Mystery of matrimony - a daughter marries

The mystery of matrimony

"Who brings this woman to be married?"

We do.

To be married

To be coupled

To be knotted, twisted together

Today tomorrow to death

Joining a heritage of still-married

Great grands through alcoholism and a debilitating stroke 

The hospital bed at living room centre

Year after year

Today tomorrow to death

Grands joined at the soul for six decades

Parents still holding hands

Taking dates

Today tomorrow to death
Others broken unfulfilled
But ever hope soars

Today two slide into one

Yet two stand strong

Different Same

New names

Great and grand shes took his

Swirled into the family of him

Closer, the names coupled

Collide

Integrate

Two join making one

Today a new family births

Overlapping with previous identities

Two souls unite in name in love

Joined today tomorrow to death

The mystery of matrimony

Divine Human

A friend to touch

A lover to hold

A comrade to clasp and stride alongside

Today tomorrow to death

Thandiwe & Darryl Dale-Ferguson -- I love you both and wish you days of joy and years of union.

Reflecting on my daughter's recent wedding while gazing at the sunset's illumination of the interior dome of St. Paul's Cathedral and listening to the voices of Rohan Williams and poet, Wendy Cope, swirl through the vastness.

"Ferguson, MO" written and performed by Mandla Gobledale (Ugly Sweaters)

Walking with Death

"Until we meet again; don't know where, don't know when."

Death accompanies us all.  Waiting silently for acceptance.  Not frightening, except for those who fear shadows.  Peaceful.  I'm grateful for those who show me how to transition from the life we know into this unknowable mystery.  So many names and angles of understanding: eternity, resurrection, dust-to-dust, forever, eternal peace, walking with the ancestors.  Death opens the door for so many possibilities.

I love being alive.  Yet, I do not fear death any more than I fear going to sleep at night.  I just don't like the idea of not waking up.  I will miss my husband, my children, the sunshine, the sound of the city moving around me.

Someone once suggested I live each day as if it were my last.  Good advice.  Remembering this not only helps me try to live a decent life today, it keeps me close to death, close to my humanity.  It helps me remember to write that thank you letter to a good friend, so that I don't go without having let her know how much she has meant to me these past 50 years. It helps me show up when it's important, because there may not be a next time.
 
Walking in the valley of the shadow of death -- a peaceful lush valley abounding in magnificence and life. That's where I plan to stroll today.

Thank you for your prayers and thoughts during my father's last days.  We will celebrate his life at a memorial service on Saturday.

Saying good-bye to my Father

With my father in hospice care at home with my Mom, my thoughts turn to what it has meant to be his daughter, what he has meant to me. As he peacefully "transitions," to use his term, even now he is teaching me, modelling dying well.

My father once said to me, "The only thing we can give you is our faith."  Not the words I was hoping for from my parents as a worldly and wayward teenager.  But words that mean everything to me today.  Both my brothers and I have followed in our father's footsteps and taken vows as Christian ministers; two of us are married to ministers, and one grandchild is recently ordained. Maybe my father didn't just paint prophets!  His faith, a living faith, compelled him to protest Apartheid in the 1950's, to march against racism and injustice throughout the 60's, to proclaim the horrors of war in the 1970's, and to stand at the Bellingham Friday vigil every week for the past 20 years.  I learned what faith means as I accompanied him in my stroller and later held his hand on Market Street in San Francisco, as he introduced me to the numerous ministers, all in their clerics and regalia, standing up against the corrupt and corroded powers of cities, states and nations.  I am so grateful today for this inheritance, the faith of my Father. 


SoSo, who is my dad?  The one who rides the bright yellow Triking three-wheeler!  Who stands vigil each Friday for 20 years at the Bellingham Federal Building holding up the placard-of-the-week.  Who loves to wear his fire-engine-red Doctor of Religion robe. Who attends weekly Kiwanis lunches because he believes groups committed to helping young people are essential to a healthy society.  Who gives his teenage daughter a pin declaring, "Question authority."  Who, in the 1950's and 1960's, teaches his children that love transcends colour, ethnicity and nationality. Who is fascinated with warriors of history, serves in the military, then witnesses as a Veteran for Peace. Who loves chocolate malt balls and hot caramel popcorn and A&W root beer floats.  Who loves Morgans, movies and solitaire.  Who loves Turner and Brubeck and bagpipes. The man

who paints oversize oils of scary prophets and writes lengthy verse.  The man who is a good friend, steady and true. That's my Dad.

One can list accomplishments and pedigree to describe my father: Methodist Minister in Illinois, California, and Washington, Doctor of Religion from Chicago Theological Seminary, Provost at Central YMCA Community College in Chicago, United Methodist Missionary to Poland and Fiji.   But he is so much more: a minister committed to justice, a student committed to living out his learning, a Provost committed to opening doors and windows for disadvantaged urban students, a missionary excited to be on an adventure.

But most importantly he is a husband who has remained devoted to his wife of 60 years, a loving father supportive of three offspring who have surely challenged his trust, if not his love, over the years.


Thank you Al for being my father.

Al died on Monday 3 March 2014, peacefully at home surrounded by his family.