GEORGIE'S CHAIR

It is a Saturday, mid-March, on Cape May Point.  Saint Mary by the Sea rests broadly,  her red roof crowned with crosses,  her rustic expanse visible for at least a mile  to beachcombers in both directions.   She’s a retreat center and has been so since 1909, her old timbers breathing with the rhythm of the neighboring lighthouse beam  as it makes its dependable journey round and round;  slicing the night with a comforting light.   The structure was born a hotel in 1889 and spent time as a home for the elderly and unwell before the Sisters of St. Joseph extended a hand and initiated her conversion.  They transformed her ballroom into a simple hardwood chapel and her 1200 feet of sun-kissed porches into sacred spaces for rest and prayer.   I’m sitting on a porch across the street, held by the creaking tones of Georgie’s chair; basking gratefully in an advancing patch of morning sunshine. I know the chair belongs to Georgie because the worn wooden rockers are labeled with fading plaques, the names of Sisters who love this place best.   St. Mary by the Sea.  Missing a few letters but perfect, nonetheless. My current slice of peace is a seaside respite for nuns.  This weekend, it is also a holy breathing space for six grateful Mennonite women.  We’ve been trusted with the key for a silent retreat.  A cool breeze is lifting the salty hair from my shoulders. Having just spent hours in solitude on the beach, I’m more than a little wind-blown. Some would say sandblasted.  Chapped lips and one particularly stiff joint are a minuscule trade for the joyful privilege of singing an early morning worship song with the crashing waves.  I love that no one...save my Maker, could hear me.  Well, except for a few industrious seabirds...their impossibly-sticklike legs moving quickly away.  Probably hoping to guard their hidden feathered ears from another refrain.  Songs are admittedly a departure from the intended silence  of this retreat.  But the songs seemed, in that moment, a necessary response.  It’s because every inhale and each new sight  feels like its own kind of prayer in spaces such as this. Please pile up all the wearisome moments in an ordinary day and frankly, shove them in a corner.  Because the carefully arranged and painstakingly stressed-over hours of a typical day amount to an excess of rubbish when stacked alongside the precious seconds compiling today’s brand of day.   A soul-scrubbing, excuse-shattering, silent yet deafening day.   A ripe to the point of bursting kind of day.   With solitude comes the inevitable recollection that nothing else fills the gaping hole in our beings...quite like the God who shaped that space.  It is a daunting labor and immeasurably helpful practice to close our mouths and intentionally hold ourselves apart.  To allow ourselves the reminder we’ve got a personal abyss that needs to be filled.   Listening.  Reaching.  Waiting.   Wondering.   Hoping.   Realizing.   Receiving.  Besides the sunshine,  these are some of the wonderful things  I’m privileged to soak  up like a thirsty sponge  while I’m rocking in Georgie’s creaky chair.  I’m bottling it all and storing it carefully in my heart.  Souvenirs of silence  to be uncorked and poured out  the next time I’m straining  under the tedium of an ordinary day.  Tam, Libby, Robin, Julie, Donna and me          Libby discovered this whiskered wonder on Sunday morning. He soon drew a small crowd of admirers, which makes it a little difficult to keep silence.

THE BAGGAGE CARRIERS OF BLOOMING GLEN

Good people.  All of them. 

They’ve been coming together for over two centuries,

teaching each other’s children to pray,

eating pancakes,

painting walls,

gathering at the river,

delivering chicken pot pies,

affirming spending plans,

and lifting four-part harmonies about the Shepherd who faithfully and repeatedly returns their wandering spirits when they choose the road heading off into forsaking His ways territory. 

Today is no different.

It has happened again…as it tends to do….

A crossroad has presented itself.

The world is loud

and there are entirely too many opportunities

to hear it and to see it.

The opinions and disagreements outside

the meetinghouse doors have begun to seep in. 

It isn’t because the windows and doors are not secure. 

The trustees have certainly seen to that. 

Rather…the swirling unsettling outside unpleasantries

came slithering right inside

in the most ordinary kinds of ways.

It crept in on the soles of their shoes.

It dripped off the edges of their Totes umbrellas,

entering the sacred space on the shoulders of their coats.

Coats which ironically hanged on old wooden hangers…

companionably side by side.

Most insidious of all…it entered by lingering in the hearts and minds

of those who spoke displeasure to themselves and to each other. 

In ways that felt innocent. 

With whispers, eye-rolls, and knowing nods.

Always directed safely

toward sympathetic like-minded voices, eyes, and ears.

Disgruntled murmurings grow into words that way. 

The words…before you know it…become unease. 

And torch-bearing unease…

almost always…

rolls swiftly into division.

They…over there.

We…over here.

Good people.  All of them.

And so, they sat…

poised in their usual pews…

Both sides holding tight

to their personal interpretation of scripture…

Both sides turning to page 567 and singing with zeal

about their own firm foundation as a saint of the Lord…

Half of them

cringing at their perception of a word they wish had not been said.

The other half

straining their ears and growing discouraged

as they listened for a word they hoped to hear.

Neither half proficient at hearing the words

actually spoken.

In time, the inside of the meetinghouse

began looking like the outside of the meetinghouse.

People were lining up on one side, or the other.

And people were bringing their baggage to church.

There were boxes everywhere,

getting mixed up with the bags headed to FISH

and the suitcases headed to Honduras.

Some people

liked to fold everything into their boxes to keep things safe.

The way it’s always been done needed to be tucked in tight.

Hymns were placed securely into the bottom corners

so nobody would change the tune

or try to project them onto a screen for singing “off the wall.”

Old Testament verses were layered one atop the other and squeezed in firmly.

Other types of folks

thought the boxes were meant to be stood upon

as one collected signatures for a petition.

They were painting their boxes pink

or crafting them with rainbow stripes.

Some wanted to carve up the boxes

and ship them overseas to be used as something else, altogether.

They felt the boxes should be flipped over on their sides

and used instead as chairs

to widen the reach of the table.

Jesus didn’t have a lot to say about boxes (in particular),

but he made very firm statements

about the way these baggage handlers are supposed to be interacting

with one another.

I’m pretty sure he would be situated somewhere in the middle.

Encouraging people on both sides

to start picking up each other’s boxes.

And not just stand there…stone still…

stoically holding the weight of it

for merely the look of community.

But lifting that cumbersome thing

with one’s whole heart.

(Complete with paint colors they would never have chosen.)

Helping a brother or sister

with whom they totally disagree…

to carry those boxes

for a long and uncomfortable winding way.

Inviting other baggage handlers for the journey.

Jesus would likely be reminding us

to love one another first.

And maybe start sorting out which words we should be using

once we are again engaged in serving others.

Next-door and around the world.

Side-by-side.

It always comes down to free will.

We have choice about which road to take.

We get to choose what kind of baggage carrier we want to be. 

We can decide to be lazy.

Just close our eyes and carry our own bags and boxes…

the ones we’ve used for years. 

The comfortable boxes.

We rarely see our own scuff-marks. 

Hardly notice all the ways our bags can slow us down. 

They tend to get heavier all the time and can cost us a fortune

(and not just at the gate when we end up having to check them). 

Our bags can anchor us in a stagnant apathetic faith.

Our bags can keep us from running ahead to engage with others. 

We can choose to carry the boxes

of only the people who think like we do.

We can schedule breakfast meetings,

phone calls,

infuriated text messages,

and parking lot conversations

to perpetuate our own opinions and wills.

Or we can look past disagreement,

discomfort,

and political party.

Straight into the eyes of our brothers and sisters.

We can lift the burden

of someone else.

Which almost always

lightens our own load

along the way.

My friend, Bob, reminded me that
"Apologizing doesn't always mean you are wrong and the other person is right.  It means you value your relationships more than your ego." 

The group about which I write stands a better chance than most

at remembering friendships,

holding hands,

overcoming hurt,

and finding unity

in the midst of differing opinion.

Because they’ve got an anchor

infinitely more sufficient

than their own unwieldy boxes and other baggage.

In every rough and stormy gale,

their anchors are deeply embedded

and holding within the vale.

Good people.

All of them.

Brenda Shelly (who indisputably writes about herself in these phrases, too)

Blooming Glen Mennonite Church

January, 2019

BE QUIET

I stirred from sleep just as the sun considered making its daily climb. 


If I was going to make the most of daybreak, the time was now. 





I peeked through the ivory blinds. As though also emerging from their cozy slumber, morning colors began painting the lowest points of the horizon.

My shower would have to wait.

Brisk air met my sleepy cheeks as I left the warm cocoon of the retreat center. 

I was thankful, again, for spontaneously buying myself that steel blue hat. Knitted by someone with fingers nimbler than mine, the hat had practically jumped into my purse and opened my wallet at the Souderton Art Jam. My face was cold but my ears were happy!  




Temperatures started plummeting as we arrived the first evening. 

When we described the night as "chilly," Sister Anastasia informed us we were using an Americanized word. We were indoors but Sister Lucy was still wrapped like an enchilada in fabrics designed to keep the cold at bay.  She nodded and smiled enthusiastically to pretty much everything and anything. These women were joy personified. 

The retreat center sits atop a little hill near the convent. Naming some other confusing terminology they'd heard, the language of the States was deemed nonsensical. Both nuns were born in Tanzania and raised with the English diction of proper Brits. Confusing word usage aside, the two could not have extended a warmer welcome. We felt embraced.

This lovely lady is Sister Anastasia.  She drops pearls of wisdom as easily as she shares smiles.

The morning's slippery pathway to the woods held a surprising layer of delicate ice. The frost made the leaves crunchy-wet, causing a cacophony in my ears. 

I would be the only human in sight for over an hour and the sound from my boots was entirely too clamorous for such a sacred and glorious dawn. 

I fruitlessly willed my eager feet to hush.

There is nothing 
like a silent retreat 
to heighten the senses.  

Setting myself apart for some deliberate solitude is the closest I come to acknowledging the vast holiness around me. 









God's presence is everywhere. 

Seeping into every nook and cranny. 

Lighting up the darkest corners.  

Gathering loose ends into tidy bundles of suddenly manageable parcels. 

Reasonable little packages I can hand off to someone remarkably more fit to carry them. 

It seems so obvious, here in the quiet of the convent grounds. 

Yet our self-inflicted human agenda makes devotion to the still small voice nearly impossible when competing sounds begin to vie for attention.

Four rather imposing deer foraged just a short distance from my path. 

They stopped snacking long enough to scrutinize my presence in their woods. 




The small buck tilted his head and considered me as though he, too, was smitten with my fabulous blue hat! 





Fretting that they might regard hunters with the same foolish curiosity, I sharply advised that they move along. They took my suggestion at once, their impossibly fluffy white tails waving a fanciful goodbye. The sound of my voice startled me a little bit too, after so much silence.

There are so many needs weighing on my heart as I lift my eyes above the trees. 

My journey feels encumbered by the heavy load. 

Sometimes blessings come and our burdens are lifted. 

We find we can breathe again. 

But sometimes we pray and pray...and the pain remains. 

There is no release. 

When we humble ourselves and ask, however, we are gifted with his presence.  An unfailing strength, helping us to endure as life's trials rage around us. 

That much is promised. 

We do not walk alone.   

However dubious I sometimes feel about the way prayer changes the unfolding of events, I have been shown clearly that prayer changes me. 

Reconnecting myself to God through gratitude and petition serves as a great reminder of my dependence. 

Some would label my reliance a weakness. 

But my heart begs to differ. 

My greatest freedom comes from fully trusting.

One of my favorite authors, Manning, says it like this.  "We are so caught up in what is urgent, we have overlooked what is essential." 

It is essential today for me to be quiet. 

It is as important as breathing for me to escape for a time from the noise and distraction to cultivate silent communion with God. 

It restores my soul to be still.

The temperature warmed a bit as I returned from my time of walking. The colors of the sky were no longer evident as I searched my winter coat pocket for the key.  

Dorine was not dissuaded by the raindrops.

A steady but gentle rain which would persist for the remainder of the day was just forming in the clouds above. All afternoon, the soothing rhythm would be a calming cadence outside the window of my cozy room.

Popping open a bottle of tea before jumping in the shower, the metal cap drew my attention as it dropped with a clunk onto the table in my bedroom. Rolling around its rim a couple of times, it called to me with its tinny little voice. Finally resting, the lid's message made me smile.

"One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time." 

Indeed.

Dear friends coerced to meet their own silence. 

Close your eyes. 

Breathe in deeply, inviting God's mercy.  

Breathe out your weary thoughts. 

They weigh too much. Let them go.

Fill your lungs again, allowing His peace to 

infiltrate every fiber of your being. 

Exhale your fears and doubts. 

Those things that keep you up at night and make 

your weary heart race. 

They have no power over you if you do not permit 

them to take up residence in your too-cluttered mind. 

Inhale the absolute acceptance of your creator. 

He knows you. 

Knows exactly where you are and exactly what you need. 

Every thought, before you think it. 

Failings. 

Things we are ashamed to admit, even to ourselves. 

Yet He pursues us with a love that never tires. 

His mercy is not withheld.  And it is never given grudgingly. 

His arms are open to receive. 

Release your breath once more. 

Hand over your worries to the safekeeping of the one who knows your heart. 

He can carry it. 

You cannot.