Advent IV: Room 71

There was nothing more the nurses and doctor could do. He’d soon be a number added to the other 300,000, but to his wife and children he was so much more. The machines and tubes were unhooked and an orderly pushed his bed down the hall to Room 71. It was the room reserved for one purpose. It was where his family would finally be able to see him, touch him, and say good-bye. It was an all too familiar liturgy, but the staff never took it for granted. 

Clinging to one another, the family crossed the hall from the elevator and entered Room 71. His daughter gasped as she saw the shell of the man who used to hold her on his spacious lap. Her daughter, his granddaughter, placed the drawing she’d done of them walking in the woods on the blanket draping his legs. His wife mustered what little strength she had to break the silence. Reaching for her husband’s hand, she thanked him for their many years together. She spoke of their first date when he spilled the red wine all over their food because he was so nervous, the moment they held their first born in this same hospital, and their honeymoon trip to England which they could only afford ten years after their wedding. The others around the room added their own memories and said what they loved most about the man lying before them.

Because it was Christmas, the moment felt particularly cruel. The season of joy was everything but. The season of light was unusually dark. Where was God? Couldn’t God perform a Christmas miracle? The man’s hand suddenly gripped his wife’s before releasing and turning cold. 

In a way that made no sense to any of them, a strange peace filled the room and wrapped its arms around everyone assembled. He had gone, but gone where? All they could do was say good-bye, but it felt as if he was now saying hello. Room 71 had become a door to someplace else for him, and, because of that, for them, as well.

Still huddled together in the elevator, someone uttered words from long ago: “Those who walk in darkness have seen a great light.” The words didn’t dry the tears, only transformed them, but that was miraculous enough.

Advent III: 'tis the season

‘Tis the season . . .

when people stay in their homes

when immediate family are pulled close 

when people take more walks

when people read regularly and cook deliberately

when people look for ways to express their creativity in new or renewed ways

when people clear out clutter in their houses and within themselves

when people appreciate each deep breath

when people watch their (and others’) health

when we call people essential

‘Tis the season of COVID-19. ‘Tis an awful season, but in all its challenges there are some of the important lessons of Advent.  

Advent II: The Diffuser

Before where I sit each morning is an artsy diffuser. Made by an artist in the mountains, it holds a candle below and a metal tray above. The candle heats the tray which is holding water and oils. When the water heats up, a wonderful aroma fills my studio. I light the candle each morning when I sit to center myself and it often helps create a climate of prayer and meditation, but not this morning.

Like many, I’ve stepped up my spiritual practices in Advent. Because of some pressing needs, I’ve let my usual routine of reading, writing and sitting still slide. Advent offers an invitation to reclaim those spiritual practices, but today it was all I could do to sit still for 20 minutes. I refused to get up but opened my eyes and waited for the time to pass. I stared at the diffuser in front of me, watching the flame flicker and the steam beginning to rise. I realized the diffuser itself was the meditation for the day.

My spiritual practices are the candle. Just because I light it does not mean the affects are immediate. The metal tray must heat up, then the water, before the steam rises. So, too, the affects of my spiritual work rise only in time. I must be patient with my reclaimed efforts knowing that they will warm my soul and cause me to bring forth that which is within me into the world. Watching the candle, I find it easier to sit still.