Blog

Day 1

It takes several traveling legs to get to the island of Iona in Scotland. I started the trek with others from my church today.

My morning question for this pilgrimage is,“Why am I here?” My evening question is,

“What were the gifts?”

In the 11th hour of packing, it occurred to me that I could take along the tiniest stone hearts from the collection I used before I retired, when I counseled kids and their parents. I imagine I will leave a few on the beach as I pray—for the friend who’s waiting for biopsy results, and another one who is suffering complications after surgery. For Rob’s dear brother. For my elderly mother.

Can I offer part of my heart for you too?

My Roe v Wade story is complicated and private. They all are. Suffice it to say: Me Too.

Aching feels crystalline. Yes, the shape in and of itself is vulnerable. It can break. We know that. Likewise, light shines through a crystal. It bounces. It warms and radiates.

Her story of the woman going into her tent that evening in downtown Portland, wagging her bum, with three men watching and licking their chops, has stayed with me. Every time it surfaces, I literally shake my head and try to dis-remember. It hurts that much.

And the institutional overlay: Recently someone asked if I was going to watch the hearings and I responded, “Absolutely not!” I know better. These days, I am too fragile for live-action and in-your-face. And now, my God!, Roe vs Wade overturned. Under the rage is sheer heartbreak.

I hope there is a way to heal this deep ache. I want to pace myself, honor what I know about warmth and radiance. I can wait here on the porch beside the garden watching and absorbing the light. I can share stories. What are yours?

On Sunday we blessed the apiary on the roof of St. Mark’s Cathedral in Seattle. Rob is the head beekeeper. He knows the value of holy honey.

More than 30 years ago with our first child, we found a community to support us. With our FOO’s far away in Virginia and Michigan, we didn’t want to do this very important work of parenting alone. We found a giant organ and several different groups that gathered in several different ways on Sundays and throughout the week in a literally-leaking-at-the-time large concrete building overlooking the houseboat where we lived. For us, it was fortuitous that we fell into an ancient story we had already heard. What was and is more important in that regard is that the collective body allowed Rob, and me, to develop our personal understandings of This Great Metaphor.

Such that, and I am continually amazed by this…

Rob can lean into the first Bible—The Book of Nature—the one that has taught and held all of us since time began. And I can help mentor a band of pilgrims in a seminary course where some of the academic words that have come to be associated with This Exquisiteness are studied.

Over time what is most delightful and surprising to me is we can be still and worship together, sometimes in the same place, and often alone in Creation.

We have been listening to “Miracle and Wonder,” an interview with Paul Simon. When asked what he will do now that he has created “Seven Psalms” for his father, Paul replies he will wait and see. The guidance will come.

I agree. Creation itself is plenty. Reading scripture day and night, then posting 100 words or less with a photo illustration each day of Lent, has been curiously delightful and enough.

Like Peter (and Paul too), I am amazed at what has happened.

Reading (among many)

Su, Apr 17 – Luke 24:12