Graduation

The two awakened without the need of an alarm and spoke only of joyful things over coffee. “Access to the graduation seats begins in an hour,” she reminded her husband, so they dressed quickly and were among the first to stake out their claim in the college courtyard. Determined to sit close, they didn’t want to miss a moment. Their third-row venue was nearly perfect.

As they sat beside each other, waiting for the ceremony to begin, they reminisced about their child’s life, the day he was born during a horrific storm, how the teachers were drawn to him even in pre-school, his taking forever to learn how to ride a bike, his first date, and the day the letter of acceptance arrived from his first-choice college. It all led to this moment, and, in a rare moment of visible affection, he reached for his wife’s hand and squeezed. When the music swelled, and the faculty and graduates began processing, they were the first to rise.

It was only a matter of seconds before they were both in tears. “This is it, the moment we’ve been waiting for,” they thought. “Look at our baby,” they wanted to shout, but refrained for fear of embarrassing their son. Not that anyone was interested in their boy. They had children and concerns of their own. The people sitting behind them talked throughout the service about the dinner the night before and how they didn’t sleep well. Two rows over, all five people were looking at their phones. Some, were catching up on the score from last night’s game, others texting, and one keeping up with the Kardashians. Oblivious to the events on the stage, they were counting the minutes before they could leave. Fortunately, there were other parents as proud and as weepy as they, and, together, they tried to celebrate the moment by clapping and cheering as loudly as they could, if only to drown out those who couldn’t have cared less.

“For God’s sake,” the husband sighed. “Exactly,” replied his wife. “Now we know how God feels every Sunday.”

Mothers' Day

Dear Mom,

This morning, I wanted to call and wish you a happy Mothers' Day but couldn’t. I wanted to send you flowers but didn’t have your address. You never liked this day much and urged us not to make a fuss, but, now that you’ve gone, I’ve never wanted to fuss more. I just don’t know how to reach you. 

If I kneel beside my bed and whisper your name, will you hear me? If I wander into church and sit in your pew, will you come and join me? If I wander up a mountain, can I climb my way closer and reach my hand in the sky for you to hold? Or, maybe, I could walk to the ocean’s edge and touch the sea. Will the small ripples I make travel beyond the horizon to the shore where you stand?

It’s a beautiful day here. I sat behind a girl and her mother this morning in church. During the sermon, the daughter leaned into her mother who tickled her daughter’s arm. The lines outside restaurants were adorned with flowers and colorful hats, and brothers and sisters were on their best behavior as families strolled the neighborhood. They even let their moms win at front-yard games.

It made me a little jealous and a little sad, but I kept reminding myself not who I’d lost, but who I was given. That helped.

Happy Mothers' Day.

Love,

Me

Shadows and Light

“You must forgive me, I am confused by shadows,” says the somewhat delirious, but endearing, character Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha. After a life full of chasing windmills, seeing in others what they could not see in themselves, and even calling one by another name, he struggles to find his home between the world he knows and the one he dreams, as impossible as the latter may be. In the end, like us, he is confused by shadows.

One of the occupational hazards of being a preacher is you remember some of your sermons. One that stands out for me was delivered in a gymnasium that served also as the chapel and theater. Lights were set up for a production later that week, and I asked that the spotlights be turned on and pointed at me as I delivered the sermon. The woman I asked to do this must have thought my ego had finally won the day, but my purpose was not to shine light on me so much as to create shadows behind. Facing the congregation of students and faculty, I spoke of shadows and light, and with each move I made, walking across the stage or moving my hands, my shadow did the same on the wall behind. I can still remember the look of amazement in the younger students’ eyes as they pointed at my shadow and made the connection between what I was saying and what was going on behind me. “As long as I face the light,” I said, “I can’t see the shadows.” 

I still believe that’s true, but it sure is hard. There are many sources of light, and each casts its own shadow. Like Peter Pan, we can turn and play with our shadows, but, in the end, we’re liable to get confused. Shadows can seem so real, when, in fact, they exist only because of the light. Sometimes I look at others and see their shadows and not the light on their faces, just as they sometimes look behind me. 

What a less-confusing world it would be if we learned to turn from our shadows (and the shadows of others) and faced the light.