Comforting rituals

The choir in their grey and red robes had filed in. A booming voice commanded us to rise. As we stood, a procession in solemn single file started the funeral service to the intonation of  “in my father’s house are many mansions”. The reading continued until all were seated in their assigned places. Funerals do leave us helpless, not knowing how to comfort and hurting if we are the ones bereft. The tears of the bereaved as the coffin was closed were a vivid reminder of why we were there.

Yet as the service progressed, I found comfort in the familiarity of a church service. The beautiful music soared above our grief as our feet tapped to the rhythm in spontaneous joy.

Today as I hear the bad news of my cousin’s health, fear grabbed my heart. A dark cloud of dread descended. I prayed for her and I gave thanks for myself. I am enjoying the luxury of spending a day in bed so that my blood pressure, which has been uncharacteristically high, would return to normal. If it doesn’t, I guess, my medication would be changed. How trivial this is in the light of someone’s fading life?  How meaningless my life could be in the context of the final stopwatch.

Of course, I’ve tried to be authentic but I’ve been distracted like Martha by too many things. I’ve allowed myself to be dazzled by the glare of people’s faults and failures, their superficialities and superciliousness.  Yet, the Christ in me longs to share His compassion, His indulgence, and His benevolence. We are all children of God made in His image.  I forget the extent of God’s grace to me that brought me thus far and the older folk who helped along the way.  So I pray to always remember as I try to live with meaning each day. Living with meaning involves taking meaning from simple rituals and allowing myself to believe that whatever happens, I can have joy.

 The choir in their grey and red robes had filed in. A booming voice commanded us to rise. As we stood, a procession in solemn single file started the funeral service to the intonation of  “in my father’s house are many mansions”. The reading continued until all were seated in their assigned places. Funerals do leave us helpless, not knowing how to comfort and hurting if we are the ones bereft. The tears of the bereaved as the coffin was closed were a vivid reminder of why we were there.

Yet as the service progressed, I found comfort in the familiarity of a church service. The beautiful music soared above our grief as our feet tapped to the rhythm in spontaneous joy.

Today as I hear the bad news of my cousin’s health, fear grabbed my heart. A dark cloud of dread descended. I prayed for her and I gave thanks for myself. I am enjoying the luxury of spending a day in bed so that my blood pressure, which has been uncharacteristically high, would return to normal. If it doesn’t, I guess, my medication would be changed. How trivial this is in the light of someone’s fading life?  How meaningless my life could be in the context of the final stopwatch.

Of course, I’ve tried to be authentic but I’ve been distracted like Martha by too many things. I’ve allowed myself to be dazzled by the glare of people’s faults and failures, their superficialities and superciliousness.  Yet, the Christ in me longs to share His compassion, His indulgence, and His benevolence. We are all children of God made in His image.  I forget the extent of God’s grace to me that brought me thus far and the older folk who helped along the way.  So I pray to always remember as I try to live with meaning each day. Living with meaning involves taking meaning from simple rituals and allowing myself to believe that whatever happens, I can have joy.