Beyond our ken

Christmas Eve 

Be still, then, and know that I am God.

Psalm 46:11

The sprinkling of snow on the lawn that greets me this morning is a surprise and a delight. A gift. in my part of the world, snow on Christmas is the icing on the cake. In other parts of this country, this world, of God’s creation, the rituals and traditions of this feast differ.

God speaks to us in sign and language that meets us in various times and places, even when the divine is beyond our ken. The Incarnation, God become flesh, is not for one. Christ is the savior of the world.

Come, Jesus.

Finding the way

Thursday of the Fourth Week of Advent

Great is our Lord and mighty in power;

there is not limit to God’s wisdom.

Psalm 147:5

The final twists and turns of the Advent journey are to be expected. I think of the story of Mary and Joseph turning down this road and that, looking for a place they did not know they would find.

The manger evokes so many images. Unexpected. Unpleasant. Squalid. Shameful. Humble. Down-to-earth. Ordinary. Everyday. Holy. So perhaps we should not think of it as unfortunate, but as meet and right. God was born into the space where there was room. Wisdom will find a way.

And perhaps this means I am where I need to be now. A bit uncertain, not sure of the exact way forward or where I will find the newborn Christ, nevertheless taking the risk to be faithful. Come, Jesus.

Image by Alex Hu from Pixabay

Sun of righteousness

Wednesday of the Fourth Week of Advent

He shall have pity on the lowly and poor;

he shall preserve the lives of the needy.

Psalm 72:13

Today began as most Wednesdays have for over a year now, with healing prayer.  Our zoom prayer group began as a response to someone who was hospitalized in August of 2020, when no one could with confidence safely gather in person or visit health care facilities. We found comfort and strength in gathering then, and still do.

Each week we pray for those who have asked for our prayers, for those we know of who are suffering, and for each other. And we pray for the world.

God’s merciful healing has been evident to us; praying together has deepened our faith and our friendships. And with the birth of our Savior now just a few steps away, we know more clearly that God’s will for all people is health and salvation. The sun of righteousness comes with healing in its wings.

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Unfathomable

Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Advent

All the earth bows down before you,

sings to you, sings out your Name.

Psalm 66:3

The intricate patterns bare branches trace across the winter grey sky. The rusty orange of remnant leaves. The pools of bright warmth the sun casts inside and out. The sharp freshness of cold air.

All around me God’s creation reveals beauty, possibility, and connection that is more than I can fathom. And with awe I await the most unfathomable gift, given once, given still. Come, Jesus.

Image: Giotto's Adoration of the Magi

Dawn road

Monday of the Fourth Week of Advent
 
For God alone my soul in silence waits;
from the One comes my salvation.
Psalm 62:1

 

When I wake the moon is still bright, and I sit in contemplation as the light of the sun slowly warms the horizon, indigo giving way to orange-pink and then dawn blue. One light exchanging space with another in an ancient rhythm.
 
And by the grace of the one who created the light and its reflection, a heaviness in my soul has been replaced with quiet anticipation. I am filled with the assurance that I am no longer trying to be ready; I am simply walking the last bit of the Advent way.
 
I don’t know how God does this. But with a relief on the edge of tears I give myself over with awe and gratitude. Come, Jesus.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Night waking

Saturday of the Third Week of Advent

Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you keep me safe;
you stretch forth your hand against the fury of my enemies;
your right hand shall save me.
Psalm 138:8

In the night, I am wakeful. Enough to get out of bed and go downstairs. This is most unfortunate because the Christmas cookies a colleague a gifted to my husband call my name. I know the sugar will not help me sleep, nevertheless….
 
When I was a new mother, I wrote a prayer for night waking for toddlers. I wanted even the youngest to have both the gift and the reassurance of God’s presence in the wee hours. Across centuries and cultures, people have engaged in rituals and prayer practices for the middle of the night, facing into the trepidation, facing into mystery.

Now in my own night waking, I seek peace and pray for the morning to come. Now the pace of Advent hurtles toward the longest night and the dawning of Grace.

 

Image by Angeles Balaguer from Pixabay

Plaint

Friday of the Third Week of Advent

 

What is the crying at Jordan?

Who hears, O God, the prophecy?

Dark is the season,

dark our hearts and shut to the mystery

The Hymnal 1982, #69

 

 

In the early morning, while it is still dark, I hear the cry of the windchimes and the creaking of the corners of the house. I lie wakeful, in the liminal space just removed from sleep.

 

In the cry and the rush of the wind I hear also the journeyer’s plaint. The start is left long behind, the end does not seem in sight. Caught in a curve of the path, a passage cut through rock with no apparent egress, an effort with no discernable progress.

 

I know the only way through is forward. I know I have come to the end of this journey before. I know this space of darkness will not last. I know the sun dawns.

 

And with this knowledge, I step into the day, that much closer a full-on encounter with holy mystery.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

Distraction

 Thursday of the Third Week of Advent
 
My eyes are fixed on you, O my Strength;
for you, O God, are my stronghold.
Psalm 59:10
 

As I watch the morning brighten outside our front window, I also see and hear the traffic increase. So many people on their way somewhere, most in a hurry. People always drive too fast down this residential street.
 
I struggle to focus on my prayers. I could move to another part of the house and away from the distraction. But I like the light here. This is the brightest room in the house, and as we continue to move toward the darkest day of the year, I ache for more light.
 
It seems these days neither my eyes nor my attention are fixed anywhere for long. And I realize behind my distraction I am waiting. Waiting for change, waiting for restoration, waiting for….
 
And still. Still, I know that beyond the uncertainty lies my Strength, my Stronghold, my Light and my Hope.

Image by C B from Pixabay

Promised light

Wednesday of the Third Week of Advent

 

This is my comfort in my trouble,

that your promise gives me life.

Psalm 119:50

 

I look at my list of what needs to be done and it all seems manageable. And yet I keep coming up short. Time is not my concern; I do not feel rushed, but burdened. Once again the landscape shifts and I am reminded that I am not in familiar territory, that the way forward must be discerned.

 

Nevertheless, the Advent promise of light and life breaking into the dark spaces and hours continues to beckon, enabling my steps, my breath.

 

The coming of Christ does not depend on me—it is exactly the other way around.

Image by LoganArt from Pixabay

In the midst

Tuesday of the Third Week of Advent

We have waited in silence on your loving-kindness, O God,

in the midst of your temple.

Psalm 48:8

As I wait in line to check-in, I notice the man across the hallway, chatting easily with the woman near him. At first, I think he is a hospital employee; then I notice that he is wearing a volunteer badge. As I move forward to his area, he greets me warmly. And after a harried day, I am comforted by his ease. I thank him for what he is doing and he smiles broadly.

The room is full of volunteers and hospital personnel, giving shot after shot. Booster for me, first or second vaccinations for children ushered in by grateful parents.

There is no holiday rush here, no crankiness. People wait patiently, the workers are kind and pleasant, the space calm and hope-full.

In a time when I can feel so lost along the way, this moment brings healing balm to my soul, as well as protection to my body. And I am reminded that God’s light and loving-kindness can be found in the midst.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Rest for the weary

Monday of the Third Week of Advent

Rise up, and help us,
and save us, for the sake of your steadfast love.
Psalm 44:26
 

As the early afternoon sun warms the room, I think I will just sit for a minute. My body has been asking for a nap for the last hour, but I have resisted. Like a toddler, I don’t want to give in. Maybe I will miss something. And also, there are much better uses of my time.

But the truth is I am bone weary. Still hesitant, I finally lay down and close my eyes. And wake three hours later.

Mary, pregnant, walked the 90-some miles to Bethlehem. Maybe she rode some of that time--on a donkey. So, I’m also sure the mother of Jesus took breaks along the way. If the theotokos, the God-Bearer, could rest on the way to that most holy night, then so can I.

None of us is impervious to the travel fatigue of Advent. Sometimes the help that our loving God offers us is communicated through our own human bodies telling us it is time for sleep.

Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

Whose longing

Saturday of the Second Week of Advent
 
As the deer longs for the water-brooks,
so longs my soul for you, O God.
Psalm 42:1
 

The late afternoon sun makes the deer nearly invisible, and I am almost upon them before I see them. A young buck and I look at each other. I am surprised that he is not more startled, that he stands still, examining me. As if he is trying to decide whether it is worth his time to move away. Whose land is this anyway?
 
Whose indeed?

I tend to think of the paths I walk as my own. My journey. My exploration. My way. Perhaps all I can realistically claim as my own is my yearning. My longing for God leads me to seek out the holy. The afternoon sunlight, the deer, this moment, each journey, every path: all belong to God who spoke creation into being.

Image by hashan from Pixabay

Unassembled

 Friday of the Second Week of Advent

You have not shut me up in the power of the enemy;
you have set my feet in an open place.
Psalm 31:8

I want to whisper this confession hoping no one will notice. I set up my Advent wreath only recently, well into the second week. I had all the materials ahead of time. The hand-dipped candles, three purple, one rose. The base our oldest handcrafted for us. Greens, including holly, readily available a few steps from my front door. 

We sat down for meals and prayed while the pieces lay unassembled on a side table.

Unassembled. This is how I often feel these days. All my parts seem to be here: mind, soul, priestly craft, aging body, vision. Yet I cannot seem to get them all to work together at the same time. 

But perhaps unassembled also means ready. Ready for the holy one to make of me what she will.

Precarious

 Thursday of the Second Week of Advent
 
If they stumble, they shall not fall headlong,
for the Lord holds them by the hand.
Psalm 37:25

 

I take my steps hesitantly. The stairs down from my friend’s porch are wide and sturdy; nevertheless, I find I feel somewhat uncertain because while the steps are broad, the handrail is out of reach. When did my balance become so precarious?
 
As a child, stumbling into a fall meant a skinned knee. As a mature (ahem) adult, the consequences are scarier. Yet, at the same time, my stumbles in my spiritual life seem less hazardous than when I was younger. Now I know that God is there every time. Even when I doubt.

The way to the manger is both certain and precarious. 

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

In the midst

Wednesday of the Second Week of Advent

My soul melts away for sorrow;
strengthen me according to your word.
Psalm 119:28

I pick up a handful of dirt outside the mausoleum. It has rained recently, so the earth is damp and clumps a bit. We gather for the final prayers and I release the dirt from my hand, slowly scattering it onto the coffin. A small ritual marking a momentous rift.

Again and again I travel within the landscape of grief; sometimes it is my own, sometimes I am accompanying others, often is startles me with its unaccountable timing and intensity. Sorrow can be numbing, cleansing, overwhelming, necessary, inexplicable, healing.

The prophets pave the Advent way with reminders that mourning is not our end. I hold fast to these words of comfort--about putting away the garments of sorrow, about being gathered home, about being cherished by the Almighty. The Word is coming, and is already here. The Holy One is in the midst of us. 

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Path of faithfulness

Monday of the Second Week of Advent
 
All the paths of the Lord are love and faithfulness
to those who keep his covenant and testimonies.
Psalm 25:9
 

The day dawns and remains grey which seems to match my own slowness of spirit. 
 
The Advent cry of making the way straight, of filling in valleys and leveling mountains,  evokes in me a yearning for the smooth path. Of a spiritual journey that does not include the ups and downs. Of progress that continues unabated. Of a way forward that requires less effort, where despondency is not a roadblock and I do not stumble.
 
Yet, so often, the obstacles in my path do more than call me up short; they increase my understanding of God’s love, forgiveness, gentleness. According to the prophet Baruch this leveling of ground is so that we may walk safely in the glory of God. I think that safe and easy are not always the same thing.
 
I wrap my shawl more closely around me against the winter day, and I pull close to me also God’s promise of love and faithfulness.

Detaching

Saturday of the First Week of Advent 

Some put their trust in chariots and some in horses,

but we will call upon the Name of the Lord our God

Psalm 20:7

As I scan the store aisles, I have to coach myself into calmness. Shopping this time of year can be a fight for my soul. It is difficult not to be pulled into the advertising frenzy. I am surrounded by shimmering appeals telling me what I want. What my family wants. What love looks like. Telling me things will be scarce so I need to act quickly. Increasing my heart-rate, but doing nothing for my sense of well-being.

Advent is set aside for preparation because it takes time and attentiveness to get ready for the Savior. Preparing space in our hearts and lives does not happen with the flip of a switch. For me, the Advent journey seems to always include intentionally detaching myself from the misleading claims of power and once more putting my trust in God.

Disrupted time

Friday in the First Week of Advent

My footsteps hold fast to the ways of your law;

in your paths my feet shall not stumble.

Psalm 17:5

As I complete my transaction at my local pharmacy, the person at the counter offers me a free wall calendar. I hesitate for a moment, and then the man waiting behind me says, “How else will you know what day it is?”

How else indeed. But will this calendar be enough? I would have to dependably cross off each day to keep track of where I am. Because, still, after almost two years, I find my sense of time disrupted.

Advent too is a time of disruption. The scripture readings for this season offer visions of doom and prophecies of hope. Themes of devastation and restoration ride in tandem, and before we get to the joy of the manger, we must join John the Baptist in making straight the way.

Holy way, holy disruption, holy time. I do not need to keep track of time or of God. It is the One we await who keeps hold of me.

Open space

Thursday of the First Week of Advent

The Lord brought me out into an open place,
and rescued me because the Holy One delighted in me.
Psalm 18:20

I slow my breathing as I less-than-gracefully ease into my yoga practice. The day has been simultaneously ordinary and hectic and I know I need this restorative time. I listen to the sure and soothing voice of my friend and teacher as she guides us through transitions from one posture to the next.

If only I had been this attentive to the transitions of my day. It began with holy conversation and prayer, yet I soon began to pick up burdens along the way. I’m pretty sure I am not meant to prepare the Advent way by collecting every rock I stumble over.

My body and soul hold on to so much. Clearing the path for the coming of Christ requires letting go. 

I deepen my breathing. I slow my movements. I still myself in the space opened by sacred encounter. Until the holding releases into resting and I am at peace.

Treasuring tenacity

Wednesday of the First Week of Advent

I treasure your promise in my heart,
that I may not sin against you.
Psalm 119:11

As evening comes I await that moment  when I can set down my work for the day and just be. I have spent the day going to and fro without much in-between time. I am still unused to this busyness, this return to more movement that has come as we learn to navigate the territory of pandemic. Which on some days is not navigable at all.

Yet, even on the days I laugh out loud at the doctor’s office when asked if I am experiencing any feelings of sadness or despair, I know that I am not completely lost; that all is not lost. God’s promise of love and redemption remains firm, withstands all assaults of numbing and indifference.

And in the space of inaction I wend my way inward, gently probing my heart to assure myself that the treasure remains. That despite my falling short, my missing the mark, my sinfulness, tenacious hope holds fast, refusing to die.

Sunlit Invitation

Tuesday of the First Week of Advent

You will shelter them,
so that those who love your Name may exult in you.
Psalm 5:14

The afternoon sunlight lays ribbons across the floor, and as I contemplate this gift of light, I hear the invitation to stillness.

In this small moment lives a universe. I know so little of the world and of possibility. The Holy lays paths before me day after day, and yet I am not well traveled. My creation is small and my perspective limited. And yet. And yet still I am called beloved by the One who is ultimate and all.

I shelter in the quiet. I open myself just a bit more to the Almighty. I step into the ribbons of sunlight, and dance.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Adventuring undaunted

But you, O Lord, are a shield about me;
you are my glory, the one who lifts up my head.
Psalm 3:3
 

The crisp cold of the morning greets me before I see the white and crystal layers on trees and buildings. Our first snow. It seems right for the season, its sharpness delineating the threshold crossed into Advent.
 
This year the season of expectation rushes into and over my life, my home, my community with welcome energy. I stand tall and raise my head, the recommended posture for facing into the hazardous and exciting journey ahead.
 
The seasons past have taught me that hope is precarious. And contagious. New life comes with vulnerability. And tenacity. And by the grace of the one who shields me and lifts up my head, I step forth undaunted.

Reconnecting with Stumbling

First long bike ride of the season, 12 miles on the canal trail. Sometime in January I threw in the towel with healthy habits. The stress, worry, grief, and exhaustion of the pandemic were...well,  a lot. I continued to hold up hope, practice gratitude, and be kind to myself. And ate a lot of chocolate. And other yummy things. And sat around a lot. 

Starting June 1 (which also happened to be the date I was fully vaccinated), I committed to more healthy eating and being mindful of my physical well-being. This aging body is the only one I have. I share this because I know a lot of us struggle with physical, mental, and spiritual health. And sometimes clergy especially think we are immune to all sorts of things.

I expect I will regain some good habits and some health. And I expect, like any path I take, there will be ups and downs, detours, and unexpected curves. And, because I have learned a thing or two, I don’t expect perfection or success. I am simply enjoying this reconnection with a more wholesome and holy rhythm. 

Stumbling into the sacred; that’s how I role.

Alleluia!

Easter Day

Let everything that has breath
praise the Lord.
Hallelujah!
Psalm 150:6

Who will roll away the stone?
When they looked up, 
they saw that the stone, 
which was very large, 
had already been rolled back

Who will roll away the stone?
look up
lift your head
open your eyes and see
there is nothing to bar you from the empty tomb
and the fullness of God’s love

Alleluia!
Christ is risen!

Empty

Holy Saturday

Will you wonders be known in the dark?

or your righteousness in the country

where all is forgotten?

Psalm 88:13

weariness meets the morning

bright and fresh and sorrow laden

birds and blades of grass hold their breath

time forgets its path

emptiness fills creation

awaiting God’s miracle of love

Image by Goran Horvat from Pixabay

Final turn

Good Friday

For innumerable troubles have crowded upon me;

my sins have overtaken me, and I cannot see;

they are more in number than the hairs of my head,

and my heart fails me.

Psalm 40:13

the path leads to a garden

and a betrayal

to the architecture of power

and frail human justice

through the streets of taunts

and the persistent presence of certain women

and finally empties out

        at the foot of the cross

where I am bereft

Image by Daniel Tsai from Pixabay

Costly

Maundy Thursday

When my spirit languishes within me,

you know my path.

Psalm 142:3

precious

a shared meal

with friends

close at hand

laughing and longing

sacred

offering to serve

to touch

to wipe clean the dust of the day

a tear-stained face

costly

a night of prayer

yearning for a different path

yet staying the course

choosing love

the hour is at hand

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

every time

Wednesday in Holy Week

 

I am shaken by the noise of the enemy

and by the pressure of the wicked

Psalm 55:3

every time

every time I come to this juncture

I am caught off guard by the noise of the enemy

the sacred beauty of this path lulls me

into thinking

what?

that the enemy is not still present?

even now

my journey can be upended, unraveled

yet if ragged prayers

battered resolve

hope that has seen better days

are all I have

it is enough

I have been here before

and every time salvation comes

every time

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Turn

Tuesday in Holy Week

Turn, O Lord, and deliver me;

save me for your mercy’s sake.

Psalm 6:4

the way circles back again

turning in on itself

yet at every turn

mercy is there to greet me

Image by Wolfgang Eckert from Pixabay

Paradox

Monday in Holy Week

Give me the joy of your saving help again

and sustain me with your bountiful Spirit.

Psalm 51:13

I cross the threshold

into the incongruity of this week;

contradiction, the welcome mat

ambiguity overshadows the path ahead

even at the end of this journey

I am supplied with bounty

gratitude in the midst of despair

joy dancing with sorrow

solace fashioned out of fatigue 

the handiwork of salvation

Image by LIMAT MD ARIF from Pixabay

Athirst

Saturday in the Fifth Week of Lent

My soul is athirst for God, athirst for the living God;

when shall I come to appear before the presence of God?

Psalm 42:2

The Lenten landscape feels oddly quiet in this moment. Almost a lull after yesterday, which began grey and heavy, then lightened up as the sun ushered in afternoon warmth, soon to be riled up by fierce wind.

The geography of this journey, like the weather, is irregular and unsettled, reliable only in its constant ability to challenge my sense of where I am and how I am doing. What should my next step be? It seems I have been on this way for a lifetime, and it seems too soon to be at the turning I know is ahead.

What I do know is that I thirst. I thirst for the return of certainty. I thirst for the well-being of others. I thirst for knowing the way forward. And there are days I thirst for something for which I have no name. 

And deep in my soul, I also know that this wilderness and this thirst are within God’s provenance. And that all my wandering and wondering can never truly take me beyond God’s loving-kindness. 

Image by Uwe Jacobs from Pixabay

Morning welcome

Friday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Let me hear of your loving-kindness in the morning,

for I put my trust in you;

show me the road that I must walk,

for I lift up my soul to you.

Psalm 143:8

On this morning, I hear the Spirit greet me as I wake. It is a gentle voice, with a lilt and a hint of joyous laughter. She takes me by the hand and ushers me into a new day. One of God’s best miracles.

This is pure gift, and I receive it as such. It is not of my making, and I know too well that I could easily squander this grace by simply not taking it in. Or thinking I have something more important to do, or a better idea how I need to spend this day. As if it were something I could use or consume.

So, I place my soul in the hands of the morning, and breath in its sweetness, and wait for God to show me what comes next.

Image credit: Alyssa Sieb @alyssasieb

Compline

Thursday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Feast of the Annunciation

 

But I still my soul and make it quiet,

like a child upon its mother’s breast;

my soul is quieted within me.

Psalm 131:3

At the end of the day, I avert my eyes from the computer screen and just listen. I know the people I am praying with are present, virtually gathered as we have become accustomed to, and I realize I don’t need to see them to feel a part of this evening we share.

The words wash over me--familiar scripture, the poetry of the psalm, the gentle call and response of litany. I am a child again, being read to, comforted by ritual and closeness and sacred story.

And after we have all logged off, I remain in my chair, the arm of the holy One draped across my shoulders, holding me close, and the sweet voice of the Beloved promising to be with me all night long.

Image credit: Alyssa Sieb @alyssasieb

Necessary emptiness

Wednesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

My soul waits for the Lord,

more than watchmen for the morning,

more than watchmen for the morning.

Psalm 130:5

I add the meeting to an open spot on my calendar without even thinking. Of course the time is free, it was blank. And now. And now the day is both full and lacking. Full of important meetings. Lacking in essential reflection.

Some days are like whirlwinds. And on such days, when it is even more important that I take the time to reflect and pray, it is more likely that I will forget. Or, if I am being honest with myself, that I will think I can persevere without prayer. 

This is the work of the enemy. And as Holy Week approaches, I know the enemy is close at hand, tempting me with business and busyness, urging me to prove just how successful I can be all on my own.

Except the cross is about defeat. Necessary and absolute loss. Complete emptying of self. 

The Lenten way is ancient. My calendar cannot tame it. Now calls for stillness and giving over, for waiting and watching as Love conquers all. 

Marking the way

Tuesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Then was our mouth filled with laughter,

and our tongue with shouts of joy.

Psalm 126:2

My husband and I look at a picture of our nephew holding his newborn daughter as he bathes her. “That really brings back memories,” he says. And I think that could easily be a picture of him with one of our daughters. He was and is tender, gentle, strong, and safe.

Memory is a navigation tool for the spiritual life. As we re-collect past experiences and encounters, they become part of our present repertoire. We can shuffle them, rearrange them, use them as travel guides and map markers. We recall holy moments, and in doing so their richness nourishes our souls and bodies. Then and now.

The wilderness abounds with traces of the paths and holy encounters of others--those who have traveled before me and those who will come long after. The sacred markers are there to see if I am mindful. Signs of strength and joy, courage and tenderness. Food for the journey. Love to be continued. 

Image by Afleur from Pixabay

Wilderness ambiguity

Monday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Into your hands I commend my spirit,

for you have redeemed me,

O Lord, O God of truth.

Psalm 31:5

The sun sends a kiss across the water, illuminating the fresh green branch of spring growth. In the background, on the farther bank of the stream, are the dead limbs passed over by the sunlight. They are broken, beaten by the winter and storms and probably time.

One waterfall of spring thaw laughs its way into the stream while another remains mostly frozen.

New growth and dead wood, frozen and free. These things are not so much contradictions as separate truths, existing at the same time. I am reminded that in God’s economy, more than one thing can be true.

The Lenten path has crossed the middle way, and sooner rather than later will increase its determined pace toward the chaos that comes before the end. It will always be more than I can grasp, full of ambiguity, too vast for me to navigate. My only hope is to place myself in the hands of the God of truth.

Photo credit: Anne E. Kitch

Chaos in balance

Saturday in the Fourth Week of Lent

The Lord changed rivers into deserts,
and water-springs into thirsty ground.
Psalm 107:1

I wake on the first day of spring, when the amount of daylight and darkness are almost equal. Balance. Something I constantly seek.

Yet the first day of spring is hardly ever balanced or even or stable. It comes with rain or sun or snow, it sneaks in on us with ambiguous presence. It often presents chaos of the yet-to-be-realized. And I am so relieved to welcome it.

Balance, a wise mentor once told me, is different ever day. Balance is always about relationship. And when I think of God’s presence and power in the world, I realize that balance is not dualistic, not about two opposites on a scale. It is more like a disk precariously set on a pinpoint continually striving for equilibrium. Or a mobile, tri-dimensional and shifting, creating new shapes and relationships with each breath of air.

In God’s economy, the disk spins steadily and the mobile turns on the breeze, radiating music and story and splendor. Balance and life belong to God. Today, I want to give myself over to spring, and chaos, and the breath of God.

Image by Myriams-Fotos from Pixabay

Oasis

Friday in the Fourth Week of Lent

I sought the Lord, and he answered me

and delivered me out of all my terror.

Psalm 34:4

A physical therapist who is kind, attentive, and funny. A webinar executed with leadership, expertise, and faithful hope. A picture of beloved baby goats. These encounters ease my aching soul into thankfulness, confidence, and delight. None of them are about being back to normal. All of them are about the goodness of God’s creation. The therapist and I are still masked, the webinar explores digital modalities, and the goats…well baby goats are still baby goats.

A year ago, small things brought terror to my soul. Even now on some days it seems all I can do to keep my head above the waters of despair and my heart fixed on hope. And, of course, I am doomed when I try this on my own.  Today, once again, I re-learn the remedy of seeking out my savior.

All along the Lenten path--a year ago and now--are oases of abundance and joy. God feeds God’s people (and goats) in the wilderness.

Photo featuring Quin, Liza, and Re. Credit: Tom Drobena