Working Through loss

Working Through Loss

Guest Writer: Larry Burton

It is probably my age because I often find myself reminiscing about the past. Growing up in a preacher’s family meant moving every few years. At one level, I became quite good at it.

Larry growing up on the farm

All those losses were stuffed in a mental drawer, and we started over in a new city, house, school, and church. That drawer of memories was pretty full, and now it opens quite often, whether by intention or not. I feel pangs of empathy with those in Southern California suffering from the devastation of the fires, which have angrily burned homes and neighborhoods to the ground.

We have all suffered loss and will continue to until we die.

I recall a day years ago when my father and I drove to all the places where he had lived as a kid and as a young adult. We visited cemeteries—mostly forgotten and overgrown—schools now closed, a house or two still standing, and then to Knox County, where he met my mother. My grandfather had been the pastor of Asbury Chapel, and it is there that my mother and most of her relatives are buried. It is also where my parents met. 

Growing up, my brother and I spent many summers on the family farm in Knox County. We helped with the chores. I learned how to milk a cow; my brother was driving a truck when he was 13. A white barn (cows and two horses) and a red barn (hay storage and tractor) were favorite places. There was a smokehouse and a chicken yard, and standing grandly in front of it was a large house built in 1812. 

I loved that house. But when we pulled up in front that particular day, a link fence surrounded it, and the house had collapsed into the cellar. I burst into tears.

Those memories came back as I read about the California fires, and I felt my stomach begin to churn as I imagined all the things and places that had been familiar to those folks in LA but destroyed beyond recognition in just moments. The library, the school, the church. The place where someone had their first date, the field where they played, the movie theater, the drug store…all gone. Loss after loss after loss. 

When we go to sleep, we put another day to rest and expect to greet a new day in the morning. And that is what will happen…eventually. Humans cannot live long in the midst of loss, or we would go mad. I have friends who are still processing the November election and are still angry at the loss of their presidential candidate. They fear the end of democracy. But the sun sets, and the sun rises. The days get longer. Spring will surprise us, but it will arrive soon. 

And there is one other thing. The most important thing. St. Paul, writing to the community in Rome, said, “Can anything ever separate us from Christ’s love? Does it mean he no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or hungry, or destitute, or in danger, or threatened with death?... I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,[b] neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.” And that, in one way or another, is what sustains us in the midst of loss, even devastating loss. 

Our parents are dead, even a grandchild. We have left places and people we loved. Right now, I look up and see a painting of the best house of all, the one on the river in Winamac, IN. A condo is not the same as that house or the farm of long ago. But God is with us, just as God is with all those who have fled from the fire, perhaps never to return. And still, God is with us. 

So, in these days of terrible loss, there is a sustaining power beyond memory and fear. That is where we can live and even thrive in these troubling times.

Larry+ Burton

Joanna Seibert joannaseibert.com

Movements to Start the Day

Movements to Start the Day

“In the quiet of this morning, I recall the prayer and gestures of the deacon as they stand ready at the lectern before reading a gospel narrative each week. I make the sign of the cross on my forehead and say, dear God, may your Word be upon my mind; and then the gesture again on my mouth, may your Word be upon my lips; and then across my chest, may your Word be upon my heart.

I add the sign of the cross on my belly, and I am aware of my feet on the earth. I pray that your Word be upon all my body and soul, grounding me in your Spirit and guiding my every step. I begin my day.”—Trish Stefanik in Overlook Retreat House at Dayspring from InwardOutward.org, Church of the Savior, Washington, D.C.

Trish Stefanik reminds us of the meaning of our gestures before reading the gospel. Making the sign of the cross during my more than twenty years as a deacon has become a habit. However, I usually gesture my hands and fingers without thinking about what I am doing. I typically am more concerned about whether I will pronounce words correctly in the gospel.

How wonderful to be reminded why we habitually do things. However, I often count on God to remember the meaning. I am moved when members of the congregation also make these movements before hearing the gospel read by the deacon. They may also be unknowingly praying these same prayers silently for themselves. Perhaps they are also praying for the gospel reader.

Trish Stefanik also adds a fourth movement to her belly, grounding her feet to the earth. Our bodies, especially our feet, ground us to the present moment. God most often meets us in the present moment.

Finally, there is one more gift from the author. She recommends these prayers and gestures to begin our day.

Today’s reading is a rich blessing, reminding us that our liturgical gestures have an even deeper meaning. When we remember why we are doing them, we can enter into a deeper communion with God. The movements can be even more powerful if done in community. The gestures and prayers can also wake us each day to connect to the God of our understanding, who has been there all along.

Joanna. https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Dealing with Life's Tragedies

Feet Without Bass Weejuns

“ but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength,
    they shall mount up with wings like eagles,
they shall run and not be weary,
    they shall walk and not faint.”—Isaiah 40:31.

A rainy Friday night on January 13, 1967. I am a junior in medical school in Memphis, on my way home in my Volkswagen Bug after my weekly indulgence of a hair appointment. It was an eventful day early on in my obstetrical rotation. I deliver stillborn twins. I do not remember showing any pastoral care to that mother. I am just here to learn how to deliver babies. My long-term goal is to be a pediatrician and care for babies, especially newborns.   

Suddenly, there is a loud noise, and my little red car abruptly stops. For a few seconds, it is darker than usual. I cannot find my brown Bass Weejun loafers. One knee is dislocated. My chin is bleeding. My ankles and feet hurt. I know I cannot walk. Later, I am told I was hit head-on by a drunk driver in a black Cadillac, making a left turn into a bar. My parents come to care for me. They are told I might not walk again. If I walk, I learn, I will never have Weejuns on my feet again, always special supportive shoes!

I must leave medical school and join a lower class six months later. Over time, I begin an amazing lifelong career as a pediatric radiologist, as I decide this specialty might be easier on my feet. Today, I still suffer from the injuries I endured in that crash more than fifty years later. Each step can sometimes be excruciating on my feet and ankles, even after multiple surgeries. I now walk with a quad cane and, more often, a walker.  

Twenty-four years ago, I became involved in a new ministry and am now an ordained deacon in the Episcopal Church. Today, I work with people in various types of recovery. I am also trained as a spiritual director, since this can be a “sitting down and listening ministry.”

Although I have retired from my medical practice, working in hospitals has taught me to be comfortable around the sick. I have also been trained as a pastoral care chaplain in the Community of Hope, and every week, I still visit or call those in the hospital and homebound.

I give thanks for the privilege of this journey, as I recently celebrated the anniversary of my ordination.

When I experience pain in my feet, especially on these visits, I remind myself about a balm as I walk down long hospital corridors. The ministries I have loved, which have brought joy to my life: my career in pediatric radiology, working in recovery, becoming a spiritual director, and being a pastoral caregiver—all have opened up to me as a direct result of my broken feet.

All my ministries developed from a response to injuries inflicted on my body. That which caused harm has become a path to healing for myself and perhaps for others.

There is one more balm. When I dropped back into a different medical class, I met my husband of over fifty years. He has been a companion par excellence, and I am awed to realize that we would never have known each other except for the accident that crushed my feet and ankles. There would not be three adult children, their spouses, and six grandchildren who remind us of God’s goodness every day, even in difficult times. 

Every day, my painful, battle-scarred feet remind me of Easter breaking out of Good Friday.

Joanna Seibert, “Feet,” Christian Century, February 26, 2020.

Joanna  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Life tragedies will happen to all of us. Today, on the 58th anniversary of this accident, my epiphany is how we are all called to help each other find that resurrection from each of our life’s tragedies that we are promised will always be there.