Maybe the question isn’t so much where do you find the sacred, the holy as much as where does it find you? Just where is the isn’t the sacred, or at least, what you call it? Whatever you find holy, wherever you find sacred, whatever feeds your soul and gives meaning to you, don’t let any label like the sacred or the holy or the religious or the spiritual or the essence or the energy take you away from it. . .
WHEN YOU FIND THE SACRED
you feel Peace
WHEN THE SACRED FINDS YOU
you become Peace
PRAYING
. . .so, do you
P R A Y. . .
HOW?
Head Bowed
Eyes Closed
Silently
Out Loud
With Music
With People
IN A CLOSET. . .
Think on this as Ellen Bass’s Poem tingles you brain cells as it drips into your soul:
PRAY FOR PEACE
Ellen Bass
Pray to whomever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or plastic cross,
his suffering face bent to kiss you,
Buddha still under the bo tree in scorching heat,
Adonai, Allah. Raise your arms to Mary
that she may lay her palm on our brows,
to Shekhina, Queen of Heaven and Earth,
to Inanna in her stripped descent.
Then pray to the bus driver who takes you to work.
On the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus,
for everyone riding buses all over the world.
Drop some silver and pray.
Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM,
for your latte and croissant, offer your plea.
Make your eating and drinking a supplication.
Make your slicing of carrots a holy act,
each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.
To Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, pray.
Bow down to terriers and shepherds and Siamese cats.
Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.
Make the brushing of your hair
a prayer, every strand its own voice,
singing in the choir on your head.
As you wash your face, the water slipping
through your fingers, a prayer: Water,
softest thing on earth, gentleness
that wears away rock.
Making love, of course, is already prayer.
Skin, and open mouths worshipping that skin,
the fragile cases we are poured into.
If you’re hungry, pray. If you’re tired.
Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day.
Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.
When you walk to your car, to the mailbox,
to the video store, let each step
be a prayer that we all keep our legs,
that we do not blow off anyone else’s legs.
Or crush their skulls.
And if you are riding on a bicycle
or a skateboard, in a wheelchair, each revolution
of the wheels a prayer as the earth revolves:
less harm, less harm, less harm.
And as you work, typing with a new manicure,
a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail,
or delivering soda or drawing good blood
into rubber-capped vials, twirling pizzas–
With each breath in, take in the faith of those
who have believed when belief seemed foolish,
who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.
Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace,
feed the birds, each shiny seed
that spills onto the earth, another second of peace.
Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.
Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk.
Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child
around your Visa card. Scoop your holy water
from the gutter. Gnaw your crust.
Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling
your prayer through the streets.
Which bubbled this up inside of me
and now maybe you. . .
Bowing the head
gently
not tightly closing the eyes
as if you were greeting sleep
a few breaths away
and not strongly
squinting out the first rays
of a new day
Don’t pray that way
Wide eyed
head held high and firm
Blinkless
Offer up not what a mouth
can whisper
But a heart shouts
Full vibrato
To not make your needs known
But your promises
Powerfully Claimed
Humbly Received
Gratefully accepted
Pray that way
Not with a softend amen
But an exalted hurrah
and don’t blink
for fear of missing
the something
that compares to nothing
in this world
or the one
seemingly unfolding
before us all
especially if it’s
unlabeled
Psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst:
WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE A PRAYER
BE
ONE
(The only true prayer you’ll ever really need is the one
YOU ARE
ENOUGH
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. . .
It’s really hard to
S H U S H
especially this time of the year
and it’s almost impossible to
KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT
YOUR EYES CLOSED
YOU EARS OPEN
all at once
but
before you listen to this song again
read the lyrics:
I Have Enough By JJ Heller, David Heller, and Taylor Leonhardt
There’s a box up in the attic
Full of treasures from my past
Paper snowmen from a season
Melting into spring too fast
Clay and glitter, wood and glue
May not seem like much to you
It reminds me of
All the ones I love
When I think of them
I think I have enough
We may not live up in the mountains
Like we always wanted to
But this old house shines like a diamond
With Christmas lights hung on the roof
It might not be the life I dreamed
But it’s become my favorite scene
It reminds me of
All the ones I love
When I think of them
I think have enough
Everything I want this Christmas
Doesn’t cost a single thing
Cookies baking in the kitchen
Hearing little voices sing
Tell the story once again
Peace on earth, goodwill to men
It reminds me of
All the ones I love
When I think of them
I think I have enough
It reminds me of
All the ones I love
When I think of them
I think I have enough
. . .AND
just what does three ties have to do with
THAT SONG. . . ?
EVERYTHING!
I’ve had those ties for years
but not for as long as they’ve actually been created. . .
The two on the left
are between 65-70 years old
. . .I inherited from my grandfather
and rarely wear them
because they are fragile
and I don’t want the last time I tie them
to be the last time I tie them. . .
The tie on the far right
is my father-in-law’s
that I inherited shortly after he died
and no one in the family wanted it
. . .none of them
would make the cover of
G Q
but they continue to flutter through the pages
of my mind
in a most gentle
but powerful way
that makes me feel close
to both of these men
ESPECIALLY AT CHRISTMAS
when I realize
much like
J J Heller’s song,
I HAVE ENOUGH
. . .What takes you
T H E R E
what song
what food
what smell
what word
what texture
what piece of clothing
what scene
what feeling
takes you way past
that box in the attic
out of your head
and into your heart
of memories
that makes you feel:
I HAVE ENOUGH
. . .more importantly
what song
what food
what smell
what word
what texture
what piece of clothing,
what scene
what feeling
WILL YOU BE SHARING
that’ll keep you out of some
attic box
past someone’s memory
but burrowed deep
into their heart
and forever
in the delicate
l a c e s
of their
soul
that’ll forever make them feel:
I
H A V E
E N O U G H
Pssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst:
GIVE THAT
(no receipts or returns necessary)
The BEST PLACE
This is the story of a three year old boy who loses his beloved teddy and is desperate to find him. Teddy wants nothing more than to be reunited with his best friend and navigates his way through thick and thin to get home in time for Christmas morning. Blossom & Easel, a Hampshire-based company, was started in 2019 and produces nature-inspired designs for products such as placemats, makeup bags, tote bags and face masks. The designs are all the original work of young local artists who have not sold their work professionally before, and all the products are made in the UK with eco-friendly packaging. . .
But it’s much more than an a nice video advertising
Blossom & Easel,
isn’t it. . . ?
Help me
. . .help me understand
just when did a house
and staying in one
become so political
become so divisive
become so disruptive
become so imprisoning
become so wrong
H O M E
has never been a street address
a mailbox number
a mere place
with assorted rooms. . .
Make it the Sanctuary
more sacred than any midnight Mass
on Christmas Eve
Make it a Fortress
much stronger than any one
guarded by the strongest of forces
Make it Refuge
a place where
COMFORT and COMPASSION
are the sweet fragrant air
filling each room
and hunger and thirst
don’t exist
Make it a Hostel
where fireplaces warm
cold hearts and hands
and lights shine through
stained glass windows
welcoming the weary safe rest
for tired-not-knowing-where-to-step-next-feet
Make it what can’t be imagined
and never quite known
but desperately needed
and. . .
and find your way
T H E R E
for the
H O L I D A Y
that never found its way on a calendar
but intensely needs celebrating. . .
THAT PLACE
is just simply
the best place
(prove it)
Take to heart
what the wisest of the wise
TEDDY’S
s h a r e s:
Pssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst:
I’ll meet you
T H E R E
The Sacred Search
How do YOU know. . .
How do you ever really know
It’s a most Sacred Search. . .
Maybe it’s when you don’t find
A W A Y
o r
T H E W A Y
but simply
Y O U R W A Y. . .
It would have never been a search I would have begun except my father said he really wanted to get a grave marker for his older brother who was born in 1918 and died five months, five days later from Whooping Cough.
I had never known of my Uncle until somewhat recently when he told me about him having an older brother and him dying; he said it was never discussed in ‘those days’ but he thought it fitting that he have a grave marker.
My niece, Katie Farrer Hall did some research on this a few years ago and had secured death certificates for my Grandfather and uncle as well as a wedding license for my grandparents; and though we suspected he was buried in the same cemetery we weren’t 100% sure just where until. . .
It was their 66th wedding anniversary this past Thursday on June, 7th and Erin and I thought it would be a good idea if we went to Washington, PA to pick up my mom and take her to see my dad at the nursing home by way of Wheeling, WV where Mt. Zion Cemetery happen to be.
Here’s where it got kind of spookily LAW OF ATTRACTION/EVERYTHING-FIT-TOGETHER-SEAMLESSLY-MIRACULOUS. . .
The Cemetery was in shambles and upkept by 4 volunteers. . . 2 of them JUST HAPPENED TO BE THERE THIS MORNING WHEN WE WERE THERE . .
The lady who keeps records just happened to be there because her husband’s funeral was THAT AFTERNOON. . .
A guy (Stephen) who wasn’t suppose to be there to begin with, that morning, stopped weed whacking and asked if he could help. When we told him that we were looking for my grandparents grave. He went to the record lady whose husband was to buried that afternoon, (Paula) who gave us the burial lot 2025 and when we were trying to find it he said, YOU KNOW THERE’S a JR. BURIED WITH ELLSWORTH. I was just looking for THEIR GRAVE at this point. . .
B A M !
Our knees almost buckled when he shared THAT information before I even asked him; told him, that’s why we were really there. . .
And then I was blown away that the grave was in such good shape. . .
It’s severely hill, overgrown, sunken roads, fallen headstones mess. . .
with numerous toppled over tombstones because of landslides
It was like looking for a pin in a haystack and
F I N D I N G A D I A M O N D. . .
How do you ever really know
It’s a most Sacred Search. . .
Maybe it’s when you don’t find
A W A Y
o r
T H E W A Y
but simply
Y O U R W A Y. . .
NOT Lives Touched
I became a part-time-on-call-Chaplain at Fairview Hospital in 1988
The hours were from 5 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. five or six days a month,
and it was usually Emergency Room cases
that had me rolling out of my warm bed
on cold winter nights to attend to those crises. . .
It was those catastrophes
that involved car accidents,
shootings,
heart attacks,
still births,
suicides
and some natural caused deaths. . .
I met and cared for many more family members
than I ever did patients in those settings and they taught be
the most important,
the most sacred,
the most intimate,
the most significant,
the most heart-wrenching,
the most profane
the most consecrated,
the most hallowed lesson
I’ve learned in all my 61 years
and had affirmed and validated countless times over since:
IT IS NOT THE LIVES
YOU TOUCH THAT MATTERS. . .
SO MUCH AS THE
L I V E S
T O U C H E D
BECAUSE OF THOSE YOU FIRST HAVE TOUCHED !
It’s a lesson
I’ve learned
re-learned
continuing to learn
and never fully
comprehend
or
understand. . .
and hopefully never will–
even with the very next life I touch
to continue the never-ending
wave. . .
Go ahead. . .
T O U C H A L I F E
Create a Ripple–
try seeing where it ends. . .
or better still. . .
what it starts in yet another person
D E N I E D
It was a pure act of Love
It was a pure act of Generosity
It was a pure act of Compassion
Stolen
STOLEN
S T O L E N. . . .
It was several years ago.
I was visiting a patient who was actively dying. Her family was out of town, trying desperately to get back to be with her before she died.
I was sitting beside her bed and I was reading
(PRAYING)
the Rosary for her which was in her hands.
She was completely unresponsive and just as completely comfortable and managed.
While I was Reading the Rosary on her behalf a lady came to give Communion to the patient I was seeing and her roommate.
We had met before. She had come to a workshop/presentation I had done at that nursing home,
A PRIEST, A RABBI AND A MINISTER CAME TO HOSPICE.
We greeted one another and after she had given Communion to the roommate, she came over to the foot of the bed of the patient I was providing simple presence.
“I don’t think she’ll be able to receive Communion today. I think she’s readying herself to take her final journey.”
“What about you,” she asked?
“ME?”
“Yes. You. Would you like to receive Communion?”
“I’m afraid I’m not able to because as you know I’m a Protestant Chaplain.”
“I didn’t ask you if you were able,” she said, I am asking if you would like to receive Communion on this Good Friday?”
What she was offering I had never been offered; never had to consider.
Honestly, it wasn’t her WORDS, her invitation, it was the look in her eyes as she offered.
LOVE FILLED.
I honestly believed at that moment, to REFUSE her offer would have been a wrongdoing;
A SIN
She Extended the Host to my Mouth
I humbly accepted.
Hours later, I went back to the office and shared the story and was severely chastised by a colleague, a fellow chaplain, a Eucharistic Minister who demanded to know the name of the person who had extended such an outrageous,
SACRILEGIOUS
G I F T
so she could be reprimanded and stripped of her duties of being a Eucharistic Minister.
It’s taken me a long time to learn the lesson
and I learned it painfully many times over
but I actually didn’t say anything to the remarks…
I didn’t respond or react at the attempt of
ALMOST BEING ROBBED OF SOMETHING SACRED FOR SOMETHING SORDID
BUT I THOUGHT
I THOUGHT. . .
D E N I E D
(I won’t be)
It happened several years ago but
I Remember. . .
I Remember well
(just as instructed)….
Communion isn’t what you Eat or Drink. . .
It’s what YOU DO.
A lesson LEARNED
is only half Accomplished…
When TAUGHT–
fully COMPLETED…
Completed in me
Completed in you
Communioned in ALL
DENIED
TO
NONE!