” In these times when anger
Is turned into anxiety
And someone has stolen
The horizons and mountains,
Our small emperors on parade
Never expect our indifference
To disturb their nakedness.
They keep their heads down
And their eyes gleam with reflection.
From aluminum economic ground,
The media wraps everything
In a cellophane of sound,
And the ghost surface of the virtual
Overlays the breathing earth.

The industry of distraction
Makes us forget
That we live in a universe.
We have become converts
To the religion of stress
And its deity of progress;
That we may have courage
To turn aside from it all
And come to kneel down before the poor,
To discover what we must do,
How to turn anxiety
Back into anger,
How to find our way home.” 
~John O’Donohue 

Nearly every conversation over the past several days has unsurprisingly turned to the state of our Minnesota government’s inability to make decisions and work together. Our United Methodist bishop, Sally Dyck, asked all churches over the weekend to pray for, not only our leaders, but all those men, women and children who have been plunged into fear and uncertainty over the loss of jobs and services due to the state shutdown. Yesterday at church the prayers were all accompanied by furrowed brows and looks of complete confusion. The sense of helplessness to affect change is palpable.

This morning a friend pointed out this poem of John O’Donohue. Its words hit me square in the solar plexus. I have to admit that over the last days I have been imagining a moment at which all the people in Minnesota would intuitively decide that “enough is enough”. They would get up from their kitchen tables, their desks(if they are still blessed to be sitting at one), get off the bus, leave the library or the restaurant, open their car doors, and walk directly to the lawn of the State Capitol building. They, we, would stand there in a silent protest for all that is being left undone, for all that begs for creative action, for ways in which the common good is being violated. Perhaps it is the ‘sixties spirit’ of my adolescence that has been fanned, allowing me to once again see how large numbers of regular citizens can and do make a difference.

But as I played out this image in my head I realized what I was really seeing mirrored a painting of John August Swanson entitled ‘Festival of Lights.’  You can view it at his website http://www.johnaugustswanson.com. In this beautiful painting of people seeming to come from the very stars themselves, the figures stream from the mountains carrying a single candle that illuminates their faces. Over hills and valleys they move, appearing to come from the ends of the horizon, forming a wave of face after beautiful face. The faces are not smiling faces but they are strong and committed.  Perhaps they are carrying the anger reflected in the poem as they try to find their way home. It is a powerful image.

Frankly, I can’t imagine how this will all turn out. But I do believe it is going to take some deep listening on everyone’s part. Some deep listening and trying to understand what it means to work for all the people and not just some. It will take some anger that is well placed and an ability to rid oneself of the seduction of the distracted life. Not only for our elected leaders but also for those of us who put them where they are.  And it will take the kind of illumination that is portrayed in this beautiful piece of artwork…single lights coming together to form something greater. All this and the ability to kneel down before the poor and see ourselves.

Finding our way home is going to take all the light we can create…..together.

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need.”
~The Rolling Stones

At a meeting this past week I shared what is perhaps an oddity about me that I realized later might be best kept secret. I am not even sure how the subject came up but I told the group about how I actually enjoy going to a store where they are out of whatever it is I have come to purchase. This happens to me with regularity while shopping at the small, though wonderful, grocery store, Trader Joe’s. On more than one occasion I have gone shopping with certain items on my list only to find one of them ‘temporarily out of stock.’ The first time it happened I was somewhat shocked. “You mean I can’t always have what I want?”, I thought but didn’t say to the young store worker. “You mean there isn’t more stashed someplace just waiting for me to come buy it?”

I think one of the reasons that this inability to have my wants met gives me such a good feeling is that, in some ways, it connects me with a time gone by. A time when stores were smaller and there weren’t immense amounts of storage space where extras were kept. A time when you had maybe only one choice of a particular item, at the most a couple of any one thing. A time when merchants stocked shelves with items that didn’t have a shelf life(always a troubling thought for me.) When things could spoil if they sat there too long.

Another reason I find joy in ‘out of stock’ is that it in some way connects me with how the majority of the rest of the world lives. In small towns and remote areas around the world people have a certain self sufficiency that finds its home in the fact that not all things are available at all times. In this country, this is the bedrock of the slow food movement. Does It really make sense that we might be able to have strawberries in January in Minnesota? Living with the rhythm of the seasons means that at some point of the year something will be out of stock.

I recognize that these words come from a place of great privilege. The fact that I can even find a sense of pleasure from not being able to have what I want proves I also have had very little experience with not having what I need. Nearly every day I meet someone who would give anything to have what I most assuredly take for granted. Perhaps in some odd way this ‘out of stock’ experience connects me with these dear ones as well. Whether yes or no, I am humbled by being in their presence and often offer a prayer for their deepest needs, maybe even a chance at a want or two.

In the grand scheme of things finding a particular item at the store out of stock is small potatoes, so to speak. But I am thankful for the opportunity it provides, to reflect on all I do have, to connect with the experience of the wider world, and to count my blessings. Over and over again.

On these amazing summer days, much is ‘in stock’. May this weekend find you celebrating the gifts of this season, one which brings some of nature’s finest beauty and plentiful bounty. And may you,too, find occasion to count your own blessings.

“To imagine is not simply to see what does not exist or what one wants to exist. It is also a profound act of creativity to see what is.”
~Susan Griffin

At a writing workshop I took a few weeks ago, the teacher read this quote of Susan Griffin. I jotted it down in a notebook I was using along with several others that needed more pondering time than the class allowed. Yesterday I was reading through my notes from the class and came upon these words again. Their pull for me lies with a long held belief that each of us is born with everything we need to make the life to which we are called. From the time we were placed within our parent’s arms, we were ‘wired’ in particular ways that are unique to us. Anyone who is a parent can attest to raising individual children in the same environment, setting the same boundaries and rules, dishing out an equal amount of love, only to be amazed at how unique and different each child becomes. Many times we can see it from that first glimmer of personality, with the infant’s first cry or smile. Some of us battle at the world with clenched fists while others move through their lives in relative calm and ease. There are certainly environmental factors that come into play, ways we are wounded, ways we come to know success, that add to who we are. But there seems to be, I believe, a uniqueness to each of us that is seeded from our beginnings.

Griffin’s words on imagination captured my attention also because they seem to speak to the juggernaut the political leaders of Minnesota have created for themselves, and thereby, for all of us as our government has shut down. Both ‘sides’, as they want to describe themselves, could use a good dose of imagination to find ways to work together for the common good of all people. The imagination is a powerful thing. It is what helps us create the stories by which we give meaning to our lives. It is the tool that brings about all great inventions and cures. Imagination brings us the gifts of art, music, dance, poetry, film and plays. It also is what helps us dream a future. The imagination is what helps us give language to our experience of the Holy that moves through our lives is ways that are felt but not seen.

In order to bridge this enormous chasm our leaders have created, there is a need to see not only what does exist and what does not exist within each person from diverse viewpoints, but what actually is present within each. Perhaps it is Pollyanna of me to think that each elected leader wants for all children what they want for their own children…. to have adequate food, safe places to live, health care when they need it and schools that will prepare them well for their future. I can’t help but believe that they also want for their own parents what every one else does…..enough resources to live comfortably without fear, the health care they need as they age, safe places in which to live out their final years, neighborhoods in which they feel at home. Each person, no matter what side of the aisle, has within them what they need to come to the table, to employ their imagination, to solve this situation that is causing pain and anguish to so many.

It has been my experience that it is difficult to let one’s imagination work while at the same time clenching fists or shouting loudly. It is also nearly impossible to enter imagination’s playground while holding too tightly to a need to be in control. After all, the gift of imagination is that it takes us places we had not expected, weaving what is visible and invisible, what was and what can be, with all the realities of what already exists. Sometimes, almost always, it begs for compromise, for risk, for compassion, and above all, a deep, deep listening. Listening to others and to the whisper of the Holy breathing through all.

And so, dear leaders of Minnesota, my prayer for you all is the ability to lean, gently lean into the soft body of imagination, to allow the deepest part of you to listen to your brothers and sisters with whom you share this courageous task, to see with the eyes of your heart, not only your children or your parents, but all the young and old ones who are counting on your glorious imagination. And in it all that you may hold tenderly what has been and what is yet to be with the wisdom that was planted within you.

We are all counting on you.

This morning I began the ritual of ‘putting up’. Putting up was a term I remember hearing from my childhood. Women dressed in aprons stood sentry in hot, humid kitchens to can or freeze summer’s fruits and vegetables. They were ‘putting up’ the gifts of warm weather for the colder weather that was inevitable. My southern Ohio childhood did bring a winter of sorts but nothing like the Minnesota cold I have come to know as a transplant. The joy that a jar of strawberry jam or cling peaches can bring in the bleakness of January is not to be under estimated.

This particular day was all about strawberries. Early this morning,my husband and I joined people of all ages as we picked some of the final strawberries of the season. The red, juicy berries are now cleaned and bagged and have found a home in our freezer until the right moment when I will pull them out to bring color and sweetness to a cold winter day. These gifts of June will create an experience of time travel in which, not only will the berries be enjoyed, but the also a retelling of the story the other pickers. The Hmong women covered head to toe in a variety of prints to protect them from the sun. The lone man in the yellow muscle shirt who looked like he should be riding a Harley instead of picking strawberries. The older gentleman,none too pleased with what he thought were slim pickin’ for berries, who shared his story of being a retired church organist who once made his home in Stockholm, Wisconsin. Will it be possible to eat the berries in January without remembering those with whom we began our ‘putting up’?

As I think about it these last few days for me have all been about putting up. I have spent the last several days at the family cabin in northern Wisconsin to celebrate the 4th of July. It has been a tradition for more than 20 years and the days have, over the years, been made up of many configurations of people.Some of us have remained constant. Our children have brought different friends over the years and this year are old enough to not need that extra playmate to keep them happy. A book, a boat, the lake itself seems to suffice. The children of the lake neighbors have now grown, married and have children of their own. Each year is a little different but still very much the same. The joy of arrival. The simplicity of cabin life. Boat rides. Late night dinners. The July 4th flea market where there is never anything new. (But, truth be told, we wouldn’t have it any other way.) The small town parade with the fire engines, local camp floats, and the same clown as every year.

In a sense, when many of us gather together every summer in whatever we have created as traditions, we mentally ‘put up’ morsels of memory for the coming winter times in our lives, those times which can seem cold and unkind. Along with the harvest of our gardens, summer is also about storing up stories and images to reflect on and warm us in the winters that will surely come. In the scriptures Jesus actually warns against storing up things on earth where ‘moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal’. Instead he encourages us to ‘store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.’

As I read that scripture, I believe the putting up of the gifts of Creation to be a heavenly treasure, one that fills us with awe and connection to the Creator who breathed us into being and promised to feed us from the Earth. With each jar of brilliant red berries and each long, lovely green bean we once again renew our covenant to be caretakers of the Earth. With each experience of a sun kissed morning or the sound of children’s laughter wafting over the lake, we are reminded of the awesome blessing that is summer Sabbath. As the loon calls hauntingly and the eagle dips into clear, shining waters, we can recommit to glimpsing heaven on earth which is, after all, a part of our life’s work. The configuration of the people may change but much will always stay the same. It is the way of life.

I am thankful for all that has been ‘put up’ over the last few days. These gifts of summer will go a long way on a frigid, February night. And so they should.

What are the gifts of summer you will be putting up?

Blessed be.

As I was preparing dinner last night, a report on the nightly news caught my attention. Apparently, yesterday in the midst of a busy day at New York’s JFK airport, air traffic on some runways was halted due, not to threats of terrorism, but to the presence of turtles. Terrapins, to be exact. It seems the turtles are making their way across certain runways in pursuit of laying their eggs in the sand of Jamaica Bay which borders the airport. It also seems this is a yearly activity that has often played havoc with the comings and goings of jumbo jets and the pilots who fly them. It was fascinating to listen to the air traffic controllers and pilots report to one another the progress of the lumbering turtles while they waited to take to the air headed toward far flung places around the world. To hear the humor and compassion in their voices was really quite remarkable.

For some reason it reminded me of my pilgrimage last year on the island of Iona. Before we began what was to be our three and a half hour walk around the holy sites that dot the lovely isle, our guide reminded us:” Remember. On pilgrimage we travel at the pace of the slowest pilgrim.” I watched as anxiety flashed across a few faces. Some in our group were quite fit and perhaps had seen this walk as exercise for the muscles and heart as well as the soul. But with the intention clearly stated, we journeyed on together, each of learning to match our rhythm to one another until we became, not individuals, but a community of pilgrims. The walk actually took us nearly twice the time we had planned but no one minded because we had come to know ourselves as now intricately woven together on this journey.

Thinking of the turtles and the wisdom gained in this pilgrimage experience, I pondered how often we forget about those who travel more slowly than our own pace. It becomes so easy to walk over or at least around them. I also thought about how often these days it seems we hold so little value for the sometimes smaller, more vulnerable around us. For those who live on the edges of our society, those who need the care and attention of all who are stronger and have more resources. It becomes easy to push ahead with our powerful force ignoring all that is in our way. We do this in a physical way sometimes but mostly we do it with how we organize our common life together as neighborhoods, as cities, as nations.

The terrapins who are making their way across runways and past enormous metal people-movers, do so for one reason: to bring life to the world. What endeavor is more noble, more holy than that? And so, for all the pilots, the baggage handlers, and the controllers who watched these slow moving beings make their own pilgrimage in the busiest airport in our country, I offer thanks. Thanks for your patience and self-control. Thanks for your compassion and humor. Thanks for remembering that on this pilgrimage we call life, it is always a right and good thing, to travel at the pace of the slowest pilgrim.

When we do, we are often offered the promise of new life.

There is a time between sleep and waking when dreams seem more vivid and the images planted in your resting brain become etched in profound ways. This is the time when you are not quite asleep and not quite awake, the time when you struggle to remember what day it is and where you are. It must be,in the Celtic tradition,a thin place of sorts, that place where this world and eternity coexist.

I had an experience of this in-between land this morning that I am still gently wrestling with. In the span of time between being unconscious and conscious, I heard this voice in my head:” Pour out your heart.” I tried to come up from the darkened waters of sleep to connect these words with a dream I had been having, tried to attach the voice to some unknown being that played a part,opposite my own, in a nighttime drama. But I could not recollect any story that had been playing out in my sleep. Only the words: “Pour out your heart.” The words seemed so significant that I even repeated them out loud to myself so I would not forget.

And now this message has been following me about all day. Pour out your heart. What could it possibly mean? Pour out on what, to whom? What exactly am I supposed to be pouring from my heart? Compassion? Love? Empathy? I have to admit to feeling a little like the Kevin Costner character in ‘Field of Dreams’ who kept hearing the voice saying ‘build it and they will come’. He proceeded to plow over his Iowa cornfields and build a baseball diamond where dead but heavenly players came to play the game they had loved in life. But ‘pour out your heart’ is a little less concrete than Kevin’s baseball message. There is little direction other than the message itself.

But a good message it is. How could I go wrong pouring out my heart into every action I take? My work. My home. My family. My friendships. All the many things about which I feel passionate.There are also the small seemingly unimportant acts that make up each and every day. Buttering toast. Drinking coffee. Loading the dishwasher. Making the bed. Passing a stranger on the street. Setting the dinner table and eating with intentional gratitude. What about pouring heart into all that?

I have no idea why or how this message came to me. But it has given me much to ponder and consider on what could have been an ordinary Wednesday. But then again, if we pour our hearts into each day, can there even be such a thing as ordinary?

Minnesota writer Robert Bly has translated a poem of Antonio Machado. It ends with the lines:
“Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt- marvelous error!-
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt-marvelous error!-
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.”

What a gift it was to have an early morning message that has so filled my day. With questions, with longing, with humor and hope and, even, with God.

One of the rewards of taking public transportation is that you are reminded of the ways in which we are all so intricately woven together as people. When I have the gift of taking the light rail, I find myself jostled and soothed by the variety of people around me and the rhythm of the train. On beautiful mornings like today, you get the added advantage of looking out the window and seeing the city you love fly by in a flash of speed and color. This vision was accompanied on this particular morning by the sound of a young woman sitting beside me quietly speaking a language I did not know into her cell phone. Those with bicycles load on and off flanked by fashionable men and women in business clothes: suits, ties, skirts, black high-heeled shoes. Nearly every person carries a backpack or briefcase that holds items that remain a mystery to their fellow riders. Only the imagination tells the story of their work, their life.

Once off the train there is also the vast array of people that are walking toward offices or buses or wherever their day might take them. There are also those that have no destination. Their day will most likely consist of trying to find their next meal, a helping hand or a place to sleep the night. The diversity of faces and clothing tells a part of the story but not its fullness. This kind of imaginative jogging is why I love to be able to use this mode of getting to work. It is not lost on me that this way of travel is a choice and not a necessity for me. My ability to spin stories and observe people’s lives represents my priviliged life.

Last night as I made my way toward the train that would take me to my waiting car, I observed many interesting sites. But the one that stuck with me throughout the evening and into this morning was the street preacher that had taken his stand on Nicollet and 8th Street. Standing on a metal platform no wider than a kitchen ladder, he held a small, hand lettered sign that simply read ‘Fear God’. He was expounding with some effort about all the ways in which we are meant to fear God and using scripture to back it up. But he was not a polished speaker nor a learned student of the Bible. He looked down periodically at his 3×5 white note cards to get his next scripture citation.

“For the wages of sin is death. Romans 6:23” he spoke, checking his note card. He then went on to say how we are all sinners and that is why we should fear God. As I waited for the light to turn, I found myself watching and listening out of a sense of obligation and identification. You see, I am not very good at being able to cite scripture…chapter and verse… either, so I felt a kinship with him. And while I don’t agree with him theologically, I was also humbled by his courage to stand out in public and put his faith out there for all to see.

Sharing the same corner soap box were two young people signing people up for Amnesty International. Perhaps they, too, were putting their faith out there. I watched them NOT watch the street preacher. Their eyes instead were on an inebriated young man who was sitting on the ground in front of them. A security guard was trying to get him to his feet urging him to “be mature about this.” Frankly, it was a lot to cram into a few square feet of concrete.

The light changed and I was forced to leave this little drama being played out. I did not walk on ‘fearing’ God anymore than I did on any other day. This preacher’s sermon was lost on me. But what I was captured by was his commitment and the commitment of the Amnesty International volunteers. And I was held by compassion for the young man who had had too much to drink and the one who was trying to help him without causing a scene or inciting violence.

In that scene, a snapshot really, of any given moment on any given day on God’s Creation, I was struck by ‘awe’. Awe at the frailty and the courage of humans. Awe at the ways in which a moment can connect us in ways that startle and break our hearts. You see ‘awe’ is the true meaning of the words in scripture we have come to translate as ‘fear’. The scriptures urge us to be in awe before God, not to be afraid of God.

For a few moments on an ordinary Monday on a little plot of sidewalk, I knew the depth of what it means to stand in awe before God.

“What you gaze on, gazes back. What you contemplate in faithfulness, changes you into itself. Turning and turning you’ll come around to being open like earth in which much can grow.”
~Gunilla Norris

I began my morning with a stroll through a hosta heaven. I had taken the light rail to the office this morning which allows me to walk down Nicollet Mall and through the Loring Green area before making my way across Loring Park. As I progressed past the many green and manicured areas, between the high rise apartments and condominiums that flank Loring Green, I began to notice the plethora of hostas. It is the boon of gardeners to plant hostas, those shade plants that allow a yard to have towering trees that create more shade than most flowering plants can take. These perennials have the magic of sprouting out in the spring and creating a blanket of green throughout the summer. All with very little work of the human kind! They are hearty and hardy plants and can grow with enthusiasm, needing to be thinned out every so many years.

Along the pathway that curves and turns between the buildings, the landscapers have planted a wide variety of hostas. There are ones with white and green or yellow and green variegated leaves about the size of my palm. There are ones whose leaves shine in the light of any sun that manages to peak through the branches of the trees overhead. And then there are the ones whose leaves could almost conceal a small child, leaves tinged a Kentucky bluegrass color. Looking at them, one expects a fairy to emerge at any moment.

This was the path that began my day. I found that as I walked through these lovely shade loving plants, I began to walk more slowly. My eyes moved right, then left, careful not to miss any of the variety that had become a morning meditation. Snuggled between the hostas were flashes of color, impatiens and an occasional gerbera daisy. But the hostas held court in these green spaces created for the hungry, city soul. I allowed my pace to slow to what might be called meandering. There was work to get to but walking through this heaven of hostas seemed the most important task at the moment. I found my spirits lift, my breath slow and go deeper.

There is much to admire about the hosta. It can flourish nearly everywhere. It is not a high maintenance flower. Basically you plant, water and let it alone. It is one of the first green things to push up out of the soil in spring. It grows fast but not too fast, allowing those who really pay attention, a certain satisfaction at its progress. If need be, it can spread to take up the space that is open. It does not need to be in the spot light to be its true self. And when it overstays its welcome or spreads itself too far in any direction, it can be thinned out and given a new home to begin once again.

Sounds like a pretty good way to live to me. My invitation is this: the next time you have the blessing of being in the presence of a hosta, spend time with it, treasure its beauty and its strength, and learn from it. We could all do with being a little more hosta-like, don’t you think?

It has been a series of drippy, dreary days in Minnesota. The rain has at times been powerful and torrential and other times just drizzly, like a fine mist. Throughout it all the sun has been absent, the skies gray and gloomy. People are nearing the end of their collective ropes. Yesterday I was privy to the conversational comments of a few mothers of young children who had, much too soon, lost their lust for the summer vacation. Having been trapped inside for too long, their creative juices were stopping up.

While I am now a fair distance from those days of trying to entertain children on rainy days or, even more importantly trying to help them entertain themselves, I listened with a certain melancholy longing. A favorite video of our children was a quirky, little piece called “Drizzle and the Rainy Day.” We actually rented this video when trapped inside a grandparent’s house on several consecutive rainy days. It featured an odd, hairy puppet whose true gift was helping kids pass the time and have fun on rainy days. The trick with Drizzle was that everything he used to do this were things already available in your house. I don’t remember too many of the details except that things like empty toilet paper and paper towel rolls, straws and toothpicks became quite exciting creations. A little string, a marble, a Hotwheels car and you had a racetrack or maze that wound its way from the living room couch, under the chair by way of the paper roll tunnels, through the dining room, out onto the kitchen floor where it picked up speed and crashed into the dishwasher. The amount of time, energy,design and redesign that went into these creations not only led to exercising imagination but hopefully, to higher physics scores in high school.

I remember the Drizzle Days with great fondness. The sweet, simple joys of taking what was at hand for creativity and being entertained and challenged fill my heart, not only for the boys now turned men, but for the lazy days of making something out of nothing. Of course, this gift is available to us at all times but sometimes needs the imposition of rainy days to bear fruit. I have to admit that these gray, wet days have my mind turning to acts of creation much like a good, old fashioned Minnesota blizzard. I am certain it doesn’t work this way for everyone but it does for me.

What weather brings out your creative spirit? What manner of sky can send you to paint a picture or write a poem or sing a song? What weather pattern can form around your days that leads you into that right brained place that spins out new ideas faster than you can write them down? It is a good thing to understand your creative meteorology. When you know what fuels your creative spirit it becomes easier to see the inspiration as it begins to arrive. Yarn and needles call to be twisted and turned. Crayons and paper beckon from the closet where they have rested too long. The piano, silently sitting alone in the other room, begs to be played. That recipe you’ve wanted to try but took too long or need too many ingredients, shouts: “Now! Now!”

The rain is supposed to lift and move on sometime tomorrow. So, those of us who have been trained in the Drizzle School need to get busy. Those of you guided by the Sunshine Way of creative thought, get plenty of rest tonight. Tomorrow the sun is reported to be moving in and next week the temperatures will rise as the skies clear.

There is much to be done……rain or shine!

“We seldom notice how each day is a holy place
Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,
Transforming our broken fragments
Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.”
~ John O’Donohue

Sometime last week I read with interest a posting on a clergy friend’s Facebook page which outlined what she had done that day. Its purpose was to answer an often asked question:” So, what do ministers do all day, anyway?” There are many folks, I’m sure, who think that a few hours a week in preparation for Sunday sermons is the extent of what might be on any clergy calendar. My friend’s daily diary was impressive indeed as she listed the meetings, Bible study led, visits made, conversations had, more meetings, a stop in on the young children in the preschool, worship preparation,a lunch meeting and on and on into the evening. It was a whirlwind of purposeful, soulful activity. I smiled thinking of her moving through that most holy of days.

If we are awake and aware, each day is a holy day. And not just for religious “professionals.” Each day holds the gift of communion, transformation, enlightenment, epiphany, even redemption. When I think about the day I have just lived, it held all this and so much more.

I began the morning having coffee with a friend and colleague. It had been my plan to simply catch up on her life and also check in on some worship details for a service she leads. But our conversation turned to challenging subject matter in which there was anger, disappointment, confession, absolution and eventually deep understanding and love. This had certainly not been on my to do list, had not been a part of my plan, but our time together became a gift of transformation that brought about an eventual feeling of freedom.

Lunchtime found me surrounded by some of our church’s true saints. Every Wednesday two groups of worker bees gather at church. One threads needles and creates quilts for the crisis nursery and others who need the warmth of lovingly created comfort. The others pick up paint brushes and hammers and fix anything that needs to be fixed around the building. We, literally, would be a mess without them! I had been asked to offer the grace for their noontime picnic. As we ate our summer meal of hotdogs, brats and potato salad, stories were shared of all the hours they have worked over nearly two decades together. Savoring my meal, I looked around the table and also noted who was no longer present, whose hands no longer painted or repaired. I had the sense that I was not the only one aware that while we were sharing a simple lunch we were also sharing a Meal of Memory.

A large portion of my afternoon was spent with our District Superintendent as we looked back over the past year at goals I had set and what this year’s work had been. O.K. It was a kind of yearly job review. But in the course of our time together we shared our hopes and our frustrations with what it means to be this body called church. Having the opportunity to spew out all the good, the bad and the ugly of a year in one’s life can be a humbling experience. Today I was privileged to eat the feast of humility and drink the cup of mercy.

These three events in my day were sandwiched in between phone calls and emails much like most working people. Also, like most people, I carried the brokenness and longing of my life into every word formed, every phone call answered, every conversation. It is holy work, this living. It is somehow made even holier when we take the time to notice the sacred threads that bind each moment together into a whole.

John O’Donohue ends this poem called ‘The Inner History of the Day’:

“So, at the end of the day, we give thanks
For being betrothed to the unknown
And for the secret work
Through which the mind of the day
And the wisdom of the soul become one.”

We give thanks and look forward to the living of yet another holy day.