Joy – Divine Ready

April 7, 2023April 8, 2023

Easter

I was pulling sheets out of the dryer the other day, and they were tangled together in a maddening way, amplifying my mildly agitated mood. Rather than sort them out, I wanted to toss them in the trash.

Long after my mother died, and many years after my father left the Episcopal church because he wasn’t allowed to marry a divorced woman in it, after he had almost kept his promise to his mother that he would at least have his children confirmed (three out of four), and years after all of us had left the church, he asked me if I missed it.

I thought for a minute, “A little.”

He nodded, “Me, too.”

The way I remember it, we both said we missed the ritual the most. For my dad’s part, I know he missed more than ritual and all it represented. He left the church but continued to think of Jesus as a role model, a guide. I, inherently drawn to theater and ritual, missed ritual for ritual’s sake before I understood what it meant, and at the same time fostered what I thought was a righteous anger towards the church. I had no connection with Jesus, who I could find no evidence of in my life, a child’s worldview.

I’ve made peace with not being a part of an organized religion, because try as I might with many visits to various churches over the years, none was a fit. I’ve found other ways to quench that thirst and feed my spirit.

I still feel a tug sometimes, especially at Easter. I remember the Easter outfits that must have cost my parents a lot when they had little, patent leather shoes, a white muff, a new dress and hat for me and suits for my brothers. I loved Palm Sunday, the pageantry and colors of Lent and Easter, a joy on Easter Sunday that I felt but didn’t entirely understand, and the way Easter and spring marched in time.

My feelings about Easter are as balled up as those sheets that were so hard to sort. Of course, I sorted and folded those sheets. Easter? Not so easily sorted. But I confess I am more than a little intrigued by the way you continue to pull at me, Easter, the way you are a part of me in spite of me, the way as you near, I am anticipating something and like the sealed-up daffodils that rise and stand ready to bloom, I feel like I might burst open overnight and smile and wave at anyone who will look my way.

May 27, 2022

There You Are!

Recently, when I was in Illinois for a family event, my brother Jed and I made our way to Graham’s, a favorite chocolate shop about a block from the Episcopalian church we attended when we were young. Priorities sorted, we stopped at St. Mark’s after an ice cream. Walking into the chapel from a sunny day to a familiar silence and the dim dust mote-y light floating through the stained glass, I was thrown back in time. From the cylindrical ruby red light fixture hanging in front of the altar to the pews and kneelers, there was no perceptible change.

Growing up, two of my three brothers were acolytes and were usually paired together when they served. Both were responsible, but one tended to be more punctual than the other. Jed kept us guessing about whether he’d forgotten he was supposed to be somewhere, eventually showing up, but often not before he’d raised our father’s ire. Ken was always punctual.

Jed shared a memory; the vestry where my brothers got ready for Sunday service was not well lit. One Sunday, Jed walked into the dark vestry in the nick of time to find Ken talking to the mirror, “There you are! I thought I was going to have to do this whole thing by myself!” Jed said, “Who are you talking to?” Startled, Ken turned to him and repeated, “There you are! I thought I was going to have to do this whole thing by myself!” We had a good laugh about that.

When you look in the mirror, who do you see? Is it a good encounter? Do you wince or exchange smiles? Have you grown so accustomed to the person you see that you barely look at her or him anymore? Are there harsh judgments about new lines and perceived imperfections, or do you meet eyes that light up with the joy of seeing an old friend?

What we tell the person in the mirror is what we bring into our bodies, into our days, into our lives and into our world. Can you look long and lovingly enough to catch a flicker of the light you carry, a light that would astonish you if you could see how bright and beautiful you are? There you are!

April 20, 2022

Miss You Much

A few days before Easter, I received a card from a friend’s mother who I hadn’t seen in a while. A lot had gone on in both our lives during that time of not connecting. It wasn’t the Easter card I expected. Instead, the front was covered in hearts like a Valentine with the words “Miss You Much.”

I was on the fence about attending Easter dinner at her daughter’s. Like many people, I had opted out of several gatherings the past two years for Covid-related reasons. As life returned to a semblance of normalcy, those pandemic-related reasons morphed into less decipherable ones for me. Grief? A need to retreat and renew? The world has wrenched our hearts and souls in breathtaking ways that have made cocooning seductive.

Teresa’s card made me re-think the Easter invitation. A generous, passionate woman, she embodies life and joy for many of us who know her. I realized I missed not only her but joy. Where had it gone? How long since joy and I had met, had a good cry, a riot of laughter, a simple smile across the table over a meal, a cup of coffee, a glass of wine? There had been occasions here and there, if I was honest, but I wanted to be plugged into it and lit up like a Christmas tree. I longed for the brush of a feather across my face, an angel’s kiss, the movement of air in its wake, the slow gurgle within to become a rushing brook that overflowed with undammed joie de vivre.

The bolt of electricity did not come. No gentle feather on my face. Not even a sweet whisper or a happy babble from that brook. I was hampered by blind spots, and I had lost the raptor’s 180-mile-high view.

But with the acceptance of that Easter invitation came an opening. It was a nudge to lift the blinds, refocus my gaze, to partake in Life. The twilight zone between light and dark is unavoidable and sometimes necessary to get to the space beyond that allows a dam to break and the joy that comes from connection, even if it’s a string of lights for starters.

December 21, 2018

Expectant Joy

20181221155052019 — Grandmother Linley (Gin)

This year my family awaits the arrival of my youngest niece’s baby boy, due December 28. He will be the firstborn of his generation in this branch of the family. Our Advent season of waiting, wondering, hoping and praying began in the summer when she shared this news and has now taken on the true mystery and magic of this time of year.

Somewhere during this long Advent, I started an overdue project of going through boxes of family photos, which brought joy as well as poignant moments peering at the faces of those lost too soon. Along with photos, I have become the recipient of a small cache of family history in letters, articles and pamphlets allowing me to catch swirling, snow globe glimpses of my origins.

I smile at letters between my grandmother Virginia, known as Gin, and her sisters and brothers, each with their own nifty nickname like Ede, Bunch, Pike and June (a junior). In the summer, while visiting my younger brother, we strike a deal–I will get the painting by our great aunt of our father at 20 (we think) who our nephew strongly resembles, with a promise to send my brother portraits of my grandparents in exchange.

The strong cheekbones and curly hair of my oldest niece look out at me in a young photo of my other grandmother who got short shrift in my self-absorbed youth. I make a silent wish that I could talk to her now and an apology that I didn’t do so more when I had the chance. Not too many days later a packet arrives from my uncle that includes an old photo of me with her and one of a great grandfather I had never seen.

I realize they have all been clustering forward this year, reminding me they are still here, even very near, and always have been. Perhaps on the other side they are throwing a going away party for the soul about to join us, sharing wisdom for the journey, sad to see him go, yet filled with joy at the promise of his life. What past will he carry? What future? How will we nurture his awesome light and honor his courage to come? We wait with love in expectant joy.