Since I spent my final Sunday as rector of St. Mary’s, it’s been a whirlwind of change and last things. As I worked on my transition plan, I knew I had a gift of an empty Sunday on the first day of Advent, when the Church celebrates a new year. I decided to go on a silent retreat with the sisters of St. Helena in Augusta, Georgia.

The podcasts and devotionals that have begun my mornings have been full of words about beginnings and endings. I feel a gift of opportunity in this time as I move from one part of my life to another.

There’s no direct flight to Augusta, so a friend offered to meet me in Atlanta and drive me to the Monastery. We went via one of my favorite towns, Athens, with time for coffee, a movie, a visit to a favorite potter, and a couple of great meals.

We walked into town for breakfast this morning. The need for silence was coming upon me, and my friend was wanting to visit a museum. As God would have it, my friend saw a notice for mindfulness meditation at the Georgia Museum of Art. Starting in twenty-five minutes.

We power-walked back to the hotel for the car and drove to the museum with five minutes to spare. Nothing like rushing to be still for meditation.

Inside the museum, we walked to a small gallery. We sat on folding stools and cushions with a group of people while a professor led us in an hour of meditation. For part of the time, we were invited to continue our meditative practice as we gazed at the art on the walls surrounding us.

The room where we sat in stillness was an exhibit of works created by Ted Kincaid called “Even if I Lose Everything.” On the walls were his digital images of clouds.

Using words like compassion, loving kindness, and appreciative joy, we meditated sitting, and then we stood or sat in front of the art and joined what we saw with the silence within.

The blues of the paintings and the intentional mindfulness was an unexpected beginning for my Advent retreat.

Now arrived at the Monastery, the silence begins.

When I was called as rector of St. Mary’s, I committed to stay for at least three years.

Each year since, I’ve intentionally prayed about whether or not I was still called to serve as rector.

I had some opportunities to test that call–three times candidate for bishop, invitations to serve in other rector search processes, a couple of invitations to consider whether or not to serve on the diocesan staff.  I’ve even asked God if it’s time to retire.

Each testing of the call was another yes for St. Mary’s.

For twenty one years God has said yes to my call to St. Mary’s.  Few rectors receive the gift of a long pastorate.

Last spring I was at the Diocesan Center at a meeting, and I thought about how very grateful I was to be serving at St. Mary’s.  I recalled the times I’d wondered about serving on the Diocesan staff, and was thankful that God had kept me in the center of St. Mary’s parish life.

I should have known.

Later that week I was invited to be part of discernment for the position of  Missioner for Congregational Vitality.  I have to admit.  It was lovely to be wanted and to have my gifts affirmed by people I respected.  However, almost immediately, it appeared that door closed as the diocese decided to look in some wider circles.

I was thankful to have my call to St. Mary’s be another yes.  I was grateful after all of the moves of the past two years because of a twice flooded rectory to settle in and be present with the people I love in a house that feels like a gift everyday.

I couldn’t have been more surprised (really!) when late this summer, returning from my mini-Sabbatical, I was asked to be the Missioner for Congregational Vitality.  I hadn’t applied.  I hadn’t sought it out.  I was simply called.

I went through one of the most difficult months of discernment of my life.  I met with my therapist and spiritual director.   I sought the counsel and prayer of trusted friends.

I grieved deeply, deeply the thought of leaving the parish I have loved and called home for the past twenty-one years.

Frankly, the thought of moving yet again felt daunting beyond measure.

God and I had a lot of long, heart-wrenching talks.

And then, there it was.  The peace where I knew what my next call was.

When I was about ten years old, I heard my first call to ministry.   God spoke in my spirit and told me that I was called to be a missionary.

That call has shaped deeply who I was as a lay person and as I am as a priest.

It is not lost on me that God has now called me to actually have that title, more or less, as Missioner for Congregational Vitality.

My heart breaks to leave St. Mary’s.

There were things I thought I was called to do at St. Mary’s that will not be complete–building a labyrinth and leading a capital funds mission to renovate our aging campus.  I did not achieve the goal for which I had hoped and prayed–for our whole parish’s commitment to sharing all of the gifts God has given us; there are still friends who live out of a theology of scarcity.  We are still revisioning our ministry with children, youth, and young families.  As I write this, I am not sure what our discernment will be about same gender marriage.

And then there are the precious, precious people of St. Mary’s.  There are no words, only tears.

And yet joy–at a God who continues to surprise.

This weekend I will make public my next call–knowing that my new call gives St. Mary’s a new call, too.

May we all be blessed.

Art pictured in this blog are photos I took on my trip last week to Chrystal Bridges Museum and Bentonville, Arkansas.  

In Little Rock, I happened upon an extraordinary exhibit, A Piece of my Soul. It contained quilts created by black women of Arkansas. In a room with walls covered in quilts made from leftover pieces of fabric, I sat on a repurposed church pew and watched a video of black women telling how sewing quilts had been a means to share and transform their lives.

Although the quilt tops were made by individuals, they were finished by groups of women who quilted them in community, continuing their story telling as they completed the quilt.

The women interviewed recounted a time when their people were too poor to buy ready made quilts, and so they used bits of fabric they had on hand to create something beautiful to keep their loved ones warm.

I was particularly moved by these women and their quilts made from what others might discard or thought waste because of a poem I had read that very morning. It was I Will Keep Broken Things by Alice Walker. Among the lines of the poem were these:

I will keep 
Broken 
things: 
In my house 
There 
Remains 
An 

Honored 
Shelf 
On which 
I will 
Keep 
Broken 
Things. 

Their beauty 
Is 
They 
Need 
Not 
Ever 
Be 
‘fixed.’ 

A quilt that most held my attention was a pattern called Broken Dishes. It was finished by
Dorothy Lambert White in the 1950’s. Scraps of color as pieces of discarded pottery: the art of the quilt was full of life and joy and order in what could have been chaos and disappointment.

This is what God does. Takes the broken bits and the scraps of our lives. Fits them together with love and forgiveness. Finishes them through the love of community. Creates beauty and comfort. Through it all tells the stories of the deepest parts of our souls.

My best friend and I have taken a trip to celebrate my birthday most years we’ve been friends. The first birthday trip ever was twenty five years ago to Maine and New Brunswick.

New Mexico. Anacortes Island. Alaska to see glaciers. Maui. Isle of Iona. Rockport for whooping cranes. Nova Scotia. Iceland.

One year the birthday road trip to Marfa was rerouted to walk with three year old Judah from this life to the next.

This year we’re returning to a favorite spot in Arkansas.

I’m starting the day walking to have coffee.

Oldering is a very fine thing.