****I thought this had been posted last week but realized it had not.

You’ll be on good terms with rocks and mountains; wild animals will become your good friends. You’ll know that your place on earth is safe, you’ll look over your goods and find nothing amiss. You’ll see your children grow up, your family lovely and lissome as orchard grass. You’ll arrive at your grave ripe with many good years, like sheaves of golden grain at harvest.
Job 5:21-26

As I was preparing for this Alaskan adventure, my mother told me my father had always wanted to travel here. I had never heard him say this but it is something she had tucked away in her trunk of memories, one that is full to overflowing with love and an account of the beautiful life they created together. I am so glad I had she offered up this nugget which I have held as I have been soaking in this amazing landscape. Seeing the lush green trees and the rock-solid mountains, I have imagined my father’s reaction to it all. He also served in the Navy,so being on this ship I have imagined his too-young body pitching and swaying with the movement of the sea. A movement that took him far away from all he knew, into a world of war and people who were so very different than those he knew and lived with in his small, southern Ohio home. I have observed several men on board who are near to the age he would have been, men who seem somewhat puzzled by the leisure, the lack of any real work to do, who are finding themselves surrounded by a community of people from around the world. I have watched them as workers serve, clean, paint and fix and see an itch inside them to help out, to pick up a tool, any tool, and just do some work instead of sitting doing what they are supposed to do. Relax. Escape from the ordinary. Be on vacation.

Living into the landscape of these snow-capped mountains and the distant glacier, I can hear my father’s voice in its slow, melodic timbre: “Mighty pretty. Mighty pretty.” That would be about all he might be able to muster vocally but his face would speak volumes of awe, even his own kind of praise. Awe at the majesty of it. Praise that he had been blessed to see it. I have seen this look on many of the faces as we have sailed through fjords with the mountains creating a protective, jagged nest for our vessel. At some level, I hope I am seeing this magnificent place for myself and for him.

A day ago, I had one of those peak life moments that stun the senses. Every pore and cell in my body throbbed with an ecstatic experience of Creation. With six other people I boarded a small fishing boat to go whale watching. We were not necessarily guaranteed to see these magnificent creatures but were told our odds were good. Our captain was a crusty, younger man who had retired early to be able to do what he loved. He took people whale watching to feed his habit of being able to spend as much time as he could on his sailboat. I marveled at his life and his ability to make the choices that allowed him to shape his days with intention.

Setting out into another fjord, its wide expanse a sheer mirror of glassy water, we could see the Mendenhall glacier, icy and blue, tucked in the folds of the mountains. Soon we were headed to a part of the water where there had been a sighting. We pulled up in time to see water spouting into the air and the enormous tails of the humpbacked whales fly into the air before dipping gracefully back into the water. There must have been eight to ten of the enormous beings spouting, lifting, diving as we human ones looked on, faces full of awe. Cameras snapped, video was filmed. All while I stood with tears running down my cheeks, stunned that in the goodness of Creator and Creation, I had been blessed to live till this moment. The gift of it seemed almost too much to receive. My heart was beating with such gratitude.

I thought of the lessons the book of Job tries, I think, to offer to us. Though he has seen the worst of life’s hardships and experienced unimaginable loss, the Holy One keeps reminding Job that there is so much more to this living. These threads woven into the fabric of this amazing Earth bind us together and hold us in ways that can bring an encounter with the Sacred in the land of the living. And as the human recipients of this grandeur, we had no hand in its creation and every responsibility in its appreciation.

Through mountain, sea, and whale sightings, I have tucked away these memories for the time when I will forget the awe that is at the heart of it all. I will treasure these experiences for myself and in the memory of my father.

Most mornings I have my coffee in the car on my way to the office or wherever the day will take me. This morning-waker-upper is usually accompanied by some portable food that is not too messy to eat and accelerated speeds. Both coffee and food are consumed without much attention to my surroundings,save the signs, the attention to twists and turns that move me safely from one place to another. Breakfast, in this fashion, becomes a mode of ingesting the calories and caffeine needed to begin a day.

Yesterday’s breakfast could not have been any different. Sitting on the balcony of the ship on which we are sailing toward Alaska, the mountains and water spread out before me. Perched on a small, white table was the breakfast that would begin my day, the food that would give me the energy to do the work of, well, relaxing. The gift of this was not lost on me. I allowed my eyes to drink in the spectacular beauty all around.

Staring into the middle distance, I blinked and shook my head not believing that I was seeing what I thought I had. Directly out from the ship, a spray of water whooshed into the air. It was followed by the black and white enormous tail of a whale! Still not believing it, I narrowed my vision. Yes! It was indeed not one whale but two. Spraying their powerful breath into the air, diving and catapulting their enormous body out of the water, these magnificent creatures became my breakfast companions.

What to do with such an experience? My heart was filled to overflowing with gratitude for the privilege of seeing this sight. I thought of my own ordinary task of eating breakfast. In many ways, these creatures of the sea were also simply doing their own ordinary, morning task. Each of us just going about what is normal, predictable, daily. The sheer fact that this glorious creature and I were in the same patch of Creation at that moment is what made it glorious for me. The whale, of course, was oblivious to this human one whose heart was full of awe at its being, simply being itself.

This experience caused me to think of all the manner of miracles that happens every day, every moment, acts that are unseen to me and yet would dazzle if I could only see. For all the terror the world often seems to hold, it is important to remember that it also births acts of unbelievable beauty and splendor which have the power to overshadow all the terrible things that also happen. We are connected in an invisible web of earth, air, water and spirit. Sometimes it is only a matter of remembering this. And noticing. And falling in love with the beauty and letting the awe seep into our pores. And offering thanks, always offering thanks.

Which is what the psalmist did when they wrote these words in Psalm 104: “What a wildly wonderful world, God! You made it all, with Wisdom at your side, made earth overflow with your wonderful creations. Oh, look—the deep, wide sea, brimming with fish past counting, sardines and sharks and salmon. Ships plow those waters, and Leviathan, your pet dragon, romps in them. Send out your Spirit and they spring to life— the whole countryside in bloom and blossom.”

Today may not bring whales with breakfast for you or for me. Such gifts of Creation are often few and far between. But there will be miracles of connection that come our way. I am willing to stake my life on it. May we all be awake and ready to notice……and to offer our praise.

This week I have the privilege of traveling to our nation’s 49th state. Alaska. That land that calls on the adventurer and those who long for the wild places that still just might exist. Some place. This has been a much anticipated trip and much has gone into its planning and I feel blessed at the gift of it all. We are making this journey by cruise ship, a kind of travel new to us, one I also have to admit to being a bit apprehensive to do. I had wondered if I would feel claustrophobic in the small spaces and the inability to get off the ship when I wanted. I wondered if I would be concerned about the vast quantities of food that I’d heard would be available at all times. I felt a certain amount of good, Protestant guilt at the excess of it. For the most part, not much of this has proved true for which I am grateful.

I was able to get over all these emotional triggers because of something that happened before we ever left the port of Seattle. It came in the form of a mandatory meeting of all those on the ship to gather for a practice drill to prepare us for any water emergency that might happen. We did this by gathering in our ‘Muster Stations’. This was a new term for me. Muster. I had heard of being able to ‘muster’ enough energy to do something or ‘muster’ the courage to complete a frightening task. But in this situation our Muster Station was the place we were to gather, another definition for muster, in case of an emergency. Muster…….to gather. We were to rest there and we were to bring our life jackets.

So here we were, hundreds of people gathered, mustered, into the theater. We sat with our life jackets, a sea of orange flotation devices held on the laps of people from all over the world. We listened attentively as the earnest crew explained what signals we would hear in case of one of these emergencies, events which were now filling the minds of every person present. After all we had all read the papers lately and knew of fires, crashes, and various other incidents that can happen on cruise ships of all kinds. It was impossible not to pay attention to these accounts given this looming trip. Though we would later learn the playfulness of the crew, right now they were all business.

At the appointed time, we were given the instructions as to how to don our life jackets and how to make our way into the water if that became necessary. ” With one hand, hold your nose and put your hand over your mouth. Take the other arm and extend it over the front of your life jacket to hold it in place. Step….do not jump.” It all sounded simple enough. In the safety of my theater seat. The orange whistle I could blow…..which hand should I use?….. to signal someone coming to the rescue, hung at my side.

That’s when I turned around and looked at all the people, all shapes and sizes, all nationalities, standing in their brilliant orange life jackets. Here we were, the fragile, vulnerable ones who walk upright. We stood in orange at this moment planning for an emergency we hoped would never happen. But most of the time we all walk around with the hope that an imaginary life jacket of some kind keeps us in safety. As I looked at us all, I thought of the wisdom of what can keep us safe: sticking together, walking in community, leaning of the strength and skills of the other. I was now counting on these strangers to be my traveling partners in a deeper way. It also helps to have practiced…..covering what needs to be covered, knowing when to blow the whistle, remembering how things work. And most of the time it makes sense to step gently and resist the urge to jump into whatever open water presents itself, literal or otherwise.

Last night I sat and watched as dancers and singers entertained us in what may have looked like a theater but which I knew was the place I would go if mustering was required. And the fact is, mustering is always required in one form or another. Most of the time our life jackets are invisible.

Other times, we are all wearing orange.

“For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”
~Jeremiah 29:11

Lately it seems the prophet Jeremiah is everywhere. Last week our guest speaker,Phyllis Tickle, used parts of this book of the Bible to talk about the changes in our world and particularly the changes in the church. It was fascinating to hear the wisdom of this ancient prophet so firmly planted in our 21st century world. Yesterday at our Seattle son’s baccalaureate service, this scripture was read to remind the graduating students of the ways in which the Holy has held them and will continue to do so as they make their way in a world that is, as yet, a big unknown. Jeremiah is not a go-to book for most people but it has always been a favorite of mine. I love how the people addressed in this prophet’s words are quite similar to those in this time: people who feel like the life they knew is fraying, how systems that once worked no longer give comfort, how people seem at odds with one another about a myriad of topics. Sound familiar?

It feels good to have a prophetic voice offering a comforting groundedness, a reminder that there is a thread of goodness that is the constant in any and all times, doesn’t it? So often the other messages that fly our way tell the opposite. This is not Pollyanna thinking to remember that, indeed, God’s intention for all of us is one of hope. As the sands shift, whether through change we chose like the graduates or change thrust upon us like movement we see in our world, there is a golden cord of hope, goodness, kindness, gentleness, creativity, that exists at the very center of who we are. We are, after all, the ones who claim a creation story whose repeating affirmation is “it is good, very, very, good.”

Yesterday as I watched these young people, surrounded by family and friends, I thought of the sacrifices made on their behalf to see them stand in this moment of sheer beauty. Their strength and hope was a visible aura around them which was created by a love of parents, teachers, grandparents, mentors, those who had given time, talent, resources, and their very lives to bring this generation of young ones to this moment. As the prophetic words of the ancient prophet Jeremiah were read, I had the visceral experience of what it means to be connected throughout time with those who choose hope. And make no mistake, hope is a choice. To remember and reaffirm that we believe we are held in this hope is a choice. My prayer is that the young people who were present to the love and movement of spirit in that place allowed the seeds of that hope to be planted deep inside them. For their future, for the rainy days, the despairing days, the mountain-top days that will come to them as they come to all.

Today these same students will walk across a stage and be handed a diploma that represents their hard work, their own sacrifices, the mistakes and successes and some body of knowledge they have achieved. This ritual will be different than yesterday’s. The speaker has crafted inspiring words out their own experience which will be heard with the varying lenses of those present. That, and a certain amount of celebratory exhaustion and relief. The words may stick or brush off them like Teflon. They will see some of their friends walk alongside and the professors who have shared what they know will look on. Parents, families, will feel their chests swell with pride.

And from someplace, across the ages, a voice will echo and float above them:”For surely I know the plans I have for you,plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.” Its’ wisdom will fall on those decked out in cap and gown. And it will also fall on all those who are willing to hear and take up the mantel of hope. For our time. In this place. As it has always been. Since the beginning.

“At the beginning of each day,
after we open our eyes
to receive the light
of that day,
As we listen to the voices
and sounds
that surround us,
We must resolve to treat each hour
as the rarest of gifts,
and be grateful
for the consciousness
that allows us to experience it,
recalling in thanks
that our awareness is a present
from we know not where,
or how, or why.
When we rise from sleep let us rise for the joy
of the true Work that we will be about this day,
and considerately cheer one another on……….”
~John McQuiston II, Always We Begin Again

I have been searching through my bookshelves over the last days, taking stock of the varied books I have purchased over the years. There are novels, travel books, theology textbooks, Bible commentaries and a variety of scripture translations. There are books of poetry and prayer, spiritual inspiration and a few self-help books thrown in for good measure. Memoirs, cookbooks, and the children’s books that have become cherished over the years.

This little book titled Always We Begin Again was nestled among so many others but I pulled it out to remind myself of its wisdom. The pages are filled with an updated interpretation of the workings of the Benedictines. Opening this tiny volume, I was reminded once again of the simple, grounded way of these religious who follow the way of St. Benedict.

It is always a wonderful thing to me to find words that call us to be mindful at the beginning of each day. To set an intention to see the unfolding hours as the gift it is, brings with it a certain dose of humility, encourages me to find that inner rhythm so common to those who live in religious community. It is less easy to grab hold of in fits and starts of the days most of us inhabit.

But the truth about this particular reading is that as I read it I thought of our Seattle son who graduates from college this weekend. He has been surrounded for the last four years by the gentle, intentional way of life of the Jesuits. It has been a gift to see that community help shape these important years of his life and to hear the ways in which he speaks in phrases and ideas in which I recognize the sweet, servant spirit of yet another religious order. This education has clearly been one that has been more than subject matter and has become a shaping of the heart and a lifetime. As a mother, it is a joy unspeakable to see.

McQuiston finishes his poem with these words:
“Life will always provide matters for concern.
Each day, however, brings with it reasons for joy.
Every day carries the potential
to bring the experience of heaven;
have the courage to expect good from it.
Be gentle with this life,
and use the light of life
to live fully in your time.”

Whether Benedictines or Jesuits, the wisdom of these words are for us all, religious or not. And they also carry the deep hope this mother has for the continued growing of a son’s gentle life, fully in his time.

“At the beginning of each day,
after we open our eyes
to receive the light
of that day,
As we listen to the voices
and sounds
that surround us,
We must resolve to treat each hour
as the rarest of gifts,
and be grateful
for the consciousness
that allows us to experience it,
recalling in thanks
that our awareness is a present
from we know not where,
or how, or why.
When we rise from sleep let us rise for the joy
of the true Work that we will be about this day,
and considerately cheer one another on……….”
~John McQuiston II, Always We Begin Again

I have been searching through my bookshelves over the last days, taking stock of the varied books I have purchased over the years. There are novels, travel books, theology textbooks, Bible commentaries and a variety of scripture translations. There are books of poetry and prayer, spiritual inspiration and a few self-help books thrown in for good measure. Memoirs, cookbooks, and the children’s books that have become cherished over the years.

This little book titled Always We Begin Again was nestled among so many others but I pulled it out to remind myself of its wisdom. The pages are filled with an updated interpretation of the workings of the Benedictines. Opening this tiny volume, I was reminded once again of the simple, grounded way of these religious who follow the way of St. Benedict.

It is always a wonderful thing to me to find words that call us to be mindful at the beginning of each day. To set an intention to see the unfolding hours as the gift it is, brings with it a certain dose of humility, encourages me to find that inner rhythm so common to those who live in religious community. It is less easy to grab hold of in fits and starts of the days most of us inhabit.

But the truth about this particular reading is that as I read it I thought of our Seattle son who graduates from college this weekend. He has been surrounded for the last four years by the gentle, intentional way of life of the Jesuits. It has been a gift to see that community help shape these important years of his life and to hear the ways in which he speaks in phrases and ideas in which I recognize the sweet, servant spirit of yet another religious order. This education has clearly been one that has been more than subject matter and has become a shaping of the heart and a lifetime. As a mother, it is a joy unspeakable to see.

McQuiston finishes his poem with these words:
“Life will always provide matters for concern.
Each day, however, brings with it reasons for joy.
Every day carries the potential
to bring the experience of heaven;
have the courage to expect good from it.
Be gentle with this life,
and use the light of life
to live fully in your time.”

Whether Benedictines or Jesuits, the wisdom of these words are for us all, religious or not. And they also carry the deep hope this mother has for the continued growing of a son’s gentle life, fully in his time.

We are beings ruled by our senses. Every waking moment is an interpretation of the world through sight, smell, sound, touch, taste. We take in information through one or more of these modes and in turn make meaning in our lives. While we share some of these experiences with other creations, we are the ones who engage these senses and then create story. It becomes our privileged responsibility to be awake and alive to these gifts, these ways of knowing. Though we may employ all five senses at any given moment of any day, we seem to be hard-wired to lean on one or two more than others.

So when you become aware that one of your less dominant senses is working overtime, it is good to pay attention. This was my experience this particular morning. As I headed out quite early to exercise, I was assaulted by the very scent of the air. It held the weight of moisture from last night’s rain and the fog that still hung heavy in the sight-lines before my eyes. I stopped and breathed in the fresh, sweet smell that wove through humidity and fog, a scent that signaled what I can only describe as the freedom of summer. Standing in my driveway, I allowed this fresh smell to carry me back over the years to those precious first days of summer vacation. Though I loved school, I also relished the sense of the easy going, relaxed possibility a childhood summer holds. Over the last day, I have seen this possibility on the faces of the young ones in the neighborhood. Days, nights, weeks, stretch out before them like a blank canvas begging for brush and paint. They are standing on the precipice of adventure and they know it.

The sense of smell is curious and connects us to our most primal selves. Our brothers and sisters with four legs are more adept than we at using its gifts. And yet our sense of smell holds memory and has the potential to catapult us to places we thought we had long forgotten. It is the place where some of our deepest memories find a home, waiting for the most unexpected time to take us on a magical, mystery tour of by-gone experiences. Certain scents can have me sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table or dancing on the floor of my high-school gym. Other smells remind me of cars I once rode in and the people who rode along. Still other scents take me to lands to which I have traveled and the interesting people I met there, the foods I ate. Does this ring true for you?

This morning’s air, doused with the freshness of summer took me on a journey, not only of my own childhood, but that of my children’s early years. As parents we often have the opportunity to re-live some of the moments we held dear in our own childhoods by providing similar ones for our own children. Days at the lake. Campfires. Cherry Popsicles dripping down tiny hands. The act of marveling at the glow of fireflies on a warm summer evening. Laying in the grass looking up at the night sky, feeling the tiny place you hold in the vast universe. These simple pleasures connect us to something larger than our own individual lives.

The psalmists had a handle on what it meant to experience the Holy with all the senses. Theirs was not an intellectual but full-bodied pursuit of the presence of God in the midst of every day living. “May my prayer come to you like the sweet smell of incense. When I lift up my hands in prayer, may it be like the evening sacrifice.” These are the words of the writer of Psalm 141, words that remind us that even prayer can have a sweet, wonderful scent. Perhaps, it might smell something like the fresh, possibility of a warm summer’s day that wakes up slowly and leads to discoveries we never imagined. No matter our age, today could be a good day to live into the possibility of this ever-greening world that is opening up,waiting to dazzle all our senses.

What legacy do you plan to leave? How will you be remembered, not just in death, but by those communities, those people whose lives come into contact with yours? Most days we are so busy living our lives that we give very little thought to these kinds of questions. Mostly we are occupied with doing the laundry, answering emails, mowing the grass, doing the acts of whatever work we call our own, to be too intentional about how all of this might lead to comments people make about our legacy. We often forget that the way we spend our days is the way, in truth, that we spend our lives and the sum total of all this is making an impact, an impact that will be remembered by someone…someday.

One of the great gifts of the work I do is that I have the privilege of sitting with people as they plan for the memorial and funeral services of loved ones. If someone would have told me when I was younger that this is something I would be doing, not only doing but enjoying, I would have told them they were off their rocker! But here I am, holding the space while people remember, celebrate, mourn, and tell the legacy story of those who have shared their lives. Words cannot express the deep blessing this is to me.

Some of this legacy sharing comes easier than others. Not all people have reflected with any clarity on the legacy of another. Even those who lose someone who is quite close, a mother, father, or child, can sometimes find it difficult to articulate the ways in which they were shaped by this relationship. Often this has more to do with deep grief or the lack of experience in reflection than it has to do with any individual, any specific person. The truth is every person has influenced someone, has contributed in some way to the fabric of a community.

Today I was privileged to celebrate the life of one of the matriarchs not only of her family but of our church. Because she had been in failing health for some time and had lived to the impressive age of ninety-three, her family had had the gift of time to find the words that expressed her legacy. It was a beautiful thing to be in the presence of their memories, of the ways in which they so fully knew and could say how her life had given form to theirs. From the young ones to the senior ones, they had come to their own peace with both grief and celebration.

Over the last weeks as I have been planning for her memorial service someone shared with me a song that was a favorite of hers. It is an old hymn, one we don’t sing much anymore. But it is one that was a growing up song for me. I remember the sound of my grandmother’s wobbly voice joining the other wobbly voices of women her age as they sang these words in church:

“I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
I would be pure, for there are those who care;
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

I would be friend to all, the foe, the friendless;
I would be giving, and forget the gift;
I would be humble, for I know my weakness;
I would look up, and laugh and love, and lift.”

As a child there was something in these words that touched on my youthful piety. They were words I hoped would be true of me, that I saw as a kind of challenge. That younger self hoped that the sentiment of this hymn would be some form of legacy that might evolve into my life. I was thankful to be reminded of them and to have the tune become my personal ear worm over the last few days. While I may not have attained the fullness of these words, this week I have remembered the strong women and men whose faith has held me, challenged me, and inspired me, those who could sing this song with an assurance for which I still strive.

Perhaps the lesson is that a legacy takes a lifetime to create.

Tired of all who come with words, words with no language
I went to the snow-covered island.
The wild does not have words.
The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions!
I come across the marks of roe-deer’s hooves in the snow.
Language but no words.
~ Tomas Transtromer

We are a people driven by words. Words come at us fast and furious from every direction. It is difficult to avoid them. Television. Radio. Email. Newspapers. Voices we want to hear and those that ooze into our conversations from the people who walk the daily path with us. Some we know. Most we don’t. Sometimes it can feel, at least to me, as if we are literally assaulted with words.

I want to be clear. I love words, some more than others. I love how they look on the page, how they sound pouring out of someone’s mouth. I love the way certain words feel in my own mouth…..velvet, charisma, alleluia, Deuteronomy…..to name a few. Words are the vehicle to tell our stories, to name our experiences, to shout our joy and weep our lament. Words are the Sacred’s gift to the human ones, a gift that carries with it immense responsibility.

But there are times when there are too many words. There are situations when there are so many words coming at you that you cease to hear them, to recognize them as language that means anything. In these times, I find that someplace in my brain shuts down and I cannot comprehend what is being said. I am thinking about this because over the last few weeks I have been in more than one situation where this was the case. Word was piled upon word in a way that left many of the deep intentions of those speaking lost to me. While people spoke I knew they meant well, that they believed deeply in what they were saying, but to my over-stimulated ears, their words fell unheard on the floor, puddling at my feet. Has this ever happened to you?

At one point, after a few days of this barrage of words, someone called for a time of silence. It was not a long period of silence at least in a meditation, deep listening kind of way. But that 60 seconds seemed like a gift from heaven to me. More than 1000 people not talking, making no sounds, not forming any words, simply silent. At one point I felt the agitation at this absence of sound for the person sitting beside me. Clearly this lack of words was not experienced for her in the same way I was having it. But when the silence was over and the words began again, I felt as if a balm had come over my whole being. I felt as if I might be able to hear again with new ears.

Silence is a gift. I believe this is true. In the scriptures, there is the story of God’s presence coming in the sound of ‘sheer silence’. In our every day, ordinary lives, silence is indeed golden. We have to work to have it, to allow its blessings to wash over us. Silence is not just for introverts or contemplatives, not just for people of certain generations. Silence can be a gift to the youngest among us helping them to exercise the muscle of deep listening. Silence can be what helps us move into prayer, discernment and be quiet enough to hear God’s movement that is always present. Silence is the gift of the night, the breath of the morning, the air that moves in the spaces of our thoughts and dreams.

May silence bless you this day. May the words that come your way be gentle and few. May the movement of the Spirit greet you without a sound.

Today, June 3rd, is the Feast Day of St. Kevin. St. Kevin captured my heart while I was traveling with a group of pilgrims in Ireland last year. Kevin made his home at Glendalough, a valley nestled into the Wicklow mountains, on the shore of both a crystal lake and babbling stream. He was the leader of a school and monastery that flourished in this place for many years educating priests and teachers, inspiring people to follow in the steps of the Holy.

While walking in his footsteps last year, I was struck with the number of people, young, old and in-between, who continued to flock to this lush, green valley. I assume they were lured there by the stories of this man devoted to presence and patience in what was then a remote place. The story is told of Kevin, a devotee of praying while standing knee-deep in the cold, mountain lake, his arms out-stretched, palms lifted toward the heavens. One day a bird lands in his hand, builds a nest and lays eggs. It is said that Kevin stayed just where he was, praying with arms extended, until the new birds were hatched and flew into their new life. It is a lovely story told in the fantastic way of the Irish.

This morning as I walked in the early part of the day I was very un-Kevin like. While the morning was unfolding before me,my mind was racing ahead to what had not yet been, what might never be. The birds were singing but I was not really listening. The colorful blossoms of an elongated spring were bursting around me but I wasn’t really seeing. My arms may have been outstretched but no bird dared land there for fear of being whipped into a tail-spin. Prayer was more of the shooting star pattern not the deep breath, trusting, knowing gut kind I hope for.

But overhead, high in the sky, the Holy was flapping, trying to get my attention. A honking, musical and lyrical continued its song cutting into the thoughts that gripped me, just outside my consciousness. I shook my head trying to bring myself into the present moment as I tried to walk into the metaphorical cold water as Kevin might have. I stopped. I got my bearings and allowed my head to angle up toward the sky. In the pale light of morning, a huge gaggle of geese flew in perfect formation, their V-shape an arrow cutting through the morning light. Only one lone goose flew outside this geometric shape. I felt my chest clutch as I saw it. Standing on the sidewalk, my head tilted, I urged this solitary bird to find its place. I watched as it seemed to work incredibly hard to fly harder, faster until……it moved perfectly into place. The formation was complete. At least for that one moment.

Whether or not the story of St. Kevin is factual is not important. What is important is that it is true. The gift of St. Kevin to us is the example of what it means to live in the community of all beings. Kevin held his patient prayer long enough for there to be new birth. He stood still making his connection with water, air, earth and heaven. He became ‘home’ for this most fragile of beings and in so doing probably learned more of what it meant to be human.

This morning, on St. Kevin’s Feast Day, I was offered a similar gift by the gathering of high flying geese. Their song woke me up and nudged me to breath deeply of the incredible gifts of this day. Like the lone goose flailing outside the perfect formation, I was folded once again into the gentle rhythm of Creation. It was almost as if St. Kevin himself was standing patiently, waiting and praying.

And to that I say “blessed be.”