I remember having sparklers in our backyard on the 4th of July when our family came over and always being a little afraid it was going to burn my hand. I remember watching the fireworks from our neighbor’s deck because they were higher up on the hill and had a good view. I remember my first 4th of July when there wasn’t an official fireworks display because I was in rural New Mexico and trying to decide if random people setting off fireworks really cut it for me. And now I will remember 4th of July in Mexico where I slept in late, wrote a sermon, learned some French, took a nap, ate some good food, and watched people set off fireworks on the beach – it will be a good one to remember.

(This is part of a group of blogs remembering on All Saints Day; you can find a full list of blogs participating here. This particular post was written a few weeks ago, but seems appropriate today still)

Our season of grieving deepened today as we learned one of our professors has begun her hospice journey. She has fought cancer valiantly and lived to see remission and the gift a new lease on life can bring. But the monster has fought back and her cancer has spread. She went home today with the help of hospice support.

It’s easier to speak of death as a journey when the one dying is old, when the one dying is a stranger, when the one dying is ready to go. Today death sounds more like a deep abyss I wouldn’t wish on anyone, especially not this friend.

In a book I’m reading for class, the author talked about how we’ve screwed up our symbols and thereby screwed up our reality. Darkness isn’t bad, he argued, it is necessary. It is in darkness that we rest, in darkness that we dream our deepest dreams, in darkness that we find
the strength to continue on.

It doesn’t seem such a big leap for me between darkness and death, so I am clinging to his words these days and hoping they are true even when I can’t believe, even when death, and darkness, seem like the ultimate evil. This is community isn’t it? Holding onto other people’s
faith when our own falls short.

It seems true that souls see best in darkness: see the dreams only imaginations allow to be possible; see the light shimmering in the darkness; see the spaces and quiet we so quickly evade in our lighted busyness. Perhaps our souls see best in death as well.

I’ve never been one to dream of flying. Heights scare me and my most thrilling dreams are always the ones that seem real, but better. Flying never struck me as real. But turn me upside down and soar me through the air and my soul sings in freedom. Perhaps this is a deep dream, perhaps it is as close to freedom that we will ever come.

My body is still recovering from the twists and turns and bumps and shakes of rollercoasters, but my soul is still singing from my time in the air.

I’m a little mesmorized by his floating. In some ways I feel sorry for him, I always have, life seems so small inside our little fishbowl. I selfishly like having him here, but wonder if I should find a way to release him in the wilderness (though I’m not sure the water outside is very safe). But, in lots of ways, I find myself identifying with him tonight. I feel a little bit like I’m floating through life right now.

Nothing is all that difficult at the moment, and when it threatens to be I’ve found good defense mechanisms, and nothing is all that exciting. I pass through the days completing what needs to be done and enjoying myself, but one day blends into the next separated only by the specific items on the to-do list each day.

I’ve always loved floating. It took my anxious little self a long time to learn how – I drowned a lot those first few swim lessons when you just had to be still – I liked to kick and couldn’t understand the concept that doing nothing would be enough. But now it is one of my favorite sensations, especially in the ocean where the waves and currents carry you. It feels a lot like being rocked. Calming. Yet it feels like a strange way to move through life. Perhaps this is the swimming lesson for life – learning to be still and that sometimes doing nothing is enough.

It’s easier to speak of death as a journey when the one dying is old, when the one dying is a stranger, when the one dying is ready to go. Today death sounds more like a deep abyss I wouldn’t wish on anyone, especially not this friend.

In a book I’m reading for class, the author talked about how we’ve screwed up our symbols and thereby screwed up our reality. Darkness isn’t bad, he argued, it is necessary. It is in darkness that we rest, in darkness that we dream our deepest dreams, in darkness that we find the strength to continue on.

It doesn’t seem such a big leap for me between darkness and death, so I am clinging to his words these days and hoping they are true even when I can’t believe, even when death, and darkness, seem like the ultimate evil. This is community isn’t it? Holding onto other people’s faith when our own falls short.

It seems true that souls see best in darkness: see the dreams only imaginations allow to be possible; see the light shimmering in the darkness; see the spaces and quiet we so quickly evade in our lighted busyness. Perhaps our souls see best in death as well.

We are in such a season now it seems, down here in our small community. Each day brings more bad news of another cancer diagnosis, another death, another illness we don’t understand. It is so easily overwhelming; so easy to wonder where God can be in the midst of all this grief.

And I want so badly to fix it all, to bind up the grief and the doubts with healing and hope. I go to classes eager to learn how we do this, how ministers fix it all, make it better, bring God into the situation in order to heal the world. But over and over again I hear we cannot fix it; I hear that we are only witnesses, we point to the grief, we name it, and we point beyond it and attempt to name grace. And over and over again I bang my head into my desk and wonder if I have not chosen the most innane, helpless, frustrating career ever invented.

—-

These seasons of grieving seem to have no bearing on calendar or nocturnal seasons; they come of their own accord and leave again as more joys than concerns surface on the prayer board and we move more lightly through our days in this community.

For now though, until this season of grieving wears itself out, all I find I can do is pray the prayer, ‘keep watch God. Keep watch with those who weep in the night, with those who wait for morning with heavy hearts. Keep watch."

I found my first chance to sit still this evening and I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing on TV to watch, Adam is off at a meeting, my homework isn’t calling me and I’m in between fun books to read. It’s just me, music, and the couch. I tried making phone calls, but except for my Dad, no one was home. Apparently I am meant to be still.

Instead, I am writing this. As soon as I sat for a minute my breath caught up with me and my emotions overfilled. I know most people are this busy all the time. I know work and kids and a family require commitments I haven’t even considered, but I don’t think I am meant for this hustle and bustle. Life felt much more calm when I had an afternoon nap and time to watch TV every night. This fast-paced schedule makes me feel like I have too much to catch-up on when I finally sit down and all the emotions I haven’t processed and all the possible snags in my life rush up for first bids.

I like school, and I know it’s only the third week, but I’m ready for a break. I am not meant for this lifestyle. I would make a better monk.

It’s been so long since I’ve written. I’m sorry. Time seems to slip by so quietly this summer. I had every intention of sitting down to write to you weeks ago, but then I looked down and weeks had gone by. So many days the hours seemed to dig their nails in rather than pass me by, but now the summer is over and I wonder what I missed in wishing it by so quickly.

I made lasgna tonight and realized with a surprise how desperately I am wishing for winter. While the cold and drab make me crinkle my nose, I could use the excuse to hibernate – to hide under covers and recuperate from a summer of heat and exhaustion. All this moving and marriage, hospice and heat have drained me. I revel in naps and long for my bed in ways that surprise even me. But sleep is so safe – no one dies, no one expects me to be someone I’m not qualified to be, no sun burns me nor mosquitos bite me, no tests loom large, no life waits for living. It is all mine – colorful and bright, restful and full of play.

They say in the cycle of nature, high summer is the time for weeding and that has been true this summer. All of these changes have forced me to pull out old expectations and ways of being. New dreams have been planted and taken root and the old ones must be cleared away in order to give them room to grow. It is hard work and I remember now why I so detested weeding as a chore. As beautiful as new dreams can be, it has always been difficult for me to distinguish between the plants and weeds – all growth looks beautiful in its own way. I suppose it is a process of discerning as much as pulling. But all of it together is tiring.

Fortunately the cycle always continues round and I am seeing now the efforts of my labor. Amidst the studying and preparing for classes, we are having fun – laughing and enjoying this new phase of our lives. We still wonder who this other person in the house is from time to time, and what in God’s good name we were thinking. But mostly we laugh and seek each other out.

Well, that is more than you asked for, but I figured I owed you at least that much for having taken so long to respond. I hope all is well with you and we’ll have to stay in better touch in the months ahead.

With love,
Sarah