Creating God, your fingers trace the bold design of farthest space;
Let sun and moon and stars and light and what lies hidden praise your might.

Sustaining God, your hands uphold Earth’s myst’ries known or yet untold;
Let waters fragile blend with air, enabling life, proclaim your care.

Redeeming God, your arms embrace all now despised for creed or race;
Let peace, descending like a dove, make known on earth your healing love.

Indwelling God, your gospel claims one family with a billion names;
Let ev’ry life be touched by grace until we praise you face to face.
~Jeffrey Rowthorn

Every now and then, I believe, we need a reminder about the magnitude of which we are a part. A couple of Sundays ago, we sang this song set to a beautiful tune by local composer David Haas. The music is haunting and sticks with you. But as our gathered community lifted their voices, it was the words that got stuck in me. As we were singing, I glanced around at people’s faces and recognized that many were having similar feelings to my own. When we were finished I said my usual lead in line to our time of announcements: “There are many ways to be involved in the life and work of this community this week.” But instead of going on to all the many wonderful classes and opportunities, I invited people to take this hymn home and put on their fridge or in a place where they would see the words often during the coming week. On the following Monday morning, I posted it on my office door so I could read it as I come and go and those who came to my door might also be drawn into its power as they knocked or waited.

It is so easy for me, and I don’t think I am alone in this, to get bogged down in the mundane details of any day and to forget that I am a part of an ancient and unfolding story. This story of the Universe, this telling of God’s movement in the world, is one in which we each play a very small part…..but an important one. Our work is to be awake enough to remember that we are important to its unfolding.

Last night as I stood bathed in the blue light of the full moon, I felt how small I was in comparison to ‘the bold design of farthest space’. But I also understand my work as a human to be one who speaks praise, awe, amazement, to point out the beauty and wonder by which we are surrounded. I had already pointed the moon out to my husband and his sister. And earlier I had done a similar thing with some colleagues as we left an evening meeting. Finally, I sent a text message to our son in Seattle.”Have you seen the moon tonight?” As I made my way to bed, I took a final glance out the window and noticed how the world which had been so white all day was now a brilliant blue. It seemed a moment of pure gift.

These moments when we allow ourselves to be bathed in the mystery of what it means to be alive in our time, in this world, are ones in which we can know in a deep way what it means to be connected to all other humans everywhere. Awe is an experience that is not bound by creed or race, education or economics or status. It is quite simply something that brings a certain peace that is difficult to find words to express. And so I trust that in city or village, on many continents around our world, people are lifting their eyes toward what amazes them, what shows them the presence of the Holy. They are turning their attention from the little details that can wait. They are having an experience of grace, a fullness of knowing that we are a part of something big, something mysterious, something to be held gently and with reverence…….praising that which some of us call God, face to face.

I am not sure if I am the only one noticing this phenomenon. But on these particularly cold days, when the sky is brilliant blue and the sunshine is blinding in its reflection off the mounds of snow that make up our landscape, flocks of crows are dancing in the sky. They seem to fly in a plenty that is not visible in summer. I watched yesterday as they soared in a dance that seemed to be accompanied by the music on my radio. Up and over, around and down, they formed black lace patterns against a dying day on my way home from work. I watched the flock form an undulating motion as, every now and then, one bird would peel off to land for a rest on a light pole or rooftop.

Perhaps it fascinates me because their posture is so very different from our human ones. Bundled up in down and fleece, our shoulders touch our ears as our lumpy forms plod along. We can seem to dance a penguin dance as we move across the icy pavement. But we all know that this is not a true dance, only a movement that tries to create a safety net that might prevent any real breakage should we fall.

And so the dance of these black, soaring birds elicits some desire of freedom in me. In a poem by Mary Oliver called ‘Crow Says’, she finishes her observation of these common, often raucous tree dwellers. Using the voice of the crow, she writes:

“Well, maybe now and again, and mostly in winter,
I have strange, even painful ruminations.
When you’re hungry and cold
it’s hard to be bold, so I sulk,
and I do have dreams sometimes, in which
I remember the corn will come again,
and vaguely then I feel that I am almost feeling
grateful, to something or other.”

I love the idea that the crows, like me, are remembering that corn will come again. Traveling last weekend through the farm country of Minnesota and Wisconsin, I allowed my eyes to take in all the white fields that in just a few months will be green and tall and waving in the warm breezes. I remembered last summer and the joy I found in driving through just such farmland, reveling in the beauty and bounty of miles and miles of the work of people I did not know but admired still.

In that remembering, my shoulders relaxed and the distance between my shoulders and ears grew. I felt all the tense muscles, held just so out of protection, relax into warmness. I do not have the ability to fly, to dance in beautiful patterns riding on the frigid winds. But, if the poet is correct about crows, we both have a similar sense of gratitude. For the miracle of a sun-cold day and the hope of the corn yet to be. And to the Spirit that moves in it all.

“Seeds germinate in the dark,
sing their roots, develop stems.
It is the way of thought also.
Only when what has been invisible
breaks the surface can you see
what to weed,
what to feed and water.”
~Gunilla Norris, A Mystic Garden

Yesterday at worship, during the prayers of the people, someone offered a prayer of gratitude for the seven seed catalogues that had arrived in her mailbox this past week. One for each day of the week! In most places this might seem an odd expression of thankfulness but given the fact that in Minnesota we have not seen the ground since early October, everyone knew exactly what she meant. The snow that came early and has continued every day, minus two, in January is beginning to play with our minds. Our household has not received any of the winter blessings in the form of colored pictures of beautiful flowers and regular and exotic vegetables yet. But yesterday’s prayer planted a certain sense of expectation. Now I will be vigilant as I watch each day’s mail arrive. The catalogues are, after all, a sign of winter hope.

Hope comes to us in many ways. When we encounter a new born baby, most of us would describe that experience as one of hope. We might even say “God has said yes to the world again.” The rising of the sun every morning is also a sign of hope. Like our ancient ancestors we often sense the new opportunities that arrive with the beginning of that first ray of new light after the darkness of the night.  The beginning of a new year can often signal a sense of hope, the chance to begin again, to right some wrongs, to recommit ourselves to change. Many experiences of hope are a natural part of the rhythm of life. Like the wisdom of the writer of Ecclesiastes, we know that ‘to everything there is a season.’ This kind of hope is simply another thread in the pattern of fabric we know as life.

But there is also, I believe, a hope we need to create, we need to feed. This kind of hope is a choice. It may be something we must commit ourselves to even when it is invisible to us. Like the promise of the seeds that can be ordered in the midst of winter, we embrace a hope of what is yet to be, yet to be dreamed. Those of us who are parents or have been teachers know this kind of hope-as-choice quite well.

I was reminded of this very fact yesterday afternoon as I participated in the funeral of one our dear saints of the church. This amazing woman had been a pillar of our church and a life-long teacher and missionary. She had taught and served children in the Minneapolis public schools and had also in Africa. I have had the privilege of knowing her for more than twenty years. We once even slept on the floor of a New Orleans church fellowship hall where we accompanied youth on a mission trip. I remember her laughter and how she clearly and gently led our youth and those we met in an orphanage where we assembled new beds for the children. She was no nonsense person but was also full of love. Love for church, for children and for God.

As many people spoke about the gifts this faithful woman had imparted to them, I was struck with what hope she had planted in the world. She boldly and with deep commitment worked with children who could have been lost in the shuffle of society. But her belief in each as a beloved child of God allowed her to continue to help them rise to their best selves. Hopefully, each of us have had at least one person in our life who bestowed just such hope in the container of who we are.

In addition to this lovely woman, I have the blessing of knowing her grandson when he was just a little boy. I had observed over the years, the doses of hope she had poured into him. And so, to now see this handsome young man stand confidently in his grief and speak of his grandmother, of her love for him and her church, brought tears to my eyes. As a journalist, he chose his words wisely, and with expertise, just as she would have liked. He spoke eloquently about her life story and the good with which she moved in his life. He was clear in outlining what was truly important to her. The hope which she had planted in him, was now being passed on through his education, his devotion, his love, his work.

Sometimes the colorless season of winter is real. Other times there are just days or weeks or years that need a good infusion of hope. A hope we choose.  For all those who have chosen to have hope in us, may we give thanks this day. And may we choose to pay forward the many hopes that have been sent our way.

“Let love be genuine;hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor.” Romans 12:9-10

Yesterday I had a good lunch. I have been known to say many times that if you have a good lunch, you can get through almost anything a day has to offer. This statement, of course, needs to be tempered with a certain amount of perspective. I often say it on a day that will be full of meetings. Meetings in which any sense of moving forward or productivity may be fleeting. And so to have the image of that lunch that awaits can be a comfort….and a nice distraction.

But yesterday’s lunch was not one I had packed myself. It was one I had in a Finnish cafe and bakery. I had planned my morning around arriving there at lunchtime, before I attended a meeting in the sweet, little St. Paul neighborhood where both church and cafe make their home. It is a haven of Scandinavian looking people and food…..open faced sandwiches, colorful, spare salads, desserts flavored with almond and butter. Really,what more could you want? As I enjoyed my lunch, I picked up the St. Paul Pioneer Press to read an article about a woman who would be turning 100 years old this week.

Sister Mary Mark Mahoney, a sister of St. Joseph of Carondolet, smiled gently from the paper’s page. When any of us encounter someone who has walked the earth this long, we often want to know the ‘secret’ of their long life. We also want to seek advice. The reporter for this article was no exception. Asking what we as humans need more of or to do, Sister Mary Mark replied that we need more common sense, more kindness, more showing of love, and caring for one another. She added that “We have a lot to do.”

When asked what we needed less of, she replied simply, “hate.”

Way to go Sister! In a week that has been fraught with hate, it seemed a welcome message. A little common sense and an ounce of kindness can carry us a long way. It certainly has done so for this sister centenarian. The article goes on to tell of the work she has done in her retirement which has now lasted more than 20 years. She has written letters to those in prison who live on death row. I can imagine her correspondence in longhand, precise cursive letters, to these people who are perhaps rightfully feared and shut away. I can also imagine that her letters may be some of the only kind and caring words these inmates experience or may have ever experienced.

Having finished my lovely tomato basil soup, I bit into the Finnish kringler I had been eyeing since entering this little establishment. The sweet, almond, buttery concoction began melting in my mouth. Bathed in such sweetness, I continued to think about Sister Mary Mark and all those like her who, every day, rise from their beds to do good work in the world. I thought of the nuns like her who have lived a life of faithfulness for decade after decade. I thought of others in faith communities, those in hospitals and nursing homes, those in schools and day care centers, who each day perform countless acts of kindness. I thought of the parents and grandparents and those who care for children and others who are vulnerable. Those who tie shoes, wipe noses and dish out encouraging words and common sense over and over and over. I thought of those who staff homeless shelters across our country, those who daily hold out dignity and hope to those who have little.

These are people we rarely hear about. Instead our newspapers and televisions share with us all the stories of people who have behaved otherwise. But make no mistake about it, they are out there, these bearers of kindness and caring and common sense. We know it is true because we have met them and they have offered their gifts to us. And sometimes, sometimes, we even find that we are behaving just like them. And it feels good. Very, very good.

My good lunch provided me with more than most lunches. In addition to a lovely meal full of nutrients and a little treat on the side, it also served up a dose of faith in the essential goodness of humanity. For the Sister Mary Marks of the world, I celebrate your birth and your life. Lives that continue to bring good news, gospel news to the world.

“At this time, Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. The moment he came out of the water, he saw the sky split open and God’s Spirit, looking like a dove, come down on him. Along with the Spirit, a voice: “You are my Child, chosen and marked by my love, pride of my life.” Mark 1: 9-11 The Message

This past Sunday is what is know in the church year as Baptism of Jesus Sunday. It always feels a bit peculiar to me. We have just finished Christmas, celebrating the birth of Jesus. Some people have yet to put away all the manger scenes that dot their house. We skip right over the few verses that say anything about Jesus as a boy. Instead we jump right into the beginning his ministry, his way of showing God’s Way in the world. For this, the scriptures tell us, he must be baptized by his cousin John. Wild, crazy John. And so he steps into the river Jordan and nothing is ever the same again. He hears the voice of God echoing around him, speaking unconditional love and acceptance and off he goes.

Not many people I know can remember their baptism. I certainly can’t though I have seen pictures. Pictures of a small baby made miniature by the flowing white dress that clothes her. She is held by a beautiful young woman who stands by a smiling young man whose faces speak of unconditional love and acceptance if not down right adoration. Certainly, at the time, my baptism was not the kind of life changing experience that Jesus had. But it was the start of being marked over and over by the love of a faith community and for that I am eternally grateful.

Everyone has experiences where they have stepped into a river and their life was forever changed. In our community on Sunday people told of just such moments. Being married and learning what it means to be a partner. Having children and the joy and chaos that life shift brings. Admitting their powerlessness over alcohol. Taking the first step of healing after a parent’s death. Encountering the world through travel and feeling that connection in new found ways. The stories were rich and we could still be there hearing them all. They carried the fullness of life.

The experience caused me to think of all the ‘stepping into the river’ experiences I have had. It also allowed me to remember these pivotal events that I have seen happen in our country and our world. Depending on one’s age, these moments are different but they are the markers by which we gauge our lives. There are always the ‘pre’ and ‘post’ times. Like before the war, after September 11th. Before the recession, after the election. Before graduation, after the baby was born. The moments go on and on. They are important markers and they provide a certain balance that helps us map what it means to be human.

When have you stepped into the river and never been the same? Perhaps you are at just such a point right now. Whether remembered or about to be experienced, may you, may each of us, find in this moment an encounter with the Holy. An encounter in which we are bathed with the message: “You are my Child, chosen and marked by my love, pride of my life.”

Blessed be.

“If you do not believe in God
Go on a blue spring day across these fields:
Listen to the orchids, race the sea, scent the wind.

Come back and tell me it was all an accident
A collision of blind chance
In the empty hugeness of space.”
~Kenneth C. Steven

I did not know it. But I have been searching for prayer. After the groundedness of Advent and the flurry of Christmas, I entered this season of Epiphany much like the Magi……searching. I found myself wandering from bookshelf to bookshelf. Leafing through poems, devotions,digging out bits and pieces of theological candy. But in the end, I was left still hungry. It was frustrating and confusing.

And then Friday I headed to a local store that caters to ‘all things churchy’. Candles, vestments, music, and books. I found myself roaming around, somewhat aimless, until I landed in the section labeled prayer. I began to look around at the various books and felt something move inside me. Like the Wise Ones who traveled through the desert, the Star had led me to a treasured place. I began to read the pages filled with prayers and words about prayer from various perspectives. Prayers from other traditions. Prayers for those who wanted a deep, spiritual practice. Prayers for women. Prayers to color. Prayers to read aloud with others. I walked out of the store with four books that seemed to bring something hopeful to my search.

Now I don’t hold any illusions that these prayers written by others will completely fill this longing I feel. But they may be a start. Like Mary Oliver who wrote:”I don’t know what a prayer is, but I do know how to pay attention.”, I am paying attention to this gnawing at my core that will not let me go. I am paying attention to the Holy trying to communicate with me. I am trying, trying to listen.

What better time to be searching for prayer than when our country has just suffered another horrible and violent destructive act like the one in Tucson? How do we make sense of such a thing? While my heart goes out, not only to the families of those killed and injured, my heart also goes out to this young man who is so ill. To plan and execute such violence is unimaginable. And yet, over the last few years our society has surrounded itself on the fear, rhetoric, meanness and vile evil of its own words. Words that are played at a fever pitch over and over on news, in newspapers, and on the internet. Words that come to make a home in us. How can our hearts not break with the sadness, the deep sadness of it?

This morning as I sat, coffee cup in hand, preparing for a little quiet time before my day began, I reached for one of the books I had purchased on Friday. “Where does this deep down, soulful hunger come from? The ache that you and I experience deep in our souls was created by the One in whose image we are made. We are meant for God and God is meant for us.“, writes author Dan Schutte. In the fullness of this day, with all its beauty and its violence, I am holding out that prayer can and does make a difference. And with each breath, I will continue paying attention and………..searching.

“………Eat, drink, be happy.
Accept the miracle.
Accept, too, each spoken word,
spoken with love.”
~from Mary Oliver’s ‘Logos’

This past Sunday we celebrated the sacrament of communion at worship. The entire service was a unique, combining the different and distinct worship styles that are available every Sunday morning. The service was welcome for some, and I’m sure, challenging for others. Given the way in which both Christmas and New Year’s fell on Saturday, it seemed the best use of  everyone’s energy and time and provided for a larger number of people in one service rather than a small number in each. All in all, I felt both Sundays reflected the snapshot of a faith community that is diverse and yet flexible enough to be open to having things not follow the eternal mantra of the church: ” But we’ve always done it this way.”

During the service we shared music from the various styles beloved by each community. We were careful to balance the service with what seems to be the most important parts of liturgy for each. Prayers were said, the peace of Christ was passed, an offering was received. And finally it was time for communion.

I have to admit that I had been centered on some other details of the service and had forgotten to look carefully as to where I was to stand as I served the communion bread. After the Eucharistic prayer and the Lord’s Prayer was spoken, all those who were to serve the gathered community came forward and we took the bread and cup from the table. I took the bread and headed to the nearest place only to realize I was not where I should be. But then I saw one of our young ones looking at me with knowing eyes. I followed his lead to the other side of the sanctuary and we took up our places as people walked forward to receive the elements. The moment we began, I knew I was in for a holier than usual moment.

This young boy, standing tall and confident with the communion cup in his hands followed my quiet offer of bread to the first person with the words: “The cup of hope. For you.” His spoke these words as he looked the receiver straight in the eyes. He did not mumbles these words or wait for my lead in any way. He just stood there offering both word and cup boldly over and over. I found myself rising to the occasion. I spoke my words: ” The bread of new life offered for you.” with greater presence and intensity than I normally do. Slowly,as people came toward us, I had the sense that they were anticipating what they were about to receive. There was nothing rote or ‘I’ve done this a hundred times’ feel to it. What was happening was real, for this moment in time, for each person.

Later I thought about all the clergy I know and have experienced who offer this meal with that same old, same old sound in their voices. I have, no doubt, at times been one of them. We might be able to talk endlessly about the theology of sacraments, about what communion is or isn’t, what it means and doesn’t.  There are plenty of clergy and other adults who don’t give it much thought because they are unsure what they really believe about this central act of our worship. Still others would say that someone so young as my co-server has no understanding of the depth of this important act.

All I know is that on Sunday I had the privilege…..and the blessing…..to stand by a young one who spoke with the voice of a prophet. Clearly, boldly, loudly, he proclaimed what he knew and what he had to offer: ” This is the cup of hope. For you.”  For those who were nourished by his presence and his words, I would bet they will not soon forget what it was like to celebrate this sacrament…….this outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.

I am certain that I will remember it for a very, very long time.

Today has been a gift of a day. I have taken a day apart to write, read, pray and spend some quiet time with myself as I stare out the window of a friend’s lovely home. As I sit in a comfortable chair looking out at a frozen, snow covered pond, the fact that this is pure blessing is not lost on me. This is what is called a retreat day and it is a good thing to have at the beginning of a new year. I have had the luxury of watching the sunlight move and play on the trees and across the surface of the frozen pond. Outside the window, chickadees and other small birds flit from bare branch to the feeder that is nestled at the edge of the pond. A moment ago a blue jay swooped in like he owned the place, which for that window of time he did. But earlier, when the downy woodpecker was having breakfast, he would not have been the Alpha.

Earlier this week, I sat with my co-workers at a meeting where we discussed what it  means to feel you are standing at a threshold. Of course, each new year is a threshold, a beginning of sorts. We talked about how difficult it is to photograph a threshold, how it it nearly impossible to see through the lens and capture what you intuitively know or what you desperately hope. So much of this difficulty is about light. The way light spills through an open door, or across a gate that is slightly ajar can be challenging to capture in a photograph. It can also be challenging to understand what the open door can mean. To what are we being called? Is there enough light to see where we are going? Or is the real goal to be able to move with confidence, or at least patience, into a darkened place, through a darkened door?

In one of many books I have stacked around me right now, the short, simple four line poem reads:
at every turn,
wherever you are,
unexpected,
God says BE STILL.

Standing at a threshold requires us to take a few moments to get our bearings before we step forward. Having the courage to become attuned to the call of an opening……or a closing……door, demands a deep breath and a moment of silence before proceeding. Taking the time and patience that is needed before stepping toward the light that seeps through the crack of an open door or the new year, challenges us to remember that the Holy is the companion who accompanies us at every turn, even when we are least aware. Thresholds may bring many things we assume will be on the other side but also unexpected experiences.

Today I have watched the winter birds flit and flurry. But I have also observed them sitting still atop towering trees. In the silence they are waiting for the threshold of spring that is yet far off. But the ever increasing light that is offered each day speaks of what is to come.

In silence and in expectation, we wait.

“May there always be two thousand acres of sky above us.
May there always be the story of the earth beneath us.
May there always be the song of the air between us.
And may the love that shook creation from God’s hand,
shake us alive,
that we may walk God’s way,
now and always.”
~Roddy Hamilton

The grayness of winter is starting to settle in. We took all the decorations off our Christmas tree last night and packed them away for another year. While clearing away these yearly additions to a house brings a certain feeling of cleansing, of a return to order, there is also a sadness and loss of color that seems to add to the starkness of the view outside our windows. Like a child who loves the glitter and glow of Christmas, I could be one of those people who could be convinced to leave the tree up until Easter or till the snow melts…whichever comes first. In Minnesota this can be risky business.

This year Easter comes nearly as late as it can be. Given that our snow came early and with a vengeance, we have said more than once that ‘this could get old fast’. Yesterday as I was reading a book of worship resources I came across the poem/prayer above. It seemed the perfect words for these long, gray, often monotonous days that rest between the sparkle and flash of Christmas and the greening and promise of Easter. During these winter days we often need to be ‘shaken alive’, to remember to stay awake to how God is shining into the world.

I particularly love the image that it was love that shook creation out of God’s hand. The poet seems to imply that the Holy One was holding onto creation, saving it for another time. But love swept in and shook the foundations of the Source of All and Creation was born. It is a profound image for all the creations of our smaller yet important lives. How often it is that it takes love to shake us up, to cause us to let go of what it is we want to hoard……guilt, shame, resentment, greed, insecurity, anger…..until we find ourselves giving birth to something that lay hidden just beneath the surface of all that is good within us. In these moments when nothing will do but love, we are shaken alive. Shaken alive to the possibilities, shaken alive to a newness we never imagined, shaken alive to what it means to be a beloved creation of God.

In those moments when the shaking subsides and we find ourselves standing on the firm earth, breathing in the precious air, being held in the arms of the expansive sky, we glimpse what it means to walk in God’s way. It may only be one moment or a thousand. But when it happens it is a good thing to give thanks for being shaken. Shaken alive.

“Ask advice of every wise person and blessing of every holy one.”
~John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us

On Christmas Eve morning, my husband and I were having coffee in one of our favorite neighborhood haunts. It was the ‘calm before the storm’ so to speak. At noon I would begin the several worship services of which I was privileged to be a part. Each service has a distinct flavor and spirit and it takes a certain energy of presence to make my way through the afternoon and evening. So we sat quietly drinking our morning coffee watching the people and cars maneuver through yet another bout of snow. It felt good to not have any responsibilities for the moment. To simply be.

We watched as people came in to pick up their Christmas Eve orders. Boxes of colorfully decorated cookies.  Frosted Christmas breads and rolls for the evening’s sandwiches. One man was picking up an order to deliver to a Czech neighborhood. I didn’t even know there was such a neighborhood in St.Paul!  We listened to the banter between this particularly jolly man and the bakery workers as they  told him they had thrown in an extra loaf for him. Clearly the Christmas spirit was alive and well in this cozy little establishment.

Finally an older gentleman who had been talking with the employees began making his way out the door. He stopped just short of actually opening the door and turned toward us. His smile was bright and welcoming. First, in typical Minnesota fashion, he talked with us about the weather. Then before we knew what was happening, we were engaged in conversation. He revealed that he had been a butcher, still was on a part time basis. That he had left his wife of many years at home this morning while he was out running errands and she was preparing food for Christmas. He asked us how long we had been married and told us he had been married for, I believe, sixty or more years. He told us about his children and asked about ours. Before we knew it we were sharing so much more than a random dialogue with a stranger.

Now this may on first blush sound like just a lonely older person who liked to talk. But the important part of the story is that over and over he spoke of how blessed he was. When we would tell him the facts of our lives which he searched out, he would say ” You  are blessed.” And finally as he turned to leave, he looked back and said: “God bless you.” And smiling to the point that his cheeks had now turned rosy and his eyes twinkled, he left.

Sitting there on Christmas Eve morning, we were dumbfounded. Had we just encountered an angel? In fact, he did look a little like George Bailey’s Clarence! The only thing missing from his angel-speak was the common ‘fear not!’ but this life-long butcher was doing the work of an angel. Spreading good news with words of kindness and a deep presence to the world around him. Speaking words of blessings as he moved blissfully through the world. There was certainly do doubt in our minds that we were blessed, had been blessed my this chance encounter.

In this lovely book by John O’Donohue mentioned above, he writes that  blessings are ‘seen as a communication of life from God. Once the blessing is spoken, it cannot be annulled or recalled.’ Someplace in this city I love walks a man who knows the intricate work of butchering animals to feed the hungry. This same man knows the sacred art of offering blessing, of feeding that deeper part of each of us that needs a reminder: We are blessed.

I know it is true because I carried the holiness of his words, his communication of life, into my celebration of Christmas, God-with-Us.