Holy Coffee

I was only in there for a matter of minutes.  But in that time, something profound seemed to happen.

I walked into my favorite coffee shop yesterday morning, in my usual hurry to get my weekly treat and head off to work on time.  A bit dismayed at the long line in front of me - and glad that I got in before the two people who entered immediately after me - a series of events quickly changed my annoyed tune.  As I was waiting in line, a man in front of me turned and said good-morning, a woman who had just gotten her drink and was on her way out smiled as she passed, and then I heard the Barista greet the next customer in line by name, well before he had spoken a word or shown his "loyal member" card to identify himself.

"Hmmm," I thought, "She must know him."

But they did not engage in any deep or personal conversation that would suggest they were friends or even acquaintances outside of the Barista-customer relationship.  "But she knew his name before he even got there?" I just kept thinking.

I placed my order, was called by my name (after I showed my "loyal member" card), and paid for my drink.  But not before I heard another worker at the coffee shop say "Hi Ahli" as he stepped forward to the till to help with the growing line behind me.  A man stepped towards his side of the counter, said "hello" back, and placed his order.

"Wow," I thought, "He knows his name too."

Having finished with my order, I walked to the other end of the counter to wait for my drink.  And as I waited, I watched the first Barista I had encountered this morning give the man behind me his total, before he had even reached the counter also.

"Holy Moly," I thought, "She knows him so well she already knows his order!"

I witnessed the workers of my favorite coffee shop call numerous customers by name, have their orders memorized, give a complimentary carton of coffee to EMT workers to take with them, and even offer to help carry drinks - all with a line of customers long enough to stress out the normal worker of any business, let alone their impatient customers in the line.  But as I waited and watched, taking in all the smiles, "hellos," names and interactions of folks on both sides of that counter, I realized that the line there this day was perhaps a bit more than just a line of "customers."

It was a line of community.

That small, crowded shop seemed brimming with a sense of unity, regardless of the diversity that filled it.  These people - who I had never seen here before, despite my regular stops - all seemed to belong here, to belong to one another in the various relationships they had with staff or one another.  Even I as the stranger felt like I somehow belonged to them as I encountered it all!  And each small action of outreach and relationship seemed to help spur one another on in cheer and a positive outlook on the day ahead.

It was a community!  


* * * * * * 

Now I don't pretend that the recognition of a few "regulars" automatically institutes a community.  Nor that rush hour at the coffee shop is equal to that of a strong faith community or family.  But I also realized in that morning experience, that the two are not mutually un-equal either.

For it was in the simple act of acknowledging another - with a smile or hello from strangers - that I felt a sense of welcome.

"How good and pleasant it is
when God’s people live together in unity!" (Psalm 133:1) 

And it was in the important act of calling one by name - an effort in building and acknowledging the relationship - that I could see individuals feel a sense of belonging.

"For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others." (Romans 12:4-5)

And it was from having experienced those first two things that people moved on to serving others also - offering smiles and hellos of their own to strangers (heck, even I offered to help someone carry her coffee trays, and held the door for someone entering as I left) as they entered into a sense of involvement. 

"And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another." (Hebrews 10:24-25) 

A few weeks ago at a talk by Alejandro Aguilar Titus, Assistant Director for the Secretariat for Cultural Diversity in the Church, he listed these three things - welcome, belonging and involvement - as the important stages that people need to move through in order to have community development within a faith community.  I have been reflecting on them ever since, thinking about the ways I have moved through these stages in my own various communities.  I even spoke about these stages at a talk I did in a parish earlier this week.  And yesterday morning, I saw them played out right before my eyes in a small coffee shop on my way to work.

And while I again do not pretend that the community built in that coffee shop holds the same value or power as a faith community, it was a reminder to me of how important those three stages of community-building are.  Of how very important community in general is!

As I got in my vehicle - iced mocha in hand, ready to face the day - I felt something other than the caffeine buzz stirring inside of me.  I felt joy.  I felt power.  I felt a sense of pride in my world.  It was honestly not a feeling I can say I feel all the time or even every day.  But this morning in what I witnessed, I felt an overwhelming mix of positive emotions, as I had no doubt I had just experienced holiness in that little corner shop.  For that is what community is - holy. 


* * * * * *

Although I was very proud of my preferred coffee shop on that morning (and now prefer it even more), this is not a commercial for the business.  It is a commercial for community.  The holy community that can happen anywhere when we slow down and take the time to acknowledge those around us and allow ourselves to open up to one another; when we share life together - from the simplest events such as morning coffee to the big celebrations of sacraments - with each other; and when we work towards each of the stages of community-building our church calls us to - even outside of the church. 

No matter where you find your community, I encourage you to think about the ways you encounter and interact with others within it.  Do you offer simple acts of acknowledgement and welcome?  Do you continue to build relationships, calling others by name as GOD does for us, so that they may know they belong?  Do you make efforts to involve and be involved?

And for those of us who are members - especially leaders - of a faith community, can we take a lesson from my Baristas and fellow costumers, recognizing that we too probably still have work to do in these areas.  There is no community too big, none too small, no gathering of humans in church or synagogue or mosque or office building or coffee shop or corner of the globe that cannot continue to work on building community with one another!

This is our call.  We are one human family - "neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male and female, you are all one" (Galatians 3:28).  

We are all one - coffee lovers or tea drinkers, students or businessmen, "regulars" or those surprised by grace on Friday morning! 

 

For those who cry the second Sunday of May

She meant well enough, the woman stretching next to me after my work Friday morning.  She meant very well, in fact.  How was she to know that her innocent enough inquiry was my least favorite question, the one that would pierce my heart as she asked: 

"How many children do you have?”  

It's the question that makes my body start to sweat and my heart skip a beat.  And in that fraction of an un-beating second, my brain and heart begin to battle, trying to carefully calculate my answer.  Do I give the answer they’re looking for – the number of children the world sees, those three children living in my home, whose names are spoken by many on a daily basis?  Or do I give the answer my gut cries out – the number of children seen by my heart, those additional three children residing in heaven, whose names are heard only by our family?  If I say six, will they ask for ages and details?  In which case, do I have the strength today to answer without crying; do I have the strength today to be vulnerable enough to let myself cry?  

In that split-second, that can feel like hours, I wrestle with how much of my story I will share.

For you see, my story is one of grief and loss.  But, unfortunately, like too many others, it is a story of an invisible loss, of suffering from an invisible grief.

My husband and I lost our first child to miscarriage over 7 years ago.  Since that time, we have been blessed with three beautiful children with whom we share our home.  Three lives bookmarked by two more miscarriages, suffered this past year.  Though only twelve, eleven and five week along in our pregnancies, each loss felt as if an entire lifetime had been stolen from me, forcing me into a journey physically, emotionally and spiritually that I could never have been prepared for, even after having experienced it before.  And along that journey, a hurricane of emotions follows – ranging day-to-day and sometimes second-to-second from sadness, to anger, to confusion, to peace, to guilt, to jealousy, to doubt, to faith...and back again.  It is a storm that leaves a path of devastation unparalleled to Hurricane Katrina, where nothing seems to be left untouched, unchanged.  For better or for worse, I am changed because of the lives I carried within me, the lives I have said good-bye to before they’d even begun.  

As a friend of mine once put it, “There's a void that remains from being so close to a miracle that you are touched and transformed by it even as it slips away.”

And while the tiny lives of our un-held babies have slipped away from us, the love and connection I feel for them has not.  They are still my children.  I am still their mother.  

And it is that very fact that makes this weekend a difficult one for me.  

Despite the special holiday supposedly meant to honor me, it is a day in which the void feels even greater.  Although I still find such joy in my little man, my Beanie and my curly-headed monster, although I still feel such gratitude for them as they bring me the only breakfast they know how to make (buttered toast) in bed and homemade pictures, although I still feel love in abundance on Mother's Day, I also feel the ever-present hole of those babies who I didn't get to know well enough to give nicknames, whose finger prints aren't in the butter, whose love I never fully got to share.  

The second Sunday of May becomes a well-meaning day that also pierces my heart.  

The stores are stocked with glitter-spackled, pop-up, singing, poetic and humorous cards of all kinds, with salutations to every proper noun imaginable - Mom, Momma, Mommy, Mother, Grandma, Nana, Grandmother, Godmother, Aunt, Sister, Friend...  You name it!  And each one designed to bring joy and love to any woman lucky enough to open it.   

But what about the women whose love perhaps takes a different form, whose joy is overshadowed by difficulty?  What about those who don't fit the flowerly Hallmark mold on the shelves?  What about the women who wrestle with non-glittery emotions this day?   

My own difficulty each Mother's Day, as I wrestle with the tension between the joy of those children I have been invited to keep and the loss of those who are now in GOD's keeping, has me very aware that this day can be much more difficult than the greeting card companies would have us believe.  It has me aware of the many other women out there like myself whose hearts are pierced a little (extra) each second Sunday of May.  

And so today, I am thinking of them: 

I am thinking of the women who have lost babies.  Those who wrestle with the life they didn't get to keep.

I am thinking of the women who have lost children at any age.  Those who wrestle with having outlived the life they brought forth. 

I am thinking of the women who don't have children.  Those wrestling with infertility or the search for their partner in parenting. 

I am thinking of the women who have given up their babies.  Those who wrestle with the love that led them to adoption, and the hearts that still wonder what if.

I am thinking of the women (and men) who have lost their mothers.  Those young and old who wrestle with the longing to be able to give a card, or a hug, one more May. 

I am thinking of the women in hospital rooms and war zones.  Those who wrestle against the odds, trying to find the strength to fight for their child's health or safety.  

I am thinking of the women who raise their children on their own.  Those who wrestle with the incredible challenges of parenting without the support they need, or once had.

I am thinking of the women who are separated from their children.  Those who wrestle with the distance - physically or relationally - keeping them from being with their children this day.   

I am thinking of the women who are called "Step."  Those who wrestle with what their place is.

I am thinking of the women who are expecting.  Those who wrestle with questions and fear and an unknown they cannot possible be prepared for.  

I am thinking of the women (and men, girls and boys) who have not had the mothers they need.  Those who wrestle with a past of let-downs or a presence of hurt from those they should be loved by the most.    

I am thinking of those women who are struggling.  Those who wrestle with questions of their own abilities amidst the daily challenges of parenting. 

I am thinking of the women whose dreams for their family have been ripped away by violence, displacement, poverty, oppression.  Those who wrestle with being able to provide for their children, who cannot even fathom the sparkling necklaces and perfect bouquets on TV.  

I am thinking of all the women who cry this second Sunday of May.  

It's an innocent enough inquiry.  I hear it all the time from clerks at the store, parishioners at church, old high school classmates, perfect strangers and long-lost relatives. 

But at this time of year, where all our attention is turned towards mothering, and those seemingly simple inquiries tend to multiple - "Do you have children?"  "How many children do you have?" "Do you have big plans for Mother's Day?" - I am reminded that it is not so simple for everyone.  

So for all those who wrestle with the tension of joy and pain this Mother's Day, and for all those for whom a pierced heart is the only thing they are given this second Sunday of May, I am thinking of you.  

You are in my prayers today, no questions asked!  

When sorrowful stories meet joyful psalms

It was our annual Mission Rally (read about the event here), a day when we gather the members of the parish mission groups that have been serving the global and local church in our diocese in one capacity or another for over 100 years, even longer than our Mission Office itself has been around.  Our numbers weren't huge this year, but those who were there seemed excited about the day.  They were quickly trickling in, as I chaotically worked to get our technology set-up (without nearly enough caffeine in me), and now it was time to take a deep breath and dive into the day.  The clock was striking 9:00!

And before it had even reached 10:00, the tears were already noticeable in people's eyes.  Our first speaker had shared a powerful story of 19 men who were caught for over seven months in a horrible situation of labor trafficking.  Their food pantry was locked.  They were given no change of clothes or shower.  They were forced to work 12 or more hour days yet given no pay, or not their full pay.  Verbal assaults.  Physical assaults.  Separated from their families, who underwent threats.  Their legal documents and identity paperwork confiscated, giving them no way out.  It was a powerful story, and unfortunately not the only one of its kind.  And this happened just miles from where I live, where I try to teach my children to be fair and kind and to be giving to others.

With this story still weighing on my heart, the clock ticked forward as we heard our second keynote presentation - this one the story of Jenny, a woman who spent nearly three decades as a victim of sex trafficking.  She was only 14 years old when it began.  She was targeted and groomed by her trafficker within only 36 hours of leaving home.  She was arrested multiple times for prostitution before she was 18.  Violence.  Addiction.  Five felonies, and five suicide attempts.  She spent the next 28 years living a dehumanizing life of abuse, and much like the men I had met through story just minutes before, with no way out.  It was a powerful story, and unfortunately one of more than 500 a year at just one helping agency alone.  And this happened just an hour from my home, where I try to teach my children to see themselves as beautiful and holy and to be gentle with each other. 

As our speaker finished, there was a heaviness that could be felt in the room.  A still weight upon us, and despite the 135 moving bodies, a silence to the point where we could almost hear the quiet ticking of the clock.  I remember turning to a friend as we moved into the next part of our day and said, "I'm going to the bathroom now to cry if anyone would like to join me."  Her response was, "It just makes me so angry."

Sadness. Anger.

Injustice. Violence.

Horrible, horrible stories.

Horrible, horrible realities in our world.  

And then, the clock told us that it was time for Mass.  And just minutes after I watched tears form in numerous eyes, after I heard the confusing and difficult stories of dehumanizing abuses of my brothers and sisters, after we had opened wide the wounds of our world and our hearts ached in solidarity with them, I found myself singing the most joyful Psalm:    

"How wonderful your works in all the earth!"    

The upbeat piano, the joyous Easter melody, and each stanza singing pure praise to a Lord of nothing but goodness.  

It struck me as out of place.  How did this fit in the context of what we had just been sharing?  Sure it was the Easter Season, but we had just heard of the very real and unimaginable suffering of our brothers and sisters.  

It just didn't seem to fit!  

Or perhaps better said, it just seemed hard to reconcile.  So much so that I've spent the last few weeks working on it.

* * * * * 

I see it everywhere now, these stark contrasts.   

The barren, cold white of the snow, clashing with the bright, lively green of the grass.  A striking mix to me.  Winter and spring, death and life, harsh and Easter. 

The radio announcer's solemn recounting of a tragic stabbing on a college campus, intermingled with the cute giggles of my little girl singing and playing in the backseat.  A striking mix to me.  Sorrow and joy, death and life, harsh and Easter. 

The pain of knowing that a friend has suffered yet another loss of a child, intertwined with the excitement of hearing about another baby on the way.  A striking mix to me.  Pain and hope, death and life, harsh and Easter. 

The tears of a colleague whose race and culture has left her and her community feeling as if they matter not, on the heals of colleagues rejoicing at legislation that makes them feel as if their community has finally been heard.  A striking mix to me.  Abandonment and voice, death and life, harsh and Easter.   

My world of late seems full of these drastically different realities, even in our church.  

Here we are, in the Easter season, our churches decorated in color and flowers as we sing joyful hymns; yet for so many the color of their environment is dark with war as they listen to the 'arada (Syrian funeral band).  Here we are, celebrating First Communions with parties and pristine dresses, while the Body of Christ continues its hungry cries throughout the world.  Here we are, Easter people proclaiming the reality of life and hope; yet we continue living in the un-ending Lenten reality of memento mori ("Remember death"). 

We are surrounded by sorrowful stories, yet we sing joyful psalms.  How do we make sense of this striking mix?  

* * * * * 

As I said, I have been wresting with this contrast, trying to reconcile the glaring dissimilarities for weeks now.  As a woman of faith, yet a woman in the world, I find myself wondering:  To which do we give more credence - the hopes or the struggles?  Which voice do we raise - the joyful or the sorrowful?  In which reality do we see more of Christ - Easter or Good Friday?  

And still, I have no answers. 

But I do have some reminders:

The neighbor who noticed something wasn't quite right for the farm workers, who encouraged them to get help; the attorneys helping them with their case; the multiple communities expressing interest in being trained to help combat human trafficking issues.  The way out. 

The power of prayer that helped guide Jenny to safety; the hope and faith of her family through all those years; the good she is now doing by sharing her story and helping others in similar situations.  The way out.

The green grass fully visible and getting jungle-like tall again.  

The laughter of my children so loud it hurts my head at times.

The hope of new life bulging from bellies every where I look.

The important conversation with fellow ministers that goes over time.  

The knowledge that the 'arada also traditionally plays at weddings, and that memento mori means that someday we will be in paradise!  

Joy. Love.

Compassion. Peace.

Wonderful, wonderful stories.

Wonderful, wonderful realities in our world. 

These are the reminders to me that sometimes, even amidst the sorrowful stories, there is still room for joy. 

Do we ignore the struggle?  Do we belittle the fear?  Do we ignore the death?  Certainly not!  But we also refuse to stop seeing the good, upholding the hope, trusting in the life.  It is not easy.  Sometimes it feels too stark a contrast to reconcile.  But I am finding that we can sing "Hosanna" and cry out "My God, my God" in the same breath.  (I don't know about you, but sometimes I have to) 

Because sometimes it is the combination of the two - precisely the striking mix and seeming contrast - that is our way out.  Because they are both us, human and divine.  They are both Jesus in our midst. 

And so I will continue to wrestle, I will continue to cry, but I will also continue to (even when it doesn't seem to fit) sing joyful psalms.   

"How wonderful your works in all the earth!"