Sorrowing, sighing

One of the advantages of making photographs over a long period of time and the discipline of maintaining a simple catalog is having -- and being able to find -- images to draw on to illustrate stories, concepts, thoughts.  This one, a bas-relief in old Montreal commemorating the first school in that city, isn't perfect for today, but nothing could be.

Likewise, one of the advantages of remembering phrases of songs and bits of poetry is that one doesn't have to come up with original words to express the inexpressable.  So, I offer two words put together by John Henry Hopkins (1820-1891) which he likely drew from biblical the prophet Isaiah or Jeremiah.  They appear together in the Christmas carol, "We Three Kings," in the fourth stanza about myrrh's significance in the Jesus story.   

Sorrowing and sighing is about all we can do in the face of this morning's events at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown CT.  The fabric of life has been torn top-to-bottom with "beautiful little kids" and adults who loved and nurtured them dead, and we know not why.  Sorrow and sigh we must.

In my dreams

I had a dream in the night.  Must have been sparked by a graveside funeral Tal and I will attend later today.  But, the service I attended in the dream was inside, not outside.  It was in a large church, but it wasn't a Methodist Church.  The deceased is Methodist.  It was in an Episcopal Church.  Not too surprising, I guess. 

There was a huge choir and I knew the choir director. Had to stop myself from waving.  But, when my friend is not in my dreams, she doesn't "do" music. 

The choir sang a familiar hymn, what I would call a big hymn -- good harmony, one people will really sing.  (You have to include hymns like that at funerals).  Well, the choir sang the first verse.  Then, the congregation joined in on the second.  Not very Episcopalian, if you ask me.

My friend who was the choir director, who isn't really, explained that we were supposed to read the words to the final verse and think about them.  The guy sitting next to me had a camera with him.  He didn't meditate.  He fiddled with the camera controls instead. 

In the middle of all that I woke up before the alarm.  Not rested.  I think I'm worried.  Dying's on my mind.  The guy whose funeral is this afternoon.  All those people in Colorado.  People who are closer to me.  And, of course, me too.

My friend who doesn't do music.  What was she doing there? 

What do I not do that I should?  I wonder.

A lament

It would be pointless to write about today's news from Aurora CO.  It's too staggering to take in.  And, we will be bombarded with opinions, images, gut-wrenching stories, pointed fingers soon enough.

It's all about loss, seems to me.  I go to bed with this touching expression of love and loss on my mind -- a portion of a tweet by Jay Meloff about his girlfriend, Jessica Ghawi, who did not survive the movie screening.

Never wanted to fall asleep because it meant missing time with you.

It might be a good idea to look at the people we love through the lens of those words.

Uncle Ed

Before we left home this morning bound for Chattanooga and the reunion of Tal's 3rd Army Reserve Rifle Team I checked on our cardinal nest by the screened porch and spent several minutes reveling in the first of our Asiatic lilies to bloom, large and brilliantly white.  As we were settling into our room at the Chattanooga Choo Choo some six hours later my cell phone rang and I knew who it would be and the nature of the call.

My mother's younger brother and only sibling, Edward, after a long illness had died.  It struck me that during the same hour I looked one last time at that wary, protective female cardinal with her two helpless chicks and stood speechless at the beauty of new flowers at the front of the house this dear man I've known and loved all my days was making his mighty transition from this life to whatever comes next.  It seems only fitting to offer this morning's photograph to his memory.

Edward P Johnson

07 December 1934 - 06 May 2012

May your rest this day be in peace and your dwelling place the paradise of God.

Peter J Gomes

My one and only encounter with Peter Gomes came during a three-day clergy conference at the Hotel Hershey (yes, the chocolate people) while I was canonically resident in the Diocese of Pennsylvania.  My response?  From that day on I knew what kind of person I wanted to be, what kind of thinker I wanted to be, what kind of preacher I wanted to be.  I had been in the presence of it.  No doubt.

That was in the late 1990s; I've made little progress.  But, Peter Gomes, Plummer Professor of Christian Morals at Harvard University and Pusey Minister in the Memorial Church at Harvard, has remained a favorite, as well as a spark for my imagination and a measure of my integrity.

The voice, the delivery, the wit, the intellect, the passionate proclamation of truth was silenced on February 28th, from complications of a stroke Mr Gomes suffered in December of last year. 

Beyond my personal admiration of the man, I am sorry he has died.  He death has an affect on us all in a way.  Perhaps a line from a benediction he used at a Harvard graduation will help with a brief explanation.  "God grant you life until your work is done, and work until your life is over."  Peter Gomes was articulate and well-reasoned and kind (as opposed to nice -- big difference); he did not demean, undermine, cast suspicion.  He was direct; he did not stoop to inuendo. The nastiness of our public discourse -- of our discourse in general, actually -- needs the influence of people like Peter Gomes.  He left us too soon. 

He did have work until his life was over, but his work most certainly was not done.  RIP   


An Associated Press photograph borrowed from
"The Washington Post" web site, 1 March 2011

  

Still alive

Elizabeth H Fitch at the
Kanuga Photography Retreat
during her illness
(image by KB Johnson)

The funeral of my friend, Elizabeth H Fitch was to have been at St Bartholomew's Episcopal Church in Atlanta this past Tuesday.  Given the weather and all the resulting travel problems and given the number of mourners from places other than Atlanta who wanted to attend and needed the airport, the service was postponed until today. 

I had Elizabeth on my mind this morning while Tal and I drank coffee, read the newspaper, ate breakfast, those wonderful early morning rituals of which both of us are protective.  Later in the day it seemed uncommonly right to come across these words from Mignon McLaugheon: 

The death of someone we know always reminds us that we are still alive -- perhaps for some purpose which we ought to reexamine.

Still alive, I am.  And taking pictures. 

The day was bright and almost warm in the sun.  Tal and I bundled up and took advantage of this marvelous turn of events with a long, rambling walk.  We both managed to get dirty.  He slid down an incline on his rear end and into a ditch trying to reach an abandoned golf ball.  Successful and unhurt, by the way.  Getting this shot of a sweet gum ball I had to stretch out flat, resting my chin on the still very damp ground. 





Soggy knees and elbows. Fair photograph.  Unaccountably happy. Still alive.

Rest in peace, Elizabeth.  And, thank you for blessing my life with your presence.



Snow day

It wasn't the greatest of snow days.  The two snows of 2010 -- Valentine's Day and the day after Christmas, just two weeks ago, were infinitely better.  Although we woke to about four inches with even the concrete sidewalks and driveway completely covered, the actual snowfall didn't last the morning.  It was followed by hours of a dreary freezing mist interspersed with considerably harder sleet and some freezing rain.  It wasn't a snow day that invited play outside. 

On the plus side I prepared a hot breakfast for Tal -- biscuits, grits (made with chicken stock), left over ham on the griddle, scrambled eggs and strawberry preserves.  The dear man was shocked and obviously delighted.  I took his compliment that it was better than Huddle House in the spirit in which he meant it.  But, the Huddle House ... I can walk away from the table with a cheery thank you. Some other lucky person gets to deal with the dishes and the grits pot.

My assessment of the day has not too very much to do with the weather.  I had spent some time over the weekend thinking about the shooting in Tucson on Saturday, realizing that we are teetering not too far from a real free for all.  It didn't help that Tal and I watched "El Dorado" (the 1966 film starring John Wayne and Robert Mitchum among other notables) one cold afternoon recently.  The wild west seems more and more a reality around the globe.  Will some sort of a demilitarized zone for the conduct of respectful public discourse become a necessity?

A thin covering of ice on
the dogwood at the driveway

More personally, as I clicked through Facebook last night I began seeing photos of and messages about a  friend from the Kanuga Photography Retreat I've attended several times in the past few years.  Elizabeth, only 36 years old, had been in a battle -- a winning battle we all thought -- with cancer.  She died last Thursday, on the feast of the Epiphany.  In one of her last postings on Facebook she'd been arranging for rides since her treatments were taking a lot out of her.  Her brother, letting her Facebook friends know she'd died, announced that she'd no longer need rides, she'd caught the Glory Train.  I lost completely any sense of time, sitting stock still in Tal's big  blue chair, surprised, stunned and sorrowful. 

So, in a whole variety of ways, today was grey.  Neither of the events on my mind were the least bit necessary; neither of them is explicable.  And, no one can change what happened in either case.  I hate to say it, now that I've given this snow day an unfavorable rating, but I'm kind of glad for today's lack of pizazz.  Sometimes I need to dwell with and in confusion, sadness, misery before I can know what to do next.

Do I know?  The what next? 

I can mind my mouth and my attitude, taking more care that I contribute to the hopeful, that in everything I say -- and do -- I build up rather than tear down.  There's discord enough without my adding to the broadcast of sarcasm and suspicion. 

And, I can treasure the relationships I have, knowing they are, all of them, unique and temporary.

For now, that's enough.

... who from their labors rest

The message waiting light was flashing yesterday afternoon when we arrived home from Columbia. A colleague needed to arrange supply coverage for tonight's All Saints' Day liturgy. At the time we talked he wasn't certain he would need to be away, but he wanted to have everything ready if he did. So, I agreed to be on call and began thinking through a sermon.

A flood of memory. A long night. And, that hymn* -- William Walsham How's words and Ralph Vaughan Williams' music, Sine Nomine -- that monumental, soaring hymn in my head.

All Saints' Day, the day the church has set aside to commemorate and remember "all the saints, who from their labors rest." For years and years that list, my personal list, has included four grandparents and an array of people, family and friends alike, who played a part in my life during their days. I always listed them for the prayers offered during liturgy. I always let mind have free reign, recalling each one, a sweet and sad process on November 1st.

This year I added too many names to my list, among them my father. He rests from his labor this All Saints' Day and I miss him.

I just heard from my colleague. He's going to be able to officiate tonight. The sermon doesn't need to be finished. But, my remembering can go on.


*Hymn #287, The Hymnal 1982, Church Publishing

An end

When the hospice nurse arrived this afternoon to see Hester, all the extraneous people vacated the house. Tal and I sat on the back porch with Bill, Hester's husband. It hadn't been ten minutes when Hester's daughter stepped through the door, leaned over, put her arms around Bill's shoulders and whispered, "She's gone."

As ready as he was, as ready as we all were, those two words put the world into a strange wobbly orbit. There were things to do, but for awhile as the nurse boxed up medications, made calls, all the things she was supposed to do at such a time, we simply sat with Hester, around her bed there in that large, bright room overlooking the Penobscot Bay.

Keeping vigil

I am taking my turn at sitting up with Hester, the 2:00 - 6:00AM shift. She is still breathing. Such a labored struggle. While she lives what will probably be her last night, what remains of hurricane Earl has arrived, torrential rain and gusting wind having begun at about 3:00.

This is so hard. Part of me wants to flee. But, a stronger (and better) part wants to keep vigil with this ebbing life. I am struck by the rains outside this snug house, the elemental force of it all, coming in forceful waves, followed by lulls, each phase dramatic in its turn. I am also aware of how similar the elemental forces are which exist in this room, life and death caught up in, twisted in on themselves, in horrible battle. I know full well which will be the victor. The question is when. And, when the time does come and the labored breathing stops, we'll all agree that, while death took a life, it's Hester who ultimately won, dying at home in her beloved Saturday Cove, the soft lights bathing the room in something akin to a holy glow.

Dawn is breaking. The rain and the breathing continue. The scent of brewing coffee is a deep comfort.

A place in-between

Our first two nights out on this adventure were with my brother and his family. Any tension with which I might have begun the trip vanished in that locale. We drank really good coffee and ate equally good food. We caught up on news of jobs and school. We told stories, were introduced to BBC's "Top Gear" (oh, my!), attended an end-of-band camp performance and even took in the wonders of the local (and massive) Bass Pro Shops. The Mechanicsville hospitality is always rich, warm and genuine.

There's not much to say about our day's travel from Virginia into Connecticut. It was hazy and hot. For most part the traffic was heavy and at one spot rather harrowing, the details of which I'll skip over rather happily. There wasn't much scenery to enjoy along that congested corridor. The George Washington Bridge, for example, is an architectural gem, as are many of the buildings on I-95 just as we entered the city. Even with Tal driving, however, who could actively do any more than notice? A long gaze at anything today, even for the passenger, was completely impossible.

During the Mechanicsville to almost-NYC leg which I drove and then during the almost-NYC to Meridian CT with Tal driving, it crossed my mind to decide inwardly that I do not want to make this particular drive again. Only in the most extreme circumstances do I want to drive to Maine again. It feels too hard and too dangerous. We were enormously grateful to tuck ourselves safely into our room at the Holiday Inn Express in Meridian on the Berlin Turnpike.

Then, I made a telephone call to our friends in Maine with whom we were to stay for three nights before joining the canoeing group, a telephone call that took my breath away. Hester's sister-in-law answered the phone; Hester, who has been battling newly diagnosed cancer, is getting ready to leave this world, the sister-in-law told me. The daughter and grandchildren had arrived. When I talked to Hester only two weeks ago, she was getting ready to welcome the garden club to tour her backyard and she implored us to consider returning for a longer visit after we canoed on the Allagash. Dying? I couldn't and still can't get my mind to cooperate with that thought. I'm trapped in an in-between place, stuck with Hester's invitation still fresh in my mind and Kay's very terrible news trampling all over my heart. Melodramatic, I know, but it's true in this moment.

The tools you need

It has been months since I last posted to Meanderings. There are many reasons for that, which over time I will likely address, but for now let it suffice to say that I am back. Today is a rather significant day, my father's funeral having been two months ago yesterday. It's a hot June morning, the kind of hot that almost squeezes the life out of a person. Despite that, however, I feel as though, in some strange way, I am beginning to live again. This essay was originally written for the June edition of a newsletter published by the Episcopal Diocese of Upper South Carolina for retired clergy, "From Friends to Friends."

I am grieving the death of my father. It is a time of conflicting emotion which I know will go on for a long time. Even as I have made my way along sorrow’s path since late April, however, I am finding the expected sadness to be tempered wonderfully by unanticipated and unbidden memory. One instance in particular seems to be intent on claiming sustained attention from me. With over twenty years having passed since the actual encounter on a Saturday afternoon, the date long forgotten, I am pleased and strengthened to be discovering new meaning in an old story.

It happened when I was visiting my parents for the weekend. I was involved in a divorce at the time and recently had moved into my first apartment. One of the things I had “inherited” for my new place was a small bistro table and four cane-bottom chairs for the tiny dining area at the end of the kitchen. Over our Friday night dinner I had entertained Mom and Dad with the tale of my trying to reassemble the table without any tools. My first attempt at a meal seated at that table was a wobbly one. The table leaned; the table gyrated. We all laughed at the story, agreeing that seldom does anything go right the first time.

After breakfast the next morning, while my mother and I visited and accomplished her usual Saturday morning tasks, my father disappeared into the garage. At lunchtime he reappeared – and not empty handed. With gentle ceremony he presented me with a red metal toolbox. When I opened it my eyes beheld a variety of tools, from a couple of hammers and several screwdrivers of varied sizes and type to a set of wrenches and a hand-crank drill. I was touched, needless to say, and delighted. My own toolbox. Dad downplayed the gift, telling me that none of the tools were new, that they were extras he didn’t use any more. I was still delighted and he was obviously pleased with himself.

At the end of the weekend I returned to Columbia – and successfully shored up that table! It was also during that week that I told my therapist, David Stewart+ (God, rest his soul) about what my father had done, about the box of tools I’d brought back to my apartment with me from that visit. David’s response was simple, direct and true: “Your father has given you the tools you need.” I got it; David didn’t have to explain. That statement was true about the heavy, brightly-colored box of tools, AND that statement was also true about my having been given – over the course of my childhood and youth – what I needed to know about getting on with my life.

Since Dad’s death and with this memory having come to the fore, I have to say I’ve come to understand another way of appreciating that gift of a tool box. Dad did downplay his gesture, wanting me to understand that what he was giving me was from among a large collection. He not only had his own tools, he also had those of this father and his uncle. To give me a tool box to use in my new apartment (and in the ensuing years; I still have the toolbox) he only had to walk out to the garage. No purchases were required; it was all right there in his workshop. To allude rather loosely a line from a prayer I used at Dad’s graveside, Dad lost nothing in that act of giving.

As I begin moving into the phase of my life I’ll live without my father and as I mine that toolbox memory, I am coming to realize that it’s not so much the toolbox as it the workshop that’s ultimately important here. A metaphorical workshop, mind you. The workshop – containing tools – being represented by me.

I wonder about what’s bountiful and extra in this workshop. And, I wonder how well and to whom I’ll give that extra away.