Nightstand

They told me she had been drifting in and out of consciousness all day so that's what I had expected, but she was out of it when I got there.  She seemed to be sleeping with her mouth slightly opened. Black elastic bands held flexible tubing firmly pressed to her blushing cheeks and stretched around her the back of her head.  She might have chosen white elastic, if she had been asked.  Women know to match elastic bands to the color of their hair from ponytail days on. 

They told me her breaths would be sporadic so that's what I expected, but she was breathing steadily.  The oxygen pump alongside the bed had her beat for strength and volume, but not for rhythm. Two ways of breathing: one human, the other mechanical, I thought. I slipped off my coat, draped it over a chair by the door and took the nearer one.  It was late in the evening, after dark, after dinner, after other visitors to this nursing facility had left for cheerier homes.  But I was here, as quiet and available as the nightstand. 

A black bible, a gray book of liturgy, my reading glasses, my praying hands all in my lap, I sit.  Breath passes, in and out, both taking the palate-softened airway and using the cannula delivery. 

I read the liturgy; I am present; I read the scripture; I bow to pray.  And then, in the middle of the prayer, a surge of sweet music!  Evidently a radio on the nightstand had been tuned to a classical channel with the volume turned down so that it was inaudible over the other sounds in the room.  Unexpectedly, at that moment, the piece rose to full crescendo.  

I come here like that, I think.  I come to this bedside breathing on my own while assisted by mechanical words, repeated in predictable patterns.  The things I always say.  The things I always hear others say when they try to comfort or advise me.  And, although I petition and wait, I’m still surprised as the music begins to crescendo.  It’s so very beautiful.   

Help me be aware of more than myself and what’s mechanical here.  I sometimes strain to hear the music, Lord. Swell.    

Pastor Shirley

Re-gifting

Exodus 2:1-10

She gave him away twice.  

When she, a Levite woman, birthed, then washed and swaddled her son, no doubt like all loving mothers, she held him close to kiss him, to cradle and hush him.  However, her softly sung lullabies were not only designed to lull him to sleep in order to get some rest herself.  By cruel necessity, they were also devised to keep him as quiet as if he had not yet arrived.  Thus, she bought some time, but her next step would be more costly.  

During those first three months, she formed a plan.  She would give him away.  She would release him to the river, along the shoreline where the basket-ark hopefully would rock among the reeds and the calm lapping of sing-song waves. This is how she, this Levite woman, gave her child back to God, from whence he came.  Wiping pasty-pitch from her hands, she released him to larger waters, waters both fearful and baptismal.  For right there, on the water’s edge, the exchange is made:  short-term safety relinquished for what would be life-giving. 

A mother bargains.  (See also, Hannah, Naomi, the Widow at Zarephath, the Canaanite Woman who comes to Jesus…) Miriam would watch.  Miriam, well-disposed to be a watcher, could read the way the wind was blowing, anticipated her next move and was ready.  Through Miriam, God gave this little crying child back to his mother, for a time, with wages.  Wages?  The Lord evidently smiles at irony. 

But, like all good mothers, she would give him away again.  “When the child grew older, she took him to Pharaoh’s daughter and he became her son” (Exodus 2:10).  Pharaoh’s daughter, the other woman, is not a demon.  She had immediately recognized the boy as a Hebrew and, like Miriam, she knew the political winds.  Who knows what she guessed?  Now here on her doorstep, she says, “I drew him from the water.” ( I?  At times we gulp a mouthful of credit when we should only nibble.)  In this moment, Pharaoh’s daughter names the boy Moses as if he were her own, and yet, at the same time, gives him a name so indelible he can never completely wash away where he came from.

This is how his mother came to give him away twice.  I wonder, did she stand there until the door closed?  Did she cry as she retraced her steps?  Did she choose hope and try to imagine the life he would have?  I have no doubt that she prayed.

You might think the second time was harder, but I suspect it wasn’t.  It was inevitable.  We all know we will give our children away to the world one day and that it will hurt.  God’s words to young mother Mary are exceptional because Jesus has a unique purpose, but, in some ways, she shares a mother’s experience:  “And Simeon blessed them and said to Mary His mother, ‘Behold, this Child is appointed for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and for a sign to be opposed— and a sword will pierce even your own soul—to the end that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed’” (Luke 2: 34-35).  She learns this the first time she releases him to God in the temple.  She will be blessed through this Son who is given. We will all be blessed through this Son who is given.  And she learns that being favored isn't the same as being pain-free.  

So, beloved, not for our own ease do we hush the child’s noisy self-centeredness, but for the child’s good, and with an eye toward future obligations and opportunities.   As we scold and wipe away and stand things upright, that awareness can inspire and challenge us.   Like a Levite woman, whose descendants would become a family of priests, we too can ponder realities and make our choices, trusting the One whose Will the winds and waves obey.  Her Hebrew name - Jochebed - carries the meaning of both the weight and the glory of God.  Would that we would carry both as well.  

Balance it all with Much Grace, 

Pastor Shirley