Author: alwaysbridging

This December it’s my 88-year-old mother who’s expecting. While she’s definitely in labor and the birth of her book is imminent, we don’t know exactly when the final editing will be compete. Since the due date was Christmas Day, this creation will be late. She has accepted that. Still the nearness of letting this brand new one go out into the world is very present, finally certain and exquisitely exciting. The time of waiting and hoping and holding and caring is almost complete. It does help to have the proofs.

I know what it’s like to be pregnant in December since that’s when my first child, Clarke, came. I have also published a book so I can relate – the effort, the struggle, the inevitable doubt is all there, along with the rich possibilities creativity entails. For me, it took about nine months to craft my story into a product suitable for public consumption so the analogy to pregnancy was clear. Daring to let my vulnerable wee one go out into the world felt like birth in a way.

Yesterday – bless me! – I was the midwife alongside Mom. We sat side-by-side for several hours on her chocolate-brown loveseat. Each of us lovingly fondled a draft copy of Haiku Memories in one hand and a stern red pen in the other. Fortunately, her co-creator (Kristin Carroccino, a talented developmental editor) had constructed a bound version of my mother’s poetry and photos. It was almost ready to publish. We could afford to marvel and coo over it because few corrections were needed.  Lucky for me, the author herself – my own mother! – was right there in the flesh beside me accenting certain memories as they flowed by. I found myself reflecting on how much I actually like this person.

It is not always this way for me. I have often thought that by now, six months after Mom’s move to the nearby retirement home, she’d be more settled and capable again. After all she ran a university’s nursing department once upon a time, for God’s sake. I also thought, frankly, that I’d be more patient and loving having added a half year to my understanding of things. After all I call myself a Christian, for God’s sake.

Instead in the rush of my job and home life (including those afore-mentioned wild kitties), I often find myself flat-out irritated when Mom calls to say, “The computer’s broken and I can’t get my email” or “I forgot the password to my phone” or – my favorite – “The laptop says I have a virus and need to pay them $200 to save my memory” (as if $200 could actually do that). Sometimes the difficulty is a financial puzzle. Or her problem cuts closer to the bone like when her shoulder harbored excruciating pain and the doctor found nothing wrong.

My pervasive annoyance is not the worst part of living near Mom for me. Instead I am often disappointed in myself. How could I be so heartless and pissed about the disruption to my precious plans? What am I thinking?! She’s my mother, for God’s sake!

Then, on a recent snow day, I was unexpectedly home from work. My calendar opened and any prior obligations fell away. Rob, my intrepid all-weather driver, had an early appointment near Mom’s and dropped me off for the morning. First, we located Mom’s holiday CDs and chose music. Then we decorated her little Christmas tree. We stopped for a cup of tea. When Rob returned, he played the keyboard for us while we chatted. She invited us to stay for lunch. And the best part for me was that in the midst of it all, I accidentally paused and noticed, “Hey, this is fun. I am really enjoying this. I am loving her, and Rob, and me too.”

Later I found myself noticing her giggle during the family gift exchange, her pleasure while hosting my friend and me in her community’s dining room, her delight when she called to happily announce the books had arrived. Yes, of course I could clear my own agenda and come see them. I couldn’t wait to pour over those priceless words and photos that are her very life. I was beyond joyful to help polish them, adding any sheen I could.

But mostly we could sit in the comfortable womb of her sofa together, captivated for the afternoon. We were practically squealing with glee as we studied this beautiful synthesis of her retirement years. The collection is at once a tribute to my late father – a love story really – as well as a tale of rebirth and legacy after the great darkness that his death and the aftermath were for her.

Haiku Memories tells the story of her post-work years in one jewel after another. I am grateful to wait and hope with her for its published arrival. Yes, I know my aggravation, when it comes, is my way of avoiding the deep sadness of eventually letting her go. Before that though, on this Christmas Eve, I am grateful to get such a wonderful up-close-and-personal picture of her LIFE.

Recently in the very center of my living and moving life

(as opposed to the contemplative silence and journalling and singing and watching the show that I have conjured up and committed to every morning – the spiritual practice time during which you might expect these sorts of stories to unfold, not then.)

In the midst of going about the other regular, practical tasks, like meals alongside some of my favorite people, I ran smack into Glory.

It has decidedly not been of my doing.

But recently, twice, I have been brought practically to my knees with women alongside into utter sacredness.

I have witnessed, noticed, seen, been enveloped by Glory.

Why would I even try to record these because, and this bears repeating, I don’t write because I think I can do anything to make things happen? I can not.

Instead these examples were gifts to me, held out with no required response and I didn’t miss them.

One Example

First, “The Bird Assist.”

I suppose I had observed my own bird-whispering husband enough to know it was possible.

When we girls found a tiny black-capped chickadee fluttering against the ceiling corner at the beach house,

I could be crystal-clear that I wanted to help him fly outside again.

At first when we found him inside, he crashed into the window and I wondered momentarily,

“Will we next be grieving together over his dead slight body?”

Instead, in full wonder, I watched him step onto my extended index finger.

We had just come from yoga so I could give my writing camp friends clear brief directions.

They helped, blocking dead ends.

After I cleared the kitchen island on route to the open door with the wee one still perched, I sensed he was home free.

Did you hear me start whispering then, little fellow?

“Thank you for sheltering me through the long majestic star-studded night complete with buck braying and trampling under the outside deck that cradled me.”

I poured out my gratitude in tiny nearly-silent words, gladly rejoicing that he would live and soon spring free.

Did I actually step down and walk out onto the deck while he remained on my finger?

I must have because I found myself outside when he lifted off.

Next I spontaneously raised my arms across my chest as he flew away.

I held myself tightly, exploding in relief, and cried quietly.

Earlier my bigness would have surely scared him.

Now though I could exclaim, at least here in my heart, “I have seen Glory. She lives.”

A Second Example

I think the masters would call this Presence.

Not when I try to do something or another but when I notice, wide-eyed and act in sync.

My girl Carolina had agreed to go to St. Michael’s and All Angels our first morning together in Portland.

We had arrived with a very few seconds to spare.

Since we had been to this church together once before we could beeline for the bathroom then giggle as we rushed to a pew steps ahead of the procession.

We had already agreed to sit in the back and leave early.

Moments of quiet glee – Glory if you will – began when my friend, the rector named Christopher, appeared through an open door in front.

While she wore her collar denoting that she was a priest in this place, she also wore a simple gray not black shirt cloth, rather than long white vestments like the others.

She walked over to us.

Standing there with her pearly white teeth and giant smile, her gorgeous wavy hair and big open heart, I watched while she introduced herself to my adult child by name.

“Carolina, I was hoping you’d be here. I’m Chris. I saw your Mom’s post saying she’d be in Portland and I thought you might come. I am leaving now to take my son Jack to grandparent camp and then I’ll be ending my sabbatical at Machu Picchu. I wanted to meet you first. I’m so glad you are here.”

I ask you, “Who comes into their work place during sabbatical?!!”…..but I digress.

I simply watched my lovely daughter meet her priest.

Chris moved away from us, said adios to her congregation and disappeared.

I had stilled, in the moment, and watched.

Next I blubbered through the well-known hymn with Carolina’s arm tight around me.

Oh that she could witness my prayer of such utter gratitude after briefly touching Glory.

An Appeal

Please, please give me more of these moments.

I can not create them, I know.

Still, I can certainly ask, beg for more.

*More about this word, Glory:

Synonyms for noun Glory as per thesaurus:  magnificence, beauty, splendor, resplendence, grandeur, illustriousness, immortality, majesty, greatness, opulence, elegance, eminence

Synonyms for verb Glory as “to take great pleasure in”:  revel in, rejoice in, delight in, relish, savor, bask in, get a kick out of, get a thrill out of, exult in

On Veteran’s Day we walked several miles to a ledge where we could see Las Vegas spread out in the distance over the desert floor. As we started hiking I was irritated about the multitude of others journeying along with us. I could always see someone ahead or behind me scrambling over or around the boulders on the way to Calico Tanks. Simply put, I was caught in the plodding line of humanity.

The entrance fee to Red Rock National Conservation Area had been waived on this historic day and many had turned out under the exquisitely celestial-blue sky. With paper poppy pinned to Penny’s pocket in memory of my Papa, I walked and began to sink into the happy, almost giddy mob around me. At least I was away from the pavement and opulence of Sin City where I could always see Trump Hotel jutting up the strip from our condo.

At some point on the trail I changed my mind about my company of fellows and began greeting them along the way and listening. I even found myself forgiving the nearby giggling teenagers who blasted rap music into the wilderness. Here around me was a joyous crowd skewed to the younger set as there were few older than Rob and me.  An even number of men and women plus some children jostled along. Every skin shade was represented with less than half being what we would call white, more having darker hair and skin than me. I heard many different English accents around me, some Spanish and a sprinkling of other languages. One couple we met was overweight and struggling and sported grins with missing teeth.

Gradually I recognized that likely, about half of us on the trail voted for Hillary, the other half of us for Trump – excluding those citizens of other countries, the youngsters and ex-prisoners, that is. And yet, in all the conversations I overheard not one person spoke of the election even though this week’s top news story still pounded in my own head.

No, this cheerful swath of Americans was diverse and unbothered, glad to be bumbling along together, offering a hand to the one behind. We exchanged phones – or our old camera – across family lines for photos. There wasn’t an unhappy person in the bunch. Instead we all seemed thrilled to be free from work for the day enjoying this fascinating track of land set aside for just this reason – a spot on earth for a mix of us to enjoy nature’s bounty together forever. Here I could be outdoors and active, a place where my ruminating mind and seared heart could begin to heal.

We will continue to experiment with what we call democracy, hopefully continuing to preserve land and welcome immigrants. Regardless, we will rise to whatever the next day brings – sometimes, like today, together and light-hearted.

Honestly we tried to stifle the guffaws when our daughter called last night and asked us to keep her cats inside for the next few days.

“After all, you know what people do to black cats on Halloween,” she admonished.

As if we have that much influence on those sneaky little ones.

Background: A significant addition to our household of late has been Carolina’s two black kitties. We’re fostering them while she’s in transition. Believe me, it’s been lively. For the most part we’ve enjoyed these affectionate little buggers.

The siblings came to us as indoor cats during the summertime. Since we live without screens and with the doors open in the heat, they quickly adjusted to the wide open outdoors. But now, as fall’s blown in they’ve learned to use the kitty door. We try to keep them in at night (Carolina’s request) and like to think we have some say in the matter. Truth is though, they can dart.

We cornered the wrong black cat once or twice early on and ended up corralling three kitties in the house before the hissing ensued and we realized our mistake. Just let it be said, this business of indoors or outdoors is not as straightforward as it sounds. And it’s tricky substituting for someone else. We do want them to be safe. And we’ll follow Carolina’s lead, within reason. But, jeez!

We’re thinking they’re covered anyway and will survive this spookiest of nights. After all, earlier in the month I had them blessed at the cathedral. Sort of. I had the good sense to take a stuffed kitten to church as a surrogate. Definitely better to have an inert stand-in instead of our wild grandkits in the flesh.

I also think the ghost of Bucky, our favorite black feline will keep a special lookout for Porky and Kitty amongst the trick-or-treaters. Inside or outside, they’ll get extra protection from this watchful spirit that ruled the neighborhood for 18-plus years. After all, while there are lots of black cats around here these days, only our two youngsters bed down where Bucky once did.

While preparing for our summer story-telling gathering at the Butler’s home, I asked Father Alfredo if he’d translate the word “bridging.” In response, he offered hesitantly, “tender y ser el puente?” Tend or make or perhaps roll-out (as in roll-out the red carpet in honorable hospitality) and be the bridge. This is what we do at Our Lady of Guadalupe Episcopal.

Every Sunday afternoon, reliably, we come together for la misa bilingüe and then we share Happy Hour. We hold hands, sing, kneel, pray, listen and celebrate. Gradually we are learning about each other as Love radiates. We are sharing our deeper stories and beginning to invite each other into our homes.

More than a decade ago I set out to learn Spanish in middle age. Rather than traditional school study, I eventually found myself traveling back and forth to Nicaragua to stay with families in their homes and experience directly how most of the world lives. Sure it was tempting to keep traveling, enjoying and marveling in the liminality of being away from home. But I chose intentionally to return and use my developing Spanish here. Guadalupe has given me the context to continue learning.

Soon the congregation will assemble in my home for Eucharist. We are a new church and are experimenting with what works in our new age. Simultaneously we are returning to old ways like when Jesus met with others in houses. Sometimes my women friends have gathered in my home for a contemplative circle of silence followed by soup supper. Now, we’ve decided to try a more deliberate, Christ-named-and-centered bilingual service with Father Alfredo presiding. We’ll see what happens.

Opening our home feels like opening my heart even wider. Imagining this ancient tradition in both languages offered by my church queridos and swirling amongst my things and family members is Sheer Grace. It sounds delicious. Not to mention breaking bread together in the happy hours that follow.

You are invited to the home of Penny and Rob Reid

House Eucharist

on Thursday, October 13^th at 5:30  PM

Father Alfredo Feregrino presiding.

Potluck supper to follow.

For address, contact

Alfredo or Penny

Te invitamos a la casa de Penny y Rob Reid para nuestra

Primera Eucaristia en un hogar

El jueves, 13 de octubre a las 5:30 PM

con el Padre Alfredo Feregrino como celebrante.

Después tendremos una cena – Traiga cualquier platillo para compartir.

Para la dirección, póngase en contacto con

Alfredo or Penny