Thursday in the Second Week of Lent
My lips will sing with joy when I play to you,
and so will my soul, which you have redeemed. Psalm 71:23
As I hear the familiar tune take shape, I begin to gently hum. It is a Taizé chant, and at first I can’t remember the words. Then my daughter adds her voice, and together we sing. I take joy in the way her confident alto intertwines with my softer soprano.
I am not a great or frequent singer. But singing with others, listening to those voices and leaning in on them, carries me into a place where I am within the song. As the chant continues, I cry out to God in yearning, supplication, and praise. My soul is lifted up along with my voice and I find myself within a joy that far exceeds the happy thought with which I first opened my lips.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Small Kindness, Steadfast Faith
Wednesday in the Second Week of Lent
Let your loving-kindness be my comfort,
as you have promised to your servant. Psalm 119:76
I am thankful that I no longer have to wrap myself against the biting cold as I leave the house in the morning. As I drive through the intersection, I wave to the crossing guard faithfully at her post. We are on a first name basis; year after year she has walked my daughters safely across the street.
All fall and winter, she and the others on other street corners have stood watch in the early morning hours. In bitter cold. In rain and snow. They have brought shovels from home and dug out paths in the mounds piled high by the plows. They have offered daily welcome to children and parents with warm smiles, greeting them by name.
Even as my daughters no longer need to be escorted across the street, these kindnesses, small and great, bring me comfort. I recognize the love of God: faithful in all climes, opening paths for me in difficult times, calling me by name.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Let your loving-kindness be my comfort,
as you have promised to your servant. Psalm 119:76
I am thankful that I no longer have to wrap myself against the biting cold as I leave the house in the morning. As I drive through the intersection, I wave to the crossing guard faithfully at her post. We are on a first name basis; year after year she has walked my daughters safely across the street.
All fall and winter, she and the others on other street corners have stood watch in the early morning hours. In bitter cold. In rain and snow. They have brought shovels from home and dug out paths in the mounds piled high by the plows. They have offered daily welcome to children and parents with warm smiles, greeting them by name.
Even as my daughters no longer need to be escorted across the street, these kindnesses, small and great, bring me comfort. I recognize the love of God: faithful in all climes, opening paths for me in difficult times, calling me by name.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Not a Waste
Tuesday in the Second Week of Lent
For God alone my soul in silence waits;
truly, my hope is in him. Psalm 62:6
By the time I get my daughter to her softball practice, my only recourse is to wait. If I drove home, I would only have to turn around to drive right back. I have no errands to run. I can think of nothing nearby that would be a useful destination.
I’m sure if I entered the athletic center, there would be a place to sit. But it would probably be noisy and I might have to make small talk with other parents. I don’t really have the energy for that today. What I genuinely crave is quiet. So I choose to sit in my car.
Even so, I am torn between wanting to make good use of my time (I have my computer with me, I could work) and thinking a nap sounds lovely. I have an hour. I don’t want to waste it. And why do I think sitting still, settling into the quiet, resting my body and mind is a waste of time?
The hour is not mine, but God’s. And in the silence, I am able to remember this.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
For God alone my soul in silence waits;
truly, my hope is in him. Psalm 62:6
By the time I get my daughter to her softball practice, my only recourse is to wait. If I drove home, I would only have to turn around to drive right back. I have no errands to run. I can think of nothing nearby that would be a useful destination.
I’m sure if I entered the athletic center, there would be a place to sit. But it would probably be noisy and I might have to make small talk with other parents. I don’t really have the energy for that today. What I genuinely crave is quiet. So I choose to sit in my car.
Even so, I am torn between wanting to make good use of my time (I have my computer with me, I could work) and thinking a nap sounds lovely. I have an hour. I don’t want to waste it. And why do I think sitting still, settling into the quiet, resting my body and mind is a waste of time?
The hour is not mine, but God’s. And in the silence, I am able to remember this.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Monday, March 17, 2014
From Others' Hands
Monday in the second Week of Lent
May the fields of the wilderness be rich for grazing,
and the hills be clothed with joy. Psalm 65:13
As I pour milk onto my organic whole-wheat cereal, I pause. I become aware of the significance of that food in my bowl. I have simply opened a box that came from the grocery store. I do not see the framers or plowed fields behind my bowl of cereal. But there would be no cereal without them.
Yesterday I drove past miles of farms, admiring stone houses and red barns, hoping to see the fresh green of new growth. I saw brown. Brown trees, brown fields, brown lawns in the foreground of dull landscapes. And yet beneath and behind and within that leaden wilderness the miracle of seed and water and light is already at work. And that miracle will be recognized and nurtured by people I will never see or know, and yet because of their faith and determination I will eat.
So much of what I have of life comes from the labor of unknown others. Without one another, and the gifts we employ, we would only hunger in the wilderness. I belatedly say grace over my cereal, offering thanks for God’s generosity and goodness, and for all the hands that have prepared my meal. I hold myself in the moment, humbled by the thought of just how many they might be.
and the hills be clothed with joy. Psalm 65:13
Yesterday I drove past miles of farms, admiring stone houses and red barns, hoping to see the fresh green of new growth. I saw brown. Brown trees, brown fields, brown lawns in the foreground of dull landscapes. And yet beneath and behind and within that leaden wilderness the miracle of seed and water and light is already at work. And that miracle will be recognized and nurtured by people I will never see or know, and yet because of their faith and determination I will eat.
So much of what I have of life comes from the labor of unknown others. Without one another, and the gifts we employ, we would only hunger in the wilderness. I belatedly say grace over my cereal, offering thanks for God’s generosity and goodness, and for all the hands that have prepared my meal. I hold myself in the moment, humbled by the thought of just how many they might be.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Perspective
Saturday in the First Week of Lent
And I said, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest.
I would flee to a far-off place
and make my lodging in the wilderness.
I would hasten to escape
from the stormy wind and tempest.” Psalm 55:7-9
As I drive along a straight stretch of highway, I watch a hawk soaring above. What does the world look like to her?
So often I struggle for perspective. I try to get up on the balcony, get a bird’s eye view, strive for some critical distance. I seek out the quiet place to think, the space that makes it possible to maneuver, room to breathe.
The wilderness is more than a place of trial and deprivation and struggle. It is also a refuge, a retreat, a haven. So much is possible. What can I see from here, and now? How can I soar? How am I already soaring?
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
And I said, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest.
I would flee to a far-off place
and make my lodging in the wilderness.
I would hasten to escape
from the stormy wind and tempest.” Psalm 55:7-9
As I drive along a straight stretch of highway, I watch a hawk soaring above. What does the world look like to her?
So often I struggle for perspective. I try to get up on the balcony, get a bird’s eye view, strive for some critical distance. I seek out the quiet place to think, the space that makes it possible to maneuver, room to breathe.
The wilderness is more than a place of trial and deprivation and struggle. It is also a refuge, a retreat, a haven. So much is possible. What can I see from here, and now? How can I soar? How am I already soaring?
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Friday, March 14, 2014
A Swing and a Miss
Friday in the First Week of Lent
Harden not your hearts,
as your forebears did in the wilderness… Psalm 95
There is so much to do and I am on a roll. Work. Dentist appointments for both girls. Grocery shopping. Music lesson. Critical email. Dinner prep. Important phone call. Dinner. Bills. Taxes. Troubleshooting computer connection to printer for daughter. I am on a roll.
Except I am missing something. My daughter has been talking to me.
She has been telling me about the wonderful afternoon that she and her sister spent together. I am barely listening. My teen-age daughter. She is spontaneously telling me an animated story. About her life. About her relationship with her sister. About how they have been enjoying one another. And I have been barely listening.
I am so focused on being efficient, getting it all done, forging ahead, pushing on without stopping because….
It is hard to keep one’s heart open in the wilderness. But it is so very important.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Harden not your hearts,
as your forebears did in the wilderness… Psalm 95
There is so much to do and I am on a roll. Work. Dentist appointments for both girls. Grocery shopping. Music lesson. Critical email. Dinner prep. Important phone call. Dinner. Bills. Taxes. Troubleshooting computer connection to printer for daughter. I am on a roll.
Except I am missing something. My daughter has been talking to me.
She has been telling me about the wonderful afternoon that she and her sister spent together. I am barely listening. My teen-age daughter. She is spontaneously telling me an animated story. About her life. About her relationship with her sister. About how they have been enjoying one another. And I have been barely listening.
I am so focused on being efficient, getting it all done, forging ahead, pushing on without stopping because….
It is hard to keep one’s heart open in the wilderness. But it is so very important.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Songs of Promise
Thursday in the First Week of Lent
The heavens declare the glory of God,
and the firmament shows God’s handiwork. Psalm 19:1
Against the raging of the ferocious wind, I hear the glorious resonant tones of my neighbor’s wind chimes. Some craftsperson designed them with grace and precision. Even a soft breeze sets off their sweet baritone. And in the midst of this morning’s tumult they nevertheless respond with beautiful song.
Yesterday, in the wake of tempestuous rain, a magnificent rainbow arced across the sky, more stunning than I have seen in years. With colors bright and vibrant it seemed impossibly perfect. It held its place for a long time and even as I tried to visualize the science of its making, I was captured instead by its promise.
God is not tame. For this I am grateful and in awe. I want God’s wildness. I want the fierce power of the Almighty to sweep through me, cleaning out the wounds and detritus of old grudges and sins and crippling remembrances, leaving in their place rays of light.
Soft or fierce I want to open myself to God’s glory, lift my voice and sing.
Image credit: tobkatrina / 123RF Stock Photo
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
and the firmament shows God’s handiwork. Psalm 19:1
Yesterday, in the wake of tempestuous rain, a magnificent rainbow arced across the sky, more stunning than I have seen in years. With colors bright and vibrant it seemed impossibly perfect. It held its place for a long time and even as I tried to visualize the science of its making, I was captured instead by its promise.
God is not tame. For this I am grateful and in awe. I want God’s wildness. I want the fierce power of the Almighty to sweep through me, cleaning out the wounds and detritus of old grudges and sins and crippling remembrances, leaving in their place rays of light.
Soft or fierce I want to open myself to God’s glory, lift my voice and sing.
Image credit: tobkatrina / 123RF Stock Photo
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
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