When Candles Won't Light....

The church was decorated beautifully for Christmas. Families gathered and music wafted through the pine-scented sanctuary. As we moved through the order of service a family approached the Advent Wreath to light the Candle of Joy.  Try as they might, the Candle of Joy simply would not light. The father took the brass lighter from the mother.  The audience watched and waited. Then the minister took it from the father.  We, the audience, held our breath. Finally, the minister broke our tense expectation with laughter, saying, “Even if the Candle of Joy will not ignite, we can still find joy in our hearts today.”

You could almost hear a sigh of relief. We had been assured we could still feel joy. We could still sing the songs, read the scripture, pray, and worship – without the light of the Joy Candle.

My thoughts remained with the unlit Joy Candle for the remainder of the service. Partly because I am in the Altar Guild, and I know that every detail for a worship service is carefully and lovingly watched over. Baptismal cloths are starched to precision, communion challises are polished—and candles are prepared in advance to make sure they will light.

And I know in our own lives as well we do everything humanly possible for things to run smoothly—and then the unexpected happens. The “candle does not light” and we find ourselves waiting and wondering how it could have happened. We are disappointed things did not go as planned.  We might even become, hurt, angry, or despondent. And we certainly have lost our joy.

But the minister said we could still find joy – even when the candle is not glowing.

Is that true? Even when events in our lives “snuff out” our light and joy, can we still find joy in our hearts? I know the answer to that is “yes.” I know that joy is not dependent on happy events and everything going as we had planned.  I know that joy is more.

In his book, Turn My Mourning Into Dancing, Henri Nouwen says that as we break through our need to cling to what we have, what we know, what we possess (all of our carefully lit candles and laid out plans for our lives) we can be liberated by trustful surrender to God. Then our anxiety will not cripple us, but point us forward in JOY, point us even to what we cannot predict or fully see, or understand.

For it is when the candle does not light that we long most for the light to come.  

     And it is in the darkest of nights,

                    when candles won’t light,

                                       we must search and find the light of the stars,

                                                                     And we discover the joy of our longing heart.

Benefits of Retreat ...and this does not mean running away

View of Marsh at Epworth by the Sea

A retreat is one way a person can find a safe spot in which to grieve.  Finding a safe spot in which to grieve helps the griever to move to a new spot in their grief. And that is where healing occurs. Little steps. One at a time. Gaining strength after a tremendous loss.

Retreat can be something as simple as sitting quietly in your home with no distractions of phone, tv, or yes, even the people we love.  All is quiet and you have prepared yourself to be still and consider where you are exactly in your grief. But listen up, being still is NOT doing nothing. Being still and focusing on the movement of grief is actually very hard work.

You can also go away for a retreat. Churches offer one-day events. Retreat centers offer one to three day, sometimes week-long retreats. They can be simple and very affordable or resort-like and expensive. Regardless of the style or cost, the mission is the same - to offer participants the space and tools to leave the retreat in a much stronger place than upon arrival.


Epworth by the Sea

This past weekend, eighteen women gathered from all walks of like to plunge into the task of grieving the loss of a child. Epworth by the Sea www.epworthbythesea.org/  on the Georgia coast provided a peaceful, beautiful setting for the work to begin. And it was work - from telling the painful stories, to finding gratitude, looking for joy, reaching out to the community, and experiencing God's love, these women left the retreat, energized and willing to return to homes with new thoughts, new feelings, and new hopes.

These women were willing to move to a new spot. They wanted to take the first step and decide to move from the loss of a loved one to a new place without them. Never forgetting them, but leaving them to be where they are they decide to walk the rest of their life without their living presence in their life. And it is okay. And it is healthy.

Many will never allow themselves the benefit of retreat. They think it is for weaklings or those who just want to stay in their sorrow. Quite the contrary, those who bravely come, choose to say, "I want to do something with my pain and move to a new place in my life.  I may require a little more time, and have to work at it a little harder. But in working through, I will find my joy again. I will.

 Psalm 30:5 says, "Weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning."

Have you found your joy?

A Song for Those Who Grieve

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zH87Hdd5O28&feature=player_embedded

 

The beauty of the music at my church this past Sunday keeps resonating in my heart. All Saints Sunday remembers those who have gone on to their eternal home. The service is dedicated to remembering, finding hope in scripture and song, celebrating with Holy Communion. Sometimes we don't  have to fully understand something to find meaning. It is simply faith.  I think it is when we allow our hearts just to "be" and move with the rhythm of grief, longing, and the mystery of death and life beyond. That is when we find hope...and peace.

Below are the words, but take time to listen to it being sung. You will be glad you did.

Sing me To Heaven

In my heart's sequestered chambers lie truths stripped of poets' gloss

Words alone are vain and vacant, and my heart is mute

In response to aching silence, memory summons half-heard voices

And my soul finds primal eloquence, and wraps me in song

If you would comfort me, sing me a lullaby

If you would win my heart, sing me a love song

If you would mourn me and bring me to God,

Sing me a requiem, sing me to Heaven

 

Touch in me all love and passion, pain and pleasure

Touch in me grief and comfort, love and passion, pain and pleasure

Sing me a lullaby, a love song, a requiem

Love me, comfort me, bring me to God

Sing me a love song, sing me to Heaven

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zH87Hdd5O28&feature=player_embedded

Spider Webs and Mountaintops

          There is a spider web outside my window. No spider works there, but bits of leaves and dust and a dead fly remain trapped in a gauzy maze. Occasionally a breeze will move the web and I silently hope for release for the fly. I silently hope the web will just blow away on its own or be washed clean by a rainfall and remove itself from my view. But instead I wait and look at it. I wonder why I don’t take charge and clean the windowsill and be rid of spiderwebs and death fragments and entrapment. I know I will—I just have to get to the place where I decide it is time for it to go.  I have to get to the place where I will change. 

Where is the place we change? Is it when we have had enough? Is it the place where we can’t stand ourselves anymore? Is it when we have new insights, new direction, and new inspiration? Is it when we seek change from those around us who offer an idea, a word of encouragement, a hope-holding hand along with some spoken words of truth?

Why do we resist change? It’s not because we enjoy looking at dead flies caught in spider webs.  Sometimes the webs are gnarly and sticky and we are caught and it is just plain hard to get out of it. It holds us in a grip and entwines around us, until like the fly, we become exhausted simply trying to flee.  All of our energy is devoted to breaking free, leaving no energy for productivity and meaning.  And we forget how good it feels to fly. And we die.

I belong to an energetic group of women writers who trek to a mountain house every year and we work through some of the “webs” in our writing. The webs are all shapes and sizes. Some are fresh. Some are in need of major de-webbing. And some just need a little sweeping with a whisk broom. But each writer brings ideas and encouragement and hands to hold and words to encourage.  The view of the mountain range keeps us focused on the goal. What goal is that? That somewhere out there, just over that mountain, the words will come. Somehow the spider webs become insignificant. The entrapment loses its gnarly grip and we become free to write, free to grow, and free to become all that God intends us to become.

And so how do we change? We surrender old ways and commit to new ways. On the final night of retreat, we set goals for ourselves and offered comments and questions about those goals. A scribe even wrote them down and will send them out—written in words to hold us accountable to one another, dated so we can measure our productivity, reminding us that we have viewed the mountaintops—and somehow, the spider webs  seem insignificant.

Psalm 121:1 “I lift my eyes to the hills; where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.”

 

 

I'm Glad You Are Here

           Today I walked into a meeting and a man who recently lost his wife. I touched his arm and whispered, "I am glad you are here." I thought about saying, "How are you doing?' But I realized so often when I am asked that question I never really tell the truth. I fumble around, say something cheery like, "I'm doing rather well. What about you?" And if you wait long enough, people will generally find something to say about themselves, relieving them of their initial question, freeing them up to not have to talk about your grief.

There are times when we just cannot face our own grief - or that of another.

Just being honest here. Because that is how we feel - sometimes. Oh, it is not that I did not care. I do care. But today I just could not "go there" and hear about the struggle, the pain, the endless questions that pour forth from someone who is grieving. Sometimes we just have to admit that we are not who we hope to be when confronted with the pain of another.

And that is when we must ask God to forgive us, restore us, renew us with His love.

And He does.

Satan works very hard to tempt us, to lure us away from the possibility of being of value to God. Oswald Chambers says that Satan wants to shift our point of view from God to ourselves. And when we allow that - on our weak days - we become self-focused, self-absorbed, hurt, disengaged, even angry. And Satan is so pleased. Our grief has won and we feel doomed. And that is when we need to get back in the scripture and read where Jesus was tempted by Satan. We need to remind ourselves that Jesus never became weary or exhausted, and that we have a perfect model for our lives through Him.

So that we can stop and talk to that person who might need a kind word from us.

So that we can face our own grief, trusting that Jesus knows all about it.

And He does.

Where Do Butterflies Go When It Rains?

    

 

  For seven days it has rained without stopping.But the morning started out dry and I looked out my window to see blooms waking up everywhere.  I pulled on my boots and waded through my drenched garden, uncovering some garlic chives trying desperately to bloom underneath the goldenrod.  To my surprise, out fluttered a sleepy butterfly.  I suppose I woke him up and it made me wonder where butterflies go when it rains.  

For a butterfly, seven days of rain takes about half of their lifetime as they take shelter under leaves until the rains subside.  And if the rain is pounding as it has been in Atlanta this summer, sometimes their wings get torn and they die an untimely death.  I am relieved to see that the butterflies are alive and well after seven days.  In fact, I am envious of their playful nature, hanging lazily upside down, flying free in the dry, warm air, putting on a show for those who notice. 

Where do we go when it rains? Usually, we just plod through with an umbrella or a jacket.  But the rains in Atlanta have pelted our homes and gardens, creeped into our basements, swept away bridges and toppled trees.  Then what do we do?  We get to work, call repairmen and we wait.  We gather our candles and flashlights and for a little while it is quaint – the quiet that is - but we soon become impatient for life to resume some sense of normalcy. 

In offering a short devotional at a meeting, I really wanted to begin by saying, “Into every life a little rain must fall” trying to make a joke about our continuous rain, but I knew that it would be interpreted in a way where people would feel sad.  So I chose something safer to say. But I find lessons in the butterflies.  Oh, how we want to live life to the fullest.  Oh, how we want to “hang upside down” and fly through life with only sunshine. Maybe we tolerate a shower or two, but certainly none of us welcome rains that destroy and displace. 

One thing is for sure, we cannot predict the weather. We cannot predict the rainfall for our lives, nor would any of us want to know the forecast. But we can plan for rainy days, do everything we can to protect and provide, and then armed, we can seek shelter from the storm.  How?  Well, sometimes we hide like the butterflies – behind masks of self-preservation and a simple will to survive.  But healthier ways are to seek shelter with our family and friends. We find comfort in being with our church family. We find strength in personal study of scriptures like “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you” Isaiah 43:2.

It’s been dark and gloomy for a solid week. I’ve hidden myself a little.  But the sun is out.  The butterflies are beckoning.

The Narrow Road

 

             My thoughts roam to the outside.  The new song of a persistent whippoorwill distracts me.  I keep thinking of my friends who have lost children - wondering how they are doing.  One just crossed two years, one is crossing one year tomorrow. And now I read about a family making the hard decision to pull the life support from their young son who was just having a final swim for the summer - in water where a deadly parasite waited to kill and destroy.  And their journey of grief will begin it's long search for survival. The cycle of grief starts today for them.

Isn’t it amazing how hearts do somehow survive?  We experience a great loss in our lives, wondering how we will make it through the crisis, and then we are six months along. The scar is healing on the surface, but it is deep and still aches, and we work everyday to rehabilitate ourselves, we “get away” to places that are meant to refresh and restore, but our hearts can barely keep the pace, wondering if we will ever find our way.  The road to recovery is narrow and often crowded out by the hustle and bustle of filling up each minute with life. 

Here’s a perfect example. We drove to a beach where we took our children for many years.  The roads have all changed to make way for progress.  Beach mansions have risen up in the aftermath of hurricanes and sleepy fishing villages have become palm-tree lined boulevards.  Our friends said, “Come on, we are taking you to a place you would never find on your own.”  As he turned off of the busy main road onto an unidentifiable shell- gravel lane, I wondered why I would even want to find it, but I trusted him.  And once we walked  around the corner, past the kitchen/trailer where several drowsy cats were sunning, then I understood what they wanted us to see.  A gray-weathered dock with a few tattered, faded umbrellas provided a setting of natural beauty.  Tucked away in the inlet, an old fishing camp was the backdrop for forgotten docks, now claimed by the pelicans.  I wanted to paint it-capture it somehow.  It was like Wordsworth’s words, “And then my heart with pleasure fills” as we were content just to look at the water, watch the pelicans, and wonder at the charm of it all.  It was as though the bridge to civilization was blocked from our view, and somehow time  allowed this little spot to exist for the sheer beauty, simplicity, and restorative qualities it bestowed.  It was a reminder of the way things were meant to be.

I love to be taken to a surprise place – a place that I would not find on my own, often a narrow road.  And I love the fact that our friends thought we, too, would love it.  Henri Nouwen in his book “Show Me the Way” returns again and again to that road we seek on our faith journey, finding our way to the cross.  He sends us to the passage in Matthew where Jesus tells his disciples that the “gate is small and the road narrow that leads to life." But even though it is small and narrow, everyone is invited to turn down that road. It is also a reminder how easy it is to overlook or miss the narrow road – the little, often overlooked path that takes one to a surprise place, filled with peace and calm, beauty and promise.

 

In the personal search for survival, there is a road on which we can be guided. There is a road that is often overgrown and crowded with the distractions of the day. But there is a road - a road to recovery.

 

 

 

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Remembering The Birthday Of The One You Grieve

Today is her birthday. Today she would be 32 years old. Today we would do something fun to celebrate. I have already received a few calls and texts from those who loved her. The morning devotionals have reflected meaning to my soul and strengthened me. Healed me. Encouraged me.

And I want to encourage you along this grief journey. My daughter died five years ago. Every year, while seeming long and short at the same time, have collectively provided healing power. Time heals our pain and fortifies us with the knowledge that we are in fact, still breathing, still functioning to some degree, still eating and sleeping with the full knowledge that our loved one is gone from this life. Gone from our touch, gone from enjoying birthday cake, gone from daily sharing of this life.

I came to this realization profoudly these last few months. My son married a beautiful young woman last week and we have celebrated and rejoiced with the full awareness of an absent daughter and sister. I don't think there was ever a tear of sorrow remembering her. Our youngest daughter proposed a lovely toast to the bride and groom and she acknowledged - out loud - that yes, she had lost her sister five years ago, but with this marriage, she affirmed the new addition of a new sister - and not just one, but the two sisters of the bride as well. My daughter's bravery of standing in front of 50 people and acknowledging what many had on their hearts was just another affirmation of the healing power of time. Our minister once said to give your problems and pain a name and once you do that, you will be able to deal with your hurt. I am so grateful my daughter had the courage to do what I could have never done. Well said, Blair.

Where are you in your grief journey? Where are you in your sorrow and suffering? My friend just crossed over the two-year anniversary of her son. Still so fresh. Still so hard to believe. Another friend just lost his wife. Five months. He says he is trying to stay busy but finds himself utterly distracted most of the time. So normal for grief.  And today my friends are weeping over fresh loss of a mother, grandmother, and friend. The husband has thanked God for giving them sever years to enjoy marriages and grandchildren.

I know after five years that gratitude is a powerful medicine for grieving a loss.  I, too, am grateful I had 27 (short) years with Megan. I am grateful we loved each other and cherished our years together. And today, on her birthday I am grateful I can prepare a birthday dinner and light candles on a birthday cake.  And those around the table will celebrate life and love and friendship, right there along with loss and pain and grief. 

It is how we move through and find our way. And God's presence is the light for our path.

For two weeks every Spring, the irises take center stage and exhibit their beautiful purplish, blue flowers. For two week, they are magnificent in their glory. And then they are gone. I like to spend as much time as possible with them because I know they are just passing through, soon to cease from blooming simply to recede into the background of garden growth and become green background for other rising blooms.

If you are reading this blog, you are grieving the loss of someone or you have grieved the loss and still remember. You know how precious time is with a loved one. Like an iris, you study it's form and color, you marvel at the quick growth and the sudden blooms that just come out of nowhere. You cut a few and bring inside, but they just aren't the same. You realize you must let them be. Let them grow, bloom quickly, bedazzle you with their color and charm, and then, say good-bye.

Oh, how I wish they would linger longer in my garden. Oh, how I wish they would just continue sending up those sudden puffs of indigo all summer long. Ecclesiastes gives us words that remind us there is a time for everything. Time to live and time to die. Time to bloom and time to stop blooming. Time for color and time to fade away.
                                            Time to enjoy the blooms.
                                                                                Time to let them go.

 Ecclesiastes 3
There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

²     a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
³     a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
⁴     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
⁵     a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
⁶     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
⁷     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
⁸     a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

Blackberry Winter

I keep waiting for the temperature to rise, for my spirits to warm up to get outside and go for the morning-soon-to-be-late-afternoon walk. But the wind continues to spin the weather vane above my head, and looking out, the clouds just seem to thicken.  It must be Blackberry Winter. You know, it is that last cold spell just before warm weather is finally here to stay.

We find many parallels in the grief journey. We move along, feeling stronger, venturing out more as we
become more accustomed to our grief legs. And then something will cloud our vision, loneliness brings a fresh chill to our days, and memories spin like an out of control weather vane. Maybe we cry a tear or two, reminisce for a little bit, and that's okay.

We must tell ourselves that the blackberries are blooming. And when blackberries bloom, soon there will be fruit - juicy and sweet for the picking. Fruit for a cobbler or fruit for ice cream or jam. And by the way, blackberries are rather hard to find these days. I have to really search to find the blooms, but when I find them, then I can return to harvest the fruit.

Where are blackberries blooming for you in your grief journey? Maybe a new neighbor needs some help with learning her way around. Maybe someone you know needs a word of encouragement. Maybe you need to make your home available for a gathering.

And then the sweet fruit in your life starts to ripen - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness and goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. (Galatians 5:22-23)

Withstanding the Wind

Just look outside this morning. The sky is clear. The sun is shining. The birds are welcoming the first signs of spring. Daffodils are bravely dancing in the cool morning air. Spring is coming! Why does it make me well up in tears. Any griever knows that answer. With every passing season, with every change - even in the weather - we move one step further into our own grief journey, one step away from the life the way we knew and loved, one step further into the unknown of life without someone we cherished.

This new season is coming and we must accept it. We can never go back, and we can never stay where we are. The only thing - and the best thing - to do is to move through to the unknown. Even with the changing seasons of our earth, we recognize that not every day will be a perfect 68 degrees with a slight breeze from the southwest and no humidity - if you live where I live. We know that with warmer weather can come turbulent storms, devastating floods, and vengeful ice storms just when we think cold weather is gone for good. Trees come down, rivers flood,and we discover again that we are not in control. We must sit back and take stock of the storm, salvage what we can, and start again.

We don't like to start again. We get weary. We liked where we were. Ah, there we go again. We are trying to "go back" and we can never go back. Say it. We can never go back. But we can remember with gratitude the many days of balmy weather and carefree days. We can know and trust that those days will come again - once we work through our storm. And that's the hard part.

Grief can be as traumatic as Hurricane Sandy was to our beautiful Northeast coast. Our lives, like those beach homes, are ripped apart from the foundation, tilting on the brink of crumbling into raging waters, fragmented beyond repair. Grief pulls us down into currents of despair, tosses us against rocks, and takes our breath away. We fear for our lives.

There is a story in the Bible where the disciples feared for their lives:

That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side.” Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”
He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.
He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
They were terrified and asked each other, “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!” Mark 4:35-41

The key for us is the question Jesus posed to his disciples: "Why are you so afraid. Do you still have no faith?" And we must ask ourselves in the midst of our own storm, "Do I have faith?" When we put our trust in Jesus,we can know that even the winds and waves of grief will obey him.

Where Does Our Help Come From?

Sometimes we just need to get away with our grief. No explanations are needed.
The pace of life runs us down and we search for respite and quiet and comfort. Even if it is impossible to physically get away like I did a few days ago - checked myself into a monastery to listen, sing, ponder, and pray - one can find time during the course of a day to listen, sing, ponder, and pray.
This is important for someone moving along in their grief journey.
Not only is it important, but it is a necessary step to healing and wholeness.

I have been studying and memorizing Psalm 121. It goes something like this:
I will lift my eyes to the hills. Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord; the maker of Heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip; He who watches over you will will not slumber.
Indeed, he who watches of Israel neither slumbers or sleeps.

I will stop with those four verses for today because they say so much to us. I admit my need for help and I am looking all around for it. It is when I lift my eyes to the heavens, I begin to understand that all of my help comes from the Lord, the one who made all of heaven and earth. While I look for help, I can be assured that He is always watching me, because he never sleeps. He doesn't even nap! I know the maker of heaven and earth will keep my feet secure - I cannot slip.

But I know your question. You ask, "Well, God let my loved one die. Where was God when he was slipping through to the other side?" He was watching over the loved one as he died. He was wide awake, welcoming him into that place prepared for those who believe in Him.
  Today is the first day of Lent, that season in the Christian year when we give up to grow in God's grace. We walk with Jesus to the cross.  Anyone who grieves a loss can use this time of quiet contemplation to actually grow and become stronger, finding healing through Jesus.
He will walk by our side, never slumbering. He will show us the way.

Tell Me About Your Christmas

If we were sitting together this morning, chatting, I would ask you, "How did it go? Your Christmas?"  You might say, "Well, I made it. Some days were harder than others. Our family worked to make it come together, but there were times when I had to cry. I would let myself have a good cry and then I would be okay for the next day or so. Then the pain would well up and back to my crying closet I would go."

I would listen and nod, but would let you do the talking. At your pace...at your will. I would say the name of your loved one and ask how you remembered him or her. You might say you lit a candle for them at every meal, or you sang their favorite Christmas songs, or cooked their favorite meal. Maybe you got out the photo albums and laughed over the really bad pictures together. Maybe you released a balloon on Christmas Day in memory and thanksgiving.

Wherever you are in the grief process - weeks, months, or years - these are all steps in the healing process. It is hard and it takes time, but little by little you find your way. The way is different and not the way you had planned, but it is your way now. You must find the road that will allow you to travel this unplanned journey.

And it is in hope we find our way. Romans 15:13 says: "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."

We have a God who is our hope. He fills us with hope as we trust in Him.

 
Sometimes it is in the very darkest hour we experience that hope. Author Anne Lamott says, "Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come." I really think what she means is: when you get to the bottom and there is nothing else, there is God holding out hope for us. There is God - the right thing - calling us to Him, asking us to trust Him.

Today, in your grief, the most courageous thing you might do is to take God's hand, and "as you trust in him" you will begin to experience that hope. Scripture says we will "overflow" but let's take one day at a time. Together. In time, we will overflow.