Prepare ye the way!

 
Make way! Make way! Make way!

This day is already unfolding very rapidly and looks to be jam-packed with eventful and meaning-making possibilities.

The husband of a dear friend died this morning at 4:30 AM, with his devoted spouse by his side. This day will proceed predictably in a slo-mo haze of grief, with voices that sound as if they are being spoken through a filter of thick mashed potatoes. While this date will remain etched on the memory of the soul, mercifully and over time, the specific memories of this day will dim through the haze of time, and the exact details will become difficult to recall.

The daughter of another dear friend has gone into labor and a new being - a first grandchild - is about to make a debut into a world of unimaginable pain and exquisite beauty, both are enough to make a soul weep at the possibilities. This may be precisely why we come into the world wailing at the top of our voices. The unknown potentials of life deserve nothing less.

The sister of yet another dear friend lies on her bed, waiting for her battle with cancer to end while her spouse and siblings whirl and twirl in their well-scripted dialogue and precisely acted dysfunctional roles - their director, long dead but offstage and silent - trying to make sense of that which is illogical and unreasonable and, in the main, cruel and yet stunningly normal and inexplicably beautiful.  

And yet the seconds and minutes tick away with abandon and terrifying freedom, out of anyone's control and yet perfectly ordered, transforming themselves, without permission, into a day in the life, which will soon become a week, a month, and eventually another year.

In the midst of it all, I offer my humble prayer to let it be for the grieving as it is for the joyous; let it be for those who sit and wait as for those whose time has come and passed; let it be for those who regret as for those who anticipate.

Let it be.

It is the only honest prayer I know.

Except to say: Make way! Make way! Make way for another day!

The Mill Girls and the Disabled Woman

A Facebook Reflection:

Good Sunday morning, good people of the mid-summer. It is a glorious, foggy morning here on the Delmarva Penninsula. The present temperature is 70 degrees, with the high expected to reach the low 80s. Air quality is good at 27, the UV index is as low as it's going to get at zero, and the wind is coming from the NNE at a lazy summer 2 mph.

There is still a fog advisory for our area so the driving is slow going but, I'm told by those who know, that the fishing will be grand. Apparently, fish like the fog. Who knew? It does explain why the boats have been going slowly by my house since just before dawn.

I know there's a lot going on in the world but I'm going to jump right into the lectionary page. There's something about the woman with a severe disability in Luke's gospel that has been sitting with me all week - whispering to me, calling to me - but the preacher has a completely different pastoral task over at the congregation she serves so she's gone in a very different direction.

Let me explain. As many of you know, I'm from New England. I was born and brought up in one of what became known as one of the Mill Towns of the Industrial Age.

These were places of manufacturing "Making What America Needs" - mostly the things that supported the relentless pursuit of the future - a better future - and modernity as the means to the end.

The genius of modernity was thought to be the assembly line. One, Mr. Ransom Olds, invented the concept but it took Henry Ford in 1913 to put it to practical use in his factories. He was able to take the time to produce an automobile from more than 12 hours to one hour and 33 minutes.

This, it was said, was a revolution that put the capital I in Industry.

The same theory was applied to the making of dresses. The process of the ancient art of dressmaking was deconstructed into distinct parts with certain people making certain parts in great quantity and other people sewing the parts together until, in rapid time, a dress (or skirt, or shirt) was produced, also in great quantity and in a fraction of the time.

Men worked in the factories that made the metal and rubber of cars and machines. Women worked in the factories that made dresses and shirts and coats. They were immigrants, all of them. First brought over from the poor, mean backstreets and farming villages of England and then Ireland. Then, they were brought down from Canada.

All of them were blue-eyed, fair-skinned, and English-speaking. The women were known as "The Mill Girls", working long, monotonous hours, doing the same task over and over again on the assembly line, often in crowded, unsafe conditions, with poor ventilation and no escape routes, and for pennies a day - a few dollars in an envelope on Friday.

Modernity came at the expense of humanity. It was demeaning, monotonous, dangerous, work that was poorly compensated. It was enough to have broken the backs of most human beings. It certainly broke many spirits.

Not in the women of my family.

I grew up the granddaughter, daughter, and niece of Mill Girls. They were immigrants from Portugal and the Azores who couldn't speak the language when they first arrived. They were also dark-skinned with thick, dark, curly hair.

A pecking order - a hierarchy of oppression - soon emerged. As the daughters and granddaughters and nieces of the original Mill Girls had gotten an education and become teachers and librarians, or had simply moved "up" from the factory floor to the factory office to be secretaries, the Portuguese immigrants took their place.

Since they were not of fair complexion and did not speak the language, they were easy marks for the cruelty of those who had forgotten what it was to work in the mills. Or, perhaps it was, in fact, because they remembered and were "doing unto others as had been done unto them."

It was brutal. And yet, the women in my family, in my neighborhood didn't get mad. They got even. They were part of the founding of the ILGWU (International Lady Garment Workers Union), local chapter 178, which eventually built its headquarters at No. 38 Third Street in Fall River, MA.

While many of the women in my family and neighborhood suffered from disabilities common to assembly line workers: painful, debilitating carpal tunnel syndrome or plantar fasciitis, arthritis, respiratory illness, deafness, cancer, and asbestos-related illnesses, and although the burdens they carried were enormous, no one was stooped or bent over, not even in their old age.

Mind you, these women worked hard, long, monotonous days in the factory and then came home to their husbands and children and cooked meals and cleaned the house and did the laundry and slept with their husbands, and, because they were mostly Roman Catholic with no access to birth control (and abortion, if available was illegal and unthinkable and most likely meant that they would die), they had more babies.

Even so, the Mill Girls always stood tall and proud, even when they were weary and exhausted. I remember my mother falling asleep standing at the counter, stirring her coffee or tea.

What was the difference, I wondered, between the disabled woman in this morning scripture and all those mill girls? Clearly, she must have had a medical condition. She was probably not old but after so many years of living in debilitating pain, she looked older than her years.

Or maybe, just maybe, she was bent over by her burdens. Her shame at being less than. Her poverty. Her lack of opportunity. Her life in antiquity was without any hope of a better life for herself or whatever family she had.

Something happens, I think, when women help women. When women work together in community. A spirit emerges. Something ignites them that keeps the flame in them flickering through yet another dark night and allows them to get up again in the morning, after tending to the children in the middle of the night and feeding them in the morning before work and school. A mini-resurrection, day after day.

There's safety in numbers, my mother and aunts used to call out to us as youngsters when we went out to ride our bikes or to catch the matinee at the theater. Stay together, they warned. Keep an eye on each other.

Yes, they were talking about safety and they had reason to worry (some things never change for girls and women), but they were also relating a philosophy that had gotten them through life standing straight and tall even though their work was back-breakingly hard.

I wonder what really bent the back of that nameless woman in the Temple that Sabbath Day. I'm thinking it was a dis-ease called hopelessness. I'm thinking that, without a dream, without a vision of a better day, a better future, a person's spirit can get worn down to a raw nub, which doubles her over in pain.

I'm thinking that the greatest gift Jesus gave to the world, besides unconditional love, was hope. I'm thinking that Jesus may have physically healed that woman, but what helped her to stand up straight was hope.

I've been thinking a lot of the Mill Girls. The woman with the disability in Luke's Gospel has brought back their memories and with them, enormous gratitude. I would not be where I am today without them. I continue on through modern adversities - which pale in comparison - with their spirit within me.

They allow me to stand straight and tall and demand respect. They help me not to get mad but to get even by getting help. They give me hope for the future. The strength of my faith is part of their legacy which I hope to pass on to my daughters and all the women in my life.

Well, it appears I've gone on a bit, haven't I? It's time for me to get ready for church. We'll be broadcasting live from Sirach 26:10 around 10 AM. Join us, if you've a mind to.

Please be safe. COVID is still lurking about and its variants are highly contagious but, if you are vaccinated, not as deadly. You know the drill: Wash your hands. Wear a mask. Wait a safe distance.

And as the Portuguese immigrants used to say on the streets of the Mill Towns of New England, "Bom dia!".

Make it a great day, everybody.

 

The Mystery of God's Healing

 "The mystery of God's healing": An Early Reflection on the Gospel for this coming Sunday (Luke 13:10-17)

She didn't ask to be healed.

I'm talking about the woman in Luke's gospel. Scripture says only "there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years," and that "when Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, "Woman, you are set free from your ailment." (Luke 13:10-17)

Let's set aside, for a moment, what happened after the woman stood up and the leader of the synagogue became apoplectic because the healing happened on the Sabbath.

How does that work? Healing, I mean.

I will never forget a young woman at St. David's in Salem, NH. It was the first congregation I was called to serve right out of seminary as Priest in Charge. She was not at all pleased that a woman was their priest.

It was 1986 and I was part of that first 10-year wave of ordained women in The Episcopal Church. It was a lot for some people to accept. Some never did.

Indeed, she was so angry she hollered at the Senior Warden, said some pretty hateful things to me, and then stormed out of the church.

So, I was very surprised when she came to the church one morning several weeks later, took communion, and then asked for the laying on of hands and healing for her husband. He was about 20 years her senior and had suffered a debilitating heart attack. He was in ICU and not predicted to survive the day.

She was so desperate that she even came back to church - to a woman priest whom she detested - to ask for healing for her husband.

I listened to her sob out her story and then, because I had been taught to personalize every prayer, I closed my eyes, laid my hands on her head, and whispered, "What is your husband's name."

She jerked her head up and hissed, loudly and angrily, "You don't need to know his name. This isn't about you. This is about God's power working through you. God knows his name. Just pray the damn prayer."

I took a deep breath, centered myself, and then prayed my most earnest prayers for healing the heart of this soul, unknown to me, but known and loved by God and trusting in the mystery of God's healing power.

That night after supper, I went over to the hospital ICU to visit him. To my amazement, he was sitting up in bed, eating a light supper. His wife burst into tears and came running to me, falling into my arms, filled with apologies and gratitude.

"God worked a miracle through you," she said, "I'm so sorry I was so horrible to you. You didn't deserve that."

I apologized for upsetting her so and explained that I was only trying to personalize the prayer.

"I know that now," she said. "This is a big change for me - women priests. I've been against them. Still am. But you? Well, I guess if God can work this miracle through you, well, I should take that as a sign."

I smiled and said, "Well, if God can speak through Balaam's donkey, God can speak through a jacka$$ like me." (Numbers 22:21-39)

We all three laughed and laughed, and in that laughter, we were all healed.

I still don't know how healing happens - or, why it doesn't, despite our most sincere and earnest prayers.

I just trust in the mystery of God's healing.

Love wins

 

See this? See this picture of two containers of ice Cream?

This is what AIDS does.

In order to explain, I have to go way back to the late 70s, and early 80s - to just before that pandemic began. So, settle in, kids. I'm about to tell a story.

Once upon a time, there were gay men and there were lesbian women. They were separate but not equal - mostly because there were men and then there were women and it was the late 70s, and early 80s when, even though I was divorced, I couldn't get a credit card unless my father, brother or ex-husband co-signed for me. (#Fact)

There were also "drag queens" but no one talked about "transgender people" (Some hissed "Nelly". Or, blithely called each other, "Mary" but it wasn't exactly the same) and, if you said "Queer" out loud, it was tantamount to saying the "N" word. Racism was as rampant in both communities as it was in the rest of society.

There are lots of examples of "separate but equal" Queer Gender exclusion, but here on Rehoboth Bay, 30 years ago, we were told that "the boys" went to one Episcopal church and "the girls" went to another - if they went at all.

If you were one of the boys, you wore the Episcopal male uniform: Khaki pants, starched white shirt - preferably with French cuffs, red tie, and blue blazer with gold buttons. In the summer, you would ditch the shirt and jacket for a Polo shirt - often hunter green with Khaki pants, or, if you were really daring, white and paired with pink pants.

And, always brown penny loafers with no socks.

If anyone still has an Integrity Orientation Booklet to General Convention, you will find that the "dress code" is exactly as I have described it.

If you were one of the girls? If you went to church at all? Well, that would depend on whether or not you could "pass" as "normal". Maybe something non-threatening like a librarian, a schoolmarm, or a former nun.

Since that usually meant wearing a skirt or a dowdy dress and pumps, you understand why many lesbian women skipped church and had their own Yoga Sessions or Buddhist Chanting or Wiccan Prayer Circles and Revolutionary Societies. Or, went for a long ride on their motorcycle on Sunday morning and gloried in the beauty of nature.

In the summer, the boys could be found on Poodle Beach, the girls at North Beach. Every now and again, you heard about gay men and lesbian women socializing and dining together, but that was only because they worked together at the same company.

They would never go together to a 'gay bar' or a 'lesbian cafe'. They just looked like they might be like any other couple or a foursome out to eat at one of the local restaurants.

The social walls were carefully constructed in part because of internalized oppression and in part for self-protection.

And then, the pandemic hit, and all the walls came down.

On the front lines of the AIDS battle stood organizations like the public health or visiting nurse associations which have always been thick with lesbian women who tend to like the independence built into the work.

We saw how gay men were treated - often times by our colleagues in hospitals and clinics. It was disgraceful, an insult to the Hippocratic Oath to "do no harm". Funeral homes were refusing to tend to the dead bodies of gay men who "died of complications due to AIDS." Churches - yes, even some Episcopal Churches - refused to hold funeral services.

So, we stepped up. And, so did they. We overcame all that previous crap and worked together to take care of each other. We grew up. We matured. We stayed focused on the work and, in the process, became friends.

I will never forget the General Convention when gay men and lesbian women wore buttons that said "Our church has AIDS". Everyone wanted one. Everyone was wearing them.

I know this sounds silly - now - but it was a brave thing to do. When lesbian women and gay men stood in solidarity, we built together another wall - one with a gate in the front that allowed others to enter.

The only other buttons that were as popular as "Our church has AIDS" were the ones we handed out to straight people that said, "Honorary Gay Man" or "Honorary Lesbian."

I still remember the smiles on the faces of Jack Spong and Doug Theuner when I gave them an "Honorary Lesbian" button.

The organization NEAC - National Episcopal AIDS Coalition - was born and did amazing work. Friendships were forged at those gatherings and Eucharists that remain unshakable.

That's where this coffee ice cream comes in.

Some of you may know that I love coffee ice cream. It's my absolute favorite. And, it's very difficult to find 'round these parts. I understand Trader Joe's has a wicked coffee ice cream.

One person reportedly took one bite and said, "Okay, two things: One, there is crack cocaine in here and B, if I'm dying just get me some cartons of this stuff and I'll die happy."

Well, there's no Trader Joe's 'round these parts. The closest one is in Newark - about 2 hours from where I live. You know, I love coffee ice cream but not enough to travel two hours for it.

A dear friend from the days of NEAC was coming to Rehoboth for a little vacay. He read my FB post and offered to stop at Trader Joe's on his way here and get some for me and we'd figure out the hand-off at some point.

And, that's how, last night, at the end of a long and challenging day at work, I came into possession of these two beauties. Two - count them, not one but two - containers of Trader Joe's Coffee Bean Blast Super Premium Ice Cream.

You'll excuse me and understand when I tell you that every time I look in the freezer, I get a little verklempt.

We lost a lot of wonderful gay men, a few lesbian women, and tons of people of color to this horrid disease. And, friendships were formed in the crucible of the pandemic that will last a lifetime and into eternity.

AIDS is now a disease with terminal implications. Then, AIDS was a horrible disease. The response of the government and people in the health care and service industries and yes, the church, was disgraceful. Some "complications of AIDS" included "death by government red tape" and "death by church shunning and shaming."

And yet, something good, something wonderful arose from the flames of destruction and death. Something that will never die.

I'm so grateful to have lived through that time and come through it to enjoy Trader Joe's Coffee Blast Ice Cream with one of my brothers, sure and true.

AIDS did not get the final word.

Love did.

Love always does.

And, sometimes, the love that defeats prejudice and fear and lives on to tell the story looks like a carton of ice cream.

Three rules. Three ants. And, joy.

 

Yes, I went out and got a tattoo. For real. Not one of those stick on things. A real one that got scratched on for real with real ink by a real ink artist named DJ who is just up the street from me.

DJ is a biker with tattoos all over his body, most of which have to do with one he calls Morningstar. I’ve lost count of all of the various conspiracy stories he has, but he also has Three Rules: You don’t hurt children. You don’t hurt women. You don’t hurt animals.

When he told me that, I smiled and looked at him and said, “Hmm . . . I guess your father was one tough man to live with.” He looked at me and his jaw dropped. “My father was an SOB who beat me and my mother and killed my dog. How did you know that?”

I smiled and said, “Your tatts tell me you have seen the face of Evil and you want everyone to know it exits. Your rules tell me of the one face of Evil you’ve known personally.”

I think that cemented our relationship.

Now, the man voted for Trump – probably would again – and there’s lots about which we disagree but I see a good heart beating under all that pain.

He’s become a friend. I know he’d do just about anything I asked him to do. And, I must say that to see DJ smile is to see something that simply warms the soul – especially when he talks about his grandmother.

DJ listened to my story about Louie before he went to work on the design and smiled broadly. That’s when he told me the Story of the Three Ants. He said that there are three ants in the world whose job it is to get under our skin and move us off our chosen path.

The first ant is the oldest ant. His name is Jealousy.

The second ant was created shortly after the first. His name is Greed.

And, the third ant was born of their union. His name is Anger.

DJ claims to have created this story after years of listening to his own story and those of others. Oh, and he might have heard some of it from his grandmother. He tells me he has no religion. This, he said, is his philosophy in life. But, he said, you know, Joy Anyway is the moral of the story of The Three Ants.

This tat is a tribute to Louie, of course, but it’s also a great visual reminder of the Way of Jesus. As people of The Way, we are compelled to look deep into the abyss and find the face of Jesus. Our vocation in life is to look into the face of others and not just seek but serve Christ. Our covenant is to find the justice and joy that lies at the very center of creation.

That’s what I think of every time I look at my arm. And, Louie, of course. Always loving, always teaching, even from beyond the veil. And, DJ, whom Louie would have loved and DJ would have loved him in return.

Because, you know, that’s the Way of the Cross, the Way of Jesus. Joy, anyway!

I'll miss us when we're gone

 

Good Sunday morning, good citizens of the cosmos! It is overcast and cloudy this morning, here on the Delmarva Peninsula. The temperature when I woke up at 8 AM was 70. The air quality was good at 24, the UV index was low at 2, and the wind is coming out of the WSW at the lightning speed of 1 mph.

I went to bed shortly after 10 PM last night and, except for a time of restlessness between 1-2 AM, I went back to sleep, missed my usual wake-up time of 6 AM, and slept through till 8.

That rarely happens. As my sainted Grandmother would say, "You must have needed the sleep."

Apparently, I did. Exhaustion does not necessarily mean rest and rest is not necessarily the equivalent of sleep.

I fixed the coffee, did my morning ablutions and praises, made the bed, poured my coffee, said my prayers, and then settled in to open my email.

That's when everything got a little squirrely.

There was an email from our Deacon who was to lead a service of Morning Prayer and Communion from Reserved Sacrament. Except, he woke up at 2 AM with a fever. He immediately took a home test for COVID and discovered he was positive. Thankfully, his spouse, who has health problems, was negative.

At 4:30 AM, he sent an email, attached his homily along with his profuse apologies, and, by the looks of it, went to bed in his basement where he will stay in isolation.

As Stan used to say to Ollie, "Well, this is a fine kettle of fish we're in." And, we will scoop it all up and offer it to Jesus - in our hearts, by faith, with thanksgiving.

So, I've been on the phone with the Sr. Warden and our Office Manager, and one of our parishioners who will be an Officiant at the Morning Prayer/Service of the Word portion of the service. I've reviewed the service with her and she will read Deacon Pete's homily.

As Dame Julian of Norwich once said, “And all shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of things shall be exceeding well.”

Apparently, it's how this particular variant of the virus works, especially with people who have been properly vaccinated and have received boosters (there is a 3.77% breakthrough rate in Delaware).

I'm convinced that eventually, we'll all get COVID and that, eventually, we'll all get vaccinated in the same way we get our annual flu shot. Until, eventually, a new virus appears and becomes the new reality.

That's just the way viruses work.

So, a late start but not one minute wasted.

Over at the lectionary page, Jesus seems to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed; he appears to be in an exceedingly bad mood.

I just have this to say about the fire-and-brimstone Jesus we meet in scripture (Luke 12:49-56).

We should not be surprised.

No, this is not the 'sweet-baby-Jesus-meek-and-mild' that some of us prefer so it's the only thing we see.

And, we project that image onto ourselves and others - especially our religious leaders - as the "perfect" model for Christian behavior.

This is the Jesus who was brought to the Temple as an infant by his parents, whose life Simeon warned would be a contradiction.

Simeon 'sang' that the role of Jesus' was not to build bridges; he was to be more of a trouble maker who would draw lines in the sand that would be painful for some to cross. Everywhere he went, people would either love him or hate him.

This is the Jesus who overturned tables in the Temple and not just raised his voice but yelled and hollered and drove out the moneychangers - who were just doing their job, for goodness sake - with whips.

This is the (very human part of ) Jesus who became annoyed and frustrated and short-tempered and hurled insults and racial slurs at the Canaanite woman who was desperately seeking healing for her daughter, and rebuked Peter and sharply chastised James and John, the Sons of Thunder and other disciples, especially in The Garden the night before he died.

This is the Jesus of whom Dorothy Parker wrote in her “Prayer for a New Mother.” The poem implores God to allow Mary to forget, while her child is young, what she has foreknowledge of: “the rumble of a crowd,” “the smell of rough-cut wood,” and “the trail of red.”

We don't like to consider this Jesus, and yet, Luke's gospel compels us not to avert our eyes. His message is crystal clear. Jesus didn't come to sugar-coat the problems of this world. He didn't suffer and die a humiliating death of a common criminal on the cross, as Marx would say, to "be an opiate to the people".

Jesus came to tell us that before we can have peace, we must admit the divisions and unrest and unhappiness that exist between us at the most intimate levels of our relationships.

Jesus came to battle sin and brokenness and evil at every level of the human enterprise, for that is the pathway to the "peace that passes all human understanding."

Or, as those who struggle for the liberation of the human spirit often chant, "Know justice. Know peace."

"Just" relationships are "right" relationships and right relationships pave the pathway to peace.

Glad I'm not preaching this morning. I haven't yet read the Deacon's homily but I'm looking forward to his take. I'll be tuning into the broadcast service of the church where I'll be just a 'bum in the pew' after I finish this gig on April 9, 2023.

That's one gift of COVID. Whoda thunk, three years ago, that broadcasting live services would become so deeply ingrained in the fabric of our lives in Christian community?

Ms. Conroy and I will be tested later this morning for COVID. I've been hearing a version of that song from Black-Eyed Peas, "I've got a feeling (Woo hoo), that today's going to be a good test, that today's going to be a good, good test."

Fingers crossed.

So, make it a great day, everybody, no matter where you are or what the weather is doing in your neck of the woods. Please, do be careful. You know what I mean about a mask and washing your hands and keeping a safe distance.

This virus does not play.

And, as Stan used to say to Ollie "I'll miss us when we're gone."

The time before maps

 

 

AUGUST 13: I'm deaf as a doorknob without my hearing aids - have been for over 30 years - so when I take my aids out at night and my head hits the pillow, I'm O.U.T., just like the bedside lamp.

Which is why it was so unusual for me to awaken this morning to the sound of Laughing Gulls. I usually don't hear them until after I "put my ears in." They were clearly calling me to wake up and get up and get on with it.

Of this, I have no doubt.

It was 66 degrees and the sun was out when my feet hit the floor around 6 this morning. And, the first thing I thought, after considering the way my body felt, was that I could probably get at least a mile walk in this morning and, if I took it easy, it would probably take me about 30 minutes.

So, I quick got the coffee ready, did some basic ablutions and praises, put on my old Camino pants and shirt and my new Camino walking shoes (Altra, Lone Peak 6, Trail-Running Shoe, Navy/Lt. Blue, Womans, 8 with a wide toe box) that arrived the other day from REI. I tuned up the Walk app on my iWatch, hooked myself up with my teeny-weeny-tiny iPod Nano and my headphones, and set it to listen to Delta Rae and Molly Skaggs and the Cageless Birds and off I went.

I get tested again tomorrow but my symptoms are ever so much better that I felt strong enough to take on this low-level challenge.

After having been in isolation/lockdown for over a week and now being outside without a mask, walking and enjoying the 10 mph wind coming down special from the north just to caress my face, checking out what my neighbors were doing in their yards (Really? A coy pond?

Now that we have heron AND pelicans in the 'hood?), waving to folks out walking their dogs or heading off for work was just so wonderfully, amazingly flippin' normal that it brought tears to my eyes.

I got a 1.5-mile walk in which took just under 35 minutes but the stats don't tell you what that walk did to my mind and my heart and my soul.

I'm so ready to be B.A.C.K. The good news is that while I still may test positive for a while, as long as I'm asymptomatic, the new CDC regs allow me to return to work on Monday. With a mask. Of course.

I'm about to have a Glory Attack!

I'm actually grateful for this time of isolation/lockdown. Solitary confinement (well, with your spouse) has had aspects of a time of spiritual retreat.

There is something quite mystical about listening to your inner voice over an extended period of time. You hear stuff in ways you hadn't heard before. Your perspective changes. You think old thoughts in new ways.

Maybe that's why I 'heard' the Laughing Gulls this morning, eh?

Maybe it was the Camino calling me through the gulls and I heard them through the 'ears of the heart', as St. Benedict would say.

I thought of Joyce Rupp's poem which I've posted below. "Toss away the old map," I heard. Take away my map!?! I thunder in response.

How will I know where to go? I demand. And, my wise self answers, "There was a time before maps when pilgrims traveled by the stars."

I had forgotten one of the important lessons I learned on the last Camino. I've been looking up to find the stars. I forgot that sometimes you have to reach down - way down deep - in order to touch a star.

So, Saturday is laundry day. Better get to it. "These clothes won't wash themselves," I can hear my mother saying.

First, I finish my coffee. Feel the hot liquid over my tongue and taste the smooth, silky burst of coffee flavor at the back of my mouth. Take some deep breaths and visualize the air in and out of my lungs. Feel the aches and enjoy the twitches in the muscles of my body. Smile at it all.

I'm alive. I love and I am loved in return. I can feel the warmth of the August sun. I can smell the salt in the water. God is good. I can hear the Laughing Gulls calling me to "incline the ear of your heart."

Who needs a map?

Off we go, then.

Good neighbors

 

AUGUST 11, 2022: So, because we're still on lockdown we couldn't go and celebrate our Anniversary Dinner at Long Neck Diner as we had planned. I've been craving one of their Turkish Spinach Pies which they serve with a Greek Salad.

It's been about 3 weeks since they last made them. They don't make them often in the summer because "only locals eat them," says the owner.

Ms. Conroy has been calling faithfully since Monday to inquire.

Yesterday, the owner told her that he would have some today. This morning, he called to say that they had been "verry bizzy, verry bizzy," but he asked the chef to make us 4 pies - two for our dinner and two for the freezer ("No, don't put in freezer. In fridge. Eat by Saturday. Maybe Sunday okay.")

So, before the kitchen crew left last night, they made Turkish Spinach Pies - but they only had enough on hand to make three. "So, three. Sorry. Only three. But, made just for you," said the owner.

They were delivered today right after the lunch rush. Still hot. We wrapped them in aluminum foil and warmed them in the oven for dinner. OMG. What a treat! And, the salad was so fresh! Our mouths and our tummies are very, very happy.

Or, as they might say in Istanbul, "Lezzetli!" (Delicious!)

This is just one of the reasons we make this our home. A Turkish chef in Delaware. Who'da thunk it? The future is brown, my friends. 2045. It's just around the corner.

That, and did I tell you? The pelicans have arrived. Yes, way! We never have pelicans. We have them now. I'm more excited than I know how to say.

Even in the midst of a resurgence of another COVID variant, you can always find a reason to celebrate. And, you don't even have to break a sweat.

Have a great evening, my friends.

Blessed to be a blessing

 

AUGUST 9, 2022 It's our 9th Anniversary. Well, one of our Anniversaries.

It was at 8 AM, August 9, 2013, in a booth at the Long Neck Diner when we gathered with our dear friends, Anita Broadrick and Bill Schatzabelle, and Bea, a former Roman Catholic nun and Hospice Chaplain, to be finally, officially, legally married.

We had struggled with the decision of whether or not to be married in a church. At that point in time, The Episcopal Church had not yet authorized the blessing of the covenant of marriage made by couples of the same gender.

We thought about having our then rector and his spouse come to the house, have the marriage ceremony and blessing, celebrate with a lovely dinner and champagne out on the deck, and call it a win.

We couldn't. As Ms. Conroy said, "Hell, we've been more of a blessing to the church than the church has been to us."

Me Irish lass has a way of bluntly stating the undeniable truth.

That did it. So, Long Neck Diner it was. Having a former RC nun officiate seemed absolutely right. We had a great breakfast, the license was signed as required, a few fellow diners smiled and applauded and we went off to work.

And, just like that, 37 years of the denial of our civil rights fell away like dry scales from the eyes of the blind. All those years of anxiety and worry about the custody of our kids, all those tears shed over isolation and exclusion and prejudice which influenced where we could live and what jobs we could hold were moved from difficult reality to bad memory.

Three years later, we would have our covenant blessed at All Saints' Church in Rehoboth Beach by our dear friend, +Gene Robinson but at that moment, the Long Neck Diner was the perfect place for us to tie up the loose, legal ends of our covenant of marriage.

Funny, but our "anniversary date" will always be in October - the day we made our vows to each other in 1977 (So, our 45th Anniversary. Wow!) But, this date is worthy of note, too, as the day the rest of the country and the church woke up to the truth that love is love is love.

And, love makes a family.

Where your treasure is

Pope Joan

A Reflection on Pentecost IX - Proper 14

August 7, 2022

Good Sunday morning, good people of the universe. It's a lovely day this morning. The present temperature at 8 o'clock is 79 degrees. Air quality is low but good at 18, UV index is low at 1, and the wind is coming from the SSW at 8 mph.

Yes, I said it's 8 o'clock. That's about two or so hours later than I usually start writing. I slept in this morning because I can't go to church. I'm on COVID isolation precautions until I get tested again on Wednesday.

I have written a sermon that the deacon will deliver. He'll be doing the Service of the Word followed by Communion from Reserved Sacrament.

We both prefer that, in the absence of a priest, when the deacon is presiding at the main Sunday service, to use Morning Prayer with Communion from Reserved Sacrament. It's what we did in both our former dioceses.

There are not, as of yet, any directives or policies and procedures in this diocese. Deacons have not been used in that way here, so the bishop is taking some time with the newly formed Commission on Ministry to figure things out in terms of what will work best here.

However, since I was diagnosed on Friday with COVID, we decided that the prudent thing to do was to keep the bulletin as written and adjust it accordingly. I'm sure it will be fine. Our deacon is highly skilled, very experienced, and wonderfully competent. We are blessed to have him.

There are at least five sermons in that gospel, however. You know it. It's the one from Luke (12:32-40) where, in the first paragraph alone, Jesus tosses out preaching gems like beads on a Mardi Gras float: "Do not be afraid," he says, and "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

And then he warns everybody to be always ready because God may come "like a thief in the night." That - that right there -  all by itself, is an amazing sermon. 

 

So, I mean, what if God is that thief in the night?

What are we afraid God will take from us? What is it that you treasure so much it would leave you bereft not to have it?

Oh, I've already had that happen to me. The memory of it is so strong that I am prepared, every day and night, to surrender it. 

 

What is it, you ask? Oh, just the story I tell myself about myself and others. The 'public narrative' of one Elizabeth M. C. Kaeton. The one I want so much to believe that I put that story out there for you to believe so that, the more you believe it, the more I will, too.

We all do that, to one extent or another. But, if the goal is to be more authentic, more of who we were created by God to be, more of our true self, then we've got to face some harsh truths about the ways in which we have adapted and modified ourselves in order to "fit in" and "be popular," "be liked" or "be loved" or "be successful".

And that, my friends, is just damn hard work. It's exhausting sometimes. Which is why we guard it so jealously. We're just not ready to have God steal away the story we tell about ourselves so we can work to find the core of truth about who God has created us to be and get on with the work God has given us to do in this world.

That's not the sermon I wrote for the deacon to preach. The one the deacon will deliver is a lot safer. Of course.

This is the last day of the Gathering of the Purple Shirts across The Pond, also known as Lambeth. They have a closing Eucharist (or, already have had) and then tomorrow is their Travel Day. At least, that's what's on the schedule.

I have no doubt that some of the brothers from The Global South will boycott the Eucharist as a way of sending a strong message that the Anglican Communion is broken.

We are broken, they say, because it was bad enough that we allowed 'girl cooties' into the corridors and councils of power and authority in the church, but now we've allowed 'queer cooties' to infect the system, too.

They are not having it. They know what scripture says. We taught it to them. They know how power and authority work. We taught that to them, too.

And then, there's colonialism.

So, while using the Eucharist as a political weapon is certainly odious, we taught that to them, too. We have seen the enemy and it is us.

If I were going to preach about what's going on at Lambeth ("Don't be afraid, little flock"), I might just have to call on my new BFF, Jan Phillips. 

 

I've spent this summer hanging out with her in her book, "No Ordinary Time: A Book of Hours For a Prophetic Age." I've been using this as my Daily Office. Well, I do go back and forth between this and Phyllis Tickle's "Divine Hours" for Summertime.

I'd probably read her poem, "If I Were Pope". Here, check it out and you'll see why.

If I were pope
I'd proclaim the end of my infallibility
and banish the word sin from the doctrines of faith.

I'd ask half the bishops and cardinals
to replace themselves with a thoughtful woman
and complete their ministries in a prison or homeless shelter.

If I were pope
I'd pay the mystics to write poetry all day
and have their words read at the Sunday Masses.

I'd pay the prophets to upload their message
in five minute videos
for youtube viewers around the world.

I'd hire a thousand displaced workers
to construct a new Sistine Chapel and cover it with mirrors
instead of male images.

If I were pope
I'd announce a contest
for 10 new sacraments that celebrate
peace-making, justice, and interfaith creations.

I'd send envoys to the villages
to talk about birth control
and distribute condoms wherever they are needed.

I'd establish a tuition-free college in every country
to train young students how to think
non-violently and act ethically.

If I were pope I'd convert closed churches
to housing for the needy
and meeting places for the marginal and walking wounded.

I'd buy farms in rural places
and dedicate each one to organic farming
and cooperative, sustainable, community-based agriculture.

I'd convert every old Motherhouse and seminary
into a training center for spiritual activists, cultural creators
and community collaborators.

I'd auction off my skullcap, my mozetta cape and my darling red shoes
to the highest bidder and send the money to Haiti
for the construction of schools and health care centers.

I'd sell my Fisherman's Ring on ebay
and donate the proceeds to the Gulf shrimpers.

I'd trade my red and gold embroidered fascia
(the stole with the fringes) for a villa in Tuscany
and give free spa retreats to women who've served the church
for five years or more.

If I were pope, I'd throw a party at the Vatican
and invite everyone who's left the church
because they didn't feel welcomed.
(The overflow crowd would be treated to weekends
at Italian vineyards.)

If I were pope, I'd announce my retirement,
and as my last act in office, at the final party,
I'd ordain to the priesthood any woman who was ready,
marry any gay couple who wanted my blessing,
and marry any priest, male or female.

Then I'd get in my jammies,
say a prayer of gratitude,
and crawl into bed for a much needed nap.

I can't imagine a more explicit definition of - not to mention an amazing sermon on - "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Did I mention that Jan Phillips is a former nun? Get her 'out-of-the-box' Book of Hours. You won't be disappointed.)

So, it's time for me to go and make myself another cup of mint tea. I've been using springs of mint from my window garden and it really does help the queasiness. The progress is that we've gone from straight-up nausea to waves of queasiness. That may not sound like progress to you, but I'm taking it.

Please, please, please, please, please, be careful out there. This new variant does not do as much damage as the original - especially for those who have gotten their vaccine and boosters - but it is highly contagious and no-joke nasty.

Ms. Conroy was up most of the night with a high fever which finally broke early this morning. We both have miserable headaches. And, this too shall pass.

You know the drill: Masks. Hand washing. Social distance.

And, as they say on the streets of Rome, "Ciao Bella!"\

Mercy and truth, righteousness and peace

If you have been blissfully unaware, there was a breakthrough of sorts at Lambeth yesterday. You can hear Presiding Bishop Michael Curry talk about it here:

So, in short, the Very Big thing that happened was just that the bishops, archbishops, and primates actually acknowledge reality. And, that reality? Well, they acknowledged that they don't agree on matters of human sexuality and human dignity.

I know, right? It would be hilarious if it weren't so sad. And yet, there is cause for at least a modicum of rejoicing. I mean, that is a far cry from 1998 and Lambeth 1.10.

Here's my reflection on what happened yesterday at Lambeth.

A story of the definition of "Yud"

As a young pupil, the Chassidic master, Reb Yisrael of Ruzhin, was instructed by his teacher that whenever he saw two dots next to each other he was to pronounce G‑d’s name.

Now, at the end of a verse in the Torah, there are also two dots: one above the other. That evening at home, the young Reb Yisrael began to read. And every time he reached the end of a verse he uttered G‑d’s name.

His father repri­manded him: “What’s going on here?! Who taught you that?!” The boy responded, “My teacher did. He taught me that whenever I see two dots together, I should pronounce G‑d’s name. So that’s what I’m doing.”

Reb Yisrael’s father explained to his son: “The dot, the yud, represents a Jew. When one Jew is beside another, when one Jew respects the other, then G‑d dwells in their presence. Their alliance becomes G‑d’s name.

But when one Jew is on top of the other, when one Jew thinks he’s better or smarter than the next or disrespects his neighbor, then that’s the end of the passage. It creates a separation in the relationship between a Jew and G‑d."

And, here's a picture of Blessed Louie Crew Clay and Presiding Bishop Michael Curry which, to me, is not only something that happened in the past but is hope for the future.

"Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other." Psalm 85:10

Let's hope that the bishops can now move from studying and talking about scripture to actually living it out.

Oh, as Louie would say, "Joy Anyway!"

Paying attention

 

 

 

Good Sunday morning, good citizens of the cosmos. And, it's a be-YOU-tiful morning here on the Delmarva Peninsula. Right now, at 7 AM, it's an absolutely delightful 72 degrees, with a high expected only at 81, which, compared to other days this week, is almost downright chilly.

The air quality is actually good at 34, UV index is low at 0, and the wind, if it can be described at that, is coming from the West at 2 (that's T.W.O.) mph.

See also: Beautiful morning.

I don't know how I did it but I made an exceptional cup of coffee this morning. It's mild and silky on the tongue with a burst of strong coffee flavor on the back of the palate. I'm pretty sure that when I made it, my eyes were closed and I was sort of on automatic pilot, as I am most mornings, truth be told.

You know, there are certain routines one has when one gets up in the morning - a sure and certain defense against the drowsiness that those of us who aren't "Morning People" have - that guarantees that stuff gets done anyway.

I won't go into all the minutia of my routine but clearly, one of the first things I do is to put on the coffee. Then, while that's perking away, I do my morning ablutions, get dressed, make the bed, and get ready to throw back the first gulp of liquid gold before saying my prayers and meditating for a bit.

This morning, the coffee is especially good. And, I think, when that happens, you need to stop and sing a few praises for the amazing miracle of the coffee bean, and of cold, filtered water, and the wonders of electricity, and the engineering design of the coffee percolator, and the sound of coffee perking away while the laughing gulls sing their hosannas to the Lord and Creator of Life, which serves as a reminder to thank God again for this wee cottage on the back marshes of one of the many estuaries of the Delmarva Peninsula, which all combine to make the vibrant taste of a cup of hot coffee with its miraculous, restorative, and often medicinal powers.

It's important to do that, I think, especially in the morning when everything else for me is on autopilot and a whole day could go by without acknowledging the first miracle of the day: I'm up and, as the Jews pray, my soul has returned! And, after coffee, I've actually got most of my wits about me.

I think Cecily is right: I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it. But I think it might also make God just a wee bit cranky not to notice the goodness of simple pleasures like a morning cup of coffee or tea or whatever your preferred morning beverage.

Meanwhile, over at the Lectionary Page, Jesus is telling the story about the Foolish Rich Man who thought he could store up all his riches on earth by building bigger storage bins. It's such a common human failing. We seem hot-wired to think that bigger really is better. That less is, well, less. And, that everything needs to be 'er' - stronger, better, faster.

Even more than that, we're conditioned to believe that if we don't want more, something is wrong with us. We're lazy ne'er-do-wells, who have no ambition. And, if we don't have more, we're less than and have no value as human beings.

Nothing brings this out more than the Lottery which, this week, was worth over a billion dollars. A. billion. Dollars.

I'll admit it: we bought a ticket. Yes, we did. Spent a whole five bucks. But first, we had to have a conversation about all the wonderful, noble things we'd do with the winnings You know, to justify throwing five whole dollars at the ridiculous odds of winning. I remember times - not so long ago -when we worried we would be $5 short to pay the rent.

It reminded me of something I read that Voltaire once said, "God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh." And, Garrison Keillor, who probably actually read Voltaire, once said that "God writes a lot of comedy, but the trouble is that God is stuck with so many humans who are lousy comedy actors."

The preacher isn't preaching this morning. The Deacon is. It's hardly his first time in the pulpit but it is his first time up at bat at St. Paul's. He'll do that once a month, for which the preacher is deeply grateful. He's a good man and an experienced deacon. It will be fun to see what he has to say.

It's my last day in Facebook Time Out so if you want to catch the 10 AM service live, you'll have to watch it on Ms. Conroy's Facebook page. I'll post a link once we get home from church on Sirach 26:10 and St. Paul's Facebook page.

Please do take care. The COVID rate here in Delaware is now at 20% and the Public Health Officials are asking us to wear masks in crowded places. Ms. Conroy and I wore our masks to the movie theater yesterday. We'll be wearing them in church.

Yes, it's a pain but you know, if the choice is "Mask or Sick", I'm taking Mask every time. And, the third booster in September, before I leave for the Camino. Yes, I will.

Other than laughter and digestion, I think it's very important to take COVID seriously. This virus doesn't mess.

Make it a great day, everybody. There's never been a day quite like today ever before and there's never going to be one exactly like it ever again. So, get out there and enjoy!

And, as they say on the streets of Lisbon, Portugal, where I'll be on September 29th, “bom dia“ (good morning or hello - until 1 or 2 PM ), then it's “boa tarde“ (good afternoon), then, “boa noite”(good evening), or simply “olá“ (hi!).

Success and accomplishment

 

Sometimes 'success' looks different to different people. So does 'accomplishment'. For me, accomplishment nearly always looks like success.

What am I talking about?

Well, see that large black bag there on the right? You probably see a garbage bag, right? That actually represents about 90 minutes of work, thinning out my closet and four sets of drawers of clothes that I've not worn in a long while and either no longer fit me or are no longer part of my style. They are all in perfect condition - all washed and folded (that was another chore) - and off they'll go to the Thrift Store on Monday.

The other two are of laundry - sweaters that were a bit stained so they got the SHOUT treatment before laundering and are now beautiful - and regular weekly laundry that needs to line dry rather than in the dryer.

Looks mundane and common - too much so to be called an accomplishment much less success. I admit it; you're not completely wrong. There are people around the world who have already accomplished three, maybe four times the work these chores represent, six times before breakfast. And, they don't even have 1/8 of a bag of clothes to their name, much less to give away.

But, you know what? I'm not them and they are not me. I am me and I was able to "make time" and get this stuff done this morning. Which, for me, is huge. There is actually something I've done with my morning (okay, besides making some ah-mazing coffee and am about to start a great breakfast) that I can look at and say, "Hey, look. I did that."

There aren't too many things in the life of a priest in ministry where one can actually point to something concrete and tangible and feel a sense of accomplishment and success.

Hear me: I'm not complaining. On the contrary, I am blessed to be able to do what I do. Hospice ministry is really my jam. When I come across a nurse's report of a patient who has died and she has written, "patient died peacefully, surrounded by his family," I feel enormous joy and a sense of accomplishment and success.

That's especially so when I remember some of the conversations and struggles we've had to work through together - that patient and his family and me - to find that peace. That may not seem like much to some but it means the world to me. I just can't bring it home and say, "Hey, look. I helped to do that."

Not that I need to. It's just that it would be nice, once in a while. It is pretty wonderful when one of my team members - a nurse, social worker, and/or CNA - sees me out somewhere and we talk about that patient and someone puts their hand on my shoulder and says, "We did some good work there, didn't we?" And, I feel such deep joy that it brings tears to my eyes.

Parish ministry? Well, accomplishment and success there are a bit more elusive. It's easy to often feel like a failure or at least, not up to snuff; at worse, an imposter.

These days, one has to be an expert in so many things that were not even discussed in seminary:

Finance - how to read and understand a simple P&L Balance sheet. How to spot upward and downward trends. How to inspire to use money as a means, not as an end; how to teach that a budget is a statement of priority as well as theology.

Fundraising (AKA "Stewardship") - how to tailor all the fancy-pants, slick programs out there for a struggling, small, decimated congregation.

HR/Personnel - how to write a Job Description and/or develop a Letter of Agreement, and conflict management between staff and/or parishioners. How to diagnose low-level bickering and pettiness and gossip so that they can be appropriately and more effectively addressed.

Buildings and Grounds - how to negotiate with a contractor or shop for the best locksmith or know a fair price for the services of a plumber or electrician or shop for a boiler or heating or air conditioning system.

Education/Christian Formation - how to organize and present engaging programs that edify and raise awareness while deepening faith that targets the spiritual development needs of specific age groups (See Fowler's Stages of Development).

Preaching and Liturgy - how to write and deliver sermons that are relevant and send people home inspired to put the Gospel message into some form of action in their lives. How to inspire faith on Sunday through the liturgical calendar and music and art that lasts at least until Thursday. How to use the liturgy as a pedagogical tool.

Infrastructure - how to rebuild it after it has been decimated by 3-5 years of scarce, inconsistent, or non-existed trained, skilled leadership of the laity or ordained, but which is particularly devastating when coupled with the lack of sacramental and pedagogical ministry of the ordained which edifies the Body of Christ.

And, not last and certainly not least: How to raise consciousness and action regarding Gospel Justice - especially when it presents itself in a local issue - and especially without scolding or shaming and finding a way to 'yes' while still helping people save face.

And, and, and, and, AND . . . how to do all that without support, without feeling like you're part of a team, like the Lone Ranger wearing the mask of an imposter, but without either Tonto or a silver bullet.

See what I mean? Yeah, I'm just going to leave all that there. Maybe I'll come back to it when I write that book. Maybe that will make me feel less of a complete and utter failure.

So, every now and again this weekend, I'm just going to pass by my big black garbage bag and laundry lines of accomplishment and success. And, smile.

It should also take my mind off the shenanigans across The Pond at the Lambeth Conference, with those who are so eager to "go along to get along" that they forget the cautionary words of James Baldwin:

"We can disagree and still love each other unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and denial of my humanity and right to exist."

Or, as Becca Ehrlich recently tweeted:

"Organizational decay: when the nature of an organization shifts from doing work in the real world to presenting a dramatization of its own perfection in a fantasy world. (Narcissistic Process and Corporate Decay by Howard Schwartz)."

Off I go then. Tying up loose ends of the morning so I can go off and see "Where the Crawdad Sing." Loved the book. Can't wait to see the film. I hear it's magnificent.

Have a wonderful Saturday. Hope you are able to find a sense of accomplishment and success. It can happen if you look in unexpected places.

Masks

I am always startled and then shaken when I run into this quote by James Baldwin. It's especially poignant since James was a Black man in the Civil Rights Movement and a Gay Man when it was even more dangerous than being a Black man.

One of the most revolutionary things to happen to me was knowing this kind of love - personally, emotionally, spiritually, intimately - that picked me up, twirled me around, and set my life on a completely different path from the one I was on and the one I could never have imagined.

Years later, and after lots of reflection, I understood that this love was to prepare me to experience the unconditional love of God that gives you the courage to take all the masks off in public, with impunity.

This maskless love gives you the strength to accept the consequences of such radical, self-love which can only come from knowing that no matter what you do or who you think you are or where you think you're going, God loves you because God has seen you and knows you without all the masks you have created for yourself, and loves you still.

It's not that you don't care anymore. It's that you care more deeply about God's love than the approval of others.

So, g'won. Take off the mask(s). Just for today.

It's too hot, anyway.

Rest secure in the knowledge that God loves you far beyond the limits of the eyes in your head, even deeper than the eyes of the heart beating in your chest, and more than the eyes of your imagination which yearn to break free from behind the very masks it has created.

Be blessed!

Twinkle, twinkle little star

 

What with 10-year-old girls being raped and the POTUS talking to a man he called a "pariah" and text messages being deleted by the Secret Service on 1/6, I have to step away and be really intentional about considering beauty.

I've never had to look too far to find beauty in this world. Last night as I was leaving the church after a Parish Security Team Meeting, I looked over at a grove of trees next to the cemetery and saw fireflies in the dusk.

I'm still not quite sure what has delighted me about them but they always cause me to gasp with awe and wonder, which is followed by sensations around my heart of pure delight.

They are magical, no? I don't know why they light up like that or what causes them to light up light that. And, honestly? I don't want to know. I want to believe there's magic somewhere in their bodies and they were created to remind us that life is beautiful and magical and thoroughly delightful.

And then, there are the images that have been coming to us from the James Webb telescope. Have you seen them?

It's just magnificent. Breathtaking. Amazing. Magical.

Jane Rigby, an astrophysicist at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center and the telescope’s operations manager said that they've always been out there. We just had to build a telescope to go see what was there.

Okay, it cost $10 BILLION. Over time. Totally worth it.

Because of the speed of light, she said that we are seeing these clusters of galaxies and nebula rings and possible water vapor as they were seen 13 billion years ago - about the same time that the sun and the earth formed.

And, I thought it was pretty amazing to stand in front of the Pyramid in Egypt and realize that Moses stood before them in his time. I mean, think about THAT and then think about the age of the images we're seeing from outer space.

The picture I've chosen to show fascinates me the most. It is the star-forming region of the Carina Nebula, one of the largest stellar nurseries.

Now, I'm going to pause right there because I sound like I know what I'm talking about and I don't. So, I looked up some stuff.

A nebula is a distinct body of interstellar clouds. A stellar nursery is a place in the cosmos where star formation takes place.

Star formation? Yes, star formation. Star formation is the process by which dense regions within molecular clouds in interstellar space, collapse and form stars.

I didn't know any of that even existed or happened, did you?

For all I know, we could be talking about fireflies.

Which we could be, actually, because human, animal, and plant life on planet earth where we live have about 97 percent of the same kind of atoms.

Just take that in for a second.

When you think about it, we are really no different than any other small, insignificant specks of dust in the cosmos. In fact, what we're seeing - these amazing sparkling images - are more than 13 billion years old.

Which is why we, in our own way and from time to time, light up and sparkle and twinkle. It's in our DNA.

We have magic in our bodies and I think fireflies are sent here one season every year to remind us of that.

Anyway, that's what I'm thinking right now before I turn my thoughts back to what to do about the really awful ways we creatures on this Planet Earth have and continue to screw things up so badly, that we cast darkness over each other and the whole planet.

I invite you to look at the stars and look for fireflies in the night. Let the healing powers of awe and amazement and wonder and delight soothe your soul and lighten your broken heart.

Maybe, so healed, we will be able to begin to heal ourselves and the world - or maybe, just stop hurting each other and the planet. Just for a few moments in time, anyway.