The Veil

“The Veil” by Jenny Montgomery

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Until it doesn’t.

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It’s the end of a hectic day at church, days before Christmas, and I am finally relaxing at home by the fire sipping a glass of wine.  Disrupting the quiet, my cell phone rings. Glancing down to see who’s calling, A smile spreads across my face. It’s my oldest son, Matt, who rarely calls since moving to Georgia to work with his dad in a start-up lumber business. 

I answer eagerly, “Hey honey, what’s up.” 

From a thousand miles away, I hear sobbing and gibberish; something about a lady driving a car, his dad, and the Emergency Room.  I haven’t heard Matt sob like this since he was six years old and came running into the house after falling off his bike, splitting his chin and bloodying his favorite Hulk t-shirt. 

My soothing mother-voice shifts into high gear.  “Matt, honey, what’s wrong?  Take a breath. It’s okay.  I’m here.”  

“Mom, it’s Dad,” he chokes out.

“He’s dead.”

“He was riding his new Harley.”

“A car crashed into him on Hwy 53.”

“Mom, Dad is dead. I’m here at the ER.  I don’t know what to do.”

My stoic son breaks down again sobbing. My ears start to ring and my vision blurs.  I fight the urge to scream. What Matt is saying makes no sense about my ex-husband, Dale, the man I’ve known since high school. The man who broke my heart. The man who married our church organist five months after we divorced. The man who reneged on child support. The man who still takes up a dark place in my heart.

Matt’s crying draws me back to the present. His steely armor is cracking and rips me apart. Like a punch to my gut, I feel searing pain for my son, who looks exactly like his dad, and I can no longer hold back my tears. 

“Matt, I’m coming.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can get on a flight to Atlanta.” 

“Okay, Mom.  That’s good Mom.  Hurry Mom.” 

“I will honey.  I love you so much.  I’m coming.” 

Before hanging up, Matt pleads, “Mom, you have to call Ben and tell him.  This is gonna’ kill him and I can’t be the one to tell him Dad’s dead.” 

“Okay honey, don’t worry, I’ll call your brother right now.”  “It’s going to be okay.”

I then beg God to give me courage, speed dial my six foot three, tender-hearted younger son, Ben, and wait. I know this news is going to pierce his heart like nothing has before and I absolutely dread being the one to tell him his dad is dead. 

Ending the excruciating call with Ben, which was as hard as I thought it would be, my arms and legs feel paralyzed. The past is rushing at me like an on-coming train.  I want to get out of the way, but I can’t. I stare hopelessly out the window at the colorful Christmas lights blinking on the lawn across the street. The plastic Santa with his reindeer and sleigh make me weep like a grieving widow and—yet... 

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Flashbacks of Dale flirting with me in Coach Spier’s English class our junior year of high school crystalize before my eyes. Sitting in the desk next to me with his broad shoulders, sandy blond hair, baby blue eyes and #42 football jersey, Dale looks over at me and winks. I, the new girl, with long brown hair, blue-green eyes and hip hugger bellbottoms, blush crimson. Soon we are going steady and I proudly wear his letter jacket everywhere, even to church.  Also, much to my mother’s horror, I hop on the back of Dale’s Suzuki motorcycle and off we go. Dale doesn’t have to steal my heart; I give it to him freely when I am just a girl. 

Obsessed with becoming Mrs. Dale Nielsen, I move home after a year of college and begin pouring over bride’s magazines to plan our wedding.  Orchestrated by my mother, the church pews are filled that June day with family and friends.  A stringed quartet and an ivy covered arch give off the ambiance of an outdoor wedding. Bro. Aiken, the elderly beloved pastor who married my parents and baptized me, officiates. My princess-style white organza wedding dress is adorned with vintage lace and my bouquet smells of sweet roses and stephanotis. The short sheer veil demurely covers my face and I feel so pretty. At the pronouncement of becoming husband and wife, Dale lifts my veil and kisses me.

After several months, once that kiss and bridal bliss wears off, we adopt an adorable Brittany spaniel puppy that I name Jake. As puppies are prone to do when left unattended all day, Jake chews my grandmother’s lace table cloth to shreds so we give him to friends and decide to have a baby. Matt comes along nine months later and Ben is born just before Matt turns three.

In my mid-thirties, once our boys are in school, I start to grow green-eyed jealous of Dale’s freedom to follow his dreams plus sick and tired of being his mother too. I have my own dreams, one of which is becoming an Episcopal priest. But after being a Baptist pastor for ten years and fighting mean-spirited church people and politics, Dale is fed-up with Church, and wants nothing to do with my dream.  He’s adamant about this. 

His dream, on the other hand, is to raise bird dogs and sell the skeet shooter he’s designing on paper for months. He’s confident he can sell it for a huge profit which I very much doubt.  One argument leads to another then to divorce. He files the papers and secretly I’m relieved I didn’t have to be the one to do it. Even so, it’s hard to say which is worse, the years leading up to the divorce or the immediate years that follow when as a single parent I can barely put food on the table. 

Nonetheless I pull through because that’s who I am, one who lives to thrive. Losing in the divorce our beautiful three-story condo, I decorate my small two-bedroom apartment with bright happy colors and my grandmother’s antiques.  I apply for scholarships and financial aid to help me go to seminary.  I work hard and study Greek while sitting in the stands watching Ben play baseball on the T.C. Williams high school team.  I cook a lot of pasta for the two of us because it is cheap and filling.  I stretch dollars to make ends meet. I become an Episcopal priest then marry Joe, a man who loves me and supports my dreams. Life is good and Dale has been irrelevant to me for years.  That is up until Matt’s shattering phone call. Suddenly I can think of nothing except Dale and how deep down I think I may still love him.  He was, after all, my first love.  I feel like a grieving widow—and yet…

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The day after Matt’s phone call, December 23, 2006, the Syracuse airport is crowded. Running late I rush through the terminal, board the plane and am now landing in Atlanta. Turns out Dale’s grieving widow is being compassionate.  She knows I need to be with my sons who are struggling inconsolably with the sudden death of their dad and she invites me to the wake. In a few weeks, when it is revealed that Dale didn’t have a will, she will not be this gracious.  A door will be slammed.  Matt and Ben will be denied any inheritance not even Dale’s grandfather’s watch and military medals.  Eventually they will have to go to court to get what is rightfully theirs.

Nonetheless for now, I’m grateful to be with my boys.  I go with them to the funeral home and immediately feel like an interloper.  Squeezing into the crowded room of people I’ve known for years, photos of Dale’s life are looping on the overhead monitor.

There he is as the super-star high school athlete I fell in love with all those years ago.  In the next photo he’s proudly graduating from Georgia State in his university cap and gown.  More memories ensue. Holding each of our sons when they are born, Dale is grinning from ear to ear.  He’s also pictured goofing around on family vacations with the four of us, only I’ve been cut out of all these photos.  High school friends I haven’t seen since graduation, yet have remained close with Dale, avert their eyes when they see me, others offer little pats on my back.  Dale’s family who once loved me dearly, hug me uneasily and stammer not knowing what to say.  I mumble condolences and get through the best I can, relieved when it’s time to fly home so I can put all this behind me.

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One year later I am in Jacksonville, Florida for an icon writing workshop. This week-long practice of prayer and painting is cherished time away from parish ministry and I’ve been doing this workshop annually for several years. My best friend, Anne, is the chaplain. The sacred image I am to paint this time is of the Sinai Christ.  And as with any icon, the purpose of writing it is to create a sacred image so that the veil can be lifted to see and be seen by the Holy. 

What makes this image of Jesus unique are his eyes. For example, as commentators reflect, the right eye of Christ shows a challenging, penetrating gaze.  It’s the look that says, “Oh, I’ve got your number.”  And yet there is also a bit of humor, a lift at the corner of the mouth, a slight smile.  The left eye of Jesus is patient, one that is waiting for the viewer to pour out their heart. The challenging right eye calls for vulnerability and moving more deeply into our soul.  The compassionate left eye loves us unconditionally just as we are.  With this insight, I begin on day one to write this icon of the Sinai Christ. 

All goes well until day three, when I begin to work on the eyes of Jesus.  Eyes can be tricky on any icon and especially so for this one.  I am one of the first to ask our teacher for help and following her demonstration, I return to my seat ready to paint.  Dabbing paint onto my pallet, I thin out the paint with water, swirl the paint to the tip of my brush and begin making small strokes to define the penetrating gaze of the right eye. Several strokes are made before tears are streaming down my face.  An overwhelming grief grabs me. 

Caught off guard by the tears I swipe cheek. I attempt to paint but the salty tears sting so I go to the bathroom, blow my nose and dry my tears.  The gut-wrenching desire to sob suddenly overtakes me. Believing, as I was taught by a seminary professor—a former monk turned bishop—that tears are language of the heart, I let my tears flow freely.  I then stumble into Anne’s office, collapse into the nearest chair and cry some more. 

Being the wise spiritual friend that she is, Anne simply lets me cry.  My fragile heart is shattering into a thousand pieces.  Like burying toxic chemicals in your backyard and pretending they’re not there, my buried grief from Dale’s death a year ago is suddenly spewing out. 

Anne speaks tenderly to me, “I wonder if Jesus, perhaps, wants to bless you.”

More tears gush, my shoulders shake and I sob loudly.

“Clearly, you are not in any shape to work on your icon” says Anne.

“It’s such a pretty day, why don’t you go out and take a walk.”  

She comes over and hands me Kleenex to wipe my tears.

“Thank you,” I say quietly and head outside.

The warmth of the Florida sun soothes my spirit and yet the brightness is so blinding I put on my sun glasses.  Palm trees sway in the breeze and it delights me to see lemon trees in many of the yards.  Colorful bird-of-paradise flowers are blooming in several gardens that I pass.  After a few blocks I have a ghostly feeling that someone is walking beside me.  The presence is somehow familiar and I’m not sure how I know but I know it is Dale. Instead of feeling comforted by his presence, I see red and spew out an angry torrent.

“Why the hell did you get yourself killed on that damn motorcycle?”

“I thought you had finally grown up and stopped being so careless.”

“And how could you have been so stupid not to have a will?  Do you have any idea    how devastating this has been on our sons?”

“They got nothing, nothing, and your now-wife is being hateful and selfish.”

“You have crushed their spirits just like you crushed mine.”

“I was a fool to fall in love with you.”

“I’m &%$@*& glad you’re dead!”

These bitter thoughts come spilling out and I want to throw up.  My stomach is queasy, my head is pounding, my vision is blurry.  Sweat is pouring down my face, stinging my eyes.  I need water. My mouth is so parched I can barely swallow.  I slow my pace and take some deep breaths.  It’s freeing to say all these vile things and I surprisingly begin to feel much better.  As I continue walking, something shifts within.  My heart begins to soften; my breathing is calm. The past and the present collapse into one.

A veil is being lifted and I recall words from Isaiah 43:18-19 Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old.  I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

After walking several more blocks, I can still feel Dale’s presence lingering as though something more needs to happen between the two of us.  He’s not ready to leave and I am resisting letting go.  I’m also aware of the time and know Anne will be worried if I don’t return soon so I reluctantly concede that if Dale wants to come along as I complete the eyes of Christ, it’s okay with me.  He always was a charmer and I am pretty sure Dale winks at me and smiles.

Returning to the studio, the late afternoon sun streams into the room.  I find Anne, give her a hug, go sit in my chair, pausing for a moment to breathe and center myself.  I then pick up my paint brush, add more paint to the pallet, swirl the brush, make small strokes and soon those gentle piercing eyes of Jesus come to life.  Light-filled eyes of love are now looking straight into my heart.  A sweetness seeps in.  With kind eyes I am compassionately seeing the tangle of Dale’s imperfections and mine.  Unraveling the past, I am beginning to forgive Dale.  I am opening my heart to be loved by him again and to love him in return.  Past hurts and betrayals begin to melt away. Somehow through these eyes of Jesus a bridge is being built between heaven and earth so that Dale and I can bless each other eternally. I whisper a prayer, “Thank you Jesus.” 

Although I’ll never know for sure, I believe Dale is being set free like I am.  In the quietness of the studio, as I paint and pray the veil is being lifted by God for a kiss of grace to heal us both.  Harboring hate and anger serves no one.  It hardens our hearts and keeps us stuck in the past. In this moment I know from the icon that the right hand of Jesus which is raised in blessing is meant for me and for Dale.  And, it is meant for anyone who gazes upon this icon and into these eyes of Jesus seeking forgiveness, healing, mercy and love.

Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old.  I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

Postscript January 5, 2023

It’s been such fun spending these past two days with Matt.  This mother’s dream, just the two of us, sharing meals at his favorite places, riding around Calhoun reminiscing about the four years we lived here as a family almost forty years ago plus going by the cemetery to see Dale’s grave. 

After a teary good-bye and before leaving town, I feel compelled to go back to Dale’s grave alone this time.  There’s a chill in the winter air as I get out of the car and yet the sun is shining brightly.  Walking down the hill toward Dale’s final resting place, my ears tune into the quiet, my breathing slows. Strange thoughts begin to run through my head.  I feel disoriented. Time suspends itself. How can this man I shared so much life with be dead?  And yet, it says so right here.  His full name, birthdate and date of his death.  Surreal it seems that Dale has been dead sixteen years.

Nearby I notice a wrought-iron bench so I sit and stare at reality.  Memories surface making me smile.  Savoring the sweetness of sitting here in the presence of the past, I linger for a while longer.  When peace and love lighten my spirit, the grace of the grave seeps into my soul. I give thanks to God for the stillness of Dale’s earthly resting place on this grassy hillside and wonder what life beyond the grave is like for him. I want to believe he’s happy.

Holy Week Monday & the Rabbit

It’s Monday of Holy Week 2022 and for the first time in twenty-five years, I have no sermons to write, bulletins to proof, schedules to review.  Time is expansive.  I’m afloat on the open ocean, adrift at sea. 

Lingering over freshly brewed morning coffee, my eyes rest on our back yard.  Jonquils, tulips, columbine are in bloom, the peony buds clenched from opening just yet.  Lenten roses are flourishing and faint hints of pink are spotted on the azalea bushes by the fish pond.

At the birdfeeders starlings, finches, cardinals and Carolina wrens feast on seed and suet.  A pesky squirrel runs up a feeder, hangs upside down and pursues his own breakfast portion.  And then a rare bunny rabbit hops into our yard. 

Wandering toward the back stone path, this brown bunny stops still in front of our St. Francis statue.  Minutes pass and she doesn’t move. I find this fascinating.  It is as though she is praying and communing with St. Francis. 

When our beloved fourteen-year-old lab rescue, Ruby, died just after we moved into this cottage two years ago with its small yet beautiful three-season perennial garden, we buried Ruby’s ashes there by St. Francis.  Did the rabbit somehow know this is hallowed ground?  Was this beloved creature of God actually pausing to pray, to pay her respects, to acknowledge life and death? 

I’ll never know the mind of this rabbit and yet what it’s done for me this day, is call me to prayer.  Call me to slow down, to cherish this time of expanse, to enjoy being adrift.  With all the war crimes, racial injustices, chaos and turmoil in this world, there is a peaceable kingdom here in our backyard, if I will but stop, see and pray. 

The sorrow of Holy Week will unfold for us later this week as Christians we walk with Jesus from his triumphant entry into Jerusalem yesterday, to the Last Supper with his disciples, to betrayal and denial, to the cross and his death by crucifixion.  Even with knowing Easter Sunday morning is waiting on the other side with resurrection and new life, it will be a hard week.

The grace of today from a God who loves me is this bunny rabbit who came hopping into our backyard inspiring me to write this reflection and to pray—to pray for the world and for colleagues who are in the throes of final preparations for Holy Week.

Washing Clothes: The Cleansing of a Soul

Washing Clothes:  The Cleansing of a Soul

Never underestimate the will of God to woo us to wholeness.

Travel-weary from five days of visiting Civil Rights museums across the South on a bus with forty people, I emerge from the hotel elevator dragging my suitcases toward my room for rest.  Trudging down the corridor, a sign designating “Guest Laundry” catches my attention and all of a sudden I have an urgent need to wash a load of clothes.  Mind you, this is not necessary. I have diligently packed plenty of clean underwear, shirts and slacks to last me a year.  And, yet, the desire is undeniable.

Staggering into my room, exhaustion takes over and I talk myself out of washing clothes that night.  Waking early the next morning the persistent nagging need to wash clothes is hounding me.  I acquiesce knowing there’s an extra hour today before we board the bus and head down to the front desk for quarters and the complimentary detergent and dryer sheets.

Alone in the guest laundry room, I slip quarters into the coin slot and place my few dirty clothes into the washing machine along with the hotel provided detergent.  Warm water mixes with the soap and a clean fresh scent fills the room.  I breathe deeply and close my eyes.  There’s been little solitude on this pilgrimage nor time to reflect on the horrors my body, mind and spirit have beheld of racial hatred, injustices towards blacks, and flagrant white supremacy that infiltrates America’s sordid history.  My body is wrung out and compassion fatigue wrenching my heart. Listening to the sing-song sloshing of the water is solace to my soul.

The humming of the washing machine as it gently agitates my clothes gets louder as it starts to spin.  The spinning escalates to a roar and I am sure my clothes have never been spun so fiercely.  The vicious spinning must be the meaning of “being put through the wringer.”  This is one helluva washing machine and I fear it is never going to stop.  The timer flashes three more minutes.  And then I get it.  Such a thorough spinning of my clothes is much like what is happening to me on this Civil Rights Pilgrimage.  As the washing machine spins vigorously a deep spiritual cleansing is taking place within me.  All of my racial prejudices, the ancestral shame of having come from slave owners, the lies of American history I was taught and believed, are being washed away.  The guilt of white privilege and harsh judgments I’ve made of others are by the grace of God being actively spun out. 

Noticing that the brand of laundry detergent is “All” I begin to pray, “Jesus, may all my sins be washed away.  May all my pent up guilt and shame be washed away.  May God’s grace be poured upon all of me to cleanse me from the sin of slavery and racial prejudice.”   

At the end of these prayers, the washing machine comes to a stop.  My clothes are clean, free of grime, refreshed and so am I.  Transferring my clothes into the dryer I toss in the two complimentary “Snuggle” dryer sheets.  An overwhelming desire to snuggle into God’s benevolent arms overtakes me.  Feeling God’s loving embrace and hearing a whisper of my belovedness, reassures me of God’s love for us all.  Within the fibers of my being I feel forgiven.  God’s mercy and call to work for justice seep into the fabric of my soul. 

Maybe the urge to wash clothes was nothing more than a need for normalcy in the midst of making a hard journey but I don’t think so. I believe I was beckoned to do so by God.  For who knew, other than God, that a hotel guest laundry room would be a place of transformation and healing.  That it was on a Sunday morning, the Last Sunday of Epiphany, when Jesus is transfigured gleaming white before his disciples on a mountain top, reminds me that God is always seeking to cleanse us, to make us whole, to woo us to work for restorative justice and healing. May it be so as we seek liberty and justice for all God’s beloved people and may this work be always in me. 

by Jenny Montgomery, March 5, 2022

Caringbridge Brain Tumor Blog Posts

I post these Caringbridge entries in the hope that they will help someone who may be dealing with something similar. Even though Joe’s frontal lobes meningioma was benign it was devastating and wreaked havoc on our marriage. We have been graced to learn from this experience and I hope others will be as well. To better understand this journey of grace, go to my essays and read the one entitled “Looking Back.”

First Caringbridge post – December 14, 2018

Today we saw the neuro-surgeon and as we expected, Joe's benign rather large frontal lobe meningioma must be surgically removed.  We expect the surgery to take place the week of Christmas at Yale.  We like the neuro-surgeon a lot and he is very reassuring...he's done hundreds of these operations.  We can expect Joe to be in ICU immediately after surgery as brain surgery is delicate and he'll need extra nursing care.  He'll be in the hospital a few days and depending on how his tumor-free brain responds he will either come home or go to rehab for a short while.  We can also expect that Joe's current symptoms will worsen immediately after surgery because of the invasiveness of the surgery.  But not to worry.  Realistically it's probably going to take several months for Joe to be back himself.   Because of the size of his tumor and the location, between the two front lobes, the medical research team is very interested in Joe.  He's agreed to participate in one of their research projects and we go on Monday for a new kind of MRI, no side effects, and he does get paid $100 to participate!  In meantime, your thoughts and prayers are appreciated.  I'll post when we know the date of the surgery.  Love to you all!

Surgery is Scheduled  December 18, 2018

Joe's surgery to remove his meningioma will be on Thursday, December 27th at Yale.  We go for the pre-op work-up this Thursday afternoon.  Yesterday we spent several hours at Yale with Joe participating in the research project that measures the metabolism of brain tumors.  The principal researcher in this project told us this is the most exciting thing to happen in the field of Magnetic Resonance Imagining in the past twenty years; Joe being only the 10th person in the world to have this method of imagining.  And he received the $100 as promised.  So, we ate comfort food at Cracker Barrel and gave the young man who was our waiter a generous tip.  Strange graces are appearing every day.  When I called American Airlines to cancel our flight to Key West that we were suppose to take over New Year's to be there with Ben, Erin and the kids, the reservationist said she would pray for us.  When I said "that makes me want to cry," she continued to comfort me by saying she was sure Joe would be okay.  I could have been an atheist for all she knew and yet her faith and prayers for these two strangers is grace.  Your positive thoughts and prayers mean a great deal to us as well.  I will keep you posted.  Love from both of us!  P.S. In case you are wondering, because of the location of tumor and the edema in his frontal lobe, Joe is very relaxed about all this, not worried at all--which will help with his healing after surgery.  Another grace! 

PreOp Done  December 21, 2018

Best I can tell Joe is all set for surgery next Thursday.  We were at Yale Hospital yesterday for all the pre-op stuff they have to do. It tired him out and yet everyone was kind to us.  Valet parking was the best perk!  Ordering take-out pizza and having a quiet evening by the fire with candles and the Christmas tree aglow, helped restore us both.  We won't know the exact time of the surgery until next Wednesday afternoon.  However, as of today Joe is the first surgical case on the 27th for the neurosurgeon and his team.  For added support, my sister, Amy, and stepson, Dan, will be here for the surgery.  Taking things a day at a time as best we can, we may even go see a movie later this afternoon.  Keep your prayers coming...we can feel them!

 First Thing in the Morning  December 26, 2018

We'll be heading to Yale New Haven Hospital at 5:00am in the morning for Joe's surgery.  Joe continues to be calm, cool and collected about the whole thing.  And as he says, "I'm all prayed up!"  We expect the surgery to last 6 to 7 hours and the prognosis is very positive.  Dan is here and Amy as well.  We've enjoyed a meal together tonight, laughing a lot and gearing up for this surgery.  Prayers appreciated!

Surgery Success  December 27, 2018

The neurosurgeon gave a successful report on Joe's surgery. He was able to remove 95% of the tumor and due to proximity to arteries needed to leave a bit of the lining. Surgeon also said Joe will have a wicked headache and won't like his new hair cut!  His hair will grow back and they will treat his headache. They are stitching him up and he'll be in ICU tonight. Can't wait to see him!

He’s Hungry   December 28, 2018

What a difference 12 hours post surgery have made. Joe is much more alert this morning and says he's starving. Breakfast has been ordered! His head does hurt and they're managing his pain. He also has quite a shiner black eye from the surgery and looks more like a fighter than a patient. Vitals are good, he knows today's date, and  where he is. He knows who is President, which made him groan.  Expecting he will be moving out of ICU later today. All is well here. 

Ready, Set, Go…are you sure?  December 29, 2018

Recovery from brain surgery is fascinating.  Today, like yesterday, Joe is coherent and yet continues to be unfiltered in what he says most of the time.  He comes out with some pretty funny things, like asking his very pregnant nurse if he was the father of her baby so clearly he's not 100% with it. Medically, however, he's stable.  Neurologically he's where his surgeon expects him to be at this point in recovery.  And while Joe is mobile and physical therapy charts he is ready for discharge, I can't believe he is coming home as is, probably tomorrow.  Nonetheless, while Dan is with Joe at the hospital today, Amy and I are making ready for Joe to come home.  A bed is downstairs.  There's plenty of food in the refrigerator, thanks to Dan.  We're off to Target for some necessaries.  Other family members are planning to come help out. Clearly this is real and I've got to wrap my head around it!  So prayers for both of us!!   

Home Sweet Home  December 30, 2018

Happy to say we are home! It took a great deal of coaxing to motivate Joe to get ready to leave the hospital, not because he wanted to stay but due to the location of the tumor on his front lobes and the remaining swelling he's highly unmotivated to do anything. Frustrating as well is that  he thinks it's funny to be obstinate. The surgeon assures us all this is normal.  Motivation will improve and my patience must as well!  Home health occupational and physical therapy will start tomorrow and this will help both of us!  On the other hand,  I'm grateful he's kind and easy going rather than angry and frustrated. The extensive bruising is still dark purple so while he looks pretty scary, he's not in any pain-another blessing.  Son, James, comes on Tuesday which will be a help. Thanks for your many prayers and good wishes!

Step by Step  January 4, 2019

The following is the enews article I wrote yesterday to my parishioners. 
          "So, here’s the thing.  I know God is with Joe and me in this journey.  I know God loves us.  I know you and many others are praying for us. I feel God’s presence and your care.  I am blessed in so many ways. Nonetheless, I am weary.  I can’t help but wonder how long it will be before I have my husband fully back.  It’s tiring having to look after both of us. I miss being at Trinity as I would normally be. It’s frustrating not being able to come and go as I please. Then guilt takes over.  Things could be much worse.  Joe did not die in surgery as I feared.  He did not have complications. His prognosis is very good.  We love each other.  I have lots of support.  All the while, this is difficult. Then I remember something a friend said to me after Joe’s surgery: “Be gentle with yourself and each other.”  Be. Gentle.  Repeating this silently to myself, relaxes me.  It softens the jagged edges of my frustration.  It puts things into a more positive perspective.  Letting go into gentleness, I also hear the words of Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”  

Yes, all shall be well.  Joe has his post-surgical appointment with the neurosurgeon on January 11th.  The medical insurance you provide for us allows for a home health nurse to see him weekly, as well as, physical therapy and occupational therapy.  Physically he’s on the mend. His two black eyes are now greenish-purple.  Swelling around the incision has decreased.  His vital signs are all good. He’s walking unassisted and you may even see us out and about.  Joe’s biggest challenge is his cognition and inability to motivate. They say this will get better given more time to heal.  Brain surgery is traumatic. Life is difficult at times. And yet, as this new year unfolds may we all learn more about God’s grace, God’s love, God’s ability to heal and make us whole—no matter what the circumstances.   Grateful for you all!  Jenny+     

Rocky Road   January 9, 2019

I enjoy eating a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream with it's tantalizing taste of chocolate, nuts and marshmallows.  What's not so palatable is this rocky road of recovery with Joe.  And then I have to remind myself that it's been just two weeks tomorrow that he had a rather large benign tumor removed from his brain.  Evidently, according the neurosurgeon's nurse with whom I spoke this morning, Joe's body is reacting to this rocky road as well. Last night was rough.  For four hours Joe simply could not motivate his body to get up off the toilet and come to bed.  I tried numerous tactics to help motivate him and nothing worked.  He's also a big man and I can't lift him.  Our dog, Ruby, even tried to help by jumping into the bath tub, which didn’t help at all!  At one point I said, "all you have to do is stand up."  To which he starts singing the hymn "stand up, stand up for Jesus."  I don't need to tell you at 1am, this was not funny!  Awhile later I said, "the only thing to do is get up." And he starts singing, "only the lonely."  Writing this now, it is funny and shows the cleverness of the brain, his brain anyway.  Eventually he came to bed and yet woke up this morning with a severe headache, which he hasn't had before. The prescribed pain medication eased it and he's slept a good bit today. On a positive note, Joe rallied for his in-home physical therapy session this afternoon and we may go out for dinner to get out a bit. So a rocky road today.  The nurse assures me this is normal and that things will get better. There's also a monthly support group at Yale that I'm going to attend which should help as well. Thanks for all your continued prayers and care!   

Post-Op Visit  January 11, 2019

According to Dr. Piepmeier, the neurosurgeon, Joe's greatest ally is TIME. Synonyms for ally such as, supporter, abettor, backer or bedfellow all seem to fit.  No doubt about it, Joe has had a significant brain injury.  However, unlike some brain injuries, all of his pathways are intact.  Analogous to electrical wiring in your home, there's somewhat of a power outage in his frontal lobe.  However, rewiring is not needed.  Given time, the flow of function will start up again.  Pathology shows Joe has had swelling in his frontal lobe from the slow-growing tumor for a long time, possibly ten years. He may even have some swelling six months from now. Pathology also specifies the tumor as a Grade 2 meningioma.  With this designation and because there was tissue from the tumor that could not be surgically removed, radiation therapy will most definitely be part of the treatment plan.  If he didn't have radiation, the tumor would come back.  First, though, he has to heal from the surgery.  Sleep and rest are good, also moderate exercise. No driving, no heavy lifting. We go back on February 8th for an MRI and to see the neurosurgeon.  We could go ahead and have neuropsychiatric testing done but Joe would inevitably not do well so we'll wait on this.  I'm encouraged and so is Joe.  Dr. Piepmeier says we're both good people and to hang in there, so that's what we're doing!  Joe invited him to go to lunch with us to which he politely declined:)

Too hilarious not to share if you read my "Rocky Road" post...one of Joe's sisters remembers that when he was around eight years old, he and a friend got in trouble in school.  The teacher had them put their heads on their desk as punishment.  As the story goes, when Joe put his head down he started loudly singing, "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley!"  No doubt about it, my husband is quite a character and appears to have been so from an early age!

Roller Coaster Recovery  January 17, 2019

I used to love riding roller coasters.  When Joe and I were dating and my stepson, Paul, was about 10, I loved riding roller coasters with Paul.  Holding on for dear life, screaming my head off, being jerked around was thrilling.  I would exit the ride, laughing hysterically.  Twenty years later, not so much.  I no longer like being tossed about, being scared to death, soaring high with abandon.  These days I much prefer staying grounded in peace and calm.  And yet…here we are on what feels like a roller coaster ride of recovery.  On Monday the Occupational Therapist noted Joe’s oxygen level was low and was concerned about his shortness of breath.  On Tuesday afternoon the RN concurred and sent us to Joe’s primary care MD, who sent us to the ER at Danbury Hospital.  Sure enough, the chest x-ray confirmed that Joe has pneumonia.  So, they admitted him Tuesday evening and have now decided to keep him another day or two for his oxygen levels to come up.  Danbury is a good hospital and closer to home than Yale. I’m getting more rest and a bit of a break.  Joe would much rather be home with me and Ruby, especially Ruby!  A snow storm with icy mix appears to be heading our way over the weekend so we’ll have to see how that impacts when Joe gets home. I’ll keep you posted.  Your prayers and care mean so much.  Writing also helps me cope and keep things in perspective so thanks for reading these posts!

Back on Track – January 20, 2019

Happy to report Joe came home from the hospital late Friday afternoon with mostly clear lungs. The home health nurse came yesterday and his vitals are good, oxygen level up, and only a little crackle in the left lung.  So we're back on track for recovery.  He's a little weaker but becoming more like himself.  For example, I so loved hearing him laugh while talking to two of the gran-girls yesterday.  When they asked if we'd moved a bed downstairs for him, he told them that a hospital bed had been set up in our front room which faces a very busy Main Street and that he sits in bed waving to everyone.  He went on spinning this tall tale by saying that Newtown is now providing a tour bus to come by our house and the biggest draw is when he is sitting on the bedside commode waving (sic humor I know!)  I'm hoping for several more weeks of continued recovery before radiation and a sense of humor in the midst of it all.  Love to all.  

The Body Knows  February 1, 2019

Most waterparks have these giant 300-gallon water buckets positioned high off the ground, perilously filling with water until the bucket can hold no more and at the peak moment, the bucket tips forward dumping torrents of water onto the unsuspecting souls standing below.  Hold this visual as you continue reading. 

Experience is teaching me that while caring for a beloved, you are doing okay until you’re not.  Since Joe’s diagnosis of a brain tumor two months ago with subsequent surgery and a bout of pneumonia I thought I was doing okay. Then I began to feel super tired.  Getting more sleep, talking to friends, working out, seeing my spiritual director and therapist helped.  It wasn’t enough.  The cumulative effect of Joe’s slow-growing tumor over several years has been more emotionally and physically draining than I realized.  A week ago my bucket tipped with my body demanding “enough, already!”  It did so with a fainting spell which caused me to fall, resulting in a mild concussion.  I’m okay (I really am according to doctor who did all sorts of tests!)  And I need time to rest, regroup and heal with Joe. 

In conversations with the bishop, lay leaders and staff we’ve agreed taking some time off from Trinity is a wise, healthy decision.  My hope is to return fully rested by March.  I’ll check-in with the wardens in about three weeks and we’ll see where things stand.  I have to admit it was delightful lingering in bed this morning and clearing my calendar.  Interestingly, with me slowing down, Joe is picking up speed.  This morning he dealt with faulty heat in the rectory.  He made biscuits for dinner one night this week.  Someone from Trinity picked him up yesterday for the monthly "lunch bunch" which he enjoyed.  Plus, the two of us are laughing more and fantasizing about a vacation at the beach.  We're going to try listening to a John Grisham novel together by the fire.  We're going to a local spa for a couple of days to celebrate our 18th anniversary.  Then Joe sees the neuro-surgeon next Friday and we'll hear more about radiation after that (which does not sound fun but is necessary.)  So that's where we are today.  Our bodies are healing and we're learning a lot from them!

Like Clockwork February 8, 2019

It is nothing short of a miracle that we were up, showered, dressed and out the door this morning at 6:45am for Joe’s six-week follow-up visit at Yale.  Yes, we went to bed last night at 8:30pm however there was no need on my part this morning for cajoling, begging, pleading, admonishing, nor motivating Joe to hurry.  (Or as he distortedly remembers previous appointments, me yelling at him!)  Nope, we were up and out like clockwork, driving up to valet parking at 7:30am, arriving on time for his 7:50am MRI.  We enjoyed breakfast at the hospital cafeteria, which by the way serves delicious southern grits!  Dr. Piepmeier, the neurosurgeon, was able to work Joe in earlier than his 11am appointment so we were home by noon. 

The news is good which we could see on today’s MRI.  The edema or swelling in Joe’s brain has decreased by almost a third.  The remaining 10% of the tumor is small by comparison.  Aggravating symptoms like a sore jaw, scalp numbness, lack of appetite, plus a metallic taste are all part of the healing process and should dissipate over time.  Joe has a green light to drive when he’s ready.  We see the radiation oncologist next Thursday, on Valentine’s Day, to learn about radiation and when that will begin.  Joe then sees Dr. Piepmeier again in three months.

What started as a rainy cold morning has turned out to be a sunny warmer winter day.  We took a nap when we got home, and I am discovering just how good rest is for the soul.  Ben and EunJung are here this week which is a help.  Dan comes back on the 18th for a few days.  And while I was sad to read in a church email that a parishioner is having surgery today, I am very glad there are others to care for her while I’m on leave.  Likewise, when my mother was hospitalized last week with a stomach virus, I am grateful my sisters were there to care for her.  Lots of folks, like you, are sending love and care.  We can feel it and are very blessed!

Six and a half weeks  February 15, 2019

 Six and a half weeks of radiation is what the radiation oncologist prescribed yesterday for Joe. This means daily round trips to Yale, M-F, for small doses of radiation to be administered, probably beginning mid-March. We go next Friday for the “planning session” which entails a CT Scan, the calendar of appointments, plus, to ensure accuracy for the radiation, a tight-fitting mask will be tailored made to Joe’s face (which he will get to keep and wear on Halloween!) The most significant side effects will be fatigue and hair loss.  Rare side effects are scary things like seizures and loss of vision so we’re not thinking about these. 

Today I’m hopeful.  Yesterday, I was teary and weary.  The residual reality of Joe’s brain tumor loomed large. Borrowing lines from poet, David Whyte, after seeing the radiation oncologist my “uncourageous life” sought only to curl up in ball and pull into silence. Feeling not strong at all, my uncourageous life “just wants to lie down; close its eyes and tell God it has a headache.”  And yet, again borrowing lines from Whyte, “my other life, the life I admire and want to follow looks on and listens with wonder, and even extends a reassuring hand for the one holding back…”  I interpret this extended hand to be the hand of Jesus, the divine within me, which is full of hope, love and reassurance that the help we need will be in in place when we need it. 

Realizing again, I am a pilgrim on this journey, perhaps at the end of this very long two-year road, I will be able to “view looking back on the way we took…understand myself as a witness and thus bequeath me the way ahead so that it can teach me…” 

“The Radiation Journey Begins”  March 7, 2019

Today was the “trial run” for Joe’s radiation treatments.  Traffic was heavier than usual at 7:20am and we still arrived on time for the 8:30am appointment. Subsequent appointments are at 9:45am and that’s better for our daily commute.  Beginning on Monday and going through April 24, we will make this drive to New Haven (a lovely drive along the Housatonic River.) Treatments will last only 20 minutes or so. Today Joe reports the mask was super tight and yet they know what they’re doing so no complaints.  Afterwards we enjoyed breakfast at the hospital.  Valet parking is great until there is a delay due to the driver of your car being bumped by a bus to which the police are called, and a ticket issued to the bus driver plus lots of paperwork to ensure we’re adequately compensated.  However, we’re so chilled from a few days at a yoga center with massages and mindfulness practice that we hardly notice the inconvenience.

Realizing my limitations in caring for a congregation and caring for Joe, I am taking family leave from Trinity until after Easter.  I won’t pretend this is easy.  Last night, when we attended an Ash Wednesday service at a neighboring Episcopal Church, the priest was welcoming and yet my heart was aching to be with my people, at my parish.  The same thing happened this past Sunday when we worshiped at the Congregational Church in New Haven.  Grieving this temporary loss of pastoral and priestly ministry, I can hardly sing the opening hymn. Having Joe’s radiation treatments coincide with Lent seems spiritually fitting for I do feel like I am entering the wilderness.  And yet, as the priest reminded us last night, Lent is a journey of the heart, a time to draw closer to God.  I do not know how this Lent, Holy Week and Easter will draw me and Joe closer to God.  What I do know is that this is a journey of the heart.  As Joe and I deepen our love for each other and seek God’s love amid this journey, I know we are not alone. We are grateful for your prayers, care and love. 

 “How a brain tumor saved our marriage”

You may think I am exaggerating.  I am not.  A year ago, I had a husband who was barely functioning at home much less as a marriage partner.  According to him he was fine, and the problem was me.  Of course, we now know it was the unruly brain tumor that was wreaking havoc on Joe’s ability to function and relate.  And now it’s almost humorous the way he’s recovering.  For example, he’s been highly motivated to clean out his closet and sort through his clothes.  One day he comes to me with Ruby’s dog meds in his hand and wants to know why they are in his underwear drawer.  Going through his sock drawer, he finds a collection of restaurant receipts from 2017.  He can’t believe some of the things I tell him that happened last year. He’s like Rip Van Winkle, now waking up.  So, to personify this troublesome tumor, we arbitrarily named it “Thaddeus.”  Which, interestingly, as it turns out means “courageous heart.”   

Reflecting on this journey, I don’t believe this chosen name was coincidental. For indeed, going through the rigors of radiation and repairing our marriage requires both of us to have a courageous heart.  Before we knew of the tumor, I was scared and uncertain of our future together.  After the diagnosis, I was scared I would lose Joe.  Fear has been a real part of this journey.  And yet, so has courage.  With the gentle coaxing of our therapist, we are courageously talking about the effects of “Thaddeus” on our marriage.  As Joe’s brain-functioning continues to increase he’s getting back to being the Joe I love and cherish.  So as startling as it may sound, I do believe this brain tumor has saved our marriage.  We’re not quite there yet.  Joe still has eighteen radiation treatments to go, he’s feeling more fatigue and his hair is thinning. but as my spiritual director said recently, this journey is my resurrection story. Slowly and surely it is becoming our resurrection story.  Signs of new life are starting to appear.  We worked together in the yard yesterday raking leaves and picking up sticks.  And it warmed my heart to see the colorful crocus finally beginning to bloom from the long cold winter.  Easter is coming!  Thank you for your continued prayers and care! 

Note to self:  other feelings of sadness, anger, grief and loss were also felt along with fear before the diagnosis of the brain tumor. And I was not simply uncertain about the future of our marriage, I had decided I was leaving it.

Palm Sunday April 14, 2019

 No doubt about it.  This past winter was hard.  Thankfully we were well-seasoned while living in upstate New York to handle extreme winter weather, so it wasn’t the dark dreary cold and snow that were a struggle. The challenges of this winter were for me maters of the heart.  For example, yesterday was the first day since last fall that weather-wise we were able to enjoy our back deck.  The sun and warmth felt delightful.  And then it dawned on me.  The last time I was out here we knew nothing about Joe’s brain tumor.  I knew something wasn’t right, but the truth was yet to be revealed. And when it was revealed in early December…it was as though a massive snow storm with bitter cold blew through our lives and settled in for months.  And yet there have been many blessings of which I am very grateful. 

This week a friend shared a post with me that captures perfectly the sentiments of my heart:    “Life is amazing.  And then it is awful.  And then it’s amazing again. And in between the amazing and the awful it’s ordinary and mundane and routine.  Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and relax and exhale during the ordinary.  That’s just living heartbreaking, soul healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life.  And it’s breathtakingly beautiful.” by LR Knost posted on Spiritual Awakenings April 8, 2019 

I now know this beautiful truth from the inside out in ways I would never had known if the winter storm of Joe’s tumor had not blown through our lives.  To write this on Palm Sunday as Jesus enters Jerusalem to face his death seems most appropriate.  For in the end, as we are discovering anew, there is always resurrection.  Joe is doing well with radiation, with only eight treatments to go.  We are making it!

Maundy Thursday April 18, 2019

Her name is Karen.  She is elderly and comes alone to Smilow for her radiation treatments.  A volunteer brings her down in a wheelchair and takes her back up for a taxi ride home.  Karen’s appointed radiation time is right before Joe’s.  We’ve seen her every day for the past six weeks and she is usually cranky.  If she’s late, they take Joe first and she directs her upset toward him.  When Joe began wearing his NY Yankees ball cap, she was clearly not happy as she is an avid Red Sox fan.  She would scowl at him and with disdain refer to him as “Yank.” 

 When Joe learns that Karen’s last treatment is to be on Tuesday this week, he began to engage her in conversation. She starts to soften. Without any prompting she tells us how in February of this year, when she was in the hospital, the hospital chaplain asked if there was anything she had ever wanted to do that she hadn’t yet done.  Karen’s reply was that she wanted to be baptized.  She’d had the chance when she was 13 years old but didn’t want to get her hair wet so emphatically declined.  The story she tells of the chaplain baptizing her brought tears to my eyes.  Tuesday of this week Joe brings Karen a card and stands by her as she bangs the gong to celebrate her last radiation treatment.  It’s the first time we’ve seen her smile.  Likely we won’t see her again and yet somehow, we are forever connected.  We promised her our prayers.  

Somehow this story seems right for today, Maundy Thursday.  It’s not exactly washing someone’s feet but it’s close.  And while my heart hurts not being able to be a priest and pastor during Holy Week, I am keenly aware these days how most people are hurting for love.  In the living of life, we all need Jesus through others to love us. We need Jesus and others to feel our Good Friday suffering and pain, to wait with us on Holy Saturday when nothing makes sense, and to give us hope of new life in Easter resurrection.  Know of our prayers for you all during this Holy Week and celebration of Easter on Sunday. 

CELEBRATION April 24, 2019 

 This past Saturday evening Joe and I attended the Easter Vigil at St. Bart’s Episcopal Church in NYC.  In the most dramatic liturgy of the year, the story of salvation begins in darkness with creation and moves to resurrection.  Just before the moment that Easter was to be proclaimed with the lights coming up and the first glorious “Alleluia,” the Welcome Committee, who was setting up the reception in the back of the church, got a little ahead of themselves.  Amidst dark solemnity, we heard a loud “pop” as the champagne was uncorked.  We all laughed, including the priest.  It was quite a celebration.

 Today we are celebrating again!  This morning Joe completed his 33rd and final radiation treatment.  After receiving discharge instructions, he banged the ritual gong, and everyone applauded. We were given well wishes, told to keep smiling and that we would be missed. We then went to Donut Crazy and indulged ourselves in sweetness. Yes, today feels like Resurrection and in many ways, it is.  Even Mother Nature is celebrating today, wearing her prettiest spring dress adorned with pink blooming tulip trees, yellow daffodils, lush green grass, sunshine, and blue skies.  Having come through this time of desolation, it feels like God is embracing us with a big bear hug and I want to hang on to this feeling forever.  Who wouldn’t, right?

 And yet, looking back over the past three months, six months, year, two years, I wouldn’t trade any of those difficulties for where we are today.  Today I know am in a different place; believe Joe is as well and am grateful our marriage is in a place of resurrection--a place of new life.  Tonight, we’re going to celebrate at a favorite Italian restaurant, tomorrow we’re going to relax at a spa, Friday I return to work at Trinity and Sunday I’m back preaching and presiding.  Joe is to take it easy for a while, so his brain can rest and in six weeks goes back for a follow-up visit.  As predicted, his brain is a little fuzzy, however his adolescent sense of humor is fully intact. He brought home the dreadful mask he’s had to wear for the treatments and says he plans to put it on early one morning while I’m still asleep to scare the bejesus out of me when I open my eyes.  He thinks it will be hilarious.  I do not!  Thanks for reading all these posts as well as for all your prayers, love and care.  We send our Resurrection Blessings to all!!

Deep Warm Waters

I was eight years old when I first stepped down into the deep warm waters of baptism. Dressed in a white robe, surrounded by family and friends at Kirkwood Baptist Church in Atlanta, Georgia, I was immersed into full-body baptism. I remember being scared to death because I couldn't swim and was afraid I would drown in those deep waters.  It's not bad theology for an eight year old as we sometimes refer to baptism as a state of dying to sin and being reborn into the life of Christ.  But needless to say I didn't drown and I've never forgotten those deep warm waters. 

As an Episcopal priest, I've done a hundred or more baptisms.  All of them have been wonderful experiences of grace.  But even with my bishop's direction to use a lot of water at my first baptism, every one of these baptisms have happened with less than a gallon of water. Using the silver flagon or ceramic pitcher set out by the Altar Guild, I've sacramentally poured water into the font, swirled my hand around to bless it, and then poured three handfuls of water over the forehead of a child or adult.  And while our Book of Common Prayer clearly indicates the preferred method of baptism in the Episcopal Church is by immersion, I've never served a church that has baptismal pool.  Thus, the font has been sufficient.  

That is until two months ago when I was asked by my eleven year old granddaughter to baptize her.  Ella is Baptist.  And for her baptism I had the chance once again to step into deep warm waters.  Standing in her church's baptismal pool with Ella, I recalled my own baptism and shed tears of joy in God’s goodness and grace.  Remembering how I held her in my arms as an infant and gave her a priestly blessing, brings more joy to the privilege of now baptizing her.  

Almost as tall as I am, Ella stands before me, holds onto my arm, and in the name of God, I immerse her down into these deep warm waters.  As she rises up soaking wet from head to toe, I kiss her cheek. I don't believe either one of us will ever forget the love, the grace and the holiness of those deep warm waters.  And something tells me the next time I do a baptism with less than a gallon of water, it won't quite be the same.  Oh, it will be the sacrament of baptism but it won't be a soaking!.

A GRACIOUS PLENTY

There are some things about the south that deeply trouble me like racism and the popularity of guns but in many ways I cherish my “southern style” upbringing where everyone was sugah, or honey or darlin’.  There’s much to be learned, I believe, from the southern charm of good manners, simple kindnesses, and hospitality.  Much to be appreciated about graciousness and generosity.

 One of the sayings I often remember hearing as a girl growing up in Georgia was “a gracious plenty.”  As in, “Honey come on in to the table and eat with us, we’ve got a gracious plenty.”  This phrase, a gracious plenty, is cheerfully used in the south when welcome, hospitality and food come together.  A gracious plenty means abundance, lots of, more than enough to share.

 This reality was most evident at the annual church homecoming “dinner on the grounds”.  Long tables would be set up outside under the pine trees and filled with platters of barbeque, southern style fried chicken, mounds of  potato salad, dozens of deviled eggs, baskets of biscuits, bowls of green beans, cole slaw, corn on the cob, along with gallons of sweet tea and plenty of homemade cakes and pies.

 The goodness in these church dinners taught me about the generosity of God lived out in a community of faith.  None of these churches were huge in size but they were certainly huge in spirit. All too often these days I hear about scarcity in the church.  “We don’t have enough people, we don’t have enough money, there’s not enough time, not enough, not enough, not enough.  But the truth is we have a gracious plenty! 

People come to church to be part of a community that practices a gracious plenty of love, care, mercy and forgiveness.   Throw in food, fun and fellowship along with joyful worship and you’ve got yourself a gracious plenty church.  The grace of a gracious plenty is that there is enough, more than enough, of what we need to be the church. We just have to start believing we have a gracious plenty.  For our God is a God of abundance and provides for our every need, just ask the birds of the air and the lilies of the field. 

HOPE FOR THE FUTURE

The question wasn't asked out of fear but out of curiosity regarding recent events in the Anglican Communion.  It's an important question and I wanted to give a substantive answer. So here's my response to the question, "What is your hope for the future of the Episcopal Church, and on what do you base that hope?"

My hope for our future as the Episcopal Church is strong, based on my conviction that God is at work in and among us. This knowing has lived in me from the day of my baptism at the age of eight when I came to know the presence of Jesus in my life.  Writing a daily Examen is one of my spiritual practices—and each evening, looking back on my day, I never fail to see God’s presence in my life, in the church I serve, and in the world.  

Although some aspects of the gathering of Primates this past week (January 11-15, 2016) in Canterbury is disappointing, the unanimous desire voiced by the primates to walk together is a hopeful sign. A task force established for restoring relationships, rebuilding mutual trust, healing hurt, and exploring differences is a hopeful prospect. And, as our Presiding Bishop reminded us, it is “important to remember that we are still part of the Anglican Communion. We are the Episcopal Church, and we are part of the Jesus Movement, and that Movement goes on, and our work goes on… And so we must claim that high calling; claim the high calling of love and faith; love even for those with whom we disagree, and then continue, and that we will do, and we will do it together.” I agree. 

My strong hope for our future is also based on first-hand experience of our legislative process.  In 2000 I was appointed as a Coordinator for General Convention.  For four Conventions I coordinated the meeting rooms for the legislative committees.  My responsibilities enabled me to see and hear our national church wrestle with challenging issues. Conflict stemming from the election of Gene Robinson, prayer book revisions, canonical changes, and budget allocations were contentious debates.  But, time and again, I was deeply moved by the prayerfulness and faithfulness to respectful listening. Committee chairpersons followed fair and faithful processes to hear all voices.  Decisions were not made hastily.  And, after voicing diverse and disparate perspectives, and the struggle to discern the best way forward, all gathered for worship as one body.  

Other evidences of hope I see are the ways dioceses, bishops, clergy and laity, are collaborating for stronger ministry.  For example, a colleague in the Diocese of Delaware is serving as a “Covenant Rector” serving three small congregations. She’s working hard and learning a great deal. Cluster-ministry is occurring in several dioceses.  Shared-ministry with ecumenical partners is occurring.  Congregational Development is a priority.  Vocational Deacons are more widely utilized.  Clergy are beginning to rely less on the church for full-time employment and finding alternative sources of income.  The Episcopal Church is becoming less hierarchical.  I see more visionary prophetic leadership (and practice this myself). We know maintaining the status-quo will not work so we’re breaking through glass ceilings, launching into social media to tell our story, investing in our youth and re-imagining the church.  All this gives me great hope for our future. To be living and serving in these times of change is nothing but grace!

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

The house is lovely and welcoming, reminiscent of Williamsburg decorated with rich warm colors.  It sits on a small hill with a large front porch, circular driveway, surrounded by pine trees.  Red geraniums punctuate the porch with Southern charm.  This house is picture-perfect and, in fact, the herb garden and kitchen were featured years ago in "Better Homes and Gardens."  

This house belongs to my parents and for years it has been my place to come home to for family gatherings.  That it is being sold is breaking my heart.  As much as I know and my parents and sisters know that this is the right decision for my eighty-something parents, I cannot imagine not having this house to come home to.  I cannot imagine no longer having coffee in the kitchen, sitting at the dining room table for Thanksgiving, having a glass of wine on the screened porch or swimming in the pool.  While this is not the house I grew up in, it is the house I have come home to as an adult; during my divorce and the sad years that followed; for birthdays and holidays, to be loved and treasured as a daughter.

For weeks I have been looking for God's grace in all of this.  Like the woman in scripture who loses her treasured coin and searches for it relentlessly, I've been searching for grace in the selling of my parent's home.  Loss and sadness is all I've found.  That is until the first night my parents spent in their new apartment at the retirement home.  I called the next morning and asked how they were doing.  My mother said it was the most peaceful restful night's sleep she has had in years.  And there it was.  The grace of my parents being at peace, no longer worrying about a house that is too big for them, too burdensome to care for properly.  This hidden grace of God at work in the lives of my aging parents is such a blessing to me.  Grace abounds in knowing that they are sleeping well, have meals prepared for them, and are in the company of newly found friends.  As the saying goes, "home is where the heart is" and home will always be with my parents wherever they are.    

FRIDAY'S GRACE

Fridays are sermon writing days at home but since we have a guest preacher coming on Sunday I am at church Friday morning when the phone rings.  Our parish administrator has stepped away from her desk so I answer the call.   "Can you come and bring mom communion?"  "Of course, how is one o'clock?"  "Perfect," the daughter, Joyce, says.

Arriving at the house, Joyce is waiting for me outside.  "It's not good, come on in."  I'm surprised when she guides me upstairs. Entering the bedroom, Katherine, the mom and a beloved member of our church, is in bed .  She's on oxygen and needs assistance sitting up. Pillows are lovingly positioned to support her by her daughter-in-law.  

A month ago Katherine was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, two weeks ago we buried her husband.  Katherine is in her eighties and beautiful.  As sick as she is, she maintains an air of dignity, graciousness and matriarchy.  She softly tells me she is dying and it is only a matter of days.  She is at peace.  As her last act of faith she wants to receive the sacrament of Christ's body and blood.  

A tv tray is brought over by the bed and becomes our make-shift altar.  I set it for communion. Katherine's daughter, daughter-in-law, and niece kneel on the floor at the foot of the bed.  Like the women at the foot of the cross, they will not allow their beloved to die alone. The "holiest of holies" in the temple of Jerusalem could not have been more sacred than this bedroom.  Grace fills it. The five of us know we are standing on holy ground and the veil between heaven and earth is profoundly palpable.

I read some verses from John's gospel, pray the prayers, and together we make Eucharist.  I give a final blessing.  Tears trickle as we say good-bye, all the while claiming the promise of everlasting life.  Much sooner than expected, Katherine passes from this life into glory that night at 9:10pm.  

In a few weeks we will have a burial service for Katherine.  At the beginning of it I will say "I am Resurrection and I am Life, says the Lord.  Whoever has faith in me shall have life, even though they die."  Life in death. This is grace as I know it on Friday.            

In The Midst of Suffering

When a clergy friend, who lives hours away, asks if I would visit one of her parishioners in a hospital twenty minutes from me, I say "sure" and add this to my rather lengthy "to do" list. Planning to squeeze in this visit, I arrive at the hospital making a mental note that I will need to leave in thirty minutes to be on time for my next meeting.  

Walking into intensive care I find the young man.  His mom, Barbara, is in the cafeteria buying him a cheeseburger and milkshake so he doesn't have to eat the unappetizing meat loaf.   Robert is twenty-six and is very sick.  He is their only child. The prognosis is questionable at this point.  They are hopeful.  Because of the aneurism and infection in his brain Robert is unable to move much and his verbal communication is limited.  But he can smile.

When Barbara returns we leave the nursing assistant to feed Robert and because the Family Waiting Room is so crowded we wander around looking for a place to talk.  Two chairs positioned in front of bright windows, away from patient rooms, seem to have been placed there for us so we take them.

 I don't know Barbara and she doesn't know me but the ease with which we talk is grace filled. She loves her church and is a faithful Christian.  She is a social worker and knows a lot about emotional and mental health.  But this is hard, really hard.  Both she and her husband are doing their best to stay positive.  As we talk she tells me about Robert's girlfriend, a childhood friend he's known for years.  They've been dating for six months and are very much in love.  Katie, who happens to be a nurse, comes every day to see Robert.

When the time feels right for both Barbara and me, I say a prayer and we walk back to Robert's room for me to pray for him.  I say to Robert that I've enjoyed getting to know his mom and that she has told me about Katie.  Instantly Robert's face lights up and a huge smile fills it.  This is what love does and we all need it.

As I write the re-telling of this story, my heart breaks for this family.  I am humbled and grateful to walk this way with them.  Being an hour late for my next meeting didn't matter at all.   Grace and hope in the midst of suffering is what matters.  

Nieces

We have a new baby in our family.  Her name is Billie Sue.  She has a six-year old big sister and her parents are my thirty-something niece and her wife.  These two millennial women are wonderful moms.  They are also tech savvy, widely connected through social media, creative, amazing entrepreneurial women.  Their road to conceiving a child was not simple, some might say unconventional, and I admire them greatly for pursing their dream of becoming moms. The fact is, I adore my niece.  In her pre-school years she would come and spend a week with me.  We would bake cookies and play dolls and my sons were insanely jealous of her back then. That she has become such an incredible woman does not surprise me at all.   

I have two other nieces who are in their twenties and are also incredible.  I adore them as well. One just graduated from a prestigious law school and is keeping her fingers crossed that she passed the bar exam. She is smart as a whip and will be an awesome attorney.  She is also funny and makes me laugh at her quirky antics.  Her younger sister is a senior in college, majoring in English and well on her way to becoming a writer.  This niece is very social, has tons of friends and a heart of gold.  In May for her 21st birthday we all went dancing...my nieces, my sisters and me.  What a blast!  

Today it is the grace of having nieces and now great-nieces for which I am most grateful. Generation after generation of Montgomery women who are amazing!   

Hammock Time

On Sunday I was keenly aware of God's presence as I was preaching, presiding at the Altar and in our FISHing conversations after church.  During the week God's presence has been felt in times of pastoral care, meetings with staff and supervision with our seminarian.  I also felt God's presence while walking our dog, talking with my sister, and making an apple pie for Joe.  And I am convinced that without my sabbath day on Mondays I could not be as tuned into God's presence throughout the week.  This spiritual practice of making Mondays my sabbath started ten years ago.  It took some time to acclimate my body and soul to a day of rest and it still does especially when I'm revved up from Sunday.  What helps is being out in our country cottage, if only for 24 hours.  Which is where we were this past Monday.  

Late morning Joe is out cutting the grass while I relax in the hammock (not exactly fair but he's okay with it!).  Our cottage, a former school house, is in a valley and early morning fog had obscured the mountains.  But by late morning the fog is lifting and the sun beginning to shine. Psalm 121 comes to mind, "I lift up my eyes to the hills; from where is my help to come? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth."  I need this reminder.  I need to remember the grace of these words.  God is omnipresent.  I am never alone and it's not all up to me!    

My Grandmother's Swing

I was a June baby, born in Atlanta.  For the first six months of my life we lived next door to my mother's parents.  A narrow driveway ran between our two houses. In the stifling heat of the summer, with my bedroom window open, my grandmother heard all my infant cries.  Whenever she would hear me, she would call out across the drive to my mother to check on me.  As a mom myself I can only imagine how annoying this must have been for my first-time mother.  But grandmothers and granddaughters are different.  Suffice it to say I adored my grandmother!

Blinded by glaucoma at the age of fifty, my grandmother never laid eyes on me but she is someone who I truly believe saw the real me.  This is in part because we spent so much time together on her front porch swing.  On this swing we would play hide-and-go-seek.  I would pretend to be hiding under the flower pot and she would guess all the places I could be and then find me there.  We would take long train trips to California.  She let me be the conductor. We would sail across the ocean to England on a big ship and I would watch for whales. All of this, of course, in our imaginations.  But in my mind's eye I could see us in all these places, together.  

Today my grandmother's swing is on the front porch of my parents' home. I swing on it every time I'm back in Atlanta. To know that one day it will be mine delights me.  A devout Christian woman who loved Jesus, her church and her family, my grandmother taught me to look beyond challenges and obstacles.  With creativity and imagination she taught me to find adventure.  She taught me how to walk, not by sight, but by faith.  She taught me from the time I was a baby to look for grace in all things.        

The Grace of Play

What a serious soul I can be at times!  I'm like my dad in this way.  For too long I have pushed aside the grace of play.  But returning this week from a four-month sabbatical, I am reclaiming play.  While on sabbatical I played a lot.  I went bike riding at the beach, hiked arroyos and mesas in the high desert, kayaked on Abiqu Lake, and went white water rafting on the Yuma River. I also went dancing at Johnny's Hideaway in Atlanta!  I laughed a lot, made new friends, ate scrumptious salads and honey soaked sopapillas.  I've promised myself not to lose the grace of play.  And so far I haven't.  A friend suggested I take tennis lessons with her and I had my first class last night.  What a blast!  There's a prayer for the good use of leisure in our Book of Common Prayer and I'm taking it to heart:  O God, in the course of this busy life, give us times of refreshment and peace; and grant that we may so use our leisure to rebuild our bodies and renew our minds, that our spirits may be opened to the goodness of your creation; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.