Isn’t that a simply delicious word? 
This morning as I look out upon the day, it is grey, quiet, and plain,
really.  The trees in my woods are
still more brown than green. 
The yard and the potential gardens are more lackluster than robust. 
The traditional tribes of birds feed on the sunflower seeds, my neighbors
go to work, and Chloe barks at the squirrels.  If someone were to take a photo of me
in this moment, I would not look like a glamour girl, and my life from a larger
perspective is meager by many standards.
 
But, this day is fine with me.  This state of ordinary is a gift.  Ordinary promotes presence. 
If you think of bright, bright sunlight… it can make it very hard to
see. Similarly, darkness cloaks the
world around us and our eyes beg for the ability to see through it. 
Grey, however, opens sight. 
There is nothing difficult about a day that is hushed in grey light.  We can perceive small details that
neither darkness nor bright light allow.

And this is true for ordinary living. 
Oh, we love those gloriously fabulous days when some spark of joy or
unexpected pleasure greets us. 
We love times when we feel special and unique… when we are valued as rare and
precious.  Somehow in our American
culture, we want to be always be better, and when we feel we have arrived at
better… we feel better. 
Gloriously
fabulous days keep us searching for more, which is not necessarily negative, but
not always the healthiest or wisest way to live.
 
Dark days are dreaded days.  We learn of illness, ours or someone we
love.  We lose jobs. 
We lose money.  We lose
people we cherish.  The earth
shakes, the sea roars, and some days it literally feels like the sky is
falling.  We cry. 
We shout.  We mourn.  We fight the odds with all of our
might, and yet, the day remains dark. 
Dark days keep us searching for something more, which is not necessarily,
negative, but not always the healthiest or wisest way to
live.

Ordinary days invite us to be here, not there. Ordinary days
hold out to us what is neither past nor future (or perhaps what is past and
future).  It all rests here,
doesn’t it?  Isn’t all of whatever
was and will be here in our hearts and minds and souls today? 
Isn’t the most spectacular day and the most tragic being blessed in the
living of the ordinary one?

I’ll not blow whistles for today, nor will I ignore it.  I plan to simply offer thanks and live
into what is alive. Ordinary days keep us here, closer to our purest selves,
which is a really good way to live.

Today, I wanted to be productive.  I wanted to create a check list and by the end of the day have it all marked off.  I wanted the satisfaction of proof that I had not let this day go by without dutiful work.

I tried this.  I did get some things accomplished, but it has been a struggle all day.  I wanted to be clear and present to whatever was before me.  I wanted to feel engaged with each item on my list.  I wanted to see the effort of my work bear some sort of fruit that in the long run would make a lovely impact on my life and the lives of others.  All the while I was checking items off my list, there was this pulling toward something else.  I ignored it for a time.  I tried to silence the calling.  I kept telling myself to stay focused, but finally I realized my focus was in the wrong place tending the wrong needs.

By 10:30 this morning, I burst out in tears.  There was no denying that the work of the day was not on a checklist.  My aunt is close to death, and the very marrow of my bones can feel her leaving.  A church friend also awaits her journey to heaven.  Another friend waits today for her father to awaken from his surgery, and yet another friend mourns the death of her beloved husband.  Tornados have wrecked towns and lives in the Midwest.  The political news of the day is constantly disturbing.  I know of so many circumstances that are simply devastating, and there is no way for me to go about my business as if this is all alright.

And so I cried for a time.  I let it all spill over me.  I allowed my soul to shake hands with these tiresome worries.  And then like my wise Mama God, I heard my soul say, “You come on here.  I’m gonna take care of you today.”  And I gathered up my tears and every soul I could name in the midst of struggle, and we came together.  Grace reminded me to invite the wounded to my attention.

And so, I took everyone with me down the lane to the mailbox.  We breathed the air, we watched my boots tromp through the mud and snow.  We listened to the sun singing with the birds.  And we mailed another job application.  And we all stood there together, saying prayers of hope that meaningful work might open up, and that more attention might be offered to God’s children in need.  “I want to be purposeful in my living, everyone,” I said.  And they all said they knew that.

As we walked back down the lane, we noticed God at work.  The snow had come, and it helped us to see and feel again.  We see how the snow cups and holds the ordinary, how it accentuates hidden or missed beauty, and then before we know it, the snow leaves.  The gift, however, is that we are left with vision.  We are left with a knowing, a glorious understanding that needed to be stirred.  It is the truth that no matter what happens, no matter what changes occur, we are all going to be okay.  I could hear everyone saying that:  “We are going to be okay.”  And “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” (Julian of Norwich)  We stood in the lane for a time, only my breath visible, but shoulder to shoulder, we stood.

We fed the birds.  Anyone in pain knows how deeply healing it is to reach out to others.  Some voices whistled little birdsongs as the feeder grew full.  Some among us took flight.  And some lingered to watch as the birds retrieved their nourishment.  We just fed little birds and in doing so, we all forgot to be sad or burdened.

Before returning inside, a child-like voice called out, “Oh, look!”  And there at our feet just a few steps from the bird feeder was this little purple crocus.  Shrouded in snow and dead leaves, it was rising up.  And we all knelt down, our warmth urging this little being to be alive, to love the earth and the sky, and to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that her living changes us… for good.  We couldn’t help but realize our bodily prayers, our joys and our thanksgivings in this intimate circle.  “We bless you, little flower, for coming to us this way.  Now you will travel with us, all together.  We shall never be apart from one another.”

Finally, we decide we are hungry.  There is great discussion as to what to make, but finally we decide to travel to Italy via the new recipe for Tuscan Bean and Pasta Stew.  Had there been wine in the house, we surely would have raised a glass or two.  We dream of roaming the streets of Italy one day, but for now, the sunlight in this house is divine, the friendships rich, and the day has finally found its meaning.

I am here for you, my friends.  I am here, and I am thankful we can gather no matter where, no matter what.  I love you, and this is my intention in all that I do.

My brother, David, and I piled into my little Honda yesterday.  David’s long legs were nearly to his chin.  I don’t remember when he and I ever took a trip together.  But yesterday, we decided to go to Carolina and visit our aunt.  She is the last family member on my father’s side, and she is dying of throat cancer.

David and I were both born in North Carolina, as were both of our parents.  We know the route well.  81 South is a scenically dry drive.  There is not much to look at and always there is a starkness in what we pass mile after mile.  Occasionally, we spot hawks, and the bodies of water along the way do interrupt the ongoing run of pine trees. But there has always been for me a pulling back of my own edges, as I return to this place that is known and foreign all at the same time.  Always, there is something sad in my body, something that feels loss and lost.  This land is heritage.  This is the land of birth, but this also is the land of letting go.  Even as a child coming to visit my grandparents, I knew that our time together would be sweet, but it would always be followed with a good-bye.  And this day, as we drive through pouring rain, those feelings of bitter sweetness and melancholy are strong.

We pass our time with good conversation, a bit of music, and spaces of quiet.  We are both pondering what it will be like to sit with Anne Marie, to witness this part of life that is unfamiliar and frightening.  How can we offer blessing today?  How can we ease her struggle?  How can we bear to hold her close while we say good-bye?

We are thankful as we arrive that this place of hospice care is lovely.  It is bright and clean and home-like.  The soft yellow walls, the cheery fresh flowers, the quiet grace that hangs in the air like a spring fragrance offer ease and calm as we find our way toward Anne Marie’s room. As we enter, we find a woman playing her guitar and singing as Anne Marie taps her feet in rhythm beneath the blankets of her bed.  And as she realizes we are there, there are tears and joy.

At first, I can feel the pressure of conversation.  What do we say or ask?  How do we figure out her needs apart from our own?  How do we not overtax her voice and energy?  And so, we naturally let catching up blaze the trail.  We share the news from each family member.  We speak of our own journeys and joys and struggles.  We all acknowledge the bird that sings so sweetly outside the window.  Its song is strong and clear… a calling to us to stay engaged with all that pulses with life and blessing.  We get Anne Marie ice water.  We clean her glasses.  We put fresh water in her flowers.  We yearn to do or say something that will capture her struggle and free her from burden.  We sit with her as she sleeps.  Each time she drops off, I pray.  I set my eyes on her face or her hands or her throat, and I pray.  And I sing to her.  And then I pray some more.  David sits quietly.  He seems to be waiting, to be finding his own way with this visit.  And finally, after a time, he begins.  He recounts stories of our childhood with those whom Anne Marie has loved.  He causes her to laugh.  Her eyes brighten.  His stories enliven her.  And as I witness this, I see that he, too, is enlivened and that this connection between them is God’s hand at work.

He speaks what he most yearns to say from his heart, he kisses her good-bye and leaves me to my own space with Anne Marie.  I didn’t want to cry.  I didn’t want to, but in that moment the tears could not be contained.  This woman is so precious to me.  She is steadfast in my life.  She speaks, and I hear God speaking through her.  She always helps me to feel the love when I seem lost to it.  I do not know if I will see her again in this life.  I do not know if this is the last time I will hold her hand, but I am keenly aware that she is cocooning herself for transformation.  She is in the midst of letting go and allowing her body to embrace the final stages of living on this earth.  Our cheeks press each other’s tears together as she tells me that she will be okay.  We both know the truth of this.  We both trust the truth of this.  And yet I know how much I will miss her, and as I tell her this, she says, “Oh, but I’ll be here.  Just listen to the birdsongs.  Look at the sky.  Oh, and the clouds.  I’ve always loved the clouds.  You just look at the clouds.  I’ll be here, you’ll see.”

The trip home was long, but David and I affirmed in our conversations all that comes from a visit like this.  Life is precious.  Take nothing for granted.  Do your soul work now.  Don’t wait to tell people how much they mean to you.  Step up for those in need.  Be true to whom you are called to be and if you don’t yet know what that means… keep searching.  Remember your roots and honor what has grown from them.  Be thankful.  And love… love from the deepest, truest depth of your being.

Anne Marie also mentioned that the Tar Heels are playing Duke on Saturday, and she hopes to watch the game.  And I don’t know anything about basketball, but I have a strong feeling that those Tar Heels are really going to show their stuff. 

Blessed be this ordinary life.

Blessed be the ties that bind.