A year later, a candle, incense, an ancient prayer of mourning -- and hope

So, it's been a year since I received that call from the Cheney (Wash.) Care Center telling me my father, Robert Sr., had passed away.

On Friday, I woke up, showered, dressed and went to my icon corner. Lit candles, set incense aflame, and recited the morning prayers of the Orthodox Christian. Then, placing a portrait of Dad on the ledge under an icon of the Theotokos, I opened a booklet containing the Akathist for the Departed and began to repeat the ancient words.

For the 40 days following Dad's death on Jan. 17, 2019, this is the prayer I offered for his "repose." Though he was not Orthodox (Dad was a retired Pentecostal Evangelical pastor), I had the blessing of my parish priest to do this;  and I found in the prayer's ancient prose and, to me truth, comfort as the tears flowed then.

It was the same on Friday.

The emotions were sweeter, a year later. Oh, still grief, but with less emotional guilt baggage. Time does not heal all wounds, you see -- that's a well-intentioned lie we tell each other. But Time does lessen the pain of the scars of loss. . . and memories can flow of loving moments shared.

There were more tears of the former kind, than the latter. 

In six months, I'll be turning again to the Akathist prayer for Mom, who died six months after Dad, also at Cheney Care Center. Alzheimer's had robbed her of speech, memory and mobility long before she passed away. But there are also precious memories left to me of her better days, her loving moments.

Does it sound delusional to say I felt Dad's presence during Friday's prayers? OK, but I did, and he was like a sweet perfume born on the cloud of Light warming my heart. I glowed within as I breathed the words of devotion and petition repeated from the lips of millions of mourners, by ancestors in faith, over the past two millennia, in languages both current and lost.

I anticipate that comfort, and mystical assurance of faith, when I pray again for Mom's soul, and our future reunion.

"At Thy breath flowers come to life, the river Nile is resurrected and a multitude

 of tiny creatures awakens. 

"Thy glance is brighter than the spring sky; and Thy love, O Jesus, 

is warmer than the rays of the sun. 

Thou didst raise our mortal human flesh

 from the dust of the earth unto the blossoming of the eternal spring

 of incorruptible life.

 Do Thou then illumine also Thy servant Robert Sr. with the light of Thy mercy."

Do-it-yourself home deadbolt lock installation, St. Doofolupoulis help us

Note to self. (And any other acolyte's of the little known, heterodox very minor *Saint Doofolupoulis).

When installing that new dead bolt lock with more secure 2 3/8 inch screws where half-inch ones were previously, it is a good idea to drill the hole deeper and not just try to muscle it in, ending up with it two-thirds of longer screw the way in, tight as granite, and the screw head rounded off.

So, while I stand guard over the open door, wifey is off to Lowe's for (a) a new screw, (b) a vice-grip to get the ruined screw out, and (c) a hand drill to do it right.

Dumb, dumb-dumb-dumb, DUMB!

Update: Vice-grip wrench set, electric hand drill, check; oops, put in the deadbolt bolt backwards, start over, yay!

Tis done, and it only took three plus hours, and scatological epithets (confession fodder, Dagnabit! Sorry Fr. Justin), and a pulled lower back muscle!
Lord have mercy. 🤬😳🤫

*There is no Saint Doofolupoulis. You knew that, right?

Being alone is one thing; finding purpose in solitude of the soul, is everything

Being alone, is one thing. Finding purpose in those inevitable moments of solitude of the soul, is another. 

Finding how best to live that purpose, once revealed, can seem impossible.

Yet that is, I suspect, a universal, and most particularly intense American experience. 

We are so material in our orientation, so selfish.

Asked what motivates acts of charity, of perceived "selflessness" -- our proffered tokens of time, wealth, and feelings toward another human being or cause -- and many, if honest, admit: "It makes me feel better about myself."

If that is it, then fine; who am I to judge? Been there, done that. Such benevolent actions, donations, and affection given do, at least, show another suffering human that someone or something "cares" for their plight, and perhaps even them personally.

Still, does the purpose revealed still essentially come down to a sort of self-affirmation that we are "good?" We deigned to stoop, to sacrifice a tithe of our lives and resources to someone in need, after all.

Or, maybe they are not in need, but a professional cardboard sign holder at an intersection. "Homeless, hungry, anything helps, God bless," they declare -- yet an enterprising reporter may spot them later exiting a middle class home, their rags exchanged for cleaner, newer garb as they pop into a late-model SUV for a night out.

You see it happen regularly on TV news. Confronted, there is no shame. "I've done nothing illegal. People want to give. It makes them feel better. So, I give them the chance," they say and drive off.

Certainly, there is no 100 percent effective way to know the difference between the fraud and real need. And to many, it ultimately doesn't matter. 

We want to do good, however marginal the effort may be, and welcome an easy way to do so. Roll down a window, hand a buck or two to the cardboard sign set, get a "God bless" and you can smile and feel good all the way to the next intersection.

Even if you suspect you've just been conned, it's easy to suppress that feeling. We are very good at that, we Americans.

We embrace black-and-white logical fallacies all the time, if you think about it: Trump/Pelosi are either evil or righteous, completely, with no shadows of gray; war is absolutely wrong -- but killing life in the womb is undeniably justified as the end means of a reproductive "right"; morality itself can be individually defined as we wish, and if you believe there are indeed things and actions that are inherently good or evil by nature if not whim, you are a bigot or (choose your flavor)-phobic.

And yet, down deep, there is that desire to do . . . something, something we know is right, however confused our conception of "rightness" is.

C.S. Lewis opined that the very fact that this primordial moral sense exists -- something he called "Tao" in his book, "The Abolition of Man" -- is a worthy starting point for arguing for eternal and objective Truth, natural law, and yes, Nature's God.

So, when our former "purpose," in my case a career as a writer, editor, and journalist, comes to an end, then what? 

We are, painfully and mercifully both, left to finally embrace that which we for so long avoided, that Truth we may have partially acknowledged but still held, through delusion and token practice, at arm's length.

That Truth is that our "purpose" has never really been ours; rather, we find true meaning, the kind that transcends, in seeing ourselves as part of the Purpose. Finally, we surrender to what we knew all along, deep down. . . that we were created for this, and not for that.

As atheist-turned-believer Lewis wrote: 

"An open mind, in questions that are not ultimate, is useful. But an open mind about the ultimate foundations either of Theoretical or of Practical Reason is idiocy. If a man's mind is open on these things, let his mouth at least be shut. He can say nothing to the purpose. Outside the Tao there is no ground for criticizing either the Tao or anything else."

2019: What I've learned from a year of pain, triumph, grief, hope

When I was a young(er) father, dealing with the outrage of our single-digit year old son and daughter about how this or that was not fair, I suspected trying to explain theologically, philosophically, metaphysically how this could possibly be so true in a universal -- yet not, ultimately, eternal -- sense, would simply confuse the heck out of their precious, beloved minds.

And on a recent trip to visit my grandchildren in Maryland, I saw the same learning curve on the Question of Fairness in play. Wheel do go 'round in circles, still.


It certainly had that effect on me. So, I simply repeated -- after each mean-spirited slight of another child toward them, or when one of them was convinced the other had more ice cream (as measured by teaspoons, I suspect), or the miscarriage of justice in both of them having to go to bed at the same time (despite the eons of difference between being 5 and 7!) -- that, "Life is not fair. It just is (life)."

OK, certainly not as profound as God declaring to the curious Moses that His Name was, "I AM that I AM."  Although, within the Mims household of the kids' youngest years, the debate certainly was as intense, if things are relative. (But of course, we know relativity, applied to questions of fairness, justice, and all the rest is also a plunge down the rabbit hole that lurks at the base of our finite minds; that's another conversation, though).

But no matter how "mature" we get, we always will have moments where our inner child flops on the ground, disconsolate, and cries, "This just isn't fair!"

When your 96-year-old father -- once a talented musician, bright of intellect, and example of Christian faith lived as much as he preached -- lives his final year in arthritic pain, stroke-induced dementia, and deafness that has you shouting "I love you in his ear," is that "fair?"  

Or, your 91-year-old mother -- once sharp-minded, funny, fiercely loving, and able to play the piano as if she were bleeding her vibrance into its keys -- lives her final years having lost cognition, memories, or even the ability to care for her most basic bodily functions? Again, not "fair."

I promise, this will not become a litany of "unfair" events or situations I've seen in 2019, or in my span of 66 years. Honestly, they pale compared to those endured by millions of others on this planet we call home. And truly, what makes any one of us immune to the sufferings, too-often self-imposed, that are common to human kind?

Life changes, every day, in ways dramatic and miniscule alike. We love, we lose; we delight, we suffer; we comfort, and we are comforted.

On Earth, we have what we have . . . measures of joy and mourning, triumph and disappointment, years of health and decline, opportunities to serve, heal and embrace, and to learn humility, by being served, being healed, being embraced.

Those things I have learned, either in 2019 itself, or through life-long experience and what illumination faith has provided to clarify, and expand in the past trip around Old Sol. Most important to me, as a believer, is that God is with those who call upon Him. Mostly, He sees us through the pain, disappointments, challenges, but does not deliver us from them.

Babies don't learn to crawl unless you put them down and beckon them. Toddlers don't walk successfully until they are released to step, fall, and get up again. And in the scope of Eternity, we have all just begun to crawl.

Even at 66 years old.

As you can, walking in the eternal, uncreated light, Love, unconditionally. Give, generously. Live each breath, each heartbeat, each second, minute, hour and year you have left in forgiveness, and gratitude.

May God bless your New Year with His Presence, in and through all things.

Prayer Walks: You never know what life, your feet, and faith, will bring you

I love to walk, to feel the blood pump through my legs and fresh air fill my lungs.

In warmer months, that happens in a T-shirt and shorts. In mid-December, with daytime temperatures in the mid-20s (F), that means warm socks, thick fleece pants, gloves, a sweater and a warm coat.

And lately, I combine the physical exercise with spiritual nourishment via recordings on my iPhone: maybe a monk reading from the Psalter, or Orthodox prayers chanted in Byzantine style by Eikona (http://www.eikona.com/prayers-for-orthodox-christians/), or podcasts from Ancient Faith Radio (https://www.ancientfaith.com).

Sure, I could walk on a treadmill in a nice warm Planet Fitness gym (I do have a free membership through AARP). But I like to feel like I'm actually going somewhere -- in both a linear and metaphysical sense.

Which (finally, thanks for waiting) brings me to the theme of this entry: You never know what life your feet, and faith, will bring you.

On Wednesday, for example, I was doing my few miles on the Jordan River Parkway when I came upon a young woman, in her late teens I would guess, sitting hunched over on the side of the trail. As I got closer, I could see the sadness, that look of hopelessness.

We've all been there. And we all remember how it feels. You look at the cold, gray skies -- and in this case the snow-covered Wasatch Mountains rising in the east -- and watch your breath as a wreath of mist, its warmth and hope gone before you can inhale again.

I couldn't just walk by. I mean, I probably could have done . . . but, for crying out loud, I had just heard a homily about the Good Samaritan through my earphones seconds earlier.

So . . . "Are you all right?" I asked, and tried to smile disarmingly. Shouldn't be too hard for a 66-year-old, gray-haired and -silver bearded, bundled up grandpa with a walking staff.

When she turned to look at me, her eyes were swollen, red, wet. "I live over there," she waived toward a residential treatment facility about a quarter-mile away. "I just needed some time to . . .", and her voice trailed off.

I stayed quiet. She looked back up. "I'm missing my parents. I can't reach them. I don't know how they are. They don't know how I am."

Loneliness is the worst, especially this time of year, when Christmas is so hyped as a time for love, gifts and everything bright, yada yada yada.

So, I told her to try to look at herself, from outside herself. "This feels awful now, but life changes, sometimes every time we just stop and look around. I get up, walk, sleep, and get up, and it's changed. Always. Sometimes not much and not for what seems a long time, but sometimes, you realize what hurt so much is yesterday, and today is new."

There was a glance of hope, or at least interest. She was listening for more.

"I lost both my parents this year. Just me and my sister left, and she's almost a thousand miles away," I shared. "I miss them very much, but I pray for them every day, and I know they pray for us."

I suggested that there are people who care about her, too. They may pray for her, they may think of her with love and concern, and that, too, is a prayer of sorts.

But we are not alone. Hope finds a way, and faith helps guide it within us.

"Things will get better, sooner or later. Trust it will, and until then, just do what you need to do to get where you need to be. God bless your day, young lady."

She nodded, sniffed, and seemed to calm a bit. "Thank you, sir." She took my hand and squeezed. We both smiled, and I resumed my trek.

Half an hour later, as I returned on the way home, she was gone. I whispered a prayer for God's mercy and protection for her.

And I wondered, had I done enough? I may never know the answer to that question.

What I did know, however, was that or this senior citizen, the day had a purpose.

Riches in Heaven: Or, how a tiny church in a poor New Mexico town makes a difference

Pastors Paul and Diane Hesch with inmate friends (Hesch photo)

My latest freelancing effort:

"On Sundays, pastor Paul L. Hesch tells the 60 congregants at Victory Life Church about the power of Christ’s love to bring the spiritual riches of faith, hope, and healing to the poverty-stricken community they call home.

For Hesch and pastoral partner and wife Diane, that home is Las Vegas — not the sprawling gambling hot spot in Nevada, but the economically challenged and historically rough-and-tumble city of 13,100 that straddles northwest New Mexico’s Gallinas River. The U. S. Census Bureau reports that 34.4 percent of local residents live at or below the poverty line, compared to the 12.7 percent of the overall U.S. population. . . . "

To read the rest of this story, click on this link: https://bit.ly/34UB2bK

Book review: The Divine Liturgy: When Heaven and Earth are one

As an Evangelical preacher's kid, Sunday worship was this: three drum-and-electric guitar and keyboard pop-rock worship songs, pulsing stage lights and haze from a smoke machine, a sermon and a quarterly and self-served "communion" of oyster crackers and grape juice.

Then, three years ago, I attended Divine Liturgy at an Eastern Orthodox church. I was inundated by the flickering light of candles, incense, icons, vestments, chants and singing, ancient prayers -- true reverence that engaged all the senses -- and stirred the spirit.

In "Orthodox Worship: A Living Continuity with the Synagogue, the Temple, and the Early Church," co-authored Benjamin D. Williams and the late Harold B. Anstall, I learned it was all that . . . and much, much more.

I experienced this work as Ancient Faith's newly updated, audiobook format (https://store.ancientfaith.com/orthodox-worship-audiobook/). At just under 6 and a half hours long, it was the perfect devotional companion for my daily walks.

Striding down forested trails flanked by meadows and streams, I was easily able to immerse myself in the history of how today's Orthodox Christian worship as a continuation, and fulfillment, of the Jewish temple and synagogue liturgical practices Christ's first disciples and apostles knew from their childhoods.

Deacon Kenneth Timothy's engaging and passionate narration conveys both authors' deep faith, as well as his own. In this way, the book becomes something more than words on a page or eBook reader; it is a conversation with a friend and spiritual brother.

This is a book aimed at the layperson, but no less complete in its theological exploration or attention to details of the Divine Liturgy's content and ancient symbolism and rituals, culminating in Holy Communion, the mystical yet real joining of heaven and earth in true worship.

The Divine Liturgy, at its inspired and best, is not a spiritual spectator's sport. To merely listen, occasionally make the sign of the cross, get in line for Eucharist and then leave unchanged within, is a tragic waste.

The blessing comes with participation, Williams and Anstall stress. Given the invitation for a foretaste of the Kingdom of God, along with the saints and angels, why would we not?

'What God can do with a worm,' says former addict-turned-pastor, is a miracle

Latest freelance story for me, this one on a remarkable couple helping the broken and addicted in Hawaii through faith, example, and humility. https://bit.ly/2OoEEN6

A poem: Of 2019, life's hallways, its memories, loss, faith and hope

The hallway is silent,

my heart is not.

It beats with blood, oxygen and memories,

of love, and loss,

dreams of reunion

anchored in

Eternity

Friends and kin,

grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, 

cousins and friends,

all have walked, some

resolute, some unsure,

these same worn, stained tiles

before me.

And opened that door.

Disappeared

From here,

to where?

Well, There.

Now, I approach 

that threshold

slowly, surely,

with resignation

of mortality;

and comfort of faith.

For below the door,

through the keyhole

Light . . .

And, I am not afraid.

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

*Don't freak, dear ones. Just a poem, reflections, as 2019, the year of mourning, nears an end.

Ignoring context, inventing meaning: True in both religion, and pop music

As a still fledgling Eastern Orthodox Christian (yes, three years since baptism, and I'm 66 -- but in the context of 2,000 years and counting for the ancient faith's history, I am still just a metaphorical  toddler), I've learned how important "traditions," both oral and those written down in ecumenical councils millennia past, are to seeing beyond the branches and leaves of the Tree to its strong trunk and deep roots.

That realization led me to reinterpret, and in some cases reject, particular assumptions of my Evangelical/Pentecostal upbringing. . . while still treasuring that background for providing me a foundational love for Christ himself. As a child, I learned my faith's supposedly truest expression was born in a 1906 "revival," where people spoke in tongues at a abandoned barn-like building on Azusa Street, which had been repurposed as a church.

Before 1906, with a few barely mentioned exceptions -- Martin Luther and the Protestant Reformation, and maybe an American frontier preacher or two like the evangelical reformers John and Charles Wesley -- Christianity had apparently gone dormant. You know, the Dark Ages and all that.

Traditions? A misunderstood and certainly satanic idea! The Church Fathers? Men and women saints and martyrs? Not important.

It (i.e., what was needful) was ALL in the Bible, and of course, that was just what you as an individual understood it to be; if your denomination's teachings offended you, make up your own -- and heck, start your own movement! You'd hardly be alone; rather, you'd just add to the thousands of competing offshoots already out there since Rome broke the East, and Luther with Rome.

All of that a long introduction to my realization today that, without context and historical, doctrinal and philosophical foundation, it's an all-too-human thing to make things up as we go along, and passing that along as "truth," validated only by repetition and fancy. 

The catalyst for my conclusion?  Why, "Puff the Magic Dragon," of course.



Since my 1970's high school years, I've KNOWN that Peter, Paul and Mary were (snicker, wink-wink) singing about weed. Heck, everyone knows that, right? Well . . . no, not according to Definition.org. Actually, the 1963 hit's lyrics were mined from a poem by Leonard Lipton, a friend of band member Peter Yarrow -- and it was simply about a child outgrowing his imaginary dragon friend, "Puff."


Click on that Definitions.org smart link above; the revelations (and disappointment, and maybe irritation born of misinterpretation) continue, including ballads and hits that had either more innocent, or far darker intended themes than they acquired in the popular hive mind.

R.E.M.'s "The One I Love?" Never meant to be the romantic ballad at all, lead singer Michael Stipe says. Really, only the title is misleading, he insists, adding that hit or not, the song almost didn't make recording because R.E.M. saw it as "too brutal . . . violent and awful." Lyrical hint: "(the lover sung about is) a simple prop to occupy my time."

Remember the Police's hit, "Every Breath You Take?" Not a love song at all, though it has been played at thousands of weddings s since its release in the 1980s). It really is a dark song about an obsessed stalker, says lead singer Sting.

There are many more examples of songs interpreted as both far more noble than they were intended to be, or alternatively raunchier than envisioned.

In other words, musical reflections of the sola scriptura mindset of the Protestant Reformation?

Or, it just could be me seeing an all-to-human tendency to ignore context in favor of seeing, as St. Paul wrote, "through a glass, darkly." 

Whatever. In faith, as in music, we do seem to (mis)interpret meaning and Truth through our own wishful/errant reflections, though.