“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 on 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)’ The Other’

Reading this poem by Welsh poet R.S. Thomas, I once again connected with a feeling that can sometimes be disturbing and other times reassuring. His image of the one who lies awake at night thinking of ‘the other’ who is also awake on a far flung shore is one I have wrestled with most of my life. While I believe Thomas was probably speaking of his understanding of the Holy, what this poem dredges up in me is that deep sense of connection I often have, at fleeting moments, to those I have never met, those who live ‘across the sea’ of my experience.

This feeling often comes to me in large groups of people. Looking out across a wide expanse of humanity at, say, a sporting event or concert, I think about the fact that I do not know these people. I have no idea of the intricacies of their lives, what they love, what troubles them. I search the faces to look for familiar features that do not materialize. At the same time, I realize that the faces that look back do not know me. They do not know that my favorite color is green, that I love poetry, that I will choose pie over roast beef any day.

And yet here we all are. In this mix of people traveling the Earth together at the same time. Each of us making decisions and hoping for the best. Each of us seeking meaning and a way of being known, of being loved, of being heard. We all do it in different ways but the desire still wells up in us in similar ways. This somehow brings me great comfort when the specifics of my personal problems or the weight of my daily rounds threaten to overwhelm my sensibilities.

While R.S. Thomas thinks of the ultimate being that waits at the edges of the sea of prayers, I think of all those other beings, much like myself, who lie awake in the night worrying about their children or dreaming of a solution to a hovering problem. I think of the mothers, in the wee hours of the night, nursing their infants as I once did, trying to keep awake through sheer will. I also think of those mothers who cannot feed their children, who don’t know where the next meal will come from, and the despair that lives in them.While the poet imagines the prayers washing up on the shore of the Sacred, I imagine the person, on the other side of the world, looking into the night sky, gazing at the full, white moon, just like I am. Are they imaging a person who lives a life unlike their own yet with the same hope for a better world for their children, their grandchildren? Are they imagining me?

This may all sound silly but it is something that swooshes in on me every now and then. This feeling of traveling on this spinning planet with so many fragile, yet hopeful, beings seems such a gift. To feel the rush of the realization of all ‘the others’ that are spinning with me, seems rich, deep, not unlike a prayer.

Have you ever had this experience, this feeling? If not, I offer this to you: The next time sleep eludes you in the middle of the night, begin to think of all the people on the other side of the world who are already living a day you have not yet been given. Imagine them moving about their daily lives, just as you will when the sun rises. Imagine the ways their lives are so different, yet similar, to your own. Imagine sending them all the hopes you have for goodness in your life and the lives of those you love. Allow the prayers of your heart to connect with the hearts who, perhaps,do not speak the same language or share your faith tradition. Allow the rising and falling of your breath, the words of your prayers, to wash upon the shore of ‘the others.’

It is my suspicion that in doing so, those same prayers will also break upon ‘The Other’ for this hour, this day, this year, for eternity.

“Love divine, all loves excelling,
Joy of heaven, to earth come down;
Fix in us thy humble dwelling
All thy faithful mercies crown!”
~Charles Wesley

I have been visited by an ear worm, one of those songs that gets stuck in your head and seems impossible to shake. Songs that find a home in the deep unconscious of waking in the morning and become a mantra when trying to find the keyhole of sleep at night. Songs that create a soundtrack for washing the dishes, eating lunch, walking to and from the car. You know those songs. Ditties like ‘It’s A Small World’ and  ‘Feelings’. Tunes that can drive you to the edge of reason.

But my ear worm for some reason is this old Charles Wesley hymn of my childhood. I can’t even remember the last time I sang it in worship or any place else. So why did it come to me? In fact the whole hymn did not come to me. What has been floating through my brain was my favorite phrase as a child: ” Changed from glory into glory, till in heaven we take our place, till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love and praise.”

I loved, I should say I love, the idea of being changed from glory into glory. Don’t you? The crown part is not too bad either. After all, to cast a crown must mean wearing one! But it is the glory I want to stand in. By definition glory means ‘great honor, praise, or distinction accorded by common consent, to be renowned.’ Somehow this definition does not do the word glory justice. When I say glory, I think of shimmering, of shining. To me, the idea of being changed from one shimmering glory-being to another is a lovely thought.

As I reflect on this hymn, I wonder what was going through Charles Wesley’s mind when he wrote the words. I have to also admit that I don’t often think of him as someone who might think that, as humans, we are glory that can then be transformed into even greater glory. It makes me feel more warmly toward him knowing he wrote these words.

As a little girl I remember certain older people use the phrase ‘Well, glory be!’ These people were mostly older women in flowered aprons with ample bossoms who hovered over church dinner tables and served up mounds of mashed potatoes and fried chicken. At the sight of something they thought amazing, like a new baby or a perfect cherry pie, their voice might rise above the supper din, ‘Well, glory be!’ Heads would turn and take in the glory recognized in the moment.

What does glory feel like to you? Have you had an experience of glory these days? How are you moving from one glory to the next?

More importantly, how are you be-ing glory? The world needs more shimmering and shining. I expect we all best get busy.

“Each of us is an artist of our days; the greater our integrity and awareness, the more original and creative our time will become…..”
~John O’Donohue

Today I met with a young couple whose wedding I am conducting in a few weeks. They have been a delightful pair with which to meet. I have to admit to finding something intriguing and fun in the relationship that happens with each couple whose wedding I participate in but this couple has been particularly enjoyable. Partly it is that they are so sure of what they believe to be important in their relationship and the words they have chosen for the ceremony reflect that. It is a great thing to witness.

It is also rare to have a couple show up with words of someone like John O’Donohue for their wedding. This beloved Irish poet, theologian and wisdom figure is dear to my heart. I hadn’t thought about his work for awhile. His words bring a groundedness….always a good thing. His untimely death three years ago at age 54 is still heart-breaking.

How often do you feel like an artist of your days? How often do you even feel like you are the driver in the car of your days? If we allow our days to flow out one after the other, doing the things on our lists, driven by some outward sense of ‘what must be accomplished’, it is easy to come to the end of a day exhausted but with no art to hang in the gallery. Ever have that feeling, that experience? I know I have.

And yet if I allow myself to be challenged by O’Donohue’s words, I begin to feel a sense of exhilaration. What if I paid more attention to the canvas on which I am painting my life than to the handwritten list of paints I never take the time to buy? What if the song that is waiting to be sung through me is the one that someone needs to heal the hurt that is killing them? What if I move from the chairs that line the wall to the center of the floor and begin to dance the joy, or the sorrow, that lurks just beneath the surface? What if?

To be the artist of our days requires we know ourselves well. It requires we put aside the masks we wear to feel safer,in control. It demands we become aware of the gifts the Spirit is birthing through us with every breath we take. This can take some digging but if we want to become artists of our days it requires getting dirty, sometimes requires even making a mess.

What is the art the Great Artist is calling forth from you this day? How are you listening for that sometimes quiet voice that urges you to the awareness of the gifts the world so needs, the gifts only you can offer? This art….. that is our lives…… is not for the faint of heart. But it is for everyone. Everyone who has the courage to be their authentic self, to pick up the paints in whatever form they arrive at the door, and to paint with brushstrokes unique and enlivening.

On this day I am thankful for the art created by John O’Donohue. For his challenging and inspiring words. And for the art that was his living.

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I am fully known.”
~1 Corinthians 13:12

As a child I loved Highlights magazine. I particularly loved the pictures where things were hidden, images of things drawn into a scene, things that didn’t usually fit with the over all picture. The larger image might be of a forest. If you looked closely you would find a spoon etched into the bark of a tree or a camera inside the veins of a leaf. I don’t remember this magazine coming to our house. It was usually found in the doctor’s office waiting rooms. I may have been one of a only a few children who looked forward to seeing the doctor. It was all about the Highlights magazines!

A few weeks ago I was walking a newly renovated path on St. Paul’s Harriet Island. This island floods with such regularity there seems to always be some form of rebuilding happening. In the playground area I noticed the bottom part of a large tree, its roots shooting down from an elevated mound, a shiny metal slide coming out of the body of the tree. It looked like such fun. I headed over to get a closer look.

As I looked at the trunk treated to, I assume, keep small hands and knees free from splinters, I noticed the heron etched into the bark of the tree. On closer inspection, there was a fish whose body swirled out of the bark formation, whose head was created by the end of a root. I walked around the tree finding not only the heron but a large woodpecker, a tiny squirrel, a curious fox and a rabbit. A lovely large rabbit. I was filled with joy. Highlights magazine come to life!

Since then I have thought often of that tree. I wondered about the artist whose idea it was to take what may have been one of the trees damaged by the floods and to create, not only a place to climb and slide on, but an object where hidden treasure is found. I imagined the small children who discover these little unexpected gifts, their exclamations to adults nearby keeping watch. “Look, Momma! A rabbit!”

I have found that often life is its own Highlights magazine hidden game. So many times the solution to a problem is found tucked within the conundrum itself. On further reflection, questions that nag at us and cause distress, hold the answers at the edges of the query. It has certainly been my experience that each of us carry hidden gifts waiting to come into the light, waiting to be called out by the Artist within. Every parent or teacher knows this. They are the audience that is present to the joy of watching what is hidden within a child slowly become visible for all to see.

What Highlights scene is playing with your imagination these days? What gift is being teased out of the ordinary skin that is your extraordinary self? Perhaps the discovery will be yours to make all by yourself. Or maybe you need the gentle gaze of a creative eye to help find the hidden object at the roots of your life. Whichever it is, may this day, this week, this year be the time when the hidden treasures you hold become visible in the world.

“God comes to you disguised as your life. You can see how merely believing doctrines and practicing rituals is very often only a clever diversionary tactic to avoid actual life-to avoid the agenda that is right in front of me every day-which is always messy, always muddy, always mundane, always ordinary-all around me.”
~Richard Rohr

This week I received a newsletter I always look forward to finding in my mailbox. It is created by some good people at Westminster Presbyterian Church in downtown Minneapolis. It called Thin Places and is full of many opportunities,contemplative in nature, that happen around the country. On one of the pages, I read these words: God comes to you disguised as your life”.

It was a solar plexus pounding kind of moment. It is not that I had not thought of this concept. But the clear purity of the statement grabbed hold of me and shook my busy self into inaction. Which is just what I needed. I would even be so bold as to say it is an affirmation we all might do well saying upon waking every day. Imagine what impact these words might have on our daily living. On our work. In our relationships. In the encounters we have with strangers. In the ways we live care-fully in the world.

The reason I needed these words this week is that I, and all those around me, have been busy planning worship for this Sunday, September 11th, the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks. Depending on the time of a service, many will be sitting in church at the exact time the planes hit the Twin Towers ten years ago. From the weather reports I have seen it promises to be the same clear, brilliant autumn day many of us remember, a day so perfect, what could possibly go wrong?

In preparation for Sunday, I have been watching a Frontline program called “Faith and Doubt at Ground Zero.” We will have the opportunity to see a segment of this powerful film which chronicles the lives of those who survived and family members who lost a loved one. The film will be followed by conversation around the implications of this event for our own faith lives, our own understanding of how God is present in the world. Those speaking in the film run the gamut from deep believers to atheists, from church professional leaders to those who had honed a faith built on what they had learned in Sunday School. Many faith traditions are represented. Each person who speaks is trying to make sense of the horrible human and psychic tragedy we experienced that day. It is a rich, deep telling of people struggling to make sense of what they had believed they believed in light of such a terrible act. I commend it to you.

As I previewed the program I came to some of my own conclusions. On that Tuesday morning ten years ago when we thought all would be ordinary and mundane,instead, our world shifted. Those of us who have made our life in the world of church or synagogue or mosque, came face to face with what we believed. For many the doctrines or rituals were empty vessels for the pain and confusion, the fear and anguish we felt. It became a pivotal moment redefining of long held truths for many.

For me, what was left was the God who had come disguised as our lives. In the horror we reached out and touched those we loved. We called friends and family, some we hadn’t talked to in some time, just to hear the beauty of their voice. We made meals that connected us with comfort we had known around a grandmother’s scarred dining table. We gathered in huddles of friends and talked in hushed tones,retelling stories that seeded our cultural identity so someone would know we lived. And we prayed. We walked into churches not our own, sat by perfect strangers whose hands were rough with work or manicured with privilege. We prayed prayers we had learned as children and found words for new longings in our collective heart. We sat in silence knowing we were enveloped in the Great Silence. We allowed our tears to baptize us once again into the family of things. We had the visceral experience of the connection we all share but forget daily. And we felt gratitude for the gentle rise and fall of our breath and the rhythm of our heartbeat in our chest.

God came disguised as our lives. I can’t imagine what it was like to be in any of those situations where terror was the goal of some for the destruction of many. But I do believe that God was in it with all those present, who started their days just as we had, believing the day would be ordinary and mundane.

As we remember and commemorate this weekend, may we remember with compassionate hearts and giving spirits. May our prayers be not only for those lost that day and the families whose lives were altered forever, but also for a new creation of hopeful, peaceful living by all. May we remember that God comes disguised not just as our life but the lives of all, regardless of what they believe, how they talk about those beliefs, the color of their skin or their country of origin.

And may we also remember in the messiness, the sometimes dark and horrible messiness, that the One who breathed us into being continues to give birth to hope through us. It is an awesome task but there is no one but us to carry this message forward. There never has been.

May your weekend be blessed with beauty…….

“Such love does
the sky now pour,
that whenever I stand in a field,
I have to wring out the light
when I get
home.”
~St. Francis of Assisi (1182-1226)

Minnesotans are walking around with dazed, goofy looks on their faces these days. The weather has been such perfection that we simply do not know what to do with ourselves. Each day brings a cool morning with brilliant blue skies and puffy, white clouds that seemed to be created, not by nature, but by an artist’s brush. The temperatures are light sweater in the morning days and shirt sleeves by noon. As the afternoon turns into evening the process simply goes in reverse. Someone said to me yesterday:”These are the days I was born for.” They are, indeed, days that cause us to use the word ‘bask’ with abandon as we act on its meaning.

But before I allow myself to get too wrapped up in my revelry over these exquisite days,I find it is important to send prayers of healing and hope to those living in Texas whose lives are being torn apart by drought and fire. Theirs are not days of perfection but of fear. Lives and livelihoods are being destroyed and helplessness is all around. And then there are those who are still cleaning up from the hurricane along the eastern coast. It seems that while we watched certain areas of that coast for the devastation only a hurricane can produce, our eyes were not poised on other landscapes along those places first settled in our country. Prayers must also be sent to those who clean up, lift and haul, and rebuild. May their spirits be lifted by at least one amazing act of hope this day.

Such is the way of the world. While some of us bask in beauty, others dig out from under trials they never imagined and do not feel capable of. It has always been this way. There is no part of creation that is exempt from tragedy or too full of beauty. It is a good reminder to carry in our back pocket.

Last night I was aware of the ways we can be bathed in and connected by the beauty of sky. Our Seattle son called and as we were speaking he said: “Wow! I can see the moon and the sun at the same time. Cool.” I had been gazing at the half-moon myself, outside our kitchen window. It felt a wonderful connection, this mother-son-moon-watching. Just a few minutes later, my husband called from the north woods. “Have you seen the moon?” Again, I walked to the kitchen to gaze at this silver globe that connected us over the miles. It was a night sky that poured both light and love.

I can imagine St. Francis standing in a field gazing toward a sky not unlike the ones by which we have been blessed. As his dusty, coarse brown monk’s robes rubbed against his body, I can imagine him lifting his face toward the heavens as he soaked in the beauty of the day. Perhaps he also walked out after the sun set and looked up at the moon, its half circle shining down on his simple life.

Same moon. Different century. Similar blessings. Let the wringing begin.

“Blue and dark-blue
rose and deepest rose
white and pink they

are everywhere in the diligent
cornfield rising and swaying
in their reliable

finery in the little
fling of their bodies their
gear and tackle

all caught up in the cornstalks.
The reaper’s story is the story
of endless work of

work careful and heavy but the
reaper cannot
separate them out there they

are in the story of his life
bright random useless
year after year

taken with the serious tons
weeds without value
humorous beautiful weeds.”
~Mary Oliver

Rushing out the door in the early morning this past week, I was stopped in my tracks by the morning glories blooming on our garden fence. Their brilliant colors shining in the summer sun brought me to my senses, causing me to cease my frenetic movement, forcing me to recognize what is important. Deep blue petals. Stripes of ruby red creating an amazing star. Enough white to create the perfect contrast. As if an artist had planned it, which of course, an Artist did. These flowers which give praise to the beginning of a day were speaking their flowing,flower language to a human moving at the speed of light.Thankfully their shout out to me did cause me to stop, to look at the intricate yet simple design that reminded me of fireworks. Since I had had the good sense to stop and look, I also went back into the house and came out with my camera. Taking a few snapshots of the beauty of this simple flower, the light of the morning, will bring a certain hope in the winter that is to come. I will look forward to the rich colors of these images when all about me is white.

The poem by Mary Oliver speaks of morning glories as interlopers in a cornfield, weeds that become a part of the farmer’s story. Our morning glories were planted in one place but have now made their way to two other places throughout the garden. They have twisted and turned and climbed up the fence and for the last few weeks have been sending their gifts out into the day. These precious petals have become a part of our summer story, the backdrop in which we have lived our lives in all its fullness. As I gazed in ernest at them this past week, I felt a small tinge of jealousy. How I would like to be able to make visible such beauty as an homage to every morning!

But then I began to think about how the morning glory’s gifts and mine differ. In the final analysis, I am responsible for only the gifts I have been given. I can’t, after all, do the work of a morning glory. My work is to greet the day in my own authentically human way. With gratitude and hope. With deep breaths and prayer. With kindness and gentleness to all I meet, knowing that we are all, human and plant, all creatures, intertwined in this Great Work of Creation.

And mostly with awe. Awe when presented with the intricacies of the morning glory. Awe in the presence of the Mystery which created us both.

“Blessings on this day born of night.
Blessings on the earth wedded to heaven.
Blessings on the creatures adored by angels.
Blessings on our bodies alive with spirit.
Blessings on our minds filled with dreams.
Blessings on our hearts opened by love.
Blessings,blessings, blessings.”
~John Philip Newell 

There are times, it seems to me, that need more blessings than others. As I have been moving about my life, observing the changes taking place around me both in people’s lives and the life of the Earth, it feel to me as if this is a time that is begging for blessing.  Not only is it a transitional time in our season from summer to autumn, from vacation life to the more structured school life but we are also approaching the 10th anniversary of 9/11. Reports on television and radio and in print are trying to come to some understanding of this decade observance. Film clips of that day are being replayed and the questions and concerns that have shaped who we are as a people over the last years are once again at the forefront. It will, I believe, be difficult to escape. And I am not saying we should.

For some reason this has all put me to thinking about blessings. Where the blessings are arising. Who needs blessing. What blessings, if any, we can glean from what happened a decade ago. How I might be a person that is a better ‘blesser.’

I grew up in an area of the country that is not quite southern and not quite northern. One of the statements that is common among the people there is: “Well, bless her(his) heart.” This statement is made for all manner of times. When someone does something kind and wonderful or when someone does something right down stupid. It is heard coming from the lips of people of all ages and sometimes at the oddest of times. It is best said with a certain amount of humility, as if in saying it in no matter what the situation, you are in cahoots with the Holy. Which is of course what we are doing when we offer blessings.

In addition to this time of reflective transition, I am also thinking about the number of young ones I know who are beginning kindergarten. I was astounded to realize how many 5-6 year olds I know! In case you haven’t been around any kindergartners lately, I will remind you that they are some of the sweetest creatures on Earth. The age at which one enters the arena of school, is a particularly precious age, full of innocence and possibility. Their wide-eyed wonder at the world is a lesson for us all.

These little ones were born in the middle years of a decade which seems like the roller coaster created by 9/11. We have gone up and down the steep hills of economy, politics, faith, doubt, fear and compassion. And yet here are the ones born of this fitful time. They stand filled with the hope and promise of a new creation. During these first days of school they will walk into classrooms ready to offer them ideas, concepts, creativity, and dreams that will give shape to a world that is yet to be. They deserve and need our blessing.

And to that may we all say: “Bless their hearts.”

I have just spent some time at the airport ushering our youngest off to another year of college. Where did the summer go? Where did the years go? As I stood watching the people coming and going, greeting one another and saying goodbye, I was once again flooded with the realization that, odd as it may seem, airports are often holy ground. Even with all the sterility and suspicion that has invaded what was once a place of excitement and even glamor, there is still something wonderful that happens in an airport. As people form lines and file past those who look us directly in the face and play a match game with our present image and one that exists on a small plastic card, we participate in a transition from one place to another that still seems impossible, even magical, to me. Within the span of a few hours we can move from one climate to another, from one language to another, from a place of comfort to one that is quite foreign.

But it is the airport itself that always brings me up short. Today I was once again reminded of the opening scene to the film ‘Love Actually’. Have you seen it? It begins with image after image of people moving through an airport. As it begins to unfold you realize you are seeing individuals and families reunite. Over and over, there are embraces, kisses, hugs, smiles, tears, gifts exchanged. The faces are of varying ages, ethnic backgrounds. The people are dressed in a myriad of ways from casual to formal. The act that unites them is their joy in greeting someone they love.

Today I stood on the other side of that picture. It was the ‘saying goodbye’ place. Lovers kissed before parting at the rope that would divide the traveler from the one left behind. Grandparents hugged babies and small children for one last time before these young families headed back to their own home. In the elder’s embrace was the sure knowledge that these little ones will change perhaps drastically before they see them again. Business travelers quickly pecked a partner on the cheek before heading off to another trip that will take them away for only a short time. There were a few lucky vacationers,those who still had the look of summer about them. They quickly hugged the loved one who had dropped them off at the airport for just one more slice of freedom. And of course, there were a couple of parents like myself, the ones with a Year’s worth of luggage, sending their dear ones off for another installment in their college career. Our hugs were filled with a mixture of emotions defined by how far and how often that parenting cord had been unfurled. Saying goodbye to a freshman is very different than the one said someone in their junior year.

These mammoth buildings built to move people from one place to another were created for safety, efficiency and comfort. In airports, most people simply want to get from point A to point B with a limited amount of hassle and the maximum amount of ease. With a few places for a good, quick meal in between.

But anyone who needs a good dose of hope in the human capacity for love need only spend a few moments standing outside the exit door that leads people from an arriving flight. Watch the faces descending the escalator search the crowds for that face that looks back expectably and see the searching eyes turn into smiling ones. Be present to the arms that reach out, the heads coming together in kisses and words of welcome and relief. “You’re here! You’re home.” These are the moments that provide a picture of what matters. Humans reconnecting. Hands holding. Hearts opened. Love shared.

A time of transition is settling over not only our home but the season itself. By next week all children and young people will be back in school. The rhythm of the year will shift and take on a new shape that is yet to be known. Soon the trees and the landscape will take on a different form, new colors will emerge from what was green. Life is change and change is life.

But if I need a reminder of what does not change, I can always head to the airport. I can watch as hellos and goodbyes are said. I can be witness to the coming together of people who are overjoyed to see one another or are bereft to see a loved one leave. And so it goes. Over and over again.

And would we have it any other way? I don’t think so.

A few weeks ago I took a little trip to Savannah, Georgia with my mother. It was a wonderful drive through mountains green with hardwood trees that in just a few weeks will paint a palette along the roadways with swashes of red, orange and gold. As we drove along we imagined what a sight that will be.

Once in the lovely city of Savannah, we took a trolley ride around the city as we learned some of the city’s history and horticulture. At one point we turned a corner near Forsythe Park and learned of a very special tree. The enormous Candler Oak stands sentinel over this beautiful park from a lonely spot on a parking lot near a hospital that has been long closed. The story told by our guide recounted a failed development deal between some New York builders who wanted buy the empty hospital and put up housing. The catch? The 300 year old tree would have to go. The people of Savannah said “No way.” and the building still sits empty.

It was a wonderful story and I hope it is true. The idea that, in these modern times any group of people would forgo such an economic deal for the love of a tree, warms my heart. As we passed the towering tree, I have to admit to feeling a deep emotion stir within me and I can’t get the image of that magnificent tree out of my mind. To what has this tree been present over these three centuries? Wars? Romances? Children growing? People aging? Who has stood, as I did, giving thanks for its strong trunk, its sheltering branches? Just imagine the life, and the changes in lives, that have been witnessed by this giant oak.

Tonight while searching through some worship resources, I read these words of Howard Thurman. ” When the storms blew, the branches of the large oak in our backyard would snap and fall. But the utmost branches of the oak tree would sway just enough to save themselves from snapping loose. I needed the strength of that tree, and, like it, I wanted to hold my ground. Eventually, I discovered that the oak tree and I had a unique relationship. I could sit, my back against its trunk, and feel the same peace that would come to me in my bed at night. I could reach down in the quiet places of my spirit, take out my bruises and my joys, unfold them, and talk about them. I could talk aloud to the oak tree and know that I was understood.”

Perhaps those who made the decision to rule, not in the favor of progress, but for the life of this oak understood what it means to ‘need the strength of a tree.’ In their decision
to save this glorious tree, they made an investment. An investment in relationship. An investment in quiet places, in spirit, in peace and in healing.

The tree, at 300 years, cannot stand forever. But those who chose to let the tree live, to stand their ground, have provided an example of things that matter for the long haul. Hopefully, that has made all the difference, not only for this mighty oak, but for all who choose to learn from its story.