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Mark 9:2-4, 7-9
Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John,
and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured
before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no
one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were
talking with Jesus. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the
cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen
to him!’ Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one
with them any more, but only Jesus.
Elevation
It
took three times before Ginny understood the most meaningful thing in her life.
She lay in a low bed, half curled into fetal posture, eyes closed, dozing away what
little is left of her life.
I
had to look for her. She’d been moved to Silverado, a “memory facility” where all
that is most human about us is lost. Looking for her room, I pass a man my age walking
the hall in a diaper. He’s forgotten to put on his pants.
A
hand waves wildly across the room. I am startled to see Anita, once my
colleague, smart and professional, detailed to the point of annoyance. She recognizes
me, knows my name, but little else. No longer can she string together a coherent
sentence. Even her husband is lost in the foggy mist of her mind.
As
for Ginny, she can barely stay awake to hear the end of my prayer. It wasn’t
that long. Not long ago she’d receive Holy Communion every day if we could get
to her. She was transported into intimacy with Christ each time.
A
mystic in a nursing home bed, she would describe moments when she was aware of
God’s loving presence pervading all things. Fall colors always moved her to
know the Beauty who is the source of every beauty.
But
not today. Today, it is only August. And I doubt autumn’s explosion of red …
and gold … will awaken her mind to wonder this year.
Kneeling
at her bedside, I ask if she wants communion. “I suppose I could call for
that,” she says. But the third time the question finds its mark. “Yes, I would,”
she says, and I quickly set up a tiny chalice and plate with the wine and wafer,
setting them on the floor by my knees because there is no table or night stand.
I
speak Christ’s words over the elements, and together we say the Lord’s Prayer. She
still knows that. Soaking a wafer in wine until it is soft, I put it in her mouth
and gently move her jaw until she remembers what to do.
Marking
her head with the sign of the cross, I look down at my knees on the mottled
brown carpet … then up … at the bare ceiling above Ginny’s bed … and begin to cry.
Is
this what becomes of us? Is this what happens to all the love and beauty we
know in our lives? If so, then for God’s sake we need to hold on … and treasure
every blessed moment of love and grace that touches us.
But
we don’t know what’s to become of us. None of us know.
But
I do know this: The highest point of elevation for my soul is kneeling at Ginny’s
bedside, looking up at the ceiling. I know … this is where God wants me. This
is my mount of transfiguration … where the Holy One calls me … beloved.
Ginny,
from one mystic to another … thank you.
Pr.
David L. Miller
