I read Ian Cron’s blog today, just as I put my feet up for a few minutes, preparing for the wonderful weekend ahead. On Saturday evening, our daughter will marry a good man. It is her second wedding. The first was 24 years ago when she was all of 19, and they knew when they married that his life would be a shorter-than-usual one. He found his eternal home in Jesus almost three years ago and there was a lot of pain and loss in the process of his dying. So to see and to celebrate happiness just now is gift – that’s the only word for it.
And Mr. Cron wrote a brief beautiful word today about the grace of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper and I remembered this post from about 18 months ago. I’ve reworked it a tiny bit and it’s too long – but it speaks to some of the down-deep joy we are all feeling just now. To the grace of our God, to the goodness of life experienced through good times and hard times and to the promise of God’s faithful presence through all of it.
Originally posted in early January, 2010, before my retirement at the end of that year:
It’s been such a strange holiday season this year.
My husband and I often find ourselves feeling numb and exhausted. Both of our mothers are slowly slipping away – one to dementia, one to blindness and grief, and we carry heavy hearts about them just about 24/7. I’ve had a couple of teeth yanked, reminding me in a particularly painful way that everyone’s body ages, everyone’s. And this year, for just about the first time ever, we did not decorate the house for Christmas in our usual over-the-top fashion. There was simply no energy or desire to do so.
Our children are magnificent human beings, stepping into the space that our strangeness has created this year. Each daughter hosted family Christmas gatherings and our son and his family came to them all with sweet offerings of food and love. We are blessed in our kids and in our grandkids and we are grateful.
And I have also been glad for the distraction and structure provided by my professional holiday responsibilities, yet I have felt distant even there – unable to connect in ways that are usual and meaningful.
Writing public prayers has been the single richest blessing of the season this year – forcing me to engage with the weekly biblical text at a deeper level, engaging my mind and my spirit in something which requires me to step outside myself for a while. And stepping outside myself has been tough to do – I feel as though I’m walking through my days inside a roll of cotton batting, with sounds muffled and sights blurred. It has indeed been a strange season this year.
So this morning’s worship experience was a gift of grace from which I am still vibrating tonight.
I’ve been serving on the pastoral staff of Montecito Covenant Church for 13 years now, and for about 8 of those years, we enjoyed a candlelight communion service on Christmas Eve. It was usually the high point of the year for me – a culmination of another year of ministry, another year of this privileged life I lead – called to offer the love of God to a particular community of people in ways that are often intensely moving and deeply satisfying.
And I usually wept my way through that communion service. Tears of gratitude and joy, tears of humble acceptance of another year’s call to serve and support, tears of wonder at the sweet simplicity of the story, the tender love of the Savior who came as a wee one of us so that we might be called children of God. I have so missed those services! Something about rounding out the year with a full-face-to-face connection seemed to take away all the rough edges, the forgotten tasks, the missed opportunities. And I would always leave the sanctuary (or more accurately the gymnasium where we worshiped in those long ago days) feeling blessed right down to the ground.
John Notehelfer left these very kind words on his wall on facebook in regard to this blog entry:
appreciated your sweet candor reflecting on what made this Cmas season so different (and flat perhaps) with all the hard experiences in your family and knowing first hand what it is to be sandwiched between the needs of your children and parents over the long haul.
We who are in ministry have need to be ourselves on the receiving end of ministry when facing the painful and faith-streching experiences in our own lives, don’t we? All too often we are on the giving end while nursing our own emotional fatigue. I for one did not realize how deeply you felt your numbing exhaustion.
I am so glad the tears came – raindrops from heaven that water the parched ground – springtime always follows!!
May II Cor 1 come alive to you in new ways as you keep blessing us with all that you have been experiencing.
Lovingly, John N
And I answered him with these:
Oh, such nice, kind, thoughtful words, John. Thanks so much. Yes, the tears are raindrops from heaven and I am grateful for them. Thanks for your encouragement.
So grateful you reposted this, friend. It’s a beautiful reflection. So often I am moved to tears as I sit in the pew and watch the communion line move to accept His body and blood. I simply feel a connection — a soul moment — in those times that can hardly be expressed except to say it must come directly from God himself.
I like the symbolism of swirling the baptismal font, too — what a very neat idea.