I was able to participate in an Easter Vigil this year in Chicago with my brother and his family. I cannot describe this experience, it was a service that went almost 5 hours and I will say it never felt like it went too long. In a beautiful and creative manner, the service took us from Creation to the flood, to Isaac and Abraham, to the prophets speaking of the Shepherd and giving us a new heart and the coming of a Savior...it was in so many ways the most I have ever seen any people celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. The Anglican Liturgy calls for "A Holy Noise" which was to take the word "Alleluia" and reinstate it after removing it for the season of Lent. The Priest yelled out "Alleluia!" at the top of his lungs...dancing, celebrating and screaming out in loud song! Jesus is risen! He is Risen indeed, Alleluia!
So, here is a part of the liturgy that we read towards the end of the service...and If I find time I will write about the entire experience...but this humbled me and reminded me of the power of the cross that really does change us and free us....
(Extend your hands toward the cross)
Celebrant: All our problems of this life on earth...
All: We send to the Cross of Christ...
Celebrant: All the difficulties of our circumstances...
All: We send to the Cross of Christ.
Celebrant: All the devil's work from his temporal power...
All: We send to the Cross of Christ.
(Life your hands up to the Lord)
Celebrant: All our hopes for wholeness and eternal life...
All: We set on the Risen Christ.
Celebrant: Christ the Sun of Righteousness shine upon you and scatter the darkness from before your path, and the blessings of God Almighty, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always.
All: Amen
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Three Minute Fiction...NPR's challenge
NPR has a writing contest. It is a short story, 600 words and must use the words, "trick," "plant," "fly," and "button." Here is my attempt. It was good to try something like this that I am not comfortable with or used to. This is my story entitled, "One Shift at a Time."
She eavesdrops often. It passes the time and gives her stories to tell.
Mainly it makes her more depressed about the state of the world and in
particular small town culture. Conversations about tennis, Jon and Kate or Labor Day sales leave her as empty as her bank account. Helen has waited tables for 16 years and on certain days a simple fly can send her reeling. That's the nature of this job; one day
stinging with stress while another unfolds like the chapter of a beautiful
memoir.
Betsy Mae is nearly 80 years old and a regular at Lockwood Diner. Her
hair is silver and her mind is deep. Her hearing is such that simple
sounds echo as though she's stuck in a tunnel, and her old, wire-rimed
glasses are thick and warped. Without a doubt, her small button-nose is
the sweetest feature on her gentle face and her laughter is so genuine. The words she pieces together always change people. No one wants Betsy to die, move away or
find a new favorite spot.
Monday through Friday at 11:30, Betsy Mae trails in with her brown
purse and burgundy Mary Janes. Quietly, she plants hope in the fertile
soil of Helen's bedraggled soul. Famished and wanting for
more than paychecks and one-night stands, Helen listens attentively when
Betsy settles into booth 48 by the window. Daily dustings of wisdom
cover the table and though her words are fairly simple Helen is changed
one shift at a time.
Making her way to the door, Betsy stops Helen, handing her a small,
generous tip and looks Helen in the eyes. She whispers, "Dream today.
Something’s hidden in this day for you. Discover a treasure to add to
that list of blessings." She shuffles out and Helen watches her meander
down Sycamore. It's noticeably hard for Helen to take her eyes off that small frame. Betsy's words tangle into her thoughts. On most days, and from most people,
Helen would hate such a comment, this overly sentimental statement of
southern superficiality. However, from Betsy, it is like offering a
key, unlocking a secret that truly matters. Helen is stilled with new
hope.
Gratefulness seems to be a theme this week, as this is the third comment of this nature. Each time Helen hears this word she realizes again her lack of thankfulness toward the plenty in her day, in her seemingly dry corner of the world. Being tired is no excuse for being passive, dull-minded and inattentive. The truth is, noticing details
takes muscle. It is a slow tilling of the soil, persistence in watchfulness. This all-too-common dismal state of life is like falling for a trick that tells lies by saying all days are just a patchwork quilt of sour grapes and unmet desires. But Helen knows that when she sees only in shades of gray her vision has narrowed to a small slice of what is true. It is an uncomfortable place she somehow finds comfortable. So today, by choice, she reframes and unlocks; she steps outside and looks up. The sun is warm and the sound of all of everything quiets the rush of meaninglessness. Her eyes sharpen as she notices a red bird for the first time in over 25 years. She smells the coffee she serves everyday, and once she regains focus, her eyes mist over as her mind seals all of these treasures. This day is more than the $26.50 in her apron, though not bad for a Monday lunch. The reality is, Helen has served Betsy coffee and soup for 8 years, what she didn’t realize until just this moment is that Betsy has faithfully served Helen small seeds of hope that quietly bloomed today.
She eavesdrops often. It passes the time and gives her stories to tell.
Mainly it makes her more depressed about the state of the world and in
particular small town culture. Conversations about tennis, Jon and Kate or Labor Day sales leave her as empty as her bank account. Helen has waited tables for 16 years and on certain days a simple fly can send her reeling. That's the nature of this job; one day
stinging with stress while another unfolds like the chapter of a beautiful
memoir.
Betsy Mae is nearly 80 years old and a regular at Lockwood Diner. Her
hair is silver and her mind is deep. Her hearing is such that simple
sounds echo as though she's stuck in a tunnel, and her old, wire-rimed
glasses are thick and warped. Without a doubt, her small button-nose is
the sweetest feature on her gentle face and her laughter is so genuine. The words she pieces together always change people. No one wants Betsy to die, move away or
find a new favorite spot.
Monday through Friday at 11:30, Betsy Mae trails in with her brown
purse and burgundy Mary Janes. Quietly, she plants hope in the fertile
soil of Helen's bedraggled soul. Famished and wanting for
more than paychecks and one-night stands, Helen listens attentively when
Betsy settles into booth 48 by the window. Daily dustings of wisdom
cover the table and though her words are fairly simple Helen is changed
one shift at a time.
Making her way to the door, Betsy stops Helen, handing her a small,
generous tip and looks Helen in the eyes. She whispers, "Dream today.
Something’s hidden in this day for you. Discover a treasure to add to
that list of blessings." She shuffles out and Helen watches her meander
down Sycamore. It's noticeably hard for Helen to take her eyes off that small frame. Betsy's words tangle into her thoughts. On most days, and from most people,
Helen would hate such a comment, this overly sentimental statement of
southern superficiality. However, from Betsy, it is like offering a
key, unlocking a secret that truly matters. Helen is stilled with new
hope.
Gratefulness seems to be a theme this week, as this is the third comment of this nature. Each time Helen hears this word she realizes again her lack of thankfulness toward the plenty in her day, in her seemingly dry corner of the world. Being tired is no excuse for being passive, dull-minded and inattentive. The truth is, noticing details
takes muscle. It is a slow tilling of the soil, persistence in watchfulness. This all-too-common dismal state of life is like falling for a trick that tells lies by saying all days are just a patchwork quilt of sour grapes and unmet desires. But Helen knows that when she sees only in shades of gray her vision has narrowed to a small slice of what is true. It is an uncomfortable place she somehow finds comfortable. So today, by choice, she reframes and unlocks; she steps outside and looks up. The sun is warm and the sound of all of everything quiets the rush of meaninglessness. Her eyes sharpen as she notices a red bird for the first time in over 25 years. She smells the coffee she serves everyday, and once she regains focus, her eyes mist over as her mind seals all of these treasures. This day is more than the $26.50 in her apron, though not bad for a Monday lunch. The reality is, Helen has served Betsy coffee and soup for 8 years, what she didn’t realize until just this moment is that Betsy has faithfully served Helen small seeds of hope that quietly bloomed today.
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