Together in Spirit

The place Dan and Donne reside in my heart and how we are connected via Spirit

Soon, I will have to release another sacred friend and Quaker minister from my life and heart. The first time, seven years ago, was traumatic. Dan had been my friend, monthly sharing a cup of tea when my kids were little, stumbling over them as they grew and even writing a message (short sermon) about the time when Autumn, just potty trained, offered to sit and hold his hand while he used the bathroom. "Everything I learned about ministering, I learned from Autumn," I think he titled it.


Dan was VERY hard to let go of because he was the first person whom I could trust to talk about deep spiritual things, like the time I drove home from the Quaker Meeting and felt every red light and reflector glare at me as if evil or when I confessed I wasn't sure who Jesus was to me and he responded, "Me, either."

In the last year or so, we have gotten back in touch and it has been a joy. Over time, I learned to understand that the complete separation was necessary.

Necessary so I and my Meeting could establish rapport with a new minister, who happened to be Donne. I had been tasked with serving on a selection committee when, suddenly and separately, two people became acquainted with a recent Earlham School of Religion (Quaker) graduate serving a Unitarian congregation part-time. I met Donne on her first interview and was physically moved by Spirit to know she was the one for us. I was so convinced that, when our selection committee met in worship, I felt my heart being squeezed and knew Spirit was offering Donne as a gift. The person next to me said she had felt it as well. So clear that I stood aside, as Quakers say, and removed myself from the committee so they could continue their work. I would not change my mind. Another Friend was equally certain the search should continue. Eventually, Donne was hired.

Now, her cycle has ended. In a rare spate, I've missed three weeks of worship and touch with what is happening in my Meeting. I called Donne this afternoon, driving home from my new job. I wanted to catch her up on what was going on and suggest that, because of the new situation, I may not make all of the ministry retreat this weekend. She told me she was was tied up in a transaction and would call back.

Intuitively, I knew she was buying the RV she had mentioned months ago. She had dreamed of traveling. However, I hadn't quite made the connection that she was leaving.

We caught up earlier this evening at the retreat, which Dan was also scheduled to attend. Coincidence? Donne got a call a week ago that the simple-but-popular RV she wanted had walked onto the lot, did she want it? Yes, she'd said. If not, three others were in line behind her.

It's her time to be free. "Sounds like you've been released," I said, instantly recognizing that my ministry has been given the same message in the last week.

In her exit letter, Donne writes "... I must let go of you and ask you to let go of me. In other words, I have been your minister–a friendly one, I hope–but now someone else will be called to be your minister ... I will miss you deeply and love you always."

"Can I do this again, God? This is the second person I've counted on to discuss deep things I rarely share with others. Dan and Donne have both seen the real me and have helped me see it in myself."

Yet, I know her cycle is over and it is time for her to move on from her ministry and into the unknown just as I am. Separated, but together, we will trust Spirit to guide us. That will always unite us.

• How do I say goodbye?
• Who was the first person with whom I could have profound spiritual discussions?
• How do I value that gift?
• How have I learned to let go?
• How do I trust Spirit in my own life and in others I love?


she came in on
a whisp

arriving just
as we needed her

like Mary Poppins

as we grieved our
previous loss,

we saw she possessed
different gifts

gifts we sorely 
needed

she had this way
of flowing in and
around like water

wherever
she was needed

showing us the way

as Spirit is showing
her now,

only in a direction
a part from us

Listen to this post:

Nothing beyond the back porch

Yesterday was one of those oddly rare days when everything comes to a standstill. You drop what you're doing and just wait. We waited while our cat waited to die.

As each team of parent and child was about to leave for various destinations, one observant daughter remarked that the cat was still on the porch and looking a bit lethargic. I had heard him trying to hurl a hairball – that unearthly yowl – earlier. Now, he was hunkered down in a corner. I sat beside him and started to pick him up when I noticed the urine. So I let him be and we started to watch, putting aside whatever it was we had intended to do.

His condition worsened and the wrangling began. He's almost 17 and, while struggling, did not seem to be suffering. We all still tasted the bitterness of our last elderly cat dying alone in a cage at the vet, the place she reviled. I knew picking him up, placing him in a box or carrier and transporting him to a clinic was not in his best interest. I didn't think he'd survive the journey, but was uncomfortable making the decision alone. We called everyone together and all agreed he was likely dying, but not in pain. He seemed in transition. And we wanted him home and surrounded by our loving, vigilant care. The same he had given as the newborns whimpered, when he'd circle my legs and cry to get my attention to attend to the baby. Or when I was sick and he'd plop on my bed. Or just a few weeks ago when he seemed to suck the pain from my old hip injury.

Prayerful discernment was NOT at all clear to take him anywhere. We quietly said our goodbyes; some more publicly than others.

All afternoon and evening, we muted our noisiness and centered our lives near him, continually checking, speaking softly and, occasionally, stroking his head. He seemed somewhere else.

It was sad, confusing for the girls, trying and exhausting, but there was also something else happening. There was a certain closeness in our togetherness, bound by our ailing feline friend. As if nothing of the outside world existed beyond our back porch. We puttered, read, ate, and even drug the computer out to watch a movie. I sensed he was comforted by our presence from his remote corner.

We barricaded the porch doors, confined his entrance to the kitchen, supplied food, water and bedding and left the back door open. My husband even slept on the living room couch to keep guard – whether of the cat or raccoons, I am not certain.

Then we all attempted to settle into sleep. The girls huddled in one room together and I dozed, waking once-in-a-while wondering if the cat's illness had been a dream, then drowsily remembering it was real.

I met the girls in the bathroom about 7:30 and we ventured down the stairs together, not wanting to be alone in any discovery. We were greeted by my smiling husband, who announced the cat had just eaten and purred as he does every morning.

We were joyously astounded. Secretly, I suspect none of us imagined he'd survive the night.

He's been incredibly hungry and wanting to be touched. We have lovingly complied, yet are still watching, giving him space and time to recuperate, heal or go wherever he is called.

It was an unusual second day of summer, but a wonderful gift in being called together to patiently wait. I can't help but see the spiritual overtones. I know summer always revs up, catching me off guard and unhappy as the speedometer ratchets up each week. Perhaps, in addition to spending time with our furry one, we were led to slow down and just be. Not rush.

Once again, this wonderful, elderly cat we affectionately call Him Kitty has facilitated a loving offering.

• What's it like to accompany sickness, grief or even death?
• How is that if experienced in community or with others? 
• In dropping all else, have I been aware of some joy, comfort, gift or insight?
• How has that changed me?
• What has that kind of experience taught me about awareness? 


Rushing
out the
door

almost
forgetting
you 

my furry
friend

who asks
for so
little,
yet
offers
so much


you're
not
yourself
today


you
need
tending,
though
you
would
not ask


so, we
stay
and tend


lovingly,
for we
recognize
just
how
much
you've
brought us


even
now,
on
this day
of waiting
and
wondering