Marking Time

Philip would have been 16 this year, and I find that the way I hold his memory has changed these past few years.  At first, I held my grief so tightly in my fist, afraid to let it go lest I forget somehow.  That letting it go would mean letting him go.  And then there was grieving a lot of other things in my life that felt hard to move away from.  I suppose the past couple of years have been about prising my fist open and letting in light and air, and finding that I don't need to keep it clenched like that to hold Philip near.  I still miss him, and wonder what might have been if he had lived, and I'll always love him, but it doesn't suck the air out of me the way it used to.  At least not most of the time.  Maybe that is acceptance.  

The Christmas season has just begun here, as we celebrate on the Julian calendar, so we are only three days in.  It's a busy time, with a birthday, two namesdays, and two major church feasts, plus another namesday coming close on the heels of it all, so we've got a lot on this month.  I'm trying to pace myself as best I can, which is one reason why I didn't do my annual year-end post.  Another reason is that I continue to pull back from online engagement of most types, as I find it doesn't serve me well.  A blogger I've read for a number of years who is at a similar age and stage to me wrote recently that much more of her middle-aged processing is internal and she finds she has less she wants to share.  That resonated with me. 

Maybe I'm just tired of the "move fast and break things" mindset of our age. I prefer "be still and mend things." With that in mind, my making is much slower these days. After the veritable flood of stress-sewing in 2021 and early 2022, I find I can hardly persuade myself to get my machine out to do even minor repairs lately. I've been using needle and thread whenever I can just to avoid it. And there are the inevitable body changes of middle age that have pushed my closet into flux. Again. I'm working hard to be okay with it all. So it goes. At least there's ThredUp and Ebay for thrifting. And my knitting needles are always occupied.

I'm supposed to give a few lectures on communism and the Soviets to the seniors at my kids' school in a few weeks and have been poking away at what I want to say since late summer.  And there's the two-part presentation I gave to the 4th graders on Russia last year that the teacher has asked me to give again this year sometime.  I gave a lecture to the 6th graders on medieval sacred music up to about 800 AD in the fall, and plan to do a second part on polyphonal medieval music sometime this spring, God-willing.  The first part covered the development of music in the Western and Eastern Christian churches, so I had to cover quite a bit of ground in 40 minutes' time.  Maybe I'll post the broad outlines of the music lectures here some time.  

So, my apologies for being somewhat AWOL here for a while.  I'm not really sure how many people still care to read what I have to say, but I'm glad for those of you who are still along for the ride.  Happy Christmas and New Year!

Rustbelt

Grief is a funny thing.  It smacks into you with the force of a high speed train, but then lingers in the wreckage, a low pulsing underneath the debris, waiting to seep out into the light.  And it does seep, from time to time, taking over your being until the dust settles over it again. 

It takes a long time to clean up after a wreck. 

Things with my dad are not great right now; he developed a MRSA infection after a procedure and is on heavy-duty antibiotics and 4 liters of oxygen in an isolation unit.  His chemo is on hold until they can get the infection under control.  

My baby goddaughter and her parents are moving to faraway Texas this month, and today is probably the last time we'll see the family for some time.  My kids are all wrecked about it since they love her like a sister and are eager baby minders.  I'm so sad to lose this family from our parish I almost can't bear it.  

My sense of taste and smell is still off, almost two years after my C-19 infection, and I'm trying to make peace with the reality that it may never come back to normal.  It makes my already complicated food life that much more difficult. 

Wreckage.  Debris.  Dust.  

I was reminded this morning, however, that we should not place our hope in outcomes.  Our hope is the Lord's presence in the journey, not the destination.   So I will straighten my bowed shoulders, try to work out the kinks in my stress-knotted neck and back muscles, and hope in the journey.  Or try to, anyway.

 

I mentioned a few posts back that I finished my Mackworth sweater right before Thanksgiving.  This was my second attempt at colorwork, and I thoroughly enjoyed the yoke. My floats came out more even too; there is only a tiny bit of puckering in the first two charts.

I won't lie, the body was a bit tedious, and I spent many a swim lesson this summer slogging through the miles of stockinette in the round.  It is always tricky to get the body length right for my short torso--somewhere between 10-11" from the underarm is good, but even 1/2" too long or short and it looks odd. 

I'm very happy with the length and thrilled with the fit of it.  I think it blocked out at just over 10 inches.  My only complaint is that the amount of main color yarn needed was vastly overstated--I have 4.5 balls left.  Never fear, I'm sure I'll figure out something to do with them!

In my experience, that happens a lot with knitting patterns.  Kate Davies is the only designer I've found to consistently get the yardage estimation right across the sizes.   

As I wrote previously, this silky noil skirt is getting much more wear since I shortened it a bit.  I am very happy with the fit and sweep of it, and am glad to find it more or less works for chilly temps, as long as I pair it with wool tights.

Another maker that I follow wrote recently that the past two years have changed who she is so much that some of her previous makes no longer suit her, even though she finds herself in a much happier place overall.  She said there is a little bit of sadness in having to rediscover who she is with regard to her making. 

 

It's been a while since I did a complete wardrobe overhaul, but this fall has sort of put me there without my having set out to do so.  Some pieces I've been wearing for a long time just don't look or feel right on me this year.  Maybe they always looked off, but I felt good in them at the time.  Some makes or thrifted finds are coming to the end of their life span--the fabric is faded and starting to fray and crease, or it just looks tired.  

In a way, there is some relief in taking things out of my wardrobe that have been worn to pieces, don't fit, or make me feel nuts.  There is some satisfaction in wearing soft waistbands most days and feeling okay about it as a style choice.  It is lovely to finally have a knit top pattern that fits exactly the way I want it to, and I don't have to tuck it in for it to look nice.  I've discovered that my hot flashes are easier to manage if my tops are untucked and a bit less fitted, paired with easily removable layers. 

 

My body has changed (and continues to change as I am getting older), and how I move through the world has changed.  Mostly for the better, but there is still some dislocation in having to redefine the boundaries of the self.  Perhaps there always will be.  And perhaps it is silly to figure those things out through clothes, but that's where I live right now.  So be it. 

Talking Tuesday: Fragmented life

Image via

Max Lucado tells a story about a village full of worriers, who have a collective freak out any time anything happens and are quick to rush to conclusions and judgement.  There is also a poor man in the village who does not join in, but rather rebukes their foolishness again and again.  

When the poor man's valuable horse goes missing, the villagers moan and groan, telling the man he is a fool for not selling the horse and living off the proceeds, but the man says merely, "All we know is that the horse is not in the barn."  He reminds the villagers that we cannot judge a situation in the midst of it, as life comes in fragments.

Later, the horse returns unharmed and brings back many more horses with it.  The villagers are quick to say what a great thing it is, that he now has all this wealth in these horses, but the man reminds them that they cannot say one way or the other; it is too soon to judge.  

Much calamity befalls this man (and the village), and each time the villagers come to him to worry and commiserate, he calmly replies that "all we know is x."  Sometimes the thing turns out well and sometimes not, but each time, the man remains calm in the face of the storm.  

We have told this story in my mom's family for years, and it has become a kind of shorthand in times of distress: "All we know is that the horse is not in the barn."  So I keep reminding myself of that when my fears and grief about my dad threaten to overwhelm me and carry me into the deep.

All we know is that the horse is not in the barn.

Fourteen

 

“He Is Not Dead

I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn
For an old-time step, and the glad return,
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here.
Think of him still as the same. I say,
He is not dead—he is just away.”

― James Whitcomb Riley

Talking Tuesday: It is Good That You Exist

There's an old George Carlin routine that goes, "You know how when you are driving on the road, everyone going faster than you is a maniac, but everyone going slower is an idiot?"

Yes, that. 

Lately, I have a sort of spiky feeling inside me, one that doesn't want to give people the benefit of the doubt, doesn't want to give way, doesn't want to try to understand.  It's the ragey feeling that Carlin describes so well. It's not generally how I think about people or life in general, so it feels awful to feel like this.

I keep going back to Ulrich Lehner's bit in God Is Not Nice, where he talks about the most basic definition of love. It is acknowledging: It is good that you exist. 

That's it.  Everything that proceeds from that statement then determines how we treat the other person and interact with them.  Sounds simple, but it isn't, not really. Not when you get down under the statement and think about what it means to say: it is good that you exist.

I keep thinking too how we are all grieving--as a nation, as a world--for all that has been lost in the past months, and for all that will not be in the months to come.  We're not very good at grieving, culturally speaking, so it comes out in weird ways.  There's been denial and anger, depression and bargaining, but I don't think any of us has come to real acceptance of the thing.  That life is never going to be as it was, and some things are going to be forever changed. 

Does that mean we will always feel out of control and crazy?  No.  Does that mean that the current stage is the "new normal?"  Of course not.  But it does mean that this maelstrom of grief has to be gone through in order to emerge on the other side in a place of healing and growth.  If we don't go through it, the grief will continue to haunt us, to leak around the edges until it has its way.  There's no way forward but through the tunnel.

It's a messy business, all of it.

Talking Tuesday: Look to the Vulnerable

I'm beyond words with the events of the past week.  The absolutely horrible death of George Floyd, the senseless deaths of Black people all over the country, who live in fear for their lives and their children's lives...my God, what a world.

I do not believe in utopias (a word that literally means "no where"), but I do think we can do better as humans.  We are all created in the image of God, we are all brothers and sisters who share in each other's suffering, no matter the color of one's skin.

The city is in ruins. 16,000 families were unable to pick up food from the food pantries yesterday, so thousands of children went to bed hungry last night.  A food bank was vandalized.  A trailer van belonging to a non-profit that works with the homeless was torched.  Several grocery stores that give  second chances to people with records, located in vulnerable neighborhoods that would otherwise be food deserts, were ransacked and destroyed on Sunday night, so many more people who live hand to mouth were left without access to groceries yesterday.  Elderly people sheltering at home who depended on grocery deliveries from those stores are also hungry today.  Who knows when it will be safe for food parcels to be distributed again, or when those grocery stores will reopen?  

To say my heart is broken is an understatement.

If you live in a place with riots and looting, look to the vulnerable, consider giving money or time to organizations that work to provide basic necessities like food and diapers to the most vulnerable.  If you live in a place where your home is safe and your neighborhood businesses are intact, please consider giving to organizations in hard-hit cities.  We will be doing the same.

The Depth of Ourselves

Longtime readers will know that we live in a small house with inadequate built-in storage (read: basically no closets), and that managing the stuff of six people occupies a greater amount of my time than I would really like.  Too much "stuff" stresses me out, and frankly, I think it stresses my kids out, even though they still want to have new things, and have a hard time letting go of some other things to make room.  I have two children who are legit hoarders and their stuff just has to be gone through regularly to cull out the hair clippings, random trash from the playground, school papers, and other "treasures" they squirrel away.

The first few years that we had kids, the gifting at Christmas was a bit insane.  Don't get me wrong--I'm grateful that we have so many relatives who want to love our kids with physical gifts, and I know there are lots of kids out there who don't get any presents at all.  That said, my kids couldn't even process all the stuff they got, and since the fill-and-spill stage of play seemed to last FOREVER, it felt to me like it was just more stuff I had to pick up all the time.  One of my children always seemed unhappy on Christmas day, no matter what the presents were, and it was just so frustrating to me.

A few years ago, I decided to simplify things and do three gifts only--a book, a pajama, and a toy.  I realized that my kids were unable to handle surprises at that time, so they picked out exactly what they wanted, and each of the grandparents chose which of the three things they wanted to give the kids, and we gave the final gift.  (There were always a few little extras from aunts and cousins and friends, but just having the three main things was helpful).

It worked okay for a couple years, but I realized last year that things needed to shift (we substituted an "experience" for the book last year and the kids got a year-long membership to LegoLand).  This year, I decided throw the whole system out the window and let the kids pick out a number of toys each.

Why? I realized that my unhappy child was unhappy because that child feels good when there is a big pile of presents to open.  This child didn't want to have to choose just one thing, or two things, but felt guilty when unable to make a decision because the want was so strong and the stakes felt so high to make the "right" choice.  (I understand this feeling well).

We talked through it all in the weeks before Christmas, as each child sorted through what they wanted on their lists, and I saw that I had to let go of this vision of "simplicity" at Christmastime.  (This has been part of a larger picture of me letting go as a parent.  I have made a number of shifts in my thinking in the past year about how I want to parent my kids, and letting go of unrealistic expectations, and living where my kids are at is one of them.  I don't always succeed, but I'm trying).

My concern these days is less about the accumulation of "stuff" and more about the why of what they want.

Do they want a new toy because they just want it, or do they want it because they think it will fix something inside them that feels bad?  One child in particular struggles with this, and we've talked a lot about it over the past year as we've struggled through it together.  Every opportunity for gifts and purchasing has come with a conversation about why the desire for this thing is so desperately high.  Often it is because this child feels bad about something, and can't stand to live in those feelings.

So we are working on living in the bad feelings, and not using "things" to make the feelings go away.  Because actually, the things don't make the feelings go away.  At least not for good.  Sure, they might go away for a little while, but as soon as the "new toy" shine is off the thing, the bad feelings are back, and the desire for a new thing to fill that bad-feeling place is back.

This has been a hard lesson for me to learn over the years as well.  If we are really honest with ourselves, I think most people living in this late capitalist period do this in some way or another.  I'm trying to learn to live in the bad feelings and go through them instead of trying to smother them with stuff or drown them with food.

At the same time, however, I don't want my kids to feel so deprived that they make reckless financial decisions as adults or spend their lives chasing things instead of building relationships.  It's a fine balance, to learn to live with less, make do and mend, to value and use what you have, but still feel that you are worthy of receiving love from others in the form of physical things.  Because gifts do speak about worth louder than words sometimes.   There's a reason why Gary Chapman identifies gift-giving or receiving as one of the five primary love languages.

I suppose what it really comes down to is exploring the reality and depth of love: what it is to love another person fully, to meet their needs how and where they are, and to affirm their worth and value in lots of different ways.

~

{It is Philip's day today, and while I'm certainly thinking about it, I have little to say about it today.  I'm unwell and emotionally exhausted, and I can't poke around inside myself to see what I find.  Thirteen years is a long time.}

Twelve

I feel somewhat obliged to write something about this day today, but I find I do not have the words to do so.  It is not that this year is particularly hard in terms of my grief journey; it isn't.  Twelve years ago, Philip left us for the bosom of Abraham.  I've written a fair bit about it over the years, and I have nothing new to add. 

I'm melancholy today, and I have been hyper-aware of the date, but mostly it has just been a day like any other. 

I do reflect a bit more on grief these days, in part because it is the backbone of my book, but also because it changes over time, as I have changed over time.  Twelve years is a long time to live without someone.

But it has become bearable, the absence.  A note in the background, rather than the symphony of my life.

Eleven

I have nothing to say about this day this year.  Just to say that I can't believe it is eleven years.

Rest easy, dear Philip, and pray for us sinners.  Your mama misses you.

Talking Tuesday: Grief Observed

Over the weekend, I had the rare opportunity for a substantive conversation with a friend who lives a state away.  She was visiting the area for the weekend and our kids were happily occupied for a goodly stretch of time, giving us the chance to actually talk.  The conversation ranged over a number of topics, but she spoke of grief, and how people's reactions to her recent grief drove her insane.  She felt that the pat responses given ("she's looking down on you now," she's in a better place," she's an angel now") not only denied the reality of what she feels, but also failed to be of any comfort to her. 

I think as we get older, death becomes more present, and we are more respectful of its place in our lives and its power to hurt us.  When we are young, death seems remote, something that happens to other people, not to us or anyone around us (and yes, I know there are exceptions; my experience is that people who experience death at a young age tend to grow up faster, and have more gravity to them).  But then you get older.  Your parents age, your grandparents begin to die, perhaps you bury a child born too soon.  Out of the blue, it seems, death has found you.  And then you are clenched in the jaws of its fury, wailing at the frailty of human life, at the briefness of existence. 

The truth is, even for those of us who are believers, and have some framework for understanding the afterlife, there is no ontological way to prove such an existence.  There is no proof for God, only the absence.  We have to take a risky leap of faith that such things are real, do exist, and there is a place waiting for us when we die.  That our lives have meaning, and that we are in need of saving. 

In some ways, the New Atheists live a more comfortable mental existence with regard to death.  If this life is all there is, then this life is where you can focus your energies.  You can acknowledge that the world is basically a messed up place without having to howl at the wind for a God who allows evil to flourish.  It simply is.

If there is a heaven and a hell, and God exists and wants us to follow Him, to be like Him, as we Christians believe, then there is constantly the tension between the knowledge that you can never attain that which you seek on your own, nor can you have tangible assurance that things are as you believe them to be.  Faith is a risk indeed.

I suppose it is a risk we keep taking, a leap we continue to make, because I think most of us who hold on to belief have at least had some flash of something bigger than ourselves, some emotional sense that God is present and fills all things.  In life's hard seasons, when God seems absolutely silent and remote, it can feel like He doesn't exist, and certainly doesn't care about our puny existence or petty problems. 

But then I think about what God did for the sake of everyone and everything in the cosmos.  A cosmos that is riddled with death and destruction and decay.  God came to earth in human form, as a man.  A real, historical man, at a real historical place and time.  A man with human frailties and longings.  A man whose passions and nature were perfectly ordered with God's, because He was God.  But merely coming to earth as a man wasn't enough.  It wasn't enough to be a good teacher, or a crack philosopher.  He had to go and get himself killed in a gruesome way by the local authorities.  He went down into the pits of death and destruction and fought the greatest battle there ever was against those forces.  He pulled Adam and Eve from that place of dark despair.  Then three days later, He returned to earth to tell everyone that He had done it.  Death was overcome. 

So we can hope.  We can hope in a better life to come.  We can rage at death, we can howl with grief, we can feel abandoned and alone.  But we can hope.

Talking Tuesday: Laurus

I find myself in a small conundrum today; it is 10 years since Philip's repose, and I generally take the day to write about him, to remember.  It is also Tuesday, however, and I had intended to start writing about Eugene Vodolazkin's excellent spiritual novel Laurus this week.  Upon reflection, I find these two things not incompatible.  I find I have little to say specifically about Philip this year.  I thought about him a lot last week, as I always do in the days leading up to the anniversary, but this morning was almost an afterthought.  Almost.

Ten years ago seems like a lifetime; so much has happened in the past decade, so much that has ontologically changed me.  Would I even recognize my younger self now?  

Eugene Vodolazkin's novel is concerned quite a lot with time, and the way that the self changes over time, particularly in pursuit of repentance.  We meet the central character, Arseny, as a young boy, and journey with him throughout his long life until his death in old age.  Several passages in the book stood out to me, but this particular one seemed appropriate for today; Arseny (now called by his first monastic name of Amvrosy) is entering old age, and has joined a monastery.  He is reflecting on the past while talking with his spiritual father, Elder Innokenty.

"I have already been at the monastery but, you know, somehow I cannot get my thoughts together.  Apparently I can no longer understand this myself.  Time, my love, is very shaky here, because the cycle is closed and it corresponds to eternity.  It is autumn now:  that may be the only thing I can say with anything approaching certainty....

Monastic time truly does lie close to eternity, said Elder Innokenty, but they are not equal.  The path of living, O Amvrosy, cannot be a circle.  The path of the living, even if they are monks, has been opened up because, as one might ask, how could there be freedom of will if there is no way out of a vicious cycle?  And even when we replicate events in prayer, we do not simply recall them.  We relive those events once again and they occur once again....

So you think time here is some sort of open figure rather than a circle?  Amvrosy asked the elder.

That's exactly it, answered the elder.  After I have become enamored of geometry, I will liken the motion of time to a spiral.  This involves repetition but on some new, higher level.  Or, if you like, the experience of something new but not from a clean slate.  With the memory of what was experienced previously.

A weak autumnal sun appeared from behind some clouds.  Elder Innokenty appeared from the opposite side of the wall.  He had managed to walk around the monastery during the time he spent talking with Amvrosy. 

And you, O elder, are making circles, Amvrosy told him.  
No, this already the spiral.  I am walking, as before, along with the swirl of leaves but--do take note, O Amvrosy--the sun came out and I am already a little different....

There are events that resemble one another, continued the elder, but opposites are born from that similarity.  The Old Testament opens with Adam but the New Testament opens with Christ.  The sweetness of the apple that Adam eats turns into the bitterness of the vinegar that Christ drinks.  The tree of knowledge leads humanity to death but a cross of wood grants immortality to humanity.  Remember, O Amvrosy, that repetitions are granted for our salvation and in order to surmount time."

~Eugene Vodolazkin, Laurus. Trans. by Lisa C. Hayden.  London: Oneworld Publications, 2015. Pages 308-309.

Nine

Taken October 2008

Talking Tuesday: Bearing Our Crosses

I'll post this without much commentary, as I think Fr. Matthew's sermon speaks well enough for itself, but what I do want to say is that like Fr. Andrew Damick, Fr. Matthew's death has caused me to think more deeply about the sort of person I am, to become more aware of my limitations and pain, my weaknesses, to try better to understand the limitations of those around me, to really consider what it is to show love to others as Christ loves me.  It is not a task for the faint-hearted.

"Now all of us here today have weaknesses, profound limitations, of which we may or may not be aware. All of us have encountered crosses in life, some of them very painful; crosses which perhaps we did not choose – crosses which we are probably still learning how to bear with thanksgiving. And further, each of us here – every baptized man, woman and child – has been called by God. He has called us to be sharers in Christ’s “royal priesthood” (1 Pet. 2:9): to make the whole of our lives – our work, our rest and play, and all of our relationships – a living sacrifice to God (Rom. l12:1).

This is a high calling, an arduous task. Yet I suggest we can make a start today by beginning, not with our strengths, but with our weaknesses. If we can look realistically at our own deep limitations – the ways which we so often fail in bearing our own crosses – then perhaps we can begin to approach others with that gentleness which – as one of the Desert Fathers said – comes of remembering that “each and every person we meet is engaged in a deep and bitter struggle.” Then we can begin to see the wounds which we have received in life for what they truly are: a way in which the Lord is preparing us to bring healing to others. We can begin to exercise the priestly virtue of compassion.As in the Holy Eucharist itself, our very brokenness can become the opening through which life may be shared with others. Then our crosses truly become the Holy Cross. By coming to terms with our own weakness, by showing gentleness towards the weaknesses of others, we can begin to make our whole life a sacrifice: a priestly offering to God, through Jesus Christ our great High Priest."

~Fr. Matthew Baker, Sermon for the Sunday of the Cross, delivered at St. Tikhon's Seminary, 2007 or 2008

May God have mercy on us all in our weakness, in our limitations, in our burdens and pain.  May He lift us up, carry us in our weakness, show us how to love, how to sacrifice ourselves again and again without resentment, how to bring healing to ourselves and those around us.

Outlander and the Human Condition

In light of everything that has happened, it seems more than a little superficial to return to the regularly scheduled light program of mundane domestic life and sewing and knitting related posts with the odd deep thought here and there.  I do know from experience, however, that we cannot hold tightly to our first grief forever, and that a new normal does eventually reassert itself.  Grief always marks a person, and loss stays with you.  I suppose some of the pain of being human is that of loss.

Interestingly enough, I do think this is one of the larger themes of the Outlander book series--that of loss, of grief, of the slow process of putting one's life back together after irreparable change and trauma.  The traumas and losses experienced by the characters stay with them, become a part of who they are, influence the choices they make and the responses they have.  I think it is also one of the reason why the books resonate with so many readers--the themes are part of the universal human experience, and there is something there that anyone can relate to.  Outlander has given language to much of my own grief about Philip's death over the years; for that alone, I'm profoundly grateful to the series.  

So far, the Starz series has proven a good, if not entirely faithful adaptation.  There are some things that simply don't translate well to the screen, and some minor changes were made for story arc or thematic reasons, but for the most part, the episodes and experiences of the books are all there, played out on the screen.  We see Claire's frantic attempts to get back to the stones, and to Frank; we see her grief at the possibility that he is lost forever; we identify with Frank's despair and anger at Claire's perceived abandonment.  We feel Claire's increasing attachment to Jamie, her accommodation to living in the past, while at the same time trying desperately to hang on to her 20th century self.  

But enough about that.   I have a sewing post that I'll put up as soon as I can get photos taken, as it was another Historical Sew Monthly Stashbusting Challenge, and I plan to participate in Spring for Cotton, so I'm sure there will be some sewing-related posts for that as well.  I've gotten some knitting done lately as well, so I have a Yarn Along post ready for Wednesday.  In short, trying to find the new normal, which will include a lot of the old normal.  

Outfit details:

18th century petticoat skirt: me-made

Ralph Lauren sweater: via ThredUp

JCrew teal blue t-shirt: via ThredUp

Capelet: knitted by me

belt: etsy

The Injustice of Death

Tomorrow morning is Fr. Matthew Baker's funeral; Boo and I are getting on a train at 5:15 a.m. to travel the long distance to be there.  I'm so grateful to be able to attend, both for myself and to be able to support Katie.  I'm also anxious about the trip, as we have some unfamiliar transitions and we will be on a train for more than 10 hours tomorrow, as we make the return trip in the afternoon.  But it is important.  Funerals are important ways of marking time, of observing ritual, of bringing a kind of closure.  One of our seminary friends observed that this week has been a kind of far-flung vigil for those of us who knew him, either slightly or very well.

The late Fr. Matthew Baker's reach was far and wide. The tributes to him as a man, as a scholar, as a thelogian, as a spiritual father and brother, as an Orthodox Christian, have continued to roll in (Fr. Stephen Damick has a nice list here).  I'm not really surprised--Fr. Matthew was ever one to stay in touch with friends far and wide, to have deep conversations anytime anywhere, never to miss the meaning in the moment. Thinking about it now, I realize he was a very present person.  

(c) Princeton Theological Seminary

Eric Jobe, an old acquaintance from our Chicago days, wrote an thoughtful response this week, and especially apt, in the light of Lent and the coming Pascha celebration. We who grieve are many, and there is a persistent sense that losing Fr. Matthew, especially at this particular juncture, is unjust, unfair, too soon. Eric points out that injustice is part of our fallen condition, but that the cross and resurrection are our hope, our redemption.

"The story of Job is an exhortation to stand firm in righteousness even if the whole world seems to come crashing down upon you, even if God seems to be an adversary (“Why, God, could you let this happen?”). The doctrine of retribution does not explain everything, but there is hope…

And what is that hope? Will everything be restored like Job? Not in this life. Sometimes I think the ending of Job is a bit cheap, because not every righteous sufferer ends up blessed like Job.

But then we see Christ who is the ultimate righteous sufferer. The ultimate unjust suffering is that the sinless, spotless Son of God should be crucified by evil doers. We see then that Job is a type and an icon of Christ, who suffers unjustly yet maintains his righteousness throughout. And like Job, the Father raises his Son from the dead thereby vindicating him and proving his righteousness. 

I think we have lost sight of this aspect of the Cross and Resurrection, that the Cross was the ultimate injustice – “My God My God, why have you forsaken me?” – but by the Resurrection, God’s righteousness was proven.

When we suffer the injustice of death, we should not try to diminish what it is – an injustice! We should not try to explain it away as being anything other than what it is – something unjust has occurred, and if God has any control over the world, then he will give an account of himself, and this he does through the Resurrection of his Son.

The Resurrection of the Son of God is a promise and a guarantee that every injustice in the world will be righted, that the unrighteous enemy that is death has been defeated, and we will see that victory completed at his second and glorious coming, when “the dead in Christ shall rise and meet him in the air.”"

~Eric Jobe, The Injustice of Death: In Memoriam of Fr. Matthew Baker, Departing Horeb blog, March 2, 2015

Many have given to the relief fund for Katie and her children, but more is needed: please consider a gift.  Fr. Matthew spent the last decade pursuing his studies, and the Baker family has sacrificed so much already to allow him to do so.  They will need our prayers and our support for many years to come--this will be a long journey, and we who grieve must walk alongside the Baker family as best we can.

Memory Eternal!

Talking Tuesday: With Broken Hearts

I'm still reeling today from the shocking news of Fr. Matthew Baker's death in terrible car accident on Sunday night.  The roads were bad and he was returning home from Vespers with their six children, ages 12-2.  Somehow, none of the children were hurt, but Fr. Matthew went on to be with the Lord.  Presvetera Katie is still grieving the loss of a stillborn 17 week baby, Alexis, and is now left with six children to raise.  My heart just hurts for all of them.  The Bakers were our neighbors at seminary, and we have many memories of times spent hanging out with their family that year, and off and on in the years since.  Katie is one my mothering heroes, and I'm so grateful to count her as friend.  Fr. Matthew was a brilliant man, a serious and thoughtful Orthodox scholar, a caring priest, and so many other things.  Fr. Stephen Damick's tribute to Fr. Matthew says everything I want to, and more, as we were all neighbors at the same time.  I think Fr. Stephen describes Fr. Matthew perfectly:

"Not only did Fr. Matthew do all his homework when it came to understanding what he was talking about on any given subject (from physics to klezmer to, yes, Patristic theology), but he somehow knew how to synthesize nearly any subjects together. We used to joke that we could say something like, “Duran Duran, GMOs, and Apollinarianism—go!” and he could come up with authentically deep links between them.

He was someone for whom the world was not a series of subjects, but a single logos."

~Fr. Stephen Andrew Damick, "We Need More Spiritual Brothers: Losing Fr. Matthew Baker" Roads From Emmaus Blog, March 2, 2015.

I confess that it all just seems unfair (and more than a little unreal).  I know that God's ways are not our ways, and it is in these times that I am forcibly reminded of this fact.  In the meantime, please consider giving to the relief fund for Katie and her family, as Fr. Matthew was their sole source of support.  I hear that someone has arranged a temporary vehicle for them, and they are staying with the local priest, who is another seminary friend, so I'm confident they are in good hands right now, but this path will be a long and hard one, and I know they will need our love and support for many years to come.

Memory eternal to Fr. Matthew Baker!

Eight years...

Death is funny--it marks you forever, changes who you are irrevocably.  Sometimes the change is small, something you can carry in a corner of your mind, to examine periodically, and then tuck away again.  Sometimes the change is so tidal that you don't recognize who you were before.  

from Uncut Mountain Supply

I've been thinking about this day on and off all week.  Some years I find myself going over the events of the week, running over the timeline in my mind over and over again, wondering what we could have done differently to change the outcome (nothing).  Some years, like this year, I mark time in the week before by simply repeating his name to myself like a heartbeat.  Philip.  Two syllables, liquid on the tongue, but so full.  I no longer keep his memory book on display, and the flowers that I dried from the graveside service finally began to crumble this year.  It is okay, I realized.  You can't stay in the eye of the storm of grief forever, and at some point, you take a step forward, and then another, and then another, until you can turn around and see the hurricane behind you.  The wind still whips at your back and howls in your ears sometimes, but at least you can turn your back on it now instead of having to face it full on with your chest to the maelstrom. 

I miss him, so so much.  Rest easy upon the bosom of Abraham, our beloved sweet boy.  

Talking Tuesday: Death in the Forest

The mortal coil is once again on my mind today.   As we live in a society that is profoundly uncomfortable with death, and with dying, it is hard to know how to help people who are grieving, or even to comfort the dying.  It is a messy, intimate business, death, one that requires a lot of strength, determination, and sometimes, a strong stomach.  I think when death happened more often at home, when the family was responsible for preparing the body, when death was a more constant companion than now, in our age of advanced medicine (but not, curiously, the bio-ethics to go with it), people knew what to do.  There were rituals, Things To Be Done, and a certain gravity toward it all.  I'm nearing the end of Outlander once again, and I've had a few things stand out to me this read-through, and I'll probably be sharing some of them as time goes by, but this particular passage especially caught my attention.  It is hard to sit with the dying, to be quiet and still, without distraction, to simply Be, until the end.

The forest was very quiet.  No birds sang in the mist, and the men who waited patiently hunkered in the shadow of the trees, were silent as the trees themselves.  Dougal and I leaned close together over the struggling body, murmuring and comforting, sharing the messy, heartrending, and necessary task of help a man to die.  

The trip up the hill to the castle was silent.  I walked beside the dead man, borne on a makeshift litter of pine boughs.  Behind us, borne in precisely similar fashion, came the body of his foe [a boar].  Dougal walked ahead, alone.

As we entered the gate to the main courtyard, I caught sight of the tubby little figure of Father Bain, the village priest, hurrying belatedly to the air of his fallen parishioner.  Dougal paused, reaching out to stay me as I turned toward the stair leading to the surgery.  The bearers with Geordie's plaid-shrouded body on its litter passed on, heading toward the chapel, leaving us together in the deserted corridor.  Dougal held me by the wrist, looking me over intently.

"You've seen men die before," he said flatly.  "By violence."  Not a question, almost an accusation.

"Many of them," I said, just as flatly.  And pulling myself free, I left him standing there and went to tend my living patient.

~Diana Gabaldon, Outlander, NY: Delacorte Press, 1991, pp 142-143.

Talking Tuesday: The Wildness of Death

My heart is heavy today for a friend and the terrible loss she is going through once more.  I read this short piece in The Week a while back and thought it appropriate to the day.  I would say, however, for us who have the hope of heaven, death has no victory, no sting.  We can take comfort in the promise of our Risen Lord, and we are sent a Comforter in the Holy Spirit, celebrated this Pentecost past.   We may still beat our breasts in sorrow and anguish, and feel the agony of separation, but we still have hope in the Resurrection.

"Death may be the wildest thing of all, the least tamed or known phenomenon our consciousness has to reckon with.  I don't understand how to meet it, not yet, maybe never....Facing death in a death-phobic culture is lonely....We have no dominion over the wild darkness that surrounds us.  It is everywhere, under our feet, in the air we breathe, but we know nothing of it.  We know more about the universe and the mind of an octopus than we do about death's true nature.  Only that it is terrible and inescapable, and it is wild."

"Into the Wild Darkness", The Last Word, The Week, May 23, 2014, pg. 40-41.

The beat of my heart

This day is different every year.  Last year was fairly awful; I was a mass of pregnancy hormones, and

brittle and edgy for days after a difficult Christmas for reasons that had nothing to do with this day.

This year is less so.  The sadness, the missing, it is there, but more like a heartbeat.  I can attend to it or not.  I don't feel the need to go over the chronology of those days seven years ago when Philip died and was born.  I'm just remembering him today, to honor his memory, and trying not to focus too much on anything else.  I remember the rapid, surprisingly strong, fluttering against me a few days before he went that told me he was there.  His waving hand on the ultrasound two days before the end.  The dream of a chasing a chubby blond boy who, when I finally caught him, told me his name was Philip.

To our precious boy, resting on the bosom of Abraham, we miss you, we love you, we'll see you someday.