The Trees

I walked through the farm I grew up in; I said goodbye for a time; I said goodbye to the trees. The wispy little Vine Maple, not much larger than when I was a child, reminded me of the joys of childhood and the mystery of the world around me. I remembered the time I stepped out into the dark and a large elk stood under its branches, looking straight at me. I walked further to my sacred spot, the spot I used to watch the sun set every night, the place I found peace. With my mom’s dog business, it is much louder, but the stand of Hemlocks is still there, especially the large one that towers over the cleared field. I stood and the tree whispered to me of peace. I lingered a bit, thinking of all that I had learned and experienced. “Don’t forget us.” I took a sprig from its branches and walked on under the old spruce, a tree from which I never emerged without sap all over my hands and clothes. I also remembered dreaming up a story underneath it as a child. “I gave you creativity,” it reminded me. I smiled and moved on.

The stand of alders was next. “You taught me how to dance,” I told them. We had a swing at one time set up there and there was still a spot in the dirt where we used to slow ourselves down, draging our feet. The great Hemlock near the barn loomed ahead. “You taught me to love the trees,” I said. I would sit under that tree many times, enjoying its shade. I looked down the hillside, toward the trees our goats used to love to graze under. I learned hard work there, I learned there. I looked back as I left. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I will be back.” I knew the forest trees of my childhood would always be with me.

As I stepped out toward the house, getting ready to leave, I picked up a hawk feather.

Cat Theology

I sat with my friend on her porch, having what she called “coffee with God.” We sat in comfortable silence, watching the cat for a moment. For a few minutes, my mind was racing for something to say, maybe even something profound. It is easy, as a seminary student, to think that I need something useful to say, something that will be insightful and provocative. Nothing came. So I went back to watching the cat. My friend laughed and wondered if there was anything such thing as “cat theology.” But I still had nothing profound or even moderately interesting to say. So I just watched the cat. The cat rubbed against our legs and stalked out past the garden of peas and kale to pause in the grass and the sun. His green eyes watched everything.

I never did come up with anything to say. My fuzzy morning mind just thought about the cat. As we came to a close, I suddenly realized that the cat was a great theology teacher. He was living in the moment, basking in the joy of simply being. He had no particular agenda, no need for a speech or great idea. He just lived for the sun and the grass and human touch. On the porch that day, I had a moment to simply be. I wondered if that wasn’t the greatest gift of all. I needed more time to simply be, to revel in the natural world, to notice the sun on my face and the shoots in the garden and the bird flitting in the trees.

Thoughts at a Deathbed

I have spent a lot of time at deathbeds this summer. It has reminded me of all the people I have known and loved who have died. It has also made me think about my own theology and spirituality around death. Last week, I sat with a man who was begging his brother to hang in there, to keep breathing. The prognosis was not good and the man was so thin and so frail that he looked like he would leave at any moment. This family had done everything—tubes, heart surgery, more tubes, and yet now here he was, battered and fighting to breathe and still the brother begs him to stay alive. My heart went out to both men as I sat at the bedside. I understand wanting to do everything you can to save the life of the one you love. I would want the same.

But sometimes I wonder, at what cost? Can we, who have learned to go to great lengths to save a life, also learn to let go?

I wonder if we thought of death in a more positive and holistic way; what would change? Death for family members is a great loss. But what if we could also think about death as a great passage, as part of the whole cycle of life, as something to celebrate as well as to mourn? Could we, instead of avoiding it at all costs, embrace it as a part of life?

We resist death so much in this culture. We don’t want to accept it and we don’t know how to celebrate it. Yet, it can be celebrated. It is a vital part of life. Where are our ceremonies allowing the departed to leave? Where are our vigils, preparing the loved one for death? Where is the chanting, the mourning, the letting go? We are so busy fighting that there is no time to usher out the dying in peace. It is part of the great cycle of life—just as fall gives way to winter and the tree dies to give life the soil. Just like the sun sets after it rises and the river melts into the wide ocean. It is part of the journey, the life cycle that is greater than us and goes on after us.

It has become a practice on nights when I come back from these events, to spend time under the night sky and under the stars. I find being outside in the world, in nature, tremendously healing. It reminds me of the vastness of the web of life and the cycle of life and death that we witness and participate in.