Thankful Thursday: Graduation Edition

So this is it, my friends. The five year seminary journey will come to its conclusion in less than 48 hours. On Saturday, April 18th, at 10 am, I will graduate from Union Presbyterian Seminary in Charlotte. Online. On Zoom. It feels anti-climactic in some ways. Almost fake. Because we won't be together in person. But it's real. This is real. It's really happening. I am about to graduate!!!

So here is where I confess to NOT being very social media savvy.

Nonetheless, I will place a link here that I hope will allow

you to see a video I created

(with the help of my husband and our daughter)

to reflect on my seminary journey.

https://www.instagram.com/p/B--Mv4BhOYL/

I wish I could just upload the video straight from my computer, but it's too large to do that.
See? I wish I knew more about how to do this kind of thing.

If you have nothing to do and don't mind sitting through a long Zoom gathering, please join the festivities on Saturday morning by clicking here - https://zoom.us/j/675941040. 


What am I thankful for this Thursday evening?

* five years of study, completed
* papers and sermons written, books read, and classes attended
* the trip I took with seminary professors and students to El Salvador and Guatemala back in April of 2018
* the courage to stand my ground against a racist bully who tried to silence my voice, my convictions, and my questions during my very first semester at Union
* having that happen only once in these five years
* the friends and mentors, companions and guides that have accompanied me on this journey
* the laughter shared and the tears shed
* a capella hymn singing in chapel
* the pianists and organists who joined us in chapel over this past year
* the opportunity to translate for a Cuban pastor in one of our Union chapel services
* the amazing patience of the librarians, with all my requests and questions
* the good food we ate together every Saturday at lunch time
* the professors, staff members, the janitor, the entire Union Charlotte crew
* my classmates, their questions, their challenges, our debates, and our conversations
* all of the folks from First Presbyterian Church here in Charlotte - for their emotional, financial, and spiritual support. Without you and your encouragement for the past ten years, I truly wouldn't be here. I would never have considered attending seminary if you all hadn't told me over and over again: "Gail, you should go to seminary. You belong in the pulpit."
* the joy that comes from knowing that the prayer I prayed as a child in Sunday school classes at the Sixth Avenue Baptist Church, the prayer that I could go to church five days a week instead of school - that prayer is coming true, for real for real. I will be installed and ordained as Associate Minister at Caldwell Presbyterian Church on August 30, 2020 - provided that we have all been released from house arrest by then. Prayers sometimes do get answered with a resounding YES.
* I am grateful for the support of my family throughout these five years. It has been a difficult road with many challenges along the way. But we survived everything that has tried to take us down and take us out. We are still standing strong. Scarred. Wounded. Heartbroken in some ways and stronger than ever in other ways. I pray that I will make you proud and that you will never regret having taken this seminary journey with me.
* To God be the glory and the praise.

And on this night...

An hour ago, a friend sent me this via text: "And on this night, Mary and the others were quietly talking about visiting the tomb tomorrow. About taking the sweet spices to see their Lord, who had been crucified just yesterday."

I responded: "What a long night that must have been. Do you think they slept at all?!?"

My friend: "Wept, slept a little, wept."

Me: "I suspect tonight might feel that way for me. And for a whole lot of people."

**************

And on this night, tonight, there are a lot of people quietly talking about visiting their dearly departed. They want to take sweet spices and new clothes to cover the bodies of those who are now gone. They want to see their loved ones one last time, but they can't go because of this dreadful pandemic.

On that night long ago, on the night of Solemn Saturday, those women couldn't go to the tomb because it was the Sabbath. They honored their faith tradition and waited until early in the morning on the first day of the week before they ventured out, sweet burial spices in hand.


And on this night, across the ocean, my friend, Leticia, will join with her neighbors and with Spaniards all across the Iberian peninsula in song. They will stand at their windows and on their balconies, shine the lights of their flashlights, and sing, welcoming the day of Resurrection.

We need some Resurrection, don't we?


On that night long ago, on the night of Solemn Saturday, I bet those women, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and also the other women with them (Luke 24, verse 10) huddled together telling stories. Laughing and crying as they remembered and recounted the teaching, the miracles, and most of all, the friendship of that rabble rousing Rabbi they had loved and served and followed for three years. And they waited for the rising of the sun so they could go and anoint his body in the way that befitted The Gentle One whom they adored.


And on this night, I wish I could huddle with women I know and love. To talk. Laugh. Cry. Tell stories. Remember and recount the good times and the hard times we've shared. The meals we've eaten together. The chemo sessions we sat through together. The head shaking, hand wringing talks about marriage and parenting. The long walks. The secrets we shared in hotel rooms. The journals we've exchanged. The doubts we have had. The wrestling we have done with God, with people who have claimed to love us, and most of all with ourselves.

I desperately need time with the sisters of my soul.
My seminary classmates.
My pastoral colleagues.
My prayer partners.
My storytelling companions.
My anam cara.
My trench.


This is going to be a long night.
Evening shadows are growing.
Despondent tears are flowing.
Hope is fading.
Anxiety is invading.

I will do what my friend wrote -
I will weep, sleep a little, weep some more.
And on this night, I will keep vigil.

When I see the first sliver of light above my window in the morning,
even before I get out of bed,
I will speak aloud the truth that is the bedrock of my faith:
He is Risen. He is Risen indeed.

But not yet.
Not yet.