Darkness

I have spent much of this Advent sitting outside in darkness, wrapped in a blanket, listening, watching. I am not waiting. There is nothing that is needed.

It’s like that time the boys and I went to Medicine Lake summoned by a dream. I expected something to happen there. But nothing did. Nothing.

That nothing is not really that. It is full and rich, like the deep voice that holds the bass chord of life in silence.

My artist self wants to describe it. But how do you capture the nothing that stops me in my tracks, sits me down, and makes me forget who I think I am.

I have tried. I have tried to describe the air before dawn, its whisper, its breath. I have tried to describe the stars and the way they teach me my place in the order of things. I have tried to describe the birds, the colors of dawn, the sound of ocean and the fact that before the sun rises I do not care if it is raining or cold because all I want is the dark.

I have failed every time.

This Advent I have been sitting in darkness. I am supposed to be waiting for the light, but the truth is I like it in the dark. My mind is quiet here. The world is not yet.

The darkness is full.

Ode to a Raspberry Muffin

I wake before dawn. Coffee in mug, I sit in silence and chant.

Vigils.

Bowl on counter. Page 119 of the recipe book. Milk, flour, sugar, melted butter, egg and, of course, raspberries go into the circles in the pan and the warmth of fire.

Hot water from the pot over Irish breakfast tea steeps in a simple teapot under a celtic cozy. Sugar, milk, spoon in the mugs that sit next to my mother's plates.

After yoga, I wake the boys. "Good morning sweet boys," I speak into darkness. A grunt. A man sized body turns over under the covers. I lean into the bottom bunk and find Roddy buried in the down. "There are raspberry muffins on the table for you," I whisper.

He throws back the blanket and bursts out of bed. "Hooray!"

Lauds.

At the far end of the table, he carefully places two warm muffins on Ian's plate. "How many do you want mom?" He sets them aside.

The rest are his. He peels back the paper. Steam dances before his face. Eyes closed, he begins to eat. His delight the only gratitude I need.

"If they served raspberry muffins in church, everyone would come," he reflects.

"What do you think this is?" I ponder in my heart.

Eucharist - Thanksgiving.

Sabbath

“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” Song of Songs 2:16

I stand at the table with friends who are lighting candles, breaking bread, laughing and pouring juice for thirsty children who hold empty cups and cry, “more, more, more.” The table has been prepared with offerings sent by a wise mother who knows that beauty and tradition convey sacred and ordinary love. The men have brought bread that all can eat.

It is Friday evening. I am welcoming Sabbath with friends at a Be Present training. Our community of black, white, brown, male, female, young, old, rich and not rich, Jewish and non-Jewish friends is watching, eagerly anticipating the gifts. We have agreed to hold hands as each of us finds our way out of the world’s history of distress into the communion of love. It is what we are doing now.

This time, I have been invited to take an active role in setting the table and offering the gift, even though I am Christian. A part of me wonders whether it’s OK for me to be here too. This part shies away from lighting candles, thinking that role should not be mine.

Another me is not wavering at all. At the Sabbath table, I feel deeply at home. The priest and mother in me know exactly how this works. I watch as my Jewish friends find their place in the ritual and listen for my own.

After bread has been broken and grape juice poured and spilled, a friend and I read the words of the Song of Songs: “Arise, Beloved and come….” As he reads in Hebrew, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of a language I once knew. In my mind, I am twenty years old and sitting on the hills above Jerusalem with Jewish American friends who are teaching me how welcoming Sabbath works. “She is like a lover,” they say. “We invite her to turn her face toward us.” I don’t get it, yet. But I love sitting on Mount Scopus overlooking the Old City, singing as sunset descends. The beauty of this land captivates me. The desert wind is teaching me about the connection between spirit, breath and wind. The fading light on limestone transforms the city in which there is hostility and fear into a beautiful, glowing rose. Something happens in the liminal space between day and night when Sabbath arrives. I can see that.

My friend is done reading and it is my turn now. I say again words that have been written on my heart and hope that something of the invitation to love and be loved can be heard in my voice and seen in my eyes.

Looking around the circle, I see several friends with Jewish lineage. Present, too, in my heart is Rebecca, my childhood best friend; Rabbi Dan, a teacher in my Catholic high school in whom I first heard the invitation to walk a spiritual path; Steve, my college boyfriend who taught me my first Hebrew words; Jesus, the teacher whose path inspires my own. A thread of Jewish love has been woven into my life from the start. Sometimes I forget what a miracle it is for Christian and Jew to stand together at this table in friendship, respect and love because it is so obvious in my heart.

When I am done, the circle sings “Shabbat Shalom” with lightheartedness and joy. The ritual is complete. We have moved across the threshold into the arms of delight and rest. Children run off to get their dinner plates. I linger at the table, putting away cups, silver, and the tablecloth that is now stained with overflowing love.

Meanwhile, Sabbath candles continue to burn.


photo credits:

Community and Sunset: Noa Mohlabane: noa-mohlabane.artistwebsites.com
Sabbath Candles: Robert Holzman