When I went out for my morning walk this morning, it was gray and drizzly.  My street was full of trash, and as I looked down the road towards the neighborhood school, I saw leftover campaign signs from yesterday’s election.

Sleep deprived as many, if not most Americans are this morning, the weather and the view on my street matched how I was feeling.  Gloomy.  Surrounded by garbage.

So I did my walking prayer.  Thoughts rose to God:  My anger and frustration that my home, the Rectory, seven months after the Tax Day Flood, had not yet commenced its restoration.  My sadness for all people who are angry and afraid of what the future holds for them.  I beseeched God for the strength, God’s Strength alone, to help me lead the community entrusted to me to be instruments of reconciliation, peace, and Gospel living.

I prayed for our newly elected leaders and for all of those who had the courage to put themselves forth with unbelievable vulnerability and were not elected.

When I returned to my becoming less and less temporary home, I went indoors and put on my work gloves.  I grabbed a trash bag and went back to the street.  I picked up soiled sacks of MacDonald’s waste, a Lone Star beer can,  dirty napkins, a spent bottle rocket, and an empty Vodka bottle.

And I wrote a note to our newly elected president in my head:

Sir, you have vowed to unify our broken nation in your acceptance speech this morning.
As I write this, the majority of our American citizens who voted yesterday did not vote for you.  Please know they will hold you to this early morning promise.

Meanwhile, this one chick priest is already picking up the trash and will continue to work for a country where we strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of human being.

No exceptions.  

I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad lately.  He died in 2008, and the last person he ever voted for was Hillary Clinton in the 2008 Democratic Presidential Primary.

My dad was a lifelong Southern Baptist.  He was a deacon in the Baptist Church, and at least two of his pastors wrote of him in their books;  their words were about how he had inspired their own spiritual journeys.

One of his tasks the last year of his life was to read the Koran in its entirety.  He could no longer easily hold a book, so he sat at his computer each morning and read chapters from the Koran, in addition to the Bible, as part of his morning discipline.  Daddy was curious and wanted to understand folks who believed differently from him, so he read and he listened.

Daddy was a clinical psychologist, spending much of his professional career serving veterans as Chief of Psychological Services at Veterans Hospital in Dallas.  A president of Texas Psychological Association, he was nationally respected.

Daddy led an effort in Texas to require that psychologists be accredited. Before this effort, any person could simply claim to be a psychologist and take clients, whether they had had proper preparation and training, or not.  He had seen the deep damage that poorly educated therapists could inflict on those who were the most vulnerable, and he was an instrument of change.

In this election season, I’ve been wanting to talk with my dad.  As both a Christian and a psychologist, he always had interesting insights into the people who served in government and those who put themselves forth as candidates.  He had a gift of wisdom that clarified.

I’ve wondered what he would say about Secretary Clinton and Mr. Trump.  I know that he would have been respectful, because that was a value he held.  Daddy would have had some sage insights about their personal motivations.  He would have helped me understand the anger and fear of the American public, and would have offered me wise counsel about how I could be an instrument of God’s reconciliation and peace.

In this season of All Saints, I am especially aware of the prayers in heaven of all of those we love and see no longer. I have a keen sense of my dad’s prayers for all of us.  That includes his prayers for Mr. Trump and Secretary Clinton.  A veteran of World War II, I know how much he loved our country.

When I voted last week, as I made my selections, I thought of my dad.  I miss him so much.  I’m grateful he’s praying.

On Tuesday I received an urgent call at the office from a parishioner.  His wife, who had had life-threatening complications following heart surgery, had taken a turn for the worse.  Could I come and bring her communion and pray with her?

Of course I would.  Before I left, the staff circled around me and prayed, and I got in the car to drive to the hospital.  I was half way there when another call came in.  It was the wife of a sweet man who attended worship from time to time at St. Mary’s.  He had just died–could I come and pray?

After offering her words of care, I told her our curate could come immediately, and before I had arrived at the hospital to see one parishioner, Alan was on his way to be with another.

It was that kind of day.

It’s been that kind of year.

Friday I was on my way to meet with the contractor who is hoping to begin work very soon to restore the Rectory, my Tax Day flooded, now gutted, home.  I had a little extra time before we were to get together, and I stopped at Starbuck’s for a bite of lunch and to check emails.  In my inbox there was a particularly negative email that left me feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach. I’m actually pretty good at not letting those type of words have any lasting effect, but this was the latest in a series of less than helpful emails from a person who is supposed to be helping me negotiate the rebuilding of my life after the flood.   I allowed the unkind email to color the rest of the afternoon and evening.

It was that kind of day.

It’s been that kind of year.

On Saturday I was cooking,  and I cut my hand grating some cheese. We’ve all had one of those small cuts that bleed and bleed, and then open up and bleed again every time you accidentally hit it.  I knew that this could be a problem when celebrating Eucharist the next day (not wanted to bleed into the Blood of Christ), so I went looking for bandaids.

The thing about losing most everything below waist level in your home is that you keep discovering ordinary things that you no longer have.  Thankfully, I had remembered this before my grandson came to visit in July, and I had made sure that I had basic first aid items in supply for the cuts and injuries of a five year old boy.

That meant on Saturday that the only bandaids I had were Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle bandaids.  As I put a green bandaid with a ninja turtle over my cut, I had to smile.  Good memories of my grandson’s visit surrounded my heart.  It also felt good to have a symbol of power (be it a cartoon figure) pop up in sight each time I used my hand.

I celebrated Eucharist on Sunday with a liturgically correct colored Ninja Turtle bandaid.  The sorrow in my heart, the grief in my spirit, got a little abated by the silly bandage each time it came into view.

That bandage represented the many more kind and caring words that I receive from parishioners and friends and families and even perfect strangers.  That bandage represented that most cuts and hurts, cared for, heal. That bandage is a reminder of how God’s (not so) small gifts of joy can be a raft in a flood of tears.  That bandage reminded me that with God, I have all the Power I need to face any challenges that pop up on the Way.

Yesterday was my birthday.  My best friend had flown into town on Saturday so we could take a road trip to Marfa to celebrate.  God had a different road trip in store for us.

A member of the parish, Judah, age three, drowned during a family cookout on Saturday night.  After much heroic effort, professionals were able to restore his heartbeat.  Our curate, Alan, and I spent Saturday evening and early into Sunday morning with the family as the medical professionals stabilized Judah.  Sunday, Russ, our deacon, was with the Browns while Alan and I walked this hard road with our parish family back at St. Mary’s.

Monday, my birthday, my friend and I were up before dawn to drive to the Medical Center.  God gave us a beautiful sunrise for the nearly two hour drive into town with the other early morning commuters.  A stop for coffee on the way was blessed by a birthday call from my mother.

My friend spent most of the day in the PICU waiting area, listening to family members, fetching food, and being a pastoral presence.  God used her skills as a hospice volunteer to provide unexpected, unplanned care.  This was not the trip she’d planned for this Monday, but this was the trip  God had placed her on, and Ginny was beyond gracious.

I spent my birthday mostly in the PICU with Judah.  I sang and prayed with him, and felt a cloud of witnesses who had gone before us surround us in the room.  In particular, I was aware of the praying presence of Jamie and Andy, two other young people from St. Mary’s who had died before we were ready.

Conversations with medical personnel, with family, and with Judah as he prepared to die were the most holy way I could have ever shared this day. Time and again, God put me in the path of the right people to gather and to provide information, to pray, and to offer unexpected ways of support and to offer God’s care.

When the time came late in the day to make the kind of decisions no parent ever should have to make, I was ready to offer all my years of living to this family.   The words holy, holy, holy kept whispering in my ear.

After it appeared things were in a stable place, I left to have dinner and to travel home for the night.  My friend had found a restaurant to celebrate my birthday near the Medical Center with the lovely name, State of Grace.  Because we were between meal times, we sat at the bar and ate food that cannot be aptly called bar food–a feast of sumptuous smallish plates.

Drinking club soda in preparation for the long drive home, we began a conversation with our server, Ed.  As we told him the story of my unexpected birthday with Judah and his family, he gave us words of good wishes.  Then he poured me a large flute of champagne, and as he served me, he said, “I’m not done with you yet!”  He said he would be bringing us dessert, and then offered us cappuccinos.  Turns out Ed didn’t bring us one but two different desserts.  I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a birthday dinner more, which included receiving a hilarious text from our bishop.  I was truly in a State of Grace.

My friend and I were on our way to walk a labyrinth to wait for the traffic to clear when we had a call asking us to return to the hospital.  The final tests would be completed that evening to determine whether or not Judah was dead, and clergy presence would be helpful.

So with prayers for energy, we returned once again to the Medical Center.  I was there to support the family and friends holding vigil in the lobby, and to encourage their own self care during this time.  Then our bishop arrived for a visit, and we were at Judah’s bedside finishing our prayers when the medical personnel told us the test results–Judah’s brain was no longer alive.

We stayed as the family processed and began to plan the next part of Judah’s life journey–deciding to give whatever tissue and organs possible to other folks so that their lives could go on, and their family and friends would have the gift of hope and joy.

Eighteen hours after I had awakened on my birthday and begun this state of grace, I got in the car to drive home.

When I awoke this morning, grateful for the birthday God had given me, and one I would never ever planned, I realized that there was yet one more birthday the day before.  I now shared a birthday with Judah.

In the Christian faith, we have three birthdays:
The day that we are born into this world.
The day that we are baptized and born into the family of God.
The day that we die, and are born into eternal life. That third day is the day that we become saints in God’s kingdom.  September 26 is now St. Judah’s day.

With a heart full of sadness, I celebrate your day, Judah.  You are in the truest State of Grace.