Browsed by
Author: Tim

Senior pastor of First Congregational United Church of Christ. Ordained in May, 1983. Called to First Congregational UCC in August, 1994. Retired July 1, 2018.
Rhyme Time

Rhyme Time

Three short poems written this morning playing with rhyme …

Out of the muck

What luck
Got my truck
Out of the muck
In which it was stuck

1 John 4:18

Spiders and snakes,
heights and quakes.
Strangers and failure,
Loneliness and censure.
Falling and flying,
losing and dying.
All of our years,
filled with fears
nothing can alleviate,
nothing can ameliorate,
nothing can attenuate,
but love.

Listening to Bela Fleck’s “My Bluegrass Heart”

What fun! the fiddle diddles and dances
while banjo clucks and mandolin prances.
Bravo! the bass galumphs and ambles,
as dobro glissades and guitar gambols.
Bela and Michael, Molly and Sierra,
Justin and Mark, a bluegrass coloratura.

silence

silence

it is not merely the notes that matter
but the spaces between them
          and the silence

four arms and four appended bows unmoving, suspended in air
the last vibrations of violin and viola and cello strings now unheard
yet indelibly etched into feeling and memory by that exquisite moment
          of silence

breath and bones and bosom seized by the sudden cry of the loon
its ebbing wail pulling water and wood and paddle and body into its ineffable yearning
yet its power to transfix, transform, transcend is released in what follows
          in the silence

it is not merely the words that matter
but the spaces between them
          and the silence

the poem speaks as much by what is left unwritten
and the sermon by what is left unsaid
the Lord is in his holy temple, let all on earth
          keep silence

Letting go

Letting go

Sermon preached on Sunday, December 26, at Deer Isle Sunset Congregational Church …

How quickly they grow up. It seems like he was born — well, just yesterday! — and now he is already twelve years old and giving his mother fits. It was a holiday trip, mom and dad and the kids, and on the way back home, a sudden moment of parental panic. Where is he? Has anybody seen Jesus? So it’s turn around, make the day long trek back to Jerusalem, and search for their lost son. They find him still at the Temple, hobnobbing with the Jewish teachers, and Jesus is like: “What’s the problem? Everything’s cool. Didn’t you know this is where I need to be?

It’s a rare glimpse into Jesus’ domestic life. Most of us parents will recognize the storyline. Your child is growing up. He is asserting his right to make his own decisions. She is beginning to stake out her own independence. It is a rare glimpse because the four gospels have very little to say about Jesus’ birth and even less about his childhood. This story about the Passover trip Jesus’ family made when he was twelve is the one and only story in all the gospels from Jesus’ boyhood. So why do you suppose Luke includes it?

We have to remember that the gospels are not biographies, but evangelical tracts, written, as John puts it at the end of his gospel, so “you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through your faith in him you my have life.” The compiler of each gospel chooses to include certain stories and sayings, not for the sake of getting the record straight, but for the sake of conveying the power and meaning of Jesus’ message and the power and meaning of Jesus’ life for their hearers, and for us.

You may know that only two of the gospels, Matthew and Luke, include any stories about Jesus’ birth and childhood. Matthew’s gospel includes Joseph’s dream about the child soon to be born to his fiancée, the story about visitors from the east paying homage to the infant Jesus, and the story of the family’s flight to Egypt to escape Herod’s violent intentions.

Matthew chooses these stories carefully, highlighting the central themes of his gospel. He focuses on Joseph because Joseph comes from King David’s family and Matthew wants to identify Jesus as the fulfillment of God’s promise of a descendant of David who would one day come to save God’s people, one who would be called Immanuel, God with us.

The worship of the visitors from the east, who were likely astrologers from what is now Iraq, underlines Matthew’s affirmation of Jesus as savior not only for the Jews, but for the whole world. From the beginning, Matthew wants us to know, foreigners, Gentiles, outsiders are showing interest in Jesus.

And the flight to Egypt? Well, who else came out of Egypt? Matthew wants to paint Jesus as a new Moses, a new savior of his people, one whom God calls out of Egypt to lead them to a land of promise.
Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth is entirely different on every point except place. Luke includes the angelic visit to Mary telling her the meaning of her imminent pregnancy. He includes the announcement of Jesus’ birth to a band of shepherds out in the fields tending their sheep. He includes the visit of Jesus’ parents to the Temple to dedicate week-old Jesus where two old worshippers recognize him as the promised Messiah, and he includes today’s story about twelve year-old Jesus.

Luke highlights the shepherds because they are poor, because they lurk near the bottom of the Jewish social ladder. Luke wants his hearers to know that Jesus brings good news to all who are poor and oppressed and outcast. Mary’s song of praise, the focus of Vicki’s sermon last week, spotlights the same theme: a world set right by turning it upside down.

By focusing on Mary, rather than Joseph, Luke also takes special notice of another marginalized group — women. Throughout his gospel, Luke draws attention to women who play important roles in Jesus’ life and story. Luke wants us to know that Jesus comes to lift them up, too.

Mary’s song and Zechariah’s song earlier in the gospel and the exclamations of old Simeon and Anna in the Temple all elaborate Luke’s portrayal of Jesus as the herald of a new age, the long-awaited age when God comes at last to save and to bring peace.

Which leaves our story, the visit of twelve-year old Jesus and his family to the Temple. Why does Luke include this story? You remember that Matthew wants to paint Jesus as a new Moses. Well, Luke wants to paint Jesus as a new Samuel! The lectionary makes no mistakes in pairing these two stories, the stories we heard read from 1 Samuel and from Luke. There are some remarkable echoes of the one in the other.

Both stories feature mothers, mothers who bear sons under extraordinary circumstances — Hannah, who has been long childless, and young Mary, who has never known a man — and the song of gratitude and praise that Mary sings is very much patterned on Hannah’s own similar song of praise.

Both stories tell of sons chosen and destined to fulfill a special purpose willed by God, and both stories describe the boys, Samuel and Jesus, as growing and gaining favor with God and with people.

So who was Samuel and why would Luke want to cast Jesus as a new Samuel?

Samuel was a key figure in the history of the people of Israel. If Moses made them a people and gave them a homeland and if David made them a nation state of consequence, Samuel was their conscience, the leader and prophet who reminded them what it meant to be a people loved and called and purposed by God.

Samuel was born into a chaotic moment in Israel’s history, a time of great violence and rampant corruption. It was the waning of the era of the judges, men and women of unusual charisma or strength or faith, men and women like Samson and Gideon and Deborah who would momentarily rescue God’s people from their enemies only to see them slide back into lives of treachery and idolatry and cruelty and deceit. It was said of that day that “everyone did whatever they pleased.” Even the religious leaders, even the sons of the priest into whose care Samuel was given, exploited their position for financial gain and carnal pleasures.

Into this time of chaos and desperation and darkness, Samuel brought light, God’s light. Samuel listened when God spoke and Samuel spoke God’s will to the people with an authority and authenticity they recognized. It was said that when Samuel spoke, all Israel listened. Samuel called the people to repent, to give up their idols and their false and cruel ways, and to faithfully love and serve the Lord their God.

And when the people of Israel clamored for a king, to be “just like all the other nations,” it was Samuel who gave them first Saul and then David, but only after Samuel sternly scolded them for their request because they are not like all the other nations, because they already have a king, because their king, their one and only king, is the Lord!

Samuel was an uncompromising servant of the Lord’s way, a faithful prophet who spoke God’s word with authority, and a kingmaker, shepherding the people through a period of unprecedented change.

And that, Luke wants you to know, is who Jesus is. Jesus listens to God and speaks God’s will with an authority that comes straight from God. Jesus is a faithful prophet who calls out the corruption and hypocrisy of the religious establishment and invites people to love God sincerely and completely and to show it by their love and care for each other.

And Jesus is a kingmaker, too, proclaiming that the kingdom of God is at hand, that God is coming to rule, to set things right, to bring peace to the earth. But there is one difference between Jesus and Samuel. Like Samuel, Jesus is a kingmaker, but unlike Samuel, Jesus is himself the king. He too reminds the people of who their true king is, but he is himself that true king. Jesus is our savior and our Lord.

There is one more parallel between the stories of Samuel and Jesus, something both Hannah and Mary must do. As our children grow up, what is one thing that all parents must do?. They must let go.

Hannah literally let go. When God answered her prayers and gave her a son, she kept her promise and dedicated that son, Samuel, to the Lord, placing him in the priest Eli’s care to live and serve in God’s sanctuary.

Can you imagine? Praying and waiting and waiting and praying for years to be able to bear a child and when at last you do, you give him up? I find it so poignant how every year at festival time, maybe it was Passover, when Hannah and her family traveled to the sanctuary to make their annual sacrifices, Hannah would bring with her a little robe she had sewn for Samuel, the boy who was her son and yet now was God’s son.
Mary had to let go, too. Maybe that’s what she was thinking about when Luke says, “she treasured all these things in her heart.” Maybe she was thinking about what Jesus had said to her, “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?” Maybe she was thinking that he was right, that she had to learn to let him go.

Later, after Jesus had begun his public ministry, she had to let him go again. Once she came with his brothers to see him only to hear him say to those around him: “My mother and brothers are those who hear the word of God and obey it.”

And later still, Mary had to let Jesus go as she stood at the foot of a cross and watched him die.

If Samuel was to fulfill God’s purpose for his life, Hannah had to let him go. If Jesus was to fulfill God’s purpose for his life, Mary had to let him go. And if Jesus is to fulfill God’s purpose in our lives, we have to let him go. The baby born in Bethlehem is a sign of God’s promise to us, a promise of joy and of peace on earth, but if that promise is to be fulfilled, we must let Jesus go. We must let the baby grow up.

And that will not always be easy, because Jesus is going to say things we are not ready to hear, and Jesus is going to go to places to which we are not ready to go, and Jesus is going to ask things of us we are not ready to do. But if the promise is to be fulfilled, we must listen to him, and we must follow him, and we must remember that Jesus is not merely our savior, not merely our teacher, but our Lord. Jesus is King of kings and Lord of lords. Hallelujah!

One hundred and seventy-three

One hundred and seventy-three

Suppose you were to meet a stranger today and suppose that stranger were to speak to you and say, “One hundred and seventy-three.” Suppose he were to say just that, nothing more, nothing less, just “One hundred and seventy-three.” What would you make of it?

Perhaps he was thinking of days, perhaps of June 22, the one hundred and seventy-third day of the year. Was he thinking of his birthday or the birthday of another? Of his anniversary, or maybe of the day on the stream he caught the two-pound salmon on a Barnes Special early in the morning before the sun had cleared the tops of the spruces?

Or perhaps he was thinking of one hundred and seventy-three days ago or one hundred and seventy-three days hence. What happened then? Or what will happen then? Does he have one hundred and seventy-three days yet to live? But how could he know that with that kind of precision, or, if he did, would knowing it be a blessing or a curse? If you happened to meet him again tomorrow, would he say to you, “One hundred and seventy-two?” And would it break your heart to know his days were so quickly slipping through his fingers, slipping away faster and faster with each sunset? Or would it make you glad to know he was counting the days, prizing each one, fully open to the wonders each day brings?

Or maybe it is not days, but years, one hundred and seventy-three years. Why would he want to remember one hundred and seventy-three years past? Why does he hold the year 1848 in his mind? Was that the year his great-great-great grandfather stepped onto the dock at Ellis Island, debarking the ship that had brought him from Markinch to a new and unknown life yet to unfold, the great-great-great grandfather whose burgeoning family would make home in Vermont and Michigan, Wisconsin and Massachusetts, and now Maine?

Or maybe he has one hundred and seventy-three dollars in his wallet. Or is impertinent enough to ask if you have one hundred seventy-three dollars in yours. Or maybe it is a price, the cost of a gift, a Christmas gift, a tourmaline necklace for his wife or a remote control sailboat for his grandson.

Or maybe it is not days or years or dollars, but people, the number of people in his high school class. Was he reminded of them by the reunion he was unable to attend, remembering not just the number but the faces, the faces so dear but now fading in memory, the faces held in memory as they were: eager and ambitious and curious and hopeful and delighted, full of the unrepeatable delight of youth?

Or is it not one hundred and seventy-three people, but one hundred and seventy-three whales, one hundred and seventy-three known right whales still swimming the Atlantic, one hundred and seventy-three right whales bearing amongst so few the destiny of their species? Does he worry about them, so much that he broods on their number, speaking their number aloud so that speaking it may declare their existence, declare their right to exist, declare their need to exist?

Or perhaps it is mountains. Perhaps he counts the mountains he has climbed, remembering them as a group, but remembering each one too: the scramble up the Hunt Trail on Katahdin, intimidating and exhilarating, breathtaking and soul-filling, or the day on the Traveler Loop, the unforgettable day summiting Peak of the Ridges and The Traveler and North Traveler that he replays in his mind again and again and again, the steep and bouldery climb up Center Ridge, the brave and thrilling traverse of Little Knife Edge, the cliffside views of South Branch Pond just before the steep descent back to camp, the exhaustion and the satisfaction and the sheer joy.

Or maybe one hundred and seventy-three means nothing at all. Maybe it is something he chooses to say just because he chooses to say it. Maybe it is nothing but a number, a number that follows one hundred and seventy-two and precedes one hundred and seventy-four.

And yet, it is not one hundred and seventy-two and it is not one hundred and seventy-four. It is more then one and less than the other, not anything else other than itself. And it implies abundance. It is more than one, more than two. It is many. A world in which one hundred and seventy-three may be spoken is a world of abundance, of complexity, surely of variety, a world where if one hundred and seventy-three is possible, one hundred and seventy-four or even one hundred and seventy-five is possible!

And you, the one to whom one hundred and seventy-three is spoken: you live in this world where one hundred and seventy-three is, and where you are, more of this than some and less of that than some, not anything else other than yourself., a world where you hold dear your own memories of days and years and people and places … and possibilities. The next time you meet this stranger, what do you think you will say?

Two

Two

A poem I wrote at this morning’s Deer Isle Writers’ Group gathering …

two leaves
two branches
two towering maples

two owls
two seals
two frolicking weasels

two moose
two geese
two chittering mouses

two wolves
two leopards
two rollicking orcas

two notes
two melodies
two shimmering symphonies

two hours
two days
two sun-drenched mornings

two words
two sentences
two soul-baring prayers

two
two
two

that there are two is a wonder
a communion
a not being alone

I am glad for two
I am glad for two
I am glad for me and you

Figment

Figment

“I will remember that who I am is a figment of my imagination.”
      Then is who you are a figment of your imagination?
      Or is it that you too are a figment of mine?
Is it that all that I can name is a figment of my imagination?
      Homo sapiens, canis lupus, thymus vulgaris, salvelinus fontinalis?
      Mountain, forest, prairie, sea?

I will remember that who I am is a figment of my imagination,
      and that from imagination comes all the rest too:
      me, you, us, them, a world, this world.
If there were no one to imagine, then nothing would be.
      Imagination names and naming identifies and identity is being,
      a clutter of atoms becomes some thing, some one.

In the beginning all was formless and desolate and God said.
      The saying is the making.
      The naming is the birthing.
I will remember that who I am is a figment of God’s imagination,
      I and you, quaking aspen and chipping sparrow, spring tide and aurora borealis,
      all of us, all of this, a figment of God’s imagination.

Thanks be to God.

Waterfront

Waterfront

Cedar Campus is a thin place.  A “thin place” is what George MacLeod, founder of the Iona Community, called the Isle of Iona, a place, he said, where the separation between earth and heaven, between things material and things spiritual, is tissue paper thin.

Iona is what it is because of its long spiritual history, fifteen hundred years of intentional Christian presence on the island marked by the now restored abbey dating from the 15th century and a carved stone cross that has stood in place since 700 CE.  But Iona is what is it as much because of the island itself, the landscape, the white sand beaches and steep-sided coves, the boggy moors and heather-covered rocks, and the sea.  And the sea, the ever-moving, ever-changing, ever-present sea: blowing winds, crashing waves, dazzling sunlight piercing deep green waters.  God speaks through the wind and waves and the light.

Cedar Campus is a such a place.  Cedar Campus has its own “long” spiritual history.  For seven decades, people have come — university students and lecturers and InterVarsity staff members, site managers and summer work crew members and families, all of them drawn by the promise of a transformative experience of God’s presence, in song and Bible study and meditation and prayer, but equally in simply being in this “thin” place.  Like Iona, Cedar Campus is what it is, not as much by what people have made of it, but by what God has made of it, a kingdom of cedar and rock, awesome sunsets and amazing night lights, stars and galaxies and the shimmering aurora borealis.  And the water, the waters of Lake Huron, deep and wide and wild, only slightly tamed by the encircling shores of Prentiss Bay.  God speaks at Cedar Campus too through wind and wave and light.

The agenda for a time spent at Cedar Campus, whether a week or a month or all summer long, is communion, communion with God and with brothers and sisters, and the spiritual growth that communion may yield.  That is the agenda, but woods and bays and shoreline are the arena where that growth is nurtured.  So it is that hours spent in the water or on the water or by the water are not incidental, but vital, to the mission of Cedar Campus.  Time on the waterfront is time for communion, too.

The ultimate purpose of the waterfront program — getting campers in and on the water — is that communion with God that comes by immersion in a space of God’s own making, a space that exhibits God’s extraordinary artistry, a space that is filled with God’s own presence.  To make that experience profitable, the work of waterfront staff focuses on safety and proficiency and joy.  If you can be safe on the water and make your way with some knowledge and skill, you will find joy!

A swimming test is the entry point for all waterfront activity.  To get on the water, you first must get in the water.  The test itself is not demanding: a twenty-five yard swim, treading water for one minute, then swimming the twenty-five yards back to the starting point.  Easy, right?  Except that you must factor in the nature of the water in which you are swimming.  You are swimming in Lake Huron, a Great Lake, with waters deep and cold.  Water temperatures in the mile-long, half-mile wide inner Prentiss Bay around which the camp is situated vary widely, as cold as 48º F and as warm as 72º F depending on weather and wind direction, but most commonly between 56º and 62º F.  That’s cold!  58º is bracing, 54º takes your breath away and 50º hurts!  But that is the point of the swim test.  Waterfront staff want to make sure that if you do end up in the water while rowing or canoeing or sailing, you know what to expect and can take care of yourself without panicking.

Tests are offered at the start of each camp and are good for two years.  A member of the waterfront staff rows alongside each swimmer to be close by if needed.  Not a few swimmers have had to grab onto the gunwales of the rowboat, either too tired or too cold or too scared to continue.  As an extra incentive and reward, each camper who passes the swim test is entitled to an extra dessert at that evening’s supper. 

But the true reward of passing the swim test is access to Cedar Campus’ fleet of boats.  Cedar Campus maintains a large assembly of boats.  Several power boats are kept primarily for the use of staff: for monitoring and rescue during open waterfront times when many campers may be out on the bay; for transporting campers for overnights on Whitefish Point or Rover Island which sits between outer Prentiss Bay, two miles long and a mile wide, and Lake Huron itself; and for shuttling food and cooks to Sandy Cove for cookouts.

The boats available for campers include several rowboats, used for rowing or fishing, a half dozen or so canoes, used for exploring inner Prentiss Bay and Prentiss Creek at the end of the bay, and sailboats, fifteen foot, sloop-rigged, open cockpit sailboats.  Later, Cedar Campus added kayaks and Sunfish, small flat-hulled, single sail craft, and several larger daysailer sloops in the twenty-six foot range used by waterfront staff to give sailboat rides to campers and families.

Campers who have passed the swim test may take out any rowboat on their own or with other passengers who have also passed the test, all wearing PFD’s, of course.  These campers may also be passengers in a canoe or sailboat.  But to sign out a canoe, to paddle solo or to take out a companion, a camper must first pass a canoeing test, and to sign out a sailboat, a skipper’s test. 

To pass the canoeing test a camper, university student or family camper, must show a basic knowledge of canoe strokes — forward stroke, reverse stroke, “J” stroke or “C” stroke, be able to paddle the canoe in a straight line, and reenter a swamped canoe and paddle it to shore.  Again, the emphasis is on safety, proficiency, and joy.

The joy comes from paddling along the cedar-lined shores of Prentiss Bay on a sparkling summer day or a serene summer evening, perhaps exploring the creek at the head of the bay, drifting among yellow water lilies and navigating tight corners, or bringing along a pole to fish for perch and smallmouth along the shoreline or above underwater rock piles.  Some paddlers have even first met their future spouses in a Cedar Campus canoe!

Canoes, rowboats, kayaks, powerboats: all provide means to explore the magnificent coves and creeks, broad bays and rocky points of Prentiss Bay.  But the best way to enjoy the water and taste its wonders of wind and wave and light is by sailboat.  The power to move a sailboat does not come from any human effort, rowing or paddling, or from any human invention, outboard or inboard motor, but from God, from the wind itself.  The skipper of a sailboat must understand the wind, its direction and force; read the wind, see gusts, cat’s paws, roiling the surface of the water in their approach; anticipate the effects of land features on the wind; and always work with the wind, use the power of wind to propel the boat in the direction the skipper chooses.  Sailing is a science, but it is also very much an art, an art that requires not subduing the forces of nature, of God’s creation, but working in harmony with them.

To access the delights of sailing a boat at Cedar Campus, a prospective sailor must show the knowledge and skill to safely pilot a sailboat and demonstrate that by passing a skipper’s test.  The skipper’s test is more comprehensive than any other waterfront test at Cedar Campus, because the demands of sailing a boat on the open bays are greater and the stakes higher.  Weather may change quickly, winds shift suddenly, and, given the right conditions, the lake can generate large waves.  Waterfront staff carefully keep track of all boats when out on the bay, and have had to rescue many a sailing crew from a capsized sailboat.

The skipper’s test requires a sailor to know the names of the parts of the boat — bow and stern, starboard and port, stays and shrouds, rudder and tiller and centerboard; the names of the parts of the sails — leech and luff and foot, head and tack and clew; and the names of the lines on the sailboat — halyards and sheets and painters.  Knowing these names matters.  Shouting, “Grab that rope!” may be met be a look of bewilderment as your boat mate looks over all the lines draped around the boat.

A potential skipper must also demonstrate a knowledge of the points of sail — reach and run, broad reach and close reach and sailing close hauled — and explain how the sails would be deployed on each point of sail. 

This first part of the skipper’s test may be done on dry land or before casting off from the mooring, but the meat of the test comes, of course, in the sailing itself.  The prospective sailor must rig the boat, securing the mainsail to boom and mast, installing the battens and attaching the main halyard, clipping the jib onto the forestay and attaching the jib halyard, and raising the sails, then successfully casting off and moving away from the mooring.  Out on the water, the sailor must show competence in reading the wind and setting the tiller and trimming the sails accordingly, be able to execute both coming about and jibing, and be able to guide the boat to a standstill at its mooring.  The procedures for piloting a boat into the wind (in irons) at the mooring are the same for rescuing an overboard crew member. 

Some campers, not many, but some, come to Cedar Campus with considerable sailing experience.  But most who wish to know the joy of sailing must be taught.  Sailing classes are one of the highlights of the waterfront program during month-long discipleship training camps.  Eager university students spend time with a waterfront staff member, first in the recreation building learning sailing terminology and tactics, and then in the boats, carefully shepherded by staff either in the boat with them or following beside them in a powerboat.  Most advance quickly; learning to sail well is a lifetime enterprise, but it does not take long to develop good basic control of the boat, enough to be able to have a great time out on the water.

Sailing classes last one or two weeks.  Often, as a reward, sailing class graduates are permitted to sail a fleet of several boats out of Prentiss Bay and down the lake seven miles to Government Island, a state-owned reserve where the boats are landed and secured to pilings and a picnic lunch is enjoyed.  Sometimes, on the return trip, the boats might choose to circle a lighthouse situated in Lake Huron five miles beyond the mouth of Prentiss Bay.

Cedar Campus is a thin place.  Few leave Cedar Campus unchanged.  The spirit of God speaks here, through faithful teachers and dear companions, through quiet moments spent sitting or watching or praying, and through the powerful witness of its landscape and its waters.  Moments spent silently drifting through reeds in a canoe or slicing through waves on Prentiss Bay accompanied only by the whistling wind leave an indelible mark on the soul.  This thin place, its memories and its marks, remain a part of every person who comes here and a part of every place to which they go.

If only

If only

Tuesday mornings, I meet with members of the Deer Isle Writers’ Group. We gather at 9:00 am at the home of one of our writers. We chat and catch up with each other for about a half hour and then spend an hour and a half writing, often in response to a suggested “prompt.” At eleven, we regather and read aloud what we have written, inviting comments and critique. The prompt for this last Tuesday was “if only …”

This what I wrote …

If only she had placed her foot just a little bit to the right …
If only she hadn’t been wearing the Birkenstocks …
If only she had agreed to switch places after she told me she couldn’t see her feet …
If only I had waited until our son could help me move the bridges into the woods …
If only COVID had not meant she was teaching her last semester remotely here in
Maine instead of in person in Iowa …

If only I had not built the bridges in the first place …
If only I had not the built the trail that required the bridges in the first place …
If only we had not bought the home in Blue Hill with seven acres on which to build a
trail in the first place …
If only we had never lived in Maine and would not be drawn back to it …
If only we had never lived …

“If only” is a rabbit hole of despair. Each “if only” wishes away a little piece of my life, a little piece of me. And as the “if only’s” multiply, gratitude gives way to bitterness, anticipation is overshadowed by regret, and my once hot-blooded life turns colorless and listless while my soul feeds only on itself.

She had the better idea. Almost immediately, she began making a list, a long list, of all the good things that resulted from her accident. It was not to ignore the loss or deny the grief, but to embrace her life as it is, as it now is, because of the accident. Her list includes Jeanine, the ICU nurse who lives on our road, and Jeanine’s parents who live on our road, too, and who are now, because of Jeanine and because of the accident, counted among our friends. Her list includes tangible expressions of care from new friends in our Deer Isle church and the Deer Isle writers’ group. Her list includes a September retirement party in Iowa with both of us now able to attend which would not have happened had the accident not cancelled her May Iowa trip.< And her list includes me, shopping and cooking and washing dishes, doing laundry and prepping her shower and managing her meds, loving her in new ways because this is what it is.

“It is what it is.” It’s one of our favorite phrases. “It is what it is” is an antidote to “if only,” said not with begrudging resignation, but with clear-eyed honesty and bold acceptance. “It is what it is” embraces the here and now because it is here and now and because it is the only here and now we will ever have.

“It is what it is” is a conscious and even joyful choice for faith over despair, for hope over resignation, for life over something that may resemble life but is mere emptiness.

It is what it is … and it is good!