ALERT–The following paragraph was one I reposted from another blogger. But, as rarely happens, I didn’t note the writer. Please help me if you know the blogger or are the blogger, to let me know in the comments so I can post the author. So sorry–100 lashes with a wet noodle. Kathy
“Spirituality blogs have always been a difficult fit for me as so many wonder off into one rigid path or the other. I prefer blogs whose writers have a light touch toward living while increasing his/her soul knowledge. I believe the spiritual life is just living your life with an eye on your own choices, beliefs, quirks, and direction.
One of my new favorites is Cathy Barney who writes Salon for the Soul. In this post she writes about suicide and its effects on her life.”
I was reminded of that yesterday at the Arch Street Meetinghouse in Philadelphia, the Quaker motherhouse for the states. After depositing my girls at the neighboring Starbucks – they were weary of visiting yet another historic site and we had already stopped in earlier, our visit cut short by times tickets for Independence Hall – I cut my way through a throng of tourists and their loud guide droning on about Quakers. I wanted to say: “Hey, buddy, I’m a real live one and all I want to do is get in this meetinghouse.” When I did enter, the woman tending the front desk was engaged in a loud conversation. Well, she wasn’t loud, but the visitor was. And long-winded. I never did get a chance to speak to her, so I wound my way around the open rooms and, finally, settled in on the old wooden bench in one section of the worship space that was not roped. And I poured my heart out for the Cincinnati Quaker woman who’d felt life was too much. As I was centering, I heard the Arch Street Quaker tell the visitor what we believe about God being in everyone. It was a gentle reminder and deepened my worship.
Worship helped me let go a little.
I’d seen that my mother had left a voicemail that afternoon and one the day earlier. When I eventually retrieved them, I discovered she and my father and headed to Iowa to be with her sister, who lay in s hospital bed near death.
There it was again.
My wonderfully creative, caring and silly Aunt Con uncommunicative with my mother at her bedside, her four devoted children and cadre of lively grandchildren nearby with death standing vigil. She’s winding down, I thought and shared it with my close friend and Philadelphia hostess. Jean would know. She was with her spouse less than two years ago as he transitioned from this world to the next. Thank God, he wasn’t alone, we both confessed. She admitted she was afraid and uncertain of what was happening. Yet she accompanied him lovingly.
Who was with my Quaker friend in Cincinnati? Who is with my Aunt Con right now? I have to believe Spirit in some way or form is death’s companion.
• What is my experience of death?
• What has it taught or opened in me?
• When has it intruded on life?
• How has it shaped my spiritual beliefs?
• Where do I believe Spirit is in death and the process of dying?
it was cute and sassy,
so I told her
it was something
I thought she needed
to hear from me
I’m not sure why
I’ve never been
with her – we clashed
once when she was new
and I felt unheard
later, when she was
pounced on a bit
wanted to tell
her that it wasn’t
that she was new
and trying to
that chat had
a much more
than the one
over how she looked
wish I’d have
been able to ask her
how she felt
not that it
made a difference”