Deep Pain in Minnesota

I live in St Paul, Minnesota. Our home is just across the river from Minneapolis. The murder of George Floyd occurred not far from where we live, and the destructive, painful responses are in our loop of life. 

One of the Targets looted was the Target where I shop.

I heard sirens all through the night, and wondered what I would see, what I would learn when I woke in the morning.

And now I wonder how do we move forward? How do we heal? How do we change? How do we become the people we were created to be and how do we create a society, a culture that reflects who we were created to be? 

I do not have words, but I have a need to find the words that will drive my actions. 

Here's a beginning--from Thomas Merton.

            You do not need to know precisely what is 
             happening or exactly where it is all going.
             What you need is to recognize the possibilities
             and challenges offered by the present moment,
             and to embrace them with courage, faith, and
             hope.

George Floyd was not allowed to breathe. It is our job now to breathe a new breath of life. 

An Invitation
Please pray for us. 

An Antidote to Doing Too Much

I entered the day with energy and eagerness. And a long list of tasks I intended to accomplish.

I ended the day spent and undone.

In-between those two points I had
             * Done the laundry
             * Changed our bed
             * Baked banana bread
             * Ironed for almost two hours
             * Finished writing my blog post for the next day
             * Gone for a walk
             * Whittled 100 emails down to around 30
             * Filled out some forms for my Dad's estate
             * Fixed dinner. 

AND I had a ZOOM meeting with two of my writing friends. 

As I moved through the day, I wasn't aware of trying to do too much. I didn't realize I was unraveling as I moved doggedly from one task to another. While cleaning strawberries for our evening meal, however, I felt itchy and unsettled. All I could see were crumbs on the kitchen floor and windows that needed to be washed. At the same time I thought about all the writing I wasn't doing and all the writing I want to do and all the other projects and ideas left hanging undone. My mind was whirling. 

Clearly, it was time to retreat. 

Remember, Nancy, I told myself, your father died not quite three weeks ago and for several weeks before that he was your whole focus.

Remember, Nancy, this is a challenging time for everyone. We are all trying to figure out how to best live and how to be our best selves during this pandemic.

Remember, Nancy, you are 72, not 52 or even 62. You are healthy and strong, but...

Remember, Nancy, no one is demanding anything from you. No one is threatening to fire you, if you don't finish your daily list. The list is yours alone. 

Instead, Nancy, this is a time to rest in the spiritual practices that sustain and ground you. This is a time to pay attention not only to your spirit, but your mind and body, too. 

The next morning, after morning meditation time, I created my list for the day, just like I always do, but this time I crossed off a couple items. They can wait, I told myself, and instead, I wrote down, "Spend the afternoon in Paris." 

And that's what I did. To be truthful, I brought my laptop with me and wrote some emails, but only ones to friends--my half of a good chat. Mainly, however, I read. I read for pure pleasure, and coincidentally, or not, the novel is called The Year of Pleasures by Elizabeth Berg. Of course, it was just what I needed to read, for the main character is grieving. Her husband has died and the book is about her steps forward. The author reflects in the narration that as we grieve we may find ourselves, "holding things at bay, resisting a great force bearing down. Every now and then it broke through."

I feel the loss of my father deeply, even though we had time to prepare and even though at 96, he was ready and clearly, it was time. I don't feel a need to heal, for I don't feel wounded or broken, but I do need time to adjust. Just as we all need time to adjust to the changes this pandemic has wrought in our lives and will continue to cause. 

One of the books from my personal library that I am re-reading is Good Grief, Healing Through the Shadow of Loss by Deborah Morris Coryell. I first read this profound book after my mother died in 2013. It was helpful then, but even more so now. More than likely, I will quote from this book in future posts, but today it is this sentence that really resonates with me,

        We are weaving this loss into the tapestry of our lives...
                                                       p. 101

The loss of my father is obvious, but I am aware of other losses attached to this time, and I am aware of losses many of you are experiencing, so here is what I say to us all. 

Weaving takes time and attention and patience. This is a time to stay alert, but in a gentle way.

This is a time to shelter in your own Paris. 

An Invitation
What is your antidote to doing too much or to feeling overwhelmed? I would love to know. 

NOTE: I wrote this post before learning about the shocking killing of George Floyd in our community. I intend to offer my reflections about this tragic action soon. My heart aches for Floyd's family. 

At Home Pleasures: Tuesday’s Reflection

I have always loved staying home. In fact, for me the best part of leaving home is returning home. 

Both my husband and I are hometenders. Although Bruce's playground is mainly the outside and mine the inside, we encourage and find delight in each other's efforts. We care about our spaces and recognize how those spaces support all aspects of our lives.

Loving our home and loving our time at home is not new for us, but has become even more important during this pandemic time. 

Are there things beyond our boundaries I would enjoy doing right now? Of course, but the pleasures, simple pleasures, at home are abundant. Just for starters:
           * The new bright and happy umbrella for the "Paris" garden. Now I can sit out there and read and write, even when the sun is blinding. 
           *  Our rhubarb patch behind the garage. I made the first batch of sauce and a rhubarb cake this week. My mother always said, "Do not ever buy rhubarb," meaning you should always be able to find someone who wants to give it away. 
         *  The herbs Bruce planted in pots on the patio. I complained last year that I didn't have enough basil to make more than one batch of pesto. That will not be the case this year!
           *  The red and white geraniums in the window boxes and big pots at the foot of the front steps. Could anything look any happier?
           *   A clean laundry/storage room. That was a task on my weekend list. See what I mean about simple pleasures?!
           *   An eclectic collection of coffee table books. I've decided this is a good time to enjoy the text, as well as the art work or the photographs in books we have collected over the years. I started with Pilgrimages by the renowned photographer, Annie Liebovitz and then a book I bought after our only trip to France almost ten years ago, Monet's Table, The Cooking Journals of Claude Monet by Claire Joyes. One of my favorite days during that two week trip was to Giverney, and I loved Monet's house, almost as much as the garden. This book brought it all back to me. 
           * Desk time. I've opened the windows and the skylight in the garret and over the gentle bubbling of my small fountain, I can hear the kids next door playing tag and the occasional barking of one of the dogs on our block. And the birds! Gradually, I am returning to my writing life. 

Sometimes I receive a gift from someone else's house to mine. Our granddaughter stopped by the other day with cookies she had made, and we stood outside and talked. Plus, daily the letter carrier has delivered cards and notes from so many, expressing sympathy for the death of my father. And oh, how I loved the phone call from our son's best friend who wanted to know how we are doing. 

Perhaps it seems trite to talk of pleasures right now. Do I sound like a Pollyanna? I know these days are challenging, and for some these days are scary and rent with loss and fear. I discount none of that. Opening the Sunday New York Times, its front page covered with the names of 1000 people who have died of COVID-19, was daunting, devastating. How grateful I am that soon after bringing the paper into the house, we could sit in the snug and participate in our weekly online worship service and be reminded that we each are the body of Christ.

Our homes are places of worship, too, whether we are used to praying in a church, a synagogue or a mosque.

And the pleasures, big and small, add up to a house filled with love.

I wish the same for you. 

An Invitation
What in your home brings you pleasure right now? I would love to know. 

Celebrating Graduates: Thursday's Reflection

On many front yards of our neighborhood signs are posted to honor 2020 graduates, including this one for my alma mater, St Olaf. I must admit my heart aches when I see these, for I know this is not the way families and graduates intended to celebrate. 

In the shadow of these signs is another sign, an invisible sign that says, "Now what?" 

When I graduated from high school, I knew what was next. In the fall I would move into my dorm on the St Olaf campus, and my life would begin, my real life. I had moved many times during my childhood, including spring of my junior year of high school. I was eager for four years in the same place.

When I graduated from college, I knew that in the fall I would move into an apartment and begin teaching junior high English in Rochester, MN. I had done my student teaching there and had been offered a job, one I was thrilled to accept. And the next stage of my life would begin. 

Did I know then how fortunate I was? I like to think I did, but probably not. 

These new graduates, whether middle school, high school, college or graduate school, face uncertainty and confusion. The plans made may exist only on paper. Now what?





My inclination is to reassure them. My father often said, "This too shall pass," and, of course, he was right, but what about right now? Julian of Norwich's refrain, "All will be well," just doesn't seem enough when decisions need to be made in what seems like a swirling void. 

All I can really do is be steadfast in my love. Hold our young people in love. Be a presence of God's love in their lives. Pray for them, listen to them when they need an ear and a heart, and breathe blessings in their direction. 

Marianne Williamson says it so well in her "Prayer for Our Children" found in her book, Illuminata, A Return to Prayer. 

           Dear God,
           There are not words for the depth of love for this child.
           I pray for her care and her protection.
           I surrender her into Your hands.
           Please, dear God, send Your angels to bless and surround her 
                 always.
           May she be protected from the darkness of our times.
           May her heart grow strong,
           To love You and serve You. ...

            May she learn from me kindness.
            May she learn from me strength.
            May she learn from me the lessons of power:
            That she has it and
            Must surrender it to You, to be used for Your purposes
                  throughout her life.
            For thus shall You be gladdened,
            And thus shall she be free,
            To live most fully and love most deeply.
            That is my wish.
            That is my prayer for her and for me forever.
            Amen.



(And let's not forget to celebrate and pray for the teachers, too.)











An Invitation
Is there someone in your life who needs to be celebrated? I would love to know. 

A Field Trip to Frontenac State Park: Tuesday's Reflection

How good it felt to follow a different path.

For most days during the previous two months I drove the same route, a lightly trafficked roadway along Minnehaha Creek, taking me from our home to Dad's apartment. Granted, it was a lovely drive, leading from the end of winter bareness to spring's frilly green, fuchsia, and purple. Some days I detoured down a different side street imagining living in this house or that one, but mainly I was eager to arrive at my destination. 

I no longer make that drive. At least not daily.

It was time for a new view.

A week after my Father died, my husband and I decided we needed a field trip. We packed a picnic lunch and grabbed our masks, our books and some cushions and drove along the Mississippi River to Frontenac State Park. Along the way, we saw eagles in a nest and also soaring above, lifting our spirits. We spotted the white dots of trillium in a wooded area and of course, green, green, green everywhere. Green textured like lace, and green becoming more sure of itself. Flowering trees were showing off as well, just as they have always done in their toddler time, the beginnings of this new season. 

Following posted detour signs we oohed at an old four square brick farmhouse, wondering who had once lived there and who lives there now. The road took us through a valley previously unknown to us, giving us glimpses of everyday life--wash hanging to dry, calves and lambs nestling by their mothers, children playing catch, and everywhere green greening. 

We were hungry by the time we arrived and easily found a picnic table where we could eat and read at a safe distance from other visitors and where we could see the water. The park overlooks Lake Pepin, which is a natural widening of the Mississippi and across the lake is Wisconsin. On top of the bluff there is a natural limestone arch called In-Yan-Teopa, a Dakota name meaning "Rock With Opening."




That's what we were looking for--an opening into the hard places. An opening through our sadness. An opening through the forced isolation caused by the pandemic. An opening into a new way of living, truly living and not just going through the motions. An opening into this next stage of life. 

The sun warmed us. The birds serenaded us. The ground supported us. The trees reminded us of our own creative natures. The water view broadened our limited perspectives. 

And God was everywhere. A rock with opening.

An Invitation
Where do you go now (safely, of course) when you need a lift? An opening? I would love to know. 

The Welcoming Prayer: Thursday's Reflection

When my mother was alive, one of her habits was to go upstairs to the master bedroom around 4:00 everyday and turn on the lamp on their dresser. If I happened to be there, staying with them for a few days, she turned on the lamp in my bedroom, too. 

The glow of lamplight welcomed us when we went up for bed late in the evening. 

I borrowed Mom's habit and whenever you happen to visit, the dresser lamp will be beaming, as a sign of comfort and welcome.

How important that welcome, that symbol of solace and ease, has been these last weeks when I returned each day from vigil time with my father. 

The lit lamp reminds me of a wonderful prayer by Father Thomas Keating that I have turned to frequently the last couple months, "The Welcoming Prayer."

           Welcome, welcome, welcome.
          I welcome everything that comes to me today.
          Because I know it's for my healing.
          I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions,   
          persons, situation, and conditions.
          I let go of my desire for power and control.
          I let go of my desire for affection, esteem,
          approval and pleasure.
          I let go of my desire for survival and security.
          I let go of my desire to change any situation,
          condition, person, or myself.
          I open to the love and presence of God and
          God's action within. Amen.

Different lines in this prayer resonated at different times. Sometimes I needed to shed the need for control, and other times I needed to honor everything I was feeling. This prayer reminded me that caring for my father had nothing to do with eliciting praise or approval of others, but rather, about paying attention to the movement of God. I needed the constant reminder to open to the love and presence of God. 

I may no longer have the daily routine and purpose of caring for my father, but I suspect the sentiments of this prayer will be even more relevant. Now I will begin to live, as most of you are living, more fully in this pandemic time. I will need to let go of much of what has been normal in my life and welcome a new way of being. I will need to discover who I am to be in this time; what God has in store for me; and what it means to open to the love and presence of God no matter what.

Welcome, welcome, welcome.

An Invitation
What are you welcoming right now? I would love to know. 

The End of Vigil Time: Tuesday's Post

Our vigil has ended. 

My beloved father died on Thursday, May 7.

Quietly. Peacefully.

He didn't die after a long illness or after a courageous battle with cancer or due to complications of COVID-19. He died of old age.
His 96 year old body finally allowed him to let go. During these past seven weeks of our caring for him 24/7, he died "one grain of sand," as my sister said, or as my husband said, "one half pound at a time."

He died prepared. He died without fear. He died a faithful man. He died knowing he was fully and deeply loved. 

Our grief is only matched by our relief.

A few days before he died, I thought about how when my mother was close to death, our family gathered around her bed for a prayer service led by my parents' pastor and dear friend. Just as we were beginning, the phone rang, and it was my husband and son saying they were on their way from Cleveland. They were with us, too, as we expressed our love.  

The first great grandchild in the family, Maren, was only a few months old at the time, and she added her babbles to our tears and words of love. Mom, who had seemed unresponsive, reached out to Maren, and our daughter climbed into bed with Mom and placed Maren next to her. 

Mom said, "I am so blessed." Her last words. 

Oh, how I wished it had been possible to gather in that way for our father, grandfather, great-grandfather, dear friend. 

Instead, one of Dad's last mornings I asked him to close his eyes and to imagine us all standing around him. Then I named each one of us, slowly, allowing him to feel the presence of each one of us. 

Each name was like the tolling of a bell.

Nancy
Bruce
Kate
Mike
Maren 
Peter
Geof
Cricket
Scott
Teresa
Andrew
Emily
Celie
Christian
Felix
Harriet
Amy 
Ted
Phillip
Marissa
Alli
Pastor David
Pastor Paul

Our family has grown in the seventeen years since my mother died, and it took quite sometime to go through the list, but I could tell Dad saw and felt each one of us in his heart. 

At the end I read a prayer his pastor had sent me, a prayer I read to Dad several times in the last days.

     "God of all creation, loving Savior of the cross, be with Dick and family today, as they navigate the last stages of this life.
     He is your dear and precious child, and alongside him, I call out to you on his behalf, knowing that you are already tending him, and that your promises are sure. 
     Give him deep peace in his heart and assurance that all will be well through your Son, our Savior Jesus Christ."

Once again Dad expressed how much he loved all of us and how loved he felt. 

Who could ask for more than that.

An Invitation
Who needs to know you love them? Tell them. 

Mask Maker: Thursday's Reflection

Feeling a bit uninspired, I turned to a favorite book about creativity, Big Magic, Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert. One of my favorite lines in this book is "I firmly believe that we all need to find something to do in our lives that keeps us from eating the couch." (p. 172) 

During this challenging time, I suspect many of us are "eating the couch." We are frustrated by what needs our attention now or takes our energy. We are distracted or fearful or sad or angry. This is not what we envisioned for ourselves. 

I thought I would be close to finishing the draft of the last part of my memoir by now, but I have not written a word since the beginning of March. Of course, I understand that the bulk of my daily energy has been and still is directed towards my father as he continues his journey towards death, but I also wonder how much I would be affected by the swirl of the adjustments and emotional chaos caused by the pandemic. Would I be "eating the couch" instead of writing? 

It is time to meet Maria. 

Maria, who is 12 or so, I think, lives in our neighborhood. Her life has been turned upside down, just like the rest of us. I don't know what she would be doing if she wasn't sheltering in place. Perhaps she would be going to baseball or play practices, singing in the church choir, planning sleepovers with her friends, maybe babysitting in order to earn some money for summer camp. What she isn't doing is "eating the couch."

Instead, she is making masks. Wearing a mask, she sits behind a sewing machine on her deck and makes and sells masks. $5.00 each and $1.00 from the sale of each mask goes to the Minnesota Food Share program.

How could I resist? I bought two and then asked her how long she had been sewing. She scrunched her eyes, as if in deep thought and then after a pause, said,  "Last week." Of course, I would love to know more details, like whose idea was this or how many have you sold, but instead I just thanked her for her contribution. 

I continued on my walk, walking a bit longer, inspired by Maria's alternative to "eating the couch," and when I returned home I opened my journal to jot down a few thoughts about what I don't want to forget about this time. 

I don't want to forget Maria. 

                If you can't do what you long to do, go do
        something else.
                Go walk the dogs go pick up every bit of trash
        on the street outside your home, go walk the dog
        again, go bake a peach cobbler, go paint some
        pebbles with brightly colored nail polish and put
        them in a pile. You might think it's procrastination,
        but --with the right intention--it isn't; it's motion. And
        any motion whatsoever beats inertia, because inspiration
        will always be drawn to motion. Big Magic, p. 254

Invitation
What are you doing, instead of "eating your couch"? I would love to know. 

Authentic Kindness: Tuesday's Reflection

"I need to cancel the current and all future prescriptions for my father."

I stood at the pharmacy counter in our local Target Express. I was wearing my mask, of course, as was the pharmacist on duty. We could see only each other's eyes. 

"I can do that for you," he said, and then asked for my father's birthdate. "Has he transferred his account someplace else?"

"No," I said. "No, he hasn't."

What followed was silence. 

I said nothing more. I offered no explantation.

His eyes flickered. I could feel him wondering if he should ask me for more information. More than likely corporate Target would want to know why I would no longer be getting my father's prescriptions from Target. Was I transferring them to CVS or Walgreens? Was I unhappy with Target's service?

Instead, after a brief pause, he looked directly into my eyes and said, "I will handle that."

I am sure he assumed my father had died. He hasn't yet, but how grateful I was that I didn't have to give any explanation about how he is dying, but no longer taking any of the few drugs that have been prescribed. 

This felt like an act of authentic kindness to me. This young man made a decision to be present to me. I don't think he was avoiding a difficult conversation, but instead, I felt seen by him. How grateful I was. 

I remember reading a question someplace--sorry I don't know where--"How would God like to mother me today?" I felt mothered in that moment. That young man was the presence of God for me in our brief encounter. 

Another story.

Everyday I check in at the front desk of the independent living facility where my father lives. I come about the same time each morning. After filling out the screening information sheet, the receptionist, whose title is more fancy than that, "the concierge," takes my temperature. And in her perky fashion, she says, "Have a nice day."

I want to say to her. "Sure. I'll do my best, even though my father is dying." But, instead, I say, "Thanks. You, too."

And then when I leave many hours later, if she is still there, she says, "Have a nice evening." "Thanks. You, too."

I am sure she has been trained to be upbeat. I don't think she is unfeeling or uncaring, but I am surprised that she has never asked anything about why I am there or who my loved one is or how he is doing or how I am doing. Not asking may be the way she is able to maintain her own balance during this stressful time, and I realize she risks her own health by being there.  

However, our interactions do not feel authentic to me. We have missed an opportunity for connection, even with the barrier of our masks. I don't feel touched by kindness as I make my way through the long corridor to my Dad's apartment. Should I attempt to close the gap between us? After all, I know nothing about her life. 

That feels like more than I am capable of doing right now, but I am aware of how meaningful the look of kindness offered by the young pharmacist meant to me. 

Perhaps I can for one brief moment be the presence of God for her. Maybe she needs to be mothered, too. 

                  



                  

                  In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, 
                  we can hear the whisper of the heart giving
                  strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope
                  to despair.   Howard Thurman

An Invitation

When have you received the gift of authentic kindness? When have you offered authentic kindness? I would love to know.