Wednesday, May 15, 2013

I know this rose will open...

"I know this rose will open
I know my fears will burn away
I know my soul will unfurl its wings
I know this rose will open."


This song has been playing through my mind this week.  On Sunday, my minister sang it while drumming the rhythm as part of a Time for All Ages; and if this alone had been his sermon, it might have been enough. He told the story of the school children he drummed with during  his recent deployment to Afghanistan -"the greatest gift" he told the children in our UU congregation- and this sharing during our worship service was a gift for me too. 

But of course there was more to his time in Afghanistan, shared in the sermon that followed after the children had left for their Religious Education classes. Stories pulsed In the space between drumbeats- death and drones, pain and prophecy, insulation and isolation, moral injury and healing. 

Together in community we hold this, in the space of our shared sanctuary we hold this, because every story spoken in the light of the flaming chalice is a sacred story we walk with and bear witness to together. 

I pray for that turning of the heart which moves us all closer to world peace. I pray that the arch of our souls curves toward justice, that we do not lead insulated lives, but face together the collective shadow of war. And I pray that we bear witness- not only to the collective- but to our own inner shadows. May this be the work we do- that each one of us in his or her own way find a sanctuary in the larger whole to bear and hold the pain. I pray this for others- and for myself too.

This was my prayer as I sat today overlooking the river, after the rain had passed, quietly singing this song to myself- "I know this rose will open...". I laughed as a groundhog stuck his head up from the lush green foliage at my feet.  And I marveled as a small bluebird perched on a tree branch then flew away, and a little yellow warbler took its place.  The waterfall rushed across the way and the river flowed upstream- past the Thayer Hotel and the West Point museum, through the deepest waters that flow between Garrison and the military academy's high gray walls, and further on down the Valley. I listened to the flow, as even the river seemed to sing-

I know this rose will open.  I know my fears will burn away.

I think of a friend who recently wondered- the rose is so late to bloom, and will it open? We are so many wondering aloud- in bathrooms, in halls, and at the riverside too. We fear it is too late.

But we have seen so much in bud, so much in bloom. Though the medical reports return bleak, the headlines continue to raise murderous fists to the sky, and the gunshots continue to resound, there is a small thing with feathers that nestles close and ruffles in our souls.

Beneath the uncertainty of life, there is this underlying trust. Life whispers- I cannot give you promises that you will not die.  I cannot give you promises that you will succeed.  I cannot give you promises that there will not be pain.  But I do know- yes, I know- this rose will open.  Get closer, and let your fears burn away by the quiet fire.  Get closer, and listen, Life cries- touch me. Touch me and let your soul unfurl its wings. 

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