Picture Prayers

Last week, my family was lucky enough to spend a few days at Kanuga.  If you read that, Cah knew gah, you've pronounced it correctly.  As far as I'm concerned, there are few places that compare to this  peaceful, fun, sacred space.  For years, folks have flocked to Kanuga for rest and renewal, for study and learning and to delight in nature alongside family and special friends.  It is a magical place.

Over the past few years, we have been invited to Kanuga for my Tim to serve as chaplain for a summer guest period full of happy folks on their yearly pilgrimage to the Blue Ridge mountains to a time and place that seems to stand still.   Normally, we are filled with the anticipation of a restful time, full of laughing and praying and walking and game-playing and long, lazy talks and learning and on and on and on.  This time, though, we were on the cusp of a big decision, a life-changing one that had the whole family on edge.

We were facing a big decision about leaving what we know and beginning a new adventure.  We were deep in thought; and, if I'm to be honest, we were angst-filled, too.  We were on edge.  We weren't ourselves.  We weren't 'doing what we do' at Kanuga.  We enjoyed our summer friends immensely, but we couldn't reach that peace-filled place that usually sets in about an hour after arrival.  We were surrounded by majestic beauty and quiet mossy waterfalls, but we weren't relaxing into it all.  The Kanuga lake was there in all its refreshing splendor, but our splashes in it weren't quite as care-free as most summers.  We were happy to be there, but our hearts were tied in knots.

We made our big decision while we were there.  We felt the push to leave what we know and begin another chapter in this crazy life.  We will soon make a move from Covington, Ga to Columbus, Ga - from Good Shepherd to Trinity.  Deciding feels good, but thinking about going home to begin the good-byes put us in an insular, awkward place.  I was happy to be surrounded by God's beauty; but I had a hard time wrapping my brain around all that was to come, and it was difficult to take from Kanuga all that it so freely gives.

One warm night after dinner, I wandered away from the group.  I grabbed my camera bag and headed down the hill, toward the lake, to have some quiet.  I reached for my camera with a confidence that it would help me see things in a different way.  I wanted to be silent.  I wanted to pray.  I wanted to gather myself, and I knew that the camera's lens was the friend I needed on the walk.

It might sound odd to pray with a camera, but I've done it a lot.  Bringing along the camera, makes me stop.  It makes me move slowly and watch.  Having the camera, and being alone, means I take my time.  I look more closely.  I take in the scene and I give it the thought needed to begin to understand.  I pause, I thank God for the moments I was too busy to notice before, and I listen.

I focus.  I press the shutter.

I pause.  I think.  I listen.  Sometimes I re-focus and press the shutter again. I'm not working towards perfection.  I'm not considering anyone else.  It's just me, being quiet and listening.  It's good for the soul - of that, I am sure.

I won't forget that walk.  I needed it.  I'll try to remember it.  I'll take with me the idea of knowing when it's time to walk away to focus, re-focus, press pause on the moment, be thankful and listen.  It's a good routine, I think, and I'm sure life always requires it.

That day I shot some photos I've already taken before.  That wasn't the point.  The process was what I needed - the seeing, the listening, the thanksgiving.

The pictures just help me remember.

I heard it again . . .

I hear it a lot, and I have spent a long time trying to make sense of it.  You've heard it too, and we've probably all said it at one time or another.  We've heard it or said at times when we want to understand, to understand why something horrible happens to someone else and not to us.  "There but for the grace of God go I."  That's it; that's the phrase that bugs me.

I remember hearing that from time to time as a child.  I didn't think much about, and I guess I filed it away in that drawer of sayings, phrases and colloquialisms that I might pull from in a moment of need.  As I grow, I notice that phrase more, I try harder to make sense of it.

I researched the origin of the phrase to find that some sources trace it back to John Bradford.  Historians don't agree, though, about whether it was first uttered from John Bradford.  If it was ole' John, apparently he said it in kindness and it has long since been used in the same way.  That doesn't work for me.  It doesn't seem like a kind sentiment to me, and it makes me wonder about all of the phrases I must utter in kindness to a friend, all of the phrases I might use when I want to give hope or love and that not be the message I give.  Makes me think.

"There but for the Grace of God go I" sounds like humans doing a real whammy on God's grace, seems like a terrible oversimplification of something so wonderful, something bigger than anything we can understand.  The phrase sounds nice, it does.  But when I break it down it feels like the speaker is implying that God didn't give grace to the one who is hurting, the one who is unlucky, the one who has experienced a misfortune.  Why would we ever say that to someone?

When our friends hurt, when they have lost the love of their lives or their child is sick or they experience an unbearable pain, we are sorry; and when we can be honest with ourselves, we imagine how it would feel to experience the same loss.  We can't help but feel scared that it could possibly happen to us, that we could experience something that terrible.  We can't help but imagine.   But would we ever say that God's grace is only for us, pray that God cover us in grace when our friends received no grace?

I can't stand that.  I know those words are always spoken in love.  I do, but when I slow down the phrase, it doesn't work for me anymore.  I know enough to know that I am only beginning to learn about grace.  I can't explain it.  I am thankful beyond words for God's grace; that I know.  I'll spend my life continuing to learn about and explore God's grace.  I'll keep asking questions and keep wondering.

I'll hear that phrase again, and it will bother me.  I'll know that the sentiment is one of love, but I'll keep searching for something else to say.  I'll keep trying hard to come up with other ways to tell folks that I am sorry, sorry beyond words.  Maybe that's the deal - there aren't great phrases to say to folks who have just had their life kicked out from under them.  Maybe what we say isn't the point.  We don't understand, we can't explain.  We can offer love, support and friendship, but there really isn't anything adequate to say.

I decided I shouldn't complain about something without offering an alternative, even if just for myself.  I thought and thought.  I don't have one.  Lots of times really bad things happen to people we love.  Sometimes really bad things happen to us.  We don't know why.  We have no idea.  We can't explain.  I have no alternative, no new words.  I have pictures, though, and I offer those, moments of grace captured when I pressed pause for just a second.

A few illustrations of grace, pictures of times I've known God's grace and remembered to be thankful.  I don't know all that grace is, but I am confident that God's grace is for me and for my children and family and for my friends and for the people I know and the people I don't know and the people who are lucky and the people who don't seem so lucky and the people I understand and the ones I don't understand.  I'm confident that God's grace is big enough for us all.

A few pictures of grace for now, while we all keep wondering . . .

Keep stuffing your pockets, a love letter to my children.

When I was a Kindergarten teacher, I used to revel in what I found in my pockets each night when I got home.  Funny thing was that many times I didn't even recall how an object got there!  I would find colored beans we used for teaching Math, there would always be a few rocks, usually I found a note or two, many times I found partial pieces of candy, always some rocks and sometimes I found things I couldn't actually identify! I often thought then that I should photograph the pocket innards each day to produce a cool coffee table book.

Now I find myself emptying pockets again.  Every now and then,  Emma or Molly has a bit of something in a pocket, but that's rare.  Every single day, though, I find a museum worthy load of "stuff" in Harry's pockets.  Every day!  I find pieces of the earth in various forms.  I always find the wrapper from his snack.  Sometimes I find money, and on the good days I do return it to him.  I find parts of games or bits of plastic that fell off of one riding toy or another.  I find little notes with a few words on them.  And I ALWAYS find candy wrappers.  The oddest thing about the candy wrappers is that I'm never sure where those pieces of candy came from.  He giggles when I ask, and then the next day I find more of them.

When I'm on top of things in the housekeeping part of the mother job (this would not be every day) I remember to check the pockets BEFORE I wash the clothes, but that is rare - very rare.  I can sometimes remember to get the stuff out when I'm transferring from the washer to the dryer, and the wet drippy items are tons of fun to retrieve.  My usual routine, though, is to wait until I'm folding the clothes to find the goodies.  Lots of times I have a good time, wondering where he got the objects, what he might have been doing or saying when he stuck the stuff in his pocket.  That's what I used to do at the end of a long day, while I was unpacking all of the bags, purses, Kroger sacks, and small suitcases that the girls would pack during the day.  I would wonder, "Why did Molly pick up one item from each room of the house to put in one bag?" or "Wonder what Emma was playing when she put the baby doll in the bag and then added a glitter dispenser, a washcloth and a bedroom slipper?"  Sometimes that parental investigation can be fun.

The other day I pulled the pocket dwellers out of Harry's pockets on the way to the dryer.  They were wet and drippy and kind of gross.  I was frustrated about all of the mess and that I can't ever remember to empty them at the start of the whole routine.  I was probably muttering to myself, muttering about how I'm always cleaning someone's mess.  Then I stopped.  I stopped cold.

The face of my sweet friend, Barbara, appeared in my mind.  On Saturday, Barbara buried her twenty eight year old son.  And then I kept thinking.  I kept thinking about all of the people I know who have said goodbye to their children way before it was time, way before those children were through stuffing things and experiences and fun and living into their pockets.  I thought about the children I've known and I thought about the ones I've heard about.

And then I thought about a coffee table book again and about how very interesting and sweet this one would be.  This one would tell the stories of the days of my sweet child, just like all the rest of them.  They might all be stuffing their pockets with different treasures, but it would be fun to see and to wonder about what those little minds were doing and thinking and saying when they decided to tuck something safely into a pocket.  It would be a record, a record of the treasures that are special to our children.

And I thought about how those friends who have lost their children would give their lives to 'have to' clean the junk out of the pockets of their sweet children.  I thought about what a privilege it is to be the one to see the stuff; nobody else gets to find it, to wonder about it all, to touch little pieces of days spent at school or with friends or poking around in the dirt in the back yard.  I get to do that, and I thank God for that.  I wish I could give that ability back to the people who lost their pocket-stuffers.  I wish I could.

I vowed to enjoy those little pieces of my son, to laugh when I find the strange, unidentifiable parts of his day.  I said a prayer for Barbara and for all of the rest of the folks who had to say goodbye too early, and I prayed that I always get to unpack the pockets.

Keep the pockets stuffed, my little Bear.  Keep coming back home and I'll look for your treasures or your trash.  I don't mind.  Bring the little pieces of your days and keep living.  You and your sisters and all of your friends and the ones just like you all over the world - the ones who are lucky enough to have a roof over your heads and the ones that pray for something small to eat - all of you, just keep adventuring and experiencing and keep coming home.  YOU are the treasures in our pockets.