I may not be able to speak of joyful things today. The physical pain I am experiencing is far too strong, covering me with just a little bit of despair. More than one of my good friends told me in the past few days that I am strong. I am not and, thankfully I don’t have to be because the friends that surround me are being strong for me. They are calling on the minuscule strength I do have and bringing it into view for me. They have told me joyful things when I could not name joyful things for myself. In the process of loving me, my friends call out to the joy and strength that is in me to make itself known. And on top of that, they allow me, without judgement, to be where I am and feel what I feel.
So although I may not be able to speak of joyful things right now, I know that you have already tucked joyfulness into the recesses of your heart. I may not have much hope to send to you today, but you have hope in abundance and it breathes over your spirit during times of courage and times of fear, times when you feel certainty and times when you feel disillusioned. Out of your stores of faith, you encircle me and breathe hope into my spirit . . . and strength and joy.
For that, I am most grateful. And I am grateful that when I am weak, God is my strength. When I am joyless, God covers me with joy. I believe this by faith (a smidgen of mustard seed faith) in those times when I cannot experience those comforts within me, times like this present time of struggle and recovery.
I’ll leave you with these words of comfort that you already know so intimately, words that I also know intimately, but that I need to hear anew today.
And God, the giver of all grace, who has called you to share His eternal glory, through Christ, after you have suffered for a short time, will make you perfect, firm, and strong. — 1 Peter 5:10
For our light and temporary affliction is producing for us an eternal glory that far outweighs our troubles. — 2 Corinthians 4:17
Though I cannot manage to speak of joyful things today, the writers of 1 Peter and 2 Corinthians most definitely can!
Today, I am singing in my mind a sacred hymn that often speaks hope to me. The
text was written by William Cowper (1731-1800) and the music by William Howard Doane (1832-1915). In the darkness of the past week, I have been surprised by light.
Sometimes a light surprises
The child of God who sings;
It is the Lord who rises
With healing in His wings:
When comforts are declining,
God grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
To cheer it after the rain
In holy contemplation
We sweetly then pursue
The theme of God’s salvation,
And find it ever new;
Set free from present sorrow,
We cheerfully can say,
Let the unknown tomorrow
Bring with it what it may.
Tomorrow can bring us nothing,
But God will bear us through:
Who gives the lilies clothing
Will clothe His people, too:
Beneath the spreading heavens
No creature but is fed;
And God Who feeds the ravens
Will give His children bread.
Though vine nor fig tree neither
Their wonted fruit should bear,
Though all the fields should wither,
Nor flocks or herds be there
Yet, God the same abiding,
God’s praise shall tune my voice;
For, while in Him confiding,
I cannot but rejoice.
It is so true that “sometimes a light surprises the child of God who sings.” The surprise is almost magic. Surely the light is miracle, and I thank God for the miracle of this new day. The miracle, I think, is that I am able to look at this day in a way that leads to gratitude for life.
I am determined that this will not be a day I describe by pain, but that I would declare this day a day of healing. Today, I want to lean into healing, not suffering — faith, not fear. I am convinced that this is God’s desire for me.
There is no doubt that I have walked through darkness in the past week. It is also my truth that light really does shine out of dark places. My pondering light and darkness this morning brings up a Scripture text I have leaned on many times in my life. I love the New Century Version of this text.
God once said, “Let the light shine out of the darkness!” This is the same God who made his light shine in our hearts by letting us know the glory of God that is in the face of Christ.
We have this treasure from God, but we are like clay jars that hold the treasure. This shows that the great power is from God, not from us.
We have troubles all around us, but we are not defeated. We do not know what to do, but we do not give up the hope of living. We are persecuted, but God does not leave us. We are hurt sometimes, but we are not destroyed.
— 2 Corinthians 4:1-11 New Century Version (NCV)
How accurately this text describes my past few days! How true it is that I have not known what to do about the pain and suffering, yet I refuse to “give up the hope of living.” This is as it should be. This is God’s desire for us — to never give up the hope of living and to cling to the good hope that light really does shine out of darkness.
Sometimes a light really does surprise us when we sing. Singing beats weeping every time. Singing drives out darkness. I have heard often that only light can drive out darkness and I believe that truth. In fact, when I find myself in the middle of darkness, I am convinced that darkness is precisely the place where I am able to see the light at its brightest.
Today Is a troubled day for me. I need to know God as “my ever present help in time of trouble” on this day of kidney transplant aftercare that began early this morning. Being in the Mayo Clinic lab by 6:30 is not so gentle a way to treat a person with a huge, painful incision! On the way to Mayo Clinic, bumps and potholes in the road caused sharp pain. Walking the hallways at Mayo Clinic required far more energy than I currently have. I am weak and shaky, struggling with significant pain, and suffering from the side effects of very potent medications.
The medical visits will end around 2:00 pm today. We hoped to be able to rest until the next medical appointments on Wednesday. But the transplant doctors need to repeat my blood tests early tomorrow. They made some significant changes to my medications to try to address some concerns they have about my kidney function, excessive incision pain, blood sugar and fluid retention.
It occurred to me today, that in some ways, all of the inflexible after surgery care and the daunting medication regimen seems as if it is not at all about me; it’s about the kidney! It’s all about the kidney!
I can live with that if I can remember that God cares for me, for every part of me, and of course, for the new kidney. But my hope rests on the grace-giving God who also cares for the whole of me — what’s going on with me physically, emotionally and spiritually.
A comforting hymn text about God’s care has lifted me up into hope at various times in my life. “Day by Day, and with Each Passing Moment” was written by a young Swedish woman, Carolina Sandell Berg. Like the Psalmist, Berg learned early in life to trust in God’s strength to help her overcome times of suffering. She learned that when pain and tragedy strike, God may use that experience to deepen our faith.
When Carolina was 26-years old, she experienced a tragedy which profoundly affected her life. As she and her father crossed a Swedish lake, the ship suddenly lurched, and before her eyes, her father was thrown overboard and drowned. Like the Psalmist who gave us a strong affirmation with these words, “God is my refuge, an ever present help in time of trouble,” Carolina Berg found hope in God day by day.
Although my present situation is very different from her tragedy, I am learning all over again about how hope and faith work for me. This is my paraphrase of Carolina Sandell Berg’s wonderful hymn:
Day by day and with each passing moment,
Strength I find to meet my trials here;
Trusting in God’s kind and wise bestowment,
I’ve no cause for worry or for fear.
God whose heart is kind beyond all measure
Gives unto each day what She deems best —
Lovingly, it’s part of pain and pleasure,
Mingling toil with peace and rest.
Every day the God of love is near me
With a special mercy for each hour;
All my cares God’s love will bear, and cheer me,
God whose name is Counselor and Power.
The protection of God’s child and treasure
Is a charge that on Herself She laid;
“As thy days, thy strength shall be in measure,”
This the pledge to me She made.
Help me then in every tribulation
So to trust Thy promises, O Lord,
That I lose not faith’s sweet consolation
Offered me within Thy holy Word.
Help me, Lord, when toil and trouble meeting,
Ever take, as from a mother’s hand,
One by one, the days, the moments fleeting,
‘Till I reach the promised land.
On days like this one when I feel weary and weak, when I experience pain and need an extra measure of compassionate care, I know I can look to God who is “my ever present help in time of trouble.” And I know that God, who is both father and mother to me, will walk beside me day by day, every day, through every passing moment.
On another note, please pray for me as I recover from my kidney transplant at Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida. I am so grateful that you are walking with me on this journey that often felt so frightening and is now a very difficult recovery. Your thoughts and prayers mean so much. Your donations through the Georgia Transplant Foundation have helped us get very close to our goal. The Foundation will match donations dollar for dollar up to $10,000, and you have already helped us raise $9,015. If you are able, please help us get to the $10,000 matched amount. We are almost there. If you can contribute or if you would like to read more of the story of my illness, please visit the Georgia Transplant Foundation’s website at this link:
A “Go Fund Me” page is also set up for contributions to help with the enormous costs related to the transplant, including medications, housing costs for the month we have to stay near the transplant center, uncovered medications and medical equipment, and other unforeseeable costs for my care following the transplant. If you can, please be a part of my transplant journey by making a contribution at this link
Transplant Day Four was a blur. There are no words to adequately describe the volume of information we had to digest just to know how to protect this new kidney. So with all the education we had to learn, both Fred and I are on overload. The pain continues, and hopefully the healing.
But hovering over all the physical and emotional pain are the prayers of the people — my people — my dear friends and family members who are holding hope up high so I can see it. Their love and their compassionate concern is grace for me.
I have few words of my own today, but this prayer shared by Joanna Harader speaks exactly what I need God to hear from me today.
Holy One,
This day may I know
Your health in my body;
Your enlightenment in my mind;
Your grace in my missteps;
Your patience in my frustrations;
Your inspiration where I am stuck
And your tranquility where I need to slow down and rest.
This day may I
Breathe each breath with gratitude,
See each color with wonder,
Hear the hum of the Divine beneath the noise,
Feel your solid presence with each step I take.
Let me live out of your joy
And within your power.
Amen.
Rev. Joanna Harader serves as pastor of Peace Mennonite Church in Lawrence, KS, and blogs at SpaciousFaith.com.
Around 3:00 am this morning, I was awake and alert, having tossed and turned for hours, wishing for daybreak. I was also fasted and prepared for medical tests. But before I tell you about this day’s fasting, I need to reach back and call up some of my memories of other times. While wide awake in bed, I thought about some of the fasting times I have experienced, each a singular blessing making way for sacred space.
Fasting was a part of my early childhood. Being a Greek Orthodox child with a religiously devout Yiayia (grandmother), I learned early in life about fasting. Even though I was only 8-years old, Yiayia adamantly believed I was old enough to memorize prayers from the liturgy and recite them — in Greek. And a part of her plan was designed to prepare me for Holy Communion. I must give her some good-grandmothing credit — she did have a fasting experience for me that was age-appropriate, meaning it was not as long a fasting time as the adults observed and certainly not as stringent. No meat, of course, but some laxity on dairy and liquids because I was always an orange juice child that needed to drink a lot.
Yiayia accommodated my need for plenty of juice and chocolate milk. Still, I thought I might starve before my fast was over and I received the wine and, finally, the little square of communion bread that I scarfed down. I am pretty certain, though, that I did not fully embrace this sacred mystery of prayer, fasting and the sacrament of Holy Communion.
Years passed and young adult fasting times came in times of deep angst. There were troubled times when the only hope I thought I had came through prayer and fasting. Looking back on that time, I realize that I experienced just a glimpse of the meaning behind a fast. More awareness and appreciation of the sacred mystery would come much later in life.
Maturity and age created in me a seeking spirit that longed for deep meaning. I remember so vividly my time of fasting for my profession of vows before entering the novitiate of the Order of Ecumenical Franciscans. The occasion happened in the desert of Albuquerque, New Mexico, quite an appropriate setting for my introduction to a contemplative life. Dry, expansive desert and big skies that went on forever captured my imagination. It occurred to me at the time that I was experiencing just a tiny glimmer of desert spirituality. This fast in the desert was really the first time I immersed myself fully in the sacred mystery of fasting.
Now back to this day while waiting for daybreak after a night of tossing and worrying. This fasting morning was not religious at all, but necessary for information the kidney doctors needed from the 30 vials of blood The Mayo Clinic phlebotomist retrieved from my flimsy vein.
But come to think of it, today’s fasting may be the most sacred of all because it leads to the mystery and science of a kidney transplant. When a donor comes forward willing to give a gift of life from his or her own body, that feels very much like sacred mystery.
God orchestrated the entire experience. And by the way, God knows all about my tossing and turning in the wee hours of this morning. God understands my anxiety and fear. God understands the emotional place of anticipating a kidney transplant after five years of waiting.
I have always loved the imagery of this scripture verse written by the Psalmist. Today seems like a good day to ponder it.
You have kept count of my tossings;
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your record?
— Psalm 56:8 (NRSV)
Tomorrow is the day. If all goes well, tomorrow I will get a new kidney. If for some medical reason, the transplant does not happen, I still know and understand the sacred mystery that God keeps count of my tossings and saves my tears in a bottle. And that’s enough for me.
On another note, please pray for me as I look toward my kidney transplant tomorrow at Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida. I am so grateful that you are walking with me on this journey that often felt so frightening. Your thoughts and prayers mean so much. If you would like to rea the story of my illness, please visit the Georgia Transplant Foundation’s website at this link:
A “Go Fund Me” page is set up for contributions to help with the enormous costs related to the transplant, including medications, housing costs for the month we have to stay near the transplant center, and other unforeseeable costs for my care following the transplant. If you can, please be a part of my transplant journey by making a contribution at this link
It’s not so easy to get a new kidney! The stars truly have to align. On top of that, I have to be ready to move up and move out on short notice. Kidney transplants — securely scheduled and marked definitively on official calendars — can always go awry.
So it is with my scheduled November 15th transplant. It simply fell apart due to one or more of the snafus that can always occur. So we’re off. And we’re on! The word is that the transplant may be scheduled even before the 15th. Or maybe not. But be ready to go!
And that absolute and unambiguous word from Mayo Clinic this morning reminded me of the wondrous Dr. Suess book, “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” Of course, being on the ready to go to Mayo, I just had to look back at that book and recall some of its infinite wisdom. Turns out, some of it so fully describes my five-year acquaintance with end stage kidney disease.
So here are some snippets that tell my story, oh, so well:
I’m sorry to say so
but, sadly, it’s true
that Bang-ups
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.
You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. but mostly they’re darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?
And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.
But on you will go
though the weather be foul.
On you will go
though your enemies prowl.
You’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting,
So… get on your way!
Onward up many a frightening creek, though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak. Oh! The places you’ll go!
I have said many times that so many of you, my friends and family nearby and far away, have covered me with the grace to move forward even when I hesitated. Because of your prayers, positive thoughts and constant encouragement, I am ready to go!
And so it is with confidence and hope that I can exclaim! “Oh! The places I’ll go!” And though I am inspired by the writing of Dr. Suess, it is through and through theological and Biblical!
Thank you all, and thanks be to God.
On another note, please pray for me as I look toward my kidney transplant as early as November 6th. I am grateful that you are walking with me on this journey that often felt so frightening. Your thoughts and prayers mean so much. If you would like to read the story of my illness, please visit the Georgia Transplant Foundation’s website at this link:
A “Go Fund Me” page is set up for contributionto help with the enormous costs related to the transplant, including medications, housing costs for the month we have to stay near the transplant center, and other unforeseeable costs for my care following the transplant. If you can, please be a part of my transplant journey by making a contribution at this link:
October Hunter’s moon rising over Arkansas’ Mallard Lake. Photography by Debbie Marie Smith.
Life can be swampy and murky at times, with not enough light to see the way forward. Not to mention the danger of being mired in the mud unable to move! You have probably been there. I know I have, and when the journey has taken me through those murky waters, I have despaired. So many circumstances can take us through rough places, but the circumstance that immediately comes to mind for me is indecision.
Indecision is that uncomfortably in-between place where you have no idea how to find the way forward, yet you cannot stay in the place you are. Waiting is born of indecision and waiting can be excruciating. Right about now, I wish I could report that one must simply pray and God will instantly change indecision into forward motion, out of any murky swamp.
I cannot say, however, that a single prayer can make that happen. At least for me, there have been no instant-miraculous-life-changing answers to my prayers. Not even once in my faith journey of many years! What I can tell you with deep assurance is that, although no single prayer has changed my life, continual prayer has changed my life. It is not the prayer of occasional consolation that changes the course of one’s life journey. It is the life of prayer that seeks God in prayer, abiding in God’s presence, for as long as it takes. Richard Rohr says this wise thing about prayer:
The only people who pray well are those who keep praying! In fact, continued re-connecting is what I mean by prayer, not occasional consolations that we may experience.
No doubt, life’s journey will take us through murky, swampy places without enough light to find our way through them. The murkiness of indecision is real, and with it we may experience confusion, fear, despair, desperation. We may even lose hope and question our faith. But we cannot stay there. People of faith are people of resilience and courage. We have within us all the resilience and courage we need. So we must believe in ourselves enough to take a step forward and out, through the mud and the sludge, trusting in faith that God’s light will light up the dark places and give us the strength to move through to the other side.
That’s what I have to believe about painful, oppressive places of indecision. That’s what I have to believe about getting through swampy, murky places. That’s what I have to believe about God.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. In him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Sunrise at Stout’s Point, Petit Jean State Park, Arkansas. Photography by Beth Buckley
“There is meaning in every journey that is unknown to the traveler.”
— Dietrich Bonhoeffer
I am a student of the journey, always examining the stones in the road, the twists of the path, the crossroads that demand decision, the mountains that must be climbed and the valley of rest that replenishes the soul. All of it has been there on my journey, and I imagine on yours as well. The milestones along the way — those that are challenging and those that offer respite — are ever common for those who travel.
I question it often, the journey, asking where it next will lead me and what obstacles I might face along the way. But the journey does not tell. It does not speak, nor does it provide a map. The journey is wise, and it knows that if we know what the journey holds as we travel, we might turn back in fear. We might determine that the journey’s risks are too great.
So the beauty of the journey is this: that we give ourselves to it with at least some sense of trust. Somehow we are able to follow journey’s path blindly, accepting whatever we face next. Embracing the changing terrain, using every ounce of strength to go forward, taking paths unknown, binding up the wounds of the falls. We move onward with our soul’s faith spurring us on and in the certain knowledge that God knows the journey and that the Comforter walks beside us.
For after all, we are strangers and pilgrims (1 Peter 2: 11) on this journey, sojourners in a world that will not always be our home. We are just passing through this life, and so we take the journey as it appears before us, by faith. We trust the journey as if preordained for us by God. We hold fast to the journey in the faith that it was destined for us, and we do not set our sights on the destination, for that remains unknown and unknowable.
I share the eloquent words of Wendell Berry, who seems to understand the journey better than most:
We travelers, walking to the sun, can’t see
ahead, but looking back the very light
that blinded us shows us the way we came,
along which blessings now appear, risen
as if from sightlessness to sight, and we
by blessing brightly lit, keep going toward
that blessed light that yet to us is dark.
— Wendell Berry
May we trust the journey, moving “toward that blessed light that yet to us is dark.” Amen.
On another note, please pray for me as I await a life-saving kidney transplant. I am grateful that you are walking with me on this journey that often feels so frightening. Your thoughts and prayers mean so much. If you would like to read the story of my illness, please visit the Georgia Transplant Foundation’s website at this link:
A “Go Fund Me” page is set up for contributions to help with the enormous costs related to the transplant, including medications, housing costs for the month we have to stay near the transplant center, and other unforeseeable costs for my care following the transplant. If you can, please be a part of my transplant journey by making a contribution at this link:
I love the simple beauty of a lotus blossom. Since the lotus is often associated with yoga (a practice I avoid with every fiber of my being), I have never really considered the lotus and its intriguing life cycle. But lately I have been curious about the story of the lotus, which has long been considered one of the most sacred flowers. I wondered what it is about this mysterious bloom makes it so enrapturing and symbolic to so many people and cultures.
I think the answer is that the life cycle of the lotus is unlike any other flower. With its roots buried in mud, the lotus submerges every night into murky river water and miraculously re-blooms the next morning without any muddy residue on its petals.
The general consensus among ancient texts that the lotus symbolizes spiritual enlightenment and rebirth. Over centuries and across cultures, the lotus stunned people with its ability to dip into the grime and revive itself unscathed—an incredible daily cycle of life, death, and a sudden immaculate rebirth that can only be described as spiritual. In fact, the lotus flower blooms most beautifully from the deepest and thickest mud.
The lotus flower’s daily resurrection is certainly interesting and symbolic of revival, transformation and new life. But even more interesting is the flower’s stubborn will to live. A lotus seed can withstand thousands of years without water, able to germinate over two centuries later.
The lotus also blooms in the most unlikely of places such as the mud of murky river water in Australia or Southern Asia. Not only does it find sanctuary in the muck, but due to the waxy protection layer on its petals, its beauty is unaffected when it re-blooms each morning. It continues to resurrect itself, coming back just as beautiful as it was last seen. With such refusal to accept defeat, it’s almost impossible not to associate the lotus flower with unwavering faith, more specifically the faith within ourselves.
My serendipitous lotus research did what my research often does: It prompted me to re-examine my faith. I can readily identify times when I had to wade through the murky, muddy waters that life sometimes brings. And although it seemed impossible to re-emerge from the mud clean and renewed, I did, every time, because of a God who understands both the murk and the rebirth.
It’s all about faith, after all is said and done. Once again God’s creation gives us a stunning example of experiencing thick, murky, dark life experiences; going under into the thickest mud when you no longer have the strength to stay above water; and miraculously emerging again — clean, new, reborn. We can learn a valuable lesson about determination, defiance and perseverance from the determined, defiant lotus seed that can survive over centuries. It hints to me about God’s “long game” for my life that simply shouts “hope” not just in my present circumstance, but in a future I can not begin to envision. God envisions it, though — a year from now, two years, my future, the years God has already numbered for me and the mystery we name “eternity.”
Thanks be to God for my eternity and for a faith that is reborn again and again and again by grace.
*********************
On another note, please pray for me as I await a life-saving kidney transplant. I am grateful that you are walking with me on this journey that often feels so frightening. Your thoughts and prayers mean so much. If you would like to read the story of my illness, visit the Georgia Transplant Foundation’s website at this link:
A “Go Fund Me” page is set up for contributions to help with the enormous costs related to the transplant, including medications, housing costs near the transplant center, and other unforeseeable costs for my care following the transplant. If you can, please make a contribution at this link:
What does it mean to be in the presence of God? How do we get there? How do we rest there long enough for our souls to be restored?
Had I ever been able to answer those questions, I imagine my life would have been different — fuller, gentler, more peaceful. But like many people who work to achieve inner peace and a spirituality with staying power, I have struggled around the prize, never quite being able to grasp it.
I have used all of the tools available to me — my bible, my bookcase full of contemplative writing, my labyrinth, my hymnal, my writing, my art, my prayer. The list goes on, and I go on, still struggling to find God’s presence.
The worse thing I can do is to cast blame on myself for a small spirituality and an even smaller faith. Truth is, I think I do have spirituality and faith. Faith has lifted me up through many difficult times. Faith was present when fire destroyed part of our home. My faith held when I was forced to close the doors our nonprofit. My faith carried me through sudden kidney failure. Faith showed up every time I wept bitter tears of grief and mourned my life losses. My faith was present with me when I thought I was dying and when I left my home of 32 years, my son and my grandchildren.
My faith held. My anchor gripped God’s solid rock. I picked myself up every time and moved on with hope. Yet, this thing we call “the presence of God” has eluded me. I mostly can’t experience it or feel it or sense it as a reality.
I guess it gets back to faith, doesn’t it. For it is faith that whispers to us, “Know the presence of God. If you cannot sense it, know it. If you cannot feel it, believe it anyway.”
The book of Jeremiah offers this comforting advice: “You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart.”
And then I can always fall back on Richard Rohr wisdom:
“We’re already in the presence of God. What’s absent is awareness.”
O Lord, you have searched me and known me!
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
You discern my thoughts from afar.
You search out my path and my lying down
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Even before a word is on my tongue,
O Lord, you know it.
You hem me in, behind and before me,
and you gently lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
I cannot begin to understand it.
Where shall I go from your Spirit?
Where shall I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
In this frenetic and fractured world, we can use all the comfort and assurance we can get. We want to know that everything’s going to be alright. We want to know that we will be alright. And we want to know that the people we love will be alright. Yet, these are things we cannot know, not really.
While we cannot have knowledge, we can have faith. Scripture offers us so many promises of care and protection:
“We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.”
(2 Corinthians 4:9)
“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; she will never leave you nor forsake you.” (Deuteronomy 31:6)
“The Lord will keep you from all harm; she will watch over your life; The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.” (Psalm 121:7-8)
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.” (Isaiah 43:2)
“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.” ( Psalm 56:8)
What a gift that we have faith and friends! I never minimize the care and comfort I receive from my friends, the many ways they offer blessings on my life. Sometimes a kind word from a friend far away brings me deep comfort just when I need it most. Sometimes a phone call from a friend, just to check on me, feels like the warmth of the sun. Sometimes one of my doctors will know exactly what to say to ease my concerns. And so often one of my dialysis nurses hones in on a worry that’s just underneath the surface and helps me bring it to the light that begins a healing process. Caring friends — and family — are most definitely grace gifts from God.
The truth is that we do not have to bear our burdens alone. Faith gives us the awareness of a God who cares and comforts. The promises of Scripture are not merely words on a page. They are messages of hope that we can hold onto when nights are long and frightening.
So faith brings us hope and comfort from a caring God who knows what is in our hearts. And life’s journey brings us friends willing to walk with us. It is not unusual for a friend to know intuitively when I really need to hear a comforting word. When that happens, our conversation often results in tears, probably tears that I had held back in an effort to “be strong.” My friends show me, in so many ways, that I don’t have to be strong and that I can just “be.” When we talk, I feel that lump in my throat that is both an awareness of a hurt I’ve been holding onto and a response of gratitude for a friend who truly cares.
Every once in a while, something unexpected shows up. It may be a nice surprise that lightens a burden, like receiving a kind note or getting a phone call from a friend. It may be a sudden light that breaks the darkness we’re experiencing or a melody that lifts our spirits. It may be a little beauty in the middle of an ugly place. It may be a touch of color in a patch of gray.
That’s what struck me about the photo at the beginning of this post. The creative photographer, my friend Steven Nawojczyk, must have noticed something bright and beautiful in the middle of a bramble of deep green foliage. It was unexpected — the brilliant, white flowers that bloomed there. No one planted them in that thick brush. They just appeared. Unexpected!
But we know all too well that an unexpected event is not always a good one. The surprises that break into our lives sometimes harm and hurt. My family experienced it this week: a nasty fall on Sunday that resulted in my very sprained, swollen and bruised knee; my cousin falling a few days later and injuring both legs; my son dealing with serious illness; my husband Fred spending all of last night in the ER.
Unexpected! And not-so-good unexpected!
So sometimes the thought of not-so-good unexpected can create fear in us. Of course, we know that our finest plans sometimes fall through. Our projects implode. Our dreams meet the toughest resistance.
Doesn’t it seem as if our “plans” are lightning rods for the unexpected? When our plans crumble underneath us, we sometimes question the very faith that has always, always sustained us.
Now there is no Biblical text for every life occasion, and picking out a text to prove a point or to make us feel better is not the best way to approach the Bible. And yet, our sacred Scripture does speak to the unexpected happenings of life. This time, it’s the wise prophet Jeremiah who offers the word of hope.
For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
— Jeremiah 29:11 New International Version
A hope and a future! What more do we need? For me, white flowers unexpectedly blooming in the bushes and brambles will just about do it.
In a tiny book of the Bible that has only 24 verses, we find an exhortation for understanding faith and unfaith. The writer must have known us — and known our lives and our frailties and our actions — ahead of time. He must have known about our faith, and about our unfaith.
It’s troubling at times to experience the many ways unfaith moves in on us until our faith is pushed out for a time. It happens, those times of unfaith. And I have to confess that unfaith has certainly been a part of my journey at times. How does it come on me? What causes it to attack my faith? I can describe a number of ways.
Disappointment and disillusionment in the unjust actions of the leaders of our government — That’s a big one these days.
Anger that children and families are suffering at the Southern border as our country behaves as an unwelcoming place — This is a very serious one for me.
Watching God’s Church go through the motions of religion while failing to create spaces for spiritual contemplation and justice making — Always, this has been a struggle for the Church.
Experiencing personal failure to the point of feeling completely defeated — It happens when one puts herself out into the real world.
Falling down in a state of exhaustion, frustrated with the struggle, ready to give up — It’s such a common state of being for me.
It is true that the preceding situations should not have the power to create unfaith in me. Surely my faith, a faith of so many decades, is strong enough to sustain me. The little Book of Jude offers 24 verses of exhortation to me and to us all:
“But you, Beloved, build yourselves up on your most holy faith; pray in the Holy Spirit; keep yourselves in the love of God” (v. 20). In other words, keep unfaith at bay, stand firm in God’s love, keep yourself from falling.
I happen to know about falling, spiritually and literally. I can recall times in my life when I fell into a brief place of unfaith, times when my hope was small and my spirit was assailed. I know all too well that falling is a situation in which you lose control as you completely lose your footing. It happened to me last night, in fact. In one moment, I was getting ready for bed, and in the next, I was tripping over a power cord, ending up on my back end with an excruciatingly painful knee, and slightly less excruciating pain in several other places on my body.
As my knee swelled to more than twice its size, Fred rushed in and together we plotted how I would get up off the floor. It was not easy, and on top of that, now I have to deal with the repercussions of falling: a hurt knee, painful toes, pain in my shoulder, my arm, my back, my hand and my bottom. It would have been much easier to keep from falling in the first place.
And that’s what Jude, brother of James, told us in the most beautiful benediction in all of Scripture.
Jude, a servant of Jesus Christ and brother of James,
To those who are called, who are beloved in God the Father and kept safe for Jesus Christ:
May mercy, peace, and love be yours in abundance.
Now to him who is able to keep you from falling, and to make you stand without blemish in the presence of his glory with rejoicing, to the only God our Savior, through Jesus Christ our Lord, be glory, majesty, power, and authority, before all time and now and forever. Amen.
Here we have some glorious, sublime Gospel Good News that we can count on:
We are kept safe.
God is able to make us stand without blemish in the presence of God’s glory.
I’m pretty sure it’s not cool to get emotional about having a medical evaluation. But I did. I passed a life milestone yesterday when I completed my week long medical evaluation at Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida. Getting to an actual kidney transplant is a long journey, five years, ten years, people wait even longer.
I arrived exhausted and holding on to a fair amount of cynicism, barely able to believe that I might actually get a kidney transplant some day. As is my custom, I have trusted God along the way for the best outcome for me, most of the time. But five years of dialysis — every single day for eight hours a day — can wear down one’s hope. Five years of waiting on a transplant list with thousands of other waiters can test one’s faith.
About a month ago, I had a very bad experience with my first transplant center. It took me to a very low place of feeling that I had been devalued by the caregivers who had known me for almost four years. I was on the transplant list, but there was virtually no communication with me during those years. And just as we were about to turn a corner with a transplant actually in view, they abruptly took me off of the active transplant list. It became very clear that the process with this particular transplant center would probably not lead to a transplant for me anytime soon. I was emotionally devastated, but more importantly, I no longer felt comfortable placing my life in their hands. So I gathered up all my emotional baggage and took it with me to Mayo Clinic. I did not expect what happened to me there.
We turned in to the Mayo campus on a road framed with lush, spreading trees. Palm trees were interspersed among the large trees and plants covered the ground. The landscape was made even more beautiful by a large pond with a fountain sending water into the air. It reminded me of the Living Water that quenches our thirst forever. I looked up and saw the words, “Mayo Clinic” and suddenly felt a sense of being home, of being in a place with people who would care for me. A silent tear slid down my face and I felt very full, the lump in my throat extending into my chest.
The week was full of appointments and medical tests, beginning with the transplant nephrologist, Dr. Mai, who is one of the most compassionate and personable physicians I have ever met. He took a complete history, examined me thoroughly and answered ever question we had.
I must say that every single employee at Mayo Clinic was professional, pleasant and kind. It was an atmosphere of caring and compassion. It was a busy place that never felt rushed. They pulled off a “medical miracle” of a sorts, scheduling about thirty appointments for me and never being off schedule for even one of them.
There are places throughout the buildings to stop and rest, many of them filled with the sounds of soothing classical music. It is a place that values art, which you will find in every nook and cranny. And then there is the atrium for meditation, a space closed off from the rest of the clinic. When you enter, a large flowing fountain makes the only sound you will hear. In that silent place, the lighting is dimmed and there are comfortable places to sit. A beautiful altar-like table draws your focus.
After the full week of tests, scans, blood draws and consultations, we were back with Dr. Mai who patiently explained every test result. He was encouraging about the kidney transplant and said more than once that I needed a transplant as soon as possible. “But what do I know?” he said. “I’m just a regular doctor. The surgeon is the one who will tell us if a transplant is possible.”
Then we moved to our very last appointment with the transplant surgeon, the one who would hold my fate in her hands. I feared this last appointment and worried about it throughout the week. The surgeon would have the last word.
How delighted we were to meet Dr. Perry, a rather young woman who obviously knew her craft. She looked over all the scans and examined the potential site of the incision. After a lengthy Q & A, she sent us on our way. She had the final word, the last words of the week. “Let’s get you a kidney!” she said enthusiastically, and all the hope I thought I had lost rose up inside me.
When we drove away, I felt incredibly sad to be leaving that caring place. The lump in my throat came back and I was filled with gratitude, confident that God had chosen Mayo Clinic to help me take back my life.
This morning I was reading an interesting article about Michael, the Archangel. The headline read “Call upon the Archangel to stand guard over you . . . at night.” The article pointed out that we are the most vulnerable when we are asleep, unable to protect ourselves from harm. The Archangel Michael can protect us. The information, while interesting, was not all that earth shattering. But reading it brought to mind an unforgettable childhood memory.
As a child around the age of five, I didn’t think much of this particular day, but as an adult, I count it as one of my most cherished memories. On top of that, I now see it as an early childhood experience that shaped my view of God and began to prepare me for the vocation of ministry. But I must begin at the beginning to paint a picture of a precocious, spoiled five year old.
My mother was expecting a new baby, my first sibling. I was all in if the baby was a sister, but for some reason, I loathed the idea of a baby brother, which is exactly what I got. I was NOT happy! I remember it like it was yesterday. Yiayia (my grandmother) broke the news. I stomped my feet and declared that my mother could absolutely not return home with a boy baby!
Going on alongside my childish impertinence, the adults were experiencing a completely different reality. It appeared, in fact, that my baby brother would not come home and that his survival was doubtful. As in many Greek families, my brother’s dangerous situation remained “between us,” which meant my grandmother, my father and my two aunts, Eirene and Koula. At all costs, my mother was not to be told of the seriousness of her new baby’s health. And of course, nothing was to be said in the presence of five-year-old Kalliope, though that made no difference at all because my ears had always been finely attuned to family secrets and whispers. When adults spoke, even in hushed whispers, I heard.
So I knew, at least, that something was amiss, and if I am honest, I have to confess that I was glad I would not be having a brother in my world. Until the next day. As soon as I woke up, Yiayia washed my face, made me brush my teeth, and began to dress me. For reasons I did not yet understand, she was dressed in her church clothes and she pulled out a church dress for me. I knew it wasn’t Sunday, but I did not know that I was about to have a life-altering experience. Now you might think that a five-year-old cannot really understand a life-altering experience. But you would be mistaken. This life-altering experience has been lying in my memories for more than six decades.
Both dressed impeccably, we put on our winter coats and walked across the street and down the block to the bus stop. I was cold, ready for the bus to show up. Of course, I asked where we were going and why we were so dressed up. “Siopi! Min milas tora!” was Yiayia’s response. “Hush! Don’t talk right now!” Sensing the fear and grief in Yiayia’s mood, I sat quietly and didn’t say another word as the bus took us to downtown Birmingham. When we disembarked, I knew exactly where we were going, but I did not know why.
As we walked up the front steps at our Greek Orthodox church, I felt the warmth of the building easing the February cold. I was glad to be warm. I smelled the incense, comforted by the familiar fragrance. And I watched the flames of hundreds of thin white candles placed in a bed of sand as Yiayia lit another one, placed it in the sand, and made her cross. Immediately, I made my cross, too, three times, as I was taught to do.
The church was silent. With dim lights, it had never looked more beautiful. As we walked down the aisle through the nave, I looked to each side to see the stained glass windows. I looked up above the nave into the dome of the church where the icon of Christ, Ruler of All, looked back directly at me in a way that almost seemed eerie. I realize that we are going up the steps to the iconostasis, the wall of doors that each had an icon on them. I had never, ever been up those few steps. It was the place, I thought, where only the priest and the altar boys could be.
But up we went, and stood directly in front of the door bearing the image of Michael the Archangel. Finally, Yiayia spoke. “Your brother is going to die. We have to pray for him to St Michael, the protector of all. You pray too.
And so we did, Yiayia with a deep, reverent, desperate fervency that pleaded for the Archangel to save the baby, offering Saint Michael a promise in return for the baby’s life. As for me, I can only remember having a lump in my throat and trying not to cry. But tears streamed down my cheeks as we finished, and I made my cross three times.
We headed silently back to the bus stop to go home. The house was much quieter than usual, and I stayed quiet too, which was a huge feat for me. I didn’t say anything about not wanting my baby brother for a few days, which proves the cunning wisdom of a five-year-old. I played quietly in my room the rest of the morning, but the mood in the house lifted that very afternoon.
My father and aunts came home not many hours after our church experience and announced with unbridled joy that the baby was going to be fine. Yiayia made her cross three times and gave exuberant thanks to God and St. Michael the Archangel who heard our prayers, gave us a miracle, and saved the baby boy.
My mother did come home with the miracle baby, Andrew Michael (named after the Archangel who saved his life). I stood my ground, refused to hold him or look at him, and sternly pronounced that they should take him back and bring me a sister!
So much for my spiritual act of devotion in the church. On the other hand, isn’t that just the way God works with us? Planting spiritual experiences in us when we hardly take notice, knowing that we will hide them somewhere in our hearts for a later time in our lives.
Ugandan Women at the River; Watercolor by Kathy Manis Findley
I tell my story best when I tell the stories of the people that God has placed in my life. Quite often, my heart recalls beautiful memories of a people that became an important part of my life. They are a people who touched me beyond measure when my husband and I served as missionaries to Uganda, East Africa.
The Ugandan people captured our hearts quickly and completely. We saw the great need and set about our work in village after village, doing whatever we could to promote self sufficiency and good health. We worshipped in their churches and learned about the amazing resilience of their Christian faith. Perhaps we helped make their lives better in small ways. There is no doubt that the Ugandan people made our lives better in big ways. It was so many years ago, but I remember it as if it happened yesterday. The two of us stepped off of a plane in the Nairobi airport to begin a new life. As very young missionaries, we had no idea what we would face in the days to come.
Getting to Uganda from Kenya was a long, dusty ride through the most beautiful places we had ever seen. Through bush country and savannah, through banana groves and rain forests, through tea plantations on the mountainsides and the deep waters of Lake Victoria, we were getting acquainted with this continent.
Ugandan Crested Cranes; Watercolor
The terrain was ever-changing, and the way was marked by the majestic beauty of elephants, giraffe, cape buffalo, gazelles, flamingos and Ugandan crested cranes.
The most moving sight of all was the people, barefoot and downtrodden, wearing rags and carrying heavy water containers. Yet, the sight of women at the banks of a river dipping their water jugs to carry to their families was a portrait of beauty and community. In spite of the toll the war had taken, these women retained their pride and dignity, and their joy. They wore basutis (native Ugandan dresses) of many vibrant African colors. In spite of the fact that their basutis were torn and tattered, they caught the rays of the equatorial sun and were bright with the greens, oranges, burgundies blues and yellows that mirrored the Ugandan landscape. The women stood together in the river, at times laughing and talking to one another, and at other times singing, in spite of their ominous sociopolitical world.
Their country had all but been destroyed by the evil dictator Idi Amin, who orchestrated the genocide of 100,000 to 500,000 Ugandans. Churches were burned to the ground, schools pillaged, roads were in shambles. Children were left orphaned in a country of widows. Their faces showed the wear of grief, their bodies the mask of mourning.
They were why we had come, sent by God to comfort a grieving people. The days ahead found us digging water wells, distributing agricultural tools and vegetable seeds, giving out books, bibles, blankets and sewing supplies, bringing in simple medicines and vaccines.
I can never think of the Ugandan people without recalling Lamentations 5, a scripture passage that was read in a church service to describe the plight of the people. As the reader read through her tears, the entire congregation wept, mourning so many losses. I offer the text here in its entirety:
Remember, Lord, what has happened to us; look, and see our disgrace.
Our inheritance has been turned over to strangers, our homes to foreigners.
We have become fatherless, our mothers are widows.
We must buy the water we drink; our wood can be had only at a price.
Those who pursue us are at our heels; we are weary and find no rest.
We submitted to Egypt and Assyria to get enough bread.
Our ancestors sinned and are no more, and we bear their punishment.
Slaves rule over us, and there is no one to free us from their hands.
We get our bread at the risk of our lives because of the sword in the desert.
Our skin is hot as an oven, feverish from hunger.
Women have been violated in Zion, and virgins in the towns of Judah.
Princes have been hung up by their hands; elders are shown no respect.
Young men toil at the millstones; boys stagger under loads of wood.
The elders are gone from the city gate; the young men have stopped their music.
Joy is gone from our hearts; our dancing has turned to mourning.
The crown has fallen from our head.
Woe to us, for we have sinned!
Because of this our hearts are faint, because of these things our eyes grow dim for Mount Zion, which lies desolate, with jackals prowling over it.You, Lord, reign forever; your throne endures from generation to generation.
Why do you always forget us?
Why do you forsake us so long?
Restore us to yourself, Lord, that we may return; renew our days as of old
unless you have utterly rejected us and are angry with us beyond measure.
— Lamentations 5, New International Version
That worship service in the Church of Uganda (Anglican) sanctuary was unlike any I had ever experienced. The people wept freely and openly, grieving the loss of husbands, children, parents. Once described as “the pearl of Africa” by Sir Winston Churchill, Uganda was a land of incomparable natural beauty that now had been ravaged by war.
As the reading of the scripture in Lamentations came to an end, one woman with tears flowing down her cheeks began to sing and dance. The congregation joined her, singing with great fervency, “Dance then, wherever you may be. I am the Lord of the Dance said he. And I’ll lead you on wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the Dance said he.”
The aisles of the sanctuary filled with dancing and weeping all at once.
Their mourning had turned to dancing. The inner joy of a people was not, and could never be, destroyed. Their hearts, so filled with the music of their faith, could not be silenced. They could sing. They could dance. Even through their tears. That is the music of abiding, persistent faith.
How grateful I am to God for choosing us to enter into community for a time with these wonderful people.
Blue skies and gentle breezes. That’s Macon most of the time. Oh, and you have to factor in the gnats, the annoying gnats that we have because we live on the gnat line.
You will find that not only is the gnat line a real thing, but that it also sits directly on top of Macon, Georgia. No one told me that before I moved here.
Still, there are blue skies and gentle breezes this morning. For a few seconds, I am fully in the moment, fully aware of the blue skies over me and the warm breeze that points my mind to all that is good, to all the things about nature that we can count on.
Gnats notwithstanding.
In some ways, it’s a picture of life —the beauty of blue skies and gentle breezes, right along with the persistent aggravation of gnats buzzing your face. Certainly, life is like that for me. There are every day graces accompanied with aggravations, challenges and sometimes troubles. Life brings days of deep mourning sometimes and times for gladness at other times.
Most thoughts these days take me to the very real possibility that I will receive a new kidney. The thought of it is both exhilarating and terrifying. I would not be me if I did not have the troubling thought that I might die in the middle of surgery. Or that I might contract a lethal infection and die of that. Or maybe I’ll be be compromised from the procedure and not recover.
On the other hand, maybe I’ll thrive with a new kidney. Maybe I will feel better than I have felt in five years. Maybe it’s true that I’ll live longer. Maybe life will begin again, fresh and new and full of possibilities. I love this message from the writer of Ecclesiastes.
So I commend the enjoyment of life, because there is nothing better for a person under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany them in their toil all the days of the life God has given them under the sun.
— Ecclesiastes 8:15 (New International Version (NIV)
What a good and gracious thought! The promise that as we are enjoying life, joy will be in us through whatever “toil” we face. Struggle, trouble, travail — we experience all of these in life, right along with the joy.
So as I contemplate a kidney transplant, I might just think of it as one of life’s “toils” that, by God’s grace, will be accompanied by joy.
I think I can do this. After all, “the joy of the Lord is my strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10)
Being lonely in a room full of people can be disconcerting. You might call it “lonely in a crowd.” Not such a great place to find yourself! In these days of waiting to be transplanted, I find that this is precisely where I am, lonely in a crowd. Not alone, just lonely, as if being where I am emotionally is a place where no one has ever been before. No one I know is with me on this massive, nationwide transplant list!
People call it a “wait list,” and that is actually a very good name for it, because all you can do when you’re on it is wait. No one ever reassures you that your name has not been accidentally removed. No one gives you a magic beeper that you keep until you hear that glorious beeping that means they have a table for you. No one says, “Thank you for waiting. One of our representatives will be with you shortly.” No one tells you anything at all. It’s just a wait list and all you can do on there is wait.
The result is that being on a huge, invisible, impersonal list is a lonely place to be. As I sat in church on Sunday, with a fairly large congregation in fact. I realized that we were gathered together but we were not really with each other. I looked all around me and thought, “I don’t know these people and they don’t know me. In a few minutes, we will all leave here, and I will have emotionally connected with no one.”
It made me sad, and all the more lonely. It’s my own fault, I suppose. I could make a concerted effort to engage more fully with the worshippers that surround me each Sunday. I could will myself to go deeper into conversations than, “How are you? I’m fine, thank you.” Surely there is another appropriate thing to say after such customary and gentile greetings. Whatever it is, I don’t say it. Therefore, I depart from the church a little bit lonelier than when I came.
I left my church in Little Rock when we moved here to Macon, Georgia, almost five years ago. Leaving New Millennium Church was heartbreaking. I grieved for the good people of New Millennium for almost two years. I served as Minister of Worship there before I got sick. My mission was to plan worship each Sunday for a congregation that already knew how to worship. When New Millennium people took my plans for prayers and hymns and litanies, they lived into them freely and fully as they worshipped, and what emerged from the people was somewhere between pure exuberance and holy reverence.
And one more thing. It can truly be said of New Millennium that no one could leave there lonely. The people of the church had a way about them, almost like they collectively gave a perennial hug that expressed this truth: “God is with you, and I’m with you, too.”
I remember well the Sunday we sang this familiar hymn with a wonderfully comforting text.
Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
And resting in His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw still closer to Him, from care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
A congregation can always sing “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” but New Millennium Church really SANG this song — with empathy, with joy, with a special kind of conviction that forced you to believe its message. Indeed it is a message worth believing, worth taking into your very soul, all the way into that loneliest place.
Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are numbered.
— Matthew 10:29-30 New International Version (NIV)
Yes, I am lonely. Sometimes even in the presence of people. Sometimes even in church. But I have a couple of choices: I can make a real effort to insert myself into the lives of the people around me. OR I can just accept the reality of the lonely place I am in right now and rest in it, with the assurance that, like the song says, God really does watch over me.
In your quiet time today, perhaps you would like to hear this beautiful song. I invite you to watch this video:
Mine is a lonely road on a journey of one.
To be sure, I have a dear, dear life partner
And a family
Friends all over the world.
Yet, I am making this journey all by myself.
All around me, friends are working, vacationing, writing, preaching
All those things I long to do
Simple things, but out of my reach.
In the meantime, I am dialyzing for hours every day
Willing myself to eat less, much less
Focusing on healthy
Exercising through pain
And waiting for a kidney transplant.
Friends are still working, vacationing, writing, preaching
All those things I long to do, still out of my reach.
Waiting for an organ transplant is lonely.
No one I know is doing the same thing.
But everyone knows someone who had one
And died
Or did poorly
Or maybe they even did great
But I never hear much about them.
Waiting for an organ transplant is lonely.
I cannot help but second-guess myself
Why the risk?
Hard decision.
A Good decision about a dangerous thing takes time
Maybe years
Info rattles around in your head for a while
Moves on as it discerns the rhythm of your spirit
Then listens for the whisper of God
And at last finds its rest in your heart
And then you know.
Friends are still working, vacationing, writing, preaching
All those things out of my reach.
They stop their busyness long enough to give me counsel
Everyone knows someone who had a transplant
And died
Or did poorly
And so they tell me that
With all the medical details they know
And mostly they don’t know
But I am holding the good decision in my heart
The right decision
The one with all the risks
Just like life
Full of risks.
Mine is a lonely road.
But I am ennobled to move forward in good hope
My mustard seed faith is enough
I leave them in the dust
All those who are working, vacationing, writing, preaching
All those things out of my reach.
I leave them in the dust
All those who knew someone who had a transplant
And died.
Because I am not moving toward death.
I am moving toward life
And light.
Unafraid, unbound, unleashed from this earth, rising with every step, a dance to lift the human soul.
What do I do through these dark hours? How do I endure them, the lostness, the fear, the spiritual suffering? How do I make my journey and avoid the dark hours that overwhelm me along the way?
Dark hours are a part of our living, a part of our journey. They cover us — even those who are most religious and devout — like an ominous black cloud. Dark hours bring us fear, dread, a lack of hope. Dark hours steal the joy of our faith.
The term “dark night (of the soul)” describes a spiritual crisis in the journey with God, like that described by St. John of the Cross in his poem, “The Dark Night.”
In her letters, St. Teresa of Calcutta described how she endured a dark night of the soul from 1948 almost until her death in 1997, with only brief interludes of relief.
St Thérèse of the Child Jesus wrote of her own experience of the dark night, as she found herselfdoubting the existence of eternity. She struggled and suffered through a prolonged period of spiritual darkness, declaring to her fellow nuns: “If you only knew what darkness I am plunged into..!”
Examples of the experiences of those we look to as spiritual patrons of the faith do not really enlighten our own faith journeys. We walk our own spiritual paths, always hoping for the best, always striving to experience the holy along the way. And we hope beyond hope that we will not have to endure the suffering of dark hours.
The truth is that dark hours are required on the journey. We cannot walk around our dark hours, moving them aside like the sticks and brush we can so easily move off of our path. Our only option is to keep walking, to stay the course and to embrace the journey just as it is.
As I look back to take stock of my own journey, I see the the dark hours as powerful reminders of struggle and spiritual crisis. As I examine the past, I can say without hesitation that the dark hours were times I do not want to experience again. I can feel the intense pain of them, even now, the formidable affect of them on my spirit. The thought of them brings on a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to quickly move on to the next life metaphor I might use in this post.
And yet . . . And yet, how clear it is from this vantage point that I endured my dark hours and emerged stronger, better, with faith intact and with a living hope to take with me on the rest of the journey. From the cloud of dark hours, I learned that I could believe again, hope again, move farther into my journey with joy — even unrestrained joy — because of God’s grace that gave me strength.
There is probably no writer that inspires me more than Bishop Steven Charleston. He has taught us how to live in his many writings over the years. In this piece, he shows us the way through our dark hours in these beautiful words:
Let us dance through these dark hours, while others crouch down, seeking shelter from a worried world, hiding in the shadows, afraid to hope for tomorrow, let us give them a sign they can see, a message made of music and motion, two dancers spinning light out of darkness, a waltz in an air raid shelter, unafraid, unbound, unleashed from this earth, rising with every step, a dance to lift the human soul. Let us dance so others can dance, dancers from every direction, standing up to join us, music filling the sky, a revolution of unrestrained joy, an invitation to believe again, to hope again, to be free again, dancing through these dark hours, as if dancing was all that we were born to do.
To be sure, I have felt the pressing urge to “crouch down” many times, “to seek shelter from a worried world, hiding in the shadows, afraid to hope for tomorrow.” But in the end, through dark hours I learned to dance.
Dance then, wherever you may be. I am the Lord of the Dance, said he . . .
It’s a good way to live.
It’s a good way to give witness to the world of our living faith and unrestrained joy!
God of the Sparrow 🌱 By Kathy Manis Findley 