Snowstorms, 'All the Single Ladies,' and Grace

Life is arranged perfectly, even when it isn’t neatly lined up or ideal. What I calculated as a loss showed up as a gain somewhere else in my life, all part of life’s architecture.

We’ve had another winter storm here in Northeast PA. Ice, wind, snow, sleet creating chaos and confusion. What’s open? What’s closing early? What got moved to a remote appointment? What roads are now blocked?

As I was out chipping away at the skating rink which was once my driveway, I found myself contemplative, which is customary for me when I am out in nature. Whether it’s running past that little farm at the end of the hill, trekking up my favorite mountain in the Delaware Water Gap or picking up sticks and raking the mounds of leaves in my yard, something about the expansiveness of the natural world opens me up, wakes me up. It challenges my limited view, drawing me closer to wise counsel and unearthing a sage acumen I would not have perceived from the comfort of my insulating home.

What insights were amassed this time around? The sense that life is arranged perfectly, even when it isn’t neatly lined up and ideal. There is a timelessness in its design. It is not random or gentle. It’s tenacious and persistent at getting our attention. Life, God, the Universe. Whatever you call it begs us to notice its perfect design. How it takes a storm to know calm, chaos to know peace, sadness to appreciate happiness and letting go to honor connection.

While we all enjoy those positive emotions, we can’t recognize them without the inverse ones, which makes me even more grateful for the very experiences that have wounded me the most. I am tender in those places. Sensitive and vulnerable, but tender isn’t fragile. It is not frail or breakable. Injured, yes, but more powerful because of that wound. Like the breaking down of a muscle after a grueling workout, we are stronger in the broken places. And maybe even wiser because of them.

It took losing my father so very suddenly to appreciate my mother. I call her more frequently, even if just to hear about what catastrophe has blown up on the news or how many prayers she invoked this week. And though she is still two and a half hours away and we don’t see each other nearly enough, we meet for lunch pretty regularly now at a diner halfway between our towns. My sister, my mother and I. The diner manager flirts with us as he seats us and we spend an hour kvetching about how the world is ruined and eggs are too expensive and the kids are getting so big. And we take our selfie - “all the single ladies”- we call it, and go back to our homes, more appreciative of the time we spent in each other’s care and presence.

It took losing my job 2 years ago to appreciate the time I have in every day, to choose what to do with it, to decide what and whom warrants my attention and my time. I remind myself not to waste it away doom-scrolling on social media. I know it’s a better use of my time to learn a new tune at my spinet, to clear out closets and even old mindsets to make way for new plans and dreams. To hike up new hills and run new routes and make new friends and cherish long-held ones. To dust off my heels and meet those friends for trivia and karaoke, or attend bonfires with long-winded talks with no real destination. To sit in solitude in front of my fireplace or on my deck and simply wonder. I am more intentional about how I use my time now.

It took being lonely to appreciate those who carve out time for me, even if it’s a mere “hello” or “I was thinking about you;” it is a reminder that there are kind souls willing to invest in me and they are worthy of my investment too. To be remembered and considered feels like a badge we have earned in a war waged and won against feeling left out and cold-shouldered. The importance is in the noticing.

I noticed it all out there as the wind howled and the trees bent to its will. What I calculated as a loss showed up as a gain somewhere else in my life, all part of life’s architecture. I have decided that an understanding of this magnitude and the gratitude for this breadth of awareness can only be described as grace. And for whatever reason, I have been the recipient of much grace lately. One particular example occurred a few weeks ago, when I sang a mass for a family who had lost their matriarch. I didn’t know them well, but I recognized the family from where they sit on Sunday mornings.

I sing funerals at my home parish, a bit of a vocation for me; I know this deep in my soul. I walk hand-in-hand with grief. Somehow I soothe the bereft and alchemize their feelings of loss. I cannot pretend to know how it’s done.

As usual, standard prayers and hymns were readied, and our pastor delivered his standard sermon. Nearing the end of his homily, he quoted a prayer, Suscipe, a prayer that St. Ignatius of Loyola is known for. Suscipe is the Latin word for receive, which is fitting on a day when heaven received this family’s loved one. I recognized the words of that prayer from the hymn I often play at my piano - just me and my thoughts in the quiet spaces of my home.

Stirred by the moving words of the priest and that prayer, the music director looked over at me. And with barely a word spoken between us, we decided to add that very hymn - unprompted by anything other than the spirit that was present in that church that day. I cannot underscore enough how unplanned this was. What happened next was nothing short of transcendent. And we all felt it.

I just know that if you were in that sacred space that day, you would have felt it too. An indescribable and yet palpable timbre - grieving and celebrating, losing and loving - all at the same time. We all let out the same incalculable sigh of loss. And when we breathed in, we all felt an uncommon and unimaginable love.

A few days after the funeral, as providence would have it, I learned that the funeral mass had been recorded and that that timelessness had been captured. And while I can’t say that a simple recording could possibly do justice to what we encountered that day, I am honored to share it with you.

I am certain that life is perfectly designed and it includes both knowing and unknowing, letting go of expectations and leaving room for the improbable and unexpected moments that take us by surprise, leave us breathless and reveal to us the power of love and grace.

I had a plan for my life. It fell apart, so now I surrender to something greater. To something I hadn’t devised and probably couldn’t imagine on my own, but is full of wonder all the same. It is somehow both in disarray and well ordered all at the same time.

And maybe that’s enough for someone who recasts sorrow into something that… doesn’t resemble gladness and joy all the time, but resembles something that is…enough.

Here is that hymn:These Alone Are Enough