Veterans Day

“Slow to chide and swift to bless….” Those 19th century words from Hymn 410, (Praise my soul the King of heaven,) written by Henry Lyte, were a refrain in my heart from 3:00 on yesterday. Things were actually going well; we had had a lovely 7:30 service and I had made 7 individual Imposition of Ashes and Communion visits. It was cold, but the sunshine was cheerful. I arrived at the Albemarle pleased to see that the extra chairs we had requested were present in the hall outside the tiny chapel. As we organized, a boisterous group of staff came through our chairs into the auditorium. I gently asked them to make sure their doors were shut because we would not be able to close ours, something we have had to do more often lately. With my cassock, purple stole and collar, I was quite positive that they would not fail to recognize my pastoral authority. (If you are picking up a bit of prideful vanity, you are on track.) We are used to distractions in that service, from within and without. The gentleman who is hard of hearing comes through and slams the door across from us at precisely 2:12 P.M. every Wednesday while I am preaching. He returns and slams the door at exactly 2:17 P.M. during Communion. Often those of us in the service lose our place and there is shuffling and audible redirecting. That is community. But yesterday as I was placing wafers into the hands of those attending, the staff came out of their meeting, laughing and talking as they passed practically through the chairs outside the chapel. They were absolutely oblivious to what we were doing. The service stopped by mutual assent until they had gone. It felt like several long minutes. After we finished and our little community began awaiting wheel chairs and guides to return them back to their apartments, I turned to my (visiting) Chalice Bearer and waved my somewhat ragged pastoral authority in divine indignation. “I am going to have to talk to them about this! They should have been quiet and respectful at least—they already knew we were here! Am I being cranky?” Now the Chalice Bearer in question would definitely tell me if I crossed a line. Long hours of working together have given this person a gift for truth telling but in a soothing way. Apparently my crankiness was at least somewhat understandable. And I am really not cranky. . .very. . . often, but of course it happens. But God was not pleased with my fussy response and while gentle, and even humorous, was actually swift to chide. One of our regular bright spirits came up to me as I was putting the chalice back into the case. “I was pretty mad,” she confided, “I was quite vexed that those staff members were so rude. And then I heard God saying quite clearly, ‘There is no point in being upset. They do not know or understand anything about what is happening here. You should feel compassion and sorrow, not anger; that is what having a contrite heart is all about.’” My cassock suddenly puddled around my body, which had shifted from nearly six feet (in Dansko’s) to two. I had been preaching about a broken and contrite heart all day, but it took someone else to really make me feel it. Thank you, God, for sending this reminder with humor and gentle grace. Blessing received.