Rock of Ages. A Note From Jan.

Laundry sloshes back and forth. Familiar sound and scent of soap.  Comfort  of routine on a  sunny Monday morning in early March.

Tall sand infused snow dunes stand like odd hills along the usually flat stretch called Good Harbor Beach. Marsh grass hides under layers of snow, hankering for spring, I imagine, as I long for new growth in and around me.  Hints of highest rock outcroppings surface as sun’s warmth sheds cloak of snow. Snow disappearing off deck, silently slipping away, leaving puddles as calling card.  Good morning.

Paperwork awaits. Taxes to be done. Bills to be paid. Budgets reworked. But not now. This is a be still and know kind of day.

Yesterday we sang a familiar hymn at Christ Church. Not many sung there are known by me, since I didn’t grow up in the Episcopal church. But yesterday we sang Rock of Ages and I didn’t need the hymnal. Felt good. Familiar sound like laundry sloshing while I write.

Growing up, I thought it was an old people’s kind of hymn, since it was mostly white or gray headed folks who requested it on Sunday nights when we got to call out the name and page number of a favorite hymn we wanted to sing. Not many Sunday night services any more, nor chances to request favorite hymns.  Not all change is good, say I, with hair no longer blonde.

Our condo’s built on rock ledge. If you look carefully, you can see holes and streaks, blasting scars, in some of the rocky outcroppings,  necessary demolition to make room for foundations upon which to grow houses. The massive rocks and unobstructed views of the Atlantic were what first drew Jud and me to this perch. Feels safe, secure, or as much as is possible on this earth.

As for the hymn, it’s a good one to sing from this granite perch. “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee.” It’s been a welcoming hideout for our family, their friends and ours. A hiding place for me, especially now.

Rock of Ages…

“Nothing in my hand I bring, Simply to Thy cross I cling; Naked, come to Thee for dress; Helpless, look to thee for grace; Foul, I to the fountain fly, Wash me, Savior, or I die.”

If you want all rhyme, it’s a stretch to make dress and grace work. But maybe that’s why it does work for me. Makes me stop to think about where I’m naked and where I go “for dress.”

Since Jud died, and even in the months before, I felt that raw, exposed nakedness. Vulnerability, helplessness. Stripped of the security I’d known and loved.  The kind of safety which sometimes backed me off from the cross. In Jud I trusted.

Even now, I resist the cross I’m to pick up and carry, preferring softness, security. Safe. Predictable life. I like cushions on which to kneel, lotioned kleenex when I cry and sometimes a cup of tea with scone and jam to soften life’s blows. (or maybe crispy bacon) No ugly howling, sobbing, groaning cross-carrying, if possible. And it is, to a degree, possible. At what price?  Jud never backed off, never blinked, as far as I could tell. I think of that, of him, as I wrestle during this Lenten season.

After the winter we’ve endured, I doubt anyone in New England, Baptist or otherwise, will ask to sing “Wash me and I Shall be Whiter Than Snow.” Nothing pretty or clean looking as this snow starts slowly taking leave. But Rock Of Ages? I’m old enough now to raise my hand and ask to sing, “Rock of Ages on page…”. Even all the verses. Rock solid promises. Rock solid hiding place. Rock solid Grace.

Monday. Wash day. “Wash me, Savior, or I die.”

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