a prophetic voice-

Another year passed... another year gone... another year older- perhaps a bit wiser, but perhaps not. And the spectre named Grief lurks in the shadows, never far from sight or mind. but on days like today, oozing out into the open, a slimy ribbon staining the corridors of the hours with an indelible, insoluble mark of pain and loss. He would have been fifty-two today, my golden boy, my firstborn child. Instead, I sit here with a misshapen heart, a piece eternally missing- though I have learned a heart can mend, can still beat on, sharing love and hope, blessing and peace, even when a part is gone, forever gone. For family and friends abound; children and grandchildren fill my life and so my heart with joy and love and laughter, and through it all, through passing years, a smile persists through veils of tears, a smile of gratitude and wonder, of hope and gentle joy, even as my mother's heart weeps quietly for my precious boy.

Today, I had the honor of preaching the eulogy at the memorial Service of a member of my parish who had, over the years, become a dear friend. So many people asked me afterward for a copy of that sermon that I am posting it here- for them and for those of you who could not attend the service and for those of you who never knew Sara but may come to know her through my words.         +         +        +         +         +        +         + Even though we are gathered here this afternoon to grieve a death, I must tell you that I continue to think of Sara in the present tense. For even in her dying months and weeks, she was one of the most vibrantly- alive people I have ever met and had the remarkable privi...

Been wondering why my sleep patterns and appetite have been disturbed the past couple of days...why I just felt kind of "out of sorts"...and then, today, I realized yesterday was October 2, a more-than-momentous date in my life. Thirty-nine years ago on that day, my thirty-seven-year-old husband died of the leukemia which had overwhelmed his previously healthy body. It had been exactly one month from his diagnosis to his death and to say my entire family was devastated would be understating the effects it had on each and all of us. My children were seven, nine, and eleven and I was only thirty-three. October 2, 1975 became a day which worked its way deep into my psyche, into the innermost parts of who I was and am. Fast-forward nine years to south Florida, with a second marriage and three teenagers and a newly-adopted three- year-old, when I found a lump in my right breast and, on October 2, underwent surgery in Boca Raton. I was only forty-two, had already...

For my sister, Kathy... In those young days, those long-ago, long-since-past days, the gap of years loomed large, a nearly-nine-year chasm we could barely leap across and separating us in ways both ordinary and mysterious. And now we are no longer young. In your still-youthful face I see reflections of both Mom and Dad, as I do in mine, though the features have taken on a different mien, configured in a different shape on each of us. The intervening years have brought the sharing of those darker gifts we would gladly have eschewed-      the heart-rending, life-twisting loss of first-born sons...      the body's cruel betrayal as cancer's icy touch seared its way,           unseen and, at first, unfelt... But in the shining gifts of sister-love, of Christmases shared and long conversations on the phone, of laughter in the midst of pain, of chemo cuts, of precious time to simply b...

Today, I baked gingersnaps, in loving remembrance of my mom. I hadn't made these delectable  cookies since baking them for her at Christmas 2009, her last holiday with us. They were her favorites- spicy and slightly crisp- and I baked them for her often, keeping the cookie jar full so she could enjoy having two or three each afternoon with her tea. As I was rolling the dough into balls, rolling the balls in sugar, and lining them up on the cookie sheets for baking, I was thinking of her...recalling her pleasure at something so simple. And Mom did find delight in simple things, never expecting or demanding that life hand her "spectacular" or even "special". She accepted what came, what life had to offer, and lived with and through it all with both amazing grace and dignity. She was a true "lady", in the old-fashioned sense of the word... even in her old age, bearing the losses and indignities of advancing years with patience and a ...

Yesterday was a delight...beautiful snow showers...a visit to an old friend at Trinity Glen...coming home to a house decorated for the holidays...hot chocolate in front of the fire. Lovely... But this morning, tears came unbidden as I found myself longing for Thanksgivings long past and the people no long present. I felt suddenly bereft...of purpose, of hope, of joy. A shroud of loneliness covered me, blotting out the already-brightly-shining sun. I was alone... felt alone...and I found myself wondering just what these nearly seventy-two years of my life have been all about.   The tears passed, as they are wont to do, and as I stood in the blessedly hot shower, I began thinking about this day- meant to be a day of giving thanks, though it has taken the meaning of a day for family and feasting- not a bad thing, except for those who have neither family nor food. And I have both- in abundance, if truth be told. And friends...beautiful, wonderful, sharing, caring fri...

I don't know how it slipped by me but it did: July 6th, 2013. It would  have been my fiftieth wedding anniversary, had life gone differently... had a dreadful disease not ended the life of my otherwise healthy young husband, leaving me and our three children reeling, a sense of disbelief the overriding emotion for all of us, including my parents and sisters, our extended family, and all of our friends. And with the memories I am once again made aware of- hit in the face with, actually- l ife's delicate fragility, of the  reality that we never, ever know what  tomorrow will bring. Trite-sounding, I know, but  unarguably true. Today is all any of us  really has... this moment, this breath... to use as we will or to let slip  away like sand through an hourglass. Who knows what our lives would have been like- mine and my  children's'- had the fickle finger of fate not intervened as it did? Who knows what our paths would have look...

morning plea Good morning, God, whoever you are. My heart offers welcome. I sense your calming, caring presence as this stiff, aging body stretches tentatively into the day. From the news on NPR to the sounds of chanting from a cherished CD, from the whisper of the comforting hear to the songs of the towhee and robin and wren outside my window, my world is filled with signs of life and living, even in the midst of memories of the dear departed which accopany me during these February days, death relentlessly stalking my mind and heart. Comfort this one small person today, Grandfather God. As I crawl into your lap, caress my tear-stained face with your tender hands and hold me close for just a little while. Is that your dear voice I hear whispering, "Precious child, this, too, shall pass," in my ear? Twenty years ago today my eldest son died. Though much time has passed, I miss him still and remember, remember, remember... evening prayer With tear...

Today, we remember two remarkable women, women who were among the pioneers of their respective generations: Amelia Earhart and Sally Ride. Earhart was a childhood hero of mine- bold, confident, daring to go where other women had not gone before. Today is the 115th anniversary of her birth. And on this day in 2012, we mourn the death of Sally Ride, also a pioneer among the women of our day- bold, confident, daring to go where other women had not gone before. Both were drawn to the skies, Earhart to flight within our atmosphere, probably not even able to imagine flight which would go beyond the bounds of space; Ride to space flight far beyond the limits of gravity, into places and spaces perhaps only dreamed of by the earlier aviators. What amazing women! What incredible role models! Two women who dared beyond daring, who stepped out- or up- into the reaches of the beckoning skies, who spread their wings and soared. Wherever you are, dear Amelia, dear Sally, I am remembering you w...

Nick is on the left... My grandson, Nikki, recently turned nine (though he now wants to be called Nick, just as his older brother, Jamie, wants to be called Jim- lots of adjustments for this grandmother, but then change is the story of life, isn't it?) I have been thinking about him a lot in the past several days, recalling the sweet-faced, wise-eyed baby and toddler he was, the still sweet-faced boy he has become- with his love of Grandma Linny's homemade applesauce and the readiness of his welcoming hug whenever we see each other. And as I was thinking about my Nikki (forgive me, Nick, but in my heart you will forever be Nikki), I recalled another Nicky who came into my life briefly many, many years ago when I was a young nursing student on Staten Island, NY. The impact he had on me has remained to this day and so I share his story with you, dear friends, from my January 1985 "Made for Living" column, in the hope that it will stir in you some recollection of t...

The best-laid plans...why do they do often go astray? Perhaps to remind us that, in the long haul of things, life is not in our control... that things happen- like snowstorms and respiratory viruses...like the death of a beloved son and the birthday of another. In spite of my best intentions to do the daily yoga challenge during Lent, beginning on Ash Wednesday, here I am on Sunday with nothing begun. Yet looking out the window yesterday, seeing the winds pulling the trees this way and that, I realized...I realize that this IS life...this buffeting, this being tossed, this having to respond to happenings rather than controlling them. And it is, after all, our response to what happens that determines who we are, who we will become. Exactly nineteen years ago, my life was devastated by a single phone call telling me of the death of my oldest son...and for nearly two years I was "dead"...inside nothing lived- or so it seemed. Oh, I funtioned, went through the motions, kept p...

Though he said goodbye to all of his fans several weeks ago, Andy Rooney said his final goodbye this week when, at age 92, he died. The last of the original cast members of CBS' "Sixty Minutes", his ascerbic wit and curmudgeonly view of life kept us both entertained and thoughful as, week after week, he reflected on the state of the world, our nation, or simply the foibles of humanity, including his own. His commentary on cotton in pill containers, paper weights, and junk mail mixed with heartfelt reflections on national and world politics, and he was never afraid to voice his opinions loudly and clearly. His voice joined those of other truly stellar newsmen: Mike Wallace, Dan Rather, Harry Reasoner, and Ed Bradley, all of whom were reporters to the bone, digging for the heart of each story, fleshing it out for us, the viewers, in a way seldom seen since. Andy, you will be missed. Blessings to you, and good night.

It was the fifth anniversary of September 11, 2001, and as I sat alone, remembering, tears running down my cheeks, these words emerged...   remembering... We hear & say the words like a mantra-                 nine-eleven... remembering the day which changes us as a nation...                 nine-eleven... the day when fire & brimstone raied down on Manhattan...on Virginia...on a Pennsylvania field...                  nine-eleven... and Evil reared its gorgon head to spew the filth of fear & hatred, xenophobia & violence...                  nine-eleven... the nations gathered 'round us then, to cofort and to wipe our tears, as grief ...