“Our Old Thoughts May Fail Us; The Word Still Fits. . .”

Imagine our life is a piece of paper upon which our story might be told.

A text with four corners.

Write your name upon that paper so that we know it is yours. Should you lose this, we’ll want to make sure it gets back to you.

Feel free to ignore the approach of the right hand margin. Our names are not meant to appear evenly spaced in the popular fonts chosen by the newspapers for headlines to be read by the public.

No, let your name creep around the corner and march straight to the true north of the page in its portrait orientation.

On Friday morning, the papers. . .the stories. . .of six adults and twenty children were collected before they were finished. We are beginning to hear their stories now. Stories of a teacher’s heart, stories of courage and heroism, stories of a young girl, Emily, who loved to make cards on occasions in an effort to warm the hearts of those around her.

Before their time, their pages were folded and creased. Much the same as our hands, right now, in prayer, and our eyes as tears begin to collect in the places that will no longer hold them. It’s okay for your page to have a smudge here and there. Our ink is not permanent.

Cut from our fold. Six adults and twenty children. Twenty-six human shapes. Uniquely cut from the Creator’s design. Snippets, like the secret holdings of their hearts and the fanciful stuff of imagination, falling like snow onto the floor.

We collect these pieces and hold them in our hands trying to make them fit back into the page.

But these are God holes now.

And the light shines through them.

Our first thoughts:

Fix this.

Put these back together.

There’s no tape to remedy this. . .only time.

No paste to patch but prayer. Prayer has always bonded man to his God.

But something else is revealed in the unfolding of these pages now. These stories, as they unfold, become newly-minted stars.

Their names will be listed. Their pictures will appear Neatly. In rows. With proper spacing. Faces and fonts. We hardly know to treat our stars on earth, so we leave them now to heaven, their first home.

And their names will be entered into heaven’s record, with the lovingly careful penmanship of a saint who keeps the post for those who leave their papers behind suddenly.

We see them all in a new light. The stock images shown on our sets are of what was. We can wish all we may. . .

These.

These stars of wonder.

While it’s not necessarily a Christmas story, in Zora Neale Hurston’s book, THEIR EYES WERE WATCHING GOD, we read about Janie’s life taking sudden turns. Janie’s story has been folded, creased, and cut. Each experience cut from the cloth of the woman reveals the woman that would eventually be. Zora marks these changes with repeating passages that essentially read like this:

Her old thoughts were going to come in handy now, but new words would have to be made and said to fit them.

I believe we should invite our young people to return to the simple act of folding and cutting paper stars this week. There is something in the reveal after shapes have been cut from an ordinary square that calls to mind the wonder with which we used to look upon stars. Stars are stories that have been told long ago. They are only reaching us now.

Perhaps because we ready to receive now. We are ready to listen now.

Eyes not held in hands, wrapped about faces, look heavenward.

On Friday our old thoughts of how Christmas had been and should be have now been replaced with tragedy, loss, and a great sadness that has stretched across our land until only the seas now retain their shine.

But. . .we look. And we see that the star in the east blazes brightly.

Still.

And that story that star whispers in the ear brings blessings still.

To those who would seek it. Those those who will listen.

Still.

Silent.

Still.

In the night sky.

Nights. . .they still come this way.

Silent and still. . .and holy.

And, a second nightfall has come to Sandy Hook. There is a certain stillness happening. As the week goes on, and we learn more about the adults and children who were taken senselessly in this horrible act.

The stories we will hear about these lost will be taken from the pages they leave behind. The images we will see from the media are without mistake called “stills.”

In our sadness, we’ll have to re-frame our thinking And, at the same time, we’ll be invited to remember that which we were seeking from the Christmas story in the first place.

The sun will rise on Sunday morning. Many who have not been to church in some time will come back to seeking sanctuary. Those who are hurting will come to seek healing. Remember that this is the work we do, friends. Leave a parking place for a guest. Leave a seat open in the pew.

Those who are called will need to comfort. There will be fragility here. Those in a particular knowing will nurture. Your words will serve as a salve for fresh wounds. Remember that shared silence, too, is a kind of suture, binding hurting hearts together with a common thread. The patient will hear prayers. Listen carefully to the feelings under the words that will come in the form of false-starts and fumblings. The underlying prayer will most certainly be “help.” The shoulders of sages will become altar rails for the heads of the weary. These will be heavy. But they will need carrying all the same.

And in this light. . .we, too, are first-responders. . .

By heaven’s blessing, not to the horror from the badness residing in a sadistic man.

But from heaven’s blessing, the holiness of a baby resting in a simple manger.

May the good Lord bless and keep you this Sunday morning. May you find peace in the quiet stirrings of your heart as you pray. And may you find rest in the midst of your ministry. This is a good time to remember that where your talents meet the needs of your community and your world is your ministry.

Be well. . .keep looking for the star. . .it knows the way you’re seeking.

Men have never failed in the following of it to find the Word they were looking for.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *