Night Sky. Photographed by Frank Lee Ruggles, January 2021

Death is no stranger to any of us in ordinary times. With Covid still quite visible in our rearview mirror (in the US the 2020 death rate per 1000 people was the highest since 1943), our thoughts may stray to the tenuous hold we have on life.

Two stories this month reminded me to not take my time on earth for granted.

Whenever a celebrity dies suddenly with others in an accident, the news seems to tell the story from every conceivable angle. About the celebrity, that is. But the others who die with the famous person are often shunted aside. Consider the tragic helicopter accident in January 2020 that killed Kobe Bryant and his daughter Gianna. Do you recall the names of the seven other people who died with them in the crash? Neither did I until a singer on America’s Got Talent told the audience that his wife Christina, an assistant basketball coach, died in that accident. The others killed were John, Keri, and Alyssa Altobelli; Sarah Chester and her daughter Payton; and the pilot Ara Zobayan.

Every single life that ended in an instant was just as important as Kobe Bryant’s was.

The second story happened on July 4. A photographer named Frank Lee Ruggles died suddenly and unexpectedly in his sleep; the cause of death has not yet been determined. Although he and his wife Lisa lived in Virginia, I did not know him personally. But I found his photographic work absolutely amazing.

I can’t recall how I first learned about him, but we went to a showing of his work a number of years ago, and I’ve given some of his photographic excellence as gifts to my husband and son-in-law. Frank’s shot of the eclipse hangs in our master bedroom.

His history is a story worth telling and so below I’ve included a link to his beautiful obituary. He served his country as an Amy paratrooper, and he held the position of a federal photographer from 2007-2010 where, on a journey of 100,000 miles across all fifty states, he captured (and that is the absolute best verb to explain his work) America the beautiful.

To quote a portion of the obituary, “Frank continued to serve as the National Artist Ambassador for the National Park Trust; he lectured and taught around the country and is the author of Chasing Light, An Exploration of the American Landscape…Frank went on…to become the Artist Ambassador for the National Park Trust, using his passion for the environment and skills to capture the majesty of the national parks through his lens to share with the world and educate children that we must protect our natural resources for generations to come.

His latest passion project for the last three years was the 79 Years Project. This project consisted of a modern-day reshooting of the Ansel Adams 1941 Photo Murals project, shot-for-shot same days and locations with the same equipment, to show what has changed in the lifespan of the average American.”

A small portion of his memorial service was uploaded online; friends delivering eulogies. There seemed to be an in-joke going on. You see, each of them thought that HE was Frank’s best friend.

And wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to be remembered…that each of your friends thought that he or she was the most beloved of all because of how you treated them?

Yes, indeed, remember that life is short, and we have too little time to gladden the hearts of those who walk this way with us.

Thank you, Frank Lee Ruggles, for gladdening our eyes, hearts,  minds, and souls with your photography.

“I live, eat, breathe and even sleep photography. Photography is life.”  – Frank Lee Ruggles, January 5, 2021

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Obituary, Frank Lee Ruggles

Short article from Bioethics Research Library Georgetown University

Matt Mauser’s audition (his wife Christina died in the crash with Kobe Bryant)

Ordinary, run-of-the-mill griping. We’re all guilty of it. We complain about the cold temperatures of winter, yet when the first humid day of summer hits, we whine about how humidity sucks the life from us. Or at the least, turns our hair frizzy.

We know our land needs rain, yet when the downpours arrive, we fuss over the inconvenience of how wet and muddy the yard is.

We moan about the people who stock up to the point of selfishness and create shortages in toilet paper, paper towels, and most recently, gasoline.

We may speak ad nauseam about the bosses who overwork us while they underpay us and fail to appreciate our true worth to the company.

Sometimes I catch myself complaining and wish I could figure out how to slap myself.

I’m sitting outside in the shade on a perfect Sunday afternoon as I write this. There’s enough of a breeze to seriously ruffle the pages of my writing tablet. The dog lies at my feet in Zen-like quietness, hoping to assuage the squirrels’ cowardice enough to lure them closer within pouncing range. The male red-winged blackbird sits on top of the wrought-iron hook that holds the feeder, serenading us before he hops down to the perch to snack on seed.

Being grateful for this—just this small peaceful moment in time—is where I need to divert my focus instead of on what’s NOT perfect in my life.

It’s easy to get distracted, to drift toward the negative, and I need to keep rowing against that tide. Because I know how easy it is to get pulled along in negativity.

I don’t believe any of us intends to be constantly mired in unpleasant thoughts or feelings. We just lose our intentionality and slip into it.

No matter what your personal situation is at the time you’re reading this post (and I do know that at least three of my readers are in the middle of serious health issues), take a breath and then look around you.

And I pray you will find a tiny spark of happiness and gratitude in first, being able to actually take a breath and then to see something that (or someone who) brings you joy.

For that moment, know you are blessed.

~~~~~~

Photo by Norma Thatcher

Dear Readers, today’s post is a Lenten reflection video I recorded for my church, St. James’ Episcopal, Warrenton, VA. If instead of reading this post you prefer to watch the video, you can do so here.

If you would rather read it, the text is below.

Father Ben has reminded us in the past that as Christians, responsible for God’s reputation in our world today, we need to be Easter People, not just during the spring, but throughout the year.

As Easter People, we believe Jesus was crucified, that He conquered death, that the Resurrection was real, and that Jesus ascended to be with God the Father the Creator and will someday return in glory.

Until I became an Episcopalian thirty-five years ago, I hadn’t paid much attention to Holy Week. The denominations of the Christian churches I attended through the first third of my life celebrated Palm Sunday with gusto and then the following Sunday, like magic, taa daa, it was Easter!

But the pathos of Holy Week cannot and must not be ignored. The tragic events of Holy Week, leading up to the joy of Easter, are an integral part of our Easter People story.

Omitting the events of those Holy Week days from our Easter People story would be like me sharing my own life story and telling you ONLY about the joyous highlights, skipping over entirely the tragedies that have had so much to do with shaping me into the person I am today.

When we think about the worst moments of our life, emotions spill over. We don’t want them, we may beg to wish them away, we ask for a re-do. We question how a loving God could inflict such awfulness upon us. And no one has the answers. What is true, though, is that without those terrible events in our lives, we would not be who we are.

Likewise, without our focus on the fear, sadness, suffering, abandonment, outrage, denial, brutality, grief, and despair of Holy Week — without deep consideration on all of those aspects — we are less than fully engaged Easter People.

This suncatcher in the photo above represents to me what being an Easter Person means. In the center are the dark stones above that huge teardrop that captures all of the tragedy that Jesus endured. Yes, we need to remember and talk about the tears.

But encircling the tears are the bright jewels of joy and hope and belief that we are loved beyond measure, freely forgiven, and promised a new life after our earthly one ends.

And the beam of sunlight that runs diagonally through both the tears and the joy? Well, that’s a reminder that the Holy Spirit is within our hearts to sustain us through the difficult times and dance with us in our moments of joy.

~~~~~

“May God grant you always…A sunbeam to warm you, a moonbeam to charm you, a sheltering Angel so nothing can harm you.

Laughter to cheer you. Faithful friends near you. And whenever you pray, Heaven to hear you.”      an old Irish Blessing

Forgive me if I’m repeating myself from a past blog, but my favorite public space in my home is the smallest room in the house, the breakfast room, just off the kitchen.

A strong reason for its appeal is the amount of light that pours in through its two large picture windows. For most of the year, the windows are unadorned of any covering. But because they face west, in the heat of an afternoon summer, that light needs to be blocked because it’s just too strong.

I got to thinking about windows on a walk through Old Town Warrenton yesterday. My dog Grace likes to walk up and down steps, so when we reached the John Barton Payne Building (a historic old building that housed Warrenton’s first library), I let loose of her leash so she could bound up the steps.

After she moseyed back down, Grace decided to snuffle the bushes off to the side of the steps. That’s when I saw the teeny-tiny window pictured above.

Now I’ve lived in this town for about thirty-four years, and I’ve been to the John Barton Payne Building many times for meetings, lectures, and with my children and (later) my grandsons when, during the Christmas season, Gum Drop Square was hosted there.

But I had never before noticed this charming window that looks out directly to the ground on which the building sits.

I wondered what may have prompted the architect to add this opening to the world in such an odd spot. When public places are open again, I plan to seek entrance to the space to see where the window fits from inside.

We vary as individuals as to how much light we’re comfortable with in our surroundings. As a natural light enthusiast, I detested the few years my work office was along an inside wall of the building. When building renovations were done and my team and I moved to new digs, I was thrilled to have my desk facing a large window.

As our life moments ebb and flow, we may need more or less light. If, for instance, we’ve just come through a dark period, too much light at once can feel overwhelming. Imagine an ebullient person on the counseling end of a suicide prevention hotline who heartily responds to a despondent caller by saying, “Oh come on, cheer up. It can’t be that bad!”

No, we know that would an inappropriate response. While the person in darkness doesn’t need more darkness, neither does she need a picture window’s worth of light shined upon her like a spotlight.

Instead, maybe what would be most helpful is just a candlelight’s glimmer of hope or a supporting night light’s beam to light the way between spaces of then, now, and tomorrow.

And when she’s ready, the light of a new day casting rays through the panes of a teeny-tiny window may be simply perfect.

~~~~~

https://liftedup.us/beautiful-scars/

Oh My Soul, You Are Not Alone by Casting Crowns

History of the John Barton Payne Building