Author: Dwelling in Presence

Striving to live in the present where Spirit is found, I get (t)here most often by writing. It keeps me grounded in both the silence and in my senses. So, welcome to my journal. With a home on mid coast Maine, I have recently retired from 18 years as copastor of The First Church in Belfast, United Church of Christ, with my spouse, Joel Krueger. My spiritual formation has been nurtured by the sensual and sacramental faith of the Roman Catholic church, the heady intellectualism of Yale Divinity School and doctoral studies at Northwestern University, and the justice activism of the United Church of Christ in which I am ordained. Yale Divinity gave me the opportunity to study with pastoral theologian Henri Nouwen who I continue to think of as spiritual mentor these many years later. I have begun this blog to be certain to reach out in a time of great transition and chaos. We are suffering a worldwide pandemic, a global climate crisis, a war-damaged world and great upheaval in the church. With these reflections, I want to share what gives me joy and that which gives me pause. I look forward to hearing yours comments.

SUNDAY MORNING

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, July 16, 2023

We are immersed in fog once again. This morning, I am going to sink right into it. Seems there is nothing else to do this summer. What a difference from last year when every Sunday morning was a marathon of activity. Editing our sermons, putting finishing touches on the service, picking up a treat for the children’s message, getting Joel to choir on time, and into the sanctuary by ten. The most restful part was when the service began with the Tibetan bell. That’s the part I miss. I always felt right at home leading a community in prayer with Joel, looking out at all the beloved faces.

Things are different now. Now on Sunday mornings we first decide if and where to go to church. It’s often weather-determined. It is interesting going from presider to first-time attendee. We’ve visited six different churches so far, a few more than once. I’ve learned that most of them feel very similar going in for the first time – many folks reach out to welcome us. It’s at coffee hour afterwards where you can get a better individual vibe of the community. See the interaction. Find if you are left standing alone or invited into the conversation. Notice how comfortable the kids are. And, for Joel, what kind of treats are offered! I’m the one who goes straight for the coffee.

Of course, first the individual services send out strong and important impressions – is there life? Laughter and tears as well as read words? Silence as well as exuberant singing? Is it truly prayer directly to God, or as my friend Linda bemoans, is it all sermon? Do I feel the Spirit? Has anything happened that wove us together as one or are we walking out as separate as we did coming in? And yes, did the message bring both grace and challenge? (Whew, I’m glad I didn’t have me as a former pastor walking into one of our services!)

Though I know I have received a lot from these various church services, I know that it is what you bring in, how you participate, and what you give that blesses the experience and makes it whole. Honestly, I have yet to feel as if I have much to give. If you’ve been following this blog, you already know I’ve been feeling peculiarly empty of me lately. It seems I did not take fully into account what the bypass surgery immediately following retirement would do to me.

But this morning, thanks to a new subscriber to the blog, I am feeling deep gratitude. She included in her message a poem by Jeff Foster. I quote the last few lines:

If you want to do nothing, let yourself do nothing today.

Feel the fulness of the emptiness, the vastness of the silence,

the sheer life of your unproductive moments.

Time does not always have to be filled

You are enough simply in your being.

Thank you, Pat C. You may not know that my first plan for retirement was to enter three months of silence. I was wanting to “feel the fulness of the emptiness” and the “vastness of the silence.” My heart event changed my plans. Or did it? I may just be resisting learning in this new way – to the rhythm of a plan not my own.

THE SPIRAL

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, July 7, 2023

It has been six months since Joel and I retired. Just about three months since my bypass surgery. I suppose the good news in these days is that I’m alive. It could have been otherwise, and I am grateful.

I think it will be otherwise if I don’t make some changes in my life – diet, lifestyle, exercise. Though I am participating in cardiac rehab, I have yet to regain any real energy. Walking up a hill still steals my breath. I continue to have a good amount of pain in my chest although I am pretty certain it is not heart pain. Muscles, tendons, nerves were disturbed and relocated during the surgery. These are all in the process of healing. But sometimes healing hurts.

I have also heard that cardiac post-operative patients often go through mood changes Sometimes depression may set in. I don’t think I am clinically depressed, I can function. But the combination of seeking a post-retirement purpose along with post-operative pain has not been easy. There is still a kind of flatness to my early mornings that used to be full of wonder. For the last few weeks, we have been surrounded by fog every morning, which has always come to me with a joyful sense of mystery. Now it seems to simply limit my vision and brings a return of the “stare” I have written about before. Almost back to square one.

Thankfully, I have learned in my life that healing, particularly emotional healing, is a spiral. Hardly a straight line. When we seem to backslide, we really aren’t going all the way back to the same place. Gains have been made that we can build upon in the outward and upward phase. For now, I will take comfort in that. I am alive, and where there is life there is always hope and change.

GALLOP IN GLORY, BEN

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, July 4, 2023

This past Saturday morning, Joel and I sat under a wide and glorious willow tree with a dozen or so other people. We were invited by Val and Abe to celebrate the life and mourn the death of Ben, Val’s beloved friend and Abe’s fellow horse and buddy for over 20 years.

Not having been to a memorial service for a horse before, I was curious and happy to be there for this magnificent animal – tall and brown with wild white spots on his hind end. Ben had come through for Joel and me when we were looking for another location for our children’s message during the pandemic. Not very talkative, but fully present, Ben welcomed us into his barn with our cameras and our questions. I remember there was something very soothing in being there with him and Abe. Oh yes, and with Val, who is constantly brimming over with joy in all living things.

The circle that had gathered to celebrate Ben created a most gentle energy from the very beginning. Much like the energy of the horse himself. We were all asked to bring a story about an animal we had loved. One woman rang her Tibetan cymbals three times and then I was asked to begin with prayer. So I called us to note the sacred ground we gathered on, made sacred by the love given and received in this place among all the creatures. And then the stories came, beginning with an “Ode to Ben” written by one of the men. It was sad and funny and full of obvious care.

What is it about our love for our animals that brings out the gentleness in us? Each person spoke with such devotion of a special cat or dog or horse either still with them or gone before. As for me, I am brought to great tenderness looking into the eyes of wild things – the barred owl in the tree, the staring moose across the field, the wolf/coyote who held my gaze coming out of the woods. Val’s description of life with Ben was beautiful, with none of the caveats that usually crop up when describing life with another human being. No down side, no disturbing quirks, just pure appreciation. And deep love.

Just as Joel was about to end the gathering with a closing prayer, someone said “Oh, look!” Abe, who was not visible during the service, came aroud the house and into the field next to the willow tree. He looked over the fence and took in the circle. In silence, he told his story of love and loss. It was a holy moment. The creatures who live alongside of us understand and feel so much more than we know. They have their own wild wisdom. May we watch, listen, and learn.

WILD PRAIRIE

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, June 30, 2023, Dwelling in Presence

I was worried when Joel allowed “No Mow May” to become a full “No Mow June” except for the paths that he would clear around and through the land for us to walk on. I thought the neighbors might complain. No worries, so far no complaints. At least, none we’ve heard. It certainly makes for a very different view out my writing window in front of the house. I feel as if I live on a prairie now – with grasses that sway in the breeze, giving the earth movement and texture, with patches of daisies growing unrestrained throughout the yard. It is rather wild and beautiful.

I have never been one to want her yard perfectly neat and trimmed. I like plant life to look like LIFE, free and unencumbered. I remember the contrast between our and the neighbors’ forsythia in Connecticut – theirs trimmed into perfect round bushes looking to me like overgrown tennis balls, and ours tangled and messy and reaching out every which way, a bright yellow explosion. Oh well, to each his/her own.

I’ve never had a prairie lawn before though. I find it fascinating to see the diversity of grasses that grow if they are left to do so. I thought about getting a book to try to identify them, but then why does everything growing on this earth have to have a human-made name? Can’t they just be admired for what they are? Vibrant shoots of life springing from the fertile soil?

One benefit of these wild grasses is that they let us know when the deer bed down nearby by the large flattened spot we find in the morning. I’m sure the moose I haven’t yet seen in the yard sleeps in the woods, but just in case, we have a great grass mattress for her to try! People have asked about ticks, doesn’t the long grass attract more? Honestly, we have found that the ticks are in the long grass, the short grass, in the bushes, trees, and flying in the breeze. No matter the length of the lawn, we need to be just as vigilant.

Speaking of being vigilant, attending to the landscape around the house, I’ve become a little more gentle with myself. As I seek to find ways I am meant to grow in this new phase of life, I realize that not everything needs to be neat and tied up in a box right away. If I just let things be, to percolate as long as they need to, perhaps new forms of life, new patterns, new rhythms, will sprout in the soil of my life. Considering that I like the wildness of plant life, I ought to see what is trying to rise in me before I try to prune it into shape. I’d rather be a bright explosion of color than a groomed tennis ball! Perhaps my “No Mow May” will last at least throughout the summer. Who knows what color and shape I’ll take by Autumn?

HEALING FOG

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, June 26, 2023

As I settled into my writing space this morning, the fog was deepening outside. Creeping up from the bay about a mile down the steep hill to the harbor, it makes its climb gently and surrounds me with blessing. Fog is the meteorological condition that brings me most easily and deeply into silence. It’s like being surrounded by the knitted shawl your mother made, soft and calming.

I know it can be different for those out on the water who may lose visibility and direction, but even the sound of the fog bell on the buoy off land is like a call to prayer. A reminder that we are never alone in the mist.

Admittedly, a younger me was not so thrilled with fog. It made my hair frizzy in about thirty seconds. Now that frizz is simply a sign of being touched by the soft movements of the Creator. The humidity of a cool fog is sweet on an early summer morning. I will have a halo of frizz for the rest of the day.

As I sit here with my legs straight out on the sofa, I happen to notice that my body has been doing some good work . The inch and a half wound that was to the right and under my left knee has just about healed. The unsightly initial cut has become a soft pink scar, nearly invisible. This is where one of my veins was removed to create a bypass vessel for my heart. The other was a mammary vein that the surgeon told me was “God’s gift to cardiologists” because it worked so well to provide two of the other veins needed. I liked it that he described it this way, it was an acknowledgement that not everything was up to him. The body provides what we need to heal and thrive. Yes, the medical intervention is nearly miraculous, but the body itself is always the first miracle.

And now, I am surrounded by an even thicker shroud of fog. I think I will step out on the back deck and breathe it in. Treat this body to some heavenly-sent moisture. The healing of body and soul continues…

OWNING OUR SCARS

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, June 19, 2023

The first scar I remember having on my body is a small and faint line over my lip where my cousin Tricia (pronounced “Treesha”) hit me in the face with a roller skate when we were children. I don’t actually remember the incident, but knowing Tricia now, I have to say it must have been an accident. Although it’s hard to imagine how! The actual event is lost to my mind, but my body still carries the mark of the roller skate.

All of us carry scars of one kind or another. Some are signs of a wondrous event like the caesarean birth of a beloved child, others are evidences of horror, a serious car accident, house fire, a roadside bomb, gun violence. Our bodies keep track and in many manifestations tell the story of our lives.

Today is Juneteenth. As I write about scars I cannot leave out the scarred and abused bodies of generations of black slaves whose wounds tell the story of our human capacity for evil, played out by one race upon another. As a white woman in these United States, I know my soul continues to suffer this shame-filled scar, and it will until reconciliation occurs and reparations are made. The racism that still infects this country is the outward sign of the soul scar we carry that has never been healed.

When I woke up this morning, I thought I might write about the new scar I have running from my mid-chest down between my breasts to my upper belly. Starting with the roller skate scar was easier for me but then looking at the date my pen took a much more serious turn. How do I move on from here? Or better yet, how do we all move on and away from the evil of racism?

Let me get back to my original intention. First, if I am ever going to deal honestly with this gash down my middle, first I have to look at it. This has not been an easy thing to do. Born squeamish, I like things neat. Well, my friends, neither my scar nor racism will ever be neat. But it is important to get to know what is intimately ours, in our souls and on our bodies, to come to terms with it.

Then we have to name it for what it is. Two people have said to me recently that my scar is my “badge of courage.” That’s ludicrous. I did not choose to undergo this operation, it was necessary to keep me going. It is more of a reminder of how I need to change to stay healthy. Less stress. Better diet. More exercise. I cannot change my family history of heart disease, but I can let it guide me.

We cannot change our country’s history of slavery and cruelty. But if we don’t acknowledge the things we need to change now, discomfort with the subject, denial, signs of continuing hatred, our history will have taught us nothing. We will continue on a self-destructive road.

I don’t know what I would have said about my scar if I hadn’t realized that today is Juneteenth. Right now my personal scar marks my body as clearly and painfully as the soul scar of racism marks our country. I do expect, like the one over my lip, my open heart scar will fade with time. But until we actually get to know, to adequately name, and to fully own our country’s soul scar living within us, we will bear and suffer the ugly wounds of racism way into our future.

LEAVING THE COCOON

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters “Dwelling in Presence”, June 12, 2023

Thank God for Dr. Marvin Ellison! Marvin was my Ethics professor in seminary as well as my friend. He and husband Frank took Joel in for the five days I was in the hospital in Portland. If that wasn’t enough, he took the time to come and visit me on one of my last days there bearing a gift, the latest book by Carter Heyward, one of my favorite feminist theologians, entitled The 7 Deadly Sins of White Christian Nationalism: A Call to Action. To be honest, just the title was enough to take my breath away in the state I was in. And the weight of the book nearly exceeded my doctor’s prescribed limit for lifting. Was this the best thing for me to be reading now? In all honesty, I could not concentrate enough to read anything at all. The hospital menu baffled me!

But this is a new day. No, my concentration has not fully returned, but something is changing. When I returned home after surgery, I remember walking into the house and plopping myself down in one corner of the sofa in the living room. After that, for six weeks I rarely left it. When the physical therapist or the visiting nurse came, I was seen in that corner. When friends would stop over, I would greet them from that corner. I did sleep in my bed, but early mornings would find me right back in that corner.

I didn’t recognize that I was hiding out there until I realized that Joel had erected my beloved screen tent on the deck weeks before and I had yet to go outside. Instead of blessed afternoons surrounded by clouds, trees, and birds, I was in the living room under an afghan made by a friend in my corner on the sofa. Yes, I had my little excursions down to the mailbox and back to fulfill my walking requrements, but I would return right to my spot to read, to write, drink my coffee, and doze. It seems it had become my “safe place.”

I wonder if this is a common occurrence – when one has had a traumtic event like open-heart surgery, does one seek safety following it? Was I making my world very small so as not to be challenged in any way by what else was out there? I had created this cocoon for myself and only felt comfortable within. I was even hesitant to sit on the other side of the sofa! How crazy is that? And yes, in case you are wondering, I am in my corner right now.

Now, there is nothing wrong with seeking comfort, but my mind is in a new place. I sit here, finally, with Marvin’s gift open on my lap. In the first chapter, in Heyward’s words, it is telling me that it is time to speak out on “behalf of a God of justice, love, and peace.” (p.4) Actually, this has long been Marvin’s gift to his students, a perspective on life in which they, we, have a purpose, one in which they, we, could do something to bring about justice for all people. We cannot afford to stay in our cocoons for too long seeking safety and comfort. There is a time for courage and stepping out when the injustice that infects our society is all too evident in our time and place. No doubt, it is all too evident now.

So, Marvin, thank you for the latest call to action in the form of Carter Heyward’s book. It is clear to me that I cannot “dwell in presence” these days by staying cocooned off from the fear that my LGBTQ friends live with day in and day out, as well as the terror that stalks our schools in this age of gun violence. If I start an injustice list here, I’ll never end, so for now, I’ll just commit myself to become more intimately acquainted with the roots of all this evil and offer my new strength (I’m counting on this new heart!) in whatever way I can to weaken them. I’d like to just pluck them all out, but that’s going to take every single one of us to leave our own comfortable corners.

STARE TRANSFORMED

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, June 10, 2023

This morning finds me back in stare mode. It took me a good hour and a half to lift up this journal and begin to write as the candle burns down beside me and the coffee has turned cold. There is a thick fog rolling in from the coast, and it seems to have clouded my brain. The birds, however, sing right through – this morning I hear cardinals, the song sparrow, chickadees, the titmouse, gold finches, and catbird. At least, those are all I can distinguish right now.

Joel is up and sits by the open window reading. It is a great sadness for him, therefore for me, that he cannot hear most of the birds. He is deficient in hearing, especially at the higher decibels. But he will spot a bird, a color, a shape, a pattern of flying, long before I do. The highlight of his week is spotting a new bird, then finding it in Sibley’s or one of our Audubon books, and reading up on it. His passion has been passed on to me.

Perhaps this is a way to break through the stare – to keep one’s senses sharp and working. Notice the fog creeping in and its dissipation, distinguish the songs of the birds and the rhythmic tapping of the woodpeckers, go for a second cup of coffee when I can no longer smell its goodness or breathe in its steam, watch the wax dripping down the candle creating pleasing shapes of their own. If I must stare, I could stare with appreciation for the life changing around me. Know that I am part of this ever-changing scene. Even if I feel stagnant, the truth is I am part of this developing tableau.

Last night, I was awakened by the call of the barred owl somewhere near my bedroom window. I awakened Joel who also loves to hear this beloved bird. I then lay there as its haunting call moved further and further away. It dawned on me as I was listening that this was more than staring into the night. The call had awakened my longing to be in relationship, reaching out for this manifestation of creation that I love. Perhaps it was reaching out to me as well and both of us were changed.

The purpose of staring mode (written in a previous post as being “blank”) has changed for me. It seems to invite us to sharpen our senses, note what moves us, calls us, invites us, to a deeper consciousness of life and beauty in order to enter a more profound relationship with them. The birds, the fog, the coffee steam, the candle wax all called to me this morning. I think Martin Buber would say that these initial “I/It” relationships were moving toward “I/Thou.” All of being inhabits a spirit we can relate to. And be changed by.

UNBECOMING

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, June 8, 2023

To my surprise, Joel joined me in my early rising this morning. I told him I was thinking of writing a post entitled “Back to the Drawing Board.” I seem to be asking all the same questions I used to ask every time I was in transition mode. What is my true calling? How am I meant to serve the world? Who am I now? I am clearly wrestling in this retirement with having a purpose.

He shared some wise words with me. “Kate, I think your purpose right now is unbecoming.” Now to me that meant “unattractive,” and I certainly did not want to hear that from my husband. “No,” he said, “unbecoming who you were.” He said that he has been thinking after all these years in ministry that he has a right to his retirement. He gave himself fully over to the church (and yes, he certainly did!), and now he thinks that God is good with him exploring his other loves. His art, pottery, his land, the birds. It has taken him some time to unbecome the minister, the administrator, the one with whom the buck stopped. Now he is free to become something else.

Honestly, I have loved watching the stress drop away from him as he builds his birdhouses (now sheltering swallows, chickadees, and blue birds), mows paths in his “No Mow May” lawn for me to stroll on, tends his many gardens, bakes cookies, and sings with abandon at his pottery wheel. Joel is in his element. But first he had to “unbecome” the pastor.

Retirement, he told me, must first be about unbecoming. This makes you free to become something new. Then he said something startling. “It may be that you needed your surgery to begin this process.” After being somewhat appalled, I realized that there may be some truth in this. For unlike Joel, the activities that I am most deeply drawn to are many of the very things that I occupied myself with as pastor – reading, writing, teaching, creating liturgy, gathering folks for good conversation, for prayer, and taking a stand for justice. It is a little harder to define myself as separate from my pastoral role. The last few months of preparing for surgery, having it, and beginning recuperation have stopped me in my tracks. And, as Joel said to me, “I needed to unbecome what I was to become who I am now.

So, it is time for me to unbecome the pastor, but I am sure this does not mean totally giving up the things I love. During one of my first transitions as an adult, from grad school to the working world, Sr. Margaret Farley, my beloved advisor from Yale Divinity School, told me to choose to do what I loved, for it is in that way that I would serve the world with the gifts that God had given me. This was long before I ever heard Frederick Buchner’s oft quoted saying that your true calling lies where your greatest gladness meets the world’s hunger. I have been advising others with this insight for a long time. And now, it is time to advise myself.

Currently, my deepest gladness lies in my marriage, my home with Joel, and my time in solitude. I am not sure if these can ultimately feed the world’s hunger, which is immense. But as they lower my stress and bring my heart back to life, I will allow myself to bask and heal in this place as I unbecome the pastor and become, hopefully again, fully engaged and alive.

NEW EVERY MOMENT

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, June 1, 2023

It is 4:30 a.m. and the music is rising outside. Why do the birds sing with such abandon every morning? Is it because they are so fully alive in the present moment that every dawn is truly new to them? Not living in the memory of yesterday or in anticipation of tomorrow, this moment is what they have and it is utterly unprecedented. Imagine being born anew every morning to creatiton’s wonders!

What if we could live with that kind of presence, in which each point of time offered a fresh and new experience? It had never been before, offering the thrill of every “first time,” and it would never come again, immediately conferring upon it the sense of being precious. Watching in wonder the miracles unfolding around us, would we too be moved to sing our praise? Or would we be taken into a deep and silent hush?

Perhaps this kind of awareness is available to the saints and mystics among us (and they are among us!) who seek the presence of God in every breath they take. Breathing in the spirit of love and recreation, every moment and all things become sacred. And precious.

Although I long to live with this kind of consciousness, I am aware of the pain it can open a heart to. For as I may rise to birdsong, others are rising to bombs falling down on their city, to a stomach gnawing in hunger, to a harrowing existence of pain and fear. Every moment of this also new. Each point of time with its own unique suffering.

It is not possible to know one kind of awareness without the other. For as our love grows, the whole world comes spilling in. I don’t think it means we stop singing, but our song becomes more nuanced. No less beautiful, but touched by minor chords of sadness, longing, and understanding moving us to address the suffering we can and at the same time hold on to the healing grace of joy. I do not know if birds know suffering, but we can not be saints or mystics, or fully human, by keeping it at arms length. We cannot be fully present to the moment or to this world until we avail ourselves to it all.