Wellspring: inspiration and guidance for a spiritual journey

Prayer Everywhere, by Libby Moore

We've been talking about prayer in Wellspring, asking people to write their own prayers and to think about what prayer has meant to them in the past and what it means now. As a lifelong Unitarian, getting comfortable with the practice of prayer has taken me a long time, since it was never part of my upbringing. My first prayers started with gratitude, which felt simplest. "I am grateful for sunshine on this beautiful fall day. I am grateful for the love that surrounds me." No need to identify to whom or to what one is praying. It's easy to acknowledge feeling grateful because so much has been given to me.

But then my prayers started to get deeper and to expand beyond my quiet time in the morning. I find myself thanking God for so many things – for clean fresh water, when so many have none. For the abundance of food, for the quiet and peace in my life, for all the blessings that I receive. And in a more recent development, after talking with my spiritual director, I have started to pray for help. God, help me to be loving and mindful. Help me to know the right path. Help me to know how to be of help to someone else. Asking for help is hard. It means admitting that I'm not perfect, that I don't have all the answers, that I can't do it –whatever it is – alone. But it feels good, at the same time, to acknowledge that I do need help, to let go of the illusion that I have to be independent and isolated and self-sufficient. We need one another, and there is grace in knowing that.

Last weekend I went to visit my youngest granddaughter. At twenty-one months, she's exploding with amazing new language skills and bursting with energy. "I running" seems to be her favorite state of being, so we take her to the park unless it's absolutely pouring rain. She ran, of course, from the playground to the tennis court, her mom and I following. As we approached the tennis court, I noticed chalk writing all over it. My initial thought was that at least she can't read yet because it was graffiti, possibly obscene. But as we got closer, I saw that someone had written along the sideline and again near the net, "God be with us in our life. God be with us in our life." What a simple prayer, written boldly among the tic tac toe games and childish drawings of animals, "God be with us in our life." May it be so, and amen.

Playing god with a Border Collie, by Joy Collins

Our Border Collie, Buddy, is almost 16 years old. I know every dog owner believes his or her dog is the most special, but really, Buddy IS one of the best dogs ever.  And he’s slowly fading due to an inoperable tumor. Buddy also has other issues, like cataracts that keep him from seeing well and because he startles easily, we think he’s also half deaf. But he still prances down the street, and herds us all to bed at night, so he has some good life quality remaining.

Buddy has given me the chance to play God. Because he sees especially poorly in the dark, and it’s now pitch black when I get up, we have a new routine. He and I head out together with me in the lead with one of those big Mag-lite flashlights bought just for this purpose. I shine the light on the stairs so he can get off the deck and into the yard. He waits for me to shine the light on his well-worn path to the bushes. Early on, maybe like between God, and Adam and Eve, I could guide him back by where I shined the light. I’d get him in the outer part of the beam and slowly move it towards the house. He would obediently follow. I was quite pleased with outsmarting a Border Collie.

But lately he’s been exerting his independence by wandering into other parts of the yard, further from the house, into the dark. A rabbit smell? A ground hog whiff? Like Eve, with the apple, curiosity is tempting old Buddy.  As the rigid old God of my childhood, I stubbornly kept the light where I wanted it, waiting impatiently in the cold dark for Buddy to “see the light” and come back. But one recent morning he wandered into my neighbor’s yard, and I had a panicked few minutes where I couldn’t find him. He was clearly scared and disoriented once I discovered him in my neighbor’s garden. I was filled with such love and tenderness as I crouched to soothe him in my pajamas in the dark. I felt such responsibility and softness as I slowly guided him back with the light, my voice, and a gentle hand on his back. I was no longer the judgmental, righteous, I’m-in-charge-God, rather the one full of enormous love, patience and coaxing. Like many Unitarian Universalists, I struggle with whether or not there is a personal god or universally positive force that guides me. But my experience with Buddy has reminded me that regardless of my beliefs, I have a choice. I can live my life exemplifying a conditional, judgmental, flashlight-stubborn god. Or I can strive to be a loving divine presence that has an open heart for all of us flawed, blind creatures who wander in the dark. Can I find the tenderness I felt for Buddy in my interactions with annoyingly imperfect people? Is the awareness that brings this choice part of what we are cultivating in Wellspring?

Now on these dark mornings, I have a new spiritual practice. I allow extra time as I follow Buddy with the light wherever he wants to go. Even though it’s gotten colder on my pajama-clad legs, and the grass has the crunch of frost, I tap into my love for our lumpy, yet wise old dog, and savor the imperfectly perfect time we have left. I practice being the tender god who is patient and willing to be surprised. And then, with a heart now opened wide, I try to carry that experience to every encounter of my day.

Asking for help, by Joy Collins

Recently Jen, one of our ministers at First Unitarian, sent me an email, inquiring if I’d like to get a cup of coffee or go for a walk. I was puzzled. As the mother of a year –old son and a fulltime minster, I know Jen spends her free time with her family. After I read it for the third time I realized she was offering me pastoral care. Me? I started to type my reply that I was doing fine, when I stopped. Wellspring has taught me to be a little less reactive. I stopped, took a couple of breaths, and deleted that first reply.

After all, here’s what is going on: In a ten-day period, we put my dad, with his long term dementia, on hospice care, our 15-year old Border Collie was found to have an inoperable tumor, and my older sister was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer. I was shell-shocked. But as a child I was labeled the “self-reliant” one, so I just kept on functioning.

The evening after I received Jen’s email I went to a monthly dinner with my 20+ year long women’s group. In my mid-50’s, I am ten years younger than the next person. I told them about my yet-unanswered email from Reverend Jen. What then proceeded truly surprised me. My high functioning women’s group – among them a psychotherapist, a Presbyterian minister, a Human Resource Manager and two small business owners – began to tell stories. Stories I had heard before but with a new twist. Each person spoke of devastating times in her life when, to a person, each said she responded to offers of support with, “No, really, I’m fine.” Stories of their dear friends and clergy who, despite the brave words, showed up on doorsteps and in hospital wards with much needed hugs and listening ears. Anne, the Presbyterian minister, talked of the difficulties ministers have with their heroic parishioners. How do you help people who are stoic no matter what? She continued that it is a gift to be helpful to those in need. And an act of humble acceptance of one’s humanity to graciously and gratefully open up to the care.

I think of our Wellspring groups as being “Circles of Care.” Libby mentioned in an earlier blog that Parker Palmer, in A Hidden Wholeness, teaches about groups being “Circles of Trust.” But into our fourth year of Wellspring, we find it’s also a chance to more actively help and be helped. The former is usually easy for us UUs, the latter, not so much. We now have dozens of small groups at First Unitarian. Full of those willing to be helpful, and ever so slowly filling with those tentatively willing to be helped.

So it took me a week to reply to Reverend Jen’s email. It was surprisingly hard to type that I would like to have a visit. The admission alone has caused me to let down my guard and feel some of the fear and loss. She’s coming over Thursday afternoon. I hope I can allow myself to be the vulnerable, unsure person that we all carry during these times of deep distress. I’ll let you know how it goes.