I am a retired Episcopal priest after serving over thirty years in Diocese of Texas and a Benedictine Oblate of Our Lady of Grace Monastery in Beech Grove, Indiana. I'm also an eighth generation Texan. My daughter, The Homesick Texan, has moved back home to Texas. My son and his wife live in Bend, Oregon, with my two grandsons who call me Grandma Texas.
On Easter Monday, my mother was resurrected. Finally, she has that peace that surpasses all of our imaginations and understandings.
Meanwhile, my heart is broken wide. I know that God’s peace is near— but for me, for now, it’s a spiritual concept, not a feeling.
After our long days and nights of the vigil of withedness as Mother moved from this life to the next, after sorting through a few matters, I came home for a few days to rest.
I’m not crying much yet—probably, as the big sister, the priest expert, and will executor, my head is too full. I can feel those tears stuffed in my chest. I know they will break through.
On my plane ride home from Dallas, the first tears broke through. I had made a playlist of music that had been a comfort, and hands over my face, turned towards the window, finally, I wept.
At church on Sunday, going to receive Eucharist, with the cloud of witnesses in heaven and on earth , the tears broke through again. The kindness of the leadership made it safe to simply be.
I’m on a quick flight back to Dallas again. My brothers and I will meet with the lawyers, will make final plans for my mother’s burial, and pick up Mother’s cremains.
After over thirty years of deeply walking Holy Week, the Tridium, and the Day of Resurrection through the beautiful Episcopal liturgy as a priest, this Holy Week I have experienced the liturgy of the dying.
The Tridium of the dying.
Maundy Thursday. My mother’s last meal. My mother’s last time to sit in her prayer chair for Scripture, prayer, and coffee.
Good Friday. My daughter coming to be with her Grandma, reading aloud all of the kind words people had written in response to her blog, Grandma’s Chocolate Pie.
Holy Saturday. My brother and I, weary, moving slowly through day, doing only what was essential.
My youngest brother arrived with my dear sister in law about eleven that night, and we four laughed a bit as we shared stories. Together we then prayed the Episcopal Prayers at the Time of Death. He and his wife took the night watch so my middle brother and I could rest.
This early morning of the resurrection, I tended to my mother, and then stepped outside in her greening gardens, listening to the Easter hymn of my Baptist childhood, Up from the grave he arose.
The hymn starts slowly, somberly, quietly:
Low in the grave He lay Jesus my Savior. Waiting the coming day Jesus my Lord.
Then everything changes: quickly, exuberantly, joyfully:
Up from the grave He arose With a mighty triumph o’er His foes He arose a Victor from the dark domain And He lives forever with His saints to reign He arose! (He arose) He arose! (He arose) Hallelujah! Christ arose!
As I walked the land we call the farm, there was beginng light and only the sound of birds singing.
Weary from yesterday’s vigil, everyone else was still asleep. It was quiet in the garden.
My heart was open.
It remains open as we await the resurrection of my mother.
For weeks I had planned to spend Palm Sunday through Easter Monday at Our Lady of Grace Monastery in Indiana. Sister Sheila and Sister Luke had given me a warm welcome when I asked if I could join them, and the thought of walking with the Sisters through the week long liturgy filled me with prayerful joy.
Then Holy Trinity in Port Neches asked if I could serve on Palm Sunday. They are located near the Louisiana border and have great difficulty finding clergy. They hadn’t had Eucharist since January. How could I say no to this invitation?
I changed my plane tickets to arrive at Our Lady of Grace on Holy Monday.
Then my brother called and said my mom had taken a turn for the worse. I changed my plane ticket again, told the sisters I could not join them, and flew to my mom’s Holy Monday evening.
A Holy Week. Not as expected.
Holy Tuesday was spent rearranging my mom’s room so that we could replace her bed with a hospital bed. A little miracle happened in the deep cleaning—her engagement ring which had been lost for years was found tucked under her headboard. In the midst of challenges—such joy!
Holy Tuesday night/early Holy Wednesday morning felt like a Garden of Gethsemane. My mother had a great deal of confusion and restlessness getting used to her new bed, and nearly every thirty minutes was punctuated with a sharp cry, “Beth!”
I wanted so much to give my brother the night off, and mainly did.
As I tried to find sleep between caring for my mom, I prayed. At one point, I felt such a sense of being with Jesus in the Garden as he prayed the night he was to be arrested.
His words and mine intertwined:
Can you not stay awake with me?
Take this cup from me!
Not my will, God, but yours.
This is not the Holy Week retreat I expected, but in the challenges, fellowship, suffering, and even laughter, it is a Holy Week indeed.
Part of my Lenten practice most every year post-ordination included some away journey. Before grandboys, there were annual trips to the ocean. Since their birth, a part of Lent has been to the high desert of central Oregon.
The timing for this year’s trip was to attend the older grandboy’s band concert. The concert was on Pi Day, so my daughter in law and I made a pie. I did the crust, she made the apple filling. Cooking together is a joy.
The concert was attended by all five of the grandparents and an aunt and her partner. I love that I’ve been here often enough to have extended community in Bend.
The Sunday following was the fifth in Lent, and it was the only day everyone in the family would be together. Is there a way to observe Lent without walking into a church building and to find Church somewhere else? That was my quest.
We lolled the morning; I spent a good amount of my time reading the Bible and praying and reading devotionals. I used the Bible I’d bought my grandson for my Bible time. That was precious.
After lunch, the whole family joined in walking the labyrinth at the local Lutheran Church. The church has set up their parking lot as a place for people without houses to live. They also have piles of wood as a wood bank for folks to take and use to keep warm. I love the way this church is Church outside their walls using what they have to share—a garden, a parking lot, wood.
As we walked the labyrinth, my family and I had conversation about the different ways that walking a labyrinth (and any kind of walking) can be a kind of prayer.
After the labyrinth walk, my son wanted to hike—another walk. I have pretty much given up hiking and have become rather a sloth. I had brought my walking stick on the trip, it was a beautiful day, and I decided to give it a go.
When we arrived at our hike, my response on seeing the not-mountain, was to give myself permission to climb as high as I could. My family was good with me taking my own pace, and eventually I sent them on ahead as I stopped to catch my breath.
It was St. Patrick’s Day, so I had plenty of time to ponder, in the places of pause where I caught my breath, of a hike I had attempted years ago. Crough Patrick is a half mile high mountain in County Mayo, Ireland, where Patrick is said to have climbed and fasted and prayed for forty days. The climb is uneven and rocky, and thousands make a pilgrimage to the top each year, some even barefoot. Even with hiking boots and a stick, I was unable to make it to the top of the mountain.
Here I was, nearly thirty years later, on a smaller not-mountain, still not able to walk to the top.
I was fine. Walking slowly, I had much time to think and pray. I had good pauses for breath that allowed me to look deeply at the beauty around me. Family who loved me were near.
House of Grace 