moments of gratitude, flashes of insight, reminders of God`s grace.

For many people who are involved in some position of leadership be it your hockey team, your quilting group, your company or your country these days are fraught with challenge. As a minority of people in our province refuse to be vaccinated they are causing a major headache for the rest of us, the majority. We are facing this dilemma here at the church. Our tag line is, “Everyone Welcome. Come as you are.” But we are not sure that we want people who are not vaccinated. It is not because we want to exclude them. It is not because we are judging them. It is not because we are being arbitrary. It is because we have a large population of older and elderly people who are therefore, more vulnerable. Even by being doubly vaccinated we are discovering that we are vulnerable to the new strains of the virus.

Our Leadership Team has been wrestling with the Christian response to this situation. How do we, as a community faith, act with integrity in this time and situation?

I have thought a lot about respecting individual rights. Individualism is a long held Canadian value. But so is interdependence. We value individuals but we are a community of faith. A community. We often speak of family in the Christian context. Family! What does it mean to safeguard our family? Is my right as an individual more important that the rights of my parents and grandparents in the faith? I don’t think so.

How do we weigh the balance between individual rights and interdependence? I admit my personal bias is often on the side of community. If something is in question my go to response is most often, “What is best for the community, the larger group, the whole.” So I have to say that while I respect an individual’s right to choose, I do not believe that they have the right to risk the well being of the larger group. If that person is “drawing a line in the sand” then, I feel strongly that I must draw one too. If a person chooses, or is required, for whatever reason, to not have a vaccination then the consequences of that will be played out in how they interact with the larger community. Smokers can’t sit in the sanctuary and smoke. It impacts the health of others. Somehow this feels similar, but with Covid, the risks are even higher.

I am interested to know what you think.

My mother was a gardener. She would rather be in the garden than anywhere else. She did not excel at cooking or baking. She hated housework. She was a good teacher and loved to collect and share knowledge but mostly she liked to garden.

She had two large vegetable gardens and many flower beds around the house and yard. As a kid I would get called into forced labour. Unless I wanted to be put up for adoption, weeding and hoeing were not an option. Once my father caught me reading a book on a sunny, summer afternoon and his only comment was, “Why aren’t you helping your mother in the garden? Put the book down and get out there.” My father was not against reading. He was just in favour of me helping my mother.

Once I married, my beloved became the master gardener. He was the one to plant and weed, to trim and hoe. But for these last four years it is a bug that has bitten me hard. Every spring I carve away more lawn and plant more perennials. As the nurseries and garden centres open I prowl around looking for new and interesting plants. I delight every morning looking out my window to see what has happened over night. Which plant is coming into bloom? Which one needs staking or trimming today? Which flowers will I choose to dress up my dining table this week?

A couple of years ago a friend turned me on to dahlias. They are magnificent, tall bloomers that brings colour and splash at this time of year. To my chagrin they also bring Japanese Beetles. The darn (I am being polite here – I often call them much worse) little creatures burrow into the blooms and devour them. They turn the buoyant blossoms to brown stubs if I don’t intervene. Who would ever imagine that something so small could make for such annoyance? I tried Morning Glories this year for the first time. The Japanese beetles have riddled the leaves with their infestation. I have hung beetle traps. I regularly go out and ‘dispatch’ the ugly little critters but they just keep coming. I am forced to ask – in the scheme of things -what good are Japanese Beetles? (Oh, and don’t get me started on the groundhog who is eating my flowering kale.)

So, I have spent some reflection time wondering if the garden is a parable for life. Jesus certainly used nature and agriculture a lot to draw illustrations for God’s love. Can I think of a parable about Japanese Beetles? Nope. I am too mad at them right now. But I do know that there are many things in our world right now that are causing devastation and sorrow and the weight and heaviness of those catastrophes (think Haiti, think Afghanistan) cannot begin to be measured against my battle in the garden.

In our Prayer group yesterday, and in my sermon that we just recorded for this Sunday’s virtual service, I spoke of the heaviness of the world news and how hard it is to our human psyche to carry so much negativity. Nadia Bolz Weber, in her blog this week, said that our human psyche was made to hold the sorrow and tragedy of our ‘village’ not of the whole world delivered in real time all the time. Some days it is just too much information. We have to compartmentalize the worry and sorrow in order to cope. I guess I do that in a way each morning. When the riddled leaves of my morning glories and the battered blossoms of my dahlias depress me I look to the cheery faces of the snapdragons and the resilient blooming of the day lilies. Maybe that is the parable. We will always have sorrow, but God’s bountiful creation also delivers sufficient beauty to remind us to keep on.

Hello dear reader. If you read this blog title you might have, running through your mind, the memory of Ella Fitzgerald singing, “Summertime, and the living’ is easy, fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high” This beauty of a song was written in 1934 by George Gershwin. It was one of his first compositions for his brand new jazz opera ‘ Porgy and Bess’. I think it has become a bit of an anthem for this time of year.

How has your summer been? Is your livin’ easy? I know many people are joyously, but tentatively, emerging from pandemic mode and enjoying some social times and seeing family. One person at prayer group spoke of the sheer delight in seeing her kids and … wait for it … actually hugging them! She said it was a long hug!

I too gathered with my siblings this month for an afternoon of catching up. We were called together in order to celebrate my sister’s birthday. The conversation was wide ranging and, as those gatherings go, we got to reminiscing. It started light and carefree remembering child-hood antics, thinking of mom and dad, sharing stories that twigged the sharing of more stories. From the laughter came more memories and the tone shifted to somber when one remembered the rape of the neighbour girl on her way home from school. Tears pricked our eyes as we sat in silence thinking of the tragedy of it. None of us remember what became of the girl who grew up and then moved away and none of us knew what happened to the man. Were there charges? Did he go to jail? We don’t remember. But amongst us, on that summer afternoon of remembering there was sorrow, and yes, some guilt, that this had happened in our community and somehow as a collective we could not prevent it. Eventually the conversation shifted back to happier tales of times in family and community.

The afternoon has stayed with me, in part because I love any opportunity to be with my sibs, but also because it reminded me of the depth of human experience. From joy to sorrow, from pleasure to grief, tears and laugher intermingled.

There is a song in our hymn book, “Give to Us Laughter” – one verse says, “even in sorrow and hours of grief, laughter with tears brings most healing relief”. Summertime seems to be the perfect time to let the season – and the feelings – roll over me. A season of anticipation and recollection. A season of memory and imagination. A season of sorrow and healing.

Usually on this day, along with many others, I don my red and white clothing and strut about as a proud Canadian. I celebrate our country with the delicious red and white dessert of the season – strawberry shortcake, and end the day oohing and aahing as explosives fill the sky, soil and water with all the chemicals that make fireworks. This year I can’t do it. I am wearing a red shirt but I know that many are choosing to wear orange instead. I feel conflicted.

There are many things that make Canada a great country. I don’t need to list them here, you can name them yourself and find lists elsewhere. There are many things about Canada that make me cringe, make me angry, make me ashamed, make me sad. These last week, as graves have been identified, has been sobering. I should have been, but was not, fully aware of the human loss caused by the Residential Schools. I knew somewhat of the long term impact of the cultural genocide and the very act of removing children from their family and community but I don’t remember hearing of the devastatingly high death toll. I should have known. Many did, but I did not open my ears and eyes to that terrible aspect. Such a shameful history.

Today, I am choosing to be grateful for the good things about our country. The vast and beautiful geography, good quality education, medical services, and on and on. But all this is tempered by the human decisions that have judged and sidelined and abused many within our society. Canada can improve. Canada must improve.

A week ago, at this very time, I was standing with a family at the graveside of their beloved. We were a small gathering, in compliance with the regulations of the day. Monday afternoon I did the same thing with a different family. We call these spring burials. These two men had died in the winter and we were only now able to lay them to rest in the cemetery.

Each of these men was dearly loved and each family was filled with sorrow. The delayed burial meant that the grief they knew a few months ago was stirred up in the poignancy of the moment. The physical act of burial is the most difficult one a family must do. It is so real. So profound. So final.

As a minister I rely on words. Words are my wheelhouse. Words to express meaning. Words to explain feelings. Words to share thoughts. I read words. I type words. I speak words. Often when I stand with bereaved I realize the inadequacy of words. There are no words that fully capture the depth of emotion.

As I stood with each of these families I was moved, as I always am, by the intensity of grief. In each of these recent burials the man had lived to a good age. They had seen their children and their grandchildren reach adulthood. That fact did not diminish the sorrow. Loss through death is deep loss regardless of age.

This week I cannot shake the profound loss felt with the unearthing of 215 bodies of children at the Kamloops Residential School. Shame on our country. Shame on our churches. Shame on our politicians and leaders who devised such a plan. Shame on those who taught in the schools and tortured the children. Shame on those who turned a blind eye to the horrors that were inflicted on the children. Shame on the RCMP who insisted the children go. Shame. Shame. Shame. I can think of no other words. Words fail me to express the horror and feeling of abandonment that must have been felt by those poor children before and at the time of their death. I have no words to describe the feeling of absolute loss the parents and grandparents of those children must have felt when they did not return home from school. I have no words to describe the sickening feeling that must have arose as the bodies were unearthed. I have no words to explain the unending pain that residential schools have left as a scar across the generations of the Indigenous people who were subjected to residential schools.

No words. I carry the shame and I say I am sorry. These words are so inadequate but I can say nothing more that I am ashamed and I am sorry.

No words other than we must do better.