For all the Saints

“In the midst of life, we are in death.” Book of Common Prayer (p.484)

The only religion class my high school offered was on death and dying. Built around the work of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross which describes five stages of grief, I struggled to see the importance of such a class. Afterall, we were teenagers, full of life and seemingly invincible. 

It didn’t take long for that illusion to be washed away. A classmate was killed the day before senior year. His was only the first. Since then, there have been many others. As if all those lost lives weren’t enough, there have been other losses, as well – lost relationships, jobs, reputation, beliefs, certainties, youth, health, you could add to the list, I’m sure.

It’s a wonder we can see straight when death surrounds us. You’d think with all these lessons in grief we would have mastered it by now, but it seems the process of grief is as perplexing as it was when Kubler-Ross tried to help us make sense of it.

I write in the shadow of All Saints’ Day and on the anniversary of my mother’s death. From this vantage point I can “see” with my soul beyond the losses to something beyond. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking or a hope that’s been passed along from generation to generation, but enduring grief seems to be the ticket for admission. It hurts and often causes me to want to run in the opposite direction, but I know from a life of running away that there’s no substitute for walking through grief’s gate and embracing all the emotions that await on the other side. 

Despite having taken a class, and having experienced loss in all its forms, I march on trusting God is walking beside me and those like me who are wrestling with loss as if for the first time. 

Jumping In

The sky was blue, but the water was cold. Clinging to the final days of summer before the autumn breeze whispered to the leaves it was time to change color, I stared out at the lake wanting to join the others who were swimming and diving away. I dipped my toes in hoping that would do the trick, but the rest of my body cried out to stay where I was . I tried to walk in one step at a time, but the progression of chill sent me scampering back to shore. Eventually, I knew there was only one way to get in and that was to walk to the edge of the dock and jump. It was excruciating and I gasped, but I was finally in the water and able to join the others.

That’s what it’s like when we have to face fear. Fear wears many costumes, but its effect is singular and universal. It causes us to stand on the shore shaking, paralyzed and unable to join the others who are living happy, joyous, and free lives. Watching them can lead us to the edge. Wanting what they have can cause us to dip our toes in the cold or take a step or two, but fear will often pull us back to the shore where we can stay dry. 

We may be dry, but we’re alone.  As difficult as it is to walk to the end of the dock, as convincing as fear’s arguments may be, it’s best to just jump. Yes, it’s shocking and can cause us to gasp, but once we are in the water, we can join the others and live the lives God intends.

Would you care to dance?

When I was young, I went to dancing school. It was an awkward time each Tuesday afternoon, but my friends and I endured it together. The most uncomfortable moment wasn’t the dancing, it was getting out of my chair and walking over to a girl and asking her to dance. Remembering it all these years later still makes my palms sweat. Who should I ask? How should I ask? What if she refuses?

I’m not sure God gets nervous, but I do think God is continuously asking us to dance. He gets up, comes to each of us, and extends his hand as if to invite us onto the dancefloor. Each sunrise or sunset is a request. Each inspirational song, passage in a book, or poem is a request. Each inner stirring to do or say something to someone in need is a request. I even think each hardship is a request.

Although the requests come in countless ways, the question is, will we extend our hand and accept God’s invitation to dance? When I see children painting rainbows and colorful landscapes, I see that as a “yes.” When I see people awakening to serve meals at the local soup kitchen, I see that as a “yes.” When I see someone transforming into a new creation before my eyes, I know they’ve said Yes.”

This morning I awaken sitting eagerly in my chair hoping God will draw near and ask me to dance. More than that, I hope I say “yes.”