“There are nights that are so still
that I can hear the small owl calling
far off and a fox barking
miles away. It is then that I lie
in the lean hours awake and listening
to the swell born somewhere in the Atlantic
rising and falling, rising and falling
wave upon wave on the long shore
by the village, that is without light
and companionless. And the thought comes
of that other being who is awake, too,
letting our prayers break on him,
not like this for a few hours,
but for days, years, for eternity.”
~R.S. Thomas, 1913-2000

Perhaps it is these heat-heavy days and nights that caused me to choose this poem to begin our worship this past Sunday. The images within it remind of some of these summer nights when, fans whirling by my bed like an airplane before take-off, I open my eyes and feel the night around me. Most times I am able to go quickly back to sleep. But there are times when thoughts come and hang in the warm air that will become the next morning.

I may have shared this poem before in this space. It is one I happen upon now and then and remember how much I love it. While I believe the poet is speaking about his relationship with the Holy which I share, it always reminds me of my childhood imaginings of the people that live on the other side of the world. Maybe all children ‘live’ in the small world of their own home, their own neighborhoods, families, town or city. By that I mean that their, our, image of what life is does not travel far from what they can see and hear at the moment. I say ‘our’ because I believe mostly we all live this way, regardless of age, with the lens of what the world is like firmly focused on the world in which we presently find ourselves. In our early days as a species it is what kept us safe and on-going. In some places in the world, perhaps not too far from your own home, this is still the case.

But it is the luxury of those who know safety to imagine what the world outside their own view is like. As a child I spent waking and nearly-sleeping hours wondering about places I had never been before, places across oceans and in countries where faces looked different than my own, where sounds and rhythms of the day did not match my simple comings and goings. Some of these places I have now been blessed to visit, others will probably only ever exist in my imagination or what I can can cobble together through books and other media.

What appeals to me about this poem is thinking of other people awake in the night praying. I imagine this mist of prayer rising from the bedsides of all those in house and hut, under stars and on beaches, in high rises and country side, laying awake while offering prayers. Prayers not only for those whose lives are like their own but also for those they also can only imagine. I can see this mist rising to create a cloud that hovers over us all. Prayers of protection and comfort. Prayers of gratitude and celebration. Prayers to soothe a mother’s aching heart and give courage and hope to a father’s worries. Prayers to heal the earth and honor all those who journey with us. Two-leggeds. Four-leggeds. Those who fly and swim. Those who slither and crawl. All held in a cloud of prayers offered by those we know and those we will never meet.

It is a comforting thought to me. And an image that makes falling asleep in the summer heat not only bearable but blessedly joyful.

“I often use the word “joy” when describing fireworks. It is a considered word, deliberate in choice. Not just amusement, entertainment, astonishment, but joy. Our art makes us all into children again for a while. We become one in our experience for the moment; lost in the sound and color and light. We see large forces, stronger than we could ever be, yet beautiful in their effects. Sometimes violent, sometimes restrained. Delicate beyond imagination at times, coarse and rude at others.”
-Bill Withrow

On the Fourth of July, I, like the majority of people stood in rapt attention as fireworks burst into the sky above. I have to admit that I am a great lover of fireworks. They make me laugh uncontrollably. The sheer over-the-top nature of them just seems to go someplace within me that can only respond in laughter. I also have to admit that that laughter sometimes even turns to tears. Tears of joy. Those who know me well would not be surprised by this but it might seem quite odd to others.

This past Fourth as I watched and laughed, I actually began to think about why I have this reaction. There is, of course, their beauty. The brilliant reds, blues, shocking whites and gaudy greens. Then I thought about how each colorful explosion seems destined to out shine the shower that preceded it. There are also the silly sounds…the booms, crackles, hisses and what can only be described as a ‘swirly’ sound that accompanies the ones that look like giant noodles plummeting toward the earth. While the sounds might be big and loud, they also have a certain playfulness about them.

Fireworks are also fleeting. It was this overall reaction on which I settled. Fireworks speak to the in-the-moment kind of extravagance that can fill you with joy. They light up the sky and then fall to earth in a matter of moments. To spend such resources on this fleeting enjoyment seems decadent, something only the wealthy can indulge in. In many ways this kind of expenditure would often set me on my high horses but I am so glad I simply don’t go there. I just allow the creativity of people who know how to make these explosives and design their interactions to give me the gift of this momentary joy.

Thinking about that fleetingness,I was reminded of all the other things that have such a short life. While these things don’t make me laugh out loud, I am aware of how quickly they pass by, burn out, disappear. To think that I don’t stop and pay attention to them with the fullness I do with fireworks made me wonder what I am missing.

Things like the purple thistles in my backyard about to mimic the firework display. Soon this national flower of Scotland growing will loose its luster and go to seed, gone out of our sight. And what about the fleeting nature of the children we know who are becoming adults before our eyes, losing the sweetness of innocence as we all must do. What have I missed by not looking into their eyes with greater intention. And then there was this morning’s sunrise and its shadow partner sunset. Why did I not get up from where I was and be a witness to both. And of course there is this moment, this hour, this breath, this day. All fleeting, all here one minute and gone in the next.

Gathering at the fireworks as we did, to stand with others to ooh and ahh at the sky show, I thought of the sky show available to me each night. Stars and satellites. Moon and Milky Way. Light years away yet visible if I stand still and watch. Never the same as the night before or the night to come. Fleeting.

This life, this precious, fleeting life, is ours to observe, witness, watch and live. If we take the time, we can be astounded and filled with awe. And if we are lucky we just might laugh until our whole face lights up the sky.

“Later, after I had been on many different farms and met many different farmers, I had to concede this point. A farm is a form of expression, a physical manifestation of the inner life of its farmers. The farm will reveal who you are, whether you like it or not. That’s art.”
~Kristin Kimball, The Dirty Life: A Memoir of Farming, Food, and Love

A week ago I spent six hours driving through the farm country of Wisconsin. In fact my travel time equaled twice that much but it was the first six hours that continue to stay with me. Leaving home not long after the sun had come up, I headed east into its continual rising. The fields unfolded upon themselves like a crazy quilt of the many shades of green. Deep forest green. Lime green. Soft, sweet-pea green. Emerald green. A fanciful yellow green. All moving and dancing in the morning mist as it rose off the warm fields.

Nestled in this blanket of green were the many barns and houses that call this palette home. Red barns and white ones. Those in perfect condition and those bent and breaking from years of work and neglect. Many houses looked idyllic and others wore faces of sadness and loss. Dotting the spaces between fields and structures were cattle, bison, horses and sheep, each adding another dash of color to an already vivid painting.

For six hours I drove in almost complete silence with Seattle Son sleeping in the seat next to me. Normally I would have had the radio on, would have needed some other sound to keep my attention on the task at hand which was to drive safely and arrive in Rockford, Illinois where I would meet up with my mother. For some years this has acted as the half way point between here and Ohio, her home, and the beginning of a little Minnesota vacation for her.

But something about this particular morning held me in a nearly mystical state. The unfolding beauty and the promise of fields in various states of growth seemed to pull me into them. I drove, drinking in the color, the possibility, the ways in which each farm oozed smoothly into the next, much like a watercolor artist allows the moisture of the brush to blur the hard edges that can define field and building, animal and landscape. I drove allowing the gift of this beauty to wash over me, feeling as if I was enfolded in one amazing hymn of praise for creation.

Over the last week I have been reading the book The Dirty Life by Kristin Kimball. This memoir chronicles the author’s movement from life as a city dweller to the life of farming. It is not a particularly romantic story but one of hard work and immense commitment to connect to the land which brings us food. Since I can tend to have a certain soft-heartedness about farming and farmers it was a good reminder of the difficult and wearying work others do on my behalf, so I may live. From reading this book I know I could never be a true farmer, at least one who must deal with animals and the butchering of them. I do not have the stamina nor the stomach for it. I might be able to grow the vegetables but could never wield a knife the way Kimball learns to do!

But these particular words from her book which I have printed above struck me as a part of what I experienced on my early morning drive. The art that was revealed to me as I drove through the Wisconsin countryside told me much about the artists whose homes were a part of the painting they awoke in each day. I imagined their lives and wondered. Do they think of themselves as artists? Do they know that there are people driving by as I was who see a beauty in their lives which they may have ceased to see through the sweat and toil? Do they look out over all they’ve planted and see not only the resources that will feed their families but also something that reveals their deeper lives, their deep connection with their creativity and their Creator?

I pray so. Because for one morning in July I drove and experienced true worship. For that and the beauty, I am so very grateful.

“This being human is a guest house.
Every morning is a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all.
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.”
~Rumi

We began our worship with these words this morning. They are powerful ones, challenging ones. Yet also words filled with such grace. Though I thought I may have used this poem of Rumi before, clearly, people today heard them in new ways, ways that connected with them right where they are living now. I knew this to be true because so many asked for copies so they can spend time with them.

What might it mean to be a guest house? I have reflected on this question all week. Normally we think of guest houses as structures made of wood or brick. Rarely do we think of our very being as a guest house, a place where the welcome of our life resides. And yet here we are traveling the world in this flesh and bone, blood fueled body that houses our thoughts, our experiences, our loves, our dreams, our possibilities, our failures, our deep pain and our immense joy. Sometimes all at once!

Being a guest house means putting out the welcome mat for whatever and whoever shows up at our door. This past week we have had the blessing of having house guests in our home. Family from states away have spent time with us gracing our home with their presence. We planned for them and prepared for them. We looked forward to their arrival and said our goodbyes with a mixture of melancholy at their departure.

But we all know there are guests that show up at our guest house, in our lives, that we did not plan for, did not invite, guests for whom there was no way to prepare. I am thinking now of one of our dear ones in our church who was visited by an illness that took her life more quickly than any of us imagined possible. This guest brought with it grief and sadness and a loss that will never be filled. It also brought with it a knowledge of the wisdom carried in her body and spirit that has left us all better for having known her and for that there is a deep, deep gratitude. As I think on the ways in which her gifts for justice and mercy and joy washed the world with her smile and presence, there is no doubt in my mind that God is in both the loss and the thanksgiving.

As the poet says, ‘each morning is a new arrival’, an arrival that may surprise us or frighten us, fill us with happiness or break our heart. It seems to me the real gift is in remaining open to what possibilities might arise from the ‘guests’ that arrive at the door of our lives. In that openness the Spirit has room to dance and create more than we might ever imagine.

And so my prayer is this: May the One who breathed us each into being grant grace to this body, yours and mine, and make of us a humble, rich guest house.

The heat of the summer is upon us. Arriving home yesterday after a few days at the family cabin in northern Wisconsin, we were confronted with a wall of heat in our house that seemed impenetrable. Time was spent turning on air conditioning and moving fans from place to place as we tried to get the air cooled down in a house that had been shut up creating a sponge for the temperatures high outside. Doing this I thought of all the places around the world where this kind of heat is the norm for much of the year and how their relief from the scorching temperatures is not fueled by such luxuries as air conditioning or even fans powered by electricity. I also thought of those within our own country, my own city and neighborhood who do not have the privilege of escaping the heat in the ways that I do. So much to think about….so much for which to be thankful.

Today is the 4th of July, a holiday in which our country celebrates its independence from another country that once ruled it. In this celebration we often speak of freedom and liberty and proudly wave the flag we have come to call our own. This celebration is now often overshadowed by picnics and fireworks and leisure activities that have little to do with focusing on this independence which most Americans like to count as a core value. The 4th of July can be a time when we lift up our patriotic heart or it can be another day to have a bit of rest and relaxation at the height of the summer, in the midst of the heat that accompanies July. Most often it is a bit of both.

In the email reflection I receive daily came this quote from Pablo Casals:”The love of one’s country is a splendid thing. But why should love stop at the border?” I don’t know anything about the people who choose what reflection appears on a particular day, I just know that I almost always connect with what is chosen. Today was no exception. I thought of all the ways in which I love this country into which I was born, the many ways its core values and beliefs have been woven into the fabric of who I am in ways that were intentional and often unspoken on the part of my parents, my teachers and those who shaped me. This love of my country for all it has given me is a splendid thing, a splendid thing indeed.