A simple truth: For a developmentally disabled older sister, Daddy's death is not complicated

How do you explain Daddy's death to your" big sister," who has the intellect of a 4-year-old due to oxygen deprivation in the womb?

Keep it simple. And, keep it true.

The alleged "simple of mind" recognize truth, perhaps better than the rest of us. I have become convinced of that.

You see, ego plays no part in their judgments and acknowledgement of reality.

It was enough for my 67-year-old sister, Carolyn -- a group home resident in Washington, with the intellectual age of 4, and crippled by cerebral palsy -- to know that Dad was "with Jesus, and praying for us."

Indeed, that sums up Orthodox Christianity rather well, too. And, it sums up the Pentecostal/evangelical faith we were raised in, too (in my case, prior to my conversion to Orthodoxy last year).

Today, through shared tears, it was enough for my big sister, Carolyn. And today, that was all that mattered.

Daddy was dead, but like always, he was watching out for us, his children.

Well, of course he was.

After all, what would make more sense?

You don't have to be a genius to grasp such a simple truth, however complicated your metaphysics may be.

An Akathist for Jesus Christ, and my Dad

In the Eastern Orthodox tradition and practice, those mourning a departed loved one often pray the "Akathist to Jesus Christ for a Loved One Who has Fallen Asleep."

A long title, and a long prayer, too, begun on the day of death and continued through 40 days. It is intended as comfort for the departed, but it is also that for those mourning, as I am learning.

And, it is beautiful; its imagery poetic, its words both emotionally and spiritually direct as its intentions are simple. It embraces the bitter and the sweet with arms of compassion, and hope.
Being Orthodox for less than two years, this is all new to me. But I'm trying to fulfill this for my father, who passed away on Thursday last . . . and for myself, at 65 still an infant in this ancient, predenominational Christian faith.

There are many phrases, petitions and praises within the Akathist that are moving and beautiful. But this following portion continues to stand out as I say it, watching candles flicker and incense drift past the crucifix on my wall and out a window:

"When earthly sojourning is ended, how graceful is the passing to the world of the Spirit; what contemplation of new things, unknown to the earthly world, and of heavenly beauties. The soul returns to its fatherland, where the bright sun, the righteousness of God, enlightens those who sing: Alleluia!"

Certainly, there are many such prayers for the dead in our various faiths. Years ago, I joined in the Mourner's Kaddish in support of a Jewish friend who had lost her father. And as a reporter many years ago, I participated in a Ute sweat lodge ceremony in which a native friend blessed his ancestors.

People in every culture seem to have the innate desire to seek comfort from a compassionate, loving realm of the holy.

It is not for me to judge the effectiveness of anyone's acts of faith, nor need I accept, even if I respect, the cosmos-view behind them. I have, and firmly hold my own; I trust in God's love and compassion to judge me, and them, by what Truth we have and honor.

Love, and our common humanity, should mean something precious to all of us -- no matter how convinced we are of our particular path.

The rest of it is a mystery, and if we say we believe in God, then that should come with the humility of admitting we do not know it all when it comes to such things as eternity, infinity, and immortality -- not even a crumb of it.

The true arena of faith, then, is in our hearts. We each struggle with our own shortcomings and pray/strive to improve and grow, or we surrender and excuse our flaws in self-delusion.
So, if faith rules within, it is expressed without.

My Dad showed me much, by example, in how to do that -- without judging the recipients of God's grace and ours, and in trying to love without conditions.

Now that he has passed, it seems little enough to pray for him. How it plays out "there," I don't know.

But at the very least, I am comforted that the ancient words of an ancient faith we shared are another way to say again, "I love you. I miss you. I will see you again."

Dad, I love you. We'll meet again in the Light and Love of Our Lord

On Jan. 17, 7:15 a.m. Pacific Time, my father, the Rev. Robert E. Mims Sr., passed away.

The staff at Cheney Care Center had put him next to my mother, who is also at the facility; they were holding hands, both asleep when he passed.

Dad was 96, and had declined rapidly in the past few months due to stroke-induced dementia and congestive heart failure.

He died peacefully, without pain or struggle.

He and Mom, who is in the last stage of Alzheimer's disease, were married 71 years.

I last saw my father in late November. He was unable to carry on conversation of more than short, simple sentences, but he remembered how to hug, and how to say he loved me. And when we prayed together before parting, he cried a little.

His last, halting words, along with expressing his love, were that when alone, he sometimes felt a presence standing next to him. Watching over him, he believed.

In my faith, there are angels. I pray, and also believe, that presence was with him this morning, too, for a journey into the Light and Love of Our Lord.

Dad, your humor, love for music, love for a simple gospel of forgiveness, compassion and personal sacrifice, are what I treasure most. You were a great father, in an age when so many children have none.

We will meet again and embrace where memories are perfect, understanding complete, and Love eternal.

Seeing God: The Liturgy of the Human Heart

 I grew up an Evangelical/Pentecostal preacher's kid, ignorant of the vast depths of faith beyond my own tiny, insular, sectarian island.

 If I saw a priest, they were strange creatures, distant in their vestments and attitude. . . somehow not human beings at all.

 There comes a realization, perhaps with age and hopefully experience, that the kingdom of God truly does dwell within any humbled human heart.

 I see it now in the liturgy that my childhood mentors dismissed as dead ritual. But for me, now, there is nothing more alive.

 I find myself bathed in incense; caressed by prayers sung and chanted in millennia-old tones; illumined by flickering candles or winter morning sunlight through the windows of the nave that whisper light, love and hope; tasting the warm mystery of the Eucharist on my tongue and throat; and the myriad icons that are reminders of the communion of saints known, and unknown, of faith bridging dimensions material and spiritual.

 Yes, Orthodox Christian worship incorporates all the senses, to be sure. But for all that, I feel God most intensely in the eyes of a child, the embrace of a parent, and this morning Ss. Peter & Paul, the unapologetic humanity of a priest for his tired offspring.

 Suffer the little children to come, indeed.