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Starting
Point Just
as the sky goes on forever
By MARY VINEYARD
Driving home along Route 1 from
choir practice, I saw the aurora borealis off to my left. Torn between my
desire to stare in wonder and my need to keep my eyes on the road, vigilant for
sharp curves, traveling wildlife and oncoming traffic, I considered stopping
the car but decided to keep going, hoping the aurora would continue long enough
for me to appreciate it from a stationary position. It graciously did so, and
as soon as I pulled into my dooryard I grabbed my walking stick and threw on
some gloves and boots and headed out along the road toward the beach, where I
could have a view unobstructed by trees.
Palest green, shimmering, like quick-moving clouds, like dust
blown about by fairy winds, the light filled the northern sky and extended far
overhead. Long straight fingers of light would point, then curl, then
disappear. I spoke, to the sky, You are so beautiful; to God,
Thank you! I rejoiced beneath the dancing brightness and felt glad
for such moments.
I had heard that day about the recent unrelated deaths of two
acquaintances in New Mexico. John had been ill for some time, after many
decades of service with his wife in peace and justice ministries in the Santa
Fe archdiocese. Marie, a radical activist nun in her 50s, had spent the last
dozen years deeply committed to eco-spirituality, permaculture, and running a
community garden. She died alone in an auto accident. Both John and Marie were
well known and mostly loved throughout the justice and faith network in New
Mexico and beyond, though its usually true that prophetic lives stir up
some reaction and resistance here and there. And characters strong enough to
accomplish much often have sharp edges.
Since I am in touch with many who know and will be missing Marie
and John, e-mails had been humming back and forth throughout the day. We were
sharing memories and musing on the meaning of life and the surprise of death.
It was easy to look at these two lives and imagine God saying, Well done,
good and faithful servants. It was clear that they had lived with
passion, dedication and faith, and had literally poured themselves out in
service to their ideals.
And yet, it seems too facile to summarize a life that way, to
imagine our relationship with God, with ultimate reality, to be as simple as a
final report card, a spiritual activist version of the old bumper sticker:
He who dies with the most good works on his score-card wins. This
temptation to measure, to evaluate, to judge, is a nasty habit Ive
learned, and I long for the day when I can grow beyond it.
I would rather look at Marie and John, and at myself and at every
other being and simply see the miracle of our having been here at all. Most of
us do the best we can; we live by the light we are given. Some, by nature, by
choice, by accident, have a profound and visible effect on others. Some pass
through very quietly or very briefly, the meaning and the purpose of their
existence forever unknown. I would like to believe that God does not consider
one way more important than the other, does not love the great achievers any
more than those whose lives remain simple and hidden.
I hope to let go of my report card vision of God,
though I just may hang on to, lightly, the idea of a little exit
interview. What if, as we leave this earth, God says to us, Did you
like it? Did you have fun? Tell me what you saw, where you went. What did you
like best? Whom did you love? Did you pay attention? Did you look up? Did you
really see?
As high as the sky is above the earth, so Gods ways are so
far above our own. And just as the sky goes on forever, so full of lights and
darknesses, of gravities and mysteries, so God is unimaginably beyond our
reach, our comprehension. But then, there are nights when the sky moves in so
close, and the light within the darkness bends toward us. We hear it whisper;
we feel that we can touch it. It reaches down and touches us. Just so does God
approach. There is no need to understand.
Mary Vineyard is a massage therapist living in Downeast,
Maine.
National Catholic Reporter, July 13,
2001
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