Forgive Us Our Trespasses

There is one beach, among all the Lake Michigan beaches I know, that holds special spiritual sway with me.  So much that I have not visited there in nearly twenty years, for fear that it has changed.  It is the property that was once the church camp I went to as a kid, Pilgrim Haven near South Haven, Michigan.  Church camp was a special experience for me, a time of testing independence away from my family.  Not only independence in living apart from my parents for a week, but also spiritual independence from them and my church family.  It was a time to really stand on my own, being challenged by the camp counselors to think of myself as a spiritual individual; but in an environment of like minded people.  For a ten year old that is a pretty safe test, unlike the spiritual test of attending Michigan State University as an eighteen year old.  But that is a whole nother story.

Pilgrim Haven Camp was on Lake Michigan front property, extremely valuable real estate, a beautiful spot.  There were two rows of wooden cabins that ran perpendicular to the beach, set back slightly behind a row of trees on a low bluff. At night, when it had been stormy, we slept to the sound of waves crashing on the beach.  When it was foggy, we could hear the fog horn from the South Haven light house nearby.  Both were very comforting sounds, adding to the peace that was easy there.  Pilgrim Haven was a good name. 

It was not the first time I heard God’s voice, but so far it was the loudest.  At camp, part of the daily routine included evening Vespers, a worship service that wrapped up the events of the day.  Instead of doing this indoors in the main lodge, Vespers were held on a high bluff overlooking the lake, at sunset. We sat on benches made of wooden boards perched on logs, and faced the waterfront where there was a rugged wooden cross near the edge of the bluff.  This is where I learned to worship God in sacred outdoor spaces, seeing Him in the colors of the sky and the endless water that seemed to stretch on eternally.  God called His creation “good”, and here that truth was unmistakable.    

When I was a teenager in the ‘80s, the United Church of Christ closed the camp and sold the property.  At the time, it seemed like just another change associated with growing up.  My BFF/co-camper Ginger and I learned about it while at another church camp up North that summer.  Immediately I felt the loss and wanted to return.  A few years later, my husband and I went there while visiting his aunt who lived nearby.  It was the early ‘90s then and most of the buildings had been removed.  The high bluff was gone; it had been eroded away by the wave action during the period of high lakewater, when many cottages were lost to the lake all along the shoreline.  The property was overgrown a bit, but I could still easily make out all the former locations of the cabins, buildings, and play areas. 

The changes I saw were pointing toward inevitable development.  Sadly, much of the shoreline, particularly in Southern Michigan, is overdeveloped.  This has made me move Northward in my beach visits and has now pushed me all the way up to the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Shoreline, where the sacred space is preserved.  For years, thirty years now actually, I have assumed that my whole beloved Pilgrim Haven had become a condo development, closed off forever.  I couldn’t even look. 

This spring, I happened to Google the camp, looking for better pictures of the high bluff worship area.  I was shocked to find that the woman who bought the land held it undeveloped, and had recently donated it to be made into a park.  Amazing!  I emailed the organization to ask more about it; what’s happening now and when can I go?!  The answer was that it is still in process, and there are no-trespassing signs and fences currently while plans are made.  Hmm.  Immediately I knew that there would be no fences on the lakefront.  Michigan law has established public access to all beaches, up to the high water line.  And while I was there, maybe I could take a peek (or walk) inland.  Maybe.  Camp is an hour and a half away, in a direction I usually don’t travel.  Until this weekend. 

I was heading back from a business trip to Chicago Saturday near sunset.  As I got closer to the highway exit, I felt a pull or a call to go.  Sunset!  But could I find it again?  As the sun got closer to the horizon, I took the exit and drove around on memory and instinct, looking for the right spot.  Would I find and recognize it now, among all the expensive new houses?  The first road I followed to the lakeshore came out close, but not the right spot.  I stopped the car and got out anyway, and the sound filled my ears.  The lake was churning, large waves crashing crashing crashing on the beach.  For all the years I have been to beaches on Lake Michigan, this sound was unique.  I hadn’t heard it anywhere else the exact same way, the way I heard it while I slept in my cabin.  It was a greeting that made my heart leap, the Spirit inside me jumping with joy.  To the north, I could see the South Haven light house.  There it was!  I must be close.  Determined to do better, I hopped back in the car, and took off. 

As darkness was getting closer, and the sun moving toward the eternal line of the horizon, I zoomed through the neighborhoods.  Then I caught sight of the right street, turned the corner, and again caught full view of the lake down the road that ended above the beach.  Parking in the near darkness of deep twilight, opening the car door, the sound returned, but with it this time was the smell.  A mix of pine and other trees, a smell that brought back everything in my memory of this place. There was a line of tall trees along the road, with a fence and the expected No Trespassing signs.  I went quickly to the beach and, regrettably wearing high heels and a skirt, climbed down the slope. 

Home at last!  My soul rejoiced and connected to the place in an indescribable way.  As much as I love words, there were no words for this moment.  The water was deep blue with the clouds echoing the color, while the sky was reds and oranges, changing by the minute.  The waves rolled in, crashing with the sound of God’s voice again.  Saying the same thing He said when I was ten; welcoming me and inviting me to follow, like an outstretched hand.  How could I refuse? 

Turning back toward the land, I looked at my camp.  Should I go?  How could I possibly be trespassing when my soul owns a piece of this property?  This was certainly not a violation of the intention of the woman who protected and donated the land.  Climbing up and in, I followed a small trail made by other pilgrims, careful to not disturb the dune grass.  Once in past the trees, it was darker and cooler.  The spaces were still open in the same ways, but clearly haunted by the oldest trees and their memories.  I was only able to stay there a few minutes, this time, as it was getting pretty dark. 

I went back the way I had come, staying as long as light would allow on the beach, then climbed back up to the road.  As I sat in my car, with the door open, I dumped the sand out of my dress shoes onto the pavement.  Any day where I have to clean beach sand off my feet before driving is a good day.  And God said it was Good. 

Rocks

I have a rock collection.  It is made up of the smooth beach rocks I have picked up over the years on the shores of Lake Michigan.  Every time I am there praying, I walk and pick up a rock as a reminder of that prayer and of my connection to God.  The rocks are in my car, in all of my purses, stacked in my bathroom, and stacked on my desk at work.  They line window ledges in my house and serve as small mementos to rub and hold until they are polished by my hands.  Or there are the larger ones that are palm sized; they are a grounding tool.  Their cool solidity serves as a reminder of what is real when things get unreal.  Different locations on the shore contain different shaped rocks, produced by the unique wave action and water conditions present.  The rocks are all rounded by tumbling in the sand below the water; some are perfectly round and they have varying degrees of flatness.  Some are so flat they would be perfect skipping stones if I could truly let go of them and send them off across the water. But I hang onto my prayers.  

The Lake Michigan shoreline is a sacred space for me, and has been since I was a kid at church camp, worshipping outdoors on a bluff overlooking the Big Lake.  Seeing water with no land on the other side, the endless possibilities, stirs the imagination and suggests the Infinite.  So, that’s where I go to meet God.  Never fails, He’s always there, and I’m always praying. 

The lake always speaks differently, sometimes the waves are gentle and quiet, other times crashing.  The color of the water is magical, changing from one visit to the next.  I always come away from time at the shore with a renewed mind, having listened to the eternal rhythm of God found in all that is natural.  I try to teach my children to listen too.  On a hike through a state park this summer, we stopped to listen to the gentle sounds of a small stream, moving over rocks.  I asked them what the stream was saying.  Listening carefully, we thought it was saying, “stop and rest, peace.”  Later I asked them "If a stream can say that, what does Lake Michigan say?"  My daughter immediately answered, “Something Bigger.”

This connection has drawn me to the shore more and more in the last few years.  So much so that I began to volunteer with a nonprofit group that supports the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore in Northern Michigan.  Now I have a wonderful excuse to drive the three plus hours there year round, allowing God to work on me through all of the seasons and see His good work even in the winter, when beach solitude reigns.  This quest has also drawn me to visit the wilderness of the Manitou islands of the Park, about twelve miles off the mainland.  The water there is crystal clear, and near the shore it reflects off the sandy bottom of the lake like a swimming pool.  Lake Michigan beaches to the south don’t have this clarity; it only intensifies the mystical effect. 

This year, in the midst of extraordinary personal struggles, I traveled again to the North Manitou Island, this time with my group, Preserve Historic Sleeping Bear.  We continued a multi year restoration project on a historic cottage, and the companionship and physical labor was healing and soothing.  In my free moments, I spent time alone with God, either on the trails through the deep old forests or on the shoreline.  With the rocks, both physical and prayerful, I watched the sunrise every morning. 

Where I live in Michigan, with Lake Michigan to the West, the sun always sets over the lake, dropping brilliantly into the line where the water meets the sky.  This time, on this trip, from the Manitou Island looking in the other direction, the sun rose over Lake Michigan, a surreal sight on any day.  Although I could still clearly see the mainland to the East, the sun came up far enough to the Northeast that it was rising out of the water.  Sunrise is the beginning of the day, and since God’s mercies are new every morning, I love being there when the mercy bank is reset for me.  Lord knows I need it.

So on the first morning as I waited in the twilight on a sandy bank right near the water, I was sitting in the cool sand, as yet to be heated by the sun, among the rocks.  The waves lapped gently on the shore, repeating a phrase that can only be heard when listening mindfully.  I prayed for God to take care of me and my family, to show me His direction, to help me face my problems.  Would He?  Silence.  As the sun broke over the watery smooth horizon, and the glory of the Lord shown fully, it was clear that the prayer, the questions, were wrong.  God is so good, so holy, so beautiful; it is impossible for Him not to take care of me.  It would be impossible for me to fall away from or beyond His care.  The response was so much larger and fuller than the question, completely eclipsing it.  As I looked around me, at the rocks covering the sandy beach and slope where I sat, they were no longer the prayers, they became the answers.  They became Something Bigger.  After the trip, as I return home to my world with the rocks in all the rooms of my house, my car, my desk – I am surrounded by God's answers, and I always have been.

Created on Purpose

http://uuhsc.utah.edu/andrology/photo_gallery.html 

(A reflection on my work as an embryologist, from 2006.)

Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed
And in Your book they all were written
The days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them.
Psalm 139:16 NKJ

     There is a purpose instilled in each of us at the beginning. Actually before our beginning, known by God alone, until our physical lives are set in motion and our purpose begins to be manifested. But when I refer to the beginning, it is the beginning of our physical being; when egg meets sperm in a narrow fallopian tube. Some beginnings don't start there though; they start in a petri dish, where life is aided by a medical team. Couples hoping to be parents, but unable to have children on their own, turn to a fertility clinic to deliver them from childlessness. Among a team of many, I am an embryologist; a lab technician trained in the nurture of early human life.
     In the lab where I work, eggs and sperm are combined to produce embryos for infertile couples. By the time patients get to that stage in their medical odyssey, they have endured months, if not years, of invasive, embarrassing, expensive treatments. Each month is valuable; one less month until the wife’s menopause, one more month of empty arms among her circle of friends with babies who are growing so fast. Each month is another chance at pregnancy. The menstrual cycle is meant to launch a new life; the new life of the baby, the new life as parents, the newness of all the family relationships viewed through the lens of the child. If only this month it would work, then they could finally put this nightmare behind them and move on into the future, never looking back. The whole clinic, from the medical director on down to the clerical staff, knows the desperation and the hope. It permeates the air. Although the whole medical team participates during treatment, creation of life is not achieved by us. It is a divine yet natural process that we can only aid, not force.
      During the course of the medical treatment, the fertilized eggs become embryos. The fertility drugs given have enhanced the woman’s egg production, so a single month’s cycle could yield between 6 to 24 embryos. All embryos are infinitely precious to the couple. Each fertilized egg is a real baby to them; they imagine a personality, a soul, a sun-browned laughing child in their back yard. They each have that potential, but they can't all be transferred back safely to the woman’s body at one time. So the lab technician looks the embryos over carefully, grades them, and unsentimentally selects the best. Two days after the egg retrieval, two to four embryos are loaded into a thin catheter to be returned to the patient’s uterus.
     At this point, the extra embryos have now become a by-product of a medical treatment. Because of their much debated human status, they must be dealt with in an ethical manner. To our clinic means that any embryo of average quality or better gets cryopreserved, or frozen. The freezing process involves chemical dehydration to prevent the cells from bursting (as the water in them expands), loading them into small plastic containers and very slowly cooling them. Lastly, they are kept frozen in a storage tank of liquid nitrogen at the clinic until the couple comes back for them.
     Should the excess have been produced in the first place? The medical team has limited control over the number of embryos produced without sacrificing successful pregnancy outcome. For example, if three eggs were used for fertilization, some may not have fertilized at all or been of good quality, leaving little or nothing to put back in the uterus. Complete fertilization failure, probably the worst disappointment, results in no embryo transfer and a cancelled cycle. Fertilizing more eggs than are needed directly improves the likelihood of pregnancy by increasing the pool of embryos to choose from. Reducing the need for repeat treatment cycles is better for the patients financially and emotionally. Many patients are unable to withstand repeat failures, and seek aggressive treatment plans which maximize the number of embryos produced in each cycle. 
     At our clinic, around fifty five percent of the women get pregnant on their first try with this therapy. For those with frozen embryos, it means a long wait to be reunited with their mother, if ever. If she is pregnant, especially if there are multiple babies expected, she won't come back for her embryos for at least two years. That is, if she even wants more children. Now the couple must consider their choices as to what to do with the excess embryos.
     The patients are offered four choices. Embryos can be stored indefinitely, donated to another infertile couple, donated to a research lab, or destroyed. Not only is their fate decided, but also the reality of what they are. If storage is continued, they are still the promise of future children. If they are donated to another couple, they are the promise of future children plus a beautiful and unselfish gift. The option of donation to a research lab makes the embryos an unselfish gift also, but they lose their humanity, becoming a biological specimen of curiosity. To choose to destroy them can also deny their humanity; or be viewed as an act of respect; letting them go instead of holding them in frozen storage.
     Many embryos have waited frozen more than a decade with couples unable to return for them. Some couples have finished their families now, with enough children to fill their lives. Others have divorced, exhausted their ability to pay for the expensive treatments, or are emotionally unable to face the strain of continued therapy.
     The embryos wait. The lab begins billing a hefty quarterly storage fee. The tanks are full; more tanks are purchased, taking up considerable space in the clinic. The abundant blessing the lab has helped produce now becomes a curse. Many patients continue to pay the storage fee out of obligation, but are unsure of what to do with their embryos. Some just don’t pay and their accounts go to a collections agency. Although these embryos are abandoned, the lab has no other option than continue storage. All these lives are still left waiting. In a decade or two, the patients will be physically too old to attempt a pregnancy. The billing defrays the storage cost for the lab, but more importantly also puts pressure on the couple to make a decision. “Don’t leave these here forever,” is the unwritten message.
     Now the embryos are a burden, once they were precious. Have the embryos themselves changed? No. They contain exactly the same physical and spiritual components as the day they were frozen. They remain unchanged; only our perception of them is different. Does our perception of life dictate truth? What happens next is the result of hard, tearful, sleepless choices made by people desperate to have children. Who defines what the embryos are? Is it the opinion of the parents, the medical staff, or society? Is it the courts of law, varying from state to state?
     There is a truth to each embryo that transcends all of these factors. How can it be a child one day, but garbage the next? It has no less human potential based on our thoughts toward it. All that is lacking is the willing womb. The biological purpose of embryos is to grow, divide and expand, eventually connecting to the uterus wall. Their God-created purpose is to become fully human, to be those smiling children in the yard. Making these hard choices about embryonic life has left us all weaker for it. The joy of a new baby is incomparable; it is the hope that drives us on. There are countless families that would not exist without medical assistance. So many lives have been positively impacted by the sheer miracle of life where there once was none.
     Do we go too far? Are we trying to act as God? Are we causing more harm than good? These are my own hard, tearful, sleepless questions. The benefit of working in the lab is being shielded from the most painful parts of the patients’ experience. Often it is easy to manage; retreating to the lab during the worst times, but gladly coming out when the families visit later to show off the babies.
     Recently though, a female patient of our office came in to claim and destroy her last frozen embryo. It had been more than ten years since the day that I had cryopreserved the small life, along with several other embryos of hers. This one embryo had been accidentally misplaced, floating in the liquid nitrogen tank in a sealed straw, separated from the rest. This one had been left behind when the others were thawed and transferred back to her uterus. When I finally located the errant straw and recaptured it, too much time had passed. The patient was no longer seeking treatment; actually she was unaware that we still had it, at first. Although she hadn't become pregnant, she stopped treatment; likely financially, physically or emotionally exhausted. Probably it was all three.
     She and her husband kept in contact with us. The storage fee had been waved due to their circumstance, since they had intended to thaw them all at the same time. For years they didn't come back; although checking in several times to review their options. One day not long ago, they did return, but only the woman came to the office. I had always refused to participate in the destruction of embryos; I had been promised by the doctor many years ago that our practice would never do it.
     The embryos don't belong to us though, and that promise didn't anticipate the overriding rights of the patients to direct an embryo’s fate at will. Instead we pass them over to the patients, still frozen - though quickly thawing, inside their tiny plastic container tucked in a brown paper lunch sack. "What should I do with this?" is often the question. I answer, "Some people bury them, some people throw them away, it's really up to you. You just can't dispose of it on the hospital's property." That is our standard answer, although it is somehow lacking. So as they turn to leave, it is the patients who ultimately are responsible for the act. Obviously the staff is an accessory to this, and I could never bring myself to pull them out of the deep freeze with the intent of destruction. Except this one time.
     This embryo felt like mine, I remembered the patients, their case, everything so vividly etched in my mind. Back then, we didn't see the volume of people we do today. Back then, I could hope and pray desperately for each of them, the embryos. I saw much more of the embryos than I ever did the patients. I knew them before they were; as eggs and sperm. Through the microscope I saw them first as fertilized eggs, then dividing into multicelled embryos. I'd be the last one to see them before they were transferred to the patient, or before they slipped into the treacherous slumber of cryopreservation. Not knowing if they'd survive the thaw, or the wishes of their parents.
     "It's been a long time" was all I could think to say, as we stood face to face. She agreed slowly, this exchange containing more than the words spoken. She explained to me, as though I needed to know (which I did) that she was ok. She had just completed the adoption of two beautiful children, it had been more than a two year process while they foster-parented them. The other embryologist brought out the tank, and her brown bag was prepared. With small smiles and tears in our eyes, we parted she and I. This embryo, this last left behind, but not forgotten human mass of cells, had fulfilled its purpose that day. It had been her vessel of hope; which on that day, seemed like quite enough.

Jesus Clears the Temple

As the lectionary this week focused on Jesus clearing the temple of the merchants, it brought this story to my mind.  Based on real events, it is an experimental piece, the beginning of a much longer story, still being lived and written.

Shanna was a middle child, although that did not completely define her, it came close.  Even before her younger sister was born, she already felt like a middle child.  Now at the age of seven, with a new baby in the house, it was a fact.  Shanna was like the last thing left over on a to-do list; the one that never quite gets finished at the end of the day.  She learned to get by, pretending she didn't really mind being overlooked.  She might as well not mind, since there was nothing she could do about it anyway.    

Shanna’s older sibling was a sister, Cassie, who split her time between bossing Shanna around and ignoring her.  With less than a two year advantage, Cassie made the best of her position as the first child.

Their parents didn’t go out a lot, but when they did it was always exciting to see what babysitter would come.  Sometimes it was Great-grandma, who was very stern and strict.  A tough old lady who had raised her share of children, she was not about to put up with anything.  As the religious matriarch, she knew her Bible.  She had scripture all around her house, from handwritten quotes to needlework samplers.  She was, however, a bit short on the love and affection.  Of course, watching three children under the age of nine could do that to anyone. 

Sometimes the sitter would be Shanna’s grandmother.  She was a mom of ten, with her last two children just a few years older than Shanna and her sisters.  Grandma was an odd mix of grandparent and mother, hard to define.  Being a single parent, she was also no-nonsense in her discipline and care giving.  Generally she gave the same impression as mom and dad, way too busy to notice a quiet little girl. 

When all the free babysitters were occupied, mom and dad would have to resort to hiring a teenager from church.  Shanna’s favorite was Beth, only fourteen herself; she was a lot of fun.  She would let Shanna and her big sister Cassie build forts out of the sofa cushions and stay up late, sometimes until their parents came home.  Of course the baby had to go to bed early.  That was the best part about Beth; she didn’t give all the attention to the baby.  That is what everyone else seemed to do.

One time, Beth brought them candy.  Malted milk balls.  The girls usually only got those when they could convince mom to get them at the dime store downtown, which wasn’t often.  They would beg and beg and sometimes if they were really good or really lucky mom would give in.  Then the shopkeeper would get out his big silver scoop and weigh some on the scale, then pour them into a brown paper bag.  Of all the candies on display at the candy counter, those were what the girls wanted. 

The night that Beth came to baby sit and brought a brown bag of candy was special.  Since Beth was so young it was different than when an adult gave candy.  When an adult did, it was for a treat or a bribe for good behavior.  When Beth did it, it felt more like sharing.  Didn’t she want all the candy for herself?  Shanna knew that she herself wouldn’t want to share, especially malted milk balls, which were her favorite.  When eaten, the candy from Beth tasted the best, a free and unexpected gift. 

She would have never thought to relate this to Jesus in any way.  After all, Shanna was only a little girl.  Her entire knowledge of Jesus came from Sunday school lessons and watching Jesus of Nazareth on TV at Easter time.   The movie put pictures in her mind of what the stories told, making them more vivid and real to her.  She had nothing else until the dream came.

In the dream, she stood with Jesus in the Temple, at the edge of the courtyard.  It was right after His triumphant return to Jerusalem and right before his arrest and crucifixion.  There were crowds of people there for the Passover.  There was the commotion of the people and animals, as well as Roman guards.  It was warm and the smell of sweat and animals was strong.  Everyone was moving about with a purpose, there on business or holy pilgrimage.  Many were lined up to buy doves for their sacrifice.  The money changers were there also, doing a brisk business. 

No one noticed the two of them.  Jesus was in His long dusty off white robes, with His long hair and sandals.  Shanna was beside Him, with Him really.  He kneeled down to her.  Looking right into her eyes, He smile mischievously and said “watch this”.  He moved quickly through the crowds, grabbing the tables set up by the businessmen and dumping them over.  He went from one to another.  No one stopped Him or challenged Him.  Their first concern was grabbing their money.  Shouts erupted all over the courtyard.  The crowds also began to scoop up the scattered coins that were falling everywhere at their feet.  They hurried over broken tables and smashed scales reaching for what was not theirs. 

Jesus’ voice boomed over the chaos, “It is written,  My house shall be called a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves!”

In the commotion, Jesus took a glass jar filled with malted milk balls off of one of the remaining tables.  He turned to Shanna, who had been at His side during this whole scene, and gave it to her.   His anger with the people had disappeared from his eyes.  He was now smiling again.  He looked directly into her eyes as she took the jar, its smooth sides feeling cool in her hands.  She looked down at it and marveled at the gift; free and unexpected.  As she then began to awaken, the sounds of the crowds faded.  The jar began to melt in her hands and as she tried to grasp it, she was only grasping the air.  In her own bed, she was sad to lose the candy that had only a moment before been so real. 

It was a connection she carried with her for life.  As childish as it may have sounded to others if she had told them, it was real to her.  The memory was so vivid that it was instantly recalled whenever she heard stories or sermons relating to the Temple and Passover.  She had been there, only for an instant, with her Jesus.  He had shown her that He was strong and a fighter, but most importantly that He had time to look her right in the eyes and see the desire of her soul.  When all around her were concerned with law and structure, He was showing her grace.  It was grace echoed in the gift of a teenage babysitter, who had time for noticing what others really needed.