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I stood behind the storm door and waved handfuls of dollars to the ten-year-olds wearing aqua T-shirts, touting the message, Children ‘r’ For Us, against the backdrop of the St. Louis Arch, also stenciled in white—evidence of the kids’ week-long camp.
The milky sky seemed to energize their antics, grouped around their lemonade stand and waving down the few passing cars. Whatever their cause, they were solidly behind it.
It took a while before they noticed my opened door, and a black boy took the lead, his smile deepening the closer he came to my porch. Others grinned, hurried to keep up, curious, no doubt, of the amount in my hand. To my surprise, the black boy bowed from the waist, tented his palms, and said, “Namaste.” Other thanks followed. Someone even said, “God bless you.” Smiling eyes knew, somehow, yet, only a few of the kids were known to me.
Over the years, I’d contributed to other lemonade stands set up on the corner upon which my bungalow sits, but never received such gratitude like this afternoon’s. Whatever was going on, the parents of these kids knew what was essential: love, and they taught it well to their children, its surprise shimmering of an Unknown Presence.
“There is a season for everything, and a time for every occupation under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die,” a declaration attributed to Qoheleth, a sage by profession and a Palestinian Jew living in the third century BCE. Qoheleth and others developed the Book of Ecclesiastes as a corrective to counter the empty philosophies of Stoicism, Cynicism and Epicureanism that had vulgarized life in Israel and eviscerated traces of the Sacred. Life was empty; knowledge, virtue, love illusory.
Yet, a sense of the Sacred permeates this short book, sacralizing the totality of life: its impetus, Creator God and no other.
Fast forward to the present. Despite later prophetic utterances, even those of the God-Man Jesus of Nazareth, not much has changed, save for solitaries harboring the Sacred within their depths, save for some churches whose Spirit-filled members give thanks and serve with joyful hearts—such is my perception.
I return to yesterday’s green flag and my continuing eligibility for receiving hospice care— “Six months or less to live,” I was told. Others have judged the proximity of my physical death, as if Creator God has no say in the “work of his hands.” The obsession to conform to Medicare’s rules and regs, constantly under revision, keeps the sickened system contorted beyond fixing. The specter of this fiscal dragon continues sprouting new fire-spewing crowned-heads, terrifying its work force.
Qoheleth was more than accurate when he declared “a time to be born and a time to die.” No health care executive can make this decision for me. I belong to Another.
“This is the Body of Christ, Liz,” she said placing the cross-incised wafer into my outstretched palms and returning to the chair in my study. Silence of communion etched innate belonging upon our psyches; we gleamed with the gift.
Only after raising my eyes did I begin to speak. “Thanks, Bridget, it’s been a long time. I so appreciate your coming to my home this morning,” I said, scooting back in my arm chair and noting the sun’s glimmer upon a cardinal’s wings, in flight. Before her arrival, I wondered what we’d have to share. Yet, words came easily, despite my departure from the church seventeen years ago, caused by a significant dream.
“I’m also glad to see you again, Liz. Your home is lovely, so welcoming. How long have you lived here?” And so, the conversation grew, with intervals of laughter.
In her younger years, Bridget had taught religious education to the parish children, then, went on for a degree in theology in spiritual direction and retreats, all the while, raising children with her husband, still an avid chess player. Her interest in my life experiences led to questions about my terminal illness.
“Do know that your name appears in the weekly bulletin—among the ill parishioners? Although you are not physically among us, we come to each of you, in prayer, Fridays at the church.” Of special note were her strong hands with a simple gold band and her lively eyes filled with life’s rough and tumble amusement.
Before we separated, I asked, “Bridget, will you remove your mask so I can see your face? It’s been a while.”
In the ensuing moment, unspeakable joy fused us to Another. The Gift deepens.
Heart Whisperings 