BANTAM, CONNECTICUT 

“LOST SHEEP” 

A sermon by Miriam Anne Bourne
Mother’s Day - May 10, 1987 

            Scripture and church art are full of references to Christ as both lamb and shepherd, to us as his sheep. It’s a comforting image, and sheep are appealing creatures.
            My family and I have had some personal experience with sheep that give the image meaning. We’ve seen our daughter Louise’s friend Jon affectionately pat his woolly brown ewes and rams as they rub against him. We’ve heard that Louise used her capable hands to reach inside a mother to ease the birth of her lamb. We’ve pictured their flock of animals alone on a Maine island all through the cold winter. When the meadow grass is covered with snow,  they wander down to the shore and feed on seaweed; when a Northeaster howls, they take shelter under dense evergreen boughs. These hardy sheep survive the winter.
            One April, Rusty and I visited England’s Lake District with more family. We hiked for miles along a remote path cut into a bracken-covered and rock-littered mountain high above a lake, in company with hundreds of sheep and their black and white, bleating lambs. At one desolate place lay a dead sheep. Did it die alone, I wondered?
            There are times when we sheep feel lost and deserted, feel completely alone, even with people around us. When there’s no work, no money coming in to pay the bills. When a loved one has deserted us by sickness or death or alcohol or drugs or by falling in love with someone else. When we are frightened by the reality of our own mortality.
            At those times does religion help? If so, in what way? There’s no single, simple answer. But I’ve gathered thoughtful responses from several friends at St. Paul’s and from other people I care about and respect. They’ve given me permission to share them with you.
            A man I know has been slowly dying of an illness that will at any time, affect his brain. Although he has many friends, he lives alone. Pain and fear are with him constantly, but somehow he’s working at his job in the creative, out-giving way he always has. How in the world is he doing that?
            Last summer he told several of us that the night before he’d been sitting alone by his moonlit lake. “I was thinking of all my friends,” he said and choked up. Then he continued. “I was remembering all the good things that have happened to me.”
            Now that’s easy to do when you’re feeling well, but this sick man has apparently trained himself to mentally enumerate the positive times and people in his life and practices doing so often enough, I suspect, to be successful. He “counts his blessings” and though he suffers, he doesn’t go under.
            As we meditate -- at church or during the dark hours before dawn - let’s each of us remember to practice enumerating the good things.
            Another friend in his early fifties, died last summer after an excruciating bout with cancer.
            “His religious faith was deep,” his widow wrote me, “and I imagine a comfort to him. His was an unanalyzed faith and unspoken. . .”
            Her husband was the headmaster of a school, and had always taken very seriously the responsibility of being an example to his students. For years he exemplified the faithful husband and parent. Then when his first marriage crashed, he let both staff and students glimpse his hurt and humiliation, but also see him carry on, recover, and marry again. Only a few months later, this dear man was struck by the cancer. Struggling to be courageous, he said to a priest we both knew, “I guess I’m still supposed to be an example to people.”
            In what tone of voice did he say that? Knowing him, I doubt if it was said bitterly. He’s no Pollyanna, so he certainly wasn’t sounding sanctimonious. Perhaps it was said with quiet conviction.
            Because I know that this conscientious educator had always thought about what it seemed to him God wanted him to do in his job as a headmaster and teacher. As he tried to make sense of the tragedies that struck him, he could still resort to the habit of analyzing what it seemed was God’s purpose for him.
            Whenever we meditate - at church, in the car or on a bus, while doing housework - let’s try to get into the habit of reviewing what we consider God’s purpose to be for us.
            Two men in this parish who have endured heart attacks, were kind enough to share their deepest thoughts about their faith and whether or not it helped at the time.
            “To an extent, I can admit to comfort from my religion,” said one, “but not in a sudden, miraculous burst of blazing light. It was instead a comfort best described as steady, warm, and calming. An acceptance, however reluctantly, that I must ‘let it be.’”
            “Before surgery,” said the other man, “I had to have communion. I don’t know why, but it meant a 1ot, helped me feel 1 was going to be okay, that I would make it.”
            A person he worked with who is a fundamentalist, gave him writings to read about the New Testament. “I read them,” says our friend, “even though I didn’t much agree with them. They were interesting, though, and got me thinking about what I did believe.”
            Recently I’ve been looking over a stack of fundamentalist magazines for my job as a writing instructor. To me Christ and religion are trivialized in these publications, but I can’t help but admire their attempts to make religion work for people in their daily lives. What helped the men in our church family were the familiar Eucharist and writings that make us think; then they could surrender to God’s will and “let it be.”
            Later, during an agonizing period of medical indecision, depression set in for one. “I would burst out crying” he said, “don’t really remember that religion helped me then.”
            That demon Depression is a tough one for even religion to battle. “It didn’t last long,” says this man,” but I had thought I was doing so well.”
            Could religion have helped him? My mother struggled with depression for much of her life. To me, it often seemed as if I were a victim too, and that she wasn’t really trying hard enough to overcome both depression and resentment.
            As Mother was dying, however, she kept repeating that she wanted it known, she had “no malice toward anyone.”
            “Then you’re in a state of grace, Caroline,” a priest friend told her. I was touched that semi-conscious, Mother had turned to Biblical language to express herself.
            After she died, I leafed through a book of prayers my father had given her on Mother’s Day 33 years ago. She had underlined her favorites, and tucked between the pages were dozens of other prayers cut from magazines or copied in her handwriting. I realized then that with this small book my mother had, indeed, worked hard at overcoming the devil of her depression, repeating over and over, I imagine, familiar sentences, words, and phrases.
                        In Thee, O Lord, have I put my trust. . .
                        God be in my head and in my understanding. . .
                        Give me the serenity to accept what cannot be changed. . .
                        Fear not. . .
                        Be at peace.
            “When I had the heart attack,” said the St. Paul’s friend who later suffered from depression, “I said the Lord’s Prayer about 1000 times.”
            Sometimes prayer doesn’t help, hut sometimes it can. Maybe we all need a book like my mother’s, a hook of prayers we know well enough to “say 1000 times” when we’re in trouble.
            To those of us who haven’t had the dreadful experience, it’s hard to imagine how anyone could survive the loss of a child. Yet in our community and at our church we see bereaved parents who astonishingly, have learned again to laugh and smile. How has religion comforted and restored them?
            “Familiar prayers meant more to me,” said one mother. “Like ‘Thy will be done.’ We don’t always get our druthers.
            “But I believed there was a plan we can’t always understand. I was torn between accepting that and asking God, ‘Why are you doing this to me? It’s not fair.’ Of course, there’s no guarantee that life is fair.
            “Suddenly I heard the words of the 23rd psalm,” this mother continued. “‘1 walk through the valley of the shadow of death’ -- through and beyond, I realized. And a Roman Catholic friend sent me a mass card that said, ‘Unto thy faithful, Oh Lord, life is changed, not taken away.’  Words like these are not a talisman, but if chosen well, have meaning. That’s why I believe so much in religious education, so that when the crunch comes, you have something to draw upon.”
            Another of our church friends spoke of how alone she felt after a divorce. “I cried my heart out,” she said. “‘Why me?’ I cried to God.”
            It was before this woman had come to St. Paul’s, but she found a church in her neighborhood that she got into the habit of dropping into during the week.
            “It was quiet there,” she said, “1 felt alone, but not lonely. I felt, ‘Let God take over. Let God lead,’ and found that I could talk to God as a friend.  It was a child-like faith like the hymn, ‘What a Friend I Have in Jesus’. So I kept asking and God kept giving. If I’d known what God bad in store for me, I would have smiled more.”
A quiet church and familiar religious words strengthened these two women.
            Five years ago Rusty and I received a night phone call from our daughter-in-law with the news that our older son was in the hospital being operated upon for brain surgery. During the dark, quiet, unearthly bus ride to Boston, I rode close to Rusty but had never felt so alone. I was empty, praying for Jonathan. Gradually, as the night wore on, I felt less empty. The convic­tion grew that, whatever happened, I would have the strength within me to deal with it. In the next weeks, on the other hand, it was the concerned attention of relatives and friends that sustained me. Every one of the St. Paul’s people with whom I’ve talked has spoken eloquently of the life-saving support from others. All of us can witness to the fact that God works through those who care about us.
            Recently I asked our son Jonathan what he remembers about the night when he was shunted in pain and shock from hospital to hospital for more sophisticated equipment and surgeons.
            “I knew I was being cared for,” he said, “It was like when we were little, Mom, and we’d get hurt and Dad would say, ‘Wash your face and hands and everything will be all right.’”
            Jonathan didn’t mention religion by name. But it seems to me he was experiencing at a profound 1eve1,  trust in his brave, level­headed, young wife and the skill of medical people and faith that somehow, he was going to be all right. If that isn’t religion, what is?
            Last winter I had the pleasure of going to the small town in Maine my mother came from, to talk to the Woman’s Club about the book I’d written from old minutes of their meetings. On a beautiful, snowy but bright Sunday, I went with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law to their Unitarian church. The building is a handsome, old white structure with a Bulfinch tower and a Pail Revere bell, and the St. Paul-sized congregation included friends whose families have known mine for generations. I was very happy to be there and fascinated by the sermon.
            The minister spoke of “communion,” meaning what we call “fellowship,” and that sounded familiar. But he said that when we’re in trouble, ultimately, we’re completely alone. That, of course, is exactly the opposite of what we Episcopalians hear, which is that we’re never alone. God is always with us.
            Later, my sister-in-law and I talked about that, and she said, “Oh, yes. I grew up with the idea of inner strength -- that we are strong enough to endure whatever comes.”
            Episcopalians would call that strength God. But it occurred to me that maybe it doesn’t matter what we lost sheep call the resilience, the courage within us, that we’re all actually talking about the same thing. If there is a God, does the Father care if we don’t always give Him full credit? I don’t imagine He has an ego. And we’re in big trouble if the motherly aspect of God holds a grudge because we never call Her by name!
            What we sheep must do, it seems to me, during the green seasons when the sun is warm and the blue water sparkles, is feed ourselves on whatever it is that nourishes us spiritually -- counting our blessings, seeking God’s purpose, the Eucharist, prayer, religious writing, a quiet church, the fellowship of people -- so that during the cold, dark, frozen times, we experience an Easter. . . we live!
            Because it’s Mother’s Day, I’d like to close with a prayer for mothers and for all of us sheep (As an extension of our prayer, Irene Lefferts, a sheep with an angel’s voice, will sing.
Let us pray.
            Dear Mother and Father of us all, please bless the mothers of this congregation:
                        those with babies and little ones, those with bigger boys and girls,
                        those with teenagers and grown-up children,
                                    who have grown away or are far away,
                        those who have lost a beloved daughter or son.
            Bless grandmothers and great-grandmothers and aunts and godmothers.
            Thank you for the little girls of this parish who will have babies of their own.
            Bless those women who have no children,
                        but care for and comfort others.
            All over the world, bless mothers who weep for sons and
                        daughters who are sick, hungry, homeless, prisoners of drink or drugs,
                        prisoners of conscience.  Give their mothers the courage and strength
                        to help them as best they can and endure what they cannot change.
            Please, God, give comfort and care to all your sheep -- to all men and women.
            We ask this in the name of the Good Shepherd. Amen.

Biography - Bourne, Miriam Anne (1931-1989)
Contemporary Authors - January 1, 2004

This digital document, covering the life and work of Miriam Anne Bourne, is an entry from Contemporary Authors, a reference volume published by Thomson Gale. The length of the entry is 623 words. The page length listed above is based on a typical 300-word page. Although the exact content of each entry from this volume can vary, typical entries include the following information:

Family: Born March 4, 1931, in Buffalo, NY; died of cancer, June 21, 1989, in Castine, ME; daughter of Herbert M. (an insurance man) and Caroline (Walker) Young; married Russell Bourne (an editor), August 22, 1953; children: Sarah Perkins, Jonathan, Louise Taber, Andrew Russell. Education: Wheelock College, graduate, 1953. Memberships: Washington Children's Book Guild.

Writer. Owner/proprietor of The Children's Bookshop (a mail-order business), 1974-79; part-time instructor for Institute of Children's Literature, Redding Ridge, CT, 1982-89.

WRITINGS BY THE AUTHOR: Juveniles, except as indicated:

• Emilio's Summer Day, Harper, 1966.
• Raccoons Are for Loving, Random House, 1968.
• Tigers in the Woods, Coward, 1971.
• Second Car in Town, Coward, 1972.
• Four-Ring Three, Coward, 1973.
• Nelly Custis' Diary, Coward, 1974.
• Nabby Adams' Diary, Coward, 1975.
• Bright Lights to See By, Coward, 1975.
• Patsy Jefferson's Diary, Coward, 1976.
• What Is Papa Up to Now?, Coward, 1977.
• White House Children, Random House, 1979.
• The Children of Mount Vernon, Doubleday, 1981.
• Dog Walk, Follett, 1981.
• First Family: George Washington and His Intimate Relations (adult), Norton, 1982.
• Uncle George Washington and Harriot's Guitar, Coward, 1983.
• The Ladies of Castine: From the Minutes of the Castine, Maine Woman's Club (adult), illustrations by Louise Taber Bourne, Arbor House (New York City), 1986.
• Let's Visit a Toy Factory, photography by Michael Plunkett, Troll Associates (Mahwah, NJ), 1988.
• A Day in the Life of a Cross-Country Trucker, photography by Gayle Jann, Troll Associates, 1988.
• A Day in the Life of a Chef, photography by Gayle Jann, Troll Associates, 1988.

Also author of 1984 Day Book: Excerpts from Women's Writings, for Bo-Tree.

"Sidelights" An educator, editor, and author, Miriam Anne Bourne was a respected consultant on early learning materials. She wrote more than a dozen books for children during a writing career that spanned two decades.

Bourne told CA: "When I was growing up, my parents read everything I wrote and told me they liked it--which kept me writing, of course. More demanding but supportive teachers in upstate New York, Mid-Western, and Philadelphia schools I attended helped me sharpen [my] skills.

"Summers were spent in the small town on the Maine coast where my mother's family had lived since the 1760s. Every winter for English assignments I wrote about the people in that town, lovingly recreating them, as if they were fictional characters in a life-long book. That town still nourishes me and offers writing ideas.

"Adult years have been spent in Connecticut and Washington, DC. Washington provided a wealth of writing ideas, especially for books about the families of public figures. First Family explores the interrelationship between George Washington's private and public life through family correspondence. Here in New England the thoughts and experiences of my foremothers intrigue me."

While living in Connecticut in the mid-1970s, Bourne owned and operated a mail-order business called The Children's Bookshop. She later taught at the Institute of Children's Literature. Among her children's books are Emilio's Summer Day, Four-Ring Three, and Bright Lights to See By. Bourne also edited a women's history project for the Episcopal church.

PERIODICALS

• Washington Post, June 24, 1989.*