Show me your ways, O LORD,
and teach me your paths.
Lead me in your truth and teach me,
for you are the God of my salvation;
in you have I trusted all the day long. Psalm 25:3-4
It is chaos. I had volunteered to bring the cake. This will be easy, I think. I order the cake from the grocery store. I pick it up. I bring it along with the necessary paper plates, plastic forks, and cutting knife. I drop it off. Then, I prepare to leave.
“Aren’t you going to stay and cut the cake?” the other mother asks. She has organized this party for 80 some kids. She is much braver than I am. I had been planning to contribute, and then escape. After all, several other parents have volunteered to work the party.
“I’m no good at cutting cake,” I explain. This is actually true. It would seem that cutting a sheet cake into reasonably sized, beautifully rectangular portions is a straightforward task. I’ve seen it done. But somehow I missed the parenting class on proper cake cutting. Nevertheless, I find myself stationed at the cake table surrounded by excessively eager children. “Those are big slices,” another parent observes as I awkwardly attack my task. I cannot keep up and begin to lose my confidence and composure. I spy another parent across the room, one of the calmest and most good-natured people I know. Bordering on desperation, I beckon to him, surrender the knife, and escape.
In the middle of the wildness and wilderness of the party, I want to cry out, “Make a path, clear the way, get me out of here!” Where is John the Baptist when you need him? But the way of God is not made smooth for our escape. The way is made smooth to welcome our salvation. Show me the way, O God. Teach me to walk in the wildness of my everyday life, and discover the path that leads to the Messiah I await.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Expectant in Bethlehem: Saturday of the First Week of Advent
Turn again to your rest, O my soul,
for the Lord has treated you well. Psalm 116:6
I sink into the unhurried moment. Finally. It is easier to breath from here. Although I got up at my usual hour, the morning caught me by surprise and it is noon before I can seem to get my bearings. Why am I rushing about?
My body begins to soak up the quietude, and I consciously relax into the richness of the fare here. Then, with the briefest of nods to the tranquility on offer, I pick up my to-do list once again. But I have moved away from the respite too soon and the stress jumps at the opportunity to constrict me. Like days I attempt a workout at the gym without being thoroughly warmed up, I have no flexibility or stamina.
Why is it I resist the pull to linger in the unhurried moment? Why am I content to take a fast-food approach with my soul, grabbing a quick prayer on the go as if that will sustain me?
The two hemispheres of our brain control different functions, popular psychology often preaches. Yet neuroscientists tell us it is the integration of these two hemispheres that bring to the fore our greatest resources. The brain has the ability to reorganize itself to form new neural connections throughout our life. The more intentional we are about keeping these two hemispheres connected and communicating, the more access we have to our brain’s resources. Creating and maintaining this connectivity takes practice, and is something that cannot be hurried.
Perhaps there is a reason that “hurried” looks so much like “harried.”
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
for the Lord has treated you well. Psalm 116:6
I sink into the unhurried moment. Finally. It is easier to breath from here. Although I got up at my usual hour, the morning caught me by surprise and it is noon before I can seem to get my bearings. Why am I rushing about?
My body begins to soak up the quietude, and I consciously relax into the richness of the fare here. Then, with the briefest of nods to the tranquility on offer, I pick up my to-do list once again. But I have moved away from the respite too soon and the stress jumps at the opportunity to constrict me. Like days I attempt a workout at the gym without being thoroughly warmed up, I have no flexibility or stamina.
Why is it I resist the pull to linger in the unhurried moment? Why am I content to take a fast-food approach with my soul, grabbing a quick prayer on the go as if that will sustain me?
The two hemispheres of our brain control different functions, popular psychology often preaches. Yet neuroscientists tell us it is the integration of these two hemispheres that bring to the fore our greatest resources. The brain has the ability to reorganize itself to form new neural connections throughout our life. The more intentional we are about keeping these two hemispheres connected and communicating, the more access we have to our brain’s resources. Creating and maintaining this connectivity takes practice, and is something that cannot be hurried.
Perhaps there is a reason that “hurried” looks so much like “harried.”
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
Expectant in Bethlehem: Friday of the First Week of Advent
Protect me, O God, for I take refuge in you;
I have said to the LORD, "You are my Lord, my good above all other." Psalm 16:1
Of course it was one of those board games with a thousand small parts. I hear them clatter to the floor followed by the game board as I struggle to rescue a warmer coat from the tightly packed hall closet.
"The spiritual life is a stern choice,” writes Evelyn Underhill, “It is not a consoling retreat from the difficulties of existence; but an invitation to enter fully into that difficult existence, and there apply the Charity of God to bear the cost." As I stoop to pick up the pieces, I reflect that the family life is also a stern choice. Having already resolved during my morning prayer to keep a spiritual focus for the day, to take the time needed to prepare for my upcoming meeting, to be prayerful and attentive to God during what promises to be a hectic day, the tumbling pieces of the children’s game abruptly shatter my tranquility. This isn’t even a game they play anymore, I mutter to myself with a sense of injustice.
Nevertheless, all of this is part of one cloth. In choosing to be faithful to the married life, in following a vocation of parenting, I also choose the cluttered closet. And the complicated schedule. And difficult negotiations. And raucous conversation around the dinner table. And shyly offered confidences about newly discovered friendships. And forgiveness offered and accepted. None of this is separate from the spiritual life.
(excerpt from Advent with Evelyn Underhill, edited by Christopher L. Webber. Morehouse 2006, p.7)
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
I have said to the LORD, "You are my Lord, my good above all other." Psalm 16:1
Of course it was one of those board games with a thousand small parts. I hear them clatter to the floor followed by the game board as I struggle to rescue a warmer coat from the tightly packed hall closet.
"The spiritual life is a stern choice,” writes Evelyn Underhill, “It is not a consoling retreat from the difficulties of existence; but an invitation to enter fully into that difficult existence, and there apply the Charity of God to bear the cost." As I stoop to pick up the pieces, I reflect that the family life is also a stern choice. Having already resolved during my morning prayer to keep a spiritual focus for the day, to take the time needed to prepare for my upcoming meeting, to be prayerful and attentive to God during what promises to be a hectic day, the tumbling pieces of the children’s game abruptly shatter my tranquility. This isn’t even a game they play anymore, I mutter to myself with a sense of injustice.
Nevertheless, all of this is part of one cloth. In choosing to be faithful to the married life, in following a vocation of parenting, I also choose the cluttered closet. And the complicated schedule. And difficult negotiations. And raucous conversation around the dinner table. And shyly offered confidences about newly discovered friendships. And forgiveness offered and accepted. None of this is separate from the spiritual life.
(excerpt from Advent with Evelyn Underhill, edited by Christopher L. Webber. Morehouse 2006, p.7)
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Expectant in Bethlehem: Thursday of the First Week of Advent
The Lord is gracious and full of compassion
slow to anger and of great kindness.
The Lord is loving to everyone
and his compassion is over all his works. Psalm 145:8-9
I awake with a sense of pleasant anticipation. I get to practice a delight this morning--putting chocolate gold coins into my daughters’ shoes. Today is the feast of St. Nicholas.
In earlier years, this gambit required a certain amount of stealth. Not any more. For one thing, my girls know it is me and not the 4th century Bishop of Myra who puts the chocolate in their shoes. For another, I know I won’t get caught. I can count on being awake before the teenagers.
And they are teenagers. Too old for make-believe and sandboxes and bedtime stories. But not too old for ritual. Or the small things I do to show my love.
“Thanks for the chocolate, Mom,” my youngest says as she heads out the door for school. I am not too old to soak up the small things she does to show her love. Nor for the rituals that point to the Holy One who is gracious, full of compassion, and of great kindness.
Read more about St. Nicholas
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
slow to anger and of great kindness.
The Lord is loving to everyone
and his compassion is over all his works. Psalm 145:8-9
I awake with a sense of pleasant anticipation. I get to practice a delight this morning--putting chocolate gold coins into my daughters’ shoes. Today is the feast of St. Nicholas.
In earlier years, this gambit required a certain amount of stealth. Not any more. For one thing, my girls know it is me and not the 4th century Bishop of Myra who puts the chocolate in their shoes. For another, I know I won’t get caught. I can count on being awake before the teenagers.
And they are teenagers. Too old for make-believe and sandboxes and bedtime stories. But not too old for ritual. Or the small things I do to show my love.
“Thanks for the chocolate, Mom,” my youngest says as she heads out the door for school. I am not too old to soak up the small things she does to show her love. Nor for the rituals that point to the Holy One who is gracious, full of compassion, and of great kindness.
Read more about St. Nicholas
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Expectant in Bethlehem: Wednesday of the First Week of Advent
Oh, that my ways were made so direct
that I might keep your statutes! Psalm 119:5
“We all get distracted praying the psalms,” I heard the monk say. I am surprised. After all, he is a monk, and not a new one either. He is no novice, trying out the monastic life and discipline to see if it fits. This gentle soul, who was instructing our retreat group about prayer, has been intentional about his Christian vocation for a long time. Apparently, even mature Christians get distracted. “When you find your mind wandering during the recitation of the psalm, do not berate yourself. Rather, think back, find the place where you lost your way. Often the verse you were praying has something to tell you.”
This morning his words come back to me. Because as I pray psalm 119, I rewrite one verse. “Oh that your ways were made so direct,” I pray. There it is. That one little slip. Just a word. And a world of difference.
Wouldn’t it be nice, I think, if God’s ways were so clearly delineated that there was no chance for me to stray off the path? Perhaps the way of God’s statutes could be more like those lines at amusement parks and airports that snake between ropes, the people carefully corralled into obedience.
But that’s not how God works. I am responsible for my ways, the psalm reminds me. In fact, my ways are the only ones to which I can be held accountable. Huh.
I still have some work to do. I begin to pray the psalm again.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
that I might keep your statutes! Psalm 119:5
“We all get distracted praying the psalms,” I heard the monk say. I am surprised. After all, he is a monk, and not a new one either. He is no novice, trying out the monastic life and discipline to see if it fits. This gentle soul, who was instructing our retreat group about prayer, has been intentional about his Christian vocation for a long time. Apparently, even mature Christians get distracted. “When you find your mind wandering during the recitation of the psalm, do not berate yourself. Rather, think back, find the place where you lost your way. Often the verse you were praying has something to tell you.”
This morning his words come back to me. Because as I pray psalm 119, I rewrite one verse. “Oh that your ways were made so direct,” I pray. There it is. That one little slip. Just a word. And a world of difference.
Wouldn’t it be nice, I think, if God’s ways were so clearly delineated that there was no chance for me to stray off the path? Perhaps the way of God’s statutes could be more like those lines at amusement parks and airports that snake between ropes, the people carefully corralled into obedience.
But that’s not how God works. I am responsible for my ways, the psalm reminds me. In fact, my ways are the only ones to which I can be held accountable. Huh.
I still have some work to do. I begin to pray the psalm again.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Expectant in Bethlehem: Tuesday of the First Week of Advent
In the morning Lord, your hear my voice;
early in the morning I make my appeal and watch for you. Psalm 5:3
The package greets me as I arrive home after a long drive. It is unexpected; not something I ordered and not an early Christmas arrival from a family member. I look at the return address and a smile warms my face and seeps into my travel weary limbs.
I unwrap the carefully packaged friendship and find my hands cradling a carved wooden figure. The weight and texture bring pleasure as I finger a fine statue of a bearded man with kind eyes holding a book and a quill. “Saint Paul—Patron Saint of Writers,” the attached card reads.
This figure has traveled to me from the desk of a colleague and friend. It carries with it years of writing and vision and expectancy. It embodies her grace and friendship. And as I place it where it will now reside in my prayer space, it conveys her works of faith, and labor of love, and steadfastness of hope. These gifts arrive and replenish my own store of faith and love and hope. That’s how generosity works.
I began the day with the practice of prayer, pledging myself to watch for God. And here, now, is Saint Paul who will keep me company through this year’s Advent adventure. Saint Paul, and my friend, and all those who appear along the way, as I am attentive to the grace of God.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
early in the morning I make my appeal and watch for you. Psalm 5:3
The package greets me as I arrive home after a long drive. It is unexpected; not something I ordered and not an early Christmas arrival from a family member. I look at the return address and a smile warms my face and seeps into my travel weary limbs.
I unwrap the carefully packaged friendship and find my hands cradling a carved wooden figure. The weight and texture bring pleasure as I finger a fine statue of a bearded man with kind eyes holding a book and a quill. “Saint Paul—Patron Saint of Writers,” the attached card reads.
This figure has traveled to me from the desk of a colleague and friend. It carries with it years of writing and vision and expectancy. It embodies her grace and friendship. And as I place it where it will now reside in my prayer space, it conveys her works of faith, and labor of love, and steadfastness of hope. These gifts arrive and replenish my own store of faith and love and hope. That’s how generosity works.
I began the day with the practice of prayer, pledging myself to watch for God. And here, now, is Saint Paul who will keep me company through this year’s Advent adventure. Saint Paul, and my friend, and all those who appear along the way, as I am attentive to the grace of God.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
Monday, December 3, 2012
Expectant in Bethlehem: Monday of the First Week of Advent
Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. The Book of Common Prayer, p. 211
The boy practically prances down the aisle, his toddler tennis shoes lighting up as he goes. I remember when my children were young enough to wear "light-up" shoes. It is the First Sunday of Advent and the boy is in procession, following the cross on his way to Children's Chapel. He grins at me as he passes, and my attention is caught by those shoes. I am reminded of the psalm, Your word is a lantern to my feet, and a light upon my path (Psalm 119:105). He literally has lanterns on his feet and is shedding light on the path as he goes.
During Advent we intentionally arm ourselves with light. In my town many follow a cultural tradition of putting one lighted candle in each window. As I drive home from work on these early winter evenings, I pass through streets where the windows of every business and house boast this one light. It has become part of my Advent discipline to enjoy this path home. These are not the riotous Christmas lights that cover houses and lawns on other streets offering a different kind of cheer. Rather these simple candles hearken back to another time, when a single flame in the window would combat the darkness of long winter nights and offer beacons to lead the traveler safely home.
"Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness," we pray during this first week of Advent. It dawns on me that casting away the works of darkness is not always a herculean task; even one small flame or one pair of light-up shoes has the power to dispel the darkness. I would like to follow this boy and his light-up shoes. I am sure he could lead me safely home.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
The boy practically prances down the aisle, his toddler tennis shoes lighting up as he goes. I remember when my children were young enough to wear "light-up" shoes. It is the First Sunday of Advent and the boy is in procession, following the cross on his way to Children's Chapel. He grins at me as he passes, and my attention is caught by those shoes. I am reminded of the psalm, Your word is a lantern to my feet, and a light upon my path (Psalm 119:105). He literally has lanterns on his feet and is shedding light on the path as he goes.
During Advent we intentionally arm ourselves with light. In my town many follow a cultural tradition of putting one lighted candle in each window. As I drive home from work on these early winter evenings, I pass through streets where the windows of every business and house boast this one light. It has become part of my Advent discipline to enjoy this path home. These are not the riotous Christmas lights that cover houses and lawns on other streets offering a different kind of cheer. Rather these simple candles hearken back to another time, when a single flame in the window would combat the darkness of long winter nights and offer beacons to lead the traveler safely home.
"Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness," we pray during this first week of Advent. It dawns on me that casting away the works of darkness is not always a herculean task; even one small flame or one pair of light-up shoes has the power to dispel the darkness. I would like to follow this boy and his light-up shoes. I am sure he could lead me safely home.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2012
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