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.

It was Church on a not quite mountain top.

L is for Lent.

L is also for layover in Los Angeles.

If a flight is going to be delayed, being able to sit outside at LAX at a club (thanks to a free pass) is the way to layover in a delayed position.

It’s my first Lent while retired.

Except for a visit to the farm for my mother’s 98th (!!!) birthday, this has been a stay at home Lent.

No sermons to write. No liturgies to plan. No Lenten teaching/series to coordinate. Ash Wednesday was collar-less as I worshipped at Hope Episcopal.

My only priestly act has been to teach Reconciliation of a Penitent with the Middler students at Iona School for Ministry.

I have been a Lenten observer, ponderer, wonderer.

I’ve spent time reading, praying, planting my garden, and loads of Lenten lolling.

Now I’m on my way to spend this past mid-point of Lent in Oregon with my family.

God and I are having a quiet Lent. I think God is fine with that.

PS. T-Mobile let me know that I also flew over Mexico today. Who knew?

January 25 is my thirty-first anniversary of priestly ordination. Celebrating it in Bentonville with my best friend felt perfect.

She was at my ordination, and we became friends soon afterwards. I walked through the day recalling “this time 31 years ago, I was…….” Some tears were shed.

At a celebratory breakfast, “31 years ago, I was sitting at St. Dunstan’s with my parents folding the worship booklets. My dad would read a lesson that night in the service.” Kinfolk.

During our visit to Crystal Bridges, I had so many opportunities to recall all the kinfolk who were there that day and have since shaped these thirty one years.

A new exhibit of two artists (Toshiku Takaezu and Lenore Tawney) who shared their lives through letters and became close friends, inspiring one another’s work was especially insightful. Part of their artistic friendship was sharing recipes. Kinfolk.

As a female priest, honoring the value of what is considered woman’s work is a good place to rest. Toshiku wrote, “In my life I see no difference between making pots, cooking and growing vegetables.” Lenore encouraged “following the path of the heart.”

The museum has several places where they encourage guests to create their own art. In one room, there was place to sit and draw one’s emotions. My drawing expressed how I feel celebrating thirty one years of priesthood. It is incomplete—I am not done yet.

Joining me at the art table were three young women who were full of laughter and conversation with one another. They were a musical backdrop. Kinfolk.

As we walked to dinner, my friend continued to listen to my rambling and reminiscences of that ordination day. She had chosen to treat me to dinner at a church building repurposed as a restaurant called The Preacher’s Son. The meal was beyond delicious, but it was my friend’s kind toast to the years of ministry that brought the tears.

There was room left for a slice of passion fruit pie to share. Kinfolk.

Kinfolk. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.