We awoke to a beautiful, sunny, crisp day in Kelso and boarded our motor coach to Edinburgh which will be our base for two days before heading off to the Island of Iona. Driving through the rolling countryside we saw, once again, the stone fences that create boundaries between farms, helping the sheep and cattle to know where home is. We learned that these fences have no mortar that holds them together. The fence builders simply search for the stones that ‘fit’ well together. They rely on the grooves and curves, the sharp edges and points to create a perfect foundation for one another. It is the same with community, isn’t it? We take the soft and rounded edges of our very selves, the humility of our gifts and build them together with our harder, sharper edges and before you know it, everything fits together in ways that work.

Riding along in our motor coach( we have been told this is not a bus!) we had morning prayer: “At the beginning of this day we seek your blessing. At the rising of the sun we seek your glory. Open our eyes to your presence, O God, that we may glimpse you at the heart of each moment.” Our voices joined as the motor coach rose up and down the road which was sandwiched between lush green fields. Off in the distance we witnessed a gleaming wind farm, white turbines spinning the invisible into energy. Spirit work.

We arrived at Edinburgh Castle and began to make the steps millions have traveled before. Over the cobblestones, our feet made their way past the cannons that once protected the city against invaders toward the exhibits of the Crown Jewels, the Stone of Destiny and into St. Margaret’s Chapel. We took in the prisoner of war museum making our way through dungeon-like tunnels that smelled musty, squinting our eyes against the dim light to see beds and hammocks piled on top of one another, their only
padding the straw that lay beneath feather tick, thin mattresses. It was a dismal sight as we thought of how people have the ability to treat one another. But all these experiences painted a picture of the history of the humans who have called this place home.

From the Castle we made our way to St. Gile’s Church, a lovely little cathedral that sits just down the road on what is known as the Royal Mile. St. Gile’s is filled with amazing stained glass windows, one that is dedicated to Scotland’s most famous poet, Robert Burns. This church has seen many iterations of worshiping life and seems to be undergoing yet another. The entrance created hundreds of years ago now opens into a blue, glass automatic sliding door that gives the feeling of walking through clouds. Once inside, the stained glass dominates the traditional space. A large statue of John Knox, possibly the most important Scottish theologian and founder of the Presbyterian Church, stands in prominence. But looking around amidst the sanctuary I became aware that the choir stalls had been moved to ring the altar table which now sits prominently in the center of the space. Lovely oak chairs with woven cane seats, a carved Scottish flag on the chair back, have replaced the majority of the pews. The pews that are left have been stained a light green and a brand new organ has been installed on one of the side walls. The organ is stained a deep red. All the seating creates a circular formation focused on the altar table. This configuration brings the community and the clergy into a visually equal footing round the table.

Of course, I do not know if the openness and creativity I observed in the architecture and furnishings translates to the way the community lives out its faith, but I hope so. On a poster near the entrance, there is an explanation of the changes that have been and are being made: “These stones could be clean again, and draw tomorrow’s people to seek and find a faith for celebrating good things, and find comfort in times of difficulty.” As I read these words it was clear to me that most churches are struggling to do much of the same work. Most in our group could certainly relate to their quest.

And so at the end of this day, my prayer is for all those who continue to clean the stones,move the furniture so all will feel welcome, and put food on the table at the center of who we are. For those who have continued to do these courageous and humble acts, I offer my gratitude.

” Sing for God’s saints who have tracked faith’s journey before us,
Who, in our weariness, give us their hope to restore us;
In them we see the new creation to be,
Spirit of love made flesh for us.”

We began our morning on Holy Island, Lindisfarne, by singing these words. Holy and powerful words for an equally holy and powerful experience. As we had our morning prayer, standing in the mist of a Scottish rain, we could all feel the presence of the countless faithful who had prayed in this place for centuries. How does one even process such an experience? I looked around at the faces and could see the myriad of longings, hopes, and anticipations my fellow pilgrims carried into the ruins in which we stood. As we lifted our voices in song, we knew we were joining other voices that had echoed in this place when the walls were intact. As we offered our prayers, we were keenly aware that our voices were joined by the whispers of words lifted by the ancients.

Holy Island sits at the northeast coast of England just south of the Scottish border. The island’s life is governed by the tides. There was a window of time in the morning when the causeway was open and the tides were out. We rose early to make our way onto the island before the tides came in creating an impassible road to Lindisfarne Priory and Lindisfarne Castle and the few houses and shops that make up the small village. While we were busy trekking the land, the moon had done its work to create the tides from the North Sea that engulfed the shore. The Priory was founded in AD 635 and is the home and original burial ground of St. Cuthbert, an important figure in the establishment of Celtic Christianity. The story goes that after his death in AD 687, Cuthbert was buried and his remains were exhumed 11 years later to find that his body was in perfect condition,a sure sign of sanctity. He was the spiritual leader of those who lived their faith on this peaceful, isolated place for years, a place of solitude until it was invaded by Viking raiders in AD 793, a day the locals call ‘the day that changed everything’. The Vikings raided to capture the gold and riches brought by pilgrims as gifts to those at the abbey who had healed the sick and nurtured their spiritual lives. In addition to the valuable material objects, the Vikings also captured many of the people on the island to sell as slaves. One of our pilgrims remarked that while much as changed over the years, much may have sadly stayed the same.

Today’s weather created a movie-like Scottish set: gentle rains, misty roads, sheep standing like statues in the fields, boats bobbing on the water, shore birds flying overhead. There was no magical entrance of bagpipes today, though! Instead we found ourselves more rested, more prepared to be present to the Spirit’s movement in our steps, our path, our journey. Each pilgrim found this in their own way. Some in twos and threes. Others in solitary rain-soaked walking.

In the book, The Art of Pilgrimage, which we read as preparation for this journey, the author offers these words: Imagine your departure as a metamorphosis. Through simple acts of intention and attention, you can transform even a sleepwalking trip into a soulful journey. The first step is to slow down. The next one is to treat everything that comes your way as part of the sacred time that envelops your pilgrimage.

Today the rain provided the slowing down even the most driven among us needed. That slowing down allowed us to see and hear and experience the sacred time that is enveloping our journey. I know this is true. As one of our travelers told me: “Did you notice that when we sang,the birds that sat at the tops of the priory, stopped singing? And then when we prayed, the birds accompanied us in song?”

Yes, I had noticed. And I felt blessed to have shared this sacred noticing with her and the winged ones.

After a long night flight and a lay over in Amsterdam, we arrived in Glasgow, Scotland in the late morning. Those of us who had been planning this pilgrimage for more than a year, looked at one another in awed triumph. “We are really here!” Thirty-one people who did not know one another several months ago are now traveling, eating, laughing, praying and becoming community. It is a joyous thing, a holy thing.

After meeting our Scottish guide, Bill, at the airport we headed into the rolling country side to have lunch at Peebles……a sweet little town on the river Tweed. The walk along the river helped liven us up after the long plane journey. The group is beginning to gel and the small groups of travelers who knew one another from other circles are now spending time getting to know new people. A good trait for any pilgrimage, I think. At our first stop we headed out in twos and threes to discover places for lunch and shopping. A pilgrim must ask the locals for advice on where to find food. I received good advice on the cheeses of the local area. I relied on the kindness of strangers as we all did.

As we continued on toward Melrose Abbey, we saw the heather,now reddish brown on the hills, turned from its lavender blue of its August flowering. Fly fishermen lined the river searching for salmon and trout. Pheasants scattered themselves about in the harvested barley fields, their ringed-necks looking like a woman adorned in fine jewelry. The countless fluffy sheep lazed on the hillsides making polka dotted patterns in the rich, green grass. The scene gave new meaning to the word pastoral.

We arrived at Melrose Abbey, a medieval Cistercian stronghold situated in a town of cobblestoned winding streets. As we entered the abbey grounds, the sounds of bagpipes began to wash out of the stone ruins. Really? Really. We had come upon a wedding in this ancient place. I was struck with the power of a new beginning in a place that had known the prayer and work of so many of the faithful over hundreds of years. The wedding party marched out of what remains of the abbey walls. The men in kilts of different family tartans. The bride, resplendent in an ivory gown that shown against the deep green of the grass, the strength of the stone. The women guests wore extravagant hats as only the British can do.

We pilgrims spent time walking the abbey grounds, standing in the places where walls once stood, where both clergy and lay people worked side by side to tell of God’s movement in their lives, in their time. Slowly I observed our little group walk off singly, looking with interest and a sense of presence at the ancient, sacred place to which we had come. Just hours ago, we had been flying high over the Earth, something those who had made their mark in the stone and the soil of this place could never have imagined.

And yet somehow, if we allowed ourselves the presence of mind, the fullness of Spirit, we were connected to the breath, their breath that moves through this holy place. It had become a truly thin place.

For several weeks now I have been passing by a house not far ours on my daily walks and observing a small apple tree in the yard. Like a tomato plant we grew this summer, both plants yielded only one fruit. Our tomato plant grew tall and heavy with leaves but, in the end, had one medium sized tomato that remained green for weeks. Every morning I would check its progress. But it was taking its own good time in coming into its fullness. I referred to it as our Zen tomato plant. The same has been true of this apple tree. It is a small tree that is now heavy with one rather large apple. I have watched it grow larger and larger as the branch bends with the heaviness of its fruit. Each day I have been drawn to its growth, the weight it is exerting on the tiny tree.

As I have observed it, I have thought about all the energy and nutrients that have gone into creating this one apple. I have been fascinated with the singular thrust of this tree. Some might think that the tree is deficient in some way to only produce one offspring. But I have been reminded of the artists, the writers, the farmers, the activists, the parents who have poured all their energy into creating one single, perfect, beautiful thing. While they may go on to create something again at another time, for this day, for this season, there is only the single-minded passion to produce one gift to the world. Unlike the common patterns around them, scatter-shooting ideas and plans, these are the people who can have a vision, hold onto it gently but firmly, and move methodically toward its creation, its fulfillment.  When you are in the presence of such people, it is pure gift. Pure gift to watch the calmness that grips them at some deep place, some Spirit place. Some commitment that allows them to keep their eye on the prize.

This little apple tree has reminded me of the sacrifice of bringing forth something beautiful in the world. Its branches(there are only about three) are pulled and contorted by the heaviness of its progeny. Many parents know this same pull. As does anyone who has labored over a dream. But, oh, the joy that comes from seeing the child, the painting, the project, the apple, come into its fullness. I dare say someone felt the same for each of us at one time. And so I am thankful for the gift of this little tree. For its persistence. For its hard work. For its lessons.

There is a song I learned years ago in the spiritual renewal weekend called Cursillo. It goes something like this: ‘Because you’re the apple of my eye, I’ve set you in a high place. You are my inheritance. You are all I could desire. And I promise to stay with you forever.’

For all the apples of their Creator’s eye, I am filled with awe and gratitude this day. Look around you because they are everywhere. Perhaps an offering of thanks is in order.

****I will be leaving this afternoon for a long awaited pilgrimage to holy places in Scotland. With the cooperation of wireless internet sites I can find, I will be posting on this blog a daily diary of our travels. I hope you can join us in this way as we walk the paths the faithful have walked for hundreds of years.

“The wisdom of the humble lifts their heads high, and seats them among the great. The bee is small among flying creatures, but what it produces is the best of sweet things.” Sirach 11:1,3

Yesterday I heard a wonderful report on MPR about a Minnesota woman who received a ‘genius’ grant from the MacArthur foundation. This grant carries a gift of $500,000 for the recipients to continue the study in which they have been engaged. The recipient, Marla Spivak, has spent years studying the honeybee. In the report she was asked how she came to such work. She declared that she had been ‘hooked on bees’ since she was eighteen years old. I laughed out loud in my car. Hooked on bees! I think of what it must have been like to discover your passion so early and to have continued its love throughout your life. And then to have received a coveted award for that same love.

Now, to most people, honeybees may not seem like very important beings. Certainly not worth such a grand prize. But Marla Spivak points out that honeybees pollinate a third of the food supply of fruits and vegetables in the United States. Without their work, our lives will become less healthy. Something to think about, isn’t it? Those little insects that buzz around the flowers and sweet drinks we hold on our decks on sunny days are important to our over all well being. And the truth is, they are not doing well. It seems that with diseases and pesticides and (can you believe this?) less flowers in the world, the honeybees are declining in numbers and in their own ability to do their work. And so the point needs to be made: If the honeybees aren’t doing well, what about we two-leggeds who can sometimes walk about as if we are the center of the universe?

This all made me think about what other beings in our world we might be ignoring or overlooking simply because they seem smaller and, to us,insignificant. I happen to be one of those people that believes that each part of Creation has a purpose. Sometimes, in my limited life experience, in my narrow understanding I don’t always realize this truth. But hearing about the honeybees yesterday gave me a reason to keep my eyes open, to be on alert, lest I think myself more important than I am. It was a good wake up call.

There is a story I have heard more than once about the ways in which the rabbis used to help their students understand the sweetness of the scriptures. They would fill a tray with a thin layer of honey. Then they would have the students write the Hebrew letters in the honey. After the letters had been formed, the students would be instructed to lick the honey off their fingertips. As the sweetness slid off their fingers, onto their tongues and down their throats, the gift of the scriptures literally became a part of the aspiring writers. It is a wonderful image isn’t it?

Perhaps those of us who travel life’s sweet path today, might take a moment to be present to all the small creatures with whom we travel. We might pause and think about what they bring to our lives and how we would be less without them. And then we might say a prayer of gratitude for the ants and worms that plow our garden dirt and the box-elder bugs covering our window screens. For the squirrels busily gathering food for their winter sleep. For the bats which swoop and the mosquitoes that fly. And especially for the honeybee on whom we depend. Even when we don’t know it.

And while we are at it, how about a prayer for the ones who get hooked on these creatures and can bring us to a greater appreciation.

“What makes a river so restful to people is that it doesn’t have any doubt-it is sure to get where it is going and it doesn’t want to go anywhere else.” Hal Boyle

Wasn’t yesterday an absolutely stupendous day? The fall colors are beginning to emerge. The sun was shining so brightly, sending shafts of light through the yellows and reds that are beginning to paint the trees in our landscape. Even at the height of the day, there was just a hint of chill in the air. Children in our neighborhood were running around, playing, yelping, as if trying to squeeze the last bit of freedom out of the days they had known in summer. It was one of those days when a teeshirt was not enough. A jacket was too much. Some might even be so bold as to call it a ‘heavenly day’.

We took the opportunity to wind our way down the river to Hastings taking in the half harvested fields of corn and summer’s exit. Brilliant green shown on one farm while others were dotted with the nubs of corn mowed to the edge of the ground. Flocks of birds could be seen overhead doing their little lacey dances in air. I love this autumn flight show they do. I always try to turn on the radio so the music can accompany their flights of fancy. No matter the tune on the dial, the music seems to fit.  They, like the children, seemed to be making a last ditch effort at soaking up the sunshine, the warmth, the gifts of frivolous days gone by.

At the edge of the Mississippi River, we sat watching the powerful waters make their turns in some of the widest areas of the river’s path. The waters seemed even more treacherous than usual, fueled by the heavy rains we experienced last week. We sat and watched as enormous, rootless, trees floated alongside smaller branches and limbs torn loose by strong winds and the rains that are playing even greater havoc further down river.  Floating along in the current were also debris of all sorts: plastic soda bottles, all kinds of aluminum cans, papers, plastic, an upended paper plate(how did it stay afloat?). A styrofoam cup half filled with muddy water stood upright as if someone might reach out, pick it up and take a drink. And the most unusual, a black and white Adidas sport sandal riding the water as if making a miraculous, one-legged walk on the waves. The sight was both astounding and quite sad. This mighty river filled with such filth and pollution. My husband pointed out that, if all went well for some of the debris, it would be in New Orleans in a couple of days. A tragic but interesting thought.

Later we walked another path further north along the river. A plaque along the way pointed out that people had walked, lived, and flourished along this river for 8,000 years. An amazing idea. As I looked out toward the burgeoning waters flowing around islands of trees and docks that seemed to be free floating, I wondered about those people. What manner of things had my genetic ancestors seen float by 8,000 years ago? 5,000 years ago? 1,000 years ago? 100 years ago? Surely the floods, which are predictable and a part of how Creation works, have always caused debris to make its way from our end of the river to the Gulf that will receive it. How has that changed over the years? What does the ‘stuff’ we send down the river have to say about who we are now?

I don’t have any answers to these questions. But I did leave that experience feeling a greater connection to those ancient people who made their lives, their homes by the shores of the river. I felt a connection and an obligation to walk gently on this land. Perhaps some day, say 1,000 years from now, someone will stand at the river’s edge and wonder about me and my life companions. Perhaps they will wonder if we loved the river, if we felt its connection to our living and to our brothers and sisters who we share its flow. I pray they will think on us kindly.

“As you start on the Way, the Way appears.” ~Rumi

These past days, with the rain coming down and the darker days descending as autumn approaches, have been good for self-reflection. It seems, for me, that fall always conjures up this inner work. Maybe it is just the school year rhythm that is so firmly planted within us that gets this movement happening. But whatever it is, I welcome it. And this fall I am particularly aware of it given my upcoming pilgrimage to Scotland. Those of us who are embarking on this adventure continue to affirm that this is not merely a trip but a longing for transformation.

Of course, one need not be heading off to far away places to be attentive to the unfolding of our life’s path. This is a gift that is present to us with the rising of each new day, at the beginning of each season, each year. The Quakers often speak of this presence to our unfolding life simply as ‘Way’. Most often, however, our human inclination is to stumble after things we think are outside of us, outside our reach. These are goals after which we strive. And yet, over the years I have come to believe that everything we need to do the work to which we are called, to be our authentic self, our God-created self, is present within us from the beginning. This discovering and uncovering of the way in which we are to walk is a life long process. Our circumstances, often created by others, can bump up against what we know to be true. The choices we make about those circumstances either help or hinder our discovery, our attention to the Way. Does this ring true for you?

In the lives of the early Christians, they often referred to Jesus’ teaching, even Jesus himself, as the Way. I love this idea. It helps move people away from the traditional practice of speaking about belief and places the emphasis on how, as people of faith, we pay attention to how Jesus lived, how he moved in the world, walked his path, created his Way of being in relationship with the Holy. This was what, I think, his life offers ours. Belief keeps us in our heads and often has been designed to keep others out of the circle while declaring how right the ‘believers’ are. Attending to walking the Way of Jesus, while perhaps more challenging, opens our hearts, softens our hearts to one another, to the world.

Sometimes Way, as the Quakers put it, is a path that is full of shadows, maybe even completely dark. These become difficult times for the one who is walking the path and often for those who stand by the side of the road with only their love as an offering. And yet I am somehow comforted and inspired by the words of Medieval mystic Meister Eckhart who describes this challenging life time as: “The Wayless Way, where the Sons(and Daughters) of God lose themselves and, at the same, find themselves.”

Isn’t this almost always how it goes? We awake each day with a notion of what the day( or our life) may hold, what we have planned for it to hold. We walk out into the world and sometimes our plans work out just as we hoped. But often Way calls to us from someplace just outside our vision, tugging at something that is planted deep within. We can choose to be open or not, to follow or run away.We can choose to change our route, make a course correction, close our eyes and hide. Though it may not always seem as if the choice is ours, it really is. If we have the courage and the heart to listen to the Spirit’s movement, Way will open.

No way, you say? Way!

“They say that one of the reasons for tragedy is that you learn important lessons from it…appreciation for your normal life for one thing….a new longing for things only ordinary…the feeling is that we are so caught up in minutiae, slicing tomatoes, and filling out forms and waiting in lines and emptying the dryer and looking in the paper for things to do. That we forget how to use what we’ve been given. Therefore we don’t taste the plum. We are blind to the slant of the four o’clock sun against the changing show of leaves. We are deaf to the throaty purity of children’s voices. We are assumed to be rather hopeless. Swallowed up by incorrect notions divorced from the original genius with which we are born. Lost within days of living this distracting life. We are capable only of moments of single seconds of true appreciation and connection. That is the thought.”
~ Elizabeth Berg, Range of Motion

Recently, our girl’s book club at church, asked the women’s book club to tell them our favorite beginning paragraph of a book. These words by Elizabeth Berg from one of her many novels continues to be one of my favorites. Of all the ‘great books’ this might not appear on people’s lists but for my money this opening paragraph nearly says it all. I have used these words in sermons, as a meditation and continue to return to its inherent truth.

This past week I read it once again and allowed the words to seep into the crevasses that had been made by the death of a dear person in my life. For the past four months I, and so many others, have followed the tragedy of her journey with ovarian cancer. Each day her husband religiously(and I do not use this word lightly) wrote of her struggles, her triumphs, her joys, and the tragedy that was gripping their family. he also wrote of the deep wisdom that grew out of this rich soil. Each day I logged onto her Caringbridge  site to electronically share in the journey. I was privileged to witness her pictures and her family’s pictures as they traveled this difficult road with grace, faith, sorrow and a immense joy.

Each day, after sending up a prayer for them all, I would remind myself of the gifts of my own life. I tried to remember to be present to the beauty around me, to really look at the food I was eating and notice its colors and savor the tastes on my tongue. I looked into the eyes of the enormous black dog that lives in our house and saw the unconditional love there. I welcomed the pleasure of walking with my husband, having dinner with my sons and talking with neighbors about mundane things. I tried not to live the distracted life. Always a challenge, don’t you think?

This is, as Berg points out, the gift of tragedy. Of course, I did not experience this in the deep, powerful way those much closer to my friend had. But its wisdom was not lost on me and, I hope, my attention to living was somehow a testament to my friend’s grace-filled passing from this earth.

The first day I met her, I pulled my mini-van up behind hers for what would be countless soccer games to follow. Her bumper sticker read: ‘Have You Thanked God Today?’ It is odd that nearly ten years have passed and I still remember that. Today, the answer is yes. I thank God for her life. I thank God for the reminder. I thank God.

Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
~Christina Rossetti

Every parent has no doubt told the story to a whining child about ‘walking to school in the snow, uphill both ways’. It is a joke of course but never fails to stop the complaining in its tracks, for at least a moment, as the logic of this concept tries to sink in.  And yet many of us have had the experience of traveling uphill with no end in sight.

As I continue to prepare for my October pilgrimage to the island of Iona in Scotland, I am thinking about the of travel, of walking, in both metaphorical and practical ways. There is, of course, the issue of the right shoes to wear. As a self-professed show junkie  this has brought no shortage of anxiety. But now that I think I have that problem solved, I can concentrate on the deeper meanings of what it means to walk the path o f this long awaited adventure.

Last week our group of pilgrims gathered for a final briefing by the trip planners. We shared details, a wonderful meal and a shared anticipation for what these eleven days together will bring. As I looked around the room I tried to imagine the many reasons and life circumstances each person was bringing to this road that may often feel like an uphill trek. Some of my fellow pilgrims I know very well and have for years. Others I am still getting to know, learning their names,hoping that the days spent together on buses and planes and around shared food and rich experiences will bring new friends. I am hoping that by journey’s end I will know more about each person, will come to a place of gratitude for having shared the road together, from morning till night, ‘the whole day long’.

But one does not need to be preparing for a long trip to embrace the words of Christina Rossetti. Each day provides its own journey, uphill and down. Each stage of our lives also offers this gift: a road that is to be traveled without our knowing where the twists and turns will take us. All the plans we make can turn on a dime. Anyone who has lived more than a few years knows this. What seemed like a smooth moving, care-free existence can suddenly turn into an uphill battle with an unforeseen diagnosis, a deep loss, a turn too quickly made. This is the nature of life.

And so for all those who are held in the limbo of an uphill journey, my prayers go out to you. For all those who cannot see the path ahead or are too frightened to look, my prayers surround you. For those who travel alone and long for companionship, my prayers embrace you.  From morn to night. From night to morn.

“Story is the mother of us all. First we wrap our lives in language and then we act on who we say we are. We proceed from the word into the world and make a world based on our stories.” Christina Baldwin

I am knee deep in story talk. With our fall theme of “A Story to Stand On”, I am listening to and thinking about stories all the time. I am listening for words in conversations, words like ‘remember when’ or ‘ can you tell me’. These phrases often give the cue that a story is ahead. As humans we are made of stories, like the quote above notes. And as our language increases, our stories become richer and deeper. Stories get planted someplace just beneath our skin, someplace behind our heart and often near our tear ducts.

When we begin to ‘wrap our lives in language’ we begin to shape who we will become. It is always fun to look at people’s baby books to see what a child’s first word after the obligatory ‘ma-ma’ and ‘da-da’ were. What was yours? My mother tells me my first word was ‘listen’. This always makes me laugh but I am sure my family and friends see the early stages of a pattern.

There are times when we tell our stories more than others. Those holy moments often come at life’s transition points. The beginning of a new year. The start of a new relationship. At holiday times when we all gather, trying to piece together our far-flung lives into a unified whole once more, when we long to remember what we once were so we can know who we are becoming. At endings….of a year, of an event, of a life. All these times, and so many others, cause us to collect, tell and re-tell the stories that shape us, on whose tenets we stand.

What are the stories that shape you? What are the stories that bring meaning to your family, your neighborhood, your faith, your world? In these autumn days of transition from one season to another, it might be good to take the time to remember your stories, re-tell them around the dinner table, email one to a friend, write one down and tuck it away in a safe place for ‘just when you need it’.

And if you are interested in hearing a really interesting story, you can visit dig.hennepinchurch.org and click on How the Monkey Saved the Fish.