A Good Friday Prayer : For Lilia

It started out as one of those normal good Fridays : coffee , paper, and the dog outside for a whiff of the finally spring air while marking his ground. The sacred day was upon everything and everyone. The pilgrim didn’t realize how holy it was about to become

“We all mark our ground in one way or another,” the pilgrim reflected.

To watch the dog no one would surmise that cancer had invaded his physical being as he carefully observed birds dart from here to there. He and his human companion listened to what seemed to be the first songs of spring from a robin that anointed the scene from above.

For the first time in what seemed to be forever the sun rose without a cloud to hide her beauty as she commenced the gentle warming of everything in her sight. Yet, the pilgrim couldn’t shake the picture of from his head of the once majestic forest of his younger days that had been swept down by some angel’s broom. That which was needs to fall make room for new seeds and new stories to be lived and told.

“ Everything changes, everything says goodbye,” his poem turned song lyrics had become a mantra.

And so it began, while those chimes softly echoed with the assistance of some divine breath. Then just like that…the universe stood still… absolute, silent, pure, peace and grace-filled. That moment of solitude and solace was shattered by a distant call where a brotherly tear-filled voice proclaimed that their mother, who had insisted on going home, had finished her journey and moved on to just what she had desired.

For hours lightening flashes of a million memories constantly zipped through his head. His spirit draining his heart finally rested with the awareness that the sun had reached her peak. It wasn’t until a friend’s words, “Let love lead you into mystery,” that he understood .

And just like that again .... he awakened and it was Easter.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

FAITH

I want to write about faith,

about the way the moon rises

over cold snow, night after night,

faithful even as it fades from fullness, 

slowly becoming that last curving and impossible 

sliver of light before the final darkness.

But I have no faith myself 

I refuse it even the smallest entry.

Let this then, my small poem, 

like a new moon, slender and barely open, 

be the first prayer that opens me to faith. 

-- David Whyte

                 "A Time to say good-bye"

                        In Memoriam Lilia Avogadri Sobecki

 

 amdg

March 2: The Bodyguard Reflection Number 2

“…There were incidents and accidents,

There were hints and allegations ..... “

                -  You Can Call Me Al, Paul Simon 

“…My, but we learn so slow

and heroes, they come

and they go

and leave us behind as if

we're supposed to know why

Why do we give up our hearts to the past?

and why must we grow up so fast? -

   

Pretty Maids All in a Row , J. Walsh and J. Vitale

It was a slow day, one of those Simon days of wonder. Thirty-three years to the almost exact minute since the lonely pilgrim crossed the finish line of his long distance run. It wasn’t over as the real race had just begun. Back then the master mechanic departed without warning ( just days before the marathon and has been absent for any advice ever since.) Many Ash Wednesdays have come and gone. Just because the prayers were not immediately answered the priest said it didn’t mean that they were not on file for consideration.

If you could listen closely one could hear a voice singing out breaking through the darkest silence of the suburban night ….

“I am giving up hope for Lent this year…yeah,yeah,yeah” 

He could see his past like some Kevin Burns documentary - heading down the river to Graceland writing letters with a melancholic song in his heart. But then man made monuments are often always disappointments. White bronzed statuettes of the self-proclaimed king surrounded the snow globes with almost imperceptible caped figurines lost inside.  Everywhere he planned to go for redemption seemed more glorious in his dreams. His grasping for any thing left him with nothing. He would often find himself  stuck outside of  Mobile again with the Memphis blues.

Someone once said sometimes on slow days miracles happen. A sweet shining sunbeam slipped through the perpetual winter cloud cover  like some reverential spotlight ahead of each step he took as he wondered round the lake. The intermittent confetti snowflakes glittered like angelic dust blessing him as he processed on with his canine companion. The eyes closed as he stopped to feel the power of the warmth and the shimmering cold flakes simultaneously caress his essence. Each moment of grace of his salvation history became crystal clear all at once.  

Smiling that mischievous smile he gratefully muttered

“No angels with stop watches were ever observed along the way.

It’s never been about the speed but how the race is run, right?”

He continued his stroll singing out "If I can call you Betty...."

                                            

amdg