I found these words, written by Howard Thurman, in The United Methodist Hymnal - #489 - For God’s Gifts
O Holy God, open unto me light for my darkness, courage for my fear, hope for my despair.
O loving God, open unto me wisdom for my confusion, forgiveness for my sins, love for my hate.
O God of peace, open unto me peace for my turmoil, joy for my sorrow, strength for my weakness.
O generous God, open my heart to receive all your gifts.
I have, for the past several nights, had dreams that I could
not quite recall when I woke in the morning. This is not, in itself, unusual.
Most dreams are forgotten the moment the sleeper awakens. They disappear like a
breeze, stirring the mind for a moment and then gone. But I have practiced
trying to recall them, and frequently find material in them that can be used in
my writing. I appreciate my dreams and have worked at trying to hold on to the
fleeting fragments that remain as I awaken. Still – these recent dreams have
not stuck with me after I lifted my head from the pillow.
Except that there has been a nagging suspicion that these
forgotten dreams have had something to do with my ex-wife – my first ex-wife to
be more precise. But that’s where the precision ends. I cannot recall the
situations, events, or characters of the dreams. I don’t know what happened. I
only suspect, or perhaps fear, that she was there.
And this causes me some concern. Not so much that she was
there – I know that even now these several years later I am still recovering
from her departure and putting my life back together. Things in my life are
much improved and I’m happy in my work, my hobbies, and my relationships. But –
and here’s the real question: What is my brain doing while I’m asleep? What’s
going on up there? I don’t trust my mind – even when I’m awake it must be
carefully monitored to keep it under control. When I’m asleep I can’t control
it. What is going through my brain when I’m asleep?
Addendum:
Last night I dreamt that my friend, Rick, was diagnosed with
terminal brain cancer. Maybe dreams I can’t remember of my ex-wife are fine.
Let’s go back to that.
I remember the nights when sleep felt like death
and I couldn't decide if that's what I wanted.
Isolated from all that I wanted to love,
those winter nights felt haunted.
Sleeping alone in bed next to her
I could hear the wind outside.
Or alone in my car in a hospital parking lot,
I could feel the wind blow through me.
I was tired of life, but afraid to die;
I loved, I hated, and I feared.
I remember this well, look inside me and see
I was surprised by my own fear.
But you are the dawn
and you are my home.
I could go away, sail across the sea.
I could live on an island far away.
It's a strange place but I'm learning to live
with the weight of bright sadness.
What is withered in me will flower again
and all my illness be made well,
and what is flowing and wasting away
will regain its shape again.
For you are the dawn
and you are my home.
This is a song I wrote recently for my friends J, T, and B - though it uses some of my own history and much of my own thought. The concept of "bright sadness" seems paradoxical, maybe. Is there such a thing as joyful mourning? Or bitter joy? Melancholic celebration? It's a truth that seems to defy logic. And it's a phrase found in the writings and prayers of many in the Orthodox church, especially during this season of Lent - a time of reflection on both suffering and death as well as hope and renewal.
I've also cribbed, somewhat, from the Confessions, of Saint Augustine - from IV. 6 and IV.11 in verses 3 and 5 respectively. For, as Augustine himself wrote, "often... while turning over haphazardly the pages of a book of poetry, one may come upon a line which is extraordinarily appropriate to some matter which is in one's own mind, though the poet himself had no thought of such a thing when he was writing..." (Confessions, IV. 3 - translated by Rex Warner 1963)
It was spring and he struggled
against the wind as he walked his route. A storm had blown through recently and
the lingering winds still buffeted. There was trash and debris in the streets,
empty pizza cartons tumbling across yards and fallen tree limbs across the
sidewalks. He stumbled occasionally over broken bricks and dislodged chunks of
concrete. These things, however, would not keep him from his appointed rounds.
It was spring and it was Lent and
somewhere overhead a hawk was screeching. Was it a warning? He thought about
the passion and the pain that waited in the next few weeks. “Not everyone can
carry the weight of the world,” he said to himself and was reminded of a song.
He thought of T. and of J. and C.,
his friend, his colleague, his brother, all of whom had reached out to him in
the past year to say something of their struggles with life and their wrestling
against death. “How can I carry that weight,” he thought to himself and he
remembered his own occasional suicidal contemplations. “I can barely handle my
own.”
He’d always felt like the family
failure – with no college degree and two failed marriages. “How can I carry
this?” He shifted the load he carried and stretched. His neck popped twice. He
stretched again and his back popped as well. He sighed and continued along his
path.
J. was there along his route, out
for his regular morning walk. “How are you, J?” he called out to him.
“Not too good,” J answered in his
halting manner. “I’ve been thinking about God and it hurts.” Then he let out a
long and warbling wail. “It’s not been a good day.” He offered what solace and comfort he
could to J. and promised to see him again the next day. Perhaps things would be
better then…
Somewhere overhead the hawk was still screeching. Was it a warning? Was it a comfort?
Later, as he neared the end of his route, something triggered the memory of the way old Mrs. D. would play the piano in the lounge area of the nursing home. She kept her foot constantly on the sustain pedal so all the wrong notes – and there were many of them – continued to ring. And he remembered her singing through the dissonance:
“Let peace begin with me; let his
be the moment now.
With every step I take,
let this by my solemn vow:
To take each moment and live each moment eternally
Let there be peace on
earth and let it begin with me.”
It was
spring and it was Lent and he had miles to go before the end, but he would
walk. He would carry what weight could shoulder and he would talk about the
passion.
Let There Be Peace on Earth – words and music by Sy Miller
and Jill Jackson
Talk About the Passion - words and music by REM
There Once Was a Prophet from Judah: Biblical Limericks for Fun and Prophet
