Stone Walls

I recently returned to New England, my soul’s home, for a conference and was reminded of the power of “place.” Whether it’s where you grew up, or where something important happened, returning to a place can stir one in deep, unpredictable ways.

Getting off the highway onto old roads, my mind twisted and turned through memories like the road itself, but it was the stone walls that let me know I had returned. New England is famous for its stone walls. They were the result of farmers trying to clear their land. The stones were used to line their properties - clear illustrations of taking something bad and turning it into something useful.

It was a long drive, so I started thinking about my stones. Four years in boarding school provided many. Moving here after my father died added more. To those early stones, many others from a variety of chapters of my life were added. Yes, I wish there weren’t so many stones, but the trick has been learning how to make something out of my pile.

There are people who have no interest in such back-breaking (soul-breaking) work. They prefer to throw their stones into the woods, hire someone to carry them away, or leave them buried, but there’s much to be gained by picking up a stone, looking at it, and placing it where it might do some good. In the end, the stones give your life shape, much like the stone walls around a property.

I needed the help of an expert builder to get started, and it took me a long time to learn how to work with the stones, but now I wish I’d begun the work sooner. At least I’ve begun . . . and I’ve got lots of stones left to keep me busy.

Easter after Easter

The choir took the day off, the minister yielded the pulpit to an associate, and the pews had space again. So it is with the Sunday after Easter. Like the Sunday after Christmas, the Sunday after Easter is called a “low Sunday” in clergy circles, and it bothered me more than usual this year. I accept that there are those who come to church twice a year, I understand the Holy Week grind can be exhausting, but Easter is a season, not a day, and it’s hard to remember that when everyone, including the church, seems to put the Easter bonnets back on the shelf for another year.

The challenge is to keep Easter alive not only on the Sunday after but throughout the season, and, I would add, throughout the year. To help me, I’ve turned to the gospel accounts. Yes, there are the remarkable accounts of what happened on Easter morning, but the stories that follow Easter morning are equally inspirational. Hidden in their fear, Jesus appears to the disciples despite the locked doors. Walking beside two bewildered and disappointed disciples who were getting away from the pain of what happened in Jerusalem, Jesus was present even though they didn’t recognize him until they broke bread. And then there was the moment when the disciples returned home and tried to get back to life as fisherman only to be invited to breakfast by no other than the risen Christ.  

Such testimonies help me see that Easter comes regardless of what I do or don’t do. When I’m locked in my fears, Easter still comes. When I am walking away from something painful, bewildered and disappointed, Easter still comes. And when I try to get back to my usual routine, Easter still comes.

Easter is not something I make happen.

It’s not a service I attend.

Easter is new life, bursting forth long ago and as recently as this morning. The trick is having the eyes to see, the ears to hear, and the hearts to receive.

Fading Blossoms

There is nothing like Spring in Greensboro, NC, where I live. Although New England owns the Fall, Spring in the south is second to none. The colors of the azaleas, with dogwoods sprinkling a descant above, along with countless plants I cannot name, make me open my eyes in disbelief. I pause near blossoms that offer a scent sweeter than church incense. It’s truly inspirational. Pollen’s yellow film that coats everything seems a small price for such a visual symphony.

But it never lasts.

Slowly the colors fade then turn brown on the ground. Dogwoods eventually look like every other tree, and fragrances blow away. My mind knows the sensations of Spring cannot last, but my heart still grieves. I feel like a child who knows he needs to go back to school after a glorious vacation. Logic can so often spoil a party.

But I’ve always wanted the party to last. It’s what people in 12-step recovery circles call a “character defect.” I want it to always be Spring. I want the colors to always be bright, and the fragrances to always be overwhelming. Like my friend who once said, “I have a disease of more,” I want Spring to be bigger and brighter and last forever.

But one of the hallmarks of a mature faith is accepting the changes in season. I am not just talking about trees and flowers. There are seasons to jobs, relationships, possessions, health . . . the list is endless and always changing. Like a child with his arms around his marbles so the other children can’t get them, I want to hold and protect everything, and everyone, given to me. I want things and people to stay the same.

Yes, everything has a season, the writer of Ecclesiastes tells me, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Beyond poetic acceptance, I need to make peace with the fact that blossoms fade and flowers die. The only way I can do this is trusting in a power greater than I, the creator of all seasons – past, present, and future. This season, this moment, is a gift. Rather that hoard or protect it, I need to open my arms and heart and give thanks for it. Wherever I see blossoms fading, I need to trust there will be others. It’s not easy, nor do I like it, but I accept it, in faith.