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.

 

Cast your burden on the Lord --some thoughts on travel and prayer

“Cast your burden on the Lord

and He will sustain you…”

--Psalm 55:23

This summer, I went to visit my Dad and his wife for a few days. I don’t travel much, so for me this was a bit of a challenge –just getting on a plane and going somewhere. It makes me uncomfortable to be in a strange place.  I like to imagine that somehow this discomfort might be linked to my writing—to my imaginary life and imaginary travels.  I excuse my homebody nature by with the idea that I’m too busy travelling in my imagination to think about travelling in the real world.  And I think there is some sense to that.  But, I also think I’m a little bit afraid of letting go of control.  If I go somewhere else, I won’t have control of the environment, I won’t know my way around, I won’t know which way to go or who to ask for help, I won’t even have control over the ac or the gas station bathroom…  I will, like Blanche Dubois, have to depend “on the kindness of strangers.”

But all in all it wasn’t bad.  Seeing my dad and his wife was wonderful. They were so kind and welcoming, made me tomato sandwiches straight from their garden and gave me all the chips I could eat and all the coffee I could drink!  The very picture of perfection when it comes to being a host, and family.  I had a wonderful time with them. Sitting on the porch, enjoying my dad’s beautiful black-eyed-susans and towering sunflowers and watching the small yellow headed birds pop in and out of the bright yellow blossoms. It was a taste of heaven.  I also had the pleasure of hearing my father’s stories of his childhood, selling popcorn at the wrestling matches, and delivering groceries, selling Bibles door to door to pay for school.  All his adventures and misadventures. What a blessing to have that time we spent together on his porch, sipping our coffee and chatting, or just sitting in silence as the sun settled and the geese at the lake by the church across the road honked their evening prayers.  Truly a blessed time.

Something else interesting happened on this trip; and I would like to meditate on it for a moment. As I was packing to go, I had a sudden anxious sense that I shouldn’t bring my special Bible with me—just in case. I wouldn’t want to lose it on the plane or accidentally leave it at Dad’s.  So, I unpacked it from my bag and threw in one of my miniature New Testaments with Psalms. In my Bible reading I had just started Proverbs, and one of my little paperbacks has Proverbs in it, and I thought I was grabbing that one. When I sat on the porch that first morning at my Dad’s to do my morning prayer: read some scripture and write a little bit, I found that I had grabbed the wrong one.  I was disappointed.  I like my routines.  They give me comfort.   But, I would have to make do. So, I opened to one of the psalms and settled (quite by accident) on:

“Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.”

And it seemed good enough. I read over the whole psalm a couple of times, wrote a few notes in my journal and went back to my coffee and the birds and the flowers. Feeling sustained.

But then, on the way home things changed.  My trip went from ideal to my perfect travel nightmare.  At the airport I forgot to take my Kleenex out of my pocket and was pulled out of line and frisked during the security screening.  It was embarrassing, but—nothing terrible, and I guessed I deserved it.  I just didn’t think about the package of tissues in my back pocket. But, when we deboarded the plane (after sitting on the runway close to an hour, I started to feel a little anxious. And when (after about 5 hours of waiting in the terminal) they put me on a different flight –through Charlotte— to sit in another terminal for another 3 hours and catch another flight to Houston that would get me home close to midnight, I was starting to feel a little frustrated not only with United Airlines, but also with God.  Hey –Lord!  I cast my burdens on you. I don’t like to travel, but I did it anyway! And look what happens!  Why aren’t you sustaining me?  I need to get home. And of course, as things go, around 11pm I was still in Charlotte and my flight to Houston was cancelled.  I had now been in one airport or another for over 18 hours.  And I was feeling a little unsustained. 

Plus, everything was closed. I was wandering through an incomprehensibly huge airport far from home and far from anyone who cared, and all the lights were going out. As if they were actually shutting down.  You’d think that at least the bars would stay open!  But no. It was me, and a few thousand other anxious travelers and the cleaning crews, caught in a strange Kafkaesque nightmare of cheery signs and gliding walkways and rows of empty wooden rocking chairs, and that voice overhead that kept calling out its messages welcoming us to Charlotte and reminding us not to leave our luggage unattended.  Luckily, I still had a granola bar and some chewing gum.  At one point it was almost comical. I couldn’t even find a help desk or an airline person to ask what I was supposed to do about getting a new flight. Of course, finally I did.  But I want to talk about something else that happened.

As I was wandering through the airport feeling a little sorry for myself, I saw a sign that said Chapel with an arrow pointing upstairs. So I took followed the arrow up the stairs and found a tiny room with a few benches and what looked like a makeshift altar (made out of a school desk). There were “inspirational” posters on the walls that also looked like they might have come from a classroom. And as I sat down, I noticed, there was also a man on the floor.  My first thought was that it was someone sleeping. And that he looked terribly uncomfortable, sleeping all balled up with his face to the floor. I thought: this poor man. His flight has been cancelled too, and he has found the one quiet place to curl up and take a nap.  Taking out my rosary, I made the sign of the cross and began to pray. The man on the floor moved. He hadn’t been sleeping, he’d been praying. He rose up on all four and looked at me –probably as shocked as I was to find someone else in the chapel at that hour. We nodded to each other and he finished his prayers, rolled up the prayer rug he was kneeling on, and put it atop a pile of prayer rugs in the corner and quietly slipped away.  I prayed my Rosary and did the same.  But all the time I was thinking of that man; how the two of us had found our way to this place at this hour, in some sense we had found each other.  And somehow that comforted me.  I had been walking through that cavernous building, looking at all the closed stores and the desolate food court, noticing all the shadowy, isolated figures slumping over on benches or in chairs, sleeping, waiting.  Occasionally, I would catch sight of someone rushing up to hug someone who had just arrived; taking the suitcase from their hands, they would walk away together arm in arm, talking excitedly, heading off to family, friends and a comfortable bed.  And, past midnight I was still wandering, feeling desolate, alone, until I found the chapel and the skinny little Muslim man down on his knees, saying his prayers.

You see, I was trying to bear my burdens, I was trying to be strong and self-sufficient and good-humored and cheerful, but I was (in fact) simply clinging to my burdens as if they were trophies. I was feeling sorry for myself, and feeling like somehow, I was earning something special by suffering all of this. God was going to owe me!!  But, instead I was being taught a lesson.  I was being taught how to let God sustain me. And the way to do that isn’t by sucking it up and “being strong,” or ‘taking it like a man,” but it is simply by letting go and giving it to God. When things are going badly, times are hard, life is rough, give it to God. Go into some quiet place and sit down (or kneel down) and offer it to Him in prayer.  He will sustain you.

Soon after leaving the chapel I found the help desk and was rescued by an attendant who arranged a flight for me that didn’t get cancelled, and even got me a voucher for a hotel room (so I could go sleep for 4 ½ hours before coming back to the airport to try my hand at the security scanner once again.

It’s not easy, but it is very simple:  Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.

(on the other hand, I still don't like to travel....)

The grace of gift and giving

“What return can I make to the Lord

for His generosity to me?

I shall take up the cup of salvation

and call on the name of the Lord.”

--Psalm 116:12-13

I keep hesitating to write, waiting for something profound to say or some beautiful epiphany to happen. Waiting until I have something to share.  But this morning during my prayer I was contemplating these 2 verses from psalm 116 and it occurred to me:  I never have anything to share… except that which is given to me by God.  And so, here is what God has given me and I (like the psalmist) take it up and offer it back to God.

What do we have to give to the Lord save that which the Lord has already given to us?   Even if we would make an offering in thanksgiving we would only be giving back to God what God has already bestowed on us.  We have nothing of our own to offer.  Consider the example in the psalm: The cup of salvation –the literal cup—comes from materials God provided, and is shaped by hands God created, through talents God bestowed. As well the spiritual cup “of salvation,” it too is a gift, a grace God offers us through the gift of Jesus Christ.  And all we can do is take up that gift and offer it back to God in praise and thanksgiving.  In a sense, all we can do is “re-gift” the gift we have been given.

And as I pondered that, I began to think: isn’t that a kind of reflection of the Holy Trinity.  The gift of grace and love radiating back and forth between the Father, Son and Holy Spirit in a kind of eternal communion of re-gifting. God’s love is not only a gift that keeps giving, but a gift that calls out to be given—as if it were never completely accepted until it is given away!

We receive the gift and the gift itself calls us to give it away, to give it back to God, and by doing so we take part (in however small and humble a way) in the beautiful relationship of love that is the Trinity, a relationship of generosity, of abundance, of sharing, of love.    

What has God given you today?  Offer it back to Him.  A quiet rainy day? A moment of laughter? The tears of a friend?  A prayer? A cucumber sandwich? Or the cup of salvation? Don’t hesitate. Share it; in fact, re-gift it! And remember, whatever you have been given, its not really yours until you give it away.