Seeking Authentic Voice

My family and I once lived in a community with a high percentage of immigrants from Serbia-Croatia, people who had fled the war in the early 1990’s. My son is still friends with some of the kids he met.  It was on May 27, 1992, only two days after my son was born, when a line of people, waiting to get bread from the only shop in Sarajevo with flour, was attacked, leaving 21 people dead. Despite the violent attack, the next day people were back in line for bread. They could die from starvation or they could die trying to get food. A Bosnian man named Vedran lived across the street from the bakery and witnessed the shooting. Vedran had been a cellist in the Opera Theater before the war closed it down. So the day after the shooting Vedran dressed in his concert black suit and tie, crossed the street, sat down in a chair, and began to play his cello for those waiting in line. Every day for twenty one days he came and played Albinoni’s Adagio. He played for all that was lost. H...

Bill and Jody were a parishioner couple in the first church I served as a Rector. Bill was perpetually grumpy in a charming kind of way and Jody was consistently cheerful. They had been married a long time, raised four kids. Jody was the chair of the altar guild so she and I spent a lot of time together, not just preparing for worship, but outside of church as well. I knew her kids and her grandkids. Bill was diagnosed with lung cancer but it was slow progressing and he was managing okay. So it came as quite a shock when I got a call one day that Jody had suffered an aneurism and was in the ICU. I rushed to the hospital and learned that she was on life support and the doctors were certain that she was brain dead. Bill was devastated. Over the next week their children and grandchildren came in to town. One granddaughter had to be flown in from Iraq and a grandson had to come from Afghanistan, but thankfully the military gave them both leaves to come home. We gathered more than once a...

The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. These ancient words have brought hope to countless people through the ages. These words speak to me tonight/today as I wonder where or how the light will shine, for once again, it seems, we live in an age of great darkness. Where, how, will it shine for the refugees fleeing Syria and through the haunting images like that of a little girl covered in the dust of bombed and fallen buildings as she tries to comfort her younger brother? Where, how, will it shine through families like the husband, carrying his small child and supporting the arm of his wife who is attached to an IV pole? Where, how, will the love of God come into this darkness, this despair, this fear?  In the bombed out buildings in Germany, the destruction of a Christmas market, will Jesus come again into this trail of death? How is God’s love shining forth for the families of those who died?  Around this country, Canada and France, churches are ...

When I was a little girl my life was fraught with anxiety. I lived with an unstable mother and in a house filled with depression, alcoholism, violence, and always the risk of complete collapse. But every year around Christmas my mother would get it together. She'd bake cookies and we'd decorate the tree. She'd play Christmas music on the HiFi every night as my brothers and I fell asleep. We'd have a lovely Christmas dinner and open gifts on Christmas morning, each of us receiving delightful presents. Christmas was like a fairy tale time, as if all was right in the house and in the world. The Christmas season has always been special to me. This year I have baked thirty dozen cookies and put them in the freezer. We'll eat them a little at a time over the next month or so. The house is decorated and feels warm and cheery from the twinkling of lights. The cat is content sleeping under the Christmas tree. The dogs love it when I light the fireplace and we all snuggle a...

A little girl was born in 1939 to parents who were just out of high school. Her life was not an easy one. In quick succession, two more siblings were added to the family, a brother and a sister. When the little girl was three years old her parents started leaving home for the weekend. The little girl was left in charge of tending to her two younger siblings. Imagine the challenges of being three or four years old and having to feed a two year old and an infant. Imagine changing diapers and trying to keep a house clean. Then imagine the fear and horror of that kind of responsibility. Then imagine what it must have felt like when the parents returned and beat you, physically and emotionally, because you did not do a good enough job, the house was a mess and the baby needed a bath. Imagine living in a house that had rodents residing in the basement, adding to your terror when your parents left for the weekend, as they did many times. My mother was this little girl, broken forever...

I've been reading, again, Terry Tempest Williams' book, "When Women Were Birds." She tells the story of her mother's death and subsequent reading her mother's journals. She reflects on the impact they had on her. William's writes:  In Mormon culture, women are expected to do two things: keep a journal and bear children. Both gestures are a participatory bow to the past and the future. In telling a story, personal knowledge and continuity are maintained. "When Women Were Birds" tells an engaging story of voice; silence and finding one's voice. She reflects on these from the lens feminism within Mormon culture, a perspective that was unknown to me in my experience of growing up in the Mormon Church. The women in my family, although Mormon for generations since it's origin in the early 1800's did not keep journals. A few of the women have done genealogy and written stories about our foremothers and father's. But neither my mother...

A cup of coffee in one hand and my Kindle Fire in the other I sat at the kitchen table reading a novel.The sun was shining, the breeze was soft and warm. The novel, by one of my favorite authors, Amanda Eyre Ward, was engaging. Suddenly, from the periphery of my eye I see a small branch, almost a twig, fall from the tree in the yard outside the sliding glass doors. Then, a second later, a squirrel falls to the ground. Apparently the small squirrel wandered out on a too small branch, small enough to break under the tiny weight of the squirrel, plunging both of them into a thirty foot drop. The squirrel landed with a loud thud on all four feet. It stood where it had landed for a couple of seconds. Then, as if testing its legs, it did that squirrel hop-run for about four steps, then stopped again. It stood still for a very long time. I watched and waited, wondering if the squirrel was assessing the damage or catching its breath? I wondered if it would bound away or fall over. I could see ...

A reflection on the readings for Proper 23B: Job 23:1-9, 16-17; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31 Last week our readings were very complex. We began the book of Job with some troubling concepts presented about God, humanity, and the Satan. And we heard a difficult reading in the Gospel of Mark about divorce. But as a congregation we were celebrating the feast day of St. Francis and the kids were with us for the entire service. So instead of reflecting on the difficult readings I read a story, directed at the kids, but relevant to all of us, and we talked about the life and ministry of St. Francis. So – this morning we have a little catching up to do. Let’s begin with last week’s troubling passage in Mark about divorce. Remember someone asked Jesus if it was okay for a husband to divorce his wife. And Jesus says, yes, according to the law of Moses it is okay. But, Jesus says, that doesn’t mean it is the right thing to do. What Jesus is referring too, however, is not the kind of r...

I learned of the death of John Kennedy on a school bus as I was heading to first grade. The bus had a radio and it came over the news. I was living in Salt Lake City. I remember a very solemn afternoon at school and later watching the funeral. I don't remember where I was when I learned of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s death. I think I may have been watching "The Monkeys" and it came across the news. I do remember learning a lot about the racial tensions on television and from my mother who was sympathetic to equality for all people, races, and genders. I lived in Wisconsin at the time, in a small community not far from Milwaukee. I was sleeping the night Bobby Kennedy was shot. My mother woke me up to watch the news with her. She was watching Bobby's speech and saw the shooting. Although I was young I understood how difficult it must have been for her to watch that news alone and her impulse to wake me up. These events have shaped how I understand life. The yea...