Mel

A few days ago I said goodbye to our dear cat Mel. Mel had been sick for some time, losing weight and appetite, and our veterinarian ran blood work, tried special diets, took x-rays, and, finally, faced with a cat who was dwindling away for no obvious reason, suggested I take Mel to Cornell University, to the teaching veterinary hospital there.

Mel came to us as a young cat, selected from the local animal shelter because our cat Luna needed a companion, or at least I thought so. I'm not sure Luna agreed. We were Mel's second adoptive home, I was told. The first adoptive family had a dog who simply wouldn't accept Mel, so Mel went back to the shelter. He was an absolutely beautiful young cat, with a glowing brown and black tabby coat and green eyes. When I took him to our vet for the first time, everyone in the lobby cooed over how handsome he was.

Mel was a curious and friendly cat, and he had some distinctive habits that were endearing. All right, maybe the shredding of cardboard boxes with his teeth was not that endearing, but when I heard the sound of a box being deconstructed, I usually knew it was time to go check the cat food supply. Mel apparently believed that, if you could see the bottom of the bowl, even a little, the bowl needed more food. Also, for some reason Mel was fixated on my husband's terry cloth bathrobe. Mel would lie in my husband's arms, kneading the fabric of the robe, and sucking on it, as if he was nursing.

Mel had a favorite toy we called "Dot" - the little red dot of a laser pointer on the wall in the hallway. Mel would leap into the air, reaching astonishing height, in pursuit of Dot. He enjoyed licking plastic - plastic bags, mostly. A couple of times I had to disentangle him from a grocery bag he had managed to wrap around his neck. And, for whatever reason, if I came home from the beauty salon with hair spray on my head, he wanted to eat the hair.

Mel probably set a record for our cats in getting shut into a closet for hours at a time. Whenever I went to my closet, I had to double-check Mel's whereabouts before I shut the door. And, speaking of doors, Mel got our of the house once for a couple of days. I was frantic. A neighbor later told me she thought she had seen a raccoon up a tree in her backyard. No, that was our Mel. He came back after a couple of days and seemed glad to be home, but for ever after, he would try to slip out the front door if given the chance. Taking the garbage out required one person to take the garbage out, and one person to make sure Mel didn't make a break for it.

The morning a hose on our washing machine broke, and flooded our family room and kitchen, Mel came and fetched my husband out of bed. It was simply not acceptable to a cat to have your food bowl sitting in standing water. If not for Mel's vigilance, the damage to our home (which was substantial) might have been much worse.

Of all our cats, Mel is the one who touched the most people. One after another, visitors to our home would say they had a special bond with Mel, would look forward to seeing him, would mention him in passing. Everyone had a special bond with Mel. I think he just tended to trust the humans he encountered.

As Mel got older he began to acquire senior diseases - hyperthyroidism, chronic pancreatitis. He hated taking pills, could eat all around a pill in one of those green pill pockets, would spit out a pill after you were sure he had swallowed it, and was extraordinarily good at avoiding the whole affair, by hiding under the bed in our guest bedroom. My arms were not long enough to reach him, and a couple of times I genuinely got stuck trying to fetch him out. My husband thought this was entertaining. I blessed the day the vet prescribed an ointment formulation of his thyroid medicine. It could be rubbed in his ear, and would be absorbed through the skin.

In the last couple of months it became clear that Mel was losing weight at an accelerating rate. He was obviously a very sick cat, yet the cause eluded us. When I took Mel to Cornell, I knew we were probably going to get bad news, but I hoped Mel might have a few days or a couple of weeks left.

Two days after leaving Mel at Cornell, I drove down to talk with Mel's oncologist about a possible fine needle aspiration of his pancreas. We had been debating the risks (bleeding or triggering acute pancreatitis) vs. the value of the test results. But when I arrived, she gently told me that she knew what was going on, and I wouldn't like it. Mel had an inoperable tumor, hidden under his tongue. It was clear that the only choice for Mel was euthanasia. I consulted with my husband, and we agreed the best choice would be to euthanize Mel there, at Cornell, rather than putting him through the stress of a three-hour car ride to bring him home. The doctor had given Mel pain medication, and she said I could have as much time as I needed with him. She would have someone check on us every twenty or thirty minutes, and when I was ready she would come in and perform the procedure. I asked for grooming tools and a bowl of water. I also said that when the time came, I would like to say a prayer, if no one had any objections. No one did.

So I sat in an exam room with Mel for over two and a half hours: grooming him, petting him, telling him what a great guy he was. Every so often he would take a long drink of water, then come back and rub up against the grooming brush, or rub up against my leg. Mel was alert, listening to sounds in the room around us, but not in the least anxious or afraid. I took some pictures and a video of him drinking. It was just the two of us, and I wasn't thinking about what was coming, or at least not too much. Mel hadn't been grooming himself and looked pretty ratty, but by the time I was done he looked a lot more like himself. A skinny version of himself, but still.

When I was ready, the doctor came in. I said I wanted to tell a story and say a prayer, and then she could proceed.

This is the story I told:

Several years ago, I would visit the women in the Schenectady county jail for my church. One Sunday, someone asked how I was doing, and I said I was sad because one of our cats had just died. The young woman said, I hope this won't offend you, but I'd like to tell you a joke. I told her to go ahead, and this is the joke she told me: Two mice died and went to heaven. They knocked on the pearly gates, and St. Peter said, "Come on in." They went inside and looked around and one of them said, "This is great! Lots of grass, trees for shade, water in the distance, but it's so big! How are we going to get around?" St. Peter said, "No problem" and passed out four pairs of roller skates. The two mice strapped them on and headed off into heaven. Soon after, two cats died and went to heaven. They knocked on the pearly gates, and St. Peter said, "Come on in." They went inside and looked around and one of them said, "This is great! Lots of grass, trees to climb, water, and - Look! - they've even got Meals on Wheels!"

Then I said a prayer, thanking God for blessing us with Mel, acknowledging that we were returning Mel to Him, and looking forward to the time when God would, as he had promised, make all things new, and we would encounter a renewed Mel. I said Amen, and one of the veterinary students said Amen, and then the doctor took over. She was gentle, she explained every step of the procedure, and described things I might observe that could be disturbing. But there were no issues at all. Mel was calm, and the procedure went smoothly. He had a catheter in his leg, so there wasn't even a needle stick. Once he had the sedative and drifted off to sleep, his head slipped over the side of the cushion he was on. Reflexively I said, "Mel, don't fall off the bed." The doctor continued with the procedure. At a certain point, very quickly, I could feel Mel... stop. The doctor listened to his heart, and confirmed what I knew. He was gone. I stroked him a few more times, and said, "Meals on wheels, Mel. Meals on wheels." Then they gently gathered him up and took him out of the room.

My last request was for a lint roller. I was wearing black pants, and they were covered with fur.

I know that when you adopt an animal you are signing up for the grief of losing it. I knew that we wouldn't have Mel forever. Losing Mel was hard, but those last few hours with him were a gift. All that fur on my pants - that was cat language for "I love you, too." Meals on wheels, Mel. Meals on wheels.

Identity

On Saturday I attended a workshop for women writers and artists. I didn't know what to expect, so I armed myself with paper and pen (I do crosswords and sudoko in pen, too) and sat down in the first classroom, and waited. There were perhaps ten of us, with the leader, a well-known writer. I wondered if I would be out of my depth.

The theme of the session was miniatures and collections. We shared stories of collecting (or not) and of small items and how they spoke to us, and eventually the leader gave us "prompts" - three possible first lines for a poem.

I chose one and started in. The poem flowed from me. I made a few changes as I wrote, then had time to make a fair copy before we began to share our work.

Some of the participants wrote poems that would break your heart. Poems of loss and tragedy - some with happy endings, and some not so much. Others, like mine, were lighter in tone. I was absurdly pleased with my own work - not because of the poem itself but because I learned something new about myself. It made sense to me. Afterwards, a couple of people approached me to remark on word choices that they liked. It was very affirming.

The second session was held in an art museum. The theme of the session was "ekphrastic" poetry - poetry inspired by a work of art. We visited and discussed a couple of pieces of art, and had handouts with photographs of others and sample poems. The first work of art - really works of art - was a stunning collage by a Nigerian-American who produced a dense work that drew out awed comments from our class (and lots of "No, don't touch" from the museum curator). The second work of art and two of the handouts had the theme of twins. Again, I sat and began to write.

This poem also flowed, though if the first poem had flowed like water from a spring, this was more like lava - I was writing about something that had shaped my self-identity for as long as I could remember - actually, as the poem revealed, for longer than I could remember. I was writing about my identical twin, who died when we were 19 months old. I don't remember her at all, but I have memories about how her loss affected our family. I was sitting next to a friend who has a living twin. It was impossible not to write about my sister.

Again, we shared our work. This time I could see a look - almost of shock - on some of the women sitting opposite me. At the end of the session, the instructor pushed her way to me - practically over some other people - and urged me to have the poem published. I said I could put it on my blog, and she said that would be considered publishing it. I should submit it to a magazine or journal.

Now, for my entire working life I have thought of myself as an engineer. Yes, I wrote a Christmas pageant, and it was electronically published. That was fun, and I was very pleased to learn that a few people actually bought copies, and at least one church (other than my own) has used it. I would be willing to call myself a writer.

But now I have to begin to think of myself as a poet. I am 64 years old. What am I supposed to do with this identity? I am supposed to do poetry, I guess. And see if I recognize myself when I look in the mirror.

For the sport of it

This is Pentecost Sunday, considered the birthday of the Church. With Easter and Christmas it is one of the "big three" Christian holidays. There's plenty to love about celebrating Pentecost (wear red! read the Gospel in a language other than English! read the Gospel in English, even!). Some churches have birthday cakes. I can remember once as a Sunday School teacher bringing a kite shaped like a dove to church, festooning it with flame-colored ribbons, and hanging it in the stairwell leading to our classroom.

And - yes -did I mention some churches have birthday cakes?

But today, I was struck by two things during the service.

First, that I was going to be sorry to see the Paschal candle leave its prime spot in the chancel after today. Pentecost is considered the last day of Easter season, and so the Paschal candle, which is lit throughout the Easter season, will go into hibernation - at least, until the next baptism. I'll miss it.

Second, of all the scripture readings we heard today, the one that reached out and grabbed me was one of my favorite psalm portions:

Psalm 104, verses 25 through 28

O LORD, how manifold are your works!*
  in wisdom you have made then all;
  the earth is full of your creatures.

Yonder is the great and wide sea
with its living things too many to number,*
  creatures both small and great.

There move the ships,
and there is that Leviathan,*
  which you have made for the sport of it.

All of them look to you*
  to give them their food in due season.

Let me summarize: God has pets! "There is that Leviathan, which you have made for the sport of it." I think of God enjoying, just reveling in, the antics of some great sea monster  (I picture it as something between a whale and a sea-serpent, perhaps throwing itself out of the water and splashing back in). This can't be very different from the way I enjoy watching a cat play, or watching birds outside at the bird feeder.

And all these creatures, Leviathan included, look to God to feed them. Anyone who ever hears one of my cats complaining when one of the food dishes is only partially full will get the image here.

How marvelous is God's creation! And how generous is God, to share with us the ability to delight in other creatures around us, just for the sport of it.

Children of God

Many years ago I was babysitting a friend's children. My friend and her family are observant Jews, and I did my best to honor their beliefs and practices. I expected that once each child had gone through their bat or bar mitzvah, and was a responsible adult under the Jewish Law, I would be comfortable respectfully answering questions about the differences between Christianity and Judaism. Until then, I tried to refer such questions to their parents. As often happens, such plans don't always work.

One of the little boys asked me if my God was the same as their God. I answered, "yes." After all, I believe that I worship the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. But the younger brother immediately gasped "No!" He seemed shocked to identify the God of Christianity with the God of Judaism. For these children, raised in a minority faith, maintaining its boundaries, the very separateness (being set apart)  of their Jewish identity, was critical. So now the older brother politely asked me what the difference was between Christianity and Judaism. I replied diffidently that Christians believe Jesus was the Son of God.

I was then informed "All boys are sons of God - all Jewish boys, anyway." So it seemed that my statement, which I thought would be shocking to the boys, was simply considered by them to be a matter-of-fact commonplace. Of course, I didn't get into "only-begotten" and the theology of the Incarnation with these children. But I think I learned a lot more from than they did from me. (I should add that I haven't checked this statement with a Rabbi, who might be able to give me a more nuanced explanation of who is and is not considered a Child of God in Judaism. Are Jewish girls considered "daughters of God"? I don't know.) Certainly, in the Hebrew psalms, we can read of the King claiming to be God's son (see Psalm 2).

Flash forward, and there I am reading the Gospel of Luke, which traces Jesus's ancestry all the way back to "Adam, the son of God." In Acts, St. Paul, speaking to the Athenians, refers to them as "offspring of God." In the Epistles in the New Testament, I learn that baptism makes us adopted heirs, or children of God.

So, who are the children of God? I think of it this way: all human beings, descended from Adam, are created children of God - or at least created in order to be children of God. After all, we are all made in God's image, capable of reason, creativity, love. Then, there are baptized Christians, who are children of God by adoption, by the Grace of God in Jesus Christ, and not for any merit of our own. Finally, there is the only-begotten, Incarnate Son of God, Jesus Christ.

It is, of course, perfectly possible that I have this wrong. I know that some Christians do not believe that all humans are children of God. Maybe my ideas are all wrong. But it is refreshing - and challenging - to think that all human beings are, in some sense, my brothers and sisters. Relatives, friends, neighbors, strangers, and enemies - all of us were made in the image of God. This does not mean that baptism is pointless - it binds us to God in a most profound way. For me, it is the very source of my identity. But it is an identiy I claim with humility. How blessed I am to be a created, adopted, beloved, child of God.

A Sheep of Thine own Fold

Yesterday, I attended a funeral. It was a celebration of the life of the Right Reverend David Standish Ball, seventh Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Albany.

The entire service - readings, music - had been selected by Bishop Ball himself, and, as the preacher told us, we needed to pay attention to the readings and even the words of the hymns. They all spoke of Bishop Ball's great faith and trust in his Lord Jesus Christ. The Gospel lesson was about Jesus as the Good Shepherd, and the homily included references to sheep, bishop's staffs resembling shepherds' staffs, and more. As I listened, I found myself looking forward to one of my favorite parts of an Episcopal funeral. I know it's strange that I have a favorite part of funerals, but here it is:

The Celebrant, facing the body, says

Into thy hands, O merciful Savior, we commend thy servant
N. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech thee, a sheep of thine
own fold, a lamb of thine own flock, a sinner of thine own
redeeming. Receive him into the arms of thy mercy, into the
blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious
company of the saints in light. Amen.

"...a sheep of thine own fold, a lamb of thine own flock, a sinner of thine own redeeming." Honestly, if I could figure out how to turn this into a t-shirt or coffee-mug slogan, I  would use it. The problem is, any change I could imagine that would make it meaningful to someone who doesn't already understand it - well, any such change would ruin the sheer poetry. But I know that I am a sheep of Jesus's fold, a lamb of His flock, and a sinner of His redeeming. I don't have to wear it on a t-shirt. It was written on my soul at my baptism. It is who I am. It was, of course, who Bishop Ball was. May his memory be a blessing, and may he rest in peace and rise in glory.

Something New about Easter

I was visiting one of my doctors, a faithful Muslim, and told him how wonderful Holy Week and Easter had been.

My doctor asked me what I learned about Easter that was "new". I was taken aback. I know the Easter stories pretty well, and it would be hard to say what is new, though each year I probably focus on something different. So I talked about the Harrowing of Hell, how Jesus "descended to the dead" during the time between his burial and resurrection. He brought Adam and Eve and Abraham and others out of Sheol so they could enter heaven. I said that I hoped that Sheol was outside of time, so that all those who die without encountering Jesus in their lifetime could be liberated. (Of course, that is not - as far as I know - part of Christian doctrine.)

What was new about Easter this year? Perhaps, in struggling to explain Easter to someone else I enriched my own faith. And perhaps I should make a point, each year, of finding the "new" in Easter.

Now We Wait

Today is Holy Saturday, a day of waiting, of holding our breath, of standing on one foot and trying to keep our balance between the tragedy of Good Friday, and the coming joy of the Easter Vigil.

I've read that the Tridium -- the days of Maundy (or Holy) Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil on Saturday evening -- are all a single liturgy, a single event, experienced in three parts. How must it have felt for Jesus's closest disciples, going through these three days without (as we do) knowing there was going to be a happy ending? There they were, in what should have been the joyful season of Passover, suffering through an agonizing loss: suffering grief, and doubtless guilt as well. Should I have died with him? Why did I deny him? Couldn't I have shouted louder at Pilate when he asked if we wanted Jesus or Bar-Abbas? and even How could I have betrayed him? 

They didn't know about Easter, yet. For them the waiting was a time to grieve, and also to try to figure out what to do next. Go home? Hide? Split up? Every step at the door was terrifying. Just speaking in a Galilean accent was incriminating. They must have been beyond hope.

But we are not. We can look forward to the amazing encounters - Jesus in a locked room, Jesus by the seashore, Jesus on the road to Emmaus. I wonder, if only, if only Judas had waited a couple of days before taking his own life, and had given himself a chance to encounter the risen Jesus, what kind of saint he might have made.

This evening we will light candles, ring bells, and sing Alleluia with a full heart. But today, during the day, we are waiting. We are spared the terror of the first disciples, but not the waiting. The time drags on, and the waiting takes as long as it takes. But we know that in the end we will be able to release our breath, stand on both feet and rejoice.

So today, let us honor the waiting. And clasp the joy, when it comes, like a long-lost friend.

Too Good to be True

I grew up in Connecticut. Make no mistake - I grew up on the Red Sox side of the state. My Dad was born and raised and educated near Boston and it was simply taken for granted in our home that we were a Red Sox family. And even in school, I seem to recall listening to a particularly imporant game (Carl Yastrzemski - Yay!) in a ninth grade classroom.

But now, my home is definitely not in Red Sox Nation. For example, our church has families that are enthusiastic supporters of the Yankees. We've even had "mixed marriages" in church, with one spouse supporting the Red Sox and the other supporting the Yankees. I don't know how they do it.

Back in 2004, my mom and dad and aunt came for a visit. They came during the American League pennant race, and the Red Sox were one game away from losing the pennant.

That Sunday, I was privileged to give the children's talk in church. The Gospel lesson for the day was the incident when Jesus went to the synagogue in his home town and read the prophetic scroll of the good things God would one day do for the people of Israel and the world. And then he announced that these prophecies were being fulfilled right then, in front of them - in front of his friends and family and neighbors. The people didn't believe him, and ran him out of town.

I sat down on the chancel steps, and the children sat in front of me. I summarized the Gospel story, and then I said something like this:

What Jesus told the people in his home town was unbelievable to them. It was just too good to be true. It's as if I told my Mom and Dad and Aunt, who are here today, that this year the Red Sox will win the World Series.

Alas, I had forgotten my audience. There was a mini-riot among the children. One little boy started pumping his fist in the air and chanting "Yan-KEE! Yan-KEE!" (His mother told me later that she was mortified.)

I don't remember how I finished that talk that day. Perhaps the memory loss is merciful. But the odd thing was that the Red Sox did, indeed, win the World Series that year.

I told a friend this story, and he looked at me seriously and said, "you broke The Curse."

Of course I didn't. It was the great members of a great baseball team who won the World Series that year. They've won the Series since, too. (Yay!) But the lesson I took away from all of this was that "too good to be true" isn't always. Maybe sometimes things are so good that they have to be true.

Second Unsung Hymn

So here is another hymn, which could be sung to the tune to "We gather together" (but at the beginning omitting the note for "We", if that makes any sense). Anyway, I wrote this as part of the narrative for a Christmas Putz, in the Moravian tradition, which our Sunday School presented several years ago. I have edited it slightly. Yes, I know that two or three "mages" are magi, but I checked and "mages" is acceptable usage.

The Star

Mages and sages for ages and ages
had pored over pages and stared at the stars.

Watching and waiting for news of a new king,
predicted by prophets and promised by God.

Then came a new star. Only the wisest
dared to set off and to follow its light.

Slept in the daytime and traveled in darkness;
followed the star as it shined in the night.

Now it stands still over Bethlehem’s slumber.
Now they have found him, and soon they can rest.

Mages and sages and shepherds and wise ones:
all who have sought him and found him are blessed.

Unsung Hymn

In a recent Christian Education class, the teacher explained the difference between a hymn and a tune. A hymn is the words to be sung, and the tune is, well, the music to which you set the words. Many hymns are known with more than one tune (think of "O Little Town of Bethlehem"). In hymnals the hymns are often coded with symbols like "78.78.78" or "LM" indicating the number of syllables in a line. All hymns with the same "metrical" code can be sung to the same tune. And a tune with a certain metrical code can be used with any texts that have the same code. Of course syllables can be stretched out to several notes, or two syllables sung together, so there is a real art to fitting a hymn text to a tune.

It turns out I have written a hymn - actually, two, but I'm only sharing one in this post. I once presented it to a choir director, and she regretfully told me that it wouldn't easily fit any tunes that are in the public domain. Sigh.

But I thought I could share it here as a poem. I think of it as "The Facebook Prayer", although I suppose that is an improper us of the Facebook trademark. Sigh again.

The Facebook Prayer

Jesus, may I call you “Friend”?

I know that I don’t deserve to.

May I call you “Teacher”, when

I have failed to learn to serve you?

How may I address you, Jesus,

when I come to kneel before you?

On the night before the end,
you ate dinner with your students.
Then you called your students “Friends”,
knowing they would soon desert you.
None of us deserves that title;
so we come to kneel before you.

Teach me, Friend, to see you clearly

in the least of those now near me.

Teach me, Friend, to serve you well:

here and now in those around me.

Let me serve you here, and then

let me dare to call you “Friend”.

Jesus, Friend and Teacher, Lord,

when at last I come before you,

raise me to my feet so that

I may know and praise you only.

Give me what I don’t deserve, and

let me serve as you have served.

Stations II

Cold, this place, but dry
and airless, till the flurry
of activity and winding cloth
stirs air and dust both into motion.
Strong odors, too, of myrrh and spices,
itching at the nose while masking other,
all too human, scents.
(Doubtless through the tears
some poor soul tries to press away
a sneeze.) How many fail to hide their
trembling - fear and deep exhaustion from
the night and day now passing?

No one lingers. Now the men are pushing
at the stone, while women watch in silence,
save for groans from one who groaned before,
when pushing that poor body into life.

Now slip away, for soon those under orders
will approach in boredom
and take up their station (soon to fall to sleep),
resenting their assignment meant to to stop a pointless theft.

So too will they approach, unseen,
unseeable, those hosts of wondering angels
once again, not to sing Gloria - not just yet, at least -
but waiting for the earthquake soon to come.
And it will come to wake the sleeping and the dead.
But not just yet.

Then Came Faith

We were always a two-cat family. Skittles, our blind cat, changed the dynamic among all of our cats, profoundly irritating Luna, our "gray personage", who is the shyer of our two older cats. But after we had boarded all three cats during necessary home renovations, peace was restored.

Then came Faith. (I didn't name her - she had a littermate named Knowledge.) When Faith came into my care, she was destined for the animal shelter (never open on Mondays, the day I collected her) or a local horse barn. My god-daughter relentlessly combed her to rid her of the fleas that had infested her, and I cautiously housed her in our garage and then our basement while waiting to learn where I was destined to deliver her. I also took her to our vet for flea treatment and to ensure she was safe to bring into the house with our other cats. It was as if, the vet said, she was going to be a coddled house cat, not a barn mouser. It was too late. She wasn't going anywhere. I had fallen in love with Faith.

Faith loved me, too. She is the only one of our cats who reliably comes at my call. But the strongest proof of her love occurred the day I woke up and found a recently deceased mouse next to me in bed. When a cat gives you a mouse, it is the equivalent of caviar, champagne, violins, roses, and diamonds, all at once. So I was flattered. I also screamed, and insisted my husband remove the little corpse.

Faith restored the balance in our home. All four cats variously pair up to sleep with us or chase each other, as it suits them. Even Skittles plays withthe other cats, although she has never learned proper body language, and annoys the older cats on occasion. (Now here's the funny thing: the vet thinks Skittles is getting her sight back, at least a little, after two years of blindness.My husband and I aren't sure, because at home she is so functional we don't see much difference.)

I know you aren't supposed to have favorites, in children or in pets. Cats in particular can be quite jealous. But I love Faith dearly. At her last vet visit, the vet said, "She's an angel." I have to agree.

Cleanup time

I tend to keep things well past their use-by date. That includes posts in this blog. Some entries that I thought were fairly riveting a year ago are now so OBE (overcome by events) that I just went through and deleted them. I hope the blog will seem a little more coherent now.

Credo

I was commenting on a post at Haligweorc, when I realized that this poem, which I wrote some time ago, said what I needed to say much more compactly than I was accomplishing in prose.

This is not, of course, a final statement of belief. I recite the Apostle's and Nicene Creeds without crossing my fingers. But Jesus is, if you will, graspable in a way that the Father and the Holy Ghost are not. Jesus always had his face turned toward his Father, always pointed to His Father. So, for me, at this time of my life, Jesus is the key to belief. Knowing this about myself gives me a great sense of respect for our Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters who worship the God of Abraham without having the Incarnate Son of God to cling to.

Credo

God is too big to believe in.
So sometimes I can't,
I don't,
I doubt.
But I can believe in Jesus-
Jesus, God's Son,
God's Word,
God's shout: "I am!
I am love! I love you!"
He loves me.

I believe.

God who made quarks and quasars -
God who created time -
walked in the dust to teach us,
spit in the mud to heal us,
died on the Cross to free us,
rose from the grave to lead us
into his love.

I believe.

An honor I had not hitherto expected....

Wow! I was checking my favorite blogs and found that Fr. Mark Harris at Preludium had visited a site that analyzes a sample of your writing and tells you which famous writer you resemble. Well, really, I had to see. Here is the result:

I write like
J. K. Rowling

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Not since Noah's day

This is a fragment of a poem that I began years ago and never finished. Or maybe I did finish it, and didn't know it...

Stations

I know where the Raven went…

“Give us the father’s son,” we cried
and so the Son of the Father died.

The Lion of Judah picked up his cross
and went to his death like a man.
The Lamb of God picked up his cross
and went to his death as a man.
The Son of God picked up his cross and went to his death
as Adam did once, but this once, once for all.

So Lion and Lamb and God and Man lay down
(Is this the Peaceable Kingdom come at last?)
and stretched out his hands for the nails.
Not since Noah’s day has wood upheld
such a menagerie.

The raven was sent out and stayed away
unlike the dove who, flighty, like the wind,
came back to Noah twice, but then, the third time,
spurned his offered hand.
Perhaps she joined the raven then,
and circled with him overhead
until they saw the stretched out pierced hands
that waited for them both
upheld by different wood, upon a leafless tree,
while higher still above an eagle watched them all
with its keen eyes, then spiraled out of sight
of those below.

No leafy gift to bear back to the ark,
no cheery rainbow armistice with God,
but thorns and spear and rough cut wood
and women crying underneath this tree,
and gasping breath, and thunder overhead.

The raven and the dove were sent away
in hope of finding hope, and so they have.
God's grace and mercy fruited on that tree
and bear us up like eagle's wings, while
His breath breathes us in and out
with love and life.

He gives to us for us to give away.

“It is finished!”
So You say.
It has hardly begun.

(c) Allison de Kanel 2010

Edited a couple of times but done for now.

Sharks and Eclipses and God, oh my!

In The Episcopal Church, the Feast of the Transfiguration occurs on August 6th. But the Last Sunday after Epiphany, the one I learned to call Quinquegesima when I was a little girl, is when most of us hear the story of the Transfiguration.

Depending on the year, and on whether we are using the lectionary from the Book of Common Prayer or are using the Revised Common Lectionary, we may also hear the story of how the face of Moses glowed after he spoke to the Lord on Mount Sinai. Or we may hear the story of the horses and chariot of fire taking Elijah away. Or perhaps we hear the story of Elijah waiting for the Lord, Who comes to him not in the earthquake or the whirlwind, but (as we used to hear) in "a still small voice." And then we hear how Jesus, too, went up a mountain to pray and spoke with Moses and Elijah and how he and his clothes glowed, while the voice of God spoke from a cloud. These are all stories of awe, about as far as we can get from a little baby sleeping in a manger.

The story of the Transfiguration is amazing and wonderful, and if we aren't careful sounds an awful lot like a science fiction story with an alien spaceship preparing to beam someone up - an image which got stuck in my head years ago, like an irritating tune that you can't stop humming. So when talking with the kids about the Transfiguration one year, I wanted to start with the Old Testament (Hebrew Scriptures) story for the day. I can't recall if we were using the Prayer Book lectionary or the Revised Common Lectionary. But I think the story we heard that year was of Moses asking if he could see God, and of God's response that Moses could hide when God walked by, and then Moses could see God's back.

I started by asking the children why pirates wear eye patches. The answers were pretty impressive: "Because a shark bit the eye off!" "Because the eye was hurt in a battle!"

I said that I wasn't sure about the sharks, and of course some pirates were wounded in fights, but there was another explanation, too. I said that at one time sailors had to figure out where they were by looking at the sky. Sometimes they had to look right at the sun. Doing a lot of that damaged their eyesight, so eventually they wound up wearing eye patches.

Then I asked the kids if they knew what a solar eclipse is. (Some of the older kids did.) I said that the moon comes between the earth and the Sun, and we can see parts of the Sun that are usually hidden. But looking at the Sun can hurt our eyes, like those old pirates hurt their eyes, so we are not supposed to look at the Sun during an eclipse, ever. It is dangerous.

During the time of Moses, people believed that - just like it is dangerous to look directly at the Sun - it is also dangerous to look at God. Not because God is mean, but because God is so holy and powerful. Looking directly at the face of God would be like staring at the Sun. That's why Moses had to hide when God went by, and then he could look at his back.

Now, when Jesus was born, all that changed. Jesus was God, but he was also a real human baby. He cried and he spit up and he peed and he pooped. (One little girl, very shocked, said, "No!" A boy asked why he cried.) Yes, I said, he was a real baby. He cried because that's what babies do. And he peed and he pooped because babies do that, too. He was God and you could look right at him and not get hurt.

Now I asked the kids if they ever played peek-a-boo. They all nodded. If they played peek-a-boo with someone, like their Mom, and she hid her face, did that mean she was gone? No. She was still there, even though they couldn't see her, right? Right. They knew she was still there, even though they couldn't see her.

So then, finally, I talked about the Transfiguration. Jesus and his disciples went up the mountain, and Jesus began to glow like the Sun. We can't imagine what Jesus looked like, but maybe it was a little like looking at the stained glass window of Jesus over the altar, when the Sun is shining brightly.

I think, I said, that in the Transfiguration, God was playing peek-a-boo with us. Jesus was really God, even when he wasn't glowing, but all that glory was hidden. But in the Transfiguration, God let us see that Jesus was God, just like when you see the face of someone who is playing peek-a-boo. They are there all along, but you can't see them. But you know they are there. I think that God plays peek-a-boo in Church, too. When we pray, or hear the Bible read, and especially when we take Communion, God is very close to us, even though we can't see him. But we know he is there.

I don't know if any of the children who sat with me that day remember what we talked about. But I do. For me the story of the Transfiguration of Jesus will always remind me - not of an alien spaceship about to beam someone up - but of pirates and sharks, of solar eclipses, and of a mother playing peek-a-boo.

In Praise of Skittles

No, not bowling, or candy, though there is nothing wrong with either.

Skittles is our youngest cat, a little over 8 month old now. She is black and white, and my husband and I delight in her style as she bounces around the house. She prances, too, when she has something in her mouth that she is carrying around. Look, she says to us, I caught a scrap of wrapping paper! Look, I caught a toy!

Skittles is blind. Really blind: I took her to a veterinary ophthalmologist. When she was just a month old, she suffered a blow to the head, follwed by coma and a grand mal seizure. Both of her pupils expand and contract when a light shines in either one. In other words, her eyes talk to each other, but they don't talk to the visual center of the brain. We were briefly afraid that she was deaf, too, but she isn't. She can hear - she comes straight to her food bowl when she hears me open the cat food container. We (my husband and I) regularly turn to each other to ask, "How does she do that?"

Sometimes, when I tell people she is blind, they don't believe me. She zips around the house, and hardly ever bumps into anything. She always knows where she is and where she is going, which may be why she doesn't like to be scooped up. But sometimes, when she is playing, she loses track of her toy. There it is, right in front of her, but she can't see it.

Every step Skittles takes is into the dark. Every step. That may explain the prancing: she is checking the space in front of her for obstacles and testing the stability of her next footstep (or pawstep, I should say). But I'm not convinced by that explanation - as near as I can tell, she is fearless.

Into the Dark

For several years, it was my privilege to offer the children's sermon (or kids' talk) at church, alternating Sunday by Sunday with our rector. On the weeks I was scheduled, I'd check the lectionary for the coming Sunday, read the lessons carefully, and maybe do a little research on line, or using some reference books I had. Sometimes I read those lessons over and over. I was trying to find something that would grab the attention of the children and help them remember what we talked about.

About a year ago, the Psalm was a portion of Psalm 25. Some of the verses caught my attention.

"Show me your ways, O LORD, and teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth and teach me, ... Gracious and upright is the LORD; therefore he teaches sinners in his way. He guides the humble in doing right and teaches his way to the lowly. All the paths of the LORD are love and faithfulness to those who keep his covenant and his testimonies."

All right, I have to confess: these verses reminded me of a story I had read in a science fiction magazine, about a man running through a zone in which the area behind you is in the past, so you can turn and see behind you, but the area in front of you is the future, so you cannot see ahead.

On Sunday morning, I asked the organist to play some "dance music" when I signalled him during my talk with the kids.

I sat down with the kids, greeted them, and then I stood up and backed up a few steps. "I think we all go through life like that," I said; "We can see the past, but we can't see the future. We see the past when we remember, but we don't see the future before it happens, unless maybe in a dream, but dreams aren't always true."

I sat down again. "So, if we can't see the future, how can we know what the path of the Lord is? How can we choose the Lord's way, if we can't see where we're going? I've been wondering about that, and I thought of something."

I pulled out a picture I had printed from the Internet. It was a picture of two ballroom dancers, probably Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I showed it to the children.

"There are lots of kinds of dances, right? I bet we all know different kinds of dances." I asked a couple of the kids to get up and dance a little. They are not shy about this.

"In this kind of dancing, one dancer goes forwards, and can see where the couple is going. We say this dancer is 'leading.' The other partner goes backwards, and can't see where they are going. We say this dancer is 'following.' If you are following, you have to trust the leader to keep you going in the right path, even though you can't see it.

"I think that if we want to walk in the paths of the Lord, we have to dance with God. We have to let the Lord be our leader.

"Of course, you know what happens when a good dancer dances with someone who isn't very good. The good dancer's feet get stepped on a lot. I think that sometimes when I dance with God, I step on his feet. But he doesn't give up on me."

I stood up again, and picked up the Jesus Doll that we use in Sunday School. It's a pretty large doll, but not too big for me to carry comfortably. "Now, let me try this," I said, "are you ready, Lord?" and one of the boys started muttering, "Oh, no, this is going to be bad. This is going to be bad."

I asked the organist to play, and he did. It was a waltz, it sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. I started walking, or waltzing, backwards down the church aisle, holding the doll in front of me, and trying to hold it high enough so the doll could "see" behind me . I asked the children to follow. I suggested to the Jesus doll that we might try a twirl, but was gently reminded that a twirl would break the rule about not seeing the future, so we couldn't do it. And then I recognized the music that had being playing. "I want to walk as a child of the light. I want to follow Jesus." The organist didn't know what I'd be saying; he picked the hymn because it was a waltz. . . . I recognized it too late to sing along, but it was perfect.

Like Skittles, we all walk into the dark every day. Every step we take is into the dark, only we don't realize it. We think we can see where we are going, but who can see the future? Skittles doesn't know she is blind, either. If I call her, and she wants to come (she is a cat, after all) she doesn't hesitate. I may place a toy right in front of her, even tickle her paws with it, but she won't play with it unless she is ready to do so.

I wonder what gifts God has given me, that I fail to see. I wonder how many byways I have taken, trying to be the leader and not the follower, before God could lead me back. How many times I have bounced around and stepped on God's toes? Yet God loves me, and keeps calling me to the dance.

Ah, that is what Skittles is doing. She dances.

The Word Was Made Flesh

Tonight, of all the nights in the year, is the night to feel like a child again. This is the night to view the world with wonder. Look! What is that in the sky? Look! What is the miracle around the corner, just hidden from view? Is it the soft baby, drowsing under the gaze of his mother? Or is it the children creeping up to admire him?

This is Christmas Eve. This is the night when everything starts over again, everything becomes new. The baby opens his eyes to see his mother smile. The children reach toward him to touch his soft skin.

Tonight in church, I saw such a sight. The baby could have been any baby, swathed in layers of fleece. The children were dressed with care in plaid skirts and velvet jackets. I leaned down to whisper to one little girl, "why don't you go back to your mommy?" She wandered down the aisle and veered aside as her mother reached for her. I took her hand in two of my fingers and led her back to her mother. At the back of the church, the baby was awake, now held in his mother's lap.

These children are all beautiful. Tonight we have proud grandparents displaying their grandchildren; I remember when the parents were children here themselves.

When the time comes to sing Silent Night, our Sunday School children all join in. They practiced it for weeks so they could sing it for the Lessons and Carols service last week. Now they know it.

Later, we'll have the older folks coming for the service with choir and brass quartet. The music will be splendid. We'll leave, yawning. The children at the early service will be well asleep, by then. Their parents will still be wrapping gifts, preparing for tomorrow morning. In many homes, there will be clear signs that Saint Nicholas stopped by. Cookies eaten, milk gone, carrots taken away for the reindeer to snack on. I used to marvel at footprints, left in ash from the fireplace.

Tonight, what wonder! The world goes around, year by year, and there are new children born, and young children growing, and older children remembering, and each year Christmas brings with it the hope, the wonder, of a new life. Year by year, the Baby Jesus finds a home in each heart that opens to him.

May my heart, and your heart, make a home for him. The wonder of it! God, the God who made this universe and all the others, the God who made time itself, is willing to dwell with us, to love us. Who would have believed such a thing? It is beyond our understanding. Look! What is that in the sky? Look! Look at the baby sleeping under the gaze of his mother. Look.

The Best I Can Do

My readers (both of you) should be warned that, although I used to use HTML and SGML professionally, it has been a while since I did so. I have had some difficulty inserting links, and on a couple of occasions have been so frustrated that I have abandoned an attempt to post. Until I am up to speed again, it won't be pretty here. It's been four years since I lost that job, and I suspect that much of what I knew then is now obsolete. At the moment, this is the best I can do.

Similarly, I have made some changes in the settings that will (I hope) allow comments. I look forward to improving this site as I go forward, and your comments will help me do that.