Hyssop

Hospital lessons come back to me at the oddest times.  Today I wandered a while in the details of a visit from two dear friends.  I had only been conscious for a day, and much of that lucidity was bound in pain and confusion.  My right leg was broken at the top and the bottom, and my left arm was shattered as well.  Added to the mix was a fractured pelvis and a lacerated kidney -- all contributing to the necessity of having nurses frequently change me by rolling my disabled body first to one side and then the other.  I felt embarrassed every time they had to be bothered to come perform the elaborate ritual of attending to my personal needs...again.  I feared the helplessness and pain that seemed to accompany my hospital caregivers.  And so I reached the addled conclusion that the best thing for me was to get help hiding soiled bed linens.  I remember explaining to my visitors in a conspiratorial whisper that they could take away the blankets and sheets, wash them at their homes, and bring them back.  That would be a huge help.  This morning I ruefully recalled the betrayal and frustration I felt when my husband discovered the plan I was hatching and vetoed the whole thing.  "Just ring for the nurse."
The instinct to cover up, hide the evidence, bury the body is second nature to me.  And in that panicked fog of self-preservation I have missed clear understanding of the heart issues at hand many, many times.  Left to myself I expend energy dealing with the surface implications, rather than face the reality of my brokenness and the impact it has on those around me.  I don't want to be flawed and vulnerable --  I want to appear amazing and admirable.  I would prefer to lay another blanket on top of my soiled bedclothes than submit to the chore of changing the bed.  
The first shower after weeks of "sponge baths" is still vividly clear.  My skin seemed to drink it in through every pore.  Although my body trembled from the fatigue of remaining upright on the stool, nothing dimmed the exhilaration of feeling the water rushing over my face, head and battered body.
Amazingly, God does not let me lie in the muck and mire of my making, but plunges me into His cleansing flood of  "deep, deep love...unmeasured, boundless, free."

Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy
blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
and cleanse me from my sin!

For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is ever before me.
Against you, you only, have I sinned
and done what is evil in your sight,
so that you may be justified in your words
and blameless in your judgment...
Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being,
and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones that you have broken rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins,
and blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from your presence,
and take not your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation,
and uphold me with a willing spirit.

For the Living

I learned two mull-worthy things during an afternoon community choir performance. The first is that Brahms' Requiem is unique because unlike all the other compositions marking death, it is a prayer for the living who are left behind in sorrow. It is music for those in this world; it is not a prayer for the dead. Therein lies a tangle of theological implications, but what strikes me is that Requiem is Brahms' longest work -- "comprising seven movements, which together last 65 to 80 minutes (Wikipedia)." That says something of the magnitude of human grieving if an artist's attempt to meet loss with comfort and intercessory prayer required his greatest musical endeavor.

Today was Autumn, with a capital "A". On the way to church the sun warmed the car quickly and I had to scramble under the seat to find my shades in order to safely drive. Two hours later the sky showed dark gray, the wind was growing fierce and there were snowflakes/ice shavings mixed in with the cold rain. Turnout for a 3:00 p.m. show was sparse, but the choir was well-rehearsed, the director was prepared and the concert successfully wove beautiful harmonies with alternately rousing, then reflective, German lyrics.

The close of the second number brought my second lesson of the day. If the audience is small, every person matters. Whether singing along (by invitation), applauding, or staying awake for an hour -- we were vital to the success of the event. One piece contained four solos, and it required concerted effort to sustain the applause long enough to include each musician. Frankly, if I hadn't made the commitment to attend I would have been home with a cup of tea and a book. Having "gone to all the trouble" despite the weather, I would have normally been satisfied with desultory attendance. But out of respect for the workmanship of the musicians, I couldn't allow silence to descend during their bows. Seventy of us applauded energetically and still we were a mere smattering of sound in that great vaulted auditorium.

When it is my choice, I prefer to leave the work of caring to the crowd. I like to blend into a larger number and maintain my superior solitude. The program said, "Oktoberfest", but the afternoon held more impact than a momentary lifting of the spirits. This human condition is sometimes one of great hardship and grief, and each one of us is crucial -- to mourn, encourage, sing, applaud, direct, compose or admire. No matter the trouble that preoccupies me, I have work to do.

In the world it is called Tolerance, but in hell it is called Despair...the sin that believes in nothing, cares for nothing, seeks to know nothing, interferes with nothing, enjoys nothing, hates nothing, finds purpose in nothing, lives for nothing, and remains alive because there is nothing for which it will die. Dorothy Sayers

Paths to Tread

The list of adjectives I have picked up and put down through the years defeats me: “patient, kind, does not envy, does not boast, is not proud, is not rude, does not seek its own way...always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres...” 
I’m glad for the translation of a way as a road, trail, path --­­ something that is an arduous process with a destination -- particularly in the living out of love. 
It is the most excellent journey, not merely the more polite response. 

I’ve walked such a "way" along a cliff atop the Atlantic Ocean where it meets southern Maine, sometimes through the wild roses with their stems strong from the pummeling of wind often as sharp as their brambles, sometimes with space for feet placed heel-­to-­toe-­to-­heel in order to keep to the upward side of the slope, and sometimes where the path openly tumbles into a broad dumping place of round stones that eventually transitions into the sea. 
There is only one curve where the grass is flat on both sides of the level stretch and you can turn to comfortably chat with a companion. At least in my memory, everything and everyone else becomes obliterated by the roaring, roaring, roaring of the sea and the care it takes to stay upright. 
A friend and I have shared boulder perches, and they have been stops to refresh one another. But no amount of encouragement brings us closer to the end--­­ to home. For that, we have to pick our way through the rolling, tumbling field of stones until the path is defined on the other side and we resume our single file journey. 

It’s a short one, that Prouts Neck cliff walk. But the image serves for me as a microcosm of this epic calling to love one another.
It is my nature to lollygag in the grassy places where my care for others is easy because it is reciprocal. 
I want admiration, approbation, compliments and welcome. Leaving that for sharp brambles, treacherous footing, and loneliness is more than I could ever choose, despite the destination promised me. 
I would never get home if the beginning or the keeping on rested in my strength. 

In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.