Nesting

Tuesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Then was our mouth filled with laughter,
and our tongue with shouts of joy.
Psalm 126:3

I scroll through the pictures of our daughters as toddlers, remembering significant life-moments of growth and discovery. And recalling too what I loved about parenting--how they changed me, called me to confront my limitations, helped me lean into my gifts, and taught me more about love that I ever knew was possible.

And now, life circumstances have sent our young adults back home to us. Our empty nest no longer empty. And it is still a nest. A place of food and warmth and comfort. A place of limits tried and gifts called forth. A place of challenge that inspires growth—for all of us.

As we reconfigure ourselves into this particular present, the laughter and joy of past moments becomes available all over again. Yes, in recollection and shared stories of do-you-remember-when, but also in new ways to celebrate one another, encourage one another, to call out the best in one another. Together we lean into the Love that surrounds us and is deeper and truer than we can ever comprehend.

Close

Monday in the Fifth Week of Lent

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

Somehow, it all works. Even with the technical missteps. Even with sometimes halting worship. We gather.

I see faces and names across my screen and I am grateful. Not only because I am connected with my usual Sunday companions, but also because our community has already expanded. Others join us from states and time zones far away.

We share prayer and songs and storytelling and afterward my heart is full. Our very willingness to be there for one another defies that which would try to use disruption and distance to separate us not only from those we love, but from Love itself.

Because, of course, Love itself traverses the Lenten wilderness and the wilderness of a world in trouble and forever holds us close.

Conduit

Saturday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Whoever is wise will ponder these things,
and consider well the mercies of the Lord.
Psalm 107:43

The cyclist who passes us twice on our walk, each time with a friendly greeting. The driver who stops at an intersection to allow us to cross safely. The expert who kindly and deftly coaches novices during online office hours. The colleague who affirms my efforts.

Each kindness a small thing, which could be easily overlooked. Yet when I focus on them, ponder them, their impact expands within me and I am more able to notice and soak up the goodness they offer. And then to offer graciousness in return.

We need to keep adding good into the world. And we need to keep noticing the goodness of others. God’s mercy abounds and we can be conduits of it, receiving it with open hearts wherever we encounter it, dwelling in it, allowing it to wash through and refresh us, and then sending it forth, adding a drop of our own giftedness to the life-giving stream.


Image by Peter H from Pixabay

Art walk

Friday in the Fourth Week of Lent

The children of your servants shall continue,
and their offspring shall stand fast in your sight.
Psalm 102:28

Our walking route through the neighborhood has become familiar. We wave and smile at neighbors we do not know and share a quick check-in with those we do, all from a safe distance. We know we are all in this together.

And today again we come across the sidewalk art, colorfully chalked and reminding me of a stained-glass window. It is somewhat faded by the recent rain, but its testimony to the creative capacity of someone remains vibrant.

I imagine the someone is a child, although I do not know this to be true. But the sidewalk chalk reminds me of my childhood and of my daughters’, of summer days and laughter and bright spirits and art that is meant to be shared with the community. And it reminds me such things not only endure but continue. God’s promise reaches across generations into the now and extends to an infinite number of tomorrows. Our Creator calls forth creativity, which, of course, is life itself.

Held

Thursday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Answer me, O Lord, for your love is kind;
in your great compassion, turn to me.
Psalm 69:18

For no particular reason and for every reason the tears come. This desert transverse takes turn after turn into unknowable territory as plans that are made on one day are reluctantly and necessarily set aside the next. It all seems impossible to navigate. At the same time, at each curve in the road I encounter acts of generosity and mercy and loving-kindness that reach across any kind of distancing.

So, I let the tears fall, entering into a sacred time of release. This moment is beyond my capacity to hold and so I let it go. And, along with my tears, all the anguish and hopeful expectancy are gathered up and held in the holy compassion that is beyond all measure.

Once again, I turn to the God who saves, and discover that God has already turned to me.



Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Fruition

Wednesday in the Fourth Week of Lent
The Feast of the Annunciation

Will you not give us life again,
that your people may rejoice in you?
Show us your mercy, O Lord,
and grant us your salvation.
Psalm 85:6-7

Photo credit Anne E. Kitch

It is only after I begin my morning prayer that I remember what day it is, the Feast of the Annunciation, when we remember the angel Gabriel visiting Mary to tell her the astonishing news that she will be the Godbearer. It is so hard to keep track of the days right now with all the uncertainly and lack of routine. 

Each day I seek to center myself in the now. I try to focus on one step at a time, one piece of work, one act of mercy, telling myself if I can do that it will be enough.

And today, into this now, I am reminded of God’s holy blessing that will take nine months to come to its fulness. Where will we be in nine months? I do not know. But even now God is acting to bring about new life. I do not know what that looks like, but I do know that I am called to participate in it. To help bring it forth. To continue to plant mercy and hope in the soil around me, and to give the growth over to God.

Rooted

Tuesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Be joyful in the Lord, all you lands;
serve the Lord with gladness
and come before his presence with a song.
Psalm 100:1

“What are the blessings you are finding,” my friend asks on a Zoom call in the early evening. I look back over my day, and discover one thing I am grateful for, and then another, and another. Recalling these brings a sense of respite to my weary soul. Without naming them, I might have been left only with the fatigue of a day filled with trying to make things work.

In order to replenish my soul, I need to make room for joy as well as rest. I need to continue to cultivate a grateful heart. To utter joy into this mess is an act of bravery. Not because it is foolhardy, but because it proclaims love in the midst of fear and that very act is one of strength and resilience. I remember that courage comes from the heart, that the very word itself has its roots in the Latin cor, the word for heart.  I want to remain rooted in Love.

Compass

Monday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Your love, O Lord, for ever will I sing;
form age to age my mouth will proclaim your faithfulness
Psalm 89:1

After a week of…how to describe it?..it is clear to me that I am now in a very different place. The learning curve has been more like a roller coaster with steep ascents and stomach-clenching falls. Already I walk the way differently. I have adopted new trail skills; I have adjusted my stance; I have redefined how I measure progress through this time.

This Lenten landscape is unlike anything I have ever encountered. The tumult, uncertainty, and stress of previous journeys cannot compare. And equally, the generosity, compassion, and resources for resilience abound in greater measure.

As I stumble along, the place I wander remains within the compass of God’s love, whose faithfulness stands firm—regardless.




Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Inherited refuge

Saturday in the Third Week of Lent

Lord, you have been our refuge
from one generation to another.
Psalm 90:1

The chair I sit in belonged to my grandmother. Its place was in her front parlor, a room set aside for formal gatherings and guests. Full of light and beautiful objects, this room was often unoccupied, and I liked to retreat there for its solitude.

Now the chair occupies the nook that is my prayer space in my home. And while this space is hardly formal, it is also full of light, and I realize I have inherited a place of solitude and retreat along with a piece of furniture.

So woven into my prayer this day is my grandmother’s presence. She was a person of faith, a matriarch in her small church in her small Midwest town in farm country. She was strong, and proper, and an artist. She also struggled with fear and anxiety.

But as I sit in her chair, it is her gifts and faith-full legacy that enfold me across the generations. Her struggles have long since been washed away. I am left with the knowledge that love endures. God redeemed all her past trouble and God can handle my present trouble now.

Tender takeover

Friday in the Third Week of Lent

O Lord, my God, my Savior,
by day and night I cry to you.
Let my prayer enter into your presence;
incline your ear to my lamentation.
Psalm 88:1-2

The streetlights float in the fog across the way, each a shimmering beacon.  And then they transfigure, and I see them as specific people--those I have intentionally reached out to in the past few days and the ones who have cast their loving care toward me.

We are a web, woven out of faith and need and a tenacious determination to hurl love into the world.

It’s as if their spirits, their holy souls, hover close to me, to surround me in this place where none of us can gather in any other way. As I say my morning prayers, I name them. Then, gently, the lights recede into the daylight which is still dimmed by fog.

But what is not dimmed is the space they have now occupied in my heart. A tender takeover. Into which I invite by prayer all those who I cannot see or touch.


Image by Eugen Visan from Pixabay

Sacred step

Thursday in the Third Week of Lent
Feast of St. Joseph

The Lord grants his loving-kindness in the daytime;
in the night season his song is with me,
a prayer to the God of my life.
Psalm 42:10

In the predawn darkness, I hear the rich song of a robin, calling the morning into being. Yesterday, my spirits were lifted by the sound of birds busily rustling in the bushes preparing for a new season. And for a moment, along with the birds, I was oblivious to the trouble all around me.

It is the middle of Lent. It seems to have begun a lifetime ago, and I am far from certain where it ends. And although I have been here before, this time is surely different. In this wilderness danger and threat dog my every step and obscure the way forward.

Yet even in this time, this space, this devastation, the robin lifts his voice, trilling glory into the world and heralding hope and new life to come. And the robin’s song is God’s song. Not only because Love called that robin into being and put that song in its throat, but also because God is surely here as well. Calling out to me, reminding me of holy  presence.

Promising me that my next step, any step, is with God.

Through

Wednesday in the Third Week of Lent

Your word is a lantern to my feet
and a light upon my path.
Psalm 119:105

In the middle of the night as I am wakeful when I would rather be asleep, a voice reaches out to me, “It will be alright.” I grab onto it like the lifeline it is. I need this reassurance.

The Lenten wilderness is often a difficult place. And now it seems even more impossible to navigate. As more of what is normal dissolves around me, the way through this time seems precarious and the next step unclear.

In the morning light, I reach out to a friend, texting for tangible encouragement. We name to each other what feels shaky. And in this sharing, we find the solid footing of faith in one another. A faith grounded in our belief in a God who will love us through. As the day brightens outside my window, this sacred conversation lights the way ahead.

Some things will be alright. And some things will not. And none of that changes that the way through is the way of love.



Image by Mariangela Castro (Mary) from Pixabay

Collisions

Tuesday in the Third Week of Lent

So that they might put their trust in God,
and not forget the deeds of God,
but keep his commandments;
And not be like their forebears,
a stubborn and rebellious generation,
a generation whose heart was not steadfast,
and whose spirit was not faithful to God.
Psalm 78:7-8

The loud noise is almost as unsettling as the jolt as our car is rear-ended at a stop sign. We are able to pull over safely, and even as I get out of the passenger seat to assess the situation, I believe it will only be a fender-bender. And I am right.

The other driver is extremely kind and apologetic, worried only that we are OK, which we are. We both look at our cars, and at one another, and decide we can walk away from this. It is such a small thing given all else we are all dealing with. And I can live with the dent.

I think in the days ahead we may collide with each other without meaning to. I think we may get one or two dents along the way. And I believe exercising kindness and compassion with these smaller hurts will fortify us to meet the larger challenges ahead.

Now is not the time to be stubborn and rebellious. Now is the time to seek God in our midst. To welcome sacred compassion when it is offered. To recognize opportunities to practice goodness, so we add to the goodness in the world. God knows we will need it.


Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay

Out of thin air

Monday in the Third Week of Lent

Restore us, O God of hosts;
show the light of your countenance,
and we shall be saved.
Psalm 80:3

I sit out in the afternoon sunshine, a blanket pulled up on my lap because it is still spring cold. The morning contained heartache and leadership and encouragement as a community labored to regroup into a new and unfamiliar configuration. The work was uneven and gentle and at times halting.

And, along with the willingness to gather in a space that needed to be created out of thin air came the revelation of gifts and the deepening of relationships.

And now I seek something else from the air, trying to pull the goodness of the sun into myself. Trying to absorb…strength? Solace? Renewal?

And then I remember where restoration is to be found, how the Source of life and love is never absent, how God is in the midst of us. I welcome this chance to air out my heart. To allow my tears to wash it through and the spring breeze to dry the dampness. To make it fresh and open and ready to love.

Wild love

Saturday in the Second Week of Lent

We give you thanks, O God, we give you thanks,
calling upon your Name and declaring all your wonderful deeds.
Psalm 75:1

I am selective as I cut a few branches of forsythia to bring into the warmth of the house. The bare limbs are dotted with buds, a few showing hints of the wild yellow color that will soon burst forth.

Wild too are the bushes themselves, branches reaching along a tangled path into the spring sunshine. The ones I have cut bend and curve, more unruly than elegant. Which is perhaps why I love them, their willful waywardness speaking to my jumble of a soul.

Out of the tangled mess of this past week the possibility for new life tenaciously persists. I am reminded that our God is not tame. The Holy Spirit is ferocious and undaunted. The loving Word will not be silenced or diminished. Life continues to reach forth with wild abandon.

Joy in the Cavern

Friday in the Second Week of Lent

Come, let us sing to the Lord;
let us shout for joy to the Rock of our salvation.
Psalm 95:1

There it is, greeting me first thing in the morning. This psalm, this ancient hymn first sung thousands of years ago--which has been part of my daily prayer practice for more than 25 years--calling for joy.

And not just joy. Singing and shouting for joy.

It is spiritual discipline that leads me to prayer each morning. And today, this spiritual discipline refuses to allow me to disregard joy. The psalm continues, reminding me that in the hands of the Holy One are all the caverns of the earth and the heights of the hills. Caverns and heights that reverberate with the loving presence of the Almighty.




Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

Iridescence

Thursday in the Second Week of Lent

Yours is the day, yours also the night;
you established the moon and the sun.
Psalm 74:15

The images my friend texts me seem to float off my phone and shimmer in the air in front of me. The iridescent splendor of the orchids tucked into a tree in her moonlit garden are astonishing.

This night beauty is balm for night waking, a remedy for restless thoughts that can disturb the small hours. I think of all that God has created that is nocturnal, that is most magnificent when it is most dark.

I carry the images with me as I go to bed, tucking them into my soul, to be brought out again when needed, as solace, as consolation, as inspiration.

Bound

Wednesday in the Second Week of Lent

O Lord, your word is everlasting;
it stands firm in the heavens.
Psalm 119:89

“Did you know that they have more than 50,000 rare and out-of-print books?” My friend and I sit among some of these volumes as we enjoy morning coffee in this bookstore coffee shop.

“Just think,” she continues, “of all the people who have read these books, and all the lives which have passed through these pages.” The thought catches my breath. Generations of personal stories connected to the stories within the pages themselves. And we sit here in the midst, her story and mine already connected through years of friendship, and now the possibility to be bound to infinite other narratives. If I pick up a book and thumb through the pages, how many lives will I touch?

And God’s word connecting all. The sacred utterance that spoke creation into being. The Word that holds me fast. The one who calls to me. How will I live the story of God’s love today?

Imbedded

Tuesday in the Second Week of Lent

Hear my cry, O God,
and listen to my prayer.
Psalm 61:1

Throughout the day, the beginning of a prayer keeps running through my head. It is part of a blessing that I have often heard before, and I try to call all the words to mind. Not being able to remember it just right, I resort to an internet search. There I find a lively discussion of its history, including posts from people of their fond memories of being inspired by these words as children.

Ritual words are powerful. And prayers that we learn at a young age stay with us. They become imbedded into our core selves, speaking into our lives over time.

As I pray the words now, I take them into my heart, hoping to anchor them there so that they stay. So that I can recall them at will, in times of need, in times of longing, in times of fullness.

Go forth into the world in peace.
Be of good courage.
Hold fast that which is good.
Render to no one evil for evil.
Strengthen the fainthearted.
Support the weak.
Help the afflicted.
Show love to everyone.
Love and serve the Lord,
rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.



Image by Siggy Nowak from Pixabay

Awakening hope

Monday in the Second Week of Lent

Wake up, my spirit; awake lute and harp;
I myself will waken the dawn.
Psalm 57:8

“I miss seeing their happy faces,” my friend texts. This is in response to the picture I sent of the wide-open purple crocuses in my front yard. She no longer lives in a region where these bloom.

I have been watching them for days, expecting this final full burst. For the next few days, they will open to the morning sun and then close up for the night. Then they will be no more. It is easy to overlook them, not only because they are short lived, but because they are so common here. Hardly extraordinary.

Yet their happy faces bring a smile to mine. And today I remind myself not to overlook or underestimate the power of small beauties. Like small kindnesses and small mercies they bring light and life to the world, combat the darkness of uncertainly and fear, and awaken hope. And hope is no small thing.

Open to Uncertainty

Saturday in the First Week of Lent

If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
Even there your hand will lead me
and your right hand hold me fast.
Psalm 139:8-9

As we enter the elevator, I realize that I do not know on which level we parked. Normally, this is the kind of thing I pay attention to and my spouse teases me a bit because he remembered when I did not.

Usually, I can be counted on to know where things are—misplaced keys, important papers, parked cars. It might be a super-power, or it might be a control need. Probably that depends on the context. I know in part it is simply that I like to know where I am.

As I continue my intentional journey of renewal in Lent, I understand that the way forward can be uncertain.  And that my own transformation depends on me being open to where the way opens before me. What is true is that wherever I am, I am in God’s care.

Simply here

Friday in the First Week of Lent

Open my lips, O Lord,
and my mouth shall proclaim your praise.
Psalm 51:16

I wake with a sense of happy anticipation and before I even get out of bed I offer a short prayer of thanks.

I have no idea where this morning’s good spirits come from; there is nothing particular about yesterday or today that calls for celebration. Except for yesterday’s afternoon sunshine, and a home-cooked meal with my spouse, and time set aside for rest and reflection and recreation today.

Sometimes joy is simply a gift.

Ready to unfurl

Thursday in the First Week of Lent

The Lord, the God of gods, has spoken;
he has called the earth from the rising of the sun to its setting.
Psalm 50:1

I walk gingerly across the lawn trying to step in the less muddy places, and because my eyes are focused on the ground, I see it: a purple crocus about to make its appearance. I am grateful to notice it at this moment, its saturated color just becoming evident. I love these bright heralds of spring. And next to it, another tightly wound sprout is prepped, ready to unfurl into new life.

What else in God’s creation, I wonder, is ready to unfold? What gifts are being called forth in me and in the community around me? What other new life has been readied unnoticed in the darkness?

I take the time to delight in my discovery, and mark the location, because I plan to be attentive in the days to come. I do not want to miss participating in this ordinary and extraordinary offering of life.

Rocky terrain

Wednesday in the First Week of Lent

I have considered my ways
and turned my feet toward your decrees.
Psalm 119:59

The path I walk on has become rocky, the wetness of approaching spring exposing hard stones. I now have to slow down and pick my way carefully. My focus shifts from enjoying the nature around me—the sunshine hitting bare trees, the thawing creek singing its way to the reservoir, a flock of birds curving across the blue sky—to concentrating only on the next step. I wish I had remembered this difficult terrain and chosen a different path. I wanted an easy and enjoyable walk today, but this is hard work.

The spiritual life can be like this. The terrain is not always beautiful and smooth. Sometimes the way ahead is plain hard work, and progress seems painstakingly slow. Yet, the concentration and focus required are gifts.  Practicing these skills builds capacity for unknown challenges ahead.

If I am to make needed changes in my life, if I am to grow closer to God, I need focus and concentration. I need to be intentional about my next step.

I continue on, turning my feet toward the way that will lead me home.

The long way

Tuesday in the First Week of Lent

This God is our God for ever and ever;

he shall be our guide for evermore.

Psalm 48:13

I look up from my task and check the clock. There is time. I can take the long way to my appointment.

Given the option, I will choose the back roads. I prefer a slower, more meandering pace to the directness and speed of the highway. The more twists and turns, the better. I like to take in the landscape, to feel connected to the geography through which I travel. I find beauty in farms, old houses, creeks, small-town centers, fallow fields and bare forests. I don’t even mind getting a bit lost, as long as it doesn’t make me late.

I don’t want to rush through Lent. I want to make the most of this time to observe and respond to the places in the background of my life which have gone unnoticed. I want to be open to discover where God will guide me. I am even willing to get a bit lost, knowing that the Holy One draws me to a destination that will save my very soul.

Intentional Randomness

Monday in the First Week of Lent

In my integrity you hold me fast,
and shall set me before your face for ever.
Psalm 41:12

In the middle of my morning meditation, I pick up my phone to text a friend. I chide myself a bit for the interruption, but he had asked for prayers and I want to reach out to him in this moment when his name came to mind. I am not always good at remembering to be intentional about praying for those who have asked.

As I hit send on the text message, I call into my presence the names of others who are in need. Some have asked for my petitions; some have no idea that I feel called to pray for them. Then I cast my mind to the week ahead, to the meetings on my calendar, and extend my prayer to the conversations yet to come, asking God that I can approach each with integrity.

It occurs to me that the way these names pop up randomly during my day is an invitation. Rather than seeing it as a kind of failing that I do not practice intercessory prayer in some more orderly fashion, I could think of these names as sacred refrains, a litany interwoven into my ongoing conversation with God throughout the day. Each a reminder that we are all also always on the mind of the Holy One.