On the Feast of Epiphany

Arise shine; for your light has come,

For darkness shall cover the earth,

and thick darkness the peoples;

but the Lord will arise upon you,

and his glory will appear over you.

Nations shall come to your light,

and kings to the brightness of your day.

They all gather together, they come to you;

your sons shall come from far away,

and your daughters shall be carried on their nurses' arms.

Then shall you see and be radiant;

your heart shall thrill and rejoice.  

Isaiah 60:1-5

There were days in my mother’s final months when her face was radiant.  Something would shift and she would transform from someone who slept most of the time into someone who was luminous, bright, radiant.  

I understood those rare moments as opportunities to see her Spirit.  Cynthia Bourgeault, one of my spiritual guides, teaches that toward the end of life there is an inverse relationship between physical decline and spiritual strengthening. On days when mom's face was bright, I thought about that teaching. There was no question that her body was failing.  But something else in her was shining. 

The day mom died, our family paused before calling the funeral home. Instead, we washed and anointed her body and gathered to pray the rosary.  There was a palpable sense of peace in the room, obvious even to those of us who were on zoom. 

Later, I went for a walk to see if I could tune into mom's spirit in her new state. All I could feel was a sense of joy and liberation. It was like mom was thrilled to finally be free. I was sorry for our loss but not for her.

As I was out for a walk, the funeral home staff were at the house. The peace of the first few hours after mom's passing was shattered as mom's body was moved from the living room to the hearse.  Several family members followed her out the door, distraught as she was taken from the home for the last time.  Suddenly, a flock of birds arrived, circled the house, singing cheerfully, settling on the trees in the front yard. As the hearse drove away, they circled the house again and then flew off.  Everyone there felt it was a mystical sign, a message from mom letting us know that all was well.

This side of mom's death I believe that her spirit is available to help her loved ones in ways that she could not do in her earthly form. It's as if a light has been unveiled and is available to us on an entirely different level; as if the heart of mom’s presence is flittering about, like those birds, and able to communicate love, the kind that holds our hearts, making it easier to stand inside of our giftedness. 

Arise, shine, for your light has come. 

Even so, there is darkness everywhere on this earth. I am heartbroken by unhealthy dynamics in my family and horrors happening in the world - war, economic injustice, meanness, addiction, oppression.  Our government has escalated its violence and imperialism this very week.  I feel powerless to change that.

But I am not powerless.

Because there is something else I see.  It’s that something else I am paying attention to - the near proximity of love. The near proximity of my mother's love.

What will be possible in my life now that wasn’t before? I believe - expect even - that my mother can and is helping in ways that she could not in her earthly form. What do I want to be possible?

My work is about building circles of community where people learn and offer care for each other, where people believe that the light of Christ is the most important thing and try to live from that center.  It’s small work - in the sense of scale.  But how many monks live at New Camaldoli Hermitage at any given time? Father Bruno Barnhart, one of the monks of New Camaldoli Hermitage, once said that monasteries exist to offer a nuclear reaction of love that moves into the world.  Community that emanates mystical love has a powerful light.

My mom accomplished little in her life. Her resume had one job on it.  Even so, the church was packed at her funeral.  With family.  With friends.  With my dad’s friends.  The heart center of love, which was her priority, mattered.

This year, I am clear that I want to stand clear and solid on that firm foundation of love.  I want to build communities that source our action from there.  I believe that is powerful, radiant work.  

Arise, shine, your light has come.

Treasures from Mom, Christmas 2025

I skipped Christmas this year.  

I did not go to the New Camaldoli Hermitage at Big Sur, as I have been doing for the past twenty years.  I did not put up a tree.  I did not have Christmas dinner with my sons.  We did not gather in the glow of sparkling lights and take turns exchanging gifts.   

No, my focus was on helping my grieving father and supporting my son who was discharged from the hospital early in the week. With mom’s death so fresh and my son’s health so fragile, I accepted that there would be no Christmas this year - not in the way I like to observe.

Even so, on Christmas Eve I found a quiet hour to go for a walk around the neighborhood.  I moved slowly, taking in the rising crescent moon and the thin line of red on the horizon that turned even suburbia into a peaceful winter scene.  Far from my Big Sur hermitage, I was grateful, for a moment, to sense the silent beauty of the Christmas mystery, even as I-95 buzzed in the distance.

Afterwards, I decided to set a festive Christmas table for the small group of us who had been left behind when others went on vacation. I opened the door to mom’s china cabinet and noted the shelves were covered in dust.  Mom rarely used her china, even though she took care with the dishes and saved the broken pieces for a future fix. 

I found a set of plates and placed them and her crystal water glasses on the table.  Then I moved to the drawers below, looking for festive linens.  The only ones I found were stained; they would have to do.  Opening the silverware drawer, I discovered a surprise, a single red cloth covered journal. Inside the front cover were a few mismatched post-its and sheets of paper penned with my mother’s meticulous handwriting.  A poem about Christmas. An ode to her first born child. A meditation on Autumn and what to do when life does not go your way.  Treasures, gifts from my mom.

Mom’s poems are windows into her inner life, the part of her she generally kept to herself. Each one is simple; Mom was not a published poet or a theologian. When I asked spiritual questions, she did not offer sophisticated responses. Her way was about love, everyone who knew her knows that.

Strikingly absent from her musings were any complaints.  Mom’s life was imperfect; she experienced trauma as a child and at times struggled with depression. When we were children, mom was often overwhelmed and lonely.  To cope, no doubt, she developed unusual compulsions, like filling drawers with rubber bands and ordinary stamps.  She had a very hard time throwing anything out, even junk mail.  She never fixed the broken pieces of her china set.

Reading her beautiful poems, I wondered what she would have been like if her father had been healthy or if her mother had stayed home when my mom was a child.  What would she have been like if my father had a less demanding career or if she had known how to access the kind of support my generation does?  What if the broken pieces had been glued back in place?

They never were. But underneath mom left a treasure, the purity of her heart.  The foundation of my life.

After setting mom’s table with china, stained linens, and pieces of silver that don’t match, family members gathered, graced by the presence of mom’s first great granddaughter, Clare, born last Easter. Instead of a prayer, we read mom’s poem about a Christmas where the only gift was love.

The Light of Christmas

The following was offered as a sermon at Pescadero Community Church on December 29, 2024

Christmas morning I was awakened at 6:30 am by the first light of day coming through a side window of the small cabin where I was staying on the Big Sur Coast. 

I had not intended to get up that early.  The previous night, I attended midnight mass with the monks the night before.  Planning to sleep in, I closed the blinds on the picture window at the front of the cabin before getting into bed.

But I forgot about the small, side window and when light started to turn the dark night into dawn, I awoke.  I got out of bed and peeked outside to see what kind of sunrise it was going to be.  Was it worth staying awake?  

As soon as I saw pink and orange on the horizon, my energy shifted.  Robe and hat on, I quickly headed out the door and down the dirt road to a cliffside bench, excited like a child on Christmas morning, eager to see what Santa had brought.  

 

These days, Santa brings me a beautiful sunrise.   I often say that if you want to understand the Christmas mystery – if you want to grasp what we mean when we say the light of divine love has entered into history - watch the sunrise.  The shift from the deep dark of night to the first light of dawn and then to the full blown sunrise is nature’s metaphor for a mystery at the heart of Christmas.  Being awakened by a sunrise on Christmas morning was a perfect gift for me.

 

And how about for you?  What have been the gifts Christmas this year for you?  How has that light of love broken into your awareness this year?  What side window did it sneak through?

Was it through a beautiful service here at church on Christmas Eve?  Was it through a joy-filled holiday gathering with family or friends?  Was it through a gift that came through nature – remember the comet this year or the eclipse or perhaps a beautiful full moon or your daily walks in this beautiful place where we live?  Was it through a beloved’s or child’s eyes?  An unexpected kindness offered by a stranger?  A healing in a relationship with someone you love?  Laughter that is offered when you see lighthearted social media posts?  A beautiful piece of music or work of art that brought you to tears?  An unexpected moment of delight in some other way? How has the pure gift of wonder, delight or love found you this year?

During these twelve days of Christmas, the Holy Nights as my mystically oriented friends call them, I invite you to reflect on this year, looking NOT for all the things that were hard this year (I know we can all do that), but for the gifts that life has offered – whether huge or quiet  – and let those gifts nurture your heart.

  

I was at the monastery on Christmas morning because I have a twenty year practice of heading into silence at this time of year.  It’s one of the few non-negotiables of my life. I love Christmas and returning to the mystery at the heart of the celebrations anchors me in divine love. 

 

But I have not chosen to live the monk’s life all year long so inevitably there is the drive home and the re-entry into my life such as it is.  The nice thing about being on retreat at Big Sur is that there is a bit of a drive before the cell phone starts to work again.  On Wednesday, I thoroughly enjoyed the 40 mile drive in deep silence along the beauty of the California coast after my retreat ended.  

 

As soon as I hit Cambria, my phone started to ding.  There were lots of texts from family members alerting me to my mother’s latest dip in her health.  There was a round of texts from colleagues about a matter at work that I knew I was going to have to address even though I am on vacation.  My son sent a video of the damage in Santa Cruz wrought by the latest storm.  Later, a family member who battles addiction sent an angry message about old family wounds. The texts on my drive home felt a bit like a buffet of all the things that are hard in my life.  Of course, I thought about turning the car around and heading back to be with the monks!

 

Except I know that’s not what Christmas is about.  The core mystery of our faith does not erase the messiness or deep challenges we experience, but instead promises that God is with us even there.  

Emmanuel – God with us – in life, as it is.  

 

Did you notice that the child that is born has parents who are living under military occupation?  Did you catch that detail of the story that says that his mother was denied a safe place to have her child?  Did you know that after Christ was born the ruling king sent an order to kill all the children under two in Bethlehem forcing his parents to become migrants home for several years?  I am not talking about the end of this child’s life, with its well known violence, but his birth.   The Christmas mystery in its purity is so beautiful, but the story is more complex than that. And yet, the promise of Christmas remains.  The Word Was Made Flesh and dwelt among us – in life as it is.  

What does this mean?

 

A few years ago, my well-crafted plans for the empty nest phase of my life were coopted when two family members experienced serious health issues at the same time.  My commitment to be with people I love in times of vulnerability is another non-negotiable for me so I have let those realities reorganize my life.  As part of that, I have had to let go of many things I love in order to companion loved ones in need.  It’s been a hard chapter.  

 

I know that many of us have had to care for loved ones in times of vulnerability so perhaps you know what I mean.  There have been many times these past few years when I have felt sad, angry at life, resentful, overwhelmed or exhausted.  I do my best to find pockets of rest and self-care in the midst, but nothing changes the fact that in this phase of my life I am being asked to walk hand in hand with illness and the near proximity of death. 

 

Emmanuel – God with us – even here.  

 

I was helped in my faith this year when a friend gave me a wonderful book called Aflame about the monks at Big Sur.  In it, the author Pico Iyer puts a spotlight on the fact that the monks who I visit every year have had to hold to their practices of work and prayer, amidst very difficult circumstances - wildfire, mudslides, loss of income, illness and deaths in their community.  During my twenty years of Christmas with these monks I have been learning a lot about the gift of silence and monastic prayer.  But I have also been watching and learning as the monks hold to and tend the light of life amidst some very intense challenges.  This is the story that Pico Iyer’s new book tells.

 

Iyer also describes a monk he met at a Zen monastery outside LA.  That monk was tasked with care for the elderly abbott and the author describes how the monk attended to the clean up of bathroom disasters on hands and knees without complaint, as a practice of humility.  Only later does he let on that the monk on hands and knees was the famous song-writer Leonard Cohen.

 

This year, I have returned to that image of the famous songwriter often because I too often am called to attend to bathroom duty as part of my caregiving responsibilities.  Seeing those tasks as part of the real work of love helps me.  What if the purpose of a life centered around divine light is not about traveling to dream destinations, achieving worldy success, or getting what we want – but learning how to give and receive love in the more humble corners of life?   

 

Perhaps that is why Christmas tells a story about a divine child who is not born in a palace but among shepherds, animals and occupied people.  As the song-writer wrote, "love is not a victory march but a cold and broken hallelujah."

 

What does it mean to live the light of Christmas all year long?  I think it’s quite simple, really.  The task, the duty, is about offering (and receiving) love right where you are.  

 

As we seek to embody this divine light in the world we do well to look for places in need of that love.  Howard Thurman's poem "The Work of Christmas" reminds us how:  look for those who are lost, broken, hungry, in prison, at war, divided and bring love there in whatever way you can.  And then there is that last line -  make music in your heart – which I think is Thurman’s reminder to also practice joy.  This is our task as people centered in divine light this year and always.

 

As the Christmas festivities begin to wane, I invite you then to find a quiet moment and savor the gifts that have come to you this Christmas season.  You may also wish to look back over the past year – not for the hard stuff (I know we all have plenty of that) - but for the simple, quiet gifts.  What gifts brought you moments of relief, peace, wonder or delight?  How were you able to be gift for others?   Look for those moments and experiences.  Savor them.  

Let the gifts of life nurture our hearts and remind us that divine light is with us and in us always - that we may live the light of Christmas all year.  

All photos from New Camaldoli Hermitage Christmas 2024. 

 

 

Advent Vigils

As I sit with the Scripture readings on this first day of Advent, I notice there is an invitation here that has to do with minding the state of our hearts.

Since the election I have been mostly staying away from the news.  As far as I can tell, we are headed in a direction that will not bode well for the most vulnerable people on this planet nor even for most.  I do not believe that handing the government over to billionaires, religious patriarchs and people who seek to dismantle regulations is going to lead to an increase in care or justice for those who need it most.  It is, thus, easy to approach January in a state of “fright in anticipation of what is coming into the world.”

But Advent invites a different stance.

For years, I have been telling my church to adopt an Advent discipline of getting up before dawn to watch the sunrise.  I encourage all of us to practice sitting in the dark, starting at about 5:30am, facing East.  That’s it.  No need for righteous prayers or elaborate meditations.  Just sit and watch. If you can do it for an hour, an hour and a half, or even two you’ll see something that happens in the world and perhaps even in your heart.  

Years ago, I had an experience that inspired this practice.  It was shortly after 9/11 and my first son was not yet two.  I did not yet believe in God though I was seeking and without that firm grounding in a knowing that love always holds, I was struggling with despair after the violence of that horrible September day.  I saw the danger of the world.  I saw the violence of our government's response and knew it would beget more.  

I also knew about the horrors of poverty - the underside of the economic system. I was not confused about how dire the world situation is.  As a new mother who desired to protect and inspire my child I wondered how I could raise my child in a world like that.

Even so, I believed in goodness and in Martin Luther King’s vision that the moral arc of the history bends toward justice.  I longed to be part of that bending, one of the many people on this earth who try to create a better world. And so, I woke each morning at 5, trying to pray.  

One night a thunderstorm moved through my town, rattling my toddler son.  I had to close blinds in the apartment, blocking out the world to get his young body to settle and, eventually, go to sleep.   Imagine my surprise then when the next morning, he insisted I open the blinds, looked out into the same darkness that had terrified him only a few hours earlier, and with delight pronounced, “Sun Coming!” There were no hints of it yet - no line of pink on the horizon.  The night wasn’t even turning grey, as it does when things are starting to turn.  No, it was into the night that my young child insisted, “Sun coming!”

How did he know?

I learned something about Advent that day - that it is possible to adopt a posture of the heart that orients East - in a spirit of confidence, even in the darkest part of the night. 

My son is a young adult now.  Our journey together in recent years has been incredibly difficult as we have been navigating the emergence of a very serious and chronic illness in his life.  The risks of what could happen are real.  As is the grief, exhaustion and fear that comes with an illness such as his.

It is not the whole story.  

Years of walking with my son through this difficult chapter has been working on my heart, helping me to learn again a truth I now believe: love holds even when something terrible is happening.  Focusing there is how I get through.  Focusing there helps me to see the kindness offered by nurses, friends, doctors, family, colleagues, strangers.  Focusing there has helped me develop courage, patience, resilience and flexibility beyond what I thought I could do.  Focusing there has helped me to see how profoundly my son and I are held in a web of love.  

I don’t know what is coming in January.  I don’t know how the world will change or when.  But I do know that Advent offers an invitation to all of us strengthen our hearts and recommit to the work of love.  

So I started my Advent practice this morning sitting in the dark, grateful for all the things I have learned with my son.

In Honor of Rabbi Dan

I was saddened to learn that Rabbi Dan Wolk has died.  He was such a pivotal figure in my life - the person who inspired me to follow a spiritual path.  Several years ago, I wrote a piece for my high school's magazine about Rabbi Dan and how his life launched my own journey.  Posting that piece in honor of his life.  

Back in high school all I knew was that I wanted to be like Rabbi Dan.

 

I had the good fortune to have Rabbi Dan as my religion teacher for two years in a row.  During my senior year, Rabbi took a semester-long sabbatical – which meant he was not able to teach his year long course to the juniors.  Instead, he taught a one semester course to the seniors – my class.  He called it, “Senior Religion.”  We called it, “The Meaning of Life.”  

 

The timing was perfect.  During the summer between my junior and senior years, I experienced a personal trauma that left me struggling with despair.  Up until that time, I had approached life with the kind of hope that believed that if I did things right and followed the rules (more or less) I would be safe and secure.  Being a victim of violence changed that.  I came into senior year needing some other kind of ground on which to stand. I needed a way to hope in the midst of suffering.  

 

I went straight to Rabbi Dan’s office. With great outrage, I demanded to know why there is suffering in the world; why bad things happen to good people; why God made the world this way.  My own pain made me keenly aware that I was not the only person suffering as a result of evil.  I wanted to know not only why I had been victimized, but why people all over the world suffer violence.  How could a good God allow that?  

 

I thought Rabbi would know.  In my eyes, he was one of the wisest people at Holy Child.    He had traveled to places where people engage in violence in the name of God and still had not given up on people or God.  His sense of humor and joy suggested that he had inside information about how love and life hold in the midst of violence and death.  I wanted it.

 

Rabbi didn’t answer my questions.  Instead, he told me stories - about farmers, painters, doors that were open, doors that were closed and fields of lavender.  I remember best the story of the Greek man who responded to life’s hard questions by dancing on the beach.  At that time, I had no idea how dancing on the beach was the answer to suffering.  

 

My education continued in Rabbi’s classroom.  We read the book of Job, the play, “J.B.”, the short story, “The Lottery.”   Rabbi showed us slides from archaeological digs.  He told us about his vertigo and how he had learned to cross chasms by leaning on supports held by friends.  He showed us photos from his travels to remote places in the world.

 

The world I was introduced to in Rabbi Dan’s class was a place where spiritual guides showed up disguised as ordinary people in marketplaces, on farms, at beaches, and even in the convent at Holy Child.  Looking at their faces through Rabbi’s eyes, I began to sense that it was possible to drop beneath the pattern of life that had presented itself as self-evident in Westchester in order to find a way of living that was rooted in the sacred and in joy.  In Rabbi’s class, I began to sense that life could be an adventure and a gift.  I wanted to receive it.

 

Initially, the only way I knew to do that was to imitate Rabbi Dan.  In college, I studied religion.  Then I went to Israel.  I read books that Rabbi recommended.  I followed his example of noticing details and listening to people’s stories.  And I did my best to keep my spirit playful even as my increasing understanding of injustice strengthened the arguments for despair.     At one point, I asked Rabbi if I could convert to Judaism.  His answer was clear.  No.  

 

So I went back to Georgetown to find the path that was mine.  I studied liberation theology.  I attended mass - even though I couldn’t bring myself to say the creed.  I went on silent retreats and demanded that God show up and prove his existence burning bush style.  I refused to attend career planning workshops and applied instead for a volunteer program.  When I graduated from college, I didn’t end up in law school or on Capitol Hill as people expected.  Instead, I found myself working in the inner city of Washington, D.C.. 

 

It was there that the Gospel finally came to life.  Bringing meals to homeless people on the streets, I began to understand Matthew 25, “I was hungry and you fed me.”   Vigiling outside the Pentagon, I learned how difficult it is to “love your enemy.”  Breaking bread with men at a hospital for the homeless, I was fed by the real presence of Christ.  As my heart was educated on the streets of DC, the Gospel began to take. 

 

About that time, a man who specialized in converting rich folks like me invited me to come to Haiti with him.  A year later, he invited me to go to Bosnia.  Though I had been to Israel and traveled through Europe, my trips to Haiti and Bosnia changed my life.  Not because there was so much pain there, but because the trips awakened my humanity and my joy.   Traveling to Haiti and Bosnia shattered the categories and numbness that had allowed me to keep the painful realities of the world from getting to my heart.  With my denial gone, I could feel more deeply the world’s pain, but I could also feel its joy.  And I could feel the deep connection that is possible when people from different cultures, races and classes come to the table as human beings.  

 

It’s been over 10 years since I went on those trips, but my life is still very much a response to the call I heard then to live with my eyes and heart open to the world - without anesthesia.  Since then, I have traveled to seminary, into the joy and humility of parenthood and most recently to examine the shadows within so that my vision can be less cluttered by assumptions that train me to fear myself and my neighbors.  

 

So far, I have not felt led to live outside of this country.  On the contrary, I have been led right back to the community from which I came.  These days I live out my solidarity with the world by companioning wealthy Christians who want to learn how to let their lives and financial resources flow in a way that makes sure that everyone has enough. 

 

I would like to say that my work and my journey along the Christian path have taken away my questions.  I would like to say that I no longer experience the kind of despair I felt when I was 16 and coming face to face with suffering for the first time.  I would like to say that I have overcome the temptation to trust fear more than love.    

 

But I do notice that I see the trees more clearly.   I notice that I have learned to sense the open doors – and the closed ones.  I notice that I have learned how to paint.  I notice that I recognize spiritual guides when they show up in places like Catholic Worker houses, on airplanes, at the Native American reservation down the street from my family’s summer home, in bars, and in my young sons.  

 

Last spring a colleague and dear friend was in Haiti meeting with some of our organization’s partners there.  On the day he was to return, his Haitian friends were kidnapped on their way to pick him up to take him to the airport.   My colleague narrowly avoided being kidnapped himself by going into hiding.  Back in California, I did not know what was unfolding in Haiti.  But I knew that I needed to be praying for my friends.   So I took my boys to the beach.  There we danced and danced and danced.

 

I have learned that there are times when the world’s pain and violence are overwhelming.  There are times when there is little that I can do.  If I am lucky, in those moments I remember to surrender to joy as my prayer for the world.  I remember that sometimes dancing on the beach is the only thing that makes sense.

 

My rabbi taught me that. 

This piece was originally published in "Glimpses" a publication of the School of the Holy Child in Rye, New York.  

 

 

 

Surrender To Grace: Preparing for Death With An Open Heart

One of the activities I found myself doing as part of my Covid-19 preparation involved reviewing my will.

It is not that I am expecting to die from the virus. I am not.  But this virus has brought death into a more proximate reality for me than how I generally hold it.  Daily reminders that death is at work in our towns and cities have shifted my procrastination about attending to end of life matters. I want there to be as much gift and comfort in my death as I can offer.  Whenever that is.

I am inspired by the example of my friend Helen Daly who engaged with her death as a spiritual practice. Helen was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer in June 2012 and died in November of that year. When it was clear that she was going to die, she stopped fighting her illness and instead prepared her spirit by gathering spiritual friends and teachers around her to support her in moving through fear and grief into love (Some of Helen's preparations for her death can be experienced through the Contemplative Society website.). As part of that process, she also updated her will, directing gifts to people and organizations that she loved so they could move forward (here is an interview I did with Helen about that process). Watching Helen walk toward her death in a spirit of surrender was powerful. And then I got to see what happened after she died. I watched, for instance, how her husband came to life, became a spiritual teacher in his own right and spoke of her as a real presence in his heart. I also watched how the financial gifts that flowed after her death carried an energy and quality of support that made doors open for individuals and organizations.

More recently, I was able to be with a man from our local church, Jim Brigham, right after he had been told that his chances of surviving a stroke were slim. When I visited him at the hospital, I asked about his prayer life.  He said that the work of dying is like the spiritual practice of living: breathe in and on the exhale open your heart to grace. After he died, when his widow and I were planning a Celebration of Life service, everything flowed with ease. He had left some instructions, but as we created the service I had an inner sense that he was working with us from beyond the veil, making my job as minister effortless.

And then, just as the virus was landing in public consciousness, I had the opportunity to sit with another friend from church as she was dying. Every day for two weeks, I took a break from pandemic panic to visit Janet in a hospice near my home. I felt such peace and calm sitting with her, listening to the birds.

These experiences have shifted my fear and avoidance of death. They have helped me to see that there is a sacred mystery at work in the final threshold.  And there is an opportunity to express love in a very powerful way, if I am willing to do the work and prepare.

And now it's Palm Sunday. This is the week where we walk with Jesus on his death journey. Meanwhile, the specter of death continues to make daily headlines. Every morning I see updates on how many people have died and are expected to die by August. It's scary. It's heartbreaking.

And yet another part of me knows something else: it is possible to walk into and through the doorway of death as a practice of life.  I believe Jesus modeled this in his own death journey.  That is what I am paying attention to this Holy Week.

What if I could be in Holy Week as an opportunity to open my heart to death and specifically to my own death? What if I carved out time this week to attend to end of life details, with a particular attention on how my choices and offerings can be a gift to the people and organizations I love?

I have decided to do it.

I have taken my knowledge of the spiritual movements of Holy Week and combined them with end of life preparation tasks. Below is a holy week retreat that I designed for myself. This is what I am planning to do this week.  I post my intentions here in case you would like to join me in this practice of "the love that is stronger than death."

Surrender to Grace: Preparing for Death with an Open Heart 

Holy Week Retreat

Note:  This is intended to be a guide for the personal journey of getting clear about one's intentions.   After Easter, I suggest consulting with an attorney to start or update relevant legal documents.  Your attorney/financial advisor can also provide guidance related to your particular financial situation.  For those for whom checklists are helpful, here is one website I found with several end of life checklists.  If you have a financial advisor/lawyer, they may also have helpful tools.  Several others are available online.


Elements

1. Daily centering prayer at 7:30 am (Introduction to Centering Prayer by Cynthia Bourgeault)
2. Wed-Fri Zoom Gatherings with the Pescadero Community Church (email me if you would like to join) or private Lectio Divina practice.
3. Daily End of Life Preparation Exercises
4. Minimize social media, email, news
5. Find a friend to check in with if feelings emerge
6. Do what you can and not what you cannot
7. Feel free to adapt tasks here to fit your financial situation

Tuesday: Preparation

• Create a prayerful space in your home
• Consider what you would love to see happen in your family, community, world well beyond your passing and then consider what gifts you can offer to that future (generally - we'll get specific as the week goes on).  
• Gather your financial information  and place in a secure location (i.e. safe, safety deposit box, secure cloud file, etc.).  

Wednesday: Extravagant Love

7:30 Centering Prayer
5pm Lectio Divina:  John 12:1-8 on your own or with Pescadero Community Church

• Identify cherished items you would like to gift to specific people – make a list to include with your will (be sure to share with your attorney after Easter). 
• Articulate the process you would like your family and friends to observe in going through other material items. (If you have already done this in your will, review.)
• Write Letters to Family/Friends with a focus on what you especially appreciate about them. (Note: these letters are intended to be a blessing – not a “I wish you would have…” or “I hope someday you do…” Focus on “this is what I love and appreciate about who you are.)

Thursday: Love One Another As I have Loved You
7:30 Centering Prayer
5pm Lectio Divina:  John 13:1-17 on your own or with Pescadero Community Church

• Care for someone’s feet (give yourself a home pedicure; give someone in your location a foot massage; give yourself a warm foot soak)
• Review/create your will.
• What would you like to give to family/friends?
• What gifts would you like to make to charitable organizations?
• What joy gifts (i.e. playful gifts or gift certificates or other surprises)?
• Notice if there is someone you have left out who might be hurt by that exclusion
• Write a letter explaining your intentions in the decisions that are in your will.  

Friday: The threshold of death
7:30 Centering Prayer
3 pm Lectio Divina:  John 19 on your own or with Pescadero Community Church

• Review or create a health care power of attorney document
• Consider questions related to what kind of care you hope for/who you would like to be with you as you are in the dying process

Saturday: What would you like your memorial to be like?
7:30 Centering Prayer
5pm Lectio Divina:  First Apostle by Robert Pynn on your own

• Create a document with notes you want to share with loved ones about what you would like your memorial to be like
• What readings?
• What music? musicians?
• Where?
• Presider (if religious service)
• Reception/Celebration afterwards?
• Who would you like to be there?
• What amount of money do you need to set aside for this?

Sunday: Easter!
Sunrise:  Lectio Divina: John 20: 1, 11-18
11 am Easter Service with Pescadero Community Church

After Easter

• Share updates with your attorney.  See if you need to update legal documents.
• If you have not yet created a will, find an attorney who can assist you in creating a will/ bring information you have gathered.
• Place items gathered in a secure location (safe, safety deposit box, secure cloud file) and share with trusted friends/family.
• Catch up on any tasks that you noted during Holy Week (i.e. updating beneficiaries, etc..)

Coyote Meditation

"

The coyotes play on the beach at night.

I know this because I walked out there early this morning. My footprints were the first human ones on the sandy path that was swept clean in the night. They were not the first prints, though.

I was way down the path, taking in the beauty of the marsh’s pale greens, browns, and yellows and almost to the beach when I noticed the small prints that I have seen there many times before.

I used to think they were cat prints – as in bobcat. But I asked the ranger at the state park. “Look closely,” he instructed. “If the claws are out, it is a coyote. Cats pull their claws in when they walk.”

The claws were definitely out. Coyote.

I stood up then and surveyed the marsh, wondering. “Was he still there? Was he watching me? Coyotes don’t attack humans,” I thought. “But would they if in a group?”

These are the kind of thoughts I sometimes have when I am in wilderness by myself.

I continued on the path, following the coyote’s tracks, over the last rise of dune to that beautiful beach. It was low tide. The fog was thick.

On the beach, I walked the long stretch of sand that is passable only when the ocean is pulled out. Near water’s edge, there were fresh tracks -- one small and one from an animal whose weight pressed deep into the sand. Round and round the tracks went as if a mother and pup had been playing in the night.

Continuing on, I pondered the Scripture of the week, my monthly sermon preparation. At the north end of the beach, a pattern for worship had emerged.

My work complete, my mind quiet, I headed to the bench at Franklin Point for my morning sit. There again were the small coyote’s tracks.

I followed them past the bench to the edge of the point where rock meets wild sea. Sitting, watching waves and birds, I could almost feel him behind me. Once I even turned to look for the wild coyote whose tracks I had been following all morning, wondering, “Does he also follow me?"