Sermon – Luke 9.28-36 (37-43), TRS, YC, February 27, 2022

Tags

comfort, Elijah, empowerment, Epiphany, escape, Jesus, Moses, sacred, secular, Sermon, Transfiguration, weary

Well, we finally made it.  After a season of epiphanies about Jesus:  from the Magi with gifts, the voice of God at Jesus’ baptism, the water into wine, the fishes bursting from nets, and lessons about life with Jesus from the Sermon on the Plain, we get to the mother of all epiphanies – Transfiguration Sunday.  In this event is everything we need to know about Jesus.  Luke tells us everything starts with prayer – life with Jesus is rooted in prayerful relationship with God.  Then, Jesus’ divinity is revealed as his entire appearance changes, with everything becoming dazzling white.  Moses and Elijah appear, which many argue represents the prophets and the law confirming Jesus’ identity and significance.  We even hear a conversation between the three figures about Jesus’ pending journey to Jerusalem and ultimate departure.  And, as if we needed to know even more about who Jesus is, God comes down in a cloud and says, clear as a bell, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”  We can’t get a lesson more epiphanic than this!

This story in Luke is so dramatic, that the lectionary says we can skip the next seven verses.  If you notice in your bulletin, those verses are in parenthesis.  And if I am really honest, as your preacher, I seriously considered eliminating those verses today.  I wanted to stay on that mountaintop with Peter, John, and James.  I want to be overwhelmed by the majesty of the moment, I want to gobble up the crystal clarity of this event, I want to breathe in the confidence of that comes from knowing this is the Messiah, the answer.  I might even want to build those dwellings or booths Peter is talking about for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah.  This is a mountain of wonder, of joy, of understanding, of specialness, of the sacred.  I want to stay here.

But the text is not having such comfort today.  Nope, in Luke, the very next thing that happens after this rich, shocking, full epiphany and the disciples’ stunned silence, is they go back down the mountain and face another person who needs to be healed.  And this is not a simple request for healing, but a report that the man begged Jesus’ disciples to cast out the demon first, but they could not.  So not only do Jesus and his disciples go back to work, but also we learn that the disciples are not very good at the work.  In other words, they have work to do.

Sometimes, when we are tired and weary – and believe me, we have had a lot of tired and weary in the last two years – in those times we slip into the mode of thinking Church is an “escape from” place.  We face illness, and death, and war, and suffering, and poverty, and discrimination, and persecution, and brokenness every single day of the week, and we just want our mini-Easter on Sundays.  We want to climb a mountain, pray with Jesus, and bask in Jesus’ radiance.  And that is okay.  Luke would not tell us so many times in his gospel that Jesus escapes to pray if Jesus’ praying (and our praying) were not important.  But the danger in thinking of Church as an “escape from” place is that we risk not seeing the brilliance of Jesus in all the other days.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a doctor’s office that serves patients from a broad range of socioeconomic backgrounds.  One such client had arrived for one of the daily walk-in appointments only to be told arriving at 9:00 am meant he had missed the available appointments.  The staff very graciously gave him a list of other places he could try and encouraged him to come back earlier next time.  The client sat there a bit stunned and dejected and I began to avert my eyes to give him some privacy for his grief.  But a minute or so later, an older gentleman came up to him and asked to see the paper the staff had given him.  He proceeded to show the younger man which alternatives were best, and then whispered the secret that although the staff said to come at 7:00 am, the real trick was to arrive by 6:00 am.  The young man’s face slowly relaxed under the loving tutelage of his elder fellow struggler in life.

Luke does not leave us on the mountaintop because Luke knows the danger the artificial divide between the sacred and the secular.  As scholar Debie Thomas warns, “Desperate for the mountain, we miss the God of the valley, the conference room, the pharmacy, the school yard.”[i]  The story of the healing in the valley is the “so what?” of this last grand epiphany story before we head into Lent.  “The story of the transfiguration of Jesus loses its power if [the transfiguration] does not include that moment when Jesus and the disciples come down from the mountain.”  By seeing Jesus differently today, we are enabled to see ourselves and others differently too.[ii]  We are able to see God in an elderly struggling man taking a young struggling man under his wings.  We are able to see God in the way an older child shepherds a younger child to Children’s Chapel.  We are able to see God in our gut-wrenching conversations of the presence of evil in the world and how to navigate war in a way that demonstrates all life is sacred.

This week, our invitation is to take this hour not as an “escape from” but as an “empowerment to” – an empowerment to go out in the world seeing the God of the valley, the God of the medical clinic, the God of the grocery store, the God of the Zoom meeting, and to be agents of God in all those places.  We come from a long line of disciples who were not always good at healing the suffering of this world.  But we enter a season of intentionality in these coming six weeks that will embolden us to keep trying.  We know from this hour of empowerment who Jesus is.  Now we get the chance to show Jesus’ face to others in our everyday lives.  Amen.

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[i] Rohr summary about the sacred and the secular and quote from Debie Thomas, “Down from the Mountain” February 19, 2022, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on February 26, 2022.

[ii] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 456.

Sermon – Matthew 11.25-30, Feast of St. Francis, YB, October 3, 2021

Tags

animals, blessing, burden, creation, easy, God, Jesus, sacred, Sermon, St. Francis, wealth, work, yoke

Occasionally I wander the Hickory Neck property as a way of clearing my head.  I often end up over in the St. Francis Memorial Garden, reveling in the quiet in that remote corner behind the Historic Chapel.  The bucolic scene and the St. Francis statue make me imagine the peaceful walks he took in his journey to commune with God and God’s created order.  The funny thing is our celebrations of St. Francis today are nothing like those peaceful moments.  There is the chaos of the drive-thru, as confused pets worry they are headed toward the dreaded veterinarian or are confused by the people in clerical garb.  There is the hubbub of owners calming pets inside the New Chapel, the curiosity of what unique pets one may see, and the endless giggles and chuckles about unpredictable animals in an enclosed space.  The whole morning is a morning of contrasts.

The contradictions of this day are equally evident in our Gospel lesson.  Our gospel lesson closes with one of our favorite invitations from Jesus, “Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you … and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  Those words describe a loving, gentle Jesus, who enfolds us in a calm, affirming embrace.  At least, they should.  But if we read the words critically, there is more contrast in them than we might like to admit.  Yes, Jesus taking our heavy burdens and recognizing our weariness is balm for the soul.  But the last time I checked, yokes were not exactly tools for rest.  And even though Jesus promises his yoke is easy, the yoke is still a yoke – a tool for directing, guiding, ensuring productive work is done.  Having listened to the gospels these last weeks, we know this work is anything but light.  In the last few weeks in Mark’s gospel, Jesus told us we would have to take up our cross, suffer, and die; that discipleship would mean being servant of all; and that if our hand or eye were causing us to stumble, we should just cut them off!  That does not really sound like an easy yoke to me!

Part of what we appreciate about St. Francis, and why we celebrate him every year – besides having an excuse to have a day to honor our beloved animals – is St. Francis understood Jesus’ words in a tangible, personal way.  Francis grew up in the life of luxury.  He grew up in a privileged home, lived a life of young adult revelry, and could have easily assumed his father’s wealth in adulthood.  But there were these poor people everywhere he looked around town.[i]  And there was the day everything changed at the church of St. Mary of the Angles[ii], when Francis heard different words from Matthew’s gospel, just a chapter before what we heard today.  Jesus says, “Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons…Take no gold, or silver, or coper in your belts, no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff…”[iii]  For Francis, Jesus’ yoke felt light because the yoke of keeping up appearances, the yoke of ignoring the poor to enjoy your own wealth, the yoke of never feeling like you have enough was indeed a heavy yoke.  The yoke of another way – of the way of Jesus – helped Francis reframe his entire life.

That is what we celebrate too.  St. Francis, in his faith conversion, and in his ability to see the sacred in all of God’s creation, saw the truth of our gospel lesson today.  As one scholar explains, “The proper ordering of our relationship to Father and Son can be deemed ‘light’ and ‘easy’ because an improper relationship to them surely makes for a much harder and more restless life!”[iv]  Whether in the pure love between animals and owners, whether in peaceful moments with God’s creation, or whether in today’s gospel lesson and in Francis’ example, our invitation today is to let go of the hard and restless life and to take up the light burden of Jesus’ easy yoke.  The more we practice taking on that yoke, the more we find work that is meaningful, life-giving, and blessed.  And that is a yoke we can all enjoy!  Amen.

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[i] Holy Women, Holy Men:  Celebrating the Saints (New York:  Church Publishing, 2010), 622.

[ii] Hilarion Kistner, O.F.M., The Gospels According to Saint Francis (Cincinnati:  Franciscan Media, 2014), 6-7.

[iii] Matthew 10.7-10

[iv] Colin Yuckman, “Commentary on Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30,” July 9, 2017, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-14/commentary-on-matthew-1116-19-25-30-4 on October 1, 2021.

On Clearing the Way…

Tags

absence, clearing, desk, essential, God, luxury, necessity, organization, pandemic, purging, putting off, relationship, sacred, stacks

Photo credit: https://stock.adobe.com/search?k=stack%20of%20paper%20on%20desk

Last week, I finally took on the task of clearing my desk.  In general, I am a “stacks” kind of person when it comes to organization.  I stack papers on my desk when I am done with them.  The stacks can get quite large, but I also know enough about the stacks that I can find papers if I need them.  Eventually, when the stacks get a little too big, I take a day and go through the whole assortment of stacks, tossing things or filing them when necessary.  But even though I love the satisfaction of the clean desk, the stack method is never really eliminated.

My periodic purging of the stacks normally works fine.  But when you’ve been through eighteen months of a pandemic and were super busy before the pandemic hit, let’s just say my stacks had gotten taller than my head when I was seated at my desk.  Because I had precious little time in the office in the last eighteen months, giving up a whole day or at least half a day purging seemed like a luxury I could not afford.  And so, week after week, I would promise myself, “Maybe next week…”

Sometimes, I think our relationship with God is a lot like that – especially during this pandemic.  Maybe we have prayer books we like, devotionals on our nightstand, or even a little prayer station at home with items like prayer beads or inspirational photos or trinkets.  But the survival patterns we have developed during this pandemic have meant the normal things that helped us feel close to God – the physical things or even the people from church we have not seen in eighteen months – have been absent for too long.  Maybe we have even made those same promises to ourselves, “Maybe next week…”

I wonder what that “thing” is for you:  What have you been putting off during this pandemic because you could not let it be a priority like it once was?  Maybe it has been taking care of yourself physically or emotionally, maybe it has been caring for others in ways that bring you joy, or maybe it has been connecting to a church community.  Whatever the “thing” is for you, maybe this week is the week when you take a deep breath, drop the things that have seemed essential until now, and give yourself a moment to take care of yourself – in ways that maybe seem luxurious, but in the end, might just be sacred necessities.

On the Sacred and Bus Stops…

Tags

action, bus, children, compassion, empathy, holy, prayer, ritual, sacred, transition, world

Photo credit: https://www.longislandpress.com/2019/12/13/school-bus-stop-arm-cameras-coming-soon-to-long-island/

For years now, I have walked my children to the school bus stop.  It has been precious time – holding hands, talking about expectations and hopes for the day, noticing nature’s wonders, playing games while we wait.  We have goodbye rituals too:  the four instructions they get everyday (have fun, be kind, learn lots, and do your best), waving and making heart signs from the bus, waiting until the bus pulls away.  They are rituals that are often taken for granted as the day’s to-do list creeps into one’s mind.  But when one pays attention, one realizes these are sacred rituals.

As you can imagine, the transition to the new rituals of Middle School has been a bit rough.  I am still allowed to drive my child to the bus stop, but definitely not allowed to get out of the car.  We still talk about hopes and expectations, except when a friend finally shows up and becomes the priority.  We are in that journey to adulthood where my child’s primary influences are changing from me to her peers:  and this is good and holy too. 

And so, I am creating new practices for myself.  When my child leaves the safe space of the car and boards the bus with twenty other kids, I have been surprised to find myself praying.  Praying for my own child, certainly:  that she will be safe from this pandemic, that she will cultivate friendships that are life-giving, that she will be inspired by the gift of learning.  But as I watch the other children board the bus, I find myself praying for them too:  for the ways in which Middle School can be so brutal, for the struggles at home they may be experiencing, for the pressures they face as they define their identity.  I even pray for the bus driver, and the ways in which he is the guardian of our children, even if only for a couple of hours a day.

I imagine there are opportunities for expanding prayer for all of us in everyday life.  Where have you found yourself worryingly praying for a loved one?  Who in their immediate field can you pray for too:  their coworkers, teammates, doctors and nurses?  Who are the shepherds who need your prayers too:  their bosses, coaches, ministers?  This week, in your prayers, I invite you to let your prayers expand – fan out a little further than the immediate concern on your heart.  Observe how your fanning prayers expand something inside of you too:  a larger worldview, a bit more compassion, a lot more empathy.  Then, maybe add an action:  send a note to someone, make a phone call, send a text.  I would love to hear how your expanding prayers and actions help expand your experiences with the sacred.

On Baptisms, Babies, and Blessings…

Tags

absence, babies, baby, baptism, blessing, creation, family, God, loud, messy, mystery, pandemic, sacred, touch, vulnerability, wonder

Photo credit: Kim Edwards; reuse with permission only

I was never really a baby person:  I did not do much babysitting as an adolescent; except for my little brother, there were not a lot of babies around me growing up; and I was just never all that jazzed about babies.  They seemed delicate, loud, messy, and mysterious.  I never had maternal urges in early adulthood, and my friends found constant amusement in any scenario where the question arose about who should take care of a baby in a pinch – obviously, the baby should not come my way.  But the time my husband and I were engaged, we were not even sure we wanted to have children.

Then in my early thirties, a switch flipped and I realized, in fact, I did want children.  I still was not sure about other babies, but I was excited about my own.  But then a funny thing happened.  I was ordained a deacon when I was about seven months pregnant.  What I did not realize was once you are ordained, you handle babies a lot – in baptisms, in walking moms through pregnancies and births, and even in the receiving line at church.  Once I went through babyhood with my own daughter, and she was no longer at that lovely, innocent stage, I realized my vocation included mothering a lot of other babies.  It has become one of my favorite parts of ministry because it is a glimpse into the wonder and mystery of creation and the grandeur of our God.

So, you can imagine, when this pandemic hit, among the myriad reasons my heart hurt was not being able to interact with babies.  Our church had babies born during the pandemic and it killed me to not be able to welcome the baby at the hospital and give the baby and family their first blessing.  My heart ached to see baby photos on social media and know the babies were growing up without the church surrounding them in love.  But mostly, my arms palpably felt the absence of holding babies, swaying to keep them calm, and smelling their unique baby scent.

As we slowly come out of this pandemic, I am keenly aware of the privilege of holding babies again.  At a recent wedding I tentatively asked a guest, who I did not know, if they would like me to hold their baby to give them a break.  When they quickly passed me the baby, my face lit up.  Last Sunday, when I finally got to hold the baby we had prayed for all during her time in the womb, I was elated.   And as we approach two more baptisms this weekend, I could not be more excited to make those special connections – even though they are not really babies anymore!  One of the blessings of the rise in vaccinations is enjoying the sacred honor of touch, of experiencing vulnerability and innocence, and of redefining the boundaries of family.  This week I give thanks for the abundance of love and joy.  May you all find your own encounters with the holy this week!

On Barriers and Saying Yes…

Tags

abundance, baptism, connection, curiosity, discipleship, evangelism, faith, God, godparents, grace, Holy Spirit, Jesus, limits, liturgy, longing, sacred

Photo credit: https://aleteia.org/2020/03/30/how-laypeople-can-baptize-in-an-emergency/

On Sunday, we heard the story of the Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch.[i]  At one point in the story, the eunuch says, “What is to prevent me from being baptized?”  The question is simultaneously wonderful – how amazing to hear someone so inspired by the witness of Jesus that they want to baptized right away – and anxiety-making.  Episcopalians are very clear about our identity and our liturgical ways of doing things.  So certain is our identity, that I could imagine an Episcopalian responding to the eunuch, “Well, we need to sign you up for baptism class, and then find out when the next best baptismal feast day is on the liturgical calendar.  Once we get everything lined up, we’d be thrilled to schedule your baptism!”  Somehow, that response from Philip would not have made for such an enticing story about the power of evangelism and discipleship.

The eunuch’s words were ringing in my ears when I received a similar request recently.  One of our young parishioners lost her godfather to an unexpected death during COVID.  We were all devastated and grieved together.  But a few weeks ago, the family contacted me with a request.  They had already talked as a family about how her godfather would always be her godfather, even from heaven.  But they also wanted to appoint a new earthly godfather who could help their daughter grow in the life of faith.  And so, their question was, “Is there a way you can do that liturgically by Zoom?”

One answer could have been no; we do not have such a liturgy in our Prayer Book.  But the request was so pure and Spirit-led that I knew even a Prayer Book would not want to limit such grace and abundance.  And so, in consultation with some fellow clergy and liturgical resources, including the Book of Common Prayer, we cobbled together a beautiful liturgy.  We prayed for the godfather who had passed and the ways in which he would always be with us.  The godchild formally asked the godfather if he would be willing to be her earthly godfather.  We asked the normal questions we ask in a baptismal liturgy of the godfather, and then we all reaffirmed our Baptismal Covenant and prayed over the new “family” we had created – all via Zoom.  And although we were not in our beloved chapel, we created a profound, intimately sacred space together, where the Holy Spirit blessed us as a community.

When I think about those questions, “What is to prevent me from being baptized?” and “Can we designate a new godparent?” these are questions of curiosity and longing.  These are questions inspired by those seeking Christ and wanting a deeper connection to God.  If this pandemic has taught us anything, we have learned the ways in which the Holy Spirit is unbounded and can act – whether in a building, alongside a road, or online.  This week, I invite you to ponder what limits you have placed around your own connection to God – what barriers or rules have hindered your connection to the sacred.  How might you begin lessening your grip to allow room for encounters with the sacred?

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[i] Acts 8.26-40

On the Awkward and the Sacred…

Tags

awkward, church, creative, gratitude, Holy Spirit, human, new, open, pandemic, sacred, tradition, virtual, worship, Zoom

Phot Credit: Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; permission to reuse required

One of the disadvantages of leading virtual worship is that you do not get to participate in worship.  Of course, I can always go back and watch later, but I never get the “live” experience of watching prayers.  That all changed this week.  My seminary held their annual Convocation yesterday.  It was entirely virtual, with webinars, Zoom meetings, breakout rooms, and Zoom worship.  Our worship at Hickory Neck Church is via Facebook Live, so this was my first time worshiping with a community via Zoom, and I was curious to see how it would feel.

My initial response was dissatisfaction.  Although I could see there were about 50 people gathered, once slides were used on the shared screen, I could only see six people without constantly scrolling.  Although the sermon was close to my normal experiences with preaching, watching faces that seemed spaced out was a bit odd (Do the faces look that spaced out when I preach??).  And of course, when I joined in speaking the italicized words (those words “the people” are supposed to say), because we were all on mute, I felt like only the officiant and I were participating.

But that was just the initial reaction.  As I said more and more of the unison readings, I felt less and less awkward.  And even though I could only see a few faces, I loved knowing I was not alone in the worship experience.  And as I became less paranoid about what my own video screen was showing, I was able to relax into my chair, and transport myself to an imaginary pew.  The worship experience was not the same – but it was also familiar, human, holy, and lovely.

Looking back on that experience, I want to offer major kudos to all who are “making it work” with virtual church.  I know it is not the same.  I know it is hard staying positive when all you want is something more familiar.  I am so grateful for all of you who are sticking with it, making the awkward become sacred.  I hope that you are having moments of grace and blessing.  And I also hope you are noticing all the names (and faces if you’re Zooming) you do not recognize:  those folks who find it harder to harken the doors of the church than to hop on Facebook for worship – whether when you are live, or at 10:00 pm, as you watch the archived video while you ease off to sleep.   This may not be church as we have always known it.  But we are also fashioning something new, flexible, and creative, while rooting ourselves in the traditions we know and love that ground us.  This week, you have my gratitude for all the ways you are staying open to the Holy Spirit.  And if you have not found a place to experience the Spirit, I’ve got just the place for you!!

On Seeing Goodness…

Tags

creation, gathering, God, good, goodness, grace, gratitude, pandemic, sacred, seeing, worship

Photo credit: http://www.dirtyandthirty.com/dirt-of-the-day/finding-good-world/

After six months of waiting, planning, praying, and organizing, my parish finally held our first in-person socially distanced worship service.  We had prepared our members and guests for how different Socially Distanced (SD) Worship would be, even producing an instructional video.  And when the day finally came, our volunteers were amazing – sanitizing, directing, monitoring, and executing a beautiful morning of worship. 

I have been reflecting on the experience of finally being back in the worship space with other people, and I realized what we have been saying all along was true:  it was not the same as worship before the pandemic.  Certainly, the service was familiar:  the liturgy, beautiful music, the physical patterns of standing and sitting, and the reception of communion.  But the little things were different:  the inability to physically embrace or shake hands (something that felt sorely needed after such a long separation), the absence of touch during the Eucharist (an act that has always felt intimately and sacredly physical), the general tentativeness of all gathered (the desire to keep each other safe creating an underlying tension).  We had said SD Worship would be different, and it was.

But SD Worship was also good.  You could feel the palpable relief of everyone to finally be back in the space we love.  I watched as our deacon became much more animated while preaching with people in the room.  I heard sounds I had not heard in the last six months – a familiar lector reading the lesson, the organ and a violin making an otherwise spoken service feel whole, and voices responding in a room that has been mostly empty on Sundays.  It was definitely not the same.  But it was certainly good.

One of the things that has impressed me during this pandemic is the ability of parishioners, neighbors, and friends to see goodness.  When a health crisis occurs, in the stress of restarting schools virtually, in the inconveniences of wearing masks and staying home, I still encounter people who can name goodness in this time.  My invitation for you this week is to find something good and holy about this most unusual time each day.  Try to imagine the way God responds in creation at the end of each day, saying, “It was good.”  What is good in your day today?  Where are the moments of grace, the occasions of gratitude, the sacred for you this week?  I hope you will share them, as your moment of goodness may be what someone needs to help them see goodness in their life too. 

On Sacred Ground and Stories…

Tags

God, holy, Moses, power, sacred, sacred ground, story, struggle, tender

Photo credit: https://gracechurchanderson.com/2017/09/holy-ground/

Last week, our parish kicked off a program called “Sacred Ground.”  The program comes out of the Episcopal Church and is meant to be a program to help Caucasians begin (or continue) to wrestle with the issue of racism.  As part of the introductory materials, Bishop Michael Curry retells Moses’ call narrative.  If you remember, God tells Moses to take off his shoes beside the burning bush because he is standing on holy ground.  Bishop Curry submits that the ground is holy not because of the fire but because it is the place where God tells God’s story.  Curry further suggests that anytime someone shares their story, we are standing on sacred ground with them.

As our group began to tell our stories, I began to realize perhaps this is why we are struggling as a country and community these days.  So often we assume we know people’s stories based on their political stances, their social media posts, or even our chitchat with them on a daily basis.  But every person has a story – a journey of joys and sorrows, a path of successes and failures, and a walk of pride and shame.  And until we make space to hear that story, we will judge, assume, and desecrate the holiness of others.

This week I came across a story of a project in Denmark called the Human Library.  People go to public libraries and instead of borrowing books they “borrow” people.  Each person is given a “title,” such as “Unemployed,” “Refugee,” or “Bipolar.”  When you borrow the person, you sit with them for thirty minutes and hear their story.  The idea is to break down prejudice through the power of story.

This week I invite you to reach out to someone you do not know much about – someone you only know superficially, someone different from you, or someone you already know will rub you the wrong way and ask if you can hear their story.  In this time of social distancing, maybe you start with projects like Humans of New York or StoryCorps.  But maybe you use a phone, FaceTime, or outdoor coffee as your method to connect with someone local.  Either way, this week I invite you to take off your shoes and stand on some holy ground with one another and your God.  Perhaps once we all have our shoes off, we will find ourselves walking much more tenderly with one another.

On Teachers, Nurses, and Grandmas…

Tags

appreciation, blessing, care, Christ, God, grandmother, gratitude, Jesus, light, love, ministry, notes, nurses, pandemic, sacred, teachers, thank you, thankful, vocation, work

Photo credit:  https://www.considerable.com/life/etiquette/bring-back-thank-you-notes/

One of the things my grandmother instilled in me from an early age was the importance of thank you notes.  She taught me how to write them, how quickly to send them, and the significance of being a person who reliably sends them.  These days I fear she would be sorely disappointed with how those carefully honed skills have deteriorated over time – not that I do not know how to write them or understand their importance, but how my overflowing plate often means the list of thank you notes to be written makes it to the bottom of my “to do” pile.

That is why I am thankful for the ways in which our country has designated this week as appreciation weeks for two powerful vocations:  teachers and nurses.  Left to my own devices, I regularly forget to show my appreciation for the teachers in our lives.  But this annual week always reminds me that for thirty-five-plus hours a week, teachers are the people who are with my children – teaching them, shaping them into thoughtful citizens, helping them grow into their unique identity, and generally helping them feel loved and valued.  I have always thought of teachers as part of our “village,” who are helping my husband and me raise our children.  And this year, more than ever, I am amazed at the ways teachers are pivoting, learning new technologies, figuring out different ways to engage children in a pandemic, and showing love to our kids while socially distanced.

Likewise, I am grateful for a week to show our gratitude toward our nurses.  My most powerful experience with a nurse was in childbirth.  I had been laboring for the better part of twelve hours when I finally elected to have an epidural.  Everyone left the room, and as I leaned forward for the anesthesiologist, I could not stop shaking – whether from exhaustion or fear, I am not sure.  But the nurse took my arms firmly, looked me right in the eyes, and instilled in me a trust so deep I can still feel it palpably ten years later.  Nurses do this every day – take our lives into their hands, guide us through healing and wellness, and comfort us in ways that build confidence, trust, and care.  And in the midst of this pandemic, they are literally putting their lives on the line to do this often-overlooked work.

I’m not sure this is enough of a thank you note to meet my grandmother’s standard.  But what I can tell you is our teachers and our nurses are doing sacred work every day of the year.  They love us, care for us, and show us the light of Christ every day.  If you have a teacher or nurse in your life, neighborhood, or circle of friends, please be sure to thank them personally for the ways in which they are changing our lives today.  I invite you to return God’s blessing they have been to you back to them.