Author and Inspired Writer

My best friend died Monday night.

I thought I was doing OK, all through the learning of her dreadful diagnosis, the hospital stays, and the hospice care she received at home that her family graciously allowed Tony and I to participate in. Yes, I thought I was doing OK – sad, but not broken. Then last night it hit me, wave after wave after wave after wave after wave. How can I have lost a mother, a father, a brother, and a good friend and never known grief like this?

Her name was Jill, but secretly, in prayer, I called her “my Naomi,” a name from the Book of Ruth. Naomi was Ruth’s mother-in-law and Ruth was utterly devoted to her, would not leave her even when Naomi implored her to, and did all she could to make life easier for her.

Whither thou goest…

Jill was Stage 4 when she was diagnosed. She suffered a fall on the ice in January which left not even a trace of a bruise. But her hip became more and more painful and when she finally went for X-rays they revealed an undisplaced fracture and lesions suspected to be cancer. Further tests confirmed the diagnosis as well as tumours in her lungs and adrenals. But we stood strong.

“If I have anything to say about this,” I told her, “and I plan to have a lot to say about this, I promise you two things: one, you will not be in pain, and two, you will never be alone.”

She smiled and said, “Don’t make me cry.”

I deeply regret I failed in my first promise.

Her fall aggravated an old back injury and she described the pain as “white hot and searing” every time she tried to stand. They did a stabilization procedure which seemed to work at first. But the beast kept breaking through. They put her on sub-q pain meds every two hours, a regimen we kept up at home. When I gave her my first sub-q, I depressed the plunger extra slow since the serum is viscous and can burn. She told me I did very well and I mentioned next I was going to try to fix a rainy day. That made her laugh.

I was always making her laugh.

In the hospital, her poor roommate had to leave the room we were laughing so hard and making so much noise. And when she was back home, her family, friends, Tony and I made it our mission in life to distract her, entertain her, engage her as much as we could to push the pain to the back of her mind. And when that failed, we gave her the drugs.

But eventually that failed too, and she had to go back to the hospital where they gave her heavy duty pain killers that knocked her out. On Friday, her daughter called to tell us it looked as if the end was close, and if we wanted to say goodbye now was the time. In what was to be one of her last lucid moments I was able to lean in close to her ear and whisper how much I loved her. She died a few days later.

Too soon. Much too soon. Yes, she was eighty years old, but that’s not old, not today. There was so much more I wanted to tell her. Like how pathetically happy it made me when she finished the plate of creamed salmon Tony made for her. Not even a crumb for the dog! Like how it made me feel when she would spontaneously take my hand or rest her hand on my arm when we were at table together during coffee hour after church. Like how many times her gentle common sense saved me from panic and despair. Like how grateful I was to companion her through her suffering. And how sorry, how bloody sorry I was I could not save her.

We’ll bury her on Saturday, but she is already buried so deep in my heart she will be with me always.

Naomi, your Ruth misses you terribly.

The Mister spent thirty-three years as a machinist, and this was back in the day when hearing protection had not been mandated by law, and those who used same were looked on as sissies…sissies who could hear, mind you, but sissies none the less. Alas, the constant noise of the shop took a toll, and I find I often have to repeat myself to him. He’s been thinking about hearing aids lately, but I suggested he get an ear trumpet instead, not just for the money savings which would be substantial, but because an ear trumpet has a certain undeniable panache that hearing aids simply cannot match.

He’s thinking it over.

My ears, on the other hand, function at the other end of the spectrum. I hear very well, but have a low tolerance for noise of any kind. I’m easily startled by even a moderate degree of unexpected noise, and a stereo turned up to the comfortable level for The Mister makes my ears feel like they’re being assaulted. I gave up going to concerts, dances, and movies long ago. Some years back I learned the name for this condition is “hyperacuity,” and it’s led to a few tiffs between my beloved and I. Watching television together was becoming impossible. I pleaded with him to get some earphones he could adjust to the volume he liked while I could turn “the damn thing down” on the remote. He was slow to take action on this however, until I showed up to watch TV wearing ear plugs – the big, garish, orange-coloured ones. The Mister made a face and said, “Message received, Missus.”

“Awesome,” I said.

The unexpected downside of the earphones is that they enable The Mister to focus entirely on the television to the exclusion of all else…including me.

Well. What to do, what to do?

I discovered if I spoke loudly while he was wearing the earphones, he would respond briefly and immediately return to his regularly scheduled program. But if I pitched my voice a little lower and softer, he would have to remove the earphones and give me his undivided attention.

I decided to make a wee game of it, I did. How many times can I get him to remove the earphones in an hour.

Last night, I aimed for three times.

We were watching an old Rock Hudson war movie called Hornet’s Nest. The Mister had been watching intently for quite some time when I made my first gambit.

“I really don’t like those guys,” I said quietly.

He pulled off the earphones.

“How’s that?”

“I don’t like those guys,” I repeated.

“Well…they are Nazis.”

“Right. So it’s okay not to like them.”

“Sure. I guess.”

I smiled and nodded contentedly and he replaced the earphones.

“Especially that guy,” I continued. “He’s so smug and disdainful and…gestapoey.”

He thought about that for a moment before removing the earphones.

“What was that last bit again?”

‘”Gestapoey.”‘

“And what exactly is ‘gestapoey’?”

“It’s a certain attitude. Difficult to define, but you’ll recognize it when you see it.”

“Uh-huh. Particularly if the guy is, in fact, gestapo.”

I smiled again.

“There you go!”

I turned back to the screen, but out of the corner of my eye I could see him staring at me for a good long time before he put the earphones back on. We watched contentedly for a few more minutes before I said, “That’s also a kind of soup, isn’t it?”

He slowly, ever so slowly, slipped the earphones down the back of his head to his neck.

“What?”

“Gestapo. It’s a kind of soup, right?”

He slipped his fingers beneath the nosepiece of his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“That’s gazpacho.”

“Really?”

He shook his head. “Well, why would they name a soup after the gestapo?”

“That was going to be my next question.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Are you going to bed anytime soon?”

“Hadn’t planned to.”

“Tell you what – you go to bed and let me finish watching this in peace, and I’ll make you some delicious gestapo soup tomorrow for lunch.”

“Alrighty.”

He couldn’t see my victory fist pump in the hallway, but I’m pretty sure he felt it.

So, after completing my five weeks of preaching, which I enjoyed immensely, I had just enough time to bless myself (as my Mum used to say) before travelling to Richmond Hill for a gathering of my wild clan, which I also enjoyed immensely. But all that bible thumping and making merry has seriously depleted my energy stores and I’m finding myself in great need of the healing grace of…wait for it…housework.

I’ll give you a moment to compose yourself after that shock.

Yes, there’s something healing for me about housework. Not the kind of frantic housework you do when you’re expecting company, or after a major plumbing repair. But the ordinary kind. The kind you’re supposed to be doing regularly but gets pushed off the To Do List when more important things come along. Vacuuming. Dusting. That sort of thing. Oh, and tending to your poor neglected houseplants. Mine had started to hiss at me every time I walked by.

“Give me a break, babies. Mama’s had a lot on her mind.”

(If my plants were pets, I’d be in jail right now.)

I’m not quite sure when the last time was I dusted the living room, but people were wearing funny hats and singing about old acquaintances being forgot. You laugh. It’s sweet you think I’m kidding.

Today, I did some laundry and vacuumed, and yes, gave my plants a drink. And as I went from task to task something opened up inside me, relaxed a little in the familiar rhythms of cleaning, organizing, putting things to rights. There’s still a lot more to do (oh mercy! is there a lot more to do!) but it doesn’t feel like chores or drudgery but therapy. I feel a peacefulness in my heart as I perform each simple task and a surprising sense of satisfaction when they’re done. Something I’d knocked out of balance is being fixed, healed, and I find I am so grateful for these ordinary tasks in this ordinary time.

There is a well-known Zen parable about a disciple who asks his master what he must do to achieve enlightenment. The master says, “Chop wood. Carry water.” The disciple carries out these tasks meticulously for ten years, but returns to his master still unenlightened. “Now what should I do?” he wants to know. The old master says, “Chop wood. Carry water.” The disciple obeys and during the next ten years, he does become a truly enlightened being. He returns one last time to his master and asks, “Now that I’ve become enlightened, what tasks should I do?” And you know what the old master replies, don’t you? That’s right. “Chop wood. Carry water.”

And maybe dust your living room once in a while.

The last woman mentioned in Christ’s genealogy is arguably the most significant, certainly the one who had the most direct influence on him, and that is his mother, Mary of Nazareth. The Roman Catholic Church has cultivated a deep reverence for Mary as the Mother of God. Catholics also believe that Mary was conceived without original sin, and when she died, did not undergo corruption, but was assumed body and soul into heaven. While I think there is much to ponder in these dogmas, there is no Scriptural basis for either the Immaculate Conception or the Assumption. However, the Mary of the Bible is a wonderfully rich character all on her own, and worthy of our consideration and contemplation.

When we first meet Mary in Scripture, she is entertaining an angel in her kitchen, who greets her with an astonishing title – “Hail, full of grace!” Wow! “Hail, you who are full of the favour of God.” That’s pretty big. Only one other person in the Bible is referred to as ‘full of grace.’ Care to guess who that might be? Jesus, full of grace and truth.

And when the angel tells Mary that she has been chosen to bear the Messiah, she doesn’t say yes right away. “Hold on a minute,” she says, “how’s that going to work, as I know not man?” And Gabriel says, “The power of the Holy Spirit will over shadow you.” “Oh,” she says. “Alright then.” And then she proclaims her acceptance – “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done to me according to thy word.” Now that’s Mary’s humility before God, and it’s beautiful, but it’s inaccurate. Mary is not God’s handmaid. Mary is God’s co-creator. The Messiah will not come into this world, will not become a reality without God’s Holy Spirit, and Mary’s DNA. As Leonardo Boff said, “When the Word became flesh, it was Mary’s flesh the Word took on.”

But this little arrangement of God’s would be so outrageous, so scandalous, it would cause Mary and Jesus trouble all their lives. Why? Because Mary became pregnant during her betrothal year. Why couldn’t God have waited until she was “decently” married? You’ll have to ask God that. But it seems God wanted to create the maximum amount of scandal surrounding the conception and birth of Jesus. So Mary starts out this great adventure of God’s as an unwed mother. Which was a dangerous thing to be back then.

I can’t imagine what Joseph, her fiancé, must have gone through when he discovered her condition. Matthew says that he did not want to expose Mary to the Law. And what was the Law? Well, Mary was pregnant in her betrothal year, and not by Joseph. That would have been considered adultery, and the penalty for adultery was death by stoning. Joseph must have felt angry, hurt and betrayed, but he didn’t want Mary killed.

And there may have been something else going on here. Joseph has a dream in which an angel tells him, “Do not be afraid to take Mary as you wife.” Tony had an interesting insight into this passage, as he often does. He said, “Was Joseph afraid because he didn’t believe Mary that this was God’s child, or was he afraid because he did believe her? Either way, it seems he couldn’t handle it, and decides to end their engagement quietly and move on. But then he had that dream, and somehow Joseph found the courage to become this extraordinary woman’s husband, and foster father to her miracle child. That wasn’t asking too much of the poor man, now was it? No wonder he was afraid!

So they get married. But problem was, by then it was too late. Nazareth was a small town and it would have been impossible to keep the pregnancy secret. Everyone would have known Joseph had gone through with the marriage to protect her from the Law, and that he was not the father. Mary would be considered an adulteress and Jesus, her bastard child, and these labels would follow them wherever they went. The Pharisees once said of Jesus, “But this man, we don’t know where he comes from,” which was a polite way of saying, “We don’t know who his father is.” And isn’t that an ironic statement? Later in his life, Jesus, who himself was judged at every turn, was to say to his disciples, “Judge not!” and oh! I shudder to think how many times I judged someone as unworthy who may have been in the eyes of God, full of grace.

Right after she conceives, Mary journeys to visit her kinswoman Elizabeth, who is experiencing a miraculous pregnancy of her own, and it’s there that she proclaims a powerful message of praise, referred to as the Magnificat – “My soul doth magnify the Lord!” Beautiful hymn of praise. But Mary goes on to say this – [God] has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” This wasn’t wishful thinking on Mary’s part. This was prophecy! Though she didn’t live to see it, the powerful were pulled down from their thrones; the mighty Roman Empire would crumble to dust. But the kingdom of her Son, would endure. Mary proclaims quite boldly that indeed God does take sides, and it is not the side of the powerful and it is not the side of the rich. She passed this understanding on to Jesus who was to say, “Blessed are the poor, the persecuted, the outcast, those hungry for justice, for theirs is the kingdom of God. And woe to you rich and well-fed, for you have already received your consolation.” He would also say that the chances of a rich person getting into heaven were about the same as camel going through the eye of a needle. Radical thinking, subversive even, in a culture that held only the rich and powerful were blessed by God.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph are called “The Holy Family” in the Roman Catholic Church, but although they were a holy family, Scripture says they were far from a happy family, and that unhappiness began early.

After the birth of her son, Mary and Joseph bring the infant Jesus and present him in the temple, where they meet a prophet named Simeon, who tells Mary that a sword will pierce her soul. A sad prophecy that was to be fulfilled not just once, but over and over. The first time was when Jesus was twelve and ran away. Mary and Joseph spend three days searching for him until they finally find him in the temple. And Mary would scold him saying, “Why have you done this to us? Your father and I have been searching for you [literally] in pain. You hurt us!” And Joseph’s heart must have broken when Jesus replied, “Did you not know I must be in my Father’s house…you know, my real Father?”

It was Mary who urged Jesus to begin his public ministry when Jesus clearly did not want to, didn’t think it was time. It was at the marriage feast in Cana, and they had just run out of wine, which was a huge embarrassment to the families of the couple. Mary says to Jesus, “They have no wine,” and Jesus replies, “So what? What is that to thee and me? My hour has not yet come.” What did he mean? I think he meant that if I work this miracle, which was really a frivolous miracle, something just to keep the party going, but if I do it, nothing will ever be the same between us again. I won’t belong to you anymore. I’ll belong to those who need me. I can’t look after you. I can’t be a good son to you. And I’m not ready for this yet.” And Mary as much as says, “Ready or not, my boy, this is what God is asking.”

Now, I think this conversation takes place in the presence of the servants. I think they were right there listening, because Mary and Jesus are speaking in code. They never use the “M” word – miracle. No no. It’s all “They have no wine,” and “What is that to thee and me?” and “My hour has not yet come.” And the servants are going back and forth and back and forth between them trying to figure out what’s going on. (“Who’s winning?” “I don’t even know what they’re talking about!”)

Then Mary, staring directly at Jesus, says to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Oh, that’s very clever. Masterful, even. Why? Because now Jesus has to tell them to do something! The servants are all staring up at him. “Well?” “Fine! Go fill up the water jars.” And he turns the water into wine. And Mary, whose work is done here, flicks her veil over her shoulder and toddles on back to the feast. Of course she got him to do it. She had power over him. She was his mother…

…until he rejected her, just as he did Joseph.

Scripture describes a time in Jesus’ ministry when he was working so hard, he wasn’t even taking time to eat. Mary hears about this, and like any good Jewish mother, whips up a casserole, gathers the rest of the family together, and heads off to Capernaum where Jesus was stationed. And when she finds him, he’s in a house surrounded by the dregs of society – sinners, tax collectors, and yes, prostitutes. And when she sends him a message that his family is there wanting to talk with him, he sweeps his arm toward his new family and says, “Here are my brothers and sisters…and my mother! This is what I told you would happen at Cana. I’m not your son anymore. And you are not my mother.”

Once more, the sword passes through her soul.

She must have been utterly devastated, but somehow she found the strength and courage to forgive him, because very soon thereafter, Jesus finds her looking up at him from the foot of his cross. And perhaps there was a moment when he wordlessly asked her forgiveness and she wordlessly gave it. Then, as an act of atonement, Jesus entrusts her into the care of the Beloved Disciple. At the end, he gives her to someone who would care for her, stay with her, be a good son to her.

So why does the gospel writer end the genealogy of Jesus with Mary? As I said at the beginning of this series, no one knows why any of the women’s names were included. They weren’t supposed to be. But in this case, perhaps the gospel writer wanted to point out how much like Mary Jesus was, that he inherited more than her DNA. He inherited her spirit.

Mary was possessed of a love so strong it made her say yes to God’s absurd plan, and horrendous timing, though it cost her her reputation, and very nearly her life; a love that would enable her to forgive the rejection from the one she had sacrificed everything for, and would give her the grace to stand with him through his final moments.

Jesus was possessed of a love so powerful it would drive him to sacrifice anything, endure anything, forgive everything to bring people new life in the love of God, even if it meant ending his own life on a Cross.

Who taught Jesus to love like this if not Mary?

This was and is the heart of Jesus Christ, Son of God, and Son of Mary.

Let’s bow in prayer…