The term “angel” itself (Hebrew: mal’ak; Greek: angelos) is functional, denoting a messenger, whether human or spiritual. — Dictionary for Theological Interpretation of the Bible
Inside close relationships there exists a mode of knowing that transcends words. Intimacies which don’t need to be spoken to be understood. Husbands and wives experience this all the time. Without words you know what your lover thinks and feels. Message received.
Most of the big and small graces of marriage happened there. We laughed. We cried. We wined and dined. We taught each other. Touched each other. Prayed. And finally, we said goodbye there. “See you soon, my love. Time for you to see Jesus.” Then I kissed her mouth. And she smiled. There were no words now. But that was enough.
It would be hard to leave.
***
God blessed Susan and me with so many material things. But I couldn’t use all of them. I was downsizing. And with deadlines approaching I decided to give most of it to those in need.
One thing though. I was conflicted about the formal dining set. Table, chairs, hutch, “china” cabinet. Susan brought those things into the marriage and paid quite a lot for them decades ago. What would she want me to do? No one in the family could use the furniture. And I didn’t want to give it to someone who would only resell it and pocket the money.
What Should I do?
So I decided to call the local Habitat for Humanity store in Wake Forest and scheduled a pickup of all the items they could use, which turned out to be quite a lot. But was it the right call?
Four days before closing a large truck and two oversized young men arrived. And, get this, the driver’s name was Angel. And he wasn’t Hispanic. So the pronunciation was what you think it is. Angel, as in Gabriel.
I did a small double-take on that one. How many non-Hispanic guys have you met named Angel? And a large one to boot. About 6 ft 2 in. 230 lbs. No chubby cherub!
Well, they went about their work and more than once commented on how “this is the pick of the week!” I was happy to know these items would not be collecting dust, and the money would be used to help the needy.
Later in the garage I teased Angel with a question. “Do you ever find it difficult to live up to your name?” He gave me an oversized grin. And then launched into effusive praise of his mother. Finishing with, “she was amazing. She helped guide me and make me what I am.” There wasn’t a touch of arrogance in his tone. From the back of the truck his partner overheard the conversation and chimed in: “He really is a nice guy.”
Well alright. Three cheers for big, strong, nice guys!
A little later his coworker asked me why I was moving. I mentioned Susan’s death and that I was moving to our mountain home. Then after a few more details, I said it was a place that reminded my wife of where she was born in up state NY.
After offering their condolences Angel asked, “where in NY?”
“Utica,” I said.
“I was born in Utica. How about that.”
Now my double-take began a slow turn into quadruple-take territory.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. My mom moved us to NY city not long after I was born. But I was born in Utica, NY.”
“Ha! Just like my wife. An Angel from Utica!”
Everyone laughed. Small world, we joked.
I went back inside but after a few minutes it started to sink in. And that’s when I knew. A tender mercy had broken through. And it was headed my way. Would I side step it by using the left side of my brain only? Or would I let it wash over me? Like I did two weeks ago sitting at our spot in St Catherine’s? I decided to get wet.
***
Sure, given my background, my emotional state, I was attuned to serendipitous possibilities. But what do you think? Serendipity? Sheer Coincidence? What are the odds? Done the math?
I have. Sign Two. Message received. I made the right call. And a comforting God was near.
***
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Email: blog@blueridgemountain.life
***
I recently signed up to participate in the Gail Parkins Memorial Ovarian Cancer Walk & 5K Run. Also, I created a Team called:
Cancer has a way of focusing the mind. Some focus on the fight. Some focus on the perceived unfairness of it all. The pain. Along the way, if you’re wise, you focus on the preparation.
From the Christian viewpoint (my own) all of mortal life prepares us for the life to come. The life after death. And, then, the life after life after death (more about that in later posts).
Life threatening illness brings new urgency to the preparation. Time limits will do that. Questions from the depths bubble up. How have I lived my life? How should I live it now? And given our Faith commitments, other questions. Have I pleased my loving God? How may I do so now?
Briefly, for Susan and I, questions of why. They were mostly analytical.
Doesn’t make sense, we said. Doesn’t fit the profile for this type of cancer. Ovarian.
But through it all our Faith sustained us. Susan and I lived this way. Since her passing, I’ve continued to live that way. Imperfectly. But God met us where we were, and continues graciously to lead me along the way. If I continue to discipline myself and take the time to turn to the source of life.
And see the Big Picture.
***
Sometimes we need to be down on our knees squinting at tiny things. To find the tiny thing that discloses the Big Picture. Do we see it? Are we on our knees? Of course, at other times no squinting required. The vision comes rushing in like Niagara. Like when you stand gobsmacked on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. You’d have to be dead, inanimate, not to notice.
Here’s a vision that trumps the Grand Canyon. Both tiny and with Big Picture written all over it.
Gramma Sue & Reagan (still tired from the move)
Have you ever seen a more joy-filled grateful grandmother. I haven’t. Statistical analysis (Susan was a data analyst) suggested only 18 months at diagnosis. Two years too soon for Gramma Sue to hold this package of bundle light. But the deadlines were breached, and Susan held her grand-baby close. And then for two more years she nurtured a love that will never end.
***
Before getting to the sign I promised you in my last post, first the backstory. A story about a mother.
Both of Susan’s parents passed during the 6 1/2 years between diagnosis and death. Walt and June were in their 90’s. Their baby girl was particularly troubled over the thought of putting her mother through the agony of seeing her youngest die. “This is going to kill her,” she said.
But Mom went first.
I knew I would be reading scripture at the mass, but I wanted to do more to help my family, my wife, in their grief.
So what did I do? I rearranged the Liturgy of the funeral Mass. Slightly. Mr. Non-Catholic.
Growing up a Protestant of the low-church variety I could always claim ignorance. Right? But that wouldn’t have been true. I knew. I had experienced the thoughtful rituals of the Mass and learned to love them. The readings. The silence. The ancient rhythms. Confession. Creed. Prayer. The shapes. The colors. The gestures. The standing and kneeling. I attended a Catholic Church for seven years with Susan.
St Catherine of Siena
I was something of a congregational curiosity, I suspect. Always kneeling before the altar with crossed arms at my chest, receiving a blessing. But unlike my wife, no Body or Blood.
A Time For Grace & Blessing
Our priests respected my commitments. I respected the reason for the exclusion. And submitted to it. I viewed it as a spiritual discipline. A part of the fasting that goes with a future feasting, when one day it will be natural and right for all those who name the name of Jesus to share the fruits of the Lord’s Table together. United. One day.
Our SpotUnder Station 11 “Jesus Is Nailed To The Cross”A Time For Prayer
So no, I couldn’t claim ignorance. I knew the patterns, the history.
***
A year earlier, I did get clearance from the Polish Priest in Utica to embellish my reading at the funeral mass of Susan’s father with an a cappella rendition of the first verse and chorus of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” After which I read the prescribed text. Following the Mass, the Priest thanked me and then sweetly tried to recruit me for the Church choir. But I assured him my commute from Raleigh NC to Utica NY would be prohibitive. A friendly word of advice to Parish Priests: Be careful when giving a low-church Protestant liturgical legroom. He might lap the sanctuary on his next go round. 🙂
A year later when Susan’s mother passed, and it came my time to read, what did I do?
I lapped the sanctuary.
Figuratively. I made an aural loop around the congregation in hopes of gathering them in. Like a dear mother bringing comfort, and a sense of the protective care of God. Like June had done for so many years. Like the Big Picture of Gramma Sue and Reagan above.
True. Close attention to the established Liturgy did as much. But I felt led to add a personal touch, and so took my low-church liberties, humbly invoking the Holy Ghost to brood with warm breast over our broken family. I altered the established pattern with pastoral counsel in word and song before my prescribed reading. Here is some of it.
“One Day. All who believe. Those who are members of the Family. Will be changed. No more disease. No more dying. No more brokenness. (We’re all broke you know, even this adorable lady.)
But on that Day, Wholeness of Life. Body Soul Mind Fullness of Heart. Freedom True Freedom Home at last.
How? Why? Because we will see Him, The King of Glory. The world’s True Lord Face to face. The Beauty and Purity of that Vision Will change you Forever.
Don’t you want to see it? With mom? Grandma Junee? Don’t you want to be changed?
I do!”
Then I sang, without musical accompaniment, for my family. For my wife.
Followed by a reading from the first letter of Saint John:
Beloved. See what love the Father has bestowed upon us that we might be called the children of God. Yet so we are. The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like Him, for we will see Him as He is.
The word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.
***
The response I got, especially from my wife, who was deeply moved, confirmed my aim was true. Happily, the Priest was gracious too. I was so glad to help my family during our time of grief. Most especially my sweet Susie.
For she had preparations to make.
Now to my sign.
***
I knew the day would be emotional for me. Not as emotional as the Christmas Eve service. (First time without Susan) Or All Saints Sunday when for Protestants the liturgy is clustered around the theme of the dearly departed and God’s loving care of them. Some of their names are read out loud. This year All Saints came only three short weeks after Susan’s passing. I made a weekend visit to Church of The Good Shepherd (Episcopal/Lutheran) my new Church home in the mountains. Susan’s name was read. And I was unprepared for the seven car pileup I became.
But now ten months later, and back in Raleigh, things would go more smoothly. Fewer ragged edges. July 21 would be the last Sunday of my regular attendance at St Catherine’s, our Church home the past seven years. Called away by the mountains and retirement. Still, leaving this sacred space, the place that had meant so much to us, a place where husband and wife had bonded and fought the good fight of faith, would be emotional.
A Place of HealingA Time For Singing
Sign One
For only the second time in all our years at St. Catherine’s the hymn “Be Thou My Vision” was chosen, on this day, July 21, as the offertory hymn. Why was that choice significant?
“Vision” was the song I was asked to sing at the wedding of a good friend in Nashville many years ago. A song not normally sung at weddings but it worked. And I fell in love with it. It became a theme song for me.
Be Thou my vision, oh Lord of my heart. Nought be all else to me, save that Thou art. Thou my best thought, by day or by night. Waking or sleeping Thy Presence my light.
“Vision” was also the same song I sang at my mother-in-law’s funeral mass (mentioned above). Dovetailing nicely with the reading from Saint John’s first letter. The beautiful Irish melody and the moment moved my wife and family to tears.
Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise Thou mine inheritance, now and always Thou and Thou only, first in my heart High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.
And lastly, “Vision” was the same and only song I sang to my dying wife in her final hour as she slipped away….
High King of Heaven, my victory won. May I reach Heaven’s joy, O’ bright Heaven’s sun. Heart of my own heart, whatever befall. Still be my vision, O’ Ruler of all.
Singing that hymn at her mother’s funeral moved my wife so deeply that I was certain it would bring her comfort now. In these final moments. A comforting point of contact with her dear mother who awaited the arrival of her baby girl on the other side. The comfort of coming together. Reuniting two lovers who should never have been torn apart.
But mostly I knew, as surely as I am known, that at this dark hour, that song would echo the gathering of my Susie’s soul into the light filled, loving embrace of her incomparable Lord.
***
Now I ask you. My friends. How it could be that a song so meaningful to me, that had played such a vital role in the life of our family, the last song my wife would hear before leaving, would be the song, rarely sung, yet chosen, on this my final Sabbath as a regular member of St. Catherines?
I suppose if you believed that everything from quarks to atoms, and proteins to amoebas up to penguins and polar bears, and upwards still to every human accomplishment, every human delight, delights that scale the heights and plumb the depths of Beauty and Love, if you believed that all that developed by chance over the misty eons of time you could, I suppose, confidently chock this moment up to sheer coincidence.
I don’t.
***
I can’t tell you how moving it was to feel God reaching out to me. Like a loving parent. Gathering me in. I think I spilled over into the offering plate as it passed by and I dropped in the preprinted envelope that for several months now said only “Mr. Daniel..” and not what I longed to see “Mr. & Mrs. Daniel..” The comfort was palpable. The message was clear to this child in transition; “I see you, my son. I am near. Protecting Susan and you. Now, wherever you go, see Me.”
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
If you haven’t already added your email to my list, do so and I’ll let you know when the blog is updated. And send you passwords to access my Private Collection.
Email: blog@blueridgemountain.life
***
I recently signed up to participate in the Gail Parkins Memorial Ovarian Cancer Walk & 5K Run. Also, I created a Team called:
A few months ago I wrote about the importance of sitting a spell. And taking time to notice. Being attentive. I suggested a slower pace could do some good. Why? We rush through life. Most of us. Partly because of the demands of modernity. The Fast-Life. And sometimes the unwholesome demands others place upon us. That we place upon ourselves. Maybe we are just running toward a desired future. Or from a disappointing past. Speed seems necessary.
Often the quickness is exhilarating. I’ve been there. Bada boom. Bada bing. Knock it out. Get it done. Get respect. Other times? Honestly. Simply overwhelming. Too much to process effectively. Hurry up and hold on! is about the best we can do.
Overwhelming speed blurs awareness of our surroundings. Important signs go rushing by. The guide posts along the way. Pivot points, even. “Was I suppose to turn there? Or turn around here?”
Stop and smell the peppermint mountain laurel, goes the old cliche. Can you even see the laurel at this speed?
You don’t see a blurry object. You don’t draw near. Meditate on its beauty. Watch it unfold. Take it in.
Our minds, said the poet, were meant to be the mothers of immortal song. Inspired by the fine delight, the strong spur, the flaming breath. We were meant to experience, take in, God’s beauty, wisdom and love. And let it gestate. Nine days. Nine months. Nine years. We yearn for the encounter, actually. Even those who don’t yet know the true source of that yearning.
“Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this; I want the one rapture of an inspiration.”
Sweet Fire
And yet, it won’t be fully Christian (my neck of the woods) unless we share this inspiration, in loving community, just like my Three-and-One God. Unless we in-spire. In-spirit. In-dwell one another. By creatively breathing out after we have breathed in. It won’t be Christlike. This creative breath takes the form of the timely word, the healing touch, the helpful deed. But all too often our impressive salt-flat speediness, which may have broken records, leaves our mission dry and lifeless.
Question? Was anyone or any vital thing sacrificed at the altar of our record breaking achievement? If not. Then, by all means, let us carry on. If yes. Stop. Look. Seek forgiveness. And possibly pivot.
***
Perhaps some of you are saying: “Look, friend, all your encouragement about slowing down, opening to beauty, sucking the marrow out of life, may work on the Appalachian trail, or waltzing around Walden Pond, while retired! but it’s not where I live or can live.”
Some of you may be thinking that, right? Well. It is true. I recently arrived at my “Walden Pond” and the waltzing is wonderfully in-spiriting. I’m very grateful for this slower pace. And the natural beauty. But I need to emphasize the word “recently.”
Until most recently, there were seven years of physical pressures. Psychological pressures. And by grace, character forming pressures. Over 140 chemo-immuno-therapy treatments and doctors visits for and with my wife. Three major surgeries, for and with my sweetie.
Psychological pain. Hers: “But, I don’t fit the profile. I’ve taken care of myself. My girls! My husband! My granddaughter!” His: “But, I finally found my girl! My love! My wife!”
My doubts. Not about the distant future. But about the interim. Did I pray hard enough. Did I do enough to help my wife prepare? Did I say everything she needed to hear from her husband. Did I touch her, kiss her enough? Did I hear her when she cried? As her “drug delivery system” in her final days was it precisely what she needed? Oh God help me!
Loss!
Responsibilities. Given Susan’s two daughters from a previous marriage, the disposition of the Estate was not simple. And finally selling our home. And moving.
In the middle of all that, God graciously met us & led us.
I apologize if this seems like a self serving troll for sympathy. But I’m trying to make a larger point. We don’t need Walden Pond. God will meet us where we are. If we are desperate enough. If we yearn for it. But we must make God’s good gift of time serve us, and our deepest needs.
In three upcoming posts I want to share with you three signs, three tender mercies that give witness to God’s direct presence in my life. A life rather busy until recently. Sound like presumptuous, hotline to heaven talk? I hope not. I don’t have one of those. What I do have is a valuable experience. Because my wife and I took the time. And God, our Sweet Fire, led, refined, inspired along the way.
***
If you haven’t already added your email to my list, do so and I’ll let you know when the blog is updated. And send you passwords to access any Private Collection material.
