Windows of Grace

Posted on October 24, 2013 by harasprice

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I reconnected with the image of the “Cosmic Christ” window from Grace Cathedral at a weekend retreat I attended a few weeks ago. One of our retreat facilitators brought a collection of spiritual art and religious icons to join us in our time together, including a photograph of the window pictured here. As I held this miniature image in my hands, I was immediately transported back to the time several years earlier when I stood in front of that massive window, transfixed, amid the rays of light pouring through the glass and spilling in pools around me. It was truly magnificent.

This visual image unexpectedly filled my thoughts again this morning. I was preparing my materials to attend this year’s annual social work education conference, for which I will soon be traveling to Dallas. The year our annual conference was held in San Francisco, my colleague Kia and I, who were and are travel companions, decided to sightsee in that great city before the conference began. This included a visit to tour Grace Cathedral. This particular trip, although fresh in my thoughts today, actually occurred six years ago. I tried to wrap my mind around the images flooding my mind as the person I was at that time in my life: a newly minted, enthusiastic academic with a preschool child, career and family simultaneously propelling me forward and colliding into each other routinely. I suddenly remembered how not-grace-filled I had been upon touching down in California, immediately receiving a call that my daughter had been sent home from preschool with a terrible case of strep throat, and then arriving shortly thereafter on the steps of Grace Cathedral when we couldn’t yet check in at the hotel. I recall the sun was brightly shining on that particularly beautiful autumn afternoon, but what I felt was the brooding embodiment of maternal guilt: 2,000 miles separated me from the hugs I wanted to give my daughter.

The next thing I had to check myself on in my memory was whether or not I even considered myself Episcopalian at the time. After thinking hard about this, I realized that at that time, I most definitely did not. I had started sporadically attending Episcopal churches a few months earlier. I went to the local downtown cathedral a few times (which was my friend’s place of worship) and I was currently checking out the Episcopal church in my neighborhood by occasionally sticking my toe into the water of a Sunday service or outreach opportunity. I preferred to remain non-committal in my expressions of faith, though. So, I recalled that while I had reverence and respect, I didn’t come to Grace Cathedral as someone who believed, or who belonged. I now consider the possibility that I may have been longing for that, in a place in my soul unable to give voice to those feelings at that time. What I do recall is that I had two keen interests in this sightseeing expedition: walking the labyrinths (indoor and out) and seeing the interfaith AIDS chapel with the Keith Haring alter piece.

I am surprised at how much detail I still retain about this visit. I was struck first by the vastness of the space, particularly the labyrinth within the space. There was a wedding rehearsal going on in the main sanctuary space, so we walked the perimeter to look at the amazing stained glass. While I love traditional stained glass, it was the contemporary cosmic series that drew me in. I remember standing in the light flooding around me, practically unable to walk away. Even when I did, I kept turning back to see the window from different vantage points. What was it that drew me? The color? The light? The symbolism of the image? Perhaps it was all of the above. Carl Jung might have described it as an archetype of my unconscious self, experiencing a moment of recognition. If I was there today, I would bask in that light and pray. I know I would. I would likely reach in spirit toward the vastness of God in the cosmos that becomes incarnate in a spark of inspiration in the smallest, quiet places of my soul. I would think of Rilke, of mirroring immensity.

But in that moment, I realize now that I did something just as vital. I simply allowed the image to permeate my soul.

That afternoon, we also lit candles, we read some scripture passages from a lovely illuminated bible, and quietly admired the alter linens and tapestries. Toward the end of the tour, we found the AIDS interfaith chapel. I spent some time alone in this space, kneeling at the alter and thinking about the people I had loved and lost at that time…Carlos and Michael and Gabriel…and so many others…too many others…whose amazing lives were cut short. I felt connected and understood in this space, and comforted. I have no idea how long I was there. Afterwards, I met my friend at the outdoor labyrinth which we walked as the late afternoon sun began to sink into the clouds. I completed the expedition on which I had set out. But, I also left that space with several gifts: calmness, yearning, gratitude, comfort.

I have come to know these as attributes of divine grace.

Like the light spilling through the image of the Cosmic Christ, this grace had started to seep into the cracks of my brokenness and illuminate the images of my heart and soul. It grounded me not simply in who I am, but in the vastness of who we all are. We move through this world illuminating the path with our small points of light, each contributing to the vast kaleidoscope of divine love and grace.

I experienced this again, holding this image in my hands a few weeks ago.

I felt it again this morning as I become more aware day by day of where my journey is leading me with each step I take.

Small points of light, through windows of grace.

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Prayer beads

Posted on October 19, 2013 by harasprice

This post is a tribute for June as she spreads her wings and flies into the new role of Rector at St. Andrew’s. Your presence with us at St. Thomas will be missed, but your loving spirit still fills this space and will keep us connected in divine love and grace.

There were many experiences of prayer in the Pentecostal church in which I was raised, but I can honestly say that none of them involved prayer beads. Older women I knew in the neighborhood had rosaries, though, and my grandmother had one lovely set in her jewelry box that had belonged to someone in the family of an earlier generation. Later, in college, I would visit my 90 year old Sicilian neighbor from whom I rented a shared garage, and she would sit at her kitchen table with coffee, anisette cookies and her rosary beads asking me to pray with her and keep her company on the first day of the month when I came knocking with my $50 cash. I did find a set of beads and learned to say the rosary with her, mostly because I was afraid she would stop renting to me if she learned I wasn’t Catholic. In spite of that overly pragmatic introduction into beaded prayer, it remained fascinating to me. I was always drawn to that which was unfamiliar and beautiful, so the crucifix on the end of lovely, colored beads was something that seemed ancient and mysterious, whether tucked in a jewelry box or wrapped around Mrs. Latona’s aging hands and reverently nimble fingers. Like mass cards and tall votives with pictures of saints, beads were part of the mysterious world in which other people prayed.

Prayer has taken many years to grow on me, though. Or perhaps, it has taken me many years to grow into prayer.

I was at a parish retreat at Shrinemont on a rainy weekend, along with my daughter, when beads entered into my own world of prayer. June, our Assistant Rector who has ALWAYS been an ingenious planner of activities for children of all ages, had designed a prayer bead making workshop. For the grown ups, she brought books that explored prayer beads across faith traditions. She gave instructions and history about prayer beads in the Anglican tradition. She had gleaned plastic pony beads for kids, lovely glass and ceramic beads and even a random selection of totally unique beads from necklaces that had been disassembled into their component parts. We all beaded together while the rain came down outside, selecting and sharing beads and spontaneously talking about who and what we were praying for as we built each unique strand.

I made my first prayer beads that year from bronzed metal beads that June had recovered from a necklace bought during some of her travels, along with four lovely ceramic cruciform beads which my fingers were drawn to slide over. I selected a simple and lovely wooden cross, then a Celtic knot as my invitatory bead. I decided on natural fiber to string them together. My own prayers, the longing and grateful thoughts of my heart, began to slip between each bead as the circle took shape. I held them in my hand when I was finished, taking in with the beads the stories shared with my faith community that had been a part of their emergence. These beads have been my companion ever since, and a daily practice of contemplative prayer began to emerge for me. Most recently, my prayer beads accompanied me on a prayerful weekend retreat where they were my touchstone of faith in community as my own vocational path and spiritual journey grows and emerges, step by step and day by day.

But this prayer bead story doesn’t stop there.

Each year at retreat, a group of us has gathered to string prayer beads. Each time, those of us who were experienced brought beads to share with those newly joining the group. My daughter and I collect and purchase beads throughout the year, saving up a supply to share them with others. June has been there to tell the stories of prayer beads she has made for others, beads she has spontaneously given away, beads that found their home to people exactly when and where they were most needed. I have made beads specifically with a friend in mind, offering up my heart prayers for them as I string. I have strung together other circles with the prayer that they would find a home where and when they were needed.

Last year on retreat, I made one strand of beads with this last intention, simply that the beads would be a blessing to whomever they found their way. I had these newly made prayer beads with me just before I left the retreat, tucked into my coat pocket. I decided to walk the labyrinth while my daughter had one last, playful romp with her friends. As I journeyed into the labyrinth, I thought of my prayer beads and intuitively reached into my pocket, said a prayer of blessing for whomever would find them, and left them at the center. I walked the path out of the labyrinth with my mind and heart open, listening for the wisdom I would receive to guide the steps of my own journey.

Over the past year, I have periodically thought of the prayer beads I left on the labyrinth and whenever I do, I have offered up a momentary prayer of blessing for whomever was holding them. It is a connection of divine trust and grace, to not know for whom you are praying but to hold them in prayer, regardless. I have come to know that this most ancient of practices is a blessing to myself and to others, not necessarily related to any intercessory outcome, but simply because of the immense power of connection in which the divine can be experienced. Quite unexpectedly, I was recently given the gift of knowing who has been holding those beads, and we were both moved to tears from the power of this shared experience. I realized the deep and profound wisdom that June had been sharing with us: our prayers will find their way to those who need them. We are all journeying together, each giving and receiving exactly as we are. This is a most profound blessing for those who give, and for those who receive. And we are each one of us…all of us…doing both.

This year on retreat, I made a strand of blue crystal beads, with deep blue and green stones. I offered prayers of thanks, gratitude, and hopeful expectation as I added each bead. I was praying for and thinking of one person in particular. I realized as I was nearly done with the strand that while the finished piece was beautiful, I had forgotten one cruciform bead at the very beginning point. As I began to berate myself, I felt a calmness come over me and I laughed. This beauty mixed with imperfection was a perfect symbol of our faith community. We have a beloved chaos in our worship, and the inspiration of our hearts often surpasses our quest for logical order and perfect form. We are a beautiful, holy mess. And it is in the radically loving acts of leaders like June that I have come to see the divine not in spite of the chaos, but because of it. Whether it is the cacophony of a Christmas pageant or an Alleluia Easter egg hunt, or the quiet space of an advent tent for stillness in which our beloved children are anything but still, June is there to see and illustrate where God is in our midst, persistently and presently. My gratitude for that lesson she has taught me more than surpasses the missing bead. In fact, that might be the most beautiful bead of all in its invisible presence. Just like God.

I gave June her prayer beads that day, just as I carry my own set, strung with the beads and stories and prayers that she has given to me. I know we will be praying for each other. And in that divine connection, we will both be blessed. And in her presence within our community, we have all been blessed indeed.

A response to our Persist in Prayer theme for Week 15 of “Who is My Neighbor” at St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church

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No Day but Today….

Posted on October 17, 2013 by harasprice

One of the bravest things I ever did, at a time in my life when I was not particularly brave, was to stand in line for free rush tickets to see Rent on Broadway. I travelled alone, waited in line alone, and sang “Seasons of Love” at the top of my lungs by myself in a crowd of people I didn’t know in order to score free tickets. It worked. I was able to stand in the front row and indulge in a groupie experience that for me has been the penultimate mark of my Gen X status.

Rent is resonant with me on a lot of levels. I was among the generation who lost so many friends, lovers, neighbors to AIDS. I have found family in my friends, and created home from nothing. I have been all manner of snarky and dark, as well as unconditionally and naively loving, in my relationships. I recognize every pop culture reference in La Vie Boheme. I still load my two disc Rent soundtrack in my car on road trips, crank it up and sing at the top of my lungs. I still cry when I hear, “Will I Lose My Dignity…” and feel my spirit soar when I sing, “there’s only now, there’s only this…forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way…no day but today…”

I still take those words to heart.

Why do I remember all this today? Because my small point of light arrived in the form of a young man who was chaining up his bike as I headed out of my office on the way to my car. He was lost in song, his sweet tenor voice spilling out from his soul:

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter and in strife
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, a year in the life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love

Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died

It’s time now, to sing out
Though the story never ends
Let’s celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends

Remember the love
(Oh, you got to, you got to remember the love)
Remember the love
(You know that love is a gift from up above)
Remember the love
(Share love, give love, spread love)
Measure in love
(Measure, measure your life in love)

Seasons of love

He could have stopped singing. I could have kept walking.

Instead we both connected, for a brief moment of song and a small point of light. And sometimes, in that singular moment, life really does hold everything that we need.

No day but today.

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Remembrance Day

Posted on October 15, 2013 by harasprice

May you know the immensity of divine love, even in the smallest footprint;
May the expectation that holds your longing transform into hope in this present moment;
May the treasure of memory swaddle your sorrow in a blanket of tenderness;
And may our lights of remembrance embrace you with community and support.

Today, October 15, has been designated Pregnancy Loss and Infant Death Awareness Day.  I wrote these words of blessing this morning, hoping they would somehow be carried to all those who would be touched by them.  So, you can help me with that by reading and sharing.

I am writing this blog post today for two groups.  First, I write to my cherished friends who have experienced the loss of a pregnancy or the death of an infant.  I write to remind you that you are loved, understood, supported, and remembered.  I hold you in my heart today, and pray this blessing for you.  I am also writing today for those who have never given any thought to the subject of pregnancy loss or infant death. Please, keep reading and allow yourself to learn something more about an experience that many people avoid talking about, pass judgement on, or simply are oblivious about.  This is important to our communities and to our world, as well as to our individual lives.

Just to share a brief history, Pregnancy Loss and Infant Death Awareness Day is recognized by multiple groups and bereavement support organizations around the globe.  Since 1988, on the 15th of October, people around the world light a candle at 7 p.m. in their respective time zones to recognize and raise awareness regarding these losses which are all too often unseen and unspoken.  This lovely New York Times blog today tells a wonderful story of the commemorative day’s beginnings and describes its meaning for one of many families who grieve and remember.

I write and speak often about reproductive and perinatal loss; I wear this as part of my professional identity.  It’s part of my personal story, too, although that isn’t what drew me to this cause in my professional life.  I, like many women, are part of an unintentional sisterhood of experience.  I came into this work quite serendipitously but I remain because it is important to the fabric of our humanness to be sure to give voice to this experience.  The reason that I try to intentionally bring awareness to pregnancy loss has to do with how much silence, stigma, and misinformation still exists for women, couples, and families who grieve when a pregnancy doesn’t end like they hoped and imagined it would.  I write and speak for families who have had a baby die, and no amount of love, tenderness and effort could have prevented it from happening.  These are sad, tragic losses.  There are also transformative stories of growth within their grief.  I have been companion to many who are grieving, and I am transformed by their experiences as much as my own.

So, today, I want to share a few things I have come to know through my research, my counseling, and my own personal and human encounters with loss.

I want to let people know that 25%…one in every four…women has had a recognized pregnancy loss in her life.

I want you to know that the number is actually larger than that, because of all the pregnancies that end even before they can be officially recognized or acknowledged.

I continue to be amazed that whenever I speak, a woman (or more than one) comes up to tell me her story that hasn’t been shared for years, or possibly ever.  Far too much silence still remains.

I want to talk to everyone about the fact that there is no shame in having a pregnancy begin…and then end…and it doesn’t mean that a woman did anything wrong, that there is something wrong with her or that she could have changed the experience.

I convey to all readers of this blog that some people grieve the loss of a pregnancy as an expectation, some grieve it as a fetal death, some grieve it as the death of a baby…and our individual moral and ethical belief systems are far less important to convey to the grieving than is our compassionate, human response of authentically saying “I’m so sorry this has happened to you, and I’m here for you.”

I want to tell people about the amazing parents I know who care for their babies who will not survive even days or weeks or months.  And, I want to tell people about the amazing parents I know who make the most difficult choice imaginable to terminate a pregnancy for a host of very powerful reasons, all of which require deep thought and emotional turmoil.  And all of these amazing families are worthy of compassionate understanding.

I wish I could tell you about each one of the people I know who hurt so deeply, are misunderstood and judged and questioned, and yet who find the strength to go on and thrive, making valuable contributions to their own families, communities, and the world at large.  Philanthropic foundations, musical tributes, books, fund-raising events, peer support organizations and countless loving gestures to improve the fabric of human kindness all originate from people who have been deeply touched by pregnancy loss and infant death.

I can tell you about amazing resources that exist for information and support.  I spent a lengthy and wonderful time on the board of the Pregnancy Loss and Infant Death Alliance (www.plida.org) and work closely with my dear friends at SHARE Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support (www.nationalshare.org), Bereavement Services (www.bereavementservices.org), the MISS Foundation (www.miss foundation.org), the Association of SIDS and Infant Mortality Programs (www.asip1.org), the CJ Foundation for SIDS (www.cjsids.org) and First Candle (www.first candle.org).  Go visit their websites, and see what helpful information they have to offer for professionals, caregivers, clergy, grieving families, workplace colleagues and caring friends.

I can also share what I have myself written and spoken about, and I’ll do that in a few ways right here.  You can read the full text of a journal article I wrote for Social Workencouraging dialogues on reproductive loss across multiple settings of social work practice to break the silence.  You can listen to an episode of the Social Work Podcast I recorded a few months ago with my friend and colleague Jonathan Singer.  You can send me a note, email me, share your story or ask me what else you want to know.  I am always delighted to have a conversation.

Lastly, you can light a candle.  Tonight.  7:00 p.m., wherever you are.

Remember.

wave of light

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Attitude of Gratitude

Posted on October 13, 2013 by harasprice

I was talking with a friend of mine the other day who remarked, “won’t it be interesting for you to look back at your blog after a full year?” The truth is, it’s rather difficult for me to imagine a time I wasn’t writing this blog, even though it hasn’t yet been a full year. It has been right around 9 months, actually, which is ironically the perfect gestational time frame for a something new to begin to take on a life of its own. I was thinking of her remark earlier today when I was pulling together the final version of this week’s Who is My Neighbor? media blog, the theme of which is gratitude for healing. That particular project is coming to a close in a couple weeks, and I was considering what the next iteration of inspiration would look like for my church community, and how I might integrate that here, in my personal blog space. It occurred to me how grateful I am to have rediscovered writing in my spiritual life. That thought has been percolating in me as I moved through my day. Just now, writing time found me. As, I have come to learn, it always will.

Truthfully, I began this blog serendipitously when the story of sneaking down into a dormitory basement to receive my first Lenten ashes was persistently and relentlessly on my mind last year on Ash Wednesday. I had declared a Lenten intention of nourishing my spirit as often as I nourished my body, but didn’t really have a well thought out plan for exactly what that “spirit feeding” might entail. But, plan or no plan, inspiration appeared and my words began to take form. By the end of that day, I had set up a blog and released the words of that story into the wider world. That “wider world” was probably one or two people on that day, but the point was really to set the story free not to count the numbers. During the nine months since, I have become familiar with the emergent process of my blog-writing as a way in which Spirit speaks through me. Blogging is very much a part of my spiritual practice.

Incidentally, blog-writing is completely different for me than the pattern of my academic writing, which is methodical, logically ordered, and sometimes even painstaking. Writing this blog is different, and inherently spiritual. As I move through my ordinary life, I feel my spirit being stirring to a thought, a memory, a story, a quote. This is my cue to allow myself to move into a time of stillness where that small inspiration takes on form and substance, and builds within me until I can find time (or time finds me) in order to allow the words to flow from me. Sometimes, my words rush faster than my fingers can type. Sometimes I pause, and breathe, and move away for just a bit until I can do a final read through. Sometimes I am so busy…but the story is so relentless…that I have to pause and allow it to flow at crazy, haphazard places or times. Sometimes the path of my story meanders and comes around to something which surprises and delights me, releasing a realization or insight which speaks to my own spirit. Admittedly, everything I write still requires my final editorial review before publishing. After all, I am a human being who likes run-on sentences, and for whom auto-correct cannot be trusted. Some things are a constant in the writing life.

What does all of this have to do with my attitude of gratitude? Everything. I am astounded by what these past months have meant to me in growth spiritually, interpersonally, professionally. When I revisit this blog and the posts I have written, what I feel is gratitude. Deep, overwhelming, life-altering gratitude. I have been through some challenging times over the years, and I have had amazingly beautiful moments, too. I have companioned others through their own difficult moments, and celebrated their successes. I have written down stories and experiences I have shared and also hold in my heart a whole series of stories that have not yet flowed from me but will, when the moment is right. Not a day goes by when there is not a small point of light, or a present and persistent reminder of divine love and grace just waiting for me to take notice. I don’t lead a charmed life, nor do I lead a blighted one. I simply live a life with highs and lows and lots of moments in-between. But, the life I lead is rich with gratitude for lessons learned, gifts bestowed, wisdom outpouring from friends and strangers. The more deeply I live, the more I am called to live deeply.

As I casually browsed my blog archives earlier today, I started to create a list of the people I wanted to thank for their roles on my journey. Then, I considered all the people I have yet to mention, all the stories that have not yet spilled out, and all the small points of light yet to emerge. I realized that saying thanks would be insufficient. This is really a blog about gratitude; gratitude for the ordinary that becomes the extraordinary. Gratitude is different than thanks. When I think about saying thanks, I consider “thank you” my direct response to something specifically done for me; “thank you for the gift”; “thanks for taking care of the hedgehog while I was away.” Thanks is important, necessary, and appreciated. Gratitude is “thanks plus” in my mind. It makes us aware of not only those things of which we are thankful, but also those daily actions which could so easily be dismissed or overlooked. Gratitude brings us directly into to the awareness of the gifts already around us, taking the form of our lives. Gratitude is an attitude to be intentionally cultivated.

What I couldn’t possibly have realized on that day I wrote my first blog entry was how much I would be transformed by this writing and by others’ responses to it. For that, I am grateful beyond words. I have been healed by the conversations that have emerged with people who read this blog, even those who knew me fairly well to begin with. I treasure the fact that my father printed off every one of my Lenten blogs and made a book. I treasure reconnection with friends and family with whom certain stories I write resonate over time. I am grateful for every conversation that begins with, “I was reading your blog….” because those conversations take whatever thoughts I was having and push them even further into another person’s experience. That shared encounter transforms us both. I am grateful there are people I don’t even know who may be inspired by this writing, and that keeps me focused on the role of Spirit as central to my writing process. Not only is divine spirit present when I am writing, but also after I hit “publish” and allow the words to travel freely to other people in other places. I trust Spirit to guide that journey. Last, but not least, from writing and sharing my words and stories, I have experienced healing in places where I had not even realized there were still wounds. I have myself been immersed and transformed by the divine grace of which I so often write.

So, today, I am grateful. I am thankful for the inspiration and healing that has been a gift from my own writing. But more deeply, I am grateful for the journey of life and the spirit which allows and inspires me to write.

My attitude of gratitude, cultivated through this blog, is its own small point of light as I continue my journey.

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brokenness

Posted on October 10, 2013 by harasprice

There are days when brokenness is palpable.  There is brokenness in my community of friends, several of whom struggle with the pain of loss and have been recently visited by the depths of grief.  There is brokenness in the federal government impasse.  There is brokenness in workplace and work-life tensions.  There is brokenness in letting go, saying good-bye, recognizing unhealed wounds in our own lives and spirit that are activated by the pain we encounter in the world.  This life can be a hard road to travel.

I’ve been thinking about brokenness today for these reasons, and perhaps that is what made me step into a dialogue on Facebook around a Fresh Air interview Terry Gross conducted with Elizabeth Smart.  To me, this story is all about brokenness.  If you haven’t heard it, here is the link.  Listen to all of it, not just the surface.  There is one part I really want to talk about in which I think there is a profound lesson, a small point of light:

Fresh Air Interview with Elizabeth Smart

Now, there are two things that strike me about this interview.  The first is that while Elizabeth Smart may come across as confident, self-assured, and ‘healed” during this interview, I believe that brokenness is still the main theme which comes through in this conversation.  She talks about being so drained of everything by her captors that she couldn’t even fathom telling anyone what her name was.  This level of broken is something that, mercifully, most of us will never have to experience.  But people do.  Some of them are famous, and some of them are known only to themselves.  Some experience hurt by captors who will later pay the price.  Some will be hurt by people who will continue to have power over themselves and others, and who may never come to “justice” in our society.  Some will be so broken that they will hurt others the same way they were hurt, perhaps just trying to touch the face of what it feels like to be human and have identity.  This is a painfully difficult reality to take in.

But, what this story offers for me is the recognition that brokenness is not the end of the story.  Brokenness is a fragile state that empties us.  Maybe, just maybe, the depths of our brokenness empties us and opens us up so that even the smallest acts of grace can seep in.  You’ll notice I didn’t say “fix it” because that could take days, weeks, years, a lifetime or perhaps even more.  Open wounds don’t heal rapidly.  Sometimes our deepest wounds are still healing below the surface even when they begin to pass inspection on the outside.  But all this brokenness leaves room for so much grace.

This brings me to what was, for me, the most lasting and perhaps unsettling aspect of this interview.  At one point mid-way through the interview, Elizabeth describes to Terry how people would notice her in the complete head to toe covered robes that she was wearing.  I painfully listened as Elizabeth described how she would notice people crossing the street in downtown Salt Lake, how they would walk as far away from her and her captors as possible without making eye contact, then they would cross back to pass them.  All the while, she knew this was to avoid having to make contact.

Ouch.  That one hit my heart.

This pained me, because its real.  I see it daily, and I engage in it just like the rest of the world.  Pretending not to see.  Stepping away from something that seems bizarre and out of place.  Defining the world by “us” and “them” and putting up a wall between myself and the world of pain that emerges when I realize how much the other may be going through that I simply don’t know about and perhaps cannot even comprehend.  I do willingly step in to brokenness with my friends, or people with whom I work with in professional and personal helping capacities.  But it is really easy for me to divert away from other widespread brokenness in the world.  We can walk to the other side of the street metaphorically so many times.  Is there a captive, broken young soul that we pass up the opportunity to assist when we do that?  Possibly.  Can we fix everyone we see?  Probably not.  And that juxtaposition between caring but feeling incompetent to fix is one of the things that keeps us from crossing over to the other side.

Let’s for just a moment consider that it isn’t our job to “fix” people, but to simply be present in this world with them as connected, loving human beings.  We cannot in our limited human capacity fix homelessness, poverty, abuse, mental health, death, grief…the list goes on.  We can, however, be present in a broken world to make eye contact.  To say a prayer.  To learn someone’s name.  To offer basic, momentary support.  To advocate.  To give voice to those whose circumstances silence them.  To stand up and say something when power is misused.  These are just simple, daily actions.  But, if we engage in them with intention they transform into acts of radical compassion.

In a broken world, there are enough gaps that our simple acts can find ample opportunity to sink in.  From a faith perspective, this may mean that we allow divine grace to use us exactly as we are, as one of a thousand small moments that could seep in and begin to fill the cracks of brokenness.  From a human perspective, irrespective of whether we believe in a higher power or a greater purpose, we act in ways of human compassion because in those actions the world of this present moment changes, even incrementally.  This bends the arc toward justice, compassionate action after compassionate action.

If we are still enough to take it in, we may also experience the transformative grace that seeps in to cracks of our own brokenness, too.

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Blessing the Animals

Posted on October 6, 2013 by harasprice

Occasionally, a small point of light makes its way into our lives through all creatures great and small. Tonight, my faith community filled with exactly that…from Greyhounds to hedgehogs and all sizes in between.

The hedgehog is our family pet. My daughter and I decided to bring a hedgehog into the family last year, after great deliberation about what was the best animal companion to join in our family fold. Allergies are a serious issue in our household. We also didn’t need anything else requiring high maintenance. We are all fairly nocturnal. And, heaven knows, we live on the fine edge of eccentricity in other ways. There is something about this sweet, affectionate creature that can also throw up its spines and send large creatures off their attack in a single act of huffiness that appeals to me. And so, Clover was lovingly sought out after much research into care and breeding. And, he has become a bona fide family companion, adding one more layer of zaniness into our family structure.

Tonight, we woke up sweet clover a couple hours early and drove him off to Bluegrass mass and the Blessing of the Animals. My daughter sat like a proud caregiver, showing off sweet Clover to the children, grown ups, and the occasional sniffing dog that wanted to catch a glimpse. I have to admit, I was still caught up in the beautiful intensity of my own weekend, having been away on a very contemplative and introspective retreat until a few hours previously. This scene was an immersion back into the loud, wild, and wonderful world of community which surrounds me. My spirit was singing for joy as I embraced these lovely contrasts.

Clover was on good behavior. Small children were able to pet and dote on him without prickles, and he sniffed around to take in the new surroundings. In a memorable moment of blessing, a little boxwood branch sprinkled little drops of holy water on his nose as he reached up as if to claim his blessing. So did our community dogs and cats and companions small and large. Barks and singing and fantastic bluegrass music from our incredibly talented musicians filled our space. And, we all broke bread together both in holy communion and later, in the parish hall, as we embraced our wild and diverse community. Heaven on Earth.

I have so much else I could say tonight, but this scene that would have warmed even the heart of St. Francis himself conveys an image of the light shining on my path tonight. All are welcome and all are blessed…those with quills and barks and purrs and tails. All are welcome and all are blessed, with our own spines of protection, shouts of joy, stillness of soul-searching, and embrace of welcome.

Grateful.

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what I believe, at this moment…

Posted on October 4, 2013 by harasprice

It is Friday afternoon as I sit at my desk. I am thinking back across my week, from the vantage point of this chair, as I reflect on the question of “what do I believe?” in response to this week’s “Who is My Neighbor?” media.

This week, I have worked (a lot) at my desk, I have cried at my desk, I have laughed at my desk, I have eaten at my desk, and I have thought I might fall asleep at my desk (although ultimately, I did not).  From this chair I have spoken of statistics, social justice, organizational policy, feminism, community engagement, faith, courage, curiosity, administrative policies, my family, curriculum, music, and squirrels (it’s true).  From my fingers, I have typed presentation notes, meeting minutes, countless emails, interview questions, consent forms, blog entries, scholarly article reviews, survey questions, content for my own articles, summaries of concerns, meeting agendas, and words of encouragement to print off and carry on my journey.  In my hands, while at my desk, I have held pens, pencils, calculators, an apple, a Luna bar, prayer beads, my keys, my smartphone, books, and occasionally, the hand of another.

At this moment, I believe that what I experience today is a lesson that moves me step by step into where I am going on the path of life.  This life in progress is one of humility and privilege, of human brokenness and divine grace, of past formation and future emergence.

I believe I am tethered to my words in a way I never realized I would be.  My words reflect my world view, my knowledge, my style and my inner spirit.  My words extend my reach into realms that aren’t within my own command; I set them free and they are given life and meaning by those who receive them, who pick them up, who take them in.  And my words carry me to places otherwise unfamiliar, and make me known to friend and stranger.

P.S.  This is a response to this week’s Who is My Neighbor blog at St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church.  Whether you are following that “blogging through ordinary time” adventure with me or not, some of you might enjoy taking a peek at thisibelieve.org, which is a forum for diverse expressions of faith and belief for people from all walks of life.  I picked out seven “neighbors” who shared a brief reflection on that site.  Feel free to take a peek at these divergent ways of coming to know and experience what faith means amid daily life to some ordinary and extraordinary people.

John Updike: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/14/

Alaa El-Saad: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/42798/

Joel Engardio:  http://thisibelieve.org/essay/27932/

Eve Ensler: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/17/

John Fountain: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/35/

Susan Cosio:  http://thisibelieve.org/essay/23042/

Andrew Brodsky: http://thisibelieve.org/essay/49378/

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Showing up

Posted on October 1, 2013 by harasprice

I woke this morning with one intention: showing up to my life. I also woke, as did those of you reading this, to the shut-down of the government after a stalemate impasse around legislation and budget and social policy. Similarly, I woke up to workplace frustration, ego, overload of work-related tasks in which the forest is often lost amid the trees. People around me are experiencing illness, transition, loss, sadness, marginalization. And, I woke up to my own inner world, a growing sense of emergence mixed with confinement…or as my friend Susan once alluded to in a sermon she preached: lobsters molting.

This is the world into which I am showing up this morning.

Let me back up to my weekend, because in it there is a really beautiful showing up moment that brings light to my path today. This weekend, I joined 135 or so members of my faith community at a retreat in the mountains. We did many lovely activities from hiking to candlelit compline at the labyrinth, to karaoke to hay-less wagon rides along country roads. We also welcomed the newest member of our community through Holy Baptism, celebrating the birth (and adoption) of a small, six week old child of God into the faith and life that we practice. Presiding at this lovely ritual of new beginning was the final of four beloved pastoral leaders who will depart our parish this year, along with our interim rector who is leading us through this year of transition, getting to know us in a way that helps us let go and move through our process of transition keeping God in the midst. We gathered around, children and grown-ups with hearts completely full and admittedly, overwhelmed by a mix of saying good-bye while wishing amazing things to each person’s new calling, and rising into awareness about our own community’s collective opportunity for growth. If there was an emotional barometer in that outdoor shrine, it would have burst from our collective emotion.

In the midst of this gathering, the six week old dressed all in white was sleeping. And then, she woke and we watched as she took big deep breaths of mountain air, taking in all that surrounded her. At one priceless moment, as we joined in welcoming her to community, she stretched out her small hand and rose it up to the sky and outwardly toward us, seemingly blessing us all with her own innocence and hopeful expectation of life.

She showed up, exactly as she was.

I am thinking back this morning to this small moment of showing up. Was it planned on her part? No, I don’t believe it was. Was she aware of our mixed emotions, our exhausted good-byes, our loving sending forth of leaders to new congregations, our growing sense of all that we offer to each other in community even in the midst of change? No, she was oblivious. Did she know her own story, or the story of her parents that brought everyone into this space? Nope, there are details and heart-stories that may only become known and shared over time, even though she is the key figure in the narrative. She showed up because that is what we do when we are cared for by those who love us, when we are embraced by community. She showed up in the midst of divine love and grace. Family, friends, community bring us where we need to be. And, our spirits stir in response to something far greater than we can ask or imagine.

I remember and reflect on this story as I greet this particular day, in this world filled with so much angst and frustration. Circumstances are clearly outside my control. I fight the urge to leap ahead into what I think I want to see happen (there is a lot of “I” in that statement!) But, planning for an uncertain future doesn’t keep us present and aware of what is happening in this moment, amid the chaos and sadness…and love and community…that is happening all around in connection with us. Someone who doesn’t know it yet is awaiting my reach out to them, and my restless spirit is awaiting the arrival of something I cannot yet know or describe in detail. I catch glimpses of it, though, just as I did this weekend. These moments remind me to pay attention, to be open to seeing the smallest points of light along the journey as they emerge, to experience divine love and grace.

So, on this day, I will show up to my life.

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Learning from the Divide

Posted on September 27, 2013 by harasprice

For a significant part of my career, I was a grief therapist affiliated with a Hospice program. People came to our agency for a range of reasons, all having something to do with loss. We also provided grief support as a routine part of Hospice care to the entire family system. One of my most important life lessons has been grounded in the universality of our encounters with death and grief.  Rich or poor, educated or not, any shade of the rainbow of cultural diversity…we will all encounter grief and loss in our lives.  Crossing the chasm of grief companioning multiple people, however, sometimes provided an exercise in learning from the social situations that divide us even in the midst of this most universal and challenging of life experiences.

I was working as a Hospice bereavement social worker at the time of this story.  My morning did not get off to a good beginning.  It was snowing out, and my car wouldn’t start. It was not just being stubborn in the cold.  It was dead, with no hope of revival. That morning, I wished I had an automotive grief counselor, or better yet, an on-call mechanic. I had two home visits scheduled that morning. The only thing I could think of to do at that moment was borrow a readily available car. My relationship was on the rocks and my partner at the time had a beat up wreck of a car that had even more issues than my car did. But, that morning, that wreck of a car started, while mine did not. In a spirit mixed with anger and humility, I borrowed the car in desparation and went off to work.

After a quick check in at the office, I looked at my two scheduled visits. Each was a a bereavement counseling visit with a woman whose spouse had died on the Hospice program during the past month. This was before the time of the GPS, so I looked up the address in my indexed map book of the county. The first address was in an incredibly affluent area of town. As I drove, the homes grew larger and my insecurities grew exponentially. By the time I reached my destination, I concluded that I looked more like a pizza delivery person than a social worker. I felt small and insignificant and horribly out of place. The woman I was visiting was lovely and dignified, as stately as her home.  She also seemed unable to be present with her own emotions, and certainly not comfortable expressing them in front of me. I kept thinking we would soon get to a real place of feeling showing through, but she would instantly excuse herself when any hint of emotion emerged.  When she returned, she was free of any outward expression of feeling and our plodding conversation resumed. My awkwardness and her awkwardness seemed to co-exist, each oblivious of the other. I took care to be present with her in spite of the looming elephant I could see in the room. She took care to be present until I had gone over all the factual information on grief, stammering with my own sense of inferiority.  She thanked me for making the visit politely, as I wrapped up my professional conversation politely. So much could have been different, for each of us. But neither of us seemed able to cross the divide.

My second visit took me into the depths of the city, into an area where I knew I should only be with a really good reason, and even then only at certain times of the day. It was a neighborhood not far from where I had lived in college, in an Italian now mostly Puerto Rican neighborhood which had recently experienced heavy gang activity. The street address to which I was headed was in the center of that activity.  Suddenly, my transportation situation of the day seemed irrelevant. I had planned my meeting in advance (note: reason to be there) and my client’s son was standing out in front of the house to meet me. He motioned and two of his friends came over, with lawn chairs. They sat down next to my beat up wreck of a car. My client’s son said, “they’ll make sure your car is OK. I’ll make sure you’re OK. Mamma’s inside and she really wants to talk to you.” I chuckled (and they smiled) when I thanked them and noted that I was fairly sure no one would want the car even if I left the keys inside, but that I was deeply appreciative of their protection, and of their concern for their beloved matriarch.

During the next hour, I met with a deeply spiritual woman who was longing for someone to whom to pour out her soul and tell her stories. This was a family that wept and cried, shared pictures and stories with me openly as if I was an old family friend. They lit candles and told me of the rituals they put into place to mark their loss together and collectively remember. It was a home barren in possessions and rich in feeling, faith, and family. I felt myself tearing up several times from the gratitude I felt to be a part of their collective mourning for a short while. We connected deeply and meaningfully, and we put a plan in place for three more visits where I could companion her in her own process of mourning and healing, and in her facilitation of that healing for her own family. When we finished, my escort walked me to my car, and the guardians of my beat up vehicle nodded to me and showed me where to turn around safely to leave the neighborhood the same way I came. I watched them watch me until I was safely out of site.

In my beat up car after a day of many contrasts, I felt several palpable lessons. Grief knows no socioeconomic strata. Loss knows no ethnicity. Richness of spirit is not measured by wealth. Recognition of who we are…the beat up parts of our selves as well as our dignity…these are the fabric of our collective humanness. We all are ashamed of something, fearful of something, protective of something, grateful for something.

We can learn a lot when we are willing to learn from the divide.

[Posted as a personal response to Week 12 of Who is My Neighbor at St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church]

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