The other day, I stood in the chapel before Morning Prayer and stared out the window at the trees. There was a lone mockingbird there, somewhere, hidden among the leaves. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it singing and it sang so loudly, with such enthusiasm, that the branches swayed like metronomes, keeping time with the melody.
And I realized, standing there, how long it had been since I had just stood still and listened to the birds.
This morning, during the eight o’clock service, it was cloudy and windy and miserable looking outside. At some point I noticed a cardinal sitting high in a tall pine. He was silent and sitting in the shadows. I couldn’t see his ruby-colored feathers. I wouldn’t have been able to tell it was a cardinal at all except for the distinctive, sharp, peak of a feathery crown.
Later I drove the to the Wetlands intending to walk, but the wind was fierce, and the sky was spitting a misty rain, forcing me to hurry back in the car. This morning’s Old Testament reading had been from Lamentations, and, indeed, it felt like a morning for tears.
I didn’t leave the Wetlands, though. I got in the car and drove around it instead.
It had been a long time since I had been to the Wetlands, since I had driven back around the farthest path, and at first I was disappointed—there were hardly any birds to be seen at all, and when I did see a bird, they were just common anhinga and herons and kingfishers and such, birds that I have seen a thousand times.
They were nothing special—except they were. They were special. It had been months since I had last seen them at the Wetlands. And like with the mockingbird at church the other day, I had missed them. I had missed the familiar. I had missed the comfort that comes from knowing what to expect on any given day.
I guarantee there will always be mockingbirds singing at Hope.
I guarantee there will always be anhinga drying their wings on old tree stumps at the Wetlands.
There will always be birds.
Today was a difficult Sunday. It was our first Sunday without Pastor Debbie who retired last week. And while she left us in the very capable hands of Reverend Joy—who had an amazing sermon to share—this Sunday, I confess to feeling somewhat adrift and unmoored this morning.
I grew up in the Catholic church. My interactions with priests were limited to watching them from a far away pew. I had no interactions beyond taking communion from someone who didn’t even know my name. I knew their names—everyone loved Father Pat because he was so young, but none of them knew me.
Church was a strictly Sunday morning thing—forty-five minutes if the priest remembered to keep the homily short.
But when I joined Hope nine and a half years ago, church became something more. Worship and prayer and community and study and lifting-up and healings—all of this was not limited to Sunday morning. It was an everyday occurrence.
And I knew the priest’s name, Pastor Debbie.
And she most certainly knew mine.
She was not a Sunday morning pastor. She was an each-and-every-day servant of God.
She was my spiritual director, though for whatever reason she never wanted to be known as that.
But she directed me.
And even when I questioned the paths she suggested, I felt God whispering to my spirit, “Aren’t you curious? Let’s see where this goes.”
Such is the ultimate role of the pastor, to work hand and hand with God, to give voice to God’s vision, and direction for all of us who are lost.
At the Wetlands this morning, I stopped to take the picture of a Loggerhead Shrike, who was sitting on top of a sign—a directional sign, with a big, old arrow pointing the right way to go.
How I love signs. I will always need direction.
And so, as I tell people, Pastor Debbie may no longer be rector at Hope, but she will always be my pastor.
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