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.

A subdued 45th anniversary, yes, but also one of the most precious

Tomorrow is Barbara's and my 45th wedding anniversary.

This will be a subdued affair. She had eye surgery earlier this week and is making an aching, sometimes painful recovery. She is, thank God, recovering, though.

This week has given me the opportunity to explore that "in sickness and health" bit from our vows in 1973, when I was barely 20 and she was 18. 

When you are that young, you say the words, meaning them, but likely not apprehending them. In the years since, both of us have come to understand them a bit more.

It has been my honor this week to keep her on her post-op med schedule, help her bathe (rrrruff!), and fix (not nearly as good as her's) meals and serve her in whatever other ways come up.

This is a fractional payback for all the times she has nursed me, during two major operations, a few minor ones, double-pnemonia, and more recently, the post-layoff blues.

So, usually we celebrate. Flowers, dinner or show, a nice trip, etc. This year, I have the privilege and the blessing of giving my best friend, lover and much better half a tiny bit of grace, love and I hope, comfort.

In that way, it might, at least from my part of this lifetime together, be the most loving of our share milestones.

It has been a tough year, in terms of changes and expectations. But that's life. And, we have been blessed with adequate financial prep, fortuitous (providential?) timing on retirement and medical coverage benefits when the employment hammer landed in May.

Yes, this quiet, understated 45th anniversary may be the most precious ever.

I know this: gray, wrinkled as I am, when I look in Barbara's eyes (yes, even the red one with bruising around the eye socket), I see the girl I married Sept. 1, 1973, in Spokane, Wash.

And I never stop marveling that she actually said, "I will."

I love you, Barbara!

Faith and science: Same coin, different sides in search for the Truth, and the truth

An Orthodox Christian perspective on the "conflict" between faith and science.

If you were raised Protestant, and especially the son of an Evangelical/Pentecostal preacher as I was, this is an irreconcilable issue. (And I would add, likely a major factor in people ditching "faith" altogether in many cases).

Generally, this not so in Orthodoxy, which realizes cultural influences and limits of human understanding are mixed into the Bible, as much "words about God" as they are the "Word of God." 

Faith and science, at their roots, both seek truth -- ultimate Truth, on one hand, and empirical truth on the other.

This has been an important element of my new faith for me, ending the former spiritual/intellectual schizophrenia of my upbringing.  This article, from an Orthodox worldview, to me, is remarkably understanding of this search for Truth, and truth:

https://souloftheeast.org/2016/05/13/orthodoxy-evolution/

Transitions: Finding Purpose when 'Retirement" Comes Early

Nearly three months ago, I found myself thrust into retirement.

I had begun months before making preparations and inquiries about 401K rollovers, Medicare, Social Security, etc., feeling (providentially, as it turned out) compelled to get a head start on a process. I did not expect I would have to pursue for at least another year, if not longer.

Actually, I was sure I'd have another year: time to think about what retirement for a lifelong journalist, writer and editor would look like, and how to make that transition.

I was wrong. On May 14, along with 40 percent of the already dwindling staff at The Salt Lake Tribune, I was let go. Thanks, they said, for the 20 years; you did great work, but the newspaper can no longer support the staff numbers with advertising tanking, and the online model still adrift in the becalmed, profit-poor seas of the Internet.

Sixteen weeks of severance pay was nice, albeit not even a week's worth for every year I had worked to the paper. Medical insurance was yanked in two weeks -- a real blow for most of the stunned victims of the "reduction in force" not fortunate enough as me to be just a few weeks shy of their 65th birthdays, and thus Medicare eligibility.

It was nasty, but it was not personal; managers giving the bad news in some cases teared up. But for all of us, it was what it was. And it hurt, perhaps in a weird way, more so since it was so abrupt, and in many ways nonsensical in choices made about what beats (and people) stayed, and which/who remained.

Still, I imagine many of my fellow sacrificial lambs on the altar of failed newspaper economics would happily trade their current anxieties -- income about to run out by now, lack of medical coverage, lack of prospects in a disappearing industry -- for mere malaise over such nebulous matters as "purpose."

But that's my cross to bear, as it were.

When your work was your purpose, when exploring and exploring, mulling and reporting on Life and Faith and Trauma and Love and Setbacks and Triumphs defined your raison d'être, the world -- or your tiny piece of it -- made sense.

Now, I find that was illusion. Oh, it was an amazing ride -- exhilarating, maddening, challenging, frustrating, fulfilling, revealing glimpses of ultimate Truth, between epiphanies of the limits of mortal intellect.

But, Purpose? No, it never was. Actually, I now believe, it was something of an escape and counterfeit for Purpose, speaking in the ultimate sense -- it filled up my thoughts, desires, goals, emotions and self-image, allowing me to put off the Big Questions.

These are the times that test your faith, whatever form that takes. And that faith had better be real, grounded and strong once roused from the dormancy our busy lives impose on it. If it is not, you stare into the Abyss, and it looks back at you, whispering, "What have you really done with your life?"

Better to be able to find not the darkness and realization that a lifetime has all but passed on its march to loss of meaning, but to fall to your knees and see the Face of God.

That visage shines in a nighttime of stars, the waves of horizonless oceans, the way the wind caresses the fields of grass, the leaves and branches of trees, and brushes the banks of rivers and lakes with waves that ripple in light.

That face is of wisdom and love that defies our poor concept of Infinity, yet twinkles in the eyes of a child, the tears of those who mourn, the first breath of an infant, the last gasp of the dying.

All those things, yes. And for me, Eternity descends like a cloud of uncreated light and mercy during the ancient prayers of the Eastern Orthodox liturgy, and Love takes residence in the bread and wine of the Eucharist.

There is Purpose. But how to understand it? And now, at this stage of life, how does this Purpose become my life?

This road -- not a new one but largely, I confess a poorly explored one -- stretches before me, as the prayer says, "both now and forever, and unto the ages of ages."

That now has become my primary purpose. My secondary purpose? That would be how to express creativity and curiosity and to somehow use my acquired skills of a lifetime to still educate and encourage.

And that is what remains a work in progress.

Road to Orthodoxy: On a Holy Saturday . . .

For those interested, here is my story about my own conversion to Orthodox Christianity on the "Journey to Orthodoxy" website.

http://journeytoorthodoxy.com/2018/07/on-a-holy-saturday/

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.

Sixty-five trips 'round the Sun: A mere flickering of a celestial neuron does not a life make

I've now completed 65 orbits of this planet around Sol. Not even a blink of the Creator's eye (if the Creator was truly male, female, corporeal or even concerned with "Time.") 

Scripture tells us He (a concession, human pronouns being so limited, after all) does care about those rotations made by his creations, from the so-called pinacle, humankind, to even the smallest sparrow. 

But consider, the Earth, current assumptions purport, has made approximately 4.5 billion-plus (give or take a paltry 500 million) trips around our class G, yellow dwarf star. So, not even the blink of the Deity's eye, this lifetime of mine, in purely statistical terms. . . indeed, if God has something like neurons within His eternal, limitless intelligence, 65 years might be a fraction of one celestial neuron firing (or mis-firing?) 

Too, too much to take in? OK, how about the perspective of mere mortality? 

The World Health Organization says males, on average, live to nearly 84 years of age in Japan (No. 1). In the good old U.S.A., despite having the "best" (and most expensive) health care in the world, it's a shade over 79 (31st on the planet). In Sierra Leone, it's barely 50. 

But how to measure the worth of a lifetime? That has always been the question. My father turns 96 in July, yet he is legally blind, with severe hearing loss, and cognitively disabled. My mother, 90, is in end-stage Alzheimer's. 

So, how does 96, or 90, in such cases compare to that fellow in Sierra Leone who probably still works hard, helps raise his children's children, and has clan and family and village to center him?

When you consider the differences, why measure life in terms of whether an aged American can count (if he or she is indeed able to remember how to count) one or two dozen more trips around Old Sol than our brother in Sierra Leone?

Rather than years, seems to me, we should count each day -- how we have loved, embraced and helped others, whether we stood in awe in a forest clearing, watching the sun shimmer on the limbed canopy above, the breeze teasing the leaves as it cools our wet brows, and as the sun warms us.

One moment like that, my family and friends, is a glimpse of eternity. . . and a humbling reminder of our tiny, however treasured by our Maker, place in it all.

And, if we are blessed to rise again in the morning, begin to count again, if you are so inclined.

But really, every day should begin with this: "Well, this is '1', once more."

Layoff. 'Reduction in Force.' 'Right-sizing.' Whatever you call it, it's still gonna hurt

 

My last feature package for the Salt Lake Tribune before the May 14 layoffs, on hospital chaplains, has gone worldwide thanks to AP (a long ago employer). Spotted in Europe and Korea, etc.

A bittersweet thing, though I hang on to the idea that at least I went out doing my best work. Connected to that story, however, was an offer made by one of the chaplains I interviewed to provide me with "grief counseling." 

What? But now, almost three weeks out, I get it. The stages of grief in suddenly, unexpectedly losing a job are indeed similar in some respects to loss of a loved one. (

1) Denial, as in erecting an emotional buffer, downplaying the impact of the loss on one's finances and self-esteem. I did that, filling my initial days to appointments to arrange 401k rollovers, Medicare coverage, a ton of long-neglected domestic repairs and tasks, just to feel like I was accomplishing . . . something.

(2) Anger. This didn't last long, actually, but it was there for a while, and when one hears how well those last articles were accepted, it validates self-worth, sure, but also elevates the question, "Then why?"

The answer, honestly, has to be "Why not?" especially when it's not all about you, after all, and realizing that 33 other great people are asking the same questions.

(3) Bargaining. Well, there was none of that, since no alternatives were provided . . . unless scrambling to fill the now-empty hours with other work -- any work -- counts; I actually did that, filled out the employment forms, took training, and then realized I just could not be happy in the offered position -- truly, a square peg/round hole situation.

(4) Depression. Didn't really come until earlier this week, culminating with the pits on Wednesday.

Long story short(er), you give yourself time to process, once you realize this is your new reality . . . and, despite how it feels, you now must explore the long-dormant other values of life, allow faith, introspection and learning to re-invent, or resurrect your long shelved dreams and interests.

(5) And so comes Acceptance. As a former editor of mine used to say, ad nauseum, "It is what it is."

In both the loss of a loved one, or of a job that so defined you for decades, you must eventually bury the dead.

Truly, it stinks, but that's OK. Once in the hallowed ground of memory, suitably mourned and honored, you take your eyes off the freshly turned earth and walk toward the sun.

It will get better; there is more of life ahead, and you will, eventually, find ways to embrace the freedom.

For me, that means more time to pursue a part-time avocation, now as a vocation: freelance writing and editing. I've co- or ghost-written a dozen books and hundreds of articles over the last couple decades through my DBA, MimsMedia; I hope to do many more.