A Believer's Journal

I woke up this morning feeling purple.

No, actually that is not true. Because purple is complex, many-layered, profound, even mysterious. No one still emerging from sleep can feel purple. Feeling purple requires a consciousness fully awake and fully aware.

But even that observation falls short of the truth. Full consciousness is a necessary, but not sufficient condition for feeling purple. I cannot produce a purple mood from within myself. Feeling purple happens in relationship, under the influence of or in reaction to, something outside myself, something compelling, consequential, unignorable, captivating.

Purple is the color of Lent, a season often misunderstood. Lent is a solemn season, but not somber or grim. Lent is not about deprivation or self-denial, but about raised attentiveness, about a purposeful focussing on matters, not of grave importance, but of breathtaking importance, about reflecting on the very nature of what it means to be human, to live in sync with the heartbeat of creation, to live in harmony with the song God sings.

Feeling purple is a wondrous state of being, bringing awareness of my place, my role, as part of a much larger whole. It is not that the petty, mundane, quotidian duties and routines and appointments of my everyday life are superseded, shown to be of little or no consequence. On the contrary, it is these very things, the little things, the prosaic things, that are revealed to have eternal significance, literal eternal significance.

A purple mood subsumes me, envelops me in a rich and velvety and boundaryless aura, draws me, not out of myself, because I never leave myself behind, but draws me into the world, into this world, into the layers and essences and beauties of this world of which I am not commonly aware. A purple mood makes me feel whole. A purple mood makes me feel that my life matters. A purple mood brings peace.

May you know too the extraordinary blessing of feeling purple.

I had no inheritance from my parents. Any remaining monies were exhausted in my mother’s end of life care. And few of their tangible belongings have been passed to me. I have my mother’s violin and her dining room set, a Celtic cross that my father hung around his neck. And nothing, nothing at all, save a few Bible commentaries bearing my grandfather’s name, from grandparents on either side.

Not even stories, stories of ancestors remembered and passed along generation to generation. The only grandparents I knew were my mother’s parents and they lived three thousand miles distant on the opposite coast. Our nuclear family lived isolated, far both physically and emotionally from any extended family and my parents told few, if any, stories, of childhood, of their parents or grandparents, of characters in the family tree, noble or ignoble.

My heirloom, the one single entity of precious value my parents purposefully passed to me was their faith, the faith that had shaped and directed my mother’s consciousness from the very beginning of her life, the faith that had captivated and delighted my father of a sudden when he came upon it or it came upon him as a college student in Michigan.

It was a faith, not of rote or custom or habit, not driven by compulsion or fear of celestial consequences, not a means of attaching themselves to a desired social cohort, but a thing deeply personal, palpably passionate, curious and creative and explorative and resilient. It was not a piece of their life together, but its centerpiece, the first principle, the driving motivation, the guiding star in every decision they made, in every project they undertook.

It was this faith, this kind of faith — generous and humble, earnest and accepting — that they passed to me. But, of course, faith, genuine faith, is such a thing that cannot be passed. It cannot be possessed secondhand. I did live their faith for a while, as a child and even into young adulthood, eager to please them, eager to do right and be right.

But one day, not in a single moment, but in an accumulation of moments, existential crises and intellectual discoveries, seeing new things, feeling new things, sensing for myself the real meaning of the Jesus among us, the Jesus with me, that faith became mine, no more my parent’s faith, but mine, the centerpiece of my life.

My heirloom is not really something my parents could give me, but only something they could point to, hoping and praying, that for the sake of my their joy, for the sake of my own joy, for the sake of joy itself, I would be able to find my way there.

My favorite book store in Stonington was severely damaged in a January storm. I hope they will be able to re-open.

The newest member of the Blue Hill Ensworth household: Eilidh (pronounced “Ellie”), an almost nine-week old Australian Shepherd. We picked her up in Martha’s Vineyard Saturday.

It was not September, but August.  We were in Maine for the celebration of my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, which is not August, but September, September 7.  September is the month of my father’s birthday, September 28, but that September, he would not have a birthday.  Nor would some three thousand other folk have another birthday, because of one particular day in that September, September 11.

But it was August, not September, and we knew nothing of planes flying into buildings, and my father was still with me, with me, just me, just the two of us, sharing one more climb up Blue Hill, my father at almost seventy-nine, almost because it was still August, not September, still fit, ascending the steep ramps of the Osgood Trail at his own pace, slow, but steady and sure.  We talked as we climbed, deep talk, deeply personal talk, meaningful talk, the kind of talk you can only have with a father who is frank and wise and compassionate.  We took a photo on the open ledges at the summit, my father and me atop the mountain for which the town is named, his home in retirement then, a retirement delayed much too long and doomed much too short, and my home in retirement now, a retirement I live not only for me but for him, too, for the retirement he did not have.

It was August, not September, not the month my sister wanted to hold the anniversary party because it was after all my parents’ actual wedding month, but I objected because I could not come in September, because I was much too busy in September with my work, and if we had planned the celebration for September, as my sister wanted, my father would not have been there.

But it was August, not September, and my father was there and my mother was there and my sister was there and my brother was there and I was there, and dozens of my father and mother’s dearest friends were there, gathered from all around the country into an upper room at the Jordan Pond House, eating and laughing and making our tributes to a man and a woman whose shared life had an immeasurable impact on ours. 

It was a most wonderful August evening, not September but August, a most wonderful and unforgettable August evening, my father’s face luminescent, reflecting the warmth of the words that filled the room and his heart, glowing with the joy of a life lived with his one bride, their love hard-earned but now surer and more intimate than ever, radiating the knowledge of a grace deeper than words, that gave him his life and made it what it was and freed him to give the same to us.  It was August, not September, because when September came, he was already gone.

I climbed Blue Hill today, to remember and honor our most beloved Toby, the very best of hiking companions. It is a fitting memorial.

We had Toby put down this morning, not wanting to prolong any longer his suffering or ours. Toby, you are forever in our hearts!