I spent time in New York this summer, knowing that my father’s earthly journey was drawing to a close. I had the privilege of sharing a message at his memorial service, and I offer this adaptation to you as I take time off to grieve and be with my family this month.
My faith tells the story of a kind and gracious God standing in an emerald meadow, beckoning each of us home.
When we reach the lush, broad place, we will be embraced by the Divine, and we will look upon the waters from which all life flows. The crystal-clear water will be so still that it will serve as a mirror for us to see ourselves as we truly are—a reflection of Divine love.
I hope my dad has had this welcome. I hope he is resting long enough to take off his clunky steel-toed work boots to squish his toes into the cool blades of grass and bait a hook to toss into the tranquil waters, disturbing the quiet long enough for the lure to plop in and make rings. I hope he is fishing alongside his brothers.
My faith tells me that I can speak of hope to come, where there is no suffering and no tears and there is finally rest. That, now, is for Dad.
But what can I speak of for this life and for us?
I can say that we are born, that we live, and that we die. What can I say of the life in between birth and death? If I am to speak truthfully of life, I must speak of both the joy and the sorrow in living.
I must speak of disappointments, heartaches and the ways that we are let down by others, sometimes even the ones we love. For life is not only the beautiful, but also the broken.
I must speak of the impact of sending young men away to war.
And of the disease so horrific it steals your precious memories.
And if I speak truthfully of life, I wonder if we will be left in want of hope. Is life merely a search for more?
Are we always going to be left with a hunger for deeper connections and meaning? Or a thirst for that which cannot be pawned, purchased or procured by power?
Is there more to this life for those of us gathered here?
In Mark 6, the crowds following Jesus seemed to be seeking more out of life. Maybe the crowd had heard of a great teacher who was challenging the religious notions of the day. Or maybe they had heard talk of the healer who could make the blind see and the lame walk.
They sought him out so persistently that Jesus and the disciples had to retreat to a remote place. But even in a deserted place, crowds were coming and going, wandering and wondering if there was more to this Jesus.
And when it was late in the day, the crowd, hungry for meaning, had hunger in their bellies to match. They gathered around the one they hoped could nourish them. They hoped he would heal, help and honor their journeys to the secluded place in which they now found themselves.
Jesus directed the disciples to have those gathered sit on the green grass, and with only five loaves and two fish, the hungry crowd was satisfied. A most unexpected abundance was shared in the green grass.
This Jesus, the one whom the crowds came to see, the one who blessed and broke the bread, was also the one who invited the disciples to be a part of His miracle. And though they did not understand, they wandered through the crowd asking for a little more.
Just a little bread to share? A fish or two if you can spare it?
It took the Divine heart and people to spark a miracle: To give, and serve, and nourish.
I wonder if this is what we can say of life. It takes each of us to give, and serve, and nourish to create abundance. Held in the heart of Jesus, it takes you and me and my dad to help spark a miracle.
Summer at 215 Cafferty always smelled like freshly cut grass. It’s why Dad always smelled like a mix of gasoline and grass.
In the newly cut side yard, there was a badminton net, always set up for a spontaneous game. Dad would almost always oblige.
In the front yard were the croquet mallets and the hoops that would continuously shift to create new paths in the lawn. Summer sounded like the click, click, click of the heavy croquet balls knocking together and against the wooden stake painted with a rainbow of rings—one color for each ball.
There were bicycles parked in the garage and swings just past the jade-colored tops of the rhubarb patch that I would pick from and crunch on my way down back.
When the boys came along, there were footballs, baseballs and basketballs strewn about the yard. Dad was always yelling at those boys to pick up their toys.
They would listen, of course, because it was Grandpa. And into the tiny, handcrafted cabin nestled on the lawn by the lilac tree, the football would go to sleep for the night.
If you stayed long enough outside in the summer, you could catch the scent of something grilling—steak and potatoes were dad’s specialty.
After dinner, when the tiny luminescent chartreuse lights appeared, we chased the lightning bugs, capturing them in our hands to watch them sparkle. We released the perfect little fluorescent lights back into the dusk after examining their neon glow.
Dad prepared the wood for the campfire that would reward us with the sweetness of s’mores. We sat in the cool grass that began to match the temperature of New York’s brisk night air, watching the flames until it was dark.
The dark always caught us off guard, but once we realized that dusk was replaced by the night sky, we looked up. Grandpa pointed to the Big Dipper and told us to watch for shooting stars so that we could make a midsummer night’s wish. Eventually, we rested our heads until the green grass welcomed us to play again.
What can we say of this life? That we can breathe in the scent of freshly cut grass, admire the sparkling glow of fireflies and taste the sweetness of s’mores. Life is full of ordinary moments woven together in time by the relationships that guide, sustain and love us along the way.
When I speak of life, I prefer to speak of those simple moments—the everyday abundance that cuts through the nuanced messiness. They are the ordinary moments that capture the “more” we are all seeking, which make them quite extraordinary.
When I speak of faith, I tell the story of the God who embraces us in every moment amidst the mess.
This is the same God who invites us into the wild and extraordinary work of sparking everyday miracles. The God of creation, embrace, nourishment and resurrection. The God who overcame death with life abundant.
215 Cafferty has given me, and now my boys, memories of a place with people who love us with a wide embrace and always welcome us home.
We have been given the gift of ordinary miracles that offers our wanting souls a glimpse of heaven. We have been given more—more laughter, more peace, more joy and more love, weaving together a story of abundant life.
Thank you, Dad, for nourishing us with the gift of green grass moments, for sparking miracles in this life. And when it is time for us to venture toward the emerald meadow overlooking the crystal-clear still waters to be embraced by the Divine, I know you will be there to welcome us home, unless you’re mowing.
My hope for all of us is that alongside our search for “more,” we remember that in our giving, serving and nourishing one another, we may spark a miracle for someone else, maybe one remembered for generations to come.
Lord knows, we need to punctuate the messiness. Jesus, open our hearts to tenderly hold all the ordinary things that nourish hope.
What can I pray for in this life? I pray for green grass moments for all of us. I pray that between what is beautiful and what is broken, we will be the gift of abundance in this world by our laughter, our peace, our joy, and above all, our love.
That’s anything but ordinary.
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Rev. Michelle Wahila is an ordained PCUSA pastor, founder of Ruffled by Grace, and sought-after officiant and retreat leader. She creates heartfelt celebrations and soulful experiences that blend tradition with imagination. Now living in a 19th-century farmhouse in rural France with her family and a menagerie of pets, she enjoys gardening, making jam, and savoring a good cup of coffee.
