When Women Go Down to the Sea in Ships...

     Today we are celebrating the death of a woman who was like a mother to us when we were newly married and just beginning our family. We were invited to attend a Mass in her memory in Casa Grand this evening, but were unable to go. So JoAnne asked if I would like to reflect on her life and how she touched us. What JoAnne doesn't know is how she continues to touch me.
     Dorothy Campbell was in the U.S. Navy during the Second World War. From the moment I met her she impressed me with her strong, no-nonsense approach to life, to family, and to the world. When one of her sons showed signs of a learning disorder, she trained herself in advocacy and spent many years teaching families their rights--and school systems their responsibilities--where children with special needs are concerned. When Dorothy came calling, one soon learned not to argue. She spoke with authority, and her children grew up with confidence, all of them sharing her gift for reaching out to others in need.
     About a year and a half ago Dorothy was diagnosed with fast-spreading cancer and given no real hope of a cure. She began going to hospitals, and during one stay her children moved her to hospice care. That was our cue to make the journey to Casa Grand.
    As it happens, we were newly admitted into the Secular Franciscan Candidacy program. At a touching ceremony we were blessed and given small, wooden crosses to wear, the TAO of Saint Francis. I thought it was lovely, reminding me of days long ago when such signs were common among youth groups in the early days of the Liturgical Renewal. I had been keeping the cross in a drawer, wearing it only to church on Sunday mornings and putting it away in between. This day I decided to take it along, so I hung it around my neck.
     We got on the highway heading south at rush hour, so there was plenty to do just concentrating on traffic. The weather was changing. There were big clouds blowing in, and a steady wind across the desert that raised dust and curtained the sky. I was thinking about Dorothy and imagined her in the car with us, laughing as she so easily did. Ahead, the clouds were lining up. They reminded me of Navy ships in line, about to leave for the open sea. As they got under way they trailed rope ladders for last-minute sailors to climb aboard. I knew what Dorothy was thinking. She was eyeing one of the big ships. She had a new assignment and it was time to get on board. The wind picked up.
     "You'll never make it," I said. When Dorothy faced a challenge, she had a famous look. You saw it whenever someone said it was impossible. She gave me that look, as if she couldn't believe my lack of faith.
     "Well you just watch me!" she promised. And off she went, running across the desert. The golden ladder dangled down and Dorothy made a mighty leap, catching the rope in her hand and climbing on board. It was a big ship, a gunship, and as soon as she reported for duty, it came around and set off in a new direction. I had a sense they were taking directions from a new Captain...
     We found the Hospice center and went inside to discover not simply the whole family, but dozens of friends and relations. And they were singing, right there in Dorothy's room, as she lay quietly, eyes closed, already far away. I walked in wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt and right away people treated me in an unusual way. Not everyone there was Catholic, and I began to understand after awhile that many people there mistook me for a preacher. So I took the role of introducing and leading some prayers, reading from a Bible I borrowed from one of the nurses. It was a rich moment when people surrendered to the simple authority of one man reading the words of grace. From Revelations I read about the promises to all who live in faith, the hope to which we all cleave in Christ. And then, with her whole family gathered around her bed singing, Dorothy went on ahead, marked by the sign of faith.

     JoAnne feels all such anniversaries deeply. It is her gift. I have the memory of Dorothy leaping into her new life, for in our faith, life doesn't end, but goes on both in service to and in the presence of God. It is the one great hope to which we all cling in times of difficulty, doubt or waiting. Our time will come. We will each of us walk that road to Heaven (some may fly, some may sail...) and hopefully in that time those we leave behind temporarilly will give witness to the vibrancy and light of our faith. We are never truly separated, for in Christ there is no end, no distance. Even should we die, we will live forever. But Dorothy left me something.

     When she entered her new life, I was wearing my Tao, openly, clearly, and I was embracing the role that came with it, proclaiming the Gospel, giving witness to God's presence. Though I don't wear it openly every day, yet, I try to wear it outside every sunday. I have noticed that when I wear it out in the world, people notice and they defer to the sign as though I were commissioned to the task. They see it and they expect me to be Christian, to be Christ-like, to believe.
     I'm beginning to wonder if the greatest gift of becoming Franciscan will be the way the world holds me to the Gospel ideal: to go forth and bear witness among all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and proclaiming to them the Good News of Salvation. It may prove that the community--encountering the grace of a public faith--invokes the power of conversion.
     I have a feeling that the day is coming--perhaps it is already near at hand--when I will stop tucking my Tao inside my collar and begin wearing it, and my faith, publicly, come what may. I needn't feel nervous. Whatever lies ahead, I know there is an old Sailor in a big gunboat just over the horizon...

JoAnne Has a Blog!

Check it out in the links sidebar. Or click here.

http://www.eveningrays.blogspot.com/

Contemplation

     Three virtues are given to us by God so that we always know who we are. Faith is the gift that makes us family. Love is sharing in and knowing God's own nature. Hope is the one that caught my notice today. Hope is about our destiney, for one thing. I expect it has many more dimensions. Hope is our destiney.
     We are meant to live forever with Christ. What that will be like we can sample here on this earth, in this life. We will belong to him. That's what faith teaches. We will share his nature. That's what love teaches. But hope teaches us that our tomorrows will never end. We will no longer count the passing days, but we will live them, with him.
     Sometimes I think we need to step away from the "eternal alleluias" image of heaven and contemplate how personal it will be. When we go to him at Mass, and receive him in the Eucharist, when we hold him in our hearts and minds, bodies and souls, when we see in that Communion our union with all people, all creation, all time and all eternity--that's a taste of what heaven really is, not someday, but here and now.
     The kingdom of heaven is close at hand, yes, right here in our own hearts. We can go in and know...

A Story for the Saint Francis Fraternity

     Two Franciscans were walking through the country. One was old and experienced, professed for more than forty years and very wise. The other was young, a candidate yet to make his final vows. He had often heard of this old friar and was excited to spend time alone with him, so, as often happens between student and teacher, he did most of the talking.
     As they traveled, the young friar told his advisor all about himself, about his conversion to the Gospel and his newfound desire to imitate Francis.
     "But there's one thing I'm unsure of..." he confessed.
     "What's that?" the old friar asked.
     "Well, how did Francis do it? How could he give up his whole life to follow the Gospel?"
     "Well it's simple, really. Francis wanted God to be his whole life."
     "Oh!" said the young monk, falling silent. For awhile they walked without speaking. By and by they came to a river. The only way across was to wade. Fortunately, the water wasn't too deep, so in they went. As they crossed, the young man spoke again.
     "I want to be like Francis!" he blurted. "I want to live the Gospel. What must I do?"
     The old friar turned and looked at his companion.
     "The only thing you need is to want God!"
     "That's all? Just want God? But, how much do I need to want him...?"
     Without warning, the old friar grabbed him and threw him down in the water. The young man struggled, but the old man was strong and held him down. It didn't take long for the young man to start running out of breath, but still the old man pinned him beneath the water. Now the young man was desperate, struggling and thrashing until finally, the old man pulled him up. As his head broke the surface of the river he inhaled deeply. Sweet air!
     The old friar helped him to his feet and supported him across the river. As they climbed up the opposite bank he asked his young companion, "What were you wanting as I held you under the water?"
     "AIR!" the young man panted. "All I wanted was air...!"

     "Then if you want to follow Father Francis," the old friar advised, "that's how much you must want God."

The Miracle of Being Christian

    Our dilemma is that we are made weak and cannot save ourselves. But this is only the beginning of our story. Because we are meant to be strong in Christ, to move "from strength to strength", not weaklings in the world, but channels of the Holy Spirit and of the power of God.
     There was another story involving Jesus, boats, and a storm. In this one, Jesus is asleep on a cushion when the storm catches them. The winds blow, the waves grow, and the boat begins to sink. The disciples wake him shouting "Don't you care that we are about to go under?"
     I imagine Jesus dragging himself to his feet on the pitching deck, maybe still half-asleep, confused by the shouting and the uproar. He puts out his hand...
     "BE STILL!" he cries. Give me a minute, everybody. You know what it's like. But for Jesus, it happens! The wind falls silent, the waves grow calm, the boatmen, bailing water, turn and look. The companion boats draw near, picking up loose lines, resetting fallen masts. Lamps come on in the gloom. What just happened? What's everyone staring at? Jesus looks at his companions.
     "Where is your faith?" he asks, as if anybody could have done what he just did...

     Throughout our life, in our weakness, we are faced with situations that threaten to overwhelm us. Most times, we cave in and choose sin as a false solution. Yelling at people. Throwing away relationships. Fleeing the field. Dying to the opportunity.
     But our God is the God of all creation, holding all power in his hands. In our weakness he is ready to come. All we have to do is ask. It is our destiney. In company with the Spirit, we who are the Bride of Christ say "Come, Lord Jesus!" and he is with us. Not weak, as we are, but filled with glory and power. In his name, believers can raise the dead. We can fix what is broken, restore what has been destroyed. We can liberate the captive, heal the sick, shelter the poor, feed the hungry. There is no human need we cannot serve in and through Christ. Our big problem is that we don't know this, so we stay in our weakness, trying to do it alone.

     But I have seen it happen, here in this modern world, when people of faith claim their relationship as children of God, and God sends his power into the world through them.
     The days of miracles are not over. Our weakness is not our destiney. We are the children of God and our Father doesn't abandon us. Have faith, and when you are faced with human weakness of any sort, call on God. He will show you that you can calm any storm with a word.
     It's time to give it a try.

The Dillema of Being Christian

     The dillema of being Christian is that in our pursuit of Christ we often long to divorce ourselves from our weakness. But the weakness that comes with being human is given to us by God. It is so much a part of our nature that some of the spiritual beings called angels could not accept God's sharing of the Divine Nature with us by bequeathing us with souls. These angels turned against God and became what we know today as devils, our enemies. And so our existence on Earth begins, a tense life of warfare in which we struggle against the very thing God has given us.
     Christ came into the world, embracing human weakness "to take on the form of a slave", for that is what we are: servants of the authority of God. He required of himself obedience to the Father, which led to his death on the cross. The ultimate weakness is death. Jesus accepted it.
     Jesus shared our weakness, but he never sinned. We are weak in many ways, but unfortunately we are also very sinful. We need to learn that while weakness is necessary, sin is not required. Weakness is not merely unavoidable, it is necessary. Before celebrating the Easter Eucharist, we sing a prayer in church: "O neccesary fault, that won for us so great a Savior!" Knowing that in our weakness it was impossible for us to save ourselves, God set our life in motion on the earth, plagued by Satan who seeks our eternal destruction, who waits at every opportunity to oppress and mislead us. But Satan is not our weakness, nor does he make us weak. "In our weakness is Glory, in Jesus the Christ."
     We began as slaves to God's authority, but he has lifted us from slavery to call us his children. Human weakness is our treasure, given to us by our Father. Part of the task of living is to open up the gifts God gives us and learn to use them. We can't learn to use our weakness if we are avoiding God's authority and will. We are here on this earth because God wills it. We are weak here because God wills it. Our weakness makes us hungry for God and so we are restless, always seeking him. What happens, then, when we face our own weakness and contemplate it--not as an obstacle, but as an avenue to Christ? In our weakness is glory... In our weakness, Christ is waiting.
     Do we have the courage to know him?

     Today we went over to Saint Mary's to meet parents and children who will be attending Religious Education. It turned out to be a wonderfully large group of mixed needs--basic education, sacramental preparation, and behind the children, adults coming to learn about the Church. It was a wonderful energy, full of hope and expectation that made faith come alive. Or perhaps it works the other way around, that a lived faith creates new energy. Which I needed, because the day before I watched several documenataries about 9/11 and the memories left me wondering how a Franciscan, dedicated to the path of peace, responds to such incomprehensible error. I was at a loss.
     So I didn't sleep well, struggling with a cold, and thought I might miss Mass again. Second week in a row. That's a bad cold. I took what medicine I could find and just went, planning to sit near the door in case a coughing fit came over me. But then I started feeling better. And then I started feeling wonderful because I got to go forward to receive Him in Holy Communion. And then it all started to make sense.
     The proper response to incomprehensible evil in the world is always to turn to Christ. When in the name of faith people commit murder, condemn the innocent, burn holy books or otherwise support the agenda of death, and we, in contrast, are so small, we return to Christ. And he makes action. He restores us to health. He unites us to himself, and he gives us to the world in another way. Those were the three movements of my Sunday, and I understand that such is to be expected when we rely on Jesus.

     I like the approach of the leaders at Saint Mary's. How will we teach the children? We will be like the children, proclaiming faith openly, living it publicly, studying it avidly. We will be for each other, the children for the teachers, the teachers for the children. And that way, like yeast in the dough, we will all rise together.

     I started writing tonight to say something else, but it has abandoned me. I believe, however, that Christ is near, guiding me safely. I can go to bed and rest peacefully, looking forward to the hope of another day living the Gospel.

     Oh, there was a lady there today, a security guard. She watches the buildings. She watches the people come and go. She watches the Christians worship and teach. Today she came in to find out more about becoming a Catholic. As far as I could tell nobody's been talking to her about being Catholic. I guess she just likes what she's been seeing. We must be doing it right...

     September came during the night. I've been going around opening windows. I looked out the door to check on the world and the weather said "Hello! I'll be your guide and companion today." (It was cool.)
     Meanwhile, in the refrigerator, a batch of bread dough was thawing. Bread is remarkable stuff. I'm still learning (after forty-five years) how to bake some. It isn't merely that I'm a lousy student, but that bread itself is magical, a living thing that must be treated as such.
     I've heard that bakers, real bakers, put their dough in refrigerators overnight. It helps... do something. The next day they take it out and it's completely different than my usual stuff. You can touch it without getting all stuck, like it was putty or something. And today that's exactly how my dough comes out. I didn't just refrigerate it though, I froze it because I made too much and couldn't bake it all at once (homemade bread gets stale really fast.) So I put half the dough in deep freeze and figured "in a week or so..." I'd pull it out and save myself the trouble of making a new batch. Well, if you've ever made bread before you might know the magic combination of homemade bread and families. It just doesn't hang around long. So after a day I had to pull out the reserves and let it thaw, first on the counter, then in the refrigerator.
     Bringing us to this morning. Bread, being living stuff, sets its own agenda. Once begun it takes over and it doesn't matter if it's Thursday morning and you have to go to work in a few hours. You'd better be prepared to get out of bed and take care of the bread. Which is what I'm doing now. Or rather, the bread is on the stove rising, two beautiful loaves that look so real you could almost believe it. If I have succeeded learning an approach that works and results in improved loaves, then I'm almost halfway to understanding how to make bread!

     Anybody know how to get that shiny, crunchy crust? Anybody...?

     Not too long ago, someone told me that before yeast, wheat was practically indigestible. It is a hard seed, I know that from experience. I also know that when Jesus was walking through the field on a Sabbath he was breaking off heads of wheat and eating them, just like that. Either he was really hungry, or he was like so tough... I sort of like thinking of Jesus as a tough guy, once in awhile. Anyway, somehow, somebody figured out that if wheat got wet and yeast got into the bowl, it would get all soft. Then if it got near a fire it would bake up and you could eat it and, hey! This could be pretty good. But when I try to imagine the yeasty, sticky, gooey mess they must have been working with, and why would anybody throw it on a fire? I mean, if you lay in bed at three in the morning while the house is quiet and try to imagine somebody discovering how to bake up the first batch of bread--those must have been some really tough folks, in the old days.
     But that's probably how it happened. Somebody discovered that the same fire that cooked your meat could bake bread out of that messy bowl of wheat you were trying to soften and left too long (they must have done some grinding, somewhere in the middle of all that process) and then, there was bread. And it's been with us for so long, been part of the process of us growing and maybe even evolving that one might say that the basic building blocks of wheat and yeast are part of who we are. We have become what we ate.

     So... "unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains but a grain. But if it dies, it sprouts up and bears fruit, one hundred or sixty or forty-fold." And from that fruit God harvests a whole sack of wheat that he can grind, sift, soak, mash, mix up with grace to make it rise--all at once and everywhere at the same time. How it all happens is beyond understanding. But we know it takes time, and it's God's work. Jesus gave us bread that came down from Heaven, so that we can lay our hands on it and eat it and live forever.
     When I make bread, nobody in my house asks me how it all happens. Interesting story... but pass the plates and let's eat! WE have been given bread to feed the world and a share in the work of its making. Who's ready to roll up their sleeves and get busy? It may be hard, complicated work, but when that bread starts coming out of the oven... the whole House rejoices!

     Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to go start warming the oven...

A Voice Like Ten Thousand Whispers

     "The Spirit blows where it will. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going."

     Sometimes following God is like sitting in a forest listening to the wind. It comes from far away and moves with a sound like ten-thousand whispers. Before the trees even begin moving it rises to a rush, sweeping along the mountainside, pushing through the foliage, looking for you.
     When the wind arrives, it is like dancing. Mind, heart, body and spirit, everything that I am gets up to meet it and we go out on the floor of the world. Oh, in the arms of God! We certainly draw attention.
     Then, whatever song drives the dance, it must fall away, and the Wind goes with it, sliding from my fingers, walking quickly along the path--one glance back as if to say "Are you coming?" The Journey resumes...

     For a time, we are earthbound. The best we can do is follow. It is not always light-footed, or gracious. But we carry with us the memory of dancing with the Wind. Over time, many encounters, we learn how to follow.

2 a.m.

    I woke up this morning at 2:00 a.m. It seems to happen a lot. What is it the body is doing at that hour that lights all the boilers and gets up steam? Night patrol?
    There are many things about our life as Christians that don't get discussed. There is a need for vigilance, since we are told always to "be sober and watchful". We are told that we have an adversary who is constantly on patrol, looking for a way to penetrate and invade. We are promised peace by the Prince of Peace, but he himself went hand-to-hand with the enemy. For a long time, I didn't want to accept the existence of real evil. It's tough to cure a problem when you pretend it isn't there.
     But I noticed that every time JoAnne and I tried to turn more faithfully to the Lord, problems would erupt. And I can talk about times when we, or our friends, had to take immediate action against evil. Best not to delay, instead, be ready, and know your tools.
     I lay in the darkness with these thoughts swirling until they began to fade and were replaced with good memories, thoughts of all the Franciscans who have helped us along the way. I thought I would get out of bed and email someone, just sort of reach out to reassure myself. Our book says Franciscans don't keep quiet when they are in trouble, but call on the community to come to their aid. I don't really need much tonight. Just reassurance.
     In November our Fraternity will have elections and choose new leaders (perhaps?). I realized that this is all new to me. I haven't be following camp for long so I've never had new leaders. I thought of the people who have been serving since I began, how I've gotten to know some of them, how they don't stand out in a crowd, and how my feelings about people have changed. When I started I didn't think being Franciscan was a "big thing". I thought I pretty much knew everything and the Fraternity would be a sort of spiritual sideline. Boy, was I wrong!
     I wouldn't trade my place here for anything (and God protect me from being tricked away!) These leaders are not ordinary people and they do not blend in. They are real Franciscans, living the Gospel and following Jesus, just as I hope to do. And when I was worrying about how maybe new leaders would not be the same, I realized just now that I don't have to worry about that. Even if they are different the Gospel, which illumines their path, never changes. Same or different, our leaders will show us how it's done. The changes in me will continue, and any one of them can stand in front of me and tell me how to walk. God's blessings stretch through his people. I want to learn how to live in such a way that he can stretch through me too...

     As for the other stuff, the fears, the doubts, the illusions, the misgivings... If Jesus himself didn't feel these things at two in the morning, I'll bet Francis did!

     May God grant us all a peaceful night's rest.

     I woke up from a dream. In my dream I found a lovely chapel in a monestary. At first it was old, dusty, laid out in choir with benches facing each other. I moved to the front and began to sing an old song I haven't heard in nearly fifty years. It is call the "O Canticles", a simple chant sung during Advent which anticipates the coming of the Lord. It is very beautiful as chants go, very easy to sing, and unlike other chants is written in a major key, without the sort of sad longing that characterizes so much chant. It's always been a favorite of mine.
     As soon as I started singing, the chapel changed. It was clean now, orderly, the dust was gone, and there were others in the pews around me, dozens of monks all singing the same chant. That was a treat for me because that's how I remember the song, prayed together in choir. When it was finished, the other monks got up and left, leaving me alone again in the echoing space...

     Perhaps some dreams are like prayers that God says, and because we are sleeping, quiet, we can hear them. When I woke up I was thinking about our journey, how far we have come in just a year and a half. How much we have changed. It isn't as though we set out to change. Rather, changes come to us like they come to seeds on the ground. The rains come, the wind blows, the sun shines and suddenly there is a new plant where there was nothing a day ago. JoAnne asked me last night to spend today helping her "thin out" our closet. She wants to begin letting things go. Whatever we don't need, whatever we haven't used in awhile, will go to charity or the recycling center. We want to make enough room in our lives to hear echoes. We want some space, inside and out, for God to flow in and find us. Today is Labor Day, for me, the beginning of the Holiday Season. This year we will celebrate our freedom.
    For it says in the Rule that we must become free to love God, and our teachers tell us that this freedom comes from God. We don't make it or do it to ourselves. But under His watchfulness we begin to see what we can Live without. We begin to crave it like the desert waits for water. This dream--where the music is filled with emptiness, holds no ornament, shows only the beauty of voices joined in prayer--was a sign of what God wants to give us, share with us. It is His language and he wants to teach it to us.
    God, in all his greatness and wonder, is simple. So is his Gospel. The two come together in our lives, if we want them. All we need to do is say "yes" and suddenly what was old and empty reveals its life. In exchange for the world, we are given Beauty...

Let's Go for a Walk...

   One of my favorite stories in the Bible has Peter in a boat on a lake at night in the middle of a storm. He is staring out through the wind and waves at Jesus, who is standing there on top of the water. It's such an insane moment, so completely incredible. Hours ago Jesus sent the Disciples ahead. The last thing anyone would have imagined is that he would come along on foot, and here he is, look as if he's just going to walk on by and leave them there. The others think it's a ghost, but Peter imagines a new possibility.
   "Hey!" he yells. "If it's you, tell me to come out on the water and meet you!"
   "Okay," Jesus answers. "Come, then!"
   The rest of this story hasn't been written yet. It involves you and I. We're in the boat too and we all get a turn. It works like this...

   I had a dream that I was walking on a mountain road. As I walked the road began to go uphill. As it went up it grew steeper. Steeper and steeper this road grew until I was climbing a mountain. Steeper still. Now I was climbing from boulder to boulder. Still it grew steeper. Finally I was climbing a vertical rock face, stretching from toehold to fingerhold. Still it grew more steep and difficult. Finally, after going as far as I could, I was stuck, "spread-eagled" they call it, with no more holds, no where to go. Realizing my predicament, I grew afraid.
   There's probably no way to describe my fear of heights (or is it fear of falling?) except to say I was in a bad way. So I called out to God to save me. Jesus put his hand on my shoulder and said "Stand up!"
   I looked around. I was laying flat on the ground on a path in a garden. There was no mountain, no cliff, no danger. Only Jesus standing among the flowers and bushes, and me, feeling rather foolish. Grateful, though. I was grateful to be off that mountain.
   And this is what I'm getting today. Peter was able to comprehend the possibility that things were not all they seemed, that everything we've been told about walking... might not be the whole truth.

   JoAnne wanted a glass of water. I got up. The clock in the kitchen said "three a.m."
   "Oh, brother!" I said (or something like that...)
   Hours later JoAnne is up again. I roll over and turn on the light.
   "Turn the light off!" she says, "It's only three a.m.!"
   I don't believe her. I've been sleeping for hours and it was three in the morning hours ago so it must be time to get out of bed, right? I check the clock in the kitchen.
   "It's still three a.m." the clock says.
   "How can this be?" I wonder.

   When the clock says "ten-fifteen" and when it says "ten minutes to three" it looks the same. Especially when you don't have your eyes open. I don't like clocks with electric numbers, by the way, but that's another story.
   Now, this brings us back to the Word. There's a passage I just read yesterday, quoted in the book I'm reading. It's from Jeremiah, chapter 29.

   "Yes, I know what plans I have in mind for you, Yahweh declares, plans for peace, not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. When you call to me and come and pray to me, I shall listen to you. When you search wholeheartedly for me, I shall let you find me..."

   On a good day, we usually aren't seeing very clearly. Maybe with intense effort we get a glimpse of a possibility that things aren't what they seem. I know I've been fearful, and how much of the storms, the danger, the paralyzing anxiety is just illusion? In Christ, death has no power, no victory, it doesn't even sting. Yet we live our lives in bunkers, huddled behind heavy, locked doors, crying in the darkness without any hope of rescue. It's a terrible world we've made for ourselves... out of fear.
   The alternative is to stand up, get out of the boat, walk on the water and see what Christ sees. We are not alone. We are on this journey together and wherever we go, whatever seems to be true, Jesus sees it like it is, and we can see it too.

   We can spend our lives walking, arm-in-arm with Jesus, in the light, never alone, never afraid, moving like a crazy person from joy to joy as we walk out our lives in the light. It is right there for the asking. Call, pray, search for Jesus. Abandon your fears and stand up. We are saved...

The Secret Anticipation of a Greater Joy

   Today is the First of September. Yipee! Another Arizona summer gone. Well, as everyone around here points out to me, we have maybe another month of hot weather. It's like a marathon.
   But September is September. It counts. At least in my mind I can say "It's over! On to the Holidays!"
   For me, that's the real difference. This weekend is Labor Day. I'm going to meet my brothers and my sister for Sammiefest One. Having nothing more worthy to do, we will gather at Eileens' house. Everyone is bringing half a dozen sandwhiches to spread out on the table among chips, salads and casseroles. Then, like a buffet, each diner chooses among the delectable spread whatever appeals, entices or perhaps challenges. It's all great fun.
   Yes, I know. I've done the math. The weird thing about any kind of potluck is that, though each person brings enough food for everyone else to eat (six sandwhiches times ten adults equals five dozen sandwhiches) it never seems to be rediculously too much food. I know I can't eat like a twenty-year-old. But it doesn't seem to matter. Maybe among all us old guys there are now a lot of family members in their twenties, with friends and relations, to sort of harmonize and balance things out. Whatever the dynamic, it works perfectly. We're family and it feels right.
   Now, what this all means is that we kick off the "winter season" with a party and we keep right on partying 'till some time around Easter. And no matter what else is going on, politics, economy or just old age, we all seem to make it through to the day when we get out of bed, open the front door and look summer in the knees again.
   September marks the beginning of gardening season. It's the time when the empty seats at church begin to fill up again. It's the time when people actually seem to have time to get back in touch. We go outdoors, look around, take inventory. How are the neighbors faring? Which houses survived the monsoon? How many trees were knocked over? How tall is my lawn? I just had an interesting thought... I wonder if going to Heaven isn't a lot like September in Arizona? Will there be sandwiches...?

   But every year must be different. Not everyone completed the journey. Some of us have gone ahead to God's pot-luck, bringing the covered dishes which are our hearts. The Saints and Angels gather 'round the table to peek. Sweet smells, savory smells, all the fragrances of life lived. "The smell of someone who's ridden the backs of a thousand summers." There is something in the air now, if only a memory. September is the beginning of the season of drawing-in. Behind every gathering, every celebration, there is the secret anticipation of a greater joy.
   In October we will celebrate the feast of Saint Francis, eight-hundred and one years, I think (I'm not good with family dates). I needed a stopping place between Labor Day and Thanksgiving. December is for the quiet elegance of Advent and the deep-heart celebrations of Christmas. I love this time. Each year we are more simple about it, and yet it is all so much more profound. It goes quickly, really, but it is all so wonderful. These are the celebrations of the traveler, the days for Pilgrims. It doesn't matter if you're in town only a short while. The door is open, the table is set, the heart is eager to embrace you. It is the season of fellowship and bygones. It is the season of Holy Anticipation. Even now, on the first day of September, it is like stepping outside and breathing fresh air.