The Ultimate Parade

To adapt the words of Robert Frost, "something there is that loves a [parade]". Just to imagine listening to a marching band in the distance and seeing the first baton-swirling marcher quickens my heart, and it is to the image of a parade that I turn this All Saints Day.

Today, we remember and give thanks for those who have died. Yes, there are the big saints to remember, like Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, along with Francis, Benedict, and many others. But today is also for remembering the other saints who do not loom as large on history’s horizon, but whose lives enriched ours. Whether big or small, today we celebrate those created in God’s image, who in one way or another reflected or pointed to the one bigger than us all.

This morning, as I sat in a chapel service at my daughter's school, I noticed a stained glass window high in the tower showing the “great cloud of witnesses,” (otherwise known as saints) as if they were walking in a parade. Side by side they were making their way into heaven. It was easy for me to see faces particular to my journey, people who have pointed the way for me. I know you have faces of your own. Today we stand and celebrate the parade.

But in a recent book by Bob Goff, I read about an unusual parade. Bob and his family organized a neighborhood parade that has become an annual event. People dress in costumes, play instruments of any kind, and gather at the end for a picnic. The catch is, no one is allowed to watch. Ever single person must march in the parade. In other words, there are no spectators, only participants. 

In many ways, I think that’s the kind of parade we celebrate today. We are not called to stand on the curb and cheer. Rather, we are to “join in their number,” as the song goes, as we head to the picnic big enough for us all.

Thanks be to God.

Uninvited Guests

The uninvited guests,

Came knocking on my door.

I pulled the blinds,

And turned off the lights,

Pretending I wasn’t home,

But they knew better.

On the porch,

Fear and anger stood hand in hand,

With shame and grief close by.

They were in no hurry.

They had all day,

All night,

No matter how I paced within.

“Go away,” I shouted.

“I have no time . . . or space . . .

for you!”

Silence their reply.

“We’ve met before,” I offered.

“It ended badly.”

Silence still

So, in great frustration,

I went to the door,

And turned the locks,

One after another,

Pausing before the last.

“If you must!” I sighed,

And opened the door,

Only to find the porch empty,

And leaves swirling in the breeze.

83 B

My family recently made the trek north to attend a wedding, and logistics required meeting my son along the way. We left his car in a hotel parking lot before continuing on our way, and I remembered the exit, 83 B, so we could return to his car on Sunday. The problem came when we took the exit and found nothing familiar - no hotel, no car, nothing we remembered from our earlier rendezvous. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and each of us tried to solve the problem. An hour and a half later we found the car, but it was nowhere near where we thought it was. The exit was 92, not 83 B.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out how I got the exit numbers so wrong. I can see no misleading connection between the two numbers, and yet I was so certain I as right. While it remains a mystery to me, the experience points to something I hope I’ll remember in the future: don’t trust certainty.

Exits on highways are nothing to the other things we feel certain about: I’m supposed to be a doctor, lawyer, or priest . . . my father is perfect . . . financial security is all I need to be happy . . . my husband/wife loves me . . . my child would never do that.

So often we hold onto ideas as if they are made of stone and guide our lives accordingly. They provide security in an unsteady and confusing world. When something happens that turns those stones to dust, we’re left baffled, confused, and scared. “If that isn’t true,” we ponder, “then what is?” It’s as if the earth shakes and there’s nothing onto which we can grasp.

As awful as such moments are, there’s also a new freedom to be found as the dust swirls in the breeze. We find a new humility and acceptance that can literally make us breathe, and live, easier. When it comes to the life of faith, I am trying to hold loosely the things I believe. The landscape of life is beyond my full comprehension, and to claim otherwise is to search for stones. Yes, stones provide spiritual comfort, but they also keep me from flying.