This is a day set aside for the proclamation of love. Valentine’s Day. St. Valentine’s Day to be exact. It is a day many love and others loathe. Yesterday at church I asked one young boy if he was ready for Valentine’s Day. He replied that he was ‘doing’ his valentines that afternoon. I asked if he would be sending a card for anyone special to him to which he said: “No. They all have to be equal. I am giving pencils.” I was amused at the idea of this parceled out form of ‘equal’ love.

Later in the day, I visited the children next door where there was a bustling of Valentine’s Day preparation. Sitting on the kitchen counter was the brightly decorated box with the slit in the top which today will be the doorway for all manner of heart adorned cards, small chocolate bars, red candy hearts and probably a few pencils. All forms of recognition to the box owner of sentiments of friendship and perhaps even a kind of love.

Returning home I called my mother to wish her an early happy Valentine’s Day. We laughed together as we remembered the many similar boxes we had decorated over my childhood. We also laughed at the ways in which my brother had approached a holiday he found very challenging, including the pain staking deliberation he executed as he chose cards that would not imply too much love to those he barely even liked.

In some ways this day is a little sad. Why do we need a special day to declare our love, or even our like, to another person? Instead, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all had decorated boxes sitting outside our doors every day? Boxes in which we would find notes of affirmation, love, good energy, even prayers from those whose lives are entwined with ours? What if we chose any day, a Thursday for instance, of every week to send just one such note to someone? Think of the difference this act would make to that person, and probably to us.

How we express our love comes in so many forms, most of which cost nothing, and certainly less than the hundreds or even millions spent today on roses. Not that I have anything against roses because I certainly love the ones that graced our dining room table this morning. But acts and words of love are a gift we have to offer that costs us little and reaps much.

Over the last few days I have seen the power of love in so many places. In people reaching out to others who needed comfort. In music being made. In stories told of how they were healed by the touch of another’s presence. In food being prepared and shared. In hearts made from red construction paper. In laughter that cut through a difficult moment. In hands that dried tearful eyes.

Days set aside or everyday, ordinary days can be times for sharing the transforming power of loving words and actions. The ultimate result of love brings many gifts. Affirmation. Recognition. Wholeness. Healing. Belonging. The artist and poet Jan L. Richardson writes:
Within the space
of human loving –
in the wonder of it,
in the strangeness of it,
in the completely common
rarity of it,
may you find
your healing and
your home.

Valentine’s Day or any day, isn’t that what we all desire?

“Smile, breathe, go slowly.” ~Thich Nhat Hahn

This January I began fulfilling a long time desire. I began practicing yoga. While I had taken a few classes here and there, it never seemed to stick. The time was wrong. I was too busy. Once the room was even too cold to make me stick with it! But this new endeavor seems to be turning out much better. I love the attention to breath….so important to so many things……stress reduction, anger management, prayer. And I love the music they play….mostly soothing and contemplative.

One of the words used quite often by the teacher is ‘available’, as in ‘if this is available to you.’ She says this as she is moving into a particular pose, stretching her limber body in  all manner of shapes. In this context ‘available’ means ‘if you can do this.’ It is such a nice grace-filled way of approaching a pose that, many times, seems to me pretty impossible! But I never feel shamed or too old or unable…..the pose simply isn’t available to me yet. Which in turn implies that it will be some day. It is a very hopeful feeling. Plus each time the teacher says ‘available’ it makes me smile and that has to also be good for my practice, doesn’t it? Smiling several times an hour, while breathing deeply and stretching my muscles into various lunges, has to be doing something wonderful in my body, in my spirit.

There are many things in life that are not available to us on any given day. These unavailable acts are based on so many factors….experience, education, economics, where we were born, the list goes on and on. But just because they are unavailable today does not mean they will always be so. I know this from my very short practice of yoga so far. The first several times I tried Tree pose, it was more like tree-in-wild-storm pose. My body whipped this way and that, falling over every time. And then one day,after a few short weeks, I did it. I stood tall and still, not for very long, but I did it! Tree was available to me. I felt such a surge of energy and power.

Of course, the next day when I tried to be my Tree,  the winds were blowing once again. But I am still holding onto the day when Tree pose and I became one. This small little piece of wisdom learned through yoga has filtered out into my understanding of other things in life that may be available….or not. Sometimes patience seems completely unavailable. Same with forgiveness. And compassion. That’s where practice comes into play. The more I practice a patient mind, a forgiving heart, a compassionate spirit, they become slowly available.

And so that is one of the true lessons of this short yoga practice I have begun. The time set aside for connecting with this breath that keeps each of us moving on the earth sets in motion the notion that much becomes available to us when we practice and practice and practice.

What would you like to move from the unavailable to available spot in your life? What pose would you like to hold and strengthen until you are full of energy and power? We have a weekend ahead that promises a hint of spring. May we all find the joy of this ‘available’ to us and may our hearts be lifted in gratitude.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of observing the many miles of snow covered land between the Twin Cities and Milwaukee. It is one of my favorite drives. I love looking out at the various farms, some looking modern with ranch-style, one level houses and others with the white, two-story structures with wrap around porches. The barns in their various colors….red, lots of red……green…..brown…….white……even blue…..make colorful markings against the stark white of the rolling fields. In some places straw or stray cornstalks interrupt the snowy landscape making their death-brown look much more beautiful than it really is. In just a few short months(we hope!) the rich soil will be teeming with seeds and growth. Corn and soybeans will once again create the picture of abundance out the car window. But for now there is white, shining brilliant and crusted from strong winds and powerful doses of sunshine.

After several miles of allowing my eyes to take in this wintry scene, I began to notice the places where paths had been cut in the snow. There were those places where snowmobiles zoom by at what seems tremendous speeds, cutting this way and that at the sides of the roads, often charging across the road like the deer we know to what out for in autumn. These paths were made for fun and a sense of freedom.

There were cross country ski paths that meandered through open fields and into the woods that ring the highway. The sight of those paths bring a feeling of calm and that whooshing sound that is only made by the sound of skis on snow. I imagined the skiers moving away from the frantic traffic of the highway into the depths of the woods where they stopped to catch their breath. Allowing the silence they now had found to wash over them, I thought of them drinking in the smell of the evergreens, the moist earth, the air that chilled their lungs. These were paths for connecting to the earth and to one’s heartbeat.

Every now and then I would notice other paths made not by humans or their toys but by animals whose footprints were too far away for me to identify. One set of prints created this wonderful winding, circular pattern, in and out, around and back, as if they had been playing a child’s chasing game. This path made me smile.

Then, of course, there were the paths made by the faithful, predictable cows as they headed from the field where they had been observing bovine life. At some signal known only to them, they turned from the spot where they had spent the morning or afternoon and headed toward the barn, to be milked and to be fed. Their path was one of habit and nurture.

Paths. We travel them everyday. Some we travel so often we no longer see the scenery we pass by. I have often driven for several blocks, perhaps even longer, and have no memory of having done so, the path is so familiar to me. Have you ever done this? It’s rather sad in a way to think that those places we know best have nothing left to offer us in the way of surprise.

There are the paths we choose and those that become the detour we never expected or wanted. And yet, there the path is unfolding before us and we have no choice but to take step after step after step until we make some sense of where it is taking us.  I know several people right now who are trying to make sense of the detour that has become their path. May God bless them.

One of my favorite scriptures is from Jeremiah: “Stand at the crossroads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls.” The fact of the matter is that sometimes the ancient paths, the good way, can seem quite elusive. Or it can seem as if we are walking a path that continues to turn and turn in ways that create anxiety and fear. Still other times, we can be paralyzed by not being able to choose which way to turn on the path that lies before us. Every now and then we are blessed with an understanding of our path that is so sure, so true, we walk confidently, with assurance, never looking back.

Wherever you are on the path this day, may you find some ancient wisdom that holds you, some goodness that unfolds before you, and some deep rest for your soul.

On Friday, I indulged in some humidity therapy at the Como Conservatory.This has become a yearly winter pilgrimage timed just at the point when the dry skin which results from frigid days becomes unbearable. Friday seemed to be the near tipping point and I had a fairly open day ahead so it seemed a perfect thing to do.

Walking into the domed building and I was immediately hit with a rush of humid air. The sun glasses I had been wearing to protect myself against the glaring sun-off- snow, steamed up with a fog of moisture. I looked at those who were wearing regular glasses as we all stood just inside the doorway in a sort of limbo between sight and blindness. Their faces were bathed in smiles. Smiles of warmth, of heavy, moist air, of being surrounded by things that were alive……and green! We chuckled toward one another as we waited for the fog to melt off lenses.

These expeditions must always begin with a simple act of sitting down. Sitting down so you can allow your body to adjust to the instantaneous but beautiful assault of heavy, wet air and heat. After all, our bodies have been walking around in layers of fleece and wool for months. To all of a sudden walk into a tropical Eden takes some time of gentleness.

After the initial time of acclimation, I walked around allowing the green ferns and plants and the colors and smells of the flowers to wash over me. Entering one of the smaller rooms, I found myself present to the Winter Carnival Orchid Show. The sheer beauty and color of these flowers was nearly overwhelming. But the best part came when I began to read the names of some of the unique varieties.

Staring at one orchid whose petals were larger than many of the others, I noticed its deep red, nearly purple flowerets. At its center was a rich,dark pink. Flecked across the petals themselves were little droplets of earthy yellows. The tag that identified the flower? ‘Fine Wine.’ Well, of course it was. What else could it be?

I noticed some women looking up toward the ceiling at a pot that was suspended above our heads. At first I could not see anything but the slender green stems shooting out of a common terra cotta pot. But as my eyes searched further,they beheld flashy hot pink circles of flower. Just on the edge of gaudy, these cascading blossoms looked like a feather boa falling gently off the neck of a lovely lady. Its name? Crown Fox Diva. Why was I not surprised?

But my personal favorite? Sitting quietly among all the other showy blooms, nestled back in the verdant plumage of all the other marvelous orchids sat Brother Buddha. Smaller more understated faces of brown centers hung gently from light green stems. The brown slowly gave way to a soft, dark pink until it finally emerged into the signature saffron of the robes of Buddhist monks. While not the most eye catching of the orchid show, this plant seemed to know itself and be content with its gentle presence.

As I walked out of the room that housed the collection of the many faceted orchids, I wondered about who named them. Whose job is it to watch these lovely creations and then name them with such accuracy? At that moment,I longed for the privilege of such work. To name something, human or plant, is a great gift. Anyone who has ever looked into the face of a newborn, knowing they have the blessed power to attach syllables that will forever define a person’s life, realizes it is something not to be taken lightly.

What is your name? How did it come to you? What is the story that accompanies your naming? In Genesis the task of naming was given to Adam, an awesome responsibility. From the very beginning of our sacred story, names have been important. Names like yours and mine. Names like Fine Wine and Crown Fox Diva and especially, Brother Buddha.

Several days of every week I have evening meetings. On these days, that may have started early in the morning with other responsibilities, I always try to take a little break around 4:00 to clear my head, get some fresh air and have a little Sabbath time. I often head to a lovely little bakery restaurant in the Uptown area where I hug a cup of coffee and allow the chocolate in one of the best chocolate chip cookies known to humanity melt in my mouth. Yesterday was one of those days that stretched over many hours and so I headed out to engage in this sacramental moment.

It goes without saying that driving and particularly parking your car anywhere these days is a challenge. The snow has now built up so high that most humans need to take on a mountain goat approach to nearly every curb and intersection. Driving, I made my way along the ever narrowing streets and safely maneuvered around corners where snow was piled higher than my car. Safe site lines have now gone the way of the streetcar. I parked with the curb side of the car elevated on ice-impacted snow and toppled out of the car.

Bundled up against the freezing wind, I made my way around to the parking meter. From the sidewalk there was a small path cut into the boulevard by the feet of all those who had gone before me. They must have been small people….unusually small people with equally small feet… because I had to stand with one foot in front of the other as I balanced on the snowbank. I did not feel like a dancer in this ballet like position. My mittened hands now had to reach into my wallet to retrieve the quarters which would feed the meter so I could have the chocolate chip cookie that had become my prize. Fumbling with mitten in one hand, my exposed flesh held two quarters as I balanced like a flamingo. One quarter slid easily into the meter but somehow the balancing or the wind chill caused the second quarter to slide in a free fall from my fingers into the snow below. I watched it fall slowly down as my eyes followed it. Looking at the snow below I saw the slice it had made in the snow. And surrounding it were several other identical slices……quarters that had fallen as others had balanced in the same place……quarters that will lie hidden in the snow until the spring thaw.

I laughed and wanted to tag this meter so some lucky person will know to watch for the treasure that will emerge. As I plugged another quarter in and headed in for my now much deserved treat, I began to think of all the hidden treasures that are waiting to emerge from these winter days. Ruminating over my warm coffee and delicious cookie, I watched the people move by outside, the life of them visible in the breath that surrounded their heads, that blew forth from their red faces. Each is carrying a treasure that is also perhaps hidden. Under the frozen ground all kinds of bulbs and seeds are resting and waiting for the right moment to begin to make their way toward life anew. I observed a couple meeting with a real estate agent as they dreamed of a new home that will no doubt be filled with the treasures of their lives. Sitting near by a young women wrote passionately on her computer. What treasure lies hidden within the words she so furiously meted out?

Most often we think of treasures as monetary. But in the book of Matthew, the teacher Jesus reminds the people that’ where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.’ What do you treasure? What treasures lie hidden within you that long to be brought out into the light of day? What treasure, if discovered, would make your heart sing? These are good questions to consider on these cold, winter days.

Today may find us balancing in places that don’t feel so comfortable, or at least not very graceful. The winds may be rushing around the doors of life exposing our vulnerabilities. But there are treasures we carry and ones that are just outside our vision that will be revealed……often in their own good time, when the melting is over. Our work is, most often, to practice patience and openness in the waiting.

But for someone with a really good shovel and strong arms, there are quarters to be had beneath a parking meter in Uptown!

“So may you tend and take
and eat the gifts in the garden of the text.
In the gaps, in the margins,
in the secret spaces among the words,
may you find places to create stories anew.”
~Jan L. Richardson

As a faith community we are continuing our theme of Rekindling the Fire as we explore the old stories we were given as children trying to find new fire in them. I have found it amusing that we chose this task with a certain cavalier air. How difficult could it be to take stories like Noah and the Ark, David & Goliath, the story of the Exodus and breathe new life into them? It would be, we thought, an easy endeavor in the midst of winter during a very long season of Epiphany. Hah!

Each week has found us coming up against some challenging images of God. A God who causes great destruction. A God who chooses sides. A God who has speed of lightning mind changes. A God who is violent. As progressive people of faith who have embraced a God of love and justice, these stories that have shaped us can sometimes cause us to recoil in confusion and revulsion. What to do?

This past Sunday we were blessed to have the David and Goliath story unpacked in a rich and enlightening way. After going through the details of the story that could not possibly have been factually true……a ten foot man…..two warring sides sitting and looking at one another for two weeks…….our speaker invited us to see this story as allegory.

Allegory….the expression by means of symbolic figures and actions of truths or generalizations about human existence. Goliath, the giant, who threatened to overcome the Hebrew people is instead thwarted by the small boy David. David who believes in himself and his abilities is outfitted with armor that does not fit him, both in size & weight, and also in his identity as a shepherd. He rejects the clothing of war and uses what he knows to overcome his enemy: his shepherd’s staff, his slingshot and five smooth stones. Through the telling we heard we were encouraged to remember the Goliaths in our own life, in our world. We were led to see ourselves to be like David, full of the potential to live out of our gifts with the ability to turn from what is not authentic to who we are.

No retelling can take the violence out of this story. The Bible is full of as many re-countings of war as the daily newspaper. But in fanning the flames of the truth of it, we can come to see new ways to overcome the obstacles, the Goliaths, that bark at our door in the middle of the night. We can remind ourselves of the ways in which we are lured daily to turn from the essence of our true identity and we can stand sure in our uniqueness, our image of God for the world. We can, with confidence, reach for the five smooth stones what will guide what our actions might be.

As Jan Richardson points out, there are secret spaces in all our words, both sacred and secular.  The words we use to give voice to our faith. The words we use to speak our love. The words we use to tell the story of faith over and over again to the next generation. Those spaces hold the hope for the continuation of a rich legacy. A legacy of a fire that will never die out.

As each of us come up against the Goliaths of this day, may we know who we truly are and may we clothe ourselves with confidence. The confidence that we have within us all we need to overcome the giants that frighten and the assurance that we do not walk alone on this path. May we find within all the secret spaces of the words we speak and use, room for newness to spring forth.

Blessed be……

When I smiled at them, they scarcely believed it;
the light of my face was precious to them.
~Job 29:24

Yesterday people were once again stocking up at grocery stores in preparation for another predicted snowstorm. It is an intriguing process that never ceases to surprise me. After all the years I have lived in Minnesota, to see people filling store parking lots in order to make sure they have enough bread, milk…..chocolate….whatever seems to be the needs for being sequestered to your house while snow falls and winds blow as we wait for the plows to do their work, is fascinating. In today’s light, the snow really is more steady than fast falling but the colder temperatures make it more dangerous for driving. To have labeled it a storm may have been dramatic.

For many people this kind of weather brings out their dour, ‘I’m tired of this’ face. So this morning,as I read a small article in the paper about what you can do to put a smile on your face, I thought of all those who woke up today with a prepared frown. The article listed 10 things you can do to add that needed lift of the lips. It included things like cooking a wonderful meal and visiting an animal shelter to pet an animal. There were easy ideas like getting dressed up to do regular acts of your day. The thought is we always feel better when we know we look nice. The one that made me laugh was ‘organize your sock drawer’. Having just done this recently, I know the odd feeling of freedom and accomplishment this simple little task brings. I am not sure having done so made me smile but it made me feel more orderly, which is a good thing, I guess. There were several other good ideas on the list including a YouTube video that featured the song Stand By Me.

The exercise someone took on to create this list piqued my curiosity and caused me begin to think of those things that make me smile. I’d like to offer a few ideas of my own. Things that over the last few days lifted me from the doldrums of a very, snowy winter.

Dance with a baby. I did this yesterday at church. While beautiful jazz music sealed the ending of our worship, I lifted my arms out to one of our newly walking members. Her soft, pudgy fingers joined my rough, dry ones and we swayed to the music as she looked deeply into my eyes with all the wonder and curiosity of her freshness on the earth. I carried the memory of her, our dancing, with me all day creating smile after smile. The sheer act of holding her aliveness lifted my spirits.

Let the snowflakes fall on your tongue. Catch them as you did when you were a child and make a note that you, a unique creation, are swallowing an equally unique creation. There is something to all that which brings a smile to my face. Uniqueness savoring uniqueness.

Spend time looking out a window. Narrow your view for a few minutes and let the vast worries of the world fall away. For a few moments give thanks for all you can see out the limited view of your window. The children waiting for the bus(say a prayer for them).The mounds of snow that have now become near icebergs. The tracks of a rabbit that kept watch outside while you were sleeping. Where is it now? Is it watching you,hidden from your human eyes,as you look out through your refined vision?

Every day brings with it many worries, many sorrows. Every day also brings the potential for lifting our spirits, for taking stock of the joyful moments that are gift to us. As we exercise our face muscles we generate endorphins that nourish us, maybe even adding a few moments to our longevity. Sounds worth it to me.

What puts a smile on your face? How can you create more of those experiences that feed your smiling spirit? I invite you to make a list. Refer to it often. Add to it with each new, grinning observation. The dark of winter may feel as if it is holding us hostage. But we have the power to lift ourselves above the drifts with the beauty of an upturned smile.

This week I began reading The Spirituality of Imperfection by Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketcham. It is a book my clergy support group has chosen for an upcoming retreat. I am really only a few pages into the book and already can see that this is going to one that is marked mightily with my pen and highlighter. Sentences like: “Spirituality teaches us, or has taught most of us, how to deal with failure. We learn at a very young age that failure is the norm in life……..errors are part of the game, part of its rigorous truth.” And “Spirituality begins with acceptance that our fractured being, our imperfection, simply is: There is no one to ‘blame’ for our errors-neither ourselves nor anyone nor anything else. Spirituality helps us first to see, and then to understand, and eventually to accept the imperfection that lies at the very core of our human be-ing.”

And all that is only in the introduction! In beginning this book I was reminded of a not too distant time when then word ‘spirituality’ used in mainline churches made people quite nervous. What did it mean? How was it different from religion? What did it look like to be spiritual? How was what happened in church spiritual…..or not?

But over the years even the most mainline of mainlines have come to a certain comfort, if not out right acceptance, of the word spiritual. It now shows up in most church newsletters and may even creeps into a sermon or two. While its definition may still be elusive to some, there is a sense that being spiritual is simply something we are. Something we are in all our imperfections not in spite of them.

As humans we have this bent toward pursuing perfection. It is present in so much of our culture and drives the advertising that engulfs us. Perfect bodies, perfect relationships, perfect jobs, perfect homes. This list goes on and on. Indeed, United Methodists speak of ‘going on to perfection’ a statement woven into our fabric by our founder John Wesley. The fact that he was speaking of wholeness often is lost on the hearer given how ingrained that pursuit of perfection is in our common language. Just talk to any therapist and it will become obvious how deep the chase for perfection runs within us.

Yet every morning we each awake with the failures of yesterday painted in our cells and dripping off our skin. It is simply a fact. Some of us carry more paint, more drips than others. But no one, no one is immune. And someplace in that drippy paint that covers us, we can, if we choose, come to know the Spirit that moves in it all. The Spirit that does not expect us to be perfect but to be a human be-ing. It is a vulnerable place to be, a vulnerable relationship to develop. But in truth it is, I believe, the only way to move through the world. Daily wearing our vulnerability, our humanness, our imperfection like the images of God we are.

The authors of The Spirituality of Imperfection include in their introduction a small story I have heard often and love more each time I hear it. It originally comes from a work of the great theologian Martin Buber: “Rabbi Zusya said, ‘In the coming world, they will not ask me……’why were you not Moses?’ They will ask me…..’why were you not Zusya?”

And so it is. Perfection, however we define it, in whatever way we pursue it, is not really our work. Our work is to embrace the fullness of our imperfection with all its gifts and failures. Our work is to become the fragile, fractured human we are. It is joyful and painful work. It is spiritual work.

Be gentle with yourself this weekend………

On the coldest day of last week when it was fifteen degrees below zero with a twenty seven below wind chill, I noticed something quite unusual. Out of the corner of my eye, crawling toward the ceiling,up the gold painted wall of our family room, was-believe it or not- a box elder bug. There it was, this harbinger of late summer, black and very visible against the wall. My heart softened toward it. What a survivor! Where had it been hiding? What had it been eating? How long do these bugs live anyway?

I got distracted and hadn’t thought much more about this tiny, valiant insect. And then last night we were watching television in another room of the house when my husband pointed to the bug crawling its way across the floor. I watched it as it made its way slowly, slowly through the pile of the carpet. What did it feel like to its tiny,probably exhausted, legs? A mountain? My eyes darted to our cat lounging near the fireplace. Silently, I willed the feline to not notice this small, innocent being that could quickly become a frivolous play thing. Apparently its warmed,furry induced laziness trumped any desire to pounce.

Survivors. They are all around us. I know quite a few, don’t you? I marvel at the human spirit to prevail against sometimes unimaginable odds. We read the story of just such a person on Sunday during worship. In our continued attempt to rekindle the fire of the scripture stories that have shaped us, we read the life journey of Moses as chronicled in the book of Exodus. This unlikely man, chosen by God for great work, came up against obstacle after obstacle as he led the Hebrew people through the wilderness. He endured plagues and the abuse of complaining people. He overcame his weak voice to receive and proclaim the commandments that were given as a covenant between God and the people. He walked and climbed and eventually received bread from heaven. Moses was a survivor.

In many ways the story of Moses is our story. Though not as dramatic as forty years in the wilderness, many people continue to get back in the game after multiple failures. Somehow the hope that glimmers deep within is fanned into a fire once again and they step out on the road with renewed spirit. I send my prayers out to these survivors today. Those who have received bad news yet again. Those who have searched for jobs without finding a fit. Those who feel as if they are pursued by armies behind as they approach the Red Sea and cannot see the way opening to the next step in their lives. Those who feel the fire within dying away. May each, like Moses, find renewal beyond any thing they had hoped that might lift them once again to a continued walk toward some distant Promised Land.

Someplace in our house a box elder bug is experiencing a lease on life that seems remarkable. May it be so for all of us.

“I have sometimes dreamt, at least,that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards – their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble- the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy in seeing us coming with our books under our arms,’Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.'”
~Virginia Wolf

This quote made its way into the morning’s newspaper in the upper right hand corner of the editorial pages. I grinned as I read it. Thinking of the feisty, driven spirit of Virginia Wolf, these words have many layers, as most statements do. She seems to be getting some jabs in at the ruling class and at the ‘Almighty’ all at the same time. But her deep love of words and books lifts their art to heavenly status. It warmed my heart.

I was particularly taken with it because I spent Friday morning at the Minnesota Center for Book Arts. This jewel of a place is dedicated to the creation of beautiful books, handmade paper and the book as art form. There are large books and miniature books. There are flip books and pop-up books, comic books and hand-sewn books. You can see the amazing, painstaking process of a book’s birth. In the books that are on display, the words are important. But equally so is the way in which the book itself is put together. Seeing the unique and beautiful creations is truly inspiring.

Since Friday I have had several moments in which I have thought about the creators of those lovely books. What does it feel like to have such a call put on your life? For that, I believe, is what it is…..a calling. In a world in which more and more of our communication is electronic,black and white and unadorned, it might seem as if such an art would be on its way to being obsolete. But somehow I do not think this is the case. Something is still moving within these artists. They are still feeling a pull that cannot be denied. This fact gives me such hope.

This morning I was reading about the times within the early Celtic church in which there was much movement by Rome to dominate and change the ways in which Christianity would express itself in the remote islands of Britain. There was a push by the well structured church in Rome to deny the Celts their ties to an understanding of the movement of God in the goodness of all Creation. Out of resistance to these forces that would dominate a culture, that would make everything uniform and black and white, the beautiful illuminated manuscripts of The Book of Kells and the Sacred Texts of Lindisfarne were born. It seems there will always be among us those who must create the inspired words and the equally inspired art that accompanies them.

It is a gray day in Minnesota. Winter has us in its clutches. But someplace in our city, a person sits hunched over a work table. They are folding colorful papers and using ink in the ways of the ancients. As they dip their brushes and pens into wells of brilliant reds and deep golds, they are answering the pull that unites them with monks and abbesses from long gone monasteries. Though words may fly off computer screens at dizzying speeds, these faithful ones are methodically and perhaps prayerfully creating. Page by page. Book by book. Building a stairway to paradise.