Simply Sacred Life

When I tell someone I’m retired, the inevitable, never-fail question is, “So, what do you DO?” I’m not kidding. Every. Single. Time. And when I don’t have a rock-solid answer like “Oh! I do some consulting”; or “I volunteer at the food pantry”; or “I have a part-time job doing x”, their eyes widen with barely disguised shock. I’ve learned to expect it. I get that look of disbelief, a sense I get that somehow, I’ve failed to meet their expectations of what retirement should look like. But what should retirement look like? and why?

Each spring is sacred. Each spring brings a renewed hope for life and grace. Each spring promises another chance to make it right, to enter into God’s own nature and be witness to His creation. Each spring unfolds the gritty, raw truth that life is good, that life and creation are resilient, and that His creation will triumph - no matter how unwisely we’ve managed the planet —or our lives.

Tomorrow we celebrate, contemplate, consider… motherhood: moms, grandmothers, aunts, daughters-turned-moms — all part of our national obsession with celebrating categories of people, with their title, roles and characters firmly set into place by Hallmark, who has created an American pastime of sentimentalizing what can be beautiful - yes; but what can often be complex, difficult and sometimes tragic.

Today is Holy Saturday, a strange in-between time, a liminal space that sits between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. As a child, I always felt like Holy Saturday was empty, simply a place-holder between the torture and death of the crucifixion of Good Friday, and the triumph of resurrection on Easter Sunday. There are no grand ceremonies to mark the day; no feet washing, no Last Supper re-enactments, no Requiem performances by grand choirs. Nothing. For most, this particular Saturday is about the grand sigh (admit it - of relief!) that the Lenten season is over, and all about the preparations for the Easter egg hunts and Easter baskets, and grand feasts of Easter. Saturday sits neutral, a ‘middle-child’ forgotten between the two greater days of the Easter weekend.

What is faith - really? And do I have faith? Do I have enough faith? Is there even such a thing as enough faith? How much is too little? And probably the most important question: Does faith make a difference in my life? Often, the greatest challenges to our life’s beliefs, to our core values, arise in the simplest of questions: and in recent weeks, this has been my own struggle: at its core, what is faith?

Moments that are too deep for words: the lovers’ longing look, a baby’s first giggle, the fatal diagnosis first uttered - a sunrise, an ocean breeze, the sighting of an eagle soaring overhead. We’ve all had them. No words can describe our feelings, no phrase convey what resides in the depth of our hearts. And yet, our world is drowning in words and letters and signs; in phrases and text. We are being slowly choked off with words.

There’s been much written about gratitude; some are pithy quotes intended to spark a social media ‘like”; others are ancient and true, proven over the centuries to be wise in showing what heart-felt gratitude is and what it can be. But I don’t want to spend these precious moments to simply spout off a platitude to remind us to “give thanks”; I want to uncover what I sincerely believe happens in our hearts when we are truly grateful, when we practice an ongoing and daily pursuit of gratitude.

How does one maintain a spirit of hope in this present world? How can I possibly even think about being hopeful when terrorism strikes into the very heart of innocent citizens; when men seeking more and more power bomb hospitals and schools; when panicked people are struck down on the very path of their attempted escape? What does hope even mean in this world that seems intent on a path of self-destruction, surrounded on all sides by injustice, violence and destruction?

Discussing powerlessness during these modern times of violent struggle for power, dominance and control seems counterintuitive at best; ridiculous and naive at its worst. Regardless of our political views (and maybe in spite of them), this world, in these times, is a chaotic, toxic stew of loud and blustery leaders, with and without power, who aren’t afraid of taking violent action to disrupt, corrupt, usurp and conquer whatever obstacles are in their way, to fight to the top of whatever governmental heap exists so that they can declare themselves king of the mountain. It would be a comical reenactment of childhood bullying and foolish power-games if it weren’t so tragic in its consequences.

My husband and I recently spent two weeks in Kauai, also known as the “Garden Isle” of the Hawaiian Islands. Of the many places we’ve traveled in the past 50 years or so, it remains our very favorite place to be. Yes, the weather is spectacular, and the beauty is spellbinding (which I’ll address in another blog post soon), but it’s more than that. There’s a quality of spirit that abides in that place that is like no other I’ve ever known; a sweetness to its people, a slowed breath of life that hovers over the place in the sunshine and breeze, a quality of living that is hard to define, but intoxicating to both the mind and senses. It is a place and a people that live ‘pono’.

Times of transition are often not of our own doing; we don’t choose to have illness and death; we don’t choose to be laid off, or experience the pain of divorce or the ravages of a pandemic, or the disintegration of family and friendships. But sadly, many of us refuse to acknowledge the change before us, or perhaps even the need to change, and attempt - at all costs - to hang on to our present life, holding onto broken circumstances with tight fists. We get stuck, and in that “stuck-ness” lies inertia; there is no good thing in this space. We either move on, or wilt and die within.So what to do, then? How do we change our mind and heart attitudes regarding transitions? How do we embrace the change - and if we do - what will that mean?

Something Jesus uttered in his last minute before dying hasn’t left me for days; and when that happens, I know I’m onto something; something deep, personal, and wholly holy. If one can think on his words for just a few minutes - to deeply and consciously sink into those last words he uttered, to really understand what he was saying, it would change everything.

Centering prayer has turned my prayer time into a wild ride of unfolding joy and love. It is not always easy; it’s often a struggle to sit still for 20 minutes, mind intentionally not thinking, repeating a word in order to focus. But it does get easier; and the Spirit is often at work within, sometimes most especially in those difficult times, sifting through our hurts and sorrows, healing deeply buried wounds; convicting, soothing, loving. The Spirit clears away the rubble so that the love of God settles in anew, stronger, brighter and sweeter than before. It is the rhythm of that daily experience that matters, the turning of heart to Father, of soul to Spirit.

Silence is a powerful tool; there’s a very good reason that all major world religions embraced silence as a very real, very effective and compassionate spiritual discipline towards self-discovery and joy. Silence has proven itself invaluable in giving us the spiritual strength and resilience to face our shadows, to face our weaknesses and failings and the things we don’t like about ourselves, and provide us with the inner space, resources, and strength to overcome, to conquer; simply put - to become better, happier and peace-filled human beings.

What is shadow dancing? and why does it matter so much that we figure out how to simply stop doing it? Because we all do it, whether we realize it or not. Who is that shadow? and why do we dance with it?

Well - hello friends! It’s been a few weeks since I last posted, and I think I’d better let you in on what’s been going on in my life. No tragedies, no major upheavals (at least outwardly) - but some changes nonetheless. It’s deeply true that internal changes are often far more monumental in the shaping of our lives than external ones; perhaps I need to explain

Anyone who knows me, knows well that I do not believe in New Year’s resolutions, so consequently I don’t make them. The reasons for that are varied, and not relevant to this post except in the framing of how I’ve learned to journey from one year to the next. I’ve come to believe that, at least for me, there is greater value in living intentionally day by day, following Holy Spirit nudges as they come along, and waiting with anticipation to see where I end up. And invariably, I learn a few things along the way; things that change my heart and change my mind; a renewed repentance if you will, an annual ongoing transformation that at once surprises, yet doesn’t - for these lessons have evolved with the intentional grace and mercy of a loving God. It’s not that I don’t have a plan; I do. Living with daily anticipation of what might be, acknowledging Holy Spirit moments as the guiding light of my life’s journey.

The Nativity scene, with all of its elements: the virgin birth, an infant born in a stable with animals all around; the angels and shepherds, the visiting wise men - they are all symbols of that greater mystery of the Incarnation, of Divine Spirit enshrined in human form. God reveals in the Nativity that regardless of how rough-hewn our foundation, of how smelly the creatures that live within and around us, no matter the rags of sorrow and heartache that we swaddle around our brokenness - we are loved.

Radical gratitude begins with seeing that all of life is a gift; that the sunshine today is a gift, and that the raindrops pouring from heaven tomorrow are also gift. I train my heart to be thankful even when my mind sees the mess around me. In every situation, I acknowledge the blessing or pain of the moment, and whisper thanks. I may mumble it through tears, or shout it with joy, but there is intentionality in facing each moment with a word of thanks.

There is something earthy and grounding about planting our feet on the earth, on a rock, in the ocean, or the sand, but also deeply sacred. How do we connect with that sacred space, with the holy, when all about us is in turmoil? Just ask, “Where are my feet?”

The tragedy is not that people have opinions, or that they try to defend their opinions; it is that no one listens. On neither side is there any indication that people actually hear or care about the opinions of others. The tragedy is that lost in the whirlwind of the hot air and gesticulating hands is the whispered dirge of the lost, the broken, the lonely, the wounded, the disenfranchised. We have come to see our problems as political pawns in a chess game of power instead of symptoms of a broken world that desperately needs compassionate, loving and holy listening.

When did we stop shouting aloud “I did it!”? When did we stop demanding “Look at me!”?
When did we stop saying “I can do it, I can do it!”?
When did that refrain of confidence and wonder go silent in our own minds?

It is midsummer —in my heart, if not by the sun. And as always, it’s hard for me to ‘settle’ in these long-light days, when dawn sneaks into my window around 4:30am, and persists in claiming a part of my conscious-breath well past 8:30pm. It is a beloved time, a time filled with longing, with lassitude, brimming to overflowing with the smell and sight and sound of summer.