Listening to the Communion of Saints

Given that the move was less than five months ago, it’s not surprising that it took me awhile to find the plastic container that contains my little corner of the Communion of Saints. I discovered it under a box and some games, the picture frames inside still enveloped in bubble wrap. These aren’t the only photos I have of my beloved ones, alive and dead. But these are the ones in frames, the ones that have sat on mantles and on bookshelves over the years. On display. So we don’t forget we’re part of something larger.

I select two that I will place in the side chapel on Sunday to mark the feasts of All Saints and All Souls. There is a small photo of my husband’s parents taken Easter morning, 1993. And there’s one of my parents taken 10 years before that: my mother, who is still living, and my father, who died when I was 22.

There are countless saints in my life – the Communion of Saints is a cloud of witnesses both living and dead, so I was taught. But these select are my patrons, the ones who parented and formed me and pointed God out to me, all in their own ways.

My parents grin at me from June 1983. I could have chosen the photos taken in the early 50s, back when my mother looked a bit like Leslie Caron and my dad was a serious World War II vet with all his hair. But I didn’t know them then.

Instead, here is my dad as I best remember him: thin hair, glasses and a face creased with smile lines.  I indulge in a tiny bit of self-pity. There are many, many things I would have liked to have discussed with him over the last 26 years, many things I would have liked to share with him. Like my in-laws, he died too young, before all my questions were answered.

But the Feast of All Saints isn’t about nostalgia for the dead. It’s about faith in the living, a relationship with souls that dwell as near to us as God does. And just as I can sometimes fail to notice the intimate presence of God, so too do I often fail to remember the intimate presence of those who are in full communion with God. Maybe it’s because they are so silent, as God is silent.

But they also speak.

When I want to know what my father would say to me about my life choices, I can consult the hagiography – the saintly and sometimes selective story I tell about his life. I can look to his philosophy of parenting and work (his field was vocational education). I can recall his readiness to walk and talk, his willingness to build things upon request, from dollhouses to dulcimers. I can tell the story of how he joined the Catholic Church in his own sweet time, more than 30 years after he told my mother he’d convert. I can savor his theology: “It all boils down to this: God is love. It’s as simple as that.”

If I would like to hear his voice now, in the intimate proximity that I believe my father shares with the divine, I must do this:  I must put myself in my most receptive posture.  I must quiet my side of things -- my memories, my loss, my grief. And I must take my place in the Communion of Saints, which speaks with one voice: God is love. And those who abide in love, abide in God.  And God in them.

- Barb Ballenger

Driving Miss Dot

When I was in elementary school in Eastern PA, my parents found an Episcopal Church they loved and we started attending regularly and becoming more involved. It wasn't long before I joined the children’s choir, my step-dad Dave was serving on vestry, and my mom was hired as parish coordinator. After a few Sundays of talking with an elderly member at coffee hour, Dave asked if she needed rides between her nursing home and church. 

That’s when Dot entered our lives. 

In her mid-90s, Dot still played the piano, loved her scotch, and introduced herself as “Dot P., O.B.” When people would engage her about being a doctor, she would correct them and tell them that O.B. stood for Old Bag. She was self-assured and had a great sense of humor, and my family had a great time getting to know her over the next couple of years that we gave her rides. Sometimes, when we took Dot back to her nursing home, we would stay and join her for lunch or see her to her room.

Even though she didn't have children of her own, Dot took a liking to me as I did her. For her birthday, I brought her a stuffed animal, which didn't fit with her décor or demeanor, but which she ended up cherishing and putting on her bed each day. One day, when we dropped her off, she gave me a little cushioned box that was hers. A couple of years later, after we had moved to Illinois, she died; I found that little blue box and held onto it as I cried.

Though it was only a small portion of my week, rides with Dot formed a lasting memory for me. It’s amazing to think that this relationship started with a simple, “Hey, do you need a ride?” When I asked Dave why he reached out to Dot, he said that in a church community, we’re all there to help one another worship God more fully. Giving Dot rides was a wonderful and rewarding opportunity for him to connect with another member of the church and get to know someone better, while helping a fellow parishioner. Dave had so much fun doing it that – once we moved to a new community – he found another spunky parishioner in her 90s to drive to church. 

He says it’s a simple plan: Be alert to the needs of the people in your church, and when you see them, respond. I am grateful for his ministry because it was a great example for me as a child and allowed me to form a bond with someone I may have never met otherwise.

At St. Martin’s, we have opportunities for you to connect with others. One of these ways is through signing up on our Transportation Ministry page as someone who would be willing to provide rides to church to someone in your geographical area. Needs vary and commitments are flexible; if you are willing to open your car and your heart to a neighbor, take the first step of signing up. Like my family, you may get to know someone whom you remember for many years after the rides have ended.

- The Rev. Callie Swanlund

Perspective Restored - An Essay on Stewardship

Fifteen years ago, some older friends chose me and my wife as the next owners of their property in Hancock, Maine.  These remarkable people were both retired pastors who had been on the front line of every good cause from the American Civil Rights movement to putting their bodies between the Contras and the Sandinistas during the war in Nicaragua. In an unexpected phone call, Bob and Fran announced that we were the chosen ones.  “Why?” we asked.  "Because you share our values and commitments and will be good stewards of the property," they answered.

So we bought the property on Egypt Bay, next to Egypt stream, on a remote stretch of Taunton Bay.  With the property, we inherited a chainsaw and a forestry management plan.  Bob had worked many years to make the seven acre wood an official Tree Farm with a plan to promote plant diversity, wild-life habitat and a forest of diverse trees at all stages of the life cycle.  Indeed, our seven acres were wonderfully populated by red oaks, 80 foot tall white pines, fir trees, cedars, birch trees, tamaracks, popples (the local name for quaking aspens), maples, apple and pines. My job was to be the next steward of Bob’s hard work and vision.

From the perspective of 15 years, today I see trees which were chin high at the beginning of my tenure and are now three times my height with trunks thicker than my thigh.  I am moved to tears by the happy notion that my grandchildren may play under these same trees and their children too.

Stewardship of this property puts my life in perspective and joins me to a greater purpose and meaning.  The forest also teaches me that stewardship is unavoidable.

From the perspective of life among the trees, I am constantly reminded that the cycle of life is so much bigger and more mysterious than me and my petty concerns. 

From the perspective of life among the trees, I am constantly reminded that I am a recent visitor on a short duration visa in this world.  The trees will be here long after I am gone and that makes me incredibly happy. My stewardship is not about me.  Stewardship is about the generations that will come – what will they need to thrive and find joy in life and how can I prepare and provide for them?

From the perspective of life among the trees, I am constantly in awe of the beauty and resilience of nature.  The abundance and persistence of life is breathtaking.  The unique stories told by each tree trunk in the scars of weather and the search for light are fascinating. The super-abundance of wind-sown seedlings each summer puts me in mind of Christ the Wild Sower of Seeds.  The Stewardship question is always: what to do with so much abundance in life?

From the perspective of life among the trees, I am constantly asking whether I am doing all I can with my limited gifts and abilities to add to the health of this forest and ecosystem. Stewardship is working in that dance among what is given, what gifts I bring and what is envisioned by God to add to and to advance the well-being of all. 

Stewardship is unavoidable. If you walk through my seven acres, you will find low stone walls and a small cemetery plot dating back to the Civil War. This land has been cleared of trees at least three times since European settlement - for boat building, for salt-water farming, for animal grazing.  What appears to be natural  - here and throughout New England - is the result of human intervention.  Therefore, we must continue to be active stewards intervening to correct past mistakes and play our part in the flourishing of a nature renewed. 

We are all stewards of community, personal gifts and talents, property, mission, vision and society itself.  Our spiritual work is to be reflective and self-aware stewards who give our lives in Christ like ways to God’s  renewing of Creation.

-The Rev. Jarrett Kerbel