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los tres reyes

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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13

I’ve loved the Magi since I was  a kid.

I don’t know if it was their exotic nature, or that they were chasing stars across the desert, or that they were a sort of odd addition to the whole manger scene, but they have continued to keep my attention. As I learned to love poetry, I found that they show up there quite a bit: Yeats and Eliot wrote two of my favorites; Ramon Guthrie wrote one that found a place in my novel in search of a publisher (though I couldn’t find it online). James Taylor wrote one of his best songs about the Wise Men, as did Bill Mallonee. I am in good company as Wise Men Watcher.

I knew about their story long before I knew about Epiphany. Growing up Baptist meant I came late to learning about the liturgical year, the Twelve Days of Christmas, and the place the Magi take in shaping how we mark our days faithfully. Now their journey is part of my journey, as Christ is reborn and I wrestle with how to follow suit in my own existence, and how to choose which star to follow.

Advent and Christmastide are filled with the telling and, perhaps more importantly, retelling the stories that have shaped us. One, which Ginger retold in her sermon this morning, happened her first Advent in Winchester, Massachusetts. The youth group were responsible for the Christmas pageant. One eighth grade girl, Chiara, saw it as her chance to stretch her theatrical wings and saw the role of Herod as her ticket to greatness. Nothing would do but she play the part of the King, and Ginger was happy to oblige. Chiara was determined and demonstrative in her portrayal, stomping about the stage after the Wise Men left saying, “This child could be my downfall.”

Then she stopped as she ran head on into an Epiphany of her own: “Wait a minute,” she said, “Herod is a bad guy.”

The dictionary defines epiphany as:

  • the manifestation of a supernatural or divine reality
  • any moment of great or sudden revelation

As Ginger told the story I knew well and the Magi marched across my mind as they have done for many, many years, I had a realization of my own. Those three kings had not one epiphany, but two: they awakened to who Jesus was and also to who Herod was. They had realized neither until they got to town. Their awakenings even come through in what has become their theme song, I suppose, “We Three Kings” — the verse is in a minor key and the chorus, a major one.

Both realizations are essential. Without the Child, realizing who Herod is leaves us despairing, if not cynical. Without understanding Herod, the scene under the Star is little more than the stuff Christmas cards are made of. When we are awake to both realities, any trip to the Manger carries with it a call to justice.

And a call to do more, to let God’s grace and love infect every aspect of our lives. The Magi were warned in a dream, Matthew says, that they should not go back to Herod and give him directions to Jesus, so they “went home by another way.” James Taylor borrows the phrase and sings, “Maybe me and you should be wise guys too and go home by another way.” They didn’t allow themselves to contribute to the damage Herod wanted to do. Good for them and, when Herod couldn’t find Jesus he killed every little Hebrew boy he could get his hands on.

“Forgive us,” says my favorite prayer from the Book of Common Prayer, “for the things we have done and the things we have left undone.”

Let me quit sticking it to the kings and talk about me. Ginger told us this morning that twenty-seven percent of the children in Durham  live in poverty. One in four. I cook dinner at the soup kitchen, I give food to the homeless people on the corner when I have it, I do blah blah blah, and (not but), AND there’s a school bus that drops off a whole load of kids every afternoon that live in the less than habitable apartments two blocks from my front door and I don’t know the name of even one of them. I go home right by their houses and it’s not hard to see that many of them are in that twenty-seven percent. All of a sudden, I’m in another Bible story asking a grown up Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?”

And Jesus answers me — in Spanish.

Peace,
Milton

there’s a word for that

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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3

One of the books I read and reread as a youth minister was David Elkind’s The Hurried Child, which was his take on adolescence in the 1980s. My guess is it still holds up pretty well. One of the things I took away from that book (or at least I remember it coming from that book — I didn’t check my sources tonight) had implications beyond dealing with teenagers. We have words, he said, for what is important to us. The converse, he pointed out, was also true: we don’t create vocabulary for what doesn’t matter. His example was middle school. We have elementary school and high school, but we don’t have a good word for what happens in between; we just call it middle school, a phrase teeming with un-imagination.

It’s not difficult to understand his point. If there is a hell, I’ll bet it’s a lot like seventh grade.

We also lack vocabulary for that with which we have yet to come to terms. I’m still looking for the word that describes those whom I have gotten to know through cyber-space and whose relationship I value, yet I have never seen (Simon Carey Holt and Bill Kinnon, to name two). Friend is not the right word, neither is acquaintance nor colleague. I want to do more than add an e or an i to make up the new word. My vocabulary has not caught up with my life.

Tonight over dinner, Ginger and I came up with another idea in search of a name. The conversation centered around a review of my book. It was written by Gio, a guy I met when we both volunteered for the inaugural Wild Goose Festival. I picked him up at the airport late one night. My list of people to collect didn’t distinguish between contributors and participants; all I knew was he was coming in from New York and needed a ride to Shakori Hills. Over our two summers at the festival, we chatted here and there, but never got to know each other much beyond our ride together late that spring night.

We are also both a part of Mike Morrell’s Speakeasy network, which offers bloggers the chance to review new books. The bloggers get the books for free; the authors get some grass roots publicity. I have been on both sides of the equation, and I find being the critic the more difficult because as soon as someone invites you to be a critic it’s hard not to hear that as an invitation to talk about what’s wrong with what you’re reading, rather than a chance to find solidarity.

One of the first paragraphs in his review says:

To be honest, I wanted to dislike this book from the first page of the preface! (the first paragraph is in dire need of a paragraph break). But the more I read, the more I warmed up to the author’s casual prose. He writes comfortably (albeit clumsily at times) as though we’re in the most natural of places for him – sitting about the dining room table.

And then, a few lines down he continues:

Indeed, perhaps his book would not have impacted me as it did if it were written any other way. Perhaps this, in itself, was what he might describe as an important slight difference. What seemed enormous to me in that first paragraph shrank in perspective, while Brasher-Cunningham’s stories – and the heart behind them – rose like dough from the page (what is this, like, the 5th food analogy? I’m writing a review on a book about food. Deal with it!).

I said to Ginger that I loved the shift in his writing. Somewhere in between those two paragraphs he moved from seeing my clumsiness to hearing the stories, from talking about me to reading along with me. And Ginger said, “We need a word that says when you quit being a critic and become a participant” — except participant wasn’t the word she wanted. We had a good time going back and forth about what the word we were looking for involved: compassion, alliance, listening, incarnation, connection. She even sent texts to our friend, Terry, whose pretty good at coming up with words.

We didn’t find it. I don’t think it’s there, though when Terry wrote back, “Quit being pond scum and become the water beetle making small ripples to keep the pond clean,” he was on to something. We still need the word.

We need the word because we need the attitude. We need the call to encourage and support, even in the moments when we feel compelled to say, “This is not your best work,” or “I didn’t get it.” We need the word because we are called most of all to find ways to connect, not to critique; to find ways to express solidarity rather than superiority. I could hear Gio’s point about my opening paragraph because I felt heard by the connections he made in other places. I felt heard not because he said nice things but because he was willing to draw connections to his own life, to do more than give it an American Bandstand rating (“I’ll give it a 75: has a good beat; you can dance to it”). He interacted, he engaged, he listened, and then he responded.

Compassion meets engagement meets incarnation: compasscarnagement?

We need to keep looking.

Peace,
Milton

resolutionary

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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4

no matter what page we turn
what ball drops or what
calendar we follow when
tomorrow dawns on us
we will still hold the sorrow
that slept here last night

the hopes and fears
of all last year might sit
silently for a few hours
while we dance and
remember the promises
we hoped to keep

but they will come back
like old friends who know
every day is a new year
full of ancient feelings
there is nothing new
nothing new . . .

remember this:
love is the oldest thing.
before there was sorrow,
despair, or broken things —
yes, before even that . . .
there is love. Begin again.

Peace,
Milton

advent journal: the prophet smiled

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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6

Our Christmas Eve service, like many around the country, is a service of Lessons and Carols. It is also a family service, so there is the rumble of restless little ones underneath all the singing and silence. It’s awesome. This year, Ginger made a point of asking a number of our children and young people to be the readers. The first one was a second grader named Matthew who is an awesome kid. He also helped me get ready for the all-church dinner before the service. He stepped up on the special stand that made him tall enough to see over the lectern and, dressed in suit and tie, he read from Isaiah 9 in tones of kindness and innocence:

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light;
those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone . . .
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given;
and the government shall be upon his shoulder,
and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor,
Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end,
on the throne of David and over his kingdom,
to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness
from this time forth and forevermore.
The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.

And then he looked up from the Bible and smiled. I mean teeth-showing-I-delivered-the-good-news smiled. I don’t even think I’ve thought about a prophet smiling. From now on, whenever I hear or read this passage, Isaiah’s going to be grinning through the whole thing. As he stepped down from the lectern, I turned to the person sitting next to me and said, “Now it’s Christmas.”

It is indeed. Merry Christmas.

photo(2)

Peace,
Milton

advent journal: a faraway christmas

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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0

The story below is one I wrote several years ago. I read it this morning at church. I offer it to you tonight.

A Faraway Christmas

by Milton Brasher-Cunningham

 

 

As we gather together on this Silent Night,

To sing ‘round the tree in the soft candlelight,

 

From a Faraway Christmas, from time that’s grown cold,

Comes a story, you see, that has seldom been told.

 

Of all of the legends, the best and the worst,

From Christmases all the way back to the first,

 

This little tale isn’t often remembered

From then until now, down through all those Decembers.

 

But I found an old copy tucked away on a shelf,

And I turned through the pages and I thought to myself,

 

Of all of the times between now and then

This is the Christmas to hear it again.

 

Once upon a time in a place we might know,

‘Cause their woods, like ours, often fill up with snow,

 

Was a small little hamlet — a Long Ago Town —

Of no great importance, or no real renown,

 

Filled with people who seemed fairly normal to me,

With names like Francesca, Francine, and McGee.

 

They had puppies and children, ate bread and ice cream,

They went shopping and swimming, they slept and they dreamed;

 

They laughed and did laundry, they danced and they dined,

And they strung Christmas lights on the big Scottish Pine

 

That grew in the square in the middle of town,

And when Christmas was over, they took the lights down.

 

They read the newspaper, they sometimes told jokes,

And some of the children put cards in the spokes

 

Of their bicycle tires, so they made quite a din

Till it came time for parents to call the kids in.

 

Yet for all of the things that kept people together,

The nice festive feeling, the Christmas Card weather,

 

For all of the happiness one was likely to hear,

This Faraway Christmas was marked, mostly, by fear.

 

Well, yes, they were frightened — but that’s still overstated;

What bothered folks most really could be debated.

 

Some were tired (exhausted), some were sad or depressed,

Some — the best way to say it — well, their lives were a mess.

 

Some felt pressure from not having paid all the bills,

Some were keeping dark secrets that were making them ill;

 

Some felt guilty and thought they were headed for hell,

But the town seemed so happy, who could they tell?

 

So everyone kept all their feelings inside,

And wished they had someone in whom to confide,

 

To say, “Life is lousy,” or “I’ve made a mistake,”

Or “Sometimes I’m so sad I don’t want to awake,”

 

Or “I miss my Grandma,” or “I loved my cat,”

Or “I never, no never get my turn at bat.”

 

Everyone kept it in, no one said a thing

Until once Christmas Eve, when the man they called Bing

 

Came to turn on the lights on the tree in the square

And nobody — not anyone — no one was there,

 

And he looked at the lights as he sat on the curb

And he said — to no one — “I feel quite disturbed;

 

“I know that it’s Christmas, when I should feel warm,

But I don’t think this year that I can conform.

 

It’s been hardly two months since my friend passed away;

How can I smile when he’s not here to say,

 

“’Merry Christmas’?” he asked and burst into tears,

And all of the sadness from all of the years

 

Came out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks,

And he thought he would sit there and blubber for weeks.

 

When Samantha showed up — she had not been expected —

And sat down beside him ‘cause he looked neglected.

 

He looked up through his tears, she said, “You look kinda bad.”

And he answered, “The truth is I feel quite sad.”

 

When she heard those words, tears jumped straight to her eyes,

“The truth is,” she said, “I tell too many lies.

 

I want people to like me, so I try to act cool,

But deep down inside I feel just like a fool.”

 

So they sat there and cried, like a sister and brother,

And were joined by one, and then by another,

 

With a story to tell and feelings to free,

And they wept and they hugged ‘neath the big Christmas Tree.

 

Can you imagine how many tears fell,

After all of the years that no one would tell

 

How much they were hurting, how broken or mad,

How long they had smiled when they really felt sad.

 

How long does it take to clean out your heart,

To get it all out, to make a new start?

 

That answer’s not easy to you and to me,

But they found out that night, those folks ‘round the tree.

 

They cried until daybreak, till the first rays of dawn

Broke over the tree tops and spread ‘cross the lawn,

 

In the new morning light Bing could see ‘cross square;

He also could see the whole town was out there.

 

They had come through the night, first one, then another

To sit down together like sister and brother

 

To pour out their hearts for the first time in years,

And let out their feelings, their sadness, their tears.

 

Samantha stood up and then turned back to Bing,

“You started us crying, now help us to sing.”

 

So he started a carol, the one he knew best,

About joy to the world, and it burst from his chest.

 

The others joined in, not because they weren’t sad,

But because they’d admitted the feelings they had,

 

Everyone sang along, both the sad and the scared,

Because true friends are found when true feelings are shared.

 

There’s more to the story, but our time is short,

Of how life was changed I cannot now report,

 

But instead I must ask why this story’s forgotten;

It’s not hopeless or humdrum, it’s not ugly or rotten.

 

Do you think it’s because people said how they felt,

And if we tell the story then our hearts, too, might melt?

 

What if we spoke the truth, what if we named our fears,

What if we loosed the sadness we’ve tied up for years?

 

Would we ever stop crying, would the dawn ever come?

And like those in the story, once the tears had begun

 

Would we sit on the curb, first one, then another,

And talk about life like sister and brother.

 

Oh, that is exactly why I chose to tell

This lost little tale we know all too well.

 

Our world is no different; we’re frightened and sad,

We feel helpless and hopeless, and certainly mad,

 

But none of those words is the last on this Night

That we wait for the Child, that we pray for the Light,

 

That we sing of the good news the angels did bring,

And we wish for peace, more than any one thing.

 

Yes, this story that came from a Long Ago Town

Of no great importance, of no real renown,

 

Could be ours, if true feelings were what we would say;

And we’d find such a Christmas not so faraway.

Peace,
Milton

advent journal: such a time as this

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
2

Yesterday on my break at the computer store, I walked over to Barnes and Noble to get a cup of coffee, which might be described as my regular routine. The line was about five deep when I got there, which didn’t bode well for my fifteen minute recess, but I decided to chance it since everyone in front of me looked like they were in line by themselves, save the mother and daughter at the front of the line. And they took a long time. I was far enough back that I couldn’t hear what they were doing, but I will own up to becoming a little impatient. They seemed to finish ordering and the woman at the cash register stepped away to take something out of the oven. The mother called out to her. “One moment,” said the server. “I don’t want to burn this sandwich.”

When she returned to the register, the mother and daughter handed her something and talked for a moment and then went their way. The serves seemed nonplussed. We all moved up in line. The woman who was next ordered, got her drink, and held out her credit card. The server said, “Oh — the people in front of you paid for you. There’s no charge.” The customer stood stunned for a moment and then began looking around, as we all did. Though we had all been looking at them while they took their time — or our time, I guess I should say — none of us could recognize them. The next person stepped up to the same good news. Evidently, the two had left a fair amount of money. When I got my coffee, the server said, “I’ve heard about this happening; it’s just never happened to me.”

I walked back to work thinking about the mother and daughter: how they had waited patiently to implement their plan, how they had walked away without waiting to be noticed, how they had built a memory, how they had been willing to let a little thing be enough.

One of the Bible stories etched indelibly in my mind is that of Esther. My father loved to tell the story because of the punchline when Mordecai compels Esther to stand up for her people:

“For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” (4:14)

Most any telling I have heard of that story swings on our being aware of our moment to be a world changer. I love the story and it has always left me feeling some pressure. If I am supposed to change the world, I’m behind schedule. There is, however, a creative tension in what Mordecai is saying. He starts by telling her deliverance is coming, then he points out the part she can play. Still some pressure, I suppose, and he’s also calling her to do what she can do. In her case, admittedly, the stakes were pretty high. Still, as I played the bookstore scene back in my mind, Esther wandered on to the set and I heard Mordecai’s words in a different light. Who knows that the mother and daughter are in this world for such a time as yesterday. We all would have gotten our coffees without them, and that was their moment to offer what they had, not in a cosmic sense but, somehow, in an eternal one. Who knows whether we have not come into this world for moments such as this?

Peace,
Milton

advent journal: come . . .

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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3

come . . .

sit in the dark with me
and tell the truth
reach deep in the
pockets of our souls
for scraps of hope
and wonder

come . . .

look up at the storms
of firefly stars flinging
their light our way
lay back on the blanket
of dead leaves and
sleeping soil

come . . .

sing an old song
on this longest night
this first day of winter
the one about being
together no matter what
yes — that one

Peace,
Milton

advent journal: time and tide

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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10

One of the things I miss about living in Marshfield was learning to tell time by the tides. The tide came and went twice a day, but never in sync with the clock. The tides felt a rhythm rather than a ticking. They followed the moon, the earth’s turning, the breathing of the oceans. In Green Harbor, our neighborhood, the tide came in all the way to the sea wall. All of the sand was submerged. When the waves receded, they never left the beach in the same shape from one day to the next. We might walk down at low tide to find a blanket of tiny pebbles one day, a legion of throwing rocks the next, and then an afternoon of smooth sand.

When I was teaching last year, I watched a documentary about an artist, Andy Goldsworth, who built sculptures on the beach out of wood he found. He would begin work when the tide went out and kept at it until the tide returned — to destroy what he had done. He knew it was going to happen. He knew he was sculpting in a flood plain. Still, he built — and he even built the sculpture in a way that would allow the water to dismantle it with an artistic flair. Once finished, he would climb up to a dry viewing spot and watch the waves do their work.

The ocean is on my mind because I am aware the tide of darkness turns tomorrow. No. Not the Mayan thing. Tomorrow is the longest night of the year, the night when the darkness comes all the way to the wall, if you will; after that, the daylight begins to win again. I love the Solstice.

On this penultimate night, I was fortunate to be a part of a group of people who gathered under the Durham Farmers’ Market pavilion in the dark to stand vigil for those who were killed in Newtown, Connecticut. My connection to the group was through Ginger, who is a part of the Religious Coalition for a Nonviolent Durham — the sponsor of the gathering. But this was not a one time thing. Whenever there is a murder in our city, these folks go and hold vigil where the person was killed. Ginger has gone with the group on many a night to stand on a street corner where folks are not necessarily safe to stand and sing and pray, to hold silence and candles, to be a sea wall of hope against the tide of violence which floods so many lives.

Ginger asked me to go and sing “After the Last Tear Falls,” as I had done last night for our Blue Christmas service. As we gathered under the pavilion, the rabbi standing next to me said, “Do you know ‘If I Had a Hammer?’” My best guess is I haven’t played that song in a good thirty-five or forty years, but I knew the song by heart and I found chords to match and the candle-bearing crowd circled in as we sang:

I’d hammer out justice
I’d hammer out freedom
I’d hammer out the love between my brothers and my sisters
all over this land . . .

When it came my turn to sing, I noticed from almost the very first note that the rabbi was trying to sing along. He didn’t know the song, but he was listening hard and trying to connect. As I began the second verse, I could hear a quiet choir of hums and hopes following his lead. When I got to the end of the verse, which repeats

there is love, love, love, love
there is love, love, love, love
there is love

I invited them to join in. For the last half of the song, they hummed where they could and then joined in when they came to what they knew best: there is love.

We finished singing, passed the peace, and went out into the night, as the tide of darkness prepares to recede and the tide of violence is crashing in. I listened to a well-known denominational figure yesterday on NPR. Here is part of the interview:

COMMENTATOR: What’s the New Testament justification for owning firearms?
SPEAKER: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Love your neighbor as yourself. If you see your neighbor being attacked, if you see your neighbor in danger, you have an obligation and a responsibility to do what you can to protect them.

I thought about his rationale as we stood together tonight and returned again to the truth that responding to violence with violence is not a solution. It may get results, but it doesn’t turn back the tide of damage and despair. It matters more to sing together than it does to lock and load. When the soldiers showed up on the Mount of Olives, Jesus didn’t tell the disciples to go for their concealed weapons. He told Peter to drop his sword and he healed the soldier whom Peter had wounded. There is love.

Six months from now, the days will begin to grow shorter and the darkness will prevail, right in the middle of what we call ecclesiastically “Ordinary Time” — the days between Pentecost and Advent. The church calendar lays fallow, in a way: no major feasts or festivals; instead of telling the old stories, we work to grow new ones of our own. Then, just when it gets darkest, we begin to sing, again, “O come, O come, Emmanuel.”

God With Us.

In the darkness. In the violence. In the daylight. In the singing about the love between our brothers and our sisters. That same God, who showed imagination by coming into the world as a baby born to a poor family in a backwoods town, calls us to live with the same daring and determination. Violence has no imagination. Power knows nothing of whimsy and hope. But a bunch of people holding candles and singing in the dark?

There is love.

Peace,
Milton

advent journal: joy comes . . .

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
3

Throughout Advent, I have been collecting a soundtrack to get me deeper into the season. Tonight, I was greeted by two songs at our annual “Blue Christmas” service — one I sang and one I heard — that helped move me along towards the manger, sadness and all. Tonight, I thought I would share them with you as we approach the longest night of the year. First, is a song written by Melissa Manchester and Beth Nielsen Chapman had sung by the Indigo Girls: “There’s Still My Joy.”

I brought my tree down to the shore
the garland and the silver star
to find my peace, and grieve no more
to heal this place inside my heart

on every branch I laid some bread
and hungry birds filled up the sky
they rang like bells around my head
they sang my spirit back to life

one tiny child can change the world
one shining light can show the way
through all my tears for what I’ve lost
there’s still my joy
there’s still my joy for Christmas day

the snow comes down on empty sand
there’s tinsel moonlight on the waves
my soul was lost, but here I am
so this must be amazing grace

one tiny child can change the world
one shining light can show the way
through all my tears for what I’ve lost
there’s still my joy
there’s still my joy for Christmas day

The second is a song I learned from my brother many years ago and was written and recorded by Andrew Peterson: “After the Last Tear Falls.”

after the last tear falls
after the last secret’s told
after the last bullet tears through flesh and bone
after the last child starves
and the last girl walks the boulevard
after the last year that’s just too hard
there is love, love, love
there is love, love, love
there is love

after the last disgrace
after the last lie to save some face
after the last brutal jab from a poison tongue
after the last dirty politician
after the last meal down at the mission
after the last lonely night in prison
there is love, love, love
there is love, love, love
there is love

and in the end, the end is oceans and oceans of love and love again
we’ll see how the tears that have fallen
were caught in the palms of the giver of love and the lover of all
and we’ll look back on these tears as old tales

’cause after the last plan fails
after the last siren wails
after the last young soldier sails off to join the war
after the last “this marriage is over”
after the last young child’s innocence is stolen
after the last years of silence that won’t let a heart open
there is love, love, love
there is love, love, love
there is love

and in the end, the end is oceans and oceans of love and love again
we’ll see how the tears that have fallen
were caught in the palms of the giver of love and the lover of all
and we’ll look back on these tears as old tales

’cause after the last tear falls
there is love, love, love
there is love, love, love
there is love

The first prayer in the service was a responsive reading and closed with these lines:

All: We ask, “Will joy come in the morning?”
One: You answer, “Yes, joy will come in the morning.”

I was struck by the power of a good homonyms. As the service progressed and the two songs were sung, I felt what I had first heard in the prayer: yes, joy will come in the mourning. Amen.

Peace,
Milton

advent journal: acquainted with grief

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
6

Today has been a sad day.

 

My dear friend, David Gentiles, died three years ago today. Three years later, this day lies between the anniversary of the death of my father-in-law, Reuben, who died a year ago last October and January, which will mark the first anniversary of Lola, our Schnauzer who died after fighting to so hard to stay and take care of us. However we might measure our days, this has been a season of grief at our house. Yet, even as I write that sentence, I am aware that, though this kind of grief is new to me, it is not new. it feels different, I suppose, because I am now better informed.

 

One of the phrases from scripture that has intrigued me since I was a boy comes from Isaiah 53: “he was acquainted with grief.” The verb paints an unusual picture of one who  knows grief well, not as a friend, yet with some familiarity. As we read the prophecies into the story of Jesus, we see the Man of Sorrows, somehow full of grace and love and joy that ran deeper than any of the darkness. I’ve got twenty years on him, as far as being on the planet, and I am just getting acquainted it seems. As I learn more about what it means to live with vacancies the shape of loved ones, the loss of the little ones and their teachers in Newtown remind me that my grief is fundamentally not about me, but about what it means to be human, to be connected, to be loved.

 

This life we live is about losing as much as anything else, and about what we do with those losses. As we grieve collectively as a nation, we do well to remember our brothers and sisters in Africa and Syria, in Palestine and Pakistan who see their children die everyday, not because we must somehow we must compare our sorrows but because now we know more about what it means to be human. We are better acquainted with grief.

 

I have no big point to make here other than tonight I miss my friend. I am grateful for his life and sad it was not longer. And my mind turns to music, such as this favorite hymn:

 

come ye disconsolate where’re ye languish

come to the mercy seat fervently kneel

here bring your wounded hearts here tell your anguish

earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal

 

One of the things Dave and I shared was an unabashed love of John Denver’s songs. I keep coming back to this one:

 

friend, I will remember you

think of you pray for you

and when another day is through

I’ll still be friends with you

 

To all who are acquainted with grief, I hope you find rest and peace.

Peace,

Milton

 

 

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