Supporting Each Other

In our town, there is a high school P.E. coach named Paul who I have encountered on several occasions. The first time was earlier this summer when I met him and his adult son Jakob atop a steep hill in our area that is popular with runners and mountain bikers.

As the school year dawned, I saw him again regularly at a track where I go for training runs. He had his soccer team running drills there.

I don't know how many kids are on that team, maybe 20 or so. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and abilities. When they run laps, some finish far ahead of the others. Yet, as they finish they gather and call out encouragement to their teammates. "C'mon! You can do it! Great job! Way to go, man!"

Everyone on the team cheers until the last runner has finished his mile.

It's not that I would expect them to yell, "Move your butt, slow-poke!" but they could finish their mile and just talk to each other until the rest wrap it up. Instead, they stay involved with one another, lifting each one up, making sure everyone knows they are important to the team and worth cheering.

They are learning that cheering another person's success does not diminish their own.

What a valuable lesson to teach.

Way to go, Coach!

Pace e bene,
Fr. David+

My Name is David and I Am Needy

I am a needy man. I have moments of despair and doubt, loneliness and uncertainty, disappointment and pessimism. I need reassurance in those moments. Sometimes I can get it directly from God, feel the Presence, have a clear conversation with Jesus. Sometimes I get it indirectly, through a moving song, film, book, poem or even facebook post. Sometimes I get it personally, receive it from someone who loves me.

On my best days, I am still needy. What makes them my best days is that I recognize that fact and ask for what I need.

Maybe I'm setting the bar too low, but I anticipate I will always have one need or another. I live in a world made of human beings and temporal things. People are here for a season, not always available, passing on or away. Things last for awhile, then evaporate or wear out or become obsolete.

Don't get me wrong; there are a handful of people I trust completely, and others to whom I respond according to what they present. I'm not cursing my life in a temporal world, nor preaching that everyone is useless and going to hell in a hand-basket.

I'm just saying that sometimes I am needy and I reach out to these sources in order to satisfy my need.

I believe my neediness is what guides me to God. I am not self-sufficient, and how foolish it is when I think that I am. I needed parents and a heritage in order to get here in the first place. I needed care, food, direction, lessons, training. I did not teach myself to ride a bike the moment I popped out of the womb. People encouraged me to sit up, crawl, walk, run, and so on until I began experimenting with that daunting two-wheeler (four-wheeler if you count the training wheels!!).

Yes, my name is David and I am needy. My ultimate satisfaction will be my union with God. Every need I feel is a reminder and a signpost that leads me deeper and deeper into that union.

Tonight I had a brief encounter with a group of people who do not know they are needy. The claw and clamor for recognition, demand their superiority, and fight like the Gospel's "sons of thunder" for first place in a competition they believe leads only to first place or dead last.

Our false sense of independence is what throws us into these violent competitions. Ego wants a statue erected to it and the best seat at the dinner table.

Jesus doesn't support that attitude. He says to not take the seat of honor, but the lowliest one at the table. He says in order to be great in God's world, we are called to be servants, not slave-masters.

If we give up competition, what is left? Give up competition! How un-Western, let alone un-American!! What is left is cooperation governed by compassion. If we are busy serving each other, nobody needs to win because everyone will.

When we act as if we have no needs, we are dangerous to ourselves and others. We no longer see ourselves as human. How can we then relate to the humans around us?

No, my friend, I hate to disillusion you about priests, but I have to let you know this one is chock-full of needs. That is what opens me to love.

Thank You, God, for bringing me to the point of recognizing how wonderful it is to be needy.

Pace e bene,
Fr. David+

And the World Kept Turning

When I left the nursing home this morning after attending my friend's death, I drove to the running track where we train on Monday and Thursdays. I was dressed in what my friend jokingly calls my "priest tuxedo" - black slacks, sandals, and a shirt with a Roman collar. Not the usual wear for a training run.

I arrived about 7:30 a.m. and began to walk the track while awaiting my coach's arrival for our scheduled 8:00 a.m. training.

It was a grace to be in this familiar place doing this familiar thing, laps on the track, even though I was just walking. I didn't have to do anything but follow the lanes and just be. The similarity to a labyrinth was not lost one me. This, I thought, is my labyrinth.

The coach arrived and understood when I explained the events of my evening and my decision to go home and get a nap. We walked about a mile or so together, and somewhere along the way my sandal broke. When you wear out the sandals you generally wear when ministering, it's probably time to see how the rest of you is doing. After walking barefoot for about 1/4 of a mile, I headed home and he began his planned workout.

I took a nap, a wonderful, deep, out-like-a-light nap. When I woke, I felt better but not totally refreshed. In the past week, there have been a lot of extra activities, including visits to my dying friend. I have a busy life in general; this week has been more-so than usual. There is personal restoration to do.

I called the people I had scheduled for the afternoon, and asked if they would mind moving their appointments to tomorrow afternoon instead. They understood and accommodated the change. I cleared my evening, too, deciding just to take care of my needs today.

So I took a day off, and much to my ego's dismay, the world did not stop turning, the sun did not quit shining, and the Milky Way did not collapse upon itself into a giant black hole.

Tomorrow will be a busy day, and Saturday will be a busy day, and Sunday will be a busy day, and on and on. I'll be ready for them, because today I listened to my mind, my heart, my soul and my body. We can only give what we have to give.

Take care of yourself. When your shoes wear out, take a nap. The world will keep turning.

The song "Come with Me into the Fields" by Dan Schutte came to mind. It is based on Matthew 9:37. Let's close with his words instead of mine.

The fields are high and summer's days are few;
green fields have turned to gold.
The time is here for the harvesting,
for gathering home into barns.

The harvest is plenty; laborers are few.
Come with me into the fields.
Your arms may grow weary; your shoes will wear thin.
Come with me into the fields.

The seeds were sown by other hands than yours;
nurtured and cared for they grow.
But those who have sown will not harvest them;
the reaping will not be their care.

The harvest is plenty; laborers are few.
Come with me into the fields.
Your arms may grow weary; your shoes will wear thin.
Come with me into the fields.

pace e bene
David+

Farewell, Friend

A telephone call in the night. I headed to the nursing home, about 20 miles distant. My friend's condition had changed, and he was on his way home. I was grateful for their call, because I promised him I would be back in the morning. I just didn't realize how early in the morning that would turn out to be.

So I sat on the edge of the bed, holding his hand and occasionally stroking his forehead, letting him know I was there, God was there, and it was all right. He was resting peacefully. Somewhere around 6:30 this morning, he quietly passed on.

Witnessing his good and gentle death reminded me of the poem "Crossing the Bar" by Alfred Lord Tennyson:

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual Light shine upon him. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen.

Pace e bene,
David+

Brief Moments in a Vast Eternity

This evening, I sat on the edge of a bed holding the hand of my dying friend. When I first arrived, he could not move his head enough to focus on me and see that I was there. The nurse wheeled his bed to an angle away from the wall so I could position myself in his line of sight. His eyes opened wide, and he said, "Where you been?" I told him I have been there every day, but he was asleep the last two times I visited. He closed his eyes and rested while I rubbed his forehead and reminded him about how much God loves him. I started to shift my position and he said, "Don't leave yet." I assured him I would remain. Now and then after that, he would try to speak, but he was tired and dealing with fluid building up, so his efforts were guttural at best. After about half-an-hour, he summoned his strength and clearly said, "My brother David." I told him he was right, that I am his brother. You might not see the family resemblance at first, if you are distracted by comparing the black man with the thick grey dreadlocks to the mostly bald white man with the sparse, short grey hair. But, that same distraction gets in the way for all of us. We don't see the family resemblance we share as the family of humankind. That's all right; all that mattered tonight was that the two of us saw it. We didn't know each other before the hospital called me a week ago in response to his request to talk and pray with someone. But, to paraphrase an Eva Cassidy song, "we know each other now by heart." He probably has a couple of days left, according to the experts. Maybe more; who can say? The educated guess is two. The nursing home knows to call me if there are any significant changes before I see him tomorrow. Before too long, there will be a tomorrow when I won't see him anymore. Tonight, I held his hand, leaned in, and sang him the song, "All Through the Night," a lullaby from Peter, Paul and Mary's "Peter, Paul and Mommy" album of children's music. I reminded him that he is a beloved child of God, kissed him on the forehead, and quietly left the room as he drifted into sleep.

The Illusion of Final

I had a tough training run today. The first three or four miles were all right, but after that, I was struggling. I've run the distance and the terrain before, but you would never know that from today's experience. In fact, I've often run further. I was slightly over eight miles into my 10 mile run when I began to weave back and forth and realized I was "bonking." I didn't have the reserves to continue. I felt physically spent. I sat down, exhausted. My running partner Warren was having a strong day, and was well up the final hill when I sat at the foot of it. My other running partner Jessi came back to where I was and asked if I was all right. I said I was; I just had bonked and felt wasted. She said, "Are you sure? You're almost there." I asked for help standing up, and made my way to a nearby bench in the shade. I knew I would be OK, and encouraged her to finish her run. She left and I recovered in the shade for a few minutes with her question echoing in my head. Am I sure I'm finished? Am I OK with stopping this close to my goal? Am I sure I'm finished? Did I really want to end this run at this point? Am I sure I'm finished? As I regained my strength, I realized the answer was, "No. I'm not finished. I only have a mile and three-quarters left. I don't need to run it at top speed, but I need to finish it because I can." I dialed Warren on my cell phone to let him know of my decision and the route I would be taking. I topped the hill and a little at a time began to run toward my goal. No one would have mistaken me for Usain Bolt during that last segment. My best pace was a lively jog. But it was not my intention to set a speed record. It was my intention to finish. Warren and Jessi doubled back and ran with me while I finished the last mile. I told Jessi that it was her comment, "Are you sure? You're almost there," that made the difference. As teammates, we encourage each other and affirm each other's success. I knew I was supported 100% whether I continued or stopped short. I also knew if I could finish, I must finish. This is not some macho code of honor; this is simply having integrity and learning what the day and the trail want to teach. I have learned over the past 10 months of endurance running training that I have not come close to completely tapping my reserves. I have learned more and more that I have reserves to tap. I have learned that I am loved and supported, not just by my friends, but by strangers in the running community who call out encouragement as they pass. At the end of the run, I had gone 10.25 miles before I switched off my performance tracker. After that, I probably walked another 1/3 of a mile. What mattered was not that I did not do so well as a trail runner, or that I had to regroup a couple of times physically along the way. What mattered was that when I was almost there, and no one was going to judge me for the decision I made, the only decision I could make was to finish. Today, I learned there is a difference between giving all and giving up.

The Power of Will

The popular belief is that we only use 10% of our brain. I have heard this is a misconception; actually the other 90% is used for processing functions. Either way, there is always more "brain power" available. As an endurance runner, I am learning about the power of will. My training today involved running a mile uphill at a sustained high heart rate (between 140-155 bpm; my resting pulse is 51, and my comfortable running zone is 130-135). Occasionally it would fall to 139 or 138, and I had to push as much psychologically as physically to force it back up into the 140+ range. Bodies in motion do not necessarily want to stay in motion! When I am feeling spent, it is hard to summon the will to hit the accelerator. However, that is when I begin to appreciate how powerful the will is. I am exercising it as much as my legs and lungs and heart. I can be stubborn, but not necessarily strong-willed. Now I am learning how to be strong-willed. The will is powerful, and I suspect employing even 10% would be amazing. Nothing I have done in my life has taught me about the will quite like endurance running. At first the only will that seemed related to endurance running was the one dividing my estate, because on some of those initial double-digit training runs, I was pretty sure I needed to keep it up-to-date! Now the other will is involved, the force within. And yes, my heart rate averaged 142 on that uphill run. That's the power of will.

Soft Souls and Nomads

I'll call him Curtis. He's the patient the hospital called me to visit on Sunday. That was the day he asked for someone with whom he could talk and pray. He felt alone, estranged from his son and daughter and separated from his brother and sister who had their own lives. We talked, we prayed, and the next day when I went to visit him, he was smiling. He had received calls from his brother, his sister, his son and his daughter. Today he was transferred to a nursing home. It is expected he will be there until the end of his journey and it is expected that won't be too far in the future. He just says, "God knows." I went to visit him in the nursing home, two towns away, in another county. I arrived late in the evening, "playing the clergy card" to get in after-hours. The staff knew I was on my way. "Curtis" greeted me with a deep hug. He told me his daughter and four granddaughters had come to see him that afternoon. Thank You for listening, God. He talked with his brother and sister. Their lives are different from his. They have expensive homes and comfortable lives, things that were never part of his experience. "Some souls are nomads," I said, "journeying through this life. Nomads see things that city-dwellers will never understand." He looks like a nomad, and he seemed to relate to the idea. I told him about a parish where i did mission work once in the Dominican Republic, Jesus Pellegrino. "Jesus the Pilgrim." Curtis strikes me as a pilgrim on this journey. I think that accounts for his deep love of spirituals and old hymns. He told me it wasn't his work to be like his brother and sister. It was his work to be a "soft soul," the one that ministers to others. I loved that description. Lord, teach me too to be a soft soul on this pilgrimage!

Necessary Grace and the Meaning of a Single Day

In the middle of a busy afternoon, the cell phone rang. "This is the hospital calling and we have a patient who would like to see a minister..." I am one of the overnight and weekend ministers on call, so I shifted my day and headed to the hospital. Who am I to know what to say to a stranger on a hospital bed? What words can I offer to a family whose loved one just died? The hospital doesn't call me for people who can wait for the day chaplain. I don't often know how I will be called upon to serve; this leaves plenty of room to depend not only on grace but on necessary grace. I stopped at the nurse's station to check on the patient, but his nurse was on her rounds and the man at the desk could offer no information. After a short walk to the room and a knock on the open door, I met the patient. He was an older man, although I could not tell if he was all that much older than me. Heavy, restless, and uncomfortable with a mass of grey dreadlocks and piercing brown eyes, he looked up at me and said, "I'm going through some stuff." Medication and weariness interrupted his thoughts from time to time so that constructing a sentence ebbed and flowed like trying to start a car motor on a cold winter day. Sadness, regret and doubt clouded his words. Relationships had fallen away; expectations were unmet; potential was unrealized. Jobs came and went, some good, some not so good. He was a talented photographer in the 35mm film days; his illiteracy never allowed him the chance to catch up. He had never become the man his mother envisioned, never felt able to fill his father's shoes, lost touch with his children, and was estranged from his brother and sister. This was his life: alone for three weeks in a hospital bed, with one visitor other than me in all of that time. His next home would be a brief stay at a hospice facility. Lacking a heart transplant, there was no other prognosis and the one he had was short-term. He did not look at his life and ask me, "Is God punishing me? Does God not like me?" He only asked, "How can I know I'm all right with God? I have failed at many things." I quoted Psalm 51:17 to him. "My sacrifice is a contrite spirit; my humbled heart You will not spurn." I assured him that the moment we ask, "Am I all right with God?" God rushes to answer, "Yes, and how I love you!" It is not in our achievements that God delights, although we feverishly continue to build our personal Towers of Babel as though they make a difference in eternity. It is in our hearts that God delights, in hearts turned toward God, in hearts that ache and long to feel connected with God. God does not need us to have a perfect heart, only a humble one, only one that needs God and knows it. He was tired, so I excused myself and told him I will see him tomorrow. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, he will be taken off of an IV medication and switched to oral prescriptions. This will increase the likelihood that the hospital will be able to find an "end-of-life care placement" for him. I asked the nurse to include a staff note to let me know the next facility to which he goes so that I can be a friend to this man who could use one. Tomorrow may or may not find him still here. He does not seem to have many tomorrows left. But he had today, and today we talked, and he cried, and he told the nurse it helped. Today he had the opportunity to hear that God loves him, loves him deeply and fully as if he were God's only child. God forgives him. God is always offering a new start to him. I hope he'll be around for me to see him tomorrow. We were a somewhat unlikely pair to find common ground, but faith, hope and love make up some powerful common ground. Today, I could offer him all three. A time will come when faith will be rewarded and hope will be fulfilled, and only love will remain. Forever. Not regret, not sadness, not doubt. Pure love. Necessary grace.