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Nothing like -2 degrees to make one grateful for the fortune of having a home. Humble or proud, walls and a roof make all the difference. Along with mental health of course.
Last Sunday we had a guest who comes by now and then in need of help. Her particular set of demons drive her to extreme solitude. She travels on foot and prefers to sleep outside. Only when she is truly desperate does she come near groups of people. On Sunday she was exhausted from having stayed awake several nights in restaurants. Having gotten to know her, our congregants have found the graceful balance of saying hello, offering her something to eat and then ignoring her. We had a good conversation and she asked to rest for awhile before moving on. At first she sat up with arms crossed and chin on her chest, dozing. After all but the worship committee were gone - she stretched out on the wooden bench, put her legs over her guitar and used her books for a pillow. She slept the sleep of the dead while worship committee folks tiptoed around as if she were a napping newborn. And my heart broke with the joy of pastoring a church this cool. I wish she'd let us take her to a shelter so she could sleep safe and warm every night. But her needs don't accommodate my wishes. Nor should they. A shelter would have her demons dancing on her heart and mind to the point of terror. What kind of person wishes that for another? Her needs are vast yet she asks so rarely and for so little. All those demons are well beyond my skill set. But we do have a warm building, kind people, coffee, cookies and a pretty good bench in our foyer. She hoped to get a bus to Minnesota today where she has people. I pray she is safe. I pray to be ready next time she visits. peace & prayers, pastor annette
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Beloved:
Emily Hope Briggs was born eighteen years ago today. Nine days to the day after my mother died. During the intervening week my sister and her family moved to town allowing us to walk together through those strange days. Emily's birthday brings memory of my mother. On mine I remember my dad, who died the day I turned forty. Strangeness no amount of writing will ever unravel. Which is not to call it terrible. Sick as she was, my mother was thrilled over my third pregnancy. There's something tidy and satisfying about having my dad for precisely forty years. Like dying on one's own birthday. Best of all, alongside me has been this one called Emy, marking the time as she grows in stature, in wisdom, in favor of God and us regular mortals too. A singing, dancing, drawing, pranking proof of the goodness of God who promises to turn our sorrow into joy. Six months from now she'll be packing for college and the sadness of her leaving will be overwhelmed by the thrill of unleashing her upon the world. For the comfort and the challenge she will be wherever her wandering heart takes her. But not yet. She's still mine a little longer and I'm going to revel in these tattoo-less days, however few they may be, grateful beyond measure for the privilege it has been to stand near her these eighteen years. ~ peace & prayers, pastor annette |
I write a Tuesday morning devotional to members and friends of UBC. It is also posted here.
Enjoy! Pastor Annette Copyright
Everything on this site is licensed under a Creative Commons license, which gives you permission to copy freely, provided that you attribute the work to me, that you use the work for non-commercial purposes, and that you do not produce derivative works. Archives
July 2022
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