Dear Mayfield,

Last Sunday’s home reflection and worship materials explored two things that happened on the road when Martha went out to meet Jesus following the death of Lazarus. In balance during their meeting was a space that held all the feelings of anger, despair, and grief that Martha was bearing and also the occasion of her great confession of faith in the power of resurrection, startling and unexplainable new life in the depths of our wounds and loss. Shared below are a few other brief readings and a photo to bear us up in that inescapable tension for Martha then and for us now.

From German philosopher and Lutheran theologian Paul Tillich:

Let us keep ourselves open to the power that carries our life in
every moment…that we may be filled with silent gratefulness.

From Dutch Catholic priest, professor, writer, and theologian Henri Nouwen:

God of wholeness and healing, I know that I am afraid of pain and acutely conscious of being harmed and hurt.  Help me avoid my pattern of cause-and-effect, of rationalizing my wounds.  Instead, let the soothing oil of your mercy heal my wounds; let me live through the pain and recognize that your joy is truly on the other side.  Amen

From Polish poet, prose writer, translator, and diplomat Czeslaw Milosz, a poem titled hope:

Hope is with you when you believe
The earth is not a dream but living flesh,
That sight, touch, and hearing do not lie,
That all things you have ever seen here
Are like a garden looked at from a gate.
 
You cannot enter.  But you’re sure it’s there.
Could we but look more clearly and wisely
We might discover somewhere in the garden
A strange new flower and an unnamed star.
 
Some people say, we should not trust our eyes,
That there is nothing, just a seeming.
These are the ones who have no hope.
They think that the moment we turn away,
The world, behind our backs, ceases to exist,
As if snatched up by the hands of thieves.

From United Methodist pastor, artist, and writer Jan Richardson, a blessing:

When the wall
between the worlds
is too firm,
too close.
 
When it seems
all solidity
and sharp edges.
 
When every morning
you wake as if
flattened against it,
its forbidding presence
fairly pressing the breath
from you
all over again.
 
Then may you be given
a glimpse
of how weak the wall
 
and how strong what stirs
on the other side,
 
breathing with you
and blessing you
still,
forever bound to you
but freeing you
into this living,
into this world
so much wider
than you ever knew.

This is a photo of a page from a 2014 calendar. The page is in a pile of images at home into which I dip for collage materials. Unfolding and enduring life goes on even against a backdrop of darkness or in the midst of overwhelming fear and pending loss.

Jan Richardson reminds us:  “A blessing helps us to keep breathing—to abide this moment, and the next moment, and the one after that.” (from The Cure for Sorrow).  It is very common for us to hold our breath when we are grieving or fearful. Pay attention to your breath this day and every day as we do in our Sunday reflections during these weeks of physical separation. Be well. Stay safe. Remain open to the light that will not be quenched.  Peace, Martha