Grace in the Time of Covid: On a cold winter's morning, a lesson from Michael

 It was a bone-chilling cold, pre-dawn Tuesday morning. The 5 a.m. alarm on my phone sounded, and for several minutes -- nestled in my warm bed -- and debated with just turning it off and drifting back to sleep.

But I got up, with a moan. It was the day for early-morning liturgy and communion at Sts. Peter & Paul Orthodox Church in downtown Salt Lake City. I knew I needed it, and needed to be there. 

After the service, the guys would meet for coffee and scriptural study with Fr. Paul downstairs -- a time that has become especially precious to me during this season of prolonged Covid-19 related isolation.

Showered and dressed, I donned a heavy coat, scarf and gloves and bundled myself into the car, first scraping a sheet of ice from the windshield. My decades-old Honda Civic coughed to life, I turned on the heater full blast, and drove down the road.

It's a 15-minute trip to the church, and to my usual morning prayers and added not a few laments about life as we have come to know it in the age of pandemic. Finally, as I drove on near-empty, slippery streets, I passed the homeless camps of shopping carts draped with makeshift tents that regularly pop up along the curbs of the Salt Lake County-City Government Complex.

Deseret News photo

But I was so self-absorbed, irritated that the old Honda's heater was just beginning to warm the car's interior, that I hardly noticed the desperation and poverty of wrecked lives that have become part of the urban landscape.

Pulling into a dark side street and then the small parking lot behind my parish church, I sat for a time behind the wheel, relishing a belated moment of warmth. Then with a grunt I got out, put on my mask, shivered, and began walking down the alley to the entrance of Sts. Peter & Paul.

The homeless, I'm ashamed to say, have too often become the faceless, nameless backdrops of our lives today. If not ignored, then they only elicit a brief thought or an occasional a few bucks quickly handed over to appease the inconvenience of guilt.

But there is one denizen of the street many in the parish have come to know, and some befriend.

"Michael," also the name of his patron saint, adorns the sleeves of his arms and coat with iconic images of saints and angels, secured with transparent plastic and duct tape. Slight and gaunt, his beard and graying hair often seeming as wild and surreal as his thoughts, Michael has good days and bad.

Some days, he holds forth on the warfare of angels and demons in the skies above, where clouds may swirl, punctuated by thunder and lightning. "See? There they are, fighting over the souls of the dead? Right there," he once told me on a summer day, pointing and nodding.

On other days, he seems to have the simple clarity of a saint. That is the case on this particular frigid December morning, as he steps out from behind a plastic tarp draped over his nest of blankets and sleeping bags near a building's steam vent.

He won't do the shelters. He has horror stories of sickness, bed bug-infested cots, drug use and violence inside them. He's often been robbed of his few possessions. Over the years, our priest and parish have tried to arrange other housing and psychiatric care, without success.

So, one does what one can, meeting this brother where he is, and with what he needs -- warm clothing, food, a few dollars for coffee or a snack, and friendship, to the extent this gentle and enigmatic man allows that.

So, on this morning, I just want to get inside to the warmth, comfort and spiritual refuge of the church. Michael recognizes my voice, this time, and hurries to my side. I'm grumpy; he is ebullient, and our pace toward the open iron gates of the entrance slows.

"It's a good day," he rasped. "It's a cold day," I grumbled back.

He either didn't hear me, or ignored my reply. "God is so great! He provides what you need. Even a hot shower!" Michael pointed to the steam coming out of a head-high pipe. "They shut down the showers where I was going," he explained, vaguely waving toward an undefined downtown Salt Lake City location, "But then God provided this!"

He went on to list a few other things he attributed to Providence. A place to fill his water jug. People cared enough to check on him, feed him, take him to the free clinic, even just talk for a few moments.

Then, Michael grinned, pointed at the church where he, like me, received baptism a few years back, and said, "And we get to go inside His house and have communion! Hey, it's the Breakfast of Champions!"

And we did that. We climbed the steps inside to the candle-lit darkness, venerate the icons of the saints and stood for the ancient prayers of the liturgy, culminating with the Eucharist.

I watched Michael approach the chalice, a look of awe on his smudged face as he received the mystical Body and Blood of Christ.

As he made his cross and silently walked away, I sighed, ashamed at first, then humbled, and then grateful for the lesson.

For Michael.

Lord have mercy, indeed.

Mother's Day: Of generations fading, generations rising -- and tiny miracles

Mother's Day 2015 was sweet and melancholy, affirming even as it brought the aching of, and blessings of memories.

 Barbara received lovely cards, flowers and heartfelt calls from the kids (and me), and we reached out to our daughter and daughter-in-law with what we hope were the same levels of love. That was the sweet.

But it also was a melancholy day, with some tears. Barb's and my memories of her mom, who also was one of my best friends, are fresh and a little less painful years after her passing.

And there's my mother, in the final stages of Alzheimer's, no longer knowing or remembering me or my sister, or my dad. When I check on her, though, there's this: the nursing home staff says her loving, if now nonsensical attempts at speech are for her two baby dolls.

Sad, but I also smile at this: both her dolls are babies of color. So are her two most recently born grandsons.

Somewhere in her shredded memories, is there an inkling of this next generation? I don't know.

But the nursing home staff says she specifically chose, and constantly holds those two specific dolls out of the assortment of mostly white babies.

I always smile when my daughter sends me the most recent video of newborn Nate and toddler Gabe. This Mother's Day, I was able to smile a bit broader.

In so many ways, I have lost my mother as much as Barbara has lost her's. The mourning is different, but feels very much the same . . . and yet, there was this "miracle of the dolls."

I'll take it.

Life: Is it what happens to us, our how we happen to live?

A friend and longtime journalistic colleague of mine asked the other day why I hadn't blogged recently.

My answer was that life had been too complicated of late, that I had been reticent to write more about the downward spiral of Alzheimer's and dementia with my parents, the disappointments of work, loss of perceived purpose, etc.

In short, I have been waiting for something more positive, uplifting to write about.

The arrival of my second grandson was, without a doubt, the best of a trying beginning to a new year. My daughter and son-in-law send pictures, and we video chat (Skype) frequently, to see little Nate, his big brother Gabe, and our only granddaughter, Lela.

Another: This past week, after six years of hard work, my wife, Barbara, earned her B.S. in Accounting from Western Governors University. Her joy and glow of success has been a treasure, and for her an indescribable mix of elevated self-worth, victory over the odds, and meaning.

Those are the brightest moments these days. Those are the sailboats we choose to crawl aboard -- yes, choosing to sail toward the sun rather than sink deeper into the darkness of choppy seas.

Life goes on, in all its exhilaration, the laughter and tears of a new generation, and unavoidably, the sorrow and ongoing losses of the last generation.

It  dawned on me, then, that if I waited for some dramatic turn in fortune to blog again, I would be doing Life a disservice. And, I would be waiting a very long time.

We humans like to divide what happens to us into "good" or "bad." We are blessed, or cursed; loved or hated; appreciated or dismissed; relevant or discarded, relegated to less-ambitious roles by younger superiors, etc.

If you maintain the usual human linear assumptions -- our finite, fail-safe manner of thinking and experiencing life -- all of that seems true.

But nothing truly is linear. Matter, energy and our souls are alike indestructible. Mountains erode into sand; sunlight is absorbed by plants to feed and, when they flower, amaze us higher life forms; and corporeal bodies are born, age, break down and eventually decompose to their base elements, only to return as the elements of new life.

The "Breath of Life," that profound, ethereal and yet reassuring expression of creation and existence and rebirth into an infinite existence, exposes as woefully inadequate that linear view of Time, or Being, or Purpose.

We are in error if we do not realize that Reality, according to physicists and theologians alike, extends far beyond the meager dimensions in which we live and perceive.

We attempt to grasp at an understanding of the Creative Intelligence, visualizing human-like super beings holding sway over our lives. But in our hearts, we know that "God" is a Presence both horrifying in its difference from us, and in its iinfinite nature, and as wonderful, and awe-inspiring in its limitless embodiment of what we call "Love.”

And when it comes to Love, we perceive even that with only a microscopic, fragmentary understanding.

We see beginning, middle and end, and think we understand the nature of things. He sees all Time, all its permutations, alternate outcomes – and Space, what we perceive and the wilderness of endless stars, planets, life forms beyond -- as One.

Ultimately, we have two choices. 

 

We can, in our human arrogance, close the inquiries of our finite minds to the Infinite, to Love, Creation and Purpose beyond grasping; we can conclude that what WE cannot understand cannot exist.

Or, we can accept, embrace and trust the Creator and creative process that led to what we are -- as a species, as well as individual souls.

When intellect reaches its limits, there is nothing more than to surrender to the limits, and thus errors of our knowledge.

And, always, the proper response to Love is to live in it, allowing it to flow through us to others.

A painful lesson in Grace, 'truth,' and anger

Some lessons in life, seemingly, need to be repeated time and time, and time, again.

Case in point: Before you go off on someone about something you are just sure is true . . . confirm it, regardless the apparent veracity of your source. Then, think twice, three times, before going off on someone, period.

You can apologize after, that is true.

But you can never take back what was said, emailed, whatever. It still scars, regardless of a mountain of subsequent remorse and pleas for forgiveness.

I have, more times than I will allow myself to think about long enough to count, been on the receiving end of this phenomenon.

And I have been the perpetrator, too. Even lately.

Makes me slap myself, and appreciate Grace all the more.

We all deserve a coach ticket to hell, many times over, based on what we have done, thought, or even deliberately ignored or dismissed in our relationships with other human beings.

It's a good thing, a very good thing, that our Judge offers us forgiveness, not because of what we do, but through Grace, i.e. unmerited favor. Because of who He is: Love.

Doesn't mean, though, that we cannot improve. Day by day, decision by decision, we can choose.

I am going to try to choose better, and to do that with renewed commitment.

How about you?

Faith: A choice, a yearning to be more than an evolutionary dead-end

Take an evangelical, fundamentalist preacher's kid and mix him with a liberal arts education. 

Season him with more than a few decades of living, and you either come up with an agnostic, a metaphysical schizophrenic, or a believer, stripped down the basics of his faith.

I confess to, at times, flying like a confused, sometimes angry or at least disheartened moth, too close to the flames of the first two fates. The journey to faith — my own faith, not necessarily that of my parents — has been occasionally exhilarating, often painful, and all too human.

It has been, philosophically, an eclectic odyssey. That likely was inevitable, considering my History and Journalism double major and a minor in Psychology, followed by a career in journalism (a petri dish for cynicism, as professions go).

Ultimately, it is human nature that convinces me my faith — albeit skinned of what I concluded were doctrinal and theological assertions created not by an infinite God, but by finite human minds — makes more sense than pure secular humanism.

I could (but don't worry, I won't) write reams on why I find this so. Let a couple observations suffice:

— The fact that our species has not ceased warring with itself since it began, committing genocide on ever-larger scales, makes me bitterly laugh at the idea we are the pinnacle of sentient evolution on Earth. 

 

We may boast how much more sophisticated and civilized our high-tech, educated society is now compared to our stick-wielding, tree- and cave-dwelling ancient ancestors, but we continue to produce the same rotten fruit.

It's still about territory and resources, and who has the right — or might — to claim them. And since such brutal calculus always makes our "better angels" wince, we still use politics, religion, culture and racism as excuses and justification for dehumanizing and dismissing the Other.

— Yet, we desire to be more. I would argue that we were created for more, but are broken. Despite all the pain and madness humankind inflicts on itself and its planet, goodness persistently bubbles up within individuals, and reform movements. 

Changes for the better, history teaches us, are as finite as our bodies . . . yet we continue to reach down to the fallen with one hand, even as we bludgeon our enemies with the other.

So, faith. Because without it, without the saving grace of our Maker, we will remain stuck, either as an evolutionary dead end, or a creation to be ultimately redeemed, reborn and perfected.

I prefer to believe the latter.

A lesson in grace: Alzheimer's a sorrow for caregivers, a horror for spouses

A lesson in grace.

I am one of those Baby-Boomers trying to oversee the care of my elderly parents. 

 

In my 91-year-old father's case, it is a matter of a still sharp, though unchallenged mind trapped inside a frail, failing body.

The opposite is true of my 86-year-old mother. Her physical health is fairly good; it is her mind, rapidly being destroyed by Alzheimer's disease, that is the biggest challenge.

And, it is a challenge beyond resolution.

My epiphany this week is NOT those realizations, however.

Rather, I have learned that the grief, helplessness and frustration I feel over their not-so-golden years pales when I allow imagination to let me live for a second or two in their minds, their spirits

.

Inside a small room, my father is more than just trapped in a body too weak to move more than a dozen steps at a time. He is trapped 24/7 with the shell of the woman he married 65 years ago, a remarkable woman once vivacious and mentally sharp, but now unable to speak a coherent sentence or remember what she did five minutes before.

That does not, however, stop her from babbling, stringing words together, all day long -- and in her sleep -- that apparently only she knows the meaning of.

And that, I realize, would drive me mad. Quickly.

Finally, it has driven my always stoic, generally positive father into depression.

Dad had endured for the past year and a half as Mom's Alzheimer's ravaged her mind and memories. Last night, it was just too much.

"I'm just tired of opposing," he said when I made one of my bi-weekly calls.

In the code language we have adopted (since Mom has, occasionally, flown into a rage at any perceived criticism overheard) he was telling me he's exhausted by the losing battle to find some emotional equilibrium for Mom and himself.

Then, unable to speak any longer as he choked up, he put down the phone. Mom picked it up.

"Er, Mom, how are you?"

"Mom?" Confused.

"Yes. You are my Mom. I'm your son, Bob Jr."

"What? That's funny. Who?"

And so it goes.

She hung up.

At least, in forgetting her children, she doesn't have the pain of missing them. So, there's that.

But I mourn her. So much of her has died, even as what little remains continues to fade within a body that has outlived its owner.

You do what you can. 

 

In this case, it was calling the medical provider for my father and asking he be evaluated for anti-depressants.

Then, I prayed.

Believe or not believe: It's important to know what you really embrace, or reject

Believe, or not believe.

Your choice, and I'm certainly not going to judge anyone's choice. It's highly personal, and your value as a living, breathing, sentient being does not change, regardless. 

That said, this video simply shares the unadorned, basic Christian message -- without the politics, without the holier-than-thou attitude, and without compromise.

Not everyone can accept it. Even those who do accept it too often add other agendas, political, social, ethnic, etc. agendas they wield like clubs against others.

Secular activists browbeat believers, Some believers demonize skeptics. It makes me think of errant believers and Christianphobes alike being condemned, some day, to writing on a galaxy-sized blackboard, for eternity, John 11:35, "Jesus wept."

As much as "accepting" Christ, living a life afterward that honors his love, sacrifice and embrace of all of us "sinners" is the point, at least for this cynical preacher's kid who has seen way too much judgment and far too little grace and humility.

The heart of the matter: Year out from surgery, a new valve -- and a grateful Heart

I had a milestone today. My year out from aortic valve replacement surgery, I met with the surgeon who sliced, cracked, scooped out the old, about-to-fail valve and sewed in a new cyborgian metal, plastic and bovine model this time last year.

If all is well, one more battery of tests in August and then, hopefully, just an annual thing.

I've had so many EKGs and echocardiograms and blood draws (and the occasional cable up the femoral artery) this year I could put the sensors on myself; I can recognize the various chambers of my ticker when looking at the monitors.

I deal with this rather well, when I approach it with a journalist's curiosity, and intellectual awe at what medical science can do today. Kind of like being immersed in a Discovery Channel documentary.

It's when I get a glimpse of this ordeal through the eyes of loved ones that the appreciation also becomes emotional, even spiritual.

Perhaps, a lot spiritual, as in gratitude broadcast out to the cosmos and the Spirit of Love I know as God.

A through-the-eyes of others moment caught me by surprise on Sunday. Barbara and I took a walk on a glorious spring afternoon, finding a park bench to just sit and hold hands. The sunshine warmed our faces, the breeze caressed us and brought the scent of cherry blossoms. Time stopped.

She leaned over, put her head on my chest and hugged me, holding on for several minutes.

"What?" I said, with my usual sensitivity to the import of the moment (not).

She looked up at me, a tear spilling from her eye. "Just listening to your h-h-heart," she said.

"Does it sound weird? Is it clicking?" I joked. (That's how I handle those moments in life when things get too . . . serious. And often, when I handle it this way, it comes across as inappropriate. But  I am what I am; flawed in character, as well as in the cardiac realm.)

Live with it; I do. Thank God.

"No. It sounds ... like your heart," she finally answered, and began to sob softly.

So, I just shut up. And held her.

I was humbled in a way the word "humble" falls far short of expressing.

When you feel Love like that, sometimes you just shut your mouth, and hold on tighter.

Christ is risen -- then, and now

He is risen.

Faith tells me it was true more than 2,000 years ago. 

The joy that fills me at my deepest, undefinable being,

that place where intellect and spirit merge

 in a secret place of innocence and peace,

 convinces me it is true today.

Happy Easter.