An Invitation: Episcopal Church Presiding Bishop Michael Curry invites people to join him each week to cultivate a “habit of grace” as we learn how to adjust our lives in the reality of the coronavirus. The bishop will post a video meditation each Monday through May. The first one was posted this past Monday.
We will offer the link on this site each Monday as it is posted on the Episcopal Church site.
Click here to view the March 16 video meditation.
Or copy and paste this link:
by Carla Pineda
I realized a few days ago that I had not been to my journal for almost a week. For someone who centers and grounds herself on the blank page of her journal, this was a surprise. I thought about how much I had missed the blank page, how I was letting what is going on with the virus consume me. The worry, the fear, the sadness, and the anger were running rampant over my very being.
I am doing all that they say to do: washing my hands, drinking water, socially distancing and isolating, getting some fresh air on my back porch. I try to sleep 7-8 hours a night, but even on a good night that is rare for me. Naps are in order. I have ordered groceries for delivery, which feels so strange since I could literally walk to the store if I wanted to. I even chose to miss my daughter’s wedding shower last weekend to err on the side of caution. Because of my age, I am in a high risk group, my spouse has chronic health issues, and I would be distraught if I found out I was carrying it and gave it to someone else. We are all so much more connected than we know.
I know there is one thing that I must do in addition to all these things. That is, I must remember to come to the blank page of my journal. I must return daily, more than once if it calls me. This is a place that brings me solace and peace. It is a place of release, a place where I find relief, where I work out making some sense of things. It is a place where I can discharge fear onto the page, where my breath softens, deepens. It is a place where I find the ground and my center.
All you need is a blank piece of paper and a pen. Or a new document on your computer if that works for you. Date the page, mark the time. And write. One or two sentences can be enough. Write down a question or something that is troubling you. Copy a favorite poem, a line of scripture or a prayer onto the page. Write your grocery list (it won’t get lost if it’s in your journal) or a list of things you are grateful for. Cut out a picture, glue it on the page and respond with words. There is no right or wrong way to journal. Just go to the page, write, and let flow onto the page what flows. Be present to what is. It is a very peaceful place to be.
Carla Pineda is part of the working group that guides Spirituality for the Wisdom Years. Reach her at carlaleedpineda@gmail.com.
If you have thoughts to share, send them to Marjorie George at marjoriegeorge62@gmail.com. Or leave a comment.
It was the day before Thanksgiving.
At least that what it seemed from the cars in the HEB parking lot at 8 o’clock this morning.
Eight a.m. – and people were streaming into the store.
“We have to go early,” I had told my husband. “Or the shelves will be empty.”
But they weren’t totally. Coffee was still available, and creamer to go in it – oh, happy day! The rest we will make do. We will all make do.
And the people were not rude. There was a feeling of we really are all in this together. “This is crazy,” said passing strangers to each other. But more in empathy than in anger.
Grocery-laden carts lined the aisles like Monday-morning commuter cars on the expressway, each one letting one in.
And somebody let somebody else get the last jug of milk.
In the check-out line, a woman said she was picking up stuff for her sister who works as a nurse. I thanked them both.
Yes, this is hard. People are dying. People are losing income. The future is a huge unknown. It gets scary.
Our only hope is to never forget that God can redeem everything and that nothing, nothing can separate us from God’s love. “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” – St. Paul’s Letter to the Church in Rome, chapter 8, verses 38-39.
Welcome to all of you who have recently joined us on the Spirituality for the Wisdom Years website. We plan to use this site to keep you informed about new events and resources and to offer some thoughts for reflection and encouragement. We plan to post about once a week, and we and welcome your contributions.
This week, Marjorie George recalls a time of teenage embarrassment in Meeting the Past With Compassion, a selection from our growing Spiritual Practices page. To learn more about spiritual practices, click here.
My father was one of those persons for whom life just did not work — a good man who got beat down, who couldn’t keep a job, who drank a little too much. “Bless his heart,” the old ladies would say, clucking their tongues and adding, “His poor wife and children.”
I didn’t know why, still don’t know why, the promising lad from high school (he was actually class president) didn’t live up to being the most likely to succeed. Maybe it was because he was raised by a mean, cold, distant woman. Maybe it was the never-diagnosed clinical depression. Maybe it was the War. Mother wouldn’t talk about it. No one talked about it.
When Dad could get work it was driving a cab or mowing a lawn or pumping gas. Sources of shame for my teenage self. I hadn’t learned yet that all work is honorable. That was many years in the coming.
The worst day, the very worst memory, was the shopping trip with my girl friends. One of us had a car, so we piled in and headed for the downtown department stores. Dear old Dad’s job at the time was taking tickets in the Montgomery Ward parking lot. Of course that’s where we parked. And everyone saw — MY father, in his khaki shirt and pants and a pith helmet shading his balding head from the sun. TAKING THE PARKING TICKETS. I was mortified. I scurried across the parking lot with my head down, sure my friends were whispering about it behind me.
Shame then and shame for years because of my shame then. I should have been a better daughter, my critical adult self has hammered. I should have cut him slack for at least trying.
But that teenage pain was not something Eucharist or Bible study or even the sacrament of confession has been able to transform.
Yes, it happened. Yes, it was painful. There it is; all these years removed I can name it. And what shall I do with that memory? The Spirit whispers: “Meet it with compassion.” Compassion for the man who was, indeed, trying, and who was probably in more pain than I can imagine. Compassion for the teenage girl who was still learning from the circumstances life handed her.
“See it through the eyes of God,” suggests a friend to whom I have told this story. Invite the tenderness and kindness and forgiveness of which only God is capable into that remembered image. Allow it to be transformed with no effort of my own, only through the exquisite, unending, ever-enduring grace and compassion of God.
My father died many years ago; painful memories have a longer lifespan. Like the unclean spirit that could only be cast out by Christ himself (Mark 9:14-29), some memories can only become life-giving instead of life-damaging through God’s grace and compassion. As we review our lives and recall debilitating emotions like shame, pray that we will be able to appropriate that compassion for ourselves as well as others.
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In With Open Hands, the classic devotional guide originally published in 1972, Henri Nouwen calls us to engage compassion. As you pray this, see how you can apply it to situations and persons from your past as well as the present. Recall the prayer when you are facing situations in which you might need to be compassionate.
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Dear God,
As you draw me ever deeper into your heart,
I discover that my companions on the journey are women and men
loved by you as fully and as intimately as I am.
In your compassionate heart,
there is a place for all of them.
No one is excluded.
Give me a share in your compassion, dear God,
so that your unlimited love may become visible
in the way I love my brothers and sisters.
Amen
We welcome your feedback. Leave a comment or email Marjorie George at marjoriegeorge62@gmail.com.
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