November 12th

 I woke up yesterday morning and noticed it was November 12^th.

At first, I didn’t realize the significance of the date,

But then I remembered:

November 12^th is the anniversary of the day that my friend and mentor, Kay Simpson, died.

 

I went to church with my band that morning in 2006.

We were warming up and preparing to lead worship when

We looked up and saw Kay at the back of the church.

Kay had been sick for a few days,

So we were surprised to see her.

She slowly made her way down the aisle and sat on the front pew,

Listening to us play all along.

She closed her eyes,

Held her hands in a receiving position,

And sat for a few moments taking it all in.

When it came time for her to leave,

We asked if she needed someone to take or follow her home.

She declined the invitation,

Said she’d be fine,

And quietly left before anyone else could arrive at church.

 

That was the last time anyone saw Kay.

She died that night.

Her enlarged heart had enlarged so much that

It finally gave out.

 

The days, weeks, and years following Kay’s death were hard on me.

The sights, smells, and memories often overwhelmed me

And left me feeling such a deep grief that I couldn’t function.

Yet now, 17 years later, while I still feel the sting of her loss and

Still remember sights, smells, and memories just like they were yesterday,

I am finally okay.

 

Grief is an odd thing.

It comes and goes on its own terms

And sometimes it leaves us flat on our backs in tears.

But sometimes, it’s just a tiny whisper about the date—

Telling us that there is something for us to remember—

Someone for whom we should stop and be grateful.

 

I am thankful for grief’s gentle nudge yesterday.

And I am grateful for Kay Simpson

And the impact that she had on my life as a minister and friend.

Amen.

In The Aftermath of Murder

Maybe I’m a bit OCD, but I don’t like to have notifications lingering on my phone. So on Friday afternoon when I finally had a chance to look at my phone, I immediately opened Facebook to address the 12 notifications that were alerting me. After clearing the notifications, I absentmindedly began scrolling down my page. I liked a few pictures, skimmed past a few advertisements, and then stopped when I got to a post by my friend Sarah. Sarah had posted a tribute to her mother, whom I knew, and I was curious to know what occasion we were celebrating—a retirement, a major birthday, an award, something else? As I read the tribute and felt somewhat encouraged by the impact that an elementary music teacher and active church member and mom had made on the writer’s life, I suddenly found myself stunned into disbelief by the following words: “Mrs. Carol was murdered in her home last night.” For the next fifteen minutes, I sat in my elementary music classroom with my jaw dropped in shock.

……

A few years ago, Sarah’s dad died suddenly from a heart attack. He was on his daily run when he crumpled onto the side walk and died. When I visited the house and funeral home in the days following that loss, the family was deeply saddened and shocked. But this?! Mrs. Carol hadn’t been sick, or didn’t have a major stroke or heart incident, and she hadn’t been in tragic accident—all of those things horrible in and of themselves. She had been murdered. Killed. On purpose. In her home. In the house where I had last seen her. In the house where I had spent countless hours in the early years of my adolescence before my family and I moved two hours away.

……

My friendship with Sarah was actually a bi-product of my friendship with her older sister, Ellen. Ellen and I came to know each other through piano and band competitions, and we later spent a summer together at Summer Ventures in Math and Science and visited with one another a couple of times during college. I played my horn in Ellen’s wedding and visited her home in Charlotte after she had her first child. Over the years, as is too often the case with those we love, we lost touch, yet Ellen often comes to mind. She once wrote me a very silly song that I can still hear her singing: “Dee! I love you, Dee! I really do! I love you. De-ann-a!” When I look at those words and hear her voice, I can’t help but smile.

And Sarah. Well, Sarah, the younger sister who I imagine looked up to the older sister and her friends, once gave me a poem that endeared me to her forever: “To live you must be loved. To be loved you must love. To love you must know the Lord.” That poem hung in my room for years until it made it into a book of quotes that profoundly influenced my life. Sarah and I reconnected at her dad’s visitation. We have been friends on Facebook for the past four years. For whatever reason, her posts are ones that often come up on my newsfeed. I am glad. I like to see how she is changing the world.

I fell asleep thinking about Sarah and Ellen (and their brother Max) on both Friday and Saturday nights. I fell asleep trying to make sense of their mother’s horrific death. I fell asleep praying that unexplainable light surrounded her and somehow calmed her spirit and lifted her pain in the midst of unspeakable evil. I fell asleep knowing that every person who is senselessly murdered has a family left in the aftermath and I fell asleep with my heart breaking for their heartache and grief. I fell asleep angry yet full of love and prayers for peace.

……

When I arrived at the visitation yesterday, I knew that I had nothing to say. What do you say? No amount of pastoral counseling or chaplaincy training prepares you for something like this. So I just hugged Sarah, and I held Ellen’s hand, and I stood in the family’s presence silently sending out light, love, strength, and peace as I watched grief finally settle upon the children after being strong for well over two hours of visitation.

Then I drove away sobbing. The dam that had been holding back the tears since that moment of disbelief on Friday afternoon had finally broken. And then I wrote. Haiku. Because I didn’t know—I don’t know—what else to do.

Two hours is nothing ~ The pain of this tragedy ~ Is overwhelming

I have no words. (Pause) ~ That’s okay. There are no words. ~ You have hugs and tears.

I don’t understand. ~ A life devoted to Love ~ Senselessly murdered

Assault on women. ~ Attack for sport. Turns him on. ~ Where did life go wrong?

Brother and sisters ~ Too soon without a mom. Gone. ~ Weeping arm in arm.

…….

Friends: Please keep Sarah, Ellen, Max and the rest of the family in your thoughts and prayers. Also pray for the neighbor who found Mrs. Carol’s body and everyone who will feel her absence so poignantly. Mrs. Carol was stabbed to death and her car stolen by a man who had broken parole and previously been convicted of assault on women. Pray whatever else you will, too. And then make it your commitment to Love in such a way that broken lives are transformed and healed. If Love is going to win, then we must make it so…We must follow in the footsteps of the One who has already made it so…

The Bells

I spent a lot of time teaching about Beethoven this month. As part of my teaching process, I showed the 4th and 5th graders Beethoven Lives Upstairs. In one scene of the film, the landlord smiles as she turns toward the window. Beethoven asks why she’s smiling and she says, “The bells. I love the bells.” With a look of deep sadness, Beethoven responds, “Ah. I did, too.” Beethoven lost his hearing around the age of 30.

Yesterday at church, Pastor Patrick told the story behind the carol, “I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Longfellow wrote the carol in 1867 after his son was injured in the Civil War after his wife had burned to death when her dress caught on fire and she couldn’t get out of it. Walking down the street on a cold winter’s day, Longfellow heard Christmas bells begin to play…and then he penned this poem, turned to song:

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."

Till, ringing singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men!

Honestly, I hadn’t given this carol much thought until yesterday. But now I have. And it is so powerful that it moves me to tears.

I get it when Longfellow writes, “And in despair I bowed my head: ‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said, ‘For hate is strong and mocks the song, Of peace on earth, good will to men."

And I get it when he writes, “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men."

I get the journey from joy to despair and back again. I understand walking through heartache and grief, questioning everything I’ve known to be true, but deciding to rest upon peace.

Peace is not the absence of conflict but the presence of Love.

And even when life is difficult—wars raging, people dying, children suffering—Love, always love, is there.

Tiny, Salty Tears

On most weeks, I couldn’t do this because I usually cry at the drop of a hat. But this week, I’ve only gotten teary eyed three times, so I’m going to share about each of those moments, all of which are very different.

Moment One: I conducted SC WMU Youth Panelist interviews yesterday. The entire morning was an encouraging experience—talking with teenagers who really have things together—but one particular moment quietly moved me to tears. As I spoke with the last girl we interviewed, I asked if there was a particularly missionary who stood out to her. She responded that the missionary who stands out to her was one of the speakers from Blume last year—a young woman whose life was profoundly and dramatically changed by an Operation Christmas Child shoebox. She said, “I just really liked her story because Operation Christmas Child is my thing. I try to pack twelve boxes a year and keep my eyes open for things to put in the boxes throughout the year.” She went on to say that she used to try to pack one box per month, but since she learned about couponing and store sales, she tries to get supplies when she can save money.

Even now, as I write this, I am moved to tears. A teenage girl. Culturally expected to be focused on herself. Has the vision and desire to single-handedly stuff 12 shoeboxes per year. Using financial skills that exhibit wise stewardship. Completely, but quietly, living outside of herself. Twelve shoe boxes per year is one box per month AND one box for a girl and boy of every age level bracket that Operation Christmas Child serves. Twelve shoeboxes per year has the potential to change twelve lives per year. And this is coming from an American, public-school educated girl. This is coming from an Acteen.

Moment Two: I was watching the Olympics last night when I saw a human interest feature on John Orozco. While I’m a sucker for all of the human interest features—I love the dramatic music and video footage from the past—I hadn’t been moved to tears until the end of John’s piece last night. One of John’s main goals at the Olympics was to somehow make life easier for his family—to help ease their financial burden so that they wouldn’t struggle anymore. At the end, as John was talking about how important his parents were in his life, he said, “I just want to make them proud.” With tears in my eyes, I said aloud, “You already have, John. You already have. It doesn’t matter how well you perform. You have made them proud by just being you.”

Again, I find myself with tears in my eyes. There he was, an Olympian who had accomplished so much in his life, still just wanting to make his parents proud. We put so much pressure on ourselves to perform—to be accepted—to earn approval—to be loved—yet, really, we are already loved…not because of our accomplishments but because of who we are. I wanted to remind John of that last night. [Shoot. I've wanted to remind all of the Olympians of that.] And I’m sure his parents wanted to remind him, too.

Moment Three: This morning, Facebook suggested that I become friends with someone who used to be a really good friend (in real life). As a form of self-discipline, I rarely allow myself to send friend requests, rather I wait for the requests to come to me. She hasn’t sent a request, so we are not FB friends. Yet. Like a dufus, I broke my other rule of self-discipline and went to this friend’s page to see if anything was public. It was. And I found myself looking at pictures of a terrible car wreck that almost took both her and her children’s lives. The wreck happened last week. I had no idea. I cried. I cried for the wreck, yes. But I also cried for how time, distance, and life can pull persons apart.

Isn’t it amazing how tears can come from so many different feelings and emotions?
Inspiration, Hope, and Encouragement.
Love, Respect, and Belief in others.
Relief, Loss, and Grief.
All in the form of tiny salty tears.

Connected Through The Body of Christ

It’s been a little over a year since I walked into Jenny’s office and received the news that she was leaving counseling to go back into parish ministry. I cried. She cried. But I knew she was following God’s call for her life and that her greatest joy was not just in counseling but also in serving Eucharist to the body of believers…so…how could I begrudge her call?

Jenny is an Episcopal priest. I’ve long been fond of the Episcopal church and its liturgy. Even before Jenny went onto church staff, I had wanted to visit the church where she currently serves. One of my favorite college professors has played organ there for many years and I’d wanted to hear him play for some time. He’s absolutely amazing. Each time he plays, it’s as if the listener is at a recital. His hands and feet work together yet separately to play the keys and touch the pedals and work the stops and make truly awe-inspiring music. And so I went to hear him play yesterday…and also to hear Jenny preach…although I must admit I didn’t know the proper protocol for a former client going to visit her former counselor at her church!

I think that Baptists often miss out on the rich heritage of the church and the beautiful prayers and liturgies of countless church fathers and mothers who have gone before us. Though I spent a lot of time trying to figure out where we were in the litury yesterday (and secretly wishing I had taken my personal copy of the Book of Common Prayer—just because I have one ), I felt connected to centuries of believers in a rich liturgy of faith that surrounded me with the holy otherness and peace of Christ. Hearing and experiencing the language, sounds, patterns, and rhythms of faith passed down through generations caused me to be keenly aware of how big God is and how worthy God is of my awe and reverence.

Then Jenny spoke…and I was reminded that the Kingdom of God is open to all who choose to accept the invitation…and I was reminded that we each have a place at God’s table and that at God’s table we each find the acceptance for which we long…and I was reminded that it was Jenny who first helped me learn to accept that truth that I belong…that it was Jenny who helped me learn to believe that God loves me for me…that it was Jenny who gave me the language of being a person of worth and value…and that it was Jenny who taught me to sit with life, open myself to it, and accept the joy and grief that comes with living.

Because I didn’t know if I was breeching an ethical code of conduct by attending Jenny’s church, I hadn’t planned to take communion yesterday but had planned to remain part of the crowd, to blend in, and to slip out of the service quietly without making my presence known. But then my college professor saw me and smiled. And then I found myself with tears streaming down my face. And then I felt myself strangely compelled to walk forward. And then I found myself looking up into Jenny’s eyes and hearing her say, “Hey you…” and serving me the body of Christ…and then I realized just how significant that one action was—just how much meaning was held in that fraction of time.

Jenny, whose life and work changed my life and work by being the non-anxious presence of God to me, who left a profession in which she excelled in order to return to the parish to serve Eucharist and feel most complete, served me Eucharist—the body of Christ—the body of the one broken for me—the body of the one who gives life—the body of the one who fills me with the peace that I began to understand only when I realized and confessed my own utter brokenness...and that confession was made in the sacred space that God and I created with Jenny…God’s servant and light to me…so many years ago.

At the end of the service yesterday, I waited for my college professor to finish the postlude. When he finished, I joined a handful of others in applause and my professor sheepishly waved his thanks. Then I went outside and found Jenny. I listened to her be a good minister and then gave her a hug. Then we both stood there and grinned and I marveled at how far I’d come…and I silently thanked God that we are eternally connected…in, and through, the body of Christ.

Could Crying Be A Spiritual Gift?

As I squirmed in my bed and wept for over thirty minutes last night, I suddenly began to wonder: Could crying be a spiritual gift?

As I wrote in an e-mail to a dear friend this morning:

I had a really hard time falling asleep last night. I suppose that I finally fell asleep because I exhausted myself...although I do remember sitting up so that I could breathe and rocking myself gently back and forth.

I had a conversation about spiritual gifts yesterday. I've always taken Paul's list of spiritual gifts as the exhaustive list. Like...I really don't think that music is a spiritual gift, rather music is a talent that must be expressed through another spiritual gift if it is to be used to glorify God and build up others in the body of Christ. Think about it: how much music does NOT honor God and/or build others up?

BUT...let's say that the list isn't exhaustive--which it's likely not. COULD crying be a spiritual gift? I know it sounds silly. But when I start crying like I was crying last night, it's like it's from the very deepest part of my being. It's from this place that's way way way down deep--a place that I don't normally feel--very gutteral--very connected to my humanity--and I wonder if it's connected to all of humanity.

I know a lot of people who can't cry--or who don't cry--for whatever reason. So I wonder if maybe I'm crying out all of the angst and hurt and emotion that other people can't. I remembered Tonglen last night on one of my trips to the bathroom to blow my nose. I remembered that I wasn't the only person in the world feeling the sadness and grief and heartache that I was feeling last night. So I tried to feel it for everyone else feeling it--and those who couldn't--and then to breathe out peace...although my breathing was very ragged. And that's when I began to wonder if crying could be a spiritual gift...

Maybe it IS compassion or empathy or sympathy or something else. BUT. Other people feel those things, too, right? And they don't weep with the intensity and force with which I was weeping. You know?

So...COULD crying be a spiritual gift? I guess I'll sit with that thought and see.

A Sad Maundy Thursday

I had a hard time deciding on my Facebook status question this morning. It’s Maundy Thursday. I didn’t think that a fun, random question was appropriate. And then I started weeping. It’s Maundy Thursday.

Even in Baptist tradition, we’re aware of the events of Good Friday. We know of the trials and the beatings and the brutal crucifixion of Jesus. We know that Good Friday was a very bad day—a very dark day in history—a very sad time for Jesus and his disciples. Jesus was condemned to a criminal’s death. The disciples didn’t understand. They wept. They were scared. The sadness and fear were palpable…

But what about Maundy Thursday? What about what Jesus must have been feeling then?

On Tuesday, I asked everyone about their favorite story of Jesus. My best friend’s mom wrote: Garden of Gethsemane, asking God to take the cup from me. It's comforting to know that even Jesus asked to be spared from the evils of life.

That’s one of my favorite stories, too. Yet it’s so extremely painful to read. To know that Jesus was in anguish. To know that he earnestly prayed, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me…”. To know that he was scared. To know that he struggled with leaving behind the people that he loved—that he prayed for God to take care of them and to protect them from evil because he couldn’t do it anymore. To know that he had been betrayed by one of his disciples—by one of his friends in whom he had placed his trust. To know that he had cared enough to wash feet and that he had served his last meal for the last time and that he had sung a song with his disciples and that the life that he had enjoyed on earth was soon coming to an end…

I don’t know about you, but I am filled with sadness for Jesus. I am filled with sadness and grief and heartache and hurt for this man who loved unconditionally and sought to draw all persons in to the love of God. I am filled with sadness and grief and heartache and hurt for this man who felt sadness and grief and heartache and hurt just like me. Betrayal is not fun. Endings are not fun. Facing uncertainty and pain are not fun. Leaving behind loved ones is not fun. I know. I have experienced all of those things. And so did Jesus. On this day…this Maundy Thursday.

It’s appropriate, I think, that it’s a cloudy and overcast day. This is a sad day. Tomorrow is a sad day. I feel so sad for Jesus. I wish that I could give him a hug. I wish that I could remind him that everything is going to be okay. Because right now it doesn’t feel that way. Right now, on this Maundy Thursday, everything is just so sad. And right now, I feel more connected to Jesus’s humanity than ever before…