I bask in the Manhattan sun,
warm against my face
and remember Ireland a year ago
with Tricia and with friends,
and rejoice with Joel and Roja
whose promises drew us across the water,
and ache for Joe who joined us there
and today grieves his brother’s death.
Disparate feelings stir, mix, tug,
today, as every day. Life.
27 April 2013
Shire near the Hudson
Death struck
One called
One went
Together wept
Nothing more
Nothing less
Love
4 April 2013
Amtrak 185
He drank Scotch.
He worked as the assistant superintendent for the Grove City Public School system. But he was a musician. He played string bass in the pit orchestra for the high school musicals. He directed the Scots Fusilers – a town band. He was a tennis player. He was a photographer. He was a private pilot.
On January 28, 1974, he climbed into a small plane with another educator from Grove City. Their destination was Harrisburg where they would advocate for funds for the school system. They had tickets on a commercial airline, but decided that he would fly.
They did not arrive.
The plane went down near Emlenton. The crash site was not located until the next day.
When he died, I was in Europe with the Westminster College Choir. I could no more sing then than I can now. But my family appreciated the value of travel and found the funds for me to go.
I arrived at JFK on Wednesday of that week where family members met me and broke the news and broke my heart.
Tonight, 39 years later, I raise a glass to his memory … to the time, the far too short time, we shared. To all I learned. To laughter and to tears. To music made well and badly. To tennis matches. To a trip to Philmont.
I raise a glass … to my father.
Goodnight and joy be with you, dad. Goodnight and joy be with us all.
Mine is Jameson.
See you along the Trail.
Today:
I purchased a ticket to go to Korea;
the church there has invited me to come
and speak about engagement in the
public arena.
My heart broke for women who
endure a culture of rape and violence;
for children who cry to sleep
with nothing to eat;
for peoples whose countries are
torn by war;
for sisters and brothers I do not know
who are violated in ways I
cannot imagine.
I raised a glass in memory of my father
who died 39 years ago
this day.
I spent significant time doing laundry and
washing dishes.
Exciting.
Joyful.
Heartbreaking.
Painful.
Grief-filled.
Mundane.
Of such is life.
See you along the Trail.
I clicked on the Facebook link to the birthdays of my friends. Usually I discover a surprise on the list as I have very few of those days memorized. Heck, I have to stop and think about the birthdays of my family. Often the surprise proves pleasant as it affords me the opportunity to remember someone.
Today’s surprise brought a Communion of Saints moment.
Clint McCoy’s name appeared. Executive for partnerships of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)’s Synod of the Northeast, Clint died suddenly on September 12, 2010 of a massive heart attack. His family has not closed his Facebook account.
A pang of grief pricked my heart. I followed the link to his page and found a number of comments by family members and friends. I remembered conversations and interactions. I smiled. And I gave thanks, grateful to have been Clint’s friend and colleague in ministry. Thanks be to God.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Friends
Ministry comes in a variety of forms.
Followers of Jesus do not all look alike nor do we all do identical work.
Pillars of the Church come in many different shapes.
On December 12, 2012, Cynthia Bolbach died. A former moderator of our General Assembly, Cindy was well-known and loved by many across the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.).
On December 17, 2012, Teddy Mapes died. The sexton at West-Park Presbyterian Church in Manhattan, Teddy was known and well-loved by the West-Park community and by many in the neighborhood of Amsterdam and W. 86th Street.
A gentle bear of a man with a heart overflowing with compassion, Teddy came to West-Park a little over a year ago as the congregation connected with the Occupy movement. He quickly fit into the community. He took part in Bible study and worship and became a member.
Teddy cared for the physical building of the church. More importantly, he cared for the spiritual building – the community – the Body of Christ. He helped negotiate the creative chaos that the Spirit so often stirs at West-Park. Teddy became one of the public faces of the church.
I had only met Teddy a couple of times – but in those brief encounters, I could tell the significant role he played in the community. So today, I walked to West-Park to talk to my friend Bob Brashear, pastor of the church, about Teddy. Teddy’s biggest contribution, his most profound ministry, Bob noted took place “on the steps, in the streets, with the people.”
On the steps. In the streets. With the people. What a ministry, what a legacy.
Teddy’s death has ripped a hole in the West-Park Presbyterian Church community. I cannot imagine how painful the tear is – nor how challenging their ride through the ragged reality of grief will be – nor how long the rebuilding process will take.
But this I know: God who loved Teddy Mapes in this life continues to love Teddy Mapes and has welcomed him home. I give thanks for Teddy’s life and love and witness and faith.
And this I know: it will take time, it will be challenging, there will be tears, there will be fits and starts – but somehow, some way, some day, “every little thing gonna be all right” for the people of West-Park Presbyterian Church. Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Friends, New York, Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)
It is morning.
It is after.
For those who passed through
Hurricane Sandy
Tropical Storm Sandy
Nor’easter Sandy
Frankenstorm
it will,
as for anyone
who lives through any
significant, dramatic, traumatic event,
always be after.
It is morning.
It is after.
In varying degrees of
shock and grief,
faith and hope,
assessment begins,
analysis begins,
recovery begins,
rebuilding begins.
It is morning.
It is after.
30 October 2012
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Current Events, New York, Poem
Spring’s first blush
kisses me as I push my way
through the door,
onto the porch;
my old hips groan louder than the hinges.
One, two, three painful steps, I shuffle
to the post where I stop and lean
as I try to catch my breath.
Air fills my lungs anew,
as my gaze falls upon the field:
unplowed,
unworked,
untouched it stands.
Tears well in my eyes –
it will stay that way this year.
My sons,
my proud, precious sons
will not plow or
work or
touch the field
or any field
this year
or year.
They forever lie,
in peaceful repose I hope,
in some
unknown, unnamed field:
some
God-forsaken,
God-blessed,
God-damned,
Virginian field,
victims, as are we all,
of this unending war.
Never will my boys
love or
play or
work this field again.
In peaceful rest,
they forever lie –
so I hope,
so I pray.
From the South,
a crow flies into sight,
its raucous call
breaks my reverie.
I rub one gnarled hand
against another –
hands twisted by life will never again hold a plow –
and I wonder if
down in Virginia, where Spring has surely come,
some spent, used-up man, some grieving father,
whose sons marched away to bugle’s call under flapping banners,
now gazes on a field
unplowed,
unworked,
untouched,
and remembers, wonders, weeps.
with thanks to Don Shriver
DL 5759
5 October 2012
Filed under Poem
Like a clutter of spiders,
the cold crept over him,
probing old wounds,
prodding old pains.
He stirred; but half-awake
he searched the bed.
Touching nothing,
finding no one,
he remembered, shivered,
pulled the cover tighter,
and sought again
sleep’s refuge.
18 September 2012
Shire on the Hudson
Filed under Poem
Along the Graybeard Trail 