Page 15 - Presbyterian Connection Newspaper

Connection
ReFLeCTIOnS
A Glimpse of God
presbyterian
15
presbyterian.ca
fall 2017
By Patricia Schneider,
elder at Forbes Presbyterian Church, Grande Prairie, Alta.
There are so many times when we feel the presence of God, and they’re written about by people with more in- sight than myself. But I have to admit that last week I felt God’s presence in the unlikeliest of places—the waiting room of a blood testing clinic.
I may not see or hear as well as I used to, but I have learned to use time to my advantage, and that morning I had lots of time to observe those around me.
Sitting with a group of strangers, facing rather intimate medical pro- cedures, was a little intimidating for me. We all knew what we were there for—blood work and sample tests. There were a few shared smiles, proving we were a stoic bunch... And there was so much variety among us. One man must have been well over six feet tall and built like a foot- ball player. Another, much older man with a white beard and moustache and the brightest red shirt reminded me of Santa Claus. The other fellow, who wore slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, must have been a golfer (or so
I imagined). And there was a lady at the end of the row who was close to my age. We eyed each other politely, and I gave a hint of a smile.
But it was the young lady across from me that filled my vision. She was about four months’ pregnant and had a little nine-month-old baby on her knee. He was as cute as a button—all dressed in blue jeans, his eyes big as saucers and little arms flailing. The mother held him gen- tly but firmly and you could feel her love for him reach right across the
room. She kissed him on his nearly bald head and settled him on her lap. When she picked up his little hand and kissed his tiny fingers, I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest. Even as I type this I feel tears springing to my eyes. Such love— such tender love!
It brought to my mind something we talked about in our recent Max Lucado Bible study. Max spoke of God seeing us at our worst—first thing in the morning!—yet still lov- ing us so deeply. I thought of this
little boy, who well could be sitting in messed diapers with burped-up bits on his T-shirt, but his mother didn’t see that. All she saw was her little boy reaching up to her with a big grin.
I’m glad God sees us that way, too. With Christ’s hand in mine, I can go to the Father and know that he sees not my failures of the past, present or future. Like the loving Father that he is, he sees me with a heart full of love for him and the promise that I will be his child forever and ever.
Graveside Birthday
By Vivian Ketchum, originating
from Wauzhushk Onigum Nation of Northern Ontario and now a member of Place of Hope Presbyterian Church in Winnipeg, Man.
My late son’s birthday would have been July 30. He would have been 31 years old, if he had lived. My late son’s journey was filled with possi- bilities, his future looked bright until his life was cut short by an unknown brain tumour in 2011.
I had been advised by other griev- ing parents that the first year would be very difficult. The first Mother’s Day, my birthday, and all the other holidays without my son that first year without him. My son’s birth- day was especially difficult for me, it brought back cherished memories of his birth. Memories of hearing his heart beat at nine weeks. The first time I got to hold him in my arms. Touching the soft blackness of his hair. The overwhelming sense of love for my newborn son that I couldn’t hold back. Yes, the first year without my son was difficult, but so were the following years. The grieving less- ens, but the ache of loss was present at certain times of the year. Like his birthday.
Before my son died, he told me that I was not to grieve too long for him and to move on with my life. That I was not to set any special memo- rial events for him. That was my son always looking after me even after he was gone. I did honour his request. The only thing I did so was get a
simple headstone for his grave. That was his birthday present one year. I wasn’t planning on getting a head- stone for him, but it made it easier for me to find his grave.
That was where I would go on his birthday. I would get a simple birth- day card and his favourite lunch. Greasy chicken from his favourite place. My son didn’t like flowers, so having lunch by his grave was what I would do and spend time lost in memories. I would play his favour- ite music with my cell phone. There I would sit with my back against his gravestone. Share what was happen- ing in our family.
It was not easy getting to the cem- etery to where my son was resting. I don’t have a vehicle, so I would take the bus. The bus would only take me so far, then it would be a 30-minute walk to the cemetery. My health lately hasn’t been the greatest, so it made walking even more challeng- ing. Still I am determined to visit my son’s resting place on his birthday.
Celebrating my son’s birthday is done a bit differently. No birthday parties of the past with family and friends. No colourful cake with can- dles or presents. It was a time for me to reflect on my most cherished moments of my son...in private. At a place where we parted ways. I sit by his headstone. To cry. To share. To grieve openly. I even allow myself to get angry. Oddly enough I am strengthened by my actions and able to move on. Maybe that is my birth- day present to my son.
Marked by Involuntary Sin
By Joshua Weresch, member of Central Presbyterian Church in Hamilton, Ont., Haudenosaunee and Anishinaabeg Nations’ land
It doesn’t take very long for com- pany policies to get in the way of Jesus’ footprints. I spend 7.5 hours each week at a local long-term care home as the chaplain and it was there that I heard the policy try to muffle the pain. I’d not been there very long, from the first of March until now, so I am always getting the lay of the land. The lay included bed- bugs and I was implicitly told not to visit those residents whose rooms had bedbugs as there was a chance they’d be brought back to the rec- reation therapists’ office—which I shared—if not one’s home. Moral distress ensued; oil of lavender was liberally applied to my colleagues; and the question of pastoral care resounded. The question was sim- ple: Do I visit those residents who are isolated to their floors by the presence of bedbugs, or not? They could not eat in the common dining room with everyone else; regardless
of the friendships they had forged, they were isolated, without choice. How long, O Lord, will you hide your face? Will you cast us off forever?
Bedbugs and their presence, or even potential presence, have be- come, I am convinced, the mod- ern-day mark of the various skin diseases that so concerned the Hebrew Scriptures’ editors. Unless people were radically restored to full community, they banded together to form their own colonies and com- munities, alike in grief, collectors of small denizens. As it was, I met those residents on the edges of their days, in liminal spaces between room and hall. It seemed to suffice, but what does love look like to those who have been marked by involun- tary sin?
The presence of bedbugs, the isolation of those whose rooms and things have been infested, led me toward Presbyterianism and, more, the poor. The Presbyterian Church in Canada is suffering, according to the report by Gordon Haynes in 2011, for “despairing lethargy.” What needs to be asked is whether
we continue to maintain the church as an institution, as an extremely expensive building to heat and cool, or if followers of Jesus continue to find rest and peace in smaller, home-based congregations, sur- rounded by “lovely prayers”—per- haps written and spoken by local warm-hearted clergy—favoured hymns sung in four-part harmony, and a deeper witness of the Church of the poor, The Benedict Option’s push for walkable churches.
Gustavo Gutiérrez reminds us, “So you say you love the poor? Then name them.” The poor are those in South Korea whose lives and human rights as people who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer are demolished by our Presbyterian brothers and sisters who marched against them, chant- ing slogans of homophobia. The poor are those here on Turtle Island, precariously employed in ministry/ service-sector jobs. Whether bed- bugs in a nursing home or the poor whose lives are crushed by indiffer- ent wealth, systems must be named and then disarmed by love.