"The angels keep their ancient places-
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis ye, your estranged faces
That miss the many-splendored thing."
~Frances Thompson, The Kingdom of God

This past Sunday in worship, we invited people to think about the story of Christmas and the various characters and elements of this familiar and mysterious telling that shapes our faith. The question we asked people to consider was this: "Where is love shown by Mary, Joseph, the Magi, the shepherds? Where is love shown by the Star of Bethlehem, the sheep and other animals present in the stable? Where is love in the many journeys taken?" It became a wonderful way to hear people's ideas of the self-giving love that is at the root of our faith tradition.

All Sunday afternoon something kept nagging at me as I thought back about the morning's worship. And then it hit me: We had forgotten the angels! We had left out the messengers of God that had startled the shepherds, foretold the journey to both Mary and Joseph, those winged ones that hover in every artist's rendering of the manger. We had not asked: Where is the love shown by the angels?

I am not sure what to make of this omission. Perhaps we were focusing on the concrete, the visible. And yet so much of our life is moved by the invisible, the unseen forces that guide us and connect us. The idea of angels does not fit our rational mind. And yet I know that there are messengers of God all around. Some I see every day in the faces of people I know and love. Another messenger is present in the red-tailed hawk that flies across my path awakening me to beauty and out of anxiety. And then there is the rare moment when a stranger looks into our eyes with a presence that causes us to stop and remember who we are, to be fully present in the gift of the moment. This messenger of God, this angel, startles us into the gospel story of our own lives by their attention to us. It is a wake up call, much like the one offered to the shepherds who could have stayed put tending sheep but instead chose a journey that would change their lives forever. That is the love shown by angels.

Today I will try not to forget.

"For God will command the angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone."  Psalm 91:11,12

"This is the irrational season, when love blooms bright and wild. Had Mary been filled with reason, there'd have been no room for the child." Madeleine L'Engle

I am sure that, on this day last year, I probably used this very same quote to begin my Pause post. I think of it every year on this day. Today is our younger son's birthday and these are the words we used on his birth announcement. They had always been meaningful to me but now they are even more so.

Birth is a powerful experience for anyone at any time of the year. But to have an infant in your home at Christmas holds a special power. Singing the traditional carols, full of the images of birth, stirs sweeter feelings. Hearing the familiar story causes you to examine the trusting, irrational nature of Mary and Joseph in new ways. Identifying with their plight, their searching, their amazement at the child they hold between them, becomes even more poignant. Angels sing, people bring gifts, the world stops for a little while to welcome the child. And as parents you are simply left to 'treasure all these things in your heart.'

Reason, for the most part, plays very little into the choice to bring a child into the world. If we allowed ourselves we could each think  of countless reasons against it. And yet we continue because, I believe, each child is not only an expression of the love of two people, but also the expression of our hope in the world. Our hope that as humans will do better……as parents, as families, as neighborhoods, as nations, as faith communities. Our hope, someplace deep within us is that this child, our child, will know a more peaceful world, a more just world, that they might in fact be a part of its creation.

It is an irrational thought,in some ways. But then so is faith, and hope and love and how many of us would want any less of these three in our lives?This sweet child, now a man, who came into our lives eighteen years ago today, has filled our home with all these things and much more. He has made us laugh uncontrollably and filled us with immense pride. He has challenged us to see things in new ways and completely confounded us at times. He continues to bring a gentle spirit to our lives and to our home. His smile lights up our home and my heart.

And for all this, I am irrationally grateful.

I have always, as I remember, been an early riser. I was one of those college students that actually got up early,often to the dismay of my roommate. There is something about early morning to me that seems more sacred than other parts of the day. I like being able to move through the house in darkness or semi-light knowing that my neighbors are still sleeping. I like the quiet of early morning and the brooding anticipation of what the day might hold. I may have inherited this from father who, even in retirement, rose before five a.m. to meet his buddies for coffee at a local diner. Unlike him, however, I do not want to talk to anyone early in the morning. I want to be held in the silence.

This past week in my little hermitage in the woods I enjoyed rising early even more than usual. I awoke to the vast expanse of the night sky filled with visible stars and planets overhead, of particular note Jupiter and Mars seeming so close you could reach out and touch them as they spooned with the crescent Moon. I made coffee and started a fire in the wood stove to take the chill of the cold morning. I moved about the small space in a contemplative fashion, noticing, touching, holding. Snuggled in my soft chair, I held the words I read with a special care. It is a way I would like to begin all mornings.

The poet Mary Oliver writes in a poem titled 'Why I Wake Early':
"Hello, sun in my face,
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety-

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness."

We are in the darkest days of the year here in the northern hemisphere. Children go to school in darkness and return in the waning light of day. Supper is always eaten in the dark. In these Advent days of waiting, of preparation, we rest in the darkness knowing that it holds a great gift yet to be discovered. We pray to be kept from 'ever-darkness'. We long to be held in the 'great hands of light'. May each of us start our day in happiness and kindness for our own sake and for the sake of the world.

Stay warm this weekend………………..

I headed out for a long walk through the winter woods
yesterday. The paths here are groomed and easy to follow as they wind through
the now bare birch and the evergreens which give the only color against the
deep blue of sky. As I laced up my boots and put on my heavy coat, I also
followed the directions taped to the door:”Remember to wear your orange vest
when leaving your hermitage!” I reached for the blaze orange which would make
me visible to any hunters that may still be out. Though the season is over, so
I was told, there are still some who might be about. Putting aside any fashion
sense, I zipped up this big, bright vest and began my silent walk.

 The path led me past fallen trees that had been arranged to
make the path more visible. I thought of how lovely it would be with more snow
to offer the contrast to the pines and birch. As I walked I was aware of how
conspicuous I felt. It was like I was shouting “Look at me! Look at me!” It had
not been my intention when I planned this woodland walk. I had wanted, instead,
to become a part of the woods, to become aware of my part of the fabric of the
forest. But my vest made me ‘other’. There was no mistaking that an alien was
present in the natural landscape. While I was safe, I also felt sad to not have
blended into and become part of the beauty of the woods, of the earth.

 Walking out of the woods, I made my way to the open field
where people had built a rock and prairie grass labyrinth for walking prayer.
An ornamental archway marks the opening of the labyrinth. Attached to the
archway hangs a small brass pine-cone bell. I gently rang it to signal my
entrance. I began my slow, meditative walk offering prayers for family,
friends, the work my colleagues and I were doing here at the retreat center. I
reached the center of the labyrinth and the small pile of stones where people
had left smaller stones, a charm with an angel imprinted a coin with John 3:16
printed on it, visible talismans of their own prayers. Nestled within the
larger stones were pieces of paper. I resisted the impulse to pull them out and
read them believing they were meant for the Holy and not for me. As I stood at
the center of this ancient path, my eyes fell on the brightness of my vest. At
first I wanted to laugh….walking the labyrinth in blaze orange!  It seemed so silly.

 And yet what my heart wanted was for my prayers, for my
walk, for my living, to be noticed by the One who holds me gently in this life’s path.
And in that spirit, blaze orange seemed the perfect attire.

“O God, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and
when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path
and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is
on my tongue, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay
your hand upon me.” Psalm 139

For the last few days I have been on retreat in northern Minnesota at a lovely
center called Dwelling in the Woods. It is tucked away, down country roads, some
paved, others now hard, gravelly surfaces. As I drove here snow spit from the
sky making little dancing waves of white in the spill of my headlights. I
arrived at dusk and settled into my hermitage, one of those small, cozy places
that causes me to beg the question, what do we really need with such large
living spaces? The simplicity, the attention to beauty is all around in my
space, aptly named, The Loft, because in order to make my way to my bed, I have
to climb a small winding staircase to the angled-eaved space above. The tiny
kitchen has everything needed for a simple, hearty meal. A wood burning stove
is already laid for novice fire-builders…that would be me.

 As the first evening drew to a close, I felt myself growing
weary from a full day. Walking toward my hermitage, I was not prepared for how
dark it would be without any of the city lights that normally accompany me
everywhere. It seemed unbelievably dark even with a flashlight. As I turned off
the lights to go to sleep, I was plunged into total darkness. I thought of all
the people throughout time who had gone to sleep in just such darkness. I
thought of all those who have this experience even now in places where
electricity is still a luxury. Enveloped by the deep darkness I fell asleep
with little difficulty and rested in a way that is unfamiliar.

A friend told me last week about a collective of people who
are dedicated to helping people find the darkness they feel is important for
all people to live healthy, whole lives. It sounded like such an odd concept.
Who are these people? And yet last evening, as I tucked myself into my little
bed and was plunged into just such darkness, I had a glimmer of understanding.
I wonder if all people might sleep better in this kind of darkness and would
awaken more ready to face the daylight. 

"Abide with me. Fast falls the eventide;The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me."  Henry Francis Lyte

"When one person in a family, in a parish, in a workplace begins to practice being really alive and present in the present moment, not trapped in distractions in her head or lost in his heart, that person is like a burning candle carried into a dark room. People in that person's family or workplace had been sitting in the dark, without even realizing it, thinking that darkness was as bright as things could get. But now, because of the beaming brightness of that person's recollected and whole presence, they are able to see and know deep within themselves just how much more there can be to their religion or their faith. But still, it is only one candle, and the room is still dark. When the flame is passed from person to person until there are many candles burning, then we can really see!" ~Gregory Fruehwirth, OJN, Words for Silence:A Year of Contemplative Meditations

I began reading this lovely book of meditations this past week by Fr. Gregory, a member of the Order of Julian of Norwich,.He is an Episcopal monk living in Wisconsin.The meditations follow the liturgical church year. This paragraph caught my attention, not only for the lovely words, but for the idea that we can become 'burning candles' for one another. What a beautiful thought!

There have been many times in my life when I have experienced the presence of another as a burning candle. To be in the presence of someone who is so fully present to you, so completely attentive that you feel as if there is no place else the other would like to be is a gift. In the harried ways we live much of the time, it is a rare gift. Yet it does happen. These are moments of true grace.

I would love to say that I have the ability to be so in the moment, so present that I, too, can be a burning candle for another. But somehow I feel the distracted life often overtakes me and I don't even send a spark in the direction of those I meet. It is a practice to improve upon and what better time than Advent?  These dark days call to us to be introspective, to slow down and be in the moment where we have been planted. As we wait and watch for the coming of Christmas, what better desire than to be a burning candle?

This idea reminds me of the lighting of candles on Christmas eve. It has been my privilege for many years to be at the front of our darkened sanctuary as the light is passed from one person to another, back each row, until the entire church is lit with burning candles. These candles light the faces of friends, families, strangers…..all beautiful in the golden glow of candlelight. Some faces are smiling, others show the pathway of tears on their cheeks. Some look far into the distance remembering perhaps, while others look out at the beauty that has evolved around them. All faces register wonder.

As we prepare to celebrate the Light of the World, Advent is a time to register our wonder as we are witness to the burning candles among us. It is also a time to be so present to another that we glow.