“……..You know, I must remember,
until my last breath goes out
to ask. To try, every time, one last time

that it’s just a door or a step
or a whole short life to get there.”…….
~ David Whyte

The past several days have been a whirlwind of trying to re-enter my real, every day life after being in another rhythm, the rhythm of travel. This living out of a suitcase has its merits. Things become very simple when you have only a few pieces of clothing and all your worldly possession fit into a small, compact container. Re-entry requires dealing with all the other stuff, literal and figurative, that are the on-the-ground, not-traveling life. I am fully aware that both states are pure gift.

Returning to the work I do in helping plan worship I have found that the scriptures we are exploring come from the book of Job. Never light reading! And I have also been privileged to be working on a day long event with poet, author and leadership consultant David Whyte which will happen next week. So, I have been reading his work again which led me to these few lines from his poem titled ‘September 2001’. The poem is an account of arriving in an airport hotel in what I imagine are the days after the September 11 attacks. He finds himself surrounded, as most airport hotels are, with concrete and parking lots for as far as the eye can see. He is searching for a place that is green, a place where he can get some respite from the travel and the asphalt. When he asks the hotel reception clerks about such a place they quickly say there is no such area near by. But another person overhears and breaks in to tell him of a preserve he can get to.

Reading this poem I was once again reminded of how the natural world, Creation, was a balm for me in the days of confusion, questions and fear that lingered over us all in September 2001. But what struck me most about the poem is his imploring to the reader to ask for what they need, to step out of the rhythm of life and to put themselves in the care of others. This was a gift that I found in my recent travel experiences.

So often I walk through the world just trying to figure things out on my own. I am determined to always appear as if I know what I am doing. Even in places that are unfamiliar I move ahead, often not looking side to side, as if I know the path or the hidden gems I most often walk by. I assume it is some quirk about not wanting to appear without confidence, wanting to believe myself knowledgable. But doing this often causes me to miss out on some amazing opportunities.

And so on this recent journey I had decided before hand that I was going to ask more questions, risk appearing like a tourist, place myself in all the vulnerability being in a foreign place can offer. What happened was amazing and led to real conversations with people who were so happy to share their lives, their ideas. It resulted in going to places that had not made it to the itinerary and the discovery of both beauty and the ordinary. Many led to the moments of heaven that are interlaced within each and every blessed day. When we are awake. When we ask the questions.

Are you looking for some moments laced with heaven? Perhaps they are just a question away.

“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned,
so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.”

~Joseph Campbell

While I was away, autumn came and went. I knew it would be so but the fact of it still surprised and saddened me. Spending nearly three weeks away from the familiar landscapes called home, one should expect to see changes when you return. What I realized is that I did not see the majority of the trees burst into golds and reds and oranges. I came home to bare branches and mounds of brown littering the ground. The ravine near my house, the one I watch as it goes from fullness of summer life to the brilliance of autumn splendor, is now a nest of naked branches reaching heavenward. Only a few oak trees hold onto the now fading red of their fall fashion.

These last few days I have been wrestling with the jet lag that comes from flying six hours out of one day and into the same one that has not yet arrived. This is something that messes with the body, the mind and the spirit. I find myself hungry at the oddest times and yet, when I do the math, realize that it is breakfast or lunch or supper time in Ireland. And so to be in this already altered state and to have missed autumn is a double whammy.

This morning as I opened the door to allow the Big Black Dog his first romp of the day, the smell of winter lingered in the air. I have to admit it was a pleasant scent….one that already conjured up the opportunity for big bowls of soup and a good book read near the fire. I tried not to think about the colors I missed and the rhythm that has been interrupted.

Yesterday I sat near one of Minnesota’s many lakes eating my lunch. Chili. I watched as runners and bikers and walkers moved quickly in the cool afternoon air. At one point my eyes were attracted ahead of me to a movement that was beautiful and welcomed. The wind had picked up and caught the leaves of one of the trees still holding onto the life of summer. Slowly they fell, without a sound, swaying in the breeze of this day, this autumn day until they slept on the ground below. Their act of letting go, letting go and falling, caught something deep in my chest.

This is the gift of autumn. This reminder of the letting go of the life that has been to make room for the resting and the waiting of what is yet to be is what this season offers. It seems I had perhaps not missed autumn after all. The message was still present and willing to wake me up, to ask its yearly question: What must be let go? What beautiful or terrible thing must slip out of my grasp, or the grasp of this world, so something new can come into being?

Sitting in my office, looking out at the enormous oak tree which continues to offer its wisdom to me season after season, I can see the brown, dead and dying leaves holding on and holding out for the next mighty wind to bring about a letting go moment. I will watch until this beautiful, twisted beacon is bare. I will watch as the snow flakes fall. I will watch as the buds burst open with green once again.

This is the wisdom of Creation. This is the gift of the changing seasons. This is the invitation of letting go and trusting what is yet to be.

It would be safe to say that in my nearly three weeks in Ireland I have heard some mighty stories. Most of these stories have not been told by museum guides or tour leaders. They have instead been told by regular folk that have served me food or given directions. Hoping not to generalize about the Irish but it has been my experience that those I have met jump right into telling their story, their life story, in a fullness I have never been privy to before. They have done so with great detail and a genuine openness that has messed a bit with my Minnesota reserve. All in all, I have found it refreshing and a blessing.

I have also heard some amazing stories of faith, of people now called saints, who traveled to some of the most remote landscape I have ever seen in order to live a life closer to God. Following the model of the desert fathers and mothers, these women and men created communities that continued to shape and give new life to the faith stories of Jesus. I have loved imagining what their lives must have been like and have been humbled by their commitment to live lives of obedience and prayer.

But I have to admit that I have been most drawn to the story of St. Kevin, a saint I must admit to knowing nothing about until a few days ago. St. Kevin settled on a little outcropping overlooking a valley called Glendalough in the Wicklow Mountains in western Ireland. There he helped build a monastery and several dwellings that became one of the largest religious communities in Ireland. The story is told that St. Kevin always stood when he prayed, his arms held out from his sides and his palms lifted upward toward heaven. He often did this while standing in the freezing cold waters of the mountain lake.

One day while he was standing there praying, a bird began to build a nest in his outstretched hand. St. Kevin kept on praying. He did so until the nest was built. So as not to disturb the bird’s new home, St. Kevin stayed put, praying. The bird then laid eggs in the nest. It is said that St. Kevin continued to stand in the cold water, arms outstretched,praying, until the baby birds were born and took flight.

It’s a wonderful story, isn’t it? Of course, like all good stories about holy people, it can leave us scratching our heads and wondering at the fact of it. Also like all good stories about holy people, the facts of the tale are not as important as the truth of it. The truth of the story is that St. Kevin had the patience to stand still while something was being born in his presence. He had the good sense and faith to know that he was witness to the miracle of new life. Over time those who had known St. Kevin must have seen in him a prayer life that was gracious and never ending so to have continued to tell this story over and over again made all the sense in the world.

As I leave this country that has given me such riches, I think the story that I will most treasure is this one of St. Kevin. In these times in which we find ourselves, it is my hope that, like St. Kevin, I will not shy away from prayer that takes me to the places of discomfort. My deepest desire is that we all can be present to what might actually be coming to birth through those places that seem most desolate and remote in our daily life and in our world. And in all the places where nests might have the slightest opportunity to be built, that patience can prevail while the new life comes into being.

Outside the path that leads to what is believed to have been St. Kevin’s mountain cell, a sculpture stands watch over the lake, watching and waiting for what is yet to be.The trees stand all around, arms outstretched toward heaven. Praying.

“Look!
I beg you.
Don’t ever stop looking
because what makes the world so lovely
is that somewhere it hides a well,
a well that hasn’t been found yet.
And if you don’t find it,
maybe nobody will.”
~Macrina Wiederkehr

A few days ago I came across this poem that really implores the reader to keep eyes open. I jotted it down so I wouldn’t forget it. While in my normal daily life there are few literal wells to be found, I am walking in the land of many wells. Wells that carry the name of the saint who is believed to have stood at the lip of a body of water and by their blessing and the hopes and faith of those who came to also stand with them, the wells were believed to be sacred. They are wells that still can be seen scattered throughout the countryside. Sometimes there is a formal sign that points the way but other times it is a scavenger hunt to find them tucked away in farmland or just on the other side of a stone wall.

Holy wells were a part of the ancient Celtic spiritual life. People gathered round them for the obvious gift of water but over time they were believed to have powers beyond the act of quenching thirst. When the Christian church began to take on a greater structure and those who sought to conquer,or at least influence, these people who knew the Holy in land and sea,the building of churches often happened directly over the well that had been important to their practice of faith. This well was often found just beneath what became the altar of the church. There is much to be thought of in such an act of trying to absorb what people have held sacred and make it become something for another purpose.

But here in Ireland the holy wells can be still be found. More importantly the evidence of them still being places of importance to some group of people can be seen. While traveling with our band of pilgrims we visited St. Brigid’s Well. Tucked behind a stone wall at another more well visited site, we had to do some sleuthing to find it. But once we knew its whereabouts we were able to walk quietly to the waters that had once drawn other pilgrims to stand and pray. Nestled in the branches above the well hung small pieces of white fabric or tissue, a practice that has continued through centuries of offering prayers and then marking the place.

St. Brendan’s Well was not such an easy find. We drove high over the moors of Valentia Island, down paved and winding roads until the pavement faded away into tracks made muddy and uncertain. There had been an official-looking sign which began our search but after several miles the search seemed futile. Then we saw a sign tipped over and falling to the base of a post. Parking the car and heading over the muddy ground we carefully placed our feet where we could trying not to sink into the now boggy soil. Avoiding all manner of animal evidence along the path we finally saw a stone structure rising out of the ground. Walking closer we saw that others had made this long trek before us and had left mementoes to give visibility to their prayers.The spirit of St. Brendan who was believed to have sailed the seas even as far as North America to tell the story of the Good News had been remembered at this site for who knows how long. Keeping the practice of circling a holy well three times and offering prayers I walked with muddy feet saying the name of one of our dear ones at home who is facing surgery.

Who knows what all this can mean? I only know that if countless pilgrims have done this before me, who am I to turn my back on such an opportunity? Somewhere the world hides a well and sometimes we are blessed to find it.

“A further sign of health is that we don’t become undone by fear and trembling, but we take it as a message that it’s time to stop struggling and look directly at what’s threatening us. ”
~Pema Chodron, The Places That Scare Us

Every now and then it might actually be good for the soul to do something that scares the day lights out of you.My sense is that choosing to do a frightening thing might make it easier to deal with the experiences that come along that you have no control over, experiences that leave you shaking in your boots. Somehow when the choice is ours to tread on such ground the task becomes something powerful and has the ability to inform the other roads less taken.

Today I fulfilled a kind of bucket list wish. I climbed to the top of an amazing rock fortress that climbs out of the Atlantic just off the southwest coast of Ireland. The place is called Skellig Michael and was a fortress and place of prayer for monks from sometime between the 6th – 8th century until the 12th century. The domed stone huts shaped like beehives still sit at the top of this amazing volcanic rock. Pilgrims have traveled to this place for centuries braving wild seas and treacherous climbs. Today my husband and I were among them.

We left early along with eight others from several countries on a small fishing boat. The morning was overcast and the temperature cool. Climbing onto the boat I was stuck by the fact that, unlike what may have been a standard practice in the US to tell those on the boat about safety, we simply headed out to sea. I scoped out where I thought the life jackets might be and hoped they indeed were. The sea was mighty and the salty water sprayed us all the way out to our destination. Rolling this way and that I stood my ground though a small fear lived at the pit of my stomach.

When we arrived at Skellig Michael, we all climbed out onto the slick, rocky steps that would begin our long journey upward. The waves crashed against the boat and sent it to and fro near the rocks. Looking out in the frothing water, two seals looked back at me. I took it as a blessing and began the trek up the rock path. At first this walk was easy with stone walls and chain links giving a sense of perceived safety. But soon the stairs became uneven and curved in and out in a circuitous pattern. The wind whipped around our bodies and I dared not look down for fear of either losing my balance or not having the courage to go on. At one point I sat down and allowed the others to go ahead. I needed to get my grip. Finally I turned and crawled a few steps on my hands and knees until the wind subsided and I felt I could continue on.

Reaching the top I stood with the others in this amazing settlement of stone dwellings. Crawling inside you got the sense of what it might have been like to live here, atop this mountain of rock jutting out of the ocean. The silence enfolded you in a peaceful blanket. I received a glimpse of what it might have been like to have created a life of prayer here.

And it was prayer I needed on the way down. Several times the trajectory was too much for me and I had to sit and scoot down the steps. I thought of the wisdom of the sheep I have observed over the last days who hug the inside edge of the cliffs on which they graze and mirrored their example. My fear was held at bay by singing quietly to myself so I would not look too far ahead and would stay in the present moment. Perhaps the monks had done the same.

I am sure it will take some time before I can process the depth of this experience. But I am completely sure of the humility it engendered in me. To be in a place that so embodies the power of the earth is humbling and has the gift of putting the human in our rightful place. To come face to face with fear and to come out on the other side reminds me that in the scriptures the word for ‘fear’ and ‘awe’ are often the same.

Today I know this in my body.

It is a fact. As humans we are a tribal species. When separated from the tribe we know we form a community with those with whom we find ourselves. And so it has been as our band of thirty-six pilgrims have traveled through Ireland together. Just ten days ago and yet what seems like a lifetime of experiences, we left the familiar and came together with excitement, trepidation, anticipation and, for some, downright anxiety. There were those who were old friends, who had known one another through years of common experience. There were couples who had traveled with one another and know the other’s little quirks and eccentricities. There were those who were a stranger to many and at least one or two who were only really acquainted with one other person.

And yet now we find ourselves in that lovely state that happens when people have a common, rich experience. We have formed a temporary tribe that has been our pilgrimage experience. There are those who have come to make new friends and those who have renewed relationships that had meaning in another time in their lives. We have shared the exquisite beauty of the Irish landscape together and looked for the face of God. Most often we have seen it in the face looking back at ours. Memories have been made, photos have been taken, gifts have been purchased, laughter has has been shared. And prayers have been spoken, prayer after prayer after prayer.

Today we will visit our final abbey church, one dedicated to St Brigid. St Brigid whose gifts of hospitality and hearth, a love of home and animals, whose sign is fire, will be our final stop as pilgrims on this leg of life’s journey. We began as individuals, immigrants from our respective tribes and will be welcomed as a tribe by the spirit of St.Brigid.

Over these days we have visited many monastic sites. These communities built to welcome and house the faithful were places where tribes were formed, named and sent to tell the good news of God and to offer the invitation of the Way of Jesus. Over hundreds of years they have been places where strangers have arrived at doors not knowing what the next day or the next moment might bring. They have met people they were drawn to and been put off by those who did not fit their view of the world. Some stayed and made the place home and others ran away as fast as humanly possible. Those who stayed became a part of the tribe that etched their lives into the stone and peat, in the very landscape itself.

And tomorrow this pilgrim band who have shared so much will depart and head back to the tribes that await them. Stories will be told and photos will pass from hand to hand. We will try to breathe life into our telling. But we will at some point realize that what we have known cannot be heard with a full knowing by those who were not a part of this traveling community, which is alright. Because when we want the stories to be fully heard we will return to the tribe that gave birth to them. They will most certainly understand.

Blessed be.

It seems that sometimes we walk a path acutely aware of those who have passed this way before. Those of us who have lost a loved one will move into a room and some smell, some sense within the room reminds us of that one who was once quite visible at our side. A certain food that arrives on our plate can stir the memory of the one who so enjoyed it. For me it is pie. My father was a lover of pie and I never eat it without thinking of the sweet spirit that he was and I enjoy the eating even more because I feel as if I am sharing it with him.

Our days here in Ireland have been filled with knowing that we walk among the saints of those who have gone on before. To walk land whose memory is so long, so deep is a powerful and humbling experience. To place one foot in front of the other on ground that has been toiled and built for the purpose of continuing a faith story older than Christianity, places a person on hallowed soil and in a place between times. I have felt this over and over……as if I was suspended between the visible and invisible worlds.

Of course, the Celts called this experience a thin place. A thin place is a one in which heaven and earth are so near you can almost touch them. It is the experience of knowing, a deep knowing, that we walk among those who have gone before and those who are yet to be. To experience a thin place takes a certain presence to the here and now. It takes a certain letting go of all the little details and whirligigs that most days are the food of our thoughts.

In his book The Art of Pilgrimage, Phil Cousineau offers these words of the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke:” Suddenly one has the right eyes.” And so it has been. For many of these pilgrims with whom I have been traveling, there have been many experiences of ‘right eyes’. Some are aware of it in this moment and others will know it upon on their return. When the dust settles and the bags are unpacked, they will have a feeling, a sense that will come over them and they will remember. A valley. A mountain. A gravestone. A church. A face. A smell. And the veil between heaven and earth will seem permeable.

An impression I have had over and over is how the Irish people live with this sense of the depth of time all along. Perhaps it is because they can look out a window or walk down most roads and see the past so firmly planted in the landscape around them. They can speak the name of St. Kieran or St. Patrick or St. Brigid as if they were a distant relative they simply haven’t seen since the last holiday. Speaking the name of one of these ancients is often included in the greeting of hello. Over the days here I have come to wonder if this connection to all those that have gone before leads to their unceasingly pleasant outlook and happy spirits.

We have now arrived in Glendalough, the place of the two lakes. It has long been a place where pilgrims have traveled to visit the monastery of St. Kevin. Last night after we arrived I walked a few short feet from our lovely, old hotel which is situated next to one of the clearest streams of water I have ever seen, over to the cemetery and ruins that we will visit and learn of today. Moving through the green grass and towering trees I breathed in the clear air of the Wicklow mountains. The mist was just beginning to move in to settle over the valley where, for a few days, we will make our home. I moved from stone to stone reading the names of those remembered by family and now by those who never knew them. Saying their names softly under my breath I was suspended on the Great Breath and knew I was not alone.

The question on my mind today? What makes something sacred? As we have walked among this varied landscape I have had a deep sense of the sacredness of the water, the mountains, the rocks, the ever changing and fickle wind. This experience has been mine and I am not sure is shared by all those who walk by my side, at least not in the same way in which I mean it. So, what does make a place, a person, an experience sacred?

Today we stopped along the road near the shore of a lake for our morning worship. There was not a person in sight except for our merry band of pilgrims. The large white coach pulled over on the side of the narrow road which had twisted and turned like a slithering snake through bog land piled high with peat until it flowed into a pathway between mountains. Standing in a circle along the side of the lake, hoping beyond hope that the rain we saw in the distance would not begin to show itself, we began our morning prayer with song, scripture and poetry. All the words pointed to standing on holy ground. And I believe we all felt we were. Surrounded by such stark beauty our words gave meaning to the experience of the landscape itself. “Truly God is in this place.” we spoke like Moses.

As we finished our worship words and took a few minutes to move around the boggy ground holding our own thoughts, I noticed six stones lying in a small grouping. I walked over to the stones and piled one on top of the other to form a cairn. This rock formation is meant to say: something sacred happened here. Take notice.

Leaving this place we moved on down the road to Kylemore Abbey. This incredible castle built by Mitchell Henry for his beloved wife Margaret is a remarkable structure nestled in an equally remarkable place. This beautiful home which housed a family of eleven and numerous staff is nestled on a lake surrounded by heather covered mountains reaching into the heavens. After his wife’s untimely death, Henry then built a small chapel in her memory, a chapel not adorned by the usual stern looking gargoyles but sweet-faced angels. Its simplicity holds even the deepest prayers. All around this beautiful estate are the most well cared for gardens full of not only flowers but fruit trees and herbs, all originally planted to provide welcoming food for the guests of the family.

When the Henry family left this place it was taken over by Benedictine sisters who first created a school for girls from both the area and from far flung places, sent to this amazing setting for an education that would serve them in their life. The school no longer exists but the nuns live on and maintain it as a place of welcome and hospitality, a place of solace and meditation. It was our blessing yesterday to allow this landscape to wash over us and to hold us in the glory of an autumn day. Walking through the grounds I felt any stresses I may have been carrying melt away. I felt my breathing deepen and my rhythm remember its Source. I felt connected to all those who had walked these paths before me.

So, what makes a place sacred? Yesterday as I walked this landscape, as we worshiped beside the still waters of a mountain lake, I came to the understanding that it is love that makes a place sacred. Over time people have tried to write creeds and rules for naming a place as holy but that is really in vain. What makes a place sacred is the love by which relationships, with humans, with the earth, are nurtured. It is in this love that we come to know the greater Love that moves in all that, even the tiniest gesture or the grandest expression. Most of us will never build a castle for those we love but most of us try to make a castle of the homes we have. In the welcoming of people, whether schools of young women or the stranger that shows up at our door, if done in love, these guests walk into sacred spaces and make them more so by their presence. When we look out with love at the landscapes that make up our view of the world every day, our walk in the world becomes sacred.

Today may we all walk on sacred ground.

Today has been about attention to the path. As we took the ferry to the Aran Islands from our temporary home in Galway, I thought of those who traveled the path over the rough and treacherous seas to get to this land of rock walls. Standing on the upper deck of this large boat as we tossed to and fro, as our stomachs pitched with the will of the water, I tried to imagine what it was like to ride these waves in tiny boats made of wood and pitch, boats that held the worldly belongings of monks and marauders, farmers and fishermen. The crossing must have been important enough to risk life and limb to settle on this strikingly beautiful island yet stark island.The life there must have been worth it as they carried sand and seaweed to create the soil that created the food they would eat to sustain their lives and the faith they carried with them. It was a path that created awe and humility in me.

Walking up the rocky and steep path to Dun Aongus, a fortress of rock upon rock, piled to astonishing heights by people more than 3000 years ago, I wondered at the feet that had trod this path. Both human and animals have worked this land, calling it home, in conditions that seem nearly impossible to endure. At the same time I am sure they were drawn to it as we were, for its sheer beauty, and the sense that you are standing in a place so holy that you are being suspended in a time between time, a time held by the One who breathed us all into being. Stone, grass, mud, animal droppings, the sign of other footprints marked the path that held our feet. With each step we added to the history of the place.

Atop the cliff, at its highest point archeologists have discovered the shapes of seven dwellings. In between two of the dwellings was a large, round flat stone, hollowed out to hold water heated by the gift of the sun and other hot stones to cook food. These were people who knew what it meant to depend on one another, to live closely, to look out and see the expanse of the shining sea, to look up and see the heavens shining back at them. To live in this close proximity meant to depend, protect and care for one another as they carved out a life.

On the path down I watched as those in our group walked before me. Hands reached out to steady teetering bodies. Instructions for a better perhaps safer way for the next step were offered. Some stopped along the path to rest with another. Step by step we made our way down the steep path mirroring the care, dependence and protection that must have happened for thousands of years in this very place.

To live on an island means knowing you are all in it together. Today we may have learned that to be on pilgrimage also means knowing you are all it in together. Step after blessed step.

As we ended our day today some of us shared the words of Jan Richardson as we reflected on the path of this day:
That each step
may be a shedding.
That you will let yourself
become lost.
That when it looks
like you are going backwards,
you may be making progress.
That progress is not the goal anyway,
but presence
to the feel of the path on your skin,
to the way it reshaped you
in each place it makes contact,
to the way you cannot see it
until the moment you have stepped out.

Today was all those things.

Sometimes we stand at the edge of the world. I believe everyone has this experience now and then. You are going along doing your every day, normal, run of the mill tasks and something happens that has you standing at a precipice that takes your breath away. Sometimes it is an illness or a loss. Other times it is the act of falling in love with a person or a job or the prospect of a newness you had not dreamed of until it confronts you face to face.

Today those of us on a journey to Ireland stood at the edge of the world. Looking out over the Cliffs of Moher on a bright and beautiful day certainly took my breath away. Looking at these limestone formations in all their dramatic splendor sent a chill of danger and awe throughout my body. It is difficult to look at such a sight of Creation and not imagine the many lives that have been lost over the centuries on these very stones. It is equally difficult to imagine the all the others, just like me, who have stood at the altar of such a miraculous and awe inspiring sight.

Around us were people from all around the world. I listened to German, Polish, Italian and various accents of English being spoken, all trying to find the words for their experience of such a place. Watching people line up for a photo with these accordion pleated walls as the backdrop made me smile. Something about being human also means saying: “I was here. I saw this amazing sight!”

Just a few miles down the road from the cliffs is an area of Ireland known as the Burren. This landscape of barren rock formations pushing through earth and creating a backdrop of solid, gray multi-layered truly resonated with some of our group. People walked with great care and some trepidation over this rocky ground that tilted and gave way without notice. It was as if the cliffs we had just seen went underground and pushed their way upward to create a new and different place altogether.

What to make of these two varied slices of the same small island? There is of course the explanations of glaciers and shifting plates, all things I have a healthy, sixth grade science understanding and respect of. But as one who is looking for the Divine in this journey I saw the majesty of a Creator who can tell a whopper of a big story. I also saw the fragility of stone that has over time become worn and in need of protection. Looking at the barrenness of the moonscape called the Burren I saw a Sacred strength that digs in and will not let go while all the time opening itself to tiny plants that find ways to grow in the most unlikely of places. Even in this slice of earth that makes you squint to see the Life Force, there it is waiting to be discovered. If you take the time to stand still and be present to the miracle which is as near as your beating heart.

We began our worship together standing in the presence of these ancient stone formations by saying the more than 3000 year old words of the psalmist: The voice of God sounds in the seas, echoing over the oceans. The powerful voice of God is heard in all its splendor and majesty.

And so it is.