Breaking Ground

I had a realization of my own after the goodbye-themed inter-generational Bible study I led at church the other night.

In a time of lifting up loved ones who have passed on or moved away, I named my grandfather (my eulogy for him is posted here), and I explained that I called him Grandsprout because he called me Sprout.

What I've realized since Sunday night is that no one else in the world calls me Sprout and what that means. When my grandfather's dementia deepened to the point of no longer recognizing his loved ones, we ourselves struggled to hold on to who we were to him. When he died, the me who was Sprout died, too.

It was not only the loss of a beloved person but also the end of a relationship, of all the relationships he had with his family and friends.

And at the heart of our relationship, his and mine, was growth. A love of greenery and soil and earthy things. A wisdom of seasons and perseverance and devoted care. My grandfather watched me grow up, and I watched my grandfather grow his garden. These were the joys we basked in together.

So it's only fitting that, when I finally found the language to heal myself almost two years later, it came to me in the form of plant life. Specifically, it came to me in an image that my professor, Angella Son, included in her new book, Spirituality of Joy. Although it took on a different meaning for me than it did for her, the image of the moso bamboo tree inspired me to compose a song.

The lyrics are a conversation between a soul and God, throughout the sort of experience that is often known in spiritual circles as the dark night of the soul. But in this case, the process is likened to the growth pattern of the moso bamboo tree, which grows roots for five years before it even breaks ground (and then it hits some kind of plant puberty and grows about 90 feet in six months, but who's counting?). To the unsuspecting gardener, those first five years look to be a failure, like nothing good is happening and any hope of vegetation is gone.

But the God I've come to know through my grief is a God with dirty fingernails and all the time in the world. A God who knows the strength of roots and the goodness of brokenness when a seed is breaking open, breaking ground.

It's through writing this song that I began to live again, and it's only now that I realize that the person I came to be, in some way, is still and always will be my Grandsprout's Sprout.

Growing Underground
Music and lyrics by Kimberley Fais, 2013

You plant. You feed. You water. I sleep.
Then I stretch, and I breathe, and take root in the deep.
Even though I can't see, You promise me
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
And I will grow out before I grow up.
It's a long way out.

You've got time in Your hands and dirt in Your nails.
You see what succeeds when everything fails.
It's hard to believe what You promised me.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
And I will grow out before I grow up.
It's a long way up.

Deep and dark down here, where I weep with joy,
I'm not drowning out Your still small voice.
Little do I know I'm right where I should be.
I'm where You're tending me.

You planted. You fed. You watered. I woke.
Then I stretched, and I breathed, and through the ground I broke.
And I rose, and I grew. You said: "I promised you--
You were never going under. You were just growing underground.
You were never going under. You were just growing underground.
And I watched you grow the roots that would let you grow up.
Look at you now. . . ."

Little Talks

Image Source

'Cause though the truth may vary,

this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore.

-Of Monsters and Men

Evangelism is active listening. It is not colonialism. It is not sharing my faith. It is hearing the God-story unfold in another person's life. That's what I'm learning this semester in my required-for-the-ordination-that-I-may-or-may-not-pursue-someday Evangelism course.

Active listening, no matter how active, can sneak up on you when you least expect it.

Today, as I prepared to leave work (of the nannying variety), I talked to my employer and a colleague of hers.

"This is so funny," the colleague said, as our conversation came to a close. "In the car on the way over here this morning, I was just thinking, 'I don't know if I believe in God anymore.' And now here I am, telling you about all this."

I can't blame this one squarely on occupational hazard; our chat had been just about as far as can be from the topic of God.

But one bit of conversation had led to another, and before long, the colleague recounted for us some stories about her sister who died of cancer some time ago.

The two sisters were extraordinarily linked. Numbers Eight and Nine of nine children in the family, they were raised more like twins. They shared so much - everything from sleeping spaces to daily routines.

Our storyteller described a time that she went on vacation as a young adult. While there, she had an inexplicable urge to buy her sister a pair of socks with a silly design to them. As she and her husband wandered the store, she mused frequently about how the socks reminded her of her sister. Her husband teased her for this sudden obsession with socks - the sort of gift that she had never given to her sister before - but never tried to talk her out of the strange souvenir.

Then, when they reached the cash register, she set them aside. Her husband was shocked that, after all that, she wasn't buying them.

When they returned from the trip, her family had difficult news that they hadn't wanted to share across the distance. Her sister, Kathy, had survived a car accident but had lost both of her feet. Both of her legs had been amputated just below the knees.

The same night that Kathy had been through hours of surgery, her sister, still away and unaware, did not sleep at all. This was strange to her at the time - so uncharacteristic of her. She liked to think she could sleep on a picket fence if need be. But as Kathy struggled through the accident and the aftermath, her sister kept vigil for her without even knowing it.

It was years later that Kathy was diagnosed with cancer, which eventually took her life. One day, as her sister was driving home, she thought again of her twin-soul. She didn't know whether or not Kathy had believed in God, or whether or not that should matter in what awaited her spirit, or whether or not Kathy was at peace. It bothered her - the not-knowing.

It was then that she came to a traffic light and stopped. She glanced to the side and saw a shipyard that she often saw while on this drive, many times before and many times after this day. But this was the one and only day that she saw a particular boat's name scrawled in paint along its stern:

Kathy's Fine

She is.

Letter to Grandpa

I offered the following letter as the eulogy at my grandfather's funeral this week. Grandpa just recently celebrated his 91st birthday and lived with my parents and grandmother for the past two years. His health and strength, both cognitive and physical, deteriorated gradually due to Parkinson's Disease, and he received home hospice care for the past 10 months. (I wrote about him here in October 2010 as well.)

This gradual process was painful for him and for all of us. Indeed, it raised many theological questions for me. And while I still do not have all of the answers (nor do I expect to), I do believe I have been given the most important one. The one about identity - who we really are; why we love and are loved.


Source

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Dear Grandpa (my godfather and my "Grandsprout"),

The earliest memory I have of you is walking with you in your vegetable garden in Brooklyn. One time, I found a stick there and you let me bring it home for our dog like some kind of souvenir. (Because I was visiting one of the coolest places I'd ever been, and I had to go out and share a part of it with somebody.)

That's how I feel about the love that you and Nana have shared. That needs to be passed along to everyone. It isn't just your garden variety kind of love. It is tenderly planted, lovingly grown, and devotedly protected. It has deep roots and widespread branches. But the best part is that you were always inviting us to walk in your garden. You and Nana both loved so many friends and family members, too.

You loved us with every bowl of soup and plate of manicotti, every fresh-baked loaf of bread, and every homegrown veggie. You loved us in the way you cared for your parents and your neighbors. You loved us in wanting the best for us, and in reconciling when it was time for reconciliation.

And then there is what I learned through all the people who have been loving you and caring for you. Your wife, your children, our extended family, our church congregation, ministers and chaplains, and our own personal fleet of angels: the caregivers and aides and healthcare professionals who may have pulled up in the driveway as strangers, but came through the door as friends, and left the house as family.

Because love like this means that there are no strangers, only more people to feed. (And we like that.)

As the dementia progressed, it was so difficult to see everything we thought made you "you" slowly begin to slip away - your sharp mind, your memories, your strong sense of self. We loved those things about you. But they weren't why we loved you. And I finally realize that there is a difference.

I believe that we receive grace from God not because of what we do or who we think we are, but because of who God is and what God does. And I believe that we are to love each other like that as best as we can: not because of who we think we are or should be, but because of who God says we are - that we are all meant to love and be loved. Unconditionally. No matter the circumstances.

The last memory I have of you is from Christmas. Nana and Mother and Dad and I were playing Apples to Apples and laughing so hard. And you were laughing with us. The joy we felt in each other's company was palpable.

Grandpa, we miss you now that you have continued on, but you aren't far from our minds or hearts. And I hope the joy that I feel in knowing that you are at peace today is just as palpable as our joy together on Christmas Day.

Love,
Sprout

For Vinny: Prayers for a Mourning Friend

When I returned from Florida in January, I was waiting in the airport for my rescheduled flight when I met a man in mourning. Being in motion ourselves seems to allow us opportunities to encounter people in need of a consoling passerby.

Last week, I hurried out of my last class to prepare to catch another flight. I was cutting it close. Twenty steps beyond the classroom door, a young man sat on the floor outside of another classroom, his knees up and his head in his hands. Another student and I paused to check on him, and he explained that he just had a headache. We wished him well and let him be.

Within a minute I was down the stairs and out the building, finding another young man walking along the path in the other direction. If it hadn't been for the first man, crouched down and seemingly vulnerable, I may never have noticed the comparably subtle yet pained expression on this second man's face. Just a step past him by the time it registered, I turned and asked if he was all right.

"You don't even know me, and you care." He crumpled onto the pavement.

My cellphone, i.e. sacred time-keeper, had been in-hand to keep me on track. I put it away in my bag and sat down.

Even in hindsight, I can't tell if this was an experience of the Spirit simply overcoming me to care for another, or one in which I needed to bend my own will and halt my own frenzied spirit to heed a call. I only know that, for that moment, the man was Christ to me.

I won't easily forget his furrowed brow or fallen tears as he told me that he had lost his best friend, Sarah. He couldn't explain much beyond that, and for the most part, we let the silences speak for themselves.

Before we parted, I asked if he would like me to continue to pray for him - for peace, comfort, and strength at this difficult time, I said, when he hesitated. He agreed.

And so, with Vinny on my mind for almost a week now, I'm sharing this with others who might send hope and blessings his way, and into the atmosphere in general. What stays with me most about encountering Vinny is how much he seemed to hope that someone would find him, and how he seemed surprised that someone did.

Please keep Vinny and Sarah and their loved ones in your thoughts and prayers, as well as all those who feel alone or don't know whom to seek out. You never know when you might be the person they're seeking. And if you're struggling with something, anything, I pray you'll also find a listening ear just when you need one, be it God, a friend, a family member, or an unsuspecting passerby.

Peace to you.

Mercies in Disguise

It is with great sadness that I write that our seminary community has lost a wonderful student, classmate, and friend, Esquire. She extended a warm welcome to me during my first campus visit and helped me figure out that Drew was, in fact, to be my new home. She had a beautiful smile and a strong spirit, which energized and inspired the community. Her absence will be all too noticeable as we return in the fall.

The last time that I saw Esquire was a chance meeting at Seminary Hall; I was taking an intensive course over the break. As we talked, I told her how good it was to see her and how much we missed having her there. That conversation is even more unforgettably poignant to me now; it remains a reminder to me not to leave these simple and yet important things unsaid.


This Sunday, I'll be singing the song "Blessings" in church. It's a wonderful piece that first found me at just the right time (while I was driving along the Interstate, as it were) and spoke to me loud and clear just when so much seemed confusing and unsure.

And so, at this time of mourning, I would like to offer a prayer of gratitude and hope. I believe that sometimes it is the most difficult experiences during which we are most healed, guided, and strengthened, perhaps in ways we do not even understand. And I also believe that we may, for a period, perceive distance from God or question God's will and character before we can (re-)embrace the fullness of the Spirit within us.

My prayer comes in the form of these lyrics written by Laura Story. I will share this piece now and on Sunday in memory of Esquire and in honor of all who still struggle with loss, uncertainty, and the trials of an earthly life. May we be ever more open to God's grace and healing.

(Photos above by Sungchun Ahn, posted to the Drew Worship album, Fall 2010.)




We pray for blessings, we pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering

All the while You hear each spoken need
Yet love is way too much to give us lesser things

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near?

What if trials of this life
Are Your mercies in disguise?

We pray for wisdom, Your voice to hear
We cry in anger when we cannot feel You near
We doubt Your goodness, we doubt Your love
As if every promise from Your Word is not enough

And all the while You hear each desperate plea
And long that we'd have faith to believe

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears?
And what if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near?

And what if trials of this life
Are Your mercies in disguise?

When friends betray us, when darkness seems to win
We know that pain reminds this heart
That this is not, this is not our home
It's not our home

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears?
And what if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near?

What if my greatest disappointments
Or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst
This world can't satisfy?

And what if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise?

Lyrics and music by Laura Story
© New Spring Publishing

Was Blind But Now I See

Several preteen girls gathered in the family room of their shared cabin when a petty argument broke out between two. They were tired, frustrated, and still learning the art of peace-making.

Counselors settled the spat itself to the kids' satisfaction, but within minutes one girl wandered to bed in a huff. Before long, she was in silent tears under the safety of her covers, but her only explanations seemed to be issues originating outside camp. As her cabin-mates cheered her up, we found that her opponent had curled up in a quietly weeping heap on her own bed across the cabin. Counselors and campers alike moved to divide and conquer.

I sat with the second girl, who whimpered, "I miss my mom," and perhaps like Counselor Robot I sprang into action: "You'll see her in just a few days, and then you can tell her about all the cool stuff you've done." But Counselor Robot was not prepared for her reply: "She died when I was two."

Suddenly I realized that there was more to this puzzle than the image that I had superimposed on the box. I had sometimes envisioned there trenches of allies and enemies - cooperating and battling teens; campers who had unique and likeable personalities but were often in need of rules, guidance and constant reminders not to exclude someone or touch other people's stuff.

Somehow, their lives beyond camp - at least to such a "human" extent as familial death - had not crossed my mind or expectations. It was easy to arrive at a "camp for the blind and visually-impaired" and assume that vision loss, with its unfathomable physical and social complications, was the toughest meat on their plates.

As the cabin once again came together to comfort one of its own, the girl disclosed that she had never known her father, explaining that he'd misunderstood her albinism and had believed, despite his daughter's full black heritage, that she, with her fair skin and bright eyes, was perhaps not his child. My heart shattered as each trivial nuisance in my life disintegrated to nothingness.

There was little to be said or done to ease any of this, let alone to allow her curious peers to fully understand her sorrows, but finally an idea arose. Days later, she and a cabin-mate wrote letters to their deceased loved ones to toss into the closing campfire. Though I cannot tell to what extent this makeshift solution affected them, I hope that they have derived some healing and strength from their courageous step and in the future can find it a moment of growth in their youth. If nothing else, I wish for them to remember the efforts of their friends to comfort and reassure them that night; the night that several preteens put aside their egos and took up a torch of sincere empathy that I've so rarely witnessed in the age group.

This experience, most specifically, has caused me to realize that blindness is no more an impairment than a death ends the lives of beloved survivors. Each one is an obstacle; it may come in the form of a tragedy, but it has the potential to fortify. Blindness needn't be the death of sight, but a chance to overcome the loss or absence of vision. Where there is life, death cannot end all. Hope, at the very least, remains.

It is the hope that I see in a child who closed a letter to her deceased mother with the words: "See you later."

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The gorgeous image used above was found here.

For Brian: Prayers for a Mourning Traveler

As you may have noticed, I've been on a blogging hiatus during my travels. I'm pleased to report that I'm back, safe and sound, and ready to return to writing - and even strangely excited for classes to begin again.

I would just like to take this moment to ask you to keep a man named Brian Miller in your thoughts and prayers.



I met him in the airport on my way home. My scheduled flight had been cancelled due to the winter wonderland that hit 49 out of 50 states (all but the Sunshine State where we were), and I found myself at the boarding gate the following day, talking to Standby #1 for the new flight.

While I had been waiting for weeks in anticipation of my trip, Brian's had been a spontaneous and somber one. His mother had become ill and died, and he was clearly returning home after an especially trying week. I offered my condolences and a listening ear, feeling inadequate and nonetheless like God was nudging me simply to be there for him.

When the airline staff called Brian over to tell him his seat, he excused himself and headed up to the counter.

I had the sudden feeling that perhaps I had somehow fallen short of what comfort and healing I could have offered to him. I prayed hastily: "God, if there is more that I should say or hear, let him sit by me."

Brian returned in somber triumph, resting again with boarding pass in hand. "I made it. I'm in Row 12. You?"

"Row 32," I read from my own. For a moment I thought, 'Well, he's not next to me.' As though to believe that meant my work here was done.

But inwardly I heard the words, He's sitting next to you now.

And I realized the mistake I'd made. Perhaps my heart was in the right place, and I was all geared up and ready for God to use me in whatever way my inexperienced ministering spirit would manage. But even as I prayed for God's will, I'd already had a preconceived idea of what it would look like.

Sometimes we pray for God to let us touch the lives of other people when we'll find them later. Sometimes they are already there beside us.

And sometimes we pray for God to let us touch the lives of other people. Then they touch ours.

Brian and I talked until it neared the end of the line of passengers and specific rows were being summoned. As I left, I asked if he would like me to put his name on our prayer chain, and he agreed.

Please keep Brian and his loved ones in your prayers, and perhaps say a prayer for all those who are mourning and those who are weary from traveling this season.