All Saints...More than We Realize

photo by Leo Chimaera/ flickr

 The preacher asked his confirmation class, “Do you all know who a saint is?” And one little boy raised his hand. “The Preacher said, ”What is a saint.” And the little boy said, “A saint is someone who lets the light shine through them.” And I think the boy was right. A saint is somebody who helped take the blinders off your eyes, who helped you see even in the dark. And when things were tough—they made you believe despite all the crazy things around you. They let the light shine through.

Looking over my shoulder at my twisting journey--I don’t think I could have made it without those who took their little lights—sometimes more than tiny and let them shine. For a long time I don’t think I would have considered my parents as saints —most of us don’t. Yet looking back if they had not been there and diapered me and hugged me and whispered that it was gonna be all right and keeping me safe I don’t know what I would have done. Or where I might be.

My, my at every juncture there has been somebody or a whole lot of somebodies that lighted my way simply by being there. Most of them had no idea what indelible influence they had on me and many others. 

Under the glass on my desk are some of those. My Mama her last Christmas. Dear Don’s friendship help carry me through. Liz—she helped so many of us. Faye who left her tiny little house on a side road—took the WMU’s money and finished college and was a missionary for I don’t know how many years. I have two pictures of my wife on my desk. One photo that summer we spent in England—beautiful with her wind-blown hair. Another is only a silhouette. We were in Scotland and she sat at this pub drinking coffee. Nobody loves coffee more than her. But it must be right. I cherish that picture. There’s Nancy, dear Nancy that became my second Mama at Clemson. A tiny picture of a drawing we used in a building fund campaign in Birmingham. Its reads F…A…I…T…H and underneath the words:  "Faith under construction.” They took me in, bruised and battered and tolerated my brokenness and cheered me on. Not just people but almost a whole church—they lifted me and my wife up and carried us along. There's smiling Judy. She opened up her house every Monday night and served those that came. Many were gay. I don't know how many gurys with AIDS that stayed at her house toward the end because they had no other place to go. A have a tiny picture of my two children—little and red-headed. There’s my daughter grinning wildly at a Clemson game with me…and my son and his partner. 

I wish I could call all their names—the ones along the way that made sure the darkness was not the last word. But there are too many, many candles that shine in my constellation. Funny all those sleepless nights I spent because of some irate member or some mean-spirited phone call. Yet—I don’t remember their names but oh, I do remember many faces whose genuine honesty, charity and fidelity through thick and thin helped me enormously. 

Come Sunday when people move to the front of our Sanctuary and call out names of some saint that has blessed their lives—I don’t think I will come to the mike. There are too many to name. But sitting there I will whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for all those whose little lights that really did shine…shine…shine.

“For All the Saints” is probably my favorite hymn. I’ve got a lot. But that fourth stanza gets me every time:

                                             “And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, 

                                              steals on the ear the distant triumph song, 

                                              and hearts are  brave again, and arms are strong,

                                              Alleluia! Alleluia!”

Yes…YES…YES!

photo by Georg / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com