Now I Begin

I thought I would sleep in on January 1st. Rudy, our dog had other ideas. He, of course, had not stayed up to midnight, and apparently he felt like 5:00 was a good time to get up the next morning. Since his getting up sometimes means "knocking" on the door to the hallway to be sure someone is aware it's breakfast time (at least by his reckoning), my morning didn't go as I had planned.

And I'm so glad. After tending to Rudy, I decided to make the most of it, lit a candle, and waited. The window in our bedroom faces east, so I turned the chair so I could face east also.

Early morning has always been my friend, but because of the trees all around and the closeness of the houses where we live, I rarely think of trying to see the sun rise, because it's just so hard to see it until it's higher in the sky and all the pretty colors have faded. And many mornings when I am up around that time, if I do look out, all I see is gray turning to blue.

But New Year's Day, as I sat there and looked, I could actually see, between the roofline of our house and the neighbors' trees, the rosy presence of the sun coming up, like a flower blossoming beyond the trees. The night's condensation on the window blurred the view, but it was perhaps more lovely for the gentle blurring.

I have been reading Fr. Timothy Gallagher's latest book, Overcoming Spiritual Discouragement, which is based on excerpts from the writing of a priest, Fr. Bruno Lanteri, who lived through the death of his mother at an early age, significant health issues that affected the choices available to him in vocation, significant setbacks in his ministry, and even arrest and exile because of Napoleon's attacks on the church during the time of the French Revolution.

We talk about making New Year's resolutions, but I think we often forget the word "resolve" that they depend on. Determination. Firm commitment. Fixedness of purpose. In the life of Fr. Lanteri, his plans and his work were interrupted in ways completely beyond his control. But rather than giving up, he began anew. And clearly the ability to come back from political exile and start over at the age he did, came from a lifetime of developing the virtue of perseverance. From the book:

Say then with boldness, "Now I begin," and go forward constantly in God's service.

Do not look back so often, because one who looks back cannot run.

And do not be content to begin only for this year.

Begin every day, because it is for every day, even for every hour of the day,

that the Lord taught us to say in the Our Father, "Forgive us our trespasses," and,

"Give us this day our daily bread."

And recognizing that sometimes we falter because of our own choices, he wrote:

If I should fall a thousand times a day, a thousand times a day I will begin again,

with new awareness of my weakness, promising God with a peaceful heart, to amend my life.

I will never think of God as if he were of our condition

and grows weary of our wavering, weakness, and negligence.

Rather, I will think of what is truly characteristic of him and what he prizes most highly,

that is, his goodness and mercy, knowing that he is a loving Father who understands our weakness, 

is patient with us, and forgives us.

The book has been such a blessing, and reading it right around the turning of the year has made it even more so.

I have several unfinished projects, unrealized ideas. New Year's has given me time to reflect on the things out of my control over the past decade (a job ending, turmoil of moving into private practice, my mom's serious health problems and death, neck pain, a nerve block, and two major surgeries, extended family crises), things within my realm of influence but still unexpected (the opportunity to do a Doctor of Ministry degree, time-consuming commitments at church), and the things that are very much my own responsibility (procrastination, sometimes plain old laziness, struggling with the addictive pull of the Internet.)

For all of these, I have found it so helpful to say, "Now I begin," no matter when I originally had the idea or started the project, and no matter how often I fall into bad old habits. It has been so helpful in moving forward and letting go of the past.

I'm so thankful I was unexpectedly awakened and had that sunrise moment. I'm thankful for Epiphany tomorrow and a continued meditation on the theme of light. And the Light.

And I'm thankful for the words of Fr. Lanteri:

Above all, I have asked the Lord to give you great courage and firm hope in God,

so that by this virtue, overcoming all discouragement 

and striving not to lose that precious time the Lord gives us,

you may attain greater good for yourself and for others,

especially since the Lord has given you so many means for this and the desire to accomplish it.

Now I begin.

Abide with Me

We sang this hymn quite often in the church where I grew up. We also sang it in a small women's ensemble during my college years. I've always thought it was beautiful, and it has been coming to mind the past few days since my mother's death on Monday, June 27.

We did not sing it at her funeral, but the reason it keeps coming to my mind is because of its references to the sky and the sense of connection between the human creature contemplating death to the creation that is fallen in change and decay, but also responsive in a sympathetic way to the event of life moving through death to life again.

The photos below were taken on the day of her death and then this morning (Friday).

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day,
Earth's joys grow dim, its sorrows pass away.
Change and decay in all around I see.
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

I need thy presence every passing hour.
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me.

I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless--
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me.

Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes,
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

About 5:45 Monday morning. I had not slept much all night and was very hungry. I left my younger brother in the hospital room and went to get something to eat and try to sleep a little before coming back. On the way I saw the sun starting to rise and stopped to take a picture. My mom died at 6:15, shortly after sunrise.

This is from inside the hospital, while I was making phone calls after her death.

We had lunch later at my sister's house, and as my dad, older brother, and I were driving back to my dad's house, we exited the tree-ey neighborhood to this unexpectedly beautiful sight. That is the hospital at the end of the rainbow.

I was driving the car, and my brother was taking pictures. We kept trying to slow down, or stop, or back up, to get good shots of it. And then it turned out he was able to capture the whole rainbow from my dad's own driveway.

Sunset on the evening of her death, from Daddy's back porch.

This morning.

"Heaven's morning breaks...." I could hardly believe I got to see this in the ten minutes or so I was out there today. The rest of the day has just been blue, blue sky with almost no clouds, but this morning it was a cloudscape perfect for the morning sun breaking through to shine on her grave.

Mama always loved nature. When she was older she had to stay in more because of skin cancer concerns and general health issues, but in earlier years she went to Camp Wyldewood thirteen years as both camper and counselor. She spent a summer at Yellowstone Park. She planted all kinds of flowers, digging them up from the side of the road or transplanting shoots given her by friends or her mother. She used to take us fishing (though my sister and I used it as reading time.) She loved to go for rides in the country. We had dogs and cats and chickens and rabbits and goats and I don't know what all when we were growing up.

So it just seems fitting that nature would give us these beautiful moments in the days around her death. Through cloud and sunshine, she is abiding with the the One who changeth not in the mystery of this time, and in the weightlessness of finally resting in peace.

Sorella Luna

 

 

All Praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars;

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the heavens you have made them,

 

 

 

 

 

 

bright, and precious, and fair.

 

 

 

 

~from "Canticle of the Creatures," Francis of Assisi

 

(And perhaps someday I will get a fancier camera so as to better photograph Sister Moon.)