Follow the Yellow Brick Road

I am on my way to Kentucky, a state which I have never before had the pleasure to visit. This comes as the result of a woman who, having read entries in MOLC for a period of time, wrote to me explaining me she heard the Holy Ghost tell her to get 'that woman' to come down to give a retreat.

Well, I have heard of a great publicity team, but having the Holy Spirit put a positive bug in someones ear would beat any advertising firm, hands down.

So I am off to Frankfort, KY, the state's capital. I'll be doing this at the Episcopal Church of the Ascension. Gee...I am just missing their patronal festival!

Callie the black lab was delivered to her home yesterday and Emmy is back in her glory of reigning queen of her domain. In about an hour we will be in the car and on our way. The departure was slightly delayed on the receipt of some news. I have come to look at turns in the road, switchbacks, detours, obstacles as part of the journey. As a human who makes mistakes, the ordination vows that I took 15 years ago as of June 15 put one thing solidly in my brain: Faith is not a destination - it is a journey. By faith I go forth, praying that God's love comes through.

I will, no doubt, learn many lessons along this faith journey. I will meet many people, even some real 'characters' as Mare used to say. No tin men, yet those whose hearts may need repair. No lions, but some who have lost their truest self and confidence somewhere along the way. No scarecrows, but those who have been convinced by others that they have no intellect or honest common sense. Some of us just want to find our way back home to Christ but have become hurt or lost or distracted along the way.

Wisdom has informed me I needn't interfere with God's plan for them or push them along, ignoring God's time line or learning curve -- for them or me. I need only place each individual in the loving hands of God through prayer. It's just as simple and complicated as that. Get out of the way and let God do God's work.

With Em's bag ready, all CDs picked out and in the folder, the blouses pressed, alb in the bag and enough basic travel stuffs nearly in my mini duffel, the only thing left is to back are a few refreshments and truck stop mugs--refills are cheaper that way! With Gertrude (the GPS system) on and running, it's off to see the Wizard and learn more lessons along the way. I know there will be some. You just never know when they'll pop up! This time around, the road will be blacktop with some yellow dashes down the middle.

"Happy Trails to You" on your faith journeys as well, regardless of where you're headed. Put yourself in His hands... but be sure to keep alert with both hands on the steering wheel! Faith ISN'T the destination, it's the journey.

___________________________________________

p.s. to all the folks who wrote to me about my typo, thanks. The color is burnt ochre. Live and learn, live and learn!!

Your Honor, please strike this from the record!!

Oh, if life were only like that!!

You make a mistake and ask that it be neither recorded nor remembered.

It DOESN'T happen that way, though, does it? Once out there it is out and heard or read.

Even as I watch movies where the presiding judge looks sternly at the jurors in the box and admonishes them: "That testimony has been striken from the record. You may neither ponder on it or allow it to influence your decision in this case" I chuckle to myself...fat chance, judge. The cat is out of the bag.

So I must apologize for the errors in my posting of early this morning:

1) Barbara will be on the Episopal Response to AIDS team (ERA)in the AIDSWALKNY on MAY 18. Check her posting THE GOOD OF THE GROUP of April 9,2008 for more info. (sorry, BCC)


2) The forsythia is not a vine. It is a bush. Its branches proliferate. For an adult forsythia, the base should be kept narrowed by trimming no more than 1/3 from the ground after it blooms each year (from a reader who is also a Master Gardener).

3) The pansy color is burnt occre not that green veggie some people enjoy.

So, there you have it. The corrected version of what went before. Let's hope that sets the record straight!

Ahhhhh....Forsythia! (or...and I put the shrub snips where???)

The green medians dividing the highways throughout the area are ablaze with the shouting yellow of forsythia. When it is not invading my own yard I love to look at it. In combination with the abnormally warm weather the last few days, this is the sign to me that nature has truly turned the corner to a season of splendor, colors coming into their own some in twos and threes and others going it solo.

My daffodils and hyacinth have past their prime but the pansies I received for Easter will do just fine...deep purple, snappy yellow, burnt okra all with stalks of green. The front lawn shows signs of its own..lots of weeds which beckon to be dealt with.

How is it the older we get the fewer hours there are in a day?? It must certainly be so because the days, weeks and years have become nearly a blur of new places, faces, challenges and poignant prayerfulness.

Barbara pounded the pavement today and Buddy (the voice of the eMos)made his debut as Vicar of St. Bartholomew's in New York City. While his former parish on Staten Island will miss him, the enormity of a "plant" such as St. Barts needs hearts as well as hands to keep it going and they will find a great one in the person of Fr. Buddy.

Afterward I headed back to the county called Rockland to face the vines of marauding forsythia which have strayed through the fencing of my adjoining neighbors yard. Once established, that blinking forsythia is determined to be a permanent resident and I'm not about to let that happen again. The entire lawn becomes an topsoil web of entangled vines. Ugh!

Callie, one of the dogs I take in, has been throwing her black lab weight around. She makes Emmy seem extremely petite by comparison. They have begun to learn to play together, not just do their own thing separately. I've lab-proofed the house, putt up baby gates in strategic places, used an older wooden CD rack to barricade Russell's door so that the moist muzzle of Callie doesn't greet him nose to nose in the morning and give him a heart attack.

Oh, off on another tangent that started with forsythia. As I age my distraction factor has mounted exponentially. I started to the garage to fetch the snips. Oh, but I needed my garden apron for I'd no pocket in these work pants. Darnit!@#*

To get to the apron I had to move the old bed destined for the Orangeburg recycling place. Starting to push that over I noted runaway golf balls and tees which I would have tripped or slipped on, so they went into a plastic basket..under the basket was the instruction manual to the lawnmower which needed to be filed in the house: the manual got only as far as the side door.

You see where this is going...or rather where it ISN'T going. Instead of taking my pent-up energy out on the forsythia, the garage got somewhat organized. I found all the leaf bags, hung up all the rakes, found all the clippers, weed whackers and hedge trimmers and put them in their appropriate spots. Dark had set in and the dogs (who had been basking in the hazy sun or playing with each other) had begun whining for their dinner. Gee, I was hungry too. Fancy that!

Another day gone. The forsythia will be there when I awake, fascinating and taunting me at the same time. At least NOW I do know where both the snips and my gardening gloves will be.

Adopted by the Princesses!

About two weeks ago things were looking fairly bleak around the old manse. The daffodils perked me up some, but the in and mostly out of life had taken a heavy toll on my heart. It must be my unusual wiring -- my intentions are good, true, almost spotlessly pure yet can take a few turns between heart, head and mouth and be heard in a completely different way. I was wondering how my path had ever turned toward the diaconate and what it had cost. Paraphrasing Teresa of Avila as she toppled off a donkey into a stream during one of her clandestine convent foundings- "Lord, if this is the way you treat your friends, it's no wonder you have so few of them!!!"

The Lord does provide. I had all of bumper to bumper traffic on Rt. 80 and then a string of 2 lane county roads to get my mind off the bumpy ride and on to the Daughters of the King, Bethlehem chapter. Friends had told me some of the Daughters could be conservative, so nothing too out in left field. I chose doing a modified personality indicator, coupling that with different saintly prayer styles (Ignatian, Augustinian, etc). Some singing, some down time and lots of prayer.

Holy mu-lowly, these women are prayer pros! I'm wet behind the ears in comparison. That being said, they were gracious, vivacious, chatty and up for almost anything. Something came to mind mid-retreat. I could see Deborah Kerr in her 'The King and I' costume in the classroom scene before me. The prologue to the song was quite clear:

"It's a true and honest saying and a good and honest thought
That if you become a teacher, by your pupils you'll be taught..."

These wonderful women gave so much, taught so much, cared so much that I felt quite swept up in their maternal instincts. I felt adopted!! I just had to be me and I was accepted and adopted! I know that in Baptism I had been adopted, but that is not as concrete as someone saying "Honey, let me make your bed for you..". 'Though not one of them ever pinched my cheek, I had the impression they had somehow.

What a wonderful gift! Me starting out, hitting the floor running this month, doing solo retreats for people who I did not know at first, but left knowing fondly.

There can be much said about ministry being a lonely and solitary place. This began my venture into interactive ministry as never before. Some of me, some of you, all of God.

This experience was followed by the loving witness of the women of St. Peter's, Freehold with their extended band of women family and friends, another blessing from them and the Community of St. John Baptist.

My backyard STILL needs work and the leaves STILL need to be raked, the fertilizer and seed down. And I can do it because I have been renewed and feel a connection with others again. Thanks be to God! Alleluia! Alleluia!

Daffodil

I have a new boarder in my home, a baby boomer named Russell. Russell is a sweet and chatty man with a body type that evokes a hug response.

Emmy Lou has tried different ways to show affection, concern and acceptance of him as part of "the pack", all to no avail as Russell is a confirmed cat person. All of us are still in that breaking in period, learning habits and schedules and preferences.

I'd forgotten to thank Russell on Sunday afternoon, arriving back home from working retreat weekend, that the sounds coming from his room made me smile. I heard the familiar bounce of a French chanteuse, that Piafian combination of background musicians, that transported me mentally to a sidewalk Parisian cafe in May (April is often still a bit brisk for me).

Yesterday afternoon reeked of Spring..cloudless blue sky with the sun so bright and omnipresent. As Russell's car was at my mechanic I drove him to his various appointments. Mid-way through the day I had the option to get outside and accomplish at least a few overdue chores. The singular drawback was a significant wind. I was about to give in to comfort rather than industriousness when I saw it: a lone daffodil on the far side of the driveway entrance to the house.

The burst of yellow popped my inner grey balloon and I went to gear. I put a few groceries away, put on Emmy's collar and we went outside. It took little to get her into doggie overdrive - that exuberant explosion of joy and speed where a dog zooms around in circles trying to evade you...or simply run as fast as she can for the sheer pleasure of it. While she explored some possible rabbit habitats on the property I dismantled the trees of their extended lodgers: an extended strand of blue lights. Next we ventured into the back yard and while Em was checking the perimeter of the yard for any interlopers I did doggie duty. In my search for all things to be eliminated I pulled dead leaves off of fledgling hyacinths and encountered an entire row of white and yellow daffodils, standing in riveted attention, trumpets poised despite the bracing wind. With more of the leaves gone I expect to see the crocus cracking the soil any minute now.

God has a way of planting sunshine here and there just when we need it. All we need to do is rake off a few leaves, turn toward the Son and breathe deeeeply. Ahhhhhhh!

The Trouble with Thomas

The man is unstoppable. So bloody predictable. Goes out into the street to get us things to eat and supplies. He had the forethought to bring another robe. None of us did, least of all me. We've been in this room for weeks now, paying a bit extra for what Matthew calls 'privacy'. More like keeping the owner happy about extended 'guests'.

When the Lord came to us - through the bolted doors, mind you 'cause I dropped the latch myself - we were overjoyed. It was all too brief and Thomas the trusted was out pounding the streets. Jesus vanished before Thomas arrived back.

We were beside ourselves and he was miffed; predictable as always, he had to see it for himself.

Eight days later we were still in the same rooms in Jerusalem. Although the women would go out to do some laundry, we were one hot, sweaty lot, trying to figure what to do next, what the Lord would expect from us next. Thomas stayed apart, mumbling and making a rope, for lack of other busy work.

The Lord came again - to us, but to directly to Thomas for whom seeing meant believing. Jesus, all the same but different, invited Thomas to test Him. "Here are the wounds you wanted to see, Thomas...go on and touch them, they pain me no more".

Thomas fell to his knees, his face full of relief and humility, his body trembling uncontrollably. Laying hands on the Lord's feet Thomas whispered, "My beloved Lord, my God".

Jesus pulled him up and raising Thomas' chin with his forefinger looked in square in the eyes. "I'm happy that you recognize me, Thomas. And I will be as happy when those who have never seen or known me before will recognize me when I come to them."

No, that was the Lord alright. He'd come to the point of His message quickly in the last month or so, not beating about with stories for us to interpret. He made it plain.

I sit to scribble this. Although I had betrayed our Lord, He forgave me with a glance that first night He appeared. No one of my brothers had blamed me for my failings during these upside down days. I know all can be forgiven in Him. Betrayal, disbelief, fear. I can hardly wait until He comes again. In the meantime, then Thomas goes out next time, I mean to go with him. That's what brothers do.

I sign my name to this for you to know this comes from me, the one who has been forgiven of much. Peter

About Prayer

Prayer has a thumbprint. The type, style, frequency, method of prayer each person uses is as unique as the individual using it. At its heart, prayer is a means of conversation with the Divine.

In today's news came a report from Weston, Wisconsin that an eleven year old girl, Madeline Neumann, died Sunday after a month-long illness. Her parents, Dale and Leilani, chose to pray for her recovery rather than take her to a doctor. An autopsy of the girl's body revealed that she died from a condition which debilitates the body by not producing enough insulin.

When our friends and family are ill, we pray for them and ask others to do so as well. One need only listen to the Prayers of the People during a Sunday Eucharist as evidence of this fact. The list tends to be long...very, very long.

Coincidentally (?) I have been asked four times in the last week some version of the following question: "If whatever is going to happen to people happens no matter what, why do we bother praying?".

We pray because it is our own interaction with God. We pray together because prayer draws us closer to one another and closer to God. In praying together we acknowledge our interdependence and build community. We pray because it bolsters our hope and bolsters the hope of the person in distress. That byproduct of prayer is incredibly powerful. Prayer can assist in the healing process. If there is a glitch in our perception of prayer it may well be that we know precisely what the person in distress needs and wants to be healed. There are many things beyond the outside physical body that may be far more tormented, diseased and failing.

Medicine -- whether conventional or alternative -- has its place in our lives. Read the Bible and note that Jesus is never reported to have advised people to avoid physicians. Reflect on the actions of Christ in the Gospels when faced with someone who begged or longed for healing. More often than not - although He could see into the very heart and soul of each individual who pleaded to Him - He would ask them what and if they wanted to be healed. In my younger days, reading of the healing of the paralytic, I was stupefied that Jesus asked him what the man wanted. Duh, the guy can't walk, can't move. Of course he wants to walk!

After missteps in my journey of faith to be a conduit for God's healing I have grown keenly aware that I must ask: How are you? Would you care to share anything with me? What in you (or your life) would you like to pray for? Do you want this (condition or relationship) to change and be healed? I have also learned that it is arrogant of me to presume to know all the answers or even half of the questions.

As Christians we live in hope. Yes, God can and does heal!! God has also given us reason and intelligence in order that we may do our part, drawing on all the tools and resources available to us, combining our various gifts on the healing team. Some of those resources are medical, some emotional, some psychological, some spiritual.

Prayer, the intimate, essential, connective conversation we have with God allows us to see what we might not see otherwise: that we all must work in tandem with God for the common Good.

Peace be with you, Madeline, as you make your transition from this side of life to the next. We know that God will welcome you to paradise. We pray that God will hold your family and all of us gently in loving hands, providing what is best for each of us, those things which God alone knows. Amen.

________________________________________________________________

p.s. Friends who answered the "Change" request: I got over 250! Each day I plug moving your replies to word documents under categories (ex.)'Methodist to Episcopalian'and so on. I'm getting computer callouses on other than my fingers. Please be patient. When they've been sent to Matt, he'll post them. Each will be entitled "The Results are IN!" followed by the change.

Next weekend I'll be with the Daughters of the King from Bethlehem, PA. Check out the website for retreats on www.geraniumfarm.org under 'News and Events'.

A Page from a Journal

I was driven to write these things down. This entire week seemed a blur and at the same time each moment was captured in my mind separately. From the end of the Sabbath last Saturday after we had been with Lazarus, Martha and Mary to the time I sat down close to a small lamp in our cramped room to write down all that has raced through my mind again and again.

It started as one of many weeks. We were on another walk. On this one my Master made arrangements to have a donkey brought and he rode on it into Jerusalem itself. Half of us crowded around him staving off some of the throng that joined along the way. Peter and Andrew were before us asking others to join in. and they did. I'm certain that almost two hundred came with us into the city, treating Him as the King of us all, the King of the Jews.

Next came the incidents in the Temple and our short return to Bethany. I could feel the air around me crackling and the sand and dirt below groaning but nothing -- not even everything our beloved Master had plainly told us -- could have prepared me for all that has followed.

We spent the Passover meal in the same room we now occupy. The servants of the hall and our sisters had things prepared in advance of our arrival. We changed into our best clothes and were about to eat when Jesus insisted on washing our feet. Most of us were humbled by his actions, even after Peter's normal overreaction. He gently washed and dried my feet tenderly and looked up at me for a short moment with a tear in His eye.

He started our meal with the required stories and prayers - and then added to them. "This IS my body, given for each of you. When you break bread in this way, remember ME". He looked at the bread, yet through it; He looked at each of us, yet through us to the very core. "This IS the cup of my own blood shed for each of you. When you drink in this way, remember ME". The same piercing stare was on his face, an uncommon combination of pain and peace. We all took part in the ceremony. Judas left in the middle of the recitations. The Master asked Peter, James and I to go with Him to pray. We had prayed for hours, but there was so much quiet pain in His voice I suggested to the others that we should go with Him.

I fell asleep, tired from the week and full of food and wine. I woke when someone bumped into my outstretched leg. Judas had returned with mercenaries of Rome. They arrested Him and He explicitly told us not to become involved. They took Him away.

James and I went back to the room, Peter went his own way. I broke the news to His mother who crumbled to the floor, rocking back and forth moaning "…it has come to this. His time has come and my labor begins again; it has come to this". Her voice was gone and her body shook with grief, yet she made no sound. I believed her heart must be breaking.

It took hours to summon the courage to accompany Mary and His mother to the Roman quarter. Pilate stood on the balcony trying to reason with a mob. Our Master stood, covered in a tunic shirt stained through with old and fresh blood. Mary was nearly uncontrollable while His mother stood, eyes glazed over with tears and disbelief.

We walked along as he made his way to Golgotha, old blood stained posts in place from prior crucifixions. He was stripped of the tunic and nailed down, naked to the crude T form. There were others being slaughtered at the same time and my beloved Rabbi and friend was secured between two robbers I was told. My sisters prayed with me to spare him from a lengthy death. I had heard that many are slow to die.

He called to me and His mother and with few words put her life into my care. Of course I will make certain she wants for nothing. After praying to His Father and whispering He had finished His work His pain distorted face became relaxed. He took a wheezing breath, exhaled and died, his eyes half open.

We all felt a rumble beneath us as if the earth groaned for Him and in a moment it was over. None of my brothers were with me; no Peter, no Judas. A minister of the temple had secretly made arrangements to take His body for burial. Joseph, a legionnaire and I pried him off the wood and lowered his body, covering his shame, into the arms of His mother and mine. She took a cloth, spit on it and wiped the blood, sweat and tears from His face. We took him to the burial place quickly as the Sabbath was closing in. The tomb was closed and I thought I saw a soldier approach.

We four, Joseph included, went back to the rented hall. It took some coaxing to get inside the door, but Matthew finally let us in. Peter was not there, nor Judas. My mother and Mary went to one side of the room to speak and console one another while I told my brothers what I had seen. Peter didn't return until early morning, nearly incoherent repeating over and over about the cock crow and saying "I lied, I failed Him". The Sabbath day was dark and dismal. Although Andrew tried to encourage us to pray, our pain prevailed.

On Sunday the women, keeping with our traditions went to perfume the Lord's body, only to find it gone. Angels dwelt where He had been and said "He is Risen, as He said He would". They thought they saw him among the brush near the tombs and, on the Master's instructions told us He would meet with us soon.

Is it too good to be true? While my mind remains fixed on all I had seen, my heart knew He would be with us again. Peter and I ran to the tomb, only to find it as the women had said. We came back chattering like madmen. Belief is more than simply seeing and I believe we will see Him -- as never before -- soon. John, the servant of Jesus, the Messiah.

Mega Mail!

I asked for it and I got it .. I asked for your denominational or religious affiliation path and you, hundreds of you, responded. WOW!!!!!

I guess I'll spend much of this week putting out installments of your stories (names witheld for those who requested it). When all is done I might even do a listing - of how many took each path.

In any event, I have to consult with Matt the Web Dude to get these memories in an order that will make them easy to post in installments.

In the meantime - Thanks to those of you who responded, and to those who haven't: you have one more week! Faithfully, DJ