“Through the weeks of deep snow
we walked above the ground
on fallen sky, as though we did
not come of root and leaf, as though
we had only air and weather
for our difficult home.
But now
as March warms, and the rivulets
run like birdsong on the slopes
and the branches of light sing in the hills,
slowly we return to earth.”
~Wendell Berry

Sometimes what is happening can only be spoken by the poet. These days in which we find ourselves, these March days of thawing and rebirth, are just such days. Oh, we can read the weather reports. We can listen to long, drawn out descriptions of what it happening, but it really takes the poet to get to the marrow of the predicament.

A week ago Sunday, I read this poem of Wendell Berry to begin our worship together. We were not yet in a place of melting. People’s faces had that wounded,glazed look of too much winter. And yet they also shone forth their faithfulness, or stubbornness, by being present, by showing up though the easy and warmer thing to do would have been to stay in bed, pull the covers over their heads and go back to sleep. Sleep as a form of escape. We laughed at the word ‘rivulets’ then. Laughed at this beautiful word that flows, as it should, off the tongue. We laughed because it was not yet so and we had no hope yet in sight of when its presence might indeed flow, not only out our mouths, but down our hills, our sidewalks, our streets.

Now the laughter has turned to a kind of giddiness. Though the warmth is still a temperature that would make most of the country shiver, Minnesotans are taking these above freezing temperatures and opening them like gifts at a child’s birthday party. Short sleeves and even short pants can be seen everywhere. The puffy, down coats that we thought we could not face one more day have been abandoned.

And everywhere…..rivulets! Yesterday I sat all day in the round chapel at Koinonia Retreat Center on Lake Sylvia. The windows allow a nearly 360 degree view of forest, lake, and a landing strip for birds at both feeders and trees. All day long water, rivulets of melting snow, dripped down outside the window, baptizing us all with the spring that is arriving. The water was not only visible but audible. A slow sound of water running, splashing, coming out of its frozen form right before our eyes.

Like Wendell Berry, farmer and poet extraordinaire, I was reminded of the months when sky and earth had become one pattern of blue reflecting on white forming a swath of sameness. We walked upon it forgetting the earth that lay beneath, the earth from which we came and to which we will return, as we are reminded on Ash Wednesday. The winter months can keep us isolated from that deep knowing.

But now as the ground thaws and we begin to see the snow make way for the brown, gooey mud that will emerge, ‘slowly’ we return to the earth. The earth that will hold the seeds and the stalk, the footprint and the hope of yet another year of growth and beauty. We would not understand the fullness of this had it not been for the months of ‘walking on fallen sky’. We would not long for it so deeply if we had not known ‘weather as our difficult home’. Personally, I think it is all a part of some grand plan to keep us honest……grounded……grateful…..full of wonder. I know it works for me.

Today, may you be blessed with rivulets. May you say that word and love how it feels rolling off your tongue. May the pure loveliness of its letters making meaning fill you with hope for all that is yet to be as we ‘slowly return to earth’.

“Permit yourself the luxury of doing just one thing.”
~Lao Tzu

These are the words that greeted me as I slipped into my chair. The retreat I am blessed to be a part of in these beginning days of Lent is made up of clergy from around Minnesota. Half of us traveled together all last year in a process of reflection, art, words and deep silence as we seek to understand what it means to be in leadership, spiritual leadership, in authentic ways in the various communities in which we serve. Not the slick, prescribed ways that can sometimes make up the programs offered by ‘leadership’ books and consultants. There are no five easy steps to a better leader in this process. Only the long, hard look at one’s own self and the gifts planted there in some Mysterious pattern. This way of working is not for everyone. It doesn’t move quickly or in any linear way. It requires a certain giving over, a letting go of expectations, a piercing eye that looks at all our beauty marks and all our warts.

The notion of allowing the ‘luxury’ of doing just one thing’ is not only a lost art but one that might even be frowned upon in our multi-tasking world. We pride ourselves on being able to text, make supper, sign off on a big deal, correct the children’s spelling words, while listening to an audio book. Of course, science has shown that in living this way we are not only not doing any of these things well but that this many-pronged approach to working messes with our brains and our ability to maintain an attention span that matters. This doesn’t even touch on what this fractured living does to our relationships.

There was something quite profound for me to walk into the room on the sixth day of Lent and see these words. On Sunday we had heard the scripture story of Jesus’ trials in the desert. This wilderness journey which begins our forty days of reflective living carries all the wisdom of the ‘luxury of doing just one thing.’ Eat. Drink. Stay alive. Pray. Be your own best companion. Notice how the Holy shows up. These are all wilderness experiences, ones that require a certain presence that can’t be cluttered with multitasking. Paying attention to each gets you further down the path than trying to do two or more of them at the same time.

Wilderness comes to each of us. Some of us, it seems, more often than others. The wisdom of the wilderness, and I would say every day, is to remember the luxury of doing just one thing. It has been my experience that the impulse in any wilderness situation is to try to do as many things as one can to get out of there as fast as possible. Like the car stuck in mud or snow, spinning the tires faster and harder almost never propels the driver out of the hole that is being dug deeper and deeper. Doing one thing, gently, slowly, even quietly, usually has a better result.

So for all the people who are wilderness walking in these days of Lent, may you know the luxury of doing just one thing. For all those whose lives feel full to overflowing with too ‘muchness’, The blessing of a pause and one detail. For those simply trying to dance on the icy pavement or dodge the puddles of these thawing weeks, one safe step at a time. Put down the phone. Turn off the sound. Focus……on the luxurious gift of the present.

This Lent has started off very Lentish. Though Ash Wednesday was a real ‘high’ if that’s possible, the day after took a nose dive with lots of crazy,awful things happening in the lives of people I love and also in the life of the world. And although it is not as cold as it had been for over 50, count ’em, 50 days, the Sun seems to have gone somewhere to hide….like Florida or Arizona. At least when it was really, really cold, the Sun was doing its miraculous, brilliant work making the snow dance in a glittery way and making that beautiful contrast of a Mary-the-Mother-of-Jesus blue sky and white, white, white ground.

So, I am finding myself only three days into this season of reflection feeling a little off and not just a little bit down. But even as I write this I want to do one of those fake face slaps and tell myself to “Snap out of it!” I am, right now, reminding myself that along with a whole lot of other people I am unpacking what it means to walk, talk, live in the ‘Holy Way’, our faith community’s Lenten theme. And the journey along that Holy Way doesn’t mean that things are always rosy or positive, comfortable, or even pleasant. In fact, most of the time they are probably not.

I am reminded of the time a year or so ago when I fulfilled one of the things on my bucket list. My husband and I traveled in Ireland to a small fishing village on the southern coast so we could take a boat out to the island of Skellig Michael. I had read about this steep, rocky landscape that once was home to monks who prayed,wrote and illuminated scriptures with both pen and their lives. I had wanted to travel there for years after seeing their beehive huts perched high above the churning, icy waters of the Atlantic.

On a cloudy, rainy morning we boarded a small boat with several others and headed out into rough seas. The little boat was, we assumed equipped with life jackets but we were not told where they were. The water was choppy and sloshed over the edges of the boat. I was thankful to one of the other passengers who told me to ‘keep my eyes on the ‘horizon’ to prevent being sick. It worked. And we arrived some time later to climb onto the stone steps that had been chiseled out of the land. Waiting for the boat to pitch up in the air, as I had been instructed, I threw myself out of the boat and onto the island.

The wind was fierce and there were no railings to hold onto as we climbed the steep steps. I was frightened but just kept moving, slowly, and breathing deeply. Several times I had to tuck myself into the nook of a rock when it seemed the wind would pick me up and send me flying into the sea. As I walked I felt a deep connection with those faithful ones who had made this climb before, those who had sweat and bled to form a life close to God in this place. I felt as if I might be being held in some of their courage.

Once we made our way to the top of the island and onto the plateau into which had been built a chapel, a cemetery and the huts that housed these ancient ones,the wind was less frightening. Inside the beehives, I sat looking out at the sea like a bird in its nest. Inside was sheer silence and I understood how their prayers had secured them in this sacred place.

The memory of this place came back to me this week because during our Ash Wednesday service, we were held my a looping set of images of what some have named as holy places. One of the images was of Skellig Michael. Seeing it projected, I was transported there and the sense memory of wind and rain, of fear and difficulty, of prayer and sacred silence was reborn in me.

The meaning of the word Lent, in its most ancient form is ‘to lengthen’. And the reason we call this season before Easter by this name is that the days will indeed become longer and the Sun will shine brighter and fuller. The snow will melt and the days will warm. We will see the rebirth of the Earth and of the lives of those who right now are walking difficult paths. We will, hopefully understand in some new way the life of Jesus and the movement of God in his life…..and what that might mean in our own.

The Holy Way is not an easy path but it is always a worthwhile path.The important thing is to remember to step carefully. Rest. Breathe. Pray. And repeat.

“These ashes were once trees and shrubs,
And places where life was once lived to its fullest.
Once they were full of life.
Now they are black and grey.
Dry.
Lifeless.
But, mixed with the waters of our baptism,
make good fertilizer:
it will help the seeds of the gospel take deeper root in us
and bring forth the fruits,
the harvest of justice, peace and generosity.
These ashes are worth wearing………”

These ashes are worth wearing. We said these words together last night as we began our walk together as a community into the season of Lent. Once again we chose to engage in an ancient ritual of symbol and sentiment, mystery and earthiness. This beginning of the forty day walk toward Easter is not without its challenges and complexities. And yet it endures.

Last night I observed once again something I have noticed over the last several years. For some reason unknown to me, this service attracts many young people under the age of thirty. They come in the door of the sanctuary with a certain purpose and approach those of us who place ashes on their foreheads with their eyes wide open, looking deep. What draws them to this service? I can understand so many of the other worship experiences, but why this one? Here we will talk about mortality and being made up of ashes and even stardust…..all which will eventually return itself to the eternal. It is a mysterious and reflective time, not one filled with all the bells and whistles we trot out for high holy days, those we save for attracting new blood to the aging church.

The service is simple and straight forward and uncluttered. At some point of all the spoken words, we stop the talking and lay aside the modes of communication that drive our days. There comes a time when words are not enough and it takes the touch of skin on skin and the stare of eye to eye. It is the reminder, both to the person who is having ashes placed on their forehead and also the one doing the placing, that this life we live, these days we walk, are fragile, illusive, holy beyond any words. Last night, with each cross I made on the forehead of another, the ashes pressed further and further into my own fingerprint, a visible pressing of earth’s existence into the unique swirls of my skin.

This intimacy, this connection is what truly draws people, I believe. Where else in the course of any day does anyone say ‘ your living matters’? Where else in the patterns of our working and playing, our striving and our failing, are we given the message that these earth bodies we walk around in are a part of all the soil and sun, all the Ancient Breath, that ever was or ever will be? Once a year at least, it is good to be reminded.

For some reason last night after the service, I wanted an orange very badly. I have no idea why the taste and feel of an orange became such an intense desire but I stopped by the grocery store to satisfy this deep want. Walking out of the store, my precious oranges only a few minutes from my lips, I passed another ‘ash-wearer’ coming into the store. Our eyes met and we knew something about one another that we would not have known on another day. Though I did not say it aloud, I did in my head: “These ashes are worth wearing.”

This morning the orange has become a part of me just as I will someday become a part of the orange. It is all a part of the Mystery that we don’t allow ourselves to think of on a daily basis. But once a year, those of us in the Christian household stop what we are doing for just long enough to walk into a place where are reminded of the shared body of our existence. Someone takes the dry, lifeless dirt and makes a cross on our forehead….east, west, north, south…..and looking us in the eye we come to our senses. Once again we wear our vulnerability for all to see.

“Do ye the little things in life.”
~St. David

For most of you, a holiday probably flew by without notice. March 1st is St.David’s day and in the area of the country where I was born and grew up there would have been banquets featuring potato-leek soup and tables adorned with bouquets of daffodils. St. David is the patron saint of Wales, whose cathedral and former monastery sit in a lush, green area on the southwestern coast of Wales. Daffodils are the national flower of country and St. David is, for some reason, often associated with the green and hardy leek. In addition to the yellow flowers and the not so colorful soup, there would have been singing. With the Welsh, there is always singing and for this I am grateful and sorry to have not been present at one of these celebrations.

On Saturday as I did my ritual turn of the calendar pages onto a new month, I made a mental note that it was St. David’s Day. And several times over the last couple of days I have thought about those things that go into creating the rituals that surround the celebrations we hold dear. Given that I am also planning a pilgrimage to Italy later in the year,one that walks in the steps of mystics now known as saints, I also thought about what causes a person to become known as a saint. For St. David, it was not anything most of us would aspire to. He lived mostly on bread and water and his monks were known to have refused the use of horses to plow the land choosing instead to do the hard work of animals using their own muscles……all this on the fuel of a pauper’s diet. He became a saint because, it is said, that while speaking to a group of pilgrims a dove alighted on his shoulder and as he spoke the ground where he was standing rose up to create a hill. Anyone who has traveled in this area knows that hills are not in short supply! Why the creation of another one is a means to sainthood is puzzling.

But it is the words that were supposedly spoken on his deathbed that capture my imagination. “Do ye the little things in life.”, he is said to have offered his followers in his last moments. There is great comfort for me in those words. So much of the advice we are given in our lives have to do with how to become ‘great’, whatever that means. Particularly in our country I think we are often pushed, and even push the idea onto our children, of taking the steps that will catapult us not to just the top of a hill but to the pinnacle of a mountain. For St. David his dying message was to pay attention to the ‘little things in life’.

And so today, in his honor, I plan to do just that. I will try to take the small, ordinary steps of paying attention to the little things that make up my day. The few tasks before me. The laundry that needs folded. The dishes that must be washed. I will use the muscles of my own body, my own God-image body, to do the small work of the day. I will eat simply and with gratitude for such humble yet delicious tastes of vegetables like the leek. I will search out the color and beauty of Creation like the daffodil…… that harbinger of spring for which we all are so desperately longing.

In honor of St. David, I will do all these things and I will also allow a song to fill my heart. Who knows? I might even let that song slip out into the frigid day to float on the icy wind. Today I will nurture the ‘little things’. It will not lead to sainthood. But I have a hunch it might lead to a mighty fine day.

“When all is said and done, faith may be nothing more than the assignment of holy to events that others call random.”
~Barbara Brown Taylor, The Preaching Life

The wheel has turned yet once again. For those of us who stumble and mutter our way through life by hanging out in the church, we are soon to fall headlong into the long season of Lent. This Sunday sees Jesus bathed in light and shining like an otherworldly being and next week we begin the long, slow walk through the last days of his earthly life. Days filled with the range of emotion common to all humans…..fear, betrayal, loneliness, failure, and deep, deep sadness.

In my particular community we have chosen a theme to hold us while we walk through the 40 days and 6 Sundays of Lent before we reach Easter. “Holy Way” is the short phrase that will show up in liturgy, prayers, songs, sermons, in written and spoken word. Two short words that actually hold out quite a feast to the reader or hearer. Holy. What does that word mean, anyway? What image or feeling does it conjure up?

As I was leafing through a book by one of my favorite writers, Barbara Brown Taylor, I saw the sentence above outlined in yellow highlighter. I just can’t seem to shake the ingrained school practice of underlining! Her explanation, definition, of faith was a good reminder for me as I begin this season. How can I be open to the ways in which the holy and the ordinary share space? What lens allows me to see the One who breathed the world into being in the seemingly random acts of the world?

“Faith may be nothing more than the assignment of holy to events that others call random.” For some I can imagine that this statement seems near heresy. For others they may just furrow their brow and move on. But as I read it I am reminded of the many ways I can move through the world bouncing from one random act to another. If I am lucky…..or blessed….to open my eyes and my heart to the path, I notice that something More is at work in my comings and goings. Those are the moments, for me, when a light shines more intensely on my path and I wake up to myself and the holy that has been right before me all the time.

As humans we like to divide things into neat and tidy categories. Black and white. Young and old. Rich and poor. Conservative and liberal. Sacred and profane. Religious and worldly. We seem to think this helps us traverse the paths of our lives more easily. But I am not so sure that it true. It seems to me it allows us to set up walls in our hearts and minds that keep us from seeing and experiencing the holy……the Breath the breathes through us all…..in any real way.

What if we were to approach each day and all the manner of events that make up our days with the notion that they will be filled to overflowing with ‘holy’? What if we were to allow the holy to be our modus operandi all day long? First cup of coffee? Holy! Warm winter coat? Holy! Snow piled higher than our heads? Holy! Ice formed by tires and cold and all manner of chemicals? Holy! The smile….or frown….on the cashier’s face? Holy! A friend’s phone call? Holy! The words of that person with whom I disagree? Holy!

You see how it might go. As my faith community lives into the theme of Holy Way, it is my prayer that we might all begin to see not more randomness but more holy. I wonder how that all might lead to holier days, holier decisions, holier laughter, holier tears……holier people.

Lent lasts a long time so we will have many days to live our faith…..and our holiness.

Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside you
Are not lost. Where ever you are is called HERE…….
~David Wagoner

Over the last days I have been looking for words that reflect our upcoming Lenten theme, ‘Holy Way’. The words above of poet David Wagoner begin a poem that reminds us to be in the present moment. This is always a wake up for me, a sometimes not so gentle nudge to be awake and aware in the precious pulse of the day in which I find myself. Not yesterday, which has already etched its memory in my bones. Not tomorrow which I am still trying to twist with my imagination. Today……this HERE that is the gift of the rising and setting sun and the One who set the whole spinning in motion.

I love that this poem reminds us of the stability and wisdom of our fellow earth travelers, the non-human ones, that we often ignore. The deep knowing that the trees, which churn out the oxygen for our lungs, are simply living in the present moment without a sense of being lost or barreling ahead into the next day, the next season. The bushes are doing their own work in the HERE, sheltering us and unseen other creatures, small birds and tiny animals, from the winds that can blow through the day.

Last Thursday most of us hunkered down for the biggest winter storm of the season. For days before its arrival, meteorologists had outlined its coming.They had described,sometimes in great detail, the way the rain would begin, how it would turn into sleet and form a layer of ice. This ice would then be covered by anywhere from 6-12 inches on new snow to fall upon the banks of snow which already tower over the heads of small children. This would be followed by winds, powerful winds, that would push the snow and everything in its wake, around making it difficult and dangerous to travel. This account of the future was told to us over and over. We were wise to listen and heed the warning because it all proved to be true.

As I listened to these words of caution, for some reason I began to think of all the people who have a storm show up in their lives without any kind of warning. No wise person stands with a clipboard or animated computer screens telling them what to expect. There is no way to prepare. They simply didn’t see or know it was coming and then….BOOM…everything changes the HERE of their lives. An illness. A death. The loss of a job. A disappointment so large that it seems an explosion has happened in the very center of their being. No one said it was going to happen. There was no way to prepare. These times which we have all experienced can leave us feeling lost, hopeless, powerless to deal with the here and now.

And yet, for me, those are the times when I am most often offered the wisdom of my other companions on the journey. Human ones are there to comfort and advise, of course. But many times it has as equally been those in Creation who cannot speak words that offer the wisdom I need. The trees stand tall, roots going deep into the ground that holds my feet upright. Even now in this frozen, white landscape they are standing at attention holding out their branches with the buds pulsing to give birth. At the right time. Not yet. They are reminding me of the HERE. These silhouettes of twists and turns that through trunk and branch reach toward the clear, blue winter sky, are waiting with a patience I can only dream of. “HERE”, they are saying, “HERE.”

Predictions of storms to come are often a gift that can help us prepare for something that may or may not arrive. We can fill the fridge with milk, the cupboards with bread, the secret drawers with chocolate to help us endure. But in the end, whether storm of snow or sleet, or heartbreak or hurt, we must live through it, hoping to glean whatever the learnings might be.

It has been my experience that standing still is often a good practice. Standing still, like the trees, resting and relishing the gift of HERE.

“I’d love to have the whole place swimming in roses”
~James Joyce, Ulysses

A few weeks ago in a moment of frivolity I scattered rose petals on the snowy landscape outside our house. You read this correctly. To some, It may seem an odd thing to do. But I had purchased pink roses the week before and had enjoyed their beautiful color and sweet fragrance for days. As they began to droop, they maintained their brilliance and invitation of hope so I could not bear to simply throw them in the trash. I looked at them for a long time before the thought came to me. I will remove the petals from their thorny stems and scatter them about on the mounds of snow that have been present for weeks with little sign of melting. At least until April. Or May. Hopefully, not June.

So that’s what I did. I pulled all the velvety, pink petals off and placed them in a bowl. Bundling up in my down coat, snow boots, my scarf firm around my neck, hat tugged down over my ears, gloves firmly placed on all ten digits, I headed out with my bowl of color. Walking down our sidewalk like a flower girl in the wedding aisle, I proceeded to scatter rose petals in our frozen tundra of a yard. Some were caught up right away in the wind and were carried away to who knows where. Others settled into the drifts and unique, one-of-a-kind formations of snowflakes. Pink now interrupted the monochromatic pallet of snow. It felt whimsical and somehow powerful to make this addition to the winter portrait.

Since then the landscape has returned to white as snow fell on snow. But on Saturday as I was out shoveling, I was given a wonderful surprise. As my shovel lifted and turned the light, fluffy gift of sky that had fallen all morning, I noticed in the underbelly of my shovel something colorful. Something…….pink. In my mind, the words of Mother Mary came to me. “How can this be?” More than two weeks later, these now frozen rose petals had remained their lovely, pink selves. They had simply nestled into the snowbank and rested quietly. I laughed and felt such joy at the sight of them.

For some reason, I imagined the rose petals freezing and turning brown, burrowing down into the snow till they became only another addition to the compost of leaves and needles and someday, melting snow. But no! These petals held on to their color despite freezing temperatures and blankets of snow. They remained true to their nature, their authentic ‘self’. They continued to inspire awe and delight and an appreciation of beauty. This is the work of the rose, isn’t it?

It has been a difficult winter for many. All across our nation and, in fact, the whole world the weather patterns are creating devastating and, also, beautiful scenes. Some places there is more snow than has been seen in years. Other places there is too much rain while still other landscapes are held in drought. I heard that over the weekend only one state in our country did not have snow. Florida. There are many things to ponder and wonder about in all this.

But one of the things that the rose petals taught me is that beauty has a power in it that will not be silenced. Each of us and the very core of Creation has that same vein of beauty at its very heart. Sometimes that beauty is covered up by debris, by hurt, by all manner of life experiences. And sometimes we take our beauty into hiding. This hiding is driven by many things. Lack of confidence. Grief. Fear. An unkind, untruthful word that once came our way.

But make no mistake about it. Our beauty, whatever that is, whatever it looks like, is needed by the world. This original beauty that was planted within us by the One who breathed us into being is our gift to offer. So, what is the beauty, the special color you have to present to the world? Have you uncovered it recently?

The snow continues to fall outside my window. It is lovely even after all these weeks, even as the inches continue to accumulate. The snow is offering its gift of white that will, in a few short weeks melt into the water that gives birth to green. As this happens and I rejoice in it,I will also know that sliding down into that watering of earth will be a little pink, a tell-tale reminder of a frivolous day in January and the roses that told their own story.

“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.”
~Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

Earlier in the week I was at Westminster Presbyterian Church in Minneapolis to hear author Sue Monk Kidd speak. She shared not only a history of the books she has written but her own spiritual formation during those years, in the writing of the particular novels or memoirs. I have enjoyed her work for years and it was a joy to see her and to share in the gentle, sweet rhythm of her presence and words.

A few of those words have been nagging me. At one point she said:”Every life needs one great absurdity.” At first glance this may appear as a negative statement. Absurdity? But in the context she was speaking about, how she came to writing after having been trained as a nurse as was the custom of the time in which she grew up,it was anything but negative. This absurdity was indeed the step she made into her true, authentic self, the ‘who’ she was born to be. She was born to bring to birth stories and ideas that inspire, challenge, entertain and eventually transform the reader.

Absurd…..wildly unreasonable,illogical or inappropriate. So the definition goes. It reminded me of the times in my own life that something, something wildly unreasonable has drawn me toward the place that, later, proved to be exactly where I was meant to be. Has this ever happened to you? Perhaps it is happening right now. Perhaps there is some urge, some longing that just won’t let go, just won’t stop popping up in heart or mind. Whatever it is may seem, on the surface, unreasonable….wildly so….illogical or even inappropriate. It has been my experience that these are times to pay attention and to look for the opening that is calling.

Over the last weeks I have sat in meetings with wonderful people who are trying to understand and create vision for the church. These gatherings can be inspiring, frustrating, enlightening, challenging. Most of the time the conversation stays within the confines of predictable. I found myself longing for absurdity. Something that would jar us all off center and plunge our thinking and planning into illogical. For me, this is where the Spirit dances and, personally, I never want to miss the chance to weave and dip in what could become an opportunity of unimaginable creativity. That’s just me. I know others prefer the predictability, the knowing what is what. I pray there is room for both.

But hearing Sue Monk Kidd make the statement about absurdity, great absurdity, has me thinking and hoping for just such a thing. For myself. For those I know who are itching for something they can’t name. For the institutions that know they must change or cease to be. For the young folks, and the not so young, I know who are searching. For those who have chosen the well defined path but have a pull within that won’t let them go.

For some reason her statement made me think of all the folks in scripture stories who were visited by great absurdity. When you think about all those many of us claim as spiritual ancestors, their story is only told because a great absurdity came into their life. Moses. Mary. Paul. Ruth. Esther. Jesus. All of these who are a part of the roots and branches of our faith tree had their lives shaped by a wildly unreasonable, illogical, inescapable event or experience that led them to their true selves. Why would the same thing not be true for us?

Yes, the Spirit is still dancing. Still calls us to respond….sometimes wildly….sometimes without any logical reasoning……sometimes in ways that may even seem inappropriate. And yet saying ‘yes’ to this Dance Partner may make all the difference in our lives……and in the life of the world.

“Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.”
~Henry James

A particular obituary in last week’s newspaper has been haunting me. It is an occupational hazard, I believe, to peruse the obituary section of the paper with greater attention than may be necessary. More than once I have learned the news of a church member or former one who has passed from this life and whose family had not let the church know. It is always a sad and troubling experience. Invisible lines of connection are tenuous.

But the photo and name of the troubling passing was not anyone from our faith community or anyone I know. It was the news of the death of a young man, nineteen years old, whose notice declared in the first words that he had died of an accidental overdose. His sweet, young, open face looked back at me from the black and white pages. I tried to imagine his parents grief, their pain at losing this beloved child. I tried to imagine all the experiences that had brought him to such a tragic death. My heart broke for him and for his family and I sent prayers toward them.

This young man’s obituary ended with the words…The family wishes you to take the time to do a random act of kindness on behalf of Tracy today! In writing this, the family had even chosen to use an exclamation point. Reading it I felt not only deep grief for this family but also those invisible lines of connection grow stronger. Somehow I could do something for this family, something to help them honor their child’s young life. I could do something kind.

It seems kindness is often in short supply in our world. We move at warp speed through our days trying to accomplish task after task after task. I know I often forget to even make eye contact with those I meet much less remember to offer kindness. And yet when I reflect on the gifts of any day, it is often the acts of kindness that have come my way that stand out. It is the moments when those invisible lines of human connection quiver with gentleness, sweet words, an unexpected act of generosity, that make all the rest of the flurry of activity fall into perspective.

Yesterday I spoke with a friend on the phone. She told me that the calendar she uses to guide her days had declared this week ‘random acts of kindness’ week. Sounded like a good plan to me! With the cold we have been experiencing we may have had a tendency to allow our senses to be dulled and the kindness to be wrung out of us. Which is as good a reason as any to dedicate the day to committing at least one random act that will lift someone above the freezing temperatures, above an alienation they may be experiencing or a hurt that is throbbing.

Another reason is because Tracy’s parents asked us to.