Author: nancy

Over 55 years ago a brand new medical school graduated its first class, and my husband Larry was among its graduates. Last week Larry retired–following 51 years of serving patients here in Lancaster. While we’ve been awed by the gratitude and congratulations heaped on him by patients, staff, and by Penn State College of Medicine itself, we’ve also been remembering the beginnings.

When Larry entered medical school, the Dean proclaimed that this new school was going to produce “Doctors with Handbags and Hearts.” The “Handbags” referenced the little black bags that old-fashioned MDs carried when they made house calls. They are long gone, as are house calls themselves. A fitting slogan today would be “Doctors with Laptops and Hearts.” The “Laptops/Handbags” part of the slogan references the skills and knowledge that medical school teaches the students, but what about the “Hearts”?

The “Hearts” is actually the essential part of the slogan, essential for all of us in our lives. As I read the notes and emails and Facebook posts Larry has received from patients, staff, and doctors he has helped to train, what has brought me gladness and sometimes tears is the “and hearts” part of his doctoring. Again and again, the notes tell stories of how much he truly cared about his patients and how he was so interested in their lives and their families.

I’m beginning to wonder how all of us are called to be human beings with “Handbags and Hearts.” We definitely bring our skills and knowledge into our daily interactions with others–whether it is the skill and knowledge about carpentry, teaching, computer technology, or cooking! Perhaps we’ve developed a gift we were born with, such as a gift for creating music. We bring our skills, our gifts, and our education to all the activities of our lives. But how do we involve our hearts?

Our hearts help us to truly see the people around us. Perhaps we can catch a glimpse of the person God created them to be, that is, a glimpse of the best person they have within them to be. Can we really see the person we exchange a few words with at the supermarket checkout or the check-in desk at the dentist’s office? Can I see, truly see, the people at a meeting with me and not focus solely on the next agenda item? To see the other with our hearts is to see them with love, with a kind of compassion and kindness that brings a pause into our task-focused lives.

If I live from my handbag and my heart, I will live with love for others, and at the same time, use my skills and knowledge to serve them. One of my most frequent prayers is “God, help me, remind me, guide me to be loving.” I need all the help I can get because I so often forget; I am caught up in the agendas and the tasks, and I forget.

In 1st Corinthians 12:2, the writer Paul tells us that “without love, ” we are nothing.” It doesn’t matter, Paul writes, if we have prophetic powers, (Who will rule the world?), if we understand all mysteries (How does my cellphone do that??), or if we have all knowledge (Wow. I’d be just like AI!). It doesn’t even matter if we are people of great faith. (The kind of faith that enrolls in a new medical school that has one classroom in a half-completed building.)

If we don’t have love, Paul concludes, we are nothing. If we don’t bring a heart as well as a handbag into our living, our gifts and skills will never be fully realized. To help the Corinthians (and us) understand, he goes on to define love in these famous words from verses 4-7:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Paul’s definition is rather overwhelming, but my hope is that the direction he is pointing will be a compass for all of us.

I recently visited the SchPIRA Museum in Speyer, Germany where I learned the fascinating story of the Jewish community there. Almost a thousand years ago, they were invited to settle in Speyer by the Bishop who believed a strong Jewish community in Speyer would help his town to grow. In a “Jews Charter,” he granted unusual privileges to them, and did indeed usher in a golden age for the city and for the Jews who lived there. The scholarship within the Jewish community was respected across Europe, and their businesses thrived.

But this story is a tragic one. Over the centuries, the Jews of Speyer were repeatedly attacked, murdered, and their buildings and synagogues destroyed.

What triggered these attacks? When deadly plagues swept repeatedly through the city and hundreds died, the Jews were blamed and attacked. Another trigger were the Crusades in the Middle Ages, those wars to conquer the “Holy Land.” Before and after fighting in the Holy Land, hatred of the Jews erupted in pogroms.

In more recent centuries, riots often centered on Jews supposedly being “guilty” of some unsolved crime. Laws increasingly echoed these prejudices, and restrictions and expulsions were used against Speyer’s Jews. By Hitler’s time, there were only 50 Jewish persons in Speyer to be taken to concentration camps.

These are accounts of prejudice and scapegoating that are indeed tragic. The Jews of Speyer and in many other communities were scapegoats, persecuted and blamed repeatedly for the painful events of their times.

But I’m also writing about the Jews of Speyer because my local newspaper carried a story last week about someone arrested for putting anti-Semitic hate signs near a local synagogue. One troubled individual does not equal a mob, but acts of prejudice and the threat of violence are still around us.

So how do we humans grow our prejudices? We’re not born with prejudices; we learn them. It’s easier to blame another person or group for painful events or hard times than it is to feel helpless. It’s the fault of — them! With scapegoating, prejudice can easily grow into acts of violence.

In my country, I believe our prejudices have erupted most frequently into violent acts against African-Americans. In my friend Tom Gates’ book Turning Toward the Victim, he reports that over six thousand African-Americans have been lynched since the Civil War. Though lynchings are rare today, acts of discrimination and prejudice are not. And acts of violence against those who seem. . different. . . still happen.

I feel helpless at the magnitude of this issue. Sometimes it can help if I ask myself this simple question: What is mine to do? And particularly What is mine to do in everyday life? I invite you to consider these questions, too.

So far, I have found two clear steps for me. First, I want to examine myself for ways I may pre-judge a person. If I make conclusions about someone because of their name, the way they speak, their skin color or their general appearance, before I know the person at all, I am prejudiced. I need to notice my prejudices before I can banish them.

Secondly, I want to speak up when I observe a prejudicial comment or act. Perhaps I will raise a question (“How do you know that?”) or simply state my understanding (“That’s not been my experience.” or “I don’t agree with that.”). Perhaps I will speak up through my actions, especially joining and helping someone who is being victimized.

My prayer is that I will follow these Biblical injunctions:

When a foreigner [or stranger or someone different] resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself. Leviticus 19:33-34a

The second [commandment] is this: Love your neighbor as yourself. Mark 12:31

I recently returned from a trip through the Baltic trio — Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, those small northern countries perching on the Baltic Sea. Like many Americans, I knew very little about these countries so I was glad for the opportunity to experience them.

As I journeyed, this Baltic trio sang their stories to me. And, walking through the streets and museums, the old churches and the lively downtown shops, I listened, and I learned.

I learned how singing builds a culture for a country. I learned how song can communicate in times of repression, how music can awaken a sleeping strength when hope is hidden but not lost.

The 20th century history of these countries is a horrendous story of being fought over and then gobbled up. After the chaos of World War One (1914-1918), Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania had a few decades of independence, a time for experimenting with democracy. But by 1940, they were grabbed by Russia, and many thousands of Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians were sent to labor camps in Siberia for the singular crime of being a successful business person, a teacher, or a potential leader. One year later, however, the Nazis overran the three little countries, chasing the Russians out. During the next few years, most of the Jewish population and anyone who spoke out in protest was murdered.

By 1945, as World War Two came to an end, the winning powers ceded the Baltic trio to Russia. And so these three little countries became part of the “Union of Soviet Socialist Republics,” the USSR, and they lost their identity. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that their identity was hidden. National flags were hidden in attics, along with Christmas ornaments and religious books. Songs in celebration of their homelands were dangerous. Everyone knew that the KGB secret police were actively searching for patriots — and few people returned from Siberia if they were sent to a labor camp there.

So how did singing awaken the hidden strengths of the Baltic Trio in the midst of this oppression? What power within music did I sense as I walked their streets and learned their stories?

It’s called the Singing Revolution. Music, especially choral singing, has always been important in these countries. For example, every four years local choirs from all over Estonia gather and sing in a united choir of thousands of people — as more thousands listen to them in a huge amphitheater. Such singing brings people together to join something much larger than themselves. And music awakens something that simply talking and thinking doesn’t touch. This happened for the Baltic Trio.

In the late 1980’s, as the USSR central government in Moscow weakened, these three countries tested the limits of what was permitted. They gathered by the thousands to sing songs of love for their homelands. When the KGB didn’t arrest those who sang, they gathered again, and broke out the hidden national flags to wave! Religious and civic groups formed to keep on pushing for more freedom, and the people kept on singing.

One of the most amazing events of those years of awakening was the Baltic Way. On August 23, 1989, approximately two million people joined hands to form a continuous human chain across Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania — a chain that was over 400 miles long. It was a visible sign of their unity and their desire to pursue independence. As they stood together, hands joined in a line further than any one person could see, they sang.

And they kept on singing, in groups small and large, in all seasons and places until, by 1991, as the USSR was collapsing, each country had declared their independence.

It’s been over 30 years since the Singing Revolution, but the people of the Baltic Trio are still a people who sing. As I explored each country, I felt I could almost hear echoes from that time many years ago. And I knew the strength and unity that is found through singing together is still alive for them.

I invite you to reflect on music in your life: What songs are in your heart? What music does your life create as you move through your days? How are you stronger through music? What cause do you care so much about that you’d join a Singing Revolution today?

Many years ago, my daughter Alisa spent a summer doing research high in the Colorado Rockies. I visited her there, and one day she suggested we hike up to her ‘laboratory’, the tundra. There, high above the tree line, where only small animals and smaller plants survived the winter snow and wind, she collected soil and water samples to test for contaminants.

It was beautiful on top of the world. The blue sky stretched above us, and the pine forests we had hiked through lay at our feet. We had passed old snow drifts in protected gullies as we hiked up, and here we could see peaks still clothed in white. The sun shone brightly but a cold wind blew, and I was glad for my jacket.

As we climbed, I had paused to catch my breath and, looking around, had been awed by the thousands of wild flowers everywhere. I saw there were just as many here on this rocky slope. Tinier and more delicate, they hugged the ground, avoiding the cold wind striking taller beings like myself. They were the tundra survivors. With roots stretching deep into this rocky soil, these miniature plants had learned how to live in an environment with an eight week growing season.

Suddenly I noticed a familiar backyard plant. It looked just like a clover. It WAS a clover, complete with a pinkish blossom! “Look, Lis,” I cried, “Here’s an ordinary clover.”

“No, Mom,” she responded. “Not an ordinary clover. Alpine clovers like this tiny plant may be a century old. They grow so slowly and their winters are so long that they live undisturbed a long time.”

I was taken aback. I peered more respectfully at this plant with its familiar three-lobed leaves. Just a clover, and it was here before I was born and would most likely continue after I was dead. I knew the towering lodgepole pines had long lives, and the mountains, of course, made my lifetime as brief as that of my garden vegetables. But I didn’t expect to be ephemeral around clover plants! It was humbling knowledge.

Many, many years ago, someone looked out at a night sky studded with stars or up at the mountains in their giant immovability or perhaps at a tiny long-lived plant, and he cried passionately: What are humans, O God, that you should be mindful of them? What are mortals that you care for them? He went on to declare that God had made humans just a little lower than the angels and “crowned them with glory and honor.”

We read in the Psalms of his awe at the mighty creations he saw around him. We can read, too, of his mystification at his place in the scheme of things. I share both his awe and his mystification. How indeed could such an ephemeral creature as a human being matter to God? Especially in a world of hundred year old clovers!

There is a story of a doctor in a poor, isolated area who was tenderly trying to feed a baby was not expected to live. When the baby died, someone asked her, “What worth was this baby? How did his helpless, brief existence matter at all?” The doctor looked up in silence, and then she answered, “He had the power to stir me to love.”

I still don’t know why we transient humans matter in a world where we live briefly and trees, mountains, and clovers live so long. But I do know that we have the power to stir God to love — us. In spite of our brief and helpless existence, the love of the Creator of the whole universe is poured onto us.

What are humans, O God, that you should be mindful of them? What are humans that you should pour out your love on us? It was a mystery to the Psalmist, and it still mystifies us today.

Perhaps love is always a mystery. We know so well our weaknesses and ugly places that we can’t understand how we can be wholly, unconditionally loved. We know children need unconditional love but forget that adults need it, too.

And God’s love is wholly unconditional. When you’re loved by God, that love is freely, lavishly distributed – with no strings attached. It not only doesn’t matter how long I live, it also doesn’t matter how beautiful, intelligent, or good I am! God’s love just keeps pouring out. I may want to be good, intelligent, beautiful or live a long time, but even if I’m not, I am still cherished. I am still loved.

God, your mysteries are beyond my comprehension. All I can do is accept with great gratitude the gift of your love, and perhaps, through loving others, spread the treasure around.

This is a story of hope and despair. It’s my story, and it’s the story of my dearly loved cat Eowyn.

Our Eowyn is a shy indoor cat. She’s never been outdoors since we adopted her from the SPCA and promised them she’d remain indoors. But recently a workman left a door slightly open – and she disappeared. We called and called. We set food in the doorway, notified the neighbors, and called some more. We looked everywhere, but we knew she could easily be lost within the nearby cornfields. And then there were the eagles and vultures we sometimes saw swooping low. Would they carry her away?

We were desperate to recover her, especially when we had a fierce thunderstorm. Eowyn was terrified of storms even when safely indoors. Our remaining cat Arwen was lonely, meowing anxiously to us and seeming to look around for Eowyn. We reassured Arwen that we were searching, too, but we couldn’t find the lost one.

Days passed, and I kept searching and calling. A week passed, and I wondered why I kept on hoping and looking. If alive, she was likely far away and still terrified. Or perhaps she was injured and starving. I found myself praying that she would die quickly if she was suffering. After ten days, I knew it wasn’t sensible to hope she’d return. But still my eyes searched the corners of our garden, and I found myself calling softly for her as I picked the peas.

And then, twelve days after she disappeared, I heard a tiny meow as I put garden tools away in the basement. I looked up, and there was Eowyn! Still alive, and just across the room! When I approached, she ran away and hid, terrified even of me. It took a long time of gentle coaxing (and a dish of food) before she trusted me enough to come upstairs and into her familiar home.

She’s been home with us for a week now and has settled in well. Although thinner, she seems healthy and has agreed to only enjoy the outdoors from indoor window sills in the future. For me, Eowyn’s return is like a small miracle. It doesn’t make sense, and yet it happened. And I am so glad.

This entire experience of losing, desperately hoping, and continuing to search has made me wonder about the practice of hoping. I don’t believe Eowyn returned simply because I refused to give up. But perhaps the actions accompanying my hope kept her close by. I had continued to call for her even after she was missing more than a week.

Hope sometimes doesn’t make sense. My spirit kept on hoping even though my mind told me to give up. Living from a place of hope influences our actions. It may be a hope for a dear pet’s return — or it may be a hope for our country itself.

On this weekend, when this divided country of mine honors its 250 years of existence, I choose hope. My hope is that we will move toward the healing that we need, that there will be less division between us, and a true acceptance of all peoples who call this country home. My hope is that we will embrace and care for each other. My hope is that our country will follow peaceful paths in dealing with other countries, and also within our own borders.

My hoping needs to be more than words on a page. It needs to be an active verb. Just as my hope was expressed by calling for my lost cat, my hope for the country needs to be expressed with my actions. And I need the fuel of other people’s energy to join with me.

My dear cat Eowyn actually returned home on my birthday. What a birthday present that was! On this 250th birthday for the United States, may we who live here give each other the gift of our hope for the future. And may our hope be expressed through our actions.

Recently a dear friend invited me for a visit to her brand-new house. I was warmly welcomed by her family, and we shared a meal and good conversation. My friend had also asked me to offer a prayer of blessing for their new home. I was glad to do so.

English is a tricky language. While my friends were living in a new house, I was offering a blessing for their home. House usually means the physical structure – walls and roof, kitchen and bedroom, all the parts that go into the construction. Home, on the other hand, is more emotionally linked, implying a space that holds family and love and security.

So I offered a prayer for their new house — that it truly be a home for their family! And, as I did, I realized that I wanted to offer a prayer for my home, too. Although I’ve lived for 20 years under the same roof, I don’t think I’ve ever offered a prayer for this space, that it truly be a loving home. It was time I did.

I invite you to join me in the spiritual practice of blessing our homes.

Loving God, here is our home.
It is our desire that it be a place of love,
a place of welcome for all who enter.

I want everyone who enters my home to be welcomed – whether it is the Amish tree surgeon come to work on our trees, my granddaughters back from college, my next door neighbor, or a stranger at the door. To be welcoming means to truly see a person and to value them. My prayer is that I honor each person with a true welcome.

As we mature and live through all the seasons of our lives, 
may this home be a place where we find steadfast love,
a warm acceptance of who we are and
a gentle encouragement to expand into whom we can become.

I want the atmosphere of my home to invite people to stretch themselves, to encourage them to grow into more of whom God created them to be. This can happen simply through our conversations together, and. as we lovingly accept where we are in our lives, we can envision what we can become.

May this home be filled with peace,
with a quiet security and stability
so that love blossoms freely here.

Sometimes our homes are definitely not peaceful. They may seem chaotic, especially when we are frantically busy, overwhelmed by our schedules and perhaps by inevitable disorder. I have a meeting to attend and I can’t find last month’s notes. There’s laundry to complete and no milk for breakfast tomorrow — and I have at least a dozen messages on my phone. At such times, I need to stop and breathe, to close my eyes and rediscover the underlying peace within my home. This can happen even if the laundry remains undone, the messages are still unanswered, and the notes still misplaced!

Sometimes the unpeaceful state of our homes is because we who share the home are not sharing love. Whether it is a brief anger or a long-simmering unhappiness, a home cannot foster peace and security when there’s deep friction between those who share the space. My prayer is that we find our own healing so we can indeed live together peacefully in a home where love blossoms.

May this home be a place of comfort
when times are hard, when there is grief and pain.

To find refuge through the peaceful quiet of our homes and in the patient understanding and loving embrace of those with whom we share our homes — that ‘s true comfort in hard times. May we nurture love in ourselves so we can offer comfort to others when they need it.

Loving God, we are so grateful for this home.
May our loving grow here
so that it ripples out and blesses others, too.

I’ve offered this as a prayer for our homes, an expression of what we desire our homes to be, but it’s actually a prayer for the people within the homes. May we deepen our loving; may we welcome all who come. May we grow in patient understanding and support for everyone in our lives.

And our love will ripple out to touch others’ lives though we may never know of it.

I am writing this on the first day of May, and it’s a beautiful sunny spring day. The iris in my garden are just beginning to open while the coral bells, lilies of the valley, and the bleeding hearts are in full bloom. There are even a few narcissi still waving in the soft breeze. What a day! I want a Maypole to dance around! When I was a child, May Day was celebrated as a true springtime holiday at my school. And, yes, there was a Maypole that we danced around, weaving in and out as the ribbons we held were braided around the pole.

My favorite childhood May Day memory was the old tradition of the “May Basket.” I gathered a small basketful of flowers from our garden and placed it at the front door of our house. I rang the doorbell and then quickly hid and waited for my mother to open the door. She never failed to be surprised by the anonymous gift.

As a child, I didn’t know that there existed another, wholly different stream of May Day practices. In 1890, at the International Workers’ Congress conference in Paris, May 1st was declared to be International Workers’ Day. At that time in the United States, the American Federation of Labor was pushing for an eight hour work day–instead of what was frequently 10, 12 or 14 hours for the common laborer. Having a specific day honoring workers brought attention to the unsafe conditions, poor pay, and long hours they had to endure.

In much of the world, a May 1st International Workers’ Day continues to be recognized. And paying attention to the working and living conditions of all workers and their families is still important. Unacceptable conditions, especially within migrant worker communities, are still rampant and need changing.

Dancing around the Maypole and marching for workers’ rights–what a contrast! And yet, I believe we need both ways of honoring the first of May.

I need the rebirth of hope and the energy of spring’s renewal to help me work to create a better, fairer world where everyone can thrive. Springtime brings me the energy to keep on, to keep on even when I’m not sure if it makes a difference. And when I doubt, I can draw on the renewal of spring to help me believe that we can make a difference. I need the eruption of the fresh and fragile flowers of spring to regrow my hope and sustain my faith that a new world, a more kind and compassionate world, is possible.

Springtime feels like the earth itself is supporting our efforts to flourish and to widen our sense of community, and then to care about the lives of those we call neighbors. I wonder what a gift of a May Basket placed at the door of a neighbor would look like today. Perhaps it would be a gift to a class and teacher in a school district that is underfunded. Perhaps it would be a donation to support low-income housing. Remembering that May contains 31 days, how would you gift a neighbor with a May Basket?

The deep mysterious strength of earth’s renewal reminds me that the One “who made heaven and earth,” who created all the seasons, is the One “from whom comes our strength.” This Divine One yearns for all people to live in peace and love for each other. May the Source of Love refill our hope, replenish our love, and draw us on.

If this reflection has spoken to you, please share it with others.

I’m sitting peacefully at home with a sleeping cat on my lap. My laptop is poised precariously on the arm of my chair while I watch a fascinating live-streamed story. A local eagle couple has returned to their home high in a Lancaster County tree and is raising a family there. As I watch, two fuzzy chicks open their beaks wide, and an eagle parent stuffs them with bits of fresh-caught fish. Very fresh–just brought to the nest five minutes ago.

With the LiveCam that is focused on the nest, I can follow the eagle activities easily. And every day they delight my heart and bring a smile to my face. First the parental nest-sitting stage, then one tiny chick poking his head out, then two open mouths to feed! There is something reassuring about the eagle parents following their ingrained patterns of caring for their young.

Finally I bid farewell to them, and decide to check the “news.” Oh, my. I’d much rather watch the eagles! There’s nothing reassuring or uplifting in learning about the latest atrocities in the Middle East.

Scanning the headlines, I read of bombing and destruction in Iran and Israel, in Palestine, Lebanon and Saudi Arabia, in the Emirates and in Iraq, Bahrain, Yemen, Kuwait. I’ve named all these countries because I am astounded how many there are. I know that it’s the ordinary people in these places that are most affected. Thousands of people (like me and you) have been killed, and others have lost their homes, their jobs, their schools, and members of their families. I read of Jordan suffering as a corridor dangerously located in between. Then there’s Syria, Egypt, and Turkey who are watching fearfully from next door. How much suffering there is!

It’s too much to take in, and I want to return to the eagles’ nest. But avoiding the reality of this war and its cruel destruction is living a falsehood, like pretending to live in a world where only pleasant things happen. If I flip the channel quickly, not allowing myself to feel grief and pain, I’m not fully alive.

A friend recently shared that he was beginning to become numb when he read his morning paper. He was turning the page quickly without allowing himself to be touched by the news. He asked our circle of friends to pray that none of us become numb.

Our country is a major combatant in this war — but we’re not being bombed, and we can live our daily lives unfearfully from the safe sidelines. Although the economic fallout for Americans is growing, my house will not be blown up, and my family is not in danger of being killed by a missile that lands nearby. I believe that we owe it to those who are suffering to look steadily at what is happening. Only this way can we experience fully the pain of compassion and the ache of grief. Only this way can we avoid becoming numb. May we find the courage and strength to be fully alive to the reality of this war.

But we also need to visit the eagles’ nests of our lives, the places of delight and gladness. It may be gathering with friends for a fun time together or perhaps finding satisfaction in creating a thing of beauty like a poem or painting, a quilt or a birdhouse. It may be a peaceful evening with family or an adventurous exploration in the natural world. We’ve been created as human beings to carry both gladness and grief, both joy and sorrow. Living fully means experiencing all of it.

We are created to hold hope, too, even when hope is hard to find. One hope I have is that by the time my eagle chicks are full grown, stretching their wings wide as they drift above the Susquehanna River near my home, this war will have ended. May we do whatever we can to help that be so!

If this writing has spoken to you, please share it with others.

What’s the DDS? It may sound like a secret code or perhaps a secret organization, but it’s actually not secret at all. We can all join the club. In fact we probably already are part of the grand DDS!

The name for the DDS was created by my friend Mickey. The letters DDS stand for God’s Divine Delivery System, and Mickey, recognizing that God’s ways can be mysterious, believes that we are all part of that Divine Delivery System.

Have you ever felt as though you received a hug or a loving affirmation, a word that guided you or an opportunity that invited you–just when you most needed it? They came through the DDS! Was there a helping hand or an unexpected ‘coincidence’? That was because of the DDS, too.

All the people who offered the hug or the wise word or the invitation were part of the Divine Delivery System. They were all message carriers. You, too, are a part of the DDS. Although God’s presence and activity in our lives is indeed mysterious, Mickey believes that, if we truly desire to be a channel for God’s love and wisdom, we will be used. We may never even know how we contribute, but we will become part of the DDS web.

The DDS doesn’t always deliver perfect and clear messages. The messengers are human after all, and we live in a broken world. There have been times I haven’t responded to a Divine nudge. I felt called to offer a message of encouragement or comfort to someone, but somehow I never did it. And sometimes there was probably encouragement, support or guidance that a DDS messenger offered to me – and I was too busy or perhaps I was closed up and guarded, and I didn’t let it in.

One of my favorite delivery people has been Mickey herself. She is one of the most vibrant and loving persons I know in spite of having constant pain. At 95 years, she acknowledges that she knows only half dozen persons older than herself. She has, however, a host of younger friends, people whom she cares about deeply, relationships that she has nurtured through the years. She has a true gift for friendship, and she encourages us all in living full rich lives

One important wisdom this DDS messenger has delivered to me has been the understanding that I will be stronger and more whole when I have compassion for those who are bringing division and destruction to our country and communities. They are broken; they don’t know that they are beloved of God. “Try praying for their healing,” Mickey advises,” there’s no down side to prayer.” I’m not sure I can stretch to compassion, but I know bitterness, anger or cynicism don’t strengthen me to work for the healing we need within our country and communities. Perhaps compassion is worth a try.

I’ve also received DDS messages from Mickey about aging with grace and hope. It’s not easy! There is pain and loss and diminishment. She has experienced all of it, but she believes that, in some mysterious way, “all will be well,” as Julian of Norwich wrote six hundred years ago.

The Divine Delivery System has provided this message to all of us through Julian: All will be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. . . . . For there is a Force of Love moving through the universe that holds us fast and will never let us go.

These are words for the present troubled times. May we truly receive them and may they strengthen us to live in hope.

They first “”met” in 1934 when they were teenagers. As high school students studying a foreign language , they were matched to be penpals to help them learn. Lotte was a businessman’s daughter in Germany, and Lucille was a farmer’s daughter in Pennsylvania.

Lotte wrote first: Dear Miss Lucille, Today in school I got your address and at once I resolved to write. . . I am fourteen years of age. I am very glad to have a girl-friend in U.S.A.

During the next few years, letters flowed across the ocean. They wrote of daily life at school and home, of summer trips and activities. They wrote of their plans for college and hopes for the future – a women’s college in Berlin for Lotte, studying “what I must for daily life,” and local Elizabethtown College for Lucille where she’d study to become a teacher.

Lucille did graduate and become a teacher, but Lotte lived in Germany in the 1930’s, and Hitler was in power. Even before World War II began, all communication between Lotte and Lucille stopped.

I don’t know much of Lotte’s life during the war, but I know about Lucille’s life. She married and, a few years later, became a mother–MY mother actually! My parents lived together on a family farm and taught school.

Finally the war ended. It was over a year later when a letter arrived for Lucille addressed to her maiden name. Fortunately the local postmaster in her small town knew her present name and her present address.

My dear Lucille, For many years we have written us some letters from the school. Perhaps do you remember on this happy time? My name was Lotte Thiele. Now I am married. . .My husband is in Yugoslavia and I in Hamburg. My family and I have lost our home and all that we love. We live very poor in one room and you have surely a good heart to help us.

Lucille did have a good heart to help! My mother’s journal recorded how she and my father stayed up late and talked for hours about what they could do to help Lotte and her family. The first letter was sent off the next day and the first package followed very shortly.

Lucille learned that Lotte, her four sisters and her parents had escaped from eastern Germany ahead of the Russian forces, and traveled dangerously by sea to Hamburg in the West. But they had nothing, and, as Lotte wrote, had “not kith and kin in America only you.”

This second stage of the Lucille and Lotte friendship flourished as packages and letters bridged the Atlantic. Friends from Lucille’s church also sent packages to Lotte’s family. And, after a few years, as Lotte and her sisters found work, small gifts arrived for Lucille, too. I have fond memories of the Advent calendar that arrived one year. Another treasured gift hangs framed on my wall today. It’s a simple handkerchief with “your German friends” and the names of Lotte’s family embroidered on it!

No, Lotte and Lucille never met. But their friendship and their letters continued the rest of their lives. That handkerchief on my wall speaks to me of faithfulness, of open-hearted generosity and love.

Faithfulness in friendship can seem rather unexciting. Continuing to write letters to someone an ocean away whom you know you’ll never meet – how easy it would be to quit. But they kept on. They were called to this mysterious relationship of letters, and they continued writing. When they lost their husbands in the same year, they comforted each other through letters. The faithful, loving care they had for each other was a gift for both women, and they just kept on.

—————————–

Although my mother and Lotte never met, I met Lotte when I traveled with my husband and two young children to Germany many years ago. Lotte was very excited to meet “Lucille’s family” and had prepared a feast to celebrate. We heard stories of the first package that arrived from America (at Christmas time), and how it contained a fondly-remembered red sweater and the first chocolate they’d had since before the war! I told Lotte what her Advent calendar had meant to me as a child. And so, the following autumn, my children received an Advent calendar from Germany!

Friendship ripples out to touch many lives, and we can’t see the end of it. May this story touch your life and ripple out through your living and your friendships to touch others.

Two weeks ago my daily life turned upside down.

It happened this way. In the midst of a joyful Thanksgiving gathering, my husband began to show stroke symptoms. Our EMT/police officer nephew, together with a family MD, drove us to the local hospital where Larry had a severe stroke while he was being evaluated. Immediately he and I were airlifted to a large medical center where the neurosurgeons were ready to operate. After three surgeries and ten days in hospital, he recovered sufficiently so that I could bring him home! Here at home, he is continuing his amazing recovery.

I don’t have words to express our gratitude for the availability and miracles of medical science, for skilled practitioners and gifted caregivers, for family who noted Larry’s early symptoms, and for the helicopter that lifted us above Pennsylvania’s twisting mountain roads and smoothly set us on the front lawn of the Penn State Hershey Medical Center. I know so well that “it might have been otherwise,” as Jane Kenyon wrote in her poem “Otherwise.”

What has moved me most deeply during this time and repeatedly brought me to tears is the overwhelming sense of being wrapped in love. We have been surrounded and upheld by loving thoughts and prayers from our family, friends, co-workers, patients, clients, and even some whose lives touched ours only slightly. We received cards, texts and emails from around the world, from our exchange student daughters in Germany and Japan and our granddaughters studying in Canada and Spain. Like endless circles of Hanukkah candles lifting their light in dark December, we have been bathed in the light of love, and it has strengthened our hope as we’ve journeyed through these dark days.

Being the recipient of so much love and tender care has reminded me that we all are containers holding an endless supply of Divine Love. I believe that each of us has “that of God within us” as Quakers have traditionally said. We can send the light of that Love out to surround and uphold each other. I have believed this for a long time, but to experience it, to be on the receiving end of it has deeply touched me.

We humans really are capable of sending out tons of love! We touch others’ lives with small acts and quick notes, with loving prayers and homemade bread. And often we don’t know what a deep blessing we have brought to others at a time when they needed it. If those whose love surrounded Larry and me and our family knew how much their candles of love have lit our way and given us hope, they’d be astonished.

We received love from a client who gave a pot of soup to her daughter (a hospital employee) to give to me, from the nurse who gave me a hug when he saw I needed it, from the text I received that started out “I don’t know if you remember me but. . .” Love rises from the wall of cards in our kitchen and from the friend who offered to help us set up our Christmas tree. So many faces of love, so many ways of sending it to others!

As I feel tears of gratitude gathering again, I invite you to commit anew to the spiritual practice of spreading love wherever it is needed. (which is, of course, everywhere!) May we adopt as our own the daily prayer of Father Tim from Jan Karon’s books: Make me a blessing to someone today. May we carry that prayer through this dark December and into the new year.

If this message has spoken to you, please share it with others.

“Yes, that would be interesting,” I had responded. “I’d like to do it.” That’s what I had said a few months ago. Now I’m wondering what on earth was I thinking when I said “yes”!

My Quaker Meeting (Lancaster PA) offers a program called “My Spiritual Journey” a few times each year. It focuses on someone telling the story of her or his spiritual journey. We all appreciate the opportunity to learn more about others in our community, to discover who they have been and are today, to listen as they reflect on their individual journeys.

We all love being the listeners – but I never thought about the challenge of being the presenter! It’s my turn this coming Sunday, and I’ve been busily preparing. I believe all experiences and situations in our lives are potential openings to the “Something More” that we usually call God. Therefore everything in our lives can be part of our spiritual journey! That’s a lot to reflect on.

What have I discovered so far? Looking back through the chapters of my life and remembering what has shaped me, I have found gratitude for both blessed times and hard times. I understand better how they are related, and how I have been stretched spiritually by both. For example, the judgmental God that I learned about as a child was offset by parents whose love was unconditional. Their love helped me seek out a Divine Being whose essence is Love. This long journey of seeking and finding has been both painful and very rewarding.

We don’t often share these personal stories with our friends, even those we worship with. Often we don’t know how to talk about our deep spiritual experiences. We struggle for the words to describe things like “having a calling” or “feeling an opening.” And we don’t want to name our doubts and fears either. It is hard to be vulnerable with each other; I find myself wondering how open I can be with my own community. (Yes, I feel safe with my friends, but can I really tell them how I tried to convert my grandfather when I was a little girl?)

I am reminded of Gerald May’s words in Will and Spirit. The spiritual journey seems lonely. . . .There is a dimension of [pain] in this, but even in our aloneness, we are together for we each have it. At the deepest level of our hearts we are all aching, for each other and for the same eternally loving one who calls us. It would be well, I think, if we could acknowledge this more often to one another.

I am grateful for this time of reflecting on the journey, and for the opportunity to share it with others. I am beginning to realize how important it is to share my story – not because it’s unusual, but because it’s so ordinary. As Gerald May reminds us, we all feel lonely on our spiritual journeys, and we are all “aching” to know we have companions.

I also have discovered that this time of looking back over my spiritual journey has stretched me. As my 93 year old aunt said when she wondered why she was still alive, “I’m still growing. I’m not done yet.” Taking stock of where I have been, I feel invited to stretch more fully into whom God created me to be. What is the growing edge for me now? What is the growing edge on your journey?

May we all share more of our spiritual journey stories with each other. Through such sharing, we will find companions on the path, and we will be renewed and strengthened.

NOTE: Nancy will share her spiritual journey story at Lancaster Quaker meetinghouse Nov.2 at 12:00. You are welcome to attend in person or on Zoom.

Directions to join Zoom: go to Zoom.us, at the top, click on “meet”, then “join a meeting” and enter: Meeting ID: (821 5725 7152) and Passcode: (Worship).

OR use information in Meeting e-news (for a limited time): https://us02web.zoom.us/j/82157257152?pwd=MlptQW9QeFloZk9abFIweTNZa3A2dz09
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