Grace, Thanks, and Joy....In Other Words, Eucharisteo

 

 

I write often that we are all on this healing  journey somewhere between celebration and sorrow. And today I feel that I am hovering right in the middle of it all - teetering on a balance beam, trying to maintain my composure. The past week was the joyous wedding of lifelong friends. But today I will return to that same sanctuary to celebrate the life and memory of yet another daughter, taken too soon for our understanding. I will enter my sanctuary, with the light flooding through the stain-glassed windows, and a flood of memories and thoughts will fill my heart.

How can it be? I was just sitting here with my husband and son and daughter-in-law, remembering their own wedding a year ago, greeting friends, almost giddy with celebration and joy. Listening to the beautiful music, hearing the familiar words of The Lord Bless You and Keep You. And when I allowed my heart to wander, I remembered, too, my daughter's memorial service. Funny, Be Thou My Vision was sung at both the wedding and the memorial. I love that. Songs of faith remain constant and true - from birth to death, through celebration and through sorrow.

This morning I found myself rereading some of  Ann Voskamp's One Thouosand Gifts. She speaks of eucharisteo, the giving of thanks, as never ending, as the preparation for full restoration, in sorrow and in joy. She says , "Eucharisteo, the Greek work with the hard meaning and the harder meaning to live - this is the only way from empty to full. I know it's true.

Sharaya Crossan, in her blog Eucharisteo Journey writes beautifully about Jesus, just before his death, taking the bread, giving  thanks for it, breaking it, and sharing it.
She writes, "The root word of eucharisteo in the Greek is charis meaning gift or grace. He took the bread and saw it as a gift. He held it and gave thanks. Is not all we have been given us by the Giver of all? Do we see the common like bread and drink as pure grace, unmerited gifts from He who can do nothing but give? Do we take up each moment of life in this way, both the mundane and the trials of life?

Charis also forms the root of the Greek word chara, meaning joy. Those three words...grace, thanksgiving, joy...come together. In all circumstances, even in our greatest trial, we can receive from Him this sustenance. Now served to us with nail-scarred hands, first we taste of grace—that He delights in us in His generous benevolence. Then we savor it with thanksgiving that both springs up from our spirit and nourishes us right down to our souls. And our dessert? Joy! Joy...from thanksgiving...from grace, freely bestowed on us, His beloved."

 

 

 

 

How Do You Define Death With Dignity?

          Death with dignity has taken on new meaning these recent days in the news. I think of dignity as I remember going to Normandy last year, visiting the American Cemetery, remembering and relearning about those who fought valiantly for freedom from oppression. I think of dignity as I remember those who tried to save victims during the 9/11 crisis and became victims themselves. And I think of dignity when I think of Andrew Taylor, my nephew, who had a grand mal seizure when he was three and lived 26 more years with loving and heartbroken parents.

The beautiful face on this week's People Magazine cover is Brittany Maynard.  Brittany has an incurable brain tumor and she has decided to take her life on November 1st. There has been much written, much talked about, much support and/or criticism. When she went public with her decision, she became the unexpected face of the right-to-die movement. Her family is devastated yet supportive and loving. It's tragic and heartbreaking and it makes me weep.

I look at the beautiful double page photo of Brittany, standing by her bed, and I cannot help but think of my own daughter who also was given a 4-6 month fatal diagnosis. The big difference in Brittany and Megan is that Megan's mind was deteriorating rapidly and she could not make sound decisions on her own. Megan's mental abilities were taken first. Maybe that was a blessing. Maybe that was God protecting Megan from the hideous side effects very similar to Brittany's. When I read of Brittany's excruciating headaches, nausea, seizures, talking gibberish, and at-times non-recognition of her husband, I can almost - almost -  understand her decision because I remember many of those experiences myself with my child.

Interestingly, both Brittany and Megan began their symptoms in the Spring. Both women were teachers with a love for helping others. Megan died at 27. Brittany is 29. Megan lived with her disease 16 months. Brittany has been sick 18 months. They even resemble each other. And I cannot help but wonder, "Would Megan have made this decision?"

I can't answer that question. I can only remember her final words written in her journal which said, "O God, such a crazy week with so many tests, but I know you have a plan and a purpose and it is good and I trust in You." That tells me that Megan put her life in God's hands for whatever purpose He had for her life. And I know that as we waited on God's timing for Megan's death, our faith found new meaning in our Christian life and for the eternal life to come after death. There was a richness to our day - a presence of God himself, comforting us, comforting Megan. Megan, in her own version of "death with dignity" gave us the ultimate gift of time which fostered great love among those who shared the journey and in the end was the beginning of our healing.

To read further thoughts, go to: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/ellenpainterdollar/2014/10/a-christian-response-to-brittany-maynards-decision-to-die/

Vegetable Soup

I don't normally write about cooking, although it is something I love to do. Monday mornings seem to be a day to clean out the refrigerator, make something delicious from all the little odd leftovers from the weekend. And some days the combinations even work! This morning I found two celery stalks, several orphaned carrots and two lonely leeks, With a little olive oil and a few garlic cloves, I knew I was on to something. Looking further I found a container of half-used tomato paste, two containers of beef broth and the piece de résistance, two leftover meaty short ribs from Saturday night dinner. A little herbs, salt and pepper and time to simmer, the chopped up tidbits have yielded  something tasty for dinner.

Maybe it's because I grew up with a mother who could take a little of this, a little of that, and turn it into something wonderful. Maybe it's because she moved a lot with a military husband and could set up housekeeping with a few things a  lot of creativity. Nonetheless, she had a knack for it.

I like to think I am like my mother. I haven't had to move very often, but I do like a new look, a change in my surroundings. My husband is always suspicious when he returns from out of town, fearful he won't recognize his own home. And I didn't disappoint him this past week.

I have been saying - whining -  for some time, "I want my own office - just a little space where I can think and write, research and read, ponder and plan." It made perfect sense to me to turn one of our unused bedrooms into just that space. Light pours in. Soft green walls welcome. All my books can live together in harmony with files and unpublished manuscripts. In my disarray of unfinished projects,I feel so at home, so together, so satisfied.

I hardly had to purchase a thing. An abandoned desk from one daughter. Bookcases from days of playrooms and toy shelves. Chairs reclaimed and slipcovered years ago. Decorative plates collected by another daughter and hung around gift crosses. All came together so effortlessly (well, moving the desk up two flights of stairs was a bit challenging). The more I changed, the more excited I became. It was as though the little green room was waiting to be transformed and used in a new, fresh way.

Transformation always requires movement.

Whether moving around furniture to create a new space, combining vegetables  to make soup, or rethinking how we should live our lives - transformation asks something of us. Can I visualize the change? What resources are readily available? Can I buckle down and do the work that change requires? Can I persevere? Will I succeed?

I write this blog as a healing journey of faith. I am learning that as I heal, I can write about making soup. I can write about rearranging some space in my home. Somehow it all fits into the journey of transformation in our lives. Scripture says God is making everything new (Rev 21:5). We are a work in process.Why not help out?

Where can the evidence of transformation be seen in your life?

It's A Small World After All

The ice cream truck just made himself known on my street. The familiar "It's A Small World" plays over and over drawing us out for that afternoon snack. I often consider running down to see what he has, to try a grape slushy or an ice cream drumstick dipped in chocolate with peanuts. And then I feel silly and remind myself ice cream trucks are for children. But I must admit, I sure do enjoy the song and the surprise of music outside my window late in the day. And don't you love the words?

It's a world of laughter, a world or tears
it's a world of hopes, its a world of fear
there's so much that we share
that its time we're aware
its a small world after all

  its a small world after all
its a small world after all
its a small world after all
its a small, small world

There is just one moon and one golden sun
And a smile means friendship to everyone.
Though the mountains divide
And the oceans are wide
It's a small small world

Earlier today I was reminded - again - how very small the world is in which we live. A group of mothers who have lost children gather in my home monthly to find encouragement from one another. We share our hopes and fears, we laugh and we shed a few tears. Today, a woman came who had lost a daughter 20 years ago. The child was three months old and died from injuries in a car accident. She was living proof that we do move through grief, find new meaning in life, and function well after loss. We appreciated her perspective.

Every time these women gather, there is another connection, a link to another source of community. And community is what we all want - whether it is in a support group, a newly married couple in a new home, or running into an old friend from years ago.

There is just one golden sun and just one moon - a very large moon these nights.  Mountains do divide us and oceans are very wide. But it is still a small world. We are so very much alike in our hopes and our dreams, in our frailties and in our losses. Why do we try so hard to make the world large and indifferent? Why do we mostly ignore ice cream trucks?