Yes. Thank you. I love you.
This week I attended the memorial service of a beloved soul light. First my professor, later my friend and colleague, he was a Jesuit priest whose very life was a prayer of compassion and grace.
There is a Unitarian Universalist story about prayer that goes something like this:
Dear Whomever,
Please…
Thank you.
In many ways it captures the human elements of life – a craving for intimacy and ultimacy, uncertainty, need, gratitude. It is possible to ask the universe at large and to say thank you in general, though this is not always a satisfying prayer.
My Jesuit friend taught this Unitarian Universalist another way to pray. He said that there were really only three essential elements to any prayer and they could be prayed through almost any life situation or stages of faith. The three elements are:
Yes.
Thank you.
I love you.
Yes. Thank you. I love you.
Yes. Yes to the divine spark within me, yes to the calling to ministry, yes to showing up to my life and my work with all my human imperfection, yes to the joy and the sorrow, yes to this sometimes difficult and always beautiful world. Yes.
Thank you. Thank you for the gifts of breath and water and beloved soul lights. Thank you for radish sprouts and coffee and journals with blank pages. Thank you for songs and symbols and stories. Thank you for connection and communication and Carnival. Thank you for sight and insight and the darkness too… Thank you.
I love you. I love you, spirit of life and love, creator and created, that which was and is and ever shall be. I love you, source of hope and diversity, comfort and challenge, interdependent web of all existence. I love you.
Yes. Thank you. I love you.
It is a prayer I can pray – come hurricanes and high water, elections and power outages, while waiting for a holiday or for results from the lab. It is a prayer I pray each day.
My Jesuit friend used to say that he wasn’t a great theologian, but that he did know how to put deep spiritual understandings into ducky and horsy language. It was this gift, in fact, that made him a truly great theologian – one who will be deeply missed by all who encountered his gentle wisdom.
Yes. Thank you. I love you.
Savoring autumn days
It’s beautiful these days, cool and no humidity in Minnesota, but the days are also somewhat sad in my household right now. Dawn is breaking later every day, and sunset coming earlier, putting a dent in the time I have for gardening. Most of my high schooler’s friends are heading out of state to college. And our thirteen year old yellow lab, Penta, struggles to stand up now. Yesterday I bought a harness contraption that puts two handles on her back and on her hips so that we can lift her like a suitcase–help her get up, get into the car, get up the few steps she can now handle.
Life is change, and in general I am a person who loves change. But some changes, when what is now contrasts vividly with what was, just bring grief.
This morning, out in the garden, talking out loud to the plants as I often do, I heard myself say this to a pot of zinnias as I pulled them out of the planter they were in:
“Oh, zinnias, I remember when you were just seeds in the packet and I fell in love with your picture at the garden store! I had never planted only red zinnias but you were just so beautiful! And then when I put you under the grow lights, your first tiny leaves were adorable! And you have been so bright and tall and beautiful, blooming all summer here, right when I pull up my car…”
And then, as I saw how pathetically dry the soil was around their roots as I pulled them up, I continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t water you better. The other zinnias are still looking good because they’re over where I can use the sprinkler. I did not haul jugs of water out here often enough. I put you out of the way, baking in this metal tub, because you looked so beautiful here. I didn’t know you were this dry! You have looked amazingly good for a long time.”
And then I finished digging them up in silence, shaking the dry dirt off of their parched roots, feeling sad and grateful.
Somehow, telling the whole story, seed to compost pile, brings peace to me even as I feel the sadness. We’ve been doing the same thing with Penta’s demise, recalling to her what a fantastic puppy she was, showing each other photos of her, singing her the songs we used to make up about her when my teenager was young. There is tenderness as we help her to move, and there is a relinquishment in it too. I don’t know how long she will maintain a quality of life that seems fair to her. The day will dawn one day when, just like today I decided the zinnias had suffered long enough, and we’ll be saying goodbye to her, too.
As I wrote these words just now, I began to cry, and Penta heaved her old body up off her mat and left the room. An acutely sensitive dog, she’s never been able to bear it when I have emotions. I called her back, gave her a good pet and scratch, promised I wouldn’t cry anymore, and helped her back to her mat. There is still much to savor with her, I realize. It’s not time to cry about losing her when she’s not gone.
This little scene with Penta woke me up, as I seem to need to be awakened every day: It’s not winter yet! Go suck the marrow out of these gorgeous fall days and grieve when it is time to grieve! Pet the dog, pick some of the zinnias that are still blooming, and enjoy!
May we each enjoy what is ours to enjoy, savoring every moment of autumn even as we know it will be followed by winter’s chill.
A Moving Experience
My ministry in Philadelphia has led me to have two homes: a house in Central Pennsylvania with my husband and an apartment in Philadelphia near the church. This week, my husband came to Philadelphia to help me to move to another apartment. As with many things in my life, this moving experience has led me to reflect and to pay attention. It is a good change, but all change has consequences.
Neither apartment is large, but the new one is big enough to have a separate office space and to host small groups. I say this so that you will know that this move was not like changing houses. Still, there were boxes of books and papers, boxes of dishes and kitchen equipment, and the basic furniture. We are no longer young, so for the first time in our adult lives, we hired some men to help us move the furniture. They looked at the furniture and said, “Oh, this is easy it’s just furniture!” It would not have been easy for us. Moving reminded me of my need for help and my appreciation for that help, both volunteer and paid. Change often means that we need help. I am grateful for community. I am grateful for caring relationships.
Rick and I moved all the boxes and all my clothing. Did I mention that the new apartment is a second floor walk-up? There are actually four flights of stairs. Most of the time, this is nothing, and I prefer having stairs so that some exercise is built into my days. Did I mention that it was the hottest day of the year so far? The morning after we carried all these boxes, I wasn’t sure I could move my body at all that day. At first, walking across the room seemed out of the question! I could and did! Moving led me to pay attention to my body and to be gentle with myself about my physical limits. Change means that we do different things. I am grateful for what I am able to do.
How could it be that I had so much stuff in a one bedroom apartment in two years of being in Philadelphia? Do I really need all that stuff? The answer, of course, is no, I don’t really need all that stuff. Some of it I gave away before the move, and some of it, I am sorting and giving away after the move. Figuring out how to use things or where to put things in a new place helps me to see what I have. There is an inertia, a not seeing, that comes from having things in the same place. Moving overcomes that inertia. Moving reminds me of my desire to live simply. We have not changed houses for 18 years. I think now would be a good time to simplify. What is in o ur house simply because of inertia and not because we are using it or will use it? What is in my life simply because of inertia? Change allows us to see things in a new way. I am grateful to see new possibilities.
Another reminder in this move came from my cat, Annie. Annie was terrified by this move. Of course, she could not understand what was happening. When she arrived at the new apartment, she ran to a dark place and hid. She only emerged wide-eyed and jumpy when I opened a can of cat food. Annie saw where I put the food and took a bite. She ran to her hiding place again. She came out crying. I petted her and showed her the litter box. She hid again until we went to bed when she started crying, only stopping when she was held and comforted. Her reactions remind me that change can be distressing especially when we do not understand what is happening. By morning, Annie was fine. She stopped crying. She knew that her needs would still be met. Food, litter box and her people were all available. She found the windows for entertainment. She slept comfortably. Annie reminded me that we all need comfort. We may need time to become comfortable with change. We can accept change more easily when we understand what is happening. I am grateful for the comfort of caring relationships. I am grateful for understanding. I am grateful for awareness.
May we all be aware of gratitude.
