you capitalize God

one more lesson from my brother

Dear friend, dear one. Thank you for being here. It’s a wild and tender reality that we exist together for fleeting moments; let’s take a moment to celebrate the fact. How are we so fortunate?

Today, I have three brief but important yoga lessons to share.

This is jnana yoga— the yoga of growing wisdom. The lessons come from the wisdom tradition of my brother, a 12-year old when I was born so of course he ranks among the sages in my world. Not only did he impart some gems, his unconditional delight in me secured an enduring trust. I could confuse him, disappoint him, and challenge him… still, I always relied on his protection. And love.

Last week, he died. It was sudden and I imagine the crash of shattering hearts awoke many sleeping angels. Which is just like my brother, really. His signature move when I was little was to snatch me from bed and throw me in the pool.

Thankfully, a broken heart does nothing to diminish my loving expectations of him… only to set them free. I trust him to remain present in every way our spirits allow. Now our bond, freed from the silliness of tall, gangly forms— neither of us really understood food, and both of us made peace with bodily functions by laughing at them— can support more love.

Now, I trust our bond to raise love in those dark spaces where God hides and wounds wait to heal.

Right now, I raise love here and now… among the pieces of my broken heart and in whatever shadows you’re facing.

Shine on, Seaner.

Lesson one: I was 8 and he was 20. He took me for a walk and was telling me about college. I guess I said, ‘I know.’ He stopped me, held my shoulders, shook them until I giggled. He said, ‘you don’t know. So don’t say you do.’

That jostling opened up a path of unknowing.

Who would I be if I didn’t know a thing?

Who could I be if I just didn’t know?

To date, I have no idea how much I don’t know. It’s vast and soft and perfect— all that unknown. I wonder how much you don’t know? Let’s be together in that cloud of unknowing and ask our questions from there.

Lesson two: This one comes from our dad but my brother recycled it for me three months ago. I’d made a choice to step into yet another cloudy unknown and some friends were understandably concerned. I said, ‘I hear their worry but I don’t share it.’

To which he said, ‘in one ear and out the other.’

Ah, that pearl of my adolescence. It’s grown even more splendid by decades of luster, guarding against old irritation. My dad used to say this when anyone suggested I was weird. I heard it a lot. And so, like a pearl, me and weird became more radiant and whole. Content to gently glow.

Lesson three: from eight years back. I published a chapbook of poetry titled 33 conversations between you, me, and god. My brother took his copy and said, ‘You capitalize God.’

Yes, the G. I pushed back mildly, saying something about inclusion and comfort for readers finding their way.

‘You always capitalize God,’ he said again.

Once again, I followed the path he illuminated.

Sometimes inclusivity is an invitation to become brave and humble. Usually, it’s trusting love to open our hearts in ways we never anticipated.

Which is precisely why God is meant to be capitalized.

We all worship something. If we’re going to place worth on anything, why choose to place it on anything less than the highest power? We’re meant to capitalize God, to take the chance on the Holy and our wholeness within it. From this, we gain unfathomable advantage. All things are possible in the Highest so long as we lift our hearts.

At a sunny breakfast a few years ago, I shared my favorite psalm with Sean… to let him know what he taught me. He listened and read it back to me. Then he thanked me, making a note to keep this one close.

My God, you have no idea how grateful I am for this lesson.

Psalm 27

The Lord is my light and my salvation—
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life—
    of whom shall I be afraid?

When the wicked advance against me
    to devour[a] me,
it is my enemies and my foes
    who will stumble and fall.
Though an army besiege me,
    my heart will not fear;
though war break out against me,
    even then I will be confident.

One thing I ask from the Lord,
    this only do I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the Lord
    all the days of my life,
to gaze on the beauty of the Lord
    and to seek him in his temple.
For in the day of trouble
    he will keep me safe in his dwelling;
he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent
    and set me high upon a rock.

Then my head will be exalted
    above the enemies who surround me;
at his sacred tent I will sacrifice with shouts of joy;
    I will sing and make music to the Lord.

Hear my voice when I call, Lord;
    be merciful to me and answer me.
My heart says of you, “Seek his face!”
    Your face, Lord, I will seek.
Do not hide your face from me,
    do not turn your servant away in anger;
    you have been my helper.
Do not reject me or forsake me,
    God my Savior.
Though my father and mother forsake me,
    the Lord will receive me.
Teach me your way, Lord;
    lead me in a straight path
    because of my oppressors.
Do not turn me over to the desire of my foes,
    for false witnesses rise up against me,
    spouting malicious accusations.

I remain confident of this:
    I will see the goodness of the Lord
    in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord;
    be strong and take heart
    and wait for the Lord.

Thank you, Seaner, my brother, protector, and sage. Your light and love will always guide me and I will love you in waves, sunsets, out-of-control laughter, and every beautiful kid you made.

We just don’t know. We choose our beauty. And we’re always in the goodness of God.

What a good fortune—