2024.01.07 Let There Be Light and Let There Be Darkness. Lyn G. Brakeman,Spiritual Lemons, blog post

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth and called all of it good.

What is wrong in a country, in a world, in any society that prays for Peace all the time and has no idea what makes peace happen?

What is wrong with a country that calls itself a Democracy, a United states, establishes a Bill of Rights/Freedoms for all its citizens, and then silences some of these citizens from telling or writing the truth about themselves in an honest way? As a citizen I protest.

Is this moral? Is this ungodly?  Is this a violation of the freedom of every citizen to practice his/her/their own religious faith? Does this corruption, this lie promote holocaust, exile, soul-murder, evil, the censorship of truth itself?  That you can be stoned for being who you are, that you can be exiled for being who you are, that you can be lynched, jailed, buried alive, murdered, butchered, burned, bludgeoned, maimed, scalped, terrorized, banished, humiliated, deformed from foot-binding, censored, crucified, and shamed for being who you are and for writing, publishing, telling your own story about who you are.   

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Why am I so passionate about all this? Well, because I am a reader who has read about campaigns to ban books that MIGHT be offensive to young minds. And because I’m a writer who remembers Holden Caulfield!

American writer J.D. Salinger, born in New York City (1919) is one of the most famous living authors in America even though he hasn't published anything since 1965, and he lived reclusively until his death in 2010. He’s best known for his novel The Catcher in the Rye, about a boy named Holden Caulfield who gets expelled from his boarding school and spends the next few days wandering around New York City, trying to figure out why people have to grow older, why everyone is so phony, and where the ducks go when the pond in Central Park freezes over.

The Catcher in the Rye started out as a short story called "Slight Rebellion Off Madison," and it was the first story that Salinger managed to sell to The New Yorker. The New Yorker bought the story in November of 1941, and planned to run it in their Christmas issue. That December, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, and Salinger's story was put on hold, considered too trivial in a time of war. Salinger writes from within the mental musings of a young teenager, gawky, curious, sexually awkward—unforgettable.  

Salinger expanded the story into the novel, The Catcher in the Rye, which came out in 1951 when I was 13.  The New York Times ran a review, titled "Aw, the World's a Crumby Place.” The children in it were unbelievably intelligent, and the style of the novel was too "showoffy." What adolescent is not?  Within two weeks Catcher made the best seller list. 

Who can forget Holden Caulfield, Jane Eyre, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Ebenezer Scrooge, Oz, Bambi, Christopher Robin, Pooh and Piglet, Mrs. Dalloway, Peter Rabbit, Cinderella, Grumpy, Moses, Cruella Deville—and more? 

Every tale and every character embodies good and evil, sorrow and joy, love and hate, light and darkness, heaven and hell, life and death—together. 

In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth and called all of it Good. 

O, light of the world, let your bright star stand over the place where the poor have to live; lead our sages to wisdom and our rulers to reverence. Hear this prayer for your love’s sake. Amen.  (from The New Zealand Prayer Book) 

12/31/23 A Good Nurse Resolution, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

 

There is nothing like being old, feeling disabled, in serious back pain and imagining yourself to be not only a fall risk, but a death risk. This condition makes me need good accurate medical care, excellent nursing care, a loving patient spouse/companion living with you, family and friends loving you, prayers, caring visits from a professional pastoral worker, nearby neighbors calling. And THE WORD made flesh, hurting and healing within and among us. 

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Dick and I are coping with my severe chronic spinal pain from a compression fracture. It will heal in time they say. How much time? We live in a retirement residential community. Dick and I “train” together as we go. Little things like flexible straws and proper placement of a patient’s moveable tray of treasures—phone, call button, pencil, water, Calendar, cookies. REACHABLE.

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One of my closest friends is an RN. She has specialized in mental health therapy. I pick her brain daily, and she offers me solace just be being there.  

To help you appreciate the value of excellent nursing care—trained, skilled, efficient but not officious, caring but not hovering, firm not bossy, wise but not stern, quiet but not recessive, spiritual but not doctrinaire—and with a quiet sense of humor, I introduce THE Doris Armstrong (1933-2022). She was born in Georgetown, Ontario, Canada, and died in Connecticut. 

I met Doris Armstrong, (I nearly wrote the Rev.) in an Episcopal parish where I served/worked as Priest Associate in the early 1990s. She was the Head of Nursing at Connecticut’s Hartford, Hospital (1976-1991). Her professional credentials are too long to list, but I know that her nieces and nephews chirped with joy when Aunt Doris came to visit. It was a matter of charisma more than intellect. She adds that her uncle, a doctor, removed her and her brother’s tonsils on their kitchen table—apparently with great skill and heaven know what kind of anesthesia. Nothing irresponsible certainly.  

I remember Doris in the parish where she was a faithful communicant and full of verve and nerve. No casual opinions got by Doris without discussion. I do not know much about her Christian faith except that it was strong and unabashed and she never missed Sunday’s mass. There is a large photographic portrait hanging today (I saw it) in Hartford Hospital, captioned: THE DORIS ARMSTRONG. Excellence in Nursing Leadership Award.  

Who gets called “THE” like that?  

And finally, I know a retired nurse here at the retirement residence where I live. Her husband calls her “big nurse” of “cockoo’s nest” fame. She is vigorous, strong and can be quite contrary, yet she comes on the run when called.  She helped Dick give me a shower when I could barely stand. The valve to release water from the handheld nozzle sprung-spurted a leak. We all got soaked, and I was the only one naked. She nevertheless held onto me with a firm grip, grabbed the shampoo, washed my hair, and then patted me dry while I yowled.

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love from THE WORD of ALL LOVES in ALL FLESH 

2023.12.24 WITHNESS—A Day In The Life Of A Very Fine Preposition, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Here's a story. It’s a true story told many years ago at Christmas by the then dean of Washington National Cathedral. Do not worry, the story is not a preachy/teachy sermon! Still, it might make you feel whole for no good reason. 

Prepositions, as you know, are small words, such as to, with, of, for, before, after. Such wee words play a very important role in the world of words, because they connect one thing to another, and put us in touch with deeper meaning. WITH is a  joining preposition. 

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Once upon a time in the late 1970s in the dimming dusk of evening in a very grand cathedral there happened a very tiny event—one worth telling over and over for no rational reason. 

Cathedrals as you know have extraordinarily high vaulted ceilings and many sparkling stained glass windows. There is a VERY long center aisle connecting the east end, where the sun rises and the altar stands, to the west end, where the sun sets and where there is an enormous round stained glass window called the Rose window, because of course it resembles the beauty of a rose blooming, bursting flamboyance all over. 

Once upon a time in the late 1970's, the Very Rev.Francis Sayers, stood in the shadows of the side aisle and waited for the final tour to end so he could close up and go home. As he strolled down the side aisle towards the west end, listening to the soft drone of the tour guide, something unusual caught his eye. He stopped. He saw a wee lass coming slowly down the long aisle. She was attracted to the circle of light made by the setting sun shining through the Rose window and shining onto the floor below. She walked slowly at first, turning to look back at her mother who would probably not approve of her straying.

But this child could not resist the light. She walked faster now down the long aisle. The dean watched. She reached the edge of the circle of light. She stood. She dipped one toe into the light and drew back.

The child stood in that crucial moment where the cataclysmic joy of disobedience meets the droning comfort of proper obedience. Which way will she choose? The dean watched. 

Now she stepped fully into the light and began to dance, slowly at first then faster, swirling and twirling.

Her mother suddenly noticed her daughter’s absence. She turned, then began to run down the aisle, calling for her daughter. When she reached the circle she scolded the child as any nervous parent would do. But the child kept dancing, turning her face to look up at her mother. 

“Mommy, Mommy, look. Look! I’m dancing with the light. I’m dancing with the light.” 

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This child dances WITH the light, not FOR it, as a performance, not IN it, as if to merge, but WITH it—joined, connected, together.   May we all practice WITH-NESS.  

2023.12.17 Creating Community, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Two lions stand together, side by side, a young male and his elder named Morani. The sun rises in the Maasai Mara National Reserve in Kenya. Morani is about 14 years old, one of a group know as the Four Musketeers, and the oldest known and last-surviving elder of the “musketeers.”  (The Nature Conservancy, Spring, 2023)

These lion “musketeers” support and provide for spouse/lionesses who are at home cooking, cleaning their lairs, nursing and feeding their cubs, while awaiting the return home of papas—both ready for a good night’s sleep.   

How hard it is for the human animal to break patterns set by Nature. But if we built “Reserves” where the human animal to prevent violent massacres that happen out of despair and starvation, and to free all of us for the sake of—all of us? It’s an idea.

In this COVID era, in fact, men and women pause for perspective on traditional patterns of social organization that entrap them in stiffly defined roles. We rejoice: Hey look! Now we BOTH have time, with mutual consent, control, and commitment, to CREATE. We are even free enough to conceive, birth and nurture a child together. And to LOVE our “creation” for its own precious sake.  

With this break in traditional patterns, older people can rest from their labors and enjoy the affection they have—in sickness and in health. Most can still laugh, and cry, and hope, and pray together—and lock no one out.

Create community in place! Wherever you are, be who you are—bedridden, or disabled, alone or accompanied, serene or enraged, happy or sad, you can share yourself, and yes, embrace yourself and others through prayer—the silent connector of Souls-in-Hope together.  

2023.12.10 Advent II. What's The Hurry? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 12/2/23

When you read the Gospel of Mark, it becomes obvious that this evangelist, the first one to advertise, in the town square so to speak, that he’d met the Messiah, the one God promised, the one we’ve all been waiting for RIGHT HERE NOW. Where? 

There is no doubt that this Jesus was, and still is, a presence to follow. It’s much much more than everyone becoming a Christian. NO, this urgency goes to the root of longing in all creation to begin anew to LISTEN with care to all voices. YES, ALL. It’s urgent! WE should listen and follow NOW. The Hebrew translation of the word radaph the word Jesus used in John’s gospel when he urged his disciples to FOLLOW. It doesn’t mean meander or dawdle, or, for God’s sake fight!! 

 

Listen to this Baptist guy. He seems to have caught the urgency. 

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So as I look out my window daily I watch the language of nature and take special note of squirrels. As a child I loved to watch the squirrels dash about in Central Park where I too played, skipped, and hid. 

  

Squirrels are the best icon of, yes, Holy Spirit Divinity!  They dash, stop dead in their tracks, hop, prance, chase, curl up in balls, nest quietly, chatter and crunch nuts faster than thought possible. Squirrels are mostly gray but they also come in albino white and black.They are urban and beyond. Squirrels are omnipresent, ubiquitous, speedy, adaptable, camouflage-able, fearless, vulnerable, mood-versatile, uncontainable, and fascinatingly mysterious. They are vociferous, insistent, never give up, and utterly true to their mission to BE.  

2023.12.04 Advent Apocalypse, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Someone’s coming for more than dinner. But we don’t know exactly who or when or even why. Did we invite this guest? Not really. Did this guest RSVP as required? No. 

Well, I tell you it’s a secret, but one I promise will be very very good for you and for all the world to remember who we are together. All you have to do is stay alert and pay attention. If it’s too hard then set up watch people and rotate their shifts. 

I remember when we were small children my little sister and I woke up early, before the sun. We knew the instructions. We had to wait—and wait. And wait some more. We had been told that only Santa knew, but I already suspected that “Santa” was really our parents. I also knew that I was not supposed to tell my little sister who was still a believer, even though I already knew that God was more real than Santa. I devised a plan whereby my little sister, being small and agile, would sneak down to peak. She was too scared so I tickled her into submission. We both started to giggle and shush, giggle then hush. The sun at last rose up to light the day, and our mother brought us our stockings full of oranges, and lady apples and little toys. Thus we rejoiced at our bounty, our small but trustworthy apocalypse.  

 

2023.11.26 Tears of Grace, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

This is the day on the church calendar when we are invited to remember Christ the King ( the one heart able to be benevolent no matter what or who). 

I can’t say too much for royalty, except I do love movie heroes like King Kong, simply for their bold chutzpah. Imagine hanging onto a screaming damsel, blonde of course, and thumping your chest with vainglory when you’re a kidnapper of malicious intent! Well, yes, I can imagine that kind of triumphalism. But I’m a brunette and always have been, so not for me. 

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Christ the King Sunday was, in 1986,  the Sunday of my second marriage, this one to the parish rector at my home parish in the midst of a Sunday Eucharist. Our guest list was easy: the congregation and invited family. An unimaginably perfect setting with one objection I’d already voiced, my aversion to the KING image for Jesus: “Kings don’t work for me!”  “Calm down,”said Dick. It’s Matthew’s agenda. 

I could live with the King idea but still can’t imagine why I unexpectedly wept at my own wedding, right in the middle of saying my vows. My poor, as yet unvowed, fiancé looked stunned, rigid and trembling, so frightened that his mustache quivered. He thought, “This crazy woman!” 

My therapist was my witness. She stood behind me and rubbed my back. Dick’s witness stood behind him and put his hand on Dick’s shoulder. 

As for me, I still have no idea exactly why I lost control at this moment, except that I was vulnerable to floods of tears without provocation. My lines were simple and my heart was secure. Yes, we’d been through tough times, divorces. He was the priest of a small parish in a small town. I was awaiting the bishop’s approval of my own ordination.

All I can say is this: My idea of marriage had been shot through with holes; failure was still in my catalogue of fears. I was absolutely awed that we were vowing all this once again, and equally sure that no one would ever be my “king.” I guess the truth was that we loved each other, admired each other, and dared to try the impossible together, and that we were gathered around the mysterious sacramental grace of the Eucharist. 

I wept—not from feelings of failure or regret, but from the sorrow that accompanies a truth too deep to define: The human heart is a spacious vessel, capable of holding many loves and many pains, an infinity of feelings. The divine heart is even more spacious.