Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

I always feel optimistic when I turn the page of the calendar on the back of the kitchen door from August to September. Call it a memory of school days, my own or my children's; call it the promise of a new season starting; maybe it's just the hope of relief from this summer's blazing heat. Whatever the source, I get a burst of energy as August ends. Today we are enjoying the rain delivered by the remnants of Hurricane Isaac, heading out to the Atlantic. The rain was not constant, however, so I was able to fill the five bird feeders and carry the potted hostas out to the back patio, where they'll eventually die back and become dormant till spring. I think the hummingbirds have gone on their long migration, so I stored that feeder for the winter. The bedraggled baskets of impatiens refused to stay alive in the heat we had this summer, so they've been replaced on the front porch by hanging baskets of mums in that deep cinnamon color I love. I am ready for fall

After two mass killings in a two-week period, I am way beyond upset. Way beyond sad. Way, way beyond. So let's talk about guns for a minute. I know a tiny bit about them. My Dad was a marksman in the European theatre in World War II. I think this actually might mean he was a sniper. I know from remarks in his diary, written while he was a P.O.W., that he shot a few people. OK, it was wartime, and that's what warriors do. Dad's view of killing in wartime was uncomplicated, and I don't know that he ever suffered pangs of guilt later. He did what the war demanded of him, including a seven-month stint in Stalag VII-A. He was a hero, in my eyes -- it was, after all, the Good War. Long before I was born, Dad was collecting guns. He loved to go to the practice range. He had ten or fifteen guns, safely locked in a cabinet in the den. I knew they were there. I was forbidden to touch them, and never had any interest in them anyway. The guns never seemed like a threat to me,

Today was the final service at the church where I grew up, the Cathedral Church of Saint John, in Wilmington, Delaware. As of July 31, the Episcopal Diocese of Delaware will no longer have a cathedral. I know this has happened for lack of funds; in my current diocese, quite a few churches have merged or closed in the last decade or more, and out cathedral is always in need of money.  At the altar to the left, I was baptized, confirmed, and married.  On July 8, I attended the 10:30 service and said goodbye. What will happen to the cathedral building is anyone's guess. The pipe organ has already been sold. I guess that's a good thing. At least something has been saved. Change happens. However, it often takes a good bit of us with it when it does.

Recently I attended my friend Anne's funeral. It was a moving and uplifting service, as the funerals for long lives well lived should always be. Anne was 102 1/2 at the time of her death, and had had no serious health troubles until last fall. This is certainly what we each hope for at the end of our earthly lives. In my former parish, Anne was our "choir mother" for many, many years. She maintained the choral library, mended our robes, kept attendance records (noting, on the appropriate dates, "Judy's little boy born" and, later on, "Judy's little girl born"). She taught me to sing alto, patiently correcting me and setting an example with her lovely voice. She was the choir's rock of ages and our resting place. She saw us through at least 4 choir directors (that I know of!), and multiple priests. Anne was widowed in 1969, after 34 years of marriage and two daughters. She never remarried, claiming that she'd had one good husband but