Cutting my hair for Kelly

Around the time my son married his wonderful wife, I began to grow my hair. Jacob and Lisa got married on Holy Cross Day, 2008, in Portland, Oregon. The day before, Hurricane Ike hit Houston, and in the midst of family preparations for the joyful day, we watched tv for news of the devastation in our hometown. 

After the wedding, I was on one of the first planes allowed back into Houston. The airport was eerily empty, and as I drove to my home, the streets were lined with downed trees and refuse from the storms. 
When I arrived home, my yard was full of branches and assorted interesting items that had taken up residence in my desme. My fence had blown down, and I had no electricity; we would be without power for three weeks. 

And my hair continued to grow. My hair grew through three bishop elections where others were chosen. Through the birth of two amazing grandsons. Two cookbooks published by my daughter. So many baptisms, deaths, weddings, and curates at St. Mary’s. Travels from McKinney, Texas to Jordan and Israel, Scotland, England, Iceland, and all over the United States. 
Yesterday I cut my hair, now measuring past the middle of my back. 

When I was on retreat two weeks ago, as I was praying for a dear member of our parish, I had the Spirit nudge me to cut my hair. Kelly, our keyboardist, has been healing from cancer for several months, and is now in the midst of chemotherapy. Kelly has beautiful red, curly hair, and is losing it as part of her treatment. I wanted to cut my hair as a sign of my love and prayers for her. 
Kelly, in the midst of her own healing, has been a model of what it means to trust God, and to reframe the most difficult of situations into ones of joy. She, who is going through so very much, always has time to encourage and support others. I have been one of the many who have received her support, particularly post Tax Day Flood. 
At my brother’s wedding in Dallas this past weekend, I told my niece about my plan to cut my hair this week. Dominique told me that she had heard that women cut their hair when they are ready to make a change in their lives. 

I told this to Kelly on Sunday. Both of us a little weepy over our own hair changes, we could celebrate that they represented God’s continuing transformation in our lives in the midst of life situations neither of us would choose. 
With many prayers for all who lose their hair because of healing, especially those through chemotherapy and illness, and especially for dear Kelly, my ponytail is ready to be mailed so that it can be used to make a hairpiece for someone else who is in the midst of God’s healing process. 

I think I’m going to love my new hairdo. 

Can we go one day?

I’m at my mother’s farm thirty or so miles north of Dallas.

I woke up this morning to the report of yet another daily shooting. The words of a friend resonated in my spirit, “Can we please go one day without shooting one another?”  

Because it is we who shoot, and we who kill. Although I’ve never even held a gun in my hand, we, you and I, are part of decisions and choices, one relationship at a time, that result in senseless, undeserved death.   There is no them or those people. It is all us. 

As I walked and prayed this morning on the country roads of Chambersville, I walked past the cemetery. Even the American flag seemed weary of all the death. 
I stopped at the church at the end of the road and prayed some more. Which direction, which choice, which decision, is God’s invitation to us?
In the words of Jesus in our Gospel from Luke this upcoming Sunday, I know the answer will include neighbor and compassion and mercy. 

Can we go one day with compassion and mercy?  One neighbor at a time?


Retreat towards home

I woke up Wednesday with windows open and watched the sunrise.  Then I remembered, oh my goodness!!!  I have to preach on Sunday.   I walked downstairs and sat on the porch and did Bible Study, beginning to prepare for Sunday’s sermon.  


Next Sunday we will hear the gospel about Jesus sending the 70 or is it the 72 out–they could never get the count right.  Anyway. I was immediately struck by Jesus’ instructions to leave behind purse, bag, and sandals. 

On Good Friday, 2015, my wallet had been stolen while I prayed the Good Froday service. 
Bags and other things I’d thought important and necessary were gone because of the flood waters. Still, according to our Gospel, I have everything I need to do whatever, wherever, Jesus sends me. I have Jesus behind me.  I have other people with me. I am not alone. 

When I think about mission, about being sent out be Jesus, one of the things that makes me sad is that right now I don’t seem to be able to do the things I think I should  be doing. I think of all the things I’d like to accomplish that are being left undone. 
  
Then I read Suzanne Guthrie’s commentary on the Gospel. She talks about all the ministry she would  loves to imagine doing but health issues have limited what she is able to do. Suzanne has become content with doing what she is being sent to do right now–to write, to teach, to pray. She knows that is enough. 

I went to the noon Healing Eucharist in the next town over. Except the priest didn’t show up. Instead, a member of the parish, Bob, was present, and he said that we could do Noonday Prayer instead. Bob said that he was prepared to lead, but offered for me to officiate (my friend had introduced me to him as a priest). I told him that I was willing to serve, but that I was good deferring to him. The three of us formed a circle of chairs and read the Scripture for the Feast Day of St. Peter and St. Paul.   Bob offered a homily, and then we did prayers for healing. Afterwards, my friend and I went into the chapel and walked the labyrinth, and I prayed some more. 

When we had entered the church, Bob had said that the priest was not likely to show up because she was ill. As we had prayed before worship, I knew that I could offer to celebrate the Eucharist, but somehow it didn’t feel like I was supposed to offer. I hope that I was listening to the Spirit, of Jesus walking behind me guiding me gently. Worship was fine without my priestly hands. At the healing portion of Nnonday prayers, Bob anointed and prayed for me, and I did the same for him. 

In the afternoon, my friend and I did the next lesson in my online retreat. It was a dance called Peregrine. The words of the song are:

Setting out
No rudder, sails nor oars
Trusting the current
Trusting the course
Peregrine
Our hearts are ready, fully ripe
Peregrine
Our hearts are ready for new life      (Richard Bruxvoort Colligan)


This morning before I left to fly back to Houston, my friend and I took a few moments to do Centering Prayer on a bench amidst her garden on the deck. Yet another prayer chair was provided for me. The phrase that bubbled up during the quiet was the path is home.  

I am still sorting things out. I am still grieving. But among the gifts of this retreat are places along the path, which is my home, to sit in whatever prayer chair provided and ponder and continue to heal. I don’t like being broken. I don’t like being vulnerable. But it is the path. It is home. 


Retreat Tuesday: Finding Beauty

Beauty will save the world. (F. Dostoevsky)

A morning walk along the river. 

Beauty everywhere.

A noonday walk for Centering Prayer.
More beauty everywhere. 

My host improved the pathways in the woods that surround my friends’ home while I was off for my afternoon of play yesterday. Such kindness in that act, and now more beauty everywhere.

In Genesis 1, that early, early liturgical hymn of creation, the refrain of God’s response to what God created is often translated it was good. A closer understanding of the Hebrew is that it was beautiful.  It seems that finding beauty, and creating it where it is absent, is important to doing God’s work.  
I’ve been deeply moved by the bicoastal tragedies–fires in California and floods in West Virginia. I’ve held those companions in prayer, and the Scripture that I offer as God’s promise is from Isaiah:  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. 

In the devastation after flame and water it is difficult to see beauty. However, in the work of the clearing out and cleaning up, the beauty becomes apparent in new ways. I know this to be true. 
After the downstairs of the Rectory was gutted, I took my nephew and brother to see what was left of my home. In the space that was once a living room, the walls and flooring and doors and cabinets had been removed. A cement floor and studs for walls remained.  The fading light of the day came through the tall windows. In the stillness and openness, my nephew remarked that the room felt holy. There was beauty in the work of the loving hands that had removed the flood’s devastation.  

Beauty everywhere.  And because beauty comes from God, it can save the world.