The theme of colors continues.
Fruit played a significant role
among the food served at
the 60th Anniversary Party
for Tricia’s parents.
While not a big fan of fruit,
although I share my father’s love of blackberries
and I did eat several at this party,
the presentation rocked.
See you along the Trail.
My spirit soared and my heart broke at the same time today.
Songs by Tommy Sands have a way of doing that to me.
Sands wrote “You Will Never Grow Old” for his brother Eugene (“Dino”) who died young, way too young, in a 1975 car accident.
Lines from the chorus spoke to me of members of my family and of friends:
You will never grow old
But you’ll always be growing
In our hearts, in our minds
In the home you left behind
Amen.
See you along the Trail.
Last night’s time of prayer – prayer service – brings to mind some definitions – these belong to me, not to Webster or anyone else.
Shelter – a place of protection from the elements, from animals, from other people
House – a place to live, constructed in many ways and different styles using a variety of materials
Home – a place of belonging, built on a network of relationships and interactions with one another, grounded in love, filled with memories
May we all have shelters … houses … homes.
See you along the Trail.
“I would like to have a prayer service for my son at my house'” she said. Would you be willing to do that?”
I pondered for a few moments, not sure what to say. I have prayed in people’s houses. I have celebrated Communion in people’s houses.
I have visited many people who were shut-in over the years, although probably not as frequently as I should have done. I have visited people where they live at times of death and situations of stress or moments of joy. I have visited to nurture and build relationships.
On all those visits, or at least all that I can remember, I have prayed. With the people I visited, I have prayed. For the people I visited, I have prayed. Sometimes the person I visited prayed for me. Other church members and friends went with me at times. Often I went alone.
“You see six months ago my son received a diagnosis of cancer,” she continued. “He has had treatment and recovered, and I want to give thanks to God. I want a prayer service. Would you be willing to do that?”
The use of the word “service” wondered me. It is one thing to go and pray with someone. But services of worship, are public in my Reformed understanding. The Session approves celebrating Communion at times and places other than the usual worship time and place; representatives of the congregation usually accompany the celebrant. A private service?
After some quick thought and prayer – she sought an answer now – I decided this would really be the same praying with someone in the place where they live. I would view this as a time of prayer. If she preferred to call it a service, well I could live with that.
“I will,” I replied.
The planning began. We talked a time or two, and we exchanged email. The service morphed and developed. In the end, it became a service of thanksgiving. It would be a time to give thanks for both her sons and to give thanks for the house in which they lived – their home.
She emailed directions. And at the appropriate time late yesterday afternoon, I set out.
As the A-train rattled toward the destination, I wondered what the evening would bring. Would there just be the four of us? If I said a prayer or two would she consider that a service? If she did not, did it matter?
I came off and descended the steps to the sidewalk. There I discovered that my email server had gone down so the email with the directions could not be retrieved. Fortunately, I had the wisdom (or maybe just needed some busy work during the trip) to enter the address in my Google Maps application while on the train. I turned to that and began the short walk to her house.
Upon arriving, and before entering, I noticed three things. A pile of shoes stood at the top of the stairs – far more shoes than three people would need. Through the window, I could see the shadows of many people. A buzz of conversation, punctuated occasionally by laughter, came through the door.
Her son answered my knock and escorted me in to the living room. People filled the room. Family members. People from church. Any thought of a private service disappeared. This would be a communal time.
As I sat down, two of the men from the church left. The introductions had not ended when they returned with hymnals.
Quickly I reorganized my prayers and shaped a service. I invited the family to pick some hymns. When they had done so, we started.
I gave a call to worship. We sang. We prayed. We gave thanks for life’s blessings and God’s goodness. We gave thanks for her sons. We gave thanks for her house – her home. We remembered and prayed for God’s healing, comfort, and strength for all in need. We passed the peace, reminding one another of God’s love.
The closing hymn for the service – and it truly was a service – was “Let Us Break Bread Together.” And after a benediction, we did.
Outside, behind the house, family, friends, sisters and brothers in Christ enjoyed a meal of Guyanese and Trinidadian foods, supplemented with fried chicken and red velvet cake. Joy moved from table to table. Grace abounded. Thanksgiving bubbled over.
“Would you be willing to do that?” And I am blessed because I said I would.
See you along the Trail.
The Shire,
still unsold,
has a new look.
I had always wondered
about having shingles on the front
of a house or a condo,
still unsold.
See you along the Trail.
“The Song That Never Ends” played, but did not end, on episodes of Lamb Chop’s Play-Along, a children’s TV show that aired on PBS from 1992-1997. It became quickly annoying. Each week. Every week.
The lyrics and tune repeated. And repeated. And repeated. No progress. No resolution.
The Shire in Louisville appears to have some commonalities with the song. Despite efforts of real estate agents; despite thoughts, well wishes and prayers of friends; despite offers and possibilities; it remains mine. Another sale has fallen through. My ownership just goes on and on.
On Friday, I journey to Louisville. A couple of days later, Tricia will join me. And, we will stay at the Shire. The dismantled Shire. The Shire bereft of almost all comforts. The Shire that never sells.
But we will make do. And we will save our respective employers money. And we will pose anew the question that has haunted humanity and wannabe hobbits through the ages:
Care to buy a condo in Louisville?
See you along the Trail.
Tricia chose to spend a couple of days in New York before returning to Cleveland – in part to take advantage of the Tuesday air fares. We spent the day seeing some of the city and hanging with friends.
The day began with a walk-by of the apartment where our son will live when he soon moves to New York. Then we walked to Central Park where, as an acoustic guitar gently played, we viewed Strawberry Fields. We journeyed through the park to the Central Park Zoo which proved a challenge to find, which seemed odd considering how big it is. After the zoo, we made our way to the 9/11 Memorial Area. We had no tickets, so we simply walked by the outside.
Headed back uptown, we stopped for dinner at Vnyl in Hell’s Kitchen. Then on to Max Caffe where a number of good folks joined us for conversation, food and drink, and the simple joy of being together.
A day to remember, to learn, to mourn, and to give thanks. A good day.
See you along the Trail.
Did he find what
he sought when
all those years ago,
he left home behind
and journeyed across the
sea?
Does his spirit
somehow linger
waiting to greet the
son of the
daughter of the
son
who returned
to his native land,
journeying
in hours, not days,
by air, not sea,
to celebrate the present
and seek something of the
past?
26 April 2012
DL 92
The Fitzgeralds, my mother’s side of the family, came from County Cork. As we have walked through Dublin the last couple days, I have spotted the name in several places. Is there a family connection? Who knows. But it is fun to imagine.
See you along the Trail.
An enlargeable basic map of Ireland (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Tricia and I head to Ireland today. Friends have invited me to solemnise their marriage.
The day will see packing and the tying of some loose ends. Other loose ends will remain so. No doubt ends once thought secure will be discovered to be loose. Such is the way of travel.
I have long looked forward to a trip to Ireland. This is my first. I rejoice in the occasion. Still I will complain about the rush to get ready and worry about the things left undone and, Bilbo-esque, wonder about what I may inadvertently leave at home. Such realities are the way of travel.
Disrupting our routine opens the possibility for new experiences. New experiences offer the opportunity for new insights and growth. And that too is the way of travel.
See you along the Trail.
