touchstone

 He hath regarded the prayer of the humble, and hath not despised their supplication.

~ Psalm 102

I'm very grateful for the number of kind wishes I've received regarding my last post. This aging melancholic thanks you, friends.

Walking the path of this season--in life, in Eugene, in Great Lent--tenderizes the heart and offers banquets for the soul. Not that I partake as I should. I get distracted every day. I gripe at the cat when it seems he gripes at me. I neglect Tim. Frustrated at not getting enough done, I then accomplish more and think I'm really something. Bleh.

These sorts of things, though, these struggles within myself, are what this season is meant to highlight. Not so I'll despair over breaking the rules of a moral system. The value of fasting during Lent arrives amid the striving to do what God did, or at least to follow the path of that continual doing, for the benefit of humankind (of which I am one unrepeatable aspect, piece, and movement).

The Orthodox believe Jesus Christ fasted at the beginning of his ministry as an example for us with many facets. One of these is that Christ's fast illustrates Adam's "fast" in the garden of Delight, in Eden. Adam and Eve, humankind together, were present with God, and this was amazing. Food was not a worry; it was a given, and yet eating didn't occupy a position of pleasure-seeking desire. Being with God was enough. But Eve and Adam broke the fast. They listened to a serpent speaking words from another being, who also broke the fast, discarding the delight of interaction, of communion with God. To so discard and reject ultimately brings identity's dissolution.

Completing the fast of 40 days was one of many ways Christ reversed the destructive event in the garden. He resisted temptation. He restored interaction with God, unblocking the path to healing for every mote of created reality. Following along that healing path is everything, is true life. And it's what I disregard daily. Great Lent gives me space to see this and to mourn, to repent. But also it illumines, yet again, in new ways, the fruit of mourning, which is a request, a call, a lowly movement recognizing I cannot save (cleanse, heal, complete) myself.

I've come to believe the lowly, humble movement is the touchstone for genuine interpretation of any faith tradition. Humility sums up what got written by Israelites and Christians alike, in their amazement at being given space to see, to mourn: "I am a sinful man!" and then gratefully to arise and follow the most humble Rescuer, who truly gives what is enough.

near spring

My heart wasn't in blogging during February. I suppose it was recollection of gloom and grief still too near, only a year behind. I guess there never is grieving lite. I'm thankful it is a path that must be trodden--to sidestep it often enough is to risk losing something beautiful to come.

Yesterday morning the sun gifted water and sky along my usual pathway. The birds did the exact same things they do each early March, in their own unrepeatable fashions. I anticipated Church, its joyful sorrow during Great Lent, also exactly the same yet unrepeatable.

One Sunday a year ago last September, a bitter tinge to the communion wine, the Eucharist--I commented this was strange. October brought shock and downpours as our (now former) priest faced charges. In late February my daughter-in-law called to tell me she was sorry on our behalf about our trouble. A week or so later my son finally told me about theirs.

I watched surface patterns change on I-5 during sun breaks, beneath dungeon cloud walls in heavy traffic, back and forth. I stood, heart sliced, in their kitchen, the nearly full packing box on the floor. The cute dishes, the pretty towels. Their bedroom a wasteland. The sky emptied on my son loading his potted plants, his bike. Childhood friends had offered him a room back in Eugene.

I still see her, long legs, straight hair, tilt of the head, but it is always someone else. I miss our talks in the kitchen. I haven't yet thrown out the gluten-free recipe book she made for Christmas. I used the Crayolas, not in her coloring book, but for a Valentine's Day card sent to my grandson, our daughter's son in New Jersey, my lopsided red heart contrasting an anatomical heart folded up inside. I am lopsided, but I can live with that. I can live with my daughter-in-law having made the exact same choices I once made yet in her own, unrepeatable fashion.

Later this month spring will open and weep and grant its healing, and my daughter-in-law will celebrate another birthday. Only she isn't my daughter-in-law anymore.