Prayers of the people

I went to church this past Sunday. That’s not exactly breaking news – I know lots of other people did, too. The thing is, except for a few memorial services, I haven’t been to church in a long time. I guess Monica and Ross would say we were taking a break and like many breaks, it’s a long story that involves a toxic man or two – the kind of men who feel threatened by women who don’t agree with them. Sound familiar? Anyway, I’ve had enough of that dung to last a lifetime, and I surely don’t need it at church.

But nothing like watching an unarmed American citizen be shot in the head (three times) by a masked ICE agent to drive me to seek some divine intervention. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything else to do – I was desperate to find some peace. And so, my dear wife and I bundled up on a brisk January morning and made the familiar drive to our former church.

And we were greeted by a tsunami of smiles and hugs – big fat hugs – long ones that you feel in your spine. We were almost a bit embarrassed, but good Lord, it felt so good to held by kind folks who were feeling the same way we were after the horrible events of last week – last month, last year. I was glad I had come even before I sat down.

The priest began the service by asking for a moment of prayer for Renee Good and I swear I could feel the weight of those prayers pressing on my shoulders. I’ll be honest – I’ve had a really hard time praying for a really long time. It’s hard to pray when your heart feels rage. I hate that feeling and it was so lovely to have it extinguished for a few hours.

I’m a lifelong Episcopalian and the liturgy of the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) has always comforted me. No matter how long I’ve been away, those words remain the same. They are the words I spoke as a child in a world that was so different than the one we’re living in now. Don’t get me wrong – even as a kid, I knew that world wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like Walter Cronkite was telling the truth and that everybody agreed that masked men shooting unarmed folks were the bad guys.

To be fair, I’ve been a bit of a prodigal daughter when it comes to the church – drifting in and out only to return in times of grave distress. That was the case in November of 2016 following Hillary Clinton’s soul crushing loss to Trump. I was devastated and didn’t know what else to do – besides rage. Are you picking up on a pattern here? I will never forget that Sunday – it was a lifeline to the hope of better days. That was 10 years ago and here we are and I’m getting some strong Job vibes as the locusts continue to swarm over Minneapolis.

And yet, once again on Sunday, sitting with a group of diverse folks who share a lot of the same hopes and fears as I do, made me feel better. A guiding mantra of my life has long been “safety in numbers” and maybe that’s what led me to church. And this prayer in the BCP is a more eloquent version of that sentiment:

A Prayer of St. Chrysostom

Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplication to you; and you have promised through your well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered together in his Name you will be in the midst of them: Fulfill now, Lord, our desires and petitions as may be best for us; granting us in this world knowledge of your truth, and in the age to come life everlasting. Amen.

I’m certainly not here to proselytize. Religion is not everyone’s lane, and my own faith has wobbled plenty over the years, but one thing that has not waivered is my belief in community – two or three or a thousand. And that is what is saving me these days. The brave citizens of Minneapolis-Saint Paul have been preaching the gospel of community in all manner of ways since the horror of last week. My friend Mitch sent me a beautiful essay by Maribeth Romso, a writer who lives there. Here’s the link to the entire piece, but I’m sharing the last few paragraphs that read like a prayer to me.

Minnesotans know that grief can hollow a place out if it’s not met with care. But we also know the assignment.

Show up.
Feed people.
Listen.
Protect one another.
Name the harm.
Love anyway.

Right now, life in Minneapolis feels like being in the belly of a whale: dark, disorienting and heavy with sorrow. We have been here before, but our broken hearts are not alone.

Two or three… Keep gathering, friends. You know the assignment.

How can I keep from singing

I always tear up, in a happy way, when I hear the familiar refrain of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” – it was the recessional hymn at the blessing ceremony at my church a few weeks after my dear wife and I were married in 2014. I remember us squeezing each other’s hands as we practically levitated down the center aisle past the packed pews of friends and family smiling their faces off. But my tears were bittersweet on Saturday morning when I heard it– this time as the processional for my friend Susan’s memorial service. She died on June 21^st from cancer – the beast known as glioblastoma – a brain tumor. She was 54 years old.

If you’re thinking about bailing on this post as a downer, please don’t. Susan Jean Gies Conley Link was many things – a mom, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a non-profit fundraiser, a social advocate, a singer, and a lover of bunnies to name a few. She was brainy – a proud Wellesley alumna – and had a wicked sense of humor which never deserted her – even during the last year of her life. And she possessed a faith that was as strong and deep as her Midwestern roots. You really should know her.

**Susan Conley, April 16, 1971 – June 21, 2025**

Susan and I weren’t social friends – I met her at church, so I saw her often and we became Facebook friends. I will admit that I have many social media “friends” that I could not identify in a police line-up, but Susan was one of those primo Facebook friends – the kind you look forward to seeing posts from. And her posts this past year, especially the months near the end of her life, were remarkable. They were profoundly honest and often staggeringly beautiful in their celebration of the extraordinary ordinariness of our daily lives.

Susan was the patron saint of bunnies and even had two as indoor pets. She would make charming posts about them. In the days after she died, I saw this sweet creature several times on my early morning walks. Coincidence? Maybe.

I began taking screenshots of some of her posts this spring. I didn’t want them to get lost in the abyss of doomscrolling and food porn and narcissisms that Facebook spews 24/7. Yes, I know I’m guilty of all of that, too, but at least I know good Facebooking when I see it. As her death became more imminent, you could see that posting had become difficult for her – there were typos and sometimes incoherent thoughts and that made her posts all the more achingly powerful. They have become gratitude prompts for me. And God knows, we could all use some prompting these days. So, I decided to share a few of them. I think Susan would be okay with that, although, as she made very clear in one of her last posts – she didn’t need to be anyone’s hero. No, Susan would tell you she was simply a woman with well-organized priorities. She loved her family fiercely, valued her friends dearly and didn’t suffer fools with an appetite for drama. This was a woman who found out she had a brain tumor on Easter Sunday and made posts from her hospital bed reassuring friends the next day.

I want you to know Susan a bit through her own words – she certainly had a way with them.

**I love this post and it really captures the essence of Susan’s beloved Michigan roots.**

**“Stay consistently yourself.” Damn, that’s good.**

**This one really got me. Susan and her mother were very close.**

Susan’s mother posted the message below on Facebook on June 17th.

**It’s true – the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.**

Susan, a lovely soprano, was a long-time member of the choir at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church and she also sang with the Winston Salem Symphony Chorus. So, it was fitting that her memorial service was a concert of sorts with as many hymns packed in as she could negotiate with her priest. And, of course, she had personally selected each one. The Sequence Hymn before the eulogy and homily was “How can I keep from Singing” by Pauline T. and Robert Lowery.

I wasn’t familiar with the hymn but as I listened to it, I couldn’t help but smile. It seemed to perfectly capture Susan’s spirit and her taste for irony.

Of course, Susan Conley could never keep from singing – in all manners of ways – in this life or the next one. And we are all the better for it.

Amen.

**Folks who had performed with Susan in the Winston Salem Symphony Chorus joined the St. Anne’s choir on Saturday to create a magnificent choir of angels.**

**I think Susan felt this deep down in her bones.**

House Call

Harrisonburg, Virginia

Cancer never plays fair.

One of my oldest and dearest friends was recently diagnosed with cancer of the tongue. She has never smoked, rarely drinks and could be a poster girl for fit over 50.

I’m not a doctor but even I know that on paper, she has about as many risk factors for this type of cancer as Snow White.

She retired a few months ago after 30 plus years as a pediatrician. Her father was my pediatrician. Yes, we go back a long way.

I met her in the 4^th grade when my family moved to Harrisonburg, VA and we have been friends for 50 years.

She was always the smartest one in the class and went on to be our valedictorian when we graduated high school. But she wasn’t smart in an intimidating or condescending sort of way. She could be as silly as any of us and was often the butt of our practical jokes because she was so absolutely gullible.

I think she knew she wanted to be a doctor before she went to kindergarten. Her father is still living and I had the pleasure of seeing him recently at the funeral of another old friend’s mother.

He looked remarkably well for a man nearing 90 and he has retained his impish smile and charming bedside manner.

My friend (I don’t want to use her name for privacy’s sake and it feels weird to make one up) married a doctor and her son is now in medical school. I guess you could say it’s the family business. She has been a healer most of her adult life and now she is the patient.

She has one of those websites that keeps everyone updated and I have been blown away by her courage, grace, honesty and humor as she shares this journey with those who love her.

Her initial post was very clinical and written like well, a doctor. She wrote about how her cancer presented – an ulcer on her tongue – and the path to eventual diagnosis and surgery. She wrote in medical terms – cms and resections and such.

She had hoped that once her tumor was removed the pathology on the lymph nodes in her neck would reveal no more than two nodes involvement which would mean no further treatment. She had three positive nodes.

And that’s when the tenor of her posts changed. They became more vulnerable and very intimate.

It was real before that but if all it took to be disease free was an operation, I can do that. When (her doctor) started talking about radiation and chemo that hit hard. This wasn’t just a battle anymore. This is war and sometimes people die in wars. I was forced yesterday to face that possibility. I had to listen to my husband and children cry as we processed the news.

It doesn’t get any more real than that.

My friend noted in another post that she is much better with numbers and reasoning than talking about feelings. And she made me smile when she shared that her SAT scores were Math 720 and Verbal 520. Mine were the exact opposite but it turns out that she is much better at writing than I am at math.

Her posts have been a balm to those of us who love her and are still reeling from her news. She has a great faith – a faith that has been severely tested in the past few weeks – a faith that will sustain her through radiation and three rounds of chemotherapy.

Our high school emblem. #bluestreaks

I last saw her at our high school reunion last October. She, of course, served as one of the chairs of the reunion committee and had spent a crazy amount of time on the fabulous decorations. She was a cheerleader and still retains that youthful enthusiasm for life.

We had a blast and giggled like school girls again. And, yes, she may have done a cheer or two. The girl’s still got it.

Her first grandchild is due any day now and she wants to get in lots of grandmothering before she starts her treatments at the end of the month.

Today the sunrise was beautiful. (A friend) and I prayed together and I feel at peace with all the treatment decisions. Now I need to get myself physically, emotionally and spiritually ready for this war.

Onward, Christian soldier, dear friend. We’re cheering for you now.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

faith

Prayers of the people

How can I keep from singing

House Call