The stream

I am sitting beside a stream this morning, not the kind that demands attention, but one that meanders through this wonderful New England town not caring if I notice or not. Cars and trucks drive over a bridge as if the stream doesn’t exist. The stream doesn’t seem to care. It flows whether we want it to or not, whether we notice or not.

Beneath the surface, rocks line the stream bed, and I can only imagine how long they’ve been there. Content with their role of providing a bed over which the water can flow, they seem at peace. In fact, they seem to like having the water flow over them.

On the surface, leaves, sticks and bubbles glide downstream. They show the movement of the current, and don’t try to control where it takes them. They're content to sit on the surface and enjoy the ride.

Below where I’m sitting, there are small rapids which the leaves enter willingly, and almost appear to lift their hands in the air and dance their way to the other end.

Staring at the steam, I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t trying to tell me something. Maybe it’s telling me about a great stream that flows through this world whether I notice it or not. Maybe it’s bed is lined with rocks that have been there through the ages, and, on the surface, leaves invite me to join them on the journey. Who knows, maybe I can even learn to lift my hands and dance through the rapids! 

That would be a change.

Succession of Hands

Even though I knew it would happen at the end of the service, I was surprised by how much it moved me. This was the Sunday when new Elders are ordained into our church, and after they answered a series of questions, past elders were invited up to place their hands on the newest ones. Because the numbers are large, a person in the back places his or her hand on the person in front of them, making a chain of connection up to those kneeling in front. It is a connection, of course, that is as much between people as it is with God. Through the centuries, hands have been placed on people making a chain to the earliest disciples and to Christ himself. In churchy language, it’s called Apostolic Succession. No matter what you call it, it’s powerful to see, and even more powerful to do.

These days, regardless of where one stands on an issue, there are those who stand militantly on the other side. Whether it’s race, the role of history, the economy, health care, gender, sexual orientation, or what our country wants in a President . . . the things which divide us seem to be greater than the things which unite us. Perhaps that’s why this morning’s unity was so inspirational. There were white and black hands, young and old, male and female, married, singled, divorced, as well as gay and straight ones. At that moment, the kinds of hands were overshadowed by the hands themselves.

The moment, however, was about more than hands. It was about passing along a blessing, and I couldn’t help but reflect on those who have reached out their hands and placed them on my shoulders, who have passed along a blessing I could not feel at the time. Looking back, I can see and feel the blessing like never before. I realized, as I left church, that what happened in the front of the church can, and should, happen every day. We are called to remember those who have reached out to us, just as we are called to reach out our hands and place them on those who are standing in front of us. It will create unity, as well as pass along a blessing, which this world desperately needs.

Old Wine

 As someone who thinks visually, I should have known I would lie awake imagining each room in our house as we prepared to move. Beginning with the rooms at the top, and working my way down, room by room, in my mind, I tried to figure out how to pack things. Because we were downsizing, I also thought about what needed to be given away. For some reason, I never reached the basement, until yesterday. We needed to be out by midnight, so there was no more delaying or denying the work that needed to be done down there.

Stored in the basement was my wine, bought years ago when I could still drink. Too cheap to let it go, the fact that some of it was now vintage made it more precious, still. But there was more than just wine stored in those boxes, there were memories of joyful parties and dinners when the best wine was served last. Advised by others that a person in recovery keeping wine in the house was akin to having poisonous snakes in the house, I did it anyway and have fortunately not been bitten in twelve years.

Still, lifting the boxes and carrying them to the truck, hearing the bottles rattle, stirred and awakened something deep within me. In my mouth, I could taste the flavor. I could smell the aroma as if my nose was dangling over the edge of a glass. Because I’m an addict, I imagined sitting beside the truck and opening every bottle, but I didn’t.

Instead, I thought about how much my life has changed since I bought this wine. I realized the wine no longer played the role in my life it once did, that it was old wine in more ways than one. Such thoughts made me wonder about all the other wine I still carry, like habits that no longer work, opinions or views that are no longer my own, relationships that take more life than they give, and work that grinds as never before. Holding on to such bottles, hearing them rattle, can cause us to hold tight, but old wine can't be put into new wineskins, so maybe it's time to let the old wine go.

For me, life is becoming more about letting go, than taking hold, but it's hard. I still cling to too much old wine. Like the bottles I carried to the truck, (that will soon be scattered at the doorsteps of friends) I wonder what else I need to release?