Wearing a Cross

For my recent 60^th birthday I wanted something more than the usual sweater or blouse from my mother. I wanted a keepsake, something to treasure, from her. And so I decided on a cross pendant.  While in Texas last month to celebrate the big day, she and I went to the James Avery store and had a wonderful time looking at the many possibilities, trying a few on, and ultimately choosing what’s called the Serenity Cross.  It is very simple and lovely, with a tiny dove in the middle.

If you’ve been reading this blog for long you’ll know that I am a Christian, but not the born-again, salvation thru Jesus’ death, all others go to hell kind.  I call myself a Christian because I try to use Christ as a model for compassion and love, an ideal of which I fall far short.

When I was at my Shalem residency in March several of the other students and I began a conversation about wearing a cross.  It began with my admiring one that a friend was wearing and her confession that she usually felt awkward doing so.  I admitted the same and then our rationales began:  people will think we’re evangelicals or theologically conservative (not that there’s anything wrong with that; only in our minds); it might be misinterpreted as a fashion statement (yes! remember Madonna’s huge crosses draping her scantily clad body?); or, my faith is private, I don’t need to parade it.

These rationales left us both feeling empty and we began instead to talk about why we might wear a cross: to remind us of our guide, to ground us, to not be ashamed of our faith, to open conversations.  So at that point Pattie and I made a pact to wear a cross at least once a week.  Over the next few days two other women joined us in this agreement and now a therapist, a general in the Army, a former editor and a church musician are all wearing a cross every week.

I have a pretty gold Celtic cross that I bought in Ireland a few years ago, as well as a couple of others given to me as gifts.  But as a way of honoring this commitment as well as my significant birthday I wanted a new one, bought just for these occasions.  And I have my keepsake and treasure, from my dear mother.

Sixty

Early yesterday morning, as I walked outside with Prudy, I was greeted by a trio of birds enthusiastically singing a birthday greeting. Only a few hours before I had become sixty years old.

Like most people who make the turn into this new decade I cannot believe it's so.  How did we get so old?  My friends and I laugh and commiserate over the rapid passage of time, shaking our heads and insisting there must be some mistake.

But amidst the celebrations, cards, gifts and even jokes, I have noticed something lurking deep inside. It took me awhile to figure it out- I really wasn't feeling over-the-hill, in fact I feel pretty darn good, so why a bit of darkness, of anxiety?

The answer is that I sense, for the first time, the finiteness of life. Yes, of course we all know that we will die, but something about turning sixty has convinced me that my life really is finite. That's the idea that is causing me some problems, not the gray hair or occasional memory slips.  There's going to be an end.

My choices of how to make the most of my years are beckoning and weighing my heart down.  And now I must dig deeply into the accumulated wisdom from sixty years of my wonderful life.

Quiet

It is a quiet day; I am on a weekend silent retreat in the midst of the final residency for my contemplative prayer class.  The hours of silence are a gift-a gift of rest, of breath, of prayer, of the awareness of Being.

In the midst of this gift I struggle to say no to the ever-present to-do list which lurks around the edges of my consciousness.  NO.

Quietness

Inside this new love, die.

Your way begins on the other side.

Become the sky.

Take an ax to the prison wall.

Escape.

Walk out like someone

suddenly born into color.

Do it now.

You're covered with thick cloud.

Slide out the side. Die,

and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign

that you have died.

Your old life was a frantic running

from silence.

The speechless full moon

comes out now.

                                 Rumi

Snowshoes

As you might have gathered from my previous post, we are having a lot of snow in Maine.  A LOT. So this morning, tired of fighting the slippery roads into work, I decided to give myself a day off. After breakfast I said to Bill want to go snowshoeing today? He cleared his throat, hemmed and hawed a bit, and finally out came I was afraid you might say that.

Coming from Texas, I have not been a natural at winter sports.  Downhill skiing was hardly possible since I fell at the top of the chair lift every time.  Cross-country skiing wasn't much better-I still fell and those long skis became tangled and I could not get up.  Both embarrassing situations that I was not eager to repeat very often. But snowshoeing...that's a different story. First of all, I don't fall. The shoes are wide and sturdy and they grip the snow just right.  Years ago I was absolutely thrilled to find that here is a winter sport that I can manage and enjoy.

When we first moved to Maine over 20 years ago Bill bought a set of 1930's era snowshoes for me at an antique store.  He had to do a lot of work to make them usable and they were a treasured gift. Most people now use more modern snowshoes made out of aluminum, but these are truly beautiful, make a pretty track and work very well for me. I have cherished them for years.

Living on the coast our snow totals are often not what they are in interior Maine and there have been some years I did not snowshoe.  But this year?  Just perfect.  So what was the problem?  Bill had given away my snowshoes to a neighbor boy down the street who helps us mow our yard. I bet you can imagine my response to that...and now you see the result in the photo above...reunited with my snowshoes.

Surviving the Blizzard

Smart cat, our Toulouse, sitting on the radiator while the snow piles up on the window behind him. Actually, we are taking his lead, although our radiator is a cozy woodstove.

Incarnation

May you enter into the Christmas liturgies with some joy in the Incarnation.  This was how my advisor in the Shalem Institute program signed his recent email in response to my request for extra time to write a paper.  It stopped me dead in my tracks….joy was the absolute last thing I was experiencing.

Every December is difficult for a church musician.  There are so many expectations, extra services, needy church members, sick or out-of town choristers, weather problems…the list goes on and on.  Although I don’t understand why, this December was particularly hard for me.  Musically things went very well, but I just ran out of steam. Joy at the coming of God to earth?  Maybe next year.

And then, something happened…at the last of the Christmas Eve services, late at night, I unexpectedly saw the Incarnation in the soloist who sang off key. And then I saw it in the intrepid choir members, singing their hearts out way past their bedtime.  During the sermon, as I was gazing at the beautiful poinsettias and candles, I took my husband’s hand and saw it in his patience and kindness to me.  I looked further into the congregation, some weary, some merry, and yes, I saw the spirit of God in each and every one. The stress and non-stop schedule of the past few weeks began to melt away and I felt joy.

And the next day, Baby Zev arrived for a visit. As I wrapped my arms around him I saw clearly… Incarnation.

The embodiment of a deity or spirit in some earthly form.  Thank you, Winston, for urging me to find joy in this season.

A Personal Advent

For most of the western world the Christmas season is in full swing.  Decorations, music and ads have been appearing since Halloween and the frenzy of holiday shopping was encouraged by Black Friday, Small-Store Saturday, Cyber Monday and even Giving Tuesday, of all things.  Many folks lament this commercialization, as do I, and I try not to be a part of it. 

Many years ago, full of loneliness and confusion after a divorce, I was headed home across north Texas on Christmas Eve.  The radio was playing- there were precious few stations to choose from- and of all things I heard the hymn O Come, O Come Emmanuel for the first time.  At that moment I fell head-over-heels in love with Advent.

Growing up as a Southern Baptist I’d never even heard the term Advent, much less observed it as a holy season.  There was nary a single Advent hymn in our hymnal at that time and the church Christmas tree and poinsettias went up the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  This idea of waiting, of expectation and hope, filled a need in my soul, and still does.  Now a church musician and an Episcopalian, Advent has become my favorite sacred season.  No church decorations or Christmas carols until after the fourth Sunday of Advent for us, just the way I like it.  And twenty-four Advent hymns, yes, that’s correct, twenty-four.

I am feeling this season more profoundly than ever this year because I believe that I am in the midst of a personal Advent, one that will likely last for months or even a few years.  As I approach my 60^th birthday, as my church continues to struggle, as my new grandson grows and changes daily, and as my husband enters a new stage, we must decide where we want to make our life.  Do we stay in Maine, which has become our comfortable home, or do we move closer to family, to share our lives with theirs more fully? It is a decision which should not be forced and which I am confidant will be revealed, in due season.  In the meantime, we wait.

O come, thou Wisdom from on high,

who orderest all things mightily;

to us the path of knowledge show,

and teach us in her ways to go.

                                      Latin, ca. 9^th century