Calendar

I was ordained to the priesthood on the Feast of the Annunciation at the beautiful Church of the Annunciation in the Diocese of Dallas almost 14 years ago.  So, various artists’ paintings of the Annunciation have held special meaning for me of Our Mother’s encounter with the Divine since that time.  Imagine my shock, however, when I discovered that the one I was so powerfully drawn to and had meditated upon many times was actually painted by a Black man. I NEVER knew…and I’ll bet you didn’t either.

In 1898, Henry Osswana Tanner completed the image here that is currently displayed at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.  Born in Pittsburgh to a father who was a pastor and a mother who was formerly enslaved, Tanner, as an artist, sold and became known for several non-religious paintings before making religious art his primary passion.  After a visit to the Middle East, including Egypt and Palestine, he returned to paint the image here.

I LOVE this image.  Mary is so-o young and innocent here.  Her clasped hands and demure half-look at the numinous energy appearing before her make her appear beautifully fragile with a sense of “Are you sure?” or “Oh my….” simultaneously.

Yet, from the biblical story, we know she had only two things to say.  First, “How can this be?” and then, “Let it be….”

The angel Gabriel doesn’t appear with the typical angel wings either.  Gabriel is first and foremost light—pure, unadulterated, white light.  It has been said that Mr. Tanner had a gift for his use of light and color.  I feel as if I am in this room of Mary’s, perhaps in a corner, hearing the words she heard for the first time, too.

We are preparing to celebrate unmanifested Be-ing choosing to become manifested (or expressed) in and through its Creation.  The beauty of what we commonly call The INCARNATION is our own invitation to allow the birth of the DIVINE within us.

As far as I am concerned, we are each Mary, and we are each given the opportunity to say, “Let it be…” to all that G-D desires to reveal in and through us.  Indeed, Richard Rohr has said that Mary’s “yes” is to G-D’s request to be present in and to the world through us.”  It is time to stop struggling and to trust and surrender.  I’m excited at the possibilities of G-D in and through me. What about you?  Are you ready?

Christ-mass Love & Peace,
Freda Marie+

 

Dear all,

During my first year of seminary, while we trimmed the tree at our annual Advent party, two friends and I came across four ornaments, clearly homemade, that said “Death,” “Judgment,” “Heaven,” and “Hell.” Laughing, we held them up to look at — I had never seen these words next to a Christmas tree before. Our dean explained that these were the Four Last Things: themes that, somewhere and sometime during the Church’s history, it had been topical to preach on the four Sundays of Advent. Gathered together that evening, my friends and I were delighted by the seemingly transgressive take on a season that often overflows with cheer. The ornaments added a little punk rock flair to our decorations.

There is another set of themes for the four Sundays in Advent: Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love. I didn’t grow up with these, either, but as an adult (and now a Professional Church Person) I’ve found them and used them in prayers for lighting candles on an Advent wreath, or in children’s or family formation materials for the season. While they may not seem as hardcore as the Four Last Things on the surface, at their heart, underneath the layers of sweetness we (or at least I) can sometimes apply, I think they are. In particular, in this moment, during this Advent, I’m reflecting a lot on hope.

In the midst of death or despair, hope is hard to hang on to. The act of claiming it when others might dismiss it as naïve takes incredible determination: hope is an action. Think of peace advocates, standing in front of soldiers, or of climate activists again and again sounding the alarm about our warming planet. Hope is no easy thing. In its deepest form it requires us to confront death and despair, rather than hiding from it, and to look beyond it, for it is not the end. Standing for peace in the face of violence, crying out for change to help prevent disaster – to me these are deeply hopeful actions, rooted in a desire and a belief for a different kind of world. As a Christian, it is the hope for a world free from death and its suffering: which is what Jesus promises us and offers us in and through his birth, death, and resurrection. (Rev 21:3-5)

I don’t mean to imply that we all have to be hopeful all the time, keeping our chins up and putting on a grin. There are moments and seasons of life that find us in the pit, surrounded by lions, or walking with Job as we question all that we have known. Telling anyone simply to have hope in such circumstances would feel empty. The gift of the Body of Christ is that in those moments we can journey with others who can hold our hope for us, who can remember for us that death is not the end, and that there is something more beyond it, even when we can’t.

This Advent, the world could use all of our fierce and persistent hope in the face of deep suffering and division. I wonder, how can you embody it? How can you live it, offer it to others and the world? What are the prayers you can make, the steps you can take? Whatever the form it takes, may you encounter hope’s radical presence in your life, in yourself or in another, in the weeks to come.

Love,
Rebecca+

Yesterday it felt like the sky was trying to remember how to snow.

Specks of white floated down intermittently and forgetfully, obedient to gravity’s command. Looking out the window with recognition and surprise, I was struck by how much I miss the days when seeing snowflakes falling from the sky on a cold winter day was not so unusual, and evergreen branches weighed down with white were a more ordinary sight.

Yesterday felt like the sky was trying to remember how to snow.

It can be hard to do something when we’ve fallen out of the habit and practice of doing it. There was a string of summers when David, Grace, Ben and I, along with my sister and her boys, would regularly meet to play tennis together on a nearby outdoor court. Those first couple of times back on the court together, having not picked up rackets for months, were comedic and trying; many balls were hit over the fence or into the net. But after awhile, our noodle arms remembered what to do, along with the rest of our bodies, and we enjoyed the rhythm and sound of a tennis rally, the neon yellow ball flying back and forth across the net.

When you and I came into the world as infants, we knew how to breathe, how to really breathe. Have you ever watched a sleeping baby? How her whole belly rises and falls, fully, and not just her chest? How even her back fills up, too? How there is a nice and easy rhythm to the deepness and fullness of each breath, replenishing and nourishing her with each inhale? Releasing, cleansing, and letting go, with each exhale?

As an adult, I used to think I knew how to breathe … until I realized I didn’t. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten how to breathe — how to really breathe — like I breathed when I was a baby. Like most of us in our modern western world, my breathing had become much more shallow, engaging mostly just my chest, and unconsciously, at that.

In the first chapter of the book of Genesis, God’s spirit, God’s breath – ruach in Hebrew – hovers over the deep at the beginning of creation. Our human breath — when engaged fully, deeply, mindfully, intentionally – is one of the most powerful tools we have to connect us to God’s spirit within us, bringing us “back to ourselves” when we are angry or anxious, fearful or stressed. We hear in John’s Gospel that the Spirit of truth guides us, leads us, to all truth. How might this connect with how our breath leads and guides us?

During this season of preparation, leading up to Christmas — when the world around us is ramping up, and the unrelenting conflicts and division in our city, nation and world weigh heavy on our hearts; when our lists are long and the days are short; when the pain of grief over the earthly absence of a loved one can come upon us with a holiday song or a memory — might we, from time to time (… in the checkout line … at the traffic light … at the dinner table … in bed, turning in at night …) remember how to breathe?

Love,
Cristina

Let’s play, WHAT IF….

I am a scientist by formal training. I have always been and always will be.  I believe in the scientific method of observation, hypothesis, experimenting to test the theory, and then formulating a new truth based on multiple experiments.  That’s how I was taught that science worked. But knowing this has recently shifted my thinking and imagination to “what if’s.”  Have you ever considered your belief about something—anything—and how it just may no longer be helpful to your life or way of living at this time?  What if that belief was to change?

I mean, the idea of “believing” is just a mental concept that you and I have accepted as true. Some things we believe to be true don’t seem to be of much consequence because that belief doesn’t change how we live our lives much at all.  But others do.  Take, for instance, the belief that the Earth is rotating at 1,000 mph on its axis and is revolving around the sun in an elliptical pattern at 67,000 mph!  None of us have really performed any of these measurements, but others have, and we accept their words as truth and continue on with our lives.

But when we say we believe in G-D, what are we really saying?  How is it changing how we think or what we do at any particular moment?  I’m not saying that we are always thinking about G-D (I mean, WHO can do that anyway), but if we say we believe, the next question is, “And so what?”

What difference does what we say we believe make?  If you believe you are loved by someone (whoever that is), how has it made a difference in your life?  What if you did not believe that you were loved by them?

Generally, if we believe something is true, we trust it and act out of that trust or belief.  But What if what we believe is true is not helpful to our lives, meaning that it does not give us peace or joy or make us feel vibrantly alive?    What if what we believe to be true, or at least say we believe, does not help us live any differently—with more joy, peace, or equanimity?  No, really?

The one sermon I have ever remembered and will remember for the rest of my life was preached at my home parish in Dallas by our interim rector, Fr. Larry.  This was his question during that sermon: “What if that which you believed about G-D was no longer helpful to you, and what if you offered that belief to G-D with the intention that G-D should destroy it for something better— like G-D’s truth instead of your own?  He asked if/would/could we experiment to become open and receptive to who G-D really was in our lives.  This, of course, acknowledged the fact that what we think/thought or believed about G-D and G-D’s truth of G-D were two different things.  One is our imagining of G-D, and the other is who G-D truly is.  Fr. Larry taught us to live with “openness and receptivity” to life so that G-D could manifest in ways we have never considered.  It was a what-if experiment of mammoth proportions, which I carry with me to this day.  The experiment keeps getting bigger (more comprehensive) and better.

The results so far have been astounding, and one of them is my amazement of being here in Baltimore, MD, at this place and at this time. I can assure you that I would have never dreamt of being on this side of the continental US except for letting go of my original beliefs about G-D.  I needed to ask, “What if?” and then risk it for any possibility of G-D’s.  In that risk, I have experienced this Mysterious Higher Power in new and different ways.  Fr. Larry was correct.  Living open and receptive to G-D’s possibilities has led me to serve in a great faith community with wonderful colleagues and loving new friends.

Now that we are approaching the first Sunday of ADVENT and a new church year with new possibilities, you might want to experiment with your what-ifs.  Who knows?  You might discover more peace, joy, and love than you could have ever imagined.  The G-D beyond your imagination has got your back!

Stay WARM, Be Blessed, & Don’t Be Afraid to ask: What if…?

With Love,
Freda Marie+

Dear all,

In youth group on Sunday, in between auditions for the play and our Friendsgiving dinner, members of RYG made a gratitude chain. We wrote down things we were grateful for and made a chain with the pieces of paper. When it was done, it was longer than the parish hall.

We have so much to be thankful for. As we sat together, I reflected on the gift of basic necessities: clean water, food, shelter, love, and community that so many in our city, country, and world lack. We live in a world where they are not guaranteed. They can disappear so quickly.

I also reflected on how thankful I was to be sitting in the parish hall together, in person: laughing and talking over the music, passing each other scissors and staplers, breathing the same air, singing and dancing for auditions. Three years ago, in 2020, members of RYG would have given so much to be able to try out for the play – but there were no vaccines, we could not safely sing together, inside. Instead, we gathered outside for our Friendsgiving meal, shivering in our carefully spaced chairs around a bonfire.

This year, rehearsals for the play are getting ready to begin, and we sat together, warm and cozy in the dining room, for a delicious and generous meal that even included a happy birthday roll! Our congregation is able to gather in full in the chapel and church, singing along with our incredible choir. These simple actions of gathering are so poignant and special to me now, when before I barely thought of them. They are not guaranteed. They can disappear so quickly. We have so much to be thankful for.

As you give thanks this week, here are three questions to consider:

For what are you grateful?

To whom are you grateful?

And how do you share that gratitude with the world?

Surely, saying thank you and being mindful of what we have been given are two ways. Writing thank you notes, taking a friend to coffee – I certainly use both of these to share my thanks!

And – and. And I think that we are called to do even more. God offers us the gift of grace, and calls on us to do the same. There is no “deserving” – grace is freely given. Out of our gratitude to God, we can offer grace to the world through our words and actions. We can share from our abundance, be it a banquet feast of five loaves and two fish; the size does not matter. We can seek to be Christ’s healing hands and journeying feet in our community, listening and welcoming and being present.

So ask yourself and anyone with whom you gather – and have a very happy Thanksgiving.

Love,
Rebecca+

“Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”

(The above quote, often attributed to the Talmud, is a loose translation of commentary on a portion of the Pirke Avot, which is itself a commentary on Micah 6:8. See Wisdom of the Jewish Sages: A Modern Reading of Pirke Avot by Rabbi Rami Shapiro.)

***

The words above landed in my inbox weeks ago, courtesy of a friend, and they have been simmering in the soup of my soul ever since.

I find them particularly relevant and meaningful today, as I continue to reflect on and “be with” the information and research presented by our history committee, on Redeemer’s role in the institution of slavery. 

We cannot change the Past.

And/But the Light of Truth, as it shines backwards in time, can illuminate our Present, and inform and guide our Future.

There’s a saying and a practice from the world of community organizing, that we periodically have to “disorganize” in order to “reorganize”. 

It makes me think of times in my life when I have decided to finally deal with something I’d been putting off dealing with – say, my wardrobe closet. Keeping this space “fresh” and “alive”, reflective of and resonant with my present life, requires me taking everything out, looking at and considering items under the light, giving away or recycling that which no longer serves, and choosing to keep with intention that which remains life-giving, thus opening up room for more space to breathe and something new to enter in, as needed and desired.

This process takes time and consideration, stirring up memories and stories, some simple, some complicated; old identities and affiliations; former roles and hobbies.

What is essential? What is it time to let go of? What inner work — soul work — is required to make space for that which is Living and Alive?

For many years, I worked with a spiritual director who would respond to my angst-filled questioning, “What does God want me to Do about this particular situation?” with a gentle, Yoda-like correction:

“The first question Cristina is not ‘What does God want me to Do with (about) this?’ but rather ‘How is God inviting me to Be with this?’ Then let your Doing flow out of your Being …”

Easier said than done, especially for any of us who pride ourselves in being Doers! And yet, with practice and intention, I have found her wise counsel to be life-giving.

One thing I can say for sure, as I continue to Be with the Truth of the Illusion of Separateness that Racism Is — and how our city’s neighborhoods were created out of/from this Illusion, through housing policies and practices that were racially discriminatory: I am moved to act in ways that will create a future different from our past; ways that build One Baltimore instead of perpetuating Two.

How is God inviting You to Be with all of this? And from this Being, what might God be inviting You to Do?

Love,
Cristina 

Last night I was blessed to sit and hear (for the 3^rd or 4^th time) the findings of our History Committee here at Redeemer.  Having been commissioned by our Vestry to explore and investigate the relationship of The Church of the Redeemer to the institution of chattel slavery, I reflected on the depth of their work and the light it shed for us as a community of faith.  I immediately recalled the words of Jesus in the gospel of John: “If you remain in my word, you will know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.” (8:31) 

I have surmised that Light and Freedom are the bookends of Truth.  Knowing reality as it exists without the equivocations and hesitancies of our desire for acceptable appearances, grants us freedom from the need to maintain a personal “truth” that keeps us comfortable, while denying that same comfort to others.

Light is a necessary component of seeing in the physical world and the same is true for the spiritual dimension of life.  As above, so below. Light reveals the truth.  Without bringing to light the factual reality of our church’s origins, we are relegated to continued darkness and are (even unconsciously) enslaved to the actions of that darkness.  The actions of that darkness can cripple in a vicious cycle of fear, guilt, and/or shame.  To own, really own the truth, however, frees us and grants us the capacity to act in ways that diminish fear, guilt, or shame for the healing and wholeness of us ALL.  With the reality of our origins brought to LIGHT, we can take in a more whole picture discerning the objective reality and where we choose to stand in relationship to it.  We can be healed.

I want to commend the work of this Committee in all its aspects:  From the actual leg work of tracking down the numerous sources, to the hours of reading documents of all shapes and sizes, to the preparation of a well-planned, well presented and more complete story of the Church of the Redeemer to date.  They may not say it, but I believe this was a work of love.

Love is the most potent and freeing force of the Universe.  Most assuredly, I thank them for dealing with this work—day after day after day (and nights, too).  I am grateful for the love that allowed them to endure the emotional, psychological, and spiritual toll it must have taken on them and perhaps their families as well.

At the close of last night, we thanked GOD for the Light shed and for the grace of receptivity and freedom to live into who we truly are. Our true identity is Christ…not the person of Jesus, but the consciousness of him as the Christ; the realization that we are a part of something much bigger than our immediate senses can convey.  As within, so without.  We are a part of G-D and carry the god-like powers of love, truth, compassion, and mercy within us. Through it all—we are ONE.

Thank you, David, Raynor, Ruthie, Patti, Margaret, Steve, Amanda, Christina, Kathy, Doug, Lucy, Anne, and Keri.

We love you, too!
Freda Marie+

Dear all,

These days, I have been praying the same prayer, over and over again:

Compassion and mercy, from me to you and you to me. 

It’s been rolling around my head set to the catchy tune of a VeggieTales song about Jonah. (VeggieTales, in case you missed it in the ‘90s or early 2000s like I did, is a Christian education video series starring vegetables and fruit. I recommend this video and this video as delightfully silly places to start.) Each time I read news of violence or encounter conflict, the prayer surfaces:

Compassion and mercy, from me to you and you to me. 

A few weeks ago, I told the story of Jonah, aided by the VeggieTales song and its refrain, to three different groups of children: First to a group of pre-schoolers, then to a group of elementary schoolers, both during Day School Chapel services; and then to members of RYG, ranging from 7th-12th grade, on our fall retreat. I can’t speak for the kids, but each time I told it, it felt important to me to share. We are never not at an age to need this story and its reminder.

Jonah, who, like all prophets, is supposed to point the way to what matters most, doesn’t really get it (Jonah was a prophet, ooh ooh; but he never really got it, sad but true.) God calls him to go to Ninevah, to call on its people to change their ways, but Jonah doesn’t want to. So he runs from God, ending up in a whale, contrite and thanking God for his life, promising that he’ll do whatever God wants. Summarily spat back on shore, Jonah drags his feet to Ninevah and walks the streets preaching repentance. When the people do repent, donning sackcloth and ashes, and God forgives them. And then (…he never really got it, sad but true…) Jonah fusses at God for God’s mercy.

Compassion and mercy, from me to you and you to me. 

Jonah is angry at God’s compassion and mercy towards the Ninevites, and the book of Jonah ends ambiguously, without resolution between God and Noah. “Is it right for you to be angry?” God asks him. Yes, Jonah replies, “angry enough to die.” This dramatic exchange happens twice, the second time after God causes a bush to grow to shade Jonah while he pouts and then sends a worm to eat it up, aggravating Jonah even more. The last words are God’s, asking Jonah why he should care so much about the demise of a bush, which he, Jonah, did nothing to create or care for, but be upset with God for caring about a city full of people and animals, all of whom, it is implied, God very much created and cares for.

And that’s it. We never hear any more from Jonah. The story ends.

Compassion and mercy, from me to you and you to me. 

I think that’s why Jonah and this VeggieTales prayer have been in my head so much. It feels like our world, like Jonah, needs the reminder and the reorientation to God’s compassion and mercy. Violence is all over the news – from conflicts around the world and throughout our country to incidents of road rage and school shootings here in our city. People are complicated, our lives and motivations shaped by so many things – but I do not believe that retribution and vengeance will bring about God’s dream of abundant love, life, or justice for the world. God has offered compassion and mercy to us abundantly, made incarnate in the person of Jesus, and calls us, no matter how reluctant we are, no matter how hard it is, to do the same. This is not to ignore the need for justice, but to imagine a different way to seek it: justice, after all, is love in action.

Our story does not have an ending. We, like Jonah, are left with God’s call for compassion and mercy ringing in our ears. It is up to us to live out the rest.  And so my prayer for each of us, for our world, our country, and our city; for our policy makers and leaders and family and friends remains:

Compassion and mercy, from me to you and you to me. 

Love,
Rebecca+

Last Sunday a dozen newcomers gathered around three tables in our parish hall, reflecting on what drew them to Redeemer.

“The vibrant community,” one offered.

“There’s a warmth,” another observed.

“I’ve been church shopping and I really like it here,” shared a third, echoed by others.

The ages of those gathered ranged from early-thirties to seventy-something. Two credited their children — one, a senior in high school; the other, in elementary school — for leading them here.

Some have found their way back to church after a long hiatus. Two had driven by Redeemer for years and years before only recently deciding to turn off Charles onto Melrose and into our parking lot, to come through our doors. One has lived all around the world and experienced different faith traditions; having just moved to Baltimore, she knew she needed to find an Episcopal Church, and she, like the others, has chosen Redeemer.

I remember the first time I stepped foot inside an Episcopal Church. Having grown up Roman Catholic, going to church every Sunday was a rhythm to which I was accustomed. But somewhere in my twenties, I had already begun feeling a disconnect with the church of my childhood without having found an alternative. Finding the Episcopal Church in my early thirties felt like coming home to a space that I didn’t even know I was longing for, until I arrived. Being ministered to by a woman priest, who was also a wife and a mother? Being invited to communion, regardless of where I was on my journey of faith? Feeling affirmed and supported in my own questioning, wondering and searching? Staying all the way through to the end of the service, to enjoy singing the very last hymn all together, and not rushing out immediately right after communion?

“Toto, we’re definitely not in Kansas anymore” is a bit like what it all felt like to me as a newcomer, twenty-two years ago.

As I have come to know and fall in love with our Redeemer community since joining our staff 13 years ago, I have come to understand the depth and breadth of what people carry in their hearts, especially that which is heavy to carry: the responsibility of leading a family, a team, an institution; the angst of navigating your way from adolescence to adulthood; the challenges of being new parents; feelings of isolation and loneliness, grief and despair; the mixed blessings of becoming “empty nesters”; overwhelm at trying to both raise children and take care of aging parents; the wilderness of living life without a partner or spouse; the anxiety of an unexpected illness; the onset of “the winter” of our lives …

Added to this the weight of the world and the suffering of fellow humans in our city, nation, and around the globe; “the nightmare” instead of “the dream” that God envisions for us all, as technology makes it possible for each of us to watch brutality and horror on screens and cell phones that no human should ever have to see, much less experience and die from. And then, of course, there is the crying out of our very Earth, our “island-home”.

So we come to Redeemer cry …
We come to Redeemer to pray …
We come to Redeemer for a word of encouragement, of hope, of comfort …
We come to Redeemer to not feel so alone …
We come to Redeemer to sing …
We come to Redeemer to be fed, to be stretched, to learn, to grow …
We come to Redeemer to fill up our tanks, so the light inside us can burn just a little bit brighter, or perhaps be kindled again after having burned out, so we can bear light and be light, out in the world beyond the walls of 5603 N Charles Street …
We come to Redeemer to feel solid ground beneath our feet …
We come to Redeemer to connect …
We come to Redeemer to breathe …
We come to Redeemer to serve …
We come to Redeemer to engage with our neighbors in our city, to build One Baltimore …
We come …

What about you? What of the above resonates with you? Why do you come to Redeemer?

I am so glad and grateful that you are here, and would like to offer some words of encouragement by way of our Jewish brothers and sisters (with thanks to a friend, for emailing this to me):

“Do not be daunted
by the enormity of the world’s grief.
Do justly, now.
Love mercy, now.
Walk humbly now.
You are not obligated to complete the work,
but neither are you free to abandon it.”

(The above quote is often attributed to the Talmud, but is more accurately described as a loose translation of commentary on a portion of the Pirke Avot, which is itself a commentary on Micah 6:8. See Wisdom of the Jewish Sages: A Modern Reading of Pirke Avot by Rabbi Rami Shapiro.)

Love,
Cristina

This week, we kick off a new season of stewardship. Please keep an eye out for your pledge form in the mail and prayerfully reflect on what financial amount you/your household can pledge to invest in Redeemer this year, so we can continue to grow, thrive and serve together as a community of faith and bearers of Christ-light in our families, communities and city. No investment is too large or too small, and the return on your investment is immeasurable. Email Ellen Chatard if you have any questions.

Can you feel it?  Change, I mean.  It is like a diffuse yet discernible energy that is affecting every living thing right now in unimaginable ways.  Have you ever considered how change is like a door? What do you think about when you think of doors?  We think of entrances and exits or a shift or transition from one environment into another.  Many, if not most, are afraid of change except when they can control it.  But control, in the way we usually consider it, is an illusion.  We are creatures, too, like the rest of creation, loved and sustained by our Creator.  Sometimes we forget, though.

Sometimes, we can pay so much attention to the outer landscapes of life that we allow our inner landscapes to go to weeds, so to speak.  Participating in a worshipping community is one part of tending our inner landscapes, as is learning to cultivate an inner stillness to allow a pause between thoughts.  Practices like these help us transit the threshold of the door of change before us and enter into another, different environment with Peace, Hope, and Love.  We may not present this way all of the time, but we drink from this well enough to make it a usual way of being.

As I consider the metaphorical doors of my life and the comings and goings of myself and others I love and have loved, I honor all of the related feelings of sorrow, pain, joy, and celebration in their entirety.  Now I know that to be balanced in this life necessitates my learning to hold everything that I experience in honor of the present moment— where G-D IS.  When we need and want Peace, Hope, and Love for ourselves, we remember to BE HERE NOW…where G-D is.

Because I am where I am at this point in time, I want to share with you a poem that I encountered as part of my recent meditations about doors.  It was written by a twelve-year-old girl named Mary Katherine on the night before she was struck by an automobile.  She departed her earthly life exactly one week later.  The untitled poem was discovered by her mom in her room and was later given to a retreat leader for sharing with the wider world.  So, here goes:

Untitled—

Look at me-
I’m walking through a door
My life is changing and it’s just perfect now
No more doors for me
They’re too hard to get through
I’m staying here where it’s safe-

No, child,
Those doors are a part of you
You can’t ignore them
Cause they’re there
You’ve got to go through them
Who knows what you’ll find
You’ve got to meet their trial
If you don’t, you won’t be what you should become

There are always gonna be doors and you
Can’t stop ’em from comin’
You’ve got to go through them to grow
It’s called change
Look at the wildflower; it changes all the time
always blossoming or closing up, sprouting or withering
You’re scared to go through those doors
Into the unknowing, “into change”
You don’t know what’s going to happen

You don’t know what change is going to bring
Listen to me
Go through those doors with hope
Go through those doors knowing change is the future
and you’re part of it
You don’t know what change is, that’s why
you’re scared

Change is the sun booming over the horizon
Scattering rays of hope to a new day
Change is a baby lamb meeting the world for its first time
Change is growing from a young child to a young woman
Change is beautiful; you will learn to love it

-Mary Katherine Lidle

~Freda Marie