In Memoriam

Today we celebrate the abbreviated life of David Gentiles.  I don't understand it, nor do I believe I won't see him again, arms folded across his chest, listening intently, bursting into animated gesticulation without warning. Surely during his memorial, fittingly on a baseball field, he will jump up from the stands and proclaim it all a farce, hugging everyone and laughing because we are all together.

What I do understand is that it is my turn to do those things myself that I depended on David for: the dirty jobs he shouldered without complaint, the attention he paid without tiring, the trials he endured alone.  It is now my challenge to step up and do as needs doing, to love as needs loving, behaviors I'm afraid of.


It is hard to say or see right now, but I somehow trust in shalom: all must be as it should be.

A lament

Someone beloved and critically important in my faith community was injured today, and lies in critical condition in an intensive care unit. It doesn't really matter the how or the why; the what sat in my darkened car with me as I returned home from a vigil for him, and I'm sure I'll find it waiting there in the morning when I go back.

To think of him is to think of sanctuary. He has protected me on more than one occasion. I had the privilege of teaching one of his daughters, the same clear blue light in her eyes that illumines his own (though I use "teaching" loosely here: Calla had everything she'd ever need when she came to me at 17). When he prays, knots loosen and problems resolve. When he speaks, tears spring from his eyes as life flows through him, unimpeded. We all see him as an angel, lover of baseball and flawed humanity.

My words are hollow. If prayer is presence, my heart is open and listening, Lord, and that hurts, but it is good. I lift him up to You. I lift up his family, his countless friends, his sacred, beautiful life.

Shalom.