Imagination in prayer

At Mass last Sunday, we heard the story of the Prodigal Son with intro parables about the lost sheep and the lost coin. (Luke 15:1-32) These stories introduce us to at least nine (9) characters:

1. a shepherd whose one sheep has strayed
2. a woman who lost a coin
3. the friends and neighbors who rejoice when the sheep and coin are found
4. a man who has two sons
5. the older son
6. the younger son
7. the pig farmer who starved his workers
8. the father’s servants and
9. the older son’s friends

Nine different personalities inviting me to step into the stories and imagine myself in each role.

All week, I have engaged in imaginative prayer with the scenes in this Scripture, placing myself in each of the roles portrayed, letting the scene play out and looking at how I am like the person or how I am different.

For example, when am I put myself in the place of the shepherd, I wondered if I would be willing to leave what I have in search for something lost. It is a risk to leave the safety of the known, and I wondered if I would take the risk.

My opportunities to take risk don’t usually involve sheep, but as I let this image play out, I thought about the safety and security of my circle of friends, and I wondered if I am willing to take the risk of inviting someone into my circle of friends or even just to reach out to someone who seems to be on the outside. Do I tend to play it safe or am I willing to stretch beyond my comfort zone?

The woman who searches for something precious that has been lost is an easy one for me to imagine because I frequently lose things (mostly earrings, which is why I had an extra hole pierced in one ear so I can still wear the remaining earring). I tend to tear the house apart and retrace my steps looking for a lost earring. But what about other things? Do I persevere or give up? Do I persevere in prayer? In hope?

How am I like the forgiving father? The rebellious son? Or the dutiful son? When am I like the servant who has to prepare something for others to enjoy while I just look on? Or like the local pig farmer who cares more for his pigs than the people who work for hm? How do I react when a friend complains about unfair treatment from a parent?

Each of the people in these stories help me to see myself in relation to God and to others. Each invites me to imagine myself inside the Scripture passage and learn something about myself, others and God.

On my walk one day, I realized that each person represents a different character trait, and it reminded me of the words stenciled at my neighborhood school—incoming messages through different avenues.

Bringing joy

Every act of kindness

is like a butterfly flitting by or

a hummingbird hovering over a flower—

an unexpected gift to be seen and savored.

Whether you are the giver or receiver,

every act of kindness brings joy.

Soften my edges

Wispy pink clouds,

fluffy puffs,

like cotton candy,

dot the morning sky.

They speak to me of dreams and hopes,

of things delicate and precious,

of fairy tales come true,

and remind me of  

the people who bless me

with kindness and generosity.

Every pink sky is an invitation

to soften my edges and receive

what the world offers.

Noticing the holy in ordinary lives

The words of Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972) have been catching my attention recently. He reminds me to dwell in the present and pay attention to what is going on in my everyday life, because that is where the sacred is waiting to be noticed.

In praying with Scripture using Lectio Divina one of the main ideas is to notice what word or phrase catches my attention—the idea being that that particular word or phrase is what God is speaking to me in that moment—and then repeating that word or phrase. By sticking with one word or phrase, I can allow it to sink in and glean deeper meaning. The Bible is so big, yet Lectio Divina focuses on the smallest part—just one word or phrase.

Ordinary life is like that, I think. Sometimes it is the smallest thing that brings the greatest joy—a kindness, hug, generous gesture.

I attended a memorial service this week for a woman from work who died in the spring. She was also a Zumba instructor at a community center, and her loyal followers wanted to honor her life by planting a tree and placing a bench in the park where she taught. One by one, people stood and paid tribute to this woman who had touched their lives by her upbeat personality, zest for living and generous nature.

Shonece had a beautiful smile and an easy laugh. It was not that her life had been easy or without suffering—she was a three-time cancer survivor, and during the first year of the pandemic, five people in her family died. She faced her loses and still chose to be upbeat and optimistic.

Tear flowed easily at this service—so great was the loss. And through tears, people recalled the simple acts of kindness Shonece had done for them. They talked about how her smile welcomed them when they came to Zumba and her spirit encouraged them. They shared stories of meals she delivered when they had family crises and all the simple acts she did to show her support for them.

I walked away thinking of another quote of Abraham Joshua Heschel.

Perhaps one of the luxuries of not working and having fewer responsibilities is that I have more time, space and energy to notice something and then ponder it. What I am noticing is that the holy dwells in the ordinary, just waiting to be seen and celebrated.

A shared experience

Twenty years ago, I was the director of a lay mission program, and I had gone to New York City on September 10 for dinner with two missioners who were heading to Swaziland.

The afternoon of the 10th, they had gone to our mission in Chinatown and climbed to the rooftop to take pictures—with the World Trade Center in the background.

Their families had come in from out of state, and after dinner, we had all gone to JFK to see them off.

I stayed in New York overnight, and the next morning, September 11, I was going to walk from Gramercy Park to Chinatown. I remember leaving the building that morning and looking up at the sky—it was clear blue, a perfect day for a walk.

And then the first plane hit, and then the second plane, and then there was chaos. Sirens blared and police cars and ambulances headed south—while cars, buses and pedestrians, covered in white dust, headed north.

I joined co-workers watching television coverage. One woman paced. Another prepared food. We all deal with shock in our own ways.  

I remember taking a walk in the afternoon and seeing a line of people waiting to use a pay phone (cell phones were not working). “I’m okay,” each person said into the phone and then quickly hung up so the next person could make a call.

I remember thinking that we were not okay. All around us, people were dazed, crying. We were frightened and wondered if there would be another attack.

Nothing made sense.

By evening, the streets were deserted. No taxis, cars or buses. Very few pedestrians. Just a very large security presence on every corner.

All trains had been halted, so I had no way of getting back to Philadelphia that night. Instead, I watched the burning rubble of the Twin Towers from my bedroom window—and called Amtrak every hour to see when trains would run again. I just wanted to get home.

I left for Penn Station around 4:00 a.m., walked up 19^th Street to Broadway and turned right. As far as I could see, Broadway was deserted—no people, cars, buses—just total emptiness. The terrorists had succeeded in terrifying us.

Penn Station was filling up by the time I arrived, but it was unlike the Penn Station I had known just two days earlier. We had all experienced something unimaginable, and that experience created a bond stronger than any differences we may have had on September 10. Courtesy, kindness and sympathy shaped our interactions. Tears flowed freely. We were grieving.

I remember standing in line at a bakery in Penn Station the morning of September 12, exhausted and somewhat anxious about getting on a train. I ordered a bagel and coffee, and the man in front of me said, “Let me get that for you.”

I cried at his kindness.

It saddens me to see how divided our country has become over the past twenty years.

Turning the page

I was convicted the other day by Jake Owensby’s post about unity.

Full disclosure: I don’t watch the news or read a newspaper or listen to the news (other than if I happen to be in my car and it comes on). I am an ostrich when it comes current events. I know the headlines, but not much else.

Friends fill me in when something monumental happens, but for the most part, the divisiveness and aggression in our country burdens me, and I choose to opt out.

It all started when my friend Jim got brain cancer and there was no room in my psyche for what was happening in the world. All my energy went into taking care of Jim and holding onto my job. Jim watched the news and would brief me on what was happening, and I found that this system worked for me. I became a news dabbler.

After Jim died, I grieved, and my pain was enough; I did not need to hear about crime, war or political spats.

Then I just got used to living shallow when it came to the news. It all just seemed like “different day, same story” and I did not find it helpful to my mental health to tune in.

I don’t like being angry, and that is mainly how I feel when I hear the news. I am tired of how little progress we make as a society.

For example, in the 1960’s and 1970’s many women campaigned to change language that excluded them. It was common for “men” to be used as the word for “people,” and men would say women were included in that word, which never made sense to me. By that argument, the word “women” should have been used because it does include “men.”

Over time, the use of “men” to mean everyone changed. In church, we went from saying “brothers” to “brothers and sisters” and from “brethren” to “people.”

But here we are, fifty years on, and “men” has been replaced by “guys” which is just another word for “men.”

There are no female guys, but I cannot tell you how many times restaurant servers have called me a guy. It infuriates me, and it infuriates me that women are complicit in it, that women exclude themselves by calling other women “guys.”

It is no mystery that we still have a gender wage gap and that women are excluded from many positions of leadership in our society. Words matter, and calling women “guys” reinforces the message that men are the top dogs.

And don’t get me started on racial injustice or the demeaning treatment of people who have disabilities or who are elderly or any number of issues I have cared about for the past fifty years.

So please forgive me if I am impatient, but my impatience does not excuse using words that tear down rather than build up. I will try harder to seek unity in what I say and do.

Wounded

Unable to give voice to their pain,

wounded animals lash out,

biting and scratching,

conveying their fear and vulnerability.

It is pitiable.

Poor thing, we say as we try to

calm and comfort our pets

so we can treat their wounds.

What woundedness causes people to lash out

with scathing remarks and barbed quips?

With sarcasm and name-calling?

What pain is beneath the rude comments?

Are we losing our ability to use our words

to express our pain?

Do we need a refresher course in playing well with others?

Is it time to dust off Emily Post’s book on Etiquette?

Do we need screen-savers with

pithy reminders to be kind to one another,

and to live by the Golden Rule?

I think our kindergarten teachers,

Emily Post and

Jesus Christ

would all shudder at

our daily discourse.

We are not wounded animals.

Life is too short…

Life is too short to drink cheap wine,

a friend used to say

as he sipped his favorite red wine.

He died young

but enjoyed lots of fine wine

in his short life.

What will you do with your one wild and precious life?

Mary Oliver asked.

She, too, knew the how fragile life could be

and the urgency of embracing the moment.

Even if we live for

eighty years or ninety,

is it ever enough?

Is there not one more thing to be done,

one more place to see,

one more goal to accomplish,

one more person to forgive?

Say yes to the invitation,

accept change,

act on impulses,

be kind and generous,

eat good food and

drink good wine.

Live each day as if it were your last.

Add a little kindness

My grandparents lived on a farm in northern Michigan, 250 miles from our home, and we visited them at regular intervals to help with planting and harvesting.

Each spring, we went up to gather the stones that had had been pushed to the earth’s surface. I remember asking my dad where the stones came from, and he said that in the summer, the earth produced alfalfa and hay, and over winter, the earth produced stones. It did not sound particularly scientific, but it seemed true because every spring, new stones appeared.

Across northern Michigan, these stones were used to build houses and barns; and when I moved back to Michigan seven years ago, I placed some around my flower beds.

In late summer, my dad helped with harvesting the alfalfa or other crops my grandfather had planted, and in late fall, we returned to gather potatoes. The schools up north closed for potato picking, and I used to joke that we were the only kids in the Detroit Public Schools who knew there was something called potato-picking season.

My happiest time on the farm, though, was when I was helping my grandmother. Collecting eggs from the chicken coop was my favorite morning chore, but I also loved feeding the chickens and working in her extensive garden. She invited me to join her in all her everyday activities and working by her side was pure joy.

She taught me how to make bread, about proofing the yeast, kneading the dough, and letting it rise. I learned to make yeast rolls from my grandmother, three small balls of dough plopped into each cup of a greased muffin tin and then baked to a golden brown in her wood-burning stove.

My grandmother’s knowledge of know how much wood to put into the oven to get it to the right temperature mystified and impressed me.

When I was old enough, my grandmother taught me how to quilt on the quilting frame that took up most of the sitting room. We would sit side-by-side and pull threads of yarn through the thick wool, creating squares of tufted fabric.

I still have the quilt my grandmother made for me, and it provides a warmth that goes beyond the thickness of the wool.

Working beside my grandmother was the safest place I knew; she never criticized me and always seemed to appreciate me.

Reflecting on Matthew 13:33, the parable of the yeast, brought back these memories of my grandmother. As I reflected on my time with her, I realized how her kindness was a yeast in my life, showing me that even the small acts of daily life, when infused with love, can soften hard edges and heal inner wounds. She taught me that being kind can change a person, in the way her kindness changed me.

The stones around my flower beds, my quilt and the aroma of baking bread connect me to my grandmother and her abundant kindness. Her lessons and her love live on.

This day

This day starts like every other and

has the same twenty-four hours as every other.

And yet, it is unlike every other day that has gone before it.

This day gifts me with an open space, a clean slate.

How will I fill the space?

What will I write on the slate?

Will I notice the gifts of all that lays open before me?

The birds singing, blue sky, the gentle breeze?

Will I appreciate the dark skies as much as the blue?

Or the rude stranger as much as the kind one?

Will I accept the good and the bad with open hands,

allowing neither to swing me too high or too low?

Will I thank God for all the comes my way and

offer a blessing on everyone I meet?

This day lays open before me,

inviting me to approach with eager anticipation.

It asks me to add kindness and beauty,

to write words of praise and gratitude,

to live this day as if it were my only one.

If I can do that, I will know myself as blessed and

close my eyes at the end of this day

and sleep in peace.