Thursday, March 29, 2007

My dearest God,

We returned home about 10:00 p.m. following the Lenten study. As I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, I had this beautiful vision. An angel with a wide wing span was flying in the air holding all the people of our study. I'm not sure where we were headed. I just know we were all together in the arms and on the wings of this beautiful blonde-haired angel. We had a peace about us as we soared the heavens.

Our group has been an extraordinary gathering of people. Our sharing has come from a very deep place. One person said it best when she talked about gratitude. My husband concurred. I am sure we are all grateful. Not sure what we'll do when our study concludes next week.

Some groups come together, study, share, pray, then move on. But some groups gel, congeal in a way that only the Holy Spirit can bring people together. Your spirit has bonded us together. We are safe with one another. We care about one another. We trust one another.

And we haven't even been in a "fun" place, in the desert of all places. In that dry, dusty spot where past sins and disappointments blow in the wind like tumbleweed, we bellied up to the watering hole together and found true refreshment. Sharing our cup with one another, passing it around for all to drink.

What is it about the glue that bonds us together? Why us, why not someone else? What makes us unique, more ready to attach ourselves than some others? Why are we able to spill our guts to one another while some never go beyond sharing their name? What is this power that sweeps across us as our capable leader guides us deeper into desert sharing?

Today was the first day in years that I have talked about Madeline, a bag lady from New Jersey who appeared in an abbey in Kentucky during the most painful time in my life. I was leading a retreat, but my heart was broken, crushed, shattered, the pieces so far apart that they could hardly recognize each other. Madeline became Christ to me. A one-way ticket, a blue duffle bag with all her worldly belongings, she was sent to me. She noisily shuffled in the room carrying a black trash bag that she carefully placed on her chair in the dining hall. She could have sat anywhere but she sat next to me. I didn't recognize her at first, but then I heard "his" voice, your voice, and I knew that you had come to pick me up and rock me like a wailing baby who desperately needs to be held. He came to mend my broken heart, but not before cradling me in his arms. When I dropped her off at the Jewish Center four days later, she hugged me, then walked away. My heart found its pieces and began the very long healing process. She/he saved me.

It was the second time in less than 12 hours that I shared this story. I had lunch with a young woman who I will be marrying to her fiance next week. Missy was a part of my story, but she had forgotten the bigger pieces. You see her mother had wanted to go on that retreat but she was in the final stages of ALS and could not go. When I returned to visit her following the retreat, I shared my story of Madeline. She told Missy to retrieve a doll she had bought several years before. She had named her. When Missy handed me the doll, Sue her mother told me her name was Madeline. She would forever remain a symbol of God's presence for me. The little rag doll with a straw hat sits on a shelf in my "memory" bedroom. You came as a bag lady and now permanently sit in my room where I remember children, grandparents, grandchildren, and parents.

I have never told the story to my grandchildren. But I will very soon. I want them to know how you came to me, caring about my injured heart, how you show up when we are hurt, disappointed, broken. How a visit from an unexpected stranger can be the beginning of a life of faith. I want them to know the agape that comes from God's own self.

An angel soaring in the heavens with my friends and me reminded me of the glory of it all...

An angel,
a study group,
a doll,
treats on a table,
a young woman about to be married,
brought me to You today.
Soaring.

Love always and forever, Andrea