Praytell

We enter this building

in various stages of disintegration.

Bones ache,

hearts are broken,

we didn’t know how fast

our lives would pass.

Here and there a patch,

a stitch or two

try to deny time

its consequence.

Icons line the corridors,

blessing the gentle descent

while some panther

runs us down.

Even cancer can’t keep up

when its victim slips away.

Whose room is this?  We suddenly wonder.

Who has slept here before?

And how long a sleep has it been?

Published in the North Coast Review, fall/winter 1996

There is a church at the corner of Chicago and 23rd Street in Minneapolis, Minnesota.  Across the street from the church is the Phillips Eye Institute, the Midwest’s only eye specialty hospital, with a staff of over 100 physicians.  Down the street a few blocks is Children’s Hospital; across the street from it is a brand new Children’s Speciality Hospital; and a block beyond it is Abbott Northwestern Hospital.  Together, the medical corridor brings in over a billion dollars a year.

It goes almost without saying that the folks who work in those hospitals are healers.  And it goes, almost without saying, that the church is also a healer.  Its prayers, its cares, its presence and blessing of those who have been to the hospital and received either encouraging or discouraging news, are all part of healing.

I often wondered as I became acquainted with our neighborhood what kind of a conversation there might be between the medical community and its neighborhood church.  And so I interviewed one of its pastors for the Geography of Healing  (TM pending).

It turns out the church is all but invisible.  They have never received a letter acknowledging their presence, their care for patients dismissed from the hospital.  The hospitals are “over there,” and the church is “over here.”  Ne’er shall the twain meet.

Why?

What might they talk about?

How could the church bless?

How could the four hospitals discover their healing neighbor?

And . . . for all the theory about faith and healing . . . where is there an actual conversation?

Such are my thoughts on this last day of April.

And . . . such are my hopes.

The conversation was telling.

Somehow or other, in the midst of a Bible study, I shared that I had never been able to wear a white robe when I was a pastor.  Others did, I knew that.  The Lutherans did, even some of the UCC folk did.  But to me the white robe symbolized innocense, some kind of purity.  I couldn’t imagine wearing a white in front of a congregation.  Perhaps I was their pastor, perhaps I was their spiritual guide, but wearing a white robe was out of the question.  I stayed with black.  Perhaps justice is attainable.  Judges wear black.  Scholars wear black.  The stoles could be full of life, but the robe itself would be black.

Interesting, Elaine, the Lutheran pastor said to me.  And then she shared that to her the robe comes to us as a gift, it is something we put on not because of something we have attained, but because of something given to us.

That something is grace.

I had preached it.

Recommended it.

Trusted it.

But hadn’t worked it.

Wouldn’t it work you?  she asked.

Yes.

And so . . . Lent is past.

These are the days to work on grace.

This is the season to receive it.

And so . . . grace notes.

What color is your robe?

Taken in South Africa, on the road heading towards the Umzimkulu River . . . a trip that restored my all-too fragile faith in humanity and the blessing of ministry.

A fall picture taken by Ken Pray prompted this study.  In the course of our lives, we have walked these beaches a thousand times.  Each time it is the same.  And each time it is never the same.  Thus the mystery of Squaw Bay.

A watercolorist noted that there are an astounding number of books on watercolor.  Each one has its own approach.  But I wonder why there are more books on water color than there are books on pastels or oils?

 Is it because water is elusive?  When reading them, and seeing a study, I always say, “Look at that!”  and then, “I’ll try that too.”

What emerges is a mixture of what was and something new.  This band of beach and lake is a snippet from one such study.  The book I was leafing through was by Ted Kautsky.

The road to the Crazies from Big Timber never ceases to inspire.  One winter day they looked this way.

The winter sky facing west from the cottage, in the depth of winter. Prompted by a picture taken by Ken Pray.

Saxine Creek making its way into the lake…  as it always has, and always will.

For years I put off going to the Chief Joseph battlefield in Chinook, Montana.  The story of the Nez Pierce people’s long ride from Idaho to escape the army sent to capture them was just too sad.  It came to an end just short of the Canadian border.  The army surrounded the Indians and opened fire, as the Nez Pierce took shelter in shallow ravines, used pots and pans to dig trenches, and tried to protect their horses.  In the end, Chief Joseph surrendered.  But when i finally visited to place, I found it poignant and stunningly beautiful.  I was the only person at the park on a late afternoon.

Along the trail there were many small offerings of sweet grass, stones, each making an altar on the ground.

But it was the sky that told the story.

Along the way I realized that the journey of the Nez Pierce is, in some way, the same as the story of everyone who lives with chronic disease.  In the end, no matter how valiant our attempted escape, it wins.  And along the way we learn the nature of courage, and the piercing beauty that surrounds us despite the circumstances.