Leaf Piles

Something there is that … loves a leaf pile.

Just the sight of one conjures memories as plentiful as the leaves assembled. My senses come out to play as I look at the collage of reds and yellows, listen as my shoes shuffle through, imagine the dusty taste when we used to have leaf fights, and the feeling when leaves lodged down our shirts.

When I was a child, a man named Mr. Carnivale came to our house with his crew to clean up the leaves. He would throw a tarp on the ground and create a towering pile of leaves then turn away for just a second before reaching for each corner of the tarp. That was my sister’s and my invitation to jump in the pile of leaves. He acted like he didn’t know we were there and carried us away to the curb. He was not a large man but was strong as an ox. Without fail, he acted surprised to see our two heads pop up out of the pile, and we would race around the other side of the house to do it all again.

My days of jumping in leaf piles, let alone being carried, have long gone, but the piles I see still conjure nostalgic feelings of joyful play and carefree living. Watching the last leaves swirl their way to join the others reminds me of life’s seasons. I think about those whom I’ve loved who are no longer, of chapters of my life that have come and gone, and the fact that one day I, too, will follow their example and return to the earth.

To everything there is a season . . . the familiar words go, and the vivid example offered by this year’s leaves bring not sadness so much as an invitation to let my soul take a deep breath. “Enjoy this moment,” I say to myself, as I jump in one more time.

Believing Mirrors

(Dedicated to “The Tribe”)

Early on in my life as a creative, I learned about “believing mirrors,” those people who see in us and reflect back to us our true selves and encourage us on our way, but it was another thing to encounter such “mirrors” first hand. I recently visited some wonderful creative people I met a year ago and realized each one of them sees in me something I don’t and reflects back to me things I never thought possible. The experience was disconcerting. In fact, I was tempted to look behind me each time they talked to me thinking they were talking about someone else! It made such an impression on me that I wanted to share it with this small but loyal reading family.

Have you ever had, or do you have now, anyone you consider a believing mirror? They’re the ones whose gaze penetrates your soul and whose smile invites you to take a deep breath. They’re the ones who are curious about what you are up to and don’t let you dismiss their inquisitive questions. They’re the ones who remind you of what you have done in the past when your confidence is running on fumes, and the ones who dream dreams in a way that invites you back into the sandbox to build magical kingdoms. Believing mirrors put air in our tires and fill our tanks in ways that propel us beyond our limited horizons.

At some point today, take a moment and think about people you have, or have had, in your life who are/have been believing mirrors. Get specific. Remember the precise moment they reflected back to you who you are and who you could be. Let the gift of such people fill your soul with divine gratitude.

Then, ask yourself if you’ve been such a person to someone else? When and to whom did you offer such life-giving reflection? Who is in your life right now who could use such a person to encourage them on their way?

I think I’ve reached that stage in life when I only want to concern myself with what truly matters, and surrounding myself with people who are believing mirrors, and trying to be one too, is a step in that direction.

Regardless of what stage of life you are in, I hope you’ll come along.

Yum!

It was Communion Sunday, a day when this large parish shared bread and wine in remembrance of what Jesus did with his disciples at the Last Supper. Christian denominations vary in the way they view communion. Some see it as a remembrance, others as more than a memorial - that Christ is made present through the bread and wine.

However a church views communion, it’s always a solemn and important occasion which is why this particular parish worked with military precision to make sure everything was done “decently and in order.” A crew of dedicated volunteers helped before, during, and after the service. (They even had training sessions, or rehearsals, to make sure things ran smoothly.) As always, everything was in place before the service began. The silver was polished and the bread and wine sat in the back ready to be brought forward at the appointed time.

A family with two small children entered and, without thinking or asking, one of the children reached over and took a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth. Her parents and the usher were horrified, but it was too late. “Yum,” she said with a mischievous grin as she proceeded to strut down the aisle like the beloved child of God she was. There’s a brushstroke in that, I thought to myself when I heard the usher’s account of what happened.

The Last Supper must have been an amazing moment in the disciples’ time with Jesus. Although tensions outside the upper room were high, when Jesus took bread and wine and gave them to the disciples no one knew how important such a meal would become. Once he was gone, the meal became a way to connect to Jesus, to feel (as if to taste) his presence, and throughout the ages, churches have sought to continue this practice in hopes of experiencing Christ’s presence in their own time. Unfortunately, this led to people feeling they needed the Church to experience Christ’s presence or that it is only in the eucharistic bread and wine that God’s presence can be found.

The child who didn’t wait for the church’s permission took the bread because it was there. It looked inviting. What a vivid example, and poignant invitation, she gave to all of us who seek Christ’s presence. We don’t need polished silver, nor dramatic liturgic rituals for Christ to be present. His presence awaits us all. All we have to do is reach out and grab it.

Christ can be known in the breaking of the bread and in the breaking of our lives.

He can be tasted in the wine and in the water of a cold stream.

He can be felt in our hands as we lift them at the altar and as we lift them to hold a loved one, stranger, or someone who’s hurting.

Life, after all, was created by God. Everything (and everyone) in it has the power to bring forth the presence of God. Like the girl in the back of church, we need only look around and reach for the “bread” that’s in front of us.

We’ll feel God’s presence when it is made known to us, and maybe our prayer of thanksgiving when that happens will be as simple and sincere as the young girl’s: yum!