Walking in the darkness, listening for the silence --some thoughts on Psalm 19

“…not a sound to be heard…”

--Psalm 19:3b

 

 

Walking this morning in the hour before sunrise, I was struck by the depth of the darkness still visible; the depth of the shadows cast across the lawns and into the bushes. Looking up, part of Orion’s belt still lingered high above the treetops.  I was reminded of the night before when my daughter and I had been out walking sometime between nine and ten. As we walked, I commented to her on what seemed to be a difference between the darkness of morning and the darkness of night. And it was not the one I had expected.  In fact, quite the opposite; it seemed to my eye that the darkness of night was more bearable and even somewhat brighter, and that the darkness before dawn was somehow deeper and more impenetrable; perhaps even a little more unsettling.  It was as if nature herself were confirming that old adage: it is always darkest before the dawn.

 

But another aspect of this is the silence.  Before dawn, walking the streets, I am often alone.  Not a soul out, except for the occasional possum slinking off to a day’s rest after a night of foraging. But at night, as Lucia and I walked, there were still sounds of life all around us.  Cars coming and going, people closing up garages, or pulling trash cans to the curb, neighbors out walking their dogs or riding their bikes.  There was activity, signs of life.  And, Lucia pointed out, there were porch lights and driveway security lights to dim the darkness just a bit.

 

But back to this morning’s walk. This morning, on my walk, I was stirred by the stillness and the silence. Pausing in the middle of the street to look up into the lingering remnants of the night, I felt the wonder of the silence and the intensity of the darkness. And for a moment, a deep and impenetrable sense of my own incompleteness and isolation swept over me.  For a brief moment, I felt utterly alone. Yet I was not afraid.

 

I don’t know how long I stood there, before I noticed the headlights of a car stopped some 20 feet away, the driver patiently waiting for me to get out of her way.  I smiled and moved toward the curb and let her pass.  There could only be one reason to get in your car before dawn: a doughnut emergency. And I certainly didn’t want to stand between a driver and her Shipley’s.

 

Her car crept past cautiously, and she nodded, then drove on. Watching her taillights disappear around the far corner, I figured it was time to head home, so I turned around and started back.  And this was when I noticed something else.  The world around me was stirring, scattered birds had begun calling to the dawn, the shadow of a squirrel crept down into the damp grass, testing the cold, and in the distance I could see another person out for their morning walk. Clearly, I had never been quite as alone as I felt in that moment.

 

Walking home, I was heading east and I could see the first rosy glow of dawn blossoming on the horizon. The darkness above it fading into a soft bruise of blue and red. It was beautiful and comforting.  Curiosity made me stop and turn and look back the other direction. And with a kind of strange elation, I realized that behind me I could still see the night.  At one end of the street, the sky was filled with darkness, the moon smiled, and a single star still glistened. And at the other end, the day was breaking.  And in the middle was me… getting positively silly with wonder.

 

Psalm 19 begins with this thrilling image of God’s glory being proclaimed by creation, the day speaks of it to the day and the night to the night.  Not a word is spoken, the psalmist says, but the message is clear, and it reaches the whole world.  Just look around, and even in the darkness of night you will see it –the glory of God’s love is luminous.  It lights the darkest of nights and even the darkness before the dawn is filled with it.  But, to see it, to sense it, to hear it, to know it, we have to pause and look and really listen. We have to listen to the stillness.

 

“…no utterance at all, no speech,

not a sound to be heard,

but from the entire earth it arises,

a message reaching the entire world…” (cf. 19: 3-4)

 

And that message, sung by all of creation, that is our Light.

 

Learning to sing --remembering my mother-in-law, the silence of God and the wisdom of Psalm 13

“How Long, Oh Lord, will You forget me? Forever?

How long will you turn away Your face from me?...

 

As for me, I trust in your faithful love, Oh Lord.

Let my heart delight in your saving help.

Let me sing to the Lord for His generosity to me,

let me sing to the name of the Lord the Most High.”

--Psalm 13:1, 5

 

Lynne’s mother passed away about two weeks ago.  It was beautiful and quiet and the whole family was with her when she died. But the aftermath has been strangely difficult. Lots of tears, of course. Lots of sighs.  But it’s the silence and the emptiness that stand out. Lynne and I are both having trouble with sleep. She has difficulty settling down and going to sleep. I have trouble staying asleep.  This mirrors our shifts as caregivers.  Lynne would stay awake with her mom until 3-4 in the morning, and then I would get up and take over so she could sleep.  Well, two weeks later, I am still waking up around 3am every morning to take that second shift. But there is no one to relieve, no one there for me to care for, except perhaps the cats—who sense me stirring and think that means it is time for breakfast. 

 I am still feeling a strange and inexpressible absence or emptiness when I step outside in the morning with my cup of coffee and my bag of peanuts.  These days, Lynne joins me. The two of us sit there watching the squirrels and sipping our coffee. But we know something is missing.  In fact, there is that extra cup of coffee we bring out with us every morning, to remind us.  Walking this journey with Carol was a strange and often overwhelming blessing. I think we are all still grappling with the gift of that blessing. The blessing that comes from surrendering to the needs of another. The blessing of the demands her dying body made upon us as a family. Demanding that we put down everything else and really pay, wake up and really live—not for ourselves, but for the love of another.  I know I will be pondering this gift for the rest of my life and probably writing about it for quite some time.  Anyway, those comments are by way of an introduction.  Here is a piece that I began working on while Carol was still alive.  I just finished it this morning.

 A few weeks back I wrote about sitting with my mother-in-law and sharing the psalms over our morning coffee.  In that piece I wrote about how Psalm 31 seemed to open her up a little and got her talking about her faith—a little.  Anyway, the very next day as we sat there with the blue jays and the squirrels and Bobby Darin singing from the I-pad, I opened up my book of psalms and found myself staring at Psalm 13—and it just seemed like fate:  31 / 13… Why not? So I began to read.  When I finished, I asked her whether any part of the psalm spoke to her.  Without looking at me she said something that sounded like: the singing.   She didn’t say anything else.  Nothing about God forgetting us, or about the enemy delighting in our every stumble.  She just very quietly said: the singing.

 Okay, I thought. I can live with that.  And so, I tried to just sit there with her, listening to the blue jays calling each other, and Bobby Darin singing about somewhere across the sea, but despite my best efforts I kept going back to that lament: How long, Oh Lord? How long? How long will our life be governed by sleepless night, bedside toilets, medicine schedules, and an overabundance of cats!

 After a bit, the song changed and without realizing it, I found myself softly singing along with Nat King Cole: 

 Smile, though your heart is aching….
Smile, even though its breaking….
You’ll see the sun coming shining through,
if you…  just... smile…

 And then I heard another sound, a soft whispering voice, and realized Carol was singing with me. We were sitting there together in the quiet of a Tuesday morning, coffee in hand, and both of us hesitantly, shyly singing…together.

 That was when I realized what a wise woman my mother-in-law was, and how she was still teaching me things—even in her silences, even through her shy singing.  Without any fanfare or self-aggrandizement, she was humbly and graciously teaching me to listen to God.

Here’s what I mean:  when I read that psalm I got stuck on the pain and the anxiety of the first part; the fear of being abandoned by God and overwhelmed by life. I even feared for Carol. Worried about how she must feel, what she must be thinking... There was a brief period when her symptoms seemed to subside; she seemed to be getting healthier and her appetite returned to something like normal. In the midst of that, I found myself not feeling grateful and thankful but worrying: What does this mean? How long will this last? She still needed our care and 24/7 attention but what if she just stays at this level. What if/ What if? A How long could we manage this schedule? Sleeping in shifts? Surviving on 4-5 hours of sleep a night? nd where was God? Why wasn't He helping us? As Jesus warns, I was worried about many things (Luke 10:41) … And high on that list was the desperate question: How long?

 But Carol seemed at peace. Despite the fact that she was unable to sleep at night, and that she was –in truth-- growing weaker, she awoke every morning ready for her coffee and the porch. And our psalm.  And the singing. As we sat there listening to the crooners she loved, she would always find something to praise. She would tell me how good the coffee was, or how the muffins I made were the best she’d ever had, or she’d simply tell me what a good job Lynne and I were doing taking care of her. Sometimes she seemed almost overflowing with gratitude and praise. 

 Looking back, I think she was becoming a model of presence for me, an example of living in the moment.  Instead of getting lost in fear and dread, she simply lived in the moment, simply enjoyed what was right in front of her, accepted everything as gift, as grace. While I was reading psalms in search of profound insights and answers, she listened to them with an openness and innocence, ready to receive whatever God had to offer. And, I think it was that approach that led to her always looking for something to be grateful for, and something to praise.  And something to sing about…

 Looking back now, I have been struck by how obviously that was/is the point of the psalm.  The psalmist cries out that God is distant and silent; that God has abandoned him to the enemy and everything feels hopeless. Sound familiar? It does to me.  And, on top of that, the psalm offers no apparent response to this lament. Instead, the psalmist simply tells us that despite God’s absence, he will be grateful and he will sing God’s praises.

 Gratitude and praise.  Suddenly I realize it: that is the answer. That is the lesson Carol was trying to teach me.  Gratitude and praise.  Yes, life is hard. Sometimes it is unbearably hard. And unfairly hard.  And there is nothing you can do to change that. But you can change yourself. You can begin to change the way you look at life, at the world. Despite your hardships, your struggles, you can begin to look for things to praise, things to be grateful for. 

 And when all else fails, you can sing.  It helps. It’s scientifically proven. Here is an article from the BBC to explain. Something to do with endorphins, I think.  Whether you have a weak voice, or sing like Pavarotti, you will be amazed at how much better you feel when you look at life through the blessing of a song.

 Sitting there –on the porch-- singing that mournful song about smiling through the heartache, and the pain, I suddenly felt better. I suddenly felt a little more grateful for the time I had with Carol, for the mornings together. And I began to realize that I wasn’t alone. That there was even someone who I wanted to praise and thank for such a gift. And so I kept on singing, even after Carol stopped. Me and Mel Torme singing an old Fred Astaire song: They can’t take that away from me.  And it’s true.   

And I am so grateful.   

Thank you, Carol, for teaching me how to listen and how to sing.

 

To serve is divine--A Meditation on John 13

 “Jesus knew that the Father had put

everything into His hands, and that

He had come from God and was

returning to God…”  --John 13:3

 

 

Just before the last supper, the night before He was to die, according to John’s Gospel, Jesus seems to have a deeper or more profound knowledge, special insight, into His mission, His role, His person.  He knew that God had delivered everything into His hands—implying a kind of completeness—and John seems to recognize that Jesus understood in a new or special way where He had come from, and where He was going.  Some theologians have interpreted this as depicting or expressing a moment when the human consciousness of Jesus is receding into (or reuniting with) the wholeness of the Divine; as if to say that whatever limits may have been upon His human understanding are fading as He prepares to re-unite completely with the Father. 

 

Okay, but my first reaction is: I guess.  But, if He’s God, didn’t He really know this all along[1]?  

 

My second reaction, is to ponder. And this morning, reading this chapter of John’s Gospel on the front porch with the blue jays pecking at the peanuts and a flock of thrushes peppering the sky, darting in and out of neighboring trees, hopping about in the grass, I found myself pondering this idea: Jesus suddenly knew these things and knowing them, what does He do?  He overturns all religious and cultural conventions: He acts like a servant and begins washing His disciples’ feet. (cf13:5).

 

And when Peter complains about Him doing this, Jesus doesn’t explain. He just says: You’ll understand this later.  And to make sure, He sits the disciples down and tells them point blank: Pay attention! This was more than just a hygiene lesson. If you want to follow me, I just showed you the way. (cf 13:15)

 

It is easy to be sentimental and say to ourselves, I want to be like Jesus. But, living it is something else.  For instance: last night I came home from work tired, neck tight from slouching over a computer. All I wanted was to change clothes, go for a walk and read a little Agatha Christie. But I could see that Lynne was working very hard, and there were still chores that needed doing, litter boxes that needed cleaning, etc. So, I changed clothes and started to help.

 

At some point I realized there were no dinner plans.  So, I got out tortillas, eggs, salsa and cheese and started making tacos.  And seeing that my wife was just as tired as I was, I brought her a couple of tacos on a plate and gave her a kiss. I told Sophie and Lucy there were taco fixings and warmed up some more tortillas and sat down to eat. A Hallmark movie was on the TV, and I felt like I finally had a moment to myself, so I opened up the I-pad and started looking at the NY Times. But, sometimes Paul Krugman isn’t as fun as Facebook, so I started flipping through pictures and silly videos. Just as I was beginning to wonder why I was watching another TCM commercial, Lynne asked me if I would be willing to rub her neck. For an instant I felt like Peter. Resentment welled up inside me. I had just done everything, cooked, served, even protected the leftovers from a cat. Inside me a voice cried out: What about me? Don’t I deserve to be massaged, or comforted, or even just left alone?

 

But living like Jesus isn’t just about sentiment, and humility, and it certainly isn’t about fairness.  It’s about divinity. Knowing who He is and what He was made for, Jesus empties Himself and becomes a servant—a slave.

 

Pondering these verses, I realize that every moment, every choice, it is all in my hands. I can choose to follow the example of Jesus, or I act like Peter and complain. I can choose to pursue my own desires and ego.  Or I can lay down my life (or my I-pad) in service to my wife, and to God: the one who made me and to whom I will return.

 

And, like Jesus, I can know: This is what I was made for.

 

Lord,

Open my eyes, that I read Your word more clearly,

Open my ears, that I hear Your message more fully,

And open my heart, and let me be filled

with the love that is found there.

---

[1] My instinct, too often, is to look for a loophole or point of debate.  Which may just be part of growing up as the middle child in a largish family. Always watching for a way to score points, make an impression, make myself stand apart from the crowd…   But it probably also comes from studying theology and philosophy at the University of St. Thomas with those delightfully odd Basilians and their Thomistic Center.  We were taught to ask questions, to be curious, to explore ideas and push against the envelope—but always with humility and always in service of the truth. 

 

The Extravagance of God's Love

“Tell me, suppose a man had a hundred sheep
and one of them went astray…” –Matthew 18:12

 

 Matthew 18 contains that brief and strange parable about the shepherd who walks away from his 99 sheep in search of a single stray.  I have heard preachers preach about this parable in multiple ways.  Often trying to tie it to actual shepherding practices. But it has never made sense to me (at least not an economic or mathematical sense).  Why would a shepherd abandon (and leave vulnerable) an entire flock, in order to go search for a single lost sheep. How would you explain it to the owner if something happened to the others? What if a wolf came along while you were gone and ate the rest of them?  But, of course, Jesus isn’t probably intending to teach a lesson about shepherding here. Looking at the context, the totality of chapter 18 --a chapter filled with images of extravagance-- it is pretty obvious that the ridiculousness of the shepherd leaving the 99 to go in search of the one is supposed to show us something. Probably something about the extravagance of God's love. And recently, I had an experience that  opened my eyes to the lesson of this parable in a way I hadn't expected. 

 During the recent flooding rains our backyard became a swamp.  Water standing ankle deep in places; even in the path were we have the concrete pavers, as I stood on the steps water covered my shoes. But, when I went out in the early morning to cover part of the turtle’s pen with a tarp, I didn’t pay any attention to the standing water inside their pen.  I assured myself that they were used to this kind of thing—heck, their turtles!  And—if I am honest-- I didn’t want to be bothered with trying to collect them in boxes or finding the dog kennel and setting it up as a turtle sanctuary.  I guess you could say, I wasn’t really committed to their care. I was willing to make a little effort—to go to just enough discomfort so that I wouldn’t feel badly. I could justify myself by saying: I tried.  At least I got out the tarp!  But, clearly there was no extravagance in my efforts.  At best, it was somewhat reserved. 

 But when Lucia awoke and saw the yard filling with water, everything changed.  Immediately, sans umbrella or shoes, she was out in the rain and the ankle-deep water with a Sterlite container, reaching into the mud and leaves, turning over bricks and bits of nature, gathering her beloved turtles.  Of course –out of guilt—I quickly got my wet shoes back on and rushed out to help her (and Lynne—who was already out there).  The three of us becoming a turtle transport, carrying plastic bins of curious creatures into the garage where the kennel was already set up to receive them.

What seemed remarkable to me was that Lucia knew each of them by name, and after a couple of trips, knew that one was missing. It was one who often gets into trouble, gets into awkward situations: trapped under a rock, or flipped on its back in the middle of the water dish and unable to right itself.  She was aware of its habits and rightly worried for its safety. Because she knew it. And she loved it—with a love that seems beyond reason to me. An extravagant love.

Immediately, she was back out there, and we were back with her; she was turning over rocks and lifting up anything a turtle might hide under until finally she found it.  The joy in her voice, the excitement, reminded me of someone-- a shepherd who lost a sheep…a single sheep.

On top of finding her one lost sheep, she also found three or four new babies. They are now living with the other babies in what used to be our “office.” I had dreams of writing several novels and crafting my Nobel Prize refusal speech from that room.  But instead it is a turtle nursery (or neo-natal unit) and I am writing from the dinner table (or the front porch). 

 As I write this morning –windows open, sunlight streaming in-- the rains have subsided, the yard is drying out and Houston has been graced with a week or so of lovely weather (according to channel 13).  The grown-up turtles are back in their pen, happily wandering about, hiding under rocks and flipping themselves over. 

This may sound frivolous, but I am sitting here contemplating the love of God, the weirdly, wonderfully extravagant love of God, and I am thinking –yes!  I get it now.  It is like the love of a young woman for her turtles—especially for that one awkward turtle who tends to get lost. Like a wandering sheep.   

 And I am glad for that. 

 And I hope the next time it rains, I will have a little bit of that extravagance, too. 

        God open my eyes, that I may read Your Word,
       Open my ears, that I may hear Your message in it,
        And open my heart that I will always be filled
            with the Love that is found there.