“The eye through which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me; my eye and God’s eye are one eye, one seeing, one knowing, one love.” ~Meister Eckhart, 13th century mystic

For many years I was a part of a book club that met monthly at church. It was, by design, a group for women only and over the years we read some amazing books. We read fiction and nonfiction, books that were aimed at teaching lessons, others that carried spiritual wisdom. The books we read were chosen by the group in a mostly random process and yet there always was something to be gleaned from each one. One year, perhaps because of that randomness, we realized every book we had read or were about to read was set during World War II and dealt in some way with the Holocaust. Though the books were wonderful we all agreed that we needed a break from such a steady diet of these difficult stories. Our randomness in following years had us looking more carefully for balance.

Regardless of subject matter or the particular genre, near the end of our time together, I began asking a question that became our way of bringing closure to our reading for that month. “Where was God in this book?”, I would ask. This question also started in a random way. I am not sure I had even thought through asking the question. It just happened. But once it did it became a hallmark of our time together. 

For some reason I thought about that question this week. What I remember about the question and its ensuing conversation was the variety of answers. I also remember that, over time, several of the folks talked about how they ‘looked’ for God as they read, anticipating that the question would be asked. As is always the case, we see the Holy with the only lens we have…ours. 

This week I think the question and the memories of those experiences came to me because I began wondering how people might answer the question, “Where is God in this story?”, this story we are living as we make our way through these days of uncertainty and this virus. This is a chapter in our individual and collective life stories that we didn’t see coming and have no idea of how it will play out. There is so little control we can have over its writing. And for those who think about questions of God, or whatever words might be used to speak of the Something More, all will answer using their own lens. Perhaps it is a question that some will only be able to answer when the chapter is drawing to a close and our stories are moving to some yet to be imagined new chapter. Or for some of us maybe we are, like the women in my book club, keeping watch for the ways the Sacred shows up and dances in the words and pages of the every day. Even in social distancing…and hand washing…in keeping our hands away from our faces…on empty shelves and shortages of this and that. Certainly in the lives of the suffering, the deaths and the grief that surrounds it all.

I know I’ve seen what I know of God in a multitude of ways over the last days. In all those faces of health care workers whose eyes are often only visible to us above masks of protection. Their exhaustion must be overwhelming. In the grocery store staff who try their level best to be upbeat and helpful in ways they had not imagined, which included one of our local checkout ladies who dressed like a butterfly one day just to lift people’s spirits and probably her own. In many of our leaders who continue to keep abreast of information that is coming at them fast and furious as they try to bring facts, compassion and a level head to calm our anxiety. In the dedication of teachers who are learning new ways of teaching so they might continue to serve those students entrusted to their care a few short months ago. And the artists and musicians who have been showing up online and on sidewalks, making art and playing music to remind us of beauty and all that has power to lift us above despair. So many people digging deep to offer a very piece of themselves for each of us and those who suffer. 

And I have not said anything about the crocus blooming purple outside my window or the birds whose songs are creating a choir to stand in for the human choirs that cannot gather right now. And the greening grass now showing itself as tulips push as hard as they can to prove to us once again that life can come from a cold, dark, hard place. 

Where is God in this story? Our story? My story? Your story? We can answer the question as we go along or when we come to a conclusion. Both are equally right and will be given through the lens we use every day. May we be blessed in the seeing and in the telling.

For more than a decade I have experienced and embraced pilgrimage. This has included leading several groups on pilgrimages to Scotland, Ireland,  and Italy, to the sacred island of Iona, the holy sites of Glendalough and Inishmoor, the birthplaces of St. Francis, St. Clare and St. Catherine of Siena. I have walked a part of the pilgrimage path of the Camino de Santiago and been privy to the highs and lows of that ancient pathway. This pursuit of pilgrimage has, over time, shaped my life and my way of seeing the world. It has allowed me to call myself a pilgrim…someone who steps out each day perhaps with a plan but one that can be changed in a moment’s notice depending on the weather, my stamina, what resources are available, who shows up to walk alongside and who can no longer share the journey. While this way of seeing the world is not for everyone, but it has worked for me and I have found seeing our life’s travels with this eye has always had me seeing the presence of the Sacred in the midst.

When my daily work was in the church I loved that my life was governed by the seasons of the church year. Advent, Christmas. Epiphany. Lent. And the very long, season of Ordinary Time. I have always seen Lent as a pilgrimage, as a mirror of Jesus’ own pilgrimage of self discovery in the wilderness. As we are now in the season of Lent, I began these days by picking up again the book by a favorite author Barbara Brown Taylor, Learning to Walk in the Dark. Little did I know how prophetic this title would ring out in the days that have unfolded. Walking in the dark. It is what we are doing, aren’t we? Though the Sun arrives every morning as pure gift our days are drenched in certain inability to see what the next hours or even minutes might offer. As we find ourselves isolated not only from the regular activities of our days but from those we often did those activities with, we are learning to walk in new ways. For some this has brought acts of creativity and making our ways through the lists of things we had put off for another time. Stacks of books have been conquered. Puzzles have been figured out. Closets cleaned. 

But for others these days are not so productive and are shrouded with loneliness and furrowed brows. Our anxiety is a constant companion and we try to stare into our crystal ball to predict an uncertain future.  Brown Taylor writes: “To be human is to live by sunlight and moonlight, with anxiety and delight, admitting limits and transcending them, falling down and rising up.” Depending on the day, we can embrace the negatives of this statement with greater certainty that its positives. And yet each day the balance of anxiety/delight, falling/rising is held out to us, hoping not for limits but transcendence.  To allow ourselves to feel what we feel and to be okay with that is also a gift. How we dig deep to tip the balance in the favor of creativity, transcendence and light is perhaps our life’s work right now. 

When viewed through the lens of pilgrimage words by poet Pablo Machado has been a mantra for me. Truth be told it has been a mantra for many months. “There is no path. The path is made by walking.” And walking is what I have been doing. Each day what is not forbidden is walking outside in the fresh air, being present to the spring that is itchy to appear. I can feel it, can you? While I know walking outside might not be available to everyone, I am reminded of the days I spent on the Camino when each day we dedicated our walking to someone and held them in prayer as we walked. Arriving at chapels along the way, we lit candles to hold our prayer in light. A good practice for the days. A good practice right now.

This time in which we find ourselves is a pilgrimage path we did not choose. Of course, this happens all the time in our sunlit, moonlit lives. Illness arrives. Death surprises. Relationships end. Jobs are lost. There is no map for these paths. It becomes a path we make by walking. 

If we are lucky…or blessed…we witness the face of the Holy along the way. As companion. As faithful companion. And light is shed on a path that seemed dark only a moment before. May it be so.

I have not written in these pages for some time. There are many reasons for this on which I may elaborate at some time in the future. But over the last few days I have been drawn back to this place I named “Pause” over a decade ago. It seems these days we are living are bringing their own pause, a stopping point none of us anticipated or planned to take. A pause that is filled with a tapestry of emotion and much anxiety. A pause that has many in a heightened state of fear and feelings so raw that sometimes we hardly know what to do with ourselves. Listening to the news and the rapid fire changing landscape that swirls around us provides what we feel is the information that we need. At the same time, taking all this in can have us walking in circles trying to figure out what we should do next, worrying for our future health or that of those we love or have never met, watching well laid financial plans roller coaster up and down. It is unnerving and perplexing to feel so out of control. It is as if the very air around us is pulsing with an uncontrollable energy…an energy that threatens to overwhelm us.

During all this, for some reason, I have kept thinking of the times when our sons would be in a state of frustration or anger that led to what might be called a temper tantrum. I can honestly say this did not happen very often but when it did I always felt as if I wanted to do something…anything…that would make them stop. Their tears, their hurt, their behavior was so painful to watch. The first time it happened I remember allowing my own frustration to rise with theirs as I tried everything I could think of to stop their crying or halt their tiny fists from pounding. I learned quickly that my entering into their frustration and anger only seemed to escalate what was happening. Over time I realized that the best way to help them and to keep my own heart from breaking as I watched them work out whatever it was they needed to do was to simply sit quietly and hold space for them, making sure they were safe and knew they were loved, allowing them to take control of their own emotions, their own frustrations and come to their own peace.

These memories have brought me a certain calm over the last days. I have asked myself what good it will do if I enter into the anxiety of the moment, whipping myself into a frenzy. There are so many elements of this global crisis and I have no control over any of them. What I do have control over is my own emotion, my own reactions, and the energy I put into the world. What I can do is hold the space. I can breathe deeply and send that breath into the world. What I can do is call people and offer kindness. I can walk outside and notice the change of seasons that is arriving without knowledge of the whirlwind we are experiencing. I can listen for the geese making their homing call as they return and watch for the early push of green from the earth. I can smell the earth returning to itself.

During these times which we continue to call unprecedented,  we each will find our role to play. Many people are working countless hours to mend what has been broken, to heal what needs to be healed, to right the ship of our world. For this I am thankful beyond words. Some have chosen the role of hand wringing and hoarding. Perhaps it will always be so. Others are using their gifts for caring and compassion, for offering what they can to be of help. The truth of it is that we are all in this together and at times our role may be to simply hold the space, quietly, deeply, bringing calm as best we can. 

The poet Pablo Neruda says this: 

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still

for once on the face of the earth,

let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for a second,

and not move our arms so much…

…Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.