A few days ago I finished reading Kelly Kittel's book, Breathe. I rushed through the pages like a marathon runner, leaping word hurdles and facing heart terrors. I kept reminding myself to breathe....but at times I could not. Kittel's detailed account of her profound pain at the loss of one son and then another, brought me into my heart screaming and shouting, "No, not again. I can't go there!" But I did. And, I found not just my heartache or hers, but our collective sorrow.

Who among us is spared suffering? As much as we might try to dodge its grip, we each know sorrow intimately. The death of a loved one, the betrayal of a friend, the brutality of a stranger.... Our circumstances differ, but the resulting heartache bridges language barriers and cultural peculiarities. We know each other through our emotions.

A saintly nun in upstate New York reminded me repeatedly over a span of years that we are born to become Love. "Every challenge helps guide us," she would say. "Our families, our friends, even our enemies help us in ways we don't expect." And though I would protest her assertion, she pointed out that our sorrows provide us with the opportunity to choose: freedom or enslavement, self-value or self-depreciation, love or hate, trust or despair.

When in the throes of our desolation, it is difficult to hope. But when it is time, we walk the corridors of our heart, retrieving the shattered threads of one-believed dreams. We kneel at the gravesite of our child, our sister or brother, our mother or father, or our dreams...and as our tears fall, we hear the whispers of Love beckoning. We realize we were not forgotten after all, and our sorrow gives rise to a new spring.

The decision to open the door behind which we have hidden, frightens us more than the secrets we hold dear. We wonder, what will they say--the ones who will see our naked state? Will they accept our fragile hurting heart, with its threadbare strands of hope?

We watch as others take the leap, announcing their veiled life--with a kiss at the NFL draft, with a call to campus police after a rape, with a restraining order for domestic violence. And we wait.

As a college administrator, I listened to stories of late night sorrows, of pregnancies unexpected, of hidden sexual interests and identity. And though I offered support and provided resources, most often it was silence that was wanted. The door, I discovered, sheltered fear, while supporting societal and institutional expectations. Many would rather accept a closeted life, than face their parents, their neighbors, their church, their teammates--the shame was too great.

On this sad day of Maya Angelou's passing, I think of her warning, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."  For the agony, I contend, is lost joy.......

We each have a different story to tell. With friends and family, we may have sat around the same campfire of life, and later discovered that our remembrances of those events differ notably. Through the haze of our churned emotions, we experience life and craft our way.
In her poem, The Dance, Oriah Mountain Dreamer writes, "Our lives are the story of how we remember. It is the dance that was woven into the fabric of our being from the beginning."

Beauty speaks its own language in the quiet of our soul. Sometimes there are no words to capture that which gently holds our heart. Standing in awe and wonder, we listen--for we can do nothing more.

When I was a student, the Draft took brothers and cousins and friends and classmates. Steve sat next to me in my philosophy class, until he had to report for duty. He smiled when he left and said he’d be back soon, but such was not his fate. My brother returned though, after serving on a submarine in the Vietnam deltas. His stories of the Navy Seal teams made me shudder at what they endured. And while he and they fought in an unwinnable war, campuses erupted demanding an end to the violence--the miseries of Vietnam stretched beyond the boundaries of foreign soil.  

Today I remember all who have served and did not return--some enlisted, some inducted. They went with their dreams, their fears, and their duty. When in San Diego, I walk the paths of the Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery, on a grassy hillside overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Through the maze of indistinguishable white stones, I pray for those lying near my feet and wonder, did I know you?

I think, too, of the veterans who now populate our streets, veterans who are homeless and in need of medical attention. They signed discharge papers, but they did not leave the battlefield and have become part of the walking dead. With their backpacks of tormenting experiences, their physical and mental disabilities and their lost youth, they struggle to make sense of it all. They have been unable to transition to civilian life, betrayed by promises we have not kept. 

This Memorial Day I remember those who have served and suffered the ultimate sacrifice--and I also remember those who are the victims of our collective unmet obligation. 

My adventuresome son visited this week after finishing a 100 mile bike race. While just a toddler he’d jump on a brightly colored, plastic big wheel tricycle and pedal up and down the driveway. A slight incline was one more reason for him to yell with delight. Now my fearless son is a young man, preparing for his wedding.

Moms have a special relationship with Time. When we see our adult child, we see through the veil of years past. We wonder how it can be that the baby we once held is now a grown man or woman. We listen to his or her stories of new adventures and unrealized dreams and try to bridge the years. Through the childhood photos caught in our hearts, we relive the hurdles, the broken bones, and the tears, as we slowly navigate across time...to the present.

Once we've crossed the divide and can truly see our son or daughter, the rawness hidden in our heart, softens to a sentimental pride. Our child now adult has found his joy; and, we can let go--of the babe we held, the child we comforted, and the teenager we guided. The past has indeed passed; and, the present heralds a new beginning....

Br. David Steindl Rast is a Benedictine monk known for interreligious dialogue and for his writings on gratefulness. Years ago I was fortunate to attend one of his retreats. His peacefulness brought all of us to a place of reverence; and during this week-long seclusion, we re-discovered awe.

Through simple exercises and reflections, he helped us see who we are separate from titles, education, salaries, successes or failures. And as we set aside our distractions, gratefulness emerged. “The root of joy is gratefulness...It is not joy that makes us grateful; it is gratitude that makes us joyful.” He explained.  

I often think of Brother David and his reminders about appreciating the "little things of life." And, I begin my day grateful for freshly brewed coffee, a warm shower, and the duck just outside my front door....

Grandma joined the angels before I was born; a misguided truck took her life from us when my mom was just eight. Though I had only met her in old photos and stories of lightheartedness, I felt her close when just a child. My sisters and I would climb the stairs to our attic escape to find her wooden rocker swaying to and fro. We could not see her, but we knew she had come to play.

Perhaps because of the rocker or the stories of life eternal, I began to dream--of an unseen world where she lives still. Someday I know we will meet, but for now I send Mother's Day greetings through the veil of the years....to the mother....of my extraordinary mother.

We cannot eliminate hunger, 

            but we can feed each other.

We cannot eliminate loneliness, 

            but we can hold each other.

We cannot eliminate pain, 

            but we can live a life of compassion.

Mark Nepo, from his poem Accepting This

Down a country road, beside a forest of tall oak trees in upstate New York, there is a cloister where women are at prayer. Most drive past the area unaware that they have skirted holy ground. I met Sr. Grace there decades ago. Though I have not seen her for years, it was this quiet spoken, saintly nun who explained that we are born to become Love. "Every challenge helps guide us," she claimed. "Our families, our friends, even our enemies help us in ways we don't expect."  Back then, I was too caught in my own turmoil to fully appreciate her guidance, but over time my storms receded....and sensibility emerged.    

“We are travelers on a cosmic journey, stardust, swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of Infinity. Life is Eternal. But the expressions of life are ephemeral, momentary, transient. Gautama Buddha, the founder of Buddhism once said,

‘This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds. To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance. A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky, rushing by like a torrent down a steep mountain.’

We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other, to meet, to love, to share. This is a precious moment, but it is transient. It is a little parenthesis in eternity. If we share with caring, lightheartedness, and love, we will create abundance and joy for each other. And then this moment will have been worthwhile.” — Deepak Chopra, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success

Last night we went to a fundraiser for college students, who are leaving for Nicaragua in a couple of weeks to help repair/rebuild homes damaged by natural disasters. The appeal was especially compelling because Tony Melendez (a native Nicaraguan) spoke ... and then sang. He described the poverty of the area, the needs of the people.....and shared stories of his youth, growing up without arms.  When asked about miracles, his response was simple...and astounding. In his own words:

Each of my grandchildren are miracles, bundles of joy--and of course, perfect in all ways. What grandparent doesn't think just the same? I have one granddaughter, amongst several grandsons. She's the princess of the bunch, a special delight. Even as a toddler, her big blue eyes had a way of quieting my soul. She'd peek around a corner or over the table, just to see if grandma's arms were free...and then crawl into my lap. She's a bit older now, same big blue eyes. She still likes to hug, especially if accompanied by a game or book to read. And, she loves, loves the movie Frozen ("the best movie ever made!" she claims), and dances about the room to Let It Go. 

When I visit my little pixie, I'm drawn into imaginary kingdoms and stuffed animal sanctuaries. My last visit, though, was particularly magical for a surprising reason. As I was marveling at granddaughter's energy (she was hopping around the room), my perfect grandchild said, "Grandma, if you were still married to grandpa, you would have a dog." Her comment came from no where, and after she said it, she continued to fly about the room. It simply was a statement of fact. She could care less about the ended marriage; her focus was the dog.  

I laugh every time I think of this. How did we adults get so complicated?