Transitions

Last Wednesday evening, I was checking my Instagram feed, and I saw a picture of someone that I have followed for a while. But when I read the Instagram update and scrolled through the pictures, I began to weep.

The post was not from Melanie Ham, the young woman whom I have followed. Instead, it was from her husband, saying that he had to tell people that his beautiful young wife and mother of two had died. Last winter, Melanie was diagnosed with a rare type of cancer (sarcoma family). She had undergone surgery, all sorts of infusions and chemo. She did better for a while, but in the past few months, she has been absent from social media. Now I understood why. Her husband, Robert, who is a film director in California, said that he hoped people would understand the intent of the final picture he posted, as it was very vulnerable.

Yes, it was. The first four pictures included a radiant, young woman (late 30’s?) with beautiful blue eyes and blond hair--some alone, some with her beautiful family. On her Instagram feed, she referred to herself as a “creative content maker,” It is partly thanks to all her You Tube videos on quilting that I learned some quilting skills during the worst part of Covid, and during my own health journey last year. I found that even when I did not feel well enough to be out and around people, the quilting was something I loved to do. I knew I wasn’t that good at it, but I could watch Melanie’s videos over and over, and figure out how to take one step at a time.

I did not ever meet this young, vibrant woman. I did not know her personally. From her posts, I surmised that she was a Christian, and I was right about that. But the news of her death, and the final picture of her grasping the shirt of her beloved husband, was like a gut punch. This young warrior was a gaunt, pale shadow of a human being and looked like she had stumbled out of a concentration camp. Death was at the door, waiting for her.

Last Wednesday, I sat at my dining room table and wept. I wasn’t sure why this young woman’s death hit me so hard, except that I know she is well-loved and she leaves behind a son and daughter, both of whom look like they are under 12 years old. I also had some real sense of what hell she has gone through this past year with various cancer treatments, because they are not easy on the body or mind.

Robert, her husband, said that they all—doctors, nurses, he and Melanie—fought until the end and did all they could do, “but that is not our path. Let me reassure all those rooting for us, Melanie fought like a warrior queen. . . She relied on her faith in Jesus all the way to the end and she will always be with me.”

No one gets a pass from death. At some point, we will all walk through the gate from this life to the next. From the moment we draw our first breaths, we are moving towards our last one. So we must live every moment as if it is our last. Every day as if it is our last. For all we know, it will be.

Transitions are real. Some are as radical as a young woman taking her last breath in a California bed, leaving behind devastated, grieving family and friends. Yet as I read some of the tributes to her on the Instagram feed, I thought about Jesus’ parable of the sower. The sower went out and sowed seeds—extravagantly, abundantly, freely. He did not know which of those seeds would bud, flourish, and survive. He just sowed what he thought were good, healthy seeds. In a similar way, this young woman planted seeds all over this country and maybe the world, as people watched her videos on quilting, crocheting, knitting, making face masks, doing other crafts, and learned from her. The seeds planted will continue to grow for years. I daresay that thousands of people’s lives have been made better and perhaps more beautiful because of one young woman’s gifts.

My parish and I are in a transition right now, although admittedly (and thankfully!) a very different kind. In a few weeks, I will officially say goodbye to St. Philip’s parish as your rector. [NOTE: Because of Omicron surge, our big celebratory party has to wait until spring when we can gather outside!] But after January 30, I will not be in the pulpit or behind the altar again at St. Philip’s as the rector.

We have had over fourteen good years together. It is time for a new journey for me and for the parish I have served faithfully. I have grown in many ways, and I trust that those in my care have as well. However, I must trust God to water the seeds I have sown, and I must trust other leaders to tend the tender plants that still grow.

I am not sure what my future holds. I still feel as if I have much to offer the Church and the world. I am a spiritual leader, whether that includes a formal title or not. I will continue to write. I will work on my quilting skills, and my photography skills—the latter being quite rusty.

If you have come along on this website journey, I ask you to hang in there with me. There’s no telling what we might see, hear, and understand of God together

I do not say goodbye to St. Philip’s Parish, on the corner of 6th & Main in Laurel, MD in the same way a young woman in California said goodbye to her beloved family and friends last week; for this, I am deeply grateful. Yet I remind you, dear reader, that time is precious. So this week, say “I love you” to someone you love, send a note or e-mail, or call that old, dear friend and have a conversation. Be a blessing. Plant some seeds, and do that with abundant and generous love.