What Is the Point?

This morning I took a walk with a beloved friend to Lake Michigan. In the neighborhood where I live, there is an artificially-created point into the Lake, known simply as “the Point” locally. She and I have walked dozens of times to the Point and back home again.

This was to be our final time.

We talked the whole way about Life and the questions and challenges it brings. It was a good conversation.

And then I stood at the edge of the breakwater for a while, alone. I watched a seagull gracefully floating along the water. I saw two little birds playing tag. I heard the waves crashing against some rocks, and I looked at the water intake station a mile out. And I began to cry.

In a class I took in seminary, I was introduced to the idea of God as the god of a certain place; that a place itself is sacred because God was there. I believe that God is everywhere, but that doesn’t make this place, this city any less sacred to me because it, too, shares God.

This is the place I came (or more accurately, ran away to) when I was 28. I have been here a long time. Here is where I became me. I am tied to this place, to the Lake, to the neighborhood of Hyde Park.

I tried to soak up as much of the Lake as I could this morning. Deep breaths through my mouth to taste the moist air. Eyes, blurry with tears, trying to memorize the glorious wonder and size of Lake Michigan.

It’s rare to know when we’re doing something for the last time, and I tried to take advantage of this moment. As I stood alone at the edge of the water, a single word entered my consciousness: exile.

Self-imposed and temporary, but exile none the less. Wrenched from my home for academic training.

I walked slowly, heavy with grief. Every step evoked memories. Here’s where Greg and I, young and in love, had a picnic. Here is where I first met Wallace, and here is where he died, at age 94, 8 years later. Here’s where I lived with Karen and Stephanie, before Karen's passing 8 years go at age 33. Here is the church where I found my spiritual home and path, the very path that is leading me away.

Before my friend and I left the Point, we met an African-American woman (no odd occurrence in Hyde Park) who was on a walk of her own. She commented on my friend’s sweatshirt, and we got to talking. She’s here from Ohio to be with her daughter, who is dealing with 4th-stage breast cancer at the University Hospital.

Ministry calls.

We spoke for a while. Her daughter’s name is Carole. I said a silent prayer for Carole and her Mom, who never gave us her name.

As I had experienced during my chaplaincy, a person needing to be heard is a gift to me. The Universe is saying, “You can help this person; remember your purpose.”

And so, through this moment of grief and loss, I am reminded that I have a place in the world.

Even if that place isn’t the neighborhood I’ve come to love.

God is everywhere, and God is Love.

What's In a Name?

I thought I was just being clever by naming this blog "Humble Pie a la Mode." I really didn't know the origin of the term "humble pie," so I did what all good people of an academic bent do: I went to the Oxford English Dictionary. And with apologies to the vegetarians and the squeamish of stomach in my life, I'll share with you what I found out.

Humble Pie, according to the OED:

1. UMBLE PIE, a pie made of the ‘umbles’ or innards of a deer (or other animal).

2. to eat humble pie: to be very submissive; to apologize humbly; to submit to humiliation.

I promise you I was completely unaware of the first definition.

My intention was to highlight the latter definition, but with a twist. I meant to reference humility and taking what you've got and doing the best with it that you can. Humility with ice cream.

I guess the joke's on me with that innards bit, huh?

In a funny way though, the definition demonstrates my point beautifully. I was being cheeky, and I got served my very own plate of humble, from the first entry.