A couple of weeks ago one of the boys I work with at Myers Wilkins Elementary school got an In School Suspension (ISS). This meant he had to hang out with me all day to do his schoolwork, eat his lunch and even to go out for recess. The school playground was full of kids, so we walked over to Grant Field which is right by the school.
It had recently snowed, and so the field was blanketed in untouched whiteness. I asked him if he had ever made a snow angel. What’s that? He hadn’t a clue and so I showed him how. He loved swinging his arms and legs back and forth while lying on the ground. Carefully he got up to examine his work. Awesome! And then we moved on to make some more.
We didn’t have time to make too many snow angels. It did help me to remember a gathering some of my former youth group members helped to organize back in 2013. The Proctor High School DECA and Duluth Rotary sponsored a snow angel event at Malosky Stadium on the UMD campus. They held it on a Saturday in February and hundreds of people of all ages laid on the football field and swung their arms and legs in the snow. All told, 1,877 people made snow angels as part of “Make Your Mark: Angels for a Cause,” It was a great community event even if it fell short of Bismarck’s world record of 8,962 angels.
There really are so many angels in our community. This month I find myself often thinking of Pamela, who died unexpectedly just before Thanksgiving. During Covid when we couldn’t gather in person, Pamela found a way to hold our church community together.
She organized a letter writing campaign. Pamela found out who all our front-line workers were – teachers, nurses, postal carriers, grocery store employees, etc. She then took these lists of folks and made sure, with the help of lots of volunteer writers, that each of them got a card or letter every couple of weeks. These notes were just a simple thank you for all you do, but it made such a difference. I saved many of the letters she wrote to me during that time. Her beautiful handwriting always in her distinctive purple pen.
During Covid we couldn’t gather inside for Christmas Eve services. And so for my last Christmas as pastor of Peace Church we stood outside together on the Grant Rec Field. The field is the only thing between the school where I work now and the church where I worked then. It was so cold that Christmas Eve of 2020. We all wore snow pants, hats, mittens and boots. The sky was so clear and full of stars. Venus shone like the star of Bethlehem.
We gathered only briefly, just long enough to hear Paul’s “O Holy Night” solo, to sing Silent Night together and read the birth story from Luke. Now in that same region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. 9 Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. 10 But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid . . .”
There are still angels in the fields telling us “Do not be afraid”. It’s so hard sometimes not to be scared. There are in school suspensions, this incoming administration, and unexpected deaths.
I’m hoping Pamela was never afraid. I do know she wanted to keep on living, especially for her grandchildren and her beloved Bill. Pamela was a writer, an editor, and a poet. When I heard of her death, I immediately thought of a poem by one of her favorite poets, Mary Oliver. The poem was White Owl Flies Into and Out of Field. I leave you with her poem.
Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings —
five feet apart — and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death
isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow —
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
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