Howard Chapel - Ridgeville United Methodist Church

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Howard Chapel - Ridgeville United Methodist Church

The little white church on the hill that welcomes all, including you.

08/10/2026

Joy has a remarkable inability to read the room. Thank God.

07/31/2026

This morning, the sun was shining through the clouds, the squirrels played vertical tag on the palm trees in the backyard, and traffic to and from the island was heavy. Yesterday, on July 30th after nightfall, my mother died, surrounded by her adoring family. It was a peaceful parting. Just two weeks ago, she and I spoke about her favorite verses of scripture and her favorite hymns. She said she didn't want a funeral or a burial; she wanted to have her ashes scattered in the sea.

When we decide to make our way to the sand bar that appears at low tide, we will read the prayer of St. Francis as we walk. Over 70 years of life, Mom learned, one day at a time, to replace hatred, grudges, and pessimism with empathy, forgiveness, and hopefulness in her heart. She ultimately became someone who gave her affection freely and was able to relinquish control over every concern. Now, in dying, she is born to eternal life, echoing forever in the memory and lives of those who knew and loved her. May we all give thanks to God for the people whom we love but see no more.

Rev. James

07/30/2026

It's been more than a few sleepless nights for me, whether on an air mattress, sleeper sofa, or recliner. But no amount of sleep could dampen our heightened emotions over a family member’s death. I've seen grief, fear, shame, rage, and resentment, as well as resolve, affection, compassion, happiness, and peace. I'm sure we all have, haven't we?

My brother-in-law is even-keeled and steady, offering his presence and his patience. My sister's been strong, holding onto resolve and compassion while weighed down by grief. My mother has embodied affection and peace, even as her spirit seems to disappear to somewhere else.

I feel gratitude for the chance to be here with her, to be warm toward her and to feel something close to equanimity about her death, which I've dreaded for three years. I have also found myself occupied by my father's own health conditions. For the past year he has suffered from advanced congestive heart failure, with its attendant confusion and depression. His memory is faulty, as is his reasoning. He is, I think, brave for sitting with Mom when he can; and he is filled with apprehension and grief I can only imagine I would feel for my own spouse.

It is a privilege to live, to accompany those who have carried us, to demonstrate to them that they are known and embraced.

Rev. James

07/29/2026

Over our childhood, my mom had been so stoic, so firm with my sister and me, raising us both to be more than the sum of our parts. To us, she was someone whose opinion of us mattered a great deal. I gradually grew taller than her and stronger than her, and I could eventually understand her from more than one point of view. Now it's taking everything she has just to catch her breath. Over this month, when I carried my mother from her wheelchair into her hospital bed, I thought of the words to the hymn: “And God will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of God’s hand.” It was fitting, as well, that today the nurses arrived to drive Mom to the hospice care center. We realized her pain was more widespread than we were permitted to manage at home. Her stretcher was raised up to eye-level, and I gave her a kiss on her cheek. May Mom one day soon shine bright again and know what it feels like to have all that weighs her down borne by another who also calls her beloved.

Rev. James

07/28/2026

I keep returning to Jesus’ words in the Gospel of John: “But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” It comes to mind when I see how hard it is for Mom to swallow a sip of water or just to catch her breath, even when she's been fast asleep all night. We change her nightgown and her bedsheets; we give her medicine; we care for her drying skin and lips. I think Mom doesn’t want to leave the home where for years she has hosted her children, grownups as we now are. I think I understand. I don't ever want to say goodbye to my own children. Nordic theologian Patrik Hagman once had to comfort his dying child; he fancifully speculated, “When you die, time stops. So when you would die, Mom and I will be there with you, because there’s no time there. So you don’t have to wait for us. We will be with you. But we’re really sad, because we’ll be here, and we will have to [wait to] see you again. So that’s why we are crying now.” Maybe Mom can hold onto that wished-for future, that in only a blink she'll awake and move from strength to strength, and she’ll find all her beloved - renewed and restored and right by her. Maybe we all can hold onto that possibility.

Rev. James

07/27/2026

No one felt like leaving the house yesterday or last night. The rain fell hard on the rooftop, because of a tropical storm in the Gulf, a reminder of the vastness of the world beyond our little world. This morning, the sky turns pink before the sun rises once more, and my sister and brother-in-law get ready for work. My own thoughts drift to my congregation, especially how grateful I am to them, that they reiterated to me what is most important in the world. Emotional presence and loving acts put the world's strife and the yawning cosmos a little out of focus, so that facing the day becomes manageable. All that matters for me right now is to help my mother say goodbye with peace and equanimity, without regret or fear. All Mom wants is for her loved ones to be close, for her family to be home. So here we are.

Rev. James

07/26/2026

My sister and brother-in-law spent last night with Mom, and they insisted I get a good night's sleep at their house. They live just down the road from my parents, whereas I live 600 miles away. Every family visit here, my wife and I hurriedly corral our children around, and we hardly get to sit still, or open up, or connect with Katie and Parker, except as Aunt and Uncle to their nephews. But today we were all together, and tonight everyone will be present again - sleeping on a couch, a chaise, a recliner, or an air mattress. These past four weeks have been heavy. The silver lining has been the time we've had together - each of us feeling, I think, more understood than we were before. I give thanks for closeness today.

Rev. James

07/25/2026

My mom's friend group called over Zoom to talk this afternoon, to wish her well and laugh together. I overheard them cackle in a way that felt authentic and unguarded, unashamed. Across the years and the miles they remain connected, even when one of their group lost a spouse, or one died too young, or one - today - is saying her final goodbyes. Their reunion plans for September will change now; their community will grow tighter. But their love for one another is so buoyant, so resilient, that just a few minutes spent together seems to fill the atmosphere around them with unalloyed affection. It reminds me of the promise of Kate Bowler's book Joyful, Anyway: "You will never be cured of grief. That is true. But you can be joyful, anyway. I swear." My circumspect and stoic mom, transformed into a jovial goofball among her friends, shows me herself that gloom is impermanent, and we each can light up a room at any moment. There's no telling when light will break through the clouds.

Rev. James

07/24/2026

Our hospice nurse presented us with a pamphlet on what to expect over the next few days, and at the end of the booklet I found the perspective insightful and provocative.

"How we approach death is going to depend upon our fear of life, how much we participated in that life, and how willing we are to let go of this known expression to venture into a new one."
Gone from My Sight
by Barbara Karnes, RN

I'm reminded of the questions John Wesley formed for leading classes of disciples, for people to consider how they live: "How do I spend my spare time? Do I grumble or complain constantly? Is Christ real to me?"

Today, I would say that if Christ is real to me, then every aspect of my mundane life is continuously aligning with heaven. So there's nothing before me for me to fear, no reason to shrink from each day, and every reason to venture into the next.

What about you?

Rev. James

07/23/2026

All day I noticed the wind blowing, like all the trees were breathing. Though it was over 90 and humid, the wildlife wasn't stifled. There was a liveliness all around outside. Indoors, the nurses checked my father's heart, and my mother mostly slept while we adjusted her oxygen line. Neither are well, but the caregivers keep telling my sister and me that we're doing a good job here. I'd rather be here than anywhere else, though I've missed what sights my spouse and children might see with their cousins and grandparents on our long planned vacation to Yellowstone, some 2,000 miles away. I missed them. When I come home, despite my grief, I'll ask my parishioners where else my family should go, what else we should see - whatever I can do to point my children to the beauty and life all around us, to make the most of each minute spent together. What moments have reminded you of how much of a gift it is to be alive?

Rev. James

Address

1970 Long Corner Road
Mount Airy, MD
21771

Opening Hours

10am - 11am

Telephone

+13018292391

Website

http://mountairychurch.org/

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