Trinity Sunday

My sister is an artist who uses a needle and thread to create works of art that adorn many houses other than her own. In my closet, there are needlepoint belts, and on a number of chairs there are beautiful pillows. At some point, she turned her creative talents to quilting and created one that lies at the foot of our guestroom bed. It is a masterpiece of intricate patterns and beautiful colors. If looked at from afar, it stands on its own as a beautiful quilt. One pattern fits into another, one color blends into the one beside it, so its hard to tell where one ends and another begins. If you draw close, however, you can see the individual pieces of fabric and specific colors.

It’s not unlike my sister herself. The hands that created the quilt are the hands of a sister, but they’re also the hands of a daughter, mother, wife, and friend. From afar, all I can see is a gifted woman working, but, drawing closer in my mind, I can see her different roles like pieces of fabric in a quilt. It is impossible to see where one role ends and another begins, and yet she is each of those people and one person whose so much more all at the same time. 

Too often, I sit in church and try to figure God out. I think that if I go often enough, and sit long enough, and think hard enough, I will eventually understand God. But, even in my determination, I know it’s a futile desire to comprehend the one who “surpasses all human understanding.” Today was Trinity Sunday, a day in which we celebrate the Father, Son and Holy Spirit as three in one. Even when thought of as creator, redeemer, and sustainer the math doesn't add up and it feels like I’m dividing God into boxes. God is the individual persons, the specific roles, and yet remains a comprehensive whole that's more than the combined parts. It’s impossible to see where one ends and the others begin. It all made me dizzy, so I decided to take a nap in the guestroom under my sister’s beautiful quilt.

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