Message given at Durham Friends Meeting, June 15, 2025
I haven’t paid much attention to Father’s Day in recent years.
For a number of reasons:
One of which is that my father of almost 50 years – my Step-father, James Cannon, passed away almost 12 years ago and after that I focused on my Mother and my relationship with her and her care. It was really important to me that I feel complete when she died because my biological father, Donn Randall, had been taken from me and us so suddenly, without warning when I was eight years old. I vowed I would be with my mother during her decline, however that looked.
And, notably, I blamed my biological father for how he left us so suddenly, abandoning me, I felt.
You see he and I had experienced together a very random and very tragic event involving the death of a toddler. And my father could not bear it, this loss of life that he had caused through no fault of his own.
I need to repeat that through no fault of his own. And I was the witness. I was there with him when it happened, this random tragic act.
He could not endure the suffering caused by the guilt and shame that he carried as a result. So, about a year and a half later, one cold and rainy September night, after a day of drinking, he got into his car, the same car that had killed the child, drove off the road and through a guardrail one rainy September night.
He stayed in a coma for 18 months, enough time for my resourceful mother to find another provider for her and us 4 kids, my step-father, who stepped up to the plate. My step-father’s hubris to take on the care of 4 rambunctious kids under the age of 15, borne of love for my mother and of his youth, I suppose. They were only 40 years old.
And my father, I imagine, seeing us well taken care of at that time passed on, 2 days after my mother and step-father’s wedding.
But my point is that I was really angry and remained really angry at my father for abandoning me, leaving me holding the bag, so to speak, or the baggage of this random tragic accident that no one else in my family experienced. I felt he had taken the easy way out, you see. And I was left to navigate my growing up on my own. My mother was caught up in her new life with her new husband. And my crazy older brothers were still reeling from the abrupt departure of our father.
So I dismissed my father. For decades I never sought his comfort or his counsel from the other realms.
Though he did come to me one night when I was in despair in my mid-twenties. Heart broken and confused by being spurned by a man I loved, my father came to me without words. I suppose to let me know that he was there, watching over me. And I took great comfort in that knowing for the moment, that I was loved… even by a ghost…
Over the decades my step-father was with us, I grew quite fond of him. He was quiet and unassuming, a curious man with a wonderful sense of humor and sense of integrity. And we shared many tender moments together. I remember in my early thirties, on long winter nights, my mother, my step-father and I would sit by the fire having dinner together. And I basked in the warmth of a family structure I had always longed for, as an only child.
And then circumstances changed, my step-father got sick, he and my mother couldn’t manage their old house so they moved into assisted living. A death knell for Step-father, who loved his space and quiet time and a social boon for my mother who always loved a good party.
And circumstances for me changed as well. After a few major losses in my life, a marriage, and a career, I began to look to strengthen my Spiritual life and connections through various means.
So, I signed up for a trip to visit the realms of Gods and Goddesses of ancient Egypt with a group of spiritually-minded travelers.
And In November of 2023, days before my 65th, we found ourselves in the Great Pyramid of Giza at night. We climbed up the ramp through the narrow, dimly lit passageway to the King’s chamber which contains a granite sarcophagus, the tomb of the Pharaoh Khufu. It was there that my father made his loving presence known to me along with my mother. The two of them together in Spirit. It was then that I knew that I needed to forgive my father. It was there that I saw I needed to begin to shed the armor I had encased myself with – an attempt to protect myself from further wounding.
Suddenly, I acknowledged in the core of my being, the incredible burden of shame and guilt my father must have carried after the incident. All eyes of the small, tightknit community in the mid 1960’s on him. Afterall, he had killed a little boy, a son, a brother and grandson, while his three sons at home were healthy and vibrant. I opened my heart and found the compassion that I had locked away from him for 55 years.
A great weight lifted from my body in that pyramid in November of 2023, and I felt a freedom and lightness, opening up to a love that had always been there but that I had never allowed.
I returned home and tried to cultivate that love for him through the few memories I had of our shared times together, short lived as they were. One in particular stands out. My father would wake me up early on a Saturday morning and the two of us would ride our bikes the mile and a half to the beach together. Just the two of us. Away from the rough and tumble of my three older brothers and the critical eye of my mother. Basking in the stillness of the early morning sun glinting off the ocean, the long beach stretching out in front of us. It was thrilling to be there with my father, just the two of us.
After my experience in Egypt I felt open to my father and my mother holding me in Spirit, supporting and encouraging me. And I felt like I had permission to delve deeply into the nooks and crannies of my early life, replete with grief, confusion, despair and anger. So I began writing it all down, the good, the bad and the ugly. I relied on God, my relationship with Mary Magdalene and my Spiritual community to contain me during this deep dive.
And then, this winter, the winter of 2025, right in the middle of my love affair with Mary Magdalene, my feeling of being settled in my faith with God, Jesus showed up to me. He showed up in a powerful, full-bodied way, the way I find myself doubled over, on the floor, my body convulsing with sobs. Looking back at my journal, I find that he appeared on the Spring Equinox. Fitting. A new relationship, an awakening to love.
I had not been terribly interested in Jesus up until then, he, having been co-opted by many nefarious movements, systems and individuals. I could leave well enough alone, I thought, content with Mary Magdalene, the Archangels who I called upon often and the sweet symbolism of the various animals and birds I encountered daily. And God. I’d known God for a very long time.
So when Jesus came knocking I wasn’t prepared. But I was curious enough to ask, “Why are you here?”
The answer gave me pause. “I am here to show you gentle and kind masculine energy”, came the simple yet profound reply.
Yeah…I guessed I could use that. I guessed, in fact, I needed that.
During my travels in Mexico, I used to go into the churches and cathedrals in the towns I stopped in. These places of worship were the focal points; the plaza and the markets always in close proximity to the holy structures. I loved the art, the frescoes, the guilded and ornately carved wood framing the ceiling paintings and the statues of the Saints and animals. All these works of art exuded devotion to Jesus and God and Mexico’s beloved Virgen de Guadalupe. Even the simplest churches and chapels radiated loving care.
I used to go into the churches and sit in a pew to prayer and give thanks for the opportunity I had to experience this devotion to God, to Jesus and to the Saints. Most often I would begin to cry, overcome. And I never knew why. I still don’t know really. But I suspect, now, that Jesus was in my heart and I just wasn’t ready to acknowledge him. I just wasn’t ready.
And when I came back to Mid-coast Maine, I went to a Catholic church, hoping that I could replicate those sweet and tender moments, without success. The churches always felt barren and staid.
So when Jesus showed up in my life on the Spring Equinox in 2025, I knew how portentous it was. And I wanted to make sure I marked it so that I would not dismiss this experience and pretend Jesus was not with me. So that I would be held accountable and begin to consciously cultivate a relationship with him.
For my chaplaincy program, I had to present a Sacred Art project to my class. I, of course, chose Mary Magdalene but I also included a symbol of Jesus and depicted a cross on my shoulder. A bold statement that was difficult for me, given the current cultural backdrop – horrible and cruel actions taken by government and religious officials and individuals in the name of “Christianity”.
So here is Jesus, now ensconced in my heart, that is where I feel him, left side of my chest, tender and soft. Not like Mary Magdalene who, I see in front of me, beckoning me forward towards adventure and the next project. Or God who is more Universal, more ineffable and overarching to me and always “there”.
I’m not quite sure what to do with Jesus and I don’t pretend to know him well at this point but I am working on building a relationship with him, to learn about masculine gentleness and kindness as he suggested. But again, given our cultural context, I’m often insecure and filled with doubt. And I’m not sure I can always trust the stories in the New Testament.
So I am starting with the premise that Jesus is the embodiment of Love. That regardless of what others say and what is written in the New Testament, I feel in my heart that Jesus is love. So from there, I try to make conscious decisions to include him in my prayers for myself and for others. His name does not roll off my tongue as easily but I am trying.
And I think now that I would not have come to be introduced to Jesus had I not allowed my father back into my life. Had I not engaged in the process of putting myself in his shoes and having compassion for this 38 year old father of four whose mundane actions had snuffed out the life of a two year old. That was my initiation to Jesus’s path, compassion and forgiveness.
And When I think about Jesus’ love I am reminded of my father’s and my Step-father’s kindness and gentleness towards me.
This is a new path for me, to be open to love from Jesus, to ask for love from Jesus and to see Jesus’ love shining down on others. And it is a practice that I will continue because each time I open my heart to Jesus’ love, I feel it pulse and expand and I feel like crying, just like when I was sitting in those pews in the cathedrals in Mexico with the devoted widows, praying for peace and forgiveness.
So today, in honor of “Father’s Day”, I honor those values of my father, my step-father and of Jesus; Love, compassion, gentleness, humor and integrity.
And now, more than ever, we need to uphold that masculine energy that Jesus so embodied.
Happy Father’s Day everyone. May it be filled with Love, compassion and forgiveness.