(Ir)Reverend Ramblings

Frank Sinatra sang it, “… Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention…” I have been thinking about regrets because I just finished reading the book by Matt Haig called ‘The Midnight Library’. In it the main character, Nora, decides she is tired of her life, tired of living and decides to end it all. She ‘wakes’ up in the midnight library. There, accompanied by her elementary school librarian Mrs. Elm, she is compelled to look into a book that contains all the regrets she has from her life. As she considers each regret she is given the book that tells how her life would have turned out had she made a different choice. It is an engaging read, a great summer read, and has left me reflecting on the impact regrets have on how we live out our life.

I confess regrets are part of my reflections somedays. ‘If only’ and ‘what if’ can pepper my thoughts as I consider how my life has turned out. Let me hastily add that I am not disappointed with my life and I am no where close to feeling the depths of despair that forced poor Nora to enter the midnight library. I have had a great career in a vocation I felt called to, I had a great marriage and am generally satisfied with how things have turned out for me. But I do sometimes ruminate on what would have happened had I made a different choice when a choice had to be made. And yes, that does lead to regretting some of the things I chose to do or chose to say or which decision I chose to make. The interesting thing about visiting the regrets of life is that we generally think that if we had made a different choice life would have been better. But, of course the likelihood of that is slim to none. I think we generally make the best decision at the time based on the information we have at the time. It is only in retrospect we think we could have done better, been better, acted better.

For many years the Prayer of Confession was a regular part of the liturgy in a church service. It gave people the opportunity to name those things, those sins, those actions that caused them regret or pain or were simply the wrong thing to do. I have noticed that confession, like the word sin, has fallen out of favour. I think it is because it feels negative, disempowering, even depressing to think of what we did wrong. But, in truth, there is a role for confession and reviewing our past, not to wallow in our sins and errors but to put them behind us, to gain perspective, and to move on with a healthier attitude.

In the book Nora discovered that some of her possible lives were good, some were great, some were terrible. And that is the truth of it. Choices mean consequences. So, yes Frank, regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention. How about you? Are there regrets in your life you can’t shake off?

I am back in Bowmanville today to officiate at a funeral service. The church closed and the congregation disbanded but I agreed to be available for funerals until people find themselves connected to their new congregation. The gentleman who died would have turned 83 in August and he was married to his wife for 59 years. Those are big numbers.

Perhaps that it is that I am dressed in my black funeral clothes. Perhaps I am thinking of the family as they prepare to go to the church for their time of good-bye to this one who had been the pillar of their family. Perhaps I am still jet-lagged from a recent trip. Perhaps it is because I am staying for the morning with my niece in the farmhouse where I grew up but, whatever it is I am feeling reflective.

I stood at the kitchen window washing out my cereal bowl in the sink, the sink where I washed dishes during my growing-up years. I watched my great niece walk the lane to the barn, her rubber boots rubbing against her calves, her arms swinging and I thought of my mother who would have stood at this kitchen window by the sink watching her kids walk down the lane to the barn. This is an old house. Other families owned it before my parents did. I wondered how many generations of women have stood at this window and watched their children make that walk, carrying a milk pail or an egg basket, off to do the chores.

I am just back from two weeks in Europe. We visited Hungary, Austria, Germany, the Czech Republic. We saw beautiful, historic buildings. We heard over and over. These were destroyed by the bombing of World War 2. This was a shell of a building after the war. There was significant damage here during the war. All now rebuilt to their former glory, but occasionally still bearing marks of damage done but, to the unpracticed eye, now glorious in their splendour.

All this considered I am struck by the resilience of humanity. Loved ones die, we mourn, mark their passing and life goes on. Buildings get destroyed, we shake our fists and we rebuild. Children grow up and the next generation comes along and take up the chores of collecting the eggs and feeding the hay. It is not a maudlin thought. It is a powerful thought – the remarkable tenacity of the human spirit.

Standing at the kitchen window, cereal bowl in hand, I am moved to gratitude for the many women who have stood here and watched their children carry life forward.

Hi there faithful readers. Yes, yes, I know, it’s been a while. I can assure you that there have been many times when I have thought, “Ooooh this would make good blog content.” Or, “Oh ya, I can blog about this.” But here’s the thing … it is a long way from inspiration to execution. So while I have had thoughts and ideas and motivation, nothing, for a few weeks now, has come to fruition. My only hope is that you have not given up on me. Today is proof that I have not given up on you.

I have been puzzling for a while now my ambivalence towards a certain word. It is a word I have used. It is a word I believed in for a while. It is a word used often with a thought that it is helpful, supportive, considerate and kind.

First, before I talk about the word, let’s remind ourselves what ambivalence means. According to the definition, it is “The state of having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone.” And the word I have mixed feelings, and yes, contradictory ideas, about is closure. It might not surprise you that the word is closure given that I spent three months this spring helping a church come to terms with their feelings about closing their doors and disbanding. Or, if you consider that once a week I spend some time helping out at the local funeral home. And it is true, in both settings I have heard people say they are doing certain things so they will feel a sense of closure. In truth, I have encouraged people to do certain things so that there will be some feeling of closure. I believe that ritual is equal, or perhaps more important, at endings than at beginnings. But what I am coming to own as human truth is that there is seldom closure. At least not in the sense that I think people mean when they (or I) say such things.

Closure stirs up images of being done and moving on. We can close the door. We can close the window. But closing down feelings is a whole different ballgame. The suggestion that we will get closure by performing a ritual is a bit deceiving. Don’t get me wrong I am all for ritual and I think it is an important means to processing our feelings. I think there are many rituals that have been passed to us through tradition that are crucial to the human experience. I have become more and more convinced over the years that funerals are extremely important for us so that we can come to terms with a death and to celebrate the life and acknowledge the passing of one we loved. People who decide to not have a funeral or memorial ritual of some sort are often left with emotional hangovers that are not helpful. But the ritual does not bring closure. It helps us along the way to sorting out our feelings but it does not close the door on our feelings. Am I making any sense? There is an assumed finality with the word closure that is, I think deceiving.

My ambivalence comes from the notion that we can do something that will tidy up the messiness of emotions. That if we do this or that the pain of loss, change, death, grief, will be done, closed. But emotions are not a door, a window or a book. You don’t close them. They change. They morph. They evolve. They rise up. They settle down but they don’t close. Nor should we want them to. Our emotions remind us that we are human. That we loved and lost. That we felt affection and knew kindness. That we will never be the same. And that is okay.

As I drove to the church this morning I saw a car pulled over to the side of the road. Beside the car stood a young mom, holding her toddler in her arms. No, they were not in difficulty. No, they were not needing help. In fact, they were looking across the ditch and into the field beside the road. The child’s arms were waving about and his little fingers were pointing. In the field several dump trucks crisscrossed temporary roadways. Backhoes were busy excavating through the topsoil and deep into the earth. Another farmer’s field is becoming suburban sprawl. The child was thrilled to see the huge equipment, the noisy trucks and diggers.

The delight of the child made me smile. The devastation of the rural landscape gave me pause.

The church where I am serving now is located on the edge of the GTA and is, therefore, undergoing huge transformation as the need for housing outstrips the preservation of rural landscapes. Since I have come temporarily back to this area, having been away for 20 years, I have been astonished at the development that has taken place. So many new neighborhoods of houses pressed together, ‘cheek by jowl’. Windows from one house just a couple of meters away from the window into the next. The town is, and has been for a couple of decades, under huge transition as it moves from a sleepy, small town into a feeder centre for the big city. Houses here sell for astronomical prices, as they seem to be doing everywhere. Sometimes I find it all a bit astonishing.

I have been thinking a lot about transitions these last few weeks. Yes, sparked in part because every morning I an not sure if I should put on a winter coat or a spring jacket! It is the transition season from winter to spring. But more significantly, because I am serving a congregation that is in a huge transition as they work towards disbandment at the end of June.

Transition happens constantly but it is sometimes only at the glaring, life-changing moments that we notice it. Driving down yesterday, from my home, I noticed that, all of a sudden, the fields and lawns are green. It almost seems like it happened overnight. One minute the fields are brown and dead looking and then, suddenly, they have transformed to a lively, fresh green.

In a few moments I will be walking up to the Funeral Home to do a service for a woman who died at aged 80. This is a powerful transition time for her family and friends as they say their good-bye. She was deeply loved by her family. Their family life will never be the same again as her absence will be felt at every gathering. Grief is a powerful marker of transition in the human journey. But not all transition brings sorrow think weddings, the birth of a baby, the delight of a move, the promise of a new job. Transitions come wrapped in many looks.

Maybe my reflection about this needs to come from the perspective of not only what am I losing with this transition but also, what am I gaining? What is the gift from this transition? That can be a hard one to puzzle through with some changes, but it is the truth of the matter. There is always something to be gained. We just have to take the time, and have the inner fortitude, to look for it.

Yesterday was Easter Day. After the lengthy season of Lent, the weekend held the tension and polarity of so much emotion. It is no wonder we call the week between Palm Sunday and Easter Holy Week. The days of that week move us through the story of the Passion of Christ. We walk with him into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday and then join him in Bethany at the home of Lazarus, Martha and Mary. We see the jostling for attention by the disciples, the questing for power and control by those who were closest to Jesus. And, as the story is told, throughout it all Jesus moves through the days calmly and with a patient demeanor in every encounter. The death, remembered on Good Friday is harrowing. It is gruesome in its detail. And then the long wait of Holy Saturday. It is the day we sit in grief. The day we face the darkness of loss and sorrow.

We live on this side of Easter so we know how the grim story takes a dramatic turn. We know that come Sunday we will celebrate and rejoice and gorge ourselves on sweets and dress our homes with flowers and dress ourselves in the bright colours of spring. Most of us like Easter Sunday more than Good Friday. Most of us want to move to the happy ending. And why not? Easter is the day that bouys us up. It is the story that makes the Christian message one of hope and promise, one of assurance and confidence.

This year, more than others, I have thought about Holy Saturday. That day in between. Holy Saturday seems to me such an important day that we often overlook. This year, more than ever, it feels like we are constantly living Holy Saturday. The continuing impact of covid, the violent war in Ukraine, which overshadows but does not delete the political unrest and oppression in many other countries, and the grinding reality of climate change makes it feel, some days, like we are locked into sorrow and grief. Stuck on Saturday. Messy, ugly Saturday.

I have been pondering, ever since Saturday, how to live as an Easter person, how to deeply live the resurrection, in a world where the pull of Saturday is so strong. Facile answers focusing on butterflies and empty egg shells don’t quite do it for me this year. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not depressed and I am not having a crisis of faith. I just think there is a deep truth to the resurrection, to the story of renewed life, that gets glossed over and ignored in the rush to get to Sunday.

I don’t have the answer. I am using this space to sort out the muddle of thought and feeling that I am exploring today on this Easter Monday. If you have some thoughts on how to grasp the resurrection truth in a Holy Saturday world I would love to hear from you.

Last Sunday I led worship for the first time with a congregation who have decided to disband in June of this year. Due to a number of circumstances they needed a minister to fill in from mid-March to mid-June. I was available and as I have some history with the town it seemed, to all of us, to be a good fit. So together we begin the ending.

The church is in Bowmanville. This was ‘our town’ when I grew up on the farm (I was born in Bowmanville hospital). I served the ‘other’ United church congregation in Bowmanville for nine years from 1993 to 2002. This means I have both ancient and more recent history with this town. The town has grown and changed a bit since I last worked here. Being located in the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) there has been lots of development. New subdivisions have sprung up like mushrooms on a rotting tree stump. Nonetheless, I saw familiar faces in the congregation last Sunday and I feel a sense of connection to this place given our shared history.

As is the case in many small towns in Canada, the two United Churches in this town are located very close together. Very close – they are two blocks apart. This church, Trinity United, began as a Methodist congregation and the other, St. Paul’s United Church began as a Presbyterian congregation. At the time of union, in 1925, both became United Churches. Like all congregations they each have their own personality and flavour, their own specialties and gifts.

This congregation, Trinity United Church, can trace its roots back to 1835 when it was founded and was part of the early Methodist movement in this part of the province. The first Methodist building was built in Bowmanville in 1839. The present building was built in 1890 with the opening service on December 6th, 1890. I have been able to discover all this, and much more, from two books written about the congregation. There is richness to the history here, as there is in many congregations. The music program has always been exceptional. Dozens upon dozens of weddings have taken place here. Innumerable children and adults have been baptized and confirmed here. So many funerals have been held here.

There is great poignancy in all the meetings and conversations that have brought the congregation to this point of seeing that they can no longer maintain this building and support the programs that make for a thriving church. Covid has not been kind to a community of faith that gained great financial resources from building rentals and catering. This added to dwindling numbers and flagging energy, this congregation like many churches across North America is facing the grim reality of extinction.

Many ministers have come and gone over the years. I am feeling it a grace-filled blessing that I am with this congregation for their last few months. They have planned special services. They are sorting and organizing all the chattels. They are carefully distributing memorial Hymn Books and Bibles. What has struck me in my first week here is the sense of care and the overwhelming gratitude that people feel as they begin the process to close up this place that has felt like home to so many for decades.

Endings are hard.

I read a poem today. Life is a Struggle by Louis Nelson and it begins: “Life is a struggle in the jungle, if you don’t believe me, ask your Uncle.” And it hit me. I don’t have any uncles anymore. At one time I had 10 uncles. Some funny, some serious, some affectionate, some stern but they were always there lined up against the wall or gathered under the tree at family suppers or picnics. 10 uncles who would call out to me and my cousins to, “Behave.” or “Get down.” or “Hurry up.” or some other terse uncle kind of command. They are all dead now.

There is something very sobering about realizing that I am now the older generation. Yes, I have three aunts still living, but two are in their mid-90s and one is 101. Even I accept they will not live forever. I shouldn’t be surprised to know I am an elder. When I announced I was leaving my job everyone assumed I must be retiring. After all, why would some one as old as me want to keep working? Yesterday, I went to see an allergist. I started having allergies, well I thought they were allergies, a few years ago. I would glibly say I was allergic to being in my 60’s. Turns out I was right. The allergist found that I was allergic to nothing. Then he gently told me it is common for people in their elder years to develop a runny nose. He gave it a fancy name and prescribed a nasal spray but the bottom line is – I am allergic to being old.

Like many others, the inactivity that came about with the pandemic resulted in a weight gain. I have been trying to shed those extra pounds. What do I read? It is harder to lose weight when you are older. As you age, your metabolism slows down, your body softens, your weight settles in different places. ARGHHH – yes, I can see that every time I stand in front of the mirror and my jowls quiver and my breasts sag and my belly pooches out. Let’s not even talk about the hairs that sprout on my chin.

I miss my uncles. And my aunts. And my parents and grandparents. I wonder if they were as startled about being older, and having the family responsibilities that they had, as I am? I wonder if they stood in front of the mirror astonished that they bore the signs of long life? Of course, better to bear those signs of age than the alternative. We always say that. I am not bemoaning that I am older. I am just surprised it has come so quickly.

Like many of you I have been riveted by the news of the unprovoked attack and devastation of Ukraine. The irrational lust for power by a despot sitting in his guarded and protected ostentatious place of power while civilians and military face death is mind-boggling. Each news report brings stories that are heart wrenching. Thankfully there are also stories that are heart warming. The stories of the bombing and violence are devastating. But the stories that have emerged of kindness and human compassion give hope even in the face of such atrocities.

As many of you know, I have remained very much in the lives of the Syrian family Bracebridge United Church sponsored. They arrived in Canada in March of 2017. Five years ago. These last few days have stirred up memories for them of the war in Syria. The war that they left behind. The war that still flares and devastates their homeland.

I remember in the early days, taking Hassan shopping one day. Berivan was home with one-year-old Pella. He wanted to buy laundry detergent and fabric softener. We went up and down the aisle as he looked for a label, a brand name that was familiar. Seeing none he started opening the different brands and smelling each one. He said he wanted to find one that smelled like what they were used to. It made me cry a little. To think that they had to leave everything, even the familiar scent of clean clothes behind and start out anew with everyday a challenge, every day struggling to adapt, everyday a new encounter.

I remembered their longing for familiar when I listened to the news this morning and heard interviews of the people of Ukraine now landed in neighbouring countries, wondering if their home still stands, wondering if their loved ones are still alive, wondering if they will have a roof over their head and food in their bellies tonight, and above the wondering longing for something that feels and looks and smells familiar. Smells like home. Such a simple but profound longing.

I did laundry today. Tonight, after a hot bath, I will climb into a bed with clean sheets. I will set the alarm and know that there will be a morning and my house will be standing and I will be able to do all the things on my “To Do’ list if I feel like it. Any chaos in my day will be manageable.

The poet, the late Ann Weems wrote, “I no longer pray for peace. On the edge of war, one foot already in, I no longer pray for peace: I pray for miracles.” May we do likewise.

Thursday was my birthday. As many like to phrase it, I marked “taking another year around the sun”. I love celebrating my birthday. Yep. I count my cards, I eat treats all day long, I relish the emails and phone calls that come my way, and I always hope there will be balloons and flowers. And this year, as in other years, there were all those things. I was spoiled from morning till night. And I loved it!

A couple of months ago I was shopping in a second-hand store. I found many great bargains. As I was checking out, so delighted with my purchases, my joy was magnified when the clerk asked, “Are you 55 or better?” Did you catch that? Not, “How old are you?” Not, “Are you a senior?” But, “Are you 55 or BETTER?” I immediately said, “I am BETTER.” And I have been using that turn of phrase ever since. Sure, I move slow when I get out of bed in the morning, Sure, my knees hurt when I try to cross them. Sure, sitting on the floor is more of a challenge then it used to be. But I maintain I am better – not older!

All this might seem trite given all that is going on in the world. I have the nightly news on as I type this post. The talk was first all about the police removal of the protestors in Ottawa. Now the reporter just said, “Europe is bracing for war”, as Russia continues its threatening behaviour at the Ukraine border. And in the afterglow of the Olympics, there continues to be discussion about the human rights abuses in China. How can I have the nerve to talk about celebrating a birthday? Well, yes, it might seem superficial but I, in my ‘better’ way of seeing the world, know that nothing I do will impact the Russians or the Chinese but connecting with friends and family will keep me focused on the simple pleasures of life. I can influence the world with bits of kindness in my small corner of the world. I can lighten the stress and the heaviness of the daily news by valuing the the gift of friendship and the treat of simple celebration. That’s what getting “better” means for me. It is defeating the overwhelming distress of world news by balancing it with gratitude for the grace and gift of each day.

I know that many of you read this blog and never comment. That is fine. But as I have adjusted to no longer working at the church I have had to change my contact info. If you would be so kind as to make a comment – even just a ‘Hi” will do – I can verify that all my contact info has shifted to my new email address. Thanks!

In my last post I wrote about normal. A wise and faithful reader added to my comments by sharing that ‘normal’ comes from the word ‘norms’ which is “an exploration of the behaviours, social values, and ideologies which are always evolving”. So, our “normal” should too. And she noted that in the past in Canada, but still existing in some countries, a teacher training school is called ‘Normal School’ because teachers are trained to teach children the “norms of the day”. My mom went to ‘Normal School’ and I never understood why it was called that so I was grateful for this tidbit of information. As the saying goes … “It’s a poor day if you don’t learn something.”!!

Of late, I have been trying to find a normal rhythm to my new life. As you know I left my position at the church. That meant all those books and files and knick-knacks and very important bits and bobs and pieces of paper I have amassed over the past decades had to be packed up and moved home. My basement has been chaos, as I wade through boxes and try and sort and stow everything in its new locale. I have tripped over stacks of books for the past couple of weeks as I tried to organize my office space to accommodate all this additional STUFF. I know, I know, some of it should be tossed but I also know that whatever I toss is the very thing I will be looking for in the near future. That is just the way of it.

All this has left me thinking about order out of chaos. Creation out of chaos. Spoiler alert … strong Biblical images ahead!! The story of faith, recorded in Genesis, (with parallels found in other religions and creation stories) begins in chaos with God brooding over the waters. What a delicious word – brooding. And out of that chaos and brooding came the creation of day and night, earth and sky and sea, animal and bird. Now, I am not deluded enough to think that I can sit brooding in my office and somehow these boxes will turn into some creation beyond imagining but I have found myself reflecting on what is important, what is valued, what is dispensable and, indeed, when chaos brings about creation.

In my own life experience times of chaos have often wrought something I would never have imagined. It is in the chaos of grief or illness or worry or transition, that strength, insight, self-awareness and sometimes even new life can often surprise us. Brooding, in and of itself, if we stay stuck in the brooding, does not bring about something new, but brooding to a new beginning can be most powerful.