Have you noticed, that when people fly, there is so much hurrying?

Hurrying through security to put your bag on the X-ray machine. Hurrying to the gate. Hurrying to get in line to board and to quickly stow your bag in the overhead bin. Hurrying to depart. Hurrying. Hurrying. Hurrying.

Except each of those hurryings are usually followed by a pause.

Hurrying through security, bag quickly and urgently placed on the X-ray machine belt, then waiting on the other side.

Hurrying to the gate, and then waiting in an uncomfortable seat, hopefully with an outlet near by to charge a device whose power has depleted in the time passed from home to gate.

Hurrying to board and stash a bag, and impatient with whose who find boarding and getting settled complicated and then sitting and waiting for the doors to close. And then waiting for one thing or another to be tended to before finally departing.

At the destination, hurrying to get your bag from the overhead bin and then waiting in line to deplane and maybe waiting some more at baggage claim and then waiting yet again for whatever your ground transportation is for this trip.

All that hurrying. All that waiting.

Today, as I boarded my plane from Redmond to San Francisco (one of thirteen passageners—Coronatide), I noticed that we were all moving more slowly. At check in. At security. At the gate. People were nodding at one another and even exchanging quiet pleasantries. There just wasn that much hurrying (okay, except for the woman on the plane who realized she’d left her devices at the charging station at the gate and did rush to deboard to retrieve them).

I write this as I wait for my plane to be deiced so we can take off. The plane is quiet. The sun is rising. It’s Advent. Are we learning to not hurry so much? To rest in the wait?

This entire blog. Written in the waiting.

Third Monday in Advent blessings.

I have tried to be extraordinarily careful in the pandemic. I know keeping myself safe is the best way to keep others safe.

So this trip to Bend to see my grandsons is being taken after great thought and prayer. Jonas turns eight (!) on Tuesday which is how this week got on the vacation calendar. But part two is that as the pandemic lingered, I told my daughter in law that I would come over and help with school. This is the week for me to use my Master’s Degree in Education—and hang out with the boys so that Jacob and Lisa can have some time for the two of them.

The tricker part is that the only practical way for me to get to Oregon is to fly. Even in non-pandemic times flying north is fraught with challenges.

Today did not disappoint. Up at 4.00 AM to catch my 7.20 flight, things went smoothly until 7.30. A computer problem resulted in a turn around and return to the terminal. And then we had to deplane so they could find us another plane. And when they found us a plane, they had to do their super duper Covid cleaning. And then they had to wait for the plane to be catered. And then they had to move our luggage to the new plane. And then we had to all get back on the plane for our not on time departure of 10.15 AM.

This is not my first plane flight so I had built in extra connection time— but not enough. That is why I’m getting to spend the first Saturday in Advent waiting in Denver. Eight hours until another flight departs for Bend.

I don’t know if it’s because the pandemic has gotten all of us expecting the unexpected but usually when there’s this kind of delay folks get cranky. But people were kind. People were like—it’s 2020—why not?

Now I’m settled in the United lounge for the waiting. I’m thankful for the pass that gave me free entry. As much as I wish I were with my family on Bend, it’s not a bad thing to have to spend time waiting.

It is Advent. I have music, knitting, reading material and snacks galore near at hand.

And it’s Advent. 2020. After all.

Saturday, November 28, is New Years Eve.

At least as far as the liturgical year is concerned.

Yay! Ending of Year A. Woo Hoo to the beginning of Year B. Finally.

In the parish where I served, for a number of years, we had a custom of reading aloud, in community, the primary Gospel to be read in the new liturgical year. Early days in the new year, we’d gather in the nave, seated in a circle around the altar, and take turns reading through the gospel, chapter by chapter.

It was usually a dozen or so of us. A family might bring their children, an older couple might come. Clergy, Junior Daughters of the King, random folks.

We’d light some candles, begin with Evening Prayer, and the entire Gospel was our Scripture reading.

I’ve been remembering the gift those readings were, especially since Scripture was written to be read aloud, and in community.

At sunset on Saturday night, a new year begins. I have this wild idea, in this year like no other, to create a zoom event for the public reading of the Gospel of Mark.

If you’d like to join me at 6pm on Saturday night to welcome the new year with reading scripture in community, and closing with compline, contact me, and I’ll send you the zoom link.

In the meantime, New Year’s blessings.

It was a day in California. Shelley’s visitation. Shelley’s funeral. Shelley’s burial. Shelley’s reception.

This was the most people I’d been with since March. It felt like I was in a land far, far away. Too many people were not wearing masks or wearing them over their mouths only. It was impossible for me to be as safe as I feel at home, though I did my best in case I’d brought germs from Texas. But it was a good reality check of why the pandemic is continuing to spread. Especially in settings of grief.

My therapist had reminded me that in the midst of being responsible for officiating at the funeral that I was grieving, too. After the reception, I had several hours until my flight left. It was time for me to grieve.

I thought of the ways I could spend the open time. Since I was only twenty minutes from the border, I decided to drive to Mexico to see the “beautiful” wall.

Well. I didn’t actually go into Mexico. I was a little concerned about some glitch that might not get me back into the US in time for my flight. But I drove along the border and saw all the ways we’ve made sure that those we don’t want to enter are kept out.

My best photos of that not beautiful at all wall were from the parking lot of the outlet mall that backs up to Mexico. Yet another strange land on this unusual day.

I am now in the midst of the two flight long home that includes a three hour layover in between (last minute plans have limited options). I have more space to sit and ponder.

It was good to have time to be with my California cousins. I had fine conversations with all sorts of folks about life and death and God. I listened a lot. I loved the San Diego weather experienced from the hill top of my cousin’s home.

I was particularly aware of the cloud of witnesses surrounding us in this mourner’s land. As I prayed before the service, I could feel the prayerful presence of relatives who I love so dearly that have welcomed Shelley home. Dear ones like Uncle Jamie and Aunt Frances, her grandparents; my dad, her great uncle; and Grandma Blanche, her great grandma.

As God would have it, part of Grandma Blanche’s farm is still in my family. We rent our portion out to be farmed, and the rent check came in a week or so ago. My mom generously offered to pay my brothers’ and my way to the funeral and to treat the whole family to dinner in California. I loved thinking that Grandma Blanche was taking care of her family, and of the great granddaughter she was meeting for the first time in heaven.

I did have to wonder how Grandma Blanche, a devout Southern Baptist, felt about treating us to margaritas and beers with our dinner.

I can’t help but think about the hospitality that thrives in heaven. No walls for sure. Welcoming arms. And I suspect toasts abound.

After all, scripture tells us that crying and tears of sorrow are not to be found in heaven.

From Revelation 21:
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the former heaven and the former earth had passed away….God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more. There will be no mourning, crying, or pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.

Tears, mourning, and death are for us who are still traveling in this foreign land.