Tomorrow is the winter solstice, the longest night of the
year. To me, this is a beautiful time, a deep rich Advent blue pierced through
with stars. Resting in the pregnant potential of the night and trusting in the
light’s return, it feels right to take stock of the past semester.
I learned to say goodbye to a beloved church community and
hello to another, and I learned to return again to that
first community I still love so much with humility and trust. I now see more clearly that when bread and wine
are shared, all communities gather around the same table.
I helped to lead twenty-two services at my internship parish,
preaching at four of them. I anointed a good eighty people and prayed for healing. I taught a confirmation class composed largely
of seventh-grade boys about the Ten Commandments, the Creed, and Martin Luther’s
theology of grace, rediscovering it all afresh in the process. I walked on
the beach a mile from my church each Sunday morning at 8:00, and I loved the way the
light was completely different each morning.
I purchased a djembe and named it Florence.
I watched all of Doctor Who since 2005, and I’ve rewatched a
sizeable portion of it, too. Strangely enough, I found that it resonated with my own
life as I moved between class and parish and hospital/hospice. No, I will never
forget Nine, my first Doctor (Christopher Eccleston), but yes, my true loyalty
belongs to Ten (David Tennant).
I got into—and out of—my first minor car accident.
I wrote sermons and papers, survived dull lectures
and was inspired by excellent ones, and perfected the art of napping happily,
comfortably, and efficiently in the library. I'm halfway done with my degree and am therefore one-half divine (or so I'm telling myself).
I continued to unfold the strange and difficult beauty of
working with hospice and palliative care inpatients and their families. I accompanied
gatherings large and small as they struggled to reconcile, to remember, and to say
goodbye. I met the Divine at bedsides and at deaths more times than I can
count, and I understand it no more now than I did at first. So I keep
returning, drawn by something holy I can only name as Love in all its sharpness
and danger and gentleness.
I led a memorial service alone for the first time and met
holiness in sage smoke and candlelight and smooth white stones and
the smell of a woodstove heating a tiny chapel, and yes, even in grief.
I have been so grateful for dear and loyal friends.
