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Surrounded by loveTuesday, February 20, 2018
From Psalm 23 Driving through Arkansas after Christmas last month, we found Stuggart on the map. Aunt Mary taught there in the Lutheran School for years after World War II. She prayed for me while she was still alive; sometimes I ask her to pray for me now, too. At first I wonder if that makes any sense, but then I follow my heart and just ask. Surely we are closer now than ever. I think of accidents not gone bad, escaped hazards, catastrophes avoided. In my mind these were moments of rescue. I don't see them, but angels and my family "spirits" see me. All those phantoms shape themselves around me and protect me. Now I really wonder if I'm making any sense. It's strange to talk about what you can't see as if it were really there. But scientists have practiced that art forever. And sciences of the material world and the spiritual world have more in common than we know, because material and spiritual reality are bonded into one. The most important parts of both are invisible to our naked eyes. Our family doctor argues sometimes about anecdotal vs evidence-based medicine. In my own life, though, my stories are evidence. At midnight in Pennsylvania, a tree smashed through the windshield into my lap, but no farther. Our four-year-old daughter Andi put the car in reverse, it quietly headed toward the busy street and stopped. Last week I tried to change lanes on an icy day, heard a honk and swerved back just in time. The car went crazy and we were headed for the ditch. But then ... suddenly we were fine. You will tell me stories about your lives, too. And I know we are not always protected. There are as many tales of terror and loss as of joy and rejoicing. I don't understand this any more than Monty Python did. There are things which we cannot see. But I lean more toward Psalm 23 than Psalm 88 (which ends, "The darkness is my closest friend"). And on this gray day of warm remembering I also recall the words of Father Martin about the Gospel prayers of our imagination: "I let God take me where God wants me to go." Lord, memories cloud my mind, but these are cumulus clouds mostly, and the sun shines all around them. Thank you for blue skies, and then for gray. For my grandparents and parents, for my brother and sister and wife, for our children. And now at last for our grandchildren. Once in heaven, I promise to pray for them. As for now, thank you for providing place so others can pray for me. Teach me through the eyes of my heart, Lord, to see what you want me to see. |
This rain-soaked dark-cloud day invites me inside myself, into memories and gratitude, into recollection. Books of old photographs and newspaper articles abound in our family because Mom loved history all her life. Projects for her first elementary school classes in 1941 included studying the Lindberghs, their triumphs and tragedies, and seventy-five years later we can still look at them.