"This day God gives me
Strength of high heaven,
Sun and moon shining,
Flame in my hearth.
Flashing of lightning,
Wind in its swiftness,
Depths of the ocean,
Firmness of earth."
~James Quinn, SJ

This is my prayer this spring morning. You see, I find myself in a place I can only describe as 'schlogging', that feeling of needing to move through some days thick with challenges, deep sadness, and difficulty. It is rare for me to feel this way and for that I am grateful. But, like most people, these times do come and when they do, I think of it as needing to push through the thick energy that surrounds…schlogging. I am not even sure if that is a word but it fits for me and my experience.

And so when these times come, I try to connect myself with that which does not change. The rhythms of the Earth, the rising of the sun, the moon shining in the night sky, the emergence of the season at hand, and the presence of the Holy in it all. It allows me to plant my schlogging feet on something solid until the thick energy softens and allows me to move more freely. It reminds me of who I am in the great scheme of things and, in turn, to perhaps take myself less seriously, allowing the challenges to find perspective.

The reality is that each of us is held on this planet by forces unseen. The gift of walking upright, warmed by the sun, made vital by the oxygen, not of our own making, but created by the trees that fill our lungs. We move through our day by the force of those who have gone before, hose left the gifts with which we do most of our work. The things we take for granted were made possible by people who sacrificed, created, and schlogged before us……parents, grandparents, inventors, artists, dreamers,preachers……prepared the way for this day in which we now stand. This is important to remember.

And so on this day, even in my schlogging, especially in my schlogging, I give thanks for the on-going grace that holds me, that holds each of us. 

"This day God sends me Strength as my guardian,

Might to uphold me, Wisdom as guide.

Your eyes are watching, Your ears are listening,

Your lips are speaking, Friend at my side."

"I know a bleeding-heart plant that has thrived for sixty-years if not more, and has never missed a spring without rising and spreading itself into a glossy bush, with many small red hearts dangling. Don't you think that deserves a little thought? The woman who planted it has been gone for a long time, and everyone who saw it in that time has also died or moved away and so, like so many stories, this one can't be finished properly. Most things that are important, have you noticed, lack a certain neatness. More delicious, anyway, is to remember my grandmother's pleasure when the dissolve of winter was over and the green knobs appeared and began to rise, and to create their many hearts. One would say she was a simple woman, made happy by simple things. I think this was true. And more than once, in my long life, I have wished to be her. " ~Mary Oliver

The bleeding-hearts are blooming their beauty into the world in our garden. Like a fairy princess,they are throwing their hot pink blossoms into the open space where hostas are only beginning to have the courage to show up. Such delicate bravado, daring to be so pink in a newly greening world!

In this prose-poem of Oliver's, I love the description of those plants that grace so many gardens, those handed down or planted by someone who is now departed from us. Our garden has several…..bulbs and bushes nurtured by others and carried from plot to plot, a long history of connection with hands and earth, of birth and rebirth, of memory. As they bloom each year we find ourselves surrounded not only by their beauty but by the memory of those gardening saints.

But the line that particularly jumps out at me is this: "Most things that are important, have you noticed, lack a certain neatness." Perhaps I have just been surrounded by messiness lately, or by things important, that I resonate with this statement. I am aware of all the important things that lack a certain neatness…….raising children, friendships, faith communities,working with others,any creative endeavor, seeking the Holy, love. All the important things of life have soft edges and not much structure. They are not easily controlled or manipulated. They are full of surprise and challenge. There remains at the center of these important things a little ball of chaos out of which usually flows the best part of that most important thing.

So on this Monday, the beginning of the week, it was good to be reminded of how 'what's important' works. If I just hold onto that wisdom, I trust my week will go much smoother….maybe messier….but smoother.

Yesterday I had the privilege to gather for the majority of the day with my female colleagues in ministry. We came together from around the state for one purpose and one purpose only: to be together. We shared food, laughter, good stories, concerns, prayer and a common understanding of what it means to have given the lion's share of your life to work in the church. There were stories that made us double over in laughter and some that broke our hearts. While some of us have always been in ministry in an urban setting, others find themselves in small towns where the ability to have a truly good friend is problematic. You are always 'the preacher' and that can often be a very lonely place. Still others have found their calling not in a parish setting but as counselors, chaplains, and on university and seminary campuses.

I believe there is great value in having the opportunity to gather in single gender settings. While the fullness of what it means to be community contains all, so much can be shared in the times when women come together with women, men come together with men. The anecdotal evidence was clear yesterday as hugs were given, compassion shared, electrifying the space There were only about 40 women in a large room and yet, from the sound of conversation and laughter, it sounded like at least twice that number.

Added to the richness of simply being together was the fact that we were several generations gathered in one space. Those in the group who are now retired glowed as they talked about how in retirement 'you get to do everything you've always wanted to do!' The youngest told of being a new mother and juggling the schedule and demands of ministry. Those of us who have older children remembered those days, the difficulty of them, and know how the shifts of parenting have become a part of our work and our life. Sitting on the outer ring of the circle I was struck by the wisdom and energy in the room, how so many of those now retired had been inspiration to me. I now look at those just beginning their work in the church and am blessed by their enthusiasm and their own wisdom for the work to which they feel called.

Throughout time, generations have gathered around fires, in tents, on the front stoops of city apartments. Coming together, young, old, middle-aged, children, infants, we have the opportunity….the gift….of looking forward and looking back while holding our place in the present. We see what might be, what has been, what is……all a blessing. I need the wisdom of those who have retired because they calm my fears and bring me hope. I also need the inspiration and energy of those new to this work I have given my life to because they help me see and reaffirm that younger self that still lives within. Being in their presence helps me remember who I am. Being in their presence fills me with gratitude.

"I know myself linked by chains of fires
To every woman who has kept a hearth.
In the resinous smoke
I smell hut, castle, cave,
Mansion and hovel.
See in the shifting flame my mother
And grandmothers out over the world."
~Elsa Gidlow

Have a blessed weekend…..and if you are a mother, have a beautiful Sunday.

"To forget that you are only human, to think you can act like a god-this is the opposite of reverence." ~Paul Woodruff

Being human is tough work. Or maybe it is being human, trying to be a god, that is really the tough work. Perspective skews and blurs the boundary between these states of being all the time and we forget the limitations of our humanness. In that shadowland, it is very easy to lose our way. When one believes in their god-like character that they can be in control of anything outside themselves, that they can effect change simply through their will or even might, it becomes very risky business. We see this drama being played out all the time on a national scale and in the dramas of our much smaller lives. In this play-within-a-play there is no room for reverence yet great room for pain.

Reverence: To consider or treat with profound awe and respect; to venerate. I believe the realm of reverence lies between human and the Divine Mystery as it forges the depth of the relationship between humans and what we cannot create, what we cannot manage in our limitations.  Living with reverence provides a great wake up call.

I am thinking specifically of what is happening in my garden right now. As the tulips have been pushing their way back into the world, reaching toward the light and opening their brilliant color in the world, I know that I did almost nothing to make this happen. Of course, we planted the bulbs but the work the flowers themselves did was nothing I had any part in. In fact, we even have tulips not planted by human hands but which found their way into the soil through some other means, perhaps at the hands of a squirrel who dropped a treasure along the way. These tulips are not the shades we planted and yet there they are, a blessing to us in these spring days.

Last week, in the early morning hours of daylight, my husband came into the back door of our house after taking the garbage cans to the curb. "Come out the front door." he said to me. As I did, I followed his eyes to the grapevine wreath we have hanging outside the front door. Nestled among the fake, silk flowers, sat a dragon fly. Its fully formed green and brown body looked sleek and shiny. Its delicate, lacy wings quivered in the cold morning air. Where did it come from? Where was it going? Why, in all the places it could have landed, did it land at our door, at our house?

Reverence is our response to gifts that come to us for which we did not pay or even ask. Reverence is our response to letting go of all the power we think we have as we stand in awe of our powerlessness. Reverence reminds us who we are, and whose we are, and gives us the wisdom to now the difference between our humanity and the One who breathed us into being.

"Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place you are standing is holy ground. " writes the author of the Book of Exodus. As humans, we simply need to be barefoot more often.

Here we are on May 4th and I missed completely the fact that April was National Poetry Month. It is not that I didn't hear it announced or that I didn't read it several times in several different places. I was just swimming too fast in the sea of my own words and those of so many others, that I missed the opportunity to bathe in the sparse waters of poetry.

A couple of years ago I came to the realization that poetry was, for me, the real place of wisdom. The truly important things that need to be said need few words, I believe. And so I began to read more poetry and even write some. But over the last few months I have fallen of the wagon, so to speak, and have fueled my general addiction to words with compound sentences that furrow the brow and numb the mind.

And so I am sorry, deeply sorry, to have missed the opportunity to set aside the thirty days of April to read the few carefully chosen words of the poets.Romantically, I imagine these artists of the word, hunched over desks spinning out their heart stories and then stepping back from what they have written. Taking pen to paper, they then must remove this flowery phrase and that simple word until……until…..the art of the sparse emerges. What a challenge and what a gift.

I realize, of course, that I have just rambled on about what I am railing against. So instead I will leave you with the poet's words and save my thoughts for National Too Many Words Month. When does that fall on the calendar?

"Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.

~David Whyte

I drive a stretch of road in our neighborhood that is surrounded on both sides by small, shallow ponds. It is a hilly road that runs past some of the older houses built in this first ring suburb that has the feel of a small town. An old farmhouse stands along the road with a small family-owned apple orchard that is open only a few weeks in the fall. The ponds are ripe this time of year with the sound of hope……the constant, piercing call of the spring peepers. Over the last few days as I've driven by, I slow my car, roll down all the windows and let the sound that signals change wash over me. What a gift!

Last night I was also surrounded by the sounds of hope, though not on the road. It was our school district's orchestra festival in which all the children enrolled in the programs, elementary through high school come together. It always brings me such joy to see those small children carrying violin, viola, cello and bass cases into the auditorium. As the younger children bow and screech their way through simple tunes, you can see the concentration on their faces. Their directors arms move precisely,almost robot-like trying to keep them all on the same measure, keeping time with every muscle in their body. Then the middle schoolers begin to play and you can see the progress made by practice and maturity. Hope begins to spring up in the parents of the elementary students. Ahhh….something more is possible!

And then the moment comes when the high school orchestra takes the stage. Dressed now in formal concert attire, tuxedos and classic black dresses, they file in and take their places. As the downbeat happens, you can feel the whole audience relax and rest in the music they have waited to hear. Before our very eyes we see what can come from commitment, practice, talent, enthusiasm, rigor, and the love of music.

Last night's concert included a student conducted piece by Verdi. I watched as a young man I have known since he was in elementary school took the podium, pulling and coaxing beauty out of his classmates. They watched him, followed him, the same as they would a professional conductor.It was sheer delight to watch.

Next the orchestra teacher led the students, freshmen through seniors, through a difficult piece by Stravinsky. This gentle man has conducted orchestras at this school for 37 years and is now retiring. The pride with which he leads these young people draws out the best in each of them and helps them rise to their greater selves, creating something none could do alone. As we celebrated his dedication to these young people, my heart was overflowing with gratitude as were all those other parents in attendance.

Sounds of hope come in all forms. From spring peepers to the first draw of bow across a string, we are held by those sounds that awaken something within us that was dormant. Some create sounds of hope because they were born to do so….the frog, the bird. Others need to be taught at the hand of those who have patience to instruct, to wait, to encourage, to affirm, to be present, until the day when everything comes together. Then there is magic…. or miracle….. depending on how you look at it……and a world that seemed gray and bleak suddenly is filled with color and promise.

The earth is greening. The sun is shining. Sounds of hope are all around. Why are you sitting at your computer? Go out and enjoy!

Have a blessed weekend……

Over the last few days I have been at my seminary alumni gathering. It is always wonderful to see people you've known in what sometimes seems like another life, catch up with them, hear the amazing stories of the work they are doing.

The first day we were able to attend worship in the beautiful new chapel that has been added since most of us were students. It was a worship experience led by current students and was centered around the theme of how, as God's people, we are all a part of a very large puzzle bringing our gifts and sharing them with the world. The words and the music were all lovely, the leaders earnest and fresh in their delivery. The central ritual included coming forward to take a piece of a large world map puzzle that graced the worship table. As gentle music played people filed forward in the way we all have been 'trained' to do and then labored over the choice of what piece of the world they wanted to take.

Near what we thought was the end of the ritual a voice from the musicians rang out:"Will someone grab me?!" I turned to see three people rush to the side of the violin player, a young man who had played so beautifully in the music we had sung. He stood, hands at his side, his head reaching a bit toward the ceiling, a smile pasted across his face. He was blind but did not want to be left out of ritual at hand and so he did what was necessary. He called out to be grabbed!

As he grasped the arm of one who had come to his rescue, I thought of all the times in his life when he must have yelled something similar. I also thought of all the times even those of us who are sighted want to…need to… yell:"Will someone grab me?" How often when life throws a dangerous curve in our road do we long to yell to someone, anyone,'grab me'? And then there are those times when the work we are doing seems so lonely that we want to know another person is there to walk with us for support or to help us see the way through. Grab me! There have been times in my own life when the situation seemed so unmanageable that I wanted to yell out "Will someone grab me?" How about you?

As we travel this gray, spring day, may the path below our feet be solid and sure. And if by chance it isn't, may we have the courage to call out for the help we need. May our words "Will someone grab me?" be answered by the gentle touch of another and may we walk together into what is just at the edge of our vision.

"Each of us has name

given by God

and given by our parents

Each of us does have a name. Some of us love our names and others not so much. Many of us think we should have been named something else….something more dramatic, more fitting, simpler perhaps. Make no mistake;names are important. Call someone by the wrong name and watch their reaction. You can often see the wounding on their face.

The seven young people who wrote their names on a piece of paper, torn from a bag of concrete compound, and then placed that paper in a bottle and buried it, knew that names are important….their names. As they were held at Auschwitz, against their will and for no fault of their own, except for their names, they wrote those monikers for someone to find. In case they didn't survive. So they would be known and remembered. Seven young people, probably 18, 19 or 20 years old, perhaps mixing the concrete to shore up the wall surrounding the camp so it could serve as an air raid shelter. An air raid shelter not meant to shield them from harm, but their captors.

This small story in today's paper caught my eye amidst all the other harrowing and panic producing stories. These young people buried this bottle only a few hundred feet from the horrors in which they were forced to live and perhaps die. Remember us, they asked. Know my name. Know I was here, alive, young, full of potential.

Each of us does have a name, even many names. Our name given by our parents. A nickname we may have chosen to make us feel cool and special. A 'sweet name' assigned to us by the one who loves us and shares our life. We are known as mother, father, sister, brother, teacher, friend, minister,co-worker, doctor, neighbor……so many names. All important, all to be remembered.

At least two of those who wrote their name and placed it in the bottle are known to be alive today. For this I offer gratitude. The article did not actually spell out their names. For that, I am sad. I would have liked to have said their names aloud today, whispering the sweet sound of vowel, consonant and syllable into the Universe……offering it as prayer.

"A person can be as truly a saint in a factory as in a monastery, and there is as much need of them in the one as in the other. ~Robert McCracken

On Sunday Pope Benedict XVI canonized five new saints. None of these new saints are still living but their lives were deemed worthy of sainthood through the process created by the Roman Catholic Church centuries ago. To become a saint is a two step process. First is beatification, an honor bestowed after the Vatican has evidence of one miracle attributed to someone. After beatification if an individual performs another miracle the person can be declared a saint.

The church has a language all its own. Beatification. Not a word we use very often. When one searches out its definition, it is clear that it finds its root in 'beatific', an adjective meaning to make blissful, showing happiness, blessed. The noun becomes beatification and is clearly meant only for church circles as a formal investigation to decide whether a deceased person should be publicly declared to be in heaven and worthy of public veneration. Somehow there is a disconnect for me but if it all leads to sainthood, who can argue?

Here is my hope….that those people who show us happiness…. that leads to bliss…. which helps us know we are blessed….. will honored as saints while they are alive. I want them to revel in the glow of the gifts they bestow. I want them to know heaven on earth for the connections of compassion they make while they have breath. I want to name the miracles that come my way every day through the care and attention and the grace of ordinary people living ordinary lives with great love. One miracle is really enough for me but I'll take all I can get. How about you?

So here's to the beatific ones…..those walking toward sainthood every day. The three year old boy next door who runs to the window each time my car hits the driveway, knocking on the glass, face smiling, hands waving,welcoming my prodigal body home. The robin who sang a night song this past week soothing me to sleep when worries crowded my head and who woke me with an even more beautiful song when the sun rose. The man in our church community who continues to call us to the miracle of Creation held in the wings of all the feathered ones urging us to see the face of God in those who connect earth and sky. The cherry bush blooming in our front garden, soft, pale pink petals bringing the beauty of new life to gray days.The woman who continues to write me kind and gentle messages of affirmation in her tiny, beautiful script that always arrive just when I need them. So many……

The pope has his work to do. But, I believe, we do as well. There is canonizing to be done today. Look for the miracles, name them, bless them. There are saints among us…..and they are alive!

I have been reading Barbara Brown Taylor's new book An Altar in the World. I highly recommend it. Not only is it packed full of wonderful suggestions for deepening your spiritual life and practice but her words are always so well chosen, so poetic and beautiful.

In the introduction to the book, she tells a story of a speaking invitation she received from a priest in a church in Alabama. When she inquired what he wanted her to speak about he said: "Come tell us what is saving your life now." I shared this story at our regular weekly staff meeting this past week inviting people to reflect on what is saving their lives right now. There were some beautiful and simple answers.

What is saving your life right now? What lifeline are you reaching out for that gives you reason to get up in the morning and put your two feet on the ground? What practice or prayer is filling you with hope for movement forward? Who has looked at you and really helped you to know you are known and cherished just as you are?

The wonderful thing about this invitation is that how we answer today will be completely different than how we might have answered yesterday or will answer tomorrow. And yet the gift of reflecting on what is saving our life calls us to go to some deeper place, a place that strips away all the distractions of daily life, those things that can seem so urgent,and, instead, causes us to name what is at our core. Asking ourselves the question 'what is saving my life?' can cause us to breathe more deeply, walk more slowly, life more intentionally. And this, I believe, is always a good thing.

So today, as you go about your work, your play, your life, I invite you to reflect on what is saving your life. I invite you to ask a friend, a family member, a stranger, the same question. It could lead to some compelling conversation…..one that just might save your life.

"One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice-though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do-determined to save the only life you could save." Mary Oliver, The Journey