Nature's Communion: A sacramental trail walk with my fellow creatures

Early on a spring day, the trees full of leaves, their canopies of green dripping and bowed low along the Jordan River Trail after a pre-dawn rain, a light breeze kisses Cottonwood, Oak and Aspen with whispers of the divine.

"In Him we live and move and have our being . . . ." (Acts 17:28)

The dogs are quiet, too, uncommon slack in their leashes, as if also aware of something special in the air. And so, we commune, we three creatures of the Creator.


Surrounded, caressed, embraced, and filled with life. I have entered a moment where time and space blink, as if awaiting a reset.


We are, in this moment, sacramental. 

The limbs of trees sway. My thoughts fill with images from this past Sunday's Liturgy, and the Eastern Orthodox Christian Great Entrance. Our priests, deacons and altar boys moved through rows of bowed heads, the cross, the bread, and the wine both their guide and blessed burden.


Intercessory prayers were said for all, as the procession wound back toward the altar. Parishioners gently touched the priestly robes, in reverence and veneration not for the man, but by proxy of Christ the God-Man.


Along the river, we creatures, two- and four-legged, proceed slowly as a sea of green seemingly parts before us. Leaves, moved by a gust, brush my face.


Ours is no Great Entrance, but is it a communion? At least, for me, it is an "iconic" experience, this walking through a window on a distantly reflected paradise.


I remove the black woolen chotki from my wrist, and pray, thumb and finger moving the knots in silence.


Loved ones, departed, and living; both friends, and those who counted me a foe in years passed; my own, flawed, and stained soul, all receive entreaties for the mercy of heaven, here and in the life to come.


So, we walk, melting into grace.

A tale of a lost driver's license, Social InSecurity, and getting to know a Saint

Hey, it's just Tuesday, and it's been "a Week."

While hoofing it at Fashion Place Mall in Sandy, Utah last week, I managed to lose my driver's license.

I was all set to brave the lines at the Utah Drivers License Division today, but was spared when mall security notified me they had it. Just needed picture I.D. to reclaim it (passport), which I did . . . and then did three miles in the labyrinthine aisles, since I was there anyway.

On Monday, I had to go into the Social Security Office downtown Salt Lake City. I had been approved for Medicare before the May Tribune Surprise (mass layoffs), and had then applied for retirement benefits a couple weeks ago.

LifeLock thought that was strange, and raised a red flag over possible identity theft. So, I made an appointment online, only to find out the local office had no record of that . . . but after an hour's wait, got sent to another office where a polite (?) young feller cleared it all up . . . even told me I had an extra month coming, since my last day of work had been that dire second Monday in May.


Things worked out. The cynics among my friends will just have to indulgently smile when I say I credit prayer . . . for the outcome, or at very least for the peace I've had. (Live with it).

So, before the go-the-mall-and-recover-the-driver's license trip, I went to early morning men's meeting at Sts. Peter & Paul, where Fr. Justin shared a presentation on St. John Maximovitch (https://orthodoxwiki.org/John_(Maximovitch)_the_Wonderworker), a.k.a. St. John of Shanghai and San Francisco.

That's him, in the photo to the left.

His icon has a prominent place in SPPOC's nave, and I always smile when I enter and venerate him, and other saints. What an amazing, selfless, heroic and, yes, miraculous life he gave for God and humankind.

While the miraculous aspects of St. John continue to this day, with his relics and intercession credited for healings spiritual and physical alike, for me it is his actions -- on behalf of thousands of orphaned children, refugees, the poor in spirit and life -- that inspires me most.

Going home: Even with Alzheimer's, the heart knows the way

When I was a boy, our preacher's family moved often.

Before I was 11 years old, I had attended a dozen schools in California and then Washington state as Dad and Mom took various pastoral positions, or sought employment between those "callings."

Mom would work as a waitress, sometimes holding down two jobs at once. Dad would take odd jobs ranging from warehouses and grocery store stocking to janitorial work and department store window display.

Always, though, the first thing done when my folks arrived at a new house or apartment was to set up the beds for my sister and me. That, along with Mom and Dad, and the smell of poached eggs and toast to send me off to school in the morning, made it "home."

When I heard the saying, "You can't go home again," I didn't, at first, understand the idea. When I later read Thomas Wolfe's novel, I grasped, though still did not share, the concept.

Home was where my family was, where I was tucked into bed at night with a prayer and a kiss on the forehead, sometimes after a story from Dad.

"Home is where the heart is," Mom would often refrain, fond of such truisms.

She taught that lesson to me decades ago, when as a young boy I both anticipated, and dreaded, going to a new school, fighting new bullies to earn my place as the "preacher's kid," and hopefully making a friend or two before the U-Haul truck reappeared in the driveway.

Time, as it will, has slipped by like an unrelenting river. I'm no longer young, but a grandfather. Yet, my Mom still taught me the Lesson during my trip this past week to visit her and my father in eastern Washington.

Dad is in an assisted living facility now, frail, just recovering from a mild stroke, but at 92 still alert, his memories intact.

Mom is in a 24/7 Alzheimer's facility. At 86, she is physically healthy for her age, but the disease has robbed her, and me, of so much. So very much.

She no longer recognizes me, nor can she speak more than a couple words, and usually nonsensically. 

As I tried to rouse her from a near-catatonic state, caressing her face as she sat in a wheelchair, I watched her breathe. When she finally opened her eyes, there was, for so long . . . nothing.

She stared blankly into space. No response.

Finally, my wife, Barbara, and I rose to leave. But before we did, as has always been the practice upon parting in the Preacher's family, we prayed.

I prayed for her peace.

What else was there to petition the heavens for? 

Wasn't the unspoken prayer that, with so much of her gone, the rest of that flicker of a once sharp, articulate and life-loving woman could also depart?

A final time, I bent down, kissed her softly on the forehead, as she had so often done to me.

 "I love you, Mom," I said, then began to move away, fighting the hot tears welling in my eyes.

There was a murmur, almost a whisper. "Me . . . too."

I looked back at her, but too late. Her gaze was locked on some invisible realm I did not share.

But, for an instant, I was home.

Miracles: They start by recognizing the miracle that is Life -- and the Lifegiver's love for us

My daughter, Brenda, is in the hospital for at least a couple days. Started having contractions one week into her third trimester. Naturally, docs in Baltimore want to prevent a premature birth, especially this early. 

She is holding it together, but a father can hear the worry in his little girl's voice.

 My son-in-law is the same steady, encouraging and loving man in a crisis as I have come to know in less trying times. And, our shared faith binds us together.

For Barbara and I, this is a deja vu moment. Thirty-eight years ago, my son was born at about 6 1/2 months. Three weeks in infant intensive care and the docs then refusing to say more than "we will do what we can." He made it and has thrived.

Docs then told us the "miracle" word was not to be dismissed, and God knows we prayed for one.
So many years later, the science of prenatal care has advanced far . . . but the outcome, as always, remains outside our hands.

In other words, friends, we find ourselves once more praying. We welcome your prayers as well, whatever form they may take.

I am reminded of the 139th Psalm, David's to the wonder of God and life, and the assurance that whatever we face, He is with us and cares for us:

"Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out; you formed me in my mother's womb. 

 I thank you, High God--you're breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made! I worship in adoration--what a creation! 

 "You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something. 


" Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, The days of my life all prepared before I'd even lived one day." (Psalm 139:13-16, Message)