Barefoot & Preaching is a syndicated monthly column in The Catholic Register.

The power and possibility of remembering

The power and possibility of remembering

I got to spend two beautiful evenings with my Grandma in the week before she died last month. While I held her hand and listened to her stories, and then to her breathing when she couldn’t speak anymore, I was flooded with memories. Picking raspberries and eating more than we put in the bucket. Sitting on the swing in her garden. Watching parades and going camping. Crawling into bed on Saturday morning after Friday night sleepovers. Sometimes, remembering is effortless.

And sometimes it’s not.

Grandma also talked about the harder memories of the last couple years. She reminded me about the babies we lost, and she talked about the hardest parts of losing Grandpa. And then, she shared some of the fears that remained from Abbie’s death. In the last couple of years, I have learned that some remembering can dismember me.

Traumatic memories replay like nightmares in all hours of the day and attach themselves to ordinary life in really awful ways. And recovering from some post traumatic stress symptoms over the last year has been a process of dislodging memories from where they got stuck. The healing has been about allowing a richer and larger pool of memories to put me back together. To let the hard pieces be just their small part of the story of my life.

The year we turned 12, Grandma drove to a neighbouring town to buy us some of our first cassette tapes of our very own. Abbie had been hoping for Ace of Base, and I desperately wanted Reba McEntire. When we opened the gifts, Abbie’s was exactly perfect. Mine was Rita MacNeil. Grandma was so proud of her gifts, that I could not bring myself to tell her. I used other birthday money to buy the tape I wanted because I couldn’t return it.

Years later, I found myself speaking in Cape Breton, the week Rita MacNeil died. I was billeted by a woman who cared for me like my Grandma. We drove by church while her funeral was happening and went to a concert where the Men of the Deep sang a tribute to their leading lady. Everywhere I went that week, I heard the stories of this incredible Canadian woman and her strength. And, twenty-some years later, I was grateful for my grandma’s gift in a way my twelve-year-old self could never have anticipated.

While Grandma recounted the events leading up to her hospitalization with her signature gastric detail, I felt re-membered by all the memories of her. Potting soil in the veranda, Noxema face cream in the bathroom, the hand-made afghan on the couch. Listening to “Boots and Salutes” on the radio in her kitchen. The jar of tiny spoons she let us eat with. Homemade soup and buns and pie. Abbie and I lying in the spare bed in Grandma’s basement, trying desperately not to roll into the low spot in the middle, and then giggling uncontrollably when we crashed into each other on the verge of falling asleep. And then Grandma’s voice telling us it was time to go to sleep.

Remembering isn’t only sentimentality and tradition, though both of those would be enough. Remembering is a sacred act of time travel into the places and people and feeling and smells and sounds that make us connected and beautiful.

One of my earliest memories is when I realized that I could choose to remember. I was about four, sitting in the living room staring at my grandma laughing loudly, surrounded by our family. I remember the smell of her soap wafting over the light in her eyes and the joy in her. Abbie was playing on the floor beside Grandma, completely oblivious to the conversation above her. They were both wearing purple and blue. I willed my little self to remember to see if I could.

In real time, Grandma filled me with experiences of the most ordinary miracles. And the memories become the most extraordinary kind of healing for a grieving heart. Hug our people for me, Grandma. And when I forget myself from time to time, remember me too, okay?

The power and possibility of remembering

The power and possibility of remembering

I got to spend two beautiful evenings with my Grandma in the week before she died last month. While I held her hand and listened to her stories, and then to her breathing when she couldn’t speak anymore, I was flooded with memories. Picking raspberries and eating more than we put in the bucket. Sitting on the swing in her garden. Watching parades and going camping. Crawling into bed on Saturday morning after Friday night sleepovers. Sometimes, remembering is effortless.
Being here and waiting with the heart of God

Being here and waiting with the heart of God

When I posted about being here on social media, a friend posted in response: Hearts are so so much bigger than places. He is so right. My heart could sort through back packs and listen to competing stories over pizza, let an ordination live stream in the background and facetime with Dad. I felt connected to all the people and deeply satisfied with being here in one.
Cultivating curiosity in the garden and my heart

Cultivating curiosity in the garden and my heart

There are little pots of wildflowers growing tentatively in the windowsill. There are little piles of soil on the ledge and the floor no matter how many times I wipe them away. There’s a little girl who smiles every time she looks at them and worries whenever someone else gets too close. What might grow if I make room for the messy gardening, the inevitability that some of the beloved sprouts will die, and the inconvenient tears that will follow?
Allowing God to heal us…

Allowing God to heal us…

Healing was not the invitation I was expecting when I showed up at church several weeks ago. I arrived focused on the harsh words and tone I had exacted on my family in the days before. I want so badly to be kind and patient, loving and gentle. Going to church felt like walking into the brick wall of my own failure. I’ve been walking with God in silence for the better part of two years, so I was surprised by the flood welling high enough in my chest to cut through my guilt: it is time for healing.

On Being Barefoot…

Before the burning bush, God asks Moses to take off his sandals, to notice and reverence that he walks on holy land. This holy land continues to burn before me, before us, signaling God’s presence before we arrived rather than because we did. This life we are living was holy before we existed in it. This land and creation we call home is the first book of revelation, God’s love letter to us, bearing witness to the Creator of it all.Our lives and the moments that make them up are the stuff of sainthood, our invitations to participate in Divine life to be swallowed up and fulfilled by God. At the grocery store, in the false solitude of our cars and commutes, in our laundry rooms, and over text messages. My shoes run the risk of “protecting” me from the sacredness of this naked moment. And how I love shoes, and how my sensitive toes resist the prickles of grass and the mess of sand. But barefoot is how my spirituality works, daring to live an embodied and earthy love of Jesus who took on flesh. I’m wandering through this life, yearning to let go of my shoes, to walk reverently and with deep attention to what passes under my feet and to what isn’t yet my path. Barefoot is how I write, how I speak, how I work. Experience shored up against an insatiable thirst for knowledge; direct honesty honed by sensitivity; and vulnerability chained to a commitment to competency. And an unapologetically barefoot tendency to speak it as I feel it, which leads me to…

…and Preaching

I’m a preacher without a pulpit, with words that burn until they are spoken ~ aloud or on a page.

My ministry is one of colliding words and ideas, reaching out to find a connection with God’s amazing people.

The world seems to me to be spilling over with grace and we seem to be people who, all too quickly forget that all of this is pure gift.

When I’m driving, eating, visiting, resting, cleaning, working, playing, and almost everything else, I’m frequently stunned by the pure miracle of what simply is.

It’s not all promised joy and ease, but it is all presenced and remembered by the One who gives it. And I can’t stop talking about it, proclaiming it, preaching this good news that we have not been forgotten or forsaken in any moment of this life.

For reasons I don’t quite understand, my words seem to be given to encourage and inspire. In a world where women and girls are still too-often silenced or secondary, I’m barefoot and preaching because my soul won’t rest any other way. If my words can be a gift to you, then that is a gift for me.

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