"Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything; that's how the light gets in." ( Leonard Cohen)
There is a different feel to the air now, although the sun shines as brightly as it has all summer. The cooler nights, finally lengthening into earlier sunsets and later sunrises, give way to crisp chilly mornings, sweatshirts and long pants. This morning, as I drove towards Rathtrevor forest at dawn, I saw pale rose and yellow in a sky that backlit the tall cedars and the arbutus and maples, every leaf and needle etched in relief. There is so much beauty in the mystical glow; my eyes wandered heaven-ward, even as I watched for deer and rabbits along the road. In my rear-view mirror an incredibly full moon hovered above the road in the darkness still to the West. For such brief moments, when I'm alone in this sacred place and time, I think of Thomas Merton's counsel that we should keep our "daily appointment with mystery." In being faithful to those appointments, we encounter Mystery itself.
Yesterday morning, on the path into the park, I met an elderly gentleman whom I had spoken with back in July. At that time, he was looking forward to his 89th birthday, two days after Brett's marriage. I wished him a belated happy birthday, and he invited me to have a cup of coffee with him at the local A & W after my walk.
As we shared our coffee and our stories, and time passed, I found myself in that space where common-place words continue to flow, even as a heightened energy builds, a sense that something larger is imminent. It happens sometimes when we linger on the phone or in casual conversation, all business having been taken care of and all plans made. We linger with a feeling that there is something else. And if the talk goes on a big longer, it happens: a synchronicity, a miracle, a wonder, an answer received or a wisdom revealed seemingly from nowhere. Most times we are in too much of a rush to allow this natural process, which requires time and patience and awareness, to emerge. We hurry our calls to return to our tasks, and we lose the rhythm of grace. We have forgotten how to listen with all of our senses.
My new friend remembered that my son had gotten married, and we talked about the wedding. I asked if he had children. He looked down, then away, then directly at me. He had two sons, he said. One was struck by a car and killed at the age of 12, just 12 days before Christmas. The other had visited he and his now-deceased wife one evening back in 1984, walked out of the door, and was never heard from again.
When I think about his tone and his words and the moment, it seems that everything else in the restaurant had stopped. I'm sure there were voices and sounds and movement, but for me there was only stillness and the depth of pain and grief in his pale blue eyes. "I was a church-goer," he continued, "and a scout leader, and I think I did right by my sons." An ever-so-subtle tone of doubt crept into his words. "But I hate the holidays now, and I haven't stepped foot into a church since."
He said this last in a challenging way, scrutinizing my face, I guess, for some form of judgment. But I found myself telling him, instead, about the woman I met, owner of a B&B in the wine country of California, six months after my brother was murdered. She had a beautiful picture of her three cotton-topped, blue-eyed boys on her piano, and when she found out about David, she quietly shared with me that her youngest son disappeared without a trace at the age of 17, only 18 months earlier. She told me then, though I didn't tell this grieving father, that her faith was the only thing that sustained her.
As I told him the story, he looked almost relieved. His sorrow, his personal guilt and agony were now shared with that mother who would never know the blessing she was giving thirteen years after divulging her own incomprehensible pain. He had the same questions about her missing son as I had about his: was there conflict beforehand; was foul play considered; were there any signs of discontent? We speak of mystery, of wanting to know answers, but confusion and chaos appear in our lives more often. We are closer to God when we ask questions, Rabbi Heschel said, than when we get answers.
Then I told him that I didn't know so much that it was about going to Church as it was about knowing that we are part of something larger than just the events in our lives. He was quiet; he nodded. I don't know if it was in agreement, or just in acknowledging that this part of our talking was over. His quick smile returned, and he told me had to leave to pack and get ready for the 5:15 ferry the next morning. He was traveling to Dawson City in the Yukon territories because he had read a lot about it, had always wanted to visit there, and felt he was running out of time. He laughed, and said he was hoping to make it to his 90th birthday next July.
Later that day, I read: "Our practice is not to clear up the mystery. It is to make the mystery clear." (Robert Aitken Roshi) We do that by showing up for our daily appointments with it. We do that by sharing the cracks in our own lives, never knowing when doing so will shine light into the life of another, even 13 years later, even people we will never know. Sometimes these turn out to be perfect offerings after all.
YAY GOD
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