On awakening with a mountain lake, and a moose

 "I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, 'This is what it is to be happy.'"  —Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

 We rose well before dawn, having walked the dogs quickly in the darkness first, then packed up fly rods, tackle, and net in the car. A brief stop for coffee and a raspberry fritter to split, my wife and I drove East into the Wasatch Range and onto the narrow, winding mountain road up Big Cottonwood Canyon.

 We have arrived well before the crowds, at first all alone with the awakening day, the breeze off the water, the scent of pine and the tentative chirping and trilling of birds a peaceful welcome. A short time later,  we are joined by my son, Rob, and daughter in law Rachel. 

 It was twilight, with the coming sunrise a bashful, soft glow over the near two-mile high Brighton Ridge, we arrived at Silver Lake. The lake, which adjoins acres of marshlands, is a popular destination for young and old; the former can frolic in heavily forested picnic areas and run along the shoreline and scale adjacent mountain trails . . . and the latter, a mile of boardwalk meanders through the natural area where waterfowl, trout (of which we caught none, but that's fine) and, on this day, a foraging moose, too, resides.

 The moose, a cow, occasionally glances at us, but seems unperturbed; as it first swims and then plows through rushes and sedge meadows until it reaches the boardwalk. She clops onto the boardwalk and into the wet seeps beyond, intent on breakfast.

 I smile. How humbling, and beautiful, to just be part of the scenery for such a majestic creature.

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To close, a modern-day parable:

 Father Herman recalls a quiet moment when he was with Father Seraphim [Rose] and their animals came up to them: Svir [the monastery dog] looking up devotedly and wagging his tail, and a lovely, white-pawed cat named Kisa standing quietly by. 

 “From your point of view,” Father Herman asked in a reflective mood, “what are animals all about?”

Father Seraphim replied: “They have something to do with Paradise.”

Lord had mercy: The grandma I never knew, welcomed my mother 'home'

My grandmother, Bessie Fern Powell, held me when I was a baby.

I don't remember her. I was 2 years old when she died in October, 1955, at age 61 of cancer.

But I pray for her repose regularly, along with her husband, my grandfather Luther Powell, and my other grandparents, departed uncles and aunts and cousins, and a few folks, passed away and still living, who were sources of pain --and thus learning -- in my life.

So, all I have of Bessie is the memory of an old black-and-white snapshot my mother showed me. It was of my grandmother, who hailed from the Scots McGinnis family, holding me, wrapped in blanket.

That photo may be among the few belongings she left behind. I've not, yet, been able to bring myself to go through them.

Mom passed away on June 28, age 91, after years of being ravaged by Alzheimer's disease. I had seen her last in late March, when I buried by father. During our visits we had a few seconds of her being "present," a smile and a laugh, before the blank eyes and drifting off to sleep regained increasing, and terminal dominion.

Staff at her nursing home in Cheney, Wash., had told me her last few weeks were non-responsive ones. And finally, in the early morning hours a couple weeks ago, she just stopped. So, that was my image of her final breaths in this life, as I have prayed the Eastern Orthodox Christian Akathist for the Departed the past week or so.

But, back to Bessie.

Today I learned of another piece of the story of Katherine Mims' final moments, one that means so very, very much.

Late the day before she was found deceased, a staffer told my family, Mom awoke out of her near-coma briefly, shouting with surprised delight: "Mama!"

And then, she fell asleep again. As far as we know, she never awakened again, at least in this world.

Could it be? My heart tells me, yes.

Thanks, Grandma Bessie.

I look forward to someday seeing, and remembering you, for eternity.

The pain of grief, the joy of release: Until we meet again, Mom

 

I lost my 96-year-old father, the Rev. Robert Mims, in January. On Friday, my mother, Katherine, 91, joined him.

Dad left this world while holding her hand earlier this year at Cheney (Wash.) Care Center. Their separation was brief, their reunion eternal.

Like him, she passed away in her sleep, her internal organs having finally failed, long after Alzheimer's disease had robbed her of her memories, and her ability to speak or understand. But, until the last couple weeks when she lost consciousness and remained nonresponsive, this horrible disease had not taken her smile, or her spontaneous laughter.

Like Dad, her passing was a mercy, the end of her suffering a blessing.

As an Orthodox Christian, I am again beginning a 40-day period of the Akathist Prayer to Christ for the Departed, an ancient vigil for her soul and peaceful reunion with Dad, in the light and love of Our Lord.

I wonder how she feels about that.

A Pentecostal preacher's daughter and wife, she is now the subject of the prayers of the Theotokos, her guardian angel, and her son, amid votive candlelight and soft, gray clouds of incense.

I would imagine she is delighted, surprised and in wonder at how truly indescribable paradise is.

I see her in my father's arms, bathed in the love of God, discussing it all.

That makes me smile, amid the tears.

---------------

Katherine Mims 1928-2019

Katherine Alberta (Powell) Mims, beloved mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, and wife of the late Rev. Robert Elliot Mims, passed away on June 28, 2019 of causes related to old age. She was 91.

Katherine, known for her open acceptance and love for all, especially those hurting from the sad vagaries of life, was a prayer warrior, unafraid witness for her Christian faith. Even as Alzheimer’s disease robbed her of memories, speech and physical health over the past few years, she always had a smile for visitors, especially children.

Katherine died at Cheney Care Center, where six months earlier she had held hands with her husband of 71 years, Robert, as he quietly passed. Their separation was blessedly brief, their reunion eternal.
Born Jan. 10, 1928 in Helena, MT, she was the daughter of the Rev. Luther and Bessie Powell, one of 14 children. Katherine is survived by one brother, John Powell (wife Kathleen), of Spokane, WA; one sister, Marlynn (husband Robert) Castor, of Lake Stevens, WA.; son Robert Mims Jr (wife Barbara), of Salt Lake City, UT; daughter Carolyn Mims, of Airway Heights, WA.;  two grandchildren, Robert A. Mims (Rachel), West Valley City, UT, and Brenda (Idal) Tchoundjo, Towson, MD; and great-grandchildren Joshua Mims, West Valley City, UT, and Lela, Gabriel and Nathan Tchoundjo, of Towson, MD.

Katherine, whose energetic gospel piano style was a perfect companion to Robert’s banjo, was also an equal partner in the more than 75 years of ministry they shared as a couple. Together, they worked first as evangelists, and then as a pastoral team with the Assemblies of God and Open Bible fellowships. Their last pastorate was non-denominational, at the Garden Springs Community Church in west Spokane, from where Robert retired from fulltime ministry in 1970.

Katherine worked for several years after that at Sacred Heart Medical Center’s switchboard, where her willingness to pray personally with co-workers and patients alike won her many admirers and friends.
A graveside memorial service is being planned for Aug. 22, 10:30 a.m., at Fairmont Memorial Park, 5200 W. Wellesley Ave., Spokane, WA.

The family requests that in lieu of flowers, contributions be made to either the Life Services Pregnancy Resource Center & Maternity Home (https://lifeservices.org) or The Alzheimer's Association (https://www.alz.org/nca/donate).

 

'Peace Cross' controversy: This time, Supreme Court puts brakes on monument madness

As an Orthodox Christian, the cross is a symbol of my deeply held faith; indeed, during our services we venerate the cross, as we do icons of Christ, the Theotokos and the saints.

But outside the walls of our sanctuaries of prayer and worship, the cross has, over the centuries, become ubiquitous -- representing a final resting place, a memory of sacrifice in times of war, or roadside markers for loved ones killed in traffic accidents, medical facilities and disaster relief organizations like the Red Cross.

Such is the Bladensburg Cross, or "Peace Cross," which has stood as a memorial to World War I dead in a Maryland suburb near, but not in the secular governmental capital of Washington, D.C. That is stands -- and has done so for nearly a century -- on public land is what riled a group of atheist minority activists to challenge it's continued existence, based on what has, finally, turned out to be a specious claim that it violates separation of church and state.

Certainly, such claims are, occasionally, valid. Often, however, they are little more than thinly-veiled attacks on any expression of faith anywhere -- not just on public land, but recently even private property from where such monuments might offend the tender metaphysical skepticism of a passer-by.

So, kudos to the U.S. Supreme Court for turning back this latest attack on freedom of expression, and yes, some might argue, an indirect assault on freedom of religion itself.

This from the Washington Post: 

"The Supreme Court ruled Thursday that a large cross erected as a tribute to war dead may continue to stand on public land outside Washington in the Maryland suburbs.

"The justices reversed a lower court that said the cross was an unconstitutional endorsement of religion.

“The cross is undoubtedly a Christian symbol, but that fact should not blind us to everything else that the Bladensburg Cross has come to represent,” Justice Samuel A. Alito Jr. wrote. “For some, that monument is a symbolic resting place for ancestors who never returned home. For others, it is a place for the community to gather and honor all veterans and their sacrifices for our Nation. For others still, it is a historical landmark. For many of these people, destroying or defacing the Cross that has stood undisturbed for nearly a century would not be neutral and would not further the ideals of respect and tolerance embodied in the First Amendment.”

The vote was 7 to 2, with several justices writing separate opinions. Justices Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Sonia Sotomayor dissented . . . ."

Of hiking, prayer and the sacredness of both

 Sometimes, you pray on your knees in private, perhaps while standing during liturgy at church, or through a thought or whisper at your desk . . . maybe it's while spreading mud for bricks, raking the grass, or quickly, at a stop light in stalled traffic.

 Prayer, or perhaps what you might call thoughtfulness, meditation -- whatever connects you to the Divine -- centers you in realities beyond your five senses. 

 For me, that reality is the Triune God taught and worshiped for the past 2,000 years within and through the prayers, scriptures, teachings and traditions of Orthodox Christianity.

 And, personally, that is increasingly expressed not only within Sunday and occasional weekday Divine Liturgy services (precious as they are to me), or even daily moments in my "prayer corner" at home, where candles are lit, a thin stream of burning incense fills the air, and the icons of Christ, the Theotokos and several saints reflect the flickering flames.

 Heaven and earth also meet, and ask for your company, in nature, where sunlight dapples leaves of pine, oak and cedar and a breeze moves flower pedals in testimony to creation and creature. 

 The trees, grasslands and soft forest floor are icons, too, and birdsong the splashing of rushing streams are the eternal cathedral's hymns.

 And so, I went to church -- again -- along the trail systems of Murray's Wheeler Farm area, where the sights of flora and fauna, sounds and scents of the natural world, and the glow of sunlight on my neck, punctuated the slow movement of prayer rope knots slipping through my fingers.

 Miles passed under my feet. But Eternity was in the moments, with each heartbeat, and riding every breath.

 I sensed that this particular communion is how it was meant to be. . . when we take the blinders off, when we pay attention. 

 Saints and sinners. Author and former monk  Thomas Moore wrote that, "Walking inspires and promotes conversation that is grounded in the body, and so it gives the soul a place to live."

 Added Friedrich Nietzsche: "All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking."

The late Fr. Alexander Schmemann put it this way:

"The natural dependence of man upon the world was intended to be transformed constantly
communication with God in whom is all life [but] when we see the world as an end
in itself, everything becomes itself a value and consequently loses all value . . .
only in God is found the meaning of everything, and the world is meaningful only
when it is a 'sacrament' of God's presence...."

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Memorial Day: My family, like many, has bled for ideals that both withstood history's judgment, and not

Third-class Petty Officer Felton Mims in Vietnam

Memorial Day.

Today, we honor those who have died in battle, and those who carry their wounds, physical, mental and spiritual, among us today.

Always, it seems, when we send our young to war, it's it for the best of reasons -- at least, they seem so, at the time the bullets fly and bombs are dropped.

But history judges our wars, unearths their motivations, and renders its verdicts.

On this Memorial Day, I am sharing parts of a blog I wrote several years ago about generations of my own family's wartime sacrifices:
                                       -------

From the American Revolution through the Civil War, World Wars I and II, to Vietnam and, I presume, even today, Mimses have served in uniform. 

Three Mimses are on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., cousins, black and white, who died in combat on the ground and in the air.

Air Force Capt. George Mims, of Manning, S.C., was shot down over North Vietnam in December 1965, never to be heard from again, an MIA eventually declared dead in 1973. His body was never recovered.

Third-class Petty Officer Felton Mims, a Texan, drowned in Go Cong Province, while serving on a Navy river patrol boat in March 1969. (That's him in the photo above, getting a haircut from a crewmate).

Army PFC Kenneth Mims, from Alabama, died when stepped on a land mine as he and other members of the B Company, 1st Battalion, 501st Infantry, 101^st Airborne Division patrolled near Thua Thien in April 1971.

Four of my uncles served and survived, albeit with nightmares, the crucible that was World War II in the Pacific.

Two Mimses fought the British, another fought for them, in the American Revolution.

The Civil War killed relatives by the dozens, North and South, white and black. It directly affected my line of the family, with my great-grandfather, wounded as a Confederate private, was left crippled and dependent on morphine before he died, leaving my 7-year-old grandfather and his mother destitute.

His poverty and an austere upbringing by an older brother haunted him, and by extension my own father, who struggled with a distant, demanding relationship with his Dad.

To a far lesser extent, I experienced some of the same in my early years, before a mild heart attack left my dad more engaged -- just in time for my critical teen years. (note: My Dad died on Jan. 17,2019, at age 96).

The victims of war enrich the soil of American cemeteries, where the young dead gradually rejoin the earth from which the first humans sprang, appearing from the primordial mists of creation. The victims of war who live on color the lives of their ancestors -- for good, and for ill.

Still, on this day I am quietly, thoughtfully grateful to those who fought, and sometimes died for their principles and country. . . and those who survived the crucible to continue my family's journey through the life of the worlds to come.

---
P.S. (Thanks to my cousin, Marilyn -- comment below -- also learned of Seaman Robert Lang Mims, who died in the Pearl Harbor attack on the U.S.S. Arizona. Sobering to think his remains are entombed still below the Pacific's waves).