What Kind of Light Can I Provide?

In times of deep darkness, we not only need light—we need to BE light for one another. 
That's a message we must take to heart as we find ourselves lost once again
in the all-too-familiar darkness of America's culture of violence.

~Parker Palmer

Somehow I managed to make it until Friday evening before learning about the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. I had opted to listen to The Be Good Tanyas and Leonard Cohen in the car that day rather than NPR. But when I got home and opened Facebook, I was instantly overwhelmed by a flood of posts about this tragic incident, a flood that I quickly got swept up in. It seemed that none of us knew what to do other than share articles and statistics, express outrage with political memes, sadness with Rumi quotes. But soon enough all this posting and sharing began to feel like binge eating. We could stuff ourselves with information and opinions, but it would not diminish the loss and pain.

When I could finally read and post no more, I turned off the computer feeling numb. I was overwhelmed by too many words when there were really no words that could possibly express the sadness, anger, helplessness, and grief I was feeling. On Saturday I threw myself into pulling weeds, sweeping the yard, vacuuming the living room, moving Christmas boxes to the garage. The more physical and mindless the work, the better. You know that if I start cleaning with that kind of fervor, something is up.  Perhaps this was a more honest expression of my feelings, a physical release of some of that emotion. 

I did not cry until Sunday. The children's production of "The Latke That Wouldn't Stop Screaming" continued as planned at church. We needed to see children in cardboard costumes. We needed to hear a story that reminds us that everyone belongs somewhere. We needed to be reminded that there is still plenty of love and light, joy and laughter in the world. 

This is not what made me cry, however.

Aaron and Julia, the ministers at my Unitarian church knew people would need someplace to go with the stew of feelings this tragedy left them with. They provided such a place in the second service Sunday morning, beginning with 26 minutes of silent meditation or prayer, interrupted only by the sound of a bell each minute—one clear, resonant ring for each person who died in the shooting. There were a few words, but not too many. There would be plenty of time for words in the weeks and months to come. 

I had a hard time settling my mind during the silence and I simply could not process any more words. The music that morning touched me deeply, but what broke me open and made me cry was the rending of cloth. The rending of garments, or Keriah, is an ancient Jewish mourning ritual, a sanctioned and ritualized act of destruction in the face of grief. One description I read suggested that the rent garment represents the torn heart of the mourner. 

We did not rend our garments. But Julia and Aaron gave us white muslin and asked us to tear strips when the cloth was passed to us. The growing sound of fabric tearing was the sound of hearts being torn open. It was the sound of anguish and grief. The resistance of the muslin as I tore my strips released my anger and my tears. That was when I finally cried for those children and their teachers.

We tied strips of muslin around each other's arms to wear that day in honor of those who died. I am still wearing mine. Frankly, I am afraid to take it off. I know how easy it is to get caught up in the business of day to day life, to "forget" how important this is. Christmas is a week away. I need to finish shopping. I want to share holiday traditions with my family and sing with my choir on Christmas Eve. December is all about the promise of light out of darkness. Hanukkah, the winter solstice, Christmas are all about the promise of light. And I want to remember that promise. But I do NOT want to forget this tragedy. 

So I'm going to keep wearing this small piece of cloth around my arm until after the holidays so I will remember. Because we simply cannot go back to sleep until the next horrible shooting. If we do, then we are as guilty as the next shooter. What we can do is listen deeply to each other, even when we disagree (especially when we disagree). We can sign petitions, write letters, march in the streets, make some noise. And we can start building a culture of respect and kindness, one act at a time, one day at a time. We can choose to be part of the promise of light out of this darkness. As author Parker Palmer posted on Facebook this morning, everyday we can ask ourselves, "What kind of light can I provide today?" 

Grace and the Christmas Fish

"Christmas is for children. But it is for grownups too. 
Even if it is a headache, a chore, and nightmare, 

it is a period of necessary defrosting 

of chill and hide-bound hearts." 

~ Lenora Weber, writer

'Tis the season for sentimentality and cynicism. Christmas comes rolling in like a giant out-of-control snowball before we've even finished washing the Thanksgiving dishes and keeps picking up speed as it crashes through December. I can be grumpy, frantic, joyful, tearful, pissed off, or peaceful, sometimes all in the same day during the Christmas season. With luck, I usually recover sometime mid January.

I married Ebeneezer Scrooge. It may say Paul Kretschmer on our marriage license, but that's just an alias. Paul would probably choose dental surgery over most Christmas activities, so the bulk of the Christmas chores land on my To Do list. Today he surprised me though. He told me he likes our Christmas mornings. He likes watching the kids open presents, he thinks Santa makes good choices for them, he appreciates that they are grateful for what they receive. Part of me thought, isn't that nice. A much larger part wanted to say, you DO know Santa isn't real, don't you? Somebody has to actually shop for and wrap those presents, the same somebody who considers putting coal in your stocking every year.

I like Christmas. Really I do. But I'm feeling a little blue this December. I'm missing my children. I've sort of gotten used to Scrooge. But what happened to the two people who have given me the most holiday joy over the years?  At twelve and (almost) fifteen, Miles and Frances are suddenly jaded and apathetic about the whole thing, well everything but the gifts. They showed about as much enthusiasm for decorating the tree last weekend as they do for clearing the dinner table. Yet, it wasn't that long ago that their excitement over holiday traditions and their giddy anticipation of Santa's arrival were what kept me going this time of year. And it wasn't that long ago that there was a little magic in our Christmas.

When Frances was nine years old, she and Miles sat down to write letters to Santa Claus. This was not something we did every year, but that year Frances was beginning to question the whole Santa operation. I thought a letter might help keep Mr. Claus around awhile longer. I wasn't ready to let Santa out of the bag yet, so I kept silent as Frances pondered questions like, how does Santa manage to cover all that territory in a single night, and why do the presents look like they come from stores if the elves are making them? I would reply with something like, Christmas is all about magic, and then feel twinges of guilt for outright lying to this smart, inquisitive child. Or I might throw the whole inquiry back at her by asking, what do you think?  And then quickly turn up the Christmas music and offer her another cookie.

So letters to Santa were written. Among other things, Frances asked for a fish and some chocolate. We addressed the envelope to Santa Claus at the North Pole, put it in the mailbox and went about our decorating, baking, and nightly reading of our many Christmas books. Frances continued to pose questions about Santa's existence. I artfully evaded direct answers. Just one more year, I hoped. Besides, I didn't want her to ruin the magic for Miles. I'm a firm believer in childhood magic. There's plenty of time for reality when you grow up.  As Katrina Kenison writes in her book, Mitten Strings For God, "The realm of enchantment is open to us all, if we are willing to step over the threshold." I wanted Santa to hang around awhile longer, for the kids and for me too.

One afternoon, a little more than a week after the letters to Santa were mailed, the postman knocked on our front door. He handed me a small package addressed to Frances. The return address said, The North Pole. What could this be? The postmark was from a town about 100 miles north of us. It made no sense. With nervous anticipation, I called Frances into the room. You got a package from Santa, I said. She could tell the surprise and wonder in my voice were genuine. She opened the package. There was a copy of her letter and a small wrapped gift. Go ahead, I said. Open it. She carefully tore the paper as Miles and I watched. Inside were several squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, a small fish ornament, and a gift card to Petco. Wow, I said. That's amazing! Santa sent you an early present! That small package of kindness was the highlight of Christmas for us that year.

To this day, we have no idea who that gift was from. I like to imagine an elderly woman with white hair and sensible shoes choosing Frances' letter out of a mailbag full of letters to Santa. I've named her Grace. I can picture her shopping for the chocolates and coming up with a clever way to give Frances a fish. (We exchanged the Petco gift card for a Beta fish named Harry Water. Harry was part of the family for several years.) And even though I had to quickly scramble for an explanation for why Frances got an early present and Miles didn't (I think I said something about a random drawing, sort of like in The Polar Express), it was worth it. Grace gave us one more year with Santa Claus.

May you find a little magic and grace in your holidays this year.

A Broken Hallelujah

"It’s not a cry you can hear at night

It’s not somebody who has seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah"

~Leonard Cohen

I arrived at church at 5:30 Sunday evening, potluck dish in hand, to meet some friends. We were planning to car pool to our choir holiday party at the beautiful home of one of our members. It had been raining steadily all day and we hurried to climb into the car, carefully trying to keep our food and our party clothes dry. There was a bit of good-humored grousing about the weather as we sat waiting for a couple of others to arrive.

There were other people at church that evening too. Lined up around one of our community halls were maybe forty homeless men and women waiting for a hot meal and a place to sleep. Our church, along with a handful of other churches in town, takes turns hosting the Freedom Warming Center on nights when it is raining or dangerously cold. The warming center staff provides bedding and and runs a well-organized and compassionate operation, Doctors Without Walls offer medical care, and church volunteers make and serve a hot meal. 

Last winter I prepared and served a few casseroles at the warming center with some friends and my kids. And we will do it again this winter. It is hard to put into words the impact this experience had on me. I have both nothing and everything in common with these hungry, cold people seeking a meal and a bed. My life seems embarrassingly rich, my problems so trivial compared to what fate has dealt these brothers and sisters of mine. I can give them a meal, but I am not equipped to solved the myriad problems that accompany them to that shelter on a rainy night: Homelessness, unemployment, addiction, mental illness, a safety net of family and friends that is damaged or missing entirely. 

But there is something I can give them that is at least as important as a meal. I can ask their names and listen to their stories if they want to tell them. In this way I can give them a small measure of dignity. Last winter I met a man who had ridden his bike from Oregon pulling his dog in a baby trailer. He was not a young man and he clearly grappled with some mental health issues. He was making his way the best he could. He showed me some of the repairs he had managed on his bike, outdoing  MacGyver with his resourcefulness. And he told me he thanked God everyday for what he had. He thanked me for the simple meal I had prepared as if it were at feast. His gratitude for life was genuine and immense. And though his was surely a a broken hallelujah, it was beautiful. 

But then, don't we all sing a broken hallelujah? Life is tragic and beautiful, sometimes in the same moment. Troubles are not distributed evenly among us by a long shot, but we all feel pain. And even the most desperate among us see at least glimpses of grace. It is that beautiful, broken humanity that I share with the guests of the warming center. In our brief connection on those evenings, it does not matter what I do for work, where I live, what clothes I wear, what books I've read. All that matters is that we are fellow travelers on this big blue ship. I only hope I showed that man from Oregon half as much dignity as he showed me.

Grace. It is woven throughout our connections with other people, nearly any time we are truly present with another. The other day I was walking with a young woman I work with. She has autism. She is not very verbal, though she does burst into song frequently. She likes it when I sing too. She was agitated on this day as she sometimes is. I cannot imagine how overwhelming the world must seem to her at times. As we were walking, she sang the word hallelujah a couple of times. I did not recognize her melody so I started singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" to her, just the chorus, just the hallelujah. She looked at me and her whole body quieted down. Mine did too! I touched her arm and sang it again. And we walked that way back to the car. 

At the choir holiday party we held hands and sang "Silent Night." I felt grateful for this evening with these people I love. I thought of the people at the warming center, grateful they were being fed and given a warm place to sleep, wishing we could somehow take away all of their pain and suffering. When I got back to the church to pick up my car it was quiet. People were sleeping, some outside. The warming center staff watched over them. They would welcome people in and offer them food and a dry place to sleep all night. I am beginning to think that, paradoxically, it is our brokenness that can make us whole, make us fully human, allow us to reach out to another and find dignity and grace in our connections. And for this, we should sing hallelujah.

Jeff Buckley singing "Hallelujah," by Leonard Cohen. Be prepared to weep.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WIF4_Sm-rgQ