Whispers of the Spirit

by Anne Apple

I called my mother the other day. She greeted me with an, "Oh, Annie."

My dad had cleaned out the closet and discovered some old scrapbooks.

They spent the rest of the day sitting together turning pages and remembering.

On one page, there was a yellowed note from the rector of Trinity Episcopal. He scribed to my grandmother after my Grand Pap's funeral, "Gladys, I was helped when you were in church Sunday. Thank you for teaching me with your witness." On the opposing page was a black and white picture of my grandfather outside the zoo with his three boys, Jimmy, Bobby and Billy, who grew into stalwart men; that's how the rector's note described my father and his brothers. A simple hand written note testified to God's firm and steadfast love at work in my father and his brothers.

On another page, there I was captured in time wearing one of my Gram's aprons, standing at the stove. Wooden spoon in hand I stood over the pan of perfectly browned white sauce ready for the addition of New York sharp cheddar cheese and extra large macaroni noodles. When I was ordained, my Aunt brought me one of my Gram's aprons. It was red with pockets. I cut it up and made it into a stole. I wear it on those liturgical Sunday's when our clerical garb notes an emphasis on the Spirit. Sitting in worship I can slide my hand into a pocket and whisper a word of thanksgiving for the witness of a grandmother's love that swaddled this outward bound girl's neck as I stepped into the boots of ordained ministry.

Standing in a gallery of the Art Institute in Chicago, I read a caption and had what I call a 'Spirit' moment. It was one of those moments where my stomach went flip-flop, my throat constricted, and tears came just to the tip of my eyelids, and God said, "Awake!" The truth of my throat clenching is wrapped up in my desire for my parents to live forever. I am afraid of the day when I get that phone call that says, "You need to come."

The Art Institute of Chicago's exhibit that punched me in the gut is entitled, 'so the story goes'. Five professional photographers tell a part of their personal story in large prints. The exhibit welcomes a witness to what seems like an ordinary photograph of a day in the life of regular folk, but upon closer examination, what is revealed is an extraordinary vision to behold, a glimpse of the holy in the ordinary.

One photographer, Larry Sultan, captured his father sitting on the edge of his bed, unlacing his shoes the last day of his corporate life, after his retirement party. For Sultan's father it was a day that marked the closure of a vocational life, a career curtain call. Despair seeped out of the photograph and time stood still. I stood in front of the picture wanting to say to Sultan's father, "If Jesus were here, he'd be on his knees and have the basin and the towel ready to wash your weariness away and swaddle your fears."

The photographer says the energy behind his work "… is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time, I want my parents to live forever."

My parents have been instruments for shaping the way I learned to take a breath and see the world. They have been the molders of my out of the womb rawness. God gave them not only my two older brothers, Jay and Gregg, but me! God entrusted three of us into my parent's hands.

They taught me everything I know. They taught me how to stay at church for 'just one more cup of coffee.' They taught me how to open the bible; to sing the hymns of faith; to look another person in the eye; to pray. They taught me to listen, to cry, to laugh, to speak and to march for justice. They especially taught me how to return and remember God's good gift of creation. But it didn't stop with just squatting down and analyzing an acorn, but picking it up, taking it home, and writing a story about it. They showed me how to turn around and be outward bound and tell the world about the Rachel Carson God centered wonder of every miraculous vision.

I remember photograph after photograph in Rachel Carson's book, The Sense of Wonder that sat on our coffee table growing up. There were pictures of a child, dressed only in a cloth diaper hanging precariously full near his ankles walking down the beach holding the hand of an older adult. As I grew up that picture became the metaphor of the simple power of discovery essential in building whole and healthy relationships, with people and with the environment.

When I open the scrapbook of my life and remember the way I've been formed by my parents, I sense parallels to who we are in the church family. God calls us together and gifts us as brothers and sisters in Christ. God sends us outward bound to share the good news of Christ, found in abundant love and mercy. Our mission is a stalwart one rooted in Christ, empowered by the Spirit of a Living God.

So, when the fear comes knocking around in my throat about the death of those whose passion brought me into this world and shaped me as a gift from God, I try to remember that little infant king, born as the promised one of Israel, who came to us years ago, comes to us in each day, and will come again in fullness.

We're called to return and to remember God's faithful and steadfast love but also to go like Sarah and Abraham; like Mary and Joseph — outward bound for the sake of the world. So the story goes …