If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do
not have love,
I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries
and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains,
but do not have love, I am nothing.
If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my
body so that I may boast,
but do not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient; love is kind;
love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude.
It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or
resentful;
it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the
truth.
It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things,
endures all things.
Love never ends.
But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for
tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know
only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the
partial will come to an end.
When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a
child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to
childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to
face.
Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I
have been fully known.
And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the
greatest of these is love.
***
Luke, waiting for me to put feet warmers in my boots knew it
would be awhile when I silded myself up to the oldest couple at Anthony,
“You’ve been wanting to talk to them for ages, and when I saw the open seat and
you approaching, I settled into mine.” The couple is like royalty at the
mountain, in their nineties, the husband still skiing, looking sharp in his
classic navy ski bib with eyes to match, and flannel likewise, his grey hair a
silver crown. She with skin like that of a pumpkin, full but taunt, and colored
warm from the heat of the fire. Her eyes still wide open taking in the world,
though her memory slowly letting it go. The jester’s court of Anthony
rises to the occasion and looks after them, with handshakes and greetings
formal for Starbottle Saloon but fitting for the way they carried themselves
with stature and grace. While the husband skis her company is kept with
everyone from the barkeeper checking if she needs a glass of water, to family
and neighbors from LaGrande sitting throne-side speaking matters of the day,
regaling her with tales of snowfall and skied down slopes. Like a pickup line,
I asked, “May I sit here for a few minutes to put warmers in my boots?” and
they explaining that family was coming, said that would be fine for a bit. I
thanked them, and a minute later professed, “I really love watching you two
dance.” It reminded me of the dancehalls of my youth, there were always the good
dancers using their agility and strength and knowledge of spins and turns, and
the little kids who move from swaying and jumping, to two step and half step,
learning from their parents and family like Coleman, and Alex, and Maddy do on
skis. My favorite though, was always to watch the older ones, it wasn’t about
strength or speed, or some flashy outfit, but rather, worn like their old boots
older couples marked a path that they had been dancing for years beyond my age,
that hand settled comfortably in its place around the back, bodies as close as
can be to still move with grace, and in that closeness which might be inappropriate
at another age, was years of love. I asked them, “How long have you been
married,” and she looked at him, the exact number now lost but reliance on one
another not an once faded, “Seventy-four years,” he responded. “Wow,” I said,
as if I had received a gift merely in the hearing. “And she is turning
ninety-four in a couple months,” he added, she nodding. I admired, “When I was
a hospital chaplain I would find the people ninety or above and visit them
first because they always had some sort of spunk or spark or wisdom that kept
them going so long.” It was essentially my, I love old people-caveat,
especially those who had gotten past the point of holding out hand proudly and
saying, “Five!” to choking down age thirty and hiding anything above, to the
point where they are proud of the number and as if a cane was sector carry it
pride. “So what advice would you give to someone my age on love and marriage?”
“Hard work,” he responded. “We lived on a farm and worked hard. There wasn’t
time for temptation.” Chiming in, hands reaching out to his, “I would carry him
dinner out to fields if it got late, that’s love,” “We took care of each other,”
he added, and I watched them do the same in that moment, and the way that their
love, echoed in the way people treated them, perhaps lifting the caliber of the
Starbottle Saloon to the table of kings and queens. He added, “You know,
friends would go to the bar for a drink, and it easily would add up to four. When
you work hard, you don’t have time for that.” The lofty advice meeting the
place where it lay. “It’s love,” she added again, and I imagined her younger,
steam still rising from a hot dish as she navigated plow and planting lines,
eyes wide, to meet his blues. My feet warmers were now put in twice, Luke,
though waiting, having said, “You better get them the same,” and waiting a
little longer while I did. “Thank you,” I told the couple, and to Luke. That is
love. Love is patient; love is kind.
I had seen it likewise, the obstacle course of getting kids
in snow gear and Jim Ingram walking toward the little hill a tiny rope in his
hand, pulling a tiny May Ingram on a pink sled. Kyra, with all strength
stepping her skis one hand on her pole pulling Coleman up the hill, he holding
onto its other end, and then at the chair lifting him onto the air, a complex
dance like a path made worn, that same pole pretzeled into a seatbelt but also
a snuggle belt, as all poofy in his gear Coleman silded up against Kyra like a
pillow against a head. That is love. Love is patient; love is kind.
I saw it similarly, in Grandma Shannon Moon telling Coleman,
“Coleman look I brought,” and bright orange string cheese flashing like a yield
sign, and her explaining, “he is a cheese-monster,” and there like a meal
carried across a field his eyes sparkled and cheese was devoured in childish
chunks. Later, Carson, Coleman’s cousin, sat by Shannon and a grinning Bob and
devoured more cheese, his cheeks red from his family taking him skiing, a dance
passed down, until swaying becomes swooshing, and the Entire Johnson clan fills
the basement of Anthony Lakes Lodge. That is love. Love is patient; love is
kind.
I saw it in snowshoeing sister Sydney wanting to snowboard
with Silas, and the way Aunt Annalea and Grandma Ed, calm and corral the kids,
creating a special day them up at Anthony with their church. I saw it in the
way that family dances close enough that their love is undeniable, making sure
those two kids still have the opportunity to dance. That is love. Love is
patient; love is kind.
I see it in Ben Merrill’s love of his kids, posting a video
of the three of them doing the “Whip and NayNay,” and allowing his other kids,
the students, to attempt to duct tape him to the wall at a monumental
basketball game. That is love. Love is patient; love is kind.
I know it happened when Rick and Ginger Rembold snowshoed.
He with athleticism and endurance surpassing his sons, stopped while she took
pictures and caught her breath. That is love. Love is patient; love is kind.
Pulling into the garage, phone ringing at 9:50pm, listening
to the voicemail, I saw it in a text from Linda Moxon, one minute after I found
out Kim Berry had passed away. I saw it in my friend Bre, as she, knowing sleep
and sermon had still to come, asked what she could do while I visited, those
kindness with me as I pulled out the garage again. That is love. Love is
patient; love is kind. I saw it in the memories of family lifted up naturally
after a final prayer around Kim. Of the space they gave each other, and the
listening, and the laughter, that finally returned from its long pause waiting
for death. That is love. Love is patient; love is kind.
I saw it my best view in the church, when the kids light the
Christ Candle, and Sydney looking up in the light and Nanette with her teachers
gift, helping her and gently turning her around back. That is love. Love is
patient; love is kind. I saw it in the joke Luke made, that, “but this is
worship!” and all us knowing that whatever a kid does in this space is welcome
because you, this church family, show love and kindness and are patient with
all of our kids. I see it in each of you in this place whether we are here in
this sanctuary, or up on a ski hill, or out and about, First Presbyterian
church you are patient and you are kind and in so much that you do, you are
God’s love. Amen.
