I See You

We thought we were prepared to read Genesis with our sons. It’s not as though we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. And honestly, it wasn’t the fact that God essentially drowns every human being except one family in Genesis 7 that raised eyebrows. It was Noah getting drunk and naked in Genesis 9 that really got their attention. And then, of course, there was Genesis 16—Abram’s wife telling him to sleep with her maid Hagar to conceive a child. When we read that, Eli said, “This has me thinking about Noah getting drunk.”

But then we read about Hagar. . . Hagar, pregnant, running away. Hagar, who never asked for this. Hagar . . . who is every person who feels unmoored, unloved, unseen.

But God saw Hagar. And in Scripture, when God sees, God loves, God protects, God promises. And as the story goes, “To the Lord who spoke to her she gave a name, saying, ‘You are God who sees me’” (Gen 16:13).

Then I remembered why we were reading Genesis. Because even a ten-year-old and a twelve-year-old need to hear and know that no matter how insignificant we may feel or how bleak things may look, we are seen by the one who created it all. The glance of the one who is both lover and beloved is eternal (Song of Songs 2:4; 4:9). This is God’s name, after all, a name given by Hagar: God-Who-Sees-Me.

We know God by this name. Like Hagar, this gaze, this glance, has fallen upon us in the wilderness, by the side of the road. It has fallen upon us in hospitals, at gravesides, in bedrooms and kitchens. It falls upon us when we lie awake at night, when we worry, when we grieve, when we’re numb.

We may not always feel “ravished” by this glance like the lover in the Song of Songs. But after years of living and loving (and reading Genesis), we know. Our God is the one who sees.

Hagar Kneeling Before the Angel, Rembrandt

Open Hands

You open your hand and satisfy
the desire of every living thing.
—Psalm 145:16

To describe or even think about God, we rely on our own words and experiences. This means we are limited of course, and yet, what beautiful images we have! And what depth of experiences to draw upon.

The simple image from the psalm verse above—the image of God with open hands, providing for everything that lives and breathes, giving boundlessly to everything that desires—is such an image. I have experienced these outstretched hands. So have you. We’ve seen and touched them. We’ve received the gifts flowing from them, the generosity of God’s open hands.

And we’ve held our own hands open, in imitation of the God we love. We’ve outstretched them to our children, our students, our parishioners, and our coworkers, to friends, family, strangers, and spouses. We’ve kept them open longer than we ever thought we could. We’ve learned from covenants and crosses and stories of prodigal children to give more than was expected, to extend our hands deep into whatever inner stores we’ve kept and share whatever good we can find there. We’ve given till it hurts, and still we’ve kept our hands open.

This is the image I choose this Thanksgiving and Christmas, as these times stretch us and the challenges of the season await us. This is the image I choose—of a God with open hands, endlessly open, boundlessly open. Of me, remembering the times I’ve opened my hands and imitated the God I love. This is the image I choose—to stretch myself, to keep my hands open when I’m tired or disappointed, when what was supposed to be perfect isn’t, when there doesn’t seem to be enough. This is the image I choose—to keep my hands open, to imitate the God I love.

A Short Litany of Open Hands

God of open hands,
You care for the needs of every living thing.
Open my hands to imitate your love.

When there are needs to be met, open my hands.
When there is emptiness to fill, open my hands.
When there is work to be done, open my hands.

When I don’t think I can, open my hands.
When I’m willing but weak, open my hands.
When I’ve given my all, open my hands.

For the love of creation, open my hands.
For the joy of salvation, open my hands.
Without hesitation, open my hands.

God of open hands,
You care for the needs of every living thing.
Open my hands to join in your love.
Amen.

A drawing of open hands by Siobhan Ekeh.

The Hardest Word

In 2006, I had two reconstructive hip surgeries (“triple pelvic osteotomy” for those who like to google). The first operation was a success hip-wise, but it was hard on my body. When I woke up in recovery, my pain was out of control. Over the next several days I had five or six blood transfusions, erratic heart rates, and pain. A lot of pain. I remember how lonely the pain felt, like no one else understood. I felt completely alone.

Six months later when I returned to the hospital to repeat the surgery on the other side, I remember looking into my surgeon’s eyes. He wasn’t the touchy-feely type. He wasn’t really a good listener. Not much of a talker either. But before we went into surgery he said something reassuring that—for him—probably required mustering forth and dusting off some nurturing spirit from deep within. I remember something firm, something I could hold onto, something like: “That’s not going to happen to you again. Not on my watch.” And then I told him the truth: “I trust you.”

As the anesthesia took effect and I drifted into unconsciousness, I felt deeply the reality of what I had done. Trust has no guarantees.

Trust may be the hardest thing we will ever do—harder even than love. Because trust so rarely comes with feel-good emotions. It is more often just a choice we make. But without it, we are utterly paralyzed. Without it we are so afraid, afraid of everything. This is no way to live.

Trust is not something that is cavalierly restored, once it has been broken. Sometimes it is never restored at all. But something happens when someone looks us in the eye, and from the heart, speaks restoring words—words like never again and not on my watch—and then does restoring things, like setting bones right, or listening, or being humble, or changing. Trust has no guarantees. But we are only half-alive if we never trust. Our whole human community is based on our ability to do this one hardest thing.

I pray that trust will be restored in our Church, and in the life of every person affected by the pain inflicted by and in this Body. Now we feel the cutting of the bones, the loneliness of the pain, the confusion of the aftermath. I pray for healing for every single one of us, so we can trust again, so we can be a healed, restored, strengthened, unafraid Body.

May God heal our Church and restore trust among us.

“I trust in God, I do not fear” (Ps 56:5).

A favorite picture of my husband and daughter, an image of trust.

Announcements:

• Save the date for our One-Night Lenten Mission 2019! A Nor’easter got us in 2018, but we’re trying again! Hear 3 speakers and 1 wonderful choir! Wed., Mar. 13, 7:00 pm, 295 Benham St., Hamden, CT. Snow date is Mar. 15. For more information, go to amyekeh.com/lent.

• Thanks for bearing with my slow blog pace! Someday when my kids are grown, I’ll miss these busy days! But for now, I’m just trying to keep up! Blessings, all!

The Last Gift of Christmas

This year, the last gift of Christmas was a Starburst.

Even more impractical than gold, frankincense, and myrrh was this gigantic chunk of sugar and food coloring left for a baby with no teeth.

Some years, Lego figures visit our manger. One year a tiny skateboard waited in the stable, in case Jesus wanted to ride it later. Barbie probably would have gone in too if she wasn’t so tall. But this year, just when I thought no one was paying any attention to the manger, the last gift of Christmas was left for the baby.

Not the yellow Starburst that no one wants. The red Starburst, the prize.

May the last gift of Christmas always be for the child in the manger. If it hurts a little to give it, then we know it came from deep within, from a place that wants more than what this world can give. And whatever we give him, may it come back to us in good measure—packed together, shaken down, overflowing, poured into our laps (Lk 6:38)!

About a week after Christmas, Eli retrieved the candy from the manger and began to unwrap it. “He said I could have it,” Eli told me.

People Last Forever

My friend Fr. Ivan Tou, CSP, is a very interesting person. One interesting thing he does is that he does not age. No one really knows how old Ivan is because he looks the same as he did twenty years ago.

Another interesting thing Ivan does is write wonderful, chatty Christmas letters that are part litany-of-people-and-places-he’s-visited-in-the-past-year (this is where you find out that he has about 28 godchildren), part analysis-of-movies-he’s-seen (which I skim over when he gets too sci-fi), and part wisdom-gained-in-the-past-year.

Several years ago, Ivan shared some Christmas letter wisdom that has stayed with me. He described how, in his parish work, he is keenly aware that so much of what he does is bound to be undone as soon as he leaves a parish. A statue he purchased may be removed. A garden he planted may be made into a parking lot. A new ministry he initiated may fizzle out. And so on.

This could become quite discouraging over time, to feel that one’s work doesn’t last. But Ivan said there is one thing that doesn’t change, one thing that can’t be taken away, one legacy far superior to improvements to property or even ministries—and that is people. Love between people—relationships, friendships. Ivan said that over the years, this is what he holds onto—the people he has met and loved, and those who have loved him.

Of course, people and friendships can change too. But what does not change is the impact they’ve had on us, the memories we make, the wisdom we’ve shared, the meals around a table that enriched us, the time and the effort and the goodness of people.

This is what the Church is made of, after all. People, relationships, love. This is what matters. This is what lasts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After I wrote this, I found Fr. Ivan’s Christmas letter from 2016. Here is the paragraph I remember!

One thing I’m constantly relearning is nothing lasts. All the great software I wrote for HP has been erased and the back-up drives probably live in some landfill. The great ideas I started at my previous parish are no doubt forgotten as the replacement pastor and new parish staff invent their own ideas. And the things I’m doing at Berkeley will probably fade away when I move on, though Fr. George, a pastor here in the 80’s, reminds me that the current red carpet and patio gates are his doing. What seems to matter is the journey and the relationships we make along the way. People last forever, everything else has their time and then fades away. So a meaningful life seems to be connected to touching people and touching them deeply, or as Jesus taught us, love God and love neighbor with your everything.

Thank you, Fr. Ivan Tou. Come see us in Connecticut!

Okay, maybe we’ve all changed just a little bit. Ivan, Amy, Ono. CUA 1999. People last forever.