Reflections on Mortality and Holy Week

 It only lasts a minute, maybe two.

That sense of stepping off a cliff –
when a lump rises in your throat,
and immediately catapults into your stomach. 

Or maybe it’s more like being blind-sided by a phantom,
a phantom with snarling breath that blows down the back of your collar 
and frizzes the ends of your hair.
You can be living your ordinary, everyday life – 
driving the car, for instance.
Or having lunch with someone you love.
Or resting after minor surgery. 
And wham! It hits you like a bracing splash of ice water:
death happens everywhere.
We are surrounded by it, 
entangled in it,
bewitched by it. 
And most of the time, we are oblivious.
Quite intentionally so, I believe.
We cover it up,
tuck it away,
move it aside.
And we do that with all kinds of things, 
in all kinds of ways.
We do it with food,
or alcohol,
or television,
or reading,
or even – gasp! – writing. 
It’s the spectre on everyone’s horizon,
the uninvited guest at the table,
the devilish imp around every corner. 

And we don’t want to see it.
And much of the time, we don’t.
We don’t

But then, you turn just a little,
and you cast a glance over the wrong shoulder,
you catch a glimpse 
just there – 
off to the side – 
and the rawness of it socks you in the gut. 
Two sisters, having lunch. 
Best of friends, longtime traveling companions,
singing life’s song together for over 85 years.
You stop to take a picture – 
and you see it.
Just there, in the sagging skin.
Or there, in the squinting struggle to see something –
anything that’s recognizable.
Or to the right – see it? – the big red walker,
just there,
the one that carries the frail, flailing, failing body
slowly and carefully from place to place.
And you know:
it won’t be long now.

Or you take a little drive,
off to find a new dress for a 90-year-old.
You go down familiar streets,
remarking on changes made here and there.
And then – there it is.
The shabby motel where he lived,
your youngest brother,
the one who hid so well –
who hid the drinking and the illness and the shame,
the one who died, far too young.
Over there –  
just there – 
lurking by the office,
just down from the dark, dank corridor
of his room – you spot it.
And your stomach clenches,
your eyes fill ever so briefly,
your breath catches
between the pleasantries you speak. 
Or you’re driving home from the dentist
after a routine surgical procedure,
and your face begins to pound and swell.
Within hours, you look like a prize-fighter,
so you pile in the car for some urgent care.
And you see it again!
Just there,
in the bright red gauze,
the deepening purple of bruise,
the slow, constant tender aching.
No longer a wraith, but a sharp, clear reflection
in the window pane behind the surgeon’s worried face. 
The ever-present visitor that no one
wants to see, to wrestle with, even to acknowledge:
we all age;
we all die. 

For these intimations of mortality are all around us,
constant reminders of the ephemeral nature of our
sojourn on this planet.
No one escapes,
no one is immune,
no one is immortal. 

But then…

Holy Week arrives,
right in the middle of the muddle,
amid the weariness of watching death in action, 
inexorable and overwhelming. 

 And a tiny green thing begins to wriggle its way 
to the surface of your soul.
A sprig, really.
A small, tender shoot of hope and life. 
Because somehow,
in the very middle of death itself,
there is this ever-growing wick of light.
As we follow the story 
to the upper room,
to the garden,
to the house of the high priest,
to the halls of Herod and Pilate,
through the narrow winding streets
of the city,
up that pathway marked by the blood of Jesus himself –
even there…
even there.

There is a whiff of green, a scent of spring. 
EVEN THIS, Jesus knows.
This sinking queasiness, this revelation and recognition
that death is an unavoidable part of life –
Jesus has been here, too.
Jesus has been here ahead of us.
And Jesus walks with us when the 
dark, shadowy fears show up and torment us.
Even this, Jesus knows.


So today, and tomorrow, and the next day…
I want to shelter this bit of life amid the ashes;
I want to water it with my tears,
and nourish it with my songs of thanksgiving.
And then I want to position it  
just there,
where the sunlight, 
streaming forth from the empty tomb,
can help it to grow strong and true,
always and forever stretching toward the Light.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade.”
1 Peter 1:3-4
Joining with Michelle at Graceful and Jennifer and the Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood at Finding Heaven and the generous Kimberly at Journey to Epiphany, who is temping for Emily Weirenga for a while. I’ll also join it to the Lauras, even though it’s not a particularly playful post nor is it so much about a place physical as a place emotional and spiritual. And with Ann V, too. (Although I can never get her button to work here.)


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Losing a Mentor: A Re-Post Plus a Tribute

I am re-posting this one from last January,
in honor of Abbot David Geraets,
my spiritual director and friend,
who died on Friday morning.

These are words I wrote to a few friends earlier today about my response to receiving this sad news:
My mentor died on Friday. He was 77 years old – only 10 years older than I am – 
and he’d battled a number of ailments this past year. 
But still…I didn’t think he would DIE.

We all die. 

I know this in my head. 
I even know it in my heart, 
as we’ve lost a lot of dear ones in the last 10 years. 
Yet each time I get a phone call like the one I got on Friday afternoon, I am bereft. Like part of me has been sliced with a very sharp blade 
and all that pours out are tears.

I took my usual evening walk on Friday, walking circles around our large driveway parking area. I’ve been learning to pray while I walk this past year – many fewer words, lots more images. But what I found myself doing on Friday was simply saying the name of Jesus, over and over and over again.

And here is why: a friend had posted a very old video on YouTube. A video of the mentor I had just lost. This clip, filmed in 1986, was an interview with Abbot David (who, at that time, led a much larger community in New Mexico) by a nun named Mother Elizabeth. Now may I just add, with a repentant heart and spirit, that if I had seen this video when it was filmed 26 years ago, I would have either switched it off immediately, or watched it with a sort of gleeful feeling of superiority to those ‘weirdos’ in the habits and collars. I’m ashamed and embarrassed to admit that, but it’s the hard truth.


I watched all 30 minutes of that grainy old video, marveling at the sweetness in David’s face, the kindness of his words and the truth of his life. I met with him monthly for the last three years, receiving spiritual direction in the form of dream interpretation. He was an expert at that and also at encouragement and gentle prayer. In this video, he suggested praying the Jesus prayer (which has been a favorite prayer practice of mine for about ten years) or just simply saying the name of Jesus over and over for 20 or 30 minutes. I have discovered that following Abbot David’s advice is a very helpful thing. (I wrote a post about the benefits of one piece of that advice at the end of January.)

So on that first afternoon after this dear man’s death, that’s what I did when I walked. I cannot put into words how intensely moving it was for me, in these initial hours of grief, to just say the Name over and over and over again. And I wept my way through a 45 minute time of walking, praying, remembering, celebrating. I will never again feel the dear Abbot’s fingers make the sign of the cross on my bent forehead at the end of our hour together. I will not be blessed by his hand when I receive my certificate in spiritual direction next August. I will not engage with him in friendly, loving conversation.

And that is a huge, huge loss to me.

And to so many.

Thank you Abbot David Geraets for your loving commitment to Jesus, for your years of kindness, wisdom and gentle correction, for your heart as big as the sky above the ranch you and the brothers live(d) in out in the back country of San Luis Obispo.

I will be grateful for your presence in my life during these pivotal years in mine until the day I die.

And then I will hug you fiercely.

SLO stands for San Luis Obispo, a town 115 miles north of my home. 
This was our late-lunch view today, as we traveled home again.
 
One day each month,
I take a road trip.
This particular road trip is not like 
the other ones I take.
I’m not going to take care of my mother.
I’m not going to enjoy my children and my grandchildren.
I’m not going on vacation.
Strike that.
I am going on a vacation, of sorts.
I am vacating the usual rhythm of my days 
to embrace a different one.
And I find that I am hungry for re-creation as I travel.
I am eager to be addressed as…
me.
Not as wife/mother/grandmother/daughter/
pastor/teacher/friend.
Just me.
Child of God.
Stumbling follower of Jesus.
Seeker after wisdom.
And this is where I go.
A strange looking monastery,
one that used to be the ‘dream house’
of a retired dentist,
but was bought by some monks 
from New Mexico to be their community home. 
The monastery is the long white, 
red-tiled house to the left in this shot. 
To the right of the drive, is the chapel & bookshop
with a couple of additional bedrooms.
To the left of the drive, below the monastery itself,
is the home of Connie, the oblate who lives on the premises
and assists the brothers.
There are only five or six of them now,
praying the hours,
assisting the people of a dozen parishes
with healing prayer, special masses and spiritual direction.
This is where I meet my spiritual director every month.
The sign says it all:
And this is the view from that house, 
in the springtime,
when all the hills are green and the sky is blue.
And this is the man I meet with in that house:
Abbott David.
Spiritual Father to this small band,
and an acclaimed leader in the 
charismatic renewal movement 
 of the Roman Catholic Church.
He is a remarkable man, gifted and humble.
Did I ever tell you how we met?
Now, that’s a great story.
“Once upon a time, there was a tired pastor,
full to overflowing with the needs of her congregation, 
the struggles in her family.
She had tried direction a couple of times,
with mixed results.
“Not a good fit,” was the diagnosis,
whatever that means.
For her, it felt like failure.
And she is not a fan of failure.

So she began to pray about it,
to search for someone.
She even went online, used Google
and found a monastery website.
Not a fancy, bells-and-whistles kind of place,
that website.
And the monastery featured there was over 100 miles away.
But something caught her eye,
her spirit.
 And email responses were invited.
So she sent off a note.
“Is there anyone there interested and available
to offer direction to a tired
female pastor,
one who needs listening ears,
wise words,
some guidance along the way?”
That was in July of 2007.

Nothing came back.
Sigh.

So, she got on with life,
a life that was feeling a bit overwhelming
about then.
And she forgot all about that note.

One early morning, in September of the following year,
FOURTEEN MONTHS
after her initial inquiry,
her cell phone rang.
Puzzled at the early hour, she picked it up.
“Abbott David here,” a strong, friendly voice declared.
“You wrote about spiritual direction?”

And she burst into laughter.
“Yes,” she said. “I did. Over a year ago!

“Really?” came the response. 
“Because I just received this yesterday.
Would you like to meet with me and see if this
might be what you’re looking for?”
They set a date for one week later,
she drove up the 101, took the country road out to 
his place and sat,
absolutely fascinated and astounded as he told
her his story.
Raised on a farm in Wisconsin,
paid his way through college by playing
trumpet in a dance band,
became a priest,
sent by his order to
study in Rome,
multi-lingual,
specialist in Jungian psychology
and dream analysis.
“If you work with me, you’ll keep a dream journal.
And that’s what we’ll talk through each month.”

She was hooked – line, sinker, bobble, lure – 
the whole kit and caboodle.
“Thank you, Jesus,” she cried to the heavens as she headed south again 
at the end of the hour.

Before their next visit,
there was a tragic death in her immediate family.
And before the following visit,
there was a ferocious wildfire in her community,
stripping lifetime memories from many in her congregation.
Within the first year, she herself landed in the hospital, was forced to make a major shift in her own training
program to become a director herself,
and by the second year, she was enrolled in the Abbott’s school for spiritual direction certification.
Not sure that she lived happily ever after,
but deeper ever after? That would be a big ‘yes.'”

Now I would call that whole tale
a God-thing.
My friend Jennifer might call it “God-Bumps” or a “God-Incidence.”
All I can tell you is that my entire spiritual journey
took a decisive turn upward from the moment
I heard that voice on the phone:
“Abbot David here. You wrote….?”
Abbott David leading mass in the monastery chapel.
Today, I had only one dream for the month.
Of my own, that is.
I also shared a tricky one from someone I am directing.
Somehow, this kind, brilliant man
(who has been seriously ill this year)
wove those two together, asked me some penetrating
questions, and helped me think about myself
in some new ways.
“You’ve spent your whole life relying on your left brain, Diana, your intellect. 
It’s time to learn to trust your gut, your intuition. 
You need to spend long stretches of time just sitting and looking at the ocean.
Do that long enough so that eventually, you find yourself on the other side of the picture – you’ll be the ocean, looking back at you. 
And take a look at what you see when that happens.
I think you’ll like what you find.
Be still long enough to let the beauty in,
to let God in,
to shift inside from reason to intuition.
Learn to trust that,
to know that God meets you there, too.
This is the gift of aging, Diana.
There is gift in all of life.”
I sure hope he’s right.
I’m counting on it. 
Stopping at Costco on our way home this evening,
I looked up from loading the bags into the back of the car and saw this. 
My gut said, “Grab that camera, even if it is the little one, 
even if the picture won’t be sharp.”
So I did.
The gift of the present moment.
Right brain all the way
Joining with Jennifer and her “God-Bumps” meme and with Ann and her Walk with Him Wednesday invite.  Even though this is way too long – two posts in one, actually – I’m also joining with a few friends with very different invitations – not because this post in any way ‘matches’ with most of them, but because it’s a big piece of my heart right now and I’d like them to know.
 Bonnie & the two Laura’s and Michelle, too:

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Saying Goodbye

It was getting on toward sunset as we walked across the rocky beach out to the pier. Thanksgiving weekend brought our family together on Catalina Island, at Campus by the Sea, the InterVarsity camp at Gallagher’s Cove. The weather was clear, beautiful and cold. Our gathered family and friends were serious and quiet, yet so glad to be together. The service was simple, even elegant. Our daughter had done a lovely job of planning, her sons spoke lovingly of their dad, we heard words of encouragement from scripture, some of them read by his handsome nephews.

All during that day, strange and wonderful things happened. Roils of fish just offshore in the cold Pacific brought large numbers of sea birds, including cormorants by the hundreds. A monarch butterfly flitted its brilliant wings in the back of the canyon. As we moved from the firepit, where the first part of the service happened, and walked across to the pier, where it would conclude, a solo great blue heron landed on the pier railing, watching our progress and taking off with his own unique salute as we began to approach. Then, just as we all assembled at the end of the pier, a lone pelican skimmed over the water, coming directly toward us. And as we finished saying goodbye that late afternoon, the dying sun sent soft colors toward the south, lighting on the clear white sail of a single sailboat. Mark would have loved that! We were there because he had asked us be there: together, remembering him with gratitude, thanking God for his life and gathering strength from one another as we stepped out into a different kind of life, one without him in it.


These colorful kayaks lined the edge of the beach, and as we were walking back up the canyon for dinner, I snapped this picture, hoping to capture some small sense of the beauty to be found in small, unexpected places. That’s what we’re all trying to do these days – find small, personal snapshots of God’s grace at work in a world which has been so profoundly altered, so painfully and permanently transformed for us all. Someone that weekend gathered heart-shaped rocks and spread them out on a picnic table for us all to see. Many of us tucked one away in a pocket or a suitcase, a tactile talisman of a memorable place, a memorable day.

Thanks be to God for his gracious gift of Mark, a good man, loving husband, devoted dad, son, brother, uncle and friend. Peace be to his memory.